Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “There is another prisoner,” said the corporal, with a shuddering glance at the murdered deserter whom two men had tossed into a stretcher and were carrying out across the rue Vavin.

  “Bring him here, corporal, — and you,” turning to the guard,’”take these friends of mine to the Mazas Prison!”

  The platoon moved out into the rue Vavin, and the corporal went away to bring up the remaining prisoner.

  Sarre picked up a handful of hay and rubbed some blood spots from the toes of his boots. When the corporal returned with the last prisoner, Sarre was still at his toilet, but he raised his head and examined the man who stood motionless in front of him. Then he drew his revolver again and cocked it.

  “You can go,” he said to the corporal, who had turned quite white. The soldier left with a hasty salute and Sarre stood alone with the prisoner.

  “Stand against that wall,” he said.

  The young man walked over to the barricade and faced Sarre. The latter raised his revolver; the prisoner uttered an exclamation and shut his eyes.

  “Tiens!” said Sarre, tranquilly; “I thought I’d make him jump.” He smiled at the prisoner, who still held his eyes closed convulsively. Then he lowered the revolver.

  “For God’s sake shoot!” groaned the young man, hoarsely,—” don’t torture me, Sarre!”

  “Look up, my friend,” said Sarre, “you ‘re not dead yet!”

  The prisoner gasped and opened his eyes.

  “You don’t seem anxious to die, Monsieur Landes,” sneered Sarre..

  Philip stared at him, his face ghastly, his eyes bloodshot and dim with horror.

  “Pooh,” continued Sarre, cocking and uncocking his revolver, “what is death? Nothing to be afraid of, mon ami. Death is but sleep, and sleep but an entre-act in the comedy of life.”

  Philip neither moved nor spoke.

  “Lost your tongue? Frightened?”

  “You lie!” said Philip, in a scarcely audible voice. “No I don’t,” replied Sarre, tranquilly; “you are frightened almost speechless. Voyons, admit it!” Philip was silent, but his eyes grew clearer and a flush tinged his temples.

  “And now,” continued Sarre, “you are getting over your fright and are ready to die like a brave man, eh? Oh, I can see, I’m not a mole. What do you think I am going to do with you?”

  “I think you will shoot me,” replied Philip. His voice was coming back again.

  “What’s the reward for you, — dead or alive?”

  “A thousand francs.”

  “Is that all?”

  No answer.

  “And,” continued Sarre, “you think I’d kill a man for that?”

  “l’m d — n sure you would! For God’s sake fire and finish it!” The cold sweat rolled down his face.

  Sarre deliberately raised his revolver and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell with a metallic clink. Again he snapped the weapon, and the same sharp ring followed. With a vile oath he threw open the breech of the revolver and jerked back the ejector. Two loaded cartridges and an empty shell flew out, and he picked one of them up and glanced at the primer. Then with a short laugh he tossed it to Philip’s feet. “You ‘re in luck,” he chuckled; “the hammer hit it fair and square. I’ll report these A-3. cartridges.”

  Philip leaned against the wall. He looked very white and weak and his eyes were two shadowy hollows.

  “You ‘re in luck, I tell you,” repeated Sarre, closing his revolver and jamming it into the holster. “Now I’m glad I didn’t kill you, do you know? Why, it would have been a shame. I can get lots of amusement out of you yet. Do you think I want that reward? No, my friend. Oh, I’m very glad those cartridges hung fire. I missed doing that hog Rigault a favor. What a fool I was, — what a fool!” He glanced over his shoulder toward the rue Bara, where, the 1st Turcos were forming in heavy marching order. Then he looked at Philip and grinned. “Did you strike, Raoul Rigault? Is it true?”

  “It’s true,” said Philip, with an effort. “What a fiend you are, André Sarre!”

  “Now you ‘re mistaken, perhaps,” protested Sarre, leering at him. “Did you strike him hard, — hard, — and in the face?”

  Philip nodded with an apathetic stare.

  Sarre chuckled.’ “I heard you did. What a shame to shoot a man like you. You may kill him some day, — this Policeman General Rigault, eh?”

  “If I live,” said Philip.

  “And me too, perhaps?” laughed Sarre.

  Philip did not answer.

  “Landes,” said Sarre, abruptly, “I give you your life.”

  Philip’s face reddened and his chest heaved, but he only said, “on what condition?’

  “Now bless my soul!” laughed Sarre, “what an intelligent young man! What a shame to have blown a hole in him!” Then he added seriously; “the conditions are that you kill Raoul Rigault—”

  “I refuse. I’m no assassin.”

  “But,” sneered Sarre, “you just said—”

  “What I do I’ll do on my own account,” said Philip, with a desperate gleam in his eyes. “I’ll make no condition concerning Rigaultt.”

  Sarre eyed him narrowly. Then with a shrug; “I’m satisfied. The other condition is that you join the ranks.”

  “What ranks?”

  “These — the 1st Turcos.”

  “What? You know I’d desert!”

  “Oh, I’ll attend to that,” observed Sarre; “do you accept?”

  “And if I do not?”

  Sarre called to an officer and asked him for his revolver. The officer handed it to him with a keen glance at Philip. “What cartridges do you carry?” demanded Sarre.

  “B-3 — new model,” replied the officer.

  “How many defective in a thousand rounds?”

  “None.” —

  Sarre turned with a smile to Philip. “Well, Monsieur, will you join the its Turcos?”

  “Yes,” said Landes, without hesitation.

  “I congratulate you,” laughed Sarre; “here, sergeant, take this new recruit to the depot and give him his uniform and equipment. Assign him to the First company, Captain Cartier. Tell Captain Cartier I — want to see him. If this conscript hesitates in his duty, shoot him without further orders, and instruct the company in that respect. Hurry — we march in ten minutes!”

  Weser came up at that moment to report his company ready. He stared in astonishment at Landes, who was following the sergeant across the square, but Sarre, chuckling and rubbing his hands gave him a brief outline of what had passed, and Weser nodded approval.

  “You see,” said Sarre, “I’ll keep him well guarded, and when we strike the Versaillists I’ll shove him to the front. If he’s shot, we have his body, and Rigault must pay up. If he’s not shot, we will have all the fun and then turn him over to our friend the Préfet, — when we get ready!”

  “In the meantime we can find where he has the diamonds,” suggested Weser, with a cunning smile.

  “Izzy, you ‘re a treasure!” cried Sarre. “What a fool I should have been to shoot him — so soon!” Then the drums rolled through the rue Notre Dame, the shrill fantastic bugle notes echoed from square to square, and Sarre, climbing laboriously into the saddle of a huge grey horse, drew his sword. “Forward!” he bawled, and the 1st battalion of Paris Turcos swung out of the rue Notre Dame.

  CHAPTER XVII. WITH THE RED FLAG.

  DAYLIGHT was fading in the room; the blackbird whistled fitfully, cocking his bright eye at the setting sun, and swallows soared and sailed above the chimney pots. From the garden below came the clank of Ellice’s spade on the gravel, followed by retreating footsteps; then the studio door opened and shut and all was quiet.

  A wandering evening breeze moved the curtains and touched the curls on Jeanne’s white forehead. She lay on the bed, her head on Marguerite’s breast, her eyes fixed on the dim light which faded and faded from the window panes. Above the chimneys opposite, the sky was still blue, but it changed, gradually, to palest green and then w
as hidden in a mass of gold-flecked clouds. Little by little the clouds deepened until they glowed like dying coals.

  “God keep my husband!” sobbed Marguerite.

  “God keep Philip!” whispered Jeanne.

  Then from the north came a deep peal of thunder. Jeanne sprang to her feet, her hand pressed to her throat, her dry lips parted. Again the thunder boomed and the rising night wind bore its rumbling far into the city. The window panes were still shaking as Marguerite crept to the sill and looked out. Far on the horizon the coming night advanced, shrouded in pale mist. In the vaguer blue above, a star sparkled. And now from the north the sound of the cannon grew, increasing like the thunder of an ocean pounding soft sand.

  “Cannon!” whispered Marguerite.

  “Cannon!” whispered Jeanne.

  In the street below a stern voice cried and a bugle clanged. Louder and louder rattled the drums, while the bugles chimed harsh chorus and the hum of departure swelled to a roar. Once a sharp report rang out through the tumult of the drums, and Jeanne glanced anxiously at Marguerite.

  “A shot!” she said; “what can it mean?”

  “It means war, my darling, — war and death!” and the two women crept closer together.

  “Hark!” whispered Marguerite, “someone is calling.”

  It was Ellice, standing, pale and excited, in the studio below, and they hurried down the stairs to meet him.

  “Joseph says the Federals are marching out of the barricade by the rue Vavin. If they leave no guard I think we had better try again for the American Minister’s.”

  Joseph entered hurriedly. “It is as I feared,” he said; “they leave a company to garrison the barricade.” Ellice looked blank. Jeanne went and looked up in Joseph’s face. Her voice was very gentle, but her lips trembled.

  “What was that shot?” she asked.

  “They murdered a poor devil—”

  “Who was it — do you know?”

  Joseph understood. He said, looking down at her like a father: “Mademoiselle, it was a deserter named Ouvrard. The sentinel in front of the convent told me so.”

  Ellice, who was walking up and down, suddenly blurted out: “I wish to Heaven Philip would come back! It’s nearly dark.”

  “Perhaps he is waiting for the night before he returns,” said Marguerite.

  “Do you think so?” asked Jeanne, piteously.

  “He said he’d be back by night,” insisted Ellice, with querulous persistence.

  “It is not night yet,” said Marguerite, quietly. Something in her voice made Ellice stop and look at her. Then he went and sat down by the fire. “I’m making a precious ass of myself,” he sighed; “I must brace up! Of course,” he said aloud in a cheery voice, “it’s not yet dark, and anyway he may have been detained. Oh, he’s all right — he’s well disguised, and he is too wise to run risks.”

  “I am sure he is safe,” said Marguerite, calmly, and gave Ellice a grateful glance which sent him into his state of trance for the next ten minutes.

  Joseph flitted in and out, setting the table for dinner, and Jeanne watched with a heavy heart while he laid a place for Philip.

  “They say,” said Joseph, “that the Archbishop of Paris has been arrested to-day, along with the Abbé Lagarde, his Vicar-General.”

  “That is certainly a lie,” cried Ellice, reassuring the horrified girls with a smile. “Fancy them daring to touch the Archbishop!”

  “It’s what they are saying at the barricade,” growled Joseph. “I thought it was a lie myself. And they say, too, that part of this queer Turco battalion have been looting churches this morning, and have arrested eighty priests and sent them to Mazas.”

  “Pure invention,” said Ellice, confidently.

  “It must be,” said Marguerite, watching Jeanne’s shocked face.

  “That’s all the news I heard, except that the Fort of Issy fired at the Versailles batteries near Meudon, and there is going to be a sortie to-morrow. The Turcos are to march with Bergeret’s column—”

  “Was that the bombardment we just heard?” asked Jeanne.

  “We could not hear the Fort of Issy,” said Ellice, with a desperate attempt to keep conversation going; “it must have come from the big marine cannon by the Point du Jour.”

  Nobody spoke for some minutes, and it was a relief to hear Joseph rattle the knives and forks as he laid each cover with elaborate care.

  The cannonade had ceased, the stars shone through the glass roof of the outer studio, and a cricket chirped from the garden. Through the budding branches of the chestnut tree the new moon peeped, a thin, misty crescent.

  Jeanne raised her eyes and saw it. There it glimmered, a narrow band of light among the branches, and a sudden flood of childish memories filled her with tenderness and love. Very innocently she thought: “The new moon is over my right shoulder; I will wish for Philip’s return.” With her eyes on the new moon she repeated her wish, unconscious of her childishness. She wondered if Philip was looking at it, wherever he was, and thinking of her. She wondered and wondered, and dreamed and dreamed, until a movement from Marguerite brought her back to earth and she remembered. Then she prayed for him wherever he might be, and her heart seemed bursting with its weight of sorrow.

  And the man she prayed for, at that same moment, stood on a bastion of the fortifications and prayed for her with all the strength of his love and passion; and as he prayed, he raised his eyes and saw the new moon shining in the sky.

  “God help her!” he muttered, looking out across the shadowy city, where the twin towers of Notre Dame loomed gigantic in the twilight. Then he turned to the north. Far on the horizon the Fort of Issy thundered, and the brooding clouds caught the dull reflection of the flashes. From the great bastion on the fortifications, the country, sheeted in thin mist, stretched away to the uplands of Versailles, where thousands of little points of light twinkled — the camp fires of the loyal army. Farther along, the wooded heights of Meudon sloped gently toward the west, where, through a notch in the hills, the starlight glimmered on the waters of the Seine. As he looked, a column of flame poured from beneath the arches of the viaduct by the Point du Jour, and the shock of an explosion shook the granite redoubt.

  “That,” said somebody near him, “is the cannon on the gunboat ‘ Farcy.’”

  He caught a glimpse of a black-hulled craft creeping from under the viaduct, but the banks of the Seine hid her again. Twice, as he strained his eyes, the huge gun in her bow flashed in the gloom and the echoes crashed among the vibrating arches of the bridge.

  On the heights of St. Cloud lights were moving in sweeps and circles, and after a while he realized that they were signals, but could not read them. An artillery officer standing on the breastworks to his right, night-glasses poised, was reporting the signals to a gunner, who sat with a lantern on his knees, jotting them down.

  “Seven, one!” cried the officer, in a monotonous, singsong voice.

  “Seven, one!” repeated the gunner.

  “Seven, sixteen, seven, one, five, nine, seventeen, one!” cried the officer, and the gunner repeated the numbers, writing each one as he called it.

  “Why don’t they send that signal officer up here, — he might solve their cipher,” observed a lieutenant of Turcos who stood, tablets in hand, looking over the messages as they were handed him by the gunner.

  “Seven, six, seven, eleven, nine — notice how often the seven occurs, Lieutenant! — one, seven, ten, one, seven. They ‘re using colored lights — green, three; red, two; blue, seven; green, one; blue, seven — note that! — red, one; yellow, six—”

  Philip listened wearily to the singsong voice until three rockets cleft the horizon from the Vanves fort, and a cannon flashed from the Clamart battery.

  Then far down the river the huge gun on the “Farcy” bellowed, and the fort of Issy replied. It was the parting shot of the night. One by one the signal lights faded from the heights, the cannonade died away, and a hush fell over land and river.
r />   Philip stood looking at the fire near him, where, wrapped in their white cloaks, his comrades sprawled, talking together in low tones. The lines of camp fires stretched in curves along the fortifications, casting strange shadows over angle and glacis, flashing on the polished breeches of ponderous siege guns, and sending showers of sparks into the black sky. The smoke blew in his eyes; he rubbed them with the sleeves of his Turco jacket, and the bell buttons on the embroidered arabesques jingled. He was clothed in the full uniform of a private in the 1st Turcos. On his head he wore the scarlet fez with the blue tassel, his legs were hidden by white canvas gaiters, and his body was covered with a turquoise-blue jacket and zouave trousers. A sabre-bayonet-sheath dangled from a leather belt, clasped over the scarlet body scarf, and from this belt also hung a cartridge-box and a rubber water bottle covered with blue cloth.

  He glanced across the fire at the sentinel who moved silently among the pyramids of stacked rifles and knapsacks. His own rifle was there; he could see it, locked among four others. Battle flags, furled and sheathed, lay across the clustered bayonets, and a few feet beyond, a pile of drums glistened in the firelight. Beside these drums stood a group of officers enveloped in their long cloaks. They were smoking, and conversing in whispers, but they all seemed to be in good humor, judging from the low chuckles which now and then escaped. Philip recognized Sarre and Weser and his own captain, Cartier, a mild-eyed young man who loved fighting with the passion of a bull terrier. After a while he saw Sarre move away, followed by Weser and others whom he did not know. With many good-nights and jaunty salutes the group broke up, Sarre and his familiars moving down to the quarters near the bomb-proof below, Cartier and the other captains strolling across the parade toward a rudely constructed shanty where a lantern hung, shedding its rays over two tables. Soon the faint clink of bottles and glasses indicated their occupation, and Philip saw casks of beer and wine rolled toward the Colonel’s quarters behind the bomb-proof.