Complete weird tales of.., p.225
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 225
It may have been this indefinable foreboding that drew our little company into a temporary intimacy; it may have been the immense loneliness of the sea, thundering in thickening darkness, that stilled our voices to whispers.
Eyre, ill at ease, walked from window to window, looking at the luminous tints on the ragged edges of the clouds; Sylvia, over her heavy embroidery, lifted her head gravely at moments, to glance after him when he halted listless, preoccupied, staring at Speed and Jacqueline, who were drawing pictures of Arthur and his knights by the lamp-lit table.
I leaned in the embrasure of the southern window, gazing at my lighted lanterns, which dangled from the halyards at Saint-Yssel. The soldier Rolland had so far kept his word — three red lamps glimmered through a driving mist; the white lanterns hung above, faintly shining.
Full in the firelight of the room sat the young Countess, lost in reverie, hands clasping the gilt arms of her chair. At her feet dozed Ange Pitou.
The dignity of a parvenu cat admitted for the first time to unknown luxury is a lesson. I said this to the young Countess, who smiled dreamily, watching the play of color over the drift-wood fire. A ship’s plank was burning there, tufted with golden-green flames. Presently a blaze of purest carmine threw a deeper light into the room.
“I wonder,” she said, “what people sailed in that ship — and when? Did they perish on this coast when their ship perished? A drift-wood fire is beautiful, but a little sad, too.” She looked up pensively over her shoulder. “Will you bring a chair to the fire?” she asked. “We are burning part of a great ship — for our pleasure, monsieur. Tell me what ship it was; tell me a story to amuse me — not a melancholy one, if you please.”
I drew a chair to the blaze; the drift-wood burned gold and violet, with scarcely a whisper of its velvet flames.
“I am afraid my story is not going to be very cheerful,” I said, “and I am also afraid that I must ask you to listen to it.”
She met my eyes with composure, leaned a little toward me, and waited.
And so, sitting there in the tinted glare, I told her of the death of Delmont and of Tavernier, and of Buckhurst’s share in the miserable work.
I spoke in a whisper scarcely louder than the rustle of the flames, watching the horror growing in her face.
I told her that the money she had intrusted to them for the Red Cross was in my possession, and would be forwarded at the first chance; that I hoped to bring Buckhurst to justice that very night.
“Madame, I am paining you,” I said; “but I am going to cause you even greater unhappiness.”
“Tell me what is necessary,” she said, forming the words with tightened lips.
“Then I must tell you that it is necessary for Mademoiselle Elven to leave Trécourt to-night.”
She looked at me as though she had not heard.
“It is absolutely necessary,” I repeated. “She must go secretly. She must leave her effects; she must go in peasant’s dress, on foot.”
“Why?”
“It is better that I do not tell you, madame.”
“Tell me. It is my right to know.”
“Not now; later, if you insist.”
The young Countess passed one hand over her eyes as though dazed.
“Does Sylvia know this?” she asked, in a shocked voice.
“Not yet.”
“And you are going to tell her?”
“Yes, madame.”
“This is dreadful,” she muttered.... “If I did not know you,... if I did not trust you so perfectly,... trust you with all my heart!... Oh, are you certain she must go? It frightens me; it is so strange! I have grown fond of her.... And now you say that she must go. I cannot understand — I cannot.”
“No, you cannot understand,” I repeated, gently; “but she can. It is a serious matter for Mademoiselle Elven; it could not easily be more serious. It is even perhaps a question of life or death, madame.”
“In Heaven’s name, help her, then!” she said, scarcely controlling the alarm that brought a pitiful break in her voice.
“I am trying to,” I said. “And now I must consult Mademoiselle Elven. Will you help me?”
“What can I do?” she asked, piteously.
“Stand by that window. Look, madame, can you see the lights on the semaphore?”
“Yes.”
“Count them aloud.”
She counted the white lights for me, then the red ones.
“Now,” I said, “if those lights change in number or color or position, come instantly to me. I shall be with Mademoiselle Elven in the little tea-room. But,” I added, “I do not expect any change in the lights; it is only a precaution.”
I left her in the shadow of the curtains, and passed through the room to Sylvia’s side. She looked up quietly from her embroidery frame, then, dropping the tinted silks and needles on the cloth, rose and walked beside me past Eyre, who stood up as we came abreast of him.
Sylvia paused. “Monsieur Eyre,” she said, “I have a question to ask you ... some day,” and passed on with a smile and a slight inclination of her head, leaving Eyre looking after her with heavy eyes.
When we entered the little tea-room she passed on to the lounge and seated herself on the padded arm; I turned, closed the door, and walked straight toward her.
She glanced up at me curiously; something in my face appeared to sober her, for the amused smile on her lips faded before I spoke.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I am sorry to tell you,” I said— “sorry from my heart. You are not very friendly to me, and that makes it harder for me to say what I have to say.”
She was watching me intently out of her pretty, intelligent eyes.
“What do you mean?” she asked, guardedly.
“I mean that you cannot stay here,” I said. “And you know why.”
The color flooded her face, and she stood up, confronting me, exasperated, defiant.
“Will you explain this insult?” she asked, hotly.
“Yes. You are a German spy,” I said, under my breath.
There was no color in her face now — nothing but a glitter in her blue eyes and a glint from the small, white teeth biting her lower lip.
“French troops will land here to-night or to-morrow,” I went on, calmly. “You will see how dangerous your situation is certain to become when Buckhurst is taken, and when it is understood what use you have made of the semaphore.”
She winced, then straightened and bent her steady gaze on me. Her courage was admirable.
“I thank you for telling me,” she said, simply. “Have I a chance to reach the Spanish frontier?”
“I think you have,” I replied. “Kelly Eyre is going with you when—”
“He? No, no, he must not! Does he know what I am?” she broke in, impetuously.
“Yes, mademoiselle; and he knows what happens to spies.”
“Did he offer to go?” she asked, incredulously.
“Mademoiselle, he insists.”
Her lip began to tremble. She turned toward the window, where the sea-fog flew past in the rising wind, and stared out across the immeasurable blackness of the ocean. 358
Without turning her head she said: “Does he know that it may mean his death?”
“He has suffered worse for your sake!” I said, bitterly.
“What?” she flashed out, confronting me in an instant.
“You must know that,” I said— “three years of hell — prison — utter ruin! Do you dare deny you have been ignorant of this?”
For a space she stood there, struck speechless; then, “Call him!” she cried. “Call him, I tell you! Bring him here — I want him here — here before us both!” She sprang to the door, but I blocked her way.
“I will not have Madame de Vassart know what you did to him!” I said. “If you want Kelly Eyre, I will call him.” And I stepped into the hallway.
Eyre, passing the long stone corridor, looked up as I beckoned; and when he entered the tea-room, Sylvia, white as a ghost, met him face to face.
“Monsieur,” she said, harshly, “why did you not come to that book-store?”
He was silent. His face was answer enough — a terrible answer.
“Monsieur Eyre, speak to me! Is it true? Did they — did you not know that I made an error — that I did go on Monday at the same hour?”
His haggard face lighted up; she saw it, and caught his hands in hers.
“Did you think I knew?” she stammered. “Did you think I could do that? They told me at the usine that you had gone away — I thought you had forgotten — that you did not care—”
“Care!” he groaned, and bowed his head, crushing her hands over his face.
Then she broke down, breathless with terror and grief. 359
“I was not a spy then — truly I was not, Kelly. There was no harm in me — I only — only asked for the sketches because — because — I cared for you. I have them now; no soul save myself has ever seen them — even afterward, when I drifted into intrigue at the Embassy — when everybody knew that Bismarck meant to force war — everybody except the French people — I never showed those little sketches! They were — were mine! Kelly, they were all I had left when you went away — to a fortress! — and I did not know! — I did not know!”
“Hush!” he groaned. “It is all right — it is all right now.”
“Do you believe me?”
“Yes, yes. Don’t cry — don’t be unhappy — now.”
She raised her head and fumbled in her corsage with shaking fingers, and drew from her bosom a packet of papers.
“Here are the sketches,” she sobbed; “they have cost you dear! Now leave me — hate me! Let them come and take me — I do not want to live any more. Oh, what punishment on earth!”
Her suffering was unendurable to the man who had suffered through her; he turned on me, quivering in every limb.
“We must start,” he said, hoarsely. “Give me your revolver.”
I drew it from my hip-pocket and passed it to him.
“Scarlett,” he began, “if we don’t reach—”
A quick rapping at the door silenced him; the young Countess stood in the hallway, bright-eyed, but composed, asking for me.
“The red and the white lights are gone,” she said. “There are four green lights on the tower and four blue lights on the halyards.”
I turned to Eyre. “This is interesting,” I said, grimly. “I set signals for the Fer-de-Lance to land in force. Somebody has changed them. You had better get ready to go.”
Sylvia had shrunk away from Eyre. The Countess looked at her blankly, then at me.
“Madame,” I said, “there is little enough of happiness in the world — so little that when it comes it should be welcomed, even by those who may not share in it.”
And I bent nearer and whispered the truth.
Then I went to Sylvia, who stood there tremulous, pallid.
“You serve your country at a greater risk than do the soldiers of your King,” I said. “There is no courage like that which discounts a sordid, unhonored death. You have my respect, mademoiselle.”
“Sylvia!” murmured the young Countess, incredulously; “you a spy? — here — under my roof?”
Sylvia unconsciously stretched out one hand toward her.
Eyre stepped to her side, with an angry glance at Madame de Vassart.
“I — I love you, madame,” whispered Sylvia. “I only place my own country first. Can you forgive me?”
The Countess stood as though stunned; Eyre passed her slowly, supporting Sylvia to the door.
“Madame,” I said, “will you speak to her? Your countries, not your hearts, are at war. She did her duty.”
“A spy!” repeated the Countess, in a dull voice. “A spy! And she brings this — this shame on me!”
Sylvia turned, standing unsteadily. For a long time they looked at each other in silence, their eyes wet with tears. Then Eyre lifted Sylvia’s hand and kissed it, and led her away, closing the door behind. 361
The Countess still stood in the centre of the room, transfixed, rigid, staring through her tears at the closed door. With a deep-drawn breath she straightened her shoulders; her head drooped; she covered her face with clasped hands.
Standing there, did she remember those who, one by one, had betrayed her? Those who first whispered to her that love of country was a narrow creed; those who taught her to abhor violence, and then failed at the test — Bazard, firing to kill, going down to death under the merciless lance of an Uhlan; Buckhurst, guilty of every crime that attracted him; and now Sylvia, her friend, false to the salt she had eaten, false to the roof above her, false, utterly false to all save the land of her nativity.
And she, Éline de Trécourt, a soldier’s daughter and a Frenchwoman, had been used as a shield by those who were striking her own mother-land — the country she once had denied; the country whose frontiers she knew not in her zeal for limitless brotherhood; the blackened, wasted country she had seen at Strasbourg; the land for which the cuirassiers of Morsbronn had died!
“What have I done?” she cried, brokenly— “what have I done that this shame should come upon me?”
“You have done nothing,” I said, “neither for good nor evil in this crisis. But Sylvia has; Sylvia the spy. That a man should give up his life for a friend is good; that a woman offer hers for her country is better. What has it cost her? The friendship of the woman she worships — you, madame! It has cost her that already, and the price may include her life and the life of the man she loves. She has done her duty; the sacrifice is still burning; I pray it may spare her and spare him.”
I walked to the door and laid my hand on the brass knob. 362
“The world is merciless to failures,” I said. “Yet even a successful spy is scarcely tolerated among the Philistines; a captured spy is a horror for friends to forget and for enemies to destroy in righteous indignation. Madame, I know, for I have served your country in Algiers as a spy,... not from patriotism, for I am an alien, but because I was fitted for it in my line of duty. Had I been caught I should have looked for nothing but contempt from France; from the Kabyle, for neither admiration nor mercy. I tell you this that you may understand my respect for this woman, whose motives are worthy of it.”
The Countess looked at me scornfully. “It is well,” she said, “for those who understand and tolerate treachery to condone it. It is well that the accused be judged by their peers. We of Trécourt know only one tongue. But that is the language of truth, monsieur. All else is foreign.”
“Where did the nobility learn this tongue — to our exclusion?” I asked, bluntly.
“When our forefathers faced the tribunals!” she flashed out. “Did you ever hear of a spy among us? Did you ever hear of a lie among us?”
“You have been taught history by your peers, madame,” I said, with a bow; “I have been taught history by mine.”
“The sorry romance!” she said, bitterly. “It has brought me to this!”
“It has brought others to their senses,” I said, sharply.
“To their knees, you mean!”
“Yes — to their knees at last.”
“To the guillotine — yes!”
“No, madame, to pray for their native land — too late!”
“I think,” she said, “that we are not fitted to understand each other.” 363
“It remains,” I said, “for me to thank you for your kindness to us all, and for your generosity to me in my time of need.... It is quite useless for me to dream of repaying it.... I shall never forget it.... I ask leave to make my adieux, madame.”
She flushed to her temples, but did not answer.
As I stood looking at her, a vivid flare of light flashed through the window behind me, crimsoning the walls, playing over the ceiling with an infernal radiance. At the same instant the gate outside crashed open, a hubbub of voices swelled into a roar; then the outer doors were flung back and a score of men sprang into the hallway, soldiers with the red torch-light dancing on rifle-barrels and bayonets.
And before them, revolver swinging in his slender hand, strode Buckhurst, a red sash tied across his breast, his colorless eyes like diamonds.
Speed and Jacqueline came hurrying through the hall to where I stood; Buckhurst’s smile was awful as his eyes flashed from Speed to me.
Behind him, close to his shoulder, the torch-light fell on Mornac’s smooth, false face, stretched now into a ferocious grimace; behind him crowded the soldiers of the commune, rifles slung, craning their unshaven faces to catch a glimpse of us.
“Demi-battalion, halt!” shouted an officer, and flung up his naked sabre.
“Halt,” repeated Buckhurst, quietly.
Madame de Vassart’s servants had come running from kitchen and stable at the first alarm, and now stood huddled in the court-yard, bewildered, cowed by the bayonets which had checked them.
“Buckhurst,” I said, “what the devil do you mean by this foolery?” and I started for him, shouldering my way among his grotesque escort.
For an instant I looked into his deadly eyes; then he silently motioned me back; a dozen bayonets were levelled, forcing me to retire, inch by inch, until I felt Speed’s grip on my arm.
“That fellow means mischief,” he whispered. “Have you a pistol?”
“I gave mine to Eyre,” I said, under my breath. “If he means us harm, don’t resist or they may take revenge on the Countess. Speed, keep her in the room there! Don’t let her come out.”
But the Countess de Vassart was already in the hall, facing Buckhurst with perfect composure.
Twice she ordered him to leave; he looked up from his whispered consultation with Mornac and coolly motioned her to be silent.
Once she spoke to Mornac, quietly demanding a reason for the outrage, and Mornac silenced her with a brutal gesture.
“Madame,” I said, “it is I they want. I beg you to retire.”
“You are my guest,” she said. “My place is here.”
“Your place is where I please to put you!” broke in Mornac; and to Buckhurst: “I tell you she’s as guilty as the others. Let me attend to this and make a clean sweep!”
