They talked of the weather first, and then of the prospects of a good apple year. Then Mathieu harked back to the old story of the fire, worked himself into a passion over it, noted Bompard’s confusion, and in ten minutes had the whole story out,—all, that is, except his own daughter’s share in it, and at that he guessed with an inward fury which fairly frightened poor fat Bompard.
“Those Desaix!” he exclaimed with an oath. “If I’d had your tale six weeks ago! Now there’s only Ange and the niece. It’s like Marthe to cheat one in the end!”
Bompard looked curiously at him. He did not know the secret of Mathieu’s hostility to the Desaix family. Old Mère Anne could have told him that when Marthe was a handsome, black-eyed girl, Mathieu Leroux had lifted his eyes high, and conceived a sullen passion for one as much above him as Réné de Montenay was above her sister Ange. The village talked, Marthe noted the looks that followed her everywhere, and boiled with pride and anger. Then one day Mme de Montenay, coldly ignoring all differences in the ranks below her own, said:
“So, Marthe, you are to make a match of it with young Leroux”; and at that the girl flamed up.
“If we’re not high enough for the Château, at least we’re too high for the gutter,” she said, with a furiously pointed glance at Réné de Montenay, whose eyes were on her sister.
Ange turned deadly pale, Réné flushed to the roots of his hair, Madame bit her lip, and Charles Leroux, who was listening at the door, took note of the bitter words, and next time he was angry with his brother flung them at him tauntingly. Mathieu neither forgot nor forgave them. After forty years his resentment still festered, and was to break at last into an open poison.
His trip to Paris had furnished him with the names and style of patriots whose measures could be trusted not to err on the side of leniency, and to one of these he wrote a hot denunciation of Ange Desaix and Aline Dangeau, whom he accused of being enemies to the Republic, and traitors to Liberty, inasmuch as they had assisted proscribed persons to emigrate. No greater crime existed. The denunciation did its work, and in a trice down came Commissioner Brutus Carré to set up his tribunal amongst the frightened villagers, and institute a little terror within the Terror at quiet Rancy-les-Bois.
The village buzzed like a startled hive, women bent white faces over their household tasks, men shuffled embarrassed feet at the inn, glancing suspiciously at one another, and all avoiding Mathieu’s hard black eyes. At the white house Commissioner Brutus Carré occupied Mlle Marthe’s sunny room, whilst Ange and Aline sat under lock and key, and heard wild oaths and viler songs defile the peaceful precincts.
Up at the mill, Madelon lay abed with her newborn son at her breast. Strange how the softness and the warmth of him stirred her heart, braced it, and gave her a courage which amazed Jean Jacques. She lay, a little pale, but quite composed, and fixed her round brown eyes upon her father’s scowling face. In the background Jean Jacques stood stolidly. He was quite ready to strangle Mathieu with those strong hands of his, but had sufficient wit to realise that such a proceeding would probably not help Madelon.
“They were here!” vociferated Mathieu loudly. “You took them in, you concealed them, you helped them to get away. You thought you had cheated me finely, you and that oaf who stands there; and you thought me a good, easy man, one who would cover your fault because you were his daughter. I tell you I am a patriot, I! If my daughter betrays the Republic shall I shield her? I say no, a thousand times no!”
Madelon’s clear gaze never wavered. Her arm held her baby tight, and if her heart beat heavily no one heard it except the child, who whimpered a little and put groping hands against her breast.
“Then you mean to denounce me?” she said quite low.
“Denounce you! Yes, you’re no daughter of mine! Every one shall know that you are a traitress.”
“And my baby?” asked Madelon.
Leroux cursed it aloud, and the child, frightened by the harsh voice, burst into a lusty wailing that took all its mother’s tender hushing to still.
When she looked at her father again there was something very bright and intent in her expression.
“Very well, my father,” she said; “it is understood that you denounce me. Do you perhaps suppose that I shall hold my tongue?”
“Say what you like, and be damned to you!” shouted Mathieu.
Jean Jacques clenched his hands and took a step forward, but his wife’s expression checked him.
“I may say what I like?” she observed.
“The more the better. Why, see here, Madelon, if you will give evidence against Ange Desaix and her niece, I’ll do my best to get you off.”
“Why, what has Mlle Ange to do with it?” said Madelon, open-eyed.
Leroux became speechless for a moment. Then he swore volubly, and cursed Madelon for a liar.
“A liar, and a damned fool!” he spluttered. “For now I’ll not lift a finger for you, my girl, and when you see the guillotine ready for you, perhaps you’ll wish you’d kept a civil tongue in your head.”
“Enough!” said Madelon sharply. “Let us understand each other. If you speak, I speak too. If you accuse me, I accuse you.”
“Accuse me, accuse me,—and of what?”
Madelon’s eyes flashed.
“You have a short memory,” she said; “others will not believe it is so short. When I say, as I shall say, that it was you that arranged Mlle Marguerite’s flight there will be plenty of people who will believe me.” She paused, panting a little, and Mathieu, white with passion, stared helplessly at her.
Jean Jacques, in the background, looked from one to the other, amazed to the point of wondering whether he were asleep or awake. Was this Madelon, who had been afraid of raising her voice in her father’s presence? And what was all this about Leroux and the escape? It was beyond him, but he opened ears and eyes to their widest.
“There is no proof!” shouted Mathieu.
“Ah, but yes,” said Madelon at once; “you forget that Mlle Marguerite gave you her diamond shoe-buckles as a reward for helping her and M. le Chevalier to get away.”
“Shoe-buckles!” exclaimed Mathieu Leroux, his eyes almost starting from his head.
“Yes, indeed, shoe-buckles with diamonds in them, fit for a princess; and they are hidden in your garden, my father, and when I tell the Commissioner that, and show him where they are buried, do you think that your patriotism will save you?”
“It is not true,” gasped Mathieu, putting one hand to his head, where the hair clung suddenly damp.
“Citizen Brutus Carré will believe it,” returned Madelon steadily.
“Hell-cat! She-devil! You would not dare——”
“Yes, I would dare. I will dare anything if you push me too far, but if you hold your tongue I will hold mine,” said Madelon, looking at him over her baby’s head. She laid her free arm across the child as she spoke, and Leroux saw truth and determination in her eyes.
Jean Jacques began to understand. Eh, but Madelon was clever. A smile came slowly into his broad face, and his hands unclenched. After all, there would be no strangling. It was much better so. Quarrels in families were a mistake. He conceived that the moment had arrived when he might usefully intervene.
“It is a mistake to quarrel,” he observed in his deep, slow voice.
Mathieu swung round, glaring, and Madelon closed her eyes for a moment. There was a slight pause, during which Jean Jacques met his father-in-law’s furious gaze with placidity.
Then he said again:
“Quarrels in families are a mistake. It is better to live peaceably. Madelon and I are quiet people.”
Leroux gave a short, enraged grunt, and looked again at his daughter. As he moved she opened her eyes, and he read in them an unchanged resolve.
“I don’t want to quarrel, I’m sure,” he said sulkily.
“We don’t,” observed Jean Jacques with simplicity.
“Then it is understood. Madelon will tell no lies about me?”
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br /> “I say nothing unless I am arrested. If that happens, I tell what I know.”
“But you know nothing,” exploded Leroux.
“The shoe-buckles,” said Madelon.
Leroux stared at her silently for a full minute. Then, with an angrily-muttered oath, he flung out of the room, shutting the door behind him with violence.
Jean Jacques stood scratching his head.
“Eh, Madelon,” he said, “you faced him grandly. But when did he get those shoe-buckles, and how did you know about them?”
Madelon began to laugh faintly, with catching breath.
“Oh, thou great stupid,” she panted; “did’st thou not understand? There never, never, never were any buckles at all, but he thought they were there in his garden, and it did just as well,” and with that she buried her face in the pillow and broke into passionate weeping.
Mathieu Leroux held his tongue about his daughter and walked softly for a day or two. Also he took much exercise in his garden, where he dug to the depth of three feet, but without finding anything.
Meanwhile Brutus Carré was occupied with the forms of republican justice. His prisoners were to be taken to Paris, since Justice lacked implements here, and Rancy owned no convenient stream where one might drown the accused in pairs, or sink them by the boat-load.
Ange Desaix faced him with a high look. If her ideals were tottering, their nobility still clung about her, wrapping her from this man’s rude gaze.
“I was a Republican before the Revolution,” she said, and her look drew from Citizen Carré an outburst of venom.
“You are suspect, gravely suspect,” he bellowed.
“But, Citizen—” and the frank gaze grew a little bewildered.
“But, Citoyenne!—but, Aristocrat! What! you answer me, you bandy words? Is treason so bold in Rancy-les-Bois? Truly it’s time the wasp’s nest was smoked out. Take her away!” and Mlle Ange went out, still with that bewildered look.
M. le Curé came next. There was a high flush on his thin cheeks, and his fingers laced and interlaced continually.
When Carré blustered at him he started, leaned forward, and tapped the table sharply.
“I wish to speak, to make a statement,” he said in a high, trembling voice.
There was a surprised silence, whilst the priest stretched out his hand and spoke as from the pulpit.
“My children, I have been as Judas amongst you, as Judas who betrayed his Lord. I desire to ask pardon of the souls I have offended, before I go to answer for my sin.”
Carré stared at him.
“Is he mad?” he asked, with a brutal laugh.
“No, not mad,” said M. le Curé quietly.
“Not that it matters having a crack in a head that’s so soon to come off,” continued the Commissioner. “Take him away. When I want to hear a sermon I’ll send for him”; and out went the curé.
On the road to Paris he was very quiet, sitting for the most part with his head in his hands. After they reached Paris, Mlle Ange and Aline saw him no more. No doubt he perished amongst the hundreds who died and left no sign. As for the women, they were sent to the Abbaye, and there waited for the end.
CHAPTER XXVIII
INMATES OF THE PRISON
IT WAS THE FIRST WEEK IN JULY, and heat fetid and airless brooded over the crowded prison. Mlle Ange drooped daily. To all consoling words she made but one reply—“C’est fini”—and at last Aline gave up all attempt at rousing her. After all, what did it matter since they were all upon the edge of death?
There were six people in the small, crowded cell, and they changed continually. No one ever returned, no one was ever released now.
Little Madame de Verdier, stumbling in half blind with tears, sat with them through one long night unsleeping. In her hand she held always the blotted, ill-spelled letter written at the scaffold’s foot by her only child, a lad of thirteen. In the morning she was fetched away, taking to her own death a lighter heart than she could have borne towards liberty. In her place came Jeanne Verdier, ex-mistress of Philippe Égalité, she who had leaned on the rail and laughed as the votes went up for the King’s death. Her laughing days were over now, tears blistered her raddled skin, and she wrung her hands continually and moaned for a priest. When the gaoler came for her, she reeled against him, fainting, and he had to catch her round the waist, and use a hard word before he could get her across the threshold. That evening the door opened, and an old man was pushed in.
“He is a hundred at least, so there need be no scandal,” said the gaoler with a wink, and indeed the old gentleman tottered to a corner and lay there peaceably enough, without so much as a word or look for his companions.
In a day or two, however, he revived. The heat which oppressed the others seemed to suit him, and after a while he even began to talk a little, throwing out mysterious hints of great powers, strange influences, and what not.
Mme de Labédoyère, inveterate chatterbox, was much interested.
“He is somebody,” she assured Aline, aside. “An astrologer, perhaps. Who knows? He may be able to tell the future.”
“I have no future,” said the melancholy Mme de Vieuxmesnil with a deep sigh. “No one can bring back the past, not even le bon Dieu Himself, and that is all I care for now.”
The little Labédoyère shrugged her plump shoulders, and old Mme de Breteuil struck into the conversation.
“He reminds me of some one,” she said, turning her bright dark eyes upon the old man’s face. He was leaning against the wall, dozing, his fine-cut features pallid with a clear yellowish pallor like dead ivory. As she looked his eyes opened, very blue, through the mist which age and drowsiness hung over them. He smiled a little and sat up, rubbing his thin hands slowly, as if they felt a chill even on that stifling afternoon.
“The ladies do me the honour of discussing me,” he said in his queer, level voice, from which all the living quality seemed to have drained away, leaving it steadily passionless.
“I was thinking I had seen you somewhere,” said Mme de Breteuil, “and perhaps if Monsieur were to tell me his name, I should remember.”
He smiled again.
“My name is Aristide,” he said, and seemed to be waiting for a sensation. The ladies looked at one another puzzled. Only Mme de Breteuil frowned a moment, and then clapped her hands.
“I have it—ah, Monsieur Aristide, it is so many years ago. I think we won’t say how many, but all Paris talked about you then. They called you the Sorcerer, and one’s priest scolded one soundly if one so much as mentioned your name.”
“Yes,” said the old man with a nod.
“Well, you have forgotten it, I daresay, but I came to see you then, I and my sister-in-law, Jeanne de Breteuil. In those days the future interested me enormously, but when I got into the room, and thought that perhaps I should see the devil, I was scared to death; and as to Jeanne, she pinched me black and blue. There was a pool of ink, and a child who saw pictures in it.”
“Oh, but how delightful,” exclaimed Julie de Labédoyère.
“Not at all, my dear, it was most alarming.”
“But what did he tell you?”
The old lady bridled a little.
“Oh, a number of things that would interest nobody now, though at the time they were extremely absorbing. But one thing you told me, Monsieur, and that was that I should die in a foreign land, and I assure you I find it a vastly consoling prophecy at present.”
“It is true,” said Aristide, fixing his blue eyes upon her.
“To be sure,” she continued, “you told Jeanne she would have three husbands, and a child by each of them, all of which came most punctually to pass; but, Monsieur, I fear now that Jeanne will have my prophecy as well as her own, since she had the sense to leave France two years ago when it was still possible, and I was foolish enough to stay here.”
The old man shook his head and leaned back again, closing his eyes.
“What is the future to us now?” said Mme de Vi
euxmesnil in a low voice. “It holds nothing.”
“Are you so sure?” asked Aristide, and she started, turning a little paler, but Mme de Labédoyère turned on him with vivacity.
“Oh, but can you really tell the future?” she asked.
“When there is a future to tell,” he said, stroking his white beard with a thin transparent hand, and his eyes rested curiously upon her as he spoke. Something in their expression made old Mme de Breteuil shiver a little.
“Even now he frightens me,” she whispered to Aline, but Julie de Labédoyère had clasped her hands.
“Oh, but how ravishing,” she exclaimed. “Tell us then, Monsieur, tell us all our futures. I am ready to die of dulness, and so I am sure are these ladies. It will really be a deed of charity if you will amuse us for an hour.”
“The future is not always amusing,” said Aristide with a slight chilly smile. “Also,” he added after a pause, “there is no child here. I need one to read the visions in the pool of ink.”
“The gaoler has a tribe of children,” said Mme de Labédoyère eagerly. “I have a little money. If I made him a present he would send us one.”
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