by Frank Yerby
It’s gone, all gone, he thought bitterly, all the things I came here to accomplish. I cannot make of her an instrument of my vengeance; I cannot strike Gervais la Moyte through her, and leave her broken. And now, God in His Infinite Mercy pity me, I cannot kill him who came from the same womb as she!
“Good-bye,” he said.
“Good-bye?” she echoed; “not—not au revoir?”
“No, little Nicole,” he murmured, “good-bye—adieu. Because this cannot be. . . .”
She sprang up from the bed and caught him by his shoulders, clinging to him, kissing his mouth, his throat, his eyes, whispering:
“Why? Oh, Jean, why? Tell me—tell me—tell me, by God’s love, Jeannot, why?”
“I lied to you,” he told her, his voice flat, controlled, almost calm. “I am neither Italian nor a noble. I am a bourgeois, and an enemy of your brother, nay, indeed, of your whole class, which I have worked ceaselessly to destroy. So—sweet Nicole, dear Nicole, you must forget me—since neither Church nor State, least of all your brother, would ever sanction a marriage between us two.”
“Forget you?” she breathed; “never! Take me with you. We can go far away where no one ever heard of Gravereau and—”
Slowly he shook his head.
“The world is not that wide,” he whispered.
She stood back from him, and the twin sapphires that were her eyes were enormous in her pale face. Her hands came up, the jewels on her fingers catching the light, and her fingers dug into the brocade of his coat, working convulsively.
“No!” she got out, her voice hoarse, shuddering; “I cannot, will not let you go! If we must hide by day and flee by night, live upon crusts and wear rags, I am going with you, Jeannot! This you cannot deny me!”
“You little fool!” Jean murmured; “you sweet, romantic little fool!”
Then he bent down once more and found her mouth, the two of them clinging together, so lost in that kiss that neither heard until it was too late the crash of the door swinging open.
Gervais la Moyte stood there, épée in hand, with a blanket-wrapped figure at his side and behind him a mob of young nobles all with naked rapiers in their hands.
“That’s him,” Jean Paul’s victim cried, “that’s—dear God!” Gervais pushed him backward through the door and stepped back himself, slamming it after him. They heard his voice, trembling, death-sickness in every note, saying:
“My Lords and Gentlemen, I cannot deny what your eyes have seen. But I issue here and now a blanket challenge to every man jack of you that dares remember it!”
There was a silence, then another voice drawled:
“Oh, confound your theatrics, Gervais, none of us will breathe a word; and not because of your swordsmanship, either. I, for one, hold myself a deadlier blade than you any day in the week. But the honour of our entire class is at stake. Now stand aside and let us deal with the fellow. . . .”
“No,” Gervais said quietly; “it’s my affair, and mine alone. I shall resent any interference.”
Inside the room, Nicole came alive first.
“Go!” she got out, her voice hoarse with terror; “through that window—you can climb down—there’s a trellis—and—by God’s love, Jeannot, go!”
“No,” Jean laughed; “I will not run from him, Nicole. This time my Lord of Gravereau and I must settle scores once and for all.”
The door opened quietly, and Gervais stepped in, closing it behind him.
“So, Marin,” he whispered; “you have at last forced me to kill you, eh?”
“Marin?” Nicole said; “not—not her brother?”
“You didn’t even know the name, you filthy little baggage?” Gervais growled; “I shall deal with you next—and to your life’s end you’ll dare not recall this day.”
“My lord had better consider well his words,” Jean Paul mocked. “With all the excuses I have to kill you now, ‘tis vain to add another.” Then very quietly he drew a pistol from his pocket and aimed it at the Comte de Gravereau’s heart.
“Jean!” Nicole wept. “Please, Jean, do not fire! He—he is my brother; you must not—you can’t. . . .”
Very slowly Jean brought his weapon down.
“It appears, M’sieur le Comte,” he mocked, “that we must be again cheated of the pleasure of killing each other. I bid you au revoir, and beg you not to follow me, or else I shall be forced to slightly maim you, to say the least.”
Then he turned his back deliberately and walked with superb control towards the window. He put one leg through it, then he paused, looking at Nicole.
“Adieu, little dove,” he murmured; “ ‘tis better like this.”
“No!” Nicole cried, and came forward in a wild rush. She threw both arms about his neck, embracing him in anguish and terror and bitter grief, kissing his face, his eyes. . . . She was between him and Gervais, of course, and her heavy silk ball dress hid Jean’s lean form almost entirely; but from Gervais’ face, Jean could see how she must have looked to her brother at that moment.
Pure madness flamed in Gervais’ eyes. He put out his hand and jerked her cruelly away from Jean, spinning her about to face him with the same hard motion.
“Nicole!” he grated. “By God’s own love, I—”
“You see how it is, my brother!” Nicole interrupted him quietly. “I would die for him with great joy. So now you must let him go. For if you kill him, whatever you do with me afterwards—whether you send me into a nunnery, or procure a lettre de cachet from the King and imprison me, or lock me in a chamber here, I shall be dead within the hour that I learn of his death.”
They heard, all of them, the nobles in the hall impatient at long delay, muttering to themselves.
Gervais stared at Jean Paul. He was trembling.
“Go, you baseborn bastard!” he snarled. “Damn you, go!”
Going through that window, Jean Paul Marin loosed his mocking laughter. He laughed too soon. For as he released his hold upon the trellis and jumped the last ten feet to the ground, he fell into the waiting arms of a horde of grooms, pages, footmen, led by that same coachman whose face he had broken open with a pistol blow.
4
HOW long had it been? Jean Paul didn’t know. He hung there by the manacles which encircled his wrists and ankles. But for them he would have pitched forward on his face. His eyes were closed, but he was conscious. Trickles of the filthy water they had flung into his face to revive him dripped from the rags of his clothing to the floor. He had learned, finally, to take the cold dousing of water in his face without showing signs of consciousness. For every time he opened his eyes, they started beating him again.
The rags they had left of his clothing were sticking to him in two dozen places. But even half dead as he was, his thoughts continued on their old, ironic bent.
His suit they’ve ruined, he thought wryly; mine’s as good as new. . . . Precious lot of good that’ll do me. I shall never need a suit again. . . .
“He’s shamming,” the head coachman growled. “Here, let me get at him! I’ll bring him round.”
Jean heard his footsteps nearing. Then there was another sound, a clanking, as of chains.
Jean opened his eyes the barest slit. In the coachman’s hairy fist there were two short lengths of chain.
“Scar me, will you?” the coachman roared. “Spoiled my looks so that the maids shudder when they look at me! Let’s see what you’ll look like when I’m done with you, M’sieur Bourgeois-Prince!”
He swung the chains with all his strength, full into Jean Paul’s face. They bit into his forehead between his eyes, broke his nose, and opened his face from forehead to upper lip, in one long diagonal swipe.
“Oh!” Jean choked hoarsely; “oh, my God!”
“Not so pretty now—eh, boys?” the coachman chuckled. “Let’s see if I can improve matters a bit. . . .”
He swung the bloody chains far back, held them there. But before he could bring them whistling down again, a voice stopped him. A v
ery clear, soprano voice, speaking quietly so that only the tiniest edge in the upper registers revealed the hysteria lurking beneath its calm.
“Stop it!” Nicole said. “If you do that again, Augustin, I shall have you whipped until there isn’t an inch of flesh left on your back.”
“My lady!” the coachman croaked, “how on earth . . .”
“Tis no concern of yours, Augustin. But I am here with my brother’s full permission. Release him!”
“But—but—my lady!”
“You heard me! I have here a note from your lord, since I was aware that you would not believe me. M’sieur Marin is not to be tortured. Not any—more. . . . In return for that, I’ve promised my brother not to help him escape, which is hardly possible now, seeing what you’ve done.”
Augustin took the note and looked at it. He could not read it; but he had a peasant’s awe of the written word.
“ ‘Tis my lord’s hand,” he muttered. “Don’t understand this—still we’ve no real choice . . . Give me the keys, Jules. . . .”
Jean felt, rather than heard, the keys turning in the locks of the manacles. Then his support was gone, and he pitched forward; but two of the grooms caught him and lowered him gently to the floor.
“Take him up,” Nicole commanded, “and carry him to the little chamber. Thereafter you will take the key to my brother, as I promised.”
They picked Jean Paul up and bore him to the little room in another part of the cave, or cellar, which had been built by Gervais’ father for the sole purpose of detaining members of his own family who were in need of discipline. Therefore, though it was very plain, it was comfortable. It had a good bed, a washstand, and even a chair. In this room Gervais la Moyte had often sat in his youth, and meditated upon his sins.
They laid him down upon the bed, and stood there uneasily, watching Nicole.
“Now bring water—hot water, and cloths for bandages. You, Jules, go tell the cook to make some broth. And bring a bottle of wine. The best. Be off with you, you villains!”
When they had gone, Jean opened his eyes, and even managed a smile, though it hurt his broken face damnably to do so.
“How,” he whispered, “did you manage all this?”
“Don’t talk!” she got out, “please don’t try to talk! Oh, Jeannot, Jeannot, my darling—what have they done to you?”
“Enough,” Jean grinned, but the effort cracked his broken mouth so that he could taste the hot, salt wetness of his blood.
She collapsed upon him, shuddering, despite all the blood and sweat and filthy sewage water he was covered with.
“You’ll ruin your clothes,” he croaked.
“My clothes!” she spat. “You lie there like that with your poor face all broken and ruined, and talk about my clothes! Oh, Jean, my Jean—you were so handsome—and now, and now . . .”
She couldn’t finish. Her own sobs choked her.
“I’m a sight, eh!” he muttered, and brought up his hand to stroke her shining hair, now innocent of powder. “Good—now you will get over this folly of loving me.”
She sat there looking at him a long time before she spoke again.
“Yes, Jeannot,” she whispered, “I shall be one day freed of loving you—that day when I am laid beside you in the earth. perhaps not even then; for if there is any truth in the teachings of the Church, I shall go on loving you through all eternity.”
Jean caught both her small hands in his own and gripped them hard.
“Don’t talk like that,” he groaned. “You know not what you say!”
“I know all right. The scar upon your face will be unto me a badge of honour, since you got it for my sake; I think you will always be beautiful in my sight—with that proud, manly beauty of yours like one of God’s own angels come down to earth. I even think that beast of a coachman failed, for no scar could really destroy your beauty, which comes from within you, and is of your soul.”
“Speak no more of beauty,” Jean half wept, “while you sit there with yours blinding me, and I have no strength to take you in my arms!”
“Oh, Jeannot, I—” she began, but the footman appeared with the water and the cloths. She dismissed the man with a curt nod. She was very busy for an hour after that. She had to soak his rags away from his broken flesh, and, even so, often they stuck fast, and she had to pull them free, bringing blood.
But she kept at it grimly, her face whiter than death, while Jean fainted from the pain of it. He was aware at last of a certain coldness, and it was this that revived him. He glanced down and saw that he was naked. He made futile motions with his arms and legs in an effort to cover himself. But she smiled at him tenderly and went on bathing him.
“Don’t be troubled, my Jean,” she said gently; “now you are mine, and your body is like my own. Besides, it is very fine—or it was, and it will be fine again when I have healed you.”
A little later, swathed in bandages and healing salves, he lay there, and for the second time in the space of weeks allowed himself to be fed like a child. Then he went to sleep with her arms about his neck, his head pillowed on her bosom.
When he awoke she was still there. All her care had done its work, and he felt better, though painfully weak.
“How is it,” he said, “that you can do all this? If your brother were to come . . .”
“He won’t,” she smiled, “by now he is nearly to your house, to pay a call upon your sister.”
“God!” Jean Paul swore.
“Don’t swear, my Jeannot—I shall always call you that, for I see you like that name. I—I had to do something. I could not let you die of torture. . . . This morning there was a new swarm of creditors. I pointed out to Gervais that it he had you killed, he could scarcely hope to recoup by marrying your Thérèse; I also suggested that he might speed up matters if he appeared before her and offered clemency for you as the price of an immediate marriage.”
“Clemency!” Jean groaned, “at such a price!”
“She loves him, Jean—as I love you. I—I’ve seen her letters. They made me weep. My brother is not worthy of such love. So now, you are to be imprisoned for a short space of time—a year or two perhaps, so that Gervais can comply with the law, which he dare not disregard, considering how many witnesses there were to our folly. . . . He hopes that by the time you’re freed he’ll have me safely wed; but he does not really know me, Jeannot. I shall wait for you until the end of time and beyond that if need be. . . . Then we shall go away together, you and I, to His Majesty’s colonies in America, and live beside that great river with the unpronounceable name. . . .”
“The Mississippi,” Jean whispered; “how full of dreams you are, my sweet.”
“Tell me about Thérèse,” Nicole said. “What is she like?”
“She,” Jean groped for words, “is like a little bird. She is very small—smaller even than you are, and dark like me. I think that she’s very pretty, but then, perhaps, I am prejudiced in her favour.”
“No,” Nicole said, “you are always very clear, my Jeannot. I know I shall love her dearly. She is the reason for the quarrel between you and Gervais, is she not?”
“Yes,” Jean said, glad that this was only half a lie.
“Why, Jean? My brother is of a great house, and he is very handsome. Besides, she loves him. Why are you so set against this match?”
“Because,” Jean said, “he is a noble, and I hate all nobles— except you, Nicole—who have despoiled our country and brought it to the brink of ruin. Besides, as you know well, your brother is wild and thoughtless in his ways. Worst of all, he wants my sister only for the dowry she will bring, for he has never loved her.”
“And I love you; perhaps you love me a little—I hope you do . . . and yet we cannot wed because of this foolishness of the classes; oh, Jeannot, I don’t care what you do! Destroy the world as we know it if you will, as long as I can be yours!”
“It’s a very unjust world,” Jean said gravely.
“I know it,” Nico
le said; “but then I’m not sure that justice really exists in the heart of man. Go to sleep now, my Jeannot; you have much need of rest. . . .”
And Jean Paul Marin closed his eyes and slept the whole night long, innocently as a child, cradled in her arms.
She came to see him every day thereafter. And when, finally, she did not come, Jean Paul knew Gervais had returned. He could walk about now; all his stripes had healed, except the really bad one—the one across his face. He begged Nicole for a mirror, but she refused to bring him one.
“Wait until it is well, my sweet,” she whispered; “it will be less bad to look at then.”
But he got an inkling of how he looked when, on the morning after his return, Gervais la Moyte came in to visit him.
Jean Paul saw him blanch. Then a low, almost soundless whistle escaped his lips.
“Well, Marin,” he said at last, “I think now we are quits. On Sunday next your sister and I will be wed. And with that face of yours you’ll seduce no more high-born maids—nor lowborn either, I’ll wager. I pity you—you were rather a handsome devil, at that.”
“What is to be done with me?” Jean demanded.
“You will be remanded before His Majesty’s Lieutenant tomorrow—on the lesser charges of breaking and entering, and malicious mischief—none of which carry the death penalty, as your assault upon Gaston le Chaplier would have surely done. The usual sentence is from five to ten years in the galleys. I will try to get you off as lightly as possible, as I promised your sister—and mine. Nom de Dieu, how you have bewitched her! But then, you have your graces, haven’t you? I congratulate you upon the perfect way you carried off that masquerade. I actually thought my cousin Julien’s Mariners were improving.”
Jean’s smile hurt his broken face.
“Thank you, my lord,” he said.
“Ah,” Gervais said, “that’s better. You begin to see, I think, the folly of your ways. Come to me when you have finished your sentence and I will ask His Majesty to give you a post befitting your indisputable talents—in the colonies of course. Such fire-brands as you are better out of France.”
