Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Didn’t you mean to risk your life to help me in the Impasse de la Mort? I think you did, Jack. Isn’t it rather late to stand on ceremony with me? Besides do you realize that I have been a prisoner here ever since that night, without speaking to a man except Joseph?”

  “What about food?”

  “Joseph has a pass. It’s only marketing for four instead of two.”

  “Well, if you put it that way. But it didn’t seem when we came in just now as if you had found the absence of male society—”

  “Here,” interrupted Philip, dryly, “don’t you want linen and some decent clothes?”

  “I do indeed. This blouse is not perfumed with violet.”

  “Well — you know the place as well as I do. There’s the dressing case, here’s the bath, filled, — and I’ve had reason before now to think my clothes fitted you!”

  “Pure calumny,” said Ellice, shedding his blouse,—” where are the towels? What are you laughing at? Get out or I’ll splash!”

  Landes went out into the studio where the concierge was poking the fire and waiting for orders. Giving him instructions to provide for four, Philip strolled on into the garden and sat down on the edge of the fountain to smoke a cigarette. The last rays of the sun fell aslant the gravel where the toad squatted, cold and motionless.

  “So you ‘re back again, my friend,” laughed Philip. For a while he sat and smoked, with his eyes fixed on Monsieur Prudhomme, but he was not thinking of Monsieur Prudhomme. The two goldfish floated near the surface of the water, staring intently until a flighty new-born gnat tumbled into the basin, then they jumped together and fell back with loud flops.

  “That must have been a gnat,” he thought, “the first this spring. It is already spring, the lilacs will be in bloom by next week, so will the almonds and acacias. What will the spring bring to us — to Jeanne and to me? What will it bring to Paris — to France?” He thought of the strange year that had just ended — the battles and rumors of battles of the summer, the disaster of Sedan in the autumn, the siege with its wintry horrors and desolation, the surrender and the entry of the German hordes. How long was this era of battle to continue? The new year had begun badly. January passed amid an iron tempest from the Prussian siege guns. From the fifth until the twenty-seventh of the month, great shells fell like monstrous meteors in Paris, blowing to fragments women and children as well as the city’s defenders, tearing houses to pieces, smashing churches, spreading terror and death even in the hospitals where the helpless wounded lay.

  February, the month of starvation, began with famine and ended in riots. March had now just ended, but what a month of horror had died with it.

  This was the third of April. What would April bring?

  He sat there thinking; the old jingle kept running through his mind until he repeated it aloud,

  “April showers,

  Bring forth May flowers.”

  He little knew how truly the old rhyme rang, for the April showers were to be showers of blood, and the May blossoms, the crimson flower of Anarchy.

  Twilight fell as he sat pondering by the fountain, and already in the studio a lamp glowed through the drawn curtains. After a while Mlle, de Brassac came to the doorway and looked out into the garden. She could not see him in the shadows, and she called softly, “Philip, where are you?” He rose at once and walked to her. He thought of her arms around his neck an hour before and felt his cheeks burning in the darkness, but all the constraint was on his side.

  “You will catch cold without your hat,” she said, “come in.”

  “Is Mademoiselle de Saint Brieuc well?”

  “Quite well. I have lent her everything she needs.”

  “Well, you will be happy now to have a companion here with you.”

  “Yes — oh yes. She is very charming. Her name is Marguerite,” she said in a low sweet voice.

  “Good-bye to our little promenades then,” he said sulkily.

  For a moment she looked at him without speaking, and he felt very silly standing there on the step below her.

  “Come,” he said at last, “we must go into the studio. Is Ellice there?”

  “Monsieur Ellice is talking with Mademoiselle de Saint Brieuc before the fire. If you had your hat on we might take a little tour in the garden.”

  With a laugh she threw her scarf over his head and tied it like a turban. Then she stepped to the ground and took his arm.

  “Thank you,” he muttered; she bent her head gently and they moved out through the dark garden.

  Twice they made the circuit in silence; his heart was beating very fast and the light touch of her hand on his arm filled him with sensations which he was too happy to analyze.

  “We must go in,” she said, as they approached the doorway for the third time. He unwound the scarf and placed it about her neck. Still she lingered a moment, her hands clasped behind her back, her fair face half turned from his.

  “I hope we shall have many more little walks together in our garden,” she said,—” if you wish it, Philip.”

  “I do,” he replied in a low voice.

  “Come,” she whispered, “I hear Joseph bringing the silver. Dinner will be served before you are ready.”

  He followed her into the studio and went up to the fireplace, where Mademoiselle de Saint Brieuc was sitting, with Jack lounging on the rug beside her, and Toodles bestowing his clumsy cheerfulness impartially on them both. Philip explained the arrangements he had made for their accommodation. “I wish I could say comfort,” he added.

  “I will say it then. You will be more than comfortable if you have Monsieur Landes for your host,” said Jeanne, looking after Philip, who had started toward his room to get ready for dinner. He heard without looking back, but all the time he was dressing he was asking himself what was the quality in Jeanne de Brassac which made a man feel so proud at her lightest approval.

  “Did you find your gardener’s dress a good disguise, Jack?” he asked when he rejoined them.

  “Perfectly — even to the perfume. That peasant who owned it was a friend in need, but he wasn’t tidy.”

  “You don’t think anyone could have suspected “No one did, it appears.”

  “And your French is not all it might be, either,” mused Philip, “but perhaps you didn’t talk much.

  It’s our voices and inflections that betray us,” he added thoughtfully.

  “Not yours, Monsieur Landes,” said Mademoiselle de Saint Brieuc; “you speak like a Frenchman.”

  He gave her a searching glance to see if it were a compliment or sincerely meant. “But you must know you do,” put in Jeanne. “Here comes Joseph with the soup; will you give me your arm, Monsieur Ellice?”

  During dinner Jack Ellice did most of the talking, with constant appeals to Mademoiselle de Saint Brieuc. It was evident that Jack fancied himself in love with her, and that her manner of receiving his homage was more peremptory than flattering. It was a mixture of indulgence and impatience which said she thought him an excellent boy, but centuries younger than herself. His love was not very obtrusive, being confined to sudden lapses into silent sentimental contemplation of the young lady, who was certainly very pretty. Then after a few minutes he would emerge and remain in a normal condition for hours.

  His temperament was winning, his character fickle, he was true-hearted, kind, and brave, and only tiresome when under his sentimental spells. He never met a pretty woman without falling in love in this manner, and then suddenly, without the least warning, the spoony part of his affection would vanish, and a hearty friendship would remain in its place. With Jack, to love a woman once was to have an immense kindness for her ever after.

  When dinner was over Jeanne insisted that the men should smoke; so they lighted cigarettes, and Philip, blowing a luxurious whiff to the ceiling, called upon Ellice to tell his story.

  “And no embellishments, Monsieur Jack,” said Mademoiselle de Saint Brieuc, teasingly; “I am here to correct any mistakes, you know.”
<
br />   “It doesn’t need any embellishments. It’s weird enough without any, but I’ll not be a party to any belittling of what I call the most astounding and diverting adventures of the Demoiselle Marguerite de Saint Brieuc — and her faithful—”

  “Yes, Monsieur Ellice,” said Jeanne, gently, “but unhappily the adventures are not over yet. Mustn’t we take them a little seriously until they are finished?”

  Jack made her a bow and went on gravely:

  “Mademoiselle is right. The situation is serious enough, and nothing is gained by pretending not to think so. When we left you in the cab we expected to meet you again at my studio within an hour. Captain de Carette was unconscious and Mademoiselle de Saint Brieuc had some difficulty in replacing the bandages on his wounds. I think they slipped that time when Tribert knocked him down, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “I think Captain de Carette regained consciousness before we reached the rue de Sfax, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” said Marguerite, briefly.

  “Well, — when we had crossed the Passage de Lille and were about to enter the rue de Sfax, Mademoiselle de Saint Brieuc, who was looking ahead from the cab window, suddenly cried out to me to stop the driver.

  I did so, of course, — lucky for us she was on the lookout. The whole street was full of Federal troops raising Cain. They were all drunk, yelling like madmen and firing their rifles into the air, so our cabby backed his horses into the passage de Lille which was as dark as pitch. I got out and stole up to the corner to reconnoitre. The Federals were dragging a man out of a vestibule, howling and cursing, and discharging their rifles in every direction. They finished the poor fellow with their bayonets and left him — never mind how. I was simply rooted to the spot, and next thing I saw them break into another house, and after driving every occupant into the street, pillage and wreck it from roof to basement. I could see them raging through the rooms with lighted torches. Then they all came out again and yelled ‘Vive la Commune — à mort Lebeau!’ Lebeau! I thought, why, that is the man who disciplined the National Guard during the siege! He lived in the rue de Sfax. Then a thought struck me and made me jump. Whose house was it they were wrecking and preparing to burn? Sure enough, when I crept along close to the wall, and got near enough to see — it was my house and the furniture of my studio, and the remains of my pictures lay, with what was left of Monsieur Lebeau, in the middle of the street.

  “I didn’t waste much time there after that, but before I got away a National Guard fired at me, and when I left the bullets were flying down the rue de Sfax. Cabby set off at a gallop, — it was all Mademoiselle de Saint Brieuc could do to make him wait for me, and he never pulled up until we were on the Boulevard St. Michel. Then he wanted us to get out; he said we needn’t pay him if we’d only go. The jolting had loosened Captain de Carette’s bandages, and he was almost helpless from loss of blood. I told Cabby to go ahead, and we started in search of lodgings. You can imagine how careful we had to be. A wounded officer would have queered us badly with the wrong sort of landlord. But it was easy to avoid committing ourselves, for the friends of the Commune were bawling for the Commune, and that helped us very much in selecting our hotel-keeper. After a long search we found one who was so quiet we thought we could venture to trust him, and sure enough he was loyal, — Verdier, the landlord of the Boule d’Or, a little hotel on the Boulevard St. Michel. We got Captain de Carette to bed, and Mademoiselle de Saint Brieuc dressed his wound while we were waiting for a surgeon. When the doctor came he said he couldn’t have done better himself—”

  “Pardon, Monsieur Jack! — he said nothing of the kind.”

  “He said the bandages were all right, didn’t he?”

  “He said they did very well — but that is of no consequence, anyway. Please go on.”

  “Well, the doctor was just on the point of leaving for Versailles and he had a pass from Raoul Rigault, so we just forged another for de Carette. Mademoiselle de Saint Brieuc absolutely refused to let us provide her with one also.”

  “It was too dangerous,” said the young lady; “one forgery was likely to succeed, but a second, and for a lady, would have been scrutinized.”

  “So the doctor took the Captain into his own carriage — and carried him off,” said Ellice, soberly.

  “Have you heard from Alain — but no, you couldn’t.”

  “Verdier had a letter from the doctor, after they arrived at Versailles. He said his patient was all right — getting on, and would soon be ready for active service again. And Captain de Carette sent his gratitude and his devoted service to the lady. The letter said—”

  “I told you I should correct you when you made mistakes,” interposed Mademoiselle de Saint Brieuc, hastily.

  “Very well, but this isn’t one, you know. I read it myself.”

  “And did he not mention you at all?”

  “Oh yes, he sent his regards to me.”

  “And he said nothing about courage and generosity?”

  “I forget — I forget in fact everything that happened for the next few days, excepting one which drove all the rest out of my head.”

  Philip wondered if Jack could possibly be going to forget his good manners and say that the company of Mademoiselle de Saint Brieuc had driven everything else out of his head.

  “No,” Landes decided, “he can’t be such a fool,” and said aloud, “What was it?”

  “Merely that two days after we were installed in the Boule d’Or I thought it safe to venture out, and I strolled down the Boulevard St. Michel — intending to find out if I could what had become of you. I was passing a corner and I noticed a crowd around a bulletin, a big flaming poster, so I stopped to read it. Imagine my abject terror when I found myself reading a description of myself with a reward for my apprehension, signed by Raoul Rigault. My knees knocked together — they did indeed—” as Mademoiselle de Saint Brieuc looked up incredulously. “You were mentioned too, Philip — dead or alive we ‘re both wanted by Raoul Rigault. Mademoiselle de Brassac and Mademoiselle de Saint Brieuc also occupied several lines of large type, but they ‘re not wanted dead. Well — I went back to the Boule d’Or and stayed there. Verdier came and held a consultation with us. Mademoiselle de Saint Brieuc’s family live in Tours; her friends here had all fled to Versailles or elsewhere. She was good enough to admit that she felt safer with my company than without it—”

  “I admitted much more of my confidence and esteem for you than that, Monsieur Jack.”

  Jack colored with pleasure and went on: “Verdier finally advised us to try our luck at the barricade. There was a market gardener and his wife who sold garden stuff to him — he bought their clothes of them for six times what they were worth, assuring them that if Raoul Rigault ever heard of the transaction they would be corpses the same day. We put on the things in spite of their smells — and sold vegetables at your barricade until we got in. That’s all.”

  CHAPTER XIII. A DANGEROUS QUEST.

  NEXT morning before six o’clock Landes was writing a note. It said, when finished:

  “DEAR JACK: — Now you are here to take my place, I must go and see if I can’t find some help. Your blue blouse, etc., will do for a disguise — if they served you they will me. I am going along the wall to the Passage Stanislas, and unless I have bad luck I shall drop into the street there and make as best I can for the Boule d’Or. I hope your loyal landlord Verdier will befriend me as he did you, and will somehow manage to get a message into the hands of our Minister. Anyway, it’s worth trying, and I don’t think the risk is great.

  “I expect to be here again before dark. Mademoiselle de Brassac will know that I am doing no more than my duty and will forgive my not taking leave.

  “My best services to both the ladies. Keep them and yourself in spirits, Jack.

  “Yours,

  “PHILIP.”

  He sealed the note, and addressed it to Ellice. Then he drew the gardener’s blouse over his head, pulled on the shabby trouser
s, and took up the cap and bandanna handkerchief.

  He stood a moment thinking, then placing the letter on the night-table beside the bed, he quietly entered the studio. Tcherka came to rub against his legs but he did not notice her, for he was looking up to the little balcony and Jeanne de Brassac’s door. Next moment he was in the garden.

  There was a ladder lying under a peach tree, and he picked it up and placed it against the wall. The wall was high, but he had no difficulty in climbing to the top and walking along it until he reached the intersecting wall of the garden in the rear. This was also broad but much overgrown with rose vines. He tore his blouse on the thorns and scratched his face and hands, but he had no difficulty in following it until it took a sudden turn and he came in sight of the Passage Stanislas. But now another wall covered with tiles blocked his way and he spent ten minutes in trying to scale it. He failed, but there was a chestnut tree growing close to the wall in the garden below, so he dropped to the ground, scrambled up the tree, and swung himself across to the tiled wall. In a minute more he lay flat on his stomach along the wall which borders the Passage Stanislas, and peered down to where the rue Notre Dame curves by the convent. There were no sentinels in sight, the alley and the street were silent and deserted; he quietly dropped to the sidewalk and hurried toward the Boulevard Montparnasse.

  It was a queer sensation to find himself walking in the street again. He looked about as if he had suddenly dropped into a strange city. People passed him, most of them clad in cap and blouse. On the Boulevard the shops were still closed, but the street was lively and the omnibuses and cabs were running as usual. Every few moments he passed soldiers of the National Guard, but nobody looked at him and he began to feel at ease. He met scores of men dressed as he was, and he was sure that if anything had been amiss in his costume they would have noticed it. Except for a barricade here and there, it was difficult to believe that Paris was in a state of insurrection. The life in the city had not changed; people were taking down their wooden shutters, the crémeries were open and filled with customers, and market wagons passed in files along the shabby Boulevard toward the square by the Closerie des Lilas. On the Boulevard Montrouge he stopped to buy a hot roll, and took it into a crémerie where he ate it with a pat of fresh butter and a bowl of chocolate. Two soldiers of Franchetti’s Scouts sat in the corner, jabbering noisily over their café-au-lait. He listened to their conversation while he sipped his hot chocolate.