The Trampling of the Lilies

by Rafael Sabatini

  CHAPTER XVI. CECILE DESHAIX. In his lodgings at the corner of theRue-St. Honore and the Rue de la Republique--lately changed, in theall-encompassing metamorphosis, from "Rue Royale" sat the Deputy CaronLa Boulaye at his writing-table.

  There was a flush on his face and a sparkle in the eyes that lookedpensively before him what time he gnawed the feathered end of his quill.In his ears still rang the acclamations that had greeted his brilliantspeech in the Assembly that day. He was of the party of the Mountain--aswas but natural in a protege of the Seagreen Robespierre--a party morefamed for its directness of purpose than elegance of expression, and inits ranks there was room and to spare for such orators as he. The seasonwas March of '93--a season marked by the deadly feud raging 'twixt theGirondins and the Mountain, and in that battle of tongues La Boulayewas covering himself with glory and doing credit to his patron, theIncorruptible. He was of a rhetoric not inferior to Vergniaud's--thatmost eloquent Girondon--and of a quickness of wit and honesty of aimunrivalled in the whole body of the Convention, and with these gifts heharassed to no little purpose those smooth-tongued legislators ofthe Gironde, whom Dumouriez called the Jesuits of the Revolution. Hispopularity with the men of the Mountain and with the masses of Paris wasgrowing daily, and the crushing reply he had that day delivered to thecharges preferred by Vergniaud was likely to increase his fame.

  Well, therefore, might he sit with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyeschewing the butt of his pen and smiling to himself at the memory ofthe enthusiasm of which he had been the centre a half-hour ago. Here,indeed, was something that a man might live for, something that aman might take pride in, and something that might console a man for awoman's treachery. What, indeed, could woman's love give him that mightcompare with this? Was it not more glorious far to make himself theadmired, the revered, the very idol of those stern men, than the belovedof a simpering girl? The latter any coxcomb with a well-cut coat mightencompass, but the former achievement was a man's work.

  And yet, for all that he reasoned thus speciously and philosophically,there was a moment when his brow grew clouded and his eyes lost theirsparkle. He was thinking of that night in the inn at Boisvert, when hehad knelt beside her and she had lied to him. He was thinking of thehappiness, that for a few brief hours had been his, until he discoveredhow basely she had deceived him, and for all the full-flavour of hispresent elation it seemed to him that in that other happiness which henow affected to despise by contrast, there had dwelt a greater, a morecontenting sweetness.

  Would she come to Paris? He had asked himself that question every dayof the twenty that were spent since his return. And in the meantime theVicomte d'Ombreval lay in the prison of the Luxembourg awaiting trial.That he had not yet been arraigned he had to thank the efforts of LaBoulaye. The young Deputy had informed Robespierre that for reasonsof his own he wished the ci-devant Vicomte, to be kept in prison somelittle time, and the Incorruptible, peering at him over his horn-rimmedspectacles, had shrugged his shoulders and answered:

  "But certainly, cher Caron, since it is your wish. He will be safe inthe Luxembourg."

  He had pressed his protege for a reason, but La Boulaye had evaded thequestion, promising to enlighten him later.

  Since then Caron had waited, and now it was more than time thatMademoiselle made some sign. Or was it that neither Ombreval's cravenentreaties nor his own short message had affected her? Was she whollyheartless and likely to prove as faithless to the Vicomte in his hour ofneed as she had proved to him?

  With a toss of the head he dismissed her from his thoughts, and dippinghis quill, he began to write.

  From the street came the dull roll of beaten drums and the rhythmicalfall of marching feet. But the sound was too common in revolutionaryParis to arrest attention, and he wrote on, heeding it as little as hedid the gruff voice of a pastry-cook crying his wares, the shriller callof a milkman, or the occasional rumblings of passing vehicles. But of asudden one of those rumblings ceased abruptly at his door. He heard therattle of hoofs and the grind of the wheel against the pavement, andlooking up, he glanced across at the ormolu timepiece on his overmantel.It was not yet four o'clock.

  Wondering whether the visitor might be for him or for the tenant ofthe floor above, he sat listening until his door opened and hisofficial--the euphemism of "servant" in the revolutionary lexicon--cameto announce that a woman was below, asking to see him.

  Now for all that he believed himself to have become above emotions whereMademoiselle de Bellecour was concerned, he felt his pulses quicken atthe very thought that this might be she at last.

  "What manner of woman, Brutus?" he asked.

  "A pretty woman, Citizen," answered Brutus, with a grin. "It is theCitoyenne Deshaix."

  La Boulaye made an impatient gesture.

  "Fool, why did you not say so," he cried sharply.

  "Fool, you did not ask me," answered the servant, with that touching,fraternal frankness adopted by all true patriots. He was a thin,under-sized man of perhaps thirty years of age, and dressed in black,with a decency--under La Boulaye's suasion--that was rather at variancewith his extreme democracy. His real name was Ferdinand, but, followinga fashion prevailing among the ultra-republicans, he had renamed himselfafter the famous Roman patriot.

  La Boulaye toyed a moment with his pen, a frown darkening his brow.Then:

  "Admit her," he sighed wearily.

  And presently she came, a pretty woman, as Brutus had declared, veryfair, and with the innocent eyes of a baby. She was small of stature,and by the egregious height of her plume-crowned head-dress it wouldseem as if she sought by art to add to the inches she had receivedfrom Nature. For the rest she wore a pink petticoat, very extravagantlybeflounced, and a pink corsage cut extravagantly low. In one hand shecarried a fan--hardly as a weapon against heat, seeing that the winterwas not yet out--in the other a huge bunch of early roses.

  "Te voile!" was her greeting, merrily--roguishly--delivered, and if theRevolution had done nothing else for her, it had, at least, enabled herto address La Boulaye by the "Thou" of intimacy which the new vocabularyprescribed.

  La Boulaye rose, laid aside his pen, and politely, if coolly, returnedher greeting and set a chair for her.

  "You are," said he, "a very harbinger of Spring, Citoyenne, with yourflowers and your ravishing toilette."

  "Ah! I please you, then, for once," said she without the leastembarrassment. "Tell me--how do you find me?" And, laughing, she turnedabout that he might admire her from all points of view.

  He looked at her gravely for a moment, so gravely that the laughterbegan to fade from her eyes.

  "I find you charming, Citoyenne," he answered at last. "You remind me ofDiana."

  "Compliments?" quoth she, her eyebrows going up and her eyes beamingwith surprise and delight. "Compliments from La Boulaye! But surely itis the end of the world. Tell me, mon ami," she begged, greedily anglingfor more, "in what do I remind you of the sylvan goddess?"

  "In the scantiness of your raiment, Citoyenne," he answered acidly. "Itsorts better with Arcadia than with Paris."

  Her eyebrows came down, her cheeks flushed with resentment anddiscomfiture. To cover this she flung her roses among the papers of hiswriting-table, and dropping into a chair she fanned herself vigorously.

  "Citoyenne, you relieve my anxieties," said he. "I feared that you stoodin danger of freezing."

  "To freeze is no more than one might expect in your company," sheanswered, stifling her anger.

  He made no reply. He moved to the window, and stood drumming absentlyon the panes. He was inured to these invasions on the part of CecileDeshaix and to the bold, unwomanly advances that repelled him. To-dayhis patience with her was even shorter than its wont, haply because whenhis official had announced a woman he had for a moment permitted himselfto think that it might be Suzanne. The silence grew awkward, and at lasthe broke it.

  "The Citizen Robespierre is well?" he asked, without turning.

  "Yes," said she, and for all that there was ch
agrin to spare in theglance with which she admired the back of his straight and shapelyfigure, she contrived to render her voice airily indifferent. "We wereat the play last night."

  "Ah!" he murmured politely. "And was Talma in veine?"

  "More brilliant than ever," answered she.

  "He is a great actor, Citoyenne."

  A shade of annoyance crossed her face.

  "Why do you always address me as Citoyenne?" she asked, with sometestiness.

  He turned at last and looked at her a moment.

  "We live in a censorious world, Citoyenne," he answered gravely.

  She tossed her head with an exclamation of impatience.

  "We live in a free world, Citizen. Freedom is our motto. Is it fornothing that we are Republicans?"

  "Freedom of action begets freedom of words," said he, "and freedom ofwords leads to freedom of criticism--and that is a thing to which nowise woman will expose herself, no matter under what regime we live.You would be well-advised, Citoyenne, in thinking of that when you comehere."

  "But you never come to us, Caron," she returned, in a voice of mildcomplaint. "You have not been once to Duplay's since your return fromBelgium. And you seem different, too, since your journey to the army."She rose now and approached him. "What is it, cher Caron?" she asked,her voice a very caress of seductiveness, her eyes looking up into his."Is something troubling you?"

  "Troubling me?" he echoed, musingly. "No. But then I am a busy man,Citoyenne."

  A wave of red seemed to sweep across her face, and her heel beat theparquet floor.

  "If you call me Citoyenne again I shall strike you," she threatened him.

  He looked down at her, and she had the feeling that behind theinscrutable mask of his countenance he was laughing at her.

  "It would sort well with your audacity," he made answer coolly.

  She felt in that moment that she hated him, and it was a miracle thatshe did not do as she had threatened, for with all her meek looks sheowned a very fiercest of tempers. She drew back a pace or two, and herglance fell.

  "I shall not trouble you in future," she vowed. "I shall not come hereagain."

  He bowed slightly.

  "I applaud the wisdom of your resolve--Cit--Cecile. The world, as I havesaid, is censorious."

  She looked at him a second, then she laughed, but it was laughter of thelips only; the eyes looked steely as daggers and as capable of mischief.

  "Adieu, Citizen La Boulaye," she murmured mockingly.

  "Au revoir, Citoyenne Deshaix," he replied urbanely.

  "Ough!" she gasped, and with that sudden exclamation of pent-up wrath,she whisked about and went rustling to the door.

  "Citoyenne," he called after her, "you are forgetting your flowers."

  She halted, and seemed for a second to hesitate, looking at him oddly.Then she came back to the table and took up her roses. Again she lookedat him, and let the bouquet fall back among the papers.

  "I brought them for you, Caron," she said, "and I'll leave them withyou. We can at least be friends, can we not?"

  "Friends? But were we ever aught else?" he asked.

  "Alas! no," she said to herself, whilst aloud she murmured: "I thoughtthat you would like them. Your room has such a gloomy, sombre air, anda few roses seem to diffuse some of the sunshine on which they have beennurtured."

  "You are too good, Cecile" he answered, and, for all his coldness, hewas touched a little by this thoughtfulness.

  She looked up at the altered tone, and the expression of her face seemedto soften. But before she could make answer there was a rap at the door.It opened, and Brutus stood in the doorway.

  "Citizen," he announced, in his sour tones, "there is another womanbelow asking to see you."

  La Boulaye started, as again his thoughts flew to Suzanne, and a dullflush crept into his pale cheeks and mounted to his brow. Cecile's eyeswere upon him, her glance hardening as she observed these signs. Bitterenough had it been to endure his coldness whilst she had imagined thatit sprang from the austerity of his nature and the absorption of hissoul in matters political. But now that it seemed she might have causeto temper her bitterness with jealousy her soul was turned to gall.

  "What manner of woman, Brutus?" he asked after a second's pause.

  "Tall, pale, straight, black hair, black eyes, silk gown--and savoursthe aristocrat a league off," answered Brutus.

  "Your official seems gifted with a very comprehensive eye," said Ceciletartly.

  But La Boulaye paid no heed to her. The flush deepened on his face, thenfaded again, and he grew oddly pale. His official's inventory of hercharacteristics fitted Mademoiselle de Bellecour in every detail.

  "Admit her, Brutus," he commanded, and his voice had a husky sound.Then, turning to Cecile, "You will give me leave?" he said, cloakingrude dismissal in its politest form.

  "Assuredly," she answered bitterly, making shift to go. "Your visitor isno doubt political?" she half-asked half-asserted.

  But he made no answer as he held the door for her, and bowed low as shepassed out. With a white face and lips tightly compressed she went, andhalf-way on the stairs she met a handsome woman, tall and of queenlybearing, who ascended. Her toilette lacked the elaborateness ofCecile's, but she carried it with an air which not all the modistes ofFrance could have succeeded in imparting to the Citoyenne Deshaix.

  So dead was Robespierre's niece to every sense of fitness that, havingdrawn aside to let the woman pass, she stood gazing after her until shedisappeared round the angle of the landing. Then, in a fury, she sweptfrom the house and into her waiting coach, and as she drove back toDuplay's in the Rue St. Honore she was weeping bitterly in her jealousrage.