 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Gordon McKenzie. Scaramouche, a Romance of the French Revolution, by Raphael Sabatini. CHAPTER VI POLITICIANS One morning in August the Academy in the Rue de Hussard was invaded by Le Chappelle, accompanied by a man of remarkable appearance, whose herculean stature and disfigured countenance seemed vaguely familiar to André Louis. He was a man of little, if anything, over thirty, with small bright eyes buried in an enormous face. His cheekbones were prominent, his nose awry, as if it had been broken by a blow, and his mouth was rendered almost shapeless by the scars of another injury. A bull had horned him in the face when he was but a as if that were not enough to render his appearance terrible. His cheeks were deeply pockmarked. He was dressed untidily in a long scarlet coat that descended almost to his ankles. Soiled buckskin breeches and boots with reversed tops. His shirt, none too clean, was open at the throat, the collar hanging limply over an unnotted cravat, displaying fully the muscular neck that rose like a pillar from his massive shoulders. He swung a cane that was almost a club in his left hand, and there was a cockade in his biscuit-colored conical hat. He carried himself with an aggressive, masterful air, that great head of his thrown back as if he were eternally at defiance. Le Chapelleier, whose manner was very grave, named him to André Louis. This is M. Danton, president of the Cordelliers of whom you will have heard. Of course André Louis had heard of him, who had not by then. Looking at him now with interest, André Louis wondered how it came that all, or nearly all, the leading innovators, were pockmarked. Mirabeau, the journalist de Moulin, the philanthropist Marat, Robesphere, the little lawyer from Eris, this formidable fellow Danton, and several others he could call to mind all bore upon them the scars of smallpox. Almost to begin to wonder was there any connection between the two? Did an attack of smallpox produce certain moral results which found expression in this way? He dismissed the idle speculation, rather it was shattered by the startling thunder of Danton's voice. This, expletive deleted. Chapelleier has told me of you. He says that you are a patriotic, expletive deleted. More than by the tone was André Louis startled by the obscenities with which the Colossus did not hesitate to interlard his first speech to a total stranger. He laughed outright. There was nothing else to do. If he has told you that, he has told you more than the truth. I am a patriot. The rest, my modesty, compels me to disavow. You are a joker too, it seems, roared the other. But he laughed nevertheless, and the volume of it shook the windows. There's no offence in me. I am like that. What a pity, said André Louis. It disconcerted the king of the markets. What's this Chapelleier? Does he give himself heirs, your friend here? The Spruce Breton, a very petite maitre, in appearance by contrast with his companion, but nevertheless of a downright manner quite equal to Danton's in brutality, though dispensing with the emphasis of foulness shrugged as he answered him. It is merely that he doesn't like your manners, which is not at all surprising they are excruable. Ah, bah. You are all like that, you Bretons. Let's come to business. You'll have heard what took place in the assembly yesterday. You haven't? My God, where do you live? Have you heard that this scoundrel, who calls himself king of France, gave passage across French soil the other day to Austrian troops going to crush those who fight for liberty in Belgium? Have you heard that by any chance? Yes, said André Louis coldly, masking his irritation before the other's hectoring manner. I have heard that. Oh, and what do you think of it? Arms akimbo, the colossus towered above him. André Louis turned aside to Le Chappelleier. I don't think I understand. Have you brought this gentleman here to examine my conscience? Name of name. He's prickly as a porcupine. Danton protested. No, no. Le Chappelleier was conciliatory, seeking to provide an antidote to the irritant administered by his companion. We require your help, André. Danton here thinks that you are the very man for us. Listen now. That's it. You tell him. Danton agreed. You both talked the same mincing sort of French. He'll probably understand you. Le Chappelleier went on without heeding the interruption. This violation by the king of the obvious rights of a country engaged in framing a constitution that shall make it free has shattered every philanthropic illusion we still cherished. There are those who go so far as to proclaim the king the vowed enemy of France, but that, of course, is excessive. Who says so? blazed Danton, and swore horribly by way of conveying his total disagreement. Le Chappelleier waved him into silence and proceeded. Anyhow, the matter has been more than enough, added to all the rest, to set us by the ears again in the assembly. It is open war between the third estate and the privileged. Was it ever anything else? Perhaps not, but it has assumed a new character. You'll have heard of the duel between La Mête and the Duc de Castry. A trifling affair. In its results, but it might have been far other, Mirabeau is challenged and insulted now at every sitting, but he goes his way cold bloodedly wise. Others are not so circumspect. They meet insult with insult, blow with blow, and blood is being shed in private duels. The thing is reduced by these swordsmen of the nobility to a system. Andre Louis nodded. He was thinking of Philippe de Vilmarin. Yes, he said. It is an old trick of theirs. It is so simple and direct, like themselves. I wonder only that they didn't hit upon this system sooner. In the early days of the state's general, at Versailles, it might have had a better effect. Now it comes a little late. What they mean to make up for lost time's sacred name, cried Danton. Challenges are flying right and left between these bully swordsmen, these spadasinocides, and poor devils of the robe who have never learned to fence with anything but a quill. It's just murder. Yet if I were to go amongst Monsieur le noble and crunch an adult head or two with a stick of mine, snap a few aristocratic necks between these fingers, which the good God has given me for the purpose, the law would send me to atone upon the gallows. This in a land that is striving after liberty. Why, Dieu madame, I am not even allowed to keep my hat on in the theatre, but they, these, expletive, deleted. He is right, said Le Chappelle. The thing has become unendurable, insufferable. Two days ago Monsieur de Ambly threatened Mirobo with his cane before the whole assembly. Yesterday Monsieur de Fousigny leapt up and harangued his order by inviting murder. Why don't we fall on these scoundrels sword in hand? he asked. Those were his very words. Why don't we fall on these scoundrels sword in hand? It is so much simpler than law-making, said André-Louis. Le Grand, the deputy from Ancennie in the Loire, said something that we did not hear in answer. As he was leaving the ménage, one of these bullies grossly insulted him. Le Grand no more than used his elbow to push past when the fellow cried out that he had been struck and issued his challenge. They fought this morning early in the Champs Elysees, and Le Grand was killed, run through the stomach deliberately by a man who fought like a fencing master, and poor Le Grand did not even own a sword he had to borrow one to go to the Ascension. André-Louis, his mind ever on Ville-Maurin, whose case was here repeated even to the details, was swept by a gust of passion. He clenched his hands and his jaws set. Danton's little eyes observed him keenly. Well, and what do you think of that? No bless oblige, eh? The thing is we must oblige them to these, expletive deleted. We must pay them back in the same coin. Meet them with the same weapons, abolish them, tumble these assassinatures into the abyss of nothingness by the same means. But how? How? Name of God, haven't I said it? This is where we require your help, the Chapelle put in. There must be men of patriotic feeling among the more advanced of your pupils. Monsieur Danton's idea is that a little band of these, say a half dozen, with yourself at their head, might read these bullies a sharp lesson. André-Louis frowned, and how precisely had Monsieur Danton thought that this might be done. Monsieur Danton spoke for himself vehemently. Why, thus, we boast you in the ménage, at the hour when the assembly is rising. We point out the six leading phlebotomists, and let you loose to insult them before they have time to insult any of the representatives. Then, tomorrow morning, six phlebotomists, themselves phlebotomized, succundum artum. That will give the other something to think about, and will give them a great deal to think about by, expletive deleted. If necessary, the dose may be repeated to ensure a cure. If you kill the, expletive deleted, so much the better. He paused his sallow face flushed with the enthusiasm of his idea. André-Louis stared at him inscrutably. Well, what do you say to that? That it is most ingenious, and André-Louis turned aside to look out of the window. And is that all you think of it? I will not tell you what else I think of it, because you probably would not understand. For you, Monsieur Danton, there is at least this excuse that you did not know me. But you, Isaac, to bring this gentleman here with such a proposal. Le Chappelle was overwhelmed in confusion. I confess, I hesitated, he apologized. But Monsieur Danton would not take my word for it that the proposal might not be to your taste. I would not! Danton broke in, bellowing. He swung upon the chappellier, brandishing his great arms. You told me that Monsieur was a patriot. Patriotism knows no struples. You call this mincing, dancing master a patriot? Would you, Monsieur, out of patriotism consent to become an assassin? Of course I would! Haven't I told you so? Haven't I told you so? Haven't I told you that I would gladly go among them with my club and crack them like so many fleas? Why not, then? Why not? Because I should get myself hanged! Haven't I said so? But what of that? Being a patriot. Why not, like another, courteous, jump into the gulf, since you believe that your country would benefit by your death? Monsieur Danton showed signs of exasperation. Because my country will benefit more by my life. Permit me, Monsieur, to suffer from a similar vanity. You? But where would be the danger to you? You would do your work under the cloak of dueling, as they do. Have you reflected, Monsieur, that the law will hardly regard a fencing master who kills his opponent as an ordinary combatant, particularly if it can be shown that the fencing master himself provoked the attack? So, name of name! Monsieur Danton blew out his cheeks and delivered himself with withering scorn. It comes to this, then. You are afraid. You may think so if you choose. That I am afraid to do slyly and treacherously that which a thresonical patriot like yourself is afraid of doing frankly and openly. I have other reasons, but that one should suffice you. Danton gasped. Then he swore more amazingly and variedly than ever. By, expletive deleted, you are right, he admitted to Andre Louis' amazement. You are right, and I am wrong. I am as bad a patriot as you are, and I am a coward as well. And he invoked the whole pantheon to witness his self-denunciation. Only you see I count for something, and if they take me and hang me, why, there it is. Monsieur, we must find some other way. Forgive the intrusion. Adieu! He held out his enormous hand. Le Chappelleet stood hesitating, crest fallen. You understand, Andre. I am sorry that... Say no more, please. Come and see me soon again. I would press you to remain, but it is striking nine, and the first of my pupils is about to arrive. Nor would I permit it, said Danton. Between us, we must resolve the riddle of how to extinguish Monsieur de la Tour de Zire and his friends. Who? Sharp as a pistol shot came that question, as Danton was turning away. The tone of it brought him up short. He turned again, Le Chappelleet with him. I said, Monsieur de la Tour de Zire. What has he to do with the proposal you were making me? He? Why, he is the phlebotomist-in-chief. And Le Chappelleet added, it is he who killed Le Grand. Not a friend of yours, is he? Wondered Danton. And it is... La Tour de Zire you desire me to kill. Asked André-Louis very slowly, after the manner of one whose thoughts are meanwhile pondering the subject. That's it, said Danton. And not a job for apprentice-hand, I can assure you. Ah, but this alters things, said André-Louis, thinking aloud. It offers a great temptation. Why, then? The Colossus took a step towards him again. Wait, he put up his hand. Then with chin sunk on his breast, he paced away to the window, musing. Le Chappelleet and Danton exchanged glances, then watched him, waiting. What time he considered. At first he almost wondered why he should not of his own accord have decided upon some such course as this to settle that long-standing account of Monsieur de La Tour de Zire. What was the use of this great skill in fence that he had come to acquire, unless he could turn it to account to avenge Ville-Maurin, and to make Aline safe from the lure of her own ambition? It would be an easy thing to seek out La Tour de Zire, put a mortal affront upon him, and thus bring him to the point. Today this would be murder. Murder as treacherous as that which La Tour de Zire had done upon Philippe de Ville-Maurin. For today the old positions were reversed, and it was André-Louis who might go to such an assination without a doubt of the issue. It was a moral obstacle of which he made short work. But there remained the legal obstacle he had expounded to Danton. There was still a law in France, the same law which he had found it impossible to move against La Tour de Zire, but which would move briskly enough against himself in like case. And then suddenly, as if by inspiration he saw the way, a way which if adopted would probably bring La Tour de Zire to a poetic justice, bring him, insolent, confident, to thrust himself upon André-Louis's sword with all the odium of provocation on his own side. He turned to them again, and they saw that he was very pale, that his great dark eyes glowed oddly. There will probably be some difficulty in finding a supplient for this poor lagrant, he said. Our fellow countrymen will be none so eager to offer themselves to the swords of privilege. True enough, said Le Chapellier gloomily, and then as if suddenly leaping to the thing in André-Louis's mind, André, he cried, Would you? It is what I was considering. It would give me a legitimate place in the assembly. If your Tour de Zire's choose to seek me out to then, why, their blood will be upon their own heads, I shall certainly do nothing to discourage them. He smiled curiously. I am just a rascal who tries to be honest. Scaremouche always, in fact, a creature of sophistries. Do you think that Anceny would have me for its representative? Will it have Omnés Omnibus for its representative? Le Chapellier was laughing, his countenance eager. Anceny will be convulsed with pride. It is not ren or nant, as it might have been had you wished it, but it gives you a voice for Brittany. I should have to go to Anceny. No need at all. A letter from me to the municipality, and the municipality will confirm you at once. No need to move from here. In a fortnight at most the thing can be accomplished. It is settled then. André-Louis considered yet a moment. There was his academy. But he could make arrangements with Le Duc and Galosh to carry it on for him whilst himself directing and advising. Le Duc, after all, was become a thoroughly efficient master, and he was a trustworthy fellow. At need a third assistant could be engaged. Be it so, he said at last. Le Chapellier clasped hands with him, and became congratulatorily voluble, until interrupted by the red-coated giant at the door. What exactly does it mean to our business anyway? He asked. Does it mean that, when you are a representative, you will not scruple to skewer Monsieur Lamarquis? If Monsieur Lamarquis should offer himself to be skewered, as he no doubt will. I perceived the distinction, said Monsieur Danton, and sneered. You have an ingenious mind. He turned to Le Chapellier. What did you say he was to begin with? A lawyer, wasn't it? Yes, I was a lawyer, and afterwards a Montabanc. And this is the result. As you say. And do you know that we are, after all, not so dissimilar, you and I? What? Once, like you, I went about inciting other people to go and kill the man I wanted dead. You'll say I was a coward, of course. Le Chapellier prepared to slip between them as the clouds gathered on the giant's brow. Then these were dispelled again, and the great laugh vibrated through the long room. You've touched me for the second time, and in the same place, oh, you can fence my lad. We should be friends. Rue de Cordellière is my address. Any... Expletive deleted. Scoundrel will tell you where Danton lodges. Des Moulins lives underneath. Come and visit us one evening. There's always a bottle for a friend. This reading is by Gordon Mackenzie. Skeromouche, a romance of the French Revolution, by Raphael Sabatini. Book 3, Chapter 7, The Spadasinocides After an absence of rather more than a week, M. Le Marquis de la Tour de Zire was back in his place on the côte d'oie of the National Assembly. Properly speaking, we should already, at this date, allude to him as the C'est devant, Marquis de la Tour de Zire. For the time was September of 1790, two months after the passing, on the motion of that downright Breton leveler, Le Chapellier, of the decree that nobility should no more be hereditary than infamy, that just as the brand of the gallows must not defile the possibly worthy descendants of one who had been convicted of evil, neither should the blazing, advertising achievement glorify the possibly unworthy descendants of one who had proved himself good. And so the decree had been passed, abolishing hereditary nobility and consigning family escutcheons to the rubbish heap of things no longer to be tolerated by an enlightened generation of philosophers. M. Le Camp de Lafayette, who had supported the motion, left the assembly as plain M. Motier. The great Tribune, Count Mirabeau, became plain M. Raghetti, and M. Le Marquis de la Tour de Zire, just simple M. Lesarc. The thing was done in one of those exaltations produced by the approach of the great national festival of the Champ de Mar, and no doubt it was thoroughly repented on the Morro, by those who had lent themselves to it. Thus, although law by now, it was a law that no one troubled just yet to enforce. That, however, is by the way. The time as I have said was September, the day dull and showery, and some of the damp and gloom of it seemed to have penetrated the long hall of the ménage, where, on their eight rows of green benches, elliptically arranged in ascending tiers about the space known as la piste, sat some eight or nine hundred of the representatives of the three orders that composed the nation. The matter under debate by the constitution builders was whether the deliberating body to succeed the constituent assembly should work in conjunction with the king, whether it should be periodic or permanent, whether it should govern by two chambers or by one. The Abe More, son of a cobbler, and therefore in these days of antithesis, orate her in chief of the party of the right. The blacks, as those who fought privileges losing battles were known, was in the tribune. He appeared to be urging the adoption of a two-chamber system framed on the English model. He was, if anything, more long-winded and prosy even than his habit. His arguments assumed more and more the form of a sermon. The tribune of the national assembly became more and more like a pulpit. But the members conversely, less and less, like a congregation. They grew restive under that steady flow of pompous verbiage. And it was in vain that the four ushers in black satin breeches and carefully powdered heads, chain of office on their breasts, gilded swords at their sides, circulated in the piste, clapping their hands and hissing, silence en place. Equally vain was the intermittent ringing of the bell by the president at his green-covered table facing the tribune. The Abe More had talked too 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. Monsieur André Louis Moreau, deputy suppliant, vice-Emmanuel Lagrant, desiste, for ensignie in the department of the Loire. Monsieur de la Tour des Irres 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 André 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 Gavriac two years ago, that he should thus have stepped into the shoes of Lagrant, seemed to Monsieur de la Tour des Irres 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 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, André Louis began, as a deputy suppliant 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. André Louis paused and looked at them, smiling a little, a singularly self-confident young man. The gentlemen of the right, Monsieur les présidents, 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 an 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'Azur, who had half risen from his seat. Montabanc, this is not the theater. No, Monsieur, it is becoming a hunting ground for bully swordsmen, was the answer, and the uproar grew. The deputy suppliant looked around and waited. Near at hand he met the encouraging grin of Le Chapellier, and the quiet, approving smile of Cersaigne, 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 the moving sea of faces the sallow countenance of the heiress's 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 André Louis attentively. The horn-drimmed spectacles he used for reading were thrust up on his pale forehead, and it was through a leveled 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. Monsieur's, if we are to proceed, I beg that you will restrain your feelings until the deputy supplient has concluded his discourse. I shall endeavor to obey Monsieur le Président, leaving provocation to the gentleman 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 Le Grand 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 Desire 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 Villemaurin, 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 canal, that very rapier of the privileged party, cut short into the speaker's momentary pause. Monsieur le Président, he asked with great solemnity, has the deputy suppliant 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 Le Grand. This time it was the blacks who gave way to mirth until checked by the deputy suppliant. 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 Le Grand 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 illusion 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 Le Grand, 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. Rodamont! a voice called to him. He looked in the direction of that voice, proceeding from the group of Spada-sins amid the blacks across the piste, and he smiled. Inaudibly his lips answered, No, my friend, Scaramouche! Scaramouche! the subtle, dangerous fellow who goes torturously to his ends. Allowed, he resumed, Monsieur le Président, 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. But 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 the tour desir. He turned in the fresh uproar to speak to his cousin Chabriain, who sat beside him. A daring rogue, this bastard of Gavriac's, said he. Chabriain 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 today. Leave this to me. Hardly could Latour have told you why, but he sank back in his seat with a sense of relief. He had been telling himself that here was a 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 abbey done to death in the garden behind the Breton Arm at Gavriac. Not that the death of Philippe de Villemaurin lay heavily upon Monsieur de la Tour desirs 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 marquee, murderer, and cowered to incite him. Meanwhile, leaving now the subject of the death of Le Grand, the deputy suppliant 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 Chappelleier at his side, he found himself densely surrounded by deputies as by a bodyguard. 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, Monsieur Moro, 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 quicksaltry, 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. André-Louis smiled inside. 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, André-Louis's bodyguard had prevented any of them from reaching him. Emerging now into the open, under the great awning at the head of the carrière, 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 André-Louis, with le chapelier ever at his side, stood hesitating to step out into the deluge. The watchful Shabriain had seen his chance, and by a detour that took him momentarily out into the rain he came face to face with the two daring young Breton. Rudely, violently he thrust André-Louis back, as if to make room for himself under the shelter. Not for a second was André-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 Shabriain he had been expecting. His disappointment was reflected on his countenance, to be mistaken for something very different by the arrogant Chevalier. But if Shabriain 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 Monsieur de Shabriain 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 anyone 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! Shabriain 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 André Louis rudely back. Ah! cried André 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 Monsieur de Shabriain back into the rain. Now, for all his slenderness, his assiduous daily sword practice had given André 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 bulk 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 André Louis. André 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 André Louis. André 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 breaches. How soon shall we settle this? snapped Chabriain, livid with 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? André Louis was suavity itself. Tomorrow morning, in the bois, perhaps you will bring a friend. Certainly, monsieur, tomorrow morning then. I hope we shall have fine weather. I detest the rain. Chabriain looked at him almost with amazement. André 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, tomorrow 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 monsieur de Chabriain'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, André Louis, the actor, scaramouche always, produced his snuff-box and proffered it with a steady hand to Le Chappelleier before helping himself. Chabriain, 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. La Grande 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 André Louis not to go to the bois, to ignore the challenge in 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 Monsieur de Chabriain's. Gloom and resentment sat upon the members of the Third, and brought a more than usually acrid tone 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 Chappelleier'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, André Louis paused before taking his seat. He felt it incumbent upon him to reveal the true fact. Monsieur le Président, 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 forego. I have been detained by an engagement of oppressing nature. I bring you also the excuses of Monsieur de Chabriain. He, unfortunately, will be permanently absent from this assembly in future. The silence was complete. André Louis sat down. END OF BOOK III CHAPTER VIII THE PALADIN OF THE THIRD Monsieur le Chevalier de Chabriain 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 des Irs second in the encounter, but actually an instigator of the business. André Louis may therefore have felt a justifiable satisfaction in offering up the Chevalier's life to the mains 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 Chabriain had gone confidently to the meeting, conceiving that he, a practised ferriere, 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 André Louis was a poetic retribution. Yet notwithstanding all this, I should find the cynical note on which André 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 André Louis was quite heartless. You have seen something of the same heartlessness in his conduct when he discovered the faithlessness of Labinet, 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 Benet is also an affectation. Knowing that such things as Benet 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 was a dozen spadasins 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 anxious to oblige. But Monsieur de la Tour des Irres was absent from those eager ranks. This seemed to him odd. La Tour des Irres was Chabriain's cousin and closest friend. Surely he should have been among the first today. The fact was that La Tour des Irres 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 Chabriain in the affair at Gavriac, and saw in this obscure André 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 André 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 Royaux, one of the deadliest blades in the group. On the Wednesday morning, coming again an hour or so late to the assembly, André Louis announced, in much the same terms as he had announced the death of Chabriain, that Monsieur de la Motte Royaux 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 Monsieur de Trois-Quentin, and then turning to the members of the Côte-Droit, and lengthening his face to a sympathetic gravity, that Monsieur de Trois-Quentin 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 spadasinicides 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 Côte-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. Des Moulins wrote a panagyric upon him in his paper Les révolutions, 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. Distainfully was he mentioned in the Act d'Apotra, the mocking organ of the privileged party, so lightheartedly and provocatively edited by a group of gentlemen afflicted by a singular mental mayapi. 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 manage empty of swordsmen when he made his leisurely and expectant egress between Le Chapellier and Cursain. So surprised was he that he checked in his stride. Have they had enough? He wondered, addressing the question to Le Chapellier. They have had enough of you, I think, was the answer. They will prefer to turn their attention to someone 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 Chabriain 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 Monsieur de la Tour de Zire amongst them. He tightened his lips. He must afford no provocation. It must be for them to fasten their quarrels upon him. Already the act des apôtres, that morning, had torn the mask from his face and proclaimed him the fencing master of the Rue de Hussard, 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 Le Grand should make no move against Le Grand's successor, or perhaps it is not remarkable? Perhaps there are good reasons. Perhaps the gentleman is prudent. He had 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 Monsieur de la Tour des Yers, 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 André-Louise, 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. André-Louise Manor 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 wished to overhear frequently contrived to do so. I perceive that it is your aim to be offensive. Oh, but you are mistaken, Monsieur de la 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 André-Louise 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 La Grande. 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, Monsieur de la Marquis? The fencing master, when you oppose yourself to men whose skill is as naturally inferior to your own. Monsieur de la Tour de Zire'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 canai 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 André-Louis in a tone of amused protest. Ah, pardon, Monsieur de la 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, Monsieur de la Marquis, I have found the 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? Latour de Zyr's face had flamed Scarlet before that sneer. Oh! André-Louis raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips a man considering he delivered himself slowly. Because, Monsieur, you prefer the easy victim, the Legrons and Vilmorans of this world, mere sheep for your butchering. That is why. And then the Marquis struck him. André-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 Vilmoran 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 two ready sword. But there, I will meet you if you desire it, monsieur. What else do you suppose that I desire? To talk. André-Louis turned to his friends inside. So that I am to go another joint to the bois. Isaac perhaps you will kindly have a word with one of these friends of Monsieur Le Marquis and arrange for nine o'clock tomorrow, as usual. Not tomorrow, said the Marquis, shortly to Le Chappelleier. I have an engagement in the country, which I cannot postpone. Le Chappelleier looked at André-Louis. Then, for Monsieur Le Marquis's 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 Monsieur Le Marquis's quality on that account. Ah, well, Isaac, please arrange for Monday. If it is not a feast day, your 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 cursanes withdrew. Ah, Jude, Jude, 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 cursane was enrolled in the ranks of those who accounted André-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 Gavriac two years ago. Revolution by Raphael Sabatini Monsieur de la Tour d'Azur's engagement in the country that Sunday was with Monsieur de Quercadillot. To fulfil it he drove out early in the day to Maudon, taking with him in his pocket a copy of the last issue of Les Actes des Apôtres, a journal whose merry sallies at the expense of the innovators greatly diverted the Signeur de Gavriac. The venomous scorn it poured upon those worthless rap scallions afforded him a certain salatium against the discomforts of expatriation by which he was afflicted as a result of their detestable energies. Twice in the last month had Monsieur de la Tour d'Azur gone to visit the Lord of Gavriac at Maudon, and the sight of Aline, so sweet and fresh, so bright and of so lively a mind, had caused those embers smoldering 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 Fedot, 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 Labine 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 Labine, but that ill-timed riot had robbed him at once of both. Faithful to his word, to Sautron, he had definitely broken with Labine, 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 Labine, 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 ennobly 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 modlin'. After all, Chabriain and Le Matreau were quite exceptional swordsmen, but neither of them really approached his own formidable caliber. 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. Born 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 fado. 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 today. Thus in that mood of newborn confidence, a confidence risen from the very ashes of despondency came he on that Sunday morning to Mudon. He was gay and jovial with Monsieur de Quercadio 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 whether 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 Monsieur de Quercadio. Monsieur de Quercadio, 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 no wise 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 who my 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, Monsieur de Kerker Joachim blustering through the window his spectacles on his forehead, his face in flame waving in his hand the acts of the apostles, and apparently reduced a 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 the 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. Oh, my God! Is there any law at all left in France? One doubt Monsieur de la Tour de Zire had entertained, though only faintly, to mar the perfect serenity of his growing optimism, that doubt concerned this man Moro and his relations with Monsieur de Quercadio. He knew what once they had been, and how changed they subsequently were by the ingratitude of Moro's own behaviour in turning against the class to which his benefactor belonged. What he did not know was that a reconciliation had been affected. For in the past month, ever since circumstances had driven André Louis to depart from his undertaking to steer clear of politics, the young man had not ventured to approach Maudan. And, as it happened, his name had not been mentioned in La Tour de Zire's hearing on the occasion of either of his own previous visits. He learned of that reconciliation now, but he learned 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, Chabriain, is among the number of this assassin's victims that he was killed on Tuesday last. If I have not expressed my condolences here, 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 marquee 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 tomorrow. 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 Monsieur de Quercadillo's anger. The color receded from his inflamed face. Dread looked out of his pale eyes. To inform Monsieur de la Tour de Zire more clearly than any words, that Monsieur de Quercadillo'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 himself. His anger was suddenly whelmed in apprehension. His affection for the lad beat up to the surface, making André-Louis's sin, however hideous, a thing of no account by comparison with the threatened punishment. Monsieur de Quercadillo moistened his lips. With whom is this engagement? He asked in a voice that by an effort he can try to render steady. Monsieur de la Tour de Zire bowed his handsome head, his eyes upon the gleaming parquet-tree of the floor, with myself. He answered quietly, conscious already with a tightening of the heart, that his answer must so dismay. He caught the sound of a faint outcry from Aline. He saw the sudden recoil of Monsieur de Quercadillo. And then he plunged headlong into the explanation that he deemed necessary. In view of his relations with you, Monsieur de Quercadillo, and because of my deep regard for you, I did my best to avoid this, even though, as you will understand, the death of my dear friend and cousin Chabriéne seemed to summon me to action, even though I knew that my circumspection was becoming matter for criticism among my friends. But yesterday this unbridled young man made further restraint impossible to me. He provoked me deliberately and publicly. He put upon me the very grossest affront. And, tomorrow morning in the bois, we meet. He faltered a little at the end, fully conscious of the hostile atmosphere in which he suddenly found himself. Hostility from Monsieur de Quercadillo, the latter's earlier change of manner had already led him to expect. The hostility of Mademoiselle came more in the nature of a surprise. He began to understand what difficulties the course to which he was committed must raise up for him. A fresh obstacle was to be flung across the path which he had just cleared, as he imagined. Yet his pride and his sense of the justice due to be done admitted of no weakening. In bitterness he realized now as he looked from uncle to niece, his glance usually so direct and bold, now oddly furtive, that though tomorrow he might kill André-Louis, yet even by his death André-Louis would take vengeance upon him. He had exaggerated nothing in reaching the conclusion that this André-Louis moro was the evil genius of his life. He saw now that do what he would, kill him even though he might, he could never conquer him. The last word would always be with André-Louis moro. In bitterness, in rage, and in humiliation, a thing almost unknown to him, did he realize it, and the realization steeled his purpose for all that he perceived its futility. Outwardly, he showed himself calm and self-contained, properly suggesting a man regretfully accepting the inevitable. It would have been as impossible to find fault with his bearing as to attempt to turn him from the matter to which he was committed. And so Monsieur de Kercadieu perceived. My God, was all that he said, scarcely above his breath, yet almost in a groan. Monsieur de la Tour d'Azur did, as always, the thing that sensibility demanded of him. He took his leave. He understood that to linger where his news had produced such an effect would be impossible, indecent. So he departed. In a bitterness comparable only with his erstwhile optimism, the sweet fruit of hope turned to a thing of gall even as it touched his lips. Oh, yes. The last word, indeed, was with André Louis Moreau. Always. Uncle and niece looked at each other as he passed out, and there was horror in the eyes of both. Aline's pallor was deathly almost, and standing there now she wrung her hands as if in pain. Why did you not ask him? Beg him. She broke off. To what end? He was in the right. And there are things one cannot ask. Things it would be a useless humiliation to ask. He sat down groaning. Oh, the poor boy. The poor misguided boy. In the mind of neither, you see, was there any doubt of what must be the issue. The calm confidence in which La Tour d'Azur had spoken compelled itself to be shared. He was no vain glorious boaster. And they knew of what a force as a swordsman he was generally accounted. What does humiliation matter? A life is at issue, André's life. I know. My God, don't I know. And I would humiliate myself if by humiliating myself I could hope to prevail. But Azir is a hard, relentless man, and abruptly she left him. She overtook the Marquis as he was in the act of stepping his carriage. He turned as she called and bowed. Mademoiselle, at once he guessed her errand, tasted in anticipation the unparalleled bitterness of being compelled to refuse her. Yet at her invitation he stepped back into the cool of the hall. In the middle of the floor of Checkered Marble's black and white stood a carved table of black oak. By this he halted, leaning lightly against it whilst she sat enthroned, in the great crimson chair beside it. Monsieur, I cannot allow you so to depart, she said. You cannot realize, Monsieur, what a blow would be dealt my uncle if, if evil, irrevocable evil were to overtake his godson tomorrow, the expressions that he used at first. Mademoiselle, I perceived their true value. Spare yourself. Believe me, I am profoundly desolated by circumstances which I had not expected to find. You must believe me when I say that. It is all that I can say. Must it really be all? André is very dear to his godfather. The pleading tone cut him like a knife. And then suddenly it aroused another emotion, an emotion which he realized to be utterly unworthy, an emotion which in his overwhelming pride of race seemed almost sullying, yet not to be repressed. He hesitated to give it utterance, hesitated even remotely to suggest so horrible a thing as that in a man of such lowly origin he might conceivably discover a rival. Yet that sudden pang of jealousy was stronger than his monstrous pride. And to you, Mademoiselle, what is this, André-Louis-Maurot, to you? You will pardon the question, but I desire clearly to understand. Watching her, he beheld the scarlet stain that overspread her face. He read in it at first confusion, until the gleam of her blue eyes announced its source to lie in anger. That comforted him, since he had affronted her he was reassured. It did not occur to him that the anger might have another source. André and I have been playmates from infancy. He is very dear to me too. Almost I regard him as a brother. Were I in need of help and were my uncle not available, André would be the first man to whom I should turn. Are you sufficiently answered, monsieur, or is there more of me that you would desire revealed? He bit his lip. He was unnerved, he thought this morning. Otherwise the silly suspicion with which he had offended could never have occurred to him. He bowed very low. Mademoiselle, forgive that I should have troubled you with such a question. You have answered more fully than I could have hoped or wished. He said no more than that. He waited for her to resume. At a loss she sat in silence a while, a pucker on her white brow, her fingers nervously drumming on the table. At last she flung herself headlong against the impassive, polished front that he presented. I have come, monsieur, to beg you to put off this meeting. She saw the faint raising of his dark eyebrows, the faintly regretful smile that scarcely did more than tinge his fine lips. And she hurried on. What honour can await you in such an engagement, monsieur? It was a shrewd thrust at the pride of race that she accounted his paramount sentiment that had as often lured him into error as it had urged him into good. I do not seek honour in it, mademoiselle, but I must say it, justice. The engagement as I have explained is not of my seeking. It has been thrust upon me. And in honour I cannot draw back. Why? What dishonour would there be in sparing him? Surely, monsieur, none would call your courage in question. None could misapprehend your motives. You are mistaken, mademoiselle. My motives would most certainly be misapprehended. You forget that this young man has acquired in the past week a certain reputation that might well make a man hesitate to meet him. She brushed that aside almost contemptuously, conceiving it the merest quibble. Some men, yes, but not you, monsieur Lamarquis. Her confidence in him on every count was most sweetly flattering, but there was a bitterness behind the sweet. Even I, mademoiselle, let me assure you, and there is more than that. This quarrel which monsieur Marot has forced upon me is no new thing. It is merely the culmination of a long-drawn persecution. Which you invited, she cut in. Be just, monsieur. I hope that it is not in my nature to be otherwise, mademoiselle. Consider, then, that you killed his friend. I find in that nothing with which to reproach myself. My justification lay in the circumstances. The subsequent events in this distracted country surely confirm it. And she faltered a little and looked away from him for the first time. And that you—that you—and what of mademoiselle Binet, whom he was to have married? He stared at her for a moment in sheer surprise. Was to have married? He repeated incredulously, dismayed almost. You did not know that? But how do you? Did I not tell you that we are, as brother and sister almost, I have his confidence? He told me before—before you made it impossible. He looked away, chin in hand, his glance thoughtful, disturbed, almost wistful. There is, he said slowly, musingly, a singular fatality at work between that man and me, bringing us ever each by turns a thwart the other's path. He sighed, then swung to face her again, speaking more briskly. Mademoiselle, until this moment I had no knowledge, no suspicion of this thing. But he broke off, considered, and then shrugged. If I wronged him, I did so unconsciously. It would be unjust to blame me, surely. In all our actions it must be the intention alone that counts. But does it make no difference? None that I can discern, mademoiselle. It gives me no justification to withdraw from that to which I am, irrevocably committed. No justification indeed, who'd ever be greater than my concern for the pain it must occasion my good friend, your uncle, and perhaps yourself, mademoiselle. She rose suddenly, squarely confronting him desperate now, driven to play the only card upon which she thought she might count. Monsieur, she said, you did me the honour today to speak in certain terms to allude to certain hopes with which you honour me. He looked at her almost in fear, in silence not daring to speak he waited for her to continue. I, I, will you please to understand, Monsieur, that if you persist in this matter, if, unless you can break this engagement of yours tomorrow morning in the Bois, you are not to presume to mention this subject to me again, or indeed ever again to approach me. To put the matter in this negative way was as far as she could possibly go, it was for him to make the positive proposal to which she had thus thrown wide the door. Mademoiselle, you cannot mean. I do, Monsieur. You are evocably pleased to understand. He looked at her with eyes of misery, his handsome manly face as pale as she had ever seen it. The hand he had been holding out in protest began to shake. He lowered it to his side again lest she should perceive its tremor. Thus a brief second, while the battle was fought within him, the bitter engagement between his desires and what he conceived to be the demands of his honour, never perceived how far his honour was buttressed by implacable vindictiveness. Retreat, he conceived, was impossible without shame, and shame was to him an agony unthinkable. She asked too much. She could not understand what she was asking, else she would never be so unreasonable, so unjust. But also he saw that it would be futile to attempt to make her understand. It was the end. Though he kill André-Louis Moreau in the morning as he fiercely hoped he would, yet the victory, even in death, must lie with André-Louis Moreau. He bowed profoundly, grave and sorrowful of face as he was grave and sorrowful of heart. Mademoiselle, my homage, he murmured and turned to go. But you have not answered me, she called after him, in terror. He checked on the threshold and turned, and there from the cool gloom of the hall she saw him, a black graceful silhouette against the brilliant sunshine beyond. A memory of him it was to cling as something sinister and menacing in the dread hours that were to follow. What would you, Mademoiselle? I but spared myself and you the pain of refusal. He was gone, leaving her crushed and raging. She sank down again into the great red chair and sat there, crumpled. Her elbows on the table, her face in her hands, a face that was on fire with shame and passion. She had offered herself. And she had been refused. The inconceivable had befallen her. The humiliation of it seemed to her something that could never be afaced, startled, appalled. She stepped back, her hand pressed to her tortured breast. End of book 3 chapter 9