He was filled with the impulse to flee, blindly. But where could he flee? There was no refuge, no quiet and shadowless spot for him.
Overcome at last by his exhaustion of mind and body, he fell into a brief and uneasy slumber. Once he stirred, restlessly, and opened his eyes. Had he heard a scream? But that was only a nightmare. He turned in his bed and tried to sleep again.
Then all at once, he heard a faint roaring. The wind. He opened his eyes again. Now all his senses came fearfully awake. The roaring had increased. And above it was a prolonged screaming. There were several thunderous crashes. Now the moonlight was gone. Long streamers of red light devoured the ceiling of the chamber, and he smelled the sudden choking stench of smoke. He heard shouts and running in the corridor, the shrieking of oaths.
He sprang out of bed, fully aroused, pulling on his dressing gown over his nightshirt. He ran to the door, and wrenched it open. The corridor was empty now. The arches were full of red light and drifting smoke. Now the lower floor of the château was filled to bursting with teeming and twisting men and women, brandishing their fists, their sweating faces black and red in the flames that licked the frescoed walls, like faces out of hell. Out of their mouths poured screams and imprecations and mad howls. Many, in their excess of maddened rage, were hurling articles of delicate furniture and porcelain against the walls, smashing them, crushing the fragments under their feet. Others were tearing the draperies from the windows. Dozens of others, attempting to rush up the narrow stairway, had been caught in the crush, and they struggled and fought each other, and howled.
This was the sight that burst upon Paul’s incredulous and smarting eyes as he approached the head of the stairway. He stood, frozen, and gazed down upon the writhing, red-faced mob reeling and struggling in the smoke. When they saw him, a famished and demoniacal roar burst from their throats.
“There is the pig, the oppressor, the murderer, the liar and the heretic!” shrieked the women. They stretched up their hands to him, curved like claws, as if to seize and rend him.
Paul stood, unmoving, gazing down. His mind was reeling. He saw those familiar faces, now transformed into the faces of devils. He fell against the wall, gasping. The scene below swam before his vision: the flame-streaked walls, the billowing smoke, the scarlet faces, the clenched and flourishing fists. Heat choked him. The noise deafened him. It was a nightmare! It was a horror! He was dreaming! He heard the shouts and the howls, the snarling sounds from bursting and savage throats. He could not believe. His mind refused to accept this.
Some one brushed his elbow. He shook his dazed head and saw that Madame duPres stood at his elbow, her black hair streaming wildly over her shoulders. She was clad only in her long white silken shift, which glistened in the red and streaming light. Through its diaphanous substance her white and shapely flesh gleamed like marble through mist.
Distraught, beside herself with terror, she did not see Paul, or, if seeing him, she was hardly aware of him. She stood on the top step of the staircase and extended her arms imploring to the mob below, who, upon her appearance, momentarily halted, lifting their contorted and transformed faces up to her.
“No!” she screamed, incoherently. “It was not to be so! It was not promised me like this! Where is the priest? Where is Père de Pacilli! Why is he not here?”
She moved down a step or two, then, as the mob roared in regained fury and madness, she shrank back, precipitately sprang up the steps to Paul’s side. Her face was ghastly; her eyes glittered as she rolled them from side to side. She pressed her hands to her bosom.
“Where is the priest!” she shrieked. “Cattle, step aside, I must descend, escape! I was to be given time, you fiends! It was not to be so! Were you not told? It was I who assisted in this; it is I who am your friend, the friend of the priest! Let me descend, in the name of God, lest I perish!”
She extended her hands to them. Her black hair flew about her. Her white and twisted face glimmered in the red light. Paul fell back from her, pressing himself against the wall. He stared at her, as at a horrible apparition.
Now from the mob below came a prolonged howl of hideous laughter. The mouths of the women opened, like black and gaping caverns.
“It is the harlot!” they shrieked. “It is the mistress of the heretic! Kill the whore! Tear her to shreds!”
Foul epithets assaulted her. She shrank back, whimpering, covering her ears with her shaking hands. Her eyes rolled about, feverishly, desperately, seeking escape. At length they fell on Paul. Her hands dropped to her sides. The whimpering became a moan in her throat. “Save me!” she groaned, and groped her way to him with her hands extended.
He looked at her, and shuddered. Then he looked again at the faces he had loved, at the men and women he had succored, at the people to whom he had devoted himself in love and tenderness and mercy. Who could know his thoughts as he gazed down at them in such unmoving silence?
The woman clutched him, her hands gripping him feverishly, seizing his shoulders, his arms, his lifeless cold hands. He did not see or feel her. He only stood there and looked down the staircase. And now, there was no horror, no fear, no dread on his face. There was only a stony sadness, a long profound meditation.
Something in his aspect halted the plunging and maddened throng. They looked up at him, and fell silent. And in that silence the flames crackled and roared, leaping at the windows, stealing more hungrily along the walls, nibbling at the pillars.
Lord and peasants gazed at each other in that red and flickering light. The men, lowering, scratched themselves uneasily. The women snarled deeply in their throats. A restless and fetid stench rose from them, mingling with the acrid smoke. The men looked at the motionless and silent man above them. They saw his pale and glistening face. They saw his eyes.
It was those eyes, striking down into their mean and animal souls, which completely maddened them. Horror, remorse, frenzy and agony seized them, inspired them with sadistic murder. They knew only one thing: they must strike down that man. They must destroy those quiet eyes. They must stamp into obliteration that still face. They must do these things, for their own sakes. If they did not, that face, and those eyes, would haunt them forever, into the very depths of hell.
Maddened, terrified, they struggled again to ascend that staircase. Many shut their eyes. The women sobbed and groaned; the men cursed and panted. Now the clutching hands were less than two feet away. Paul could see the scarlet light glinting on staring and insane eyeballs.
Madame duPres had fallen to his feet. She was clutching his knees, pressing her head against his body. He looked down upon her. Then he stooped, swept her up into his arms and fled down the corridor. He reached his chamber. He dropped the woman, who fell in a heap on the floor. He locked the chamber door. Now, feverishly, he seized a chest, a cabinet, and thrust them in front of the door. He ran to the window. But there was no escape there, either. The grounds of the château glowed with torchlight.
The distant cross on the steeple glittered tranquilly in the moonlight. The dark trees nearby were rosy with fire. Then, on the fringe of the teeming and running men, Paul saw a face. It was the face of Crequy.
Paul was standing on the balcony, his figure outlined clearly against the white walls. He was bathed in flame. He looked at Crequy, standing motionless in the background, staring up at him. The eyes of the men met.
Crequy did not move. Gigantic, stolid, awkward and fat as always, the tavern-keeper stood motionless. But across the heads of the surging and shouting men, their eyes spoke to each other. One of Crequy’s hands rose, fell again to his side. But for a long moment they communed with each in the midst of that fire and death and violence.
Suddenly, Crequy was no longer there. Paul gazed over his estates. He saw a distant fire. A faint groan escaped him. He knew that that fire came from the home of François Grandjean.
He returned to the chamber. Madame duPres had lifted herself to her hands and knees. Her hair streamed over her. She raised her face to Paul
. And now these two stared at each other in silence.
Then, inch by inch, the woman crept on her knees to Paul. She dropped her head on his feet. “Forgive me,” she whispered.
He looked down upon her. And then, in the depths of his ingenuous and noble heart a human impulse stirred. His foot moved instinctively. But, in its very motion, savage and unrestrained towards that bent head and defenseless body, he arrested it. The woman had felt that lifted foot, that motion. She shrank for an instant, gathering her endurance together. Then she felt the impulse wane. She lifted her head; tears were streaming down her face. She rose to her knees, clasping her hands as though praying.
“I have betrayed you, Monsieur,” she whispered. “Kick me, strike me, kill me; it will not be too much.”
He gazed down at her in silence. Then he asked, quietly: “Why did you do this, Antoinette?”
“It was the priest,” she moaned.
Paul passed his hand over his face. When he dropped it, his expression had not changed. “It was so easy?” he said to himself. “So very easy? After all these years, it was so easy for a black priest to undo all that I have done?”
She clutched him about the knees, straining her body against him, weeping terribly. “So easy, Monsieur! It was nothing to do it!”
Wonder dawned like a frozen light in his staring eyes. His lips moved, but no sound came from them. He turned his head from side to side, in a motion of strangulation. Then he sighed, over and over. He looked down at the woman, and pity passed like a bright light over his face.
He lifted her to her feet. He held her to him. She wound her arms about his neck, her tears running down his shoulder, wetting his shirt. But he looked beyond her, sighing heavily. The sound pierced her to her vain, hard heart.
Now the mob had roared into the corridor, full of blood lust, screaming and howling. They assaulted the door of the chamber. It trembled and shook under their blows. The vilest epithets and threats could be heard, coming muffled through the wood. Paul looked at the door. It would not be long before it would go down before that furious assault, and then the ferocious mob would pour into this room, to do unspeakable things.
Paul gently lifted Madame duPres’ head from his shoulder. He took her wet face in his hands, and looked down into it penetratingly.
“In a moment they will break in, Antoinette. Shall they find us alive?”
She groaned; she shuddered. Then, she was silent. She looked back at him, and into those beautiful shallow eyes, streaming with tears, came a still and desperate light, but a light of supreme courage.
He put her aside, very gently. She did not move; she watched him as he went quietly to the table and lifted his sword. She saw its flash as he unsheathed it. Then, he picked up his pistol. He returned to her.
“There is only one bullet in this weapon, Antoinette. It must be for me. Have you courage? It will be a pang of but a moment.”
His voice was almost drowned out in the deafening roar that came from the corridor. The door was squealing on its hinges. In a moment it would burst open.
Paul lifted the sword, and pressed its point against the woman’s half naked breast. A drop of blood sprang up about that point. He looked into her eyes. She had not winced. But now she smiled, and half extended her hands to him, whispering one last request.
He leaned towards her slowly, his sword pressing forward. As it plunged into her heart, their lips met.
The door burst from its hinges. But as it did so, there was one loud report in the room.
When the sun rose in a scarlet dawn, it looked down upon the château de Vitry. It was completely gutted. Here and there a chimney, a fragment of smoke-stained white wall, gaped emptily at the sky, wisps of curling gray smoke still rising from them.
CHAPTER XLI
Crequy had never been known to have an intimate,or even the most casual of friends. The peasants had known always that he hated them. They hated him in return, but respected him. His tavern was popular, for he never cheated, and at times he was seized with a strange generosity which made him produce hams, sausages and other delicacies, and, with growls and curses, would invite his guests to partake of them without charge. No one had ever fathomed why he did this. On these rare occasions, the peasants would feel quite an affection for him.
No one had ever suspected that he loved the Comte de Vitry. The legend existed that he loathed him. The peasants, then under the guidance of the Abbé Lovelle, felt great wrath and indignation over this matter. Their anger was no way decreased by the fact that he drove away all young men who came to woo his pretty niece, Roselle. “One would believe he is preserving her for the Comte, if the Comte were a man such as his father,” they would grumble.
But the priest, de Pacilli, had guessed Crequy’s sullen secret. However, he did not consider it of importance enough to mention this to those whom he was seducing. In that, he made his cardinal error.
Another matter which Crequy kept secret was his slow and reluctant friendship for old François Grandjean. The friendship had not grown steadily. But it had grown. Cecile and Roselle became friends, also.
In order to conceal his “softness” in the matter of taking a friend, Crequy would visit Grandjean late at night, and they would sit for hours over a bottle of wine, Crequy arguing ferociously, Grandjean smiling gently, but persisting in his point of view. The friendship was a consolation to both. Grandjean had acquired no popularity with the peasants, in spite of his efforts. His simplicity of manner had not deceived them that he was one of them. However, they were inclined to look kindly upon him, because of the friendship the young Comte evidently had for him. But they were jealous.
The priest had done his work well with regard to François Grandjean. He had come to share in the suspicion and hatred heaped upon Paul de Vitry.
On this certain night, the young Cecile had been visiting at the home of her friend, Roselle, who had been suffering an indisposition for a few days. The young girls had been so engaged in pretty and vivacious conversation and laughter, and Crequy had so enjoyed this innocent diversion, scowling and grinning in his corner, that the hour was late before they all realized it. With great haste, therefore, just as the sonorous bell in the church tower was ringing eleven o’clock, Cecile had snatched up her cloak and caught up the empty basket which she had brought to this house filled with delicacies.
Crequy announced his intention of accompanying her to her home. The girl protested, declaring there was no danger. But Crequy obstinately insisted. “There are no animals in the street and the woods,” Cecile declared. “No, not fourlegged ones,” said Crequy, grimly.
The cottage of the Grandjeans was a considerable distance from the tavern, a walk of at least half an hour. The evening was fair and brilliant, and the shadows of the two, the great lowering giant and the slender young girl, writhed before them. The village apparently slept. The moon struck the high white walls of the distant château on its eminence in its gardens. The night had a holiness and a sweetness, and the two walked in silence.
But Crequy was not a peasant for nothing. As they approached the silent dark cottage of the Grandjeans, he suddenly caught the arm of the girl and halted her roughly, lifting his nose to sniff the air. “There is something strange,” he muttered.
Frightened, the girl paused, and looked about her. Before her, at the end of the cobbled street, her grandfather’s house slept in moonstriped silence. On each side, the square and solid stone houses slept also. Not a light was visible. A nightingale was singing in the massed trees that sheltered the houses.
“There is nothing,” she whispered, sniffing also, fearing fire. But the air was fresh and cool, heavy with sweet scents. Crequy shrugged, listened again. “Was that a sound, a voice?” he asked. His hand felt at his belt for the strong club he always carried there.
“And if it was, is that strange?” asked the girl, impatiently. “A child stirring, wakefully, a mother, a sick man—”
Crequy turned his head from side to side, like a
great bull, muttering to himself. Then, with an irritable grumble, he took the girl’s arm and led her to her grandfather’s cottage. Near the door, he stopped again. Had that been a rustle in the garden, among the bushes and the trees, a stealthy rustle like the sound of several men creeping? He left the girl at the gate and investigated. The garden slept in the moonlight; the tops of the trees were silver, the paths were rimmed with silver, the roof of the house was plated with silver, the tree trunks were outlined with ghostly silver. And here and there a leaf, stirring darkly in the faint wind, suddenly turned to an ovoid of silver.
Shaking his head uneasily, Crequy returned to the gate, where Cecile, her lips compressed in an impatient smile, waited, tapping one foot.
“Go in,” he ordered her. “I shall wait here until the door has closed.”
She laughed a little, gently. “My grandfather sleeps; we must not disturb him.” She rose on tiptoe and kissed his scarred cheek affectionately. He was touched at this, sheepishly. But he remained at the gate until she had opened the door, and had waved to him archly. The door closed behind her.
He stood there a moment or two in the moonlight, then returned the way he had come. But he could not rid himself of the sensation that he was being watched by many stealthy eyes.
He walked swiftly, with his sidling lumbering gait, for some five minutes. Then he paused suddenly, lifting his head again. There was a thin acrid stench in the air. He swung about swiftly. A dim rosy glow was leaping towards the sky. He began to run quickly back to the Grandjean cottage. It was a nightmare journey, his shadow leaping about him on the cobbled street. Nothing stirred or moved, but that rosy glow deepened.
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