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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5488526 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66489 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66489) diff --git a/old/66489-0.txt b/old/66489-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index e605af7..0000000 --- a/old/66489-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,15027 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Our Lady of Darkness, by Bernard Edward -Joseph Capes - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Our Lady of Darkness - -Author: Bernard Edward Joseph Capes - -Release Date: October 7, 2021 [eBook #66489] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUR LADY OF DARKNESS *** - - - - - EPIGRAPH. - -“She is the defier of God. She is also the mother of lunacies, and the -suggestress of suicides. Deep lie the roots of her power; but narrow -is the nation that she rules. For she can approach only those in whom -a profound nature has been upheaved by central convulsions; in whom -the heart trembles, and the brain rocks under conspiracies of tempest -from without and tempest from within. ... And her name is Mater -Tenebrarum--Our Lady of Darkness.”--De Quincey. - - - - - OUR LADY OF DARKNESS - - _A NOVEL_ - - BY - BERNARD CAPES - AUTHOR OF ‘THE LAKE OF WINE,’ ‘ADVENTURES OF - THE COMTE DE LA MUETTE,’ ETC. - - - - - WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS - EDINBURGH AND LONDON - MDCCCXCIX - _All Rights reserved_ - - - - - CONTENTS. - - BOOK I. - CHAPTER I. - CHAPTER II. - CHAPTER III. - CHAPTER IV. - CHAPTER V. - CHAPTER VI. - CHAPTER VII. - CHAPTER VIII. - CHAPTER IX. - CHAPTER X. - CHAPTER XI. - CHAPTER XII. - CHAPTER XIII. - CHAPTER XIV. - CHAPTER XV. - CHAPTER XVI. - CHAPTER XVII. - CHAPTER XVIII. - CHAPTER XIX. - CHAPTER XX. - - BOOK II. - CHAPTER I. - CHAPTER II. - CHAPTER III. - CHAPTER IV. - CHAPTER V. - CHAPTER VI. - CHAPTER VII. - CHAPTER VIII. - CHAPTER IX. - CHAPTER X. - CHAPTER XI. - CHAPTER XII. - CHAPTER XIII. - CHAPTER XIV. - CHAPTER XV. - CHAPTER XVI. - CHAPTER XVII. - CHAPTER XVIII. - - - - - OUR LADY OF DARKNESS. - BOOK I. - - CHAPTER I. - -From two till four o’clock on any summer afternoon during the -penultimate decade of the last century, the Right Honourable Gustavus -Hilary George, third Viscount Murk, Baron Brindle and Knight of the -Stews, with orders of demerit innumerable--and, over his quarterings, -that bar-sinister which would appear to be designed for emphasis of -the fact that the word _rank_ has a double meaning--might be seen (in -emulation of a more notable belswagger) ogling the ladies from the -verandah of his house in Cavendish Square. That this, his lordship’s -daily habit, was rather the expression of an ineradicable -self-complacency than its own justification by results, the appearance -of the withered old applejohn himself gave testimony. For here, in -truth, was a very _doyen_ of dandy-cocks--a last infirmity of -fribbles--a macaroni with a cuticle so hardened by the paint and -powder of near fourscore years as to be impervious to the shafts of -ridicule. He would blow a kiss along the palm of his palsied hand, and -never misdoubt the sure flight of this missive, though his -unmanageable wrist should beat a tattoo on his nose the while; he -would leer through quizzing-glasses of a power to exhibit in horrible -accent the rheum of his eyes; he would indite musky _billets-doux_, -like meteorological charts, to Dolly or Dorine, and, forgetting their -direction when despatched, would simper over the quiddling replies as -if they were archly amorous solicitations. Upon the truth that is -stranger than fiction he had looked all his life as upon an outer -barbarian, the measure of whose originality was merely the measure of -uncouthness. Nature, in fact, was a dealer of ridiculous limitations; -art, a merchant of inexhaustible surprises. Vanity! he would quote one -fifty instances in support of the fact that it was the spring-head of -all history. Selfishness! was it not the first condition of organic -existence? Make-believe! the whole world’s system of government, from -royalty to rags, was founded upon it. Therefore he constituted himself -understudy to his great prototype of Queensberry; and therefore he -could actually welcome the loss or deterioration of anything bodily -and personal for the reason that it presented him with the opportunity -to substitute mechanical perfection for natural deficiency. Perhaps at -no period of his life had he so realised his ideal of existence as -when, upon his seventy-seventh year, he found himself false--inside -and out--from top to toe. - -“Death,” he chuckled, “will be devilish put to it to stab me in a -vital part.” - -He said this to his grand-nephew, the orphaned heir-apparent to his -title and moderate estates and to nothing else that he valued. - -The young man was, indeed, his uncle’s very antithesis--his butt, his -foil, his aggravation. He, the nephew, considered no doubt that he -held a brief for the other side (truth to oneself, we will call it); -and he was never at great pains to disguise his contempt of a certain -order of licence. Cold, dry, austere, he had yet that observant -faculty that, conceiving of circumstance, may fall pregnant with -either justice or inhumanity. At present, from the height of his -twenty-five years, he looked with a tolerant serenity into the arena -of struggling passions. - -“This is all vastly foolish,” was his superior reflection. “Am I -destined to make a practice of turning my thumb up or down?” - -Now, on a certain day of ’88, he walked into the house in Cavendish -Square and joined his unvenerable elder on the balcony. - -“Give me the parasol, Jepps,” said he. “I will hold it over Lord -Murk’s head.” - -The man obeyed, and withdrew. The uncle turned himself about, with a -little feint of protest. - -“Well,” he said resignedly, “your chacolate makes a pretty foil to my -azure; and if you must dress like an attorney’s clerk, you hev at -least the unspeakable satisfaction of posing as background to a -gentleman.” - -His glasses dangled from his neck by a broad black ribbon. He lifted -them as he spoke, and conned a passing face. - -“Egad!” said he, involuntarily extending his left hand as if to -deprecate interruption, “what a form! What a ravishing and seductive -elegance! Strake me, Ned, but if thou wert other than a bran-stuffed -jackalent, I’d send thee thither to canvass for me.” - -He scratched his chin testily with one from several little cocked-hat -notes that lay on a chair at his side. His fingers were steeped to the -knuckles in gems; his cheeks, plastered with chalk and rouge, looked -in texture like the dinted covering of honeycomb. Now and again he -would shoot at his young relative a covert glance of extreme dislike. - -“Rat thee, Ned!” he exclaimed suddenly; “thou hast a devilish face!” - -“’Tis no index to my character, then, sir, I can assure you.” - -“You needn’t, egad! There’s a shrewd measure of reserve in these -matters. Show me a face that’s an index and I’ll show you an ass. But -I’d like to learn, as a mere question of curiasity, why you persist in -dressing like a cit, eating at beef ordinaries, and sleeping at some -demned low tavern over against the Cock and Pye ditch?” - -“Sure, sir, in this connection at least, you’ll grant me the authority -of fashion?” - -“Fashion! Paris fashion! Franklin fashion! But it’s not for the heir -to an English viscountcy to model himself on a Yankee -tallow-chandler.” - -“I model myself on the principles of independence, sir.” - -“Principles, quotha! Why, ’od rat me, Ned, you make me sick. -Principles of independence are like other principals, I -presume--clamorous for high rates of interest.” - -“I think not, indeed.” - -“Do you, indeed? But you’re a convert to the new religion, and rabid, -of course; and a mighty pretty set of priests you’ve got to expound -you your gospels.” - -“Who, for an instance?” - -The uncle leered round viciously. When he was moved to raise his -voice, old age piped in him like winter in an empty house. - -“I don’t know why I call you Ned,” he protested peevishly. “I don’t -feel it, and it fits you worse than your cravat. Who, for an instance, -Mr Edward Murk? Why, a defaulting exciseman for one, a reskel by the -name of Paine, that writ a pamphlet on Common Sense to prove himself -devoid of it.” - -“According to the point of view.” - -“Oh, I cry you pardon, sir! I judge from a less exalted one than this -patriarch of principles here.” - -“But Voltaire--Diderot, my lord?” - -“Gads my life! And now you hev me! A school of incontinent rakes to -reform the warld! And not a man of ’em, I vow, but had drained his -last glass of pleasure before he set to disparaging the feast.” - -The nephew was silent. What, indeed, would it profit him to answer? He -looked, with a passionless scrutiny, at the face so near his own. He -could have thought that the old wood, the old block, had shrunk -beneath its veneer, and he had an odd temptation to prod it with his -finger and see if it would crackle. - -“Oxford,” snapped his lordship, “is the very market-garden of -self-sufficiency. Thou needst a power of weeding, nephew.” - -“Oh, it’s possible, sir; only I would clear the ground myself.” - -“Indeed! And how would you set about it?” - -“By observing and selecting, that is all; by forming independent -judgments uninfluenced by the respect of position; by assuming -continence and sobriety to be the first conditions of happiness; by -analysing impressions and restraining impulse; by studying what to -chip away from the block out of which I intend to shape my own -character, with the world for model.” - -“I see, I see. A smug modest programme, i’ faith. I’d not have thy -frog’s blood, Ned, though it meant another twenty years of life to me. -And so you’ll do all this before you step into my shoes--and may the -devil wedge them on thy feet!” - -“You are bitter, sir. I think, perhaps, you misconstrue me. I’m no -fanatic of prudery, but an earnest student of happiness. Were I to -convince myself that yours was the highest expression of this, I would -not hesitate to become your convert.” - -“I’d not ask thee, thou chilly put. Hadst thou been my son, ’twere -different. But thou’st got thine independent jointure, and thou’lt go -thy ways--over the Continent, as I understand,--not making the Grand -Tour like a gentleman of position, but joggling it in diligences, -faugh! or stumping on thy soles like a demned brawny pedlar. And what -is to be thy equipment for the adventure?” - -“A fair knowledge of French, a roll of canvas, and a case of colours.” - -“Cry you mercy, sir; I’d forgat you were an artist. Wilt thou paint me -some naked women?” - -“Ay, sir, and see no pleasant shame in it.” - -“Ned, Ned--give me a hope of thee!” - -“Oh, sir, believe me, ’tis only when woman begins to clothe herself -that indelicacy is suggested. A hat, a pair of shoes, a shoulder-strap -even, would have made a jill-flirt of Godiva.” - -“H’mph! Looked at from my standpoint, that’s the first commendable -thing thou’st said. But it’s a monstrous ungentlemanly occupation, -Ned; and that, no doubt, is the reason that moves thee to it.” - -“No, sir; but the reason that a painter, more than another, has the -opportunity to arrest and record for private analysis what is of its -nature fugitive and perishable. His canvases, indeed, should be his -text-book, his confessor, and his mentor.” - -“Oh, spare me, Parson! Thou shalt go cully my neighbour here with thy -plaguey texts. They’ll fit him like a skin glove.” - -“What neighbour, sir?” - -“Him that sold his brush to Charlie Greville’s mistress, a grim little -toad--Romney by name--that my Lord Thurlow pits against Reynolds for -something better than a whore’s sign-painter.” - -“Well, sir, doubtless the man will learn to read himself in his work, -and to profit by the lesson.” - -“Master Ned Parson, when do you go? It cannot be too soon for me.” - -“I may start at any moment.” - -“Heaven be praised! And whither?” - -“Possibly by way of the Low Countries at the outset. Will your -lordship give me some letters of introduction?” - -“What! Your independence doesn’t strake at that?” - -“You greatly misapprehend me, sir. I go to seek mental, not bodily -discipline; chastisement, as a forcing medium, ceases of its effect -with the second age of reason.” - -“And that you have come to, I presume. Go to the Low Countries, i’ -Gad’s name, and find your level there! I’ll give you fifty -recommendations, and trust to procure you a year’s hospitality from -each. Only, one word in your ear, Ned: if you bring back a prig to -wife, I’ll hev the two of ye poisoned, if I hang for it.” - -The nephew condescended to a smile of some amused toleration. - -“My marriage, when it occurs,” said he, “will mark a simple period in -the evolution of my character. That, it may be easily understood, -might require a foil to its processes of development, as a hen -swallows gravel to assist her digestion. You need feel no surprise, -sir, if in the end I marry a properly wicked woman.” - -“Egad! ’tis my devout hope you will, and that she’ll brain you with -that demned Encyclopedia that you get all your gallimaufry about -equality from. Call back Jepps, and I’ll dictate the letters.” - - - - - CHAPTER II. - -On a supremely hot noon of August, Mr Edward Murk, walking leisurely -along a road pounded and compounded of small coal, came down towards -the ancient city of Liége, and paused at a vantage-point to take in -the prospect. This was a fair enough one to any vision, and fair in -the extreme to eyes so long drilled to the interminable perspectives -of Flanders--to loveless dykes, to canals like sleek ingots of glass, -to stretched ribbons of highways tapering to a flat horizon--as that a -tumulus would seem as sweet a thing for them to rest on as a woman’s -bosom. Now his sight, reining up against hills, gave him a certain -emotion of surprise, such as he might have felt if a familiar hunter -had unexpectedly shied at a hedgerow. - -He stood a little above the town, looking over and beyond it. In the -middle-distance of his picture--pulled into the soft arms of hills -that, melting to their own embrace, became mere swimming banks of -mist--floated a prismatic blot of water--the vista of the -Meuse--dinted like an opal with shadowy reflections, and lit with -sudden sparks in dreamy places. Thence, nearer, a greystone -bridge--its arches glazed, he could have thought, with mother-of-pearl -windows, like a Chinese model in ivory--bestrode the river channel, -seeming to dam back, against his foreground, an accumulated litter of -wall and roof and gable, that choked the town reaches, and, breaking -away piecemeal, stranded its jetsam all down the valley. Here and -there fair steeples stood up from the litter; here and there, in his -close neighbourhood, gaunt chimney-stocks exhaled a languid smoke, -like tree trunks blasted in a forest fire. - -Some distance to his left a pretty lofty eminence, that broke at its -summit into a fret of turret and escarpment, stood sentinel over the -ages; while below this, and nearer at hand, the great block of an -episcopal palace sprouted from a rocky plateau, the velvet slopes of -which trailed downwards into the very hands of the city. - -“The bishop and his train-bearers,” thought Mr Murk. “The town holds -up the skirts of the palace. That must all be changed by-and-by. But I -confess I should like to record a little of the picturesqueness of -life before the roller of equality is dragged over the continents.” - -He had out his tools then and there, and essayed to give some -expression to his mood. The sun crackled in his brain; a pug of a -child, in a scarlet linsey petticoat, came and sniffed beside him, -offending his ears and his eyes; a dawdling cart mounting the hill -lurched into his perspective and blotted out its details foot by foot. -Down below, in his farther foreground, a cluster of buildings, lying -under a church-tower in a bath of shadow, invited him as if to a -plunge into cool waters. He glanced crossly at the obtrusive child, -collected his traps, and strode down the hill. - -At its foot, however, he seemed to come upon the actual furnace-floor -of noon--a broad _Place_ that bickered, as it were, throughout its -length with iridescent embers. These were figured in crates of Russian -cranberries glowing like braziers, in pomegranates bleeding fire, in -burning globes of oranges, in apricots pearly-pink as balls of -white-hot glass; and over all, the long looped awnings of olive and -stone-blue and cinnamon served to the emphasising of such a galaxy of -hot dyes as made a core of flame in the heart of the blazing city. - -The close air prickled with a multitudinous patter of voices like -blisters of fat breaking on a grill. Old Burgundian houses--baked to a -terra-sienna, drowzing and nodding as they took the warmth about their -knees--retained and multiplied the heat like the walls of an oven. The -shop windows were so many burning-glasses; the market-women fried -amongst their cabbages like bubble-and-squeak; the very dogs of -draught, hauling their gridirons of carts, had red-hot cinders for -tongues. There seemed in the whole width of the square no shadow of -which a devil could have taken solace. - -Exhaling some little of the breath that remained to him in an -appropriately volcanic interjection, Ned mounted the steps of the -church he had looked down upon, brushed past the outstretched hand of -a fly-blown beggar, and dived into the sequestered obscurity of -amber-scented aisles. - -Here the immediate fall of temperature took him by the throat like a -shower-bath. “If I shiver,” he thought, “there is a goose walking over -my grave.” So he stood still and hugged himself till his blood was -accommodated to the change. Then he penetrated into the heart of the -place. - -He had visited many churches in the course of his travels, -dispassionately, but with no irreverence. It interested him no less to -note the expressions of faith than of faces. Generally, it seemed to -him, religious ideals were not transmissible. There was seldom -evidence that the spirit that had conceived and executed some noble -monument yet informed its own work through tradition. The builders of -cathedrals wrought, it was obvious, for little clans that, through all -the ages, had never learned the respect of soul. They, the latter, had -stuffed their heritages with trash, because their religion must come -home to them in the homely sense. They could not think but that the -God of their understanding must be gratified to have His houses -adorned after the fashion of the best parlour. - -Now, to see a fine interior vulgarised by the introduction of barbaric -images, of artificial flowers, and of pictures hung in incongruous -places, offended Mr Murk as a fooling elephant in a circus offended -him. He recognised and condemned the solecism in the present instance, -yet at the same time was conscious of an atmosphere foreign to his -accustomed experience--an atmosphere so like the faint breath of a -revived paganism that he looked about him in wonder to see whence it -emanated. - -There could be, however, no doubt as to its source. The whole church -was a grove of orange, oleander, and myrtle trees. They stood in tubs, -filling the intercolumniations of the stone avenues, climbing the -steps of the altar, thronging about the pulpit. The quiet air held -their fragrance like smoke. They could fatten and bloom unvexed of any -wind but the sweet gales blown from the organ. - -And even as Ned looked, this wind rose and wooed them. Some one was at -the keys, and the soft diapasons flowed forth and rolled in thunder -along the roof. - -The young man strolled down the nave. Music of itself held no -particular charms for him. Its value here was in its subscription to -other influences--to the cool perfume of flowers, to the sense of -serene isolation, to the feeling of mysticism engendered of foggy -vastness traversed by the soft moted dazzle of sunbeams. Such, -spanning gulfs of shadow, propping the gross mechanism of the organ -itself, seemed the very fabric of which the floating harmonies were -compound. There needed only a living expression of this poem of -mingled scent and sound and colour, and to Ned this was vouchsafed of -a sudden, in a luminous corner he came upon, where a painted statue of -the Virgin standing sentry in a niche looked down upon a figure -prostrate before it in devotion. - -A little lamp, burning with a motionless light like a carbuncle, was -laid at the Mother’s feet. About her shoulders, suspended from the -neighbouring walls, were a half-dozen certificates of _miracles -approuvés_--decorated placards recording the processes and dates, -some of them quite recent, of extraordinary recoveries. One of these -related how to a Marie Cornelis was restored the sight of an eye that -had been skewered by a thorn. Faith here had at least made its appeal -in a sure direction. Who could forget how that other woman had worn a -crown of thorns about her heart? - -Now the gazer would have liked to know what manifestation of the -supernatural was craved by the young girl, fair and quiet as the image -itself, who knelt before the shrine. She, this _dévote_, reverencing, -with her mouth pressed to the clasped knuckles of her hands, had so -much of the Madonna in her own appearance as to suggest that she might -perform, rather than demand, miracles. Her eyes--Ned fancied, but -could not convince himself--were closed, as in a rapture of piety. She -was very pure and colourless, apart from an accidentalism of tinted -rays; for over her soft brown hair, from which a folded chaperon of -white linen had slipped backwards, wings of parti-coloured light, -entering through a stained window, played like butterflies. Lower -down, the violet haze that slept upon her cheek gave her something of -a phantasmal character; but her fingers were steeped in crimson as if -they were bloody. - -At her side knelt a little lad, five or six years of age, with a most -wistful small face expressive of as great a humility of weariness as -the girl’s was of worship. He looked at the stranger with curiosity, -and with the dumb appeal of the petty to the great and independent; -and as he looked he lifted, one after the other, his poor chafed knees -and rubbed them. His round, pale eyes were underscored for emphasis of -this appeal, but without effect on Mr Murk, who had indeed no fondness -for children. - -Presently the girl rose. With the action the wings of light fled from -her hair; her passionless face revealed itself a sunless white fruit. -There was no consciousness of the observant stranger under her lowered -lids. - -“_Viens, donc, Baptiste_!” she whispered; and the little boy, gazing -up at her in a breathless manner, got to his feet. - -The two genuflected to the High Altar, and stole reverently from the -building. Mr Murk followed immediately. He had a desire to win into -the confidence of this butterfly Madonna. - -Outside he saw the girl and child go down into the blazing market as -into a lake of fire. Giving them fair law, he started in pursuit. - -Arrived at the level, he found he had for the moment lost sight of his -quarry. He strolled up and down, gathering what shade he could from -the awnings. Voluble market-women, waxing tropically gross in their -vegetable hotbeds, rallied him on his insensibility to their cajolery. -Stolid Flemish farmers, with great pipes pendulous from their mouths, -like tongues lolling and smoking with drought, winked to one another -as he passed in appreciation of the rich joke that here was a -foreigner. - -The gentler classes, it seemed, were all in siesta. Low life, -vehement, motley, and picturesque, held the square as if it were a -fortress under fire. - -Now, whether as a consequence or, in spite of, this gregal -plebeianism, a strange unusual atmosphere, Ned fancied, was abroad in -the town. He had been conscious of a similar atmosphere in other -cities he had visited _en route_, and of an increase in its density in -steady ratio with his march southwards. It was not to be defined. It -might have been called an inflection rather than any expression, like -the change of note in the respiration of a sleeper who is near waking. -It only seemed to him that he moved in an element compounded of -shadows--the shadow of watchfulness; the shadow of insolence; the -shadow of an evil humour cursing its own century-long blindness; the -shadow of a more wickedly merry humour, rallying itself upon that old -desperate screwing-up of its courage to attack a boggart Blunderbore -that had fallen to pieces at the first stroke; the shadow, embracing -all others, of a certain Freemasonry that was deadlily exclusive in -the opposite to a conventional sense. - -“And this is for no dispassionate soul to resent,” thought Mr Murk, -who as a child had set his feet square upon the basis of an -independent impartiality, and, at the first age of reason, had pledged -himself to forego impulse as being the above-proof of ardent spirits -and fatal to sobriety. - -“Now,” he admitted to himself, “Jacques Bonhomme is simply awaking to -knowledge of the fact that he may boast a family-tree as thick-hung as -his lord’s with evil fruit, and that he was not spawned of the mud -because no record exists of his grandfather.” - -By-and-by, strolling down a little court, he turned into a wine-shop -for a draught to his dusty throat. He drank his _maçon_, mixing it -with water, in a tiny room off the tap of the auberge; and, while he -was drinking, the sound of a low vehement voice in the street brought -him to the window. - -He looked out. It was his very Madonna of the butterflies, and -presented under a new aspect. Her hands were at the neck of the child; -she was rating him in voluble viraginian. The poor rogue sobbed and -protested; but he would not loose his grip of something of which she -strove to possess herself. - -“_P’tit démon_!” she gabbled--“but I will have it, I say! It is no -use to weep and struggle. Give it me, Baptiste--ah! but I will!” - -“No, no!” cried the boy; “it is mine--it has always been mine. Thou -shalt not, Nicette!” - -She so far secured the bone of contention as to enable Ned for a -moment to recognise its nature. It was a silver medal--a poor -devotional charm strung round the infant’s neck. The child by an -adroit movement recovered possession. She looked about her, -unconscious of the observer, as if, safe from interruption, she would -have dared torture and maltreatment. Then suddenly she fell to -wheedling. - -“_Babouin_, little _babouin_, wilt thou not make this sacrifice for -thine own loving Nicette, who is so poor, so poor, little _babouin_, -because of the small brother she keeps and feeds and clothes?--wilt -thou not?” - -“No!” cried the child again, half hysterical. “It is mine--it was -blessed by the Holy Father!” - -“But the guava, Baptiste! the sweet red jelly in the little box! I -have eaten of it once before, and oh! Baptiste, it is like the fruit -that tempted the first mother. And it so seldom comes to market, and I -have not a sou; and before next wage-day all may be appropriated. Wilt -thou not then, _mon poulet, mon p’tit poulet_?” - -But the _poulet_ only repeated his tearful pipe. - -“Thou shalt have thy share!” pleaded the girl. “I swear it.” - -“I should not,” sobbed Baptiste. “Thou wouldst eat up all my medal, -and it was blessed by _le Saint Père_.” - -Ned, peering forth, saw his Madonna jerk erect, her eyelids snapping. - -“Give me thy hand, then,” she said, in a cold little voice. “Thou -shalt walk back to Méricourt all the way, and have thy medal to -supper at the end. Give me thy hand!” - -The child cried out when she took it. Ned showed himself at the -window. - -“Nicette,” he said, with particular softness, “I will exchange thee a -louis-d’or for one single little confidence of thine.” - -The girl started, looked round, and stared at the speaker in -breathless consternation. A bright spot of colour, like pink light -caught from an opal, waxed and waned on her cheek. - -“How, monsieur?” she muttered. - -Ned held out the coin. - -“Here is a surfeit of guava jelly,” said he, “if thou wilt tell me -what was the miracle thou cravedst of the Holy Mother yonder.” - -He knew, watching her face, that she would reject the condition, and -that with all suitable decorum. But he saw the pupils of her eyes -dilate at sight of the gold piece. - -“Monsieur, it seems,” said she, “can better afford to jest than I to -accept insult”--and she hurriedly caught at her charge’s hand and drew -the child away. - -Mr Murk, with plentiful complacency, paid for his wine and sauntered -in pursuit. At a particular fruit-stall he saw his peasant Madonna -linger a moment, hesitate, and then go on her way with an up-toss of -her chin. He came to a stop and considered-- - -“Méricourt! But I have an introduction to Monsieur de St Denys of -Méricourt. How far, I wonder? This Nicette would make an admirable -study to an artist. I will go to Méricourt.” - - - - - CHAPTER III. - -Facing an opulent sunset, Ned made his way some three or four miles -out of Liége through scenery whose very luxuriance affected him like -the qualmish aftermath of excess. It gave him a feeling of surfeit--of -committal to a debauch of colour that it was no part of his -temperament to indulge. If his soul had attached itself to any theory -of beauty, it was to a theory of orderliness and sobriety, that took -account of barbaric dyes but to set them to an accordant pattern. Its -genius was of an adaptive rather than an imaginative bent. It desired -to shape his world to man, not man to his world--to appropriate the -accidents of nature to the uses of a wholesomely picturesque race--to -emasculate the bull of violence by withdrawing from its very -experience the hues of crimson and orange. - -On any display of passion this young man looked with cool dislike. His -instincts were primarily for the gratification of the understanding. -The premeditated involutions of fancy did not engage his sympathies. -The mystery of brooding distances peopled with irisated phantoms, of -the hazy wanderings of the undefined, he was not greatly concerned to -penetrate. Claude he would have preferred to Turner, and Nasmyth to -either. Fuseli he already detested; and Blake was his very _bête -noire_. Things rude, boisterous, and ugly he would wish to crush under -a heel of iron, thinking to enforce the peace--rather after the -fashion of his times--by breaking it. But he would raise, not level, -the world to an equality--would make out of its material a very -handsome model, in which the steeples should clang and the -water-wheels turn and the seasons pulsate by a mechanism common to -all. - -Such was his creed of eventual reconstruction of a social fabric, the -downfall of which was much predicted of the _jeunesse politique_ of -the day; and in the meanwhile he was very willing to acknowledge -himself to be in the condition of incomplete moral ossification--to be -travelling, indeed, for the sake of bone and gristle, and in order to -convert the misuses of other characters to the profit of his own. - -Now he advanced with a certain feeling of enforced intemperance upon a -prospect of superabundant beauty. The great noontide heat was become a -salt memory, to be tasted only for emphasis of the bouquet of that -velvety wine of air that poured from the heights. Distant hills ran -along an amber sky, like the shadows of nearer ones. Far away a jagged -keep surmounting a crag stood out, deep umber, from a basin in the -valley brimming with blue mist. Closer at hand a marrowy white stream, -sliding noiseless over the crest of a slope silhouetted against the -northern vaults, seemed the very running band drawn from the heavens -to keep the earth spinning. The grasshopper shrilled in the roadside -tangle; comfortable doves, drowsing amongst the chestnut leaves, -exchanged sleepy confidences. Sometimes the clap of a cow-bell, -sometimes the hollow call of a herdsman, thrilled the prosperous calms -of light as a dropped stone scatters a water image. These were the -acuter accents on a tranquillity that no thought could wound. - -At last, when the sun flamed upon the horizon like a burning house of -the Zodiac, the traveller came through a deep wood-path upon the -village he sought, and was glad to see dusk mantling its gables and -blotting out the red lights of the open valley in which it lay. - -If Madame van Roon, keeper of the hostel Landlust, cut her coat -according to her cloth, she should have been in affluent -circumstances. Daniel Lambert might have furnished her his vest, a -couple of dragoons their cloaks for skirt. This, proceeding from a -mighty roll of padding--a veritable stuffed bolster--that circled her -unnamable waist, swayed in one piece, like a diving-bell in a current, -with her every movement. Her stays, hooped with steel after the Dutch -mode, would have hung slack on a kilderkin. The lobes of her fat ears -stretched under the weight of a pair of positive little censers. But -the finished pride of her was her cap, a wonder of stiff goffering, -against the erect border of which her red face lay like a ham on a -dish-paper. With so full a presence, she had only to stand in a -doorway, if inclined to argument, and not so much as a minor postulate -could evade her. - -“_Qu’est-ce que c’est doncg cette manière de moogsieur là_!” she -gasped at our gentleman with a choking shrillness. “_Mais où est -vôgtre valetaille, vôgtre équipage_?” - -She quarrelled gutturally, like an envious stepmother, with the speech -of her adoption. - -“I am in my own service, madame,” said Ned, in no small wonder; “and -that is to own the best master a man can have.” - -She slapped the three-partitioned money-pouch that hung at her middle. - -“Oo, ay,” she gurgled truculently; “and a fine master of economy, I’ll -be bound.” - -Ned, for short argument, fished out a palmful of pieces. She admitted -him grudgingly even then; but the young man was completely satisfied. - -“This is excellent tonic,” he thought, “after an enervating -experience. In Méricourt, it seems, there is food for study.” - -He appeared to have struck a sort of Franco-Flemish neutral ground. He -was put to wait in a little kitchen like a bright toy. The floor was -ruddy brick, the walls were white tiles. Outside the window a shallow -awning tinkled sleepily, in spasms of draught, with the stirring of -innumerable small bells. The stove or range, a shining cold example of -continence, seemed innocent of the least tradition of heat. On the -polished dark dresser vessels of copper, of pewter, and of -brass--stewpans, lidded flagons, and the narrow-necked, -wood-stoppered, resonant jugs, in which it was the Dutch fashion to -bring milk from the fields--shone with a demure sobriety of tone in -the falling light. - -But the meal, when it came, was served in the French manner and -without stint. The traveller, seeing no preparations toward in the -spick room he inhabited, was falling into a mood of gentle depression -before his fears were dissipated. Then he ventured an inquiry of the -solemn wench who brought in his tray. She almost dropped the load in -her amazement. - -“Holy Saints! Cook here! in the show kitchen!” - -She put down, with crushing emphasis, a fresh table-napkin, a small -blunt knife, a silver fork, and a silver spoon--all _à la -française_. This was luxury as compared with recent experiences. Ned -looked serious over the knife. He did not know that French meat stewed -to the melting-point dismembers itself at a touch. - -He had a very succulent salmis; and no fewer than four hot eggs, -cuddled in a white clout, were served to him. - -“Am I to devour them all?” he asked of the girl. - -“With the help of God,” she answered ambiguously, in her soft -Picardian. - -By-and-by madame _l’hôtesse_ condescended to come and talk with him -while he ate. She was veritably _chargée de cuisine_; she seemed to -fill the place, width and height. - -“What is your condition in your own country?” she asked, with fat -asperity. - -“I am grand-nephew to a monseigneur, to whose title and estates I -shall succeed.” - -“_Vraigment_!” she clucked incredulously. “How arrives it, then, that -you ‘pad the hoof’ like a _colporteur_?” - -“I travel for discipline and for experience, madame. Wisdom is not an -heirloom.” - -She nodded her head. - -“Truly, it must be bought. I myself am a merchant of it.” - -“Doubtless,” said Mr Murk. “Witness your politeness to one who can -afford to pay for politeness.” - -She seemed an atom disconcerted. - -“Well,” she said, “there is no accounting for the vagaries of the -quality. And is his meal to moogsieur’s liking?” - -“It is very well, indeed.” - -“_Tout va biend_! I was in the half mind that you would wish your meat -raw _à l’anglaise_.” - -“That is not the English fashion.” - -“_Oh, pardon_! they tear it with their hands and teeth, for I know. -And sometimes it is worse.” - -“How worse, then?” - -She nodded again pregnantly. - -“Vampires! They will prey on the lowly of their kind. Oh, it is -infamous! My cousin, _le bon_ Gaspard, saw a dish of theirs once in -Barbade--_le Maure dans le bain_, they called it--a slave’s head -served in sauce. This will be unknown to moogsieur?” - -“Unquestionably.” - -“It is possible. It is possible, also, that gentlemen who travel -_incognito_ may learn some vulgar truths. I accept your ignorance in -proof of your aristocracy. Those who sit in high places look only at -the stars.” - -“You alarm me, madame. Indeed, I remember now that in my country it is -possible to procure for eating ‘ladies’ fingers.’” - -“Oh, the barbarians! Is it not as I said?” - -Ned rose. - -“May I suggest to madame that I have not yet seen my bedroom?” - -“_Plaît-il, doncg_? if it will give you any gratification. But there -is company there at present.” - -The gentleman stared. Madame van Roon backed from the doorway, gave an -inaudible direction, and disappeared. The solemn girl took her place. - -“By permission of monsieur,” she said; and Ned followed her out of the -room. She led him down one short passage straight into the -_practicable_ kitchen. A rather melodious sound of singing greeted him -on the threshold. He stopped in considerable wonder, postponing his -entrance while he listened. - - - “Little Lady Dormette, - Hark to my crying! - Would not you come to me - Though I were dying? - Little Lady Dormette, - Kiss my hot eyes, - Make me forget! - - Little Lady Dormette, - Why have you left me? - Sure not to lie with him - That hath bereft me? - Little Lady Dormette, - Oh, do not kiss him, - Lest he forget! - - Little Lady Dormette, - Thee I so grieve for; - If thou forsakest me, - What shall I live for! - Little Lady Dormette, - Crush thy heart to mine, - Make it forget!” - - -The voice was small, sweet, emotional, but a man’s; the soft throb of -a guitar accompanied it. All bespoke a certain melting effeminacy that -was disagreeable to Ned. He pushed open the door however, made his -salutation, and stood to take stock of his surroundings. - -Here, in truth, was revealed the working heart of the model--the -stokehole of that vessel of which the outer room exhibited but the -polished bearings. The fat air was heavy with the smell of lately -cooked food; the pots, the trenchers, the waste parings that had -served to the preparation of the latter were even now in huddled -process of removal by a panting _cuisinière_, with whom the company -present did not hesitate to exchange a dropping-fire of badinage. A -foul litter of vegetable and other rubbish disgraced the white deal of -the table--cabbage leaves and broken egg-shells and a clump of smoking -bones. In the scuttle was a mess of turnip peelings, on the hearth an -iron pail brimming with gobbets of grease and coffee-grounds and the -severed head of a cock. - -“A Dutchman’s cleanliness,” thought Ned (and he had some experience of -it), “is like the elf maid’s face, a particularly hollow mask. He -reeks fustian while he washes his windows three times a-day.” - -The room was long and low, with black beams to its ceiling, from which -hung bushes of herbs. A steaming scullery opened from it on the fire -side; on the other, against the distempered wall, stood a row of -curtained cupboards, half-a-dozen of them like confessional-boxes; and -in the intervals of these were, perched on brackets, five or six -absurd little figures--saints and Virgins, the latter with smaller -dolls, to represent the Christ, pinned to their stomachers. There was -but a single window to this kitchen, at its far end; and a couple of -lamps burning rancid oil seemed the very smoking nucleus of an -atmosphere as stifling as that of a ship’s caboose in the tropics. - -A figure seated on the table struck a tinkling cord as Ned advanced, -and sang up a little impertinent stave of welcome. - -“Behold, Endymion wakes from Latmus!” said he, and flourishing a great -flagon of wine to his mouth, he tilted it and drank. - -He was a smooth-cut young fellow, with features modelled like a -girl’s. His hair, his brows, the shade on his upper lip toned from -brown to rough gold. His eyes were soft umber, his cheeks flushed -sombrely like autumn leaves. He was as assured of himself as a -gillian, and a little theatrical withal in his pose and the cock of -his hat. - -There were two others in company--a serene large man, with deliberate -lids to his eyes and straight long hair, and a round-faced sizar from -the University of Liége. These latter smoked, and all three drank -according to their degree of wine, hollands, or brandy-and-water. - -“You flatter me, monsieur,” said Ned a trifle grimly, and he sat -himself down by the table and returned with a pretty hardihood the -glances directed at him. - -For some moments no one spoke. The placid man--a prosperous farmer by -token of his button-bestrewed jacket and substantial small-cloths--put -a piece of sugar-candy in his mouth and drank down his glass of -hollands over it in serial sips. The student, looking to him on the -table for his cue, sat with the expression of a chorister whom a -comrade secretly tickles. Mr Murk felt himself master of the situation -so long as he resisted the temptation to be the first to break the -silence. - -Suddenly the young man with the guitar unbonneted himself, kicked his -hat up to the ceiling, gave an insane laugh on a melodious note, and -turned to the new-comer. - -“I surrender,” said he; “I would rather lack wine than speech.” - -“Both are good in moderation,” said Ned. - -“Bah! a monk’s aphorism, monsieur; moderation makes no history. It is -to grow fat under one’s fig-tree--like Lambertine here” (he signified -the contented farmer, who chuckled and shut his eyes). - -“And what of the wise Ulysses?” quoth Ned. - -“He saved himself for the orgy,” cried the stranger. “He was moderate -only that he might taste the full of enjoyment. I go with you there.” - -“Not with me, indeed.” - -“No, of course. There are blind-worms amongst men. For me I swear that -human life has an infinite capacity for pleasure.” - -He took another great pull at his pot and laughed foolishly. His face -was ruddy and his eyes glazed with drink. - -“You were singing when I came in,” said Ned. “Don’t let me interrupt -you.” - -The student sniggered, the _cuisinière_ sniggered, the farmer waved a -tolerant hand. - -“You see?” said the musician. “We make no business here of any man’s -convenience but our own. I shall sing if I want to.” - -He twitched the strings with some loose defiance, and swerved into a -little vacant amorous song. - -“Does that please you?” he asked at the finish. - -“It neither pleases nor disgusts me,” said Ned. “It is simply not -worth considering.” - -“You must not say that,” said the round-faced student. - -Mr Murk turned upon him gravely. - -“I am a foreigner, sir, as you see,” said he. “I come amongst you to -enlarge my experience and to correct a certain insular habit of -prejudice. To this end I use a sketch-book, and sometimes I paint -portraits. I shall have the honour of depicting you as a starling.” - -“Oh, eh!” said the student. “That is funny. And why?” - -“It feeds on the leavings of my lord the rook,” said Ned. - -The farmer chuckled heartily, and the musician burst into a wobble of -laughter. - -“I am the rook!” he cried--“I am milord the rook! You are a man of -penetration, monsieur, and I take you to my heart.” - -He endeavoured to do so literally, and fell flat off the table on the -top of his guitar, which he smashed to pieces. And then he composed -himself to slumber on the floor, and in a minute was snoring. - -“He acts up to his creed,” said the farmer, in a tone of unruffled -admiration. “You must not misjudge him, monsieur the artist. M. de St -Denys is generous to a fault.” - -“St Denys! Is that M. de St Denys?” - -The other swang his large head. - -“It is so. His reputation extends itself, it would appear. He makes -himself a name beyond Méricourt for the most liberal principles.” - -“Liberal to excess, indeed.” - -The student ventured again. - -“He illustrates what he professes.” - -“An infinite capacity for piggishness?” - -“No, monsieur; but to extend the prerogatives of pleasure; to set the -example of a cultivated licence that the _canaille_ may learn to -elevate itself to the higher hedonism.” - -Ned had nothing to say to this boozy ethology. The other two chorused -crapulous praise of the fallen musician. - -“He is the soul of honour,” said the farmer, who seemed a man of -simple ideas. - -“He devotes himself, his oratory, his purse, to the cause of -intellectual emancipation,” cried the student. - -“And what does his father, M. de St Denys, say to all this?” asked -Ned. - -Lambertine shook his perplexed head. The student humoured a little -snigger of deprecation. - -“There is no father,” said he. “M. de St Denys the younger reigns at -the Château Méricourt. I see you sneer, monsieur. It is natural for -a victim of insular despotism. Here the prospect widens--the -atmosphere grows fresh. You will not have heard of it, no; but it is -true that there is a sound in the air. Monsieur, I will not be sneered -at!” - -“And what is to be the upshot of it all?” inquired Ned, ignoring the -protest. - -“According to M. de St Denys, a universe of gentlemen.” - -“He is, at the same time, the soul of honour,” said Lambertine. - -“Well,” said Mr Murk, “I think I will go to bed.” - -He appealed to the cook, who still fussed among her pans, with a look -of puzzled inquiry. She answered sourly-- - -“You can take your pick. There are plenty to choose from.” - -It was then he discovered, to his profound astonishment, that the -confessional-boxes were sleeping-places, to the use of one of which he -was unblushingly invited in the very face of his company. - -“Well,” thought he, “I am travelling for experience;” and he took his -knapsack, chose that cupboard nearest the window and farthest from the -table, and, withdrawing himself behind the curtains, undressed, folded -and laid his clothes aside, and philosophically composed himself to -slumber on a little bed that smelt of onions. - -Conditions were not favourable to rest. The heat was suffocating; the -atmosphere unspeakable. In the distance the voices of his late -companions droned like hornets in a bottle--sometimes swelled, it -seemed, into a thick passion of tearfulness. Without brooded an -apoplectic silence, broken only by a spasmodic rumbling sound that -might have signified dogs or cattle, or, indeed, nothing more than the -earth turning in its sleep, or the rolling heavenwards of the wheel of -the moon. Now and then some winged creature would boom past the -window, its vibrant note dying like the voice of a far-off multitude; -now and again the seething rush of a bat would seem to stir up the -very grounds of stagnation. Suddenly a heart-wrung voice spoke up -outside his curtain-- - -“Monsieur! I am not to be laughed at. Bear that in mind!” - -There followed a sound of sobbing--of footsteps unsteadily receding; -and thereafter a weary peace was vouchsafed the traveller, and he -dreamed that he was put to bake in the selfsame oven that had provided -his supper. - -“That is a fine economy,” he heard the cook say--“to roast the -rooster!” - -The words troubled him excessively. He thought them instinct with a -dreadful humour--too diabolically witty to admit of repartee; and so, -lapped in despondency, oblivion overtook him. - - - - - CHAPTER IV. - -Writhing, as it were, from the edges to a central core of heat, Ned -woke to find himself wriggling like an eel in a bath of dripping. He -sat up in his dingy cupboard, and feeling and seeing a slant of -sunlight blazing through its curtains, plunged for the open and -breathed out a fainting sigh of relief. - -Shrill murmur of voices from a distance came to him; but the kitchen, -stalely redolent of wash-houses, was deserted of all save himself. - -A pudding-basin on a magnified milking-stool--presumably a -washhand-stand--was placed in a corner; and thereat he fretted out an -ablution that was a mere aggravation of drought. Then he dressed -himself with a sort of fierce and defiant daring, rather hoping to be -taken to task for some intolerable solecism in his rendering of local -customs. - -He was disappointed. The solemn girl came into the kitchen when he was -but half-way through his toilet, and, without exhibiting the least -interest in his condition, set to preparing and serving his breakfast. - -By-and-by he seated himself at the table. - -“I am sorry to have kept you out of the room,” he said, with -superfluous sarcasm. - -“I do not understand,” she said indifferently. - -“At least you will know now how a gentleman dresses.” - -“It is possible,” she said. “But, if I were one, I should put on my -shirt first.” - -“Well,” said he, “where is M. de St Denys?” - -She stared at him like a cow; but it was the provoking part of her -that she would not avert her gaze when he returned it. - -“Where,” said she, “if not at the chateau?” - -“He recovered his feet then, it would seem?” - -“His feet? Oh, _mon Dieu_! they were not lost! What questions, -monsieur!” - -“Are they not? And who now is this Lambertine?” - -“He is Lambertine--a farmer very prosperous, of Méricourt.” - -“With whom the lord of the manor consorts? M. de St Denys, then, is -not fastidious in his choice of company?” - -“Truly, even you need not hesitate to address him, if that is what you -mean. He listens to all alike; he holds himself a human being like the -rest of us. When he walks in the sun he will not think his shadow -longer than that of another man of his height.” - -“And he is the soul of honour?” - -“Essentially, monsieur. He would extend the right of an equal -indulgence in pleasure to all.” - -“Ah, _ma chérie_!” said Ned calmly, “how you must love him!” - -“That is of necessity,” said the girl. “He has lowered himself to make -us do so.” - -Ned ate a very large and deliberate breakfast, and then issued forth -into the village, carrying his letter of introduction with him. - -“This St Denys,” he thought, “has been reading Diderot and the -Encyclopedia. Has he also theories of reconstruction? My uncle would -not think it amusing that his letter should so miscarry.” - -A little breeze had risen, blowing from the south. It made the heat -more tolerable, and it was the begetter of a pretty tableau by the -village fountain. For there, with her pitcher set on the well-rim, -stood a bright Hebe of the sun, ripe, warm, and glowing as the very -fruit of desire. Now she had put her hands back under her free-falling -hair--that was thick and pheasant brown and wavy like a spaniel’s--and -had lifted it, sagging, that the cool air might blow under and comfort -the roots. She was a full-bosomed wench, and the pose threw her figure -into energetic and very graceful relief. Ned, who was really -passionless, and responsive only to the artistic provocation, went up -to her at once. - -“I should like to draw you like that,” said he. - -She twitched involuntarily; but, with immediate intuition, maintained -her posture, and conned him from under languorous lids. - -“How, monsieur?” said she. - -“Exactly as you are. I have my tools with me. I beg you to do nothing -but just breathe and enjoy life.” - -Actually, before she could deny him, he was sketching her. Then, -suddenly--watching first the quick travelling of his pencil--she -lowered her arms and, like a foolish virgin, extinguished the light of -inspiration. - -“I think you are very impertinent,” she said. - -“If beauty,” said he calmly--for he had secured the essentials of his -picture--“_will_ distribute largesse, it must not be surprised to see -it scrambled for.” - -The girl’s lips parted, as if the fairy bee were probing there for -honey. - -“What insolence!” she murmured. “Am I then beautiful? But perhaps -monsieur sees his own image reflected in my eyes, and falls in love -with it like the _damoiseau_ Narcisse.” - -She showed the slightest rim of white teeth. It was as if the bow of -her mouth revealed itself strung with silver. Her eyes, when open, -floated with deep amber lights; her cheeks were sweet warm beds -dimpled by Love’s elbow; she was full of bold rich contrasts of -colour--a young vestal flaming into the lust of life. - -Ned was a little surprised to hear a peasant girl, as he thought her, -imaging from mythology. - -“I never fall in love,” he said gravely; “not even with myself.” - -The girl laughed out, putting her arms defiantly akimbo. - -“Then I would not be a suitor there,” she said. - -“To me? And why not?” - -“Because no man ever loved a woman well that did not love himself -better.” - -She took her sun-bonnet and pitcher from the low wall. - -“I have heard of such as you,” she said. “It is to make your art your -mistress, is it not?” - -“Yes,” said Ned. “Come and see why.” - -He held the sketch out to her. He had been working at it all the time -he talked. - -“Little Holy Mother!” she murmured, after a vain attempt to repress -her curiosity, “is that I?” - -“Is it not?” he said; “and would not _you_ love an art that enabled -you so to record impressions of beauty?” - -“It is an impression, my faith! Am I black and white like a spectre? -Where are my brown hair and my red cheeks?” - -Ned tapped his breast-pocket. - -“In your heart, monsieur?” - -“In my paint-box, mademoiselle.” - -“Well,” she said, “they may remain there, for me. I shall never come -to claim them.” - -“You had best not,” he said. “It is full of ghosts that might frighten -or repel you.” - -She was moving away, when she stopped suddenly. - -“Look who comes!” she cried low. “There is the pretty subject for your -pencil!” - -The fountain stood at the village head, on ground somewhat raised -above the wide street, or _Place_, round which the hamlet was -gathered. Not a soul seemed to be abroad in the hot sleepy morning. -The jalousies of twenty small houses were closed; the ground-haze -boiled up a fair man’s height as seen against any dark background; the -tower of the little white church looked as if its very peaked cap of -lead were melting and sinking over its eyes--an illusion grotesquely -accented by the exclamatory expression of the arrow-slit of a window -underneath. There was scarce a sound, even, to emphasise the -stillness--the tinkle of a running gutter, the drowsy weak ring of -iron on a distant anvil--these were all. Méricourt lay sunk in -panting slumber in the lap of its woods, its chimney-pots gasping at -an inexorable sky. - -But now there came towards and past the fountain, from a hidden meadow -path, a second girl, who bore upon her head, gracefully poising it, a -fragrant bundle of clover, young forest shoots and tufted grasses, -under the shadow of which her face was blurred as soft and luminous as -a face in tender crayons. - -“It is a picture,” said Ned. - -“It is half a saint,” said the girl. - -Then she cried, in her flexible rich voice-- - -“_Holà_, Nicette! I shiver here in a colder shadow than thine.” - -“Nicette!” muttered Ned, and he scrutinised the passing figure more -closely. - -“How, Théroigne?” answered back the other, without slackening her -pace or turning her head. - -“There runs a new spring in Méricourt!” cried the girl, with an -impudent glance at the young man. - -“But a new spring! and how dost thou know?” - -“My little finger told me. It has veins of ice, Nicette. Thou needst -not scruple to bathe in it, for all thy modesty.” - -The clover-bearer passed on, with a little ambiguous laugh. - -“And she is a saint?” said Ned. - -“Half a saint, by monsieur’s permission--a sweet _bon-chrétien_ with -one cheek to the sun and one to the convent wall.” - -“And presently to fall of her own sweetness, no doubt.” - -To his surprise the girl drew herself up haughtily at his words. - -“You exceed the bounds of insolence, monsieur,” she said frigidly. “It -is like blasphemy so to speak of Nicette Legrand. And what authority -has monsieur for his statement?” - -“How can I have any, Théroigne, but your own show of levity towards -me?” - -She seemed about to retort angrily, changed her mind, shouldered the -pitcher, and turned to go. - -“At least,” said Ned, “have the goodness to first direct me to the -Château Méricourt.” - -She twisted about sharply. - -“The chateau! What do you seek there?” - -“Only my friend, M. de St Denys.” - -“Your friend!” - -She conned his face seriously; then suddenly her own lightened once -more. - -“Of a truth,” she said, “I would rather be your friend than your -lover.” - -“Love is much on your lips, mademoiselle.” - -“You should say he shows his pretty judgment. But Nicette has the -mouth of austerity. Follow her, then. She will have no need to rebuke -you, I’ll warrant.” - -“There is some contempt in your voice, mademoiselle. Is not that to -give yourself a little the lie?” - -“How, monsieur?” - -“But now you chid me for speaking lightly of this very Nicette.” - -“She has a better grace than I, perhaps, to care for herself. I mean -only she will lead you whither you desire.” - -“To the chateau?” - -“She keeps the lodge at its gates.” - -She frowned, nodded her head, and went off with a little mocking song -on her lips, turning down a side track that led to farm buildings. She -was a lithe voluptuous animal, breathing a lavish generosity of life. -Ned watched her in a sort of rigor of admiration as she retreated. A -high stone wall, pierced at regular intervals with loopholes, enclosed -the steading she made for. Above the coping showed the roofs of the -house, and of numerous substantial barns that backed upon the wall; -and, at a point in the latter, frowned a huge studded gateway, strong -enough to withstand the shock of anything less than artillery. - -By this gate the girl paused a moment, looked back, and seeing the -stranger still observant of her, whisked about resentfully enough to -bring down upon her head a sleet of acacia petals from a bush that -stood hard by. Then she vanished, and Ned turned him to his pursuit of -the other. - -She had already reached the farther end of the _Place_, and he -followed rapidly, lest she should disappear from his ken. But he came -up with her as she was leaving the village by a road that mounted on a -slight gradient amongst trees. At the wrought-iron gates of the -chateau, set but a few hundred yards farther in a thicket of -evergreens, he addressed her, as she was shifting from her head the -great burden it had borne. - -“That is much for a girl, Nicette. I will help you with it.” - -She looked at him, he could see, with some abashed recognition. Her -lips, that were a little parted in breathlessness, trembled -perceptibly. Without a protest she let him receive and drop upon the -road the truss of clover. Some strands of the bundle that were yet -entangled in the disorder of her rabbit-brown hair gave her an -unlicensed strangeness of aspect; but for the rest it was the Madonna -of the old church of Liége--the colourless, pure _dévote_ with the -Greek profile and round blue eyes small-pupiled. - -“Nicette,” said the young man, who, if cold, had an admirable -assurance, “to pass from Théroigne to you is to go to sleep in the -sun and wake to the twilight.” - -She gave a little gasp. - -“Does monsieur come to visit the chateau?” she murmured. - -“Or its master?--yes. But first I will help you in with this.” - -“No, no!” she protested faintly. - -“But, yes, I say. Open the gate, Nicette. And for what is this great -heap of fodder?” - -“It is for my beautiful _génisse_--Madeleine of the white star.” - -She pushed open the gate. Within, to one side, was a low trellised -lodge, set within the forward apex of an elliptical patch of garden. -Farther back was a byre, and behind all a lofty bank of trees. A fine -avenue of Spanish chestnuts led on to the house, which was here hidden -from view. - -“Whither?” said Ned. - -She intimated the rearward shed, with a half-audible note of -deprecation. He shouldered and carried the truss to its destination. -A liquid-eyed cow, with a rayed splash of white on its forehead, blew -a sweet breath of wonder as he entered. Within, all was daintily clean -and fragrant. - -“Now,” said he, “I must go on to the chateau. But I shall come again, -Nicette, and paint you into a picture.” - -The girl stood among the phloxes utterly embarrassed. He made her a -grave salutation and pursued his way to the house. At a turn of the -drive he came in view of the latter--a sombre grey building, sparely -windowed, and with a peak-roofed tower--emblem of nobility--caught -into one of its many angles. A weed-cumbered moat, with a little -decrepit stream of water slinking through the tangle of its bed, -surrounded the walls; and in front of the moat, as he encountered it, -a neglected garden fell away in half-obliterated terraces. Here and -there, placed in odd coigns of leafiness, decayed wooden statues of -fauns and dryads, once painted “proper”--or otherwise--in flesh tints, -had yielded their complexions piecemeal to the rasp of Time; and, -indeed, the whole place seemed withdrawn from the considerations of -order. - -Much wondering, Ned crossed an indifferent bridge--long ceased, it -would appear, from its uses of draught--and found himself facing the -massive stone portal of the chateau. - -“There is a canker hath gnawed here since my uncle’s day,” thought he, -and laid hold of a long iron bell-pull. The thing came down reluctant, -and leapt sullenly from his grasp, and the clank of its answer called -up a whole mob of echoes. - -The door was opened by an unliveried young fellow--a mere peasant of -the fields by his appearance. - -“M. de St Denys? But, yes; monsieur would be at home to -receive--unless, indeed, he were not yet out of bed.” - -Ned recalled a figure prostrate on the wreck of a guitar. - -“Convey this letter to your master,” said he; “and show me where I may -wait.” - -He entered a high, resounding hall. A boar’s head set at him from -above a door in a petrified snarl. Opposite, a great dark -picture--fruit, flowers, game--by Jan de Heem, made a slumberous core -of richness in the gloom. These, with a heavy chair or two, were the -only furniture. - -The man conducted him to a waiting-room near as desert and -ill-appointed as the vestibule. The whole house seemed a vast and -melancholy barrow--an imprisoned vacancy containing only the personal -harness and appointments of some lordly dead. Its equipments would -appear to have conformed themselves to its service, and that was -reduced to a minimum. - -Ned heard the sound of a listed footfall, and turned to meet the -master of Méricourt. - -M. de St Denys came in with the visitor’s letter in his hand. He was -in a yellow morning wrapper that was in cheerful contrast with his -sombre surroundings, and a tentative small smile was on his lips. He -wore his own hair, bright brown and unpowdered, and tied into a neck -ribbon. A little artificial bloom, like the meal on a butterfly’s -wing, was laid upon his cheeks to hide the ravages of dissipation, but -the injected eyes above were significant of fever. He was, -nevertheless, a pretty creature of his inches (and they might have run -to seventy or so)--exhilarating, forcible, convincing as a man. Only, -as to that, his mouth was the hyperbolic expression, justifying his -sex rather by force of appetite than of combativeness. - -“M. le Vicomte Murk?” said he, raising his eyebrows. - -“Prospective, monsieur,” said Ned; “but as yet----” - -“Ah, ha!” broke in the other, showing his teeth liberally, “you wait -to step into old shoes. It was my case once--five years ago. I had not -the pleasure to know your uncle, M. le Vicomte.” - -“Pardon, monsieur. I am a plain gentleman.” - -“Truly? We order things otherwise here--for the present, monsieur--for -the present.” - -Obviously he had no least recollection of the _contretemps_ of the -previous evening. - -“And you are travelling for experience?” (He referred lightly to the -letter in his hand, and lightly laughed.) “Possibly you shall acquire -that, of a kind, in little rustic Méricourt. We are in advance of our -times here--locusts of the Apocalypse, monsieur, having orders to -respect only the seal of God.” - -“_We_, generically, monsieur would say?” - -“Oh! I include myself.” (He made a comprehensive gesture with his -hand.) “Behold the monastic earnest of my renunciation. I am vowed to -a religion of socialism that takes no account of superfluous frippery. -I devote my pen and” (he laughed again) “dissipate my fortune to the -cause of universal happiness.” - -“Yourself thereby, I presume, securing the lion’s share.” - -“Of happiness? Truly, I think, I have hit upon the right creed for a -spendthrift. But my conscience is the real motive power, monsieur, -though you may be cynical of its methods.” - -He spoke with an undernote of some ambiguity. It might have signified -deprecation, or the merest suggestion of mockery. - -“And how shall the sacrifice of your fortune promote the common -happiness?” said Ned. - -“Plainly, monsieur,” answered St Denys, “by scattering one at least of -the world’s heaps of accumulated corruption. Wealth is like a stack of -manure, a festering load that is the magnet to any wandering fly of -disease. Distribute it and it becomes a blessing that, in fertilising -the soil, loses its own noxious properties. But I would go further and -ask what advantages have accrued from that system of barter that turns -upon a medium of exchange? Has it not cumbered the free earth with -these stacks till there has come to be no outlook save through aisles -and alleys of abomination?” - -“That may be true,” said the other, curiously wondering that so much -disputation should be launched upon him at this outset of his -introduction; “but civilisation, during some thousands of years, has -evolved none better.” - -M. de St Denys shrugged his shoulders. - -“Civilisation!” he cried. “But you retain no faith in that exposed -fetish? Is not civilisation, indeed, one voice of lamentation over its -own disenchantment? Can any condition be worse than that of to-day, -when the ultimate expression of the social code reveals itself a -shameless despotism? Do you ever quite realise--you, monsieur, that -through all this compound multiplication of the world’s figures, its -destinies remain the monopoly of a little clique of private families? -One seems to awaken suddenly to a comical amazement over man’s -age-long subscription to so stupendous a paradox. Let us soothe our -_amour propre_ by submitting that it was an experiment that has proved -itself a failure.” - -“Nevertheless, monsieur,” said Ned gravely, “I think that in rejecting -this civilisation by which you profit--in encouraging rebellion -against the established forms that necessity has evolved out of chaos -and wisdom included in its codex--you, to say the least of it, are -moved to drop the substance for the shadow.” - -He spoke with some unconscious asperity. He could not bring himself to -admit the entire earnestness of one, of whose self-indulgent character -he had had such recent proof. This metal, he fancied, was plated. - -“I cannot believe,” he added, “that so complex a fabric could have -triumphed over the ages had it not been founded upon truth.” - -“But successive architects,” cried St Denys, “may have deviated from -the original plan.” - -“Still, it holds and it rises; and I for one am content to go up with -it--to re-order its chambers, perhaps, but never to quarrel with the -main design.” - -“And I for one would descend and leave it. Ah, bah! one may mount to -the topmost branch of a tree, and yet be no nearer escaping from the -forest. I find myself here in interminable thickets, monsieur. I see -the poor, leaf-blinded denizens of them nosing passionlessly for roots -and acorns in a loveless gloom; and I know the long green fields of -light and pleasure to stretch all round this core of melancholy, if -only these could find the way to win to them. Is self-discipline -necessary to existence? Surely our very butterflies of fashion prove -the contrary.” - -“Now what,” thought Ned, “is the goad to this inexplicable character?” - -“Does monsieur, then,” said he, “advocate a creed of hedonism?” - -“Why not?” cried the other. “Shall not man enlarge, develop, and -become more habitually one with his amiable instincts under the -influence of pleasure, than he ever has done in his bondage to a -religion of self-denial? To deny oneself is to deny God, after whose -image one is made.” - -“A pretty conceit,” said Ned; “but it spells degeneracy.” - -“Ay, monsieur; and to the very foundations--as far back as the garden -of Paradise.” - -“What! You would revert to primitive conditions?” - -“To the very ‘naked and unashamed’--but applying to that state the -influence of long traditions of gentle manners. We will admit the -happiness of the community to be the first consideration, and -reconstruct upon a basis of nature.” - -A spot of colour came to his cheek. His eyes kindled with a light of -febrile enthusiasm. - -“To be free to enjoy, in a world of yielding generosities,” he cried; -“to be cast from restrictions designed to the selfish aggrandisement -of infinitely less than a moiety of our race; to strip indulgence of -the shamefulness that century-long cant has credited it withal--that -is the El Dorado I give my efforts and my substance to attain.” - -“There,” thought Ned, “is confessed the animalism to which the other -is but a blind. But this is half-effeminate vapouring.” - -He had no sympathy, indeed, with theories so untenable. This -lickerish, unconstructive paganism was far from being the lodestar to -his own revolutionary cock-boat. Yet he could not but marvel over M. -de St Denys’ extremely practical expression of extremely frothy -sentiments. Involuntarily he glanced round the room. - -“Yes,” cried the other, observant of the look. “I am not one of those -doctors who refuse their own medicine.” - -A thought of surprise seemed to strike him. - -“But I run ahead of my manners,” cried he, with a quick laugh. “You -charge me with a letter, and I return you a volley of exposition. I -have not even offered you a seat. Pray accommodate yourself with one. -And you knew my father, sir?” - -“I had not the honour. He was a friend of my lord viscount.” - -“Who gave you a letter to him. There is figured out the value of the -social relations. He has been dead, sir, since five years. He left two -sons, of whom I am the younger. My brother, Lucien, a sailor, who held -his commission to the West Indies under De Grasse, perished there in -’81 in an explosion of powder. The estate devolved upon me. We have -not your laws of primogeniture, and had poor Lucien returned, we -should have shared the burden and the joy of inheritance----” - -He had been leaning carelessly back against a table while he talked. -He now came erect, and added, with a queer look on his face-- - -“--and the pleasure of welcoming to Méricourt the nephew of our -father’s friend.” - -“You are very good, sir,” said Ned. - -“I would fain believe it, monsieur. I have the pleasure to offer you -the use of the chateau as an hotel for just so long as you care to -stay.” - -Ned, taken momentarily aback, hesitated over the right construction of -so enigmatical an offer. - -“Ah!” said the other, “it is to be considered literally.” - -“In the business aspect, monsieur?” - -“Assuredly. You must understand I have waived the privileges of my -class, amongst which is to be numbered the right to acquit the wealthy -of taxation. The ponds must feed the rivulets, monsieur.” - -Seeing his visitor lost in introspection, “_Enfin_,” he cried, with a -musical laugh, “that is the practical side. It is not based, believe -me, upon a system of profits. For the social, I take you to my heart, -monsieur, with all enthusiasm.” - -And so Ned became a guest at the chateau at cost price. - - - - - CHAPTER V. - -Monsieur the master of Méricourt would seal that queer compact of -entertainment with the nephew of his father’s friend over a bottle of -Niersteiner, which he had up from the cellar there and then. - -“’Tis a rare brand,” quoth he, his eyes responding with a flick to the -drawing of the cork; “and we will share both bottle and expense like -sworn brothers!” - -Ned sipped a single glass reluctant. So much the better for the other. - -“I am your debtor!” he cried, as he drained the flask. “Draw upon me -for the balance when you will.” - -His face was flushed. He talked a good deal, and not in an intelligent -vein. The visitor accepted him as an enigma that time should solve. -There seemed so much firmness of purpose, so wanton an infirmity of -performance, in his composition. Certainly, having the courage of his -convictions in one way, and the consequent right to expound them -literally in another, he might lay claim to consistency in flooding -himself with wine before eleven o’clock in the morning. Still, to Ned, -this implied a certain contradiction, inasmuch as no creed of right -hedonism could include excess with its penalties. - -“Monsieur, _mon ami_,” cried St Denys, on a wavering, jovial key, “you -will oblige me by indulging, while here, your easiest caprices. Come -and go as you will; I desire to put no restraint on you. You shall pay -only for your clean linen, and for your food and drink. The first two -you will find at least wholesome. For the last, behold the proof! If -you want luxury, you must seek elsewhere. My socialism is eminently -practical. The free expression of nature--that is the creed we seek to -give effect to in this little corner of the world. But we are no -Sybarites.” - -“Nor I,” said Ned; “but, for you--you are a man of strong convictions, -monsieur?” - -St Denys laughed, sprawling back in his chair, and waved his hand -significantly to the empty walls. - -“Just so,” said Ned. “But I am a very _chiffonnier_ for raking in the -dust for hidden motives.” - -The Frenchman cocked a sleepy lid, scrutinising his guest with a -little arrogance of humour. - -“They are here, no doubt, these motives,” said he. “Perhaps I am -astute, perhaps I have the seer’s eye. If I foretold you a deluge, -what would you do?” - -“Invest my money in an ark.” - -“A floating capital, to be sure. But you could never realise on it if -you weathered the storm.” - -“And you, monsieur?” - -“And I, monsieur?--I should endeavour, very likely, to extract the -essence of twenty years from one; I should at least spare no expense -to that end. Were I foredoomed to founder, I would make myself a wreck -that I might sink the more easily.” - -He came scrambling to his feet. - -“Do you like music?” he cried. “I will canvass you in the prophetic -vein. I see the rising of the waters.” - -He was looking about vaguely as he spoke. - -“What the devil is become of it?” he muttered. - -“Are you hunting for your guitar? You will find it flat beyond tuning, -I am afraid.” - -“How, do you say?” - -“M. de St Denys, you fell asleep, literally, on it last night in the -‘Landlust.’” - -“‘Landlust!’ Oh! _Dieu du ciel_! I am beginning to remember.” - -“Why,” he chuckled, with hazy inspiration, “your veritable figure, -monsieur, stands out of the fog.” - -“Indeed, it was thick enough to stand on.” - -“And little Boppard, and the gross old Lambertine, who is father to -our village Aspasia, the fat old man. But I must introduce you to -Théroigne Lambertine, monsieur, to add one beat a minute to your -politic pulses.” - -“Indeed, I think I have already introduced myself.” - -“The deuce you have!” - -“And is she your Aspasia? And who is her Pericles?” - -“Harkee, monsieur!” said St Denys, with a fall to particular gravity, -“that will never do.” - -Then he broke into a great laugh. - -“The father,” he cried, “is the bulwark of paradox. See that you never -strive to take him by storm. He is of those who would undermine the -Church while confessing to the priest. He clings to the old formulæ -of honour that, in others, he pronounces out of date. He advocates -free thought as a eunuch might advocate free love, without an idea of -what it implies. His advance is all within his own ring-fence--round -and round like a squirrel in its cage. He will go any distance you -like there, only he must not be ousted from his patrimony. The world -for all men thinks he, but his farm for Jack Lambertine. Popped into -his pet seed-crusher, he would bleed a vat of oil. But he is an -estimable husbandman; oh yes, he is that, certainly.” - -“He gives you a better character, it seems, than you him.” - -“Why, what have I said to his discredit? He has made the whole human -race his debtor in one respect.” - -“What, for example?” - -“M. Murk, _mon ami_, he has produced a Théroigne.” - - -Ned, paint-box in hand, presented himself at the lodge-door. A sound -of low singing led him through a very lavender-blown passage to the -rear of the cottage. Here he came upon Nicette in a little bricked -dairy dashed cool with recent water. She was skimming cream from a -broad pan with her fingers. The tips of these budded through the -white, like nibs of rhubarb through melting snow. - -“Behold her as she stands!” said the intruder. “Here is the -milk-washed Madonna for my picture.” - -He put down his box and approached the maid. She stood startled, her -hands poised above their work. Ned took her by the wrists, and, -conducting his captive with speechless decorum to a sink, pumped water -over the sheathed buds till they flushed pink with the cold. - -“Now,” said he, “dry your hands on that jack-towel, Nicette, and we -will get to work.” - -The girl’s eyes floated in a little backwater of tears. Crescents of -hot colour showed under them on her cheek-bones. - -“Monsieur will make a jest of me,” she said, in a rather drowned -whisper. - -“I will make a Madonna of you, Nicette, if you will pose yourself as I -wish.” - -Her lips quivered. She looked down, twiddling her wet thumbs. - -“I am established at the chateau, Nicette. I am a friend of M. de St -Denys, who would have me dispose of my time to my best entertainment.” - -“And that monsieur seeks of the poor lodge-keeper?” - -“Truly, for I am an artist above all things.” - -This cold fellow had a coaxing way with him. After not so long an -interval he was busily at work, with the girl seated to his -satisfaction. The sweet coolness of the dairy received, through a -wide-flung window, the scent of innumerable flowers that thronged the -little garden without. To look thereon was like gazing on the blazing -square of a stage from the sequestered gloom of an auditorium. There -was an orchestra, moreover, all made up of queer Æolian harmonics. - -“What is that voice, Nicette, that never ceases to moan and quarrel?” - -“It tells the wind, monsieur.” - -“What does it tell? A story without an end, I think.” - -He rose and looked through the window. A little complaining horn, -pivoted on the top of a long pole, swung to the lightest breeze and -caught and passed it on in waves of protest. Upon a slack wire or two -that, like tent ropes, held the pole secure, lower currents of air -fluttered with the sound of a knife sharpening on a tinker’s -grindstone. - -Ned grunted and resumed his seat. - -“It would drive me silly to have that for ever in my ears. How can you -stand it, Nicette?” - -“It speaks to me of many things, monsieur.” - -“What, for instance?” - -“Monsieur will laugh.” - -“No, I will not.” - -“The whispering of the flower spirits, then; the steps and the low -voices that come from beyond the dawn before even the shepherds are -awake; sometimes the noise of the sea.” - -“You have travelled?” - -“Ah! no, monsieur. But I have heard how the great waters mutter all -their secrets to their shells; and I like to think that my air-shell -up there is in the confidence of the strange people one cannot see.” - -Ned paused in his work, and dwelt musingly on his companion’s face. - -“So,” said he, “you are a half-saint on the strength of these little -odd ecstasies.” - -“Indeed I am no part of a saint.” - -“Now, Nicette, you must put no restraint on your speech whenever I am -with you. You interest me more, I think, than anybody I have ever -seen. Do you know, I have no imaginative faculty like this of yours. I -am too inquisitive to dream nicely. I like to get to the bottom of -things.” - -Obviously there was some lure about him that drew the girl, in -tentative advances, from her reserve. - -“I do not think there is a bottom to things,” she said, looking up, a -little breathless at her own daring. “Some day, perhaps, when monsieur -thinks he has reached it, he will fall through and find himself -flying.” - -“Shall I?” said Ned abstractedly, for he was wrestling with a -difficulty. Then he went on, with a quick change of subject,--“are you -very fond of your cow?” - -Nicette’s eyes opened in wonder. - -“Of Madeleine? Oh yes, monsieur.” - -“How often do you feed her?” - -“But twice in the day.” - -“Of green meat that you gather?” - -“It is the fashion with us. Is it not so to stall the cattle in the -country of monsieur?” - -“Only at night. And how often do you feed your little brother?” - -The unexpected question completely dumfounded the girl. Ned laughed, -put his brush in his mouth, and fetched a louis-d’or from his pocket. - -“Will you take this now, Nicette?” - -Something to his consternation, she rose hurriedly from her seat, made -as if to leave the room, and broke into a little fit of weeping. He -went up and spoke to her soothingly-- - -“Silly, pretty child! are you ashamed? You are none the worse in my -eyes for showing some inconsistency. Think only you are in the -confidence of one of your strange people. Here, take it, Nicette.” - -She threw his hand away. The coin rang on the floor. - -“I will not, I will not!” she cried. “Oh, please to go, monsieur. How -can I sit for the Madonna any more when you make me out so wicked!” - - - - - CHAPTER VI. - -“M. de St Denys,” said Ned, “are you not here the children, so to -speak, of an ecclesiastical benefice?” - -“We are in the circle of Westphalia, monsieur--children, certainly, of -the Duc de Bouillon, who is suffragan of the Archbishop of Cologne.” - -“And how does his lordship accept this moral emancipation of little -rustic Méricourt?” - -The other laughed carelessly. - -“As he would accept the antics of children, perhaps. It does not -trouble me. In a few years all livings will be in the gift of the -people.” - -“You are serious in thinking so?” - -“Why not?” - -“Because I cannot interpret you, or comprehend for what reason you run -riot on a road of self-abnegation.” - -“Perhaps it is the war of the spirit with the flesh, monsieur. Who -knows, were a man of vigour not to reasonably indulge his senses, if -his senses would not maliciously lead his judgment astray? Shall an -anchorite prescribe for the hot fevers of life? I like to test the -passions I would legislate on.” - -“And you foresee the triumph of the races over their rulers?” - -“I foresee the bursting of the dam of humour--the mad earth-wide -guffaw in the sudden realisation of a preposterous anachronism. I see -all the old landmarks swept away in a roar of laughter--the idols, the -frippery, the traditions of respect for what is essentially mean and -false, the egregious monkeys of convention solemnly dictating the laws -of society to their own reflections in looking-glasses.” - -“And what then?” - -“The reign of reason, monsieur: the earth, with its flowers, for the -children of its soil; the commonage of pastures, of woods, and of -valleys; the adjustment of the relations of love and increase to the -developments of nature; the death of shame, of artificiality, of -ignoble sophistries.” - -Ned shook his head. Was the man sincere in all this? Did he seek to -adapt himself, with and in spite of his weaknesses, to what he -considered the inevitably right? or were his repudiation of caste, his -sacrifice of fortune, a mere wholesale bid for the notoriety that is -so frantically sought of melodramatic souls? His voice was vibrant -with enthusiasm; he seemed to lash himself into great utterances, to -feel conviction through force of sound; and then in a moment he would -(figuratively) swagger to the wings, cock his hat, and bury his face -in a foaming tankard. - -The two young men were strolling through a twilight of woodland. They -had dined at four o’clock, had sat an hour or so over their bottle, -and were then, by arrangement of St Denys, to present themselves at a -certain rendezvous of local _esprits forts_. - -“Thou shalt handle Promethean fire,” said the lord of Méricourt, “and -shalt kindle in the glance of a goddess.” - -“Very well,” answered Ned. “I will come, by all means; but she will -not find me touchwood.” - -They had mounted from the back of the village at the turning into the -road of the chateau. A few hundreds of yards had brought them to the -fringe of the dense forest that rolled in terraces of high green down -to the very outskirts of the hamlet. Thence they had passed, by tracks -of huddled leafiness, into deeps and profounder deeps of stillness. - -The silence about them was as the silence of a peopled -self-consciousness--as the under-clang of voices to a dreamer whose -heart works in his breast like a mole. Every bird’s song was an echo; -the germ of new life under every pine-cone seemed stirring audibly in -its little womb. If a squirrel scampered unseen, if a rush of wings -went by unidentified, the sound became a memory before it was past. -Nothing of all beauty was material. The thurible of the sun, trailing -clouds of smoke, was withdrawn into the sacristy of the hills; the -music of the vesper hour fled in receding harmonics under a roof of -boughs; long aisles of arborescence, dim with slow-drifting incense, -held solitude close as a returned prodigal. Here was the neutral -ground of soul and body; thronged with unrealities to either; full of -secret expectancies that massed or withdrew to the shutting and -opening of one’s eyes. - -The dusk formed like troops in the bushy hollows. Still M. de St Denys -led his companion on. Suddenly he stayed him, with a hand on his -sleeve. - -A sound, like the rubbing cheep of a polishing-cloth on wood, came to -their ears from somewhere hard by. Stepping very softly, the two men -stole into a clearing dominated by a single huge beech-tree--an old -shorn Lear of the forest. At its roots a young boar was engaged -whetting its tushes, that curled up like the mustachios of a -swinge-buckler. The muscular sides of the beast palpitated as it swung -to and fro. - -Now St Denys, with meaningless bravado, left his friend and walked up -to the brute, that cocked its ears and was still in a moment. Ned -caught the porcelain glint of its eye slewed backwards,--and then St -Denys flogged out at the bristling flanks with a little riding-switch -he carried in his hand. The pig fetched round; the young man uttered a -shrill whoop and lashed it in the face; and at that the animal plunged -for the thicket and disappeared. - -Ned went on to the tree. He thought all this a particularly -thrasonical display, and would not appear to subscribe, by so much as -referring, to it. - -“A mammoth in its day,” said he, looking up at the vast wreck of -timber that writhed enormous arms against the darkening sky. - -“Ay,” said St Denys, assuming indifference of the slight. “That has -been a long one, too. I can scarce remember it but as it is now, and I -am rising twenty-seven. It held itself royal and unapproachable, you -see; defined the commonalty of the forest its limits of approximation -to it like a celestial Mogul. The girth of this clearing in which it -stands is the girth of its former greatness. No sapling even now dare -set foot in the _sanctum sanctorum_. These forests have their -traditions as men have.” - -“Perhaps modelled on ours.” - -“Perhaps. We shall see. Come here again in a year--two years; and if -thou tell’st me this charmed circle has been broken into by the -thicket, I will answer that elsewhere the people stand on the daïses -of kings.” - -Again there seemed the theatrical posing. The speaker put a hand on -the trunk of the great tree. - -“Here is the very _bienséance_ of vanity,” he said--“the archetype of -society. Withered, denuded, worm-eaten to a shell, it yet decks its -cap with a plume of green, wraps its palsy in a cloak of stars, and -stands aloof like something desirable but not to be attained.” - -“A shell, you say? It looks solid as marble.” - -“It is a king, monsieur, without a heart. Some day when the storm -rises it shall fall in upon itself. I know its hollowness from a boy. -I have climbed fifty times this drooping bough here--which you may do -now, if you will. Up there, where the branches strike from the main -stem, one may look down into a deep well of decay.” - -He caught his hand away with a repelling exclamation. - -“Bah! it sprouts fungus at less than a man’s height; it is rotting to -the roots. It shall take but a little heave of the tempest’s shoulder -to send it sprawling.” - -Ned humoured the allegory with some contempt. - -“Thrones do not crash down so easily,” said he. “Their roots extend -over the continents.” - -St Denys came from the tree, slid his arm under his guest’s, and drew -his gentleman down an obscure track that ran into the thicket. - -“So you love kings?” said he. - -“I neither love nor decry them. I wish to walk independent, like a -visitor from another star, availing myself of every opportunity of -observation. I shall not swerve from my convictions when they are -formed.” - -“And as far as you have got at present?” - -“I see more evil rising from the depths than descending from the -heights. I see the peaks of volcanoes held responsible for the -eruptions that are hatched by turbulent forces far down -below--compelled to be their mouthpiece, indeed. Kings are what their -people make them. Let the forces subside, and the very cones in time -will come to pasture quiet flocks.” - -“Or let the lava overflow, overwhelm, and obliterate--distribute -itself and grow cool. So shall the pasturage be infinitely more -extended. Oh, inglorious conclusion! to justify individual evil on the -score that it has no choice!” - -“I do not,” said Ned calmly. “I recognise only the right of the -individual to an independent expression of self. To secure this he -must conform to a social code that excludes the processes of tyranny.” - -“And that code must read equality.” - -“No; for men are not equal. The world must always exhibit a -sliding-scale of intellect and capacity; the unit, a perpetual -aspiration. Materially, there must be a desideratum--an _ultima ratio_ -to ambition. Call it king, consul, dictator. Whatever its name, it is -merely the crystallisation of a people’s character and energy--the -highest effect given to a national tendency.” - -“But all this, my friend, is not compatible with hereditary titles.” - -“No; and there I pause.” - -“It is gracious of you. A little further, and you will recognise the -impossibility of patching up old fustian to wear like new cloth. -Better to commit all to the fire than to spare the sorry stuff because -a bit here and there is less decayed than the rest.” - -As he spoke a square of mellow radiance met them at a turning of their -path. The light proceeded from the window of a wooden hut or shanty--a -tool-shed it might have been, or at the best a little disused hunters’ -lodge. It was sunk in a bosket of evergreens; built of luffer-boards -that gaped in many places; and its roof of flaking tiles was all sown -with buttons of moss. - -“The headquarters of the brotherhood,” said St Denys, with a laugh; -and he pushed open a creaking door and drew his visitor within. - -“_Holà_, Basile!” came in a triple note of greeting. - -Ned found himself--wondering somewhat--in a bare, small room, -furnished only with a table and plain benches of chestnutwood. At this -table were seated the exiguous sizar of the “Landlust,” and a couple -of rather truculent-looking gentry--farmers of small holdings, by -reasonable surmise. An oil-lamp burned against the wall, and its light -swayed wooingly on the face of the fourth member of the -company--Théroigne Lambertine, whom the young man had foreguessed to -be the goddess. She sat, raised a little above the others, at the head -of the board, a smile on her lips, her eyes awake with daring. Her -hair was loosely caught under a scarlet handkerchief; about her bosom -a white fichu was only too slackly knotted. Ned had never seen a -living creature so richly secure in the defensive and aggressive -qualities of beauty. She looked at him with a little defiance of -recognition. - -“_Mes amis_,” said St Denys, “I have the pleasure to introduce to you -a visitor whom you will know as Edouard. He is all, I may tell you, -for reforming society.” - -“That is a discipline thou shalt not wield here, Edouard,” cried one -of the loobies, with an insolent laugh. - -Ned faced the speaker gravely. - -“Not even for the whipping of a jackass?” said he. - -There answered a cackle of derision. St Denys caught his friend by the -arm. - -“It is unfair, it is unfair!” he cried merrily. “I have brought him -hither without a word of explanation.” - -Then he took his captive by the lapels of his coat. - -“Monsieur, or Edouard,” said he, “this is the one spot within the -compass of the nations where a man is entirely welcome for himself so -long as he is it. Here we throw off every unnatural restriction, say -what we will, do what we will--provided no evil consequence is -entailed thereby. We are the club of ‘Nature’s Gentry,’ founded upon -and governed by that solitary comprehensive rule. We neither give nor -take offence, for where absolute freedom of speech is permitted all -may be said that there is to say. Cast from the prohibitions of -conventions, truthful beyond conceits, we restrain ourselves in -nothing that is of happy impulse, deny ourselves no indulgence but -that of doing hurt to our neighbour.” - -“Basile has spoken,” said Théroigne in her full voice; “Basile is -very great! And thou, thou tall staidness, come and pay thy homage to -Nature’s queen.” - -Ned turned swiftly, walked up to the girl, and kissed her cheek. - -“What the devil!” cried St Denys hoarsely. - -“Have I done hurt to my neighbour?” said Ned, facing round. - -The Belgian laughed on a false note. - -“You are immense,” said he. “The brotherhood takes you to its heart. -See that you, on your part, resent nothing.” - -He turned, with rather a frowning brow, to the table. Théroigne, -flushed but unabashed by the Englishman’s boldness, watched her -predial lord covertly. - -“A small gathering to-night,” he said; “but what of that when the -Queen presides?” - -He fancied himself conscious of a new startled intelligence in the -eyes of two, at least, of his company. This stranger (the look -expressed), how had he appropriated to himself what they had never -dreamed but to respect as unattainable? Truly it had been for him to -rightly interpret to them their own law. - -St Denys stamped his foot impatiently. - -“Why do you blink here like moping owls?” he said. “The air is balm; -the moon walks up the sky; there is not a bank but breathes out a -sweet invitation.” - -They bustled to their feet at his words. One man pulled from under the -table a hamper loaded with wine-flasks and horns. - -“We revel in the open,” said St Denys to Ned. “We give our words -flight, like fairies, under the stars. Nothing remains to rankle, or -to generate mischief, as in the close atmosphere of rooms.” - -“Very well,” said Ned, “the open for me;” and he stepped out, -accompanied by three others, into the sweet-blown wood. - -The moment he found himself alone with her, St Denys turned upon -Théroigne. - -“Mademoiselle coquette,” said he, showing his teeth, “I could very -easily strike you on the face!” - -“And why?” she said quietly, her eyes glittering at him. - -“Oh! do you not understand?” - -“Little mother of God!” she cried low, her nostrils dilating, “but -here is a consistent president! Did not the stranger conform to rule? -Would you have had me give you the lie by repulsing him?” - -“To the devil with the rule!” cried the other in suppressed passion. -“You know it for a blind--not as an excuse for licence. This folly, -this ridiculous club! is it not designed but to enable us to indulge a -passion of romance--under the very ægis of M. Lambertine, too, when -he chooses to leave his tavern and his pipe?” - -The girl in a swift transition of mood came from her seat and put up -her hands caressingly to the young man’s shoulders. - -“Basile, _mon ami_,” she murmured; “it is ridiculous, I know; but it -is an excitement in this little dull world of ours. Thou sport’st with -professions of opinion that are not the truth of thy soul. Thou -knowest, as I know, dearest, that these wild theories spell disaster; -that through all the waste of the ages honour is the pilot star that -it is never but safe to steer by. Oh, do you not, Basile?” - -“Surely,” said St Denys impatiently. “What have I said to disprove it? -But honour will not dispel the fog through which these ships of state -are driving to their doom. I who prophesy the crash--God of heaven, -Théroigne! dost thou think my ambition surfeits on this scurvy junto -of clodhoppers? It is play, my beautiful--just play to pass away the -time.” - -“And I too play, soul of my soul--but I will no more. This Englishman, -if he dares again, he shall suffer. Thy honour shall be mine, as thou -hast sworn to save me from myself--oh, Basile, darling, remember how -thou hast sworn it!” - - - - - CHAPTER VII. - -Mr Murk sat on a bank, solemnly preparing for an idyll. - -“But I cannot subscribe to it in one respect,” thought he; “for, if I -persist in being myself, I shall look upon all this as the most -idiotic fooling.” - -“Little Boppard,” said he, “what will society do now you have severed -yourself from it?” - -“Monsieur,” said the student angrily, “I am not to be laughed at.” - -“How, then, of this freedom of speech?” - -“You are an interloper. You do not understand.” - -“But I am eager to learn; oh, little Boppard, I am so eager to learn!” - -“I will not be called so. It is infamous!” - -“But it was thus M. de St Denys named you to me.” - -“It is different. I am nothing to you.” - -“_Oh, mon pauvret_! it is not so bad. You are at least a little man to -me.” - -One of the hobnails broke into a guffaw. - -“Listen to him! this stranger is a droll! Good! It is much noise about -nothing, Boppard.” - -“You most happily cap me, sir,” said Ned, with great gravity. “May I -have the pleasure of taking wine with you?” - -“But a bucketful, Edouard!” cried the fellow boisterously. He brimmed -the horns as he spoke. A vinous pigment already freckled his cheeks. - -“I see here nothing but an excuse for an orgy,” thought the visitor. - -The company sprawled over a bank to one side of the clearing where the -great tree stood. The wine-flasks lay cool in moss. The two countrymen -had thrown off their coats and bared their shaggy chests to the night. -Overhead the moon was already of a power to strew the forest lanes -with travelling blots of shadow, like dead leaves moving on a languid -stream. A cricket chirruped here and there in spasms, as if -irresistibly tickled by the recollection of some pleasantry. From time -to time, across the dim perspective of a glade, a momentary -indiscernible shape would steal and vanish. - -Ned pondered over the enchantment--as moving less prosaic souls--of -moonlit haunted woods. - -“Now, I wonder,” thought he, “if I could put myself _en rapport_ with -the undefinable in less Philistine company!” - -As if in reply, “What would not Nicette interpret of these fairy -solitudes?” said a dreamy voice at his back. - -He turned his head. Théroigne had come softly, and was seated with St -Denys a little above him on the bank. - -“She is not of the club, then?” said Ned. - -The student laughed truculently, throwing back his head with a noise -as if he were gargling. - -“Little Boppard is beyond himself,” said Ned. “We shall make a man of -him yet.” - -The two potwallopers hooted richly at that. - -“Monsieur is quick to launch insults,” said Mademoiselle Lambertine -frigidly. - -“Why, what have I said?” - -The young man looked piously bewildered. St Denys sniggered--even, Ned -could have thought, with a little note of vexation. - -“Friend Edouard,” said he, “in Méricourt the _portière_ Legrand -stands pre-canonised.” - -“Understand!” chuckled a bumpkin. “She is _portière_ and a -virgin--save that she bears the sins of the community.” - -“Beast!” cried Théroigne. Then she went on sarcastically--“To belong -to us! Oh yes! but it is likely, is it not? She who communes with the -Blessed Virgin like a dear familiar.” - -“It is so,” said St Denys. “That is her reputation.” - -He was himself, for all his Jean-Jacques Pyrrhonism, an evident -subscriber to a local superstition. - -“Now,” said the perplexed Englishman, “I perceive that to be oneself -is to invite resentment.” - -“Not to give or take offence,” said Théroigne, with fine -impartiality. - -“Both of which have been done, mademoiselle. So, let us cry quits. And -what would Mademoiselle Legrand make of all this?” - -“How can I tell? She is the saint of dear conceits. She has the inward -eye for things invisible to us. ‘Where do the threads of rain -disappear to, Théroigne?’ says she. ‘_Oh, mon Dieu_, Nicette! Am I a -Cagliostro?’ ‘I think,’ she says, ‘they are pulled into the earth by -goblins working at great looms of water. Each thread draws like spun -glass from the crucible of the clouds, and so underfoot is woven the -network of springs and channels.’ _Ciel_! the quaint sweet child! -Whither come her fancies? They are there in the morning like drops of -dew.” - -St Denys broke in with a rippling snatch of song:-- - - - “‘Mignonne, allons voir si la rose, - Qui ce matin avoit desclose - Sa robe de pourpre au soleil, - A point perdu, ceste vesprée, - Les plis de sa robe pourprée, - Et son teint au vostre pareil.’” - - -He stopped. - -“Sing on, my heart,” whispered Théroigne. - -“Monsieur the Englishman does not approve my music.” - -“Monsieur!” began the girl, in great scorn; but, to stay her, St Denys -lifted up his voice a second time:-- - - - “When Clœlia proved obdurate - To Phædon’s fond advances, - Repaid with scorn his woful state, - With flout his utterances, - - ‘Forego,’ he cried, ‘this acrid strain, - From such sweet lips a schism, - And dumbly quit me of my pain - By posy symbolism! - - ‘For hope, a white rose; for despair, - A red, pluck to thy bosom!’-- - He turned; then looked--the wilful fair - Had donned a crimson blossom. - - But, so it chanced, within the cup - A cupid, honey-tipsy, - In rage at being woken up, - Thrust out and stung the gipsy. - - Then, all compunction for his deed, - For cap to the disaster, - Rubbed Phædon’s lips with honey-mead, - To serve the wound for plaster.” - - -“Is it pretty or not, monsieur?” asked Théroigne mockingly, advancing -her foot and giving Ned a little peck in the back with it. - -“It suits the occasion, mademoiselle, and, no doubt, the company.” - -St Denys laughed out. - -“Hear the grudging ascetic!” he cried. “It is martial music that shall -fire this temperate blood! _Ho_, Boppard, _mon petit chiffon_! give -him a taste of thy quality.” - -“He will laugh at me, Basile.” - -Nevertheless, the sizar got upon his legs. It brought him three feet -nearer the stars. His voice was a protesting little organ; but the -spirit that inspired it was many degrees above proof. - -He sang:-- - - - “Decorous ways, - Though Mammon praise - With self-protective art-- - We’ve learnt through ruth, - The damnèd truth, - Why he affects the part. - Courage, then! Courage, my children! - Virtue is all gammon, - Imposed on us by Mammon, - Not to spoil the fashion. - Giving him monopoly--hatefully, improperly-- - Of the sweets of passion. - - ---Monsieur, I will not be laughed at.” - -“A thousand pardons,” said Ned. “I thought from your expression you -were going to be sick. But, never mind. Go on!” - -“I will go on or not as I please. I protest, at least, I can crow as -well as monsieur.” - -“Like a bantam cock on a dunghill, little Boppard. You hail the -awaking of the proletariat. And are the verses your own?” - -“I will not tell you. I will not tell you anything. I have never been -so insulted.” - -He seemed to sob, plumped down, and drank off a horn of wine in -resounding gulps. The two rustics rolled to their feet and began to -fling an uncouth dance together. They had canvassed the bottle freely, -and were grown very true to themselves. They spun, they hooted, their -moonlit shadows writhed on the ground like wounded snakes. Wilder and -more abandoned waxed their congyrations, till at length one flung the -other upon the bank at the very feet of Théroigne. - -Now this fellow, potulent and pot-valiant, and taking his cue from -sobriety, scrambled to his knees, threw himself upon the girl, and -crying, “No hurt to my neighbour!” endeavoured to salute her after an -example set him. - -His reception was something more than damning. Théroigne, with a cry -of rage, met the impact tooth and nail, and following on the rebound, -became in her turn the furious aggressor. A devil possessed her fierce -mouth and vigorous young arms. Her victim, wailing with terror, tried -to protect his face, from which the blood ran in rivulets. For a -moment or two she had everything to herself. The others stood -paralysed about her where they had got to their feet. Then St Denys -seized and struggled to draw her away. Even at that she resisted, -worrying her prey and gabbling like a thing demented. - -“Leave the brute his life!” cried M. le Président. “It is not he, -after all, that is most to blame. Do you hear, Théroigne? I will -twist your arm out of its socket, but you shall come!” - -She uttered a shriek of physical pain, and, releasing her hold, stood -panting. On the grass the wretched creature nursed his wounds, and -sobbed and wriggled. His comrade, sobered beyond belief, dumbly -glowered in the background. - -Ned took off his hat in a shameless manner of politeness. - -“These fraternal orgies,” said he, “are a little difficult of -digestion to a stomach prescriptive. On the whole, I think, I prefer -the despotism of _savoir-vivre_. With monsieur’s permission I will -e’en back to Méricourt.” - -“We must bear in mind that he is an Englishman,” said the sizar. “His -traditions are not of the licence of good-fellowship.” - - - - - CHAPTER VIII. - -It was characteristic enough of M. de St Denys to bear his guest no -grudge for the fiasco, chiefly brought about, it must be admitted, by -that guest’s malfeasance. With no man was the evil of the day more -sufficient to itself; and he would be the last to insist upon that -discipline of conscience that burdens each successive dawn with a new -heritage of regrets. Moreover, the dog had the right humour, when he -was restored to it, to properly appreciate Ned’s immediate -comprehension of rule one and only of the Brotherhood; and on his way -home with Théroigne, the comedy of the situation did gradually so -slake the turmoil of his soul as that he must try to win over his -companion to regard the matter from anything but a tragic standpoint. -In this he was but partly successful; for woman has a cast in her -humorous perceptives that deprives her of the sense of proportion. - -“Is it so little a thing?” she said hotly. “But it was thy honour I -fought to maintain. And no wonder, then, that men will take sport of -that in us which they hold so cheap in themselves.” - -However, his mended view of the affair impressed her so far as that, -meeting with the Englishman by the village fountain on the morning -following the orgy, she condescended to some distant notice of, and -speech with, him. For, indeed, with her sex, to punish with silence is -to wield a scourge of hand-stinging adders. - -Ned, serenely undisturbed by, if not unconscious of, a certain -toneless hauteur, greeted Mademoiselle Lambertine with his usual -politeness. He was not, in truth, greatly interested in this fine -animal. He recognised in her no original quality that set her apart -from her fellows. Beauty of an astonishing order was hers -indeed--beauty as much of promise as of fulfilment. The little -remaining _gaucherie_ of the hoyden dwelt with her only like a -lingering brogue on the tongue of an expatriated Irishman. It was -rough-and-tumble budding into a manner of caress. But beauty, save as -it might contribute to the _motif_ of a picture, was no fire to raise -this young man’s temperature, and in Théroigne’s presence he seemed -only to breathe an opulent atmosphere of commonplace. She was glowing -passion interpreted through colour--siennas and leafy browns, and -golds like the reflection of sunsets; a dryad, a pagan, a -liberal-limbed _tetonnière_. If she were ever to find herself a soul, -he could imagine her standing out richly as a Rembrandt portrait -against torn dark backgrounds. But at present she seemed to lack the -setting that occasion might procure her. - -“Why do you toil this long way for water?” said he. - -“For the reason that monsieur travels,” she answered coldly. - -“Do I comprehend? I loiter up the channels of life seeking the -spring-heads.” - -“Whence the waters gush sweet and clear. Down in the dull homesteads -one draws only stagnation from the ground.” - -“Or from the barrels underground. Méricourt would do well, I think, -to make this fountain its rendezvous.” - -“Oh, monsieur! one need not drink much wine, I see, to yield oneself -to insolence.” - -“Well, you are angry over that kiss. But it was a jest, Théroigne. My -heart was as cold as this basin.” - -Did this improve matters? - -“No doubt,” she said, flushing up, “you only lack the opportunity to -be a Judas. And is it so they treat women in your barbarous island?” - -“They treat them as they elect to be treated. We have a saying that as -one makes one’s bed, so one must lie on it.” - -“It is a noble creed!” cried the girl derisively. “It is the Pharisee -speaking in English.” - -“Nay, mademoiselle. It is to be vertebrate, that is all. To condone -evil on the score of provocation to evil, to excuse it on the ground -of constitutional tendency--that is the first infirmity of declining -races.” - -She looked at him mockingly, then fell into a little musing fit. - -“Perhaps it is the right point of view,” she murmured; “but for -us--_mon Dieu_! our eyes will get bloodshot and our vision obscured, -and--yes, I would rather die of fire than of frost.” - -She turned upon him, still pondering. - -“It is strange. They say you are a great lord in your own country.” - -“I am nephew to one, and his heir.” - -“And is he like you?” - -Ned permitted himself a snigger. - -“He is very unlike me. He is the _doyen_, perhaps, of Lotharios.” - -“An old man?” - -“Yes, old.” - -“And you travel like a _commis voyageur_--for experience, says the -gross Van Roon! There must be something of courage in you Englishmen, -after all, though you will run before us where you are fewer than ten -to one.” - -Ned changed the subject. - -“Why were you so hurt last night by my reference to Nicette?” - -“She is a saint.” - -“How do you know?” - -“How does a blind man know when some one sits at an open window by -which he passes? He feels the presence--that is all.” - -“That is all, then?” - -“No; but this--Nicette cried lustily till the waters of baptism -redeemed her, and thereafter never again: so early was the devil -expelled from that sweet shrine.” - -“And the little brother--is he a saint too?” - -Théroigne laughed contemptuously. - -“Baptiste? Oh, to be sure! the little unregenerate! He is the devil’s -imp rather.” - -“They are orphans?” - -“Since three years. The girl mothers him, the graceless rogue.” - -“I wronged her in ignorance, you see. That club of good-fellowship--it -was all so concordant, so much in harmony with its own laws of frolic -give-and-take. Why should a very saint be superior to so genial a -fraternity?” - -“We are a fraternity, as monsieur says, extending the hand of -brotherhood to----” - -She broke off, uttering a sharp exclamation as of terror or disgust, -and shrunk back against the well rim. A figure had come into view--by -way of the meadow path, up which Nicette had borne her load of -fodder--and had paused over against the fountain, where it stood -obsequiously bowing and gesticulating. It was that of a tall, -large-boned man, fair-haired, apple-faced, with a mild, deprecating -expression in its big blue eyes. Its head was crowned with a greasy -cloth cap, shaped like the half of a tomato; its shirt, of undesirable -fustian, was strangely decorated over the left breast with a yellow -badge cut into something the shape of a duck’s foot; its full -small-clothes--that came pretty high to the waist and were braced over -the shoulders with leather bands, yoked to others running horizontally -across chest and back--seemed in their every stereotyped crease the -worn expression of humility. - -“What is it, my friend?” said Ned. - -Théroigne put a hand on his arm. - -“Do not speak to him, save to bid him return whither he came. God in -heaven! I can see the grass withering under his feet! Monsieur, -monsieur” (for Ned was walking towards the man), “it is one of the -accursed race!” - -The creature fawned like a Celestial as the young man approached. - -“Monseigneur, for the love of God, a drink of water!” said he. - -His dry, thick lips seemed to grate on the words. - -“Why not?” said Ned. “You have only to help yourself.” - -“Let him dare!” shrieked Théroigne. “Monsieur, do you hear! it is a -Cagot, a Cagot, I say!” - -The man looked up, with a despairing forlorn gesture, and drooped -again like one to whom long experience had taught the hopelessness of -self-vindication. - -“Is that so?” asked Ned. - -“Alas! monseigneur, it is so.” - -“What do you do it for, then; and what the deuce is it? Here--have you -a cup or vessel of your own?” - -With a hurried manner, compound of supplication and triumph, the -creature, fumbling in its shirt, brought forth an iron mug. Ned -received and carried it to the well. Théroigne sprang from him. - -“You are not to be warned? It will poison the blessed spring.” - -“Nonsense,” said Ned; but recognising her real agitation and alarm, he -offered her a compromise. He would carry the mug to a little distance, -and there she, standing back from it, should drop in water from her -pitcher. To this she consented, after some demur; and the Cagot had -his drink. - -“That makes a man of you,” said Ned, watching the poor fellow take all -down in reviving gulps. - -The other shrugged his shoulders despondingly. - -“Monseigneur, I can never be that. It is forbidden to us to stand -apart from the beasts. We had hoped in these days of----” he broke -off, shook his head, and only repeated, “I can never be that, -monseigneur.” - -“Then I would not come among men to be so treated.” - -“Nor should I, but that my one pig had strayed and I dared to seek it. -Monseigneur--if monseigneur would soil his tongue with the word--has -he----” - -“I have seen no pig. No doubt it will be returned to you, if found.” - -“Returned! _Hélas_! but a poor return, indeed.” - -“It will not be?” - -“The lights, the entrails--a little of the coarser meat, perhaps.” - -“How is that, then?” - -“Where we squat, monseigneur, thither come the authorised of the pure -blood. ‘These are your bounds,’ say they; and they signify, -arbitrarily, any limit that occurs. Woe, then, to the Cagot sheep or -pig that strays without the visionary _cordon_! Whoever finds it may -kill, reserving to himself the good, and returning to the unhappy -owner the inferior parts only of the meat.” - -“It is of a piece with all I see, here more than elsewhere--the -grossest inconsistency where the senses seek gratification. Truly, I -think, the emancipation of the race is to be from self-denial.” - -He gave the man a piece of money--rather peremptorily checking the -fulsome benedictions his act called forth--and saw him slink off the -way he had come. For all its show of servility, there had appeared -something indescribably noble in the poor creature’s rendering of an -ignoble part. It was as if, on the stage of life, he were willing to -sacrifice his individuality to the success of the piece. Not all -scapegoats could so triumph physically through long traditions and -experiences of suffering. These Cagots--they might have come from the -loins of the wandering Jew. - -He walked back to Théroigne, his heart even a little less than before -inclined to her. She held away from him somewhat, as if he were -contaminated. - -“A fraternity, extending the hand of brotherhood,” he said--repeating -some words of hers uttered before the Cagot had intervened--“to whom -was mademoiselle about to say? to all, without exception?” - -She looked at him, half fearful, half defiant. - -“This man is of the accursed race,” she cried low. - -“A Jew?” - -“A Cagot.” - -“And what is that?” - -“You do not know? They come from France, where she sits with her feet -in the mountains--outcasts, pariahs, with blood so hot that an apple -will wrinkle in their hands as if it had been roasted.” - -“I should have fancied that a recommendation to you of Méricourt.” - -“Ah, grace of God! With them it is nothing but the emitting of a -pestilent miasma. These people are brutes. They would even have tails, -but that their mothers are cunning to bite them off when they are -newly born.” - -Ned went into a fit of laughter. - -“It is true, monsieur.” - -“It is at least easily proved. And they come from the south?” - -“From the south and from the west. It is not often we see them here; -but this new spirit that is in the air--_mon Dieu_!--it stirs in them, -I suppose, with a hope of better times--of release from the -restrictions imposed upon them for the safety of the community; and -now they will sometimes wander far afield.” - -“And what are these restrictions?” - -“They are many--as to the isolation of their camps; as to their tenure -of land or carrying of weapons; as to buying or selling food; as to -their right to enter a church by the common door, to take the middle -of the street, to touch a passer-by, to remain in any village of the -pure after sundown. They must grow their own flesh, find their own -springs, wear, each man, woman, and child the duck-foot badge, that -they may be known and shunned. Indeed, I cannot tell a tithe of the -laws that control them.” - -“But for what reason are they set apart?” - -“Little mother of God! how can I say? They are Cagots, they are -accursed--that is all I know.” - -Even as she spoke an angry brabble of voices came to them from the -direction of the path by which the outcast had retreated; and in a -moment the man himself reappeared, scuttling along in a stooping -posture, and hauling by the ear his recovered pig, that squeaked -passionately as it was urged forward. But now in his wake came a posse -of louts--young chawbacons drawn from the fields--who pelted the poor -wretch with clods of clay, and were for baiting him, it seemed, in a -crueller manner. - -Ned ran down and placed himself between victim and pursuers. The -former, bruised and breathless, pattered out a hurried fire of -explanation and entreaty. - -The young gentleman faced the little mob--half-a-dozen or so--that had -closed upon itself--compact claypolism. - -“What do you want with this man?” he said. - -His demand evoked a clamour of vituperation. - -“What is that to you? It is the law! The mongrel is accursed--_l’âme -damnée--le tison d’enfer_! Down with this insolent the stranger! he -is a Cagot himself!” - -Ned waited calmly for the tumult to subside. - -“I ask you what this man has done?” said he. - -“Cannot you tell the heretic by his smell? Oh-a-eh! here is a fine -Catholic nose! Out of our way--the pig is forfeit!” - -They hissed and yelped, and raised a shrill chorus of “baas” at the -unfortunate. Curiously, he seemed to feel this last form of insult -more acutely than any. Suddenly a clod of earth, aimed presumably at -the poor creature, hurtled through the air and struck Ned’s shoulder -in passing. It might have rebounded on the assailant, so immediate was -the retribution that followed. The erst-calm paladin _went_ for the -vermin like a terrier, and like a terrier repaid his own punishment -with interest. - -The great chuff howled and blubbered and wriggled under the blows that -rained upon him. Presently Ned, exhausted, swung his victim in a -hysteric heap upon the ground, and stood to breathe himself. Then it -was that the reserve, withdrawn in affright, seeing his momentary -fatigue, gathered heart of numbers, and came down upon him in phalanx. -He received them, nothing dismayed, and accounted for the first with a -“give-upon-the-nose,” and for another with a “poached eye.” He was -patently tired, however--enervated by the heat of the day--and his -adversaries, recognising this, were encouraging one another to -annihilate him, when all in a moment a volume of water slapped into -their faces and quenched their ardour for ever. - -A new champion had come upon the field, and that was no other than -Mademoiselle Théroigne with her pitcher. She laughed volubly, on a -menacing note, in the washed and streaming countenances. - -“Beasts, pigs, cowards!” she shrilled. “For one Englishman--name of -God!--for one trumpery Englishman to lay you out flat as linen on a -bleaching-green! Get back--hide yourselves in your furrows, or play -bully to the little rabbits in the field corners! Not to the -bucks--that were too bold.” - -She made as if to follow up the water with the vessel. Ned cried out: -“You will break the earthenware sooner than their heads, -mademoiselle!” in agony lest she should blaze beyond -self-extinguishment, as on the previous evening; but she only -stiffened her claws like a cat and prepared to spring. It was enough. -The swamped and demoralised crew gathered up its wreckage and fled -incontinent, and was in a moment out of sight round the curve. - -Ned took off his hat to his tutelary divinity--this Athena to his -Achilles. - -“Your weapons were better than mine,” he said; “but your task was -harder: for you had to fight against prejudice as well.” - -The Cagot, still holding his pig by the ear, crept up to the young man -and caught and ravenously kissed his hand. Then he looked wistfully at -a brown-haired goddess. - -“Oh, _mon Dieu_, no!” said Théroigne. “You must not touch me or come -near me.” - -She turned and addressed Ned, almost with an entreating sound in her -voice:-- - -“You have courage of every sort, monsieur. But for me--yes, it is as -you say. My heart warms to such valour; but I cannot forget in a -moment these long traditions--this fear and this abhorrence. Do not -let him approach me.” - -She stepped back, as if to escape a very radiated influence. But she -spoke softly to the Englishman, and with the manner of one who in -giving help has wrought a little conscious bond of sympathy. - -“Bid the man go hence by the Liége road,” she said. “So will he evade -his persecutors. But a few toises out he can enter the woods and work -round to his lair.” - -“I will see him on his way, mademoiselle.” - -He bade her good morning quite respectfully, and drove the Cagot -before him from the village. It was slow progress, for the -recalcitrant pig must be humoured. The man looked back from time to -time, his face full of the most human gratitude. A little way on he -paused by an outlying cottage until his benefactor was come up with -him. Then, smiling brightly, he stayed Ned with a significant gesture, -and went on tiptoe to the door that stood open. A loaf lay on a table -within. This the Cagot seized with a muttered word, and so came forth -again, hugging his prize. - -“What, the devil!” cried Ned. - -He had seen a woman within the hut. She had shrunk, crying out, from -the intruder, but had made no effort to defend her property. - -“A thief!” exclaimed the Englishman. - -“_Nenni_!” said the man in a deprecatory voice. “It is one of our poor -little privileges. I appropriated the bread that monseigneur might -see.” - -“The deuce, you did!” - -“We may take it--but, yes, we may enter and take, wherever we see it, -a cut loaf turned upside-down, with the sliced part to the door. I -will return it if monseigneur wills.” - -“No,” said Ned. “This privilege is on a par with all the rest. Let the -fool pay toll to his own inconsequence. Lead on, my friend.” - -Very shortly they turned into a forest track, plunging amongst trees -for a half mile or more. Here Ned pushed up to his humble wayfellow. - -“Why are you accursed?” said he. - -“God help us, monseigneur! I know not. Thus they hold and keep us. -Wheresoever in our wanderings we alight, we must report our names and -habitations to the _bailli_ of the nearest jurisdiction, that no -loophole may be left us to escape from ourselves; for it is forbidden -to us to intermarry with the pure of blood, lest we thereby, merging -into the community, lose our unhappy distinction.” - -“But, whence come you, and what have you done to merit -this--this----?” - -“Monseigneur, we are accursed. It is not given to us to know more than -that.” - -Was there a faint note of stubbornness, a suggestion of some conscious -secret withheld, in this abject reiteration of abasement? Ned was in -doubt; but at least it seemed these strange people carried horror with -them like a hidden plague-spot. - -“Tell me,” said he, “why did you cower when the louts cried ‘Baa’ to -you?” - -The man looked up furtively. - -“It is our ears,” he muttered. “They will call them sheep’s ears, -monseigneur.” - -“Certainly, it would appear, they are not designed for rings. That is -a progressive evolution, my friend.” - -The Cagot did not answer. A few steps farther brought them into a -little dell traversed by a brook. Here, by the water-side, was -stretched a single tent of tattered brown canvas. - -“Alone!” said Ned, surprised. - -“Alone, monseigneur, save for the woman and the little _bien fils de -son père_. In these days the tribes are much broken up. They wander -piecemeal. There are rumours abroad--hopes, prospects, as if it were -prelude to the advent of a Messiah. I think, perhaps, I have seen -to-day a harbinger--an angel bearing tidings.” - -He gazed at the young man with large solemn eyes. His face was full of -a wistful patience--not brutalised, but mild and intelligent. - -“Oh, truly, I am the devil of an angel!” said Ned; and he waved his -hand and turned. - -“Monseigneur, I will never forget,” said the Cagot. - - - - - CHAPTER IX. - -In Nicette’s little lodge, doors and windows stood all open. Even -then the languid air that entered fell fainting almost on the -threshold. The heat of many preceding days seemed accumulated in vast -bales of clouds piled up from the horizon. It scintillated, livid and -coppery, through its enormous envelopes, eating its way forth with -menace of a flood of fire. - -Obviously the dairy was the nearest approach to a temperate zone, and -thither Ned bent his steps, carrying his paint-box and canvas. He -found the girl there, as he had expected. She was seated knitting near -the flung casement, wherethrough came a hot scent of geranium flowers. -In the blinding garden without silence panted like a drouthy dog. Only -the horn, high on its perch, found breath to bemoan itself, gathering -up the folds of muteness with an attenuated thread of complaint. - -Mademoiselle Legrand looked cool and fragrant, for all the house was -an oven; but a little bloom of damp was on her face, like dew on a -rose. In a corner, standing with his hands behind his back and his -front to the wall, Baptiste, the sad-eyed child, did penance for some -transgression, it would appear. - -“I must not lose my Madonna for a misunderstanding,” said Ned. - -Nicette rose to her feet, flushing vividly to her brow. The weary -white face of the boy was turned in astonishment to the intruder. - -“Monsieur,” said the _portière_, in a little agitated voice, “you -must not ask me. For one you hold so cheap to represent the stainless -mother! It cannot be, monsieur.” - -Ned deposited his paraphernalia on a chair, went up to his whilom -model, and took her hands in his with gentle force. - -“Nicette,” he murmured, so that the child should not hear him, “I -refuse, you know, to accept this responsibility. It is your own -consciousness of justification, or otherwise, that is in question. The -mother had a human as well as a divine side. I will use you for the -first.” - -“Use me!” she whispered. “Monsieur----” - -She drooped her head--tried to withdraw her hands. Her lips faltered -desperately on the word. - -“Tell me the truth, little Nicette. May not a saint love guava jelly? -It is a fruit of the sweet earth--perhaps the very manna of the -Israelites.” - -He held her young soft wrists in hostage for an answer--much concerned -for an exchange of confidence. The girl, making a _lac d’amour_ of her -fingers, suddenly came to her decision. - -“I am very wicked,” she said in a small voice, between eagerness and -tears; “I am not a saint at all. Monsieur may do with me as he will.” - -Now surely this young man had the fairy Temperance to his godmother -when he was christened. His point gained, he disposed his model with a -very pretty eye to business, and was soon at work. - -“Nicette,” said he, “how has this youthful whipper-snapper -misconducted himself?” - -“Baptiste, monsieur? He was dainty with his food; and--the day was -hot, and perhaps I was ever so little cross.” - -She accepted the understanding, it will be seen--thrilled perhaps over -the secret ecstasy implied in this prospect of a lay confessor. - -“Well, _ma chérie_,” said Ned, “you may relax discipline now, may you -not? It worries me to have this inconversable ape criticising me from -his corner.” - -“Baptiste,” said Nicette, “you may go and play--in the shadow, -Baptiste.” - -The child went out dully, with a lifeless step. It would seem he -recognised no enticing novelty in the form of words. - -“Now we will have a comfortable coze,” said Ned. - -“How, monsieur?” - -“That means we will exchange confidences, girl.” - -Nicette smiled. - -“You do not love children, monsieur?” she asked. - -“Truly, I think not. They know, I fancy, so much more than they will -tell. I feel nervous in their company, as if they might blackmail me -if they would. It is no use to be conscious of my own innocence. Vague -terrors assail me that they may be in possession of dark secrets that -I have forgotten. For them, they never forget.” - -“It is so, indeed, with little doubt.” - -“Is it not? They inherit the ages, one must admit. They are like eggs, -full of the concentrated meat of wisdom; and as such it is right to -sit upon them. It is a self-protective instinct thus to hurry their -development, for so their abnormal precocity distributes itself over -an ever-increasing area and weakens in its acuteness.” - -“And they have cunning, monsieur.” - -“Without doubt--the cunning to evoke and trade upon sympathy with -sufferings that they pretend to, but are physically incapable of -feeling.” - -The girl looked up, her eyes expressive of some strangeness of -emotion. - -“Are they not able to feel, then, monsieur?” - -“Not as we do, Nicette. Their nervous organism has not yet come to -tyrannise over the spiritual in them. Turn thy head as before, -_babouine_. The light falls crooked on thy mouth. No; I wish never to -be burdened with a child, either my own or another’s.” - -A low boom of thunder rolled up the sky. Nicette started and drove her -chair back a little distance from the window. - -“That is vexatious of you, you pullet. Are you afraid of thunder?” - -“Oh yes--dear mother!--when it is close.” - -“But that is yet far away.” - -“It will advance--it is the _diligence_ of the skies bringing inhuman -company. _Mon Dieu_! when one hears the driver crack his whip, and the -horses plunge forward, and there follows the rumbling of the wheels!” - -“Talk on. I love to hear thee. But take courage first to resume thy -pose.” - -“Monsieur, I am frightened.” - -“What, with me for thy Quixote! I have conquered windmills before now. -There--that is to be a good child. Do you find it hard to understand -my chatter?” - -“Monsieur, on the contrary, is an adept at our language.” - -“This is nothing to how I speak it when I have a cold. Still, do you -know, I have never quite got over the feeling that it is very clever -of a Frenchman to talk French. ‘And so it is,’ Théroigne would say, -but you will not. Nicette, have you ever heard speak of the Club of -Nature’s Gentry? What a question, is it not? But I like to hear you -laugh like little bells.” - -“Monsieur, it is a very dull club.” - -“Which is the reason you are not a member?” - -“A member! oh, _mon Dieu_! that is not my notion of enjoyment.” - -“Great heaven! Here is an astonishing shift of the point of view.” - -“How, monsieur?” - -“Never mind. So, freedom of speech is not to your fancy?” - -“It is not freedom, but an excuse for silly licence. Those clowns and -the grotesque small Boppard--it is to discuss wine, not politics, that -they assemble. A full mug is the only challenge they invite, and the -larger the measure, the greater that of their courage. But they talk -so much into empty pots that their voices sound very big to them.” - -“Not Boppard, mademoiselle. He at least hath this justification--that -he is a poet.” - -“Has monsieur discovered it, then? Monsieur is cleverer than all -Méricourt. We must make monsieur the student a crown of vine leaves.” - -“Nicette, dost thou think I will suffer a pullet to cackle at me? -What, then, if not a poet?” - -“But a maker of charades impossible to interpret, by monsieur’s -permission.” - -“My permission, you jade! Here is the measure of _your_ courage, I -think. And have you no fear that I shall make M. de St Denys -acquainted with your opinion of his club?” - -“None, monsieur.” - -The thunder rolled again. The girl, starting and clasping her hands, -cried-- - -“Monsieur, let me come from the window! Oh, monsieur, let me, and I -will light a blest candle!” - -“A little longer--just a little longer. I foresee a darkness -presently, and then, lest my Madonna be blotted from my sight, the -candle shall burn.” - -The girl looked out fearfully at the advancing van of the storm. It -was still brilliant sunshine in the garden, but with an effect as if -the outposts of noon were falling back upon their centre, already -half-demoralised in prospect of an overwhelming charge. The wind, too, -beginning to move like that that precedes an avalanche, was scouting -through the shrubberies with a distant noise of innumerable tramping -feet; and the fitful moaning of the horn rose to a prolonged scream, -that drew upon the heart with a point of indescribable anguish. - -“Why, however,” said Ned, “have you no apprehension that I shall tell -tales to M. de St Denys?” - -“I said I had no fear, monsieur.” - -“Would he not resent this so unflattering opinion of his satellites?” - -“What is his own of them, does monsieur think?--that a tipsy boor -assists the cause of freedom? Monsieur, my master is not blind, save -perhaps in thinking others so. _Saint Sacrement_! the sun has gone -out! It was as if a wave of cloud extinguished it.” - -“Never mind that. In thinking others blind to what, girl?” - -“I must not say--indeed, I must not say.” - -“Is this to be a saint--to damn with innuendo? Fie, then, Nicette!” - -“Monsieur, do not be angry. Oh, I will tell you whatever you will. -This club then, it is a pretext, one cannot but assume--a veil to hide -perilous sentiments, not of politics, but of----” - -“But of what?” - -The girl hung her head. The increasing gloom without lent its shadow -to her face. - -“Monsieur has no mercy,” she whispered. - -“But of what, Nicette? Tell me.” - -“Monsieur--of intrigue.” - -As if the very word completed an electric circuit and discharged the -battery, a flash answered it, followed almost immediately by a -splintering shock of thunder. The girl uttered a shriek, started to -her feet, and ran to the middle of the room, holding her hands to her -eyes. - -“I am blind!” she wailed--“oh, I am blind!” - -Ned hurried to her--gripped her shoulder. - -“Nonsense!” he cried; “it will pass in a moment. Let me look.” - -He could hardly hear his own voice. The lightning might have been a -bursting shell that had rent a dam. The thunder of the rain out-roared -that of the clouds--overbore the struggling wind and pinned it to the -earth--smote upon the roof in tearing volleys, and made of all the -atmospheric envelope a crashing loom of water. - -“Nicette!” cried the young man, frightened to see the girl yet hide -her face from him. He was conscious of something crouching at her -feet, and, looking down, saw that terror had driven Baptiste, the -little boy, to the refuge of their company. - -In his panic, Ned impulsively seized the maid into his arms. - -“You are not hurt!” he implored. “I kept you by the window. My God! if -you should be injured through my fault!” - -She was not at least so stunned but that his impassioned self-reproach -could inform her cheeks with a rose of fire. The stain of it, could he -have seen, soaked to the very white nape of her neck. - -“Hold me,” she whimpered. “Don’t let me go, or I shall die!” - -She strained to him, patently and without any thought of -dissimulation, palpitating with terror as the rain roared and the -frequent detonations shook the house. In the first of his apprehension -he thought of nothing compromising in the situation--of nothing but -his own concern and the girl’s pitiful state. - -Presently, in a lull, he heard her exclaiming-- - -“Mother of God! if I were to go blind!” - -“Don’t suggest such a thing!” he cried in anguish. - -“Would you be sorry--even for poor Nicette, monsieur?” - -“Sorry, child! Look up, in God’s name!” - -She raised her face. Her lids flickered and opened. - -“Can you see?” he asked, distraught and eager. - -“I--something--a little,” murmured the unconscionable gipsy. “I can -see monsieur’s face--far or near--which is it?” - -She put up a timid hand. Her fingers fluttered like a moth against his -temple. - -“I don’t think I am blind, monsieur. My eyes----” - -In his jubilation he took her head between his palms, and, with a -boyish laugh, kissed each of the blue flowers--to make them open, he -said. - -“No, I am not blind,” said she. - - - - - CHAPTER X. - -Mr Murk, recalling, on the morning after the storm, certain -ultra-fervid expressions of remorse into which, during it, he had been -betrayed, and realising, possibly, how of a saint and a sinner the -latter had proved the blinder, turned the search-light of his -recovered vision inwards, and examined his conscience like the most -ruthlessly introspective Catholic. He worked out the sum of argument -very coolly and carefully; and the result, condensed from many -germinant postulates, showed itself arithmetically inevitable. - -“If I intrigue, I sacrifice my independence, my free outlook, my peace -of mind, my position in relation to my art--comprehensively, my -principles. - -“_Enfin_--on the other hand, I gain a very stomachy little white -powder in a spoonful of jam. - -“Taking one from four, therefore, I find myself debited with three -charges that it is ridiculous to incur. Love, in short, is a creditor -I have no desire to be called upon to compound with. I will cut my -visit a little finer than I had intended, and go on to Paris at once. -Perhaps--for I have not finished my Madonna, and the model curiously -interests me--I will return to Méricourt by-and-by, when this shadow -of a romance has drifted away with the cloud that threw it.” - -Thus far only he temporised with his inclinations. For the rest, it -appeared, he likened that which most men feel as a flame to an -amorphous blot of darkness travelling across his sunlight. The point -of view of the girl did not enter into his calculations. -Possibly--most probably, indeed--he could not conceive himself -inspiring a devouring passion. He knew innately, he thought, his -limits--the length of his tether, moral, intellectual, and -physical--and had never the least wish to affect, for the sake of -self-glorification, a condition of mind or body that he was unable to -recognise as his own. This led him to that serene appreciation of his -personal capabilities that passes, in the eye of the world, for -insufferable conceit. For to boast of knowing oneself is to assume a -social importance on the strength of an indifferent introduction. -Public opinion will never take one at one’s own valuation. It must be -educated up to the point of one’s highest achievement. To say out, “I -know I can do this thing,” is to deprive it (public opinion) of the -right to exercise and justify itself. - -Ned, however, would not over-estimate, nor would he (even nominally) -cheapen himself as a bid to any man’s favour; and that, no doubt, -would be sound equity in the impossible absence of inherent prejudice. -But a judgment--in any world but a world of definite aurelian -transitions--that holds itself infallible may err in the face of fifty -precedents; and Ned’s, founded in this instance upon the -self-precedent of sobriety, took no account of emotions that were -completely foreign to his nature. In short, very honestly repudiating -for himself any power of attraction, he failed to see that this very -artlessness of repudiation was _per se_ an attractive quality. - -Now he put his resolution into force without compromise, and informed -his host, during the second _déjeuner_, that he was on the prick of -departure. - -St Denys expressed no surprise, no concern, very little interest. - -“Most certainly,” said he, “I applaud your attitude towards life. It -exhibits what one may call an admirable cold cleanness. Probably, at -this point, you are putting to your visit that period that most -strictly conforms to the rules of moral punctuation. I have too -complete a belief in the rectitude of your judgment to question that -of your withdrawing yourself from Méricourt without superfluous -ceremony. I envy you, indeed, your power of applying, without offence, -to the oblique turns of circumstance that simple directness which is -your very engaging characteristic. We, less fortunately endowed by -nature, are for ever seeking those short cuts to a goal that delay us -unconscionably, in everything but theory. You, monsieur, recognise -instinctively that to fly straight for your mark is to reach your -destination by the nearest route.” - -“I am conscious of no particular coldness in my manner of regard,” -said Ned good-humouredly. (He did not resent the implied sarcasm, nor -did he allow it to affect his point of view. If he had given offence, -it was simply by his literal construction of views he had been invited -to share, and he could not admit the right of the dispenser of such -views to put any arbitrary limit to another’s application of them.) -“Unless, indeed,” he went on, “it argues a constitutional _sang-froid_ -to have decided, at the thinking outset of life, _against_ the -despotism of passion, and _for_ a republic of senses, material, -ethical, and intellectual.” - -“Assuredly not. But even a republic must have a president.” - -“I elect my heart, monsieur, to the honour, and give it a casting -vote. There, at least, is a little core of fire in all this frost.” - -“_Dieu du ciel_! thou shouldst command a future, if thou wouldst, in -this Paris to which thou journeyest. It is such as thou that have -their way and keep it; while we poor hot-headed impressionables take -wrong turnings, and fetch up, struggling and sweating and trampling -our friends under, in villainous blind alleys. To discipline your -senses and keep your heart! God of heaven! that is a state to be -envied of angels, who sometimes fall--even they.” - -“I understand you to speak ironically.” - -“I protest I do not, monsieur. I covet your power of unswerving -fidelity to truth. What would it not be worth to me in the hot days -that are coming! I shall go under--I shall go under, I feel it and -know it--because I must fight with the crooked creese of dissimulation -if a straighter weapon fails me.” - -He spoke obviously with considerable emotion--with a sincerity, -moreover, that, rather than the other, appealed to the Englishman. - -“It appears, monsieur,” said the latter, “that you predict a very -serious disruption of the social order.” - -“It appears, indeed. There is a caldron always kept seething in that -unlovely kitchen of the Isle de France--a stock-pot that for long ages -has boiled down the blood and bones of the people into the thick soup -affected of the _beau monde_. But, at last, other things go to feed -it--this reeking kettle. Monseigneur in his fine palace will pull a -face over the flavour; yet he must sup of it or starve. There makes -itself recognised something metallic to the taste, perhaps; as if the -latest victims had been dropped in with their knives and pistols -unremoved from their pockets. Maybe, also, there precipitates itself a -thick sediment of coins, to which I may claim to have contributed--as -also, possibly, I have added my mite to the combustible material--the -inflammatory pages with which a waking generation of agitators fuels -this kitchen fire. Monsieur may live to see the pot boil.” - -“May live to see it boil over, even, and scald the toes of the cooks. -But I do not believe in this pass, monsieur, and regret only that you -should, from whatever motives, seek to give a sinister turn to reforms -that could be more effectively compassed by a bloodless revolution.” - -“Monsieur, were a senate of Edward Murks an electoral possibility, I -would hope to accomplish the Millennium while the world slept.” - -Ned looked at his host with some instinct of repulsion. So here, in -the guise of a scatterling aristocrat, was one of those seedling -firebrands that were beginning to sprout all over the soil of Europe -like the little bickering flames that patch the high slopes of -Vesuvius: advocates holding briefs in the indictment of society; -licentious pamphleteers; unscrupulous journalistic hacks seizing their -opportunity in the fashion for heterodox--subordinate contributors, -some of them, to the contumacious Encyclopedia; irresponsible agents, -all, to a force they could not measure or justify to themselves by any -scheme of after-reconstruction. - -But what, in heaven’s name, induced this man to a mutinous attitude -towards a social system of which, by reason of his position, he need -take nothing but profit? His opportunities of selfish gratification -would not be multiplied by the sacrifice of caste and fortune. He was -not, Ned felt convinced, a reformer by conviction. Unless the itch for -cheap notoriety was the tap-root of his character, what was to account -for this astonishing paradox? - -What, indeed? Yet a motiveless losel is no uncommon sight. To be born -with a silver spoon in one’s mouth is to be endowed with what it is -obviously difficult to retain. It is to be awarded the prize before -the race is run, and that is no encouragement to sound morality or -healthy effort. Easily acquired is soon dissipated. What wonder, then, -if Fortunatus, shedding wealth as naturally as he sheds his -milk-teeth, looks to Nature for a renewal of all in kind. - -“Well,” said St Denys, “you are going to Paris. It is the beacon-light -about which the storm birds circle. If you seek experience, you will -there gain it; if novelty--_mon Dieu_!--you will have the opportunity -to see some strange puppets dance by-and-by.” - -“And doubtless those who would hold the strings are in the clouds.” - -“Not so, monsieur. These marionettes--they will move on a different -principle, by trackers, like an organ. It may even be possible to make -one or two skip, touching a note here in this quiet corner of Liége. -But I do not know. When the time comes for the performance, this -puppet-man himself may be in Paris.” - -“You allude to M. de St Denys?” - -“Do I? But, after all, he is very small beer.” - - -Nicette sang like a bee in a flower. Her cot was the veritable -summer-house to a garden-village--luxuriously cool as an -evening-primrose blossom with a ladybird and a crystal of dew in the -heart of it. She was always self-contained, always tranquil, always -fragrant. Her reputation, like that of some other saints, was founded, -perhaps, upon her constitutional insensibility to small irritations. -Cause and effect in her were temperament and digestion--read either -way--influencing one another serenely. That sensitiveness of the moral -cuticle that, with the most of us, finds intentional aggravations in -habits and opinions that are not ours, she would appear to be innocent -of. She never complained of nail-points in her shoes or crumbs in her -bed; and that was to be bird of rare enough feather to merit -distinction. Indifference to pain is considered none the less -worshipful because it proceeds from insusceptibility to it: the name -of sanctity may attach itself to the most self-enjoying impassibility. -The moral is objective; for how many dyspeptics--sufferers--are there, -turning an habitual brave face to their colourless world, who would be -other than damned incontinent by a whole posse of devil’s-advocates -were a claim advanced to dub them so much as Blessed? - -This refreshing maid, however, was not of cloisteral aloofness all -compact. She had a wit for merry days; and, no doubt, a calid spot in -her heart that needed only to be blown upon by sympathetic lips to -raise a heat in her that should make an intolerable burden of the very -veil of modesty. For such Heloïses an Abelard is generally on the -road. - -Now she was busy in her sequestered cot, touching, rather than -putting, things into order. She had a gift for cleanliness. Her hands -winnowed the dust like the fluttering wings of butterflies. Baptiste, -ostensibly occupied with his catechism-book, watched her from his -corner, unwinking like a squatting toad. - -He saw her pause once, with her fingers stroking the back of the chair -on which the stranger artist had sat yesterday. A smile was on her -lips. Then she moved into the little closet that was her -sleeping-place and made her bed, patting the sheets caressingly, as if -some child of her fancy lay underneath. - -“She will punish me if she sees me looking at her now,” thought the -sad, sharp child; and he bent over his task. - -“_Tiens_! little monkey! Here is a biscotin for thee,” said -Mademoiselle Lambertine at the door. - -The child caught and began to devour the cake ravenously. - -“That will give thee a better relish for the food of the soul,” said -Théroigne. - -She came in languorous and flushed, fanning herself with a spray of -large-flowered syringa. The heavy scent of it floated over the room, -penetrating to Nicette in her retreat. - -“Oh, the sweet orange-blossom!” cried the _portière_. “Is it a bride -to visit me?” - -Théroigne stopped the action of her hand. Her teeth bit upon her -under lip. - -“Orange-blossom!” she exclaimed. - -She passed into the closet; dropped listlessly upon a joint stool. - -“That is not for me--not yet,” she said. “It is only syringa. See, -little minette.” - -“I see, Théroigne.” - -“Why do thine eyes appear to rebuke me, thou little cold woman? Yet, I -think, I come to visit thee for coolness’ sake: I am so hot and dull. -This lodge, it is like a woodland chapel; and here where we sit is the -confessional.” - -“And art thou come into it to confess?” - -“To thee? to _la sainte_ Nicette! I should expect her to shrink and -close, like a sensitive leaf, to my mere approach. Tell me--What is -the utmost wickedness thou hast confided to thy pillow here? I wager -my littlest peccadillo would overcrow it.” - -“It is for me to confess, then, it seems?” - -“Only thine own sweetness, child. This bed of thine--it is planted in -a ‘Garden of the Soul.’ And what grows in it, little saint?--white -lilies, gentle pansies, stainless ladysmocks? Not Love-lies-bleeding, -I’ll warrant.” - -“Fie, Théroigne! what nonsense thou talkest.” - -“Do I? My head is light and my heart heavy. Mortality weighs upon me -this morning--oh, Nicette, it weighs--it weighs!” - -“Hast thou done wrong?” - -“Much; and every day of my life.” - -“Confess to me, and I will give thee absolution.” - -“Absolution! to a woman from a woman! Never, I think; or at least -saddled with such a penance as would take all savour from the grace. -Well, as thou hast made thy bed----” - -“So must I lie on it.” - -“What! thou know’st the stranger’s motto? Little holy mother, but it -is true; and I have made my bed, Nicette; and it is not a bed of -flowers at all. _Aïe_! how the world swarms with pitfalls! Yet, at -least, there is to-day an evil the less in Méricourt.” - -“What evil?” - -“The Englishman.” - -“He is gone?” - -“He is gone. I met him yesternoon on the Liége road. He had a staff -in his hand and a knapsack on his shoulders.” - -Nicette was at the tiny casement, delicately coaxing its curtains into -folds that pleased her. She was too fastidious with her task to speak -for a moment. - -“Well,” she said at length, “it is an evil, I suppose, that only -withdraws itself for a day or two?” - -“Better than that, little saint. He goes all the way to Paris. ‘But -Mademoiselle Théroigne,’ says he, ‘I leave my heart behind me. I will -come back to reclaim it in the spring. In the meantime, do me the -favour to keep it on ice; for I think Méricourt is very near the -tropics.’ Bah! is he not an imbecile? We are well quit of him.” - -“In the spring!” - -Nicette came round with a face like hard ivory. - -“Théroigne--why did he speak to you like that? It is not wise or good -of you to court so insolent a familiarity.” - -“I did not court it, and I am not wise or good.” - -Mademoiselle Lambertine looked startled and displeased. - -“What has come to thee, Nicette? It is not like thee to rebuke poor -sinners save by thy better example.” - -“And that is a negative virtue, is it not? Now were time, perhaps, -that you give me the pretext, to end a struggle that my heart has long -maintained with my conscience.” - -Théroigne rose, breathing a little quickly, her bent forefinger to -her lips. - -“Nicette!” she cried faintly. - -“I must say it, Théroigne. This club--this thin dust thrown into the -eyes of Méricourt----” - -The other went hurriedly to the door. - -“I had better go,” she said; “I cannot listen and not cry. Not now, -Nicette, not now! I have no strength--I think the Englishman has left -a blight upon the place!” - -Her footsteps retreated down the garden path--died away. Nicette, -listening, with a line sprung between her eyes, came swiftly from her -bedroom. Close by the door of it--crept from his stool--Baptiste, his -mouth agape, had been eavesdropping, it seemed. She seized him with a -raging clinch of her fingers. - -“Little detestable coward!” she cried, in a suppressed voice--“little -sneak _mouchard_, to spy like a woman! How have I deserved to be for -ever burdened with this millstone?” - -“You hurt me!” whimpered the child, struggling to escape. - -“Not so much as the black dogs will, when they come out of the well in -the yard to carry you to the fire. Little beast, I have a mind to call -them now.” - -“They might take you instead. I will assure them you are wicked -too--that I heard you say so to monsieur the Englishman.” - -She shook him so that his heels knocked on the floor. For the moment -she was beside herself. - -“The Englishman!” she hissed--and choked. “_Est-ce bien possible_! -_Sang Dieu_!--_O, sang Dieu_! and if it were not for thee--he hates -children--he might be now----!” - -She checked herself with a desperate effort. She tightened her grip. -The boy screamed with pain. - -“Be quiet!” she cried furiously. “If some one should hear thee!” - -“I want them to. I want them all to come in, that I may tell how you -pretended to be blind that monsieur might kiss you.” - -She recognised in a moment that he was goaded at last to terrible -revolt. She cried “Hush!” in a panic, and without avail. The child -continued to shriek and to revile her--repeating himself hysterically -in the lack of a sufficient vocabulary. Changing front, it was only -after long and frantic effort that she could coax and bribe him into -silence. And, when at length she had induced him to a reasonable mood, -and could trust herself away from him, she went and threw herself upon -her bed and, perhaps for the first time in her adult life, cried empty -the fountains of her wrath and her terror. - - - - - CHAPTER XI. - -Consistent in his theories of self-discipline, Ned took lodgings in -a poor quarter of Paris with the widow Gamelle. Madame, a fruiterer in -a small way of business, owned a little shop of semi-circular frontage -that, standing like a river promontory at the north-west corner of the -Rue Beautreillis--where that tributary ditch of humanity ran into and -fed the muddy channel of the Rue St Antoine--seemed to have rounded -from sharper outline in the age-long wash of traffic wheeling by its -walls. From his window on the second floor the Englishman thus -commanded a view of two streets, and, indeed, of three; for across the -main thoroughfare the Rue Beautreillis, become now the Rue Royale, was -continued until it discharged itself into a great house-enclosed -_place_, as into a mighty reservoir of decorum built for the -defecation of neighbouring vulgarities. Looking east, moreover, -between the belfry towers of the convents of St Marie and La Croix, -Ned’s vision might reach, without strain, the very twilight mass of -the Bastille; so that, as he congratulated himself, his situation was -such as--barring adventitious and unprofitable luxuries--a blood -prince with any imagination might have envied him. - -For thence, often watching, speculative, he would see the -scene-shifters of the early Revolution--come out in front of the high, -mute screen of the prison, that closed his vista eastwards as if it -were a stage-curtain--busy as bees on the alighting-board of a hive. -Thence he would mark, in real ignorance of the plot of the forthcoming -piece, or cycle of pieces, the motley companies gathering for -rehearsal--the barn-stormers; the heavy “leads;” the slighted -tragedians foreseeing their opportunity for the fiftieth time; the -inflated supers canvassing the favour of phantom houses with imagined -gems of inspiration, with new lamps for old in the shape of -misenlightened renderings of traditional _rôles_; he would mark the -gas, so to speak, the artificial light that informed the garish scene -with spurious vitality. But the prompter he could never as yet find in -his place, nor could he gather the true import of the play to which, -it must be presumed, all this pretentious gallimaufry was a prelude. -Theorists, agitators, pamphleteers--the open, clamorous expression of -that that had been suggested only to him during his hitherto -wanderings--all these and all this were present to his eyes and his -ears, passionlessly alert at their vantage-point on the second floor -of the corner house in the Rue Beautreillis. Daily he sought to piece, -from the struttings and the disconnected vapourings, the puzzle of -present circumstance, the political significance of so much apparently -aimless rhetoric. Daily he listened for the prompter’s bell; daily -looked for the appearance of the confident author who should -discipline all this swagger and rhodomontade. - -Then, by-and-by, the fancy did so master him as that he would see a -veritable curtain, rounding into slumberous folds, in this silent west -wall of the Bastille; a curtain--with sky-arched convent buildings for -proscenium--whose every sombre crease he seemed to watch with a -curious moved expectancy of the unnameable that should be revealed in -its lifting. For so an impression deepened in him unaccountably that -beyond that voiceless veil was shaping itself the real drama, of which -this outer ranting was but as the wind that precedes an avalanche; -that suddenly, and all in a moment, the screen would be rent, like a -sullen cloud by lightning, and the import of an ominous foregathering -find expression in some withering organisation to which the surface -turmoil had been but a blind. He thought himself prophetic--_en -rapport_ with the imps of a national destiny; but nevertheless the -curtain delayed to rise while he waited, though it was to go up -presently to a roar that shook the world. - -Still, from his window Ned could enjoy to look, as from a box in a -theatre of varieties, upon a scene of possibilities infinite to an -artist. He had flown from green pastures and drowsy woods--where -revolutionary propagandism, however violently uttered, must waste -itself on remote echo-surfaces--straight into a resounding city of -narrow ways, a Paris of blusterers and _mégères_, of -controversialists and tractarians, of winged treatises and fluttering -pandects. The streets were as full of the latter as if paper-chase -were the daily pastime of the populace. Only the hounds, it seemed, -never ran the hares to earth; and the hares themselves were March -ones, by every token of incoherence. And “Surely,” thought the young -man, “it is to be needlessly alarmist to read upheaval in this yeasty -ferment. Let the Bastille fall, and there behind shall show nothing -more formidable than the blank brick wall of the theatre.” - -But at least all his perspectives teemed with colour. The national -complexion, he could have thought, revealed itself in its hottest dyes -in this quarter of the town. Here were no subdued tones of speech or -apparel, no powdered flunkeyism deprecating the brutal outspokenness -of nature. St Antoine, even this west side of the prison bar, took -life on the raw; dressed loudly as it talked; discussed its viands and -its hopes with an equal appetite for un- and re-dress; was always far -readier to hang a man than a joint of beef--instinctively, perhaps, to -make him that was hard tender. And to this unposturing attitude Ned -felt his sympathies extend. Here, at the smallest, was nakedness -unashamed--material, not, as St Denys would have it, for indulgence, -but for the re-ordering of a world that had confusedly strayed, not so -far, from the paths of truth to itself. - -Moreover, the light, the life, the movement had their many appeals to -his artistic perceptives. These latter, greatly stimulated in little -Méricourt, found themselves ten times awake to this second dawn of -experience. He had never been in Paris before, and it was now his fate -to alight and sojourn in it during an epoch-making period. He did not -forget his late company: that, indeed, was for ever shadowed in the -background of his mind--St Denys and Théroigne, and, most of all, the -strange little lodge-keeper whose portrait he had left unfinished. But -here, in the very mid-throng of vivid life, the present so taxed his -every faculty of observation, so drained the inadequate resources of -his skill and of his paint-box, that interests foreign to the moment -must not be allowed to contribute to the pressure on his time. Like an -author in actual harness who keeps from reading books for fear of -assimilating another’s style, so Ned forbade a thought of Nicette to -come between him and his canvas. And assuredly his business in hand -was not to paint Madonnas. - -At the same time, Paris wrought upon him something beneficially. Its -numerical vastness--more forcibly expressed, by reason of the -intenseness of its individual feeling, than that of London--amused him -with a sense of his own insignificance; the conviction driven home -into his mind, as he turned bewildered in a snow of pamphlets, that -his profound theories of government were but childish essays in a -craft, in the complicated ramifications of which there was not a -street orator but left him miles behind, taught him a modesty to which -he had been hitherto a part stranger. But he grew in self-reliance as -he dwindled in self-sufficiency; and that was like exchanging fat for -muscle--an admirable _quid pro quo_ in a city of gauntest shadows. - -To all the concentration of his faculties upon a seething pandemonium; -to all his earnest efforts to record armies of fugitive impressions, -and to interpret of their sum-total the nature of the force that set -them in motion, Madame Gamelle acted, in unconscious humour, the part -of chorus. - -“But, yes,” she would say; “the philosophers have proved the world -misgoverned, and these that you see are the agents of the -philosophers. They are travellers who trade in the article of truth. -They teach the people to know themselves; that every one may have -liberty of speech; that licence shall no longer be the privilege of -aristocrats.” - -“And you would know yourself licentious, mother?” - -“As to that--do not ask me. I recognise it only for an admirable -creed. My Zoïle would call it so. He looked to the time when he would -be legally entitled to ignore the marriage vow. The poor _blondin_! He -was a fine man, monsieur, but always unlucky. He died in the heyday of -his hopes, leaving me the one precious pledge of his affection.” - -Then she would poke the little frowzy baby on her arm with a stunted -finger, and nod to and address it in a strain of superfluous banter:-- - -“_Eh, mon p’tit godichon_! Thou wouldst teach me to know myself in thy -little dirty face? Fie, then! Hast thou been seeking for my image or -thine own in the basin of fine gravy soup I set aside for monsieur the -lodger’s dinner?” - -So it was ever with this gruesome infant. Its presentment, or that of -some part of it, haunted Ned through every course of an attenuated -cuisine. The butter would exhibit a mould of its features, the -milk-jug a print of its lips. The rolls appeared indented with -suspicious crescents in the crusty parts; the omelettes confessed a -flavour, and often an impression, of a small sticky hand. The creature -itself, moreover, was a shockingly ubiquitous Puck. It was always -being mislaid, as was everything portable in the house. Its shrill -waking cry would issue from the depths of the lodger’s bed, into which -it had burrowed with a precocious sense of the humour of -appropriation; its red face rise suddenly, like an October moon, from -behind a cloud of sacking on the floor. It was brought up with the -fagots, and ran some narrow risks of premature cremation; it was -included in the week’s washing, and its little fat stomach menaced -with a flat-iron. Sometimes, when one opened a cupboard, it would fall -out in company with half-a-dozen plates; sometimes madame would -deposit it on a table, and, forgetting that she had done so, would -heap it with casual litter as she transacted her domestic business. -“No doubt,” Ned thought, “it is destined to eventual immolation in a -pasty.” - -Indeed, his nerves were always on the jump when there was cooking -forward--a lively knowledge of which fact he could by no means evade. -For the process being conducted on the floor above his head, and it -being customary with madame to let everything boil over, it became a -familiar experience with him to see successive samples of his _menu_ -appear and hang in sebaceous drops from a certain seasoned patch on -the ceiling, whence in time they would contribute their quota of peril -to a perfect little slide of grease that had formed on the boards -below. Then, at such a stage, it would be not unusual for his landlady -to come into view, pledge-on-arm, at the door, her _borné_ face -irradiated with some eagerness of triumph. - -“But only think, monsieur!” she would begin. - -“Pardon,” Ned would interpose; “but is it well for the child to be -gnawing that great lump of cheese?” - -“Cheese! _Oh, mon Dieu_! I must have put it on the trencher, thinking -it was bread, and he has taken it, the thief!” - -Then the lodger must discipline his impatience, while the comestible -changed hands, to a shrill clamour, the infant finally being deposited -outside the door like boots to be cleaned. - -“Only think, monsieur!” cries the lady again; “the delicate _compote_ -I could have sworn to having prepared for monsieur’s dinner a week -ago, when monsieur, nevertheless, had to go fasting for an _entremet_! -I was right; it was made, and it was not stolen. This morning I find -it thrust to the very back of the oven--baked for a week, and no more -eatable than a brigadier’s wig.” - -Well, all this provoked Master Ned into no desire to change his -quarters. He was a genially stoic rascal, and one that could wring -interest out of investments that would have repelled less -imperturbable natures. So, through that autumn and winter, and deep -into the spring of ’89, he stuck to his corner of the Rue -Beautreillis, going little into the more fashionable centres of the -town, seeking artistic adventure like a knight-errant of the pencil, -and doubtless elaborately misreading, in common with many thousands -about him, the signs that came and went, like a moaning wind, in the -channels of the rushing life of St Antoine. - - - - - CHAPTER XII. - -Looking on a certain afternoon (it was that of the 27th of November) -from his high perch, Ned saw the people of the streets to be in a more -than usual state of excitement and commotion. Once or twice latterly -it had occurred to him that the ferment of national affairs was not -subsiding, as he had expected it to do, under the tonic treatment of -the national comptrollers--that the people were bent on levying on -their taxmasters a tax more stringent than any they had themselves -groaned under. Sometimes turning, as he rarely did, into the Palais -Royal, and marking how, in that garden of public sedition, the very -veil had been torn from innuendo; how furious agitators, each with his -knot of eager listeners, found applause proportionate to the daring of -their vituperation; how struggling hordes fought from door to counter -of Desein’s book-shop, that they might feed their revolutionary hunger -with any cag-mag of radicalism, provided it were dressed to look raw -and bloody--he would fall curiously grave over a thought of the -impotence of any known principle to precipitate passions held in such -intricate solution, curiously speculative as to the drifting of a -rudderless bark of state. For himself, he was conscious of having been -shouldered from all his little snug standpoints of legislative -philosophy; of the treading-under of his protoplasmic theories by -innumerable vigorous feet; of his inadmissible claim to be allotted a -portfolio in any government whatsoever of man by man. He was become, -indeed, quite humble, and yet larger-souled than before, by reason of -his content to act the part of insignificant unit in a drama, the -goodly developments of which he was nevertheless still confident -enough to foretell. And surely at this point he would have cried--and -that, despite the augurs--as Mirabeau cried ecstatically at a later -date: “How honourable will it be for France that this great Revolution -has cost humanity neither offences nor crimes.... To see it brought -about by the mere union of enlightened minds with patriotic -intentions: our battles mere discussions; our enemies only prejudices -that may well be forgiven; our victories, our triumphs, so far from -being cruel, blessed by the very conquered themselves.” - -“And, indeed,” thought Ned, “what reforms were ever compelled without -pressure, and what pressure, that was considerate of the pressed, was -ever effective?” - -Now he ran downstairs in haste to inquire of Madame Gamelle the reason -of the popular excitement. He found the good woman herself fluttered -by it to an uncommon degree. She put the pledge into a half-empty tub -of potatoes (a something despised vegetable in the France of that -date), that she might gesticulate the more comprehensively. - -“It is news,” she cried; “a fine ‘facer’ to the notables. How they -will squirm, the rascals! We are to have the double representation. It -is decreed by Louis, the good king.” - -“Rather by Sieyes and M. d’Entraigues, is it not?” - -“_Oh, çà_! That is the way to talk. But you forget the Minister of -Finance, who shall go into the calendar of saints, cheek by jowl with -St Antoine himself.” - - -On the very noon following that of the declaration respecting the -Tiers Etat, lo! there was new commotion in the streets, and holiday -faces and footsteps hurrying westward. Again Ned descended and again -inquired. Madame received him with a shrill cackle:-- - -“Oh yes! it is excitement and all excitement, as you say. But what -infamy that I am chained to my kennel like a vicious dog.” - -“What is to do then, madame?” - -“But this, monsieur: a gas-balloon is to ascend from the garden of the -Thuilleries at two o’clock.” - -Ned sniggered. - -“The hubbub is extreme beyond that of yesterday; and madame is cut -from the enjoyment? Supposing, then, I were to take her place as -_fruitière_?” - -“That is impossible. What fly has stung you? But you can go yourself, -and report to me of the proceedings.” - -“Well,” said Ned, “I think I will, that I may learn to differentiate -between the emotions of triumph and of pleasure.” - -He saw over the trees, as he turned into the gardens, the soft blue -dome of the great envelope stretching its creases to the sun--an -opaline mound that glistered high and lonely as an untrodden hill -summit. But about the show spot itself, when he reached it, he could -have thought two-thirds of all Paris collected. In one vast -circle--wheel-fely and hub--this enormous hoop of onlookers enclosed -the centre of attraction. On its white face-surface upturned, as on -the surface of a boiling geyser, bubbles of myriad talk seethed and -broke, filling the air with reverberation. Winds of laughter ruffled -it; a sun of merriment caught the facets of its countless eyes. It was -a wheel of jovial Fortune--of a jewelled triumphal car that had -yesterday been a war-chariot, scythed and menacing. - -Compact of solid humanity throughout its circumference, its edge was -nevertheless frayed, like the exterior of a clustered swarm of bees, -into a flitting and buzzing superficies of place-seekers. -These--scurrying, criss-crossing; sometimes settling upon and becoming -part of the main body; sometimes affecting a cynical indifference to a -show, from view of the inner processes of which their position -debarred them; in their formless excitement, their hysteric and -unmannered hunt for points of vantage, their magnifying of occasion -into epoch, their utter lack of the sense of moral proportion, of the -sense to distinguish appreciably between affairs of moment and affairs -of the moment--exhibited, as the typical traveller exhibits, those -national characteristics that seem as little accommodating to -revolution in principle as to revolution in habit. - -“Only here,” thought Ned, “they are not discreditable exceptions to -the national rule, but fair samples of the whole.” - -A couple, pausing within ear-shot of him, engaged his attention at the -instant. One of these, a lord of _clinquant_, self-satisfied, -arrogant-looking, and dressed, one might have fancied, to the top bent -of bourgeoisie, saluted the other, as a skipjack humours in himself a -holiday mood of affability, with an air of tolerant condescension. - -“Eh, indeed, M. David!” said he. “You profit yourself of this -occasion. But, if I were in your position, I should seize it to lie -abed.” - -The person addressed stood a half minute at acrid gaze--his shoulders -humped, and his hands gripped on the ebony crutch of his cane--before -he replied. He was a man of a somewhat formidable expression, with -red-brown hair all writhed into little curls, as if a certain inner -heat had warped it. His eyes were hard as flints; and the natural -causticity and determination of his face took yet more sinister -emphasis from a permanent distortion of the upper jaw, whereon an -accidental blow had caused a swelling that impaired his right speech -and made of his very smile a wickedness. His figure, square and firm, -if inclined to embonpoint, set off to advantage his suit of dark blue -cloth, very plain and neat, with silver buttons; his handkerchief and -simple ruffles were spotless, and about the whole man was an -appearance of cold self-containment that was full of the conscious -pride of intellectual caste. - -“My good Reveillon,” he said at length, “yesterday it was decreed that -the deputies of the third state should equal in number those of the -nobility and of the clergy put together. That was a momentous -concession, was it not? Also, the eligibility for election, into the -second order, of curés, and into the Tiers Etat of Protestants, was -made known--truly all subjects for popular rejoicing. Doubtless, then, -your employés, leaning out of the windows of the paper factory in the -Rue St Antoine” (“They could not,” thought Ned. “I know the place. -Every window is barred.”), “tossed their caps into the street, into -the air--anywhere but into your face, crying _Vive Necker_ and _A bas -les notables_!” - -“It is always for you to claim the privilege to speak, as you paint, -enigmas,” said the other, with a certain excited insolence of tone. He -was flushed with aggravation under the hard inquisition of the eyes -that had so deliberately taken his measure. - -“True enough, the rascals showed enthusiasm,” he cried. “And what -then, M. David?” - -“Why, you would drive them to work again, would you not, when the -effervescence was subsided?” - -“Assuredly. What is any effervescence but bubbles that break and -vanish? Their business is not to discuss politics but to roll paper, -as it is yours to cover the sheets with hieroglyphics (that, I -confess, I do not understand) when prepared. Well, monsieur, you get -your price and they theirs. Does yours satisfy you? But it might not -if I charged the stuff you buy of me with the interest of time lost -over irresponsible chatter on the part of my employés.” - -“Surely, my friend, here is a little spark to produce an explosion.” - -“Oh, monsieur! I can read between the lines, and I am not ignorant of -what may be implied in a sneer. You are _peintre du Roi_, M. David; -you have chambers at the Louvre, M. David. That is very well; and it -is also very well to subordinate your convictions to your prosperity, -so long as the sun of royalty shines on you.” - -“Be very careful to pick your words, my pleasant Reveillon,” said the -painter, already, in some emotion of self-suppression, articulating -with difficulty. - -“Why?” said the paper-maker, waning cool as the other gathered heat. -“Is it not true, then, that you are a democrat?” - -“What has that to do with the question?” - -“It has everything, monsieur, if I am to understand your innuendoes. -It signifies, of course, your dogmatic advocacy of the labour, as -opposed to the capital side of industrial economy. It signifies that, -in your opinion, it is tyranny to enforce discipline upon any body of -men who congregate for other than belligerent purposes, and that any -popular demonstration may serve Jack Smith as excuse for neglecting -his work, but not Jack Smith’s master for docking the absentee’s -wages.” - -“They are always little enough,” said M. David, still very indistinct. - -“And I throw the word in your teeth!” cried the paper-maker hotly in -his turn. - -The dispute aroused small interest amongst the near bystanders, whose -attention was otherwise engaged. One or two, however, gave a pricked -ear to it. - -“I am a kind master,” continued the angry manufacturer. “I dare any -one to refute it. How many hands do I employ, monsieur, do you think? -Not a few, monsieur, not a few; and of them all, two-thirds are here -this afternoon--here in these gardens, with permission, though I -suffer by it, to attend the _fête_ of the balloon.” - -He spoke the last words uncommonly loudly. The painter burst into a -louder laugh, that distorted his face horribly. - -“My exquisite Reveillon,” he said, advancing and endeavouring to take -the other’s arm, only to be peevishly repulsed. “My dear soul, you are -admirable! I see crystallised in you every chief characteristic of the -latter-day Parisian.” - -“Very well,” said the Sieur Reveillon, sullen and glowering: “see what -you like; I do not care.” - -“To lay down one’s work a moment to applaud the emancipation of a -people: to make a national _fête_ of a balloon ascent!” - -He tried to affect an air of humorous dilemma; but the part was beyond -him. - -“Oh!” he cried savagely, paraphrasing La Fontaine, and stamping his -foot on the ground: “_On fit parler les morts; personne ne s’émut_!” - -By a strong effort he controlled himself. - -“Good M. Reveillon,” he said, “understand that my wits are _my_ -employés. If, following your edifying example, I give them an outing, -I must accompany them like a schoolmaster. Thus your penetration may -divine the reason why I do not lie abed on this rare occasion of a -holiday, which, as your plutocratship suggests, should be an excuse -for rest to all poor devils of workmen.” - -A young mechanic, in his squalor and hungering leanness, simply -typical of his class, hurried by at the moment, eagerly seeking a -place to view. His roving eyes, catching those of the paper -manufacturer, took a hostile, half-anxious expression as he went on -his way with a louting salutation. - -“One of the two-thirds?” asked David. “A testimony, indeed, to the -fostering kindness of the Sieur _Papetier_.” - -“Bah!” cried Reveillon. “It is the cant. The successful must always be -held responsible for the ineptitude of the improvident. He that passed -was a journeyman; and a journeyman may live very handsomely on fifteen -sous a-day, if he is sober and prudent. I have been through it and I -know. I have no false pride, monsieur _le peintre du Roi_. I was -apprentice--journeyman myself--before I was master.” - -As he spoke, a great seething roar issued from the crowd. Ned, who had -been sketching desultorily as he listened, raised his face. A huge -bulge of grey went up into the sky--a mystery of bellying silk and -intricate ropes straining at a little cockle-shell of a car. To the -explosion of guns, to the frantic waving of flags and handkerchiefs, -to the jubilant vociferating of half a city, the quasi-scientific toy -rose, and was reflected as it sprang aloft in the pupils of ten -thousand eyes. The circle of the mob dilated as its components yielded -a pace or so to secure the better view, and the act brought the two -disputants into Ned’s close neighbourhood. M. Reveillon, for all his -late colloquy, was now no less hysterical than the rest of the -company. - -“_Voilà_!” he shouted, clutching at the young fellow’s arm -spasmodically: “is it not a sight the very acme of sublimity! Behold -the unconquerable enterprise of man thus committed to victory or -destruction. There is no middle course. He is to triumph or to die.” - -His excited grasp tightened on the sleeve he held. His glance -travelled swiftly to and from the sketch-book, on a page of which Ned -was endeavouring to hastily record some impression of the buoyant -monster above. The Englishman marvelled to see this sudden eruption -from so flat and commonplace a surface. - -“You can discipline yourself to draw in the face of this stupendous -fascination,” cried the paper-maker. “_Mon Dieu_! that you had been -with me at Boulogne in ’85, when Rozier’s Montgolfier took fire at the -height of a thousand mètres, and he and Romain were precipitated to -the earth!” - -He never removed his hungry gaze from the mounting balloon while he -talked. - -“Fifteen sous a-day!” ejaculated M. David’s voice to the other side of -Ned. - -“It was like the bursting of a shell,” said Reveillon, in a sort of -rapturous retrospection. “We were looking--our _vivats_ still echoed -in the air; the smiles with which they had parted from us were yet -reflected on our faces; there came a spout of flame, very mean and -small against the blue, and little black things shot from it and fled -earthwards. It was fearful--heart-thrilling, that sound of a man -falling through two-thirds of a mile. And the finish--the settling -vibration! _Mon Dieu_! but I have never since missed an ascent.” - -“Fifteen sous a-day!” exclaimed David. - -But Ned instinctively withdrew himself from a touch that had grown -unpleasant to him. - -“The cloven hoof!” he thought. “And is to be without bowels the secret -of every plutocrat’s success?” - -“Fifteen sous a-day!” repeated David monotonously. - -Reveillon came back to earth a moment, and made him an ironic bow. - -“Certainly,” he said. “It is the wages of a good journeyman, and more -than those of many an artist who disdains to be a time-server.” - -The disintegrated crowd, swarming abroad like a disturbed knot of -newly hatched spiders, surrounded and absorbed him. _M. le peintre du -Roi_ summoned Ned’s attention, peering over his shoulder. - -“It is an insolent parvenu,” he said; “a Philistine double damned for -grinding the faces of the poor. Permit me the privilege to look, -monsieur. An artist is known by his performance. There is a severity -here that entirely commends itself to me.” - - - - - CHAPTER XIII. - -Ned’s chance meeting with the painter, whose art was then much -exciting, in a characteristic freak of perversity, the enthusiasm of -his fellow-citizens, was the prelude to a strange little _camaraderie_ -between the two that, so long as it held, was full of positive and -negative instruction to the younger man. It came about in this way, -that, absorbed in the discussion of a topic of common interest, the -gentlemen left the Thuilleries gardens together, M. David accompanying -Ned eventually to the Rue Beautreillis. At the door of the fruiterer’s -shop the famous artist held out his hand bluntly. - -“You have the right religion,” he said: “in an artificial world the -cleanest art shall prevail. We can have no standard of truth but what -we set ourselves. Strip the model, then, of all meretricious -adornments. Monsieur, I shall take the liberty to call upon you.” - -He came, indeed--not once but often, walking over from his studio in -the Louvre; dropping in at unexpected times; criticising the methods, -the actual performance of the Englishman, and even condescending now -and again to add to a sketch or canvas a few touches--technical -mastery without imagination--that resolved in a moment a difficulty -long contended with. Through all he would never cease to expound his -views on right art and government--to him inseparable words in the -condition of national sanity, and both drawn in their purity from the -fountain-head of the S.P.Q.R. at its strictest period. Most often he -would discourse, gazing, his hands behind his back, from the window, -and sometimes quite aptly illustrating his homilies with types drawn -from the human mosaic of the St Antoine below him. - -M. David was at this time some forty years of age, an Academician, the -acknowledged and popular leader of classic revivalism. He was -fashionable, moreover, and had just completed (“_mettant la main sur -sa conscience_”) a royal commission for a “Brutus”! Courted, -prosperous, and respected, some moral myosis must still distort to his -inner vision all the admiration he evoked. He would make his profit of -patronage, secretly raging over the opulent condescension that his -cupidity would not let him be without. He would see _double entendre_ -in the applause of the social _élite_, yet hunger for it, cursing -himself that the vital flame of his self-confidence must be dependent -on such fuel for its warmth. For in truth he was the tumid bug of -vanity, bursting with the very scarlet adulation that his instinct -told him was inimical to the artistic life and other than its natural -food. - -Contributing to, or proceeding from, this insane desire of -self-aggrandisement, his professional and political convictions (he -could not disassociate the two) ran in a restricted channel. But who -shall distinguish, in any complaint that is accompanied by an -unnatural condition of the nerves, between cause and effect? So M. -David’s resentment of patronage may have inclined him to a creed of -classic socialism; or his classic proclivities may have prejudiced him -against the presumptions of self-qualified rank. In any case, he had -twisted his theories, artistic and political, into one thin cord to -discipline (or hang) mankind withal, and was as narrow a fanatic as -was ever prepared to crucify the disputant that ventured to question -his infallibility. - -Now, at the outset, Ned fell into some fascination of regard for this -casual acquaintance of his. His _credo_, social and technical, would -appear to jump--its first paces, at least--with M. David’s. Moreover, -the glamour that naturally informed the presentment of a notable -personality condescending to the regard of a tyro who could boast no -actual claim to its notice, induced him, no doubt--under this -influence of a flattery indirectly conveyed--to an attitude of -respectful consideration towards certain foibles in the stranger that, -on the face of them, seemed irreconcilable with the highest principles -of morality. - -It was not so long, however, before his mind began to misgive him that -his “half-God” was clay-footed--that here, indeed, was but another -inevitable example of that subjective inconsistency that seems so -integral a condition of the Gallic temperament. Then: “It is a fact,” -he thought, “that one can never start to conjugate a Frenchman but one -finds him an irregular verb. Where universal exceptions are to prove -the rule, what rule is possible? Anarchy, and nothing else, is the -logical outcome of it all.” - -For M. David would cry to him, “In a Republic of Truth every unit must -be content to contribute itself unaffectedly to the full design.” Yet -(as Ned came to know) was no man more greedy than this Academician for -vulgar notoriety--none more sensitive to criticism or more resentful -of a personal slight. So he (M. David) would preach, not plausibly but -whole-mindedly, a religion of purity and cleanliness--a religion of -beauty, material and intellectual, whose very ritual should be -Gregorian in its sweet austerity. Such were his professions; and -nevertheless in the height of his revolutionary popularity he did not -scruple to introduce into his pictures details that pandered to the -most sordid lusts for the grotesque and the horrible--to generally, -indeed, stultify his own declarations of belief by acts that no ethics -but those of brutality could justify. Finally, it was in the disgust -engendered of a flagrant illustration of such inconsistency that the -young Englishman, after some months of gradual disenchantment, “cut” -the king’s painter; fled, for solace of a haunting experience, -eastwards again, and, snuffing with some new emotion of relish the -frankincense of green woods, hugged himself over a thought of his -seasonable escape from that national sphinx of caprice, to symbolise -whom in a word one must draw upon modern times for the “cussedness” of -Wall Street. - -Yet even then, had he but foreseen it, he was backing, while dodging -Scylla, into the very deadly attraction of Charybdis. - - -In the meanwhile autumn stole footsore, like a loveless wife, in the -track of summer. She was swart and powdered, not _à la mode de -Versailles_; drouthy too, yet with a cry to shrill piercingly in every -street of every town of France. - -The dust of her going rose and penetrated through chinks and doorways. -It overlay the pavements so thickly that one might have thought it the -accumulation of that that age-long ministers had thrown in the eyes of -the people, the very precipitate of tyranny. It clung, hot and acrid, -to the walls of all living palaces, of all princely monuments to the -dead, as if it were the expression of that proletariat censorship that -would obliterate the very records of a hateful past. It was the -condensed breath of destruction settling in a stringent dew, and it -might have been exhaled from the ten thousand brassy throats that made -clamour in the highways ten thousandfold great because they were the -resonant throats of starved and empty vessels. - -For the elections were on; and what if bread were dearer than money if -his chosen representative was in every man’s mouth? So, through broil -and famine the city of Paris echoed to its blazing roofs with jangle -jubilant and acclamatory, inasmuch as the no-property qualification -gave every honest man a chance of being governed by a rogue. And what -prospect in a nation of contrarieties could be more humorously -enticing? - -Then upon this drouth and this uproar Ned saw the steel glaive of -winter smite with a clang that brought ironic echoes from the hollow -granaries. It fell swift and sudden; and the clamour, under the -lashing of the blade, took a new tone of terror, the wail of -despairing souls defrauded of their right atmosphere of hope. For who -could look beyond the present with the thermometer below zero; with -the prospect blotted out by freezing mists; with the thin shadows of -pining women and children always coming between one and the light; -with one’s own brain clouded with the fumes of dearth? Yet the -elections went on; but now in a sterner spirit of desperation--of -insistent watchfulness, too, that no hard-wrung concession should be -juggled to misuses under cover of mistifying skies. - -Of much misery that neighboured on the wretchedest quarters of a -wretched city Ned was, from his position, cognisant. The sight shook -his stoicism, and greatly contributed to the disruption (St Denys and -M. David negatively helping) of a certain baseless little house of toy -bricks that his boyish vanity had conceived to be an endurable system -builded by himself. “I have been a philosophe, not a wise man,” he -thought. “Life is not a chess-board, its each next step plain to the -clean thinker.” - -Now it was the sight of the children that secretly wrung his heart: -these poor sad babies, disciplined on a primary code of naughtiness -and retribution, merit and reward, marvelling from sunken eyes that -they should be so punished for no conscious misbehaviour; patiently, -nevertheless, retaining their faith in God and man, and making a -play-ball of the bitter earth that stung their hands and shrivelled -under their feet. - -Well, they died, perhaps by hundreds, when the snow was in the -streets. “And let them go,” said M. David. “There shall be others to -follow by-and-by. As to these, warped and demoralised, they would not -prosper the regeneration of the earth. We want a clean race and no -encumbrances.” - -That was _his_ philosophy--admirably Roman, as he intended it to be. -It did not suit Ned. - -“There is more to be learnt from a cripple than an athlete,” said that -person boldly. “I would sooner, for my own sake, study in this school -of St Antoine than in yours of the Louvre, M. David.” - -“Truly, every artist to his taste,” said the Academician, with an -unsightly grin; and it was Ned’s taste to give of his substance -royally and pityingly when a voice cried in his ear of cold and -famine. - -“_Ah, le genereux Anglais_!” wept Madame Gamelle. “He has kept the -wolf from my door. Would that all mothers could secure to their dear -rogues such a fairy godfather as he has been to my cherished one!” - -“Without doubt,” said M. David, “he has preserved to you for your -virtues the blessing of an encumbrance that by-and-by shall devour -you.” - -Madame must laugh and protest against this inhuman sarcasm. For the -great painter, despite his austerity, had a masterfully admiring way -with women that derived from the serpent in Eden. - -“Here, then, to prove it no sarcasm, is my contribution to the cause,” -he says, and places a sou in the pledge’s fat hand. - -But Ned went his way uninfluenced of sardonic counsels. - -“When this horror relaxes,” he thought, “in the spring I will go back -to Méricourt. I shall be able then, perhaps, to paint a Madonna with -a human soul.” - - -The spring came; the ice melted on the Seine; but it did not melt in -the breasts of an electorate hardened by suffering, consolidated in -the very “winter of its discontent.” But now at least Ned could -sometimes watch from his window without dread of having his soul -harrowed by the desolation and misery of its prospect--could watch the -fire of the sun burning up a little and a little more each day with -the rekindled fuel of hope. - -Now it happened that, thus observing, he was many times aware of M. -David mingling with the throng below; going with it or against it; -strolling, his hands behind his back, with the air of an architect who -cons the effect of his own shaping work. This may have been a fancy; -yet it was one that dwelt insistently with the onlooker, that haunted -and disturbed him with presentiment of evil as month succeeded month -and the vision fitfully repeated itself. What attraction so -spasmodically drew the man to this quarter of the town? Not Mr Murk -himself, for now the little regard of each for each was severed by -some trifling outspokenness on the part of the Englishman, and the -painter had long ceased of his visits to the fruiterer’s shop in the -Rue Beautreillis. Ned, for some unexplainable reason, was troubled. - -Once he was aware of M. David, moved from his accustomed deliberation, -walking very rapidly in the wake of a man who sped, unconscious of the -chase, before him. Ned identified the stranger as he turned off down a -by-street. It was Reveillon, the prosperous paper merchant he had -happened on on the day of the balloon ascent. - -“M. l’Académicien follows the man like his shadow,” he thought, -pondering. - -This was in April, when the shadows, indeed, were beginning to -strengthen in darkness. - -Then one morning he started awake to the sound of huge uproar in the -streets. - -The curtain of the Bastille had not risen; but it had been pulled -aside a little, as it were, to make passage to the forestage of the -Revolution for certain supers who were to represent the opening -chorus. These came swarming through in extraordinary numbers, an -earnest of what should be revealed in the complete withdrawal of the -screen. They seemed violently inspired, but most imperfectly drilled; -and the weapons they handled were not stage properties by any means. -And their object was just this--to pull about his ears the factory of -a certain M. Reveillon, who had been heard to say that a journeyman -could live very comfortably on fifteen sous a-day. - -The execrated building was not so far from the Rue Beautreillis but -that the hubbub in the air shook the very glass of Ned’s windows. He -dressed hastily and ran out into the street. Turning into the Rue St -Antoine, that was half choked with a chattering, hooting mob hurrying -westwards, he stumbled over the heels of a man who immediately -preceded him. With an apology on his lips, he hesitated and cried -aloud, “St Denys!” - -Even when the stranger disclaimed the title, with a wonder in his eyes -unmistakably genuine, Ned could hardly bring himself to realisation of -his mistake. True, his acquaintance with the Belgian had been brief -enough to admit of subsequent events clouding its details in his -memory; yet that, he could have thought, was vivid to recall -characteristics of feature and complexion quite impressive in their -way. Here were the bright, bold colouring, the girlish contour of -face, the brown eyes, and the rough crisp gold of unpowdered hair. -Here were the shapely stature, the little fopperies of dress even, the -actual confidence of expression. Only, as to the latter, perhaps, a -certain soul of sobriety, an earnestness of purpose, revealed -themselves in the present instance--a distinction to justify a world -of difference. - -“A thousand apologies!” said Ned. “I can hardly convince myself even -now.” - -“I will presume you flatter me, monsieur,” said the other, with a -blithe smile. “My name is Suleau, at your service. Pardon me, I must -hurry on.” - -Ned detained him a moment. - -“Let me entreat you, monsieur--this heat, this uproar: what is it all -about?” - -“What, indeed, monsieur? France, I think, rolls on its back with its -feet in the air. A manufacturer of paper says that his hands can live -very well, if they choose, on fifteen sous a-day. _Hé_--he ought to -know. But they wish to gut his premises, nevertheless, these new, -evil-smelling apostles of liberty. _Pardon_! will you come with me? I -cannot wait. I am a reporter, a journalist, a scribbler against time -and my own interests!” - -“You are not of the popular party?” - -“_Ah_, monsieur, _mon Dieu_, monsieur! but I have a sense of humour -remaining to me. For all that is serious I am a Feuillant.” - -He spoke the last to deaf ears. Ned had fallen behind, blackly -pondering. - -“This David,” he muttered, “that heard Reveillon say the words, and -that has haunted the St Antoine of late--this David.” And with the -thought there was the man himself coming slowly on with the crowd past -him. The Englishman planted his shoulder against the torrent and -managed to sidle alongside the painter. He--M. Jacques-Louis -David--carried a very enigmatical smile on his face, the physical -malformation of which, however, served him for conscious -misinterpreter of many moods. Now it expressed no disturbance over his -contact with a person who had offended him. - -“Good day,” said he. - -“M. David,” said Ned, “I do not forget what enraged you with M. -Reveillon in the Thuilleries gardens. I think you are a scoundrel, M. -David!” - -The other did not even start; much less did he condescend to refute -the sudden charge; but he cocked his head evilly as he walked. - -“Have you considered,” he said, “that if what you imply be true (which -I do not admit), you are insulting a general in the presence of his -bodyguard?” - -“If what I imply be true,” retorted Ned hotly, “I can understand your -indulging any brutal and contemptible vindictiveness.” - -Perhaps, in his strenuous indignation, he might have struck at the -vicious creature beside him; but the crowd, at that moment violently -surging forward, swept him anywhere from his place and saved him the -consequences of a foolish impulse. - -Now he would fain have turned and escaped from the press, lest by any -self-misconception his conscience should accuse him of lending his -countenance to an iniquity; for he saw that such was planned and -determined on, and for the first time there awoke in his heart some -shadowy realisation of the true import of certain months-long signs -and significances. He would have turned: he could not. He was wedged -in, carried forward, rushed to the very outer core of the congested -block of frowsy humanity that stormed and spat and shrieked under the -high dull walls of the factory. - -Here, perhaps, his national self-sufficiency was his somewhat arrogant -counsellor. - -“What has this man done,” he cried to those about him, “but exemplify -that right to liberty of speech which you all demand?” - -A dozen loathing glances were turned upon him. Savage oaths and -ejaculations contested the opportuneness of so reasonable a sentiment. -But it was not St Antoine’s way, now or at any time, to approve -counsel for the defence. Only a cry, a sinister one then first -beginning to be heard in the streets, broke out here and there. - -“Down with the aristocrat!” - -There was threat of a concentric movement upon the Englishman. He felt -it as a moral pressure even before his immediate neighbours began to -close inwards. One of the latter had a similar consciousness -apparently. She was a coarse, fat _poissarde_, and the shallow groove -that was her waist seemed moulded of the very habit of her truculent -arms folded in front of her. - -“Eh, my little radishes!” she cried in a voice like a corncrake’s. -“Advance, you! Come, then--come! Here is a cat shall strip you of your -breeches if you venture within her reach.” - -Ned felt, and the crowd looked, astonishment over this unexpected -championship. In the momentary proximate silence that befell, the -shattering explosion of many of M. Reveillon’s windows bursting under -volleys of stones was a significantly acute accent. - -The fishwife nodded her head a great number of times. - -“_Hé_! my little rats, you will not come? That is well for your -whiskers, indeed. And do we _not_ demand liberty of speech, as -monsieur says; and are we not taking it to denounce one that would -deprive us of the liberty to live? How! You would raise the devil -against monsieur?” (she waxed furious in an instant)--“Monsieur -l’Anglais, that all the hard winter has lived like a Jacobin friar, -that he might give of his substance to the cold and the starving? -Monsieur l’Anglais that lodges at the fruiterer’s, and without whose -help Fanchon and her brat had been rotting now in St Pélagie! Oh, -_san’ Dieu_! I know--I know! Pigs, beasts, ingrates! It will be well, -in truth, for the first that comes within my reach!” - -A rolling laugh, that swelled to a roar, took up the very echo of -madame’s surprising tirade. - -“_Vive l’Anglais_! the friend of the poor, the apostle of liberty!” -shrieked twenty voices. - -Too amazed by this sudden rightabout of a national weathercock to -protest against its misrepresentation of the direction of his own -little breeze of righteousness, Ned made no resistance, when all in a -moment he felt himself tossed up on billowing shoulders, and conveyed -helplessly from the thick centre of operations. The clamour of hairy -throats, exhaling winey fustian about him, staggered his brain. He had -not even that self-possession left him to blush to find his stealthy -goodness famous. And when the escort landed him at Madame Gamelle’s -door, and with hurried _vivats_ testified to his immediate popularity, -he could think of no more appropriate remark to make to them than, “I -protest, messieurs, that I have never travelled so high in others’, or -so low in my own opinion, before”; which, inasmuch as it was -fortunately spoken in English, and accompanied by a profoundly -ironical bow, served the occasion as gracefully as much compliment -would have done. - - -Feeling at first something like a venturesome infant that had strayed -beyond bounds only to be caught back and kissed, Ned mounted to his -room to await events. They came thick and swift enough to half induce -him to a re-descent upon the scene of action. That temptation he -overcame; but all day long, and far into the evening, he wandered, -restless and apprehensive, in the Rue St Antoine, watching its -turbulent course at the flood, feeling a sympathetic attraction to the -electricity of its moods, conscious of the shock of something -enacting, or threatening to enact, about that congregated spot where -the tumult was heaviest. - -Still with the passing of day came no abatement of the popular fury, -but rather an accumulating of menace; and thereupon (M. le Baron -Besenval, Commandant of Paris, having arrived at his decision) down -swooped upon the scene a little company of thirty bronzed and brazen -French Guards, in their royal chevrons and military coxcombs; which -company, clearing intestinal congestion by measures laxative, -readjusted the order of affairs, and persuaded exhausted patriots to -their burrows. - -To his bed also went Ned reassured, and slept profoundly and -confidently as a rescued castaway. But, waking on the morrow, lo! -there was renewal of the uproar shaking his windows, but now as if it -would splinter the very glass in its frames. - -The cause, when he came to examine, was not far to seek. St Antoine, a -very confraternity of weasels, baulked but not baffled, was returned -to the attack; and at this last it was evident that the paper-maker’s -premises were damned. Indeed, the complaint of democracy had suffered -a violent relapse during the night; and now, in the new dawn, it -blazed and crackled like a furnace. The streets, the roofs, the -windows were massed with writhing shapes; the whole quarter jangled in -a thunder of voices; a pelt of indifferent missiles, deadly only in -the context, rained without ceasing upon the accursed walls. - -Ned paused a moment, swirled like a straw in the current of rushing -humanity, to take stock of possibilities. - -“If it is so they resent a hasty word,” thought he, “God save Paris in -the hour of reprisal!” - -He felt a little sick at heart. He would look no more. - -“I will spend an idle day in the fields of Passy,” he assured himself, -“and forget it all, and return in the evening to find the storm blown -over.” - -He went out by way of the Place St Paul, walking along the line of -quays, and watching, something with the tender feeling of a -convalescent, the golden frost of sunlight that gemmed the waters of -the Seine. It was a fair, sweet morning, too innocent, it seemed, to -take account of human passions; and by-and-by its influence so far -wrought upon him as that he was able to commit himself to it with some -confidence of enjoyment. All about him, moreover, life seemed -pleasurably normal--not significant of fear and apprehension, as his -soul had dreaded to find it. - -But with the approach of dusk his innate misgivings must once more -gather force till they knocked like steam in his arteries; and, so -dreading, he lingered over his return until deep dark had closed upon -the town. At the barrier he heard enough to confirm his disquiet, -though the reports of what had happened were so formless and -contradictory as to decide him to refer inquiry to the evidence of his -own senses. Therefore, in silence and heart-quaking, he made his way -eastwards, and presently turned into the dark intricacy of squares -that led up to the Rue Beautreillis. - -The street, when he reached it, seemed given over to the desolation of -night. The taller houses slept pregnant with austerity as vast -Assyrian images; the lamps, rocking drowsily in their slings, blinked, -one could have thought, to squeeze the slumber from their eyes. -Distant sounds there were, but none proceeding from points nearer in -suggestion than the far side of dawn. - -By-and-by, however, one--a little gurgling noise like the sob of a -gutter--slid into Ned’s consciousness, as, speeding forward, his -footsteps rang out a very chime of echoes. Almost in the same moment -he was upon it, or upon its place of issue--a ragged huddle of shapes -pulled into the shadow of a buttress. - -A clawing figure, gaunt and unclean, rose at him--recognised him in -the same instant, apparently, and gave out a bestial cry. - -“She is going, monsieur! May God wither the hand that beat her down, -and may the soul of him that directed it scream in everlasting hell!” - -He seized the young man’s sleeve and drew him reluctant forward. The -huddle of frowzy things parted, that he might see. - -The coarse large _poissarde_; the ally who had yesterday cherished his -cause and sung his praises; the great breathing, truculent woman with -the defiant voice! Here was the gross material of so much vigour, -collapsed, mangled, and flung aside. The little choking noise was -accounted for. There was a crimson rent in the woman’s throat. She -died while Ned was looking down upon her. - -And this mad thing that spat at the sky? Doubtless he was her husband; -and he might have been a royal duke from the freedom of his language. - -“What does it mean?” cried Ned hoarsely. - -One of the groping shapes snarled up at him-- - -“It is an instance of monseigneur’s paternal kindness to his people.” - -There was nothing to be answered or done. The Englishman emptied his -purse to the group and hurried on. His worst apprehensions were -realised. This was but a sample of what was to follow--a vision to be -repeated again and yet again, in indefinite forms. Rebellion had -broken and suppurated away during his absence. There were some four or -five hundred dead bodies, shot and stabbed, as earnest of its drastic -treatment by the national physicians. There might have been more, but -that the mob had finally given before M. Besenval’s Switzers with -their grape-shotted cannon. Then it retired, pretty satisfied, -however, to have justified democratic frenzy by so practical an -illustration of the tyranny of class hatred; satisfied, also, as to -the moral of its own retreat. M. Reveillon was become a -self-constituted prisoner in the Bastille; his factory was a shapeless -and clinkerous medley of rubbish. Ned, turning the corner of the Rue -Beautreillis, saw the ruins, dusking and glowing fitfully, at a little -distance. “And how,” he thought, with a shuddering emotion, “did he, -that was so fascinated by the man Rozier’s fate, regard the burning of -his own ark of security?” - -The street--so it seemed in the expiring red glimmer and the small, -dull radiance of bracketed lamps--was a very dismantled graveyard of -broken stones and scattered corpses. Amongst the latter moved detached -groups of searchers, languidly official, swinging ghostly lanterns. -With a groan of lamentation, Ned turned about and beat frantically on -the closed shutters of the fruiterer’s shop. - -The door was opened, after a weary interval, by Madame Gamelle. The -woman’s eyes were febrile. She dragged her lodger over the threshold -and snapped the lock behind him. A couple of rushlights burned dimly -on the counter. The pledge, in holiday antic, was stuffing a bloody -cartouche-box with onions from a basket. - -“They killed him at the street corner,” said madame gloatingly. “He -shall never murder again--the accursed Garde Française. They had for -knives only the sharp tiles from the roofs; but it was easy to willing -arms.” - -She was transfigured, this meek vendor of cabbages. Anywhere to -scratch St Antoine was to find a devil. - -“Madame,” said Ned wearily, “it is all quite right, without doubt; but -to-morrow, I must tell you, I am to take my leave of Paris.” - - - - - CHAPTER XIV. - -Mr Murk was suffering from a _toujours perdrix_ of politics. He -needed, he felt, a prolonged constitutional, both to clear his brain -of a certain blood-web that confused its vision, and to enable him to -sort, in fair communion with the Republic of Nature, his own somewhat -scattered theories of government. He was really unnerved, indeed, by -what he had seen and experienced, and the prospect of quiet woods and -pastures was become dear to his soul. He would return to Méricourt, -as he had promised himself he would do, in the sweet spring -weather--to Méricourt, where the play of Machiavelism was but a -pastoral comedy after all. He would return to Méricourt and paint -into the unfinished eyes of his Madonna the fathomless living sorrow -of doubt--the Son being dead--as to their own divinity. - -Of the two hundred miles to traverse he walked the greater -number--sometimes in leisurely, sometimes in hurried fashion, as the -chasing dogs of memory slept or tracked him. But, tramp as he would, -he could not regain that elasticity of heart that once so communicated -itself to the “spirit in his feet.” He had gone to Paris blithe and -curious; he was returning, as the idiom expresses it, with a foot of -nose. In eight months the spouting grass seemed to have lost its -spring. May, with all its voices, could not charm him from foul -recollections; the gloom of slumbering forests was full of murder. Now -for the first time he realised how the great peace he often paused to -wistfully look upon was Nature’s, not his; how, flatter his soul as he -might with a pretence of its partnership in all the noble restfulness -that encompassed it, it stood really an alien, isolated--a suffering, -self-conscious inessential, having no kinship with this material sweet -tranquillity--separated from it, in fact, by just the traverseless -width of that very conscious _ego_. He felt like Satan alighted for -the first time in view of Eden, only to recognise by what plumbless -moat of knowledge he was excluded from its silent lawns and orchards. - -This feeling came to him in his worst moods. In his best, he could -take artistic joy of those effects of cloud and country that called -for no elaborate detail in the delineating--that were distant only -proportionately less than the distant unrealities of the stars in the -sky. For the impression of outlawry in a world that was only man’s by -conquest was bitten into his soul for all time; and never again, since -that night spent in the shambles of St Antoine, should he recover and -indulge that ancient sense of irresponsibility towards his share in -the conduct of man’s usurped estate. - -“We are,” he thought, “squatters disputing with one another the -possession of land to which we have each and all no title.” - -Nevertheless--therefore, rather--his soul acknowledged the opposite to -disenchantment in its review of nature unconverted to misuse. Not -before had pathos so sung to him in the warm throat-notes of birds; so -chimed to him in the tumble of weirs; so looked up into his face from -the fallen blossom on the grass. He might have found his healing of -all things at the time had Love appeared to him in sympathetic guise. - -Over the last stages of his journey he took diligence to Liége, and, -at the end of a long week’s ramble, set foot once more in the old -sun-baked town. - -Thence, on a gentle evening, he turned his face to Méricourt, and in -a mood half humour, half sadness, retraversed the hills and dingles of -a pleasant experience. Somehow he felt as if he were returning, a -confident prodigal, to ancient haunts of beauty and kindliness. - -He had proceeded so far as to have come within a half mile of the -village, when, in thridding his way through a sombre wedge of -woodland, he was suddenly aware of a figure--a woman’s--flitting -before him round a bend in the path. There was that in his momentary -glimpse of the form that led him to double his pace so as to overtake -it. This he had no difficulty in doing, though for a minute it seemed -as if the other were anxious to elude him. But finding, no doubt, the -task beyond her, she stopped and turned of a sudden into a leafy -embrasure set in the track-edge, and stood there awaiting his coming, -her head drooped and her back to a green beech-trunk. - -“Théroigne!” cried Ned, nearly breathless. “Théroigne Lambertine!” - -“Why do you stop me?” she said, panting, and in a low voice. “You know -the way to Méricourt, monsieur.” - -He felt some wonder over her tone. - -“Don’t you wish me to speak to you, then? Have you already forgotten -me?” - -She did not answer or raise her face. - -“Théroigne!” he protested, pleading like an aggrieved boy. “And -little as I saw of you, I have felt, in returning to Méricourt, as if -I were coming back to old friends. I have had enough of Paris and its -horrors, Théroigne.” - -At that she looked up at him for the first time. He was amazed and all -concerned. The glowing, rich, defiant beauty he had last seen. And -this--white, fallen, and desolate--the face of a haunted creature! - -“What is the matter?” he whispered. “What has happened to you?” - -“Paris!” she said in a febrile voice. “Ah, yes, monsieur!--you come -from Paris. And did you see there----” - -She checked herself, struck her own mouth savagely with her palm, then -suddenly gripped at the young man’s wrist. - -“What are they doing in Paris? Is it there, as he prophesied--the -reign of honour and reason, the reign of pleasure, the emancipation of -the wretched and oppressed? He will be a fine recruit to the cause of -so much republican virtue.” - -She breathed quickly; a smouldering fire blazed up in her; her very -voice, that had seemed to Ned starved like her beauty, gathered to -something the remembered volume. - -“He? Who?” said he. - -She took no notice of the question, but went on in great excitement-- - -“What are these horrors that you speak of? Have you seen them? What -are they, I say? Do they tear aristocrats limb from limb? This truth -that he used to preach--my God! there is no hope for the world until -they massacre them each one!” - -“That who used to preach?” said Ned, quite shocked and bewildered. - -“Liars! liars! liars!” cried the girl, striking hand into hand. - -Then suddenly she had flung herself round against the tree, and, in a -storm of tears, had buried her head in her arms. - -“Go!” she cried, in a muffled voice. “Why do you come back with the -other memories? Why do you notice or speak to me? Can you not see that -I am accursed--an outcast?” - -He would have essayed to comfort, to reassure her. Her wayward passion -took his breath away. Even while he hesitated, she turned upon him -once more:-- - -“Are _you_ not also of the _haute noblesse_? What truth or honour or -courage can be in you, then? Yes, courage, monsieur. You have fled -because you were afraid they would kill you, as _he_ fled before his -pursuing conscience. You will not tell me the truth, because you are -shamed in its revelation. My God! what cowards are you all! But only -say to me that he is dead--stabbed to the heart--and I will fall down -and kiss your feet!” - -To Ned, standing there dumfoundered, came an inkling of a tragedy. - -“That Suleau,” he was thinking, half mazed, “did he jockey me; and was -it St Denys after all?” - -He looked at the stressed and wild-wrought creature before him in -sombre pity. - -“So M. de St Denys has left Méricourt?” he said gravely. - -At that Mademoiselle Lambertine broke into a shrill laugh. - -“M. de St Denys? But who spoke of M. de St Denys? It was he, was it -not, that waived his privileges of honour that he might be on a level -with us that have none? And why should he leave Méricourt, where he -was ever a model and an example of all that he preached?” - -“It cannot have been he, then, that I saw in Paris?” - -The girl gasped, stared, and took a forward step. - -“You saw him? And he was amongst the killed?” - -“Théroigne!” - -“Monsieur, monsieur! We have heard how the people rose; we are not -here at the bounds of the earth.” - -“But it was no slaughter of aristocrats.” - -She gazed at him dumbly with feverish eyes, then sighed heavily, shook -her head, and moved out into the open. - -“So you come again to Méricourt?” she said. “You will find it -wonderfully changed in these few months. Now we are possessed by a -devil, and now we are under the dominion of a saint. There is an idol -deposed, and a holy image raised in its place. Will you be walking, -monsieur, or shall I go first?” - -“We will go together.” - -She laughed again with a shrill, mocking sound. - -“Mother of God! what an admirable persuasiveness have these -aristocrats! I had thought myself beneath his notice, and, behold! he -would make me his companion--and in the face of the village, too. -Come, then, monsieur. Will you take your _paillarde_ on your arm?” - -He listened to her with some compassion (for all her wild speech he -thought her heart was choked with accumulated tears), then moved -forward and walked along the woodland path by her side. To his few -questions she returned but monosyllabic answers. Presently, -however--when they were come out within view of the village fountain, -where Ned’s first meeting with her had taken place--she stayed him -with a hand upon his sleeve. - -“‘As she makes her bed, so must she lie on it.’ You see I remember -your words, monsieur. And, if she has made her bed as the virtuous -disapprove, in England she may yet lie soft on it?” - -“Without doubt, in England or elsewhere, so long as she lives only for -the present.” - -“Ah! little Mother of God! but how natural to these aristocrats comes -the preaching-cant.” - -All in a moment her eyes and her speech softened most wooingly, and -she put up her hands, in a characteristic coaxing manner, to the young -man’s breast. - -“I am ill and weary now,” she said. “It is not good to suffer long the -hatred of one’s kinsfolk, the gibes of one’s familiars. But in another -atmosphere I should learn to resume myself--at least to resume all -that of me that concerns the regard of men. The result would be worth -the possessing, monsieur. Monsieur, when you return to England, will -you take me with you?” - -As she spoke, a light step sounded coming up the meadow-path, before -mentioned, that ran into the head of the woodland. It approached; -Théroigne, with a conscious look, fell back a little; and -immediately, moving staid and decorous over the young grass, the white -lodge-keeper of the chateau came into view. She suffered, Ned could -see, one momentary shock of indecision as her eyes encountered his; -then she advanced, and, without a word, went on her way into the wood. -But, as she passed, she acknowledged Ned’s salutation with a grave -little inclination of her head, and with the act was not forgetful to -withdraw her skirts from contact with those of Mademoiselle -Lambertine, who, for her part, shrank back and made not the least show -of protest or resentment. - -Ned, however, regarded with some twinkle of amusement the slow-pacing -figure till it was out of sight, and then he only turned to Théroigne -with a questioning look. - -The girl came up to him again, but doubtfully now, it seemed, and with -a certain wide awe in her eyes. - -“You must not say it, monsieur,” she whispered; “you must not say what -I can read on your lips. She has seen the Blessed Virgin since you -were last here--has seen and spoken with her.” - -“God forgive me for a scoffer! And that is why she is all in blue, I -suppose, and why her blue skirt must not touch hems with your red -one?” - -Théroigne hung her head. - -“When does monsieur return to England?” she said only. - -Ned clasped his hands behind his head and stretched vigorously. - -“Very soon, I think. Mademoiselle Théroigne, I am tired of you all. -Very soon, I think.” - -She made as if she would have touched him again; but he gently put her -away from him. At that she looked up in his eyes very forlorn and -pleading. - -“Mademoiselle Théroigne,” said he, “I do not know or ask you your -story. Here, since I left, all flowers seem to have run to a seed that -is best not scattered abroad. I cannot, of course, prevent your going -to London if you choose. Only, for myself, I must tell you, that -myself is at present as much as I can undertake to direct and govern. -Besides, it is not at all likely that you would find _him_ there.” - -In an instant she was again all scorn and passion. Her lip lifted and -showed her teeth. She humped her shoulders; her hands clinched in -front of her. - -“Not to understand,” she cried, “that that is my very reason for -desiring the refuge of your barbarous land! To escape from myself and -the murder in me!” - -“But why leave Méricourt at all?” - -The blight of her fury was as sudden as the blast that springs from a -glacier. - -“May _you_ know what it is to roll in a trough of spikes and find no -release in your agony! Cold, passionless, insolent! Lazarus, to refuse -to dip your finger in water! But I will go in spite of you: I will go, -monsieur, and laugh and snap my fingers in your face!” - -“Permit me to say,” said Ned coolly, “that this is a very foolish and -unnecessary exhibition of temper.” - -But she flounced round her shoulder and ran from him, storming and -crying out, and disappeared down the track leading to her home. And, -as for him--he went on to the “Landlust.” - - - - - CHAPTER XV. - -During the course of his short journey from the wood-skirt to the -inhospitable hostelry of his former acquaintance, Ned could have -thought himself conscious of an atmosphere vaguely unfamiliar to his -recollections of Méricourt. These were not at fault, he felt -convinced, because of climatic changes; because of an aspect of -seasonable reinvigoration in a place that he had last seen sunk in -lethargy; because of an increase in the number of people he saw moving -in the street even. They recognised themselves astray, rather, over a -spirit of demure gravity--a chosen tribe smugness of expression, so to -speak--that seemed to inform with pharisaic _minauderie_ the faces of -many of those he passed by; and even he fancied he could -distinguish--in the absence of this self-important mien--strangers (of -whom there were not a few) from those that were native to the hamlet. - -There seemed, in short, an air of wandering expectancy abroad--almost -as if the unregarded village, committed hitherto to a serene -isolation, were become suddenly a field for prospectors, ready to -“exploit” anything from a three-legged calf to a _sainte nitouche_. -Conversing couples hushed their voices as he went by, their eyes -stealthily scanning him as one that had ventured without justification -within a consecrated sanctuary. A berline stood drawn up by the -green-side, its occupants, two fashionable ladies from Liége, -converted from the latest fashion in hats to the last in emotionalism. -The blacksmith, in his little shop under the walnut-tree, familiarly -rallied his Creator from stentorian lungs as he clanked upon his -anvil. Across the _Place_ the ineffective Curé was to be seen -escorting a party towards the church; and, over all--visitors and -inhabitants--went the sweet laugh of May blowing abroad the scent of -woods and blossoms. - -Ned turned into the “Landlust,” feeling somehow that his dream of rest -was resolved into a droll. Nor, once within, was he to be agreeably -disillusioned in this respect. The Van Roon seemed to positively -resent his recursion--to regard him in the light of an insistent -patient returning, on trifling provocation, to a hospital from which -he had been discharged as cured. - -“What! you again!” she cried sourly. “One would think moogsieur had no -object in life but to canvass the favour of Méricourt.” - -Ned, the yet imperturbable, answered with unruffled gallantry-- - -“Indeed, in all the course of my travels I have never seen anything to -admire so much as madame in the conduct of her business. Whichever way -I have looked since my departure, it was always she that filled my -perspective.” - -“If that is the same as your stomach,” said madame rudely, “you will -have found me hard of digestion.” - -“At least I am hungry now.” - -“That is a pity. You shall pick Lenten fare in the ‘Landlust’ in these -days.” - -“Is it not rather a question of payment, madame?” - -“No, it is not,” she snapped out viciously. “Moogsieur imposes his -custom on me. He may take or refuse; what do I care, then! We have -nowadays other things to think of than to pamper the gross appetites -of worldlings.” - -“A thousand pardons! Is not that a strange confession from an -inn-keeper?” - -“You may think so if you like. It makes no difference. To charge an -egg with the price of a full meal--where one is willing to pay it--it -simplifies matters, does it not? Anyhow, to be served by one of the -elect (it is I that speak to you)--that is a privilege your betters -appreciate at its value.” - -“Well,” said Ned, “I am at sea, and I have a mariner’s appetite. Give -me what you will, madame.” - -She accepted him, as once before, with a sort of surly mistrust. A -former unregenerate friend of his, she said, was seated in the common -kitchen. He had best join this person while his meal was preparing. - -Thither, much marvelling over all he had heard and been witness of, -Ned consequently bent his steps. He had not expected much of the -“Landlust,” but this exceeded his devoutest hopes. It had the effect -also of arousing in him something of a wicked mood of indocility. - -Entering the long room, the first object to meet his eyes was the -sizar of Liége University. The little round man sat at the table, a -glass of _eau sucrée_ by his elbow, a pipe held languidly between his -teeth. An expression of profound melancholy was settled on his -features. He looked as forlorn as a tropic monkey cuddling itself in -an east wind. At the sight of Mr Murk he started, and half rose to his -feet. - -“The devil!” he muttered; and added--not so inconsequently as it -appeared--“You are welcome to Méricourt, monsieur.” - -Ned laughed. - -“Is it so bad as that?” said he, “and has he become such a stranger -here in these months?” - -The other beckoned his old enemy quite eagerly to a seat. - -“You have not heard, monsieur? It is improbable, without doubt; yet -Méricourt is at the present moment the centre of much reverent -attraction.” - -“Is it? You shall tell me about it, Little Boppard. Yet you yourself -are reprobate, I hear; and you will have your debauch of sugar and -water.” - -In reply, the poor body whispered, in quite a chap-fallen and -deprecating manner-- - -“I am of nature a thirsty soul, monsieur. I must take my smoke, like -the Turk, through bubbles of liquid. What then! this is not my choice; -but it is expected of us in these days of spiritual elevation to drink -at the Fountain of Life or not at all.” - -“There are different interpretations as to the character of the -Fountain. Each is a schism to all others, no doubt. Mine, I confess, -is not of sweet water.” - -Ned spoke, and rapped peremptorily on the table. M. Boppard’s little -eyes, glinting with prospicience, took an expression of nervous -admiration of this daring alien. - -“Ah, monsieur!” he cried in fearful enthusiasm, “do not go too far. -This is not the joyous ‘Landlust’ of your former knowledge; the type -of extravagant hospitality; the club of excellent fellowship. Things -have happened since you were here. Now we drink _eau sucrée_, or, -worse still, the clear water of regeneration itself. Cordials and -cordiality are dreams of the past.” - -His voice broke on a falling key. A scared look came over his face. -The cow-like girl had opened the door and stood on the threshold -mutely waiting. - -“A bottle of _maçon_,” said Ned, and, giving his order, saw with the -tail of his eye the student’s countenance change. - -“A half bottle,” he corrected himself, “and also a double dose of -cognac.” - -The girl stood as stolid on end as a pocket of hops. - -“Do you hear?” said Ned. - -She blinked and lifted her eyelids. A sort of drowsy exaltation -appeared in these days the very accent to her large inertia--its -self-justification, in fact, before some visionary consistory of -saints. - -“Do you hear?” said Ned again, with particular emphasis. - -“It is not permitted to get tipsy in the ‘Landlust,’” said she, like -one talking in her sleep. - -Ned jumped to his feet quite violently. - -“Take my order,” he shouted, “or I’ll come and kiss every woman in the -house, beginning with Madame van Roon!” - -She vanished, suddenly terrified, in a whisk of skirts, and the door -clapped behind her. The young gentleman laughed and resumed his seat. - -“So, Méricourt has found grace?” said he; “and grace is not -necessarily to be gracious, it seems. Yet, you still come here! And -why, M. Boppard?” - -The student shook his head. His face had grown much happier in a -certain prospect. - -“Why do I, monsieur? Can I say? Of a truth it ceases to be the place -of my affections; yet--I do not know. The bird will visit and revisit -its robbed nest; will sit on the familiar twig and call up, perhaps, a -vision of the little blue eggs in the moss. I have been content here. -I cling, doubtless, to the old illusions that are vanished.” - -“Amongst which is the Club of Nature’s Gentry?” - -“Hush!” - -The wine was brought in as he spoke. For what reason soever, Ned’s -argument had prevailed. Probably decorum would not risk a scene -dangerous to its reputation. - -“Hush!” murmured the sizar, twinkling and portentous in one, when they -were left alone again. “It is vanished, as monsieur says. It ceased, -morally and practically, with the disappearance of M. de St Denys.” - -“Whither has he gone, then?” - -“It is supposed to Paris; and may the curse of God follow him!” - -Ned paused in the act of drinking. - -“What do you say, M. Boppard?” - -“He was a liar, monsieur. He used us to his purpose and, when that was -accomplished, he flung us aside.” - -“And his purpose?” - -The sizar dropped his voice to a whisper. - -“Our queen, monsieur,” he said, “our queen, that represented to us the -beautiful ideal of all our most passionate aspirations! He seemed to -avow in his attitude towards her the sincerity of his code of -honourable socialism. He lied to us all. He converted her nobility to -the uses of a common intrigue; and from the consequences of his crime -he fled like a coward, and left her to bear the curses of her people -and the sneers of the community.” - -“Yes?” said Ned; and he took a long draught, for he was thirsty. -Indeed, he had foreseen all this. - -The student’s eyes filled with tears. - -“She was much to us--to me, this Mademoiselle Lambertine,” he said -pitifully. “If there were mercy in the world, she should have been -allowed to bury her dishonour with her dead child in the church -yonder.” - -Ned reached across and patted his companion’s arm. - -“You are a very amiable little Boppard,” he said. - -“Monsieur,” answered the student, “for whatever you may observe in me -that is better than the commonplace, she is responsible.” - -“It shall go to her credit some day, be assured. And now, what is this -other matter? It is not only the fall of its idol, the discovery of -monseigneur’s baseness, that has sobered the community of Méricourt?” - -“By no means.” - -The student pulled at his pipe vehemently. Coaxing it from the sulking -mood, his expression relaxed, and he breathed forth jets of smoke that -he dissipated with his hand. - -“By no means,” said he. “The moral debility that ensued, however, may -have rendered us (I will not say it did) peculiarly susceptible to the -complaint of godliness. At any rate, monsieur, we were chosen for a -high honour, and----” - -He paused, sighed, and shook his head pathetically. - -“It is true, then, that the virgin revealed herself to the -lodge-keeper?” said Ned. And he added: “Boppard, my Boppard! I believe -you are not, in spite of all, weaned from the fleshpots!” - -The student smiled foolishly and a little anxiously. - -“Let me tell you how it began, monsieur,” said he. “The bitter scandal -of monseigneur and--and of our poor demoiselle was yet hot in women’s -mouths (ah, monsieur, what secret gratification will it not give them, -that fall of an envied sister!), when an interest of a different kind -withdrew these cankers from feeding on their rose. Baptiste, the -little brother of Nicette Legrand, disappeared, and has never been -heard of since.” - -“The child! But, who----?” - -“Monsieur, it was the Cagots stole him.” - -“Did they confess to it?” - -“Confess! the pariahs, the accursed! It is not in nature that wretches -so vile should incriminate themselves. But there had been evidence of -them in the neighbourhood; one, indeed, had been employed by -Draçon--whose farm abuts on the lower grounds of the chateau--to roof -a shed with tiles. This Cagot Nicette had seen upon many occasions -covertly regarding the child--conversing with him even, and doubtless, -with devilish astuteness, corrupting his mind. Two days after the job -was completed and the man disappeared, the unhappy infant was nowhere -to be found. They sought him far and wide. Nicette was -prostrate--inconsolable. She had been foremost in the denunciation of -Théroigne. Now, she herself, desolated, defrauded of him to whom she -had been as a mother--well, God must judge, monsieur. At last the -strange gloating of that sinister creature recurred to her, and she -spoke of it. With oaths of frenzy, the villagers armed themselves and -broke into the woods, where the miscreants were known to sojourn. -Their camp was deserted. They were fled none knew whither; and none to -this day has set eyes on them or the little Legrand.” - -“Or questioned, I’ll swear, the unconscionable flimsiness of such -evidence. And Nicette, M. Boppard?” - -“She wandered like a ghost; in the woods--always in the woods, as if -she maddened to somewhere find, hidden under the fern and moss, the -mutilated body of her little _fanfan_. You recall, monsieur, the old -eaten tree, the despoiled Samson of the forest, that held the moon in -its withered arms on a memorable night of jest and revel? _Mon Dieu_! -but the ravishing times!” - -“The tree, my Boppard? Of a surety I remember the tree.” - -“It became the nucleus, monsieur--the clearing in which it stands the -headquarters, as it were, of her operations of search. There appeared -no reason for this, but surely a divine intuition compelled her. At -all periods she haunted the spot. Oftentimes was she to be secretly -observed kneeling and praying there in an ecstasy of emotion. To the -Blessed Virgin she directed her petitions. ‘Restore to me,’ she wept, -‘my darling Baptiste, and I swear to dedicate myself, for evermore a -maid, to thy service!’ One day, by preconcerted plan, a body of -villagers, armed with billhooks and axes, with the Curé at their -head, surprised her at her post. ‘It is not for nothing, we are -convinced,’ said the good father, ‘that you are led to frequent these -thickets. Hence we will not proceed until we have laid bare the ground -to the limit of ten perches, and, by the grace of God, revealed the -mystery!’” - -“Well, M. Boppard?” - -“Now, monsieur, was confessed the wonder. At the priest’s words, the -girl leapt to her feet. Her eyes, it is said by those that were there, -burned like the lamp before the little altar of Our Lady of Succour. -Her face was as white as _cardamines_--transparent, spiritual, like a -phantom’s against the dark leaves. ‘You must do nothing,’ she -said--‘nothing--nothing. Here but now, at the foot of the tree, the -Blessed Virgin revealed herself to me as I kneeled and wept. Her heel -was on the head of a serpent, whose every scale, different in colour -to the next, was a gleaming agate; and in her hand she held a purple -globe that was liquid and did not break, but round whose surface -travelled without ceasing the firmament of white worlds in miniature. -“Nicette,” she said, in a voice that seemed to have gathered the -sweetness of all the sainted dead, “weep and search no more, my child; -for some day thy brother shall be restored to thee. I, the Mother of -Christ, promise thee this!”’” - -“Boppard,” said Ned quietly, “is the description yours or Mademoiselle -Legrand’s?” - -“It is as I heard it, monsieur. I have not wittingly intruded myself.” - -“Yet you are a poet.” - -“But this is prose I speak.” - -“True: the prose of a nimble imagination. And, moreover, you are a -student and a philosopher; and you believe this thing?” - -Boppard nodded his deprecatory poll. - -“Perhaps because I am also a poet, as monsieur says.” - -“It is probable. And Nicette is a poet; which is why she walks, as I -understand, in the odour of sanctity.” - -“I do not comprehend, monsieur.” - -“Why should you wish to? This vision, this revelation--it has proved -profitable to Méricourt?” - -“Again, I do not comprehend monsieur.” - -With the words on his lips, he pricked his ears to a murmuring sound -that came subdued through the closed lattice. He rose and, -instinctively reverential, tip-toed to the window. Ned followed him. - -Across the sunny green, her eyes turned to the ground, her hands -clasped to her mouth, her whole manner significant of a wrapt -introspection, passed M. de St Denys’ little pale lodge-keeper; and, -as she went on her way, men bowed as at the passing of the Host; -children caught at their mothers’ skirts and looked from covert, -wonder-eyed; the fashionable ladies scuttled from their berline and -knelt in the dust, and snatched at and kissed the hem of the -_dévote’s_ garment. She paid no heed, but glided on decorously, and -vanished from Ned’s field of observation. - -“She is a poet,” repeated that young man calmly. - -The student crossed himself. - -“She is a priestess, monsieur,” said he. “She reads in the breviary of -her white soul such mysteries as man has never guessed at.” - -“That I can quite understand; and it will be an auspicious day for -Méricourt when they start to build a commemorative chapel.” - -“It is even now discussed. Already they have the sacred tree fenced -in, and the ground about it consecrated. Already the spot is an object -of pilgrimage to the pious.” - -“As once to the Club of Nature’s Gentry--the ravishing club, oh, my -poor Boppard! Alas, the whirligig of time! But, one thing I should -like to know: to what did Mademoiselle Legrand look for a livelihood -when her master ran away?” - -“Doubtless to God, monsieur. And now, the faithful shower gifts at her -feet.” - - - - - CHAPTER XVI. - -Pretty early on the morning following his arrival in Méricourt, Ned -strolled up the easy slope leading to the lodge of the chateau, and -found himself lingering over against the embowered gates with a queer -barm of humour working upon a commixture of emotions in his breast. -Now it seemed that his very neighbourhood to the Madonna of his memory -was effecting a climatic change both within and without him. For the -first, little runnels of irresponsible gaiety gushed in his veins; for -the second, the weather, that had been indifferent fine during his -journey, appeared to have broken all at once into full promise of -summer. It was not, indeed, that his sympathies enlarged in the near -presence of one who might hold herself as a little moon of desire. It -was rather, perhaps, because in the one-time surrender of her very -soul to his inspection, she had made of him a confederate in certain -unspoken secrets, the knowledge of which was to him like a sense of -proprietorship in a picturesque little country-seat. Yet here, it may -be acknowledged, he indulged something a dangerous mood. - -He stood a minute before passing through the gates. The warmth of a -windless night still slept in the velvety eyes of the roadside -flowers. Morning was heaping off its bed-linen of glistening clouds. -From a chestnut-tree came the drowsy drawl of a yellow-hammer. A -robin--small fashionable idler of birds--abandoned the problem of a -fibrous seed and, flickering to a stump, discussed the stranger -impertinently and with infinite society relish. Only the swifts were -alert and busy, flashing, poising, diving under the eaves; thridding -Ned’s brain as they passed with a receding sound like that made by -pebbles hopping over ice; seeming, in their flight of warp and woof, -to be mending the pace set by the loitering day. Feeling their -activity a rebuke, the visitor passed through the open gate. - -Within, all was yet more pretty orderliness than that he had once -admired. The lodge stood, sequestered trimness, between the luminous -green of its porch and the high rearward trees that spouted up into -the sky, full fountains of tumbling young leaves. The little paths -were swept; the little long beds, bordered with _trique-madame_ and -planted with lusty perennials, were combed orderly as the hair of -their mistress, and weeded to the least vulgar seedling; white -curtains hung in the cottage windows; and everywhere was an added -refinement of daintiness--a suggestion of increased prosperity. - -“Now, Mademoiselle Legrand,” thought Ned, “has shown herself a little -person of resource.” - -He could hear the moan of the horn coming familiarly to him from the -back garden. The sweet complaining cry woke some queer memories in -him. He went forward a few paces up the drive--walking straight into -weediness and the tangle of neglect--that he might get glimpse of the -chateau. The place, when he saw it, glowered from an encroaching -thicket. Even these few months seemed to have confirmed the ruin that -had before only threatened. Its dusty upper windows were viscous, he -could have thought, with the tracks of snails. Grass had made good its -footing on the roof. It looked a forgotten old history of the past, -with a toppling chimney, half dislodged in some gale, for dog’s-ear. - -Ned turned his back on the desolate sight, and lo! there was the -bright patch of brick and flower like a garden redeemed from the -desert. It appeared to point the very moral of the times, but in its -ethical, not its savage significance. He went to seek the priestess of -this little temple of peace. - -As he turned into the garden, a peasant woman was coming out at the -lodge door. She had an empty basket lined with a clean napkin on her -arm. - -“_Que la sainte virge vous bénissè par sa servante_!” she murmured -as she passed by the visitor. - -Nicette was nowhere visible. Ned stole into the house and along the -passage. A strip of thick matting, where had formerly been naked -flags, deadened the sound of his footfalls. Laughter, but laughter a -little thrilling, tingled in his veins. A certain apprehension, that -time might not have dealt as drastically as he had desired it would -with a misconstructive fancy, was lifted from his mind since -yesterday. He felt there could be small doubt but that his own image -had been deposed and replaced by a very idol of vanity--a -self-conscious Adaiah that must find its supremest gratification in -proving its consistency with the character assigned it. Indeed, his -moderate faith in himself as an attractive quantity inclined him, -perhaps, to underrate his moral influence. He had not yet learned that -to many women there is no chase so captivating as that of incarnate -diffidence. - -He came softly upon Nicette in the dairy that was a little endeared to -him by remembrance. Perhaps he would not have ventured unannounced to -seek her in the more inner privacy of her own nest. But the cool dairy -was good for a neutral ground. She stood with her back to him. The -sunlight, reflected from vivid leafiness through the window, made a -soft luminosity of the curve of her cheek, that was like the pale -under-side of a peach. It ruffled the rebellious tendrils of hair on -her forehead into a mist of green; it stained her white chaperon with -tender vert, and discoloured the straight blue folds of her dress. Was -she, he thought, a half-converted dryad or a lapsing saint? - -“Nicette!” he said aloud. - -She gave a strangled gasp and faced about, her eyes scared, a hand -upon her bosom. She had been disposing on a slab a little gift of -spring chickens and some household preserves. - -“Did I startle you?” said Ned. “But you knew I was returned and must -surely come and see you.” - -“Monsieur, you steal upon me like a ghost,” she muttered. - -“Of what, girl? Of no regret, I hope?” - -Her cheek was gathering a little dawn of colour. - -“All ghosts of the past are sorrowful,” she said low. - -“True,” he answered, seriously and gently. “I did not mean to awaken -sad memories. And thou hast never had news of the little one?” - -“Never, monsieur.” - -“It is lamentable.” - -Her eyes were watching him intently. - -“You commiserate me, monsieur?” she said. - -“How can you doubt it, Nicette?” - -“Yet you do not love children?” - -“Don’t I?” - -“But their cunning and their vindictiveness, monsieur?” - -“What of them?” - -“What, indeed? It is monsieur’s own words I recall.” - -“Nicette, can you think me such a brute? I hold myself abashed in the -presence of the innocents. If I have ever decried them, it was only -because their truthfulness rebuked my scepticism. They have shown me -how to die, since I saw you last, Nicette. I shall try to remember -when my hour comes.” - -She passed a hand across her eyes, as though she were bewildered. - -“But this inconsistency,” she began, murmuring. - -Suddenly she straightened herself, and came forward. - -“Truly, I knew you were arrived, monsieur; and you reintroduce -yourself to good company on your return to Méricourt.” - -“And truly I do not take my cue from a scandalous world to -cold-shoulder an old friend.” - -He came sternly into the dairy, and sat himself down on the slab by -the chickens, his legs dangling. - -“Sit there,” he said, and dragged a chair with his foot to his near -neighbourhood. - -The girl hesitated, shrugged her shoulders, and obeyed. - -“Monsieur, it is evident, has not learned----” she was beginning. He -caught the sentence from her:-- - -“That you are a saint? No, I have not learned it in these few -minutes--unless innuendo is the prerogative of sanctity. I, a sinner, -met a fallen woman yesterday, and I pitied her.” - -Mademoiselle Legrand hung her head. Ned recovered his good-humour and -laughed. - -“Oh, little Sainte Nicette!” he said. “Why do you let me talk to you -like this? Because you are a saint? Then I will not take a base -advantage of your condition. But shall I finish the portrait, Madonna? -I have been brought face to face in Paris with the divine suffering of -mothers. I have discovered the secret of the eyes. Shall I finish the -portrait, Nicette?” - -She shook her head. - -“But think how you could instruct me, girl! The lineaments--the very -form and expression; for you have seen them!” - -“Hush!” she exclaimed, in a terrified whisper. “Oh, monsieur, hush! It -is blasphemy; it is terrible. _I_ to pose for the divinity revealed to -me! Surely, you are mad!” - -He leaned down to her as he sat. - -“Nicette,” he murmured, “there is an old confidence between us, you -know, and I recall your fine gift of imagination. Confess that it is -all an invention.” - -“That what is an invention?” - -“Do you not know? This vision in the woods, then.” - -She sprang to her feet. A line of red came across her forehead. - -“You mock me!” she cried. “I might have known that you would; but it -is none the less hateful and cruel. Believe or not as you will.” - -She was enraged as he had never seen her before. - -“But these offerings,” he said, quite coolly: “the chickens and the -little pots of jam, Nicette--or is it guava jelly? One may make a good -investment of the imagination, I see.” - -It was not pleasant of him; but he could be merciless to what he -considered a bad example of _escamoterie_. - -For a moment the girl looked like a very harpy. Her fingers crooked on -the bosom of her dress as if she would have liked to lacerate her -heart in desperate despite of its assailant. Then, suddenly, she -dropped back upon her chair, and, covering her face with her hands, -broke into a very pitiful convulsion of weeping. - -_Qui se fait brebis, le loup le mange_! - -Assuredly Ned had invited his own discomfiture. He had thought to -operate upon this tender conscience without any right knowledge of the -position of its arteries of emotion. He had bungled and let loose the -flood, and straightway he was scared over the result of his own -recklessness. - -He let Mademoiselle Legrand cry a little while, not knowing how to -compromise with his convictions. He loved truth, but was not competent -to cope with its erring handmaid. - -At last: “Nicette!” he whispered, and put his hand timidly on the -girl’s shoulder. - -She wriggled under his touch. - -“No, no!” she sobbed, in a drowned voice. “It is terrible to be so -hated and despised.” - -“I do not hate you, little fool,” he said. “You beg the question. For -what reason, Nicette? Are you afraid, or at a loss, to describe to me -this vision?” - -She seemed to check her weeping and to listen, though her bosom was -still heavy with sobs. - -“I am afraid,” she whispered. - -“Of me? Nicette, shall I not finish the portrait?” - -“No, no!” - -“But you have seen the Mother, and know what she is like.” - -“You would not believe.” - -“At least put my credulity to the test.” - -A long pause succeeded. The sobs died into silence. By-and-by the girl -looked up--not at her inquisitor, but vaguely apart from him and away, -as if her gaze were introspective. She clasped her hands together, -holding them thus, in reverential attitude, against her throat. - -“Nicette,” murmured Ned, “tell me--what is the Mother like?” - -“It was a mist, monsieur, out of which a face grew like a sweet-briar -blossom--a face, and then all down to her pink feet that trod the -wind-flowers of the wood. Within her hair were little nests of light, -glowing green and violet, that came and went, or broke and were -shattered into a rain of golden strands. They were the tears she had -shed beneath the cross. She wore the wounds, a five-pointed star, upon -her breast, and I saw the rising and falling of her heart as it were -the glowing of fire behind wood ashes. All about her, and about me, -was a low thick murmur of voices that I could not understand. But -sometimes I thought I saw the brown fearful eyes of the little people -look from under the hanging fronds of fern, imploring to put their -lips to the white buds of her feet. Then _her_ eyes gathered me to -their embrace; and I sailed on a blue sea, and was taken into the arms -of the wind and kissed so that I seemed to swoon.” - -She paused, breathing softly. - -“Truly,” said Ned: “this was the very pagan Queen of Love.” - -“She is the Queen of Love, monsieur, else had my eyes never been -opened to see the little folk of the greenwoods. For to be Queen of -Love is to be Queen of Nature, and both titles hath she from _le Bon -Dieu_.” - -Suddenly the girl edged a little nearer her companion, looked up in -his face appealingly, and put her clasped hands upon his knee as he -sat. - -“God made Nature, monsieur,” she whispered. “God is Love. Oh, I read -in the sweet eyes many things that were strange to my -traditions!--even that human side of the Mother, that monsieur has -sought to disclose. God is Love, and He hath given us passion, not -forbidding us passion’s cure.” - -Ned’s brows took a startled frown, and he made as if to rise. Nicette -stole her hand quickly to his. - -“Monsieur, it cannot be wrong to love--it cannot be that He would lend -Himself as a subtle lure to the very sin His code denounces. It is the -code--it is the Church that has misconstrued Him.” - -Something in the young man’s face gave her pause in the midst of her -panting eagerness. She drew back immediately, with a little artificial -laugh. - -“_La Sainte Marie_ was all in white,” she said, “with a blue cloak the -colour of the skies. And what is the fashion with the fine ladies in -London, monsieur?” - -Mr Murk had got to his feet. - -“Mademoiselle Legrand,” he said, “you are all of Heloïse, I think, -without the erudition. Now, I am not orthodox; yet I think your -description of the Virgin very prettily blasphemous. And what has -become of the serpent and the globe of liquid purple? You can explain -your picture, I see, to accommodate the views of its critics. I admire -you very much, and I bid you good day.” - -He was going. She leapt across his path and stayed him. A bright spot -of colour had sprung to her cheek. - -“You will leave me?” she cried hoarsely. “You shall not go, thinking -me a liar!” - -“No more than the author of ‘Julie,’” he said, drily and stubbornly. -“You have the fine gift of romance, but I don’t like your vision.” - -“It is the truth! I give you but one of the hundred impressions it -made upon me.” - -“Very well. It is a bad selection, so far as I am concerned.” - -“How could I know--you, that have traded upon my confidence! You tempt -me and throw me aside. I will not be so shamed--I, that am no longer -obscure--whose every word is worth----” - -“As much as one of M. Voltaire’s, no doubt. He may value his -commercially, at ten sous or fifty. What then? You have the popular -ear. Do you want to make your profit of me also?” - -She twined her fingers together, and held them backwards against her -bosom. - -“Whither are you going?” she panted. - -“I am on my way back to England.” - -She took a quick step forward. - -“You shall not leave me like this! You have made me what I am. -Monsieur--monsieur----” - -In a moment the storm broke. Once more she was drowned in tears. She -threw herself upon him, and her arms about his neck. - -“It is love!” she cried. “You are my God and my desire. I have -followed you in my heart these long months--oh, how piteously! Do -anything with me you will. Disbelieve me, spurn me, stamp on me--only -let me love you! These months--oh, these desolate, sick months!” - -She clung to him, entreating and caressing, though he muttered “For -shame!” and strove to disentangle her fingers. She would not be denied -in this first convulsive self-consciousness of her surrender. - -“I will give myself the lie: invite the hatred and scorn of the world: -swear my soul to damnation by acknowledging myself an impostor, if -that will make you merciful and kind--no, not even kind, but to take -me with you. I will admit I am vile in all but my love: that you -tempted me unwittingly: that you had no thought of being cruel--of -being anything but your own gracious self, to whom a foolish maiden’s -heart fled crying because it could not help it!” - -Catching glimpse in her passion of the stony impassibility of his -face, she fell upon her knees, clasping her arms about him and -sobbing-- - -“You must speak--you must speak, or I shall die! You don’t know what -binds me to you. Not your love, or your respect or pity: only a little -mercy--just enough, one finger held out to save me from falling into -the abyss! Look here and here! Am I not white and sweet? I have -cherished myself ever since you went and my heart nearly broke. I have -thought all day and all night, ‘What bar to his approach can I remove -if some day he shall come again?’ And when at last I saw you were -returned, I would have given all the vain months of adulation for one -glad word of welcome from your lips.” - -She grovelled lower, writhing her face down into her arms. - -“Only to be yours!” she moaned: “to do with as you will.” - -At that at last he stooped, and dragged her forcibly to her feet. She -stood before him trembling and dishevelled, and he glared at her, -breathing heavily like one that had run a race. - -“Before God, I never knew,” he said: “but you shame me and yourself. I -will believe your story if you wish it; and what does that lead -to?--that I hear you abusing the high choice of Heaven--misapplying -God’s truth to the abominable sophistries of passion. Not love, but -the foulest--there! I won’t shame you more. I think I have never heard -such subtle blasphemy. To hope to influence me by casuistry so -crooked! If you ever awakened my interest, you have lost the power for -ever. Mercy! the utmost I can show you is by passing here and now out -of your life----” - -She broke in with an agonised cry-- - -“_Mon Dieu_! Oh, my God! Not so to stultify all I have suffered and -done for your sake!” - -“What you have done!” he cried fiercely. “I am no party to the vile -chicanery. For your sufferings--they will cease when the fuel of this -passion is withdrawn. Such fires blaze up and out in a day.” - -He was cruel, no doubt--crueller than he meant to be; but his heart -was wrathful over the baseness of the snare set for it. - -On the echo of his voice there came the sound of approaching steps up -the road. He recovered his composure on the instant. - -“You will have visitors,” he said. “You had best go and make yourself -fit to meet them. You will know where your interests lie. For me, the -most I can do is to treat all this as a mad confidence.” - -He was going; but she pressed upon him, panting and desperate. - -“Don’t leave me like this! There--into the bedroom, till they are -gone! Monsieur, for pity’s sake! You put too much upon me. I will -explain. For God’s sake, monsieur!” - -He drove past her--hurried down the passage. As he neared the door, he -saw the light obscured by a couple of entering figures--a -complacent-smiling curé, who ushered in a fashionable pilgrim -exhaling musk and tinkling with gewgaws. - -“_Exortum est in tenebris lumen rectis_,” murmured the priest as he -gave place with a slight bow. - -“Exactly so,” said Ned, and made his way to the road. - -There he stood a moment, blinking and gulping down the fresh spring -air. - - - - - CHAPTER XVII. - -Mr Murk walked straight from the lodge of the chateau out of the -village, stopping only on his way to take up his knapsack at the -“Landlust.” He moved, very haughty and inflexible, with a high soul of -offence at the attempt manifested to subject him to the charge of -collusion in what he considered a particularly unpleasant species of -fraud. It was that, more than the outrage to his continent -self-respect, that angered and insulted him--that he could under any -circumstances be deemed approachable by imposture, even though it -should solicit in ravishing guise. He had never as yet, indeed, -through any phases of fortune, regarded himself as other than a -philosophic alien to his race; a disinterested spectator of its wars -of creeds and senses, perched out of the battle on a little cloudy -eminence of spiritual reserve, whence it was his humour to analyse the -details of the contest for the gratifying of a curious intellectual -cosmopolitanism. And even when for nearer view of some party struggle -he had descended--or condescended--so far as that he had felt upon his -face the very bloody sprinkle of the strife, he had chosen to read, in -the emotions excited in his breast, an instinctive revolt against the -injustice of pain, rather than a sympathy with the sufferings of which -he was witness. - -Now, however, he seemed to have realised in a moment by what common -means Nature is able to impeach this treason of aloofness. He had held -himself a thing altogether apart in that conflict of blurred, -indefinite forms. He had been like a spectator watching an illuminated -sheet at an entertainment, when (to adopt a modern image) there had -sounded in an instant the click of the cinematograph snapping the blur -into focus, and, lo! he beheld his own figure active amongst the -crowd, a constituent atom travelling through or with it, a mean, small -condition of its gregariousness--repellent, attractive, -infinitesimally influential, according to the common degree of his -kind. Holding his soul, as he fancied, veracious and remote, he had -seen it magnetic, in its supposed isolation, to another that, in its -essential guile, in its infirmity and untruth, would seem to be his -spirit’s actual antithesis, yet whose destinies, rebel as he might, -must henceforth for evermore be associated with his. He was no amateur -counsel to a recording angel, in fact, but just a human organism -subject to the influences of neighbour temperaments. - -Now, the considerable but lesser pang in this shock to his pride of -solitariness was felt in the realisation of his impotence to claim -exemption from the ordinary vulgar taxes imposed by the gods upon -vulgar animal instincts. He must be sought if he would not seek; nor -could he by any means escape the penalties of his manly attributes. He -was a thing of desire; therefore he represented the one moiety of the -race to which he would have fain considered himself an alien. - -But he did not regard with any present sentiment but that of anger the -woman who had thus been the means to his proper understanding of his -own personal insignificance. For her sex, indeed, he had no natural -liking but that negatively conveyed in a sort of chivalrous contempt -for its inconsequence (whereby--though he did not know it--he may have -offered himself an unconscious Bertram to a score of Helenas). Now, to -find his austere particular self made the object of a sacrifice of -utter truth and decency, both alarmed and disgusted him. The very jar -of the discovery tumbled him from cloud to earth. Yet, be it said, if -it brought him with a run from his removed heights, he was to fall -into that garden of the world where the loves, their thighs yellow -with pollen, flutter from flower to flower. - -For by-and-by, in the very glow and fever of his indignation, he -startled to sudden consciousness of the fact that it was the implied -insult to his honesty, rather than that actual one to his sense of -modesty, that most offended him; that his heart was indulging a little -rebellious memory of a late dream, it appeared, that was full of a -strange pressure of tenderness. He caught himself sharply from the -weakness; yet it would recur. He began to question the propriety of -his attitude towards women generally. Serenely self-centred, perhaps -he had never realised the necessity of being, in a world of -artificiality, other than himself. Now he faintly gathered how poor a -policy of virtue might be implied thereby--how, under certain -conditions, Virtue might be held its own justification for assuming an -_alias_. - -And thereat came the first reaction in a pretty series of moral -rallies and relapses. - -“Bah!” he muttered, “the girl is a little lying _cocotte_--a Lamia -from whose snares I am fortunate to have escaped without a wound.” - -In the meantime his heart turned towards home with a strange heat of -yearning--towards his England of stolid factions and sober, -unemotional sympathies; of regulated hate and the liberal schooling of -love. He had submitted himself to much physical and mental suffering -in order to the acquirement of a right understanding of men; and at -the last a woman had upset and scattered his classified collection of -principles with a whisk of her skirt. He felt it was useless to -attempt to rearrange his specimens unless in an atmosphere not -inimical to sobriety. - -“I will go home,” he thought, as he stepped rapidly forward. “And at -any rate I am here at length out of the wood;” and straightway, poor -rogue, he fell into a second ambush by the roadside. - -For, coming to a sudden turn in his path when he was breaking from the -copses a half mile out of the village, he was suddenly aware of a -shrill cackle of vituperation, of such particular import to him at the -present crisis as to constrain him to stop where he was and listen. - -“_Oh, çà, Valentin--çà-çà-çà_!” hooted a booby voice. “A -twist, and thou hast secured it! _Oh, çà_! bring it away and we will -look.” - -“Let go!” panted another voice, in a heat of jeering violence. “I will -have it, I say!” - -Then Ned heard Théroigne, pleading and tearful-- - -“Valentin, thou shalt not! It is mine! What right hast thou to rob and -insult me?” - -“The right that thou art a _putain_--a snake in the grass of a virgin -community. Give it me, or I will break thy arm. Right, indeed! but -every well-doer has a right to act the executive.” - -“Thou shalt not take it!” - -“You will prevent me? Oh, the strength of this conscious virtue! And -does not thy refusal damn thee? Pull across, Charlot! I will wrench -her arms out. It is another accursed whelp that she has strangled and -would bury in the wood.” - -“You vile, cruel beast!” cried the girl. - -“_Oh, hé_--scream, then!” panted the other, while Charlot sniggered -throatily. “There is no riggish lord now to justify thee in thy -assaults on decent landholders. I will look, if only for the sake of -that memory. Thou wert the prospective fine lady, wert thou? _Oh, mon -Dieu_! and what ploughboy has ministered to thee for this in the -bundle?” - -Mr Murk, indignant but embarrassed, had stood so far uncertain as to -his wise course of action. Now, however, a shriek of obvious pain that -came from the girl decided him. He hurried round the intercepting -corner and saw Mademoiselle Lambertine, blowsed and weeping, flung -amongst the roots of a tree. Hard by, where the trunks opened out to -the road-track, a couple of clowns, bent eagerly over a bundle they -had torn from their victim, were discussing the contents of their -prize--a few poor toilet affairs, some bright trinketry of lace and -ribbons, a dozen apples, and a loaf of white cocket-bread. - -All three lifted their heads, startled at the sound of his approach. -Théroigne sat up; the boors got clumsily to their feet. In one of -these loobies Ned had a sure thought that he recognised the fellow -whose face had once been scored by those very feminine fingers that -were now so desperately clutching and pulling at the grass amongst the -tree-roots. He could see the red cheeks, he fancied, still chased with -the marks of that reprehensible onset. The other rogue, he was equally -certain, was of those that had baited a wretched Cagot on a morning -nine months ago. - -Here, then, was the right irony of event--a huntress Actæon torn by -her own hounds. Ned stepped forward deliberately, but with every -muscle of his body screwed tight as a fiddle-string. - -Come over against the clodpoles: “You are pigs and cowards!” said he, -and he gave the farmer an explosive smack on the jaw. - -The assault was so violent and unexpected, the will that inspired it -was so obviously set in the prologue of vicious possibilities, that -the victim collapsed where he stood, bellowing like a bull-frog. It is -true that he lacked a familiar stimulus to his courage. - -“Now,” said Ned, “return those goods to the bundle and fasten them in; -or, by the holy Virgin of Méricourt, I’ll lay an information against -you for brigands before M. le Maire.” - -There was an ominous stress in his very chords of speech. They may -have recognised him or not. In any case this change of fortune might -unsheathe the terrific claws of a hitherto unallied enemy. Charlot -dropped upon his knees and with shaking fingers began to manipulate -the bundle. - -“It is enough,” said Ned between his teeth. “Now, go!” - -The two scurried off amongst the trees, glancing over their shoulders -as they went, with scared faces. The next moment Ned was aware that -Mademoiselle Lambertine had crept up to him, and was holding out her -hands in an entreating manner. - -“Monsieur!” she whispered. - -He faced about. The girl was arrayed for a journey, it seemed. A cloak -was clasped about her neck; from her brown hair hung over her -shoulders, like the targe of a Highlander, a round straw hat with an -ungainly width of brim; stout shoes and a foot of homespun stocking -showed under her short skirt. Nevertheless the glowing ardour of her -face and form triumphed over all disabilities. - -“They are brutes and cowards,” said Ned gravely. “I don’t think they -will trouble you again. Here is your property.” - -She did not take it at once. He shrugged his shoulders and laid it on -the ground at her feet. - -“Monsieur!” pleaded the girl. Something seemed to choke her from -proceeding. - -At length: “I have been waiting in the woods since dawn,” said she, in -a sudden soft outburst, “hoping for you to pass.” - -“For me?” - -“I came out into the track now and again, dreading that you had gone -by while I watched elsewhere, and once these discovered me, and--and-- -Ah, monsieur! You see now what I have to endure.” - -“Truly I see--more than I would wish to. You are leaving Méricourt, -then?” - -She looked at him, defiant and imploring at once. - -“You would not condemn me to it? You would not even say it is possible -for me to stay here?” - -The young man did, for him, an unaccustomed thing. He swore--under his -breath. It might have been the devil of a particular little crisis -essaying to speak for him; it might have been the cry of a momentary -conflict between sense and spirit. - -The appeal addressed to either was, indeed, as mournful and seductive -as the minor play of a pathetic voice could make it. If he gazed -irritably at the woman facing him, still he gazed at all because he -was stirred to some emotion. The sadness of wet, unhappy eyes, of -parted lips, of hands clasped upon the dumb utterance of an -impassioned bosom--all, in their single offer and plea to him, were, -no doubt, such a temptation to an abuse of that consistency with his -theories that his temperament so encouraged him to cherish, as he had -never before felt. But he was still so little sensitive to one form of -witchery that it needed only a tickle of humour to restore his moral -balance. - -He laughed on a certain note of aggravation. - -“Méricourt is all moonstruck, I believe,” said he. “This is too -absurdly flattering to my vanity. First--but there! Mademoiselle -Lambertine, I will not pretend to misread you. Yet you do not love me, -I think?” - -She shook her head, drooping her eyes to him. Patently she had elected -to stake her chances on white candour as the better policy with this -Joseph. - -“Well,” said he, “it is as it should be. And you are equally convinced -I am indifferent to you?” - -But at that she came forward--so close to him, indeed, as to make her -every word an invitation. - -“Now,” thought Ned, inured to such appeals, “she will throw her arms -round my neck in a minute.” - -But he did Théroigne indifferent justice. - -“You think yourself so,” she murmured. “It will be only a little -while. Already, in the prospect of freedom, I begin to renew myself -since yesterday. What if my soul is torn and crippled! The blood will -glow in my veins no less hotly than before--a fire to melt even this -cold iron of thy resolve. Oh, look on me--look on me! I can feel all -power and beauty moving within me like a child. That _I_ should be -scorned of clowns! And yet the chance gives me to you, monsieur, if -you but put out your hand. It is not love. That thou hast not, nor I; -nor is the power longer to me or the gift to you. But I am grateful, -for that thou hast helped me under sore insult. Ah! it avails nothing -to plead accident--to say, ‘It was the outrage I avenged for -manliness’, not the woman’s, sake.’ What, then? Thou hast wrought the -bond of sympathy, and thou canst never forge it apart. Perhaps, even, -didst thou strike hard, thou mightst some day hit out the spark of -love. Take me, and thou wilt desire to: I swear it. Do I not breathe -and live? Am I not one to vindicate in prosperity the choice of her -protector? Thou hast a nobility of manliness that is higher than any -rank. But, if in thine own country thou art great, thou shalt be -greater through me. I will minister to thy ambition no less than to -thy senses. I will----” - -She paused, breathing quickly, and watchful of the steady immobility -of his face. - -“Monsieur,” she whispered, most movingly, “if you see in me now only a -lost unhappy girl, who in her misery would seem to seek the -confirmation of her dishonour, believe--oh, monsieur, believe that it -is only to escape the worser degradation that threatens her through -the relentless persecution she suffers on account of her trust in one -that was monsieur’s friend.” - -“No friend of mine,” muttered Ned, and stopped. He must collect his -thoughts--endeavour to answer this _séductrice_ according to her -guile. Instinctively he stepped back a pace, as though to elude the -enchantment of a very low sweet voice. - -“Listen to me,” he said distinctly. “Mademoiselle Lambertine, I pity -you profoundly; and, if I have anything more to say, it is only, upon -my honour, to marvel that one of such intelligence as yourself should -ever have submitted her honour to the handling of so exceedingly -meretricious a gentleman as M. de St Denys. You see I repay your -confidence with plain-speaking. For the rest I can assure you it is -not my ambition to be beholden for whatever the future may have in -store for me to a----” - -She stayed him, with a soft hand put upon his mouth. - -“Do not say it,” she said quite quietly. “It is enough that you reject -my offer. That you may repent when you find your fiercer manhood--when -you realise what you have lost. Well, you have been good to me; -though, if I have suffered here in the wood while I waited for you, it -was not because my heart was other than a stone.” - -“Then, for shame!” cried Ned, “so to sell yourself!” - -“Ah!” said Théroigne, in the same quiet voice; “but I have made my -bed according to monsieur’s proverb, and it is a double one--that is -all. And is it not gallant when a woman falls to help her to her -feet?” - -“It is not gallant to help her, the victim of one lie, to enact -another.” - -“Surely; and monsieur is the soul of truth.” - -She adjusted her cloak and hat, stooped and took up her bundle. - -“I am distasteful to monsieur,” she said. “Very well.” - -For some reason Ned was moved to immediate anger. - -“Your hat is, anyhow,” he snapped. “I think it quite preposterously -ugly.” - -But she only laughed and waved her hand. - -“You will think better of me in England,” she cried. - -He was moving away. He stopped abruptly and faced about. - -“You are still determined to go, then?” - -She nodded her head. Without another word he turned on his heel and -strode off down the road. - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII. - -Before--hurrying like a weaponless man through sinister -thickets--Ned had come to within a mile of Liége, the memory of the -rather grim comedy he had been forced to play a part in was tickling -him under the ribs in provocative fashion. That his vanity--no -unreasonable quantity--should have received, as it were, in a breath a -kiss so resounding, a buffet so swingeing, set his very soul of -risibility bubbling and dancing like champagne. - -“And ought I to be gratified or offended,” he thought, “that I am -chosen the flame about which these moths circle? But it is all one to -such insects whether it be wax or rushlight, so long as it burns. -That’s where I missed fire, so to speak. The flutter of their poor -little feverish wings put me out. I am a cold taper, I fancy. I have -never yet felt the draught that would blow me into a roar. What breath -is wasted upon me, in good truth!” - -Some detail of his path gave him pause. He sat down on a knoll, had -out his book and pencil, and began to sketch. Now his blood ran -temperately again. If he had been ever momentarily agitated in thought -as to his ideals of conduct, the little disturbed silt of animalism -was precipitated very soon, and the waters of his soul ran clear as -heretofore. He laughed to himself as he sat. - -“I believe if I had stayed another day the Van Roon would have made -overtures to me.” - -By-and-by he fell into a pondering fit. He rested his chin upon his -clenched hand and, gazing into the distance, dreamed abstractedly. - -“Have I a constitutional frost in my blood, as my uncle believes? Is -my every relation with my fellows to be for ever unimpulsive and -coldly analytical? That should lead me at least to a nice selection in -pairing-time: and to what else?--a career stately, sober, colourless; -a faultless reputation; all the virtues ranked upon my tombstone -by-and-by for gaping cits to spell over, and perhaps, if I am very -good, for a verger to expound. And my widow that is to be--my fair -decent relict that shall have never known me condescend to a weakness -or perpetrate an injustice, that shall never have felt the frost melt -in her arms!” - -He jumped suddenly to his feet, his teeth--very even and white -ones--showing in a queer little smile. He stretched; he took off his -rather battered hat and passed a hand through the crisp umber stubble -of his hair. His solemn eyes shone out as blue as lazulite from the -sun-burn of his face. He seemed, indeed, from his appearance no -fitting catechumen in a religion of everlasting continence. There must -be underwarmth somewhere for the surface so to flower into colour. - -“She would marry within six months of my death,” he cried; “probably a -libertine who would dissipate her estates, and break her heart, and -die, and be mourned by her long after my memory was drier than a pinch -of dust to all who had known me.” - -He laughed again on a note that sighed a little in the fall. - -“Am I like that? Do I build all this time with dry dust for mortar? Am -I a loveless anchorite because my sympathies will not answer to the -coarseness of an appeal that my taste rejects? Is it quite human to be -very fastidious in so warm a respect? Or do I only wait the instant of -divine inspiration to recognise that other self that seems hidden from -me by an impenetrable veil?” - -He shook his head despondently, collected his traps, and went on his -way to Liége. - -There he remained no longer than was necessary to a settlement in the -matter of certain bills of credit and to the chartering of a vehicle -for his onward stages. He was to return to the coast by way of Namur, -Lille, and Calais. For the time he was all out of humour with a -nomadic philosophy, and desired only to reach England by as short a -route as possible. - -He set sail in the Fanny Crowther packet, and had a taste of Channel -weather that was as good as a “constitutional” after a debauch. He was -two days at sea, beating forth and back at the caprice of squabbling -winds; and when at last he landed in Dover it was with the drenched -whitewashed feeling of a convalescent from fever. - -He was setting foot on the jetty, discomfortable in the conviction -that his present demoralisation was offering itself the target to a -hail of local wit, when a thin neigh of a laugh that issued from a -yellow curricle drawn up near at hand drew his peevish attention. -Immediately he fetched his nausea under control, and stepped towards -the carriage with a fine assumption of coolness. There may have -appeared that in his attitude to induce a respectable manservant to -jump from the dickey and offer to bar his progress. - -“All right, Jepps,” said he. “I’m not one of ‘Peg Nicholson’s knights’ -with a petition.” - -The man bowed and made way for him. - -“I’m sure I beg your pardon, Mr Edward,” said he, and added in an -accommodating voice, “I’d little call to know you, sir.” - -“Eh, what? Ned!” gasped one of the occupants of the curricle, no other -than the Right Honourable the Viscount Murk indeed. - -His lordship sat on and forward of a great cloak lined with silver -fox-skin (a luxurious cave into which he could withdraw whenever a -draught nosed his old sapless limbs), the neck-clasp of which he had -unhooked for the display of a diamond brooch that gathered voluminous -lawn about the sagging of his throat. In every detail of his condition -he was the bowelless and mummified coxcomb, packed prematurely into -exquisite cerements, predestined to a corner in the museums of limbo; -and topping his finished refinements of costume, his beaver was tilted -like an acute accent to so distinguished an expression of hyperdynamic -foppery. - -“You are surprised to see me, sir,” said Ned (he glanced as he spoke -with something like astonishment at my lord’s companion); “nor I much -less to find you here. As for myself, I have gleaned such a harvest of -experience in a few months that I must needs come home to store it.” - -His uncle stared at him, but with a rallying expression of implacable -distaste. - -“Rat me!” he said candidly; “I’d hoped to hear of you a martyr to your -theories, and that manstrous Encyclopedia set up for your tombstone.” - -He turned indolently to his companion. - -“This is the heir to ‘Stowling’ and the viscounty and all the rest of -the beggarly show, if he can be induced to candescend to it,” he said -viciously, and gathered up the reins in his lemon-gloved hands. - -The other nodded, with a pretty display of white teeth and a shifting -affectation that was extravagantly feminine. A dainty three-cornered -hat was perched on her powdered hair, that was pulled up plainly and -rolled over each temple in a silken ringlet. She had on a richly -embroidered jacket with wide lapels; a rug was over her knees; and -seated on it, fastened to her left wrist by a tiny golden chain, was a -red monkey that chattered at the new-comer. - -“Monsieur Edouard,” said she, caressing the insular barbarity of -speech with her tongue, and her pet with fluttering finger-tips, “who -have sold himself the birtheright to a dish of _potage. Oh que si_! -_mais si jeunesse savait_! But I have heard of Monsieur Edouard; and -also I have heard of Monsieur Paine.” - -Her voice was as artificial as her manner. Playing on the alto, it -would squeak occasionally like a greasy fiddle-bow. And her age, -despite the smooth and rather expressionless contour of her features, -might have been anything from thirty-five to sixty. - -“But she has not wrinkles to cement and overlay,” thought Ned, “else -would she never dare to laugh so boldly.” - -He did not like the truculence of her eyes; nor, indeed, the whole air -of rather professional effrontery that characterised her. Nevertheless -there was that about her, about the atmosphere she seemed to exhale, -that curiously confounded him. - -“I have not the honour of an introduction,” he said, a little -perplexed, “nor the right to return madame’s compliment--if, indeed, -it was meant for one.” - -“Not in the least,” she said, with an insolent laugh. “I have no -applause for the _héritier légitime_ that is a traitor to his -trust.” - -She sank back, toying with her little red-furred beast. My lord -laughed acidly, but made no offer to enlighten or question his nephew. - -“So you have returned,” he said only. “All the devil of it lies in -that, and” (he scanned his young relative affrontingly) “in your -unconverted vanity of blackguardism. Get up, Jepps.” - -Ned laughed in perfect good-humour, as the curricle sped away. - -“After all,” thought he, “perhaps it _is_ hard to be claimed for uncle -by a rag-picker. I will resume my decorative self, find out where my -lord lodges, and wait upon him in form and civility.” - -He had his insignificant baggage removed to temporary quarters, -ransacked the mean little town for what moderately becoming outfit it -could yield, shaved, rested, and refreshed himself, and issued forth -once more on duty’s quest. - -“And what is the old man doing here?” he thought; “and who is the -enigmatical Cyprian?”--whereby, it will be observed, he jumped to -baseless conclusions. But he gave himself no great concern about the -matter, admitting that the probable explanation of his uncle’s -presence in the sea-port town lay in that flotsam and jetsam of the -Palais Royal bagnios that many tides washed up on the coast. - -“He may be acting the part of a noble and unvenerable wrecker,” -thought he--it must be confessed, consistently with the common -estimate of his kinsman. - -My lord had rooms in one of the fine mansions then first beginning to -sprout over against the harbour for the accommodation of wealthy -sea-bathers. He was dressed--with all the force of the expression as -applied to him--for dinner, and received his nephew in a fine -withdrawing-room overlooking the bay. He snarled out an ungracious -welcome. He was, as ever, wrapped and embalmed in costly linen -smelling of amber-seed, and was with all--so it seemed to the -nephew--a touch nearer actual comminution than when he had last seen -him. To strip him of cartonage and bandages would be, it appeared, to -commit him to dust. But the maggot of vanity still found sustenance in -the old wood of his brain. - -“I am honoured,” he said, “that you give my table the preference over -a tavern ordinary. Have you learned to equip yourself with a palate in -these months?” - -“At least I’ll promise to do justice to your fare, sir.” - -“Will you? You shall be made Lord Chancellor if you do. No, no, Ned! -To know beef from matton is the measure of your gastranamy. Ain’t you -hungry, now?” - -“Ravenous, sir.” - -“_Il n’y en a pas de doute_. You dress like a chairman (I’m your -humble debtor, egad! that you’ve recommitted the rags you landed in to -the dunghill), and you’ll eat like one. A gentleman’s never hungry. He -appraises his viands, sir. ’Tis for flunkeys to devour. One must not -yield oneself to a condition of emptiness. That implies a dozen of -little disadvantages that are inimical to _bon-ton_. But you know me -hopeless of ever convincing you in these matters.” - -He rose with a slight yawn, and walking to the window, looked out into -the darkening evening. The old limbs might have creaked but for their -perpetual lubrications. Not an inquiry as to the course of his travels -did he address to his undesirable heir. It was more than enough for -him that he had returned at all. - -“If not that you have discovered a palate,” said he, with a sour grin, -“then I suppose I am to attribute this visit to your high sense of -duty.” - -A carriage drew up on the stones below as he spoke. - -“_Enfin_! _mon cher--mon aimable chevalier_!” he muttered to himself -with relief. - -“You have company, sir?” said Ned. - -“You can stop for all that,” said the uncle tartly. “Madame, as you -have seen, knows how to take her entertainment of a monkey.” - -Madame was ushered in as he spoke. Ned’s only wonder, upon identifying -her as the lady of the curricle, was over the fact of her separate -lodging. He had expected to find her in my lord’s suite. She came into -the candle-light, an amazing figure of elegance, rouged, plastered, -and befeathered, but even surprisingly decorous in attire. She wore -long mittens on her arms, the upper exposed inches of which flickered -with a curious muscularity when she fanned herself. - -“So,” she said, making exaggerated play with her eyes over the rim of -the toy, “we shall have the fatted calf to dinner. And did you find -the husks of democracy to your liking, sir?” - -“I found them tough,” said Ned. - -She laughed like an actress. She shook her finger at him archly. - -“Of a truth,” she replied, “they cannot have been to your stomach at -all. You asked for bread, was it not, and they gave you a shower of -stones? One does not desire one’s high convictions to be set up for a -mark to violence. And so you turned the tail and came home to our dear -monseigneur.” - -“I have come home to England,” said Ned. “As to this, my happening on -my lord, it is a simple accident.” - -He spoke with some coldness of reserve. He had no idea whom he -addressed. His kinsman had disdained to introduce him or to give him -the least clue to madame’s identity. - -The lady laughed again. - -“But do not call it a _contretemps_!” she cried. “It is a dispensation -of Providence that milord, though a very Bayard of courage, is -detained by sentiments of chivalry. We were to have journeyed to Paris -together had news of the riots not reached us; and hence arrives this -so amiable meeting.” - -“I was there,” said Ned shortly. “I saw M. Reveillon’s factory -gutted.” - -She paused in her fanning. She looked strangely at the young man a -moment. - -“You were there?” Then she resumed her bantering tone: “and found what -bad bed-fellows are theory and practice. Perhaps it shall reconcile -you to milord here, whose _rôle_ of orthodox _muscadin_ you shall for -the henceforth make your own.” - -“Egad!” cried the viscount, who, it seemed, accepted the revolutionary -_muscadin_ for better than it was worth. “But I had my fill of riots -in ’80, when the cursed rabble took me for a papist and singed my -coat-tails.” - -Madame nodded her head brightly. Her dark eyes contrasted as -startlingly with her overlaid cheeks as might the eyes in a face of -wax. - -“So you were wise and came away,” she said, still addressing the young -man. “But milord was wiser. He would not help to inflame a popular -prejudice. The majesty of the people must be respected--when it takes -to singeing one’s coat-tails.” - -“Well,” thought Ned, “I must be right. This is Madame Cocotte from the -Palais Royal. Or else--I wonder if she is in the pay of a very -neighbouring government?” - -A thought or two--of madame’s manner of presenting her little -sarcasms--quickened his curiosity. To countermine the supposed -agencies of Pitt, the inflexible and reserved, the bottomless -Pitt--was it unreasonable to suppose that France was employing some -very engaging decoy-ducks to the corruption of an aristocracy that -might be fifth-cousins to State secrets? True, Monseigneur the -Viscount’s confidence was of little worth but to his valet; yet the -first rung of the ladder may be used for the secondary purpose of -scraping one’s boots on before climbing. - -Madame was the only guest. She had brought her monkey with her, and -the little brute was carried screeching to a chair by her side at the -dinner-table, where it sat sucking its thumb like a vindictive baby -and snatching at the dishes of fruit. - -“_Fi, donc_! _fi, donc_! _De Querchy_!” she would cry to it. (She had -named the beast, it presently appeared, after an enemy of hers, M. le -Comte of that title.) “_C’est ainsi que tu donnes une leçon de -politesse à ces barbares, nos amis_?” - -My Lord Murk laughed at all her insolence--especially when her sallies -were directed at his nephew. She spared the young man no more than she -did her host’s wine, to which, Ned was confounded to observe, she -resorted with a freedom that was entirely shameless. Indeed, she drank -glass for glass with the elder of the gentlemen, and indulged herself -with a corresponding licence of speech that quite confirmed the -younger in his estimate of her character. But he was hardly prepared -for the upshot of it all as directed against himself. - -“Monsieur Edouard,” she once said (it was after the servants had left -the room), “have I not your language in perfection?” - -“Indeed, madame,” he answered stiffly, “even to a peculiar choice in -words.” - -She laughed arrogantly. - -“I accept your insult!” she said--and flung the glass she was drinking -from full at him. - -“_Là, là, là_!” she shrieked. “You threw up your arm: it is only -the coward that has the instinct to throw up his arm to a woman!” - -My lord laughed like an old demon. Ned was on his feet, white and -furious. - -“You are a woman!” he cried, “and the more shame to you!” - -She jumped from her chair. As she did so the monkey sprang to her left -shoulder, on which it seated itself, gibbering and quarrelling. - -“I claim for the only privilege of my sex to despise the Joseph!” she -cried. “For the rest, I can fight for my honour, monsieur, as you -shall see!” - -She skipped, for accent to the paradox, in great apparent excitement; -hurried to a window embrasure, stooped, and faced about with a naked -rapier in her hand. - -“Draw!” she cried; and, running over to the door, turned the key in -the lock and feinted at the amazed young man. All the while the monkey -clung to her, adapting its position to her every movement. - -“Is this a snare?” said Ned coldly. He looked at his uncle, his hand -clenched at his hip. But he wore no weapon but his recovered -composure. - -The old villain drew his own blade and flung it across the table to -his nephew. - -“Fight, you dog!” he sputtered and mumbled. He was deplorably drunk. -“Fight!” he shrieked, “and take a lesson to your cursed -self-importance!” - -He threw his glass in a frenzy into the fireplace, and screeched out, -“Two to one in ponies on madame!” - -The lady cried “Ah-bah! He tink me of the ‘fancy.’” For all her -assumed heat she was really self-possessed. Ned understood her to be -playing a part; but he could not yet comprehend how he was concerned -in it. He took up his uncle’s sword. - -“These,” he said coolly, “are dangerous toys. But, if madame will play -with them, I must prevent her from doing harm to herself or me.” - -She gave a little staccato shriek of mockery, and attacked him without -hesitation. The monkey still perched on her shoulder. With her third -pass, Ned felt that his life was in the hands of a consummate -_tireuse_; her fourth took him clean through the fleshy part of the -right shoulder. - -Madame withdrew and lowered the red lance, that dropped a little -crimson on the carpet, like an overcharged pen. The tipsy old lord had -scrambled to his feet. His inflamed eyes seemed to gutter like -expiring dips. He yelled out oaths and blasphemy. - -“Kill him!” he shrieked: “I hate him--do you hear! kill him!” - -Ned, reeling a little, and clutching at a chair-back, dimly wondered -if this were indeed but a villainous plot to rid his kinsman of a -detested incubus. He felt powerless and sick, but madame’s voice -reassured him. - -“Bah!” she cried gruffly, “you are very tipsy indeed. Hold your -tongue, and drink some more wine!” - -He was conscious, then, of her near neighbourhood; of the fact that -she was binding up his arm. - -“It is leetle--but enough,” he heard her mutter. - -Then she looked over to where my lord sat glowering and collapsed. - -“A coach, if you please!” she said peremptorily. “It must not arrive -that he pass the night heere in your house.” - -The uncle laughed inanely. - -“What!” he said, “d’ye think I should finish him and put the blame -on--on another? Take him to the devil, if you will.” - -“No,” said she, “but I weel convey’a heem to his lodgings out of the -devil’s way.” - - - - - CHAPTER XIX. - -Of so wanton and inexplicable a nature had been the assault -committed on him, that for some three days succeeding it Ned could -have fancied himself lying rather in a stupor of amazement than in the -semi-consciousness engendered of a certain degree of pain and fever. -His _contretemps_ with his uncle; the latter’s more than usually -uncompromising attitude of offence towards him; most of all, the -strange vision of madame, with her obvious intention to insult and -disable him,--all this in the retrospect inclined him to consider -himself the late victim of a delirium that was reflex to the hideous -pictures painted in Paris upon his brain. - -But, on the fourth morning of his retirement, finding himself awake to -the humour of the situation, he knew that his distemper was -retreating, and that he might claim himself for a convalescent. - -“Astonishment is a good febrifuge,” he thought. “How long have I lain -in it, as in a cooling bath?” - -And it is indeed strange how blessed an exorcist of pain is absorbing -wonder. Not knowledge of drugs for the body but of drugs for the mind -shall some day perhaps redeem the world from suffering: the Theatre of -Variety, not of the hospital, be the Avalon of the maimed and the -smitten. - -He had no memory as to who--if anybody--had visited him during the -course of his fever. - -“But, no doubt,” he thought, “this moderate blood-letting has very -timely rectified a bad effusion to my brain, and madame is my -unconscious physician.” - -He got out of bed, feeling ridiculously weak and emaciated, but with a -luminous blot of wonder still floating in the background of his mind. -This globe of soothing radiance so made apparent the near details of -his past and present as that he had no difficulty in remembering where -he was or what had detained him there. He felt no uneasiness over his -condition, or any present desire to have it ended. For the moment he -was blissfully content to gaze out of his window--that commanded -obliquely an engaging little prospect of sunny sand and strolling -figures--and to pleasantly scrutinise the picture as it passed, in -silent camera-obscura, over the tables of his brain. Pain, emotion, -and thirst were all absorbed in an enjoying, indefinite curiosity. - -But by-and-by, as he gazed, there wandered--or appeared to -wander--into and across his perspective, a couple of figures whose -mere presence there in company seemed to sadly shake his confidence in -the assurance of his own convalescence. Apart, he might have admitted -their reality. It was their conjunction that hipped his half-recovered -sanity. For how should madame--that enigmatical _tireuse_--pair -herself, out of all the little crowd, with Théroigne Lambertine, whom -he had left in Belgium? Moreover, this was a transformed Théroigne--a -Théroigne not of ungainly skirts and preposterous hat, but one that -had at length acquired the first adventitious means to an expression -of her wonderful beauty; a Théroigne of lawn and paduasoy, of waking -airs and graces, of defiance still, but of the defiance that had -superbly trodden persecution underfoot. - -Then in a moment the vision vanished from his ken. - -“I will go to bed again,” he thought. “I have something yet to sleep -off.” - -Presently he reached out and rang a bell that stood on a table beside -him. Simultaneously with the jangle of it, Æolian sounds ceased -somewhere down below, a slow step came up the stairs, and a heavy man -entered the room, consciously, as if it were a confessional-box. - -“Good morning,” said Ned. “I think I’m better.” - -The heavy man nodded--a salutation compound of respect and -satisfaction--paused an embarrassed minute, turned round, and made as -if to retreat. - -“Hallo!” exclaimed Ned. - -The man faced about. - -“What day is it?” said Ned. - -“Sunday,” answered the man. - -“You are my landlord?” - -“Aye.” - -“Your wife is out?” - -“Aye.” - -“At church?” - -“Aye.” - -“And you are keeping house?” - -“Oh aye.” - -“Has any one called on me during--eh?” - -“The lady.” - -“What lady?” - -“Her wi’ the parly name.” - -“What name?” - -“Never cud say.” - -“Well, what did she come for?” - -“For to dress your arm.” - -“My arm!” - -Ned fell back in astonishment. The heavy man immediately made for the -door. - -“Here!” cried Ned. - -The man slewed himself round rebellious. - -“Was that you playing down below?” - -“Aye.” - -“Harp?” - -“Aye.” - -This time he got fairly outside, shut himself on to the landing, -apparently dwelt there a minute, and, secure in his retreat, opened -the door again and thrust in his head. - -“Servant, sir,” said he. - -“Oh, all right,” said Ned. - -“You’ll be a-dry, belike?” said the man. - -“What’s that?” - -“Drythe, you’ll call it, for a glass of hale.” - -“Certainly not,” answered the convalescent snappishly. - -“’Tis a very good substitoot for the stomach,” said the man, and -vanished. - -“Hi!” shrieked Ned again. - -The face reappeared. - -“Why don’t you bring your harp and play up here, confound you!” - -The eyes opened and withdrew like phantasmagoria. Presently the man -was to be heard stumbling upstairs with a burden--in fact, he brought -in his instrument and seated himself at it. - -“Play?” said he; and Ned nodded. - -And now the young gentleman was to read in that book of revelations -that treats of the incongruous partiality of divinity in its giving -moods. The man beside him was, to appearance, a dull enough fellow, a -plodding, leather-palmed, labouring man of smoky intelligence. Yet, -for all their horny cuticle, his fingers seemed to burn as luminous as -those of the Troll in the fairy tale. They spouted music; the fire of -inspiration ran out of their tips along the strings till the ceiling -of the common little room vibrated deliciously as the dome of an elfin -bell. And he extemporised, it would appear; he wove a web of chords -about himself as it were a cocoon, out of which he should one day -burst and be acknowledged glorious. - -“Surely,” thought Ned, “if it isn’t necessary to be a fool to be a -musician, at least the majority of born musicians are fools.” - -That was his opinion, and he held it in common with a good many -people. The musical, more than any other form of temperament, would -appear to be self-sufficient. Its stream may flow and harp, like an -Iceland river, through a woefully barren country. - -The heavy man played on and on, enraptured, exalted, till his wife -came home from church. Then she flew like an angry bee to the sweet -twang of his instrument, and opened on him wide-eyed and -mouthed. - -“Saving your honour’s presence----” she began. - -“Or my life,” said Ned. “He hath built me up my constitution as -Amphion built the walls of Thebes. I asked him to come and play, and -he hath finished me my cure.” - -“Well, now, fegs!” said the woman dubiously. “And they call him -pethery John,” said she. “’Tis his fancy to confide himself to his -harp once in the week. The stroke of his chisel, the taste of his -bacon, the cry of the sea--every thought and act of the six days will -he work into them wires on the seventh. An honest, sober man, sir, -weren’t ’t for his Sabbath folly.” - -“And what is his business?” asked Ned, for the husband had shouldered -his harp and disappeared. - -“A stonemason’s,” she answered; “and none to come anigh him.” - -She added with pride, “He’s a foreman at the excavating over to the -cliffs yonder.” - -“Oh!” said Ned. “And what are they excavating for?” - -“Lord save your honour!” she cried, “don’t ye know as we’re -a-fortifying against the coming of they bloody French?” - -“No,” said Ned. - -“Well,” she answered, “we be.” - -Then she recalled her manners. - -“But I’m gansing-gay to see your honour so brave,” she said, with a -curtsey. - -“And I’m vastly obliged to you, ma’am,” said Ned. “And nobody has come -near me in my sickness, I understand, but the lady?” - -“Only the lady, sir.” - -“And, now, who _is_ the lady?” - -“But Madame d’Eon, sir, at your sairveece,” said a voice at the door. - -Ned fell flat on his back. A formless suspicion, that had rankled in -him like an unextracted thorn ever since he had received that prick in -the shoulder, suddenly revealed itself a definite shape. - -After a minute or two he raised his head from the pillow and looked -cautiously around. - -“Oh!” he exclaimed, and dropped it again. - -Husband and wife were gone, the room door was closed, and at his -bed-side, monkey on wrist, sat the strange lady who had been the very -active cause of his discomfiture. - -“D’Eon, did you say?” he murmured. - -“Veritably,” she replied serenely. - -“Oh! the----” - -“Exactly: the Chevalière -Charlotte-Genevieve-Louise-Augusta-Andrée-Timothée d’Eon de -Beaumont.” - -“The chevalière!” said Ned faintly. - -“Or chevalier,” she answered, with a very pleasant laugh. - -He raised himself determinedly on his elbow and scrutinised his -visitor. He saw beside him a comfortable, motherly looking creature, -apparently some sixty years of age, with a sort of Dutch-cap on her -head topped by a falling hat, and fat white curls rolled forward from -the nape of her neck. Her face, sloping down from the forehead and up -from the throat, came as it were to a sharpish prow at the tip of the -nose. Its expression was of a rather mechanical humour, and the eyes -seemed deliberately unspeculative. Only the mouth, looking lipless as -a lizard’s, was a determined feature. For the rest, in dress and -manner, she appeared the very antithesis of the loud and truculent -trollop who had thrust a quarrel upon, and a sword into him, three -nights ago. - -And this was the famous chevalier, the enigma, the epicene, upon the -question of whose sex the accumulated erudition of a King’s Bench had -once been brought to bear--with indefinite result. This was the -hermaphrodite dragoon and lady-in-waiting; the author, the -plenipotentiary, and at the last, in this year of grace, the -astonishing _tireuse-d’armes_, who had excelled, on their own ground, -the Professors St George and M. Angelo, and who now replenished one -pocket of her purse by giving lessons in the admirable art of fencing. - -And, at this point of his cogitations, Mr Murk said-- - -“The chevalier is at least a wonderful actress.” - -Thereat madame chirred out a little indulgent laugh. - -“It is well said!” she cried. “Monsieur is _un homme d’esprit_.” - -“And I take no shame,” said Ned, “to have let her in under my guard.” - -She looked at the young man seriously. - -“The shame was mine, _mon petit_--the shame of the necessity was mine -to wound you at all.” - -“You had not intended to kill me, then? It was not plotted with my -lord?” - -She flushed, actually--this player of many parts. - -“Milord!” she cried, “his hired bravo!” - -“Well,” said Ned, “you must admit I have some excuse for thinking it.” - -“So!” she answered, recovering herself with a long-drawn breath. “It -is true.” - -She smiled upon him. - -“Had I chalk-marked you at the first, _mon cher_, I could not have hit -you nearer where I intended. When I desire to keel, I keel. When I -weesh for to place one _hors-de-combat--pour citer un exemple_--” she -touched his shoulder delicately with her finger-tips. - -“You intended to put me on the shelf?” said Ned, surprised. - -She nodded. - -“On my uncle’s behalf?” - -“Ah!” she cried, “you weesh too many answer. I will tell you it was -all arrange by me. It was only when the old man smell blood he get -beside of himself. You come in my way: I must remove you. That is it.” - -“But I have never seen you in my life till three days ago, madame!” - -“Nor I, you. What then?” - -Ned lay back, thinking things over; and presently he talked aloud:-- - -“My lord comes to Dover, _en route_ for Paris. He is accompanied by a -friend--the Chevalier d’Eon. This chevalier is a diplomatist, and -something more. He--she--has served--possibly does serve--a royal -master. At this juncture it is to be conceived that her talents for -_espionnage_ are being urgently summoned to exercise themselves.” - -He paused a moment, glancing askew at his companion. She did not look -at nor answer him, but her face expressed some curious concern. A -little covert smile twitched his mouth as he continued:-- - -“There are whispers (I have heard them and of them) in more than one -city of the world, that a certain notable Prime Minister gives his -secret endorsement to the revolutionary propaganda of the Palais -Royal. Would it not be a daring thing on the part of a spy, and a -thing grateful to his employers, to endeavour to prove this of the -exalted Englishman? But the Englishman is self-contained--almost -inaccessible. If he is to be approached, it must be with an elaborate -circumspection--by starting, say, the process of under-mining so far -from official centres as the very suburban quarters where he takes his -little relaxation during the Parliamentary recesses.” - -Pausing, consciously, in his abstract review (murmured, as if he were -seeking to convince himself), Ned was aware that the chevalier had -leaned herself back against the wall at the bedhead, and was softly -caressing the monkey. A tight little smile was on her lips; she caught -his glance and nodded to him. - -“_C’est bien, cela_,” she whispered. - -He went on, echoing her:-- - -“_C’est bien, cela, madame_; and I may be altogether a fool, and a -fanciful one. But, here (recognising now the significance of reports -that have reached me) is where I trace a connection between the fact -of my Lord Murk and the Chevalier d’Eon becoming suddenly acquainted, -and the fact that the notable Englishman and my lord are -villa-neighbours at Putney, where each has his holiday establishment, -and where--altogether apart from politics--both meet on the social -grounds of a common appetite----” - -“For gossip?” - -“For port wine, madame.” - -La chevalière broke out into a sudden violent laugh. For the first -time her voice seemed to contradict her sex. - -“_Oh, mon Dieu_! _c’est une fine mouche_!” she cried. “She think to -make catspaw of our tipsy monseigneur! I undurestand. _Mon Dieu_, it -is excellent! This contained, this inscrutable, this Machiavel, that -but wash his head in the bottle as it were to cool it, to yield his -confidence to a _paillard_, a toss-the-pot, an old, old -_p’tit-maître_ that have nevaire earn in his life one title to -respect! Say no more. It is a penetration the most admirable that you -reveal. _Oh, mon Dieu_! _avec tant de finesse on nous crédit_!” - -Ned waited till her merriment had jangled itself into silence. - -“Not to constitute my lord a spy,” said he quietly, “but to equip him -with one.” - -“_Comment_?” said madame. “I do not undurestand.” - -“I don’t say you do. It is a hypothetical case I put. I assume, for -instance, that the chevalier is perfectly aware of my lord’s -propensities, and is even willing to act the part of his -_conciliatrice_.” - -Madame jumped to her feet, breathing heavily. - -“Why did I not keel you!” she muttered. Her eyes were awake with fury. -Little coal-black imps seemed to battle in them as in pools of gall. -Ned sat up on his bed. - -“I assume,” he went on coolly, “that the chevalier, looking about her -for her instrument, marked down this dissolute nobleman with a villa -at Putney, and decided to accommodate him with a French mistress--a -Cressida whom she should coach to act the part of spy to a spy.” - -“_C’est bien ça_,” whispered madame again. - -“The chevalier, then, has, we will say, made my lord’s acquaintance; -has excited the libidinous old man; has proposed a trip to Paris. The -two travel to Dover; and here an unforeseen difficulty supervenes. My -lord hears of the Reveillon riots. He refuses to proceed. The -chevalier is in despair. She is, however, let us conclude, taking -advantage of her position to note the disposition of the new -fortifications, when chance puts into her hands the very opportunity -for which she has vainly manœuvred. One day there lands from the -packet a countrywoman of hers--a beautiful peasant-girl of Liége, -whose seduction and abandonment by a rascal aristocrat have made her -amenable to any unscrupulous design upon the class that is responsible -for her ruin. To the protection of my lord the viscount, the -chevalier--by whatever _ruse-de-guerre_--is happy to commit the -demoiselle Théroigne Lambertine, who, poor fool, chances into her -hands at the crucial moment.” - -Madame, uttering what sounded like a blazing oath, dashed, in an -uncontrollable fit of passion, the little beast she held in her arms -upon the ground. The poor wretch whipped across the fender and lay -screaming with its back broken. She ran and trod upon it with a heavy -foot, stilling its cries. - -“It is a De Querchy!” she shrieked. “It is so I crush my enemies!” - -Then she came towards the bed, her mouth mumbling and mowing, as if -the ghost of the departed brute were entered into her. - -“You are the devil!” she hissed, “and you will tell me how you shall -use your knowledge.” - -“In no way,” said Ned. - -His throat drummed with nausea. His whole nature rose in revolt -against this exhibition of infernal cruelty; but he kept command of -himself and of his cold aloofness. - -“In no way?” she said thickly. Her jaw seemed to drop. She stared at -him. “You will do noting?” - -“No more than you,” he said. “You are welcome to your plot for me.” - -Her eyes rather than her lips questioned him. - -“Because,” said he, “I am convinced there is nothing to find out; and -you will be occupied in hunting a chimera when you might be more -mischievously engaged elsewhere.” - -She nodded a great number of times. The sweat stood on her forehead. - -“You had no thought to interfere?” she said. “_Vous êtes à -plaindre_. I might have left you alone after all. But I dreaded you -would stand by, and comprehend, and upset my plans, did I find a -_sujet_ fitting to my pu-repus.” - -“Indeed, you had no reason to fear, madame. I am not so attached to my -uncle’s company as that I should have been tempted to linger in it -beyond the term prescribed by etiquette; and this time, be assured, I -found in it no additional attraction.” - -She made a deprecating motion with her shoulders, then seated herself -again--but away from the bed--as if in exhaustion. - -“At least,” she murmured, “I have been your _camarade de chambre_. And -it seem I have nurse a viper in my bosom.” - -Ned could only bow to this quite typically French example of moral -obliquity. - -“You think the devil hath instructed me, or that I am the devil,” he -said. “It is not so, madame. I have lately been in Paris. I have kept -my eyes and my ears open. Moreover, I happen to have come across -Mademoiselle Lambertine--to have heard her story--to have known how -she contemplated a descent on England. Add to this that, looking from -the window some hours ago, I saw the girl (‘_parmi d’autres paons tout -fier se panada_’--you know the fable, madame?) walking in your -company; add that the public generally hath an interest in the -Chevalier d’Eon’s reputation, and I, at least, in that of my uncle; -add, perhaps, that a sick man’s brain is abnormally acute, especially -when exercised over the causes predisposing to his malady; add that I -have revolved these matters in my head as I lay here, and pieced them -together in the manner presented to you, and upon my honour I think I -have afforded you the full explanation.” - -The chevalier rose. She had round her throat a thin band of black -velvet that looked stretched almost to the snapping-point. - -“_Je crois bien_,” she said; “and you have missed your vocation--you -are lost to the secret sairveece, monsieur.” - -“Certainly,” said Ned. “I am quite unable to lie.” - -She answered, unaffected, and with recovered gaiety-- - -“I take, then, monsieur his word that he shall not interfere.” - -She added, shaking her finger at him-- - -“Nevaretheless, it is not all as you say, but it is a good guess of -half measures.” - -“Very well,” said Ned, with entire composure. “And that being -understood, perhaps madame will take up the one victim to her ardour, -and leave the other to his convalescence.” - -He bowed very politely, and lay down with his face to the wall. - -She gazed at him a moment, with an expression compound of perplexity -and lively detestation; then, reclaiming De Querchy, went from the -room fondling the little broken corpse. - - - - - CHAPTER XX. - -During the short course of his restoration to vigour, Mr Murk, -indulging that power of self-abstraction that was constitutionally at -his command, gave himself no further concern about his uncle’s -affairs, paramorous or political. His resolving of the Chevalier -d’Eon’s little riddle of intrigue was, perhaps, an achievement less -remarkable than it appeared to be. His own knowledge of my lord’s -partial boon-companionship with the Prime Minister at Putney, and the -notoriety of a particular kind that attached to the chevalier’s name, -coupled with the more or less perilous gossip he had heard abroad, had -winged the shaft that had--something to his surprise--struck so near -home. Now (having proved to his satisfaction his own percipience), in -the conviction that the artifice of this _intrigante_ was destined to -procure of itself nothing but a political abortion, he rested -tranquilly, and devoted his spare--which was all but his meal--time to -trying to play the harp. - -This was a mournful misapplication of energy. He had never known but -one tune--the “Young Shepherd by love sore opprest,” which he would -intone in moments of exaltation. Now he could not reconcile it to the -practical intervals of performance, but was fain to introduce -crippling variations in his hunt for the befitting string. It was the -merest game of disharmonic spillikins, the contemplation of which -affected his landlord almost to tears, and to any such enigmatical -protest as the following:-- - -“You’ve no-ought to make such a noration about nothing!” - -“Very well,” Ned would answer; “but the spheres, you know, wrought -harmony out of chaos.” - -Nevertheless he took his characteristic place in the hearts of the -simple folk with whom he lodged. - -When, by-and-by, he was in a condition to stroll out into the living -world once more, it was agreeable to him to learn that the old seaport -place had been quit for some days of all that connection that had been -the cause of his detention in it. His uncle was returned to town, -carrying presumably Mademoiselle Lambertine with him; and the -chevalier also had disappeared. He dozed out his second week, -therefore--yielding his brain to the droning story of the sea--on the -mattress of the sands; and, at last, revivified, braced up his -energies and turned his face to the London that had grown unfamiliar -to him. - - * * * * * * * * - -In accusing his nephew of inhabiting at some beggarly “Cock-and-Pye” -tavern, my Lord Murk had uttered a vexatious anachronism that -testified to little but his own antiquity. In the nobleman’s youth, -indeed, the fields called after this hostelry, though then occupied by -the seven recently laid-out fashionable streets that made “a star from -a Doric pillar plac’d in the middle of a circular area” (_abrégé_, -“Seven Dials,” though the capital of the column was, in fact, a -hexagon only), were a traditional byword for low-life frivolity. Their -character, however, was now long redeemed, or, at least, altered. - -But, though Ned might not so far condescend to a philosophic vagrancy -as to consort with beggars and “mealmen,” it was certainly much his -humour, at this period of his life, to rove from old inn to inn, -having any historic associations, of his native city; while during -long intervals his chambers knew him not. Thus his uncle was so far -near the mark as that for months antecedent to his continental -excursion traces of him were only occasionally forthcoming from -amongst the ancient hostelries that neighboured on the St Giles -quarter of the town. The “Rose” on Holborn Hill, made memorable by the -water-poet; the “Castle” tavern, where, later, “Tom Spring” threw up -the sponge to death; the “George and Blue Boar,” ever famous in -history as the scene of Cromwell and Ireton’s interception of that -damning letter that the poor royal wren, who hovered “between hawk and -buzzard,” was sending to his mate; the venerable “Maidenhead,” with -its vast porch and ghostly attics--in all of these antique shells, and -in many others, had the young man buried himself for days or weeks, -according to his whim, until periodically his uncle would be moved to -exult over the probability of his having been knocked on the head in -some low-browed rookery, his very detested eccentricities serving for -the means to his removal. Then suddenly Ned would put in an appearance -at the house in Cavendish Square, and all the old rascal’s dreams -would be shattered at a blow. - -Now, upon his return, our solemn young vagabond had no thought but to -resume this motley habit of existence. New alleys of interest he would -explore, adapting his moral eyesight to a focus that late experience -had taught him the value of; feeding his philosophy and humanity with -a single spoon. - -He disappeared and, remote in his retreats, was little tempted to -emerge therefrom by the reports that were occasionally wafted to him -of his uncle’s scandalous liaison with a beautiful Belgian girl, who -had come to rule the viscounty. - -Then--when he had been for some six weeks serving the interests of his -own education in the character of a sort of spiritual commercial -traveller--one day he happened upon Théroigne herself. - -On this occasion chance had taken him westward, and he was walking -meditatively under the trees bordering the Piccadilly side of the -Green Park, when a voice, the low sound of which gave him an -irresistible thrill, hailed him in French from a carriage that drew up -at the moment in the road hard by. This carriage was a yellow -“tilbury,” glossy with new paint and varnish, with the Murk arms on -the panels and a foaming bright chestnut to draw it; and a very -self-conscious “tiger” held the chestnut in while a lady jumped to the -pavement. - -“I congratulate you,” said Ned, doffing his hat in the calmest -astonishment; “you have made a slave of opportunity.” - -Indeed she had the right selective faculty. Her schooling might have -extended through a couple of months, and here she was a queen of -inimitable charms. She had suffered no illusions of caste; but -recognising herself as to the purple of beauty born, she had simply -allowed her instincts for style to develop themselves in a congenial -atmosphere. And thereto a present air of pride and defiance lent its -grace. She made no secret to herself of what she was, and yet that was -merely the glorified accent to what she had been. The brilliant dyes -of the tiger-moth are only the hues of the caterpillar intensified. -This--the brilliancy, the bright loveliness, and the soft -consciousness of it all--had been embryo in her from the first. She -took Ned’s hands into hers in a wooing manner. A scent of heliotrope, -like an unsaintly aureola, sweetened her very neighbourhood. - -“Where have you been?” she said; “and why hast thou never come near -me?” - -“Why should you want me to?” he answered in genuine amazement. “You -have made your bed, Mademoiselle Lambertine.” - -“I have not made it; no, it is not true.” - -She looked about her hurriedly. - -“It is for you to advise me--to make it yourself--to lie in it if thou -wilt. Hush, monsieur! we cannot talk here. Come and see me--come! It -will be well for you.” - -“Well for me! But I have no private shame to traffic in, nothing to -accuse myself of, mademoiselle.” - -“Ah, _mon Dieu_! but, by-and-by, yes, if you refuse me.” - -Ned hesitated. Perhaps we may have observed that curiosity is a -constituent of philosophy. - -“Well,” he said, “where, and when, do you want me to come?” - -“So!” she whispered eagerly; “_j’en suis bien aise_. To the house of -the lord your uncle. Come this evening, when dinner is served and done -with. I will receive you alone.” - -She gave him her hand, with a rallying smile played to the gods in the -person of the tiger, and accepted his to her carriage. - -“’Ome!” she said to the boy. - -“Unconscious irony,” muttered Ned to himself, as the “tilbury” sped -away; “and how the dear fool has caught the trick of it!” - -Something--a rare sentiment of pride or humour--persuaded him to -appear before her in the right trappings of his station. He could look -a very pretty gentleman when he condescended to the masquerade of -frippery; and silk and embroidery, with a subscription to conventions -in the shape of a light dust of powder on the wholesome tan of his -cheeks, revealed him a desirable youth. Still Mademoiselle Théroigne, -though obviously taken aback before this presentment of an unrealised -distinction, was immediate in adapting herself to the altered -relations implied thereby. The perceptible imperiousness of her -attitude towards him showed itself finely tempered by admiration. As -to her exercise of the softer influences, she had graduated in these -(with honours) while yet a child. - -She welcomed him in a little boudoir that had been fitted up for her -on the ground floor. Lace and buhl-work, crystal and dainty china, -were all about her. On the walls were sombre, amorous pictures, -winking in the glassy shine from girandoles. A decanter and goblets -stood on a gilded whisp of a table under a mirror, and hard by a tiny -brown spaniel lay asleep on a cushion. She might have been own sister -to this whelp from the curl and colour of her hair. - -On this she wore no powder, but only a diamond star and loop in -emphasis of its loveliness. She was dressed without ostentation, yet -every knot and frill were disposed in a manner to suggest the liberal -beauty of her figure. But she had, in truth, no need of artifice to -show her radiant in the eyes of gods and men. - -Now, looking at her, Ned thought, “How in this short time has she -renewed herself from that haunting ghost that possessed me on the -Liége road? There is something uncanny in this resurrection: I -apprehend the ‘seven devils’ must have entered into her.” - -And he felt a little discomfortable, as if he were at last brought -into acute antagonism with a force that he had hitherto despised for -the vanity of its pretensions. - -She took his hands and looked into his face. There was a strange -yearning inquiry in her eyes. This very licence of touch, so -inappropriate to their cold relations one with the other, put him on -his guard, though he would not at the moment resent it. - -“You knew I was there, at Dover?” she said. “Ah! I sorrowed for your -wound, _mon ami_; but I could not come. Monseigneur would not let me; -the chevalier would not let me.” - -“Never mind that,” said Ned, withdrawing his hands. “It only concerns -me that you have been consistent to your promise, and that my lord -attaches, in your person, another scandal to his record.” - -“But that is not true,” she said, shrugging her shoulders; “and, even -though it were, will not your philosophy condone it? Little holy -Mother! is it that such as you, and he--that other of -Méricourt--would use Liberty only as your pander, disowning her when -she has served her purpose!” - -She was all too young in vice as yet to play, without some real -emotion, the part she had elected to fill. - -“He taught me from his devil’s gospels!” she cried; “and you saw, and -would not interfere, because your faith was the same as his.” - -“I was in Méricourt--for how many days?” said Ned. “And is this all -your confidence, Mademoiselle?” - -She flushed and bit her lips. The tears were in her eyes. - -“You are always cold,” she said. “You do not pity me or make -allowance. To be wooed to worship an ideal; to be wooed through the -hunger in one’s soul for the truth that God seemed to withhold! When -he taught me that religion of equality, _he_ became my God. I saw the -disorder of the world resolve itself into love and innocence. How was -I, inexperienced, to know how a libertine will spend years, if need -be, in undermining a trust that he may indulge a minute’s happiness?” - -She had spoken so far with self-restraint. Now, suddenly, she flashed -out superbly-- - -“You would not do the same--oh, _mon Dieu_, no! but you will condone -his wickedness--yes, that is it! Liberty to you all is the liberty to -act as you like; to use the State and abuse it; to use the woman and -throw her aside!” - -“Hush!” said Ned, a little startled and concerned. “Your liberty, I -take it, you have committed to the keeping of my lord. He may curtail -it, if you talk so loud.” - -She drew back imperiously. - -“The old tipsy man!” she cried, in a pregnant voice. “I decoy, and I -repulse, and I madden him. I have learnt my lesson, monsieur. Hark, -then!” - -She held up her hand. From the dining-room adjacent came a quavering -chaunt--the maudlin sing-song of ancient inebriety. - -“I know,” said Ned. “He is half-way through his second bottle.” - -“Is it the music,” cried the girl, “that I have bartered my honour to -listen to? There are greater voices in the air--the thunder of cannon; -the roar of an emancipated people!” - -“Certainly it is true, by report,” said Ned, “that the French Bastille -is fallen into the hands of the mob--a consummation remotely -influenced, no doubt, by the Club of Nature’s Gentry.” - -“Into the hands of Liberty, monsieur. The reign of falsehood is dead. -The ideal triumphs, however far its wicked apostles may have sought to -misconstrue it! And I am of the people! I am of the people--the -people!” - -She gazed up--as if in a sudden inspired ecstasy--then buried her face -in her hands. Her full bosom heaved. She was beyond all control -overwrought. - -“Théroigne!” exclaimed Ned, moved out of, and despite himself. - -She looked up again, with flashing wet eyes. - -“My love is sworn to Liberty!” she cried; “my hate to those who would -make of her a pander to their own base desires. So much of his -teaching remains; and let him abide by its consequences. It is for me -to drive the moral home, to reveal him for the thing he is--the thing -he is!” - -Then Ned, holding no brief for St Denys, was tempted to an inexcusable -utterance-- - -“He was the father of your child, Théroigne.” - -The girl started as if she had been struck. She raised her eyes and -clasped her hands; and she said, in a quivering voice-- - -“I thank God--oh, I thank God he is dead. The little poor infant! And -what would he have made of his baby--he, that had the heart to -disinherit and condemn to lifelong torture his own brother that he had -played with as a child!” - -Ned stood amazed. - -“His brother!” he cried--“the sailor that perished in the West Indies! -But monsieur himself told me of his brother’s fate.” - -She gazed at him intensely. During some moments the evidences of a -hard mental struggle were in her face. Then she gave out a deep sigh. - -“He lied, as always,” she said in a low voice: “Lucien is at this day -a wretched prisoner in the Salpétrière, the madman’s hospital of -Paris.” - -“Théroigne! What do you say!” cried Ned. - -“It is true,” she went on. “He was disfigured--driven insane by the -explosion; but he was not killed. He returned in his ship to -Cherbourg, and there Basile received him of the surgeon and conveyed -him to Paris. He was never heard of again. Basile brought to their -father the news that Lucien was dead of his wounds and buried at sea. -Monseigneur was old and childish, and Paris was far away. That was -seven years ago; but it was only recently that, sure of my loyalty, -and careless of the respect, of the right to which he had deprived me, -he boasted to me of his ancient crime, justifying it, too, on the -score that a reconstituted society must, to be effective, be pruned of -all disease, moral and physical.” - -“He should have hanged himself. Such inhuman villainy! Mademoiselle -Lambertine, you have every reason to hate this man.” - -“Ah! you think I colour the truth. My God, it is black enough! Why -else, himself like a reckless madman, did he squander his double -inheritance? He foresaw the redistribution of property; he was ever -prophesying it. He must drink deeply of pleasure if he would empty the -cup before flinging it into the melting-pot. Moreover, Lucien had been -the old man’s favourite; and, ah! he hated him for that.” - -She stopped a moment, panting; then went on, her voice lower yet with -hoarseness:-- - -“Say, at the best, it was remorse made him a spendthrift, and his -conscience that salved itself with a lying pretext. Does that condone -his perfidy to me? Yet, I swear that he so blinded my eyes and my -heart that, while he was close to me I could not, despite his -confession of wickedness, see him for the wretch he was. Now----” - -She came suddenly quite close up to the young man. - -“Edouard!” she whispered, in a voice so wooing that it seemed to -stroke his cheek. He should have leapt away; but for the first time -the fragrant sweet sensuousness of her presence bewitched him. She put -her hands timidly up to his shoulders, and let her gaze melt into his. -The motion of her bosom communicated to his heart a soft slow -throbbing. In the pause that ensued, the voice of the old drunken -debauchee sounded fitfully from the dining-room. - -“Now,” she murmured, “I see the truth stripped of all that passion -that so falsely adorned it. I see it in you, as in myself, a generous -principle that owes nothing to self-indulgence. Thou couldst use this -in me, thou cold, beautiful man--thou couldst use me to such ends, and -never fail of thy self-respect.” - -She slipped her hands a thought closer about his neck. - -“This evil magnificence,” she said--“so strange and so terrible to the -poor country girl. Every evening the old lord gets tipsy over his -wine; every evening he prays to me on his knees. To-night I thought he -would have died--the passion so enraged him. I swear that is all. Oh! -I have something cries in me for action; some voice, too, summons me -to that dark city where is being born, in agony and travail, the child -of our hopes--yours and mine. Not his now--Edouard, not his. I pray -only to meet him there, that I may denounce him before the Liberty he -has outraged. Take me hence. I am weary of the vile display; weary of -being sought the tool to designing men. Take me away to Paris, where -the era of the new life is beginning!” - -In a paroxysm of entreaty, emboldened by her little success, she so -tightened the soft embrace of her arms as to bring her lips almost -into touch with his. - -“Have I not proved myself, as I promised, a possession to covet?” she -whispered. - -Now, upon that, Ned came to himself at a leap. He loosened her hands; -he repulsed and backed from her. - -“What shameless thing are you,” he cried--the more violently from a -consciousness of his late peril--“that you persist in the face of such -rejection as you have already forced from me? I do not desire your -favour, madame. To offer it to me here, in this place, is nothing but -an insult. Nor, believe me, do I covet the possession of one who----” - -“Hush!” she cried peremptorily. She stood away from him, panting -heavily. Her face glowed with a veritable inner fire. - -“It is for the last time, monsieur--be assured, it is for the last -time,” she breathed out. - -Then she blazed into uncontrollable passion:-- - -“Senseless, and a fool! I would have given you a soul to dare and to -do. This is not a man but a block. It is right, monsieur: you would -freeze the hot life in me--make it of your lead, this poor gold of my -humanity. That other was better than you--he was better, for after all -he could lie bravely. My God, to be so scorned and flouted! But, there -you shall learn--ah, just a little lesson! You are very proud and -high, yet I also shall be high if I choose.” - -She checked herself, came up to and dared him in a rage of mockery. - -“To-morrow we go to Putney. It is all arranged. And I have but to say -the word, the little word, and I am Lady Murk! You twitted me with the -child--my God, the man you are! What now, if his ghost--his -image--were to thrust itself in between you and----” - -The door was flung open--pushed, that is to say, with a respectful -violence nicely significant of emergency. Jepps stood on the -threshold. - -“My lord, will your lordship please to come at once?” - -So said this admirable man; and what need was to say more? Ned, in a -moment, was in the dining-room. - -Mademoiselle Théroigne had presumed a trifle too far on her -desirability. At least, consulting her own interest, she should have -withheld, one way or the other, from the beast of her ambition that -incitement to feed passion with fire. - -The Viscount Murk lay amongst the glasses on the table, dead of a -rushing apoplexy. That is all that it is necessary to say about him. - -When, later, Ned could somewhat collect his faculties, he recalled -dimly how a white face, crowned with a mass of beautiful hair, had -seemed to hang staringly--before it suddenly vanished--in the doorway -of the fatal room. But, when he came to question Jepps about -Mademoiselle Lambertine, he heard that the lady--after returning to -her own apartments for a brief while--had quitted the house without -sign or message. - -Yet one other visitor disturbed that night the house of death--the -Chevalier d’Eon. She came in a chair from the theatre, and Ned, going -forth to her, saw her startled old face twisting with chagrin, as he -thought, in the light of the flambeaux. She had heard the news from a -link-boy in the square. - -“I can do nothing by coming in, I suppose?” she said. - -“Nothing whatever,” answered Ned passionlessly. “He is quite beyond -your influence.” - - - - - BOOK II. - - CHAPTER I. - -Edward, Lord Murk--now three years enjoying the viscounty--was -established, during the summer of ’92, at “Stowling,” his lordship’s -seat near Bury St Edmunds. Since his uncle’s death he had spent the -greater part of his time here--perhaps because his associations with -the place were less of the disreputable old peer than of the -traditions and the _personnel_ that had made it dear to him in his -youth. He had sold both the Cavendish Square property and the villa at -Putney; and was consequently, no doubt, very meanly equipped with -domicile for a gentleman of his position. - -That, maybe, to him was a term little else than synonymous with -“opportunity.” Position at its best enabled him to realise on some -ethical speculations of his earlier educational period. His Paris -experiences had given to these their final direction; and though he -was theoretically as convinced as ever that men should be made -virtuous by Act of Parliament, the tablets of his soul, bitten into by -the acid of human suffering, were come nowadays to exhibit the -expression of a very human sympathy. - -He gave with a large discriminating nobility; yet, no doubt, he was -little popular in the neighbourhood, because in his benefactions he -was discerning, and because, in indulging his liberality, he would -forego any display of the wealth that he was ever passing on to -others. Already for a peer he was poor; and, had he chosen, he might -have cited, in favour of his conception of a mechanical morality, the -fact that an emotional morality secretly despised in him that poverty -by which it profited. But he did not choose. The spirit of philosophy -still dwelt in him very sweet and sound. - -In all these three years he had not once been abroad. Following--as -keenly as it was possible for him to do in those days of crippled -international communication--the progress of the great Revolution -(perhaps, even, contributing at its fair outset to the sinews of war), -he had yet no inducement whatever further to embroil himself, an -inconsiderable theorist, with a distracted people. Between a turbulent -chamber of his history and the halls of tranquillity in which he now -sojourned had clapped-to a very sombre door of death; and this he had -not the inclination to open again. - -Still, often in his day-dreams he would be back at Madame Gamelle’s, -watching all that life scintillating against the curtain of the -Bastille. And now this curtain had, in truth, gone up, revealing, not, -as he himself had prophesied, the “blank brick wall of the theatre,” -but democratic force represented in a vast perspective--a procession -so endless that it seemed drawn out of the very brain of the North, -where all mystery is concentrated. - -That, now, was an old story. Three subsequent years of planting and -levelling had changed the face of the world’s garden of conventions, -and during all that time the world itself had stood round outside the -railings, peering in amazed upon a ruthless grubbing up and carting -away of its pinkest flowers of propriety. - -That was an old story; nor less so to Ned was the tale of his little -sojourn in Méricourt; and thereon, for all his rebelling, his -thoughts would sometimes dwell sweetly. The very quaintness of his -reception, unflattering though it had been, had still an odd thrill -for him. The memory of a happy period put to long wanderings by -serried dykes, of the old hamlet basking in the ferny bed of its -hills, of all the ridiculous and the tragic that, blended, made of the -little episode in his life a sore that it was yet ticklingly pleasant -to rub over--these, the shadows of a momentary experience, would rise -before him, not often, yet so persistently that he came to attach -almost a superstitious significance to their visitings. For why else, -he thought, should the ghost of one haunt the galleries of a thousand -pictures! Some connection, not yet severed, must surely link him to -that time. - -Yet, during all this period of his responsibility, no whisper to -suggest that to _his_ shadows he was become other than a shadow -himself reached him. It may have been breathed inaudibly, -nevertheless, through the key-hole of that closed door. - -Of Théroigne he had heard no word after her flight from the house of -death. Nor had he desired to hear, or to do else than free himself of -the dust of a scandal that, for months after his succession, had clung -to him as the legitimate inheritor of a villainous reputation. And -this desire he had held by no means in order to the conciliation of -Mrs Grundy, but only that he might be early quit of the hampering -impertinences of commiseration and criticism. - -Once, it is true, he had almost persuaded himself that it was his duty -to seek for either verification or disproof of the girl’s almost -incredible statement about the man Lucien de St Denys. The conviction, -however, that the story as related _was_ incredible; that it was -revealed to him under the stress of passion and of immeasurable -grievance; that no man--least of all an astute rascal--would be likely -to put into the hands of a woman--the baser sequel to whose ruin he -was even then contemplating--a weapon so tipped with menace to -himself,--this growing upon him, he was decided in the end to forego -the resolving of all problems but those that were incidental to his -own affairs. Therefore he settled down with admirable decorum to the -righteous lording of his acres. - -Still occasionally a restless spirit--that Harlequin bastard of Ariel -and the earth-born Crasis--would whisper in his ear of vast -world-tracts unexplored, of the meanness of social restrictions and of -the early staleness that overtakes the daily bread of conventions, of -the harmonics of phantom delights that may be heard in the -under-voices of flying winds, of life as it might be lived did men -serve Nature with honesty instead of deceit. Then a longing would -arise in him to be up and away again; to throw off the shackles of -formality and pursue his more liberal education through the fairs of -the nations. Then his days would show themselves empty records, -strangely fed from some darker reservoir of emptiness, the source of -whose supply would be a weary enigma to him. And in such moods it was -that the gardens of the past blossomed through his dreams, and -figures, sweet and spectral, would be seen walking in them--Théroigne -sometimes, sometimes Nicette, and again others--yet these two most -persistently. - - * * * * * * * * - -The demesne of “Stowling” was situate a long mile from Bury St Edmunds -against the Lynn Road. All about the grounds relics of an ancient -grandeur were in evidence, though the house itself, a graceful -Jacobean block, with projecting wings and stone eyebrows to its -windows, was a structure significant of a quite moderate condition of -fortune. The property, in point of fact, had been flung, at “Hazard,” -into the lap of that same Hilary, Lord Brindle (own pot-companion to -Steele and to Dick Savage of the “Wanderer”--with whom, indeed, he had -often cast at Robinson’s coffee-house, near Charing Cross, where the -broil occurred in which Lady Macclesfield’s bastard stabbed Mr -Sinclair to death), who was wont to justify his own viciousness by the -aphorism, “Whatever we are here for, we are not here for good.” Very -few of the Murks, it must be confessed, had been here for good, though -none had endeavoured to disprove one side of the _mot_ with more -pertinacity than the late viscount. Yet, at last, a successor was to -the front who would inform with gravity and decorum the family seat -that had been acquired, rebuilt, and maintained by the wild lord in a -manner so questionable. - -For Ned the house was big enough; to him its grounds presented a -retreat that had all the melancholy charm of a cloister to its monks. -Nameless antiquity dreamed in its clumps of mossy ruins; in its -fragment of a Norman gateway; in its tumbled “Wodehouse” -men--sightless, crippled giants, with clubs shattered against the -skull of Time; in its wolfish gurgoyles snarling up from the grass. -Hereabouts could he wander a summer’s day and never regret the world. - -Not often was he to be seen in the old town hard by; yet from time to -time he would walk over on a sunny day and loiter away an hour or so -in its venerable streets. And therein one morning (it was breathing -kind July weather) he saw a vision that seemed to typify to him the -very “sweet seventeen” of the year. - -Now Ned’s knowledge of women had been mostly of the emotional side; -and a certain constitutional causticity in him had been wrought out of -all patience by the attentions to which he had been subjected in the -respect of one order of passion. It is true his innate sense of humour -rejected for himself the plea of excessive attractiveness, and, -indeed, any explanation of the pursuit, save that he had happened -coincidently into the scent-area of a couple of questing creatures of -prey. Still, built as he was, the experience was so far to his -distaste as to incline him always a little thenceforth to an -unreasonable hatred of the dulcetly sentimental in, and, indeed, to a -shyness of, the sex altogether. - -Upon this, however, the little July-winged vision--which blossomed -into his sight as he turned the corner into a quiet street--he looked -with that inspired _premier coup d’œil_ that aurelians direct to a -rare living “specimen” of what they have hitherto only known in -unapproachable cabinets. He looked, and saw her spotless, as recently -emerged from some horny chrysalis of his own late incubating fancy. -(“This is _ipsa quæ_, the which--there is none but only she.”) He -looked, and the desire of acquisition gripped his heart--if only he -had had a net in his hand! - -She had bright brown hair and china-blue eyes, and her hair curled -very daintily, and her eyelashes dropped little butterfly kisses--as -the children call them--on her own pretty cheeks. She was of an -appealing expression, a thought coy and _spirituelle_; and she was -indescribably French, too, in her tricks of gesture and the very -roguish tilt of her hat. - -That was by the way to this travelled Cymon. Emigrants nowadays were -commoner than sign-boards in the streets of Bury. What concerned him -was that the girl appeared to be in trouble. She rested one hand on -the sill of a low window in the wall; her forehead had a pained line -in it; she sucked in her lower lip as if something hurt her; from time -to time an extraordinary little spasm seemed to waver up her frame. - -At least one reprehensible suggestion as to the cause of this -convulsion might have offered itself to a vulgar intelligence--the -tyranny (to put it sweetly) of over-small shoes. My Lord Murk, leaving -his fine prudence and philosophy squabbling in the background, walked -up to and accosted the sufferer in deadly earnest and quite courtly -French-- - -“Mademoiselle is in distress? I am at her service and command.” - -The lady gave an irrepressible start, and shuddered herself rigid. -Certainly she was abominably pretty--straight-nosed, wonder-eyed as a -mousing kitten. But she answered with unmistakable petulance, and in a -winning manner of English, “I am beholden to monsieur; but it is -nothing--nothing at all. I beg monsieur to proceed on his way.” - -Ned bowed and withdrew. The dismissal was peremptory; he had no -choice. But, daring to glance back as he was about to take another -turning out of the empty street, he was moved to pause again in a -veritable little panic of curiosity. For, on the instant of his -espial, a “clearing” spasm, it seemed, was in process of bedevilling -the angelic form; and immediately the form repossessed itself of the -nerves of motion, skedaddled round a corner, and disappeared. - -Now sudden inspiration came to Master Ned gossip. He perceived that -the lady had been standing upon a grating. Like a thief, in good -earnest, he stole back to the scene of the _contretemps_, and went -into a silent fit of laughter. Two little high red heels, bristling -with nails, were firmly wedged between the bars of the grille. With a -guilty round-about glance, he squatted, and dug and beat them out with -a sharp stone. Then (observe the embryonic crudeness of romance in the -shell), he put them--nails and all--into his tail-pocket. - - - - - CHAPTER II. - -Had Lord Murk been of a present inclination less reserved and -withdrawing, he had months before found easy access to the presence of -the merry maid, whose little red heels seemed now, as it were, to have -taken his misogamy by the tail. For, indeed, when at last he sought, -he found this young lady’s identity established in a word. She was -neither more nor less (with a reservation in respect to the gossips) -than the adopted daughter of a very notable _gouvernante_ to a royal -family; and she happened to have already sojourned in Bury some six -months, during which he, the hermit-crab, had chosen to tuck himself -away apathetic into his shell. - -Ned had, of course, heard of the not altogether peaceful invasion of -the drowsy little town by one particularly hybrid company of emigrants -that was, in fact, the travelling suite of Mademoiselle d’Orléans, -whom the Duke her father had, for safety, shipped to England towards -the latter end of the previous year. The importance of mademoiselle’s -advent was signified rather in her rank than her maturity, which -presented her as a lymphatic little body, some fifteen years of age, -with pink eye-places and a somewhat pathetic trick of expression. But, -if her title proclaimed her nominal suzerainty over the _valetaille_ -that, in its habits of volubility and swagger, was to inflame the -popular sense of decorum by-and-by to a rather feverish pitch of -resentment, the very practical conduct of the expedition was in the -hands of that wonderful woman whom an irreverent virtuosity had -entitled “Rousseau’s hen.” - -Ned had not in the least desired to make the acquaintance of this -Madame de Genlis. His position in the neighbourhood rather entailed -upon him the courtesy of a welcome to the royal little red-eyed -stranger at his gates; yet, adapting his unsociability to popular -rumour of the formidable _bas-bleu_ that dragoned her, he delayed a -duty until its fulfilment became an impossibility. And even a chance -report or so that had reached him of the beauty of madame’s adopted -child--the flower-faced Pamela (“_notre petit bijou_”), in praise of -whose name, abbreviated, a dozen local squireens were flogging their -tuneless brains for any rhyme less natural to the effort than -“damn!”--moved him only to some sardonic reflections on the -uncomplimentary significance of a gift that seemed designed in -principle for a stimulant to fools. - -To fools had been his thought; and now here he was, having for the -first time happened upon this actual Pamela, not only awake of a -sudden to a glaring sense of the social solecism he had committed, but -awake, also, to a sentiment much less intimate (as he thought) to the -world of ordinary emotions. It was astounding, it was humiliating so -to truckle to the thrall of a couple of blue eyes that, for all -purposes of vision, were no better than his own. He stood astonished; -he rebelled--but he pursued. He felt his very _amour-propre_ giving -before the incursion of a force, stranger yet akin to it. So the big -brown rat (oh, vile analogy!) usurped the kingdom of his little black -cousin. - -Why, then, did the unfortunate young man not reject and cast forth the -spell that seemed to drain him of all the ichor of independence? Why -did he wantonly stimulate in himself a fancy that his calm judgment -pronounced hysterical? How can these things be answered? How could any -sober reason analyse the motives of a person who kept in his -tail-pocket, and frequently sat upon, a charm that absolutely bristled -with spikes? It is the way of love. When the mystic bolt flies, the -philosopher apart must take his chance of a wound with the man who -lives in a street. - -Anyhow, it must be recorded how Ned took to haunting--with the -persistent casualness of one whose unattainable mistress is, as -suggested by his preoccupied manner, the thing farthest from his -thoughts--the neighbourhood of a certain house in Bury St Edmunds. - -This house--a dignified, two-storeyed, red-brick building, with a -stiff white porch standing out into the road, and, on the floor above -the porch, five tall windows looking arrogantly down from behind a -green balcony at the lesser lights in the barber’s and fruiterer’s -shops opposite--was situate, about the middle of the town, on a slope -known as Abbey Hill, and had for actual neighbour a chief hotel, the -Angel, then pretty newly built. It faced--across that sort of homely -_place_, or town quadrangle, that is so usual a feature in English old -market boroughs--a flaked and hoary Norman tower that had once been -the gateway to a graveyard long since passed with its dead into the -limbo of memories. Madame la gouvernante could see the solemn eyebrows -of this very doyen of antiquity bent upon her as she sat at the second -_déjeuner_, and it made her nervous. Sometimes, even, she would send -a servant to half close the blinds of the window over against her. - -“One cannot evade oneself of its senile addresses,” she said on a -certain occasion to a florid gentleman in black, who had come down -from London to be her particular guest for a while. “I feel like Vesta -being made the courted of an old Time. It is always heere the mummy at -the feast.” - -The gentleman laughed. - -“Egad!” said he. “It is to illustrate how Time stands still with -madame the Countess of Genlis; and, as to the mummy, why, a mummy is -but dust, and dust is easy to lay”--and he took a great pull from a -bumper beside him. - -He drank brandy-and-water with his meat. “’Tis this country appetite,” -he would say. “Violent diseases need violent remedies;” but by-and-by -he would take his share of the port and madeira with the rest. Now he -looked across the table to a little shy lady, and, says he, but -speaking in very bad French, “Mademoiselle the princess, as I -dissipate myself of this shadow, so may you as readily of that that -magnifies itself to the eyes of madame the countess.” - -He opened his own eyes as he spoke, comically, to imply some imaginary -vision of terror. He was very proud of these orbs, that were large and -liquid. Indeed, he never allowed the well that replenished them to run -dry. - -“_Est-ce bien possible_! fie, then, Mr Sherree-den!” put in a very -little voice--not of the lady addressed--from farther down the table. -“But mademoiselle takes water with her wine.” - -Madame tapped on her plate with her fan, uttering an exclamation of -reproval. But the gentleman only laughed again. - -“Miss Rogue, Miss Pamela,” said he, being by this time secure of his -priming, “I will compliment you and your wit on making a very pretty -couple.” - -“We are twins,” said the girl saucily. “We were found together on a -doorstep.” - -“_Tais-toi, coquine_!” cried madame sharply. “The pair of you had been -well committed to the Foundling.” - -She treated with vast indulgence generally this pretty child of her -adoption. It seemed only that this particular subject was fraught with -alarm to her. By-and-by, when the queer meal was ended (there had been -present at it, besides the ladies and Mr Sheridan, three silent -Bœotians--_concordia discors_: practical scientists attached to the -household, and now admitted, _à l’Egalité_, to a share in its social -rites), madame conducted her guest to her boudoir over the front -porch, and opened upon him with the matter momentarily nearest her -heart. - -“Does it magnify itself to my eyes, this--the shadow of the tower?” -she said. “I do not know. It was not so at Barse, where we arrive -first; but heere--heere! The place oppresses me. Its antiquity is a -rebuke to the frothy dynasties. Every whisper is from a ghost of the -past bidding us of the new mode to begone. We are hated, tracked, and -watched. I see faces behind trees; I heere mutterings through the -walls. What have we to do in this haunted town?” - -“It is the burying-place of kings,” said Mr Sheridan. “It should be to -your taste.” - -Madame la comtesse had no echo for levity. She seemed quite genuinely -agitated. Her trick (pronounced eternal by one that detested her) of -advertising the beauty of her hand and arm by toying, while she -conversed, with a fillet of packthread, as if it were a harp string, -was exchanged now for an incessant nervous handling of a little -miniature Bastille, carved from a fallen stone of the original, that -hung upon her bosom. Her face--pretty yet, though narrowing down to an -over-small chin--seemed even yellow, drawn, and affrayed. This -appearance was partly due, no doubt, to the fact that she wore no -rouge. She had once made a vow to quit its use at the age of thirty, -and now at forty-five she was yet true to her word. Indeed, she was -the very _dévote_ of Minerva-worship. - -She sighed, “That I, whom Nature intended for the cloister, should -have to fight always against the snares and the wickedness! I sink. -Was there evaire the time when my flesh not preek to the fright? Oh -yes, once when I was vain! It is vanity that make the good _armure_. I -had no thought but levity when I marry M. de Genlis--and afterwards -during the years of Passy, of Villers-Cotterets, of the Rue de -Richelieu! Then I have no fear of the morrow; I have no fear at all -but of the too-ardent lover.” - -“It must have been an ever-present fear,” said Mr Sheridan gravely. - -She shook her head with hardly a laugh. - -“I am an old sad woman; my _armure_ is crumbled from me. I play now -only one part--in those times it was many. From Cupid to a -_cuisinière_, I had the gift to make each character appear natural; -to present it, nevairtheless, of the most charming grace. I was adored -and adorable; but it was vanity. I would not exchange the present for -the past. I could perform on seven, eight instruments, monsieur; I -could dance to shame the unapproachable Vestris; I knew Corneille by -heart; Mirabeau himself was not cleverer in organising a comedy for -the living, than I for the artificial, stage. My _rôle_ was to -promote the healthy condition of amiability, to teach people how to be -happy though innocent. That _rôle_ yet remains to me; the rest is -gone. When vanity has taught its lesson the pupil may become teacher. -I leave since many years the theatre of emotions for the theatre of -life. It would be good for some of your countrywomen to follow my -example. When I sink of your Congreve, your Vanbrugh, and of the young -ladies at Barse that listen wisout a blush, _eh bien, on peut espérer -que l’habit ne fait pas le moine_!” - -“Faith, it’s horrible!” said Mr Sheridan; and he remembered how -assiduously madame and her charges had frequented the theatres during -their two months’ stay at that questionable watering-place before they -came to Bury. - -“But the morals of ‘Belle Chasse’ have not penetrated to England,” -says he, with a little roguish bow to the lady. - -Madame uttered a self-indulgent sigh. She looked round on the frippery -of fancy-work--moss-baskets, appliqué embroidery, wax flowers, -illustrations of science in the shape of tiny trees formed from lead -precipitate, illustrations of art in the collections of little moony -landscapes engraved on smoked cards, illustrations of practical -mechanics in the binding of a sticky volume or so--that lay about the -room. These were all so many evidences of her system--instruction in -the pleasant gardens of manual toil. She was possessed of the little -knowledge of a hundred little crafts. She could have written a ‘Girl’s -Own Book’ without the help of one collaborator. - -“I have eschewed all the frivolity,” she said. “It is only now that I -desire for others to taste sweetly of the fruits of my experience. I -am like a nun wishing to dictate the high morality from her cell. The -world passes before my window in review, and I applaud or condemn. Is -it that I am to be accused of self-interest, of intrigue, because I -would convert my hard-wrung knowledge to the profit of my fellows? Yet -they pursue me with hate and menace. My reputation is the sport of -calumny; my life hangs by a thread. I write to monseigneur, and he -aggravates, while seeking to allay, my fears. I write to M. Fox, and -he laugh politely in my face. My friends heere, that I thought, turn -against me--Sir Gage; Madame Young, also, that is prejudice of that -Mees Burrnee you all love so. And she is a tower of strength, the -little Fannee--oh yes! but steef, like the tower there. That is the -same wis you all. One must evaire conform to your tradeetions or you -look asquint.” - -“I think you exaggerate the danger,” said Mr Sheridan soberly. “But -whatever it be, here am I come down from London to your counsel and -command.” - -Madame rose from her seat and rested her long fingers caressingly on -the speaker’s shoulder. - -“_Mon chevalier, mon très cher ami_,” she said, some real emotion in -her voice, “forrgeeve me. It would be good of you at any time; but -now, now! The pretty bird, the sweet _rossignol_, that cried into the -night and was hearkened of an angel! Ah! she has no longer of the -desolation of the song that must hush itself weeping upon the heart!” - -She pressed her other hand to her bosom. Her companion leaned down a -moment, his fingers shading his eyes. - -“The desolation!” he muttered. “Yes, yes; but for us now there is a -deeper silence in the woods.” - -They spoke of his wife, who had died but a few months previously. -Perhaps the great man had been as faithful to her as it was the -fashion for men, great and little, to be in those days to their -partners. At any rate, he had loved her to the end--in his own way. _A -propos_ of which it may be recorded as richly characteristic of him -how, while this same wife lay a-dying, he had been known to ease his -heart of sorrow by scribbling verses to Pamela (then living in Bath), -in whose beauty he had found, or professed to find, a reflection of -his Delia’s old-time fairness. - -Now, fortuitously, the little sentimental passage was put an abrupt -end to; for, as she leaned, madame all of a sudden started violently -and uttered a staccato shriek. - -“_Le voilà_, the _triste_ dark stranger! He come again; he come -always! You tell me now there is no purrepus in this devilish -haunting?” - -She retreated, backing into the room, shrinking without the malignant -focus of any stealthy glance directed at her from the road outside. Mr -Sheridan jumped to his feet and looked from the window. Strolling past -in the sunlight, with an air of studied preoccupation upon his face, -strolled a melancholy young man of enigmatical aspect. - -Madame, withdrawn into the shade of a screen, stood panting -hysterically. - -“It is evaire so. He come by morning and by noon--thus, hurrying not -at all, but watchful, watchful from the blinkers of his eyes. Why am I -so hated and pursued? Is he agent of M. de Liancourt, do you think? -Ah! but it is worthy of a runagate so to war on a woman.” - -She squealed out in a sudden nerve-panic to hear her companion laugh. -He ran to the door of the room. - -“Faith!” he cried jovially, “I’m in the way to resolve this riddle at -least,” and he pulled at the handle and vanished. - -She cried after him to come back--not to leave her alone--that she -would lose her reason were anything to happen to him. His descending -heels clattered an only reply. Then at a thought she ran to the window -and peeped from the covert of curtains. The stranger was wheeled about -at the moment and returning as he had come. She saw Mr Sheridan run -forth bareheaded, accost, and seize him by both of his hands. He -seemed to return the greeting; he---- - -Madame the countess sank into a chair, as mentally paralysed as though -the end were upon her. - -Her chevalier was conducting the spy to the door of the house. - - - - - CHAPTER III. - -A much-stricken young gentleman--very undeservedly released from the -onus of a social embarrassment for which he was alone -responsible--stood gravely bowing before the lady of the house. His -face was quite white. - -“I am vastly pleased,” said Mr Sheridan, “to be the means of -presenting to madame the Countess of Genlis a neighbour, the Lord -Viscount Murk. I have the honour of a slight acquaintance with his -lordship. I was even more intimate with his predecessor in the title. -But at least I can disabuse madame’s mind----” - -Madame, who up to the moment had seemed half-amort, rose hurriedly all -at once and swept her stranger a magnificent courtsey. - -“I feel already that I have known monsieur for years,” she said, hard -winter in her voice. - -Mr Sheridan burst out laughing. - -“Come, come,” he cried, “a mistake isn’t malice. There was never one -yet that sinned against nature. Zounds, madame, when the respite -arrives, we bear no grudge against the executioner! I can vouch for my -lord that he had no thought of offending.” - -Ned looked enormously amazed. - -“None whatever,” he said. “Why should I, when I have not even the -honour of madame’s acquaintance?” - -This was certainly ambiguous. Mr Sheridan laughed again like a very -groundling. - -“Without affront,” said he, “let me ask your lordship a question. Why -have you haunted madame, who is plaguily afeared of ghosts?” - -“Haunted!” exclaimed Ned. - -“Haunted,” replied the other. “Or is it, perhaps, one of madame’s -sacred charges that is the object of your visitations?” - -Madame de Genlis, who included in her _répertoire_ of accomplishments -the art of reading character, here, after gazing intently at the young -man a few moments, permitted herself an immediate relaxation from -severity to the most charming indulgence. - -“_Dieu du ciel_!” she cried. “What an old, old, foolish woman! It is -nussing, monsieur. I see you pass and come back, and come again one -hundred time like a ’ope-goblin, and I sink--I sink--ah! no matter -what I sink. I not know you less than nobody--not until Mr Sherree-den -come and espy you and say, ‘Do not fear thees poor eenocent.’ And now -I see it is not the old woman that attracts.” - -Ned was by this up to the ears in a very slough of self-consciousness. -To stand detected before the authority he had manœuvred to -hoodwink!--so much of the innuendo he understood. For the first time, -perhaps, he realised how, in lending himself to some traditional -tactics, he had advertised himself of the common clay. He felt very -hot, and a little angry; and his anger whipped his sense of personal -dignity to a cream-like stiffness. - -He was sorry, he said, he had been the cause of the least uneasiness -to madame la comtesse. He was a man of a rambling disposition--of a -peripatetic philosophy. Often, he had no doubt, absorbed in some train -of reflection, he would unconsciously haunt a locality that, -associating itself with the prolegomena of his meditations, would seem -to supply the atmosphere most conducive to their regular progression. -He---- - -And here the door opened, and a young lady ran into the room. - -“A thousand pardons!” cried this young person. She did not know madame -was engaged other than with Mr Sheridan, and he counted for nothing. -But mademoiselle and she were learning to make artificial -birds’-nests, with painted sugarplums for the eggs, and they looked to -madame la gouvernante to advise them. - -She curtseyed to my lord, with a little pert toss of her head like a -wind-blown Iceland poppy-flower, when he was made known to her. She -had no recollection of him, it was evident. All that play he had -rehearsed to himself, according to fifty different readings, of the -return of the red heels to their owner, became impossible of -performance the moment he found his audience a reality. There and then -he foresaw, and prepared himself heroically to meet, his martyrdom. - - * * * * * * * * - -Now all the glory and tragedy of Ned’s life came to crowd themselves -into a few months--into a few days, indeed, so far as his connection -with the strange household at Bury was concerned. Herein--no less on -account of his magnetic leaning towards a bright particular star, than -because he had made his _entrée_ under the ægis of Mr Sheridan--he -was accepted and discussed; pitied by some unsophisticated young -hearts; weighed in the balance of a maturer brain, and found, perhaps, -deficient. - -“He has the grand air,” said madame; “he is noble and sedate, and of -amiable principles. But--_hélas_! _à quoi sert tout cela_--if one so -gives effect to the gospel of distribution as to deprive oneself of -the means to honourably perpetuate one’s race!” - -“I have always admired madame’s little ornament of the Bastille,” said -Mr Sheridan. - -“Ah!” cried the lady, smiling, “monsieur is varee arch; but beauty is -not the common property, and the little Pamela shall ask a fair return -for hers.” - -“Well,” said Mr Sheridan, “’tis notorious that Damon hath squandered -his inheritance on a very virtuous hobby, and lives meanly in the -result. And that, be assured, is a pity; for he seems a young -gentleman of parts.” - -It was thus he played the devil’s advocate to Ned’s beatification. -Early he began to harp upon the one string behind the poor fellow’s -back. He professed to be in love with Pamela himself, and the -intrusion of this most serious suitor interfered with his amusement. -He trifled, no doubt, in a very July mood; he loved the girl for her -prettiness and her saucy manner of speech; he was humorously flattered -by the familiar deference accorded him in a house of which he was -claimed the dear friend and protector. And on this account, and -because he was nothing if not unscrupulous in affairs of gallantry, he -condescended to acknowledge himself Ned’s rival for the favour of -Mademoiselle, _née_ Sims (that was Pamela), and to make good his suit -with arguments of wit and brilliancy that threw poor Damon’s solid -virtues into the shade. - -Perhaps Madame de Genlis may have been the more inclined to besprinkle -with cold water the ardour of the young lord, in that she took the -other with a rather confounding seriousness. Mr Sheridan, indeed, -offered himself at this period a particularly desirable match for a -nameless young woman of inconsiderable fortune. He was only a little -past the zenith of his reputation, and the glamour of his best work -yet went always, an atmosphere of greatness, with him. At forty-one -years of age he was equipped with such a personality of wit, -eloquence, and riches (presumable) in proportion, as, combined, made -him a very alluring parti. In addition to this he could claim the -advantages of a tall, well-proportioned figure; of a striking, though -not handsome, face; of an education in the most liberal modishness of -the age. His expression was frank, his manner cordial and free from -arrogance. From first to last he was a formidable rival. - -Now, on the very day (the little comedy was all a matter of days) -following Ned’s introduction by him to the family, he--seeing how the -wind blew, and at once regretting his complaisance--began some petty -tactics for the stultifying of a possible antagonist. He drove the -ladies, uninvited, over to lunch at “Stowling,” on the chance of -taking Master Ned unawares, and so of exposing the intrinsic poverty -of a specious wooer. Nor was his astuteness miscalculated. My Lord -Viscount, in the act of sitting down to a mutton-chop, was overwhelmed -in fathomless waters of confusion. He hastily organised--even -personally commanded--a raid on the larders; but their yield was -inadequate to the occasion. - -He apologised with desperate dignity. A merry enough meal ensued; but, -throughout, hatred of his own self-sacrificing principles dwelt in him -like a jaundice, and he could have pronounced fearful anathema on all -the fools of philanthropy who omitted to stock their cellars with -nectar and ambrosia against the casual coming of angels. - -Mr Sheridan supplied a feast of wit, however, and Ned was grateful to -him for it. He even revived so far at the end as to beg the honour of -providing the ladies with invitations to an Assembly ball that was to -be holden in Bury on the Thursday of that same week. Rather to his -surprise they accepted with alacrity; and so the matter was arranged. -And then, at Mr Sheridan’s request, but unwillingly, he played -cicerone to his own domain, and thought at every turn he recognised a -conscious pity for his indigent condition to underlie the fair -compliments of his guests. - -When these were gone he sent straightway for his steward, and -surprised the good man by an extraordinary jeremiad on the -maladministration of a trust that fattened the dependants of a -starving lord. He himself, he said, was expected to dress like a -bagman and feed like a kennel-scraper, in order that his household -might gorge itself disgustingly in silken raiment. He would have -reforms; he would have money; he would have the house victualled as -for a siege, and grind the faces of the poor did they question his -right to drink, like Cleopatra, of dissolved pearls. And then he burst -out laughing, and shook the honest man by the hand, and turned him out -of the room; after which he sat down by the window and gnawed his -thumb-nails. - -Now, it will be understood, this unfortunate youth was fairly in the -grip of that demoralising but evasive demon that is the sworn foe to -philosophy. He was entered of the amorous germ; and the procreative -atom, multiplying, was with amazing quickness to convert to misuse all -the sound humours of his constitution. He could not seek to exercise a -normal faculty, but it confused and routed what he had always -recognised for the plain logic of existence. He was ready to discount -facts; to magnify trifles; to attach an unwarranted significance to -specious vacuities; to fathom a deep meaning with the very plumb he -used for the sounding of a shallow artifice. Sometimes, in a -recrudescence of reason, he would think, like any calm-souled -rationalist, to analyse his own symptoms, to annotate the course of -his disease for the benefit of future victims to a like morbosity. It -was of no use. His moral vision was so out of focus as to distort to -him not only his present condition, but all the processes that had -conduced thereto. He was humiliated; and he writhed under, and gloried -in, his humiliation. To him, as to many in like circumstance, it -seemed preposterous that he should have come unscathed through many -battles to be outfenced by a child with a sword of lath. So feels the -warrior of a hundred fights when he is “run in” by a street constable -for brawling. - -Ned dressed for the ball with particular care. He was to constitute -himself of madame’s party, and for that purpose had engaged to dine -with it before the event. The meal was a desultory one, the ladies’ -toilettes serving as excuse for an unpunctuality that was generally -opposed to the principles of la gouvernante. But, one by one, all took -their places at the table--Mademoiselle d’Orléans, in a fine-powdered -head-dress, having a single feather in it like a cockade, and with her -little plaintive rabbit eyes looking from a soft mist of fur; Pamela, -sweet and roguish, wearing her own brown curls filleted with a double -ribbon of yellow; and Mademoiselle Sercey, another young relative of -madame’s, and an inconsiderable item of the household at Bury. There -were also accommodated with places three or four of the Bœotians -before referred to--silent, awkward men, painfully conscious of their -quasi-elevation, who sat below the salt and talked together in -whispers. - -Mr Sheridan came in late. He had compromised with his grief so far as -to exchange his black stockings for white, and to wear a diamond -brooch in his breast linen. His hair was powdered and tied into a -black ribbon. Ned must acknowledge to himself that he looked a very -engaging gentleman. - -He sparkled with fun and frolic, and he fed the sparkle liberally from -the long glass that stood beside him. - -“Mademoiselle,” he said to the princess, “your hair is very pretty. -Love hath nested in it, and is hidden all but his wing. But is it not -ill-manners to keep him whispering into your ear in company?” - -“He talk only of the folly of flattery, monsieur,” said the little -lady, simpering and bashful. - -“A ruse,” cried the other, “that he learned when he played the monk. -Beware of him most when he preaches.” - -“Mademoiselle is told to beware of you, monsieur,” said Pamela to a -gravely ecstatic young gentleman who sat next to her. - -“Of me?” - -“Are you not then the monk, the airmeet; and is it not mademoiselle’s -ear you seek?” - -“No,” said Ned brusquely. - -He looked at the pretty insolent face, at the toss of brown curls, the -little straight saucy nose, the lowered lids. He thought he had never -seen anything so wonderful and so fair as this human flower. The neck -of her frock was cut down to a point. She seemed the very bud of white -womanhood breaking from its sheath. - -Did she gauge the admiration of his soul? He was not a boisterous -wooer or a talkative. For days he had purposed lightening the -conscious gravity of his suit by “springing” her lost heels upon his -inamorata. He could never, however, make up his mind as to the right -wisdom of the course. A dozen considerations kept him undecided--as to -the possibility of giving offence, of appearing a buffoon, of failing, -out of the depths of his infatuation, to introduce into the conduct of -the jest a necessary barm of gaiety. Without this, how little might -the result justify the venture? It was an anxious dilemma. The thought -of it threw into the shade all questions of a merely national -character in which he had once taken an interest; and, in the -meantime, he continued to carry the ridiculous baubles about in his -pocket. - -Now, is it not one of Love’s ironies to depress a wooer by the very -circumstance that should exalt him; to make him so fearful of his own -inadequacy as that he seeks to stultify in himself the very qualities -that Nature has amiably gifted him withal? Thus Ned, naturally a quite -lovable youth when he had no thought of love, was no sooner come under -its spell than he was moved to forego that pretty, self-confident -deportment, that was his particular charm, for an uncommunicative -diffidence that appeared to present him as a hobbledehoy. He lived in -the constant dread, indeed, of procuring his own discomfiture by an -assumption of assurance. - -“You know it is not,” he said--daring greatly, as it seemed to him. - -“_I_ know, monsieur!” - -The blue eyes were lifted a moment to his. Perhaps they recognised a -latency of meaning in the gaze they encountered. Madame de Genlis had -once summed up the character of this sweet _protégée_ of hers. -“Idle, witty, vivacious,” she called her; a person the least capable -of reflection. Idle, without doubt, she was, in the nursery-maid’s -acceptance of the term--a child full of caprice and mischief. - -“Sure, sir,” she added, with a sudden thrilling demureness, “you must -know _me_ for a low-born maid?” - -She was a little startled into the half-conscious naïveté by the -dumb demand of the look fastened upon her. Besides, she was certainly -moved--in despite of _mère-adoptive_ and some significant warnings -received from her--by the submission to her thrall of a seigneur whose -ancient nobility no present penury could impeach. - -But she had no sooner spoken than she recollected herself. - -“Do you think me like Mademoiselle d’Orléans?” she said, hurriedly -stopping one question with another. “It is some that say we might be -_sœurs consanguines_.” - -What did the child mean? Had she any secret theory as to her own -origin; and, if so, was she subtly intent upon discounting her first -avowal? She may have wished to imply that no real necessity was for -her self-depreciation. She may have wished only to divert the course -of her neighbour’s thoughts. He was about to answer in some -astonishment, ridiculing the suggestion, when Mr Sheridan hailed -Pamela from his place opposite. - -“A nosegay!” he cried, tapping his own flushed cheek in illustration. -“Give me a rose to wear for a favour.” - -“It is easy,” said the girl. Her eyes sparkled. She turned to a -servant. “Go, fetch for Mr Sherree-den my rouge in the little box,” -she said. - -“Fie, then, naughty child!” cried madame; “it merits you rather to -receive the little box on the ear.” But the great orator chuckled with -laughter. - -“Pigwidgeon, pigwidgeon!” he said, nodding his head at the culprit. -“Not for youth and health are rouge and enamel, and all the vestments -of vanity.” - -“Not eiser for youth or age,” said madame severely. - -“But only for ugliness,” said Sheridan. - -“No,” said madame--“nor for zat. It is all immoral.” - -“Immoral!” he cried; “immoral to put a good face on misfortune!” He -looked only across the table, over the brim of his glass, when he had -uttered his _mot_. He delighted to make the girl laugh. His own -wonderful eyes would seem to ripple with merriment when he saw the -light of glee spring forward in hers. Pigwidgeon he called her, and -she answered to the name with all the sprightliness it expressed. - -“Pigwidgeon,” says he, “when you come to the age of crow’s foot, you -shall know ’tis a lying proverb that preacheth what’s done cannot be -undone, or, as a pedantic fellow writes it, ‘what cannot be repaired -is not to be regretted.’” - -“And it is vary true,” says madame stiffly--“whosoever the pedant.” - -“Well,” says Sheridan, “’twas no other than him that writ ‘Rasselas’; -for which work let us hope that God by this time hath damned him--with -faint praise.” - -He checked himself immediately. - -“That were better left unnoticed,” says he, with great soberness; -“’tis only the fool that uses the sacred name in flippancy.” - -He fell suddenly quiet, and a momentary surprised silence depressed -the company. It did not last long. All were shortly in a final bustle -of preparation for the ball. The ladies were bowed, the Bœotians -melted, from the room. The two gentlemen were left to their wine; the -elder’s eyes twinkled back the ruddy glow of the decanters. - -“Come, my lord,” says he, “you are staid company, I vow. A toast or -two before we leave the table.” - -“‘Here’s to the widow of fifty!’” cries Ned, adapting from the great -man himself, and raising his glass. - -The other laughed. - -“I drink her,” he said. “A full bumper to Mrs Sims!” - -“’Twas Madame de Genlis I meant.” - -“And I meant the mother of Pamela.” - -“You take it so, then?” - -“I take the child, at least,” said Sheridan evasively, “to be ‘the -queen of curds and cream.’” - -Ned was, of course, not ignorant of the scandal attaching to this -little waif of royalty. It made no difference in his regard for her, -though perhaps the other wished it might. Mr Sheridan, maybe, had shot -a tiny bolt of jealousy--a tentative hint as to the vulgar origin of -the pigwidgeon. It missed fire, and that gave him a thrill of -annoyance. He was conscious of some actual resentment against this -solemn suitor who had come into his field of enamoured observation. He -did not fear him; but he wished him out of the way, that he might -flirt in peace. At the same time he may have possibly undervalued the -determination of his reticent adversary. - -“Well,” said Ned, “here’s to the mother of Pamela, whoever she be!” - -“With all my heart,” cried Sheridan, “and to the father, by the same -token.” - -Ned turned his calm eyes so as to look into the injected orbs of his -companion. - -“What manner of presence hath monsieur the Duke of Orleans?” said he; -“it was never my fortune to happen on him in Paris.” - -“He is a friend of mine, sir,” said Sheridan. “From what point of view -am I to describe him? His enemies--of whom there are many in -England--say that the fruit of evil buds in his face. Egad! I was near -seeing it break into flower once. ’Twas at Vauxhall, when the company -turned him its back. He would have thought like a Caligula then, I -warrant. A prince, sir, something superior to the worst in him, which -is all that men will recognise.” - -“But his personal appearance?” said Ned. - -The other returned the young man’s gaze with a thought of insolence. - -“Am I to smoke you?” he said. “Mademoiselle d’Orléans is a little -like her father in expression; but our Pamela is not at all like -Mademoiselle d’Orléans.” - -Ned came to an immediate resolution. - -“Mr Sheridan,” said he, “I would crave your indulgence for a word in -season. You have advantages in this house that are not mine. You are a -great person and a welcome guest, while I am only here--I know it--on -sufferance. You may turn your exceptional position to the profit of -your amusement. If it is to do no more, it is asking you little to beg -you to forego so trifling a sport. If you are serious, then let us, in -Heaven’s name, come to a candid understanding.” - -He set his lips to suppress any show of emotion. But he was moved, and -it was not for the other, however dumfoundered, to put a jesting -construction on the fact. - -“My lord,” said he, pretty coldly, though his words seemed to belie -the tone in which they were spoken, “it would ill beseem a feeling -heart at any juncture--mine, particularly, at the present--to refuse -its sympathy to an appeal of so nice a nature. I will not pretend to -misapprehend your lordship, nor will I fail to respond in kind to your -lordship’s frankness.” - -“Then you relieve me of the awkward necessity of an explanation,” said -Ned. “Heaven knows, there is no question of any right of mine to fall -foul of your attitude towards one who may be your debtor for fifty -benefactions. Heaven knows, also, that I never intended to imply that -my most humble suit towards a certain lady was conditional on any -information I might receive as to her actual parentage. Born in honour -or out of it--I tell you, sir, so far as she is concerned, ’tis all -one to me. I speak straight to the point. You may claim priority of -acquaintance; you may be able to advance twenty reasons why my taking -you to task is an impertinence. Yet, when all is said--if you are not -serious, it is just that you should yield the situation to one who -is.” - -Mr Sheridan had sat through all this, twirling his glass with a rather -lowering smile on his face. - -“Yield the situation!” he said; “but you take me by the throat, sir. I -must assure you there is no situation of my contriving.” - -“Indeed,” said Ned, “I am rejoiced to hear you say so, and do desire -to convince you that I find nothing more than a very engaging -playfulness in your treatment of the young lady.” - -“Then, why the plague,” said Mr Sheridan, opening his eyes, “all this -exception to my attitude?” - -“Because you choose--let me be plain, sir--to constitute yourself my -rival in her favour.” - -Mr Sheridan exploded into irrepressible laughter. - -“Zounds!” he cried; “here, if I will not be something other than -myself, I shall have my throat cut.” - -“Is it,” said Ned firmly--“pardon me, sir--is it to be other than -yourself to refrain from indulging a whim that is obviously another -man’s distress?” - -“My lord,” said Mr Sheridan, twinkling into sudden gravity and -replenishing his glass, “this aspect of the case is such a one as I -really had not considered. But let me assure you that you were one of -the direct causes of my coming down here at all.” - -“_I_?” - -“You, most certainly.” (He crossed his arms on the table and leaned -forward.) “Madame, by her own assertion, was being watched and -shadowed. She claimed the protection of our laws. She appealed to our -Government in the person of Mr Fox. The gracious office of succouring -the afflicted he deputed to me. I hurried down to Bury St Edmunds, and -the first suspicious character pointed out to me was my Lord Viscount -Murk.” - -“Ridiculous!” - -“Of course. But the situation, you see, is none of my handling.” - -He drank down his glassful, and fell suddenly grave. - -“I have no wish, _nec cupias nec metuas_, to constitute myself your -rival. This mourning suit, my lord, is of a recent cut.” - -His tone was so dignified, the illusion so sorrowfully significant, -that Ned was smitten in a moment. How were his ears startled then to -hear a rallying laugh for anticlimax! - -“My dear fellow, believe me, I am not of those who imagine a bond in -every light exchange of glances. My dear fellow, all we who are not -Turks are shareholders in a woman’s beauty. There may be a managing -director who has the right to a more intimate knowledge of it: what -care we who speculate in the open market, so long as it flatters us -with the soundness of our investment! We draw the interest without -responsibility, and are always ready to commit the conduct of the -business to him that hath the acknowledged right to control it.” - -He got to his feet. - -“Hush!” he said; “we are summoned. Elect yourself to be this managing -director if you will. I am quite content to rest, drawing my modest -dividend that you have no right to begrudge me.” - - * * * * * * * * - -The advent of so distinguished a party in the assembly rooms created -quite a little furore of excitement amongst the honest burgesses of -Bury. My lord, the reserved and almost inaccessible; the illustrious -parliamentarian, whose very presence seemed to secure to all in the -place a sort of reversionary interest in those glories of Carlton -House with which he was notoriously familiar; the little stranger -princess, whose sojourn in the remote English town was so eloquent of -the tragedy that even then was threatening to foreclose upon her -house--these were the nucleus of such a coruscation of stars of the -first magnitude as had never, within living memory, added its lustre -to the congregated social lights of the borough. - -But when madame la comtesse, adapting her conduct of the expedition to -those principles of which she was the present representative, -permitted her royal young charge the unconventional licence of dancing -with any and all who had the high good fortune to procure themselves -an introduction to her, local opinion underwent a gradual -transformation that culminated, it is to be feared, in actual -scandalisation. - -“It transcends,” was the pronunciation, in a deep voice, of Mrs -Prodmore. “Anything so unblushingly shameless I had not dreamed could -be. I protest we are threatened with a Gomorrah.” - -She was so very _décolletée_ as to figure for the type of -self-renunciation offering to strip itself of all that it possessed. -That was much, and much in little, yet much in evidence. Her -bodice--what there was of it--was sewn with gems. Indeed, her judgment -of the new-comers may have been tainted by the fact that madame had -declined to be introduced to her--to her, the richest woman in the -room. She was already fat, yet she swelled with righteousness. She -suggested a little a meat pudding bulging from its basin. - -“Perhaps,” said timid Mrs Lawless, whom she addressed, “the French -adhere to a standard of propriety that is only different from ours in -degree. She may not mean any harm.” - -She spoke with anxious diffidence, conscious of the fact that at that -very moment her son, Squire Bob Lawless, was dancing with Pamela. - -“Thank you, ma’am,” said Mrs Prodmore loftily, “but whether she means -harm or not, I prefer, with my traditions, to consider such behaviour -an outrage. Ignorance does not condone indelicacy.” - -In the meanwhile, the dance having come to an end, Pamela and her -partner were strolled to within earshot of a saturnine young gentleman -who stood glowering in a corner. - -“Ecod!” Mr Lawless was saying, “’twas the finest sport, miss. Two -broke collar-bones and a splintered wrist, and all for the sake of -experiment, as you might call it.” - -Pamela looked up with her soft eyes. - -“It is cruel,” she said. “I do not like fox-hunting at all--so many -giants riding down the one little poor pigmy.” - -“Why,” said the other, in a surprised voice, “you’re wilful, miss. -Wasn’t the point of it all that ’twas nought but a _drag_ hunt?” - -“_Comment_?” said Pamela. - -“With a herring,” explained the squire. - -“Well,” said Pamela, “that is just as cruel to the herring.” - -She turned round on the instant to the sound of a little explosion of -laughter. - -“My lord!” she exclaimed. - -She dropped her companion’s arm; bowed graciously to him. - -“I commit myself to this escort,” she said. “A thousand thanks for the -dance, monsieur.” - -Poor Nimrod had no choice but to accept his dismissal. He had crowed -over his fellow-squireens. He must come down now, a humbled cockerel. -He walked away sulkily enough. - -“Monsieur,” said Pamela to Ned, “I am glad to have amused you.” - -“It is for the first time this evening,” said his lordship grimly. - -She was beginning, in a little sputter of fire, “And pray what right -have you----” when the expression in his face stopped her. A woman, no -doubt, has some spiritual probe for testing the presence of love, as a -butterfly feels for honey in a flower. - -“None whatever,” said Ned. “It is my unhappiness.” - -She looked at him quite kindly. The sweetest babies of pity sat in the -blue flowers of her eyes. - -“Why have you not ask me to dance?” she said. “Poor Pamela is flouted -of all of whom she had the hope to be honoured. You do not desire my -hand; no, nor Mr Sherree-den eiser. ‘I am not to lead you out, _ma -chèrie_,’ he say. ‘It is because I am ask to drop the sobstance for -the shadow.’ I request of him what he mean. ‘’Tis only the fable of -the dog and the piece of meat,’ says he. ‘And how do that concern -itself of the question?’ I ask. ‘Why,’ he answer, ‘I am the dog and -you are the piece of meat; and that is to say that Pamela is food for -reflection’--and then he laugh, and bid me ask of Monsieur Murk to -interpret me the fable.” - -Her voice was full of tenderness and appeal. Ned, despite some emotion -consequent on the mention of his rival, felt as remorseful as if he -had wantonly crushed a rose in which lay a sleeping Cupid. He knew he -had not asked the girl to dance with him, for only the reason that a -morbid sensitiveness impelled him to self-martyrdom--drove his pride -and his jealousy to battle; the one ready to resent that an obvious -preference was not shown by her for him out of all the world, ready -always to fold a wing of pretended indifference over the bleeding -wound in his breast; the other ready, on the least provocation, to -make a shameless confession of the corroding secrets of its inmost -soul. Certainly Providence may be assumed to have its own reason for -constituting a disease to be its highest ethical expression. Truth and -Love! How have these inoculated one another with the virus drawn from -ages of misfaith, till each seems to have become an inextricable -constituent of the common plague of jealousy! - -“And am I also the piece of meat to you,” says Mistress Pam, “that you -will have nussing to speak with me?” - -“I will not drop you for the shadow, at least,” cries the other -fervently--“no, not as long as I have a tooth in my head!” - -So love glorifies bathos. The two stood up together for the next set. -Thenceforth Ned moved on air, breathed all the evening the -intoxicating oxygen of idolatry. The girl alternately flattered and -flouted, wounded and caressed him. He must draw what consolation he -could from the fact that Mr Sheridan at least left him a fair field. -Now and then he would chance upon view of this gentleman, and always -it seemed to him that, as the evening progressed, the convivial face -waxed steadily more rubicund, the fine eyes more unspeculative. - -Once the party came together over the refreshment trays--the -sweetmeats and negus that preceded the final break-up. - -“Do not eat so much cake, child,” says madame la gouvernante to -Pamela. “It will lie heavy on your chest.” - -“Happy cake!” murmurs Sheridan, so that the ladies might not hear him. - -But my lord did; and he might have been moved to some resentment had -it not been for the other’s obvious condition. - -Ned, after parting from the ladies, would walk his long mile home by -the solitary echoing road. He needed loneliness; he needed the -illimitable graciousness of the open world. Within those shining -walls, it seemed to him, he had not been able to think collectedly. - -Whither was he hurrying, and in what perplexity of mission? At one -moment exalted, at another depressed, he could have thought himself -the waif of a destiny in which his reason had no voice. - -He looked up at the sky through an overhead tracery of leaves. The -blown branches of trees made a tinsel glitter of the brilliant moon. -Some roadside aspens pattered with phantom rain. A sense of unreality -stole into his mind, half drugging it. The sound of his footsteps was -echoed back from a wall he passed. The echo appeared to double and -redouble upon itself; the footsteps to come thicker, thronging fast -and ever faster, till he fancied an army of shadows must be going by -on the opposite side of the way. His brain grew full of the whisper -and rustle of their march. The spectral noise became accented by the -far clang of voices--the shout across half a world of some vast human -force struggling upon a tide of agony. - -The long wall ended. He pulled himself together and shook out the -ghost of a laugh. - -Whither? he thought again, as he strode on. To the goal to which his -every desire seemed to be compelling him? But he had no will in the -matter. That had been sapped--snapped--deposed in a moment. He was -nothing but a log, the stump of a mast, in the surf--now rolled upon -the shore, now dragged back and committed to fresh voyagings. His -erect philosophy, that had helped him so long over multitudinous -waters, was become nothing but a broken wastrel of the sea for Fate to -play at pitch-and-toss with. Should he ever again be in the position -to recover and splice it, to set sail and escape from the fog and -welter of the spindrift in which he now tumbled? - -As he reached his gates, he looked up once more at the sky. The moon -waded through a stream of cloud. - -“She will sink,” he muttered. “Her glitter is already half quenched. -Am I in love, or only sickening for a scarlet fever?” - - - - - CHAPTER IV. - -Pretty early on the morning after the ball Ned rode over to pay his -respects to, and inquire after the health of, the ladies. None, -apparently, was as yet in evidence; but Mr Sheridan, having -information of his coming, sent down a message inviting him up to his -bedroom; and thither the young gentleman bent his steps, not loath to -avail himself of any excuse for remaining. - -He found the _viveur_ of the previous night propped up on his pillows, -a towel round his shaven head, a pencil and paper on the counterpane -before him. At the dressing-table stood a little common man, in a -scratch wig and with a very blue chin, who mixed some powders with -small-beer in a tumbler. - -“You won’t thank me for introducing you,” said Sheridan to Ned. -“Monsieur has not _le haut rang_ (spare thy concern), nor any word of -our tongue.” - -“Who is he?” said Ned. - -“My physician.” - -“The deuce he is!” - -“Ah! I am under the influence here of a democratic atmosphere. No -hand-muffs and silver-headed canes in the economics of Egalité. In -Rome, as Rome. Monsieur is, in fact, a beast-leech attached to the -household to teach mesdemoiselles how to put Pompon’s tail in splints -when it has been caught in the parlour door. He can bleed, rowel, and -drench; shoe a horse, or salt a pig. And, egad! now I think on’t, -there is his right use to me. For, when a man has made a hog of -himself, what better physician does he need than him that hath the -knowledge how to cure bacon?” - -Deprecatory of the applause that he waited a moment to secure, he -called over to the little man by the table: “_Dépêche-toi, -monsieur_! _ma gorge est en feu_!” - -“_Attendez, monsieur, attendez_!” replied the leech in a thin, hoarse -voice: “_ayez encore un peu de patience, je vous prie_.” - -He brought the cup over in a moment. Sheridan sent the liquid hissing -down his throat. He gave a sigh of pleasure. - -“Ah!” he said, “small-beer and absolution were invented by the devil -to tempt men to sin for the sake of the ecstasy of relief they bring.” - -He looked at Ned, his fevered eyes watering in the strong glare of -sunlight that shot under the half-closed blind. - -“You have an enviable complexion, my lord,” said he. “Did you ever, in -all your life, experience the need to dose yourself with so much as a -mug of tar-water?” - -Ned laughed. - -“I refuse to lend myself to point a moral,” said he. “Palate is a -matter of temperament, and temperament is a cause, not a consequence. -Mr Sheridan may find in wine the very stimulant I borrow from country -air and exercise.” - -“Oh, the country!” said the other, with a groan: “from Tweed to -Channel nothing but the market-garden to London.” - -“So you think? And yet you stay on here?” - -Mr Sheridan shrugged his shoulders. His face seemed to have fallen -quite sick and peevish. - -“By my own wish?” said he. “But at least I scent liberty at last. -Madame (I am abusing no confidence in telling you) contemplates -changing her quarters very shortly.” - -Ned was conscious that his heart gave a somersault. - -“Indeed?” said he, reining-in his emotion. “And for what others?” - -“I can’t say. Monseigneur is, I believe, at Brussels. That is all I -know.” - -“And when is the removal to take place?” said Ned sinkingly. - -“Faith! it can’t be too soon for me. Madame, the dear creature, hath -‘spy’ writ large upon her brain. Her tremors and her apprehensions -would be ridiculous, were they not tiresome. There is no listening to -reason with her. She is convinced she is surrounded by secret agents -of the royalty she hath provoked. She lives in hourly fear of -assassination for herself, and abduction for her sacred charge. One -day she will do this, another, that; bury herself and hers in the -caves of Staffa; return to the protection of her illustrious -protector. That, I warrant, will be the end o’t. But there is some -difficulty in the way--some imperative necessity, as I understand, -that forewarning of her return be conveyed to monsieur the duke; and -she hath no messenger that she can trust to the task--no prodromos to -signal her approach. So day by day she grows more distraught, until I -know not what to say for counsel or comfort.” - -There was some odd quality in the stealth with which he regarded the -young man as he spoke. He saw his words had so far taken effect that -Ned was fallen into a musing fit where he sat by the bed. He was too -finished an artist in practical joking to ruin the promise of a -situation by over-haste. He would drop a suggestion on “kind” soil and -leave it to germinate. He knew that a seed thumbed in too deep is -often choked from sprouting. - -So, having deposited his grain, he took means to dismiss his -subject--in the double sense. “Well,” he said, “and that is all that’s -to remark on’t. But I was to have put you twenty questions when I -asked you to come up: as to the ball, and your enjoyment of it; and as -to how far you was satisfied I had held to my share of the compact. -Sir, I claim you responsible at least for the state of my head this -morning.” - -He turned over on his pillow with a moan. - -“Zounds!” said he, “small-beer, I find, is like small-talk for -deadening one’s faculties. I must commit myself to good Mr Pig-curer, -if I would save my bacon.” - -Ned secretly thought this a poor capping of a fairly respectable -witticism. He would have valued the joke even less as a spontaneous -effusion, could he have examined its essays scribbled over the scrap -of paper on which Mr Sheridan had been writing before he entered: -“Physicians and pork-butchers: both cure by killing: like all -butchers, they must kill to cure,” and so on, and so on. - -However, he got to his feet immediately and, apologising for his -intrusion, made his adieux and left the invalid to his aching -cogitations. - -These were, perhaps, more characteristic than praiseworthy. Mr -Sheridan’s social ethics would always extend a plenary indulgence to -practical joking. It was a practical joke to rid oneself of a rival by -whatever ruse. His ruse had been to grossly misrepresent to madame the -young lord’s financial condition. Quite indefinitely he had succeeded -in investing Ned with the character of a needy adventurer. Local -evidence as to the reckless philanthropy, visual proof of the inner -poverty, of “Stowling,” helped him to the fraud. Madame may have been -ambitious for the child of her adoption; she may have become cognisant -of the fact that a little _tendresse_ was beginning to show itself in -the girl’s attitude towards her grave young suitor; she may have been -anxious only to accommodate herself to the wishes of her distinguished -guest, whom she fervently admired, and upon whom at this juncture she -was greatly dependent for advice and assistance. At any rate, she lent -herself to his plans. The two devised a little plot, of which she was -to be the ingenuous agent, and my lord, the poor viscount, the victim. -Perhaps the understanding between the conspirators was sympathetic -rather than verbal. Of whatever nature it was, a certain method of -procedure was adopted by both--diplomatically to conciliate; -effectively to get rid of. Madame, it must be said, was not attracted -to his lordship. Her volatility recoiled from his solemnity. Conscious -of the most lofty principles, she could never, when in his company, -free herself of the impression that she was being “found out.” She had -a shrewd idea that Ned’s respectful subscription to her opinions was -in the nature of a moral bribe to secure her favourable consideration -of his suit--that secretly he valued her at that cheaper estimate that -_she_ secretly knew represented her real moral solvency. When one has -a grudge against the superior understanding of a person, it is a thing -dear to one’s _amour propre_ to convert that understanding to one’s -own uses. - -As Ned descended the stairs, madame came suddenly upon him and, -welcoming him with quite cordial effusion, drew him into a side room. - -She hoped he was not fatigued after the late festivities. As for the -members of her own household, they were one and all the victims of a -_migraine_. (She here looked forth a moment, and issued a sharp order -to some one to close a little door that led from the back hall into -the garden.) Yes, all were enervated--overcome. Mademoiselle was in -bed; Pamela was in bed; Mr Sherree-den was in bed. As for herself, no -such desirable indulgence was possible. A ceaseless vigilance was -entailed upon her. During such moments of relaxation as she permitted -herself, she was constrained to wear a mask of gaiety over the -shocking anxiety of her soul. She was surrounded by menace and -intrigue. There was scarce one she could rely upon--only Mr -Sherree-den, and he could little longer afford to be parted from his -duties. There was not a soul, even, she could entrust at this time -with a letter it was imperative should be conveyed abroad by a -confident hand. She had no hesitation in informing monsieur of its -direction. It was to monseigneur, the father of the young princess, at -present sojourning in Brussels. It was to acquaint monseigneur of the -pitiable anxiety of the refugees, and to beg him to order their return -at once. But it would be necessary for the messenger to back up the -substance of the letter by arguments deduced from a personal knowledge -of the condition of the victims; and who, in all her forlorn state, -could she find meet to so delicate a mission? - -She wept; she clasped her hands convulsively; she apostrophised -Heaven. Was this the brilliant, self-confident, rather aggressive -chaperon of the night before? Ned listened in something like -amazement. He could never have misdoubted the obvious suggestion of -her lamentation. As to her sincerity, it is very possible he was -completely duped. He was not at all in the plot against himself; and -madame had been a notable actress from the days when, at eleven years -old, she played the title part in Racine’s _Iphigénie en Aulide_. - -“Ah, monsieur!” cried she; “but the joy, all troubles past, of -welcoming in our land the amiable friend who should be the means to -our returning thither!” - -If now the idea of offering himself to the mission first began to take -root in Ned’s mind, it was because his jealousy would not tolerate the -thought that, failing him, another might be found to serve his -mistress with a less questioning devotion. Still, he would not yet -commit himself definitely to a course that not only--in the present -state of continental ferment--entailed a certain personal risk, but -entailed a risk that in the result might effectively separate him from -that very fair lady it was his principal wish to serve in the matter. -Moreover, it was certainly in his interest to ascertain if it was this -same lady’s desire to be so served by him. - -“When does madame wish this letter conveyed?” he said gravely, after -some moments of deep pondering. - -“Oh, indeed!” cried madame, “but varee soon--in two-tree days.” - -“And the messenger is to be a sort of outrider to your party?” - -“An outrider?--but, in truth. Yet, how far an outrider, shall depend -upon his influence with monseigneur.” - -Ned bowed. - -“I should like to think the matter over,” said he. “It is possible, at -least, I may be able to serve madame with an _avant-coureur_.” - -Madame seized his hands in an emotional grasp. - -“My friend! my dear friend!” she murmured. - -“And now,” said Ned, “with madame’s permission, I will take a turn in -the garden.” - -Had madame again the impression that she was “found out” of this -unconscionable Joseph? She certainly flushed the little flush of -shamefulness, and for the moment had not a plausible word at her -command. For, indeed, she knew and, what was worse, believed that my -lord knew that Pamela was at that very time seated by herself in the -little box-arbour amongst the Jerusalem artichokes (the girl’s figure -had been plainly visible through the doorway which madame had ordered -over-late to be closed); and the sudden realisation of the situation -was like a cold douche to her self-confidence. To deny this cavalier, -on whatever pretext, the substance of his request, was assuredly to -convict herself of having lied as to Pamela’s whereabouts; was to -dismiss him at a critical moment; was, possibly, to deprive him of -that actual inducement to serve her which an interview with the young -lady might confirm. On the other hand, the girl herself may have -profited by some indefinite warnings as to the folly of effecting a -_mésalliance_; as to the ineffectiveness of a coronet when it is in -pledge to the Jews. - -Madame, after a scarcely appreciable moment of hesitation, came to her -decision with a charming smile. - -It was entirely at monsieur’s disposition, she said. There was not a -soul in it, and she would see that monsieur was not disturbed. For -herself, the contemplation of flowers resolved many problems that the -subtlest sophistries were unable to disentangle. - -Ned set foot on the long box-bordered path with his mind in a -condition of strange ferment. The glamour of the previous night; the -sweet glory of this new bidding to the side of his mistress (over -which his soul laughed, as over its own humorous strategy in the -hoodwinking of a credulous guardian); the thought that it was in his -power to assist to its welfare the very dear object of his solicitude, -and, by so assisting, to convert what might otherwise seem a pursuit -into a welcome--such fancies combined made of his brain a house of -pleasant dreams. All down the bed-rows the scent of blossoming -mignonette accompanied him to the arbour at the end of the garden. To -his dying day this gentle green flower remained the asphodel of his -heaven. Great ships of cloud, carrying freightage of hidden stars, -sailed slowly across the sky to ports beyond the vision of the world. -Yet there did not seem enough wind to discrown a thistle-head. The -lark rose straight as the smoke from the town chimneys, dropping a -clew of song into the very gaping throats of his own nestlings in the -field. The rattle of a horse’s headstall, the drowsy thunder of -rolling skittle-balls, came over the wall from the neighbouring inn as -distinct in their every vibration as though the silence of night, in a -motionless atmosphere, had merged itself imperceptibly in the life of -a day but half awake. And, behold! at the end of the garden was the -crystallised expression of all this peace and beauty, the breathing -spirit of the roses and of the mignonette. Ned, as he looked down upon -her, had a thought that, if she woke, the wind would rise, the -rose-leaves scatter, and the cloud argosies dash themselves shapeless -on rocks of air. - -How pretty she was! Great God, how pretty and how innocent! To him who -had fronted stubbornly the storms of passion, who had been sought a -sacrifice to the misconsecrated heats of a love whose name in -consequence he had learned to loathe, this new power of reverence was -most wonderful and most dear. He could have worshipped, had he not -loved so humanly. - -Mademoiselle was sunk a little back into the leafage of the arbour. -Her eyes were closed, her lips a trifle parted. She was cuddled into a -pink _négligé_. Everything she wore seemed to caress her. An open -book lay upon her lap, one slender finger serving for listless marker -in it. - -Suddenly a tiny smile, the ghostliest throb of laughter, flickered at -the corners of her mouth. Ned leapt hot all over. - -“Oh, monsieur!” murmured the unconscionable witch, as if talking in -her sleep, “but are you the doctor?” - -“Yes,” said Ned. - -She put out a languid hand, never raising her eyelids. - -“Madame-maman says it is the cake; but I think it is the Englishman -that lies heavy on me.” - -“What Englishman?” said Ned. - -“My lord the Englishman, monsieur. Is he not the heaviest of all in -Bury?” - -Ned touched the young healthy pulse as if he handled a wax flower. - -“If that is the trouble,” said he, “it is soon dealt with.” - -“But how, monsieur? and would you not first see my tongue?” and she -put out the tip of a supremely pink organ. - -“It is as red as a capsicum,” said Ned. - -Pamela burst out laughing. She sat up, her cheeks flushed, her brown -hair ruffled on her forehead. - -“Oh!” she cried, “you do not say pretty things at all; you are not -like Mr Sherree-den.” - -“No,” said the young man sadly. “And because I have not his readiness, -I must lack his good fortune. Is that the moral of it? But I could be -a willing pupil if you would be my tutor.” - -“Is it so? I should punish and punish till you wearied of me. Say, -then, like Mr Sherree-den, ‘Oh, _mon bonté-moi_!’ (he does not, you -know, speak varee good French); ‘but here is a poor little sick fairy -crumpled in a rose petal.’ _Hélas_! you could not have said that, you -solemn man.” - -“I could not, indeed; but I should have taken the poor little sick -fairy and nursed her upon my heart.” - -She looked up at him kindlily and, suddenly, pathetically-- - -“But I am not sick at all,” she said, “and you must not take my play -to your heart.” - -Thereat, foolish Ned, reading her words literally, missed his small -chance. - -“I never did,” he only answered stoutly. “I knew you were not asleep.” - -Mademoiselle pouted. - -“I do not act so badly, nevertheless,” she said, “when I may have an -appreciative audience.” - -“And I, at least, am that.” - -She shrugged her shoulders, yawned a tiny yawn. - -“Well,” she said, “I must not keep monsieur from his business; and -monsieur the doctor shall not persuade me to cure too much cake with -more.” - -She rose, smoothing her rumpled plumes. Ned smiled. - -“I will not, since you bid me, take it to heart,” he said. “Had you -found me as heavy as you say, you would not last night have -voluntarily elected to bear so much of the weight of my company.” - -“I sacrificed myself, monsieur, according to my principles, to the -good of the community.” - -“Pamela,” cried my lord, suddenly pained, “my business is to go on a -journey only for the reason that I may serve you!” - -She would have resented, without any real feeling of resentment, his -familiar use of her name, had not his tone found the sympathetic chord -in her that his words could not reach. - -“Has madame asked you, then?” she said, with some wonder, some -gentleness, in her voice. - -“I have resolved to offer myself, if you will give me the one end of a -clue of hope to bear along with me.” - -“Of what hope, monsieur? Your bargain should be with madame, not with -me.” - -He would not take her by storm, the aggravating noodle. No doubt that -erst fulsome experience of his had distorted his sense of proportion -in such matters. - -“’Tis no bargain, of course,” he cried, in great distress. “To give me -hope is to hand me nothing but a promissory note without a signature. -But I would kiss it none the less for the sake of the name that might -be there.” - -But why did he not kiss the jade herself? - -“_Mon ami_,” she said very kindly, “you must not concern yourself so -of the favour of a poor foolish maid, who could return you, ah! so -little for the noble trust you place in her; who is not even the -mistress of herself.” - -“Pamela!” he cried, in sudden agony, “you are not bound to another?” - -“I am bound only to those who have protected and cared for me,” she -answered. “It is no time this, when danger threatens, to think of -separating myself from our common fortune.” - -Her young bosom heaved; her eyes even filled with tears. - -“Ah!” she murmured, “there is nothing invites me but the peace of the -cloister. To escape from the turmoil and the menace--to know no -interest of love or fortune in the company of God’s dear prisoners!” - -Perhaps she only quoted from the commonplace book of _mère adoptive_. -At least the picture she conjured up seemed so real as to fetch a -little sob from her. Ned’s heart was rent by the sound. - -“My dear,” he said simply, “I would not persuade you against your -conscience. God knows, in any bargain between us I should be the only -gainer. I have nothing to offer you that is worth the offer but my -love, dear. That is for you, in stress or sunshine, whenever you care -to whistle for it. Now I will say no more; but I will cross the -channel, at the very bidding of madame la comtesse, and pave the way -as I can for your return. And I shall carry hope with me, Pamela. It -is the beggar’s scrip; and what am I but a beggar!” - -For the first time he forgot the little red heels that were still in -his pocket. They were often to prove a sharp reminder of themselves, -however. - -Did the girl read his figurative speech in a too literal sense? Let us -hope she was never influenced by a consideration so worldly. She held -out her hand to him. Her blue eyes swam with tears. - -“Perhaps, in happier times to come,” she said--and so they parted. - - - - - CHAPTER V. - -Twice again only, before he started for the Continent--as he -persisted in thinking at her sole behest--was Ned vouchsafed the -partial company of his mistress. In each instance he must forego the -desire of his heart for a personal interview. Such, by accident or -design, was denied him. But he had the satisfaction of being received -by madame with an ease and a familiarity that were significant of a -quite particular confidence. - -On the first occasion he happened upon the ladies out walking in a -country lane. They were botanising, under the tutorship of a Bœotian -new to him--a thin, clerical-looking individual, with a little head, -appropriately like an anther. The house at Bury was, indeed, a perfect -surprise-tub for the uncommon personalities it seemed to have an -endless capacity for turning out. Its staff was, perhaps, twenty all -told; yet this number, in view of its omniferous faculties, would -often appear as self-reproductive as a stage dozen of soldiers walking -itself round a rock into a company. - -Madame, who was engaged in “receiving” from monsieur her -stick-in-waiting the names of _débutantes_ hedge-flowers presented to -her, waved a gracious end to the ceremony, and, greeting my lord as if -he were a dear friend, invited him to pace beside her. - -“It is well timed,” she said. “Monsieur has received my letter? And -will Friday suit our so generous cavalier to depart?” - -Ned bowed with his never-failing gravity. - -“Yes,” he said simply. - -The lady clasped her hands. - -“_Mon Dieu_!” she exclaimed, with a quite melodramatic fervour, “it is -the passing of the cloud. After all the tempest-tossing, to see the -shore in sight!”--and she hastily lifted her skirts from contact with -a roadside puddle. - -“Monsieur,” said a little voice almost at Ned’s ear, “do you know what -is a _corolle_ and what a _nectaire_?” - -In some mood of impudence or mischief Pamela was come to give her -company unbidden. She would pretend not to see the warning gestures of -_la gouvernante_. She held in her hand the parts of a dismembered -flower, and she looked up at the young man as she stepped, light as -his own sudden thoughts, at his side. She felt a little warmth, a -little pity towards him. He was going far away, and to serve her. That -she knew. It was in the nature of a tiny confidence between them. Her -glance was appealing as a child’s, asking not to be left. - -And as for Ned, the sight of this sweet face close to him so inflamed -his heart that his formal speech took fire. - -“I know when I look at you,” he said; “they are mademoiselle’s cheek -and mouth classified.” - -In the near prospect of his banishment he spoke out reckless of -consequences. Perhaps the unexpected answer took the girl herself by -surprise. She hung her head and fell back a little. - -“Mademoiselle,” cried Ned, “if I might take thence a rose to wear for -a favour!” - -“Oh, fie!” she answered, “that is not even original; it is to repeat -Mr Sherree-den’s foolishness. And they are not roses at all.” - -“Nor rouge,” said Ned, “though you once implied it.” - -“No,” she said, with a pert glance at her _gouvernante_; “madame-maman -does not approve. But sometimes to rub them with a geranium -petal--that is not immoral, is it?” - -“I don’t know,” cried the young man; “but the geranium shall be my -queen of flowers from this time!” - -“Pamela!” cried madame, in desperate chagrin over every word that -passed between the two, yet impotent, under existing circumstances, to -give expression to her annoyance; but she ventured to summon the child -pretty peremptorily to come and walk beside her, and only in this -order was my lord destined to enjoy for an hour a divided pleasure. - -But on the second and final occasion of his meeting her, chance and -the girl were even less favourable to him. He was to start for Belgium -on the Friday morning, and on the Thursday evening he walked over to -Bury to receive his instructions. He found signs of confusion in the -house--boxes choking the passages, personal litter of all kinds -brought together as if for removal; and in the drawing-room a little -concert--such as madame loved to extemporise--was in process of -performance, with Mr Sheridan, in mighty boisterous spirits, for only -listener. He invited Ned to a seat beside him, and clapped him on the -shoulder. - -“’Tis admirable,” said he; “not concert, but concertation. There is no -conductor but a lightning-conductor could direct these warring -elements.” - -Madame, indeed, set the time on her harp; but it was the time that -waits for no man. A Bœotian--of whom there were a half-dozen in the -orchestra--might pant, a mere winded laggard, into his flute; another -might toilfully climb the last bars on his fiddle, as if it were a -gate; a third might pound up the long hill of his double-bass, and -cross its very bridge with a shriek like a view-holloa: the issue was -the same--none was in at the death. Pamela, in the meantime, tinkled -on a triangle; Mademoiselle Sercey shook a little panic cluster of -sledge-bells whenever madame glanced her way; Mademoiselle d’Orléans -played on the side-drum amiably, and with all the execution of a -toy-rabbit. It was all very merry, and the girls giggled famously; and -Ned closed his eyes and tried to think that the mellow ring of the -steel was from the forging by Love of his bolts on a tiny anvil. - -By-and-by the piece ended amidst laughter, and madame came from her -place and conducted her cavalier into another room. - -“It is to prove yourself the most disinterested,” she said. “How can I -acquit myself of gratitude to my friend--to my knight-errant?” - -Ned, in the hot longing of his soul, was near stumbling upon a -suggestion as to the reward it was in her power, if not to bestow, at -least to influence. But he remembered his promise to Pamela, and was -fain to let the opportunity pass. - -Then madame, to some fine play of emotion, produced a couple of -letters under seal--the first to monsieur le duc, the second to her -own son-in-law, M. Becelaer de Lawoestine. To the latter gentleman’s -address in Brussels she begged my lord to proceed in the first -instance. The Belgian nobleman would give him honourable welcome, no -less for her sake than for monsieur’s most obvious merits. Moreover, -De Lawoestine would furnish him with precise directions as to where -monseigneur was at the moment to be found; if, indeed, monseigneur was -not at the very time the other’s guest in Brussels. - -These were Ned’s simple instructions. There were tender messages to -madame’s daughter; suggestions as to the attitude most effective to be -assumed towards monseigneur by madame’s plenipotentiary; references to -the agony of suspense madame must suffer until she should learn the -result of her envoy’s mission. Madame, in truth, either acted her part -so well, or lived in it so naturally, as to half convince herself, we -must believe, that she was not acting at all. - -“We are ready, as you see, to start the moment monseigneur’s command -shall reach us,” she said. “We pray, monsieur, for the prosperous -termination to your voyage.” - -Her eyes were moist; she impulsively extended her hand, which his -lordship less impulsively kissed. His lips, indeed, unpractised in -gallantry, were in pledge to a dream; his understanding, also. Had it -not been, he might have inclined to the question, How comes it that -madame, in direct communication with the Duke of Orleans, is unable to -acquaint me certainly as to that prince’s present address? - -Ned returned to the drawing-room, prepared to repudiate any suggestion -of the glamour that might be held to attach itself to a mild form of -heroism. His modesty was not put to the test. The company accepted him -in a frolic mood. It was full of laughter and thoughtlessness. He was -rallied only on his serious mien. Pamela, wilful and radiant, would -acknowledge him for no more than the means to a jest. Her affectation -of indifference was secretly a stimulus to the spirits of two, at -least, of the party. For a household depressed by the gloom of -impending misfortune, the atmosphere was singularly volatile. - -Not to the end did Ned receive one hint that his self-sacrifice was -appreciated and applauded; and at last he must make his adieux without -the comfort of even a sympathetic glance from a certain direction to -cheer him on his way. - -He had put on his hat and coat, had reached the very porch on his way -forth, when a light step sounded behind him. - -“Good-bye, monsieur!” - -“God bless you, Pamela!” - -“Monsieur, it is only the rose you asked for.” - -The door slammed behind him. He held, half stupidly, in his hand a -little sweet-smelling stalk with some crushed scarlet flowers. - -“My God--oh, my God!” he whispered, “it is part of herself.” - - - - - CHAPTER VI. - -It was on a day of the last week of broiling July that Ned knocked -at the door of a house in the Rue de Ragule, near the Schaerbeck Gate -in Brussels, and desired to be shown into the presence of M. le Comte -de Lawoestine. - -Now it seemed at the outset that his mission was in vain, for monsieur -was, and had been for many days, away from home, and it was impossible -for one to say when he would return. And whither had he gone? Ah! that -was known only to himself, and, possibly, yes, to madame la comtesse. -And was madame away also? Madame? Oh! _c’était une autre pair de -manches_. Madame, it would appear, was upstairs at that very moment. - -Ned sent up his letter of introduction and--after a rather tiresome -interval of waiting--was shown into a room on the first floor. Here, -to his astonishment, was the mid-day meal in progress at a long -polished table. Two ladies--one seated at either side--continued -eating with scarcely a look askance at the stranger; a third, placid -and _débonnaire_, rose from her place at the head of the board and, -advancing a step or two, held out her hand. - -“I have read maman’s letter,” she said, but speaking in French in a -little drowsy voice, “and I have the pleasure to make you welcome, -monsieur.” - -She then returned to her seat, and bidding a servant lay a cover for -monsieur, went on with her dinner. The very antichthon of the galvanic -Genlis spirit seemed to slumber in her rosy cheeks. She had settled -down to a lifelong “rest,” like an actress availing herself only of -the art of her profession to play herself into a fortunate match. - -“Monsieur le comte is away?” said Ned, as he took his seat by one of -the silent ladies. - -“He is gone south to join his regiment. He will be at Liége for a few -days to inspect the fortifications. I do not know, I, what it all -portends. They say the air is full of hidden menace. Anyhow, what does -M. Lafayette purpose in bringing an army of ragamuffins to the -frontier? He is a nobleman and a gentleman. I saw him once at -Belle-Chasse. Ah! the dear industrious days! But I prefer a life of -ease, monsieur; do not you? To gild baskets and work samplers, with -the sun on one’s head in the hot white room! Mother of Christ, it is -hot enough in Brussels! One may think one hears the sun drop grease -upon the stones in the street, when Fanchon spits upon a flat-iron in -the kitchen. Have you ever known a summer so sultry? The sky is packed -with thunder like the hold of a ship. Then will come the rain one day -and swell it and swell it, and the decks will burst asunder and the -ribs explode apart. I do not like thunder, monsieur--do you? It is -disturbing, like the play of children. Yet we are to have thunder -enough soon, they say.” - -So she talked on, in a tuneless soft voice; and there seemed no -particular reason why she should ever come to an end. She never paused -for an answer or for a word, nor often for breath, which long habit -had taught her the art of nursing. She asked no questions as to her -mother; did not, indeed, so much as allude to her until Ned indirectly -forced a reference. - -“And where is monsieur le duc?” said he, cutting in during a momentary -ellipsis that was caused by her indetermination in choosing between -two dishes of vegetables. She did not answer till she had -decided--upon taking some of each. Then she turned her soft eyes on -him in a little wonder. - -“Monsieur----?” she began, as if she had not heard. - -“The Duke of Orleans,” said Ned. - -“Indeed, I do not know. He should be in Paris.” - -“He has left here, then?” - -“Here? Brussels, do you mean? He has not, to my knowledge, been in -Brussels these six months--no, not since January, when he came to meet -the demoiselle Théroigne on her return from the Austrian prisons, and -conducted her back to the capital.” - -“Théroigne!” exclaimed Ned in faint amazement. - -“So she is called, I believe,” went on the placid creature, oblivious -of the little emotion she had caused. “Monsieur has heard of her, no -doubt. She is beautiful, and of easy virtue, they say. At her house in -the Rue de Rohan the most violent propagandists assemble nightly to -discuss the overthrow of the present social conditions. I wish they -would leave them alone: they are very reasonable, I think--to all at -least who have assured incomes. She is quite a force in Paris, this -woman. They sent her some time last year _en mission_ to these -Netherlands to preach the new religion. But she was arrested by the -agents of the Emperor and conveyed to Vienna, whence she was dismissed -no later than last January. Monseigneur was hunting with M. de -Lawoestine at the time, and he heard somehow, and came straight on to -Brussels, and carried the demoiselle Théroigne away.” - -“And that was the last you have seen of him? Yet your mother had no -doubt but that he was in this neighbourhood.” - -“Oh, maman?” cried madame, with a tiny shrug of her shoulders. “But -she is as full of fancies as this mushroom is of grubs.” - -“Indeed,” said Ned, quite dumfoundered, “I think you must be -misinformed as to monsieur le duc.” - -“Very well,” she said indifferently. “It is possible, of course. M. de -Lawoestine is not communicative, nor am I curious. There is no reason -why they should not be in Liége together at this very moment.” - -There was every reason, however, against such a meeting; but madame -had not the shadow of a diplomatic acumen. - -“I must follow your husband to Liége, then,” said Ned. - -“You will at least lie here for the night, monsieur?” - -“A thousand pardons, madame. My business is of the most pressing; and -you yourself confess an ignorance as to the movements of monsieur le -comte.” - -“_Mon Dieu_! I never trouble my head about them.” - -“With madame’s permission I will bid her adieu at the end of the -meal.” - -“As you will, monsieur. And if you do not find monsieur le duc in -Liége?” - -“Then I shall go on to Paris.” - -“I hope, then, monsieur’s passports are in order?” - -“They take me into France by way of the Low Countries. Madame, your -mother, is responsible for them.” - -“She is at any rate a woman of business. Nevertheless, the borders are -disturbed. I wish monsieur a very fair journey. I trust he will not be -struck by the lightning; but--Mother of Christ! I think there is a -storm coming such as we have never seen. I shall take some peaches and -some cake, and sit in the cellars till it is over.” - - * * * * * * * * - -My lord reached Liége on the morning of the twenty-ninth of July--a -day of sullen omen to France. The early noon hours he spent in dully -strolling through the streets of the antique city, now grown so -familiar to him. He had called at M. de Lawoestine’s address (as -supplied him by the young madame), only to find that the count was -absent on some expedition and would not return till the morrow. Of the -Duke of Orleans’s presence in the town he could obtain no tittle of -evidence. - -Now he was dull because misgivings were beginning to oppress him, and -because the weather made an atmosphere appropriate to the confusion in -his brain. Certainly he did not actually face, in the moral sense, the -question as to whether or no he had been intentionally committed to a -fool’s errand. He could not have conceived how so elaborate a jest -should be planned and carried through without suspicion awaking in his -heart. Naturally, knowing the soundness of his own financial position, -he was not conscious of the supposed bar to his suit. His uneasiness -turned rather on his new conception of Madame de Genlis as a woman of -that patchwork practicalness that leaves to chance the working out of -its design. She may have _intended_ that monsieur le duc should be in -Brussels--it would, doubtless, have been convenient to her to find him -there--and therefore she may have, through Ned, acted upon her desire -rather than upon her information. But, if this were so, what a crazy -perspective of possibilities was opened out! to what an endless -wild-goose chase might he not be sworn! And, in the meantime, Pamela -and Mr Sheridan! - -There was such anguish in the thought as to make him augment his pace -till his forehead was wet with perspiration. He had come out to escape -the intolerable oppressiveness of confinement in an inn. It was such -weather as he had experienced upon his first visit to the town--good -God! how many years ago was that now? Yet there seemed fewer changes -in it than in himself. It was such weather, but intensified--and, with -that, at least, his own condition kept pace. He had a warmer core in -his breast than had been there before. But the tall, narrow streets, -the cool churches, the blazing markets--these had no longer the -glamour of the past. His thoughts were always in shadowy English -lanes, in fragrant English rooms. A girl’s laugh in the street would -make him lift his head as he paced; a jingle of bells on the harness -of some sleepy Belgian horse would recall to him with a thrill the -tinkle of a triangle. And, for the rest, the sweet pungency of -geranium flowers he carried always in his breast, like a very garden -of pleasant memories. - -And, in the meantime, Pamela and Mr Sheridan! - -He looked up with a sudden start. Something--he could not describe -what--like the silence that succeeds the heavy slamming of a door, -seemed to have gripped the world. The heat for days had been immense -and cruel. Men, roysterers and blasphemers, were come to a mean -inclination to expend what little breath was left to them in prayer. A -habit of stealthily examining the face of the heavens for signs -significant of the approaching “black death” of the storm was common. -The water seemed to steam in the kennels, the lead to crackle in the -gutters. Some inhuman outcome, it was predicted, of these unnatural -conditions must result. And now at last had the plague-stroke fallen? - -Whatever it was--this inexplicable turn of the wheel--the tension of -existence drew to near snapping-point under it. Poor souls crept for -pools of shadow as if these were Bethesdas; here and there one dropped -upon the pavement, and was rescued, as under fire, by a companion; the -wail of half-stifled infants came through open windows; the sun was a -crown of thorns to the earth. - -The streets, at the flood of noon, grew almost untenable. Ned--perhaps -from some vague association of ideas, the result of his dreamings upon -English lanes--left the town and, with the desire for trees compelling -him, took half-unconsciously the Méricourt road. It may have been -instinct merely that directed him. He had thought since his -coming--how could he help it?--of Théroigne, of Nicette, of all his -old connection with the strange little village. But he had no desire -to renew his acquaintance with the people of that ancient comedy--so, -now, it seemed to him. And surely by this time a new piece must hold -the stage; the old masks must be crumbled away or repainted to other -expressions. It was so long ago. He had leapt the boundary-river of -youth in the interval. He could have no place at last in the life of -the little hamlet by the woods. - -It may have been the sudden realisation of this, his grown -emancipation, that tempted him all in a moment, and quite strangely, -to the desire to look once more upon the scenes that, until within the -last few minutes, he had had no least wish to revisit. It may have -been that he was driven onward simply by the goad of his most haunting -distress--that fancy of Mr Sheridan greatly profiting by a rival’s -absence--and by the thought of the intolerable period of mental -suspense and bodily discomfort he must suffer down there in the town, -until his interview with M. de Lawoestine should give a direction one -way or the other to his mission. Such considerations may have urged -him; or--with a bow of deference to the necessitarians--no -consideration at all, but a fatality. - -For, indeed, this storm--an historical one--that was to break, seemed -so inspired an invasion of order by the prophets of anarchy, as that -it appeared to impress under its banner, as it advanced, all -predestined agents (however individually insignificant) of that social -and religious havoc of which its ruinous course was to be typical. - -Ned, as he toiled on the first of the hill, looked up at the sky. It -was as the wall of a nine-days’ furnace--his eyes could not endure the -terror of the light. Nor, from his position, could they see how, far -down on the horizon, a mighty draft of cloud was slipping over the -world, like the sliding lid of a shallow box, shutting into frightful -darkness a panic host of souls. - -Here it was better than in the town; but the heat still was terrific. -He was yet undecided as to whether to go on or rest where he had -paused, when a carter, with a tilted waggon, came up the road behind -him. For the weird opportuneness of it, this might have been -Kühleborn himself. The man, as it appeared, was bound for the farther -side of Méricourt. Ned, seeing the chance offered him to view from -ambush, accepted his unconscious destiny, struck his bargain, and -slipped under the canvas. - -Kühleborn cried up his team. The sick day turned, moaning among its -distant trees like a delirious troll. - - * * * * * * * * - -The lodestone to all this dark force of electricity that came up -swiftly over the verge of the world, rising from the caldron of the -East, where inhuman things are brewed! Was it an iron cross standing -high in the roadway of a populous bridge; a cross that seemed to crane -its gaunt neck looking ever over a wandering concourse of heads to the -horizon, gazing, like St Geneviève, for the cloudy coming of an -Attila; a cross held up, as it were, before the towers of Paris--a -Retro Satanas to the menacing shapes that, emerging from chaos, -threatened the ancient order, the ancient dynasty, the ancient -religion;--the cross, indeed, on the bridge of Charenton? For in -Charenton that day was pregnant conference, was a famous banquet to -Marseillais and Jacobin, was sinister tolling of the death-knell of -royal France. And what if the bell swung without a clapper! The very -air it displaced, reeling from its onset like foam from a prow, caught -the whisper of death in its passing, and carried it on to the cross. - -The death of royalty and of religion; the desecration of the -tabernacles; the spilling of the kingly chrism and trampling of the -Host! As night at last shut upon the boiling day, concentrating the -heat, the cross on the now lonely bridge stiffened its back and stood -awaiting the storm. That must fly far before it could reach the pole -of its attraction. But it was approaching. The cross could feel the -very ribs of the world vibrating under the terrific trample of its -march. At present inaudible; but there came by-and-by little -vancouriers of sound, moaning doves of dismay that fled on the wind, -as before a forest fire. These flew faster and more furious, fugitives -in a moment before the distant explosion of artillery. The rain began -to fall in heavy drops, like life-blood from the lungs of the heavens. -The earth sighed once in its sleep ... in an instant a great glare -licked the town.... - -Hither and thither, swayed, bent, but stubborn; now shoulder to -shoulder with the hurricane; now clawing at the stones to save itself -from being wrenched from its socket; now stooping a little to let a -flying charge overleap it--through half the night the cross stood its -ground, barring the road to Paris. Then at length a bolt struck and -shivered it where it stood. - -“It is gone!” shrieked the storm; “the way to Paris lies open. The -last of the symbols of an ancient reverence is broken and thrown -aside!” - - * * * * * * * * - -To Ned in the woods of Méricourt was vouchsafed a foretaste of this -tempest that rose and travelled so swiftly; that, having for its -siderite the pole-star of all revolution, rushed across a continent in -fire so rabid as that it expended nine-tenths of its force before it -might reach and charge with its remaining strength the electric -city--the nerve-drawn city that had shrilled into the night that -encompassed it, crying for reserves of dynamism lest at the last it -should sink and succumb. But if the storm brought small grist to the -actual mill, the morning, when it broke, voiceless and dripping, -revealed sufficient evidence of how deadly had been its threshing -throughout the fields of its advance. Over the north-eastern noon, and -flying, a dull high monster, up the valley of the Meuse--from -Charleroi to Maubeuge and across the border; down with a swoop upon St -Quentin, and on with a shriek and crash into and through the woods of -Soissons; opening out at last, from Pantin to Vitry, as if to invest -the city and slash at it with a reaping-hook of fire--so the force had -come and passed, like a tidal wave of flame, leaving a broad wake of -ruin and desolation. On all the league-long roads converging to the -central city were fragments of broken and twisted railings, of riven -trees, of thatch and rick and chimney; on many was the sterner -wreckage of human beings--poor Jacques and Jacqueline struck down and -torn by branch or flame as they drove their slow provision carts -towards the capital through the furious darkness. Not a dying Christ -at a cross-track but the storm demon had found and shattered on his -blazing anvil. The pitiful symbols of the old love, of the old -belief--one by one he had splintered and flung them as he swept on his -road. Nor only the symbols of the old faith, but of the new order. For -entering in the end the very gates of the city, he had driven with a -desperate rally of ferocity at certain sentinels ensconced dismally in -their boxes against the railings of public buildings, and, consuming -them, had committed their ashes to the consideration of the anarchy to -which he had rushed to subscribe. - -Such revelations were all for the morrow; and in the meantime Ned was -become a little fateful waif of the first processes of the force. - -The storm came upon him when alighted in the deep woods behind the -chateau. Passing under cover through Méricourt a few minutes earlier, -he had peeped through his tilt, scanning the familiar scenes with a -strange little emotion of memory. Feeling this, he had almost -regretted his venture. Perhaps the emotion was accountable, he -thought, to the heat--to the re-enacting of an atmosphere that was -charged with suggestion. He could--and did--recall a vision by the -village fountain--the vision of a girl, all bold outline and -colouring, standing with her arms crooked backwards under her lifted -hair. He could recall another figure coming up the field-path hard -by--a face of pearly shadows and wondering blue eyes under a great -fragrant load of grasses. These blue eyes haunted him in the -retrospect, even while he shut his own angrily upon the little ghostly -impression. Why could he not dismiss the thought of them from his -mind? Why had he submitted himself to the influence of the place at -all? - -It was too late now to retreat. His carter--a sleepy Liégeois, -attired appropriately in a hoqueton, or smock, like a night-gown--led -his team stolidly by fountain and “Landlust,” past church and smithy, -and so through the village into the forest road beyond. Ned, in the -darkness, felt in his breast for his talisman, his tiny packet of -geranium flower; and bringing out his hand scented, kissed it. Then, -restored thereby to reason, in the thick of the woods he hailed his -jehu to a stop, descended, and, paying liberally for his journey, -plunged amongst the trees. - -At once the shadow of an impending fear took him in grip. The earth, -he could have thought, lay rigid in a dry fever of terror. The shade -he had so much coveted fell around him like a living shroud. He had -always an unreasonable dread of what lay behind the curtain of trunks -before him. He moved on purposeless and prickling with apprehension. -Had it not been for very shame he would have turned and fled for the -open, daring any meeting in the village rather than this nameless dead -solitude. But he forced himself to proceed, mentally assigning himself -for goal that old withered leviathan in the clearing that was the -centre of some strange associations. He had been curious long ago, he -admitted, to look upon this monster since the legend of divinity had -attached to it. He would go so far now and satisfy his eyes, then turn -and make for air and light. - -Suddenly he fancied he heard far away the rumble of the receding -waggon-wheels. A numb stillness succeeded. The earth seemed to breathe -its last, and a napkin of cloud was softly flung over the dead face of -it. The lungs of the day fell in; a few large bitter drops slipped -from the closed lids of the heavens. - -Straight, and in a moment, Ned sprang alert to a sense of peril. This -ominous oppressiveness was nothing but the forereach of a swiftly -advancing thunderstorm--but the trees and every green spire toppling -into cloud an invitation to its own destruction! He must race for -cover--and whither? The little hut beyond the clearing! It presented -itself to him in a flash. He set off running. - -The very enforced action was a tonic to his nerves. As he sped, the -darkness gathered around him deep and deeper. He ran in a livid -twilight. Then on the quicker beat of a pulse the wood was torn with -fire from hem to hem. He was dazzled, half-shocked to a pause for an -instant; but there had been a panic sound to drive him forward again -directly--a huge tearing noise within the monstrous slam that had -trodden upon the heels of the blaze. He could only guess what this -portended. At the very first explosion a tree of the forest had been -struck and riven. - -Now he scurried so fast that the breath sobbed a little in his throat. -He had a feeling that the Force was dodging him, heading him off from -reach of shelter. Not a soul did he meet, but formless shadows seemed -to cry him on from deep to lonelier deep of the maze. Then again a -sudden glare took him in the face like a whip; and at once the Furies -of the storm burst from restraint and danced upon the woods in fire -and water, rehearsing the very carmagnole of the Terror. - -All in a moment the fugitive broke into the clearing he sought, but -had dreaded he would miss. Even as he ran--half deafened, yet relieved -by the uproar that had succeeded a silence as awful as it was -inhuman--he must slacken his pace in view of the towering giant that -dominated his every strange memory connected with the place. Suddenly -he stopped altogether, staring at the great tumorous trunk. Where had -he read or heard that beech-trees were secure from stroke by -lightning? Should he stand by, here under shelter of the enormous -withered arms? In his trouble he might scarcely notice how the whole -character of the isolated spot in which he stood was converted from -that that figured in his memory. Yet he took it in vaguely by the -sickly light--the blue-painted iron railings, having a locked wicket, -that fenced in the sacred bole; the gleaming silver hearts hung here -and there about the bark; the cropped ribbon of sward that encircled -the tree. Yet upon this green, for all its cultivated trimness, he -could have thought the underwood was encroached; and dimly he recalled -St Denys’s prophecy: “If in years to come thou tell’st me this charmed -circle has been broken into by the thicket, I will answer that -elsewhere the people stand on the daïses of kings.” Surely the idle -prediction was strangely verified. - -Even where he stood, for all the little shelter of the high branches, -the tempest beat the breath out of his body. Every moment the crash -and welter and uproar took a more hellish note and aspect: he felt he -could not stand it much longer. - -Suddenly, twisting about from a vision of fierce light, he caught a -startled glimpse of something he had hitherto failed to notice. The -narrow track that had once led through the heart of the thicket to the -hut amongst the trees was a narrow track no longer. It had been opened -out and greatly widened, so as to give passage to a tiny chapel that -stood at the close of a short vista of trunks. - -With a gasp of relief, Ned raced for this unexpected refuge, dashed up -a step, threw himself against the door, and half stumbled into a void -beyond it. The door flapped to behind him. He stood, panting, in a -little crypt of scented gloom. Somewhere in front a single ruby star -glowed unwavering--a core of utter peace and quiet. - - - - - CHAPTER VII. - -The thunder and the storm roared overhead with a deadened sound; not -a breath of all the turmoil could touch the serenity of the star. It -burned without a flutter, diffusing, even, the slightest, gentlest -radiance throughout the tiny building. Ned, from his position near the -door, could make out the whitewashed walls and ceiling; the wee square -windows glazed with twilight as sleek and dusky as oxydised silver; -the little litter of chairs about the floor; the altar overhung by -some indistinguishable dark picture; most suggestively, most -spectrally, the very painted statue at whose feet the star itself was -glowing. - -He stepped softly towards the shrine. A dozen paces brought him almost -within touch of it--and of something else. A woman was crouched -against the pedestal of the image, her hands clasped high on the -stone, her face buried in the curve of her left arm. In the incessant -throb and flash of the lightning through the little windows, he could -see the soft heave of her shoulders, the shredded glints of light -running up and down her hair as she drew quick breaths like one in -terror. Something, in the same moment, convinced him that she was -aware of his entrance; that, in the insane relief engendered of -company, she was struggling to present as spiritual preoccupation the -appearances of extreme fear. If this were so, she fought in vain to -save her self-respect. Her collapse, it was evident, had been too -abject; to rally from it on the mere prick of pride was an -impossibility. Here to her, lost and foundered in hell, had come a -first presence of human sympathy. - -It was sympathy. In the dusk, in the endless flash and roll, and in -the heavy roaring of the rain on the roof, Ned’s spirit, reaching -across a reeling abyss, felt that this fellow-creature was in mortal -terror. Too diffident, nevertheless, to make a first advance, he -compromised with his pity by seizing a chair and dragging it towards -him, that the very rough jar of its legs on the boards should be sound -assurance to the other of a human neighbourhood. The little -instinctive act, fraught with kindliness, touched off the nerve of -endurance. As he dropped into the seat he had pulled forward, the -prostrate figure, detaching itself from the pedestal, came suddenly -writhing and crouching over the few yards of floor that separated -them, and, throwing itself at his feet, put up a mad groping hand. - -“I am dying of fear!” it whispered. - -Ned caught the hand in a succouring grip. He could see only the -glimmer of a white face raised to his. He was bending down to give it -words of assurance, when to a hellish crash the whole building seemed -to leap into liquid fire--to sink, weltering, into a black and humming -void. The shock, the noise, had been thickly stunning rather than -ear-splitting. Here, in the chapel, they were too close to the cause -to suffer the sound perspective that shatters the brain. They might -have been the stone, the kernel, from which the force itself had burst -on all sides. - -By slow degrees Ned’s eyes recovered their focus, until he could make -out once more the ghostly blotch of a face looking up into his. -Neither of these two, beyond an involuntary jerk of response to the -enormous flame and detonation, had stirred from the attitude into -which, it would almost appear, they had been stricken. The actual -terror of the one, the sympathy of the other, seemed welded by the -flash into a single expression of fatality. In the lonely chapel, -amidst wrack and storm, to each the spectre of a memory had suddenly -materialised, revealing itself amazingly significant. - -“I must go,” muttered Ned, all in a moment. He spoke confusedly, -trying to withdraw his hand. But the other soft clutch resisted: the -other half-deafened ears could yet essay to catch the import of the -murmur. - -“You won’t leave me--here alone?” she said. “Oh, I shall die of the -fear!” - -She could waive before him all pretence of her possessing the divine -favour or protection. It was her rapture that this man--who had again -stepped across the years of darkness into her life--knew her soul; her -rapture to woo him by the seduction of her surrender to his nobler -understanding. His spirit darkened; yet, knowing her fearfulness of -old, he could not in common humanity forsake her till the terror was -past. - -So they sat on in silence, she flung at his feet, holding his hand, -while the flame and fury expended themselves overhead. Once or twice -he was conscious that her lips were helping the office of her fingers; -and he flushed shamefully in the darkness, yet would not seem to -condone her offence--her terrible sacrilege, even, under the -circumstances--by so much as noticing it. But he thought of the little -flower-packet in his breast; and he cursed his bitter folly that, -after such a warning as he had already had, he should have ventured -himself wantonly within the charmed influence of this silken-skinned -witch. - -Suddenly, it might almost be said, the tempest fled by. It passed as -rapidly as it had come, travelling westwards on a flooded current of -wind. The noise, the glare, ceased; light grew on the dim-washed -walls; the dark picture above the altar revealed itself a pious -representation of the very subject that had founded the chapel. There -the saint stood in effigy for all the world to worship: here she knelt -self-confessed at the feet of the one man for whose hot reprobation -she yearned, so long as it would kiss in pity where it had struck. Ned -glanced down at the lifted face. It may have suggested in its -expression some secret, half-unconscious triumph. He tore away his -hand--sprang to his feet, as the clouds broke outside and sunshine -came into the place. - -“You must let me go,” he said. “Your saints will be enough to protect -you now.” - -She rose hurriedly, and stood beside him. There was something new and -indescribable in her air and appearance--it might have been the mere -maturity of self-love. Whatever her stress of mind during these three -years, its effect had not been to warp and wither her physical beauty. -Even the little angles of the past were rounded off. She was -developed--a riper, more perilous Lamia. - -“Hush!” she whispered, pointing to the altar, “the tabernacle!” - -He gave a low little laugh. - -“What!” he said, dropping his voice nevertheless, “is the presence -more real to you than to me? Will you still pretend? We are alone, -Nicette.” - -Alone! the word was soft music to her. - -“No,” she said, coming after him as he strode towards the door, “I -will pretend to nothing--nothing, with you.” - -She put out a hand and gently detained him. - -“Oh!” she said, a very hunger in her voice and eyes, “to see you -again--to see you again! Why are you here? You did not follow me? No -one knew I was in the wood; and I was caught by the storm. My God, my -God! to be near it all--in the midst--and the curse of heaven awake! -It is folly, is it not, that talk of retribution--the folly of sinners -and the opportunity of priests? Here was I alone, for all hell to -torture; and, instead, _you_ come upon me unawares!” - -He stood dumfoundered that she could thus bare her soul to him. She -had no shame, it seemed, but the sweet exalted shame of the -seductress: her eyes dwelt upon him in ecstasy. - -“Whence do you come?” she went on, in a soft panting voice. “But what -does it matter, since you are here! I knew in the end you would -return. This--this” (she put her hand upon her bosom)--“Oh, it is a -fierce magnet that would have drawn you across the world!” - -He pulled at the door--let in a lance of brilliant light that struck -full upon his face. Something in its expression appeared to startle -her. She leaned forward and uttered a sudden miserable cry. - -“Where have you been--what have you done! My God, let me look!” - -The next instant she backed from him a little, throwing her hands to -her eyes as if she were blinded. - -“It is there,” she cried, “what I have longed and prayed for; but it -is not for me!” - -He recovered his voice in a fury. - -“Prayed!” he cried. “Are such prayers, from such a source, answered? -Stand off, for shame! This meeting is all an accident. I have neither -sought, nor desired, to see you. It is an accident--do you hear?” - -He tore open the door, jumped the step, ran a few paces, and stopped, -with an exclamation of sheer astonishment. A huge ruin of trunk and -branch closed his vista. The old woodland monarch, the type of stately -quincentennial growth and decline, was shattered where it stood. At -the last, facing its thousandth tempest, it had been wounded to death -in the forefront of the battle. The brand had struck its mightiest -branch, tearing it from its socket; and the crashing limb in its -downfall had wrenched apart the trunk, revealing a great hollow heart -of decay. - -The quiet drip and fall from loaded leaves; the faint rumble of the -retreating storm; the steam from the hot-soaked grass--Ned was -conscious of them all as he stood a moment in awe. Then he hurried -forward again--up to the very scene of the disaster. - -The ruin was complete; the silver hearts were fused or vanished; the -sacred fence was whirled abroad, in twisted, fantastic shapes. So much -for the immunity of beech-trees. He could hardly dare to face the -moral of his escape. - -But he must face another as terrible, if more impersonal. It presented -itself to him on the instant--a little heart within the heart--a poor -decayed fragment of humanity sunk deep in the vegetable decay of the -exposed hollow. At first, mentally stunned, and confused, moreover, by -this arabesque of ruin, he failed to realise that what he looked upon -was other than some accident of rubbish. It rested down near the -ground upon what had once been the bottom of a deep well of eaten -timber. It had, strangely enough, the appearance of a sleeping child. - -He took a quick step forward. His very heart seemed to gasp. God in -heaven! it _was_ a child--not sleeping, but dead and mummified! - -A sound--something awful, like the breath-struggle of one who had been -winded by a blow--fluttered in his ear. He leapt aside from it, -staring behind him. Nicette was there, gazing--gazing, but at him no -longer. Her eyes were like stones in a hewn grey mask; youth had -shuddered from her cheeks. - -Suddenly she turned upon him stiffly. Her soul instinctively -recognised the whole that was implied by his scarce voluntarily -expressed terror of her neighbourhood. - -“I did not kill him,” she whispered. - -“It _is_ Baptiste, then?” - -He was familiar at once with the stupendous horror of it all. That was -such, and so appalling in the light or blackness of a construction -that her immediate surrender of the situation made inevitable, that -his brain reeled under the shock. He was an accessory to something -namelessly hideous. - -Then, in a moment, she was prostrate at his feet, clinging to him, -imploring his mercy, his kindness; urging him by his pity, by her -agony, to withdraw her from vision of the terror, to listen to and -believe her. - -“Take me away!” she screamed; “it was his own doing! I did not kill -him!” - -He repulsed her with a raging force, still staring silently over and -beyond her. It seemed to him that some ghastly sacristan was lighting -up a sacrificial altar in his memory. Candle by candle it flamed into -dreadful illumination, revealing the abominations that in the darkness -he had been only innocently condoning. He thought he understood now -what had impelled her to that strange haunting of the neighbourhood of -the tree; what remorse had driven her to the prayers and prostrations -that had aroused the curiosity of the village; why, panic-stricken -under that threat of search, she had wrought in a moment, of her -imagination, a fable that should serve her secret evermore for an ark -double-cased. He recalled, in the ghastly light of a new -interpretation, almost the last words she had spoken to him in a time -that he had thought was dead and forgotten: “Oh, my God, not so to -stultify all I have suffered and done for thy sake!” For his sake--for -his sake! Was he so vile as this, then--he who had dared in dreams to -mate with a purity like an angel’s--that the incense of any noisome -sacrifice, if only offered up to himself, he must be held to find -grateful! He broke, without meaning it, into a horrible laugh. - -“Did she--the mother--not promise,” he shrieked, “to restore the -little brother to you--the poor little murdered wretch! She has kept -to her word. And you--you? Don’t forget you are sworn under damnation -to dedicate yourself, a maid, to her service! Can you do it? God in -heaven, it is not your fault if you can!” - -She fell before him, as he spurned her, writhing and moaning amongst -the sodden grass. - -“Won’t you listen to me--oh, won’t you listen? If you would only kill -me, and not speak!” - -He stood immediately rigid as justice’s own sentry. - -“Yes, I will listen,” he said, “and you shall condemn yourself.” - -She crept a thought nearer and, feeling him keep aloof, sat bowed upon -the ground, her fingers locked together in her lap. - -“I will tell you the truth,” she said, low and broken. “After that -first time he, my brother, was changed. He became, when you were gone, -a little devil, insulting and defying me. It was terrible--his -precocity. He held over my head ever a threat--monsieur, it was that -he would make exposure of the _liaison_ between his sister and the -Englishman.” - -Ned uttered an exclamation. She entreated him with raised hands. - -“Ah! it is not always the truth one fears. One day in the woods--oh, -my God, monsieur, hide me!--in the woods--what was I saying! Mother of -God! it was here--we quarrelled, and I was desperate. He ran to escape -me, climbed the great branch that stooped to the grass. He stood high -up, reviling me. I made as if to fling a stone: he threw up his arm, -stumbled, and disappeared.” - -She crept towards him again, yet another agonised appeal for the -tiniest assurance that he had ceased to loathe her. At least this time -he stood his ground. - -“At first I was stunned,” she said. “He may have been killed at once, -for no sound reached me. Then all at once the wicked spirit put it -into my head that here, by doing nothing, was a sure way out of my -difficulties--was safety from that impish slanderer, was the bar -removed to my favour in the eyes of one who had confided to me his -detestation of children.” - -Ned sprang back, almost striking at the crouching figure. - -“Not me!” he raged; “I will have no responsibility--not any, for the -inhuman deed, thrust upon me! And so you left him to his fate, and -went home and ate and drank, feeding your beastly lusts and desires, -while he--oh, devil, devil!” - -She scrambled to her feet and made as if she would run from this new -terror of a hate more ghastly than all she had suffered hitherto. - -“Don’t kill me!” she whimpered. “Did you not tell me you hated -children? and you said they could not feel as we do.” - -He glared at her like a maniac. - -“You left him; what is the need to say more?” - -“I did not,” she moaned, wringing her hands as if to cleanse them of -blood; “I came again on the third day, and I called to him, I prayed -to him, but he never cried back one word. Then I thought, Perhaps he -has climbed out and fled away.” - -“Liar! you are a liar! Why, then, did you seek to hide your crime by a -blasphemous lie?” - -“I have suffered,” she answered only, like one before the -judgment-seat. - -He mastered himself by a wrenching effort. He stood aside, -peremptorily motioning her to pass on her way. Not a word would he -speak. She went forward a few steps--a numb, haggard spectre of -beauty, a soul paralysed under the immediate terror of its sentence. -Suddenly she turned upon him, awful in the last expression of despair. - -“They will tear me to pieces when they know!” - -“Let your Virgin protect you,” he said. - -Without another word she left him, going off amongst the trees. The -sunbeams, peering through the leaves, touched and fled from contact -with her; woodland things scurried from her path; the cleansing rain, -even, stringing the branches, withheld itself from falling till she -had gone. Something that he drove under forcibly struggled to rise and -give voice from the watcher’s heart. She looked so small, so pitifully -frail and small a vessel to carry that great load of sin. The next -moment she disappeared from his sight. - -He turned, with a groan, to scrutinise the horror. It was yet so far -undecayed as that he was able, for all his little memory of the living -child, to identify the poor remains. But, for a certain reason, he -would compel himself to a nauseous task--even to touch the thing if -necessary. It was not. There was actual evidence, to his unaccustomed -eyes, that the boy’s neck had been dislocated by the fall. - -He moved away, giving out a sigh of fearful relief. At least he would -not be haunted by that anguish. And should he follow and tell her? - -“No,” he thought sternly--for love makes men cruel; “as she meant, so -shall she suffer the worst.” - - - - - CHAPTER VIII. - -The Viscount Murk received very gravely M. Becelaer de Lawoestine’s -assurance that Monseigneur the Duke of Orleans was at the moment, and -had been for months past, in Paris. - -“_Enfin_,” said this gentleman, “if report is to be believed, it is -the most timely place for him. At least he will not put himself at the -head of the emigrants,” he added, with a husky little laugh. - -He was plump and prosperously healthy, like his wife. They seemed -admirably suited to one another--a pigeon pair, indeed. And like a -pigeon was the little fat man in his white Austrian uniform. He -strutted, he preened himself, he cooed. His place should have been on -a roof-ridge of his own happy courts. Ned had a melancholy desire to -crumble some bread for him. - -“You are pale as a very ghost, monsieur,” said this same ruddy count -condescendingly. “It is not to be wondered at. You have alighted upon -us in stirring times; not to speak of the storm yesterday, that was -enough to quell the stoutest courage. I would give up hunting a -chimera, if I were you, and return to the profitable peace of my own -so prudent island, without more ado--_sans plus de façons_.” - -“If you were I, monsieur,” said Ned. “But, being myself, I run the -chimera to earth in Paris.” - -Monsieur le comte shrugged his shoulders. - -“I will wish you success, at least. This chimera hath as many tracks -as a mole. But, first, you must get to Paris.” - -Ned had considered this side of the question lightly. He found, -indeed, the conditions of travel curiously changed since he had last -crossed the Netherlands border. Now the whole frontier, from Lille to -Metz, swarmed with hostile demonstration. The Allies were in movement, -Luckner and his ineffectives falling back before them. Amongst them -all he hardly knew whom to claim for friends and whom for foes. - -But he was wrought to a pitch of recklessness, and Providence shows -the favouritism of a heathen goddess towards reckless men. His grossly -enlarging doubt of the _bonâ fides_ of the mission to which he had -been committed; his terror of having been made in a moment accessory -to a hideous crime, which he could neither morally condone nor -effectually denounce; the feeling--sombre heir to these two--that he -was losing his hold of that new sweet sense of responsibility towards -life, the consciousness of which had been to him latterly like the -talking in his ear of a witch of Atlas--a cicerone to the dear -mysteries of the earth he had hitherto but half understood,--these -emotions were a long-rowelled spur to prick him forward through -difficult places. Once in Paris, there should be no more temporising. -From the Duke of Orleans’s own lips he would learn whether or no he -had been bidden on a fool’s errand. - -Here, in fact, was the goading stab in his side--the wound that -sometimes so stung and rankled that almost he was tempted to have out -madame la gouvernante’s letter to her employer and resolve -dishonourably his doubts. Through the anguish of these, the piercing -tooth of the recent horror sprung upon him might make itself felt only -as a pain within the pain--a lesser torture, the nature of which he -would occasionally seek to analyse in order to a temporary -forgetfulness of the greater. Then, thinking of the holy maid of -Méricourt, he would cry in his soul, “What is this gift of -imagination but a Promethean fire, destroying whoever is informed with -it! Better my system of a mechanical world with passion all -eliminated!”--and he would think of how he had been once curiously -interested in a poor lodge-keeper’s dreamings, a faculty for which had -been then to him so strange an anomaly. And was it so still--to him -who had learned, through love, to attune his ear to the under -harmonics in every wind that blew upon the earth? Perhaps, in truth, -it was this very gift of imagination that, in greater or less degree, -was responsible for the irregularities one and all that misconverted -the plain uses of life; that made the picturesqueness of existence, -and its glory and tragedy. And would he at this very last be without -it? And was not its possession--a common one now to him and -Nicette--the stimulus to unnatural deeds that were the outcome of -supernatural thoughts? He had at least the temptation to commit an act -that would be an outrage on his traditional sense of honour. He would -resist the temptation, because he _had_ the tradition. But conceive -this Nicette, perhaps with no traditions, and with an imagination -infinitely more vivid than his. What limit was to put to her -foreseeings; how should the normal-sighted adjudge her monstrous for -anticipating conclusions to which their vision could by no means -penetrate? - -He would catch himself away from the train of thought, the indulgence -of which seemed a certain condonation of a deed that his every -instinct abhorred. Yet his mind took, perhaps, something the tone of -the intricate close places in which it wandered; and now and again a -little thrill would run through him of half-sensuous pity for the poor -misguided soul that, by offering up its honour at the very shrine at -which his worshipped, had only estranged what it would have fain -conciliated. - - * * * * * * * * - -By way of Fumay--a little pretty town situate on a river holm, and -overhung by a group of stately rocks called the Ladies of the -Meuse--Ned, adopting the advice of the Comte de Lawoestine, entered -France. At once--as if, from easy gliding down a stream, he had been -drawn into and was rushing forward in the midst of rapids--his days -became mere records of anxiety and turbulence that constantly -intensified throughout every league of his approach towards Paris. At -the very frontier, indeed, he had taken the plunge, as exemplified in -his change of postilions. To the last village on the German side he -had been driven by a taciturn barbarian--a cheese-featured -Westphalian, picturesque, malodorous, and imperturbably uncivil. This -certificated lout was dressed in a yellow jacket, having black cuffs -and cape, and carried a saffron sash about his waist and a little -bugle horn slung over his shoulder--the whole signifying the imperial -livery of the road, then as sacred from assault as is the uniform of a -modern soldier of the Fatherland. Tobacco, _trinkgeld_, and the -unalienable right to keep his parts of speech locked up in the -beer-cellar of his stomach--these appeared to be the three conditions -of his service. Ned parted from him with a league-long-elaborated -anathema that sounded as ineffective in the delivery as the rap of a -knuckle on a full hogshead, and so, on the farther side of the border, -committed himself to a first experience of the “patriot” postboy. - -From the smooth and muddy into the broken water! Here was volubility -proportionate with the other’s gross reticence. Jacques was no less -picturesque and malodorous than was Hans. He had his private -atmosphere, like the German; only it was eloquent of pipes and garlic -rather than of pipes and beer. He spat and gabbled all day; and he was -dressed, like a stage pirate, in a short brown coat with brass -buttons, and in striped pink and white pantaloons tucked into -half-boots. A sash went round his waist also, and he wore on his head -a scarlet cap having a cockade. Ned was feverishly interested in this -his first introduction to a child of the new liberty; but he would -fain have found him inclined to a lesser verbosity. However, he was a -cheerful rascal and a good-humoured, and his easy sangfroid helped the -traveller out of an occasional tangle of the red-tapeism that he found -immeshing official processes rather more intricately under a -republican than under an autocratic form of government. - -Ned’s journey to the capital was, indeed, a race a little perilous and -full of excitement. The common spirit, or suggestion, of suppressed -effervescence that had been his former experience, was revealed now a -spouting, tingling fountain, light yet heady, hissing with froth and -bubbles. The kennels of France ran, as it were, with sparkling wine, -and the very mayfly of moral intoxication was hatched from them in -swarms. Thoughts, words, acts; the habits of dress, of motion, of -regard--all were the characteristics of an hysteria the result of -unaccustomed indulgence--the result of reckless drinking at the -released spring. One could never know if a chance expression--either -of speech or feature--would procure one a madly laughing or a madly -resentful acknowledgment. Exultation and terror walked arm-in-arm by -the ways, each trying stealthily to trip up the other. It was an -insane land, and now verging on a paroxysm of mania; for it was known -that at last the king--the man of shifty vision--was focussing his -eyesight on the north-eastern border of his kingdom, whence loomed the -shadow of foreign legions moving to his aid. - -The north-eastern border! To enter the land of fury from such a -direction was to invite one’s own destruction. Not even luck, -recklessness, and unexceptionable passports might, perhaps, have saved -Ned from the homicidal madness of a people wrought to fantastic fear, -had it not been for a quick-witted post-boy’s genius in availing -himself of the right occasions to apply them. This was his real -good-fortune--that his own innate charm of manner, his patience and -sweetness, his characteristic unaffectedness in the matter of his -rank, and his healing sense of humour in everything, found their -response in the heart of the garrulous Jacques, and converted that -amiable horse-emmet from an indifferent employé into a very fraternal -road-companion. - -So, through stress and danger, Ned sped on his journey, and--following -for fifty leagues from the frontier in the track of the wrecking -storm--was enabled to enter Paris, by the great Flanders road, some -four days after his parting with M. le Comte de Lawoestine. Then--a -final difficulty at the Temple barrier surmounted--he found himself -once more a mean small condition of the life of that city to whose -self-emancipatory throes he had once been a deeply concerned witness. -And he accepted the fact without uneasiness, not knowing that before -he should turn for the last time to quit the awful place of death and -resurrection, the tragedy of his own life, in the midst of the -thousands there enacting, should be consummated. - - - - - CHAPTER IX. - -On the very day following that of his arrival, the pendulum of Ned’s -particular destiny began its driving swing. He had taken good lodgings -in a house in the Rue St Honoré, less, perhaps, as a concession to -his rank than to his hypothetical prospects; and, issuing thence, -after he had breakfasted, he had but a hundred yards to walk to reach -a certain revolutionary centre that was become the goal to his -long-drawn hopes and apprehensions. - -It was a morning in early August, breathless and burning; and he -turned into the gardens of the Palais Royal, that he might thus -combine the opportunities to slake his thirst and to acquit himself of -his commission to the royal proprietor of the adjoining palace. He had -seated himself--unaccountably loath, now the moment was arrived, to -put his fears to the proof--at a little café table under a tree, and -was dreamily marvelling over the changed aspect of this _plaisance_ of -sedition (how in three years the temper of its _habitués_ seemed to -have altered, as it were, from that of a beleaguered to that of a -triumphant garrison), when the familiar personality of one of three -men who, talking together, strolled towards him, caught his immediate -attention. Ugly, austere, with his Rowlandson paunch and unaffected -neat clothes; with his wry jaw and crippled scuffle of speech--Ned saw -here the unmistakable presentment of his whilom friend, the king’s -painter. Between M. David and another--a tall, plebeian-dressed man, -with a flawed, supercilious face, the blotched darkness of which -(something caricaturing that of the monarch’s own) belied the -mechanical amiability of its features--walked an individual of a very -benignant and serene expression of countenance, the nobility of which -showed in agreeable contrast with the moodiness of its neighbours’. -This man--by many years the youngest of the three--was of the middle -height, with dark sleepy eyes and chestnut hair. His face, slightly -marked by the small-pox, was of a rather sensuous, rather wistful -expression--at once pitiful and determined, with Love the modeller’s -finger-marks about the mouth and, between the brows, the little long -scar cut by thought. He was dressed in a very shabby and slovenly -fashion, with limp tattered wristbands, and the seams of his coat -burst at the shoulders; and even the lapels of his vest were -dog’s-eared--altogether a display of poverty a little ostentatious, -thought Ned (who, nevertheless, had reason by-and-by to correct his -judgment). Yet, for all his appearance, here was the man of the three -to whom the others, it seemed, paid deference; for they hung upon his -words, their eyes bent to the ground, while he walked between them, -frankly expounding and with a free aspect. - -Now suddenly M. David glanced up and caught the Englishman’s gaze; and -immediately, to Ned’s surprise (he had a vivid memory of their last -rencontre), detached himself from his fellows and came forward with -extended hand. - -“Surely,” said the painter, “monsieur my friend the artist of the -Thuilleries gardens!” - -“At monsieur’s service,” said Ned, rising, with a complete lack of -cordiality. “And of the Rue Beautreillis, M. David, where a poor devil -of a papetier had his factory gutted.” - -He drew a little away. David’s face showed villainously distorted. - -“That may be,” said he, taken aback. Then he advanced again, with an -air of sudden frankness. “‘Let sleeping dogs lie.’ We do not, in these -days of realisation, repudiate our responsibility for the acts that in -those were tentative. But a generous conqueror does not dwell on the -humiliation of his adversaries. The end justifies the means, monsieur; -and you, at least, if I remember, were no advocate of social tyranny. -But that was long ago, yet not so long but that I can recall monsieur -as a promising probationer in the art that is the most admirable in -the world.” - -Ned, touched upon his unguarded side, was standing at a loss for an -answer, when the painter’s two companions joined the group at the -table. - -“Citizen Egalité,” said David, addressing the supercilious-looking -man, “let me have the pleasure of making known to you M. Murk, an -artist who would be a patriot were he not, unfortunately for us, an -Englishman.” - -Ned started. - -“Egalité!” he exclaimed. - -“Ci-devant Duc d’Orléans,” said the tall man himself, with a little -mocking bow. - -“Monseigneur,” began Ned. - -“Citizen,” said the other, bowing again. - -His eyes were dead stones of irony. His expression was as of one -hopeless of convalescence from the weary illness of life. - -Ned fetched his letter from his breast. - -“Citizen Egalité--if so I am to call you,” said he, “I meet you in -the good hour, being on the road, indeed, to seek the citizen -himself.” - -“Me, sir?” - -“You, monsieur--or the Duke of Orleans. I have the honour to place in -the hands of the duke a packet with the delivery of which I have been -entrusted by an intimate correspondent of monsieur.” - -Monsieur, looking a little surprised, received the missive, and -deliberately breaking the seal, deliberately read through madame la -gouvernante’s letter. Ned must discipline his sick impatience the -while, and the two other men conversed apart--David in some obvious -wonder over the result of his introduction. - -Presently the duke, carelessly returning the paper to its folds, -looked up. Ned strove, but failed, to read his sentence in the -impassive face. A moment’s silence succeeded. It was a test beyond his -endurance. - -“I undertook to acquaint monsieur le duc, from my personal knowledge,” -he blurted out, “of the causes of madame’s apprehensions.” - -“Madame,” said Egalité, “is very fortunate in a courier whose -discretion, she informs me, is only equalled by his disinterestedness. -Madame has, indeed, always the faculty to find some one to pull her -her chestnuts out of the fire.” - -He spoke so languidly, so suggestively, so insolently, that Ned, -despite his desperate anxiety, fired up. - -“I fail to read into monsieur’s implication,” said he. “But if it is -meant to signify that madame’s peril----” - -“Is she in any, then? This letter merely informs me that she removes -at once to London.” - -The confirmation of his dread had appeared somehow so foreshadowed in -his reception that the blow fell upon Ned with nothing more than a -little stunning shock. - -“And that is all?” said he, in quite a small stiff voice. - -“All that is essential, indeed, monsieur.” - -“Nothing of her terror that she is being watched and followed--that -she moves within the sinister ken of the royalist emigrants--that her -nerve is shattered--that she begs you to recall her?” - -“Nothing. But--Heaven forgive her! I recognise her style. Oh yes, yes! -It is possible she has posted and dismissed you very effectively, -monsieur.” - -He went off, for the first time, into a real laugh--a harsh -cachinnation that he checked, as in mere disdain of it, in its -mid-career. Ned waited, in rather an ugly manner of patience, till he -was finished. Then, said he, wishing to right himself with himself on -all points-- - -“Has posted me, as monsieur says; and, doubtless, for all exigent -purposes, it was necessary only to post the letter to monsieur.” - -“How, then?” - -“At least, it would appear, its delivery by a confidential messenger -was not imperative?” - -“_À ce qu’il paraît_,” said the duke, grinning again. “At least such -a commission exhibited an excess of caution.” - -All the bitterness of the poor young man’s soul seemed suddenly to -flush his veins. - -“It is thus, then,” he cried, “that you requite the hospitality -lavished upon you and yours; that you take advantage of a generous -sympathy extended to you, to serve your own selfish purposes at the -expense of your entertainers. You deserve that no hand be put out to -you but to strike you in the face, as it is in my heart to treat you, -monsieur le duc!” - -He spoke loudly enough, and all his muscles tightened to the prick of -onset. M. David ran up-- - -“Ta-ta-ta!” he exclaimed; “what the devil is here?” - -Egalité’s cheeks showed mottled white, like brawn. - -“Be quiet,” he said. “This is M. le Vicomte Murk, who has put himself -to inconvenience to deliver me a letter.” - -His lips trembled a little. The wretched creature himself had a -wretched nerve. - -“Monsieur would seem to imply,” he said, “that I am a party to the -circumstance of some discomfiture he has suffered. It needs only a -little reflection to disabuse himself of so extravagant a -supposition.” - -Ned made a violent effort to control his passion. Convinced now, as he -was, that he had been used the victim of a practical joke, he could -not turn the situation effectively by adopting a tragic vein. Besides, -he was conscious of an inexplicable little feeling of rebellious -attraction towards this man--a sort of emotional deference such as -that with which a despairing suitor courts the guardian of his -inamorata. If the light of his hope had fallen very low, here was he -that might, if he would, renew it--here was a possible friend at court -that he could ill afford--until that moment of the certain quenching -of the light--to quarrel with or insult. He did not put this to -himself. It affected him, nevertheless. - -“I will acknowledge I was hasty,” he said, in some miserable -perplexity. “It is possible I have jumped to unjustified conclusions. -I have been a disinterested courier, as monsieur suggests, faithful to -the service to which I was induced--under false pretences, it appears. -But I will take monsieur’s word as to his innocence of any -participation in the jest that has led me dancing over half a -continent in search of monsieur.” - -He looked at Egalité half piteously. The latter, scenting the -reaction, shrugged his shoulders, with a relieved expression. - -“I am deeply sensible,” he said coolly, “of monsieur’s kindness. For -the rest” (he tapped the paper in his hands) “the message that -monsieur conveys to me is capable of only one construction.” - -“That madame removes with her charge to London?” - -“Certainly.” - -“And that is all?” - -“Precisely all, monsieur.” - -Ned fell back a pace, and bowed frigidly. The duke, with a second -shrug of his shoulders, took M. David’s arm and made as if to -withdraw. Suddenly he jerked himself free and returned to the hapless -young man, a much gentler look on his face. - -“Ah, monsieur!” he said, in a low voice, “that is all--yes, that is -all. But I can read between the lines. Am I to hold myself to blame -that madame took her own way to rid herself of an embarrassment! I -talk in the dark, with only my knowledge of women--of this woman, _par -excellence_--to illuminate me. She coaxed you to a confidential -mission? Well, there was no need--believe me, there was no need. We -must read between the lines.” - -He again made as if to go, and again returned. - -“It is extremely probable, nevertheless,” he said, “that we may see -the dear emigrants back in Paris before long.” - -With that he went off, taking the painter with him. Ned watched the -couple receding, till the crowd absorbed them; then sat himself down, -feeling benumbed and demoralised, upon a chair. - -So, here was the end--the mocking means adopted to the rejection of -his suit. It was a vile, cruel jest, he thought; a characteristic -indulgence of selfishness inhuman, for which presently he would take -fierce delight in calling a certain statesman to account. A statesman! -his stricken vanity yelled to itself: a diplomatic buffoon who would -sacrifice principle to a pun. So he classified Mr Sheridan, to whom he -would attribute this ruin of his hopes. - -But deeper emotions prevailed. Had the duke been, or was he at this -last, despite his protestations, a party to the fraud? It mattered -nothing at all. There was a more intimate question to put to his -heart--the sadder and more sombre inquiry, Was the girl herself a -confederate? And here he fell all amazed and overwhelmed; plunged in a -slough of the most sorrowful speculation; struggling for foothold--for -some memory at which he might clutch for the righting of his moral -balance. There should have been many memories--of kind looks and words -and touches, all instinct with the tender humour of truth. God in -heaven! It was conceivable that the elder woman, the old practised -strategist, had played a consummate _rôle_. It was never inconsistent -with the principles of such pantological professors to indulge the -hypocritical as part of their universal equipment. But Pamela, with -not that of roguishness in her sweet eyes to justify a belief in -anything but an innately honest soul behind them! Pamela, in the -sincerity of her heart, in the womanliness of her nature, in the -cleanness of her lips, craftily intriguing to indict Love’s passion of -trust! He could not believe it. He could not but believe that some -words, some acts of hers--most haunting in the retrospect--had been -designed to express her sympathy with that in him which she could only -as yet recognise in herself for a mood. And it had been, then, Madame -de Genlis’ private policy to dismiss him before this mood--this -bud--could timely open out into a flower. - -Well, she had succeeded--thanks to one self-interested, with whom the -reckoning was to come--she had succeeded, and aptly, no doubt, to the -sequel. For it was not to be supposed that madame’s artifice would -permit her to wean its subject from a fancy and fail to find the -subject other food for a stimulated appetite. My lord the viscount had -possibly, indeed, but (in the vernacular) kept the place warm for -another. The sun of his passion may have only a little ripened the -fruit for the delectation of lips more blest than his. By this time, -it was probable, the dream that had been his was a transferred -rapture. - -What should he do--what should he do? He sat dully, his delicious -sweet world of imagination shrunk to unsightly clinkers, very mean and -grotesque. Only the real world stretched about him--a shoddy, vulgarly -formal affair. A laugh, a mere ironic chest-note, came from him. For -to what glorified uses did not men seek to convert this intrinsically -tawdry material! They were always sensitive to the befooling holiday -spirit, the spirit that is persistently ready to accept specious -commonplace at a fancy value. For all the essential purposes of -romantic passion he, if he chose, might take his pick (_he_ with his -title, his rich competence, and his personal attributes) from the -human fair that tinkled and scintillated about him. Yet he must price -all this opportunity at so much less worth than that of one set of -features as to value it, lying ready to his hand, at a pinch of dust -compared with the unattainable. The glamour of the fair was not for -him, let him elect to give his philosophy licence without limit. - -He did, it will be observed, madame la gouvernante (who had been -genuinely distraught) something a little less than justice. But, after -all, his resentment in the first instance was against Mr Sheridan, and -in that, no doubt, he was justified; for he must fail, in the nature -of things, to understand what reason but a personal one could have -moved that gentleman to manœuvre to circumvent a suitor so frank and -so admissible as himself. - -He called for wine; and, while drinking, for the first time in his -life, too much of it, his mood underwent a dozen rallies and relapses. -Passion, exasperation, and the most sick desire to possess what now -seemed to have evaded him for ever--emotion upon emotion, these -wrought in his suffering mind. More than once he was half-stirred to -the decision to return immediately to England; and, instantly -recalling the duke’s enigmatical suggestion anent the ladies’ return -to Paris, he would resolve to remain where he was, preferring the -problematical to the chances of hunting counter in the mazes of his -own capital. For he must see the girl again--to that he was -determined; he must see her again and, crashing at last through the -reserve his own diffidence had created, must seek to carry by storm -that with which he had so mistakenly temporised. - -And then suddenly--a vision called up, perhaps, by the unwonted fever -in his veins--the figure of Pamela, as he had last seen it, stood -holding out to him in its hands the little crushed scarlet blossoms; -and he could see the wilful smile and hear the sweet voice offering -him the rose of his desire; and all in a moment his eyes were full of -tears, and he became shamefully conscious of his surroundings, the -very character of which profaned his thought. - -He thrust his hand in an access of tenderness into his breast. - -“Monsieur,” said a low, grave voice in his ear, “is in need of -sympathy.” - -He started, and turned about angrily. At his elbow was seated that -third member of the late trio to whom the others had appeared to pay -deference. This man had not followed his companions, it seemed, but -had remained behind when they walked away. - -In the very motion of resenting the interference, something in the -nobility of the stranger’s manner gave Ned pause. The anger died from -his features, gradually, in a little silence that succeeded. - -“Very well, monsieur,” he said at length, quite gently. “You are very -far from meaning impertinence, I see. I answer you, All men need -sympathy.” - -“Monsieur,” said the stranger, “that admission is the basis of our new -religion of humanity.” - -He leaned forward, smiling with a great sweetness. His air somehow -conveyed to Ned the impression of a conscious strength that rather -enjoyed indulging in itself a dormant condition of faculty, sure that -it could summon up at will mental forces irresistible to any opposed -to it. - -“Is it new?” said Ned. “I seem to recall a hint of it in the Gospels.” - -“The man Christ,” said the stranger, “was a virgin. His partisanship -was necessarily limited. He was never blinded by, but always to, -passion.” - -“The passion of love?” - -“Of love, in the erotic sense.” - -“And what is that to signify in the present context?” - -“Only that it enables me to see deeper than Christ the virgin.” - -“You have more prospicience than Christ?” - -“In one direction, assuredly.” - -“You are confident, monsieur?” - -“So far, I am confident. Christ was a divine--I, monsieur, am a -human--advocate.” - -“_De causes perdues_, in this instance, monsieur, I believe. But an -advocate deals with proofs.” - -“Without doubt. Monsieur is unfortunate in an attachment.” - -“To himself? Christ could have taught him that.” - -Nevertheless he was amazed. - -“Ah!” cried the other, “but I am literally an advocate; and I heard -monsieur le duc’s final words; and it is my business to read the -soul’s confession in the face. I perceive, however, that monsieur -resents my presumption, which is, of a truth, unwarrantable.” - -He rose as if to go, his dark eyes still quick with a gentle, -unrebukeful sympathy. Ned was impelled to cry hastily-- - -“It is my right at least, monsieur, to ask the title of my counsel!” - -“I have none,” said the stranger simply. “My name is Vergniaud.” - -Ned sprang to his feet, upsetting his chair. - -“Vergniaud!” he cried, and stood staring at the man whose -utterances--echoed latterly to the very cliffs of England--had seemed -to him the first inspired interpretation of the Revolution as a real, -breathing, human, emancipatory force. Now he understood why the others -had shown such deference to this one of their party. - -“Vergniaud!” he cried again faintly, and so rallied himself. - -“Truly,” said he, “I have entertained an angel unawares. M. -Vergniaud--indeed, I have a very unhappy attachment; and I need -counsel at this moment, if ever man did.” - - - - - CHAPTER X. - -Pierre-Victorin Vergniaud, the source of much present enthusiasm, -the full fountain-head of the Gironde river of eloquence, was -already--though but a few months a citizen of Paris--the director of a -popular force having an admirable tendency. In him it seemed possible -to hail that political architect of the new era who should have the -genius to reconcile warring creeds, and shape of men’s profound but -formless aspirations an enduring temple of the ideal commonwealth. -Poor, yet never conceding a thought to the shame of poverty; -simple-minded to the extent that he could not err in justice; hating -corruption and loving truth; a moving orator, a large humanitarian, he -might have led a world, undissenting, to the worship of the right -Liberty, had not his great gifts, his large ideals, been always -subject to eclipse by an extreme constitutional indolence. Utterly -ingenuous, utterly impressionable; depending upon the moment for -inspiration, and so little warped by self-consciousness as never to -know the moment to fail him--it was yet often impossible to spur this -Vergniaud to necessary action. Madame Roland, the superior being, to -whom he was introduced by enthusiastic friends, had no belief in his -capacity as a leader; distrusted, and perhaps despised him. Ned--the -poor degenerate to a very human type--learned, on the other hand, to -love and admire him. For in this mind--as in the mirror of sweet clear -water--he found his own chastened theories shaping themselves, taking -such form and gentle significance as he had never hitherto but more -than conceived to be theirs. Nor this only, or chiefly. He was able to -forget something of his own hard unhappiness, of his bitter sense of -grievance, in the familiar contemplation of a nature so serene, so -noble, so unsolicitous of its self-aggrandisement. From these closing -days of darkness, the little friendship that so queerly came to him to -tide him opportunely over a period of wretched indecision remained an -abiding pathetic memory. - -Citizen Vergniaud lived in a shabby lodging near the Tivoli Gardens. -Thither Ned accompanied him on the morning of their meeting, and -thither many times he found his way again. The little beggarly room -became a haven of rest to his tormented spirit--a confessional-box -wherein he could always leave some part of his great weight of -oppression. And, now and again, even, moved to waive his personal -interest in that fine spirit, and to repay some part of the healing -advice so disinterestedly lavished upon himself, he would play the -_père spirituel_ in his turn, and whip his penitent with a cobweb -lash of rebuke. - -“My Peter,” he would complain, “you dwell too long on the overture to -your career. It may be rich in all the suggested harmonies, but it is -time you set to work on the opera.” - -“Time!” would cry Vergniaud, with a smile. (He might be, perhaps, -unpacking a very little parcel of cheap linen that had just reached -him from his family, his dear simpletons, of Bordeaux.) “But time is -no arbitrary measure to the man who hath studied to make his own.” - -Says Ned, “You may make it, but you will always give it away to the -first specious beggar that asks.” - -“Then I am only liberal with that that I do not value. ’Tis a poor -habit of charity, I admit. But I could never keep it; hark! little -Edward--I could never keep time, even when I danced!” - -“So foolish heirs mortgage their reversions.” - -“So alchemists squander their inexhaustible treasures, you mean. When -time has done with me, I shall be past caring. Maybe the spendthrift -will have gilded a poor home or two in his world.” - -“And, had he economised, he might have gilded the temples of an -epoch.” - -“Oh, thou art an elegant moraliser! But I am more modest for myself--a -Fabian by sentiment, not policy. I tell thee, an age so rich in -opportunities invites to procrastination. A multiplicity of choice is -the last inducement to choose. I loiter, like a child, in the fair, -with my silver _livre-tournois_ in my pocket, and, until I spend it, I -am lord of a hundred prospective delights. Let me wait till the lights -are burning low, and then I will make my selection--the crown to a -pyramid of enjoyments.” - -“And find that others before you have taken the pick of the fair while -you ecstatically considered, and that you have at the last paid full -price for a discarded residue.” - -“What, then, my friend! I shall be richer than the prudent by measure -of a whole feast of anticipation--more satisfied, if less gorged. The -early bird eats his chicken in the egg. (_Corne de Dieu_! there is a -fine marriage of proverbs!) He has nothing to look forward to but a -day of blank satiety. I cannot at once have the dreams of youth and -the sober retrospections of age.” - -So he would talk _ex curia_, a dilatory, lovable vagabond, with a rare -power of enchantment drawn from some hidden depths, as from a -fern-curtained well. Perhaps this sensuous personal charm--whereby he -would appear to flatter with signal affectionate regard each in turn -of his numerous acquaintances--would of itself have failed after the -first to win a poor love-stricken from prolonged contemplation of any -but his own interests. It was the man’s spasmodic revelations of -unexpected virile forces held in reserve that would suddenly convert -in another a little growing sentiment of tolerant disdain to an eager -desire to be acclaimed friend by this subject of his condescension. -So, may be, the force operated upon Ned. For succeeding his first -gratification over an introduction to one in whom he had latterly -prefigured the regenerator of France, came a thought of -_désagrément_ in his soul’s nominee, a feeling of disillusionment in -which he was prepared to recognise another example of Fortune’s wanton -baiting of his personal cherished ideals. Then one day he heard this -seeming waiter on Providence, this almost coatless landholder of -Utopia, speak in the Assembly; and thenceforth he had nothing but -reverence for the ardent soul, whose misfortune only it was to be -bounded by a love more human in its essence than divine. He had seen -the familiar figure sitting with its hand over its face; he had next -seen the face revealed from the tribune, inspired, transformed, as if -the hand itself, consecrate as a priest’s, had touched and wrought the -priestly sacrament of confirmation; and the sermon of high government -that followed had taken wings of fire from the burning spirit that -informed it; and the hearts of men had kindled and glowed, flaring at -length--alas, too self-consumingly!--into roaring flame. - -Well, such moments were for Ned’s holiday moods. This present -friendship and admiration saved him, perhaps, from hobnobbing with -more harmfully potent spirits. Yet the one enthusiasm could galvanise -him only fitfully into an interest in the passionate scenes amongst -which he moved. So negative a pole is love--when turned from the -north-star of its hopes--to all that in less misconverted -circumstances would attract it. Here was he a spectator at last of the -stupendous drama in the early rehearsals of which he had been so -profoundly interested; and he had nothing for it all but a lack-lustre -eye, which he must always keep from turning inwards by an effort. He -lived, in fact, in a little miserable tub of his own choosing, while -the Alexanders of a political renaissance made history around, and -unregarded of, him. - -Much time he spent moodily gazing from the windows of his lodgings in -the Rue St Honoré. Thence looking, his life seemed to become a dream -of motley crowds always drifting by. Stolid, tight-buttoned guards, -with brigand moustaches like dolls’; frowzy revolutionary conscripts, -swaggering to glory; tattered deputations, exhibiting the seals of -their memorials in the shape of old blood-stains dried upon arms and -faces, and headed, perhaps, by some trimly arrogant sectional -president, with his sleek hair and tricolour sash--vociferous or -intent, in noisome clouds they floated by; and Ned could seldom rescue -so much curiosity from the heart of his self-centred indifference as -to inquire what was their destination or significance. A shoddy -Paris--a Paris of gaudy fustian. So far a certain general impression -seemed bitten into him; and, desultorily moved by it, he would rarely -wake to a little rhapsodical song of lamentation over yet another -shattered ideal. This city and this people that he had loved, and of -which and whom he had expected and prophesied so noble a triumph of -self-emancipation! Now the tangled mazes of “party” differences seemed -designed only to render the central cause unattainable. Now, he would -think, the history of their municipal government was always to be -likened to the story of an iceberg--a story of top-heaviness -periodically recurring--of base and summit exchanging positions again -and again, the depths replacing the head, the head the depths. And did -it signify, as in the iceberg, a steady attenuation, a bulk of force -and grandeur constantly lessening? God save France, and exorcise the -sluggard demon in Pierre-Victorin! - -By-and-by, sick at last of inaction, the poor fellow took to the -streets, restlessly traversing all quarters of the city--its -bye-lanes, its loaded thoroughfares--both by day and lamp-light. Once -he made his way to the now ancient ruins of the Bastille, and dully -leaving them after a dull inspection--or rather retrospection--looked -half curiously up at his old lodgings, yet had not the spirit to visit -them and Madame Gamelle. Once a languid thrill penetrated his torpor -upon his chancing upon view of an old acquaintance, the Chevalier -d’Eon, so queerly associated with a certain episode in his vanished -life. He passed the strange creature in the Thuilleries gardens, -whither he had come years ago to see a balloon ascend. She stared him -full in the face, but without recognition, as she went by. Her eyes -bagged in their sockets; she looked old and shabby--an improvident -actress retired upon scant savings. Already her gaze had grown -unspeculative; the first menace of senility suggested itself in the -drooping of her fat old jaw. She had come over from England, Ned -learned, a year ago, to petition the National Assembly--in the days -before its dissolution--for leave to resume her helmet and her sabre -and to serve in the army. Her request had received the double honour -of applause and of relegation to the official minutes--where it slept -forgotten. The poor chevalier must consign herself gracefully to -oblivion--which no actor or actress ever did. She lived on at Paris a -few months longer--a decaying old body with a grievance; then returned -for the last time to England, where, dying by-and-by in poverty, and -being handed over to the final merciless inquisition of the mortuary, -she was adjudged--a male impostor, and so committed to a dishonoured -grave. - -Upon Egalité (but recently so designated) Ned happened from time to -time, yet only to understand that this would-be popular constituent -was resolved upon “cutting” him, a titled aristocrat, from popular -motives. Therefore, despite the gnawing of the fox of anxiety at his -ribs, the young Englishman, in his pride, would make no appeal to the -man who alone could ease his torment; but he endeavoured to ascertain, -through indirect report, what were the chances of an early return to -Paris on the part of certain notable emigrants; and in the meantime he -must settle himself down, with what remnants of philosophy he could -command, to a life of miserable inaction and irresolution. - -Then, once upon a day, behold! into his field of vision, the spectrum -of a ghost more remotely haunting than any familiar to his recenter -experience, flashed Théroigne, “Our Lady of Darkness,” the realised -presentment of a destiny long foreshadowed. And henceforth it was as -if he had been hurled into one of those red arteries of fatality (of -which the just-erected guillotine was as the throbbing heart) that -laced the city in all directions. - -He was strolling with Vergniaud, again in the Thuilleries gardens. It -was a day of lazy sunshine, and the walks and grass-plots were -crowded. Paris must laugh and breathe, though in the committee rooms -yonder the whirring machinery of election to the new National -Convention was shaking the whole town; though forty-seven out of the -forty-eight sections, with their tag-rag and bob-tail, were howling -for the king’s abdication through all the courts of the city; though -the shadow of the Brunswicker and his emigrants was already projecting -itself, like a devil’s search-light, from a contracting horizon; -though hate, and terror, and fanaticism were crouching in every corner -with smouldering linstocks in their hands. The babble was not less, or -less animated, for this. Children sailed their boats on the ponds, or -played ball about the grass. It was a scene of light and good-humour. - -Against the terrace of the Feuillans, to the north of the gardens, the -strollers came upon the first sign of a serpent in this Eden--a long, -broad, tricolour ribbon stretched from tree to tree, and bearing the -inscription, “_Tyran, notre colère tient à un ruban; ta couronne -tient à un fil_.” - -“It shall be excused, or blamed, for its wit,” said Vergniaud, and as -he spoke there came uproar from a distance, where some victim to -mob-resentment was being trailed through a horsepond. A cloud shut out -the sun. The two men, fallen suddenly moody, made their way to a gate -that led from the gardens into the Rue du Dauphin, that was a -tributary of the Rue St Honoré. Vergniaud glanced up at the name of -the former. “_Tient à un fil_,” he murmured, and shook his head, with -a sigh. - -On the moment of their emerging into the greater thoroughfare, a -discordant rabble came upon them--a mouthing, sweltering throng of -patriots, with a woman at their head banging a drum. - -“_Voilà la prêtresse habituée_, Théroigne de Méricourt!” said -Vergniaud, with a soft chuckle. - -Ned gasped and stared. He had not alighted on this woman--had recalled -her only fitfully--since the night when she fled from his uncle’s -house. Even Madame de Lawoestine’s reference to her had affected him -but indifferently. If, during his present sojourn in Paris, he, -absorbed in more introspective searchings, had heard casual mention of -the “Liége courtesan,” the “_coryphée_ of the Orleanists,” the -beloved (according to the wits of _Les Actes des Apôtres_) of the -Deputy Populus (who did not so much as know her), a least desire to -identify this reputation with the one of his experience had not -overtaken him. Théroigne--were it, indeed, the Théroigne of his -knowledge--had only followed the course he might have predicted for -her. To drain the rich for the benefit of the needy--that were a noble -form of solicitation. To feed starving patriots and their cause with -the fruits of her dishonour was a rendering of the theme that scarcely -commended itself to other than Parisian morals. Yet he had lost sight, -no doubt, of the motive that induced her to wage war, by whatever -means, upon the order patrician. It was to be recalled to his memory. - -For now, suddenly, he was face to face with the embodiment of a -passion to whose early processes he had unwittingly contributed. The -girl saw, halted her vociferous troupe, and the next instant came -towards him. A fantastic figure, a thing of shreds and gaudy tatters, -detached itself from the throng and followed at her heels. - -“_Corne de Dieu_!” muttered Vergniaud, “the dog too?” - -Théroigne stopped in front of the Englishman--a presentment, in flesh -and clothing, of vivid, barbaric licence. Her eyes sparkled; her -cheeks glowed. For four years the “Defier of God,” she had walked with -her face to the sun. She was, and was to be, “Mater Tenebrarum--the -mother of lunacies, the suggestress of suicides”--a flaming evolution -from the scorned and abandoned village beauty. - -She had on a little military jacket of dark-blue, over a white -chemisette cut low to her swelling figure; a tricolour sash, in which -was stuck a pistol, went round her waist, and from this fell to her -ankles a short skirt of scarlet. Cocked daintily on her head was an -elfin hat with feathers _à la Henri IV._, and suspended from her -shoulder by a red ribbon a little smart drum bobbed and tinkled at her -side as she walked. - -She clinched a hand upon her bosom, scorning and daring, in the fierce -exultation of her beauty, this possible critic of it. - -“We are well met,” she said. “Dost thou know me, citizen Englishman?” - -“I know you, Théroigne.” - -“Thou liest, thou! Thou takest me, I can see it, for some past poor -victim of thy use and abuse, or, if not of thine, of another’s. I -never was in Méricourt--dost thou hear?--unless it is a province of -hell! I never appealed to the honour of a class that knows no honour -but in name.” - -Vergniaud, in some serene astonishment, came forward. - -“Citizeness,” he said, “you surely amaze my friend, who is a child of -the land of freedom.” - -She laughed in one breath. - -“Do I amaze him? I thought his looks claimed knowledge of me.” - -Then she turned upon Ned once more, her furious disdain giving to the -woman in her. - -“I heard thou wert in Paris, monsieur le vicomte. Believe me, it is an -evil place at this present for such as thou.” - -“And from whom did you hear it, Mademoiselle Lambertine of -Méricourt?” said Ned, with perfect coolness. - -Her eyes flashed, her lips set at him. - -“Ah,” she cried, rage overmastering the scorn in her voice, “but it is -pitiful, is it not, for one so particular in his reputation to be -jilted by the bastard of Orleans!” - -Hearing her laugh, the grotesque creature, who stood still at her -elbow, began to chuckle and caper. - -“But yes,” he babbled in a wryed, indistinct voice, “Pamela--yes, -yes--the bastard of Orleans!” - -Ned, gone pale as a sheet, took a fierce step forwards, and at that -the woman sprang and intercepted him, putting her hand on her vile -henchman’s shoulder. - -“Thou shalt not touch him!” she cried. Her fingers caught at the -pistol-stock in her belt. Menacing oaths came from the ragged group -that awaited her return. - -“Tell him, Lucien,” she said to the wretched creature, “who it is we -are ever seeking through the streets of Paris.” - -“My brother Basile,” answered the man. - -His face was a fearful sight--melted featureless it seemed, and with -tangs of rusty hair dropping stiff from it in the unscarred patches. -For the rest he was nothing but a foul-clad cripple--idiotic, -distorted. - -She turned upon Ned again. - -“Dost thou know me now?” she cried; “or am I still to thee the simple -fool that could be wronged and insulted with impunity?” - -She bent forward and dropped her voice, so that every word came from -it distinct. - -“Listen to me. All these years I have sought and found him not. Now, -at last, word comes to me that he is here in Paris, that he is -identical with one that insults, through the faction she represents, -the woman he has outraged beyond endurance.” - -She paused and drew herself up, then raised her hand in a threatening -attitude. - -“My star brightens! First one, and again one! Out of the past they are -drawn--drawn like night birds into a charcoal-burner’s fire, and they -shall fall before me and my foot trample their necks!” - -She turned and struck her dog roughly on the shoulder. - -“Is thy tooth sharp, Lucien? are thy claws like a devil’s rake to rend -and to scorch? Courage, my friend! the moment arrives--for you and for -me, Lucien, the moment arrives!” - -She had fetched drumsticks from her sash, and now brought them down -with a little snapping roll and break. - -“Forward!” she cried (and she looked back significantly over her -shoulder). “The crown of martyrdom to the devotee that would rather -wed than make a bastard!” - -Again the sticks alighted with a crash and roll. - -“_C’est nous qu’on ose méditer de rendre à l’antique esclavage_!” -she sang out shrilly; and all the throaty mob took up the chorus, -“_Aux armes, citoyens_!” - -So, reeling and howling, and drifting backwards a black smoke of -menace towards the stranger whose name, for any or no particular -reason, seemed to be written in the dark book of its _café-chantant_ -Hippolyté, the procession passed on its way. The stragglers, who had -been drawn by curiosity to the neighbourhood of the interview, -dispersed, and the two men were left alone. - -Vergniaud, with a shrug of his shoulders, looked at Ned, who seemed to -be muttering to himself. - -“A very _précieuse-ridicule_,” murmured the Frenchman. “I would not -have you take the little pretty rogue seriously.” - -Ned seized him by the wrist. - -“Did you hear her?” he exclaimed in a concentrated agony of voice. - -Vergniaud nodded his head. - -“About monsieur le duc’s _protégée_?” he answered uneasily. - -“How did she know of her--of me?” - -“_Mon ami_, cannot you tell?” was the compassionate, evasive reply. - -“Yes,” cried Ned violently, “I can tell. He lied about the letter. The -woman told him in it why she had wished to get rid of me, and he lied -about it.” - -“Come,” said Vergniaud, “if it is so, the lie acquitted him, at least, -of a cruel discourtesy towards you.” - -Ned laughed like a devil. - -“Acquitted him!” he shrieked; “and while he reserved the jest to -retail it to his brazen drab here! Oh, I know that no road is too -common for Monsieur le Duc d’Orléans! And my--and this that I have -hugged to my soul and cherished as almost too sacred for my own -thoughts to prey upon! To be used to the foul purposes of a harlot and -her lecher! Oh, my God!--I will kill him!” - -Vergniaud essayed a manner of soothing. - -“The shrine of love can only be desecrated from within. These may -storm at the closed windows of thy soul, and the draught but make the -sacred lamp of thy heart burn brighter. Hold up thy head, my dear -friend.” - -“I have never lowered it,” muttered Ned; but he seemed hardly to hear -what the other said. - -“’Tis a specious theatrical jade,” went on Vergniaud, “and always -alert for situations. Witness her babbling reunions in the Rue de -Rohan, where enough gas is brewed in a night to float ten balloons. -Witness her habit of attire, her drum, her dog--the misbegotten maniac -that she rescued months ago from the Salpétrière, and hath devoted -to some mission of devilry that is the crowning infirmity of his -brain. Bah! It is all affectation, I believe. She will certainly pose -by-and-by before the judgment-seat.” - - - - - CHAPTER XI. - -In the early morning of the 10th of August a young man, wearing the -uniform of the National Guards, was arrested in the Champs Elysées by -a patrol of the very corps to which he presumably belonged. This young -man--of a bright, confident complexion, crisp gold hair, and a rather -girlish turn of feature--took his mishap with an admirable -_sang-froid_. - -“Very well, my friends,” he said. “And I am arrested on suspicion--of -what?” - -“Of being an accursed Royalist in disguise,” answered the corporal -gruffly. - -The stranger nodded to the soldier. - -“When the good cause triumphs,” said he, “it shall be remembered to -your credit that you could recognise a gentleman through the trappings -of a brigand.” - -“_Ah-hé s’il ne tient qu’à ça_!” replied the corporal briefly, with -a sniff. “Before this sun sets there will be, perhaps, some hundreds -of you gentry the fewer.” - -“My faith!” said the other, “and what a shortsighted policy: to post a -cloud of educated witnesses to the skies, to testify in advance to -your moral inefficiency!” - -They took him to the Cour des Feuillans--a yard neighbouring on that -very spot where Ned, a day or two earlier, had had his _contretemps_ -with Théroigne and her satellites. Here, thrust into an outbuilding -that had been temporarily converted into a guard-room, he alighted -upon many acquaintances in a like predicament. - -“Does it all read failure?” he whispered to a colossal creature beside -him. This--also, presumably, a grenadier of the nation--was, in fact, -the Abbé Bougon, an ecclesiastic of the Court, who wrote plays, yet -had never conceived a situation one-half so dramatic as this in which -he now found himself. - -“Hush!” murmured the giant. “Yes; the worst is to be feared.” - -By-and-by the prisoners were summoned, in order, to examination in an -adjoining room. Long, however, before it came to the cool young -stranger’s turn, a sound of growing uproar without the building had -swelled to a thunder harsh and violent enough to ominously interfere, -one might have thought, with the _procès-verbal_ within. The deep -diapason of massed voices, the crisp clash of pikes, the flying of -furious ejaculations--startling accents to the whole context of -menace--assured him that here was evidence of such a counterbuff to -palace intrigue as palace fatuity had never conceived might threaten -it. - -Suddenly, in the midst of the tumult, he thought he heard his own name -cried. - -“Suleau!” And again, “Scélérat! Imposteur!” - -He got upon a bench by a window that commanded a view of the court. -This, he saw,--a wide, enclosed space,--was full of blue-coated -soldiers. A posse of them made a present show of keeping the gates of -the yard; but the gates themselves, significant to the true character -of their defence, they had neglected to close. Beyond, in the road, -and extending at least so far over the Thuilleries gardens as his view -could compass, a packed congregation of patriots--quite typical -savages--rested for a moment on its weapons. It listened, it appeared, -to a commissary of the section, who, mounted on a tub by the gates, -counselled methods judicial. A little space had been left about the -orator, and now into this in an instant broke a woman--a wild -_vivandière_, she seemed, of the new religious service of blood and -wine--of the transubstantiation of Liberty. Without a moment’s -hesitation she caught the commissary by a leg, and, hurling him to the -ground, usurped his place. An exultant roar of applause shook the air. -The poor deposed tribune, rubbing his bones, rose, and bolted for -shelter. Suleau chuckled. - -Now he did not know Théroigne; but he had laughed consumedly at her -and her pseudo-classical pretensions in more than one Royalist print. -He laughed at many things, did this Suleau--not sparing the -gloom-distilling Jacobins, nor, in particular, Citizen Philip Egalité -and his faction, of whom was Citizeness Lambertine; and he was so -breezily headstrong, so romantically sworn to a picturesque cause, -that he would not calculate the cost of pitting his wit against the -vanity of a _coryphée_ whose nod, in this height of her popularity, -often confirmed a wavering sentence, whose smile rarely franked an -acquittal. Besides, women--even the most foolish of them--like to be -taken seriously. - -This woman, it would seem, spoke vigorously, and entirely to the -humour of her auditors. Only there appeared to prevail something -rankly personal against himself, of all the twenty-two arrested, in -her diatribe. He caught the sound of his own name uttered again and -again to an accompaniment of oaths and execrations. This, at least, -flattered him with the assurance that he had done something to earn -the transcendent animosity of the many-headed. - -“I present myself with an order of merit,” he murmured, gratified; and -immediately he was summoned to his examination. - -He was conducted between guards to the room of inquisition. In it he -recognised many of his pre-indicted comrades in misfortune--twenty-one -in all--huddled into a corner by a window. The room was otherwise -crammed with soldiers, commissaries, and a few of the breechless. A -thin man, in a state of palpable nervous excitement, sat behind a -table. This was the Sieur Bonjour, first clerk of the Marines and -President of the Section of the Feuillans. He opened upon the prisoner -at once. - -“It is useless to deny that you are Suleau, the Royalist pamphleteer.” - -“Indeed,” replied the captive, with equal promptitude, “I would not so -stultify monsieur’s fine perspicacity in discovering what I have never -concealed.” - -“Yet you disguise yourself in the garb of liberty.” - -“No more than monsieur, surely.” - -The president struck his hand on the table. - -“It is not for me to bandy words with you. You were arrested when -patrolling the Champs Elysées, at an hour when all respectable men -are in bed.” - -“If,” said Suleau, “at an hour when all respectable men are in bed, -where was monsieur?” - -“Enough!” cried Bonjour angrily. “You are accused of conspiring with -these to resist the will of the people--by innuendo, by direct insult -to the people’s representatives--finally, by banding yourself with -others to inquire secretly into, that you might successfully -out-manœuvre, the processes of the movement having forfeiture for its -object.” - -“I congratulate monsieur,” said Suleau irrelevantly, “upon _his_ -admirable manœuvring for election to the Ministership of Marines.” - -The president scrambled to his feet with an oath. The room broke into -ferment. - -“I beg to inform monsieur,” cried the prisoner, raising his voice, -“that I am in possession of a municipal pass to the chateau of the -Thuilleries!” - -“Yes, yes--and we!” cried the huddle of captives by the window. - -With the very echo of their words there came tumult in the vestibule, -a trample of feet, and the head of a frowzy deputation burst into the -room. The young Royalist turned about and, folding his arms, quietly -faced the inrush. A woman was to its front--she he had seen mount the -rough tribune in the yard to denounce him. He saw her now marking him -down with a triumphant fury in her eyes--a strange, beautiful -creature--his own enigmatical Nemesis, it seemed. - -“Citizen president,” she cried in a full bold voice, “while St Antoine -awaits your decision St Antoine is paralysed. Its cannon yawn in the -faubourg; its pikes stab only at the air. To clear the ground of these -outposts--bah! here needs not the interminable civil processes. -Mouchards all, arrested armed in a state of belligerency, they shall -be subject to martial law. In the name of the national fraternity, -that to-day shall be confirmed and cemented, I demand that these -prisoners be handed over to the people.” - -A murmur succeeded her outcry. The president, white to the ears, -stilled it with uplifted hand. He looked a moment at the young -Royalist, a bitter stiff smile on his lips. - -“It is just!” he cried in a sudden thin voice. “This is no time to -dally, as the demoiselle Théroigne informs us. Conduct all the -prisoners into the yard.” - -The order had not passed his lips when there came a splintering crash, -and in an instant the whole room was in roaring racket and confusion. -Some half of the prisoners, forereading their certain doom, had made a -desperate plunge for escape through the rearward window by which they -stood. They got clear away. Their less prompt, or fortunate, -companions were in the same moment surrounded and isolated each from -each. - -Suleau lifted his voice above the din. - -“Commit me, my friends, to the sacrifice. Perhaps my blood, which, it -seems, they most desire, will appease their fury!” - -He struggled to throw himself towards the door. His motive -misunderstood, a half-dozen _sans-culottes_ flung themselves upon and -pinioned him in their arms. At the same instant Théroigne leapt like -a cat and seized him by his collar. - -“At last!” she hissed in his ear. “Dost thou know me?” - -“Thou art Théroigne!” he panted. He had caught the president’s words. -He understood now something of the reason of this woman’s violence. - -“Ah!” she cried in a hurried fury of speech, “and has not _my_ time -come, thou dog with a false name, thou nameless cur, so to slander and -revile the woman thou drovest to ruin?” - -They were slowly edging him towards the door. He could only shake his -head at her. - -“Why dost thou not speak?” she urged. “Why dost thou not implore my -mercy? I could save thee if I would.” - -He still did not answer. - -“Ah!” she sighed, with a cruel feint of tenderness, “for the sake of -the old days, Basile! Ask me, by the memory of our embraces, of thy -child that I bore in my womb, to pity and protect thee!” - -“You are mad,” he cried. “I have never seen you in my life.” - -She struck him across the mouth. The blow, the sight of the little -blood that sprang from the wound, were a double provocation to the -beasts of prey. They bore him with a rush to the outer door, through -it, into the yard beyond. Torn, bleeding, fighting every foot of his -way, but never protesting, he would sell his life dearly to these -mongrels. The yelling crowd surged and rocked before him. -Suddenly--with that exaltation of the perceptions that often seems to -signify the first flight-essay of the soul--he saw far back in the -thick of the press of inhuman faces one face that he recognised as -that of a man who, years before, on the morning of the Reveillon -riots, had spoken to him, mistaking him for another. Now, from the -expression of this one face, he educed a desperate hope. He gathered -it from the anguish of its features, from the conviction that its -owner was frantically endeavouring to thrust and beat a passage -towards him through the throng. God! he thought; if he could only -reach the face, he would somehow be saved. - -With a furious effort he tore himself free, and snatched at and -wrenched a sabre from a hand that threatened him. - -“Here!” he shrieked to the face; “to meet me, monsieur--to meet me!” - -He had actually cut his way a half-dozen yards before a hand--the -woman’s--seized him from the back and dragged him to the ground. With -a groan he fell, trampled into a forest of tattered legs. - -“Cry to me for mercy!” screamed the harlot. - -“No,” he answered faintly. - -She yelled then, beating a space about her with her hands. “Lucien, it -is the moment that has come!” - -Snarling and dribbling, a hideous thing broke through the press and -flung itself upon the fallen man. - - * * * * * * * * - -Torn and breathless, Ned shouldered his way at last into the little -bloody arena. A woman--her foot upon the neck of something, some -bespattered creature that whimpered and prayed to her--looked stupidly -down upon the dead and mangled body of the man she had destroyed. - -“Accursed! oh, thou accursed!” panted the new-comer in terrible -emotion. “It is not he, St Denys, that thou hast murdered.” - - - - - CHAPTER XII. - -From the day of the massacre in the Cour des Feuillans, when--a -casual and involuntary witness of the opening deed of blood--he had -made a desperate attempt to save the life of the man who, as he -supposed, was being sacrificed to a misconception, Ned had no thought -but that he was fallen, a second time and inextricably, under the -deadly spell of the city that was at once his horror and his -attraction. That he had not paid the penalty with his own life of so -quixotic an interposition rather confirmed him in the sense of -fatality that had overtaken him. He could afterwards only recall -vaguely the expression of terror with which Théroigne had accepted -his furious impeachment of her barbarity; the resentful rage of the -mob over his denunciation of its idol; his imminent peril, and the -immunity from personal harm suddenly and unexpectedly secured him at -the hands of the very loathed object of his execration. He had given -her no thanks for her advocacy. It had condemned him merely to -prolonged struggle with an existence that had grown hateful to him. -Defrauded of his love, disenchanted with life, his residue of the -latter was not, he felt, worth the devil’s purchase. - -And yet this sentiment carried with it a certain wild passion of -personal irresponsibility that was not without its charm. Into the -being of the people that had waived for the present, it seemed, all -thought of consistent conduct, he was absorbed without effort of his -own--absorbed so helplessly, that even the wounding stab of a certain -question, once engrossingly poignant to himself, dulled of its pain -and could be borne. It was as difficult to think collectedly, indeed, -in the Paris of those days as it is while rushing through a strong -wind. - -Now, in the thick of the events that followed fast and irresistible -upon the heels of an overture to what was, in truth, a disguised -anarchy, he could not but feel himself something renewing that state -of mind, curious and fiercely pitiful, that had been induced in him -years before by his contemplation of the first scenes of a tragedy -that was now labouring in its penultimate act. And here the emotion of -the moment seemed always significant of the trend of the plot, -until--puff! the dramatic weathercock would go round, and the wind of -applause blow from another quarter, freezing or wet according to a -rule that was just the regular absence of any. But the food of excited -conjecture never failed to save his heart from feeding upon its own -tissues, and was the sustenance to his starving hopes. Indeed, at this -last, it seldom occurred to him, a temporary sojourner in the city of -doom, that he was other than an unalienable minute condition of the -city’s life; and he would no more than his friend Pierre-Victorin -desire to repudiate his liabilities thereto. - -The 10th of August had passed like a death-cloud--“a ragged bastion -fringed with fire”--sweeping the streets with a storm of blood. The -king, dethroned, was a prisoner in the Temple; the mob occupied itself -in the violent erasing of all symbols of royalty. Vergniaud and the -Gironde were in perilous, protesting power; the prisons were glutting; -the guillotine had begun to rise and fall like a force-pump, draining -the human marshes. Of Théroigne, the militant priestess of St -Antoine, Ned heard only, vaguely rumoured, that--sated, perhaps, with -her share in the events of the Thuilleries massacre--she was inclining -to the moderate policy of Brissot and his following, and was -temporarily, at least, withdrawn from the influence of her earlier -colleagues. That she was moved to this course by any self-loathing for -the deed of which he had been witness he, detesting her, would not -believe. But he had no wish to entertain one further thought of her in -his mind. - -So the month sped by--its every succeeding hour fresh fuel to the -popular wrath and terror over the rumoured advance of the Allies upon -the city,--and on the last day of it a strange little rencontre took -place between two of the minor actors in a very extraneous branch of -the general tragedy. - -Ned, aimlessly strolling through the Faubourg of St Marcel in the -south-east quarter of the city, had turned, on the evening of this -day, into the boulevard that ran straight northward, by the ancient -city wall, from the Place Mouffetard to the Seine. His way took him -past the horse-market, and--inevitably, therefore, to the -context--past an adjacent house of correction for blacklegs. This -ironically named hospital--an iron-cased lazaretto, in truth, the -prison of the Salpétrière--was situate upon a dismal wedge of waste -land between the new and old enceintes of the city. It was a brutal, -gloomy pile, its walls exuding, one might have thought, the ichor of a -thousand diseases, moral and physical. Sooty, unlovely as a -factory--as indeed it was, of the devil’s wares--its noisome towers, -blotted on the sky, decharmed the soft reflected burning of the -sunset, and made a vulgarity of their whole leafy neighbourhood. From -its grated windows, high up in the foul air of its own exhaling, -behind which the gallows-tree birds built their nests, caws and -screams issuing were evidences of a very swarming rookery. Here and -there, the white, hair-draggled face of a strumpet stared from behind -bars; here and there an inward light--like a wandering fen -candle--could be seen travelling from story to story. - -Ned, as he approached the building, quickened in his walk; for he was -aware of a batch of fresh prisoners, under escort, being driven across -the boulevard towards the central gate; and with the instinct to spare -misfortune the impertinence of unofficial inquest, he would hurry to -put himself beyond suspicion of prying. In this good motive, however, -he was baulked; for a subsequent party--a solitary culprit walking -between guards--issued from the same direction, and cut across and -encountered him just as he approached the entrance. - -He started, and strangled an immediate inclination to exclaim aloud. -For in the lonely malefactor, going by him with bent head and -lowering, preoccupied face, he recognised--he was sure of it--Basile -de St Denys. - -Degraded, vitiated--a shameful, ravaged personality, as unlike, in his -existing condition, the bright soul who had served, unconsciously to -them both, for his scapegoat--here was, without question, the -unlicensed once-lord of Méricourt. And the woman, his victim, had -erred only, it seemed, as to the direction of his presence in the -city--had erred, perhaps, because she could not realise that, -consistent to his nature, he must be sought, after all these years, -along the lower levels of existence. - -The felons and their escort disappeared; Ned, dwelling where he had -paused, came to himself presently with a shock, as if out of a dream. -On an immediate impulse he turned into the prison yard, and mounted a -shallow flight of steps leading up to a great studded door that was -pierced by an open wicket. Looking through this, he saw the figure he -sought receding down a dim, long vestibule; and at the moment he was -faced by a turnkey. - -“What do you here?” exclaimed the man harshly. “That Jules is a fine -porter!” - -“I thought I saw one I knew pass in.” - -“It is like enough. They have many of them a large acquaintance”--and -he offered to slam the wicket in the intruder’s face. Ned jingled, and -produced his “tip.” - -“That is another question,” said the man. - -“Now,” said Ned, “is the name of that last prisoner that entered -Basile de St Denys?” - -“I know nothing of the _de_. What sort of citizen art thou? But, -otherwise--yes.” - -“And what is he accused of?” - -“A common enough matter: forging assignats.” - - - - - CHAPTER XIII. - -Citoyenne Théroigne had not, it is to be supposed, the wit of a -Mohl, or the tact of a Recamier; but her sensuous and long-practised -beauty so vindicated her sins of omission in these respects as to -procure her reunions a social distinction than which none more -catholic was accorded the _salons_ of a later period. At her rooms in -the Rue de Rohan she held, and had long held, weekly Sunday -_séances_, of a quasi-political character, at which revolutionary -propagandists of such opposed principles as Mirabeau, Brissot, Pétion -were in turn, or out of it, to be met. Thither sometimes came Philip -of Orleans, with his sick, affable smile; thither Desmoulins, galvanic -and stuttering, the “attorney-general to the lantern”; thither the -poet Joseph Chénier; thither the younger Sieyes, eager to sniff the -incense exhaled to his less accessible brother, to whose exalted -virtues Théroigne, by some queer freak of contrariety, consistently -and reverently testified. To what earlier condescensions on her part -were due her present political intimacies it need not here be -questioned. One form of sympathetic largesse is part of the necessary -equipment of women of a naturally assimilative character. - -She had adaptability; for four years her face and figure had brought -her a succession of ardent ministers to it. Thus, nourished on the -unconsidered mental pabulum of manifold intellects, she was become an -omniparous vessel, brazen and beautiful--emitting such a medley of -discordant sounds as had once the window bells, to Ned, in the -“landlust” of her native village. Yet, through all, whatever her -inconsequent show of principles, detestation of a social system to the -abuse of which she attributed her early downfall abided within her -unwaveringly, and induced her to those deeds of violence that, in the -end, alienated from her all those of her once familiars to whom Reason -figured as something higher than the goddess of licence. - -But still she had a store of reflected light with which to illuminate -her Sunday reunions. - - * * * * * * * * - -“Citoyenne,” said an acrid young patriot, whose eyes were just cut -apart by the mere blade of a nose, and who wore a little silver -guillotine for a seal, “whither wilt thou fly when the Brunswicker -enters to make good his manifesto?” - -“At his throat, Pollio,” (the company clapped its hands). - -“To hang round his neck?” - -“Ay, like a millstone.” - -“But, indeed,” said the young man, affecting to show trouble, “thou -wilt surely be included amongst the proscribed.” - -“There will be none!” cried the girl: “the capitol is saved! the geese -have begun to cackle!” - -Pollio, amidst the laughter, shook his head in pretended distress. - -“It is all very well. Yet not Paris but the world were lost to see our -Judith under a wall, the mark to a platoon of dirty jägers.” - -Théroigne came to her feet. Her cheeks were flushed; her thick brown -curls were slumbrous shadows upon the pale slopes of her shoulders. -She was dressed quite simply, in the suggestiveness (something -misread) of virgin white. - -But she was not at her ease. Radiant, glowing, voluptuous (she always -looked, this woman, as if she were but just risen from a warm bed), -there had yet been all the evening an unwonted rigidity in her manner, -a distraught expression in her face, such as that with which one -vouchsafes to another the shadow of an attention whose substance is -given elsewhere. She would break into feverish fits of merriment. She -would start and seem to listen, as if to some tiny voice making itself -heard within the compass of many voices. It may have passed -unregarded, this spasmodic manner of distraction; it may have been -observed and accepted as a new accent to charms so many-humoured. The -times took little note, little surprise, of unaccustomed tricks of -speech or feature. It was because men and women had so lost sight of -what were their true selves that moods passed for convictions. - -Now she stood like a Pythoness, the light from above falling upon her -head, rounding and sleepily caressing all the fair curves of her -figure, of the smooth naked arm she raised as in inspiration. - -“It is not the Brunswicker I fear,” she cried. “It is the enemy from -within--from within!” - -She dropped her hand to her heart, as if that were her secret foe. - -“Citoyenne,” whispered a voice in her ear, “there is one waiting in -the _foyer_ that is peremptory to see thee.” - -She stared a moment, with a lost expression; then looked aside, half -in anger, to see her country Grisel regarding her appealingly. - -“What one, little fool--little Bona?” - -“Indeed, I do not know. He implored me by the love of God.” - -Théroigne laughed uneasily. - -“Rather by the love that is gratuitous, thou little _grand’-bêta_. -Hush! Go before, and I will follow.” - -Some one drew aside the _portière_; she passed out, with a smile that -fled from her face as she descended the stairs. Under the dim oil-lamp -in the hall a cloaked figure was standing. As she came upon it, she -saw it was the English lord. The warmth and fragrance of a remoter -atmosphere that she brought with her shivered into frost on the -instant. That was inevitable; yet she would always have foregone many -plenary indulgences to draw this man into sin on her account. - -He took a quick step forward, made as if to seize her by the arm--but -checked the impulse. - -“You must come with me!” he whispered. - -She exclaimed, incredulous, “Come with you!” then quickly bent -forward, and looked intensely into his face. - -“Why does your voice break? Is it some trouble of your own, and you -seek me--_me_ out of all the world?” - -“It is not of my own.” - -“Whose, then?” - -“Yours.” - -“_Mon Dieu_!” she cried, with a little sharp laugh of mockery. “I know -of none--of no trouble or pleasure--that is our mutual concern.” - -He clapped his hand roughly at that on her naked shoulder. His fingers -clawed angry marks in the flesh. - -“Ah!” she cried, “you hurt me!” - -“Hurt!” he echoed. “Do you know what they are doing to-night in this -devil’s city of yours?” - -He caught only a faint protesting murmur from her lips. - -“God wither you if you do!” he said hoarsely. “They are murdering the -prisoners. Do you hear?--in all the prisons they are murdering the -prisoners; and Basile de St Denys is one of them!” - -She sprang back from him. Her face was like a face seen in -moonlight--white, round a black glare of eyes. - -“You lie!” she cried. “He at least is dead already!” - -He came at her again--seized her in a very fiend’s grip. - -“Is it a time to equivocate? You know, as I, how your wicked hand -miscarried on that day. The man is in prison. I myself saw him borne -thither three days ago. You must come, and quickly, to be of use. -There is no question but that.” - -She shook herself free, standing back so that her face seemed to -twitch and palpitate in the gusty sway of the lamp-light. - -“You are imperious,” she muttered. - -“It must not be,” he cried violently, “this horrible thing. You can -save him if you will.” - -“And can you so master your loathing of me as to ask it?” she said. - -“I swear--deny yourself this gratification of a lust so inhuman, and I -will think better of you than ever before.” - -“That will be compensation for all I have suffered,” she said. - -Her voice seemed too toneless, too passionless even for irony. She -stood without a movement before him, the marks of his clutch slowly -fading from her shoulder. - -“Théroigne,” he cried, “you have the chance to a little atone. You -will not so clinch your damnation! In the name of God, Théroigne! -This man was the father of your child.” - -“True,” she said, “of my dead child. I will come, monsieur.” - -He gave a gasp of terrible relief. - -“Hurry!” he said, “or it will be too late.” - -She had already seized a cloak from a recess: in a moment they were -speeding on their way together. - -He talked to her as they hurried on--half unconsciously, almost -hysterically. He told of his chance encounter, of Basile’s -degradation, of anything or nothing. It was such emotional gabble as -even reserved men vent during the first moments of respite from -intolerable anguish. His voice echoed back from the silent houses. He -did not even notice that the girl returned him never an answer, so -assured was he now of her sympathy. - -The streets were curiously still and deserted, the familiar life of -them all shrunk and cowering behind a thousand lightless blinds. Now -and again phantom cries seemed wafted to them from remote quarters; -now and again a glimmer of torches would flash from far perspectives, -and travel a moment on the blackness and vanish. - -It was a weary way by which they must go. The man led his companion -through the Place du Carousel down to the river, along the endless -line of quays by the wash of night-bound waters, over the Isle -St-Louis and the street of the two bridges; again, along the gloomy -quay of St-Bernard, and so into the dark leafy boulevard that ran -southwards to the thieves’ prison. And here, for the first time, a -spectral suggestion, an attenuated wind of sounds, began to take shape -and body; and here suddenly the girl gave a quick gasp, and jerked to -a stop. - -“The Salpétrière!” she muttered, clutching her cloak to her throat. - -“The Salpétrière, Théroigne.” - -She seemed to turn her head and look at him. Then on again she went, -and he followed. - -The noise increased to their every onward step. Ambiguous sounds -resolved themselves into sounds unnamable. Dim light, seen phantomly -ahead, flared out in a moment across their path, as if some hellish -furnace were refuelling. And then, in an instant--as it were stokers -labouring at the mouth of flame--a scurry of fantastic shapes, -grotesquely busy about the entrance to a lighted yard, grew into their -vision. - -Ned turned upon his companion. - -“Take my arm,” he said, in a ghastly voice. - -She shrank from him. - -“Not unless it is thou needst support,” she whispered. - -He seized her hand, and reached and drove into the thick of the -bestial throng, dragging her after him. A horrible reek seemed to -fasten upon his brain. - -“_Malédiction_!” shrieked a filthy Alsatian, whom he had sent reeling -with his elbow; “but I will teach thee the answer to that!” - -He swung up a bloody cleaver, clearing a space about him. The girl, on -the thought, ran under his guard. - -“Théroigne!” screamed a woman’s voice across the yard. “It is la -belle Liégeoise--our little amazon!” - -Her cloak had fallen apart. She was revealed to these her friends. At -the word, a roar went up from the mob; the offending patriot was -struck down, trampled upon; the girl herself stamped upon his face. - -“Hither!” screamed the voice again, “to the best seats in all the -theatre!” - -Then at once Ned felt himself urged forward. He went, dazed. His feet -slid on the stones--plashed once or twice. He saw a great light--light -jumping from the brands held high by a lurid row of women stationed on -the topmost step of the shallow flight that led to the great door. He -saw Théroigne seized and embraced by these harpies. Her skirt, that -had been all white, bore a clownish fringe of crimson. - -“I cannot stay here,” she cried. “I have business within.” - -They answered, clattering: “Get it over and return, little badine, for -the sight is good.” - -The next moment he and the girl were at the door. A group of four, -issuing, scrambled past, almost upsetting them. A patriot to each -shoulder and one fastened on like a dog at the back! It seemed an -extravagant guard to one sick collapsed thing borne in the midst. They -ran it down the steps; the torches fluttered and poised steady. Ned -flung himself through the doorway, crushing his hands against his -ears. Somebody touched and led him forward. - -As his brain cleared, he saw that he was standing--somewhat apart from -any other--in a large, dimly lighted room. A man of a fierce and -sensual mould of feature was seated hard by at a table, a great open -register before him, a tin box of tobacco and some bottles within his -ready reach. Round about lolled on benches pulled away from the walls, -perhaps a dozen, more or less tipsy, judges (saving the mark!) -subordinate to the president. A couple of men with red-stained arms -and in steaming shirts stood by the closed door. An old dumb-faced -turnkey held his hand to the lock. - -A voice--a name lately uttered, still rang confusedly in his memory. -What did it signify? He caught at his reeling faculties. - -“Behold, citizeness, the man!” - -All in an instant, it seemed, the room sank into profound stillness. -He struck the film from his eyes, and saw St Denys. - -The wretched creature stood before the table, between guards. He -appeared utterly amazed and demoralised. Even in the moment of terror, -Ned shrunk to see how the brute had come to predominate in that -handsome debauched face. - -Then, suddenly, the harsh voice of the president shattered the -silence. - -“Your name--your profession?” - -“St Denys, by principle and practice a demagogue,” faltered the -prisoner. - -“Dost know of what thou art accused?” - -“I am innocent, M. le président--before God, I am innocent!” - -Something white moved forward--struck him on the shoulder. - -“And before _me_, Basile de St Denys?” - -He whipped about, and uttered a cry like a trapped hare. - -“It is enough,” said the judge, with admirable intuition. He was by -this time so far sated with his feast of blood that a nicely balanced -“situation” was like an olive to his wine. He would not cheapen the -flavour by unduly extending it. - -“The citoyenne Théroigne pronounces sentence,” he said. “I wash my -hands of the matter. Let the prisoner be enlarged.” - -He took a gulp from a glass at his side, and bent to write in his -book. His guards laid hands on their victim. With a shriek, St Denys -tore himself free, and fell at the feet of the woman. - -“Théroigne!” he cried, abasing himself before her--clutching at her -skirt, “don’t let them take me--me, that have lain in your arms!” - -Grovelling on the floor, he turned his agonised face to the president. - -“She did not denounce me, monsieur! your generosity misinterpreted her -motive.” (He caught again at the dress, writhing in his dreadful -shame.) “Say you did not mean it! Give me a little time to repent. I -have wronged you, Théroigne; but I never ceased to love you in my -heart. Give me time, in mercy, and I will explain. You have not seen. -You don’t know the foulness and the horror of it!--Théroigne!” - -Looking up, he saw the stony impassibility of her face, and sank upon -the boards, moaning “Pardon--pardon!” - -She stood gazing down upon this poor revealed baseness--this idol -self-deposed. - -“Pardon!” she said at last, in a quiet, even passionless voice. “And -do you conceive, monsieur, the exorbitance of your demand? But I will -put the case to these citizens, and take their verdict.” - -She raised her beautiful hard face, addressing the board-- - -“What price, messieurs, for an innocence ravished under pretext of a -union of free-wills--a union that was to be more indissoluble than -marriage, yet that lasted only a summer’s day? What price for a broken -contract when the shame threatened; for the dastardly desertion of a -wounded comrade; for the bitter desolation of a heart doubly widowed -and slandered through its trust? What price for the ruined honour of a -family, for the curse of a father? What price for exile from all the -peace of life; for--my God! what price for a faith, that was so -beautiful, destroyed; for a name that necessity has made infamous -amongst men?” - -She paused, and a loud murmur from her listeners eddied through the -room. She caught at her skirt, seeking to release it from the clutch -of him that held it. It was doubtful if the dying wretch took in much -of the significance of her words. He crouched there, only whimpering -and swaying and entreating her half articulately. - -“Thou wouldst always teach me the immortality of such a faith,” she -cried in quick passionateness, “whilst thou wert giving me to an -immortality of shame.” - -Suddenly she threw her hands to her face. - -“Oh me! oh me!” she wailed in a broken voice. - -For the first time some core of anguish in Ned seemed to melt and weep -itself away. - -“It is come at last,” his heart exulted. “She will pardon him.” - -As swiftly as it had seized her the emotion fled. She held out her -open palms, as if in a devil’s blessing, above the prostrate man. - -“They are soiled with blood!” she cried. “Let the victims, when my -name is execrated, testify against you, not me!” - -She seemed to listen to the moaning entreaty that never ceased at her -feet. The president shifted in his chair and was restless with some -papers. This situation--it was interesting, tragic, spiced with -unexpected revelation; but the occasion, apart from it, was -peremptory; the killers were clamorous outside over the unaccountable -break in the programme. - -“My honour,” cried Théroigne, “my early innocence, my faith and peace -of mind! If I name the return to me of these as the price of blood, -what is thy answer?” - -His moaning rose only like a wind of despair. She drew herself erect -and turned to the judges. - -“Messieurs--the price?” - -The whole company seemed to spring to its feet. A roar went up from -it--and subsided. - -“It is answered,” said the president. “Take M. St Denys away.” - -There was a scurrying forward of men--a sudden stooping--a struggle. -Shriek after shriek came from the ground. Ned leapt into the fray like -a madman. - -“To subscribe,” he screamed, “to the revengeful fury of a wanton! It -is not liberty or justice. Why, look at her, look at her. The beast -that would murder twenty innocents to secure the destruction of one -that had wounded her vanity. Gentlemen! to be so governed by a -harlot--to be----!” - -He choked as he fought. There were savage hands at his throat. - -“Do not harm him. I would not have him harmed.” - -It was Théroigne that spoke. She stood apart, white and chill as a -figure of ice. - -He spat curses at her, that mingled with the deadlier tumult. Monsieur -le président made his voice heard above the din. - -“Eject this person, without hurt, from the rear of the prison.” - -Seized, then, despite his frantic struggles; protesting; striving for -foothold; conscious always of the desperate outcry--faint, and -fainter--of the unhappy man he had sought to befriend, Ned felt -himself hurried along corridors, borne down steps and by way of -echoing dank vaults--thrust violently into a world of spacious -silence. - -A door shut with a steely clang behind him. Before, stretched a -desolate waste tract of fields. The moon was at its full-flood light, -and the whole world seemed to float quietly on a sea of peace. - -He threw himself, face-downwards, amongst the tufts of coarse grass, -and cried upon the flood to overwhelm him. - - - - - CHAPTER XIV. - -At the end of November the young Viscount Murk was still a sojourner -in Paris. Always reserved and self-contained, he was become by then a -creature of wilful and habitual loneliness, with something, indeed, of -the moral dyspepsia that is induced of the morbid appetite that leads -one to feed upon one’s own heart. And when the heart is so inflamed of -love as to be sensitive to the least imaginary slight, assuredly the -dyspepsia, as in Ned’s case, shall be acute. - -Men of few or no friendships have a very undivided passion to bestow -when at last the call comes to them. At the same time such are wont to -signalise the early stages of their complaint by a diffidence so -exaggerated as that, in the nature of nature, it must degenerate in -course into a desperately injured vanity. It is to be feared that, at -this period of his ailing, Ned was horribly big with a sense of -grievance generally against the social order, that seemed so -parsimonious of the favours (as represented by one only favour, in -fact) that his position entitled him to draw upon. What was the good, -in short, of being possessed of acres, a lordship, an agreeable -personality, if all could not procure him the single modest gift he -had ever asked of Fortune? - -That was a sentiment for his bitterest moods. In his more reasonable, -he would acknowledge to himself, with a sorrowful rapture, that no -human desert could prove itself worthy of the Hebe-goddess at whose -pretty feet he had worshipped. - -So he waited on and on--because irresolution, also, is a necessary -concomitant of extreme diffidence. He waited on, remote from his -natural state, constantly on the prick of flight, yet always fearing -to move, lest a vilely humorous destiny should take his sudden -decision for the point to a game of cross-purposes. He waited on, -shrinking ever more into his unwholesome self; avoiding -company--comradeship, even; but half-conscious of the screeching -barbaric world about him; hearing only distant echoes from the world -over-seas. Now and again it would occur to him--upon his receipt of -those periodic advices from his steward that made the almost sum of -his communications with a life that had grown curiously shadowy to -him--to put his own native instruments (in the person of this same -steward) to the use of ascertaining and reporting upon the movements -of Madame de Genlis and her charges. But always he was faced thereupon -by a score ghosts of apprehension--that such confidences might beget -familiarities vulgarising to the aloofness of his passion; that the -necessary interval that must elapse before he could procure a reply -must debar him from the independence of action that he still claimed, -without enjoying; most, that the coveted news itself, when it should -reach him, might do no better than confirm a haunting fear. And so he -dwelt on, passing at last, it seemed, into the very winter of his -discontent. - -Shunning--since that September night of a tragedy that had stricken -him for the time being half-demented--personal intercourse with -any--even the gentle Vergniaud--whose precepts and practice of liberty -seemed so grotesquely irreconcilable, he lost something of his former -feeling of a moral participation in the scenes enacting about him. Of -the revengeful woman, with whose destinies a joyless fatality had -appeared to connect him, he had seen nothing since the hour of his -agonising experience at the Salpétrière--had heard only, with a -savage exultation, that her latest connection with the moderate party -was undermining her popularity with that more formidable class of -which the link-women on the prison steps had been prominent -representatives. - -“She will be devoured by her own dogs,” he would think; and “God in -heaven!” he would cry in his soul, “to what an association with -cutthroats and queans has Providence thought fit to condemn me--me -whose heart burns always like a pure steadfast lamp before the shrine -of its divinity!” - - * * * * * * * * - -One bitter evening Ned found himself abroad in the streets--a mere -waif of destiny, hustled and jogged into the kennels by an arrogant -wind. The iciness of this dulled all his faculties, blinded him as he -struggled aimlessly on. “It must make the stones weep,” he thought, -“or why should my eyes fill with water!” The lamps slung across the -narrower gullies danced like boats at their moorings. The very shop -fronts seemed to flap their sign-boards, like hands, for warmth. - -He had crossed the river and penetrated the Faubourg St Germain as far -as the Rue de Vaurigard. On his right, the sombre towers of the -Luxembourg reeled into the night; on his left, a starry quiver of -lamps shaped out the portico of the Théâtre-Français. - -He was numb with cold. The glow and movement about the theatre drew -him--as they often did nowadays--to a bid for temporary -self-forgetfulness. He ran up the steps, entered a warm and lively -vestibule, and took a box ticket for the performance. - -This, when he came to view it, opened with a one-act sketch--“_Allons, -ça va_!”--a very patriotic and warlike little piece. He had seen it -before, and it did not greatly interest him. He was, in fact, sitting -in the covert of his retreat watching rather the house than the -players, when all in a moment his heart bounded, and he shrank back -into the shadow of the wall-hangings. Opposite him he had seen a party -enter a screened box, a _loge grillée_--nothing very significant in -itself. But a minute later the grating had swung open, -revealing--Pamela. - -She did not at first catch sight of him. She sat to the front of the -tier--she and the little pink-eyed daughter of Orleans. Her cheeks, -her hair, her eyes were all a soft glory under the radiance of the -lamps. He thought he had never seen her look so happy and so -beautiful. - -There were figures, the indistinct forms of men, standing behind the -ladies; but these he could not identify. - -A great sigh of ecstasy, half anguish, escaped him. He leaned forward, -and at that instant the girl raised her face and saw him. - -Under the shock of recognition, he was conscious of nothing but that -he had bowed across the house--that he had immediately leaned back in -his seat, his pulses drumming, his eyes blinded with emotion. - -When he dared to look again--the grille was closed. - -A swerve of actual vertigo seemed to send him reeling. The next -moment, thinking--though, indeed, he had done, had looked, nothing to -attract observation--that his condition must be patent to the -audience, to the stage, he brought his reason by a huge effort under -command. - -The grille was shut. The door of heaven had been slammed in his face. - -Now, he must fight to ignore the fiends of wicked alarm that swarmed -about his brain. He would close all his avenues of -intelligence--render himself a thing mute and dumb, his faculties in -abeyance, until the moment of resolution should arrive. There might be -any explanation, other than one personal to himself, of the shutting -of the grating. Should he flog his reason for a wherefore, it would be -like brutally coercing an innocent witness. He must not, in the name -of sanity, allow his soul to be drawn into profitless speculations. -Upon the supreme ecstasy of knowing that here, after all these sick -months of waiting, was the period to be put at last to his -uncertainty, he must concentrate his thoughts, permitting none to side -issues. - -He triumphed by sheer force of will--sitting out the end of the little -play. But the instant the curtain fell he rose to his feet, swept the -frost from his brain, and--without giving himself stay or pause in -which to think--left his box and made his way round to the opposite -side of the house. His head now seemed full of heat and light; he was -not conscious of his lower limbs. - -Almost immediately he came upon two men stepping from the rear of a -box into the passage. One of these was the Duke of Orleans. The other -was a tallish young man, a little older than himself, of a fine -intelligent expression. Both gentlemen were dressed to the prevailing -taste in clothes that were something an ostentatious advertisement of -_bourgeoisie_. But the extravagance was vindicated in the younger of -the two by the mournful spirit of romance that seemed to inhabit -behind a pair of very soft grey eyes. - -Ned addressed Egalité at once, and in a manner, unwittingly, almost -imperious; for in this tender present sensitiveness of his condition -he imagined he foreread in that person’s stony regard a repudiation of -his acquaintanceship, and he was desperate to preoccupy the situation. -He had not, indeed, forgotten the confidential words uttered by the -duke at the moment of their first and latest parting; and now his -heart went sick in the fear of what might be implied by Egalité’s -obvious intention to stultify, by avoidance of him, any significance -such confidence might have been held to express. - -“I have the honour to reintroduce myself to monsieur le duc,” he said. -“I congratulate monsieur le duc upon the safe return of those, with -the delivery of a letter referring to whose movements in England I -some months ago had the pleasure to charge myself.” - -The prince’s eyes opened and shut like an owl’s. His bilious face -seemed to deprecate a peevish derision it could not withhold. - -“I do not recognise,” he began, looking through mere slits between -lids, “whom I have----” then suddenly he checked himself impatiently -and turned to his companion with a shrug of his shoulders. - -“My lord,” he said, “let me make known to you M. le Vicomte Murk, who -once was good enough to constitute himself Hermes to your adorable -Pamela.” - -Ned stood rigid under the shock of all that was implied in the -insolence. The duke’s young companion stepped forward and shook him by -the hand. Did this stranger know, or intuitively guess, something of -the silent tragedy that was enacting before him? His soft eyes were at -least full of generosity and sympathy. - -“I know your lordship by name,” he said. “I am Lord Edward Fitzgerald; -and I am sure Pamela will like to thank you in person for your -disinterested service.” - -Ned drew himself up, like a martial hero giving the signal for his own -execution. - -“I will take my sentence from her lips,” he said to the kind eyes, and -passed into the box. - -He was close to her at last--and for the last time. She turned to -glance at him, and instantly away again, with a pert tilt of her chin. -He saw her stealthily advance a hand in the shadow, and twitch her -companion by the skirt. The little lady gave a start. - -“What is the matter, coquine?” she exclaimed. Then she saw Ned, -flushed pink, and dropped the gentleman a shy bow. - -She was happy to renew monsieur’s acquaintance, she said. And had -monsieur been in Paris all these months since they last had the -pleasure of seeing him in “nôtre cher Bury”? - -Yes, monsieur had been in Paris the whole time: that was to say, ever -since, in pursuit of monsieur le duc, he had left Belgium, whither, it -would appear, he had been despatched on a fool’s errand. - -Mademoiselle gave a little deprecating shrug of her shoulders. - -“And monsieur, no doubt, has justified us in our choice of a -messenger?” murmured Pamela, from ambush of the box curtains. - -Ned turned upon the young voice. His tongue was dry; his very features -seemed stiffened into a mechanical expression of suffering. - -“Yes,” he said. “I have been as great a fool as Uriah.” - -The girl gave a little laugh. Probably she understood only the vague -inference. She drew aside the curtain and looked upon the house. Her -head budded from dusk into light, standing out like an angel’s seen in -a dream. The soft moulding of her face and neck was painted in dim -sweet eclipse--violet, where it intensified in the deeper curves. In -her shadowy hair--like a dryad’s curled by moonlight--a single -diamond--a very star of morning--burned. It was Ned’s fate--the common -irony of love--to find the prize figure never so desirable in his -sight as at the moment of its bestowal on another. His heart was sick -with a very hunger as he looked down on her. - -“_O Dieu--quelle horreur_!” she exclaimed, referring to some one of -the audience. She tapped her foot, drew back her head, suppressed a -tiny yawn. - -“What has become of Edward?” said she, as if she were unconscious that -their visitor were not withdrawn. - -“It is my name,” said Ned. - -She glanced at him disdainfully, with the ghost of an insolent laugh. - -“You here still, monsieur? Will you please go and tell the fiddles to -begin?” - -“And shall I dance to them to entertain you?” he said. - -Her attitude robbed his passion even of a redeeming dignity. His -devotion seemed comparable with the sick devotion of a schoolboy -towards a holiday coquette. - -“_Mon Dieu_!” she cried. “You would at least entertain us more than -now.” - -The catgut gave its first screech as she spoke. - -“I will go,” he said hurriedly; but he yet lingered out the final -anguish. - -“Have I not already entertained you enough? And I have not yet -congratulated the prospective Lady Fitzgerald. And what shall I do -with the flower you gave me, Pamela, when I accepted madame’s service -because I loved you?” - -For the first time she flushed angrily. - -“You have no right to say it,” she cried. “And do you suppose I -constitute myself the fairy godmother to every little weed I bestow!” - -Mademoiselle d’Orléans half rose from her seat. - -“Nay,” said Pamela, gently coaxing her to resume it: “for monsieur -will see the wisdom, I am sure, of not further enlarging upon an error -of his own.” - -He uttered a deep sigh. - -“An error!” he said--“My God--yes, an error!”--and he bowed low and -left the box. The little kind royalty uttered a sob as he vanished. - -And such was the manner of the end--no renunciation ennobled of -chivalry on his part; no compassion, no sympathy on hers. And he could -blame no one but himself. His imagination, it seemed, had clothed a -skeleton with flesh. Unlike dreaming Adam, he had awakened and found -his imagination a lie. He walked from the tawdry gates of his fool’s -paradise, and felt the wind rattle in his bones. - -Outside, he found the two men withdrawn. He made his way into the -street, a strange numbness in his brain. It was like exaltation--the -mere mad ecstasy of self-obliteration. For the time it seemed to carry -him forward--a spirit disembodied, shorn of every instinct but that of -flight. The wind thrust at, the dust choked, the jumping lamps mocked -him. He paid no heed to a malice that was powerless any longer to -influence his movements. - -Pressing forward aimlessly, he came out on the Pont Neuf. Few -passengers were now abroad; and these, butting with a sense of -personal grievance against the blast, took no notice of the -significant attitude of one who, upon such a night, could stop to -dwell upon the river. But presently a single pedestrian--a -woman--going by, uttered a stifled exclamation, checked herself, slunk -into the angle of a buttress, and stood watching him. - -He was gazing upon the black swing of water below. Suddenly he rose, -returned a few paces the way he had come, and went down into the gloom -of the quay where it stooped under the bridge’s shadow. The woman -followed stealthily. - -The wind had long ago taken his hat. He unbuttoned and flung open his -coat. She came swiftly to him and seized him by the arm. He turned -upon her--dragged himself free with a start of repulsion. His face -underwent a change--flashing into an expression of mad fury. - -“Again!” he shrieked. “Why do you pursue and haunt me! I think you are -my genius for all devilry!” - -For a moment it looked as if he would strike her--her, Théroigne. She -stood, where he had thrust her, without the shadow thrown by the -bridge, a dim glow falling upon her face from a far lamp above. Even -in this tumult of his rage he was conscious of an inexplicable new -meaning in her eyes. They were like caves of darkness alive with a -suggestive inner movement. - -“I called to find you,” she said stilly, without emotion. “The -_citoyen propriétaire_ told me you were abroad--probably at the -theatre. I followed on the chance; and destiny, it seems, was my -guide.” - -“Why did you call? Why did you follow?--we have nothing of a common -interest. I loathe you--do you hear! I curse the day on which you came -into my life!” - -She never moved. - -“Is it not our common interest,” she said, “to wish to die?” - -He gasped, and stood staring at her. - -“Ah!” she went on; “but I had heard, and wondered for the result. They -were betrothed no further back than yesterday; they are to be man and -wife in a few weeks. He is an impatient lover--this handsome chasseur. -In a few weeks she will lie in his arms--the pretty, loving babouine.” - -He lifted his hand again with a furious gesture; and at that she cast -back the hooded cloak which she had held clutched about her face and -breast, and, coming swiftly to him, dared him with her brilliant eyes. - -“Strike!” she cried; “it is what I ask. Only thou shalt strike thyself -through me. What! thou know’st now what it is to be trampled under by -the feet thou worship’dst! And thou shalt be haunted evermore by the -shadow of another man’s happiness. Strike, I say, and kill, like me, -thy spectre of unfulfilment with despair!” - -She tore at her dress, baring her white bosom to him. - -“Strike!” she cried again; then suddenly her hands dropped limp, and -she moaned to herself. - -“I dare not think. I cannot sleep. He is always there, weeping and -imploring. But there is something between--a deep red pool, with an -under-motion. If I were to wade in--my God!” she cried--“I am afraid -even to die!” - -She held up her hands to the man before her, as if in prayer. - -“Take me with thee--there, into the water. I will not struggle, if -thou hold’st me tight. Thou wert his friend for a little while, and -thou also hast suffered. Thou wilt plead for me, monsieur, wilt thou -not?--thou wilt plead?” - -Her voice broke in a shiver. For all its wretchedness, the heart of -her hearer was stricken anew. - -“Thou Théroigne,” he said; “thou poor twice-abandoned fool. Wouldst -thou urge upon me that a first error is to be atoned by a second! Oh, -thou woman--not to understand how cheap that love must be held that -would disprove itself to spite its object!” - -God knows what angel of light or darkness had been at his elbow a -moment earlier. Now, he put his hand into his breast as he spoke. - -She looked at him, lost and wild. - -“Thou didst not come to throw thyself into the river?” she muttered. - -“No,” he said--“but only this.” - -He cast it from him with the words--something he had taken from his -pocket--a little spiked and scented parcel, so ridiculous and so -tender. It had fulfilled its mission at last. That was “writ in -water.” And the poor cherished heels, stuck with a sprig of withered -geranium, went down to the sea--or, perhaps, into the maw of some -sentimental pike that would swallow it all, as we mortals swallow any -absurd love-story. - -Now, if the action was inspired by a despairing man’s intuitive -altruism on behalf of a despairing harlot, we may not call it bathos. - -Suddenly the woman broke into a shrill laugh. - -“Was it an unfruitful token? Better thou and I!” she cried. “And so -thou still hold’st love inviolable?” - -He answered with his eyes. She came quite close to him--looked up into -his face. - -“That is well. Come with me, then, now the madness is past.” - -“With you!” he exclaimed scornfully. All his repulsion of her was -returning before the reclaimed devil in her eyes. - -“With me, murderess and courtesan. Oh! it is not for myself,” she -said. “It is for another--whose confession to me an hour ago sent me -to seek thee out--that I would carry thee.” - -He stared, dumfounded, muttering “Another? what other?” - -“One,” she said, “that hath pursued thee long months with bleeding -feet and a broken heart. One, that I came upon to-day, lost and -wandering in the cold streets, and that I, being no man, took home -with me and comforted.” - -“What other?” he murmured again, but with a dreadful intuition of the -truth. - -“Nay,” she said, “love hath not done with thee. Only thou must run -with the hare instead of hunting with the dogs.” - -“What other?” he repeated dully. - -“A saint, monsieur; yet one that, for all her chastity, hath caught -the infection of these liberal times.” - -She gazed into his face piercingly. - -“I swear I never guessed,” she murmured. “I swear I hold her the -dearer and the purer that she is revealed human in the end. The -handmaid of God! Ah! but so to testify to His choice by this long -discipline of her heart! And now, directing her in this pursuit of -thee, He ratifies the new licence; and she shall not be less the saint -because her passion is sanctified of a human love.” - -“It is a vile blasphemy,” said the man. “You speak of Nicette -Legrand.” - -She clapped her hands. - -“But, yes,” she cried in shrill triumph; “I speak of Nicette Legrand, -whose heart, it seems, thou stolest--one of the common things that -thou, and such as thou, would use to the profit of an idle hour, -whilst thy honour was pledged elsewhere. But who enlists Love in his -service shall engage a parasite to devour him.” - -“Nicette!” he only murmured once more. - -“Take thy fill of her name,” said the girl scornfully. “I tell thee, -Love presumes upon his hire. Didst thou think he had discarded thee? -He shall prove a tyrant whom thou thought’st to make thy servant.” - -He fell, suddenly, quite calm and cold. - -“Well,” he said, “so Nicette is in Paris?” - -She answered-- - -“In Paris--a month’s long journey, by rock and briar, for those poor, -patient feet. Oh,” she cried, “that I should ever have unwittingly -wronged her by seeking to convert this block--this stone--to my own -passionate uses!” - -“And so she hath explained it to you?” he said, in the same even tone. -“Well, she is a liar, from first to last; and at least it is fitting -that a murderess should give sanctuary to a murderess.” - -She stared at him, breathing softly. - -“Am I to kill _you_?” she said. - -He laughed without merriment. - -“Listen to me, Théroigne. I never desired this woman, or gave her one -pretext for asserting that I did. If she says otherwise, she lies. If -she tells you that she left Méricourt to follow me, she lies. She has -fled because she has been discovered in a deception as vile, a crime -as inhuman, as any that have blackened the world since the race -began.” - -She still stared at him, her lips moving, but she did not speak. - -“I have been in Méricourt since you,” he went on, without a change of -intonation, “and I was witness to what I say. The bubble is burst--the -superstition, by this time, a black memory. The tree that she haunted, -she haunted because it contained in its hollow heart the dead body of -Baptiste, her little brother, whom she had murdered--morally, before -God, whom she had murdered, I say--out of her hatred of him. She -haunted the scene of her crime, and, when that was threatened with -detection, she invented the legend of the vision to cover it. But -retribution abided, and, when that threatened, she fled.” - -For a moment silence fell between the two. The wind shrilled in their -ears; the hollow wash and sweep of the river came up to them. - -“If it is true,” whispered Théroigne at last--“if it is true!” - -“It is true.” - -She seemed to gaze at without seeing him. - -“So worn and so pitiful!” she muttered; “and I took her in, and clung -to her, and found my own religion justified in hers.” - -Suddenly she was hurrying from him, speeding upwards towards the -bridge. He stood paralysed an instant; then sprang and overtook her, -walking by her side. - -“Where are you going?” he cried. - -“To hurl her into hell!” she shrieked, “if it is as you say.” - -They drove on together, across the river, through the blown darkness. - -Presently she stopped, and turned upon him once more. - -“Why do you follow me?” - -“To see that you do nothing that shall enable you before God to -testify against me.” - -“Ah!” she cried, with a most bitter derision. “You are not desperate. -You have never loved, as I read it--as Nicette reads it. You have -never staked your soul against your heart. And this is what she hath -done for the sake of one little glimpse of her heaven--of seeing you -without being seen.” - -“She sent you to tell me so?” - -“You lie!” said the woman quietly. “I took her secret from her because -she was worn and despairing; and then she implored me only to show her -where she might, hidden, look upon you once again, and so die and rest -forgotten.” - -She struck her palms together. - -“And now--now!” she muttered. - -She fled on her way. The man had some ado to keep up with her. He -went, indeed, at length, with loaded steps, on this wild, sorrowful -night. To love and lose, and to be so loved! It was a stab of poignant -anguish to his heart that what he had held so sacred in himself should -be claimed of a vileness with which he had no sentiment in common. But -this--surely this: the love that can exonerate even wickedness done -for its sake. The wretched woman loved him--perhaps with a love as -intrinsically pure as that he had given to Pamela. He groaned as he -sped on. - -They crossed the quays, and hurried by the Place of the Three Marys. A -frowzy tricoteuse, coming from a wine-shop, recognised Théroigne, and -stood barring their path. - -“_Ame traîtresse_! _Modératrice_!” cried the creature, in guttural -fury, and broke into a torrent of oaths. - -The girl shrank against the wall, proffering no retort, her eyes wide -with fear. Ned took her arm, put the woman on one side, and they -scurried on their way, pursued by a blatter of expletives. - -The wind cut into their faces with blades of ice as they turned into -the Rue de Rohan. - - - - - CHAPTER XV. - -In front of the fire a girl lay on the floor asleep. She had placed -herself on her side, facing the glow and cuddled into it; but in the -relaxation of profound slumber her head had fallen back, so that the -light from a lamp on the wall illuminated her features. These looked -curiously, pathetically child-like under the seal of a rest so deep -that her bosom hardly rose and fell to accent it. Her lips were a -little parted; her cheeks a little hollow, and quite colourless. From -every ruffle of her hair--fine and pale golden as a rabbit’s fur--that -lay spilt about her head, to the toe-tips of her white bare feet (that -nestled into one another despite some inflammatory wounds that scarred -them as cruelly as if they had been bastinadoed), she was so almost -motionless as to seem like a figure in tinted porcelain--King -Cophetua’s beggar-maid, it might have been; for, indeed, her clothes -were very stained and ragged. - -The door opened, and a woman came swiftly to her side and gazed down -upon her--a woman, under the fierce glow and lust of whose beauty she -seemed to shrink into the mere semblance of a doll thrown down by a -passionate child. - -The woman looked, then suddenly fell upon her knees and stooped her -lips to the ear of the sleeper. - -“Nicette,” she cried low, “Nicette!” - -The girl on the floor started; then she stirred, moaned, put her hand -restlessly to her forehead, and again, with a sigh, dropped back into -the pit of slumber. But the moment of half-consciousness seemed to -have robbed her of the perfect weanling innocence. Now her -respirations came harder; every breath she exhaled proclaimed her -woman. Still, she dreamt happily; and a smile trembled on her lips. - -Seeing it, Théroigne turned and beckoned to the man to come close. He -approached from the door and stood behind her, away from the sleeper’s -range of vision. The woman pointed down at the dreaming face. - -“Dost thou still accuse it?” - -“Awake--yes,” he said. - -She frowned, and again bent to call into the girl’s ear. - -“Nicette! where is thy brother Baptiste?” - -A shadow, like that of a cloud that ruffles water, went over the quiet -face. The regular breathing hitched and wavered; some broken soft -ejaculations came from the lips. Suddenly the lids flickered--the eyes -opened, unspeculative for a moment, then snatching the soul of them -from unearthly sweet pastures, in whose fragrance it had lovelily -nested. Still they were full of the glamour of holiday, remote in -their vision, coy of things material. - -“Théroigne!” she murmured, happy and confident, her half-recovered -self only the core of a little atmosphere of the most loving warmth of -emotion and feeling. - -The woman bent and lifted the other--up, into her arms. - -“Didst thou hear me call?” she said caressingly. “And what wert thou -dreaming of, dearest?” - -“Great God!” thought Ned, “is this Théroigne, in actual truth, a -fiend!” - -“Dreaming!” said the girl softly; “of what am I always dreaming, -Théroigne?” - -“Of what, indeed! Of things lost and longed for? Perhaps, sometimes of -the little poor brother that was murdered and hidden in a tree?” - -A voice shrieked at her back. - -“Damnation seize thee!” - -She let fall her burden and, scrambling to her feet, turned upon the -voice. - -“What, then!” - -“So wanton!” cried Ned--“so wanton and so cruel!” - -His fury leapt in a moment, like a boiling spring. He could not have -explained or controlled it--could not even have traced its source to a -deep incorruptible chivalry that was instinctive to _his_ sex and -beyond the understanding of the other. - -“Cruel?” she exclaimed madly. “And am I not thy delegate--thy -informer?” - -“Not, so to take advantage, like a cursed _mouchard_, of this poor -drugged wretch!” he cried. “Why, God in heaven! are _you_ so much less -foul----?” - -“You devil!” she cut in--“you dog! Didst thou not thyself, a minute -ago, slander her behind her back?” - -“I accused her openly,” cried Ned--“as I accuse her now!” - -A stifled scream of agony answered him. He looked into a corner of the -room, whence, from shadow, the sound had come. The -dreamer--momentarily half stupefied by her fall--had risen, while they -raged, and stood shrunk into an angle of the wall. - -Théroigne leapt upon her--seized her by a wrist. - -“Look!” she screeched, “upon him that thou wouldst give thy life to -see, not being seen; to prevail with whom thou wouldst sacrifice thy -honour and thy fame with heaven. Hear him now--how he regards thy -devotion. Tell him--tell me, rather--he lies. Tell me thou art not a -murderess; and I will crush the slander back upon him till it tears -like a splintered rib into his heart!” - -She stood quivering--glaring--worrying the arm she held. - -“Speak!” she panted brokenly, “and leave the rest to me.” - -A moment’s silence succeeded the terrible outcry. - -“It is true what he says,” then whispered Nicette. “I murdered -Baptiste.” - -Théroigne dropped the wrist she clutched, and swung back heavily -against the wall. - -“My God!” she muttered, “my God!” - -Then she mastered herself faintly, like a weary creature. - -“It was my last hope--the queen, the gentle mother. To justify, -through her handmaid, the passion of woman for man. It is ended. There -is no good in the world--no truth--no virtue. Oh, my heart, my heart!” - -She caught herself from the cry, in a rally of quiet fury; pointed to -the door, her arm extended along the wall. - -“You have killed my faith,” she said. - -Her gesture was crowningly significant. Without a word, the girl stole -fearfully from her shadowy covert--hurried across the room--passed -from it, and was gone. - - * * * * * * * * - -Into the street she fled, ran a few paces, stopped, and looked wildly -about her. Snow had begun to fall. The wind whipped her thin tattered -skirts about her ankles. In all the mad night there was no beacon -towards which she might make, for the little lightening of her -despair. She glanced once about her; then crouched, with a dying moan, -upon a doorstep. - -Her face was buried in her hands when, an instant later, Ned silently -came upon her. He stood, looking down. - -Once, earlier in the evening, he had thought “She” (not the wretched -girl at his feet) “might have dismissed me as effectually by gentler -methods.” Yet, had he, for his part, shown more compassion towards -this unhappy outcast--stained though she was--who lay here so -committed to his mercy? - -He bent suddenly, and put his hand upon her shoulder. She did not even -start now, but she uncoiled herself, with a shiver, and gazed up at -him, without recognition, it seemed. - -“What do you intend to do?” he said. “Where will you go?” - -She only shook her head weakly and amazedly. - -He stepped back, looked up into a blinding gloom of darkness and -spinning flakes. The patterns these wrought seemed the very moral of -Heaven’s enactments--hieroglyphics drawn upon a slate of night. He was -not theologian enough to interpret them. For him--with a sense of -being enclosed and shut down within a very confined vault of human -suffering (with God, maybe, walking serene and unwitting high up on -the sunny lifts of ether above the earth)--the issues of life were -become brutally restricted. He had had aspirations. They had been -crushed under by the heavy night that had dropped upon his world. Now, -in a moment, he could feel only that he was alone with a woman who -loved him without one thought of the meaning of the hieroglyphics; -that it lay with him, unsupported, to direct the destinies of two -souls--his own and another’s--that Fortune had isolated in tragic -companionship. - -And contrasted with the human piteousness of this other--this soul -that had claimed him in the darkness into which his own had -fallen--how did not the shibboleth of convention suddenly confess -itself a ridiculous fetish of strings and patches--a block for a -fashion-plate? - -He had no plan of conduct at last but to drift--and, if by way of -sunny pastures, so much the less troubled would he be. - -His heart was moved to a dull aching passion in this first realising -of its emancipation from a wounding thrall. - -“Get up!” he cried violently. “Do you hear? Get up, and come with me!” - -He turned away, and going a few paces, looked round to see if she were -following. Ay, like a dog. She had risen and jumped to his order -before it was well issued. - -He strode on, the fall already making a soft cold mat to his feet. It -was no great distance to his rooms; the Rue St Honoré was near -deserted, and he went down it swiftly. Once again only he turned to -see that the girl was not lagging. Then he cursed himself and came to -a stop under a lamp. She was hobbling towards him as fast as her -bleeding feet would permit her. He had never given a thought to -this--that she had been driven half naked into the night. As she came -up, she dumbly begged of him with a little pathetic smile, timid and -conciliatory, not to be angry with her for halting. He saw a trickle -of blood flow into the white carpet where she waited. - -Now he stood to the struggle between his pride and his humanity. She -was slight and thinly clad. He might have carried her in his arms the -little remaining distance. But a hard devil rasped his heart--that -particular Belial that tempts consciences to very wanton -self-mutilations. - -“I had not thought,” he said coldly. “I should have been more -considerate. I will walk slowly the rest of the way.” - -“I hardly feel it--indeed, monsieur, indeed,” she answered, brokenly -and eagerly. “I will come faster.” - -He went on again, and she crept behind him. Arrived at last at his -door, he rapped on it, and stood away, signing to her to enter. - -The citizen Theophilus, although he was a good patriot, bowed the -gentleman and his companion into the sadly lit hall with a conscious -elaboration of the _bel air_. He was at different times cook and -_concierge_, and always proprietor--a man of admirable tact. Now he -smiled, and informed monsieur the Englishman that there was a grateful -hot fire in his room; that the night was a disgrace to Paris; that a -steaming potage could be served to the citoyenne in a moment, did -monsieur desire it. - -He did not shrug his shoulders, or appear to notice the bare raw feet -set upon the mat, or anything strange in this apparition of a dazed -young woman standing there with the snow in her hair. That was his -delicacy. For the rest, reputations were not marred nowadays by any -refusal to subscribe to such old-fashioned codes of propriety as were -only practised, if at all, in the prisons, where the remnants of a -social hypocrisy awaited consignment to the rag-tearing machine in the -Place Louis XV. Citizen Theophilus would have as little thought of -bestowing a suggestive wink on the mating of a couple of swallows as -on the foregathering of a young man and maid under his eaves. - -“I will do myself the honour,” he said, “to conduct monsieur’s dear -young friend to monsieur’s apartments.” - -He skipped up the stairs in advance, candle in hand, like an _ignis -fatuus_. He was a little man--always dancingly restless--with a lean -face, and iron-grey corkscrew curls that he would keep well oiled, as -though they were the actual springs of his movements. - -Arrived in Ned’s apartments (they were in one suite, sitting- and -bed-rooms, with a folding-door between), he lit the candles, poked the -logs into a blaze, and stood for orders. - -“The potage, monsieur?” - -Ned transmitted the inquiry with a look. - -“No, pray, monsieur--not for me,” murmured the girl. - -“Very well,” said Ned frigidly. “It will not be needed, my -Théophile.” - -The landlord protested, bowed, and flirted himself from the room. The -two were left alone. - -Ned walked to the window, lifted the blind a moment, and looked out -upon the dumb white whirling of the snow. Then suddenly he spoke over -his shoulder-- - -“Go and warm yourself at the fire.” - -She crept to the hearth immediately and sat herself before the glow, -putting out to it her stiff frozen hands in token of obedience. - -He took to pacing up and down the room, not removing from his -shoulders the thick redingote in which he was wrapped. Presently he -came and stood near her, his elbow resting upon the mantel-shelf. - -“I want you to listen to me,” he said. - -She uttered no sound, but only looked up at him, pathetically pliant -to his will. Her prince, for all her sins, had come to her with the -glass slipper. Would her poor swollen foot ever go into it? Her blue -eyes, like a child’s, sought his pity and forgiveness. - -But he was resolute to blind his heart to the appeal. - -“An hour ago,” he said--slowly, as if weighing his every word to -himself--“I could not have done this. The interval has proved a -fruitful one to us both.” - -She clasped her hands as she gazed at him; a film seemed to come over -her eyes. She murmured in a tranced, half-fearful voice. The warmth it -seemed had drugged her brain. - -“What happened! It was misty and shining. But, to be with you!--yes, -thou art here, and the fire, and Nicette. That was always in the deep -heart of my visions.” - -He took no notice of her half-audible wanderings. - -“I would not have you suppose,” he went on tonelessly, steadily, “that -I shall allow any conversion by you of this accident into opportunity. -I brought you to shelter for only the reason that I decline to burden -myself with any shadow of compunction for what share my duty forced me -to take in your punishment. For the rest, we remain, as always, wide -poles apart.” - -In the pause he made she dropped her head--crept a little nearer to -him--crouched at his feet. Not to be haunted by the wistful eyes, by -the look, like a dog’s, that was so full of the silent struggle to -comprehend, made his task easier. - -“You may stop here,” he said, “until I am able to procure you other -quarters, and the means, if possible, to a living. That will not be -later than to-morrow, I hope. For to-night, at least, you are to sleep -in my room yonder, and I will make shift to lie out here. Do you -understand?” - -“Yes,” she whispered. - -“Very well,” he said, “but I saddle the agreement with one fixed -condition. As long as you remain here--whether it is for one day, or -two, or more--you are to hold no communication with me--are never to -speak to me, unless I first address you.” - -She rose to her knees, clasping her hands again to him. Her hair was -fallen over her cheeks; she looked a very small forlorn subject for -extreme measures. - -“I shall be near you,” she said, half-choking. - -He took her arm and motioned her to her feet. - -“It is understood, then. You had better go to bed now and rest and -recover and get warm.” - -He put a candle into her hand, led her to the door of the bedroom, -thrust her gently within, and clicked the latch upon her. Then he went -and stood over the fire. - -What had he done? What was he doing? Even as he had spoken, making his -condition, he had known that that was a wild absurdity, impossible of -fulfilment. What had moved him to it but a sudden recrudescence of -that self-mutilating spirit? He had had no deliberate thought to goad -a willing jade, or to return, in kind, to love, the humiliation he had -suffered from it. Yet he knew that he was doing so, and it was a -perilous lust to indulge. - -His heart was full of ache, his brain of phantoms. These were -reflected, coming and going, in the still red logs of the fire. They -represented, in a thousand aspects, the three ghosts that would haunt -his life for evermore. All women--all fair and fateful shapes; and, of -the three, the vilest, because she had figured for the purest, was the -one that had come to claim him at the last. It was a fierce satire -upon the lesson of ennobling ideals. - -Pamela, and Théroigne, and Nicette. He felt it no sacrilege now to -name this trinity in a breath. Indeed, which alone of the three had -made it her sport to coquet with hearts, holding their suffering as -nothing to the gratification of her vanity? Not either of those -peasant girls of Méricourt--whose passionate blood would always -rather flame to the ecstasy of pursuit than to the selfish rapture of -being hunted for the sake of their own beautiful skins. - -His thoughts swerved from one figure to another. This Lord Edward -Fitzgerald--how had he come to usurp the very throne of desire? He -knew a little of him by repute--had heard of the ardent young soldier -and apostle of the new liberty, melancholy and something wild, -breathing the spirit of romance. He had no grudge against him, at -least. And what of Mr Sheridan, whose influence alone he had -apprehended? Ghosts they were to him now. What profit was it to seek -to analyse their bodiless significance? - -Sweeping and shadowy, the smoke of all such phantoms reeled up the -chimney. Only one face remained with him. - -He glanced at the bedroom door, lay down on the rug before the fire, -and, wrapping his cloak about his haggard face, committed himself to -the hopelessness of slumber. - - - - - CHAPTER XVI. - -The citizen Theophilus was at points of discussion with a rather -dissipated-looking phantom of respectability that had descended upon -him at an extremely early hour. - -“Let the citizen--and, moreover, monsieur the Englishman--rest -assured,” he said, “that I accept his commission with a high sense of -the compliment implied. But it is not specific: _oh, mon Dieu Jésus_! -that is all I complain--it is not specific.” - -“In what way?” - -“For example, there is, for consideration, the toilette of Vesta, as -well as that of Aurora.” - -“Why, deuce take it, man; you don’t suppose I expect the girl to go to -bed in her petticoats, if that’s what you mean?” - -“_C’est bien, monsieur. Je sais la carte du pays_.” (He bridged his -fingers, tapping the tips together to accent every item.) “I am to -procure, then, the citoyenne a wardrobe, plain in character and of -modest proportions. It is for the reason that the citoyenne may -possess such attire as will not militate against her chance of -obtaining respectable employment. Scrupulously so, monsieur. This -wardrobe is to be for both day and night. Also, scrupulously so. -Moreover, it is to be of the limitations that will not tend to -encourage the idea of a prolonged sojourn in a present sanctuary, -offered (I have monsieur’s word for it) on grounds of the most -disinterested platonism. Finally, so long as mademoiselle remains -under monsieur’s protection--I crave one thousand pardons!--under -monsieur’s guardianship--she is to receive every ordinary -consideration as to service and meals.” - -He flourished his hands outwards, and bowed, his curls bobbing like -wood shavings. - -“I shall have the honour to punctually acquit myself of these -commissions. Monsieur need give himself no further concern in the -matter.” - -“You are a treasure, my Théophile,” said Ned; and he stepped out into -the morning. - -It was very cold and bright and beautiful, for wind and cloud had -dropped behind the horizon. The pavements, the roofs, the steeples -were wrapped in white that looked as soft as swan’s-down. The whole -city, it seemed, had put on its furs against the opening frost. - -Ned stepped, without sound, over the flags. The hour was still so -early that hardly a soul was abroad. His tired eyes felt the -restfulness of the rounded beds of snow; his throat took in the -stinging wine of the morning in grateful draughts. He had had but a -little troubled sleep, and his wits seemed plugged and his brain sore. -He wanted to think. He wanted to understand why it was that his -thoughts--that should have been all of the tragic quenching of a flame -that had for so long been his beacon in waste places--were unable to -rescue themselves from a weary toing-and-froing before the closed door -of his own bedroom. He wanted to understand, and he could not. Only it -dully presented itself to him as a monstrous thing that the later -image should dominate his mind. If he could recover but a little -clearness of moral vision, he was sure he would see what a foul wrong -to his own loyal heart he was being led into committing. - -So he tried to reason--in the lack, as he felt, of reason itself. And -still the cold air would not cleanse his brain of the impurity; and -still the figure that haunted him as he walked was not Pamela’s. - -Then he whispered aloud--as if to see whether spoken words would not -prevail with him: “She is a murderess. I have given her scarcely a -thought but of loathing. And now--because of a specious dumb -appeal--Damnation! For all she has gone through, she is as sound of -wind and limb as a pagan Circe--a perfect animal still. I think she -cannot suffer without a soul.” - -He strode on more rapidly. - -“I must find her another lodging--at once, without delay.” - -Walking preoccupied, unregarding his direction, he had made down one -of the side streets that led into the Place Louis XV. Suddenly the -sound of shrill jolly voices startled him. He looked up in amazement, -to see close before him something, the fact of whose existence he had -hitherto most shrinkingly ignored. Sanson and his satellites were -engaged in washing down the guillotine. They were as voluble as grooms -over a carriage--and, indeed, the machine had its wheels and shafts -and splashboard--even its luggage-basket--all complete. - -Now, committed involuntarily to view of it, Ned inspected the horrible -engine with some curiosity. - -“Hullo, then, my jackadandy!” cried one of the grooms boisterously. -“Art thou seeking a barber?” - -“No,” said Ned; “but the answer to a riddle.” - -The man fondled a beam, grimacing. - -“It is all one,” said he. “Here is the oracle.” - -“I believe it is,” said Ned; “only I am not yet sure of the question;” -and he turned away. - -He breakfasted at a _café_, made a particular little purchase to -which he was whimsically attracted, and returned about mid-day to his -chambers. - -They struck very cold and quiet. There did not seem a sound in the -house. He entered his sitting-room and closed the door. The girl was -crouched in her old place upon the rug. She looked up at him mutely as -he went by her, without a word, to the fire. - -He let a minute pass while he warmed himself. Then he said, not -turning his head-- - -“You want to speak to me?” - -“Oh yes, yes!” she answered at once and eagerly; “to thank you for -these.” - -“The clothes? You needn’t thank me. It was my own interests I -consulted in giving them to you. Your rags would have been no -recommendation to a possible employer.” - -“An employer?--monsieur--an employer?” - -“Certainly. Did you imagine I intended to keep you on here -indefinitely?” - -She made no reply. - -“Have you breakfasted?” he said. - -She answered “Yes” gratefully, in a low voice. - -He twisted about then, and regarded her. The wise Theophilus had, he -saw, acquitted himself sensibly of his order. The girl was clothed -freshly and simply. Her own instinctive niceness of touch, her -kitten-like cleanliness, had ministered daintily to the result. - -The young man’s brain swam for a moment. He could have thought he was -back again in the lodge at Méricourt, the unsullied, fragrant -presentment of a little jelly-loving Madonna charming the luminous -shade of the dairy in which she sat; the sun, blazing upon the garden -phloxes without, touching this his natural child’s head softly with a -single beam. - -In the same moment he dashed his hand, so to speak, upon the -struggling fancy. He would not have it rise further to confront him. -It was undeserved of its subject at the least. The promise it had once -suggested had never been vindicated, and he would insist upon that now -as an actual aggravation of the girl’s demerits, seeing that, at this -late hour of her practical punishment for a wickedness confessed, she -could still so far look her old self as to inspire--and demoralise--a -certain emotion of regard. Even the very hollows in her cheeks seemed -filled since yesterday; and she wore her new shoes and stockings -without a hint of their discomforting her wounded feet. - -Was it then that a constitution could be so flawless as to be -debarred, by ignorance of suffering, from suffering’s prerogative of -moral exaltation--that the nerves of emotion inherited from the nerves -of physical feeling? If it were so, it were idle in this case to be -considerate of the former. - -He put his hand into his coat pocket and, producing a small parcel, -held it out to her. - -“You have breakfasted,” he said; “but doubtless you will yet have an -appetite for this?” - -She took it from him wonderingly. If he had designed it as a grimly -ironical test of her disposition, he had reason to be discomfited by -her reception of the pleasantry. - -She glanced at the superscription--it was a little box of guava -jelly,--then suddenly let the packet fall, and threw herself on her -face upon the rug. - -She lay so long and so still without sound or movement that presently -he grew uneasy. - -“Get up!” he cried at last, touching her--and hating himself for doing -so--with his foot. - -She stirred--rose to a sitting posture. Her eyes had a dazed, stunned -look in them. - -“Nicette!” he exclaimed, a little troubled by the fixity of her gaze. -He saw then that she was gulping, as though trying to speak. - -“What is it?” he asked, mutinous against the gentler spirit that was -possessing him. He had to bend his head to hear her. - -“While they lived--it was always he--that received--the praise, the -tit-bit, the love.” - -“Who received?” - -“Baptiste.” - -He drew himself up with an astonished expression. What answer was to -make here--what course pursue with a soul so inadequate? She spoke of -her parents, it seemed; was pleading their favouritism in vindication -of her crime. It was a confession of moral obliquity so ingenuous as -to baffle argument. For the first time a shock of conscious pity for a -thing so handicapped in the pursuit of the living principle shook him. -He bent down, seized the box of sweetmeat, and flung it into the fire. -The girl gave a strange little cry, and gazed up at him, her mouth -breathless, her eyes glazed with the floating of sudden tears. - -“What now?” said Ned. - -Her voice broke in a quick sob. - -“I thought there was no hope or forgiveness, that you meant to hate me -for evermore.” - -He turned away. How could he be other than moved and stricken? She had -not, after all, so much sought to extenuate her crime as to plead for -herself against the hatred she had thought his act was meant to -express. - -There was silence for a time; then he sat down in a chair apart from -her, and spoke, gazing into the fire. - -“How can you think it mine either to hate or to forgive? How--” (he -struck his hand to his forehead--turned upon her in utter -desperation). “Nicette! do you _ever_ feel remorse for your deed?” - -“I dare not think of it,” she whispered. Then suddenly she cried out, -“I think the people of my dreams are often more real than the living -about me. They come and go, sweet or terrible. Was it one of them left -Baptiste to die in the tree! Oh, monsieur, monsieur! if I could learn -it--that I was not guilty of his death! Or if I could die myself and -atone!” - -She buried her face in her hands. - -“Now,” thought Ned, “shall I tell her the truth--that, practically, -she is not guilty?” - -“No,” muttered the little Belial voice in his ear; “what value lies in -the practical significance? The moral is the truth. Besides, are you -so sure that her imagination is not at this moment calculating its -probable effects on you? Think of her consummate and enduring art in -affecting a character, in playing a part.” - -The frost of scepticism nipped his pretty burgeon of pity. He hardened -his heart and drew back again. - -“Die!” he said, with a little caustic laugh; “well, for one of your -imagination, it should be easy in these days to devise a quite lawful -means of introduction to Monsieur Sanson.” - -She glanced up at him quickly, with a look of agony; then drooped her -head and said no more. A second long silence fell between them. But -by-and-by Ned found himself restlessly driven to open upon her again. - -“What happened after I had left you that time?” - -She seemed to wake to his voice, shuddering out of some scaring dream. - -“My God! they sought for me; they burned my lodge; they killed my poor -_génisse_. They would have crucified me like the thieves; but I hid, -and escaped in the night.” - -She paused. “Go on,” he said. - -“I fled into the woods. There, when I was lost and near starving, I -fell, by God’s blessing, upon the Cagots who had once before visited -our parts. They were returned, making their way towards Paris because -of the cry of equality. They had lost their child; it had been hunted -by boys, and had died of the ill-treatment. They were alone, those -two, and they took me in and fed me; and by-and-by, when it was safe -for me to move, I went with them on their journey to the great city.” - -“Great God!” cried Ned, striking in in sheer amazement. “And these -were they upon whom you allowed suspicion of the murder to rest, whom -the merest chance saved from suffering the consequences of a crime of -which you alone were guilty!” - -“But, monsieur--oh, monsieur, I knew, when the cry rose, that they -were gone from the neighbourhood. And, indeed, they are always so -execrated that it could make no difference.” - -Ned sank back in his chair. - -“Well?” he said, with a veritable groan. - -“I went with them; and we were long, long by the way; and on the way -the woman also died. I think it was of nothing less than starvation. -Then the man and I came on alone to Paris, and Théroigne met us, and -took me from him.” - -“And the woman died of want, and it never occurred to you that you -were a burden on those whom you had--oh, God, how to unravel this -warp! Hold your tongue, Nicette! Let there be silence between us, in -pity’s name!” - -She shrunk down as if she had been struck. Her confidences, it seemed, -were of no avail to move him. - -But presently he spoke again-- - -“Why, last night--when I accused you before the woman, your -friend--did you not give me the lie? She would have taken your word -before mine.” - -And she answered, in the very voice of desolation-- - -“Because, if I had lied, I should have lost you.” - -He leapt to his feet. - -“I cannot breathe or think!” he cried. “I must leave you--I must go -out!” - -As he hurried from the room, she dragged herself to his empty chair, -and threw her arms about it with a moan of agony. - - * * * * * * * * - -All day he wandered through the streets, and only returned home when -darkness had closed many hours upon the city. “She will be in bed by -now,” he thought. - -The firelight made a glow about the room, revealing it untenanted. He -sat himself down before the hearth, feeling utterly weary and -vanquished. He had done nothing, planned nothing as to the girl’s -removal. His brain seemed incapable of concentrated thought. - -“I should have lost you--should have lost you.” The cry had been drawn -into his very veins. It adapted itself to his pulses--to the knocking -of his heart. What was to be the answer? - -This, it seemed--a white figure that stole from the bedroom--crept -into the firelight--crouched down on the floor beside him and took his -unresisting hand. He felt the tremulous clutch, and dared not move. He -felt his hand kissed, pressed against warm, bare flesh--felt a hot -trickle lace it. - -The paroxysm of emotion ceased, and then suddenly she spoke, -whispering-- - -“It can never be?” - -“Never,” he said low. - -He knew, through the utmost conviction of his stricken soul, that it -was all wrong and impossible--that he _must_ answer as he had done. - -He felt a quiver pass through her frame. She spoke again in a moment. - -“My sin--I know it--holds us apart. I have not atoned, and, until I -have, it holds us apart. Do you think, monsieur, Baptiste has forgiven -me?” - -“I think he has, Nicette.” - -“But you cannot--not yet, though I love you so dearly. Perhaps I -should not love you so well if you could. Yet it seems a strange thing -to me why you helped me at all.” - -He half rose from his chair; but she gently detained him, and he sank -down again. - -“You must go back to bed, Nicette. We will talk it all over -to-morrow.” - -“To-morrow?” she said. “Shall we be any nearer one another to-morrow?” - -He shook his head. A very little sigh escaped her. - -“You will be kind and generous to me, I know; but you will give me no -moment again such as this I have stolen. And I have stolen your bed -too, monsieur; but you must take it from me now, and lie in the warm -nest I have made for you--it is such a little of myself, it will not -matter to you--and _I_ will sleep here before the fire.” - -He got now resolutely to his feet. - -“Nicette, it is folly. You must return to bed, I tell you. I am going -out again for the night. To-morrow, I say, we will try to settle -matters for the best.” - -She clung to him yet as he moved, letting him even pull her a step -forward on her knees. - -“One thing--just one last thing. I shall like you to know, when I am -gone--some day, when I am gone--that I died a maid.” - -Her face, in the shadow, was turned up to him. The firelight made an -aureole of her hair. He could feel her whole body heaving against his -hand. - -“Will you kiss me once?” she said. - -He was conscious of a choking in his throat, and beat down the emotion -fiercely. - -“No,” he muttered; “it would imply something that must not be.” - -She sank back away from him. Without another word he turned and left -her. - -In the street the frost snapped at him like the very watchdog of -desolation. He huddled his cloak about him with a shudder as he faced -it. - -“It is for the best,” he thought. “To be away--from the terror of my -own weakness! Any _auberge_ will serve for the night.” - -He strode a few paces, crunching over the snow, and stopped. - -“I might, at least, have quitted her of the worst of her remorse. It -would have been a little return for such love--my God, such love!” - -Should he go back at once and tell her that she was guiltless of the -little brother’s actual death? - -“Fool!” whispered Belial, still reasoning with him. “Does her love for -you alter the moral? And will you, an emotional bearer of forgiveness, -escape so easily a second time? The warm nest in the bed, fool!” - -He turned, and refaced the chill emptiness of the night. - -“I must not,” he thought. “She shall know the truth to-morrow.” - - - - - CHAPTER XVII. - -The morrow--that is always, by some alchemistic process, to convert -the drossy problems of the night into liquid gold--greeted Ned with -leaden untransmutable skies, that were only too representative of the -irresolvable heaviness of his own thoughts. He looked out of his grimy -window of the little tavern on which he had quartered himself, and saw -the yellow of an almost substantial atmosphere sandwiched between a -sagged grey welkin and a world of livid snow; and he saw no prospect, -in that before him, of any illumination of his dull perplexity. - -He dressed, breakfasted, and presently went out into the streets. The -desire to postpone that hour of inevitable struggle with an allurement -which, he dreaded, in his present condition of emotional bewilderment, -he would be unable to resist, drove him to take a rambling course to -his lodgings. - -He had gone down to the Quay of the Thuilleries, and was turning into -the gardens, when his attention was drawn to a man who rose from a -bench at the moment, and greeted him with a timid ejaculation of -delight. - -He stopped, somewhat impatiently--started, stared, and uttered an -exclamation in his turn. For, in the ragged, large-boned stranger, who -was looking at him from eyes that held the very spirit of patient -deprecation, he recognised all at once the poor pariah of a long-past -experience--the Cagot whom he had befriended in the woods of -Méricourt. - -He held out his hand in a sudden rush of emotion. The man advanced, -bent down, and touched it reverently. - -“Monsieur!” murmured the poor creature, “it is the sunshine breaking.” - -Ned regarded him with infinite humble pity. The thought of the charity -so large; of the humanity so rare and so remote from that proclaimed -in the windy casuistries of liberators, who would use its name rather -as a war-cry than as a message of peace; the thought of how this -outcast, reflecting in his selfless chivalry the very altruism of the -Man of Sorrow, had recently helped and protected a member of the race -that had made him so, was like a cool breath on his troubled brain. - -“I think it is--I hope it is,” he said gently. - -He put his hand on the shoulder of the gaunt figure. The man was -buttoned against the bitter cold into the mere scarecrow of a jacket. -His feet were bare and scarred with blood; his cheeks, his flesh -wherever seen--and that was in more places than custom -prescribes--were fallen in upon a frame accordant with the strong soul -that inhabited there. - -“And so,” said Ned, “you are alone at last in the world.” - -The man looked up, an expression of wonder on his face. - -“How did monsieur know? _Aïe_, it is true! I am alone. We were on our -way hither in quest of the new liberty; and God, pitying her weary -feet, gave it her when but half the journey was done.” - -“And the little child? Oh, my friend--perhaps she heard the little -child crying for her in the night?” - -“It is true, monsieur. But they will never be able to play birds’-fly -or shadow-buff in the moonlight up there without me. The rogue and the -little mother! And I hear them talking all the night through, -wondering when I shall come.” - -“And you do not complain?” - -“Why should I complain? They are so safe at last. Think what it would -have meant to them had God called me first.” - -“Yes, yes. And--what is your name? You have never told me your name.” - -“It is Laurent, monsieur. One is enough for us Cagots.” - -“Laurent; what has become of the woman you brought, of your charity, -to Paris?” - -“Merciful God! Monsieur is a wizard. Indeed, she found her reward in -the meeting with an old friend, who took her away from me.” - -“Her reward!” - -“Ah, monsieur! She was an angel of light to the dying mother. She -prayed with and she sang to her; and sometimes she would, with her -voice, earn a silver livre by the way--enough, in the end, to buy the -little place of rest in the churchyard.” - -“Laurent, you are starved and frozen. Laurent--do you hear? I also am -alone in the world. You shall come with me, and be my servant and -companion; and we will travel, always travel; until at last, wayworn -and tired, we shall come back, we, too, to the little place of rest.” - -He turned, greatly moved, through the gate into the gardens. - -“Come!” he whispered--then he checked himself, and faced suddenly on -the astonished Cagot. - -“Tell me!” he cried. “What would the Cagot think of him that wilfully -withheld her soul’s cure from a poor shameful woman that loved him?” - -“That he feared--that he feared, monsieur.” - -“Feared what?” - -“To discharge his enemy from her thrall.” - -“I said she loved him.” - -“Yes, women love their oppressors; but it is a love that in its hour -of retaliation will ask a return in kindness for every blow given. -What shall be the fate of the man, then, when he kisses each bruise?” - -Ned dwelt on the patient face in some astonishment. - -“Philosopher,” he said, “wilt thou take service with me?” - -“Monsieur takes my breath away. It is too wonderful to be true.” - -“The truth, I think, Laurent, is always wonderful. Come--hurry thou! -I, at least, will profit by this lesson to go and tell it.” - -“And to kiss the bruises, monsieur?” - -Ned did not answer, but turned once more and entered the gardens, the -Cagot following at his heels. - -A clamour of voices that had come distantly wafted to them as they -passed through the gate took volume with every step they advanced. -Suddenly, breaking from a little park of trees into one of the long, -snow-covered walks that enfiladed the gardens east and west, the cause -of the tumult was revealed to them in the vision of a dozen or so -infuriate tricoteuses, priestesses of St Antoine, who were hurrying in -their direction, driving a single woman, like a scapegoat, in their -front. - -At first Ned, distinguishing nothing definitely, saw only exemplified -in this throng of vicious wives, with its rabble of inhuman brats -hooting and pervading it, one of those exacerbated paroxysms of the -mania of Fraternity that were of such frequent occurrence nowadays as -to confound the very heart of autonomy. But, as the horde came into -focus, and he paused to gather the import of its vehemence--all in a -moment the truth leapt upon him, and he uttered a cry and sprang into -the road. - -For he had recognised, in the subject of all this raging ferment, no -less a person than the erst-Amazon, Théroigne herself. - -Her black hair floated loose; her eyes were alight with shame and -terror; her bodice hung in strips from her waist. She hurried towards -him, maddening and moaning, and, as she ran, the harpies scourged her -bare shoulders with the leathern belts they had torn from their -waists. - -He rushed to intercept her flight. She saw--tried to evade him; then -instantly she leapt to recognition, clutched, and fell prone at his -feet. - -He stood over her, while she shrieked and wailed incoherently; he -warded off the rain of lashes, receiving much of it on his own arms -and body. - -“Beasts!” he yelled; “how has she deserved this infernal treatment?” - -The air blattered with their imprecations. - -“The traitress! the reactionary! the _putain_ of Brissot!” - -The thongs whistled; the mob circumgyrated; the uproar waxed -murderous. In the heat and menace of it a sudden new ally appeared in -the midst. - -“Courage, master!” he cried; and seizing off his ragged jacket, he -flung it over the victim’s bleeding shoulders, and turned upon the -rabble. - -“See here!” he shouted, and struck his left breast with his hand. - -Upon the echo the nearest of the pack fell away, shouldering into the -throng behind them. - -“The duck’s foot!” went up a shriek: “it is a Cagot--a Cagot!” - -Ned, in his fury, could actually laugh. - -“It is a brother, sisters of the confraternity!” he cried. - -They were baffled only for the moment. If they dared not touch, they -could fling. There were heavy stones in plenty under the snow. They -were already stooping to gather them, when a fresh diversion occurred. -A patrol of the national guard broke into the rabble and disintegrated -it. - -At once arose a clamour of demands, retorts and counter-retorts, -shrieking denunciations. Ned awaited the issue in perfect coolness. -Suddenly a couple of _gens-d’armes_ approached and collared him. - -“You arrest me, messieurs?” - -“Certainly, citizen.” - -“But I am an Englishman, and have done nothing but help a woman in -distress.” - -“That is well, then. It will serve thee, no doubt, before the -commissary.” - -“What commissary?” - -“We are of the section of the _Croix Blanche_. Forward, citizen!” - -He was marched off to a volley of execrations. The Cagot was driven, -in likewise, amidst pointing bayonets. A party of soldiers then lifted -the prostrate woman, surrounded and urged her forward. She went, -babbling and dancing. She was the virgin to whom the vision of -Méricourt had been vouchsafed. She was the Mother of God herself. The -guard chuckled coarse jests over her ravings; the mob surrounded all, -going with them and spitting fury at the accursed. - -Ned resigned himself to the inevitable. Only it distressed him, -whenever he thought of it, to picture the lonely figure in his -chambers awaiting its reprieve. The moment he was released he must -hurry to it and acquit it of its trouble. - -Once he called over his shoulder to the Cagot, “Thou shalt not lack a -new coat, and without a badge, presently. Courage, my friend! Remember -that thou art reborn into the year one of liberty and equality, sacred -and indivisible.” - -“Hold thy tongue!” growled a sergeant. - -“I have spoken,” said the Englishman. - -Their progress, by way of the Quays, and so round, by the Place de -Grève, into the Rue St Antoine, made small stir amongst the few -passengers abroad in the bitter weather. They were hurried, traversing -a medley of little streets, into one--the Rue Pavée--very gloomy and -noisome; and from this they were suddenly wheeled, leaving the crowd -stranded without, into the courtyard of a sinister dark building--the -Hôtel de la Force. - -Ned’s heart sickened before the recent associations of the place. -Involuntarily he drew back. - -“Up, then!” cried the sergeant, shouldering him on. “It is sometimes -safer to enter than to leave here.” - -He pulled himself together and mounted a flight of steps leading to a -narrow door. The woman passed in before him--passed there and then out -of his life. He never saw her again. From that hour, to the day of her -death twenty years later, she raved and rotted in a maniac’s cell. She -had become, indeed, Mater Tenebrarum. Blood-guilt and vanity had -undermined a reason that was already shaken, before the humiliation of -that public chastisement came to finally overthrow it. She died in the -Salpétrière--in the very prison that had witnessed the triumph of -her vengeance. And the spirit of her victim, blown in the moonlit -nights against the bars of her cell, might cling to them like a bat, -and peer in, and take its evil rapture of the retribution that had -consigned her to that one haunted spot out of all the haunted city. - -Ned--carried into a dusky vestibule, and thence into a little side -office where he must await, under guard, the commissary’s -pleasure--was ushered, after no great interval, into the presence of -that tremendous functionary. He found him a young man--rather a -revolutionary _blondin_--military and fastidious, with a nose as -high-bridged as the fifth proposition in Euclid, and an under-jaw like -a griffin’s. He was seated in an elbow-chair in the front of his men. -The Cagot, under care of a turnkey, stood before and well away from -him; and between him and the Cagot a soldier held out a burning -pastile on the point of a bayonet. He made a little gesture to the -new-comer, almost as if he were kissing his finger-tips, and addressed -him at once in a lisping voice. - -“Your name, if you please?” - -Ned satisfied him. - -“Citizen Edward Murk,” he said, waving away the superfluous title with -a scented hand, “thou art accused of interfering with the processes of -the law and inciting to a riot.” - -Ned exploded immediately. - -“The law, monsieur! But I interfered in vindication of it.” - -“How, then? Didst thou not oppose thyself to the people’s will?” - -“To their violence, rather.” - -“It was their will, nevertheless; and the people’s will is the law. -Therefore thou opposedst the law.” - -“It is a new law, that, monsieur.” - -“Truly. It dates from the year one.” - -“Of Fraternity? And what has the law one of Fraternity to say to my -servant here?” - -He indicated the dazed Laurent. The commissary lifted his passionless -eyebrows. - -“This man is, I understand, a Cagot--(another pastile, Benoît)--a -Cagot, sir; and yet he will venture into the public ways, gloveless -and without shoes.” - -“Thus poisoning what he touches, you will say. Monsieur, it is a -superstition. This year one is surely no better than other years the -first--than other opening pages to our periodic new ledgers of -reform--if we carry forward into it a tyrannical superstition.” - -“What has that to do with the matter? This is a man----” - -“It is indeed, monsieur,” answered Ned sharply. He was growing -impatient of this meaningless arraignment. He had other and more -important business to attend to. He looked into the vacuous young -face. - -“Is not this all inapplicable?” he said. “I tell monsieur that the man -is my servant; that we saw a woman suffering ill-treatment; that we -went to her assistance humanely and without violence. We are guilty of -no assault, no resistance to or outrage against any law, either of the -year one or of the year one thousand and one; and I must ask monsieur -to discharge us on the simple facts of the case.” - -He took, it is to be acknowledged, the wrong way with a fool. - -“I know nothing of the year one thousand and one,” said the officer, -with feeble irony. “It was before my time.” - -“Doubtless,” snapped in Ned, “monsieur was born yesterday.” - -The commissary, supporting his right elbow with his left hand, sank -back in his chair, pinched his callow throat into a bag, and closed -his eyes. - -“The simple facts,” he said--as if reasoning with himself, as the one -most needing the lesson of reason--“are that you have defied the -authority of the plebiscite.” - -“Good heavens!” cried Ned. - -The officer coming upright again, his lids, in the act, seemed to open -mechanically, like those of a doll. - -“I must tell you plainly,” he said, “that, to my mind, your -interference was questionable and suspicious.” - -“Believe me, sir,” said Ned politely, “that, in quoting your own mind, -you use an empty argument.” - -“You state,” continued the commissary, “that this man is your servant. -Who ever heard of a respectable person taking a Cagot for a servant!” - -There rose murmured acclamations from the bystanders. This was the -first really apposite thing uttered by the officer. He seemed greatly -stimulated by the applause, and moved thereby to clinch a fine -situation. - -“I shall remand you,” he said quite briskly, “for inquiries to be made -into the truth of your statements.” - -Ned stared, then burst out in a fury-- - -“It is monstrous, monsieur; it is ridiculous! You have only to listen -a moment to what I say--to accept my references to a dozen of the -first standing in the city, to assure yourself of my identity.” - -The commissary waved his hand. Obedient to the gesture, a couple of -Guards closed upon their captive. - -“I take nothing from you,” he said. “In accepting your references I -might constitute myself a receiver of stolen goods.” - -It was an inspiration. He looked up, with a gasp, into the faces of -those about him, to read in their expressions if it were possible that -he himself could have said this thing. It was true he had. There must -be no anticlimax. - -“Take the prisoner away!” he said, smilingly self-conscious, as if he -were ordering a table to be cleared for a fresh surprise-course. - -Ned, protesting, threatening, fulminating, was forced from the room, -hurried down a passage, and thrust into a little dark chamber that led -therefrom. The sound of a key grating in its lock fell disagreeably -upon his ears. Only a thin wash of light reached him from a single -barred window high up under the ceiling. A couple of crippled -chairs--together, it might be said, with an almost palpable smell of -drains--formed the only furniture of the room. The wall-paper moulted -its gaudy dyes, or hung in strips from the plaster; the floor was -littered with perished rags of parchment. Evidently the closet had -been at one time some office connected with the prison records--a -dreary mad reflection to any one remembering to what recent use those -records had been put. - -Ned sank down upon one of the chairs, and, for the moment, looked -about him quite stunned and aghast. - - * * * * * * * * - -Up and down, up and down, by the hour together. The morning had drawn -to noon, the noon to evening; and still he was confined, with only an -indefinite prospect of release. It was hideous, it was outrageous; yet -the humour of it all might have buoyed him up against the moment of -his liberation, had not his soul--in its present condition, -introspective and self-torturing--so writhed in exquisite anguish over -a never-ceasing fear, or foreboding, of _something_--some vague -disaster that, it seemed to him, his prolonged absence from home must -precipitate. To this something he would, or could, give no name; but -his thoughts circled round the shadow of it, feigning a self-assurance -that there was no core of significance therein to terrify them--yet -terrified nevertheless. - -At the first he had flattered himself that mid-day, or thereabouts, -would bring him his deliverance. The whole incident was so -preposterous that, under the burden of his more private affairs, he -would not consider it seriously. But, as the morning passed, and the -chill dark day drew on, his anger and anxiety increased upon him to -such an extent that he might hardly restrain himself from giving them -childish expression in a furious onslaught on the panels of his door. - -He refrained, however, and, listening at the keyhole instead, was -presently aware of the regular tramp of a sentry in the passage. -By-and-by, when the footsteps came opposite him, he kicked out and -hailed-- - -“Hullo, there!” - -The man stopped. - -“_Qu’as-tu_?” he growled. “_Ne t’emporte pas, citoyen_.” - -“My temper!” shouted Ned; “but I shall likely lose my senses if I am -left longer without food.” - -“As to that,” said the sentry--and broke off and retreated. - -In a very little while the key turned once more, and a jailer entered -with a platter of uninviting scraps. - -“Take the filth away!” cried Ned furiously. “Thou canst procure me -something fit to eat, I suppose?” - -“Surely, for the paying, citizen.” - -“Go, then!” - -He commissioned the man, and then must drag out another half-hour, -awaiting the fellow’s reappearance. At length the latter returned, -bearing a basket containing a cold fowl, bread, and a bottle of red -wine. - -“Now, monsieur jaquemart,” said Ned, as he tackled the provender, “how -long is permitted to this farce in the playing?” - -“I do not understand you.” - -“Why, a joke is a joke; but I would have you go and explain to our -pleasant commissary, of the Section Croix Blanche, that brevity is the -soul of wit.” - -“Again, I do not understand.” - -Ned wagged his finger at the man. - -“I have submitted to this outrage very patiently; but, I warn you, -there will be reprisals by-and-by.” - -“That is all one to me.” - -“Wilt thou take a message from me to the commissary?” - -“He has left the prison these many hours.” - -“And, when to return?” - -The jailer shrugged his shoulders. - -“Perhaps to-morrow--at any time, or not at all.” - -Ned jumped to his feet, upsetting the basket. - -“What!” he shrieked. Then, in a moment, realising the practical fact -of his isolation--realising all that was implied by it--he fell upon -his agitation and smothered it. - -“My friend,” he said, “wilt thou convey a letter for me?” - -“That depends.” - -“Naturally. See, then” (he fetched out a pencil; tore a square from -the white paper that lined his basket of provisions)--“I write to the -citizen Vergniaud--dating my _billet_, ‘_Prison of La Force_’--these -words: ‘_I am detained here on a ridiculous charge. In the name of -sanity, come at once and release me--Murk_.’ I put the paper in your -hands; as I will put a _louis-d’or_ when you stand before me with the -answer.” - -The jailer’s eyes twinkled. Said he-- - -“I go off duty after the ‘Evening Gazette’ is issued. The citizen may -depend upon me.” - -Ned groaned. - -“Well,” he said, “what can’t be cured must be endured. But, the -earlier the respite, the more generous my acknowledgment.” - -He was locked in again; the sentry resumed his tramp; the little -window under the ceiling dusked like a drowsing eyelid. - -Presently, drugged by utter weariness of brain and nerve, he dozed on -one of the rickety chairs, and woke to the glare of a candle, and the -presence of his friendly jailer in the room. - -“Behold my despatch, citizen!” - -He seized the scrap of paper (that bearing his own message), and read, -scribbled on the back of it, “I fly to the succour of my dear friend -the very moment I may quit myself of a little present business of -urgency.” - -“Here are thy vails,” said Ned, in a tone of glad relief; “and leave -me the candle, my friend. I shall not need it long.” - - * * * * * * * * - -Up and down--up and down. The shape of the window under the ceiling -became intimate to the desolate character of the room, rather than to -that segment of the free sky without which it had once appropriated to -itself. It was like a regard turned inwards--an eye glazing in the -trance of self-inquisition; and as such it was illustrative of the -vision of the tormented soul it imprisoned from light. - -Up and down. The candle had long guttered and fallen upon itself; his -only ray of comfort from the outer world came in a stretched thread of -lamp-shine under the door. Dark night had crept upon him, with the -screak and thunder of slamming oak and iron, and an increased emotion, -rather than a sense, of muffled deep confinement; and still the -respite delayed, and must now delay, he was sick to think, until the -morrow. - -For, at last the voices of introspection, that all day he had striven, -yet feared, to interpret, were become soul-audible sounds in the -tenseness of black silence; and at last his brain was clearing, -throwing truth, like a precipitate, into his heart. - -How in two days had the flood of destiny burst, obliterating all his -ancient landmarks! He was carried down like a dead thing. Should he -drift, then?--or, if not, where strand and crawl ashore, a fragment of -human wreck? “I clutch and stop myself,” he thought; “scramble out; -lie half blind upon a little island of rest. The flood still washes my -feet; but I will not yield to it. Then slowly it subsides; the old -beautiful landmarks reveal themselves--soiled and stained, perhaps; -but, they are dear to me, and I would not have my retrospect without -them.” - -He paced wildly to and fro again. - -“I have been in the flood. What madness has it wrought in me!” - -“Pamela!” he whispered aloud in great emotion--“Pamela!” - -Yet his soul--though he believed it steadfast to its allegiance -through all the numbing thunder of the race on which it had been -borne--was rent by conflicting devils; for must not his sympathies at -least extend to one who nursed a hopeless passion? - -“Oh!” he groaned in his heart, “if, upon my release, I could only find -her gone, on her own initiative, out of my life!” - -“And so to leave you a heritage of everlasting remorse,” the fiends -would cry. - -One moment he would be the brutal tyrant, another the slave to his own -nature of kindness. He was, indeed, in a pitiable state of -indetermination. And always, marking off the crawling hours, that -sense of inner foreboding pattered loud or soft like the ticking of a -death-watch. - -Pamela and Théroigne and Nicette! Vanity and vanity and vanity. And -one Love had claimed, and one the hell of passion, and one---- - -He threw himself upon the floor, blaspheming, hugging himself in the -ecstasy of this protracted torment. - -At last, completely worn out, he fell asleep. - -He awoke, having slumbered, despite the hardness of his couch, far -into the morning. He could only recollect himself and his -circumstances with a mastering effort. Sitting up, he saw his jailer -standing by a little table that he had brought into the room. - -“What is that for?” he said. - -“The citizen’s meals.” - -“Meals! Good God! And has not the commissary yet touched his acme of -folly? Has not M. Vergniaud yet called to effect my release?” - -The man shook his head. - -“Where did you overtake him?” said Ned desperately. “What was he doing -that was so urgent when you delivered to him my note?” - -“He was conducting the actress Simon-Candeille to the theatre. I heard -madame engage him to a _p’tit-souper_ when the play was over.” - -Ned turned away, sick at heart; then flashed round upon the man again -in a fury. - -“The beast! the philosophic egoist! Thou must carry him another -message from me.” - -“Truly, when I can,” said the jailer. - -It must be when he could. In the meantime the distracted captive was -faced by the prospect of fresh long hours of cold, gloom, and anxiety. -Again the morning dawdled on to mid-day, to the desolate turn from -noon. His lunch was brought in by a stranger turnkey, taciturn and -unapproachable. Ned let him go without a commission. His agitation -could not stomach food. - -At last, when, about four o’clock in the afternoon, he was feeling -that, unless soon relieved, he must pay with his reason for that -little act of humane interference, steps sounded coming hurriedly down -the corridor, the key turned in the lock, the door was flung open, and -there entered the room--the young lord, Pamela’s betrothed. - -He was full of quick manliness and pity. - -“My dear lord!” he cried--“my dear lord!” - -He took Ned’s hand; wrung it with hard, sympathetic fervour. - -“I was with Vergniaud and Tommy Paine last night, after your note had -been received by the minister. It is the vilest piece of official -insolence! Vergniaud will make hell about it; I will make hell. He was -frantically engaged at the time, and begged me to represent him in -this release of his dear friend. A certain lady was deeply concerned -this morning to hear about it. She would drive me down by-and-by on -the way to her dressmaker. I have come the moment I was able; have -made inquiries, learnt the truth, procured the release of your -servant, and given these scoundrels a foretaste of what they are to -expect.” - -He was amazingly frank and cordial. For a moment Ned was stupefied -from any thought of response. He looked into the handsome, intelligent -face, and a dull realisation of his own inefficiency as a suitor -possessed him. “Would this romantic Fortunatus,” might have been his -fancy, “have ever committed himself to a situation so ridiculous as -this of mine?” His lordship was of the soldierly type, very upright -and spruce. He wore at his neck a kerchief of the green that was later -to bring him into trouble. And the unhappy prisoner, for a contrast, -was haggard, unshorn, unkempt--his coat dusted with litter from the -floor. - -“I can’t find words to thank you,” muttered Ned at last. - -“Faith,” cried the other cheerily, “ye’ve scattered your vocabulary, I -shouldn’t wonder. Come, then, to the rogues at the gate, and I’ll help -ye out with a loan.” - -Ned drew back from the proffered grasp. - -“No,” he said--“no!” - -Then he passed his hand before his eyes. - -“Your lordship must excuse me. This suspense--it hath driven me half -mad. I am just a caged rat, flying the instant the spring is raised. -Mistress Pamela, and my prompt, affectionate Vergniaud! Their -disinterested consideration for me--and yours, my lord, yours--they -touch me to the quick. I have such friends--Madame Simon-Candeille, -possibly, among the number. But I am at the last stage of anxiety and -agitation. I have no thought for the moment but to escape, and alone. -I beg your lordship to forgive my apparent discourtesy, and to let me -pass. God knows, it may be too late even now.” - -The other, looking very much surprised and offended, bowed and drew -away. - -“As your lordship pleases,” said he. - -And at that, Ned, without another word, his face as stiff as a mask, -staggered past him, hurried out into the corridor, sped down it, and -made unaccosted for the street. - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII. - -Snow, soft, dazzling, bewildering, was again falling in the streets -as Ned, a spectre of desperation, hurried along them. The city was all -one strung movement of flakes--cloud materialising, phantoms blocking -the widest and the least avenues of hope. The soulless persistency of -them numbed his heart, blinded his eyes. He stumbled as he went, -feeling like one who, in a nightmare, frantically strives forward -without advancing. - -Pamela, and Théroigne, and Nicette! The one on the way to her -dressmaker’s; the one buried--naked, and buried alive; the third----! - -He moaned as he struggled onward. People passing him looked back with -eyes askew in butting heads, and grimaced, and went on their way with -pharisaic self-congratulations. - -At length, uttering a breathing sigh of relief, he stood before the -door of his lodgings, paused a moment, mounted the steps, and entered. -Instantly he knew, before a word had been spoken, that he was come -upon the _something_, the _real presence_ of the dread that had -haunted him so long. It was in the atmosphere--behind him, overhead, -to one side or the other--never confronting him--a ghost, sibilant -with babble, diabolic with tickling laughter. He went up the stairs, -swiftly, panic-stricken, and so, softly, into his sitting-room. It was -quiet as death; yet a bodiless rustle, he could have thought, preceded -him as he passed into the room beyond. All there was neat, formal, -accustomed. Only a little heap of girl’s clothes lay on the bed--a -neatly disposed small pile of stuffs and linen, with a pair of buckled -shoes at the top. - -He gasped, as if he had been struck over the heart. There was -something here so intimate to the story of a pitifully misdirected -life. The shoes seemed to have taken the shape of the feet that had -pursued him so far and at last, it seemed, so despairingly. The -linen--he bent and pressed his cheek to it. It was fragrant--as was -everything personal to Nicette--but it was cold. How long had she been -gone? He had his wish, then. She had taken the initiative. He was free -to nurse his memories unvexed of a regard so misplaced. He could raise -his head and stand acquitted before his ancient ideals. - -He drooped his head, rather. He was weak and overwrought. The strain -upon him during the last three days had been so extreme that perhaps -his moral vision was impaired. - -A sound coming from the adjoining room startled him. Was it she -returned? He winked down fiercely something that had gathered -unaccountably in his eyes, cleared his throat, and strode forth. - -The landlord, Theophilus--that was all. But the little man’s face was -smock-white, his curls hung limp, his eye-places were grey with fear. - -He had closed the door behind him. - -“Monsieur!” he whispered. “My God, where hast thou been?” - -“What is the matter?” - -“Monsieur’s young friend! Has he not heard of her?” - -“Well; she is gone, I suppose?” - -“Ay--_mon Dieu Jésus_!--to the guillotine.” - -Ned fell back. There seemed to rise a roaring in his ears. - -“Hush!” he said--“listen! They are shrieking for her. I must go!” - -His face was ghastly. But the thundering voice sank and ceased, and he -knew that he had been dreaming. - -“What was that you said, my Théophile?” he asked, with a little -insane chuckle over his own fancifulness. - -“It was yesterday morning, monsieur. You had gone out the previous -night, and had not returned. I heard her leave the house after -breakfast. I looked forth. Pitiful Mother! she was clad in the rags of -her arrival. Her feet were bare. They budded from the snow, the very -frosted flowers of a too-trustful spring. She stood a moment, then -went off. _Hélas_! it was not for me to speak, but----” - -“Well?” said Ned, in a gripping voice of iron. He was himself again, -but with death at his heart. - -“I can speak only from the evidence. In the afternoon I looked into -the Salle de la Liberté, as I sometimes will, to hear the cases that -were on. There was a little excitement about a girl who had been -seized that morning in one of the passages of the Palais de Justice -with a long knife in her hand. She had made no secret of the fact that -it was her intention to assassinate one or other of the judges as they -came forth at mid-day. She was brought in for trial while I was there. -I swear--my God, monsieur! I swear I had no shadowy thought of the -truth. It was monsieur’s young friend. I shrank into an angle of the -court, in agony lest she should see and endeavour to implicate me.” - -“Thou needst not have feared, I think--thou needst not have feared.” - -“Monsieur, she made no defence. ‘_Vive la tyrannie_!’ she cried, ‘I -love the aristocrats!’ (Ah, praise to heaven, monsieur, that she put -it in the plural!) ‘I would sooner be spurned by one,’ she said, ‘than -exalted by an upstart chicaneur.’ That was a stroke at the Public -Accuser. ‘Maybe thou shalt be exalted, nevertheless,’ said he, ‘to a -prominent place. And which of us was it, lover of aristocrats, that -thou design’dst to murder?’ ‘What needs to specify?’ she cried. ‘When -one wants to die, any poisonous snake will serve for one to handle!’” - -A little terrible groan broke from the listener. - -“Monsieur--monsieur!” cried Théophile in emotion. “But they condemned -her--they condemned her. Oh, the poor child! And she revealed nothing; -refused to answer any questions as to her associates, her place of -abode, her manner of life. To-day she was to be taken to the scaffold. -If she has kept silence, we are safe.” - -Ned looked upon the speaker with a shocking expression. - -“If she _has_ kept silence?” he muttered. - -“Monsieur,” said the little man (the tears were trickling down his -lean cheeks), “the carts passed but ten minutes ago. I hurried forth, -and ran till I could get glimpse of them down a side-street. She was -there. She sat with her arms bound, looking up and smiling; and the -snow fell upon her blue eyes, like feathers from the wings of the -angels that fluttered overhead awaiting her.” - -He uttered a little cry, staggered, recovered himself, and clutched -feebly at the figure that drove by him. - -“Monsieur! It is too late--it is useless! In God’s name do nothing to -compromise us!--monsieur!” - -He followed, sobbing and piping, down the stairs. The rush passed from -him; the door slammed back in his face. - -“_Mon Dieu_!” he wailed to himself, “he will ruin all!” - -Ned tore upon his way. To see--to gain speech with her, if only at the -foot of the scaffold--“Oh, merciful Christ! not so to make this agony -everlasting!” - -He sobbed and panted as he ran: “You didn’t kill him! You didn’t kill -him!” He kept crying it, as if he thought his hurrying voice might -reach her before ever his feet could cover the distance. Once he -pictured her--the soft sinning child that had whispered to him, -kissing his hand that night in the hot still secrecy of the -room--under the hands of the callous ruffian who had spoken with him -from the guillotine, and his wild prayers swung into frightful -blasphemies. Some of the few he met in his headlong rush shrunk from -him, leaving him the road. Others, who appeared likely to obstruct his -passage, he cursed as he fled by. They were all ghosts to him, -glimmering, impalpable--flashing past in a white foam of flakes. - -At length he broke into the place of the guillotine, and, without -pausing in his mad race, beat the snow from his eyes--and saw. - -Here at least, by reason of the bitter cold, was no gala-day, and the -crowd stood not so thick about the scaffold but that he might charge -into and penetrate it. - -He had reached at last--so his whirling brain interpreted it--the very -congress of all the spectres that had haunted him of late. The silent -dull air was thick with silent threads--busy stitches in a shroud -whose hem was the enceinte of the city. Here a silent white pack stood -looking up at a white yoke. There was no terror in all the scene, save -where, on the platform itself, the boots of the executioners slipped -in a red thaw. - -Then, in a moment, he was aware of her. She rose from the cloud of -white shapes--herself a statue of whiteness--pure at last--and other -white shapes stooped and lifted her. - -He burst through the intervening whiteness--tore his way into the -shroud. - -“Nicette!” he screamed. - -She struggled free for an instant--turned, looked down, and saw him. -Through the rain of flakes the rapture of a deathless passion was -revealed to him. - -The next moment she was fallen prostrate. A whirring silvery wing -swooped upon her. She seemed to break in half, like a woman of snow. - - THE END. - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES. - -The 1899 Dodd, Mead & Co. edition was consulted for many of the -following corrections. - -Alterations to the text: - -Add TOC. - -A few punctuation corrections: missing commas/periods, quotation mark -pairing, etc. - -Note: minor spelling and hyphenization inconsistencies (_e.g._ -unnamable/unnameable, seaport/sea-port, meadow-path/meadow path, etc.) -have been preserved. - -[Book I/Chapter XIII] - -Change “his innate _migivings_ must once more gather” to _misgivings_. - -[Book I/Chapter XX] - -“and accepted his to her _carrriage_” to _carriage_. - -[Book II/Chapter II] - -“I sink, Was there evaire the time when” change comma to period. - -“this same wife lay _adying_” to _a-dying_. - -[Book II/Chapter XV] - -“committed himself to the _hoplessness_ of slumber” to _hopelessness_. - -[Book II/Chapter XVI] - -“turned upon her in _uttter_ desperation” to _utter_. - -“Oh, _monsier_, monsieur! if I could learn it” to _monsieur_. - - [End of Text] - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUR LADY OF DARKNESS *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Our Lady of Darkness</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Bernard Edward Joseph Capes</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: October 7, 2021 [eBook #66489]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUR LADY OF DARKNESS ***</div> - -<h2> -EPIGRAPH. -</h2> - -<p> -“She is the defier of God. She is also the mother of lunacies, and the -suggestress of suicides. Deep lie the roots of her power; but narrow -is the nation that she rules. For she can approach only those in whom -a profound nature has been upheaved by central convulsions; in whom -the heart trembles, and the brain rocks under conspiracies of tempest -from without and tempest from within. ... And her name is Mater -Tenebrarum--Our Lady of Darkness.”—<span class="sc">De Quincey</span>. -</p> - - -<div class="tp"> -<h1> -OUR LADY OF DARKNESS -</h1> - -<i>A NOVEL</i> -<br/><br/> -<span class="font80">BY</span><br/> -BERNARD CAPES<br/> -<span class="font80">AUTHOR OF ‘THE LAKE OF WINE,’ ‘ADVENTURES OF<br/> -THE COMTE DE LA MUETTE,’ ETC.</span> - -<br/><br/><br/><br/> -WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS<br/> -EDINBURGH AND LONDON<br/> -<span class="font80">MDCCCXCIX<br/> -<i>All Rights reserved</i></span> -</div> - - -<h2> -CONTENTS. -</h2> - - -<table summary="Table of Contents"> - -<tr> - <th><a href="#b1">BOOK I.</a></th> - <th><a href="#b2">BOOK II.</a></th> -</tr> -<tr> - <td> -<a href="#b1ch01">CHAPTER I.</a><br/> -<a href="#b1ch02">CHAPTER II.</a><br/> -<a href="#b1ch03">CHAPTER III.</a><br/> -<a href="#b1ch04">CHAPTER IV.</a><br/> -<a href="#b1ch05">CHAPTER V.</a><br/> -<a href="#b1ch06">CHAPTER VI.</a><br/> -<a href="#b1ch07">CHAPTER VII.</a><br/> -<a href="#b1ch08">CHAPTER VIII.</a><br/> -<a href="#b1ch09">CHAPTER IX.</a><br/> -<a href="#b1ch10">CHAPTER X.</a><br/> -<a href="#b1ch11">CHAPTER XI.</a><br/> -<a href="#b1ch12">CHAPTER XII.</a><br/> -<a href="#b1ch13">CHAPTER XIII.</a><br/> -<a href="#b1ch14">CHAPTER XIV.</a><br/> -<a href="#b1ch15">CHAPTER XV.</a><br/> -<a href="#b1ch16">CHAPTER XVI.</a><br/> -<a href="#b1ch17">CHAPTER XVII.</a><br/> -<a href="#b1ch18">CHAPTER XVIII.</a><br/> -<a href="#b1ch19">CHAPTER XIX.</a><br/> -<a href="#b1ch20">CHAPTER XX.</a><br/> -</td> -<td> -<a href="#b2ch01">CHAPTER I.</a><br/> -<a href="#b2ch02">CHAPTER II.</a><br/> -<a href="#b2ch03">CHAPTER III.</a><br/> -<a href="#b2ch04">CHAPTER IV.</a><br/> -<a href="#b2ch05">CHAPTER V.</a><br/> -<a href="#b2ch06">CHAPTER VI.</a><br/> -<a href="#b2ch07">CHAPTER VII.</a><br/> -<a href="#b2ch08">CHAPTER VIII.</a><br/> -<a href="#b2ch09">CHAPTER IX.</a><br/> -<a href="#b2ch10">CHAPTER X.</a><br/> -<a href="#b2ch11">CHAPTER XI.</a><br/> -<a href="#b2ch12">CHAPTER XII.</a><br/> -<a href="#b2ch13">CHAPTER XIII.</a><br/> -<a href="#b2ch14">CHAPTER XIV.</a><br/> -<a href="#b2ch15">CHAPTER XV.</a><br/> -<a href="#b2ch16">CHAPTER XVI.</a><br/> -<a href="#b2ch17">CHAPTER XVII.</a><br/> -<a href="#b2ch18">CHAPTER XVIII.</a><br/> -</td> -</tr> -</table> - - -<h2 id="b1"> -OUR LADY OF DARKNESS.<br/> -BOOK I. -</h2> - -<h3 class="nobreak" id="b1ch01"> -CHAPTER I. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">From</span> two till four o’clock on any summer afternoon during the -penultimate decade of the last century, the Right Honourable Gustavus -Hilary George, third Viscount Murk, Baron Brindle and Knight of the -Stews, with orders of demerit innumerable—and, over his quarterings, -that bar-sinister which would appear to be designed for emphasis of -the fact that the word <i>rank</i> has a double meaning—might be seen (in -emulation of a more notable belswagger) ogling the ladies from the -verandah of his house in Cavendish Square. That this, his lordship’s -daily habit, was rather the expression of an ineradicable -self-complacency than its own justification by results, the appearance -of the withered old applejohn himself gave testimony. For here, in -truth, was a very <i>doyen</i> of dandy-cocks—a last infirmity of -fribbles—a macaroni with a cuticle so hardened by the paint and -powder of near fourscore years as to be impervious to the shafts of -ridicule. He would blow a kiss along the palm of his palsied hand, and -never misdoubt the sure flight of this missive, though his -unmanageable wrist should beat a tattoo on his nose the while; he -would leer through quizzing-glasses of a power to exhibit in horrible -accent the rheum of his eyes; he would indite musky <i>billets-doux</i>, -like meteorological charts, to Dolly or Dorine, and, forgetting their -direction when despatched, would simper over the quiddling replies as -if they were archly amorous solicitations. Upon the truth that is -stranger than fiction he had looked all his life as upon an outer -barbarian, the measure of whose originality was merely the measure of -uncouthness. Nature, in fact, was a dealer of ridiculous limitations; -art, a merchant of inexhaustible surprises. Vanity! he would quote one -fifty instances in support of the fact that it was the spring-head of -all history. Selfishness! was it not the first condition of organic -existence? Make-believe! the whole world’s system of government, from -royalty to rags, was founded upon it. Therefore he constituted himself -understudy to his great prototype of Queensberry; and therefore he -could actually welcome the loss or deterioration of anything bodily -and personal for the reason that it presented him with the opportunity -to substitute mechanical perfection for natural deficiency. Perhaps at -no period of his life had he so realised his ideal of existence as -when, upon his seventy-seventh year, he found himself false—inside -and out—from top to toe. -</p> - -<p> -“Death,” he chuckled, “will be devilish put to it to stab me in a -vital part.” -</p> - -<p> -He said this to his grand-nephew, the orphaned heir-apparent to his -title and moderate estates and to nothing else that he valued. -</p> - -<p> -The young man was, indeed, his uncle’s very antithesis—his butt, his -foil, his aggravation. He, the nephew, considered no doubt that he -held a brief for the other side (truth to oneself, we will call it); -and he was never at great pains to disguise his contempt of a certain -order of licence. Cold, dry, austere, he had yet that observant -faculty that, conceiving of circumstance, may fall pregnant with -either justice or inhumanity. At present, from the height of his -twenty-five years, he looked with a tolerant serenity into the arena -of struggling passions. -</p> - -<p> -“This is all vastly foolish,” was his superior reflection. “Am I -destined to make a practice of turning my thumb up or down?” -</p> - -<p> -Now, on a certain day of ’88, he walked into the house in Cavendish -Square and joined his unvenerable elder on the balcony. -</p> - -<p> -“Give me the parasol, Jepps,” said he. “I will hold it over Lord -Murk’s head.” -</p> - -<p> -The man obeyed, and withdrew. The uncle turned himself about, with a -little feint of protest. -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” he said resignedly, “your chacolate makes a pretty foil to my -azure; and if you must dress like an attorney’s clerk, you hev at -least the unspeakable satisfaction of posing as background to a -gentleman.” -</p> - -<p> -His glasses dangled from his neck by a broad black ribbon. He lifted -them as he spoke, and conned a passing face. -</p> - -<p> -“Egad!” said he, involuntarily extending his left hand as if to -deprecate interruption, “what a form! What a ravishing and seductive -elegance! Strake me, Ned, but if thou wert other than a bran-stuffed -jackalent, I’d send thee thither to canvass for me.” -</p> - -<p> -He scratched his chin testily with one from several little cocked-hat -notes that lay on a chair at his side. His fingers were steeped to the -knuckles in gems; his cheeks, plastered with chalk and rouge, looked -in texture like the dinted covering of honeycomb. Now and again he -would shoot at his young relative a covert glance of extreme dislike. -</p> - -<p> -“Rat thee, Ned!” he exclaimed suddenly; “thou hast a devilish face!” -</p> - -<p> -“’Tis no index to my character, then, sir, I can assure you.” -</p> - -<p> -“You needn’t, egad! There’s a shrewd measure of reserve in these -matters. Show me a face that’s an index and I’ll show you an ass. But -I’d like to learn, as a mere question of curiasity, why you persist in -dressing like a cit, eating at beef ordinaries, and sleeping at some -demned low tavern over against the Cock and Pye ditch?” -</p> - -<p> -“Sure, sir, in this connection at least, you’ll grant me the authority -of fashion?” -</p> - -<p> -“Fashion! Paris fashion! Franklin fashion! But it’s not for the heir -to an English viscountcy to model himself on a Yankee -tallow-chandler.” -</p> - -<p> -“I model myself on the principles of independence, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“Principles, quotha! Why, ’od rat me, Ned, you make me sick. -Principles of independence are like other principals, I -presume—clamorous for high rates of interest.” -</p> - -<p> -“I think not, indeed.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you, indeed? But you’re a convert to the new religion, and rabid, -of course; and a mighty pretty set of priests you’ve got to expound -you your gospels.” -</p> - -<p> -“Who, for an instance?” -</p> - -<p> -The uncle leered round viciously. When he was moved to raise his -voice, old age piped in him like winter in an empty house. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know why I call you Ned,” he protested peevishly. “I don’t -feel it, and it fits you worse than your cravat. Who, for an instance, -Mr Edward Murk? Why, a defaulting exciseman for one, a reskel by the -name of Paine, that writ a pamphlet on Common Sense to prove himself -devoid of it.” -</p> - -<p> -“According to the point of view.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I cry you pardon, sir! I judge from a less exalted one than this -patriarch of principles here.” -</p> - -<p> -“But Voltaire—Diderot, my lord?” -</p> - -<p> -“Gads my life! And now you hev me! A school of incontinent rakes to -reform the warld! And not a man of ’em, I vow, but had drained his -last glass of pleasure before he set to disparaging the feast.” -</p> - -<p> -The nephew was silent. What, indeed, would it profit him to answer? He -looked, with a passionless scrutiny, at the face so near his own. He -could have thought that the old wood, the old block, had shrunk -beneath its veneer, and he had an odd temptation to prod it with his -finger and see if it would crackle. -</p> - -<p> -“Oxford,” snapped his lordship, “is the very market-garden of -self-sufficiency. Thou needst a power of weeding, nephew.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, it’s possible, sir; only I would clear the ground myself.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed! And how would you set about it?” -</p> - -<p> -“By observing and selecting, that is all; by forming independent -judgments uninfluenced by the respect of position; by assuming -continence and sobriety to be the first conditions of happiness; by -analysing impressions and restraining impulse; by studying what to -chip away from the block out of which I intend to shape my own -character, with the world for model.” -</p> - -<p> -“I see, I see. A smug modest programme, i’ faith. I’d not have thy -frog’s blood, Ned, though it meant another twenty years of life to me. -And so you’ll do all this before you step into my shoes—and may the -devil wedge them on thy feet!” -</p> - -<p> -“You are bitter, sir. I think, perhaps, you misconstrue me. I’m no -fanatic of prudery, but an earnest student of happiness. Were I to -convince myself that yours was the highest expression of this, I would -not hesitate to become your convert.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’d not ask thee, thou chilly put. Hadst thou been my son, ’twere -different. But thou’st got thine independent jointure, and thou’lt go -thy ways—over the Continent, as I understand,—not making the Grand -Tour like a gentleman of position, but joggling it in diligences, -faugh! or stumping on thy soles like a demned brawny pedlar. And what -is to be thy equipment for the adventure?” -</p> - -<p> -“A fair knowledge of French, a roll of canvas, and a case of colours.” -</p> - -<p> -“Cry you mercy, sir; I’d forgat you were an artist. Wilt thou paint me -some naked women?” -</p> - -<p> -“Ay, sir, and see no pleasant shame in it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ned, Ned—give me a hope of thee!” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, sir, believe me, ’tis only when woman begins to clothe herself -that indelicacy is suggested. A hat, a pair of shoes, a shoulder-strap -even, would have made a jill-flirt of Godiva.” -</p> - -<p> -“H’mph! Looked at from my standpoint, that’s the first commendable -thing thou’st said. But it’s a monstrous ungentlemanly occupation, -Ned; and that, no doubt, is the reason that moves thee to it.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, sir; but the reason that a painter, more than another, has the -opportunity to arrest and record for private analysis what is of its -nature fugitive and perishable. His canvases, indeed, should be his -text-book, his confessor, and his mentor.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, spare me, Parson! Thou shalt go cully my neighbour here with thy -plaguey texts. They’ll fit him like a skin glove.” -</p> - -<p> -“What neighbour, sir?” -</p> - -<p> -“Him that sold his brush to Charlie Greville’s mistress, a grim little -toad—Romney by name—that my Lord Thurlow pits against Reynolds for -something better than a whore’s sign-painter.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, sir, doubtless the man will learn to read himself in his work, -and to profit by the lesson.” -</p> - -<p> -“Master Ned Parson, when do you go? It cannot be too soon for me.” -</p> - -<p> -“I may start at any moment.” -</p> - -<p> -“Heaven be praised! And whither?” -</p> - -<p> -“Possibly by way of the Low Countries at the outset. Will your -lordship give me some letters of introduction?” -</p> - -<p> -“What! Your independence doesn’t strake at that?” -</p> - -<p> -“You greatly misapprehend me, sir. I go to seek mental, not bodily -discipline; chastisement, as a forcing medium, ceases of its effect -with the second age of reason.” -</p> - -<p> -“And that you have come to, I presume. Go to the Low Countries, i’ -Gad’s name, and find your level there! I’ll give you fifty -recommendations, and trust to procure you a year’s hospitality from -each. Only, one word in your ear, Ned: if you bring back a prig to -wife, I’ll hev the two of ye poisoned, if I hang for it.” -</p> - -<p> -The nephew condescended to a smile of some amused toleration. -</p> - -<p> -“My marriage, when it occurs,” said he, “will mark a simple period in -the evolution of my character. That, it may be easily understood, -might require a foil to its processes of development, as a hen -swallows gravel to assist her digestion. You need feel no surprise, -sir, if in the end I marry a properly wicked woman.” -</p> - -<p> -“Egad! ’tis my devout hope you will, and that she’ll brain you with -that demned Encyclopedia that you get all your gallimaufry about -equality from. Call back Jepps, and I’ll dictate the letters.” -</p> - - -<h3 id="b1ch02"> -CHAPTER II. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">On</span> a supremely hot noon of August, Mr Edward Murk, walking leisurely -along a road pounded and compounded of small coal, came down towards -the ancient city of Liége, and paused at a vantage-point to take in -the prospect. This was a fair enough one to any vision, and fair in -the extreme to eyes so long drilled to the interminable perspectives -of Flanders—to loveless dykes, to canals like sleek ingots of glass, -to stretched ribbons of highways tapering to a flat horizon—as that a -tumulus would seem as sweet a thing for them to rest on as a woman’s -bosom. Now his sight, reining up against hills, gave him a certain -emotion of surprise, such as he might have felt if a familiar hunter -had unexpectedly shied at a hedgerow. -</p> - -<p> -He stood a little above the town, looking over and beyond it. In the -middle-distance of his picture—pulled into the soft arms of hills -that, melting to their own embrace, became mere swimming banks of -mist—floated a prismatic blot of water—the vista of the -Meuse—dinted like an opal with shadowy reflections, and lit with -sudden sparks in dreamy places. Thence, nearer, a greystone -bridge—its arches glazed, he could have thought, with mother-of-pearl -windows, like a Chinese model in ivory—bestrode the river channel, -seeming to dam back, against his foreground, an accumulated litter of -wall and roof and gable, that choked the town reaches, and, breaking -away piecemeal, stranded its jetsam all down the valley. Here and -there fair steeples stood up from the litter; here and there, in his -close neighbourhood, gaunt chimney-stocks exhaled a languid smoke, -like tree trunks blasted in a forest fire. -</p> - -<p> -Some distance to his left a pretty lofty eminence, that broke at its -summit into a fret of turret and escarpment, stood sentinel over the -ages; while below this, and nearer at hand, the great block of an -episcopal palace sprouted from a rocky plateau, the velvet slopes of -which trailed downwards into the very hands of the city. -</p> - -<p> -“The bishop and his train-bearers,” thought Mr Murk. “The town holds -up the skirts of the palace. That must all be changed by-and-by. But I -confess I should like to record a little of the picturesqueness of -life before the roller of equality is dragged over the continents.” -</p> - -<p> -He had out his tools then and there, and essayed to give some -expression to his mood. The sun crackled in his brain; a pug of a -child, in a scarlet linsey petticoat, came and sniffed beside him, -offending his ears and his eyes; a dawdling cart mounting the hill -lurched into his perspective and blotted out its details foot by foot. -Down below, in his farther foreground, a cluster of buildings, lying -under a church-tower in a bath of shadow, invited him as if to a -plunge into cool waters. He glanced crossly at the obtrusive child, -collected his traps, and strode down the hill. -</p> - -<p> -At its foot, however, he seemed to come upon the actual furnace-floor -of noon—a broad <i>Place</i> that bickered, as it were, throughout its -length with iridescent embers. These were figured in crates of Russian -cranberries glowing like braziers, in pomegranates bleeding fire, in -burning globes of oranges, in apricots pearly-pink as balls of -white-hot glass; and over all, the long looped awnings of olive and -stone-blue and cinnamon served to the emphasising of such a galaxy of -hot dyes as made a core of flame in the heart of the blazing city. -</p> - -<p> -The close air prickled with a multitudinous patter of voices like -blisters of fat breaking on a grill. Old Burgundian houses—baked to a -terra-sienna, drowzing and nodding as they took the warmth about their -knees—retained and multiplied the heat like the walls of an oven. The -shop windows were so many burning-glasses; the market-women fried -amongst their cabbages like bubble-and-squeak; the very dogs of -draught, hauling their gridirons of carts, had red-hot cinders for -tongues. There seemed in the whole width of the square no shadow of -which a devil could have taken solace. -</p> - -<p> -Exhaling some little of the breath that remained to him in an -appropriately volcanic interjection, Ned mounted the steps of the -church he had looked down upon, brushed past the outstretched hand of -a fly-blown beggar, and dived into the sequestered obscurity of -amber-scented aisles. -</p> - -<p> -Here the immediate fall of temperature took him by the throat like a -shower-bath. “If I shiver,” he thought, “there is a goose walking over -my grave.” So he stood still and hugged himself till his blood was -accommodated to the change. Then he penetrated into the heart of the -place. -</p> - -<p> -He had visited many churches in the course of his travels, -dispassionately, but with no irreverence. It interested him no less to -note the expressions of faith than of faces. Generally, it seemed to -him, religious ideals were not transmissible. There was seldom -evidence that the spirit that had conceived and executed some noble -monument yet informed its own work through tradition. The builders of -cathedrals wrought, it was obvious, for little clans that, through all -the ages, had never learned the respect of soul. They, the latter, had -stuffed their heritages with trash, because their religion must come -home to them in the homely sense. They could not think but that the -God of their understanding must be gratified to have His houses -adorned after the fashion of the best parlour. -</p> - -<p> -Now, to see a fine interior vulgarised by the introduction of barbaric -images, of artificial flowers, and of pictures hung in incongruous -places, offended Mr Murk as a fooling elephant in a circus offended -him. He recognised and condemned the solecism in the present instance, -yet at the same time was conscious of an atmosphere foreign to his -accustomed experience—an atmosphere so like the faint breath of a -revived paganism that he looked about him in wonder to see whence it -emanated. -</p> - -<p> -There could be, however, no doubt as to its source. The whole church -was a grove of orange, oleander, and myrtle trees. They stood in tubs, -filling the intercolumniations of the stone avenues, climbing the -steps of the altar, thronging about the pulpit. The quiet air held -their fragrance like smoke. They could fatten and bloom unvexed of any -wind but the sweet gales blown from the organ. -</p> - -<p> -And even as Ned looked, this wind rose and wooed them. Some one was at -the keys, and the soft diapasons flowed forth and rolled in thunder -along the roof. -</p> - -<p> -The young man strolled down the nave. Music of itself held no -particular charms for him. Its value here was in its subscription to -other influences—to the cool perfume of flowers, to the sense of -serene isolation, to the feeling of mysticism engendered of foggy -vastness traversed by the soft moted dazzle of sunbeams. Such, -spanning gulfs of shadow, propping the gross mechanism of the organ -itself, seemed the very fabric of which the floating harmonies were -compound. There needed only a living expression of this poem of -mingled scent and sound and colour, and to Ned this was vouchsafed of -a sudden, in a luminous corner he came upon, where a painted statue of -the Virgin standing sentry in a niche looked down upon a figure -prostrate before it in devotion. -</p> - -<p> -A little lamp, burning with a motionless light like a carbuncle, was -laid at the Mother’s feet. About her shoulders, suspended from the -neighbouring walls, were a half-dozen certificates of <i>miracles -approuvés</i>—decorated placards recording the processes and dates, -some of them quite recent, of extraordinary recoveries. One of these -related how to a Marie Cornelis was restored the sight of an eye that -had been skewered by a thorn. Faith here had at least made its appeal -in a sure direction. Who could forget how that other woman had worn a -crown of thorns about her heart? -</p> - -<p> -Now the gazer would have liked to know what manifestation of the -supernatural was craved by the young girl, fair and quiet as the image -itself, who knelt before the shrine. She, this <i>dévote</i>, reverencing, -with her mouth pressed to the clasped knuckles of her hands, had so -much of the Madonna in her own appearance as to suggest that she might -perform, rather than demand, miracles. Her eyes—Ned fancied, but -could not convince himself—were closed, as in a rapture of piety. She -was very pure and colourless, apart from an accidentalism of tinted -rays; for over her soft brown hair, from which a folded chaperon of -white linen had slipped backwards, wings of parti-coloured light, -entering through a stained window, played like butterflies. Lower -down, the violet haze that slept upon her cheek gave her something of -a phantasmal character; but her fingers were steeped in crimson as if -they were bloody. -</p> - -<p> -At her side knelt a little lad, five or six years of age, with a most -wistful small face expressive of as great a humility of weariness as -the girl’s was of worship. He looked at the stranger with curiosity, -and with the dumb appeal of the petty to the great and independent; -and as he looked he lifted, one after the other, his poor chafed knees -and rubbed them. His round, pale eyes were underscored for emphasis of -this appeal, but without effect on Mr Murk, who had indeed no fondness -for children. -</p> - -<p> -Presently the girl rose. With the action the wings of light fled from -her hair; her passionless face revealed itself a sunless white fruit. -There was no consciousness of the observant stranger under her lowered -lids. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Viens, donc, Baptiste</i>!” she whispered; and the little boy, gazing -up at her in a breathless manner, got to his feet. -</p> - -<p> -The two genuflected to the High Altar, and stole reverently from the -building. Mr Murk followed immediately. He had a desire to win into -the confidence of this butterfly Madonna. -</p> - -<p> -Outside he saw the girl and child go down into the blazing market as -into a lake of fire. Giving them fair law, he started in pursuit. -</p> - -<p> -Arrived at the level, he found he had for the moment lost sight of his -quarry. He strolled up and down, gathering what shade he could from -the awnings. Voluble market-women, waxing tropically gross in their -vegetable hotbeds, rallied him on his insensibility to their cajolery. -Stolid Flemish farmers, with great pipes pendulous from their mouths, -like tongues lolling and smoking with drought, winked to one another -as he passed in appreciation of the rich joke that here was a -foreigner. -</p> - -<p> -The gentler classes, it seemed, were all in siesta. Low life, -vehement, motley, and picturesque, held the square as if it were a -fortress under fire. -</p> - -<p> -Now, whether as a consequence or, in spite of, this gregal -plebeianism, a strange unusual atmosphere, Ned fancied, was abroad in -the town. He had been conscious of a similar atmosphere in other -cities he had visited <i>en route</i>, and of an increase in its density in -steady ratio with his march southwards. It was not to be defined. It -might have been called an inflection rather than any expression, like -the change of note in the respiration of a sleeper who is near waking. -It only seemed to him that he moved in an element compounded of -shadows—the shadow of watchfulness; the shadow of insolence; the -shadow of an evil humour cursing its own century-long blindness; the -shadow of a more wickedly merry humour, rallying itself upon that old -desperate screwing-up of its courage to attack a boggart Blunderbore -that had fallen to pieces at the first stroke; the shadow, embracing -all others, of a certain Freemasonry that was deadlily exclusive in -the opposite to a conventional sense. -</p> - -<p> -“And this is for no dispassionate soul to resent,” thought Mr Murk, -who as a child had set his feet square upon the basis of an -independent impartiality, and, at the first age of reason, had pledged -himself to forego impulse as being the above-proof of ardent spirits -and fatal to sobriety. -</p> - -<p> -“Now,” he admitted to himself, “Jacques Bonhomme is simply awaking to -knowledge of the fact that he may boast a family-tree as thick-hung as -his lord’s with evil fruit, and that he was not spawned of the mud -because no record exists of his grandfather.” -</p> - -<p> -By-and-by, strolling down a little court, he turned into a wine-shop -for a draught to his dusty throat. He drank his <i>maçon</i>, mixing it -with water, in a tiny room off the tap of the auberge; and, while he -was drinking, the sound of a low vehement voice in the street brought -him to the window. -</p> - -<p> -He looked out. It was his very Madonna of the butterflies, and -presented under a new aspect. Her hands were at the neck of the child; -she was rating him in voluble viraginian. The poor rogue sobbed and -protested; but he would not loose his grip of something of which she -strove to possess herself. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>P’tit démon</i>!” she gabbled—“but I will have it, I say! It is no -use to weep and struggle. Give it me, Baptiste—ah! but I will!” -</p> - -<p> -“No, no!” cried the boy; “it is mine—it has always been mine. Thou -shalt not, Nicette!” -</p> - -<p> -She so far secured the bone of contention as to enable Ned for a -moment to recognise its nature. It was a silver medal—a poor -devotional charm strung round the infant’s neck. The child by an -adroit movement recovered possession. She looked about her, -unconscious of the observer, as if, safe from interruption, she would -have dared torture and maltreatment. Then suddenly she fell to -wheedling. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Babouin</i>, little <i>babouin</i>, wilt thou not make this sacrifice for -thine own loving Nicette, who is so poor, so poor, little <i>babouin</i>, -because of the small brother she keeps and feeds and clothes?—wilt -thou not?” -</p> - -<p> -“No!” cried the child again, half hysterical. “It is mine—it was -blessed by the Holy Father!” -</p> - -<p> -“But the guava, Baptiste! the sweet red jelly in the little box! I -have eaten of it once before, and oh! Baptiste, it is like the fruit -that tempted the first mother. And it so seldom comes to market, and I -have not a sou; and before next wage-day all may be appropriated. Wilt -thou not then, <i>mon poulet, mon p’tit poulet</i>?” -</p> - -<p> -But the <i>poulet</i> only repeated his tearful pipe. -</p> - -<p> -“Thou shalt have thy share!” pleaded the girl. “I swear it.” -</p> - -<p> -“I should not,” sobbed Baptiste. “Thou wouldst eat up all my medal, -and it was blessed by <i>le Saint Père</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned, peering forth, saw his Madonna jerk erect, her eyelids snapping. -</p> - -<p> -“Give me thy hand, then,” she said, in a cold little voice. “Thou -shalt walk back to Méricourt all the way, and have thy medal to -supper at the end. Give me thy hand!” -</p> - -<p> -The child cried out when she took it. Ned showed himself at the -window. -</p> - -<p> -“Nicette,” he said, with particular softness, “I will exchange thee a -louis-d’or for one single little confidence of thine.” -</p> - -<p> -The girl started, looked round, and stared at the speaker in -breathless consternation. A bright spot of colour, like pink light -caught from an opal, waxed and waned on her cheek. -</p> - -<p> -“How, monsieur?” she muttered. -</p> - -<p> -Ned held out the coin. -</p> - -<p> -“Here is a surfeit of guava jelly,” said he, “if thou wilt tell me -what was the miracle thou cravedst of the Holy Mother yonder.” -</p> - -<p> -He knew, watching her face, that she would reject the condition, and -that with all suitable decorum. But he saw the pupils of her eyes -dilate at sight of the gold piece. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur, it seems,” said she, “can better afford to jest than I to -accept insult”—and she hurriedly caught at her charge’s hand and drew -the child away. -</p> - -<p> -Mr Murk, with plentiful complacency, paid for his wine and sauntered -in pursuit. At a particular fruit-stall he saw his peasant Madonna -linger a moment, hesitate, and then go on her way with an up-toss of -her chin. He came to a stop and considered— -</p> - -<p> -“Méricourt! But I have an introduction to Monsieur de St Denys of -Méricourt. How far, I wonder? This Nicette would make an admirable -study to an artist. I will go to Méricourt.” -</p> - - -<h3 id="b1ch03"> -CHAPTER III. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">Facing</span> an opulent sunset, Ned made his way some three or four miles -out of Liége through scenery whose very luxuriance affected him like -the qualmish aftermath of excess. It gave him a feeling of surfeit—of -committal to a debauch of colour that it was no part of his -temperament to indulge. If his soul had attached itself to any theory -of beauty, it was to a theory of orderliness and sobriety, that took -account of barbaric dyes but to set them to an accordant pattern. Its -genius was of an adaptive rather than an imaginative bent. It desired -to shape his world to man, not man to his world—to appropriate the -accidents of nature to the uses of a wholesomely picturesque race—to -emasculate the bull of violence by withdrawing from its very -experience the hues of crimson and orange. -</p> - -<p> -On any display of passion this young man looked with cool dislike. His -instincts were primarily for the gratification of the understanding. -The premeditated involutions of fancy did not engage his sympathies. -The mystery of brooding distances peopled with irisated phantoms, of -the hazy wanderings of the undefined, he was not greatly concerned to -penetrate. Claude he would have preferred to Turner, and Nasmyth to -either. Fuseli he already detested; and Blake was his very <i>bête -noire</i>. Things rude, boisterous, and ugly he would wish to crush under -a heel of iron, thinking to enforce the peace—rather after the -fashion of his times—by breaking it. But he would raise, not level, -the world to an equality—would make out of its material a very -handsome model, in which the steeples should clang and the -water-wheels turn and the seasons pulsate by a mechanism common to -all. -</p> - -<p> -Such was his creed of eventual reconstruction of a social fabric, the -downfall of which was much predicted of the <i>jeunesse politique</i> of -the day; and in the meanwhile he was very willing to acknowledge -himself to be in the condition of incomplete moral ossification—to be -travelling, indeed, for the sake of bone and gristle, and in order to -convert the misuses of other characters to the profit of his own. -</p> - -<p> -Now he advanced with a certain feeling of enforced intemperance upon a -prospect of superabundant beauty. The great noontide heat was become a -salt memory, to be tasted only for emphasis of the bouquet of that -velvety wine of air that poured from the heights. Distant hills ran -along an amber sky, like the shadows of nearer ones. Far away a jagged -keep surmounting a crag stood out, deep umber, from a basin in the -valley brimming with blue mist. Closer at hand a marrowy white stream, -sliding noiseless over the crest of a slope silhouetted against the -northern vaults, seemed the very running band drawn from the heavens -to keep the earth spinning. The grasshopper shrilled in the roadside -tangle; comfortable doves, drowsing amongst the chestnut leaves, -exchanged sleepy confidences. Sometimes the clap of a cow-bell, -sometimes the hollow call of a herdsman, thrilled the prosperous calms -of light as a dropped stone scatters a water image. These were the -acuter accents on a tranquillity that no thought could wound. -</p> - -<p> -At last, when the sun flamed upon the horizon like a burning house of -the Zodiac, the traveller came through a deep wood-path upon the -village he sought, and was glad to see dusk mantling its gables and -blotting out the red lights of the open valley in which it lay. -</p> - -<p> -If Madame van Roon, keeper of the hostel Landlust, cut her coat -according to her cloth, she should have been in affluent -circumstances. Daniel Lambert might have furnished her his vest, a -couple of dragoons their cloaks for skirt. This, proceeding from a -mighty roll of padding—a veritable stuffed bolster—that circled her -unnamable waist, swayed in one piece, like a diving-bell in a current, -with her every movement. Her stays, hooped with steel after the Dutch -mode, would have hung slack on a kilderkin. The lobes of her fat ears -stretched under the weight of a pair of positive little censers. But -the finished pride of her was her cap, a wonder of stiff goffering, -against the erect border of which her red face lay like a ham on a -dish-paper. With so full a presence, she had only to stand in a -doorway, if inclined to argument, and not so much as a minor postulate -could evade her. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Qu’est-ce que c’est doncg cette manière de moogsieur là</i>!” she -gasped at our gentleman with a choking shrillness. “<i>Mais où est -vôgtre valetaille, vôgtre équipage</i>?” -</p> - -<p> -She quarrelled gutturally, like an envious stepmother, with the speech -of her adoption. -</p> - -<p> -“I am in my own service, madame,” said Ned, in no small wonder; “and -that is to own the best master a man can have.” -</p> - -<p> -She slapped the three-partitioned money-pouch that hung at her middle. -</p> - -<p> -“Oo, ay,” she gurgled truculently; “and a fine master of economy, I’ll -be bound.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned, for short argument, fished out a palmful of pieces. She admitted -him grudgingly even then; but the young man was completely satisfied. -</p> - -<p> -“This is excellent tonic,” he thought, “after an enervating -experience. In Méricourt, it seems, there is food for study.” -</p> - -<p> -He appeared to have struck a sort of Franco-Flemish neutral ground. He -was put to wait in a little kitchen like a bright toy. The floor was -ruddy brick, the walls were white tiles. Outside the window a shallow -awning tinkled sleepily, in spasms of draught, with the stirring of -innumerable small bells. The stove or range, a shining cold example of -continence, seemed innocent of the least tradition of heat. On the -polished dark dresser vessels of copper, of pewter, and of -brass—stewpans, lidded flagons, and the narrow-necked, -wood-stoppered, resonant jugs, in which it was the Dutch fashion to -bring milk from the fields—shone with a demure sobriety of tone in -the falling light. -</p> - -<p> -But the meal, when it came, was served in the French manner and -without stint. The traveller, seeing no preparations toward in the -spick room he inhabited, was falling into a mood of gentle depression -before his fears were dissipated. Then he ventured an inquiry of the -solemn wench who brought in his tray. She almost dropped the load in -her amazement. -</p> - -<p> -“Holy Saints! Cook here! in the show kitchen!” -</p> - -<p> -She put down, with crushing emphasis, a fresh table-napkin, a small -blunt knife, a silver fork, and a silver spoon—all <i>à la -française</i>. This was luxury as compared with recent experiences. Ned -looked serious over the knife. He did not know that French meat stewed -to the melting-point dismembers itself at a touch. -</p> - -<p> -He had a very succulent salmis; and no fewer than four hot eggs, -cuddled in a white clout, were served to him. -</p> - -<p> -“Am I to devour them all?” he asked of the girl. -</p> - -<p> -“With the help of God,” she answered ambiguously, in her soft -Picardian. -</p> - -<p> -By-and-by madame <i>l’hôtesse</i> condescended to come and talk with him -while he ate. She was veritably <i>chargée de cuisine</i>; she seemed to -fill the place, width and height. -</p> - -<p> -“What is your condition in your own country?” she asked, with fat -asperity. -</p> - -<p> -“I am grand-nephew to a monseigneur, to whose title and estates I -shall succeed.” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Vraigment</i>!” she clucked incredulously. “How arrives it, then, that -you ‘pad the hoof’ like a <i>colporteur</i>?” -</p> - -<p> -“I travel for discipline and for experience, madame. Wisdom is not an -heirloom.” -</p> - -<p> -She nodded her head. -</p> - -<p> -“Truly, it must be bought. I myself am a merchant of it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Doubtless,” said Mr Murk. “Witness your politeness to one who can -afford to pay for politeness.” -</p> - -<p> -She seemed an atom disconcerted. -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” she said, “there is no accounting for the vagaries of the -quality. And is his meal to moogsieur’s liking?” -</p> - -<p> -“It is very well, indeed.” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Tout va biend</i>! I was in the half mind that you would wish your meat -raw <i>à l’anglaise</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -“That is not the English fashion.” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Oh, pardon</i>! they tear it with their hands and teeth, for I know. -And sometimes it is worse.” -</p> - -<p> -“How worse, then?” -</p> - -<p> -She nodded again pregnantly. -</p> - -<p> -“Vampires! They will prey on the lowly of their kind. Oh, it is -infamous! My cousin, <i>le bon</i> Gaspard, saw a dish of theirs once in -Barbade—<i>le Maure dans le bain</i>, they called it—a slave’s head -served in sauce. This will be unknown to moogsieur?” -</p> - -<p> -“Unquestionably.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is possible. It is possible, also, that gentlemen who travel -<i>incognito</i> may learn some vulgar truths. I accept your ignorance in -proof of your aristocracy. Those who sit in high places look only at -the stars.” -</p> - -<p> -“You alarm me, madame. Indeed, I remember now that in my country it is -possible to procure for eating ‘ladies’ fingers.’” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, the barbarians! Is it not as I said?” -</p> - -<p> -Ned rose. -</p> - -<p> -“May I suggest to madame that I have not yet seen my bedroom?” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Plaît-il, doncg</i>? if it will give you any gratification. But there -is company there at present.” -</p> - -<p> -The gentleman stared. Madame van Roon backed from the doorway, gave an -inaudible direction, and disappeared. The solemn girl took her place. -</p> - -<p> -“By permission of monsieur,” she said; and Ned followed her out of the -room. She led him down one short passage straight into the -<i>practicable</i> kitchen. A rather melodious sound of singing greeted him -on the threshold. He stopped in considerable wonder, postponing his -entrance while he listened. -</p> - -<div class="quote_o"><div class="quote_i"> -<p class="i0">“Little Lady Dormette,</p> -<p class="i1">Hark to my crying!</p> -<p class="i0">Would not you come to me</p> -<p class="i1">Though I were dying?</p> -<p class="i2">Little Lady Dormette,</p> -<p class="i3">Kiss my hot eyes,</p> -<p class="i2">Make me forget!</p> - -<br/> - -<p class="i0">Little Lady Dormette,</p> -<p class="i1">Why have you left me?</p> -<p class="i0">Sure not to lie with him</p> -<p class="i1">That hath bereft me?</p> -<p class="i2">Little Lady Dormette,</p> -<p class="i3">Oh, do not kiss him,</p> -<p class="i2">Lest he forget!</p> - -<br/> - -<p class="i0">Little Lady Dormette,</p> -<p class="i1">Thee I so grieve for;</p> -<p class="i0">If thou forsakest me,</p> -<p class="i1">What shall I live for!</p> -<p class="i2">Little Lady Dormette,</p> -<p class="i3">Crush thy heart to mine,</p> -<p class="i2">Make it forget!”</p> - -</div></div> - -<p> -The voice was small, sweet, emotional, but a man’s; the soft throb of -a guitar accompanied it. All bespoke a certain melting effeminacy that -was disagreeable to Ned. He pushed open the door however, made his -salutation, and stood to take stock of his surroundings. -</p> - -<p> -Here, in truth, was revealed the working heart of the model—the -stokehole of that vessel of which the outer room exhibited but the -polished bearings. The fat air was heavy with the smell of lately -cooked food; the pots, the trenchers, the waste parings that had -served to the preparation of the latter were even now in huddled -process of removal by a panting <i>cuisinière</i>, with whom the company -present did not hesitate to exchange a dropping-fire of badinage. A -foul litter of vegetable and other rubbish disgraced the white deal of -the table—cabbage leaves and broken egg-shells and a clump of smoking -bones. In the scuttle was a mess of turnip peelings, on the hearth an -iron pail brimming with gobbets of grease and coffee-grounds and the -severed head of a cock. -</p> - -<p> -“A Dutchman’s cleanliness,” thought Ned (and he had some experience of -it), “is like the elf maid’s face, a particularly hollow mask. He -reeks fustian while he washes his windows three times a-day.” -</p> - -<p> -The room was long and low, with black beams to its ceiling, from which -hung bushes of herbs. A steaming scullery opened from it on the fire -side; on the other, against the distempered wall, stood a row of -curtained cupboards, half-a-dozen of them like confessional-boxes; and -in the intervals of these were, perched on brackets, five or six -absurd little figures—saints and Virgins, the latter with smaller -dolls, to represent the Christ, pinned to their stomachers. There was -but a single window to this kitchen, at its far end; and a couple of -lamps burning rancid oil seemed the very smoking nucleus of an -atmosphere as stifling as that of a ship’s caboose in the tropics. -</p> - -<p> -A figure seated on the table struck a tinkling cord as Ned advanced, -and sang up a little impertinent stave of welcome. -</p> - -<p> -“Behold, Endymion wakes from Latmus!” said he, and flourishing a great -flagon of wine to his mouth, he tilted it and drank. -</p> - -<p> -He was a smooth-cut young fellow, with features modelled like a -girl’s. His hair, his brows, the shade on his upper lip toned from -brown to rough gold. His eyes were soft umber, his cheeks flushed -sombrely like autumn leaves. He was as assured of himself as a -gillian, and a little theatrical withal in his pose and the cock of -his hat. -</p> - -<p> -There were two others in company—a serene large man, with deliberate -lids to his eyes and straight long hair, and a round-faced sizar from -the University of Liége. These latter smoked, and all three drank -according to their degree of wine, hollands, or brandy-and-water. -</p> - -<p> -“You flatter me, monsieur,” said Ned a trifle grimly, and he sat -himself down by the table and returned with a pretty hardihood the -glances directed at him. -</p> - -<p> -For some moments no one spoke. The placid man—a prosperous farmer by -token of his button-bestrewed jacket and substantial small-cloths—put -a piece of sugar-candy in his mouth and drank down his glass of -hollands over it in serial sips. The student, looking to him on the -table for his cue, sat with the expression of a chorister whom a -comrade secretly tickles. Mr Murk felt himself master of the situation -so long as he resisted the temptation to be the first to break the -silence. -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly the young man with the guitar unbonneted himself, kicked his -hat up to the ceiling, gave an insane laugh on a melodious note, and -turned to the new-comer. -</p> - -<p> -“I surrender,” said he; “I would rather lack wine than speech.” -</p> - -<p> -“Both are good in moderation,” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -“Bah! a monk’s aphorism, monsieur; moderation makes no history. It is -to grow fat under one’s fig-tree—like Lambertine here” (he signified -the contented farmer, who chuckled and shut his eyes). -</p> - -<p> -“And what of the wise Ulysses?” quoth Ned. -</p> - -<p> -“He saved himself for the orgy,” cried the stranger. “He was moderate -only that he might taste the full of enjoyment. I go with you there.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not with me, indeed.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, of course. There are blind-worms amongst men. For me I swear that -human life has an infinite capacity for pleasure.” -</p> - -<p> -He took another great pull at his pot and laughed foolishly. His face -was ruddy and his eyes glazed with drink. -</p> - -<p> -“You were singing when I came in,” said Ned. “Don’t let me interrupt -you.” -</p> - -<p> -The student sniggered, the <i>cuisinière</i> sniggered, the farmer waved a -tolerant hand. -</p> - -<p> -“You see?” said the musician. “We make no business here of any man’s -convenience but our own. I shall sing if I want to.” -</p> - -<p> -He twitched the strings with some loose defiance, and swerved into a -little vacant amorous song. -</p> - -<p> -“Does that please you?” he asked at the finish. -</p> - -<p> -“It neither pleases nor disgusts me,” said Ned. “It is simply not -worth considering.” -</p> - -<p> -“You must not say that,” said the round-faced student. -</p> - -<p> -Mr Murk turned upon him gravely. -</p> - -<p> -“I am a foreigner, sir, as you see,” said he. “I come amongst you to -enlarge my experience and to correct a certain insular habit of -prejudice. To this end I use a sketch-book, and sometimes I paint -portraits. I shall have the honour of depicting you as a starling.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, eh!” said the student. “That is funny. And why?” -</p> - -<p> -“It feeds on the leavings of my lord the rook,” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -The farmer chuckled heartily, and the musician burst into a wobble of -laughter. -</p> - -<p> -“I am the rook!” he cried—“I am milord the rook! You are a man of -penetration, monsieur, and I take you to my heart.” -</p> - -<p> -He endeavoured to do so literally, and fell flat off the table on the -top of his guitar, which he smashed to pieces. And then he composed -himself to slumber on the floor, and in a minute was snoring. -</p> - -<p> -“He acts up to his creed,” said the farmer, in a tone of unruffled -admiration. “You must not misjudge him, monsieur the artist. M. de St -Denys is generous to a fault.” -</p> - -<p> -“St Denys! Is that M. de St Denys?” -</p> - -<p> -The other swang his large head. -</p> - -<p> -“It is so. His reputation extends itself, it would appear. He makes -himself a name beyond Méricourt for the most liberal principles.” -</p> - -<p> -“Liberal to excess, indeed.” -</p> - -<p> -The student ventured again. -</p> - -<p> -“He illustrates what he professes.” -</p> - -<p> -“An infinite capacity for piggishness?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, monsieur; but to extend the prerogatives of pleasure; to set the -example of a cultivated licence that the <i>canaille</i> may learn to -elevate itself to the higher hedonism.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned had nothing to say to this boozy ethology. The other two chorused -crapulous praise of the fallen musician. -</p> - -<p> -“He is the soul of honour,” said the farmer, who seemed a man of -simple ideas. -</p> - -<p> -“He devotes himself, his oratory, his purse, to the cause of -intellectual emancipation,” cried the student. -</p> - -<p> -“And what does his father, M. de St Denys, say to all this?” asked -Ned. -</p> - -<p> -Lambertine shook his perplexed head. The student humoured a little -snigger of deprecation. -</p> - -<p> -“There is no father,” said he. “M. de St Denys the younger reigns at -the Château Méricourt. I see you sneer, monsieur. It is natural for -a victim of insular despotism. Here the prospect widens—the -atmosphere grows fresh. You will not have heard of it, no; but it is -true that there is a sound in the air. Monsieur, I will not be sneered -at!” -</p> - -<p> -“And what is to be the upshot of it all?” inquired Ned, ignoring the -protest. -</p> - -<p> -“According to M. de St Denys, a universe of gentlemen.” -</p> - -<p> -“He is, at the same time, the soul of honour,” said Lambertine. -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” said Mr Murk, “I think I will go to bed.” -</p> - -<p> -He appealed to the cook, who still fussed among her pans, with a look -of puzzled inquiry. She answered sourly— -</p> - -<p> -“You can take your pick. There are plenty to choose from.” -</p> - -<p> -It was then he discovered, to his profound astonishment, that the -confessional-boxes were sleeping-places, to the use of one of which he -was unblushingly invited in the very face of his company. -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” thought he, “I am travelling for experience;” and he took his -knapsack, chose that cupboard nearest the window and farthest from the -table, and, withdrawing himself behind the curtains, undressed, folded -and laid his clothes aside, and philosophically composed himself to -slumber on a little bed that smelt of onions. -</p> - -<p> -Conditions were not favourable to rest. The heat was suffocating; the -atmosphere unspeakable. In the distance the voices of his late -companions droned like hornets in a bottle—sometimes swelled, it -seemed, into a thick passion of tearfulness. Without brooded an -apoplectic silence, broken only by a spasmodic rumbling sound that -might have signified dogs or cattle, or, indeed, nothing more than the -earth turning in its sleep, or the rolling heavenwards of the wheel of -the moon. Now and then some winged creature would boom past the -window, its vibrant note dying like the voice of a far-off multitude; -now and again the seething rush of a bat would seem to stir up the -very grounds of stagnation. Suddenly a heart-wrung voice spoke up -outside his curtain— -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur! I am not to be laughed at. Bear that in mind!” -</p> - -<p> -There followed a sound of sobbing—of footsteps unsteadily receding; -and thereafter a weary peace was vouchsafed the traveller, and he -dreamed that he was put to bake in the selfsame oven that had provided -his supper. -</p> - -<p> -“That is a fine economy,” he heard the cook say—“to roast the -rooster!” -</p> - -<p> -The words troubled him excessively. He thought them instinct with a -dreadful humour—too diabolically witty to admit of repartee; and so, -lapped in despondency, oblivion overtook him. -</p> - - -<h3 id="b1ch04"> -CHAPTER IV. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">Writhing</span>, as it were, from the edges to a central core of heat, Ned -woke to find himself wriggling like an eel in a bath of dripping. He -sat up in his dingy cupboard, and feeling and seeing a slant of -sunlight blazing through its curtains, plunged for the open and -breathed out a fainting sigh of relief. -</p> - -<p> -Shrill murmur of voices from a distance came to him; but the kitchen, -stalely redolent of wash-houses, was deserted of all save himself. -</p> - -<p> -A pudding-basin on a magnified milking-stool—presumably a -washhand-stand—was placed in a corner; and thereat he fretted out an -ablution that was a mere aggravation of drought. Then he dressed -himself with a sort of fierce and defiant daring, rather hoping to be -taken to task for some intolerable solecism in his rendering of local -customs. -</p> - -<p> -He was disappointed. The solemn girl came into the kitchen when he was -but half-way through his toilet, and, without exhibiting the least -interest in his condition, set to preparing and serving his breakfast. -</p> - -<p> -By-and-by he seated himself at the table. -</p> - -<p> -“I am sorry to have kept you out of the room,” he said, with -superfluous sarcasm. -</p> - -<p> -“I do not understand,” she said indifferently. -</p> - -<p> -“At least you will know now how a gentleman dresses.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is possible,” she said. “But, if I were one, I should put on my -shirt first.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” said he, “where is M. de St Denys?” -</p> - -<p> -She stared at him like a cow; but it was the provoking part of her -that she would not avert her gaze when he returned it. -</p> - -<p> -“Where,” said she, “if not at the chateau?” -</p> - -<p> -“He recovered his feet then, it would seem?” -</p> - -<p> -“His feet? Oh, <i>mon Dieu</i>! they were not lost! What questions, -monsieur!” -</p> - -<p> -“Are they not? And who now is this Lambertine?” -</p> - -<p> -“He is Lambertine—a farmer very prosperous, of Méricourt.” -</p> - -<p> -“With whom the lord of the manor consorts? M. de St Denys, then, is -not fastidious in his choice of company?” -</p> - -<p> -“Truly, even you need not hesitate to address him, if that is what you -mean. He listens to all alike; he holds himself a human being like the -rest of us. When he walks in the sun he will not think his shadow -longer than that of another man of his height.” -</p> - -<p> -“And he is the soul of honour?” -</p> - -<p> -“Essentially, monsieur. He would extend the right of an equal -indulgence in pleasure to all.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah, <i>ma chérie</i>!” said Ned calmly, “how you must love him!” -</p> - -<p> -“That is of necessity,” said the girl. “He has lowered himself to make -us do so.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned ate a very large and deliberate breakfast, and then issued forth -into the village, carrying his letter of introduction with him. -</p> - -<p> -“This St Denys,” he thought, “has been reading Diderot and the -Encyclopedia. Has he also theories of reconstruction? My uncle would -not think it amusing that his letter should so miscarry.” -</p> - -<p> -A little breeze had risen, blowing from the south. It made the heat -more tolerable, and it was the begetter of a pretty tableau by the -village fountain. For there, with her pitcher set on the well-rim, -stood a bright Hebe of the sun, ripe, warm, and glowing as the very -fruit of desire. Now she had put her hands back under her free-falling -hair—that was thick and pheasant brown and wavy like a spaniel’s—and -had lifted it, sagging, that the cool air might blow under and comfort -the roots. She was a full-bosomed wench, and the pose threw her figure -into energetic and very graceful relief. Ned, who was really -passionless, and responsive only to the artistic provocation, went up -to her at once. -</p> - -<p> -“I should like to draw you like that,” said he. -</p> - -<p> -She twitched involuntarily; but, with immediate intuition, maintained -her posture, and conned him from under languorous lids. -</p> - -<p> -“How, monsieur?” said she. -</p> - -<p> -“Exactly as you are. I have my tools with me. I beg you to do nothing -but just breathe and enjoy life.” -</p> - -<p> -Actually, before she could deny him, he was sketching her. Then, -suddenly—watching first the quick travelling of his pencil—she -lowered her arms and, like a foolish virgin, extinguished the light of -inspiration. -</p> - -<p> -“I think you are very impertinent,” she said. -</p> - -<p> -“If beauty,” said he calmly—for he had secured the essentials of his -picture—“<i>will</i> distribute largesse, it must not be surprised to see -it scrambled for.” -</p> - -<p> -The girl’s lips parted, as if the fairy bee were probing there for -honey. -</p> - -<p> -“What insolence!” she murmured. “Am I then beautiful? But perhaps -monsieur sees his own image reflected in my eyes, and falls in love -with it like the <i>damoiseau</i> Narcisse.” -</p> - -<p> -She showed the slightest rim of white teeth. It was as if the bow of -her mouth revealed itself strung with silver. Her eyes, when open, -floated with deep amber lights; her cheeks were sweet warm beds -dimpled by Love’s elbow; she was full of bold rich contrasts of -colour—a young vestal flaming into the lust of life. -</p> - -<p> -Ned was a little surprised to hear a peasant girl, as he thought her, -imaging from mythology. -</p> - -<p> -“I never fall in love,” he said gravely; “not even with myself.” -</p> - -<p> -The girl laughed out, putting her arms defiantly akimbo. -</p> - -<p> -“Then I would not be a suitor there,” she said. -</p> - -<p> -“To me? And why not?” -</p> - -<p> -“Because no man ever loved a woman well that did not love himself -better.” -</p> - -<p> -She took her sun-bonnet and pitcher from the low wall. -</p> - -<p> -“I have heard of such as you,” she said. “It is to make your art your -mistress, is it not?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” said Ned. “Come and see why.” -</p> - -<p> -He held the sketch out to her. He had been working at it all the time -he talked. -</p> - -<p> -“Little Holy Mother!” she murmured, after a vain attempt to repress -her curiosity, “is that I?” -</p> - -<p> -“Is it not?” he said; “and would not <i>you</i> love an art that enabled -you so to record impressions of beauty?” -</p> - -<p> -“It is an impression, my faith! Am I black and white like a spectre? -Where are my brown hair and my red cheeks?” -</p> - -<p> -Ned tapped his breast-pocket. -</p> - -<p> -“In your heart, monsieur?” -</p> - -<p> -“In my paint-box, mademoiselle.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” she said, “they may remain there, for me. I shall never come -to claim them.” -</p> - -<p> -“You had best not,” he said. “It is full of ghosts that might frighten -or repel you.” -</p> - -<p> -She was moving away, when she stopped suddenly. -</p> - -<p> -“Look who comes!” she cried low. “There is the pretty subject for your -pencil!” -</p> - -<p> -The fountain stood at the village head, on ground somewhat raised -above the wide street, or <i>Place</i>, round which the hamlet was -gathered. Not a soul seemed to be abroad in the hot sleepy morning. -The jalousies of twenty small houses were closed; the ground-haze -boiled up a fair man’s height as seen against any dark background; the -tower of the little white church looked as if its very peaked cap of -lead were melting and sinking over its eyes—an illusion grotesquely -accented by the exclamatory expression of the arrow-slit of a window -underneath. There was scarce a sound, even, to emphasise the -stillness—the tinkle of a running gutter, the drowsy weak ring of -iron on a distant anvil—these were all. Méricourt lay sunk in -panting slumber in the lap of its woods, its chimney-pots gasping at -an inexorable sky. -</p> - -<p> -But now there came towards and past the fountain, from a hidden meadow -path, a second girl, who bore upon her head, gracefully poising it, a -fragrant bundle of clover, young forest shoots and tufted grasses, -under the shadow of which her face was blurred as soft and luminous as -a face in tender crayons. -</p> - -<p> -“It is a picture,” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -“It is half a saint,” said the girl. -</p> - -<p> -Then she cried, in her flexible rich voice— -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Holà</i>, Nicette! I shiver here in a colder shadow than thine.” -</p> - -<p> -“Nicette!” muttered Ned, and he scrutinised the passing figure more -closely. -</p> - -<p> -“How, Théroigne?” answered back the other, without slackening her -pace or turning her head. -</p> - -<p> -“There runs a new spring in Méricourt!” cried the girl, with an -impudent glance at the young man. -</p> - -<p> -“But a new spring! and how dost thou know?” -</p> - -<p> -“My little finger told me. It has veins of ice, Nicette. Thou needst -not scruple to bathe in it, for all thy modesty.” -</p> - -<p> -The clover-bearer passed on, with a little ambiguous laugh. -</p> - -<p> -“And she is a saint?” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -“Half a saint, by monsieur’s permission—a sweet <i>bon-chrétien</i> with -one cheek to the sun and one to the convent wall.” -</p> - -<p> -“And presently to fall of her own sweetness, no doubt.” -</p> - -<p> -To his surprise the girl drew herself up haughtily at his words. -</p> - -<p> -“You exceed the bounds of insolence, monsieur,” she said frigidly. “It -is like blasphemy so to speak of Nicette Legrand. And what authority -has monsieur for his statement?” -</p> - -<p> -“How can I have any, Théroigne, but your own show of levity towards -me?” -</p> - -<p> -She seemed about to retort angrily, changed her mind, shouldered the -pitcher, and turned to go. -</p> - -<p> -“At least,” said Ned, “have the goodness to first direct me to the -Château Méricourt.” -</p> - -<p> -She twisted about sharply. -</p> - -<p> -“The chateau! What do you seek there?” -</p> - -<p> -“Only my friend, M. de St Denys.” -</p> - -<p> -“Your friend!” -</p> - -<p> -She conned his face seriously; then suddenly her own lightened once -more. -</p> - -<p> -“Of a truth,” she said, “I would rather be your friend than your -lover.” -</p> - -<p> -“Love is much on your lips, mademoiselle.” -</p> - -<p> -“You should say he shows his pretty judgment. But Nicette has the -mouth of austerity. Follow her, then. She will have no need to rebuke -you, I’ll warrant.” -</p> - -<p> -“There is some contempt in your voice, mademoiselle. Is not that to -give yourself a little the lie?” -</p> - -<p> -“How, monsieur?” -</p> - -<p> -“But now you chid me for speaking lightly of this very Nicette.” -</p> - -<p> -“She has a better grace than I, perhaps, to care for herself. I mean -only she will lead you whither you desire.” -</p> - -<p> -“To the chateau?” -</p> - -<p> -“She keeps the lodge at its gates.” -</p> - -<p> -She frowned, nodded her head, and went off with a little mocking song -on her lips, turning down a side track that led to farm buildings. She -was a lithe voluptuous animal, breathing a lavish generosity of life. -Ned watched her in a sort of rigor of admiration as she retreated. A -high stone wall, pierced at regular intervals with loopholes, enclosed -the steading she made for. Above the coping showed the roofs of the -house, and of numerous substantial barns that backed upon the wall; -and, at a point in the latter, frowned a huge studded gateway, strong -enough to withstand the shock of anything less than artillery. -</p> - -<p> -By this gate the girl paused a moment, looked back, and seeing the -stranger still observant of her, whisked about resentfully enough to -bring down upon her head a sleet of acacia petals from a bush that -stood hard by. Then she vanished, and Ned turned him to his pursuit of -the other. -</p> - -<p> -She had already reached the farther end of the <i>Place</i>, and he -followed rapidly, lest she should disappear from his ken. But he came -up with her as she was leaving the village by a road that mounted on a -slight gradient amongst trees. At the wrought-iron gates of the -chateau, set but a few hundred yards farther in a thicket of -evergreens, he addressed her, as she was shifting from her head the -great burden it had borne. -</p> - -<p> -“That is much for a girl, Nicette. I will help you with it.” -</p> - -<p> -She looked at him, he could see, with some abashed recognition. Her -lips, that were a little parted in breathlessness, trembled -perceptibly. Without a protest she let him receive and drop upon the -road the truss of clover. Some strands of the bundle that were yet -entangled in the disorder of her rabbit-brown hair gave her an -unlicensed strangeness of aspect; but for the rest it was the Madonna -of the old church of Liége—the colourless, pure <i>dévote</i> with the -Greek profile and round blue eyes small-pupiled. -</p> - -<p> -“Nicette,” said the young man, who, if cold, had an admirable -assurance, “to pass from Théroigne to you is to go to sleep in the -sun and wake to the twilight.” -</p> - -<p> -She gave a little gasp. -</p> - -<p> -“Does monsieur come to visit the chateau?” she murmured. -</p> - -<p> -“Or its master?—yes. But first I will help you in with this.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, no!” she protested faintly. -</p> - -<p> -“But, yes, I say. Open the gate, Nicette. And for what is this great -heap of fodder?” -</p> - -<p> -“It is for my beautiful <i>génisse</i>—Madeleine of the white star.” -</p> - -<p> -She pushed open the gate. Within, to one side, was a low trellised -lodge, set within the forward apex of an elliptical patch of garden. -Farther back was a byre, and behind all a lofty bank of trees. A fine -avenue of Spanish chestnuts led on to the house, which was here hidden -from view. -</p> - -<p> -“Whither?” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -She intimated the rearward shed, with a half-audible note of -deprecation. He shouldered and carried the truss to its destination. -A liquid-eyed cow, with a rayed splash of white on its forehead, blew -a sweet breath of wonder as he entered. Within, all was daintily clean -and fragrant. -</p> - -<p> -“Now,” said he, “I must go on to the chateau. But I shall come again, -Nicette, and paint you into a picture.” -</p> - -<p> -The girl stood among the phloxes utterly embarrassed. He made her a -grave salutation and pursued his way to the house. At a turn of the -drive he came in view of the latter—a sombre grey building, sparely -windowed, and with a peak-roofed tower—emblem of nobility—caught -into one of its many angles. A weed-cumbered moat, with a little -decrepit stream of water slinking through the tangle of its bed, -surrounded the walls; and in front of the moat, as he encountered it, -a neglected garden fell away in half-obliterated terraces. Here and -there, placed in odd coigns of leafiness, decayed wooden statues of -fauns and dryads, once painted “proper”—or otherwise—in flesh tints, -had yielded their complexions piecemeal to the rasp of Time; and, -indeed, the whole place seemed withdrawn from the considerations of -order. -</p> - -<p> -Much wondering, Ned crossed an indifferent bridge—long ceased, it -would appear, from its uses of draught—and found himself facing the -massive stone portal of the chateau. -</p> - -<p> -“There is a canker hath gnawed here since my uncle’s day,” thought he, -and laid hold of a long iron bell-pull. The thing came down reluctant, -and leapt sullenly from his grasp, and the clank of its answer called -up a whole mob of echoes. -</p> - -<p> -The door was opened by an unliveried young fellow—a mere peasant of -the fields by his appearance. -</p> - -<p> -“M. de St Denys? But, yes; monsieur would be at home to -receive—unless, indeed, he were not yet out of bed.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned recalled a figure prostrate on the wreck of a guitar. -</p> - -<p> -“Convey this letter to your master,” said he; “and show me where I may -wait.” -</p> - -<p> -He entered a high, resounding hall. A boar’s head set at him from -above a door in a petrified snarl. Opposite, a great dark -picture—fruit, flowers, game—by Jan de Heem, made a slumberous core -of richness in the gloom. These, with a heavy chair or two, were the -only furniture. -</p> - -<p> -The man conducted him to a waiting-room near as desert and -ill-appointed as the vestibule. The whole house seemed a vast and -melancholy barrow—an imprisoned vacancy containing only the personal -harness and appointments of some lordly dead. Its equipments would -appear to have conformed themselves to its service, and that was -reduced to a minimum. -</p> - -<p> -Ned heard the sound of a listed footfall, and turned to meet the -master of Méricourt. -</p> - -<p> -M. de St Denys came in with the visitor’s letter in his hand. He was -in a yellow morning wrapper that was in cheerful contrast with his -sombre surroundings, and a tentative small smile was on his lips. He -wore his own hair, bright brown and unpowdered, and tied into a neck -ribbon. A little artificial bloom, like the meal on a butterfly’s -wing, was laid upon his cheeks to hide the ravages of dissipation, but -the injected eyes above were significant of fever. He was, -nevertheless, a pretty creature of his inches (and they might have run -to seventy or so)—exhilarating, forcible, convincing as a man. Only, -as to that, his mouth was the hyperbolic expression, justifying his -sex rather by force of appetite than of combativeness. -</p> - -<p> -“M. le Vicomte Murk?” said he, raising his eyebrows. -</p> - -<p> -“Prospective, monsieur,” said Ned; “but as yet——” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah, ha!” broke in the other, showing his teeth liberally, “you wait -to step into old shoes. It was my case once—five years ago. I had not -the pleasure to know your uncle, M. le Vicomte.” -</p> - -<p> -“Pardon, monsieur. I am a plain gentleman.” -</p> - -<p> -“Truly? We order things otherwise here—for the present, monsieur—for -the present.” -</p> - -<p> -Obviously he had no least recollection of the <i>contretemps</i> of the -previous evening. -</p> - -<p> -“And you are travelling for experience?” (He referred lightly to the -letter in his hand, and lightly laughed.) “Possibly you shall acquire -that, of a kind, in little rustic Méricourt. We are in advance of our -times here—locusts of the Apocalypse, monsieur, having orders to -respect only the seal of God.” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>We</i>, generically, monsieur would say?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! I include myself.” (He made a comprehensive gesture with his -hand.) “Behold the monastic earnest of my renunciation. I am vowed to -a religion of socialism that takes no account of superfluous frippery. -I devote my pen and” (he laughed again) “dissipate my fortune to the -cause of universal happiness.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yourself thereby, I presume, securing the lion’s share.” -</p> - -<p> -“Of happiness? Truly, I think, I have hit upon the right creed for a -spendthrift. But my conscience is the real motive power, monsieur, -though you may be cynical of its methods.” -</p> - -<p> -He spoke with an undernote of some ambiguity. It might have signified -deprecation, or the merest suggestion of mockery. -</p> - -<p> -“And how shall the sacrifice of your fortune promote the common -happiness?” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -“Plainly, monsieur,” answered St Denys, “by scattering one at least of -the world’s heaps of accumulated corruption. Wealth is like a stack of -manure, a festering load that is the magnet to any wandering fly of -disease. Distribute it and it becomes a blessing that, in fertilising -the soil, loses its own noxious properties. But I would go further and -ask what advantages have accrued from that system of barter that turns -upon a medium of exchange? Has it not cumbered the free earth with -these stacks till there has come to be no outlook save through aisles -and alleys of abomination?” -</p> - -<p> -“That may be true,” said the other, curiously wondering that so much -disputation should be launched upon him at this outset of his -introduction; “but civilisation, during some thousands of years, has -evolved none better.” -</p> - -<p> -M. de St Denys shrugged his shoulders. -</p> - -<p> -“Civilisation!” he cried. “But you retain no faith in that exposed -fetish? Is not civilisation, indeed, one voice of lamentation over its -own disenchantment? Can any condition be worse than that of to-day, -when the ultimate expression of the social code reveals itself a -shameless despotism? Do you ever quite realise—you, monsieur, that -through all this compound multiplication of the world’s figures, its -destinies remain the monopoly of a little clique of private families? -One seems to awaken suddenly to a comical amazement over man’s -age-long subscription to so stupendous a paradox. Let us soothe our -<i>amour propre</i> by submitting that it was an experiment that has proved -itself a failure.” -</p> - -<p> -“Nevertheless, monsieur,” said Ned gravely, “I think that in rejecting -this civilisation by which you profit—in encouraging rebellion -against the established forms that necessity has evolved out of chaos -and wisdom included in its codex—you, to say the least of it, are -moved to drop the substance for the shadow.” -</p> - -<p> -He spoke with some unconscious asperity. He could not bring himself to -admit the entire earnestness of one, of whose self-indulgent character -he had had such recent proof. This metal, he fancied, was plated. -</p> - -<p> -“I cannot believe,” he added, “that so complex a fabric could have -triumphed over the ages had it not been founded upon truth.” -</p> - -<p> -“But successive architects,” cried St Denys, “may have deviated from -the original plan.” -</p> - -<p> -“Still, it holds and it rises; and I for one am content to go up with -it—to re-order its chambers, perhaps, but never to quarrel with the -main design.” -</p> - -<p> -“And I for one would descend and leave it. Ah, bah! one may mount to -the topmost branch of a tree, and yet be no nearer escaping from the -forest. I find myself here in interminable thickets, monsieur. I see -the poor, leaf-blinded denizens of them nosing passionlessly for roots -and acorns in a loveless gloom; and I know the long green fields of -light and pleasure to stretch all round this core of melancholy, if -only these could find the way to win to them. Is self-discipline -necessary to existence? Surely our very butterflies of fashion prove -the contrary.” -</p> - -<p> -“Now what,” thought Ned, “is the goad to this inexplicable character?” -</p> - -<p> -“Does monsieur, then,” said he, “advocate a creed of hedonism?” -</p> - -<p> -“Why not?” cried the other. “Shall not man enlarge, develop, and -become more habitually one with his amiable instincts under the -influence of pleasure, than he ever has done in his bondage to a -religion of self-denial? To deny oneself is to deny God, after whose -image one is made.” -</p> - -<p> -“A pretty conceit,” said Ned; “but it spells degeneracy.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ay, monsieur; and to the very foundations—as far back as the garden -of Paradise.” -</p> - -<p> -“What! You would revert to primitive conditions?” -</p> - -<p> -“To the very ‘naked and unashamed’—but applying to that state the -influence of long traditions of gentle manners. We will admit the -happiness of the community to be the first consideration, and -reconstruct upon a basis of nature.” -</p> - -<p> -A spot of colour came to his cheek. His eyes kindled with a light of -febrile enthusiasm. -</p> - -<p> -“To be free to enjoy, in a world of yielding generosities,” he cried; -“to be cast from restrictions designed to the selfish aggrandisement -of infinitely less than a moiety of our race; to strip indulgence of -the shamefulness that century-long cant has credited it withal—that -is the El Dorado I give my efforts and my substance to attain.” -</p> - -<p> -“There,” thought Ned, “is confessed the animalism to which the other -is but a blind. But this is half-effeminate vapouring.” -</p> - -<p> -He had no sympathy, indeed, with theories so untenable. This -lickerish, unconstructive paganism was far from being the lodestar to -his own revolutionary cock-boat. Yet he could not but marvel over M. -de St Denys’ extremely practical expression of extremely frothy -sentiments. Involuntarily he glanced round the room. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” cried the other, observant of the look. “I am not one of those -doctors who refuse their own medicine.” -</p> - -<p> -A thought of surprise seemed to strike him. -</p> - -<p> -“But I run ahead of my manners,” cried he, with a quick laugh. “You -charge me with a letter, and I return you a volley of exposition. I -have not even offered you a seat. Pray accommodate yourself with one. -And you knew my father, sir?” -</p> - -<p> -“I had not the honour. He was a friend of my lord viscount.” -</p> - -<p> -“Who gave you a letter to him. There is figured out the value of the -social relations. He has been dead, sir, since five years. He left two -sons, of whom I am the younger. My brother, Lucien, a sailor, who held -his commission to the West Indies under De Grasse, perished there in -’81 in an explosion of powder. The estate devolved upon me. We have -not your laws of primogeniture, and had poor Lucien returned, we -should have shared the burden and the joy of inheritance——” -</p> - -<p> -He had been leaning carelessly back against a table while he talked. -He now came erect, and added, with a queer look on his face— -</p> - -<p> -“—and the pleasure of welcoming to Méricourt the nephew of our -father’s friend.” -</p> - -<p> -“You are very good, sir,” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -“I would fain believe it, monsieur. I have the pleasure to offer you -the use of the chateau as an hotel for just so long as you care to -stay.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned, taken momentarily aback, hesitated over the right construction of -so enigmatical an offer. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah!” said the other, “it is to be considered literally.” -</p> - -<p> -“In the business aspect, monsieur?” -</p> - -<p> -“Assuredly. You must understand I have waived the privileges of my -class, amongst which is to be numbered the right to acquit the wealthy -of taxation. The ponds must feed the rivulets, monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -Seeing his visitor lost in introspection, “<i>Enfin</i>,” he cried, with a -musical laugh, “that is the practical side. It is not based, believe -me, upon a system of profits. For the social, I take you to my heart, -monsieur, with all enthusiasm.” -</p> - -<p> -And so Ned became a guest at the chateau at cost price. -</p> - - -<h3 id="b1ch05"> -CHAPTER V. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">Monsieur</span> the master of Méricourt would seal that queer compact of -entertainment with the nephew of his father’s friend over a bottle of -Niersteiner, which he had up from the cellar there and then. -</p> - -<p> -“’Tis a rare brand,” quoth he, his eyes responding with a flick to the -drawing of the cork; “and we will share both bottle and expense like -sworn brothers!” -</p> - -<p> -Ned sipped a single glass reluctant. So much the better for the other. -</p> - -<p> -“I am your debtor!” he cried, as he drained the flask. “Draw upon me -for the balance when you will.” -</p> - -<p> -His face was flushed. He talked a good deal, and not in an intelligent -vein. The visitor accepted him as an enigma that time should solve. -There seemed so much firmness of purpose, so wanton an infirmity of -performance, in his composition. Certainly, having the courage of his -convictions in one way, and the consequent right to expound them -literally in another, he might lay claim to consistency in flooding -himself with wine before eleven o’clock in the morning. Still, to Ned, -this implied a certain contradiction, inasmuch as no creed of right -hedonism could include excess with its penalties. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur, <i>mon ami</i>,” cried St Denys, on a wavering, jovial key, “you -will oblige me by indulging, while here, your easiest caprices. Come -and go as you will; I desire to put no restraint on you. You shall pay -only for your clean linen, and for your food and drink. The first two -you will find at least wholesome. For the last, behold the proof! If -you want luxury, you must seek elsewhere. My socialism is eminently -practical. The free expression of nature—that is the creed we seek to -give effect to in this little corner of the world. But we are no -Sybarites.” -</p> - -<p> -“Nor I,” said Ned; “but, for you—you are a man of strong convictions, -monsieur?” -</p> - -<p> -St Denys laughed, sprawling back in his chair, and waved his hand -significantly to the empty walls. -</p> - -<p> -“Just so,” said Ned. “But I am a very <i>chiffonnier</i> for raking in the -dust for hidden motives.” -</p> - -<p> -The Frenchman cocked a sleepy lid, scrutinising his guest with a -little arrogance of humour. -</p> - -<p> -“They are here, no doubt, these motives,” said he. “Perhaps I am -astute, perhaps I have the seer’s eye. If I foretold you a deluge, -what would you do?” -</p> - -<p> -“Invest my money in an ark.” -</p> - -<p> -“A floating capital, to be sure. But you could never realise on it if -you weathered the storm.” -</p> - -<p> -“And you, monsieur?” -</p> - -<p> -“And I, monsieur?—I should endeavour, very likely, to extract the -essence of twenty years from one; I should at least spare no expense -to that end. Were I foredoomed to founder, I would make myself a wreck -that I might sink the more easily.” -</p> - -<p> -He came scrambling to his feet. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you like music?” he cried. “I will canvass you in the prophetic -vein. I see the rising of the waters.” -</p> - -<p> -He was looking about vaguely as he spoke. -</p> - -<p> -“What the devil is become of it?” he muttered. -</p> - -<p> -“Are you hunting for your guitar? You will find it flat beyond tuning, -I am afraid.” -</p> - -<p> -“How, do you say?” -</p> - -<p> -“M. de St Denys, you fell asleep, literally, on it last night in the -‘Landlust.’” -</p> - -<p> -“‘Landlust!’ Oh! <i>Dieu du ciel</i>! I am beginning to remember.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why,” he chuckled, with hazy inspiration, “your veritable figure, -monsieur, stands out of the fog.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed, it was thick enough to stand on.” -</p> - -<p> -“And little Boppard, and the gross old Lambertine, who is father to -our village Aspasia, the fat old man. But I must introduce you to -Théroigne Lambertine, monsieur, to add one beat a minute to your -politic pulses.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed, I think I have already introduced myself.” -</p> - -<p> -“The deuce you have!” -</p> - -<p> -“And is she your Aspasia? And who is her Pericles?” -</p> - -<p> -“Harkee, monsieur!” said St Denys, with a fall to particular gravity, -“that will never do.” -</p> - -<p> -Then he broke into a great laugh. -</p> - -<p> -“The father,” he cried, “is the bulwark of paradox. See that you never -strive to take him by storm. He is of those who would undermine the -Church while confessing to the priest. He clings to the old formulæ -of honour that, in others, he pronounces out of date. He advocates -free thought as a eunuch might advocate free love, without an idea of -what it implies. His advance is all within his own ring-fence—round -and round like a squirrel in its cage. He will go any distance you -like there, only he must not be ousted from his patrimony. The world -for all men thinks he, but his farm for Jack Lambertine. Popped into -his pet seed-crusher, he would bleed a vat of oil. But he is an -estimable husbandman; oh yes, he is that, certainly.” -</p> - -<p> -“He gives you a better character, it seems, than you him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why, what have I said to his discredit? He has made the whole human -race his debtor in one respect.” -</p> - -<p> -“What, for example?” -</p> - -<p> -“M. Murk, <i>mon ami</i>, he has produced a Théroigne.” -</p> - -<p> -<br/> -</p> - -<p> -Ned, paint-box in hand, presented himself at the lodge-door. A sound -of low singing led him through a very lavender-blown passage to the -rear of the cottage. Here he came upon Nicette in a little bricked -dairy dashed cool with recent water. She was skimming cream from a -broad pan with her fingers. The tips of these budded through the -white, like nibs of rhubarb through melting snow. -</p> - -<p> -“Behold her as she stands!” said the intruder. “Here is the -milk-washed Madonna for my picture.” -</p> - -<p> -He put down his box and approached the maid. She stood startled, her -hands poised above their work. Ned took her by the wrists, and, -conducting his captive with speechless decorum to a sink, pumped water -over the sheathed buds till they flushed pink with the cold. -</p> - -<p> -“Now,” said he, “dry your hands on that jack-towel, Nicette, and we -will get to work.” -</p> - -<p> -The girl’s eyes floated in a little backwater of tears. Crescents of -hot colour showed under them on her cheek-bones. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur will make a jest of me,” she said, in a rather drowned -whisper. -</p> - -<p> -“I will make a Madonna of you, Nicette, if you will pose yourself as I -wish.” -</p> - -<p> -Her lips quivered. She looked down, twiddling her wet thumbs. -</p> - -<p> -“I am established at the chateau, Nicette. I am a friend of M. de St -Denys, who would have me dispose of my time to my best entertainment.” -</p> - -<p> -“And that monsieur seeks of the poor lodge-keeper?” -</p> - -<p> -“Truly, for I am an artist above all things.” -</p> - -<p> -This cold fellow had a coaxing way with him. After not so long an -interval he was busily at work, with the girl seated to his -satisfaction. The sweet coolness of the dairy received, through a -wide-flung window, the scent of innumerable flowers that thronged the -little garden without. To look thereon was like gazing on the blazing -square of a stage from the sequestered gloom of an auditorium. There -was an orchestra, moreover, all made up of queer Æolian harmonics. -</p> - -<p> -“What is that voice, Nicette, that never ceases to moan and quarrel?” -</p> - -<p> -“It tells the wind, monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -“What does it tell? A story without an end, I think.” -</p> - -<p> -He rose and looked through the window. A little complaining horn, -pivoted on the top of a long pole, swung to the lightest breeze and -caught and passed it on in waves of protest. Upon a slack wire or two -that, like tent ropes, held the pole secure, lower currents of air -fluttered with the sound of a knife sharpening on a tinker’s -grindstone. -</p> - -<p> -Ned grunted and resumed his seat. -</p> - -<p> -“It would drive me silly to have that for ever in my ears. How can you -stand it, Nicette?” -</p> - -<p> -“It speaks to me of many things, monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -“What, for instance?” -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur will laugh.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, I will not.” -</p> - -<p> -“The whispering of the flower spirits, then; the steps and the low -voices that come from beyond the dawn before even the shepherds are -awake; sometimes the noise of the sea.” -</p> - -<p> -“You have travelled?” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah! no, monsieur. But I have heard how the great waters mutter all -their secrets to their shells; and I like to think that my air-shell -up there is in the confidence of the strange people one cannot see.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned paused in his work, and dwelt musingly on his companion’s face. -</p> - -<p> -“So,” said he, “you are a half-saint on the strength of these little -odd ecstasies.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed I am no part of a saint.” -</p> - -<p> -“Now, Nicette, you must put no restraint on your speech whenever I am -with you. You interest me more, I think, than anybody I have ever -seen. Do you know, I have no imaginative faculty like this of yours. I -am too inquisitive to dream nicely. I like to get to the bottom of -things.” -</p> - -<p> -Obviously there was some lure about him that drew the girl, in -tentative advances, from her reserve. -</p> - -<p> -“I do not think there is a bottom to things,” she said, looking up, a -little breathless at her own daring. “Some day, perhaps, when monsieur -thinks he has reached it, he will fall through and find himself -flying.” -</p> - -<p> -“Shall I?” said Ned abstractedly, for he was wrestling with a -difficulty. Then he went on, with a quick change of subject,—“are you -very fond of your cow?” -</p> - -<p> -Nicette’s eyes opened in wonder. -</p> - -<p> -“Of Madeleine? Oh yes, monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -“How often do you feed her?” -</p> - -<p> -“But twice in the day.” -</p> - -<p> -“Of green meat that you gather?” -</p> - -<p> -“It is the fashion with us. Is it not so to stall the cattle in the -country of monsieur?” -</p> - -<p> -“Only at night. And how often do you feed your little brother?” -</p> - -<p> -The unexpected question completely dumfounded the girl. Ned laughed, -put his brush in his mouth, and fetched a louis-d’or from his pocket. -</p> - -<p> -“Will you take this now, Nicette?” -</p> - -<p> -Something to his consternation, she rose hurriedly from her seat, made -as if to leave the room, and broke into a little fit of weeping. He -went up and spoke to her soothingly— -</p> - -<p> -“Silly, pretty child! are you ashamed? You are none the worse in my -eyes for showing some inconsistency. Think only you are in the -confidence of one of your strange people. Here, take it, Nicette.” -</p> - -<p> -She threw his hand away. The coin rang on the floor. -</p> - -<p> -“I will not, I will not!” she cried. “Oh, please to go, monsieur. How -can I sit for the Madonna any more when you make me out so wicked!” -</p> - - -<h3 id="b1ch06"> -CHAPTER VI. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -“<span class="sc">M. de St Denys</span>,” said Ned, “are you not here the children, so to -speak, of an ecclesiastical benefice?” -</p> - -<p> -“We are in the circle of Westphalia, monsieur—children, certainly, of -the Duc de Bouillon, who is suffragan of the Archbishop of Cologne.” -</p> - -<p> -“And how does his lordship accept this moral emancipation of little -rustic Méricourt?” -</p> - -<p> -The other laughed carelessly. -</p> - -<p> -“As he would accept the antics of children, perhaps. It does not -trouble me. In a few years all livings will be in the gift of the -people.” -</p> - -<p> -“You are serious in thinking so?” -</p> - -<p> -“Why not?” -</p> - -<p> -“Because I cannot interpret you, or comprehend for what reason you run -riot on a road of self-abnegation.” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps it is the war of the spirit with the flesh, monsieur. Who -knows, were a man of vigour not to reasonably indulge his senses, if -his senses would not maliciously lead his judgment astray? Shall an -anchorite prescribe for the hot fevers of life? I like to test the -passions I would legislate on.” -</p> - -<p> -“And you foresee the triumph of the races over their rulers?” -</p> - -<p> -“I foresee the bursting of the dam of humour—the mad earth-wide -guffaw in the sudden realisation of a preposterous anachronism. I see -all the old landmarks swept away in a roar of laughter—the idols, the -frippery, the traditions of respect for what is essentially mean and -false, the egregious monkeys of convention solemnly dictating the laws -of society to their own reflections in looking-glasses.” -</p> - -<p> -“And what then?” -</p> - -<p> -“The reign of reason, monsieur: the earth, with its flowers, for the -children of its soil; the commonage of pastures, of woods, and of -valleys; the adjustment of the relations of love and increase to the -developments of nature; the death of shame, of artificiality, of -ignoble sophistries.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned shook his head. Was the man sincere in all this? Did he seek to -adapt himself, with and in spite of his weaknesses, to what he -considered the inevitably right? or were his repudiation of caste, his -sacrifice of fortune, a mere wholesale bid for the notoriety that is -so frantically sought of melodramatic souls? His voice was vibrant -with enthusiasm; he seemed to lash himself into great utterances, to -feel conviction through force of sound; and then in a moment he would -(figuratively) swagger to the wings, cock his hat, and bury his face -in a foaming tankard. -</p> - -<p> -The two young men were strolling through a twilight of woodland. They -had dined at four o’clock, had sat an hour or so over their bottle, -and were then, by arrangement of St Denys, to present themselves at a -certain rendezvous of local <i>esprits forts</i>. -</p> - -<p> -“Thou shalt handle Promethean fire,” said the lord of Méricourt, “and -shalt kindle in the glance of a goddess.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very well,” answered Ned. “I will come, by all means; but she will -not find me touchwood.” -</p> - -<p> -They had mounted from the back of the village at the turning into the -road of the chateau. A few hundreds of yards had brought them to the -fringe of the dense forest that rolled in terraces of high green down -to the very outskirts of the hamlet. Thence they had passed, by tracks -of huddled leafiness, into deeps and profounder deeps of stillness. -</p> - -<p> -The silence about them was as the silence of a peopled -self-consciousness—as the under-clang of voices to a dreamer whose -heart works in his breast like a mole. Every bird’s song was an echo; -the germ of new life under every pine-cone seemed stirring audibly in -its little womb. If a squirrel scampered unseen, if a rush of wings -went by unidentified, the sound became a memory before it was past. -Nothing of all beauty was material. The thurible of the sun, trailing -clouds of smoke, was withdrawn into the sacristy of the hills; the -music of the vesper hour fled in receding harmonics under a roof of -boughs; long aisles of arborescence, dim with slow-drifting incense, -held solitude close as a returned prodigal. Here was the neutral -ground of soul and body; thronged with unrealities to either; full of -secret expectancies that massed or withdrew to the shutting and -opening of one’s eyes. -</p> - -<p> -The dusk formed like troops in the bushy hollows. Still M. de St Denys -led his companion on. Suddenly he stayed him, with a hand on his -sleeve. -</p> - -<p> -A sound, like the rubbing cheep of a polishing-cloth on wood, came to -their ears from somewhere hard by. Stepping very softly, the two men -stole into a clearing dominated by a single huge beech-tree—an old -shorn Lear of the forest. At its roots a young boar was engaged -whetting its tushes, that curled up like the mustachios of a -swinge-buckler. The muscular sides of the beast palpitated as it swung -to and fro. -</p> - -<p> -Now St Denys, with meaningless bravado, left his friend and walked up -to the brute, that cocked its ears and was still in a moment. Ned -caught the porcelain glint of its eye slewed backwards,—and then St -Denys flogged out at the bristling flanks with a little riding-switch -he carried in his hand. The pig fetched round; the young man uttered a -shrill whoop and lashed it in the face; and at that the animal plunged -for the thicket and disappeared. -</p> - -<p> -Ned went on to the tree. He thought all this a particularly -thrasonical display, and would not appear to subscribe, by so much as -referring, to it. -</p> - -<p> -“A mammoth in its day,” said he, looking up at the vast wreck of -timber that writhed enormous arms against the darkening sky. -</p> - -<p> -“Ay,” said St Denys, assuming indifference of the slight. “That has -been a long one, too. I can scarce remember it but as it is now, and I -am rising twenty-seven. It held itself royal and unapproachable, you -see; defined the commonalty of the forest its limits of approximation -to it like a celestial Mogul. The girth of this clearing in which it -stands is the girth of its former greatness. No sapling even now dare -set foot in the <i>sanctum sanctorum</i>. These forests have their -traditions as men have.” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps modelled on ours.” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps. We shall see. Come here again in a year—two years; and if -thou tell’st me this charmed circle has been broken into by the -thicket, I will answer that elsewhere the people stand on the daïses -of kings.” -</p> - -<p> -Again there seemed the theatrical posing. The speaker put a hand on -the trunk of the great tree. -</p> - -<p> -“Here is the very <i>bienséance</i> of vanity,” he said—“the archetype of -society. Withered, denuded, worm-eaten to a shell, it yet decks its -cap with a plume of green, wraps its palsy in a cloak of stars, and -stands aloof like something desirable but not to be attained.” -</p> - -<p> -“A shell, you say? It looks solid as marble.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is a king, monsieur, without a heart. Some day when the storm -rises it shall fall in upon itself. I know its hollowness from a boy. -I have climbed fifty times this drooping bough here—which you may do -now, if you will. Up there, where the branches strike from the main -stem, one may look down into a deep well of decay.” -</p> - -<p> -He caught his hand away with a repelling exclamation. -</p> - -<p> -“Bah! it sprouts fungus at less than a man’s height; it is rotting to -the roots. It shall take but a little heave of the tempest’s shoulder -to send it sprawling.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned humoured the allegory with some contempt. -</p> - -<p> -“Thrones do not crash down so easily,” said he. “Their roots extend -over the continents.” -</p> - -<p> -St Denys came from the tree, slid his arm under his guest’s, and drew -his gentleman down an obscure track that ran into the thicket. -</p> - -<p> -“So you love kings?” said he. -</p> - -<p> -“I neither love nor decry them. I wish to walk independent, like a -visitor from another star, availing myself of every opportunity of -observation. I shall not swerve from my convictions when they are -formed.” -</p> - -<p> -“And as far as you have got at present?” -</p> - -<p> -“I see more evil rising from the depths than descending from the -heights. I see the peaks of volcanoes held responsible for the -eruptions that are hatched by turbulent forces far down -below—compelled to be their mouthpiece, indeed. Kings are what their -people make them. Let the forces subside, and the very cones in time -will come to pasture quiet flocks.” -</p> - -<p> -“Or let the lava overflow, overwhelm, and obliterate—distribute -itself and grow cool. So shall the pasturage be infinitely more -extended. Oh, inglorious conclusion! to justify individual evil on the -score that it has no choice!” -</p> - -<p> -“I do not,” said Ned calmly. “I recognise only the right of the -individual to an independent expression of self. To secure this he -must conform to a social code that excludes the processes of tyranny.” -</p> - -<p> -“And that code must read equality.” -</p> - -<p> -“No; for men are not equal. The world must always exhibit a -sliding-scale of intellect and capacity; the unit, a perpetual -aspiration. Materially, there must be a desideratum—an <i>ultima ratio</i> -to ambition. Call it king, consul, dictator. Whatever its name, it is -merely the crystallisation of a people’s character and energy—the -highest effect given to a national tendency.” -</p> - -<p> -“But all this, my friend, is not compatible with hereditary titles.” -</p> - -<p> -“No; and there I pause.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is gracious of you. A little further, and you will recognise the -impossibility of patching up old fustian to wear like new cloth. -Better to commit all to the fire than to spare the sorry stuff because -a bit here and there is less decayed than the rest.” -</p> - -<p> -As he spoke a square of mellow radiance met them at a turning of their -path. The light proceeded from the window of a wooden hut or shanty—a -tool-shed it might have been, or at the best a little disused hunters’ -lodge. It was sunk in a bosket of evergreens; built of luffer-boards -that gaped in many places; and its roof of flaking tiles was all sown -with buttons of moss. -</p> - -<p> -“The headquarters of the brotherhood,” said St Denys, with a laugh; -and he pushed open a creaking door and drew his visitor within. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Holà</i>, Basile!” came in a triple note of greeting. -</p> - -<p> -Ned found himself—wondering somewhat—in a bare, small room, -furnished only with a table and plain benches of chestnutwood. At this -table were seated the exiguous sizar of the “Landlust,” and a couple -of rather truculent-looking gentry—farmers of small holdings, by -reasonable surmise. An oil-lamp burned against the wall, and its light -swayed wooingly on the face of the fourth member of the -company—Théroigne Lambertine, whom the young man had foreguessed to -be the goddess. She sat, raised a little above the others, at the head -of the board, a smile on her lips, her eyes awake with daring. Her -hair was loosely caught under a scarlet handkerchief; about her bosom -a white fichu was only too slackly knotted. Ned had never seen a -living creature so richly secure in the defensive and aggressive -qualities of beauty. She looked at him with a little defiance of -recognition. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Mes amis</i>,” said St Denys, “I have the pleasure to introduce to you -a visitor whom you will know as Edouard. He is all, I may tell you, -for reforming society.” -</p> - -<p> -“That is a discipline thou shalt not wield here, Edouard,” cried one -of the loobies, with an insolent laugh. -</p> - -<p> -Ned faced the speaker gravely. -</p> - -<p> -“Not even for the whipping of a jackass?” said he. -</p> - -<p> -There answered a cackle of derision. St Denys caught his friend by the -arm. -</p> - -<p> -“It is unfair, it is unfair!” he cried merrily. “I have brought him -hither without a word of explanation.” -</p> - -<p> -Then he took his captive by the lapels of his coat. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur, or Edouard,” said he, “this is the one spot within the -compass of the nations where a man is entirely welcome for himself so -long as he is it. Here we throw off every unnatural restriction, say -what we will, do what we will—provided no evil consequence is -entailed thereby. We are the club of ‘Nature’s Gentry,’ founded upon -and governed by that solitary comprehensive rule. We neither give nor -take offence, for where absolute freedom of speech is permitted all -may be said that there is to say. Cast from the prohibitions of -conventions, truthful beyond conceits, we restrain ourselves in -nothing that is of happy impulse, deny ourselves no indulgence but -that of doing hurt to our neighbour.” -</p> - -<p> -“Basile has spoken,” said Théroigne in her full voice; “Basile is -very great! And thou, thou tall staidness, come and pay thy homage to -Nature’s queen.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned turned swiftly, walked up to the girl, and kissed her cheek. -</p> - -<p> -“What the devil!” cried St Denys hoarsely. -</p> - -<p> -“Have I done hurt to my neighbour?” said Ned, facing round. -</p> - -<p> -The Belgian laughed on a false note. -</p> - -<p> -“You are immense,” said he. “The brotherhood takes you to its heart. -See that you, on your part, resent nothing.” -</p> - -<p> -He turned, with rather a frowning brow, to the table. Théroigne, -flushed but unabashed by the Englishman’s boldness, watched her -predial lord covertly. -</p> - -<p> -“A small gathering to-night,” he said; “but what of that when the -Queen presides?” -</p> - -<p> -He fancied himself conscious of a new startled intelligence in the -eyes of two, at least, of his company. This stranger (the look -expressed), how had he appropriated to himself what they had never -dreamed but to respect as unattainable? Truly it had been for him to -rightly interpret to them their own law. -</p> - -<p> -St Denys stamped his foot impatiently. -</p> - -<p> -“Why do you blink here like moping owls?” he said. “The air is balm; -the moon walks up the sky; there is not a bank but breathes out a -sweet invitation.” -</p> - -<p> -They bustled to their feet at his words. One man pulled from under the -table a hamper loaded with wine-flasks and horns. -</p> - -<p> -“We revel in the open,” said St Denys to Ned. “We give our words -flight, like fairies, under the stars. Nothing remains to rankle, or -to generate mischief, as in the close atmosphere of rooms.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very well,” said Ned, “the open for me;” and he stepped out, -accompanied by three others, into the sweet-blown wood. -</p> - -<p> -The moment he found himself alone with her, St Denys turned upon -Théroigne. -</p> - -<p> -“Mademoiselle coquette,” said he, showing his teeth, “I could very -easily strike you on the face!” -</p> - -<p> -“And why?” she said quietly, her eyes glittering at him. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! do you not understand?” -</p> - -<p> -“Little mother of God!” she cried low, her nostrils dilating, “but -here is a consistent president! Did not the stranger conform to rule? -Would you have had me give you the lie by repulsing him?” -</p> - -<p> -“To the devil with the rule!” cried the other in suppressed passion. -“You know it for a blind—not as an excuse for licence. This folly, -this ridiculous club! is it not designed but to enable us to indulge a -passion of romance—under the very ægis of M. Lambertine, too, when -he chooses to leave his tavern and his pipe?” -</p> - -<p> -The girl in a swift transition of mood came from her seat and put up -her hands caressingly to the young man’s shoulders. -</p> - -<p> -“Basile, <i>mon ami</i>,” she murmured; “it is ridiculous, I know; but it -is an excitement in this little dull world of ours. Thou sport’st with -professions of opinion that are not the truth of thy soul. Thou -knowest, as I know, dearest, that these wild theories spell disaster; -that through all the waste of the ages honour is the pilot star that -it is never but safe to steer by. Oh, do you not, Basile?” -</p> - -<p> -“Surely,” said St Denys impatiently. “What have I said to disprove it? -But honour will not dispel the fog through which these ships of state -are driving to their doom. I who prophesy the crash—God of heaven, -Théroigne! dost thou think my ambition surfeits on this scurvy junto -of clodhoppers? It is play, my beautiful—just play to pass away the -time.” -</p> - -<p> -“And I too play, soul of my soul—but I will no more. This Englishman, -if he dares again, he shall suffer. Thy honour shall be mine, as thou -hast sworn to save me from myself—oh, Basile, darling, remember how -thou hast sworn it!” -</p> - - -<h3 id="b1ch07"> -CHAPTER VII. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">Mr Murk</span> sat on a bank, solemnly preparing for an idyll. -</p> - -<p> -“But I cannot subscribe to it in one respect,” thought he; “for, if I -persist in being myself, I shall look upon all this as the most -idiotic fooling.” -</p> - -<p> -“Little Boppard,” said he, “what will society do now you have severed -yourself from it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur,” said the student angrily, “I am not to be laughed at.” -</p> - -<p> -“How, then, of this freedom of speech?” -</p> - -<p> -“You are an interloper. You do not understand.” -</p> - -<p> -“But I am eager to learn; oh, little Boppard, I am so eager to learn!” -</p> - -<p> -“I will not be called so. It is infamous!” -</p> - -<p> -“But it was thus M. de St Denys named you to me.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is different. I am nothing to you.” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Oh, mon pauvret</i>! it is not so bad. You are at least a little man to -me.” -</p> - -<p> -One of the hobnails broke into a guffaw. -</p> - -<p> -“Listen to him! this stranger is a droll! Good! It is much noise about -nothing, Boppard.” -</p> - -<p> -“You most happily cap me, sir,” said Ned, with great gravity. “May I -have the pleasure of taking wine with you?” -</p> - -<p> -“But a bucketful, Edouard!” cried the fellow boisterously. He brimmed -the horns as he spoke. A vinous pigment already freckled his cheeks. -</p> - -<p> -“I see here nothing but an excuse for an orgy,” thought the visitor. -</p> - -<p> -The company sprawled over a bank to one side of the clearing where the -great tree stood. The wine-flasks lay cool in moss. The two countrymen -had thrown off their coats and bared their shaggy chests to the night. -Overhead the moon was already of a power to strew the forest lanes -with travelling blots of shadow, like dead leaves moving on a languid -stream. A cricket chirruped here and there in spasms, as if -irresistibly tickled by the recollection of some pleasantry. From time -to time, across the dim perspective of a glade, a momentary -indiscernible shape would steal and vanish. -</p> - -<p> -Ned pondered over the enchantment—as moving less prosaic souls—of -moonlit haunted woods. -</p> - -<p> -“Now, I wonder,” thought he, “if I could put myself <i>en rapport</i> with -the undefinable in less Philistine company!” -</p> - -<p> -As if in reply, “What would not Nicette interpret of these fairy -solitudes?” said a dreamy voice at his back. -</p> - -<p> -He turned his head. Théroigne had come softly, and was seated with St -Denys a little above him on the bank. -</p> - -<p> -“She is not of the club, then?” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -The student laughed truculently, throwing back his head with a noise -as if he were gargling. -</p> - -<p> -“Little Boppard is beyond himself,” said Ned. “We shall make a man of -him yet.” -</p> - -<p> -The two potwallopers hooted richly at that. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur is quick to launch insults,” said Mademoiselle Lambertine -frigidly. -</p> - -<p> -“Why, what have I said?” -</p> - -<p> -The young man looked piously bewildered. St Denys sniggered—even, Ned -could have thought, with a little note of vexation. -</p> - -<p> -“Friend Edouard,” said he, “in Méricourt the <i>portière</i> Legrand -stands pre-canonised.” -</p> - -<p> -“Understand!” chuckled a bumpkin. “She is <i>portière</i> and a -virgin—save that she bears the sins of the community.” -</p> - -<p> -“Beast!” cried Théroigne. Then she went on sarcastically—“To belong -to us! Oh yes! but it is likely, is it not? She who communes with the -Blessed Virgin like a dear familiar.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is so,” said St Denys. “That is her reputation.” -</p> - -<p> -He was himself, for all his Jean-Jacques Pyrrhonism, an evident -subscriber to a local superstition. -</p> - -<p> -“Now,” said the perplexed Englishman, “I perceive that to be oneself -is to invite resentment.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not to give or take offence,” said Théroigne, with fine -impartiality. -</p> - -<p> -“Both of which have been done, mademoiselle. So, let us cry quits. And -what would Mademoiselle Legrand make of all this?” -</p> - -<p> -“How can I tell? She is the saint of dear conceits. She has the inward -eye for things invisible to us. ‘Where do the threads of rain -disappear to, Théroigne?’ says she. ‘<i>Oh, mon Dieu</i>, Nicette! Am I a -Cagliostro?’ ‘I think,’ she says, ‘they are pulled into the earth by -goblins working at great looms of water. Each thread draws like spun -glass from the crucible of the clouds, and so underfoot is woven the -network of springs and channels.’ <i>Ciel</i>! the quaint sweet child! -Whither come her fancies? They are there in the morning like drops of -dew.” -</p> - -<p> -St Denys broke in with a rippling snatch of song:— -</p> - -<div class="quote_o"><div class="quote_i"> - -<p class="i0">“‘Mignonne, allons voir si la rose,</p> -<p class="i0">Qui ce matin avoit desclose</p> -<p class="i0">Sa robe de pourpre au soleil,</p> -<p class="i0">A point perdu, ceste vesprée,</p> -<p class="i0">Les plis de sa robe pourprée,</p> -<p class="i0">Et son teint au vostre pareil.’”</p> - -</div></div> - -<p> -He stopped. -</p> - -<p> -“Sing on, my heart,” whispered Théroigne. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur the Englishman does not approve my music.” -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur!” began the girl, in great scorn; but, to stay her, St Denys -lifted up his voice a second time:— -</p> - -<div class="quote_o"><div class="quote_i"> - -<p class="i0">“When Clœlia proved obdurate</p> -<p class="i1">To Phædon’s fond advances,</p> -<p class="i0">Repaid with scorn his woful state,</p> -<p class="i1">With flout his utterances,</p> - -<br/> - -<p class="i0">‘Forego,’ he cried, ‘this acrid strain,</p> -<p class="i1">From such sweet lips a schism,</p> -<p class="i0">And dumbly quit me of my pain</p> -<p class="i1">By posy symbolism!</p> - -<br/> - -<p class="i0">‘For hope, a white rose; for despair,</p> -<p class="i1">A red, pluck to thy bosom!’—</p> -<p class="i0">He turned; then looked—the wilful fair</p> -<p class="i1">Had donned a crimson blossom.</p> - -<br/> - -<p class="i0">But, so it chanced, within the cup</p> -<p class="i1">A cupid, honey-tipsy,</p> -<p class="i0">In rage at being woken up,</p> -<p class="i1">Thrust out and stung the gipsy.</p> - -<br/> - -<p class="i0">Then, all compunction for his deed,</p> -<p class="i1">For cap to the disaster,</p> -<p class="i0">Rubbed Phædon’s lips with honey-mead,</p> -<p class="i1">To serve the wound for plaster.”</p> - -</div></div> - -<p> -“Is it pretty or not, monsieur?” asked Théroigne mockingly, advancing -her foot and giving Ned a little peck in the back with it. -</p> - -<p> -“It suits the occasion, mademoiselle, and, no doubt, the company.” -</p> - -<p> -St Denys laughed out. -</p> - -<p> -“Hear the grudging ascetic!” he cried. “It is martial music that shall -fire this temperate blood! <i>Ho</i>, Boppard, <i>mon petit chiffon</i>! give -him a taste of thy quality.” -</p> - -<p> -“He will laugh at me, Basile.” -</p> - -<p> -Nevertheless, the sizar got upon his legs. It brought him three feet -nearer the stars. His voice was a protesting little organ; but the -spirit that inspired it was many degrees above proof. -</p> - -<p> -He sang:— -</p> - -<div class="quote_o"><div class="quote_i"> - -<p class="i4">“Decorous ways,</p> -<p class="i4">Though Mammon praise</p> -<p class="i2">With self-protective art—</p> -<p class="i4">We’ve learnt through ruth,</p> -<p class="i4">The damnèd truth,</p> -<p class="i2">Why he affects the part.</p> -<p class="i0">Courage, then! Courage, my children!</p> -<p class="i4">Virtue is all gammon,</p> -<p class="i4">Imposed on us by Mammon,</p> -<p class="i5">Not to spoil the fashion.</p> -<p class="i0">Giving him monopoly—hatefully, improperly—</p> -<p class="i6">Of the sweets of passion.</p> - -</div></div> - -<p> -—Monsieur, I will not be laughed at.” -</p> - -<p> -“A thousand pardons,” said Ned. “I thought from your expression you -were going to be sick. But, never mind. Go on!” -</p> - -<p> -“I will go on or not as I please. I protest, at least, I can crow as -well as monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -“Like a bantam cock on a dunghill, little Boppard. You hail the -awaking of the proletariat. And are the verses your own?” -</p> - -<p> -“I will not tell you. I will not tell you anything. I have never been -so insulted.” -</p> - -<p> -He seemed to sob, plumped down, and drank off a horn of wine in -resounding gulps. The two rustics rolled to their feet and began to -fling an uncouth dance together. They had canvassed the bottle freely, -and were grown very true to themselves. They spun, they hooted, their -moonlit shadows writhed on the ground like wounded snakes. Wilder and -more abandoned waxed their congyrations, till at length one flung the -other upon the bank at the very feet of Théroigne. -</p> - -<p> -Now this fellow, potulent and pot-valiant, and taking his cue from -sobriety, scrambled to his knees, threw himself upon the girl, and -crying, “No hurt to my neighbour!” endeavoured to salute her after an -example set him. -</p> - -<p> -His reception was something more than damning. Théroigne, with a cry -of rage, met the impact tooth and nail, and following on the rebound, -became in her turn the furious aggressor. A devil possessed her fierce -mouth and vigorous young arms. Her victim, wailing with terror, tried -to protect his face, from which the blood ran in rivulets. For a -moment or two she had everything to herself. The others stood -paralysed about her where they had got to their feet. Then St Denys -seized and struggled to draw her away. Even at that she resisted, -worrying her prey and gabbling like a thing demented. -</p> - -<p> -“Leave the brute his life!” cried M. le Président. “It is not he, -after all, that is most to blame. Do you hear, Théroigne? I will -twist your arm out of its socket, but you shall come!” -</p> - -<p> -She uttered a shriek of physical pain, and, releasing her hold, stood -panting. On the grass the wretched creature nursed his wounds, and -sobbed and wriggled. His comrade, sobered beyond belief, dumbly -glowered in the background. -</p> - -<p> -Ned took off his hat in a shameless manner of politeness. -</p> - -<p> -“These fraternal orgies,” said he, “are a little difficult of -digestion to a stomach prescriptive. On the whole, I think, I prefer -the despotism of <i>savoir-vivre</i>. With monsieur’s permission I will -e’en back to Méricourt.” -</p> - -<p> -“We must bear in mind that he is an Englishman,” said the sizar. “His -traditions are not of the licence of good-fellowship.” -</p> - - -<h3 id="b1ch08"> -CHAPTER VIII. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">It</span> was characteristic enough of M. de St Denys to bear his guest no -grudge for the fiasco, chiefly brought about, it must be admitted, by -that guest’s malfeasance. With no man was the evil of the day more -sufficient to itself; and he would be the last to insist upon that -discipline of conscience that burdens each successive dawn with a new -heritage of regrets. Moreover, the dog had the right humour, when he -was restored to it, to properly appreciate Ned’s immediate -comprehension of rule one and only of the Brotherhood; and on his way -home with Théroigne, the comedy of the situation did gradually so -slake the turmoil of his soul as that he must try to win over his -companion to regard the matter from anything but a tragic standpoint. -In this he was but partly successful; for woman has a cast in her -humorous perceptives that deprives her of the sense of proportion. -</p> - -<p> -“Is it so little a thing?” she said hotly. “But it was thy honour I -fought to maintain. And no wonder, then, that men will take sport of -that in us which they hold so cheap in themselves.” -</p> - -<p> -However, his mended view of the affair impressed her so far as that, -meeting with the Englishman by the village fountain on the morning -following the orgy, she condescended to some distant notice of, and -speech with, him. For, indeed, with her sex, to punish with silence is -to wield a scourge of hand-stinging adders. -</p> - -<p> -Ned, serenely undisturbed by, if not unconscious of, a certain -toneless hauteur, greeted Mademoiselle Lambertine with his usual -politeness. He was not, in truth, greatly interested in this fine -animal. He recognised in her no original quality that set her apart -from her fellows. Beauty of an astonishing order was hers -indeed—beauty as much of promise as of fulfilment. The little -remaining <i>gaucherie</i> of the hoyden dwelt with her only like a -lingering brogue on the tongue of an expatriated Irishman. It was -rough-and-tumble budding into a manner of caress. But beauty, save as -it might contribute to the <i>motif</i> of a picture, was no fire to raise -this young man’s temperature, and in Théroigne’s presence he seemed -only to breathe an opulent atmosphere of commonplace. She was glowing -passion interpreted through colour—siennas and leafy browns, and -golds like the reflection of sunsets; a dryad, a pagan, a -liberal-limbed <i>tetonnière</i>. If she were ever to find herself a soul, -he could imagine her standing out richly as a Rembrandt portrait -against torn dark backgrounds. But at present she seemed to lack the -setting that occasion might procure her. -</p> - -<p> -“Why do you toil this long way for water?” said he. -</p> - -<p> -“For the reason that monsieur travels,” she answered coldly. -</p> - -<p> -“Do I comprehend? I loiter up the channels of life seeking the -spring-heads.” -</p> - -<p> -“Whence the waters gush sweet and clear. Down in the dull homesteads -one draws only stagnation from the ground.” -</p> - -<p> -“Or from the barrels underground. Méricourt would do well, I think, -to make this fountain its rendezvous.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, monsieur! one need not drink much wine, I see, to yield oneself -to insolence.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, you are angry over that kiss. But it was a jest, Théroigne. My -heart was as cold as this basin.” -</p> - -<p> -Did this improve matters? -</p> - -<p> -“No doubt,” she said, flushing up, “you only lack the opportunity to -be a Judas. And is it so they treat women in your barbarous island?” -</p> - -<p> -“They treat them as they elect to be treated. We have a saying that as -one makes one’s bed, so one must lie on it.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is a noble creed!” cried the girl derisively. “It is the Pharisee -speaking in English.” -</p> - -<p> -“Nay, mademoiselle. It is to be vertebrate, that is all. To condone -evil on the score of provocation to evil, to excuse it on the ground -of constitutional tendency—that is the first infirmity of declining -races.” -</p> - -<p> -She looked at him mockingly, then fell into a little musing fit. -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps it is the right point of view,” she murmured; “but for -us—<i>mon Dieu</i>! our eyes will get bloodshot and our vision obscured, -and—yes, I would rather die of fire than of frost.” -</p> - -<p> -She turned upon him, still pondering. -</p> - -<p> -“It is strange. They say you are a great lord in your own country.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am nephew to one, and his heir.” -</p> - -<p> -“And is he like you?” -</p> - -<p> -Ned permitted himself a snigger. -</p> - -<p> -“He is very unlike me. He is the <i>doyen</i>, perhaps, of Lotharios.” -</p> - -<p> -“An old man?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, old.” -</p> - -<p> -“And you travel like a <i>commis voyageur</i>—for experience, says the -gross Van Roon! There must be something of courage in you Englishmen, -after all, though you will run before us where you are fewer than ten -to one.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned changed the subject. -</p> - -<p> -“Why were you so hurt last night by my reference to Nicette?” -</p> - -<p> -“She is a saint.” -</p> - -<p> -“How do you know?” -</p> - -<p> -“How does a blind man know when some one sits at an open window by -which he passes? He feels the presence—that is all.” -</p> - -<p> -“That is all, then?” -</p> - -<p> -“No; but this—Nicette cried lustily till the waters of baptism -redeemed her, and thereafter never again: so early was the devil -expelled from that sweet shrine.” -</p> - -<p> -“And the little brother—is he a saint too?” -</p> - -<p> -Théroigne laughed contemptuously. -</p> - -<p> -“Baptiste? Oh, to be sure! the little unregenerate! He is the devil’s -imp rather.” -</p> - -<p> -“They are orphans?” -</p> - -<p> -“Since three years. The girl mothers him, the graceless rogue.” -</p> - -<p> -“I wronged her in ignorance, you see. That club of good-fellowship—it -was all so concordant, so much in harmony with its own laws of frolic -give-and-take. Why should a very saint be superior to so genial a -fraternity?” -</p> - -<p> -“We are a fraternity, as monsieur says, extending the hand of -brotherhood to——” -</p> - -<p> -She broke off, uttering a sharp exclamation as of terror or disgust, -and shrunk back against the well rim. A figure had come into view—by -way of the meadow path, up which Nicette had borne her load of -fodder—and had paused over against the fountain, where it stood -obsequiously bowing and gesticulating. It was that of a tall, -large-boned man, fair-haired, apple-faced, with a mild, deprecating -expression in its big blue eyes. Its head was crowned with a greasy -cloth cap, shaped like the half of a tomato; its shirt, of undesirable -fustian, was strangely decorated over the left breast with a yellow -badge cut into something the shape of a duck’s foot; its full -small-clothes—that came pretty high to the waist and were braced over -the shoulders with leather bands, yoked to others running horizontally -across chest and back—seemed in their every stereotyped crease the -worn expression of humility. -</p> - -<p> -“What is it, my friend?” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -Théroigne put a hand on his arm. -</p> - -<p> -“Do not speak to him, save to bid him return whither he came. God in -heaven! I can see the grass withering under his feet! Monsieur, -monsieur” (for Ned was walking towards the man), “it is one of the -accursed race!” -</p> - -<p> -The creature fawned like a Celestial as the young man approached. -</p> - -<p> -“Monseigneur, for the love of God, a drink of water!” said he. -</p> - -<p> -His dry, thick lips seemed to grate on the words. -</p> - -<p> -“Why not?” said Ned. “You have only to help yourself.” -</p> - -<p> -“Let him dare!” shrieked Théroigne. “Monsieur, do you hear! it is a -Cagot, a Cagot, I say!” -</p> - -<p> -The man looked up, with a despairing forlorn gesture, and drooped -again like one to whom long experience had taught the hopelessness of -self-vindication. -</p> - -<p> -“Is that so?” asked Ned. -</p> - -<p> -“Alas! monseigneur, it is so.” -</p> - -<p> -“What do you do it for, then; and what the deuce is it? Here—have you -a cup or vessel of your own?” -</p> - -<p> -With a hurried manner, compound of supplication and triumph, the -creature, fumbling in its shirt, brought forth an iron mug. Ned -received and carried it to the well. Théroigne sprang from him. -</p> - -<p> -“You are not to be warned? It will poison the blessed spring.” -</p> - -<p> -“Nonsense,” said Ned; but recognising her real agitation and alarm, he -offered her a compromise. He would carry the mug to a little distance, -and there she, standing back from it, should drop in water from her -pitcher. To this she consented, after some demur; and the Cagot had -his drink. -</p> - -<p> -“That makes a man of you,” said Ned, watching the poor fellow take all -down in reviving gulps. -</p> - -<p> -The other shrugged his shoulders despondingly. -</p> - -<p> -“Monseigneur, I can never be that. It is forbidden to us to stand -apart from the beasts. We had hoped in these days of——” he broke -off, shook his head, and only repeated, “I can never be that, -monseigneur.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then I would not come among men to be so treated.” -</p> - -<p> -“Nor should I, but that my one pig had strayed and I dared to seek it. -Monseigneur—if monseigneur would soil his tongue with the word—has -he——” -</p> - -<p> -“I have seen no pig. No doubt it will be returned to you, if found.” -</p> - -<p> -“Returned! <i>Hélas</i>! but a poor return, indeed.” -</p> - -<p> -“It will not be?” -</p> - -<p> -“The lights, the entrails—a little of the coarser meat, perhaps.” -</p> - -<p> -“How is that, then?” -</p> - -<p> -“Where we squat, monseigneur, thither come the authorised of the pure -blood. ‘These are your bounds,’ say they; and they signify, -arbitrarily, any limit that occurs. Woe, then, to the Cagot sheep or -pig that strays without the visionary <i>cordon</i>! Whoever finds it may -kill, reserving to himself the good, and returning to the unhappy -owner the inferior parts only of the meat.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is of a piece with all I see, here more than elsewhere—the -grossest inconsistency where the senses seek gratification. Truly, I -think, the emancipation of the race is to be from self-denial.” -</p> - -<p> -He gave the man a piece of money—rather peremptorily checking the -fulsome benedictions his act called forth—and saw him slink off the -way he had come. For all its show of servility, there had appeared -something indescribably noble in the poor creature’s rendering of an -ignoble part. It was as if, on the stage of life, he were willing to -sacrifice his individuality to the success of the piece. Not all -scapegoats could so triumph physically through long traditions and -experiences of suffering. These Cagots—they might have come from the -loins of the wandering Jew. -</p> - -<p> -He walked back to Théroigne, his heart even a little less than before -inclined to her. She held away from him somewhat, as if he were -contaminated. -</p> - -<p> -“A fraternity, extending the hand of brotherhood,” he said—repeating -some words of hers uttered before the Cagot had intervened—“to whom -was mademoiselle about to say? to all, without exception?” -</p> - -<p> -She looked at him, half fearful, half defiant. -</p> - -<p> -“This man is of the accursed race,” she cried low. -</p> - -<p> -“A Jew?” -</p> - -<p> -“A Cagot.” -</p> - -<p> -“And what is that?” -</p> - -<p> -“You do not know? They come from France, where she sits with her feet -in the mountains—outcasts, pariahs, with blood so hot that an apple -will wrinkle in their hands as if it had been roasted.” -</p> - -<p> -“I should have fancied that a recommendation to you of Méricourt.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah, grace of God! With them it is nothing but the emitting of a -pestilent miasma. These people are brutes. They would even have tails, -but that their mothers are cunning to bite them off when they are -newly born.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned went into a fit of laughter. -</p> - -<p> -“It is true, monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is at least easily proved. And they come from the south?” -</p> - -<p> -“From the south and from the west. It is not often we see them here; -but this new spirit that is in the air—<i>mon Dieu</i>!—it stirs in them, -I suppose, with a hope of better times—of release from the -restrictions imposed upon them for the safety of the community; and -now they will sometimes wander far afield.” -</p> - -<p> -“And what are these restrictions?” -</p> - -<p> -“They are many—as to the isolation of their camps; as to their tenure -of land or carrying of weapons; as to buying or selling food; as to -their right to enter a church by the common door, to take the middle -of the street, to touch a passer-by, to remain in any village of the -pure after sundown. They must grow their own flesh, find their own -springs, wear, each man, woman, and child the duck-foot badge, that -they may be known and shunned. Indeed, I cannot tell a tithe of the -laws that control them.” -</p> - -<p> -“But for what reason are they set apart?” -</p> - -<p> -“Little mother of God! how can I say? They are Cagots, they are -accursed—that is all I know.” -</p> - -<p> -Even as she spoke an angry brabble of voices came to them from the -direction of the path by which the outcast had retreated; and in a -moment the man himself reappeared, scuttling along in a stooping -posture, and hauling by the ear his recovered pig, that squeaked -passionately as it was urged forward. But now in his wake came a posse -of louts—young chawbacons drawn from the fields—who pelted the poor -wretch with clods of clay, and were for baiting him, it seemed, in a -crueller manner. -</p> - -<p> -Ned ran down and placed himself between victim and pursuers. The -former, bruised and breathless, pattered out a hurried fire of -explanation and entreaty. -</p> - -<p> -The young gentleman faced the little mob—half-a-dozen or so—that had -closed upon itself—compact claypolism. -</p> - -<p> -“What do you want with this man?” he said. -</p> - -<p> -His demand evoked a clamour of vituperation. -</p> - -<p> -“What is that to you? It is the law! The mongrel is accursed—<i>l’âme -damnée—le tison d’enfer</i>! Down with this insolent the stranger! he -is a Cagot himself!” -</p> - -<p> -Ned waited calmly for the tumult to subside. -</p> - -<p> -“I ask you what this man has done?” said he. -</p> - -<p> -“Cannot you tell the heretic by his smell? Oh-a-eh! here is a fine -Catholic nose! Out of our way—the pig is forfeit!” -</p> - -<p> -They hissed and yelped, and raised a shrill chorus of “baas” at the -unfortunate. Curiously, he seemed to feel this last form of insult -more acutely than any. Suddenly a clod of earth, aimed presumably at -the poor creature, hurtled through the air and struck Ned’s shoulder -in passing. It might have rebounded on the assailant, so immediate was -the retribution that followed. The erst-calm paladin <i>went</i> for the -vermin like a terrier, and like a terrier repaid his own punishment -with interest. -</p> - -<p> -The great chuff howled and blubbered and wriggled under the blows that -rained upon him. Presently Ned, exhausted, swung his victim in a -hysteric heap upon the ground, and stood to breathe himself. Then it -was that the reserve, withdrawn in affright, seeing his momentary -fatigue, gathered heart of numbers, and came down upon him in phalanx. -He received them, nothing dismayed, and accounted for the first with a -“give-upon-the-nose,” and for another with a “poached eye.” He was -patently tired, however—enervated by the heat of the day—and his -adversaries, recognising this, were encouraging one another to -annihilate him, when all in a moment a volume of water slapped into -their faces and quenched their ardour for ever. -</p> - -<p> -A new champion had come upon the field, and that was no other than -Mademoiselle Théroigne with her pitcher. She laughed volubly, on a -menacing note, in the washed and streaming countenances. -</p> - -<p> -“Beasts, pigs, cowards!” she shrilled. “For one Englishman—name of -God!—for one trumpery Englishman to lay you out flat as linen on a -bleaching-green! Get back—hide yourselves in your furrows, or play -bully to the little rabbits in the field corners! Not to the -bucks—that were too bold.” -</p> - -<p> -She made as if to follow up the water with the vessel. Ned cried out: -“You will break the earthenware sooner than their heads, -mademoiselle!” in agony lest she should blaze beyond -self-extinguishment, as on the previous evening; but she only -stiffened her claws like a cat and prepared to spring. It was enough. -The swamped and demoralised crew gathered up its wreckage and fled -incontinent, and was in a moment out of sight round the curve. -</p> - -<p> -Ned took off his hat to his tutelary divinity—this Athena to his -Achilles. -</p> - -<p> -“Your weapons were better than mine,” he said; “but your task was -harder: for you had to fight against prejudice as well.” -</p> - -<p> -The Cagot, still holding his pig by the ear, crept up to the young man -and caught and ravenously kissed his hand. Then he looked wistfully at -a brown-haired goddess. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, <i>mon Dieu</i>, no!” said Théroigne. “You must not touch me or come -near me.” -</p> - -<p> -She turned and addressed Ned, almost with an entreating sound in her -voice:— -</p> - -<p> -“You have courage of every sort, monsieur. But for me—yes, it is as -you say. My heart warms to such valour; but I cannot forget in a -moment these long traditions—this fear and this abhorrence. Do not -let him approach me.” -</p> - -<p> -She stepped back, as if to escape a very radiated influence. But she -spoke softly to the Englishman, and with the manner of one who in -giving help has wrought a little conscious bond of sympathy. -</p> - -<p> -“Bid the man go hence by the Liége road,” she said. “So will he evade -his persecutors. But a few toises out he can enter the woods and work -round to his lair.” -</p> - -<p> -“I will see him on his way, mademoiselle.” -</p> - -<p> -He bade her good morning quite respectfully, and drove the Cagot -before him from the village. It was slow progress, for the -recalcitrant pig must be humoured. The man looked back from time to -time, his face full of the most human gratitude. A little way on he -paused by an outlying cottage until his benefactor was come up with -him. Then, smiling brightly, he stayed Ned with a significant gesture, -and went on tiptoe to the door that stood open. A loaf lay on a table -within. This the Cagot seized with a muttered word, and so came forth -again, hugging his prize. -</p> - -<p> -“What, the devil!” cried Ned. -</p> - -<p> -He had seen a woman within the hut. She had shrunk, crying out, from -the intruder, but had made no effort to defend her property. -</p> - -<p> -“A thief!” exclaimed the Englishman. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Nenni</i>!” said the man in a deprecatory voice. “It is one of our poor -little privileges. I appropriated the bread that monseigneur might -see.” -</p> - -<p> -“The deuce, you did!” -</p> - -<p> -“We may take it—but, yes, we may enter and take, wherever we see it, -a cut loaf turned upside-down, with the sliced part to the door. I -will return it if monseigneur wills.” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” said Ned. “This privilege is on a par with all the rest. Let the -fool pay toll to his own inconsequence. Lead on, my friend.” -</p> - -<p> -Very shortly they turned into a forest track, plunging amongst trees -for a half mile or more. Here Ned pushed up to his humble wayfellow. -</p> - -<p> -“Why are you accursed?” said he. -</p> - -<p> -“God help us, monseigneur! I know not. Thus they hold and keep us. -Wheresoever in our wanderings we alight, we must report our names and -habitations to the <i>bailli</i> of the nearest jurisdiction, that no -loophole may be left us to escape from ourselves; for it is forbidden -to us to intermarry with the pure of blood, lest we thereby, merging -into the community, lose our unhappy distinction.” -</p> - -<p> -“But, whence come you, and what have you done to merit -this—this——?” -</p> - -<p> -“Monseigneur, we are accursed. It is not given to us to know more than -that.” -</p> - -<p> -Was there a faint note of stubbornness, a suggestion of some conscious -secret withheld, in this abject reiteration of abasement? Ned was in -doubt; but at least it seemed these strange people carried horror with -them like a hidden plague-spot. -</p> - -<p> -“Tell me,” said he, “why did you cower when the louts cried ‘Baa’ to -you?” -</p> - -<p> -The man looked up furtively. -</p> - -<p> -“It is our ears,” he muttered. “They will call them sheep’s ears, -monseigneur.” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly, it would appear, they are not designed for rings. That is -a progressive evolution, my friend.” -</p> - -<p> -The Cagot did not answer. A few steps farther brought them into a -little dell traversed by a brook. Here, by the water-side, was -stretched a single tent of tattered brown canvas. -</p> - -<p> -“Alone!” said Ned, surprised. -</p> - -<p> -“Alone, monseigneur, save for the woman and the little <i>bien fils de -son père</i>. In these days the tribes are much broken up. They wander -piecemeal. There are rumours abroad—hopes, prospects, as if it were -prelude to the advent of a Messiah. I think, perhaps, I have seen -to-day a harbinger—an angel bearing tidings.” -</p> - -<p> -He gazed at the young man with large solemn eyes. His face was full of -a wistful patience—not brutalised, but mild and intelligent. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, truly, I am the devil of an angel!” said Ned; and he waved his -hand and turned. -</p> - -<p> -“Monseigneur, I will never forget,” said the Cagot. -</p> - - -<h3 id="b1ch09"> -CHAPTER IX. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">In</span> Nicette’s little lodge, doors and windows stood all open. Even -then the languid air that entered fell fainting almost on the -threshold. The heat of many preceding days seemed accumulated in vast -bales of clouds piled up from the horizon. It scintillated, livid and -coppery, through its enormous envelopes, eating its way forth with -menace of a flood of fire. -</p> - -<p> -Obviously the dairy was the nearest approach to a temperate zone, and -thither Ned bent his steps, carrying his paint-box and canvas. He -found the girl there, as he had expected. She was seated knitting near -the flung casement, wherethrough came a hot scent of geranium flowers. -In the blinding garden without silence panted like a drouthy dog. Only -the horn, high on its perch, found breath to bemoan itself, gathering -up the folds of muteness with an attenuated thread of complaint. -</p> - -<p> -Mademoiselle Legrand looked cool and fragrant, for all the house was -an oven; but a little bloom of damp was on her face, like dew on a -rose. In a corner, standing with his hands behind his back and his -front to the wall, Baptiste, the sad-eyed child, did penance for some -transgression, it would appear. -</p> - -<p> -“I must not lose my Madonna for a misunderstanding,” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -Nicette rose to her feet, flushing vividly to her brow. The weary -white face of the boy was turned in astonishment to the intruder. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur,” said the <i>portière</i>, in a little agitated voice, “you -must not ask me. For one you hold so cheap to represent the stainless -mother! It cannot be, monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned deposited his paraphernalia on a chair, went up to his whilom -model, and took her hands in his with gentle force. -</p> - -<p> -“Nicette,” he murmured, so that the child should not hear him, “I -refuse, you know, to accept this responsibility. It is your own -consciousness of justification, or otherwise, that is in question. The -mother had a human as well as a divine side. I will use you for the -first.” -</p> - -<p> -“Use me!” she whispered. “Monsieur——” -</p> - -<p> -She drooped her head—tried to withdraw her hands. Her lips faltered -desperately on the word. -</p> - -<p> -“Tell me the truth, little Nicette. May not a saint love guava jelly? -It is a fruit of the sweet earth—perhaps the very manna of the -Israelites.” -</p> - -<p> -He held her young soft wrists in hostage for an answer—much concerned -for an exchange of confidence. The girl, making a <i>lac d’amour</i> of her -fingers, suddenly came to her decision. -</p> - -<p> -“I am very wicked,” she said in a small voice, between eagerness and -tears; “I am not a saint at all. Monsieur may do with me as he will.” -</p> - -<p> -Now surely this young man had the fairy Temperance to his godmother -when he was christened. His point gained, he disposed his model with a -very pretty eye to business, and was soon at work. -</p> - -<p> -“Nicette,” said he, “how has this youthful whipper-snapper -misconducted himself?” -</p> - -<p> -“Baptiste, monsieur? He was dainty with his food; and—the day was -hot, and perhaps I was ever so little cross.” -</p> - -<p> -She accepted the understanding, it will be seen—thrilled perhaps over -the secret ecstasy implied in this prospect of a lay confessor. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, <i>ma chérie</i>,” said Ned, “you may relax discipline now, may you -not? It worries me to have this inconversable ape criticising me from -his corner.” -</p> - -<p> -“Baptiste,” said Nicette, “you may go and play—in the shadow, -Baptiste.” -</p> - -<p> -The child went out dully, with a lifeless step. It would seem he -recognised no enticing novelty in the form of words. -</p> - -<p> -“Now we will have a comfortable coze,” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -“How, monsieur?” -</p> - -<p> -“That means we will exchange confidences, girl.” -</p> - -<p> -Nicette smiled. -</p> - -<p> -“You do not love children, monsieur?” she asked. -</p> - -<p> -“Truly, I think not. They know, I fancy, so much more than they will -tell. I feel nervous in their company, as if they might blackmail me -if they would. It is no use to be conscious of my own innocence. Vague -terrors assail me that they may be in possession of dark secrets that -I have forgotten. For them, they never forget.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is so, indeed, with little doubt.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is it not? They inherit the ages, one must admit. They are like eggs, -full of the concentrated meat of wisdom; and as such it is right to -sit upon them. It is a self-protective instinct thus to hurry their -development, for so their abnormal precocity distributes itself over -an ever-increasing area and weakens in its acuteness.” -</p> - -<p> -“And they have cunning, monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -“Without doubt—the cunning to evoke and trade upon sympathy with -sufferings that they pretend to, but are physically incapable of -feeling.” -</p> - -<p> -The girl looked up, her eyes expressive of some strangeness of -emotion. -</p> - -<p> -“Are they not able to feel, then, monsieur?” -</p> - -<p> -“Not as we do, Nicette. Their nervous organism has not yet come to -tyrannise over the spiritual in them. Turn thy head as before, -<i>babouine</i>. The light falls crooked on thy mouth. No; I wish never to -be burdened with a child, either my own or another’s.” -</p> - -<p> -A low boom of thunder rolled up the sky. Nicette started and drove her -chair back a little distance from the window. -</p> - -<p> -“That is vexatious of you, you pullet. Are you afraid of thunder?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes—dear mother!—when it is close.” -</p> - -<p> -“But that is yet far away.” -</p> - -<p> -“It will advance—it is the <i>diligence</i> of the skies bringing inhuman -company. <i>Mon Dieu</i>! when one hears the driver crack his whip, and the -horses plunge forward, and there follows the rumbling of the wheels!” -</p> - -<p> -“Talk on. I love to hear thee. But take courage first to resume thy -pose.” -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur, I am frightened.” -</p> - -<p> -“What, with me for thy Quixote! I have conquered windmills before now. -There—that is to be a good child. Do you find it hard to understand -my chatter?” -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur, on the contrary, is an adept at our language.” -</p> - -<p> -“This is nothing to how I speak it when I have a cold. Still, do you -know, I have never quite got over the feeling that it is very clever -of a Frenchman to talk French. ‘And so it is,’ Théroigne would say, -but you will not. Nicette, have you ever heard speak of the Club of -Nature’s Gentry? What a question, is it not? But I like to hear you -laugh like little bells.” -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur, it is a very dull club.” -</p> - -<p> -“Which is the reason you are not a member?” -</p> - -<p> -“A member! oh, <i>mon Dieu</i>! that is not my notion of enjoyment.” -</p> - -<p> -“Great heaven! Here is an astonishing shift of the point of view.” -</p> - -<p> -“How, monsieur?” -</p> - -<p> -“Never mind. So, freedom of speech is not to your fancy?” -</p> - -<p> -“It is not freedom, but an excuse for silly licence. Those clowns and -the grotesque small Boppard—it is to discuss wine, not politics, that -they assemble. A full mug is the only challenge they invite, and the -larger the measure, the greater that of their courage. But they talk -so much into empty pots that their voices sound very big to them.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not Boppard, mademoiselle. He at least hath this justification—that -he is a poet.” -</p> - -<p> -“Has monsieur discovered it, then? Monsieur is cleverer than all -Méricourt. We must make monsieur the student a crown of vine leaves.” -</p> - -<p> -“Nicette, dost thou think I will suffer a pullet to cackle at me? -What, then, if not a poet?” -</p> - -<p> -“But a maker of charades impossible to interpret, by monsieur’s -permission.” -</p> - -<p> -“My permission, you jade! Here is the measure of <i>your</i> courage, I -think. And have you no fear that I shall make M. de St Denys -acquainted with your opinion of his club?” -</p> - -<p> -“None, monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -The thunder rolled again. The girl, starting and clasping her hands, -cried— -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur, let me come from the window! Oh, monsieur, let me, and I -will light a blest candle!” -</p> - -<p> -“A little longer—just a little longer. I foresee a darkness -presently, and then, lest my Madonna be blotted from my sight, the -candle shall burn.” -</p> - -<p> -The girl looked out fearfully at the advancing van of the storm. It -was still brilliant sunshine in the garden, but with an effect as if -the outposts of noon were falling back upon their centre, already -half-demoralised in prospect of an overwhelming charge. The wind, too, -beginning to move like that that precedes an avalanche, was scouting -through the shrubberies with a distant noise of innumerable tramping -feet; and the fitful moaning of the horn rose to a prolonged scream, -that drew upon the heart with a point of indescribable anguish. -</p> - -<p> -“Why, however,” said Ned, “have you no apprehension that I shall tell -tales to M. de St Denys?” -</p> - -<p> -“I said I had no fear, monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -“Would he not resent this so unflattering opinion of his satellites?” -</p> - -<p> -“What is his own of them, does monsieur think?—that a tipsy boor -assists the cause of freedom? Monsieur, my master is not blind, save -perhaps in thinking others so. <i>Saint Sacrement</i>! the sun has gone -out! It was as if a wave of cloud extinguished it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Never mind that. In thinking others blind to what, girl?” -</p> - -<p> -“I must not say—indeed, I must not say.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is this to be a saint—to damn with innuendo? Fie, then, Nicette!” -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur, do not be angry. Oh, I will tell you whatever you will. -This club then, it is a pretext, one cannot but assume—a veil to hide -perilous sentiments, not of politics, but of——” -</p> - -<p> -“But of what?” -</p> - -<p> -The girl hung her head. The increasing gloom without lent its shadow -to her face. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur has no mercy,” she whispered. -</p> - -<p> -“But of what, Nicette? Tell me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur—of intrigue.” -</p> - -<p> -As if the very word completed an electric circuit and discharged the -battery, a flash answered it, followed almost immediately by a -splintering shock of thunder. The girl uttered a shriek, started to -her feet, and ran to the middle of the room, holding her hands to her -eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“I am blind!” she wailed—“oh, I am blind!” -</p> - -<p> -Ned hurried to her—gripped her shoulder. -</p> - -<p> -“Nonsense!” he cried; “it will pass in a moment. Let me look.” -</p> - -<p> -He could hardly hear his own voice. The lightning might have been a -bursting shell that had rent a dam. The thunder of the rain out-roared -that of the clouds—overbore the struggling wind and pinned it to the -earth—smote upon the roof in tearing volleys, and made of all the -atmospheric envelope a crashing loom of water. -</p> - -<p> -“Nicette!” cried the young man, frightened to see the girl yet hide -her face from him. He was conscious of something crouching at her -feet, and, looking down, saw that terror had driven Baptiste, the -little boy, to the refuge of their company. -</p> - -<p> -In his panic, Ned impulsively seized the maid into his arms. -</p> - -<p> -“You are not hurt!” he implored. “I kept you by the window. My God! if -you should be injured through my fault!” -</p> - -<p> -She was not at least so stunned but that his impassioned self-reproach -could inform her cheeks with a rose of fire. The stain of it, could he -have seen, soaked to the very white nape of her neck. -</p> - -<p> -“Hold me,” she whimpered. “Don’t let me go, or I shall die!” -</p> - -<p> -She strained to him, patently and without any thought of -dissimulation, palpitating with terror as the rain roared and the -frequent detonations shook the house. In the first of his apprehension -he thought of nothing compromising in the situation—of nothing but -his own concern and the girl’s pitiful state. -</p> - -<p> -Presently, in a lull, he heard her exclaiming— -</p> - -<p> -“Mother of God! if I were to go blind!” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t suggest such a thing!” he cried in anguish. -</p> - -<p> -“Would you be sorry—even for poor Nicette, monsieur?” -</p> - -<p> -“Sorry, child! Look up, in God’s name!” -</p> - -<p> -She raised her face. Her lids flickered and opened. -</p> - -<p> -“Can you see?” he asked, distraught and eager. -</p> - -<p> -“I—something—a little,” murmured the unconscionable gipsy. “I can -see monsieur’s face—far or near—which is it?” -</p> - -<p> -She put up a timid hand. Her fingers fluttered like a moth against his -temple. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t think I am blind, monsieur. My eyes——” -</p> - -<p> -In his jubilation he took her head between his palms, and, with a -boyish laugh, kissed each of the blue flowers—to make them open, he -said. -</p> - -<p> -“No, I am not blind,” said she. -</p> - - -<h3 id="b1ch10"> -CHAPTER X. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">Mr Murk</span>, recalling, on the morning after the storm, certain -ultra-fervid expressions of remorse into which, during it, he had been -betrayed, and realising, possibly, how of a saint and a sinner the -latter had proved the blinder, turned the search-light of his -recovered vision inwards, and examined his conscience like the most -ruthlessly introspective Catholic. He worked out the sum of argument -very coolly and carefully; and the result, condensed from many -germinant postulates, showed itself arithmetically inevitable. -</p> - -<p> -“If I intrigue, I sacrifice my independence, my free outlook, my peace -of mind, my position in relation to my art—comprehensively, my -principles. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Enfin</i>—on the other hand, I gain a very stomachy little white -powder in a spoonful of jam. -</p> - -<p> -“Taking one from four, therefore, I find myself debited with three -charges that it is ridiculous to incur. Love, in short, is a creditor -I have no desire to be called upon to compound with. I will cut my -visit a little finer than I had intended, and go on to Paris at once. -Perhaps—for I have not finished my Madonna, and the model curiously -interests me—I will return to Méricourt by-and-by, when this shadow -of a romance has drifted away with the cloud that threw it.” -</p> - -<p> -Thus far only he temporised with his inclinations. For the rest, it -appeared, he likened that which most men feel as a flame to an -amorphous blot of darkness travelling across his sunlight. The point -of view of the girl did not enter into his calculations. -Possibly—most probably, indeed—he could not conceive himself -inspiring a devouring passion. He knew innately, he thought, his -limits—the length of his tether, moral, intellectual, and -physical—and had never the least wish to affect, for the sake of -self-glorification, a condition of mind or body that he was unable to -recognise as his own. This led him to that serene appreciation of his -personal capabilities that passes, in the eye of the world, for -insufferable conceit. For to boast of knowing oneself is to assume a -social importance on the strength of an indifferent introduction. -Public opinion will never take one at one’s own valuation. It must be -educated up to the point of one’s highest achievement. To say out, “I -know I can do this thing,” is to deprive it (public opinion) of the -right to exercise and justify itself. -</p> - -<p> -Ned, however, would not over-estimate, nor would he (even nominally) -cheapen himself as a bid to any man’s favour; and that, no doubt, -would be sound equity in the impossible absence of inherent prejudice. -But a judgment—in any world but a world of definite aurelian -transitions—that holds itself infallible may err in the face of fifty -precedents; and Ned’s, founded in this instance upon the -self-precedent of sobriety, took no account of emotions that were -completely foreign to his nature. In short, very honestly repudiating -for himself any power of attraction, he failed to see that this very -artlessness of repudiation was <i>per se</i> an attractive quality. -</p> - -<p> -Now he put his resolution into force without compromise, and informed -his host, during the second <i>déjeuner</i>, that he was on the prick of -departure. -</p> - -<p> -St Denys expressed no surprise, no concern, very little interest. -</p> - -<p> -“Most certainly,” said he, “I applaud your attitude towards life. It -exhibits what one may call an admirable cold cleanness. Probably, at -this point, you are putting to your visit that period that most -strictly conforms to the rules of moral punctuation. I have too -complete a belief in the rectitude of your judgment to question that -of your withdrawing yourself from Méricourt without superfluous -ceremony. I envy you, indeed, your power of applying, without offence, -to the oblique turns of circumstance that simple directness which is -your very engaging characteristic. We, less fortunately endowed by -nature, are for ever seeking those short cuts to a goal that delay us -unconscionably, in everything but theory. You, monsieur, recognise -instinctively that to fly straight for your mark is to reach your -destination by the nearest route.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am conscious of no particular coldness in my manner of regard,” -said Ned good-humouredly. (He did not resent the implied sarcasm, nor -did he allow it to affect his point of view. If he had given offence, -it was simply by his literal construction of views he had been invited -to share, and he could not admit the right of the dispenser of such -views to put any arbitrary limit to another’s application of them.) -“Unless, indeed,” he went on, “it argues a constitutional <i>sang-froid</i> -to have decided, at the thinking outset of life, <i>against</i> the -despotism of passion, and <i>for</i> a republic of senses, material, -ethical, and intellectual.” -</p> - -<p> -“Assuredly not. But even a republic must have a president.” -</p> - -<p> -“I elect my heart, monsieur, to the honour, and give it a casting -vote. There, at least, is a little core of fire in all this frost.” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Dieu du ciel</i>! thou shouldst command a future, if thou wouldst, in -this Paris to which thou journeyest. It is such as thou that have -their way and keep it; while we poor hot-headed impressionables take -wrong turnings, and fetch up, struggling and sweating and trampling -our friends under, in villainous blind alleys. To discipline your -senses and keep your heart! God of heaven! that is a state to be -envied of angels, who sometimes fall—even they.” -</p> - -<p> -“I understand you to speak ironically.” -</p> - -<p> -“I protest I do not, monsieur. I covet your power of unswerving -fidelity to truth. What would it not be worth to me in the hot days -that are coming! I shall go under—I shall go under, I feel it and -know it—because I must fight with the crooked creese of dissimulation -if a straighter weapon fails me.” -</p> - -<p> -He spoke obviously with considerable emotion—with a sincerity, -moreover, that, rather than the other, appealed to the Englishman. -</p> - -<p> -“It appears, monsieur,” said the latter, “that you predict a very -serious disruption of the social order.” -</p> - -<p> -“It appears, indeed. There is a caldron always kept seething in that -unlovely kitchen of the Isle de France—a stock-pot that for long ages -has boiled down the blood and bones of the people into the thick soup -affected of the <i>beau monde</i>. But, at last, other things go to feed -it—this reeking kettle. Monseigneur in his fine palace will pull a -face over the flavour; yet he must sup of it or starve. There makes -itself recognised something metallic to the taste, perhaps; as if the -latest victims had been dropped in with their knives and pistols -unremoved from their pockets. Maybe, also, there precipitates itself a -thick sediment of coins, to which I may claim to have contributed—as -also, possibly, I have added my mite to the combustible material—the -inflammatory pages with which a waking generation of agitators fuels -this kitchen fire. Monsieur may live to see the pot boil.” -</p> - -<p> -“May live to see it boil over, even, and scald the toes of the cooks. -But I do not believe in this pass, monsieur, and regret only that you -should, from whatever motives, seek to give a sinister turn to reforms -that could be more effectively compassed by a bloodless revolution.” -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur, were a senate of Edward Murks an electoral possibility, I -would hope to accomplish the Millennium while the world slept.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned looked at his host with some instinct of repulsion. So here, in -the guise of a scatterling aristocrat, was one of those seedling -firebrands that were beginning to sprout all over the soil of Europe -like the little bickering flames that patch the high slopes of -Vesuvius: advocates holding briefs in the indictment of society; -licentious pamphleteers; unscrupulous journalistic hacks seizing their -opportunity in the fashion for heterodox—subordinate contributors, -some of them, to the contumacious Encyclopedia; irresponsible agents, -all, to a force they could not measure or justify to themselves by any -scheme of after-reconstruction. -</p> - -<p> -But what, in heaven’s name, induced this man to a mutinous attitude -towards a social system of which, by reason of his position, he need -take nothing but profit? His opportunities of selfish gratification -would not be multiplied by the sacrifice of caste and fortune. He was -not, Ned felt convinced, a reformer by conviction. Unless the itch for -cheap notoriety was the tap-root of his character, what was to account -for this astonishing paradox? -</p> - -<p> -What, indeed? Yet a motiveless losel is no uncommon sight. To be born -with a silver spoon in one’s mouth is to be endowed with what it is -obviously difficult to retain. It is to be awarded the prize before -the race is run, and that is no encouragement to sound morality or -healthy effort. Easily acquired is soon dissipated. What wonder, then, -if Fortunatus, shedding wealth as naturally as he sheds his -milk-teeth, looks to Nature for a renewal of all in kind. -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” said St Denys, “you are going to Paris. It is the beacon-light -about which the storm birds circle. If you seek experience, you will -there gain it; if novelty—<i>mon Dieu</i>!—you will have the opportunity -to see some strange puppets dance by-and-by.” -</p> - -<p> -“And doubtless those who would hold the strings are in the clouds.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not so, monsieur. These marionettes—they will move on a different -principle, by trackers, like an organ. It may even be possible to make -one or two skip, touching a note here in this quiet corner of Liége. -But I do not know. When the time comes for the performance, this -puppet-man himself may be in Paris.” -</p> - -<p> -“You allude to M. de St Denys?” -</p> - -<p> -“Do I? But, after all, he is very small beer.” -</p> - -<p> -<br/> -</p> - -<p> -Nicette sang like a bee in a flower. Her cot was the veritable -summer-house to a garden-village—luxuriously cool as an -evening-primrose blossom with a ladybird and a crystal of dew in the -heart of it. She was always self-contained, always tranquil, always -fragrant. Her reputation, like that of some other saints, was founded, -perhaps, upon her constitutional insensibility to small irritations. -Cause and effect in her were temperament and digestion—read either -way—influencing one another serenely. That sensitiveness of the moral -cuticle that, with the most of us, finds intentional aggravations in -habits and opinions that are not ours, she would appear to be innocent -of. She never complained of nail-points in her shoes or crumbs in her -bed; and that was to be bird of rare enough feather to merit -distinction. Indifference to pain is considered none the less -worshipful because it proceeds from insusceptibility to it: the name -of sanctity may attach itself to the most self-enjoying impassibility. -The moral is objective; for how many dyspeptics—sufferers—are there, -turning an habitual brave face to their colourless world, who would be -other than damned incontinent by a whole posse of devil’s-advocates -were a claim advanced to dub them so much as Blessed? -</p> - -<p> -This refreshing maid, however, was not of cloisteral aloofness all -compact. She had a wit for merry days; and, no doubt, a calid spot in -her heart that needed only to be blown upon by sympathetic lips to -raise a heat in her that should make an intolerable burden of the very -veil of modesty. For such Heloïses an Abelard is generally on the -road. -</p> - -<p> -Now she was busy in her sequestered cot, touching, rather than -putting, things into order. She had a gift for cleanliness. Her hands -winnowed the dust like the fluttering wings of butterflies. Baptiste, -ostensibly occupied with his catechism-book, watched her from his -corner, unwinking like a squatting toad. -</p> - -<p> -He saw her pause once, with her fingers stroking the back of the chair -on which the stranger artist had sat yesterday. A smile was on her -lips. Then she moved into the little closet that was her -sleeping-place and made her bed, patting the sheets caressingly, as if -some child of her fancy lay underneath. -</p> - -<p> -“She will punish me if she sees me looking at her now,” thought the -sad, sharp child; and he bent over his task. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Tiens</i>! little monkey! Here is a biscotin for thee,” said -Mademoiselle Lambertine at the door. -</p> - -<p> -The child caught and began to devour the cake ravenously. -</p> - -<p> -“That will give thee a better relish for the food of the soul,” said -Théroigne. -</p> - -<p> -She came in languorous and flushed, fanning herself with a spray of -large-flowered syringa. The heavy scent of it floated over the room, -penetrating to Nicette in her retreat. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, the sweet orange-blossom!” cried the <i>portière</i>. “Is it a bride -to visit me?” -</p> - -<p> -Théroigne stopped the action of her hand. Her teeth bit upon her -under lip. -</p> - -<p> -“Orange-blossom!” she exclaimed. -</p> - -<p> -She passed into the closet; dropped listlessly upon a joint stool. -</p> - -<p> -“That is not for me—not yet,” she said. “It is only syringa. See, -little minette.” -</p> - -<p> -“I see, Théroigne.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why do thine eyes appear to rebuke me, thou little cold woman? Yet, I -think, I come to visit thee for coolness’ sake: I am so hot and dull. -This lodge, it is like a woodland chapel; and here where we sit is the -confessional.” -</p> - -<p> -“And art thou come into it to confess?” -</p> - -<p> -“To thee? to <i>la sainte</i> Nicette! I should expect her to shrink and -close, like a sensitive leaf, to my mere approach. Tell me—What is -the utmost wickedness thou hast confided to thy pillow here? I wager -my littlest peccadillo would overcrow it.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is for me to confess, then, it seems?” -</p> - -<p> -“Only thine own sweetness, child. This bed of thine—it is planted in -a ‘Garden of the Soul.’ And what grows in it, little saint?—white -lilies, gentle pansies, stainless ladysmocks? Not Love-lies-bleeding, -I’ll warrant.” -</p> - -<p> -“Fie, Théroigne! what nonsense thou talkest.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do I? My head is light and my heart heavy. Mortality weighs upon me -this morning—oh, Nicette, it weighs—it weighs!” -</p> - -<p> -“Hast thou done wrong?” -</p> - -<p> -“Much; and every day of my life.” -</p> - -<p> -“Confess to me, and I will give thee absolution.” -</p> - -<p> -“Absolution! to a woman from a woman! Never, I think; or at least -saddled with such a penance as would take all savour from the grace. -Well, as thou hast made thy bed——” -</p> - -<p> -“So must I lie on it.” -</p> - -<p> -“What! thou know’st the stranger’s motto? Little holy mother, but it -is true; and I have made my bed, Nicette; and it is not a bed of -flowers at all. <i>Aïe</i>! how the world swarms with pitfalls! Yet, at -least, there is to-day an evil the less in Méricourt.” -</p> - -<p> -“What evil?” -</p> - -<p> -“The Englishman.” -</p> - -<p> -“He is gone?” -</p> - -<p> -“He is gone. I met him yesternoon on the Liége road. He had a staff -in his hand and a knapsack on his shoulders.” -</p> - -<p> -Nicette was at the tiny casement, delicately coaxing its curtains into -folds that pleased her. She was too fastidious with her task to speak -for a moment. -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” she said at length, “it is an evil, I suppose, that only -withdraws itself for a day or two?” -</p> - -<p> -“Better than that, little saint. He goes all the way to Paris. ‘But -Mademoiselle Théroigne,’ says he, ‘I leave my heart behind me. I will -come back to reclaim it in the spring. In the meantime, do me the -favour to keep it on ice; for I think Méricourt is very near the -tropics.’ Bah! is he not an imbecile? We are well quit of him.” -</p> - -<p> -“In the spring!” -</p> - -<p> -Nicette came round with a face like hard ivory. -</p> - -<p> -“Théroigne—why did he speak to you like that? It is not wise or good -of you to court so insolent a familiarity.” -</p> - -<p> -“I did not court it, and I am not wise or good.” -</p> - -<p> -Mademoiselle Lambertine looked startled and displeased. -</p> - -<p> -“What has come to thee, Nicette? It is not like thee to rebuke poor -sinners save by thy better example.” -</p> - -<p> -“And that is a negative virtue, is it not? Now were time, perhaps, -that you give me the pretext, to end a struggle that my heart has long -maintained with my conscience.” -</p> - -<p> -Théroigne rose, breathing a little quickly, her bent forefinger to -her lips. -</p> - -<p> -“Nicette!” she cried faintly. -</p> - -<p> -“I must say it, Théroigne. This club—this thin dust thrown into the -eyes of Méricourt——” -</p> - -<p> -The other went hurriedly to the door. -</p> - -<p> -“I had better go,” she said; “I cannot listen and not cry. Not now, -Nicette, not now! I have no strength—I think the Englishman has left -a blight upon the place!” -</p> - -<p> -Her footsteps retreated down the garden path—died away. Nicette, -listening, with a line sprung between her eyes, came swiftly from her -bedroom. Close by the door of it—crept from his stool—Baptiste, his -mouth agape, had been eavesdropping, it seemed. She seized him with a -raging clinch of her fingers. -</p> - -<p> -“Little detestable coward!” she cried, in a suppressed voice—“little -sneak <i>mouchard</i>, to spy like a woman! How have I deserved to be for -ever burdened with this millstone?” -</p> - -<p> -“You hurt me!” whimpered the child, struggling to escape. -</p> - -<p> -“Not so much as the black dogs will, when they come out of the well in -the yard to carry you to the fire. Little beast, I have a mind to call -them now.” -</p> - -<p> -“They might take you instead. I will assure them you are wicked -too—that I heard you say so to monsieur the Englishman.” -</p> - -<p> -She shook him so that his heels knocked on the floor. For the moment -she was beside herself. -</p> - -<p> -“The Englishman!” she hissed—and choked. “<i>Est-ce bien possible</i>! -<i>Sang Dieu</i>!—<i>O, sang Dieu</i>! and if it were not for thee—he hates -children—he might be now——!” -</p> - -<p> -She checked herself with a desperate effort. She tightened her grip. -The boy screamed with pain. -</p> - -<p> -“Be quiet!” she cried furiously. “If some one should hear thee!” -</p> - -<p> -“I want them to. I want them all to come in, that I may tell how you -pretended to be blind that monsieur might kiss you.” -</p> - -<p> -She recognised in a moment that he was goaded at last to terrible -revolt. She cried “Hush!” in a panic, and without avail. The child -continued to shriek and to revile her—repeating himself hysterically -in the lack of a sufficient vocabulary. Changing front, it was only -after long and frantic effort that she could coax and bribe him into -silence. And, when at length she had induced him to a reasonable mood, -and could trust herself away from him, she went and threw herself upon -her bed and, perhaps for the first time in her adult life, cried empty -the fountains of her wrath and her terror. -</p> - - -<h3 id="b1ch11"> -CHAPTER XI. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">Consistent</span> in his theories of self-discipline, Ned took lodgings in -a poor quarter of Paris with the widow Gamelle. Madame, a fruiterer in -a small way of business, owned a little shop of semi-circular frontage -that, standing like a river promontory at the north-west corner of the -Rue Beautreillis—where that tributary ditch of humanity ran into and -fed the muddy channel of the Rue St Antoine—seemed to have rounded -from sharper outline in the age-long wash of traffic wheeling by its -walls. From his window on the second floor the Englishman thus -commanded a view of two streets, and, indeed, of three; for across the -main thoroughfare the Rue Beautreillis, become now the Rue Royale, was -continued until it discharged itself into a great house-enclosed -<i>place</i>, as into a mighty reservoir of decorum built for the -defecation of neighbouring vulgarities. Looking east, moreover, -between the belfry towers of the convents of St Marie and La Croix, -Ned’s vision might reach, without strain, the very twilight mass of -the Bastille; so that, as he congratulated himself, his situation was -such as—barring adventitious and unprofitable luxuries—a blood -prince with any imagination might have envied him. -</p> - -<p> -For thence, often watching, speculative, he would see the -scene-shifters of the early Revolution—come out in front of the high, -mute screen of the prison, that closed his vista eastwards as if it -were a stage-curtain—busy as bees on the alighting-board of a hive. -Thence he would mark, in real ignorance of the plot of the forthcoming -piece, or cycle of pieces, the motley companies gathering for -rehearsal—the barn-stormers; the heavy “leads;” the slighted -tragedians foreseeing their opportunity for the fiftieth time; the -inflated supers canvassing the favour of phantom houses with imagined -gems of inspiration, with new lamps for old in the shape of -misenlightened renderings of traditional <i>rôles</i>; he would mark the -gas, so to speak, the artificial light that informed the garish scene -with spurious vitality. But the prompter he could never as yet find in -his place, nor could he gather the true import of the play to which, -it must be presumed, all this pretentious gallimaufry was a prelude. -Theorists, agitators, pamphleteers—the open, clamorous expression of -that that had been suggested only to him during his hitherto -wanderings—all these and all this were present to his eyes and his -ears, passionlessly alert at their vantage-point on the second floor -of the corner house in the Rue Beautreillis. Daily he sought to piece, -from the struttings and the disconnected vapourings, the puzzle of -present circumstance, the political significance of so much apparently -aimless rhetoric. Daily he listened for the prompter’s bell; daily -looked for the appearance of the confident author who should -discipline all this swagger and rhodomontade. -</p> - -<p> -Then, by-and-by, the fancy did so master him as that he would see a -veritable curtain, rounding into slumberous folds, in this silent west -wall of the Bastille; a curtain—with sky-arched convent buildings for -proscenium—whose every sombre crease he seemed to watch with a -curious moved expectancy of the unnameable that should be revealed in -its lifting. For so an impression deepened in him unaccountably that -beyond that voiceless veil was shaping itself the real drama, of which -this outer ranting was but as the wind that precedes an avalanche; -that suddenly, and all in a moment, the screen would be rent, like a -sullen cloud by lightning, and the import of an ominous foregathering -find expression in some withering organisation to which the surface -turmoil had been but a blind. He thought himself prophetic—<i>en -rapport</i> with the imps of a national destiny; but nevertheless the -curtain delayed to rise while he waited, though it was to go up -presently to a roar that shook the world. -</p> - -<p> -Still, from his window Ned could enjoy to look, as from a box in a -theatre of varieties, upon a scene of possibilities infinite to an -artist. He had flown from green pastures and drowsy woods—where -revolutionary propagandism, however violently uttered, must waste -itself on remote echo-surfaces—straight into a resounding city of -narrow ways, a Paris of blusterers and <i>mégères</i>, of -controversialists and tractarians, of winged treatises and fluttering -pandects. The streets were as full of the latter as if paper-chase -were the daily pastime of the populace. Only the hounds, it seemed, -never ran the hares to earth; and the hares themselves were March -ones, by every token of incoherence. And “Surely,” thought the young -man, “it is to be needlessly alarmist to read upheaval in this yeasty -ferment. Let the Bastille fall, and there behind shall show nothing -more formidable than the blank brick wall of the theatre.” -</p> - -<p> -But at least all his perspectives teemed with colour. The national -complexion, he could have thought, revealed itself in its hottest dyes -in this quarter of the town. Here were no subdued tones of speech or -apparel, no powdered flunkeyism deprecating the brutal outspokenness -of nature. St Antoine, even this west side of the prison bar, took -life on the raw; dressed loudly as it talked; discussed its viands and -its hopes with an equal appetite for un- and re-dress; was always far -readier to hang a man than a joint of beef—instinctively, perhaps, to -make him that was hard tender. And to this unposturing attitude Ned -felt his sympathies extend. Here, at the smallest, was nakedness -unashamed—material, not, as St Denys would have it, for indulgence, -but for the re-ordering of a world that had confusedly strayed, not so -far, from the paths of truth to itself. -</p> - -<p> -Moreover, the light, the life, the movement had their many appeals to -his artistic perceptives. These latter, greatly stimulated in little -Méricourt, found themselves ten times awake to this second dawn of -experience. He had never been in Paris before, and it was now his fate -to alight and sojourn in it during an epoch-making period. He did not -forget his late company: that, indeed, was for ever shadowed in the -background of his mind—St Denys and Théroigne, and, most of all, the -strange little lodge-keeper whose portrait he had left unfinished. But -here, in the very mid-throng of vivid life, the present so taxed his -every faculty of observation, so drained the inadequate resources of -his skill and of his paint-box, that interests foreign to the moment -must not be allowed to contribute to the pressure on his time. Like an -author in actual harness who keeps from reading books for fear of -assimilating another’s style, so Ned forbade a thought of Nicette to -come between him and his canvas. And assuredly his business in hand -was not to paint Madonnas. -</p> - -<p> -At the same time, Paris wrought upon him something beneficially. Its -numerical vastness—more forcibly expressed, by reason of the -intenseness of its individual feeling, than that of London—amused him -with a sense of his own insignificance; the conviction driven home -into his mind, as he turned bewildered in a snow of pamphlets, that -his profound theories of government were but childish essays in a -craft, in the complicated ramifications of which there was not a -street orator but left him miles behind, taught him a modesty to which -he had been hitherto a part stranger. But he grew in self-reliance as -he dwindled in self-sufficiency; and that was like exchanging fat for -muscle—an admirable <i>quid pro quo</i> in a city of gauntest shadows. -</p> - -<p> -To all the concentration of his faculties upon a seething pandemonium; -to all his earnest efforts to record armies of fugitive impressions, -and to interpret of their sum-total the nature of the force that set -them in motion, Madame Gamelle acted, in unconscious humour, the part -of chorus. -</p> - -<p> -“But, yes,” she would say; “the philosophers have proved the world -misgoverned, and these that you see are the agents of the -philosophers. They are travellers who trade in the article of truth. -They teach the people to know themselves; that every one may have -liberty of speech; that licence shall no longer be the privilege of -aristocrats.” -</p> - -<p> -“And you would know yourself licentious, mother?” -</p> - -<p> -“As to that—do not ask me. I recognise it only for an admirable -creed. My Zoïle would call it so. He looked to the time when he would -be legally entitled to ignore the marriage vow. The poor <i>blondin</i>! He -was a fine man, monsieur, but always unlucky. He died in the heyday of -his hopes, leaving me the one precious pledge of his affection.” -</p> - -<p> -Then she would poke the little frowzy baby on her arm with a stunted -finger, and nod to and address it in a strain of superfluous banter:— -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Eh, mon p’tit godichon</i>! Thou wouldst teach me to know myself in thy -little dirty face? Fie, then! Hast thou been seeking for my image or -thine own in the basin of fine gravy soup I set aside for monsieur the -lodger’s dinner?” -</p> - -<p> -So it was ever with this gruesome infant. Its presentment, or that of -some part of it, haunted Ned through every course of an attenuated -cuisine. The butter would exhibit a mould of its features, the -milk-jug a print of its lips. The rolls appeared indented with -suspicious crescents in the crusty parts; the omelettes confessed a -flavour, and often an impression, of a small sticky hand. The creature -itself, moreover, was a shockingly ubiquitous Puck. It was always -being mislaid, as was everything portable in the house. Its shrill -waking cry would issue from the depths of the lodger’s bed, into which -it had burrowed with a precocious sense of the humour of -appropriation; its red face rise suddenly, like an October moon, from -behind a cloud of sacking on the floor. It was brought up with the -fagots, and ran some narrow risks of premature cremation; it was -included in the week’s washing, and its little fat stomach menaced -with a flat-iron. Sometimes, when one opened a cupboard, it would fall -out in company with half-a-dozen plates; sometimes madame would -deposit it on a table, and, forgetting that she had done so, would -heap it with casual litter as she transacted her domestic business. -“No doubt,” Ned thought, “it is destined to eventual immolation in a -pasty.” -</p> - -<p> -Indeed, his nerves were always on the jump when there was cooking -forward—a lively knowledge of which fact he could by no means evade. -For the process being conducted on the floor above his head, and it -being customary with madame to let everything boil over, it became a -familiar experience with him to see successive samples of his <i>menu</i> -appear and hang in sebaceous drops from a certain seasoned patch on -the ceiling, whence in time they would contribute their quota of peril -to a perfect little slide of grease that had formed on the boards -below. Then, at such a stage, it would be not unusual for his landlady -to come into view, pledge-on-arm, at the door, her <i>borné</i> face -irradiated with some eagerness of triumph. -</p> - -<p> -“But only think, monsieur!” she would begin. -</p> - -<p> -“Pardon,” Ned would interpose; “but is it well for the child to be -gnawing that great lump of cheese?” -</p> - -<p> -“Cheese! <i>Oh, mon Dieu</i>! I must have put it on the trencher, thinking -it was bread, and he has taken it, the thief!” -</p> - -<p> -Then the lodger must discipline his impatience, while the comestible -changed hands, to a shrill clamour, the infant finally being deposited -outside the door like boots to be cleaned. -</p> - -<p> -“Only think, monsieur!” cries the lady again; “the delicate <i>compote</i> -I could have sworn to having prepared for monsieur’s dinner a week -ago, when monsieur, nevertheless, had to go fasting for an <i>entremet</i>! -I was right; it was made, and it was not stolen. This morning I find -it thrust to the very back of the oven—baked for a week, and no more -eatable than a brigadier’s wig.” -</p> - -<p> -Well, all this provoked Master Ned into no desire to change his -quarters. He was a genially stoic rascal, and one that could wring -interest out of investments that would have repelled less -imperturbable natures. So, through that autumn and winter, and deep -into the spring of ’89, he stuck to his corner of the Rue -Beautreillis, going little into the more fashionable centres of the -town, seeking artistic adventure like a knight-errant of the pencil, -and doubtless elaborately misreading, in common with many thousands -about him, the signs that came and went, like a moaning wind, in the -channels of the rushing life of St Antoine. -</p> - - -<h3 id="b1ch12"> -CHAPTER XII. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">Looking</span> on a certain afternoon (it was that of the 27th of November) -from his high perch, Ned saw the people of the streets to be in a more -than usual state of excitement and commotion. Once or twice latterly -it had occurred to him that the ferment of national affairs was not -subsiding, as he had expected it to do, under the tonic treatment of -the national comptrollers—that the people were bent on levying on -their taxmasters a tax more stringent than any they had themselves -groaned under. Sometimes turning, as he rarely did, into the Palais -Royal, and marking how, in that garden of public sedition, the very -veil had been torn from innuendo; how furious agitators, each with his -knot of eager listeners, found applause proportionate to the daring of -their vituperation; how struggling hordes fought from door to counter -of Desein’s book-shop, that they might feed their revolutionary hunger -with any cag-mag of radicalism, provided it were dressed to look raw -and bloody—he would fall curiously grave over a thought of the -impotence of any known principle to precipitate passions held in such -intricate solution, curiously speculative as to the drifting of a -rudderless bark of state. For himself, he was conscious of having been -shouldered from all his little snug standpoints of legislative -philosophy; of the treading-under of his protoplasmic theories by -innumerable vigorous feet; of his inadmissible claim to be allotted a -portfolio in any government whatsoever of man by man. He was become, -indeed, quite humble, and yet larger-souled than before, by reason of -his content to act the part of insignificant unit in a drama, the -goodly developments of which he was nevertheless still confident -enough to foretell. And surely at this point he would have cried—and -that, despite the augurs—as Mirabeau cried ecstatically at a later -date: “How honourable will it be for France that this great Revolution -has cost humanity neither offences nor crimes.... To see it brought -about by the mere union of enlightened minds with patriotic -intentions: our battles mere discussions; our enemies only prejudices -that may well be forgiven; our victories, our triumphs, so far from -being cruel, blessed by the very conquered themselves.” -</p> - -<p> -“And, indeed,” thought Ned, “what reforms were ever compelled without -pressure, and what pressure, that was considerate of the pressed, was -ever effective?” -</p> - -<p> -Now he ran downstairs in haste to inquire of Madame Gamelle the reason -of the popular excitement. He found the good woman herself fluttered -by it to an uncommon degree. She put the pledge into a half-empty tub -of potatoes (a something despised vegetable in the France of that -date), that she might gesticulate the more comprehensively. -</p> - -<p> -“It is news,” she cried; “a fine ‘facer’ to the notables. How they -will squirm, the rascals! We are to have the double representation. It -is decreed by Louis, the good king.” -</p> - -<p> -“Rather by Sieyes and M. d’Entraigues, is it not?” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Oh, çà</i>! That is the way to talk. But you forget the Minister of -Finance, who shall go into the calendar of saints, cheek by jowl with -St Antoine himself.” -</p> - -<p> -<br/> -</p> - -<p> -On the very noon following that of the declaration respecting the -Tiers Etat, lo! there was new commotion in the streets, and holiday -faces and footsteps hurrying westward. Again Ned descended and again -inquired. Madame received him with a shrill cackle:— -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes! it is excitement and all excitement, as you say. But what -infamy that I am chained to my kennel like a vicious dog.” -</p> - -<p> -“What is to do then, madame?” -</p> - -<p> -“But this, monsieur: a gas-balloon is to ascend from the garden of the -Thuilleries at two o’clock.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned sniggered. -</p> - -<p> -“The hubbub is extreme beyond that of yesterday; and madame is cut -from the enjoyment? Supposing, then, I were to take her place as -<i>fruitière</i>?” -</p> - -<p> -“That is impossible. What fly has stung you? But you can go yourself, -and report to me of the proceedings.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” said Ned, “I think I will, that I may learn to differentiate -between the emotions of triumph and of pleasure.” -</p> - -<p> -He saw over the trees, as he turned into the gardens, the soft blue -dome of the great envelope stretching its creases to the sun—an -opaline mound that glistered high and lonely as an untrodden hill -summit. But about the show spot itself, when he reached it, he could -have thought two-thirds of all Paris collected. In one vast -circle—wheel-fely and hub—this enormous hoop of onlookers enclosed -the centre of attraction. On its white face-surface upturned, as on -the surface of a boiling geyser, bubbles of myriad talk seethed and -broke, filling the air with reverberation. Winds of laughter ruffled -it; a sun of merriment caught the facets of its countless eyes. It was -a wheel of jovial Fortune—of a jewelled triumphal car that had -yesterday been a war-chariot, scythed and menacing. -</p> - -<p> -Compact of solid humanity throughout its circumference, its edge was -nevertheless frayed, like the exterior of a clustered swarm of bees, -into a flitting and buzzing superficies of place-seekers. -These—scurrying, criss-crossing; sometimes settling upon and becoming -part of the main body; sometimes affecting a cynical indifference to a -show, from view of the inner processes of which their position -debarred them; in their formless excitement, their hysteric and -unmannered hunt for points of vantage, their magnifying of occasion -into epoch, their utter lack of the sense of moral proportion, of the -sense to distinguish appreciably between affairs of moment and affairs -of the moment—exhibited, as the typical traveller exhibits, those -national characteristics that seem as little accommodating to -revolution in principle as to revolution in habit. -</p> - -<p> -“Only here,” thought Ned, “they are not discreditable exceptions to -the national rule, but fair samples of the whole.” -</p> - -<p> -A couple, pausing within ear-shot of him, engaged his attention at the -instant. One of these, a lord of <i>clinquant</i>, self-satisfied, -arrogant-looking, and dressed, one might have fancied, to the top bent -of bourgeoisie, saluted the other, as a skipjack humours in himself a -holiday mood of affability, with an air of tolerant condescension. -</p> - -<p> -“Eh, indeed, M. David!” said he. “You profit yourself of this -occasion. But, if I were in your position, I should seize it to lie -abed.” -</p> - -<p> -The person addressed stood a half minute at acrid gaze—his shoulders -humped, and his hands gripped on the ebony crutch of his cane—before -he replied. He was a man of a somewhat formidable expression, with -red-brown hair all writhed into little curls, as if a certain inner -heat had warped it. His eyes were hard as flints; and the natural -causticity and determination of his face took yet more sinister -emphasis from a permanent distortion of the upper jaw, whereon an -accidental blow had caused a swelling that impaired his right speech -and made of his very smile a wickedness. His figure, square and firm, -if inclined to embonpoint, set off to advantage his suit of dark blue -cloth, very plain and neat, with silver buttons; his handkerchief and -simple ruffles were spotless, and about the whole man was an -appearance of cold self-containment that was full of the conscious -pride of intellectual caste. -</p> - -<p> -“My good Reveillon,” he said at length, “yesterday it was decreed that -the deputies of the third state should equal in number those of the -nobility and of the clergy put together. That was a momentous -concession, was it not? Also, the eligibility for election, into the -second order, of curés, and into the Tiers Etat of Protestants, was -made known—truly all subjects for popular rejoicing. Doubtless, then, -your employés, leaning out of the windows of the paper factory in the -Rue St Antoine” (“They could not,” thought Ned. “I know the place. -Every window is barred.”), “tossed their caps into the street, into -the air—anywhere but into your face, crying <i>Vive Necker</i> and <i>A bas -les notables</i>!” -</p> - -<p> -“It is always for you to claim the privilege to speak, as you paint, -enigmas,” said the other, with a certain excited insolence of tone. He -was flushed with aggravation under the hard inquisition of the eyes -that had so deliberately taken his measure. -</p> - -<p> -“True enough, the rascals showed enthusiasm,” he cried. “And what -then, M. David?” -</p> - -<p> -“Why, you would drive them to work again, would you not, when the -effervescence was subsided?” -</p> - -<p> -“Assuredly. What is any effervescence but bubbles that break and -vanish? Their business is not to discuss politics but to roll paper, -as it is yours to cover the sheets with hieroglyphics (that, I -confess, I do not understand) when prepared. Well, monsieur, you get -your price and they theirs. Does yours satisfy you? But it might not -if I charged the stuff you buy of me with the interest of time lost -over irresponsible chatter on the part of my employés.” -</p> - -<p> -“Surely, my friend, here is a little spark to produce an explosion.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, monsieur! I can read between the lines, and I am not ignorant of -what may be implied in a sneer. You are <i>peintre du Roi</i>, M. David; -you have chambers at the Louvre, M. David. That is very well; and it -is also very well to subordinate your convictions to your prosperity, -so long as the sun of royalty shines on you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Be very careful to pick your words, my pleasant Reveillon,” said the -painter, already, in some emotion of self-suppression, articulating -with difficulty. -</p> - -<p> -“Why?” said the paper-maker, waning cool as the other gathered heat. -“Is it not true, then, that you are a democrat?” -</p> - -<p> -“What has that to do with the question?” -</p> - -<p> -“It has everything, monsieur, if I am to understand your innuendoes. -It signifies, of course, your dogmatic advocacy of the labour, as -opposed to the capital side of industrial economy. It signifies that, -in your opinion, it is tyranny to enforce discipline upon any body of -men who congregate for other than belligerent purposes, and that any -popular demonstration may serve Jack Smith as excuse for neglecting -his work, but not Jack Smith’s master for docking the absentee’s -wages.” -</p> - -<p> -“They are always little enough,” said M. David, still very indistinct. -</p> - -<p> -“And I throw the word in your teeth!” cried the paper-maker hotly in -his turn. -</p> - -<p> -The dispute aroused small interest amongst the near bystanders, whose -attention was otherwise engaged. One or two, however, gave a pricked -ear to it. -</p> - -<p> -“I am a kind master,” continued the angry manufacturer. “I dare any -one to refute it. How many hands do I employ, monsieur, do you think? -Not a few, monsieur, not a few; and of them all, two-thirds are here -this afternoon—here in these gardens, with permission, though I -suffer by it, to attend the <i>fête</i> of the balloon.” -</p> - -<p> -He spoke the last words uncommonly loudly. The painter burst into a -louder laugh, that distorted his face horribly. -</p> - -<p> -“My exquisite Reveillon,” he said, advancing and endeavouring to take -the other’s arm, only to be peevishly repulsed. “My dear soul, you are -admirable! I see crystallised in you every chief characteristic of the -latter-day Parisian.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very well,” said the Sieur Reveillon, sullen and glowering: “see what -you like; I do not care.” -</p> - -<p> -“To lay down one’s work a moment to applaud the emancipation of a -people: to make a national <i>fête</i> of a balloon ascent!” -</p> - -<p> -He tried to affect an air of humorous dilemma; but the part was beyond -him. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh!” he cried savagely, paraphrasing La Fontaine, and stamping his -foot on the ground: “<i>On fit parler les morts; personne ne s’émut</i>!” -</p> - -<p> -By a strong effort he controlled himself. -</p> - -<p> -“Good M. Reveillon,” he said, “understand that my wits are <i>my</i> -employés. If, following your edifying example, I give them an outing, -I must accompany them like a schoolmaster. Thus your penetration may -divine the reason why I do not lie abed on this rare occasion of a -holiday, which, as your plutocratship suggests, should be an excuse -for rest to all poor devils of workmen.” -</p> - -<p> -A young mechanic, in his squalor and hungering leanness, simply -typical of his class, hurried by at the moment, eagerly seeking a -place to view. His roving eyes, catching those of the paper -manufacturer, took a hostile, half-anxious expression as he went on -his way with a louting salutation. -</p> - -<p> -“One of the two-thirds?” asked David. “A testimony, indeed, to the -fostering kindness of the Sieur <i>Papetier</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -“Bah!” cried Reveillon. “It is the cant. The successful must always be -held responsible for the ineptitude of the improvident. He that passed -was a journeyman; and a journeyman may live very handsomely on fifteen -sous a-day, if he is sober and prudent. I have been through it and I -know. I have no false pride, monsieur <i>le peintre du Roi</i>. I was -apprentice—journeyman myself—before I was master.” -</p> - -<p> -As he spoke, a great seething roar issued from the crowd. Ned, who had -been sketching desultorily as he listened, raised his face. A huge -bulge of grey went up into the sky—a mystery of bellying silk and -intricate ropes straining at a little cockle-shell of a car. To the -explosion of guns, to the frantic waving of flags and handkerchiefs, -to the jubilant vociferating of half a city, the quasi-scientific toy -rose, and was reflected as it sprang aloft in the pupils of ten -thousand eyes. The circle of the mob dilated as its components yielded -a pace or so to secure the better view, and the act brought the two -disputants into Ned’s close neighbourhood. M. Reveillon, for all his -late colloquy, was now no less hysterical than the rest of the -company. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Voilà</i>!” he shouted, clutching at the young fellow’s arm -spasmodically: “is it not a sight the very acme of sublimity! Behold -the unconquerable enterprise of man thus committed to victory or -destruction. There is no middle course. He is to triumph or to die.” -</p> - -<p> -His excited grasp tightened on the sleeve he held. His glance -travelled swiftly to and from the sketch-book, on a page of which Ned -was endeavouring to hastily record some impression of the buoyant -monster above. The Englishman marvelled to see this sudden eruption -from so flat and commonplace a surface. -</p> - -<p> -“You can discipline yourself to draw in the face of this stupendous -fascination,” cried the paper-maker. “<i>Mon Dieu</i>! that you had been -with me at Boulogne in ’85, when Rozier’s Montgolfier took fire at the -height of a thousand mètres, and he and Romain were precipitated to -the earth!” -</p> - -<p> -He never removed his hungry gaze from the mounting balloon while he -talked. -</p> - -<p> -“Fifteen sous a-day!” ejaculated M. David’s voice to the other side of -Ned. -</p> - -<p> -“It was like the bursting of a shell,” said Reveillon, in a sort of -rapturous retrospection. “We were looking—our <i>vivats</i> still echoed -in the air; the smiles with which they had parted from us were yet -reflected on our faces; there came a spout of flame, very mean and -small against the blue, and little black things shot from it and fled -earthwards. It was fearful—heart-thrilling, that sound of a man -falling through two-thirds of a mile. And the finish—the settling -vibration! <i>Mon Dieu</i>! but I have never since missed an ascent.” -</p> - -<p> -“Fifteen sous a-day!” exclaimed David. -</p> - -<p> -But Ned instinctively withdrew himself from a touch that had grown -unpleasant to him. -</p> - -<p> -“The cloven hoof!” he thought. “And is to be without bowels the secret -of every plutocrat’s success?” -</p> - -<p> -“Fifteen sous a-day!” repeated David monotonously. -</p> - -<p> -Reveillon came back to earth a moment, and made him an ironic bow. -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly,” he said. “It is the wages of a good journeyman, and more -than those of many an artist who disdains to be a time-server.” -</p> - -<p> -The disintegrated crowd, swarming abroad like a disturbed knot of -newly hatched spiders, surrounded and absorbed him. <i>M. le peintre du -Roi</i> summoned Ned’s attention, peering over his shoulder. -</p> - -<p> -“It is an insolent parvenu,” he said; “a Philistine double damned for -grinding the faces of the poor. Permit me the privilege to look, -monsieur. An artist is known by his performance. There is a severity -here that entirely commends itself to me.” -</p> - - -<h3 id="b1ch13"> -CHAPTER XIII. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">Ned’s</span> chance meeting with the painter, whose art was then much -exciting, in a characteristic freak of perversity, the enthusiasm of -his fellow-citizens, was the prelude to a strange little <i>camaraderie</i> -between the two that, so long as it held, was full of positive and -negative instruction to the younger man. It came about in this way, -that, absorbed in the discussion of a topic of common interest, the -gentlemen left the Thuilleries gardens together, M. David accompanying -Ned eventually to the Rue Beautreillis. At the door of the fruiterer’s -shop the famous artist held out his hand bluntly. -</p> - -<p> -“You have the right religion,” he said: “in an artificial world the -cleanest art shall prevail. We can have no standard of truth but what -we set ourselves. Strip the model, then, of all meretricious -adornments. Monsieur, I shall take the liberty to call upon you.” -</p> - -<p> -He came, indeed—not once but often, walking over from his studio in -the Louvre; dropping in at unexpected times; criticising the methods, -the actual performance of the Englishman, and even condescending now -and again to add to a sketch or canvas a few touches—technical -mastery without imagination—that resolved in a moment a difficulty -long contended with. Through all he would never cease to expound his -views on right art and government—to him inseparable words in the -condition of national sanity, and both drawn in their purity from the -fountain-head of the S.P.Q.R. at its strictest period. Most often he -would discourse, gazing, his hands behind his back, from the window, -and sometimes quite aptly illustrating his homilies with types drawn -from the human mosaic of the St Antoine below him. -</p> - -<p> -M. David was at this time some forty years of age, an Academician, the -acknowledged and popular leader of classic revivalism. He was -fashionable, moreover, and had just completed (“<i>mettant la main sur -sa conscience</i>”) a royal commission for a “Brutus”! Courted, -prosperous, and respected, some moral myosis must still distort to his -inner vision all the admiration he evoked. He would make his profit of -patronage, secretly raging over the opulent condescension that his -cupidity would not let him be without. He would see <i>double entendre</i> -in the applause of the social <i>élite</i>, yet hunger for it, cursing -himself that the vital flame of his self-confidence must be dependent -on such fuel for its warmth. For in truth he was the tumid bug of -vanity, bursting with the very scarlet adulation that his instinct -told him was inimical to the artistic life and other than its natural -food. -</p> - -<p> -Contributing to, or proceeding from, this insane desire of -self-aggrandisement, his professional and political convictions (he -could not disassociate the two) ran in a restricted channel. But who -shall distinguish, in any complaint that is accompanied by an -unnatural condition of the nerves, between cause and effect? So M. -David’s resentment of patronage may have inclined him to a creed of -classic socialism; or his classic proclivities may have prejudiced him -against the presumptions of self-qualified rank. In any case, he had -twisted his theories, artistic and political, into one thin cord to -discipline (or hang) mankind withal, and was as narrow a fanatic as -was ever prepared to crucify the disputant that ventured to question -his infallibility. -</p> - -<p> -Now, at the outset, Ned fell into some fascination of regard for this -casual acquaintance of his. His <i>credo</i>, social and technical, would -appear to jump—its first paces, at least—with M. David’s. Moreover, -the glamour that naturally informed the presentment of a notable -personality condescending to the regard of a tyro who could boast no -actual claim to its notice, induced him, no doubt—under this -influence of a flattery indirectly conveyed—to an attitude of -respectful consideration towards certain foibles in the stranger that, -on the face of them, seemed irreconcilable with the highest principles -of morality. -</p> - -<p> -It was not so long, however, before his mind began to misgive him that -his “half-God” was clay-footed—that here, indeed, was but another -inevitable example of that subjective inconsistency that seems so -integral a condition of the Gallic temperament. Then: “It is a fact,” -he thought, “that one can never start to conjugate a Frenchman but one -finds him an irregular verb. Where universal exceptions are to prove -the rule, what rule is possible? Anarchy, and nothing else, is the -logical outcome of it all.” -</p> - -<p> -For M. David would cry to him, “In a Republic of Truth every unit must -be content to contribute itself unaffectedly to the full design.” Yet -(as Ned came to know) was no man more greedy than this Academician for -vulgar notoriety—none more sensitive to criticism or more resentful -of a personal slight. So he (M. David) would preach, not plausibly but -whole-mindedly, a religion of purity and cleanliness—a religion of -beauty, material and intellectual, whose very ritual should be -Gregorian in its sweet austerity. Such were his professions; and -nevertheless in the height of his revolutionary popularity he did not -scruple to introduce into his pictures details that pandered to the -most sordid lusts for the grotesque and the horrible—to generally, -indeed, stultify his own declarations of belief by acts that no ethics -but those of brutality could justify. Finally, it was in the disgust -engendered of a flagrant illustration of such inconsistency that the -young Englishman, after some months of gradual disenchantment, “cut” -the king’s painter; fled, for solace of a haunting experience, -eastwards again, and, snuffing with some new emotion of relish the -frankincense of green woods, hugged himself over a thought of his -seasonable escape from that national sphinx of caprice, to symbolise -whom in a word one must draw upon modern times for the “cussedness” of -Wall Street. -</p> - -<p> -Yet even then, had he but foreseen it, he was backing, while dodging -Scylla, into the very deadly attraction of Charybdis. -</p> - -<p> -<br/> -</p> - -<p> -In the meanwhile autumn stole footsore, like a loveless wife, in the -track of summer. She was swart and powdered, not <i>à la mode de -Versailles</i>; drouthy too, yet with a cry to shrill piercingly in every -street of every town of France. -</p> - -<p> -The dust of her going rose and penetrated through chinks and doorways. -It overlay the pavements so thickly that one might have thought it the -accumulation of that that age-long ministers had thrown in the eyes of -the people, the very precipitate of tyranny. It clung, hot and acrid, -to the walls of all living palaces, of all princely monuments to the -dead, as if it were the expression of that proletariat censorship that -would obliterate the very records of a hateful past. It was the -condensed breath of destruction settling in a stringent dew, and it -might have been exhaled from the ten thousand brassy throats that made -clamour in the highways ten thousandfold great because they were the -resonant throats of starved and empty vessels. -</p> - -<p> -For the elections were on; and what if bread were dearer than money if -his chosen representative was in every man’s mouth? So, through broil -and famine the city of Paris echoed to its blazing roofs with jangle -jubilant and acclamatory, inasmuch as the no-property qualification -gave every honest man a chance of being governed by a rogue. And what -prospect in a nation of contrarieties could be more humorously -enticing? -</p> - -<p> -Then upon this drouth and this uproar Ned saw the steel glaive of -winter smite with a clang that brought ironic echoes from the hollow -granaries. It fell swift and sudden; and the clamour, under the -lashing of the blade, took a new tone of terror, the wail of -despairing souls defrauded of their right atmosphere of hope. For who -could look beyond the present with the thermometer below zero; with -the prospect blotted out by freezing mists; with the thin shadows of -pining women and children always coming between one and the light; -with one’s own brain clouded with the fumes of dearth? Yet the -elections went on; but now in a sterner spirit of desperation—of -insistent watchfulness, too, that no hard-wrung concession should be -juggled to misuses under cover of mistifying skies. -</p> - -<p> -Of much misery that neighboured on the wretchedest quarters of a -wretched city Ned was, from his position, cognisant. The sight shook -his stoicism, and greatly contributed to the disruption (St Denys and -M. David negatively helping) of a certain baseless little house of toy -bricks that his boyish vanity had conceived to be an endurable system -builded by himself. “I have been a philosophe, not a wise man,” he -thought. “Life is not a chess-board, its each next step plain to the -clean thinker.” -</p> - -<p> -Now it was the sight of the children that secretly wrung his heart: -these poor sad babies, disciplined on a primary code of naughtiness -and retribution, merit and reward, marvelling from sunken eyes that -they should be so punished for no conscious misbehaviour; patiently, -nevertheless, retaining their faith in God and man, and making a -play-ball of the bitter earth that stung their hands and shrivelled -under their feet. -</p> - -<p> -Well, they died, perhaps by hundreds, when the snow was in the -streets. “And let them go,” said M. David. “There shall be others to -follow by-and-by. As to these, warped and demoralised, they would not -prosper the regeneration of the earth. We want a clean race and no -encumbrances.” -</p> - -<p> -That was <i>his</i> philosophy—admirably Roman, as he intended it to be. -It did not suit Ned. -</p> - -<p> -“There is more to be learnt from a cripple than an athlete,” said that -person boldly. “I would sooner, for my own sake, study in this school -of St Antoine than in yours of the Louvre, M. David.” -</p> - -<p> -“Truly, every artist to his taste,” said the Academician, with an -unsightly grin; and it was Ned’s taste to give of his substance -royally and pityingly when a voice cried in his ear of cold and -famine. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Ah, le genereux Anglais</i>!” wept Madame Gamelle. “He has kept the -wolf from my door. Would that all mothers could secure to their dear -rogues such a fairy godfather as he has been to my cherished one!” -</p> - -<p> -“Without doubt,” said M. David, “he has preserved to you for your -virtues the blessing of an encumbrance that by-and-by shall devour -you.” -</p> - -<p> -Madame must laugh and protest against this inhuman sarcasm. For the -great painter, despite his austerity, had a masterfully admiring way -with women that derived from the serpent in Eden. -</p> - -<p> -“Here, then, to prove it no sarcasm, is my contribution to the cause,” -he says, and places a sou in the pledge’s fat hand. -</p> - -<p> -But Ned went his way uninfluenced of sardonic counsels. -</p> - -<p> -“When this horror relaxes,” he thought, “in the spring I will go back -to Méricourt. I shall be able then, perhaps, to paint a Madonna with -a human soul.” -</p> - -<p> -<br/> -</p> - -<p> -The spring came; the ice melted on the Seine; but it did not melt in -the breasts of an electorate hardened by suffering, consolidated in -the very “winter of its discontent.” But now at least Ned could -sometimes watch from his window without dread of having his soul -harrowed by the desolation and misery of its prospect—could watch the -fire of the sun burning up a little and a little more each day with -the rekindled fuel of hope. -</p> - -<p> -Now it happened that, thus observing, he was many times aware of M. -David mingling with the throng below; going with it or against it; -strolling, his hands behind his back, with the air of an architect who -cons the effect of his own shaping work. This may have been a fancy; -yet it was one that dwelt insistently with the onlooker, that haunted -and disturbed him with presentiment of evil as month succeeded month -and the vision fitfully repeated itself. What attraction so -spasmodically drew the man to this quarter of the town? Not Mr Murk -himself, for now the little regard of each for each was severed by -some trifling outspokenness on the part of the Englishman, and the -painter had long ceased of his visits to the fruiterer’s shop in the -Rue Beautreillis. Ned, for some unexplainable reason, was troubled. -</p> - -<p> -Once he was aware of M. David, moved from his accustomed deliberation, -walking very rapidly in the wake of a man who sped, unconscious of the -chase, before him. Ned identified the stranger as he turned off down a -by-street. It was Reveillon, the prosperous paper merchant he had -happened on on the day of the balloon ascent. -</p> - -<p> -“M. l’Académicien follows the man like his shadow,” he thought, -pondering. -</p> - -<p> -This was in April, when the shadows, indeed, were beginning to -strengthen in darkness. -</p> - -<p> -Then one morning he started awake to the sound of huge uproar in the -streets. -</p> - -<p> -The curtain of the Bastille had not risen; but it had been pulled -aside a little, as it were, to make passage to the forestage of the -Revolution for certain supers who were to represent the opening -chorus. These came swarming through in extraordinary numbers, an -earnest of what should be revealed in the complete withdrawal of the -screen. They seemed violently inspired, but most imperfectly drilled; -and the weapons they handled were not stage properties by any means. -And their object was just this—to pull about his ears the factory of -a certain M. Reveillon, who had been heard to say that a journeyman -could live very comfortably on fifteen sous a-day. -</p> - -<p> -The execrated building was not so far from the Rue Beautreillis but -that the hubbub in the air shook the very glass of Ned’s windows. He -dressed hastily and ran out into the street. Turning into the Rue St -Antoine, that was half choked with a chattering, hooting mob hurrying -westwards, he stumbled over the heels of a man who immediately -preceded him. With an apology on his lips, he hesitated and cried -aloud, “St Denys!” -</p> - -<p> -Even when the stranger disclaimed the title, with a wonder in his eyes -unmistakably genuine, Ned could hardly bring himself to realisation of -his mistake. True, his acquaintance with the Belgian had been brief -enough to admit of subsequent events clouding its details in his -memory; yet that, he could have thought, was vivid to recall -characteristics of feature and complexion quite impressive in their -way. Here were the bright, bold colouring, the girlish contour of -face, the brown eyes, and the rough crisp gold of unpowdered hair. -Here were the shapely stature, the little fopperies of dress even, the -actual confidence of expression. Only, as to the latter, perhaps, a -certain soul of sobriety, an earnestness of purpose, revealed -themselves in the present instance—a distinction to justify a world -of difference. -</p> - -<p> -“A thousand apologies!” said Ned. “I can hardly convince myself even -now.” -</p> - -<p> -“I will presume you flatter me, monsieur,” said the other, with a -blithe smile. “My name is Suleau, at your service. Pardon me, I must -hurry on.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned detained him a moment. -</p> - -<p> -“Let me entreat you, monsieur—this heat, this uproar: what is it all -about?” -</p> - -<p> -“What, indeed, monsieur? France, I think, rolls on its back with its -feet in the air. A manufacturer of paper says that his hands can live -very well, if they choose, on fifteen sous a-day. <i>Hé</i>—he ought to -know. But they wish to gut his premises, nevertheless, these new, -evil-smelling apostles of liberty. <i>Pardon</i>! will you come with me? I -cannot wait. I am a reporter, a journalist, a scribbler against time -and my own interests!” -</p> - -<p> -“You are not of the popular party?” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Ah</i>, monsieur, <i>mon Dieu</i>, monsieur! but I have a sense of humour -remaining to me. For all that is serious I am a Feuillant.” -</p> - -<p> -He spoke the last to deaf ears. Ned had fallen behind, blackly -pondering. -</p> - -<p> -“This David,” he muttered, “that heard Reveillon say the words, and -that has haunted the St Antoine of late—this David.” And with the -thought there was the man himself coming slowly on with the crowd past -him. The Englishman planted his shoulder against the torrent and -managed to sidle alongside the painter. He—M. Jacques-Louis -David—carried a very enigmatical smile on his face, the physical -malformation of which, however, served him for conscious -misinterpreter of many moods. Now it expressed no disturbance over his -contact with a person who had offended him. -</p> - -<p> -“Good day,” said he. -</p> - -<p> -“M. David,” said Ned, “I do not forget what enraged you with M. -Reveillon in the Thuilleries gardens. I think you are a scoundrel, M. -David!” -</p> - -<p> -The other did not even start; much less did he condescend to refute -the sudden charge; but he cocked his head evilly as he walked. -</p> - -<p> -“Have you considered,” he said, “that if what you imply be true (which -I do not admit), you are insulting a general in the presence of his -bodyguard?” -</p> - -<p> -“If what I imply be true,” retorted Ned hotly, “I can understand your -indulging any brutal and contemptible vindictiveness.” -</p> - -<p> -Perhaps, in his strenuous indignation, he might have struck at the -vicious creature beside him; but the crowd, at that moment violently -surging forward, swept him anywhere from his place and saved him the -consequences of a foolish impulse. -</p> - -<p> -Now he would fain have turned and escaped from the press, lest by any -self-misconception his conscience should accuse him of lending his -countenance to an iniquity; for he saw that such was planned and -determined on, and for the first time there awoke in his heart some -shadowy realisation of the true import of certain months-long signs -and significances. He would have turned: he could not. He was wedged -in, carried forward, rushed to the very outer core of the congested -block of frowsy humanity that stormed and spat and shrieked under the -high dull walls of the factory. -</p> - -<p> -Here, perhaps, his national self-sufficiency was his somewhat arrogant -counsellor. -</p> - -<p> -“What has this man done,” he cried to those about him, “but exemplify -that right to liberty of speech which you all demand?” -</p> - -<p> -A dozen loathing glances were turned upon him. Savage oaths and -ejaculations contested the opportuneness of so reasonable a sentiment. -But it was not St Antoine’s way, now or at any time, to approve -counsel for the defence. Only a cry, a sinister one then first -beginning to be heard in the streets, broke out here and there. -</p> - -<p> -“Down with the aristocrat!” -</p> - -<p> -There was threat of a concentric movement upon the Englishman. He felt -it as a moral pressure even before his immediate neighbours began to -close inwards. One of the latter had a similar consciousness -apparently. She was a coarse, fat <i>poissarde</i>, and the shallow groove -that was her waist seemed moulded of the very habit of her truculent -arms folded in front of her. -</p> - -<p> -“Eh, my little radishes!” she cried in a voice like a corncrake’s. -“Advance, you! Come, then—come! Here is a cat shall strip you of your -breeches if you venture within her reach.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned felt, and the crowd looked, astonishment over this unexpected -championship. In the momentary proximate silence that befell, the -shattering explosion of many of M. Reveillon’s windows bursting under -volleys of stones was a significantly acute accent. -</p> - -<p> -The fishwife nodded her head a great number of times. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Hé</i>! my little rats, you will not come? That is well for your -whiskers, indeed. And do we <i>not</i> demand liberty of speech, as -monsieur says; and are we not taking it to denounce one that would -deprive us of the liberty to live? How! You would raise the devil -against monsieur?” (she waxed furious in an instant)—“Monsieur -l’Anglais, that all the hard winter has lived like a Jacobin friar, -that he might give of his substance to the cold and the starving? -Monsieur l’Anglais that lodges at the fruiterer’s, and without whose -help Fanchon and her brat had been rotting now in St Pélagie! Oh, -<i>san’ Dieu</i>! I know—I know! Pigs, beasts, ingrates! It will be well, -in truth, for the first that comes within my reach!” -</p> - -<p> -A rolling laugh, that swelled to a roar, took up the very echo of -madame’s surprising tirade. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Vive l’Anglais</i>! the friend of the poor, the apostle of liberty!” -shrieked twenty voices. -</p> - -<p> -Too amazed by this sudden rightabout of a national weathercock to -protest against its misrepresentation of the direction of his own -little breeze of righteousness, Ned made no resistance, when all in a -moment he felt himself tossed up on billowing shoulders, and conveyed -helplessly from the thick centre of operations. The clamour of hairy -throats, exhaling winey fustian about him, staggered his brain. He had -not even that self-possession left him to blush to find his stealthy -goodness famous. And when the escort landed him at Madame Gamelle’s -door, and with hurried <i>vivats</i> testified to his immediate popularity, -he could think of no more appropriate remark to make to them than, “I -protest, messieurs, that I have never travelled so high in others’, or -so low in my own opinion, before”; which, inasmuch as it was -fortunately spoken in English, and accompanied by a profoundly -ironical bow, served the occasion as gracefully as much compliment -would have done. -</p> - -<p> -<br/> -</p> - -<p> -Feeling at first something like a venturesome infant that had strayed -beyond bounds only to be caught back and kissed, Ned mounted to his -room to await events. They came thick and swift enough to half induce -him to a re-descent upon the scene of action. That temptation he -overcame; but all day long, and far into the evening, he wandered, -restless and apprehensive, in the Rue St Antoine, watching its -turbulent course at the flood, feeling a sympathetic attraction to the -electricity of its moods, conscious of the shock of something -enacting, or threatening to enact, about that congregated spot where -the tumult was heaviest. -</p> - -<p> -Still with the passing of day came no abatement of the popular fury, -but rather an accumulating of menace; and thereupon (M. le Baron -Besenval, Commandant of Paris, having arrived at his decision) down -swooped upon the scene a little company of thirty bronzed and brazen -French Guards, in their royal chevrons and military coxcombs; which -company, clearing intestinal congestion by measures laxative, -readjusted the order of affairs, and persuaded exhausted patriots to -their burrows. -</p> - -<p> -To his bed also went Ned reassured, and slept profoundly and -confidently as a rescued castaway. But, waking on the morrow, lo! -there was renewal of the uproar shaking his windows, but now as if it -would splinter the very glass in its frames. -</p> - -<p> -The cause, when he came to examine, was not far to seek. St Antoine, a -very confraternity of weasels, baulked but not baffled, was returned -to the attack; and at this last it was evident that the paper-maker’s -premises were damned. Indeed, the complaint of democracy had suffered -a violent relapse during the night; and now, in the new dawn, it -blazed and crackled like a furnace. The streets, the roofs, the -windows were massed with writhing shapes; the whole quarter jangled in -a thunder of voices; a pelt of indifferent missiles, deadly only in -the context, rained without ceasing upon the accursed walls. -</p> - -<p> -Ned paused a moment, swirled like a straw in the current of rushing -humanity, to take stock of possibilities. -</p> - -<p> -“If it is so they resent a hasty word,” thought he, “God save Paris in -the hour of reprisal!” -</p> - -<p> -He felt a little sick at heart. He would look no more. -</p> - -<p> -“I will spend an idle day in the fields of Passy,” he assured himself, -“and forget it all, and return in the evening to find the storm blown -over.” -</p> - -<p> -He went out by way of the Place St Paul, walking along the line of -quays, and watching, something with the tender feeling of a -convalescent, the golden frost of sunlight that gemmed the waters of -the Seine. It was a fair, sweet morning, too innocent, it seemed, to -take account of human passions; and by-and-by its influence so far -wrought upon him as that he was able to commit himself to it with some -confidence of enjoyment. All about him, moreover, life seemed -pleasurably normal—not significant of fear and apprehension, as his -soul had dreaded to find it. -</p> - -<p> -But with the approach of dusk his innate misgivings must once more -gather force till they knocked like steam in his arteries; and, so -dreading, he lingered over his return until deep dark had closed upon -the town. At the barrier he heard enough to confirm his disquiet, -though the reports of what had happened were so formless and -contradictory as to decide him to refer inquiry to the evidence of his -own senses. Therefore, in silence and heart-quaking, he made his way -eastwards, and presently turned into the dark intricacy of squares -that led up to the Rue Beautreillis. -</p> - -<p> -The street, when he reached it, seemed given over to the desolation of -night. The taller houses slept pregnant with austerity as vast -Assyrian images; the lamps, rocking drowsily in their slings, blinked, -one could have thought, to squeeze the slumber from their eyes. -Distant sounds there were, but none proceeding from points nearer in -suggestion than the far side of dawn. -</p> - -<p> -By-and-by, however, one—a little gurgling noise like the sob of a -gutter—slid into Ned’s consciousness, as, speeding forward, his -footsteps rang out a very chime of echoes. Almost in the same moment -he was upon it, or upon its place of issue—a ragged huddle of shapes -pulled into the shadow of a buttress. -</p> - -<p> -A clawing figure, gaunt and unclean, rose at him—recognised him in -the same instant, apparently, and gave out a bestial cry. -</p> - -<p> -“She is going, monsieur! May God wither the hand that beat her down, -and may the soul of him that directed it scream in everlasting hell!” -</p> - -<p> -He seized the young man’s sleeve and drew him reluctant forward. The -huddle of frowzy things parted, that he might see. -</p> - -<p> -The coarse large <i>poissarde</i>; the ally who had yesterday cherished his -cause and sung his praises; the great breathing, truculent woman with -the defiant voice! Here was the gross material of so much vigour, -collapsed, mangled, and flung aside. The little choking noise was -accounted for. There was a crimson rent in the woman’s throat. She -died while Ned was looking down upon her. -</p> - -<p> -And this mad thing that spat at the sky? Doubtless he was her husband; -and he might have been a royal duke from the freedom of his language. -</p> - -<p> -“What does it mean?” cried Ned hoarsely. -</p> - -<p> -One of the groping shapes snarled up at him— -</p> - -<p> -“It is an instance of monseigneur’s paternal kindness to his people.” -</p> - -<p> -There was nothing to be answered or done. The Englishman emptied his -purse to the group and hurried on. His worst apprehensions were -realised. This was but a sample of what was to follow—a vision to be -repeated again and yet again, in indefinite forms. Rebellion had -broken and suppurated away during his absence. There were some four or -five hundred dead bodies, shot and stabbed, as earnest of its drastic -treatment by the national physicians. There might have been more, but -that the mob had finally given before M. Besenval’s Switzers with -their grape-shotted cannon. Then it retired, pretty satisfied, -however, to have justified democratic frenzy by so practical an -illustration of the tyranny of class hatred; satisfied, also, as to -the moral of its own retreat. M. Reveillon was become a -self-constituted prisoner in the Bastille; his factory was a shapeless -and clinkerous medley of rubbish. Ned, turning the corner of the Rue -Beautreillis, saw the ruins, dusking and glowing fitfully, at a little -distance. “And how,” he thought, with a shuddering emotion, “did he, -that was so fascinated by the man Rozier’s fate, regard the burning of -his own ark of security?” -</p> - -<p> -The street—so it seemed in the expiring red glimmer and the small, -dull radiance of bracketed lamps—was a very dismantled graveyard of -broken stones and scattered corpses. Amongst the latter moved detached -groups of searchers, languidly official, swinging ghostly lanterns. -With a groan of lamentation, Ned turned about and beat frantically on -the closed shutters of the fruiterer’s shop. -</p> - -<p> -The door was opened, after a weary interval, by Madame Gamelle. The -woman’s eyes were febrile. She dragged her lodger over the threshold -and snapped the lock behind him. A couple of rushlights burned dimly -on the counter. The pledge, in holiday antic, was stuffing a bloody -cartouche-box with onions from a basket. -</p> - -<p> -“They killed him at the street corner,” said madame gloatingly. “He -shall never murder again—the accursed Garde Française. They had for -knives only the sharp tiles from the roofs; but it was easy to willing -arms.” -</p> - -<p> -She was transfigured, this meek vendor of cabbages. Anywhere to -scratch St Antoine was to find a devil. -</p> - -<p> -“Madame,” said Ned wearily, “it is all quite right, without doubt; but -to-morrow, I must tell you, I am to take my leave of Paris.” -</p> - - -<h3 id="b1ch14"> -CHAPTER XIV. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">Mr Murk</span> was suffering from a <i>toujours perdrix</i> of politics. He -needed, he felt, a prolonged constitutional, both to clear his brain -of a certain blood-web that confused its vision, and to enable him to -sort, in fair communion with the Republic of Nature, his own somewhat -scattered theories of government. He was really unnerved, indeed, by -what he had seen and experienced, and the prospect of quiet woods and -pastures was become dear to his soul. He would return to Méricourt, -as he had promised himself he would do, in the sweet spring -weather—to Méricourt, where the play of Machiavelism was but a -pastoral comedy after all. He would return to Méricourt and paint -into the unfinished eyes of his Madonna the fathomless living sorrow -of doubt—the Son being dead—as to their own divinity. -</p> - -<p> -Of the two hundred miles to traverse he walked the greater -number—sometimes in leisurely, sometimes in hurried fashion, as the -chasing dogs of memory slept or tracked him. But, tramp as he would, -he could not regain that elasticity of heart that once so communicated -itself to the “spirit in his feet.” He had gone to Paris blithe and -curious; he was returning, as the idiom expresses it, with a foot of -nose. In eight months the spouting grass seemed to have lost its -spring. May, with all its voices, could not charm him from foul -recollections; the gloom of slumbering forests was full of murder. Now -for the first time he realised how the great peace he often paused to -wistfully look upon was Nature’s, not his; how, flatter his soul as he -might with a pretence of its partnership in all the noble restfulness -that encompassed it, it stood really an alien, isolated—a suffering, -self-conscious inessential, having no kinship with this material sweet -tranquillity—separated from it, in fact, by just the traverseless -width of that very conscious <i>ego</i>. He felt like Satan alighted for -the first time in view of Eden, only to recognise by what plumbless -moat of knowledge he was excluded from its silent lawns and orchards. -</p> - -<p> -This feeling came to him in his worst moods. In his best, he could -take artistic joy of those effects of cloud and country that called -for no elaborate detail in the delineating—that were distant only -proportionately less than the distant unrealities of the stars in the -sky. For the impression of outlawry in a world that was only man’s by -conquest was bitten into his soul for all time; and never again, since -that night spent in the shambles of St Antoine, should he recover and -indulge that ancient sense of irresponsibility towards his share in -the conduct of man’s usurped estate. -</p> - -<p> -“We are,” he thought, “squatters disputing with one another the -possession of land to which we have each and all no title.” -</p> - -<p> -Nevertheless—therefore, rather—his soul acknowledged the opposite to -disenchantment in its review of nature unconverted to misuse. Not -before had pathos so sung to him in the warm throat-notes of birds; so -chimed to him in the tumble of weirs; so looked up into his face from -the fallen blossom on the grass. He might have found his healing of -all things at the time had Love appeared to him in sympathetic guise. -</p> - -<p> -Over the last stages of his journey he took diligence to Liége, and, -at the end of a long week’s ramble, set foot once more in the old -sun-baked town. -</p> - -<p> -Thence, on a gentle evening, he turned his face to Méricourt, and in -a mood half humour, half sadness, retraversed the hills and dingles of -a pleasant experience. Somehow he felt as if he were returning, a -confident prodigal, to ancient haunts of beauty and kindliness. -</p> - -<p> -He had proceeded so far as to have come within a half mile of the -village, when, in thridding his way through a sombre wedge of -woodland, he was suddenly aware of a figure—a woman’s—flitting -before him round a bend in the path. There was that in his momentary -glimpse of the form that led him to double his pace so as to overtake -it. This he had no difficulty in doing, though for a minute it seemed -as if the other were anxious to elude him. But finding, no doubt, the -task beyond her, she stopped and turned of a sudden into a leafy -embrasure set in the track-edge, and stood there awaiting his coming, -her head drooped and her back to a green beech-trunk. -</p> - -<p> -“Théroigne!” cried Ned, nearly breathless. “Théroigne Lambertine!” -</p> - -<p> -“Why do you stop me?” she said, panting, and in a low voice. “You know -the way to Méricourt, monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -He felt some wonder over her tone. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t you wish me to speak to you, then? Have you already forgotten -me?” -</p> - -<p> -She did not answer or raise her face. -</p> - -<p> -“Théroigne!” he protested, pleading like an aggrieved boy. “And -little as I saw of you, I have felt, in returning to Méricourt, as if -I were coming back to old friends. I have had enough of Paris and its -horrors, Théroigne.” -</p> - -<p> -At that she looked up at him for the first time. He was amazed and all -concerned. The glowing, rich, defiant beauty he had last seen. And -this—white, fallen, and desolate—the face of a haunted creature! -</p> - -<p> -“What is the matter?” he whispered. “What has happened to you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Paris!” she said in a febrile voice. “Ah, yes, monsieur!—you come -from Paris. And did you see there——” -</p> - -<p> -She checked herself, struck her own mouth savagely with her palm, then -suddenly gripped at the young man’s wrist. -</p> - -<p> -“What are they doing in Paris? Is it there, as he prophesied—the -reign of honour and reason, the reign of pleasure, the emancipation of -the wretched and oppressed? He will be a fine recruit to the cause of -so much republican virtue.” -</p> - -<p> -She breathed quickly; a smouldering fire blazed up in her; her very -voice, that had seemed to Ned starved like her beauty, gathered to -something the remembered volume. -</p> - -<p> -“He? Who?” said he. -</p> - -<p> -She took no notice of the question, but went on in great excitement— -</p> - -<p> -“What are these horrors that you speak of? Have you seen them? What -are they, I say? Do they tear aristocrats limb from limb? This truth -that he used to preach—my God! there is no hope for the world until -they massacre them each one!” -</p> - -<p> -“That who used to preach?” said Ned, quite shocked and bewildered. -</p> - -<p> -“Liars! liars! liars!” cried the girl, striking hand into hand. -</p> - -<p> -Then suddenly she had flung herself round against the tree, and, in a -storm of tears, had buried her head in her arms. -</p> - -<p> -“Go!” she cried, in a muffled voice. “Why do you come back with the -other memories? Why do you notice or speak to me? Can you not see that -I am accursed—an outcast?” -</p> - -<p> -He would have essayed to comfort, to reassure her. Her wayward passion -took his breath away. Even while he hesitated, she turned upon him -once more:— -</p> - -<p> -“Are <i>you</i> not also of the <i>haute noblesse</i>? What truth or honour or -courage can be in you, then? Yes, courage, monsieur. You have fled -because you were afraid they would kill you, as <i>he</i> fled before his -pursuing conscience. You will not tell me the truth, because you are -shamed in its revelation. My God! what cowards are you all! But only -say to me that he is dead—stabbed to the heart—and I will fall down -and kiss your feet!” -</p> - -<p> -To Ned, standing there dumfoundered, came an inkling of a tragedy. -</p> - -<p> -“That Suleau,” he was thinking, half mazed, “did he jockey me; and was -it St Denys after all?” -</p> - -<p> -He looked at the stressed and wild-wrought creature before him in -sombre pity. -</p> - -<p> -“So M. de St Denys has left Méricourt?” he said gravely. -</p> - -<p> -At that Mademoiselle Lambertine broke into a shrill laugh. -</p> - -<p> -“M. de St Denys? But who spoke of M. de St Denys? It was he, was it -not, that waived his privileges of honour that he might be on a level -with us that have none? And why should he leave Méricourt, where he -was ever a model and an example of all that he preached?” -</p> - -<p> -“It cannot have been he, then, that I saw in Paris?” -</p> - -<p> -The girl gasped, stared, and took a forward step. -</p> - -<p> -“You saw him? And he was amongst the killed?” -</p> - -<p> -“Théroigne!” -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur, monsieur! We have heard how the people rose; we are not -here at the bounds of the earth.” -</p> - -<p> -“But it was no slaughter of aristocrats.” -</p> - -<p> -She gazed at him dumbly with feverish eyes, then sighed heavily, shook -her head, and moved out into the open. -</p> - -<p> -“So you come again to Méricourt?” she said. “You will find it -wonderfully changed in these few months. Now we are possessed by a -devil, and now we are under the dominion of a saint. There is an idol -deposed, and a holy image raised in its place. Will you be walking, -monsieur, or shall I go first?” -</p> - -<p> -“We will go together.” -</p> - -<p> -She laughed again with a shrill, mocking sound. -</p> - -<p> -“Mother of God! what an admirable persuasiveness have these -aristocrats! I had thought myself beneath his notice, and, behold! he -would make me his companion—and in the face of the village, too. -Come, then, monsieur. Will you take your <i>paillarde</i> on your arm?” -</p> - -<p> -He listened to her with some compassion (for all her wild speech he -thought her heart was choked with accumulated tears), then moved -forward and walked along the woodland path by her side. To his few -questions she returned but monosyllabic answers. Presently, -however—when they were come out within view of the village fountain, -where Ned’s first meeting with her had taken place—she stayed him -with a hand upon his sleeve. -</p> - -<p> -“‘As she makes her bed, so must she lie on it.’ You see I remember -your words, monsieur. And, if she has made her bed as the virtuous -disapprove, in England she may yet lie soft on it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Without doubt, in England or elsewhere, so long as she lives only for -the present.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah! little Mother of God! but how natural to these aristocrats comes -the preaching-cant.” -</p> - -<p> -All in a moment her eyes and her speech softened most wooingly, and -she put up her hands, in a characteristic coaxing manner, to the young -man’s breast. -</p> - -<p> -“I am ill and weary now,” she said. “It is not good to suffer long the -hatred of one’s kinsfolk, the gibes of one’s familiars. But in another -atmosphere I should learn to resume myself—at least to resume all -that of me that concerns the regard of men. The result would be worth -the possessing, monsieur. Monsieur, when you return to England, will -you take me with you?” -</p> - -<p> -As she spoke, a light step sounded coming up the meadow-path, before -mentioned, that ran into the head of the woodland. It approached; -Théroigne, with a conscious look, fell back a little; and -immediately, moving staid and decorous over the young grass, the white -lodge-keeper of the chateau came into view. She suffered, Ned could -see, one momentary shock of indecision as her eyes encountered his; -then she advanced, and, without a word, went on her way into the wood. -But, as she passed, she acknowledged Ned’s salutation with a grave -little inclination of her head, and with the act was not forgetful to -withdraw her skirts from contact with those of Mademoiselle -Lambertine, who, for her part, shrank back and made not the least show -of protest or resentment. -</p> - -<p> -Ned, however, regarded with some twinkle of amusement the slow-pacing -figure till it was out of sight, and then he only turned to Théroigne -with a questioning look. -</p> - -<p> -The girl came up to him again, but doubtfully now, it seemed, and with -a certain wide awe in her eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“You must not say it, monsieur,” she whispered; “you must not say what -I can read on your lips. She has seen the Blessed Virgin since you -were last here—has seen and spoken with her.” -</p> - -<p> -“God forgive me for a scoffer! And that is why she is all in blue, I -suppose, and why her blue skirt must not touch hems with your red -one?” -</p> - -<p> -Théroigne hung her head. -</p> - -<p> -“When does monsieur return to England?” she said only. -</p> - -<p> -Ned clasped his hands behind his head and stretched vigorously. -</p> - -<p> -“Very soon, I think. Mademoiselle Théroigne, I am tired of you all. -Very soon, I think.” -</p> - -<p> -She made as if she would have touched him again; but he gently put her -away from him. At that she looked up in his eyes very forlorn and -pleading. -</p> - -<p> -“Mademoiselle Théroigne,” said he, “I do not know or ask you your -story. Here, since I left, all flowers seem to have run to a seed that -is best not scattered abroad. I cannot, of course, prevent your going -to London if you choose. Only, for myself, I must tell you, that -myself is at present as much as I can undertake to direct and govern. -Besides, it is not at all likely that you would find <i>him</i> there.” -</p> - -<p> -In an instant she was again all scorn and passion. Her lip lifted and -showed her teeth. She humped her shoulders; her hands clinched in -front of her. -</p> - -<p> -“Not to understand,” she cried, “that that is my very reason for -desiring the refuge of your barbarous land! To escape from myself and -the murder in me!” -</p> - -<p> -“But why leave Méricourt at all?” -</p> - -<p> -The blight of her fury was as sudden as the blast that springs from a -glacier. -</p> - -<p> -“May <i>you</i> know what it is to roll in a trough of spikes and find no -release in your agony! Cold, passionless, insolent! Lazarus, to refuse -to dip your finger in water! But I will go in spite of you: I will go, -monsieur, and laugh and snap my fingers in your face!” -</p> - -<p> -“Permit me to say,” said Ned coolly, “that this is a very foolish and -unnecessary exhibition of temper.” -</p> - -<p> -But she flounced round her shoulder and ran from him, storming and -crying out, and disappeared down the track leading to her home. And, -as for him—he went on to the “Landlust.” -</p> - - -<h3 id="b1ch15"> -CHAPTER XV. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">During</span> the course of his short journey from the wood-skirt to the -inhospitable hostelry of his former acquaintance, Ned could have -thought himself conscious of an atmosphere vaguely unfamiliar to his -recollections of Méricourt. These were not at fault, he felt -convinced, because of climatic changes; because of an aspect of -seasonable reinvigoration in a place that he had last seen sunk in -lethargy; because of an increase in the number of people he saw moving -in the street even. They recognised themselves astray, rather, over a -spirit of demure gravity—a chosen tribe smugness of expression, so to -speak—that seemed to inform with pharisaic <i>minauderie</i> the faces of -many of those he passed by; and even he fancied he could -distinguish—in the absence of this self-important mien—strangers (of -whom there were not a few) from those that were native to the hamlet. -</p> - -<p> -There seemed, in short, an air of wandering expectancy abroad—almost -as if the unregarded village, committed hitherto to a serene -isolation, were become suddenly a field for prospectors, ready to -“exploit” anything from a three-legged calf to a <i>sainte nitouche</i>. -Conversing couples hushed their voices as he went by, their eyes -stealthily scanning him as one that had ventured without justification -within a consecrated sanctuary. A berline stood drawn up by the -green-side, its occupants, two fashionable ladies from Liége, -converted from the latest fashion in hats to the last in emotionalism. -The blacksmith, in his little shop under the walnut-tree, familiarly -rallied his Creator from stentorian lungs as he clanked upon his -anvil. Across the <i>Place</i> the ineffective Curé was to be seen -escorting a party towards the church; and, over all—visitors and -inhabitants—went the sweet laugh of May blowing abroad the scent of -woods and blossoms. -</p> - -<p> -Ned turned into the “Landlust,” feeling somehow that his dream of rest -was resolved into a droll. Nor, once within, was he to be agreeably -disillusioned in this respect. The Van Roon seemed to positively -resent his recursion—to regard him in the light of an insistent -patient returning, on trifling provocation, to a hospital from which -he had been discharged as cured. -</p> - -<p> -“What! you again!” she cried sourly. “One would think moogsieur had no -object in life but to canvass the favour of Méricourt.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned, the yet imperturbable, answered with unruffled gallantry— -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed, in all the course of my travels I have never seen anything to -admire so much as madame in the conduct of her business. Whichever way -I have looked since my departure, it was always she that filled my -perspective.” -</p> - -<p> -“If that is the same as your stomach,” said madame rudely, “you will -have found me hard of digestion.” -</p> - -<p> -“At least I am hungry now.” -</p> - -<p> -“That is a pity. You shall pick Lenten fare in the ‘Landlust’ in these -days.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is it not rather a question of payment, madame?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, it is not,” she snapped out viciously. “Moogsieur imposes his -custom on me. He may take or refuse; what do I care, then! We have -nowadays other things to think of than to pamper the gross appetites -of worldlings.” -</p> - -<p> -“A thousand pardons! Is not that a strange confession from an -inn-keeper?” -</p> - -<p> -“You may think so if you like. It makes no difference. To charge an -egg with the price of a full meal—where one is willing to pay it—it -simplifies matters, does it not? Anyhow, to be served by one of the -elect (it is I that speak to you)—that is a privilege your betters -appreciate at its value.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” said Ned, “I am at sea, and I have a mariner’s appetite. Give -me what you will, madame.” -</p> - -<p> -She accepted him, as once before, with a sort of surly mistrust. A -former unregenerate friend of his, she said, was seated in the common -kitchen. He had best join this person while his meal was preparing. -</p> - -<p> -Thither, much marvelling over all he had heard and been witness of, -Ned consequently bent his steps. He had not expected much of the -“Landlust,” but this exceeded his devoutest hopes. It had the effect -also of arousing in him something of a wicked mood of indocility. -</p> - -<p> -Entering the long room, the first object to meet his eyes was the -sizar of Liége University. The little round man sat at the table, a -glass of <i>eau sucrée</i> by his elbow, a pipe held languidly between his -teeth. An expression of profound melancholy was settled on his -features. He looked as forlorn as a tropic monkey cuddling itself in -an east wind. At the sight of Mr Murk he started, and half rose to his -feet. -</p> - -<p> -“The devil!” he muttered; and added—not so inconsequently as it -appeared—“You are welcome to Méricourt, monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned laughed. -</p> - -<p> -“Is it so bad as that?” said he, “and has he become such a stranger -here in these months?” -</p> - -<p> -The other beckoned his old enemy quite eagerly to a seat. -</p> - -<p> -“You have not heard, monsieur? It is improbable, without doubt; yet -Méricourt is at the present moment the centre of much reverent -attraction.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is it? You shall tell me about it, Little Boppard. Yet you yourself -are reprobate, I hear; and you will have your debauch of sugar and -water.” -</p> - -<p> -In reply, the poor body whispered, in quite a chap-fallen and -deprecating manner— -</p> - -<p> -“I am of nature a thirsty soul, monsieur. I must take my smoke, like -the Turk, through bubbles of liquid. What then! this is not my choice; -but it is expected of us in these days of spiritual elevation to drink -at the Fountain of Life or not at all.” -</p> - -<p> -“There are different interpretations as to the character of the -Fountain. Each is a schism to all others, no doubt. Mine, I confess, -is not of sweet water.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned spoke, and rapped peremptorily on the table. M. Boppard’s little -eyes, glinting with prospicience, took an expression of nervous -admiration of this daring alien. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah, monsieur!” he cried in fearful enthusiasm, “do not go too far. -This is not the joyous ‘Landlust’ of your former knowledge; the type -of extravagant hospitality; the club of excellent fellowship. Things -have happened since you were here. Now we drink <i>eau sucrée</i>, or, -worse still, the clear water of regeneration itself. Cordials and -cordiality are dreams of the past.” -</p> - -<p> -His voice broke on a falling key. A scared look came over his face. -The cow-like girl had opened the door and stood on the threshold -mutely waiting. -</p> - -<p> -“A bottle of <i>maçon</i>,” said Ned, and, giving his order, saw with the -tail of his eye the student’s countenance change. -</p> - -<p> -“A half bottle,” he corrected himself, “and also a double dose of -cognac.” -</p> - -<p> -The girl stood as stolid on end as a pocket of hops. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you hear?” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -She blinked and lifted her eyelids. A sort of drowsy exaltation -appeared in these days the very accent to her large inertia—its -self-justification, in fact, before some visionary consistory of -saints. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you hear?” said Ned again, with particular emphasis. -</p> - -<p> -“It is not permitted to get tipsy in the ‘Landlust,’” said she, like -one talking in her sleep. -</p> - -<p> -Ned jumped to his feet quite violently. -</p> - -<p> -“Take my order,” he shouted, “or I’ll come and kiss every woman in the -house, beginning with Madame van Roon!” -</p> - -<p> -She vanished, suddenly terrified, in a whisk of skirts, and the door -clapped behind her. The young gentleman laughed and resumed his seat. -</p> - -<p> -“So, Méricourt has found grace?” said he; “and grace is not -necessarily to be gracious, it seems. Yet, you still come here! And -why, M. Boppard?” -</p> - -<p> -The student shook his head. His face had grown much happier in a -certain prospect. -</p> - -<p> -“Why do I, monsieur? Can I say? Of a truth it ceases to be the place -of my affections; yet—I do not know. The bird will visit and revisit -its robbed nest; will sit on the familiar twig and call up, perhaps, a -vision of the little blue eggs in the moss. I have been content here. -I cling, doubtless, to the old illusions that are vanished.” -</p> - -<p> -“Amongst which is the Club of Nature’s Gentry?” -</p> - -<p> -“Hush!” -</p> - -<p> -The wine was brought in as he spoke. For what reason soever, Ned’s -argument had prevailed. Probably decorum would not risk a scene -dangerous to its reputation. -</p> - -<p> -“Hush!” murmured the sizar, twinkling and portentous in one, when they -were left alone again. “It is vanished, as monsieur says. It ceased, -morally and practically, with the disappearance of M. de St Denys.” -</p> - -<p> -“Whither has he gone, then?” -</p> - -<p> -“It is supposed to Paris; and may the curse of God follow him!” -</p> - -<p> -Ned paused in the act of drinking. -</p> - -<p> -“What do you say, M. Boppard?” -</p> - -<p> -“He was a liar, monsieur. He used us to his purpose and, when that was -accomplished, he flung us aside.” -</p> - -<p> -“And his purpose?” -</p> - -<p> -The sizar dropped his voice to a whisper. -</p> - -<p> -“Our queen, monsieur,” he said, “our queen, that represented to us the -beautiful ideal of all our most passionate aspirations! He seemed to -avow in his attitude towards her the sincerity of his code of -honourable socialism. He lied to us all. He converted her nobility to -the uses of a common intrigue; and from the consequences of his crime -he fled like a coward, and left her to bear the curses of her people -and the sneers of the community.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes?” said Ned; and he took a long draught, for he was thirsty. -Indeed, he had foreseen all this. -</p> - -<p> -The student’s eyes filled with tears. -</p> - -<p> -“She was much to us—to me, this Mademoiselle Lambertine,” he said -pitifully. “If there were mercy in the world, she should have been -allowed to bury her dishonour with her dead child in the church -yonder.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned reached across and patted his companion’s arm. -</p> - -<p> -“You are a very amiable little Boppard,” he said. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur,” answered the student, “for whatever you may observe in me -that is better than the commonplace, she is responsible.” -</p> - -<p> -“It shall go to her credit some day, be assured. And now, what is this -other matter? It is not only the fall of its idol, the discovery of -monseigneur’s baseness, that has sobered the community of Méricourt?” -</p> - -<p> -“By no means.” -</p> - -<p> -The student pulled at his pipe vehemently. Coaxing it from the sulking -mood, his expression relaxed, and he breathed forth jets of smoke that -he dissipated with his hand. -</p> - -<p> -“By no means,” said he. “The moral debility that ensued, however, may -have rendered us (I will not say it did) peculiarly susceptible to the -complaint of godliness. At any rate, monsieur, we were chosen for a -high honour, and——” -</p> - -<p> -He paused, sighed, and shook his head pathetically. -</p> - -<p> -“It is true, then, that the virgin revealed herself to the -lodge-keeper?” said Ned. And he added: “Boppard, my Boppard! I believe -you are not, in spite of all, weaned from the fleshpots!” -</p> - -<p> -The student smiled foolishly and a little anxiously. -</p> - -<p> -“Let me tell you how it began, monsieur,” said he. “The bitter scandal -of monseigneur and—and of our poor demoiselle was yet hot in women’s -mouths (ah, monsieur, what secret gratification will it not give them, -that fall of an envied sister!), when an interest of a different kind -withdrew these cankers from feeding on their rose. Baptiste, the -little brother of Nicette Legrand, disappeared, and has never been -heard of since.” -</p> - -<p> -“The child! But, who——?” -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur, it was the Cagots stole him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Did they confess to it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Confess! the pariahs, the accursed! It is not in nature that wretches -so vile should incriminate themselves. But there had been evidence of -them in the neighbourhood; one, indeed, had been employed by -Draçon—whose farm abuts on the lower grounds of the chateau—to roof -a shed with tiles. This Cagot Nicette had seen upon many occasions -covertly regarding the child—conversing with him even, and doubtless, -with devilish astuteness, corrupting his mind. Two days after the job -was completed and the man disappeared, the unhappy infant was nowhere -to be found. They sought him far and wide. Nicette was -prostrate—inconsolable. She had been foremost in the denunciation of -Théroigne. Now, she herself, desolated, defrauded of him to whom she -had been as a mother—well, God must judge, monsieur. At last the -strange gloating of that sinister creature recurred to her, and she -spoke of it. With oaths of frenzy, the villagers armed themselves and -broke into the woods, where the miscreants were known to sojourn. -Their camp was deserted. They were fled none knew whither; and none to -this day has set eyes on them or the little Legrand.” -</p> - -<p> -“Or questioned, I’ll swear, the unconscionable flimsiness of such -evidence. And Nicette, M. Boppard?” -</p> - -<p> -“She wandered like a ghost; in the woods—always in the woods, as if -she maddened to somewhere find, hidden under the fern and moss, the -mutilated body of her little <i>fanfan</i>. You recall, monsieur, the old -eaten tree, the despoiled Samson of the forest, that held the moon in -its withered arms on a memorable night of jest and revel? <i>Mon Dieu</i>! -but the ravishing times!” -</p> - -<p> -“The tree, my Boppard? Of a surety I remember the tree.” -</p> - -<p> -“It became the nucleus, monsieur—the clearing in which it stands the -headquarters, as it were, of her operations of search. There appeared -no reason for this, but surely a divine intuition compelled her. At -all periods she haunted the spot. Oftentimes was she to be secretly -observed kneeling and praying there in an ecstasy of emotion. To the -Blessed Virgin she directed her petitions. ‘Restore to me,’ she wept, -‘my darling Baptiste, and I swear to dedicate myself, for evermore a -maid, to thy service!’ One day, by preconcerted plan, a body of -villagers, armed with billhooks and axes, with the Curé at their -head, surprised her at her post. ‘It is not for nothing, we are -convinced,’ said the good father, ‘that you are led to frequent these -thickets. Hence we will not proceed until we have laid bare the ground -to the limit of ten perches, and, by the grace of God, revealed the -mystery!’” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, M. Boppard?” -</p> - -<p> -“Now, monsieur, was confessed the wonder. At the priest’s words, the -girl leapt to her feet. Her eyes, it is said by those that were there, -burned like the lamp before the little altar of Our Lady of Succour. -Her face was as white as <i>cardamines</i>—transparent, spiritual, like a -phantom’s against the dark leaves. ‘You must do nothing,’ she -said—‘nothing—nothing. Here but now, at the foot of the tree, the -Blessed Virgin revealed herself to me as I kneeled and wept. Her heel -was on the head of a serpent, whose every scale, different in colour -to the next, was a gleaming agate; and in her hand she held a purple -globe that was liquid and did not break, but round whose surface -travelled without ceasing the firmament of white worlds in miniature. -“Nicette,” she said, in a voice that seemed to have gathered the -sweetness of all the sainted dead, “weep and search no more, my child; -for some day thy brother shall be restored to thee. I, the Mother of -Christ, promise thee this!”’” -</p> - -<p> -“Boppard,” said Ned quietly, “is the description yours or Mademoiselle -Legrand’s?” -</p> - -<p> -“It is as I heard it, monsieur. I have not wittingly intruded myself.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yet you are a poet.” -</p> - -<p> -“But this is prose I speak.” -</p> - -<p> -“True: the prose of a nimble imagination. And, moreover, you are a -student and a philosopher; and you believe this thing?” -</p> - -<p> -Boppard nodded his deprecatory poll. -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps because I am also a poet, as monsieur says.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is probable. And Nicette is a poet; which is why she walks, as I -understand, in the odour of sanctity.” -</p> - -<p> -“I do not comprehend, monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why should you wish to? This vision, this revelation—it has proved -profitable to Méricourt?” -</p> - -<p> -“Again, I do not comprehend monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -With the words on his lips, he pricked his ears to a murmuring sound -that came subdued through the closed lattice. He rose and, -instinctively reverential, tip-toed to the window. Ned followed him. -</p> - -<p> -Across the sunny green, her eyes turned to the ground, her hands -clasped to her mouth, her whole manner significant of a wrapt -introspection, passed M. de St Denys’ little pale lodge-keeper; and, -as she went on her way, men bowed as at the passing of the Host; -children caught at their mothers’ skirts and looked from covert, -wonder-eyed; the fashionable ladies scuttled from their berline and -knelt in the dust, and snatched at and kissed the hem of the -<i>dévote’s</i> garment. She paid no heed, but glided on decorously, and -vanished from Ned’s field of observation. -</p> - -<p> -“She is a poet,” repeated that young man calmly. -</p> - -<p> -The student crossed himself. -</p> - -<p> -“She is a priestess, monsieur,” said he. “She reads in the breviary of -her white soul such mysteries as man has never guessed at.” -</p> - -<p> -“That I can quite understand; and it will be an auspicious day for -Méricourt when they start to build a commemorative chapel.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is even now discussed. Already they have the sacred tree fenced -in, and the ground about it consecrated. Already the spot is an object -of pilgrimage to the pious.” -</p> - -<p> -“As once to the Club of Nature’s Gentry—the ravishing club, oh, my -poor Boppard! Alas, the whirligig of time! But, one thing I should -like to know: to what did Mademoiselle Legrand look for a livelihood -when her master ran away?” -</p> - -<p> -“Doubtless to God, monsieur. And now, the faithful shower gifts at her -feet.” -</p> - - -<h3 id="b1ch16"> -CHAPTER XVI. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">Pretty</span> early on the morning following his arrival in Méricourt, Ned -strolled up the easy slope leading to the lodge of the chateau, and -found himself lingering over against the embowered gates with a queer -barm of humour working upon a commixture of emotions in his breast. -Now it seemed that his very neighbourhood to the Madonna of his memory -was effecting a climatic change both within and without him. For the -first, little runnels of irresponsible gaiety gushed in his veins; for -the second, the weather, that had been indifferent fine during his -journey, appeared to have broken all at once into full promise of -summer. It was not, indeed, that his sympathies enlarged in the near -presence of one who might hold herself as a little moon of desire. It -was rather, perhaps, because in the one-time surrender of her very -soul to his inspection, she had made of him a confederate in certain -unspoken secrets, the knowledge of which was to him like a sense of -proprietorship in a picturesque little country-seat. Yet here, it may -be acknowledged, he indulged something a dangerous mood. -</p> - -<p> -He stood a minute before passing through the gates. The warmth of a -windless night still slept in the velvety eyes of the roadside -flowers. Morning was heaping off its bed-linen of glistening clouds. -From a chestnut-tree came the drowsy drawl of a yellow-hammer. A -robin—small fashionable idler of birds—abandoned the problem of a -fibrous seed and, flickering to a stump, discussed the stranger -impertinently and with infinite society relish. Only the swifts were -alert and busy, flashing, poising, diving under the eaves; thridding -Ned’s brain as they passed with a receding sound like that made by -pebbles hopping over ice; seeming, in their flight of warp and woof, -to be mending the pace set by the loitering day. Feeling their -activity a rebuke, the visitor passed through the open gate. -</p> - -<p> -Within, all was yet more pretty orderliness than that he had once -admired. The lodge stood, sequestered trimness, between the luminous -green of its porch and the high rearward trees that spouted up into -the sky, full fountains of tumbling young leaves. The little paths -were swept; the little long beds, bordered with <i>trique-madame</i> and -planted with lusty perennials, were combed orderly as the hair of -their mistress, and weeded to the least vulgar seedling; white -curtains hung in the cottage windows; and everywhere was an added -refinement of daintiness—a suggestion of increased prosperity. -</p> - -<p> -“Now, Mademoiselle Legrand,” thought Ned, “has shown herself a little -person of resource.” -</p> - -<p> -He could hear the moan of the horn coming familiarly to him from the -back garden. The sweet complaining cry woke some queer memories in -him. He went forward a few paces up the drive—walking straight into -weediness and the tangle of neglect—that he might get glimpse of the -chateau. The place, when he saw it, glowered from an encroaching -thicket. Even these few months seemed to have confirmed the ruin that -had before only threatened. Its dusty upper windows were viscous, he -could have thought, with the tracks of snails. Grass had made good its -footing on the roof. It looked a forgotten old history of the past, -with a toppling chimney, half dislodged in some gale, for dog’s-ear. -</p> - -<p> -Ned turned his back on the desolate sight, and lo! there was the -bright patch of brick and flower like a garden redeemed from the -desert. It appeared to point the very moral of the times, but in its -ethical, not its savage significance. He went to seek the priestess of -this little temple of peace. -</p> - -<p> -As he turned into the garden, a peasant woman was coming out at the -lodge door. She had an empty basket lined with a clean napkin on her -arm. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Que la sainte virge vous bénissè par sa servante</i>!” she murmured -as she passed by the visitor. -</p> - -<p> -Nicette was nowhere visible. Ned stole into the house and along the -passage. A strip of thick matting, where had formerly been naked -flags, deadened the sound of his footfalls. Laughter, but laughter a -little thrilling, tingled in his veins. A certain apprehension, that -time might not have dealt as drastically as he had desired it would -with a misconstructive fancy, was lifted from his mind since -yesterday. He felt there could be small doubt but that his own image -had been deposed and replaced by a very idol of vanity—a -self-conscious Adaiah that must find its supremest gratification in -proving its consistency with the character assigned it. Indeed, his -moderate faith in himself as an attractive quantity inclined him, -perhaps, to underrate his moral influence. He had not yet learned that -to many women there is no chase so captivating as that of incarnate -diffidence. -</p> - -<p> -He came softly upon Nicette in the dairy that was a little endeared to -him by remembrance. Perhaps he would not have ventured unannounced to -seek her in the more inner privacy of her own nest. But the cool dairy -was good for a neutral ground. She stood with her back to him. The -sunlight, reflected from vivid leafiness through the window, made a -soft luminosity of the curve of her cheek, that was like the pale -under-side of a peach. It ruffled the rebellious tendrils of hair on -her forehead into a mist of green; it stained her white chaperon with -tender vert, and discoloured the straight blue folds of her dress. Was -she, he thought, a half-converted dryad or a lapsing saint? -</p> - -<p> -“Nicette!” he said aloud. -</p> - -<p> -She gave a strangled gasp and faced about, her eyes scared, a hand -upon her bosom. She had been disposing on a slab a little gift of -spring chickens and some household preserves. -</p> - -<p> -“Did I startle you?” said Ned. “But you knew I was returned and must -surely come and see you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur, you steal upon me like a ghost,” she muttered. -</p> - -<p> -“Of what, girl? Of no regret, I hope?” -</p> - -<p> -Her cheek was gathering a little dawn of colour. -</p> - -<p> -“All ghosts of the past are sorrowful,” she said low. -</p> - -<p> -“True,” he answered, seriously and gently. “I did not mean to awaken -sad memories. And thou hast never had news of the little one?” -</p> - -<p> -“Never, monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is lamentable.” -</p> - -<p> -Her eyes were watching him intently. -</p> - -<p> -“You commiserate me, monsieur?” she said. -</p> - -<p> -“How can you doubt it, Nicette?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yet you do not love children?” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t I?” -</p> - -<p> -“But their cunning and their vindictiveness, monsieur?” -</p> - -<p> -“What of them?” -</p> - -<p> -“What, indeed? It is monsieur’s own words I recall.” -</p> - -<p> -“Nicette, can you think me such a brute? I hold myself abashed in the -presence of the innocents. If I have ever decried them, it was only -because their truthfulness rebuked my scepticism. They have shown me -how to die, since I saw you last, Nicette. I shall try to remember -when my hour comes.” -</p> - -<p> -She passed a hand across her eyes, as though she were bewildered. -</p> - -<p> -“But this inconsistency,” she began, murmuring. -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly she straightened herself, and came forward. -</p> - -<p> -“Truly, I knew you were arrived, monsieur; and you reintroduce -yourself to good company on your return to Méricourt.” -</p> - -<p> -“And truly I do not take my cue from a scandalous world to -cold-shoulder an old friend.” -</p> - -<p> -He came sternly into the dairy, and sat himself down on the slab by -the chickens, his legs dangling. -</p> - -<p> -“Sit there,” he said, and dragged a chair with his foot to his near -neighbourhood. -</p> - -<p> -The girl hesitated, shrugged her shoulders, and obeyed. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur, it is evident, has not learned——” she was beginning. He -caught the sentence from her:— -</p> - -<p> -“That you are a saint? No, I have not learned it in these few -minutes—unless innuendo is the prerogative of sanctity. I, a sinner, -met a fallen woman yesterday, and I pitied her.” -</p> - -<p> -Mademoiselle Legrand hung her head. Ned recovered his good-humour and -laughed. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, little Sainte Nicette!” he said. “Why do you let me talk to you -like this? Because you are a saint? Then I will not take a base -advantage of your condition. But shall I finish the portrait, Madonna? -I have been brought face to face in Paris with the divine suffering of -mothers. I have discovered the secret of the eyes. Shall I finish the -portrait, Nicette?” -</p> - -<p> -She shook her head. -</p> - -<p> -“But think how you could instruct me, girl! The lineaments—the very -form and expression; for you have seen them!” -</p> - -<p> -“Hush!” she exclaimed, in a terrified whisper. “Oh, monsieur, hush! It -is blasphemy; it is terrible. <i>I</i> to pose for the divinity revealed to -me! Surely, you are mad!” -</p> - -<p> -He leaned down to her as he sat. -</p> - -<p> -“Nicette,” he murmured, “there is an old confidence between us, you -know, and I recall your fine gift of imagination. Confess that it is -all an invention.” -</p> - -<p> -“That what is an invention?” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you not know? This vision in the woods, then.” -</p> - -<p> -She sprang to her feet. A line of red came across her forehead. -</p> - -<p> -“You mock me!” she cried. “I might have known that you would; but it -is none the less hateful and cruel. Believe or not as you will.” -</p> - -<p> -She was enraged as he had never seen her before. -</p> - -<p> -“But these offerings,” he said, quite coolly: “the chickens and the -little pots of jam, Nicette—or is it guava jelly? One may make a good -investment of the imagination, I see.” -</p> - -<p> -It was not pleasant of him; but he could be merciless to what he -considered a bad example of <i>escamoterie</i>. -</p> - -<p> -For a moment the girl looked like a very harpy. Her fingers crooked on -the bosom of her dress as if she would have liked to lacerate her -heart in desperate despite of its assailant. Then, suddenly, she -dropped back upon her chair, and, covering her face with her hands, -broke into a very pitiful convulsion of weeping. -</p> - -<p> -<i>Qui se fait brebis, le loup le mange</i>! -</p> - -<p> -Assuredly Ned had invited his own discomfiture. He had thought to -operate upon this tender conscience without any right knowledge of the -position of its arteries of emotion. He had bungled and let loose the -flood, and straightway he was scared over the result of his own -recklessness. -</p> - -<p> -He let Mademoiselle Legrand cry a little while, not knowing how to -compromise with his convictions. He loved truth, but was not competent -to cope with its erring handmaid. -</p> - -<p> -At last: “Nicette!” he whispered, and put his hand timidly on the -girl’s shoulder. -</p> - -<p> -She wriggled under his touch. -</p> - -<p> -“No, no!” she sobbed, in a drowned voice. “It is terrible to be so -hated and despised.” -</p> - -<p> -“I do not hate you, little fool,” he said. “You beg the question. For -what reason, Nicette? Are you afraid, or at a loss, to describe to me -this vision?” -</p> - -<p> -She seemed to check her weeping and to listen, though her bosom was -still heavy with sobs. -</p> - -<p> -“I am afraid,” she whispered. -</p> - -<p> -“Of me? Nicette, shall I not finish the portrait?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, no!” -</p> - -<p> -“But you have seen the Mother, and know what she is like.” -</p> - -<p> -“You would not believe.” -</p> - -<p> -“At least put my credulity to the test.” -</p> - -<p> -A long pause succeeded. The sobs died into silence. By-and-by the girl -looked up—not at her inquisitor, but vaguely apart from him and away, -as if her gaze were introspective. She clasped her hands together, -holding them thus, in reverential attitude, against her throat. -</p> - -<p> -“Nicette,” murmured Ned, “tell me—what is the Mother like?” -</p> - -<p> -“It was a mist, monsieur, out of which a face grew like a sweet-briar -blossom—a face, and then all down to her pink feet that trod the -wind-flowers of the wood. Within her hair were little nests of light, -glowing green and violet, that came and went, or broke and were -shattered into a rain of golden strands. They were the tears she had -shed beneath the cross. She wore the wounds, a five-pointed star, upon -her breast, and I saw the rising and falling of her heart as it were -the glowing of fire behind wood ashes. All about her, and about me, -was a low thick murmur of voices that I could not understand. But -sometimes I thought I saw the brown fearful eyes of the little people -look from under the hanging fronds of fern, imploring to put their -lips to the white buds of her feet. Then <i>her</i> eyes gathered me to -their embrace; and I sailed on a blue sea, and was taken into the arms -of the wind and kissed so that I seemed to swoon.” -</p> - -<p> -She paused, breathing softly. -</p> - -<p> -“Truly,” said Ned: “this was the very pagan Queen of Love.” -</p> - -<p> -“She is the Queen of Love, monsieur, else had my eyes never been -opened to see the little folk of the greenwoods. For to be Queen of -Love is to be Queen of Nature, and both titles hath she from <i>le Bon -Dieu</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly the girl edged a little nearer her companion, looked up in -his face appealingly, and put her clasped hands upon his knee as he -sat. -</p> - -<p> -“God made Nature, monsieur,” she whispered. “God is Love. Oh, I read -in the sweet eyes many things that were strange to my -traditions!—even that human side of the Mother, that monsieur has -sought to disclose. God is Love, and He hath given us passion, not -forbidding us passion’s cure.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned’s brows took a startled frown, and he made as if to rise. Nicette -stole her hand quickly to his. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur, it cannot be wrong to love—it cannot be that He would lend -Himself as a subtle lure to the very sin His code denounces. It is the -code—it is the Church that has misconstrued Him.” -</p> - -<p> -Something in the young man’s face gave her pause in the midst of her -panting eagerness. She drew back immediately, with a little artificial -laugh. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>La Sainte Marie</i> was all in white,” she said, “with a blue cloak the -colour of the skies. And what is the fashion with the fine ladies in -London, monsieur?” -</p> - -<p> -Mr Murk had got to his feet. -</p> - -<p> -“Mademoiselle Legrand,” he said, “you are all of Heloïse, I think, -without the erudition. Now, I am not orthodox; yet I think your -description of the Virgin very prettily blasphemous. And what has -become of the serpent and the globe of liquid purple? You can explain -your picture, I see, to accommodate the views of its critics. I admire -you very much, and I bid you good day.” -</p> - -<p> -He was going. She leapt across his path and stayed him. A bright spot -of colour had sprung to her cheek. -</p> - -<p> -“You will leave me?” she cried hoarsely. “You shall not go, thinking -me a liar!” -</p> - -<p> -“No more than the author of ‘Julie,’” he said, drily and stubbornly. -“You have the fine gift of romance, but I don’t like your vision.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is the truth! I give you but one of the hundred impressions it -made upon me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very well. It is a bad selection, so far as I am concerned.” -</p> - -<p> -“How could I know—you, that have traded upon my confidence! You tempt -me and throw me aside. I will not be so shamed—I, that am no longer -obscure—whose every word is worth——” -</p> - -<p> -“As much as one of M. Voltaire’s, no doubt. He may value his -commercially, at ten sous or fifty. What then? You have the popular -ear. Do you want to make your profit of me also?” -</p> - -<p> -She twined her fingers together, and held them backwards against her -bosom. -</p> - -<p> -“Whither are you going?” she panted. -</p> - -<p> -“I am on my way back to England.” -</p> - -<p> -She took a quick step forward. -</p> - -<p> -“You shall not leave me like this! You have made me what I am. -Monsieur—monsieur——” -</p> - -<p> -In a moment the storm broke. Once more she was drowned in tears. She -threw herself upon him, and her arms about his neck. -</p> - -<p> -“It is love!” she cried. “You are my God and my desire. I have -followed you in my heart these long months—oh, how piteously! Do -anything with me you will. Disbelieve me, spurn me, stamp on me—only -let me love you! These months—oh, these desolate, sick months!” -</p> - -<p> -She clung to him, entreating and caressing, though he muttered “For -shame!” and strove to disentangle her fingers. She would not be denied -in this first convulsive self-consciousness of her surrender. -</p> - -<p> -“I will give myself the lie: invite the hatred and scorn of the world: -swear my soul to damnation by acknowledging myself an impostor, if -that will make you merciful and kind—no, not even kind, but to take -me with you. I will admit I am vile in all but my love: that you -tempted me unwittingly: that you had no thought of being cruel—of -being anything but your own gracious self, to whom a foolish maiden’s -heart fled crying because it could not help it!” -</p> - -<p> -Catching glimpse in her passion of the stony impassibility of his -face, she fell upon her knees, clasping her arms about him and -sobbing— -</p> - -<p> -“You must speak—you must speak, or I shall die! You don’t know what -binds me to you. Not your love, or your respect or pity: only a little -mercy—just enough, one finger held out to save me from falling into -the abyss! Look here and here! Am I not white and sweet? I have -cherished myself ever since you went and my heart nearly broke. I have -thought all day and all night, ‘What bar to his approach can I remove -if some day he shall come again?’ And when at last I saw you were -returned, I would have given all the vain months of adulation for one -glad word of welcome from your lips.” -</p> - -<p> -She grovelled lower, writhing her face down into her arms. -</p> - -<p> -“Only to be yours!” she moaned: “to do with as you will.” -</p> - -<p> -At that at last he stooped, and dragged her forcibly to her feet. She -stood before him trembling and dishevelled, and he glared at her, -breathing heavily like one that had run a race. -</p> - -<p> -“Before God, I never knew,” he said: “but you shame me and yourself. I -will believe your story if you wish it; and what does that lead -to?—that I hear you abusing the high choice of Heaven—misapplying -God’s truth to the abominable sophistries of passion. Not love, but -the foulest—there! I won’t shame you more. I think I have never heard -such subtle blasphemy. To hope to influence me by casuistry so -crooked! If you ever awakened my interest, you have lost the power for -ever. Mercy! the utmost I can show you is by passing here and now out -of your life——” -</p> - -<p> -She broke in with an agonised cry— -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Mon Dieu</i>! Oh, my God! Not so to stultify all I have suffered and -done for your sake!” -</p> - -<p> -“What you have done!” he cried fiercely. “I am no party to the vile -chicanery. For your sufferings—they will cease when the fuel of this -passion is withdrawn. Such fires blaze up and out in a day.” -</p> - -<p> -He was cruel, no doubt—crueller than he meant to be; but his heart -was wrathful over the baseness of the snare set for it. -</p> - -<p> -On the echo of his voice there came the sound of approaching steps up -the road. He recovered his composure on the instant. -</p> - -<p> -“You will have visitors,” he said. “You had best go and make yourself -fit to meet them. You will know where your interests lie. For me, the -most I can do is to treat all this as a mad confidence.” -</p> - -<p> -He was going; but she pressed upon him, panting and desperate. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t leave me like this! There—into the bedroom, till they are -gone! Monsieur, for pity’s sake! You put too much upon me. I will -explain. For God’s sake, monsieur!” -</p> - -<p> -He drove past her—hurried down the passage. As he neared the door, he -saw the light obscured by a couple of entering figures—a -complacent-smiling curé, who ushered in a fashionable pilgrim -exhaling musk and tinkling with gewgaws. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Exortum est in tenebris lumen rectis</i>,” murmured the priest as he -gave place with a slight bow. -</p> - -<p> -“Exactly so,” said Ned, and made his way to the road. -</p> - -<p> -There he stood a moment, blinking and gulping down the fresh spring -air. -</p> - - -<h3 id="b1ch17"> -CHAPTER XVII. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">Mr Murk</span> walked straight from the lodge of the chateau out of the -village, stopping only on his way to take up his knapsack at the -“Landlust.” He moved, very haughty and inflexible, with a high soul of -offence at the attempt manifested to subject him to the charge of -collusion in what he considered a particularly unpleasant species of -fraud. It was that, more than the outrage to his continent -self-respect, that angered and insulted him—that he could under any -circumstances be deemed approachable by imposture, even though it -should solicit in ravishing guise. He had never as yet, indeed, -through any phases of fortune, regarded himself as other than a -philosophic alien to his race; a disinterested spectator of its wars -of creeds and senses, perched out of the battle on a little cloudy -eminence of spiritual reserve, whence it was his humour to analyse the -details of the contest for the gratifying of a curious intellectual -cosmopolitanism. And even when for nearer view of some party struggle -he had descended—or condescended—so far as that he had felt upon his -face the very bloody sprinkle of the strife, he had chosen to read, in -the emotions excited in his breast, an instinctive revolt against the -injustice of pain, rather than a sympathy with the sufferings of which -he was witness. -</p> - -<p> -Now, however, he seemed to have realised in a moment by what common -means Nature is able to impeach this treason of aloofness. He had held -himself a thing altogether apart in that conflict of blurred, -indefinite forms. He had been like a spectator watching an illuminated -sheet at an entertainment, when (to adopt a modern image) there had -sounded in an instant the click of the cinematograph snapping the blur -into focus, and, lo! he beheld his own figure active amongst the -crowd, a constituent atom travelling through or with it, a mean, small -condition of its gregariousness—repellent, attractive, -infinitesimally influential, according to the common degree of his -kind. Holding his soul, as he fancied, veracious and remote, he had -seen it magnetic, in its supposed isolation, to another that, in its -essential guile, in its infirmity and untruth, would seem to be his -spirit’s actual antithesis, yet whose destinies, rebel as he might, -must henceforth for evermore be associated with his. He was no amateur -counsel to a recording angel, in fact, but just a human organism -subject to the influences of neighbour temperaments. -</p> - -<p> -Now, the considerable but lesser pang in this shock to his pride of -solitariness was felt in the realisation of his impotence to claim -exemption from the ordinary vulgar taxes imposed by the gods upon -vulgar animal instincts. He must be sought if he would not seek; nor -could he by any means escape the penalties of his manly attributes. He -was a thing of desire; therefore he represented the one moiety of the -race to which he would have fain considered himself an alien. -</p> - -<p> -But he did not regard with any present sentiment but that of anger the -woman who had thus been the means to his proper understanding of his -own personal insignificance. For her sex, indeed, he had no natural -liking but that negatively conveyed in a sort of chivalrous contempt -for its inconsequence (whereby—though he did not know it—he may have -offered himself an unconscious Bertram to a score of Helenas). Now, to -find his austere particular self made the object of a sacrifice of -utter truth and decency, both alarmed and disgusted him. The very jar -of the discovery tumbled him from cloud to earth. Yet, be it said, if -it brought him with a run from his removed heights, he was to fall -into that garden of the world where the loves, their thighs yellow -with pollen, flutter from flower to flower. -</p> - -<p> -For by-and-by, in the very glow and fever of his indignation, he -startled to sudden consciousness of the fact that it was the implied -insult to his honesty, rather than that actual one to his sense of -modesty, that most offended him; that his heart was indulging a little -rebellious memory of a late dream, it appeared, that was full of a -strange pressure of tenderness. He caught himself sharply from the -weakness; yet it would recur. He began to question the propriety of -his attitude towards women generally. Serenely self-centred, perhaps -he had never realised the necessity of being, in a world of -artificiality, other than himself. Now he faintly gathered how poor a -policy of virtue might be implied thereby—how, under certain -conditions, Virtue might be held its own justification for assuming an -<i>alias</i>. -</p> - -<p> -And thereat came the first reaction in a pretty series of moral -rallies and relapses. -</p> - -<p> -“Bah!” he muttered, “the girl is a little lying <i>cocotte</i>—a Lamia -from whose snares I am fortunate to have escaped without a wound.” -</p> - -<p> -In the meantime his heart turned towards home with a strange heat of -yearning—towards his England of stolid factions and sober, -unemotional sympathies; of regulated hate and the liberal schooling of -love. He had submitted himself to much physical and mental suffering -in order to the acquirement of a right understanding of men; and at -the last a woman had upset and scattered his classified collection of -principles with a whisk of her skirt. He felt it was useless to -attempt to rearrange his specimens unless in an atmosphere not -inimical to sobriety. -</p> - -<p> -“I will go home,” he thought, as he stepped rapidly forward. “And at -any rate I am here at length out of the wood;” and straightway, poor -rogue, he fell into a second ambush by the roadside. -</p> - -<p> -For, coming to a sudden turn in his path when he was breaking from the -copses a half mile out of the village, he was suddenly aware of a -shrill cackle of vituperation, of such particular import to him at the -present crisis as to constrain him to stop where he was and listen. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Oh, çà, Valentin—çà-çà-çà</i>!” hooted a booby voice. “A -twist, and thou hast secured it! <i>Oh, çà</i>! bring it away and we will -look.” -</p> - -<p> -“Let go!” panted another voice, in a heat of jeering violence. “I will -have it, I say!” -</p> - -<p> -Then Ned heard Théroigne, pleading and tearful— -</p> - -<p> -“Valentin, thou shalt not! It is mine! What right hast thou to rob and -insult me?” -</p> - -<p> -“The right that thou art a <i>putain</i>—a snake in the grass of a virgin -community. Give it me, or I will break thy arm. Right, indeed! but -every well-doer has a right to act the executive.” -</p> - -<p> -“Thou shalt not take it!” -</p> - -<p> -“You will prevent me? Oh, the strength of this conscious virtue! And -does not thy refusal damn thee? Pull across, Charlot! I will wrench -her arms out. It is another accursed whelp that she has strangled and -would bury in the wood.” -</p> - -<p> -“You vile, cruel beast!” cried the girl. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Oh, hé</i>—scream, then!” panted the other, while Charlot sniggered -throatily. “There is no riggish lord now to justify thee in thy -assaults on decent landholders. I will look, if only for the sake of -that memory. Thou wert the prospective fine lady, wert thou? <i>Oh, mon -Dieu</i>! and what ploughboy has ministered to thee for this in the -bundle?” -</p> - -<p> -Mr Murk, indignant but embarrassed, had stood so far uncertain as to -his wise course of action. Now, however, a shriek of obvious pain that -came from the girl decided him. He hurried round the intercepting -corner and saw Mademoiselle Lambertine, blowsed and weeping, flung -amongst the roots of a tree. Hard by, where the trunks opened out to -the road-track, a couple of clowns, bent eagerly over a bundle they -had torn from their victim, were discussing the contents of their -prize—a few poor toilet affairs, some bright trinketry of lace and -ribbons, a dozen apples, and a loaf of white cocket-bread. -</p> - -<p> -All three lifted their heads, startled at the sound of his approach. -Théroigne sat up; the boors got clumsily to their feet. In one of -these loobies Ned had a sure thought that he recognised the fellow -whose face had once been scored by those very feminine fingers that -were now so desperately clutching and pulling at the grass amongst the -tree-roots. He could see the red cheeks, he fancied, still chased with -the marks of that reprehensible onset. The other rogue, he was equally -certain, was of those that had baited a wretched Cagot on a morning -nine months ago. -</p> - -<p> -Here, then, was the right irony of event—a huntress Actæon torn by -her own hounds. Ned stepped forward deliberately, but with every -muscle of his body screwed tight as a fiddle-string. -</p> - -<p> -Come over against the clodpoles: “You are pigs and cowards!” said he, -and he gave the farmer an explosive smack on the jaw. -</p> - -<p> -The assault was so violent and unexpected, the will that inspired it -was so obviously set in the prologue of vicious possibilities, that -the victim collapsed where he stood, bellowing like a bull-frog. It is -true that he lacked a familiar stimulus to his courage. -</p> - -<p> -“Now,” said Ned, “return those goods to the bundle and fasten them in; -or, by the holy Virgin of Méricourt, I’ll lay an information against -you for brigands before M. le Maire.” -</p> - -<p> -There was an ominous stress in his very chords of speech. They may -have recognised him or not. In any case this change of fortune might -unsheathe the terrific claws of a hitherto unallied enemy. Charlot -dropped upon his knees and with shaking fingers began to manipulate -the bundle. -</p> - -<p> -“It is enough,” said Ned between his teeth. “Now, go!” -</p> - -<p> -The two scurried off amongst the trees, glancing over their shoulders -as they went, with scared faces. The next moment Ned was aware that -Mademoiselle Lambertine had crept up to him, and was holding out her -hands in an entreating manner. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur!” she whispered. -</p> - -<p> -He faced about. The girl was arrayed for a journey, it seemed. A cloak -was clasped about her neck; from her brown hair hung over her -shoulders, like the targe of a Highlander, a round straw hat with an -ungainly width of brim; stout shoes and a foot of homespun stocking -showed under her short skirt. Nevertheless the glowing ardour of her -face and form triumphed over all disabilities. -</p> - -<p> -“They are brutes and cowards,” said Ned gravely. “I don’t think they -will trouble you again. Here is your property.” -</p> - -<p> -She did not take it at once. He shrugged his shoulders and laid it on -the ground at her feet. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur!” pleaded the girl. Something seemed to choke her from -proceeding. -</p> - -<p> -At length: “I have been waiting in the woods since dawn,” said she, in -a sudden soft outburst, “hoping for you to pass.” -</p> - -<p> -“For me?” -</p> - -<p> -“I came out into the track now and again, dreading that you had gone -by while I watched elsewhere, and once these discovered me, and—and— -Ah, monsieur! You see now what I have to endure.” -</p> - -<p> -“Truly I see—more than I would wish to. You are leaving Méricourt, -then?” -</p> - -<p> -She looked at him, defiant and imploring at once. -</p> - -<p> -“You would not condemn me to it? You would not even say it is possible -for me to stay here?” -</p> - -<p> -The young man did, for him, an unaccustomed thing. He swore—under his -breath. It might have been the devil of a particular little crisis -essaying to speak for him; it might have been the cry of a momentary -conflict between sense and spirit. -</p> - -<p> -The appeal addressed to either was, indeed, as mournful and seductive -as the minor play of a pathetic voice could make it. If he gazed -irritably at the woman facing him, still he gazed at all because he -was stirred to some emotion. The sadness of wet, unhappy eyes, of -parted lips, of hands clasped upon the dumb utterance of an -impassioned bosom—all, in their single offer and plea to him, were, -no doubt, such a temptation to an abuse of that consistency with his -theories that his temperament so encouraged him to cherish, as he had -never before felt. But he was still so little sensitive to one form of -witchery that it needed only a tickle of humour to restore his moral -balance. -</p> - -<p> -He laughed on a certain note of aggravation. -</p> - -<p> -“Méricourt is all moonstruck, I believe,” said he. “This is too -absurdly flattering to my vanity. First—but there! Mademoiselle -Lambertine, I will not pretend to misread you. Yet you do not love me, -I think?” -</p> - -<p> -She shook her head, drooping her eyes to him. Patently she had elected -to stake her chances on white candour as the better policy with this -Joseph. -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” said he, “it is as it should be. And you are equally convinced -I am indifferent to you?” -</p> - -<p> -But at that she came forward—so close to him, indeed, as to make her -every word an invitation. -</p> - -<p> -“Now,” thought Ned, inured to such appeals, “she will throw her arms -round my neck in a minute.” -</p> - -<p> -But he did Théroigne indifferent justice. -</p> - -<p> -“You think yourself so,” she murmured. “It will be only a little -while. Already, in the prospect of freedom, I begin to renew myself -since yesterday. What if my soul is torn and crippled! The blood will -glow in my veins no less hotly than before—a fire to melt even this -cold iron of thy resolve. Oh, look on me—look on me! I can feel all -power and beauty moving within me like a child. That <i>I</i> should be -scorned of clowns! And yet the chance gives me to you, monsieur, if -you but put out your hand. It is not love. That thou hast not, nor I; -nor is the power longer to me or the gift to you. But I am grateful, -for that thou hast helped me under sore insult. Ah! it avails nothing -to plead accident—to say, ‘It was the outrage I avenged for -manliness’, not the woman’s, sake.’ What, then? Thou hast wrought the -bond of sympathy, and thou canst never forge it apart. Perhaps, even, -didst thou strike hard, thou mightst some day hit out the spark of -love. Take me, and thou wilt desire to: I swear it. Do I not breathe -and live? Am I not one to vindicate in prosperity the choice of her -protector? Thou hast a nobility of manliness that is higher than any -rank. But, if in thine own country thou art great, thou shalt be -greater through me. I will minister to thy ambition no less than to -thy senses. I will——” -</p> - -<p> -She paused, breathing quickly, and watchful of the steady immobility -of his face. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur,” she whispered, most movingly, “if you see in me now only a -lost unhappy girl, who in her misery would seem to seek the -confirmation of her dishonour, believe—oh, monsieur, believe that it -is only to escape the worser degradation that threatens her through -the relentless persecution she suffers on account of her trust in one -that was monsieur’s friend.” -</p> - -<p> -“No friend of mine,” muttered Ned, and stopped. He must collect his -thoughts—endeavour to answer this <i>séductrice</i> according to her -guile. Instinctively he stepped back a pace, as though to elude the -enchantment of a very low sweet voice. -</p> - -<p> -“Listen to me,” he said distinctly. “Mademoiselle Lambertine, I pity -you profoundly; and, if I have anything more to say, it is only, upon -my honour, to marvel that one of such intelligence as yourself should -ever have submitted her honour to the handling of so exceedingly -meretricious a gentleman as M. de St Denys. You see I repay your -confidence with plain-speaking. For the rest I can assure you it is -not my ambition to be beholden for whatever the future may have in -store for me to a——” -</p> - -<p> -She stayed him, with a soft hand put upon his mouth. -</p> - -<p> -“Do not say it,” she said quite quietly. “It is enough that you reject -my offer. That you may repent when you find your fiercer manhood—when -you realise what you have lost. Well, you have been good to me; -though, if I have suffered here in the wood while I waited for you, it -was not because my heart was other than a stone.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then, for shame!” cried Ned, “so to sell yourself!” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah!” said Théroigne, in the same quiet voice; “but I have made my -bed according to monsieur’s proverb, and it is a double one—that is -all. And is it not gallant when a woman falls to help her to her -feet?” -</p> - -<p> -“It is not gallant to help her, the victim of one lie, to enact -another.” -</p> - -<p> -“Surely; and monsieur is the soul of truth.” -</p> - -<p> -She adjusted her cloak and hat, stooped and took up her bundle. -</p> - -<p> -“I am distasteful to monsieur,” she said. “Very well.” -</p> - -<p> -For some reason Ned was moved to immediate anger. -</p> - -<p> -“Your hat is, anyhow,” he snapped. “I think it quite preposterously -ugly.” -</p> - -<p> -But she only laughed and waved her hand. -</p> - -<p> -“You will think better of me in England,” she cried. -</p> - -<p> -He was moving away. He stopped abruptly and faced about. -</p> - -<p> -“You are still determined to go, then?” -</p> - -<p> -She nodded her head. Without another word he turned on his heel and -strode off down the road. -</p> - - -<h3 id="b1ch18"> -CHAPTER XVIII. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">Before</span>—hurrying like a weaponless man through sinister -thickets—Ned had come to within a mile of Liége, the memory of the -rather grim comedy he had been forced to play a part in was tickling -him under the ribs in provocative fashion. That his vanity—no -unreasonable quantity—should have received, as it were, in a breath a -kiss so resounding, a buffet so swingeing, set his very soul of -risibility bubbling and dancing like champagne. -</p> - -<p> -“And ought I to be gratified or offended,” he thought, “that I am -chosen the flame about which these moths circle? But it is all one to -such insects whether it be wax or rushlight, so long as it burns. -That’s where I missed fire, so to speak. The flutter of their poor -little feverish wings put me out. I am a cold taper, I fancy. I have -never yet felt the draught that would blow me into a roar. What breath -is wasted upon me, in good truth!” -</p> - -<p> -Some detail of his path gave him pause. He sat down on a knoll, had -out his book and pencil, and began to sketch. Now his blood ran -temperately again. If he had been ever momentarily agitated in thought -as to his ideals of conduct, the little disturbed silt of animalism -was precipitated very soon, and the waters of his soul ran clear as -heretofore. He laughed to himself as he sat. -</p> - -<p> -“I believe if I had stayed another day the Van Roon would have made -overtures to me.” -</p> - -<p> -By-and-by he fell into a pondering fit. He rested his chin upon his -clenched hand and, gazing into the distance, dreamed abstractedly. -</p> - -<p> -“Have I a constitutional frost in my blood, as my uncle believes? Is -my every relation with my fellows to be for ever unimpulsive and -coldly analytical? That should lead me at least to a nice selection in -pairing-time: and to what else?—a career stately, sober, colourless; -a faultless reputation; all the virtues ranked upon my tombstone -by-and-by for gaping cits to spell over, and perhaps, if I am very -good, for a verger to expound. And my widow that is to be—my fair -decent relict that shall have never known me condescend to a weakness -or perpetrate an injustice, that shall never have felt the frost melt -in her arms!” -</p> - -<p> -He jumped suddenly to his feet, his teeth—very even and white -ones—showing in a queer little smile. He stretched; he took off his -rather battered hat and passed a hand through the crisp umber stubble -of his hair. His solemn eyes shone out as blue as lazulite from the -sun-burn of his face. He seemed, indeed, from his appearance no -fitting catechumen in a religion of everlasting continence. There must -be underwarmth somewhere for the surface so to flower into colour. -</p> - -<p> -“She would marry within six months of my death,” he cried; “probably a -libertine who would dissipate her estates, and break her heart, and -die, and be mourned by her long after my memory was drier than a pinch -of dust to all who had known me.” -</p> - -<p> -He laughed again on a note that sighed a little in the fall. -</p> - -<p> -“Am I like that? Do I build all this time with dry dust for mortar? Am -I a loveless anchorite because my sympathies will not answer to the -coarseness of an appeal that my taste rejects? Is it quite human to be -very fastidious in so warm a respect? Or do I only wait the instant of -divine inspiration to recognise that other self that seems hidden from -me by an impenetrable veil?” -</p> - -<p> -He shook his head despondently, collected his traps, and went on his -way to Liége. -</p> - -<p> -There he remained no longer than was necessary to a settlement in the -matter of certain bills of credit and to the chartering of a vehicle -for his onward stages. He was to return to the coast by way of Namur, -Lille, and Calais. For the time he was all out of humour with a -nomadic philosophy, and desired only to reach England by as short a -route as possible. -</p> - -<p> -He set sail in the Fanny Crowther packet, and had a taste of Channel -weather that was as good as a “constitutional” after a debauch. He was -two days at sea, beating forth and back at the caprice of squabbling -winds; and when at last he landed in Dover it was with the drenched -whitewashed feeling of a convalescent from fever. -</p> - -<p> -He was setting foot on the jetty, discomfortable in the conviction -that his present demoralisation was offering itself the target to a -hail of local wit, when a thin neigh of a laugh that issued from a -yellow curricle drawn up near at hand drew his peevish attention. -Immediately he fetched his nausea under control, and stepped towards -the carriage with a fine assumption of coolness. There may have -appeared that in his attitude to induce a respectable manservant to -jump from the dickey and offer to bar his progress. -</p> - -<p> -“All right, Jepps,” said he. “I’m not one of ‘Peg Nicholson’s knights’ -with a petition.” -</p> - -<p> -The man bowed and made way for him. -</p> - -<p> -“I’m sure I beg your pardon, Mr Edward,” said he, and added in an -accommodating voice, “I’d little call to know you, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“Eh, what? Ned!” gasped one of the occupants of the curricle, no other -than the Right Honourable the Viscount Murk indeed. -</p> - -<p> -His lordship sat on and forward of a great cloak lined with silver -fox-skin (a luxurious cave into which he could withdraw whenever a -draught nosed his old sapless limbs), the neck-clasp of which he had -unhooked for the display of a diamond brooch that gathered voluminous -lawn about the sagging of his throat. In every detail of his condition -he was the bowelless and mummified coxcomb, packed prematurely into -exquisite cerements, predestined to a corner in the museums of limbo; -and topping his finished refinements of costume, his beaver was tilted -like an acute accent to so distinguished an expression of hyperdynamic -foppery. -</p> - -<p> -“You are surprised to see me, sir,” said Ned (he glanced as he spoke -with something like astonishment at my lord’s companion); “nor I much -less to find you here. As for myself, I have gleaned such a harvest of -experience in a few months that I must needs come home to store it.” -</p> - -<p> -His uncle stared at him, but with a rallying expression of implacable -distaste. -</p> - -<p> -“Rat me!” he said candidly; “I’d hoped to hear of you a martyr to your -theories, and that manstrous Encyclopedia set up for your tombstone.” -</p> - -<p> -He turned indolently to his companion. -</p> - -<p> -“This is the heir to ‘Stowling’ and the viscounty and all the rest of -the beggarly show, if he can be induced to candescend to it,” he said -viciously, and gathered up the reins in his lemon-gloved hands. -</p> - -<p> -The other nodded, with a pretty display of white teeth and a shifting -affectation that was extravagantly feminine. A dainty three-cornered -hat was perched on her powdered hair, that was pulled up plainly and -rolled over each temple in a silken ringlet. She had on a richly -embroidered jacket with wide lapels; a rug was over her knees; and -seated on it, fastened to her left wrist by a tiny golden chain, was a -red monkey that chattered at the new-comer. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur Edouard,” said she, caressing the insular barbarity of -speech with her tongue, and her pet with fluttering finger-tips, “who -have sold himself the birtheright to a dish of <i>potage. Oh que si</i>! -<i>mais si jeunesse savait</i>! But I have heard of Monsieur Edouard; and -also I have heard of Monsieur Paine.” -</p> - -<p> -Her voice was as artificial as her manner. Playing on the alto, it -would squeak occasionally like a greasy fiddle-bow. And her age, -despite the smooth and rather expressionless contour of her features, -might have been anything from thirty-five to sixty. -</p> - -<p> -“But she has not wrinkles to cement and overlay,” thought Ned, “else -would she never dare to laugh so boldly.” -</p> - -<p> -He did not like the truculence of her eyes; nor, indeed, the whole air -of rather professional effrontery that characterised her. Nevertheless -there was that about her, about the atmosphere she seemed to exhale, -that curiously confounded him. -</p> - -<p> -“I have not the honour of an introduction,” he said, a little -perplexed, “nor the right to return madame’s compliment—if, indeed, -it was meant for one.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not in the least,” she said, with an insolent laugh. “I have no -applause for the <i>héritier légitime</i> that is a traitor to his -trust.” -</p> - -<p> -She sank back, toying with her little red-furred beast. My lord -laughed acidly, but made no offer to enlighten or question his nephew. -</p> - -<p> -“So you have returned,” he said only. “All the devil of it lies in -that, and” (he scanned his young relative affrontingly) “in your -unconverted vanity of blackguardism. Get up, Jepps.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned laughed in perfect good-humour, as the curricle sped away. -</p> - -<p> -“After all,” thought he, “perhaps it <i>is</i> hard to be claimed for uncle -by a rag-picker. I will resume my decorative self, find out where my -lord lodges, and wait upon him in form and civility.” -</p> - -<p> -He had his insignificant baggage removed to temporary quarters, -ransacked the mean little town for what moderately becoming outfit it -could yield, shaved, rested, and refreshed himself, and issued forth -once more on duty’s quest. -</p> - -<p> -“And what is the old man doing here?” he thought; “and who is the -enigmatical Cyprian?”—whereby, it will be observed, he jumped to -baseless conclusions. But he gave himself no great concern about the -matter, admitting that the probable explanation of his uncle’s -presence in the sea-port town lay in that flotsam and jetsam of the -Palais Royal bagnios that many tides washed up on the coast. -</p> - -<p> -“He may be acting the part of a noble and unvenerable wrecker,” -thought he—it must be confessed, consistently with the common -estimate of his kinsman. -</p> - -<p> -My lord had rooms in one of the fine mansions then first beginning to -sprout over against the harbour for the accommodation of wealthy -sea-bathers. He was dressed—with all the force of the expression as -applied to him—for dinner, and received his nephew in a fine -withdrawing-room overlooking the bay. He snarled out an ungracious -welcome. He was, as ever, wrapped and embalmed in costly linen -smelling of amber-seed, and was with all—so it seemed to the -nephew—a touch nearer actual comminution than when he had last seen -him. To strip him of cartonage and bandages would be, it appeared, to -commit him to dust. But the maggot of vanity still found sustenance in -the old wood of his brain. -</p> - -<p> -“I am honoured,” he said, “that you give my table the preference over -a tavern ordinary. Have you learned to equip yourself with a palate in -these months?” -</p> - -<p> -“At least I’ll promise to do justice to your fare, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“Will you? You shall be made Lord Chancellor if you do. No, no, Ned! -To know beef from matton is the measure of your gastranamy. Ain’t you -hungry, now?” -</p> - -<p> -“Ravenous, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Il n’y en a pas de doute</i>. You dress like a chairman (I’m your -humble debtor, egad! that you’ve recommitted the rags you landed in to -the dunghill), and you’ll eat like one. A gentleman’s never hungry. He -appraises his viands, sir. ’Tis for flunkeys to devour. One must not -yield oneself to a condition of emptiness. That implies a dozen of -little disadvantages that are inimical to <i>bon-ton</i>. But you know me -hopeless of ever convincing you in these matters.” -</p> - -<p> -He rose with a slight yawn, and walking to the window, looked out into -the darkening evening. The old limbs might have creaked but for their -perpetual lubrications. Not an inquiry as to the course of his travels -did he address to his undesirable heir. It was more than enough for -him that he had returned at all. -</p> - -<p> -“If not that you have discovered a palate,” said he, with a sour grin, -“then I suppose I am to attribute this visit to your high sense of -duty.” -</p> - -<p> -A carriage drew up on the stones below as he spoke. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Enfin</i>! <i>mon cher—mon aimable chevalier</i>!” he muttered to himself -with relief. -</p> - -<p> -“You have company, sir?” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -“You can stop for all that,” said the uncle tartly. “Madame, as you -have seen, knows how to take her entertainment of a monkey.” -</p> - -<p> -Madame was ushered in as he spoke. Ned’s only wonder, upon identifying -her as the lady of the curricle, was over the fact of her separate -lodging. He had expected to find her in my lord’s suite. She came into -the candle-light, an amazing figure of elegance, rouged, plastered, -and befeathered, but even surprisingly decorous in attire. She wore -long mittens on her arms, the upper exposed inches of which flickered -with a curious muscularity when she fanned herself. -</p> - -<p> -“So,” she said, making exaggerated play with her eyes over the rim of -the toy, “we shall have the fatted calf to dinner. And did you find -the husks of democracy to your liking, sir?” -</p> - -<p> -“I found them tough,” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -She laughed like an actress. She shook her finger at him archly. -</p> - -<p> -“Of a truth,” she replied, “they cannot have been to your stomach at -all. You asked for bread, was it not, and they gave you a shower of -stones? One does not desire one’s high convictions to be set up for a -mark to violence. And so you turned the tail and came home to our dear -monseigneur.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have come home to England,” said Ned. “As to this, my happening on -my lord, it is a simple accident.” -</p> - -<p> -He spoke with some coldness of reserve. He had no idea whom he -addressed. His kinsman had disdained to introduce him or to give him -the least clue to madame’s identity. -</p> - -<p> -The lady laughed again. -</p> - -<p> -“But do not call it a <i>contretemps</i>!” she cried. “It is a dispensation -of Providence that milord, though a very Bayard of courage, is -detained by sentiments of chivalry. We were to have journeyed to Paris -together had news of the riots not reached us; and hence arrives this -so amiable meeting.” -</p> - -<p> -“I was there,” said Ned shortly. “I saw M. Reveillon’s factory -gutted.” -</p> - -<p> -She paused in her fanning. She looked strangely at the young man a -moment. -</p> - -<p> -“You were there?” Then she resumed her bantering tone: “and found what -bad bed-fellows are theory and practice. Perhaps it shall reconcile -you to milord here, whose <i>rôle</i> of orthodox <i>muscadin</i> you shall for -the henceforth make your own.” -</p> - -<p> -“Egad!” cried the viscount, who, it seemed, accepted the revolutionary -<i>muscadin</i> for better than it was worth. “But I had my fill of riots -in ’80, when the cursed rabble took me for a papist and singed my -coat-tails.” -</p> - -<p> -Madame nodded her head brightly. Her dark eyes contrasted as -startlingly with her overlaid cheeks as might the eyes in a face of -wax. -</p> - -<p> -“So you were wise and came away,” she said, still addressing the young -man. “But milord was wiser. He would not help to inflame a popular -prejudice. The majesty of the people must be respected—when it takes -to singeing one’s coat-tails.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” thought Ned, “I must be right. This is Madame Cocotte from the -Palais Royal. Or else—I wonder if she is in the pay of a very -neighbouring government?” -</p> - -<p> -A thought or two—of madame’s manner of presenting her little -sarcasms—quickened his curiosity. To countermine the supposed -agencies of Pitt, the inflexible and reserved, the bottomless -Pitt—was it unreasonable to suppose that France was employing some -very engaging decoy-ducks to the corruption of an aristocracy that -might be fifth-cousins to State secrets? True, Monseigneur the -Viscount’s confidence was of little worth but to his valet; yet the -first rung of the ladder may be used for the secondary purpose of -scraping one’s boots on before climbing. -</p> - -<p> -Madame was the only guest. She had brought her monkey with her, and -the little brute was carried screeching to a chair by her side at the -dinner-table, where it sat sucking its thumb like a vindictive baby -and snatching at the dishes of fruit. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Fi, donc</i>! <i>fi, donc</i>! <i>De Querchy</i>!” she would cry to it. (She had -named the beast, it presently appeared, after an enemy of hers, M. le -Comte of that title.) “<i>C’est ainsi que tu donnes une leçon de -politesse à ces barbares, nos amis</i>?” -</p> - -<p> -My Lord Murk laughed at all her insolence—especially when her sallies -were directed at his nephew. She spared the young man no more than she -did her host’s wine, to which, Ned was confounded to observe, she -resorted with a freedom that was entirely shameless. Indeed, she drank -glass for glass with the elder of the gentlemen, and indulged herself -with a corresponding licence of speech that quite confirmed the -younger in his estimate of her character. But he was hardly prepared -for the upshot of it all as directed against himself. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur Edouard,” she once said (it was after the servants had left -the room), “have I not your language in perfection?” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed, madame,” he answered stiffly, “even to a peculiar choice in -words.” -</p> - -<p> -She laughed arrogantly. -</p> - -<p> -“I accept your insult!” she said—and flung the glass she was drinking -from full at him. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Là, là, là</i>!” she shrieked. “You threw up your arm: it is only -the coward that has the instinct to throw up his arm to a woman!” -</p> - -<p> -My lord laughed like an old demon. Ned was on his feet, white and -furious. -</p> - -<p> -“You are a woman!” he cried, “and the more shame to you!” -</p> - -<p> -She jumped from her chair. As she did so the monkey sprang to her left -shoulder, on which it seated itself, gibbering and quarrelling. -</p> - -<p> -“I claim for the only privilege of my sex to despise the Joseph!” she -cried. “For the rest, I can fight for my honour, monsieur, as you -shall see!” -</p> - -<p> -She skipped, for accent to the paradox, in great apparent excitement; -hurried to a window embrasure, stooped, and faced about with a naked -rapier in her hand. -</p> - -<p> -“Draw!” she cried; and, running over to the door, turned the key in -the lock and feinted at the amazed young man. All the while the monkey -clung to her, adapting its position to her every movement. -</p> - -<p> -“Is this a snare?” said Ned coldly. He looked at his uncle, his hand -clenched at his hip. But he wore no weapon but his recovered -composure. -</p> - -<p> -The old villain drew his own blade and flung it across the table to -his nephew. -</p> - -<p> -“Fight, you dog!” he sputtered and mumbled. He was deplorably drunk. -“Fight!” he shrieked, “and take a lesson to your cursed -self-importance!” -</p> - -<p> -He threw his glass in a frenzy into the fireplace, and screeched out, -“Two to one in ponies on madame!” -</p> - -<p> -The lady cried “Ah-bah! He tink me of the ‘fancy.’” For all her -assumed heat she was really self-possessed. Ned understood her to be -playing a part; but he could not yet comprehend how he was concerned -in it. He took up his uncle’s sword. -</p> - -<p> -“These,” he said coolly, “are dangerous toys. But, if madame will play -with them, I must prevent her from doing harm to herself or me.” -</p> - -<p> -She gave a little staccato shriek of mockery, and attacked him without -hesitation. The monkey still perched on her shoulder. With her third -pass, Ned felt that his life was in the hands of a consummate -<i>tireuse</i>; her fourth took him clean through the fleshy part of the -right shoulder. -</p> - -<p> -Madame withdrew and lowered the red lance, that dropped a little -crimson on the carpet, like an overcharged pen. The tipsy old lord had -scrambled to his feet. His inflamed eyes seemed to gutter like -expiring dips. He yelled out oaths and blasphemy. -</p> - -<p> -“Kill him!” he shrieked: “I hate him—do you hear! kill him!” -</p> - -<p> -Ned, reeling a little, and clutching at a chair-back, dimly wondered -if this were indeed but a villainous plot to rid his kinsman of a -detested incubus. He felt powerless and sick, but madame’s voice -reassured him. -</p> - -<p> -“Bah!” she cried gruffly, “you are very tipsy indeed. Hold your -tongue, and drink some more wine!” -</p> - -<p> -He was conscious, then, of her near neighbourhood; of the fact that -she was binding up his arm. -</p> - -<p> -“It is leetle—but enough,” he heard her mutter. -</p> - -<p> -Then she looked over to where my lord sat glowering and collapsed. -</p> - -<p> -“A coach, if you please!” she said peremptorily. “It must not arrive -that he pass the night heere in your house.” -</p> - -<p> -The uncle laughed inanely. -</p> - -<p> -“What!” he said, “d’ye think I should finish him and put the blame -on—on another? Take him to the devil, if you will.” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” said she, “but I weel convey’a heem to his lodgings out of the -devil’s way.” -</p> - - -<h3 id="b1ch19"> -CHAPTER XIX. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">Of</span> so wanton and inexplicable a nature had been the assault -committed on him, that for some three days succeeding it Ned could -have fancied himself lying rather in a stupor of amazement than in the -semi-consciousness engendered of a certain degree of pain and fever. -His <i>contretemps</i> with his uncle; the latter’s more than usually -uncompromising attitude of offence towards him; most of all, the -strange vision of madame, with her obvious intention to insult and -disable him,—all this in the retrospect inclined him to consider -himself the late victim of a delirium that was reflex to the hideous -pictures painted in Paris upon his brain. -</p> - -<p> -But, on the fourth morning of his retirement, finding himself awake to -the humour of the situation, he knew that his distemper was -retreating, and that he might claim himself for a convalescent. -</p> - -<p> -“Astonishment is a good febrifuge,” he thought. “How long have I lain -in it, as in a cooling bath?” -</p> - -<p> -And it is indeed strange how blessed an exorcist of pain is absorbing -wonder. Not knowledge of drugs for the body but of drugs for the mind -shall some day perhaps redeem the world from suffering: the Theatre of -Variety, not of the hospital, be the Avalon of the maimed and the -smitten. -</p> - -<p> -He had no memory as to who—if anybody—had visited him during the -course of his fever. -</p> - -<p> -“But, no doubt,” he thought, “this moderate blood-letting has very -timely rectified a bad effusion to my brain, and madame is my -unconscious physician.” -</p> - -<p> -He got out of bed, feeling ridiculously weak and emaciated, but with a -luminous blot of wonder still floating in the background of his mind. -This globe of soothing radiance so made apparent the near details of -his past and present as that he had no difficulty in remembering where -he was or what had detained him there. He felt no uneasiness over his -condition, or any present desire to have it ended. For the moment he -was blissfully content to gaze out of his window—that commanded -obliquely an engaging little prospect of sunny sand and strolling -figures—and to pleasantly scrutinise the picture as it passed, in -silent camera-obscura, over the tables of his brain. Pain, emotion, -and thirst were all absorbed in an enjoying, indefinite curiosity. -</p> - -<p> -But by-and-by, as he gazed, there wandered—or appeared to -wander—into and across his perspective, a couple of figures whose -mere presence there in company seemed to sadly shake his confidence in -the assurance of his own convalescence. Apart, he might have admitted -their reality. It was their conjunction that hipped his half-recovered -sanity. For how should madame—that enigmatical <i>tireuse</i>—pair -herself, out of all the little crowd, with Théroigne Lambertine, whom -he had left in Belgium? Moreover, this was a transformed Théroigne—a -Théroigne not of ungainly skirts and preposterous hat, but one that -had at length acquired the first adventitious means to an expression -of her wonderful beauty; a Théroigne of lawn and paduasoy, of waking -airs and graces, of defiance still, but of the defiance that had -superbly trodden persecution underfoot. -</p> - -<p> -Then in a moment the vision vanished from his ken. -</p> - -<p> -“I will go to bed again,” he thought. “I have something yet to sleep -off.” -</p> - -<p> -Presently he reached out and rang a bell that stood on a table beside -him. Simultaneously with the jangle of it, Æolian sounds ceased -somewhere down below, a slow step came up the stairs, and a heavy man -entered the room, consciously, as if it were a confessional-box. -</p> - -<p> -“Good morning,” said Ned. “I think I’m better.” -</p> - -<p> -The heavy man nodded—a salutation compound of respect and -satisfaction—paused an embarrassed minute, turned round, and made as -if to retreat. -</p> - -<p> -“Hallo!” exclaimed Ned. -</p> - -<p> -The man faced about. -</p> - -<p> -“What day is it?” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -“Sunday,” answered the man. -</p> - -<p> -“You are my landlord?” -</p> - -<p> -“Aye.” -</p> - -<p> -“Your wife is out?” -</p> - -<p> -“Aye.” -</p> - -<p> -“At church?” -</p> - -<p> -“Aye.” -</p> - -<p> -“And you are keeping house?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh aye.” -</p> - -<p> -“Has any one called on me during—eh?” -</p> - -<p> -“The lady.” -</p> - -<p> -“What lady?” -</p> - -<p> -“Her wi’ the parly name.” -</p> - -<p> -“What name?” -</p> - -<p> -“Never cud say.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, what did she come for?” -</p> - -<p> -“For to dress your arm.” -</p> - -<p> -“My arm!” -</p> - -<p> -Ned fell back in astonishment. The heavy man immediately made for the -door. -</p> - -<p> -“Here!” cried Ned. -</p> - -<p> -The man slewed himself round rebellious. -</p> - -<p> -“Was that you playing down below?” -</p> - -<p> -“Aye.” -</p> - -<p> -“Harp?” -</p> - -<p> -“Aye.” -</p> - -<p> -This time he got fairly outside, shut himself on to the landing, -apparently dwelt there a minute, and, secure in his retreat, opened -the door again and thrust in his head. -</p> - -<p> -“Servant, sir,” said he. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, all right,” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -“You’ll be a-dry, belike?” said the man. -</p> - -<p> -“What’s that?” -</p> - -<p> -“Drythe, you’ll call it, for a glass of hale.” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly not,” answered the convalescent snappishly. -</p> - -<p> -“’Tis a very good substitoot for the stomach,” said the man, and -vanished. -</p> - -<p> -“Hi!” shrieked Ned again. -</p> - -<p> -The face reappeared. -</p> - -<p> -“Why don’t you bring your harp and play up here, confound you!” -</p> - -<p> -The eyes opened and withdrew like phantasmagoria. Presently the man -was to be heard stumbling upstairs with a burden—in fact, he brought -in his instrument and seated himself at it. -</p> - -<p> -“Play?” said he; and Ned nodded. -</p> - -<p> -And now the young gentleman was to read in that book of revelations -that treats of the incongruous partiality of divinity in its giving -moods. The man beside him was, to appearance, a dull enough fellow, a -plodding, leather-palmed, labouring man of smoky intelligence. Yet, -for all their horny cuticle, his fingers seemed to burn as luminous as -those of the Troll in the fairy tale. They spouted music; the fire of -inspiration ran out of their tips along the strings till the ceiling -of the common little room vibrated deliciously as the dome of an elfin -bell. And he extemporised, it would appear; he wove a web of chords -about himself as it were a cocoon, out of which he should one day -burst and be acknowledged glorious. -</p> - -<p> -“Surely,” thought Ned, “if it isn’t necessary to be a fool to be a -musician, at least the majority of born musicians are fools.” -</p> - -<p> -That was his opinion, and he held it in common with a good many -people. The musical, more than any other form of temperament, would -appear to be self-sufficient. Its stream may flow and harp, like an -Iceland river, through a woefully barren country. -</p> - -<p> -The heavy man played on and on, enraptured, exalted, till his wife -came home from church. Then she flew like an angry bee to the sweet -twang of his instrument, and opened on him wide-eyed and -mouthed. -</p> - -<p> -“Saving your honour’s presence——” she began. -</p> - -<p> -“Or my life,” said Ned. “He hath built me up my constitution as -Amphion built the walls of Thebes. I asked him to come and play, and -he hath finished me my cure.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, now, fegs!” said the woman dubiously. “And they call him -pethery John,” said she. “’Tis his fancy to confide himself to his -harp once in the week. The stroke of his chisel, the taste of his -bacon, the cry of the sea—every thought and act of the six days will -he work into them wires on the seventh. An honest, sober man, sir, -weren’t ’t for his Sabbath folly.” -</p> - -<p> -“And what is his business?” asked Ned, for the husband had shouldered -his harp and disappeared. -</p> - -<p> -“A stonemason’s,” she answered; “and none to come anigh him.” -</p> - -<p> -She added with pride, “He’s a foreman at the excavating over to the -cliffs yonder.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh!” said Ned. “And what are they excavating for?” -</p> - -<p> -“Lord save your honour!” she cried, “don’t ye know as we’re -a-fortifying against the coming of they bloody French?” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” she answered, “we be.” -</p> - -<p> -Then she recalled her manners. -</p> - -<p> -“But I’m gansing-gay to see your honour so brave,” she said, with a -curtsey. -</p> - -<p> -“And I’m vastly obliged to you, ma’am,” said Ned. “And nobody has come -near me in my sickness, I understand, but the lady?” -</p> - -<p> -“Only the lady, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“And, now, who <i>is</i> the lady?” -</p> - -<p> -“But Madame d’Eon, sir, at your sairveece,” said a voice at the door. -</p> - -<p> -Ned fell flat on his back. A formless suspicion, that had rankled in -him like an unextracted thorn ever since he had received that prick in -the shoulder, suddenly revealed itself a definite shape. -</p> - -<p> -After a minute or two he raised his head from the pillow and looked -cautiously around. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh!” he exclaimed, and dropped it again. -</p> - -<p> -Husband and wife were gone, the room door was closed, and at his -bed-side, monkey on wrist, sat the strange lady who had been the very -active cause of his discomfiture. -</p> - -<p> -“D’Eon, did you say?” he murmured. -</p> - -<p> -“Veritably,” she replied serenely. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! the——” -</p> - -<p> -“Exactly: the Chevalière -Charlotte-Genevieve-Louise-Augusta-Andrée-Timothée d’Eon de -Beaumont.” -</p> - -<p> -“The chevalière!” said Ned faintly. -</p> - -<p> -“Or chevalier,” she answered, with a very pleasant laugh. -</p> - -<p> -He raised himself determinedly on his elbow and scrutinised his -visitor. He saw beside him a comfortable, motherly looking creature, -apparently some sixty years of age, with a sort of Dutch-cap on her -head topped by a falling hat, and fat white curls rolled forward from -the nape of her neck. Her face, sloping down from the forehead and up -from the throat, came as it were to a sharpish prow at the tip of the -nose. Its expression was of a rather mechanical humour, and the eyes -seemed deliberately unspeculative. Only the mouth, looking lipless as -a lizard’s, was a determined feature. For the rest, in dress and -manner, she appeared the very antithesis of the loud and truculent -trollop who had thrust a quarrel upon, and a sword into him, three -nights ago. -</p> - -<p> -And this was the famous chevalier, the enigma, the epicene, upon the -question of whose sex the accumulated erudition of a King’s Bench had -once been brought to bear—with indefinite result. This was the -hermaphrodite dragoon and lady-in-waiting; the author, the -plenipotentiary, and at the last, in this year of grace, the -astonishing <i>tireuse-d’armes</i>, who had excelled, on their own ground, -the Professors St George and M. Angelo, and who now replenished one -pocket of her purse by giving lessons in the admirable art of fencing. -</p> - -<p> -And, at this point of his cogitations, Mr Murk said— -</p> - -<p> -“The chevalier is at least a wonderful actress.” -</p> - -<p> -Thereat madame chirred out a little indulgent laugh. -</p> - -<p> -“It is well said!” she cried. “Monsieur is <i>un homme d’esprit</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -“And I take no shame,” said Ned, “to have let her in under my guard.” -</p> - -<p> -She looked at the young man seriously. -</p> - -<p> -“The shame was mine, <i>mon petit</i>—the shame of the necessity was mine -to wound you at all.” -</p> - -<p> -“You had not intended to kill me, then? It was not plotted with my -lord?” -</p> - -<p> -She flushed, actually—this player of many parts. -</p> - -<p> -“Milord!” she cried, “his hired bravo!” -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” said Ned, “you must admit I have some excuse for thinking it.” -</p> - -<p> -“So!” she answered, recovering herself with a long-drawn breath. “It -is true.” -</p> - -<p> -She smiled upon him. -</p> - -<p> -“Had I chalk-marked you at the first, <i>mon cher</i>, I could not have hit -you nearer where I intended. When I desire to keel, I keel. When I -weesh for to place one <i>hors-de-combat—pour citer un exemple</i>—” she -touched his shoulder delicately with her finger-tips. -</p> - -<p> -“You intended to put me on the shelf?” said Ned, surprised. -</p> - -<p> -She nodded. -</p> - -<p> -“On my uncle’s behalf?” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah!” she cried, “you weesh too many answer. I will tell you it was -all arrange by me. It was only when the old man smell blood he get -beside of himself. You come in my way: I must remove you. That is it.” -</p> - -<p> -“But I have never seen you in my life till three days ago, madame!” -</p> - -<p> -“Nor I, you. What then?” -</p> - -<p> -Ned lay back, thinking things over; and presently he talked aloud:— -</p> - -<p> -“My lord comes to Dover, <i>en route</i> for Paris. He is accompanied by a -friend—the Chevalier d’Eon. This chevalier is a diplomatist, and -something more. He—she—has served—possibly does serve—a royal -master. At this juncture it is to be conceived that her talents for -<i>espionnage</i> are being urgently summoned to exercise themselves.” -</p> - -<p> -He paused a moment, glancing askew at his companion. She did not look -at nor answer him, but her face expressed some curious concern. A -little covert smile twitched his mouth as he continued:— -</p> - -<p> -“There are whispers (I have heard them and of them) in more than one -city of the world, that a certain notable Prime Minister gives his -secret endorsement to the revolutionary propaganda of the Palais -Royal. Would it not be a daring thing on the part of a spy, and a -thing grateful to his employers, to endeavour to prove this of the -exalted Englishman? But the Englishman is self-contained—almost -inaccessible. If he is to be approached, it must be with an elaborate -circumspection—by starting, say, the process of under-mining so far -from official centres as the very suburban quarters where he takes his -little relaxation during the Parliamentary recesses.” -</p> - -<p> -Pausing, consciously, in his abstract review (murmured, as if he were -seeking to convince himself), Ned was aware that the chevalier had -leaned herself back against the wall at the bedhead, and was softly -caressing the monkey. A tight little smile was on her lips; she caught -his glance and nodded to him. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>C’est bien, cela</i>,” she whispered. -</p> - -<p> -He went on, echoing her:— -</p> - -<p> -“<i>C’est bien, cela, madame</i>; and I may be altogether a fool, and a -fanciful one. But, here (recognising now the significance of reports -that have reached me) is where I trace a connection between the fact -of my Lord Murk and the Chevalier d’Eon becoming suddenly acquainted, -and the fact that the notable Englishman and my lord are -villa-neighbours at Putney, where each has his holiday establishment, -and where—altogether apart from politics—both meet on the social -grounds of a common appetite——” -</p> - -<p> -“For gossip?” -</p> - -<p> -“For port wine, madame.” -</p> - -<p> -La chevalière broke out into a sudden violent laugh. For the first -time her voice seemed to contradict her sex. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Oh, mon Dieu</i>! <i>c’est une fine mouche</i>!” she cried. “She think to -make catspaw of our tipsy monseigneur! I undurestand. <i>Mon Dieu</i>, it -is excellent! This contained, this inscrutable, this Machiavel, that -but wash his head in the bottle as it were to cool it, to yield his -confidence to a <i>paillard</i>, a toss-the-pot, an old, old -<i>p’tit-maître</i> that have nevaire earn in his life one title to -respect! Say no more. It is a penetration the most admirable that you -reveal. <i>Oh, mon Dieu</i>! <i>avec tant de finesse on nous crédit</i>!” -</p> - -<p> -Ned waited till her merriment had jangled itself into silence. -</p> - -<p> -“Not to constitute my lord a spy,” said he quietly, “but to equip him -with one.” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Comment</i>?” said madame. “I do not undurestand.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t say you do. It is a hypothetical case I put. I assume, for -instance, that the chevalier is perfectly aware of my lord’s -propensities, and is even willing to act the part of his -<i>conciliatrice</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -Madame jumped to her feet, breathing heavily. -</p> - -<p> -“Why did I not keel you!” she muttered. Her eyes were awake with fury. -Little coal-black imps seemed to battle in them as in pools of gall. -Ned sat up on his bed. -</p> - -<p> -“I assume,” he went on coolly, “that the chevalier, looking about her -for her instrument, marked down this dissolute nobleman with a villa -at Putney, and decided to accommodate him with a French mistress—a -Cressida whom she should coach to act the part of spy to a spy.” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>C’est bien ça</i>,” whispered madame again. -</p> - -<p> -“The chevalier, then, has, we will say, made my lord’s acquaintance; -has excited the libidinous old man; has proposed a trip to Paris. The -two travel to Dover; and here an unforeseen difficulty supervenes. My -lord hears of the Reveillon riots. He refuses to proceed. The -chevalier is in despair. She is, however, let us conclude, taking -advantage of her position to note the disposition of the new -fortifications, when chance puts into her hands the very opportunity -for which she has vainly manœuvred. One day there lands from the -packet a countrywoman of hers—a beautiful peasant-girl of Liége, -whose seduction and abandonment by a rascal aristocrat have made her -amenable to any unscrupulous design upon the class that is responsible -for her ruin. To the protection of my lord the viscount, the -chevalier—by whatever <i>ruse-de-guerre</i>—is happy to commit the -demoiselle Théroigne Lambertine, who, poor fool, chances into her -hands at the crucial moment.” -</p> - -<p> -Madame, uttering what sounded like a blazing oath, dashed, in an -uncontrollable fit of passion, the little beast she held in her arms -upon the ground. The poor wretch whipped across the fender and lay -screaming with its back broken. She ran and trod upon it with a heavy -foot, stilling its cries. -</p> - -<p> -“It is a De Querchy!” she shrieked. “It is so I crush my enemies!” -</p> - -<p> -Then she came towards the bed, her mouth mumbling and mowing, as if -the ghost of the departed brute were entered into her. -</p> - -<p> -“You are the devil!” she hissed, “and you will tell me how you shall -use your knowledge.” -</p> - -<p> -“In no way,” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -His throat drummed with nausea. His whole nature rose in revolt -against this exhibition of infernal cruelty; but he kept command of -himself and of his cold aloofness. -</p> - -<p> -“In no way?” she said thickly. Her jaw seemed to drop. She stared at -him. “You will do noting?” -</p> - -<p> -“No more than you,” he said. “You are welcome to your plot for me.” -</p> - -<p> -Her eyes rather than her lips questioned him. -</p> - -<p> -“Because,” said he, “I am convinced there is nothing to find out; and -you will be occupied in hunting a chimera when you might be more -mischievously engaged elsewhere.” -</p> - -<p> -She nodded a great number of times. The sweat stood on her forehead. -</p> - -<p> -“You had no thought to interfere?” she said. “<i>Vous êtes à -plaindre</i>. I might have left you alone after all. But I dreaded you -would stand by, and comprehend, and upset my plans, did I find a -<i>sujet</i> fitting to my pu-repus.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed, you had no reason to fear, madame. I am not so attached to my -uncle’s company as that I should have been tempted to linger in it -beyond the term prescribed by etiquette; and this time, be assured, I -found in it no additional attraction.” -</p> - -<p> -She made a deprecating motion with her shoulders, then seated herself -again—but away from the bed—as if in exhaustion. -</p> - -<p> -“At least,” she murmured, “I have been your <i>camarade de chambre</i>. And -it seem I have nurse a viper in my bosom.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned could only bow to this quite typically French example of moral -obliquity. -</p> - -<p> -“You think the devil hath instructed me, or that I am the devil,” he -said. “It is not so, madame. I have lately been in Paris. I have kept -my eyes and my ears open. Moreover, I happen to have come across -Mademoiselle Lambertine—to have heard her story—to have known how -she contemplated a descent on England. Add to this that, looking from -the window some hours ago, I saw the girl (‘<i>parmi d’autres paons tout -fier se panada</i>’—you know the fable, madame?) walking in your -company; add that the public generally hath an interest in the -Chevalier d’Eon’s reputation, and I, at least, in that of my uncle; -add, perhaps, that a sick man’s brain is abnormally acute, especially -when exercised over the causes predisposing to his malady; add that I -have revolved these matters in my head as I lay here, and pieced them -together in the manner presented to you, and upon my honour I think I -have afforded you the full explanation.” -</p> - -<p> -The chevalier rose. She had round her throat a thin band of black -velvet that looked stretched almost to the snapping-point. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Je crois bien</i>,” she said; “and you have missed your vocation—you -are lost to the secret sairveece, monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly,” said Ned. “I am quite unable to lie.” -</p> - -<p> -She answered, unaffected, and with recovered gaiety— -</p> - -<p> -“I take, then, monsieur his word that he shall not interfere.” -</p> - -<p> -She added, shaking her finger at him— -</p> - -<p> -“Nevaretheless, it is not all as you say, but it is a good guess of -half measures.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very well,” said Ned, with entire composure. “And that being -understood, perhaps madame will take up the one victim to her ardour, -and leave the other to his convalescence.” -</p> - -<p> -He bowed very politely, and lay down with his face to the wall. -</p> - -<p> -She gazed at him a moment, with an expression compound of perplexity -and lively detestation; then, reclaiming De Querchy, went from the -room fondling the little broken corpse. -</p> - - -<h3 id="b1ch20"> -CHAPTER XX. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">During</span> the short course of his restoration to vigour, Mr Murk, -indulging that power of self-abstraction that was constitutionally at -his command, gave himself no further concern about his uncle’s -affairs, paramorous or political. His resolving of the Chevalier -d’Eon’s little riddle of intrigue was, perhaps, an achievement less -remarkable than it appeared to be. His own knowledge of my lord’s -partial boon-companionship with the Prime Minister at Putney, and the -notoriety of a particular kind that attached to the chevalier’s name, -coupled with the more or less perilous gossip he had heard abroad, had -winged the shaft that had—something to his surprise—struck so near -home. Now (having proved to his satisfaction his own percipience), in -the conviction that the artifice of this <i>intrigante</i> was destined to -procure of itself nothing but a political abortion, he rested -tranquilly, and devoted his spare—which was all but his meal—time to -trying to play the harp. -</p> - -<p> -This was a mournful misapplication of energy. He had never known but -one tune—the “Young Shepherd by love sore opprest,” which he would -intone in moments of exaltation. Now he could not reconcile it to the -practical intervals of performance, but was fain to introduce -crippling variations in his hunt for the befitting string. It was the -merest game of disharmonic spillikins, the contemplation of which -affected his landlord almost to tears, and to any such enigmatical -protest as the following:— -</p> - -<p> -“You’ve no-ought to make such a noration about nothing!” -</p> - -<p> -“Very well,” Ned would answer; “but the spheres, you know, wrought -harmony out of chaos.” -</p> - -<p> -Nevertheless he took his characteristic place in the hearts of the -simple folk with whom he lodged. -</p> - -<p> -When, by-and-by, he was in a condition to stroll out into the living -world once more, it was agreeable to him to learn that the old seaport -place had been quit for some days of all that connection that had been -the cause of his detention in it. His uncle was returned to town, -carrying presumably Mademoiselle Lambertine with him; and the -chevalier also had disappeared. He dozed out his second week, -therefore—yielding his brain to the droning story of the sea—on the -mattress of the sands; and, at last, revivified, braced up his -energies and turned his face to the London that had grown unfamiliar -to him. -</p> - -<p class="spacer"> -* * * * * * * * -</p> - -<p> -In accusing his nephew of inhabiting at some beggarly “Cock-and-Pye” -tavern, my Lord Murk had uttered a vexatious anachronism that -testified to little but his own antiquity. In the nobleman’s youth, -indeed, the fields called after this hostelry, though then occupied by -the seven recently laid-out fashionable streets that made “a star from -a Doric pillar plac’d in the middle of a circular area” (<i>abrégé</i>, -“Seven Dials,” though the capital of the column was, in fact, a -hexagon only), were a traditional byword for low-life frivolity. Their -character, however, was now long redeemed, or, at least, altered. -</p> - -<p> -But, though Ned might not so far condescend to a philosophic vagrancy -as to consort with beggars and “mealmen,” it was certainly much his -humour, at this period of his life, to rove from old inn to inn, -having any historic associations, of his native city; while during -long intervals his chambers knew him not. Thus his uncle was so far -near the mark as that for months antecedent to his continental -excursion traces of him were only occasionally forthcoming from -amongst the ancient hostelries that neighboured on the St Giles -quarter of the town. The “Rose” on Holborn Hill, made memorable by the -water-poet; the “Castle” tavern, where, later, “Tom Spring” threw up -the sponge to death; the “George and Blue Boar,” ever famous in -history as the scene of Cromwell and Ireton’s interception of that -damning letter that the poor royal wren, who hovered “between hawk and -buzzard,” was sending to his mate; the venerable “Maidenhead,” with -its vast porch and ghostly attics—in all of these antique shells, and -in many others, had the young man buried himself for days or weeks, -according to his whim, until periodically his uncle would be moved to -exult over the probability of his having been knocked on the head in -some low-browed rookery, his very detested eccentricities serving for -the means to his removal. Then suddenly Ned would put in an appearance -at the house in Cavendish Square, and all the old rascal’s dreams -would be shattered at a blow. -</p> - -<p> -Now, upon his return, our solemn young vagabond had no thought but to -resume this motley habit of existence. New alleys of interest he would -explore, adapting his moral eyesight to a focus that late experience -had taught him the value of; feeding his philosophy and humanity with -a single spoon. -</p> - -<p> -He disappeared and, remote in his retreats, was little tempted to -emerge therefrom by the reports that were occasionally wafted to him -of his uncle’s scandalous liaison with a beautiful Belgian girl, who -had come to rule the viscounty. -</p> - -<p> -Then—when he had been for some six weeks serving the interests of his -own education in the character of a sort of spiritual commercial -traveller—one day he happened upon Théroigne herself. -</p> - -<p> -On this occasion chance had taken him westward, and he was walking -meditatively under the trees bordering the Piccadilly side of the -Green Park, when a voice, the low sound of which gave him an -irresistible thrill, hailed him in French from a carriage that drew up -at the moment in the road hard by. This carriage was a yellow -“tilbury,” glossy with new paint and varnish, with the Murk arms on -the panels and a foaming bright chestnut to draw it; and a very -self-conscious “tiger” held the chestnut in while a lady jumped to the -pavement. -</p> - -<p> -“I congratulate you,” said Ned, doffing his hat in the calmest -astonishment; “you have made a slave of opportunity.” -</p> - -<p> -Indeed she had the right selective faculty. Her schooling might have -extended through a couple of months, and here she was a queen of -inimitable charms. She had suffered no illusions of caste; but -recognising herself as to the purple of beauty born, she had simply -allowed her instincts for style to develop themselves in a congenial -atmosphere. And thereto a present air of pride and defiance lent its -grace. She made no secret to herself of what she was, and yet that was -merely the glorified accent to what she had been. The brilliant dyes -of the tiger-moth are only the hues of the caterpillar intensified. -This—the brilliancy, the bright loveliness, and the soft -consciousness of it all—had been embryo in her from the first. She -took Ned’s hands into hers in a wooing manner. A scent of heliotrope, -like an unsaintly aureola, sweetened her very neighbourhood. -</p> - -<p> -“Where have you been?” she said; “and why hast thou never come near -me?” -</p> - -<p> -“Why should you want me to?” he answered in genuine amazement. “You -have made your bed, Mademoiselle Lambertine.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have not made it; no, it is not true.” -</p> - -<p> -She looked about her hurriedly. -</p> - -<p> -“It is for you to advise me—to make it yourself—to lie in it if thou -wilt. Hush, monsieur! we cannot talk here. Come and see me—come! It -will be well for you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well for me! But I have no private shame to traffic in, nothing to -accuse myself of, mademoiselle.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah, <i>mon Dieu</i>! but, by-and-by, yes, if you refuse me.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned hesitated. Perhaps we may have observed that curiosity is a -constituent of philosophy. -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” he said, “where, and when, do you want me to come?” -</p> - -<p> -“So!” she whispered eagerly; “<i>j’en suis bien aise</i>. To the house of -the lord your uncle. Come this evening, when dinner is served and done -with. I will receive you alone.” -</p> - -<p> -She gave him her hand, with a rallying smile played to the gods in the -person of the tiger, and accepted his to her carriage. -</p> - -<p> -“’Ome!” she said to the boy. -</p> - -<p> -“Unconscious irony,” muttered Ned to himself, as the “tilbury” sped -away; “and how the dear fool has caught the trick of it!” -</p> - -<p> -Something—a rare sentiment of pride or humour—persuaded him to -appear before her in the right trappings of his station. He could look -a very pretty gentleman when he condescended to the masquerade of -frippery; and silk and embroidery, with a subscription to conventions -in the shape of a light dust of powder on the wholesome tan of his -cheeks, revealed him a desirable youth. Still Mademoiselle Théroigne, -though obviously taken aback before this presentment of an unrealised -distinction, was immediate in adapting herself to the altered -relations implied thereby. The perceptible imperiousness of her -attitude towards him showed itself finely tempered by admiration. As -to her exercise of the softer influences, she had graduated in these -(with honours) while yet a child. -</p> - -<p> -She welcomed him in a little boudoir that had been fitted up for her -on the ground floor. Lace and buhl-work, crystal and dainty china, -were all about her. On the walls were sombre, amorous pictures, -winking in the glassy shine from girandoles. A decanter and goblets -stood on a gilded whisp of a table under a mirror, and hard by a tiny -brown spaniel lay asleep on a cushion. She might have been own sister -to this whelp from the curl and colour of her hair. -</p> - -<p> -On this she wore no powder, but only a diamond star and loop in -emphasis of its loveliness. She was dressed without ostentation, yet -every knot and frill were disposed in a manner to suggest the liberal -beauty of her figure. But she had, in truth, no need of artifice to -show her radiant in the eyes of gods and men. -</p> - -<p> -Now, looking at her, Ned thought, “How in this short time has she -renewed herself from that haunting ghost that possessed me on the -Liége road? There is something uncanny in this resurrection: I -apprehend the ‘seven devils’ must have entered into her.” -</p> - -<p> -And he felt a little discomfortable, as if he were at last brought -into acute antagonism with a force that he had hitherto despised for -the vanity of its pretensions. -</p> - -<p> -She took his hands and looked into his face. There was a strange -yearning inquiry in her eyes. This very licence of touch, so -inappropriate to their cold relations one with the other, put him on -his guard, though he would not at the moment resent it. -</p> - -<p> -“You knew I was there, at Dover?” she said. “Ah! I sorrowed for your -wound, <i>mon ami</i>; but I could not come. Monseigneur would not let me; -the chevalier would not let me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Never mind that,” said Ned, withdrawing his hands. “It only concerns -me that you have been consistent to your promise, and that my lord -attaches, in your person, another scandal to his record.” -</p> - -<p> -“But that is not true,” she said, shrugging her shoulders; “and, even -though it were, will not your philosophy condone it? Little holy -Mother! is it that such as you, and he—that other of -Méricourt—would use Liberty only as your pander, disowning her when -she has served her purpose!” -</p> - -<p> -She was all too young in vice as yet to play, without some real -emotion, the part she had elected to fill. -</p> - -<p> -“He taught me from his devil’s gospels!” she cried; “and you saw, and -would not interfere, because your faith was the same as his.” -</p> - -<p> -“I was in Méricourt—for how many days?” said Ned. “And is this all -your confidence, Mademoiselle?” -</p> - -<p> -She flushed and bit her lips. The tears were in her eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“You are always cold,” she said. “You do not pity me or make -allowance. To be wooed to worship an ideal; to be wooed through the -hunger in one’s soul for the truth that God seemed to withhold! When -he taught me that religion of equality, <i>he</i> became my God. I saw the -disorder of the world resolve itself into love and innocence. How was -I, inexperienced, to know how a libertine will spend years, if need -be, in undermining a trust that he may indulge a minute’s happiness?” -</p> - -<p> -She had spoken so far with self-restraint. Now, suddenly, she flashed -out superbly— -</p> - -<p> -“You would not do the same—oh, <i>mon Dieu</i>, no! but you will condone -his wickedness—yes, that is it! Liberty to you all is the liberty to -act as you like; to use the State and abuse it; to use the woman and -throw her aside!” -</p> - -<p> -“Hush!” said Ned, a little startled and concerned. “Your liberty, I -take it, you have committed to the keeping of my lord. He may curtail -it, if you talk so loud.” -</p> - -<p> -She drew back imperiously. -</p> - -<p> -“The old tipsy man!” she cried, in a pregnant voice. “I decoy, and I -repulse, and I madden him. I have learnt my lesson, monsieur. Hark, -then!” -</p> - -<p> -She held up her hand. From the dining-room adjacent came a quavering -chaunt—the maudlin sing-song of ancient inebriety. -</p> - -<p> -“I know,” said Ned. “He is half-way through his second bottle.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is it the music,” cried the girl, “that I have bartered my honour to -listen to? There are greater voices in the air—the thunder of cannon; -the roar of an emancipated people!” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly it is true, by report,” said Ned, “that the French Bastille -is fallen into the hands of the mob—a consummation remotely -influenced, no doubt, by the Club of Nature’s Gentry.” -</p> - -<p> -“Into the hands of Liberty, monsieur. The reign of falsehood is dead. -The ideal triumphs, however far its wicked apostles may have sought to -misconstrue it! And I am of the people! I am of the people—the -people!” -</p> - -<p> -She gazed up—as if in a sudden inspired ecstasy—then buried her face -in her hands. Her full bosom heaved. She was beyond all control -overwrought. -</p> - -<p> -“Théroigne!” exclaimed Ned, moved out of, and despite himself. -</p> - -<p> -She looked up again, with flashing wet eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“My love is sworn to Liberty!” she cried; “my hate to those who would -make of her a pander to their own base desires. So much of his -teaching remains; and let him abide by its consequences. It is for me -to drive the moral home, to reveal him for the thing he is—the thing -he is!” -</p> - -<p> -Then Ned, holding no brief for St Denys, was tempted to an inexcusable -utterance— -</p> - -<p> -“He was the father of your child, Théroigne.” -</p> - -<p> -The girl started as if she had been struck. She raised her eyes and -clasped her hands; and she said, in a quivering voice— -</p> - -<p> -“I thank God—oh, I thank God he is dead. The little poor infant! And -what would he have made of his baby—he, that had the heart to -disinherit and condemn to lifelong torture his own brother that he had -played with as a child!” -</p> - -<p> -Ned stood amazed. -</p> - -<p> -“His brother!” he cried—“the sailor that perished in the West Indies! -But monsieur himself told me of his brother’s fate.” -</p> - -<p> -She gazed at him intensely. During some moments the evidences of a -hard mental struggle were in her face. Then she gave out a deep sigh. -</p> - -<p> -“He lied, as always,” she said in a low voice: “Lucien is at this day -a wretched prisoner in the Salpétrière, the madman’s hospital of -Paris.” -</p> - -<p> -“Théroigne! What do you say!” cried Ned. -</p> - -<p> -“It is true,” she went on. “He was disfigured—driven insane by the -explosion; but he was not killed. He returned in his ship to -Cherbourg, and there Basile received him of the surgeon and conveyed -him to Paris. He was never heard of again. Basile brought to their -father the news that Lucien was dead of his wounds and buried at sea. -Monseigneur was old and childish, and Paris was far away. That was -seven years ago; but it was only recently that, sure of my loyalty, -and careless of the respect, of the right to which he had deprived me, -he boasted to me of his ancient crime, justifying it, too, on the -score that a reconstituted society must, to be effective, be pruned of -all disease, moral and physical.” -</p> - -<p> -“He should have hanged himself. Such inhuman villainy! Mademoiselle -Lambertine, you have every reason to hate this man.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah! you think I colour the truth. My God, it is black enough! Why -else, himself like a reckless madman, did he squander his double -inheritance? He foresaw the redistribution of property; he was ever -prophesying it. He must drink deeply of pleasure if he would empty the -cup before flinging it into the melting-pot. Moreover, Lucien had been -the old man’s favourite; and, ah! he hated him for that.” -</p> - -<p> -She stopped a moment, panting; then went on, her voice lower yet with -hoarseness:— -</p> - -<p> -“Say, at the best, it was remorse made him a spendthrift, and his -conscience that salved itself with a lying pretext. Does that condone -his perfidy to me? Yet, I swear that he so blinded my eyes and my -heart that, while he was close to me I could not, despite his -confession of wickedness, see him for the wretch he was. Now——” -</p> - -<p> -She came suddenly quite close up to the young man. -</p> - -<p> -“Edouard!” she whispered, in a voice so wooing that it seemed to -stroke his cheek. He should have leapt away; but for the first time -the fragrant sweet sensuousness of her presence bewitched him. She put -her hands timidly up to his shoulders, and let her gaze melt into his. -The motion of her bosom communicated to his heart a soft slow -throbbing. In the pause that ensued, the voice of the old drunken -debauchee sounded fitfully from the dining-room. -</p> - -<p> -“Now,” she murmured, “I see the truth stripped of all that passion -that so falsely adorned it. I see it in you, as in myself, a generous -principle that owes nothing to self-indulgence. Thou couldst use this -in me, thou cold, beautiful man—thou couldst use me to such ends, and -never fail of thy self-respect.” -</p> - -<p> -She slipped her hands a thought closer about his neck. -</p> - -<p> -“This evil magnificence,” she said—“so strange and so terrible to the -poor country girl. Every evening the old lord gets tipsy over his -wine; every evening he prays to me on his knees. To-night I thought he -would have died—the passion so enraged him. I swear that is all. Oh! -I have something cries in me for action; some voice, too, summons me -to that dark city where is being born, in agony and travail, the child -of our hopes—yours and mine. Not his now—Edouard, not his. I pray -only to meet him there, that I may denounce him before the Liberty he -has outraged. Take me hence. I am weary of the vile display; weary of -being sought the tool to designing men. Take me away to Paris, where -the era of the new life is beginning!” -</p> - -<p> -In a paroxysm of entreaty, emboldened by her little success, she so -tightened the soft embrace of her arms as to bring her lips almost -into touch with his. -</p> - -<p> -“Have I not proved myself, as I promised, a possession to covet?” she -whispered. -</p> - -<p> -Now, upon that, Ned came to himself at a leap. He loosened her hands; -he repulsed and backed from her. -</p> - -<p> -“What shameless thing are you,” he cried—the more violently from a -consciousness of his late peril—“that you persist in the face of such -rejection as you have already forced from me? I do not desire your -favour, madame. To offer it to me here, in this place, is nothing but -an insult. Nor, believe me, do I covet the possession of one who——” -</p> - -<p> -“Hush!” she cried peremptorily. She stood away from him, panting -heavily. Her face glowed with a veritable inner fire. -</p> - -<p> -“It is for the last time, monsieur—be assured, it is for the last -time,” she breathed out. -</p> - -<p> -Then she blazed into uncontrollable passion:— -</p> - -<p> -“Senseless, and a fool! I would have given you a soul to dare and to -do. This is not a man but a block. It is right, monsieur: you would -freeze the hot life in me—make it of your lead, this poor gold of my -humanity. That other was better than you—he was better, for after all -he could lie bravely. My God, to be so scorned and flouted! But, there -you shall learn—ah, just a little lesson! You are very proud and -high, yet I also shall be high if I choose.” -</p> - -<p> -She checked herself, came up to and dared him in a rage of mockery. -</p> - -<p> -“To-morrow we go to Putney. It is all arranged. And I have but to say -the word, the little word, and I am Lady Murk! You twitted me with the -child—my God, the man you are! What now, if his ghost—his -image—were to thrust itself in between you and——” -</p> - -<p> -The door was flung open—pushed, that is to say, with a respectful -violence nicely significant of emergency. Jepps stood on the -threshold. -</p> - -<p> -“My lord, will your lordship please to come at once?” -</p> - -<p> -So said this admirable man; and what need was to say more? Ned, in a -moment, was in the dining-room. -</p> - -<p> -Mademoiselle Théroigne had presumed a trifle too far on her -desirability. At least, consulting her own interest, she should have -withheld, one way or the other, from the beast of her ambition that -incitement to feed passion with fire. -</p> - -<p> -The Viscount Murk lay amongst the glasses on the table, dead of a -rushing apoplexy. That is all that it is necessary to say about him. -</p> - -<p> -When, later, Ned could somewhat collect his faculties, he recalled -dimly how a white face, crowned with a mass of beautiful hair, had -seemed to hang staringly—before it suddenly vanished—in the doorway -of the fatal room. But, when he came to question Jepps about -Mademoiselle Lambertine, he heard that the lady—after returning to -her own apartments for a brief while—had quitted the house without -sign or message. -</p> - -<p> -Yet one other visitor disturbed that night the house of death—the -Chevalier d’Eon. She came in a chair from the theatre, and Ned, going -forth to her, saw her startled old face twisting with chagrin, as he -thought, in the light of the flambeaux. She had heard the news from a -link-boy in the square. -</p> - -<p> -“I can do nothing by coming in, I suppose?” she said. -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing whatever,” answered Ned passionlessly. “He is quite beyond -your influence.” -</p> - - -<h2 id="b2"> -BOOK II. -</h2> - -<h3 class="nobreak" id="b2ch01"> -CHAPTER I. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">Edward, Lord Murk</span>—now three years enjoying the viscounty—was -established, during the summer of ’92, at “Stowling,” his lordship’s -seat near Bury St Edmunds. Since his uncle’s death he had spent the -greater part of his time here—perhaps because his associations with -the place were less of the disreputable old peer than of the -traditions and the <i>personnel</i> that had made it dear to him in his -youth. He had sold both the Cavendish Square property and the villa at -Putney; and was consequently, no doubt, very meanly equipped with -domicile for a gentleman of his position. -</p> - -<p> -That, maybe, to him was a term little else than synonymous with -“opportunity.” Position at its best enabled him to realise on some -ethical speculations of his earlier educational period. His Paris -experiences had given to these their final direction; and though he -was theoretically as convinced as ever that men should be made -virtuous by Act of Parliament, the tablets of his soul, bitten into by -the acid of human suffering, were come nowadays to exhibit the -expression of a very human sympathy. -</p> - -<p> -He gave with a large discriminating nobility; yet, no doubt, he was -little popular in the neighbourhood, because in his benefactions he -was discerning, and because, in indulging his liberality, he would -forego any display of the wealth that he was ever passing on to -others. Already for a peer he was poor; and, had he chosen, he might -have cited, in favour of his conception of a mechanical morality, the -fact that an emotional morality secretly despised in him that poverty -by which it profited. But he did not choose. The spirit of philosophy -still dwelt in him very sweet and sound. -</p> - -<p> -In all these three years he had not once been abroad. Following—as -keenly as it was possible for him to do in those days of crippled -international communication—the progress of the great Revolution -(perhaps, even, contributing at its fair outset to the sinews of war), -he had yet no inducement whatever further to embroil himself, an -inconsiderable theorist, with a distracted people. Between a turbulent -chamber of his history and the halls of tranquillity in which he now -sojourned had clapped-to a very sombre door of death; and this he had -not the inclination to open again. -</p> - -<p> -Still, often in his day-dreams he would be back at Madame Gamelle’s, -watching all that life scintillating against the curtain of the -Bastille. And now this curtain had, in truth, gone up, revealing, not, -as he himself had prophesied, the “blank brick wall of the theatre,” -but democratic force represented in a vast perspective—a procession -so endless that it seemed drawn out of the very brain of the North, -where all mystery is concentrated. -</p> - -<p> -That, now, was an old story. Three subsequent years of planting and -levelling had changed the face of the world’s garden of conventions, -and during all that time the world itself had stood round outside the -railings, peering in amazed upon a ruthless grubbing up and carting -away of its pinkest flowers of propriety. -</p> - -<p> -That was an old story; nor less so to Ned was the tale of his little -sojourn in Méricourt; and thereon, for all his rebelling, his -thoughts would sometimes dwell sweetly. The very quaintness of his -reception, unflattering though it had been, had still an odd thrill -for him. The memory of a happy period put to long wanderings by -serried dykes, of the old hamlet basking in the ferny bed of its -hills, of all the ridiculous and the tragic that, blended, made of the -little episode in his life a sore that it was yet ticklingly pleasant -to rub over—these, the shadows of a momentary experience, would rise -before him, not often, yet so persistently that he came to attach -almost a superstitious significance to their visitings. For why else, -he thought, should the ghost of one haunt the galleries of a thousand -pictures! Some connection, not yet severed, must surely link him to -that time. -</p> - -<p> -Yet, during all this period of his responsibility, no whisper to -suggest that to <i>his</i> shadows he was become other than a shadow -himself reached him. It may have been breathed inaudibly, -nevertheless, through the key-hole of that closed door. -</p> - -<p> -Of Théroigne he had heard no word after her flight from the house of -death. Nor had he desired to hear, or to do else than free himself of -the dust of a scandal that, for months after his succession, had clung -to him as the legitimate inheritor of a villainous reputation. And -this desire he had held by no means in order to the conciliation of -Mrs Grundy, but only that he might be early quit of the hampering -impertinences of commiseration and criticism. -</p> - -<p> -Once, it is true, he had almost persuaded himself that it was his duty -to seek for either verification or disproof of the girl’s almost -incredible statement about the man Lucien de St Denys. The conviction, -however, that the story as related <i>was</i> incredible; that it was -revealed to him under the stress of passion and of immeasurable -grievance; that no man—least of all an astute rascal—would be likely -to put into the hands of a woman—the baser sequel to whose ruin he -was even then contemplating—a weapon so tipped with menace to -himself,—this growing upon him, he was decided in the end to forego -the resolving of all problems but those that were incidental to his -own affairs. Therefore he settled down with admirable decorum to the -righteous lording of his acres. -</p> - -<p> -Still occasionally a restless spirit—that Harlequin bastard of Ariel -and the earth-born Crasis—would whisper in his ear of vast -world-tracts unexplored, of the meanness of social restrictions and of -the early staleness that overtakes the daily bread of conventions, of -the harmonics of phantom delights that may be heard in the -under-voices of flying winds, of life as it might be lived did men -serve Nature with honesty instead of deceit. Then a longing would -arise in him to be up and away again; to throw off the shackles of -formality and pursue his more liberal education through the fairs of -the nations. Then his days would show themselves empty records, -strangely fed from some darker reservoir of emptiness, the source of -whose supply would be a weary enigma to him. And in such moods it was -that the gardens of the past blossomed through his dreams, and -figures, sweet and spectral, would be seen walking in them—Théroigne -sometimes, sometimes Nicette, and again others—yet these two most -persistently. -</p> - -<p class="spacer"> -* * * * * * * * -</p> - -<p> -The demesne of “Stowling” was situate a long mile from Bury St Edmunds -against the Lynn Road. All about the grounds relics of an ancient -grandeur were in evidence, though the house itself, a graceful -Jacobean block, with projecting wings and stone eyebrows to its -windows, was a structure significant of a quite moderate condition of -fortune. The property, in point of fact, had been flung, at “Hazard,” -into the lap of that same Hilary, Lord Brindle (own pot-companion to -Steele and to Dick Savage of the “Wanderer”—with whom, indeed, he had -often cast at Robinson’s coffee-house, near Charing Cross, where the -broil occurred in which Lady Macclesfield’s bastard stabbed Mr -Sinclair to death), who was wont to justify his own viciousness by the -aphorism, “Whatever we are here for, we are not here for good.” Very -few of the Murks, it must be confessed, had been here for good, though -none had endeavoured to disprove one side of the <i>mot</i> with more -pertinacity than the late viscount. Yet, at last, a successor was to -the front who would inform with gravity and decorum the family seat -that had been acquired, rebuilt, and maintained by the wild lord in a -manner so questionable. -</p> - -<p> -For Ned the house was big enough; to him its grounds presented a -retreat that had all the melancholy charm of a cloister to its monks. -Nameless antiquity dreamed in its clumps of mossy ruins; in its -fragment of a Norman gateway; in its tumbled “Wodehouse” -men—sightless, crippled giants, with clubs shattered against the -skull of Time; in its wolfish gurgoyles snarling up from the grass. -Hereabouts could he wander a summer’s day and never regret the world. -</p> - -<p> -Not often was he to be seen in the old town hard by; yet from time to -time he would walk over on a sunny day and loiter away an hour or so -in its venerable streets. And therein one morning (it was breathing -kind July weather) he saw a vision that seemed to typify to him the -very “sweet seventeen” of the year. -</p> - -<p> -Now Ned’s knowledge of women had been mostly of the emotional side; -and a certain constitutional causticity in him had been wrought out of -all patience by the attentions to which he had been subjected in the -respect of one order of passion. It is true his innate sense of humour -rejected for himself the plea of excessive attractiveness, and, -indeed, any explanation of the pursuit, save that he had happened -coincidently into the scent-area of a couple of questing creatures of -prey. Still, built as he was, the experience was so far to his -distaste as to incline him always a little thenceforth to an -unreasonable hatred of the dulcetly sentimental in, and, indeed, to a -shyness of, the sex altogether. -</p> - -<p> -Upon this, however, the little July-winged vision—which blossomed -into his sight as he turned the corner into a quiet street—he looked -with that inspired <i>premier coup d’œil</i> that aurelians direct to a -rare living “specimen” of what they have hitherto only known in -unapproachable cabinets. He looked, and saw her spotless, as recently -emerged from some horny chrysalis of his own late incubating fancy. -(“This is <i>ipsa quæ</i>, the which—there is none but only she.”) He -looked, and the desire of acquisition gripped his heart—if only he -had had a net in his hand! -</p> - -<p> -She had bright brown hair and china-blue eyes, and her hair curled -very daintily, and her eyelashes dropped little butterfly kisses—as -the children call them—on her own pretty cheeks. She was of an -appealing expression, a thought coy and <i>spirituelle</i>; and she was -indescribably French, too, in her tricks of gesture and the very -roguish tilt of her hat. -</p> - -<p> -That was by the way to this travelled Cymon. Emigrants nowadays were -commoner than sign-boards in the streets of Bury. What concerned him -was that the girl appeared to be in trouble. She rested one hand on -the sill of a low window in the wall; her forehead had a pained line -in it; she sucked in her lower lip as if something hurt her; from time -to time an extraordinary little spasm seemed to waver up her frame. -</p> - -<p> -At least one reprehensible suggestion as to the cause of this -convulsion might have offered itself to a vulgar intelligence—the -tyranny (to put it sweetly) of over-small shoes. My Lord Murk, leaving -his fine prudence and philosophy squabbling in the background, walked -up to and accosted the sufferer in deadly earnest and quite courtly -French— -</p> - -<p> -“Mademoiselle is in distress? I am at her service and command.” -</p> - -<p> -The lady gave an irrepressible start, and shuddered herself rigid. -Certainly she was abominably pretty—straight-nosed, wonder-eyed as a -mousing kitten. But she answered with unmistakable petulance, and in a -winning manner of English, “I am beholden to monsieur; but it is -nothing—nothing at all. I beg monsieur to proceed on his way.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned bowed and withdrew. The dismissal was peremptory; he had no -choice. But, daring to glance back as he was about to take another -turning out of the empty street, he was moved to pause again in a -veritable little panic of curiosity. For, on the instant of his -espial, a “clearing” spasm, it seemed, was in process of bedevilling -the angelic form; and immediately the form repossessed itself of the -nerves of motion, skedaddled round a corner, and disappeared. -</p> - -<p> -Now sudden inspiration came to Master Ned gossip. He perceived that -the lady had been standing upon a grating. Like a thief, in good -earnest, he stole back to the scene of the <i>contretemps</i>, and went -into a silent fit of laughter. Two little high red heels, bristling -with nails, were firmly wedged between the bars of the grille. With a -guilty round-about glance, he squatted, and dug and beat them out with -a sharp stone. Then (observe the embryonic crudeness of romance in the -shell), he put them—nails and all—into his tail-pocket. -</p> - - -<h3 id="b2ch02"> -CHAPTER II. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">Had</span> Lord Murk been of a present inclination less reserved and -withdrawing, he had months before found easy access to the presence of -the merry maid, whose little red heels seemed now, as it were, to have -taken his misogamy by the tail. For, indeed, when at last he sought, -he found this young lady’s identity established in a word. She was -neither more nor less (with a reservation in respect to the gossips) -than the adopted daughter of a very notable <i>gouvernante</i> to a royal -family; and she happened to have already sojourned in Bury some six -months, during which he, the hermit-crab, had chosen to tuck himself -away apathetic into his shell. -</p> - -<p> -Ned had, of course, heard of the not altogether peaceful invasion of -the drowsy little town by one particularly hybrid company of emigrants -that was, in fact, the travelling suite of Mademoiselle d’Orléans, -whom the Duke her father had, for safety, shipped to England towards -the latter end of the previous year. The importance of mademoiselle’s -advent was signified rather in her rank than her maturity, which -presented her as a lymphatic little body, some fifteen years of age, -with pink eye-places and a somewhat pathetic trick of expression. But, -if her title proclaimed her nominal suzerainty over the <i>valetaille</i> -that, in its habits of volubility and swagger, was to inflame the -popular sense of decorum by-and-by to a rather feverish pitch of -resentment, the very practical conduct of the expedition was in the -hands of that wonderful woman whom an irreverent virtuosity had -entitled “Rousseau’s hen.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned had not in the least desired to make the acquaintance of this -Madame de Genlis. His position in the neighbourhood rather entailed -upon him the courtesy of a welcome to the royal little red-eyed -stranger at his gates; yet, adapting his unsociability to popular -rumour of the formidable <i>bas-bleu</i> that dragoned her, he delayed a -duty until its fulfilment became an impossibility. And even a chance -report or so that had reached him of the beauty of madame’s adopted -child—the flower-faced Pamela (“<i>notre petit bijou</i>”), in praise of -whose name, abbreviated, a dozen local squireens were flogging their -tuneless brains for any rhyme less natural to the effort than -“damn!”—moved him only to some sardonic reflections on the -uncomplimentary significance of a gift that seemed designed in -principle for a stimulant to fools. -</p> - -<p> -To fools had been his thought; and now here he was, having for the -first time happened upon this actual Pamela, not only awake of a -sudden to a glaring sense of the social solecism he had committed, but -awake, also, to a sentiment much less intimate (as he thought) to the -world of ordinary emotions. It was astounding, it was humiliating so -to truckle to the thrall of a couple of blue eyes that, for all -purposes of vision, were no better than his own. He stood astonished; -he rebelled—but he pursued. He felt his very <i>amour-propre</i> giving -before the incursion of a force, stranger yet akin to it. So the big -brown rat (oh, vile analogy!) usurped the kingdom of his little black -cousin. -</p> - -<p> -Why, then, did the unfortunate young man not reject and cast forth the -spell that seemed to drain him of all the ichor of independence? Why -did he wantonly stimulate in himself a fancy that his calm judgment -pronounced hysterical? How can these things be answered? How could any -sober reason analyse the motives of a person who kept in his -tail-pocket, and frequently sat upon, a charm that absolutely bristled -with spikes? It is the way of love. When the mystic bolt flies, the -philosopher apart must take his chance of a wound with the man who -lives in a street. -</p> - -<p> -Anyhow, it must be recorded how Ned took to haunting—with the -persistent casualness of one whose unattainable mistress is, as -suggested by his preoccupied manner, the thing farthest from his -thoughts—the neighbourhood of a certain house in Bury St Edmunds. -</p> - -<p> -This house—a dignified, two-storeyed, red-brick building, with a -stiff white porch standing out into the road, and, on the floor above -the porch, five tall windows looking arrogantly down from behind a -green balcony at the lesser lights in the barber’s and fruiterer’s -shops opposite—was situate, about the middle of the town, on a slope -known as Abbey Hill, and had for actual neighbour a chief hotel, the -Angel, then pretty newly built. It faced—across that sort of homely -<i>place</i>, or town quadrangle, that is so usual a feature in English old -market boroughs—a flaked and hoary Norman tower that had once been -the gateway to a graveyard long since passed with its dead into the -limbo of memories. Madame la gouvernante could see the solemn eyebrows -of this very doyen of antiquity bent upon her as she sat at the second -<i>déjeuner</i>, and it made her nervous. Sometimes, even, she would send -a servant to half close the blinds of the window over against her. -</p> - -<p> -“One cannot evade oneself of its senile addresses,” she said on a -certain occasion to a florid gentleman in black, who had come down -from London to be her particular guest for a while. “I feel like Vesta -being made the courted of an old Time. It is always heere the mummy at -the feast.” -</p> - -<p> -The gentleman laughed. -</p> - -<p> -“Egad!” said he. “It is to illustrate how Time stands still with -madame the Countess of Genlis; and, as to the mummy, why, a mummy is -but dust, and dust is easy to lay”—and he took a great pull from a -bumper beside him. -</p> - -<p> -He drank brandy-and-water with his meat. “’Tis this country appetite,” -he would say. “Violent diseases need violent remedies;” but by-and-by -he would take his share of the port and madeira with the rest. Now he -looked across the table to a little shy lady, and, says he, but -speaking in very bad French, “Mademoiselle the princess, as I -dissipate myself of this shadow, so may you as readily of that that -magnifies itself to the eyes of madame the countess.” -</p> - -<p> -He opened his own eyes as he spoke, comically, to imply some imaginary -vision of terror. He was very proud of these orbs, that were large and -liquid. Indeed, he never allowed the well that replenished them to run -dry. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Est-ce bien possible</i>! fie, then, Mr Sherree-den!” put in a very -little voice—not of the lady addressed—from farther down the table. -“But mademoiselle takes water with her wine.” -</p> - -<p> -Madame tapped on her plate with her fan, uttering an exclamation of -reproval. But the gentleman only laughed again. -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Rogue, Miss Pamela,” said he, being by this time secure of his -priming, “I will compliment you and your wit on making a very pretty -couple.” -</p> - -<p> -“We are twins,” said the girl saucily. “We were found together on a -doorstep.” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Tais-toi, coquine</i>!” cried madame sharply. “The pair of you had been -well committed to the Foundling.” -</p> - -<p> -She treated with vast indulgence generally this pretty child of her -adoption. It seemed only that this particular subject was fraught with -alarm to her. By-and-by, when the queer meal was ended (there had been -present at it, besides the ladies and Mr Sheridan, three silent -Bœotians—<i>concordia discors</i>: practical scientists attached to the -household, and now admitted, <i>à l’Egalité</i>, to a share in its social -rites), madame conducted her guest to her boudoir over the front -porch, and opened upon him with the matter momentarily nearest her -heart. -</p> - -<p> -“Does it magnify itself to my eyes, this—the shadow of the tower?” -she said. “I do not know. It was not so at Barse, where we arrive -first; but heere—heere! The place oppresses me. Its antiquity is a -rebuke to the frothy dynasties. Every whisper is from a ghost of the -past bidding us of the new mode to begone. We are hated, tracked, and -watched. I see faces behind trees; I heere mutterings through the -walls. What have we to do in this haunted town?” -</p> - -<p> -“It is the burying-place of kings,” said Mr Sheridan. “It should be to -your taste.” -</p> - -<p> -Madame la comtesse had no echo for levity. She seemed quite genuinely -agitated. Her trick (pronounced eternal by one that detested her) of -advertising the beauty of her hand and arm by toying, while she -conversed, with a fillet of packthread, as if it were a harp string, -was exchanged now for an incessant nervous handling of a little -miniature Bastille, carved from a fallen stone of the original, that -hung upon her bosom. Her face—pretty yet, though narrowing down to an -over-small chin—seemed even yellow, drawn, and affrayed. This -appearance was partly due, no doubt, to the fact that she wore no -rouge. She had once made a vow to quit its use at the age of thirty, -and now at forty-five she was yet true to her word. Indeed, she was -the very <i>dévote</i> of Minerva-worship. -</p> - -<p> -She sighed, “That I, whom Nature intended for the cloister, should -have to fight always against the snares and the wickedness! I sink. -Was there evaire the time when my flesh not preek to the fright? Oh -yes, once when I was vain! It is vanity that make the good <i>armure</i>. I -had no thought but levity when I marry M. de Genlis—and afterwards -during the years of Passy, of Villers-Cotterets, of the Rue de -Richelieu! Then I have no fear of the morrow; I have no fear at all -but of the too-ardent lover.” -</p> - -<p> -“It must have been an ever-present fear,” said Mr Sheridan gravely. -</p> - -<p> -She shook her head with hardly a laugh. -</p> - -<p> -“I am an old sad woman; my <i>armure</i> is crumbled from me. I play now -only one part—in those times it was many. From Cupid to a -<i>cuisinière</i>, I had the gift to make each character appear natural; -to present it, nevairtheless, of the most charming grace. I was adored -and adorable; but it was vanity. I would not exchange the present for -the past. I could perform on seven, eight instruments, monsieur; I -could dance to shame the unapproachable Vestris; I knew Corneille by -heart; Mirabeau himself was not cleverer in organising a comedy for -the living, than I for the artificial, stage. My <i>rôle</i> was to -promote the healthy condition of amiability, to teach people how to be -happy though innocent. That <i>rôle</i> yet remains to me; the rest is -gone. When vanity has taught its lesson the pupil may become teacher. -I leave since many years the theatre of emotions for the theatre of -life. It would be good for some of your countrywomen to follow my -example. When I sink of your Congreve, your Vanbrugh, and of the young -ladies at Barse that listen wisout a blush, <i>eh bien, on peut espérer -que l’habit ne fait pas le moine</i>!” -</p> - -<p> -“Faith, it’s horrible!” said Mr Sheridan; and he remembered how -assiduously madame and her charges had frequented the theatres during -their two months’ stay at that questionable watering-place before they -came to Bury. -</p> - -<p> -“But the morals of ‘Belle Chasse’ have not penetrated to England,” -says he, with a little roguish bow to the lady. -</p> - -<p> -Madame uttered a self-indulgent sigh. She looked round on the frippery -of fancy-work—moss-baskets, appliqué embroidery, wax flowers, -illustrations of science in the shape of tiny trees formed from lead -precipitate, illustrations of art in the collections of little moony -landscapes engraved on smoked cards, illustrations of practical -mechanics in the binding of a sticky volume or so—that lay about the -room. These were all so many evidences of her system—instruction in -the pleasant gardens of manual toil. She was possessed of the little -knowledge of a hundred little crafts. She could have written a ‘Girl’s -Own Book’ without the help of one collaborator. -</p> - -<p> -“I have eschewed all the frivolity,” she said. “It is only now that I -desire for others to taste sweetly of the fruits of my experience. I -am like a nun wishing to dictate the high morality from her cell. The -world passes before my window in review, and I applaud or condemn. Is -it that I am to be accused of self-interest, of intrigue, because I -would convert my hard-wrung knowledge to the profit of my fellows? Yet -they pursue me with hate and menace. My reputation is the sport of -calumny; my life hangs by a thread. I write to monseigneur, and he -aggravates, while seeking to allay, my fears. I write to M. Fox, and -he laugh politely in my face. My friends heere, that I thought, turn -against me—Sir Gage; Madame Young, also, that is prejudice of that -Mees Burrnee you all love so. And she is a tower of strength, the -little Fannee—oh yes! but steef, like the tower there. That is the -same wis you all. One must evaire conform to your tradeetions or you -look asquint.” -</p> - -<p> -“I think you exaggerate the danger,” said Mr Sheridan soberly. “But -whatever it be, here am I come down from London to your counsel and -command.” -</p> - -<p> -Madame rose from her seat and rested her long fingers caressingly on -the speaker’s shoulder. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Mon chevalier, mon très cher ami</i>,” she said, some real emotion in -her voice, “forrgeeve me. It would be good of you at any time; but -now, now! The pretty bird, the sweet <i>rossignol</i>, that cried into the -night and was hearkened of an angel! Ah! she has no longer of the -desolation of the song that must hush itself weeping upon the heart!” -</p> - -<p> -She pressed her other hand to her bosom. Her companion leaned down a -moment, his fingers shading his eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“The desolation!” he muttered. “Yes, yes; but for us now there is a -deeper silence in the woods.” -</p> - -<p> -They spoke of his wife, who had died but a few months previously. -Perhaps the great man had been as faithful to her as it was the -fashion for men, great and little, to be in those days to their -partners. At any rate, he had loved her to the end—in his own way. <i>A -propos</i> of which it may be recorded as richly characteristic of him -how, while this same wife lay a-dying, he had been known to ease his -heart of sorrow by scribbling verses to Pamela (then living in Bath), -in whose beauty he had found, or professed to find, a reflection of -his Delia’s old-time fairness. -</p> - -<p> -Now, fortuitously, the little sentimental passage was put an abrupt -end to; for, as she leaned, madame all of a sudden started violently -and uttered a staccato shriek. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Le voilà</i>, the <i>triste</i> dark stranger! He come again; he come -always! You tell me now there is no purrepus in this devilish -haunting?” -</p> - -<p> -She retreated, backing into the room, shrinking without the malignant -focus of any stealthy glance directed at her from the road outside. Mr -Sheridan jumped to his feet and looked from the window. Strolling past -in the sunlight, with an air of studied preoccupation upon his face, -strolled a melancholy young man of enigmatical aspect. -</p> - -<p> -Madame, withdrawn into the shade of a screen, stood panting -hysterically. -</p> - -<p> -“It is evaire so. He come by morning and by noon—thus, hurrying not -at all, but watchful, watchful from the blinkers of his eyes. Why am I -so hated and pursued? Is he agent of M. de Liancourt, do you think? -Ah! but it is worthy of a runagate so to war on a woman.” -</p> - -<p> -She squealed out in a sudden nerve-panic to hear her companion laugh. -He ran to the door of the room. -</p> - -<p> -“Faith!” he cried jovially, “I’m in the way to resolve this riddle at -least,” and he pulled at the handle and vanished. -</p> - -<p> -She cried after him to come back—not to leave her alone—that she -would lose her reason were anything to happen to him. His descending -heels clattered an only reply. Then at a thought she ran to the window -and peeped from the covert of curtains. The stranger was wheeled about -at the moment and returning as he had come. She saw Mr Sheridan run -forth bareheaded, accost, and seize him by both of his hands. He -seemed to return the greeting; he—— -</p> - -<p> -Madame the countess sank into a chair, as mentally paralysed as though -the end were upon her. -</p> - -<p> -Her chevalier was conducting the spy to the door of the house. -</p> - - -<h3 id="b2ch03"> -CHAPTER III. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">A much-stricken</span> young gentleman—very undeservedly released from the -onus of a social embarrassment for which he was alone -responsible—stood gravely bowing before the lady of the house. His -face was quite white. -</p> - -<p> -“I am vastly pleased,” said Mr Sheridan, “to be the means of -presenting to madame the Countess of Genlis a neighbour, the Lord -Viscount Murk. I have the honour of a slight acquaintance with his -lordship. I was even more intimate with his predecessor in the title. -But at least I can disabuse madame’s mind——” -</p> - -<p> -Madame, who up to the moment had seemed half-amort, rose hurriedly all -at once and swept her stranger a magnificent courtsey. -</p> - -<p> -“I feel already that I have known monsieur for years,” she said, hard -winter in her voice. -</p> - -<p> -Mr Sheridan burst out laughing. -</p> - -<p> -“Come, come,” he cried, “a mistake isn’t malice. There was never one -yet that sinned against nature. Zounds, madame, when the respite -arrives, we bear no grudge against the executioner! I can vouch for my -lord that he had no thought of offending.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned looked enormously amazed. -</p> - -<p> -“None whatever,” he said. “Why should I, when I have not even the -honour of madame’s acquaintance?” -</p> - -<p> -This was certainly ambiguous. Mr Sheridan laughed again like a very -groundling. -</p> - -<p> -“Without affront,” said he, “let me ask your lordship a question. Why -have you haunted madame, who is plaguily afeared of ghosts?” -</p> - -<p> -“Haunted!” exclaimed Ned. -</p> - -<p> -“Haunted,” replied the other. “Or is it, perhaps, one of madame’s -sacred charges that is the object of your visitations?” -</p> - -<p> -Madame de Genlis, who included in her <i>répertoire</i> of accomplishments -the art of reading character, here, after gazing intently at the young -man a few moments, permitted herself an immediate relaxation from -severity to the most charming indulgence. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Dieu du ciel</i>!” she cried. “What an old, old, foolish woman! It is -nussing, monsieur. I see you pass and come back, and come again one -hundred time like a ’ope-goblin, and I sink—I sink—ah! no matter -what I sink. I not know you less than nobody—not until Mr Sherree-den -come and espy you and say, ‘Do not fear thees poor eenocent.’ And now -I see it is not the old woman that attracts.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned was by this up to the ears in a very slough of self-consciousness. -To stand detected before the authority he had manœuvred to -hoodwink!—so much of the innuendo he understood. For the first time, -perhaps, he realised how, in lending himself to some traditional -tactics, he had advertised himself of the common clay. He felt very -hot, and a little angry; and his anger whipped his sense of personal -dignity to a cream-like stiffness. -</p> - -<p> -He was sorry, he said, he had been the cause of the least uneasiness -to madame la comtesse. He was a man of a rambling disposition—of a -peripatetic philosophy. Often, he had no doubt, absorbed in some train -of reflection, he would unconsciously haunt a locality that, -associating itself with the prolegomena of his meditations, would seem -to supply the atmosphere most conducive to their regular progression. -He—— -</p> - -<p> -And here the door opened, and a young lady ran into the room. -</p> - -<p> -“A thousand pardons!” cried this young person. She did not know madame -was engaged other than with Mr Sheridan, and he counted for nothing. -But mademoiselle and she were learning to make artificial -birds’-nests, with painted sugarplums for the eggs, and they looked to -madame la gouvernante to advise them. -</p> - -<p> -She curtseyed to my lord, with a little pert toss of her head like a -wind-blown Iceland poppy-flower, when he was made known to her. She -had no recollection of him, it was evident. All that play he had -rehearsed to himself, according to fifty different readings, of the -return of the red heels to their owner, became impossible of -performance the moment he found his audience a reality. There and then -he foresaw, and prepared himself heroically to meet, his martyrdom. -</p> - -<p class="spacer"> -* * * * * * * * -</p> - -<p> -Now all the glory and tragedy of Ned’s life came to crowd themselves -into a few months—into a few days, indeed, so far as his connection -with the strange household at Bury was concerned. Herein—no less on -account of his magnetic leaning towards a bright particular star, than -because he had made his <i>entrée</i> under the ægis of Mr Sheridan—he -was accepted and discussed; pitied by some unsophisticated young -hearts; weighed in the balance of a maturer brain, and found, perhaps, -deficient. -</p> - -<p> -“He has the grand air,” said madame; “he is noble and sedate, and of -amiable principles. But—<i>hélas</i>! <i>à quoi sert tout cela</i>—if one so -gives effect to the gospel of distribution as to deprive oneself of -the means to honourably perpetuate one’s race!” -</p> - -<p> -“I have always admired madame’s little ornament of the Bastille,” said -Mr Sheridan. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah!” cried the lady, smiling, “monsieur is varee arch; but beauty is -not the common property, and the little Pamela shall ask a fair return -for hers.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” said Mr Sheridan, “’tis notorious that Damon hath squandered -his inheritance on a very virtuous hobby, and lives meanly in the -result. And that, be assured, is a pity; for he seems a young -gentleman of parts.” -</p> - -<p> -It was thus he played the devil’s advocate to Ned’s beatification. -Early he began to harp upon the one string behind the poor fellow’s -back. He professed to be in love with Pamela himself, and the -intrusion of this most serious suitor interfered with his amusement. -He trifled, no doubt, in a very July mood; he loved the girl for her -prettiness and her saucy manner of speech; he was humorously flattered -by the familiar deference accorded him in a house of which he was -claimed the dear friend and protector. And on this account, and -because he was nothing if not unscrupulous in affairs of gallantry, he -condescended to acknowledge himself Ned’s rival for the favour of -Mademoiselle, <i>née</i> Sims (that was Pamela), and to make good his suit -with arguments of wit and brilliancy that threw poor Damon’s solid -virtues into the shade. -</p> - -<p> -Perhaps Madame de Genlis may have been the more inclined to besprinkle -with cold water the ardour of the young lord, in that she took the -other with a rather confounding seriousness. Mr Sheridan, indeed, -offered himself at this period a particularly desirable match for a -nameless young woman of inconsiderable fortune. He was only a little -past the zenith of his reputation, and the glamour of his best work -yet went always, an atmosphere of greatness, with him. At forty-one -years of age he was equipped with such a personality of wit, -eloquence, and riches (presumable) in proportion, as, combined, made -him a very alluring parti. In addition to this he could claim the -advantages of a tall, well-proportioned figure; of a striking, though -not handsome, face; of an education in the most liberal modishness of -the age. His expression was frank, his manner cordial and free from -arrogance. From first to last he was a formidable rival. -</p> - -<p> -Now, on the very day (the little comedy was all a matter of days) -following Ned’s introduction by him to the family, he—seeing how the -wind blew, and at once regretting his complaisance—began some petty -tactics for the stultifying of a possible antagonist. He drove the -ladies, uninvited, over to lunch at “Stowling,” on the chance of -taking Master Ned unawares, and so of exposing the intrinsic poverty -of a specious wooer. Nor was his astuteness miscalculated. My Lord -Viscount, in the act of sitting down to a mutton-chop, was overwhelmed -in fathomless waters of confusion. He hastily organised—even -personally commanded—a raid on the larders; but their yield was -inadequate to the occasion. -</p> - -<p> -He apologised with desperate dignity. A merry enough meal ensued; but, -throughout, hatred of his own self-sacrificing principles dwelt in him -like a jaundice, and he could have pronounced fearful anathema on all -the fools of philanthropy who omitted to stock their cellars with -nectar and ambrosia against the casual coming of angels. -</p> - -<p> -Mr Sheridan supplied a feast of wit, however, and Ned was grateful to -him for it. He even revived so far at the end as to beg the honour of -providing the ladies with invitations to an Assembly ball that was to -be holden in Bury on the Thursday of that same week. Rather to his -surprise they accepted with alacrity; and so the matter was arranged. -And then, at Mr Sheridan’s request, but unwillingly, he played -cicerone to his own domain, and thought at every turn he recognised a -conscious pity for his indigent condition to underlie the fair -compliments of his guests. -</p> - -<p> -When these were gone he sent straightway for his steward, and -surprised the good man by an extraordinary jeremiad on the -maladministration of a trust that fattened the dependants of a -starving lord. He himself, he said, was expected to dress like a -bagman and feed like a kennel-scraper, in order that his household -might gorge itself disgustingly in silken raiment. He would have -reforms; he would have money; he would have the house victualled as -for a siege, and grind the faces of the poor did they question his -right to drink, like Cleopatra, of dissolved pearls. And then he burst -out laughing, and shook the honest man by the hand, and turned him out -of the room; after which he sat down by the window and gnawed his -thumb-nails. -</p> - -<p> -Now, it will be understood, this unfortunate youth was fairly in the -grip of that demoralising but evasive demon that is the sworn foe to -philosophy. He was entered of the amorous germ; and the procreative -atom, multiplying, was with amazing quickness to convert to misuse all -the sound humours of his constitution. He could not seek to exercise a -normal faculty, but it confused and routed what he had always -recognised for the plain logic of existence. He was ready to discount -facts; to magnify trifles; to attach an unwarranted significance to -specious vacuities; to fathom a deep meaning with the very plumb he -used for the sounding of a shallow artifice. Sometimes, in a -recrudescence of reason, he would think, like any calm-souled -rationalist, to analyse his own symptoms, to annotate the course of -his disease for the benefit of future victims to a like morbosity. It -was of no use. His moral vision was so out of focus as to distort to -him not only his present condition, but all the processes that had -conduced thereto. He was humiliated; and he writhed under, and gloried -in, his humiliation. To him, as to many in like circumstance, it -seemed preposterous that he should have come unscathed through many -battles to be outfenced by a child with a sword of lath. So feels the -warrior of a hundred fights when he is “run in” by a street constable -for brawling. -</p> - -<p> -Ned dressed for the ball with particular care. He was to constitute -himself of madame’s party, and for that purpose had engaged to dine -with it before the event. The meal was a desultory one, the ladies’ -toilettes serving as excuse for an unpunctuality that was generally -opposed to the principles of la gouvernante. But, one by one, all took -their places at the table—Mademoiselle d’Orléans, in a fine-powdered -head-dress, having a single feather in it like a cockade, and with her -little plaintive rabbit eyes looking from a soft mist of fur; Pamela, -sweet and roguish, wearing her own brown curls filleted with a double -ribbon of yellow; and Mademoiselle Sercey, another young relative of -madame’s, and an inconsiderable item of the household at Bury. There -were also accommodated with places three or four of the Bœotians -before referred to—silent, awkward men, painfully conscious of their -quasi-elevation, who sat below the salt and talked together in -whispers. -</p> - -<p> -Mr Sheridan came in late. He had compromised with his grief so far as -to exchange his black stockings for white, and to wear a diamond -brooch in his breast linen. His hair was powdered and tied into a -black ribbon. Ned must acknowledge to himself that he looked a very -engaging gentleman. -</p> - -<p> -He sparkled with fun and frolic, and he fed the sparkle liberally from -the long glass that stood beside him. -</p> - -<p> -“Mademoiselle,” he said to the princess, “your hair is very pretty. -Love hath nested in it, and is hidden all but his wing. But is it not -ill-manners to keep him whispering into your ear in company?” -</p> - -<p> -“He talk only of the folly of flattery, monsieur,” said the little -lady, simpering and bashful. -</p> - -<p> -“A ruse,” cried the other, “that he learned when he played the monk. -Beware of him most when he preaches.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mademoiselle is told to beware of you, monsieur,” said Pamela to a -gravely ecstatic young gentleman who sat next to her. -</p> - -<p> -“Of me?” -</p> - -<p> -“Are you not then the monk, the airmeet; and is it not mademoiselle’s -ear you seek?” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” said Ned brusquely. -</p> - -<p> -He looked at the pretty insolent face, at the toss of brown curls, the -little straight saucy nose, the lowered lids. He thought he had never -seen anything so wonderful and so fair as this human flower. The neck -of her frock was cut down to a point. She seemed the very bud of white -womanhood breaking from its sheath. -</p> - -<p> -Did she gauge the admiration of his soul? He was not a boisterous -wooer or a talkative. For days he had purposed lightening the -conscious gravity of his suit by “springing” her lost heels upon his -inamorata. He could never, however, make up his mind as to the right -wisdom of the course. A dozen considerations kept him undecided—as to -the possibility of giving offence, of appearing a buffoon, of failing, -out of the depths of his infatuation, to introduce into the conduct of -the jest a necessary barm of gaiety. Without this, how little might -the result justify the venture? It was an anxious dilemma. The thought -of it threw into the shade all questions of a merely national -character in which he had once taken an interest; and, in the -meantime, he continued to carry the ridiculous baubles about in his -pocket. -</p> - -<p> -Now, is it not one of Love’s ironies to depress a wooer by the very -circumstance that should exalt him; to make him so fearful of his own -inadequacy as that he seeks to stultify in himself the very qualities -that Nature has amiably gifted him withal? Thus Ned, naturally a quite -lovable youth when he had no thought of love, was no sooner come under -its spell than he was moved to forego that pretty, self-confident -deportment, that was his particular charm, for an uncommunicative -diffidence that appeared to present him as a hobbledehoy. He lived in -the constant dread, indeed, of procuring his own discomfiture by an -assumption of assurance. -</p> - -<p> -“You know it is not,” he said—daring greatly, as it seemed to him. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>I</i> know, monsieur!” -</p> - -<p> -The blue eyes were lifted a moment to his. Perhaps they recognised a -latency of meaning in the gaze they encountered. Madame de Genlis had -once summed up the character of this sweet <i>protégée</i> of hers. -“Idle, witty, vivacious,” she called her; a person the least capable -of reflection. Idle, without doubt, she was, in the nursery-maid’s -acceptance of the term—a child full of caprice and mischief. -</p> - -<p> -“Sure, sir,” she added, with a sudden thrilling demureness, “you must -know <i>me</i> for a low-born maid?” -</p> - -<p> -She was a little startled into the half-conscious naïveté by the -dumb demand of the look fastened upon her. Besides, she was certainly -moved—in despite of <i>mère-adoptive</i> and some significant warnings -received from her—by the submission to her thrall of a seigneur whose -ancient nobility no present penury could impeach. -</p> - -<p> -But she had no sooner spoken than she recollected herself. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you think me like Mademoiselle d’Orléans?” she said, hurriedly -stopping one question with another. “It is some that say we might be -<i>sœurs consanguines</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -What did the child mean? Had she any secret theory as to her own -origin; and, if so, was she subtly intent upon discounting her first -avowal? She may have wished to imply that no real necessity was for -her self-depreciation. She may have wished only to divert the course -of her neighbour’s thoughts. He was about to answer in some -astonishment, ridiculing the suggestion, when Mr Sheridan hailed -Pamela from his place opposite. -</p> - -<p> -“A nosegay!” he cried, tapping his own flushed cheek in illustration. -“Give me a rose to wear for a favour.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is easy,” said the girl. Her eyes sparkled. She turned to a -servant. “Go, fetch for Mr Sherree-den my rouge in the little box,” -she said. -</p> - -<p> -“Fie, then, naughty child!” cried madame; “it merits you rather to -receive the little box on the ear.” But the great orator chuckled with -laughter. -</p> - -<p> -“Pigwidgeon, pigwidgeon!” he said, nodding his head at the culprit. -“Not for youth and health are rouge and enamel, and all the vestments -of vanity.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not eiser for youth or age,” said madame severely. -</p> - -<p> -“But only for ugliness,” said Sheridan. -</p> - -<p> -“No,” said madame—“nor for zat. It is all immoral.” -</p> - -<p> -“Immoral!” he cried; “immoral to put a good face on misfortune!” He -looked only across the table, over the brim of his glass, when he had -uttered his <i>mot</i>. He delighted to make the girl laugh. His own -wonderful eyes would seem to ripple with merriment when he saw the -light of glee spring forward in hers. Pigwidgeon he called her, and -she answered to the name with all the sprightliness it expressed. -</p> - -<p> -“Pigwidgeon,” says he, “when you come to the age of crow’s foot, you -shall know ’tis a lying proverb that preacheth what’s done cannot be -undone, or, as a pedantic fellow writes it, ‘what cannot be repaired -is not to be regretted.’” -</p> - -<p> -“And it is vary true,” says madame stiffly—“whosoever the pedant.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” says Sheridan, “’twas no other than him that writ ‘Rasselas’; -for which work let us hope that God by this time hath damned him—with -faint praise.” -</p> - -<p> -He checked himself immediately. -</p> - -<p> -“That were better left unnoticed,” says he, with great soberness; -“’tis only the fool that uses the sacred name in flippancy.” -</p> - -<p> -He fell suddenly quiet, and a momentary surprised silence depressed -the company. It did not last long. All were shortly in a final bustle -of preparation for the ball. The ladies were bowed, the Bœotians -melted, from the room. The two gentlemen were left to their wine; the -elder’s eyes twinkled back the ruddy glow of the decanters. -</p> - -<p> -“Come, my lord,” says he, “you are staid company, I vow. A toast or -two before we leave the table.” -</p> - -<p> -“‘Here’s to the widow of fifty!’” cries Ned, adapting from the great -man himself, and raising his glass. -</p> - -<p> -The other laughed. -</p> - -<p> -“I drink her,” he said. “A full bumper to Mrs Sims!” -</p> - -<p> -“’Twas Madame de Genlis I meant.” -</p> - -<p> -“And I meant the mother of Pamela.” -</p> - -<p> -“You take it so, then?” -</p> - -<p> -“I take the child, at least,” said Sheridan evasively, “to be ‘the -queen of curds and cream.’” -</p> - -<p> -Ned was, of course, not ignorant of the scandal attaching to this -little waif of royalty. It made no difference in his regard for her, -though perhaps the other wished it might. Mr Sheridan, maybe, had shot -a tiny bolt of jealousy—a tentative hint as to the vulgar origin of -the pigwidgeon. It missed fire, and that gave him a thrill of -annoyance. He was conscious of some actual resentment against this -solemn suitor who had come into his field of enamoured observation. He -did not fear him; but he wished him out of the way, that he might -flirt in peace. At the same time he may have possibly undervalued the -determination of his reticent adversary. -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” said Ned, “here’s to the mother of Pamela, whoever she be!” -</p> - -<p> -“With all my heart,” cried Sheridan, “and to the father, by the same -token.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned turned his calm eyes so as to look into the injected orbs of his -companion. -</p> - -<p> -“What manner of presence hath monsieur the Duke of Orleans?” said he; -“it was never my fortune to happen on him in Paris.” -</p> - -<p> -“He is a friend of mine, sir,” said Sheridan. “From what point of view -am I to describe him? His enemies—of whom there are many in -England—say that the fruit of evil buds in his face. Egad! I was near -seeing it break into flower once. ’Twas at Vauxhall, when the company -turned him its back. He would have thought like a Caligula then, I -warrant. A prince, sir, something superior to the worst in him, which -is all that men will recognise.” -</p> - -<p> -“But his personal appearance?” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -The other returned the young man’s gaze with a thought of insolence. -</p> - -<p> -“Am I to smoke you?” he said. “Mademoiselle d’Orléans is a little -like her father in expression; but our Pamela is not at all like -Mademoiselle d’Orléans.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned came to an immediate resolution. -</p> - -<p> -“Mr Sheridan,” said he, “I would crave your indulgence for a word in -season. You have advantages in this house that are not mine. You are a -great person and a welcome guest, while I am only here—I know it—on -sufferance. You may turn your exceptional position to the profit of -your amusement. If it is to do no more, it is asking you little to beg -you to forego so trifling a sport. If you are serious, then let us, in -Heaven’s name, come to a candid understanding.” -</p> - -<p> -He set his lips to suppress any show of emotion. But he was moved, and -it was not for the other, however dumfoundered, to put a jesting -construction on the fact. -</p> - -<p> -“My lord,” said he, pretty coldly, though his words seemed to belie -the tone in which they were spoken, “it would ill beseem a feeling -heart at any juncture—mine, particularly, at the present—to refuse -its sympathy to an appeal of so nice a nature. I will not pretend to -misapprehend your lordship, nor will I fail to respond in kind to your -lordship’s frankness.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then you relieve me of the awkward necessity of an explanation,” said -Ned. “Heaven knows, there is no question of any right of mine to fall -foul of your attitude towards one who may be your debtor for fifty -benefactions. Heaven knows, also, that I never intended to imply that -my most humble suit towards a certain lady was conditional on any -information I might receive as to her actual parentage. Born in honour -or out of it—I tell you, sir, so far as she is concerned, ’tis all -one to me. I speak straight to the point. You may claim priority of -acquaintance; you may be able to advance twenty reasons why my taking -you to task is an impertinence. Yet, when all is said—if you are not -serious, it is just that you should yield the situation to one who -is.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr Sheridan had sat through all this, twirling his glass with a rather -lowering smile on his face. -</p> - -<p> -“Yield the situation!” he said; “but you take me by the throat, sir. I -must assure you there is no situation of my contriving.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed,” said Ned, “I am rejoiced to hear you say so, and do desire -to convince you that I find nothing more than a very engaging -playfulness in your treatment of the young lady.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then, why the plague,” said Mr Sheridan, opening his eyes, “all this -exception to my attitude?” -</p> - -<p> -“Because you choose—let me be plain, sir—to constitute yourself my -rival in her favour.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr Sheridan exploded into irrepressible laughter. -</p> - -<p> -“Zounds!” he cried; “here, if I will not be something other than -myself, I shall have my throat cut.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is it,” said Ned firmly—“pardon me, sir—is it to be other than -yourself to refrain from indulging a whim that is obviously another -man’s distress?” -</p> - -<p> -“My lord,” said Mr Sheridan, twinkling into sudden gravity and -replenishing his glass, “this aspect of the case is such a one as I -really had not considered. But let me assure you that you were one of -the direct causes of my coming down here at all.” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>I</i>?” -</p> - -<p> -“You, most certainly.” (He crossed his arms on the table and leaned -forward.) “Madame, by her own assertion, was being watched and -shadowed. She claimed the protection of our laws. She appealed to our -Government in the person of Mr Fox. The gracious office of succouring -the afflicted he deputed to me. I hurried down to Bury St Edmunds, and -the first suspicious character pointed out to me was my Lord Viscount -Murk.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ridiculous!” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course. But the situation, you see, is none of my handling.” -</p> - -<p> -He drank down his glassful, and fell suddenly grave. -</p> - -<p> -“I have no wish, <i>nec cupias nec metuas</i>, to constitute myself your -rival. This mourning suit, my lord, is of a recent cut.” -</p> - -<p> -His tone was so dignified, the illusion so sorrowfully significant, -that Ned was smitten in a moment. How were his ears startled then to -hear a rallying laugh for anticlimax! -</p> - -<p> -“My dear fellow, believe me, I am not of those who imagine a bond in -every light exchange of glances. My dear fellow, all we who are not -Turks are shareholders in a woman’s beauty. There may be a managing -director who has the right to a more intimate knowledge of it: what -care we who speculate in the open market, so long as it flatters us -with the soundness of our investment! We draw the interest without -responsibility, and are always ready to commit the conduct of the -business to him that hath the acknowledged right to control it.” -</p> - -<p> -He got to his feet. -</p> - -<p> -“Hush!” he said; “we are summoned. Elect yourself to be this managing -director if you will. I am quite content to rest, drawing my modest -dividend that you have no right to begrudge me.” -</p> - -<p class="spacer"> -* * * * * * * * -</p> - -<p> -The advent of so distinguished a party in the assembly rooms created -quite a little furore of excitement amongst the honest burgesses of -Bury. My lord, the reserved and almost inaccessible; the illustrious -parliamentarian, whose very presence seemed to secure to all in the -place a sort of reversionary interest in those glories of Carlton -House with which he was notoriously familiar; the little stranger -princess, whose sojourn in the remote English town was so eloquent of -the tragedy that even then was threatening to foreclose upon her -house—these were the nucleus of such a coruscation of stars of the -first magnitude as had never, within living memory, added its lustre -to the congregated social lights of the borough. -</p> - -<p> -But when madame la comtesse, adapting her conduct of the expedition to -those principles of which she was the present representative, -permitted her royal young charge the unconventional licence of dancing -with any and all who had the high good fortune to procure themselves -an introduction to her, local opinion underwent a gradual -transformation that culminated, it is to be feared, in actual -scandalisation. -</p> - -<p> -“It transcends,” was the pronunciation, in a deep voice, of Mrs -Prodmore. “Anything so unblushingly shameless I had not dreamed could -be. I protest we are threatened with a Gomorrah.” -</p> - -<p> -She was so very <i>décolletée</i> as to figure for the type of -self-renunciation offering to strip itself of all that it possessed. -That was much, and much in little, yet much in evidence. Her -bodice—what there was of it—was sewn with gems. Indeed, her judgment -of the new-comers may have been tainted by the fact that madame had -declined to be introduced to her—to her, the richest woman in the -room. She was already fat, yet she swelled with righteousness. She -suggested a little a meat pudding bulging from its basin. -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps,” said timid Mrs Lawless, whom she addressed, “the French -adhere to a standard of propriety that is only different from ours in -degree. She may not mean any harm.” -</p> - -<p> -She spoke with anxious diffidence, conscious of the fact that at that -very moment her son, Squire Bob Lawless, was dancing with Pamela. -</p> - -<p> -“Thank you, ma’am,” said Mrs Prodmore loftily, “but whether she means -harm or not, I prefer, with my traditions, to consider such behaviour -an outrage. Ignorance does not condone indelicacy.” -</p> - -<p> -In the meanwhile, the dance having come to an end, Pamela and her -partner were strolled to within earshot of a saturnine young gentleman -who stood glowering in a corner. -</p> - -<p> -“Ecod!” Mr Lawless was saying, “’twas the finest sport, miss. Two -broke collar-bones and a splintered wrist, and all for the sake of -experiment, as you might call it.” -</p> - -<p> -Pamela looked up with her soft eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“It is cruel,” she said. “I do not like fox-hunting at all—so many -giants riding down the one little poor pigmy.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why,” said the other, in a surprised voice, “you’re wilful, miss. -Wasn’t the point of it all that ’twas nought but a <i>drag</i> hunt?” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Comment</i>?” said Pamela. -</p> - -<p> -“With a herring,” explained the squire. -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” said Pamela, “that is just as cruel to the herring.” -</p> - -<p> -She turned round on the instant to the sound of a little explosion of -laughter. -</p> - -<p> -“My lord!” she exclaimed. -</p> - -<p> -She dropped her companion’s arm; bowed graciously to him. -</p> - -<p> -“I commit myself to this escort,” she said. “A thousand thanks for the -dance, monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -Poor Nimrod had no choice but to accept his dismissal. He had crowed -over his fellow-squireens. He must come down now, a humbled cockerel. -He walked away sulkily enough. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur,” said Pamela to Ned, “I am glad to have amused you.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is for the first time this evening,” said his lordship grimly. -</p> - -<p> -She was beginning, in a little sputter of fire, “And pray what right -have you——” when the expression in his face stopped her. A woman, no -doubt, has some spiritual probe for testing the presence of love, as a -butterfly feels for honey in a flower. -</p> - -<p> -“None whatever,” said Ned. “It is my unhappiness.” -</p> - -<p> -She looked at him quite kindly. The sweetest babies of pity sat in the -blue flowers of her eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“Why have you not ask me to dance?” she said. “Poor Pamela is flouted -of all of whom she had the hope to be honoured. You do not desire my -hand; no, nor Mr Sherree-den eiser. ‘I am not to lead you out, <i>ma -chèrie</i>,’ he say. ‘It is because I am ask to drop the sobstance for -the shadow.’ I request of him what he mean. ‘’Tis only the fable of -the dog and the piece of meat,’ says he. ‘And how do that concern -itself of the question?’ I ask. ‘Why,’ he answer, ‘I am the dog and -you are the piece of meat; and that is to say that Pamela is food for -reflection’—and then he laugh, and bid me ask of Monsieur Murk to -interpret me the fable.” -</p> - -<p> -Her voice was full of tenderness and appeal. Ned, despite some emotion -consequent on the mention of his rival, felt as remorseful as if he -had wantonly crushed a rose in which lay a sleeping Cupid. He knew he -had not asked the girl to dance with him, for only the reason that a -morbid sensitiveness impelled him to self-martyrdom—drove his pride -and his jealousy to battle; the one ready to resent that an obvious -preference was not shown by her for him out of all the world, ready -always to fold a wing of pretended indifference over the bleeding -wound in his breast; the other ready, on the least provocation, to -make a shameless confession of the corroding secrets of its inmost -soul. Certainly Providence may be assumed to have its own reason for -constituting a disease to be its highest ethical expression. Truth and -Love! How have these inoculated one another with the virus drawn from -ages of misfaith, till each seems to have become an inextricable -constituent of the common plague of jealousy! -</p> - -<p> -“And am I also the piece of meat to you,” says Mistress Pam, “that you -will have nussing to speak with me?” -</p> - -<p> -“I will not drop you for the shadow, at least,” cries the other -fervently—“no, not as long as I have a tooth in my head!” -</p> - -<p> -So love glorifies bathos. The two stood up together for the next set. -Thenceforth Ned moved on air, breathed all the evening the -intoxicating oxygen of idolatry. The girl alternately flattered and -flouted, wounded and caressed him. He must draw what consolation he -could from the fact that Mr Sheridan at least left him a fair field. -Now and then he would chance upon view of this gentleman, and always -it seemed to him that, as the evening progressed, the convivial face -waxed steadily more rubicund, the fine eyes more unspeculative. -</p> - -<p> -Once the party came together over the refreshment trays—the -sweetmeats and negus that preceded the final break-up. -</p> - -<p> -“Do not eat so much cake, child,” says madame la gouvernante to -Pamela. “It will lie heavy on your chest.” -</p> - -<p> -“Happy cake!” murmurs Sheridan, so that the ladies might not hear him. -</p> - -<p> -But my lord did; and he might have been moved to some resentment had -it not been for the other’s obvious condition. -</p> - -<p> -Ned, after parting from the ladies, would walk his long mile home by -the solitary echoing road. He needed loneliness; he needed the -illimitable graciousness of the open world. Within those shining -walls, it seemed to him, he had not been able to think collectedly. -</p> - -<p> -Whither was he hurrying, and in what perplexity of mission? At one -moment exalted, at another depressed, he could have thought himself -the waif of a destiny in which his reason had no voice. -</p> - -<p> -He looked up at the sky through an overhead tracery of leaves. The -blown branches of trees made a tinsel glitter of the brilliant moon. -Some roadside aspens pattered with phantom rain. A sense of unreality -stole into his mind, half drugging it. The sound of his footsteps was -echoed back from a wall he passed. The echo appeared to double and -redouble upon itself; the footsteps to come thicker, thronging fast -and ever faster, till he fancied an army of shadows must be going by -on the opposite side of the way. His brain grew full of the whisper -and rustle of their march. The spectral noise became accented by the -far clang of voices—the shout across half a world of some vast human -force struggling upon a tide of agony. -</p> - -<p> -The long wall ended. He pulled himself together and shook out the -ghost of a laugh. -</p> - -<p> -Whither? he thought again, as he strode on. To the goal to which his -every desire seemed to be compelling him? But he had no will in the -matter. That had been sapped—snapped—deposed in a moment. He was -nothing but a log, the stump of a mast, in the surf—now rolled upon -the shore, now dragged back and committed to fresh voyagings. His -erect philosophy, that had helped him so long over multitudinous -waters, was become nothing but a broken wastrel of the sea for Fate to -play at pitch-and-toss with. Should he ever again be in the position -to recover and splice it, to set sail and escape from the fog and -welter of the spindrift in which he now tumbled? -</p> - -<p> -As he reached his gates, he looked up once more at the sky. The moon -waded through a stream of cloud. -</p> - -<p> -“She will sink,” he muttered. “Her glitter is already half quenched. -Am I in love, or only sickening for a scarlet fever?” -</p> - - -<h3 id="b2ch04"> -CHAPTER IV. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">Pretty</span> early on the morning after the ball Ned rode over to pay his -respects to, and inquire after the health of, the ladies. None, -apparently, was as yet in evidence; but Mr Sheridan, having -information of his coming, sent down a message inviting him up to his -bedroom; and thither the young gentleman bent his steps, not loath to -avail himself of any excuse for remaining. -</p> - -<p> -He found the <i>viveur</i> of the previous night propped up on his pillows, -a towel round his shaven head, a pencil and paper on the counterpane -before him. At the dressing-table stood a little common man, in a -scratch wig and with a very blue chin, who mixed some powders with -small-beer in a tumbler. -</p> - -<p> -“You won’t thank me for introducing you,” said Sheridan to Ned. -“Monsieur has not <i>le haut rang</i> (spare thy concern), nor any word of -our tongue.” -</p> - -<p> -“Who is he?” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -“My physician.” -</p> - -<p> -“The deuce he is!” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah! I am under the influence here of a democratic atmosphere. No -hand-muffs and silver-headed canes in the economics of Egalité. In -Rome, as Rome. Monsieur is, in fact, a beast-leech attached to the -household to teach mesdemoiselles how to put Pompon’s tail in splints -when it has been caught in the parlour door. He can bleed, rowel, and -drench; shoe a horse, or salt a pig. And, egad! now I think on’t, -there is his right use to me. For, when a man has made a hog of -himself, what better physician does he need than him that hath the -knowledge how to cure bacon?” -</p> - -<p> -Deprecatory of the applause that he waited a moment to secure, he -called over to the little man by the table: “<i>Dépêche-toi, -monsieur</i>! <i>ma gorge est en feu</i>!” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Attendez, monsieur, attendez</i>!” replied the leech in a thin, hoarse -voice: “<i>ayez encore un peu de patience, je vous prie</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -He brought the cup over in a moment. Sheridan sent the liquid hissing -down his throat. He gave a sigh of pleasure. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah!” he said, “small-beer and absolution were invented by the devil -to tempt men to sin for the sake of the ecstasy of relief they bring.” -</p> - -<p> -He looked at Ned, his fevered eyes watering in the strong glare of -sunlight that shot under the half-closed blind. -</p> - -<p> -“You have an enviable complexion, my lord,” said he. “Did you ever, in -all your life, experience the need to dose yourself with so much as a -mug of tar-water?” -</p> - -<p> -Ned laughed. -</p> - -<p> -“I refuse to lend myself to point a moral,” said he. “Palate is a -matter of temperament, and temperament is a cause, not a consequence. -Mr Sheridan may find in wine the very stimulant I borrow from country -air and exercise.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, the country!” said the other, with a groan: “from Tweed to -Channel nothing but the market-garden to London.” -</p> - -<p> -“So you think? And yet you stay on here?” -</p> - -<p> -Mr Sheridan shrugged his shoulders. His face seemed to have fallen -quite sick and peevish. -</p> - -<p> -“By my own wish?” said he. “But at least I scent liberty at last. -Madame (I am abusing no confidence in telling you) contemplates -changing her quarters very shortly.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned was conscious that his heart gave a somersault. -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed?” said he, reining-in his emotion. “And for what others?” -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t say. Monseigneur is, I believe, at Brussels. That is all I -know.” -</p> - -<p> -“And when is the removal to take place?” said Ned sinkingly. -</p> - -<p> -“Faith! it can’t be too soon for me. Madame, the dear creature, hath -‘spy’ writ large upon her brain. Her tremors and her apprehensions -would be ridiculous, were they not tiresome. There is no listening to -reason with her. She is convinced she is surrounded by secret agents -of the royalty she hath provoked. She lives in hourly fear of -assassination for herself, and abduction for her sacred charge. One -day she will do this, another, that; bury herself and hers in the -caves of Staffa; return to the protection of her illustrious -protector. That, I warrant, will be the end o’t. But there is some -difficulty in the way—some imperative necessity, as I understand, -that forewarning of her return be conveyed to monsieur the duke; and -she hath no messenger that she can trust to the task—no prodromos to -signal her approach. So day by day she grows more distraught, until I -know not what to say for counsel or comfort.” -</p> - -<p> -There was some odd quality in the stealth with which he regarded the -young man as he spoke. He saw his words had so far taken effect that -Ned was fallen into a musing fit where he sat by the bed. He was too -finished an artist in practical joking to ruin the promise of a -situation by over-haste. He would drop a suggestion on “kind” soil and -leave it to germinate. He knew that a seed thumbed in too deep is -often choked from sprouting. -</p> - -<p> -So, having deposited his grain, he took means to dismiss his -subject—in the double sense. “Well,” he said, “and that is all that’s -to remark on’t. But I was to have put you twenty questions when I -asked you to come up: as to the ball, and your enjoyment of it; and as -to how far you was satisfied I had held to my share of the compact. -Sir, I claim you responsible at least for the state of my head this -morning.” -</p> - -<p> -He turned over on his pillow with a moan. -</p> - -<p> -“Zounds!” said he, “small-beer, I find, is like small-talk for -deadening one’s faculties. I must commit myself to good Mr Pig-curer, -if I would save my bacon.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned secretly thought this a poor capping of a fairly respectable -witticism. He would have valued the joke even less as a spontaneous -effusion, could he have examined its essays scribbled over the scrap -of paper on which Mr Sheridan had been writing before he entered: -“Physicians and pork-butchers: both cure by killing: like all -butchers, they must kill to cure,” and so on, and so on. -</p> - -<p> -However, he got to his feet immediately and, apologising for his -intrusion, made his adieux and left the invalid to his aching -cogitations. -</p> - -<p> -These were, perhaps, more characteristic than praiseworthy. Mr -Sheridan’s social ethics would always extend a plenary indulgence to -practical joking. It was a practical joke to rid oneself of a rival by -whatever ruse. His ruse had been to grossly misrepresent to madame the -young lord’s financial condition. Quite indefinitely he had succeeded -in investing Ned with the character of a needy adventurer. Local -evidence as to the reckless philanthropy, visual proof of the inner -poverty, of “Stowling,” helped him to the fraud. Madame may have been -ambitious for the child of her adoption; she may have become cognisant -of the fact that a little <i>tendresse</i> was beginning to show itself in -the girl’s attitude towards her grave young suitor; she may have been -anxious only to accommodate herself to the wishes of her distinguished -guest, whom she fervently admired, and upon whom at this juncture she -was greatly dependent for advice and assistance. At any rate, she lent -herself to his plans. The two devised a little plot, of which she was -to be the ingenuous agent, and my lord, the poor viscount, the victim. -Perhaps the understanding between the conspirators was sympathetic -rather than verbal. Of whatever nature it was, a certain method of -procedure was adopted by both—diplomatically to conciliate; -effectively to get rid of. Madame, it must be said, was not attracted -to his lordship. Her volatility recoiled from his solemnity. Conscious -of the most lofty principles, she could never, when in his company, -free herself of the impression that she was being “found out.” She had -a shrewd idea that Ned’s respectful subscription to her opinions was -in the nature of a moral bribe to secure her favourable consideration -of his suit—that secretly he valued her at that cheaper estimate that -<i>she</i> secretly knew represented her real moral solvency. When one has -a grudge against the superior understanding of a person, it is a thing -dear to one’s <i>amour propre</i> to convert that understanding to one’s -own uses. -</p> - -<p> -As Ned descended the stairs, madame came suddenly upon him and, -welcoming him with quite cordial effusion, drew him into a side room. -</p> - -<p> -She hoped he was not fatigued after the late festivities. As for the -members of her own household, they were one and all the victims of a -<i>migraine</i>. (She here looked forth a moment, and issued a sharp order -to some one to close a little door that led from the back hall into -the garden.) Yes, all were enervated—overcome. Mademoiselle was in -bed; Pamela was in bed; Mr Sherree-den was in bed. As for herself, no -such desirable indulgence was possible. A ceaseless vigilance was -entailed upon her. During such moments of relaxation as she permitted -herself, she was constrained to wear a mask of gaiety over the -shocking anxiety of her soul. She was surrounded by menace and -intrigue. There was scarce one she could rely upon—only Mr -Sherree-den, and he could little longer afford to be parted from his -duties. There was not a soul, even, she could entrust at this time -with a letter it was imperative should be conveyed abroad by a -confident hand. She had no hesitation in informing monsieur of its -direction. It was to monseigneur, the father of the young princess, at -present sojourning in Brussels. It was to acquaint monseigneur of the -pitiable anxiety of the refugees, and to beg him to order their return -at once. But it would be necessary for the messenger to back up the -substance of the letter by arguments deduced from a personal knowledge -of the condition of the victims; and who, in all her forlorn state, -could she find meet to so delicate a mission? -</p> - -<p> -She wept; she clasped her hands convulsively; she apostrophised -Heaven. Was this the brilliant, self-confident, rather aggressive -chaperon of the night before? Ned listened in something like -amazement. He could never have misdoubted the obvious suggestion of -her lamentation. As to her sincerity, it is very possible he was -completely duped. He was not at all in the plot against himself; and -madame had been a notable actress from the days when, at eleven years -old, she played the title part in Racine’s <i>Iphigénie en Aulide</i>. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah, monsieur!” cried she; “but the joy, all troubles past, of -welcoming in our land the amiable friend who should be the means to -our returning thither!” -</p> - -<p> -If now the idea of offering himself to the mission first began to take -root in Ned’s mind, it was because his jealousy would not tolerate the -thought that, failing him, another might be found to serve his -mistress with a less questioning devotion. Still, he would not yet -commit himself definitely to a course that not only—in the present -state of continental ferment—entailed a certain personal risk, but -entailed a risk that in the result might effectively separate him from -that very fair lady it was his principal wish to serve in the matter. -Moreover, it was certainly in his interest to ascertain if it was this -same lady’s desire to be so served by him. -</p> - -<p> -“When does madame wish this letter conveyed?” he said gravely, after -some moments of deep pondering. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, indeed!” cried madame, “but varee soon—in two-tree days.” -</p> - -<p> -“And the messenger is to be a sort of outrider to your party?” -</p> - -<p> -“An outrider?—but, in truth. Yet, how far an outrider, shall depend -upon his influence with monseigneur.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned bowed. -</p> - -<p> -“I should like to think the matter over,” said he. “It is possible, at -least, I may be able to serve madame with an <i>avant-coureur</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -Madame seized his hands in an emotional grasp. -</p> - -<p> -“My friend! my dear friend!” she murmured. -</p> - -<p> -“And now,” said Ned, “with madame’s permission, I will take a turn in -the garden.” -</p> - -<p> -Had madame again the impression that she was “found out” of this -unconscionable Joseph? She certainly flushed the little flush of -shamefulness, and for the moment had not a plausible word at her -command. For, indeed, she knew and, what was worse, believed that my -lord knew that Pamela was at that very time seated by herself in the -little box-arbour amongst the Jerusalem artichokes (the girl’s figure -had been plainly visible through the doorway which madame had ordered -over-late to be closed); and the sudden realisation of the situation -was like a cold douche to her self-confidence. To deny this cavalier, -on whatever pretext, the substance of his request, was assuredly to -convict herself of having lied as to Pamela’s whereabouts; was to -dismiss him at a critical moment; was, possibly, to deprive him of -that actual inducement to serve her which an interview with the young -lady might confirm. On the other hand, the girl herself may have -profited by some indefinite warnings as to the folly of effecting a -<i>mésalliance</i>; as to the ineffectiveness of a coronet when it is in -pledge to the Jews. -</p> - -<p> -Madame, after a scarcely appreciable moment of hesitation, came to her -decision with a charming smile. -</p> - -<p> -It was entirely at monsieur’s disposition, she said. There was not a -soul in it, and she would see that monsieur was not disturbed. For -herself, the contemplation of flowers resolved many problems that the -subtlest sophistries were unable to disentangle. -</p> - -<p> -Ned set foot on the long box-bordered path with his mind in a -condition of strange ferment. The glamour of the previous night; the -sweet glory of this new bidding to the side of his mistress (over -which his soul laughed, as over its own humorous strategy in the -hoodwinking of a credulous guardian); the thought that it was in his -power to assist to its welfare the very dear object of his solicitude, -and, by so assisting, to convert what might otherwise seem a pursuit -into a welcome—such fancies combined made of his brain a house of -pleasant dreams. All down the bed-rows the scent of blossoming -mignonette accompanied him to the arbour at the end of the garden. To -his dying day this gentle green flower remained the asphodel of his -heaven. Great ships of cloud, carrying freightage of hidden stars, -sailed slowly across the sky to ports beyond the vision of the world. -Yet there did not seem enough wind to discrown a thistle-head. The -lark rose straight as the smoke from the town chimneys, dropping a -clew of song into the very gaping throats of his own nestlings in the -field. The rattle of a horse’s headstall, the drowsy thunder of -rolling skittle-balls, came over the wall from the neighbouring inn as -distinct in their every vibration as though the silence of night, in a -motionless atmosphere, had merged itself imperceptibly in the life of -a day but half awake. And, behold! at the end of the garden was the -crystallised expression of all this peace and beauty, the breathing -spirit of the roses and of the mignonette. Ned, as he looked down upon -her, had a thought that, if she woke, the wind would rise, the -rose-leaves scatter, and the cloud argosies dash themselves shapeless -on rocks of air. -</p> - -<p> -How pretty she was! Great God, how pretty and how innocent! To him who -had fronted stubbornly the storms of passion, who had been sought a -sacrifice to the misconsecrated heats of a love whose name in -consequence he had learned to loathe, this new power of reverence was -most wonderful and most dear. He could have worshipped, had he not -loved so humanly. -</p> - -<p> -Mademoiselle was sunk a little back into the leafage of the arbour. -Her eyes were closed, her lips a trifle parted. She was cuddled into a -pink <i>négligé</i>. Everything she wore seemed to caress her. An open -book lay upon her lap, one slender finger serving for listless marker -in it. -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly a tiny smile, the ghostliest throb of laughter, flickered at -the corners of her mouth. Ned leapt hot all over. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, monsieur!” murmured the unconscionable witch, as if talking in -her sleep, “but are you the doctor?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -She put out a languid hand, never raising her eyelids. -</p> - -<p> -“Madame-maman says it is the cake; but I think it is the Englishman -that lies heavy on me.” -</p> - -<p> -“What Englishman?” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -“My lord the Englishman, monsieur. Is he not the heaviest of all in -Bury?” -</p> - -<p> -Ned touched the young healthy pulse as if he handled a wax flower. -</p> - -<p> -“If that is the trouble,” said he, “it is soon dealt with.” -</p> - -<p> -“But how, monsieur? and would you not first see my tongue?” and she -put out the tip of a supremely pink organ. -</p> - -<p> -“It is as red as a capsicum,” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -Pamela burst out laughing. She sat up, her cheeks flushed, her brown -hair ruffled on her forehead. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh!” she cried, “you do not say pretty things at all; you are not -like Mr Sherree-den.” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” said the young man sadly. “And because I have not his readiness, -I must lack his good fortune. Is that the moral of it? But I could be -a willing pupil if you would be my tutor.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is it so? I should punish and punish till you wearied of me. Say, -then, like Mr Sherree-den, ‘Oh, <i>mon bonté-moi</i>!’ (he does not, you -know, speak varee good French); ‘but here is a poor little sick fairy -crumpled in a rose petal.’ <i>Hélas</i>! you could not have said that, you -solemn man.” -</p> - -<p> -“I could not, indeed; but I should have taken the poor little sick -fairy and nursed her upon my heart.” -</p> - -<p> -She looked up at him kindlily and, suddenly, pathetically— -</p> - -<p> -“But I am not sick at all,” she said, “and you must not take my play -to your heart.” -</p> - -<p> -Thereat, foolish Ned, reading her words literally, missed his small -chance. -</p> - -<p> -“I never did,” he only answered stoutly. “I knew you were not asleep.” -</p> - -<p> -Mademoiselle pouted. -</p> - -<p> -“I do not act so badly, nevertheless,” she said, “when I may have an -appreciative audience.” -</p> - -<p> -“And I, at least, am that.” -</p> - -<p> -She shrugged her shoulders, yawned a tiny yawn. -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” she said, “I must not keep monsieur from his business; and -monsieur the doctor shall not persuade me to cure too much cake with -more.” -</p> - -<p> -She rose, smoothing her rumpled plumes. Ned smiled. -</p> - -<p> -“I will not, since you bid me, take it to heart,” he said. “Had you -found me as heavy as you say, you would not last night have -voluntarily elected to bear so much of the weight of my company.” -</p> - -<p> -“I sacrificed myself, monsieur, according to my principles, to the -good of the community.” -</p> - -<p> -“Pamela,” cried my lord, suddenly pained, “my business is to go on a -journey only for the reason that I may serve you!” -</p> - -<p> -She would have resented, without any real feeling of resentment, his -familiar use of her name, had not his tone found the sympathetic chord -in her that his words could not reach. -</p> - -<p> -“Has madame asked you, then?” she said, with some wonder, some -gentleness, in her voice. -</p> - -<p> -“I have resolved to offer myself, if you will give me the one end of a -clue of hope to bear along with me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Of what hope, monsieur? Your bargain should be with madame, not with -me.” -</p> - -<p> -He would not take her by storm, the aggravating noodle. No doubt that -erst fulsome experience of his had distorted his sense of proportion -in such matters. -</p> - -<p> -“’Tis no bargain, of course,” he cried, in great distress. “To give me -hope is to hand me nothing but a promissory note without a signature. -But I would kiss it none the less for the sake of the name that might -be there.” -</p> - -<p> -But why did he not kiss the jade herself? -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Mon ami</i>,” she said very kindly, “you must not concern yourself so -of the favour of a poor foolish maid, who could return you, ah! so -little for the noble trust you place in her; who is not even the -mistress of herself.” -</p> - -<p> -“Pamela!” he cried, in sudden agony, “you are not bound to another?” -</p> - -<p> -“I am bound only to those who have protected and cared for me,” she -answered. “It is no time this, when danger threatens, to think of -separating myself from our common fortune.” -</p> - -<p> -Her young bosom heaved; her eyes even filled with tears. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah!” she murmured, “there is nothing invites me but the peace of the -cloister. To escape from the turmoil and the menace—to know no -interest of love or fortune in the company of God’s dear prisoners!” -</p> - -<p> -Perhaps she only quoted from the commonplace book of <i>mère adoptive</i>. -At least the picture she conjured up seemed so real as to fetch a -little sob from her. Ned’s heart was rent by the sound. -</p> - -<p> -“My dear,” he said simply, “I would not persuade you against your -conscience. God knows, in any bargain between us I should be the only -gainer. I have nothing to offer you that is worth the offer but my -love, dear. That is for you, in stress or sunshine, whenever you care -to whistle for it. Now I will say no more; but I will cross the -channel, at the very bidding of madame la comtesse, and pave the way -as I can for your return. And I shall carry hope with me, Pamela. It -is the beggar’s scrip; and what am I but a beggar!” -</p> - -<p> -For the first time he forgot the little red heels that were still in -his pocket. They were often to prove a sharp reminder of themselves, -however. -</p> - -<p> -Did the girl read his figurative speech in a too literal sense? Let us -hope she was never influenced by a consideration so worldly. She held -out her hand to him. Her blue eyes swam with tears. -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps, in happier times to come,” she said—and so they parted. -</p> - - -<h3 id="b2ch05"> -CHAPTER V. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">Twice</span> again only, before he started for the Continent—as he -persisted in thinking at her sole behest—was Ned vouchsafed the -partial company of his mistress. In each instance he must forego the -desire of his heart for a personal interview. Such, by accident or -design, was denied him. But he had the satisfaction of being received -by madame with an ease and a familiarity that were significant of a -quite particular confidence. -</p> - -<p> -On the first occasion he happened upon the ladies out walking in a -country lane. They were botanising, under the tutorship of a Bœotian -new to him—a thin, clerical-looking individual, with a little head, -appropriately like an anther. The house at Bury was, indeed, a perfect -surprise-tub for the uncommon personalities it seemed to have an -endless capacity for turning out. Its staff was, perhaps, twenty all -told; yet this number, in view of its omniferous faculties, would -often appear as self-reproductive as a stage dozen of soldiers walking -itself round a rock into a company. -</p> - -<p> -Madame, who was engaged in “receiving” from monsieur her -stick-in-waiting the names of <i>débutantes</i> hedge-flowers presented to -her, waved a gracious end to the ceremony, and, greeting my lord as if -he were a dear friend, invited him to pace beside her. -</p> - -<p> -“It is well timed,” she said. “Monsieur has received my letter? And -will Friday suit our so generous cavalier to depart?” -</p> - -<p> -Ned bowed with his never-failing gravity. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” he said simply. -</p> - -<p> -The lady clasped her hands. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Mon Dieu</i>!” she exclaimed, with a quite melodramatic fervour, “it is -the passing of the cloud. After all the tempest-tossing, to see the -shore in sight!”—and she hastily lifted her skirts from contact with -a roadside puddle. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur,” said a little voice almost at Ned’s ear, “do you know what -is a <i>corolle</i> and what a <i>nectaire</i>?” -</p> - -<p> -In some mood of impudence or mischief Pamela was come to give her -company unbidden. She would pretend not to see the warning gestures of -<i>la gouvernante</i>. She held in her hand the parts of a dismembered -flower, and she looked up at the young man as she stepped, light as -his own sudden thoughts, at his side. She felt a little warmth, a -little pity towards him. He was going far away, and to serve her. That -she knew. It was in the nature of a tiny confidence between them. Her -glance was appealing as a child’s, asking not to be left. -</p> - -<p> -And as for Ned, the sight of this sweet face close to him so inflamed -his heart that his formal speech took fire. -</p> - -<p> -“I know when I look at you,” he said; “they are mademoiselle’s cheek -and mouth classified.” -</p> - -<p> -In the near prospect of his banishment he spoke out reckless of -consequences. Perhaps the unexpected answer took the girl herself by -surprise. She hung her head and fell back a little. -</p> - -<p> -“Mademoiselle,” cried Ned, “if I might take thence a rose to wear for -a favour!” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, fie!” she answered, “that is not even original; it is to repeat -Mr Sherree-den’s foolishness. And they are not roses at all.” -</p> - -<p> -“Nor rouge,” said Ned, “though you once implied it.” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” she said, with a pert glance at her <i>gouvernante</i>; “madame-maman -does not approve. But sometimes to rub them with a geranium -petal—that is not immoral, is it?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know,” cried the young man; “but the geranium shall be my -queen of flowers from this time!” -</p> - -<p> -“Pamela!” cried madame, in desperate chagrin over every word that -passed between the two, yet impotent, under existing circumstances, to -give expression to her annoyance; but she ventured to summon the child -pretty peremptorily to come and walk beside her, and only in this -order was my lord destined to enjoy for an hour a divided pleasure. -</p> - -<p> -But on the second and final occasion of his meeting her, chance and -the girl were even less favourable to him. He was to start for Belgium -on the Friday morning, and on the Thursday evening he walked over to -Bury to receive his instructions. He found signs of confusion in the -house—boxes choking the passages, personal litter of all kinds -brought together as if for removal; and in the drawing-room a little -concert—such as madame loved to extemporise—was in process of -performance, with Mr Sheridan, in mighty boisterous spirits, for only -listener. He invited Ned to a seat beside him, and clapped him on the -shoulder. -</p> - -<p> -“’Tis admirable,” said he; “not concert, but concertation. There is no -conductor but a lightning-conductor could direct these warring -elements.” -</p> - -<p> -Madame, indeed, set the time on her harp; but it was the time that -waits for no man. A Bœotian—of whom there were a half-dozen in the -orchestra—might pant, a mere winded laggard, into his flute; another -might toilfully climb the last bars on his fiddle, as if it were a -gate; a third might pound up the long hill of his double-bass, and -cross its very bridge with a shriek like a view-holloa: the issue was -the same—none was in at the death. Pamela, in the meantime, tinkled -on a triangle; Mademoiselle Sercey shook a little panic cluster of -sledge-bells whenever madame glanced her way; Mademoiselle d’Orléans -played on the side-drum amiably, and with all the execution of a -toy-rabbit. It was all very merry, and the girls giggled famously; and -Ned closed his eyes and tried to think that the mellow ring of the -steel was from the forging by Love of his bolts on a tiny anvil. -</p> - -<p> -By-and-by the piece ended amidst laughter, and madame came from her -place and conducted her cavalier into another room. -</p> - -<p> -“It is to prove yourself the most disinterested,” she said. “How can I -acquit myself of gratitude to my friend—to my knight-errant?” -</p> - -<p> -Ned, in the hot longing of his soul, was near stumbling upon a -suggestion as to the reward it was in her power, if not to bestow, at -least to influence. But he remembered his promise to Pamela, and was -fain to let the opportunity pass. -</p> - -<p> -Then madame, to some fine play of emotion, produced a couple of -letters under seal—the first to monsieur le duc, the second to her -own son-in-law, M. Becelaer de Lawoestine. To the latter gentleman’s -address in Brussels she begged my lord to proceed in the first -instance. The Belgian nobleman would give him honourable welcome, no -less for her sake than for monsieur’s most obvious merits. Moreover, -De Lawoestine would furnish him with precise directions as to where -monseigneur was at the moment to be found; if, indeed, monseigneur was -not at the very time the other’s guest in Brussels. -</p> - -<p> -These were Ned’s simple instructions. There were tender messages to -madame’s daughter; suggestions as to the attitude most effective to be -assumed towards monseigneur by madame’s plenipotentiary; references to -the agony of suspense madame must suffer until she should learn the -result of her envoy’s mission. Madame, in truth, either acted her part -so well, or lived in it so naturally, as to half convince herself, we -must believe, that she was not acting at all. -</p> - -<p> -“We are ready, as you see, to start the moment monseigneur’s command -shall reach us,” she said. “We pray, monsieur, for the prosperous -termination to your voyage.” -</p> - -<p> -Her eyes were moist; she impulsively extended her hand, which his -lordship less impulsively kissed. His lips, indeed, unpractised in -gallantry, were in pledge to a dream; his understanding, also. Had it -not been, he might have inclined to the question, How comes it that -madame, in direct communication with the Duke of Orleans, is unable to -acquaint me certainly as to that prince’s present address? -</p> - -<p> -Ned returned to the drawing-room, prepared to repudiate any suggestion -of the glamour that might be held to attach itself to a mild form of -heroism. His modesty was not put to the test. The company accepted him -in a frolic mood. It was full of laughter and thoughtlessness. He was -rallied only on his serious mien. Pamela, wilful and radiant, would -acknowledge him for no more than the means to a jest. Her affectation -of indifference was secretly a stimulus to the spirits of two, at -least, of the party. For a household depressed by the gloom of -impending misfortune, the atmosphere was singularly volatile. -</p> - -<p> -Not to the end did Ned receive one hint that his self-sacrifice was -appreciated and applauded; and at last he must make his adieux without -the comfort of even a sympathetic glance from a certain direction to -cheer him on his way. -</p> - -<p> -He had put on his hat and coat, had reached the very porch on his way -forth, when a light step sounded behind him. -</p> - -<p> -“Good-bye, monsieur!” -</p> - -<p> -“God bless you, Pamela!” -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur, it is only the rose you asked for.” -</p> - -<p> -The door slammed behind him. He held, half stupidly, in his hand a -little sweet-smelling stalk with some crushed scarlet flowers. -</p> - -<p> -“My God—oh, my God!” he whispered, “it is part of herself.” -</p> - - -<h3 id="b2ch06"> -CHAPTER VI. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">It</span> was on a day of the last week of broiling July that Ned knocked -at the door of a house in the Rue de Ragule, near the Schaerbeck Gate -in Brussels, and desired to be shown into the presence of M. le Comte -de Lawoestine. -</p> - -<p> -Now it seemed at the outset that his mission was in vain, for monsieur -was, and had been for many days, away from home, and it was impossible -for one to say when he would return. And whither had he gone? Ah! that -was known only to himself, and, possibly, yes, to madame la comtesse. -And was madame away also? Madame? Oh! <i>c’était une autre pair de -manches</i>. Madame, it would appear, was upstairs at that very moment. -</p> - -<p> -Ned sent up his letter of introduction and—after a rather tiresome -interval of waiting—was shown into a room on the first floor. Here, -to his astonishment, was the mid-day meal in progress at a long -polished table. Two ladies—one seated at either side—continued -eating with scarcely a look askance at the stranger; a third, placid -and <i>débonnaire</i>, rose from her place at the head of the board and, -advancing a step or two, held out her hand. -</p> - -<p> -“I have read maman’s letter,” she said, but speaking in French in a -little drowsy voice, “and I have the pleasure to make you welcome, -monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -She then returned to her seat, and bidding a servant lay a cover for -monsieur, went on with her dinner. The very antichthon of the galvanic -Genlis spirit seemed to slumber in her rosy cheeks. She had settled -down to a lifelong “rest,” like an actress availing herself only of -the art of her profession to play herself into a fortunate match. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur le comte is away?” said Ned, as he took his seat by one of -the silent ladies. -</p> - -<p> -“He is gone south to join his regiment. He will be at Liége for a few -days to inspect the fortifications. I do not know, I, what it all -portends. They say the air is full of hidden menace. Anyhow, what does -M. Lafayette purpose in bringing an army of ragamuffins to the -frontier? He is a nobleman and a gentleman. I saw him once at -Belle-Chasse. Ah! the dear industrious days! But I prefer a life of -ease, monsieur; do not you? To gild baskets and work samplers, with -the sun on one’s head in the hot white room! Mother of Christ, it is -hot enough in Brussels! One may think one hears the sun drop grease -upon the stones in the street, when Fanchon spits upon a flat-iron in -the kitchen. Have you ever known a summer so sultry? The sky is packed -with thunder like the hold of a ship. Then will come the rain one day -and swell it and swell it, and the decks will burst asunder and the -ribs explode apart. I do not like thunder, monsieur—do you? It is -disturbing, like the play of children. Yet we are to have thunder -enough soon, they say.” -</p> - -<p> -So she talked on, in a tuneless soft voice; and there seemed no -particular reason why she should ever come to an end. She never paused -for an answer or for a word, nor often for breath, which long habit -had taught her the art of nursing. She asked no questions as to her -mother; did not, indeed, so much as allude to her until Ned indirectly -forced a reference. -</p> - -<p> -“And where is monsieur le duc?” said he, cutting in during a momentary -ellipsis that was caused by her indetermination in choosing between -two dishes of vegetables. She did not answer till she had -decided—upon taking some of each. Then she turned her soft eyes on -him in a little wonder. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur——?” she began, as if she had not heard. -</p> - -<p> -“The Duke of Orleans,” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed, I do not know. He should be in Paris.” -</p> - -<p> -“He has left here, then?” -</p> - -<p> -“Here? Brussels, do you mean? He has not, to my knowledge, been in -Brussels these six months—no, not since January, when he came to meet -the demoiselle Théroigne on her return from the Austrian prisons, and -conducted her back to the capital.” -</p> - -<p> -“Théroigne!” exclaimed Ned in faint amazement. -</p> - -<p> -“So she is called, I believe,” went on the placid creature, oblivious -of the little emotion she had caused. “Monsieur has heard of her, no -doubt. She is beautiful, and of easy virtue, they say. At her house in -the Rue de Rohan the most violent propagandists assemble nightly to -discuss the overthrow of the present social conditions. I wish they -would leave them alone: they are very reasonable, I think—to all at -least who have assured incomes. She is quite a force in Paris, this -woman. They sent her some time last year <i>en mission</i> to these -Netherlands to preach the new religion. But she was arrested by the -agents of the Emperor and conveyed to Vienna, whence she was dismissed -no later than last January. Monseigneur was hunting with M. de -Lawoestine at the time, and he heard somehow, and came straight on to -Brussels, and carried the demoiselle Théroigne away.” -</p> - -<p> -“And that was the last you have seen of him? Yet your mother had no -doubt but that he was in this neighbourhood.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, maman?” cried madame, with a tiny shrug of her shoulders. “But -she is as full of fancies as this mushroom is of grubs.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed,” said Ned, quite dumfoundered, “I think you must be -misinformed as to monsieur le duc.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very well,” she said indifferently. “It is possible, of course. M. de -Lawoestine is not communicative, nor am I curious. There is no reason -why they should not be in Liége together at this very moment.” -</p> - -<p> -There was every reason, however, against such a meeting; but madame -had not the shadow of a diplomatic acumen. -</p> - -<p> -“I must follow your husband to Liége, then,” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -“You will at least lie here for the night, monsieur?” -</p> - -<p> -“A thousand pardons, madame. My business is of the most pressing; and -you yourself confess an ignorance as to the movements of monsieur le -comte.” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Mon Dieu</i>! I never trouble my head about them.” -</p> - -<p> -“With madame’s permission I will bid her adieu at the end of the -meal.” -</p> - -<p> -“As you will, monsieur. And if you do not find monsieur le duc in -Liége?” -</p> - -<p> -“Then I shall go on to Paris.” -</p> - -<p> -“I hope, then, monsieur’s passports are in order?” -</p> - -<p> -“They take me into France by way of the Low Countries. Madame, your -mother, is responsible for them.” -</p> - -<p> -“She is at any rate a woman of business. Nevertheless, the borders are -disturbed. I wish monsieur a very fair journey. I trust he will not be -struck by the lightning; but—Mother of Christ! I think there is a -storm coming such as we have never seen. I shall take some peaches and -some cake, and sit in the cellars till it is over.” -</p> - -<p class="spacer"> -* * * * * * * * -</p> - -<p> -My lord reached Liége on the morning of the twenty-ninth of July—a -day of sullen omen to France. The early noon hours he spent in dully -strolling through the streets of the antique city, now grown so -familiar to him. He had called at M. de Lawoestine’s address (as -supplied him by the young madame), only to find that the count was -absent on some expedition and would not return till the morrow. Of the -Duke of Orleans’s presence in the town he could obtain no tittle of -evidence. -</p> - -<p> -Now he was dull because misgivings were beginning to oppress him, and -because the weather made an atmosphere appropriate to the confusion in -his brain. Certainly he did not actually face, in the moral sense, the -question as to whether or no he had been intentionally committed to a -fool’s errand. He could not have conceived how so elaborate a jest -should be planned and carried through without suspicion awaking in his -heart. Naturally, knowing the soundness of his own financial position, -he was not conscious of the supposed bar to his suit. His uneasiness -turned rather on his new conception of Madame de Genlis as a woman of -that patchwork practicalness that leaves to chance the working out of -its design. She may have <i>intended</i> that monsieur le duc should be in -Brussels—it would, doubtless, have been convenient to her to find him -there—and therefore she may have, through Ned, acted upon her desire -rather than upon her information. But, if this were so, what a crazy -perspective of possibilities was opened out! to what an endless -wild-goose chase might he not be sworn! And, in the meantime, Pamela -and Mr Sheridan! -</p> - -<p> -There was such anguish in the thought as to make him augment his pace -till his forehead was wet with perspiration. He had come out to escape -the intolerable oppressiveness of confinement in an inn. It was such -weather as he had experienced upon his first visit to the town—good -God! how many years ago was that now? Yet there seemed fewer changes -in it than in himself. It was such weather, but intensified—and, with -that, at least, his own condition kept pace. He had a warmer core in -his breast than had been there before. But the tall, narrow streets, -the cool churches, the blazing markets—these had no longer the -glamour of the past. His thoughts were always in shadowy English -lanes, in fragrant English rooms. A girl’s laugh in the street would -make him lift his head as he paced; a jingle of bells on the harness -of some sleepy Belgian horse would recall to him with a thrill the -tinkle of a triangle. And, for the rest, the sweet pungency of -geranium flowers he carried always in his breast, like a very garden -of pleasant memories. -</p> - -<p> -And, in the meantime, Pamela and Mr Sheridan! -</p> - -<p> -He looked up with a sudden start. Something—he could not describe -what—like the silence that succeeds the heavy slamming of a door, -seemed to have gripped the world. The heat for days had been immense -and cruel. Men, roysterers and blasphemers, were come to a mean -inclination to expend what little breath was left to them in prayer. A -habit of stealthily examining the face of the heavens for signs -significant of the approaching “black death” of the storm was common. -The water seemed to steam in the kennels, the lead to crackle in the -gutters. Some inhuman outcome, it was predicted, of these unnatural -conditions must result. And now at last had the plague-stroke fallen? -</p> - -<p> -Whatever it was—this inexplicable turn of the wheel—the tension of -existence drew to near snapping-point under it. Poor souls crept for -pools of shadow as if these were Bethesdas; here and there one dropped -upon the pavement, and was rescued, as under fire, by a companion; the -wail of half-stifled infants came through open windows; the sun was a -crown of thorns to the earth. -</p> - -<p> -The streets, at the flood of noon, grew almost untenable. Ned—perhaps -from some vague association of ideas, the result of his dreamings upon -English lanes—left the town and, with the desire for trees compelling -him, took half-unconsciously the Méricourt road. It may have been -instinct merely that directed him. He had thought since his -coming—how could he help it?—of Théroigne, of Nicette, of all his -old connection with the strange little village. But he had no desire -to renew his acquaintance with the people of that ancient comedy—so, -now, it seemed to him. And surely by this time a new piece must hold -the stage; the old masks must be crumbled away or repainted to other -expressions. It was so long ago. He had leapt the boundary-river of -youth in the interval. He could have no place at last in the life of -the little hamlet by the woods. -</p> - -<p> -It may have been the sudden realisation of this, his grown -emancipation, that tempted him all in a moment, and quite strangely, -to the desire to look once more upon the scenes that, until within the -last few minutes, he had had no least wish to revisit. It may have -been that he was driven onward simply by the goad of his most haunting -distress—that fancy of Mr Sheridan greatly profiting by a rival’s -absence—and by the thought of the intolerable period of mental -suspense and bodily discomfort he must suffer down there in the town, -until his interview with M. de Lawoestine should give a direction one -way or the other to his mission. Such considerations may have urged -him; or—with a bow of deference to the necessitarians—no -consideration at all, but a fatality. -</p> - -<p> -For, indeed, this storm—an historical one—that was to break, seemed -so inspired an invasion of order by the prophets of anarchy, as that -it appeared to impress under its banner, as it advanced, all -predestined agents (however individually insignificant) of that social -and religious havoc of which its ruinous course was to be typical. -</p> - -<p> -Ned, as he toiled on the first of the hill, looked up at the sky. It -was as the wall of a nine-days’ furnace—his eyes could not endure the -terror of the light. Nor, from his position, could they see how, far -down on the horizon, a mighty draft of cloud was slipping over the -world, like the sliding lid of a shallow box, shutting into frightful -darkness a panic host of souls. -</p> - -<p> -Here it was better than in the town; but the heat still was terrific. -He was yet undecided as to whether to go on or rest where he had -paused, when a carter, with a tilted waggon, came up the road behind -him. For the weird opportuneness of it, this might have been -Kühleborn himself. The man, as it appeared, was bound for the farther -side of Méricourt. Ned, seeing the chance offered him to view from -ambush, accepted his unconscious destiny, struck his bargain, and -slipped under the canvas. -</p> - -<p> -Kühleborn cried up his team. The sick day turned, moaning among its -distant trees like a delirious troll. -</p> - -<p class="spacer"> -* * * * * * * * -</p> - -<p> -The lodestone to all this dark force of electricity that came up -swiftly over the verge of the world, rising from the caldron of the -East, where inhuman things are brewed! Was it an iron cross standing -high in the roadway of a populous bridge; a cross that seemed to crane -its gaunt neck looking ever over a wandering concourse of heads to the -horizon, gazing, like St Geneviève, for the cloudy coming of an -Attila; a cross held up, as it were, before the towers of Paris—a -Retro Satanas to the menacing shapes that, emerging from chaos, -threatened the ancient order, the ancient dynasty, the ancient -religion;—the cross, indeed, on the bridge of Charenton? For in -Charenton that day was pregnant conference, was a famous banquet to -Marseillais and Jacobin, was sinister tolling of the death-knell of -royal France. And what if the bell swung without a clapper! The very -air it displaced, reeling from its onset like foam from a prow, caught -the whisper of death in its passing, and carried it on to the cross. -</p> - -<p> -The death of royalty and of religion; the desecration of the -tabernacles; the spilling of the kingly chrism and trampling of the -Host! As night at last shut upon the boiling day, concentrating the -heat, the cross on the now lonely bridge stiffened its back and stood -awaiting the storm. That must fly far before it could reach the pole -of its attraction. But it was approaching. The cross could feel the -very ribs of the world vibrating under the terrific trample of its -march. At present inaudible; but there came by-and-by little -vancouriers of sound, moaning doves of dismay that fled on the wind, -as before a forest fire. These flew faster and more furious, fugitives -in a moment before the distant explosion of artillery. The rain began -to fall in heavy drops, like life-blood from the lungs of the heavens. -The earth sighed once in its sleep ... in an instant a great glare -licked the town.... -</p> - -<p> -Hither and thither, swayed, bent, but stubborn; now shoulder to -shoulder with the hurricane; now clawing at the stones to save itself -from being wrenched from its socket; now stooping a little to let a -flying charge overleap it—through half the night the cross stood its -ground, barring the road to Paris. Then at length a bolt struck and -shivered it where it stood. -</p> - -<p> -“It is gone!” shrieked the storm; “the way to Paris lies open. The -last of the symbols of an ancient reverence is broken and thrown -aside!” -</p> - -<p class="spacer"> -* * * * * * * * -</p> - -<p> -To Ned in the woods of Méricourt was vouchsafed a foretaste of this -tempest that rose and travelled so swiftly; that, having for its -siderite the pole-star of all revolution, rushed across a continent in -fire so rabid as that it expended nine-tenths of its force before it -might reach and charge with its remaining strength the electric -city—the nerve-drawn city that had shrilled into the night that -encompassed it, crying for reserves of dynamism lest at the last it -should sink and succumb. But if the storm brought small grist to the -actual mill, the morning, when it broke, voiceless and dripping, -revealed sufficient evidence of how deadly had been its threshing -throughout the fields of its advance. Over the north-eastern noon, and -flying, a dull high monster, up the valley of the Meuse—from -Charleroi to Maubeuge and across the border; down with a swoop upon St -Quentin, and on with a shriek and crash into and through the woods of -Soissons; opening out at last, from Pantin to Vitry, as if to invest -the city and slash at it with a reaping-hook of fire—so the force had -come and passed, like a tidal wave of flame, leaving a broad wake of -ruin and desolation. On all the league-long roads converging to the -central city were fragments of broken and twisted railings, of riven -trees, of thatch and rick and chimney; on many was the sterner -wreckage of human beings—poor Jacques and Jacqueline struck down and -torn by branch or flame as they drove their slow provision carts -towards the capital through the furious darkness. Not a dying Christ -at a cross-track but the storm demon had found and shattered on his -blazing anvil. The pitiful symbols of the old love, of the old -belief—one by one he had splintered and flung them as he swept on his -road. Nor only the symbols of the old faith, but of the new order. For -entering in the end the very gates of the city, he had driven with a -desperate rally of ferocity at certain sentinels ensconced dismally in -their boxes against the railings of public buildings, and, consuming -them, had committed their ashes to the consideration of the anarchy to -which he had rushed to subscribe. -</p> - -<p> -Such revelations were all for the morrow; and in the meantime Ned was -become a little fateful waif of the first processes of the force. -</p> - -<p> -The storm came upon him when alighted in the deep woods behind the -chateau. Passing under cover through Méricourt a few minutes earlier, -he had peeped through his tilt, scanning the familiar scenes with a -strange little emotion of memory. Feeling this, he had almost -regretted his venture. Perhaps the emotion was accountable, he -thought, to the heat—to the re-enacting of an atmosphere that was -charged with suggestion. He could—and did—recall a vision by the -village fountain—the vision of a girl, all bold outline and -colouring, standing with her arms crooked backwards under her lifted -hair. He could recall another figure coming up the field-path hard -by—a face of pearly shadows and wondering blue eyes under a great -fragrant load of grasses. These blue eyes haunted him in the -retrospect, even while he shut his own angrily upon the little ghostly -impression. Why could he not dismiss the thought of them from his -mind? Why had he submitted himself to the influence of the place at -all? -</p> - -<p> -It was too late now to retreat. His carter—a sleepy Liégeois, -attired appropriately in a hoqueton, or smock, like a night-gown—led -his team stolidly by fountain and “Landlust,” past church and smithy, -and so through the village into the forest road beyond. Ned, in the -darkness, felt in his breast for his talisman, his tiny packet of -geranium flower; and bringing out his hand scented, kissed it. Then, -restored thereby to reason, in the thick of the woods he hailed his -jehu to a stop, descended, and, paying liberally for his journey, -plunged amongst the trees. -</p> - -<p> -At once the shadow of an impending fear took him in grip. The earth, -he could have thought, lay rigid in a dry fever of terror. The shade -he had so much coveted fell around him like a living shroud. He had -always an unreasonable dread of what lay behind the curtain of trunks -before him. He moved on purposeless and prickling with apprehension. -Had it not been for very shame he would have turned and fled for the -open, daring any meeting in the village rather than this nameless dead -solitude. But he forced himself to proceed, mentally assigning himself -for goal that old withered leviathan in the clearing that was the -centre of some strange associations. He had been curious long ago, he -admitted, to look upon this monster since the legend of divinity had -attached to it. He would go so far now and satisfy his eyes, then turn -and make for air and light. -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly he fancied he heard far away the rumble of the receding -waggon-wheels. A numb stillness succeeded. The earth seemed to breathe -its last, and a napkin of cloud was softly flung over the dead face of -it. The lungs of the day fell in; a few large bitter drops slipped -from the closed lids of the heavens. -</p> - -<p> -Straight, and in a moment, Ned sprang alert to a sense of peril. This -ominous oppressiveness was nothing but the forereach of a swiftly -advancing thunderstorm—but the trees and every green spire toppling -into cloud an invitation to its own destruction! He must race for -cover—and whither? The little hut beyond the clearing! It presented -itself to him in a flash. He set off running. -</p> - -<p> -The very enforced action was a tonic to his nerves. As he sped, the -darkness gathered around him deep and deeper. He ran in a livid -twilight. Then on the quicker beat of a pulse the wood was torn with -fire from hem to hem. He was dazzled, half-shocked to a pause for an -instant; but there had been a panic sound to drive him forward again -directly—a huge tearing noise within the monstrous slam that had -trodden upon the heels of the blaze. He could only guess what this -portended. At the very first explosion a tree of the forest had been -struck and riven. -</p> - -<p> -Now he scurried so fast that the breath sobbed a little in his throat. -He had a feeling that the Force was dodging him, heading him off from -reach of shelter. Not a soul did he meet, but formless shadows seemed -to cry him on from deep to lonelier deep of the maze. Then again a -sudden glare took him in the face like a whip; and at once the Furies -of the storm burst from restraint and danced upon the woods in fire -and water, rehearsing the very carmagnole of the Terror. -</p> - -<p> -All in a moment the fugitive broke into the clearing he sought, but -had dreaded he would miss. Even as he ran—half deafened, yet relieved -by the uproar that had succeeded a silence as awful as it was -inhuman—he must slacken his pace in view of the towering giant that -dominated his every strange memory connected with the place. Suddenly -he stopped altogether, staring at the great tumorous trunk. Where had -he read or heard that beech-trees were secure from stroke by -lightning? Should he stand by, here under shelter of the enormous -withered arms? In his trouble he might scarcely notice how the whole -character of the isolated spot in which he stood was converted from -that that figured in his memory. Yet he took it in vaguely by the -sickly light—the blue-painted iron railings, having a locked wicket, -that fenced in the sacred bole; the gleaming silver hearts hung here -and there about the bark; the cropped ribbon of sward that encircled -the tree. Yet upon this green, for all its cultivated trimness, he -could have thought the underwood was encroached; and dimly he recalled -St Denys’s prophecy: “If in years to come thou tell’st me this charmed -circle has been broken into by the thicket, I will answer that -elsewhere the people stand on the daïses of kings.” Surely the idle -prediction was strangely verified. -</p> - -<p> -Even where he stood, for all the little shelter of the high branches, -the tempest beat the breath out of his body. Every moment the crash -and welter and uproar took a more hellish note and aspect: he felt he -could not stand it much longer. -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly, twisting about from a vision of fierce light, he caught a -startled glimpse of something he had hitherto failed to notice. The -narrow track that had once led through the heart of the thicket to the -hut amongst the trees was a narrow track no longer. It had been opened -out and greatly widened, so as to give passage to a tiny chapel that -stood at the close of a short vista of trunks. -</p> - -<p> -With a gasp of relief, Ned raced for this unexpected refuge, dashed up -a step, threw himself against the door, and half stumbled into a void -beyond it. The door flapped to behind him. He stood, panting, in a -little crypt of scented gloom. Somewhere in front a single ruby star -glowed unwavering—a core of utter peace and quiet. -</p> - - -<h3 id="b2ch07"> -CHAPTER VII. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">The</span> thunder and the storm roared overhead with a deadened sound; not -a breath of all the turmoil could touch the serenity of the star. It -burned without a flutter, diffusing, even, the slightest, gentlest -radiance throughout the tiny building. Ned, from his position near the -door, could make out the whitewashed walls and ceiling; the wee square -windows glazed with twilight as sleek and dusky as oxydised silver; -the little litter of chairs about the floor; the altar overhung by -some indistinguishable dark picture; most suggestively, most -spectrally, the very painted statue at whose feet the star itself was -glowing. -</p> - -<p> -He stepped softly towards the shrine. A dozen paces brought him almost -within touch of it—and of something else. A woman was crouched -against the pedestal of the image, her hands clasped high on the -stone, her face buried in the curve of her left arm. In the incessant -throb and flash of the lightning through the little windows, he could -see the soft heave of her shoulders, the shredded glints of light -running up and down her hair as she drew quick breaths like one in -terror. Something, in the same moment, convinced him that she was -aware of his entrance; that, in the insane relief engendered of -company, she was struggling to present as spiritual preoccupation the -appearances of extreme fear. If this were so, she fought in vain to -save her self-respect. Her collapse, it was evident, had been too -abject; to rally from it on the mere prick of pride was an -impossibility. Here to her, lost and foundered in hell, had come a -first presence of human sympathy. -</p> - -<p> -It was sympathy. In the dusk, in the endless flash and roll, and in -the heavy roaring of the rain on the roof, Ned’s spirit, reaching -across a reeling abyss, felt that this fellow-creature was in mortal -terror. Too diffident, nevertheless, to make a first advance, he -compromised with his pity by seizing a chair and dragging it towards -him, that the very rough jar of its legs on the boards should be sound -assurance to the other of a human neighbourhood. The little -instinctive act, fraught with kindliness, touched off the nerve of -endurance. As he dropped into the seat he had pulled forward, the -prostrate figure, detaching itself from the pedestal, came suddenly -writhing and crouching over the few yards of floor that separated -them, and, throwing itself at his feet, put up a mad groping hand. -</p> - -<p> -“I am dying of fear!” it whispered. -</p> - -<p> -Ned caught the hand in a succouring grip. He could see only the -glimmer of a white face raised to his. He was bending down to give it -words of assurance, when to a hellish crash the whole building seemed -to leap into liquid fire—to sink, weltering, into a black and humming -void. The shock, the noise, had been thickly stunning rather than -ear-splitting. Here, in the chapel, they were too close to the cause -to suffer the sound perspective that shatters the brain. They might -have been the stone, the kernel, from which the force itself had burst -on all sides. -</p> - -<p> -By slow degrees Ned’s eyes recovered their focus, until he could make -out once more the ghostly blotch of a face looking up into his. -Neither of these two, beyond an involuntary jerk of response to the -enormous flame and detonation, had stirred from the attitude into -which, it would almost appear, they had been stricken. The actual -terror of the one, the sympathy of the other, seemed welded by the -flash into a single expression of fatality. In the lonely chapel, -amidst wrack and storm, to each the spectre of a memory had suddenly -materialised, revealing itself amazingly significant. -</p> - -<p> -“I must go,” muttered Ned, all in a moment. He spoke confusedly, -trying to withdraw his hand. But the other soft clutch resisted: the -other half-deafened ears could yet essay to catch the import of the -murmur. -</p> - -<p> -“You won’t leave me—here alone?” she said. “Oh, I shall die of the -fear!” -</p> - -<p> -She could waive before him all pretence of her possessing the divine -favour or protection. It was her rapture that this man—who had again -stepped across the years of darkness into her life—knew her soul; her -rapture to woo him by the seduction of her surrender to his nobler -understanding. His spirit darkened; yet, knowing her fearfulness of -old, he could not in common humanity forsake her till the terror was -past. -</p> - -<p> -So they sat on in silence, she flung at his feet, holding his hand, -while the flame and fury expended themselves overhead. Once or twice -he was conscious that her lips were helping the office of her fingers; -and he flushed shamefully in the darkness, yet would not seem to -condone her offence—her terrible sacrilege, even, under the -circumstances—by so much as noticing it. But he thought of the little -flower-packet in his breast; and he cursed his bitter folly that, -after such a warning as he had already had, he should have ventured -himself wantonly within the charmed influence of this silken-skinned -witch. -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly, it might almost be said, the tempest fled by. It passed as -rapidly as it had come, travelling westwards on a flooded current of -wind. The noise, the glare, ceased; light grew on the dim-washed -walls; the dark picture above the altar revealed itself a pious -representation of the very subject that had founded the chapel. There -the saint stood in effigy for all the world to worship: here she knelt -self-confessed at the feet of the one man for whose hot reprobation -she yearned, so long as it would kiss in pity where it had struck. Ned -glanced down at the lifted face. It may have suggested in its -expression some secret, half-unconscious triumph. He tore away his -hand—sprang to his feet, as the clouds broke outside and sunshine -came into the place. -</p> - -<p> -“You must let me go,” he said. “Your saints will be enough to protect -you now.” -</p> - -<p> -She rose hurriedly, and stood beside him. There was something new and -indescribable in her air and appearance—it might have been the mere -maturity of self-love. Whatever her stress of mind during these three -years, its effect had not been to warp and wither her physical beauty. -Even the little angles of the past were rounded off. She was -developed—a riper, more perilous Lamia. -</p> - -<p> -“Hush!” she whispered, pointing to the altar, “the tabernacle!” -</p> - -<p> -He gave a low little laugh. -</p> - -<p> -“What!” he said, dropping his voice nevertheless, “is the presence -more real to you than to me? Will you still pretend? We are alone, -Nicette.” -</p> - -<p> -Alone! the word was soft music to her. -</p> - -<p> -“No,” she said, coming after him as he strode towards the door, “I -will pretend to nothing—nothing, with you.” -</p> - -<p> -She put out a hand and gently detained him. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh!” she said, a very hunger in her voice and eyes, “to see you -again—to see you again! Why are you here? You did not follow me? No -one knew I was in the wood; and I was caught by the storm. My God, my -God! to be near it all—in the midst—and the curse of heaven awake! -It is folly, is it not, that talk of retribution—the folly of sinners -and the opportunity of priests? Here was I alone, for all hell to -torture; and, instead, <i>you</i> come upon me unawares!” -</p> - -<p> -He stood dumfoundered that she could thus bare her soul to him. She -had no shame, it seemed, but the sweet exalted shame of the -seductress: her eyes dwelt upon him in ecstasy. -</p> - -<p> -“Whence do you come?” she went on, in a soft panting voice. “But what -does it matter, since you are here! I knew in the end you would -return. This—this” (she put her hand upon her bosom)—“Oh, it is a -fierce magnet that would have drawn you across the world!” -</p> - -<p> -He pulled at the door—let in a lance of brilliant light that struck -full upon his face. Something in its expression appeared to startle -her. She leaned forward and uttered a sudden miserable cry. -</p> - -<p> -“Where have you been—what have you done! My God, let me look!” -</p> - -<p> -The next instant she backed from him a little, throwing her hands to -her eyes as if she were blinded. -</p> - -<p> -“It is there,” she cried, “what I have longed and prayed for; but it -is not for me!” -</p> - -<p> -He recovered his voice in a fury. -</p> - -<p> -“Prayed!” he cried. “Are such prayers, from such a source, answered? -Stand off, for shame! This meeting is all an accident. I have neither -sought, nor desired, to see you. It is an accident—do you hear?” -</p> - -<p> -He tore open the door, jumped the step, ran a few paces, and stopped, -with an exclamation of sheer astonishment. A huge ruin of trunk and -branch closed his vista. The old woodland monarch, the type of stately -quincentennial growth and decline, was shattered where it stood. At -the last, facing its thousandth tempest, it had been wounded to death -in the forefront of the battle. The brand had struck its mightiest -branch, tearing it from its socket; and the crashing limb in its -downfall had wrenched apart the trunk, revealing a great hollow heart -of decay. -</p> - -<p> -The quiet drip and fall from loaded leaves; the faint rumble of the -retreating storm; the steam from the hot-soaked grass—Ned was -conscious of them all as he stood a moment in awe. Then he hurried -forward again—up to the very scene of the disaster. -</p> - -<p> -The ruin was complete; the silver hearts were fused or vanished; the -sacred fence was whirled abroad, in twisted, fantastic shapes. So much -for the immunity of beech-trees. He could hardly dare to face the -moral of his escape. -</p> - -<p> -But he must face another as terrible, if more impersonal. It presented -itself to him on the instant—a little heart within the heart—a poor -decayed fragment of humanity sunk deep in the vegetable decay of the -exposed hollow. At first, mentally stunned, and confused, moreover, by -this arabesque of ruin, he failed to realise that what he looked upon -was other than some accident of rubbish. It rested down near the -ground upon what had once been the bottom of a deep well of eaten -timber. It had, strangely enough, the appearance of a sleeping child. -</p> - -<p> -He took a quick step forward. His very heart seemed to gasp. God in -heaven! it <i>was</i> a child—not sleeping, but dead and mummified! -</p> - -<p> -A sound—something awful, like the breath-struggle of one who had been -winded by a blow—fluttered in his ear. He leapt aside from it, -staring behind him. Nicette was there, gazing—gazing, but at him no -longer. Her eyes were like stones in a hewn grey mask; youth had -shuddered from her cheeks. -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly she turned upon him stiffly. Her soul instinctively -recognised the whole that was implied by his scarce voluntarily -expressed terror of her neighbourhood. -</p> - -<p> -“I did not kill him,” she whispered. -</p> - -<p> -“It <i>is</i> Baptiste, then?” -</p> - -<p> -He was familiar at once with the stupendous horror of it all. That was -such, and so appalling in the light or blackness of a construction -that her immediate surrender of the situation made inevitable, that -his brain reeled under the shock. He was an accessory to something -namelessly hideous. -</p> - -<p> -Then, in a moment, she was prostrate at his feet, clinging to him, -imploring his mercy, his kindness; urging him by his pity, by her -agony, to withdraw her from vision of the terror, to listen to and -believe her. -</p> - -<p> -“Take me away!” she screamed; “it was his own doing! I did not kill -him!” -</p> - -<p> -He repulsed her with a raging force, still staring silently over and -beyond her. It seemed to him that some ghastly sacristan was lighting -up a sacrificial altar in his memory. Candle by candle it flamed into -dreadful illumination, revealing the abominations that in the darkness -he had been only innocently condoning. He thought he understood now -what had impelled her to that strange haunting of the neighbourhood of -the tree; what remorse had driven her to the prayers and prostrations -that had aroused the curiosity of the village; why, panic-stricken -under that threat of search, she had wrought in a moment, of her -imagination, a fable that should serve her secret evermore for an ark -double-cased. He recalled, in the ghastly light of a new -interpretation, almost the last words she had spoken to him in a time -that he had thought was dead and forgotten: “Oh, my God, not so to -stultify all I have suffered and done for thy sake!” For his sake—for -his sake! Was he so vile as this, then—he who had dared in dreams to -mate with a purity like an angel’s—that the incense of any noisome -sacrifice, if only offered up to himself, he must be held to find -grateful! He broke, without meaning it, into a horrible laugh. -</p> - -<p> -“Did she—the mother—not promise,” he shrieked, “to restore the -little brother to you—the poor little murdered wretch! She has kept -to her word. And you—you? Don’t forget you are sworn under damnation -to dedicate yourself, a maid, to her service! Can you do it? God in -heaven, it is not your fault if you can!” -</p> - -<p> -She fell before him, as he spurned her, writhing and moaning amongst -the sodden grass. -</p> - -<p> -“Won’t you listen to me—oh, won’t you listen? If you would only kill -me, and not speak!” -</p> - -<p> -He stood immediately rigid as justice’s own sentry. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I will listen,” he said, “and you shall condemn yourself.” -</p> - -<p> -She crept a thought nearer and, feeling him keep aloof, sat bowed upon -the ground, her fingers locked together in her lap. -</p> - -<p> -“I will tell you the truth,” she said, low and broken. “After that -first time he, my brother, was changed. He became, when you were gone, -a little devil, insulting and defying me. It was terrible—his -precocity. He held over my head ever a threat—monsieur, it was that -he would make exposure of the <i>liaison</i> between his sister and the -Englishman.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned uttered an exclamation. She entreated him with raised hands. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah! it is not always the truth one fears. One day in the woods—oh, -my God, monsieur, hide me!—in the woods—what was I saying! Mother of -God! it was here—we quarrelled, and I was desperate. He ran to escape -me, climbed the great branch that stooped to the grass. He stood high -up, reviling me. I made as if to fling a stone: he threw up his arm, -stumbled, and disappeared.” -</p> - -<p> -She crept towards him again, yet another agonised appeal for the -tiniest assurance that he had ceased to loathe her. At least this time -he stood his ground. -</p> - -<p> -“At first I was stunned,” she said. “He may have been killed at once, -for no sound reached me. Then all at once the wicked spirit put it -into my head that here, by doing nothing, was a sure way out of my -difficulties—was safety from that impish slanderer, was the bar -removed to my favour in the eyes of one who had confided to me his -detestation of children.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned sprang back, almost striking at the crouching figure. -</p> - -<p> -“Not me!” he raged; “I will have no responsibility—not any, for the -inhuman deed, thrust upon me! And so you left him to his fate, and -went home and ate and drank, feeding your beastly lusts and desires, -while he—oh, devil, devil!” -</p> - -<p> -She scrambled to her feet and made as if she would run from this new -terror of a hate more ghastly than all she had suffered hitherto. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t kill me!” she whimpered. “Did you not tell me you hated -children? and you said they could not feel as we do.” -</p> - -<p> -He glared at her like a maniac. -</p> - -<p> -“You left him; what is the need to say more?” -</p> - -<p> -“I did not,” she moaned, wringing her hands as if to cleanse them of -blood; “I came again on the third day, and I called to him, I prayed -to him, but he never cried back one word. Then I thought, Perhaps he -has climbed out and fled away.” -</p> - -<p> -“Liar! you are a liar! Why, then, did you seek to hide your crime by a -blasphemous lie?” -</p> - -<p> -“I have suffered,” she answered only, like one before the -judgment-seat. -</p> - -<p> -He mastered himself by a wrenching effort. He stood aside, -peremptorily motioning her to pass on her way. Not a word would he -speak. She went forward a few steps—a numb, haggard spectre of -beauty, a soul paralysed under the immediate terror of its sentence. -Suddenly she turned upon him, awful in the last expression of despair. -</p> - -<p> -“They will tear me to pieces when they know!” -</p> - -<p> -“Let your Virgin protect you,” he said. -</p> - -<p> -Without another word she left him, going off amongst the trees. The -sunbeams, peering through the leaves, touched and fled from contact -with her; woodland things scurried from her path; the cleansing rain, -even, stringing the branches, withheld itself from falling till she -had gone. Something that he drove under forcibly struggled to rise and -give voice from the watcher’s heart. She looked so small, so pitifully -frail and small a vessel to carry that great load of sin. The next -moment she disappeared from his sight. -</p> - -<p> -He turned, with a groan, to scrutinise the horror. It was yet so far -undecayed as that he was able, for all his little memory of the living -child, to identify the poor remains. But, for a certain reason, he -would compel himself to a nauseous task—even to touch the thing if -necessary. It was not. There was actual evidence, to his unaccustomed -eyes, that the boy’s neck had been dislocated by the fall. -</p> - -<p> -He moved away, giving out a sigh of fearful relief. At least he would -not be haunted by that anguish. And should he follow and tell her? -</p> - -<p> -“No,” he thought sternly—for love makes men cruel; “as she meant, so -shall she suffer the worst.” -</p> - - -<h3 id="b2ch08"> -CHAPTER VIII. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">The</span> Viscount Murk received very gravely M. Becelaer de Lawoestine’s -assurance that Monseigneur the Duke of Orleans was at the moment, and -had been for months past, in Paris. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Enfin</i>,” said this gentleman, “if report is to be believed, it is -the most timely place for him. At least he will not put himself at the -head of the emigrants,” he added, with a husky little laugh. -</p> - -<p> -He was plump and prosperously healthy, like his wife. They seemed -admirably suited to one another—a pigeon pair, indeed. And like a -pigeon was the little fat man in his white Austrian uniform. He -strutted, he preened himself, he cooed. His place should have been on -a roof-ridge of his own happy courts. Ned had a melancholy desire to -crumble some bread for him. -</p> - -<p> -“You are pale as a very ghost, monsieur,” said this same ruddy count -condescendingly. “It is not to be wondered at. You have alighted upon -us in stirring times; not to speak of the storm yesterday, that was -enough to quell the stoutest courage. I would give up hunting a -chimera, if I were you, and return to the profitable peace of my own -so prudent island, without more ado—<i>sans plus de façons</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -“If you were I, monsieur,” said Ned. “But, being myself, I run the -chimera to earth in Paris.” -</p> - -<p> -Monsieur le comte shrugged his shoulders. -</p> - -<p> -“I will wish you success, at least. This chimera hath as many tracks -as a mole. But, first, you must get to Paris.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned had considered this side of the question lightly. He found, -indeed, the conditions of travel curiously changed since he had last -crossed the Netherlands border. Now the whole frontier, from Lille to -Metz, swarmed with hostile demonstration. The Allies were in movement, -Luckner and his ineffectives falling back before them. Amongst them -all he hardly knew whom to claim for friends and whom for foes. -</p> - -<p> -But he was wrought to a pitch of recklessness, and Providence shows -the favouritism of a heathen goddess towards reckless men. His grossly -enlarging doubt of the <i>bonâ fides</i> of the mission to which he had -been committed; his terror of having been made in a moment accessory -to a hideous crime, which he could neither morally condone nor -effectually denounce; the feeling—sombre heir to these two—that he -was losing his hold of that new sweet sense of responsibility towards -life, the consciousness of which had been to him latterly like the -talking in his ear of a witch of Atlas—a cicerone to the dear -mysteries of the earth he had hitherto but half understood,—these -emotions were a long-rowelled spur to prick him forward through -difficult places. Once in Paris, there should be no more temporising. -From the Duke of Orleans’s own lips he would learn whether or no he -had been bidden on a fool’s errand. -</p> - -<p> -Here, in fact, was the goading stab in his side—the wound that -sometimes so stung and rankled that almost he was tempted to have out -madame la gouvernante’s letter to her employer and resolve -dishonourably his doubts. Through the anguish of these, the piercing -tooth of the recent horror sprung upon him might make itself felt only -as a pain within the pain—a lesser torture, the nature of which he -would occasionally seek to analyse in order to a temporary -forgetfulness of the greater. Then, thinking of the holy maid of -Méricourt, he would cry in his soul, “What is this gift of -imagination but a Promethean fire, destroying whoever is informed with -it! Better my system of a mechanical world with passion all -eliminated!”—and he would think of how he had been once curiously -interested in a poor lodge-keeper’s dreamings, a faculty for which had -been then to him so strange an anomaly. And was it so still—to him -who had learned, through love, to attune his ear to the under -harmonics in every wind that blew upon the earth? Perhaps, in truth, -it was this very gift of imagination that, in greater or less degree, -was responsible for the irregularities one and all that misconverted -the plain uses of life; that made the picturesqueness of existence, -and its glory and tragedy. And would he at this very last be without -it? And was not its possession—a common one now to him and -Nicette—the stimulus to unnatural deeds that were the outcome of -supernatural thoughts? He had at least the temptation to commit an act -that would be an outrage on his traditional sense of honour. He would -resist the temptation, because he <i>had</i> the tradition. But conceive -this Nicette, perhaps with no traditions, and with an imagination -infinitely more vivid than his. What limit was to put to her -foreseeings; how should the normal-sighted adjudge her monstrous for -anticipating conclusions to which their vision could by no means -penetrate? -</p> - -<p> -He would catch himself away from the train of thought, the indulgence -of which seemed a certain condonation of a deed that his every -instinct abhorred. Yet his mind took, perhaps, something the tone of -the intricate close places in which it wandered; and now and again a -little thrill would run through him of half-sensuous pity for the poor -misguided soul that, by offering up its honour at the very shrine at -which his worshipped, had only estranged what it would have fain -conciliated. -</p> - -<p class="spacer"> -* * * * * * * * -</p> - -<p> -By way of Fumay—a little pretty town situate on a river holm, and -overhung by a group of stately rocks called the Ladies of the -Meuse—Ned, adopting the advice of the Comte de Lawoestine, entered -France. At once—as if, from easy gliding down a stream, he had been -drawn into and was rushing forward in the midst of rapids—his days -became mere records of anxiety and turbulence that constantly -intensified throughout every league of his approach towards Paris. At -the very frontier, indeed, he had taken the plunge, as exemplified in -his change of postilions. To the last village on the German side he -had been driven by a taciturn barbarian—a cheese-featured -Westphalian, picturesque, malodorous, and imperturbably uncivil. This -certificated lout was dressed in a yellow jacket, having black cuffs -and cape, and carried a saffron sash about his waist and a little -bugle horn slung over his shoulder—the whole signifying the imperial -livery of the road, then as sacred from assault as is the uniform of a -modern soldier of the Fatherland. Tobacco, <i>trinkgeld</i>, and the -unalienable right to keep his parts of speech locked up in the -beer-cellar of his stomach—these appeared to be the three conditions -of his service. Ned parted from him with a league-long-elaborated -anathema that sounded as ineffective in the delivery as the rap of a -knuckle on a full hogshead, and so, on the farther side of the border, -committed himself to a first experience of the “patriot” postboy. -</p> - -<p> -From the smooth and muddy into the broken water! Here was volubility -proportionate with the other’s gross reticence. Jacques was no less -picturesque and malodorous than was Hans. He had his private -atmosphere, like the German; only it was eloquent of pipes and garlic -rather than of pipes and beer. He spat and gabbled all day; and he was -dressed, like a stage pirate, in a short brown coat with brass -buttons, and in striped pink and white pantaloons tucked into -half-boots. A sash went round his waist also, and he wore on his head -a scarlet cap having a cockade. Ned was feverishly interested in this -his first introduction to a child of the new liberty; but he would -fain have found him inclined to a lesser verbosity. However, he was a -cheerful rascal and a good-humoured, and his easy sangfroid helped the -traveller out of an occasional tangle of the red-tapeism that he found -immeshing official processes rather more intricately under a -republican than under an autocratic form of government. -</p> - -<p> -Ned’s journey to the capital was, indeed, a race a little perilous and -full of excitement. The common spirit, or suggestion, of suppressed -effervescence that had been his former experience, was revealed now a -spouting, tingling fountain, light yet heady, hissing with froth and -bubbles. The kennels of France ran, as it were, with sparkling wine, -and the very mayfly of moral intoxication was hatched from them in -swarms. Thoughts, words, acts; the habits of dress, of motion, of -regard—all were the characteristics of an hysteria the result of -unaccustomed indulgence—the result of reckless drinking at the -released spring. One could never know if a chance expression—either -of speech or feature—would procure one a madly laughing or a madly -resentful acknowledgment. Exultation and terror walked arm-in-arm by -the ways, each trying stealthily to trip up the other. It was an -insane land, and now verging on a paroxysm of mania; for it was known -that at last the king—the man of shifty vision—was focussing his -eyesight on the north-eastern border of his kingdom, whence loomed the -shadow of foreign legions moving to his aid. -</p> - -<p> -The north-eastern border! To enter the land of fury from such a -direction was to invite one’s own destruction. Not even luck, -recklessness, and unexceptionable passports might, perhaps, have saved -Ned from the homicidal madness of a people wrought to fantastic fear, -had it not been for a quick-witted post-boy’s genius in availing -himself of the right occasions to apply them. This was his real -good-fortune—that his own innate charm of manner, his patience and -sweetness, his characteristic unaffectedness in the matter of his -rank, and his healing sense of humour in everything, found their -response in the heart of the garrulous Jacques, and converted that -amiable horse-emmet from an indifferent employé into a very fraternal -road-companion. -</p> - -<p> -So, through stress and danger, Ned sped on his journey, and—following -for fifty leagues from the frontier in the track of the wrecking -storm—was enabled to enter Paris, by the great Flanders road, some -four days after his parting with M. le Comte de Lawoestine. Then—a -final difficulty at the Temple barrier surmounted—he found himself -once more a mean small condition of the life of that city to whose -self-emancipatory throes he had once been a deeply concerned witness. -And he accepted the fact without uneasiness, not knowing that before -he should turn for the last time to quit the awful place of death and -resurrection, the tragedy of his own life, in the midst of the -thousands there enacting, should be consummated. -</p> - - -<h3 id="b2ch09"> -CHAPTER IX. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">On</span> the very day following that of his arrival, the pendulum of Ned’s -particular destiny began its driving swing. He had taken good lodgings -in a house in the Rue St Honoré, less, perhaps, as a concession to -his rank than to his hypothetical prospects; and, issuing thence, -after he had breakfasted, he had but a hundred yards to walk to reach -a certain revolutionary centre that was become the goal to his -long-drawn hopes and apprehensions. -</p> - -<p> -It was a morning in early August, breathless and burning; and he -turned into the gardens of the Palais Royal, that he might thus -combine the opportunities to slake his thirst and to acquit himself of -his commission to the royal proprietor of the adjoining palace. He had -seated himself—unaccountably loath, now the moment was arrived, to -put his fears to the proof—at a little café table under a tree, and -was dreamily marvelling over the changed aspect of this <i>plaisance</i> of -sedition (how in three years the temper of its <i>habitués</i> seemed to -have altered, as it were, from that of a beleaguered to that of a -triumphant garrison), when the familiar personality of one of three -men who, talking together, strolled towards him, caught his immediate -attention. Ugly, austere, with his Rowlandson paunch and unaffected -neat clothes; with his wry jaw and crippled scuffle of speech—Ned saw -here the unmistakable presentment of his whilom friend, the king’s -painter. Between M. David and another—a tall, plebeian-dressed man, -with a flawed, supercilious face, the blotched darkness of which -(something caricaturing that of the monarch’s own) belied the -mechanical amiability of its features—walked an individual of a very -benignant and serene expression of countenance, the nobility of which -showed in agreeable contrast with the moodiness of its neighbours’. -This man—by many years the youngest of the three—was of the middle -height, with dark sleepy eyes and chestnut hair. His face, slightly -marked by the small-pox, was of a rather sensuous, rather wistful -expression—at once pitiful and determined, with Love the modeller’s -finger-marks about the mouth and, between the brows, the little long -scar cut by thought. He was dressed in a very shabby and slovenly -fashion, with limp tattered wristbands, and the seams of his coat -burst at the shoulders; and even the lapels of his vest were -dog’s-eared—altogether a display of poverty a little ostentatious, -thought Ned (who, nevertheless, had reason by-and-by to correct his -judgment). Yet, for all his appearance, here was the man of the three -to whom the others, it seemed, paid deference; for they hung upon his -words, their eyes bent to the ground, while he walked between them, -frankly expounding and with a free aspect. -</p> - -<p> -Now suddenly M. David glanced up and caught the Englishman’s gaze; and -immediately, to Ned’s surprise (he had a vivid memory of their last -rencontre), detached himself from his fellows and came forward with -extended hand. -</p> - -<p> -“Surely,” said the painter, “monsieur my friend the artist of the -Thuilleries gardens!” -</p> - -<p> -“At monsieur’s service,” said Ned, rising, with a complete lack of -cordiality. “And of the Rue Beautreillis, M. David, where a poor devil -of a papetier had his factory gutted.” -</p> - -<p> -He drew a little away. David’s face showed villainously distorted. -</p> - -<p> -“That may be,” said he, taken aback. Then he advanced again, with an -air of sudden frankness. “‘Let sleeping dogs lie.’ We do not, in these -days of realisation, repudiate our responsibility for the acts that in -those were tentative. But a generous conqueror does not dwell on the -humiliation of his adversaries. The end justifies the means, monsieur; -and you, at least, if I remember, were no advocate of social tyranny. -But that was long ago, yet not so long but that I can recall monsieur -as a promising probationer in the art that is the most admirable in -the world.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned, touched upon his unguarded side, was standing at a loss for an -answer, when the painter’s two companions joined the group at the -table. -</p> - -<p> -“Citizen Egalité,” said David, addressing the supercilious-looking -man, “let me have the pleasure of making known to you M. Murk, an -artist who would be a patriot were he not, unfortunately for us, an -Englishman.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned started. -</p> - -<p> -“Egalité!” he exclaimed. -</p> - -<p> -“Ci-devant Duc d’Orléans,” said the tall man himself, with a little -mocking bow. -</p> - -<p> -“Monseigneur,” began Ned. -</p> - -<p> -“Citizen,” said the other, bowing again. -</p> - -<p> -His eyes were dead stones of irony. His expression was as of one -hopeless of convalescence from the weary illness of life. -</p> - -<p> -Ned fetched his letter from his breast. -</p> - -<p> -“Citizen Egalité—if so I am to call you,” said he, “I meet you in -the good hour, being on the road, indeed, to seek the citizen -himself.” -</p> - -<p> -“Me, sir?” -</p> - -<p> -“You, monsieur—or the Duke of Orleans. I have the honour to place in -the hands of the duke a packet with the delivery of which I have been -entrusted by an intimate correspondent of monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -Monsieur, looking a little surprised, received the missive, and -deliberately breaking the seal, deliberately read through madame la -gouvernante’s letter. Ned must discipline his sick impatience the -while, and the two other men conversed apart—David in some obvious -wonder over the result of his introduction. -</p> - -<p> -Presently the duke, carelessly returning the paper to its folds, -looked up. Ned strove, but failed, to read his sentence in the -impassive face. A moment’s silence succeeded. It was a test beyond his -endurance. -</p> - -<p> -“I undertook to acquaint monsieur le duc, from my personal knowledge,” -he blurted out, “of the causes of madame’s apprehensions.” -</p> - -<p> -“Madame,” said Egalité, “is very fortunate in a courier whose -discretion, she informs me, is only equalled by his disinterestedness. -Madame has, indeed, always the faculty to find some one to pull her -her chestnuts out of the fire.” -</p> - -<p> -He spoke so languidly, so suggestively, so insolently, that Ned, -despite his desperate anxiety, fired up. -</p> - -<p> -“I fail to read into monsieur’s implication,” said he. “But if it is -meant to signify that madame’s peril——” -</p> - -<p> -“Is she in any, then? This letter merely informs me that she removes -at once to London.” -</p> - -<p> -The confirmation of his dread had appeared somehow so foreshadowed in -his reception that the blow fell upon Ned with nothing more than a -little stunning shock. -</p> - -<p> -“And that is all?” said he, in quite a small stiff voice. -</p> - -<p> -“All that is essential, indeed, monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing of her terror that she is being watched and followed—that -she moves within the sinister ken of the royalist emigrants—that her -nerve is shattered—that she begs you to recall her?” -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing. But—Heaven forgive her! I recognise her style. Oh yes, yes! -It is possible she has posted and dismissed you very effectively, -monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -He went off, for the first time, into a real laugh—a harsh -cachinnation that he checked, as in mere disdain of it, in its -mid-career. Ned waited, in rather an ugly manner of patience, till he -was finished. Then, said he, wishing to right himself with himself on -all points— -</p> - -<p> -“Has posted me, as monsieur says; and, doubtless, for all exigent -purposes, it was necessary only to post the letter to monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -“How, then?” -</p> - -<p> -“At least, it would appear, its delivery by a confidential messenger -was not imperative?” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>À ce qu’il paraît</i>,” said the duke, grinning again. “At least such -a commission exhibited an excess of caution.” -</p> - -<p> -All the bitterness of the poor young man’s soul seemed suddenly to -flush his veins. -</p> - -<p> -“It is thus, then,” he cried, “that you requite the hospitality -lavished upon you and yours; that you take advantage of a generous -sympathy extended to you, to serve your own selfish purposes at the -expense of your entertainers. You deserve that no hand be put out to -you but to strike you in the face, as it is in my heart to treat you, -monsieur le duc!” -</p> - -<p> -He spoke loudly enough, and all his muscles tightened to the prick of -onset. M. David ran up— -</p> - -<p> -“Ta-ta-ta!” he exclaimed; “what the devil is here?” -</p> - -<p> -Egalité’s cheeks showed mottled white, like brawn. -</p> - -<p> -“Be quiet,” he said. “This is M. le Vicomte Murk, who has put himself -to inconvenience to deliver me a letter.” -</p> - -<p> -His lips trembled a little. The wretched creature himself had a -wretched nerve. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur would seem to imply,” he said, “that I am a party to the -circumstance of some discomfiture he has suffered. It needs only a -little reflection to disabuse himself of so extravagant a -supposition.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned made a violent effort to control his passion. Convinced now, as he -was, that he had been used the victim of a practical joke, he could -not turn the situation effectively by adopting a tragic vein. Besides, -he was conscious of an inexplicable little feeling of rebellious -attraction towards this man—a sort of emotional deference such as -that with which a despairing suitor courts the guardian of his -inamorata. If the light of his hope had fallen very low, here was he -that might, if he would, renew it—here was a possible friend at court -that he could ill afford—until that moment of the certain quenching -of the light—to quarrel with or insult. He did not put this to -himself. It affected him, nevertheless. -</p> - -<p> -“I will acknowledge I was hasty,” he said, in some miserable -perplexity. “It is possible I have jumped to unjustified conclusions. -I have been a disinterested courier, as monsieur suggests, faithful to -the service to which I was induced—under false pretences, it appears. -But I will take monsieur’s word as to his innocence of any -participation in the jest that has led me dancing over half a -continent in search of monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -He looked at Egalité half piteously. The latter, scenting the -reaction, shrugged his shoulders, with a relieved expression. -</p> - -<p> -“I am deeply sensible,” he said coolly, “of monsieur’s kindness. For -the rest” (he tapped the paper in his hands) “the message that -monsieur conveys to me is capable of only one construction.” -</p> - -<p> -“That madame removes with her charge to London?” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly.” -</p> - -<p> -“And that is all?” -</p> - -<p> -“Precisely all, monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned fell back a pace, and bowed frigidly. The duke, with a second -shrug of his shoulders, took M. David’s arm and made as if to -withdraw. Suddenly he jerked himself free and returned to the hapless -young man, a much gentler look on his face. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah, monsieur!” he said, in a low voice, “that is all—yes, that is -all. But I can read between the lines. Am I to hold myself to blame -that madame took her own way to rid herself of an embarrassment! I -talk in the dark, with only my knowledge of women—of this woman, <i>par -excellence</i>—to illuminate me. She coaxed you to a confidential -mission? Well, there was no need—believe me, there was no need. We -must read between the lines.” -</p> - -<p> -He again made as if to go, and again returned. -</p> - -<p> -“It is extremely probable, nevertheless,” he said, “that we may see -the dear emigrants back in Paris before long.” -</p> - -<p> -With that he went off, taking the painter with him. Ned watched the -couple receding, till the crowd absorbed them; then sat himself down, -feeling benumbed and demoralised, upon a chair. -</p> - -<p> -So, here was the end—the mocking means adopted to the rejection of -his suit. It was a vile, cruel jest, he thought; a characteristic -indulgence of selfishness inhuman, for which presently he would take -fierce delight in calling a certain statesman to account. A statesman! -his stricken vanity yelled to itself: a diplomatic buffoon who would -sacrifice principle to a pun. So he classified Mr Sheridan, to whom he -would attribute this ruin of his hopes. -</p> - -<p> -But deeper emotions prevailed. Had the duke been, or was he at this -last, despite his protestations, a party to the fraud? It mattered -nothing at all. There was a more intimate question to put to his -heart—the sadder and more sombre inquiry, Was the girl herself a -confederate? And here he fell all amazed and overwhelmed; plunged in a -slough of the most sorrowful speculation; struggling for foothold—for -some memory at which he might clutch for the righting of his moral -balance. There should have been many memories—of kind looks and words -and touches, all instinct with the tender humour of truth. God in -heaven! It was conceivable that the elder woman, the old practised -strategist, had played a consummate <i>rôle</i>. It was never inconsistent -with the principles of such pantological professors to indulge the -hypocritical as part of their universal equipment. But Pamela, with -not that of roguishness in her sweet eyes to justify a belief in -anything but an innately honest soul behind them! Pamela, in the -sincerity of her heart, in the womanliness of her nature, in the -cleanness of her lips, craftily intriguing to indict Love’s passion of -trust! He could not believe it. He could not but believe that some -words, some acts of hers—most haunting in the retrospect—had been -designed to express her sympathy with that in him which she could only -as yet recognise in herself for a mood. And it had been, then, Madame -de Genlis’ private policy to dismiss him before this mood—this -bud—could timely open out into a flower. -</p> - -<p> -Well, she had succeeded—thanks to one self-interested, with whom the -reckoning was to come—she had succeeded, and aptly, no doubt, to the -sequel. For it was not to be supposed that madame’s artifice would -permit her to wean its subject from a fancy and fail to find the -subject other food for a stimulated appetite. My lord the viscount had -possibly, indeed, but (in the vernacular) kept the place warm for -another. The sun of his passion may have only a little ripened the -fruit for the delectation of lips more blest than his. By this time, -it was probable, the dream that had been his was a transferred -rapture. -</p> - -<p> -What should he do—what should he do? He sat dully, his delicious -sweet world of imagination shrunk to unsightly clinkers, very mean and -grotesque. Only the real world stretched about him—a shoddy, vulgarly -formal affair. A laugh, a mere ironic chest-note, came from him. For -to what glorified uses did not men seek to convert this intrinsically -tawdry material! They were always sensitive to the befooling holiday -spirit, the spirit that is persistently ready to accept specious -commonplace at a fancy value. For all the essential purposes of -romantic passion he, if he chose, might take his pick (<i>he</i> with his -title, his rich competence, and his personal attributes) from the -human fair that tinkled and scintillated about him. Yet he must price -all this opportunity at so much less worth than that of one set of -features as to value it, lying ready to his hand, at a pinch of dust -compared with the unattainable. The glamour of the fair was not for -him, let him elect to give his philosophy licence without limit. -</p> - -<p> -He did, it will be observed, madame la gouvernante (who had been -genuinely distraught) something a little less than justice. But, after -all, his resentment in the first instance was against Mr Sheridan, and -in that, no doubt, he was justified; for he must fail, in the nature -of things, to understand what reason but a personal one could have -moved that gentleman to manœuvre to circumvent a suitor so frank and -so admissible as himself. -</p> - -<p> -He called for wine; and, while drinking, for the first time in his -life, too much of it, his mood underwent a dozen rallies and relapses. -Passion, exasperation, and the most sick desire to possess what now -seemed to have evaded him for ever—emotion upon emotion, these -wrought in his suffering mind. More than once he was half-stirred to -the decision to return immediately to England; and, instantly -recalling the duke’s enigmatical suggestion anent the ladies’ return -to Paris, he would resolve to remain where he was, preferring the -problematical to the chances of hunting counter in the mazes of his -own capital. For he must see the girl again—to that he was -determined; he must see her again and, crashing at last through the -reserve his own diffidence had created, must seek to carry by storm -that with which he had so mistakenly temporised. -</p> - -<p> -And then suddenly—a vision called up, perhaps, by the unwonted fever -in his veins—the figure of Pamela, as he had last seen it, stood -holding out to him in its hands the little crushed scarlet blossoms; -and he could see the wilful smile and hear the sweet voice offering -him the rose of his desire; and all in a moment his eyes were full of -tears, and he became shamefully conscious of his surroundings, the -very character of which profaned his thought. -</p> - -<p> -He thrust his hand in an access of tenderness into his breast. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur,” said a low, grave voice in his ear, “is in need of -sympathy.” -</p> - -<p> -He started, and turned about angrily. At his elbow was seated that -third member of the late trio to whom the others had appeared to pay -deference. This man had not followed his companions, it seemed, but -had remained behind when they walked away. -</p> - -<p> -In the very motion of resenting the interference, something in the -nobility of the stranger’s manner gave Ned pause. The anger died from -his features, gradually, in a little silence that succeeded. -</p> - -<p> -“Very well, monsieur,” he said at length, quite gently. “You are very -far from meaning impertinence, I see. I answer you, All men need -sympathy.” -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur,” said the stranger, “that admission is the basis of our new -religion of humanity.” -</p> - -<p> -He leaned forward, smiling with a great sweetness. His air somehow -conveyed to Ned the impression of a conscious strength that rather -enjoyed indulging in itself a dormant condition of faculty, sure that -it could summon up at will mental forces irresistible to any opposed -to it. -</p> - -<p> -“Is it new?” said Ned. “I seem to recall a hint of it in the Gospels.” -</p> - -<p> -“The man Christ,” said the stranger, “was a virgin. His partisanship -was necessarily limited. He was never blinded by, but always to, -passion.” -</p> - -<p> -“The passion of love?” -</p> - -<p> -“Of love, in the erotic sense.” -</p> - -<p> -“And what is that to signify in the present context?” -</p> - -<p> -“Only that it enables me to see deeper than Christ the virgin.” -</p> - -<p> -“You have more prospicience than Christ?” -</p> - -<p> -“In one direction, assuredly.” -</p> - -<p> -“You are confident, monsieur?” -</p> - -<p> -“So far, I am confident. Christ was a divine—I, monsieur, am a -human—advocate.” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>De causes perdues</i>, in this instance, monsieur, I believe. But an -advocate deals with proofs.” -</p> - -<p> -“Without doubt. Monsieur is unfortunate in an attachment.” -</p> - -<p> -“To himself? Christ could have taught him that.” -</p> - -<p> -Nevertheless he was amazed. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah!” cried the other, “but I am literally an advocate; and I heard -monsieur le duc’s final words; and it is my business to read the -soul’s confession in the face. I perceive, however, that monsieur -resents my presumption, which is, of a truth, unwarrantable.” -</p> - -<p> -He rose as if to go, his dark eyes still quick with a gentle, -unrebukeful sympathy. Ned was impelled to cry hastily— -</p> - -<p> -“It is my right at least, monsieur, to ask the title of my counsel!” -</p> - -<p> -“I have none,” said the stranger simply. “My name is Vergniaud.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned sprang to his feet, upsetting his chair. -</p> - -<p> -“Vergniaud!” he cried, and stood staring at the man whose -utterances—echoed latterly to the very cliffs of England—had seemed -to him the first inspired interpretation of the Revolution as a real, -breathing, human, emancipatory force. Now he understood why the others -had shown such deference to this one of their party. -</p> - -<p> -“Vergniaud!” he cried again faintly, and so rallied himself. -</p> - -<p> -“Truly,” said he, “I have entertained an angel unawares. M. -Vergniaud—indeed, I have a very unhappy attachment; and I need -counsel at this moment, if ever man did.” -</p> - - -<h3 id="b2ch10"> -CHAPTER X. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">Pierre-Victorin Vergniaud</span>, the source of much present enthusiasm, -the full fountain-head of the Gironde river of eloquence, was -already—though but a few months a citizen of Paris—the director of a -popular force having an admirable tendency. In him it seemed possible -to hail that political architect of the new era who should have the -genius to reconcile warring creeds, and shape of men’s profound but -formless aspirations an enduring temple of the ideal commonwealth. -Poor, yet never conceding a thought to the shame of poverty; -simple-minded to the extent that he could not err in justice; hating -corruption and loving truth; a moving orator, a large humanitarian, he -might have led a world, undissenting, to the worship of the right -Liberty, had not his great gifts, his large ideals, been always -subject to eclipse by an extreme constitutional indolence. Utterly -ingenuous, utterly impressionable; depending upon the moment for -inspiration, and so little warped by self-consciousness as never to -know the moment to fail him—it was yet often impossible to spur this -Vergniaud to necessary action. Madame Roland, the superior being, to -whom he was introduced by enthusiastic friends, had no belief in his -capacity as a leader; distrusted, and perhaps despised him. Ned—the -poor degenerate to a very human type—learned, on the other hand, to -love and admire him. For in this mind—as in the mirror of sweet clear -water—he found his own chastened theories shaping themselves, taking -such form and gentle significance as he had never hitherto but more -than conceived to be theirs. Nor this only, or chiefly. He was able to -forget something of his own hard unhappiness, of his bitter sense of -grievance, in the familiar contemplation of a nature so serene, so -noble, so unsolicitous of its self-aggrandisement. From these closing -days of darkness, the little friendship that so queerly came to him to -tide him opportunely over a period of wretched indecision remained an -abiding pathetic memory. -</p> - -<p> -Citizen Vergniaud lived in a shabby lodging near the Tivoli Gardens. -Thither Ned accompanied him on the morning of their meeting, and -thither many times he found his way again. The little beggarly room -became a haven of rest to his tormented spirit—a confessional-box -wherein he could always leave some part of his great weight of -oppression. And, now and again, even, moved to waive his personal -interest in that fine spirit, and to repay some part of the healing -advice so disinterestedly lavished upon himself, he would play the -<i>père spirituel</i> in his turn, and whip his penitent with a cobweb -lash of rebuke. -</p> - -<p> -“My Peter,” he would complain, “you dwell too long on the overture to -your career. It may be rich in all the suggested harmonies, but it is -time you set to work on the opera.” -</p> - -<p> -“Time!” would cry Vergniaud, with a smile. (He might be, perhaps, -unpacking a very little parcel of cheap linen that had just reached -him from his family, his dear simpletons, of Bordeaux.) “But time is -no arbitrary measure to the man who hath studied to make his own.” -</p> - -<p> -Says Ned, “You may make it, but you will always give it away to the -first specious beggar that asks.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then I am only liberal with that that I do not value. ’Tis a poor -habit of charity, I admit. But I could never keep it; hark! little -Edward—I could never keep time, even when I danced!” -</p> - -<p> -“So foolish heirs mortgage their reversions.” -</p> - -<p> -“So alchemists squander their inexhaustible treasures, you mean. When -time has done with me, I shall be past caring. Maybe the spendthrift -will have gilded a poor home or two in his world.” -</p> - -<p> -“And, had he economised, he might have gilded the temples of an -epoch.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, thou art an elegant moraliser! But I am more modest for myself—a -Fabian by sentiment, not policy. I tell thee, an age so rich in -opportunities invites to procrastination. A multiplicity of choice is -the last inducement to choose. I loiter, like a child, in the fair, -with my silver <i>livre-tournois</i> in my pocket, and, until I spend it, I -am lord of a hundred prospective delights. Let me wait till the lights -are burning low, and then I will make my selection—the crown to a -pyramid of enjoyments.” -</p> - -<p> -“And find that others before you have taken the pick of the fair while -you ecstatically considered, and that you have at the last paid full -price for a discarded residue.” -</p> - -<p> -“What, then, my friend! I shall be richer than the prudent by measure -of a whole feast of anticipation—more satisfied, if less gorged. The -early bird eats his chicken in the egg. (<i>Corne de Dieu</i>! there is a -fine marriage of proverbs!) He has nothing to look forward to but a -day of blank satiety. I cannot at once have the dreams of youth and -the sober retrospections of age.” -</p> - -<p> -So he would talk <i>ex curia</i>, a dilatory, lovable vagabond, with a rare -power of enchantment drawn from some hidden depths, as from a -fern-curtained well. Perhaps this sensuous personal charm—whereby he -would appear to flatter with signal affectionate regard each in turn -of his numerous acquaintances—would of itself have failed after the -first to win a poor love-stricken from prolonged contemplation of any -but his own interests. It was the man’s spasmodic revelations of -unexpected virile forces held in reserve that would suddenly convert -in another a little growing sentiment of tolerant disdain to an eager -desire to be acclaimed friend by this subject of his condescension. -So, may be, the force operated upon Ned. For succeeding his first -gratification over an introduction to one in whom he had latterly -prefigured the regenerator of France, came a thought of -<i>désagrément</i> in his soul’s nominee, a feeling of disillusionment in -which he was prepared to recognise another example of Fortune’s wanton -baiting of his personal cherished ideals. Then one day he heard this -seeming waiter on Providence, this almost coatless landholder of -Utopia, speak in the Assembly; and thenceforth he had nothing but -reverence for the ardent soul, whose misfortune only it was to be -bounded by a love more human in its essence than divine. He had seen -the familiar figure sitting with its hand over its face; he had next -seen the face revealed from the tribune, inspired, transformed, as if -the hand itself, consecrate as a priest’s, had touched and wrought the -priestly sacrament of confirmation; and the sermon of high government -that followed had taken wings of fire from the burning spirit that -informed it; and the hearts of men had kindled and glowed, flaring at -length—alas, too self-consumingly!—into roaring flame. -</p> - -<p> -Well, such moments were for Ned’s holiday moods. This present -friendship and admiration saved him, perhaps, from hobnobbing with -more harmfully potent spirits. Yet the one enthusiasm could galvanise -him only fitfully into an interest in the passionate scenes amongst -which he moved. So negative a pole is love—when turned from the -north-star of its hopes—to all that in less misconverted -circumstances would attract it. Here was he a spectator at last of the -stupendous drama in the early rehearsals of which he had been so -profoundly interested; and he had nothing for it all but a lack-lustre -eye, which he must always keep from turning inwards by an effort. He -lived, in fact, in a little miserable tub of his own choosing, while -the Alexanders of a political renaissance made history around, and -unregarded of, him. -</p> - -<p> -Much time he spent moodily gazing from the windows of his lodgings in -the Rue St Honoré. Thence looking, his life seemed to become a dream -of motley crowds always drifting by. Stolid, tight-buttoned guards, -with brigand moustaches like dolls’; frowzy revolutionary conscripts, -swaggering to glory; tattered deputations, exhibiting the seals of -their memorials in the shape of old blood-stains dried upon arms and -faces, and headed, perhaps, by some trimly arrogant sectional -president, with his sleek hair and tricolour sash—vociferous or -intent, in noisome clouds they floated by; and Ned could seldom rescue -so much curiosity from the heart of his self-centred indifference as -to inquire what was their destination or significance. A shoddy -Paris—a Paris of gaudy fustian. So far a certain general impression -seemed bitten into him; and, desultorily moved by it, he would rarely -wake to a little rhapsodical song of lamentation over yet another -shattered ideal. This city and this people that he had loved, and of -which and whom he had expected and prophesied so noble a triumph of -self-emancipation! Now the tangled mazes of “party” differences seemed -designed only to render the central cause unattainable. Now, he would -think, the history of their municipal government was always to be -likened to the story of an iceberg—a story of top-heaviness -periodically recurring—of base and summit exchanging positions again -and again, the depths replacing the head, the head the depths. And did -it signify, as in the iceberg, a steady attenuation, a bulk of force -and grandeur constantly lessening? God save France, and exorcise the -sluggard demon in Pierre-Victorin! -</p> - -<p> -By-and-by, sick at last of inaction, the poor fellow took to the -streets, restlessly traversing all quarters of the city—its -bye-lanes, its loaded thoroughfares—both by day and lamp-light. Once -he made his way to the now ancient ruins of the Bastille, and dully -leaving them after a dull inspection—or rather retrospection—looked -half curiously up at his old lodgings, yet had not the spirit to visit -them and Madame Gamelle. Once a languid thrill penetrated his torpor -upon his chancing upon view of an old acquaintance, the Chevalier -d’Eon, so queerly associated with a certain episode in his vanished -life. He passed the strange creature in the Thuilleries gardens, -whither he had come years ago to see a balloon ascend. She stared him -full in the face, but without recognition, as she went by. Her eyes -bagged in their sockets; she looked old and shabby—an improvident -actress retired upon scant savings. Already her gaze had grown -unspeculative; the first menace of senility suggested itself in the -drooping of her fat old jaw. She had come over from England, Ned -learned, a year ago, to petition the National Assembly—in the days -before its dissolution—for leave to resume her helmet and her sabre -and to serve in the army. Her request had received the double honour -of applause and of relegation to the official minutes—where it slept -forgotten. The poor chevalier must consign herself gracefully to -oblivion—which no actor or actress ever did. She lived on at Paris a -few months longer—a decaying old body with a grievance; then returned -for the last time to England, where, dying by-and-by in poverty, and -being handed over to the final merciless inquisition of the mortuary, -she was adjudged—a male impostor, and so committed to a dishonoured -grave. -</p> - -<p> -Upon Egalité (but recently so designated) Ned happened from time to -time, yet only to understand that this would-be popular constituent -was resolved upon “cutting” him, a titled aristocrat, from popular -motives. Therefore, despite the gnawing of the fox of anxiety at his -ribs, the young Englishman, in his pride, would make no appeal to the -man who alone could ease his torment; but he endeavoured to ascertain, -through indirect report, what were the chances of an early return to -Paris on the part of certain notable emigrants; and in the meantime he -must settle himself down, with what remnants of philosophy he could -command, to a life of miserable inaction and irresolution. -</p> - -<p> -Then, once upon a day, behold! into his field of vision, the spectrum -of a ghost more remotely haunting than any familiar to his recenter -experience, flashed Théroigne, “Our Lady of Darkness,” the realised -presentment of a destiny long foreshadowed. And henceforth it was as -if he had been hurled into one of those red arteries of fatality (of -which the just-erected guillotine was as the throbbing heart) that -laced the city in all directions. -</p> - -<p> -He was strolling with Vergniaud, again in the Thuilleries gardens. It -was a day of lazy sunshine, and the walks and grass-plots were -crowded. Paris must laugh and breathe, though in the committee rooms -yonder the whirring machinery of election to the new National -Convention was shaking the whole town; though forty-seven out of the -forty-eight sections, with their tag-rag and bob-tail, were howling -for the king’s abdication through all the courts of the city; though -the shadow of the Brunswicker and his emigrants was already projecting -itself, like a devil’s search-light, from a contracting horizon; -though hate, and terror, and fanaticism were crouching in every corner -with smouldering linstocks in their hands. The babble was not less, or -less animated, for this. Children sailed their boats on the ponds, or -played ball about the grass. It was a scene of light and good-humour. -</p> - -<p> -Against the terrace of the Feuillans, to the north of the gardens, the -strollers came upon the first sign of a serpent in this Eden—a long, -broad, tricolour ribbon stretched from tree to tree, and bearing the -inscription, “<i>Tyran, notre colère tient à un ruban; ta couronne -tient à un fil</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -“It shall be excused, or blamed, for its wit,” said Vergniaud, and as -he spoke there came uproar from a distance, where some victim to -mob-resentment was being trailed through a horsepond. A cloud shut out -the sun. The two men, fallen suddenly moody, made their way to a gate -that led from the gardens into the Rue du Dauphin, that was a -tributary of the Rue St Honoré. Vergniaud glanced up at the name of -the former. “<i>Tient à un fil</i>,” he murmured, and shook his head, with -a sigh. -</p> - -<p> -On the moment of their emerging into the greater thoroughfare, a -discordant rabble came upon them—a mouthing, sweltering throng of -patriots, with a woman at their head banging a drum. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Voilà la prêtresse habituée</i>, Théroigne de Méricourt!” said -Vergniaud, with a soft chuckle. -</p> - -<p> -Ned gasped and stared. He had not alighted on this woman—had recalled -her only fitfully—since the night when she fled from his uncle’s -house. Even Madame de Lawoestine’s reference to her had affected him -but indifferently. If, during his present sojourn in Paris, he, -absorbed in more introspective searchings, had heard casual mention of -the “Liége courtesan,” the “<i>coryphée</i> of the Orleanists,” the -beloved (according to the wits of <i>Les Actes des Apôtres</i>) of the -Deputy Populus (who did not so much as know her), a least desire to -identify this reputation with the one of his experience had not -overtaken him. Théroigne—were it, indeed, the Théroigne of his -knowledge—had only followed the course he might have predicted for -her. To drain the rich for the benefit of the needy—that were a noble -form of solicitation. To feed starving patriots and their cause with -the fruits of her dishonour was a rendering of the theme that scarcely -commended itself to other than Parisian morals. Yet he had lost sight, -no doubt, of the motive that induced her to wage war, by whatever -means, upon the order patrician. It was to be recalled to his memory. -</p> - -<p> -For now, suddenly, he was face to face with the embodiment of a -passion to whose early processes he had unwittingly contributed. The -girl saw, halted her vociferous troupe, and the next instant came -towards him. A fantastic figure, a thing of shreds and gaudy tatters, -detached itself from the throng and followed at her heels. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Corne de Dieu</i>!” muttered Vergniaud, “the dog too?” -</p> - -<p> -Théroigne stopped in front of the Englishman—a presentment, in flesh -and clothing, of vivid, barbaric licence. Her eyes sparkled; her -cheeks glowed. For four years the “Defier of God,” she had walked with -her face to the sun. She was, and was to be, “Mater Tenebrarum—the -mother of lunacies, the suggestress of suicides”—a flaming evolution -from the scorned and abandoned village beauty. -</p> - -<p> -She had on a little military jacket of dark-blue, over a white -chemisette cut low to her swelling figure; a tricolour sash, in which -was stuck a pistol, went round her waist, and from this fell to her -ankles a short skirt of scarlet. Cocked daintily on her head was an -elfin hat with feathers <i>à la Henri IV.</i>, and suspended from her -shoulder by a red ribbon a little smart drum bobbed and tinkled at her -side as she walked. -</p> - -<p> -She clinched a hand upon her bosom, scorning and daring, in the fierce -exultation of her beauty, this possible critic of it. -</p> - -<p> -“We are well met,” she said. “Dost thou know me, citizen Englishman?” -</p> - -<p> -“I know you, Théroigne.” -</p> - -<p> -“Thou liest, thou! Thou takest me, I can see it, for some past poor -victim of thy use and abuse, or, if not of thine, of another’s. I -never was in Méricourt—dost thou hear?—unless it is a province of -hell! I never appealed to the honour of a class that knows no honour -but in name.” -</p> - -<p> -Vergniaud, in some serene astonishment, came forward. -</p> - -<p> -“Citizeness,” he said, “you surely amaze my friend, who is a child of -the land of freedom.” -</p> - -<p> -She laughed in one breath. -</p> - -<p> -“Do I amaze him? I thought his looks claimed knowledge of me.” -</p> - -<p> -Then she turned upon Ned once more, her furious disdain giving to the -woman in her. -</p> - -<p> -“I heard thou wert in Paris, monsieur le vicomte. Believe me, it is an -evil place at this present for such as thou.” -</p> - -<p> -“And from whom did you hear it, Mademoiselle Lambertine of -Méricourt?” said Ned, with perfect coolness. -</p> - -<p> -Her eyes flashed, her lips set at him. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah,” she cried, rage overmastering the scorn in her voice, “but it is -pitiful, is it not, for one so particular in his reputation to be -jilted by the bastard of Orleans!” -</p> - -<p> -Hearing her laugh, the grotesque creature, who stood still at her -elbow, began to chuckle and caper. -</p> - -<p> -“But yes,” he babbled in a wryed, indistinct voice, “Pamela—yes, -yes—the bastard of Orleans!” -</p> - -<p> -Ned, gone pale as a sheet, took a fierce step forwards, and at that -the woman sprang and intercepted him, putting her hand on her vile -henchman’s shoulder. -</p> - -<p> -“Thou shalt not touch him!” she cried. Her fingers caught at the -pistol-stock in her belt. Menacing oaths came from the ragged group -that awaited her return. -</p> - -<p> -“Tell him, Lucien,” she said to the wretched creature, “who it is we -are ever seeking through the streets of Paris.” -</p> - -<p> -“My brother Basile,” answered the man. -</p> - -<p> -His face was a fearful sight—melted featureless it seemed, and with -tangs of rusty hair dropping stiff from it in the unscarred patches. -For the rest he was nothing but a foul-clad cripple—idiotic, -distorted. -</p> - -<p> -She turned upon Ned again. -</p> - -<p> -“Dost thou know me now?” she cried; “or am I still to thee the simple -fool that could be wronged and insulted with impunity?” -</p> - -<p> -She bent forward and dropped her voice, so that every word came from -it distinct. -</p> - -<p> -“Listen to me. All these years I have sought and found him not. Now, -at last, word comes to me that he is here in Paris, that he is -identical with one that insults, through the faction she represents, -the woman he has outraged beyond endurance.” -</p> - -<p> -She paused and drew herself up, then raised her hand in a threatening -attitude. -</p> - -<p> -“My star brightens! First one, and again one! Out of the past they are -drawn—drawn like night birds into a charcoal-burner’s fire, and they -shall fall before me and my foot trample their necks!” -</p> - -<p> -She turned and struck her dog roughly on the shoulder. -</p> - -<p> -“Is thy tooth sharp, Lucien? are thy claws like a devil’s rake to rend -and to scorch? Courage, my friend! the moment arrives—for you and for -me, Lucien, the moment arrives!” -</p> - -<p> -She had fetched drumsticks from her sash, and now brought them down -with a little snapping roll and break. -</p> - -<p> -“Forward!” she cried (and she looked back significantly over her -shoulder). “The crown of martyrdom to the devotee that would rather -wed than make a bastard!” -</p> - -<p> -Again the sticks alighted with a crash and roll. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>C’est nous qu’on ose méditer de rendre à l’antique esclavage</i>!” -she sang out shrilly; and all the throaty mob took up the chorus, -“<i>Aux armes, citoyens</i>!” -</p> - -<p> -So, reeling and howling, and drifting backwards a black smoke of -menace towards the stranger whose name, for any or no particular -reason, seemed to be written in the dark book of its <i>café-chantant</i> -Hippolyté, the procession passed on its way. The stragglers, who had -been drawn by curiosity to the neighbourhood of the interview, -dispersed, and the two men were left alone. -</p> - -<p> -Vergniaud, with a shrug of his shoulders, looked at Ned, who seemed to -be muttering to himself. -</p> - -<p> -“A very <i>précieuse-ridicule</i>,” murmured the Frenchman. “I would not -have you take the little pretty rogue seriously.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned seized him by the wrist. -</p> - -<p> -“Did you hear her?” he exclaimed in a concentrated agony of voice. -</p> - -<p> -Vergniaud nodded his head. -</p> - -<p> -“About monsieur le duc’s <i>protégée</i>?” he answered uneasily. -</p> - -<p> -“How did she know of her—of me?” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Mon ami</i>, cannot you tell?” was the compassionate, evasive reply. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” cried Ned violently, “I can tell. He lied about the letter. The -woman told him in it why she had wished to get rid of me, and he lied -about it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Come,” said Vergniaud, “if it is so, the lie acquitted him, at least, -of a cruel discourtesy towards you.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned laughed like a devil. -</p> - -<p> -“Acquitted him!” he shrieked; “and while he reserved the jest to -retail it to his brazen drab here! Oh, I know that no road is too -common for Monsieur le Duc d’Orléans! And my—and this that I have -hugged to my soul and cherished as almost too sacred for my own -thoughts to prey upon! To be used to the foul purposes of a harlot and -her lecher! Oh, my God!—I will kill him!” -</p> - -<p> -Vergniaud essayed a manner of soothing. -</p> - -<p> -“The shrine of love can only be desecrated from within. These may -storm at the closed windows of thy soul, and the draught but make the -sacred lamp of thy heart burn brighter. Hold up thy head, my dear -friend.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have never lowered it,” muttered Ned; but he seemed hardly to hear -what the other said. -</p> - -<p> -“’Tis a specious theatrical jade,” went on Vergniaud, “and always -alert for situations. Witness her babbling reunions in the Rue de -Rohan, where enough gas is brewed in a night to float ten balloons. -Witness her habit of attire, her drum, her dog—the misbegotten maniac -that she rescued months ago from the Salpétrière, and hath devoted -to some mission of devilry that is the crowning infirmity of his -brain. Bah! It is all affectation, I believe. She will certainly pose -by-and-by before the judgment-seat.” -</p> - - -<h3 id="b2ch11"> -CHAPTER XI. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">In</span> the early morning of the 10th of August a young man, wearing the -uniform of the National Guards, was arrested in the Champs Elysées by -a patrol of the very corps to which he presumably belonged. This young -man—of a bright, confident complexion, crisp gold hair, and a rather -girlish turn of feature—took his mishap with an admirable -<i>sang-froid</i>. -</p> - -<p> -“Very well, my friends,” he said. “And I am arrested on suspicion—of -what?” -</p> - -<p> -“Of being an accursed Royalist in disguise,” answered the corporal -gruffly. -</p> - -<p> -The stranger nodded to the soldier. -</p> - -<p> -“When the good cause triumphs,” said he, “it shall be remembered to -your credit that you could recognise a gentleman through the trappings -of a brigand.” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Ah-hé s’il ne tient qu’à ça</i>!” replied the corporal briefly, with -a sniff. “Before this sun sets there will be, perhaps, some hundreds -of you gentry the fewer.” -</p> - -<p> -“My faith!” said the other, “and what a shortsighted policy: to post a -cloud of educated witnesses to the skies, to testify in advance to -your moral inefficiency!” -</p> - -<p> -They took him to the Cour des Feuillans—a yard neighbouring on that -very spot where Ned, a day or two earlier, had had his <i>contretemps</i> -with Théroigne and her satellites. Here, thrust into an outbuilding -that had been temporarily converted into a guard-room, he alighted -upon many acquaintances in a like predicament. -</p> - -<p> -“Does it all read failure?” he whispered to a colossal creature beside -him. This—also, presumably, a grenadier of the nation—was, in fact, -the Abbé Bougon, an ecclesiastic of the Court, who wrote plays, yet -had never conceived a situation one-half so dramatic as this in which -he now found himself. -</p> - -<p> -“Hush!” murmured the giant. “Yes; the worst is to be feared.” -</p> - -<p> -By-and-by the prisoners were summoned, in order, to examination in an -adjoining room. Long, however, before it came to the cool young -stranger’s turn, a sound of growing uproar without the building had -swelled to a thunder harsh and violent enough to ominously interfere, -one might have thought, with the <i>procès-verbal</i> within. The deep -diapason of massed voices, the crisp clash of pikes, the flying of -furious ejaculations—startling accents to the whole context of -menace—assured him that here was evidence of such a counterbuff to -palace intrigue as palace fatuity had never conceived might threaten -it. -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly, in the midst of the tumult, he thought he heard his own name -cried. -</p> - -<p> -“Suleau!” And again, “Scélérat! Imposteur!” -</p> - -<p> -He got upon a bench by a window that commanded a view of the court. -This, he saw,—a wide, enclosed space,—was full of blue-coated -soldiers. A posse of them made a present show of keeping the gates of -the yard; but the gates themselves, significant to the true character -of their defence, they had neglected to close. Beyond, in the road, -and extending at least so far over the Thuilleries gardens as his view -could compass, a packed congregation of patriots—quite typical -savages—rested for a moment on its weapons. It listened, it appeared, -to a commissary of the section, who, mounted on a tub by the gates, -counselled methods judicial. A little space had been left about the -orator, and now into this in an instant broke a woman—a wild -<i>vivandière</i>, she seemed, of the new religious service of blood and -wine—of the transubstantiation of Liberty. Without a moment’s -hesitation she caught the commissary by a leg, and, hurling him to the -ground, usurped his place. An exultant roar of applause shook the air. -The poor deposed tribune, rubbing his bones, rose, and bolted for -shelter. Suleau chuckled. -</p> - -<p> -Now he did not know Théroigne; but he had laughed consumedly at her -and her pseudo-classical pretensions in more than one Royalist print. -He laughed at many things, did this Suleau—not sparing the -gloom-distilling Jacobins, nor, in particular, Citizen Philip Egalité -and his faction, of whom was Citizeness Lambertine; and he was so -breezily headstrong, so romantically sworn to a picturesque cause, -that he would not calculate the cost of pitting his wit against the -vanity of a <i>coryphée</i> whose nod, in this height of her popularity, -often confirmed a wavering sentence, whose smile rarely franked an -acquittal. Besides, women—even the most foolish of them—like to be -taken seriously. -</p> - -<p> -This woman, it would seem, spoke vigorously, and entirely to the -humour of her auditors. Only there appeared to prevail something -rankly personal against himself, of all the twenty-two arrested, in -her diatribe. He caught the sound of his own name uttered again and -again to an accompaniment of oaths and execrations. This, at least, -flattered him with the assurance that he had done something to earn -the transcendent animosity of the many-headed. -</p> - -<p> -“I present myself with an order of merit,” he murmured, gratified; and -immediately he was summoned to his examination. -</p> - -<p> -He was conducted between guards to the room of inquisition. In it he -recognised many of his pre-indicted comrades in misfortune—twenty-one -in all—huddled into a corner by a window. The room was otherwise -crammed with soldiers, commissaries, and a few of the breechless. A -thin man, in a state of palpable nervous excitement, sat behind a -table. This was the Sieur Bonjour, first clerk of the Marines and -President of the Section of the Feuillans. He opened upon the prisoner -at once. -</p> - -<p> -“It is useless to deny that you are Suleau, the Royalist pamphleteer.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed,” replied the captive, with equal promptitude, “I would not so -stultify monsieur’s fine perspicacity in discovering what I have never -concealed.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yet you disguise yourself in the garb of liberty.” -</p> - -<p> -“No more than monsieur, surely.” -</p> - -<p> -The president struck his hand on the table. -</p> - -<p> -“It is not for me to bandy words with you. You were arrested when -patrolling the Champs Elysées, at an hour when all respectable men -are in bed.” -</p> - -<p> -“If,” said Suleau, “at an hour when all respectable men are in bed, -where was monsieur?” -</p> - -<p> -“Enough!” cried Bonjour angrily. “You are accused of conspiring with -these to resist the will of the people—by innuendo, by direct insult -to the people’s representatives—finally, by banding yourself with -others to inquire secretly into, that you might successfully -out-manœuvre, the processes of the movement having forfeiture for its -object.” -</p> - -<p> -“I congratulate monsieur,” said Suleau irrelevantly, “upon <i>his</i> -admirable manœuvring for election to the Ministership of Marines.” -</p> - -<p> -The president scrambled to his feet with an oath. The room broke into -ferment. -</p> - -<p> -“I beg to inform monsieur,” cried the prisoner, raising his voice, -“that I am in possession of a municipal pass to the chateau of the -Thuilleries!” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, yes—and we!” cried the huddle of captives by the window. -</p> - -<p> -With the very echo of their words there came tumult in the vestibule, -a trample of feet, and the head of a frowzy deputation burst into the -room. The young Royalist turned about and, folding his arms, quietly -faced the inrush. A woman was to its front—she he had seen mount the -rough tribune in the yard to denounce him. He saw her now marking him -down with a triumphant fury in her eyes—a strange, beautiful -creature—his own enigmatical Nemesis, it seemed. -</p> - -<p> -“Citizen president,” she cried in a full bold voice, “while St Antoine -awaits your decision St Antoine is paralysed. Its cannon yawn in the -faubourg; its pikes stab only at the air. To clear the ground of these -outposts—bah! here needs not the interminable civil processes. -Mouchards all, arrested armed in a state of belligerency, they shall -be subject to martial law. In the name of the national fraternity, -that to-day shall be confirmed and cemented, I demand that these -prisoners be handed over to the people.” -</p> - -<p> -A murmur succeeded her outcry. The president, white to the ears, -stilled it with uplifted hand. He looked a moment at the young -Royalist, a bitter stiff smile on his lips. -</p> - -<p> -“It is just!” he cried in a sudden thin voice. “This is no time to -dally, as the demoiselle Théroigne informs us. Conduct all the -prisoners into the yard.” -</p> - -<p> -The order had not passed his lips when there came a splintering crash, -and in an instant the whole room was in roaring racket and confusion. -Some half of the prisoners, forereading their certain doom, had made a -desperate plunge for escape through the rearward window by which they -stood. They got clear away. Their less prompt, or fortunate, -companions were in the same moment surrounded and isolated each from -each. -</p> - -<p> -Suleau lifted his voice above the din. -</p> - -<p> -“Commit me, my friends, to the sacrifice. Perhaps my blood, which, it -seems, they most desire, will appease their fury!” -</p> - -<p> -He struggled to throw himself towards the door. His motive -misunderstood, a half-dozen <i>sans-culottes</i> flung themselves upon and -pinioned him in their arms. At the same instant Théroigne leapt like -a cat and seized him by his collar. -</p> - -<p> -“At last!” she hissed in his ear. “Dost thou know me?” -</p> - -<p> -“Thou art Théroigne!” he panted. He had caught the president’s words. -He understood now something of the reason of this woman’s violence. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah!” she cried in a hurried fury of speech, “and has not <i>my</i> time -come, thou dog with a false name, thou nameless cur, so to slander and -revile the woman thou drovest to ruin?” -</p> - -<p> -They were slowly edging him towards the door. He could only shake his -head at her. -</p> - -<p> -“Why dost thou not speak?” she urged. “Why dost thou not implore my -mercy? I could save thee if I would.” -</p> - -<p> -He still did not answer. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah!” she sighed, with a cruel feint of tenderness, “for the sake of -the old days, Basile! Ask me, by the memory of our embraces, of thy -child that I bore in my womb, to pity and protect thee!” -</p> - -<p> -“You are mad,” he cried. “I have never seen you in my life.” -</p> - -<p> -She struck him across the mouth. The blow, the sight of the little -blood that sprang from the wound, were a double provocation to the -beasts of prey. They bore him with a rush to the outer door, through -it, into the yard beyond. Torn, bleeding, fighting every foot of his -way, but never protesting, he would sell his life dearly to these -mongrels. The yelling crowd surged and rocked before him. -Suddenly—with that exaltation of the perceptions that often seems to -signify the first flight-essay of the soul—he saw far back in the -thick of the press of inhuman faces one face that he recognised as -that of a man who, years before, on the morning of the Reveillon -riots, had spoken to him, mistaking him for another. Now, from the -expression of this one face, he educed a desperate hope. He gathered -it from the anguish of its features, from the conviction that its -owner was frantically endeavouring to thrust and beat a passage -towards him through the throng. God! he thought; if he could only -reach the face, he would somehow be saved. -</p> - -<p> -With a furious effort he tore himself free, and snatched at and -wrenched a sabre from a hand that threatened him. -</p> - -<p> -“Here!” he shrieked to the face; “to meet me, monsieur—to meet me!” -</p> - -<p> -He had actually cut his way a half-dozen yards before a hand—the -woman’s—seized him from the back and dragged him to the ground. With -a groan he fell, trampled into a forest of tattered legs. -</p> - -<p> -“Cry to me for mercy!” screamed the harlot. -</p> - -<p> -“No,” he answered faintly. -</p> - -<p> -She yelled then, beating a space about her with her hands. “Lucien, it -is the moment that has come!” -</p> - -<p> -Snarling and dribbling, a hideous thing broke through the press and -flung itself upon the fallen man. -</p> - -<p class="spacer"> -* * * * * * * * -</p> - -<p> -Torn and breathless, Ned shouldered his way at last into the little -bloody arena. A woman—her foot upon the neck of something, some -bespattered creature that whimpered and prayed to her—looked stupidly -down upon the dead and mangled body of the man she had destroyed. -</p> - -<p> -“Accursed! oh, thou accursed!” panted the new-comer in terrible -emotion. “It is not he, St Denys, that thou hast murdered.” -</p> - - -<h3 id="b2ch12"> -CHAPTER XII. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">From</span> the day of the massacre in the Cour des Feuillans, when—a -casual and involuntary witness of the opening deed of blood—he had -made a desperate attempt to save the life of the man who, as he -supposed, was being sacrificed to a misconception, Ned had no thought -but that he was fallen, a second time and inextricably, under the -deadly spell of the city that was at once his horror and his -attraction. That he had not paid the penalty with his own life of so -quixotic an interposition rather confirmed him in the sense of -fatality that had overtaken him. He could afterwards only recall -vaguely the expression of terror with which Théroigne had accepted -his furious impeachment of her barbarity; the resentful rage of the -mob over his denunciation of its idol; his imminent peril, and the -immunity from personal harm suddenly and unexpectedly secured him at -the hands of the very loathed object of his execration. He had given -her no thanks for her advocacy. It had condemned him merely to -prolonged struggle with an existence that had grown hateful to him. -Defrauded of his love, disenchanted with life, his residue of the -latter was not, he felt, worth the devil’s purchase. -</p> - -<p> -And yet this sentiment carried with it a certain wild passion of -personal irresponsibility that was not without its charm. Into the -being of the people that had waived for the present, it seemed, all -thought of consistent conduct, he was absorbed without effort of his -own—absorbed so helplessly, that even the wounding stab of a certain -question, once engrossingly poignant to himself, dulled of its pain -and could be borne. It was as difficult to think collectedly, indeed, -in the Paris of those days as it is while rushing through a strong -wind. -</p> - -<p> -Now, in the thick of the events that followed fast and irresistible -upon the heels of an overture to what was, in truth, a disguised -anarchy, he could not but feel himself something renewing that state -of mind, curious and fiercely pitiful, that had been induced in him -years before by his contemplation of the first scenes of a tragedy -that was now labouring in its penultimate act. And here the emotion of -the moment seemed always significant of the trend of the plot, -until—puff! the dramatic weathercock would go round, and the wind of -applause blow from another quarter, freezing or wet according to a -rule that was just the regular absence of any. But the food of excited -conjecture never failed to save his heart from feeding upon its own -tissues, and was the sustenance to his starving hopes. Indeed, at this -last, it seldom occurred to him, a temporary sojourner in the city of -doom, that he was other than an unalienable minute condition of the -city’s life; and he would no more than his friend Pierre-Victorin -desire to repudiate his liabilities thereto. -</p> - -<p> -The 10th of August had passed like a death-cloud—“a ragged bastion -fringed with fire”—sweeping the streets with a storm of blood. The -king, dethroned, was a prisoner in the Temple; the mob occupied itself -in the violent erasing of all symbols of royalty. Vergniaud and the -Gironde were in perilous, protesting power; the prisons were glutting; -the guillotine had begun to rise and fall like a force-pump, draining -the human marshes. Of Théroigne, the militant priestess of St -Antoine, Ned heard only, vaguely rumoured, that—sated, perhaps, with -her share in the events of the Thuilleries massacre—she was inclining -to the moderate policy of Brissot and his following, and was -temporarily, at least, withdrawn from the influence of her earlier -colleagues. That she was moved to this course by any self-loathing for -the deed of which he had been witness he, detesting her, would not -believe. But he had no wish to entertain one further thought of her in -his mind. -</p> - -<p> -So the month sped by—its every succeeding hour fresh fuel to the -popular wrath and terror over the rumoured advance of the Allies upon -the city,—and on the last day of it a strange little rencontre took -place between two of the minor actors in a very extraneous branch of -the general tragedy. -</p> - -<p> -Ned, aimlessly strolling through the Faubourg of St Marcel in the -south-east quarter of the city, had turned, on the evening of this -day, into the boulevard that ran straight northward, by the ancient -city wall, from the Place Mouffetard to the Seine. His way took him -past the horse-market, and—inevitably, therefore, to the -context—past an adjacent house of correction for blacklegs. This -ironically named hospital—an iron-cased lazaretto, in truth, the -prison of the Salpétrière—was situate upon a dismal wedge of waste -land between the new and old enceintes of the city. It was a brutal, -gloomy pile, its walls exuding, one might have thought, the ichor of a -thousand diseases, moral and physical. Sooty, unlovely as a -factory—as indeed it was, of the devil’s wares—its noisome towers, -blotted on the sky, decharmed the soft reflected burning of the -sunset, and made a vulgarity of their whole leafy neighbourhood. From -its grated windows, high up in the foul air of its own exhaling, -behind which the gallows-tree birds built their nests, caws and -screams issuing were evidences of a very swarming rookery. Here and -there, the white, hair-draggled face of a strumpet stared from behind -bars; here and there an inward light—like a wandering fen -candle—could be seen travelling from story to story. -</p> - -<p> -Ned, as he approached the building, quickened in his walk; for he was -aware of a batch of fresh prisoners, under escort, being driven across -the boulevard towards the central gate; and with the instinct to spare -misfortune the impertinence of unofficial inquest, he would hurry to -put himself beyond suspicion of prying. In this good motive, however, -he was baulked; for a subsequent party—a solitary culprit walking -between guards—issued from the same direction, and cut across and -encountered him just as he approached the entrance. -</p> - -<p> -He started, and strangled an immediate inclination to exclaim aloud. -For in the lonely malefactor, going by him with bent head and -lowering, preoccupied face, he recognised—he was sure of it—Basile -de St Denys. -</p> - -<p> -Degraded, vitiated—a shameful, ravaged personality, as unlike, in his -existing condition, the bright soul who had served, unconsciously to -them both, for his scapegoat—here was, without question, the -unlicensed once-lord of Méricourt. And the woman, his victim, had -erred only, it seemed, as to the direction of his presence in the -city—had erred, perhaps, because she could not realise that, -consistent to his nature, he must be sought, after all these years, -along the lower levels of existence. -</p> - -<p> -The felons and their escort disappeared; Ned, dwelling where he had -paused, came to himself presently with a shock, as if out of a dream. -On an immediate impulse he turned into the prison yard, and mounted a -shallow flight of steps leading up to a great studded door that was -pierced by an open wicket. Looking through this, he saw the figure he -sought receding down a dim, long vestibule; and at the moment he was -faced by a turnkey. -</p> - -<p> -“What do you here?” exclaimed the man harshly. “That Jules is a fine -porter!” -</p> - -<p> -“I thought I saw one I knew pass in.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is like enough. They have many of them a large acquaintance”—and -he offered to slam the wicket in the intruder’s face. Ned jingled, and -produced his “tip.” -</p> - -<p> -“That is another question,” said the man. -</p> - -<p> -“Now,” said Ned, “is the name of that last prisoner that entered -Basile de St Denys?” -</p> - -<p> -“I know nothing of the <i>de</i>. What sort of citizen art thou? But, -otherwise—yes.” -</p> - -<p> -“And what is he accused of?” -</p> - -<p> -“A common enough matter: forging assignats.” -</p> - - -<h3 id="b2ch13"> -CHAPTER XIII. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">Citoyenne Théroigne</span> had not, it is to be supposed, the wit of a -Mohl, or the tact of a Recamier; but her sensuous and long-practised -beauty so vindicated her sins of omission in these respects as to -procure her reunions a social distinction than which none more -catholic was accorded the <i>salons</i> of a later period. At her rooms in -the Rue de Rohan she held, and had long held, weekly Sunday -<i>séances</i>, of a quasi-political character, at which revolutionary -propagandists of such opposed principles as Mirabeau, Brissot, Pétion -were in turn, or out of it, to be met. Thither sometimes came Philip -of Orleans, with his sick, affable smile; thither Desmoulins, galvanic -and stuttering, the “attorney-general to the lantern”; thither the -poet Joseph Chénier; thither the younger Sieyes, eager to sniff the -incense exhaled to his less accessible brother, to whose exalted -virtues Théroigne, by some queer freak of contrariety, consistently -and reverently testified. To what earlier condescensions on her part -were due her present political intimacies it need not here be -questioned. One form of sympathetic largesse is part of the necessary -equipment of women of a naturally assimilative character. -</p> - -<p> -She had adaptability; for four years her face and figure had brought -her a succession of ardent ministers to it. Thus, nourished on the -unconsidered mental pabulum of manifold intellects, she was become an -omniparous vessel, brazen and beautiful—emitting such a medley of -discordant sounds as had once the window bells, to Ned, in the -“landlust” of her native village. Yet, through all, whatever her -inconsequent show of principles, detestation of a social system to the -abuse of which she attributed her early downfall abided within her -unwaveringly, and induced her to those deeds of violence that, in the -end, alienated from her all those of her once familiars to whom Reason -figured as something higher than the goddess of licence. -</p> - -<p> -But still she had a store of reflected light with which to illuminate -her Sunday reunions. -</p> - -<p class="spacer"> -* * * * * * * * -</p> - -<p> -“Citoyenne,” said an acrid young patriot, whose eyes were just cut -apart by the mere blade of a nose, and who wore a little silver -guillotine for a seal, “whither wilt thou fly when the Brunswicker -enters to make good his manifesto?” -</p> - -<p> -“At his throat, Pollio,” (the company clapped its hands). -</p> - -<p> -“To hang round his neck?” -</p> - -<p> -“Ay, like a millstone.” -</p> - -<p> -“But, indeed,” said the young man, affecting to show trouble, “thou -wilt surely be included amongst the proscribed.” -</p> - -<p> -“There will be none!” cried the girl: “the capitol is saved! the geese -have begun to cackle!” -</p> - -<p> -Pollio, amidst the laughter, shook his head in pretended distress. -</p> - -<p> -“It is all very well. Yet not Paris but the world were lost to see our -Judith under a wall, the mark to a platoon of dirty jägers.” -</p> - -<p> -Théroigne came to her feet. Her cheeks were flushed; her thick brown -curls were slumbrous shadows upon the pale slopes of her shoulders. -She was dressed quite simply, in the suggestiveness (something -misread) of virgin white. -</p> - -<p> -But she was not at her ease. Radiant, glowing, voluptuous (she always -looked, this woman, as if she were but just risen from a warm bed), -there had yet been all the evening an unwonted rigidity in her manner, -a distraught expression in her face, such as that with which one -vouchsafes to another the shadow of an attention whose substance is -given elsewhere. She would break into feverish fits of merriment. She -would start and seem to listen, as if to some tiny voice making itself -heard within the compass of many voices. It may have passed -unregarded, this spasmodic manner of distraction; it may have been -observed and accepted as a new accent to charms so many-humoured. The -times took little note, little surprise, of unaccustomed tricks of -speech or feature. It was because men and women had so lost sight of -what were their true selves that moods passed for convictions. -</p> - -<p> -Now she stood like a Pythoness, the light from above falling upon her -head, rounding and sleepily caressing all the fair curves of her -figure, of the smooth naked arm she raised as in inspiration. -</p> - -<p> -“It is not the Brunswicker I fear,” she cried. “It is the enemy from -within—from within!” -</p> - -<p> -She dropped her hand to her heart, as if that were her secret foe. -</p> - -<p> -“Citoyenne,” whispered a voice in her ear, “there is one waiting in -the <i>foyer</i> that is peremptory to see thee.” -</p> - -<p> -She stared a moment, with a lost expression; then looked aside, half -in anger, to see her country Grisel regarding her appealingly. -</p> - -<p> -“What one, little fool—little Bona?” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed, I do not know. He implored me by the love of God.” -</p> - -<p> -Théroigne laughed uneasily. -</p> - -<p> -“Rather by the love that is gratuitous, thou little <i>grand’-bêta</i>. -Hush! Go before, and I will follow.” -</p> - -<p> -Some one drew aside the <i>portière</i>; she passed out, with a smile that -fled from her face as she descended the stairs. Under the dim oil-lamp -in the hall a cloaked figure was standing. As she came upon it, she -saw it was the English lord. The warmth and fragrance of a remoter -atmosphere that she brought with her shivered into frost on the -instant. That was inevitable; yet she would always have foregone many -plenary indulgences to draw this man into sin on her account. -</p> - -<p> -He took a quick step forward, made as if to seize her by the arm—but -checked the impulse. -</p> - -<p> -“You must come with me!” he whispered. -</p> - -<p> -She exclaimed, incredulous, “Come with you!” then quickly bent -forward, and looked intensely into his face. -</p> - -<p> -“Why does your voice break? Is it some trouble of your own, and you -seek me—<i>me</i> out of all the world?” -</p> - -<p> -“It is not of my own.” -</p> - -<p> -“Whose, then?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yours.” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Mon Dieu</i>!” she cried, with a little sharp laugh of mockery. “I know -of none—of no trouble or pleasure—that is our mutual concern.” -</p> - -<p> -He clapped his hand roughly at that on her naked shoulder. His fingers -clawed angry marks in the flesh. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah!” she cried, “you hurt me!” -</p> - -<p> -“Hurt!” he echoed. “Do you know what they are doing to-night in this -devil’s city of yours?” -</p> - -<p> -He caught only a faint protesting murmur from her lips. -</p> - -<p> -“God wither you if you do!” he said hoarsely. “They are murdering the -prisoners. Do you hear?—in all the prisons they are murdering the -prisoners; and Basile de St Denys is one of them!” -</p> - -<p> -She sprang back from him. Her face was like a face seen in -moonlight—white, round a black glare of eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“You lie!” she cried. “He at least is dead already!” -</p> - -<p> -He came at her again—seized her in a very fiend’s grip. -</p> - -<p> -“Is it a time to equivocate? You know, as I, how your wicked hand -miscarried on that day. The man is in prison. I myself saw him borne -thither three days ago. You must come, and quickly, to be of use. -There is no question but that.” -</p> - -<p> -She shook herself free, standing back so that her face seemed to -twitch and palpitate in the gusty sway of the lamp-light. -</p> - -<p> -“You are imperious,” she muttered. -</p> - -<p> -“It must not be,” he cried violently, “this horrible thing. You can -save him if you will.” -</p> - -<p> -“And can you so master your loathing of me as to ask it?” she said. -</p> - -<p> -“I swear—deny yourself this gratification of a lust so inhuman, and I -will think better of you than ever before.” -</p> - -<p> -“That will be compensation for all I have suffered,” she said. -</p> - -<p> -Her voice seemed too toneless, too passionless even for irony. She -stood without a movement before him, the marks of his clutch slowly -fading from her shoulder. -</p> - -<p> -“Théroigne,” he cried, “you have the chance to a little atone. You -will not so clinch your damnation! In the name of God, Théroigne! -This man was the father of your child.” -</p> - -<p> -“True,” she said, “of my dead child. I will come, monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -He gave a gasp of terrible relief. -</p> - -<p> -“Hurry!” he said, “or it will be too late.” -</p> - -<p> -She had already seized a cloak from a recess: in a moment they were -speeding on their way together. -</p> - -<p> -He talked to her as they hurried on—half unconsciously, almost -hysterically. He told of his chance encounter, of Basile’s -degradation, of anything or nothing. It was such emotional gabble as -even reserved men vent during the first moments of respite from -intolerable anguish. His voice echoed back from the silent houses. He -did not even notice that the girl returned him never an answer, so -assured was he now of her sympathy. -</p> - -<p> -The streets were curiously still and deserted, the familiar life of -them all shrunk and cowering behind a thousand lightless blinds. Now -and again phantom cries seemed wafted to them from remote quarters; -now and again a glimmer of torches would flash from far perspectives, -and travel a moment on the blackness and vanish. -</p> - -<p> -It was a weary way by which they must go. The man led his companion -through the Place du Carousel down to the river, along the endless -line of quays by the wash of night-bound waters, over the Isle -St-Louis and the street of the two bridges; again, along the gloomy -quay of St-Bernard, and so into the dark leafy boulevard that ran -southwards to the thieves’ prison. And here, for the first time, a -spectral suggestion, an attenuated wind of sounds, began to take shape -and body; and here suddenly the girl gave a quick gasp, and jerked to -a stop. -</p> - -<p> -“The Salpétrière!” she muttered, clutching her cloak to her throat. -</p> - -<p> -“The Salpétrière, Théroigne.” -</p> - -<p> -She seemed to turn her head and look at him. Then on again she went, -and he followed. -</p> - -<p> -The noise increased to their every onward step. Ambiguous sounds -resolved themselves into sounds unnamable. Dim light, seen phantomly -ahead, flared out in a moment across their path, as if some hellish -furnace were refuelling. And then, in an instant—as it were stokers -labouring at the mouth of flame—a scurry of fantastic shapes, -grotesquely busy about the entrance to a lighted yard, grew into their -vision. -</p> - -<p> -Ned turned upon his companion. -</p> - -<p> -“Take my arm,” he said, in a ghastly voice. -</p> - -<p> -She shrank from him. -</p> - -<p> -“Not unless it is thou needst support,” she whispered. -</p> - -<p> -He seized her hand, and reached and drove into the thick of the -bestial throng, dragging her after him. A horrible reek seemed to -fasten upon his brain. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Malédiction</i>!” shrieked a filthy Alsatian, whom he had sent reeling -with his elbow; “but I will teach thee the answer to that!” -</p> - -<p> -He swung up a bloody cleaver, clearing a space about him. The girl, on -the thought, ran under his guard. -</p> - -<p> -“Théroigne!” screamed a woman’s voice across the yard. “It is la -belle Liégeoise—our little amazon!” -</p> - -<p> -Her cloak had fallen apart. She was revealed to these her friends. At -the word, a roar went up from the mob; the offending patriot was -struck down, trampled upon; the girl herself stamped upon his face. -</p> - -<p> -“Hither!” screamed the voice again, “to the best seats in all the -theatre!” -</p> - -<p> -Then at once Ned felt himself urged forward. He went, dazed. His feet -slid on the stones—plashed once or twice. He saw a great light—light -jumping from the brands held high by a lurid row of women stationed on -the topmost step of the shallow flight that led to the great door. He -saw Théroigne seized and embraced by these harpies. Her skirt, that -had been all white, bore a clownish fringe of crimson. -</p> - -<p> -“I cannot stay here,” she cried. “I have business within.” -</p> - -<p> -They answered, clattering: “Get it over and return, little badine, for -the sight is good.” -</p> - -<p> -The next moment he and the girl were at the door. A group of four, -issuing, scrambled past, almost upsetting them. A patriot to each -shoulder and one fastened on like a dog at the back! It seemed an -extravagant guard to one sick collapsed thing borne in the midst. They -ran it down the steps; the torches fluttered and poised steady. Ned -flung himself through the doorway, crushing his hands against his -ears. Somebody touched and led him forward. -</p> - -<p> -As his brain cleared, he saw that he was standing—somewhat apart from -any other—in a large, dimly lighted room. A man of a fierce and -sensual mould of feature was seated hard by at a table, a great open -register before him, a tin box of tobacco and some bottles within his -ready reach. Round about lolled on benches pulled away from the walls, -perhaps a dozen, more or less tipsy, judges (saving the mark!) -subordinate to the president. A couple of men with red-stained arms -and in steaming shirts stood by the closed door. An old dumb-faced -turnkey held his hand to the lock. -</p> - -<p> -A voice—a name lately uttered, still rang confusedly in his memory. -What did it signify? He caught at his reeling faculties. -</p> - -<p> -“Behold, citizeness, the man!” -</p> - -<p> -All in an instant, it seemed, the room sank into profound stillness. -He struck the film from his eyes, and saw St Denys. -</p> - -<p> -The wretched creature stood before the table, between guards. He -appeared utterly amazed and demoralised. Even in the moment of terror, -Ned shrunk to see how the brute had come to predominate in that -handsome debauched face. -</p> - -<p> -Then, suddenly, the harsh voice of the president shattered the -silence. -</p> - -<p> -“Your name—your profession?” -</p> - -<p> -“St Denys, by principle and practice a demagogue,” faltered the -prisoner. -</p> - -<p> -“Dost know of what thou art accused?” -</p> - -<p> -“I am innocent, M. le président—before God, I am innocent!” -</p> - -<p> -Something white moved forward—struck him on the shoulder. -</p> - -<p> -“And before <i>me</i>, Basile de St Denys?” -</p> - -<p> -He whipped about, and uttered a cry like a trapped hare. -</p> - -<p> -“It is enough,” said the judge, with admirable intuition. He was by -this time so far sated with his feast of blood that a nicely balanced -“situation” was like an olive to his wine. He would not cheapen the -flavour by unduly extending it. -</p> - -<p> -“The citoyenne Théroigne pronounces sentence,” he said. “I wash my -hands of the matter. Let the prisoner be enlarged.” -</p> - -<p> -He took a gulp from a glass at his side, and bent to write in his -book. His guards laid hands on their victim. With a shriek, St Denys -tore himself free, and fell at the feet of the woman. -</p> - -<p> -“Théroigne!” he cried, abasing himself before her—clutching at her -skirt, “don’t let them take me—me, that have lain in your arms!” -</p> - -<p> -Grovelling on the floor, he turned his agonised face to the president. -</p> - -<p> -“She did not denounce me, monsieur! your generosity misinterpreted her -motive.” (He caught again at the dress, writhing in his dreadful -shame.) “Say you did not mean it! Give me a little time to repent. I -have wronged you, Théroigne; but I never ceased to love you in my -heart. Give me time, in mercy, and I will explain. You have not seen. -You don’t know the foulness and the horror of it!—Théroigne!” -</p> - -<p> -Looking up, he saw the stony impassibility of her face, and sank upon -the boards, moaning “Pardon—pardon!” -</p> - -<p> -She stood gazing down upon this poor revealed baseness—this idol -self-deposed. -</p> - -<p> -“Pardon!” she said at last, in a quiet, even passionless voice. “And -do you conceive, monsieur, the exorbitance of your demand? But I will -put the case to these citizens, and take their verdict.” -</p> - -<p> -She raised her beautiful hard face, addressing the board— -</p> - -<p> -“What price, messieurs, for an innocence ravished under pretext of a -union of free-wills—a union that was to be more indissoluble than -marriage, yet that lasted only a summer’s day? What price for a broken -contract when the shame threatened; for the dastardly desertion of a -wounded comrade; for the bitter desolation of a heart doubly widowed -and slandered through its trust? What price for the ruined honour of a -family, for the curse of a father? What price for exile from all the -peace of life; for—my God! what price for a faith, that was so -beautiful, destroyed; for a name that necessity has made infamous -amongst men?” -</p> - -<p> -She paused, and a loud murmur from her listeners eddied through the -room. She caught at her skirt, seeking to release it from the clutch -of him that held it. It was doubtful if the dying wretch took in much -of the significance of her words. He crouched there, only whimpering -and swaying and entreating her half articulately. -</p> - -<p> -“Thou wouldst always teach me the immortality of such a faith,” she -cried in quick passionateness, “whilst thou wert giving me to an -immortality of shame.” -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly she threw her hands to her face. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh me! oh me!” she wailed in a broken voice. -</p> - -<p> -For the first time some core of anguish in Ned seemed to melt and weep -itself away. -</p> - -<p> -“It is come at last,” his heart exulted. “She will pardon him.” -</p> - -<p> -As swiftly as it had seized her the emotion fled. She held out her -open palms, as if in a devil’s blessing, above the prostrate man. -</p> - -<p> -“They are soiled with blood!” she cried. “Let the victims, when my -name is execrated, testify against you, not me!” -</p> - -<p> -She seemed to listen to the moaning entreaty that never ceased at her -feet. The president shifted in his chair and was restless with some -papers. This situation—it was interesting, tragic, spiced with -unexpected revelation; but the occasion, apart from it, was -peremptory; the killers were clamorous outside over the unaccountable -break in the programme. -</p> - -<p> -“My honour,” cried Théroigne, “my early innocence, my faith and peace -of mind! If I name the return to me of these as the price of blood, -what is thy answer?” -</p> - -<p> -His moaning rose only like a wind of despair. She drew herself erect -and turned to the judges. -</p> - -<p> -“Messieurs—the price?” -</p> - -<p> -The whole company seemed to spring to its feet. A roar went up from -it—and subsided. -</p> - -<p> -“It is answered,” said the president. “Take M. St Denys away.” -</p> - -<p> -There was a scurrying forward of men—a sudden stooping—a struggle. -Shriek after shriek came from the ground. Ned leapt into the fray like -a madman. -</p> - -<p> -“To subscribe,” he screamed, “to the revengeful fury of a wanton! It -is not liberty or justice. Why, look at her, look at her. The beast -that would murder twenty innocents to secure the destruction of one -that had wounded her vanity. Gentlemen! to be so governed by a -harlot—to be——!” -</p> - -<p> -He choked as he fought. There were savage hands at his throat. -</p> - -<p> -“Do not harm him. I would not have him harmed.” -</p> - -<p> -It was Théroigne that spoke. She stood apart, white and chill as a -figure of ice. -</p> - -<p> -He spat curses at her, that mingled with the deadlier tumult. Monsieur -le président made his voice heard above the din. -</p> - -<p> -“Eject this person, without hurt, from the rear of the prison.” -</p> - -<p> -Seized, then, despite his frantic struggles; protesting; striving for -foothold; conscious always of the desperate outcry—faint, and -fainter—of the unhappy man he had sought to befriend, Ned felt -himself hurried along corridors, borne down steps and by way of -echoing dank vaults—thrust violently into a world of spacious -silence. -</p> - -<p> -A door shut with a steely clang behind him. Before, stretched a -desolate waste tract of fields. The moon was at its full-flood light, -and the whole world seemed to float quietly on a sea of peace. -</p> - -<p> -He threw himself, face-downwards, amongst the tufts of coarse grass, -and cried upon the flood to overwhelm him. -</p> - - -<h3 id="b2ch14"> -CHAPTER XIV. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">At</span> the end of November the young Viscount Murk was still a sojourner -in Paris. Always reserved and self-contained, he was become by then a -creature of wilful and habitual loneliness, with something, indeed, of -the moral dyspepsia that is induced of the morbid appetite that leads -one to feed upon one’s own heart. And when the heart is so inflamed of -love as to be sensitive to the least imaginary slight, assuredly the -dyspepsia, as in Ned’s case, shall be acute. -</p> - -<p> -Men of few or no friendships have a very undivided passion to bestow -when at last the call comes to them. At the same time such are wont to -signalise the early stages of their complaint by a diffidence so -exaggerated as that, in the nature of nature, it must degenerate in -course into a desperately injured vanity. It is to be feared that, at -this period of his ailing, Ned was horribly big with a sense of -grievance generally against the social order, that seemed so -parsimonious of the favours (as represented by one only favour, in -fact) that his position entitled him to draw upon. What was the good, -in short, of being possessed of acres, a lordship, an agreeable -personality, if all could not procure him the single modest gift he -had ever asked of Fortune? -</p> - -<p> -That was a sentiment for his bitterest moods. In his more reasonable, -he would acknowledge to himself, with a sorrowful rapture, that no -human desert could prove itself worthy of the Hebe-goddess at whose -pretty feet he had worshipped. -</p> - -<p> -So he waited on and on—because irresolution, also, is a necessary -concomitant of extreme diffidence. He waited on, remote from his -natural state, constantly on the prick of flight, yet always fearing -to move, lest a vilely humorous destiny should take his sudden -decision for the point to a game of cross-purposes. He waited on, -shrinking ever more into his unwholesome self; avoiding -company—comradeship, even; but half-conscious of the screeching -barbaric world about him; hearing only distant echoes from the world -over-seas. Now and again it would occur to him—upon his receipt of -those periodic advices from his steward that made the almost sum of -his communications with a life that had grown curiously shadowy to -him—to put his own native instruments (in the person of this same -steward) to the use of ascertaining and reporting upon the movements -of Madame de Genlis and her charges. But always he was faced thereupon -by a score ghosts of apprehension—that such confidences might beget -familiarities vulgarising to the aloofness of his passion; that the -necessary interval that must elapse before he could procure a reply -must debar him from the independence of action that he still claimed, -without enjoying; most, that the coveted news itself, when it should -reach him, might do no better than confirm a haunting fear. And so he -dwelt on, passing at last, it seemed, into the very winter of his -discontent. -</p> - -<p> -Shunning—since that September night of a tragedy that had stricken -him for the time being half-demented—personal intercourse with -any—even the gentle Vergniaud—whose precepts and practice of liberty -seemed so grotesquely irreconcilable, he lost something of his former -feeling of a moral participation in the scenes enacting about him. Of -the revengeful woman, with whose destinies a joyless fatality had -appeared to connect him, he had seen nothing since the hour of his -agonising experience at the Salpétrière—had heard only, with a -savage exultation, that her latest connection with the moderate party -was undermining her popularity with that more formidable class of -which the link-women on the prison steps had been prominent -representatives. -</p> - -<p> -“She will be devoured by her own dogs,” he would think; and “God in -heaven!” he would cry in his soul, “to what an association with -cutthroats and queans has Providence thought fit to condemn me—me -whose heart burns always like a pure steadfast lamp before the shrine -of its divinity!” -</p> - -<p class="spacer"> -* * * * * * * * -</p> - -<p> -One bitter evening Ned found himself abroad in the streets—a mere -waif of destiny, hustled and jogged into the kennels by an arrogant -wind. The iciness of this dulled all his faculties, blinded him as he -struggled aimlessly on. “It must make the stones weep,” he thought, -“or why should my eyes fill with water!” The lamps slung across the -narrower gullies danced like boats at their moorings. The very shop -fronts seemed to flap their sign-boards, like hands, for warmth. -</p> - -<p> -He had crossed the river and penetrated the Faubourg St Germain as far -as the Rue de Vaurigard. On his right, the sombre towers of the -Luxembourg reeled into the night; on his left, a starry quiver of -lamps shaped out the portico of the Théâtre-Français. -</p> - -<p> -He was numb with cold. The glow and movement about the theatre drew -him—as they often did nowadays—to a bid for temporary -self-forgetfulness. He ran up the steps, entered a warm and lively -vestibule, and took a box ticket for the performance. -</p> - -<p> -This, when he came to view it, opened with a one-act sketch—“<i>Allons, -ça va</i>!”—a very patriotic and warlike little piece. He had seen it -before, and it did not greatly interest him. He was, in fact, sitting -in the covert of his retreat watching rather the house than the -players, when all in a moment his heart bounded, and he shrank back -into the shadow of the wall-hangings. Opposite him he had seen a party -enter a screened box, a <i>loge grillée</i>—nothing very significant in -itself. But a minute later the grating had swung open, -revealing—Pamela. -</p> - -<p> -She did not at first catch sight of him. She sat to the front of the -tier—she and the little pink-eyed daughter of Orleans. Her cheeks, -her hair, her eyes were all a soft glory under the radiance of the -lamps. He thought he had never seen her look so happy and so -beautiful. -</p> - -<p> -There were figures, the indistinct forms of men, standing behind the -ladies; but these he could not identify. -</p> - -<p> -A great sigh of ecstasy, half anguish, escaped him. He leaned forward, -and at that instant the girl raised her face and saw him. -</p> - -<p> -Under the shock of recognition, he was conscious of nothing but that -he had bowed across the house—that he had immediately leaned back in -his seat, his pulses drumming, his eyes blinded with emotion. -</p> - -<p> -When he dared to look again—the grille was closed. -</p> - -<p> -A swerve of actual vertigo seemed to send him reeling. The next -moment, thinking—though, indeed, he had done, had looked, nothing to -attract observation—that his condition must be patent to the -audience, to the stage, he brought his reason by a huge effort under -command. -</p> - -<p> -The grille was shut. The door of heaven had been slammed in his face. -</p> - -<p> -Now, he must fight to ignore the fiends of wicked alarm that swarmed -about his brain. He would close all his avenues of -intelligence—render himself a thing mute and dumb, his faculties in -abeyance, until the moment of resolution should arrive. There might be -any explanation, other than one personal to himself, of the shutting -of the grating. Should he flog his reason for a wherefore, it would be -like brutally coercing an innocent witness. He must not, in the name -of sanity, allow his soul to be drawn into profitless speculations. -Upon the supreme ecstasy of knowing that here, after all these sick -months of waiting, was the period to be put at last to his -uncertainty, he must concentrate his thoughts, permitting none to side -issues. -</p> - -<p> -He triumphed by sheer force of will—sitting out the end of the little -play. But the instant the curtain fell he rose to his feet, swept the -frost from his brain, and—without giving himself stay or pause in -which to think—left his box and made his way round to the opposite -side of the house. His head now seemed full of heat and light; he was -not conscious of his lower limbs. -</p> - -<p> -Almost immediately he came upon two men stepping from the rear of a -box into the passage. One of these was the Duke of Orleans. The other -was a tallish young man, a little older than himself, of a fine -intelligent expression. Both gentlemen were dressed to the prevailing -taste in clothes that were something an ostentatious advertisement of -<i>bourgeoisie</i>. But the extravagance was vindicated in the younger of -the two by the mournful spirit of romance that seemed to inhabit -behind a pair of very soft grey eyes. -</p> - -<p> -Ned addressed Egalité at once, and in a manner, unwittingly, almost -imperious; for in this tender present sensitiveness of his condition -he imagined he foreread in that person’s stony regard a repudiation of -his acquaintanceship, and he was desperate to preoccupy the situation. -He had not, indeed, forgotten the confidential words uttered by the -duke at the moment of their first and latest parting; and now his -heart went sick in the fear of what might be implied by Egalité’s -obvious intention to stultify, by avoidance of him, any significance -such confidence might have been held to express. -</p> - -<p> -“I have the honour to reintroduce myself to monsieur le duc,” he said. -“I congratulate monsieur le duc upon the safe return of those, with -the delivery of a letter referring to whose movements in England I -some months ago had the pleasure to charge myself.” -</p> - -<p> -The prince’s eyes opened and shut like an owl’s. His bilious face -seemed to deprecate a peevish derision it could not withhold. -</p> - -<p> -“I do not recognise,” he began, looking through mere slits between -lids, “whom I have——” then suddenly he checked himself impatiently -and turned to his companion with a shrug of his shoulders. -</p> - -<p> -“My lord,” he said, “let me make known to you M. le Vicomte Murk, who -once was good enough to constitute himself Hermes to your adorable -Pamela.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned stood rigid under the shock of all that was implied in the -insolence. The duke’s young companion stepped forward and shook him by -the hand. Did this stranger know, or intuitively guess, something of -the silent tragedy that was enacting before him? His soft eyes were at -least full of generosity and sympathy. -</p> - -<p> -“I know your lordship by name,” he said. “I am Lord Edward Fitzgerald; -and I am sure Pamela will like to thank you in person for your -disinterested service.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned drew himself up, like a martial hero giving the signal for his own -execution. -</p> - -<p> -“I will take my sentence from her lips,” he said to the kind eyes, and -passed into the box. -</p> - -<p> -He was close to her at last—and for the last time. She turned to -glance at him, and instantly away again, with a pert tilt of her chin. -He saw her stealthily advance a hand in the shadow, and twitch her -companion by the skirt. The little lady gave a start. -</p> - -<p> -“What is the matter, coquine?” she exclaimed. Then she saw Ned, -flushed pink, and dropped the gentleman a shy bow. -</p> - -<p> -She was happy to renew monsieur’s acquaintance, she said. And had -monsieur been in Paris all these months since they last had the -pleasure of seeing him in “nôtre cher Bury”? -</p> - -<p> -Yes, monsieur had been in Paris the whole time: that was to say, ever -since, in pursuit of monsieur le duc, he had left Belgium, whither, it -would appear, he had been despatched on a fool’s errand. -</p> - -<p> -Mademoiselle gave a little deprecating shrug of her shoulders. -</p> - -<p> -“And monsieur, no doubt, has justified us in our choice of a -messenger?” murmured Pamela, from ambush of the box curtains. -</p> - -<p> -Ned turned upon the young voice. His tongue was dry; his very features -seemed stiffened into a mechanical expression of suffering. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” he said. “I have been as great a fool as Uriah.” -</p> - -<p> -The girl gave a little laugh. Probably she understood only the vague -inference. She drew aside the curtain and looked upon the house. Her -head budded from dusk into light, standing out like an angel’s seen in -a dream. The soft moulding of her face and neck was painted in dim -sweet eclipse—violet, where it intensified in the deeper curves. In -her shadowy hair—like a dryad’s curled by moonlight—a single -diamond—a very star of morning—burned. It was Ned’s fate—the common -irony of love—to find the prize figure never so desirable in his -sight as at the moment of its bestowal on another. His heart was sick -with a very hunger as he looked down on her. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>O Dieu—quelle horreur</i>!” she exclaimed, referring to some one of -the audience. She tapped her foot, drew back her head, suppressed a -tiny yawn. -</p> - -<p> -“What has become of Edward?” said she, as if she were unconscious that -their visitor were not withdrawn. -</p> - -<p> -“It is my name,” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -She glanced at him disdainfully, with the ghost of an insolent laugh. -</p> - -<p> -“You here still, monsieur? Will you please go and tell the fiddles to -begin?” -</p> - -<p> -“And shall I dance to them to entertain you?” he said. -</p> - -<p> -Her attitude robbed his passion even of a redeeming dignity. His -devotion seemed comparable with the sick devotion of a schoolboy -towards a holiday coquette. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Mon Dieu</i>!” she cried. “You would at least entertain us more than -now.” -</p> - -<p> -The catgut gave its first screech as she spoke. -</p> - -<p> -“I will go,” he said hurriedly; but he yet lingered out the final -anguish. -</p> - -<p> -“Have I not already entertained you enough? And I have not yet -congratulated the prospective Lady Fitzgerald. And what shall I do -with the flower you gave me, Pamela, when I accepted madame’s service -because I loved you?” -</p> - -<p> -For the first time she flushed angrily. -</p> - -<p> -“You have no right to say it,” she cried. “And do you suppose I -constitute myself the fairy godmother to every little weed I bestow!” -</p> - -<p> -Mademoiselle d’Orléans half rose from her seat. -</p> - -<p> -“Nay,” said Pamela, gently coaxing her to resume it: “for monsieur -will see the wisdom, I am sure, of not further enlarging upon an error -of his own.” -</p> - -<p> -He uttered a deep sigh. -</p> - -<p> -“An error!” he said—“My God—yes, an error!”—and he bowed low and -left the box. The little kind royalty uttered a sob as he vanished. -</p> - -<p> -And such was the manner of the end—no renunciation ennobled of -chivalry on his part; no compassion, no sympathy on hers. And he could -blame no one but himself. His imagination, it seemed, had clothed a -skeleton with flesh. Unlike dreaming Adam, he had awakened and found -his imagination a lie. He walked from the tawdry gates of his fool’s -paradise, and felt the wind rattle in his bones. -</p> - -<p> -Outside, he found the two men withdrawn. He made his way into the -street, a strange numbness in his brain. It was like exaltation—the -mere mad ecstasy of self-obliteration. For the time it seemed to carry -him forward—a spirit disembodied, shorn of every instinct but that of -flight. The wind thrust at, the dust choked, the jumping lamps mocked -him. He paid no heed to a malice that was powerless any longer to -influence his movements. -</p> - -<p> -Pressing forward aimlessly, he came out on the Pont Neuf. Few -passengers were now abroad; and these, butting with a sense of -personal grievance against the blast, took no notice of the -significant attitude of one who, upon such a night, could stop to -dwell upon the river. But presently a single pedestrian—a -woman—going by, uttered a stifled exclamation, checked herself, slunk -into the angle of a buttress, and stood watching him. -</p> - -<p> -He was gazing upon the black swing of water below. Suddenly he rose, -returned a few paces the way he had come, and went down into the gloom -of the quay where it stooped under the bridge’s shadow. The woman -followed stealthily. -</p> - -<p> -The wind had long ago taken his hat. He unbuttoned and flung open his -coat. She came swiftly to him and seized him by the arm. He turned -upon her—dragged himself free with a start of repulsion. His face -underwent a change—flashing into an expression of mad fury. -</p> - -<p> -“Again!” he shrieked. “Why do you pursue and haunt me! I think you are -my genius for all devilry!” -</p> - -<p> -For a moment it looked as if he would strike her—her, Théroigne. She -stood, where he had thrust her, without the shadow thrown by the -bridge, a dim glow falling upon her face from a far lamp above. Even -in this tumult of his rage he was conscious of an inexplicable new -meaning in her eyes. They were like caves of darkness alive with a -suggestive inner movement. -</p> - -<p> -“I called to find you,” she said stilly, without emotion. “The -<i>citoyen propriétaire</i> told me you were abroad—probably at the -theatre. I followed on the chance; and destiny, it seems, was my -guide.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why did you call? Why did you follow?—we have nothing of a common -interest. I loathe you—do you hear! I curse the day on which you came -into my life!” -</p> - -<p> -She never moved. -</p> - -<p> -“Is it not our common interest,” she said, “to wish to die?” -</p> - -<p> -He gasped, and stood staring at her. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah!” she went on; “but I had heard, and wondered for the result. They -were betrothed no further back than yesterday; they are to be man and -wife in a few weeks. He is an impatient lover—this handsome chasseur. -In a few weeks she will lie in his arms—the pretty, loving babouine.” -</p> - -<p> -He lifted his hand again with a furious gesture; and at that she cast -back the hooded cloak which she had held clutched about her face and -breast, and, coming swiftly to him, dared him with her brilliant eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“Strike!” she cried; “it is what I ask. Only thou shalt strike thyself -through me. What! thou know’st now what it is to be trampled under by -the feet thou worship’dst! And thou shalt be haunted evermore by the -shadow of another man’s happiness. Strike, I say, and kill, like me, -thy spectre of unfulfilment with despair!” -</p> - -<p> -She tore at her dress, baring her white bosom to him. -</p> - -<p> -“Strike!” she cried again; then suddenly her hands dropped limp, and -she moaned to herself. -</p> - -<p> -“I dare not think. I cannot sleep. He is always there, weeping and -imploring. But there is something between—a deep red pool, with an -under-motion. If I were to wade in—my God!” she cried—“I am afraid -even to die!” -</p> - -<p> -She held up her hands to the man before her, as if in prayer. -</p> - -<p> -“Take me with thee—there, into the water. I will not struggle, if -thou hold’st me tight. Thou wert his friend for a little while, and -thou also hast suffered. Thou wilt plead for me, monsieur, wilt thou -not?—thou wilt plead?” -</p> - -<p> -Her voice broke in a shiver. For all its wretchedness, the heart of -her hearer was stricken anew. -</p> - -<p> -“Thou Théroigne,” he said; “thou poor twice-abandoned fool. Wouldst -thou urge upon me that a first error is to be atoned by a second! Oh, -thou woman—not to understand how cheap that love must be held that -would disprove itself to spite its object!” -</p> - -<p> -God knows what angel of light or darkness had been at his elbow a -moment earlier. Now, he put his hand into his breast as he spoke. -</p> - -<p> -She looked at him, lost and wild. -</p> - -<p> -“Thou didst not come to throw thyself into the river?” she muttered. -</p> - -<p> -“No,” he said—“but only this.” -</p> - -<p> -He cast it from him with the words—something he had taken from his -pocket—a little spiked and scented parcel, so ridiculous and so -tender. It had fulfilled its mission at last. That was “writ in -water.” And the poor cherished heels, stuck with a sprig of withered -geranium, went down to the sea—or, perhaps, into the maw of some -sentimental pike that would swallow it all, as we mortals swallow any -absurd love-story. -</p> - -<p> -Now, if the action was inspired by a despairing man’s intuitive -altruism on behalf of a despairing harlot, we may not call it bathos. -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly the woman broke into a shrill laugh. -</p> - -<p> -“Was it an unfruitful token? Better thou and I!” she cried. “And so -thou still hold’st love inviolable?” -</p> - -<p> -He answered with his eyes. She came quite close to him—looked up into -his face. -</p> - -<p> -“That is well. Come with me, then, now the madness is past.” -</p> - -<p> -“With you!” he exclaimed scornfully. All his repulsion of her was -returning before the reclaimed devil in her eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“With me, murderess and courtesan. Oh! it is not for myself,” she -said. “It is for another—whose confession to me an hour ago sent me -to seek thee out—that I would carry thee.” -</p> - -<p> -He stared, dumfounded, muttering “Another? what other?” -</p> - -<p> -“One,” she said, “that hath pursued thee long months with bleeding -feet and a broken heart. One, that I came upon to-day, lost and -wandering in the cold streets, and that I, being no man, took home -with me and comforted.” -</p> - -<p> -“What other?” he murmured again, but with a dreadful intuition of the -truth. -</p> - -<p> -“Nay,” she said, “love hath not done with thee. Only thou must run -with the hare instead of hunting with the dogs.” -</p> - -<p> -“What other?” he repeated dully. -</p> - -<p> -“A saint, monsieur; yet one that, for all her chastity, hath caught -the infection of these liberal times.” -</p> - -<p> -She gazed into his face piercingly. -</p> - -<p> -“I swear I never guessed,” she murmured. “I swear I hold her the -dearer and the purer that she is revealed human in the end. The -handmaid of God! Ah! but so to testify to His choice by this long -discipline of her heart! And now, directing her in this pursuit of -thee, He ratifies the new licence; and she shall not be less the saint -because her passion is sanctified of a human love.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is a vile blasphemy,” said the man. “You speak of Nicette -Legrand.” -</p> - -<p> -She clapped her hands. -</p> - -<p> -“But, yes,” she cried in shrill triumph; “I speak of Nicette Legrand, -whose heart, it seems, thou stolest—one of the common things that -thou, and such as thou, would use to the profit of an idle hour, -whilst thy honour was pledged elsewhere. But who enlists Love in his -service shall engage a parasite to devour him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Nicette!” he only murmured once more. -</p> - -<p> -“Take thy fill of her name,” said the girl scornfully. “I tell thee, -Love presumes upon his hire. Didst thou think he had discarded thee? -He shall prove a tyrant whom thou thought’st to make thy servant.” -</p> - -<p> -He fell, suddenly, quite calm and cold. -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” he said, “so Nicette is in Paris?” -</p> - -<p> -She answered— -</p> - -<p> -“In Paris—a month’s long journey, by rock and briar, for those poor, -patient feet. Oh,” she cried, “that I should ever have unwittingly -wronged her by seeking to convert this block—this stone—to my own -passionate uses!” -</p> - -<p> -“And so she hath explained it to you?” he said, in the same even tone. -“Well, she is a liar, from first to last; and at least it is fitting -that a murderess should give sanctuary to a murderess.” -</p> - -<p> -She stared at him, breathing softly. -</p> - -<p> -“Am I to kill <i>you</i>?” she said. -</p> - -<p> -He laughed without merriment. -</p> - -<p> -“Listen to me, Théroigne. I never desired this woman, or gave her one -pretext for asserting that I did. If she says otherwise, she lies. If -she tells you that she left Méricourt to follow me, she lies. She has -fled because she has been discovered in a deception as vile, a crime -as inhuman, as any that have blackened the world since the race -began.” -</p> - -<p> -She still stared at him, her lips moving, but she did not speak. -</p> - -<p> -“I have been in Méricourt since you,” he went on, without a change of -intonation, “and I was witness to what I say. The bubble is burst—the -superstition, by this time, a black memory. The tree that she haunted, -she haunted because it contained in its hollow heart the dead body of -Baptiste, her little brother, whom she had murdered—morally, before -God, whom she had murdered, I say—out of her hatred of him. She -haunted the scene of her crime, and, when that was threatened with -detection, she invented the legend of the vision to cover it. But -retribution abided, and, when that threatened, she fled.” -</p> - -<p> -For a moment silence fell between the two. The wind shrilled in their -ears; the hollow wash and sweep of the river came up to them. -</p> - -<p> -“If it is true,” whispered Théroigne at last—“if it is true!” -</p> - -<p> -“It is true.” -</p> - -<p> -She seemed to gaze at without seeing him. -</p> - -<p> -“So worn and so pitiful!” she muttered; “and I took her in, and clung -to her, and found my own religion justified in hers.” -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly she was hurrying from him, speeding upwards towards the -bridge. He stood paralysed an instant; then sprang and overtook her, -walking by her side. -</p> - -<p> -“Where are you going?” he cried. -</p> - -<p> -“To hurl her into hell!” she shrieked, “if it is as you say.” -</p> - -<p> -They drove on together, across the river, through the blown darkness. -</p> - -<p> -Presently she stopped, and turned upon him once more. -</p> - -<p> -“Why do you follow me?” -</p> - -<p> -“To see that you do nothing that shall enable you before God to -testify against me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah!” she cried, with a most bitter derision. “You are not desperate. -You have never loved, as I read it—as Nicette reads it. You have -never staked your soul against your heart. And this is what she hath -done for the sake of one little glimpse of her heaven—of seeing you -without being seen.” -</p> - -<p> -“She sent you to tell me so?” -</p> - -<p> -“You lie!” said the woman quietly. “I took her secret from her because -she was worn and despairing; and then she implored me only to show her -where she might, hidden, look upon you once again, and so die and rest -forgotten.” -</p> - -<p> -She struck her palms together. -</p> - -<p> -“And now—now!” she muttered. -</p> - -<p> -She fled on her way. The man had some ado to keep up with her. He -went, indeed, at length, with loaded steps, on this wild, sorrowful -night. To love and lose, and to be so loved! It was a stab of poignant -anguish to his heart that what he had held so sacred in himself should -be claimed of a vileness with which he had no sentiment in common. But -this—surely this: the love that can exonerate even wickedness done -for its sake. The wretched woman loved him—perhaps with a love as -intrinsically pure as that he had given to Pamela. He groaned as he -sped on. -</p> - -<p> -They crossed the quays, and hurried by the Place of the Three Marys. A -frowzy tricoteuse, coming from a wine-shop, recognised Théroigne, and -stood barring their path. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Ame traîtresse</i>! <i>Modératrice</i>!” cried the creature, in guttural -fury, and broke into a torrent of oaths. -</p> - -<p> -The girl shrank against the wall, proffering no retort, her eyes wide -with fear. Ned took her arm, put the woman on one side, and they -scurried on their way, pursued by a blatter of expletives. -</p> - -<p> -The wind cut into their faces with blades of ice as they turned into -the Rue de Rohan. -</p> - - -<h3 id="b2ch15"> -CHAPTER XV. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">In</span> front of the fire a girl lay on the floor asleep. She had placed -herself on her side, facing the glow and cuddled into it; but in the -relaxation of profound slumber her head had fallen back, so that the -light from a lamp on the wall illuminated her features. These looked -curiously, pathetically child-like under the seal of a rest so deep -that her bosom hardly rose and fell to accent it. Her lips were a -little parted; her cheeks a little hollow, and quite colourless. From -every ruffle of her hair—fine and pale golden as a rabbit’s fur—that -lay spilt about her head, to the toe-tips of her white bare feet (that -nestled into one another despite some inflammatory wounds that scarred -them as cruelly as if they had been bastinadoed), she was so almost -motionless as to seem like a figure in tinted porcelain—King -Cophetua’s beggar-maid, it might have been; for, indeed, her clothes -were very stained and ragged. -</p> - -<p> -The door opened, and a woman came swiftly to her side and gazed down -upon her—a woman, under the fierce glow and lust of whose beauty she -seemed to shrink into the mere semblance of a doll thrown down by a -passionate child. -</p> - -<p> -The woman looked, then suddenly fell upon her knees and stooped her -lips to the ear of the sleeper. -</p> - -<p> -“Nicette,” she cried low, “Nicette!” -</p> - -<p> -The girl on the floor started; then she stirred, moaned, put her hand -restlessly to her forehead, and again, with a sigh, dropped back into -the pit of slumber. But the moment of half-consciousness seemed to -have robbed her of the perfect weanling innocence. Now her -respirations came harder; every breath she exhaled proclaimed her -woman. Still, she dreamt happily; and a smile trembled on her lips. -</p> - -<p> -Seeing it, Théroigne turned and beckoned to the man to come close. He -approached from the door and stood behind her, away from the sleeper’s -range of vision. The woman pointed down at the dreaming face. -</p> - -<p> -“Dost thou still accuse it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Awake—yes,” he said. -</p> - -<p> -She frowned, and again bent to call into the girl’s ear. -</p> - -<p> -“Nicette! where is thy brother Baptiste?” -</p> - -<p> -A shadow, like that of a cloud that ruffles water, went over the quiet -face. The regular breathing hitched and wavered; some broken soft -ejaculations came from the lips. Suddenly the lids flickered—the eyes -opened, unspeculative for a moment, then snatching the soul of them -from unearthly sweet pastures, in whose fragrance it had lovelily -nested. Still they were full of the glamour of holiday, remote in -their vision, coy of things material. -</p> - -<p> -“Théroigne!” she murmured, happy and confident, her half-recovered -self only the core of a little atmosphere of the most loving warmth of -emotion and feeling. -</p> - -<p> -The woman bent and lifted the other—up, into her arms. -</p> - -<p> -“Didst thou hear me call?” she said caressingly. “And what wert thou -dreaming of, dearest?” -</p> - -<p> -“Great God!” thought Ned, “is this Théroigne, in actual truth, a -fiend!” -</p> - -<p> -“Dreaming!” said the girl softly; “of what am I always dreaming, -Théroigne?” -</p> - -<p> -“Of what, indeed! Of things lost and longed for? Perhaps, sometimes of -the little poor brother that was murdered and hidden in a tree?” -</p> - -<p> -A voice shrieked at her back. -</p> - -<p> -“Damnation seize thee!” -</p> - -<p> -She let fall her burden and, scrambling to her feet, turned upon the -voice. -</p> - -<p> -“What, then!” -</p> - -<p> -“So wanton!” cried Ned—“so wanton and so cruel!” -</p> - -<p> -His fury leapt in a moment, like a boiling spring. He could not have -explained or controlled it—could not even have traced its source to a -deep incorruptible chivalry that was instinctive to <i>his</i> sex and -beyond the understanding of the other. -</p> - -<p> -“Cruel?” she exclaimed madly. “And am I not thy delegate—thy -informer?” -</p> - -<p> -“Not, so to take advantage, like a cursed <i>mouchard</i>, of this poor -drugged wretch!” he cried. “Why, God in heaven! are <i>you</i> so much less -foul——?” -</p> - -<p> -“You devil!” she cut in—“you dog! Didst thou not thyself, a minute -ago, slander her behind her back?” -</p> - -<p> -“I accused her openly,” cried Ned—“as I accuse her now!” -</p> - -<p> -A stifled scream of agony answered him. He looked into a corner of the -room, whence, from shadow, the sound had come. The -dreamer—momentarily half stupefied by her fall—had risen, while they -raged, and stood shrunk into an angle of the wall. -</p> - -<p> -Théroigne leapt upon her—seized her by a wrist. -</p> - -<p> -“Look!” she screeched, “upon him that thou wouldst give thy life to -see, not being seen; to prevail with whom thou wouldst sacrifice thy -honour and thy fame with heaven. Hear him now—how he regards thy -devotion. Tell him—tell me, rather—he lies. Tell me thou art not a -murderess; and I will crush the slander back upon him till it tears -like a splintered rib into his heart!” -</p> - -<p> -She stood quivering—glaring—worrying the arm she held. -</p> - -<p> -“Speak!” she panted brokenly, “and leave the rest to me.” -</p> - -<p> -A moment’s silence succeeded the terrible outcry. -</p> - -<p> -“It is true what he says,” then whispered Nicette. “I murdered -Baptiste.” -</p> - -<p> -Théroigne dropped the wrist she clutched, and swung back heavily -against the wall. -</p> - -<p> -“My God!” she muttered, “my God!” -</p> - -<p> -Then she mastered herself faintly, like a weary creature. -</p> - -<p> -“It was my last hope—the queen, the gentle mother. To justify, -through her handmaid, the passion of woman for man. It is ended. There -is no good in the world—no truth—no virtue. Oh, my heart, my heart!” -</p> - -<p> -She caught herself from the cry, in a rally of quiet fury; pointed to -the door, her arm extended along the wall. -</p> - -<p> -“You have killed my faith,” she said. -</p> - -<p> -Her gesture was crowningly significant. Without a word, the girl stole -fearfully from her shadowy covert—hurried across the room—passed -from it, and was gone. -</p> - -<p class="spacer"> -* * * * * * * * -</p> - -<p> -Into the street she fled, ran a few paces, stopped, and looked wildly -about her. Snow had begun to fall. The wind whipped her thin tattered -skirts about her ankles. In all the mad night there was no beacon -towards which she might make, for the little lightening of her -despair. She glanced once about her; then crouched, with a dying moan, -upon a doorstep. -</p> - -<p> -Her face was buried in her hands when, an instant later, Ned silently -came upon her. He stood, looking down. -</p> - -<p> -Once, earlier in the evening, he had thought “She” (not the wretched -girl at his feet) “might have dismissed me as effectually by gentler -methods.” Yet, had he, for his part, shown more compassion towards -this unhappy outcast—stained though she was—who lay here so -committed to his mercy? -</p> - -<p> -He bent suddenly, and put his hand upon her shoulder. She did not even -start now, but she uncoiled herself, with a shiver, and gazed up at -him, without recognition, it seemed. -</p> - -<p> -“What do you intend to do?” he said. “Where will you go?” -</p> - -<p> -She only shook her head weakly and amazedly. -</p> - -<p> -He stepped back, looked up into a blinding gloom of darkness and -spinning flakes. The patterns these wrought seemed the very moral of -Heaven’s enactments—hieroglyphics drawn upon a slate of night. He was -not theologian enough to interpret them. For him—with a sense of -being enclosed and shut down within a very confined vault of human -suffering (with God, maybe, walking serene and unwitting high up on -the sunny lifts of ether above the earth)—the issues of life were -become brutally restricted. He had had aspirations. They had been -crushed under by the heavy night that had dropped upon his world. Now, -in a moment, he could feel only that he was alone with a woman who -loved him without one thought of the meaning of the hieroglyphics; -that it lay with him, unsupported, to direct the destinies of two -souls—his own and another’s—that Fortune had isolated in tragic -companionship. -</p> - -<p> -And contrasted with the human piteousness of this other—this soul -that had claimed him in the darkness into which his own had -fallen—how did not the shibboleth of convention suddenly confess -itself a ridiculous fetish of strings and patches—a block for a -fashion-plate? -</p> - -<p> -He had no plan of conduct at last but to drift—and, if by way of -sunny pastures, so much the less troubled would he be. -</p> - -<p> -His heart was moved to a dull aching passion in this first realising -of its emancipation from a wounding thrall. -</p> - -<p> -“Get up!” he cried violently. “Do you hear? Get up, and come with me!” -</p> - -<p> -He turned away, and going a few paces, looked round to see if she were -following. Ay, like a dog. She had risen and jumped to his order -before it was well issued. -</p> - -<p> -He strode on, the fall already making a soft cold mat to his feet. It -was no great distance to his rooms; the Rue St Honoré was near -deserted, and he went down it swiftly. Once again only he turned to -see that the girl was not lagging. Then he cursed himself and came to -a stop under a lamp. She was hobbling towards him as fast as her -bleeding feet would permit her. He had never given a thought to -this—that she had been driven half naked into the night. As she came -up, she dumbly begged of him with a little pathetic smile, timid and -conciliatory, not to be angry with her for halting. He saw a trickle -of blood flow into the white carpet where she waited. -</p> - -<p> -Now he stood to the struggle between his pride and his humanity. She -was slight and thinly clad. He might have carried her in his arms the -little remaining distance. But a hard devil rasped his heart—that -particular Belial that tempts consciences to very wanton -self-mutilations. -</p> - -<p> -“I had not thought,” he said coldly. “I should have been more -considerate. I will walk slowly the rest of the way.” -</p> - -<p> -“I hardly feel it—indeed, monsieur, indeed,” she answered, brokenly -and eagerly. “I will come faster.” -</p> - -<p> -He went on again, and she crept behind him. Arrived at last at his -door, he rapped on it, and stood away, signing to her to enter. -</p> - -<p> -The citizen Theophilus, although he was a good patriot, bowed the -gentleman and his companion into the sadly lit hall with a conscious -elaboration of the <i>bel air</i>. He was at different times cook and -<i>concierge</i>, and always proprietor—a man of admirable tact. Now he -smiled, and informed monsieur the Englishman that there was a grateful -hot fire in his room; that the night was a disgrace to Paris; that a -steaming potage could be served to the citoyenne in a moment, did -monsieur desire it. -</p> - -<p> -He did not shrug his shoulders, or appear to notice the bare raw feet -set upon the mat, or anything strange in this apparition of a dazed -young woman standing there with the snow in her hair. That was his -delicacy. For the rest, reputations were not marred nowadays by any -refusal to subscribe to such old-fashioned codes of propriety as were -only practised, if at all, in the prisons, where the remnants of a -social hypocrisy awaited consignment to the rag-tearing machine in the -Place Louis XV. Citizen Theophilus would have as little thought of -bestowing a suggestive wink on the mating of a couple of swallows as -on the foregathering of a young man and maid under his eaves. -</p> - -<p> -“I will do myself the honour,” he said, “to conduct monsieur’s dear -young friend to monsieur’s apartments.” -</p> - -<p> -He skipped up the stairs in advance, candle in hand, like an <i>ignis -fatuus</i>. He was a little man—always dancingly restless—with a lean -face, and iron-grey corkscrew curls that he would keep well oiled, as -though they were the actual springs of his movements. -</p> - -<p> -Arrived in Ned’s apartments (they were in one suite, sitting- and -bed-rooms, with a folding-door between), he lit the candles, poked the -logs into a blaze, and stood for orders. -</p> - -<p> -“The potage, monsieur?” -</p> - -<p> -Ned transmitted the inquiry with a look. -</p> - -<p> -“No, pray, monsieur—not for me,” murmured the girl. -</p> - -<p> -“Very well,” said Ned frigidly. “It will not be needed, my -Théophile.” -</p> - -<p> -The landlord protested, bowed, and flirted himself from the room. The -two were left alone. -</p> - -<p> -Ned walked to the window, lifted the blind a moment, and looked out -upon the dumb white whirling of the snow. Then suddenly he spoke over -his shoulder— -</p> - -<p> -“Go and warm yourself at the fire.” -</p> - -<p> -She crept to the hearth immediately and sat herself before the glow, -putting out to it her stiff frozen hands in token of obedience. -</p> - -<p> -He took to pacing up and down the room, not removing from his -shoulders the thick redingote in which he was wrapped. Presently he -came and stood near her, his elbow resting upon the mantel-shelf. -</p> - -<p> -“I want you to listen to me,” he said. -</p> - -<p> -She uttered no sound, but only looked up at him, pathetically pliant -to his will. Her prince, for all her sins, had come to her with the -glass slipper. Would her poor swollen foot ever go into it? Her blue -eyes, like a child’s, sought his pity and forgiveness. -</p> - -<p> -But he was resolute to blind his heart to the appeal. -</p> - -<p> -“An hour ago,” he said—slowly, as if weighing his every word to -himself—“I could not have done this. The interval has proved a -fruitful one to us both.” -</p> - -<p> -She clasped her hands as she gazed at him; a film seemed to come over -her eyes. She murmured in a tranced, half-fearful voice. The warmth it -seemed had drugged her brain. -</p> - -<p> -“What happened! It was misty and shining. But, to be with you!—yes, -thou art here, and the fire, and Nicette. That was always in the deep -heart of my visions.” -</p> - -<p> -He took no notice of her half-audible wanderings. -</p> - -<p> -“I would not have you suppose,” he went on tonelessly, steadily, “that -I shall allow any conversion by you of this accident into opportunity. -I brought you to shelter for only the reason that I decline to burden -myself with any shadow of compunction for what share my duty forced me -to take in your punishment. For the rest, we remain, as always, wide -poles apart.” -</p> - -<p> -In the pause he made she dropped her head—crept a little nearer to -him—crouched at his feet. Not to be haunted by the wistful eyes, by -the look, like a dog’s, that was so full of the silent struggle to -comprehend, made his task easier. -</p> - -<p> -“You may stop here,” he said, “until I am able to procure you other -quarters, and the means, if possible, to a living. That will not be -later than to-morrow, I hope. For to-night, at least, you are to sleep -in my room yonder, and I will make shift to lie out here. Do you -understand?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” she whispered. -</p> - -<p> -“Very well,” he said, “but I saddle the agreement with one fixed -condition. As long as you remain here—whether it is for one day, or -two, or more—you are to hold no communication with me—are never to -speak to me, unless I first address you.” -</p> - -<p> -She rose to her knees, clasping her hands again to him. Her hair was -fallen over her cheeks; she looked a very small forlorn subject for -extreme measures. -</p> - -<p> -“I shall be near you,” she said, half-choking. -</p> - -<p> -He took her arm and motioned her to her feet. -</p> - -<p> -“It is understood, then. You had better go to bed now and rest and -recover and get warm.” -</p> - -<p> -He put a candle into her hand, led her to the door of the bedroom, -thrust her gently within, and clicked the latch upon her. Then he went -and stood over the fire. -</p> - -<p> -What had he done? What was he doing? Even as he had spoken, making his -condition, he had known that that was a wild absurdity, impossible of -fulfilment. What had moved him to it but a sudden recrudescence of -that self-mutilating spirit? He had had no deliberate thought to goad -a willing jade, or to return, in kind, to love, the humiliation he had -suffered from it. Yet he knew that he was doing so, and it was a -perilous lust to indulge. -</p> - -<p> -His heart was full of ache, his brain of phantoms. These were -reflected, coming and going, in the still red logs of the fire. They -represented, in a thousand aspects, the three ghosts that would haunt -his life for evermore. All women—all fair and fateful shapes; and, of -the three, the vilest, because she had figured for the purest, was the -one that had come to claim him at the last. It was a fierce satire -upon the lesson of ennobling ideals. -</p> - -<p> -Pamela, and Théroigne, and Nicette. He felt it no sacrilege now to -name this trinity in a breath. Indeed, which alone of the three had -made it her sport to coquet with hearts, holding their suffering as -nothing to the gratification of her vanity? Not either of those -peasant girls of Méricourt—whose passionate blood would always -rather flame to the ecstasy of pursuit than to the selfish rapture of -being hunted for the sake of their own beautiful skins. -</p> - -<p> -His thoughts swerved from one figure to another. This Lord Edward -Fitzgerald—how had he come to usurp the very throne of desire? He -knew a little of him by repute—had heard of the ardent young soldier -and apostle of the new liberty, melancholy and something wild, -breathing the spirit of romance. He had no grudge against him, at -least. And what of Mr Sheridan, whose influence alone he had -apprehended? Ghosts they were to him now. What profit was it to seek -to analyse their bodiless significance? -</p> - -<p> -Sweeping and shadowy, the smoke of all such phantoms reeled up the -chimney. Only one face remained with him. -</p> - -<p> -He glanced at the bedroom door, lay down on the rug before the fire, -and, wrapping his cloak about his haggard face, committed himself to -the hopelessness of slumber. -</p> - - -<h3 id="b2ch16"> -CHAPTER XVI. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">The</span> citizen Theophilus was at points of discussion with a rather -dissipated-looking phantom of respectability that had descended upon -him at an extremely early hour. -</p> - -<p> -“Let the citizen—and, moreover, monsieur the Englishman—rest -assured,” he said, “that I accept his commission with a high sense of -the compliment implied. But it is not specific: <i>oh, mon Dieu Jésus</i>! -that is all I complain—it is not specific.” -</p> - -<p> -“In what way?” -</p> - -<p> -“For example, there is, for consideration, the toilette of Vesta, as -well as that of Aurora.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why, deuce take it, man; you don’t suppose I expect the girl to go to -bed in her petticoats, if that’s what you mean?” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>C’est bien, monsieur. Je sais la carte du pays</i>.” (He bridged his -fingers, tapping the tips together to accent every item.) “I am to -procure, then, the citoyenne a wardrobe, plain in character and of -modest proportions. It is for the reason that the citoyenne may -possess such attire as will not militate against her chance of -obtaining respectable employment. Scrupulously so, monsieur. This -wardrobe is to be for both day and night. Also, scrupulously so. -Moreover, it is to be of the limitations that will not tend to -encourage the idea of a prolonged sojourn in a present sanctuary, -offered (I have monsieur’s word for it) on grounds of the most -disinterested platonism. Finally, so long as mademoiselle remains -under monsieur’s protection—I crave one thousand pardons!—under -monsieur’s guardianship—she is to receive every ordinary -consideration as to service and meals.” -</p> - -<p> -He flourished his hands outwards, and bowed, his curls bobbing like -wood shavings. -</p> - -<p> -“I shall have the honour to punctually acquit myself of these -commissions. Monsieur need give himself no further concern in the -matter.” -</p> - -<p> -“You are a treasure, my Théophile,” said Ned; and he stepped out into -the morning. -</p> - -<p> -It was very cold and bright and beautiful, for wind and cloud had -dropped behind the horizon. The pavements, the roofs, the steeples -were wrapped in white that looked as soft as swan’s-down. The whole -city, it seemed, had put on its furs against the opening frost. -</p> - -<p> -Ned stepped, without sound, over the flags. The hour was still so -early that hardly a soul was abroad. His tired eyes felt the -restfulness of the rounded beds of snow; his throat took in the -stinging wine of the morning in grateful draughts. He had had but a -little troubled sleep, and his wits seemed plugged and his brain sore. -He wanted to think. He wanted to understand why it was that his -thoughts—that should have been all of the tragic quenching of a flame -that had for so long been his beacon in waste places—were unable to -rescue themselves from a weary toing-and-froing before the closed door -of his own bedroom. He wanted to understand, and he could not. Only it -dully presented itself to him as a monstrous thing that the later -image should dominate his mind. If he could recover but a little -clearness of moral vision, he was sure he would see what a foul wrong -to his own loyal heart he was being led into committing. -</p> - -<p> -So he tried to reason—in the lack, as he felt, of reason itself. And -still the cold air would not cleanse his brain of the impurity; and -still the figure that haunted him as he walked was not Pamela’s. -</p> - -<p> -Then he whispered aloud—as if to see whether spoken words would not -prevail with him: “She is a murderess. I have given her scarcely a -thought but of loathing. And now—because of a specious dumb -appeal—Damnation! For all she has gone through, she is as sound of -wind and limb as a pagan Circe—a perfect animal still. I think she -cannot suffer without a soul.” -</p> - -<p> -He strode on more rapidly. -</p> - -<p> -“I must find her another lodging—at once, without delay.” -</p> - -<p> -Walking preoccupied, unregarding his direction, he had made down one -of the side streets that led into the Place Louis XV. Suddenly the -sound of shrill jolly voices startled him. He looked up in amazement, -to see close before him something, the fact of whose existence he had -hitherto most shrinkingly ignored. Sanson and his satellites were -engaged in washing down the guillotine. They were as voluble as grooms -over a carriage—and, indeed, the machine had its wheels and shafts -and splashboard—even its luggage-basket—all complete. -</p> - -<p> -Now, committed involuntarily to view of it, Ned inspected the horrible -engine with some curiosity. -</p> - -<p> -“Hullo, then, my jackadandy!” cried one of the grooms boisterously. -“Art thou seeking a barber?” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” said Ned; “but the answer to a riddle.” -</p> - -<p> -The man fondled a beam, grimacing. -</p> - -<p> -“It is all one,” said he. “Here is the oracle.” -</p> - -<p> -“I believe it is,” said Ned; “only I am not yet sure of the question;” -and he turned away. -</p> - -<p> -He breakfasted at a <i>café</i>, made a particular little purchase to -which he was whimsically attracted, and returned about mid-day to his -chambers. -</p> - -<p> -They struck very cold and quiet. There did not seem a sound in the -house. He entered his sitting-room and closed the door. The girl was -crouched in her old place upon the rug. She looked up at him mutely as -he went by her, without a word, to the fire. -</p> - -<p> -He let a minute pass while he warmed himself. Then he said, not -turning his head— -</p> - -<p> -“You want to speak to me?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes, yes!” she answered at once and eagerly; “to thank you for -these.” -</p> - -<p> -“The clothes? You needn’t thank me. It was my own interests I -consulted in giving them to you. Your rags would have been no -recommendation to a possible employer.” -</p> - -<p> -“An employer?—monsieur—an employer?” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly. Did you imagine I intended to keep you on here -indefinitely?” -</p> - -<p> -She made no reply. -</p> - -<p> -“Have you breakfasted?” he said. -</p> - -<p> -She answered “Yes” gratefully, in a low voice. -</p> - -<p> -He twisted about then, and regarded her. The wise Theophilus had, he -saw, acquitted himself sensibly of his order. The girl was clothed -freshly and simply. Her own instinctive niceness of touch, her -kitten-like cleanliness, had ministered daintily to the result. -</p> - -<p> -The young man’s brain swam for a moment. He could have thought he was -back again in the lodge at Méricourt, the unsullied, fragrant -presentment of a little jelly-loving Madonna charming the luminous -shade of the dairy in which she sat; the sun, blazing upon the garden -phloxes without, touching this his natural child’s head softly with a -single beam. -</p> - -<p> -In the same moment he dashed his hand, so to speak, upon the -struggling fancy. He would not have it rise further to confront him. -It was undeserved of its subject at the least. The promise it had once -suggested had never been vindicated, and he would insist upon that now -as an actual aggravation of the girl’s demerits, seeing that, at this -late hour of her practical punishment for a wickedness confessed, she -could still so far look her old self as to inspire—and demoralise—a -certain emotion of regard. Even the very hollows in her cheeks seemed -filled since yesterday; and she wore her new shoes and stockings -without a hint of their discomforting her wounded feet. -</p> - -<p> -Was it then that a constitution could be so flawless as to be -debarred, by ignorance of suffering, from suffering’s prerogative of -moral exaltation—that the nerves of emotion inherited from the nerves -of physical feeling? If it were so, it were idle in this case to be -considerate of the former. -</p> - -<p> -He put his hand into his coat pocket and, producing a small parcel, -held it out to her. -</p> - -<p> -“You have breakfasted,” he said; “but doubtless you will yet have an -appetite for this?” -</p> - -<p> -She took it from him wonderingly. If he had designed it as a grimly -ironical test of her disposition, he had reason to be discomfited by -her reception of the pleasantry. -</p> - -<p> -She glanced at the superscription—it was a little box of guava -jelly,—then suddenly let the packet fall, and threw herself on her -face upon the rug. -</p> - -<p> -She lay so long and so still without sound or movement that presently -he grew uneasy. -</p> - -<p> -“Get up!” he cried at last, touching her—and hating himself for doing -so—with his foot. -</p> - -<p> -She stirred—rose to a sitting posture. Her eyes had a dazed, stunned -look in them. -</p> - -<p> -“Nicette!” he exclaimed, a little troubled by the fixity of her gaze. -He saw then that she was gulping, as though trying to speak. -</p> - -<p> -“What is it?” he asked, mutinous against the gentler spirit that was -possessing him. He had to bend his head to hear her. -</p> - -<p> -“While they lived—it was always he—that received—the praise, the -tit-bit, the love.” -</p> - -<p> -“Who received?” -</p> - -<p> -“Baptiste.” -</p> - -<p> -He drew himself up with an astonished expression. What answer was to -make here—what course pursue with a soul so inadequate? She spoke of -her parents, it seemed; was pleading their favouritism in vindication -of her crime. It was a confession of moral obliquity so ingenuous as -to baffle argument. For the first time a shock of conscious pity for a -thing so handicapped in the pursuit of the living principle shook him. -He bent down, seized the box of sweetmeat, and flung it into the fire. -The girl gave a strange little cry, and gazed up at him, her mouth -breathless, her eyes glazed with the floating of sudden tears. -</p> - -<p> -“What now?” said Ned. -</p> - -<p> -Her voice broke in a quick sob. -</p> - -<p> -“I thought there was no hope or forgiveness, that you meant to hate me -for evermore.” -</p> - -<p> -He turned away. How could he be other than moved and stricken? She had -not, after all, so much sought to extenuate her crime as to plead for -herself against the hatred she had thought his act was meant to -express. -</p> - -<p> -There was silence for a time; then he sat down in a chair apart from -her, and spoke, gazing into the fire. -</p> - -<p> -“How can you think it mine either to hate or to forgive? How—” (he -struck his hand to his forehead—turned upon her in utter -desperation). “Nicette! do you <i>ever</i> feel remorse for your deed?” -</p> - -<p> -“I dare not think of it,” she whispered. Then suddenly she cried out, -“I think the people of my dreams are often more real than the living -about me. They come and go, sweet or terrible. Was it one of them left -Baptiste to die in the tree! Oh, monsieur, monsieur! if I could learn -it—that I was not guilty of his death! Or if I could die myself and -atone!” -</p> - -<p> -She buried her face in her hands. -</p> - -<p> -“Now,” thought Ned, “shall I tell her the truth—that, practically, -she is not guilty?” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” muttered the little Belial voice in his ear; “what value lies in -the practical significance? The moral is the truth. Besides, are you -so sure that her imagination is not at this moment calculating its -probable effects on you? Think of her consummate and enduring art in -affecting a character, in playing a part.” -</p> - -<p> -The frost of scepticism nipped his pretty burgeon of pity. He hardened -his heart and drew back again. -</p> - -<p> -“Die!” he said, with a little caustic laugh; “well, for one of your -imagination, it should be easy in these days to devise a quite lawful -means of introduction to Monsieur Sanson.” -</p> - -<p> -She glanced up at him quickly, with a look of agony; then drooped her -head and said no more. A second long silence fell between them. But -by-and-by Ned found himself restlessly driven to open upon her again. -</p> - -<p> -“What happened after I had left you that time?” -</p> - -<p> -She seemed to wake to his voice, shuddering out of some scaring dream. -</p> - -<p> -“My God! they sought for me; they burned my lodge; they killed my poor -<i>génisse</i>. They would have crucified me like the thieves; but I hid, -and escaped in the night.” -</p> - -<p> -She paused. “Go on,” he said. -</p> - -<p> -“I fled into the woods. There, when I was lost and near starving, I -fell, by God’s blessing, upon the Cagots who had once before visited -our parts. They were returned, making their way towards Paris because -of the cry of equality. They had lost their child; it had been hunted -by boys, and had died of the ill-treatment. They were alone, those -two, and they took me in and fed me; and by-and-by, when it was safe -for me to move, I went with them on their journey to the great city.” -</p> - -<p> -“Great God!” cried Ned, striking in in sheer amazement. “And these -were they upon whom you allowed suspicion of the murder to rest, whom -the merest chance saved from suffering the consequences of a crime of -which you alone were guilty!” -</p> - -<p> -“But, monsieur—oh, monsieur, I knew, when the cry rose, that they -were gone from the neighbourhood. And, indeed, they are always so -execrated that it could make no difference.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned sank back in his chair. -</p> - -<p> -“Well?” he said, with a veritable groan. -</p> - -<p> -“I went with them; and we were long, long by the way; and on the way -the woman also died. I think it was of nothing less than starvation. -Then the man and I came on alone to Paris, and Théroigne met us, and -took me from him.” -</p> - -<p> -“And the woman died of want, and it never occurred to you that you -were a burden on those whom you had—oh, God, how to unravel this -warp! Hold your tongue, Nicette! Let there be silence between us, in -pity’s name!” -</p> - -<p> -She shrunk down as if she had been struck. Her confidences, it seemed, -were of no avail to move him. -</p> - -<p> -But presently he spoke again— -</p> - -<p> -“Why, last night—when I accused you before the woman, your -friend—did you not give me the lie? She would have taken your word -before mine.” -</p> - -<p> -And she answered, in the very voice of desolation— -</p> - -<p> -“Because, if I had lied, I should have lost you.” -</p> - -<p> -He leapt to his feet. -</p> - -<p> -“I cannot breathe or think!” he cried. “I must leave you—I must go -out!” -</p> - -<p> -As he hurried from the room, she dragged herself to his empty chair, -and threw her arms about it with a moan of agony. -</p> - -<p class="spacer"> -* * * * * * * * -</p> - -<p> -All day he wandered through the streets, and only returned home when -darkness had closed many hours upon the city. “She will be in bed by -now,” he thought. -</p> - -<p> -The firelight made a glow about the room, revealing it untenanted. He -sat himself down before the hearth, feeling utterly weary and -vanquished. He had done nothing, planned nothing as to the girl’s -removal. His brain seemed incapable of concentrated thought. -</p> - -<p> -“I should have lost you—should have lost you.” The cry had been drawn -into his very veins. It adapted itself to his pulses—to the knocking -of his heart. What was to be the answer? -</p> - -<p> -This, it seemed—a white figure that stole from the bedroom—crept -into the firelight—crouched down on the floor beside him and took his -unresisting hand. He felt the tremulous clutch, and dared not move. He -felt his hand kissed, pressed against warm, bare flesh—felt a hot -trickle lace it. -</p> - -<p> -The paroxysm of emotion ceased, and then suddenly she spoke, -whispering— -</p> - -<p> -“It can never be?” -</p> - -<p> -“Never,” he said low. -</p> - -<p> -He knew, through the utmost conviction of his stricken soul, that it -was all wrong and impossible—that he <i>must</i> answer as he had done. -</p> - -<p> -He felt a quiver pass through her frame. She spoke again in a moment. -</p> - -<p> -“My sin—I know it—holds us apart. I have not atoned, and, until I -have, it holds us apart. Do you think, monsieur, Baptiste has forgiven -me?” -</p> - -<p> -“I think he has, Nicette.” -</p> - -<p> -“But you cannot—not yet, though I love you so dearly. Perhaps I -should not love you so well if you could. Yet it seems a strange thing -to me why you helped me at all.” -</p> - -<p> -He half rose from his chair; but she gently detained him, and he sank -down again. -</p> - -<p> -“You must go back to bed, Nicette. We will talk it all over -to-morrow.” -</p> - -<p> -“To-morrow?” she said. “Shall we be any nearer one another to-morrow?” -</p> - -<p> -He shook his head. A very little sigh escaped her. -</p> - -<p> -“You will be kind and generous to me, I know; but you will give me no -moment again such as this I have stolen. And I have stolen your bed -too, monsieur; but you must take it from me now, and lie in the warm -nest I have made for you—it is such a little of myself, it will not -matter to you—and <i>I</i> will sleep here before the fire.” -</p> - -<p> -He got now resolutely to his feet. -</p> - -<p> -“Nicette, it is folly. You must return to bed, I tell you. I am going -out again for the night. To-morrow, I say, we will try to settle -matters for the best.” -</p> - -<p> -She clung to him yet as he moved, letting him even pull her a step -forward on her knees. -</p> - -<p> -“One thing—just one last thing. I shall like you to know, when I am -gone—some day, when I am gone—that I died a maid.” -</p> - -<p> -Her face, in the shadow, was turned up to him. The firelight made an -aureole of her hair. He could feel her whole body heaving against his -hand. -</p> - -<p> -“Will you kiss me once?” she said. -</p> - -<p> -He was conscious of a choking in his throat, and beat down the emotion -fiercely. -</p> - -<p> -“No,” he muttered; “it would imply something that must not be.” -</p> - -<p> -She sank back away from him. Without another word he turned and left -her. -</p> - -<p> -In the street the frost snapped at him like the very watchdog of -desolation. He huddled his cloak about him with a shudder as he faced -it. -</p> - -<p> -“It is for the best,” he thought. “To be away—from the terror of my -own weakness! Any <i>auberge</i> will serve for the night.” -</p> - -<p> -He strode a few paces, crunching over the snow, and stopped. -</p> - -<p> -“I might, at least, have quitted her of the worst of her remorse. It -would have been a little return for such love—my God, such love!” -</p> - -<p> -Should he go back at once and tell her that she was guiltless of the -little brother’s actual death? -</p> - -<p> -“Fool!” whispered Belial, still reasoning with him. “Does her love for -you alter the moral? And will you, an emotional bearer of forgiveness, -escape so easily a second time? The warm nest in the bed, fool!” -</p> - -<p> -He turned, and refaced the chill emptiness of the night. -</p> - -<p> -“I must not,” he thought. “She shall know the truth to-morrow.” -</p> - - -<h3 id="b2ch17"> -CHAPTER XVII. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">The</span> morrow—that is always, by some alchemistic process, to convert -the drossy problems of the night into liquid gold—greeted Ned with -leaden untransmutable skies, that were only too representative of the -irresolvable heaviness of his own thoughts. He looked out of his grimy -window of the little tavern on which he had quartered himself, and saw -the yellow of an almost substantial atmosphere sandwiched between a -sagged grey welkin and a world of livid snow; and he saw no prospect, -in that before him, of any illumination of his dull perplexity. -</p> - -<p> -He dressed, breakfasted, and presently went out into the streets. The -desire to postpone that hour of inevitable struggle with an allurement -which, he dreaded, in his present condition of emotional bewilderment, -he would be unable to resist, drove him to take a rambling course to -his lodgings. -</p> - -<p> -He had gone down to the Quay of the Thuilleries, and was turning into -the gardens, when his attention was drawn to a man who rose from a -bench at the moment, and greeted him with a timid ejaculation of -delight. -</p> - -<p> -He stopped, somewhat impatiently—started, stared, and uttered an -exclamation in his turn. For, in the ragged, large-boned stranger, who -was looking at him from eyes that held the very spirit of patient -deprecation, he recognised all at once the poor pariah of a long-past -experience—the Cagot whom he had befriended in the woods of -Méricourt. -</p> - -<p> -He held out his hand in a sudden rush of emotion. The man advanced, -bent down, and touched it reverently. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur!” murmured the poor creature, “it is the sunshine breaking.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned regarded him with infinite humble pity. The thought of the charity -so large; of the humanity so rare and so remote from that proclaimed -in the windy casuistries of liberators, who would use its name rather -as a war-cry than as a message of peace; the thought of how this -outcast, reflecting in his selfless chivalry the very altruism of the -Man of Sorrow, had recently helped and protected a member of the race -that had made him so, was like a cool breath on his troubled brain. -</p> - -<p> -“I think it is—I hope it is,” he said gently. -</p> - -<p> -He put his hand on the shoulder of the gaunt figure. The man was -buttoned against the bitter cold into the mere scarecrow of a jacket. -His feet were bare and scarred with blood; his cheeks, his flesh -wherever seen—and that was in more places than custom -prescribes—were fallen in upon a frame accordant with the strong soul -that inhabited there. -</p> - -<p> -“And so,” said Ned, “you are alone at last in the world.” -</p> - -<p> -The man looked up, an expression of wonder on his face. -</p> - -<p> -“How did monsieur know? <i>Aïe</i>, it is true! I am alone. We were on our -way hither in quest of the new liberty; and God, pitying her weary -feet, gave it her when but half the journey was done.” -</p> - -<p> -“And the little child? Oh, my friend—perhaps she heard the little -child crying for her in the night?” -</p> - -<p> -“It is true, monsieur. But they will never be able to play birds’-fly -or shadow-buff in the moonlight up there without me. The rogue and the -little mother! And I hear them talking all the night through, -wondering when I shall come.” -</p> - -<p> -“And you do not complain?” -</p> - -<p> -“Why should I complain? They are so safe at last. Think what it would -have meant to them had God called me first.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, yes. And—what is your name? You have never told me your name.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is Laurent, monsieur. One is enough for us Cagots.” -</p> - -<p> -“Laurent; what has become of the woman you brought, of your charity, -to Paris?” -</p> - -<p> -“Merciful God! Monsieur is a wizard. Indeed, she found her reward in -the meeting with an old friend, who took her away from me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Her reward!” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah, monsieur! She was an angel of light to the dying mother. She -prayed with and she sang to her; and sometimes she would, with her -voice, earn a silver livre by the way—enough, in the end, to buy the -little place of rest in the churchyard.” -</p> - -<p> -“Laurent, you are starved and frozen. Laurent—do you hear? I also am -alone in the world. You shall come with me, and be my servant and -companion; and we will travel, always travel; until at last, wayworn -and tired, we shall come back, we, too, to the little place of rest.” -</p> - -<p> -He turned, greatly moved, through the gate into the gardens. -</p> - -<p> -“Come!” he whispered—then he checked himself, and faced suddenly on -the astonished Cagot. -</p> - -<p> -“Tell me!” he cried. “What would the Cagot think of him that wilfully -withheld her soul’s cure from a poor shameful woman that loved him?” -</p> - -<p> -“That he feared—that he feared, monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -“Feared what?” -</p> - -<p> -“To discharge his enemy from her thrall.” -</p> - -<p> -“I said she loved him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, women love their oppressors; but it is a love that in its hour -of retaliation will ask a return in kindness for every blow given. -What shall be the fate of the man, then, when he kisses each bruise?” -</p> - -<p> -Ned dwelt on the patient face in some astonishment. -</p> - -<p> -“Philosopher,” he said, “wilt thou take service with me?” -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur takes my breath away. It is too wonderful to be true.” -</p> - -<p> -“The truth, I think, Laurent, is always wonderful. Come—hurry thou! -I, at least, will profit by this lesson to go and tell it.” -</p> - -<p> -“And to kiss the bruises, monsieur?” -</p> - -<p> -Ned did not answer, but turned once more and entered the gardens, the -Cagot following at his heels. -</p> - -<p> -A clamour of voices that had come distantly wafted to them as they -passed through the gate took volume with every step they advanced. -Suddenly, breaking from a little park of trees into one of the long, -snow-covered walks that enfiladed the gardens east and west, the cause -of the tumult was revealed to them in the vision of a dozen or so -infuriate tricoteuses, priestesses of St Antoine, who were hurrying in -their direction, driving a single woman, like a scapegoat, in their -front. -</p> - -<p> -At first Ned, distinguishing nothing definitely, saw only exemplified -in this throng of vicious wives, with its rabble of inhuman brats -hooting and pervading it, one of those exacerbated paroxysms of the -mania of Fraternity that were of such frequent occurrence nowadays as -to confound the very heart of autonomy. But, as the horde came into -focus, and he paused to gather the import of its vehemence—all in a -moment the truth leapt upon him, and he uttered a cry and sprang into -the road. -</p> - -<p> -For he had recognised, in the subject of all this raging ferment, no -less a person than the erst-Amazon, Théroigne herself. -</p> - -<p> -Her black hair floated loose; her eyes were alight with shame and -terror; her bodice hung in strips from her waist. She hurried towards -him, maddening and moaning, and, as she ran, the harpies scourged her -bare shoulders with the leathern belts they had torn from their -waists. -</p> - -<p> -He rushed to intercept her flight. She saw—tried to evade him; then -instantly she leapt to recognition, clutched, and fell prone at his -feet. -</p> - -<p> -He stood over her, while she shrieked and wailed incoherently; he -warded off the rain of lashes, receiving much of it on his own arms -and body. -</p> - -<p> -“Beasts!” he yelled; “how has she deserved this infernal treatment?” -</p> - -<p> -The air blattered with their imprecations. -</p> - -<p> -“The traitress! the reactionary! the <i>putain</i> of Brissot!” -</p> - -<p> -The thongs whistled; the mob circumgyrated; the uproar waxed -murderous. In the heat and menace of it a sudden new ally appeared in -the midst. -</p> - -<p> -“Courage, master!” he cried; and seizing off his ragged jacket, he -flung it over the victim’s bleeding shoulders, and turned upon the -rabble. -</p> - -<p> -“See here!” he shouted, and struck his left breast with his hand. -</p> - -<p> -Upon the echo the nearest of the pack fell away, shouldering into the -throng behind them. -</p> - -<p> -“The duck’s foot!” went up a shriek: “it is a Cagot—a Cagot!” -</p> - -<p> -Ned, in his fury, could actually laugh. -</p> - -<p> -“It is a brother, sisters of the confraternity!” he cried. -</p> - -<p> -They were baffled only for the moment. If they dared not touch, they -could fling. There were heavy stones in plenty under the snow. They -were already stooping to gather them, when a fresh diversion occurred. -A patrol of the national guard broke into the rabble and disintegrated -it. -</p> - -<p> -At once arose a clamour of demands, retorts and counter-retorts, -shrieking denunciations. Ned awaited the issue in perfect coolness. -Suddenly a couple of <i>gens-d’armes</i> approached and collared him. -</p> - -<p> -“You arrest me, messieurs?” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly, citizen.” -</p> - -<p> -“But I am an Englishman, and have done nothing but help a woman in -distress.” -</p> - -<p> -“That is well, then. It will serve thee, no doubt, before the -commissary.” -</p> - -<p> -“What commissary?” -</p> - -<p> -“We are of the section of the <i>Croix Blanche</i>. Forward, citizen!” -</p> - -<p> -He was marched off to a volley of execrations. The Cagot was driven, -in likewise, amidst pointing bayonets. A party of soldiers then lifted -the prostrate woman, surrounded and urged her forward. She went, -babbling and dancing. She was the virgin to whom the vision of -Méricourt had been vouchsafed. She was the Mother of God herself. The -guard chuckled coarse jests over her ravings; the mob surrounded all, -going with them and spitting fury at the accursed. -</p> - -<p> -Ned resigned himself to the inevitable. Only it distressed him, -whenever he thought of it, to picture the lonely figure in his -chambers awaiting its reprieve. The moment he was released he must -hurry to it and acquit it of its trouble. -</p> - -<p> -Once he called over his shoulder to the Cagot, “Thou shalt not lack a -new coat, and without a badge, presently. Courage, my friend! Remember -that thou art reborn into the year one of liberty and equality, sacred -and indivisible.” -</p> - -<p> -“Hold thy tongue!” growled a sergeant. -</p> - -<p> -“I have spoken,” said the Englishman. -</p> - -<p> -Their progress, by way of the Quays, and so round, by the Place de -Grève, into the Rue St Antoine, made small stir amongst the few -passengers abroad in the bitter weather. They were hurried, traversing -a medley of little streets, into one—the Rue Pavée—very gloomy and -noisome; and from this they were suddenly wheeled, leaving the crowd -stranded without, into the courtyard of a sinister dark building—the -Hôtel de la Force. -</p> - -<p> -Ned’s heart sickened before the recent associations of the place. -Involuntarily he drew back. -</p> - -<p> -“Up, then!” cried the sergeant, shouldering him on. “It is sometimes -safer to enter than to leave here.” -</p> - -<p> -He pulled himself together and mounted a flight of steps leading to a -narrow door. The woman passed in before him—passed there and then out -of his life. He never saw her again. From that hour, to the day of her -death twenty years later, she raved and rotted in a maniac’s cell. She -had become, indeed, Mater Tenebrarum. Blood-guilt and vanity had -undermined a reason that was already shaken, before the humiliation of -that public chastisement came to finally overthrow it. She died in the -Salpétrière—in the very prison that had witnessed the triumph of -her vengeance. And the spirit of her victim, blown in the moonlit -nights against the bars of her cell, might cling to them like a bat, -and peer in, and take its evil rapture of the retribution that had -consigned her to that one haunted spot out of all the haunted city. -</p> - -<p> -Ned—carried into a dusky vestibule, and thence into a little side -office where he must await, under guard, the commissary’s -pleasure—was ushered, after no great interval, into the presence of -that tremendous functionary. He found him a young man—rather a -revolutionary <i>blondin</i>—military and fastidious, with a nose as -high-bridged as the fifth proposition in Euclid, and an under-jaw like -a griffin’s. He was seated in an elbow-chair in the front of his men. -The Cagot, under care of a turnkey, stood before and well away from -him; and between him and the Cagot a soldier held out a burning -pastile on the point of a bayonet. He made a little gesture to the -new-comer, almost as if he were kissing his finger-tips, and addressed -him at once in a lisping voice. -</p> - -<p> -“Your name, if you please?” -</p> - -<p> -Ned satisfied him. -</p> - -<p> -“Citizen Edward Murk,” he said, waving away the superfluous title with -a scented hand, “thou art accused of interfering with the processes of -the law and inciting to a riot.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned exploded immediately. -</p> - -<p> -“The law, monsieur! But I interfered in vindication of it.” -</p> - -<p> -“How, then? Didst thou not oppose thyself to the people’s will?” -</p> - -<p> -“To their violence, rather.” -</p> - -<p> -“It was their will, nevertheless; and the people’s will is the law. -Therefore thou opposedst the law.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is a new law, that, monsieur.” -</p> - -<p> -“Truly. It dates from the year one.” -</p> - -<p> -“Of Fraternity? And what has the law one of Fraternity to say to my -servant here?” -</p> - -<p> -He indicated the dazed Laurent. The commissary lifted his passionless -eyebrows. -</p> - -<p> -“This man is, I understand, a Cagot—(another pastile, Benoît)—a -Cagot, sir; and yet he will venture into the public ways, gloveless -and without shoes.” -</p> - -<p> -“Thus poisoning what he touches, you will say. Monsieur, it is a -superstition. This year one is surely no better than other years the -first—than other opening pages to our periodic new ledgers of -reform—if we carry forward into it a tyrannical superstition.” -</p> - -<p> -“What has that to do with the matter? This is a man——” -</p> - -<p> -“It is indeed, monsieur,” answered Ned sharply. He was growing -impatient of this meaningless arraignment. He had other and more -important business to attend to. He looked into the vacuous young -face. -</p> - -<p> -“Is not this all inapplicable?” he said. “I tell monsieur that the man -is my servant; that we saw a woman suffering ill-treatment; that we -went to her assistance humanely and without violence. We are guilty of -no assault, no resistance to or outrage against any law, either of the -year one or of the year one thousand and one; and I must ask monsieur -to discharge us on the simple facts of the case.” -</p> - -<p> -He took, it is to be acknowledged, the wrong way with a fool. -</p> - -<p> -“I know nothing of the year one thousand and one,” said the officer, -with feeble irony. “It was before my time.” -</p> - -<p> -“Doubtless,” snapped in Ned, “monsieur was born yesterday.” -</p> - -<p> -The commissary, supporting his right elbow with his left hand, sank -back in his chair, pinched his callow throat into a bag, and closed -his eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“The simple facts,” he said—as if reasoning with himself, as the one -most needing the lesson of reason—“are that you have defied the -authority of the plebiscite.” -</p> - -<p> -“Good heavens!” cried Ned. -</p> - -<p> -The officer coming upright again, his lids, in the act, seemed to open -mechanically, like those of a doll. -</p> - -<p> -“I must tell you plainly,” he said, “that, to my mind, your -interference was questionable and suspicious.” -</p> - -<p> -“Believe me, sir,” said Ned politely, “that, in quoting your own mind, -you use an empty argument.” -</p> - -<p> -“You state,” continued the commissary, “that this man is your servant. -Who ever heard of a respectable person taking a Cagot for a servant!” -</p> - -<p> -There rose murmured acclamations from the bystanders. This was the -first really apposite thing uttered by the officer. He seemed greatly -stimulated by the applause, and moved thereby to clinch a fine -situation. -</p> - -<p> -“I shall remand you,” he said quite briskly, “for inquiries to be made -into the truth of your statements.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned stared, then burst out in a fury— -</p> - -<p> -“It is monstrous, monsieur; it is ridiculous! You have only to listen -a moment to what I say—to accept my references to a dozen of the -first standing in the city, to assure yourself of my identity.” -</p> - -<p> -The commissary waved his hand. Obedient to the gesture, a couple of -Guards closed upon their captive. -</p> - -<p> -“I take nothing from you,” he said. “In accepting your references I -might constitute myself a receiver of stolen goods.” -</p> - -<p> -It was an inspiration. He looked up, with a gasp, into the faces of -those about him, to read in their expressions if it were possible that -he himself could have said this thing. It was true he had. There must -be no anticlimax. -</p> - -<p> -“Take the prisoner away!” he said, smilingly self-conscious, as if he -were ordering a table to be cleared for a fresh surprise-course. -</p> - -<p> -Ned, protesting, threatening, fulminating, was forced from the room, -hurried down a passage, and thrust into a little dark chamber that led -therefrom. The sound of a key grating in its lock fell disagreeably -upon his ears. Only a thin wash of light reached him from a single -barred window high up under the ceiling. A couple of crippled -chairs—together, it might be said, with an almost palpable smell of -drains—formed the only furniture of the room. The wall-paper moulted -its gaudy dyes, or hung in strips from the plaster; the floor was -littered with perished rags of parchment. Evidently the closet had -been at one time some office connected with the prison records—a -dreary mad reflection to any one remembering to what recent use those -records had been put. -</p> - -<p> -Ned sank down upon one of the chairs, and, for the moment, looked -about him quite stunned and aghast. -</p> - -<p class="spacer"> -* * * * * * * * -</p> - -<p> -Up and down, up and down, by the hour together. The morning had drawn -to noon, the noon to evening; and still he was confined, with only an -indefinite prospect of release. It was hideous, it was outrageous; yet -the humour of it all might have buoyed him up against the moment of -his liberation, had not his soul—in its present condition, -introspective and self-torturing—so writhed in exquisite anguish over -a never-ceasing fear, or foreboding, of <i>something</i>—some vague -disaster that, it seemed to him, his prolonged absence from home must -precipitate. To this something he would, or could, give no name; but -his thoughts circled round the shadow of it, feigning a self-assurance -that there was no core of significance therein to terrify them—yet -terrified nevertheless. -</p> - -<p> -At the first he had flattered himself that mid-day, or thereabouts, -would bring him his deliverance. The whole incident was so -preposterous that, under the burden of his more private affairs, he -would not consider it seriously. But, as the morning passed, and the -chill dark day drew on, his anger and anxiety increased upon him to -such an extent that he might hardly restrain himself from giving them -childish expression in a furious onslaught on the panels of his door. -</p> - -<p> -He refrained, however, and, listening at the keyhole instead, was -presently aware of the regular tramp of a sentry in the passage. -By-and-by, when the footsteps came opposite him, he kicked out and -hailed— -</p> - -<p> -“Hullo, there!” -</p> - -<p> -The man stopped. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Qu’as-tu</i>?” he growled. “<i>Ne t’emporte pas, citoyen</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -“My temper!” shouted Ned; “but I shall likely lose my senses if I am -left longer without food.” -</p> - -<p> -“As to that,” said the sentry—and broke off and retreated. -</p> - -<p> -In a very little while the key turned once more, and a jailer entered -with a platter of uninviting scraps. -</p> - -<p> -“Take the filth away!” cried Ned furiously. “Thou canst procure me -something fit to eat, I suppose?” -</p> - -<p> -“Surely, for the paying, citizen.” -</p> - -<p> -“Go, then!” -</p> - -<p> -He commissioned the man, and then must drag out another half-hour, -awaiting the fellow’s reappearance. At length the latter returned, -bearing a basket containing a cold fowl, bread, and a bottle of red -wine. -</p> - -<p> -“Now, monsieur jaquemart,” said Ned, as he tackled the provender, “how -long is permitted to this farce in the playing?” -</p> - -<p> -“I do not understand you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why, a joke is a joke; but I would have you go and explain to our -pleasant commissary, of the Section Croix Blanche, that brevity is the -soul of wit.” -</p> - -<p> -“Again, I do not understand.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned wagged his finger at the man. -</p> - -<p> -“I have submitted to this outrage very patiently; but, I warn you, -there will be reprisals by-and-by.” -</p> - -<p> -“That is all one to me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Wilt thou take a message from me to the commissary?” -</p> - -<p> -“He has left the prison these many hours.” -</p> - -<p> -“And, when to return?” -</p> - -<p> -The jailer shrugged his shoulders. -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps to-morrow—at any time, or not at all.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned jumped to his feet, upsetting the basket. -</p> - -<p> -“What!” he shrieked. Then, in a moment, realising the practical fact -of his isolation—realising all that was implied by it—he fell upon -his agitation and smothered it. -</p> - -<p> -“My friend,” he said, “wilt thou convey a letter for me?” -</p> - -<p> -“That depends.” -</p> - -<p> -“Naturally. See, then” (he fetched out a pencil; tore a square from -the white paper that lined his basket of provisions)—“I write to the -citizen Vergniaud—dating my <i>billet</i>, ‘<i>Prison of La Force</i>’—these -words: ‘<i>I am detained here on a ridiculous charge. In the name of -sanity, come at once and release me—Murk</i>.’ I put the paper in your -hands; as I will put a <i>louis-d’or</i> when you stand before me with the -answer.” -</p> - -<p> -The jailer’s eyes twinkled. Said he— -</p> - -<p> -“I go off duty after the ‘Evening Gazette’ is issued. The citizen may -depend upon me.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned groaned. -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” he said, “what can’t be cured must be endured. But, the -earlier the respite, the more generous my acknowledgment.” -</p> - -<p> -He was locked in again; the sentry resumed his tramp; the little -window under the ceiling dusked like a drowsing eyelid. -</p> - -<p> -Presently, drugged by utter weariness of brain and nerve, he dozed on -one of the rickety chairs, and woke to the glare of a candle, and the -presence of his friendly jailer in the room. -</p> - -<p> -“Behold my despatch, citizen!” -</p> - -<p> -He seized the scrap of paper (that bearing his own message), and read, -scribbled on the back of it, “I fly to the succour of my dear friend -the very moment I may quit myself of a little present business of -urgency.” -</p> - -<p> -“Here are thy vails,” said Ned, in a tone of glad relief; “and leave -me the candle, my friend. I shall not need it long.” -</p> - -<p class="spacer"> -* * * * * * * * -</p> - -<p> -Up and down—up and down. The shape of the window under the ceiling -became intimate to the desolate character of the room, rather than to -that segment of the free sky without which it had once appropriated to -itself. It was like a regard turned inwards—an eye glazing in the -trance of self-inquisition; and as such it was illustrative of the -vision of the tormented soul it imprisoned from light. -</p> - -<p> -Up and down. The candle had long guttered and fallen upon itself; his -only ray of comfort from the outer world came in a stretched thread of -lamp-shine under the door. Dark night had crept upon him, with the -screak and thunder of slamming oak and iron, and an increased emotion, -rather than a sense, of muffled deep confinement; and still the -respite delayed, and must now delay, he was sick to think, until the -morrow. -</p> - -<p> -For, at last the voices of introspection, that all day he had striven, -yet feared, to interpret, were become soul-audible sounds in the -tenseness of black silence; and at last his brain was clearing, -throwing truth, like a precipitate, into his heart. -</p> - -<p> -How in two days had the flood of destiny burst, obliterating all his -ancient landmarks! He was carried down like a dead thing. Should he -drift, then?—or, if not, where strand and crawl ashore, a fragment of -human wreck? “I clutch and stop myself,” he thought; “scramble out; -lie half blind upon a little island of rest. The flood still washes my -feet; but I will not yield to it. Then slowly it subsides; the old -beautiful landmarks reveal themselves—soiled and stained, perhaps; -but, they are dear to me, and I would not have my retrospect without -them.” -</p> - -<p> -He paced wildly to and fro again. -</p> - -<p> -“I have been in the flood. What madness has it wrought in me!” -</p> - -<p> -“Pamela!” he whispered aloud in great emotion—“Pamela!” -</p> - -<p> -Yet his soul—though he believed it steadfast to its allegiance -through all the numbing thunder of the race on which it had been -borne—was rent by conflicting devils; for must not his sympathies at -least extend to one who nursed a hopeless passion? -</p> - -<p> -“Oh!” he groaned in his heart, “if, upon my release, I could only find -her gone, on her own initiative, out of my life!” -</p> - -<p> -“And so to leave you a heritage of everlasting remorse,” the fiends -would cry. -</p> - -<p> -One moment he would be the brutal tyrant, another the slave to his own -nature of kindness. He was, indeed, in a pitiable state of -indetermination. And always, marking off the crawling hours, that -sense of inner foreboding pattered loud or soft like the ticking of a -death-watch. -</p> - -<p> -Pamela and Théroigne and Nicette! Vanity and vanity and vanity. And -one Love had claimed, and one the hell of passion, and one—— -</p> - -<p> -He threw himself upon the floor, blaspheming, hugging himself in the -ecstasy of this protracted torment. -</p> - -<p> -At last, completely worn out, he fell asleep. -</p> - -<p> -He awoke, having slumbered, despite the hardness of his couch, far -into the morning. He could only recollect himself and his -circumstances with a mastering effort. Sitting up, he saw his jailer -standing by a little table that he had brought into the room. -</p> - -<p> -“What is that for?” he said. -</p> - -<p> -“The citizen’s meals.” -</p> - -<p> -“Meals! Good God! And has not the commissary yet touched his acme of -folly? Has not M. Vergniaud yet called to effect my release?” -</p> - -<p> -The man shook his head. -</p> - -<p> -“Where did you overtake him?” said Ned desperately. “What was he doing -that was so urgent when you delivered to him my note?” -</p> - -<p> -“He was conducting the actress Simon-Candeille to the theatre. I heard -madame engage him to a <i>p’tit-souper</i> when the play was over.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned turned away, sick at heart; then flashed round upon the man again -in a fury. -</p> - -<p> -“The beast! the philosophic egoist! Thou must carry him another -message from me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Truly, when I can,” said the jailer. -</p> - -<p> -It must be when he could. In the meantime the distracted captive was -faced by the prospect of fresh long hours of cold, gloom, and anxiety. -Again the morning dawdled on to mid-day, to the desolate turn from -noon. His lunch was brought in by a stranger turnkey, taciturn and -unapproachable. Ned let him go without a commission. His agitation -could not stomach food. -</p> - -<p> -At last, when, about four o’clock in the afternoon, he was feeling -that, unless soon relieved, he must pay with his reason for that -little act of humane interference, steps sounded coming hurriedly down -the corridor, the key turned in the lock, the door was flung open, and -there entered the room—the young lord, Pamela’s betrothed. -</p> - -<p> -He was full of quick manliness and pity. -</p> - -<p> -“My dear lord!” he cried—“my dear lord!” -</p> - -<p> -He took Ned’s hand; wrung it with hard, sympathetic fervour. -</p> - -<p> -“I was with Vergniaud and Tommy Paine last night, after your note had -been received by the minister. It is the vilest piece of official -insolence! Vergniaud will make hell about it; I will make hell. He was -frantically engaged at the time, and begged me to represent him in -this release of his dear friend. A certain lady was deeply concerned -this morning to hear about it. She would drive me down by-and-by on -the way to her dressmaker. I have come the moment I was able; have -made inquiries, learnt the truth, procured the release of your -servant, and given these scoundrels a foretaste of what they are to -expect.” -</p> - -<p> -He was amazingly frank and cordial. For a moment Ned was stupefied -from any thought of response. He looked into the handsome, intelligent -face, and a dull realisation of his own inefficiency as a suitor -possessed him. “Would this romantic Fortunatus,” might have been his -fancy, “have ever committed himself to a situation so ridiculous as -this of mine?” His lordship was of the soldierly type, very upright -and spruce. He wore at his neck a kerchief of the green that was later -to bring him into trouble. And the unhappy prisoner, for a contrast, -was haggard, unshorn, unkempt—his coat dusted with litter from the -floor. -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t find words to thank you,” muttered Ned at last. -</p> - -<p> -“Faith,” cried the other cheerily, “ye’ve scattered your vocabulary, I -shouldn’t wonder. Come, then, to the rogues at the gate, and I’ll help -ye out with a loan.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned drew back from the proffered grasp. -</p> - -<p> -“No,” he said—“no!” -</p> - -<p> -Then he passed his hand before his eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“Your lordship must excuse me. This suspense—it hath driven me half -mad. I am just a caged rat, flying the instant the spring is raised. -Mistress Pamela, and my prompt, affectionate Vergniaud! Their -disinterested consideration for me—and yours, my lord, yours—they -touch me to the quick. I have such friends—Madame Simon-Candeille, -possibly, among the number. But I am at the last stage of anxiety and -agitation. I have no thought for the moment but to escape, and alone. -I beg your lordship to forgive my apparent discourtesy, and to let me -pass. God knows, it may be too late even now.” -</p> - -<p> -The other, looking very much surprised and offended, bowed and drew -away. -</p> - -<p> -“As your lordship pleases,” said he. -</p> - -<p> -And at that, Ned, without another word, his face as stiff as a mask, -staggered past him, hurried out into the corridor, sped down it, and -made unaccosted for the street. -</p> - - -<h3 id="b2ch18"> -CHAPTER XVIII. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="sc">Snow</span>, soft, dazzling, bewildering, was again falling in the streets -as Ned, a spectre of desperation, hurried along them. The city was all -one strung movement of flakes—cloud materialising, phantoms blocking -the widest and the least avenues of hope. The soulless persistency of -them numbed his heart, blinded his eyes. He stumbled as he went, -feeling like one who, in a nightmare, frantically strives forward -without advancing. -</p> - -<p> -Pamela, and Théroigne, and Nicette! The one on the way to her -dressmaker’s; the one buried—naked, and buried alive; the third——! -</p> - -<p> -He moaned as he struggled onward. People passing him looked back with -eyes askew in butting heads, and grimaced, and went on their way with -pharisaic self-congratulations. -</p> - -<p> -At length, uttering a breathing sigh of relief, he stood before the -door of his lodgings, paused a moment, mounted the steps, and entered. -Instantly he knew, before a word had been spoken, that he was come -upon the <i>something</i>, the <i>real presence</i> of the dread that had -haunted him so long. It was in the atmosphere—behind him, overhead, -to one side or the other—never confronting him—a ghost, sibilant -with babble, diabolic with tickling laughter. He went up the stairs, -swiftly, panic-stricken, and so, softly, into his sitting-room. It was -quiet as death; yet a bodiless rustle, he could have thought, preceded -him as he passed into the room beyond. All there was neat, formal, -accustomed. Only a little heap of girl’s clothes lay on the bed—a -neatly disposed small pile of stuffs and linen, with a pair of buckled -shoes at the top. -</p> - -<p> -He gasped, as if he had been struck over the heart. There was -something here so intimate to the story of a pitifully misdirected -life. The shoes seemed to have taken the shape of the feet that had -pursued him so far and at last, it seemed, so despairingly. The -linen—he bent and pressed his cheek to it. It was fragrant—as was -everything personal to Nicette—but it was cold. How long had she been -gone? He had his wish, then. She had taken the initiative. He was free -to nurse his memories unvexed of a regard so misplaced. He could raise -his head and stand acquitted before his ancient ideals. -</p> - -<p> -He drooped his head, rather. He was weak and overwrought. The strain -upon him during the last three days had been so extreme that perhaps -his moral vision was impaired. -</p> - -<p> -A sound coming from the adjoining room startled him. Was it she -returned? He winked down fiercely something that had gathered -unaccountably in his eyes, cleared his throat, and strode forth. -</p> - -<p> -The landlord, Theophilus—that was all. But the little man’s face was -smock-white, his curls hung limp, his eye-places were grey with fear. -</p> - -<p> -He had closed the door behind him. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur!” he whispered. “My God, where hast thou been?” -</p> - -<p> -“What is the matter?” -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur’s young friend! Has he not heard of her?” -</p> - -<p> -“Well; she is gone, I suppose?” -</p> - -<p> -“Ay—<i>mon Dieu Jésus</i>!—to the guillotine.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned fell back. There seemed to rise a roaring in his ears. -</p> - -<p> -“Hush!” he said—“listen! They are shrieking for her. I must go!” -</p> - -<p> -His face was ghastly. But the thundering voice sank and ceased, and he -knew that he had been dreaming. -</p> - -<p> -“What was that you said, my Théophile?” he asked, with a little -insane chuckle over his own fancifulness. -</p> - -<p> -“It was yesterday morning, monsieur. You had gone out the previous -night, and had not returned. I heard her leave the house after -breakfast. I looked forth. Pitiful Mother! she was clad in the rags of -her arrival. Her feet were bare. They budded from the snow, the very -frosted flowers of a too-trustful spring. She stood a moment, then -went off. <i>Hélas</i>! it was not for me to speak, but——” -</p> - -<p> -“Well?” said Ned, in a gripping voice of iron. He was himself again, -but with death at his heart. -</p> - -<p> -“I can speak only from the evidence. In the afternoon I looked into -the Salle de la Liberté, as I sometimes will, to hear the cases that -were on. There was a little excitement about a girl who had been -seized that morning in one of the passages of the Palais de Justice -with a long knife in her hand. She had made no secret of the fact that -it was her intention to assassinate one or other of the judges as they -came forth at mid-day. She was brought in for trial while I was there. -I swear—my God, monsieur! I swear I had no shadowy thought of the -truth. It was monsieur’s young friend. I shrank into an angle of the -court, in agony lest she should see and endeavour to implicate me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Thou needst not have feared, I think—thou needst not have feared.” -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur, she made no defence. ‘<i>Vive la tyrannie</i>!’ she cried, ‘I -love the aristocrats!’ (Ah, praise to heaven, monsieur, that she put -it in the plural!) ‘I would sooner be spurned by one,’ she said, ‘than -exalted by an upstart chicaneur.’ That was a stroke at the Public -Accuser. ‘Maybe thou shalt be exalted, nevertheless,’ said he, ‘to a -prominent place. And which of us was it, lover of aristocrats, that -thou design’dst to murder?’ ‘What needs to specify?’ she cried. ‘When -one wants to die, any poisonous snake will serve for one to handle!’” -</p> - -<p> -A little terrible groan broke from the listener. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur—monsieur!” cried Théophile in emotion. “But they condemned -her—they condemned her. Oh, the poor child! And she revealed nothing; -refused to answer any questions as to her associates, her place of -abode, her manner of life. To-day she was to be taken to the scaffold. -If she has kept silence, we are safe.” -</p> - -<p> -Ned looked upon the speaker with a shocking expression. -</p> - -<p> -“If she <i>has</i> kept silence?” he muttered. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur,” said the little man (the tears were trickling down his -lean cheeks), “the carts passed but ten minutes ago. I hurried forth, -and ran till I could get glimpse of them down a side-street. She was -there. She sat with her arms bound, looking up and smiling; and the -snow fell upon her blue eyes, like feathers from the wings of the -angels that fluttered overhead awaiting her.” -</p> - -<p> -He uttered a little cry, staggered, recovered himself, and clutched -feebly at the figure that drove by him. -</p> - -<p> -“Monsieur! It is too late—it is useless! In God’s name do nothing to -compromise us!—monsieur!” -</p> - -<p> -He followed, sobbing and piping, down the stairs. The rush passed from -him; the door slammed back in his face. -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Mon Dieu</i>!” he wailed to himself, “he will ruin all!” -</p> - -<p> -Ned tore upon his way. To see—to gain speech with her, if only at the -foot of the scaffold—“Oh, merciful Christ! not so to make this agony -everlasting!” -</p> - -<p> -He sobbed and panted as he ran: “You didn’t kill him! You didn’t kill -him!” He kept crying it, as if he thought his hurrying voice might -reach her before ever his feet could cover the distance. Once he -pictured her—the soft sinning child that had whispered to him, -kissing his hand that night in the hot still secrecy of the -room—under the hands of the callous ruffian who had spoken with him -from the guillotine, and his wild prayers swung into frightful -blasphemies. Some of the few he met in his headlong rush shrunk from -him, leaving him the road. Others, who appeared likely to obstruct his -passage, he cursed as he fled by. They were all ghosts to him, -glimmering, impalpable—flashing past in a white foam of flakes. -</p> - -<p> -At length he broke into the place of the guillotine, and, without -pausing in his mad race, beat the snow from his eyes—and saw. -</p> - -<p> -Here at least, by reason of the bitter cold, was no gala-day, and the -crowd stood not so thick about the scaffold but that he might charge -into and penetrate it. -</p> - -<p> -He had reached at last—so his whirling brain interpreted it—the very -congress of all the spectres that had haunted him of late. The silent -dull air was thick with silent threads—busy stitches in a shroud -whose hem was the enceinte of the city. Here a silent white pack stood -looking up at a white yoke. There was no terror in all the scene, save -where, on the platform itself, the boots of the executioners slipped -in a red thaw. -</p> - -<p> -Then, in a moment, he was aware of her. She rose from the cloud of -white shapes—herself a statue of whiteness—pure at last—and other -white shapes stooped and lifted her. -</p> - -<p> -He burst through the intervening whiteness—tore his way into the -shroud. -</p> - -<p> -“Nicette!” he screamed. -</p> - -<p> -She struggled free for an instant—turned, looked down, and saw him. -Through the rain of flakes the rapture of a deathless passion was -revealed to him. -</p> - -<p> -The next moment she was fallen prostrate. A whirring silvery wing -swooped upon her. She seemed to break in half, like a woman of snow. -</p> - -<p class="end"> -THE END. -</p> - - -<h2> -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES. -</h2> - -<p> -The 1899 Dodd, Mead & Co. edition was consulted for many of the -following corrections. -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -<b>Alterations to the text</b>: -</p> - -<p> -Add TOC. -</p> - -<p> -A few punctuation corrections: missing commas/periods, quotation mark -pairing, etc. -</p> - -<p> -Note: minor spelling and hyphenization inconsistencies (<i>e.g.</i> -unnamable/unnameable, seaport/sea-port, meadow-path/meadow path, etc.) -have been preserved. -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -[Book I/Chapter XIII] -</p> - -<p> -Change “his innate <i>migivings</i> must once more gather” to <i>misgivings</i>. -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -[Book I/Chapter XX] -</p> - -<p> -“and accepted his to her <i>carrriage</i>” to <i>carriage</i>. -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -[Book II/Chapter II] -</p> - -<p> -“I sink, Was there evaire the time when” change comma to period. -</p> - -<p> -“this same wife lay <i>adying</i>” to <i>a-dying</i>. -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -[Book II/Chapter XV] -</p> - -<p> -“committed himself to the <i>hoplessness</i> of slumber” to <i>hopelessness</i>. -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -[Book II/Chapter XVI] -</p> - -<p> -“turned upon her in <i>uttter</i> desperation” to <i>utter</i>. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, <i>monsier</i>, monsieur! if I could learn it” to <i>monsieur</i>. -</p> - -<p class="end"> -[End of Text] -</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUR LADY OF DARKNESS ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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