Complete weird tales of.., p.100
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 100
And now began, under the guns of Saint Denis and Aubervilliers — almost under the walls of Paris — that first of a series of terrible blows destined to reduce France to a moral and physical condition too painful, too pitiable, to describe. For the storming of Le Bourget made the Commune a certainty, and, although the second and third attempts at anarchy were to prove abortive, the fourth insurrection was inevitable; and the political triumph of Monsieur Thiers assured its success.
As for the miserable village of Le Bourget, it was already doomed. Black masses of the Prussian Guard gathered like a tempest in the north, and swept across the plain in three columns. From Dugny, from Pont-Iblon, from Blanc-Mesnil, they poured down upon Le Bourget, firing as they came on. Right through the main street they burst, hurling back the Mobiles, sweeping the barricade, and turning again to batter down doors and windows, where, through the blinds, the soldiers of the 128th of the line were firing frenziedly. From the slate roof where he crouched Harewood saw the Mobiles give way and run. In a minute the interior of the village swarmed with panic-stricken soldiers. The Prussians shot them as they ran. Shells tore through them, and whirled them about as winds whirl gaily-tinted autumn leaves. A battery, a mass of wrecked limbers, dying horses and smashed guns, choked the transverse alley. Behind it a company of the 128th fought like wildcats until the Prussian “Queen Elizabeth Regiment” took them on the flank, and bayonetted them to the last man. And now, from the west, two splendid regiments swept into Le Bourget — the “Emperor Francis” and the “Emperor Alexandre,” Regiments of the Prussian Guard Royal — driving before them an agonized mob of Mobiles, Franc-tireurs and linesmen. The massacre was frightful. The Prussian bayonets swept the streets as scythes swing through ripe grass. South and east the village was on fire. In the west the firing had ended, and the Uhlans capered from garden to garden, spearing the frightened fugitives, and shouting, “Hourra! Hourra! Mit uns ist Gott!” In the north, however, the 128th line regiment still held out. The men had barricaded themselves in the stone houses lining both sides of the main street, and were firing from the windows into the thick of the Germans. The street swam with smoke, through which the Prussians dashed again and again, only to stagger back under the blaze of rifle flames.
Harewood, on the roof, was a mark now for the German riflemen. Bullet after bullet thwacked against the chimney behind which he clung. He waited his chance, then crawled along the slates and dropped into the scuttle, where the Mouse stood speechless with terror.
It was time that he left. A shell, bursting in the cellar, had ignited some stored fagots, and the first floor of the house had already begun to burn fiercely.
“Come,” he said, “we must make a dash for the church!” And he seized the Mouse, dragged him down the smoking stairs to the street door, and out over the cobble-stones, where a group of officers and a couple of dozen Voltigeurs of the Guard were running toward the church, pursued by Uhlans.
Up the steps and into the dark church they tumbled pellmell, Harewood and the Mouse among them. They closed the great doors, bolted and barricaded them with benches, pews and heavy stone slabs from the floor. Already the Voltigeurs were firing through the stained glass across the street; the officers climbed beside them and emptied their revolvers into the masses of Prussians that surged around the church in a delirium of fury.
Harewood, looking over the shoulder of an officer, saw the Prussian pioneers digging through the walls of the houses across the street, saw the German soldiers pour into the breach, saw them at the windows bayonetting the remnants of the 128th and flinging the wounded from the windows. From house to house the pioneers opened the walls. It was necessary to exterminate the garrison of each separate cottage, for none of them surrendered.
The houses that adjoined the church were swarming with Prussian infantry. They fired into the church windows, shouting, “Hourra! Hourra! Preussen! No quarter!”
The officer next to Harewood was killed outright; two others fell back to the stone floor below. At the next volley five Voltigeurs were killed or wounded; a blast of flame entered the church as a grenade exploded outside a window.
The Mouse, in an agony of fright, was running round and round the church like a caged creature looking for some chink or cranny of escape. A soldier was shot dead beside him and the Mouse stumbled over the dead man with a shriek. That stumble, however, almost pitched him through the back of the east confessional, which, in reality, was a concealed door leading directly to the rear of the church. The Mouse thrust his muzzle out, saw a garden, a dismantled arbour and no Prussians. His first instinct drove him to immediate flight: he crawled through the door on hands and knees and wriggled into the arbour. Then came a second instinct — to tell Harewood. Why it was that the Mouse crept back into the church at the risk of his miserable life nobody perhaps can tell. It is true that frightened animals, when unmolested, often return to a companion in trouble.
Harewood was standing by a high stained-glass window doing a thing that meant death if captured; he was firing a rifle at the Germans.
How he, a non-combatant, a cool-headed youth, who seldom needlessly risked his skin, could do such a thing, might only be explained by himself. In case of capture he would not have been harmed had he minded his own business. But he knew very well that a swift and merciless justice was served out for those civilians who fired on German troops. Yet there he stood, firing with the rest — a mere handful left now out of the thirty. Two or three officers still kept their feet, half-a-dozen soldiers were yet firing into the 2d division of the Prussian Guard Royal, numbering nearly 15,000 men. Outside the shattered windows, dirty fingers clutched the stone coping: already helmeted heads bobbed up here and there, inflamed Teutonic faces leered into the church; there came the scrape of scaling ladders against the wall; worse still, the rumble of artillery in the street close at hand.
One of the half-dozen survivors glanced around the church. It was a butcher’s shambles. Then from the street came a shout, “Our cannon are here! Surrender!”
“Surrender?” repeated Harewood, vacantly. Then, as he saw a wounded creature stagger up from the floor holding out a white handkerchief, he realised what he had done. Stunned, he stepped back to the altar as the firing died away. He saw the great doors open; he saw the street outside, wet and muddy, choked with throngs of helmeted soldiers, all staring up at the door; he saw a cannon limbered up and dragged away, the mounted cannoniers looking back at the portal where three dozen French soldiers had held in check 15,000 Germans.
A soldier, streaming with blood, rose from the floor of the church and stumbled blindly out to the steps; two more carried a wounded officer between them on a chair.
Then, as the German troops parted, and the wounded man was borne out and down the steps, Harewood felt a tug at his elbow and heard a whine:
“Monsieur — there’s a hole!”
The next instant he stepped behind the confessional, crawled through the dwarf door, and ran for his life.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE THIRTY-FIRST OF OCTOBER.
ALL DAY SUNDAY Hildé sat at her window, looking out over grey landscape beyond the fortifications. Few of the forts were firing; at long intervals the majestic reverberations from Mont-Valérien shook the heavy air. The southern forts were mute. At times she fancied that she could hear cannonading in the north, far away toward Le Bourget, but, when she held her breath to listen, the beating of her own heart was more audible.
She slept badly that night, dreaming that Harewood was dead, and she awoke in an ecstasy of terror, calling his name. Yolette came to her and comforted her, curling up close to her in the chilly bed. But she could not sleep, and when at length Yolette lay beside her, slumbering with a smile on her lips, Hildé slipped from the bed and climbed the dark stairs to Harewood’s empty room. It was something to be in his room — it helped her to look out into the darkness. For he was somewhere there in the darkness.
Shivering, she sat down by the window. On the fortifications below, the unwieldly bulk of the Prophet loomed up, tilted skyward, a shapeless monster in its waterproof covering. Rockets were rising slowly from Mont-Valérien; in the east, the sky lowered, tinged with a sombre lurid light, perhaps the reflection of some hamlet fired by the Prussians, burning alone at midnight.
A wet wind blew the curtains back from the open window; her little naked feet were numb with cold. The never-ending desire to see his room, his clothes, his bed again, came over her. She dared not light a candle — it was forbidden to those who lived on the ramparts — so she rose and passed along each wall, touching the objects that had once been worn by him. She knew them already by touch, his grey coat, his riding jacket, his hats and caps and whips and spurs. She rearranged the brushes and toilet articles on his bureau, her light touch caressed his books and papers and pens where they lay on the little table. Then she went to the bed and buried her head among the pillows, crying herself to sleep — a sleep full of vague shapes, a restless sleep that stole from her heavy lids at dawn, leaving her to quench the fever in her eyes with tears again.
It was the last day of October. Bourke had gone away to the city before breakfast to verify an ominous rumour concerning Metz, published in a single journal of the day before, and vigourously denied by the Official Journal.
Yolette and Red Riding Hood were in the cellar, storing more cases of canned vegetables, and mourning the loss of Schéhèrazade, who had been sent on Saturday to the zoölogical gardens in the Jardin des Plantes. Bourke had insisted on it; food was becoming alarmingly scarce; there was no fresh meat to be had except horse-meat, and even that was to be rationed the first week in November.
The lioness had been carted off sorely against her will. She snarled and growled and paced her cage with glowing eyes, in which the last trace of gentleness and affection had been extinguished.
Hildé, deep in her own trouble, scarcely heeded this new one. Schéhèrazade had been changing in disposition ever since the first cannonading. Sullen, furtive, she haunted the depths of the garden, ignoring Hildé’s advances, until Yolette began to fear the creature. So now, when it was necessary to send the lioness away, Hildé said nothing and Yolette was not sorry. Mehemet Ali, the parrot, however, screeched his remonstrance, which amused Bourke, because Schéhèrazade was the first living thing that the vicious old bird had ever shown any fondness for.
So the lioness was packed off to be fed by the government, and Bourke improved that opportunity by sending Mehemet Ali and the monkey also, which made two mouths the less to feed in case of famine.
Down in the cellar Yolette stood, piling tinned fruit and vegetables against the division wall, aided by Red Riding Hood. At the child’s request, Yolette was varying the monotony of their toil by telling a fairy story. Red Riding Hood listened gravely as Yolette continued:
“And the princess waited and waited for her dear prince, who had gone to fight the Were-wolf. And he did not return.”
“I know,” said the child, “what you mean.”
“What?” asked Yolette, absently.
“The prince is Monsieur Harewood and the princess is Mademoiselle Hildé.”
“And the Were-wolf?” said Yolette, faintly amused.
“The Were-wolf — that is the Prussian army.”
Yolette’s face sobered.
“The Prussians are very cruel and very fierce — like the Were-wolf,” she said; “come, little one, we must go to the kitchen.”
At the top of the cellar stairs they met Bourke. His serious face changed when he saw Yolette, but his expression had not escaped her.
“Breakfast is ready,” she said, quietly; “I have not yet breakfasted myself. Shall we go in?”
She led the way into the dining-room and closed the door. He put his arms around her and looked into her clear eyes.
“It is bad news,” she said, slowly.
“Yes, Yolette.”
“Not — not about Monsieur Harewood?”
“No — I hope not.”
“Tell me, Cecil.”
“Metz has surrendered; Bazaine and his army are prisoners.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“What else, Cecil? — There is something else.”
“Yes, there is. Le Bourget was carried by assault yesterday forenoon.”
She sat down by the table, nervously twisting the cloth. He took a chair opposite, resting his chin on his hands.
“Jim was there,” he said, after a silence.
“Then — then he—”
“Yes, he will come back to Paris, because the sortie has failed to pierce the German lines.”
“He should have come back last night,” said Yolette.
Bourke nodded silently.
“And because he has not yet returned you are worried,” continued Yolette. Her hand stole across the table and his own tightened over it.
“He has been delayed — that’s all,” said Bourke, making an effort to shake off his depression.
“We will say nothing to Hildé about it.”
“No, not to Hildé,” murmured Bourke.
Red Riding Hood entered bearing the breakfast covers. Hildé came in a moment later and looked anxiously at Bourke.
He smiled cheerily and began to read from the morning paper, aloud, how Monsieur Thiers, who had been trotting around all over Europe to enlist the sympathies of the great powers in behalf of France, had just returned from Vienna and had entered Paris with Bismarck’s kind permission. It seems that Monsieur Thiers had sounded England, Russia, Austria and Italy, and found them in accord with himself that an armistice should suspend hostilities for a while until a national assembly could be convened and terms of peace discussed with Bismarck and his sentimental sovereign. Hildé scarcely listened, Yolette nibbled her toast and tried to understand a diplomatic muddle that needed older brains than hers to solve.
Outside in the street the newsboys were crying, “Extra! Surrender of Bazaine! Fall of Metz! Terrible disaster at Le Bourget! Extra! Full list of the dead and wounded!” Bourke tried to keep Hildé’s attention; she smiled at him and held out an extra that she had already bought and devoured.
“If he was at Le Bourget,” she said, “he was not hurt. See! Here are the names.”
She kept her eyes on Bourke as he read the long column of dead, wounded, and missing. When he finished she said:
“Will he come back to Paris now?”
“I hope so,” said Bourke cheerily; “Perhaps the Mouse is with him. Heavens! What a mess Trochu made of it at Le Bourget! It seems that General Bellemare was absent in Paris when the Prussians fell on Le Bourget. It’s somebody’s fault — that’s clear — and very safe to say,” he added, with an attempt at gaiety that deceived no one.
Red Riding Hood, who now always held herself straight as an arrow when people spoke of soldiers — for had not her father died in uniform? — said in a clear voice: “If the Prussians are in Le Bourget — are we not in Paris?”
“Good for you!” said Bourke, heartily; “let Metz fall, let Strassbourg tumble down, let Le Bourget blow up; we are in Paris, two young ladies, a young man and Red Riding Hood. Vive la France!”
They all smiled a little; Bourke went out laughing, quite confident he had dispelled some of the gloom. It was raining again. He buttoned his overcoat close to the throat and hurried away on his daily visit to the war-office.
The streets he traversed were filled with people, the Place Saint Sulpice was black with a mob shouting and gesticulating. “Down with the ministry! Resign!” It was impossible to approach the war-office; the Place de l’Hôtel de Ville, the square in front of the Louvre, the gardens of the Luxembourg were swarming with excited crowds, indignant at the ministry’s suggestion of an armistice, which they considered preliminary to the surrender of Paris — furious at the news from Metz and hysterical over the disaster of Le Bourget.
At eight o’clock that morning the carbiniers had marched into Paris, spreading the report that Le Bourget had been betrayed to the Prussians, that they had escaped after prodigies of heroism, and that the government was responsible for everything.
Bourke, hoisting himself upon the railing of the Luxembourg, looked out over the vast throng toward a window, where, hedged in by the bayonets of the carbiniers, Buckhurst sat, pale and unmoved, beside Flourens. Mortier had just finished a venomous oration, and Flourens, booted and spurred, had risen and was facing the mob. His handsome face grew red with excitement, his gestures became more violent as the roar of approbation increased. “Vive Flourens! Down with the government!” The speech was a passionate plea for the Commune and a pledge that the city would never surrender:
“What is this senile ministry that it should seek peace for us who demand war! war! war! What was its price when Metz was sold, when Le Bourget went up in flames! The day will come when the government must answer to the Commune, and the day of atonement shall be terrible!”
The uproar was frightful; the carbiniers discharged their rifles in the air and shouted, “Vive la Commune!” A mob of National Guards cheered them vociferously.
In the midst of the din Buckhurst rose. Slowly his white, impassive face bent to meet the sea of upturned faces; the drums were silenced, the explosion of rifles ceased, the harsh yells died away.
“The ministers,” he said, in a low voice, “are at the Hôtel de Ville. The government must resign; the Commune is proclaimed. Who will follow me to the Hôtel de Ville?”
There came a thundering shout, “Forward!” The throngs surged, swung back, and burst into cheers as the carbiniers, drums rolling, bayonets slanting, wheeled out into the boulevard Saint Michel.
Bourke followed the crowd, now almost entirely composed of National Guards, Mobiles, Franc-tireurs and swarms of ruffians from Belleville. As they marched they bellowed the “Carmagnole,” the sinister blasts of the buglers, the startling crash of drums, the trample and shouting combined in one hideous pandemonium of deafening sound. As they poured through the rue de Rivoli and flooded the square of the Hôtel de Ville, Bourke saw General Trochu come out on the marble steps and wave back the leaders, who were already smashing in the iron gate.
