There may be a hundred ways of apprehending the character of a man, but none perhaps is more reliable than the appearance of his dwelling, and no discerning person that stepped into Captain Tardivet’s parlour could long remain in doubt of its inhabitant’s pursuits and habits.
When Dame Capoulade had withdrawn, after bringing them their wine and casting a few logs upon the fire, La Boulaye turned his back to the hearth and confronted his host.
“Why are you not with the army, Charlot?” he asked in a tone which made the question sound like a demand.
“Have they not told you,” rejoined the other airily, engrossed in filling the glasses.
“I understand you were sent here to recover from a wound you received three months ago at Jemappes, and to take charge of other invalided soldiers. But seemingly, your invalids do not number more than a half-dozen out of the fifty or sixty men that are with you. How is it then, that you do not return with these to Dumouriez?”
“Because I can serve France better here,” answered Charlot, “and at the same time enrich myself and my followers.”
“In short,” returned La Boulaye coldly, “because you have degenerated from a soldier into a brigand.”
Charlot looked up, and for just a second his glance was not without uneasiness. Then he laughed. He unbuckled his sword and tossed it into a corner, throwing his hat after it.
“It was ever your way to take extreme views, Caron,” he observed, with a certain whimsical regret of tone. “That, no doubt, is what has made a statesman of you. You had chosen more wisely had you elected to serve the Republic with your sword instead. Come, my friend,” and he pointed to the wine, “let us pledge the Nation.”
La Boulaye shrugged his shoulders slightly, and sighed. In the end he came forward and took the wine.
“Long live the Republic!” was Charlot’s toast, and with a slight inclination of the head La Boulaye drained his glass.
“It is likely to live without you, Charlot, unless you mend your conduct.”
“Diable!” snapped the Captain, a trifle peevishly. “Can you not understand that in my own way I am serving my country. You have called me a brigand. But you might say the same of General Dumouriez himself. How many cities has he not sacked?”
“That is the way of war.”
“And so is this. He makes war upon the enemies of France that dwell in cities, whilst I, in a smaller way, make war upon those that travel in coaches. I confine myself to emigres — these damned aristocrats whom it is every good Frenchman’s duty to aid in stamping out. Over the frontiers they come with their jewels, their plate, and their money-chests. To whom belongs this wealth? To France. Too long already have they withheld from the sons of the soil that which belongs equally to them, and now they have the effrontery to attempt to carry these riches out of the country. Would any true Republican dare to reproach me for what I do? I am but seizing that which belongs to France, and here dividing it among the good patriots that are with me, the soldiers that have bled for France.”
“A specious argument,” sneered La Boulaye.
“Specious enough to satisfy the Convention itself if ever I should be called to task,” answered Charlot, with heat. “Do you propose to draw the attention of the Executive to my doings?”
La Boulaye’s grey eyes regarded him steadily for a moment.
“Know you of any reason why I should not?” he asked.
“Yes, Caron, I do,” was the ready answer. “I am well aware of the extent of your power with the Mountain. In Paris I can see that it might go hard with me if you were minded that it should, and you were able to seize me. On the other hand, that such arguments that I have advanced to you would be acceptable to the Government I do not doubt. But whilst they would approve of this that you call brigandage, I also do not doubt that they would claim that the prizes I have seized are by right the property of the Convention, and they might compel me to surrender them. Thus they would pass from my hands into those of some statesman-brigand, who, under the plea of seizing these treasures for the coffers of the nation, would transfer them to his own. Would you rather help such an one to profit than me, Caron? Have you so far forgotten how we suffered together — almost in the self-same cause — at Bellecour, in the old days? Have you forgotten the friendship that linked us later, in Paris, when the Revolution was in its dawn? Have you forgotten what I have endured at the hands of this infernal class that you can feel no sympathy for me? Caron, it is a measure of revenge, and as there is a Heaven, a very mild one. Me they robbed of more than life; them I deprive but of their jewels and their plate, turning them destitute upon the world. Bethink you of my girl-wife, Caron,” he added, furiously, “and of how she died of grief and shame a short three months after our hideous nuptials. God in Heaven! When the memory of it returns to me I marvel at my own forbearance. I marvel that I do not take every man and woman of them that fall into my hands and flog them to death as they would have flogged you when you sought — alas to so little purpose — to intervene on my behalf.”
He grew silent and thoughtful, and the expression of his face was not nice. At last: “Have I given you reason enough,” he asked, “why you should not seek to thwart me?”
“Why, yes,” answered La Boulaye, “more than was necessary. I am desolated that I should have brought you to re-open a sorrow that I thought was healed.”
“So it is, Caron. How it is I do not know. Perhaps it is my nature; perhaps it is that in youth sorrow is seldom long-enduring; perhaps it is the strenuous life I have lived and the changes that have been wrought in me — for, after all, there is a little in this Captain Tardivet that is like the peasant poor Marie took to husband, four years ago. I am no longer the same man, and among the other things that I have put from me are the sorrows that were of the old Charlot. But some memories cannot altogether die, and if to-day I no longer mourn that poor child, yet the knowledge of the debt that lies ‘twixt the noblesse of France and me is ever present, and I neglect no opportunity of discharging a part of it. But enough of that, Caron. Tell me of yourself. It is a full twelvemonth since last we met, and in that time, from what I have heard, you have done much and gone far. Tell me of it, Caron.”
They drew their chairs to the hearth, and they sat talking so long that the early February twilight came down upon them while they were still at their reminiscences. La Boulaye had intended reaching Valenciennes that night; but rather than journey forward in the dark he now proposed to lie at Boisvert, a resolution in which he did not lack for encouragement from Charlot.
CHAPTER IX. THE CAPTIVES
Amid the sordid surroundings of Charlot’s private quarters the Captain and the Deputy supped that evening. The supper sorted well with the house — a greasy, ill-cooked meal that proved little inviting to the somewhat fastidious La Boulaye. But the wine, plundered, no doubt, in common with the goblets out of which they drank it — was more than good, and whilst La Boulaye showed his appreciation of it, Charlot abused it like a soldier. They sat facing each other across the little deal table, whose stains were now hidden by a cloth, and to light them they had four tapers set in silver candlesticks of magnificent workmanship, and most wondrous weight, which Tardivet informed his guest had been the property of a ci-devant prince of the blood.
As the night wore on Captain Charlot grew boisterous and more confidential. He came at length to speak of the last capture they had made.
“I have taken prizes, Caron,” said he, “which a king might not despise. But to-day—” He raised his eyes to the ceiling and wagged his head.
“Well?” quoth La Boulaye. “What about to-day?”
“I have made a capture worth more than all the others put together. It was an indifferent-looking berline, and my men were within an ace of allowing it to pass. But I have a nose, mon cher” — and he tapped the organ with ludicrous significance— “and, bon Dieu, what affair! I can smell an aristocrat a league off. Down upon that coach I swooped like a hawk upon a sparrow. Within it sat two wom
en, thickly veiled, and I give you my word that in a sense I pitied them, for not a doubt of it, but they were in the act of congratulating themselves upon their escape from France. But sentiment may become fatal if permitted to interfere with enterprise. Stifling my regrets I desired them to alight, and they being wise obeyed me without demur. I allowed them to retain their veils. I sought the sight of things other than women’s faces, and a brief survey of the coach showed me where to bestow my attention. I lifted the back seat. It came up like the lid of the chest it was, and beneath it I discovered enough gold and silver plate to outweigh in value almost everything that I had ever taken. But that was by no means all. Under the front seat there was a chest of gold — louis d’ors they were, some two or three thousand at least — and, besides that, a little iron-bound box of gems which in itself was worth more than all the rest of the contents of that treasure-casket of a coach. I tell you, Caron, I dropped the lid of that seat in some haste, for I was not minded that my men should become as wise as I. I stepped down and bade, the women re-enter, and hither under strong escort I have brought them.”
“And these treasures?” asked La Boulaye.
“They are still in the coach below, with the women. I have told these that they shall spend the night there. To-morrow I shall see to them and give them their liberty — which is a more generous proceeding than might befall them at the hands of another. When they are gone comes the division of the spoil.” He closed one eye slowly, in a very ponderous wink. “To my men I shall relegate the gold and silver plate as well as the money. For myself I shall only retain the little iron-bound box. My followers will account me more than generous and themselves more than satisfied. As for me, La Boulaye — by St. Guillotine, I am tempted to emigrate also and set up as an aristocrat myself in Prussia or England, for in that little box there is something more than a fortune. I asked you to-day whether you were minded to lay information against me in Paris. My faith, I am little concerned whether you do or not, for I think that before you can reach Paris, Captain Charlot Tardivet will be no more than a name in the Republican army. Abroad I shall call myself Charlot du Tardivet, and I shall sleep in fine linen and live on truffles and champagne. Caron, your health!”
He drained his glass, and laughed softly to himself as he set it down.
“Do you trust your men?” asked La Boulaye.
“Eh? Trust them? Name of a name! They know me. I have placed the ten most faithful ones on guard. They answer to the rest of us with their necks for the safety of their charge. Come hither, Caron.”
He rose somewhat unsteadily, and lurched across to the window. La Boulaye followed him, and gazing out under his indication, he beheld the coach by the blaze of a fire which the men had lighted to keep them from freezing at their post.
“Does that look secure?”
“Why, yes — secure enough. But if those fellows were to take it into their heads that it would be more profitable to share the prize among ten than among sixty?”
“Secreanom!!” swore Charlot impatiently. “You do my wits poor credit. For what do you take me? Have I gone through so much, think you, without learning how little men are to be trusted? Faugh! Look at the porte-cochere. The gates are closed — aye, and locked, mon cher, and the keys are here, in my pocket. Do you imagine they are to be broken through without arousing anyone? And then, the horses. They are in the stables over there, and again, the keys are in my pocket. So that, you see, I do not leave everything to the honesty of my ten most faithful ones.”
“You have learned wisdom, not a doubt of it,” laughed the Deputy.
“In a hard school, Caron,” answered the Captain soberly. “Aye, name of a name, in a monstrous hard school.”
He turned from the window, and the light of the tapers falling on his face, showed it heavily scored with lines of pain, testifying to the ugly memories which the Deputy’s light words had evoked. Then suddenly he laughed, half-bitterly, half humourously.
“La, la!” said he. “The thing’s past. Charlot Tardivet the bridegroom of Bellecour and Captain Charlot of Dumouriez’ army are different men-very different.”
He strode back to the table, filled his goblet, and gulped down the wine. Then he crossed to the fire and stood with his back to La Boulaye for a spell. When next he faced his companion all signs of emotion had cleared from his countenance. It was again the callous, reckless face of Captain Charlot, rendered a trifle more reckless and a trifle more callous by the wine-flush on his cheeks and the wine-glitter in his eye.
“Caron” said he, with a half-smile, “shall we have these ladies in to supper?”
“God forbid!” ejaculated La Boulaye.
“Nay, but I will,” the other insisted, and he moved across to the window.
As he passed him, La Boulaye laid a detaining hand upon his arm.
“Not that, Charlot,” he begged impressively, his dark face very set. “Plunder them, turn them destitute upon the world, if you will, but remember, at least, that they are women.”
Charlot laughed in his face.
“It is something to remember, is it not? They remembered it of our women, these aristocrats!”
There was so much ugly truth in the Captain’s words, and such a suggestion of just, if bitter, retribution in his mental attitude, that La Boulaye released his arm, at a loss for further arguments wherewith to curb him.
“Paydi!” Charlot continued, “I have a mind for a frolic. Does not justice give me the right to claim that these aristocrats shall amuse me?”
With an oath he turned abruptly, and pulled the casement open.
“Guyot!” he called, and a voice from below made answer to him.
“You will make my compliments to the citoyennes in the coach, Guyot, and tell them that the Citizen-captain Tardivet requests the honour of their company to supper.”
Then he went to the door, and calling Dame Capoulade, he bade her set two fresh covers; in which he was expeditiously obeyed. La Boulaye stood by the fire, his pale face impassive now and almost indifferent. Charlot returned to the window to learn from Guyot that the citoyennes thanked the Citizen-captain, but that they were tired and sought to be excused, asking nothing better than to be allowed to remain at peace in their carriage.
“Sacred name of a name!” he croaked, a trifle thickly, for the wine he had taken was mastering him more and more. “Are they defying us? Since they will not accept an invitation, compel them to obey a command. Bring them up at once, Guyot.”
“At once, Captain,” was the answer, and Guyot went about the business.
Charlot closed the window and approached the table.
“They are coquettish these scented dames,” he mocked, as he poured himself out some wine. “You are not drinking Caron.”
“It is perhaps wise that one of us should remain sober,” answered the Deputy quietly, for in spite of a certain sympathy with the feelings by which Charlot was actuated, he was in dead antipathy to this baiting of women that seemed toward.
Charlot made no answer. He drained his goblet and set it down with a bang. Then he flung himself into a chair, and stretching out his long, booted legs he began to hum the refrain of the “Marseillaise.” Thus a few moments went by. Then there came a sound of steps upon the creaking stairs, and the gruff voice of the soldier urging the ladies to ascend more speedily.
At last the door opened and two women entered, followed by Guyot. Charlot lurched to his feet.
“You have come, Mesdames,” said he, forgetting the mode of address prescribed by the Convention, and clumsily essaying to make a leg. “Be welcome! Guyot, go to the devil.”
For a moment or two after the soldier’s departure the women remained in the shadow, then, at the Captain’s invitation, which they dared not disobey, they came forward into the halo of candle-light. Simultaneously La Boulaye caught his breath, and took a step forward. Then he drew back again until his shoulders touched the overmantel and there he remained, staring at the newcomers, who as yet, did not appear t
o have observed him.
They wore no headgear, and their scarfs were thrown back upon their shoulders, revealing to the stricken gaze of La Boulaye the countenances of the Marquise de Bellecour and her daughter.
And now, as they advanced into the light, Charlot recognised them too. In the act of offering a chair he stood, arrested, his eyes devouring first one, then the other of then, with a glance that seemed to have grown oddly sobered. The flush died from his face, and his lips twitched like those of a man who seeks to control his emotions. Then slowly the colour crept back into his cheeks, a curl of mockery appeared on the coarse mouth, and the eyes beamed evilly.
They tense silence was broken by the bang with which he dropped the chair he had half raised. As he leaned forward now, La Boulaye read in his face the thought that had leapt into the Captain’s mind, and had it been a question of any woman other than Zuzanne de Bellecour, the Deputy might have indulged in the consideration of what a wonderful retribution was there here. Into the hands of the man whose bride the Marquis de Bellecour had torn from him were now delivered by a wonderful chance the wife and daughter of that same Bellecour. And at Boisvert this briganding Captain was as much to-night the lord of life and death, and all besides, as had been the Marquis of Bellecour of old. But he pondered not these things, for all that the stern irony of the coincidence did not escape him. That evil look in Charlot’s eyes, that sinister smile on Charlot’s lips, more than suggested what manner of vengeance the Captain would exact — and that, for the time, was matter enough to absorb the Deputy’s whole attention.
And the women did not see him. They were too much engrossed in the figure fronting them, and agonisedly, with cheeks white and bosoms heaving, they waited, in their dread suspense. At last, drawing himself to the full of his stalwart height, the Captain laughed grimly and spoke.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 71
