Kitabı oku: «For Love of a Bedouin Maid», sayfa 30
CHAPTER VI
It was the 28th of June. Much had happened in the ten days that had elapsed since the battle of Waterloo. Napoleon had returned to Paris; had found both the Chamber of Peers and the Chamber of Representatives determined no longer to retain him as the ruler of the country; had abdicated in consequence; and was now on his way to Rochefort with the intention of escaping to the United States.
Near the Tuileries was a cul de sac, called the Ruelle de Dauphin, and here was situated at this time the Hotel Mirabeau, where St. Just was living by himself.
On the afternoon of the day last mentioned a woman, closely veiled, and followed by two men, entered this building and proceeded to the third story. Here a latch-key in the woman's hand admitted them to a small vestibule that led to a long, narrow room. In one corner of this apartment was a door, which, on being opened, disclosed a closet.
The movements of the persons who had just entered were peculiar.
The woman crossed the room, opened the door of the closet, and motioned to the men to enter; "When I kiss him," she said, then closed the door upon them.
Then she took off her cloak and removed her veil, placing both on a chair. There was a mirror in the room and, naturally, the next thing she did was to step up to it. It reflected the face of Halima, and on it was a look of triumph, tinged with hatred. She turned away with a scornful smile, and sat down to wait. Evidently she was expecting some one. She was still a woman of rare beauty, but long-continued determination, in the face of repeated disappointments, had imparted to her expression a certain hardness, that, in former days, had not been there. For the rest, as regards appearance, she was somewhat fuller in figure than of yore.
Napoleon's return from Elba had been a dreadful blow to her, and, for the moment, she had reeled under it. To find that, only a few months after she had thought his fall complete, he was once more supreme in France, had at first taken all the spirit out of her. But, when the initial shock had passed, she had soon plucked up again and set her busy, vindictive brain to work to devise fresh plans for her betrayer's overthrow. It was not that she now resented, or even thought of, the act that had been the original cause of her vindictiveness; if she had dwelt on it, it would have been rather with a feeling of complacency, and even pride, that a man who had risen to such a height of power should have honored her with his amorous regard.
Rather, what moved her now, what fostered her desire for vengeance, added virulence to her malice, and strengthened her resolve, was the revelation of her own importance, in contra-distinction to Napoleon's power, the frequency with which her plottings had been baffled, the little there was to show for all the wealth she had so lavishly expended in the prosecution of her schemes. For, though, in her self-sufficiency, she tried to persuade herself that she had taken a leading part in causing the Emperor's misfortunes; yet her own heart told her it was a very small one.
Now, for the second time, Napoleon's downfall seemed complete and permanent. Surely this time there would be no recovery. She thought out the position calmly, and decided that it was impossible. His defeat at Waterloo had been so overwhelming, and the Allies were so resolute to crush him, and so strong.
These were her reflections while she sat there waiting, and her smile deepened in malignant triumph.
Since she had fooled her husband in his mission to the Empress Marie Louise, they had not met. On their return to France on that occasion, he had separated from her and had resolutely declined all her advances to resume cohabitation. Heart and soul, he was now devoted to the Emperor, and her power to make him swerve from his allegiance was gone. But she knew all that he was doing, or nearly all, for in all his movements her spies dogged his steps.
Presently she heard on the stairs a footfall that she knew. The door opened and St. Just came in.
At the sight of her, he started and stood still. "Halima!" he exclaimed slowly, his surprise showing in his tone, "what brings you here?" The usual ring of welcome in his voice no longer sounded.
She noted its absence and, though not surprised, resented it. A sullen curtain veiled the brightness of her face; but only for an instant; then she became all smiles and sweetness. She had a part to play, and was an adept in all the wiliness of the Oriental.
"Fie, uncourteous man," she answered playfully, "to speak like that and look so cross; and just because his loving wife has come to see him, when he won't come to her. Oh! Henri, dear, I cannot bear this separation. And it is not right; husband and wife should not be parted. I have come to ask forgiveness for the trick I played you in Vienna; but I little guessed you would take it so to heart, or I would not have done it. Surely, by this time, you have forgiven me. Oh! Henri, let me come back to you!"
She paused and looked at him expectantly.
But he made no reply; only stood there immovable; and his face was full of trouble and indecision.
"What!" she resumed, "still unforgiving? Nay, Henri, I did not think it of you. But I will kiss you into acquiescence. I will lay my heart against your own, and you shall feel its throbs, and its mate within you shall leap to meet it, and I will soften you to pardon."
All this time St. Just was standing with his back towards the closet door, to which Halima's eyes had several times been furtively directed. Noiselessly and gradually this door was opening.
Halima's last words had hardly left her mouth—deceiver that she was—when she rushed at St. Just with her arms wide open, and threw them round his neck, drawing his face down to her own. "Kiss me, my Henri," she cooed in the note he knew so well; and, unconsciously, at the magic of her voice, his arms embraced her and he pressed his lips to hers.
The door behind St. Just was now wide open, and, stealthily, with the sinuous movements of a panther, the two men glided towards their unsuspecting victim. Then, when close to him, suddenly they threw themselves upon him, pinioning his arms so that he was helpless. At the same moment, Halima loosened her hold on him and freed herself from his embrace, standing away from him with a look of triumph on her face. In another instant, before he had realized what had happened, he was on his back and held in an iron grip by his assailants. They were powerful men, each far stronger than St. Just, so that he was like an infant in their hands. He saw the futility of resistance, and did not attempt it. But he turned on Halima such a look of sad reproach and grief as would have touched the heart even of a Lucretia Borgia. And it touched Halima's; still she did not falter in her purpose.
"Delilah!" The tone told what was in his mind; sorrow and indignation, reproach and murdered love, failure and despondency; it expressed them all.
"I know all you feel," she answered, "all you think of me; but it had to be, there was no other way. You have that about you that I was resolved to see; and I knew that no persuasion of mine would make you part with it. Force was the only instrument at my disposal. It saves your reputation, too; there is no disgrace in yielding to superior strength, so you have nothing for which to blame yourself. No harm whatever is intended you; only a temporary inconvenience. You must see the hopelessness of resistance; bow to the inevitable, therefore, and show your sense by not attempting it. But, in any case, I mean to have those papers."
She faced him without flinching, with stern, unbending aspect, and her tone was resolute.
Her warning had been almost needless, for held as he was, he could move neither hand nor foot.
He laughed scornfully; then answered bitterly, "Doubtless your advice, Madame, was well-intended, but you might have spared yourself the giving it, for no one knows better than myself my utter helplessness. Even with one of these lusty rogues I should, unarmed, have had no chance. But, were my arms but free, even though I know that death would be the outcome, I would struggle, while life lasted, to defend my trust. Oh! God! to be thus constrained!"
His despairing accents thrilled her.
"I know it, Henri," she replied; "there lives no braver man than you." Then she turned to the men. "Bind him hand and foot, and search him."
She looked on calmly, though her heart was in a tumult, while they took strong cords from their pockets, and proceeded to tie first his hands and then his feet together. St. Just made no resistance; where would have been the use? But he glared savagely at Halima, all the while, in a way that made her tremble.
Then they searched him carefully. Their quest resulted in the discovery of a sealed letter, the object of Halima's proceedings. In a fever of excitement, she tore it open and began to read it.
"Ha!" she cried suddenly, "so Napoleon thinks to escape to the United States; I had half expected it." She drew herself up, and her voice was raised almost to a scream. "But never while Halima lives to bar the way. Fouché must know of this at once. He may be trusted to take measures to prevent it." Then, in a calmer tone, she addressed herself to the two men.
"Guard well your prisoner till my return. Allow him to communicate with no one. Should he attempt to call out, gag him. But harm him not, or you shall suffer for it." Then turning once more to St. Just, "Au revoir, my husband, I shall return anon."
St. Just scowled at her, but made no reply. Then she left him.
Two days later, on the 30th of June, Captain Maitland commanding H.M.S. Bellerophon received a quill that contained a note inscribed on tissue paper. It was to warn him that Napoleon purposed leaving Rochefort for America on the 3rd July, and to keep a sharp look-out to frustrate the attempt.
It is a matter of history how, in consequence of the vigilance of the English—eleven British men-of-war were cruising off the port—who had received intelligence of his intention, Napoleon found it impossible to get away.
Thus Halima's interview with Fouché had not been abortive, and, at last, she had the satisfaction of feeling that she had struck a decisive blow at the man she had chosen to consider as her enemy, and had so persistently and, for the most part, fruitlessly conspired against.
Two hours later Halima returned to St. Just's apartments in the Hotel Mirabeau. She found him seated in a chair, with his hands and feet still bound and the two men guarding him.
The look of triumph on her face at her departure was no longer there; now she showed trouble and depression—even fear. She had had time to think, and, with reflection, had come the dread that she had offended her husband past forgiveness. For years she had been dominated by two emotions—a craving to achieve the ruin of Napoleon; and passion for her husband—not, for a moment, that she was true to him when he was absent. Of these, the former had been far the stronger. But now, this was satisfied. She was free to devote herself entirely to her husband, to let her passion for him have full play. More than anything, she now desired to regain his love. But alas! she greatly feared she had strained it past resilience; it was like a spring that had been over-bent. She came in, shame-facedly, almost abjectly, tremblingly, walking, like Agag, "delicately."
St. Just glanced sternly at her and frowned ominously.
"Why have you returned?" he asked; "to flout me with the tidings that you have added yet another to the already crushing misfortunes of France's greatest son."
"That I have prevented the escape from justice of her greatest criminal."
Then she turned to the two men. "Loose this gentleman, but be careful not to hurt him. Then leave us, but remain within call. I would speak in private with my husband."
The men unbound St. Just, and then withdrew.
"Henri," she began, pleading in her gentlest tones, "forgive me. Now that I have avenged myself upon the man I hated with a hatred that was uncontrollable, that so filled my being that there was scarce a corner for any other passion; now that, with its satisfaction, that hatred has been swept away, love has rushed in upon me, like a torrent, to fill the void; love for you, Henri, whom I acknowledge I have wickedly neglected and used only for my own ends. I know you are angry with me now, and I have merited your anger. But, oh! be generous and forgive me. I swear that never again will I be otherwise than a true and devoted wife. All my love, aye, all my being is now yours. You have no rival in my heart. I will strive my hardest—but it will need no striving, for it will be my chief delight—to compensate for my past neglect. For every year that is added to the roll of time, I will give you ten years of love; when painful memories assail you, I will chase them away with kisses; should sickness come to you, I will be to you the gentlest, most patient nurse that man could have; I will see only with your eyes; hear only with your ears; speak only with your lips. My very thoughts shall be enslaved to you—and proudly so. Oh! forget the troublous years we have passed through, and let us start a new life together from to-day, never to be parted for an hour."
All the time that she was pleading, she was gazing anxiously in his face for the first sign of yielding; but she gazed in vain. She saw no softening of the stern expression, no kindling of the cold, dark eyes, no tinting of the deadly pallor of the face. Austere and motionless he sat, listening, but in no wise moved. Napoleon himself could not have looked more stern. And, all the while, he had uttered not a word.
She could see that she had made no impression, and it frightened her. She had seen him furious before, but never with a look like this. An awful fear came over her that she had lost him; she shivered, and her face became as pale as his. For she was in deadly earnest; with all the strength of her passionate nature, she loved him, and, at that moment, felt that she could not survive the loss of him. But she would not yet relinquish hope. She would exhaust all the armory of her persuasive weapons first.
She threw herself on the ground and clasped him round the legs; then turned her face up to him beseechingly, the tears streaming from her eyes. "Henri," she wailed, "you terrify me when you look like that. Oh! bend your eyes on me with love, as in the olden days. Am I less beautiful than of yore? Men do not tell me so. Oh! recall the time of Cairo and the desert, when our days and nights were wholly given up to love, when we were all in all to one another. I can love; you know how I can love, and you were never wearied with it; you used to say that you never had enough, although I lavished all I had on you. Then I was an untutored girl, with no knowledge that could interest a man; with nothing but my love to give. Now I have learned much, and can hold my own in the world of rank and intellect; men listen when I talk, and not alone from courtesy, for they take counsel with me on the gravest matters. You know this, Henri, you know that I am better fitted to be your helpmeet than when first you loved me."
The anguish in her face was terrible, but still he sat implacable and mute.
"Oh! cruel, cruel!" she went on; "will nothing touch your heart; or is it turned to stone? Henri, my husband, give me back your love, forgive me and take me to your heart again, or I shall die. I cannot live without you. What, still obdurate? Oh! speak to me!"
Then he unloosed his tongue.
"Yes, I will speak. Traitress! Adulteress! for I know that, in my absence, you forgot your honor as a wife, and gave rein to your unbridled passions." She started and the blood rushed for an instant to her face; then forsook it, and she became even whiter than before. But she uttered no word of protest. "I have heard you patiently, but unmoved. The time when your pleadings could beguile me, is past for ever. I will do you the justice to believe that you are speaking from your heart, but there is no response in mine. I acknowledge to the full your beauty, but the glamour that enthralled me has passed away. Your presence has become hateful to me, the touch of your fingers is abhorrent. Till I knew you, I was an honorable man, with a career before me in which my soul delighted, and in which I should have won distinction. I might have become a Marshal of France; nay, I am sure, I should, unless I had lost my life in battle; but, even so, I should have preserved my honor.
"Then, one fatal day, I met you, and I loved you. Oh! how I loved you! loved you so that I flung duty to the winds and betrayed my trust. I blame you not for this; you were absolutely innocent, and you used no perfidy to ensnare me. The fault was wholly mine. My love for you was irresistible; for it, I forsook the colors of my country. And I was happy in your love.
"For all that, although you were at first guiltless, my disgrace and ruin are due to you. I could easily have made my peace with Buonaparte, explained that I had been captured, and he would have forgiven me. My advancement would have been rapid, in those stirring times; I might have kept both love and honor. But you used my passion for my ruin; you forced me to choose between the two, and I, in my infatuation, chose love. And all to satisfy your devilish craving for revenge; and revenge for what? For what you deemed a grievous wrong; but what, in the light of your after conduct as a wife—for you have wronged me far more than he wronged you, and in the same way too—you should have considered but a venial error, born of impulse. From year to year you pursued Napoleon with persistent hatred, and, though your machinations had no actual consequence, yet the will to harm him never flagged. To gratify your vengeful cravings, you played upon my love; and I, poor, weak, loving fool, allowed it, and let you use me as you would, for the furtherance of your schemes. And, after all, I did not get that for which I had staked my honor. You know how little of your society I have had all these years. While you were leading a life of luxury, lavishing your smiles and meretricious charms on other men, I was scouring the continent on your wicked errands, a traitor to my country, engaged in petty trickery, at times suffering the greatest hardships, always in peril of my life and liberty. Twice I underwent imprisonment, with the fear of death before my eyes, and several times was wounded. And, for all that my hardships were for love of you, yet you did not trust me, but set your spies on me, and sent me on fool's errands, and baffled me when I had my own ends to serve. Time after time I appealed to you; you saw how I was suffering from the disgrace of my position, but nothing moved you; you remained resolute and implacable; unless I worked your will, I should not retain your love. Your love! You never loved me; it was but the lust of passion, or you would not have used me thus. You made of me your tool, your hireling, nay, your abject slave."
"I did, I did," she murmured. "I confess it all. I was mad with hatred, and it so possessed me that I scarce knew what I did. But I will devote my life to you henceforth. I will do my utmost to make up for it, and will live only to do your will. I will be your slave now. Oh! Henri! forgive me and take me to your heart again!"
She loosened her hands from his knees, and clasped them together and knelt before him, abject in her abandonment, and gazed up at him imploringly.
But her grief, her piteous appeal had no effect on him. The recollection of all she had made him suffer had bereft him of compassion. His love had died away. Gradually it had waned, and it was his many absences from her side—her own doing—that had caused it; by slow degrees he had learned to do without her; at first with torture, then, with indifference, and finally with relief; and her act of two hours before had brushed away the last vestige of his love. It was gone forever; contempt and hatred had usurped its place.
"Never," he answered, "I have done with you for ever. Take your fatal beauty to another market. At last I am free from its enslavement. You deserve that I should strike you dead for all that you have made me suffer; but you are not worth that a man should jeopardize his life to punish you.
"Go, while I can control myself, for I would not have your murder on my soul. But never see my face again, if you place any value on your life; for, in such a case, I will not answer for your safety."
But his last words were inaudible to the wretched woman at his feet; for, before he had finished speaking, she had swooned away.
Even then there was no relenting on his part; no thought of the many hours when she had lain in his embrace, of the countless kisses they had interchanged, of the words of love that each had whispered in the other's ear. He looked down upon her sternly, not a gleam of pity in his eye.
"Hola! there, without," he called. The two men came in.
"See to this woman, she has fainted." They looked at him suspiciously, as though they thought he had used violence towards her.
He saw their glances. "Nay," he said, "I have not hurt her; her own heart is her assailant; she has but swooned. I will leave you to restore her. It would only add to her distress to see me when she returns to consciousness. So soon as she is able to be moved, transport her to her house, or where she will."
He strode to the door and left them, the men making no attempt to check him.
He never saw his wife again.
At this point St. Just's MS. ends abruptly, so that his after life can only be surmised. Probably, with Napoleon's banishment, he retired from the French army, being unwilling to serve under the new regime. The same uncertainty rests upon the fortunes of the beautiful Egyptian for whom he had suffered and sacrificed so much; for, from the moment when he left her swooning in his apartments at the Hotel Mirabeau, he makes no mention of her.
A glimmer of light is shed on St. Just's own movements by the following unfinished letter found with the MS. and transcribed below verbatim.
"On board the English ship Minerva
3rd May, 1821.
"My dear Garraud,
After years of silence, I take up my pen to write to you, my earliest comrade; and what has moved me now I cannot say—some sudden impulse.
"At the moment of my writing, St. Helena, the living tomb of the great Emperor, is fading out of sight.
"He is dying; so they told me yesterday. More than a year ago I saw him. With the help of our friend Brenneau—you remember him, the merchant captain—I landed at St. Helena. He had a message for this Sir Hudson Lowe, whom, they have placed as keeper of the Emperor.
"When he had delivered this, we walked as far as Longwood, where Napoleon lives.
"Night was falling, and a strong desire came over me to see him. I concealed myself until it was quite dark, and then tapped gently at a window. It was opened, and Count Bertrand looked out. This was better luck than I had expected, for he knew me instantly, and helped me through the window.
"In a few minutes, I stood before the Emperor. I saw a great change in his appearance. He had gained much flesh since I had last seen him, and there was a flabbiness, with an unhealthy pallor, about his face, that indicated disease. The brightness of his eye was gone, and he looked woefully dejected.
"He received me kindly, and seemed glad to see me, and talked with me of by-gone days and various persons and events in France.
"I fell on my knees and begged him to forgive me for having mixed myself up in plots against him.
"'Rise, Colonel St. Just,' he said, and he took me by the hand—me who had conspired against him—'It is a pity we so long misunderstood each other.'
"Then I wept. 'Ah Sire,' I cried, 'Had I known before what I have since discovered, I should have acted differently.'
"'Ah, my friend,' he said, 'how many of us would act differently, did we but know in time. But we cannot unlive the past, and regrets are vain. I forgive you any wrong you did me. Think kindly of Napoleon, no matter what the world may say of him.'
"Then, touched by his kindness, and weeping at the thought of all his greatness come to this, I left him and rejoined Brenneau, and we made our way back to the ship.
"We have remained together ever since, trading in Africa, and have made money at it. We are now two days out on our way to Italy. On our arrival, I will join you in Rome, and bring my memoranda of events in my own life, from the rise of Napoleon's star to the time of its setting in the lonely rockbound island. Together we will go over them again.
"I keep the papers in one of the old boxes in which I found the treasure that I told you of. I have preserved it as a memorial of that marvelous subterranean city.
"There is so much movement in the vessel, that I can scarce keep pen to paper. It is blowing hard.
"Brenneau has just run down to say that a hurricane is approaching. More, when the weather has calmed down again."
This unfinished letter was found in the box with the MS. referred to. Probably the storm got worse, and St. Just had placed it there for safety. What happened afterwards is not within mortal ken; whether the ship went down with every soul on board; or St. Just or any others were saved and landed on the volcanic isle on which the box was found; or that it was floated thither by the waves; or sunk on the spot on which the rock was afterwards thrown up; will remain for ever
