Complete weird tales of.., p.604
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 604
“Have I accorded you permission to say or mean?”
“No; that is the fashion of romance — a pretty one. But in life, sometimes, a man’s heart beats out the words his lips deliver untricked with verbal tinsel.”
Again she coloured, but met his eyes steadily enough.
“This is all wrong,” she said; “you know it; I know it. If, in the woman standing here alone with you, I scarcely recognise myself, you, monsieur, will fail to remember her — if chance wills it that we meet again.”
“My memory,” he said in a low voice, “is controlled by your mind. What you forget I cannot recall.”
She said, impulsively, “A gallant man speaks as you speak — in agreeable books of fiction as in reality. Oh, monsieur” — and she laughed a pretty, troubled laugh— “how can you expect me now to disbelieve in my Americans of romance?”
She had scarcely meant to say just that; she did not realise exactly what she had said until she read it in his face — read it, saw that he did not mean to misunderstand her, and, in the nervous flood of relief, stretched out her hand to him. He took it, laid his lips to the fragrant fingers, and relinquished it. Meanwhile his heart was choking him like the clutch of justice.
“Good-by,” she said, her outstretched hand suspended as he had released it, then slowly falling. A moment’s silence; the glow faded from the sky, and from her face, too; then suddenly the blue eyes glimmered with purest malice:
“Having neglected to bring your ladder this time, monsieur, pray accept the use of mine.” And she pointed to a rustic ladder lying half-buried in the weedy tangle behind him.
He gave himself a moment to steady his voice: “I supposed there was a ladder here — somewhere,” he said, quietly.
“Oh! And why did you suppose—” She spoke too hurriedly, and she began again, pleasantly indifferent: “The foresters use a ladder for pruning, not for climbing walls.”
He strolled over to the thicket, lifted the light ladder, and set it against the wall. When he had done this he stepped back, examining the effect attentively; then, as though not satisfied, shifted it a trifle, surveyed the result, moved it again, dissatisfied.
“Let me see,” he mused aloud, “I want to place it exactly where it was that night—” He looked back at her interrogatively. “Was it about where I have placed it?”
Her face was inscrutable.
“Or,” he continued, thoughtfully, “was it an inch or two this way? I could tell exactly if the moon were up. Still” — he considered the ladder attentively— “I might be able to fix it with some accuracy if you would help me. Will you?”
“I do not understand,” she said.
“Oh, it is nothing — still, if you wouldn’t mind aiding me to settle a matter that interests me — would you?”
“With pleasure, monsieur,” she said, indifferently. “What shall I do?”
So he mounted the ladder, crossed the wall, and stood on a stone niche on his side, looking down at the ladder. “Now,” he said, “if you would be so amiable, madame, as to stand on the ladder for one moment you could aid me immensely.”
“Mount that ladder, monsieur?”
She caught his eyes fixed on her; for just an instant she hesitated, then met them steadily enough; indeed, a growing and innocent curiosity widened her gaze, and she smiled and lifted her pretty shoulders — just a trifle, and her skirts a trifle, too; and, with a grace that made him tremble, she mounted the ladder, step by step, until her head and shoulders were on a level with his own across the wall.
“And now?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.
“The moon,” he said, unsteadily, “ought to be about — there!”
“Where?” She turned her eyes inquiringly skyward.
But his heart had him by the throat again, and he was past all speech.
“Well, monsieur?” She waited in sweetest patience. Presently: “Have you finished your astronomical calculations? And may I descend?” He tried to speak, but was so long about it that she said very kindly: “You are trying to locate the moon, are you not?”
“No, madame — only a shadow.”
“A shadow, monsieur?” — laughing.
“A shadow — a silhouette.”
“Of what?”
“Of a — a woman’s head against the moon.”
“Monsieur, for a realist you are astonishingly romantic. Oh, you see I was right! You do belong in a book.”
“You, also,” he said, scarcely recognising his own voice. “Men — in books — do well to risk all for one word, one glance from you; men — in books — do well to die for you, who reign without a peer in all romance — —”
“Monsieur,” she faltered.
But he had found his voice — or one something like it — and he said: “You are right to rebuke me; romance is the shadow, life the substance; and you live; and as long as you live, living men must love you; as I love you, Countess of Semois.”
“Oh,” she breathed, tremulously, “oh, — you think that? You think I am the Countess of Semois? And that is why — —”
For a moment her wide eyes hardened, then flashed brilliant with tears.
“Is that your romance, monsieur? — the romance of a Countess! Is your declaration for mistress or servant? — for the Countess or for her secretary — who sometimes makes her gowns, too? Ah, the sorry romance! Your declaration deserved an audience more fitting — —”
“My declaration was made a week ago! The moon and you were audience enough. I love you.”
“Monsieur, I — I beg you to release my hand — —”
“No; you must listen — for the veil of romance is rent and we are face to face in the living world! Do you think a real man cares what title you wear, if you but wear his name? Countess that you are not — if you say you are not — but woman that you are, is there anything in Heaven or earth that can make love more than love? Veil your beautiful true eyes with romance, and answer me; look with clear, untroubled eyes upon throbbing, pulsating life; and answer me! Love is no more, no less, than love. I ask for yours; I gave you mine a week ago — in our first kiss.”
Her face was white as a flower; the level beauty of her eyes set him trembling.
“Give me one chance,” he breathed. “I am not mad enough to hope that the lightning struck us both at a single flash. Give me, in your charity, a chance — a little aid where I stand stunned, blinded, alone — you who can still see clearly!”
She did not stir or speak or cease to watch him from unwavering eyes; he leaned forward, drawing her inert hands together between his own; but she freed them, shivering.
“Will you not say one word to me?” he faltered.
“Three, monsieur.” Her eyes closed, she covered them with her slender hands: “I — love — you.”
* * *
Before the moon appeared she had taken leave of him, her hot, young face pressed to his, striving to say something for which she found no words. In tremulous silence she turned in his arms, unclasping his hands and yielding her own in fragrant adieu.
“Do you not know, oh, most wonderful of lovers — do you not know?” her eyes were saying, but her lips were motionless; she waited, reluctant, trembling. No, he could not understand — he did not care, and the knowledge of it suffused her very soul with a radiance that transfigured her.
So she left him, the promise of the moon silvering the trees. And he stood there on the wall, watching the lights break out in the windows of her house — stood there while his soul drifted above the world of moonlit shadow floating at his feet.
“Smith!”
Half aroused, he turned and looked down. The moonlight glimmered on Kingsbury’s single eyeglass. After a moment his senses returned; he descended to the ground and peered at Kingsbury, rubbing his eyes.
With one accord they started toward the house, moving slowly, shoulder to shoulder.
“Not that I personally care,” began Kingsbury. “I am sorry only on account of my country. I was, perhaps, precipitate; but I purchased one hundred and seven dolls of Mademoiselle Plessis — her private secretary — —”
“What!”
“With whom,” continued Kingsbury, thoughtfully, “I am agreeably in love. Such matters, Smith, cannot be wholly controlled by a sense of duty to one’s country. Beauty and rank seldom coincide except in fiction. It appears” — he removed his single eyeglass, polished it with his handkerchief, replaced it, and examined the moon— “it appears,” he continued blandly, “that it is the Countess of Semois who is — ah — so to speak, afflicted with red hair.... The moon — ahem — is preternaturally bright this evening, Smith.”
After a moment Smith halted and turned, raising his steady eyes to that pale mirror of living fire above the forest.
“Well,” began Kingsbury, irritably, “can’t you say something?”
“Nothing more than I have said to her already — though she were Empress of the World!” murmured Smith, staring fixedly at the moon.
“Empress of what? I do not follow you.”
“No,” said Smith, dreamily, “you must not try to. It is a long journey to the summer moon — a long, long journey. I started when I was a child; I reached it a week ago; I returned to-night. And do you know what I discovered there? Why, man, I discovered the veil of Isis, and I looked behind it. And what do you suppose I found? A child, Kingsbury, a winged child, who laughingly handed me the keys of Eden! What do you think of that?”
But Smith had taken too many liberties with the English language, and Kingsbury was far too mad to speak.
* * *
CHAPTER XXV
THE ARMY OF PARIS
I WAS SMOKING peacefully in the conservatory of the hotel, when a bellboy brought me the card of Captain le Vicômte de Cluny.
In due time Monsieur the Viscount himself appeared, elegant, graceful, smart; black and scarlet uniform glittering with triple-gold arabesques on sleeve and Képi, spurs chiming with every step.
We chatted amiably for a few moments; then the Captain, standing very erect and stiff, made me a beautiful bow and delivered the following remarkable question:
“Monsieur Van Twillaire, I am come to-day according to the American custom, to beg your permission to pay my addresses to mademoiselle, your daughter.”
I inhaled the smoke of my cigarette in my astonishment. That was bad for me. After a silence I asked:
“Which daughter?”
“Mademoiselle Dulcima, monsieur.”
After another silence I said:
“I will give you an answer to-morrow at this hour.”
We bowed to each other, solemnly shook hands, and parted.
I was smoking restlessly in the conservatory of the hotel when a bellboy brought me the card of Captain le Vicômte de Barsac.
In due time the Vicômte himself appeared, elegant, graceful, smart; black, scarlet, and white uniform glittering with triple-gold arabesques on sleeve and Képi, spurs chiming with every step.
We chatted amiably for a few moments; then the Captain, standing very erect and stiff, made me a beautiful bow and delivered the following remarkable question:
“Monsieur Van Twillaire, I am come to-day according to the American custom, to beg your permission to pay my addresses to mademoiselle, your daughter.”
I dropped my cigarette into the empty fireplace.
“Which daughter?” I asked, coldly.
“Mademoiselle Dulcima, monsieur.”
After a silence I said:
“I will give you an answer to-morrow at this hour.”
We bowed to each other, solemnly shook hands, and parted.
I was smoking violently in the conservatory of the hotel, when a bellboy brought me a card of my old friend, Gillian Van Dieman.
In due time Van Dieman appeared, radiant, smiling, faultlessly groomed.
“Well,” said I, “it’s about time you came over from Long Island, isn’t it? My daughters expected you last week.”
“I know,” he said, smiling; “I couldn’t get away, Peter. Didn’t Alida explain?”
“Explain what?” I asked.
“About our engagement.”
In my amazement I swallowed some smoke that was not wholesome for me.
“Didn’t she tell you she is engaged to marry me?” he asked, laughing.
After a long silence, in which I thought of many things, including the formal offers of Captains de Barsac and Torchon de Cluny, I said I had not heard of it, and added sarcastically that I hoped both he and Alida would pardon my ignorance on any matters which concerned myself.
“Didn’t you know that Alida came over here to buy her trousseau?” he inquired coolly.
I did not, and I said so.
“Didn’t you know about the little plot that she and I laid to get you to bring her to Paris?” he persisted, much amused.
I glared at him.
“Why, Peter,” he said, “when you declared to me in the clubhouse that nothing could get you to Paris unless, through your own stupidity, something happened to your pig — —”
I turned on him as red as a beet.
“I know you stole that pig, Van!”
“Yes,” he muttered guiltily.
“Then,” said I earnestly, “for God’s sake let it rest where it is, and marry Alida whenever you like!”
“With your blessing, Peter?” asked Van Dieman, solemnly.
“With my blessing — dammit!”
We shook hands in silence.
“Where is Alida?” he asked presently.
“In her room, surrounded by thousands of dressmakers, hatmakers, mantua-makers, furriers, experts in shoes, lingerie, jewelry, and other inexpensive trifles,” said I with satisfaction.
But the infatuated man never winced.
“You will attend to that sort of thing in the future,” I remarked.
The reckless man grinned in unfeigned delight.
“Come,” said I, wearily, “Alida is in for all day with her trousseau. I’ve a cab at the door; come on! I was going out to watch the parade at Longchamps. Now you’ve got to go with me and tell me something about this temperamental French army that seems more numerous in Paris than the civilians.”
“What do you want to see soldiers for?” he objected.
“Because,” said I, “I had some slight experience with the army this morning just before you arrived; and I want to take a bird’s-eye view of the whole affair.”
“But I — —”
“Oh, we’ll return for dinner and then you can see Alida,” I added. “But only in my company. You see we are in France, Van, and she is the jeune fille of romance.”
“Fudge!” he muttered, following me out to the cab.
“We will drive by the Pont Neuf,” he suggested. “You know the proverb?”
“No,” said I; “what proverb?”
“The bridegroom who passes by the Pont Neuf will always meet a priest, a soldier, and a white horse. The priest will bless his marriage, the soldier will defend it, the white horse will bear his burdens through life.”
As a matter of fact, passing the Pont Neuf, we did see a priest, a soldier, and a white horse. But it is a rare thing not to meet this combination on the largest, longest, oldest, and busiest bridge in Paris. All three mascots are as common in Paris as are English sparrows in the Bois de Boulogne.
I bought a book on the quay, then re-entered the taxi and directed the driver to take us to the race-course at Longchamps.
Our way led up the Champs Elysées, and, while we whirled along, Van Dieman very kindly told me as much about the French army as I now write, and for the accuracy of which I refer to my future son-in-law.
There are, in permanent garrison in Paris, about thirty thousand troops stationed. This does not include the famous Republican Guard corps, which is in reality a sort of municipal gendarmerie, composed of several battalions of infantry, several squadrons of gorgeous cavalry, and a world-famous band, which corresponds in functions to our own Marine Band at Washington.
The barracks of the regular troops are scattered about the city, and occupy strategic positions as the armouries of our National Guard are supposed to do. All palaces, museums of importance, and government buildings are guarded day and night by infantry. The cavalry guard only their own barracks; the marines, engineers, and artillery the same.
At night the infantry and cavalry of the Republican Guard post sentinels at all theatres, balls, and public functions. In front of the Opera only are the cavalry mounted on their horses, except when public functions occur at the Elysées or the Hôtel de Ville.
In the dozen great fortresses that surround the walls of Paris, thousands of fortress artillery are stationed. In the suburbs and outlying villages artillery and regiments of heavy and light cavalry have their permanent barracks — dragoons, cuirassiers, chasseurs-à-cheval, field batteries, and mounted batteries. At Saint Cloud are dragoons and remount troopers; at Versailles the engineers and cuirassiers rule the region; and the entire Department of the Seine is patrolled by gendarmes, mounted and on foot.
When we reached the beautiful meadow of Longchamps, with its grand-stand covered with waving flags and the sunshine glowing on thousands of brilliant parasols, we left the taxi, and found a place on what a New Yorker would call “the bleachers.” The bleachers were covered with pretty women, so we were not in bad company. As for the great central stand, where the President of the Republic sat surrounded by shoals of brilliant officers, it was a mass of colour from flagstaff to pelouse.
The band of the Republican Guards was thundering out one of Sousa’s marches; the vast green plain glittered with masses of troops. Suddenly three cannon-shots followed one another in quick order; the band ended its march with a long double roll of drums; the Minister of War had arrived.
“They’re coming,” said Van Dieman. “Look! Here come the Saint-Cyrians. They lead the march one year, and the Polytechnic leads it the next. But I wish they could see West Point — just once.”
The cadets from Saint-Cyr came marching past, solid ranks of scarlet, blue, and silver. They marched pretty well; they ride better, I am told. After them came the Polytechnic, in black and red and gold, the queer cocked hats of the cadets forming a quaint contrast to the toy soldier headgear of the Saint-Cyr soldiers. Following came battalion after battalion of engineers in sombre uniforms of red and dark blue, then a bizarre battalion of Turcos or Algerian Riflemen in turbans and pale blue Turkish uniforms, then a company of Zouaves in scarlet and white and blue, then some special corps which was not very remarkable for anything except the bad fit of its clothing.
