LIGHT
THE day passed without further incident. I took a turn about the room
on Fronsac’s arm and found that my strength was fast returning. I
ate the food that he brought me, and lay staring at the ceiling till
drowsiness overtook me. Yet, despite myself, I was not content. More
than once I caught myself listening for I know not what--a light step
in the corridor, the rustle of a dress, the sound of a voice--expecting
the door to open and show Claire there. What a fool I was! What time
had she for me? She was busy with the affairs of her duchy--a great
lady!
Night came at last, and darkness, bringing sleep with it. Dawn found
me strong, refreshed. I arose and walked about the room, and though my
legs still trembled somewhat, I was certain that, once on horseback, I
should be quite myself. I was determined to leave Marleon as soon as
might be--a horror of the place possessed me.
Fronsac found me dressed, and I lost no time in announcing my wish to
set out with him for Cadillac.
“But you are not strong enough,” he urged. “Let us wait. There is no
cause for haste.”
“If Mademoiselle Valérie heard you say that!” I laughed. “I can see her
awaiting you in that arbor by the river’s edge.”
“So it is for my sake!” he said.
“No, it is not for your sake, my friend,” I answered earnestly. “At
least, not wholly. I am itching to leave this place. There is no quiet
for me here.”
He looked at me for a moment questioningly, but I did not meet his
eyes. My secret must remain my own.
“Very well,” he said quietly at last, “since you wish it, we will set
out to-day. I will inform Madame la Duchesse. You will doubtless wish
to thank her for her kindness.”
“Yes,” I assented thickly. “Yes.”
It would try my strength to set eyes on her again--to speak to her. But
I was a man, thank God! I could hide my heart!
Yet when at last we stood before her, I forgot my injured pride in the
joy of seeing her--the calm brow, the dark eyes, the arching mouth,
the white hand, and the swell of the arm lost in the lace above. What
a woman! No longer the girl fresh from the convent--the fine lady! A
duchesse--a queen!
“And so you are leaving us, M. de Marsan?” she asked at last.
Her voice brought me back to myself--she on the hill-top, I in the
valley.
“Yes, I am leaving, Madame,” I said. “I am quite well again, and my
friend here is hungering for Cadillac and those that await him there.”
Her face changed, and she sat gazing at me in silence for a moment.
There was that in her eyes--but there!--why be, a second time, a fool?
“You do not seem well,” she said. “Nor strong. Are you quite sure you
can bear the journey?”
“Quite sure, Madame.”
She made a little gesture of impatience.
“I have to thank you, Madame,” I added, “for your kindness in receiving
me here. It was very foolish of me to be ill.”
“Very foolish,” she agreed, looking at me again. “Very foolish. I do
not think you realize how foolish. I had thought you a man of wit, M.
de Marsan, but I find you very dense!”
I flushed at the words, but dared not look at her. I must go, or I
should be upon my knees before her, a beggar for her slightest favor. I
glanced at Fronsac, who stood with folded arms, frowning deeply.
“Adieu, then, Madame,” I said.
She held out her hand to me. I knelt and kissed it, not daring to look
up into her face; remembering, with a great rush of tenderness, the
times I had already kissed it. I was aflame to snatch her to me, to
assert my claim to her, to kiss her arms, her neck, her lips, to ask
her if she had forgot that scene in the moonlight----
“M. de Fronsac,” she was saying, “listen--I have a little story I wish
you to hear. You, M. de Marsan, remain where you are. There was once a
girl taken suddenly from a convent, where she had spent her whole life,
and planted in the midst of a turbulent court. The ruler of the court
looked on her with lustful eyes, yet had the honor to offer her his
title. But she heard strange tales of him which frightened her, and at
last she saw another, nearer her own age, who seemed to her the very
rose of gallantry and courage. So she put away from her all thought
of the other, and at last--one night--her lover claimed her. But the
other lay dying. He was lord of wide lands and of a proud title. These,
he said, he wanted her to have, even at this last moment, when their
marriage must be one unconsummated. And as she knelt beside his bed,
listening to him in patience, for she remembered he was dying, of a
sudden the thought came to her--why not take these things for her
lover? Oh, it would be a joy to give him place and power--more than her
mere self! Why not give him these as well?”
She paused for a moment--her voice was trembling so. I could not look
up--I dared not, lest my eyes be blinded.
“You will pardon me, M. de Fronsac, if I tell the story very badly,”
she said, with a little, unsteady laugh. “But it moves me greatly, for
her lover did not understand. He fancied she desired place and wealth
for herself, when it was alone for him. He did not comprehend the
greatness of her love. He was stricken with fever--and as, night after
night, she listened to him in his delirium, she knew that it was her
fault--that she had driven him mad--and her heart grew cold with fear
that he might not get well. But he did get well--he came to her to say
good-by--he closed his eyes to all she had intended, to all she let him
see. He wrapped himself about with his pride, which he fancied had been
injured, and would not look at her. What think you of such a man, M. de
Fronsac?”
“I think him a fool!” said Fronsac savagely.
But I did not heed him. I was looking up, up into her eyes. And I read
there the same story they had told me once before. There could be no
mistaking!
“Claire!” I cried,--“Claire!”
And she, in her great love and strength, stooped and raised me to the
seat beside her.
THE END
A CHILD OF THE NIGHT
Copyright, 1901, by Burton E. Stevenson
CHAPTER I
AN ENCOUNTER IN THE STREETS
IT was as I turned the corner into the Rue de l’Evêque that a woman
ran straight into my arms. I could hear her gasping for breath, and a
glance told me that she was young and pretty. She clutched nervously at
my sleeve, and, not unwillingly, I put my arm about her to prevent her
falling.
“What is it, Mademoiselle?” I questioned.
She seemed too agitated and exhausted to reply, but pointed down the
street, where, through the gloom, I saw a man running towards us.
“He is following you?” I asked.
She nodded.
“And you wish to be relieved of him?”
Again she nodded.
“Very well, Mademoiselle,” I said, “do you remain here, and I will say
two words to this intruder.”
I placed her in the shadow of the wall, and drawing my sword, advanced
to meet her pursuer. I had not far to go, for he was almost upon us. He
attempted to pass me, but stopped when he saw my point at his breast.
“Not so fast, Monsieur,” I said. “It would be well to pause here for a
moment. You are quite out of breath and further exertion might easily
bring on an apoplexy.”
He stared at me in amazement, his face purple, his eyes starting from
his head. I saw by his attire that he was a bourgeois of the better
class. He was very fat, which accounted for the fact that the girl had
outstripped him, and was perhaps sixty years of age. I looked him in
the eyes with a smile, and the thought came to me that those were not
the eyes of an honest man.
“And who the devil are you?” he cried, when he had recovered his breath
sufficiently to speak.
“My name is of no moment, Monsieur,” I answered. “It is enough that I
do not wish you to pass, but to return by the way you came.”
He stared at me for a moment, his amazement visibly increasing. I
merely smiled the more, for the situation amused me greatly.
“If this is a jest,” he said, at last, holding in his anger, “it is a
sorry one and one that will cost you dear.”
“It is no jest,” I declared. “On the contrary, I was never more in
earnest. The way is barred for the present. Return, I beg of you, or I
shall be obliged to enforce my request, though I am far from wishing to
harm you,” and I made a significant gesture with my sword.
“So you are the lover!” he sneered. “I suspected there was a lover,”
and he looked me up and down. “I shall not forget your appearance,
Monsieur, though I do not know your name. I warn you again that you are
playing a dangerous game.”
“Dangerous or not,” I retorted, losing patience, “I play it to suit
myself. Be off!”
“She is my niece,” he protested. “I am her legal guardian. You are
setting the law at defiance.”
“Be off!” I cried again, for I feared every moment that a section of
the watch would chance into the street. He doubtless had the same
thought, for he looked about him with expectant eyes, but saw the
street deserted. He glanced at me again, and I prodded him gently
with my sword. He started as he felt the point and walked slowly
away, muttering horrible curses and shaking his fists in the air in an
ecstasy of rage. I had never before seen a man so wholly lose grip of
his temper, and more than half expected him to fall in a fit.
But he did not fall, only staggered from side to side of the street
like a drunken man. I watched him until he faded from sight in the
gathering darkness, and then turned back to the fugitive.
She had apparently recovered from her exhaustion, for she arose as I
approached and looked at me shyly. She was prettier than I had thought.
“Well, Mademoiselle,” I said, “it seems I have rid you of your pursuer.
Now whither shall I conduct you? Believe me, I am wholly at your
service.”
She glanced up into my face and went red, then white, then red again,
and lowered her eyes in helpless confusion. Standing so, I could see
her long, sooty lashes outlined against her cheek, the droop of the
lids, the little nose, the shell-like ear--’twas enough to make any man
play the fool. I confess, I had done it for much less.
“I do not know, Monsieur,” she stammered, at last, “where you can take
me.”
“What?” I cried, astonished in my turn. “But your home, Mademoiselle;
your family?”
“It is from my home that I flee,” she answered, sadly, a little break
in her voice. “It is my family whom I fear.”
“But your friends?” I persisted, my heart warming towards her. “At
least you have friends.”
She shook her head, and I fancied I could see the tears shining beneath
the lashes.
“None who would not conceive it their duty to deliver me to my family,”
she said, and stood knitting her fingers together nervously.
I paused a moment in sheer bewilderment. Here was a problem!
“Perhaps it is my duty also to deliver you to your family,” I remarked
at last, but my heart was not in the words.
“Ah, you would not say so, Monsieur, if you knew the story!” and she
looked up at me beseechingly, her eyes bright with tears. There was no
mistaking this time, and I, certainly, could not resist their appeal,
which sent the blood bounding in my temples.
“Come,” I said, “we must get away from here, at any rate, or your
amiable uncle will return with reënforcements and surprise us. Take my
arm, Mademoiselle.”
She did so without hesitation, and I led her across the Rue St. Honoré
and into the gardens of the Tuileries. The place was thronged with
people, as it always is in the evening, summer or winter, and, deciding
that no one could discover us among so many, I found an unoccupied seat
under the trees near the river, where I installed her.
On the way, I had reflected on the situation in which I found myself,
and its complete absurdity struck me for the first time. Here was I, a
young man alone in Paris, knowing no one, with no fortune but youth’s
hope for the future, assuming the protection of a pretty girl of
sixteen or seventeen, whom I had never seen until ten minutes since and
whose name I did not even know.
I could not help laughing as I seated myself beside her. She looked
at me for a moment with a glance clear and unembarrassed, but in
which there was nothing bold nor immodest, and then, comprehending my
thought, she threw back her head and laughed with me. I was enchanted,
and in my admiration forgot my mirth. I saw that her throat was full,
round, and white, that her chin was adorable, that there were dimples
in her cheeks, that her mouth was finely arched, and her teeth small
and regular. I felt a sudden warmth about my heart. Plainly here was a
girl innocent as well as beautiful, and who looked at the world with
eyes in which there was no trace of jaundice or suspicion. Harm such a
one? Not I!
“Come, Mademoiselle,” I said at last, “it is necessary for us to arrive
at an understanding of the situation. You behold in me Pierre le Moyne,
late of Mont-de-Marsan, but for a week past and I trust for the future,
of Paris, and, I repeat, wholly at your service,” and as I said the
word I arose and bowed before her.
She acknowledged my bow with a pretty little nod of the head.
“And I, M. le Moyne,” she answered, “am Mademoiselle Anne Ribaut;
although I much prefer to be called Nanette, and, I fear, very greatly
in need of your services.”
“Tell me the story,” I suggested, and reseated myself beside her.
“Well, M. le Moyne,” she began, “it is like this. My father and mother
are both dead--have been dead for so long that I remember neither of
them--and my father’s brother, Jacques Ribaut, a jeweller of the Rue
des Moulins, is my guardian. Until a week ago he kept me at the convent
of the Sacred Heart, and then, finally, just as I began to think I was
to spend my whole life there, he sent for me. Oh, how pleased I was
when the time came to leave those fearful gray walls, within which one
never dared speak above a whisper! But I did not imagine what was about
to befall me, or I should not have been so happy. I arrived at the Rue
des Moulins; I was shown into the presence of my uncle, and I tried to
make him love me. He looked me over much as he would have inspected an
ox he was about to purchase, and he seemed well satisfied.”
“I do not doubt it,” I said, and I looked at her sparkling eyes and
laughing mouth, and thought that a man must indeed be hard to please
who would not be satisfied.
“Do not interrupt, I beg of you, Monsieur,” she cried, “or I shall
lose my place, as we used to say at the convent. Well, as I said, he
appeared pleased, and I had begun to hope that we should be very
happy together, and that he would be good to me and permit me to see
something of the world. But the next day he brought in another man to
see me--oh, a horrible man, with a great nose which seemed to spread
all over his face, and green eyes that would make you tremble. He also
looked me over in a way that made my flesh tingle--that filled me with
shame and anger, as though I had been insulted--and then they both went
away and I tried to forget all about it. But the next day my uncle came
to see me again and informed me that I was to marry this man, whose
name, it seems, is Jean Briquet. I protested that I did not wish to
marry, and especially not such a monster. I said that I had, as yet,
seen nothing of the world, except that gray and dreary bit enclosed
within the four walls of the convent--that I was still young and that
there was plenty of time. But my uncle was inexorable. He said it was
already a thing accomplished, since he had promised M. Briquet my hand,
and that the wedding should take place in a week’s time.”
She paused for a moment, overcome by the horror of the recollection,
and I found that in some manner her hand had made its way to mine. She
did not attempt to remove it, and I held it closely, with a strange
tenderness in my heart. It was so warm, so soft, so confiding--a
child’s hand.
“Yes, yes,” I said, fearing that if she paused she would see her hand a
captive, “and then?”
“I heard no more about it until to-night, when my uncle came to me and
told me that the wedding was to take place at nine o’clock to-morrow
morning. He paid no heed to my entreaties and reproaches, but warned me
not to fail to be ready at the hour, and turned on his heel and left
me. I could think of only one thing to do--that was to flee. Anything
seemed preferable to marrying that hideous creature. So I put on my
hat, placed in my purse the little money I possess, stole down the
stairs, and through the front door into the street. Unfortunately, my
uncle caught a glimpse of me as I ran past the house, and started in
pursuit. You know the rest, Monsieur. You do not blame me?” and she
looked at me with eyes soft with entreaty.
“No,” I said, “I do not blame you. You were right to flee, since there
was no other way. No one could expect you to marry a monster.”
“Ah, how glad I am to hear you say that!” she cried. “And you will
protect me, Monsieur, will you not? How I admired the manner in which
you disposed of my uncle this evening,” and she smiled at me in a way
there was no resisting.
Evidently even within the walls of a convent a woman may learn many
things--or perhaps no woman needs to be taught the surest way to reach
a man’s heart.
CHAPTER II
I FIND MYSELF BROTHER TO AN ENCHANTING GIRL
WE sat for some time in silence, she looking with childish delight at
the brilliant and ever-changing scene before her, I pondering over the
perplexities of the situation. I saw that I should need all my wit to
straighten out the snarl, and though I was proud of my wit, as every
Gascon must be, I doubted somewhat if it would prove equal to this
task. But this misgiving did not vex me long,--we of the south take
trouble as it comes. Besides, was I not here, in one of the loveliest
spots of the most beautiful city in the world, with an enchanting girl
at my side, who permitted me to hold her hand and gaze into her eyes?
Mordieu! in such a situation, how could a man, with warm, red blood in
him, doubt his power for bringing things to pass?
Indeed, the scene itself was one to make a man forget his troubles,
as I saw it had made my companion forget hers, and I had not looked
upon it so often that I could contemplate it with indifferent eyes.
The moon was just rising behind the long line of the Tuileries and
showed us in the walks and about the fountains the crowds which had
gathered to get a breath of air and exchange a word of gossip. A row of
lanterns had been swung from end to end of the Allée des Orangers--by
order, perhaps, of some wealthy bourgeois, who wished to hold a fête
there--and two or three men, in a uniform I did not know, were busy
keeping loiterers away. It was public ground, of course, but then money
will work miracles, especially in Paris. Away to our right gleamed the
quays and the river; the former even more crowded than the gardens, the
latter sparkling with the lanterns of grain-barges and fishing-boats,
drifting with the current, or slowly making head against it. And
everywhere was the murmur of voices, like the wind stirring the leaves
of a great forest.
I saw how the girl’s eyes sparkled and her lips opened with delight as
she gazed at all this.
“Beautiful, is it not, Mademoiselle?” I asked, at last, merely to make
her look at me, that I might see again into her eyes.
“Oh, beautiful! I had never imagined the like!”
“Not even when you were building your castles of the future in the
convent?”
She made a little grimace of disgust.
“This is life,” she said. “That was not life--it was only the gray
shadow of it.”
Then suddenly I saw that she shivered.
“You are cold!” I cried. “And you have no cloak--only this thin dress.
Come, we must go!”
“Go?” she questioned, looking at me, all her worry back upon her in an
instant. “Yes--but whither, Monsieur? Not to my uncle’s!”
She was quite white with the horror of the thought, and I felt that her
hand was trembling. I pressed it in both of mine--a child’s hand, I
repeated to myself.
“No, not back to your uncle’s,” I assured her. “But you must go
somewhere for the night. Could you not return to the convent?”
She breathed a deep sigh of relief and the color swept back into her
cheeks again. But she shook her head in answer to my question.
“I had thought of that,” she said; “but they would deliver me again to
my uncle in the morning, Monsieur.”
“True,” I murmured, and I pondered over the problem deeply. Clearly,
there was only one thing to be done, but it could hardly fail to
compromise her, and I paused. I had need to be very sure of myself.
“Mademoiselle,” I said, at last, “you believe me to be a man of honor,
do you not?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered, and she looked at me and smiled again.
“I pray you to believe me so, Mademoiselle,” I continued earnestly. “I
am going to assume a brother’s right to protect you. To-morrow, I shall
call upon your uncle, and will say a few things to him which I trust
will bring him to his senses. But to-night, since you cannot remain in
the gardens here, you must pass in my room.”
She glanced at me with frightened eyes, but my face reassured her.
“Very well, M. le Moyne,” she answered quietly. “As I said before, I
believe you to be a man of honor.”
I lifted her hand to my lips and kissed it.
“I appreciate your trust, Mademoiselle,” I said, “and shall do
everything in my power to deserve it.”
She glanced at me again and I saw that her eyes were shining.
“Come, let us go,” she said, and we arose.
“The house I occupy, Mademoiselle,” I explained, as we started away,
“is in the Rue du Chantre, and the room is but a poor affair, yet I
trust you will find it comfortable. I have been in Paris only a week,
and have not yet found better lodgings. In fact,” I added, judging it
best to tell her the whole truth at a breath, “my fortune is not a
large one, and not knowing how soon I should be able to increase it, I
judged it best to husband it as much as possible.”
“There, there, Monsieur,” she cried, “do not apologize, I beg of you!
You forget that I have no claim upon you and that what you are doing is
out of charity, without hope of reward.”
A reply leaped to my lips as I looked into her eyes, but I choked it
back and we passed through the streets in silence. In my heart I felt a
great tenderness for this innocent and confiding creature, who leaned
so naturally upon my arm, and who evidently had heretofore gazed upon
the world only from a distance, comprehending nothing of what she saw;
but I reflected that I, who knew not how to support myself, certainly
could not hope to support a wife also, and put the thought behind me.
The Rue St. Honoré was crowded as we left the garden and turned into
it, and the front of the Palais Royal brilliantly lighted, but every
one was occupied with his own affairs and we seemed to be unobserved.
Pushing our way through the crowd, we soon reached the Rue du Chantre.
The street grew more and more deserted as we left the Rue St. Honoré
behind.
“This is the place, Mademoiselle,” I said, at last, and as we entered
the house together I saw the old woman who acted as concierge, and whom
I had come to detest even in a week’s time, leering at us horribly. My
blood was boiling as I caught the meaning of her grimace, but I said
nothing, fearing to alarm my companion, and we slowly mounted the dark
staircase.
“’Tis on the third floor,” I said, and we kept on, awakening a thousand
echoes. “This is the door, Mademoiselle. I will open it. There is a
candle on the table. Good-night.”
I took her hand, which I felt was trembling.
“And you?” she asked in a whisper.
“I will remain here,” I said. “I will sleep upon the threshold. No one
can enter without arousing me, so that you may sleep calmly without
fear. Good-night.”
“Good-night,” she answered, and there were tears in her voice. She
lingered yet a moment, as though there were something she still wished
to say, then entered the room and closed the door behind her. I heard
her moving about for a few moments, and then all was still.
I sat down upon the top step of the staircase and considered the
situation. I confess it appeared to me an awkward one, for, though I
had spoken so confidently to her, I had small hope that whatever I
might say would have any weight with her ogre of an uncle. He doubtless
detested me as heartily as I did him, and it was not to be denied that
he had the law behind him, though in this instance, as in many others,
quite divorced from justice. I trembled at thought of the blow her
reputation must sustain if it were known that for a night she had been
my guest--the face of the concierge, as I had seen it leer at us, gave
earnest of what the whole gay, evil world of Paris would believe. I
tore my kerchief from my throat, for the thought suffocated me. No one
should ever know--how could they, in this great, seething, clamorous
city? And if they did--if any dared to hint--thank God, I could answer
with my sword!
He had thought me her lover--curse his shifty, treacherous eyes!
Perhaps she had a lover--and I winced at the thought. But no, I would
not believe it! She would have told me. She would have asked me to
take her to him. And besides, I reflected, with a sigh of relief, she
had said that she had left the convent a week before only to find her
uncle’s house another prison. She could not have made such progress in
knowledge of the world in so short a time--indeed the frankness of her
look was proof enough.
With this thought, which somehow soothed and pleased me, I wrapped my
cloak about me, and sword at side, lay down athwart the threshold. A
vision of her sweet face danced before me--her eyes looked into mine,
pure and limpid as twin stars. Marvelling at their guilelessness,
I bent to kiss their rosy lids. Still they gazed at me, serene,
untroubled, and I stopped, shamed in my inmost consciousness, as one
who had thought to desecrate a flower.
CHAPTER III
I FIND MY PART A DIFFICULT ONE
I AWOKE with a start and looked about me, but could discern nothing,
for the darkness was absolute, impenetrable. What it was that had
disturbed me I could not guess. I was about to tell myself I had been
dreaming, when I heard a stealthy footstep on the stair. A second
followed. Some one was mounting cautiously. With heart leaping at
promise of adventure, I grasped my sword and sat upright, noiselessly.
The steps drew near and nearer; they were at the top of the stair--and
in an instant some one had stumbled over my extended legs and come down
with a crash upon the floor. I was upon the intruder in a flash, and
was astonished to find it was a woman.
“Who are you?” I whispered fiercely, between my teeth. “And what seek
you here?”
“Rather tell me what you seek here, Monsieur,” answered a voice twisted
and quivering with rage and malice, but which I nevertheless recognized
as that of the concierge. “You have rented the apartment, but not the
landing in front of it.”
“I will occupy the landing no longer than to-night,” I said. “But you
have not yet told me your business here.”
“I am going to bed,” she answered sullenly. “My room is the one at the
end of the corridor.”
“Go, then,” I said, loosing my hold of her, my suspicions not yet
allayed. “But remember that I shall still be here and it would be well
for you to remain in your room till morning. Another fall such as that
might snap some of your dry, old, rotten bones.”
The woman got slowly to her feet and I could hear her cursing softly to
herself. She took a step away from me and paused. I could guess what
her face was like!
“Since when has it been the fashion,” she snarled, “for a young man to
give up his bed to a pretty girl and himself sleep without the door? It
was not so in my day.”
“I can well believe it!” I retorted. “Begone!”
She shuffled slowly down the passage. I heard the opening and closing
of a door and all was still.
I wrapped my cloak about me once again, but sleep came no more to my
eyes. The encounter had filled me with uneasiness. That she was simply
on the way to her room, as she had said, I did not believe, but what
her object was I could not guess. During my whole week’s wanderings
in the streets of Paris I had encountered no face which repelled me
as did hers, with its yellow eyes, its sallow, withered cheeks, its
surly, snarling mouth. When I had seen it first, it had struck me as
threatening and terrible, and this impression deepened as I saw it
oftener. Something, I know not what, about the woman told me that
she was trembling at heart, that she lived in a state of constant
terror. A suggestion of the gutter and the darkness seemed to cling to
her, as though she had dragged herself through an abyss reeking with
unspeakable foulness.
I could have sworn that she had read my thought in my eyes the first
time I looked at her, so livid did her face become, and this belief
disturbed me so that I determined to change my lodging, but had chanced
upon no other matching the lightness of my purse. I am not a man to be
frightened at phantoms of my own imagining, but as I sat there in the
darkness I promised myself that another night should find me far from
the Rue du Chantre.
Morning came, and the filthy panes of the little window above the
stair-head turned from black to gray as I sat there musing. I arose,
removed from my clothing the traces of the dirty floor and went down
into the court, where I made my toilet at a trough in the yard, keeping
one eye upon the stair meanwhile to see that none descended. I had
scarce gained the stair-head again, when the door of my room opened,
and Mlle. Ribaut appeared framed in the doorway, fresh and rosy as a
picture by Watteau.
“Good-morning, M. le Moyne,” she cried, and courtesied to me with a
grace worthy of Louis’s court.
“Good-morning, Mademoiselle,” I said, bowing and taking her hand,
which, I told myself, was one of the prerogatives of a brother. “I
trust you slept well?”
“Never better in my life, Monsieur,” she answered gayly. “I have never
before been honored with a guard at my door, especially one on whom I
could rely so thoroughly.”
I bowed again at the compliment, and she must have seen the tenderness
which I could not keep from my face, for she drew her hand away, and
glanced nervously at the floor. I watched her glowing cheek with
ravished eyes until, of a sudden, I remembered that a brother would not
do so.
“Come, Mademoiselle,” I cried, “we must get breakfast. I know a
splendid place just around the corner, where they serve the most
excellent coffee, and rolls which fairly melt in one’s mouth.”
“And I am famously hungry,” she answered, laughing, her embarrassment
forgotten in an instant. “Wait until I get my hat, Monsieur.”
She was back in a moment, and we went down the stairs together and out
into the street. The morning was bright and warm and the streets were
thronged with people. I glanced again at my companion’s happy face,
and resolved to do nothing which could bring a shade upon it, however
difficult I might find the task.
We were soon at the café in the Rue de Beauvais, and the waiter gave us
a little table in a corner near the window, whence we could look out
upon the busy street. I shall not soon forget that meal. Mlle. Ribaut
laughed with delight as the coffee was placed before her, and served it
with the prettiest grace in the world. As for me, I almost forgot to
eat in gazing at her.
“You appear distracted, M. le Moyne,” she cried. “I’ll wager you are
thinking with what an irksome charge you have burdened yourself.”
“Not at all, Mademoiselle,” I answered quickly. “I was thinking how
difficult it is to be a brother to an adorable girl with whom one is
just getting acquainted.”
“I do not find it at all difficult, Monsieur,” and she laughed gayly.
“I assure you, I find it delightful to be a sister. I have never before
been a sister, Monsieur, and I enjoy having a big brother immensely.”
I glanced at her merry face, but saw there only guilelessness and
innocent good will. My heart fell within me, and I cursed myself for a
fool.
“Well, Mademoiselle,” I began.
“Oh, come, Monsieur,” she interrupted, “does a man always call his
sister Mademoiselle?”
“No more than a sister calls her brother Monsieur,” I retorted readily.
“Well, my name is Nanette, as I have already had the honor of telling
you,” she said.
“And mine is Pierre.”
She clapped her hands together gleefully.
“Splendid!” she cried. “We are getting along famously. I think it is a
very pretty name--Pierre. Now, what was it you were about to say?”
In the shock of delight at hearing her pronounce my name, I had quite
forgotten. But I rallied my wits with an effort.
“I was about to say that at ten o’clock I shall call upon your uncle.
I shall approach him with an assured air, as one who will not brook
denial. I shall say to him that you would die rather than consent to
this marriage and that you will not return home until he agrees to say
no more about it.”
“Ah, you do not know my uncle,” she said sadly. “Believe me, Pierre, he
will never agree.”
“In that case,” I answered, with a cheerfulness I confess I did not
feel, “we will secure a cottage at St. Cloud, or some other delightful
place. I will send for my sister who is in retreat at Aignan, and who
would joy to come. You will love each other, I am sure. And there we
shall all live happily together until your uncle does consent or until
an apoplexy carries him off.”
“That will be charming!” she cried, with dancing eyes. “I almost hope
he will not consent, so that it may come true. But, Pierre,” and she
hesitated.
“Yes?”
“All this will take money,” she continued, after a moment, “and you
told me your fortune is not great.”
“Well, I will increase it,” I declared, though I confess I had no idea
how I should do so, unless I enlisted as a brigand under that arrant
knave and prince of thieves, Cartouche. Yet not even that could I
do--there was my sister--I had kissed the cross--you shall hear.
She was silenced for a moment, and then took a purse from the bosom of
her dress.
“Will you keep this for me,” she asked, “and use it when there is need?
’Tis what I brought from home with me, my sweetmeat money.”
“Impossible,” I protested. “Keep your money, Mademoiselle.”
She looked at me a moment with quivering lips.
“That is not like my brother,” she said at last. “My brother would
understand that I do not wish to be a burden to him. At least, he would
consent to keep it for me, for fear that I might lose it.”
I reached out, took the purse, and placed it carefully in my bosom.
“When you wish it again, you have only to ask for it, Nanette,” I said.
“That is better,” and her face cleared. “And now, Pierre, what shall I
do while you are conferring with my uncle?”
“I think it will be best for you to remain in my room,” I answered,
after a moment’s thought. “I will return there at once, so soon as I
have seen him, and if I am unsuccessful we can set about securing that
cottage I mentioned a moment ago.”
“Very well,” she said sedately. “And I assure you that I shall not be
idle. I saw some clothing in your room this morning that was oh, so
badly in need of repair. I intend to make you a good sister, Pierre.”
“A good sister!” I murmured, and bit my tongue to keep it still.
“Yes, a good sister,” and then she looked at me, her face suddenly
serious. “But there is one thing that must be remedied--I know so
little about my brother. You must tell me more, Pierre.”
“Ah, I should love to!” I cried. “And you really care to know?”
[Illustration: Who, looking deep into her eyes, could have lacked
inspiration?]
“All! All!” she nodded, and leaned towards me, her chin in her hands,
her elbows on the table. “Of my life I told you in a sentence--I
have done nothing--nothing has happened to me. But with you, it is
different--you are a man. You have lived always in the great world.”
I looked at the curve of her dainty wrists, the little pink,
interlocked fingers, the cheeks soft and delicate as peach-bloom, and
then up into the eyes, dark, pure and quite fathomless. I pinched my
leg beneath the table to make sure I was not dreaming. Was ever youth
so fortunate?
“We have an hour,” she concluded. “You are going to see my uncle at
ten--it is not yet nine. So you will have time to tell me all--every
word.”
“Yes, every word,” I echoed. “But shall it be here, or----”
“Oh, here! Here it is so cosey, so homelike, and we seem to have known
each other for ages instead of merely since last night. Can it be that
I have known you only since last night?”
“No,” I said, with conviction. “We have known each other long and long,
only fate held us apart. Now we can laugh at fate.”
“Yes. But the story.”
“Very well--the story.”
“And, mind--no skipping!” she cried, shaking her finger at me
warningly. “I must have every word.”
Who, looking deep into her eyes, could have lacked inspiration?
CHAPTER IV
IN WHICH I COME TO PARIS
BUT it was not to tell that story I set pen to paper. Indeed, it were
scarce worth the telling, save to sympathetic ears, such as were those
tiny pink ones into which I poured it that morning.
Yet, two words about it.
We of Marsan have not always been so poor. Time was, when, as fief
of the house of Cauteret, we held broad fields and deep woods.
Unfortunately, M. le Comte, being half-Spanish himself, was so foolish
as to espouse the Spanish side in one of the innumerable intrigues
against the thirteenth Louis--they trod so fast upon each other’s heels
that I never knew just which it was. At any rate, in the event, M. le
Comte was fain to seek safety on his wife’s estates at Valladolid, and
rode away merrily enough, little regretting France.
We le Moynes, though we had followed M. le Comte to battle as in duty
bound, were honest enough to refuse to change our French coats for
Spanish ones, and so remained behind. We were too small fry to attract
the displeasure of the King, who had a host of greater cares to worry
him, so we were left to follow our own devices and keep ourselves from
starving as best we might.
The sixty years preceding my arrival had been spent by the le Moynes
getting a living as honestly as might be, and if we found a bit of
brigandage needful now and again to keep body and soul together, why,
we were ever ready to answer for it, man to man.
It was in a small house of stone on the right bank of the Midouze I
first saw the light. My father I never knew--he had been killed in some
foray a month or two before my birth--but my mother continued living
on there with her husband’s brother, Chabert le Moyne, and his wife.
The first ten or twelve years of my life passed peacefully enough, my
mother giving me such instruction as she could, and insisting that I
go with her every Saturday morning, wet or shine, to the curé for my
lesson. The remainder of the time I spent as it pleased me--wandering
along the river or paddling about in it; or exploring the great forest,
which had one time belonged to M. le Comte, but which was now the
King’s.
But at the age of twelve, my uncle Chabert took me suddenly in hand.
This was the more surprising because, up to that time, he had taken not
the slightest notice of me, save to assist me with his toe whenever he
chanced to find me scrambling out of his way. But now, all this was
changed. I must learn to ride, it seemed; to shoot with the pistol,
and to use dagger and rapier. I tell you, he kept me busy--and how I
relished it! There were some hard falls, just at the first, that shook
the teeth in my head, until I learned the trick of sticking to my
horse’s back, but after that only the long rides and the bouts with my
uncle. He seldom let me escape without a tap or two on the crown, just
to show me what a booby with the blade I was, but I thought nothing of
such petty things.
He was a tall, lean man, this uncle of mine, with moustache twisted to
a needle-point above a mouth which never opened needlessly. His eyes,
too, I remember--few cared to meet them at any time, none when he was
enwrathed. A dozen blackguards, who lived somewhere near by--God knows
where!--called him master and would have joyfully gone to hell for him.
Sometimes they would gather at the house at nightfall, my uncle would
kiss his wife and stamp out to his horse. I, looking big-eyed from one
corner of the little window in my bed-room, would see him fling himself
into the saddle and spur away, the others falling naturally in behind.
It was enough to make one tremble, and if I ventured down the ladder
into the room where my aunt and mother were--pretending I wanted a
drink or some such thing--I would find them in tears, and my mother
would look at me sorrowfully and draw me tenderly to her and weep over
me, as though some dreadful fate threatened me. The days that followed,
they would spend in horrible suspense, and how they would welcome him
when he came riding home again!
I understood nothing of all this, but my sister did. For it was at this
time she came home from the convent at Aignan, where the good sisters
had been caring for her. She had been sent there, a mere baby, at the
time my mother was expecting me, and she had been kept there since, we
being too poor to feed another mouth, and the good sisters hoping that
she would in the end enter the cloister. But when the time came, she
found herself lacking in courage or devotion--I do not know, for this
is one of the things about her I never quite understood--and so she was
sent home again. At least, here she was, tall and fair and dark-eyed,
and we were all a little afraid of her until we found how warm and
tender her heart was. Yes, and brave, too,--how could I have said she
lacked courage?--as I was presently to find out for myself.
It was one evening in early June. As the twilight deepened along the
river, I heard far off the tramp of horses and knew that another
journey was afoot. I went to the door to see them dash up along the
road, and very fine and brave they looked to me. They pulled full-stop
at the door, harness clanking, sword rattling against thigh, and my
uncle, who was at table, hastily swallowed the last of his meat, and
rose to don sword and headgear. I, who was still gaping out the door,
heard the sound of my sister’s voice.
“Where do you go, uncle?” she asked.
He was girding on his sword, and paused an instant to look at her in
sheer amazement. Then he turned away without answering.
“If it be upon a Godless errand you go, as I suspect,” she went, on,
quite calm and steady, “I pray you to think of your soul. What of it?”
My faith, but I was trembling for her and the women staring
open-mouthed!
I saw my uncle’s face darken, but he drew on his gauntlets and turned
to the door, saying never a word. He found her before him. For a moment
he stood looking into her eyes with a gaze that brought the sweat to
my forehead. I protest I am no coward, but I could not look in his
face--no, not even now--with such calm as hers.
But the moment passed. With a swift movement of his hand, he swept her
from his path and strode from the house. We heard him leap to saddle
and then the clatter of hoofs down the road. The girl stood silent,
listening, until the distance swallowed up the sound.
“He will not come back,” she said at last, with the air of a
prophetess. “The Virgin told me so this morning. He will never come
back, and he goes to his death unshriven.”
Then she went from the room, while terror still held her hearers
palsied.
Even yet can I remember the agony of those days, the prayers on our
knees before the cross, the straining of eyes down the road. And
then, at last, in the gray dawn of the fourth day, came the rush of a
single horse’s hoofs, and a rude clatter at the door. I, peeping out
my window, saw a man sitting on his horse--such a man!--mud-stained,
blood-stained, unkempt, breathless, with livid fear still on his
face and in his eyes. I could hear my aunt fumbling at the bar with
trembling hands and then the door opened.
“Le Moyne is dead,” said the man abruptly, in a terrible voice. “So
are all the others but one or two. It was an ambush. We thought we
had the coach and good plunder, when out they spurred from front and
rear, left and right. We had no chance, curse them! but they paid two
for one--aye, four for le Moyne. There was a man!” and with a horrible
choking in his throat, he struck spur to flank and pushed on.
Well, we lived on in a way--the wood gave us fagots--the earth a little
grain--sometimes my snares brought game to table. But what a life for
a lusty youth of nineteen, hot with impatience to see the world, yet
bound to three women! I loved them, I would not have left them, but how
I gnawed my heart out with longing to be gone!
We were well off the highway, hidden deep in the woods along the river,
else we must have fallen prey to violence ere we did, for that sister
of mine had grown into a woman fit to make men mad to look at. But it
came at last.
I was staggering home one day under a load of fagots from the
wood--what disgrace for a le Moyne to gather fagots! Mordieu, it makes
me warm even yet to think of! Well, I was staggering home, and cursing
my unhappy fate, when of a sudden I heard a woman scream, and knew the
voice for my sister’s. I dropped the fagots and ran forward, stooping
low to avoid the branches. In a moment I was at the house.
Before it were three horses, one of them bestrode by the finest
gentleman I had ever seen, the others riderless. Through the open door
came the sounds of a struggle.
“What is it?” I demanded roughly. “What do you here, Monsieur?”
He scarcely deigned me a glance.
“Be off, canaille!” he said, and turned to the door. “Bring her out,”
he cried, “but so much as a bruise and I’ll kill you both.”
And there appeared in the doorway two ruffians, bearing my sister
between them.
Then I understood, and my blood turned to fire.
How I did it, I know no more now than I did then, but I sprang upon
them and flung them right and left--one crashing against the door-post,
the other backward into the road that I might stamp his life out. I
heard a curse behind me, and a whip was brought hissing down across
my face--see, there is the scar, just at the corner of my eye. But I
turned on him like the wild beast I in that moment felt myself to be
and dragged him down from the saddle. I knew the others would be upon
me, that I could not escape, but I prayed Christ that I might kill him
first. I had him by the throat, bending him backward; I saw his eyes
start, his tongue swell--and then heavy steps behind me. I waited the
stab that I knew must come. Ah, my brave sister! it was you who saved
me, seizing my sword from the scabbard as it hung just within the door,
and using it how well!
One rode away hot-foot, in safety. The others lay where they had
fallen, and we staring down at them. Then my sister looked at the red
blade in her hand and dropped it, shuddering and faint.
“Their blood is on their own hands, not on ours,” I said. “Why did they
not pass in peace?”
“Yes, why did they not?” and she stared down at them. “I was here,
alone, the others had gone to wash at the river, when they came by. He
saw me, and--oh, infamous! The world is well rid of him!”
I saw the other women coming towards us under the trees, and then of a
sudden I knew our danger.
“We cannot stay here,” I cried. “They will be back again. The one who
fled will bring them, hot for vengeance. We must go!”
The women looked down the road, white-faced.
“Not you others, perhaps,” I said. “You were not here--they will not
seek for you. But we--I and my sister--must go.”
“Yes--but whither?” asked my aunt.
Whither? I did not know. I did not care. Here there was only death.
It was my sister who proved the wisest--then as always.
“I will go to Aignan,” she said, with a calmness that astonished
me. “The good sisters will protect me and give me sanctuary. You,
dear Pierre, must go farther--to some great city, where you can lose
yourself for a time.”
My blood was tingling. I knew whither I would go.
“To Paris!” I cried. “To Paris!”
My mother uttered a little cry of horror.
“Paris! Oh, no, Pierre! How can you cover those two hundred leagues?”
My eyes were on the horse, which stood patiently by its master, waiting
for him to rise and mount.
“The horse will carry me,” I said. “Yes, and provide me money at my
journey’s end.”
She would have protested, would have pleaded, but I broke away into the
house, donned the best suit my uncle had left behind, stretching it
somewhat in the struggle, buckled on sword and dagger, and was ready.
Never had I felt so strong, so confident. At last was I to have a bout
with fortune!
But money? I had little--well--and then, as I left the house, I saw
again the gallant lying stark in the dust. Perhaps in his pockets
were broad gold-pieces--a jewel flashed on his finger--but even as I
stooped, a hand was laid on my shoulder, and I turned to find myself
looking into my sister’s eyes.
“Not that, Pierre,” she said hoarsely. “For Christ’s sake, not that!
The le Moynes have been thieves long enough--now let them be honest
men!”
I felt my throat contract and my eyes grow wet.
“But I cannot starve,” I faltered, cursing my own weakness.
I saw the blood die from her lips.
“Here, take this!” she cried, and she tore open her gown and snatched
a cross from her bosom. I saw that it was of gold. “It was given to
me,” she said, “at Aignan. Now I give it to you to buy bread. It is the
dearest thing I have, but I give it gladly, for I am ransoming your
soul. Henceforth the le Moynes will be honest men.”
I could not speak, but I dropped at her feet and kissed the cross as
she held it down to me. It is an oath, thank God, I have never broken.
“And you will not sell the horse,” she added--what a woman she was!
“You will ride him as far as Tours. There you will deliver him to
a coureur to be returned to Marsan. I will see that he is claimed.
Good-by, dear Pierre,” and she held up her lips.
I kissed her as I would have kissed the Virgin, then my mother and
aunt. They seemed quite broken, yet it was clear we must be off. To
Marsan and back was only a matter of three hours, and near an hour of
this was already gone. I sprang to saddle and looked at them all, once
again, standing there in the road. Then I touched spur to flank and was
off.
And so, in the course of days, I came to Tours, where I sold the
cross and delivered the horse to the coureur. Then to Paris, where I
arrived at last, weary and somewhat stained by the road, yet with ten
pistoles in my pocket, a good sword at my side, and a light heart in my
bosom--the heart of youth!
Two words, did I say? How memory makes one garrulous!
CHAPTER V
M. RIBAUT IS OBDURATE
SHE sat looking at me for a moment without speaking, her chin in her
hands, her eyes bright.
“That is life!” she said, at last. “That is living! That is what I long
for! And, oh, how I shall love your sister! What is her name, Pierre?”
“Ninon,” I answered.
“Ninon!” and she lingered on the word. “Why, that is almost Nanette!
Oh, that I could see her, now--this moment!”
“Perhaps you soon will--that cottage at St. Cloud, you know,” and I
smiled at her eager face. “Come, it is time for me to pay my respects
to your amiable uncle.”
She gave a little gasp.
“And you are not afraid?” she asked. “Do you think he will harm you,
Pierre?”
“Harm me?” I laughed. “No,” and I touched the hilt of my sword. “There
is nothing to fear--on my account. Come.”
She arose with a little sigh, and paused in the doorway for a backward
look.
“But I have been happy here,” she said softly, and together we passed
out into the street.
We made our way back to the Rue du Chantre in silence. She seemed
oppressed by some foreboding, and I was considering what I would best
say to her uncle. It was not an easy matter to decide--I felt that,
in this case, I should be readier with my sword than with my tongue,
I hated him so already! We entered the little court and paused at the
stair-foot.
“I will leave you here, Nanette,” I said. “I shall not be long away.”
She answered with a pressure of the hand and smiled into my eyes. How
often, afterwards, in my dreams, did I see her standing so!
I watched her for a moment as she mounted the stair, and then turned
away. I caught a glimpse of the hideous concierge leering at me from
her box, and hurried from the place, disgusted, resolved anew to seek
another lodging. On through the streets I pressed, for I was anxious to
have my errand done--along the crowded, clamorous Rue St. Honoré, to
the Rue des Frondeurs, then to the Rue de l’Evêque--with leaping heart
I saw again the corner where Nanette had sought shelter in my arms,
months agone, it seemed!--and so onward across the Rue des Orties, to
the Rue des Moulins.
She had described the house for me, and I had no difficulty in finding
it, for a gilded board, bearing the legend
+-----------------+
| JACQUES RIBAUT, |
| BIJOUTIER. |
+-----------------+
projected into the street. I mounted the steps and knocked at the door,
noting as I did so that the house was a large one and in good repair,
a thing somewhat uncommon in Paris. A servant answered the knock, and
I was surprised to see that he was in livery. M. Jacques Ribaut must
indeed be wealthy.
“Is M. Ribaut within?” I asked.
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“I wish to see him,” and, as the man hesitated, I added, “Tell him it
is some one who brings him news from his niece.”
“Wait just a moment, Monsieur,” and the man disappeared down the
hallway. He was back almost immediately.
“You are to enter, Monsieur,” he said, and I followed him down the
hall. He opened a door before me, and I was in the presence of a little
fat man whom I recognized at once. He knew me also, and he leaned back
in his chair and gazed at me, his eyes agleam with hatred.
“What is your price, Monsieur?” he asked abruptly.
I stared at him in amazement
“I do not understand,” I said, after a moment.
“Oh, come,” he burst out, his anger getting the better of him, “let us
descend from the heights and get to business. You have possession, I
suppose, of the body of my niece. I ask you what price you demand to
deliver her to me?”
I felt my cheeks burning, but I determined to keep my temper.
“Monsieur,” I answered as quietly as I could, “my price is your promise
to break off at once this wedding which you propose and to sign in the
presence of witnesses a paper which I shall have executed in which you
will agree to permit your niece to choose her own husband.”
“Believing, doubtless, that she will choose you!” he sneered. “May I
ask, Monsieur, where you met my niece?”
“In the Rue de l’Evêque, as you know.”
“You had never met her before last night?”
“No. I had never seen her before that.”
He gazed at me astonished, for he saw that I spoke the truth.
“May I ask your name, Monsieur?” he said.
“Pierre le Moyne.”
“And your home?”
“Mont-de-Marsan.”
“I might have guessed it!” he cried. “Only a Gascon would attempt a
thing so ridiculous. Come, Monsieur, return me my niece and cease this
farce. It has been carried too far already. You imagine, doubtless,
that you are performing one of those Quixotic deeds for which your
countrymen are famous, but you do not understand the situation. This
husband whom I have chosen for my niece is M. Briquet, a wealthy and
respected man, well fitted to make her happy. She is young and does
not know her own mind. She has been bred in a convent and has arranged
some little romance for herself, in which the hero is doubtless a
prince, young, rich, and beautiful. She forgets that she is a poor girl
and that her marriage portion is hardly worth considering. M. Briquet
is a good match--better than could have been hoped for. In a year from
now she will think him adorable,” and he leered at me in a way that
made my flesh creep, “for he is good-natured--he does not ask what has
happened since last night--he will not set watch on her too closely--no
doubt there will still be a place for you.”
I felt my blood grow hot against the brute, but I kept close grip on my
temper. After all, I had an end to accomplish.
“I have already told you, Monsieur,” I answered, coldly, “on what terms
your niece will be returned to you. If she then chooses to marry M.
Briquet, well and good. If not, she will marry some one else.”
His self-control slipped from him, as cloak from shoulder, and left his
wrath quite naked.
“Mordieu!” he yelled, springing from his chair and shaking his fist
in my face, “you speak as though you had the right to meddle in
this affair. I will call in the law! I will have you thrown into the
conciergerie! I will compel you to return the girl!”
“Perhaps the law might also inquire why you are so anxious to have her
become Madame Briquet,” I retorted, for want of something better, and
paused in astonishment. He had fallen back into his chair, his face
livid. What possessed the man?
“Get out of here!” he screamed, when he had regained the power of
speech. “Get out of here, and tell your harlot never to show her face
here again, or I will denounce her as a woman of the town!”
He got no farther, for I was upon him, all my blood in my face. I
caught him up from the chair and smote him in the mouth with my open
hand.
“You dog!” I cried. “You dog!” and I struck him again.
“Murder!” he shrieked. “Help! He is killing me!”
I heard steps rushing down the hallway and the door behind me opened.
With a last blow I hurled Ribaut back into his chair and turned towards
the door, facing a man whom, from his surpassing ugliness, I knew
instantly to be Briquet. I had never seen a countenance more repulsive,
and I looked at him with loathing.
“Who are you, Monsieur,” he cried, “and what do you here?”
“I am punishing that scoundrel yonder for daring to ask his niece to
marry another scoundrel such as you!” I answered, and I looked him in
the eyes, all my contempt in my face.
His face went from red to purple.
“Kill him!” screamed Ribaut from the chair where he sat, the blood
streaming from nose and mouth. “It was he who took the girl from me.”
With an oath, Briquet snatched a pistol from his pocket. But I was too
quick for him, for, seizing a chair, I knocked the barrel up even as he
pulled the trigger and brought the chair down upon his head. He fell
like an ox.
“Ribaut,” I said, turning to the miserable object cowering in the
chair, “if I gave you your deserts I would kill you like the cur you
are, but I scorn to draw my sword against such vermin. I warn you that
if you so much as lift your finger against that girl you shall pay
for it with your life,” and fearing that my passion would yet get the
better of me, I turned from the room, strode down the hallway and left
the house.
As I made my way to the Rue du Chantre I tried in vain to solve the
mystery of which I had caught but a glimpse--the terror of Ribaut, the
ferocity of Briquet, the evident understanding between the two. Why
were they determined to sacrifice the girl? I could find no answer to
the question, and I turned to another problem which demanded immediate
solution.
How was I to provide for her now that the die was cast? I remembered
with a melancholy accuracy that my fortune was limited to the contents
of my purse and that my purse was anything but heavy. What a cottage at
St. Cloud would cost I dared not think, and then a wardrobe had also to
be provided, since she had brought with her only the clothes she wore.
It was with this problem weighing on my mind that I turned into the
entrance and slowly mounted the stairs to my room. I knocked at the
door, but there was no response. With a great fear at my heart I
flung the door open and entered. One glance told me that the room was
empty. Chairs had been overturned, the lock of the door was broken.
With a trembling hand I picked up a garment in which there was still
a threaded needle. I could read the story at a glance. She had been
surprised, overpowered, carried away. And in the moment of agony that
followed I knew that I loved her.
CHAPTER VI
RIBAUT PLAYS A CARD
I STOOD for a moment dazed by this unexpected blow, for which I had
been wholly unprepared. From what direction had it come? Clearly not
from Ribaut, since I had been with him all the time. From whom, then?
And in an instant I remembered the mysterious actions of the old woman
who had fallen over my feet the night before. I ran down the stairs
like the wind, and as I reached the court I perceived her sitting in
her ruinous little lodge. I drew my sword, threw the door open and
entered.
“Madame,” I said, with all the calmness I could muster, “you will tell
me at once what has happened to the lady who was in my room.”
She crouched back in her chair away from the point at her throat and
looked at me with venomous eyes.
“I know nothing about it,” she snarled. “You will have to look
elsewhere, my fine blade.”
“No lies!” I said sharply. “You cannot deceive me. She could not have
been carried off without you seeing it, even if you did not lend a
hand.”
“Carried off, indeed!” she retorted with a sneer. “And what if she had
simply grown weary of you and took the first chance to escape? On my
word, I should not blame her!”
“She did not go away of her own will,” I said, quite positively. “She
was carried away. Tell me what you saw.”
“I saw nothing,” she repeated sullenly.
“Very well,” I said between my teeth, “it seems you are prepared to
die, then. Say your prayers. Commend your soul to God, if you possess
one, for I warn you that I will kill you as I would a snake, without an
instant’s hesitation.”
She looked at me for a moment, her eyes glittering, her face livid, her
mouth working convulsively. She licked her lips and swallowed with an
effort.
“Come,” I repeated, “you have nothing more to say then?” and my sword
quivered in my hand.
She saw I was in earnest.
“I will tell you what I know, Monsieur,” she said at last.
“Good. That is the only way to save your life,” and I lowered my
point. “If I find you lying to me, you shall die none the less surely.”
“All that I know, Monsieur, is that ten minutes after you had left
three men entered. One remained on guard here, while the others mounted
the stair. In a moment they returned, bringing the lady with them.
Despite her struggles, they placed her in a coach which was waiting in
the street, and drove away as fast as their horses could take them.”
“And who were these men?” I asked. “Where did they take the girl?”
“I do not know, Monsieur.”
“You lie!” I cried fiercely. “It was you who set them on! It was you
who told them she was alone! Tell me who they were!”
She was snarling again from the depths of her chair, and I looked at
her in disgust.
“Come,” I repeated after a moment, “you must tell me. There is no way
of escaping it.”
I saw her glance past me into the court, and heard footsteps on the
stones without. I turned to see two men standing there.
“Is there a gentleman lodged here by the name of Pierre le Moyne?”
asked one of them.
“That is my name,” I answered.
“Will you be good enough to accompany us, Monsieur?”
“And why?” I inquired.
“We have been commissioned to conduct you to M. d’Argenson, lieutenant
of police,” he answered. “He will doubtless explain everything to you,
Monsieur.”
“I am under arrest, then?” I asked, with a sinking heart.
“If you choose to call it so, Monsieur,” and the man bowed.
I heard the concierge chuckling savagely in her chair behind me.
“Very well,” I said, after a moment’s reflection, “I shall be very
glad to see M. le Comte d’Argenson. But I have some clothing and other
property in my room here which I do not care to have stolen.”
“We will seal the door, Monsieur, if you will show us the room. Nothing
will then be disturbed in your absence.”
I led the way to the room and we entered.
“We were also instructed to bring to M. d’Argenson a girl named Anne
Ribaut,” said the fellow, looking about the room and seeing it empty.
“Where is she, Monsieur?”
“I do not know,” I answered bitterly. “I left her here an hour since.
When I returned she had disappeared. Look at the condition of the room,
Monsieur, and judge if she went willingly.”
They looked about the room with practised eyes, which took in every
detail.
“Have you a theory, Monsieur?” asked one of them at last.
“Only that the woman who is concierge knows more about it than she
cares to tell,” I answered. “I was endeavoring to force a confession
from her at the point of my sword when you interrupted me.”
“Ah,” and the man smiled. “We must look into that. If she has anything
to tell she will tell it, Monsieur, rest assured of that. We have a
more effective method of securing confessions than the sword-point,”
and he smiled again.
They made another careful survey of the place, disturbing nothing, and
then, motioning me to follow, left the room and sealed the door behind
them. We descended to the court, but found that the concierge was no
longer in her lodge.
“We shall get her, Monsieur, never fear,” one of them remarked. “No one
can escape us in Paris.”
I doubted this somewhat, but deemed it best to say nothing, and
followed them into the street. They led the way to the Rue St. Honoré,
turned down the Bons Enfants, and entered at one of the smaller doors
of the Palais Royal. In a moment we were in an ante-chamber which was
crowded with people, many of whom shot curious glances at me as we
passed. Here there was a short delay, and then we were shown into a
room where a man sat writing at a table.
I looked at him with interest, for that this was the renowned Comte
Voyer d’Argenson, who had organized the police system of Paris into
the most perfect in the world, I did not doubt. At the first glance I
was struck by nothing so much as his surpassing ugliness, for his face
was horribly disfigured by small-pox, and yet when I looked again this
impression faded imperceptibly and I saw only a man with kindly eyes
and winning mouth.
He listened in silence to the report of the men who had arrested me,
glancing keenly at my face once or twice, but for the most part
playing with the pen he still held in his hand.
“Very good,” he said, as the report was concluded. “I need not tell you
that it is necessary to arrest this woman. Do so without delay, and
find out everything possible about her past. You may go.”
They went out and closed the door behind them.
“Sit down, M. le Moyne,” he continued, and I fancied I detected a trace
of kindness in his voice. “I should be glad to hear your story of your
connection with Mlle. Ribaut.”
“May I ask first, Monsieur,” I questioned, “why I have been arrested?”
“You are charged with the abduction and detention of the girl, with
drawing your sword against her legal guardian, M. Jacques Ribaut, and
with subsequently assaulting him and his friend, M. Jean Briquet, at
his residence in the Rue des Moulins. Luckily, they were not injured
seriously, and so could lodge complaint against you without delay.”
“But they did not know my lodging,” I protested, looking at him with
bewildered eyes. “How was I found so speedily?”
D’Argenson smiled and turned to a great book which lay beside him on
the table.
“Listen,” he said, and opened it. “Ah, here it is,” he added, after
turning a page or two. “An entry on this page reads as follows, under
date of July 10: ‘Pierre le Moyne, age about twenty, brown hair,
brown eyes, well built, entered by the Porte St. Antoine at sunrise.
Found lodging at the Epée Flamboyante, Rue du Chantre. A Gascon,
Mont-de-Marsan. Unsuspected.’”
He smiled again as he glanced at my astonished face.
“It is our record,” he said, “of all strangers who enter Paris. We have
agents at every gate--a simple thing. You see we had you under our
hand.”
Still I could not speak. It was incredible. But I began to understand
how no one could escape M. D’Argenson.
“As to the charges,” he added more gravely, “I trust they are not true,
M. le Moyne, for they are of a most serious nature.”
CHAPTER VII
I AM FORTUNATE IN FINDING A NEW FRIEND
I SAT looking at him without answering, dismayed somewhat at the
gravity of his face. Yet there were still the kindly eyes and
mouth--surely I need fear no injustice from this man!
“I will tell you the story, M. le Comte,” I said, after a moment’s
thought. “You shall judge for yourself in how far I am guilty.” And I
gave him a detailed account of everything that had happened from the
moment I had encountered Mlle. Ribaut in the Rue de l’Evêque until the
moment of my arrest. D’Argenson did not once interrupt me, but glanced
at me keenly from time to time, and remained for a moment silent after
I had finished.
“M. le Moyne,” he said at last, “I need not tell you that you have been
setting the law at defiance in all this, and that however I may respect
you as a man of honor, as lieutenant of police there is only one course
open to me, and that is to punish you. A father or legal guardian has
an absolute and unquestioned right to dispose of a girl’s hand in
marriage. There are only two conditions under which this right can be
called into question. One is when there is some legal impediment which
would prevent the marriage and which is being concealed. The other is
when the proposed marriage is in the nature of a conspiracy, for the
purpose of defrauding the girl in some way, or of doing her some other
wrong.”
“Ah, Monsieur,” I cried, “if you could but see this creature, this
Briquet! He is hideous, horrible! It seems to me that it is wrong
enough that any girl should be compelled to marry him and live with
such a monster.”
D’Argenson laughed bitterly.
“I have seen him, M. le Moyne,” he said. “It was he who came here to
make complaint against you on behalf of M. Ribaut. I confess he is not
lovely, but you could scarce expect me to take action on that ground,
else I should be pronouncing a decree against my own countenance.”
“But there is a difference, M. le Comte!” I cried, and I wondered that
I had ever thought him repulsive. “Mere irregularity of features, or
even disfigurement, does not constitute ugliness. No countenance is
offensive, Monsieur, which is lighted by kindly eyes and a smiling
mouth. It is not so with Briquet. One shrinks from him instinctively as
from a snake.”
D’Argenson did not answer, but sat musing deeply.
At last he raised his head.
“M. le Moyne,” he said, his eyes full on mine, “tell me truly why you
came to Paris. It was not merely to seek your fortune?”
His eyes seemed to be reading my very heart. I had no thought of
telling aught but the truth. So the truth I told, just as I had told
Nanette, only more briefly--the attack on my sister and my killing of
the libertine who had ordered it. Neither this time did M. le Comte
interrupt me, but sat listening quietly, only looking at me with those
eyes there was no denying. He was smiling when I ended, and I took
courage.
“You have strong hearts, you le Moynes, men and women,” he said. “Some
rumor of this affair hath reached Paris, only in another guise. It was
that M. Philippe de Nizan and two attendants had been set upon by a
gang of outlaws, and de Nizan and one of his men killed. The other, who
escaped, told a pretty story of the fight, doubtless to save his own
reputation. But I knew he was lying, for private advices from Marsan
tell me that not a jewel nor pistole had been stolen. Only one of the
horses was missing.”
“I rode it away, as I told you, M. le Comte,” I protested earnestly.
“It has been sent back from Tours and should be at Marsan by this time
awaiting its owner. That will prove the truth of my story, Monsieur.”
But D’Argenson silenced me with a gesture of his hand.
“I need no proof, M. le Moyne,” he said kindly. “I believe it already.
I can detect truth from falsehood--that is why I am head of the police.
You did well to trust me.”
I turned red with pleasure and tried to stammer my thanks, but he
silenced me again.
“If the varlet sticks to his lie, you, of course, will not be
troubled,” he added. “Should he tell the truth, the whole truth,
there could be no charge against you. Should he tell a half-truth,
implicating you, I will take a hand in the affair. I can protect you
there, because you had the law on your side, but about this other I am
not so certain. You have struck at one of the props of our society,
and there is no crime more serious. If a parent or guardian may not
dispose of his child in marriage, we will have simply chaos.”
I did not know what to answer. I had no wish to bring about a
revolution, yet I knew quite well that I should never permit Nanette to
be returned to her infamous uncle--but I could not say that to M. le
Comte. He sat for some moments deep in thought, while I tried vainly to
discover a way out of the coil.
“Well, M. le Moyne,” he said at last, “it is evident that the most
important thing now is to find the girl, since she is no longer with
you. Until that is done and her testimony can be secured, I will see
that the charge against you is not pressed.”
“And in the mean time,” I questioned breathlessly, “I trust you will
not think it necessary to send me to prison, M. le Comte?”
“And why not?” he asked smiling.
“Because in prison, Monsieur, I could do nothing towards assisting your
agents to recover Mlle. Ribaut.”
“I had thought of that,” said d’Argenson. “Well, Monsieur, I will give
you your freedom on two conditions.”
“And what are they?” I asked.
“One is that you report here to me at eight o’clock every morning so
that I can detain you if there is need.”
“I agree!” I cried.
“The other is that if you succeed in finding Mlle. Ribaut, you will
bring her here to me at once and surrender her into my hands without
question.”
I hesitated for a moment, but a glance at d’Argenson’s face convinced
me that he would use me fairly.
“Very well, Monsieur,” I said, “I agree to your second condition. But
in return I would ask of you one thing.”
“And what is that?”
“It is, M. le Comte, that you make a little inquiry into the affairs of
Ribaut and Briquet. I am certain that a conspiracy of some kind does
exist,” and I told him of Ribaut’s terror, when, for want of something
better to say, I had threatened him with a police investigation.
“It may be as you say,” assented d’Argenson thoughtfully. “At any rate,
I will gladly do as you suggest, for I do not conceal from you, M. le
Moyne, that my heart is with you in this matter. I can appreciate a
gentleman, Monsieur, wherever I find him,” and he arose and gave me
his hand. “If I can aid you in any way, I will do so--I can promise
you that much. Adieu, Monsieur, and do not forget to report to-morrow
morning. I may have some news for you.”
I pressed his hand warmly, thanked him, and took my leave. Evening was
already at hand as I reached the street, and my stomach reminded me
that I had eaten nothing since morning. I sought out the café in the
Rue de Beauvais where we had breakfasted, and as I ate my solitary
meal, I saw again before me the laughing, piquant face of Nanette
Ribaut. I lingered at the table, revelling in the companionship which
my thoughts created for me, and nine o’clock was striking from the
Louvre as I once more reached the street. I reflected that I could do
nothing better than return to my room and get a good night’s rest,
for I was accustomed to a softer bed than I had had the night before,
and felt greatly fatigued. Besides, it was just possible that the old
concierge might return, and nothing would please me so much as to turn
her over to d’Argenson, that she might be put to the question.
I was soon at the house, but saw in a moment that the lodge of the
concierge was dark and deserted. I mounted to my own room, found the
seals on the door undisturbed, broke them and entered. My heart was
beating madly as I lighted the candle and looked around. It seemed to
me that I could still detect the sweet, faint perfume of Nanette’s
presence in the room. I set to work to repair its disorder, and picked
up with reverent fingers the garment upon which she had been working. I
did not remove the threaded needle, but resolved that it should remain
there, and that I would treasure the worn garment always.
Long time I sat by the table and mused over the day’s events.
D’Argenson had said that the law was against me, and that, if no
impediment was found, Nanette must do her uncle’s bidding. I shut
my teeth together as I determined that this impediment should be
found; that I would penetrate this mystery; that I would prevent this
sacrifice. But how, how?
In an agony of apprehension, I prepared for bed. As I removed my
doublet, something fell to the floor, and when I stooped to look more
closely I saw it was the purse Nanette had given me. I picked it up
with trembling hand, and sleep found me with it clasped close against
my heart.
CHAPTER VIII
I KEEP AN APPOINTMENT
I AWOKE in the morning strong, refreshed, and hopeful, and I arose
without delay, for I was eager to commence the contest. The day was
singularly bright and pleasant. It reminded me of the sweet springs I
had known in the south, and I descended the stairs with a light heart,
confident that I should yet win the victory. That is what it is to be
young!
As I passed the lodge of the concierge I saw that there was some one
within, and I opened the door to find an old man looking at me.
“Good-day, Monsieur,” he said politely. “Is there anything you wish?”
“Are you the concierge?” I asked.
“Since this morning only, Monsieur,” he answered.
“Can you tell me what has become of your predecessor?”
“I did not know him, Monsieur.”
I looked at the man sharply, but he returned my gaze without winking.
“How, then, did you obtain the place?” I asked.
“The concierge of the next house, who is a friend of mine, told me
there was a vacancy here, so I came and was accepted.”
I looked at him again. If he was lying, he was doing it admirably and
with a perfect composure.
“Very well, my friend,” I said at last. “I trust you will do your duty
better than your predecessor. Yesterday my room, which is on the third
floor, was entered and some property carried away. You will oblige me
by keeping an eye upon my room,” and I laid a crown upon the table, for
I reflected that I could lose nothing by gaining the friendship of this
man, who might, perhaps, be able to assist me.
“Thank you, Monsieur,” he said, reddening with pleasure at sight of
the coin. “Monsieur may rest assured that his room will not again be
disturbed.”
“I trust so, at least,” I answered, and turned into the street. I
knew that eight o’clock could not be far distant, so, without waiting
for breakfast, I hastened towards the Palais Royal and was soon in M.
d’Argenson’s ante-chamber.
It was, if anything, more crowded than on the previous day, and a
circumstance which astonished me was that so few of those present
wore uniforms. Indeed, the crowd which eddied ceaselessly back and
forth seemed to be drawn from every rank of life, from the highest to
the lowest, and as I glanced over this motley assemblage I gained an
idea, vague and meagre no doubt, of the extent of the great system
of espionage which the Comte d’Argenson had established, and which
penetrated into every corner of Parisian life, like an enormous and
insatiable vine, continually throwing out creepers and seeking a fresh
foothold in some spot not already occupied. I paused beside a man who
seemed to be the gardien, and who attentively scanned all who entered.
“If one wishes to see M. le Comte d’Argenson, Monsieur,” I inquired,
“how does one proceed?”
“You will find him very busy, Monsieur,” he answered, “unless your
business is of importance.”
“I have an appointment with him at eight o’clock,” I said dryly.
“Ah, in that case there will be no trouble. M. d’Argenson allows
nothing to interfere with his appointments,” and the man smiled. “Give
your name to that gentleman whom you see standing by the closed door
yonder, Monsieur.”
“Many thanks,” I said, and did as he directed. In a few moments the man
signalled me to follow him, and led the way into M. d’Argenson’s office.
“Good-morning, M. le Moyne,” he cried, as I entered. “Take a chair,
if you please, and pardon me for one moment,” and he resumed the
examination of a great number of papers, passing from one to another
with incredible rapidity, affixing his signature here, erasing a line
there, and laying a few to one side for further consideration.
I had opportunity to examine his face more attentively than had been
possible the day before, and, the first impression produced by its
disfigurement past, I found it more and more admirable.
The fame of the Comte d’Argenson had penetrated to the four corners
of France, until Le Dammé, as he was called because of his formidable
countenance, had become a word to frighten children with. A thousand
stories were told of him, how he commenced his audiences at three
o’clock in the morning and worked all day, dictating to four
secretaries at once; making his rounds at night in a carriage in which
there was a desk lighted by candles, so that no single moment might be
lost; facing street riots with a cool courage which made him master
of the mob; striking home with an absolute disregard of form and
precedent, overcoming many obstacles, and achieving his object before
another man could have planned the attack.
Certain it was that he had brought order out of chaos, suppressed crime
with a rigid hand, and developed a system of espionage so complete that
there were few in Paris concerning whose habits and conduct from day to
day he could not be fully informed, should he choose to inquire about
them. Clothed with an authority almost absolute, he had yet strength
to use it gently and wisely; above corruption, discreet, ever leaning
towards the merciful; a thorough gentleman, with whom any secret was
safe, so that it did not interfere with the law or with the State--a
fact which a thousand women knew by experience and thanked God for--it
is little wonder that I gazed at him with interest and attention.