The Arm and the Darkness

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Before Arsène could speak again, Paul whispered: “There is one with me, near the servants’ entrance. Send for him.”

  Arsène beckoned across the long shining floors to his lackey, who was poised on the threshold. Pierre came immediately, but his anxious peasant’s eyes fixed themselves upon Paul, whom he adored, and from whom he was also accustomed to take orders as the leader of Les Blanches.

  Paul whispered a word in his ear, and Pierre fled like a bullet in obedience. Then Paul turned to Arsène, and, in spite of his grief, he tried to smile. “Ah, it is excellent to see you once more, mon cher,” he said, in his kind and gentle voice, but mechanically, now.

  Arsène, dreading the divulgence of the news for some reason, asked: “You received my message, Paul? Then, why are you here?”

  Paul was surprised. “What message? I received no message.”

  Arsène took him by the arm, urgently, his eyes glittering. “Then, it is true, what I suspected! The message was destroyed! And you have returned to Paris!”

  Before Paul could reply, Pierre appeared with a tall middle-aged man, wrapped closely in a cloak despite the heat of the day, his dusty hat pulled over his brows. He had a pale lean countenance, its pallor heightened by fierce black mustaches and black restless eyes. He appeared like a man who had ridden long, pursued by furies of despair. Arsène had never seen him before. He stared at him, frowning, even when Paul took his hand and led him aside, urgently. Now the tears ran down Paul’s cheeks, and Arsène, unable to contain himself, exclaimed: “It is the Duc—!”

  “Hush!” whispered Paul. He glanced at Pierre, and then at the stranger. “It is true. It is the Duc. His body, and the bodies of his companions, have been discovered. In a pit. Near St. Omer.”

  After a moment of horrible and spinning shock, Arsène cried out, despairingly: “It is impossible! I do not believe it! Who would dare assault the Duc de Tremblant!”

  He seized Paul by the shoulders, shook him in agony. “It is not true! If he had been found—so—I should have heard. Madame de Tremblant informed me only this morning that there has been no news!”

  “Listen to me,” said Paul, quietly, holding his friend with his wet but stern eyes. “It is true. Madame has not yet been informed, for the news has only now reached Paris. But I heard it last night, by special messenger. Moreover, this gentleman has brought me a full account,” and he indicated the stranger.

  The stranger bowed his head. He clasped his hands together in a paroxysm of anguish.

  “The news which has now reached Paris is that the Duc and his companions were attacked by highwaymen. Their pockets and pouches were rifled, to give credence to this rumor. This is the news which will be accepted by every one. But it is not true, Arsène.” Paul spoke in a dull and stricken voice.

  He turned to the stranger. “Speak, Monsieur,” he said.

  Arsène, in his torment of sorrow and bewilderment, regarded the stranger fiercely. The latter began to speak, somberly, yet faintly:

  “I am Eduard de Brisson, of Sedan, Monsieur. I am second in command of the guards of Monsieur le Duc de Bouillon.”

  Arsène’s dry lips parted, but no sound came from them. He did not feel Paul’s restraining hand on his arm.

  De Brisson sighed, and passed his hand over his eyes.

  “Monsieur le Duc called me to him. I must diverse, Messieurs, at this point, to explain that I frequently accompanied the Duc upon his excursions, such as that which occurred upon the evening when you two gentlemen were present at the home of Monsieur le Duc de Rohan for a certain discussion. So it was that I knew Monsieur le Comte de Vitry, and you, Monsieur de Richepin.”

  He paused. Arsène advanced upon him. “Proceed!” he cried out, menacingly. But the stranger did not retreat. He regarded the young man with a haggard look.

  “Monsieur le Duc trusted me, as he trusted few others. I was his orderly at Pluvenal’s Academy. I rode with him on every adventure. I, too, am a Huguenot. I am not playing the traitor because I came to Monsieur le Comte. It is the Duc who has betrayed all of us.”

  “Fool! Go on!” exclaimed Arsène, his face darkening and becoming contorted.

  “Patience,” urged Paul.

  De Brisson sighed again, from his heart, and he wept openly.

  “On a certain recent night, the Duc called me to him and said: ‘De Brisson, I have a mission for you. La Rochelle is to be attacked; Sedan is to be attacked. Our hope lies in our English Protestant friends, in the Duc de Buckingham. Messengers have gone to implore his immediate aid, lest we all perish at the hands of the bloody Church of Rome. But in a night or two messengers are to ride to Amiens, and thence to take passage to England. These messengers are from a certain lady—’” he paused, his voice dwindling in his throat. “‘These messengers,’” he resumed, after a moment, “‘carry importunities from this lady to de Buckingham, commanding him not to aid us. He is a weak and amorous man, and will obey her, for she promises everything. They must not reach their destination. If they do, we shall all die, and Protestantism is lost in France forever.’”

  He clasped his hands feverishly together, and his eyes were wild. “The Duc spoke to eager ears when he spoke to me, Messieurs. For my father and my mother were killed in La Rochelle, murdered in their helplessness, by the demonic servants of Rome. Comprehend, then, how deep is my hatred, and my desire for vengeance. When the Duc spoke so to me, he knew how willingly I Would obey. I gathered a few chosen men about me, and the Duc gave me full instructions on a certain night. He had taken us, himself, to St. Omer, and we were to ride out—”

  “No! No! It is madness! I do not believe it!” cried Arsène, turning wildly to his friend. But Paul regarded him with desperate sternness, and indicated by a motion of his head that he must listen to de Brisson, who was weeping without restraint.

  “At St. Omer,” continued de Brisson, in stifled and trembling tones, “we were joined by a dozen strange men. The Duc indicated they were hired assassins. He urged upon me that we must not speak to these men more than necessary, in order that our identity be hidden. I was to lead them.”

  Arsène listened like one in a dream to the dread story of waylaying and murdering. De Brisson’s voice came to him as from a far and hideous distance. He shuddered, felt himself about to swoon, at the relentless account. Cold paralysis held his body.

  “I did not see the faces of the Duc de Tremblant and his companions,” said de Brisson, and now his voice was a hoarse whisper. “It was not until they were dead, and one of the assassins kicked him in the face and exclaimed: ‘Huguenot swine!’ that the first frightful premonition struck me. Then, by the light of the torch which I held close to the face of the Duc, I recognized him.”

  He could not continue for a moment, then went on almost inaudibly: “None of my friends had heard that exclamation but me. I, too, could hardly believe it, Messieurs. But, after the Duc and his companions had been thrown into a pit and buried, I questioned the man who had so revealingly exclaimed aloud, hoping and praying in my heart that what I had heard had been a delusion of my own ears.”

  Now he stopped completely, and wrung his hands in agony.

  “I seized a moment, Messieurs, to question the speaker, a rough and ferocious adventurer, who had begun to speak to his own companions about the lavish reward they were to receive for this night’s evil work. He was free in his answer. He did not know the identity of the Duc de Bouillon, to whom he had been sent by one whom he would not name. However, he believed the Duc to be a Catholic noble, sent on the King’s and Cardinal’s business. He had been told that the Duc de Tremblant and his companions were Huguenot plotters against the King and the Cardinal, and that it was their wish that they be destroyed.”

  He implored the two young men with his streaming eyes: “You cannot comprehend, Messieurs, how stricken I was at this news. I dared not tell my friends, lest they fall upon these wicked men and murder them at once. I feared for their lives. I had led them on this frightful adventure, and they had
come in stern Huguenot faith. And now they had killed their best friend, and his innocent entourage. My task was hard enough to restrain their indignation and astonishment when they saw the brigands rifle the pockets and pouches of the slain gentlemen.”

  Arsène groaned, and covered his face with his hands. He hardly felt Paul lead him to a shrouded chair and gently help him to sit down. Anguish, rage, grief and despair tore at his heart. He groaned over and over, not hearing Paul’s urgent murmuring in his ear. When he finally looked up, he saw that Paul and he were alone. Paul was kneeling beside him, overcome with compassion and his own sorrow. Arsène allowed his head to drop on his friend’s shoulder, and he wept aloud.

  At last he cried out in a desperate and changed voice: “We must have vengeance! The Duc must be avenged!”

  “Yes,” said Paul, in a strange but quiet tone: “He must be avenged. That is what we must consider. But more than that, we must consider what we, ourselves, must do. The hour is late. The enemies are dread and determined. La Rochelle is to be attacked almost immediately. I have already dispatched a messenger to the Duc de Rohan in La Rochelle, acquainting him with these facts, and the death of our dear Duc de Tremblant. Within a few days, we, ourselves, must go to La Rochelle, to aid our friends.”

  He stood up. His gentle face was grim, and very still. He looked into space and spoke as if to himself:

  “I do not understand. I thought in every man was loyalty to one single unselfish thing. I thought that in every man, no matter how base, there lingers some pure decency, some devotion, some integrity. But in the Duc de Bouillon there exists none of these things. If he is one like this, how many more are there in the world?”

  He sighed, over and over, as though his heart were breaking with grief.

  “If he, a Huguenot, powerful and determined, can be a traitor, who is there to trust? If he can murder a friend, out of inexplicable reasons, how dare a man go forth freely, unsuspecting treachery?”

  But Arsène thought all this mere maunderings. His more volatile and fierce nature saw things more clearly and sharply. It was enough for him that the Duc de Tremblant had been done to death by the Duc de Bouillon. That was a simple fact. He cared nothing for obscure reasons. The fact remained, and must be avenged.

  He forgot his grief in his lust for vengeance. His thoughts crowded close together, as the tears dried on his cheeks. His face became narrow and cunning with his plottings. He spoke half aloud:

  “The Cardinal hates de Bouillon. He loved de Tremblant. Remembering many things, I recall that he must have known that de Tremblant was to take this journey, and wished to save him from it. I recall his importunities, his clinging to de Tremblant on the night of the ball. He will have a double opportunity now, to avenge his friend’s death, and destroy de Bouillon. I shall go to him immediately.”

  Paul had listened to this in silence. He seemed preoccupied with his own mournful thoughts.

  Arsène rose. He was imbued with inexorable determination. There was a fierce smile on his lips.

  “Wait,” said Paul, placing his hand on his friend’s arm.

  He moved away from Arsène, and put his hands over his face. Arsène began to speak impatiently, imbued as he was with his single-hearted desire for blood and vengeance, but something in his friend’s attitude arrested him. When Paul removed his hands, after a long interval, his countenance was sick and stricken, and tragedy was dark in his eyes.

  “Am I a fool?” he asked, with sudden and singular passion. “Have I dreamt a dream of the inherent goodness and decency of men? Am I mistaken? Have I lived in roseate mists that have no substance? And if so, how can I endure living? How can I exist, if I finally believe that all men are evil, scoundrels, murderers, traitors, avaricious?” He seized Arsène by the arms and shook him in a kind of tragic hysteria. “Arsène, I tell you I cannot live in such a world of men!”

  Alarmed, Arsène sought to find words, but none came to his mind that were not cynical. He could not endure the imploring wildness of his poor friend’s expression. He said at last: “Why are you so extreme, Paul? Why cannot you realize that most men are neither good nor evil? That is your tragedy, that you believe in pure goodness.”

  “You are killing my heart,” whispered Paul, through dry white lips, and his eyes were the eyes of the dying, pleading for one last hope.

  Mingled with his grief for Paul, and his love, was a thrill of impatience in Arsène. “Paul, you are unwise! At this moment I can assure you that I know nothing that would induce me to betray you. But how can I foresee the future? Before his foul murder of Tremblant, perhaps de Bouillon might have believed that treachery was beyond him. Man must always be the victim of circumstances. But you, my dear visionary, would have men superior to circumstance. You are one of the few who have this inexplicable capacity. Perhaps. But who knows? Reconcile yourself to the modifying aspects of reality—”

  “I cannot live,” repeated Paul, and passed his hand over his face as if to wipe away webs of agony.

  “Jesus did not expect too much of men,” urged Arsène, marvelling at the strange inspirations which came to his mind, which he knew contained little subtlety. “Are you not egotistic in expecting more than He demanded?”

  “Is this new world I see in truth reality?” asked Paul, faintly.

  “Let us work within the framework of this reality,” replied Arsène, even more urgently, dismayed at the pallor of his friend. “Let us do what we can. Who knows but what we shall help bring into being a greater and a better world? Would you change it overnight, you impatient man?”

  “Who can I trust?” said Paul, in dying tones.

  “Trust me, to the extent of the frailties of which I am made,” said Arsène, almost weeping. “Do not expect too much of me. I shall do what I can. Make allowances for my humanity, and for the humanity of others. I am no angel, but neither, please God, am I a devil. But perhaps the hour will come that I shall be a devil. Remember then, that I have shown the capacities, in the past, of a man.”

  At this, Paul smiled with pale sadness. Arsène knew that never again would his friend be happy, and what he did henceforth he would do with his mind and not with his heart. Some pure and exalted virtue had left him. Some desperate weariness had come to live with him forever.

  At this moment Arsène perceived a figure on the distant threshold. It was Louis, majestic in his black robes, the faint light throwing a nimbus about his bright high head.

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  Because of the dimness of the light in the shrouded drawing-rooms, and his own somewhat defective sight, Louis de Richepin was momentarily unaware of the identity of Paul de Vitry, and advanced into the room with his stately tread, looking piercingly at his brother.

  “I have heard of your return, Arsène,” he said, in his cold voice, “and I have come to welcome you and Madame to your home.”

  But he had now become aware that the figure near his brother was not female in the least, and certainly not Madame de Richepin. Moreover, he now recognized the young Comte, for whom he had the greatest hatred and enmity. They met but rarely in Paris, and on these occasions Louis demonstrated his aversion and his fanatical detestation for his brother’s friend without subtlety or the faintest politeness, much to the amusement of spectators. Paul, on his part, betrayed only a faint distress, uneasiness or embarrassment, and usually withdrew gracefully from the proximity of one who was so inimical to him.

  Louis paused abruptly in his advance into the room, and there was something ludicrous in his start of recognition, his paleness, the baleful gleam in his eye as it fixed itself upon Paul. The latter might have been a gargoyle, a malefactor, a traitor, a murderer, and would have elicited from Louis no greater manifestation of loathing, rage and hatred.

  Arsène, overwhelmed with his own emotions, could only regard his brother with the wildest impatience because of the interruption of his unwelcome presence. He replied hastily and impatiently to Louis’ remark, and indicated in every way that he wished his brother
to withdraw again. But Louis, breathing harshly through distended nostrils, had no such intention. He ignored Arsène, and seemed aware only of the Comte.

  “Is it necessary for you to invade this house on the day of my brother’s return to his family, Monsieur?” he asked.

  “Go away, and leave us!” exclaimed Arsène, too excited to take offense. “Can you not perceive that we are engaged in matters of importance?”

  But Louis ignored him. He said, in a stifled voice: “I must ask you to withdraw at once from my father’s house, Monsieur le Comte.”

  Paul, for all his kindness and gentleness of nature, was not entirely saintly. The quick and haughty blood of his forebears suddenly flamed in his face, and it became stern and forbidding at these enormous insults. His hand, slow to the sword, more accustomed to stretching forth in friendship, reached for the hilt at his thigh, and grasped it.

  “Monseigneur,” he replied, slowly and quietly, “I have not asked your permission to visit my friend, nor shall I heed your discourtesy nor your vulgar words and manners. Arsène has requested that you withdraw. I pray that you will honor his request, for we have matters of import to discuss.”

  For all the quietness of his voice, there was an undertone of cold contempt in it, and a sparkle began to grow in his gray eyes.

  Arsène, of the mind which could heed only one thing at a time, suddenly became aware of what was transpiring between Paul and Louis, and he became enraged. While he fumbled for words appropriately devastating, Louis, still ignoring him, regarded the Comte with growing fury.

  “The matters of import to which you refer, Monsieur le Comte, are matters of treason, disorder, blasphemy and revolt. You have brought nothing but ill, disunity, quarrelsomeness and danger to this house. You have divided a family, placed one of its members in peril, and created unhappiness and uneasiness between a father and his son. I am a priest, but beware that I do not forget my orders and take summary action against you.”