Kitabı oku: «For Love of a Bedouin Maid», sayfa 21

CHAPTER VII

It appeared that the dispatch, a copy of which St. Just had contrived to get, was of great importance. The First Consul and Talleyrand, accordingly, were proportionately gratified, and expressed their satisfaction at St. Just's aptitude and alertness. But there was no warmth about their words, for both were men who put a chain upon their thoughts and a mask upon their faces. The cynical diplomatist, moreover, discouraged and even ridiculed, in others anything that approached enthusiasm. But St. Just had not looked for fulsome praise, and, knowing the character of the two great men, was satisfied with such faint approval as he had received. They had said enough to show him that they thought he had done well. And this was proved by the First Consul's last words when St. Just was quitting his presence. "Keep Mons. de Talleyrand informed of your abode, Sir; there may be other work for you to do."

From this, St. Just had little doubt there would be; that, before long, Mons. de Talleyrand would send for him again.

A thrill of satisfaction speeded through him at the thought, for, at the sight of Buonaparte once more, all the subtle influence the General had on those who came in contact with him had returned; he forgot his grievance and pursuit of vengeance, and desired nothing better than to devote himself faithfully for the future to the service of his old commander. If only Halima would forego her cravings for revenge. There lay the obstacle to his desire. He resolved to make a strong appeal to her. But his hope of success was small, for he knew her headstrong, dictatorial nature, and how bitter was her rancor against Buonaparte. He longed to retrace his devious steps and regain the path of honor; but, were it not, at the same time, the path of passion, he knew he would not have the strength to take it. Strong as were the cords that were drawing him towards Buonaparte, the fetters forged by Halima were stronger still.

These reflections filled him with despondency, for he could not rid himself of the conviction that, with Halima unyielding, disaster was impending; the only question was how soon.

For the moment there was no need to discuss the point with the Egyptian Beauty, as Talleyrand had called her; for he was, so to speak, in a position of neutrality. He would wait and see what the future had in store for him.

St. Just had not miscalculated, for, three days after his return to Paris, he received a summons from the wily statesman who at that time directed the Foreign Affairs of France.

Talleyrand suggested that he should go back to England and remain there, until otherwise instructed, as a secret agent of the French Government. He would have to learn all he could of the movements of the émigrés and the plans of the English Government, and report them to his own. Further, he would have to execute such instructions as he received.

The proposal was a compliment to his sagacity and discretion, and so St. Just received it, and was proportionately gratified. Coming from the quarter whence it did, it amounted to a command that, even had he desired to do so, he would not have dared to disobey.

St. Just knew this well; so, without the slightest hesitation, and with professions of gratitude and allegiance to the Republic, he accepted the offer made him.

He was given a week for his arrangements; then he was to start for England.

On leaving the minister, he made his way at once to Halima. Now that it was known to the authorities that he was alive and had returned to Paris, there was no further need for secrecy in his intercourse with his wife; he could visit Auteuil openly, and as often as he liked.

At first Halima was indignant when she heard of the mission he had undertaken, and she upbraided him, affecting to believe that he had accepted it in order to get away from her. This was too monstrous, and he indignantly repudiated the imputation, which, he said, could not have been made seriously. No one knew better than herself the sacrifices he had made for her. He trusted it was only an outburst of ill-temper—anger and disappointment at the prospect of their being parted; and this he told her, and she admitted it, saying that she knew he loved her. Then she tried her woman's wiles on him; throwing her arms around his neck, with mingled embraces, tears and kisses, she besought him not to leave her; told him that she loved him more than life, that it would be cruel to desert her; that she would die without him. He must tell Mons. de Talleyrand that, on reconsideration, he felt himself unequal to the work required of him, and must beg to be excused.

He pointed out to her the impossibility, the madness of such a course, and at last succeeded in convincing her that, were he to do what she suggested, it would defeat the very object they had in view—the enjoyment of each other's company, that he would at once become an object of suspicion, would be watched and would speedily find himself arrested. Thus they would be separated. Reluctantly, she was compelled to admit the force of what he said.

"Let me think," she said when he had finished speaking. Her first fury had spent itself, and, having regard to her emotional nature, she was calm.

It was several minutes before she spoke again.

Then, "If you must go, and it seems you must, I will follow you to England," she declared. "I will not be separated from you again, after the years we have been parted. I love France: still I should like to see England. I suppose the people are not quite uncivilized."

St. Just smiled at this. Coming from a native of the desert, her knowledge of men and manners, up to a recent date, having been picked up at Cairo, the conceit amused him.

She went on, "I am not sure, besides, that a temporary absence from France, at the present time, would not be wise. Things are becoming somewhat risky here. Since that affair in which you were implicated, the police have shown more activity than ever. Some of our friends have thought it prudent to leave Paris; some even have gone to England. We can organize our plans for Buonaparte's confusion in greater safety there. Really, Henri, I am beginning to think that your appointment is a fortunate occurrence; you will now be able to give us valuable help. Oh! if the First Consul could only know that he is appointing as his agent, a man who is pledged to contrive his ruin; who, when told to watch the Royalists and report their doings, will give him false intelligence, and will warn them when in danger and keep them informed of what is doing in the other camp! The First Consul paying an agent to betray him! Oh! it is a rare comedy; it is delicious." Her eyes sparkled with delight, her face rippled with animation and she broke into a ringing laugh, in which was not the slightest affectation.

But St. Just looked very grave. The picture she had drawn of him was so absolutely true—and so contemptible. A spy, and not an honest spy; a traitor to the man who paid him for his espionage. He writhed inwardly at his horrible position. What was comedy to her was to him the direst tragedy; the enormity of his offense came home to him. To any honorable man, whose judgment was not bemused by passion, the situation would be unbearable. Now was the time, if ever, to pour out his heart in one last appeal to her to relieve him of his pledge to be avenged on Buonaparte. He had little hope of its success, but he would make it.

"Oh! Halima," he cried, and there was a ring of pleading in his tone that would have roused an echo in any heart not deadened by revenge; "why nurse this vengeance against that man? Time generally blunts the edge of the weapon sharpened for vindictiveness. It is four years since this injury was wrought, and no one, but you and me, has knowledge of it. If I can overlook it, why not you? This scheme of vengeance is blasting my whole career, and, if I am still to prosecute it, will render me, in the trusted position that has been forced upon me, so despicable in my own eyes, that death even would be preferable. Oh! if you love me—and you say you do—get free of these conspiracies, which, in your own heart, you know you join in, not from love of France, but hate of Buonaparte. And it is useless; he is too strong for you; how can the hawk aspire to conquer in a contest with the eagle? Be advised by me, my dearest, let your vengeance sleep; or, better, let it die. We love each other, we have ample means, I have a career before me; this paltry passion of revenge alone obstructs the road to honor and contentment. Oh, my dear one, my life, my soul, if you only knew the hell that is within me, you would be merciful to me, by sparing him. It is not that I love him, but he means France, and I love my country—and I love my honor. Say, love, shall it be so? Shall we not bury in the limbo of oblivion the recollection of your wrong? Oh, Halima, relieve me of my pledge to you, and leave me free to do my duty to my country."

He ceased speaking, and scanned her anxiously, to mark the affect of his appeal. But the hope that was on his face changed quickly to despair. Her eyes flashed upon him angrily, and the look she turned on him was pitiless, infuriated, contemptuous.

"Never!" she cried, and her voice rose almost to a shriek. "I will never abandon my revenge. I can wait for its accomplishment, and I know that time will bring it me. And you, if you are so poor a thing, you, my husband, that you will not make my wrong your own, depart; leave me to work it out alone. But, if you do, much as I have loved you, I shall hate you for your pusillanimity even more than I hate him. Almost I hate you now, for that you can suggest forgetfulness of my wrong. Leave me now, ere I say words to you that cannot be recalled."

Her bosom was heaving with emotion, her eyes were like two balls of fire that seemed to bulge beneath her brow, and she paced with rapid steps about the room. "Go," she repeated, and she threw her hand out towards him; "go, before my temper gets beyond control."

And, with the feeling that all hope was gone, he left her.

It was two months later; early in March. Both St. Just and Halima were in London. Three days after his fruitless appeal to her to forego her scheme of vengeance and leave him free to follow the path of duty, he had started for England, whither, a fortnight afterwards, she had followed him.

*      *      *      *      *

Halima was living in a London suburb—the district now known as Earl's Court. A Lord Hartford, a strong supporter of the French Royalists, and a friend and great admirer of the dark-eyed beauty, had placed a house he had there at her disposal. It was a roomy, old-fashioned red-brick structure standing in its own grounds, which were of considerable extent.

It was one o'clock in the morning. In a large room to the right of the hall, a room with long French windows that gave in to the well-kept garden, a merry party sat at supper; the men numbered about thirty, while the ladies did not exceed a dozen; all were dressed in the height of the prevailing fashion, and each wore a white rosette pinned to coat or gown, the emblem of the cause they were supporting. The meal was practically over, and many of the guests had drawn their chairs back from the table and were sitting about in groups engaged in animated conversation, interspersed with occasional bursts of merriment and ringing laughter from the lips of some fair woman; for they had supped well, and the wine had passed round freely, warming hearts, sharpening wits and unlocking lips.

One person alone sat moodily apart, seeming to take no interest in the doings of the merry crew; a thin, sallow complexioned man with a nervous manner; his eyes moved uneasily about the room, and, more from restlessness, to judge from his appearance, than that he took much pleasure in it, he kept taking sips from a glass of wine that stood in front of him. When anyone addressed him, it was as Mons. de Guichard, but his real name was Querel. He had been a surgeon in the Royalist army and had joined in the plot to reinstate the Bourbons, and affected to be one of the most ardent supporters of the cause.

Suddenly there was a lull in the laughter and conversation, and all eyes were turned to the most beautiful and most extravagantly dressed woman present. She was robed in a gown of white satin, cut, with an audacity that bordered on immodesty, so as to display as much as she durst of the voluptuous charms with which Nature had endowed her—her beautifully rounded arms, which were bare to the shoulder, where a narrow band, gem-studded, crossed them, and the exquisite curves of her neck and swelling bosom, on which a diamond necklace reflected a thousand sparkles from the wax-lights about the room. Her blue black eyes were like two gleaming stars as she flashed them round the company; her face was flushed with excitement, in part due to wine, and her expression and whole bearing testified to a feeling of triumphant joy at the consciousness of her rare outward gifts and their power to sway the other sex and mold all men to her will.

The eyes of the man with the sallow face, de Guichard, no longer roved about the room, but fixed themselves on her with a hungry lust that was almost brutal.

Halima sprang quickly to her feet and raised aloft a glass filled almost to the brim with foaming wine. Instantly the talk and laughter, that had been lessening, in expectation of her action, became completely hushed. Not only so, but all sat immovable.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," she began, "before we part, I have a toast to give you. Most of you were present at our meeting before supper, and know what was resolved on, but, for the information of those who were not in time for it, I will repeat that our plans are at last complete for restoring to France her rightful King. A messenger goes to-night to make them known to our faithful friends in Paris, and to encourage them to keep up their hearts. Courage, my friends, for the blow will soon be struck that shall hurl the bragging upstart from the height he has had the temerity to mount. This is the toast I ask you to join me in: 'Success to the White Rosette and the cause it typifies, our King's.' Also to our next meeting in Paris, fixed for the 25th of March. Vive le Roi!"

She swung the glass about her head, sprinkling, unintentionally, drops of wine on those about her; then she brought it to her lips and emptied it at a draught; then flung it down, and it splintered into fragments on the floor.

Instantly all present sprang to their feet, and the cry went up "Success to the White Rosette! Vive le Roi!" the shriller notes of the women mingling with the rougher tones of the men. The glasses were clinked together then drained to the bottom and, finally like Halima's shattered to atoms on the ground. Employed in a cause deemed almost sacred, they should be put to no common use again. Then deafening shouts and cheers went up, and the enthusiasm became intense, the gentlemen drawing and brandishing their swords, and the ladies waving their pocket-handkerchiefs, and fluttering their fans. "Vive le Roi! Vive Louis XVIII" again and again they cried.

Gradually the excitement wore itself away, and the party began to separate, some taking their departure, others making their way to the drawing-room, whence soon the strains of music could be heard. Some of the gentlemen, inveterate topers, following the custom of the times, lingered in the dining-room over their wine, but others, votaries of Venus, rather than of Bacchus, followed the ladies into the drawing-room. Amongst them was Mons. de Guichard, whose eye quickly singled out their hostess, who flitted about from group to group, dropping sugared words, varied according to the taste and sex of the recipients, among ladies and gentlemen alike. He made several efforts to gain her side, but each time, almost before he had reached her, she had moved away.

But, at last, he saw his opportunity. He had seated himself near the door, and Halima had just taken leave of some of her guests, and was passing him on her return. He rose to his feet, and bowing courteously, "Madame," he said, "may I beg the favor of five minutes' conversation with you privately on a matter of great moment?"

His manner was so confused, he hesitated and was so ill at ease, his face contorted and twitching with emotion she failed to comprehend, that her first sentiment was of alarm.

"Alone?" she asked, her tone and face expressing her surprise.

He made no verbal answer, but merely bowed assent.

Halima had no lack of courage, and her first emotion had been but momentary. "If you will follow me, Monsieur," she said. "But I trust our interview will not take long. Indeed, I cannot for more than a few minutes neglect my duties as a hostess."

She passed out of the room and led the way along the hall—throwing a dark cloak over her shoulders on the way—to a glass door that, by a short flight of steps, gave access to the garden, he following her. With rapid strides, they threaded several winding paths, coming out at last in front of a small pavilion, which she entered, inviting him to follow.

Halima closed the door, then, tapping the floor impatiently with her foot, she said, "I hope our business will not occupy us for more than a brief space, and that its importance will justify my seeming rudeness to my guests. Besides," and here she stifled a yawn behind her fan, "the hour grows late, and I am tired."

For a moment, the man stood silent, then, with gleaming eyes, their brightness scintillating even in the semi-darkness of the chamber, his words rushed out in a torrent.

"Oh! Madame, can you not see what I would say to you? You are a woman, does not your heart tell you of the fire that is consuming me? Madame, no words of mine—nay, it is not in the power of language to express it—can make you know the depth of my devotion to you. I love you, I adore you, I could kiss the very ground your foot has pressed. My peace of mind is gone, a tempest rages furiously within me. Every word you say to another stings me, every look, every smile bestowed on others is gall and wormwood to me. I live only in your presence. Without you, death is to be desired. Why think you I have put my life in peril and joined this conspiracy? 'Tis for love of you. Kings, countries, statesmen, all else in this world, count to me for nothing when weighed with you. With you I feel it in me to achieve great things, to dare all dangers. Your society is eagerly desired, you are admired, beloved, you hold an important position in this enterprise to reinstate the King; but, supported by your love, I can secure for you even a higher place than you have yet attained, or ever will without me. Madame, does not my fervor melt you? Will you bid me hope?"

He ceased speaking, and gazed down into her face, searching anxiously for some sign that he had moved her. His face was deathly white, and his breath came throbbingly in the intensity of his suspense.

But she remained unmoved. For one thing, she did not like the man; had never felt assured that he was trustworthy. Had almost any other man evinced such passion for her, even had it awakened no responsive chord in her, would have felt touched, and, to spare him would have checked him at the outset. But this man she felt she hated.

"I don't know which amazes me the most, Sir," she replied; "your temerity, or your vanity. What have I ever said or done to warrant your addressing me in terms of love? I can charge myself with nothing that should have prompted it. It must be that you have too liberally indulged in wine, and that your wits have gone awandering. I will leave you to regain your scattered senses."

The measured incisiveness of her tone, and the contemptuous expression of her face would have silenced most men, but he was mad with passion. When she moved to go, he placed himself before her. "If I am drunk," he said, "'tis not with wine, but love. Oh! how can so fair a form, that glows with life, and warmth, enshrine so cold a heart? An icicle shut up within a jeweled casket. You heed not that my heart is lacerated, and for love of you. But have a care, for passion makes one desperate. Oh! Madame," and his voice changed suddenly to a wail, "forgive me and relent." He reached out his hand and clutched her dress.

"Unhand me, Sir." She spoke quietly enough, but rage was gathering in her face, and some little trepidation. They were some distance from the house and, for aught she knew, no one was within call.

But his passion had passed beyond his power. A salacious glare was in his eye, and his lips twitched lustfully. The next moment he had caught her to him and almost stifled her in his embrace. She felt his hot breath on her face, his kisses on her lips. Oh! how she loathed the man. A piercing shriek went up. There was a sound of rushing feet outside, the door of the pavilion was flung open, and two men burst in.

One wore a plain traveling suit, the other was dressed in the height of fashion; but both were shrouded in long cloaks.

At their entrance, de Guichard loosed his hold on Halima, who was panting and almost speechless with rage and shame, at the insult put upon her.

The first of the newcomers—he was St. Just—turned savagely on de Guichard. "Explain your presence here, Sir," he exclaimed.

But the man stood tongue-tied. The change in the position had been so rapid and unlooked for, that he was at a loss for words.

"This man has insulted me, Henri," Halima broke in, speaking in gasps; "I came here with him, believing he had political secrets to impart; but he took the opportunity of forcing his attentions on me, and when I repelled him, he seized me in his arms and kissed me. Then I screamed."

"Hah! is it so, Sir?" exclaimed St. Just. "I will teach you a lesson, you will not easily forget. If you received what you deserve, I would thrash you like a cur; but, since you have the appearance of a gentleman and wear a sword. I will give you the opportunity of using it. Draw, Sir!"

St. Just's words and Halima's had given de Guichard time to regain his self-possession.

"And pray, Sir," he said, "what right have you to interfere in another's love affair? I came here by this lady's invitation. Doubtless, but for you and your companion, we should have arranged our little difference, for 'the quarrels of lovers are the renewal of love.'"

"We waste time, Sir," St. Just broke out. "Draw, before I buffet you in the face. I might prove a special right to make this lady's quarrel mine; but I am content to assert that by which every honorable man is moved to avenge a woman's injuries."

"I do not fight before women," returned de Guichard sullenly. "And there is no light here; we cannot fight in the dark."

"As to fighting before a woman, Sir," Halima interposed, "for that you have my full permission; further, it would afford me satisfaction; the wrong is mine, I should like to witness its avenging. And, for light, that soon can be procured. Oblige me with your tinder box, Sir." The last words were spoken to her husband.

He gave her what she asked for, and soon she had set a light to several wax candles about the room. While she was thus engaged, no word was spoken aloud, but St. Just stepped up to his companion and whispered in his ear. The other nodded in reply, and then St. Just removed his cloak.

Her task performed, Halima took her stand beside her husband, a joyous, cruel glow of expectation on her face. She sprang from a race of warriors, and the din of battle was music to her ears; her eyes were like two dancing sparks, as they flashed impatiently at the prospect of a struggle between two men with hatred in their breasts; and her nostrils were distended, as though, in anticipation, they sniffed the scent of blood. The animal bulked largely in her nature. She seemed to have no fear as to the result of the encounter; indeed she had not thought of that, and if she had, she would not have been greatly troubled; for she knew her husband was a skillful swordsman; of the other's prowess she knew nothing.

Both men were very pale, St. Just with rage, de Guichard with that and baffled lust.

"Are you ready, Gentlemen?" cried Halima, who seemed to have taken the whole management upon herself. "Then draw."

She stepped back and placed herself midway between the combatants, the stranger taking up a like position facing her.

Then the two men advanced, and drew their weapons. There was the clash of steel opposed to steel; the duel had begun.

It was soon apparent that science would play but a small part in the encounter; the temper of both men forbade it; St. Just fought furiously, de Guichard desperately; the exchanges were made rapidly and with a will: there was no attempt at feinting—only the cut and dried attacks, parried in the ordinary way. So far as skill went, there was not much to choose between the combatants; their strength also seemed well-matched. Spite of the vigorous nature of their onslaughts, for some minutes there was no palpable result; all that happened was that they began to labor more in breathing. Suddenly St. Just, in making a furious lunge, slipped on the polished floor and fell, his blade, in the fall, snapping short off at the hilt.

De Guichard, desiring only to escape, now thought he saw his chance. Making a cut at the candle held by St. Just's companion, he sliced off the lighted end: then, in the comparative darkness and confusion, he bounded to the door and rushed out into the darkness, brushing against a man who was advancing. Meanwhile, St. Just had regained his feet and, seeing his late opponent's retreating back, had hurled his sword hilt after him.

The next moment, preceded by a torrent of strong oaths in Breton French, a man entered the pavilion. He looked from one to the other in surprise; then, recognizing St. Just, "Confound it, man, do you want to break my shins? Am I Goliath and you David that you sling things at me?"

At this the man who had accompanied St. Just threw himself into a chair and laughed heartily.

But Halima and St. Just exclaimed together, "Cadoudal! How come you here? We thought you were in Paris?"

"No," replied Cadoudal, "I landed in England this morning and came on here at once in the hope of meeting His Royal Highness; and I am fortunate in doing so." He bowed low to the man who had entered with St. Just, the Comte d'Artois. "The time for our rising is close at hand. 'Tis now, or never with us. We must start for Paris at once. The Jacobins wait but a signal from us to light the torch of revolution."

"Bravo! Vive le Roi!" cried Halima, almost before Cadoudal had ceased speaking. "Down with the oppressor. To Paris, gentlemen, to Paris." She sprang to her feet and began to chant a Royalist hymn.

In the excitement that followed on the disclosure of the Chouan leader's news, de Guichard, now speeding citywards, was forgotten. And, on the morrow, while the other conspirators yet lingered, and St. Just was hastening to Ettenheim, with a letter for the ill-fated Duc d'Enghein, urging him to join the cause, the traitor de Guichard was being borne across the channel, as fast as ship could take him, to France and Buonaparte.