The Long Night

  CHAPTER II.

  THE HOUSE ON THE RAMPARTS.

  The affair at the inn which had threatened to turn out so unpleasantlyfor our hero, should have gone some way towards destroying the illusionswith which he had entered Geneva. But faith is strong in the young, andhope stronger. The traditions of his boyhood and his fireside, and thestories, animate with affection for the cradle of the faith, to which hehad listened at his father's knee, were not to be over-ridden by theshadow of an injustice, which in the end had not fallen. When the youngman went abroad next morning and viewed the tall towers of St. Peter, ofwhich his father had spoken--when, from those walls which had defiedthrough so many months the daily and nightly threats of an ever-presentenemy, he looked on the sites of conflicts still famous and onfarmsteads but half risen from their ruins--when, above all, heremembered for what those walls stood, and that here, on the borders ofthe blue lake, and within sight of the glittering peaks which charmedhis eyes--if in any one place in Europe--the battle of knowledge andfreedom had been fought, and the rule of the monk and the Inquisitorcast down, his old enthusiasm revived. He thirsted for fresh conflicts,for new occasions: and it is to be feared dreamt more of the Sword thanof the sacred Book, which he had come to study, and which, in Geneva,went hand in hand with it.

  In the fervour of such thoughts and in the multitude of new interestswhich opened before him, he had well-nigh forgotten the Syndic's tyrannybefore he had walked a mile: nor might he have given a second thought toit but for the need which lay upon him of finding a new lodging beforenight. In pursuit of this he presently took his way to the Corraterie, arow of gabled houses, at the western end of the High Town, built withinthe ramparts, and enjoying over them a view of the open country, and theJura. The houses ran for some distance parallel with the rampart, thenretired inwards, and again came down to it; in this way enclosing atriangular open space or terrace. They formed of themselves an innerline of defence, pierced at the point farthest from the rampart by thePorte Tertasse: a gate it is true, which was often open even at night,for the wall in front of the Corraterie, though low on the town side,looked down from a great height on the ditch and the low meadows thatfringed the Rhone. Trees planted along the rampart shaded the triangularspace, and made it a favourite lounge from which the inhabitants of thatquarter of the town could view the mountains and the sunset whiletasting the freshness of the evening air.

  A score of times had Claude Mercier listened to a description of thisrow of lofty houses dominating the ramparts. Now he saw it, and, charmedby the position and the aspect, he trembled lest he should fail tosecure a lodging in the house which had sheltered his father's youth.Heedless of the suspicious glances shot at him by the watch at the PorteTertasse, he consulted the rough plan which his father had made forhim--consulted it rather to assure himself against error than because hefelt doubt. The precaution taken, he made for a house a little to theright of the Tertasse gate as one looks to the country. He mounted byfour steep steps to the door and knocked on it.

  It was opened so quickly as to disconcert him. A lanky youth about hisown age bounced out and confronted him. The lad wore a cap and carriedtwo or three books under his arm as if he had been starting forth whenthe summons came. The two gazed at one another a moment: then, "DoesMadame Royaume live here?" Claude asked.

  The other, who had light hair and light eyes, said curtly that she did.

  "Do you know if she has a vacant room?" Mercier asked timidly.

  "She will have one to-night!" the youth answered with temper in histone: and he dashed down the steps and went off along the street withoutceremony or explanation. Viewed from behind he had a thin neck whichagreed well with a small retreating chin.

  The door remained open, and after hesitating a moment Claude tapped onceand again with his foot. Receiving no answer he ventured over thethreshold, and found himself in the living-room of the house. It wascool, spacious and well-ordered. On the left of the entrance a woodensettle flanked a wide fireplace, in front of which stood a small heavytable. Another table a little bigger occupied the middle of the room; inone corner the boarded-up stairs leading to the higher floors bulkedlargely. Two or three dark prints--one a portrait of Calvin--with aframed copy of the Geneva catechism, and a small shelf of books, tooksomething from the plainness and added something to the comfort of theapartment, which boasted besides a couple of old oaken dressers, highlypolished and gleaming, with long rows of pewter ware. Two doors stoodopposite the entrance and appeared to lead--for one of them stoodopen--to a couple of closets: bedrooms they could hardly be called, yetin one of them Claude knew that his father had slept. And his heartwarmed to it.

  The house was still; the room was somewhat dark, for the windows werelow and long, strongly barred, and shaded by the trees, through the coolgreenery of which the light filtered in. The young man stood a moment,and hearing no footstep or movement wondered what he should do. Atlength he ventured to the door of the staircase and, opening it,coughed. Still no one answered or came, and unwilling to intrude fartherhe turned about and waited on the hearth. In a corner behind the settlehe noticed two half pikes and a long-handled sword; on the seat of thesettle itself lay a thin folio bound in stained sheepskin. A logsmouldered on the hearth, and below the great black pot which hung overit two or three pans and pipkins sat deep among the white ashes. Savefor these there was no sign in the room of a woman's hand or use. And hewondered. Certainly the young man who had departed so hurriedly had saidit was Madame Royaume's. There could be no mistake.

  Well, he would go and come again. But even as he formed the resolution,and turned towards the outer door--which he had left open--he heard afaint sound above, a step light but slow. It seemed to start from theuppermost floor of all, so long was it in descending; so long was itbefore, waiting on the hearth cap in hand, he saw a shadow darken theline below the staircase door. A second later the door opened and ayoung girl entered and closed it behind her. She did not see him;unconscious of his presence she crossed the floor and shut the outerdoor.

  There was a something in her bearing which went to the heart of theyoung man who stood and saw her for the first time; a depression, adejection, an I know not what, so much at odds with her youth and herslender grace, that it scarcely needed the sigh with which she turnedto draw him a pace nearer. As he moved their eyes met. She, who had notknown of his presence, recoiled with a low cry and stared wide-eyed: hebegan hurriedly to speak.

  "I am the son of M. Gaston Mercier, of Chatillon," he said, "who lodgedhere formerly. At least," he stammered, beginning to doubt, "if this bethe house of Madame Royaume, he lodged here. A young man who met me atthe door said that Madame lived here, and had a room."

  "He admitted you? The young man who went out?"

  "Yes."

  She gazed hard at him a moment, as if she doubted or suspected him.Then, "We have no room," she said.

  "But you will have one to-night," he answered

  "I do not know."

  "But--but from what he said," Claude persisted doggedly, "he meant thathis own room would be vacant, I think."

  "It may be," she answered dully, the heaviness which surprise had liftedfor a moment settling on her afresh. "But we shall take no new lodgers.Presently you would go," with a cold smile, "as he goes to-day."

  "My father lodged here three years," Claude answered, raising his headwith pride. "He did not go until he returned to France. I ask nothingbetter than to lodge where my father lodged. Madame Royaume will know myname. When she hears that I am the son of M. Gaston Mercier, who oftenspeaks of her----"

  "He fell sick here, I think?" the girl said. She scanned him anew withthe first show of interest that had escaped her. Yet reluctantly, itseemed; with a kind of ungraciousness hard to explain.

  "He had the plague in the year M. Chausse, the pastor of St. Gervais,died of it," Claude answered eagerly. "When it was so bad. And Madamenursed him and saved his life. He often speaks of it and of Madame withgratitude. If Madame Royaume would see me?"

/>   "It is useless," she answered with an impatient shrug. "Quite useless,sir. I tell you we have no room. And--I wish you good-morning." On theword she turned from him with a curt gesture of dismissal, and kneelingbeside the embers began to occupy herself with the cooking pots;stirring one and tasting another, and raising a third a little aslant atthe level of her eyes that she might peer into it the better. Helingered, watching her, expecting her to turn. But when she had skimmedthe last jar and set it back, and screwed it down among the embers, sheremained on her knees, staring absently at a thin flame which had sprungup under the black pot. She had forgotten his presence, forgotten himutterly; forgotten him, he judged, in thoughts as deep and gloomy as thewide dark cavern of chimney which yawned above her head and dwarfed theslight figure kneeling Cinderella-like among the ashes.

  Claude Mercier looked and looked, and wondered, and at last longed:longed to comfort, to cherish, to draw to himself and shelter thebudding womanhood before him, so fragile now, so full of promise for thefuture. And quick as the flame had sprung up under her breath, a magicflame awoke in his heart, and burned high and hot. If he did not lodgehere,

  The sky might fall, fish fly, and sheep pursue The tawny monarch of the Libyan strand!

  But he would lodge here. He coughed.

  She started and turned, and seeing him, seeing that he had not gone, sherose with a frown. "What is it?" she said. "For what are you waiting,sir?"

  "I have something in charge for Madame Royaume," he answered.

  "I will give it her," she returned sharply. "Why did you not say so atonce?" And she held out her hand.

  "No," he said hardily. "I have it in charge for her hand only."

  "I am her daughter."

  He shook his head stubbornly.

  What she would have done on that--her face was hard and promisednothing--is uncertain. Fortunately for the young man's hopes, a dullreport as of a stick striking the floor in some room above reached theirears; he saw her eyes flicker, alter, grow soft. "Wait!" she saidimperiously; and stooping to take one of the pipkins from the fire, shepoured its contents into a wooden bowl which stood beside her on thetable. She added a horn-spoon and a pinch of salt, fetched a slice ofcoarse bread from a cupboard in one of the dressers, and taking all inskilled steady hands, hands childishly small, though brown as nuts, shedisappeared through the door of the staircase.

  He waited, looking about the room, and at this, and at that, with a newinterest. He took up the book which lay on the settle: it was a learnedvolume, part of the works of Paracelsus, with strange figures anddiagrams interwoven with the crabbed Latin text. A passage which hedeciphered, abashed him by its profundity, and he laid the book down,and went from one to another of the black-framed engravings; from theseto an oval piece in coarse Limoges enamel, which hung over the littleshelf of books. At length he heard a step descending from the upperfloors, and presently she appeared in the doorway.

  "My mother will see you," she said, her tone as ungracious as her look."But you will say nothing of lodging here, if it please you. Do youhear?" she added, her voice rising to a more imperious note.

  He nodded.

  She turned on the lowest step. "She is bed-ridden," she muttered, as ifshe felt the need of explanation. "She is not to be disturbed with housematters, or who comes or goes. You understand that, do you?"

  He nodded, with a mental reservation, and followed her up the confinedstaircase. Turning sharply at the head of the first flight he saw beforehim a long narrow passage, lighted by a window that looked to the back.On the left of the passage which led to a second set of stairs, were twodoors, one near the head of the lower flight, the other at the foot ofthe second. She led him past both--they were closed--and up the secondstairs and into a room under the tiles, a room of good size but with aroof which sloped in unexpected places.

  A woman lay there, not uncomely; rather comely with the beauty ofadvancing years, though weak and frail if not ill. It was the woman ofwhom he had so often heard his father speak with gratitude and respect.It was neither of his father, however, nor of her, that Claude Mercierthought as he stood holding Madame Royaume's hand and looking down ather. For the girl who had gone before him into the room had passed tothe other side of the bed, and the glance which she and her motherexchanged as the daughter leant over the couch, the message of love andprotection on one side, of love and confidence on the other--thatmessage and the tone, wondrous gentle, in which the girl, so curt andabrupt below, named him--these revealed a bond and an affection forwhich the life of his own family furnished him with no precedent.

  For his mother had many children, and his father still lived. But thesetwo, his heart told him as he held Madame Royaume's shrivelled hand inhis, were alone. They had each but the other, and lived each in theother, in this room under the tiles with the deep-set dormer windowsthat looked across the Pays de Gex to the Jura. For how much thatprospect of vale and mountain stood in their lives, how often they roseto it from the same bed, how often looked at it in sunshine and shadowwith the house still and quiet below them, he seemed to know--to guess.He had a swift mental vision of their lives, and then Madame Royaume'svoice recalled him to himself.

  "You are newly come to Geneva?" she said, gazing at him.

  "I arrived yesterday."

  "Yes, yes, of course," she answered. She spoke quickly and nervously."Yes, you told me so." And she turned to her daughter and laid her handon hers as if she talked more easily so. "Your father, MonsieurMercier," with an obvious effort, "is well, I hope?"

  "Perfectly, and he begged me to convey his grateful remembrances. Thoseof my mother also," the young man added warmly.

  "Yes, he was a good man! I remember when, when he was ill, and M.Chausse--the pastor, you know"--the reminiscence appeared to agitateher--"was ill also----"

  The girl leant over her quickly. "Monsieur Mercier has brought somethingfor you, mother," she said.

  "Ah?"

  "His grateful remembrances and this letter," Claude murmured with ablush. He knew that the letter contained no more than he had alreadysaid; compliments, and the hope that Madame Royaume might be able toreceive the son as she had received the father.

  "Ah!" Madame Royaume repeated, taking the letter with fingers that shooka little.

  "You shall read it when Monsieur Mercier is gone," her daughter said.With that she looked across at the young man. Her eyes commanded him totake his leave.

  But he was resolute. "My father expresses the hope," he said, "that youwill grant me the same privilege of living under your roof, Madame,which was so highly prized by him."

  "Of course, of course," she answered eagerly, her eyes lighting up. "Iam not myself, sir, able to overlook the house--but, Anne, you will seeto--to this being done?"

  "My dear mother, we have no room!" the girl replied; and stooping, hidher face while she whispered in her mother's ear. Then aloud, "We are sofull, so--it goes so well," she continued gaily. "We never have anyroom. I am sure, sir,"--again she faced him across the bed--"it is adisappointment to my mother, but it cannot be helped."

  "Dear, dear, it is unfortunate!" Madame Royaume exclaimed; and then witha fond look at her daughter, "Anne manages so well!"

  "Yet if there be a room at any time vacant?"

  "You shall assuredly have it."

  "But, mother dear," the girl cried, "M. Grio and M. Basterga arepermanent on the floor below. And Esau and Louis are now with us, andhave but just entered on their course at college. And you know," shecontinued softly, "no one ever leaves your house before they are obligedto leave it, mother dear!"

  The mother patted the daughter's hand. "No," she said proudly. "It istrue. And we cannot turn any one away. And yet," looking up at Anne,"the son of Messer Mercier? You do not think--do you think that we couldput him----"

  "A closet however small!" Claude cried.

  "Unfortunately the room beyond this can only be entered through thisone."

  "It is out of the question!" the girl responded quickly; and f
or thefirst time her tone rang a little hard. The next instant she seemed torepent of her petulance; she stooped and kissed the thin face sunk inthe pillow's softness. Then, rising, "I am sorry," she continued stifflyand decidedly. "But it is impossible!"

  "Still--if a vacancy should occur?" he pleaded.

  Her eyes met his defiantly. "We will inform you," she said.

  "Thank you," he answered humbly. "Perhaps I am fatiguing your mother?"

  "I think you are a little tired, dear," the girl said, stooping overher. "A little fatigues you."

  Madame's cheeks were flushed; her eyes shone brightly, even feverishly.Claude saw this, and having pushed his plea and his suit as far as hedared, he hastened to take his leave. His thoughts had been busy withhis chances all the time, his eyes with the woman's face; yet he boreaway with him a curiously vivid picture of the room, of the bow-potblooming in the farther dormer, of the brass skillet beside the greenboughs which filled the hearth, of the spinning wheel in the middle ofthe floor, and the great Bible on the linen chest beside the bed, of thesloping roof, and a queer triangular cupboard which filled one corner.

  At the time, as he followed the girl downstairs, he thought of none ofthese things. He only asked himself what mystery lay in the bosom ofthis quiet house, and what he should say when he stood in the room belowat bay before her. Of one thing he was still sure--sure, ay and surer,since he had seen her with her mother,

  The sky might fall, fish fly, and sheep pursue The tawny monarch of the Libyan strand!

  but he lodged here. The mention of his adversary of last night, whichhad not escaped his ear, had only hardened him in his resolution. Theroom of Esau--or was it Louis' room--must be his! He must be Jacob theSupplanter.

  She did not speak as she preceded him down the stairs, and before theyemerged one after the other into the living-room, which was stillunoccupied, he had formed his plan. When she moved towards the outerdoor to open it he refused to follow: he stood still. "Pardon me," hesaid, "would you mind giving me the name of the young man who admittedme?"

  "I do not see----"

  "I only want his name."

  "Esau Tissot."

  "And his room? Which was it?"

  Grudgingly she pointed to the nearer of the two closets, that of whichthe door stood open.

  "That one?"

  "Yes."

  He stepped quickly into it, and surveyed it carefully. Then he laid hiscap on the low truckle-bed. "Very good," he said, raising his voice andspeaking through the open door, "I will take it." And he came out again.

  The girl's eyes sparkled. "If you think," she cried, her temper showingin her face, "that that will do you any good----"

  "I don't think," he said, cutting her short, "I take it. Your motherundertook that I should have the first vacant room. Tissot resigned thisroom this morning. I take it. I consider myself fortunate--mostfortunate."

  Her colour came and went. "If you were a boor," she cried, "you couldnot behave worse!"

  "Then I am a boor!"

  "But you will find," she continued, "that you cannot force your wayinto a house like this. You will find that such things are not done inGeneva. I will have you put out!"

  "Why?" he asked, craftily resorting to argument. "When I ask only toremain and be quiet? Why, when you have, or to-night will have, an emptyroom? Why, when you lodged Tissot, will you not lodge me? In what am Iworse than Tissot or Grio," he continued, "or--I forget the other'sname? Have I the plague, or the falling sickness? Am I Papist or Arian?What have I done that I may not lie in Geneva, may not lie in yourhouse? Tell me, give me a reason, show me the cause, and I will go."

  Her anger had died down while he spoke and while she listened. Instead,the lowness of heart to which she had yielded when she thought herselfalone before the hearth showed in every line of her figure. "You do notknow what you are doing," she said sadly. And she turned and lookedthrough the casement. "You do not know what you are asking, or to whatyou are coming."

  "Did Tissot know when he came?"

  "You are not Tissot," she answered in a low tone, "and may fare worse."

  "Or better," he answered gaily. "And at worst----"

  "Worse or better you will repent it," she retorted. "You will repent itbitterly!"

  "I may," he answered. "But at least you never shall."

  She turned and looked at him at that; looked at him as if the curtain ofapathy fell from her eyes and she saw him for the first time as he was,a young man, upright and not uncomely. She looked at him with her mindas well as her eyes, and seeing felt curiosity about him, pity for him,felt her own pulses stirred by his presence and his aspect. A faintcolour, softer than the storm-flag which had fluttered there a minutebefore, rose to her cheeks; her lips began to tremble. He feared thatshe was going to weep, and "That is settled!" he said cheerfully."Good!" and he went into the little room and brought out his cap. "I laylast night at the 'Bible and Hand,' and I must fetch my cloak and pack."

  She stayed him by a gesture. "One moment," she said. "You are determinedto--to do this? To lodge here?"

  "Firmly," he answered, smiling.

  "Then wait." She passed by him and, moving to the fireplace, raised thelid of the great black pot. The broth inside was boiling and bubbling towithin an inch of the lip, the steam rose from it in a fragrant cloud.She took an iron spoon and looked at him, a strange look in her eyes."Stand where you are," she said, "and I will try you, if you are fit tocome to us or no. Stand, do you hear," she repeated, a note ofexcitation, almost of mockery, in her voice, "where you are whateverhappens! You understand?"

  "Yes, I am to stand here, whatever happens," he answered, wondering.What was she going to do?

  She was going to do a thing outside the limits of his imagination. Shedipped the iron spoon in the pot and, extending her left arm,deliberately allowed some drops of the scalding liquor to fall on thebare flesh. He saw the arm wince, saw red blisters spring out on thewhite skin, he caught the sharp indraw of her breath, but he did notmove. Again she dipped the spoon, looking at him with defiant eyes, andwith the same deliberation she let the stuff fall on the living flesh.This time the perspiration sprang out on her brow, her face burnedsuddenly hot, her whole frame shrank under the torture.

  "Don't!" he cried hoarsely. "I will not bear it! Don't!" And he uttereda cry half-articulate, like a beast's.

  "Stand there!" she said. And still he stood: stood, his hands clenchedand his lips drawn back from his teeth, while she dipped the spoonagain, and--though her arm shook now like an aspen and there were tearsof pain in her eyes--let the dreadful stuff fall a third time.

  She was white when she turned to him. "If you do it again," he criedfuriously, "I will upset--the cursed pot."

  "I have done," she said, smiling faintly. "I am not very brave--afterall!" And going to the dresser, her knees trembling under her, shepoured out some water and drank it greedily. Then she turned to him, "Doyou understand?" she said with a long tense look. "Are you prepared? Ifyou come here, you will see me suffer worse things, things a hundredtimes, a thousand times worse than that. You will see me suffer, and youwill have to stand and see it. You will have to stand and suffer it. Youwill have to stand! If you cannot, do not come."

  "I stood it," he answered doggedly. "But there are things flesh andblood cannot stand. There is a limit----"

  "The limit I shall fix," she said proudly. "Not you."

  "But you will fix it?"

  "Perhaps. At any rate, that is the bargain. You may accept or refuse.You do not know where I stand, and I do. You must see and be blind, feeland be dumb, hear and make no answer, unless I speak--if you are to comehere."

  "But you will speak--sometime?"

  "I do not know," she answered wearily, and her whole form wilting shelooked away from him. "I do not know. Go now, if you please--andremember!"