Scaramouche: A Romance of the French Revolution

by Rafael Sabatini

  CHAPTER XIV. THE BARRIER

  That gift of laughter of his seemed utterly extinguished. For once therewas no gleam of humour in those dark eyes, as they continued to considerher with that queer stare of scrutiny. And yet, though his gaze wassombre, his thoughts were not. With his cruelly true mental vision whichpierced through shams, and his capacity for detached observation--whichproperly applied might have carried him very far, indeed--he perceivedthe grotesqueness, the artificiality of the emotion which in that momenthe experienced, but by which he refused to be possessed. It sprangentirely from the consciousness that she was his mother; as if, allthings considered, the more or less accidental fact that she had broughthim into the world could establish between them any real bond at thistime of day! The motherhood that bears and forsakes is less than animal.He had considered this; he had been given ample leisure in which toconsider it during those long, turbulent hours in which he had beenforced to wait, because it would have been almost impossible to have wonacross that seething city, and certainly unwise to have attempted so todo.

  He had reached the conclusion that by consenting to go to her rescueat such a time he stood committed to a piece of purely sentimentalquixotry. The quittances which the Mayor of Meudon had exacted from himbefore he would issue the necessary safe-conducts placed the whole ofhis future, perhaps his very life, in jeopardy. And he had consented todo this not for the sake of a reality, but out of regard for an idea--hewho all his life had avoided the false lure of worthless and hollowsentimentality.

  Thus thought Andre-Louis as he considered her now so searchingly,finding it, naturally enough, a matter of extraordinary interest tolook consciously upon his mother for the first time at the age ofeight-and-twenty.

  From her he looked at last at Jacques, who remained at attention,waiting by the open door.

  "Could we be alone, madame?" he asked her.

  She waved the footman away, and the door closed. In agitated silence,unquestioning, she waited for him to account for his presence there atso extraordinary a time.

  "Rougane could not return," he informed her shortly. "At M. deKercadiou's request, I come instead."

  "You! You are sent to rescue us!" The note of amazement in her voice wasstronger than that of her relief.

  "That, and to make your acquaintance, madame."

  "To make my acquaintance? But what do you mean, Andre-Louis?"

  "This letter from M. de Kercadiou will tell you." Intrigued by his oddwords and odder manner, she took the folded sheet. She broke the sealwith shaking hands, and with shaking hands approached the written pageto the light. Her eyes grew troubled as she read; the shaking of herhands increased, and midway through that reading a moan escaped her.One glance that was almost terror she darted at the slim, straight manstanding so incredibly impassive upon the edge of the light, andthen she endeavoured to read on. But the crabbed characters of M. deKercadiou swam distortedly under her eyes. She could not read. Besides,what could it matter what else he said. She had read enough. The sheetfluttered from her hands to the table, and out of a face that was like aface of wax, she looked now with a wistfulness, a sadness indescribable,at Andre-Louis.

  "And so you know, my child?" Her voice was stifled to a whisper.

  "I know, madame my mother."

  The grimness, the subtle blend of merciless derision and reproach inwhich it was uttered completely escaped her. She cried out at the newname. For her in that moment time and the world stood still. Her perilthere in Paris as the wife of an intriguer at Coblenz was blotted out,together with every other consideration--thrust out of a consciousnessthat could find room for nothing else beside the fact that she stoodacknowledged by her only son, this child begotten in adultery, bornefurtively and in shame in a remote Brittany village eight-and-twentyyears ago. Not even a thought for the betrayal of that inviolablesecret, or the consequences that might follow, could she spare in thissupreme moment.

  She took one or two faltering steps towards him, hesitating. Then sheopened her arms. Sobs suffocated her voice.

  "Won't you come to me, Andre-Louis?"

  A moment yet he stood hesitating, startled by that appeal, angeredalmost by his heart's response to it, reason and sentiment at gripsin his soul. This was not real, his reason postulated; this poignantemotion that she displayed and that he experienced was fantastic. Yet hewent. Her arms enfolded him; her wet cheek was pressed hard against hisown; her frame, which the years had not yet succeeded in robbing of itsgrace, was shaken by the passionate storm within her.

  "Oh, Andre-Louis, my child, if you knew how I have hungered to hold youso! If you knew how in denying myself this I have atoned and suffered!Kercadiou should not have told you--not even now. It was wrong--mostwrong, perhaps, to you. It would have been better that he should haveleft me here to my fate, whatever that may be. And yet--come what may ofthis--to be able to hold you so, to be able to acknowledge you, to hearyou call me mother--oh! Andre-Louis, I cannot now regret it. I cannot...I cannot wish it otherwise."

  "Is there any need, madame?" he asked her, his stoicism deeply shaken."There is no occasion to take others into our confidence. This is forto-night alone. To-night we are mother and son. To-morrow we resume ourformer places, and, outwardly at least, forget."

  "Forget? Have you no heart, Andre-Louis?"

  The question recalled him curiously to his attitude towards life--thathistrionic attitude of his that he accounted true philosophy. Also heremembered what lay before them; and he realized that he must master notonly himself but her; that to yield too far to sentiment at such a timemight be the ruin of them all.

  "It is a question propounded to me so often that it must contain thetruth," said he. "My rearing is to blame for that."

  She tightened her clutch about his neck even as he would have attemptedto disengage himself from her embrace.

  "You do not blame me for your rearing? Knowing all, as you do,Andre-Louis, you cannot altogether blame. You must be merciful to me.You must forgive me. You must! I had no choice."

  "When we know all of whatever it may be, we can never do anything butforgive, madame. That is the profoundest religious truth that was everwritten. It contains, in fact, a whole religion--the noblest religionany man could have to guide him. I say this for your comfort, madame mymother."

  She sprang away from him with a startled cry. Beyond him in the shadowsby the door a pale figure shimmered ghostly. It advanced into the light,and resolved itself into Aline. She had come in answer to that forgottensummons madame had sent her by Jacques. Entering unperceived she hadseen Andre-Louis in the embrace of the woman whom he addressed as"mother." She had recognized him instantly by his voice, and she couldnot have said what bewildered her more: his presence there or the thingshe overheard.

  "You heard, Aline?" madame exclaimed.

  "I could not help it, madame. You sent for me. I am sorry if..." Shebroke off, and looked at Andre-Louis long and curiously. She was pale,but quite composed. She held out her hand to him. "And so you have comeat last, Andre," said she. "You might have come before."

  "I come when I am wanted," was his answer. "Which is the only time inwhich one can be sure of being received." He said it without bitterness,and having said it stooped to kiss her hand.

  "You can forgive me what is past, I hope, since I failed of my purpose,"he said gently, half-pleading. "I could not have come to you pretendingthat the failure was intentional--a compromise between the necessities ofthe case and your own wishes. For it was not that. And yet, you do notseem to have profited by my failure. You are still a maid."

  She turned her shoulder to him.

  "There are things," she said, "that you will never understand."

  "Life, for one," he acknowledged. "I confess that I am finding itbewildering. The very explanations calculated to simplify it seem but tocomplicate it further." And he looked at Mme. de Plougastel.

  "You mean something, I suppose," said mademoiselle.

  "Aline!" It was the Countess who spoke. She knew the dang
er ofhalf-discoveries. "I can trust you, child, I know, and Andre-Louis, I amsure, will offer no objection." She had taken up the letter to show itto Aline. Yet first her eyes questioned him.

  "Oh, none, madame," he assured her. "It is entirely a matter foryourself."

  Aline looked from one to the other with troubled eyes, hesitating totake the letter that was now proffered. When she had read it through,she very thoughtfully replaced it on the table. A moment she stood therewith bowed head, the other two watching her. Then impulsively she ran tomadame and put her arms about her.

  "Aline!" It was a cry of wonder, almost of joy. "You do not utterlyabhor me!"

  "My dear," said Aline, and kissed the tear-stained face that seemed tohave grown years older in these last few hours.

  In the background Andre-Louis, steeling himself against emotionalism,spoke with the voice of Scaramouche.

  "It would be well, mesdames, to postpone all transports until they canbe indulged at greater leisure and in more security. It is growing late.If we are to get out of this shambles we should be wise to take the roadwithout more delay."

  It was a tonic as effective as it was necessary. It startled them intoremembrance of their circumstances, and under the spur of it they wentat once to make their preparations.

  They left him for perhaps a quarter of an hour, to pace that long roomalone, saved only from impatience by the turmoil of his mind. Whenat length they returned, they were accompanied by a tall man in afull-skirted shaggy greatcoat and a broad hat the brim of which wasturned down all around. He remained respectfully by the door in theshadows.

  Between them the two women had concerted it thus, or rather the Countesshad so concerted it when Aline had warned her that Andre-Louis' bitterhostility towards the Marquis made it unthinkable that he should move afinger consciously to save him.

  Now despite the close friendship uniting M. de Kercadiou and his niecewith Mme. de Plougastel, there were several matters concerning them ofwhich the Countess was in ignorance. One of these was the project at onetime existing of a marriage between Aline and M. de La Tour d'Azyr.It was a matter that Aline--naturally enough in the state of herfeelings--had never mentioned, nor had M. de Kercadiou ever alluded to itsince his coming to Meudon, by when he had perceived how unlikely it wasever to be realized.

  M. de La Tour d'Azyr's concern for Aline on that morning of the duelwhen he had found her half-swooning in Mme. de Plougastel's carriage hadbeen of a circumspection that betrayed nothing of his real interest inher, and therefore had appeared no more than natural in one who mustaccount himself the cause of her distress. Similarly Mme. de Plougastelhad never realized nor did she realize now--for Aline did not troublefully to enlighten her--that the hostility between the two men was otherthan political, the quarrel other than that which already had takenAndre-Louis to the Bois on every day of the preceding week. But, atleast, she realized that even if Andre-Louis' rancour should have noother source, yet that inconclusive duel was cause enough for Aline'sfears.

  And so she had proposed this obvious deception and Aline had consentedto be a passive party to it. They had made the mistake of not fullyforewarning and persuading M. de La Tour d'Azyr. They had trustedentirely to his anxiety to escape from Paris to keep him rigidly withinthe part imposed upon him. They had reckoned without the queer senseof honour that moved such men as M. le Marquis, nurtured upon a code ofshams.

  Andre-Louis, turning to scan that muffled figure, advanced from thedark depths of the salon. As the light beat on his white, lean face thepseudo-footman started. The next moment he too stepped forward intothe light, and swept his broad-brimmed hat from his brow. As he did soAndre-Louis observed that his hand was fine and white and that ajewel flashed from one of the fingers. Then he caught his breath, andstiffened in every line as he recognized the face revealed to him.

  "Monsieur," that stern, proud man was saying, "I cannot take advantageof your ignorance. If these ladies can persuade you to save me, at leastit is due to you that you shall know whom you are saving."

  He stood there by the table very erect and dignified, ready to perish ashe had lived--if perish he must--without fear and without deception.

  Andre-Louis came slowly forward until he reached the table on the otherside, and then at last the muscles of his set face relaxed, and helaughed.

  "You laugh?" said M. de La Tour d'Azyr, frowning, offended.

  "It is so damnably amusing," said Andre-Louis.

  "You've an odd sense of humour, M. Moreau."

  "Oh, admitted. The unexpected always moves me so. I have found you manythings in the course of our acquaintance. To-night you are the one thingI never expected to find you: an honest man."

  M. de La Tour d'Azyr quivered. But he attempted no reply.

  "Because of that, monsieur, I am disposed to be clement. It is probablya foolishness. But you have surprised me into it. I give you threeminutes, monsieur, in which to leave this house, and to take your ownmeasures for your safety. What afterwards happens to you shall be noconcern of mine."

  "Ah, no, Andre! Listen..." Madame began in anguish.

  "Pardon, madame. It is the utmost that I will do, and already I amviolating what I conceive to be my duty. If M. de La Tour d'Azyr remainshe not only ruins himself, but he imperils you. For unless he departsat once, he goes with me to the headquarters of the section, and thesection will have his head on a pike inside the hour. He is a notoriouscounter-revolutionary, a knight of the dagger, one of those whom anexasperated populace is determined to exterminate. Now, monsieur, youknow what awaits you. Resolve yourself and at once, for these ladies'sake."

  "But you don't know, Andre-Louis!" Mme. de Plougastel's condition wasone of anguish indescribable. She came to him and clutched his arm. "Forthe love of Heaven, Andre-Louis, be merciful with him! You must!"

  "But that is what I am being, madame--merciful; more merciful than hedeserves. And he knows it. Fate has meddled most oddly in our concernsto bring us together to-night. Almost it is as if Fate were forcingretribution at last upon him. Yet, for your sakes, I take no advantageof it, provided that he does at once as I have desired him."

  And now from beyond the table the Marquis spoke icily, and as he spokehis right hand stirred under the ample folds of his greatcoat.

  "I am glad, M. Moreau, that you take that tone with me. You relieve meof the last scruple. You spoke of Fate just now, and I must agree withyou that Fate has meddled oddly, though perhaps not to the end that youdiscern. For years now you have chosen to stand in my path and thwart meat every turn, holding over me a perpetual menace. Persistently you havesought my life in various ways, first indirectly and at last directly.Your intervention in my affairs has ruined my highest hopes--moreeffectively, perhaps, than you suppose. Throughout you have been my evilgenius. And you are even one of the agents of this climax of despairthat has been reached by me to-night."

  "Wait! Listen!" Madame was panting. She flung away from Andre-Louis,as if moved by some premonition of what was coming. "Gervais! This ishorrible!"

  "Horrible, perhaps, but inevitable. Himself he has invited it. I am aman in despair, the fugitive of a lost cause. That man holds the keysof escape. And, besides, between him and me there is a reckoning to bepaid."

  His hand came from beneath the coat at last, and it came armed with apistol.

  Mme. de Plougastel screamed, and flung herself upon him. On her kneesnow, she clung to his arm with all her strength and might.

  Vainly he sought to shake himself free of that desperate clutch.

  "Therese!" he cried. "Are you mad? Will you destroy me and yourself?This creature has the safe-conducts that mean our salvation. Himself, heis nothing."

  From the background Aline, a breathless, horror-stricken spectatorof that scene, spoke sharply, her quick mind pointing out the line ofcheckmate.

  "Burn the safe-conducts, Andre-Louis. Burn them at once--in the candlesthere."

  But Andre-Louis had taken advantage of that moment of M. de La Tourd'Azyr's impotence to draw a
pistol in his turn. "I think it will bebetter to burn his brains instead," he said. "Stand away from him,madame."

  Far from obeying that imperious command, Mme. de Plougastel rose to herfeet to cover the Marquis with her body. But she still clung to his arm,clung to it with unsuspected strength that continued to prevent him fromattempting to use the pistol.

  "Andre! For God's sake, Andre!" she panted hoarsely over her shoulder.

  "Stand away, madame," he commanded her again, more sternly, "and letthis murderer take his due. He is jeopardizing all our lives, and hisown has been forfeit these years. Stand away!" He sprang forward withintent now to fire at his enemy over her shoulder, and Aline moved toolate to hinder him.

  "Andre! Andre!"

  Panting, gasping, haggard of face, on the verge almost of hysteria,the distracted Countess flung at last an effective, a terrible barrierbetween the hatred of those men, each intent upon taking the other'slife.

  "He is your father, Andre! Gervais, he is your son--our son! The letterthere... on the table... O my God!" And she slipped nervelessly to theground, and crouched there sobbing at the feet of M. de La Tour d'Azyr.