 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading is by Gordon McKenzie. SCARAMUSCH, A ROMANCE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION, by Raphael Sabatini. BOOK III CHAPTER XIII. SANKTUARY Into the late afternoon of that endless day of horror, with its perpetual alarms, its volleying musketry, rolling drums, and distant muttering of angry multitudes, Madame de Plage Estelle and Aline sat waiting in that handsome house in the Rue de Pérédie. It was no longer for Rue Gain they waited. They realized that, be the reason what it might, and by now many reasons must no doubt exist. This friendly messenger would not return. They waited without knowing for what. They waited for whatever might be tied. At one time, early in the afternoon, the roar of battle approached them, racing swiftly in their direction, swelling each moment in volume and in horror. It was the frenzied clamor of a multitude drunk with blood and bent on destruction. Near at hand that fierce wave of humanity checked in its turbulent progress. Followed blows of pikes upon a door and imperious calls to open. And thereafter came the rending of timbers, the shivering of glass, screams of terror blending with screams of rage, and running through these shrill sounds, the deeper diapasian of bestial laughter. It was a hunt of two wretched Swiss guardsmen seeking blindly to escape. And they were run to earth in a house in the neighborhood, and there cruelly done to death by that demoniac mob. The thing accomplished, the hunters, male and female, forming into a battalion, came swinging down the Rue du Pérédie, chanting the song of Marseille, a song new to Paris in those days. Nearer it came, rockously bawled by some hundreds of voices, a dread sound that had come so suddenly to displace, at least temporarily, the merry trivial air of the Saïra which hitherto had been the revolutionary carillon. Instinctively Madame de Plojistel and Aline clung to each other. They had heard the sound of the ravishing of that other house in the neighborhood, without knowledge of the reason. What if now it should be the turn of the Hotel Plojistel? There was no real cause to fear it, save that amid a turmoil imperfectly understood, and therefore the more awe-inspiring, the worst must be feared always. The dreadful song so dreadfully sung, and the thunder of heavily shod feet upon the roughly paved street, passed on and receded. They breathed again, almost as if a miracle had saved them, to yield to fresh alarm an instant later. When Madame's young footman, Jacques, the most trusted of her servants, burst into their presence unceremoniously with a scared face, bringing the announcement that a man who had just climbed over the garden wall professed himself a friend of Madame's, and desired to be brought immediately to her presence. But he looks like a song's coulotte, Madame. The staunch fellow warned her. Her thoughts and hopes leapt at once to Rougain. Bring him in, she commanded breathlessly. Jacques went out, to return presently accompanied by a tall man in a long, shabby, and very ample overcoat, and a wide brimmed hat that was turned down all around, and adorned by an enormous tricolor coquette. This hat he removed as he entered. Jacques, standing behind him, perceived that his hair, although now in some disorder bore signs of having been carefully dressed, it was clubbed, and it carried some lingering vestiges of powder. The young footman wondered what it was in the man's face, which was turned from him, that should cause his mistress to out and recoil. Then he found himself dismissed abruptly by a gesture. The newcomer advanced to the middle of the salon, moving like a man exhausted and breathing hard. There he leaned against a table across which he confronted Madame de Plagistel, and she stood regarding him, a strange horror in her eyes. In the background on a settler at the salon's far end sat Aline, staring in bewilderment and some fear at a face which, if unrecognizable through the mask of blood and dust that smeared it, was yet familiar. And then the man spoke, and instantly she knew the voice for that of the Marquis de la Tour de Zire. My dear friend, he was saying, forgive me if I startled you, forgive me if I thrust myself in here without leave at such a time in such a manner, but you see how it is with me. I am a fugitive. In the course of my distracted flight not knowing which way to turn for safety, I thought of you. I told myself that if I could but safely reach your house, I might find sanctuary. You are in danger? In danger. Almost he seemed silently to laugh at the unnecessary question. If I were to show myself openly in the streets just now, I might with luck contrive to live for five minutes. My friend, it has been a massacre. Some few of us escaped from the Chullerys at the end to be hunted to death in the streets. I doubt if by this time a single Swiss survives, they had the worst of it. Poor devils. And as for us, my God, they hate us more than they hate the Swiss. Hence this filthy disguise. He peeled off the shaggy great coat, and casting it from him stepped forth in the black satin that had been the general livery of the hundred knights of the dagger who had rallied in the Chullerys that morning to the defence of their king. His coat was rent across the back, his neckcloth and the ruffles at his wrists were torn and bloodstained. With his smeared face and disordered headdress, he was terrible to behold. Yet he contrived to carry himself with his habitual easy assurance. Remembered to kiss the trembling hand which Madame de Plagestelle extended to him in welcome, you did well to come to me, Jervais, she said. Yes, here is sanctuary for the present. You will be quite safe, at least for as long as we are safe. My servants are entirely trustworthy. Sit down and tell me all. He obeyed her, collapsing almost into the armchair which she thrust forward. A man exhausted, whether by physical exertion or by nerve strain, or both. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped some of the blood and dirt from his face. It is soon told. His tone was bitter with the bitterness of despair. This, my dear, is the end of us. Plagestelle is lucky in being across the frontier at such a time. Had I not been fool enough to trust those who today have proved themselves utterly unworthy of trust, that is where I should be myself. My remaining in Paris is the crowning folly of a life full of follies and mistakes. That I should come to you in my hour of most urgent need adds point to it. He laughed in his bitterness. Madame moistened her dry lips. And, and now, she asked him, it only remains to get away as soon as may be, if it is still possible. Here in France there is no longer any room for us, at least not above ground. Today has proved it. And then he looked up at her, standing there beside him so pale and timid. And he smiled. He patted the fine hand that rested upon the arm of his chair. My dear Therese, unless you carry charitableness to the length of giving me to drink, you will see me perish of thirst under your eyes before ever the canine as a chance to finish me. She started. I should have thought of it. She cried and self-approach, and she turned quickly. Aline, she begged, tell Jacques to bring— Aline! he echoed, interrupting and swinging round in his turn. Then, as Aline rose into view, detaching from her background, and he at last perceived her, he heaved himself abruptly to his weary legs again, and stood there stiffly bowing to her across the space of gleaming floor. Mademoiselle, I had not suspected your presence. He said, and he seemed extraordinarily ill at ease. A man startled, as if caught in an illicit act. I perceived it, monsieur, she answered. As she advanced to do Madame's commission, she paused before him. From my heart, monsieur, I grieve that we should meet again in circumstances so very painful. Not since the day of his duel with André Louis, the day which had seen the death and burial of his last hope of winning her, had they stood face to face. He checked, as if on the point of answering her, his glance strayed to Madame de Plage Estelle, and, oddly reticent for one who could be very glib, he bowed in silence. But sit, monsieur, I beg. You are fatigued. You are gracious to observe it, with your permission, then. And he resumed his seat. She continued on her way to the door and passed out upon her errand. When presently she returned, they had almost unaccountably changed places. It was Madame de Plage Estelle who was seated in that armchair of brocade and guilt, and monsieur de la tour des yeux, who, despite his lassitude, was leaning over the back of it, talking earnestly, seeming by his attitude to plead with her. On Aline's entrance, he broke off instantly and moved away, so that she was left with a sense of having intruded. Further, she observed that the countess was in tears. Following her came presently the diligent Jacques, bearing a tray laden with food and wine. Madame poured for her guest, and he drank a long draft of the burgundy, then begged, holding forth his grimy hands that he might mend his appearance before sitting down to eat. He was led away and valed by Jacques, and when he returned he had removed from his person the last vestige of the rough handling he had received. He looked almost his normal self. The disorder in his attire repaired, calm and dignified and courtly in his bearing, but very pale and haggard of face, seeming suddenly to have increased in years, to have reached in appearance the age that was, in fact, his own. As he ate and drank, and this with appetite, for as he told them he had not tasted food since early morning, he entered into the details of the dreadful events of the day, and gave them the particulars of his own escape from the Tullaries, when all was seen to be lost and when the Swiss, having burnt their last cartridge, were submitting to wholesale massacre at the hands of the indescribably furious mob. Oh, it was almost ill-done, he ended critically. We were timid when we should have been resolute, and resolute at last when it was too late. That is the history of our side from the beginning of this accursed struggle. We have lacked proper leadership throughout and now, as I have said already, there is an end to us. It but remains to escape, as soon as we can discover how the thing is to be accomplished. Madame told him of the hopes that she had centered upon Rougain. It lifted him out of his gloom. He was disposed to be optimistic. You are wrong to have abandoned that hope, he assured her. If this mayor is so well disposed, he certainly can do as his son promised. But last night it would have been too late for him to have reached you and to-day, assuming that he had come to Paris, almost impossible for him to win across the streets from the other side. It is most likely that he will yet come. I pray that he may. For the knowledge that you and Mademoiselle de Kercadieu are out of this would comfort me above all. We should take you with us, said Madame. But how? Young Rougain was to bring me permits for three persons. Havien myself and my footman Jacques. You would take the place of Jacques. Faith to get out of Paris, Madame. There is no man whose place I would not take. And he laughed. Their spirits rose with his and their flagging hopes revived. But as dusk descended again upon the city, without any sign of the deliverer they awaited, those hopes began to ebb once more. Monsieur de la Tour des Irres at last pleaded weariness, and begged to be permitted to withdraw that he might endeavour to take some rest against whatever might have to be faced in the immediate future. When he had gone, Madame persuaded Aline to go and lie down. I will call you, my dear, the moment he arrives, she said, bravely maintaining that pretense of a confidence that had by now entirely evaporated. Aline kissed her affectionately, and departed. Outwardly so calm and unperturbed as to leave the Countess wondering whether she realised the peril by which they were surrounded, a peril infinitely increased by the presence in that house of a man so widely known, and detested, as Monsieur de la Tour des Irres, a man who was probably being sought for by his enemies at this moment. Left alone, Madame lay down on a couch in the salon itself, to be ready for any emergency. It was a hot summer night, and the glass doors opening upon the luxuriant garden stood wide to admit the air. On that air came intermittently from the distance sounds of the continuing horrible activities of the populace, the aftermath of that bloody day. Madame de Pluggistelle lay there, listening to those sounds for upwards of an hour, thanking heaven that for the present at least the disturbances were distant, dreading lest at any moment they should occur nearer at hand, lest this bondy section in which her hotel was situated, should become the scene of horrors similar to those whose echoes reached her ears from other sections away to the south and west. The couch occupied by the Countess lay in shadow, for all the lights in that long salon had been extinguished with the exception of a cluster of candles in a massive silver candle branch placed on a round marquetry table in the middle of the room, an island of light in the surrounding gloom. The timepiece on the over mantle chimed melodiously the hour of ten, and then startling in the suddenness with which it broke the immediate silence, another sound vibrated through the house, and brought Madame to her feet in a breathless mingling of hope and dread. Someone was knocking sharply on the door below. Followed moments of agonized suspense, culminating in the abrupt invasion of the room by the footman Jacques. He looked round, not seeing his mistress at first. Madame! Madame! he panted out of breath. What is it Jacques? Her voice was steady now that the need for self-control seemed thrust upon her. She advanced from the shadows into that island of light about the table. There is a man below. He is asking—he is demanding—to see you at once. A man, she questioned. He—he seems to be an official. At least he wears the sash of office, and he refused to give any name. He says that his name would convey nothing to you. He insists that he must see you in person and at once. An official said Madame. An official Jacques repeated. I would not have admitted him, but that he demanded it in the name of the nation. Madame, it is for you to say what shall be done. Robert is with me. If you wish it, whatever it may be. My good Jacques! No. No. She was perfectly composed. If this man intended evil, surely he would not come alone. Conduct him to me, and then beg mademoiselle de Kercadieu to join me, if she is awake. Jacques departed, himself partly reassured. Madame seated herself in the armchair by the table well within the light. She smoothed her dress with a mechanical hand. If, as it would seem, her hopes had been futile, so had her momentary fears. A man on any but an errand of peace would have brought some following with him, as she had said. The door opened again, and Jacques reappeared. After him, stepping briskly past him, came a slight man in a wide-brimmed hat, adorned by a tricolor cockade. About the waist of an olive-green riding-coat he wore a broad tricolor sash. A sword hung at his side. He swept off his hat, and the candlelight glinted on the steel buckle in front of it. Madame found herself silently regarded by a pair of large dark eyes, set in a lean, brown face. Eyes that were most singularly intent and searching. She leaned forward. In credulity swept across her countenance. Then her eyes kindled, and the color came creeping back into her pale cheeks. She rose suddenly. She was trembling. André-la-oui! she exclaimed. Book 3 Chapter 14 The Barrier That gift of laughter of his seemed utterly extinguished. For once there was no gleam of humor in those dark eyes, as they continued to consider her with that queer stare of scrutiny. And yet, though his gaze was somber, his thoughts were not. With his cruelly true mental vision which pierced through sham's, and his capacity for detached observation, which properly applied might have carried him very far indeed, he perceived the grotesqueness, the artificiality of the emotion which in that moment he experienced, but by which he refused to be possessed. It sprang entirely from the consciousness that she was his mother, as if all things considered the more or less accidental fact that she had brought him into the world could establish between them any real bond at this time of day. The motherhood that bears, and forsakes, is less than animal. He had considered this. He had been given ample leisure in which to consider it during those long, turbulent hours in which he had been forced to wait, because it would have been almost impossible to have won across that seething city, and he had been forced to that seething city, and certainly unwise to have attempted so to do. He had reached the conclusion that by consenting to go to her rescue at such a time, he stood committed to a piece of purely sentimental quicksaltry. The quittances which the mayor of Mudon had exacted from him before he would issue the necessary safe conducts placed the whole of his future, perhaps his very life, in jeopardy, and he had consented to do this not for the sake of a reality, but out of regard for an idea. He who all his life had avoided the false lure of worthless and hollow sentimentality. Thus thought André Louis, as he considered her now so searchingly, finding it naturally enough a matter of extraordinary interest to look consciously upon his mother for the first time at the age of eight and twenty. From her he looked at last a jock, who remained at attention waiting by the open door. Could we be alone, madame? he asked her. She waved the footman away and the door closed. In agitated silence, unquestioning, she waited for him to account for his presence there at so extraordinary a time. Rougain could not return, he informed her shortly. At Monsieur de Kierkejo's request, I come instead. You, you are sent to rescue us. The note of amazement in her voice was stronger than that of her relief. That, and to make your acquaintance, madame, to make my acquaintance, but what do you mean, André Louis? This letter from Monsieur de Kierkejo will tell you. Intrigued by his odd words and odour manner, she took the folded sheet. She broke the seal with shaking hands and with shaking hands approached the written page to the light. Her eyes grew troubled as she read. The shaking of her hands increased. And midway through that reading, a moan escaped her. One glance that was almost terror, she darted at the slim, straight man standing so incredibly impassive upon the edge of the light. And then she endeavored to read on. But the crabbed characters of Monsieur de Kierkejo swam distortedly under her eyes. She could not read. Besides, what could it matter what else he said? She had read enough. The sheet fluttered from her hands to the table. And out of a face that was like a face of wax, she looked now with a wistfulness, a sadness indescribable at André Louis. And so you know my child. Her voice was stifled to a whisper. I know, Madame, my mother. The grimness, the subtle blend of merciless derision and reproach in which it was uttered completely, escaped her. She cried out at the new name. For her, in that moment, time and the world stood still. Her peril there in Paris, as the wife of an intriguer at Koblenz was blotted out. Together with every other consideration, thrust out of a consciousness that could find room for nothing else beside the fact that she stood acknowledged by her only son. This child begotten in adultery, born furtively and in shame in a remote Brittany village eight and twenty years ago. Not even a thought for the betrayal of that inviolable secret, or the consequences that might follow, could she spare in this supreme moment. She took one or two faltering steps towards him, hesitating, and she opened her arms. Sobs suffocated her voice. Won't you come to me, André-Louis? A moment yet, he stood hesitating, startled by that appeal, angered almost by his heart's response to it. Reason and sentiment at grips in his soul. This was not real, his reason postulated. This poignant emotion that she displayed and that he experienced was fantastic. Yet he went. Her arms enfolded him. Her wet cheek was pressed hard against his own. Her frame, which the years had not yet succeeded in robbing of its grace, was shaken by the passionate storm within her. Oh, André-Louis, my child, if you knew how I have hungered to hold you so, if you knew how in denying myself this I have atoned and suffered, Kierke-Joe should not have told you. Not even now. It was wrong. Most wrong, perhaps to you. It would have been better that he should have left me here to my fate, whatever that may be. And yet, come what may of this, to be able to hold you so, to be able to acknowledge you, to hear you call me mother. Oh, André-Louis, I cannot now regret it. I cannot. I cannot wish it otherwise. Is there any need, madame? He asked her, his stoicism deeply shaken. There is no occasion to take others into our confidence. This is for tonight, alone. Tonight, we are mother and son. Tomorrow we resume our former places and outwardly at least. Forget. Forget? Have you no heart, André-Louis? The question recalled him curiously to his attitude towards life, that histrionic attitude of his that he accounted true philosophy. Also he remembered what lay before them, and he realized that he must master not only himself but her, that to yield too far to sentiment at such a time might be the ruin of them all. It is a question propounded to me so often that it must contain the truth, said he. My rearing is to blame for that. She tightened her clutch about his neck even as he would have attempted to disengage himself from her embrace. You do not blame me for your rearing. Knowing all as you do, André-Louis, you cannot altogether blame. You must be merciful to me. You must forgive me. You must. I had no choice. When we know all of whatever it may be, we can never do anything but forgive, madam. That is the profoundest religious truth that was ever written. It contains in fact a whole religion, the noblest religion any man could have to guide him. I say this for your comfort, madame, my mother. She sprang away from him with a startled cry. Beyond him in the shadows by the door, a pale figure shimmered, ghostly. It advanced into the light and resolved itself into Aline. She had come in answer to that forgotten summons madame had sent her by Jacques. Entering unperceived, she had seen André-Louis in the embrace of the woman whom he addressed, as mother. She had recognized him instantly by his voice, and she could not have said what bewildered her more. His presence there, or the thing she overheard. You heard, Aline, madame exclaimed. I could not help it, madame. You sent for me. I am sorry if— She broke off and looked at André-Louis long and curiously. She was pale but quite composed. She held out her hand to him. And so you have come at last, André, said she. You might have come before. I come when I am wanted, was his answer. Which is the only time in which one can be sure of being received. He said it without bitterness, and having said it, stooped to kiss her hand. You can forgive me what is past, I hope, since I failed of my purpose. He said gently, half pleading, I could not have come to you pretending that the failure was intentional, a compromise between the necessities of the case and your own wishes. For it was not that. And yet you do not seem to have profited by my failure. You are still a maid. She turned her shoulder to him. There are things, she said, that you will never understand. Life for one, he acknowledged, I confess that I am finding it bewildering. The very explanations calculated to simplify it seem but too complicated further. And he looked at Madame de Blagestelle. You mean something, I suppose? said Mademoiselle. Alline! It was the Countess who spoke. She knew the danger of half discoveries. I can trust you, child. I know, and André-Louis I am sure will offer no objection. She had taken up the letter to show it to Alline. Yet first her eyes questioned him. Oh, none, Madame! he assured her. It is entirely a matter for yourself. Alline looked from one to the other with troubled eyes, hesitating to take the letter that was now proffered. When she had read it through, she very thoughtfully replaced it on the table. A moment she stood there with bowed head the other two watching her. Then impulsively she ran to Madame and put her arms around her. Alline! it was a cry of wonder, almost of joy. You do not utterly abhor me? My dear! said Alline, and kissed the tear-stained face that seemed to have grown years older in these last few hours. In the background, André-Louis, stealing himself against emotionalism, spoke with the voice of Scaramouche. It would be well, madames, to postpone all transports until they can be indulged at greater leisure and in more security. It is growing late. If we are to get out of this shambles, we should be wise to take the road without more delay. It was a tonic as effective as it was necessary. It startled them into remembrance of their circumstances, and under the spur of it they went at once to make their preparations. They left him for perhaps a quarter of an hour to pace that long room alone, saved only from impatience by the turmoil of his mind. When at length they returned, they were accompanied by a tall man in a full-skirted shaggy great coat and a broad hat, the brim of which was turned down all around. He remained respectfully by the door in the shadows. Between them the two women had concerted it thus, or rather the Countess had so concerted it when Alline had warned her that André-Louis bit her hostility towards the Marquis made it unthinkable that he should move a finger consciously to save him. Now, despite the close friendship uniting Monsieur de Kercadieu and his niece with Madame de Plage Estelle, there were several matters concerning them of which the Countess was in ignorance. One of these was the project at one time existing of a marriage between Alline and Monsieur de la Tour des Irres. It was a matter that Alline, naturally enough in the state of her feelings, had never mentioned, nor had Monsieur de Kercadieu ever alluded to it since his coming to M udon, by when he had perceived how unlikely it was ever to be realized. Monsieur de la Tour des Irres' concern for Alline on that morning of the duel, when he had found her half-swooning in Madame de Plage Estelle's carriage, had been of a circumspection that betrayed nothing of his real interest in her, and therefore had appeared no more than natural in one who must account himself the cause of her distress. Similarly Madame de Plage Estelle had never realized, nor did she realize now, for Alline did not trouble fully to enlighten her, that the hostility between the two men was other than political. The quarrel other than that which already had taken André Louis to the bois on every day of the preceding week, but at least she realized that even if André Louis's ranker should have no other source, yet that inconclusive duel was cause enough for Alline's fears. And so she had proposed this obvious deception, and Alline had consented to be a passive party to it. They had made the mistake of not fully forewarning and persuading Monsieur de la Tour des Irres. They had trusted entirely to his anxiety to escape from Paris, to keep him rigidly within the part imposed upon him. They had reckoned without the queer sense of honor that moved such men as Monsieur la Marquis, nurtured upon a code of shams. André Louis, turning to scan that muffled figure, advanced from the dark depths of the salon. As the light beat on his white lean face the pseudo-footmen started. The next moment he too stepped forward into the light and swept his broad-brimmed hat from his brow. As he did so, André Louis observed that his hand was fine and white, and that a jewel flashed from one of the fingers. Then he caught his breath, and stiffened in every line as he recognized the face revealed to him. Monsieur, that stern, proud man was saying, I cannot take advantage of your ignorance. If these ladies can persuade you to save me, at least it is due to you that you shall know whom you are saving. He stood there by the table very erect and dignified, ready to perish as he had lived, if perish he must, without fear and without deception. André Louis came slowly forward, until he reached the table on the other side, and then, at last, the muscles of his set face relaxed, and he laughed. You laugh? said Monsieur de la Tour de Zire, frowning, offended. It is so damnably amusing, said André Louis. You have an odd sense of humor, Monsieur Moreau. Oh, admitted! The unexpected always moves me so. I have found you many things in the course of our acquaintance. Tonight you are the one thing I never expected to find, an honest man. Monsieur de la Tour de Zire quivered, but he attempted no reply. Because of that, Monsieur, I am disposed to be clement. It is probably a foolishness, but you have surprised me into it. I give you three minutes, Monsieur, in which to leave this house and to take your own measures for your safety. What afterwards happens to you shall be no concern of mine. Ah, no, André, listen. Madame began in anguish. Pardon, madame. It is the utmost that I will do, and already I am violating what I conceive to be my duty. If Monsieur de la Tour de Zire remains, he not only ruins himself, but he imperils you. For unless he departs at once, he goes with me to the headquarters of the section, and the section will have his head on a pike inside the hour. He is a notorious counter-revolutionary, a knight of the dagger. One of those whom an exasperated populace is determined to exterminate. Now, Monsieur, you know what awaits you. Resolve yourself and at once, for these ladies' sake. But you don't know, André-Louis. Madame de Plage Estelle's condition was one of anguish indescribable. She came to him and clutched his arm. For the love of heaven, André-Louis, be merciful with him, you must. But that is what I am being, madame. Merciful. More merciful than he deserves and he knows it. Fate has meddled most oddly in our concerns to bring us together tonight. Almost it is as if fate were forcing retribution at last upon him. Yet for your sakes I take no advantage of it, provided that he does at once as I have desired him. And now from behind the table the Marquis spoke icely, and as he spoke his right hand stirred under the ample folds of his great coat. I am glad, Monsieur Moreau, that you take that tone with me. You relieve me of the last scruple. You spoke of fate just now, and I must agree with you that fate has meddled oddly, though perhaps not to the end that you discern. For years now you have chosen to stand in my path and thwart me at every turn, holding over me a perpetual menace. Persistently you have sought my life in various ways, first indirectly and at last directly. Your intervention in my affairs has ruined my highest hopes, more effectively perhaps than you suppose. Throughout you have been my evil genius, and you are even one of the agents of this climax of despair that has been reached by me tonight. Wait! Listen! Madame was panting. She flung away from André-Louis, as if moved by some premonition of what was coming. Je vais. This is horrible. Horrible? Perhaps. But inevitable. Himself he has invited it. I am a man in despair, the fugitive of a lost cause. That man holds the keys of escape. And besides, between him and me there is a reckoning to be paid. His hand came from beneath the coat at last, and it came to armed with a pistol. Madame de Plagestel screamed and flung herself upon him. On her knees now she clung to his arm with all her strength and might. Vainly he sought to shake himself free of that desperate clutch. Therese! he cried. Are you mad? Will you destroy me and yourself? This creature has a safe conduct that mean our salvation. Himself he is nothing. From the background a lean, a breathless horror-stricken spectator of that scene spoke sharply. Her quick mind pointing out the line of checkmate. Burn the safe conducts, André-Louis. Burn them at once in the candles there. But André-Louis had taken advantage of that moment of Monsieur de Latour's impotence to draw a pistol in his turn. I think it will be better to burn his brains instead, he said. Stand away from him, Madame. Far from obeying that imperious command, Madame de Plagestel rose to her feet to cover the marquee with her body. But she still clung to his arm, clung to it with unsuspected strength that continued to prevent him from attempting to use the pistol. André, for God's sake, André. She panted hoarsely over her shoulder. Stand away, Madame. He commanded her again more sternly. And let this murderer take his due. He is jeopardizing all our lives, and his own has been forfeit these years. Stand away. He sprang forward with intent now to fire at his enemy over her shoulder. And Aline moved too late to hinder him. André! André! Panting, gasping, haggard of face on the verge almost of hysteria, the distracted countess flung at last an effective, a terrible barrier between the hatred of those men, each intent upon taking the other's life. He is your father, André. Cheveille! He is your son, our son. The letter there on the table. Oh, my God! And she slipped nervously to the ground and crouched their sobbing at the feet of Monsieur de la Tourdesire. End of Book 3, Chapter 14. Chapter 15. Safe Conduct. Across the body of that convulsively sobbing woman, the mother of one and the mistress of the other, the eyes of those mortal enemies met, invested with a startled, appalled interest that admitted of no words. Beyond the table, as if turned to stone by this culminating horror of revelation, stood Aline. Monsieur de la Tourdesire was the first to stir. Into his bewildered mind came the memory of something that Madame de Progestelle had said of a letter that was on the table. He came forward, unhindered. The announcement made Madame de Progestelle no longer feared the sequel and so she let him go. He walked unsteadily past this new-found son of his, and took up the sheet that lay beside the candle-branch. A long moment he stood reading it, none heeding him. Aline's eyes were all on André Louis, full of wonder and commiseration. Whilst André Louis was staring down in stupefied fascination at his mother, Monsieur de la Tourdesire read the letter slowly through. Then very quietly he replaced it. His next concern, being the product of an artificial age sternly schooled in the suppression of emotion, was to compose himself. Then he stepped back to Madame de Progestelle's side and stooped to raise her. Thérèse, he said, obeying by instinct the implied command she made an effort to rise and to control herself in her turn. The marquis half conducted, half carried her to the arm-chair by the table. André Louis looked on. Still, numbed and bewildered, he made no attempt to assist. He saw, as in a dream, the marquis bending over Madame de Progestelle. As in a dream, he heard him ask, How long have you known this, Thérèse? I… I have always known it. Always. I confided him to Kercadieu. I saw him once as a child. Oh, but what of that? Why was I never told? Why did you deceive me? Why did you tell me that this child had died a few days after birth? Why, Thérèse? Why? I was afraid. I… I thought it better so… So that nobody, nobody, not even you, should know. And nobody has known save Quinton, until last night, when to induce him to come here and save me, he was forced to tell him. But I, Thérèse, the marquis insisted, it was my right to know. Oh, you're right. What could you have done? Acknowledge him? And then, ha! It was a queer, desperate note of laughter. There was Progestelle, there was my family, and there was you, you, yourself, who had ceased to care, in whom the fear of discovery had stifled love. Why should I have told you, then? Why? I should not have told you now, had there been any other way to… to save you both. Once before, I suffered just such dreadful apprehensions when you and he fought in the bois. I was on my way to prevent it when you met me. I would have divulged the truth as a last resource to avert that horror. But mercifully, God spared me the necessity, then. It had not occurred to any of them to doubt her statement, incredible though it might seem. Had any done so, her present words must have resolved all doubt. Explaining as they did much that to each of her listeners had been obscure until this moment. Monsieur de la Tour d'Isire overcome, reeled away to a chair and sat down heavily. Losing command of himself for a moment, he took his haggard face in his hands. Through the windows open to the garden came from the distance the faint throbbing of a drum to remind them of what was happening around them, but the sound went unheeded. To each it must have seemed that here they were face to face with a horror greater than any that might be tormenting Paris. At last Andre Louis began to speak, his voice level and unutterably cold. Monsieur de la Tour d'Isire, he said, I trust that you'll agree that this disclosure, which can hardly be more distasteful and horrible to you than it is to me, alters nothing, since it effaces nothing of all that lies between us. Or, if it alters anything, it is merely to add something to that score. And yet, oh, but what can it avail to talk? Here, Monsieur, take this safe conduct which is made out for Madame de Pluggistelle's footmen, and with it make your escape as best you can. In return I will beg of you the favour never to allow me to see you or hear of you again. Andre, his mother swung upon him with that cry, and yet again that question, have you no heart? What has he ever done to you that you should nurse so bitter a hatred of him? Madame, you shall hear, Madame. Once two years ago in this very room, I told you of a man who had brutally killed my dearest friend and debauched the girl I was to have married. Monsieur de la Tour d'Isire is that man. Amon was her only answer. She covered her face with her hands. The Marquis rose slowly to his feet again. He came slowly forward, his smoldering eyes scanning his son's face. You are hard, he said grimly, but I recognize the hardness. It derives from the blood you bear. Spare me that, said Andre Louis. The Marquis inclined his head. I will not mention it again, but I desire that you should at least understand me. And you too, Therese, you accuse me, sir, of murdering your dearest friend. I will admit that the means employed were, perhaps, unworthy. But what other means were at my command to meet an urgency that every day since then proves to have existed? Monsieur de Vilmarin was a revolutionary. A man of new ideas that should overthrow society and rebuild it more akin to the desires of such as himself. I belonged to the order that quite as justifiably desired society to remain as it was. Not only was it better, so for me and mine, but I also contend, and you have yet to prove me wrong, that it is better so for all the world. That, indeed, no other conceivable society is possible. Every human society must of necessity be composed of several strata. You may disturb it temporarily into an amorphous hole by a revolution such as this, but only temporarily. Soon out of the chaos which is all that you and your kind can ever produce, order must be restored or life will perish. And with the restoration of order comes the restoration of the various strata necessary to organized society. Those that were yesterday at the top may in the new order of things find themselves dispossessed without any benefit to the whole. That change I resisted. The spirit of it I fought with whatever weapons were available, whenever and wherever I encountered it. Monsieur de Vilmarin was an incendiary of the worst type. A man of eloquence full of false ideals that misled poor ignorant men into believing that the change proposed could make the world a better place for them. You are an intelligent man. And I defy you to answer me from your heart and conscience that such a thing was true or possible. You know that it is untrue. You know that it is a pernicious doctrine. And what made it worse on the lips of Monsieur de Vilmarin was that he was sincere and eloquent. His voice was a danger that must be removed, silenced. So much was necessary in self-defense. In self-defense I did it. I had no grudge against Monsieur de Vilmarin. He was a man of my own class, a gentleman of pleasant ways, amiable, estimable, and able. You conceive me slaying him for the very lust of slaying, like some beast of the jungle flinging itself upon its natural prey. That has been your error from the first. I did what I did with the very heaviest heart. Oh, spare me your sneer! I do not lie. I have never lied. And I swear to you here and now, by my every hope of heaven that what I say is true, I loathed the thing I did. Yet for my own sake and for the sake of my order, I must do it. Ask yourself whether Monsieur de Vilmarin would have hesitated for a moment, if by procuring my death he could have brought the utopia of his dreams a moment nearer realization. After that, you determined that the sweetest vengeance would be to frustrate my ends by reviving in yourself the voice that I had silenced. By yourself carrying forward the fantastic apostleship of equality that was Monsieur de Vilmarin's, you lacked the vision that would have shown you that God did not create men equals. Well, you are in case tonight to judge which of us was right. Which wrong? You see what is happening here in Paris. You see the foul specter of anarchy stalking through a land fallen into confusion. Probably you have enough imagination to conceive something of what must follow. And do you deceive yourself that out of this filth and ruin there will rise up an ideal form of society? Don't you understand that society must reorder itself presently out of all this? But why say more? I must have said enough to make you understand the only thing that really matters. That I killed Monsieur de Vilmarin as a matter of duty to my order. And the truth, which though it may offend you, should also convince you, is that tonight I can look back on that deed with equanimity, without a single regret apart from what lies between you and me. When kneeling beside the body of your friend that day at Gavriac, you insulted and provoked me. Had I been the tiger you conceived me, I must have killed you too. I am, as you may know, a man of quick passions. Yet I curbed the natural anger you aroused in me, because I could forgive an affront to myself, where I could not overlook a calculated attack upon my order. He paused a moment. André-Louis stood rigid, listening, and wondering. So too the others. Then Monsieur Le Marquis resumed, on a note of less assurance. In the matter of Mademoiselle Binet, I was unfortunate. I wronged you, through inadvertence. I had no knowledge of the relations between you. André-Louis interrupted him sharply at last with a question. Would it have made a difference if you had? No, he was answered frankly. I have the faults of my kind. I cannot pretend that any such scruple as you suggest would have weighed with me. But can you, if you are capable of any detached judgment, blame me very much for that? All things considered, Monsieur, I am rapidly being forced to the conclusion that it is impossible to blame any man for anything in this world, that we are all of us, the sport of destiny. Consider, Monsieur, this gathering, this family gathering here tonight whilst out there... Oh, my God! Let us make an end. Let us go our ways and write finny to this horrible chapter of our lives. Monsieur de la Tour d'Isire considered him gravely, sadly, in silence for a moment. Perhaps at his best, he said at length in a small voice, he turned to Madame de Pluggistelle. If a wrong I have to admit in my life, a wrong that I must bitterly regret, it is the wrong that I have done to you, my dear. Not now, Gervais. Not now. She faltered interrupting him. Now, for the first and the last time I am going, it is not likely that we shall ever meet again, that I shall ever see any of you again. You who should have been the nearest and dearest to me. We are all, he says, the sport of destiny. Ah, but not quite. Destiny is an intelligent force moving with purpose. In life we pay for the evil that in life we do. That is the lesson that I have learnt tonight. By an act of betrayal I begot, unknown to me, a son who, whilst as ignorant as myself of our relationship, has come to be the evil genius of my life, to cross and thwart me, and finally to help to pull me down in ruin. It is just, poetically just, my full and resigned acceptance of that fact is the only atonement I can offer you. He stooped and took one of Madame's hands that lay limply in her lap. Goodbye, Therese. His voice broke. He had reached the end of his iron self-control. She rose and clung to him a moment. Unashamed before them. The ashes of that dead romance had been deeply stirred this night, and deep down some lingering embers had been found that glowed brightly now before their final extinction. Yet she made no attempt to detain him. She understood that their son had pointed out the only wise, the only possible course, and was thankful that Monsieur de la Tour de Zire accepted it. God keep you, Gervais, she murmured. You will take the safe conduct, and you will let me know when you are safe. He held her face between his hands an instant, then very gently kissed her and put her from him. Standing erect and outwardly calm again, he looked across at André Louis who was proffering him a sheet of paper. It is the safe conduct. Take it, Monsieur. It is my first and last gift to you, and certainly the last gift I should ever have thought of making you. The gift of life. In a sense, it makes us quits. The irony, sir, is not mine, but fates. Take it, Monsieur, and go in peace. Monsieur de la Tour de Zire took it. His eyes looked hungrily into the lean face confronting him so sternly set. He thrust the paper into his bosom, and then abruptly, convulsively, held out his hand. His son's eyes asked a question. Let there be peace between us, in God's name, said the marquis, thickly. Pity stirred at last in André Louis. Some of the sternness left his face. He sighed. Good-bye, Monsieur. He said, You are hard. His father told him, speaking wistfully. But perhaps you are in the right so to be. In other circumstances, I should have been proud to have owned you as my son. As it is. He broke off abruptly, and as abruptly added, Good-bye. He loosed his son's hand and stepped back. They bowed formally to each other. And then Monsieur de la Tour de Zire bowed to Mamazelle de Kércadieu in utter silence, a bow that contained something of utter renunciation, of finality. That done, he turned, and walked stiffly out of the room, and so out of all their lives. Months later they were to hear of him in the service of the Emperor of Austria. End of Book 3, Chapter 15. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading is by Gordon McKenzie. Scaramouche, a romance of the French Revolution, by Raphael Sabatini. Book 3, Chapter 16. Sunrise. André-Louis took the air, next morning, on the terrace at Mudon. The hour was very early, and the newly risen sun was transmuting into diamonds, the dew drops that still lingered on the lawn. Down in the valley five miles away, the morning mists were rising over Paris. Yet early as it was that house on the hill was a stir already, in a bustle of preparation for the departure that was imminent. André-Louis had won safely out of Paris last night with his mother and Aline, and today they were to set out all of them for coblens. To André-Louis, sauntering there with hands clasped behind him, and head hunched between his shoulders, for life had never been richer in material for reflection, and came presently Aline through one of the glass doors from the library. Your earliest stir? she greeted him. Faith, yes. I haven't been to bed. No, he assured her in answer to her exclamation. I spent the night, or what was left of it, sitting at the window, thinking. My poor André, you describe me perfectly. I am very poor, for I know nothing. Understand nothing. It is not a calamitous condition until it is realized. Then he threw out his arms and let them fall again. His face, she observed, was very drawn and haggard. She paced with him along the old granite balustrade over which the geraniums flung their mantle of green and scarlet. Have you decided what you are going to do? she asked him. I have decided that I have no choice. I, too, must emigrate. I am lucky to be able to do so. Lucky to have found no one amid yesterday's chaos in Paris to whom I could report myself, as I foolishly desired. Else I might no longer be armed with these. He drew from his pocket the powerful passport of the commission of twelve, enjoining upon all Frenchmen to lend him such assistance as he might require, and warning those who might think of hindering him that they did so at their own peril. He spread it before her. With this I conduct you all safely to the frontier. Over the frontier Monsieur de Kercadieu and Madame de Plage Estelle will have to conduct me. And then we shall be quits. Quits, quotes she, but you will be unable to return. You conceive, of course, my eagerness to do so. My child, in a day or two there will be inquiries. It will be asked what has become of me. Things will transpire. Then the hunt will start. But by then we shall be well upon our way, well ahead of any possible pursuit. You don't imagine that I could ever give the government any satisfactory explanation of my absence, assuming that any government remains to which to explain it. You mean that you will sacrifice your future, this career upon which you have embarked? In the past to which things have come there is no career for me down there. At least no honest one. And I hope you do not think that I could be dishonest. It is the day of the Dantons, and the Marats, the day of the rabble. The reins of government will be tossed to the populace, or else the populace drunk with the conceit with which the Dantons and the Marats have filled it will seize the reins by force. Chaos must follow, and a despotism of brutes and apes, a government of the whole by its lowest parts. It cannot endure, because unless a nation is ruled by its best elements it must wither and decay. I thought you were a Republican, said she. Why so I am? I am talking like one. I desire a society which selects its rulers, from the best elements of every class and denies the right of any class or corporation to usurp the government to itself, whether it be the nobles, the clergy, the bourgeoisie, or the proletariat. For government by any one class is fatal to the welfare of the whole. Two years ago our ideals seemed to have been realized. The monopoly of power had been taken from the class that had held it too long and too unjustly by the hollow right of heredity. It had been distributed as evenly as might be throughout the state. And if men had only paused there, all would have been well. But our impetus carried us too far. The privileged orders goaded us on by their very opposition, and the result is the horror of which yesterday you saw no more than the beginnings. No. No, he ended. Careers there may be for venal place seekers, for opportunists, but none for a man who desires to respect himself. It is time to go. I make no sacrifice in going. But where will you go? What will you do? Oh, something. Consider that in four years I have been lawyer, politician, swordsman, and buffoon, especially the latter. There is always a place in the world for skeromush. Besides, do you know that unlike skeromush I have been oddly provident? I am the owner of a little farm in Saxony. I think that agriculture might suit me. It is a meditative occupation. And when all is said I am not a man of action. I haven't the qualities for the part. She looked up into his face, and there was a wistful smile in her deep blue eyes. Is there any part for which you have not the qualities, I wonder? Do you really? Yet you cannot say that I have made a success of any of those which I have played. I've always ended by running away. I am running away now from a thriving fencing academy, which is likely to become the property of Ladouk. That comes of having gone into politics, from which I am also running away. It is the one thing in which I really excel. That too is an attribute of a skeromush. Why will you always be deriding yourself? She wondered. Because I recognize myself for part of this mad world, I suppose. You wouldn't have me take it seriously. I should lose my reason utterly if I did. Especially since discovering my parents. Don't, Andre, she begged him. You are insincere, you know. Of course I am. Do you expect sincerity in man when hypocrisy is the very key note of human nature? We are nurtured on it, we are schooled in it, we live by it, and we rarely realize it. You have seen it rampant and out of hand in France during the last four years. Can't in hypocrisy on the lips of the revolutionaries, can't in hypocrisy on the lips of the upholders of the old regime, a riot of hypocrisy out of which in the end is begotten chaos. And I, who criticizes it all on this beautiful, God-given morning, am the rankest and most contemptible hypocrite of all. It was this, the realization of this truth kept me awake all night. For two years I have persecuted by every means in my power Monsieur de la Tour des Eres. He paused before uttering the name, paused as if hesitating how to speak of him. And in those two years I have deceived myself as to the motive that was spurring me. He spoke of me last night as the evil genius of his life, and himself he recognized the justice of this. It may be that he was right, and because of that it is probable that even had he not killed Philippe de Vilmarin, things would still have been the same. Indeed, today I know that they must have been. That is why I call myself a hypocrite, a poor, self-duping hypocrite. But why, André? He stood still and looked at her. Because he sought you, Aline. Because in that alone he must have found me ranged against him. Utterly, intransigent. Because of that I must have strained every nerve to bring him down. So as to save you from becoming the prey of your own ambition, I wish to speak of him no more than I must. After this I trust never to speak of him again. Before the lines of our lives crossed, I knew him for what he was. I knew the report of him that ran countryside. Even then I found him detestable. You heard him allude last night to the unfortunate labyriné. You heard him plead in extenuation of his fault, his mode of life, his rearing. To that there is no answer, I suppose. He conforms to type. Enough. But to me he was the embodiment of evil. Just as you have always been the embodiment of good. He was the embodiment of sin. Just as you are the embodiment of purity. I had enthroned you so high, Aline, so high, and yet no higher than your place. Could I then suffer that you should be dragged down by ambition? Could I suffer the evil I detested to mate with the good I loved? What could have come of it but your own damnation as I told you that day at Gavriak? Because of that my detestation of him became a personal, active thing. I resolved to save you at all costs from a fate so horrible. Had you been able to tell me that you loved him it would have been different. I should have hoped that in a union sanctified by love you would have raised him to your own pure heights. But that out of considerations of worldly advancement you should lovelessly consent to mate with him. Oh, it was vile and hopeless. And so I fought him, a rat fighting a lion, fought him relentlessly. Until I saw that love had come to take in your heart the place of ambition, then I desisted. Until you saw that love had taken the place of ambition? Tears had been gathering in her eyes whilst he was speaking. Now amazement eliminated her emotion. But when did you see that? When? I... I was mistaken. I know it now. Yet at the time. Surely, Aline, that morning when you came to beg me not to keep my engagement with him in the bois you were moved by concern for him. For him? It was concern for you. She cried without thinking what she said. But it did not convince him. For me, when you knew when all the world knew what I had been doing daily for a week. Ah, but he... he was different from the others you had met. His reputation stood high. My uncle accounted him invincible. He persuaded me that if you met nothing could save you. He looked at her frowning. Why this, Aline? He asked her with some sternness. I can understand that having changed since then you should now wish to disown those sentiments. It's a woman's way, I suppose. Oh, what are you saying, Andre? How wrong you are. It is the truth I have told you. And was it concern for me? He asked her. That laid you swooning when you saw him return wounded from the meeting. That was what opened my eyes. Wounded? I had not seen his wound. I saw him sitting alive and apparently unhurt in his kalesh. And I concluded that he had killed you, as he had said he would. What else could I conclude? He saw light, dazzling, blinding. And it scared him. He fell back, a hand to his brow. And that was why you fainted? He asked incredulously. She looked at him, without answering. And she began to realize how much she had been swept into saying by her eagerness to make him realize his error. A sudden fear came creeping into her eyes. He held out both hands to her. Haleen, Haleen. His voice broke on the name. It was I? Oh, blind Andre. It was always you. Always. Never. Never did I think of him, not even for loveless marriage. Save once for a little while when that theater girl came into your life and then she broke off, shrugged, and turned her head away. I thought of following ambition, since there was nothing left to follow. He shook himself. I am dreaming, of course. Or else I am mad, he said. Blind Andre. Just blind. She assured him. Blind only where it would have been presumption to have seen. And yet she answered him with the flash of the Eileen he had known of old. I have never found you lack presumption. Monsieur de Kerkedjo, emerging a moment later from the library window, beheld them holding hands and staring each at the other, beatifically, as if each saw paradise in the other's face. End of Book 3, Chapter 16. End of Scaramouche, a Romance of the French Revolution by Raphael Sabatini. Thank you for listening.