Complete weird tales of.., p.48
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 48
“It is too dangerous,” Landes said; “suppose some wandering trooper or prying peasant should see you? I tell you, Jeanne, the teamsters and the escort of the wagon train are good fellows and swallow all I give them about your special clerical work, but if they begin to wonder why it is they never see you except at your desk by the window in the mornings, and take to snooping about here, they will find out the truth in no time, and you and I will decorate the branches here above our heads. Don’t ask me, Jeanne.”
“Then I won’t, you dear fellow,” said Jeanne, and looked at him with clear, sweet eyes. “Do I worry you nearly to death? You will begin to turn grey, I suppose — why! I do believe you have two grey hairs on your temples. What a shame! Is it on my account?”
“No,” said Philip, laughing, but his laugh was not as genuine as it might have been, and it ended with a scarcely perceptible sigh. It was on Jeanne’s account. Within the last six weeks his eyes had grown hollow and those firm lines had come about his mouth in thinking of her. Not of her danger alone. No, there was something besides that. His love was beginning to wear on him, and in spite of himself he was growing morbid. He knew she loved him tenderly, but not with the full love he wanted. He began to fear she never would love him as he did her. He knew that under the circumstances he ought to thank God for her simple childlike affection, and yet sometimes the temptation almost mastered him to try and change her feeling to a deeper one. The struggle began to wear on him.
Jacques brought coffee and rolls, and they sat down to breakfast under the flowering chestnut trees by the hedge.
“What are we going to do to-day, Monsieur,” she said gaily.
“We are going to teach you to say ‘ Citizen’ instead of ‘Monsieur,’ I think — you imprudent girl!”
“Et après?” she persisted, with a wilful smile.
“Whatever you wish — shall we walk across the meadow to the brook in the woods?”
“Oh, certainly, so that you may spend the day poking about to see if there are any trout in the pools!” she laughed. “You know you might as well look for mermaids in the Seine!”
“If I only had my colors here!” he said wistfully. “Poor boy! You shall look for trout all day, if that will help you to forget your easel!”
“Well then, suppose we fix up a couple of rods and try the stream anyway.”
“For the trout that are not there?”
“They may be there, — those pools are deep and no May-flies have hatched out this season. I believe I will try it. Jacques has hooks and lines; he fishes for gudgeon in the Seine. Here, Jacques!” After Philip had selected two from a bundle of cane fishing-rods which the servant brought him, he asked Jacques, “What do you do for bait?”
“Worms!” said Jacques, briefly.
Jeanne turned away in disgust. Philip removed the gaudy quill floats from the lines and called; “Jeanne, where’s your work-basket?”
“In my room.”
“Go and get it, Jacques, and bring me some shoemaker’s wax and all of your spare hooks. We are going to have pigeons for dinner, aren’t we?”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“Are they plucked?”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“And there is a duck and a pullet in the cellar. Did you pluck them too at the same time?”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“Can you bring me the feathers?”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“Good. Now, Jeanne, come here and learn how to tie a fly,” he said presently, and she immediately sat down on the ground beside him. Piles of mottled feathers lay all around them, spools of red and yellow silk were in their laps.
“Watch me, Jeanne, see, it is very easy.”
He took a fine hook in his hand, laid the hackle from the pullet’s neck against the shank, and bound it firmly with a twist or two of the waxed silk. Then he clipped the tip from a white pigeon feather and bound it to the end of the shank for the wings. When he had finished winding the body and had inserted a bit of scarlet worsted just above the barb, he laid a strand of silver tinsel from the galons of his sleeve over the body of the insect, bent back the wings, gave a dozen quick turns to the thread, and snipped the thread with his knife.
“That’s a very fair ‘Royal Coachman,’” he said, holding it out for inspection.
“How pretty!” she cried; “I shall make one immediately.”
They worked quickly, but her slender fingers flew faster than his; and before he had finished explaining the mysteries of “Professors,”
“Green Drakes,”
“Yellow Mays,”
“Hackles,”
“Spinners,” and “Gnats,” she had a little heap of a dozen tempting-looking flies in her lap, while he could only count eight.
“They are beautifully dressed,” he said, highly delighted; “you tie a fly much better than I do.”
“Of course I do,” she laughed, springing up, “and now I intend to go and catch a little fish.” ‘ “This is a highly accomplished young lady,” said Philip, rising and brushing the bits of tinsel, silk, and feather from his braided jacket; “look at your spurs, Jeanne; who ever heard of a trout fisherman in spurred boots? Give your sabre to Jacques!”
“Who ever heard of a fisherman in staff uniform?” she retorted.
They unbuckled their sabres and handed them to Jacques, whose approval of the proceedings was expressed in a grin.
“Take care of Tcherka, Jacques,” said Jeanne, with a pretty gesture toward the cat, who sprawled dozing in the sun by the hedge; “when shall we return, Philip?”
“By six anyway. Dinner at seven, Jacques; — pigeons and salad, you know, — and don’t you dare burn the soup!”
Jacques ducked and grinned.
“If anybody should come,” began Philip —
“Nobody will come; are you ready?” she cried impatiently.
“Yes,” he said, picking up both rods; but Jeanne insisted on carrying her own, and imitated Philip’s method of disposing of his flies by sticking them all over her silver-banded cap. The cap set very naturally on her head now, for, eluding Philip’s vigilance, she had cut off her lovely hair, and now it curled and waved all over her small head.
Philip swung to his shoulder a campaign sack in which were chicken sandwiches and a bottle of wine, and followed her through the hedge gate.
“If anything happens and we don’t return for dinner,” he called to Jacques over the gate, “you must not be alarmed; keep a cautious tongue in your head, and stay right here until we do come back.”
“And take good care of Tcherka!” added Jeanne, gaily. At the sound of her name, Tcherka raised her pink nose and blinked in the sunlight, but Jeanne and Philip had turned into the meadow and were already wading ankle-deep in the scented clover. She moved through the clover lightly, her fair face faintly tinged with color, little glints of soft hair blowing over her cheeks. The collar of her jacket dented the skin on her white throat and she left it open.
“Did you bring any brioche?” she asked.
“For you — of course.”
“You never forget anything.”
“I cannot — anything that concerns you.”
“I’m sure there is one thing you forgot.”
“What?”
“Salt!”
“But you do not use it.”
“But you do!”
He laughed and colored.
She was silent, and they moved on lightly through the fragrant meadow.
“Butterflies, butterflies, and more butterflies!” she exclaimed at last. “I think the clover has taken wings! Do you suppose they are happy? I am sure they are. See them whirl and hover and then go fluttering up, up, up, until they fade into the blue. Do they ever come down again? There go two more up, up to the sky. Do they always go together — two together — when they sail away into the blue sky?”
“Perhaps they are seeking the haven of love,” he said sadly. —
She noticed his tone, and continued in a low voice: “Psyche holds a butterfly. Is love immortal, Philip?”
“Some love is.”
“How do you know?”
“How do I know?” he repeated sharply.
“Yes — how do you know?”
“Because I love.”
They went on some time in silence. She was a little in advance. When they came to the meadow brook she waited for him at the edge. He helped her over, and, when he would have dropped her hand, her slender fingers held his. Her eyes were turned toward the near woods.
“Listen!” she said—” the birds.”
How deep and warm the fragrance of the sunlit meadows! How sweet and cool the glades through which their path now lay! Her soft white hand, which thrilled him so, lay in his own, quite passive, as side by side they moved along the narrow woodland path. And from the dim arches of the forest aisles the song of the birds swelled unceasingly. High on the tip of a tall pine a blackbird was singing to his mate.
“A blackbird! Our prophet!” whispered Jeanne. “What does he prophesy, Jeanne!”
“Happiness — I think.”
“For us?”
She bent her head, the color mantled neck and forehead.
“For us?” he repeated.
“He is our prophet,” she murmured; “don’t ask me yet, Philip — give me time.”
“Tell me,” he pleaded.
“What?”
“That you are learning to love.”
“To love,” she repeated, trembling. “Oh, I don’t know — wait — wait, I must have time. I scarcely know what I am saying. It came so suddenly — in the meadow—”
“You are frightened,” he said, in a low, happy voice; “I will wait, Jeanne, — don’t tremble so, I am only Philip, your comrade—”
“You are more,” she cried—” Philip, I love you!” and she flung her arms around his neck.
“The birds are still singing,” he murmured, as she lay trembling in his arms. She nestled her head closer to his, her eyes, half-veiled, drooped with a new shyness.
“Jeanne, Jeanne,” he murmured, “I love you.” And at last she answered him, speaking his own language: “Ah! How I love you, my Philip!” She raised her face to his in the innocence of her passion. How her heart was beating! He held her closer. The forest around was very still. Their lips met. The blackbird uttered a long liquid note.
If there had been trout in the stream, and if Philip and Jeanne had fished for them, the trout might have taken the artificial flies. But those prattling rapids, and deep amber pools swirling under green leaves, were never disturbed by fishermen that day. A heavy fish floundered up after a struggling cricket, but the leap and splash did not draw a glance from Philip. A sleek otter slipped silently into the pool from the bank above. A baby fox crept from the thicket into a sunny circle among some ferns, cocking his enormous ears and peering cunningly across. He played boldly in the sunshine until Philip took a step forward, then he came down on all fours barking impudent defiance.
“What is that?” asked Jeanne, raising her face from Philip’s shoulder.
“Nothing, my darling, only a fox cub.”
Presently the fox, tired of barking, curled up, tucked his brush under his flank, yawned, and blinked at them with glittering, malicious eyes.
Through the tree tops the sunshine glimmered like powdered gold. Far in the forest depths some lost sunbeam sparkled and paled as the branches swayed in the breeze. A grey hawk darted through the labyrinth of trees, and his long wings flashed as he wheeled and hung breathless above the baby fox. The cub leered up at the bird and snarled, the hawk sailed away over the tree tops uttering a desolate cry. Then, as Philip raised his head to look after him, a sudden shadow, vast and grey, enveloped them. They started up, — a balloon was gliding through the air just above the tree tops. At the same instant a voice came from the wicker car, clear and distinct: “Let go that sand bag, we’ve got to rise; this wood is deserted; — ready — heave!”
A torrent of sand came rushing earthward through the leaves. The fox cub fled. Jeanne caught Philip’s arm. —
“Signal General de Gallifet to attack, Lieutenant,” came the voice from the sky, more faintly now.
“Bien, mon Colonel.”
“Ready with another sack, — heave!” Again the descending rush of sand tore through the branches.
“Signal Clamart when we get higher.”
“Bien, mon Colonel.”
The words grew fainter and fainter until the voices died away in the sky and the balloon rose higher, higher, while the sun glinted on the pale yellow silk, and struck showers of sparks from the flashing heliograph.
“We had better go,” said Philip, quietly,— “that is a Versailles balloon, and they are signalling to attack.”
“I suppose if you had hailed it they would have fired at us without inquiry,” said Jeanne, anxiously.
“Yes — our uniforms — and they shoot first under such circumstances.”
She sighed and drew his arm about her waist, but before she could speak, the distant bang! bang! bang! of cavalry carbines sent Philip leaping to the edge of the woods.
“Oh, look,” cried Jeanne, “they are shooting up at the balloon!”
It was true. A dozen cavalrymen were capering about on the road below in great excitement. Now and then they drew bridle and fired from their saddles at the balloon above, then dug spurs into their horses and galloped madly after it. The balloon moved slowly toward the west, the car was too indistinct now to distinguish flags or figures, but high in the clouds the heliograph sparkled and flashed its messages across the country to Clamart and Meudon and the heights of Versailles.
“What is that — oh! see there, Philip!” she cried again.
“Where? What?”
“There — by our house — don’t you see? Away off there near that queer red square on the hillside.”
“That queer red square on the hillside is a regiment of infantry of the Line,” he said quietly; “and what you see beyond them, near our house, is the sunlight striking the cannon of a field battery. See how they move now. They must be close to our house. Look! The cavalrymen have given up chasing the balloon. I believe they have just discovered the Versailles infantry — yes — there they go to warn their main body!”
“Then — then we can’t go home, can we?” said Jeanne, faintly.
“No indeed, — we ‘re homeless again, my darling, — unless the Federals are in force in this vicinity, which I don’t believe. If we hadn’t come fishing we would have been taken by the Versailles scouts.”
“And shot?”
“Not you I trust.”
“It would be the same,” she replied indifferently, “I shall die when you do.”
A nearer crackle of musketry sounded from a patch of woods below.
“Hello,” cried Philip, “the Federals are here after all. That was the pickets; — now they are firing by company, — Hark! See the white cloud on the hill back of our house! The battery is shelling the grove. That shell fell perfectly; — it must have exploded among the battalions.”
“They are going to turn our paradise into a battlefield,” said Jeanne, desperately; “oh, do you think they will?”
“I fear so,” he said, drawing her closer.
For now, from the battery on the distant hill, the pale flames leaped incessantly, and the insurgent infantry in the wood below poured out of cover in disorder, scattering in every direction. Then other batteries, masked among the groves and thickets of the circling hillsides, burst into smoke and flame: everywhere reddish-brown squares and oblongs blotted plains and hillsides, and bayonet tips sparkled in the sunlight.
Crash! ripple — crash! came the volleys on every side. Like rats scuttling from a settling hulk the Federals tumbled out of the undergrowth and made tracks for the denser cover of the forest.
“They are coming here,” said Philip, “we can’t stay any longer.”
“But where can we go?” asked Jeanne.
“To Paris — we have no choice. The whole Versailles army is on the move. Oh, if we could only get rid of these uniforms!”
“Look! Look! Philip!” cried Jeanne, catching him by the arm and pointing at a little footbridge not a quarter of a mile below them.
“I see,” he muttered, “the Federals will be cut to pieces; — it is a flank movement.”
For a moment they watched a dense column of red-legged infantry crowding at double quick across the little bridge, then Philip turned away with an irresolute gesture.
“It would mean safety for you if you were not wearing this cursed uniform. What a fool I was not to listen to you when you wanted to wear your own clothes!”
“It would have made no difference,” she said, “you would not have been able to go with me.”
“Your safety is the first thing,” he said, almost roughly. “Look down there; see how near they are! What a fool I was!”
She slipped her hand into his and smiled.
“Are you not going to take me to Paris?”
“It’s time,” he cried, “ah, if you were only safe—”
A half-suppressed scream from Jeanne checked him. Through the trees, over the soft thick moss, a file of horsemen were advancing in perfect silence. Towering above his skeleton horse, wrapped in the awful emblems of death, the leader of the cavalcade moved noiselessly toward the edge of the forest, and after him swarmed his hideous legion, gaunt, pallid, shrouded in crêpe. Grimly, above his horse’s rusty mane, the leader stooped and pointed. His sunken eyes glittered. Then came the sharp hiss of sabres leaping from steel scabbards, the hoarse croak of command, and the Hussars of Death wheeled and fell upon the enemy.
“Oh, Philip!” moaned Jeanne, covering her eyes, for the spectacle at the footbridge was terrible. Fascinated by the horror of the swift butchery on the bridge, Philip had stepped out to the edge of the woods, but Jeanne’s cry roused him and he cast a quick glance around. Already the red-capped sharpshooters were creeping in their direction, while from the meadow below the frightened insurgents clambered up the hill and fled through the woods toward Paris.
“Come,” he said, and seized her hand, and they started, running after the rest.
