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Title: Collected Stories
Author: Rafael Sabatini
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0701121.txt
Language:  English
Date first posted: October 2007
Date most recently updated: October 2007

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--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Title: Collected Stories
Author: Rafael Sabatini


CONTENTS:
---------

The Red Mask (1898)
The Curate and the Actress (1899)
The Fool's Love Story (1899)
Mr. Dewbury's Consent (1906)
The Baker of Rousillon (1906)
Wirgman's Theory (1906)
The Abduction (1908)
Monsieur Delamort (1909)
The Foster Lover (1910)
The Blackmailer (1912)
The Justice of the Duke (1912)
The Ordeal (1913)
The Tapestried Room (1913)
The Wedding Gift (1913)
The Sword of Islam (1914)
In Destiny's Clutch (1921)


* * * * *


THE RED MASK


During the last year of his reign, it was a common thing for Mazarin to
repair to the masques given by the King at the Louvre.

In a long domino, the ample folds of which cloaked his tall, lean figure
beyond all recognition, it was his custom to mingle in the crowd--all
unconscious of his presence--in the hope of gleaning through the channels
of court gossip some serviceable information.

These visits to the Louvre were kept a profound secret from all save
Monsieur André, the valet who dressed him, and myself, the captain of his
guards, who escorted him.

It was usual upon such occasions for the Cardinal to retire to his own
apartments, under the pretence of desiring to be a-bed at an earlier
hour. Once screened from the gaze of the curious, he would prepare for
the ball, and when he was ready, André would summon me from the
ante-chamber. On the night in question, however, I was startled out of
the reverie into which I had lapsed whilst watching two pages throwing at
dice and discussing the arts of the practice, by the Cardinal's own voice
uttering my name:

"Monsieur de Cavaignac,"

At the sound of the rasping voice, which plainly told me that his
Eminence was out of humour, one of the lads sat precipitately upon the
dice, to hide from his master's eyes the unholy nature of their pastime,
whilst I, astonished at the irregularity of the proceedings, turned
sharply round and made a profound obeisance.

One glance at Mazarin told me there was trouble. An angry flush was upon
his sallow face, and his eyes glittered in a strange, discomforting
manner, whilst his jewelled fingers tugged nervously at the long pointed
beard which he still wore, after the fashion of the days of his late
Majesty, Louis XIII.

"Follow me, Monsieur," he said; whereupon, respecting his mood, I lifted
my sword to prevent its clanking, and passed into the study, which
divided the bedroom from the ante-chamber.

Suppressing with masterly self-control, the anger that swelled within
him, Mazarin held out to me a strip of paper.

"Read," he said laconically, as if afraid to trust his voice with more.

Taking the paper as I was bid, I gazed earnestly at it, and marvelled to
myself whether the Cardinal's dotage was upon him, for, stare as I would,
I could detect no writing.

Noting my perplexity, Mazarin took a heavy silver candlestick from the
table, and placing himself at my side, held it so as to throw a strong
light upon the paper. Wonderingly, I examined it afresh, and discovered
this time the faint impression of such characters as might have been
written with a pencil upon another sheet placed over the one that I now
held.

With infinite pains, and awed at what I read, I had contrived to master
the meaning of the first two lines, when the Cardinal, growing impatient
at my slowness, set down the candlestick and snatched the paper from my
hand.

"You have seen?" he asked.

"Not all, your eminence," I replied.

"Then I will read it to you; listen."

And in a slightly shaken monotone he read out to me the following
words:--

"The Italian goes disguised to-night to attend the King's masque. He will
arrive at ten, wearing a black silk domino and a red vizor."

Slowly he folded the document, and then, turning his sharp eyes upon me.

"Of course," he said, "you do not know the handwriting; but I am well
acquainted with it; it is that of my valet, André."

"It is a gross breach of confidence, if you are certain that it alludes
to your Eminence," I ventured, timidly.

"A breach of confidence, Chevalier!" he cried in derision. "A breach of
confidence! I took you for a wiser man. Does this message suggest nothing
more than a breach of confidence to you?"

I started, aghast, as his meaning dawned upon me, and noting this,

"Ah, I see that it does," he said, with a curious smile. "Well, what do
you say now?"

"I scarcely like to word my thoughts, Monseigneur," I answered.

"Then I will word them for you," he retorted. "There is a conspiracy
afoot."

"God forbid!" I cried, then added quickly; "Impossible! your Eminence is
too well beloved."

"Pish!" he answered, with a frown; "you forget, de Cavaignac, this is the
Palais Mazarin, and not the Louvre. We need no courtiers here."

"Twas but the truth I spoke, Monseigneur," I expostulated.

"Enough!" he exclaimed, "we are wasting time. I am assured that he is in
league with one, or may be more, foul knaves of his kidney, whose purpose
it is--well, what is the usual purpose of a conspiracy?"

"Your Eminence!" I cried, in horror.

"Well?" he said, coldly, and with a slight elevation of the eyebrows.

"Pardon me for suggesting that you may be in error. What evidence is
there to show that you are the person to whom that note alludes?"

He gazed at me in undisguised astonishment, and may-be pity, at my
dullness.

"Does it not say, 'the Italian'?"

"But then, Monseigneur, pardon me again, you are not the only Italian in
Paris; there are several at court--Botillani, del'Asta de Agostini,
Magnani. Are these not all Italians? Is it not possible that the note
refers to one of them?"

"Do you think so?" he inquired, raising his eyebrows.

"Ma foi, I see no reason why it should not."

"But does it not occur to you that in such a case there would be little
need for mystery? Why should not André have mentioned his name?"

"The course of leaving out the name appears to me, if Monseigneur will
permit me to say so, an equally desirable one, whether the party
conspired against, be your Eminence or a court fop."

"You argue well," he answered, with a chilling sneer. "But come with me,
de Cavaignac, and I will set such an argument before your eyes as can
leave no doubt in your mind. Venez."

Obediently I followed him through the white and gold folding-doors into
his bedroom. He walked slowly across the apartment, and pulling aside the
curtains he pointed to a long black silk domino lying across the bed;
then, putting out his hand, he drew forth a scarlet mask and held it up
to the light, so that I might clearly see its colour.

"Are you assured?" he asked.

I was indeed! Whatever doubts there may have been in my mind as to
Monsieur André's treachery were now utterly dispelled by this
overwhelming proof.

Having communicated my opinion to his Eminence, I awaited, in silence,
his commands.

For some moments he paced the room slowly with bent head and toying with
his beard. At last he stopped.

"I have sent that knave André upon a mission that will keep him engaged
for some moments yet. Upon his return I shall endeavour to discover the
name of his accomplice, or rather," he added scornfully, "of his master.
I half-suspect--" he began, then suddenly turned to me, "Can you think of
any one, Cavaignac?" he enquired.

I hastened to assure him that I could not, whereat he shrugged his
shoulders in a manner meant to express the value he set upon my
astuteness.

"Ohimè!" he cried bitterly, "how unenviable is my position. Traitors and
conspirators in my very house, and none to guard me against them!"

"Your Eminence!" I exclaimed, almost indignantly, for this imputation to
one who had served him as I had done was cruel and unjust.

He shot a sharp glance at me from under his puckered brows, then
softening suddenly, as he saw the look upon my face, he came over to
where I stood, and placing his soft white hand upon my shoulder,

"Forgive me, Cavaignac," he said gently, "forgive me, my friend, I have
wronged you. I know that you are true and faithful--and the words I spoke
were wrung from me by bitterness at the thought that one upon whom I have
heaped favours should so betray me--probably," he added bitterly, "for
the sake of a few paltry pistoles, even as Iscariot betrayed his Master."

"I have so few friends, Cavaignac," he went on, in a tone of passing
sadness, "so few that I cannot afford to quarrel with the only one of
whom I am certain. There are many who fear me; many who cringe to me,
knowing that I have the power to make or break them--but none who love
me. And yet I am envied!" and he broke into a short bitter laugh,
"Envied. 'There goes the true King of France' say noble and simple, as
they doff their hats and bow low before the great and puissant Cardinal
Mazarin. They forget my fortes but they denounce my foibles, and envying,
they malign me, for malice is ever the favourite mask of envy. They envy
me, a lonely old man amid all the courtiers who cringe like curs about
me. Ah; Cavaignac, 'twas wisely said by that wise man, the late Cardinal
Richelieu, that often those whom the world most envies, stand most in
need of pity."

I was deeply moved by his words and by the low tone, now sad, now fierce,
in which they were delivered--for it was unusual for Mazarin to say so
much in a breath, and I knew that André's treachery must have stricken
him sorely.

It was not for me to endeavour by argument to convince him that he was in
error; moreover, I knew full well that all he said was true, and being no
lisping courtier, to whom the art of falsehood comes as naturally as that
of breathing, but a blunt soldier who spoke but what was in my heart, I
held my peace.

With those keen eyes of his he read what was in my mind; taking me by the
hand, he pressed it warmly.

"Thanks, my friend, thanks!" he murmured, "you at least are true, true as
the steel you wear and honour, and so long as this weak hand of mine can
sway men's fortunes, so long as I live, you shall not be forgotten. But
go now, Cavaignac, leave me; André may return at any moment, and it would
awaken his suspicions to find you here, for there are none so suspicious
as traitors. Await my orders in the ante-chamber, as usual."

"But is it safe to leave your Eminence alone with him?" I cried, in some
concern.

He laughed softly.

"Think you the knave is eager to enjoy the gibbet he has earned as
Montfaucon?" he said. "Nay, have no fear, it will not come to violence."

"A rat at bay is a dangerous foe," I answered.

"I know, I know," he replied, "and so I have taken my
precautions--unnecessary as I think them--voyez!" and as he opened his
scarlet robe I beheld the glitter of a shirt of mail beneath.

"'Tis well," I replied, and, bowing, I withdrew.

In the dark and silent ante-chamber--for the pages and their ungodly toys
were gone when I returned--I paced slowly to and fro, musing sadly over
all that the Cardinal had said, and cursing in my heart that dog André.
So bitter did I feel towards the villainous traitor, that, when at the
end of half an hour I beheld him standing before me with a false smile
upon his pale countenance, it was only by an effort that I refrained from
striking him.

"Here is your domino, Monsieur de Cavaignac," he said, placing a long
dark garment upon a chair back.

"Is his Eminence ready?" I inquired, in a surly tone. As my tone was
usually a surly one, there was no reason why it should affect André upon
this occasion; nor did it.

"His Eminence is almost ready," he replied. "He wishes you to wait in the
study."

This was unusual and set me thinking. The conclusion I arrived at was
that Mazarin had not yet opened his campaign against the luckless
servant, but wished to have me within call when he did so.

Without a word to André I unbuckled my sword, as was my custom, and
begged him to take it to my room, since I should have no further use for
it that night.

"I cannot, Monsieur de Cavaignac," he answered; "you will pardon me, but
his Eminence desired me to return at once. He is feeling slightly
indisposed, and wishes me to accompany him to the Louvre to-night."

I was surprised indeed, but I did not betray myself by so much as a look.
The ways of the Cardinal were strange and unfathomable, especially where
justice was concerned, and I was well accustomed to them.

"Indeed!" I replied, gravely. "I trust that it prove nothing serious."

"God forbid!" cried the hypocrite, as he held the door for me to pass
into the study; "think, Monsieur de Cavaignac, think what a loss it would
be to France if anything were to happen to Monseigneur."

He crossed himself devoutly and his lips moved as if in prayer.

And I, infected by his pious mood, offered up a prayer to heaven with
him, a prayer as fervent as any that my heart had ever formed, a prayer
that the torturers might have his weakly body to toy with, before it was
finally consigned to the hangman at Montfaucon.

When he had left me in the study, I leisurely donned the domino that he
had brought me, and judging by what I knew must be taking place within
the bedchamber that I should have to wait some little time, I seated
myself and listened attentively for any sounds that might pierce the
tapestried walls.

But strain my ears as I would, all that I caught was a piteous wail of
the words:

"Je le jure!" followed by the Cardinal's laugh--so dreadful, so pitiless,
so condemning--and the one word, "Forsworn!" then all became silent
again.

I accounted for this by the knowledge that the Cardinal seldom raised,
but rather lowered his voice, when angered, whilst André, aware of my
vicinity, would probably take pains to keep his expostulations from my
ears.

At length the door opened, and a figure emerged, clad in a black domino,
the hood of which was so closely drawn over his head that I could not see
whether he wore a mask or not. Behind him came another similarly clad,
and so completely does a domino conceal the outlines of a figure that I
did not know which was the Cardinal and which the valet, since they were
both, more or less, of the same height. Nor, for that matter, would it
have been possible to discern whether they were men or women.

"Are you there, Cavignac?" said Mazarin's voice.

"Here, your Eminence," I cried, springing up.

He who had spoken turned his face upon me, and a pair of eyes flashed at
me through the holes of a scarlet mask.

I stood dumbfounded for a moment as I thought of the risk he was thus
incurring. Then, remembering that he wore a shirt of mail, I grew easier
in my mind.

I glanced at the other silent figure standing beside him with bent head,
and wondered what had taken place. But I was given no time to waste in
thinking, for as I rose--

"Come, Cavaignac," he said, "put on your mask and let us go." I obeyed
him with that promptitude which twenty years of soldiering had taught me,
and, throwing open the door of the ante-chamber, I led the way across to
a certain panel with which I was well acquainted. A secret spring
answered promptly to my touch, and the panel swung back, disclosing a
steep and narrow flight of stairs.

Down this we proceeded swiftly, André first, for I cared not to risk
being pushed, which would have entailed a broken neck. I followed close
upon his heels, whilst the Cardinal brought up the rear. At the bottom I
opened another secret door, and passing through, we emerged into the
vestibule of a side and rarely-used entrance to the Palace Mazarin.

The next moment we stood in the silent and deserted street.

"Will you see if the carriage is waiting, Cavaignac," said the Cardinal.

I bowed, and was on the point of executing his command, when, laying his
hand upon my arm...

"When we reach the Louvre," he said, "you will follow at a distance, lest
by standing too close to me you should excite suspicion, and," he added,
"on no account speak to me. Now see to the coach."

I walked rapidly to the corner of the Rue St Honoré, where I found an
old-fashioned vehicle, such as is used by the better bourgeoisie, in
waiting.

With a whistle I aroused the half-slumbering driver, and bidding him
sharply hold himself in readiness, I returned to his Eminence.

In silence I followed the two masked figures down the dark, slippery
street, for it had rained during the day, and the stones were damp and
greasy. The old coachman stood aside for us to enter, little dreaming
that the eyes that scanned him through the scarlet mask were those of the
all-powerful Cardinal.

He whipped up his horses, and we started off at a snail's pace,
accompanied by a plentiful rumbling and jolting, particularly distasteful
to one accustomed, as I was, to the saddle.

It was not, however, a long drive to the Louvre, and I was soon relieved,
as the coach came to a standstill in a bye-street, as usual.

Alighting, I held my arm to the Cardinal, but, disregarding it, he
stepped heavily to the ground unaided, followed by André, on whom I kept
a sharp eye, lest the knave should attempt to run.

I followed them at a distance of some eight yards, as I had been ordered,
marvelling as I went what could be the Cardinal's plan of action.

We elbowed our way through a noisy dirty rabble, whom a dozen of the
King's Guards could scarcely keep from obstructing the side
entrance--used only by privileged individuals--in their curiosity to see
the fanciful costumes of the maskers.

It was close upon midnight when we entered the ball-room. His Majesty, I
learnt, had already withdrawn, feeling slightly indisposed; therefore I
concluded that if there was any serious conspiracy afoot, the blow--which
otherwise might have been restrained by the King's presence--could not be
long in falling.

Scarcely had we advanced a dozen paces, when my attention was drawn to a
tall, thin man, of good bearing, dressed after the fashion of a jester of
the days of the third or fourth Henry. He wore a black velvet tunic,
which descended to his knees, with a hood surmounted by a row of bells;
it was open in front, disclosing a doublet of yellow silk heavily slashed
with red. In keeping with this he wore one red and one yellow stocking,
and long pointed shoes of untanned leather.

The suit of motley admirably became his tall, lithe figure, and, in the
light of that night's events, I have often marvelled why he had chosen so
conspicuous a disguise. At the time, however, I thought not of the figure
he cut, but watched uneasily the manner in which he followed the Cardinal
with his eyes, and, strange to tell, Mazarin returned his gaze with
interest.

For some moments I observed his movements closely, and, certain that he
was the man to whom André had betrayed his master's disguise, I drew
instinctively nearer to the Cardinal.

Presently I lost sight of him in the glittering throng; then, as the
musicians struck up a gay measure, the centre of the room was cleared for
the dancers, and we were crushed rudely into a corner among the
onlookers, he appeared suddenly before us once more.

His Eminence was just in front of me, and within arm's length of the
jester; André stood motionless at my side, so motionless that I thought,
for a moment, that Mazarin must be mistaken.

There was a sudden lurch in the crowd, and, simultaneously, I heard a
voice ring out loud and clear above the music, the hum of voices and the
shuffling of the dancers' feet:

"Thus perish all traitors to the welfare of France!"

At the sound of those words, which sent a chill through my blood, I
glanced quickly towards the jester and beheld the glitter of steel in his
uplifted hand. Then, before any one could seize the murderer's arm, it
had descended with terrific force, and the knife was buried in the
Cardinal's breast.

Heedless of the soft low laugh which escaped the Judas beside me, I stood
horror-stricken, yet confident in my mind that the shirt of mail worn by
Mazarin would have resisted the poignard.

As I saw him, however, fall backwards, without so much as a groan, into
the arms of a bystander; as I saw the red blood spurt forth and spread in
a great shiny stain upon the black domino, a wild inarticulate cry
escaped my lips.

"Notre Dame!" I shrieked the next moment, "You have killed him!" And I
would have sprung forward to seize the murderer, when suddenly a strong
nervous hand was laid upon my shoulder, and a well-known voice, at the
sound of which I stood as if bound by a spell, whispered in my ear:

"Silence, fool! Be still."

The music had ceased suddenly, the dancing had stopped and a funereal
hush had fallen upon the throng as it pressed eagerly around the murdered
man.

Contrary to my expectations, the assassin made no attempt to escape, but
removing his vizor, he showed us the features of that notorious court
bully, the Compte de St. Augére--a creature of the Prince de Condé. He
folded his arms leisurely across his breast and stood regarding the
silent crowd about him with a diabolical smile of scorn upon his thin
lips.

Then, as a light gradually broke upon my mind, the masked figure beside
me which I had hitherto regarded as André, moved swiftly forward and
pulling back the hood from the head of the victim, removed the red mask.

I craned my neck and beheld, as I had expected, the pallid face of the
valet set already in the unmistakable mould of the rigor mortis.

Presently a murmur went round the assembly breathing the words "The
Cardinal!"

I looked up and saw Mazarin, erect, unmasked, and silent. From him I
turned my eyes towards St. Augére; he had not yet met the Cardinal's
gaze, and to him the whisper of the crowd had a different meaning; so he
smiled on in his quiet scornful way until Mazarin awakened him to
realities.

"Is this your handiwork, Monsieur de St. Augére?"

At the sound of that voice, so cold and terrible in its menace, the
fellow started violently; he turned to the Cardinal, a look of pitiable
terror coming into his eyes. As their glances met, the one so stern and
steady, the other furtive and craven, St. Augére seemed as one suddenly
smitten with ague; he darted a hurried glance at the victim, and as he
beheld André, his face became as ashen as that of the corpse.

"You do not answer," Mazarin pursued; "there is no need, I saw the blow,
and you still hold the dagger. You are I doubt not"--oh, the irony of his
words! "you are, I doubt not, surprised to see me here. But I heard of
this and it was my intention to foil your purpose and to punish you,
false noble that you are. Methinks, Monsieur, that you have wrought
sufficient evil in your life without culminating it by so dastardly a
deed as this. That you should have stooped to stab a poor defenceless
valet, whom you considered below the dignity of your sword, this--fallen
as you are--I had scarcely expected from one whose veins are fed by the
blood of the St. Augéres. And to think," he continued in accents of
withering scorn, "that you should attempt to throw upon your deed the
glamour of patriotism! What harm has this poor wretch done France? Speak
up! Have you naught to say?"

But rage, despair, and shame had choked the Count's utterance, and were
fighting a mighty battle in his soul. So violent, that as the Cardinal
paused to wait for his reply, his lips twitched convulsively for a
moment, then, staggering forward he fell prone upon the ground, in a
swoon.

"Call the guard, Monsieur de Cavaignac," said Mazarin to me. "That man
has committed his last crime. A week in a dungeon of the Bastille and the
companionship of a holy father, may fit him for a better life beyond the
scaffold."

"You see," said his Eminence, an hour later, as we stood alone in his
study, "if I had allowed the world to know for whom St. Augére's blow was
intended, the world would have sympathised, as it always does, with a
luckless conspirator; would, mayhap, have loved me less. Again, there are
always fanatics ready to copy such acts as these, and had they known that
what has ended in the death of an obscure valet was an attempt against
the life of Mazarin--I am afraid that some murderer's knife would have
cut short my existence before the appointed time."

"As it is," he went on, with a wave of the hand, "St. Augére meets the
doom of a cowardly traitor; he dies, regretted by none, for a deed of
surpassing loathsomeness. As for André, his death has been too easy."

"How comes it, Monseigneur," I asked, "that he gave no warning to his
confederate, made no attempt to defend himself."

"Can you not guess?" he said, smiling, "When I had forced the confession
of his treason from him I bound his arms to his side and pressed a gag
into his mouth, which I removed together with his mask."

"But the mask?" I cried.

Again he smiled.

"How dull you are; I changed it whilst you were seeing to the coach."

"Why did you conceal the fact from me, Monseigneur?" I cried. "Did you
mistrust me?"

"No, no, not that," he said, "I thought it wiser; you might have betrayed
my identity by a show of respect. But go, leave me, Cavaignac, it grows
late."

I made my bow, and, as I retired, I heard him muttering to himself the
words of St. Augére: "Thus perish all traitors to the welfare of France."
And with a chuckle he added: "How little he guessed the truth of what he
said."



THE CURATE AND THE ACTRESS


When I mention that Andrew Barrington was a saint, it is almost
unnecessary for me to add that he had no pretentions to that emptiest of
empty titles, "A Man of the World," for it is already an established and
recognised fact that Sanctity is a quality not generally reckoned among
the many accomplishments of such.

To thoroughly avoid evil it is necessary to be on intimate terms with it,
and where a hardened sinner would have triflingly withstood its
onslaught, the Reverend Andrew Barrington was conquered and laid by the
heels, despite his armour of piety and virtue, on the strength of which
he had reckoned over confidently.

Now, when Andrew's landlady diffidently mentioned that a young lady of
the theatrical profession had taken rooms, for a month or so, in her
house, a man of the world would have said to himself, "Let us have a look
at her." He would have availed himself of the first opportunity to submit
the lady to his critical eye, remarking perhaps, "not bad," and then his
blase spirit would have been at rest, and he would have thought of her no
more.

But Andrew's mode of procedure was unfortunately a less wise, and,
despite his sanctity, a less exemplary one.

He grew red in the face when the news was brought to him and worried over
the event for two entire days--and the better part of two nights, which
resulted in a certain pallor and seedy appearance settling upon his
countenance, such as slanderous tongues--if there were any in the
world--might set down to dissipation.

To have a woman, and a young one to wit, sharing the same roof was evil
enough; but that this woman should be an actress!--a saintly shudder ran
through his slender young frame at the mere thought, and for forty-eight
consecutive hours he dared not venture forth lest he should chance upon
this vulgar painted female, with straw-coloured hair and pencilled
lashes, of whom he had caught a glimpse through the window on the day
following upon that of her arrival.

He had been glad to come to Stollbridge, for it promised him freedom to
pursue his studies in peace, and away from the world; and here, upon his
retreat, the fates had flung a very substantial sample of that world
which he sought to be rid of for a while.

For two whole days he revolved the painful matter in his mind, with the
obvious result that when he awoke upon the third morning after the lady's
advent, he was firmly resolved upon setting out that day in quest of new
and uncontaminated quarters for his meditations.

His manner was scarcely genial when he apprised Mrs. Jones of his
determination, but there are bounds even to the endurance of a curate,
and there are times when a little warmth of expression may be justifiable
in him.

His landlady was disconsolate, and a corner of her apron was called into
requisition as an illustration of her grief and an ally to her
protestations, but Andrew was obdurate.

"It was unkind of you, Mrs. Jones," he said, "to have done this.
Moreover, it was injudicious and unbusinesslike--for seeing that there
was every possibility of my remaining with you for the next year, I think
that I might have been consulted before this er--ahem--lady"--and the
saint's tones grew actually sarcastic over the word--"was admitted to the
same house for a single month."

"I didn't know, sir, as you'd object!" whimpered the landlady.

The silent look which the curate bestowed upon her in reply contained
more eloquence than could be found in all the orations of Cicero, and the
manner in which he slammed the door after his departing self told of a
resolve that no living thing could alter.

He walked down to the office of the biweekly, Stollbridge Chronicle, and,
having handed in an advertisement, wherein he vain-gloriously announced
himself as a young gentleman of quiet and studious habits, he set off at
a brisk pace towards the river.

He hired a boat and was soon speeding up-stream, propelled by long
sweeping strokes that belied the apparent frailty of his slender figure.

Having sculled himself into a perspiration and into a quiet backwater, he
tied the painter to the trunk of a tree, and stretching himself in the
bottom of the boat, he produced a calf-bound copy of Hyland's "Advanced
Psychology," and was soon lost in its metaphysical depths to the world in
general and the haunting idea of the yellow-haired actress in particular.

"Excuse me, sir," said a sweet, melodious voice, breaking in upon
Andrew's studies and dragging him from the dry abstract into a very
interesting study of the concrete, "but could you direct me to
Stolibridge?"

The young man's head went half-way round his Roman collar, and his eyes
opened very wide, the better to behold the charming apparition standing
on the bank close by, in a half-timid, half-respectful attitude.

So ecstatic was his admiration that he forgot to answer her question
until she repeated it, whereupon he blushed like a girl and removed his
hat.

"I know a short cut,"' he replied, "but if you are unacquainted with the
country, I should advise you to keep to the river."

"Thank you. Is it far?"

"About four miles."

The girl gave a little frightened gasp. "Four miles," she echoed, "why it
will be dusk before I get there. How annoying! This comes of exploring a
country."

"Have you walked far?" he ventured timidly.

"Far!" she exclaimed, "I must have walked miles. I left Stollbridge at
eleven this morning intending to visit Calvert Hall; I was told that
there was a short cut across the fields which reduced the distance to two
miles; I attempted to follow out the minute directions which I had
received with the result that I lost myself hopelessly, and have been
wandering about ever since."

"Dear me!" ejaculated Andrew, then added brilliantly, "You must be
tired!"

"I should think I am," she answered; "wouldn't you be?"

Andrew confessed that such a contingency was probable, and then for a
moment he pondered over something that had come into his mind. He noted
that she was young, that she was very pretty, and very ladylike, both in
dress and manner and this observation troubled him not a little. Had she
been elderly or unattractive, his duty would have been clear to him. As
it was--

He brought his reasoning to an abrupt termination by offering timidly to
take her back to Stollbridge in his boat.

She hesitated at first, looked demure, and spoke of troubling and of not
knowing him, but ended by accepting his invitation.

Of course, it could not be expected that these two would travel over
those four miles of tranquil river in silence. They chatted affably, and
the girl even displayed a certain spirit of innocent badinage which
played sad havoc with Andrew's nerves.

He noticed that her eyes were dark and large, and had a trick of opening
wide at times like those of a puzzled child; that her hair was of a
bright auburn; that her complexion was as delicate as that of a peach;
that her mouth was small and sensitive; and that her figure, although
petite, was well proportioned. By the time they had travelled a mile, it
occurred to the curate that there was no reason why he should fatigue
himself by over-vigorous sculling. They would reach Stollbridge quite
soon enough. Of course, he told himself that it was not of the least
consequence when they arrived, but down in his heart of hearts he knew
that he was not telling himself exactly the truth, for--well--she was
very pretty, and fresh, and innocent, and he was very young. "You are of
course a visitor at Stollbridge?" he inquired presently, and he actually
began to fear the conversational powers that he was displaying.

"Oh yes," she replied frankly, "I am only here for three or four weeks."

Andrew was burning to ask her how much of the three or four weeks might
still be left, but he thought the question too bold, so, with a sigh, he
stifled it and grew silent.

"Do you often come on the river?" the girl inquired after a pause.

"Almost every day, when it is fine."

"And do you often pity ladies who have lost their way and take them back
to Stollbridge in your boat?"

"I?" he ejaculated in accents of the profoundest horror. "I--I assure you
that I do not!"

"What a pity!" she answered archly.

Andrew felt uncomfortable as the suspicion arose in his mind that,
despite his cloth, she was amusing herself at his expense and he muttered
something about understanding why the circumstance should be a lamentable
one.

It was not until he had assisted her out of the boat at Stollbridge that
she made her meaning clear to him.

"If it were a regular practice of yours," she said, and her eyes had a
mischievous look in them like those of a kitten at play, "I might be
tempted soon to lose myself again, for I never enjoyed the river so much
as this evening. I wonder why?"

Andrew blushed up to the roots of his hair, and deemed her innocent
outspokeness very embarrassing. Then, for the first time in his life, he
became guilty of a gallant speech.

"No more have I," he replied in a whisper--for his sanctity was afraid
that the innocent-looking boatman might have ears like other people--"and
if you should contrive to lose yourself again--well--I should be
happy to find you."

He realised that he had expressed himself clumsily, and yet he felt that
he ought rather to be ashamed of his boldness. But then, as I have said
already, he was very young, and she was very sweet and she had very
wonderful eyes. Those eyes haunted him as he walked home alone, and he
told himself a dozen times that he was a churl for not having seen her to
the door of her dwelling in spite of her remonstrances.

For the next four days it rained almost incessantly, which kept Andrew
indoors. Moreover, he was busy packing his belongings, for he had found
suitable rooms near at hand, and he was preparing to move into them; this
he eventually did, on the fifth day after his adventure.

He came across the lady with the straw-coloured hair once or twice before
he left his old quarters, and his eyes scarcely contained upon such
occasions that sympathetic benevolence which is supposed to be
characteristic of churchmen.

At last he was installed in his new rooms, unpolluted by the presence of
any painted ballet girl--for thus he now defined her.

The next day was Sunday, and, as principle forbade him from boating on
that day of pious indolence, he was out of humour. He was especially
concerned at not seeing his fair unknown in church, and at a loss how to
account for her absence. But on the Monday, the weather being fine, he
went out again and sculled himself into the same shady backwater by the
old mill. Only he left his psychological volume behind him this time, and
spent two solid hours watching the horizon and thinking of her lovely
eyes. He was just beginning to despair, when suddenly the silence was
broken by a voice, which, although he had heard it but once, was deeply
graven on his memory.

"Please, sir, could you direct me to Stollbridge?"

He looked round to meet her laughing eyes, and laughing in return with
pleasure and amusement, he rose as on the former occasion, to hand her
into the boat.

And so it fell out that every day at about the same hour the syren's
voice would come to ask the saint to show her the way to Stollbridge,
until one day matters grew so bad that the Rev. Andrew Barrington
actually allowed it to escape him, that he should be delighted not only
to take her as far as Stollbfidge but a very considerable distance
further.

As a matter of fact Andrew was in love and out of his senses, as a good
many more young men have been, when too constantly thrown into the
company of an attractive morsel of unchaperoned femininity.

And who can blame him? He was an idealist, and here, in Miss Ellialine de
Vaud--for so she had told him that she was named--he had found the
incarnation of his ideal.

She was too innocent to understand the curate's gentle metaphor about a
longer journey than that to Stollbridge, so she merely smiled and, taking
him literally, told him that if he liked he might scull her up-stream as
far as Widenham. And he had not the courage at the moment to put his
metaphor into plainer language.

All this went on for the better part of a fortnight (during which the
curate's studies and meditations were severely neglected) until at last
the vicar, who was an intimate, although somewhat paternal friend of
Andrew's, thought fit to administer a gentle remonstrance.

But Andrew flew as near a temper as his sanctity--rather rusty of
late--would allow, and he told the vicar in plain and very much
unvarnished language that he was quite old enough to choose his own
companions.

"Yes, yes," replied the vicar, absorbing some of the heat which Andrew
was giving out, "but it isn't that! A certain amount of example is
expected from us, you know, and-well--you go out boating every day by
yourself and come back accompanied, and--of course people are beginning
to talk, which is very distressing!"

For a moment Andrew's sanctity deserted him wholly and the Evil One took
possession of his heart, for bringing his fist down upon the table with
unmistakable vehemence, he very roundly told the vicar that people might
go to the devil.

The vicar's face was as interesting as a kaleidoscope at this unexpected
rejoinder, and the tone in which he pointed out to Andrew that it was the
earthly mission of the clergy to direct people in quite the opposite
direction savoured strongly of pity.

Then he took up his hat and umbrella and with a sorrowful shake of the
head, he sighingly wished Andrew good day and left him.

The saint was furious. "How dare the insidious world talk of me and my
movements?" he asked himself indignantly. "And to think that even so
right-minded a man as the vicar should be affected by what he heard!"

If he had been a man of the world, Andrew might have been justified in
competing for a prominent place in the history of profane utterance--as
it was, he could only do some remarkably strong thinking. The result was
that half-an-hour later he was tearing down towards the river with a
speed born of righteous indignation, and a burning desire to set matters
right once and for all time.

Yes; it was the only thing to do. He was fortunately the possessor of a
nice private income which would allow him to live in blissful
independence, and he was determined upon asking Miss de Vaud to take him
and his money to church, and marry the lot.

He found her, sitting on the grass, and looking demure in a white dress
and a sailor hat--Madonna-like he thought her.

With an original comment upon the heat of the sun and the clearness of
the sky, he assisted her into the boat--she accomplishing the embarkation
with the orthodox display of ankle--and arranged her cushions with
something more than his wonted solicitude.

Then, taking the oars again, he pulled vigorously away in the direction
of Widenham. He had in his mind a certain picturesque bower formed by the
overhanging boughs of a beech tree, and beneath the generous shade of
this, it was his purpose to call a halt and broach the delicate subject.
He could do nothing but think of what he should say--and never did a
sermon give him half the trouble and anxiety--so that naturally he was
strangely silent and preoccupied.

She endured this for a while; but when she had asked him for the third
time whether he felt the heat, and he had answered her with a fatuous
smile that he thought them very charming indeed, she deemed it time to
awaken him. So giving the right rope a vicious tug, she skillfully
steered him into a hawthorn bush, which, if not in bloom, was very amply
in thorn--a circumstance which he appreciated, without the aid of his
eyes.

As he pushed the boat back, he remarked with a sweet smile, which made
his scratches bleed, that it did not signify in the least. Then a bold
idea entered his mind--evoked by memories of a novel or two read in those
sinful days of his boyhood--and in words which if slightly lacking in
veracity, were certainly rich in poetry and fervour, he protested that
for her sake he would gladly shed every drop of blood in his veins. In
fact, he almost appeared to suggest that blood had been given him for no
other purpose.

She blushed in the most highly approved fashion, and applied herself to a
careful study of her tan shoes. Noticing this favourable sign, and
finding the ice fairly broken, Andrew left the nose of the boat in the
hawthorn bush where it had caught, forgot the bower half a mile further
up the river, and started forthwith upon the accelerated display of
amorous rhetoric.

Pale and gasping, with thumping heart and twitching hands he told his
story; now halting and stammering, now plunging headlong into a torrent
of verbiage and incoherence.

And she, while contemplating the pattern of her dainty shoe, dimly
realised that he was asking her to become his wife. And having guessed,
her heart began to beat. Not so much out of sympathy as out of dread lest
he should capsize the boat before he had finished.

At last he stopped, and signified by mopping the perspiration from his
forehead and the blood from his cheeks, that he had finished.

A crafty and designing woman of the world would no doubt have commented
upon the suddenness of the proposal. The simple unsophisticated child
before him did otherwise. Raising for a moment her soft dark eyes, and
favouring him with a glance half coy half tender--

"I am so happy, Andrew," she murmured, "so happy!"

The enraptured lover would have fallen upon his knees had he not
remembered in time the disastrous results which might follow upon so rash
an act. He had to content himself with stretching across the boat and
seizing the hand she half extended towards him.

"You love me? You really love me?" the poor boy whispered incredulously.

"More than I can tell you," she answered, casting down her eyes. Upon
this followed many touching words, many sighs and many impassioned
glances. But the sun will set, in spite of lovers, and presently with one
more sigh, Andrew was obliged to release the boat from the bush and turn
his way homewards.

He was more eager than ever to see her home, when they had landed at
Stollbridge. But she insisted upon going alone, and despite his
remonstrances and expressions of contempt for public opinion, alone she
went.

Notwithstanding this, as Andrew Barrington made his way home, he felt
himself indeed a happy man, and many were the thoughts of pleasant
anticipation he bestowed upon the morrow. But the morrow brought him a
perfumed note containing a disappointment. She had been suddenly called
to town, she wrote, by a telegram which informed her that her dear Aunt
was dangerously ill. Would he write?

He put the note down on the table. Then snatched it up, and blushing
furiously be crumpled it into his pocket as the maid-of-all-work entered
with his breakfast tray.

He felt better when she had gone and began to think. He drew her note
from his pocket and read it again. At the word "Aunt" he came to a full
stop. It suggested a family. And with the suggestion came a sickening
dread that her people--whoever they might be--should oppose their union.
The anxiety was too awful to be borne. He must do something. Again his
eye fell upon the note. "Will you write?" Yes, he would write at once. He
got the necessary materials together, and, sitting down, he pondered
deeply for perhaps half an hour. At last with a sigh he took up the pen
and began. He worked assiduously for an hour, and the contents of his
waste paper basket grew steadily during that time. But in the end his
critical spirit was satisfied, and he appended his signature to one of
the most richly tinted flowers of rhetoric that ever bloomed between the
leaves of a parson's blotting-pad. What he had written might have been
summed up concisely into three sentences. "I love you. I shall never love
anyone else. If your parents forbid our marriage I shall be
disconsolate."

But, as everyone versed in such matters must know, these three sentences
afford very considerable scope for elaboration. It need not, therefore,
cause great surprise that by a zealous regard for detail, Andrew was
enabled to cover eight pages of notepaper with closely-written matter.
Although there may be many who could do better, still, for a saint,
Andrew did very well.

The reply came promptly, and set him in a fever of delight. She had no
parents, and therefore no wishes but her own to consult. Her Aunt was
better, and she hoped to return to Stollbridge in a day or two. She loved
him, and she trusted that he was devoting a little of his thoughts to
her. Then came the signature "Ella"--a name which Andrew kept uttering
aloud, until the maid-of-all-work disgusted him into silence by putting
her head into the room and inquiring whether he had called her.

Ella would return in a day or two! And here again those novels read in
early youth came to his aid, and he remembered what was expected of him.
He had no time to lose, he must run up to town at once and buy the ring.

He put his hat on--a trifle jauntily for a saint--and went round to the
vicarage to obtain his superior's sanction of the journey.

He had not seen the vicar since their somewhat unhappy parting of some
three days ago, and it was not without a certain restlessness of mind
that he entered the presence of that worthy man. The Reverend Mr. Ritson
turned from the papers with which he had been occupied, to greet Andrew.

He was a man of medium height, with iron-grey hair and a rosy
clean-shaven face. The levity suggested by a slight upward tilt of his
nose was redeemed by the portly dignity of his figure.

"Ah, good morning, Andrew. Won't you sit down?"

Andrew sat down and dangled his hat between his knees in a nervous
fashion. "I have come to ask you whether it would be inconvenient if I
were to run up to town for a day or two."

"Certainly not," the vicar answered with a kindly smile. "Go by all means
if you--"

Mr. Ritson stopped abruptly, and the smile died from his good-humoured
lips. He suddenly remembered having learnt that Miss de Vaud had left
Stollbridge two days ago. He was a man of some insight and some worldly
experience, and the conclusion he arrived at by a simple process of
deduction, was not flattering to Andrew. He turned his clear hazel eyes
sternly upon the young man.

"Might I inquire," he said coldly, "what your motives are for going to
London?"

"I was about to tell you, Sir."

"Oh!" The vicar concluded from this disposition to confess, that his
apprehensions were certainly unfounded and he hastened to relax the
rigorous position of his facial muscles, being anxious to make up in
kindness to Andrew for the slight his imagination had for a moment cast
upon the young man.

"You see, Mr. Ritson, I was twenty-four years of age I last birthday.
And--and--I have been thinking about getting married." The vicar raised
his eyebrows in surprise, and passing his hands under his coat tails,
smiled again.

"You are thinking of marrying! Ah, well, well--a very praisewothy
resolution."

Being a bachelor, the vicar was in a position to make an assertion of
this character without any qualms regarding its veracity.

Andrew gathered courage from the words and explained the motive of his
visit to London.

"Of course, of course," the vicar agreed, "but you haven't said anything
about the lady of your choice, yet. Come, what is she like? One of my
parishioners?"

Andrew remembered their last conversation, and grew distinctly nervous.

"I think you know her, sir," he answered, "I had the misfortune to
disagree with you the other day, about the conversational topic I was
affording Stolibridge. I have decided to set matters right by marrying
Miss de Vaud, whom I very dearly--for whom I have a very deep regard."

The vicar did not say much. But what he did say was pregnant with meaning
of an eminently discourteous and even sinister character.

"But--but," stammered Andrew, "I don't understand."

"Great Heavens, sir," Mr. Ritson interrupted. "Have you taken leave of
your senses, or has this woman ensnared you into--"

"Sir!" cried Andrew, rising indignant, and confronting him.

The vicar looked at him for a moment, then shook his head sorrowfully.

"So? It's so bad as all that, is it?" he murmured. "Well, well, I'm sorry
for you, Andrew--you are a young man of great promise. But--think it over
carefully, and come to me again."

"My mind is quite made up, sir."

"Yes, but it may change. I hope it will, for although it would give me
very great pain, if you persist in your mad intention of marrying an
actress--"

"Marrying a WHAT?" ejaculated Andrew.

"An actress, I said."

Andrew laughed curiously. "There is some misunderstanding, I didn't
mention an actress."

He uttered the word "actress," as if it were an improper expression which
contaminated his saintly tongue. Mr. Ritson gazed at the young man in
undisguised amazement, and began to entertain a very deep concern anent
his sanity.

"Did you, or did you not say that you were going to marry Miss de Vaud;
Miss Elialine de Vaud; to make myself plainer still--the Miss Ellaline de
Vaud with whom you have been philandering on the river, much to every
right-minded person's disgust?"

Andrew might have taken objection at another time to the impropriety of
the word "philandering." But the season was inopportune for any subtle
diagnosis of English vocables. He merely allowed his parched lips to
murmur an assent.

"Well then--" the vicar stopped abruptly, as new light broke in upon his
mind.

"Do you mean to tell me that you did not know she was an actress? That
she was the very woman on whose account you changed your rooms?"

Andrew gasped beneath the load of this revelation. He glanced wildly
about him, and out through the window. Someone passing at that moment
riveted his attention. Springing across the room, he drew aside the
curtains.

"Who's that?" he asked excitedly.

The vicar looked out and beheld a woman crossing the road. She wore a
gown of prismatic hues and her hair was of a golden yellow.

"That, I believe," he answered slowly, "is Miss de Vaud's maid, or
dresser, or whatever they call such creatures."

"It is the woman I fled from--I understand it all now." And dropping into
a chair, Andrew mopped his face.

Mr. Ritson laid his hand kindly upon the young man's shoulder, and sought
to console him.

"Fortunately there is no real harm done, Andrew," he said presently. "I
suppose you have not written to her?"

"Oh, but I have," cried Andrew wringing his hands. "And such a letter."

"Good Heavens, man! Oh, Andrew, how could you? Think--think of the
disgrace to the cloth if this designing woman drags you into a breach of
promise action!"

Andrew groaned, and the vicar--being unable to think of anything more
appropriate--groaned to keep him company.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

A week went by without any fresh developments, saving the departure of
the maid, which, the vicar contended, was a sign that Miss de Vaud was
not returning to Stollbridge. Andrew received two letters from her. The
first was a passionate appeal to his affections and a gentle chiding for
his silence. He almost wept over it--and had not the vicar intervened in
time, he might have gone the length of answering it.

The second one, which came four days later, was somewhat abusive, and
contained a veiled menace. Andrew wept no more--he perspired.

Then another week followed, during which the poor errant saint lived day
and night in a torture of apprehension.

His health was threatening to give way when at last the gods saw fit to
turn their thumbs up, and his suspense was ended.

The vicar was the first to bring him the joyful and unexpected tidings
that Miss de Vaud was Miss de Vaud no longer. She was married. Yes there
was no doubt about it. Andrew read the announcement himself in the
Telegraph, and the brief sketch of her career which was now supposed to
have terminated.

He was able to smile, and to feel very thankful at his escape. The same
day a letter bearing the London post-mark and in a familiar hand-writing
was delivered to him. It ran:--

You will no doubt have learnt before this reaches you of the marriage of
that woman for whom you professed such deep and lasting affection, and
whom you were horrified afterwards to learn--as I gather from your
silence--was nothing more than a designing, wicked actress. I am sorry if
I have wounded your vanity or your heart, but I could not withstand the
temptation of testing the mettle of the young curate who fled in pious
horror from under the roof which had the misfortune to shelter an
actress. I hope that I have succeeded in proving to you at least that the
horror you felt was only inspired by a word, and that after all an
actress may still be sufficiently a woman to cause even a saint to come
down from his pedestal and woo her.

She concluded by informing him that she had told her husband everything
there was to tell concerning their "flirtation"--he gnashed his teeth at
the word--and she enclosed the passionate letter which he had written her
and for which she had no further use.

He had not the courage to read his own letter over again. But he took the
immediate precaution of burning the two epistles in the same fire.

He has since become an ardent advocate of the celibacy of the clergy, and
a trite aphorism which he is never tired of uttering is that appearances
are extremely deceptive.



THE FOOL'S LOVE STORY


Chapter I.


Kuoni von Stocken, the Hofknarr of Sachsenberg, heaves a weary sigh and a
strange, half-sad, half-scornful expression sits upon his lean sardonic
countenance, as, turning his back to the gay crowd of courtiers that
fills the Ballroom of the Palace of Schwerlingen, he passes out on to the
balcony, and bends his glance upon the sleeping town below.

Resting his elbows upon the cool stone and his chin upon his hands, he
may breathe the free, unpolluted air of heaven, out here; he may permit
his face to assume what expression it lists; in a word, he may rest--if
rest there be for one whose soul is full of bitterness and gall, whose
heart is well-nigh bursting with the hopeless passion it conceals.

He is sadly changed of late, this nimble-witted fool! Time was when his
jests were bright and merry and wounded none save the arrogant and vain
who deserved no better; but now, alas! he has grown morose and moody, and
moves, listless and silent, deep in strange musings from which he but
awakens at times, to give vent to such bursts of ghastly and even
blasphemous mirth, as make men shudder and women cross themselves,
deeming him possessed of devils.

His tongue, from which the bright and sparkling bon-mots were once
listened to with avidity, is now compared, not inadequately, with the
fangs of some poisonous snake. And many who have felt its stinging
sarcasms, pray devoutly that his Majesty may soon deem fit to look about
him for a new jester.

The young French nobleman, the Marquis de Savignon, in the honour of
whose fiançailles with the lady Louisa von Lichtenau, to-night's fête is
held, seems to have become in particular the butt for the jester's most
biting gibes. This the Court thinks strange, for the young Frenchman has
ever treated Kuoni kindly.

What is amiss? Some swear that he is growing old; but that is untrue, for
he is scarce thirty years of age and in point of strength and
agility--though but a jester--he has no equal in the army of Sachsenberg.
Others jestingly whisper that he is in love, and little do they dream how
near the truth they are!

Alas! Poor Kuoni! For ten years he has gloried in his suit of motley, but
now of a sudden he seems to grow ashamed of his quaint black tunic with
its cap and bells and pointed cape, and in his secret shame, at times he
hangs his head; at times he curses bitterly to himself the fate which has
made him the sport of courtiers, and which seems to forget that he is
human, and that he has a heart.

As he stands upon the balcony, gazing aimlessly now up into the starlit
summer sky, now down upon the sleeping city of Schwerlingen, his long,
lithe figure bathed in a flood of light from the window behind him and
his ears assailed by sounds of music and of revelry, the wretched jester
feels--as he has never felt until to-night--the bitter ignominy of his
position. In an agony rendered all the more terrible by the despair that
fills his soul, he flings himself down upon a stone seat in a corner, and
covers his face with his hands. Thus he sits for some few moments, his
vigorous frame shaken by a fierce sobbing which no tears come to relieve,
until a step close at hand bids him make an effort to overcome his
emotion.

The tall, slim figure of a girl stands for a moment framed in the open
casement, and as, raising his eyes, Kuoni beholds her, he springs
suddenly to his feet and turns his pale countenance towards her, so that
the light from the room beyond falls full upon it, revealing clearly the
signs of the storm of agony that has swept across the jester's soul.

An exclamation of wonder escapes the girl at the sight of that distorted
face.

"Kuoni!" she cries, coming forward, "what is amiss? Have you seen a
ghost?"

"Aye, Madame," he answers, in accents full of bitter, bitter sadness, "I
have indeed seen a ghost--the ghost of happiness."

"And is the sight then so distressing as your face and tone would tell
me? Why, I should have deemed it otherwise."

"Yes, were it tangible, attainable happiness that I had beheld; but I
said the ghost of happiness--in other words, the reflection of the joys
of others--a shadow well calculated to strike despair into the hearts of
those wretches who may not grasp the substance."

"And are you one of those wretches, Kuoni?" enquires the girl, her tone
full of an interest and sympathy such as a wise man might have
misconstrued but which the fool does not. "Why, 'tis said," she
continues, "that a jester's is a gay and careless life. I have even heard
it said by some of those fine gentlemen yonder that it gives rise to envy
in them."

"I doubt it not, I doubt it not," he answers with a laugh of scorn, "and
I dare swear there are many of them whom a fool's cap would fit better
than it does me!"

Then abruptly changing his tone and becoming earnest--

"Fraulein von Lichtenau," he says, scarce above a whisper, "this fête
to-night is given in honour of your betrothal; will you deign to accept a
poor jester's deepest, sincerest wishes for your happiness."

There is something so strange and curious in his tone that the girl feels
herself unaccountably moved by it.

"I accept them and thank you, friend Kuoni, with all my heart," she
answers kindly, giving him her hand.

"You call me friend Kuoni," he cries, drawing a step nearer. "You call
the poor fool, friend! May God bless you for that word!"

"Kuoni! Kuoni!" comes a voice from within; but he heeds it not as,
stooping, he raises her hand to his lips and kisses the slender fingers,
as one might kiss a sacred relic.

"May God bless you, Madame, and if ever it should be your lot to need a
friend, I swear it, by the Mass, that he whom you now honour with that
proud title will be at hand."

Then, tearing himself away before she has time to answer, he enters the
salon.

"Kuoni! Kuoni! Where are you?" cry a dozen voices.

"I am here," he answers sourly; "what is amiss? Are there not fools
enough assembled in one room, but that you must clamour for me to swell
your number?"

He has worn a mask too long to forget the part he plays in life, and as
he stands now before them, all traces of his late emotion have
disappeared from his face, albeit the natural expression,
half-melancholic, half-scornful, remains.

With his dark eyes he sweeps the glittering throng of Court beauties and
gay gallants waiting for some one to take up his challenge.

Where are Felsheim, Altenburg, Briedewald, and the other witty triflers
of ready tongue? Silent! All silent--for they know the jester's virulence
too well to expose themselves to its venom in open Court.

It is the débonnaire young foreigner, the Marquis de Savignon, who is
rash enough to cross weapons with him.

"They tell me, Kuoni," he remarks with a complacent laugh, and in
excellent German tainted but slightly by a foreign accent, "that you are
thinking of abandoning the motley and turning courtier instead."

"That were easy," answers the jester with a shrug, "for 'twixt fool and
courtier there lies but a difference of designation."

"Aye, aye," goes on de Savignon, "but ponder for a moment, my prince of
fools, and think of what would become of Sachsenberg in your absence. His
Majesty will never find such another fool!"

"Not unless he appoints you my successor," is the cool, sharp answer,
whereat a titter arises among those who stand about, which makes the vain
Frenchman turn pale with anger.

"You seem to forget, master fool," he says harshly, "that you are
addressing the Marquis de Savignon and not bandying words with a
fellow-clown!"

He has wounded the jester more deeply than he imagines, and Kuoni's proud
spirit writhes and swells within him 'neath the stinging lash of the
Marquis' scornful words, which remind him anew of the gulf that lies
between their social positions. But naught of this is visible on his
face, over which a bland, indulgent smile is softly spreading.

Only those who are well acquainted with him notice the slight compression
of his thin lips, which, to them, forebodes a cutting retort.

His head on one side and his hand on his chin, he regards de Savignon for
a moment through lids half closed, as it were, in languor. Then, slowly
and almost wearily, he makes answer:

"Nay, Monsieur de Savignon, forgetfulness, methinks, lies more with your
family than mine. Was it not you yourself, my lord, who, whilst at the
siege of La Rochelle--so the story goes--one day when the Rochellais made
a fierce sortie, forgot where the battle was being fought? So that in
your absent-mindedness you galloped madly south, and by nightfall you
were found at Royan, a good ten leagues from the scene of action."

It is de Savignon's turn to tremble now, and as a great burst of laughter
greets the jester's sally, his complexion is of a greyish tint and his
teeth are clenched in anger, noting which, Kuoni continues pitilessly:

"Do you not see the humour of it, my lord? Why look so glum? Bah! You
weary me; there is no more wit in your soul than milk in an oyster!"

And with an easy laugh which contains almost a ring of contempt, the
jester moves away to let others feel the sting of his tongue, from which
none, save the King, are sacred.

For a moment, the Frenchman follows the tall symmetrical figure with his
eyes, then, deeming it best to affect unconcern, he shrugs his shoulders
and, giving vent to a mirthless laugh, passes out on to the balcony to
seek balm for his wounded spirit at the hands of his betrothed.


Chapter II.


During the weeks that follow upon the night of the fête whereat Kuoni von
Stocken so signally insulted the Marquis de Savignon, these two men are
careful to shun each other's presence.

The proud and vain French cavalier is not likely to forget the
humiliation to which he has been subjected, and the memory of it is wont
to make his fingers close over the jewelled hilt of his toy dagger and
black vows of vengeance arise in his heart, fostering the hatred in which
he holds the jester.

But it is not his dagger alone that is ready to do murder. Ugly thoughts
are running in Kuoni's mind, and one night when de Savignon sits, easy in
spirit for the while, telling the lady Louisa something that he has
already recited to her upon several former occasions, he little dreams
that from the curtains at his back two great lustrous eyes are watching
them, and that a nervous hand is gripping a keen Italian blade. Did he
but know how near at hand is death, his laugh would be less gay, his
manner less unconcerned, his mind less easy. But he knows naught of this,
and some angel must be watching over him, for the armed hand, uplifted in
menace, does not descend, the jester sheathes his poniard and departs
noiselessly the way he came.

But as the weeks go swiftly by and the nuptials of the marquis are fast
approaching, the strange and unaccountable moodiness of the whilom
lighthearted jester grows more and more accentuated. Each day he seems to
grow visibly thinner, as if some fell disease were gnawing at his vitals
and slowly sapping his life and strength. Each day his pale cheeks appear
paler and under his eyes there are deep black circles, suggestive of pain
and suffering and sleepless nights.

A more wretched, woe-begone picture than the poor fool presents, when
none are by to spy upon his feelings, it were difficult to conceive.

Meanwhile, however, there are other and graver matters to be considered
in the kingdom of Sachsenberg than the secret agony of a lovesick jester.
Rumours are abroad of a conspiracy to overthrow the Sonsbeck dynasty,
organised, it is said, by many great lords, tired of their young King,
Ludwig IV., who seems overmuch engrossed in imitating the vices of the
Court of his French cousin to pay great heed to matters of state and the
welfare of his people.

'Tis a weakness not uncommon to kings, especially young ones, for
monarchs are but ordinary folk when stripped of their purple. Ludwig,
however, is blessed with a character which, in some matters, is as firm
and earnest as it is weak and frivolous in others; moreover, he is doubly
blessed in the possession of an astute and far-seeing servant in the
person of the Ritter Heinrich von Grunhain, the Captain of his Guards.

He has been forced to listen to the grave things which this gentleman has
to relate, concerning the dissatisfaction of some of the nobles who are
zealously inciting the people to open rebellion, and a drastic line of
action has been drawn up.

The King is seated in his cabinet one night, about a month after the fête
dealt with in the preceding chapter, and a week before the day appointed
for the wedding of the lady Louisa von Lichtenau.

Around the table five men are grouped; two are old and faithful servants
of the late king, his father--the Duke of Ottrau and the Count von Horst;
two are men still in the prime of life, Ritter von Grunhain, the Captain
of his Guards, and Herr von Retzbach, his Minister; whilst the fifth is
none other than the gay young Lord von Ronshausen, his favourite.

There is a solemn and anxious look upon the faces of these six men, for
it is being decided that upon that very night Sachsenberg shall tear a
gruesome page from the history of France--there is to be a parody of the
St. Bartholomée in Schwerlingen before sunrise.

"It is better thus, my lords," says the King, and although his face is
pale and haggard, his voice is calm; "for were we to publish the matter,
and give the traitors open trial, who knows what might ensue? Men are
ever ready to revolt against those who rule them, and who can say but
that the trial of these rebels would swell the ranks of the disloyal--for
treason is an infectious malady--and prove the signal for open revolt? As
it is, when the news goes round, to-morrow, that ten noble lords have
been found murdered in their beds, there will be much marvelling and much
surmising--also, maybe, some grief--but those who have listened to the
doctrines of these ten, and sharpened their weapons in anticipation of a
fray, will understand, and will be stricken with terror at the awful fate
which has overtaken their leaders. Believe me, gentlemen, they will be
silent and they will disperse."

"Will not your Majesty consider--" began the grey-haired Duke of Ottrau;
but the King cut him short.

"I have considered, my lords, and I have decided. What matters the manner
of these men's death? They have richly earned their fate, and if they
were openly tried they could not escape the scaffold--so what difference
does it make whether it be the dagger or the axe? None to them, but much
to me."

The tone is too determined to permit of further argument. It but remains
for Grunhain to receive his Majesty's instructions.

"Here is the list, Captain," the King continues, taking a paper from the
table. "I will read out the names of those whom we have sentenced:
Kervenheim von Huld, Nienberge, Blankenburg, Eberholz, Retzwald,
Leubnitz, Hartenstein, Reussbach, and the French Marquis de Savignon."

"Concerning that last one, Sire," ventures Ronshausen, the favourite,
"has your Majesty remembered that he is a subject of the King of France?"

"I have," answers Ludwig, "and I have also remembered that he--a
foreigner to whom I have ever shown great favour and consideration, and
who, were he to live, would wed one of the noblest ladies of my
Court--couples ingratitude with his treason. No doubt he whom they intend
to set up in my stead has bribed him richly; but he shall pay for his
folly, as others are paying for theirs, with his life: and I fail to see
how I am to be made accountable to the King of France for the chance
assassination of a subject of his, in my capital. The matter is settled,
gentlemen; Ritter von Grunhain knows how to see to its execution. There
is no more to be said," he goes on, rising, "but when you hear midnight
striking in the belfry of St. Oswald, say a prayer, gentlemen, for the
repose of the souls of ten traitors whose knell it will be sounding. And
now, let us join the Court."

One by one, they pass out after the King, and then, when the door has
closed upon the last of them, a head peeps forth from the rich damask
drapery that curtains one of the windows, and a pair of dark eyes hastily
survey the room: the next instant the curtains are parted and Kuoni von
Stocken steps forth.

There is a look of fierce, almost fiendish exultation on his swart face,
and the low mocking laugh that bursts from his thin lips can be likened
to nothing save the chuckle of the Tempter in his hour of victory.

"So, my lord of Savignon, you have been meddling in politics, eh?" he
murmurs, rubbing his lean, nervous hands together; "and to-night you die.
Fool! Arch-fool! That you should be well-born, rich, high in favour at
the Courts of France and Sachsenberg alike, did not suffice your greed,
but you must wish to become a moulder of history besides, and like many
another such before you, you have destroyed yourself! Oh, what a thing is
man! Faugh!"

And with a sneer of contempt for the whole human race in general and the
Marquis de Savignon in particular, Kuoni flings himself into the chair
lately occupied by the King.

"To think," he goes on, "that a man about to become the husband of such a
woman as the lady Louisa von Lichtenau should trifle and fence with
death! By the Mass, Sire," he cries, raising his long arm and speaking as
if the King were there to hear him, "slay him not! Spare him and clothe
him in my suit of motley; he is too marvellous a fool to die!"

Then, of a sudden, the mocking smile fades from his face, to be replaced
by a grave, sad look, as the thought occurs to him: "What will the lady
Louisa think to-morrow, when the news is carried to her? How will she
bear it?"

That she loves de Savignon with all her heart and soul the jester knows
full well, and as he thinks of it he grinds his teeth and drives his
nails into the palms of his clenched hands.

His imagination pictures her as she will be to-morrow, and into his soul
there comes a great overwhelming wave of sorrow and of pity for her,
which cleanses and purifies it of the sinful joy which it harboured but a
moment back. "She will pine away and die of it," he tells himself, "even
as I am pining and dying for love of her! Alas! poor Louisa!" And he
sighs heavily and sorrowfully. Then resting his chin upon his hands and
his elbows on his knees, he sits there deep in thought, his eyes bent
upon the floor.

And thus he sits on for nigh upon an hour, thinking strange thoughts in a
strange manner, and revolving in his mind a strange resolve. At last,
chancing to raise his eyes, his glance alights upon the gold and ivory
time-piece. The sight rouses him, for springing suddenly to his feet--

"Himmel!" he cries. "It wants but half-an-hour to midnight--to the
sounding of his knell."

He pauses for a moment, undecided, then walks swiftly towards the door
and disappears.


Chapter III.


Now it chanced that, owing to a fire which had, a few days before,
destroyed the Palais Savignon, in the Klosterstrasse, the marquis found
himself the guest of his future father-in-law, the Graf von Lichtenau.

Upon the night in question--which a scarlet page of the Chronicles of
Sachsenberg tells us was that of the 12th of August of 1635--de Savignon
had retired to the room set apart in his suite as his bedchamber, just as
eleven was striking.

Feeling himself as yet wakeful, the Frenchman, whose mood is naturally a
poetic one, takes down a French translation of the Odyssey, and, flinging
himself into a luxurious chair, is soon lost in the adventures of Ulysses
on the Island of Calypso. His heart is full of sympathy for the
demi-goddess and of contempt for the King of Ithaca, when a rustling of
the window-curtains brings him back to Sachsenberg and his surroundings,
with a start. Glancing up, he beholds a dark shadow in the casement, and
before he can so much as move a finger a man has sprung into the room,
and Kuoni von Stocken stands before him with a strange look upon his
face.

Imagining that the visit has no friendly purport, the Marquis draws a
dagger from his belt, whereat the shadow of a smile flits across the
jester's solemn countenance.

"Put up your weapon, Monsieur de Savignon," he says calmly, "I am no
assassin, but there are others coming after me who deserve the title."

"What do you mean?" enquires the Marquis haughtily.

"I bring you news, Monsieur," replies Kuoni, sinking his voice to a
whisper, "that the plot to overthrow the Sonsbeck dynasty is discovered."

The Frenchman bounds from his chair as if someone had prodded him with a
dagger.

"You lie!" he shrieks.

"Do I?" answers the other indifferently, "then if it is not yet
discovered, how comes it that I am acquainted with it?"

Then, as if blind to Savignon's agitation, he goes on in the same
deliberate accents.

"I also bring you news that his Majesty is possessed of a list of the
names of the principal leaders; that your name figures upon that list,
and that it is the King's good pleasure that when midnight strikes from
St. Oswald it will announce to ten gentleman that their last hour on
earth is spent; for into the room of each there will penetrate three
executioners to carry out the death-sentence which was passed upon them
without trial, two hours ago, by the King."

The Frenchman is too dazed to reply for a moment; he drops back into his
chair, his cheeks blanched with terror and his eyes staring wildly at the
jester. The matter is too grave, Kuoni's manner too impressive, to leave
any doubts as to the accuracy of his statement.

"And are you one of the three assassins to whom my end has been
entrusted?" says de Savignon at length, a gleam of hatred in his eye and
the memory of his feud with the jester in his mind.

"No," replies Kuoni simply.

"Then why are you here?" the other cries vehemently. "Why? Answer me!
Have you come to gloat over my end?"

"I have come to make an attempt to save you," is the cold, proud answer.

"To save me? Did I hear you aright?"

"Aye, to save you. But come, my lord, there is not a moment to lose if I
am to be successful. Off with your doublet. Quick!"

And as the Marquis mechanically proceeds to obey him, the jester goes on:

"In front of the Rathhaus, at the corner of the Klosterstrasse, you will
find a carriage in waiting. Enter it without speaking; the driver has
received his instructions and will convey you to the village of Lossnitz,
three leagues from here. There is a suit of clothes in the coach, which
you will do well to don. When you stop at the hostelry of the Schwarzen
Hirsch, you will find a horse ready for you; turn its head towards the
frontier; by sunrise you will be a good fifteen leagues from
Schwerlingen, and beyond King Ludwig's reach when he discovers that you
have not died; whilst to-morrow night, if you ride well, you should sleep
in France. Come, take my coat." And, advancing, Kuoni holds out his long
black tunic, which he has removed whilst speaking.

The livery of motley makes the Frenchman pause, and a suspicion flashes
across his mind.

"This is not one of your jests, sir fool?"

"If you doubt me," cries Kuoni, with an impatient gesture, "wait and
see."

"No, no, Kuoni, I believe you," he exclaims, "but why is this necessary?"

"Why?" echoes the other. "Oh thou far-seeing sage! What would the
coachman who is to drive you think, did he behold a cavalier return in my
stead? Besides, what if you chanced upon your assassins between this and
the Rathhaus? Do you not see how my cap and bells would serve you?"

"True, true," murmurs the other.

"Then waste no more time; it wants but a few minutes to midnight now.
Come, on with it!"

Savignon wriggles into the black velvet tunic and Kuoni draws the hood,
surmounted by the cock's comb, well over his head, so that it conceals
his features, then, standing back to judge the effect:

"By the Mass!" he ejaculates with a grim laugh, "how well it becomes you!
Did I not always say it would! Here, take my bauble as well, and there
you stand as thorough a fool as ever strutted in a Royal anteroom. Who
would have thought it? de Savignon turned fool and Kuoni turned courtier!
Ha! ha! 'tis a merry jest, a jest of that prince of jesters--Death!"

"Your merriment is out of season," grumbles the Marquis.

"And so is your chocolate hose with that tunic; but it matters not, 'tis
all a part of this colossal jest."

Then growing serious of a sudden:

"Are you ready? Then follow me; I will set you on your way."

Opening the door, the jester leads the nobleman, silently and with
stealthy tread, out of his chamber and down the broad oak staircase.

He pauses by the wainscot, in the spacious hall below, and after
searching for a few seconds, he alights upon a spring--which,
fortunately, he knows of old. A panel slides back and reveals an opening
through which he conducts the Frenchman.

They emerge presently into a courtyard at the back of the mansion, and
through a small postern they pass out into the street.

Here they pause for a moment; it is commencing to rain; the sky is
overcast and the night is inky black.

"Yonder lies your road," says Kuoni; "at the corner you will find the
coach. Do as I told you, and may God speed you. Farewell!"

"But you?" exclaims de Savignon, a thought for the jester's safety
arising at last in his mind; "are you not coming?"

"I cannot. I must return to impersonate you and receive your visitors,
for, did they find you gone, the pursuit would commence before you were
clear of the city, and you would, of a certainty, be taken."

"But you will be in danger!"

"Have no concern on that score," is the reply, delivered in grim accents.

"But--"

"Enough of buts; begone before midnight strikes, or, by the Mass, your
stay in Schwerlingen will be unpleasantly prolonged. Farewell!"

And, stepping back, the jester slams the door and de Savignon is left
alone, shivering with cold. For a moment the idea again occurs to him
that he is being victimised by Kuoni. But he remembers that were the plot
undiscovered the jester would scarcely be in possession of the secret.

Next he begins to marvel why Kuoni should evince such solicitude for his
escape and for his life, after having always shown himself so bitter an
enemy in the past. However, fear overcomes his doubts; so, swearing that
if the fool has duped him he will return, if it be only to wring his
neck, he sets off briskly in the direction indicated.

Meanwhile, Kuoni has retraced his steps to the Frenchman's bedchamber:
tricked out in de Savignon's clothes and with de Savignon's hat drawn
well over his brows, so as to shade his face, he flings himself into the
chair lately occupied by the Marquis--and waits.

Presently the deep-toned bell of St. Oswald's chimes out the hour of
midnight; scarce has the vibration of the last stroke died away on the
silent night air, when his ear detects another and nearer sound.

He springs up, and turning finds himself confronted by three masked men,
standing, sword in hand, by the open window through which they have
entered. In an instant he has drawn de Savignon's rapier from its
scabbard.

"How now, my masters," he exclaims, mimicking the Frenchman's foreign
accent, "what do you seek?"

"The Marquis Henri de Savignon" says one, in a voice which the jester
does not recognise.

"I am he," he replies haughtily; "what is your business? Are you robbers
or assassins, that you come in this guise and penetrate at such an hour
into my bedchamber?"

"We bear you news," says the former speaker, delivering the words after
the fashion of a man who is reciting a lesson that he has learnt by
heart, "we bear you news that your treason is discovered, and in the
King's name we bid you prepare to die."

"A merry jest, gentlemen! An artful story! You are certainly no common
footpads, but I fear me there is some slight mistake."

"I give you five minutes, by yonder time-piece, wherein to prepare your
soul for the next world."

"It is considerate of you, my masters," retorts Kuoni, the mocking spirit
of the jester asserting itself, "but the boon is unrequested, and, by
your leave, I trust to have many years yet wherein to carry out your
amiable suggestion."

"The man is laughing at us," cries one of the hitherto silent assassins.
"Let us end the business!"

His companions seek to detain him, but, going forward in spite of them,
he crosses swords with Kuoni.

Seeing him engaged, the other two come forward also, and in a few minutes
a terrible fight is raging. There is not, perhaps, in the whole of
Sachsenberg a finer swordsman than this lithe and agile jester, but the
odds are such as no man may hope to strive against victoriously. Before
many minutes have elapsed, one of the assassin's swords has passed
through his right breast.

With a groan he sinks forward in a heap, and the sword he lately held
bounds with a noisy ring upon the parquet floor.

Hurrying steps are heard outside the room, and presently voices are
discernible, as the household, disturbed by the clash of steel and the
din of struggle, is hurrying towards De Savignon's room.

One of the assassins is on the point of going forward to make sure of
their work, by driving his dagger into the heart of the prostrate man,
when, alarmed by the approaching sounds and mindful of their orders not
to allow themselves on any account to be taken, the other two drag him
off through the window before he can accomplish his design.

"Come," says he who delivered the fatal blow, "he will be dead in a few
minutes. That stroke never yet left a man alive."

An instant later the door of the room is burst violently open, and just
as the murderers disappear into the night a curious group of half-clad
men and women with frightened faces stand awe-stricken on the threshold,
gazing at the spectacle before them.

"The Marquis has been slain," cries a voice, which is followed by a
woman's shriek, and as the crowd divides, the old, white-haired Count of
Lichtenau enters the room followed by his half-fainting daughter.

Together they stand gazing at the body on the floor, and at the dark
crimson stain which is slowly spreading about it.

Then suddenly--

"Henri!" shrieks the girl, and rushing forwards, she falls on her knees
beside the unconscious Kuoni. Then, as her father gently turns the body
over to ascertain the nature of his hurt, another and different cry
escapes her. But the jester reviving, and opening his eyes at the sound,
meets her gaze and whispers faintly--

"Hush, my lady! do not say that I am not the Marquis. As you value his
life, keep silent and let all believe and spread the report that the
Marquis is dying."

"What does it mean? what does it mean?" she wails, wringing her hands,
yet, with quick instinct, understanding that serious motives have
dictated Kuoni's words.

"Send them away--your father also--I will explain," gasps the jester, and
at each word he utters the blood wells forth from his wound.

When all have withdrawn, and when she has raised his head and pillowed it
in her lap, he tells her all, bidding her not to allow the real truth of
the matter to transpire until morning.

"And you, YOU, Kuoni, of all men, who have ever seemed to hate him, you
have so nobly given your life to buy his safety!" she exclaims.

"No, my lady, I have not," he answers; "I have given my life not for him
but for you. I wished to save him because you loved him. And because I
wished to spare you the anguish of beholding his dead body, I have
changed places with him. His life is valuable to some one--mine is
worthless."

The girl can find no words wherein to answer fittingly, but her tears are
falling fast and they are eloquent to him. She understands at last!

"I am so happy," he murmurs presently, "oh, so happy! Had I lived my head
would never have been pillowed on your knee. Had I lived, I should never
have dared to tell you--as I do now, when in the presence of death all
differences of birth and station fade away--that I love you."

The girl trembles violently; then for a second their eyes meet. She were
not a woman did her heart not swell with fondness and pity for the poor
despised fool, who to ensure her happiness has sacrificed his life.

Growing bold in the dread presence of the Reaper--

"Louisa," he gasps, his voice still fainter than before, "I am dying;
there are none to witness, and none will ever know--kiss me!"

Weeping softly, the girl stoops until her loose flowing hair falls about
his head and neck, and her lips, so rich with the blood of life and
youth, touch his, upon which the chill of death is settling.

A quiver runs through his frame, his chest heaves with a long last
sigh--then all is still, but for the gentle sobbing of the girl whose
tears are falling fast upon the upturned face, which smiles upon her in
death.



MR. DEWBURY'S CONSENT


I am the humblest-minded man in the world, but if you should wound my
feelings my humility is at once transformed into pride and
self-assertiveness, my habitual meekness converted into retaliatory
arrogance.

Thus, when Mr. Dewbury pointed out to me--with that brutality for which
he is notorious--that I was a young man of idle ways, that my means were
too restricted to permit of idleness, and that consequently he would
oppose my wedding his niece and ward, I did not adopt a humble or
conciliatory tone, I didn't swear to achieve great things so as to become
worthy of the union to which I aspired; I ate no humble-pie. I made no
promises; I rose up in all the panoply of outraged pride, and turned to
rend Mr. Dewbury.

I pointed out to him that to describe me as idle was to distort facts,
and that if my means were restricted, they were at least sufficient to
keep a loving couple from absolute want. Incidentally I threw it out that
I belonged to the great aristocracy of genius--at which Mr. Dewbury
audibly sniffed--and that my name was a name likely to be heard of
presently.

But the rending of Mr. Dewbury was more easy to project than to achieve.
Alas! The very stupidity of the man was an impenetrable bulwark, a
demoralising array of chevaux-de-frise against which I hurled the
onslaught of my logic and my eloquence, only to fall back baffled.

I could lure him into no fresh statement; like the dull-witted creature
he was he took refuge in repeating the one odious sentence that he had
coined to describe my condition--a sentence that gained in neither point
nor effectiveness from being repeated. Mr. Dewbury's money was made for
him in a factory, and from the rudeness he displayed on the painful
occasion of which I write, I might reasonably adduce that his manners
were of like origin.

I may have been foolish to have adopted the attitude of retaliation--in
short, to have lost my temper--for when you hope to become a man's
nephew-in-law it is perhaps as well to conciliate him; when you have
become his nephew-in-law you please yourself.

"The profession of letters, sir," said I, with the loftiness of the
broad-minded man when drawn to dissent from one whose views are narrow,
"is a profession that has been followed by men of an eminence which
neither you nor I may hope to attain."

I was by no means sure that I should not attain it, but for politic
reasons I thought it as well to couple myself with him.

"And as for my being idle," I repeated, "the statement is quite
inaccurate. I am a student of men."

"You may study men as long and as closely as you please," said he. "That
does not concern me. But I certainly intend to prevent your pursuing the
study of woman in the person of my niece." He delivered himself of this
with irritating smugness; to his benighted soul it may have commended
itself as a witticism. "You are an idle young man," he said again with
odious insistence, "and idle young men incline to vice."

"If a man incline to vice, Mr. Dewbury, he will be vicious whether idle
or not."

"I do not wish to be drawn into an argument."

"That," said I, "is the last defence of one who has no argument."

It was not a wise thing to have said, perhaps. But then Dewbury was by no
means an old man. He was under forty, and there was little grey in his
hair. There was, however, a devilishly truculent tongue in his head, and
the brutal discourtesy with which he brought our discussion to a close
left me in no doubt as to the hopelessness of my condition.

Perhaps I was unnecessarily despondent, for, after all, so long as the
girl be true, what signify others? But that afternoon it seemed to me
that mine was a poor, blighted young life. I resolved to leave
Stollbridge at once and return to town. If I had remained so long in that
little provincial place it had been solely because Mildred dwelt there.
Now that I was to see Mildred no more the attractions faded.

But next morning I received a note from her--a hurried, panic-stricken
scrawl--to the effect that if the weather were fine she would be on the
river that afternoon. It fortunately was fine, and hot, even for July. So
after lunch I took the canoe, and a couple of miles up-stream I came upon
her punt made fast under a tree of very usefully overhanging branches.

I went alongside, and passing from the canoe to the punt I assisted her
to make tea. She says that I only looked on while she made it. She is
probably right. Mildred is a distinctly pretty girl, and I know of few
pursuits more engrossing than the contemplation of her.

At last, when she had handed me a cup, and settled herself in the rainbow
of her cushions,

"Paddy," said she very sorrowfully, "the uncle has forbidden me to speak
to you again."

"This disobedience," said I, "is very sweet."

"But what happened? What did he say to you?"

I told her, and she was a very angel in her indignation.

"But you are anything but idle, Paddy," she cried, and I felt that I had
never really loved Mildred until that moment. She was the one person in
all the world who understood me.

"That is precisely what I told your uncle, and I confirmed it by
arguments that no man in his senses could have failed to appreciate. He,
however," and I waved my hand widely, "refuses to look upon my occupation
in the light of serious work."

"Paddy, you must do something to prove him wrong."

"Mount Parnassus is lofty," I commented dolefully. "Its heights are steep
and difficult to scale even for the stronger and better equipped than I.
I may be years reaching the summit; I may never reach it; and, anyhow, I
can't wait."

"What I mean," she explained, "is that you should do something really
useful; something that he would consider useful. Go into business."

"I have no head for figures. I should only lose the little that I have."

"A profession then," she insisted.

"What professions are there? For the Church I have no vocation; law and
medicine are already overcrowded; besides, they blunt a man's
individuality."

"Is there nothing else?"

"There is hair-dressing and chiropody--both estimable professions in
their way, only this is an age of prejudices, and perhaps you wouldn't
care to marry me then."

"How can you laugh, Paddy?"

"Laughter," said I oracularly, "is one of sorrow's most terrible
expressions. My poor Millie, I was never meant to be useful in that
sense. I am just a dreamer, and to wake me would be to spoil me, or else
set me to spoil other things, which might be worse."

"You are the dearest madman in all the world."

"Thanks, Mildred," I sighed gratefully.

"I'll be of age in a year," she reflected.

"And you'll wait, Millie?"

I find a difficulty in chronicling her reply, for she expressed herself
without the use of words. But it convinced me, and it was very comforting
and fortifying even if we did nearly upset the punt.

So much consolation did I gather from that interview that I went up to
town in a moderately cheerful spirit on the morrow, and in a cheerful
spirit did I write to her twice in the ensuing week. But the second of
these letters was returned to me enclosed in one of the most discourteous
epistles that I have ever read, from her uncle. Now for all that I had
every reason to be pleased with the composition of my letters to Mildred,
I hardly desired for them such publicity as this, so I wrote no more.

It was while I was a prey to my fresh sorrows at this interruption of our
correspondence, that Jessie Willoughby came to the rescue like a fairy
godmother. I was wandering aimlessly down Piccadilly one sunny afternoon
when she suddenly confronted me.

"Paddy!"

Now, although she was my sister's dearest friend and my sometime playmate
grown into a sufficiently beautiful woman to rejoice the sight of any
discriminating man, so dejected was my condition that her appearance
afforded me no pleasure. Still I was polite.

"I--I don't see the peacock," said I, looking round.

"Peacock?" she echoed, and her brows puckered, "What peacock?"

Then I laughed.

"Why bless me, it's you, Jessie. Your pardon; I mistook you for Juno."

"Oh?" And to get level she drew unflattering parallels between me and
every god, demi-god and hero of the ancients, and wound up by asking me
whither I was going.

"To the dogs," said I, mournfully.

"I mean this afternoon," she explained.

"Oh, anywhere. It doesn't matter."

"Come with me then."

I shook my head.

"You look too gay for me; I feel too sad for you. No doubt you are as
anxious to preserve your gaiety as I am to harbour my melancholy. By
association we should probably both suffer."

But she insisted, and when Jessie insists she is difficult to withstand.
Five minutes later we were on our way to her studio in a hansom. She was
expecting, she told me, some friends to tea. Jessie Willoughby was an
artist--at least she believed herself one, as did also a few admiring
friends; admirers, it must be confessed, of her delightful personality,
her toilettes and her beauty, rather than of her art. Blessed with a
sufficiency of this world's goods, Jessie could afford to play at being a
Bohemian, make nasty messes with colours and enjoy the emancipation from
conventional trammels that is the prerogative of the class to which she
claimed--by the slenderest of artistic rights--to belong.

Surrounded by the daubs that marred what otherwise might have been a
handsome room, I took Jessie into my confidence before the others
arrived. She heard me through patiently and sympathetically.

"My poor Paddy, what a sombre tragedy! Won't you tell me her name?"

"Millie," said I.

"How fresh and innocent," she rhapsodised, "how pretty, how sweet, how
suggestive of buttercups and things."

"Jessie, you are laughing at me," I protested.

"Indeed, no. But what is her other name? Who is she?"

"Millie Dewbury."

"Of Stollbridge?" she asked, looking up with what seemed a new interest.

"Why, yes. Do you know her?"

"No, I don't know her," she replied. Her eyes danced with an amusement
that I could not understand, and from her parted lips came a soft, cooing
laugh.

"What amuses you?" I asked a trifle sulkily, for although we realise that
our sufferings may prove a source of entertainment to the rest of the
world, we hardly care for the friend to whom we expose them to laugh in
our face for answer.

"Paddy," she said gravely, "I remember that you used to have a poor
opinion of a woman's wit. I am going to show you how very wrong you were.
Be guided by me; follow my advice implicitly, and in a week your
engagement to this Millie of yours shall receive her uncle's sanction."

I think that my stare was justified.

"How can you help me?" I asked at last, and then, before she could reply,
the door was opened, and to my disgust her maid announced a visitor. On
the heels of this one--a young man with a flowing necktie, straw-coloured
hair and pince-nez--came a host of others, until her room was filled by
as motley an assemblage of men and women as ever the gregariousness of
human nature drew together. They were mostly Bohemians, some in stern
reality, others mere make-believes like herself, and in a more placid
frame of mind I might have found much to interest and amuse me in the
observation of them. As it was I sat preoccupied, making abortive
attempts at conversation with a fluffy-haired little girl--a musician, I
think--who for her sins had been entrusted to me by our hostess. Jessie
had told her that I was a young man of parts, a writer of some promise.
From my general dullness she may have been justified in assuming me a
humorist.

Of a sudden, however, my interest in my surroundings was vigorously
aroused by the shock of surprise that I received when the maid
announced--"Mr. Dewbury." He was certainly the last man in the world I
expected to see, and this was the last place in the world in which I
expected to see him.

He came forward now, the very incarnation of geniality and eagerness--a
sort of transfigured Dewbury whom hitherto I had never met--and as he
shook hands with Jessie, I clearly heard her thank him for the flowers he
had sent, whereat my wonder grew. She gave him some tea, and then leaving
him in conversation with a struggling young painter--whether struggling
to live or struggling to paint was not made clear to me--she came to sit
beside me.

"Well?" she inquired, "Are you surprised?"

"Of course I am. I had no notion that he was in town, nor even that you
knew him."

"To the observer," she murmured tritely, "life is a never-ending round of
surprises. I may have one or two more for you before long. Paddy, I am
your good angel."

She was smiling at me with eyes so full of adoration that but for the
memory of Mildred they might have proved my undoing. I looked across at
Mildred's uncle to find his glance riveted upon me. Where now was the
geniality? Where now the eagerness? The Dewbury that sat there now was
the Dewbury that I knew--scowling and malevolent. I smiled and nodded
easily. He acknowledged my greeting without warmth, and turned to
struggle into conversation with the struggling painter.

Jessie seemed to forget her guests. She drew me into a spirited
conversation, consisting on my part of endless inquiries into the methods
she intended to pursue to assist me, and on hers of endless, evasive
persiflage, which, however amusing to her, was peculiarly trying to me.
Ever and anon Dewbury would glance in our direction, his eyes eloquent
with unrest. It occurred to me that he wished to speak to Jessie, but
that my presence restrained him.

At last her guests began to depart, and little by little the number ebbed
until only Dewbury and I were left. We carried on a conversation for some
moments--that is to say, Jessie talked, addressing her remarks mainly to
me--until with an unconscious sigh Mr. Dewbury rose and murmured that he
must be going.

"I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you at the Hampshire's to-night,"
said he. But Jessie shook her head.

"I am afraid not. Paddy has asked me to dinner," she added in her breezy
way, "and we are killing the fatted calf in honour of his return to
town."

Now I had done nothing of the sort, and I was aghast to hear her. But my
feelings must have been as water to wine compared with Dewbury's. His
eyebrows went up until they threatened to join forces with his hair, and
in tones of unmistakable horror--

"You are having dinner with Mr. Holford?" he gasped.

She laughed, and as if to explain--

"Why Paddy and I are old friends," she cried, and he, forced to accept
that explanation, withdrew.

She watched him depart, and her merry eyes became for a second quite
serious. "Poor fellow," she murmured in a voice that was like a caress,
and which set me thinking. Then she turned to me--

"Run along now, Paddy, there's a good child. You may come and see me in
the morning. Eleven o'clock sharp. And if you would serve your interests
you had better bring me some flowers."

"But are you not coming to dinner?" I inquired, more and more puzzled.

"I have changed my mind."

"Yes, but--"

The merriest of laughs rippled from her lips, and her grey eyes were
a-dance with amusement.

"Oh, Paddy, Paddy, I always thought a writer was a professional observer.
I am afraid you will never achieve greatness. But there--if you can't see
what I'm doing for you, I am not going to explain. It's something I
wouldn't do for anyone else, Paddy; and, anyhow, it is something that is
going to lead you to buy an engagement ring this week for your little,
rustic Millie."

It may be that I am, after all, a singularly dull-witted person; it
certainly seems to me now that I should have understood it all along, but
my mind was dense as a fog that evening. At least, however, the fog was
pierced by the ray of hope she cast upon me with such encouraging
assurance, and influenced by it, I grew sanguine and cheerful.

Eleven o'clock next morning found me on her doorstep, a bunch of red
roses in my hand, and there, to my vast surprise, I was joined, as the
maid admitted me, by Dewbury himself, also bearing a bouquet--a mass of
orchids, any single bloom of which must have cost as much as all my roses
put together. He appeared no less surprised to meet me, and his greeting
could hardly have been more thorough in its surliness. It came to me
then--as, indeed, it might have come to any fool--that Dewbury was in
love with Jessie. And still I did not see light.

"She was all smiles to receive us. She took his bouquet first--he took
excellent care that she should--and gushed over that costly collection of
rare petals. Then she took up mine, and buried her face in the roses.

"I love roses," she vowed. "They are so warm, so sweet, so--so generous.
I could surround myself with roses. Couldn't you, Mr. Dewbury?"

"I daresay," he temporised, writhing visibly.

"A rose always appeals to me as a flower with a soul--a great soul. Do
you never feel like that towards it?"

"I am afraid I have never thought about it," he grunted.

"Haven't you," said she with as much horror as though he had confessed to
never attending church. "Ah, but then you are not a poet," she
added--which after all was not a great discovery.

"Indeed no," said I, seizing the opportunity to balance matters with him.
"Mr. Dewbury follows no such useless vocation. He is no dreamer--not he.
He is a utilitarian; believes in being useful in the world and all that;
manufactures things."

St. Lawrence on the gridiron must have experienced sensations of positive
delight when contrasted with Mr. Dewbury's feelings at that moment.
Jessie took pity on him, and putting down the roses began to extol the
beauty of the orchids until the smiles returned to his face.

We stayed half an hour and left together. But before we left Jessie
slipped a note into my hand.

As we walked away from the house, Dewbury turned to me.

"Miss Willoughby seems to be a great friend of yours," he said sourly.

I nearly blurted out that we were "sort of brother and sister." But
intuition came to the rescue.

"Oh, dear, yes," I assented, "Dear girl, Jessie, is she not?"

He looked at me in silence, and I thought there was a good deal of
unnecessary contempt in his glance. Then he put up his hand to stop a
passing hansom, and without displaying the manners to ask me whether he
could give a lift, he bade me good morning.

When he was gone I opened Jessie's note. It suggested that I should get
myself a stall at the Haymarket that night. She would be there with her
cousins, the Sutfields, and she urged me to go up to their box. All this
I did, and, standing behind Jessie's chair after the first act, I saw
Dewbury's glowering eye raised to us from the stalls.

Two days later I again took tea at her studio. There was more or less the
same crowd, and the by now inevitable Mr. Dewbury. Of course I was
beginning to see light, and when I perceived that she really did like
Millie's uncle--and, after all, I daresay that there was a great deal
about him that was likeable and presentable--I understood what a
thoroughly good sort Jessie was, and how deeply I stood in her debt.

It was a Saturday, and as I was leaving the studio, she audibly promised
to meet me at Paddington at eleven o'clock next morning. Dewbury could
not fail to hear and to gather, of course, that a day up the river had
been planned. I left him there, and went out to dine with some friends
that night. When later I got home there was a wire from Jessie commanding
me not to leave my rooms on any account in the morning.

I puzzled over it, but the solution came at ten o'clock next day when Mr.
Dewbury was announced.

He was very cold and very distant, and he addressed me as though I were
one of the men whom he did business with.

"I have come to ask you, sir, whether you consider it consistent with
honesty and dignity to write such letters as your last one to my niece
while carrying on a very pronounced flirtation here with another lady."

"And may I ask you, sir," said I, in a tone that gave him back his
iciness with interest, "whether you consider it consistent with the
honesty and dignity to which you allude, to read letters that are
addressed to somebody else?"

He bounded out of his chair at that.

"I did not read it," he exclaimed.

"Are you not rash then in passing judgement upon its contents?"

"A fool could guess them knowing the relations that existed between
yourself and my niece. You don't doubt me?"

"Not for a moment," said I in tones which were meant to convey the very
opposite. "May I ask, sir, how my behaviour can further concern or
interest you? You have closed your house against me; you have forbidden
me to see Mildred; you take care that I shall not write to her. Are you
not satisfied, or is it that, taking a keen interest in my welfare, and
having some notion that a literary man should be wedded only to his art,
you wish to ensure for me a future of aesthetic celibacy?"

He was thoughtful for a moment. Then, instead of the anger with which I
had expected him to answer me--

"It has occurred to me, Paddy," said he very mildly--and this return to
the use of my sobriquet made me suddenly hopeful--"it has occurred to me
that after all I may have been a trifle hasty over that Stollbridge
affair."

"I daresay it was for the best," said I, whereat alarm spread itself upon
his face.

"I mean that perhaps I had no right to separate you and Mildred. She will
wait for you and--well, there's always a danger attached to a woman's
waiting for a man. In a city like London there are so many distractions;
so much may occur. I have been thinking it over, and do you know I have
come to the conclusion that in matters of this kind perhaps young people
themselves are the best judges, and that after all it might on the whole
be wiser if I were to sanction your engagement."

"That is very good of you, sir," said I, in a perfectly colourless voice,
which must have left him still uneasy.

"Supposing that I were to do so, Paddy--what course would you adopt?"

"I should return to Stollbridge and work there. As you say, there are
rather many distractions in town, and a young man may find them
militating against his work."

He was visibly relieved.

"My dear boy," said he, "if I have been hasty I am sure you will forgive
me."

Of course I forgave him, for who could have withheld pardon under the
circumstances. That very afternoon I travelled down to Stollbridge to
bear Mildred the good news.

In the middle of the following week she had a wire from her uncle
announcing his engagement.

"Isn't it droll?" she laughed, holding out the telegram to me, "Fancy the
uncle being engaged! I shall be one of Jessie's bridesmaids."

"I think," said I, "that that is about the least we can do for Jessie."



THE BAKER OF ROUSILLON


It was in Brumaire of the year 2 of the French Republic, One and
Indivisible--November of 1793 by the calendar of slaves--that, whilst on my
way to rejoin my regiment--then before Toulon--I was detained in Rousillon
by orders of no less a personage than Robespierre himself, and billeted
for three days upon a baker and dealer in wines of the name of Bonchatel.

This Bonchatel proved an excellent host. He was a man of whimsical and
none too loyal notions concerning the Republic, and to me he expressed
those notions with an amusing and dangerous frankness, explaining his
indiscretion in so trusting me by the statement that he knew an officer
was not a mouchard.

Had not Fate decreed that Bonchatel should have an enemy who gave him
some concern, it is likely I had found him a yet pleasanter host--though
it is also likely that he had continued a baker to the end of his days.
As it was, he would fall ever and anon into fits of abstraction; his brow
would be clouded, and his good-humoured mouth screwed with concern. To
the dullest it might have been clear that he nursed a secret sorrow.

"Citizen-Captain," said he on the second day of my sojourn at his house,
"you have the air of a kind-hearted man, and I will confide in you a
matter that vexes me not a little, and fills me at times with the gravest
apprehensions."

And with that he proceeded to relate how a ruffianly cobbler, originally
named Coupri, but now calling himself Scævola to advertise his
patriotism, who--by one of the ludicrous turns in the machinery of the
Revolution--had been elected President of the Committee of Public Safety
of Rousillon, had cast the eyes of desire upon Amélie (Bonchatel's only
daughter) and sought her to wife. Ugly as the Father of Sin himself, old
and misshapen, the girl had turned in loathing from his wooing, whilst
old Bonchatel had approved her attitude, and bidden the one-time cobbler
take his suit to the devil.

"I saved my child then," my host concluded, "but I am much afraid that it
was no more than a postponement. This Scævola swore that I should
bitterly regret it, and since then he has spared no effort to visit
trouble upon me. Should he succeed, and should the Committee decree my
imprisonment, or my death even, upon some trumped-up charge, I shudder to
think of what may befall my poor Amélie."

I cheered the man as best I might, making light of his fears and
endeavouring to prove them idle. Yet idle they were not. I realised it
then, knowing the power that such a man as Scævola might wield, and I was
to realise it yet more keenly upon the morrow.

I was visited in the afternoon of the next day by a courier, who brought
me a letter from "the Incorruptible," wherein he informed me that he
would be at Rousillon that night at ten o'clock. He bade me wait upon him
at the Mairie, keeping his coming a secret from all without exception.

Now between my receipt of that letter and the advent in Rousillon of the
all-powerful Robespierre there was played out in the house of Bonchatel a
curious comedy that had tragedy for a setting.

Scarce was my courier departed, when into the shop lounged an unclean
fellow in a carmagnole, who demanded a two-pound loaf of bread. Misliking
his looks, Bonchatel asked to see his money, whereupon, with a curse upon
all aristo-bakers who did not know a patriot and a true man when they saw
one, the fellow produced a soiled and greasy assignat for twenty francs,
out of which he bade him take payment. But Bonchatel shook his head.

"If you will have my bread, my friend, you must pay money for it."

"Name of a name, citizen," roared the other, "what am I offering you?"

"A filthy scrap of worthless paper," returned Bonchatel, stung to so
fittingly describe it by the other's insolence.

There was an evil gleam in the patriot's bloodshot eye.

"Now, by St. Guillotine, I would citizen Scævola had heard those words,
and you would have done your future baking in another oven, wherein you
would have played the rôle of the loaf," he rejoined. "Do you, miserable
federalist that you are, dare to apply such terms to an assignat of the
French Republic?

"My friend," said Bonchatel, endeavouring to hedge, "I spoke hastily,
maybe. But tell me: to whom shall I tender that paper in my turn? Who
will accept it as money?"

"Why, any man that is not a traitor to the Nation."

"Then it must be that there are none but traitors in France. See you, my
friend, I have upstairs a trunk full of these notes, which have been
tendered me of late, and which I have taken, but which none will take
from me."

"The Republic will cash them, failing all others," cried the customer.

"The Republic?" blazed Bonchatel, with fresh indiscretion. "Out of empty
coffers?"

"Look you, citizen-baker," said the other, with that air of exaggerated
toleration that marks a temper at its lowest ebb. "I am not come here to
talk politics, but to buy bread. Will you or will you not sell it me?"

"I will gladly, for payment of coin."

"You definitely refuse this assignat?"

"Definitely."

The patriot gathered up the rejected note, folded it with ostentation,
and moved towards the door. On the threshold he turned. "You will be
sorry for this, citizen," he threatened, and was gone.

Poor Bonchatel looked at me out of a face that had grown very pale. "You
see, Captain, how I am persecuted," he complained.

"I see that you have behaved in a very unwise and hot-headed manner," I
answered, though not unkindly. "Surely you had done better to have given
this fellow the loaf he wanted, rather than take the consequences of his
complaint to the Revolutionary Committee."

"Give him the loaf?" returned Bonchatel. "But that would not have been
all! I should have been forced also to give him change in silver for his
twenty francs."

"Even that might be easier to suffer than--" I stopped.

"Than the guillotine, you would say, Captain. But, my faith, if I must
die, I would as soon be guillotined as starved; and if this state of
things is to continue I must assuredly come to penury ere long. I did not
exaggerate when I told him that I had a boxful of assignats. They have
been forced upon me in this manner, and unless I am to be utterly ruined
I must cry halte-là, once and for all, and refuse paper that I cannot in
my turn convert into money without turning informer. Let them guillotine
me and make an end of it," he concluded stoically, as he dropped into a
chair.

"And your daughter?" I ventured.

"Ah, Bon Dieu, yes. What is to become of her, misérable that I am!"

The tyranny and injustice of the thing revolted me. Was there nought I
might do? Then, in a flash, I remembered Robespierre's approaching visit.
I would appeal to him. Yet when he came to learn the charge that was
advanced against Bonchatel he would be little likely to pity him. I
thought hard whilst Bonchatel sat cursing his fate and praying for the
damnation of Scævola, yet without at the moment arriving at any solution
of the difficulty.

At eight o'clock that night there came a loud knocking at Bonchatel's
door, and a moment later the baker, very pale and trembling, entered my
room. "He is here, Captain," he cried. "Scævola himself has come, and he
has brought the whole Committee with him."

"Peste," I ejaculated, "he has himself well attended, this
cobbler-president. You had best admit them, my friend," I added, and as I
spoke I was thinking busily.

"My boy has gone to open. What shall I do, Captain? Can you give me no
help?" In his despair he was rocking his arms to and fro.

"Tell me," I inquired, "is the Committee of Rousillon given to extreme
measures?"

"The Committee of Rousillon is Scævola. What he wills, the others do--and
they call this liberty and equality. God help poor France!"

"What manner of men are they?"

"The very flower of the gutter--the very scum of Rousillon, else would
they never have elected Scævola their president."

"Are they men who would easily be tempted to a meal?"

"Aye are they--famished as rats, hungry as they are unclean."

"And thirsty?"

"Thirsty as the desert, and as drunken as France herself--poor, poor
France!"

"Bonchatel," said I, "attend to what I am about to say." And in as few
words as I could, I gave him sounder advice than ever a man purchased in
the shop of an attorney. He listened to me with brightening eye; he
chuckled when I had done, and softly rubbed his palms together; and when
he turned to go below he had regained his composure, and walked with the
elastic gait of a young man.

I followed him down, and in his shop I found the committee of ten--a dirty
company that would have put to the blush even those wild, ragged brigands
that marched from Marseilles to Paris in the summer of '92.

They greeted Bonchatel with sullen, unfriendly glances, that boded ill.
Then, seeing me, Scævola stood forward, and hailed me in the name of the
Republic as choicely sent to witness how the Committee of Public Safety
of Rousillon dealt with a traitor. He was, I think, the foulest-looking
creature to which ever the name of man was applied. Certainly no pride of
office had inspired in him a desire for cleanliness. He wore a blouse,
greasy, patch-relieved breeches, wooden sabots, and the eternal red cap
of the patriot. His waist was untidily cinctured by the tricolor sash of
office, which acted as belt for a rusty hanger and receptacle for a brace
of horse-pistols. His brow was low, his eyes small and cunning, and the
rest of his face enveloped in a coarse, straggling, iron-grey beard.

Clearly he set the fashions for his companions, who differed from him
only in slight details; the general air was the same.

"Citizen Bonchatel," he began, in a voice of thunder, "know you the
object of this visit?"

"You are not come, I take it, to buy bread?" Bonchatel inquired meekly.

"We do not buy bread--the children of France do not buy bread from
traitors."

"Traitors?" echoed my host. "This to me? Citizens, you are come hither to
make merry."

A sardonic grin spread on Scævola's face. "We are come hither to do
justice," he amended viciously. "Answer me, citizen: did you an hour ago
refuse to accept, in payment for the loaf which he came here to purchase,
the assignat tendered you by a citizen of the French Republic?"

"I--refuse an assignat?" gasped Bonchatel like an actor born.

"Did you, or did you not?"

"But what a question? If there is a form of money that takes my fancy, it
is this paper-money of the Republic. It is so--so convenient,
Citizen-President, so light, so--so eminently portable. Why, I have
converted all my poor savings into assignats. I--"

"Enough lies!" burst out Scævola, showing his fangs.

"Lies? Oh, citizen, what lie is it has been carried to you?--for I see
now that you are in earnest. Assuredly some malicious, ill-disposed
person would do poor Bonchatel an injury. And I mind me now that I lack
not enemies in Rousillon, concerning whom it has for some time been my
intention to appeal to our enlightened Committee, so that justice may be
done me. I take this opportunity of your presence here, citizens, upon
the investigation of a charge that is utterly unfounded, to lay before
you my very serious complaint."

"Of what does he talk?" broke in the president, with a snarl of contempt.
"What charge do you call unfounded? Tremble, fool, for the vengeance of
the Nation is upon you. The man who came to you for bread was not the
workman he seemed, but a spy sent out by this Committee. We heard of your
refusal yesterday to accept an assignat, and mistrusting our
informant--for how believe one whom was accounted a true patriot capable
of so vile a conduct?--we sent an emissary of our own to-day to put you to
the test."

Bonchatel smiled suavely, and suavely waved his hand, as if to put aside
a trivial matter that vexed him not at all. "The falseness of the
accusation you appear to have received against me is a matter which I
shall have, I trust, no difficulty in making clear."

"Do so, then," bellowed Scævola.

"A moment, citizen. I would first have you appreciate the magnitude of
the injustice whereof I am a victim, and I beseech you hear my complaint.
Certain malevolent and slanderous persons of Rousillon have spread it
abroad that the bread I sell is coarse, and my wines green and
undrinkable. You may conceive, citizens, how distressing to me is this
complaint, and how damaging to my trade, since my customers, having given
ear to that slander, have conveyed their patronage elsewhere, and my
trade is rapidly diminishing."

"How does this concern the assignat ?" demanded Scævola impatiently.

"It does not; but it concerns me. It concerns a citizen of Rousillon,
whom it is your sacred duty--as the trustees of the public safety and
welfare--to protect. Now were I to have the voices of judges so impartial
and honest as are you, and of so weighty an influence as is yours,
citizens, to proclaim false those slanders, I should of a certainty
confound my enemies and win back my customers."

"But the assignat?" roared Scævola.

"Patience, Citizen President," returned Bonchatel calmly; and the
president, shrugging his shoulders in his despair, resigned himself to
the baker's irrepressible address.

"Now, citizens," pursued Bonchatel, "ere you can do me the justice I
crave at your hands, you must satisfy yourselves that my complaint is not
without grounds, and that my detractors have lied. For this there could
be, citizens, no better occasion than the present, now that you are all
here assembled. And to the end that you may pronounce judgment I invite
you ail to sit down and taste my bread and my wine."

There was amongst that body of half-starved tatterdemalions a stir as of
a breeze through a forest, and on more faces than one satisfaction was
writ large. But Scævola had that vengeance of his too prominently in his
mind to permit himself to be so readily allured--for all that his throat
grew dry, no doubt, at the very name of wine.

"This, citizen Bonchatel," he announced with great firmness, "is a matter
that we may pass on to discuss after we have settled the question of the
assignat."

"Why, as for that trivial business," rejoined the baker brazenly, "I had
thought we might discuss it at table. Have no care, citizens; it is a
slander I shall easily confute."

"But yes: at table," cried one.

"Assuredly these are things that may be best discussed over a meal,"
protested another. And in the wake of these came other equally avid
assents, born of their ill-fed condition and natural drought.

Scævola swung round to face them with a snarl. "Name of a name,
citizens," he fumed, "are we to observe no rules of procedure? No, no--"
(he waved his hands frantically in his search for the word), "no natural
sequence?"

"What need of it?" demanded one.

"Why, yes," put in another; "are we free men, or are we bound by the
rules that bore the late tyrants to their destruction? The citizen
desires our judgment upon his bread and wine; to refuse would be culpably
to neglect our sacred duty to the Nation--it would be criminal, my
friends. Why then delay it for the sake of a matter of twenty francs?"

Bonchatel watched the struggle with eager eyes. A happy thought occurred
to him to heighten the attractions of his board. "Amélie," he called from
the door leading to the interior, "bring that fine smoked ham from the
kitchen, and the cold roast capon that was for our supper. Thus,
citizens," he said, turning to them again, "you will be better able to
judge how my bread tastes and how my wine drinks when taken with proper
viands."

For Scævola to rule them after that was an impossibility. He made the
attempt, but at last tossed his arms to heaven in a gesture of
helplessness and despair, as his committee tumbled pêle-mêle into the
inner room, where a table was spread, bearing a dozen flasks of stout red
wine, a basket of newly-baked bread, and an array of platters laden with
pieces of capon and slices of succulent ham. Like a pack of famished
wolves the Committee of Public Safety of Rousillon fell upon the fare
provided, with never another thought for the business of the Republic and
the rejected assignat which had been the cause of their coming.

Scævol