Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Landes took up a lighted candle and asked diffidently if he might show her the way. She thanked him and followed up the stair. He could feel her lean wearily on the balustrade, and hear her little tired feet drag. He paused on the landing for her to join him, and then opening the door stood aside for her to enter. A glow and crackle of wood fire from the hearth came out, and the setter puppy rushed frantically forward, seizing her dress. Jeanne uttered a cry and stooped toward him: the large yellow cat rose on the bed opposite, stretched, and blinked. “Oh, Tcherka! Tcherka!” cried the girl, stepping swiftly forward, and took the cat in her arms. Then she sank down sobbing beside the bed, Landes set the light on a table and went away, closing the door softly.

  The long strain had told. At the sight of those helpless creatures the last remnant of her courage broke down; she lay with her face buried in Tcherka’s soft fur, and gave way to bitter grief for her dead father.

  Landes, standing in the studio below, listened to her desolate weeping as long as he could bear it, then with his own eyes full of tears, he caught up his hat and went to find the concierge.

  Joseph was fussing about the gate with a lantern. A late half-moon had risen just above the house-tops.

  “Joseph!” said Landes, irritably, stamping along the walk. “What the devil are you doing? Go to bed!” The faithful one circled respectfully around Landes and touched his cap.

  “You walk like an eagle in the Jardin des Plantes!” said Landes, with a nervous laugh; “stop it and tell me what you are doing here at one o’clock in the morning!”

  “Monsieur Philip, I was fixing a padlock on the gate. The street below near the rue Vavin is full of soldiers. Hark! do you hear the sound of the picks?”

  An icy chill ran down Landes’ spinal column. “What are they doing with picks?”

  “Making a barricade; a fine one, you can see them from the middle of the street. They are down by the convent, just around the curve. Listen!” Through the silence came the sharp clink! clink! of steel pick-axes striking granite; and while he listened to that, another sound began and increased — the distant noise of an approaching throng. Nearer it came and nearer, and now he could distinguish the measured cadence of marching feet, the short, sharp clank of trailing scabbards, and the rumble of artillery.

  “Put out that light! They are coming up this street!” Joseph obeyed in silence. Nearer and nearer came the clanking, jangling cannon, the trample of horses, the jingle of bit and spur, until the echoes awoke among the opposite houses, and the whole air vibrated with the clash of steel.

  A shadowy figure rode straight up the street, horse and rider pale in the moonlight; another rider followed, then two more, then three, then a dozen, and still they came, shrouded in heavy cloaks, their long sabres hanging straight down behind their spurred boots, clouds of frosty steam streaming from nostril and flank.

  Cannon were passing too, pieces of seven, long and wicked, mitrailleuses, shapeless dark lumps on wheels, with queer little toy caissons trailing behind.

  Along the sidewalk shuffled the insurgent infantry, thin men with hollow eyes that turned in their sockets like those of the very sick or insane.

  Before the rear-guard had passed, the ominous clank of pick-axes and crowbars was renewed, but this time it came from the head of the column, which seemed to have reached the intersection of the rue Notre Dame and the rue Bara.

  “They are barricading the street at both ends! We are hemmed in!” whispered Landes.

  Someone came to the gate and hammered on it with the butt of a revolver. Landes stepped into the porter’s lodge and listened from the doorway.

  “Quiet there!” growled Joseph, shuffling about noisily in his sabots. “Who is it?’

  “Sorry to disturb you, citizen!” came the cheery answer, with a strong English accent; “can you give me a drink of water?”

  Landes sprang to the gate. “Wilton! Oh, I am glad to see you! Come in!” Joseph opened the gate and Philip dragged the new-comer into the porter’s lodge. By the candle light he appeared a sturdy bright-eyed youth in a Colonel’s uniform of the National Guard.

  “Why, Philip, old man! I didn’t know you were in Paris yet.”

  “Well I am, and a suspect of your damned Commune.”

  “Rubbish!” began Wilton, but on seeing Landes’ face he frowned and whistled.

  “You ‘re a Colonel, Archie — you ought to be able to help me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing, — insulted Raoul Rigault several days ago and punched his head to-night, punched a Federal sentinel in the nose and took away his rifle, punched Tribert, Colonel of the 265th, in the nose—”

  Wilton burst into a wild shriek of laughter and fell helplessly against the wall.

  “What the devil are you making that row for? Do you want to have the pickets down on us?” said Landes, angrily. Joseph, astonished and motionless, looked on with melancholy disapproval.

  “Go on, Philip!” gasped Wilton. “Oh, don’t let me interrupt you!”

  “There’s nothing more, except that a trio of cutthroats are waiting to cut mine — and also, as I was mixed up in the Montmartre business, I’m a marked man on that score too.”

  “Well, you have managed to put your foot in pretty deep. How did it come about?”

  As briefly as possible Landes explained the whole situation, and demanded his countryman’s advice and aid.

  “You shall have it, my dear fellow! You shall have all the help I can give you. But how much that will be and how long it will last I can’t tell. The Commune watches us foreign officers like a cat. To-day Dombrowski is General (and a devilish good one!) — to-morrow the Central Committee may shoot him. To-day Frankenberg, Smitz, and your humble servant are Colonels — to-morrow we may be kicking our heels in the Mazas Prison.”

  “How in the world did you come to enter the Federal army, Archie?”

  “It was Gustave Courbet. He got me my commission.”

  “But what did you do it for?”

  “Oh, I like the fun.”

  “Fun!”

  “Well, excitement. I’m a rotten painter, but I think I’ll make a good soldier.”

  “Pity you didn’t find that out in time to go to West Point.”

  “I know it. But after all, what’s the difference? It’s all fighting.”

  “And a little parading?” laughed Landes.

  “Yes. I like a red-banded cap and a sword banging about my heels,” —

  “But it’s a shame to see you among those thugs! I tell you the Commune fouled its hands to the bone in the bloody work on Montmartre!”

  “It was foul work,” said Wilton, soberly, “and they’ll have to pay for it. After the elections we will rout out these assassins and purge every battalion. Anyway, you know every great cause is injured by those who use its name to cloak their crimes,” added Archie, pompously.

  “I think I’ve heard Mademoiselle Faustine Courtois make a similar observation,” smiled Landes.

  “No doubt! No doubt! We think alike.”

  “And Ynès Falaise, — do you and she also — think alike?”

  “By jove! isn’t she a darling? So clever too!”

  “Yes,” said Philip, “I hear she admires your uniform.”

  “Does she? Well, it is handsome,” cried Archie, with a boyish movement. “I had the galons put on myself. And look at those boots! They cost one hundred and fifty francs. What are you grinning at? Think a man can’t fight—”

  “I think you’ll fight as well in boots at one hundred and fifty francs, as at fifteen francs — and that’s like a little devil when you get going. But what good will your boots and your galons do me? And how will they help this young lady to get out of Paris? That’s what I want to know.”

  “What can I do for you, Philip?” asked Wilton, with a frank smile.

  “Was that your battalion that just passed?”

  “The Infantry? Yes, the 266th de marche. We left three hundred men at the War Mini
stry.”

  “Yes,” thought Philip, grimly, “I saw some of them. What are they going to do?” he asked aloud.

  “The engineers are closing this street at both ends with barricades, and my men escorted the artillery which is to man them.”

  “Both ends of the rue Notre Dame are barricaded?”

  “They will be by morning.”

  “Are you to command here?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Can you give my concierge a pass to go and get food for us?”

  “To clear the barricades? Oh, yes! Anything else?”

  “Can you keep the Federals out of the house?”

  “Yes, what else?”

  “Well. I want to communicate with the American Minister. First I want to place Mademoiselle de Brassac under his protection, and next I want to get out of the city myself. It’s damned unpleasant. I dare not go out by daylight. If I were recognized and Raoul Rigault caught me, all the officers of the National Guard couldn’t save me.”

  “Does Rigault know where you live? If he does I’m afraid my protection won’t count for much.”

  “Unless his spies have found out within twenty-four hours, he doesn’t. If he had known he would have sent for me when he did for Marsy. I came here during the siege, from the Hôtel du Mont Blanc. The police were thinking of other things and the whole city was dodging shells. I never inscribed myself and nobody asked any questions. Faustine and Ynès, Jack Ellice, and one or two other Americans, are all who ever knew where I lived. My letters go to the bank, and the only address they have at the bank is the old one. Perhaps I might go at night to the Legation. Of course the postal union is watched.”

  “Of course, — and the telegraph. As for the Legation, it is surrounded by a perfect pest of spies. The whole city is swarming with them. We foreigners of the army are forbidden to hold any communication or even approach within half a mile of any foreign legation, except under orders. But it seems to me you will be safe here for the present if you keep close. Your concierge will have the pass to come and go. Is he faithful?”

  “Joseph is as true as steel and as good as gold!” said Landes in French, smiling at him. Joseph’s anxious and disapproving face cleared up.

  “Well, then, all I have to do is to tell Raoul Rigault, when it comes handy, that you’ve been seen in Versailles, and he’ll be off the scent — for a while. And I’ll manage to keep other intruders away from here as long as I am in the neighborhood. And I’ll do my best to get word to the American Minister, but — there I’m doubtful. It’s this infernal, ridiculous Bergeret who makes all the trouble. He’s jealous of all the foreign officers. Dombrowski’s a soldier — but Bergeret would make an army mule shed tears.”

  Wilton picked up his sword and moved to the gate, accompanied by Philip. Joseph met them with a bottle in his hand.

  “Monsieur the Colonel asks for water,” he said, humbly, “but I, Joseph Lelocard, am proud to offer Monsieur the Colonel this wine of Burgundy.” Wilton took the bottle, coolly knocked off the neck, filled a china bowl with the wine, and swallowed it to the last drop.

  “That,” he said, “was drunk to the health and prosperity of every one in this house. It’s good wine, and you ‘re a good fellow, Joseph. Goodnight, Philip, old chap! Good-night, Joseph — I should say — er — Citizen,” and he clanked away, whistling “Marching through Georgia,” with all the power of his lungs.

  Landes listened until far up the street he heard him break off whistling to give some order in a loud, happy, boyish voice.

  “Joseph,” said Landes, looking at the concierge who was looking at the clock on the wall of his lodge, “Joseph, I would give half I’m worth if you had not sent your wife and children away just yet.”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “But Mademoiselle de Brassac will only be detained here a day or two. We will do our best to make her forget how rough her quarters are.”

  “Certainly, Monsieur.”

  “Well, now go to bed and have breakfast at nine, coffee, hot rolls, eggs on toast, fruit, brioche, meat for the cat, and bread and milk for the puppy, with a bone scraped clean — how dare you yawn when I’m speaking!”

  “Pardon. I did not, Monsieur. It was astonishment and admiration that Monsieur forgets nothing.”

  “It’s nearly three o’clock in the morning. Don’t rise early. I think we are safe and may rest. Go to bed, and don’t walk like a bald-headed eagle!” he broke off nervously.

  “Good-night, Monsieur Philip,” said Joseph, devotedly; “sleep well, Monsieur Philip.”

  “And you too, my good Joseph. Good-night.”

  CHAPTER IX. JEANNE DE BRASSAC.

  THE morning air had been sharp and a wood fire crackled on the hearth, as Philip, fresh from his cold bath, walked out into the studio.

  Sunlight fell in golden squares and diamonds on the floor, and through the glass roof of the extension he could see blue sky, spring-like and cloudless. The studio was silent and empty. He looked up at Jeanne de Brassac’s door. On the landing sat Tcherka in a patch of sunshine and blinked at him through the railings, her splendid green eyes following his movements with pleasant indifference. Unwilling to raise his voice in calling her, he held out his hand. She retained her seat and her serene composure. But when he ostentatiously brought a bowl and set it on the hearth and filled it full of milk, then Tcherka’s voice could have been heard as far as the rue Bara, while she trotted down with her tail erect. At the same moment the door above opened a little way and the setter puppy charged out, fell most of the way downstairs and hurled himself first upon Landes and then on the bowl of milk. Tcherka, much annoyed, drew back, her ears flat, her dainty pink tongue half out. The puppy gulped and lapped and slobbered and wagged. A low rumble came from Tcherka. Landes laughed quietly, brought a fresh saucer of milk for her, and stood guard over it until she had polished the china clean. Then he opened the door which led into the garden, and Tcherka walked out to stretch her claws on the rose bushes, while the puppy rolled on the gravel and dug important holes under the trees.

  Joseph came in with a tray of fresh glass and silver and, spreading a white damask cloth over the Japanese table, proceeded to arrange the breakfast.

  “Did you have any trouble in clearing the barricades?”

  “No, Monsieur Philip, an orderly came with a pass early this morning, good for two weeks and to be renewed when we desire it.”

  “What is the news?”

  “The elections are for to-morrow. There is talk also of a sortie to Versailles.”

  “What for?” said Philip, contemptuously.

  “To catch Monsieur Thiers, parbleu!”

  “Nonsense!’

  “They say now is the time, before the troops come back from Germany. They say he hasn’t got much of an army now. Shall I light the coffee machine?”

  “Not yet,” but while he spoke, looking up to the landing above, the door opened and Jeanne de Brassac stepped out. She leaned on the wooden railing and looked down into the studio as Landes sprang to his feet.

  “Good-morning, Monsieur Landes! May I come down?”

  “Indeed I beg you will!” he stammered, bowing and walking to the foot of the stair.

  One white hand held lightly to the balustrade, her face was bent a little timidly, as she descended, Philip watching her. He had not imagined she was so beautiful. Her glorious hair was drawn back from a pure white forehead low but full, and her eyes, her violet eyes, which he remembered when she was Victor’s little sister, were filled with a light so sweet and serene, that he turned his own eyes away, troubled before so pure a gaze.

  At the foot of the staircase she gave him her hand, and he led her to an arm-chair before the fire, standing beside her when she was seated.

  “Are you rested, Mademoiselle?”

  “Yes, — and better, much better,” she answered quietly. “Are you, Monsieur Landes? You can hardly be rested, after — after all you did!” The open trust and admiration of her look and the s
oft-falling inflection of her voice made the young man flush up with embarrassment and pleasure. “And you must have missed your room. I am so sorry to disturb you.”

  “Pardon. I am thoroughly rested. And my room is over there,” pointing to a curtain which half concealed a door in the rear of the studio. “The room which you do me the honor to occupy has never been used before since I came here. I feared it would be hardly comfortable. So small and—”

  “It is perfect. And what a beautiful studio. I was never in an artist’s studio before. I should have seen Victor’s if he had lived to come home,” she added sadly.

  “Breakfast is served, Monsieur Philip,” said Joseph. Landes offered his arm to Mademoiselle de Brassac and led her out into the glass-roofed extension where the table stood. Sunshine sparkled among the silverware, the china, and slender glass; the coffee machine was steaming. Outside the window, on top of an almond-tree, the blackbird was doing his best at a solo, with a confident eye on Tcherka who stalked him eagerly below.

  “She will never catch him,” said Landes.

  “But — she is very cruel all the same — I must teach her better.”

  “I fear that’s a lesson she can’t learn,” laughed Philip.

  He dismissed Joseph and served his guest himself. At first they were quiet and a little reserved, and ate almost silently. After a while he said:

  “When I last had the honor of breakfasting with Mademoiselle de Brassac, she was a very young lady indeed — I think she wore pinafores,” he added, venturing on a jesting tone. It was taken up with ready tact.

  “No, she had discarded those at the last school term. But I won’t deny she had her hair in plaits. And I know she thought her brother Victor’s American friend a very old gentleman indeed!”