Temporal Power: A Study in Supremacy Part 71

Then, stumbling giddily down the stairs, he wandered, blind and half crazed, into the darkening night.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

SAILING TO THE INFINITE

Great calamities always come suddenly. With the swiftness of lightning they descend upon the world, often in the very midst of fancied peace and security,--and the farcical, grinning, sneering apes of humanity, for whom even the idea of a G.o.d has but furnished food for lewd jesting, are scattered into terror-stricken hordes, who are forced to realise for the first time in their lives, that whether they believe in Omnipotence or no, an evident Law of Justice exists, which may not be outraged with impunity. Sometimes this Law works strangely,--one might almost say obliquely. It sweeps away persons whom we have judged as useful to the community, and allows those to remain whom we consider unnecessary. But 'we,'--all important 'we,'--are not allowed to long a.s.sert or maintain our petty opinions against this unknown undetermined Force which makes havoc of all our best and most carefully conceived arrangements. For example, we are not given any practical reason why Christ,--the Divine Man,--was taken from the world in His youthful manhood, instead of being permitted to live to a great age for the further benefit, teaching, and sanctification of His disciples and followers. Pure, sinless, n.o.ble, and truly of G.o.d, He was tortured and crucified as though He were the worst of criminals. And apart from the Church's explanation of this great Mystery, we may take it as a lesson that misfortune is like everything else, two-sided;--it falls equally upon the unG.o.dly and the G.o.dly,--with merely this difference--that when it falls on the unG.o.dly it is, as we are reluctantly forced to admit, 'the act of G.o.d'--but when it falls on the G.o.dly, it is generally the proved and evident work of Man.

In this last way, and for no fault at all of her own, had cruel death befallen Lotys. Such as her career had been, it was unmarked by so much as a shadow of selfishness or wickedness. From the first day of her life, sorrow had elected her for its own. She had never known father or mother;--cast out as an infant in the street, and picked up by Sergius Thord, she had secured no other protector for her infancy and youth, than the brooding, introspective man, who was destined in the end to be her murderer. As a child, she had been pa.s.sionately grateful to him; she had learned all she could from the books he gave her to study, and with a quick brain, and a keen sense of observation, she had become a proficient in literature, so much so indeed, that more than one half the Revolutionary treatises and other propaganda which he had sent out to different quarters of the globe, were from her pen. Her one idea had been to please and to serve him,--to show her grat.i.tude for his care of her, and to prove herself useful to him in all his aims. As she grew up, however, she quickly discerned that his affection for her was deepening into the pa.s.sion of a lover; whereupon she had at once withdrawn from his personal charge, and had made up her mind to live alone and independently. She desired, so she told him, to subsist on her own earnings,--and he who could do nothing successfully without her, was only too glad to give her the rightful share of such financial results as accrued from the various workings of the Revolutionary Committee,--results which were sometimes considerable, though never opulent. And so she had worked on, finding her best happiness in succouring the poor, and nursing the sick. Her girlhood had pa.s.sed without either joy or love,--her womanhood had been bare of all the happiness that should have graced it. The people had learned to love her, it is true,--but this more or less distantly felt affection was far from being the intimate and near love for which she had so often longed.

When at last this love had come to her,--when in 'Pasquin Leroy' she thought she had found the true companion of her life and heart,--when he had constantly accompanied her by his own choice, on her errands of mercy among the poor; and had aided the sick and the distressed by his own sympathy and tenderness, she had almost allowed herself to dream of possible happiness. This dream had been encouraged more than ever, after she had saved the King from a.s.sa.s.sination. 'Pasquin Leroy' had then become her closest comrade,--always at hand, and ever ready to fulfil her slightest behest;--while from his ardent and eloquent glances,--the occasional lingering pressure of his hand, and the hastily murmured words of tenderness which she could not misunderstand, she knew that he loved her. But when he had disclosed his real ident.i.ty to be that of the King himself, all her fair hopes had vanished!--and her spirit had shrunk and fallen under the blow. Worse than all,--when she learned that this great and exalted Personage, despite his throned dignity, did still continue to entertain a pa.s.sion for herself, the knowledge was almost crushing in its effect upon her mind. Pure in soul and body, she would have chosen death any time rather than dishonour; and in the recent developments of events she had sometimes grown to consider death as good, and even desirable. Now death had come to her through the very hand that had first aided her to live! And so had she fulfilled the common lot of women, which is, taken in the aggregate, to be wronged and slain (morally, when not physically) by the very men they have most unselfishly sought to serve!

The heavy night pa.s.sed away, and all through its slow hours the murdered creature lay weltering in her blood, and shrouded in her hair,--looked at by the pitiless stars and the cold moon, as they shed their beams in turn through the high attic window. Morning broke; and the sun shot its first rays down upon the dead,--upon the fixed white countenance, and on the little hand grown icy cold, but clenched with iron grip upon the pistol which had been so bravely s.n.a.t.c.hed in that last moment of life with the unselfish thought of averting suspicion from the true murderer.

With the full break of day, the mistress of the house going to arouse her lodgers, came up the stairs with a bright face, cheerfully singing, for her usual morning chat with Lotys was one of her princ.i.p.al pleasures. Knocking at the door, and receiving no answer, she turned the handle and pushed it open,--then, with a piercing scream of horror, she rushed away, calling wildly for help, and sending frantic cries down the street.

"Lotys! Lotys! Lotys is dead!"

The news flew. The houses poured out their poverty-stricken occupants from garret to bas.e.m.e.nt; and presently the street was blocked with a stupefied, grief-stricken crowd. A doctor who had been hastily summoned, lifted the poor corpse of her whose life had been all love and pity, and laid it upon the simple truckle-bed, where the living Lotys had slept, contented with poverty for many years; and after close and careful examination p.r.o.nounced it to be a case of suicide. The word created consternation among all the people.

"Suicide!" they murmured uneasily; "Why should she kill herself? We all loved her!"

Ay! They all loved her!--and only now when she was gone did they realise how great that love had been, or how much her thought and tenderness for them all, had been interwoven with their lives! They had never stopped to think of the weariness and emptiness of her own life, or of the longing she herself might have had for the love and care she so freely gave to others. By and by, as the terrible news was borne in upon them more convincingly, some began to weep and wail, others to kneel and pray, others to recall little kindnesses, thoughtful deeds, unselfish tendernesses, and patient endurances of the dead woman who, friendless herself, had been their truest friend.

"Who will tell Sergius Thord?" asked a man in the crowd; "Who will break the news to him?"

There was an awe-stricken silence. No one volunteered such heart-rending service.

"Who will tell the King?" suddenly exclaimed a harsh voice, that of Paul Zouche, who in his habit of hardly ever going to bed, had seen the crowd gather, and had quickly joined it. "Lotys saved his life! He should be told!"

His face, always remarkable in its thin, eager, intellectual aspect, looked ghastly, and his eyes no longer feverish in their brilliancy, were humanised by the dew of tears.

"The King!"

The weeping people looked at one another. The King had now become a part of their life and interest,--he was one with them, not apart from them as once he had been; therefore he must have known how Lotys had loved them. Yes,--someone should surely tell the King!

"The King must be informed of this," went on Zouche; "If there is no one else to take the news to him,--I will!"

And before any answer could be given, or any suggestion made, he was gone.

Meanwhile, no person volunteered to fetch Sergius Thord. Every man who knew him, dreaded the task of telling him that Lotys was dead, self-slain. Some poor, but tender-hearted women sorrowfully prepared the corpse for burial, removing the bloodstained clothes with gentle hands, smoothing out and parting on either side the glorious waves of hair, while with the greatest care and difficulty they succeeded by slow degrees in removing the pistol so tightly clenched in the dead hand.

While engaged in this sad duty, they found a sealed paper marked 'My Last Wish,' and this they put aside till Thord should come. Then they robed her in white, and laid white flowers upon her breast; and so came in turns by groups of tens and twenties to kneel beside her and kiss her hands and say prayers, and weep for the loss of one who had never uttered a harsh word to any poor or sorrowful person, but whose mission had been peace and healing, love and resignation, and submission to her own hard fate until the end!

Meantime Zouche, who had never been near any Royal precincts before, walked boldly to the Palace. All irresolution had left him;--his step was firm, his manner self-contained, and only his eyes betrayed the deep and bitter sorrow of his soul. He was allowed to pa.s.s the sentinel at the outer gates, but at the inner portico of the Palace he was denied admittance. He maintained his composure, however, and handed in his written name.

"If I cannot see the King, I must see Sir Roger de Launay!" he said.

At this the men in authority glanced at one another, and began to unbend;--if this shabby, untidy being knew Sir Roger de Launay, he was perhaps someone of importance. After a brief consultation together, they asked him to wait while a messenger was despatched to Sir Roger.

Zouche, with a curious air of pa.s.sive toleration sat quietly on the chair they offered, and waited several minutes glancing meanwhile at the display of splendour and luxury about him with an indifference bordering on contempt.

"All this magnificence," he mused; "all this wealth cannot purchase back a life, or bring comfort to a stricken heart! Nor can it vie with a poet's rhyme, which, often unvalued, and always unpaid for, sometimes outlasts a thousand thrones!"

Here, seeing the tall figure of Sir Roger de Launay coming between him and the light, he rose and advanced a step or two.

"Why, Zouche," said Sir Roger kindly, greeting him with a smile; "You are up betimes! They tell me you want to see the King. Is it not a somewhat early call? His Majesty has only just left his sleeping-apartment, and is busy writing urgent letters. Will you entrust me with your message?"

Paul Zouche looked at him fixedly.

"My message is from Lotys!" he said deliberately; "And it must be delivered to the King in person!"

Vaguely alarmed, Sir Roger recoiled a step.

"You bring ill news?" he whispered.

"I do not know whether it will prove ill or well;" answered Zouche wearily; "But such news as I have, must be told to his Majesty alone."

Sir Roger paused a moment, hesitating; then he said:

"If that is so--if that must be so,--then come with me!"

He led the way, and Zouche followed. Entering the King's private library where the King himself sat at his writing-desk, Sir Roger announced the unexpected visitor, adding in a low tone that he came 'from Lotys!'

The King started up, and threw down his pen.

"From Lotys!" he echoed, while through his mind there flew a sudden sweet hope that after all the star was willing to fall!--the flower was ready to be gathered!--and that the woman who had sent him away from her the day before, had a heart too full of love to remain obdurate to the pleadings of her kingly lover!--"Paul Zouche, with a message from Lotys?

Let him come in!"

Whereupon Zouche, bidden to enter, did so, and stood in the Royal presence unabashed, but quite silent. An ominous presentiment crept coldly through the monarch's warm veins, as he saw the dreary pain expressed on the features of the man, who had so persistently scorned him and his offered bounty,--and with a slight, but imperative sign, he dismissed Sir Roger de Launay, who retired reluctantly, full of forebodings.

"Now Zouche," he said gently; "What do you seek of me? What is your message?"

Zouche looked full at him.

"As King," he answered, "I seek nothing from you! As comrade"--and his accents faltered--"I would fain break bad news to you gently--I would spare you as much as possible--and give you time to face the blow,--for I know you loved her! Lotys----"

The monarch's heart almost stood still. What was this hesitating tone--these great tears in Zouche's eyes?

"Lotys!" he repeated slowly, and in a faint whisper; "Yes, yes--go on!

Go on, comrade! Lotys?"

"Lotys is dead!"

An awful stillness followed the words. Stiff and rigid the King sat, as though stricken by sudden paralysis, giving no sign. Minute after minute slipped away,--and he uttered not a word, nor did he raise his eyes from the fixed study of the carpet at his feet.

"Lotys is dead!" went on Zouche, speaking in a slow monotonous way.

"This morning, the first thing--they found her. She had killed herself. The pistol was in her hand. And they are laying her out with flowers,--like a bride, or a queen,--and you can go and see her at rest so,--for the last time,--if you will! This is my message! It is a message from the dead!"