Chapter XXI
NO. 8 RUELLE ST. JACOB
Between the Rue de Lille and the Boulevard St. Germain, in the narrowstreets which to this day have survived the sweeping influence of BaronHaussmann, once Prefect of the Seine, there are many houses whichscarcely seem to have opened door or window since the great Revolution.
One of these, to be precise, is situated in the Ruelle St. Jacob,hardly wider than a lane--a short street with a blind end against highwalls--into which any vehicle that enters must needs do so with theknowledge of having to back out again. For there is no room to turn.Which is an allegory. All the windows, in fact, that look forlornly atthe blank walls or peep over the high gateways into the Ruelle St. Jacobare Royalist windows looking into a street which is blinded by a highwall and is too narrow to allow of turning.
Many of the windows would appear to have gathered dust since those daysmore than a hundred years ago when white faces peeped from them andtrembling hands unbarred the sash to listen to the roar of voices in theRue du Bac, in the open space by the church of St. Germain des Pres, inthe Cite, all over Paris, where the people were making history.
To this house in the Ruelle St. Jacob, Dormer Colville and Loo Barebonemade their way on foot, on their arrival in Paris at the termination oftheir long journey.
It was nearly dark, for Colville had arranged to approach the city andleave their horses at a stable at Meudon after dusk.
"It is foolish," he said, gaily, to his companion, "to flaunt a face likeyours in Paris by daylight."
They had driven from Meudon in a hired carriage to the corner of theChamp de Mars, in those days still innocent of glass houses andexhibition buildings, for Paris was not yet the toy-shop of the world;and from the Champ de Mars they came on foot through the ill-paved,feebly lighted streets. In the Ruelle St. Jacob itself there was only onelamp, burning oil, swinging at the corner. The remainder of the lanedepended for its illumination on the windows of two small shops retailingfirewood and pickled gherkins and balls of string grey with age, as doall the shops in the narrow streets on the wrong side of the Seine.
Dormer Colville led the way, picking his steps from side to side of thegutter which meandered odoriferously down the middle of the street towardthe river. He stopped in front of the great gateway and looked up at thearch of it, where the stone carving had been carefully obliterated bysome enthusiastic citizen armed with a hatchet.
"Ichabod," he said, with a short laugh; and cautiously laid bold of thedangling bell-handle which had summoned the porter to open to a Queen inthose gay days when Marie Antoinette light-heartedly pushed a fallingmonarchy down the incline.
The great gate was not opened in response, but a small side door,deep-sunken in the thickness of the wall. On either jamb of the door wasaffixed in the metal letters ordained by the municipality the numbereight. Number Eight Ruelle St. Jacob had once been known to kings as theHotel Gemosac.
The man who opened earned a lantern and held the door ajar with agrudging hand while he peered out. One could almost imagine that he hadsurvived the downfall and the Restoration, and a couple of republics,behind the high walls.
The court-yard was paved with round cobble-stones no bigger than anapple, and, even by the flickering light of the lantern, it wasperceptible that no weed had been allowed to grow between the stones orin the seams of the wide, low steps that led to an open door.
The house appeared to be dark and deserted.
"Yes, Monsieur le Marquis--Monsieur le Marquis is at home," muttered theman with a bronchial chuckle, and led the way across the yard. He wore asort of livery, which must have been put away for years. A young man hadbeen measured for the coat which now displayed three deep creases acrossa bent back.
"Attention--attention!" he said, in a warning voice, while he scraped asulphur match in the hall. "There are holes in the carpets. It is easy totrip and fall."
He lighted the candle, and after having carefully shut and bolted thedoor, he led the way upstairs. At their approach, easily audible in theempty house by reason of the hollow creaking of the oak floor, a door wasopened at the head of the stairs and a flood of light met the new-comers.
In the doorway, which was ten feet high, the little bent form of theMarquis de Gemosac stood waiting.
"Ah! ah!" he said, with that pleasant manner of his generation, which wasrefined and spirituelle and sometimes dramatic, and yet ever failed totouch aught but the surface of life. "Ah! ah! Safely accomplished--thegreat journey. Safely accomplished. You permit--"
And he embraced Barebone after the custom of his day. "From all sides,"he said, when the door was closed, "I hear that you have done greatthings. From every quarter one hears your praise."
He held him at arm's length.
"Yes," he said. "Your face is graver and--more striking in resemblancethan ever. So now you know--now you have seen."
"Yes," answered Barebone, gravely. "I have seen and I know."
The Marquis rubbed his white hands together and gave a little cracklinglaugh of delight as he drew forward a chair to the fire, which was oflogs as long as a barrel. The room was a huge one, and it was lightedfrom end to end with lamps, as if for a reception or a ball. The air wasdamp and mouldly. There were patches of grey on the walls, which had oncebeen painted with garlands of roses and Cupids and pastoral scenes by anoted artist of the Great Age.
The ceiling had fallen in places, and the woodwork of the carvedfurniture gave forth a subtle scent of dry rot.
But everything was in an exquisite taste which vulgarer generations havenever yet succeeded in imitating. Nothing was concealed, but ratherdisplayed with a half-cynical pride. All was moth-ridden, worm-eaten,fallen to decay--but it was of the Monarchy. Not half a dozen houses inParis, where already the wealth, which has to-day culminated in aridiculous luxury of outward show, was beginning to build new palaces,could show room after room furnished in the days of the Great Louis. Thevery air, faintly scented it would seem by some forgotten perfume,breathed of a bygone splendour. And the last of the de Gemosacs scornedto screen his poverty from the eyes of his equals, nor sought to hidefrom them a desolation which was only symbolic of that which crushedtheir hearts and bade them steal back from time to time like criminals tothe capital.
"You see," he said to Colville and Barebone, "I have kept my promise, Ihave thrown open this old house once more for to-night's meeting. Youwill find that many friends have made the journey to Paris for theoccasion--Madame de Chantonnay and Albert, Madame de Rathe and many fromthe Vendee and the West whom you have met on your journey. And to-nightone may speak without fear, for none will be present who are not vouchedfor by the Almanac de Gotha. There are no Royalists _pour rire_ or _pourvivre_ to-night. You have but time to change your clothes and dine. Yourluggage arrived yesterday. You will forgive the stupidity of old servantswho have forgotten their business. Come, I will lead the way and show youyour rooms."
He took a candle and did the honours of the deserted dust-ridden house inthe manner of the high calling which had been his twenty years ago whenCharles X was king. For some there lingers a certain pathos in the sightof a belated survival, while the majority of men and women are ready tosmile at it instead. And yet the Monarchy lasted eight centuries and theRevolution eight years. Perhaps Fate may yet exact payment for theexcesses of those eight years from a nation for which the watching worldalready prepares a secondary place in the councils of empire.
The larger room had been assigned to Loo. There was a subtle differencein the Marquis's manner toward him. He made an odd bow as he quitted theroom.
"There," said Colville, whose room communicated with this great apartmentby a dressing-room and two doors. He spoke in English, as they always didwhen they were alone together. "There--you are launched. You are _lance_,my friend. I may say you are through the shoals now and out on the highseas--"
He paused, candle in hand, and looked round the room with a reflectivesmile. It was obviously the best room in the house, with a fireplace aswide as
a gate, where logs of pine burnt briskly on high iron dogs. Thebed loomed mysteriously in one corner with its baldachin of Gobelintapestry. Here, too, the dim scent of fallen monarchy lingered in theatmosphere. A portrait of Louis XVI in a faded frame hung over themantelpiece.
"And the time will come," pursued Colville, with his melancholy,sympathetic smile, "when you will find it necessary to drop the pilot--toturn your face seaward and your back upon old recollections and oldassociations. You cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs, myfriend."
"Oh yes," replied Barebone, with a brisk movement of the head, "I shallhave to forget Farlingford."
Colville had moved toward the door that led to his own room. He paused,examining the wick of the candle he carried in his hand. Then, thoughglib of speech, he decided in favour of silence, and went away withoutmaking reply.
Loo sat down in a grey old arm-chair in front of the fire. The house wasastoundingly noiseless, though situated in what had once been the heartof Paris. It was one of the few houses left in this quarter with a largegarden. And the traffic passing in and out of the Ruelle St. Jacob wentslipshod on its own feet. The busy crackle of the wood was the only soundto break a silence which seemed part of this vast palace of memories.
Loo had ridden far and was tired. He smiled grimly at the fire. It is tobe supposed that he was sitting down to the task he had set himself--toforget Farlingford.
There was a great reception at the Hotel Gemosac that night, and aftertwenty years of brooding silence the rooms, hastily set in order, werelighted up.
There was, as the Marquis had promised, no man or woman present who wasnot vouched for by a noble name or by history. As the old man presentedthem, their names were oddly familiar to the ear, while each face lookingat Loo seemed to be the face of a ghost looking out of a past which theworld will never forget so long as history lives.
And here, again, was the subtle difference. They no longer talked to Loo,but stood apart and spoke among themselves in a hushed voice. Men madetheir bow to him and met his smile with grave and measuring eyes. Somemade a little set speech, which might mean much or nothing. Othersembarked on such a speech and paused--faltered, and passed on gulpingsomething down in their throats.
Women made a deep reverence to him and glanced at him with parted lipsand white faces--no coquetry in their eyes. They saw that he was youngand good-looking; but they forgot that he might think the same of them.Then they passed on and grouped themselves together, as women do inmoments of danger or emotion, their souls instinctively seeking thecompany of other souls tuned to catch a hundred passing vibrations of theheart-strings of which men remain in ignorance. They spoke together inlowered voices without daring, or desiring perhaps, to turn and look athim again.
"It only remains," some one said, "for the Duchesse d'Angouleme torecognise his claim. A messenger has departed for Frohsdorf."
And Barebone, looking at them, knew that there was a barrier between himand them which none could cast aside: a barrier erected in the past andbased on the sure foundations of history.
"She is an old woman," said Monsieur do Gemosac to any who spoke to himon this subject. "She is seventy-two, and fifty-eight of those years havebeen marked by greater misfortunes than ever fell to the lot of a woman.When she came out of prison she had no tears left, my friends. We cannotexpect her to turn back willingly to the past now. But we know that inher heart she has never been sure that her brother died in the Temple.You know how many disappointments she has had. We must not awake hersleeping sorrow until all is ready. I shall make the journey toFrohsdorf--that I promise you. But to-night we have another task beforeus."
"Yes--yes," answered his listeners. "You are to open the locket. Where isit?--show it to us."
And the locket which Captain Clubbe's wife had given to Dormer Colvillewas handed from one to another. It was not of great value, but it was ofgold with stones, long since discoloured, set in silver around it. It wascrushed and misshapen.
"It has never been opened for twenty years," they told each other. "Ithas been mislaid in an obscure village in England for nearly half acentury."
"The Vicomte de Castel Aunet--who is so clever a mechanician--haspromised to bring his tools," said Monsieur de Gemosac. "He will open itfor us--even if he find it necessary to break the locket."
So the thing went round the room until it came to Loo Barebone.
"I have seen it before," he said. "I think I remember seeing it longago--when I was a little child."
And he handed it to the old Vicomte de Castel Aunet, whose shakingfingers closed round it in a breathless silence. He carried it to thetable, and some one brought candles. The Viconite was very old. He hadlearnt clock-making, they said, in prison during the Terror.
"_Il n'y a moyen,_" he whispered to himself. "I must break it."
With one effort he prised up the cover, but the hinge snapped, and thelid rolled across the table into Barebone's hand.
"Ah!" he cried, in that breathless silence, "now I remember it. Iremember the red silk lining of the cover, and in the other side there isthe portrait of a lady with--"
The Vicomte paused, with his palm covering the other half of the locketand looked across at Loo. And the eyes of all Royalist France were fixedon the same face.
"Silence!" whispered Dormer Colville in English, crushing Barebone's footunder the table.