"THE WAY TO DUSTY DEATH"
"If," said Lolive, the Duke's valet, to himself later that day, "he
would speak, would say something--not sit there like one dead, I could
endure it very well. But, mon Dieu! he makes me shudder!"
It was not strange that the shivering servant should feel afraid,
though he scarce knew of what. One feels not afraid of the actual
dead--they can harm us no more, even if they have been able to do so
in life!--unless one is a coward as this valet was; yet, still, the
brave are sometimes appalled at the resemblance of death which, on
occasions, those who are yet alive are forced to assume, owing to some
strange stroke that has attacked either heart or nerve or brain. And
such a stroke as this, subtle and intangible, was the one which had
fallen upon Desparre.
He was alive, Lolive knew; he could move, he felt sure; almost, too,
was he confident that his master could speak if he chose. Yet neither
did he move nor speak. Instead, he did nothing but sit there immobile,
before the great cheval glass, staring into it, his hands lying
listless in his lap, his face colourless and his lips almost as much
so.
Once, the valet had made as though he was about to commence undressing
Desparre after having previously turned down the bed and prepared it
for his reception, but, although the latter had not spoken, he had
done what was to the menial's mind more terrifying. He had snarled at
him as an ill-conditioned cur snarls at those who go near him, while
showing, too, like a dog, his discoloured teeth with, over them, the
lips drawn back and, thereby, exhibiting his almost white gums. And
with, too, his eyes glistening horribly.
Then the man had withdrawn from close vicinity to that master and had
busied himself about the room, while doing anything rather than again
approach the chair in which the stricken form was seated. Also, he lit
the wax candles in all the branches about the room; on the dressing
table, over the bed, and in girandoles placed at even distances on the
walls, while receiving, as it seemed to him some comfort from the
light and brightness he had now produced. For some reason, which, as
with his other fears, he could not have explained, he feared to be
alone in the gathering darkness with that living statue.
Summoning up again, however, his courage, he approached once more his
master and pointed to the latter's feet and to the diamond-buckled
shoes upon them, then whispered timorously that it would be well if
Monsieur would at least allow those shoes to be removed. "Doubtless
Monsieur was tired," he said; "doubtless also it would relieve
Monsieur."
But again he drew back trembling. Once more that hateful snarl came on
Desparre's face, and once more there was the drawn-back lip. "What,"
the fellow asked himself, "what was he to do?" Then, suddenly he
bethought him of the fashionable doctors from Paris of whom Eaux St.
Fer was full; he would go and fetch one, if not two of them. Thereby,
at least, he would be acquitted of failing in his duty if the Duke
died to-night, which, judging by his present state, seemed more than
likely.
Thinking thus, he let his eyes wander round the room, while meditating
as he did so. Near to the bedside was a locked cupboard in which he
had placed, on their arrival, a large sum of money, a sum doubly
sufficient to pay any expenses Desparre might incur during his course
of waters; in a valise, bestowed in the same cupboard, was a small
coffer full of jewellery of considerable value. And, upon the walls of
the lodging, was the costly tapestry which, in accordance with most
noblemen and all wealthy persons in those days, Desparre had brought
with him, so that the often enough bare and scanty lodgings to be
found at such resorts as Eaux St. Fer might be rendered pleasant and
agreeable to the eyes. This he too regarded, remembering as well the
costly suits his master had with him; the wigs, each costing over a
thousand livres, the lace for sleeves and breast and for the
steinkirks and other cravats, and the ivory-hilted Court sword in
which was a great diamond. He recalled all the costly things
the room contained.
"If he should die to-night," he muttered inwardly--"to-night. None
would know what he brought with him and what he left behind. None, but
I. No other living soul knows what he possessed. He hated all his
kinsmen and kinswomen. None know. I will go seek the doctors; yet, ere
I do so--I will--will place these things out of sight. They must not
see too much."
Then the knave began moving about the room, "arranging" things, while,
even as he did so, he recalled a cabaret in Paris where heavy gambling
went on as well as eating and drinking, which was for sale for two
thousand crowns. If he had but that sum! And--and--Desparre might die
to-night! Wherefore, his eyes stole sideways towards the spectral
figure seated there--powerless, or almost so.
He might die to-night! Might die to-night! Well! Why not? Why might he
not die to-night? The doctor--the leading one from Paris--should visit
him. Yes, he should do that. He knew that doctor; he had seen him
called in before to gouty, or paralysed, or dropsical men and women
whose servant he himself had once been. And he knew the fashionable
physician's formula--the cheering words, accompanied, however, by a
slightly doubting phrase; the safe-guarding of his own reputation by a
hint to others that--"all the same"--"nevertheless"--"it might be--he
could not say. If there were any relatives they should be warned--not
alarmed, oh, no! only warned," and so forth. Well! the doctor should
come to see the Duke. Doubtless he would say some such thing before
himself and the landlord, who, he would take care, should also be in
the room. That would be sufficient. If the Duke did die to-night
suddenly, as he might very well do--as he would do--why then he,
Lolive, was safe. The doctor's words would have saved him.
He was sure now that Monsieur would die to-night. Quite sure. So sure
that he knew nothing could save the Duke. He would die to-night; he
even knew the time it would happen; between one and two of the clock,
when every soul in Eaux St. Fer would be wrapped in sleep, even to the
servants. Then, about that hour--perhaps nearer two than one--the Duke
would die. And the cabaret, the disguised gambling hell, would be his
in a month's----
"Lolive," uttered a voice from behind him. "Lolive!"
The man started; stopped in what he was doing; then dropped a dressing
case with almost a crash on to the shelf of a wardrobe, in which he
was placing the box and its contents, and withdrew his own head from
the inside of the great bureau. He scarcely dared, however, to turn
that head round to the spot whence the voice issued, since he knew
that he was white to the lips; since he felt that he was trembling a
little. Yet--he must do it--it had to be done--it was his master's
voice.
Therefore he turned, gazing with startled eyes at Desparre who was now
sitting up more firmly in his chair, and saw that some change had come
to him, that he had regained speech as well as sense, that he would
not die, could not by any chance be made to die, that night. The
possession of the cabaret was as far off as ever now!
"Ah, Monsieur, the Virgin be praised," he exclaimed fawningly and with
a smile of satisfaction, as he ran forward to where Desparre sat,
still rigid, though not so rigid as before. "Monsieur is better. What
happiness! Monsieur will go to bed now."
While, even as he spoke, he regained courage; confidence. Sick men had
died before now in their beds, in their sleep. Such things had been
often heard of: they might--would, doubtless--be heard of again.
His master spoke once more, the voice, harsh, bitter, raucous, yet
distinct.
"_Malotru!_" Desparre said, while, as he did so, his eyes gleamed
dully at the other, "you thought I was dead, or dying. Eh, dog? Well!
it is not so. Go--descend at once. Order my travelling carriage. We
depart to-night, in an hour--for--Marseilles."
"For Marseilles?"
"Ask no questions. Go. Hangdog I Go, I say. And come not back until
you bring me news that the carriage is prepared. Go, beast!"
"The horses, Monsieur; the coachman! He sleeps----"
But there the valet stopped. Desparre's eyes were on him. He was
afraid. Therefore he went, murmuring that Monsieur should be obeyed.
Left alone, Desparre still sat on for some moments in his chair,
listless and motionless. Then, slowly, he raised himself by using his
hands upon the arms of the chair as levers; he stood erect upon his
feet. He tried his legs, too, and found he could walk, though heavily
and with a feeling as if he had two senseless columns of lead beneath
him instead of limbs. Still, he could walk.
"The second time," he muttered to himself, as he did so. "The second
time. What--what did the physician tell me? What? That, if the first
stroke did not kill neither would the second, but that--that the third
was certain, unfailing. If that could not be avoided, all was lost.
All! No longer any hope. This is the second, when will the third come?
When? Perhaps--when I stand face to face with her again. With
Cidalise! My God! When she blasts me to death with one look. Cidalise!
Laure!"
He resumed his seat, resumed, too, his dejected musings.
"It was well done. Fool that I am never to have remembered that Diane
was implacable. Cidalise! Ha! I recollect. It was my pet name for the
woman I left behind in Paris when hastily summoned away. I loved that
woman. She--she--Diane must have known--have taken the child, have
reared it. And I should have married her--my own child! Oh, God! that
such awful, impious vengeance could be conceived. That, having found
out how, all unknowing, I loved the girl, she--she--she--that
merciless devil--would have stood by and let me marry her--my child.
My own child. The child of Cidalise."
Again he sat back in his chair. To an onlooker it would have seemed as
though it was still a statue sitting there before him. Yet he was
musing always and revolving horrible matter in his mind.
"Baulked thus," he reflected; "she evolved this scheme of revenge to
expose me to all. To tell me, too, that I have consigned my own child
to a living death, to exile in a savage land, to the chain gang. And,
I have gloated over it, not knowing. Not knowing! I have pictured the
woman whom I deemed to have outraged me as trudging those weary
leagues with the carcan round her neck, the chains about her limbs.
And she was my own child! My own child! My own child!"
Again he paused, thinking now of what lay before him. Of what he had
to do. What was it? Yes, he remembered his orders for the carriage to
be prepared. He had to hasten to Marseilles at once, as fast as that
coach (known as a "berceuse"), as that luxurious sleeping carriage
could be got there, and then to intercept the cordon of women who were
to be deported; to find her, to save her. And--and--and, if they had
already reached that city and left for New France--if they had
sailed--what to do next? What? Why, to follow in the first vessel that
went. To save her! To save her! To save her if she had not fallen dead
by the roadside, as he knew, as all France knew, the women and the men
did often enough fall dead on those awful journeys.
But if he found her; if God had spared her; if she still lived! What
then? What had he then to do? To stand before her whom he had most
unrighteously sent to so cruel a doom, to acknowledge himself so vile,
so deep a villain that life was too good for such as he; yet, also, to
purge himself in her eyes of one, of two, crimes. To prove to her that
he knew not that her mother, ere dying, had ever borne him a child; to
prove to her that he had never dreamt, when he proposed to marry her,
that he was so near committing the most hideous crime that could be
perpetrated. And afterwards--afterwards--then--well, then, she might
curse him as he stood before her, or the third stroke that he knew
would--must come--might come then. What mattered; nothing could matter
then. He would have saved her. That was enough.
Why did not the menial come to tell him the berceuse was ready--the
great cumbersome form of carriage which Guise had invented fifty years
before, so that one might sleep in their beds even while they
travelled on and on through day and night, and also take their meals
therein--the commodious carriage which had been built for himself in
exact imitation of that possessed by the present young Duc de
Richelieu et Fronsac.
Young Richelieu! What a scoundrelly ruffian he was, he found himself
meditating; what a villain, what a seducer; how he would have revelled
in the idea of a man marrying his own daughter after leaving the
mother to starve, how----. He broke off in these musings to curse
Lolive and all his pack of pampered servants, coachmen and footmen,
who were snoring still in their beds, and to curse himself; to wonder
when the third stroke would come and how: to wonder also if it would
be when he stood before his wronged daughter. To muse if he would fall
dead, writhing at her feet--to----
Lolive re-entered the room. The berceuse was ready, the horses got out
of the stables. Would Monsieur have all his goods packed and taken
with him, also his jewellery, or--or should he wake the landlord and
confide everything to him until--until Monsieur's return? Only, Lolive
thought to himself, Monsieur might, in truth, never return. He was
ill, very ill; he might die on the road to Marseilles. He hoped that,
at least (though he did not say so), the Duke would not take the money
and the jewellery with him. Thus, he could find it later!
"Take," said Desparre, his eyes glinting hideously, as Lolive thought,
"take all that is of small compass and of value. Give it to me, I will
bestow the money and jewellery where it will be safe in the carriage.
Give it to me."
With a smothered oath, the valet did as he was bidden, Desparre
placing the jewellery in the pockets of his vast travelling cloak, and
the money about him, and bidding Lolive pack the clothes, the wigs and
the swords at once, and swiftly. And the pistols; they, too, should
go.
"There are highwaymen, brigands, upon the road, Lolive," he muttered,
fixing the valet with his eye. "Thieves everywhere. It may befall that
I shall have to shoot a thief on the way. I had best be armed--ready."
Wherefore he took the box containing his silver-hilted pistols upon
his knee, and, with the lid up, sat regarding the man as he hastily
packed all that was to accompany them on the journey to Marseilles.
"My God!" the fellow muttered, "he makes me tremble. Can this man,
half alive, half dead, divine my thoughts?"
The boxes were packed at last with their changes of linen and clothes;
once more Desparre was left alone. Lolive was despatched to arouse the
landlord and to inform him that Monsieur had to depart at once for
Marseilles on important matters, but that his room was to be retained
for him and his furniture and other things taken proper care of. And
the valet was also bidden to say that the Duke did not require the
presence of the landlord to see him depart. The reason whereof being
that Desparre felt sure that the man knew as well as all in Eaux St.
Fer knew what had befallen him that day; and how a play had been
produced by a vengeful woman for the sole purpose of holding him up to
the derision, the execration, of all who were in the little
watering-place, nobility and others, as well as the "refuse" who had
not been admitted to the representation but were aware of what had
happened.
Everyone knew! He could never return here, nor to Paris. If he found
his child, if he saved her, then--then he must go away somewhere,
or--or, perhaps, then the third stroke would fall. Well, so best. He
would be better dead. He could not live long; he understood by the
doctor's manner that his doom was pronounced, assured. Better dead!
Upon the night air, up from the street below, he could hear the rumble
of the berceuse on the stones as it approached the door of the house
where he lodged; he could also hear the horses shaking their harness,
and the mutterings of the coachman and the footman at being thus
dragged forth from their beds at night.
It was time to go--time for Lolive and the footman to come up with the
carrying chair, which he used now when stairs had to be either
ascended or descended, not so much because he could not walk as
because he did not care to do so. He could have got down those stairs
to-night, he knew, even after this second shock, this further and last
warning of his impending end--only he would not. These menials, these
dogs of his, would have heard from Lolive of that stroke--they would
be peering curiously at him out of their low, cunning eyes to see
whether he were worse or not.
Therefore, he let them carry him down and place him on his bed in the
sleeping carriage, while all the time but one thought occupied his
mind.
That thought--what he would find at the end of his journey, and
whether he would find his child alive or dead?