The Long Night

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER XVII.

  THE _REMEDIUM_.

  We have seen that for Claude, as he hurried from the bridge, the faceshe met in the narrow streets of the old town were altered by the mediumthrough which he viewed them; and appeared gloomy, sordid and fanatical.In the eyes of Blondel, who had passed that way before him, the samefaces wore a look of selfishness, stupendously and heartlessly cruel.And not the faces only; the very houses and ways, the blue sky overhead,and the snow-peaks--when for an instant he caught sight of them--borethe same aspect. All wore their every-day air, and mocked the despair inhis heart. All flung in his teeth the fact, the incredible fact, thatwhether he died or lived, stayed or went, the world would proceed; thatthe eternal hills, ay, and the insensate bricks and mortar, that hadseen his father pass, would see him pass, and would be standing when hewas gone into the darkness.

  There are few things that to the mind of man in his despondent moods aremore strange, or more shocking, than the permanence of trifles. Thesmall things to which his brain and his hand have given shape, which hecan, if he will, crush out of form, and resolve into their primitiveatoms, outlive him! They lie on the table when he is gone, are unchangedby his removal, serve another master as they have served him, preach toanother generation the same lesson. The face is dust, but the canvassmiles from the wall. The hand is withered, but the pencil is still inthe tray and is used by another. There are times when the irony of thisthought bites deep into the mind, and goads the mortal to revolt. HadBlondel, as he climbed the hill, possessed the power of Orimanes toblast at will, few of those whom he met, few on whom he turned thegloomy fire of his eyes, would have reached their houses that day orseen another sun.

  He was within a hundred paces of his home, when a big man, passing alongthe Bourg du Four, but on the other side of the way, saw him and cameacross the road to intercept him. It was Baudichon, his double chin morependulent, his massive face more dully wistful than ordinary; for thetimes had got upon the Councillor's nerves, and day by day he grew moreanxious, slept worse of nights, and listened much before he went to bed.

  "Messer Blondel," he called out, in a voice more peremptory than wasoften addressed to the Fourth Syndic's ear. "Messer Syndic! One moment,if you please!"

  Blondel stopped and turned to him. Outwardly the Syndic was cool,inwardly he was at a white heat that at any moment might impel him tothe wildest action. "Well?" he said. "What is it, M. Baudichon?"

  "I want to know----"

  "Of course!" The sneer was savage and undisguised. "What, this time, ifI may be so bold?"

  Baudichon breathed quickly, partly with the haste he had made across theroad, partly in irritation at the gibe. "This only," he said. "How faryou purpose to try our patience? A week ago you were for delaying thearrest you know of--for a day. It was a matter of hours then."

  "It was."

  "But days have passed, and are passing! and we have no explanation;nothing is done. And every night we run a fresh risk, and everymorning--so far--we thank God that our throats are still whole; andevery day we strive to see you, and you are out, or engaged, or about todo it, or awaiting news! But this cannot go on for ever! Nor," puffingout his cheeks, "shall we always bear it!"

  "Messer Baudichon!" Blondel retorted, the passion he had so farrestrained gleaming in his eyes, and imparting a tremor to his voice,"are you Fourth Syndic or am I?"

  "You! You, certainly. Who denies it?" the stout man said. "But----"

  "But what? But what?"

  "We would know what you think we are, that we can bear this suspense."

  "I will tell you what I think you are!"

  "By your leave?"

  "_A fat hog!_" the Syndic shrieked. "And as brainless as a hog fit forthe butcher! That for you! and your like!"

  And before the astounded Baudichon, whose brain was slow to take in newfacts, had grasped the full enormity of the insult flung at him, theSyndic was a dozen paces distant. He had eased his mind, and that forthe moment was much; though he still ground his teeth, and, hadBaudichon followed him, would have struck the Councillor without thoughtor hesitation. The pigs! The hogs! To press him with their wretchedaffairs: to press him at this moment when the grave yawned at his feet,and the coffin opened for him!

  To be sure he might now do with Basterga as he pleased without thoughtor drawback; but for their benefit--never! He paused at his door, andcast a haggard glance up and down; at the irregular line of gableswhich he had known from childhood, the steep, red roofs, the cobblepavement, the bakers' signs that hung here and there and with the wideeaves darkened the way; and he cursed all he saw in the frenzy of hisrage. Let Basterga, Savoy, d'Albigny do their worst! What was it to him?Why should he move? He went into his house despairing.

  Unto this last hour a little hope had shone through the darkness. Attimes the odds had seemed to be against him, at one time Heaven itselfhad seemed to declare itself his foe. But the _remedium_ had existed,the thing was still possible, the light burned, though distant, feeble,flickering. He had told himself that he despaired; but he had not knownwhat real despair was until this moment, until he sat, as he saw now,among the Dead Sea splendours of his parlour, the fingers of his righthand drumming on the arm of the abbot's chair, his shaggy eyelidsdrooping over his brooding eyes.

  Ah, God! If he had stayed to take the stuff when it lay in his power! Ifhe had refused to open until he held it in his hand! If, even after thatact of folly, he had refused to go until she gave it him! Howinconceivable his madness seemed now, his fear of scandal, his thoughtof others! Others? There was one of whom he dared not think; for when hedid his head began to tremble on his shoulders; and he had to clutch thearms of the chair to stay the palsy that shook him. If _she_, the girlwho had destroyed him, thought it was all one to him whom the drugadvantaged, or who lived or who died, he would teach her--before hedied! He would teach her! There was no extremity of pain or shame sheshould not taste, accursed witch, accursed thief, as she was! But hemust not think of that, or of her, now; or he would die before his time.He had a little time yet, if he were careful, if he were cool, if hewere left a brief space to recover himself. A little, a very littletime!

  Whose were that foot and that voice? Basterga's? The Syndic's eyesgleamed, he raised his head. There was another score he had to pay! Hisown score, not Baudichon's. Fool, to have left his treasure unguardedfor every thieving wench to take! Fool, thrice and again, for puttinghis neck back into the lion's mouth. Stealthily Blondel pulled thehandbell nearer to him and covered it with his cloak. He would haveadded a weapon, but there was no arm within reach, and while hehesitated between his chair and the door of the small inner room, theouter door opened, and Basterga appeared and advanced, smiling, towardshim.

  "Your servant, Messer Syndic," he said. "I heard that you had beeninquiring for me in my absence, and I am here to place myself at yourdisposition. You are not looking----" he stopped short, in feignedsurprise. "There is nothing wrong, I hope?"

  Had the scholar been such a man as Baudichon, Blondel's answer wouldhave been one frenzied shriek of insults and reproaches. But face toface with Basterga's massive quietude, with his giant bulk, with thatair, at once masterful and cynical, which proclaimed to those with whomhe talked that he gave them but half his mind while reading theirs, thewrath of the smaller man cooled. A moment his lips writhed, withoutsound; then, "Wrong?" he cried, his voice harsh and broken. "Wrong? Allis wrong!"

  "You are not well?" Basterga said, eyeing him with concern.

  "Well? I shall never be better! Never!" Blondel shrieked. And after apause, "Curse you!" he added. "It is your doing!"

  Basterga stared. He was in the dark as to what had happened, though theSyndic's manner on leaving the bridge had prepared him for something."My doing, Messer Blondel?" he said. "Why? What have I done?"

  "Done?"

  "Ay, done! It was not my fault," the scholar continued, with a touch ofsternness, "that I could not offer you the _remedium_ on easy terms. Normine, that hard as the terms were, you did
not accept them. Besides," hecontinued, slowly and with meaning,

  "Terque quaterque redit!

  You remember the Sibylline books? How often they were offered, and theterms? It is not too late, Messer Blondel--even now. While there is lifethere is hope, there is more than hope. There is certainty."

  "Is there?" Blondel cried; he extended a lean hand, shaking withvindictive passion. "Is there? Go and look in your casket, fool! Go andlook in your steel box!" he hissed. "Go! And see if it be not too late!"

  For a moment Basterga peered at him, his brow contracted, his eyesscrewed up. The blow was unexpected. Then, "Have you taken the stuff?"he muttered.

  "I? No! But she has!" And on that, seeing the change in the other'sface--for, for once, the scholar's mask slipped and suffered hisconsternation to appear--Blondel laughed triumphantly: in torturehimself, he revelled in a disaster that touched another. "She has! Shehas!"

  "She? Who?"

  "The girl of the house! Anne you call her! Curse her! child ofperdition, as she is! She!" And he clawed the air.

  "She has taken it?" Basterga spoke incredulously, but his brow was damp,his cheeks were a shade more sallow than usual; he did not deceive theother's penetration. "Impossible!" he continued, striving to rally hisforces. "Why should she take it? She has no illness, no disease!Try"--he swallowed something--"to be clear, man. Try to be clear. Whohas told you this cock-and-bull story?"

  "It is the truth."

  "She has taken it?"

  "To give to her mother--yes."

  "And she?"

  "Has taken it? Yes."

  The scholar, ordinarily so cool and self-contained, could not withholdan execration. His small eyes glittered, his face swelled with rage; fora moment he was within a little of an explosion. Of what mad, whatinsensate folly, unworthy of a schoolboy, worthy only of a sot, animbecile, a Grio, had he been guilty! To leave the potion, that if ithad not the virtues which he ascribed to it, had virtue--or it had notserved his purpose of deceiving the Syndic during some days or hours--toleave the potion unprotected, at the mercy of a chance hand, of atreacherous girl! Safeguarded, in appearance only, and to blind hisdupe! It seemed incredible that he could have been so careless!

  True, he might replace the stuff at some expense; but not in a day or anhour. And how--with one dose in all the world!--keep up the farce? Thedose consumed, the play was at an end. An end--or, no, was he losing hiswits, his courage? On the instant, in the twinkling of an eye, he shapeda fresh course.

  He cursed the girl anew, and apparently with the same fervour. "Amonth's work it cost me!" he cried. "A month's work! and ten goldpieces!"

  The Syndic, pale, and almost in a state of collapse--for the bittersatisfaction of imparting the news no longer supported him--stared. "Amonth's work?" he muttered. "A month? Years you told me! And a fortune!"

  "I told you? Never!" Basterga opened his eyes in seeming amazement."Never, good sir, in all my life!" he repeated emphatically."But"--returning grimly to his former point--"ten gold pieces, or afortune--no matter which, she shall pay dearly for it, the thievingjade!"

  The Syndic sat heavily in his seat, and, with a hand on either arm ofthe abbot's chair, stared dully at the other. "A fortune, you told me,"he said, in a voice little above a whisper. "And years. Was it afiction, all a fiction? About Ibn Jasher, and the Physician of Aleppo,and M. Laurens of Paris, and--and the rest?"

  Basterga deliberately took a turn to the window, came back, and stoodlooking down at him. "Mon Dieu!" he muttered. "Is it possible?"

  "Eh?"

  "I can scarcely believe it!" The scholar spoke with a calmness halfcynical, half compassionate. "But I suppose you really think that of me,though it seems incredible! You are under the impression that the drugthis jade stole was the _remedium_ of Ibn Jasher, the one incomparableand sovereign result of long years of study and research? You believethat I kept this in a mere locked box, the key accessible by all whoknew my habits, and the treasure at the mercy of the first thief! MonDieu! Mon Dieu! If I said it a thousand times I could not express myastonishment. I might be the vine grower of the proverb,

  Cui saepe viator Cessisset magna compellans voce cucullum!"

  The Syndic heard him without changing the attitude of weakness andexhaustion into which he had fallen on sitting down. But midway in theother's harangue, his lips parted, he held his breath, and in his eyesgrew a faint light of dawning hope. "But if it be not so?" he mutteredfeebly. "If this be not so, why----"

  "Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!"

  "Why did you look so startled a moment ago?"

  "Why, man? Because ten pieces of gold are ten pieces! To me at least!And the potion, which was made after a recipe of that same MesserLaurens of Paris, cost no less. It is a love-philtre, beneficent to theyoung, but if taken by the old so noxious, that had you swallowed it,"with a grin, "you had not been long Syndic, Messer Blondel!"

  Blondel shook his head. "You do not deceive me," he muttered. For thoughhe was anxious to believe, as yet he could not. He could not; he hadseen the other's face. "It is the _remedium_ she has taken! I feel it."

  "And given to her mother?"

  Blondel inclined his head.

  The scholar laughed contemptuously. "Then is the test easy," he said."If it be the _remedium_ you will find her mother, who has not left herbed for three years, grown strong and well and vigorous, and like to himwho lifted up his bed and walked. But if it be the love-philtre, youhave but to come with me, and you will find her----" He did not finishthe sentence, but a shrug of his shoulders and a mysterious smile filledthe gap.

  Imperceptibly Blondel had raised himself in his chair. The gleam ofhope, once lighted in his eyes, was growing bright. "How?" he asked."How shall we find her? If it be the philtre only that she has taken--asyou say?"

  "If it be the philtre? The mother, you mean?"

  "Yes."

  "Mad! Mad!" Basterga repeated with decision, "and beside herself. As youhad been," he continued grimly, "had you by any chance taken the _aquaMedeae_."

  "That you kept in the steel box?"

  "Ay."

  "You are sure it was not the _remedium_?" Blondel leaned forward. Ifonly he could believe it, if only it were the truth, how great thedifference! No wonder that the muscles of his lean throat swelled, andhis hands closed convulsively on the arms of his great chair, as hestrove to read the other's mind.

  He had as soon read a printed page without light. The scholar saw thatit needed but a little to convince him, and took his line withconfidence; nor without some pride in the wits that had saved him. "The_remedium_?" he repeated with impatient wonder. "Do you know that the_remedium_ is unique? That it is a man's life? That in the world'shistory it scarce appears once in five hundred years? That all thewealth of kings cannot produce it, nor the Spanish Indies furnish it? Doyou remember these things, Messer Blondel, and do you ask if I keep itlike a common philtre in a box in my lodgings?" He snorted in contempt,and going disdainfully to the hearth spat in the fire as if he could notbrook the idea. Then returning to the Syndic's side, he took up hisstory in a different tone. "The _remedium_," he said, "my good friend,is in the Grand Duke's Treasury at Turin. It is in a steel box, it istrue, but in one with three locks and three keys, sealed with the GrandDuke's private signet and with mine; and laid where the Treasurerhimself cannot meddle with it."

  The Syndic sat up straight, and with his eyes fixed sullenly on thefloor fingered his beard. He was almost persuaded, but not quite. Couldit be, could it really be that the thing still existed? That it wasstill to be obtained, that life by its means was still possible?

  "Well?" Basterga said, when the silence had lasted some time.

  "The proof!" Blondel retorted, excitement once more over-mastering him."Let me have the proof! Let me see, man, if the woman be mad."

  But the scholar, leaning Atlas-like, against the wall beside the longlow window, with his arms crossed, and his great head sunk on hisbreast, did not move. He saw that this was
his hour and he must use it."To what purpose?" he answered slowly: and he shrugged his shoulders."Why go to the trouble? The _remedium_ is in Turin. And if it be not, itis the Grand Duke's affair only, and mine, since you will not come tohis terms. I would, I confess," he continued, in a more kindly tone,"that it were your affair also, Messer Blondel. I would I could havemade you see things as they are and as I see them. As, believe me,Messer Petitot would see them were he in your place; as Messer Fabri andMesser Baudichon--I warrant it--do see them; as--pardon me--all who rankthemselves among the wise and the illuminate, see them. For all such,believe me, these are times of enlightening, when the words which pastgenerations have woven into shackles for men's minds fall from them, andare seen to be but the straw they are; when men move, like childrenawaking from foolish dreams, and life----"

  The Syndic's eyes glowed dully.

  "Life," Basterga continued sonorously, "is seen to be that which it is,the one thing needful which makes all other things of use, and withoutwhich all other things are superfluities! Bethink you a minute, MesserBlondel! Would Petitot give his life to save yours?"

  The Syndic smiled after a sickly fashion. Petitot? The stickling pedant!The thin, niggling whipster!

  "Or Messer Fabri?"

  Blondel shook his head.

  "Or Messer Baudichon?"

  "I called him but now--a fat hog!"

  It was Basterga's turn to shake his head. "He is not one to forget," hesaid gravely. "I fear you will hear of that again, Messer Blondel. Ifear it will make trouble for you. But if these will not, is there anyman in Geneva, any man you can name, who would give his life for you?"

  "Do men give life so easily?" Blondel answered, moving painfully in hischair.

  "Yet you will give yours for them! You will give yours! And who will bea ducat the better?"

  "I shall at least die for freedom," the Syndic muttered, gnawing hismoustache.

  "A word!"

  "For the religion, then."

  "It is that which men make it!" the scholar retorted. "There have beengood men of all religions, though we dare not say as much in public, orin Geneva. 'Tis not the religion. 'Tis the way men live it! Was JohnBernardino of Assisi, whom some call St. Francis, a worse man thanArnold of Brescia, the Reformer? Or is your Beza a better man thanMesser Francis of Sales? Or would the heavens fall if Geneva embracedthe faith of the good Archbishop of Milan? Words, Messer Blondel,believe me, words!"

  "Yet men die for them!"

  "Not wise men. And when you have died for them, who will thank you?" TheSyndic groaned. "Who will know, or style you martyr?" Basterga continuedforcibly. "Baudichon, whom you have called a fat hog? He will sit inyour seat. Petitot--he said but a little while ago that he would buythis house if he lived long enough."

  "He did?" The Syndic came to his feet as if a spring had raised him.

  "Certainly. And he is a rich man, you know."

  "May the Bise search his bones!" Blondel cried, trembling with fury. Forthis was the realisation of his worst fears. Petitot to live in hishouse, lie warm in his bed, sneer at his memory across the table thathad been his, rule in the Council where he had been first! Petitot, thatmiserable crawler who had clogged his efforts for years, who had shared,without deserving, his honours, who had spied on him and carped at himday by day and hour by hour! Petitot to succeed him! To be all and ownall, and sun himself in the popular eye, and say "Geneva, it is I!"While he, Blondel, lay rotting and forgotten, stark, beneath snow andrain, winter wind and summer drought!

  Perish Geneva first! Perish friend and foe alike!

  The Syndic wavered. His hand shook, his thin dry cheek burned withfever, his lips moved unceasingly. Why should he die? They would not diefor him. Nay, they would not thank him, they would not praise him. Atraitor? To live he must turn traitor? Ay, but try Petitot, and see ifhe would not do the same! Or Baudichon, who could not sleep of nightsfor fear--how would he act with death staring him in the face? Thebravest soldiers when disarmed, or called upon to surrender or die,capitulate without blame. And that was his position.

  Life, too; dear, warm life! Life that might hold much for him still.Hitherto these men and their fellows had hampered and thwarted him,marred his plans and balked his efforts. Freed from them and supportedby an enlightened and ambitious prince, he might rise to heightshitherto invisible. He might lift up and cast down at will, might rulethe Council as his creatures, might live to see Berne and the Cantons athis feet, might leave Geneva the capital of a great and wealthy country.

  All this, at his will; or he might die! Die and rot and be forgottenlike a dog that is cast out.

  He did not believe in his heart that faith and honour were words;fetters woven by wise men to hamper fools. He did not believe that allreligions were alike, and good or bad as men made them. But on the oneside was life, and on the other death. And he longed to live.

  "I would that I could make you see things as I see them," Bastergaresumed, in a gentle tone. Patiently waiting the other's pleasure he hadnot missed an expression of his countenance, and, thinking the momentripe, he used his last argument. "Believe me, I have the will, all thewill, to help you. And the terms are not mine. Only I would have youremember this, Messer Blondel: that others may do what you will not, sothat after all you may find that you have cast life away, and no one thebetter. Baudichon, for instance, plays the Brutus in public. But he is afearful man, and a timid; and to save himself and his family--he thinksmuch of his family--he would do what you will not."

  "He would do it!" the Syndic cried passionately. And he struck thetable. "He would, curse him!"

  "And he would not forget," Basterga continued, with a meaning nod, "thatyou had miscalled him!"

  "No! But I will be before him!" The Syndic was on his feet again,shaking like a leaf.

  "Ay?" Basterga blew his nose to hide the flash of triumph that shone inhis eyes. "You will be wise in time? Well, I am not surprised. I thoughtthat you would not be so mad--that no man could be so mad as to throwaway life for a shadow!"

  "But mind you," Blondel snarled, "the proof. I must have the proof," herepeated. He was anxious to persuade himself that his surrender dependedon a condition; he would fain hide his shame under a show of bargaining."The proof, man, or I will not take a step."

  "You shall have it."

  "To-day?"

  "Within the hour."

  "And if she be not mad--I believe you are deceiving me, and it was the_remedium_ the girl took--if she be not mad----" The Syndic, stammeringand repeating himself, broke off there. He could not meet the other'seyes; between a shame new to him and the overpowering sense of what hehad done, he was in a pitiable state. "Curse you," with violence, "Ibelieve you have laid a trap for me!" he cried. "I say if she be notmad, I have done."

  "Let it stand so," Basterga answered placidly. "Trust me, if she hastaken the philtre she will be mad enough. Which reminds me that I alsohave a crow to pick with Mistress Anne."

  "Curse her!"

  "We will do more than that," Basterga murmured. "If she be not very goodwe will burn her, my friend.

  Uritur infelix Dido, totaque videtur Urbe furens!"

  His eyes were cruel, and he licked his lips as he applied thequotation.