Complete weird tales of.., p.226
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 226
“Citizen Mornac will endeavor to restrain his zeal,” observed Buckhurst, with a sneer. And then, as I looked at this slender, pallid man, I understood who was the dominant power behind the curtain; and so did Speed, for I felt him press my elbow significantly.
He turned and addressed us, suavely, bowing with a horrid, mock deference to the Countess:
“In the name of the commune! The ci-devant Countess de Vassart is accused of sheltering the individual Scarlett, late inspector of Imperial Police; the individual Speed, ex-inspector of Imperial Gendarmes; the individual Eyre, under general suspicion; the woman called Sylvia Elven, a German spy. As war-delegate of the commune, I am here to accuse!”
There was a silence, then a low, angry murmur from the soldiers, which grew louder until Buckhurst turned on them. He did not utter a word, but the sullen roar died out, a bayonet rattled, then all was still in the dancing torch-light.
“I accuse,” continued Buckhurst, in a passionless voice, “the individual Scarlett of treachery to the commune; of using the telegraph for treacherous ends; of hoisting signals with the purpose of attracting government troops to destroy us. I accuse the individual Speed of aiding his companion in using the telegraph to stop the government train, thus depriving the commune of the funds which rightfully belong to it — the treasures wrung from wretched peasants by the aristocrats of an accursed monarchy and a thrice-accursed empire!”
A roaring cheer burst from the excited soldiers, drowning the voice of Buckhurst.
“Silence!” shouted Mornac, savagely. And as the angry voices were stilled, one by one, above the banging of rifle-stocks and the rattle of bayonets, Buckhurst’s calm voice rose in a sinister monotone.
“I accuse the woman Sylvia Elven of communication with Prussian agents; of attempted corruption of soldiers under my command. I accuse the citoyenne Éline Trécourt, lately known as the Countess de Vassart, of aiding, encouraging, and abetting these enemies of France!”
He waited until the short, fierce yell of approval had died away. Then:
“Call the soldier Rolland!” he said.
My heart began to hammer in my throat. “I believe it’s going hard with us,” I muttered to Speed.
“Listen,” he motioned. 366
I listened to the wretched creature Rolland while he told what had happened at the semaphore. In his eagerness he pushed close to where I stood, menacing me with every gesture, cursing and lashing himself into a rage, ignoring all pretence of respect and discipline for his own superiors.
“What are you waiting for?” he shouted, insolently, turning on Buckhurst. “I tell the truth; and if this man can afford to pay hundreds of francs for a telegram, he must be rich enough to pluck, I tell you!”
“You say he bribed you?” asked Buckhurst, gently.
“Yes; I’ve said it twenty times, haven’t I?”
“And you took the bribes?”
“Parbleu!”
“And you thought if you admitted it and denounced the man who bribed you that you would help divide a few millions with us, you rogue?” suggested Buckhurst, admiringly.
The wretch laughed outright.
“And you believe that you deserve well of the commune?” smiled Buckhurst.
The soldier grinned and opened his mouth to answer, and Buckhurst shot him through the face; and, as he fell, shot him again, standing wreathed in the smoke of his own weapon.
The deafening racket of the revolver, the smoke, the spectacle of the dusty, inert thing on the floor over which Buckhurst stood and shot, seemed to stun us all.
“I think,” said Buckhurst, in a pleasantly persuasive voice, “that there will be no more bribery in this battalion.” He deliberately opened the smoking weapon; the spent shells dropped one by one from the cylinder, clinking on the stone floor.
“No — no more bribery,” he mused, touching the dead man with the carefully polished toe of his shoe. “Because,” he added, reloading his revolver, “I do not like it.”
He turned quietly to Mornac and ordered the corpse to be buried, and Mornac, plainly unnerved at the murderous act of his superior, repeated the order, cursing his men to cover the quaver in his voice.
“As for you,” observed Buckhurst, glancing up at us where we stood speechless together, “you will be judged and sentenced when this drum-head court decides. Go into that room!”
The Countess did not move.
Speed touched her arm; she looked up quietly, smiled, and stepped across the threshold. Speed followed; Jacqueline slipped in beside him, and then I turned on Buckhurst, who had just ordered his soldiers to surround the house outside.
“As a matter of fact,” I said, when the last armed ruffian had departed, “I am the only person in this house who has interfered with your affairs. The others have done nothing to harm you.”
“The court will decide that,” he replied, balancing his revolver in his palm.
I eyed him for an instant. “Do you mean harm to this unfortunate woman?” I asked.
“My friend,” he replied, in a low voice, “you have very stupidly upset plans that have cost me months to perfect. You have, by stopping that train, robbed me of something less than twenty millions of francs. I have my labor for my pains; I have this mob of fools on my hands; I may lose my life through this whim of yours; and if I don’t, I have it all to begin again. And you ask me what I am going to do!”
His eyes glittered.
“If I strike her I strike you. Ask yourself whether or not I will strike.” 368
All the blood seemed to leave my heart; I straightened up with an effort.
“There are some murders,” I said, “that even you must recoil at.”
“I don’t think you appreciate me,” he replied, with a deathly smile.
He motioned toward the door with levelled weapon. I turned and entered the tea-room, and he locked the door from the outside.
The Countess, seated on the sofa, looked up as I appeared. She was terribly pale, but she smiled as my heavy eyes met hers.
“Is it to be farce or tragedy, monsieur?” she asked, without a tremor in her clear voice.
I could not have uttered a word to save my life. Speed, pacing the room, turned to read my face; and I think he read it, for he stopped short in his tracks. Jacqueline, watching him with blue, inscrutable eyes, turned sharply toward the window and peered out into the darkness.
Beyond the wall of the garden the fog, made luminous by the torches of the insurgents, surrounded the house with a circle of bright, ruddy vapor.
Speed came slowly across the room with me.
“Do they mean to shoot us?” he asked, bluntly.
“Messieurs,” said the Countess, with a faint smile, “your whispers are no compliment to my race. Pray honor me by plain speaking. Are we to die?”
We stood absolutely speechless before her.
“Ah, Monsieur Scarlett,” she said, gravely, “do you also fail me ... at the end?... You, too — even you?... Must I tell you that we of Trécourt fear nothing in this world?”
She made a little gesture, exquisitely imperious.
I stepped toward her; she waited for me to seat myself beside her. 369
“Are we to die?” she asked.
“Yes, madame.”
“Thank you,” she said, softly.
I looked up. My head was swimming so that I could scarcely see her, scarcely perceive the deep, steady tenderness in her clear eyes.
“Do you not understand?” she asked. “You are my friend. I wished to know my fate from you.”
“Madame,” I said, hoarsely, “how can you call me friend when you know to what I have brought you?”
“You have brought me to know myself,” she said, simply. “Why should I not be grateful? Why do you look at me so sadly, Monsieur Scarlett? Truly, you must know that my life has been long enough to prove its uselessness.”
“It is not true!” I cried, stung by remorse for all I had said. “Such women as you are the hope of France! Such women as you are the hope of the world! Ah, that you should consider the bitterness and folly of such a man as I am — that you should consider and listen to the sorry wisdom of a homeless mountebank — a wandering fool — a preacher of empty platitudes, who has brought you to this with his cursed meddling!”
“You taught me truth,” she said, calmly; “you make the last days of my life the only ones worth living. I said to you but an hour since — when I was angry — that we were unfitted to comprehend each other. It is not true. We are fitted for that. I had rather die with you than live without the friendship which I believe — which I know — is mine. Monsieur Scarlett, it is not love. If it were, I could not say this to you — even in death’s presence. It is something better; something untroubled, confident, serene.... You see it is not love.... And perhaps it has no name.... For I have never before known such happiness, such peace, as I know now, here with you, talking of our death. If we could live,... you would go away.... I should be alone.... And I have been alone all my life,... and I am tired. You see I have nothing to regret in a death that brings me to you again.... Do you regret life?”
“Not now,” I said.
“You are kind to say so. I do believe — yes, I know that you truly care for me.... Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then it will not be hard.... Perhaps not even very painful.”
The key turning in the door startled us. Buckhurst entered, and through the hallway I saw his dishevelled soldiers running, flinging open doors, tearing, trampling, pillaging, wrecking everything in their path.
“Your business will be attended to in the garden at dawn,” he observed, blinking about the room, for the bright lamp-light dazzled him.
Speed, who had been standing by the window with Jacqueline, wheeled sharply, took a few steps into the room, then sank into a chair, clasping his lank hands between his knees.
The Countess did not even glance up as the sentence was pronounced; she looked at me and laid her left hand on mine, smiling, as though waiting for the moment to resume an interrupted conversation.
“Do you hear?” demanded Buckhurst, raising his voice.
There was no answer for a moment; then Jacqueline stepped from the window and said: “Am I free to go?”
“You!” said Buckhurst, contemptuously; “who in hell are you?”
“I am Jacqueline.”
“Really,” sneered Buckhurst. 371
He went away, slamming and locking the door; and I heard Mornac complaining that the signals had gone out on the semaphore and that there was more treachery abroad.
“Get me a horse!” said Buckhurst. “There are plenty of them in the stables. Mornac, you stay here; I’ll ride over to the semaphore. Gut this house and fire it after you’ve finished that business in the garden to-morrow morning.”
“Where are you going?” demanded Mornac’s angry voice. “Do you expect me to stay here while you start for Paris?”
“You have your orders,” said Buckhurst, menacingly.
“Oh, have I? What are they? To stay here when the country is roused — stay here and perhaps be shelled by that damned cruiser out there—”
His voice was stifled as though a hand had clutched his throat; there came the swift sound of a struggle, the banging of scabbards and spurs, the scuffle of heavy boots.
“Are you mad?” burst out Mornac’s strangled voice.
“Are you?” breathed Buckhurst. “Silence, you fool. Do you obey orders or not?”
Their voices receded. Speed sprang to the door to listen, then ran back to the window.
“Scarlett,” he whispered, “there are the lights of a vessel at anchor off Groix.”
I was beside him in an instant. “It’s the cruiser,” I said. “Oh, Speed, for a chance to signal!”
We looked at each other desperately.
“We could set the room afire,” he said; “they might land to see what had happened.”
“And find us all shot.”
Jacqueline, standing beside Speed, said, quietly: “I could swim it. Wait. Raise the window a little.” 372
“You cannot dive from that cliff!” I said.
She cautiously unlocked the window and peered out into the dark garden.
“The cliff falls sheer from the wall yonder,” she whispered. “I shall try to drop. I learned much in the circus. I am not afraid, Speed. I shall drop into the sea.”
“To your death,” I said.
“Possibly, m’sieu. It is a good death, however. I am not afraid.”
“Close the window,” muttered Speed. “They’d shoot her from the wall, anyway.”
Again the child gravely asked permission to try.
“No,” said Speed, harshly, and turned away. But in that instant Jacqueline flung open the window and vaulted into the garden. Before I could realize what had happened she was only a glimmering spot in the darkness. Then Speed and I followed her, running swiftly toward the foot of the garden, but we were too late; a slim, white shape rose from the top of the wall and leaped blindly out through the ruddy torch glare into the blackness beyond.
We heard a soldier’s startled cry, a commotion, curses, and astonished exclamations from the other side of the wall.
“It was something, I tell you!” roared a soldier. “Something that jumped over the cliff!”
“It was an owl, idiot!” retorted his comrade.
“I tell you I saw it!” protested the other, in a shaking voice.
“Then you saw a witch of Ker-Ys,” bawled another. “Look out for your skin in the first battle. It’s death to see such things.”
I looked at Speed. He stood wide-eyed, staring at vacancy.
“Could she do it?” I asked, horrified. 373
“God knows,” he whispered.
Soldiers were beginning to clamber up the garden wall from the outside; torches were raised to investigate. As we shrank back into the shadow of the shrubbery I stumbled over something soft — Jacqueline’s clothes, lying in a circle as she had stepped out of them.
Speed took them. I followed him, creeping back to the window, where we entered in time to avoid discovery by a wretch who had succeeded in mounting the wall, torch in hand.
One or two soldiers climbed over and dropped into the garden, prowling around, prodding the bushes with their bayonets, even coming to press their dirty faces and hands against our window.
“They’re all here!” sang out one. “It was an owl, I tell you!” And he menaced us with his rifle in pantomime and retired, calling his companions to follow.
“Where is Jacqueline?” asked the Countess, looking anxiously at the little blue skirt on Speed’s knees. “Have they harmed that child?”
I told her.
A beautiful light grew in her eyes as she listened. “Did I not warn you that we Bretons know how to die?” she said.
I looked dully at Speed, who sat by the window, brooding over the little woollen skirt on his knees, stroking it, touching the torn hem, and at last folding it with unaccustomed and shaky hands.
There were noises outside our door, loud voices, hammering, the sound of furniture being dragged over stone floors, and I scarcely noticed it when our door was opened again.
Then somebody called out our names; a file of half-drunken soldiers grounded arms in the passageway with a bang that brought us to our feet, as Mornac, flushed with wine, entered unsteadily, drawn sword in hand.
“I’m damned if I stay here any longer,” he broke out, angrily. “I’ll see whether my rascals can’t shoot straight by torch-light. Here, you! Scarlett, I mean! And you, Speed; and you, too, madame; patter your prayers, for you’ll get no priest. Lieutenant, withdraw the guard at the wall. Here, captain, march the battalion back to Paradise and take the servants!”
A second later the drums began to beat, but Mornac, furious, silenced them.
“They can hear you at sea!” he shouted. “Do you want a boat-load of marines at your heels? Strike out those torches! Four will do for the garden. March!”
The shuffling tread of the insurgent infantry echoed across the gravel court-yard; torches behind the walls were extinguished; blackness enveloped the cliffs.
“Well,” broke out Speed, hoarsely, “good-bye, Scarlett.”
He held out his hand.
“Good-bye,” I said, stunned.
I dropped my hand as two soldiers placed themselves on either side of him.
“Well, good-bye,” he repeated, aimlessly; and then, remembering, he went to the Countess and offered his hand.
“I am so sorry for you,” she said, with a pallid smile. “You have much to live for. But you must not feel lonely, monsieur; you will be with us — we shall be close to you.”
She turned to me, and her hands fell to her side.
“Are you contented?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
“I, too,” she said, sweetly, and offered her hands.
I held them very tightly. “You say,” I whispered, “that it is not — love. But you do not speak for me. I love you.”
A bright blush spread over brow and neck.
“So — it was love — after all,” she said, under her breath. “God be with us to-day — I love you.”
“March!” cried Mornac, as two soldiers took station beside me.
“I beg you will be gentle with this lady,” I said, angrily, as two more soldiers pushed up beside the young Countess and laid their hands on her shoulders.
“Who the devil are you giving orders to?” shouted Mornac, savagely. “March!”
Speed passed out first; I followed; the Countess came behind me.
“Courage,” I stammered, looking back at her as we stumbled out into the torch-lit garden.
She smiled adorably. Her forefathers had mounted the guillotine smiling.
Mornac pointed to the garden wall near the bench where we had sat together. A soldier dressed like a Turco lifted a torch and set it in the flower-bed under the wall, illuminating the spot where we were to stand. As this soldier turned to come back I saw his face.
“Salah Ben-Ahmed!” I cried, hoarsely. “Do Marabouts do this butcher’s work?”
The Turco stared at me as though stunned.
“Salah Ben-Ahmed is a disgraced soldier!” I said, in a ringing voice.
