Complete weird tales of.., p.87
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 87
However, the people liked the new government; Belleville howled joyously and dragged Rochefort from Sainte-Pélagie prison and the government dared not refuse to swallow its medicine nor deny this sop to Belleville.
Jules Favre shrugged his shoulders and said he’d rather have Rochefort in the government than outside — an epigram which pleased everybody. A few conservative people, however, cooled a little when the former farce writer, Arago, was made Mayor of Paris. Then, on the sixth of September, Jules Favre, Minister of Foreign Relations, committed the first official idiocy of his new career by publishing in a diplomatic circular note the following phrase:
“We will relinquish neither one inch of our territory nor one stone of our fortresses,” well knowing that a few days later he should go to Ferrières on that heart-breaking mission which all the world has heard of.
The proclamation of the republic stirred the masses to such an effervescence of joy that nobody thought any longer of the Prussians. Everything appeared safe under the magic name “Republic.” To a population alternately stunned and stung to fury by despatches which for six weeks past had announced one unbroken series of disasters, the situation seemed already less desperate. Toul, Belfort, Strassbourg and Metz still held out, the provinces, it was believed, were rising en masse, there were serious rumours afloat concerning the disaffection of the Saxon and Bavarian troops, particularly the latter, and the more sanguine of the Parisians looked confidently to the United States, now a sister republic, as a probable ally. Some even thanked God that there would be no more disastrous rumours concerning the army of Châlons, because the army of Châlons had ceased to exist except as an army of prisoners.
As for the new government, no sooner had it been installed than energetic measures for the defense of Paris were pushed forward on every side. One of the most important questions of defense concerned the provisioning of the city and the forts, and had Monsieur Magnin, who succeeded Monsieur Clement Duvernois as Minister of Commerce, displayed the good judgment and activity of his predecessor, the history of the siege of Paris might have been written differently. Flour, grain, hay, straw, cattle, sheep — nothing was forgotten by Monsieur Duvernois — not even a supply of millstones for grinding cereals. As for his successor — his mania was economy, and it is a pity that he alone was not obliged to endure the consequences. Of all guilty fools, responsible for their nation’s humiliation, the economical fool is the most deserving of perdition.
Under the new military reorganization, the government hastened to equip the sixteen forts and the various redoubts and batteries that surrounded Paris and Saint Denis in an oval measuring sixty kilometres in circumference. Not only was it necessary to construct emplacements, gun platforms, casemates, magazines, bomb proofs and store houses, but it was also imperative that the water supply should be assured, mines planted, electric firing communications installed, and electric lights placed. Telegraphic communication with Paris, signalling by semaphores, entrenchments and redoubts connecting the forts, all these were necessary; but, before the lines could be definitely established a whole series of suburban villages were barricaded and loopholed. Inside the first barrier of defense lay the fortifications of the city proper, divided into ninety-four bastions and nine secteurs, each of the latter commanded by an admiral or a general. The city, therefore, was divided like a pie into nine sections, each section having its commander, whose rôle was not only military but also civil, and who, in concert with the municipal authorities included in his district, was responsible for the maintenance of order, the policing of the ramparts and streets and the organization of the National Guard. This scheme was admirable, and, had it been maintained after the end of the siege until the city resumed its normal condition, the Commune might have been impossible. The city, then, was surrounded by a double line of defense, the forts outside the walls and the fortifications proper. But this was not all. Belleville, that rabbit warren of the ragtag and bobtail, that ever simmering cauldron of anarchy, lifted up its voice and bawled for barricades. To keep the vivacious denizens of that quarter in good humour, the government permitted them to surround the outer boulevards with a third line of defense in the form of barricades. This they did with an enthusiasm and ability that was none the less suspicious because superintended by Henri Rochefort. For the defense of the forts and ramparts 2,200 cannon were mounted, and 300 held in reserve. These cannon were served by 15,000 artillerymen, including marine gunners and engineers. The garrison itself consisted of:
First — Two army corps, the 13th Vinoys, the Mézières prodigals, and the 14th corps commanded by General Ducrot, about 60,000 men in all, and 150 field pieces. Vinoy’s men camped on the left bank of the Seine, Ducrot’s on the right bank.
Second — 105,000 Mobiles, not only from the Department of the Seine, but also from every department of France. They were distributed between the forts and the city.
Third — 7,000 sailors from the war ports on the coast, 5,000 customs guards, forest guards and ex-policemen.
Fourth — About 60 franc corps, more or less unruly and useless, a total of nearly 15,000 men.
Fifth — A few thousand regular troops at Saint Denis, brave, devoted men.
Sixth — The National Guard, 266 battalions of them, a nuisance to everybody except themselves, partly on account of the foolish policy pursued by their superiors, in keeping them inside the ramparts instead of habituating them to the discipline and severe régime of active service outside the city — partly on account of the elective system common to each battalion. Anybody might believe, after this long enumeration of defensive works, that the labour of transforming Paris into a vast fortress was pushed with unexampled, not to say miraculous speed. That was not the case, and two generals of engineers, whose names it is not necessary to mention, were to blame. With the German armies within a few days’ march from Paris, with the two great redoubts of Châtillon and Montretout unfinished, these generals did not think it necessary for the workmen, masons, stonecutters, terrassiers and carpenters to labour during the night. With energy, and the employment of 10,000 or 15,000 workmen, Châtillon and Montretout could have been saved before the arrival of the Germans. More than that, there existed weak points along the ramparts that were criminally neglected — especially the Bas-Meudon gate, where the moat was scarcely begun, and not a mine had been placed.
Was Moltke badly informed? Was Bismarck asleep? Where were their spies? The German, with a little audacity, could have made himself master of Paris during the first days of investment. How? It would merely have been sufficient to mass rapidly, during the night, a corps of 20,000 resolute men between Sèvres and Bas-Meudon. This corps, composed of equal divisions of cavalry, artillery and infantry, could have been hurled at the Bas-Meudon gate, where only a handful of Mobiles stood guard. At the same time, the cavalry, arriving at a gallop along the Vaugirard and Point du Jour bastions, could have sabred the cannoniers and National Guards on the ramparts, leaving the artillery to unlimber behind the Ceinture railroad tracks and hold the ground against any attack. Reinforcements could have arrived from Sèvres and Versailles unharrassed, except by the fort of Issy.
It was too simple, perhaps, for the great German masters of strategy.
If, therefore, the work on the defenses of Paris attained really splendid results, the credit was neither due to the two engineer generals nor to the apathy of the Germans; it was due — strange as it may appear — to Haussmann. Why? Because the work could never have been accomplished had not the government been able to summon to its aid the splendid army of contractors and their men, schooled, during Monsieur Haussmann’s magnificent administration, to undertake and execute vast enterprises of construction and demolition with incredible rapidity.
How the irony of history repeats itself!
CHAPTER VII.
AN ACCOUNT TO SETTLE.
IT WAS DUSK when Harewood returned to the rue d’Ypres. He stood a moment on the steps of the bird store, looking out over the country beyond the city wall. Pale stars glimmered through the veil of dun-coloured mist; below stretched the shadowy valley of the Seine, dim under its ramparts of low surrounding hills. In the northwest a pallid streak traced the sweep of the river, farther still a point of white fire, brilliant as a star of the first magnitude, flashed and paled on the horizon. It was the new electric light on the great fortress of Mont-Valérien.
As Harewood stood there, fumbling for his keys, absently watching the signal lanterns hoisted above the Porte Rouge, spots of incandescent vermilion and sapphire in the deepening twilight, the door behind unclosed, and Hildé glided out.
“Good evening,” he said, turning instantly; “I suppose I am late for dinner.”
The girl closed the door behind her noiselessly, returning his greeting with a troubled smile.
“I heard your keys jingle; I thought it was you. No, you are not late; Monsieur Bourke has not yet returned from the city. I — I have something to ask of you; may I?”
“Of course,” he answered; and again that sudden warmth touched him at the confidence implied in her eyes and voice — a confidence he felt he deserved so little.
“Not here, then,” she said, lowering her voice, “they may interrupt us.” As she spoke, she stepped across the sidewalk, and he followed, wondering at the suppressed anxiety in her voice.
A breeze blew over the sodded ramparts opposite; together they mounted the gentle slope where, against the sky, each separate blade of grass stood out, trembling in the freshening wind.
On the summit of the glacis they hesitated, then, by a common impulse, they moved on along the path together, side by side, under the million stars. He waited for her to speak; her head was turned away toward the vast stretch of country in the south where, over the valley, a haze of sombre smoke hung, touched with dull colour.
“They are trying to burn the forest of Thiais; you can see the smoke,” he said. “They can’t do it; the wood is too green. It’s a little late in the day now to think of clearing away the forests from the military zone. They should have begun a month ago. Look at the Meudon woods. There’s cover enough there for the whole Prussian army. The engineers and sappers have been trying to burn it for a week past; now they are at it with axes. They might as well try to ditch the redoubts with penknives. What a muddle-headed people!”
“You forget,” said Hildé, “that they are my people.”
She spoke so sweetly that the rebuke struck him with added force.
“I did forget,” he said; “forgive me.”
They turned again, retracing their steps along the narrow path, half over-grown with long grass.
“You are quite thoughtless,” said Hildé; “I forgive you.”
The words were simple enough, and yet to him they meant more than the mere condoning of a tactless remark. There was something almost intimate in the words, “you are thoughtless”; something that was new to him and to Hildé, a reversal of their relations, a tacit assumption of a situation as old as the beginning of creation, the mystery of an awakening, the enigma of life, the way of a maid with a man.
“Yes, I was thoughtless,” he repeated, lingering over the words that alternately thrilled and troubled him, vaguely aware of the subtle metamorphosis that was taking place before his eyes, the unconscious awakening of a child to womanhood.
The assumption of the right to chasten and forgive is a maid’s first step in love.
“Tell me,” he said, “what it is that troubles you.”
They were standing still, looking off over the valley, the night breeze blowing in their faces, bringing with it a faint aromatic odour of burning beech-wood.
“It is that I wish to ask your advice, monsieur,” she answered seriously. “Do you remember once I told you how two Germans, who had rented an apartment from my uncle, left without paying — after his death, a year ago? Well, they have returned.”
“Returned!” repeated Harewood, angrily.
“Yes, to-night. They have offered to pay us what they owed to my uncle. It is not very much, Monsieur Harewood — but it — it is of some importance to us.”
She continued with sensitive reserve: “At present our means do not permit us to refuse — and yet — and yet — we do not like these Germans, Yolette and I.”
“That is no reason for not insisting on what is justly due you,” said Harewood.
“That is true, monsieur,” she answered simply, “but that is not all. These men offer to pay us, but only on condition that we allow them to rent from us another apartment.”
“What!” exclaimed Harewood, getting red in the face.
“This,” continued the girl, “we do not wish to do, although the three rooms under the roof are quite comfortable. But you see these men are not what Yolette and I care to meet. Even when my uncle was alive, and Yolette and I came back from the convent at Christmas — they — they were at times a little rude with their attentions. Yolette and I were very glad when they left — even without paying anything at all.”
“Do you want my advice?” asked Harewood, brusquely.
“If you do not mind, Monsieur Harewood.”
“Then let us go back to the house, for I wish your sister also to hear what I have to say.”
“But — but — the two Germans are there — now — trying to persuade Yolette.”
Harewood’s eyes changed in a second; a white pinched look came about his month, then his whole face lighted up with a smile so charming, so perfectly winning, that Hildé’s troubled gaze cleared and she involuntarily stepped closer to him.
It was seldom that this expression came into Harewood’s face — this absolute command of a sudden rage so frightful that it whitened and sharpened every feature, only to be followed by a smile that would have disarmed the devil himself. Bourke had seen it once when Harewood’s little fox terrier was wantonly clubbed to death by a peasant in Saarbrücken; the peasant was probably still in the hospital.
“Come,” said Harewood, pleasantly, “perhaps we can arrange this affair very easily. Why, there is Bourke now, going up the steps!” He called to his comrade. “Wait, Bourke! I want to see you a moment! Is that a riding crop you have there?”
Bourke looked at them sharply as they came across the street, but he bowed gaily to Hildé and opened the door.
“Riding crop?” he repeated, “here is one. I’ve sold the horses. Are you going to ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross, my son?”
He stopped suddenly with a narrow glance at Harewood’s placid face. It was too placid — and Bourke knew it.
“What’s the trouble?” he asked bluntly.
Harewood said: “Nothing much,” and led the way into the parlour.
As they entered without knocking, Yolette rose hastily from a chair at the table and came to them; and at the same moment, two men, lounging on a sofa, looked up angrily. The men were Speyer and Stauffer.
“Monsieur Bourke,” said Yolette, resolutely controlling her voice, “it is fortunate you have come — I — I cannot stay in this room another moment.”
Before Bourke could understand, Harewood said quietly, “Mademoiselle, it is all arranged. Will you step into the office and write a receipt?”
His eyes told Hildé to go too; she obeyed, with a frightened glance at his face, which was still smiling, but white as a sheet.
Speyer had risen; Stauffer also stood up, close beside Speyer. When the latter began to speak, Harewood turned and looked at him, and he stopped short.
“Bourke,” said Harewood in even tones, “would you mind stepping into the office and bringing me the receipt?”
Bourke’s sombre, puzzled eyes rested on Speyer for a second, then he turned on his heel and left the room.
“What do you mean by this?” blustered Speyer.
“What?” asked Harewood without emotion.
There was no answer. Stauffer instinctively took a step toward the door, then paused as he met Harewood’s eyes. At that moment Bourke re-entered the room, holding a sheet of stamped paper in his hand. He laid it on the table before Speyer but said nothing.
After a silence, Stauffer’s weak face expanded into a smile, and he picked up the paper with a pitiful little swagger. Then he laid a few gold coins on the table, piling one on the other in affected jocularity.
“Will Mr. Harewood do me the honour of counting them?” he said, sauntering toward the door.
Harewood stopped him with a gesture.
Speyer, glowering across the table, watched the counting of the coins. When Harewood finished he stepped back a pace.
“Get out—”
“No!”
“Get out!” he said, gently. Stauffer slipped past the table at once; Speyer hesitated, sneering, fairly weak with rage, then turned and walked out, followed closely by Harewood. At the door Stauffer began to laugh; his forced mirth seemed to sting Speyer to madness. He turned as he reached the sidewalk; Hildé’s name was on his lips, but Harewood lashed him across the mouth with his riding crop.
“Go,” he whispered, with white lips. “If you don’t go, I’ll kill you. Can’t you understand — can’t you understand — I’ll kill you if you don’t go!”
He flung him out into the street, and walked slowly back to the house, closing the door very softly behind him.
He met Bourke in the hall, and answered his enquiries with a shrug.
“Nice pair,” commented Bourke; “Yolette is shedding tears; do you suppose they said anything blackguardly to her?”
“I fancy they did. It’s well we came back when we did. Is dinner ready, Cecil?”
They knocked at the dining-room door; Yolette smiled at them as they entered. “It was very silly to cry,” she said sedately, seating herself at the table.
Bourke, not knowing what to answer, sat down gravely and looked at the lioness; and Schéhèrazade, who had taken a great fancy to Harewood, stole around to his chair and stood there, looking up with luminous eyes, while her lithe tail gently waved in the air.
“Some day,” said Bourke, “she’ll take a fancy to me and we shall be inseparable.”
