THE STREET OF THE HOLY APOSTLES
When Walter left his wife it was with the intention of proceeding to
the offices of the Louisiana Company, known more generally as Le
Mississippi, situated in the Rue Quincampoix. For, at this exact
period, which was one of a great crisis in the affairs of the "Law
System," as it was universally called, those offices were open day and
night, and were besieged by crowds made up of all classes of the
community. Duchess's carriages--the carriages of women who had made
Law the most welcome guest of their salons, who had petted and
actually kissed him--as often as not at the instigation of their
husbands, when they had any--jostled the equally sumptuous carriages
of the rich tradesmen's wives and _cocottes_, as well as those of
footmen who had suddenly become millionaires; while country people,
who had trudged up from provincial towns and remote villages, rubbed
shoulders with broken-down gentlemen and ladies, who had hoped to grow
rich in a moment by the "System." Broken-down gentlemen and ladies
who, after a few months of mirage-like affluence, were to find
themselves plunged into a worse poverty than they had ever previously
known.
For, as has been said, the "System" was breaking down, and France,
with all in it, would soon be in a more terrible state of ruin than it
had even been at the time of the death of that stupendous bankrupt and
spendthrift, "Le Grand Monarque."
The Bank of France had almost failed--at least it could not pay its
obligations or give cash for its notes, which had been issued to the
amount of two thousand seven hundred million francs, and the
Mississippi Company was approaching the same state; it could neither
redeem its bonds nor pay any interest on them.
Therefore all France was in a turmoil, and, naturally, the turmoil was
at its worst in Paris. Law--the creator of the "System" by which so
many had been ruined--had sought safety at the Palais Royal, where the
Regent lived; the gates of the Palais Royal itself were closed against
the howling mob that sought to force an entrance, the streets were
given up to anarchy and confusion. Meanwhile, in the hopes of quelling
the tumult, it was being industriously put about all over Paris that
fresh colonists were required to utilise the rich products of the soil
of Louisiana, and that, so teeming was this soil with all good things
for the necessary populating of the colony, that culprits in the
prisons were being sent out in shiploads, with, as a reward for their
emigration, a free pardon and a grant of land on their arrival in
America. And--which was a masterstroke of genius well worthy of John
Law--since the prisons were not considered full enough, innocent
people were being arrested wholesale and on the most flimsy pretences,
and thrust into those prisons, only to be thrust out of them again
into the convict ships, and, afterwards, on to the shores of America.
Many writers have spoken truly enough when they have since said that a
light purse dropped into an archer's or an exempt's hands might be
made the instrument of a terrible, as well as a most unjust and
inhuman, vengeance. It was done that night in Paris, and for many more
nights, with awful success. Girls who had jilted men, men who had
injured and betrayed women, successful rivals, faithless wives; a poet
whose verses had been preferred to another's and read before De
Parabére or the Duchesse de Berri and her lover and second husband,
the bully, Riom; an elder brother, a hundred others, all disappeared
during those nights of terror and were never seen or heard of again.
Not in France, that is to say, though sometimes (when they lay dying,
rotting to death on the shores of the Gulf of Mexico, and, in their
last faint accents, would whisper how they had been trapped and sent
to this spot where pestilence and famine reeked) those who listened to
them shuddered and believed their story. For many of those who so
listened had been victims of a similar plot.
Down the street which led to the Rue de la Dauphine--one which
rejoiced in the name of the Rue des Saints Apostoliques--there came,
at almost the same moment when Walter Clarges quitted his wife, a band
of men. Of them, all were armed, some, the archers and the exempts,[2]
being so by virtue of their duty of arresting troublesome people,
especially drunkards and brawlers of both sexes, while two others
walking behind wore the ordinary rapier carried by people of position.
These two were Desparre and Vandecque. Inclusive of archers and
exempts the band numbered six.
"We may take them together," Desparre whispered in his comrade's ear,
"in which case so much the best. I imagine the English dog will show
fight."
"Without doubt! When was there ever an Englishman who did not? Yet,
what matter! These fellows," and Vandecque's eye indicated that he
referred to the attendants, "will have to seize on him, we but to
issue orders. Now," and he turned to the fellows mentioned, "we near
the street where the birds are. You understand," addressing the man
who seemed to be the leader, "what is to be done?"
"We understand," the man replied, though the answer was a husky one,
as if he had been drinking. "We understand. Take them both, without
injury if possible, then away with them to the prisons. She to St.
Martin-des-Champs, he to La Bastille. Ha! la Bastille. The kindly
mother, the gracious hostess! My faith! Yes."
"Yes," answered Vandecque. "Without injury, as you say, if possible.
But, remember, you are paid well for what you may have to do;
remember, too, the man is an Englishman; he has been a soldier and
fought against the King of England for that other whom he calls the
King; he will show his teeth. He is but newly married--this day--he
will not willingly exchange the warm embraces of his beautiful
young wife" (and as he spoke he could not resist looking at Desparre
out of the side of his eye) "for a bed of straw. You must be
prepared--for--for--well, for difficulties."
"We are prepared--I hope your purse is. We are near the spot--we
should desire to have the earnest before we begin. While as for
difficulties, why, if he makes any, we must----"
"Kill him--dead!"
The man started and looked round, appalled by the voice that hissed in
his ear. Yet he should have recognised it, since he had heard it
before that evening, though, perhaps, with scarcely so much venom in
its shaking tones then. And, as he saw Desparre's face close to his,
he drew back a little, while almost shuddering. There was something in
the glance, in the half-closed eyelids--the eyes glittering through
them--that unnerved him.
"Dead," hissed Desparre again. "Dead." And he put forth his hand and
laid it on the archer's sleeve, and clutched at his arm through that
sleeve so that the man winced with pain, as a moment before he had
winced, or almost winced, from a feeling of creepiness.
"Dead," Desparre repeated.
"Mon Dieu!" the man said, raising his hand to his forehead and
brushing it across the latter, "we know our business, monsieur; no
need to instruct us in it. Though as for killing, that is not our
account as a rule----"
"Peace," interrupted Desparre, "here is the reward. Hold out your
hand."
The man did as he was bid, and, in the light of a seven nights' old
moon that, by now, overtopped the roofs of the houses, Desparre
counted out twenty gold louis' d'or (rare enough at that moment, when
all France was deluged with worthless paper; coins to be kept
carefully and made much of!) into his hand, and twenty more into the
hands of the principal exempt. Yet his own hand shook so that each of
the vagabonds raised his eyes to his face and then withdrew them
swiftly. They liked the look of the money better than the appearance
of the features of the man who was paying it.
Then, suddenly, he started as he dropped the last piece into the
exempt's palm--while the latter, looking up again at Desparre, saw his
eyes staring down the street to the further end of it--though, at the
same time, there was a glance in them as if he were staring into
vacancy. Yet, in truth, they were fixed on a very palpable object--the
form of a man passing swiftly up the street of the Holy Apostles.
The form of Walter Clarges!
"See," Desparre whispered to Vandecque. "See. He comes. Ha! he has
left her alone. So! 'tis better." Then he turned to the Archers and
Exempts and muttered low: "There! There is the man. Coming towards
us. I would slay him myself--I could do it easily with the
secret thrust I know of," he whispered, "but I must risk
nothing--till--I--have--seen--her."
While, as he spoke, he moved off to the other side of the street and
withdrew into the porch, or stoop, of a door, wrapping his roquelaure
around him. Yet, as the fellows drew themselves together and prepared
to seize on the man advancing towards them, they heard his voice send
forth another whisper from within that porch.
"You know your office. Do it. And if he resists--slay him."
Approaching, Walter Clarges saw the group of men standing in the
roadside close up by the footway, while, because of the troubles and
turmoils in the streets, as well as because he knew well enough of the
lawlessness that prevailed that night, he let his left hand fall under
his cloak on to the hilt of his sword, and thus loosened the blade in
its sheath, so that it should be ready for his right to draw if
necessary. Then, a moment later, he saw Vandecque's figure in front of
the others, and, recognising his features in the gleam of the moon,
nerved himself for an encounter. Though, even now, he scarcely knew
what form that encounter might take.
"So," Vandecque exclaimed, "we have found you! That is well, and may
save trouble. Monsieur Clarges, you will have to go with us."
"Indeed! On what authority? State it quickly and briefly. I have no
time to spare."
"On the authority of the guardian of the woman whom you have removed
from his custody and married. The law has a punishment for that to
which you will have to submit."
"Possibly. Meanwhile, your warrant for my arrest and detention."
"The warrant is made out. I----"
"Show it."
"I shall not show it. It is sufficient for that later on. Meanwhile, I
warn you--come without resistance or we must resort to force. These
men are archers and exempts, if you resist them they will seize upon
you."
"Let them begin. I am ready," and, as he spoke, his sword had leaped
from its sheath and was glittering before their eyes in an instant.
"Begin," he repeated, "or stand back. My time is precious."
"It is against the law that you contend. I warn you," Vandecque called
out excitedly.
"So be it. It is for my freedom I contend. Whether it be either the
law or Vandecque, the sharper and swindler who embodies that law, I
care not. Let me pass, fellow," speaking impatiently, "or 'tis I who
will commence."
"Fall on," exclaimed Vandecque, "and do your duty. Seize on him."
'Twas easier said than done, however, as those five men found when
once they were engaged with the Englishman--well armed as they were.
The rapier wielded by Clarges seemed to have, indeed, the power of
five swords; it was everywhere--under their guard, perilously near
their lungs, through one man's throat already--a man who now lay
choking on the ground. Moreover, Clarges had had time to wind his
cloak swiftly round his left arm, and, with that arm bent, to ward off
several of their attacks. Nor was this difficult, since all were not
armed as well as he. The exempts had short swords of the cutlass
order, which would cut heavily but administer no thrust; the
archers had rapiers, or, rather, long thin tucks, which were more
deadly--Vandecque had a weapon as good as Clarge's own. Already it had
lunged twice at his breast--and hate had added, perhaps, an extra
force to those thrusts (for Vandecque was undone by the marriage that
had taken place that morning), and had twice been parried. Yet as
Clarges knew, he was spared but for a few moments; his fate was but
postponed. Against that rapier and the remaining blades--unless he
could kill the wielders of the latter, and so stand face to face with
Vandecque alone--he had no hope. The swordsman never lived yet who
could encounter four others--for the man on the ground was disposed
of--and keep them at bay for longer than a few moments.
He knew his end was at hand; at every moment he expected the sharp
thrust of the rapier through his body, or the heavy swinging blow that
would cleave his head in half. He knew one or the other must come, yet
he fought hard against the odds, with his back against the house
behind him, his teeth clenched, his breath coming faster and faster
from his lungs. And, all beset as he was, knowing that death was near
at hand, he whispered to himself "for her, for her."
Though once he thought, "'Tis better so, far better. Thus her way is
clear, and she is free of me."
He forgot--he was mercifully permitted to forget for a moment that,
free of him, she would still be open to Desparre's designs again, and
might still be forced to marry him.
Yet, a moment later, the recollection of this sprang swiftly as a
lightning flash to his mind. He must live for her, he must not be
slain and thereby set her free for Desparre.
Nerved afresh to his task by this memory, he fought with renewed
energy--fought like a tiger at bay, determined that, even though he
fell, he would not fall alone; that he would have some more companions
on the dark road he must go, as well as the man now dead at his feet.
"Two," he muttered through his set teeth as, darting like an adder's
fang, his rapier passed through a second man's breast-bone when, with
a yell of agony, the archer fell at his feet. "Two. Who next?"
But still there were three to contend with, Vandecque, an archer, and
an exempt. And these two were raining blows at him, while the
gambler's sword was making pass after pass--it being caught once in
the folds of the cloak over his left arm and missing once his left
breast by an inch, while ripping open the coat and waistcoat as it
darted by. Then, as he warded off another swinging blow from the
archer's weapon, he knew the time had come. His rapier was cleft in
twain by the heavier metal of the other blade--his hand held nothing
but the hilt and a few inches of sundered steel.
With a fierce exclamation he flung himself full at the man who had
disabled him, seized him by the throat ere he could swing his cutlass
again, and dashed with awful force the remnant of his sword in his
face, inflicting a frightful wound and battering the features into an
unrecognisable mass.
Yet, as he did so, he uttered a terrible moan himself and reeled back
heavily against the wall, sliding a moment after down it and rolling
to the ground. Vandecque's rapier was through his left lung, an inch
below the shoulder. The fight was finished.
"Is he dead?" that ruffian heard a harsh, raucous voice whisper as he
drew his sword from the other's body. "Is he dead?" while, turning, he
saw the cadaverous face of Desparre peering over his shoulder at their
victim.
"Dead," he replied breathlessly. "Mon Dieu! I hope so. Were he not, we
should all have been dead ourselves ere long. And then--then--he might
have found you out in your hiding-hole."