Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Speed,” I said, unsteadily, “it’s enough to make an honest man strike hands with Buckhurst in earnest.”

  Speed took my arm with a cautious glance at the door of the next room, and urged me toward the corridor.

  “The government has kicked us out into the street,” he muttered; “be satisfied that the government didn’t kick us into Biribi. And it will yet if you don’t come.”

  “Come? Where? I haven’t any money, and now they’ve got my honor—”

  “Rubbish!” he whispered, fairly dragging me into the hallway. “Here! No — don’t go to your rooms. Leave everything — get clear of this rat-pit, I tell you.”

  He half pushed, half dragged me to the parade; then, dropping my arm, he struck a jaunty pace through the archway, not even glancing at the sentinels. I kept pace with him, scarcely knowing what I did.

  In the Rue de Seine I halted suddenly, crying out that I must go back, but he seized me with a growl of “Idiot! come on!” and fairly shoved me through the colonnades of the Institute, along the quay, down the river-wall, to a dock where presently a swift river-boat swung in for passengers. And when the bateau mouche shot out again into mid-stream, Speed and I stood silently on deck, watching the silver-gray façades of Paris fly past above us under the blue sky.

  We sat far forward, quite alone, and separated from the few passengers by the pilot-house and jointed funnel. And there, carelessly lounging, with one of his lank legs crossed over the other and a cigar between his teeth, my comrade coolly recounted to me the infamous history of the past week:

  “Jarras put his honest, old, square-toed foot in it by accident; I don’t know how he managed to do it, but this is certain: he suddenly found himself on a perfectly plain trail which could only end at Mornac’s threshold.

  “Then he did a stupid thing — he called Mornac in and asked him, in perfect faith, to clear up the affair, never for a moment suspecting that Mornac was the man.

  “That occurred the day you started to catch Buckhurst. And on that day, too, I had found out something; and like a fool I told Jarras.”

  Speed chewed his cigar and laughed.

  “In twenty-four hours Jarras was relieved of his command; I was requested not to leave the Luxembourg — in other words, I was under arrest, and Mornac took over the entire department and abolished the Foreign Division ‘for the good of the service,’ as the Official had it next day.

  “Then somebody — Mornac probably — let loose a swarm of those shadowy lies called rumors — you know how that is done! — and people began to mutter, and the cafés began to talk of treason among the foreign police. Of course Rochefort took it up; of course the Official printed a half-hearted denial which was far worse than an avowal. Then the division was abolished, and the illustrated papers made filthy caricatures of us, and drew pictures of Mornac, sabre in hand, decapitating a nest full of American rattlesnakes and British cobras, and Rochefort printed a terrible elaboration of the fable of the farmer and the frozen serpent.”

  “Oh, that’s enough,” I said, sick with rage and disgust. “Let them look out for their own country now. I pity the Empress; I pity the Emperor. I don’t know what Mornac means to do, but I know that the Internationale boa-constrictor is big enough to swallow government, dynasty, and Empire, and it is going to try.”

  “I am certain of one thing,” said Speed, staring out over the sun-lit water with narrowing eyes. “I know that Mornac is using Buckhurst.”

  “Perhaps it is Buckhurst who is using Mornac,” I suggested.

  “I think both those gentlemen have the same view in end — to feather their respective nests under cover of a general smash,” said Speed. “It would not do for Mornac to desert the Empire under any circumstances. But he can employ Buckhurst to squeeze it dry and then strike an attitude as its faithful defender in adversity.”

  “But why does Buckhurst desire to go to Paradise?” I asked.

  The boat swung into a dock near the Point du Jour; a few passengers left, a few came aboard; the boat darted on again under the high viaduct of masonry, past bastions on which long siege cannon glistened in the sunshine, past lines of fresh earthworks, past grassy embankments on which soldiers moved to the rumble of drums.

  “I know something about Paradise,” said Speed, in a low voice.

  I waited; Speed chewed his cigar grimly.

  “Look here, Scarlett,” he said. “Do you know what has become of the crown jewels of France?” 152

  “No,” I said.

  “Well, I’ll tell you. You know, of course, that the government is anxious; you know that Paris is preparing to stand siege if the Prussians double up Bazaine and the army of Châlons in the north. But you don’t know what a pitiable fright the authorities are in. Why, Scarlett, they are scared almost to the verge of idiocy.”

  “They’ve passed that verge,” I observed.

  “Yes, they have. They have had a terrible panic over the safety of the crown jewels — they were nervous enough before the robbery. And this is what they’ve done in secret:

  “The crown jewels, the bars of gold of the reserve, the great pictures from the Louvre, the antiques of value, including the Venus of Milo, have been packed in cases and loaded on trains under heavy guard.

  “Twelve of these trains have already left Paris for the war-port of Lorient. The others are to follow, one every twenty-four hours at midnight.

  “Whether these treasures are to be locked up in Lorient, or whether they are to be buried in the sand-dunes along the coast, I don’t know. But I know this: a swift cruiser — the Fer-de-Lance — is lying off Paradise, between the light-house and the Ile de Groix, with steam up night and day, ready to receive the treasures of the government at the first alarm and run for the French possessions in Cochin-China.

  “And now, perhaps, you may guess why Buckhurst is so anxious to hang around Paradise.”

  Of course I was startled. Speed’s muttered information gave me the keys to many doors. And behind each door were millions and millions and millions of francs’ worth of plunder.

  Our eyes met in mute interrogation; Speed smiled.

  “Of course,” said I, with dry lips, “Buckhurst is devil enough to attempt anything.” 153

  “Especially if backed by Mornac,” said Speed.

  Suddenly the professional aspect of the case burst on me like a shower of glorious sunshine.

  “Oh, for the chance!” I said, brokenly. “Speed! Think of it! Think how completely we have the thing in hand!”

  “Yes,” he said, with a shrug, “only we have just been kicked out of the service in disgrace, and we are now going to be fully occupied in running away from the police.”

  That was true enough; I had scarcely had time to realize our position as escaped suspects of the department. And with the recognition of my plight came a rush of hopeless rage, of bitter regret, and soul-sickening disappointment.

  So this was the end of my career — a fugitive, disgraced, probably already hunted. This was my reward for faithful service — penniless, almost friendless, liable to arrest and imprisonment with no hope of justice from Emperor or court-martial — a banned, ruined, proscribed outcast, in blind flight.

  “I’ve thought of the possibility of this,” observed Speed, quietly. “We’ve got to make a living somehow. In fact, I’m to let — and so are you.”

  I looked at him, too miserable to speak.

  “I had an inkling of it,” he said. A shrewd twinkle came into his clear, Yankee eyes; he chewed his wrecked cigar and folded his lank arms.

  “So,” he continued, tranquilly, blinking at the sparkling river, “I drew out all my money — and yours, too.”

  “Mine!” I stammered. “How could you?”

  “Forged an order,” he admitted. “Can you forgive me, Scarlett?”

  “Forgive you! Bless your generous heart!” I muttered, as he handed me a sealed packet. 154

  “Not at all,” he said, laughing; “a crime in time saves nine — eh,
Scarlett? Pocket it; it’s all there. Now listen. I have made arrangements of another kind. Do you remember an application for license from the manager of a travelling American show — a Yankee circus?”

  “Byram’s Imperial American Circus?” I said.

  “That’s it. They went through Normandy last summer. Well, Byram’s agent is going to meet us at Saint-Cloud. We’re engaged; I’m to do ballooning — you know I worked one of the military balloons before Petersburg. You are to do sensational riding. You were riding-master in the Spahis — were you not?”

  I looked at him, almost laughing. Suddenly the instinct of my vagabond days returned like a sweet wind from the wilds, smiting me full in the face.

  “I tamed three lions for my regiment at Constantine,” I said.

  “Good lad! Then you can play with Byram’s lions, too. Oh, what the devil!” he cried, recklessly; “it’s all in a lifetime. Quand même, and who cares? We’ve life before us and an honest living in view, and Byram has packed two of his men back to England and I’ve tinkered up their passports to suit us. So we’re reasonably secure.”

  “Will you tell me, Speed, why you were wise enough to do all this while I was gone?” I asked, in astonishment.

  “Because,” said Speed, deliberately, “I distrusted Mornac from the hour he entered the department.”

  A splendid officer of police was spoiled when Mornac entered the department.

  Presently the deck guard began to shout: “Saint-Cloud! Saint-Cloud!” and the little boat glided up alongside the floating pier. Speed rose; I followed him across the gang-plank; and, side by side, we climbed the embankment.

  “Do you mean to say that Byram is going travelling about with his circus in spite of the war?” I whispered.

  “Yes, indeed. We start south from Chartres to-morrow.”

  Presently I said: “Do you suppose we will go to Lorient or — Paradise?”

  “We will if I have anything to say about it,” replied Speed, throwing away his ragged cigar.

  And I walked silently beside him, thinking of the young Countess and of Buckhurst.

  PART SECOND

  IX

  THE ROAD TO PARADISE

  On the 3d of November Byram’s American Circus, travelling slowly overland toward the Spanish frontier, drew up for an hour’s rest at Quimperlé. I, however, as usual, prepared to ride forward to select a proper place for our night encampment, and to procure the necessary license.

  The dusty procession halted in the town square, which was crowded, and as I turned in my saddle I saw Byram stand up on the red-and-gold band-wagon and toss an armful of circulars and bills into the throng.

  The white bits of paper fluttered wide and disappeared in the sea of white Breton head-dresses; there was a rhythmic clatter of wooden shoes, an undulation of snowy coiffes, then a low murmur as the people slowly read the circulars aloud, their musical monotone accompanying the strident nasal voice of Byram, who stood on the tarnished band-wagon shouting his crowd around him.

  “Mossoors et madams! Ecooty see voo play! J’ai l’honnoor de vous presenter le ploo magnifique cirque—” And the invariable réclame continued to the stereotyped finis; the clown bobbed up behind Byram and made his usual grimaces, and the band played “The Cork Leg.”

  The Bretons looked on in solemn astonishment: my comrade, Speed, languidly stood up on the elephant and informed the people that our circus was travelling to Lorient to fill a pressing engagement, and if we disappointed the good people of Lorient a riot would doubtless result, therefore it was not possible to give any performance before we reached Lorient — and the admission was only ten sous.

  Our clown then picked up the tatters of his threadbare comic speech. Speed, munching a stale sandwich, came strolling over to where I stood sponging out my horse’s mouth with cool water.

  “We’ll ride into Paradise in full regalia, I suppose,” he observed, munching away reflectively; “it’s the cheapest réclame.”

  I dashed a bucket of water over my horse’s legs. “You’d better look out for your elephant; those drunken Bretons are irritating him,” I said. “Mahouts are born, not made.”

  Speed turned; the elephant was squealing and thrusting out a prehensile trunk among the people. There would be trouble if any fool gave him tobacco.

  “Hi!” cried Speed, “tobah! Let the mem-log alone! Ai! he’s snatched a coiffe! Drop it, Djebe! C’hast buhan! Don’t be afraid, mesdames; the elephant is not ugly! Chomit oll en ho trankilite!”

  The elephant appeared to understand the mixture of Hindu, French, and Breton — or perhaps it was the sight of the steel ankus that Speed flourished in his quality of mahout. The crowd pressed forward again, reassured by the “Chomit oll en ho trankilite!”

  Speed swallowed the last crumb of his sandwich, wiped his hands on his handkerchief, and shoved them into his shabby pockets; the ankus dangled from his wrist.

  We were in seedy circumstances; an endless chain of bad luck had followed us from Chartres — bad weather, torrents of rain, flooded roads, damaging delays on railways already overcrowded with troops and war material, and, above all, we encountered everywhere that ominous apathy which burdened the whole land, even those provinces most remote from the seat of war. The blockade of Paris had paralyzed France.

  The fortune that Byram had made in the previous year was already gone; we no longer travelled by rail; we no longer slept at inns; we could barely pay for the food for our animals.

  As for the employés, the list had been cut down below the margin of safety, yet for a month no salaries had been paid.

  As I stood there in the public square of Quimperlé, passing the cooling sponge over my horse’s nose, old Byram came out of the hotel on the corner, edged his way through the stolid crowd that surrounded us gaunt mountebanks, and shuffled up to me.

  “I guess we ain’t goin’ to push through to-night, Scarlett,” he observed, wiping his sweating forehead on the sleeve of his linen duster.

  “No, governor, it’s too far,” I said.

  “We’ll be all right, anyway,” added Speed; “there’s a change in the moon and this warm weather ought to hold, governor.”

  “I dunno,” said Byram, with an abstracted glance at the crowd around the elephant.

  “Cheer up, governor,” I said, “we ought at least to pay expenses to the Spanish frontier. Once out of France we’ll find your luck again for you.”

  “Mebbe,” he said, almost wearily.

  I glanced at Speed. This was the closest approach to a whine that we had heard from Byram. But the man had changed within a few days; his thin hair, brushed across his large, alert ears, was dusty and unkempt; hollows had formed under his shrewd eyes; his black broadcloth suit was as soiled as his linen, his boots shabby, his silk hat suitable only for the stage property of our clown.

  “Don’t ride too far,” said Byram, as I set foot to stirrup, “them band-wagon teams is most done up, an’ that there camuel gits meaner every minute.”

  I wheeled my horse out into the road to Paradise, cursing the “camuel,” the bane of our wearied caravan.

  “Got enough cash for the license?” asked Byram, uneasily.

  “Plenty, governor; don’t worry. Speed, don’t let him mope. We’ll be in Lorient this time to-morrow,” I called back, with a swagger of assumed cheerfulness.

  Speed stepped swiftly across the square and laid his hand on my stirrup.

  “What are you going to do if you see Buckhurst?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Or the Countess?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I suppose you will go out of your way to find her if she’s in Paradise?”

  “Yes.”

  “And tell her the truth about Buckhurst?”

  “I expect to.”

  After a moment’s silence he said: “Don’t do anything until I see you to-night, will you?”

  “All right,” I replied, and set my horse at a gallop over the old stone bridge.

&n
bsp; The highway to the sea which winds down through acres of yellow gorse and waving broom to the cliffs of Paradise is a breezy road, swept by the sweet winds that blow across Brittany from the Côte d’Or to the Pyrenees.

  It is a land of sea-winds; and when in the still noontide of midsummer the winds are at play far out at sea, their traces remain in the furrowed wheat, in the incline of solitary trees, in the breezy trend of the cliff-clover and the blackthorn and the league-wide sweep of the moorlands.

  And through this land whose inland perfume always savored the unseen sea I rode down to Paradise.

  It was not until I had galloped through the golden forest of Kerselec that I came in sight of the ocean, although among the sunbeams and the dropping showers of yellow beech-leaves I fancied I could hear the sound of the surf.

  And now I rode slowly, in full sight of the sea where it lay, an immense gray band across the world, touching a looming horizon, and in throat and nostril the salt stung sweetly, and the whole world seemed younger for the breath of the sea.

  From the purple mystery of the horizon to the landward cliffs the ocean appeared motionless; it was only when I had advanced almost to the cliffs that I saw the movement of waves — that I perceived the contrast between inland inertia and the restless repose of the sea, stirring ceaselessly since creation.

  The same little sparkling river I had crossed in Quimperlé I now saw again, spreading out a wide, flat current which broke into waves where it tumbled seaward across the bar; I heard the white-winged gulls mewing, the thunderous monotone of the surf, and a bell in some unseen chapel ringing sweetly.

  I passed a stone house, another; then the white road curved under the trees and I rode straight into the heart of Paradise, my horse’s hoofs awaking echoes in the silent, stone-paved square.

  Never had I so suddenly entered a place so peaceful, so quiet in the afternoon sun — yet the silence was not absolute, it was thrilling with exquisite sound, lost echoes of the river running along its quay of stone, half-heard harmonies of the ocean where white surf seethed over the sands beyond the headland. 164