Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “You promise us safe conduct?” they repeated.

  “It is a sacred promise,” answered Jean Verig, opening the gate into the street.

  One by one the prisoners stepped through the narrow wicket, and each, as he disappeared, was seized and silently butchered by the mob. So noiselessly was this done that had it not been for one of the mob who fired at the last priest to leave the court-yard, the defenders of the barricade might have believed that the way to safety was open. It did not comfort François very much to smash the skull of the ruffian who had fired contrary to orders, for now the prisoners were alert, and François knew they would die behind their barricade rather than trust to promises. So he threw off the mask and incited his mob to the attack. Three times the howling rabble surged into the prison court-yard and charged up the stairs, and every time they fled in a panic, leaving scores of dead and wounded behind them, while the defenders of the barricade cheered and shouted defiance. Hand to hand the brave priests met the onslaught, and their bars of iron played havoc with the skulls of the mob. Enthusiasm animated the disheartened Line soldiers and the gendarmes, and they sprang at the mob with no weapons but clubs and bits of pointed stone. Twice the Federals succeeded in setting fire to the barricade, but Jeanne and Ynès were ready with basins of water and the fire was quickly extinguished.

  Night fell, and under cover of the darkness, François himself led his cutthroats to the foot of the stairway and directed the placing of inflammable material. A cask of crude petroleum was rolled under the arcade and a dozen loaded shells piled around it. Twice the desperate prisoners succeeded in dampening the powder train, but at last a blazing torch was flung into the petroleum and a frightful explosion shook the arcade. Great masses of stone tottered and dropped into the court, and the wooden ceiling of the arcade blazed and crackled, but the massive prison was not injured, and the fire in the arcade burnt itself out against the stones.

  It was the last attempt that the mob made that night. The garrison of the barricade posted sentinels at the head of the stairs, changing them every two hours. Philip dragged a mattress into his cell for Jeanne, insisting that she should sleep.

  “I will try,” she said, dropping wearily on the couch, “but I cannot sleep if you are going back to the barricade.”

  “No, I am not going there,” he said, “I shall be very near you.”

  “Then you are going to sit up with — with—”

  “Yes, with my friend Wilton; I can’t leave his wife alone there. Try to sleep, Jeanne.”

  “I will try. Good-night, dear Philip.” She raised one little hand and he bent and kissed it.

  “How cold your fingers are,” he said, “are you ill?”

  “No, only tired.”

  He looked at her anxiously, sighed, and turned away, saying: “I shall be in the next cell; call me if you are feeling ill.”

  Ynès, beside the body of her husband, looked up as he entered, but he silently placed himself at the foot of the couch, and she bent her head again without speaking.

  So they sat, watching beside the dead until in the gray of the morning a rifle cracked, and the barricade swarmed in an instant.

  “They ‘re coming again,” he said, “I must go back to the others. Would you care to have me send a priest?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then try to eat something. See, here is a bit of bread and a cup of wine which I saved from my dinner. You must try to eat.”

  “I cannot eat,” she said.

  “You must. No one knows how long we may be kept here, and there is no food left in the prison.” He placed the bread and wine on the stones beside her and turned away into the next cell, where Jeanne still lay.

  “Have you slept?” he asked.

  “Yes. The shot woke me. I lay very still, for I heard your voice in the next cell.”

  Philip sat down beside her and took her hand. It was burning. “You have a little fever,” he said; “you must lie quite still. Here is your breakfast.” He took a roll from his pocket and laid it on the bed.

  “I am not hungry,” she murmured, “but I am very thirsty.”

  He brought her a cup of red wine and water, and at his urging she swallowed some bits of bread soaked in it. Then he took off his jacket, rolled it up, and placed it under her head. “Do not leave the cell while they are firing,” he said; “I will come back every hour and see you.” He walked to the door, hesitated, and turned around.

  She looked at him listlessly. Her eyes were very bright and feverish, and the color in her face burned scarlet. She lay there, her hands clasped to her throat, her uniform torn, and soiled with prison grime. Both her spurs had been snapped off short above the boot heels, the riding breeches were dusty and faded, and her clustering hair fell over her eyes, now wide open and shining like stars.

  “Jeanne,” he said, carelessly, “if anything happens so that you are left alone, do whatever Father Launay tells you. Trust him in everything.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I will do—”

  Crack! Bang! rang the rifles from the barricade, followed by a cry of warning: “Attention! Look out for that grenade! Down on your faces!” Philip sprang to the door of the cell.

  “Go back! Look out for the grenade!” they cried to him from the barricade, and at the same moment he saw a round black ball come rolling toward him over the stone floor. He stared stupidly at the sputtering fuse, scarcely understanding, then, as he stepped back, there came a blinding flash of light, a stunning report, and a cry from the next cell. They heard that cry at the barricade, and a soldier came hurrying across the corridor just as Philip hastened into the cell.

  “Oh!” said the soldier, “a woman!”

  Philip stood looking down at the limp figure, flung half across the body of Wilton.

  “Struck in the head — see there,” said the soldier; “the grenade was full of bullets and scrap iron.”

  “It must have rolled almost into her cell, — I was standing in the next cell, — I never thought she was in danger,” said Philip. Then he turned away and crossed to the barricade, where two of its defenders lay wounded from flying fragments. And as he entered, the bullets began whistling into the corridor from the arcade and outer walls, and the hoarse cry of the mob: “Turn the cannon on them! Death to the prisoners!” was taken up by a new contingent, which had just arrived with two cannon and a mortar from the Mairie du Prince Eugène.

  “Cannon!” cried Philip, aghast.

  “That settles it, we are done for!” said a gendarme, bitterly, and sat down with his face in his hands.

  Philip looked fearfully around. Most of the soldiers stood with folded arms, doggedly awaiting their fate, and the priests were praying, some on their knees, quietly, some standing, stern and rigid, with eyes fixed, and drawn lips scarcely moving. Then he went to Jeanne, and found her, trembling and shivering, on the couch.

  “My darling,” he whispered, “I am afraid that we must give up. Put your arms around my neck, so — are you ready to die with me, Jeanne?”

  “Yes — with you.”

  He drew his revolver, loaded it, and laid it at his feet. Then he kissed Jeanne on the mouth.

  “When the rush comes — I have two bullets for us, — it is better.” —

  “It is better,” she repeated calmly.

  “And if — if I am hit,” he said, “before I can fire, — take the revolver, — hold it so — close to your temple; — it is better that way than to die in the rue Haxo!”

  “Yes, Philip.”

  A dreadful tumult arose outside, — shouts, yells, shot on shot, and the hiss and explosion of falling shells mingled with the crash of volley firing and the patter of a mitrailleuse. From the prison court came voices raised in frantic appeal, the click! clash! click! of bayonets, and then horrid screams. There was a rush and trample of feet on the stairs, a flash of steel.

  “Are you ready, Jeanne?” said Philip—” kiss me — good-bye—”

  “Good-bye,” she murmured.
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  He cocked his revolver, hesitated, and turned one furious glance toward the stairs. A figure was ascending from the court below, not hastily either, but silently and alone, and Philip saw with a start that he wore the uniform of the Line. Before he could realize what had happened, a wild shout broke from the barricade: “The Line! the Line!” and the prisoners rushed out from behind their defences and flung themselves down the stairs to the prison courtyard, where the drums of the marine infantry were rolling, and the bugles sang a joyous chorus.

  “Thiers’ army is outside! Here come the marines!” cried the frantic prisoners.

  “Here they come!” shouted their Colonel, Blas, bounding up the stairs, “and the mob are falling like leaves in Père Lachaise!”

  A tall, young artillery captain who stood beside him turned and looked straight at Landes.

  “Alain!” stammered Philip; “Jeanne, the army is here — do you understand, my darling?”

  “Yes,” sighed Jeanne, and fainted away in his arms.

  CHAPTER XXIX. THE RETURN OF THE BLACKBIRD.

  ONE sunny afternoon in September, Jack Ellice sat on the edge of the stone fountain in the studio garden and watched the two goldfish aimlessly drifting among the water weeds. Insects had been plenty that summer, and when Ellice thoughtfully captured a giddy gnat and dropped it on the water, the goldfish merely stared at him, and sank to the bottom in the insulting way they had.

  Toodles, now grown into a beautiful silky setter, watched the proceeding with all the interest of his puppy days.

  “Cynical, aren’t they, Toodles,” said Ellice, as the two fish turned their backs and coldly waved their tails.

  Toodles cocked his ears and looked at Ellice.

  “Not like you,” said Jack, giving the dog a hug; “do you want to go in and swim?”

  Philip had forbidden Toodles the use of the fountain for bathing purposes, fearing it might injure the goldfish. Ellice knew this, and Toodles knew it also. They looked at each other with perfect intelligence.

  “Shall I go?” was the expression in Toodles’ eyes.

  “Go,” nodded Ellice.

  There was a flash, a splash, and Philip, looking up from the chess-table under the almond trees, cried: “Toodles! come out of that this minute!” Toodles emerged, dripping and cheerful.

  “Oh, I know you put him up to it,” said Philip, glancing across at Ellice; then turning to Alain de Carette, “Alain, it’s your move, you know.”

  “I know,” replied Alain, smiling at Ellice. Then he turned to the chess-board, saying: “I wonder, Philip, why you don’t push Jack in when he does that.” —

  “I will if he does it again, — here! get out, Toodles! — don’t shake yourself over me! Really, Jack, you ought to find some other amusement for your declining years.”

  “You may play with my sword,” suggested Alain, moving his King behind a white Bishop to avoid destruction; “it’s bright and shiny, and rattles too.”

  “Just because you wear a braided dolman and red stripes on your legs—” began Ellice, when he was interrupted by a squall from Tcherka, who had marched up behind him, and now sat staring at him with enormous emerald eyes.

  “She wants her milk,” observed Philip, “for Heaven’s sake get it, Jack, or she’ll raise the roof, — hold up a second, Alain, did you mean that last move?”

  “Of course,” replied Alain, calmly.

  “Then it’s check — and mate in two moves.”

  “How?”

  “Why, here, — check to your King, — that forces you to interpose. Now I double my Castles, — so, and you ‘re mated in the next whatever you do.”

  “But I move my Pawn into your King row—”

  “All right, mate!”

  “But you can’t, for my new Queen holds your King in check!”

  “Heavens! How could I have overlooked that!” mused Philip; “it’s the racket that Toodles and Jack make,’ — I can’t think! Just listen to that cat! Stop teasing her, Jack, and give her the milk, or I’ll duck you!”

  “Let’s wait until Monsieur Ellice and his circus have finished the matinee,” suggested Alain, leaning back in his chair and lighting a cigar.

  “All right,” said Ellice, cheerfully, “here comes the clown now.”

  Jacques Jean Marie Louis Joseph Bottier, unconscious of this announcement, entered the garden with a tray on which were balanced three slender glasses.

  “Bet he breaks one!” said Ellice in English.

  “Take you,” replied Alain, in the same language—” steady there, mon enfant, steady — oh, the devil!” as a glass fell on the gravel and shivered to splinters.

  “Get a dust-pan and a broom,” said Philip, without any annoyance, “and if I have another whole glass in the house, bring it in a basket.”

  Jacques Jean Marie Louis Joseph Bottier grinned. He was used to this duty, and considered the whole performance an exquisite piece of pleasantry.

  “Bien, Monsieur Landes,” he said, and retired to be withered by Joseph’s sarcasm.

  “Imbecile!” snorted Joseph, “go and get that dust-pan! Do you think Monsieur Landes owns a glass factory? Give me the glass and the bitters and the coquetelle, — et puis file! espèce de cornichon!” Thus did Joseph exercise sovereignty over Bottier, and Bottier respected and feared him.

  When the cocktails were brought, and a silver pitcher of mint juleps added as reserve, Ellice came and sat down to watch the game of chess, saying that the opera was over and he was ready to watch the circus. Alain clicked his spurred heels together and stared at the chess-board. Philip lighted a cigarette.

  “How long is Alain’s leave?” asked Ellice.

  “Thirty days with privilege of — here! don’t joggle the table, Jack!”

  “I’m not. How the deuce did the General give him thirty days? He hasn’t done anything.”

  “No, nothing — except to get the Legion of Honor.”

  “Pshaw!” said Alain; “you fellows deserve it more than I do—”

  “I do,” said Ellice, amiably; “by the way, is it true that Rigault is dead?”

  “Why, of course. Alain saw them finishing him, didn’t you, Alain?”

  “Oh, yes, I saw it,” said Alain, pushing his white Bishop forward two squares.

  “Was he shot?”

  Alain leaned back in his chair and struck a match to relight his cigar.

  “Yes. I was coming along by the Luxembourg, just opposite the rue Gay Lussac. A man was running with a mob in full chase, and I pitied the fellow and — er — kept them off until they told me who he was.”

  “And after?”

  “Oh, I tried to persuade them to let the court-martial do the rest — but you know what a mob is! They tore him to bits and then shot what was left.”

  “Did — did he die game?” enquired Ellice.

  “Probably not,” said Philip, picking up his black Knight. —

  “On the contrary,” said Alain, “he died like a mad wolf, foaming and snapping and — ugh! I can hear his yell even yet!”

  “What did he yell?” persisted Ellice, devoured by curiosity.

  “Vive la Commune! You Ve heard it before, I imagine,” said Alain, with a faint smile. “Give me that pitcher of juleps, if you please, my son.”

  “Here you are. Is it true that Weser escaped after all?”

  “There seems to be no doubt of it,” interposed Philip. “He has been located in Hester Street, New York. They can’t extradite him either. Alain, I don’t see how I’m going to get out of this hole here. I stand to lose either my Knight or those two Pawns.”

  “So it appears,” smiled Alain, quaffing his julep and looking at the board through the glass. “What time is it, Jack?”

  Ellice opened his watch. “By Jove, it’s nearly three o’clock!” he exclaimed. “I’m going into the studio to see if things are in order.”

  “My wife may be late,” said Alain, with a scarcely perceptible smile, “she is going to call first on some friends of
ours who have just arrived from Chartres.”

  “Chartres?” asked Philip, looking up from the board.

  “Yes. By the way, how long since you heard from Mademoiselle de Brassac?”

  “A month.”

  “Then you have not heard since she left for Switzerland?”

  “No — yes, indirectly from her guardian—”

  “My cousin, de St. Gildas?”

  “Yes. He has not permitted her to write. He has his reasons, they ‘re good too. I suppose he will never approve of me.”

  “How do you know?” asked Alain.

  “Oh, the whole affair has taken a turn for the worse. Now that Mademoiselle de Brassac has recovered from the shock of — of those days and has been for months among her own people, she will begin to look at things in a proper light. I suppose also she will try to forget.”

  “Forget what?”

  Philip ostentatiously moved an important Pawn and looked at Alain.

  “Forget what?” repeated de Carette.

  “Oh, everything — all the horrors that she — and I went through.”

  Alain advanced his white Knight and captured the unfortunate Pawn. “You ‘re playing carelessly, Philip. Why should she wish to forget — you?” Philip stared at the board.

  “By the way,” continued Alain, “I suppose that the Abbé Lagarde has deposited the de Brassac diamonds in the Bank of France.”

  “Yes, the Abbé wrote me. How fortunate that the poor Archbishop should have sent him on that mission to Versailles! They are criticising him now for not returning, and the Communistic journals charged him with breaking his parole, but the Archbishop wished him to remain and plead with Thiers and he was quite right to stay. Don’t you think so?”

  “Of course. He could do more good there than if he had returned to Mazas before his mission was ended. I am glad he thought to sew the diamonds into his soutane. Mademoiselle de Brassac is an heiress now.”