Complete weird tales of.., p.27
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 27
“I’m dam sight better ‘n the Colonel, better ‘n you, better ‘n everybody,” he yelled, as the racket of his fusilade died away, and he hurled his empty revolver across the street. Then with a vinous smile he sat down on the steps.
“You ‘re a hell of a Captain!” he observed to de Carette.
“Oh, I’m not perfect.”
“No, you ‘re an ass!!”
Alain and Landes had to laugh, and the drunkard promptly joined in. Then he got up and tried the gate.
“We ‘re three pretty good fellows,” he called up, with a wink, “ain’t we?”
“We are, indeed,” replied Landes, fervently, “especially you.”
“Say — I like your friend,” bawled the soldier to Alain; “he’s a good fellow, ain’t he? Lemme in.”
“Where are your friends?” asked Alain.
“Ain’t got no fren’s,” bawled the drunkard, weeping and snuffling. “Ain’t got nothin’ nor nobody! Lemme in!” and he beat upon the gate at the foot of the steps.
“Where’s your battalion?”
“Ain’t got no battalion.”
“Yes, you have; where is it?”
“In h — l! In Belleville.”
“They ‘re synonymous,” whispered Alain to Philip. “Are they coming this way?”
“Yes, guess so.”
“When?”
“Lemme in, Captain,” pleaded the corporal, knocking great dents in his rifle barrel against the gate.
“Not till you tell me when your battalion is coming.”
“It’s coming soon — at ten o’clock ‘n’ all’s well ‘n’ I’m drunk,” sang the man.
“Who’s the Colonel?”
“Colonel’s a fool.”
“Yes — but what’s his name?”
“I said fool. Op’n the gate. I want to be sociable.”
“I mean his other name,” persisted Alain, patiently.
“Wilton, — École des Beaux Arts.”
“I know him,” whispered Philip, excitedly. “He’s an American student, an artist, great chum of Gustave Courbet.
“Ain’t you goin’ to lemme in?” pleaded the corporal, with a final bang on the gate which sent his rifle into smithereens.
“What did you say the Colonel’s name was?”
“Wilton, a Yankee goddam plom pudding rosbiff — I can tell you all the officers of the 265th, too, if I want to. I know more ‘n anybody, an’ I’m only a poor d — n corporal.”
“What injustice!” exclaimed Alain; “and who are the gentlemen of the 265th?”
“Tribert, Colonel.”
“Who?”
“Antoine Tribert — an ass.”
Philip and Alain exchanged a slight glance; then Landes said: “Where is the battalion stationed?”
“In the rue des Rosiers; ain’t you goin’ to lemme in?”
“Where?”
“In the rue des Rosiers. Colonel’s headquarters in the Impasse de la Mort.” Philip felt Alain’s hand on his arm, but they did not look at one another.
“Go on.”
“Wha’d’ you want to know? Lemme in that gate. Let’s be fraternal.”
“Yes, all right. Does he sleep there?”
“How in hell d’ I know?”
“Who are his officers?”
“Sarre.”
“Who?”
“André Sarre, captain, Isidor Weser, lieutenant, aide-de-camp Pagot — here, I’m not tellin’ all I know, an’ I want to get in an’ fraternize—”
At that moment the roll of drums filled the rue de Bourgogne, and around the corner crept a dozen soldiers thrown out as skirmishers. They glided along close to the walls, rifles poised, heads bent forward, while louder and louder the drums rolled and nearer and nearer sounded the petulant bugle.
“The first guard from the Commune,” whispered Alain; “come.”
They crossed the terrace, ascended a few steps, and, taking a path through the shrubbery, entered a narrow alley which led into a courtyard. There they paused.
“Good-bye,” said Alain, as they grasped each other’s hands. “This gate leads into the rue d’Athis, from there I can reach the St. Lazare station and be in Versailles in about an hour. My address will be Vinoy’s staff. I have yours in the rue Notre Dame. Remember you promised to keep me informed if possible. Good-bye once more, Philip, my friend.”
And saying “Courage” to each other they parted, Alain passing through the gate into the rue d’Athis and Philip taking an alley which led to the Pont Neuf.
So they separated, with the sound of the Commune’s drums in their ears and black foreboding in their hearts.
CHAPTER VII. THE IMPASSE DE LA MORT.
THE CLOCK IN the Luxembourg palace struck two as Landes turned from the rue de Seine into the rue St. Sulpice. To reach the rue Notre Dame he made for the Place St. Sulpice, intending to cut across diagonally to the rue d’Assas, but his progress was barred at the entrance of the Place by sentinels of the National Guard who warned him back with the sharp cry, “au large! au large!”
Along the line of sentinels a curious crowd had gathered. What they were watching Landes could not see, until he crossed the street. Here a jumble of cabs, trucks, and omnibuses were stuck fast, forbidden to proceed, unable to turn back. When he stepped upon the sidewalk and turned to get a full view of the square the matter was explained. Hundreds of soldiers of the National Guard were working like beavers along the four sides of the Place, and already a formidable barricade of paving stones had been erected. The Federals, rifles, coats, and cartridge-belts thrown aside, were attacking the granite blocks of the pavement with pick and crow. A bow-legged officer, with red reverses to his tunic and yards of gold lace on sleeve and képi, straddled up and down the sidewalk where the men were working and where the shop windows reflected his own charms. He talked in a loud nasal voice and divided his attention between his reflection in the windows and a group of pretty shop-girls who were giggling on the curb.
“Mon Dieu! qu’il est beau!” tittered a saucy brunette, “such graceful legs!”
“His legs are Renaissance architecture — ladies, François Premier!” said a student with a T-square under one arm and a drawing-board under the other.
The girls giggled until everybody in the vicinity laughed too.
“Not Renaissance, — Moorish!” put in another student. “Look at him now as he stands — the rear view — a perfect Moorish arch! Those legs, ladies! — admire this fragment from the Alhambra, imported by the government at enormous expense for the instruction of the Paris public and—”
A soldier tried to seize him, but he dodged and mounted an omnibus, from the top of which Landes, hurrying away, heard him still explaining in a loud voice the priceless value of this human gem of Moorish architecture, amid shrieks of laughter from the bystanders.
“How can they laugh? How can they?” Philip thought, hastening, on toward the Luxembourg. “Nobody but a Parisian would make a jest of these sinister preparations.”
He reached the rue de Vaugirard and started to cross the Luxembourg gardens, but again sentinels barred his way, and again the ominous cry, “au large! au large!” made him halt. A hasty glance across the dead line showed that the gardens were alive with Federal troops, mostly infantry of the National Guard.
Forced to make the long detour by the rue d’Assas, he hastened on, passing more Federals in the rue de Luxembourg, and a partly built barricade at the junction of the rue de Fleurus; and at last he passed through the rue Vavin and the rue Notre Dame to his own studio.
Joseph, his concierge, open critic and secret admirer, stood at the gate of the long ivy-covered alley which led to the studio. The sight of him did Philip good.
After the horrors of the Place Pigalle, the slaughter in the rue des Rosiers, after what seemed years of absence in a land of nightmares, this home-coming moved him deeply. He could have embraced Joseph in his blue blouse — but he merely said:
“Well, Joseph, here I am and glad to be here. It seems as if I had been away a long time.”
“Three days, Monsieur Landes,” replied Joseph, in sepulchral tones. There was accusation in his eyes and a pained expression about his mouth.
“Is all well?” inquired Philip, perfectly aware of what was coming.
Joseph raised an appealing hand to Heaven, then with eyes turned in the same direction he wailed aloud:
“Is all well? Monsieur asks me if all is well! Three days and nights has Monsieur absented himself, with Monsieur’s gay friends, never leaving me, his concierge true and faithful, any sign or word. It is the same to Monsieur that I pass my nights in anxious watching, that I run hither and thither, fearing lest harm has befallen Monsieur; it is the same to him, that I, alarmed for his safety, fly to the morgue and to the police with cries of fright, — and my toe too lame to wear a sabot! — and my gout which protests!” —
“I’m sorry, Joseph, but I could not help it. This was no escapade.”
Joseph fixed his gaze on his mop which was lying near the gutter, and still refusing to notice Philip, addressed it in impassioned strains, gesticulating wildly:
“Monsieur has no regard for his Joseph, faithful and diligent. Monsieur deigns to send no word which might calm and comfort. No! Monsieur sends only a basket of dogs and cats — howling cats, which sit and make enormous eyes at one.”
“Ah!” cried Philip, “did the trooper bring the cat and the puppy?”
Then at last Joseph addressed him directly.
“Monsieur Philip, the puppy is biting holes in everything within the studio, and the cat claws the bark from the almond tree and ruins the rose bushes. Yet for Monsieur’s sake I have been kind to the animals.”
“Of course you have, Joseph. You ‘re a jewel.” He had passed down the ivy-covered alley, Joseph at his heels, crossed the little garden, and now he stood in the doorway of the rear building where the studio was. An irregular quadrangle of house and garden walls enclosed the peaceful little court, roofs and gables of different heights rose around it against a fair spring sky. A mossy fountain was in the middle, bordered by almond trees and rose bushes. Philip looked kindly at the concierge, and repeated: “You are a jewel, Joseph.” The faithful one concealed his pleasure and rubbed his nose pensively.
“Did Monsieur receive his clothes?”
“Yes, thank you. Now, get my bath ready and I want something to eat — anything — I’m going out again presently.”
“To stay three days more?”
“No — no. Has Monsieur Ellice been here?”
“Five times, in anguish!”
“Anyone else?”
“A lady — Mademoiselle Faustine Courtois this morning. She will return again to-day: she said so.”
“Is that all?”
“A soldier came from the Luxembourg two days ago. He requested Monsieur to go at once to the Palace—”
“A soldier?”
“A dragoon. He said to tell Monsieur there was bad news from the Place Pigalle. I didn’t know what he meant,” added Joseph, tentatively, but Philip only answered:
“Ah — well! My bath now, — and something to eat as soon as you can get it.” He turned into the hallway and fitted a key into the first door on the left.
When he entered his studio the setter puppy left the hole in the panther skin which he had been patiently enlarging, and looked up with both ears cocked forward. Philip called him gently, and the little creature dashed enthusiastically into his arms. The cat also remembered him, and rising from the cushioned divan, opened her great emerald eyes stretched, yawned, and began to purr. Lifting her, Philip sat down on the divan and gathered them both into his lap. Then in the pleasant stillness of the familiar and sheltered room, homeless Jeanne de Brassac came and took entire possession of his thoughts, and his brain went on working at the problem of her rescue, as it had not ceased to do since he stumbled into the apartment of the Hôtel Perret. In all the grim horrors of the rue des Rosiers, in the turmoil of the Place Pigalle, and the sinister silence of the deserted War Ministry, his thoughts for her had scarcely suffered interruption. Amid the infernal clamor of the Château Rouge — the sickening confusion, violence, and cruelty — the horror and dread of death, her face was always before him, and his distressed heartbeats spelled out her name. And now he sat with her pets in his arms and pondered the almost hopeless problem of her rescue.
The police had been driven from the city, the garrison at the Luxembourg had fled to Versailles, nobody was left to whom he could go for aid or even for advice. And he himself, a marked man, could easily involve her in worse danger still by a wrong move. Moreover, the thought of lying under a dead wall, with a handkerchief over his eyes, and twelve bullets of the 265th battalion in his body, had small charms for him.
Well, it appeared that he must find Jeanne de Brassac alone, if at all. He could not think of a soul in all Paris to help him. Yes, there was one — Faustine Courtois, she might be useful, through her relations with Tribert. But how? that was far from clear. The only thing certain was that he could trust her. It never entered his mind to doubt Faustine, — and she had been seeking him already to-day. And she was coming back before evening, — he would wait till she came.
Joseph entered and said the bath was ready, and luncheon would be served in half an hour, so without more delay Landes tumbled his four-footed wards in a heap together on the divan and went into his bedroom.
When he came out again into the studio, fresh and hungry, a small table was laid and Joseph was already placing the omelet upon it. The Bordeaux was good, the linen was white, the pretty china and silver were bright. The cat and puppy invited themselves at once, and Philip did the honors with a bowl of milk. He finished soon. Joseph set his coffee beside the divan, he lighted a cigarette, and threw himself down there to wait for Faustine.
A glass extension was built out from the studio into the garden. The afternoon sun shone down the alley across the court, and a broad patch of sunlight fell through the glass on the floor of the studio. The cat sat blinking in the middle of it, occasionally twisting to polish her back with her pink tongue.
The puppy returned to the hole in the panther skin, but after a few mouthfuls settled down quietly and thought, — planning other and more important holes in more valuable property of the studio for future industry.
From where Landes was lying he could see the garden. He had noticed as he came in that the almond tree and lilac bushes were covered with buds, and had marked the tender amber-colored shoots from the thorn-covered branches of the roses. As he rested now idly among the cushions, the sunshine was warm and soothing, and a breeze blew through an open window in soft aromatic puffs. A shadow fell across the glass roof; there was a flirt and a flash of sun-tipped wings, and then a burst of liquid melody from the almond tree by the fountain. Landes sat up and listened; the cat also raised her head and her splendid eyes sparkled.
“The first blackbird,” said Landes, rising and going to the open door. There sat the vocalist ruffling his velvety black plumage, preening an unsatisfactory feather here and there with his bright yellow bill. The cat followed Landes and promptly began to stalk the bird, but Philip put a stop to that and sat down the doorstep in the full glow of the sun pouring down the ivy-covered alley. The gravel walks and moist flower-beds smelled of spring, the little circular stone basin of the fountain reflected a faint green of awakening water vegetation, and two cynical goldfish, who lived among the rocks at the bottom, came out and floated near the surface, waving their fins.
Philip felt in his pocket and drew out the crumpled paper which he had surprised Georgias writing in the Place Pigalle. For the hundredth time he read the few lines:
“Mon Cher Raoul: If you think that the Impasse is safe enough Tribert can hold the bird there until—” here the letter had been interrupted by his own sudden entrance. Until the drunken corporal came under the terrace of the War Ministry the word “Impasse” might have meant any of the countless alleys which lay hidden in older Paris, but now he knew it meant the “Impasse de la Mort,” Tribert’s headquarters, a narrow unpaved cul-de-sac which branched at right angles from the Faubourg du Temple just above the Canal St. Martin. Possibly one Parisian in a thousand had ever heard of it. Landes knew it, because his little model, Sara Lalo, lived there. One day, when her drunken father had nearly killed her, Philip had gone thither to give him a bit of advice.
The rest of the letter was simple as far as it went; the “bird” meant Jeanne de Brassac of course. As he looked down at the letter and thought of the child in that vile den, in the power of those criminals, an impulse to rush off and tear her out of their hands shook him. But of course that passed, and left him feeling more helpless than before. Could the model be of use? How could he get word to her? Days might be wasted in that attempt, and then, how did he know that he could trust her? Thrown back once more upon Faustine Courtois, he began to watch impatiently for her coming. The afternoon was passing, the lights growing longer and longer, — she must come soon. And sure enough in a few moments the gate opened without any ring, — trust Joseph for being on the watch, — steps came down the alley, and Faustine entered the garden.
With a gesture of welcome, Landes rose and motioned her into the studio, following, and closing the door.
The girl stood before him quiet and pale. He noted the strained expression of her eyes, the worn, almost sunken look of her cheeks and temples. They seemed to him so many signs of her participation in the violence of the past three days. He eyed the knot of red ribbon on her breast, and could not restrain his anger. - “Well,” he said curtly.
“Well, Monsieur Philip — so you are safe.”
“Never mind me,” he answered harshly. “I want to know what you are wearing that thing for. Are you proud of your murders, and your anarchy? Were you content with the cowardly foot-pad assassination of the old Count de Brassac? God! If I had known you were such a girl as that!”
“You are very hard,” she answered, with white lips. “We have been such good friends.”
