Complete weird tales of.., p.212
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 212
The poacher rose, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and made straight for his new gun.
“You two,” he said, with a wave of his arm, “you settle it among yourselves. Jacqueline, is it true that Le Bihan saw woodcock dropping into the fen last night?”
“He says so.”
“He is not a liar — usually,” observed the poacher. He touched his beret to me, flung the fowling-piece over his shoulder, picked up a canvas bag in which I heard cartridges rattling, stepped into his sabots, and walked away. In a few moments the hysterical yelps of a dog, pleased at the prospect of a hunt, broke out from the net-shed.
Jacqueline placed the few dishes in a pan of hot water, wiped her fingers, daintily, and picked up Ange Pitou, who promptly acknowledged the courtesy by bursting into a crackling purring.
“Show me the swimming-suit,” she said, shyly.
I drew it out of the satchel and laid it across my knees.
“Oh, it has a little tail behind — like a fish!” she cried, enchanted. “I shall look like the silver grilse of Quimperlé!” 202
“Do you think you can swim in those scales?” I asked.
“Swim? I — Jacqueline? Attendez un peu — you shall see!”
She laughed an excited, confident little laugh and hugged Ange Pitou, who closed his eyes in ecstasy sheathing and unsheathing his sharp claws.
“It is almost sunrise,” I said.
“It lacks many minutes to sunrise,” she replied. “Ask Ange Pitou. At sunrise he leaves me; nothing can hold him; he does not bite or scratch, he just pushes and pulls until my arms are tired. Then he goes. It is always so.”
“Why does he do that?”
“Ask him. I have often asked, but he never tells me — do you, my friend? I think he’s a moor-sprite — perhaps a devil. Do devils hate all kinds of water?”
“No, only holy water,” I replied.
“Well, then, he’s something else. Look! Look! He is beginning! See him push to get free, see him drive his furry head into my hands. The sun is coming up out of the sea! It will soon be here.”
She opened her arms; the cat sprang to the doorstep and vanished.
Jacqueline looked at the swimming-suit, then at me. “Will you go down to the beach, M’sieu Scarlett?”
But I had not traversed half the strip of rock and hard sand before something flew past — a slim, glittering shape which suddenly doubled up, straightened again, and fell headlong into the thundering surf.
The waves hurled her from crest to crest, clothing her limbs in froth; the singing foam rolled her over and over, stranding her on bubbling sands, until the swell found her again, lifted her, and tossed her seaward into the wide, white arms of the breakers. 203
Back to land she drifted and scrambled up on the beach, a slender, drenched figure, glistening and flashing with every movement.
Dainty of limb as a cat in wet grass, she shook the spray from her fingers and scrubbed each palm with sand, then sprang again headlong into the surf; there was a flash, a spatter, and she vanished.
After a long, long while, far out on the water she rose, floating.
Now the red sun, pushing above the ocean’s leaden rim, flung its crimson net across the water. String after string of white-breasted sea-ducks beat to windward from the cove, whirling out to sea; the gray gulls flapped low above the shoal and settled in rows along the outer bar, tossing their sun-tipped wings; the black cormorant on the cliff craned its hideous neck, scanning the ocean with restless, brilliant eyes.
Tossed back once more upon the beach like an opalescent shell, Jacqueline, ankle-deep in foam, looked out across the flaming waters, her drenched hair dripping.
From the gorse on cliff and headland, one by one the larks shot skyward like amber rockets, trailing a shower of melody till the whole sky rained song. The crested vanneaux, passing out to sea, responded plaintively, flapping their bronze-green wings.
The girl twisted her hair and wrung it till the last salt drop had fallen. Sitting there in the sands, idle fingers cracking the pods of gilded sea-weed, she glanced up at me and laughed contentedly. Presently she rose and walked out to a high ledge, motioning me to follow. Far below, the sun-lit water shimmered in a shallow basin of silver sand.
“Look!” she cried, flinging her arms above her head, and dropped into space, falling like a star, down, down into the shallow sea. Far below I saw a streak of living light shoot through the water — on, on, closer to the surface now, and at last she fairly sprang into the air, quivering like a gaffed salmon, then fell back to float and clear her blue eyes from her tangled hair.
She gave me a glance full of malice as she landed, knowing quite well that she had not only won, but had given me a shock with her long dive into scarce three feet of water.
Presently she climbed to the sun-warmed hillock of sand and sat down beside me to dry her hair.
A langouste, in his flaming scarlet coat of mail, passed through a glassy pool among the rocks, treading sedately on pointed claws; the lançons tunnelled the oozing beach under her pink feet, like streams of living quicksilver; the big, blue sea-crabs sidled off the reef, sheering down sideways into limpid depths. Landward the curlew walked in twos and threes, swinging their long sickle bills; the sea-swallows drove by like gray snow-squalls, melting away against the sky; a vitreous living creature, blazing with purest sapphire light, floated past under water.
Ange Pitou, coveting a warm sun-bath in the sand, came wandering along pretending not to see us; but Jacqueline dragged him into her arms for a hug, which lasted until Ange Pitou broke loose, tail hoisted but ears deaf to further flattery.
So Jacqueline chased Ange Pitou back across the sand and up the rocky path, pursuing her pet from pillar to post with flying feet that fell as noiselessly as the velvet pads of Ange Pitou.
“Come to the net-shed, if you please!” she called back to me, pointing to a crazy wooden structure built above the house.
As I entered the net-shed the child was dragging a pile of sea-nets to the middle of the floor.
“In case I fall,” she said, coolly.
“Better let me arrange them, then,” I said, glancing up at the improvised trapeze which dangled under the roof-beams.
She thanked me, seized a long rope, and went up, hand over hand. I piled the soft nets into a mattress, but decided to stand near, not liking the arrangements.
Meanwhile Jacqueline was swinging, head downward, from her trapeze. Her cheeks flamed as she twisted and wriggled through a complicated manœuvre, which ended by landing her seated on the bar of the trapeze a trifle out of breath. With both hands resting on the ropes, she started herself swinging, faster, faster, then pretended to drop off backward, only to catch herself with her heels, substitute heels for hands, and hang. Doubling back on her own body, she glided to her perch beneath the roof, shook her damp hair back, set the trapeze flying, and curled up on the bar, resting as fearlessly and securely as a bullfinch in a tree-top.
Above her the red-and-black wasps buzzed and crawled and explored the sun-scorched beams. Spiders watched her from their silken hammocks, and the tiny cliff-mice scuttled from beam to beam. Through the open door the sunshine poured a flood of gold over the floor where the bronzed nets were spread. Mending was necessary; she mentioned it, and set herself swinging again, crossing her feet.
“You think you could drop from there into a tank of water?” I asked.
“How deep?”
“Say four feet.”
She nodded, swinging tranquilly.
“Have you any fear at all, Jacqueline?”
“No.”
“You would try whatever I asked you to try?”
“If I thought I could,” she replied, naïvely.
“But that is not it. I am to be your master. You must have absolute confidence in me and obey orders instantly.”
“Like a soldier?”
“Exactly.”
“Bien.”
“Then hang by your hands!”
Quick as a flash she hung above me.
“You trust me, Jacqueline?”
“Yes.”
“Then drop!”
Down she flashed like a falling meteor. I caught her with that quick trick known to all acrobats, which left her standing on my knee.
“Jump!”
She sprang lightly to the heap of nets, lost her balance, stumbled, and sat down very suddenly. Then she threw back her head and laughed; peal on peal of deliciously childish laughter rang through the ancient net-shed, until, overhead, the passing gulls echoed her mirth with querulous mewing, and the sea-hawk, towering to the zenith, wheeled and squealed.
* * *
XIII
FRIENDS
AT SEVEN O’CLOCK that morning the men in the circus camp awoke, worried, fatigued, vaguely resentful, unusually profane. Horan was openly mutinous, and announced his instant departure.
By eight o’clock a miraculous change had taken place; the camp was alive with scurrying people, galvanized into hopeful activity by my possibly unwarranted optimism and a few judiciously veiled threats.
Clothed with temporary authority by Byram, I took the bit between my teeth and ordered the instant erection of the main tents, the construction of the ring, barriers, and benches, and the immediate renovating of the portable tank in which poor little Miss Claridge had met her doom.
I detailed Kelly Eyre to Quimperlé with orders for ten thousand crimson hand-bills; I sent McCadger, with Dawley, the bass-drummer, and Irwin, the cornettist, to plaster our posters from Pont Aven to Belle Isle, and I gave them three days to get back, and promised them a hundred dollars apiece if they succeeded in sticking our bills on the fortifications of Lorient and Quimper, with or without permission.
I sent Grigg and three exempt Bretons to beat up the country from Gestel and Rosporden to Pontivy, clear across to Quiberon, and as far east as St. Gildas Point.
By the standing-stones of Carnac, I swore that I’d have all Finistère in that tent. “Governor,” said I, “we are going to feature Jacqueline all over Brittany, and, if the ladies object, it can’t be helped! By-the-way, do they object?”
The ladies did object, otherwise they would not have been human ladies; but the battle was sharp and decisive, for I was desperate.
“It simply amounts to this,” I said: “Jacqueline pulls us through or the governor and I land in jail. As for you, Heaven knows what will happen to you! Penal settlement, probably.”
And I called Speed and pointed at Jacqueline, sitting on her satchel, watching the proceedings with amiable curiosity.
“Speed, take that child and rehearse her. Begin as soon as the tent is stretched and you can rig the flying trapeze. Use the net, of course. Horan rehearsed Miss Claridge; he’ll stand by. Miss Crystal, your good-will and advice I depend upon. Will you help me?”
“With all my heart,” said Miss Crystal.
That impulsive reply broke the sullen deadlock.
Pretty little Mrs. Grigg went over and shook the child’s hand very cordially and talked broken French to her; Miss Delany volunteered to give her some “Christian clothes”; Mrs. Horan burst into tears, complaining that everybody was conspiring to injure her and her husband, but a few moments later she brought Jacqueline some toast, tea, and fried eggs, an attention shyly appreciated by the puzzled child, who never before had made such a stir in the world.
“Don’t stuff her,” said Speed, as Mrs. Horan enthusiastically trotted past bearing more toast. “Here, Scarlett, the ladies are spoiling her. Can I take her for the first lesson?”
Byram, who had shambled up, nodded. I was glad to see him reassert his authority. Speed took the child by the hand, and together they entered the big white tent, which now loomed up like a mammoth mushroom against the blue sky.
“Governor,” I said, “we’re all a bit demoralized; a few of us are mutinous. For Heaven’s sake, let the men see you are game. This child has got to win out for us. Don’t worry, don’t object; back me up and let me put this thing through.”
The old man shoved his hands into his trousers-pockets and looked at me with heavy, hopeless eyes.
“Now here’s the sketch for the hand-bill,” I said, cheerfully, taking a pencilled memorandum from my pocket. And I read:
``THE PATRIOTIC ANTI-PRUSSIAN REPUBLICAN CIRCUS,
MORE STUPENDOUS, MORE GIGANTIC, MORE
OVERPOWERING THAN EVER!
GLITTERING, MARVELLOUS, SOUL-COMPELLING!’’
“What’s ‘soul-compelling’?” asked Byram.
“Anything you please, governor,” I said, and read on rapidly until I came to the paragraph concerning Jacqueline:
``THE WONDER OF EARTH AND HEAVEN!
THE UNUTTERABLY BEAUTIFUL FLYING
MERMAID! CAUGHT ON THE
COAST OF BRITTANY!
WHAT IS SHE?
FISH? BIRD? HUMAN? DIVINE?
WHO KNOWS?
THE SCIENTISTS OF FRANCE DO NOT KNOW!!
THE SCIENTISTS OF THE WORLD
ARE CONFOUNDED!
IS SHE
A LOST SOUL
FROM THE SUNKEN CITY OF KER-YS?
50,000 FRANCS REWARD FOR THE BRETON WHO CAN
PROVE THAT SHE DID NOT COME STRAIGHT FROM
PARADISE!!!’’
“That’s a damn good bill,” said Byram, suddenly.
He was so seldom profane that I stared at him, worried lest his misfortunes had unbalanced him. But a faint, healthy color was already replacing the pallor in his loose cheeks, a glint of animation came into his sunken eyes. He lifted his battered silk hat, replaced it at an angle almost defiant, and scowled at Horan, who passed us sullenly, driving the camel tentwards with awful profanity.
“Don’t talk such langwidge in my presence, Mr. Horan,” he said, sharply; “a camuel is a camuel, but remember: ‘kind hearts is more than cornets,’ an’ it’s easier for that there camuel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a cussin’ cuss to cuss his way into Kingdom Come!”
Horan, who had betrayed unmistakable symptoms of insubordination that morning, quailed under the flowing rebuke. He was a man of muscular strength and meagre intellect; words hit him like trip-hammers.
“Certainly, governor,” he stammered, and spoke to the camel politely, guiding that enraged and squealing quadruped to his manger with a forced smile.
With mallet, hammer, saw, and screw-driver I worked until noon, maturing my plans all the while. These plans would take the last penny in the treasury and leave us in debt several thousand francs. But it was win or go to smash now, and personally I have always preferred a tremendous smash to a slow and oozy fizzle.
A big pot of fragrant soup was served to the company at luncheon; and it amused me to see Jacqueline troop into the tent with the others and sit down with her bit of bread and her bowl of broth.
She was flushed and excited, and she talked to her instructor, Speed, all the while, chattering like a linnet between mouthfuls of bread and broth.
“How is she getting on?” I called across to Speed.
“The child is simply startling,” he said, in English. “She is not afraid of anything. She and Miss Crystal have been doing that hair-raising ‘flying swing’ without rehearsal!”
Jacqueline, hearing us talking in English, turned and stared at me, then smiled and looked up sweetly at Speed.
“You seem to be popular with your pupil,” I said, laughing.
“She’s a fine girl — a fine, fearless, straight-up-and-down girl,” he said, with enthusiasm.
Everybody appeared to like her, though how much that liking might be modified if prosperity returned I was unable to judge.
Now all our fortunes depended on her. She was not a ballon d’essai; she was literally the whole show; and if she duplicated the sensational success of poor little Miss Claridge, we had nothing to fear. But her troubles would then begin. At present, however, we were waiting for her to pull us out of the hole before we fell upon her and rent her professionally. And I use that “we” not only professionally, but with an attempt at chivalry.
Byram’s buoyancy had returned in a measure. He sat in his shirt-sleeves at the head of the table, vigorously sopping his tartine in his soup, and, mouth full, leaned forward, chewing and listening to the conversation around him.
Everybody knew it was life or death now, that each one must drop petty jealousies and work for the common salvation. An artificial and almost feverish animation reigned, which I adroitly fed with alarming allusions to the rigor of the French law toward foreigners and other malefactors who ran into debt to French subjects on the sacred soil of France. And, having lived so long in France and in the French possessions, I was regarded as an oracle of authority by these ambulant professional people who were already deadly homesick, and who, in eighteen months of Europe, had amassed scarcely a dozen French phrases among them all.
“I’ll say one thing,” observed Byram, with dignity; “if ever I git out of this darn continong with my circus, I’ll recooperate in the undulatin’ medders an’ j’yful vales of the United States. Hereafter that country will continue to remain good enough for me.”
All applauded — all except Jacqueline, who looked around in astonishment at the proceedings, and only smiled when Speed explained in French.
“Ask maddermoselle if she’ll go home with us?” prompted Byram. “Tell her there’s millions in it.”
Speed put the question; Jacqueline listened gravely, hesitated, then whispered to Speed, who reddened a trifle and laughed.
Everybody waited for a moment. “What does she say?” inquired Byram.
“Oh, nothing; she talked nonsense.”
But Jacqueline’s dignity and serene face certainly contradicted Speed’s words.
Presently Byram arose, flourishing his napkin. “Time’s up!” he said, with decision, and we all trooped off to our appointed labors.
Now that I had stirred up this beehive and set it swarming again, I had no inclination to turn drone. Yet I remembered my note to the Countess de Vassart and her reply. So about four o’clock I made the best toilet I could in my only other suit of clothes, and walked out of the bustling camp into the square, where the mossy fountain splashed under the oaks and the children of Paradise were playing. Hands joined, they danced in a ring, singing:
