Complete weird tales of.., p.88
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 88
His half-serious, half-pretended suspicions as to Schéhèrazade’s intentions always delighted Yolette and Hildé. They loved to hear him call the lioness a living tomb and wish that his bones might have a quieter grave.
“He’s insulting you again,” cried Hildé, dragging the lioness across to her own chair; “as if my Schéhèrazade would eat anything she shouldn’t! Hear her purr, the darling! I do believe, Monsieur Bourke, that you are really afraid!”
“I am,” said Bourke; “so’s Harewood. Fright keeps him speechless.”
Hildé raised her dark eyes to Harewood’s.
“Is that true, monsieur?”
Harewood brightened and laughed, nodding across the table; but Hildé’s face, always a little grave and sensitive, even in her mirth, grew graver and more sensitive. It had changed within a day; something had come into it too subtle for Harewood to detect; something that even escaped Yolette. The contour of her cheek and neck was still almost childlike, the full scarlet mouth was also a child’s mouth, yet already lip and cheek were finer and purer, a softer shadow tinged the eyes, an imperceptible tenderness touched the lips.
“I cannot see,” said Bourke, honestly, “how your hands can be so white if you and Yolette wash those dinner things.”
“We don’t,” laughed Yolette; “we only dry our little tea cups. Red Riding Hood does the rest. You haven’t seen Red Riding Hood yet? She’s the scissor-grinder’s child. They live in the passage de l’Ombre, and they are very, very poor.”
“Hildé thought of it first,” said Yolette. “The little thing came to the door last winter — oh, so cold and hungry. She comes every noon and evening now. Hildé made her a red cloak and hood. Her father drinks.”
“I think,” said Hildé, “she may be in the kitchen now. Shall I bring her in?”
Bourke nodded, a trifle embarrassed. He never knew what to say to children. Hildé looked shyly at Harewood, saw that he approved, then rose and went to the door. “Red Riding Hood!” she called, “Are you there, little one? Yes? Then won’t you come in?”
There came the clatter of small sabots along the tiled hallway; Red Riding Hood appeared.
Bourke stared at this thin little creature, who stared back at him with a pair of great eyes, black as jet. But Harewood, easy with anything that seemed helpless or dependent, held out a strong brown hand, smiling. Children and animals never resisted his smile, and Red Riding Hood was no exception. She came slowly forward and gave him a thin red hand, never taking her eyes from his, and he bent forward and kissed the child.
Hildé’s face changed; an exquisite tenderness touched her eyes. She looked at Harewood, trying to speak, but could not.
“What is your name; mine is Harewood,” he said.
“Mine is Marie Ledoux; I should rather be called Red Riding Hood,” said the child, seriously.
Harewood was quiet and attentive.
“Exactly,” he said, “and I want you to come to visit me. Will you?”
“Yes,” said the child, “to-morrow.”
“Then will you say good-night to these ladies and gentlemen, Red Riding Hood?”
The child looked earnestly at him, then walked to the door.
“Bon soir, mesdames; bon soir, messieurs,” she said gravely, and walked out, her small wooden shoes echoing along the tiles.
“What in the world has tamed our little Red Riding Hood!” exclaimed Yolette; “Hildé, would you have believed it!”
But Hildé turned away toward the sofa without answering and laid her cheek against Schéhèrazade’s head.
“While you’re about it, Jim,” said Bourke, laughing, “why don’t you make friends with Schéhèrazade? Even a lioness couldn’t resist you.”
Hildé clasped the lion’s head closer to her breast.
“No,” she said, without turning; “he need not take everything I love.”
CHAPTER VIII.
A PEACEFUL HOUR.
THE DAYS AND nights of early September, 1870, were like perfect days and nights in June, when soft winds stir and the blue air scintillates under the gemmed rays of the sun. The mornings were fresh and exquisite, the sunsets gorgeous, the midnight heavens magnificent.
On the afternoon of the thirteenth of September, the day set by General Trochu for a grand review of the National and Mobile Guards, Bourke, returning from the city, found Harewood writing his weekly synopsis of the situation for the Syndicate.
“Hello,” he said, looking up from his desk lazily, “did you forward our mail matter, Cecil?”
Bourke nodded and sat down on the bed. Harewood, coat off, shirt sleeves rolled up, relighted his pipe and continued writing.
When he had finished, Bourke, lying on the bed, was sleeping lightly, but he woke as Harewood’s chair scraped across the floor.
“Tired, Cecil?” asked Harewood.
“A little. I walked from the Arc to the Place de la Bastille.”
“Whew!” exclaimed Harewood, “what for; to see the review? Was it worth the trouble?”
“Yes. There’s a bit of excitement in the city,” yawned Bourke, sitting up, his eyes still puckered by the light, his hair in disorder.
“That review,” he continued, “was significant, Jim. I saw 300,000 men in line from the Arc to the Place de la Bastille, all bawling the Marseillaise, and all of them nothing but National Guards and Mobiles. They made a great deal of noise.”
“Was it impressive?” asked Harewood.
“They made a great deal of noise,” repeated Bourke.
“O!”
“They are not regulars, of course. I don’t know what they can do. It was queer not to see the uniforms everybody expects to see in a review in Paris — the cuirassiers, you know — and the rest. The people are acting foolishly, anyway, I think. They’re stark mad over the new republic; they’re changing the names of the streets, too; the rue Bonaparte is now the rue du Peuple, the place Royale is the place de Vosges — O, the whole business is too childish — too grotesque! Think of wasting time and energy in such foolish occupations, with a couple of hundred thousand German soldiers — heaven knows how close to the gates! Why, Jim, they have even scratched the Imperial N from the bridges and the public buildings, and have painted:
‘LIBERTY, EQUALITY, FRATERNITY’
over everything. Victor Hugo and Edgar Quintet are dancing cancans on the ramparts, hurling odes and lyrics at the Prussians! Think how Moltke must grin! But their crowning madness has just been accomplished; in spite of the Governor of Paris and the Minister of War, they have decreed that all officers of Mobiles shall be elected by their own soldiers! What frightful stupidity!”
“What became of the Mobiles and National Guard? Gone to the forts?”
“Some — the Mobiles. The others are scattered. They are to police the city and ramparts. I fancy we’ll have a few here soon. To-day the sixty-nine gates of the city and all the railroad tunnels have been closed until the siege ends. They’re establishing drawbridges over the moats. I tried to cable that, but the censor cut it out. By the way, eighty odd words of your Tuesday despatches were cut out, too. Don’t swear, Jim.”
Harewood began to qualify the censor with such energy that Bourke, unable to control his laughter, went into his own room and shut the door.
“Predestined idiot!” muttered Harewood, scowling at his manuscript; “now I suppose he’ll also cut this to suit his own degraded intelligence!” He shoved back his chair and looked out of the window, sulky, impatient, a little wrathful at Bourke’s amusement. For he cared a great deal about his work; he laboured faithfully to acquire a literary style. His style, at its best, was simple and honestly direct; often forceful and sometimes clear. To have a French censor butcher and garble it always made him furious; but he was always able to enjoy the good-natured banter of his comrades when he had cooled down. It was his first service as correspondent in the field, and he learned that there was little romance in it. He learned other things, too; he found that electricity had nothing to do with the speed of telegrams, but that their celerity was regulated entirely by the diplomacy and generosity of the sender. He learned when to bribe and when not to — when to use the wires and when to use the mails — when to see, when to be blind — when to speak — when to remain silent. He found that there were four things which army officers dreaded, bad roads, the war department, typhus, and war correspondents. They could become habituated to the first three plagues, but it needed the diplomacy of Disraeli to reconcile a general to the infliction of newspaper men. However, when this was once accomplished, half the battle might be considered won. The other half of the battle was in reality a duel — a perpetual assault upon a cool, polite, often playful, often sympathizing official who apparently possessed an insatiable thirst for literature and who took the closest personal interest in the perusal of manuscripts. This official was the dreaded censor. Harewood had easily won half the battle — but what man can affirm that anybody except the censor ever won the other half? Of course it was not difficult to evade censorship for a while, but indiscretion meant not only personal inconvenience but also ultimate expulsion.
Harewood sat moodily by the window, biting the amber pipe stem, staring absently across the fortifications opposite, where, beyond, wrapped in a sapphire haze, the valley of the Bièvre lay, green and brilliant under the showered sunshine. To the east a dun-coloured vapor hung over Meudon woods, to the south the sun glittered on distant window panes, dotting the valley with tiny points of fire. Everywhere lay patches of green woods, checkered expanses of yellow grain stubble and ploughed ground, squares of paler green where cabbages grew, or blots of sombre verdure, marking potato fields. White spires rose beyond l’Hay; greenhouses, roofs sparkling, clustered along the route to Fontenay, and over all the great warders of the valley loomed, purple through the mist, majestic, mysterious — Fort Ivry, Fort Bicêtre, Fort Montrouge and Fort Vanves.
Bourke sauntered in presently, note book open, pipe lighted. “Forgot to tell you something,” he said between his teeth. “I found out that Jules Favre contemplates making overtures to Bismarck. What do you think of that? Rather a tumble, after his diplomatic twaddle — eh, Jim?” He took his pipe out of his mouth with a gesture of disgust.
“How did you hear about it?” asked Harewood, intensely interested.
“Now, my son, that’s my business and you needn’t ask.”
Harewood laughed and nodded.
“My conclusions are,” continued Bourke, waving his pipe, “that if he tries to fix up things he will fail; first, because the Parisians will surely repudiate any agreement; second, because he can’t swallow his own words, and Bismarck won’t let him off without the cession of Lorraine, at least; third, because I’m convinced that this war is not, as Bismarck says it is, a war against Napoleon, but a war against France and the French, and I tell you, Jim, Germany means to crush France for years to come. Why,” he continued, “if all they want is to humiliate and destroy Napoleon and his dynasty, they have done it already. The Emperor is a prisoner in Germany, the Parisians have chased the poor Empress and the Prince Imperial across the Channel. France is a republic now. Then why don’t King Wilhelm and Bismarck ask for an indemnity and go home to their cabbage gardens?”
Harewood listened attentively, but offered no comment.
Bourke continued: “O no, that isn’t what the Germans want; they mean to dominate the continent and occupy the place that France held three months ago. There is but one way to do it — crush France. They’re coming here to try it, too. If they succeed it may mean a permanent German federation — perhaps an empire — a Teutonic empire dominating all eastern Europe. I tell you, Jim, it makes me sick. France, with all her faults, has done more for human progress, human liberty — for everything that makes life worth while — than all the other European nations put together. To-day, aye, to-morrow, too, Germany might drop out of the world, and the world would never be the worse. But blot out France or England or your own blessed country, and it would mean something very different. I shall now go and write this out; it’s probably invaluable. Much obliged for your attention, Jim.”
He went away, laughing, only to reappear at the door.
“Jim, that kid is here. May she come in?”
“Yes,” said Harewood, listlessly.
A moment later Red Riding Hood entered, removed her small wooden shoes, and pattered up to him in noiseless chaussons, saying seriously, “Bon jour, Monsieur Harewood; peut on entrer, si’l vous plait?”
“Indeed you may,” he said, smiling, “have you come to pay me another little visit?”
Red Riding Hood shook her head and stood looking up at him, waiting for the kiss that was, to her, the most important event in her daily life. He laughed and held out his hands; she put both frail arms around his neck and raised her face. This solemn rite accomplished, the child sighed and nestled closer to his shoulder.
“I have finished the dishes,” she explained; “I then played with Schéhèrazade. Then I learned my lesson. It was arithmetic. I was perfect.”
“Are you sure, Red Riding Hood?”
“Yes. I repeated it to Mademoiselle Hildé. She said it was quite perfect. I then played with Mehemet Ali, the parrot, who is my friend. I am fond of the parrot.”
“Suppose,” said Harewood, “that some time you were very, very hungry; would you eat Mehemet Ali?”
“No, monsieur.”
“Why?”
“The parrot is my friend. It would be shameful.”
Harewood laughed aloud and Red Riding Hood, looking anxiously at him, laughed too — a timid, joyless little laugh, sadder than tears.
“You are right, that would not do at all, would it? We must never aid ourselves at a friend’s expense — even a parrot’s.”
Here ended the lesson, for Harewood found that loyalty and unselfishness were virtues which Red Riding Hood would never need to learn from him. As for lies, the child apparently had never conceived the idea of telling one. That lesson, too, had ended with a laugh and a kiss. But, alas! appropriating pastry was Red Riding Hood’s besetting sin; and it took all of Harewood’s cleverness to explain to her the difference between mine and thine. She did comprehend at last, and gave him her promise for future abstaining; and with this was accomplished the moral regeneration of Red Riding Hood — which, after all, was no very difficult undertaking.
“I came,” said Red Riding Hood, “to tell you several things. Shall I?”
“By all means,” replied Harewood anxiously.
“Then I will. The first is that I was perfect in arithmetic; I have already told you that. The other is that Mademoiselle Yolette has gone out. She has gone to the market, I think. The third is that Mademoiselle Hildé is quite alone in the parlour.”
Harewood looked at her suddenly, a faint colour under his eyes.
“Why do you tell me that, Red Riding Hood?”
“Because,” said the child, “I think she would like to have you come down.”
“Did she say so?”
“No.”
“Then why do you think so?”
“I don’t know,” said Red Riding Hood, looking up into his face. Harewood put one arm around the child; his eyes were absently fixed on hers. After a few moments he said: “Do you love Hildé, Red Riding Hood?”
“Yes — and you also, monsieur.”
“Me?”
“If you do not mind — —”
Harewood smiled and said:
“I want you to love me, too, Red Riding Hood — and Mademoiselle Yolette and Monsieur Bourke — Mademoiselle Hildé best of all. Will you?”
“I don’t know,” said the child, “whether I love you or Mademoiselle Hildé best. I must think for a day,” she continued sedately, “and then I will tell you. Good-by, I am going to shell peas.”
“Good-by, Red Riding Hood,” said Harewood, “and will you please come again?”
“Yes — to-morrow.”
She trotted over to the door, put on her wooden shoes, turned and said, “Adieu, Monsieur Harewood!” and went away down stairs, tap, tap, tap, over the tiles.
Harewood shook out his coat, washed the inkstains from his hands, brushed his hair, settled his necktie, then took a dozen turns up and down the room. Presently he went to Bourke’s door and opened it, but that young man was again asleep, fists doubled up like an infant’s, face buried in the pillow. Harewood watched him for a moment, preoccupied by his own thoughts; after a while he turned away down the stairs, stepping softly on Bourke’s account.
The door of the parlour was open. Schéhèrazade lay on the sofa, eyes closed, tail trailing to the floor. The lioness opened one eye when Harewood entered, immediately closing it, however, when she saw who it was. Harewood had never taken any notice of her, therefore, as a self-respecting lioness, she snubbed him. Hildé was not in the room, but he heard her voice not far away, probably in her own bedroom. She was singing to herself as she often did over her needlework:
“Of all the saints in Brittany
Sainte Hildé,
Sainte Hildé,
is blessed evermore—”
He dropped into a chair, smiling at Schéhèrazade and listening to Hildé’s voice:
“Pachik, pachik, ma fach bihan,
Kes d’he saludin d’he c’hampr
Ha tach d’e’houd ober komplimant!”
“Hildé!” he called suddenly; “Salud d’ac’h, ma dousig Hildé!”
There was a silence; then Hildé’s voice in utter astonishment:
“Monsieur Harewood! Who taught you to speak Breton?”
The next instant she was at the door, flushed and wondering, her needlework in her hands.
“Saludan ma dous a diabell,” he said, laughing. “I learned Breton in Morbihan, mademoiselle.”
“Hennez zo eum den a galité!” she answered, saucily, also laughing. “Whoever would have believed that an American could speak the Breton tongue!”
“I heard you singing about Sainte Hildé and the little page, and all that, so I thought I’d like to hear more of it. Could you work just as well here, mademoiselle — and sing, too?”
