Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  They were brawny, shaggy men, unspeakably evil and savage of appearance, their bare and hairy arms and chests black with the grime of the forges, their garments foul, their matted heads crowned by the red bonnet of liberty. One, who pulled at a pipe, seeing her fastidious haste, deliberately blew a cloud of tobacco smoke in her face to increase her discomfort.

  His apish fellows chuckled with malicious mirth. Sudden terror of them seemed to turn her feet to lead, and it was only by an effort of will that she held at unslackened pace upon her way.

  Beyond that mischievous puff of smoke, however, they made no attempt to molest her. If they were patriots and looked savages, yet they were toilers. They were men who spent about the forges that were to give arms to the soldiers of France the energies of patriotism that many of their kind preferred to devote to the baiting of unfortunate men and women.

  She hurried on, breathing more freely past the old stables of the Luxembourg, toward the Rue Pot de Fer.

  She was young, of a good height, graceful of figure and carriage, and her face bore a stamp of nobility that in itself was a dangerous asset in Paris of Fructidor (in the calendar of the first French Republic, the last month) of the year 1 by the Jacobin calendar — or August of 1793 style esclave. Her dress was scrupulously simple, yet scrupulously neat, of a dark gray with a muslin fichu folded across the neck of the low-cut bodice and a muslin coif for head-dress; from which a heavy curl of bronze-colored hair escaped to lie upon her milk-white neck.

  As if to counteract any impression of aristocracy that might be produced by her general air, she wore prominently displayed between her breasts an enormous tricolor cockade. She carried the daily ration of bread and meat doled out by the sections of that famine-threatened city in the napkin that the law required for the purpose — since the viragoes in their bestial fights for food were addicted to employing more substantial receptacles as weapons of offense to gain them an advantage of position in the waiting files.

  She dreaded nothing in life so much as those daily visits to the baker and the butcher of the section; she dreaded insult in going, robbery and violence in returning: and such was her dread that on many a day she would keep the house and put her trust in some law-breaking accapareur who covertly hawked victuals in defiance of the convention’s enactment, or else go hungry even, rather than venture forth to obtain the rations to which the law accorded her the right as a citizeness of Paris.

  She was well-known in the section, this young wife of the stalwart soldier Vidal, just as it was known that her husband — a colonel, although barely thirty years of age, thanks to the rapidity of promotion possible in the army of the republic — was serving France in Holland with General Dumouriez.

  But she built upon this fact no illusion or expectations of respect. Patriots, she knew, would brook no superiors. Their nightmare was the dread of militarism which by force of arms could, if it were so minded, set itself above them and hurl them back into that slavery from which they so fondly deluded themselves that they had escaped.

  Hence a successful soldier was almost as much an object of suspicion as an aristocrat.

  Realizing this she observed the greatest circumspection occupying a humble little house in the Rue Pot de Fer, where until lately she had had for companion a faithful old peasant woman named Leontine. But latterly Leontine had been ailing, and in the end she had been forced to leave Paris and return to the country.

  Since then Angèle had been alone.

  The republic had abolished servants — or at least it had abolished the term, for in reality the republic’s enactments of this nature seldom went beyond the name by which a thing was called. It is true that domestic servants were still to be procured, but they were now called “officials,” and for the most part they took the fullest advantage of this change in their designation.

  In the main they were idle and insolent when they were not positively dangerous. To reprove them or dismiss them, no matter how richly they deserved it, was to run the risk of being denounced by them for incivisme; and to be denounced, however groundless might be the denunciation, however worthless the word of the denouncer, was to be half-way to the guillotine.

  The republic was ready to believe all accused guilty until they established their innocence to the satisfaction of the Revolutionary Tribunal; and the Revolutionary Tribunal was as difficult to satisfy on the score of innocence as it was easy to convince on the score of guilt.

  Realizing all this, Angèle had preferred not to fill the place left vacant by Leontine’s withdrawal to the country.

  She preferred to be alone in that modest little four-roomed dwelling — the home of some respectable artisan in prerevolutionary times. Its modesty in itself afforded her a certain security and a certain immunity from coming under the republic’s ready suspicion.

  But the loneliness of it was almost more than she could endure. And to this loneliness were added constant alarms and terrors. Letters from Vidal were few, and scanty when they came. It was not safe to write at length and the post was as disorganized as everything else.

  But she bore it all with what fortitude she could, patiently waiting until Vidal should find an opportunity to come to her, and resolved that once he did so she would never consent to be left alone again in this nightmare city. Sooner would she go with him, following the army if that were permitted her.

  She came at last to the Rue Pot de Fer. It was deserted, as all streets were deserted in those days when to linger out of doors was to attract the attention of the agents of the section.

  She reached her own doorway, and there paused, suddenly taken aback, her heart flung into a wild gallop. She found the threshold occupied. Upon a bulging haversack deposited there sat a tall fellow in a military blue coat with white facings and the scarlet woolen epaulet of an officer — golden epaulets was another thing that the republic had abolished as aristocratically ostentatious.

  White nankeens and Hessian boots encased his legs. His face was overshadowed by an enormous cocked hat decorated by the tricolor cockade.

  But as she came to a standstill before him, he suddenly raised his head to confirm the identity that already she had apprehended. Then, with a cry joyously inarticulate, he leaped to his feet and caught her to him there in the open street, heedless of curious eyes that might find entertainment in the spectacle.

  “Angèle, my little Angèle!” he murmured. “I have sat here for a full half hour, and I must have grown afraid of your absence but that a good neighbor here assured me that all was well with you, and that you had gone out but a little while before I came.”

  She lay against his breast, panting in the intensity of his joy, and finally, so immense was her relief, such a weight seemed lifted from her heart by his presence, that she began to weep.

  “Oh, my dear, I am so thankful that you are come. You do not know how lonely I have been. Never leave me again! Ah, never leave me again, Jerome.”

  She clung to him, scarcely allowing herself to believe that he was really there, so unexpected was his coming, so miraculous in answer to her constant, silent prayer.

  “Well, well, we will talk of it. Meanwhile, unless you propose to camp here in the street with me, let us in. Give me the key.”

  She surrendered it, willingly. Her hands trembled so that it is doubtful if, in the failing day, she could herself have unlocked the door. They went in together, his arm about her waist, his haversack on his shoulder, and his great saber clattering behind him. But since the crazy stairs were too narrow to permit the passage of more than one at a time, she was obliged to slip from his embracing arm that she might go on ahead of him.

  Above in the single living-room that was plainly furnished to the point of meanness, but of scrupulous tidiness, eloquent of her wifely virtues, she set about reviving the fading embers of the fire, since the preparation of his supper was to be her first care. But when Vidal observed the slender allowance of bread and meat which she had obtained — the rations for one accorded her by the comm
ittee of the section — his rugged face grew overcast.

  “Name of a name! Have you no more than this in the house? What? And how are two people to sup on it?”

  “Not two, Jerome. It is all for you.”

  “Not a mouthful of it. These rations are your own, and meager in all conscience. They would leave a hungry sparrow with an appetite. Faith! Is food so scarce as this in Paris?”

  “There are ways — illegal ways — of obtaining more. There is an accapareuse who comes this way each evening with eggs and butter and such provender. We must listen for her.”

  And she set the window wide that they might hear the hawker when she came. Then for a while she was busy with a stew-pot of baked earth, and only when this was set at last to simmer upon the reviving fire, only then, when provision had been made for Vidal’s immediate comfort, did she turn to question him upon his coming.

  “I am on mission, as the citizen-representatives say when they visit the army. General Dumouriez has charged me with two duties. The first is to collect the reenforcements that are urgently required in Holland and to conduct them back with me to the army.

  “That will keep me here, perhaps, a week, The second is to lay an indictment before the National Assembly against a fraudulent dog of a contractor, who has been lining his pockets with the public money to the detriment of the soldiers of France. That I shall discharge to-morrow.”

  “And when you return to Holland, Jerome, you will not leave me here again?”

  “Would you go with me, little one?” He took her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length before him, considering her with fond eyes in the failing light.

  “I must, Jerome. I cannot remain here in this loneliness and terror.

  “Poor child!” He drew her to him again and stroked her cheek. “It shall be as you wish. There is no difficulty save that you will find it a constantly moving, vagabonding life.”

  “Yet I shall know that I am near you, and I shall see you sometimes.”

  “Very well. If it is your wish, it is also mine; indeed, it is I who shall be the greater gainer.”

  He kissed her, and she broke from him, laughing. It seemed to her worthwhile to have endured so much for the sake of the happiness which this reunion afforded her.

  While bending over the fire she stirred the contents of the stew-pot, he stalked to the open window and looked out.

  “Pardi!” he swore. “The stench and noise of those forges at the Luxembourg make the place unbearable.”

  “That is the least of the things I have had to bear,” she answered. Then suddenly she drew herself up, alert and listening, “There!” she cried.

  Above the clang and clatter of the cannon-makers came a shrill voice:

  “Linges et dentelles! Linges et dentelles!”

  She opened a drawer and took from it a little roll of assignats, the paper-money of the republic. “That is the accapareuse,” she informed him, and sped to the door.

  “But she is crying ‘Linen and lace!’” he exclaimed.

  “Perforce! She would soon find herself at the conciergerie if she cried eggs and butter,” laughed Angèle, departing.

  She ran down-stairs, opened the door below, and from the threshold silently beckoned the woman, who was approaching down the street, carrying a long pannier balanced on her head. The hawker set down her basket on the doorstep.

  It revealed a quantity of coarse linen and coarser lace. But she knew Angèle for a customer, and they passed to the real business without any of the usual dissimulation necessary between strangers. Under the thin layer of napery the precious contraband lay snug; there were eggs, a package of butter, even a couple of chickens today, by great good fortune, and some small loaves of newly baked bread.

  Angèle’s purchases were extensive. There was to be no republican carème that night. They would feast in honor of Jerome’s return. A chicken, a half-dozen eggs, a package of butter, and a couple of the loaves were transferred to the ample napkin she had brought down with her.

  The thing was done covertly — well within the porch, where they were secure from prying eyes, particularly since dusk was now deepening, the time preferred for this illicit trade.

  Angèle tendered an assignat for ten francs. The woman paused first to rearrange her basket. Then, in the very act of taking the note with one hand, while with the other she was beginning to fumble for change, she suddenly paused, her ears straining to listen.

  A sound had reached them both — a sudden savage muttering near at hand, no farther off than St. Sulplice, rising suddenly to a note that dominated the unceasing noise of the forges, which had masked it hitherto.

  The accapareuse added to the treason of her illicit trade a still graver one of displaying adherence to a religion that was another of the institutions the republic had decreed out of existence. With the hand that should have been seeking the change she crossed herself hurriedly in her panic, and her lips mumbled a prayer to the Virgin.

  Angèle stood tensely listening to that ominous hubbub, thanking Heaven that Vidal was with her.

  She knew that baying of the mob too well. Of all the hideous sounds of terror-ridden Paris, it was the only one that had power to quicken her pulses with panic. She never heard it but she was assailed by a sense of choking and nausea, her mental vision tormented by the picture of a youth whose screams she had heard blending with it one night in the Rue Pot de Fer, when those human wolves dragged him to his doom — hanged him from one of the lantern cords.

  The accapareuse hurriedly refused the assignat. “Keep it, citoyenne,” she muttered. “You will pay me to-morrow, or next time I come this way. I dare not stay now to find the change.”

  But Angèle put the note into the others hand. “Do you keep it,” she said; “You will owe me the change. Don’t waste time.”

  The woman thrust her assignat into her bosom and snatched up her pannier. What imported was that she should go.

  “Mon Dieu!” she panted. “If they should find me and discover what I carry, they would tear me to pieces!” She swung the pannier to her head again. “It is a dangerous trade, this, citoyenne. But we poor folk must do what we can. God guard you!” And without waiting further she made off quickly in the direction of the Luxembourg.

  Meanwhile the raucous chorus was rapidly approaching the other corner of the street, coming from the direction of St. Sulpice:

  “Ah, ça ira, ça ira, ça ira!

  Les aristocrat’ à la lanterne.

  Ah, ça ira, ça ira, ça ira!

  Les aristocrat’ on les pendrà.”

  In the very act of turning to seek refuge within doors, Angèle paused.

  But it was not the roar of that song, so frivolous and gay in tune, so dread and pitiless in meaning, that arrested her. Nearer at hand, her ears had caught a sound of pattering steps; and even as her conjecture was accounting for them, a panting figure flung across her threshold, hurtling against her violently that she must have fallen had she not clutched for support at the framework of the open door.

  If that violent contact scared her, it scared the intruder no less. He shrank back with a quick gasp of terror. Then, seeing that he had to do with a woman, he flung himself instantly upon her mercy.

  “Citoyenne, of your pity, of your charity!” he gasped, and held out hands in supplication. “Let me pass in; let me hide; at least let me crouch here until they have gone by! Take pity on me, in the name or the Piteous Mother of us all!”

  Thus he pleaded, pitifully reduced and shaken by the terror that possessed him, while she, in a terror scarcely less than his own, stood there eying him, her ears straining at the sounds of the pursuit that came ever nearer.

  She beheld a slim, tall figure of a man whom she supposed young, for his face was too deeply in shadow to be clearly seen. He wore white nankeens and Hessian boots and a long, biscuit-colored riding-coat. He was without hat, and his clubbed hair was in some disarray, long strands of it tumbled about his face, which gleamed lividly under its var
nish of terror-sweat.

  “They are coming,” he whispered fearfully — so fearfully that his whisper almost sounded like a scream to her straining senses, and brought back to her mind a vision of that youth they had hanged from the lantern rope under her very window.

  They were coming, indeed. They had seen him vanish round the corner of the Rue Pot de Fer, and they followed tumultuously, hot upon the scent. Thus the hoarse, obscene voices and the clatter of their clogs upon the cobbles rolled toward the doorway that sheltered the fugitives and Citoyenne Vidal.

  “Dieu de misericorde!” he cried, “Will you see me massacred here at your feet! Pity, madame; pity!”

  She half turned and flung an arm toward the door behind her, which she had pushed open.

  “Allez!” she said in a whisper. “Quickly! Wait for me inside.” And then, practical even in her terror: “Here! — Take this!” she bade him; and she handed him the napkin containing the provisions whose purchase accounted for her presence there.

  He waited for no more, but, snatching the package from her hand, flashed through the black gap of the doorway, and so vanished, Softly she closed the door again after he had passed, and then, with a calm that almost surprised her, she turned on the threshold and leaned forward to look out.

  At that moment the foremost of the pursuing pack came abreast of her doorway. Their pace had slackened a little, like that of hounds at fault, and they were questing this way and that. There would be close upon a score of them, and of these fully a third were women, the foul and unsexed viragoes of the Terror; a couple of urchins — weedy, half-starved, half-naked children of the kennels — hung upon the skirts of the pack, eager for such bloody entertainment as might be here toward.