Robert Tournay Part 38

"Do you see that man skulking in the shadow by the wall?" asked Tournay, pointing de Lacheville out to the jailer. "When did he come here?"

"A few days ago. Either the same evening you were brought in, or the day following," was the reply.

"The same evening!" exclaimed Tournay to himself as he followed St.

Hilaire to their cell. "Robespierre has indeed been consistent in that poor devil's case."

The Countess d'Arlincourt drew up a little stool and placed herself at the feet of her friend, Madame de Remur. The latter was still a woman in the full flush of beauty. She was dressed in black velvet which seemed but little worn, and which set off a complexion so brilliant that it needed no rouge even to counteract the pallor of a prison.

The countess leaned her head against the knees of her friend, allowing the velvet of the dress to touch her own soft cheek caressingly.

"Do not grieve, my child," said Madame de Remur, laying down her embroidery and placing one hand upon the blonde head in her lap. "Grieve not too much for your husband; there is not one person in this room who has not to mourn the loss of some near friend or relative, and yet for the sake of those who are living they continue to wear cheerful faces. I only regret that you, who were at that time safe, should have surrendered yourself after the count was taken. It has availed nothing, and has sacrificed two lives instead of one."

"Hush, Diane; a wife should not measure her duty by the result. He was a prisoner. He was ill. It was my duty to come to his side."

"Your pardon, dear child. You, with your baby face and gentle manner, have more real courage than I. I hardly think I could do that for any man in the world."

"You always underrate yourself, dear Diane, you who are the n.o.blest and most generous of women!" exclaimed the countess, rising. "Now I am going to speak to that poor little Mademoiselle de Choiseul. It was only yesterday that they took her father." And Madame d'Arlincourt moved quietly across the room.

"I cannot understand the courage and devotion of that child," said Madame de Remur, addressing the old Chevalier de Creux who stood behind her chair. "I might possibly be willing to share any fate, even the guillotine, with a man if I loved him madly; but"--and Madame de Remur finished the sentence with a shrug of her shoulders.

"Perhaps the countess loved her husband," suggested the young Mademoiselle de Belloeil who sat near the table, bending over some crochet work, but at the same time lending an ear to the conversation.

"How could she?" said Diane, "he was so cold, so austere, and so dreadfully uninteresting, and then I happen to know she did not, because"--

"Because she loved another gentleman," said the chevalier, completing the sentence with a laugh. "Under the circ.u.mstances I do not know whether I admire the countess's loyalty in following her husband to prison, or condemn her cruelty in leaving a lover to pine outside its walls."

"She was always a faithful wife, I would have you understand, you wicked old Chevalier de Creux!" exclaimed Madame de Remur, looking up at him as he leaned over the back of her chair.

"Perhaps the lover may be confined in the prison also," suggested the philosopher, who had also been a silent listener to the dialogue.

"More than likely," a.s.sented the chevalier dryly.

"Whether he were here or not," said madame decidedly, "she would have done the same."

"Here is the Count de Blois," said the chevalier; "let us put the case before him."

"Oh, you men," laughed Madame de Remur. "I will not accept the verdict of the best of you. But the count is accompanied by the poet; let us get him to recite us some verses." And she tossed her fancywork upon the table at her side.

Monsieur de Blois, with his arm through the poet's, bowed low before them. The count had been in the prison for over a year, and the poor gentleman's wardrobe had begun to show the effect of long service.

"They have evidently forgotten my existence entirely," he had said pathetically one morning to a friend who found him washing his only fine shirt in the prison-yard fountain. "When this shirt is worn out, I shall make a demand to be sent to the guillotine from very modesty."

A few days later he had received a couple of shirts and a note by the hand of the jailer.

"Dear de Blois," the letter had read. "I am called, and shall not need these. If they prevent you from carrying out your threat of the other morning, I shall go with a lighter heart.

"Yours, V. de K."

"De Blois!" said the chevalier, drawing the count away from the table of Mademoiselle de Belloeil, "you are called to decide a point of the greatest delicacy."

The count put his gla.s.s to his eye as if to look at the chevalier and the philosopher, but in reality he only saw Mademoiselle de Belloeil bending over her embroidery.

"If a lady," continued the chevalier, his bright eyes twinkling, "voluntarily puts herself into a prison where are confined both her husband and her lover, what credit does she deserve for her action? Can it be called self-sacrifice?"

Before replying, the count looked attentively at the group before him: at the philosopher's impenetrable countenance; at the chevalier's quizzical and wrinkled brown physiognomy; then at Madame de Remur's handsome face, and lastly and most tenderly at the drooping eyelids of the delicate Mademoiselle de Belloeil.

"She would be twice revered," replied de Blois.

Mademoiselle de Belloeil's needle stopped in its click-click.

"Why so, monsieur le comte?" inquired the philosopher. "If she has a double motive for the sacrifice, should not the honor of it be only half as great?"

"She should receive credit for her loyalty to the husband whom she had sworn to obey, and homage for her devotion to the lover on whom by nature she has placed her affections," replied the count, bowing to Madame de Remur, while he noted with a certain satisfaction the smile of approval on the lips of Mademoiselle de Belloeil.

"And no one has said that she has a lover," declared Madame de Remur warmly.

"Did you not imply as much, dear madame?" asked the old chevalier slyly.

"I intimated that she might have had one--if--let us change the subject.

I move that the poet read us his latest verses. I am dying for some amus.e.m.e.nt."

"Ladies and gentlemen," cried the old chevalier, clapping his hands together to attract the attention of all those in the room, "this brilliant young author and poet, who needs no introduction to you, has consented to read his latest production. Will you kindly take places?"

There was some polite applause. "The poem! let us hear the poem," buzzed upon all sides, and the throng began to settle down around the poet, the ladies occupying the chairs, and the gentlemen either leaning against the walls or seated upon stools by the side of those ladies in whose eyes they found particular favor.

In a few moments a hush of expectancy fell upon an audience delighted at the prospect of being entertained.

"This is a play in verse," began the poet, taking a roll of ma.n.u.script from his pocket.

"A play! how charming," said Mademoiselle de Belloeil.

"It is in three acts," continued the author. "Act first, in the prison of the Luxembourg, where the young people first meet and fall deeply in love."

A rustle of approval ran through his audience.

"Act second is in the prison yard where they are separated, she being set at liberty and he conducted to the guillotine."

"Oh, how terrible!" murmured the young damsel.

"One moment, monsieur le poete," said Madame de Remur. "How does it end?

I warn you that I shall not like your play if it ends unhappily."

"You shall judge of that in a moment, madame," replied the poet, bowing to her graciously.

"In the third act," he continued, "the lovers are brought together under the shadow of the guillotine, whither she has followed him. The knife falls upon both of them in quick succession, and their souls are united in the next world, never to be separated more."

"What a beautiful ending," cried Mademoiselle de Belloeil, and the exclamation on the part of the audience showed that her sentiment was echoed generally.