Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “What then is the Central Committee? Is it an empty name for something else to hide behind?”

  “No!” she cried indignantly.

  “Then” he broke out, angry at her evasion, “it is the Commune!”

  “If you like,” she answered sullenly. He saw his mistake. It was the first time Faustine had ever spoken to him in that tone. All his hopes depended on the girl, and here he was on the verge of a quarrel with her. He took her hand, and said gently:

  “My poor Faustine! Do you like to see your city running stark mad? Does one love liberty, and close the streets with bayonets? Does one inaugurate a Republic with murder and theft? That blood-colored thing you wear on your jacket, is it the symbol of the Commune? Then it is the symbol of ignorance, brutality, and cruelty. And you wear it!”

  “Yes — I wear it.” There was a pause — and she added through her set teeth, “while there are rebels and traitors at Versailles.”

  “Do you mean the legal government?”

  “That is what they call themselves. Savage royalists and imperialists! They want to bring France under the yoke again. Do you think they can return? We will blow up the city first!” Her eyes flamed feverishly, her cheeks were crimson.

  Deep pity replaced every other feeling as Landes watched this slender child, his playmate yesterday? shaken by passions too fierce for her strength. He drew her to a seat on the divan beside him.

  “Listen, Faustine. We are, as you say, old friends and comrades. Until this cursed outbreak nothing ever threatened our good understanding. Is it so long since we shared the miseries of the siege together? I know you — you are upright and truthful by nature. You used to be incapable of a base action. Are you changed? I do not believe it, in spite of all you say.”

  Her face had been softening while he spoke, and now tears filled her eyes.

  “I want you to see where you are going, whose lead you are following. Loyal to your friends, how can you be unfaithful to your country?”

  “I would die very gladly for my country,” she said, without affectation.

  “I believe it, and yet living you give your aid to those who will disgrace and ruin her.” She remained silent, looking down, the tears dropping into her lap. “Tribert, Sarre, Georgias, you approve of them and their crimes?” She began to tremble.

  “Oh! They are vile! — Monsieur Philip! I do not approve of them!”

  “Yet they are officers in one of the Commune’s battalions.”

  “They will be denounced all the same, when the time comes!”

  “And until it comes they may rob and murder with impunity. Is that your idea of a good government, Faustine?” He spoke almost tenderly, as to a child. She thrilled at the change in his voice and manner, looked up quickly, met only the firm kindness of his eyes, and broke into hopeless weeping. “It must be so,” she sobbed.

  Landes, seeing her softened, took one of her hands in his, and began the story of the last three days. He did not spare her a single harrowing detail, and when he had finished she looked like death. The moment had come to enlist her aid, and he made his request. His account had included the murder of Count de Brassac, the events in the Place Pigalle, Georgias’ letter, and the revelations of the drunken corporal. She was the kind of girl to understand that he was bound to find Jeanne de Brassac, and he made his appeal quite simply.

  “Help me to carry out my plan, Faustine. I don’t know which way to turn. You see I’m a marked man myself.”

  Faustine’s eyes were dry. She drew her hand away from Philip’s friendly clasp, and sat up, looking him steadily in the face.

  “I will help you to find Mademoiselle de Brassac, if I can. What shall I do?”

  “Get me a uniform of the 265th and a pass, or the countersign.”

  “I will get you the countersign, and two uniforms — you must not go alone. Take Monsieur Ellice with you.”

  “The very thing! Jack would go! Will you do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “You dear girl!” he cried, and slipped his arm about her waist. She jumped up, crimson with anger.

  “How dare you!” She threw herself into a chair, sobbing bitterly again, her back turned to him, her head on her slender wrist.

  “I meant nothing,” protested Philip.

  “I know it. Nothing! Yet you think I should endure your caresses because I was a girl of the Quartier Latin.”

  “Upon my honor I never thought anything of the kind,” he cried. “I only thought you were the most generous girl in the world — and the truest comrade. I never asked a kindness of you yet that you did not grant it, no matter at what inconvenience to yourself. There is no one alive that I would treat with more sincere respect than you, Faustine.”

  “À la bonheur!” she laughed nervously, jumping up with another of her rapid changes. “Say no more about it. I shall go now and get you your two uniforms. Look for them within an hour. I shall find some means of getting them into Joseph’s hands unobserved.” She was moving away with a cool business-like air, but when she reached the door she turned back and met Philip, who was hurrying to open it for her.

  “Dieu vous garde,” she said, looking up into his face, “and do not forget that sinful souls are purified by love.”

  “You are better than I,” he stammered, much distressed.

  “Am I?’ she said bitterly, with another swift change. “But Mademoiselle de Brassac is good!” All that was visible of her cheek — which had grown very thin, — of her slender neck, burned crimson as she hurried through the open door and out across the garden. At the entrance to the alley Philip heard her exchange a few hasty words with some one — and the next moment Jack Ellice rushed into the studio. —

  “By Jove! There you are! Faustine says you Ve been on Montmartre. She says you want me.”

  “Yes, I want your help. But first I want the news — sit down and tell me the situation.”

  “The news is infernally bad — and the situation is damned disagreeable.”

  “Yes. I know that much. I want particulars — afterward I’ll tell you the same story from my side.”

  “Well, first of all, your friend of the Café Cardinal, Raoul Rigault, is Préfet of Police and Procureur Général to the Commune.”

  “Good Lord!”

  “That’s what I said when I read their infernal order stuck up on a bulletin at the Mayor’s office in the rue Bonaparte.”

  “Order of the Central Committee?”

  “Of the Central Committee. That’s awkward for you, Philip.”

  “You’ll say so when you hear what I have to tell you. But — that young Latin-Quarter student — he’s younger than you are.”

  “No. He’s twenty-eight.”

  “Well, he’s a failure in everything — in law — in medicine — and he’s just failed again at the Polytechnique. A nobody, without talent. How did he get the appointment?”

  “I suppose by being the biggest blackguard of the lot. Anyway there he is, and a full-fledged demagogue already. Takes Marat openly for his model.”

  “Does he dare, so soon?”

  “I should think so. The whole Commune is mad over the First Revolution. Their orators praise Robespierre. You are not in 1871, you are in the year 79 of liberty, and next month will not be April, but Germinal. They have seized the ‘Official,’ and are running it to suit themselves. All the papers suppressed by Thiers have been revived. All the others have been shut up tight. And — this is what looks blackest of all,” said Ellice, dropping his voice—” to-day posters are on every wall in Paris decreeing the appointment of the Committee of Public Safety, and reviving the Law of Suspects.”

  “The Reign of Terror!”

  “That’s what we ‘re headed for unless something stops us. But it can’t go on, you know. The people must get scared by this last performance. Well, and now about yourself. What do you want of me? How did you get up on Montmartre, and — how did you get down?” adde
d Jack, with a laugh that tried to be like his old laughs. Then Landes began from their parting in front of the Café Ferdinand, and told the story of the past three days.

  As an adviser Jack Ellice had not many original ideas, but as a confidant he was perfect. He listened with increasing excitement, and jumped eagerly at the expedition to the Impasse de la Mort.

  “As for plans,” ended Philip, “how can I make any? I’ve been over the whole ground by myself twenty times. Last night I went over it with de Carette, carefully. He has the clear head of a Frenchman. Nothing escapes him, and his conclusion was the same as my own. There is not a peg to hang a hope of assistance upon — there is nothing to indicate one line of action more than another. All must be left to chance. And the chances are against us. Every new development makes the confusion greater. It seemed bad enough when we thought we had the government and the police behind us. It seemed worse when we found that the bottom had dropped out of the government. And now you tell me the Committee of Public Safety is the government, and Raoul Rigault is the police! I am Jeanne de Brassac’s only protector at this crisis — and I am a marked man to the criminals who have her in their power. And the same criminals are in the chief places of the city government. If I find her and am so fortunate as to get her out of Tribert’s clutches, where shall I take her? She ought to be on the road to Chartres within an hour. Failing that, she must hide, till she can get away. Hide where? I don’t know a soul I dare ask to receive her. From something her father said I fancy they haven’t many friends in Paris, and those they had will be scattered, no doubt — fled after the government and the army to Versailles.”

  “Perhaps she will know some one, though,” said Jack. “Any woman, faithful and respectable and within reach, would be a god-send, — wait — wouldn’t Joseph’s wife do at a pinch.”

  “Joseph sent his family into the country to-day.”

  “The devil!”

  “Well, there it is — suppose we do find Jeanne de Brassac to-night, for instance, in the Impasse de la Mort. Suppose we do effect her escape. We shall have to run for it, probably. Suppose we fail to reach the station, — it’s coming from away over the other side of the river to the Gare Montparnasse.”

  “It isn’t guarded,” said Ellice.

  “Anything may happen to head us off — suppose we fail then to reach the station?”

  “We mustn’t fail to reach the station, that’s all.” They sat and thought awhile. Then Jack said:

  “I think it behooves you, on your own account, to communicate with the American Minister as soon as possible — you can’t tell what nasty trick those fellows may play you.”

  “Yes, with the house-to-house search going on, and the guillotine working gaily in every square, and Raoul Rigault yearning to see my head in a basket of sawdust—”

  “Oh, come! What’s the sense of being ghastly!”

  “I feel ghastly. Your news has made me creep. I feel queer and strange as I used when I was a boy and saw a picture of an Incroyable. There was always, for me, something so grotesque and bizarre, so hideously fascinating in the Directoire costume; — it made me think of bloody heads on pikes.”

  Jack burst out laughing.

  “By Jove! you are rattled! Wake up! What do you see? Is that a photograph of General Grant on the piano? Is this a copy of the ‘New York Herald ‘ with advertisements of A. T. Stewart & Co.? Isn’t there almost a century between us and the Reign of Terror?”

  There came a low knocking at the door.

  “Listen,” whispered Landes, “what does that mean? There’s a bell outside. No one ever knocks.” They waited, silent. The knocking came again, low and persistent.

  “I can’t understand,” murmured Landes in Jack’s ear, “how Joseph could let in any one whom he didn’t know.”

  For the third time the knocking began, low, distinct, imperative.

  Landes walked to the door and flung it open. A little sallow man, all in black save for a crimson sash across his breast, stepped noiselessly into the room, without removing his hat. Two soldiers of the National Guard started to follow him in, but he motioned them out again, and closed the door softly behind him. Then in a colorless, husky voice he demanded to see the proprietor of the apartment.

  “I am the locataire,” said Landes, with a dull, oppressive weight in his heart. “What do you want, and who are you?”

  “I am citizen Verlet, charged by the Chief of Police to arrest one Henri Marsy, suspect of the Commune. What is your name?”

  “Philip Landes, artist.”

  “And this gentleman? “ looking at Ellice.

  “John D. Ellice, artist.”

  “Who is your neighbor in the studio opposite?”

  “Moreau Gauthier, sculptor,” said Landes. “Mr. Ellice does not live here. Kindly address yourself to me.”

  “I will address myself to whom I choose,” replied the little man in passionless tones. “Who lives in the next studio beyond?”

  “I don’t know,” said Landes, lying deliberately — for he did know that Henri Marsy lived there. So did Jack, and immediately had an inspiration.

  “Well, good-bye, Philip,” he said, shaking hands with Landes, and giving him a knowing squeeze. “I’ll see you to-morrow then.” He started for the door. The little man locked it and put the key in his pocket.

  “What do you mean by that!” cried Landes, angrily.

  “This gentleman must not leave for the present. I am going to search your apartment.”

  “No, you are not,” broke in Philip.

  “In the name of the Commune—”

  “I don’t care a damn in whose name!” cried Landes, trembling with wrath. “Get out of my place!” He started toward the sallow man, but the delegate from the Commune was too quick for him. Unlocking the door, he beckoned the soldiers.

  “Search is refused,” he said impassively; “fire, if further resistance is offered.”

  “Try it, you crop-eared ragamuffins!” shouted Landes, white with fury. Snatching an American flag from the wall he flung it over the chandelier.

  “Do you see that flag? Do you see me standing under it? That is my flag. This is United States ground. Outrage it or me if you dare!”

  The delegate from the Commune turned a shade more sallow, and stared at the flag.

  “The American Minister shall know about this to-morrow,” said Ellice, gravely. “I must request your name again — what was it — Varlet? Oh, Verlet.”

  Citizen Verlet grew pale, and stepped back. He knew nothing about alien rights, and he meant to conceal his ignorance if he could. The soldiers eyed the flag stupidly, and fingered their rifles. After a moment Verlet took off his hat, and bowed to Landes.

  “It is a mistake; formal search will not be necessary. No insult to your country was intended, and I hope the incident may be dropped.”

  Ellice saw his chance, and stalked furiously out of the open door, demanding a cab to take him to the United States Ministry.

  “I hope your friend will not insist upon the unfortunate features of this mistake. I hope he will not go to his Excellency, the United States Minister,” the delegate said, very humbly.

  Philip began a long-winded discourse upon the inviolability of American citizens, international treaties, and alien rights, about which he knew no more than the man before him — but he kept him terrified, if not edified, nervously adjusting his red sash, the soldiers yawning in sympathy, until he heard Jack’s step in the garden, and knew that Marsy had escaped. Ellice entered in a tearing rage — cursing the whole cab service of Paris, and vowing he would walk to the Ministry. Landes presented the delegate’s apologies to him, and, after some difficulty, they were accepted, and it ended by the delegate and the two Americans exchanging profound salutations, and many compliments, until the former backed out, still bowing, and Landes closed the door behind him. Jack plunged head-foremost into the cushions of the divan and stopped his mouth with them — his heels kicking high and convulsively. Landes stood s
ilent and troubled until he heard the door of Marsy’s studio slam, and the soldiers’ retreating footsteps across the gravel. Jack uncovered his head and looked out from the cushions.

  “Oh, Lord! you and your United States ground!” Landes relaxed into a grin. “You and your American Minister!” he retorted.

  “But I knew better and you didn’t. Oh, by Jove! ‘This is my flag!’ says he.”

  “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

  “And Marsy’s at the Gare Montparnasse by this time. And the sallow cad in the sash didn’t know his government has the right of search in its own country everywhere except at the Foreign Ministries and Embassies — what a bluff!”

  Joseph entered with a large parcel. Terror was written on every feature. He glanced in a grieved manner at the laughing faces and began to lament. The flight of Marsy would cause the house to be suspected, and they gathered from his somewhat incoherent remarks that, as father of a family, he objected to a sudden and violent death. Landes comforted him.

  “You are all right, my friend. That delegate will not want to talk about this visit in a hurry. At first he will be afraid to tell how near he came to plunging two great nations into war — and when he knows what a fool he made of himself he won’t want to tell that. Joseph, are you for the Commune?”

  “Monsieur Landes,” said Joseph, with a hurt expression, “I trust I am in my senses.”

  “Then you wouldn’t betray me?”

  Poor Joseph replied with a howl, more convincing than words. Philip, laughing, assured him he had only been joking, and dismissed him. Then they opened the parcel. Ellice looked at his watch — it was nearly six.

  “Let’s get into these things,” he said.

  The uniforms and képis fitted them as well as they usually fitted the men who wore them. They surveyed each other critically, cocked their caps at each other, brushed their epaulettes, and buckled their side-arms tightly. Landes went into his bedroom and shaved off his moustache. When he came out and found that Jack did not notice the change he bitterly lamented the sacrifice.

  It was after six — Joseph served them a little supper — and while they were eating it they took him into their confidence. When he fully understood the situation his admiration knew no bounds. He addressed Philip in terms of adoration, and then began that habit, which he kept up for months, of moving about Landes on tiptoe. Unable to stop it Landes had to bear it. Joseph would neither be silenced nor driven away.