Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Which rope? Oh, this?”

  “Not that way, — you tighten it!”

  A pause.

  “You find that painful?” growled Tribert. “Very,” answered Alain, drily.

  “Well, you know how to escape these little annoyances. Listen to me, once for all; if the Versailles troops see Turcos on our side, commanded by a regular officer, they will desert to us. That is why we want you! This is your chance. Under the Commune, promotion; — you can become what you will, If you refuse, we shall sweep Thiers and his traitors into the Seine all the same, and you—”

  “Tribert,” said de Carette, with insulting omission of the Colonel, “if I live to catch you outside of this place I will have you shot for attempting to corrupt the Line.” There was a short silence, then a blow and a fall.

  “Shame!” cried a faint voice, the voice of a woman; “shame on you!”

  “Now for it!” panted Landes, drawing his revolver; “now, Jack!” and they stole into the outer room.

  “Here he comes,” whispered Ellice.

  Tribert appeared in the inner doorway, saw them, opened his mouth to shout, tried to sieze his revolver, and fell to the floor with a queer choking gasp. Landes had struck him full in the face with the butt of his pistol. Before he had time to fall, Philip struck him again, savagely, full on the temple. Then he measured his length on the floor.

  “Go in, Jack, I daren’t leave this beast yet.”

  Jack sprang into the second room, while Landes seized Tribert by the legs and dragged him into a small room at the head of the stairs. By the dim light from the hall he unwound Tribert’s sash, twisted it into a rope and bound him hand and foot as tightly as he could draw the knots. Then he took a small towel from the washstand, rolled it into a ball, stuffed it into the unconscious man’s mouth, tied it on with strips torn from another towel, and opened a window to let in fresh air. “I ought to let him smother,” he said to himself, as he slipped out, locked the door, pocketed the key, and hurried back to find the prisoners. As he stepped into the outer room a tattered and bloody object seized and hugged him.

  “De Carette! You here!” was all Landes could trust his voice to say. Keeping hold of Alain, who seemed almost to lean on him, Landes turned to the inner room. There stood Ellice bending over a young lady who sat on a lounge, trembling but holding up her head and gazing resolutely into his face.

  Landes stepped to her side.

  “Mademoiselle de Brassac,” he said, “don’t distrust us because of our uniforms. We have come to get you away from here.”

  The young lady transferred her timid but unflinching gaze to Philip’s face. She seemed bewildered. De Carette drew him away, saying, with a queer laugh:

  “That is not Mademoiselle de Brassac. She is locked in another room. I’ll show you. Come.”

  “For God’s sake, hurry!” cried Landes. Alain tried to follow, but stumbled and leaned on his friend.

  “That rope was tight,” he muttered. Philip supported him while he led the way up two steps, down a short narrow entry, to a closed door.

  “We shall have to break it in,” he said, and gathered what remained of his strength for one more effort. Together they threw themselves, full weight, against the door; it gave way, crashing and splintering, and sent them head foremost into the room.

  Shocked at having entered in such a manner, Landes drew himself up and stood stiffly near the shattered door. There was an unshaded lamp on a table. Beside it stood a young girl, motionless. Her beautiful eyes, dilated with fear and courage, looked black in the half light, her white face was calm, one delicate hand rested easily on the table.

  There was no mistake this time. Philip would have known her among a million. Jeanne de Brassac had grown to be a woman. Her fair hair gathered back from the full temples, her sweet eyes, the curve of her lips, and above all that soft little hand resting quietly, just as it rested on her mother’s arm so long ago.

  “What do you wish, Messieurs?” she said, as if their appearance had been quite regular.

  “I — I am Philip Landes,” he stammered.

  “Philip Landes!” she cried, and her startled eyes looked into his.

  De Carette had somehow regained his feet. His clothes were torn and bloody, his face was ghastly pale, his voice scarcely audible; but he came forward and made her a bow with perfect grace.

  “My name is Alain de Carette, Captain of Artillery in the regular army, taken this morning at the St. Lazare Station by the Federals, and a fellow prisoner with you in this house all day—” he hesitated—” there is a lady too” — then went on hurriedly—” and this, Mademoiselle de Brassac, is Philip Landes, your brother’s friend, who risks his life to save yours.”

  With an exquisite gesture Jeanne de Brassac held out her hand to Landes. “That is what my father said you would do, Monsieur—”

  “We must hurry,” said de Carette in the ghost of a voice, “if we are to get away from here,” and led the way back to the room where Ellice stood, seemingly oblivious of surroundings, in delighted attendance on the bewildered and haughty young lady, who, when she saw another woman ungratefully said, “God be praised!” and went to meet Jeanne without giving Jack a glance.

  “Madam — Mademoiselle de St. Brieuc,” said de Carette, “this is Mademoiselle de Brassac. We have not one moment to lose. Will you come, ladies? Philip, will you lead?”

  “You can’t go out that way. Your uniform—”

  “I’m not going with you. I shall wait till you get clear.”

  “You think we would go and leave you? There — take my overcoat, and Tribert’s cap is on the landing outside.”

  “That is a private’s overcoat — take this.” Jeanne de Brassac caught a Federal officer’s overcoat from a peg on the wall.

  Ellice helped Alain on with it; Landes brought Tribert’s cap. “Now you are perfect. Will you lead the way? We may meet a sentry after all.” The ladies had caught up their wraps and concealed their faces in them.

  Not a soul was stirring in the Impasse de la Mort as they emerged from Tribert’s headquarters.

  Silently they moved toward the entrance. The sentry had not returned and his absence had not been discovered. They were cautiously stepping out into the Faubourg du Temple when they met Martin face to face. He was accompanied by a file of soldiers, but he was too drunk to care, and chanted in a low sentimental voice:

  “Oh, take me to my love!

  Oh, take me to my love!

  Oh (hic!), take me to my (hic!)—”

  “The game’s up!” muttered Ellice, “here’s Martin.” At the same moment Martin discovered Landes and yelled with delight.

  “Fine dinner, good wine, mon vieux!” he shouted, “never had better. Ladies, you are too late!”

  “Silence!” commanded de Carette, sternly; then with a haughty gesture to the officer in charge, “Halt! Lieutenant, what do you mean by permitting a drunken soldier to insult an officer accompanied by ladies?”

  The moment was critical. The lieutenant had barred the way and was motioning his men to close in, but this attack frightened him. He saw the four gold bands on de Carette’s cap, and although in that dim light it was impossible to distinguish features, yet Alain’s bearing of superior officer was not to be mistaken, and the cold authority of his tone made the young lieutenant shiver. He stuttered and stammered and saluted obsequiously, but froze stiff when Landes, seeing the impression already made, quietly stepped to Alain’s side, saluted with much deference, and said something in a voice too low to be heard, excepting the word “Cluseret,” which he caused to reach the lieutenant’s startled ears. Alain nodded curtly to Philip and turned again to the Federal officer.

  “Report to your captain and consider yourself under arrest! Sergeant, take that drunkard to the guard-house. Thirty days police cell. Set two sentries at the gate and allow no one to leave the Impasse until you have my orders. Why is there no sentry in front of Colonel Tribert’s headquarters? Set two there at once and let n
o one enter or leave the house until you have the order from General Cluseret. By heaven! I’ll bring this battalion under discipline or I’ll disband it. March!”

  Like a flock of sheep the detachment crowded into the Impasse and the little party of fugitives hurried away toward the Canal St. Martin.

  Landes and Mademoiselle de Brassac walked first; Ellice came next with the silent, frightened stranger on his arm; de Carette brought up the rear. The street was not well lighted but there were many people passing, and now and then some, keener-sighted and more curious than the rest, would stop and stare back at them; sometimes these would speak to others who also turned and stared.

  When this had happened several times Alain joined Philip. “We are attracting attention, our party is too large,” he whispered.

  “Yes, I see. I’m afraid we must separate.”

  “Where are you going?” asked de Carette.

  “Why, as we decided last night at the War Ministry, to the Montparnasse Station. Mademoiselle de Brassac must be on her way to Chartres within an hour, if possible.”

  “I’m afraid it isn’t possible.”

  “But the Montparnasse Station is not guarded. Ellice says so.”

  “It was not guarded at noon, but who knows what may have been done by this time? I would not dare venture if I were you.”

  “What in the world can we do then? Where can she go?”

  “It seems to me this isn’t the time to choose, if there were any choice, but there isn’t,” began Alain.

  Ellice interrupted, pressing forward with Mademoiselle de St. Brieuc: “Philip, do you see how the people are staring? We’ve got to separate, and the sooner the better!”

  “Captain de Carette thinks the Gare Montparnasse may be guarded by this time,” said Landes.

  “Then give that up,” urged Ellice. “You take a cab with Mademoiselle de Brassac; we’ll walk on a little and take another, we three, then, all make for my studio, by different routes.”

  “Why not for mine?” —

  “Mine is nearer, and safer, because it is mine. Rigault and Company don’t know me as well as they do you.”

  “Monsieur’s advice is excellent,” said de Carette, in a faint voice. “Will you call a cab, Philip?’ “Alain, dear old fellow, you are suffering?” whispered Philip, while Jack hurried off in the direction of a cab-stand. Alain leaned against his friend without answering. Mademoiselle de Brassac gently begged to know if he was badly hurt; the other lady trembled violently but did not speak.

  A cab stopped beside them. Jack sprang out and waited for Philip, but he turned to de Carette. “We will follow you immediately, Alain.” De Carette drew himself up with an effort, bowed, and motioned Mademoiselle de St. Brieuc to enter. She glanced at him, hesitated, and obeyed. He followed her inside and then quietly fainted away. Ellice sprang after him, Landes gave the driver hasty directions, and came and leaned in at the window.

  “Is he very ill? Why, he’s all over fresh blood. He’s been shot in the body somewhere!” Then Mademoiselle de St. Brieuc seemed to throw off her stupor, and turning to Ellice said: “he was shot in the shoulder this morning at the Gare St. Lazare where they killed my uncle. I know a little about surgery. If you can take him to a safe place I can help’ care for him!’

  “Good!” said Ellice; “Philip, tell the man to drive on. Join us as soon as possible, at my place.” The cab rolled away. Landes and Mademoiselle de Brassac were left standing alone in the Faubourg du Temple. He glanced down at her quiet face and offered his arm. She took it with simple confidence, and they walked away together. Turning at the first corner they entered a dark side street, going slowly at first, but hurrying as soon as they dared. Her step was light and firm, her hand rested on his arm like a feather, and she breathed easily in spite of their rapid pace.

  “Are you tired? — and frightened?” he asked, as they approached a lighted Boulevard.

  “No. Are we in any danger now?”

  “I think not. I think the worst is over. We will take a cab just beyond that lamp, and—” His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth.

  Raoul Rigault was walking at his elbow.

  He saw the small eyes blinking through the glasses, the coarse red lips, moist and venomous under the beard, and with all his strength he struck him. Once, twice, he felt the impact of his clenched fist on that hideous face, then he heard cries and shouts, the noise of feet, and clamour of voices; his hand was seized and he found himself running, drawn along by Jeanne de Brassac, who sped lightly at his side, her fingers tightly clasped in his. Behind was the noise of pursuit.

  “Turn here!” he breathed, and they swung into a long dark alley, traversed it, and entered another. “Turn here!” he repeated, and they were in a narrow, squalid street, where they had to stop running and pick their way through mire. The shouts behind them seemed drawing nearer. They reached a broader street, fairly well lighted and cleaner, but almost deserted, and dashed recklessly through it. Into a dark street again, — he did not know where, he was lost for the moment, — dark, narrow, and interminable, he could hear his heart beating and her skirts flapping in the March wind, as she ran beside him, her hand close clasped in his.

  “Are you tired?” he faltered.

  “No! no!” she panted, and she increased her pace. They came to an open square.

  “We must walk now,” said Landes.

  They listened; the pursuit seemed falling off.

  “They must have gone another way. Oh, for a cab while there is time!” he groaned, freeing his eyes from the sweat that rolled into them from his hair, and peering across the square. “There! I think I saw one!” and he crossed over, forcing himself and Jeanne to walk slowly.

  “Au large! Au large! on ne passe pas!” came from the street they were approaching, and the Commune’s pickets took it up along the square.

  “A barricade! Come!” and he bore due west once more.

  To reach Ellice’s studio, in the rue de Sfax, it was necessary to go north. Again and again when they tried to cross in that direction they were stopped by the warning challenge and the rattle of bayonets.

  “The city is cut in two! I don’t know how to reach the rue de Sfax from here; the barricades block us, and we dare not go back to the Boulevards.”

  “What can we do then?” she asked, with just the slightest break in her voice. He stopped, full of pity.

  “But please don’t think I am complaining!” she said quickly. “I am not afraid, I trust you implicitly, and I am not tired either.” —

  In miserable helplessness he gazed about him. There was but one route open. Toward the north barricades closed every outlet, but the west was clear as far as he could see.

  “I think we could reach my studio,” — he hesitated,—” but — if—”

  “I will be very grateful to you, Monsieur,” said Mademoiselle de Brassac.

  “Then we must look for a cab on the quay,” and giving her his arm once more, he cautiously approached the river. “If Raoul Rigault’s spies have found out where I live,” he thought, “the quays will be watched. That may be the reason why the pursuit fell off.” With his heart in his mouth, therefore he made his way to a long line of cabs, selected one and hailed the driver.

  “Can you get us through the barricades to the rue de Sfax?”

  The cabby shook his head. “Not for all your money, Monsieur,” he grinned.

  “Very well. Then 70 rue Notre Dame. Drive fast!”

  CHAPTER VIII. HEMMED IN.

  IT was midnight when the cab drew up before the ivy-covered alley which leads past the porter’s lodge to the white-walled garden and Landes’ studio. Joseph answered the gate bell, stared an instant, and, quickly comprehending, received them with devotion.

  “We were separated from Mr. Ellice and the rest, and the barricades cut us off from Mr. Ellice’s studio — so we had to come here,” said Landes.

  “Bon! Monsieur Philip,” replied Joseph, and followed reverentially as the young man led his
guest between the ivy-hung walls, into the glimmering garden, and across to the studio door.

  “It is very dark,” said Landes, entering first and drawing the shade from the glass roof to the extension, to let in a bit of palely lighted midnight sky. “Please stand still a moment — now give me your hand.” And he guided her to a chair.

  The concierge lighted a lamp, set a match to the fire, and departed, saying to Philip as he passed him that he would bring hot water for tea.

  “Thank you, Joseph,” said Philip, in a low voice, and the faithful one withdrew on tiptoe.

  The lamp-light filled one side of the studio with a warm glow, leaving the other side full of shadow. In the fireplace little blue flames and thin spirals of smoke were curling up. Jeanne de Brassac leaned back in her chair with closed eyes and white face. Philip stood and looked at her. As he realized the unsuitableness of her surroundings, the color flashed to the roots of his hair. But there was no time for reflection; Joseph came in again, bringing a tea-kettle and an alcohol lamp, and the duties of a host became imperative.

  While the tea was being made and drunk, Joseph, stopping now and then to exchange a murmured word with Landes, was passing quickly and quietly up and down a quaint staircase with a carved wooden balustrade, which led from the lower end of the studio up to a small landing and a door. Presently his journeyings ceased, and with a bow full of fatherly kindness and profound respect to the young lady, he said, “Good-night, Monsieur Philip,” and disappeared. Then Landes turned timidly to his guest.

  “Mademoiselle, I regret exceedingly that it was impossible for us to join the others at Mr. Ellice’s studio — but at least you are safe here — for a day or two, until we can find an opportunity for your escape to Chartres. There is a room at the head of that staircase which I beg to place at your disposal. I shall be below here, in the room yonder, or else in this room. You can rest peacefully, for Joseph and I will keep watch. I cannot express,” he added in a voice of deep feeling, “my sense of the unfitness of this place, and my regret that it is all I have to offer Mademoiselle de Brassac rose and held out her hand. The lamp-light shone full in her violet eyes as she raised them to Philip; here face was white with the pallor of physical and mental exhaustion, and she drooped a little as she stood. Her bearing combined the exquisite docility of a convent-bred girl with the dignity of a very young lady. “It seems to me, Monsieur,” she said, “that it is I who shall never be able to express my gratitude. May I go to my room now?”