The Long Night

  CHAPTER XIX.

  THE DEPARTURE OF THE RATS.

  The wood-ash on the hearth had sunk lower and grown whiter. The lastflame that had licked the black sides of the great pot had died downamong the expiring embers. Only under the largest log glowed a tinycavern, carbuncle-hued; and still Claude walked restlessly from thewindow to the door, or listened with a frowning face at the foot of thestairs. One hour, two hours had passed since the Syndic's departure withBasterga; and still Anne remained with her mother and made no sign.Once, spurred by anxiety and the thought that he might be of use, Claudehad determined to mount and seek her; but half-way up the stairs hiscourage had failed he had recoiled from a scene so tender, and sosacred. He had descended and fallen again to moving to and fro, andlistening, and staring remorsefully at the weapon--it lay where he haddropped it on the floor--that had failed him in his need.

  He had their threats in his ears, and by-and-by the horror of inaction,the horror of sitting still and awaiting the worst with folded hands,overcame him; and in a panic planning flight for them all, flight,however hopeless, however desperate, he hurried into his bed-closet, andbegan to pack his possessions. He packed impulsively until even the fattext-books bulked in his bundle, and the folly of flying for life with aCaesar and Melancthon on his back struck him. Then he turned all out onthe floor in a fury of haste lest she should surprise him, and thinkthat he had had it in his mind to desert her.

  Back he went on that to the living-room with its dying fire andlengthening shadows; and there he resumed his solitary pacing. The roomlay silent, the house lay silent; even the rampart without, which thebiting wind kept clear of passers. He tried to reason on the position,to settle what would happen, what steps Basterga and Blondel would take,how the blow they threatened would fall. Would the officers of theSyndic enter and seize the two helpless women and drag them to theguard-house? In that case, what should he do, what could he do, since itwas most unlikely that he would be allowed to go with them or see them?For a time the desperate notion of bolting and barring the house andholding it against the law possessed his mind; but only to be quicklydismissed. He was not yet mad enough for that. In the meantime was thereany one to whom he could appeal? Any course he could adopt?

  The sound of the latch rising in its socket drew his eyes to the outerdoor. It opened, and he saw Louis Gentilis on the threshold. Holding thedoor ajar, the young man peered in. Meeting Claude's eyes, he looked tothe stairs, as if to seek the protection of Anne's presence; failing tofind her, he made for an instant as if he would shut the door again, andgo. But apparently he saw that Claude, thoroughly dispirited, was makingno motion to carry out his threats of vengeance; and he thought betterof it. He came in slowly, and closed the door after him. Turning his capin his hand, and with his eyes slyly fixed on Claude, he made without aword for his bed-closet, entered it, and closed the door behind him.

  His silence was strange, and his furtive manner impressed Claudeunpleasantly. They seemed to imply a knowledge that boded ill; nor wasthe impression they made weakened when, two minutes later, the closetdoor opened again, and he came out.

  "What is it?" Claude asked, speaking sharply. He was not going to put upwith mystery of this sort.

  For answer Louis' eyes met his a moment; then the young man, withoutspeaking, slid across the room to a chair on which lay a book. He tookup the volume; it was his. Next he discovered another possession--or soit seemed--approached it and took seisin of it in the same dumb way; andso with another and another. Finally, blinking and looking askance, hepassed his eyes from side to side to learn if he had overlookedanything.

  But Claude's patience, though prolonged by curiosity, was at an end. Hetook a step forward, and had the satisfaction of seeing Louis drop hisair of mystery, and recoil two paces. "If you don't speak," Claudecried, "I will break every bone in your body! Do you hear, you sneakingrogue? Do you forget that you are in my debt already? Tell me in twowords what this dumb show means, or I will have payment for all!"

  Master Louis cringed, divided between the desire to flee and the fear oflosing his property. "You will be foolish if you make any fuss here," hemuttered, his arm raised to ward off a blow. "Besides, I'm going," hecontinued, swallowing nervously as he spoke. "Let me go."

  "Going?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you mean," Claude exclaimed in astonishment, "that you are going forgood?"

  "Yes, and if you will take my advice"--with a look of sinistermeaning--"you will go too. That is all."

  "Why? Why?" Claude repeated.

  Louis' only answer was a shudder, which told Claude that if the otherdid not know all, he knew much. Dismayed and confounded, Mercierstepped back, and, with a secret grin of satisfaction, Louis turnedagain to his task of searching the room. He found presently that forwhich he had been looking--his cloak. He disentangled it, with apeculiar look, from a woman's hood, contact with which he avoided withcare. That done, he cast it over his arm, and got back into his closet.Claude heard him moving there, and presently he emerged a second time.

  Precisely as he did so Claude caught the sound of a light footstep onthe stairs, the stair door opened, and Anne, her face weary, butcomposed, came in. Her first glance fell on Louis, who, with his sackand cloak on his arm, was in the act of closing the closet door. Habitcarried her second look to the hearth.

  "You have let the fire go out," she said. Then, turning to Louis, in avoice cold and free from emotion, "Are you going?" she asked.

  He muttered that he was, his face a medley of fear and spite and shame.

  She nodded, but to Claude's astonishment expressed no surprise.Meanwhile Louis, after dropping first his cloak and then his sack, inhis haste to be gone, shuffled his way to the door. The two looked on,without moving or speaking, while he opened it, carried out his bag,and, turning about, closed the door upon himself. They heard hisfootsteps move away.

  At length Claude spoke. "The rats, I see, are leaving," he muttered.

  "Yes, the rats!" she echoed, and carried for a moment her eyes to his.Then she knelt on the hearth, and uncovering the under side of the log,where a little fire still smouldered, she fed it with two or threefir-cones, and, stooping low, blew steadily on them until they caughtfire and blazed. He stood looking down at her, and marvelled at thestrength of mind that allowed her to stoop to trifles, or to think offires at such a time as this. He forgot that habit is of all stays thestrongest, and that to women a thousand trifles make up--God reward themfor it--the work of life: a work which instinct moves them to pursue,though the heavens fall.

  Several hours had elapsed since he had entered hotfoot to see her; andthe day was beginning to wane. The flame of the blazing fir-cones, ahundred times reflected in the rows of pewter plates and the surface ofthe old oaken dressers, left the corners of the room in shadow.Immediately within the windows, indeed, the daylight held its own; butwhen she rose and turned to him her back was towards the casement, andthe firelight which lit up her face flickered uncertainly, and left himin doubt whether she were moved or not.

  "You have eaten nothing!" she said, while he stood pondering what shewould say. "And it is four o'clock! I am sorry!" Her tone, which tookshame to herself, gave him a new surprise.

  He stopped her as she turned to the dresser. "Your mother is better?" hesaid gently.

  "She is herself now," she replied, with a slight quaver, and withoutlooking at him. And she went about her work.

  Did she know? Did she understand? In his world was only one fact, in hismind only one tremendous thought: the fact of their position, thethought of their isolation and peril. In her treatment of Louis she hadseemed to show knowledge and a comprehension as wide as his own. But ifshe knew all, could she be as calm as she was? Could she go about herdaily tasks? Could she cut and lay and fetch with busy fingers, and allin silence?

  He thought not; and though he longed to consult her, to assure her andcomfort her, to tell her that the very isolation, the very peril inwhich they stood were a happiness and a joy to him
, whatever the issue,because he shared them with her, he would not, by reason of that doubt.He did not yet know the courage which underlies the gentlest natures:nor did he guess that even as it was a joy to him to stand beside her inperil, so it was a joy to her, even in that hour, to come and go forhim, to cut his bread and lay for him, to draw his wine from the greatcask under the stairs, and pour for him in the tall horn mug.

  And little said. By him, because he shrank from opening her eyes to thedanger of their position; by her, because her mind was full and shecould not trust herself to speak calmly. But he knew that she, too, hadfasted since morning, and he made her eat with him: and it was in thethoughts of each that they had never eaten together before. For commonlyAnne took her meal with her mother, or ate as the women of her timeoften ate, standing, alone, when others had finished. There are momentswhen the simplest things put on the beauty and significance of rites,and this first eating together at the small table on the fire-lit hearthwas one of such moments. He saw that she did eat; and this care for her,and the reverence of his manner, so moved her, that at last tears roseand choked her, and to give her time and to hide his own feelings, hestood up and affected to get something from the fireside.

  Before he turned again, the latch rattled and the door flew open. Thefreezing draught that entered, arrested him between the table and thefire. The intruder was Grio. He stood an instant scowling on them, thenhe entered and closed the door. He eyed the two with a sneering laugh,and, turning, flung his cloak on a chair. It was ill-aimed and fell tothe ground.

  "Why the devil don't you light?" he cried violently. "Eh?" He addedsomething in which the words "Old hag's devilry!" were alone audible."Do you hear?" he continued, more coherently. "Why don't you light? Whatblack games are you playing, I'd like to know? I want my things!"

  Claude's fingers tingled, but danger and responsibility are sureteachers, and he restrained himself. Neither of them answered, but Annefetched the lamp, and kindling a splinter of wood lighted it, and placedit on the table. Then bringing the Spaniard's rushlight from the threeor four that stood on the dresser, she lighted it and held it out tohim.

  "Set it down!" he said, with tipsy insolence. He was not quite sober."Set it down! I am not going to--hic!--risk my salvation! Avaunt, Satan!It is possible to palm the evil one, like a card I am told,and--hic!--soul out, devil in, all lost as easy as candle goes out!"

  He had taken his candle with an unsteady hand, and unconsciously hadblown it out himself. She restrained Claude by a look, and patientlytaking the rushlight from Grio, she re-lit it and set it on the tablefor him to take.

  "As a candle goes out!" he repeated, eyeing it with drunken wisdom."Candle out, devil in, soul lost, there you have it in threewords--clever as any of your long-winded preachers! But I want mythings. I am going before it is too late. Advise you to go too, youngman," he hiccoughed, "before you are overlooked. She is a witch! She'sthe devil's mark on her, I tell you! I'd like to have the finding it!"And with an ugly leer he advanced a step as if he would lay hands onher.

  She shrank back, and Claude's eyes blazed. Fortunately, the bully's mindpassed to the first object of his coming; or it may be that he was soberenough to read a warning in the younger man's face.

  "Oh! time enough," he said. "You are not so nice always, I'll be bound.And things come--hic!--to those who wait! I don't belong to yourSabbaths, I suppose, or you'd be freer! But I want my things, and I amgoing to have them! I defy thee, Satan! And all thy works!"

  Still growling under his breath he burst open the staircase door, andstumbled noisily upwards, the light wavering in his hand. Anne's eyesfollowed him; she had advanced to the foot of the stairs, and Claudeunderstood the apprehension that held her. But the sounds did notpenetrate to the room on the upper floor, or Madame Royaume did not takethe alarm; perhaps she slept. And after assuring herself that Grio hadentered his room the girl returned to the table.

  The Spaniard had spoken with brutal plainness; it was no longer possibleto ignore what he had said, or to lie under any illusion as to thegirl's knowledge of her peril. Claude's eyes met hers: and for a momentthe anguished human soul peered through the mask of constancy, for amoment the woman in her, shrinking from the ordeal and the fire, fromshame and death, thrust aside the veil, and held out quivering, piteoushands to him. But it was for a moment only. Before he could speak shewas brave as before, quiet as he had ever seen her, patient, mistress ofherself. "It is as you said," she muttered, smiling wanly, "the rats areleaving us."

  "Vermin!" he whispered. He could not trust himself to say more. Hisvoice shook, his eyes were full.

  "They have not lost time," she continued in a low tone. She did notcease to listen, nor did her eyes leave the staircase door. "Louisfirst, and now Grio. How has it reached them so quickly, do you think?"

  "Louis is hand in glove with the Syndic," he murmured.

  "And Grio?"

  "With Basterga."

  She nodded. "What do you think they will do--first?" she whispered. Andagain--it went to his heart--the woman's face, fear-drawn, showed as itwere beneath the mask with which love and faith and a noble resignationhad armed her. "Do you think they will denounce us at once?"

  He shook his head in sheer inability to foresee; and then, seeing thatshe continued to look anxiously for his answer, that answer which heknew to be of no value, for minute by minute the sense of hishelplessness was weighing upon him, "It may be," he muttered. "Godknows. When Grio is gone we will talk about it."

  She began, but always with a listening ear and an eye to the open door,to remove from the table the remains of their meal. Midway in her task,she glanced askance at the window, under the impression that some onewas looking through it; and in any case now the lamp was lit it exposedthem to the curiosity of the rampart. She was going to close theshutters when Claude interposed, raised the heavy shutters and boltedand barred them. He was turning from them when Grio's step was hearddescending.

  Strange to say the Spaniard's first glance was at the windows, and helooked genuinely taken aback when he saw that they were closed. "Why thedevil did you shut?" he exclaimed, in a rage; and passing Anne with asidelong movement, he flung a heavy bundle on the floor by the door. Ashe turned to ascend again he met her eyes, and backing from her he madewith two of his fingers the ancient sign which southern people still useto ward off the evil eye. Then, half shamefacedly, half recklessly, heblundered upstairs again. A moment, and he came stumbling down; but thistime he was careful to keep the great bundle he bore between himselfand her eyes, until he had got the door open.

  That precaution taken, as if he thought the free cold air which enteredwould protect him from spells, he showed himself at his ease, threw downhis bundle and faced her with an air of bravado.

  "I need not have feared," he said with a tipsy grin, "but I hadforgotten what I carry. I have a hocus-pocus here "--he touched hisbreast--"written by a wise man in Ravenna, and sealed with a dead Goth'shand, that is proof against devil or dam! And I defy thee, mistress."

  "Why?" she cried. "Why?" And the note of indignation in her voice, thepassionate challenge of her eyes, enforced the question. In the humanmind is a desire for justice that will not be denied; and even from thisdrunken ruffian a sudden impulse bade her demand it. "Why should youdefy me or fear me? What have I done to you, what have I done to anyone," she continued, with noble resentment, "that you should spread thisof me? You have eaten and drunk at my hand a hundred times; have Ipoisoned or injured you? I have looked at you a hundred times; have Ioverlooked you? You have lain down under this roof by night a hundredtimes; have I harmed you sleeping or waking, full moon or no moon?"

  For answer he leered at her slyly. "Not a whit," he said. "No."

  "No?" Her colour rose.

  "No; but you see"--with a grin--"it never leaves me, my girl." Hetouched his breast. "While I wear that I am safe."

  She gasped. "Do you mean that I----"

  "I do not know what you would have done--but for that!" he retorted."Maime
d me or wizened me, perhaps! Or, may be, made me waste away asyou did the child that died three doors away last Sunday!"

  Her face changed slowly. Prepared as she had been for the worst by manyan hour of vigil beside her mother's bed, the horror of this preciseaccusation--and such an accusation--overcame her. "What?" she cried."You dare to say that I--that I----" She could not finish.

  But her eyes lightened, her form dilated with passion; and tipsy,ignorant, brutish as he was, the Spaniard could not be blind to theindignation, the resentment, the very wonder which stopped her breathand choked her utterance. At the sight some touch of shame, some touchof pity, made itself felt in the dull recesses even of that brain. "Idon't say it," he muttered awkwardly. "It is what they are saying in thestreet."

  "In the street?"

  "Ay, where else?" He knew who said it, for he knew whence his orderscame: but he was not going to tell her. Yet the spark of kindlinesswhich she had kindled still lived--how could it be otherwise in presenceof her youth and gentleness? "If you'll take my advice," he continuedroughly, "you'll not show yourself in the streets unless you wish to bemishandled, my girl. It will be time enough when the time comes. Evennow, if you were to leave your old witch of a mother and get goodprotection, there is no knowing but you might be got clear! You are afair bit of red and white," with a grin. "And it is not far to Savoy!Will you come if I risk it?"

  A gesture, half refusal, half loathing, answered him.

  "Oh, very well!" he said. The short-lived fit of pity passed from him;he scowled. "You'll think differently when they have the handling ofyou. I'm glad to be going, for where there's one fire there are apt tobe more; and I am a Christian, no matter who's not! Let who will burn,I'll not!"

  He picked up one bundle and, carrying it out, raised his voice. A man,who had shrunk, it seemed, from entering the house, showed his face inthe light which streamed from the door. To this fellow he gave thebundle, and shouldering the other, he went heavily out, leaving the doorwide open behind him.

  Claude strode to it and closed it; but not so quickly that he had not aglimpse of three or four pairs of eyes staring in out of the darkness;eyes so curious, so fearful, so quickly and noiselessly withdrawn--foreven while he looked, they were gone--that he went back to the hearthwith a shiver of apprehension.

  Fortunately, she had not seen them. She stood where he had left her, inthe same attitude of amazement into which Grio's accusation had casther. As she met his gaze--then, at last, she melted. The lamplightshowed her eyes brimming over with tears; her lips quivered, her breastheaved under the storm of resentment.

  "How dare they say it?" she cried. "How dare they? That I would harm achild? A child?" And, unable to go on, she held out protesting hands tohim. "And my mother? My mother, who never injured any one or harmed ahair of any one's head! That she--that they should say that of her! Thatthey should set that to her! But I will go this instant," impetuously,"to the child's mother. She will hear me. She will know and believe me.A mother? Yes, I will go to her!"

  "Not now," he said. "Not now, Anne!"

  "Yes, now," she persisted, deaf to his voice. She snatched up her hoodfrom the ground on which it had fallen, and began to put it on.

  He seized her arm. "No, not now," he said firmly. "You shall not go now.Wait until daylight. She will listen to you more coolly then."

  She resisted him. "Why?" she said. "Why?"

  "People fancy things at night," he urged. "I know it is so. If she sawyou enter out of the darkness"--the girl with her burning eyes, her wetcheeks, her disordered hair looked wild enough--"she might refuse tobelieve you. Besides----"

  "What?"

  "I will not have you go now," he said firmly. That instant it hadflashed upon him that one of the faces he had seen outside was the faceof the dead child's mother. "I will not let you go," he repeated. "Go inthe daylight. Go to-morrow morning. Go then, if you will!" He did notchoose to tell her that he feared for her instant safety if she wentnow; that, if he had his will, the streets would see her no more formany a day.

  She gave way. She took off her hood, and laid it on the table. But forseveral minutes she stood, brooding darkly and stormily, her handsfingering the strings. To foresee is not always to be forearmed. She hadlived for months in daily and hourly expectation of the blow which hadfallen; but not the more easily for that could she brook the concretecharge. Her heart burned, her soul was on fire. Justice, give us justicethough the heavens fall, is an instinct planted deep in man's nature! Ofthe Mysterious Passion of our Lord our finite minds find no part worsethan the anguish of innocence condemned. A child? She to hurt a child?And her mother? Her mother, so harmless, so ignorant, so tormented! Sheto hurt a child?

  After a time, nevertheless, the storm began to subside. But with it diedthe hope which is inherent in revolt; in proportion as she grew morecalm the forlornness of her situation rose more clearly before her. Atlast that had happened which she had so long expected to happen. Thething was known. Soon the full consequences would be upon her, theconsequences on which she dared not dwell. Shudderingly she tried toclose her eyes to the things that might lie before her, to the things atwhich Grio had hinted, the things of which she had lain thinking--evenwhile they were distant and uncertain--through many a night of bitterfear and fevered anticipation.

  They were at hand now, and though she averted her thoughts, she knew it.But the wind is tempered to the shorn. Even as the prospect of futureill can dominate the present, embitter the sweetest cup, and renderthorny the softest bed, so, sometimes, present good has the power toobscure the future evil. As Anne sank back on the settle, her tremblinglimbs almost declining to bear her, her eyes fell on her companion.Failing to rouse her, he had seated himself on the other side of thehearth, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his hands, in an attitudeof deep thought. And little by little, as she looked at him, her cheeksgrew, if not red, less pale, her eyes lost their tense and hopelessgaze. She heaved a quivering sigh, and slowly carried her look round theroom.

  Its homely comfort, augmented by the hour and the firelight, seemed tolap them round. The door was locked, the shutters were closed, the lampburned cheerfully. And he sat opposite--sat as if they had been longmarried. The colour grew deeper in her face as she gazed; she breathedmore quickly; her eyes shone. What evil cannot be softened, whatmisfortune cannot be lightened to a woman by the knowledge that she isloved by the man she loves? That where all have fled, he remains, andthat neither fear of death nor word of man can keep him from her side?

  He looked up in the end, and caught the look on her face, the look thata woman bestows on one man only in her life. In a moment he was on hisknees beside her, holding her hands, covering them with kisses, vowingto save her, to save her--or to die with her!