LXV
P. C. Breagh had gone back to his bedroom at the gardener's cottage, under the garret where had slumbered the unlucky Jean Jacques Potier. The pet rabbits of the young man were even now in a hutch in the stable yard, and his striped house jacket and the green baize apron he used to wear when cleaning the Tessier silver hung on a hook in Madame Potier's closet, with the civil integuments of M. Potier, now deceased.
It was too early to go to bed. He pulled off jacket and waistcoat, filled and lighted the venerable briar root, and, sitting on his bed, re-perused by the light of his tallow candle a letter in headings, and bearing the date of September 23rd, which may be reproduced as written, here:
288 GREAT CORAM STREET, LONDON, W.C.
"MY DEAR YOUNG MAN!
I WAS SURPRISED AND GRATIFIED
To Receive Letters dated respectively July 28th, 31st, August 4th, 11th, 26th, Sept. 5th, 19th, from:
ONE WHO HAD VANISHED
SWALLOWED ALIVE
BY THE ROARING WHIRLPOOL OF WAR.
THEY ARE SLAP-UP AND NO MISTAKE!
ROBUST TO BRUTALITY!
THEY HAVE BEEN ACCEPTED
PUBLISHED AND PAID FOR!
BY THREE SUBURBAN EDITORS
SIMULTANEOUSLY.
A NEW IDEA
LONG CHERISHED
BY SOLOMON KNEWBIT.
A MAN BORN BEFORE HIS AGE!
THE BOSS OF A FLEET ST. WEEKLY
IS NOW NIBBLING AT
'BANG!
A DOG'S TALE.'
I Have Recovered My Fifteen Shiners And Have
Cash in Hand
For My Young Swell
WHEN HE COMES MARCHING HOME!
MARIA SAYS
YOU HAD BETTER LOOK SHARP!
AN IMPORTANT CLUE
DISCOVERED!
MYSTERY OF LOST FORTUNE
ABOUT TO BE CLEARED UP!
ABSCONDING TRUSTEE
HAS BEEN IDENTIFIED IN ECCENTRIC LODGER
BY THE LANDLADY!
PROOFS IN A SEALSKIN WAISTCOAT!
BE READY!
AT ANY MOMENT THE SUMMONS MAY COME!
I remain,
My dear young man,
Truly and faithfully yours,
SOLOMON KNEWBIT."
At the bottom of the last page was written in a curious up-and-down handwriting:
"Dr mr Breagh,
"yu kno How mr Knewbit Has a Way of Puting Things queer but it Wold be Best For you To Come Home it Realy Wold. There Is a Pore Siner only Wating To maik Amens wich Is Mind must alwais Have Bean weak and People Puting There Afares in the Hands of sutch a Trustea Can ixpect Nothing but Truble, mr Chown of Furnival's Inn is To Be let kno If He Gives Warning to Leeve the House wich i think never will Drink being got Hold of him to sutch an xtent dear mr Breagh you have thought you were Pore. But your Fortune of 7,000 lbs was only took awai by the Almighty Goodness to Be Given back again, trust and beleive. I am Dr mr Breagh,
"Respectfully and afexnly
"Maria Ling."
P. C. Breagh folded up the pregnant pages—owing to Mr. Knewbit's professional predilection for capitals and spacings, the double letter covered a good number—and put them away and began to think.
Would it not be best that Juliette should return to her husband in Belgium, since M. Tessier gave no sign of returning? And whether she agreed with the notion of leaving Versailles or not, was it wise of P. C. Breagh to stay?
He loved her. He would love her always. There were times when her eyes had tenderness in them for him. Those unforgettable days passed together ... those strange and dreadful sights seen in common, those perils mutually encountered had made a bond between them that might never be broken now.
But was it wise to remain near her, breathing her atmosphere, drinking in her rare, delicate, exquisite beauty, and growing more besotted in his worship of it with every day? He knew that it was not. By the anguish the mere thought of leaving her cost him, he realized how deeply the love of Juliette Tessier had taken root in his heart.
His nature, as simple as hers was complex, made it easy to hold her blameless in all. She had not led him on. They had been flung together by force of circumstances. That there was something guileful in her very guilelessness never suggested itself to Breagh.
The gate bell pealed as he sat ruminating, causing him nearly to leap out of his skin. That M. Tessier had returned was the possibility that instantly suggested itself. He knelt by the window of the low-ceiled cottage chamber and leaned out into the deepening dusk.
German voices at the gate, the stamping of horses, and the clinking of bridles.... The grinding of heavy boots on gravel, the jingle of spurs and the sound of scabbards scraping against the ground, rapping against the steps. A pause and a voice he knew said clearly and resonantly:
"The Herr Intendant General may spare himself the trouble. I will interview the people of the house myself!"
A loud voice barked out something unintelligible to the listener, ending with "insolence." The voice of the Man of Iron returned:
"In that case, my Excellency will take the risk. There are only women in the house, and, should they offer violence, I have Count Hatzfeldt and Count Bismarck-Böhlen here."
If there were any further words, the listener missed them, so deafeningly loud was the drumming of the blood in his ears.... The door was opened. There was a gleam of something white in the dusky hail place. And He entered and the other men followed him.... What did they there? What was it best to do?...
Now one by one the upper rooms were illuminated. The house door was opening. Two men came out and descended the steps. One who walked lightly and hummed a tune between the whiffs of his cigar passed away, still humming, toward the Avenue St. Cloud. The second who trailed a clanking sword gave harsh-voiced orders in the staccato tone of Prussian military authority to some persons in the street outside, mounted a charger held by an orderly, and rode jingling away toward the Boulevard de la Reine. His helmet and his orderly's could be seen bobbing over the top of the wall that screened the Tessier house from the Rue de Provence, and the dark silhouettes of the heads and bodies of men who crowded the double box seats of two private luggage vans that waited beyond the porte cochère under an escort of cavalry. No doubt they were fourgons sacred to the traveling Foreign Office of the Minister, bearing, besides the material of diplomatic labor, a working staff of Chancery clerks. Other vehicles were waiting, and videttes of cavalry were posted at each end of the quiet street. The trampling of their horses could be heard distinctly, with certain gruff admonitions, presumably addressed to pedestrians desirous of using the thoroughfare.
Now the leaves of the porte cochère were being opened and hooked back by the dusky silhouettes of a couple of men. Liveried grooms, because of stray gleams of light flashed back from buttons and cockades. Light thrown by the blazing yellow lamps of a large, empty, traveling landau that rolled in under the lozenged archway, at the heels of a splendid pair. The horses smelt of dust and sweat, and whinnied as they whiffed the stables. They were driven by a huge coachman, and a second carriage followed, piled with luggage, and containing three persons, who might have been secretaries or body servants, one could not decide. Four led horses followed, guided by orderlies of Cuirassiers. These did not follow the carriages, as they turned up the short avenue and pulled up at the hall door. The orderlies, quite as though they knew the place, rode down the longer gravel drive that ended at the gates of the stable yard. One trooper got down and opened the gates, and the eager horses were conducted in.
Tramp, tramp, tramp!...
A detachment of infantry, marching down the Rue de Provence. Turning in under the archway of the carriage entrance, an eighth company belonging to a regiment impossible to specify, because of the enfolding, deepening dusk. They also smelt hot and dusty and tallowy. A subaltern was in command of them, and an under officer. They halted, marked time while they posted a sentry at each of the gates, then tramped on toward the gardener's cottage, and turned into the Tessier stable yard. They were going to bivouac there. It was all clear and plain and simple. It was as fascinating as a shadow play—but for the tragic element that mingled in. Now the servants and grooms were unloading the luggage from the carriages and marvelously deft and noiseless they seemed at the work. A little later—and both carriages turned from the house, and were driven into the stable yard. You could hear the grooms and the big coachman hissing as they unharnessed the weary horses, and the horses snorting recognition as they scented their stable mates. And then P. C. Breagh became aware that the venerable pair of ponies that drew Madame Tessier's basket carriage were not to be permitted to remain in their comfortable loose boxes.... He could hear the elderly man who groomed and fed and exercised the ponies vainly protesting at the summary eviction of his charges, and the officer who commanded the detachment of infantry—Green Rifles, as it turned out—answering his complaints:
"Find the beasts another stable, and the rent and forage will be paid for. But remember!—if you grumble, His Excellency will have you shot!"
And the ponies were led away in search of new quarters, as the Foreign Office fourgon, with its escort of Uhlans, ground over the trampled gravel and pulled up at the terrace steps. One could hear the voice of Madame Potier and the creaking of the Venetian shutters. Then the billiard-room windows threw broad stripes of light across the terrace toward the wall. They were going to carry in the dispatch boxes and light traveling safes, the copying presses and letter books and the rest of the Foreign Office impedimenta by way of the long windows.... One guessed whose idea that had been.
A dominating, transforming spirit had invaded the quiet house in the Rue de Provence, bringing with it this purposeful, orderly bustle, this disciplined irruption of elements strange and new.
Of all these servants and attendants, some would certainly take up their abode at the gardener's cottage. Would P. C. Breagh, like the Tessier ponies, be presently turned out to seek cover elsewhere?
And Juliette.... The thought of her roused all his stinging apprehensions. He told himself that presently, when the house should have resumed something of its normal quiet, he would steal across the lawn in the shadow of the trees and borders, and lie in wait for a glance ... for a word....
He would force her to leave at once for Belgium. She must not remain in the house with all these men.... The time crept by with maddening slowness as he waited. Dark shadows moved in lighted rooms, passing across the blinded windows.... The whole house was flaring with gaslight now.
How long.... The slatted Venetian shutters of the dining-room were now unbarred and thrown open. He could not see into the room by reason that it faced east toward the pleasance, while the window from which he watched looked southward, immediately commanding the hall door. But broad beams of light were thrown down the steps and across the grass plot. Tall shadows moved across the streaks at intervals. There was the clatter of china, glass, and cutlery, a smell of cooking delectably savory. The Man of Iron was dining, and Hate had spread the board.
A shudder went through Breagh, and a cold perspiration bathed him. His hair seemed to rise and stiffen upon his creeping scalp. A sound broke from him ... perhaps a groan, perhaps an exclamation. There was a soft step in the darkness under his window and a whisper like a sigh.
"Monsieur Breagh.... Do not descend! It will be better that I mount the stairs to you!"
His first impulse was to reassume the discarded coat and waistcoat. Then he remembered that it was dark. The floor creaked under his stealthy footsteps as he reached the landing and crept on stockinged feet down the narrow stairway. She had pushed back the unlatched door and passed into the tiny passage. He met her almost on the threshold, felt for and seized her little hands. How feverishly hot they were! He pressed them as he whispered:
"I guessed what had happened!... I know who has come here!... For hours I have been waiting my chance to get a word alone with you. I was just coming when I heard you under the window!"
She whispered—and, although her hands burned in his, they trembled and her teeth chattered:
"Monseigneur de Bismarck desired to dine here. Every day one does not entertain a guest so noble. See you well! I have cooked for Monseigneur with my own hands a dinner worthy of—himself! He has devoured like an ogre the trout à la sauce Tartare, and the cutlets, and is now engaged upon a ragoût of partridges. When it is time to fry the savory omelette that follows, Madame Potier will ring the little bell, and I shall run back to the house."
The sentence ended in a stifled titter. An ugly sound that sickened Breagh as he heard it. He pressed the small hands, whispering entreatingly:
"Don't laugh! You must not laugh. Go back and get what you need for a journey. Tell Madame Potier I am taking you to Belgium. Back to your husband! ... your place is where he is! You shall not stay here ... you must not, I forbid you!..."
She ceased to laugh and pulled her hands away from his. Her answer came: an inflexible utterance to be breathed so softly:
"I remain here, Monsieur, until my husband comes!"
He panted the old prayer:
"Juliette, for the love of God...! You don't know what terrible danger you are risking!..."
The reply fanned past his cheek like the velvety wing of some great night moth:
"Monsieur, I remain here, until the arrival of M. Charles Tessier. Although you will do wisely to depart while you may—unseen!"
He said between his gritted teeth, while the pounding of his heart choked him:
"I shall stay here! ... I decline to be sent away!..."
She seemed to cogitate. Then came the mere breath of an utterance.
"Will you swear to be secret and faithful?"
He said hoarsely:
"Juliette, I must first know what you intend to do."
She whispered, and her voice set his blood rushing and the fragrance of her maddened him.
"Stoop!... Why are you so tall? Bend down your head!"
He stooped from his majestic altitude of five feet nine inches and a bittock, and two little hands that scorched him clasped his neck about. Light and soft as the touch of a flower was the contact of the mouth that whispered:
"I will tell you.... There is a line of one of your English poets—I forget his name—but the words run like this....
"'Throw but a stone—the giant dies!'
He gasped:
"I hear you!"
She whispered, still with her mouth against his cheek:
"See you well!—for the deliverance of my country, it is I who am going to throw that stone!"
He panted through the shuddering that had seized him:
"Do you know what will happen, whether you succeed or fail? You will be led out—placed with your back against—this wall perhaps—and shot!"
He felt her lips smile against his cheek as she answered:
"And what of that! It will be the fortune of War! But you..." She sharply drew her face away, and the slight hands thrust him from her. "I will have you leave this place to-night!"
A weakness seized him. He sank down upon his knees and stretched his arms out, in the darkness, to the dimly outlined silhouette of the slight elfin creature standing on the threshold, and the scents of rose and jasmine came to him in gusts from the night-veiled garden with another fragrance that had no name. He whispered, driven beyond himself:
"I will not go! I love you!"
She said:
"I have nothing to do with Love—who have consecrated myself to vengeance. And your presence here might ruin all.... He knows M. Breagh, the Englishman.... Have you not told me over and over that once he..."
She broke off there. But the intolerable stab brought Breagh to his feet. He snarled at her through his clenched teeth.
"He may know Breagh, the Englishman, but he doesn't know Jean Jacques Potier. Tell Madame that I shall wear her nephew's clothes and take his name, and do his work about the house and garden. All his duds are in the cupboard up in my room there, and his apron and clogs and so forth...."
Appalling triviality of the sex feminine. The conjured picture evoked a titter. She breathed, and he was stung with rage to know her shaken with irresistible mirth:
"But you do not know how to sweep and clean, and how can you conceal your very red and curly hair? French servant men have not such hair! You will be betrayed by it, Monsieur!..."
His blood boiled, and he thundered in a whisper:
"I shan't!... Call it what color you like to-night. It won't be there to-morrow! There are clippers in the cupboard, and I shall have it off."
A distant bell rang. She was gone like a bat in the darkness. His word was given. He was pledged now to follow her wherever fate should lead.