Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Come, Tcherka dear, come, my own darling Tcherka,” whispered Jeanne, leaning far out of the window.

  The night was deliciously cool, and her hot forehead throbbed less painfully. Then, as she could not sleep, she dressed herself noiselessly, threw a scarf over her head, and went quietly down the stairs and out into the garden. Without taking count of time, she moved up and down the paths she loved, thinking always of Philip. It began to grow brighter; the bells in the convent rang for half-past four o’clock. Jeanne sank down by the stone-rimmed fountain to rest.

  A second later and the city was shaking with the thunder from Mont-Valérien.

  At the first shot, Tcherka gave a bound of amazement. At the second, she leaped into the garden and fled through the ivy-covered alley toward the street gate. Jeanne, who had risen to her feet, pale as death, saw Tcherka scramble past, and a minute later realized that the cat had made for the outer gate. Scarcely conscious of what she was doing, she followed her pet through the alley and came to the gate on the rue Notre Dame just in time to catch a glimpse of Tcherka flying along the convent wall opposite, toward the barricade on the rue Vavin. Without a thought of herself she flung open the side wicket and ran across the street calling, “Tcherka! Tcherka!” but at that moment a terrific salvo from the north drowned her voice and sent the cat scurrying on toward the barricade. Jeanne ran quickly along the grey façade of the convent, always keeping Tcherka in view, and she had almost caught up with the cat, when a burly figure sprang across the sidewalk and aimed a blow at Tcherka with a rifle butt. The cat dodged and flew over the barricade, and Jeanne, who had followed close, turned on the Turco like a tigress.

  “How dare you touch my cat!”

  The Turco, a fat-jowled youth with a dull eye and beardless chin, stared at her stupidly.

  “How dare you!” said Jeanne, in a low voice; “let me pass instantly!”

  Before the sentinel could open his mouth she had traversed the barricade and was hurrying across the rue Vavin toward the Luxembourg. Then the Turco came to his senses and ran to the barricade. “Halt! Halt or I fire!” he called out, and swung his rifle to his cheek, but Jeanne, as if she had not heard him, kept straight on.

  “Halt or I fire!” he cried again. She did not even turn her head. He hesitated for a moment, lowered his rifle, raised it again irresolutely, and finally set it down with a bang. He was not yet hardened to that point; and when, aroused by his warning challenge, the guard came stumbling out of the café on the corner, he lied to the corporal and took a round cursing from that individual without a murmur. Five minutes later the sentinels were changed and he was relieved. Ten minutes later Jeanne reappeared at the barricade with Tcherka clasped tightly in her arms. The new sentinel saw her and brought his gun to a charge. At his challenge she shrank back a little and then stood still. The sentinel, a sensual thick-set fellow, laughed and addressed her chaffingly.

  “It’s too early for the market, Mademoiselle, and besides, we Turcos never eat yellow cats, — only black.”

  “I wish to pass,” murmured Jeanne, who now began to realize her position.

  “Tiens! So do many people who can’t give the word or show a pass. They ‘re not all as pretty as you though. Come, let’s be sociable. Will you give me a kiss if I let you pass?”

  Jeanne was frightened. As she stood there, hugging Tcherka desperately to her breast, she could see the coarse face of the sentinel all flushed and bloated, with little wicked eyes leering at her across the barricade, and her knees trembled. There was no use. One glance at the man’s face was sufficient, but nevertheless she tried again and told her story with a faint heart.

  “And you followed that cat?”

  “Yes.”

  “From where?”

  “From my house.”

  “Where do you live and what is your name?” Jeanne was silent. She dared not say where she lived, and she dared not tell her name.

  “Mademoiselle,” said the sentinel, with an impudent grin, “those little histories are very pretty for children. Come and give me a kiss or two and we will find other things to talk about!”

  Sick with fright, she turned and ran down the street toward the Luxembourg again. The rue Vavin was black and deserted but the rue de Luxembourg was brighter and a stream of people was passing along the gilded iron railing of the Gardens toward the rue de Vaugirard. Jeanne instinctively felt that she was safer in a crowd than alone in the silent streets, and she hurried on and mixed with the moving people, wondering what had brought women and children into the streets at that hour. What to do, now that her only refuge was gone, was a question she dared not ask herself.

  She had literally no roof, no bed, and not one penny. Her misfortune was too sudden, too terrible for her to understand at once. She followed the crowd of men and women because she felt safer with them and she had no other place to go. Where they were going and why, she did not stop to enquire, but she hugged Tcherka close and slipped along beside a tall gaunt grey-haired woman who carried a loaf of bread and a bottle “of wine in one hand and led a little child by the other. Once or twice the woman glanced at her without speaking, but as they crossed the rue de Vaugirard and turned into the rue Bonaparte she said abruptly: “Why do you take your cat with you?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jeanne.

  The woman’s voice was not unkind, and when she spoke again Jeanne looked up into her sad eyes.

  “Is it a father or a brother or a lover, my child?” said the woman.

  “I don’t know what you mean, Madame,” replied Jeanne, faintly.

  The woman stared. “You know where you are going?” she demanded.

  Jeanne was silent.

  “And you know that the battle has begun?” continued the woman.

  “I — I heard the cannon,” replied Jeanne.

  “My boy is with the Turcos, the First Paris Battalion,” sighed the woman; “they marched with General Bergeret. They say one can see everything from the fortifications.” —

  “Are you going to the fortifications?” asked Jeanne, timidly.

  “Of course, are not you? I thought you had a brother or a lover with the army; — you are out so early.” Then she cast a searching glance at Jeanne’s white face. “My child,” she said, “you are in trouble. What brings you out into the streets at this hour. Tell me, — I can see you are good.” But Jeanne drew closer to her and hugged Tcherka tighter, saying, “let me stay with you, Madame, I am very unhappy.”

  Day was breaking when they reached the glacis of the fortifications. In the pallid light, thousands of figures stood out against the sky, men, women, and children, who had swarmed to the bastions when the heavy voice of Mont-Valérien awoke them in their beds. The city gate below was open, and the long road which stretched away into the country was crowded with people who had come to see a battle. As six o’clock chimed from the city bells, the first gun from the Issy fort boomed out, followed by the crash of the batteries in all the forts of the south. A moment later the Versailles works joined in and the artillery duel, which was the signal for Duval’s advance, began with a din so terrible that many women left the fortifications and even the gamins looked uncomfortable.

  Jeanne sat on the granite parapet overlooking the country below Versailles, clinging to Tcherka, who scrambled madly when the bombardment began. Beside her sat the grey-haired woman, holding the child, a girl of six. Below them the Seine wound through the plain, curving out by Neuilly, where the black gun-boat lay. Clusters of red-roofed villages dotted the plain, with here and there a tower or steeple or a patch of woodland tinged with tender green. The smoke of the battle rose above the Issy fort and hung low over Meudon woods. Bas-Meudon was quiet and clear.

  “My name is Cartier,” said the woman to Jeanne. After a moment she added; “you need not tell me yours, my child.”

  “My name is Jeanne de Brassac,” said Jeanne, simply.

  Madame Cartier started and turned toward her with compassion in her eyes. “My poor girl!”
she murmured, “my poor girl!”

  “You have heard then?” whispered Jeanne.

  “Yes, — the reward is posted in our street. Why did you tell me?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Jeanne, wearily; “I trust you.”

  “You may,” said Madame Cartier. Then she told Jeanne how her son, who had been a carpenter, was already captain in the 1st Turcos and hoped soon to be promoted. “He is a good son to me,” she said; “he would not let me sew any longer as soon as he got work, and we were very happy until the war broke out. Then my son went to Metz with Bazaine the traitor, and was betrayed — sold to the Prussians! Ah! He has suffered from the thieves who now come to crush us into slavery with Monsieur Thiers at their head! Do you hear the sound of their cannon?”

  “I hear,” sighed Jeanne.

  “I do not know what you have done,” continued Madame Cartier, hushing the little girl to sleep on her lap, “but I am sure the Commune has no need to trouble a child of your age. If the reward for your arrest were millions it would not make any difference to me. Are you ill?”

  “Ill? Oh — no — no!”

  “You are so white.”

  “I — I have lost a — brother, — my only living friend.”

  “Was he killed?”

  “Oh, no,” whispered Jeanne, with a horrified face; “he — I am afraid he has been obliged to hide from the Commune.”

  “Mademoiselle, be thankful he is not out there among the shells and bullets. My son is there. Do you know what I feel?”

  “Yes — I do, I think.”

  “Because you love your brother.”

  “He is — is not my real brother—”

  “Ah! my child, my child!” said Madame Cartier, gently.

  The terrible thunder from the forts continued, day was advancing; the two women sat silent, leaning together. Under her grey hair Madame Cartier’s face looked very wan. Jeanne leaned over and kissed her withered cheek.

  “Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!” moaned the woman, “nous autres — nous sommes bien bien malheureuses!”

  A voice from the gate below broke in harshly: “Bergeret’s corps has been annihilated by Mont-Valérien!”

  For a moment a sort of stupor fell upon the people who thronged the bastion. Then the cry arose, “Treason! treason!” Everywhere women crowded, imploring, demanding news of some battalion or squadron; the officers on the parapets were overwhelmed with anxious questions which they found impossible to answer. And now in the roads below, the first stragglers from Bergeret’s column ran up, howling disaster and treason, and before they had passed the gates, terrified masses of Federals appeared, flying from the Pont de Neuilly, horses, cannon, infantry, and baggage wagons mixed in an indescribable torrent. Awful stories of the butchery by the cannon of Mont-Valérien were circulated; some said that Bergeret was killed after having two horses shot under him in as many gallant charges. It was perfectly true that he had had two horses killed, — not under, but in front of him, — dragging his carnage. The news of Flourens’ death drew cries of anger and revenge from the crowd, as the battalions filed past and entered the gate, now packed on every side by anxious thousands.

  “Where are the Turcos?” cried a voice on the glacis.

  “Killed to a man!” shouted a frightened Mobile.

  Madame Cartier stood straight up, quivering all over.

  “Nonsense!” said a heavy, good-natured officer of the National Guard who had climbed the glacis to watch the entry of the troops. “Nonsense!” he repeated loudly, “the Turcos are all right. They were not in the line of fire, and they didn’t run away as we did.”

  Then the crowd cheered for the Turcos, and some even began to jeer at the National Guard battalions as they streamed along below toward the centre of the city.

  A soldier came out of the telegraph station and posted up on the wall a despatch which claimed a victory for Bergeret, and ended: “Have no fear! All goes well with our troops. Bergeret himself is there!”

  This evoked a storm of derision.

  “Bergeret himself? And who is Bergeret himself?” yelled a gamin.

  A roar of angry laughter followed; and from that day the imbecile Bergeret was known from one end of France to the other as “Bergeret Himself.”

  “Victory?” cried one, “if this is victory, give me disaster and defeat!”

  “They are running very fast from their field of triumph!” shouted another.

  Madame Cartier approached the good-natured National Guard who had spoken so frankly about his own flight and the probable safety of the Turcos.

  “How do you know the Turcos are safe?” she said.

  “Because I saw them marching in good order toward the Clamart road. They have probably gone to join General Duval, — who is a general,” replied the officer, while he filled his pipe with perfect equanimity.

  “Do you know Captain Cartier?”

  “I do, Madame, and all his company.”

  “Is he safe?”

  “I saw him with his company, filing through the village after the fortress had ceased firing.”

  “Was anybody killed in his company?”

  “I saw an American named McGlone lying dead—”

  Jeanne caught the words “dead” and “American,” and drew near, holding tightly to Tcherka. “An American dead?” she asked; “where?”

  “In the Rueil road, Madame.”

  “When?”

  “When the fortress was peppering us.”

  “Did you know this American?”

  “Oh, yes — I camped last night with my comrade Cartier, and I saw several Americans in the battalion, — one a new man, just brought in. He didn’t seem very happy, and Cartier said that Sarre, the Colonel, hated him.”

  “A soldier?” enquired Jeanne.

  “Yes.”

  Jeanne turned away with a feeling of relief, but before she had taken two steps she heard the officer say: “Madame, that new recruit answered to the description of the man Landes, whom Raoul Rigault is so anxious to get that he has just doubled the reward. I mentioned it to Captain Cartier, but he thought I was mistaken, because Sarre knew him, and if he had been this fellow Landes he would have turned him over to Rigault in quick time, I can tell you.”

  Jeanne crept back to Madame Cartier, and leaned on her shoulder. “How did this American look?” she asked quietly.

  The officer described Philip so perfectly that Jeanne felt herself turning faint.

  “Don’t you see, Mademoiselle?” he explained, “that is exactly like the description in Raoul Rigault’s notice. Captain Cartier said this one was caught trying to scale a wall in the Passage Stanislas, dressed as a National Guard, and Sarre gave him his choice of joining the ranks or being shot. But Rigault will get him all in good time—”

  “But my son told you, did he not, Monsieur, that it was not the same man for whom the reward is offered?” said Madame Cartier, indifferently, and, as if they had heard all they wished to, she drew Jeanne away to the parapet.

  “You love Monsieur Landes,” she whispered, as they stood by themselves. “Your name is on the notice of arrest with his. Do you think this soldier in the Turco battalion can be he?”

  “I know it is he,” said Jeanne, in a heart-sick voice. At noon the news came that the Turcos were routed, that one company had been annihilated in Bas-Meudon woods, and the remainder were being pursued by the ferocious Zouaves of Charette. Jeanne heard it at the gate and stepped out into the road beyond.

  Weser’s Turcos of the 5th company were passing, and she recognized the uniform and stopped a soldier with a gesture.

  “Where do you come from?”

  “Bas-Meudon.”

  “Where is that?”

  The Turco pointed to the hill.

  “Where are the others of your regiment?”

  “The dead are in the woods; the rest are running to get out of the woods,” said the soldier, grimly, and tramped away into the city.

  Jeanne, the tears rolling down her
pale cheeks, gazed at the distant wooded slope, all dotted with little clouds of smoke. Tcherka leaped from her tired arms and trotted ahead out into the country road, looking back at her mistress to see if she would follow. Tcherka had an idea. It was that if she might wheedle her mistress into the country they could have a much-needed romp together. So Tcherka stood in the morning sunlight, her magnificent eyes glowing like twin emeralds, looking coquettishly back at Jeanne, who stood white and silent in the city gate.

  CHAPTER XIX. SARRE PAYS A DEBT.

  WHEN the Zouaves of Charette emerged from Bas-Meudon woods they had swept the underbrush clean of all living creatures. Twice the Hussars of Death turned and swooped through their flanks, black cloaks in ribbons, sabres dripping from point to hilt, but the Zouaves drove them into the ditches, ripping and stabbing horses and riders with their terrible sabre-bayonets; and, at last, shouting hoarsely, the Hussars of Death wheeled into flight across the stubble to the open country beyond.

  Sarre’s Turcos had been taken by the flank, and the blow fell disastrously where Weser’s men had fled and Cartier’s company had been annihilated. The point of the wedge had entered here, and both wings of the battalion were curling up like withering leaves. Sarre raged, shrieking curses on his men, driving them forward at the point of his revolver, but the Zouaves sprang in, storming like fiends among the wavering ranks, hewing, smashing, slashing, dragging officers from their horses and bayoneting them without mercy, seizing battle flags, ripping the red standard of the Commune from its gilded staff. And now it was over. What remained of the 1st Battalion of Paris Turcos was fighting its way with the fury of despair toward the open country. Again and again the Zouaves hurled themselves on the little square with the bayonet, and at each mad struggle the group of Turcos dwindled, but the Zouaves left as many dead and dying among the ditches and potato hills as did the Turcos.

  Sarre, still mounted, seemed to hold the little band around him by main strength of will. His sabre, all smeared with thick blood and hair, hovered above the shock of encounter, menacing the enemy, threatening the faint-hearted among his own followers.