long, and for some time had failed to interest the members. Realizing it at
last, he ceased, whereupon the hum of conversation became general. And then.
it fell abruptly. There was a silence of expectancy, and a turning of heads,
a craning of necks. Even the group of secretaries at the round table below
the president's dais roused themselves from their usual apathy to consider
this young man who was mounting the tribune of the Assembly for the first
time.
"M. Andre-Louis Moreau, deputy suppleant, vice Emmanuel Lagron,
deceased, for Ancenis in the Department of the Loire."
M. de La Tour d'Azyr shook himself out of the gloomy abstraction in
which he had sat. The successor of the deputy he had slain must, in any
event, be an object of grim interest to him. You conceive how that interest
was heightened when he heard him named, when, looking across, he recognized
indeed in this Andre-Louis Moreau the young scoundrel who was continually
crossing his path, continually exerting against him a deep-moving, sinister
influence to make him regret that he should have spared his life that day at
Gavrillac two years ago. That he should thus have stepped into the shoes of
Lagron seemed to M. de La Tour d'Azyr too apt for mere coincidence, a direct
challenge in itself.
He looked at the young man in wonder rather than in anger, and looking
at him he was filled by a vague, almost a premonitory, uneasiness.
At the very outset, the presence which in itself he conceived to be a
challenge was to demonstrate itself for this in no equivocal terms.
"I come before you," Andre-Louis began, "as a deputy-suppleant to fill
the place of one who was murdered some three weeks ago."
It was a challenging opening that instantly provoked an indignant
outcry from the Blacks. Andre-Louis paused, and looked at them, smiling a
little, a singularly self-confident young man.
"The gentlemen of the Right, M. le President, do not appear to like my
words. But that is not surprising. The gentlemen of the Right notoriously do
not like the truth."
This time there was uproar. The members of the Left roared with
laughter, those of the Right thundered menacingly. The ushers circulated at
a pace beyond their usual, agitated themselves, clapped their hands, and
called in vain for silence.
The President rang his bell.
Above the general din came the voice of La Tour d'Azyr, who had
half-risen from his seat: "Mountebank! This is not the theatre!"
"No, monsieur, it is becoming a hunting-ground for bully-swordsmen,"
was the answer, and the uproar grew.
The deputy-suppleant looked round and waited. Near at hand he met the
encouraging grin of Le Chapelier, and the quiet, approving smile of Kersain,
another Breton deputy of his acquaintance. A little farther off he saw the
great head of Mirabeau thrown back, the great eyes regarding him from under
a frown in a sort of wonder, and yonder, among all that moving sea of faces,
the sallow countenance of the Arras' lawyer Robespierre - or de Robespierre,
as the little snob now called himself, having assumed the aristocratic
particle as the prerogative of a man of his distinction in the councils of
his country. With his tip-tilted nose in the air, his carefully curled head
on one side, the deputy for Arras was observing Andre-Louis attentively. The
horn-rimmed spectacles he used for reading were thrust up on to his pale
forehead, and it was through a levelled spy-glass that he considered the
speaker, his thin-lipped mouth stretched a little in that tiger-cat smile
that was afterwards to become so famous and so feared.
Gradually the uproar wore itself out, and diminished so that at last
the President could make himself heard. Leaning forward, he gravely
addressed the young man in the tribune:
"Monsieur, if you wish to be heard, let me beg of you not to be
provocative in your language." And then to the others: "Messieurs, if we are
to proceed, I beg that you will restrain your feelings until the
deputy-suppleant has concluded his discourse."
"I shall endeavour to obey, M. le President, leaving provocation to the
gentlemen of the Right. If the few words I have used so far have been
provocative, I regret it. But it was necessary that I should refer to the
distinguished deputy whose place I come so unworthily to fill, and it was
unavoidable that I should refer to the event which has procured us this sad
necessity. The deputy Lagron was a man of singular nobility of mind, a
selfless, dutiful, zealous man, inflamed by the high purpose of doing his
duty by his electors and by this Assembly. He possessed what his opponents
would call a dangerous gift of eloquence."
La Tour d'Azyr writhed at the well-known phrase - his own phrase
- the phrase that he had used to explain his action in the matter of
Philippe de Vilmorin, the phrase that from time to time had been cast in his
teeth with such vindictive menace.
And then the crisp voice of the witty Canales, that very rapier of the
Privileged party, cut sharply into the speaker's momentary pause.
"M. le President," he asked with great solemnity, "has the
deputy-suppleant mounted the tribune for the purpose of taking part in the
debate on the constitution of the legislative assemblies, or for the purpose
of pronouncing a funeral oration upon the departed deputy Lagron?"
This time it was the Blacks who gave way to mirth, until checked by the
deputy-suppleant.
"That laughter is obscene!" In this truly Gallic fashion he flung his
glove into the face of Privilege, determined, you see, upon no half
measures; and the rippling laughter perished on the instant quenched in
speechless fury.
Solemnly he proceeded.
"You all know how Lagron died. To refer to his death at all requires
courage, to laugh in referring to it requires something that I will not
attempt to qualify. If I have alluded to his decease, it is because my own
appearance among you seemed to render some such allusion necessary. It is
mine to take up the burden which he set down. I do not pretend that I have
the strength, the courage, or the wisdom of Lagron; but with every ounce of
such strength and courage and wisdom as I possess that burden will I bear.
And I trust, for the sake of those who might attempt it, that the means
taken to impose silence upon that eloquent voice will not be taken to impose
silence upon mine.
There was a faint murmur of applause from the Left, splutter of
contemptuous laughter from the Right.
"Rhodomont!" a voice called to him.
He looked in the direction of that voice, proceeding from the group of
spadassins amid the Blacks across the Piste, and he smiled. Inaudibly his
lips answered:
"No, my friend - Scaramouche; Scaramouche, the subtle, dangerous fellow
who goes tortuously to his ends." Aloud, he resumed: "M. le President, there
are those who will not understand that the purpose for which we are
assembled here is the making of laws by which France may be equitably
governed, by which France may be lifted out of the morass of bankruptcy into
which she is in danger of sinking. For there are some who want, it seems,
not laws, but blood; I solemnly warn them that this blood will end by
choking them, if they do not learn in time to discard force and allow reason
to prevail."
Again in that phrase there was something that stirred a memory in La
Tour d'Azyr. He turned in the fresh uproar to speak to his cousin
Chabrillane who sat beside him.
"A daring rogue, this bastard of Gavrillac's," said he.
Chabrillane looked at him with gleaming eyes, his face white with
anger.
"Let him talk himself out. I don't think he will be heard again after
to-day. Leave this to me."
Hardly could La Tour have told you why, but he sank back in his seat
with a sense of relief. He had been telling himself that here was matter
demanding action, a challenge that he must take up. But despite his rage he
felt a singular unwillingness. This fellow had a trick of reminding him, he
supposed, too unpleasantly of that young abbe done to death in the garden
behind the" Breton arme" at Gavrillac. Not that the death of Philippe de
Vilmorin lay heavily upon M. de La Tour d'Azyr's conscience. He had
accounted himself fully justified of his action. It was that the whole thing
as his memory revived it for him made an unpleasant picture: that distraught
boy kneeling over the bleeding body of the friend he had loved, and almost
begging to be slain with him, dubbing the Marquis murderer and coward to
incite him.
Meanwhile, leaving now the subject of the death of Lagron, the
deputy-suppleant had at last brought himself into order, and was speaking
upon the question under debate. He contributed nothing of value to it; he
urged nothing definite. His speech on the subject was very brief - that
being the pretext and not the purpose for which he had ascended the tribune.
When later he was leaving the hall at the end of the sitting, with Le
Chapelier at his side, he found himself densely surrounded by deputies as by
a body-guard. Most of them were Bretons, who aimed at screening him from the
provocations which his own provocative words in the Assembly could not fail
to bring down upon his head. For a moment the massive form of Mirabeau
brought up alongside of him.
"Felicitations, M. Moreau," said the great man. "You acquitted yourself
very well. They will want your blood, no doubt. But be discreet, monsieur,
if I may presume to advise you, and do not allow yourself to be misled by
any false sense of quixotry. Ignore their challenges. I do so myself. I
place each challenger upon my list. There are some fifty there already, and
there they will remain. Refuse them what they are pleased to call
satisfaction, and all will be well." Andre-Louis smiled and sighed. "It
requires courage," said the hypocrite.
"Of course it does. But you would appear to have plenty."
"Hardly enough, perhaps. But I shall do my best."
They had come through the vestibule, and although this was lined with
eager Blacks waiting for the young man who had insulted them so flagrantly
from the rostrum, Andre-Louis' body-guard had prevented any of them from
reaching him.
Emerging now into the open, under the great awning at the head of the
Carriere, erected to enable carriages to reach the door under cover, those
in front of him dispersed a little, and there was a moment as he reached the
limit of the awning when his front was entirely uncovered. Outside the rain
was falling heavily, churning the ground into thick mud, and for a moment
Andre-Louis, with Le Chapelier ever at his side, stood hesitating to step
out into the deluge.
The watchful Chabrillane had seen his chance, and by a detour that took
him momentarily out into the rain, he came face to face with the too-daring
young Breton. Rudely, violently, he thrust Andre-Louis back, as if to make
room for himself under the shelter.
Not for a second was Andre-Louis under any delusion as to the man's
deliberate purpose, nor were those who stood near him, who made a belated
and ineffectual attempt to close about him. He was grievously disappointed.
It was not Chabrillane he had been expecting. His disappointment was
reflected on his countenance, to be mistaken for something very different by
the arrogant Chevalier.
But if Chabrillane was the man appointed to deal with him, he would
make the best of it.
"I think you are pushing against me, monsieur," he said, very civilly,
and with elbow and shoulder he thrust M. de Chabrillane back into the rain.
"I desire to take shelter, monsieur," the Chevalier hectored.
"You may do so without standing on my feet. I have a prejudice against
any one standing on my feet. My feet are very tender. Perhaps you did not
know it, monsieur. Please say no more.
"Why, I wasn't speaking, you lout!" exclaimed the Chevalier, slightly
discomposed.
"Were you not? I thought perhaps you were about to apologize."
"Apologize?" Chabrillane laughed. "To you! Do you know that you are
amusing?" He stepped under the awning for the second time, and again in view
of all thrust Andre-Louis rudely back.
"Ahi!" cried Andre-Louis, with a grimace. "You hurt me, monsieur. I
have told you not to push against me." He raised his voice that all might
hear him, and once more impelled M. de Chabrillane back into the rain.
Now, for all his slenderness, his assiduous daily sword-practice had
given Andre-Louis an arm of iron. Also he threw his weight into the thrust.
His assailant reeled backwards a few steps, and then his heel struck a baulk
of timber left on the ground by some workmen that morning, and he sat down
suddenly in the mud.
A roar of laughter rose from all who witnessed the fine gentleman's
downfall. He rose, mud-bespattered, in a fury, and in that fury sprang at
Andre-Louis.
Andre-Louis had made him ridiculous, which was altogether unforgivable.
"You shall meet me for this!" he spluttered. "I shall kill you for it."
His inflamed face was within a foot of Andre-Louis'. Andre-Louis
laughed. In the silence everybody heard the laugh and the words that
followed.
"Oh, is that what you wanted? But why didn't you say so before? You
would have spared me the trouble of knocking you down. I thought gentlemen
of your profession invariably conducted these affairs with decency, decorum,
and a certain grace. Had you done so, you might have saved your breeches."
"How soon shall we settle this?" snapped Chabrillane, livid with very
real fury.
"Whenever you please, monsieur. It is for you to say when it will suit
your convenience to kill me. I think that was the intention you announced,
was it not?" Andre-Louis was suavity itself.
"To-morrow morning, in the Bois. Perhaps you will bring a friend."
"Certainly, monsieur. To-morrow morning, then. I hope we shall have
fine weather. I detest the rain."
Chabrillane looked at him almost with amazement Andre-Louis smiled
pleasantly.
"Don't let me detain you now, monsieur. We quite understand each other.
I shall be in the Bois at nine o'clock to-morrow morning."
"That is too late for me, monsieur."
"Any other hour would be too early for me. I do not like to have my
habits disturbed. Nine o'clock or not at all, as you please."
"But I must be at the Assembly at nine, for the morning session."
"I am afraid, monsieur, you will have to kill me first, and I have a
prejudice against being killed before nine o'clock."
Now this was too complete a subversion of the usual procedure for M. de
Chabrillane's stomach. Here was a rustic deputy assuming with him precisely
the tone of sinister mockery which his class usually dealt out to their
victims of the Third Estate. And to heighten the irritation, Andre-Louis -
the actor, Scaramouche always - produced his snuffbox, and proffered it with
a steady hand to Le Chapelier before helping himself.
Chabrillane, it seemed, after all that he had suffered, was not even to
be allowed to make a good exit.
"Very well, monsieur," he said. "Nine o'clock, then; and we'll see if
you'll talk as pertly afterwards."
On that he flung away, before the jeers of the provincial deputies. Nor
did it soothe his rage to be laughed at by urchins all the way down the Rue
Dauphine because of the mud and filth that dripped from his satin breeches
and the tails of his elegant, striped coat.
But though the members of the Third had jeered on the surface, they
trembled underneath with fear and indignation. It was too much. Lagron
killed by one of these bullies, and now his successor challenged, and about
to be killed by another of them on the very first day of his appearance to
take the dead man's place. Several came now to implore Andre-Louis not to go
to the Bois, to ignore the challenge and the whole affair, which was but a
deliberate attempt to put him out of the way. He listened seriously, shook
his head gloomily, and promised at last to think it over.
He was in his seat again for the afternoon session as if nothing
disturbed him.
But in the morning, when the Assembly met, his place was vacant, and so
was M. de Chabrillane's. Gloom and resentment sat upon the members of the
Third, and brought a more than usually acrid note into their debates. They
disapproved of the rashness of the new recruit to their body. Some openly
condemned his lack of circumspection. Very few - and those only the little
group in Le Chapelier's confidence - ever expected to see him again.
It was, therefore, as much in amazement as in relief that at a few
minutes after ten they saw him enter, calm, composed, and bland, and thread
his way to his seat. The speaker occupying the rostrum at that moment - a
member of the Privileged - stopped short to stare in incredulous dismay.
Here was something that he could not understand at all. Then from somewhere,
to satisfy the amazement on both sides of the assembly, a voice explained
the phenomenon contemptuously.
"They haven't met. He has shirked it at the last moment."
It must be so, thought all; the mystification ceased, and men were
settling back into their seats. But now, having reached his place, having
heard the voice that explained the matter to the universal satisfaction,
Andre-Louis paused before taking his seat. He felt it incumbent upon him to
reveal the true fact.
"M. le President, my excuses for my late arrival." There was no
necessity for this. It was a mere piece of theatricality, such as it was not
in Scaramouche's nature to forgo. "I have been detained by an engagement of
a pressing nature. I bring you also the excuses of M. de Chabrillane. He,
unfortunately, will be permanently absent from this Assembly in future."
The silence was complete. Andre-Louis sat down.
M. Le Chevalier de Chabrillane had been closely connected, you will
remember, with the iniquitous affair in which Philippe de Vilmorin had lost
his life. We know enough to justify a surmise that he had not merely been La
Tour d'Azyr's second in the encounter, but actually an instigator of the
business. Andre-Louis may therefore have felt a justifiable satisfaction in
offering up the Chevalier's life to the Manes of his murdered friend. He may
have viewed it as an act of common justice not to be procured by any other
means. Also it is to be remembered that Chabrillane had gone confidently to
the meeting, conceiving that he, a practised ferailleur, had to deal with a
bourgeois utterly unskilled in swordsmanship. Morally, then, he was little
better than a murderer, and that he should have tumbled into the pit he
conceived that he dug for Andre-Louis was a poetic retribution. Yet,
notwithstanding all this, I should find the cynical note on which
Andre-Louis announced the issue to the Assembly utterly detestable did I
believe it sincere. It would justify Aline of the expressed opinion, which
she held in common with so many others who had come into close contact with
him, that Andre-Louis was quite heartless.
You have seen something of the same heartlessness in his conduct when
he discovered the faithlessness of La Binet although that is belied by the
measures he took to avenge himself. His subsequent contempt of the woman I
account to be born of the affection in which for a time he held her. That
this affection was as deep as he first imagined, I do not believe; but that
it was as shallow as he would almost be at pains to make it appear by the
completeness with which he affects to have put her from his mind when he
discovered her worthlessness, I do not believe; nor, as I have said, do his
actions encourage that belief. Then, again, his callous cynicism in hoping
that he had killed Binet is also an affectation. Knowing that such things as
Binet are better out of the world, he can have suffered no compunction; he
had, you must remember, that rarely level vision which sees things in their
just proportions, and never either magnifies or reduces them by sentimental
considerations. At the same time, that he should contemplate the taking of
life with such complete and cynical equanimity, whatever the justification,
is quite incredible.
Similarly now, it is not to be believed that in coming straight from
the Bois de Boulogne, straight from the killing of a man, he should be
sincerely expressing his nature in alluding to the fact in terms of such
outrageous flippancy. Not quite to such an extent was he the incarnation of
Scaramouche. But sufficiently was he so ever to mask his true feelings by an
arresting gesture, his true thoughts by an effective phrase. He was the
actor always, a man ever calculating the effect he would produce, ever
avoiding self-revelation, ever concerned to overlay his real character by an
assumed and quite fictitious one. There was in this something of impishness,
and something of other things.
Nobody laughed now at his flippancy. He did not intend that anybody
should. He intended to be terrible; and he knew that the more flippant and
casual his tone, the more terrible would be its effect. He produced exactly
the effect he desired.
What followed in a place where feelings and practices had become what
they had become is not difficult to surmise. When the session rose, there
were a dozen spadassins awaiting him in the vestibule, and this time the men
of his own party were less concerned to guard him. He seemed so entirely
capable of guarding himself; he appeared, for all his circumspection, to
have so completely carried the war into the enemy's camp, so completely to
have adopted their own methods, that his fellows scarcely felt the need to
protect him as yesterday.
As he emerged, he scanned that hostile file, whose air and garments
marked them so clearly for what they were. He paused, seeking the man he
expected, the man he was most anxious to oblige. But M. de La Tour d'Azyr
was absent from those eager ranks. This seemed to him odd. La Tour d'Azyr
was Chabrillane's cousin and closest friend. Surely he should have been
among the first to-day. The fact was that La Tour d'Azyr was too deeply
overcome by amazement and grief at the utterly unexpected event. Also his
vindictiveness was held curiously in leash. Perhaps he, too, remembered the
part played by Chabrillane in the affair at Gavrillac, and saw in this
obscure Andre-Louis Moreau, who had so persistently persecuted him ever
since, an ordained avenger. The repugnance he felt to come to the point,
with him, particularly after this culminating provocation, was puzzling even
to himself. But it existed, and it curbed him now.
To Andre-Louis, since La Tour was not one of that waiting pack, it
mattered little on that Tuesday morning who should be the next. The next, as
it happened, was the young Vicomte de La Motte-Royau, one of the deadliest
blades in the group.
On the Wednesday morning, coming again an hour or so late to the
Assembly, Andre-Louis announced - in much the same terms as he had announced
the death of Chabrillane - that M. de La Motte-Royau would probably not
disturb the harmony of the Assembly for some weeks to come, assuming that he
were so fortunate as to recover ultimately from the effects of an unpleasant
accident with which he had quite unexpectedly had the misfortune to meet
that morning.
On Thursday he made an identical announcement with regard to the Vidame
de Blavon. On Friday he told them that he had been delayed by M. de
Troiscantins, and then turning to the members of the Cote Droit, and
lengthening his face to a sympathetic gravity:
"I am glad to inform you, messieurs, that M. des Troiscantins is in the
hands of a very competent surgeon who hopes with care to restore him to your
councils in a few weeks' time."
It was paralyzing, fantastic, unreal; and friend and foe in that
assembly sat alike stupefied under those bland daily announcements. Four of
the most redoubtable spadassinicides put away for a time, one of them dead -
and all this performed with such an air of indifference and announced in
such casual terms by a wretched little provincial lawyer!
He began to assume in their eyes a romantic aspect. Even that group of
philosophers of the Cote Gauche, who refused to worship any force but the
force of reason, began to look upon him with a respect and consideration
which no oratorical triumphs could ever have procured him.
And from the Assembly the fame of him oozed out gradually over Paris.
Desmoulins wrote a panegyric upon him in his paper "Les Revolutions,"
wherein he dubbed him the "Paladin of the Third Estate," a name that caught
the fancy of the people, and clung to him for some time. Disdainfully was he
mentioned in the "Actes des Apotres," the mocking organ of the Privileged
party, so light-heartedly and provocatively edited by a group of gentlemen
afflicted by a singular mental myopy.
The Friday of that very busy week in the life of this young man who
even thereafter is to persist in reminding us that he is not in any sense a
man of action, found the vestibule of the Manege empty of swordsmen when he
made his leisurely and expectant egress between Le Chapelier and Kersain.
So surprised was he that he checked in his stride.
"Have they had enough?" he wondered, addressing the question to Le
Chapelier.
"They have had enough of you, I should think," was the answer. "They
will prefer to turn their attention to some one less able to take care of
himself."
Now this was disappointing. Andre-Louis had lent himself to this
business with a very definite object in view. The slaying of Chabrillane
had, as far as it went, been satisfactory. He had regarded that as a sort of
acceptable hors d'oeuvre. But the three who had followed were no affair of
his at all. He had met them with a certain amount of repugnance, and dealt
with each as lightly as consideration of his own safety permitted. Was the
baiting of him now to cease whilst the man at whom he aimed had not
presented himself? In that case it would be necessary to force the pace!
Out there under the awning a group of gentlemen stood in earnest talk.
Scanning the group in a rapid glance, Andre-Louis perceived M. de La Tour
d'Azyr amongst them. He tightened his lips. He must afford no provocation.
It must be for them to fasten their quarrels upon him. Already the "Actes
des Apotres" that morning had torn the mask from his face, and proclaimed
him the fencing-master of the Rue du Hasard, successor to Bertrand des Amis.
Hazardous as it had been hitherto for a man of his condition to engage in
single combat it was rendered doubly so by this exposure, offered to the
public as an aristocratic apologia.
Still, matters could not be left where they were, or he should have had
all his pains for nothing. Carefully looking away from that group of
gentlemen, he raised his voice so that his words must carry to their ears.
"It begins to look as if my fears of having to spend the remainder of
my days in the Bois were idle."
Out of the corner of his eye he caught the stir his words created in
that group. Its members had turned to look at him; but for the moment that
was all. A little more was necessary. Pacing slowly along between his
friends he resumed:
"But is it not remarkable that the assassin of Lagror should make no
move against Lagron's successor? Or perhaps it is not remarkable. Perhaps
there are good reasons. Perhaps the gentleman is prudent."
He bad passed the group by now, and he left that last sentence of his
to trail behind him, and after it sent laughter, insolent and provoking.
He had not long to wait. Came a quick step behind him, and a hand
falling upon his shoulder, spun him violently round. He was brought face to
face with M. de La Tour d'Azyr, whose handsome countenance was calm and
composed, but whose eyes reflected something of the sudden blaze of passion
stirring in him. Behind him several members of the group were approaching
more slowly. The others - like Andre-Louis' two companions - remained at
gaze.
"You spoke of me, I think," said the Marquis quietly. "I spoke of an
assassin - yes. But to these my friends." Andre-Louis' manner was no less
quiet, indeed the quieter of the two, for he was the more experienced actor.
"You spoke loudly enough to be overheard," said the Marquis, answering
the insinuation that he had been eavesdropping.
"Those who wish to overhear frequently contrive to do so."
"I perceive that it is your aim to be offensive."
"Oh, but you are mistaken, M. le Marquis. I have no wish to be
offensive. But I resent having hands violently laid upon me, especially when
they are hands that I cannot consider clean, In the circumstances I can
hardly be expected to be polite."
The elder man's eyelids flickered. Almost he caught himself admiring
Andre-Louis' bearing. Rather, he feared that his own must suffer by
comparison. Because of this, he enraged altogether, and lost control of
himself.
"You spoke of me as the assassin of Lagron. I do not affect to
misunderstand you. You expounded your views to me once before, and I
remember."
"But what flattery, monsieur!"
"You called me an assassin then, because I used my skill to dispose of
a turbulent hot-head who made the world unsafe for me. But how much better
are you, M. the fencing-master, when you oppose yourself to men whose skill
is as naturally inferior to your own!"
M. de La Tour d'Azyr's friends looked grave, perturbed. It was really
incredible to find this great gentleman so far forgetting himself as to
descend to argument with a canaille of a lawyer-swordsman. And what was
worse, it was an argument in which he was being made ridiculous.
"I oppose myself to them!" said Andre-Louis on a tone of amused
protest. "Ah, pardon, M. le Marquis; it is they who chose to oppose
themselves to me - and so stupidly. They push me, they slap my face, they
tread on my toes, they call me by unpleasant names. What if I am a
fencing-master? Must I on that account submit to every manner of
ill-treatment from your bad-mannered friends? Perhaps had they found out
sooner that I am a fencing-master their manners would have been better. But
to blame me for that! What injustice!"
"Comedian!" the Marquis contemptuously apostrophized him. "Does it
alter the case? Are these men who have opposed you men who live by the sword
like yourself?"
"On the contrary, M. le Marquis, I have found them men who died by the
sword with astonishing ease. I cannot suppose that you desire to add
yourself to their number."
"And why, if you please?" La Tour d'Azyr's face had flamed scarlet
before that sneer.
"Oh," Andre-Louis raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, a man
considering. He delivered himself slowly. "Because, monsieur, you prefer the
easy victim - the Lagrons and Vilmorins of this world, mere sheep for your
butchering. That is why."
And then the Marquis struck him.
Andre-Louis stepped back. His eyes gleamed a moment; the next they were
smiling up into the face of his tall enemy.
"No better than the others, after all! Well, well! Remark, I beg you,
how history repeats itself - with certain differences. Because poor Vilmorin
could not bear a vile lie with which you goaded him, he struck you. Because
you cannot bear an equally vile truth which I have uttered, you strike me.
But always is the vileness yours. And now as then for the striker there
is... " He broke off. "But why name it? You will remember what there is.
Yourself you wrote it that day with the point of your too-ready sword. But
there. I will meet you if you desire it, monsieur."
"What else do you suppose that I desire? To talk?"
Andre-Louis turned to his friends and sighed. "So that I am to go
another jaunt to the Bois. Isaac, perhaps you will kindly have a word with
one of these friends of M. le Marquis', and arrange for nine o'clock
to-morrow, as usual."
"Not to-morrow," said the Marquis shortly to Le Chapeher. "I have an
engagement in the country, which I cannot postpone."
Le Chapelier looked at Andre-Louis.
"Then for M. le Marquis' convenience, we will say Sunday at the same
hour."
"I do not fight on Sunday. I am not a pagan to break the holy day."
"But surely the good God would not have the presumption to damn a
gentleman of M. le Marquis' quality on that account? Ah, well, Isaac, please
arrange for Monday, if it is not a feast-day or monsieur has not some other
pressing engagement. I leave it in your hands."
He bowed with the air of a man wearied by these details, and threading
his arm through Kersain's withdrew.
"Ah, Dieu de Dieu! But what a trick of it you have," said the Breton
deputy, entirely unsophisticated in these matters.
"To be sure I have. I have taken lessons at their hands." He laughed.
He was in excellent good-humour. And Kersam was enrolled in the ranks of
those who accounted Andre-Louis a man without heart or conscience.
But in his "Confessions" he tells us - and this is one of the glimpses
that reveal the true man under all that make-believe
- that on that night he went down on his knees to commune with his dead
friend Philippe, and to call his spirit to witness that he was about to take
the last step in the fulfilment of the oath sworn upon his body at Gavrillac
two years ago.
M. de La Tour d'Azyr's engagement in the country on that Sunday was
with M. de Kercadiou. To fulfil it he drove out early in the day to Meudon,
taking with him in his pocket a copy of the last issue of "Les Actes des
Apotres," a journal whose merry sallies at the expense of the innovators
greatly diverted the Seigneur de Gavrillac. The venomous scorn it poured
upon those worthless rapscallions afforded him a certain solatium against
the discomforts of expatriation by which he was afflicted as a result of
their detestable energies.
Twice in the last month, had M. de La Tour d'Azyr gone to visit the
Lord of Gavrillac at Meudon, and the sight of Aline, so sweet and fresh, so
bright and of so lively a mind, had caused those embers smouldering under
the ashes of the past, embers which until now he had believed utterly
extinct, to kindle into flame once more. He desired her as we desire Heaven.
I believe that it was the purest passion of his life; that had it come to
him earlier he might have been a vastly different man. The cruelest wound
that in all his selfish life he had taken was when she sent him word, quite
definitely after the affair at the Feydau, that she could not again in any
circumstances receive him. At one blow - through that disgraceful riot - he
had been robbed of a mistress he prized and of a wife who had become a
necessity to the very soul of him. The sordid love of La Binet might have
consoled him for the compulsory renunciation of his exalted love of Aline,
just as to his exalted love of Aline he had been ready to sacrifice his
attachment to La Binet. But that ill-timed riot had robbed him at once of
both. Faithful to his word to Sautron he had definitely broken with La
Binet, only to find that Aline had definitely broken with him. And by the
time that he had sufficiently recovered from his grief to think again of La
Binet, the comedienne had vanished beyond discovery.
For all this he blamed, and most bitterly blamed, Andre-Louis. That
low-born provincial lout pursued him like a Nemesis, was become indeed the
evil genius of his life. That was it - the evil genius of his life! And it
was odds that on Monday... He did not like to think of Monday. He was not
particularly afraid of death. He was as brave as his kind in that respect,
too brave in the ordinary way, and too confident of his skill, to have
considered even remotely such a possibility as that of dying in a duel. It
was only that it would seem like a proper consummation of all the evil that
he had suffered directly or indirectly through this Andre-Louis Moreau that
he should perish ignobly by his hand. Almost he could hear that insolent,
pleasant voice making the flippant announcement to the Assembly on Monday
morning.
He shook off the mood, angry with himself for entertaining it. It was
maudlin. After all Chabrillane and La Motte-Royau were quite exceptional
swordsmen, but neither of them really approached his own formidable calibre.
Reaction began to flow, as he drove out through country lanes flooded with
pleasant September sunshine. His spirits rose. A premonition of victory
stirred within him Far from fearing Monday's meeting, as he had so
unreasonably been doing; he began to look forward to it. It should afford
him the means of setting a definite term to this persecution of which he had
been the victim. He would crush this insolent and persistent flea that had
been stinging him at every opportunity. Borne upward on that wave of
optimism, he took presently a more hopeful view of his case with Aline.
At their first meeting a month ago he had used the utmost frankness
with her. He had told her the whole truth of his motives in going that night
to the Feydau; he had made her realize that she had acted unjustly towards
him. True he had gone no farther.
But that was very far to have gone as a beginning. And in their last
meeting, now a fortnight old, she had received him with frank friendliness.
True, she had been a little aloof. But that was to be expected until he
quite explicitly avowed that he had revived the hope of winning her. He had
been a fool not to have returned before to-day.
Thus in that mood of new-born confidence - a confidence risen from the
very ashes of despondency - came he on that Sunday morning to Meudon. He was
gay and jovial with M. de Kercadiou what time he waited in the salon for
mademoiselle to show herself. He pronounced with confidence on the country's
future. There were signs already
- he wore the rosiest spectacles that morning - of a change of opinion,
of a more moderate note. The Nation began to perceive whither this lawyer
rabble was leading it. He pulled out "The Acts of the Apostles" and read a
stinging paragraph. Then, when mademoiselle at last made her appearance, he
resigned the journal into the hands of M. de Kercadiou.
M. de Kercadiou, with his niece's future to consider, went to read the
paper in the garden, taking up there a position whence he could keep the
couple within sight - as his obligations seemed to demand of him - whilst
being discreetly out of earshot.
The Marquis made the most of an opportunity that might be brief. He
quite frankly declared himself, and begged, implored to be taken back into
Aline's good graces, to be admitted at least to the hope that one day before
very long she would bring herself to consider him in a nearer relationship.
"Mademoiselle," he told her, his voice vibrating with a feeling that
admitted of no doubt, "you cannot lack conviction of my utter sincerity. The
very constancy of my devotion should afford you this. It is just that I
should have been banished from you, since I showed myself so utterly
unworthy of the great honour to which I aspired. But this banishment has
nowise diminished my devotion. If you could conceive what I have suffered,
you would agree that I have fully expiated my abject fault."
She looked at him with a curious, gentle wistfulness on her lovely
face.
"Monsieur, it is not you whom I doubt. It is myself."
"You mean your feelings towards me?"
"Yes."
"But that I can understand. After what has happened... "
"It was always so, monsieur," she interrupted quietly. "You speak of me
as if lost to you by your own action. That is to say too much. Let me be
frank with you. Monsieur, I was never yours to lose. I am conscious of the
honour that you do me. I esteem you very deeply... "
"But, then," he cried, on a high note of confidence, "from such a
beginning... "
"Who shall assure me that it is a beginning? May it not be the whole?
Had I held you in affection, monsieur, I should have sent for you after the
affair of which you have spoken. I should at least not have condemned you
without hearing your explanation. As it was... " She shrugged, smiling
gently, sadly. "You see... "
But his optimism far from being crushed was stimulated. "But it is to
give me hope, mademoiselle. If already I possess so much, I may look with
confidence to win more. I shall prove myself worthy. I swear to do that. Who
that is permitted the privilege of being near you could do other than seek
to render himself worthy?"
And then before she could add a word, M. de Kercadiou came blustering
through the window, his spectacles on his forehead, his face inflamed,
waving in his hand "The Acts of the Apostles," and apparently reduced to
speechlessness.
Had the Marquis expressed himself aloud he would have been profane. As
it was he bit his lip in vexation at this most inopportune interruption.
Aline sprang up, alarmed by her uncle's agitation.
"What has happened?"
"Happened?" He found speech at last. "The scoundrel! The faithless dog!
I consented to overlook the past on the clear condition that he should avoid
revolutionary politics in future. That condition he accepted, and now" - he
smacked the news-sheet furiously - "he has played me false again. Not only
has he gone into politics, once more, but he is actually a member of the
Assembly, and what is worse he has been using his assassin's skill as a
fencing-master, turning himself into a bully-swordsman. My God Is there any
law at all left in France?"
One doubt M. de La Tour d'Azyr had entertained, though only faintly, to
mar the perfect serenity of his growing optimism. That doubt concerned this
man Moreau and his relations with M. de Kercadiou. He knew what once they
had been, and how changed they subsequently were by the ingratitude of
Moreau's own behavior in turning against the class to which his benefactor
belonged. What he did not know was that a reconciliation had been effected.
For in the past month - ever since circumstances had driven Andre-Louis to
depart from his undertaking to steer clear of politics - the young man had
not ventured to approach Meudon, and as it happened his name had pot been
mentioned in La Tour d'Azyr's hearing on the occasion of either of his own
previous visits. He learnt of that reconciliation now; but he learnt at the
same time that the breach was now renewed, and rendered wider and more
impassable than ever. Therefore he did not hesitate to avow his own
position.
"There is a law," he answered. "The law that this rash young man
himself evokes. The law of the sword." He spoke very gravely, almost sadly.
For he realized that after all the ground was tender. "You are not to
suppose that he is to continue indefinitely his career of evil and of
murder. Sooner or later he will meet a sword that will avenge the others.
You have observed that my cousin Chabrillane is among the number of this
assassin's victims; that he was killed on Tuesday last."
"If I have not expressed my condolence, Azyr, it is because my
indignation stifles at the moment every other feeling. The scoundrel! You
say that sooner or later he will meet a sword that will avenge the others. I
pray that it may be soon."
The Marquis answered him quietly, without anything but sorrow in his
voice. "I think your prayer is likely to be heard. This wretched young man
has an engagement for to-morrow, when his account may be definitely
settled."
He spoke with such calm conviction that his words had all the sound of
a sentence of death. They suddenly stemmed the flow of M. de Kercadiou's
anger. The colour receded from his inflamed face; dread looked out of his
pale eyes, to inform M. de La Tour d'Azyr, more clearly than any words, that
M. de Kercadiou's hot speech had been the expression of unreflecting anger,
that his prayer that retribution might soon overtake his godson had been
unconsciously insincere. Confronted now by the fact that this retribution
was about to be visited upon that scoundrel, the fundamental gentleness and
kindliness of his nature asserted itself; his anger was suddenly whelmed in
apprehension; his affection for the lad beat up to the surface, making
Andre-Louis' sin, however hideous, a thing of no account by comparison with
last, he ceased, whereupon the hum of conversation became general. And then.
it fell abruptly. There was a silence of expectancy, and a turning of heads,
a craning of necks. Even the group of secretaries at the round table below
the president's dais roused themselves from their usual apathy to consider
this young man who was mounting the tribune of the Assembly for the first
time.
"M. Andre-Louis Moreau, deputy suppleant, vice Emmanuel Lagron,
deceased, for Ancenis in the Department of the Loire."
M. de La Tour d'Azyr shook himself out of the gloomy abstraction in
which he had sat. The successor of the deputy he had slain must, in any
event, be an object of grim interest to him. You conceive how that interest
was heightened when he heard him named, when, looking across, he recognized
indeed in this Andre-Louis Moreau the young scoundrel who was continually
crossing his path, continually exerting against him a deep-moving, sinister
influence to make him regret that he should have spared his life that day at
Gavrillac two years ago. That he should thus have stepped into the shoes of
Lagron seemed to M. de La Tour d'Azyr too apt for mere coincidence, a direct
challenge in itself.
He looked at the young man in wonder rather than in anger, and looking
at him he was filled by a vague, almost a premonitory, uneasiness.
At the very outset, the presence which in itself he conceived to be a
challenge was to demonstrate itself for this in no equivocal terms.
"I come before you," Andre-Louis began, "as a deputy-suppleant to fill
the place of one who was murdered some three weeks ago."
It was a challenging opening that instantly provoked an indignant
outcry from the Blacks. Andre-Louis paused, and looked at them, smiling a
little, a singularly self-confident young man.
"The gentlemen of the Right, M. le President, do not appear to like my
words. But that is not surprising. The gentlemen of the Right notoriously do
not like the truth."
This time there was uproar. The members of the Left roared with
laughter, those of the Right thundered menacingly. The ushers circulated at
a pace beyond their usual, agitated themselves, clapped their hands, and
called in vain for silence.
The President rang his bell.
Above the general din came the voice of La Tour d'Azyr, who had
half-risen from his seat: "Mountebank! This is not the theatre!"
"No, monsieur, it is becoming a hunting-ground for bully-swordsmen,"
was the answer, and the uproar grew.
The deputy-suppleant looked round and waited. Near at hand he met the
encouraging grin of Le Chapelier, and the quiet, approving smile of Kersain,
another Breton deputy of his acquaintance. A little farther off he saw the
great head of Mirabeau thrown back, the great eyes regarding him from under
a frown in a sort of wonder, and yonder, among all that moving sea of faces,
the sallow countenance of the Arras' lawyer Robespierre - or de Robespierre,
as the little snob now called himself, having assumed the aristocratic
particle as the prerogative of a man of his distinction in the councils of
his country. With his tip-tilted nose in the air, his carefully curled head
on one side, the deputy for Arras was observing Andre-Louis attentively. The
horn-rimmed spectacles he used for reading were thrust up on to his pale
forehead, and it was through a levelled spy-glass that he considered the
speaker, his thin-lipped mouth stretched a little in that tiger-cat smile
that was afterwards to become so famous and so feared.
Gradually the uproar wore itself out, and diminished so that at last
the President could make himself heard. Leaning forward, he gravely
addressed the young man in the tribune:
"Monsieur, if you wish to be heard, let me beg of you not to be
provocative in your language." And then to the others: "Messieurs, if we are
to proceed, I beg that you will restrain your feelings until the
deputy-suppleant has concluded his discourse."
"I shall endeavour to obey, M. le President, leaving provocation to the
gentlemen of the Right. If the few words I have used so far have been
provocative, I regret it. But it was necessary that I should refer to the
distinguished deputy whose place I come so unworthily to fill, and it was
unavoidable that I should refer to the event which has procured us this sad
necessity. The deputy Lagron was a man of singular nobility of mind, a
selfless, dutiful, zealous man, inflamed by the high purpose of doing his
duty by his electors and by this Assembly. He possessed what his opponents
would call a dangerous gift of eloquence."
La Tour d'Azyr writhed at the well-known phrase - his own phrase
- the phrase that he had used to explain his action in the matter of
Philippe de Vilmorin, the phrase that from time to time had been cast in his
teeth with such vindictive menace.
And then the crisp voice of the witty Canales, that very rapier of the
Privileged party, cut sharply into the speaker's momentary pause.
"M. le President," he asked with great solemnity, "has the
deputy-suppleant mounted the tribune for the purpose of taking part in the
debate on the constitution of the legislative assemblies, or for the purpose
of pronouncing a funeral oration upon the departed deputy Lagron?"
This time it was the Blacks who gave way to mirth, until checked by the
deputy-suppleant.
"That laughter is obscene!" In this truly Gallic fashion he flung his
glove into the face of Privilege, determined, you see, upon no half
measures; and the rippling laughter perished on the instant quenched in
speechless fury.
Solemnly he proceeded.
"You all know how Lagron died. To refer to his death at all requires
courage, to laugh in referring to it requires something that I will not
attempt to qualify. If I have alluded to his decease, it is because my own
appearance among you seemed to render some such allusion necessary. It is
mine to take up the burden which he set down. I do not pretend that I have
the strength, the courage, or the wisdom of Lagron; but with every ounce of
such strength and courage and wisdom as I possess that burden will I bear.
And I trust, for the sake of those who might attempt it, that the means
taken to impose silence upon that eloquent voice will not be taken to impose
silence upon mine.
There was a faint murmur of applause from the Left, splutter of
contemptuous laughter from the Right.
"Rhodomont!" a voice called to him.
He looked in the direction of that voice, proceeding from the group of
spadassins amid the Blacks across the Piste, and he smiled. Inaudibly his
lips answered:
"No, my friend - Scaramouche; Scaramouche, the subtle, dangerous fellow
who goes tortuously to his ends." Aloud, he resumed: "M. le President, there
are those who will not understand that the purpose for which we are
assembled here is the making of laws by which France may be equitably
governed, by which France may be lifted out of the morass of bankruptcy into
which she is in danger of sinking. For there are some who want, it seems,
not laws, but blood; I solemnly warn them that this blood will end by
choking them, if they do not learn in time to discard force and allow reason
to prevail."
Again in that phrase there was something that stirred a memory in La
Tour d'Azyr. He turned in the fresh uproar to speak to his cousin
Chabrillane who sat beside him.
"A daring rogue, this bastard of Gavrillac's," said he.
Chabrillane looked at him with gleaming eyes, his face white with
anger.
"Let him talk himself out. I don't think he will be heard again after
to-day. Leave this to me."
Hardly could La Tour have told you why, but he sank back in his seat
with a sense of relief. He had been telling himself that here was matter
demanding action, a challenge that he must take up. But despite his rage he
felt a singular unwillingness. This fellow had a trick of reminding him, he
supposed, too unpleasantly of that young abbe done to death in the garden
behind the" Breton arme" at Gavrillac. Not that the death of Philippe de
Vilmorin lay heavily upon M. de La Tour d'Azyr's conscience. He had
accounted himself fully justified of his action. It was that the whole thing
as his memory revived it for him made an unpleasant picture: that distraught
boy kneeling over the bleeding body of the friend he had loved, and almost
begging to be slain with him, dubbing the Marquis murderer and coward to
incite him.
Meanwhile, leaving now the subject of the death of Lagron, the
deputy-suppleant had at last brought himself into order, and was speaking
upon the question under debate. He contributed nothing of value to it; he
urged nothing definite. His speech on the subject was very brief - that
being the pretext and not the purpose for which he had ascended the tribune.
When later he was leaving the hall at the end of the sitting, with Le
Chapelier at his side, he found himself densely surrounded by deputies as by
a body-guard. Most of them were Bretons, who aimed at screening him from the
provocations which his own provocative words in the Assembly could not fail
to bring down upon his head. For a moment the massive form of Mirabeau
brought up alongside of him.
"Felicitations, M. Moreau," said the great man. "You acquitted yourself
very well. They will want your blood, no doubt. But be discreet, monsieur,
if I may presume to advise you, and do not allow yourself to be misled by
any false sense of quixotry. Ignore their challenges. I do so myself. I
place each challenger upon my list. There are some fifty there already, and
there they will remain. Refuse them what they are pleased to call
satisfaction, and all will be well." Andre-Louis smiled and sighed. "It
requires courage," said the hypocrite.
"Of course it does. But you would appear to have plenty."
"Hardly enough, perhaps. But I shall do my best."
They had come through the vestibule, and although this was lined with
eager Blacks waiting for the young man who had insulted them so flagrantly
from the rostrum, Andre-Louis' body-guard had prevented any of them from
reaching him.
Emerging now into the open, under the great awning at the head of the
Carriere, erected to enable carriages to reach the door under cover, those
in front of him dispersed a little, and there was a moment as he reached the
limit of the awning when his front was entirely uncovered. Outside the rain
was falling heavily, churning the ground into thick mud, and for a moment
Andre-Louis, with Le Chapelier ever at his side, stood hesitating to step
out into the deluge.
The watchful Chabrillane had seen his chance, and by a detour that took
him momentarily out into the rain, he came face to face with the too-daring
young Breton. Rudely, violently, he thrust Andre-Louis back, as if to make
room for himself under the shelter.
Not for a second was Andre-Louis under any delusion as to the man's
deliberate purpose, nor were those who stood near him, who made a belated
and ineffectual attempt to close about him. He was grievously disappointed.
It was not Chabrillane he had been expecting. His disappointment was
reflected on his countenance, to be mistaken for something very different by
the arrogant Chevalier.
But if Chabrillane was the man appointed to deal with him, he would
make the best of it.
"I think you are pushing against me, monsieur," he said, very civilly,
and with elbow and shoulder he thrust M. de Chabrillane back into the rain.
"I desire to take shelter, monsieur," the Chevalier hectored.
"You may do so without standing on my feet. I have a prejudice against
any one standing on my feet. My feet are very tender. Perhaps you did not
know it, monsieur. Please say no more.
"Why, I wasn't speaking, you lout!" exclaimed the Chevalier, slightly
discomposed.
"Were you not? I thought perhaps you were about to apologize."
"Apologize?" Chabrillane laughed. "To you! Do you know that you are
amusing?" He stepped under the awning for the second time, and again in view
of all thrust Andre-Louis rudely back.
"Ahi!" cried Andre-Louis, with a grimace. "You hurt me, monsieur. I
have told you not to push against me." He raised his voice that all might
hear him, and once more impelled M. de Chabrillane back into the rain.
Now, for all his slenderness, his assiduous daily sword-practice had
given Andre-Louis an arm of iron. Also he threw his weight into the thrust.
His assailant reeled backwards a few steps, and then his heel struck a baulk
of timber left on the ground by some workmen that morning, and he sat down
suddenly in the mud.
A roar of laughter rose from all who witnessed the fine gentleman's
downfall. He rose, mud-bespattered, in a fury, and in that fury sprang at
Andre-Louis.
Andre-Louis had made him ridiculous, which was altogether unforgivable.
"You shall meet me for this!" he spluttered. "I shall kill you for it."
His inflamed face was within a foot of Andre-Louis'. Andre-Louis
laughed. In the silence everybody heard the laugh and the words that
followed.
"Oh, is that what you wanted? But why didn't you say so before? You
would have spared me the trouble of knocking you down. I thought gentlemen
of your profession invariably conducted these affairs with decency, decorum,
and a certain grace. Had you done so, you might have saved your breeches."
"How soon shall we settle this?" snapped Chabrillane, livid with very
real fury.
"Whenever you please, monsieur. It is for you to say when it will suit
your convenience to kill me. I think that was the intention you announced,
was it not?" Andre-Louis was suavity itself.
"To-morrow morning, in the Bois. Perhaps you will bring a friend."
"Certainly, monsieur. To-morrow morning, then. I hope we shall have
fine weather. I detest the rain."
Chabrillane looked at him almost with amazement Andre-Louis smiled
pleasantly.
"Don't let me detain you now, monsieur. We quite understand each other.
I shall be in the Bois at nine o'clock to-morrow morning."
"That is too late for me, monsieur."
"Any other hour would be too early for me. I do not like to have my
habits disturbed. Nine o'clock or not at all, as you please."
"But I must be at the Assembly at nine, for the morning session."
"I am afraid, monsieur, you will have to kill me first, and I have a
prejudice against being killed before nine o'clock."
Now this was too complete a subversion of the usual procedure for M. de
Chabrillane's stomach. Here was a rustic deputy assuming with him precisely
the tone of sinister mockery which his class usually dealt out to their
victims of the Third Estate. And to heighten the irritation, Andre-Louis -
the actor, Scaramouche always - produced his snuffbox, and proffered it with
a steady hand to Le Chapelier before helping himself.
Chabrillane, it seemed, after all that he had suffered, was not even to
be allowed to make a good exit.
"Very well, monsieur," he said. "Nine o'clock, then; and we'll see if
you'll talk as pertly afterwards."
On that he flung away, before the jeers of the provincial deputies. Nor
did it soothe his rage to be laughed at by urchins all the way down the Rue
Dauphine because of the mud and filth that dripped from his satin breeches
and the tails of his elegant, striped coat.
But though the members of the Third had jeered on the surface, they
trembled underneath with fear and indignation. It was too much. Lagron
killed by one of these bullies, and now his successor challenged, and about
to be killed by another of them on the very first day of his appearance to
take the dead man's place. Several came now to implore Andre-Louis not to go
to the Bois, to ignore the challenge and the whole affair, which was but a
deliberate attempt to put him out of the way. He listened seriously, shook
his head gloomily, and promised at last to think it over.
He was in his seat again for the afternoon session as if nothing
disturbed him.
But in the morning, when the Assembly met, his place was vacant, and so
was M. de Chabrillane's. Gloom and resentment sat upon the members of the
Third, and brought a more than usually acrid note into their debates. They
disapproved of the rashness of the new recruit to their body. Some openly
condemned his lack of circumspection. Very few - and those only the little
group in Le Chapelier's confidence - ever expected to see him again.
It was, therefore, as much in amazement as in relief that at a few
minutes after ten they saw him enter, calm, composed, and bland, and thread
his way to his seat. The speaker occupying the rostrum at that moment - a
member of the Privileged - stopped short to stare in incredulous dismay.
Here was something that he could not understand at all. Then from somewhere,
to satisfy the amazement on both sides of the assembly, a voice explained
the phenomenon contemptuously.
"They haven't met. He has shirked it at the last moment."
It must be so, thought all; the mystification ceased, and men were
settling back into their seats. But now, having reached his place, having
heard the voice that explained the matter to the universal satisfaction,
Andre-Louis paused before taking his seat. He felt it incumbent upon him to
reveal the true fact.
"M. le President, my excuses for my late arrival." There was no
necessity for this. It was a mere piece of theatricality, such as it was not
in Scaramouche's nature to forgo. "I have been detained by an engagement of
a pressing nature. I bring you also the excuses of M. de Chabrillane. He,
unfortunately, will be permanently absent from this Assembly in future."
The silence was complete. Andre-Louis sat down.
M. Le Chevalier de Chabrillane had been closely connected, you will
remember, with the iniquitous affair in which Philippe de Vilmorin had lost
his life. We know enough to justify a surmise that he had not merely been La
Tour d'Azyr's second in the encounter, but actually an instigator of the
business. Andre-Louis may therefore have felt a justifiable satisfaction in
offering up the Chevalier's life to the Manes of his murdered friend. He may
have viewed it as an act of common justice not to be procured by any other
means. Also it is to be remembered that Chabrillane had gone confidently to
the meeting, conceiving that he, a practised ferailleur, had to deal with a
bourgeois utterly unskilled in swordsmanship. Morally, then, he was little
better than a murderer, and that he should have tumbled into the pit he
conceived that he dug for Andre-Louis was a poetic retribution. Yet,
notwithstanding all this, I should find the cynical note on which
Andre-Louis announced the issue to the Assembly utterly detestable did I
believe it sincere. It would justify Aline of the expressed opinion, which
she held in common with so many others who had come into close contact with
him, that Andre-Louis was quite heartless.
You have seen something of the same heartlessness in his conduct when
he discovered the faithlessness of La Binet although that is belied by the
measures he took to avenge himself. His subsequent contempt of the woman I
account to be born of the affection in which for a time he held her. That
this affection was as deep as he first imagined, I do not believe; but that
it was as shallow as he would almost be at pains to make it appear by the
completeness with which he affects to have put her from his mind when he
discovered her worthlessness, I do not believe; nor, as I have said, do his
actions encourage that belief. Then, again, his callous cynicism in hoping
that he had killed Binet is also an affectation. Knowing that such things as
Binet are better out of the world, he can have suffered no compunction; he
had, you must remember, that rarely level vision which sees things in their
just proportions, and never either magnifies or reduces them by sentimental
considerations. At the same time, that he should contemplate the taking of
life with such complete and cynical equanimity, whatever the justification,
is quite incredible.
Similarly now, it is not to be believed that in coming straight from
the Bois de Boulogne, straight from the killing of a man, he should be
sincerely expressing his nature in alluding to the fact in terms of such
outrageous flippancy. Not quite to such an extent was he the incarnation of
Scaramouche. But sufficiently was he so ever to mask his true feelings by an
arresting gesture, his true thoughts by an effective phrase. He was the
actor always, a man ever calculating the effect he would produce, ever
avoiding self-revelation, ever concerned to overlay his real character by an
assumed and quite fictitious one. There was in this something of impishness,
and something of other things.
Nobody laughed now at his flippancy. He did not intend that anybody
should. He intended to be terrible; and he knew that the more flippant and
casual his tone, the more terrible would be its effect. He produced exactly
the effect he desired.
What followed in a place where feelings and practices had become what
they had become is not difficult to surmise. When the session rose, there
were a dozen spadassins awaiting him in the vestibule, and this time the men
of his own party were less concerned to guard him. He seemed so entirely
capable of guarding himself; he appeared, for all his circumspection, to
have so completely carried the war into the enemy's camp, so completely to
have adopted their own methods, that his fellows scarcely felt the need to
protect him as yesterday.
As he emerged, he scanned that hostile file, whose air and garments
marked them so clearly for what they were. He paused, seeking the man he
expected, the man he was most anxious to oblige. But M. de La Tour d'Azyr
was absent from those eager ranks. This seemed to him odd. La Tour d'Azyr
was Chabrillane's cousin and closest friend. Surely he should have been
among the first to-day. The fact was that La Tour d'Azyr was too deeply
overcome by amazement and grief at the utterly unexpected event. Also his
vindictiveness was held curiously in leash. Perhaps he, too, remembered the
part played by Chabrillane in the affair at Gavrillac, and saw in this
obscure Andre-Louis Moreau, who had so persistently persecuted him ever
since, an ordained avenger. The repugnance he felt to come to the point,
with him, particularly after this culminating provocation, was puzzling even
to himself. But it existed, and it curbed him now.
To Andre-Louis, since La Tour was not one of that waiting pack, it
mattered little on that Tuesday morning who should be the next. The next, as
it happened, was the young Vicomte de La Motte-Royau, one of the deadliest
blades in the group.
On the Wednesday morning, coming again an hour or so late to the
Assembly, Andre-Louis announced - in much the same terms as he had announced
the death of Chabrillane - that M. de La Motte-Royau would probably not
disturb the harmony of the Assembly for some weeks to come, assuming that he
were so fortunate as to recover ultimately from the effects of an unpleasant
accident with which he had quite unexpectedly had the misfortune to meet
that morning.
On Thursday he made an identical announcement with regard to the Vidame
de Blavon. On Friday he told them that he had been delayed by M. de
Troiscantins, and then turning to the members of the Cote Droit, and
lengthening his face to a sympathetic gravity:
"I am glad to inform you, messieurs, that M. des Troiscantins is in the
hands of a very competent surgeon who hopes with care to restore him to your
councils in a few weeks' time."
It was paralyzing, fantastic, unreal; and friend and foe in that
assembly sat alike stupefied under those bland daily announcements. Four of
the most redoubtable spadassinicides put away for a time, one of them dead -
and all this performed with such an air of indifference and announced in
such casual terms by a wretched little provincial lawyer!
He began to assume in their eyes a romantic aspect. Even that group of
philosophers of the Cote Gauche, who refused to worship any force but the
force of reason, began to look upon him with a respect and consideration
which no oratorical triumphs could ever have procured him.
And from the Assembly the fame of him oozed out gradually over Paris.
Desmoulins wrote a panegyric upon him in his paper "Les Revolutions,"
wherein he dubbed him the "Paladin of the Third Estate," a name that caught
the fancy of the people, and clung to him for some time. Disdainfully was he
mentioned in the "Actes des Apotres," the mocking organ of the Privileged
party, so light-heartedly and provocatively edited by a group of gentlemen
afflicted by a singular mental myopy.
The Friday of that very busy week in the life of this young man who
even thereafter is to persist in reminding us that he is not in any sense a
man of action, found the vestibule of the Manege empty of swordsmen when he
made his leisurely and expectant egress between Le Chapelier and Kersain.
So surprised was he that he checked in his stride.
"Have they had enough?" he wondered, addressing the question to Le
Chapelier.
"They have had enough of you, I should think," was the answer. "They
will prefer to turn their attention to some one less able to take care of
himself."
Now this was disappointing. Andre-Louis had lent himself to this
business with a very definite object in view. The slaying of Chabrillane
had, as far as it went, been satisfactory. He had regarded that as a sort of
acceptable hors d'oeuvre. But the three who had followed were no affair of
his at all. He had met them with a certain amount of repugnance, and dealt
with each as lightly as consideration of his own safety permitted. Was the
baiting of him now to cease whilst the man at whom he aimed had not
presented himself? In that case it would be necessary to force the pace!
Out there under the awning a group of gentlemen stood in earnest talk.
Scanning the group in a rapid glance, Andre-Louis perceived M. de La Tour
d'Azyr amongst them. He tightened his lips. He must afford no provocation.
It must be for them to fasten their quarrels upon him. Already the "Actes
des Apotres" that morning had torn the mask from his face, and proclaimed
him the fencing-master of the Rue du Hasard, successor to Bertrand des Amis.
Hazardous as it had been hitherto for a man of his condition to engage in
single combat it was rendered doubly so by this exposure, offered to the
public as an aristocratic apologia.
Still, matters could not be left where they were, or he should have had
all his pains for nothing. Carefully looking away from that group of
gentlemen, he raised his voice so that his words must carry to their ears.
"It begins to look as if my fears of having to spend the remainder of
my days in the Bois were idle."
Out of the corner of his eye he caught the stir his words created in
that group. Its members had turned to look at him; but for the moment that
was all. A little more was necessary. Pacing slowly along between his
friends he resumed:
"But is it not remarkable that the assassin of Lagror should make no
move against Lagron's successor? Or perhaps it is not remarkable. Perhaps
there are good reasons. Perhaps the gentleman is prudent."
He bad passed the group by now, and he left that last sentence of his
to trail behind him, and after it sent laughter, insolent and provoking.
He had not long to wait. Came a quick step behind him, and a hand
falling upon his shoulder, spun him violently round. He was brought face to
face with M. de La Tour d'Azyr, whose handsome countenance was calm and
composed, but whose eyes reflected something of the sudden blaze of passion
stirring in him. Behind him several members of the group were approaching
more slowly. The others - like Andre-Louis' two companions - remained at
gaze.
"You spoke of me, I think," said the Marquis quietly. "I spoke of an
assassin - yes. But to these my friends." Andre-Louis' manner was no less
quiet, indeed the quieter of the two, for he was the more experienced actor.
"You spoke loudly enough to be overheard," said the Marquis, answering
the insinuation that he had been eavesdropping.
"Those who wish to overhear frequently contrive to do so."
"I perceive that it is your aim to be offensive."
"Oh, but you are mistaken, M. le Marquis. I have no wish to be
offensive. But I resent having hands violently laid upon me, especially when
they are hands that I cannot consider clean, In the circumstances I can
hardly be expected to be polite."
The elder man's eyelids flickered. Almost he caught himself admiring
Andre-Louis' bearing. Rather, he feared that his own must suffer by
comparison. Because of this, he enraged altogether, and lost control of
himself.
"You spoke of me as the assassin of Lagron. I do not affect to
misunderstand you. You expounded your views to me once before, and I
remember."
"But what flattery, monsieur!"
"You called me an assassin then, because I used my skill to dispose of
a turbulent hot-head who made the world unsafe for me. But how much better
are you, M. the fencing-master, when you oppose yourself to men whose skill
is as naturally inferior to your own!"
M. de La Tour d'Azyr's friends looked grave, perturbed. It was really
incredible to find this great gentleman so far forgetting himself as to
descend to argument with a canaille of a lawyer-swordsman. And what was
worse, it was an argument in which he was being made ridiculous.
"I oppose myself to them!" said Andre-Louis on a tone of amused
protest. "Ah, pardon, M. le Marquis; it is they who chose to oppose
themselves to me - and so stupidly. They push me, they slap my face, they
tread on my toes, they call me by unpleasant names. What if I am a
fencing-master? Must I on that account submit to every manner of
ill-treatment from your bad-mannered friends? Perhaps had they found out
sooner that I am a fencing-master their manners would have been better. But
to blame me for that! What injustice!"
"Comedian!" the Marquis contemptuously apostrophized him. "Does it
alter the case? Are these men who have opposed you men who live by the sword
like yourself?"
"On the contrary, M. le Marquis, I have found them men who died by the
sword with astonishing ease. I cannot suppose that you desire to add
yourself to their number."
"And why, if you please?" La Tour d'Azyr's face had flamed scarlet
before that sneer.
"Oh," Andre-Louis raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, a man
considering. He delivered himself slowly. "Because, monsieur, you prefer the
easy victim - the Lagrons and Vilmorins of this world, mere sheep for your
butchering. That is why."
And then the Marquis struck him.
Andre-Louis stepped back. His eyes gleamed a moment; the next they were
smiling up into the face of his tall enemy.
"No better than the others, after all! Well, well! Remark, I beg you,
how history repeats itself - with certain differences. Because poor Vilmorin
could not bear a vile lie with which you goaded him, he struck you. Because
you cannot bear an equally vile truth which I have uttered, you strike me.
But always is the vileness yours. And now as then for the striker there
is... " He broke off. "But why name it? You will remember what there is.
Yourself you wrote it that day with the point of your too-ready sword. But
there. I will meet you if you desire it, monsieur."
"What else do you suppose that I desire? To talk?"
Andre-Louis turned to his friends and sighed. "So that I am to go
another jaunt to the Bois. Isaac, perhaps you will kindly have a word with
one of these friends of M. le Marquis', and arrange for nine o'clock
to-morrow, as usual."
"Not to-morrow," said the Marquis shortly to Le Chapeher. "I have an
engagement in the country, which I cannot postpone."
Le Chapelier looked at Andre-Louis.
"Then for M. le Marquis' convenience, we will say Sunday at the same
hour."
"I do not fight on Sunday. I am not a pagan to break the holy day."
"But surely the good God would not have the presumption to damn a
gentleman of M. le Marquis' quality on that account? Ah, well, Isaac, please
arrange for Monday, if it is not a feast-day or monsieur has not some other
pressing engagement. I leave it in your hands."
He bowed with the air of a man wearied by these details, and threading
his arm through Kersain's withdrew.
"Ah, Dieu de Dieu! But what a trick of it you have," said the Breton
deputy, entirely unsophisticated in these matters.
"To be sure I have. I have taken lessons at their hands." He laughed.
He was in excellent good-humour. And Kersam was enrolled in the ranks of
those who accounted Andre-Louis a man without heart or conscience.
But in his "Confessions" he tells us - and this is one of the glimpses
that reveal the true man under all that make-believe
- that on that night he went down on his knees to commune with his dead
friend Philippe, and to call his spirit to witness that he was about to take
the last step in the fulfilment of the oath sworn upon his body at Gavrillac
two years ago.
M. de La Tour d'Azyr's engagement in the country on that Sunday was
with M. de Kercadiou. To fulfil it he drove out early in the day to Meudon,
taking with him in his pocket a copy of the last issue of "Les Actes des
Apotres," a journal whose merry sallies at the expense of the innovators
greatly diverted the Seigneur de Gavrillac. The venomous scorn it poured
upon those worthless rapscallions afforded him a certain solatium against
the discomforts of expatriation by which he was afflicted as a result of
their detestable energies.
Twice in the last month, had M. de La Tour d'Azyr gone to visit the
Lord of Gavrillac at Meudon, and the sight of Aline, so sweet and fresh, so
bright and of so lively a mind, had caused those embers smouldering under
the ashes of the past, embers which until now he had believed utterly
extinct, to kindle into flame once more. He desired her as we desire Heaven.
I believe that it was the purest passion of his life; that had it come to
him earlier he might have been a vastly different man. The cruelest wound
that in all his selfish life he had taken was when she sent him word, quite
definitely after the affair at the Feydau, that she could not again in any
circumstances receive him. At one blow - through that disgraceful riot - he
had been robbed of a mistress he prized and of a wife who had become a
necessity to the very soul of him. The sordid love of La Binet might have
consoled him for the compulsory renunciation of his exalted love of Aline,
just as to his exalted love of Aline he had been ready to sacrifice his
attachment to La Binet. But that ill-timed riot had robbed him at once of
both. Faithful to his word to Sautron he had definitely broken with La
Binet, only to find that Aline had definitely broken with him. And by the
time that he had sufficiently recovered from his grief to think again of La
Binet, the comedienne had vanished beyond discovery.
For all this he blamed, and most bitterly blamed, Andre-Louis. That
low-born provincial lout pursued him like a Nemesis, was become indeed the
evil genius of his life. That was it - the evil genius of his life! And it
was odds that on Monday... He did not like to think of Monday. He was not
particularly afraid of death. He was as brave as his kind in that respect,
too brave in the ordinary way, and too confident of his skill, to have
considered even remotely such a possibility as that of dying in a duel. It
was only that it would seem like a proper consummation of all the evil that
he had suffered directly or indirectly through this Andre-Louis Moreau that
he should perish ignobly by his hand. Almost he could hear that insolent,
pleasant voice making the flippant announcement to the Assembly on Monday
morning.
He shook off the mood, angry with himself for entertaining it. It was
maudlin. After all Chabrillane and La Motte-Royau were quite exceptional
swordsmen, but neither of them really approached his own formidable calibre.
Reaction began to flow, as he drove out through country lanes flooded with
pleasant September sunshine. His spirits rose. A premonition of victory
stirred within him Far from fearing Monday's meeting, as he had so
unreasonably been doing; he began to look forward to it. It should afford
him the means of setting a definite term to this persecution of which he had
been the victim. He would crush this insolent and persistent flea that had
been stinging him at every opportunity. Borne upward on that wave of
optimism, he took presently a more hopeful view of his case with Aline.
At their first meeting a month ago he had used the utmost frankness
with her. He had told her the whole truth of his motives in going that night
to the Feydau; he had made her realize that she had acted unjustly towards
him. True he had gone no farther.
But that was very far to have gone as a beginning. And in their last
meeting, now a fortnight old, she had received him with frank friendliness.
True, she had been a little aloof. But that was to be expected until he
quite explicitly avowed that he had revived the hope of winning her. He had
been a fool not to have returned before to-day.
Thus in that mood of new-born confidence - a confidence risen from the
very ashes of despondency - came he on that Sunday morning to Meudon. He was
gay and jovial with M. de Kercadiou what time he waited in the salon for
mademoiselle to show herself. He pronounced with confidence on the country's
future. There were signs already
- he wore the rosiest spectacles that morning - of a change of opinion,
of a more moderate note. The Nation began to perceive whither this lawyer
rabble was leading it. He pulled out "The Acts of the Apostles" and read a
stinging paragraph. Then, when mademoiselle at last made her appearance, he
resigned the journal into the hands of M. de Kercadiou.
M. de Kercadiou, with his niece's future to consider, went to read the
paper in the garden, taking up there a position whence he could keep the
couple within sight - as his obligations seemed to demand of him - whilst
being discreetly out of earshot.
The Marquis made the most of an opportunity that might be brief. He
quite frankly declared himself, and begged, implored to be taken back into
Aline's good graces, to be admitted at least to the hope that one day before
very long she would bring herself to consider him in a nearer relationship.
"Mademoiselle," he told her, his voice vibrating with a feeling that
admitted of no doubt, "you cannot lack conviction of my utter sincerity. The
very constancy of my devotion should afford you this. It is just that I
should have been banished from you, since I showed myself so utterly
unworthy of the great honour to which I aspired. But this banishment has
nowise diminished my devotion. If you could conceive what I have suffered,
you would agree that I have fully expiated my abject fault."
She looked at him with a curious, gentle wistfulness on her lovely
face.
"Monsieur, it is not you whom I doubt. It is myself."
"You mean your feelings towards me?"
"Yes."
"But that I can understand. After what has happened... "
"It was always so, monsieur," she interrupted quietly. "You speak of me
as if lost to you by your own action. That is to say too much. Let me be
frank with you. Monsieur, I was never yours to lose. I am conscious of the
honour that you do me. I esteem you very deeply... "
"But, then," he cried, on a high note of confidence, "from such a
beginning... "
"Who shall assure me that it is a beginning? May it not be the whole?
Had I held you in affection, monsieur, I should have sent for you after the
affair of which you have spoken. I should at least not have condemned you
without hearing your explanation. As it was... " She shrugged, smiling
gently, sadly. "You see... "
But his optimism far from being crushed was stimulated. "But it is to
give me hope, mademoiselle. If already I possess so much, I may look with
confidence to win more. I shall prove myself worthy. I swear to do that. Who
that is permitted the privilege of being near you could do other than seek
to render himself worthy?"
And then before she could add a word, M. de Kercadiou came blustering
through the window, his spectacles on his forehead, his face inflamed,
waving in his hand "The Acts of the Apostles," and apparently reduced to
speechlessness.
Had the Marquis expressed himself aloud he would have been profane. As
it was he bit his lip in vexation at this most inopportune interruption.
Aline sprang up, alarmed by her uncle's agitation.
"What has happened?"
"Happened?" He found speech at last. "The scoundrel! The faithless dog!
I consented to overlook the past on the clear condition that he should avoid
revolutionary politics in future. That condition he accepted, and now" - he
smacked the news-sheet furiously - "he has played me false again. Not only
has he gone into politics, once more, but he is actually a member of the
Assembly, and what is worse he has been using his assassin's skill as a
fencing-master, turning himself into a bully-swordsman. My God Is there any
law at all left in France?"
One doubt M. de La Tour d'Azyr had entertained, though only faintly, to
mar the perfect serenity of his growing optimism. That doubt concerned this
man Moreau and his relations with M. de Kercadiou. He knew what once they
had been, and how changed they subsequently were by the ingratitude of
Moreau's own behavior in turning against the class to which his benefactor
belonged. What he did not know was that a reconciliation had been effected.
For in the past month - ever since circumstances had driven Andre-Louis to
depart from his undertaking to steer clear of politics - the young man had
not ventured to approach Meudon, and as it happened his name had pot been
mentioned in La Tour d'Azyr's hearing on the occasion of either of his own
previous visits. He learnt of that reconciliation now; but he learnt at the
same time that the breach was now renewed, and rendered wider and more
impassable than ever. Therefore he did not hesitate to avow his own
position.
"There is a law," he answered. "The law that this rash young man
himself evokes. The law of the sword." He spoke very gravely, almost sadly.
For he realized that after all the ground was tender. "You are not to
suppose that he is to continue indefinitely his career of evil and of
murder. Sooner or later he will meet a sword that will avenge the others.
You have observed that my cousin Chabrillane is among the number of this
assassin's victims; that he was killed on Tuesday last."
"If I have not expressed my condolence, Azyr, it is because my
indignation stifles at the moment every other feeling. The scoundrel! You
say that sooner or later he will meet a sword that will avenge the others. I
pray that it may be soon."
The Marquis answered him quietly, without anything but sorrow in his
voice. "I think your prayer is likely to be heard. This wretched young man
has an engagement for to-morrow, when his account may be definitely
settled."
He spoke with such calm conviction that his words had all the sound of
a sentence of death. They suddenly stemmed the flow of M. de Kercadiou's
anger. The colour receded from his inflamed face; dread looked out of his
pale eyes, to inform M. de La Tour d'Azyr, more clearly than any words, that
M. de Kercadiou's hot speech had been the expression of unreflecting anger,
that his prayer that retribution might soon overtake his godson had been
unconsciously insincere. Confronted now by the fact that this retribution
was about to be visited upon that scoundrel, the fundamental gentleness and
kindliness of his nature asserted itself; his anger was suddenly whelmed in
apprehension; his affection for the lad beat up to the surface, making
Andre-Louis' sin, however hideous, a thing of no account by comparison with