CHAPTER X. THE RETURNING CARRIAGE
M. de Kercadiou wrote a letter.
"Godson," he began, without any softening adjective, "I have learntwith pain and indignation that you have dishonoured yourself again bybreaking the pledge you gave me to abstain from politics. With stillgreater pain and indignation do I learn that your name has become in afew short days a byword, that you have discarded the weapon of false,insidious arguments against my class--the class to which you oweeverything--for the sword of the assassin. It has come to my knowledgethat you have an assignation to-morrow with my good friend M. de La Tourd'Azyr. A gentleman of his station is under certain obligations imposedupon him by his birth, which do not permit him to draw back from anengagement. But you labour under no such disadvantages. For a man ofyour class to refuse an engagement of honour, or to neglect it whenmade, entails no sacrifice. Your peers will probably be of the opinionthat you display a commendable prudence. Therefore I beg you, indeed,did I think that I still exercise over you any such authority as thefavours you have received from me should entitle me to exercise, I wouldcommand you, to allow this matter to go no farther, and to refrain fromrendering yourself to your assignation to-morrow morning. Having no suchauthority, as your past conduct now makes clear, having no reason tohope that a proper sentiment of gratitude to me will induce to give heedto this my most earnest request, I am compelled to add that should yousurvive to-morrow's encounter, I can in no circumstances ever againpermit myself to be conscious of your existence. If any spark survivesof the affection that once you expressed for me, or if you set any valueupon the affection, which, in spite of all that you have done to forfeitit, is the chief prompter of this letter, you will not refuse to do as Iam asking."
It was not a tactful letter. M. de Kercadiou was not a tactful man. Readit as he would, Andre-Louis--when it was delivered to him on that Sundayafternoon by the groom dispatched with it into Paris--could read into itonly concern for M. La Tour d'Azyr, M. de Kercadiou's good friend, as hecalled him, and prospective nephew-in-law.
He kept the groom waiting a full hour while composing his answer.Brief though it was, it cost him very considerable effort and severalunsuccessful attempts. In the end this is what he wrote:
Monsieur my godfather--You make refusal singularly hard for me when youappeal to me upon the ground of affection. It is a thing of which all mylife I shall hail the opportunity to give you proofs, and I am thereforedesolated beyond anything I could hope to express that I cannot give youthe proof you ask to-day. There is too much between M. de La Tour d'Azyrand me. Also you do me and my class--whatever it may be--less than justicewhen you say that obligations of honour are not binding upon us. Sobinding do I count them, that, if I would, I could not now draw back.
If hereafter you should persist in the harsh intention you express, Imust suffer it. That I shall suffer be assured.
Your affectionate and grateful godson
Andre-Louis
He dispatched that letter by M. de Kercadiou's groom, and conceived thisto be the end of the matter. It cut him keenly; but he bore the woundwith that outward stoicism he affected.
Next morning, at a quarter past eight, as with Le Chapelier--who had cometo break his fast with him--he was rising from table to set out forthe Bois, his housekeeper startled him by announcing Mademoiselle deKercadiou.
He looked at his watch. Although his cabriolet was already at the door,he had a few minutes to spare. He excused himself from Le Chapelier, andwent briskly out to the anteroom.
She advanced to meet him, her manner eager, almost feverish.
"I will not affect ignorance of why you have come," he said quickly, tomake short work. "But time presses, and I warn you that only the mostsolid of reasons can be worth stating."
It surprised her. It amounted to a rebuff at the very outset, before shehad uttered a word; and that was the last thing she had expected fromAndre-Louis. Moreover, there was about him an air of aloofness that wasunusual where she was concerned, and his voice had been singularly coldand formal.
It wounded her. She was not to guess the conclusion to which he hadleapt. He made with regard to her--as was but natural, after all--thesame mistake that he had made with regard to yesterday's letter from hisgodfather. He conceived that the mainspring of action here was solelyconcern for M. de La Tour d'Azyr. That it might be concern for himselfnever entered his mind. So absolute was his own conviction of what mustbe the inevitable issue of that meeting that he could not conceive ofany one entertaining a fear on his behalf.
What he assumed to be anxiety on the score of the predestined victimhad irritated him in M. de Kercadiou; in Aline it filled him with a coldanger; he argued from it that she had hardly been frank with him; thatambition was urging her to consider with favour the suit of M. de LaTour d'Azyr. And than this there was no spur that could have driven morerelentlessly in his purpose, since to save her was in his eyes almost asmomentous as to avenge the past.
She conned him searchingly, and the complete calm of him at such a timeamazed her. She could not repress the mention of it.
"How calm you are, Andre!"
"I am not easily disturbed. It is a vanity of mine."
"But... Oh, Andre, this meeting must not take place!" She came closeup to him, to set her hands upon his shoulders, and stood so, her facewithin a foot of his own.
"You know, of course, of some good reason why it should not?" said he.
"You may be killed," she answered him, and her eyes dilated as shespoke.
It was so far from anything that he had expected that for a moment hecould only stare at her. Then he thought he had understood. He laughedas he removed her hands from his shoulders, and stepped back. This was ashallow device, childish and unworthy in her.
"Can you really think to prevail by attempting to frighten me?" heasked, and almost sneered.
"Oh, you are surely mad! M. de La Tour d'Azyr is reputed the mostdangerous sword in France."
"Have you never noticed that most reputations are undeserved?Chabrillane was a dangerous swordsman, and Chabrillane is underground.La Motte-Royau was an even more dangerous swordsman, and he is ina surgeon's hands. So are the other spadassinicides who dreamt ofskewering a poor sheep of a provincial lawyer. And here to-day comesthe chief, the fine flower of these bully-swordsmen. He comes, forwages long overdue. Be sure of that. So if you have no other reason tourge..."
It was the sarcasm of him that mystified her. Could he possibly besincere in his assurance that he must prevail against M. de La Tourd'Azyr? To her in her limited knowledge, her mind filled with heruncle's contrary conviction, it seemed that Andre-Louis was only acting;he would act a part to the very end.
Be that as it might, she shifted her ground to answer him.
"You had my uncle's letter?"
"And I answered it."
"I know. But what he said, he will fulfil. Do not dream that he willrelent if you carry out this horrible purpose."
"Come, now, that is a better reason than the other," said he. "If thereis a reason in the world that could move me it would be that. But thereis too much between La Tour d'Azyr and me. There is an oath I swore onthe dead hand of Philippe de Vilmorin. I could never have hoped that Godwould afford me so great an opportunity of keeping it."
"You have not kept it yet," she warned him.
He smiled at her. "True!" he said. "But nine o'clock will soon be here.Tell me," he asked her suddenly, "why did you not carry this request ofyours to M. de La Tour d'Azyr?"
"I did," she answered him, and flushed as she remembered her yesterday'srejection. He interpreted the flush quite otherwise.
"And he?" he asked.
"M. de La Tour d'Azyr's obligations..." she was beginning: then shebroke off to answer shortly: "Oh, he refused."
"So, so. He must, of course, whatever it may have cost him. Yet in hisplace I should have counted the cost as nothing. But men are different,you see." He sighed. "Also in your place, had that been so, I think Ishould have left the matter
there. But then..."
"I don't understand you, Andre."
"I am not so very obscure. Not nearly so obscure as I can be. Turn itover in your mind. It may help to comfort you presently." He consultedhis watch again. "Pray use this house as your own. I must be going."
Le Chapelier put his head in at the door.
"Forgive the intrusion. But we shall be late, Andre, unless you..."
"Coming," Andre answered him. "If you will await my return, Aline, youwill oblige me deeply. Particularly in view of your uncle's resolve."
She did not answer him. She was numbed. He took her silence for assent,and, bowing, left her. Standing there she heard his steps going down thestairs together with Le Chapelier's. He was speaking to his friend, andhis voice was calm and normal.
Oh, he was mad--blinded by self-confidence and vanity. As his carriagerattled away, she sat down limply, with a sense of exhaustion andnausea. She was sick and faint with horror. Andre-Louis was going to hisdeath. Conviction of it--an unreasoning conviction, the result, perhaps,of all M. de Kercadiou's rantings--entered her soul. Awhile she sat thus,paralyzed by hopelessness. Then she sprang up again, wringing her hands.She must do something to avert this horror. But what could she do? Tofollow him to the Bois and intervene there would be to make a scandalfor no purpose. The conventions of conduct were all against her,offering a barrier that was not to be overstepped. Was there no onecould help her?
Standing there, half-frenzied by her helplessness, she caught againa sound of vehicles and hooves on the cobbles of the street below.A carriage was approaching. It drew up with a clatter before thefencing-academy. Could it be Andre-Louis returning? Passionately shesnatched at that straw of hope. Knocking, loud and urgent, fell upon thedoor. She heard Andre-Louis' housekeeper, her wooden shoes clanking uponthe stairs, hurrying down to open.
She sped to the door of the anteroom, and pulling it wide stoodbreathlessly to listen. But the voice that floated up to her was not thevoice she so desperately hoped to hear. It was a woman's voice asking inurgent tones for M. Andre-Louis--a voice at first vaguely familiar, thenclearly recognized, the voice of Mme. de Plougastel.
Excited, she ran to the head of the narrow staircase in time to hearMme. de Plougastel exclaim in agitation:
"He has gone already! Oh, but how long since? Which way did he take?"
It was enough to inform Aline that Mme. de Plougastel's errand must beakin to her own. At the moment, in the general distress and confusionof her mind, her mental vision focussed entirely on the one vitalpoint, she found in this no matter for astonishment. The singular regardconceived by Mme. de Plougastel for Andre-Louis seemed to her then asufficient explanation.
Without pausing to consider, she ran down that steep staircase, calling:
"Madame! Madame!"
The portly, comely housekeeper drew aside, and the two ladies faced eachother on that threshold. Mme. de Plougastel looked white and haggard, anameless dread staring from her eyes.
"Aline! You here!" she exclaimed. And then in the urgency sweeping asideall minor considerations, "Were you also too late?" she asked.
"No, madame. I saw him. I implored him. But he would not listen."
"Oh, this is horrible!" Mme. de Plougastel shuddered as she spoke. "Iheard of it only half an hour ago, and I came at once, to prevent it atall costs."
The two women looked blankly, despairingly, at each other. In thesunshine-flooded street one or two shabby idlers were pausing to eyethe handsome equipage with its magnificent bay horses, and the two greatladies on the doorstep of the fencing-academy. From across the way camethe raucous voice of an itinerant bellows-mender raised in the cry ofhis trade:
"A raccommoder les vieux soufflets!"
Madame swung to the housekeeper.
"How long is it since monsieur left?"
"Ten minutes, maybe; hardly more." Conceiving these great ladies tobe friends of her invincible master's latest victim, the good womanpreserved a decently stolid exterior.
Madame wrung her hands. "Ten minutes! Oh!" It was almost a moan. "Whichway did he go?"
"The assignation is for nine o'clock in the Bois de Boulogne," Alineinformed her. "Could we follow? Could we prevail if we did?"
"Ah, my God! The question is should we come in time? At nine o'clock!And it wants but little more than a quarter of an hour. Mon Dieu! MonDieu!" Madame clasped and unclasped her hands in anguish. "Do you know,at least, where in the Bois they are to meet?"
"No--only that it is in the Bois."
"In the Bois!" Madame was flung into a frenzy. "The Bois is nearly halfas large as Paris." But she swept breathlessly on, "Come, Aline: get in,get in!"
Then to her coachman. "To the Bois de Boulogne by way of the Cours laReine," she commanded, "as fast as you can drive. There are ten pistolesfor you if we are in time. Whip up, man!"
She thrust Aline into the carriage, and sprang after her with theenergy of a girl. The heavy vehicle--too heavy by far for this race withtime--was moving before she had taken her seat. Rocking and lurchingit went, earning the maledictions of more than one pedestrian whom itnarrowly avoided crushing against a wall or trampling underfoot.
Madame sat back with closed eyes and trembling lips. Her face showedvery white and drawn. Aline watched her in silence. Almost it seemed toher that Mme. de Plougastel was suffering as deeply as herself, enduringan anguish of apprehension as great as her own.
Later Aline was to wonder at this. But at the moment all the thought ofwhich her half-numbed mind was capable was bestowed upon their desperateerrand.
The carriage rolled across the Place Louis XV and out on to the Coursla Reine at last. Along that beautiful, tree-bordered avenue between theChamps Elysees and the Seine, almost empty at this hour of the day, theymade better speed, leaving now a cloud of dust behind them.
But fast to danger-point as was the speed, to the women in that carriageit was too slow. As they reached the barrier at the end of the Cours,nine o'clock was striking in the city behind them, and every stroke ofit seemed to sound a note of doom.
Yet here at the barrier the regulations compelled a momentary halt.Aline enquired of the sergeant-in-charge how long it was since acabriolet such as she described had gone that way. She was answered thatsome twenty minutes ago a vehicle had passed the barrier containing thedeputy M. le Chapelier and the Paladin of the Third Estate, M. Moreau.The sergeant was very well informed. He could make a shrewd guess, hesaid, with a grin, of the business that took M. Moreau that way so earlyin the day.
They left him, to speed on now through the open country, following theroad that continued to hug the river. They sat back mutely despairing,staring hopelessly ahead, Aline's hand clasped tight in madame's. In thedistance, across the meadows on their right, they could see already thelong, dusky line of trees of the Bois, and presently the carriage swungaside following a branch of the road that turned to the right, away fromthe river and heading straight for the forest.
Mademoiselle broke at last the silence of hopelessness that had reignedbetween them since they had passed the barrier.
"Oh, it is impossible that we should come in time! Impossible!"
"Don't say it! Don't say it!" madame cried out.
"But it is long past nine, madame! Andre would be punctual, and these...affairs do not take long. It... it will be all over by now."
Madame shivered, and closed her eyes. Presently, however, she openedthem again, and stirred. Then she put her head from the window. "Acarriage is approaching," she announced, and her tone conveyed the thingshe feared.
"Not already! Oh, not already!" Thus Aline expressed the silentlycommunicated thought. She experienced a difficulty in breathing, feltthe sudden need of air. Something in her throat was throbbing as if itwould suffocate her; a mist came and went before her eyes.
In a cloud of dust an open caleche was speeding towards them, comingfrom the Bois. They watched it, both pale, neither venturing to speak,Aline, indeed, without breath to do so.
As it approa
ched, it slowed down, perforce, as they did, to effect asafe passage in that narrow road. Aline was at the window with Mme. dePlougastel, and with fearful eyes both looked into this open carriagethat was drawing abreast of them.
"Which of them is it, madame? Oh, which of them?" gasped Aline, scarcedaring to look, her senses swimming.
On the near side sat a swarthy young gentleman unknown to either of theladies. He was smiling as he spoke to his companion. A moment later andthe man sitting beyond came into view. He was not smiling. His face waswhite and set, and it was the face of the Marquis de La Tour d'Azyr.
For a long moment, in speechless horror, both women stared at him,until, perceiving them, blankest surprise invaded his stern face.
In that moment, with a long shuddering sigh Aline sank swooning to thecarriage floor behind Mme. de Plougastel.
Scaramouche: A Romance of the French Revolution Page 30
