The Arm and the Darkness

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  He gazed about the green countryside with great satisfaction. He sniffed deeply of the warm fresh air, permeated with hundreds of scents. His eye was keener than ever before. When they passed through village hamlets and saw the wattled huts of the miserable peasantry, the dead stupefied faces of the people, the misery and dirt in which they lived even among these vineyards and fields, the lightness of his heart passed away and he was filled with a vague and guilty distress. He had seen these sights for many years. His father’s own estates were similar. Yet, never had they affected him as they did now. He perceived that Paul was gazing also, and that his face was both angry and sad. It appeared to him that Paul lingered unnecessarily long in these localities, as if he silently wished Arsène to see all that was to be seen.

  At noon, they arrived at Chantilly. They left the town, plunged again into the bright countryside. At length they arrived at Paul’s estates.

  Immediately Arsène perceived the contrast between these estates and those others with which he was familiar. Here he saw no wattled huts, but only good small stone houses set in private and blazing gardens. The cobbled paths were clean and bare, free of rubbish. There was a fountain in a small open square, where men and horses could refresh themselves in the heat of the sun. Pigeons flew over the statue of a little naked boy who poured the water from a large stone jug into the granite basin. Children and geese mingled in happy confusion together around the fountain, and the children caught handfuls of the water and threw it into the air and watched its sparkling with cries of pleasure.

  Women stood in doorways with infants in their arms. At the sight of Paul, they curtsied, following him with faces bright with adoration. Children trailed respectfully in their rear, as they might trail a saint. When he threw them handfuls of coppers, and small silver pieces, they scrambled about, screaming, like agitated pigeons. There was no condescension in his gestures or his smiles, no contempt. He regarded them all with a beaming face of affection and understanding.

  Arsène saw that they were approaching a tavern with the sign of a goat swinging in the breeze against the vivid blue sky. A groom came to take their horses, and when the man saw Paul, he bowed almost to the ground and gazed at his lord with passionate devotion. They entered the cool dimness of the little tavern and perceived a huge bald giant squatting behind his counter. He did not rise nor come forward when they entered, but his great fleshy underlip thrust itself outwards as if in profound contempt, and his great gleaming forehead wrinkled above his protruding brown eyes.

  “Ah, Crequy,” said Paul, affectionately.

  The man did not move or answer. Arsène was filled with rage at this insolence, and regarded the man with incredulous anger. As if feeling that eye upon him, the giant turned his enormous face in Arsène’s direction, and he stared, without a change of expression.

  Paul sat down at a little bare table where the Duc de Tremblant and his companions had sat only a few hours ago. He knew that they were sleeping upstairs, but he gave no sign. The giant detached himself, muttering, from his stool, and with a slow and heavy step, approached the table. Then, only, for an instant, his eyes met Paul’s and some secret message passed between them. Paul smiled, appeared satisfied, and in a voice of much good nature ordered wine.

  The two friends drank. Paul considered. Should he tell Arsène that his beloved Duc was sleeping upstairs, and allow a few moments’ happy reunion and exchange of greetings? It would give Arsène pleasure, but it would also weary the Duc who must resume his journey at nightfall, for he dared travel only by night. Paul decided to say nothing.

  After serving a very good wine, the giant retired behind his counter again and resumed his ferocious scowling. His brow wrinkled with his contemptuous thoughts as he stared at Paul. But now Arsène perceived that in spite of all this frightful grimacing, there was some reflective sadness and softness in those piglike brown eyes, which Crequy tried to conceal with even more formidable scowlings and pursing of lips.

  The cleanness and quiet of the little tavern raised Arsène’s spirits even higher. Through the open door he could see the distant fountain and the children, and could hear the laughing voices of women. For some strange reason content filled him, as if all his friends were gathered together under this one roof.

  “All are well, Crequy?” asked Paul, turning again to the host, who was still staring at him as if hypnotized.

  The man stirred, threw up an enormous hand scornfully, and grunted. At last he spoke, in a rumbling and rusty voice:

  “Feed canaille, pamper them, regard them as human beings, and they will be well enough,” he said, with deliberate contempt

  Paul took no offense. He appeared accustomed to this insolence. He laughed. He turned to Arsène.

  “Here is no lover of his species, mine host,” he said. “Crequy would prefer I appoint him steward and whip the poor wretches to the fields. It is an old quarrel between us.”

  The man struck the counter so violently, yet so ponderously, with his great fist, that all the pewter cups danced upon it. His eyes blazed with malevolence and rage.

  He shouted: “An old quarrel, yes, Monsieur le Comte! And a just one! Do I not know these swine! Do I not know how they will repay Monsieur? Ah, have I not warned, until I am sick of the warning? But it is not enough for Monsieur. He will not listen, will not hearken to the voice of understanding!”

  He snorted. He deliberately leaned across the counter and spat. Arsène stared, actually popeyed at this display of incredible insolence and freedom. He could not believe that Paul would endure it. But Paul only threw back his head and laughed. The laughter infuriated Crequy, who came from behind his counter, breathing flame. He pointed an enormous and shaking finger at Paul.

  “I have warned Monsieur! I shall warn no more!”

  Arsène was dumfounded. A red anger against Paul filled him. Had he no pride? Why did he not draw his sword and murder this vile wretch instantly? He could not believe his ears; he could not believe that the great lord of these estates might permit, even for an instant, this astounding insolence and threatening attitude from one who was only a serf, a wretch, a rascal and a vagabond.

  But Paul, it seemed, was only amused. He caught the gigantic finger pointing almost in his face, and shook it back and forth with gentle affection, as a child might shake the paw of a growling mastiff, whom it trusts and loves.

  And then Arsène saw an astonishing thing. The man no longer shouted or growled. He was silent. He still scowled with more ferocity than ever, and his huge bald forehead was frightfully wrinkled. But those starting eyes were filled with, tears. He stood there, while Paul slowly and gently shook his finger, and he gazed down at the young Comte with such yearning, such sadness, that Arsène was more amazed than ever. He saw that the immense thick mouth was trembling.

  Paul still held that finger, but he spoke to the blinking Arsène:

  “Crequy had a tavern in Paris. He came to Chantilly at my own request, and opened this tavern, which was formerly in a filthy condition. I knew him in Paris. I thought that here he would come to a better understanding of his fellows, whom he frankly hates. I shall not always be disappointed!”

  The man tore his finger away, and lumbered back to his counter. His great face had resumed its expression of evil and unremitting hatred.

  “I have told Monsieur that there is no changing the hearts of men!” he shouted. “I have told him how they will repay him, with betrayal, hatred and wickedness! But now I say no more! But let Monsieur not believe for an instant that I will receive him with grief and consolations when he has discovered that I am right, and he is wrong!”

  Now he looked at Arsène, and his brows drew down over his eyes. He addressed the gaping young man, pointing at him:

  “If Monsieur is a true friend of the Comte’s, let him add his warning to mine, before it is too late! Let him tell Monsieur le Comte in what danger he stands from this unspeakable filth, which flatters him now with its fawning. But some day it will show him its teeth, and
that will be the end of Monsieur le Comte! Hah!” and he grinned malignantly. “I await the day!”

  In spite of his anger and astonishment, Arsène felt a faint stirring of embarrassed sympathy for the giant, for he had seen those brief tears and the trembling lips. He felt himself, however, in a mad world, where servants address masters with contempt and insolence, and masters only laugh. He still could not believe it.

  Paul was laughing again, with unaffected good nature, throwing back his cropped head with its dark curling hair.

  “Crequy believes my peasants should cringe and cower before me, that they should never dare look me in the face, that they should be beaten and enslaved, that I should use my power of life and death over them,” he said. “In short, he heartily approves of the measures of my colleagues. And this, in spite of the misery, starvation and despair which he saw in Paris. I have long discovered that it is the miserable who most despises the miserable, the man of the gutters who hates the inhabitants of the gutters, the slave who once felt the whip on his own shoulders who advocates the whips on the shoulders of his fellows. Is it not a paradox?”

  “Not a paradox!” screamed the giant, striking the counter again, in a transport of fury. Arsène saw that he had no little intelligence of his own. “What can Monsieur le Comte know of these beasts? Only a hog who grunted and snuffed with them can comprehend them. Do I not know them? Have I not slept with them, and wallowed with them? Who can know them better than I?”

  Paul shook his head, smiling. “Ah, but you have a good heart, my poor Crequy. I have not lost faith in you, yet. Are not my people happy and content, sharing in the fruits of their labors? Do they not sing, rather than weep, at their work? Is that not enough for you?”

  “I know their black hearts!” screamed Crequy.

  They went out again into the sunlight. The host did not accompany them to the door. But a young rosy girl eyed them shyly from a doorway in the yard, and Paul beckoned to her with a sweet smile. Blushing, and with bowed head, she curtsied deeply before him. He laid his hand on her head and turned to Arsène.

  “This is the bear’s little niece,” he said. He touched her pink cheek with his finger. “Everything is well with you, my little Roselle?”

  Again she curtsied, and gazed timidly at him with adoration. Paul thought, for a brief instant, of the first moment he had seen her, a filthy starveling in her uncle’s arm. Now she was all rosiness and sweetness, in her white apron and white cap. He sighed a little. When he and Arsène had mounted their horses again, the girl stared after them. Then she threw her apron over her face and burst into silent tears and sobs.

  Crequy saw this from his counter. Groaning under his breath, he heaved his immense bulk from behind the counter, and waddled to the yard. He gathered the girl in his mighty arms with the tenderness of a mother, and pressed her head to his breast.

  “Alas,” he murmured. “Do not weep, ma cherie. There may come a day when it will be necessary for thee to comfort him.”

  Paul and Arsène proceeded to the beautiful white château which lay at a distance in a veritable forest of roses and brilliant blooms and great plane trees. Here in the garden was a dark blue pool spanned by a white marble bridge. Silvery swans floated on the surface of the water, which was spangled with jeweled water-lilies. Birds brightened the air with the passage of their wings, and filled its warmth with their songs. Youths and old men worked lovingly in these gardens. When they saw Paul their faces lighted as though by beams of light, and they crept about him as though longing to touch him. He spoke to them with interest and affection, inquiring about the family of each.

  Arsène could see the distant emerald fields of grain, the vineyards, the rosy hills and the passionate blue sky of France. Here there was nothing but peace, good will and love. He saw the small white stone houses in the valley, and nestling at the foot of the hills, and even as he breathed of the scents of earth and flower he could hear the sweet chiming of the bells in the little but exquisite chapel in the left near distance. The cross glittered in the sunlight. He saw two black figures near the portals, one old and one fairly young, and they appeared to be in grave conversation. At moments, the old priest lifted his head with a slow and tranquil movement, and surveyed the peasants working in field and vineyard, driving their horses with vigor, and singing in the fresh and shining silence.

  Arsène had never visited Paul’s estates before. Again, he was filled with guilt. How different was this place to his father’s estates, where the peasants dared not lift their heads, where they pursued their endless work with hopeless faces and ragged bodies! It shall be different, he vowed to himself. Ah, how easy it was to live in love and tranquillity, not surrounded by hatred, but knowing only the devotion of humble folk.

  The interior of the château was simple but beautiful, and filled with a cool green light. Arsène saw stately rooms, gracefully furnished in the best of austere taste. He saw the gleam of polished silver candelabra, the glisten of mirrored floors, the lustrous folds of rich draperies at the tall windows. Every table, every mantelpiece, every tabouret, held vases of glowing flowers. The same peace and content dwelt here.

  “We shall dine,” said Paul, as an old lackey divested them of their cloaks and hats. He smiled at Arsène, and it seemed to the latter that a light broke from that gentle countenance. After they had bathed, they entered the dim and lofty dining room. A lady was waiting for them, in a flowing gown of white silk, the bodice caught with a nosegay of crimson roses, which were no more colorful than her lips.

  It was Madame duPres, and Arsène was conscious again of his old contemptuous dislike for this beautiful young woman with the large dark eyes and secret expression. After Paul had kissed her hand, she extended it to Arsène, with a lowering of her long black lashes and a swift gleam between them. He bowed over the hand, but did not touch it to his lips. He was extremely annoyed and ill-at-ease. He had thought the woman immured in Paul’s small hôtel in Paris, and had not expected to find her here.

  He became silent. Paul was dismayed at this, not knowing the cause in his innocence. But Madame duPres was not so naïve. Her mouth, so like a rich dark plum, smiled secretly. She was more gracious than ever to her lover’s guest, more affectionate and attentive to Paul. Her smile grew more irrepressible.

  If Paul was not entirely enslaved by her, he was kind and thoughtful. She began to complain of the insolence of the servants, which seemed to distress him.

  “Ah, they cannot be insolent!” he exclaimed, with an imploring glance at her bewitching face. “But they are free men now, and give their services voluntarily, without compulsion and without fear. The attitude of slaves must necessarily not be that of liberated men, my love.”

  She tossed her head and pouted. “They answer my calls when it pleases them, Monsieur. When I reprimand them, they reply to me with impudent spirit. Is it possible that they believe I am nothing, and that I must suffer their insults in silence?”

  He was increasingly distressed. “My dear Antoinette, you are overly sensitive. Morbleu! It cannot be so bad as you say. But if it will please you, I shall discuss the matter with them.”

  She gazed at him with open disdain, and bridled her head with so cavalier a manner that Arsène felt his heart burn with hatred for her.

  “Monsieur, I truly believe you are afraid of this cattle!” she exclaimed, with a musical laugh, and a light mocking gesture.

  Paul bit his lip. He seemed more sorrowful than exasperated. They pursued the rest of the meal in a pained silence. At length Arsène was so sorry for his host that he forced himself to converse inconsequentially, for which Paul appeared touchingly grateful.

  Madame pleaded indisposition after the dinner, and retired to her apartments, after casting Arsène a provocative and artful glance full of merriment and seduction. He appraised her in his mind with no complimentary epithets, and left the château with his host. Here their horses awaited them, and they rode down to the fields and the vineyards in a sunlit air that was like s
piced and heated wine.

  As if the love which Paul felt for all living things had extended itself to the very earth, everything bloomed and flourished here beyond belief. He saw the welcoming affection on the faces of the laborers. They sat under the thick purple shade of a tree and drank water cold and sparkling from a well. Delight shone in Paul’s eyes, and a bottomless peace and satisfaction. His short dark curls stirred in the warm breeze. He gazed about him as though at a spectacle forever new and fresh to him.

  “I must soon return,” said Arsène, reluctantly. “You have not forgotten that tomorrow is my wedding day? Moreover, I am still wounded that you are not to attend, Paul.”

  “Forgive me,” implored Paul, taking his friend’s hand, and pleading with all his sweet expression. “You know my love for you, and my devotion. But it is not possible. I must remain here until the Duc returns, as you know. Too, there are many things that need my attention.”

  Arsène laughed. “You mean that you cannot endure Paris, you hypocrite! Ah, do not distress yourself, mon cher. I forgive you. Remain with your charming lady, and your beloved estates. I am not offended.”

  They rose and moved slowly down to the chapel near the mouth of the valley. Two old women knelt at their prayers in the twilit gloom, lightened only by the glowing brilliance of the exquisite stained windows, and the ruby light at the altar.

  Arsène thought that not even Notre Dame was so incredibly beautiful as this small church. Paul had poured treasures into it, so that it lacked nothing. The cloths on the side altars were of the purest white linen, dripping with delicate lace. The statues were wrought by a master hand, the floor paved with blocks of alternate white and black marble. The pillars that soared to the groined roof were also of the snowiest marble, as was the little pulpit. Immense vases of flowers stood at the altar, filling the cool dim air with an overpowering scent. All the concentrated peace of the countryside seemed gathered here in this white and jeweled loveliness, this sacred silence.