Complete weird tales of.., p.47
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 47
With these three men Cluseret might have done something; he ought to have done a great deal, but, like Monsieur Thiers, he “did nothing,” and did it almost as energetically as Monsieur Thiers. Then the pack in the Hôtel de Ville fell on him, as it had fallen with him on others.
“Cluseret is an incapable!” shouted Arnold.
“Cluseret is a fool!” yelled Vaillant.
“Cluseret is a suspect!” added Clovis Dupont, with a cold sneer.
That settled it; the word “suspect” always settled things. Cluseret was relieved of his command, cashiered, and a decree was issued, which after many preambles ended thus:
“It is decreed —
“That the Citizen Cluseret be placed under arrest, and so maintained until the end of the present military operations.”
So Raoul Rigault had his grip on Cluseret’s throat; and Rossel, the same day, stepped into Cluseret’s shoes.
The abandonment of the fort of Issy was Cluseret’s last act; the recapture of that fortress was Rossel’s first act.
On the 29th of April the Versailles batteries at Meudon and Breteuil pounded the last semblance of shape and form out of the fort of Issy, and in spite of the armored trains which opened fire from the viaduct of the Point-du-Jour, — in spite of the gunboats and the terrible storm from bastions 76 and 77, the Versaillists advanced by Clamart and Moulineaux, occupying the park and trenches of the Issy fort, and rapidly threw up breastworks which protected them from the musketry fusilade. The bombardment ceased at midnight, but when the day broke the batteries of Val-Fleury thundered, and the smoking ruins of Issy were again covered with bursting shells. All day long the exhausted garrison crouched among the débris, and when night came, their commander having fled, they crept out of the crumbling crater and entered Paris at the Point-du-Jour. The fort had fallen, the Versailles troops were already crawling cautiously over the trenches and glacis, when Colonel Rossel, at the head of the Hussars of Death and the remnants of the 1st Turcos, burst through the Issy cemetery, swept the Versailles troops from the Park, the Château, and the Couvent des Oiseaux, and once more the red flag of the Commune flapped from the iron staff on the ruins of the Issy fort.
Until the 9th of May, the handful of men of the 1st Turcos clung to the fort of Issy, now in ruins. The crash of their siege guns and the rattle of their American Gatlings comforted the wrangling patriots at the Hôtel de Ville; but the fort of Issy was doomed, and on the evening of the 9th of May the walls of Paris were placarded with this poster:
“THE TRICOLOR FLOATS FROM THE FORT OF ISSY; THE FIRST BATTALION OF PARIS TURCOS IS ABSOLUTELY ANNIHILATED.
“LE DÉLÉGUÉ À LA GUERRE, (SIGNED)— “ROSSEL.”
Then the Hôtel de Ville shrieked “Treason!” but Rossel stalked into their midst, sternly reproaching them for their inaction.
“I asked you for artillery and infantry, and you delayed. Where is the treason?” he cried. “I asked you for a general, and you sent me a seedy professor; I asked for colonels, majors, captains, and you sent me bakers, butchers, and political scavengers! Where is the treason? Your quarrelling committees have paralyzed my every movement, your feeble hesitation has lost me my fort.” Then turning disdainfully to Delescluze, he said: “I resign, — and I have the honor to request of you a cell in Mazas Prison!”
The Central Committee gaped at him in amazement. Delescluze frowned, and turning to Billioray, muttered: “Do you hear what he asks?”
“I do,” sneered Billioray; “give him his cell, and come to dinner.”
Of the three hundred men, the remnants of the 1st Battalion of Paris Turcos, only one escaped destruction in the fort of Issy. With his company which had fled from Bas-Meudon woods and with Pagot’s company from the barricade in the rue Notre Dame, Weser had marched through the Issy cemetery and had been present when the troops, led by Rossel, swept the Versaillists from trench and rifle pit and regained the fort; but the lines of investment grew tighter day by day, and on the morning of the 9th of May the Zouaves of Charette fell once more upon the crumbling fort. It was over in a few minutes, no quarter being given, and the tricolor fluttered gaily over the heaped up corpses. Isidor Weser, the night before, had foreseen this. He did not require very long to make up his mind as to what he should do. Pagot, half divining his intention, kept a keen eye on him.
“Izzy,” he growled, “if you ever try to desert your men, I’ll see that you go farther than Paris.”
“You mean — to heaven?”
“I mean to hell.”
So when, on the night of the 8th of May, Weser crept out of the bomb-proof, Pagot, lurking behind the ruined barracks, saw him steal across the parade, and promptly confronted him.
“Where are you going, Izzy?” he enquired.
“I’ve got a bullet in my foot,” replied Weser, “I’m going to the hospital.”
“Curious! You don’t limp,” mused Pagot.
“Look for yourself, then,” said Weser, sticking out one tattered shoe.
Pagot stooped and took the foot in his hands.
“Where is it? Does it hurt, Izzy?”
“It is very painful.”
“But I don’t see—” began Pagot.
“Don’t you?” snarled Weser, burying a knife in his back,—” so sorry, but I must go now.”
And so it happened that Isidor Weser, a little foot-sore and with wary eyes on the watch, walked into the bureau at the Hôtel de Ville, where Tribert sat comfortably copying orders and decrees. Tribert eyed him in surprise, and his surprise changed to something else when Weser began to relate his feats of prowess, in what he asserted was the last assault on the Issy fort.
“It’s marvellous that I alone was saved to tell the tale,” he ended fervently.
“Yes,” said Tribert, “it is really marvellous.”
“I fought like a demon—”
“As usual,” observed Tribert.
“All my men were down, — the cannon thundered and the air was literally solid with shot and shell.
Poor Pagot fell with a bullet in his heart—”
“So when he lost his heart you lost yours.”
“The bastions crumbled into dust, — the ground was wet with blood, — blood flowed through the trenches, — blood splashed in the rifle pits — blood ran—”
“So you ran.”
Weser paused and fixed his bright black eyes on Tribert’s face. “Don’t you believe me?”
“No, Izzy.”
“What are you going to do?” said Weser, softly. Half an hour later, Weser, in a fresh uniform of a staff-officer, filed his marvellous report of the Issy massacre, and settled down to write orders in Tribert’s bureau.
He would have felt himself very comfortable but for what he knew Tribert suspected, and what he feared Tribert might know — and his peace of mind was also ruffled by a vile habit Tribert had of saying things to frighten him. “Izzy,” he observed, one very pleasant afternoon when Weser felt like enjoying himself,—” Izzy, the Commune is on its last legs. We shall all be shot soon, when Monsieur Thiers comes back.”
“Bah!” replied Weser, valiantly, but his blood was chilled.
“Officers will get no quarter,” continued Tribert; “Raoul Rigault and you will probably be tortured.”
“Bah!” said Weser, angrily.— “When is Raoul, Rigault going to shoot those priests?”
“Soon, I hope — he’s slow. The old Darboy has been kept waiting too long for his congé. I’d have hung him long ago.”
“Yes, Raoul is slow sometimes, unaccountably slow.”
“But he’s sure, Izzy, and I think he’s got his eye on you,” said Tribert, with clumsy malice.
“He’s a lunatic!” muttered Weser, quailing.
“No — I think only a little fond of killing. We ‘re none of us safe, Izzy, with him — now that he has begun to turn suspicion on the Central Committee. Yesterday he arrested Rossel, to-day he denounces Eudes, to-morrow it may be even Delescluze—”
“Or you, or me,” suggested Weser, slyly, detecting a tremor through Tribert’s bravado. “And he’s not very clever after all; I wonder why we let him frighten us,” continued Weser, feeling he was getting the upper hand;—” for instance, after all the pains he took to catch the American, Landes, he never caught him.”
“Landes,” repeated Tribert in an ominous voice.
“Yes,” said Weser, pretending not to understand— “don’t you remember him? You ought to, he’s left his mark on your face—”
Tribert burst into a rage so wild that Weser seized his portfolio and fled to the next room, where he locked himself in and sat down and laughed until his bead-like eyes grew glassy. He could hear Tribert on the other side of the wall stamping and cursing, and at last he lay down on a lounge weak with mirth.
“The ugly baboon!” he chuckled, “how nasty white he got, and how the scar showed! Oh my! Oh my! the bull-necked bully! Oh dear! Oh my!” Weser had to hold his sides again.
The same afternoon Tribert, pocketing his reluctance to meet Raoul Rigault, set out for Police Headquarters. He found Rigault washing his hands in a basin of scented water.
“What can I do for you, Colonel Tribert?” he asked, with a smile so cold that Tribert faltered. Drying his plump white fingers on a damask napkin, he called an orderly to brush him.
“If you are going out I won’t detain you,” said Tribert, sorry he had come, and edging toward the door.
“I am going to dinner, but if you wish to denounce anybody I always have time for that, you understand.”
“No — yes — that is, I wished to ask whether you have been able to find any trace of the American, Landes.”
“Have you come to criticise my department?” asked Rigault, with a dangerous flicker in his nearsighted eyes.
“No! Oh no, no, no!” cried Tribert in a hurry. “I only wished—”
“What?” snarled Rigault, shooting a deadly glance at him.
“I — I merely wanted to say that I would be — be glad to add five thousand francs to the reward.”
“You are very generous, Colonel Tribert,” said Rigault, deliberately. “And most disinterested I am, sure! — five thousand francs out of your own pocket! and you only a poor Colonel, with nothing but a Colonel’s pay — just three hundred and sixty-five francs a month. Really, if I did not know you to be incorruptible, I might almost wonder how you could get your five thousand francs.” Tribert’s forehead was cold with sweat, and terror was stamped on every feature. He stammered something and moved again toward the door.
“Good-night, Colonel Tribert,” said Rigault, looking after him with his pale eyes.
CHAPTER XXIII. A VOICE FROM THE CLOUDS.
THE WHITE HAMLET of La Résida lay in the sunshine under a sapphire sky. On every side stretched meadows already beginning to vibrate with insect life, for the bright sunlight of May had gilded the silver clover and opened little buds on thorn and hedge. Deep in the fragrant hearts of the field lilies, bees hummed and buzzed, and white butterflies flitted across acres of daisies, now settling upon some blossoming stalk, now hovering capriciously, now drifting on the soft wind.
When sudden shifty breezes swayed the clover, each butterfly clung fast to its blossom, but when the wind died out and the ruffled surface of the shallow meadow pools grew glassy, the butterflies rose together and sailed over the clover in powdery clouds.
A yellow cat, who was spending all her energy in pursuit of a low fluttering butterfly, became excited at the sight of such swarms of winged creatures, and leaped frantically into the air; but her paws only patted space, and she settled down again among the clover, smelling and pretending she hadn’t jumped. Then from the white highway came the creak of wheels and the sharp snapping of whips.
The cat knew what that meant. It meant a bowl of fresh cream and perhaps a strip of tender meat; and she bounded away through the meadow toward the largest of the three houses, before which a train of market wains had now drawn up.
The dusty blue-bloused teamsters climbed to the ground, and the half dozen troopers, who served as escort, dismounted with a great clattering of sabres and carbines, and led their horses under the long red-tiled shelter behind the house.
“Tiens, here is the cat again,” cried a burly dragoon; “she knows on which side her bread is buttered.” He called to her gaily and she came, tail erect, uttering pleased mews of expectation.
“Come here — here, Tcherka,” called a young trooper, trailing his scabbard in the grass to lure the cat to him, but Tcherka knew her business, and proceeded to rub and mew and flatter the burly redfaced cavalryman until he laughed and called to a teamster: “Eh! la-bas! — bring me a jug of cream and a cup!”
At that moment the door of the stucco cottage opened and a man in the black, blue, and silver uniform of a Lieutenant of the Commune, Subsistence Department, stepped out on the lawn. All the troopers saluted, and the teamsters raised their long whips and stood at attention. The officer touched the polished visor of his cap, nodded smiling, and looked at Tcherka, who crouched in ecstasy before a cup of pure cream.
“I see, citizens, that I am becoming superfluous as inspector here. My cat samples and tests for me; I have nothing to do but to countersign your invoice,” he said.
Every morning it was understood that some mild pleasantry should be dispensed concerning Tcherka’s prompt arrival on the appearance of the provision convoy, and every morning the troopers laughed and saluted, and the teamsters grinned and snapped their long whips.
“She is a fine cat, — no finer cat exists in France, Citizen Lieutenant,” said the burly red-faced dragoon. This was his invariable reply to Philip’s pleasantries; it came next in order, after morning greetings had been exchanged.
Philip nodded, and taking the long strip of stamped paper which the head teamster fished out of the crown of his peaked cap, walked slowly along the lines of wagons, poking a cabbage now and then, picking up and critically weighing eggs in the palm of his hand, sipping samples of milk, or nibbling at a leaf of escarole or romaine. The head teamster had taught him how to do this. It looked knowing and very official, and he supposed it was all right, because General La Cécelia, who was in command at the Point-du-Jour, was never heard from, and the garrison found no fault with the quality of the food. So Philip played at Provision Inspector, frowned a little when he thought he had been smiling too much, looked with sudden suspicion at an innocent carrot, hemmed, coughed, and stamped the invoice. Then affixing the seals and signing with a flourish, he returned the certificate and invoice to the head teamster, who ducked and smiled in anticipation.
“Citizens, you are tired — the road is dusty — a little wine?”
This was Philip’s invariable formula, and the invariable chorus came heartily: “A thousand thanks, Citizen Lieutenant!” So Philip called to his longlegged servant, and Jacques, — his name was Jacques Jean Marie Louis Joseph Bottier, — brought out a tray and a half dozen bottles of ordinary wine. Philip solemnly filled his glass and raised it.
“To the Republic, citizens!”
“To the Republic!” they cried, draining their glasses.
Then the troopers led their horses from the shelter, the teamsters climbed into their heavy wagons, the provision train slowly moved away toward the summit of the low hill’ from which one could see Paris and the Seine; and the little hamlet of La Résida lay again silent and deserted in the bright May sunshine.
Philip stood in the doorway until the last wagon had disappeared behind the hill and the last trooper had trotted out of sight. The stillness of the morning was perfect. In the road below, a very young rabbit hopped out of a hedge, wrinkled its nose, stared at Tcherka with large moist eyes, and scuttled noiselessly back into the hedge again.
The chances were a hundred to one that no human being would pass along the disused road until the wagon train returned at midnight. The chances were a thousand to one that Jacques Jean Marie Louis Joseph Bottier would stumble and break at least one glass when he shambled out to remove the tray. Philip mentally took the bet, although the odds were terrible, but he knew his man, called to him, and won the bet hands down. Jacques Jean Marie Louis Joseph Bottier had broken three glasses.
“I — I am very sorry, mon Lieutenant,” mumbled Jacques.
“Never mind, the Government pays, mon enfant; get a broom and sweep up the bits, — and be careful where you throw them. Is Lieutenant Fabrice up yet?”
“Not yet, Lieutenant.”
“Indeed, I am,” said a gay voice from the window above; “Jacques, my son, I wish my coffee at once. Good-morning, citizen Lieutenant Dupré!”
“Good-morning, Lieutenant,” replied Philip, gravely saluting. “Am I to have the honor of joining you at breakfast?”
“Charmed and flattered,” came the answer; “wait a moment, Philip; I’ll come down under the trees with you,” and the figure at the window above disappeared.
“Bring the coffee out here, Jacques,” said Philip, and sat down under the chestnut trees at the hedge gate. In another moment a supple, slim young figure, clothed exactly like Landes, appeared on the threshold.
“I have a mind to put on my own clothes to-day, Philip; what do you think? It’s over a month now that we’ve been here, and we have never seen anything more dangerous than the wild rabbits and Jacques.”
“Wait, Jeanne,” he said soberly.
“But I don’t see — there! don’t frown, Philip — I’m not going to be unreasonable, — but I would like to dress like a — a woman again just for a few hours—”
“And suppose General La Cécelia should gallop out here to inspect!”
“He won’t!”
“Or suppose troops should pass!”
“They never do!”
“Or the wagon train come back!”
“Not before midnight.”
“Don’t ask me, Jeanne.”
“But I do ask you, Philip.”
“Then — don’t.”
“Very well,” she sighed, “but really the rabbits won’t know the difference, and Jacques Jean Marie knows it already, and we can trust him.”
