Without a knock the door burst open. A rush of music from the orchestra came in. Yvonne thought ``So they have begun at last!’’ The same moment she rose with a faint, heartsick cry. Her sister closed the door and fastened it, shutting out all sound but that of her terrible voice. Yvonne blanched as she looked on that malignant face. With a sudden faintness she leaned back, pressing one hand to her heart.
``You received my letter?’’ said the woman.
Yvonne did not answer. Her sister stamped and came nearer. ``Speak!’’ she cried.
Yvonne shrank and trembled, but kept her resolute eyes on the cruel eyes approaching hers.
``Shall I tear an answer from you?’’ said the woman, always coming nearer. ``Do you think I will wait your pleasure, now?’’
No answer.
``He is here — Mr Blumenthal; he is waiting for you. You dare not refuse him again! You will come with us now, after the opera. Do you hear? You will come. There is no more time. It must be now. I told you there would be time, but there is none — none!’’
Yvonne’s maid knocked at the door and called:
``Mademoiselle, c’est l’heuer!’’
``Answer!’’ hissed the woman.
Yvonne, speechless, holding both hands to her heart, kept her eyes on her sister’s face. That face grew ashen; the eyes had the blank glare of a tiger’s; she sprang up to Yvonne and grasped her by the wrists.
``Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! c’est l’heure!’’ called the maid, shaking the door.
``Fool!’’ hissed her sister, ``you think you will marry the American!’’
``Mademoiselle Descartes! mais Mademoiselle Descartes!’’ cried Monsieur’s voice without.
``Let me go!’’ panted Yvonne, struggling wildly.
``Go!’’ screamed the woman, ``go, and sing! You cannot marry him! He is dead!’’ and she struck the girl with her clenched fist.
The door, torn open, crashed behind her and immediately swung back again to admit Madame.
``My child! my child! What is it? What ails you? Quick, or it will be too late! Ah! try, try, my child!’’
She was in tears of despair.
Taking her beseeching hand, Yvonne moved toward the stage.
``Oui, chère Madame!’’ she said.
The chorus swelled around her.
Oh! reine en ce jour!
rose, fell, ebbed away, and left her standing alone.
She heard a voice — ``Tell me, Venus—’’ but she hardly knew it for her own. It was all dark before her eyes — while the mad chorus of Kings went on, ``For us, what joy!’’ — thundering away along the wings.
``Fear Calchas!’’
``Seize him!’’
``Let Calchas fear!’’
And then she began to sing — to sing as she had never sung before. Sweet, thrilling, her voice poured forth into the crowded auditorium. The people sat spellbound. There was a moment of silence; no one offered to applaud. And then she began again.
Oui c’est un réve,
Un réve doux d’amour —
She faltered —
La nuit lui préte son mystère,
Il doit finir avec le jour —
the voice broke. Men were standing up in the audience. One cried out:
``Il — doit — finir—’’
The music clashed in one great discord.
Why did the stage reel under her? What was the shouting?
Her heavy, dark hair fell down about her little white face as she sank on her knees, and covered her as she lay her slender length along the stage.
The orchestra and the audience sprang to their feet. The great blank curtain rattled to the ground. A whirlwind swept over the house. Monsieur Bordier stepped before the curtain.
``My friends!’’ he began, but his voice failed, and he only added, ``C’est fini!’’
With hardly a word the audience moved to the exits. But Braith, turning to the right, made his way through a long, low passage and strode toward a little stage door. It was flung open and a man hurried past him.
``Monsieur!’’ called Braith. ``Monsieur!’’
But Monsieur Bordier was crying like a child, and kept on his way, without answering.
The narrow corridor was now filled with hurrying, excited figures in gauze and tinsel, sham armor, and painted faces. They pressed Braith back, but he struggled and fought his way to the door.
A Sergeant de Ville shouldered through the crowd. He was dragging a woman along by the arm. Another policeman came behind, urging her forward. Somehow she slipped from them and sank, cowering against the wall. Braith’s eyes met hers. She cowered still lower.
A slender, sallow man had been quietly slipping through the throng. A red-faced fellow touched him on the shoulder.
``Pardon! I think this is Mr Emanuel Pick.’’
``No!’’ stammered the man, and started to run.
Braith blocked his way. The red-faced detective was at his side.
``So, you are Mr Emanuel Pick!’’
``No!’’ gasped the other.
``He lies! He lies!’’ yelled the woman, from the floor.
The Jew reeled back and, with a piercing scream, tore at his handcuffed wrists. Braith whispered to the detective:
``What has the woman done? What is the charge?’’
``Charge? There are a dozen. The last is murder.’’
The woman had fainted and they carried her away. The light fell a moment on the Jew’s livid face, the next Braith stood under the dark porch of the empty theater. The confusion was all at the stage entrance. Here, in front, the deserted street was white and black and silent under the electric lamps. All the lonelier for two wretched gamins, counting their dirty sous and draggled newspapers.
When they saw Braith they started for him; one was ahead in the race, but the other gained on him, reached him, dealt him a merciless blow, and panted up to Braith.
The defeated one, crying bitterly, gathered up his scattered papers from the gutter.
``Curse you, Rigaud! you hound!’’ he cried, in a passion of tears. ``Curse you, son of a murderer!’’
The first gamin whipped out a paper and thrust it toward Braith.
``Buy it, Monsieur!’’ he whined, ``the last edition, full account of the Boulangist riot this morning; burning of the Prussian flags; explosion on a warship; murder in Germany, discovered by an English Milord—’’
Braith was walking fast; the gamin ran by his side for a moment, but soon gave it up. Braith walked faster and faster; he was almost running when he reached his own door. There was a light in his window. He rushed up the stairs and into his room.
Clifford was sitting there, his head in his hands. Braith touched him, trying to speak lightly.
``Are you asleep, old man?’’
Clifford raised a colorless face to his.
``What is it? Can’t you speak?’’
But Clifford only pointed to a crumpled telegram lying on the table, and hid his face again as Braith raised the paper to the light.
*
THE END
THE RED REPUBLIC
Published in 1895, this is a romance set during the Paris Commune of 1871 – a brief period of anarchy following France’s defeat in a war against Prussia, during which time a Communist uprising took control the city. The uprising led to violent struggle between the army and supporters of the commune, resulting in a brief period of anarchy in the capital. Against this bloody backdrop, Chambers constructs an exciting story full of daring escapes, cunning disguises, nefarious plots and heart-stopping fight scenes.
Cover of the first edition
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. THE CAFÉ CARDINAL.
CHAPTER II. PHILIP ACTS AS ESCORT.
CHAPTER III. AN HISTORICAL INTERLUDE.
CHAPTER IV. “THE EIGHTEENTH OF MARCH.”
CHAPTER V. A COWARDLY FLIGHT.
CHAPTER VI. THE DRUMS OF THE 265TH.
CHAPTER VII. THE IMPASSE DE LA MORT.
CHAPTER IX. JEANNE DE BRASSAC.
CHAPTER X. IN A GARDEN.
CHAPTER XI. THE COMMUNE MOVES.
CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW OF TERROR.
CHAPTER XIII. A DANGEROUS QUEST.
CHAPTER XIV. RAOUL RIGAULT.
CHAPTER XV. THE AWAKENING.
CHAPTER XVI. A NEW RECRUIT.
CHAPTER XVII. WITH THE RED FLAG.
CHAPTER XVIII. TCHERKA HAS AN IDEA.
CHAPTER XIX. SARRE PAYS A DEBT.
CHAPTER XX. THE WHITE ROAD.
CHAPTER XXI. COMMISSIONS FOR TWO.
CHAPTER XXII. WITHIN THE WALLS.
CHAPTER XXIII. A VOICE FROM THE CLOUDS.
CHAPTER XXIV. WESER BIDS TRIBERT GOOD-NIGHT.
CHAPTER XXV. HUSBAND AND WIFE.
CHAPTER XXVI. THE VIVANDIERE OF THE 66TH.
CHAPTER XXVII. “THE PRISON OF THE CONDEMNED.”
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE LAST BARRICADE.
CHAPTER XXIX. THE RETURN OF THE BLACKBIRD.
A barricaded street during the Paris Commune, 1871
“Lo! I too am come, chanting the chant of battles!”
TO MY MOTHER.
“Above the bayonets mixed and crossed
Men saw a gray gigantic ghost
Receding through the battle cloud,
And heard across the tempest loud
The death-cry of a nation lost!”
CHAPTER I. THE CAFÉ CARDINAL.
“ALL Englishmen are pigs!” observed a young man who stood swaying in the doorway of the Café Cardinal. Nobody replied to this criticism. The café was full. The young man advanced unsteadily to the centre of the long room and looked about for a seat. His lustreless eyes travelled from table to table until they became fixed on a group of people in the embrasure of one of the windows which opened on the rue des Écoles. Toward these people he shuffled, but when he laid a heavy hand on the shoulder of one, a woman, she cried out and shrank away. A man sitting beside her started up angrily, but sat down again when he saw who it was, and resumed his jaunty air.
“It’s Isidore Weser,” he chuckled.
Room was made at the marble-topped table.
“Sit down, Isidore,” said the jaunty man. “Your legs seem very, very tired.”
But Weser still stood swaying before the table, turning his eyes from one to another; then he addressed each in turn: “Bon jour, Faustine, bon jour, Tribert, bon jour, Sarre, bon jour—”
“Sit down! Sit down!” said Tribert, impatiently. Weser replied with a yell that drew the attention of the whole café. This seemed to be what he wanted. “When I came in,” he explained, “I made a remark to which nobody paid the slightest attention. I advanced a proposition which called for comment. There was no comment.” He paused, fixing a glassy eye on Landes, who from a distant table was looking curiously at him over the edge of a newspaper. “I will repeat my remark,” he resumed. “All Englishmen are pigs!”
Landes half rose, hesitated a moment, and then sat down again. This seemed to amuse the jaunty man, whose name was Sarre.
“Certainly, Englishmen are pigs!” he cried, dragging Weser into a chair beside him, “and Izzy has religious scruples.” His voice was perfectly audible to every one in the café. Several people laughed. Landes threw down his paper, and walked over to the group at the window.
“My name is Philip Landes,” he said, looking straight at Sarre. “I am an American.”
Sarre grinned, but before he could reply the girl beside him cried:
“They all know you are an American, Monsieur Landes. They mean you no discourtesy.”
Sarre waved his hand jauntily.
“You mustn’t take offence. Weser’s drunk, isn’t he, Tribert?”
“All the same, I’m not fond of Americans,” said Tribert, impudently.
“Shame!” cried the girl. I, Faustine Courtois, say it. Pagot, Sarre, have you no excuse to offer Monsieur Landes?”
Pagot looked frightened, Sarre grinned, Georgias, the Greek, sneered openly. Landes waited.
“Sarre,” he said at length, “I am waiting for your explanation.”
“If I have said anything that might seem offensive, I am sorry, and withdraw it,” grinned Sarre, emphasizing each word with a pat of his hand on his fat legs.
“And I,” shouted Weser, struggling to his feet —
“I tell you—”
“You tell me! Canaille!” cut in Landes, coldly. Tribert dragged Weser back into his chair, and turned to meet the stern eyes of Landes. “I said nothing,” he muttered, shifting his glance.
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Landes.
At that moment a man approached the table, nodded to everybody, and sat down.
“Bon jour, Raoul,” grunted Tribert.
The other acknowledged the greeting and, drawing a pair of glasses from a case, adjusted them and looked up at Landes. “Ah,” he said, “it’s Monsieur Landes. What’s the trouble?”
“Monsieur Landes thinks we are not polite enough!” chuckled Sarre.
“And he will instruct us perhaps,” said Raoul Rigault.
“If necessary,” said Landes.
Rigault looked at him. “Americans are not favorites in Paris,” he said brusquely.
“That,” replied Landes, “is of no consequence to Americans.”
“Who says Americans are not favorites in Paris?” demanded Faustine. “They are favorites with me.” Philip glanced at her kindly, but his eyes returned directly to Rigault. Rigault drew a paper from his pocket, and held it in his hand.
“Monsieur Landes,” he began, “I have something to say to you.”
“Whatever you say, Rigault,” Philip answered, “don’t forget that in the siege just over we Americans served with the ambulance corps and the American Minister was the only foreign representative in Paris who stuck to his post.”
“Ah! Yes! The American Minister,” said Rigault. “You may as well know what we Parisians think about your Minister—”
“I don’t care a d — n what you Parisians think about our Minister,” retorted Landes, “but I want to know what you mean, you Raoul Rigault, and you, André Sarre, both of you students of the Latin Quarter, by insulting a fellow student, a member of the Students Association?”
“Monsieur is right,” said a tall young artillery officer at a neighboring table.
“What’s that?” cried Rigault.
The officer rose leisurely, buttoned his astrakhan-trimmed dolman, and, picking up his sabre, snapped the clasp to the short silver chain which dangled from his sword belt. Then walking over to Landes, he bowed, saying, “I, Monsieur, admire Americans,” and with a pleasant salute to Faustine, turned his back on the rest and walked out.
Raoul Rigault’s eyes glittered through his glasses. “En voilà un qu’il faut saigner,” he muttered.
Disgusted with the whole scene, Philip turned to go also. Rigault sprang up and barred the way; his baby mouth under the thick, crisp beard looked moist and venomous. He began, speaking slowly at first, but before he had uttered half a dozen sentences he was snarling, his cheeks purple and swollen, his eyes growing paler and harder until they had lost every vestige of color, and were nothing but a malignant sparkle.
“You have been expelled from the Students Association, Monsieur Landes,” he began, “and for this reason — you are an American. We want no Americans” — louder— “and no Prussians,” — still louder,— “do you understand me?” Here he burst into a roar. Sarre caught his arm.
“Give him the letter, Raoul,” he said; “don’t make a scene.”
Raoul thrust the paper he had been holding at Philip, who took it mechanically, but Rigault, shaking off Sarre, went on violently:
“Your American Minister has taught us who are our enemies! — your Minister Washburn — —”
“Are you crazy?” said Landes, astonished at this outburst.
“Rigault is right,” growled Tribert.
“Am I crazy!” m
imicked Rigault. “Do you want proofs? Did your Minister Washburn receive the American papers during the siege? And did he erase with ink everything in them that could be of service to France before he would let them be seen by us?”
“He could not do otherwise,” said Philip, gravely; “a Foreign Minister could not distribute to the garrison of a besieged town news which he was able to receive only through the courtesy of the besiegers.” To cut short the violent and foolish scene, he would have turned away once more, but Rigault drowned his last words in a torrent of half-articulate blasphemy, out of which came distinctly the words, “American Minister, American students — paid Prussian spies!”
Without a sound, Landes sprang at him. Tribert jerked Rigault back against the wall, and shoved the table in front of him, while Monsieur Cardinal, alarmed for the crockery in his café, threw his arms around the American’s waist, and shouted for the police. Landes struggled, white with passion, overturning tables and chairs, but Monsieur Cardinal held fast, while Sarre and Pagot each draped himself over an arm.
“Raoul Rigault,” he said, between his gasps, “you lie! Let me go, Monsieur Cardinal! I will not touch him here, — let go, André Sarre, or I’ll break your neck. On my honor I won’t touch him, Monsieur Cardinal, — not here, to-night, — let me go, I tell you!”
“On your honor, Monsieur Landes?” whined Cardinal.
“I said it,” panted Landes.
They released him, and the tumult in the café died away as he took a step forward and faced Rigault.
“I’ll break my cane over your head, when next we meet, you mongrel liar! Keep out of my way, Sarre! — and you too, whatever your name is,” turning on Tribert, who scowled back in reply. “As for this canaille you call Weser, and this Greek here, who seems so ready with that thin knife he’s just slipped back into his pocket — pfui!” He made a gesture of disgust, and walked out into the street, trembling with excitement.
He crossed the Boulevard St. Michel, and entering Ferdinand’s ordered dinner, but when it was brought he felt too upset to eat, and drawing out the paper he had received from Rigault, he looked at it. It bore the seal of the French Students Association and was addressed:
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 18
