Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “She will do so if it is necessary,” said Philip, stiffly. Wilton wheeled his horse. “I’ll be back in no time,” he called.

  Philip stood a moment while he galloped off, then turned and entered the house. Jeanne was standing by the table where he had left her. When he told her what he had done she shuddered a little. Then there was an awkward pause.

  “Will you wear an officer’s uniform if Wilton can’t get anything better?” asked Philip, flushing and looking away from her.

  “Of course I will wear whatever you think best,” she answered quietly. “How will the things come?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied — and sat down a little apart from her, resting his head on his clenched fist. His face had become grey and drawn, his eyes stern and hard. Tcherka jumped on the table and walked over to rub against his shoulder. He looked up. “What shall we do with the cat,” he said, irritably, “we can’t carry her about now.”

  “Couldn’t we possibly take her along?” asked Jeanne, timidly.

  “Really, Jeanne,” he said, a little sharply, “you can’t expect me to risk your life for a cat.”

  “Very well,” she answered gently, holding out her hand to Tcherka — who marched over to her at once. Jeanne took the cat’s beautiful head in both hands and kissed it; there were tears in her eyes and she kept the lids down so that Philip should not see them; but he saw them.

  “Wouldn’t it be more merciful to shoot her than to leave her? Soldiers are so cruel,” asked Jeanne.

  “She shall come with us for the present,” he answered; “we won’t part with her unless we are forced to. My dearest little Jeanne, if you were only somewhere safe I would bring you your cat through thick and thin,” he added, smiling sadly. “I am so nervous on your account, — don’t be hurt if I am irritable.” —

  “Hurt! And you who are thinking only of me, never once of yourself! Is it on my life that the price is fixed? Could I not buy my safety any moment with those miserable diamonds? But you! What price could buy your life from Raoul Rigault.

  And it is for me you fear! — oh! Philip—”

  “Nonsense, I”

  “You are the most generous, as you are the bravest man alive,” she said proudly. “No girl ever had such a — such—” she stumbled a little, and then went on, her voice clear and steady. “No woman ever had such a lover as you. I am not worthy of you — but — if I could give my life for yours, I would.”

  “You will give me your life some day,” he murmured.

  “I will,” she answered,—” when you ask it.”

  How he longed to take her to his breast, to hold her close and trembling, to touch her hair, her eyes, to kiss her hands! She was so gentle, so winning in her innocence, so helpless, so dependent. But — the time had come when he dared not trust the slightest caress; and he was true to himself. He went to the door and looked down the dark road. There was a sound of distant galloping which came nearer and nearer until a rider, all muffled and shrouded, swept up and drew bridle as Philip hurried down to the gate. The horse, ghostly and gaunt was dripping from bit and flank, the rider sat with shadowy face bent on Landes: and his heart sank as he saw it was a Hussar of Death.

  “What do you want?” he asked, with dry lips.

  “You!” croaked the man, and grinned maliciously as Philip drew back a step. Slowly he took a bundle and a letter from his saddle pouch, and, flinging them on the ground, wheeled his lank horse away into the darkness again.

  “Damn their theatricals!” muttered Philip, angry at himself for having been so startled. The deadened hoof-beats died away along the road, and he picked up the letter and parcel and carried them into the cottage, his heart heavy with foreboding. He broke the seal of the letter and read it aloud:

  “DEAR PHILIP:

  “My battalion marches toward Issy in ten minutes, — the bugles are sounding now. Orders just in from Dombrowski who takes command. I send your clothes by messenger. There is no answer — let him go — it’s one of those goblin Hussars of Death and they are the devil for snooping and spying. Take care of your lovely charge! Goodness knows I wish I could help you out, but I am only a pawn on the board. There is one thing I can do and I enclose the necessary order. It will keep you safe until you can turn yourself a little. I’m off.

  “ARCHIE WILTON.”

  Enclosed in this hasty letter, Philip found an official looking document:

  “Headquarters of the Army in the Field.

  “April 5th, 1871.

  “Orders given to the citizen Archibald Wilton, commanding the 266th Battalion to detail two or more officers at La Resida for the purpose of inspecting all milk, poultry, fresh vegetables, eggs, and fruit, in requisition and to be delivered at the Point-du-Jour as occasion requires for the garrison.

  (Signed)— “DOMBROWSKI.”

  To this was attached a slip of paper:

  “Detailed for service, Lieutenants Dupré and Fabrice of the Subsistence Department, now serving as special aides on my staff.

  (Signed)— “ARCHIBALD WILTON, “Colonel.”

  And again to this was attached a bit of paper on which was scribbled:

  “La Resida is a village of three houses on the Varzin Route. You’ll be alone and unmolested. There’s a servant there. Follow the road which turns south by the cottage where you now are. It takes two hours to drive there, four to walk.

  “ARCHIE.

  “P. S. A word to the wise. Use the dog-cart. The man won’t mind, — being in Mazas Prison for a month or so. You can keep it too — if you don’t mind. The horse will need looking after while his master is enjoying the hospitality of the Commune.

  “A. W.”

  Jeanne meanwhile had opened the parcel. Two complete uniforms of officers of the Subsistence Department lay in the papers. They were brand new. Pinned to the sleeve of one of the dolmans was a card:

  “I didn’t have to steal after all. These are fresh from the Equipment Bureau and I found them in the train-des-equipages just arrived. If a ‘tringlot’ comes with a bill to La Resida, pay him — you have enough. — A. W.”

  “The d — dear old fellow!” cried Philip, stammering with happiness.

  Jeanne gathered up the smaller suit, including the black képi, the slim spurred boots, and the pointed hood and cape, and slipped away into the kitchen, closing the door behind her. Philip threw off his Turco costume and put on the new uniform with a sigh of relief, for it was clean and fresh, and fitted much better than the heavy baggy Turco dress. As he drew his visored silver-edge cap over his eyes there came a knocking from the kitchen door.

  “Come in, Jeanne, I’m ready,” he cried.

  With charming timidity she walked in and stood still, a picture of delightful confusion. Under the visor of her cap, her eyes, veiled by the long lashes, drooped a little; her scarlet lips were nervously compressed, her cheeks crimson. The astrakhan-edged dolman fitted her lithe body to perfection. Above the tight officers’ boots, which came almost to her knee, her young limbs seemed rounded and moulded into the black riding breeches with their triple dark-blue stripe. She touched the hilt of her sword, glancing shyly at Philip, and, as she moved, her spurred heels rang on the tiled floor.

  “A perfect soldier! A swordsman! A swordsman!” he cried, marvelling at her grace and beauty.

  “But my hair — my hair is very unmilitary, Philip!”

  “You can draw the hood on.”

  “Of course; and that with the long cloak will make me look like a common soldier! — and I’m an officer! I shall cut my hair,” she announced.

  “I’d like to see you!” he cried, “you little Amazon!”

  “But I will,” she persisted, mutinously, “and I like this costume — a soldier’s! I feel so free — I — believe I hate skirts!”

  “Oh!”

  “I do!” she laughed. There was a slightly strained tone of excitement in her laugh. The long strain of weeks, the series of shocks she had endured so quietly and bravely for two days past we
re telling on her nerves. This feverish gaiety was a revulsion from the cruel suffering of suspense. It would lead to a crisis unless he interposed.

  “Jeanne,” he began —

  “Lieutenant, if you please,” she interrupted, laughing almost hysterically.

  “Jeanne,” he repeated, “I must clear up here before we go; will you help me? Have you your own clothes? No? Get them at once and make a bundle, as small as you can, then take Tcherka and go and sit in the dog-cart until I come. Hold on to Tcherka, for we Ve no time to chase her if she takes it into her head to run away. I must go and hide my Turco suit.”

  He looked around the tool-room and found a spade, and, going into the garden, dug a hole large enough to accommodate his Turco’s costume. Then he returned to the house, put out the lamp, shut and locked the door, and joined Jeanne, whom he found sitting in the dog-cart. She had put on the long hooded cloak, and she looked very meek now, hugging Tcherka to her breast.

  “Good,” he said, unhitching the horses and springing to the seat beside her. “You will need your cloak, it is going to be a cool drive.” He glanced into her face. It was quite white, all trace of excitement was gone, and she looked terribly fatigued. He wrapped his own cloak about her feet, muffled her hands in the warm folds, and then deliberately put his arm around her neck and drew her head down to his shoulder.

  “Sleep — if you can,” he whispered, giving the reins a shake, and the dog-cart swung into the Varzin road due south from the Route de Paris.

  CHAPTER XXII. WITHIN THE WALLS.

  THE great sortie to Versailles, conceived and directed by Bergeret “himself,” had failed utterly. Flourens’ column had been repulsed and driven through the Porte Maillot and Flourens lay dead in the road with his crazy head split open by a gendarme’s sabre. Bergeret’s column, with the exception of the 1st Turcos and the Hussars of Death, had made good time toward the Point-du-Jour, headed by Bergeret “himself.” Eudes was anxiously dodging behind the bomb-proofs of Issy with the fragments of his command, and Duval’s column, fighting bravely, was slowly retreating from the shambles of Meudon and Clamart. Duval, with his entire staff, had been captured late in the day, and, in harmony with Monsieur Thiers’ ideas of civilized warfare, had been backed up against a wall and shot without court-martial. He met death gallantly, quietly removed and folded his jacket, placed it on the grass, and throwing open his shirt front cried: “Long live the Republic! Aim! Fire!” And old General Vinoy who stood by, gnawing his moustache, growled: “C’etait un crâne bougre, — il est mort comme un bon bougre!”

  The Army of the Commune was in fragments, and from the Hôtel de Ville a howl went up which chilled the Parisians to the marrow. The howl was answered by one still more sinister from Cluseret.

  In 1848 Cluseret was a Mobile, later he was a Captain in the Foot Chasseurs, but his resignation was requested on account of some alleged irregularity in money matters. Then he went to America and became a General during the War of Secession, but history is silent as to his exploits. When he returned to Paris he edited a newspaper. According to his own statement, “he hadn’t read very much,” but he signed his articles “General Cluseret,” and that went a great way with himself, although it shocked the professional sense of the Paris press.

  Hardly was he installed in the Hôtel de Ville before he began to issue decrees at such a rate that the Government printer resigned his position.

  The first decree re-established the Compagnies de Marche of the National Guard. It read as follows:

  “In consequence of the patriotic demand of the great mass of the National Guard, who, although married, insist on being accorded the honor of defending their country and their municipal independence, the decree of the 5th of April is modified as follows:

  “1st. From the age of seventeen to nineteen, service in the Army of the Commune will be voluntary; and from the age of nineteen to forty, obligatory for all National Guards whether married or not.

  “2d. I urge all good patriots to serve as police for their own city wards and to force all refractory persons to serve in the Army of the Commune.”

  This infamous decree was signed:

  “Le délégué à la guerre,.

  “GENERAL CLUSERET.”

  According to its terms, a citizen would be forced to serve, in civil war, a cause which might be odious to him. No measure was more unpopular or did more injury to the cause of the Commune. It organized and legalized the search for and pursuit of neutral citizens, anywhere and everywhere, — in the streets, in their homes, in the very churches, — even at the foot of the high altar.

  But General Cluseret’s second decree was destined to dim the lustre of the first, for in it he established military terror — the Court-Martial.

  Raoul Rigault looked askance at these proceedings, fearing no doubt that they would take away from him people whom he might prefer to murder himself, so he redoubled his “vigilance” and the prisons were gorged with priests.

  Meanwhile at Versailles, MacMahon took command, always, of course, under the foxy eye of Monsieur Thiers; and now the Army of Versailles was composed of two strong infantry corps and a heavy corps of cavalry, besides two divisions of infantry held as reserve. MacMahon lost no time. On the 6th of April the outer line of forts was besieged; on the 7th, the Versaillists reached Gennevilliers; the 8th, Montaudon’s division fell upon the bridge of Neuilly and swept it clean; on the 9th, de Gallifet’s chasseurs galloped into Courbevoie; and on the 17th Davoust led the assault on the famous Château of Bécon which was the key to Gennevilliers. On the 18th, a regiment of gendarmes chased the Federalsout of Bois-de-Colombes; the 19th, the Hussars of Death, the Polish Riders, the Garibaldians, and the 34th de marche were hurled across the bridge of Asnières and fled pell-mell into Paris. Had it not been for Dombrowski, the passage of the Seine would have been open to the Versailles Army.

  “You cowards!” he cried, spurring his horse through the flying insurgents, “must a Polish officer give lessons in courage to Frenchmen!” And he pushed himself, followed by his staff, straight into the enemy’s fire, crying: “No cowards need follow me!” The Federals heard him, rallied and charged, and the bridge was saved.

  General Cluseret, “délégué à la guerre,” selected three lieutenants, and to do him justice he selected them fairly well. The best of the three was Dombrowski, who was intrusted with the lines of defense from Saint-Ouen to the Point-du-Jour, and who established his headquarters at La Muette. His strategy and defense were admirable.

  The second of these lieutenants was Wrobleski, another Pole, who probably knew more than most of the gentlemen at the Hôtel de Ville and certainly knew more than Cluseret, but he was not the equal of Dombrowski. Wrobleski commanded the lines from the Point-du-Jour to Bercy.

  The third man selected by General Cluseret was La Cécilia, a well-bred, harmless gentleman, who spoke or understood twenty-six languages, and passed for an erudite mathematician; but, although he had distinguished himself as a Colonel of franctireurs in the Franco-Prussian war, he was no General, and would have done much better to have remained a simple Colonel.

  With these three men Cluseret might have done something; he ought to have done a great deal, but, like Monsieur Thiers, he “did nothing,” and did it almost as energetically as Monsieur Thiers. Then the pack in the Hôtel de Ville fell on him, as it had fallen with him on others.

  “Cluseret is an incapable!” shouted Arnold.

  “Cluseret is a fool!” yelled Vaillant.

  “Cluseret is a suspect!” added Clovis Dupont, with a cold sneer.

  That settled it; the word “suspect” always settled things. Cluseret was relieved of his command, cashiered, and a decree was issued, which after many preambles ended thus:

  “It is decreed —

  “That the Citizen Cluseret be placed under arrest, and so maintained until the end of the present military operations.”

  So Raoul Rigault had his grip on Cluseret’s throat; and Rossel, the same day, step
ped into Cluseret’s shoes.

  The abandonment of the fort of Issy was Cluseret’s last act; the recapture of that fortress was Rossel’s first act.

  On the 29th of April the Versailles batteries at Meudon and Breteuil pounded the last semblance of shape and form out of the fort of Issy, and in spite of the armored trains which opened fire from the viaduct of the Point-du-Jour, — in spite of the gunboats and the terrible storm from bastions 76 and 77, the Versaillists advanced by Clamart and Moulineaux, occupying the park and trenches of the Issy fort, and rapidly threw up breastworks which protected them from the musketry fusilade. The bombardment ceased at midnight, but when the day broke the batteries of Val-Fleury thundered, and the smoking ruins of Issy were again covered with bursting shells. All day long the exhausted garrison crouched among the débris, and when night came, their commander having fled, they crept out of the crumbling crater and entered Paris at the Point-du-Jour. The fort had fallen, the Versailles troops were already crawling cautiously over the trenches and glacis, when Colonel Rossel, at the head of the Hussars of Death and the remnants of the 1st Turcos, burst through the Issy cemetery, swept the Versailles troops from the Park, the Château, and the Couvent des Oiseaux, and once more the red flag of the Commune flapped from the iron staff on the ruins of the Issy fort.

  Until the 9th of May, the handful of men of the 1st Turcos clung to the fort of Issy, now in ruins. The crash of their siege guns and the rattle of their American Gatlings comforted the wrangling patriots at the Hôtel de Ville; but the fort of Issy was doomed, and on the evening of the 9th of May the walls of Paris were placarded with this poster: