Madame, said I, the women of France to-day think differently. Our Creator did not make love of country a trite virtue, but a passion, and set it in our bodies along with our other passions. If in you it is absent, that concerns pathology, not the police!
I did not mean to wound her I was intensely in earnest; I wanted her to show just a single glimmer of sympathy for her own country. It seemed as though I could not endure to look at such a woman and know that the primal passion, born with those who had at least wept for their natal Eden, was meaningless to her.
She had turned a trifle pale; now she sank back into her chair, looking at me with those troubled gray eyes in which Heaven itself had set truth and loyalty.
I said: I do not believe that you care nothing for France. Train and curb and crush your own heart as you will, you cannot drive out that splendid earth-born humanity which is part of us else we had all been born in heaven!
Come, said Bazard, in a rage-choked voice, let it end here, Monsieur Scarlett. If the government sends you here as a spy and an official, pray remember that you are not also sent as a missionary.
My ears began to burn. That is true, I said, looking at the Countess, whose face had become expressionless. I ask your pardon for what I have said and for what I am about to do.
There was a silence. Then, in a low voice, I placed them under formal arrest, one by one, touching each lightly on the shoulder as prescribed by the code. And when I came to the Countess, she rose, without embarrassment. I moved my lips and stretched out my arm, barely touching her. I heard Bazard draw a deep breath. She was my prisoner.
I must ask you to prepare for a journey, I said. You have your own horses, of course?
Without answering, Dr. Delmont walked away towards the stables; Professor Tavernier followed him, head bent.
We shall want very little, said the Countess, calmly, to Mademoiselle Elven. Will you pack up what we need? And you, Monsieur Bazard, will you be good enough to go to Trois-Feuilles and hire old Brauers carriage? Turning to me she said: I must ask for a little delay; I have no longer a carriage of my own. We keep two horses to plough and draw grain; they can be harnessed to the farm-wagon for our effects.
Monsieur Bazards hectic visage flushed, he gave me a crazy stare, and, for a moment, I fancied there was murder in his bright eyes. Doubtless, however, devotion to his creed of non-resistance conquered the impulse, and he walked quickly away across the meadows, his skeleton hands clinched under his loose sleeves.
Mademoiselle Elven also departed tip-tap! up the terrace in her coquettish wooden shoes, leaving me alone with the Countess under the trees.
Madame, said I, before I affix the government seals to the doors of your house I must ask you to conduct me to the roof of the east wing.
She bent her head in acquiescence; I followed her up the terrace into a stone hall where the dark Flemish pictures stared back at me and my spurred heels jingled in the silence. Up, up, and still up, winding around a Gothic spiral, then through a passage under the battlements and out across the slates, with wind and setting sun in my face and the sighing tree-tops far below.
Without glancing at me the Countess walked to the edge of the leads and looked down along the sheer declivity of the stone facade. Slender, exquisite, she stood there, a lonely shape against the sky, and I saw the sun glowing on her burnished red-gold hair, and her sun-burned hands, half unclosed, hanging at her side.
South, north, and west the mountains towered, purple as the bloom on October grapes; the white arm of the semaphore on the Pigeonnier was tinted with rose color; green velvet clothed the world, under a silver veil.
In the north a spark of white fire began to flicker on the crest of Mount Tonnerre. It was the mirror of a heliograph flashing out across leagues of gray-green hills to the rocky pulpit of the Pigeonnier.
I unslung my glasses and levelled them. The shining arm of the semaphore fell to a horizontal position and remained rigid; down came the signal flags, up went a red globe and two cones. Another string of flags blossomed along the bellying halliards; the white star flashed twice on Mount Tonnerre and went out.
Instantly I drew a flag from my pouch, tied it to the point of my sabre, and stepped out along the projecting snout of a gargoyle. Below, under my feet, the tree-tops rustled in the wind.
I had been flagging the Pigeonnier vigorously for ten minutes without result, when suddenly a dark dot appeared on the tower beneath the semaphore, then another. My glasses brought out two officers, one with a flag; and, still watching them through the binoculars, I signalled slowly, using my free hand: This is La Trappe. Telegraph to Morsbronn that the inspector of Imperial Police requires a peloton of mounted gendarmes at once.
Then I sat down on the sun-warmed slates and waited, amusing myself by watching the ever-changing display of signal flags on the distant observatory.
It may have been half a minute before I saw two officers advance to the railing of the tower and signal: Attention, La Trappe!
Pencil and pad on my knee, I managed to use my field-glasses and jot down the message:
Peloton of mounted gendarmes goes to you as soon as possible. Repeat.
I repeated, then raised my glasses. Another message came by flag: Attention, La Trappe. Uhlans reported near the village of Trois-Feuilles; have you seen them?
Prussian Uhlans! Here in the rear of our entire army! Nonsense! And I signalled a vigorous:
No. Have you?
To which came the disturbing reply: Be on your guard. We are ordered to display the semaphore at danger. Report is credited at headquarters. Repeat.
I repeated. Raising my glasses again, I could plainly see a young officer, an unlighted cigar between his teeth, jotting down our correspondence, while the other officer who had flagged me furled up his flags and laid them aside, yawning and stretching himself to his full height.
So distinctly did my powerful binoculars bring the station into range that I could even see the younger officer light a match, which the wind extinguished, light another, and presently blow a tiny cloud of smoke from his cigar.
The Countess de Vassart had come up to where I was standing on the gargoyle, balanced over the gulf below. Very cautiously I began to step backward, for there was not room to turn around.
Would you care to look at the Pigeonnier, madame? I asked, glancing at her over my shoulder.
I beg you will be careful, she said. It is a useless risk to stand out there.
I had never known the dread of great heights which many people feel, and I laughed and stepped backward, expecting to land on the parapet behind me. But the point of my scabbard struck against the battlements, forcing me outward; I stumbled, staggered, and swayed a moment, striving desperately to recover my balance; I felt my gloved fingers slipping along the smooth face of the parapet, my knees gave way with horror; then my fingers clutched something an arm and I swung back, slap against the parapet, hanging to that arm with all my weight. A terrible effort and I planted my boots on the leads and looked up with sick eyes into the eyes of the Countess.
Can you stand it? I groaned, clutching her arm with my other hand.
Yes dont be afraid, she said, calmly. Draw me toward you; I cannot draw you over.
Press your knees against the battlements, I gasped.
She bent one knee and wedged it into a niche.
Dont be afraid; you are not hurting me, she said, with a ghastly smile.
Press your knees against the battlements, I gasped.
She bent one knee and wedged it into a niche.
Dont be afraid; you are not hurting me, she said, with a ghastly smile.
I raised one hand and caught her shoulder, then, drawn forward, I seized the parapet in both arms, and vaulted to the slate roof.
A fog seemed to blot my eyes; I shook from hair to heel and laid my head against the solid stone, while the blank, throbbing seconds past. The Countess stood there, shocked and breathless. I saw her sleeve in rags, and the snowy skin all bruised beneath.
I tried to thank her; we both were badly shaken, and I do not know that she even heard me. Her burnished hair had sagged to her white neck; she twisted it up with unsteady fingers and turned away. I followed slowly, back through the dim galleries, and presently she seemed to remember my presence and waited for me as I felt my way along the passage.
Every little shadow is a yawning gulf, I said. My nerve is gone, madame. The banging of my own sabre scares me.
I strove to speak lightly, but my voice trembled, and so did hers when she said: High places always terrify me; something below seems to draw me. Did you ever have that dreadful impulse to sway forward into a precipice?
There was a subtle change in her voice and manner, something almost friendly in her gray eyes as she looked curiously at me when we came into the half-light of an inner gallery.
What irony lurks in blind chance that I should owe this woman my life this woman whose home I had come to confiscate, whose friends I had arrested, who herself was now my prisoner, destined to the shame of exile!
Perhaps she divined my thoughts I do not know but she turned her troubled eyes to the arched window, where a painted saint imbedded in golden glass knelt and beat his breast with two heavy stones.
Madame, I said, slowly, your courage and your goodness to me have made my task a heavy one. Can I lighten it for you in any manner?
She turned towards me, almost timidly. Could I go to Morsbronn before before I cross the frontier? I have a house there; there are a few things I would like to take
She stopped short, seeing, doubtless, the pain of refusal in my face. But, after all, it does not matter. I suppose your orders are formal?
Yes, madame.
Then it is a matter of honor?
A soldier is always on his honor; a soldiers daughter will understand that.
I understand, she said.
After a moment she smiled and moved forward, saying:
How the world tosses us flinging strangers into each others arms, parting brothers, leading enemies across each others paths! One has a glimpse of kindly eyes and never meets them again. Often and often I have seen a good face in the lamp-lit street that I could call out to, Be friends with me! Then it is gone and I am gone Oh, it is curiously sad, Monsieur Scarlett!
Does your creed teach you to care for everybody, madame?
Yes I try to. Some attract me so strongly some I pity so. I think that if people only knew that there was no such thing as a stranger in the world, the world might be a paradise in time.
It might be, some day, if all the world were as good as you, madame.
Oh, I am only a perplexed woman, she said, laughing. I do so long for the freedom of all the world, absolute individual liberty and no law but that best of all laws the law of the unselfish.
We had stopped, by a mutual impulse, at the head of the stone stairway.
Why do you shelter such a man as John Buckhurst? I asked, abruptly.
She raised her eyes to me with perfect composure.
Why do you ask?
Because I have come here from Paris to arrest him.
She bent her head thoughtfully and laid the tips of her fingers on the sculptured balustrade.
To me, she said, theres no such thing as a political crime.
It is not for a political crime that we want John Buckhurst, I said, watching her. It is for a civil outrage.
Her face was like marble; her hands tightened on the fretted carving.
What crime is he charged with? she asked, without moving.
He is charged with being a common thief, I said.
Now there was color enough in her face, and to spare, for the blood-stained neck and cheek, and even the bare shoulder under the torn crape burned pink.
It is brutal to make such a charge! she said. It is shameful! her voice quivered. It is not true! Monsieur, give me your word of honor that the government means what it says and nothing more!
Madame, I said, I give my word of honor that no political crime is charged against that man.
Will you pledge me your honor that if he answers satisfactorily to that false charge of theft, the government will let him go free?
I will take it upon myself to do so, said I. But what in Heavens name is this man to you, madame? He is a militant anarchist, whose creed is not yours, whose propaganda teaches merciless violence, whose programme is terror. He is well known in the faubourgs; Belleville is his, and in the Château Rouge he has pointed across the river to the rich quarters, calling it the promised land! Yet here, at La Trappe, where your creed is peace and non-resistance, he is welcomed and harbored, he is deferred to, he is made executive head of a free commune which he has turned into a despotism for his own ends!
She was gazing at me with dilated eyes, hands holding tight to the balustrade.
Did you not know that? I asked, astonished.
No, she said.
You are not aware that John Buckhurst is the soul and centre of the Belleville Reds?
It is it is false! she stammered.
No, madame, it is true. He wears a smug mask here; he has deceived you all.
She stood there, breathing rapidly, her head high.
John Buckhurst will answer for himself, she said, steadily.
When, madame?
For answer she stepped across the hall and laid one hand against the blank stone wall. Then, reaching upward, she drew from between the ponderous blocks little strips of steel, colored like mortar, dropping them to the stone floor, where they rang out. When she had flung away the last one, she stepped back and set her frail shoulder to the wall; instantly a mass of stone swung silently on an unseen pivot, a yellow light streamed out, and there was a tiny chamber, illuminated by a lamp, and a man just rising from his chair.
IV
PRISONERS
Instantly I recognized in him the insolent priest who had confronted me on my way to La Trappe that morning. I knew him, although now he was wearing neither robe nor shovel-hat, nor those square shoes too large to buckle closely over his flat insteps.
And he knew me.
He appeared admirably cool and composed, glancing at the Countess for an instant with an interrogative expression; then he acknowledged my presence by bowing almost humorously.
This is Monsieur Scarlett, of the Imperial Military Police, said the Countess, in a clear voice, ending with that slightly rising inflection which demands an answer.
Mr. Buckhurst, I said, I am an Inspector of Military Police, and I cannot begin to tell you what a pleasure this meeting is to me.
I have no doubt of that, monsieur, said Buckhurst, in his smooth, almost caressing tones. It, however, inconveniences me a great deal to cross the frontier to-day, even in your company, otherwise I should have surrendered with my confrères.
But there is no question of your crossing the frontier, Mr. Buckhurst, I said.