Complete weird tales of.., p.197
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 197
“Your road lies the other way,” I observed, and, as he began to protest, I cut him short.
“You change your direction too quickly to suit me,” I said. “Come, my friend the weather-cock, turn your nose east and follow it or I may ask you some questions that might frighten you.”
And so I left him also staring after us, and I had half a mind to go back and examine his portfolio to see what a snipe-faced notary might be carrying about with him.
When I looked up at my turkey-girl, she was sitting more easily in the saddle, head bent thoughtfully.
“You see, mademoiselle, I take no chances of not finding my friends at home,” I said.
“What friends, monsieur?”
“My friends at La Trappe.”
“Oh! And ... you think that the notary we passed might have desired to prepare them for your visit, monsieur?”
“Possibly. The notary of Trois-Feuilles and the Château de la Trappe may not be unknown to each other. Perhaps even mademoiselle the turkey-girl may number the learned Trappists among her friends.” 29
“Perhaps,” she said.
Walking on along the muddy road beside her, arm resting on my horse’s neck, I thought over again of the chances of catching Buckhurst, and they seemed slim, especially as after my visit the house at La Trappe would be vacant and the colony scattered, or at least out of French jurisdiction, and probably settled across the Belgian frontier.
Of course, if the government ordered the expulsion of these people, the people must go; but I for one found the order a foolish one, because it removed a bait that might attract Buckhurst back where we stood a chance of trapping him.
But in a foreign country he could visit his friends freely, and whatever movement he might ultimately contemplate against the French government could easily be directed from that paradise of anarchists, Belgium, without the necessity of his exposing himself to any considerable danger.
I was sorry that affairs had taken this turn.
A little breeze began blowing; the scarlet skirt of my turkey-girl fluttered above her wooden shoes, and on her head the silk bow quivered like a butterfly on a golden blossom.
“They say when the Lord fashioned the first maid of Alsace half the angels cried themselves ill with jealousy,” said I, looking up at her.
“And the other half, monsieur?”
“The sterner half started for Alsace in a body. They were controlled with difficulty, mademoiselle. That is why St. Peter was given a key to lock them in, not to lock us poor devils out.”
After a silence she said, musing: “It is a curious thing, but you speak as though you had seen better days.”
“No,” I said, “I have never seen better days. I am slowly rising in the world. Last year I was a lieutenant; I am now inspector.”
“I meant,” she said, scornfully, “that you had been well-born — a gentleman.”
“Are gentlemen scarce in the Imperial Military Police?”
“It is not a profession that honors a man.”
“Of all people in the world,” said I, “the police would be the most gratified to believe that this violent world needs no police.”
“Monsieur, there is another remedy for violence.”
“And what may that remedy be, mademoiselle?”
“Non-resistance — absolute non-resistance,” said the girl, earnestly, bending her pretty head toward me.
“That is not human nature,” I said, laughing.
“Is the justification of human nature our aim in this world?”
“Nor is it possible for mankind to submit to violence,” I added.
“I believe otherwise,” she said, gravely.
As we mounted the hill along a sandy road, bordered with pines and with cool, green thickets of broom and gorse, I looked up at her and said: “In spite of your theories, mademoiselle, you yourself refused to accompany me.”
“But I did not resist your violence,” she replied, smiling.
After a moment’s silence I said: “For a disciple of a stern and colorless creed, you are very human. I am sorry that you believe it necessary to reform the world.”
She said, thoughtfully: “There is nothing joyless in my creed — above all, nothing stern. If it be fanaticism to desire for all the world that liberty of thought and speech and deed which I, for one, have assumed, then I am, perhaps, a fanatic. If it be fanaticism to detest violence and to deplore all resistance to violence, I am a very guilty woman, monsieur, and deserve ill of the Emperor’s Military Police.”
This she said with that faintly ironical smile hovering sometimes in her eyes, sometimes on her lips, so that it was hard to face her and feel quite comfortable.
I began, finally, an elaborate and logical argument, forgetting that women reason only with their hearts, and she listened courteously. To meet her eyes when I was speaking interrupted my train of thought, and often I was constrained to look out across the hills at the heavy, solid flanks of the mountains, which seemed to steady my logic and bring rebellious thought and wandering wisdom to obedience.
I explained my theory of the acceptance of three things — human nature, the past, and the present. Given these, the solution of future problems must be a different solution from that which she proposed.
At moments the solemn absurdity of it all came over me — the turkey-girl, with her golden head bent, her butterfly coiffe a-flutter, discussing ethics with an irresponsible fly-by-night, who happened at that period of his career to carry a commission in the Imperial Police.
The lazy roadside butterflies flew up in clouds before the slow-stepping horse; the hill rabbits, rising to their hindquarters, wrinkled their whiskered noses at us; from every thicket speckled hedge-birds peered at us as we went our way solemnly deciding those eternal questions already ancient when the Talmud branded woman with the name of Lilith.
At length, as we reached the summit of the sandy hill, “There is La Trappe, monsieur,” said my turkey-girl, and once more stretched out her lovely arm.
There appeared to be nothing mysterious about the house or its surroundings; indeed, a sunnier and more peaceful spot would be hard to find in that land of hills, ravines, and rocky woodlands, outposts of those cloudy summits soaring skyward in the south.
The house itself was visible through gates of wrought iron, swinging wide between pillars of stone, where an avenue stretched away under trees to a granite terrace, glittering in the sun. And under the terrace a quiet pool lay reflecting tier on tier of stone steps which mounted to the bright esplanade above.
There was no porter at the gate to welcome me or to warn me back; the wet road lay straight in front, barred only by sunbeams.
“May we enter?” I asked, politely.
She did not answer, and I led the horse down that silent avenue of trees towards the terrace and the glassy pool which mirrored the steps of stone.
Masses of scarlet geraniums, beds of living coals, glowed above the terrace. As we drew nearer, the water caught the blaze of color, reflecting the splendor in subdued tints of smothered flame. And always, in the pool, I saw the terrace steps, reversed, leading down into depths of sombre fire.
“And here we dismount,” said I, and offered my aid.
She laid her hands on my shoulders; I swung her to the ground, where her sabots clicked and her silver neck-chains jingled in the silence.
I looked around. How intensely still was everything — the leaves, the water! The silent blue peaks on the horizon seemed to be watching me; the trees around me were so motionless that they also appeared to be listening with every leaf.
This quarter of the world was too noiseless for me; there might have been a bird-note, a breeze to whisper, a minute stirring of unseen life — but there was not.
“Is that house empty?” I asked, turning brusquely on my companion. 33
“The Countess de Vassart will give you your answer,” she replied.
“Kindly announce me, then,” I said, grimly, and together we mounted the broad flight of steps to the esplanade, above which rose the gray mansion of La Trappe.
* * *
III
LA TRAPPE
THERE WAS A small company of people gathered at a table which stood in the cool shadows of the château’s eastern wing. Towards these people my companion directed her steps; I saw her bend close to the ear of a young girl who had already turned to look at me. At the same instant a heavily built, handsome man pushed back his chair and stood up, regarding me steadily through his spectacles, one hand grasping the back of the seat from which he had risen.
Presently the young girl to whom my companion of the morning had whispered rose gracefully and came toward me.
Slender, yet with that charming outline of body which youth wears as a promise, she moved across the terrace in her flowing robe of crape, and welcomed me with a gesture and a pleasant word, which I scarcely heard, so stupidly I stood, silenced by the absolute loveliness of the girl. Did I say loveliness? No, not that, but something newer, something far more fresh, far sweeter, that made mere physical beauty a thing less vital than the colorless shadow of a crystal.
She was not only beautiful, she was Beauty itself, incarnate, alive, soul and body. Later I noticed that she was badly sun-burned under the eyes, that her delicate nose was adorned by an adorable freckle, and that she had red hair.... Could this be the Countess de Vassart? What a change!
I stepped forward to meet her, and took off my forage-cap.
“Is it true, monsieur, that you have come to arrest us?” she asked, in a low voice.
“Yes, madame,” I replied, already knowing that she was the Countess. She hesitated; then:
“Will you tell me your name? I am Madame de Vassart.”
Cap in hand I followed her to the table, where the company had already risen. The young Countess presented me with undisturbed simplicity; I bowed to my turkey-girl, who proved, after all, to be the actress from the Odéon, Sylvia Elven; then I solemnly shook hands with Dr. Leo Delmont, Professor Claude Tavernier, and Monsieur Bazard, ex-instructor at the Fontainebleau Artillery School, whom I immediately recognized as the snipe-faced notary I had met on the road.
“Well, sir,” exclaimed Dr. Delmont, in his deep, hearty voice, “if this peaceful little community is come under your government’s suspicion, I can only say, Heaven help France!”
“Is not that what we all say in these times, doctor?” I asked.
“When I say ‘Heaven help France!’ I do not mean Vive l’Empereur!’” retorted the big doctor, dryly.
Professor Tavernier, a little, gray-headed savant with used-up eyes, asked me mildly if he might know why they all were to be expelled from France. I did not reply.
“Is thought no longer free in France?” asked Dr. Delmont, in his heavy voice.
“Thought is free in France,” I replied, “but its expression is sometimes inadvisable, doctor.” 36
“And the Emperor is to be the judge of when it is advisable to express one’s thoughts?” inquired Professor Tavernier.
“The Emperor,” I said, “is generous, broad-minded, and wonderfully tolerant. Only those whose attitude incites to disorder are held in check.”
“According to the holy Code Napoléon,” observed Professor Tavernier, with a shrug.
“The code kills the body, Napoleon the soul,” said Dr. Delmont, gravely.
“It was otherwise with Victor Noir,” suggested Mademoiselle Elven.
“Yes,” added Delmont, “he asked for justice and they gave him ... Pierre!”
“I think we are becoming discourteous to our guest, gentlemen,” said the young Countess, gently.
I bowed to her. After a moment I said: “Doctor, if you do truly believe in that universal brotherhood which apparently even tolerates within its boundaries a poor devil of the Imperial Police, if your creed really means peace and not violence, suffering and patience, not provocation and revolt, demonstrate to the government by the example of your submission to its decrees that the theories you entertain are not the chimeras of generous but unbalanced minds.”
“We never had the faintest idea of resisting,” said Monsieur Bazard, the notary, otherwise the Chevalier de Grey, a lank, hollow-eyed young fellow, already marked heavily with the ravages of pulmonary disease. But the fierce glitter in his eyes gave the lie to his words.
“Yesterday, Madame la Comtesse,” I said, turning to the Countess de Vassart, “the Emperor could easily afford to regard with equanimity the movement in which you are associated. To-day that is no longer possible.”
The young Countess gave me a bewildered look. 37
“Is it true,” she asked, “that the Emperor does not know we have severed all connection with the Internationale?”
“If that is so,” said I, “why does Monsieur Bazard return across the fields to warn you of my coming? And why do you harbor John Buckhurst at La Trappe? Do you not know he is wanted by the police?”
“But we do not know why,” said Dr. Delmont, bending forward and pouring himself a glass of red wine. This he drank slowly, eating a bit of black bread with it.
“Monsieur Scarlett,” said Mademoiselle Elven, suddenly, “why does the government want John Buckhurst?”
“That, mademoiselle, is the affair of the government and of John Buckhurst,” I said.
“Pardon,” interrupted Delmont, heavily, “it is the affair of every honest man and woman — where a Bonaparte is concerned.”
“I do not understand you, doctor,” I said.
“Then I will put it brutally,” he replied. “We free people fear a family a prince of which is a common murderer.”
I did not answer; the world has long since judged the slayer of Victor Noir.
After a troubled silence the Countess asked me if I would not share their repast, and I thanked her and took some bread and grapes and a glass of red wine.
The sun had stolen into the corner where we had been sitting, and the Countess suggested that we move down to the lawn under the trees; so Dr. Delmont and Professor Tavernier lifted the table and bore it down the terrace steps, while I carried the chairs to the lawn.
It made me uncomfortable to play the rôle I was playing among these misguided but harmless people; that I showed it in my face is certain, for the Countess looked up at me and said, smilingly: “You must not look at us so sorrowfully, Monsieur Scarlett. It is we who pity you.”
And I replied, “Madame, you are generous,” and took my place among them and ate and drank with them in silence, listening to the breeze in the elms.
Mademoiselle Elven, in her peasant’s dress, rested her pretty arm across her chair and sighed.
“It is all very well not to resist violence,” she said, “but it seems to me that the world is going to run over us some day. Is there any harm in stepping out of the way, Dr. Delmont?”
The Countess laughed outright.
“Not at all,” she said. “But we must not attempt to box the world’s ears as we run. Must we, doctor?”
Turning her lovely, sun-burned face to me, she continued: “Is it not charming here? The quiet is absolute. It is always still. We are absurdly contented here; we have no servants, you see, and we all plough and harrow and sow and reap — not many acres, because we need little. It is one kind of life, quite harmless and passionless, monsieur. I have been raking hay this morning. It is so strange that the Emperor should be troubled by the silence of these quiet fields—”
The distress in her eyes lasted only a moment; she turned and looked out across the green meadows, smiling to herself.
“At first when I came here from Paris,” she said, “I was at a loss to know what to do with all this land. I owe much happiness to Dr. Delmont, who suggested that the estate, except what we needed, might be loaned free to the people around us. It was an admirable thought; we have no longer any poor among us—”
She stopped short and gave me a quick glance. “Please understand me, Monsieur Scarlett. I make no merit of giving what I cannot use. That would be absurd.”
“The world knows, madame, that you have given all you have,” I said.
“Then why is your miserable government sending her into exile?” broke in Monsieur Bazard, harshly.
“I will tell you,” I said, surprised at his tone and manner. “The colony at La Trappe is the head and centre of a party which abhors war, which refuses resistance, which aims, peacefully perhaps, at political and social annihilation. In time of peace this colony is not a menace; in time of war it is worse than a menace, monsieur.”
I turned to Dr. Delmont.
“With the German armies massing behind the forest borders yonder, it is unsafe for the government to leave you here at La Trappe, doctor. You are too neutral.”
“You mean that the government fears treason?” demanded the doctor, growing red.
“Yes,” I said, “if you insist.”
The Countess had turned to me in amazement.
“Treason!” she repeated, in an unsteady voice. “Is it treason for a small community to live quietly here in the Alsatian hills, harming nobody, asking nothing save freedom of thought? Is it treason for a woman of the world to renounce the world? Is it treason for her to live an unostentatious life and use her fortune to aid others to live? Treason! Monsieur, the word has an ugly ring to me. I am a soldier’s daughter!”
There was something touchingly illogical in the last words — this young apostle of peace naïvely displaying her credentials as though the mere word “soldier” covered everything.
“Your government insults us all,” said Bazard, between his teeth. 40
Mademoiselle Elven leaned forward, her blue eyes shining angrily.
“Because I have learned that the boundaries of nations are not the frontiers of human hearts, am I a traitor? Because I know no country but the world, no speech but the universal speech that one reads in a brother’s eyes, because I know no barriers, no boundaries, no limits to human brotherhood, am I a traitor?”
She made an exquisite gesture with half-open arms; all the poetry of the Théâtre Français was in it.
