He studied the abbé, his dark eyes narrowing and brightening. Could he trust this old man, who wore the habit of a detested hierarchy, the tattered livery of a pestilence? At the last, would not superstition be stronger than pity, and the slavery of a soul more potent than human compassion?
“Can I trust you, mon abbé?” he asked, abruptly.
Surprised, the abbé could only gaze at him, bewildered. Then he inclined his head with a kind of humble pride.
“I am an old man of many sins,” André Mourion murmured, sadly. “But never to my own knowledge have I betrayed a single soul.”
Arsène still hesitated, his eyes fixed dourly on the other. There were so many difficulties to be considered, even beyond the possibility of betrayal by the priest. He considered them. The abbé watched him, seeing the somber coldness and suspicion of the young man’s face, the hard darkness of his eyes, the impatient twitching of his grim mouth. During all the nights of nursing, he had felt close to this human creature, who had been suffering with complete abandon. In the presence of torment, death, pain and compassion, they had been only two men. Now, the old priest felt the withdrawal, the coldness, the caste, of this stranger, and saw the glance of a haughty and aristocratic eye, brutal and contemptuous. He was familiar with this glance from gilded carriages, along dusty, highways, on crowded thoroughfares, a glance that consigned him and all other poor humanity to the limbo beyond humanity. He felt nothing but his old heavy despair and sorrow.
“Old man,” said Arsène, and now his voice was in accord with his look, “if you betray me, I promise you worse than death, even if the foul Pope himself interceded for you, or protected you.”
He paused, abruptly, for the abbé had begun to smile, irresistibly, as at the empty threats of a conceited child, pampered and unfeeling. But there was sadness in his smile, also, and complete comprehension.
“Do not threaten me, Monsieur,” he said, very gently. “I am afraid of no man, and fear nothing except man’s wickedness and depravity and lack of heart.”
There was such a simple sincerity in his voice, and such a weary rebuke, that Arsène was ashamed. Nevertheless, he said coldly: “Who can trust priests?”
He panted a little, in his exhaustion, but waved away the abbé’s hand when it would seek to feel his forehead for fever.
“You must go on an errand for me, before the others return, and it must be a secret errand. You will go to the Hôtel du Vaubon, on the Champs-Élysees. There, you must ask for Pierre Brissons, a young footman. He will come to the gates. You will then tell him you come from me, and he will take you to my—to Monsieur le Marquis du Vaubon. To Monsieur le Marquis, you will say: I have come from one Arsène de Richepin—”
He paused, and again fixed his penetrating and arrogant eyes on the abbé’s face, and waited. The abbé stared at him, stepped back a pace or two. His mouth opened, and an expression of consternation and uncertainty grew momentarily deeper on the old man’s face. But there was no fear upon it, no frightened awe. Once he glanced at the door, as if expecting the entrance of enemies. He moistened his dry and wrinkled lips, and looked directly at Arsène.
“You can clearly see,” said Arsène, “that I need fear no one, not even your accursed Cardinal, himself.”
There was boastfulness in his voice, but he was not certain of the truth of his own words. The Cardinal, the sinister and the subtle, the omnipotent and the never-sleeping, must surely know of the activities of Monsieur le Marquis du Vaubon’s son, as he knew everything. There was hardly a man in Paris whose death he might desire more, but it would have to be an obscure and anonymous death for the sake of the great friend of the Cardinal, and the great friend of His Majesty.
Moreover, Arsène, despite the recent soul-moving revelations to which he had been subjected, could not so easily shake off the habits and the convictions of a lifetime. Consequently, he was annoyed by the abbé’s lack of cringing, and his complete absence of fawning and eager adulation. He was too accustomed to the idea that the mission of the Church was to minister to and serve the powerful. He saw, to his irritation, that the abbé’s sole concern was for the position of his poor friends, more precarious than ever.
“No one will be reproached,” said Arsène, scowling. “How were you to know of my identity? You will tell that to Monsieur le Marquis, if he demands why he was not told before.” He added, with impatience; “I need not tell you that Monsieur le Marquis, the close friend of the Cardinal, is my father.”
“I know,” said the abbé, in a low and trembling voice. He gazed at Arsène with mournful and intense eyes, the brownness in them like the shadow of bright sunlit water under bending ferns.
“You are not impressed,” said Arsène, with a short laugh, and was immediately embarrassed.
The abbé was silent. He wrung his hands convulsively together.
“Speak briefly and quickly to Monsieur le Marquis,” Arsène continued. “Tell him that it is to my interest that not even he know where I am hiding. Tell him I have commanded you not to speak of this. He is an impatient and nervous man, and you must not be cowed by his manner.” He added: “And then, tell him I am recovering, that within a week I shall return home. He may be suspicious; he does not trust priests more than I do, and you must impress on him your trustworthiness.”
“You think he will believe me, Monsieur?”
“Most certainly.” Arsène glanced at his sword, pointed to it. “Take this with you. My father will know, then, that you come from me. Ask him also for money for me.” He laughed with sudden weak enjoyment. “Mademoiselle Ceeile has made off with my money, and I am as destitute as a beggar—a very strange condition. You will also ask Monsieur the Marquis for a small bundle of garments for me, for I was forced to discard coat and cloak when I swam the Seine.” He considered. “Tell my father that I was slightly wounded, but have now recovered.” He touched the healing scar on his dark cheek, and ruefully glanced at his bandaged arm. “And that I must remain in hiding for some days longer. It will not be necessary to tell him that I have been ill, besides.”
He looked at the abbé with vague astonishment. Never before had he sincerely considered his father’s grief and anxiety. They had seemed foolish and petty emotions before, springing from a womanish nervousness and his father’s chronic terror. He had even delighted, at times, in throwing his father into a frenzy of fear, for the mean pleasure of watching that contorted countenance and hunted eyes, and seeing the rippling shadows of apprehension on that pale and sweating face.
The abbé picked up the sword and held it in his hand. But he seemed not to see it, though he mechanically turned the hilt so that it caught fire from the candlelight. Arsène watched him curiously. Of what was the old man thinking? Then, as if the abbé had forgotten him, he left the room, walking with his enfeebled step.
Only when the abbé had gone did Arsène, cursing his carelessness, realize on what a dangerous errand he had sent his benefactor. Armand most probably would not trust him, out of his terror and cowardice. There was a strong possibility that he would order the priest seized. There was no predicting the hysterical reactions of this womanish man. And if he made his usual uproar in emergencies, there was no end to the hazardous possibilities. He might accuse the abbé of having murdered his son, of being an impostor, of endeavoring to rob him. He might scream denunciations, accusations, and the abbé might very well be dragged off to some prison den, there to die. All Paris might know within an hour, for Armand was not conspicuous for prudence and reticence. The only hope was that the abbé might find him in a mood of rare calmness, and that he might be convinced of his son’s predicament. For there were others, in the Hôtel du Vaubon, who would easily believe, and dispatch a message to their diabolical master. In that event, murderers would be sent at once, quietly, to eliminate Arsène de Richepin, and throw his defaced body into the Seine, or bury it in some anonymous grave. Even in the event that the abbé was believed, he might be followed to this hovel, if the conversation were over
heard.
“God!” muttered Arsène, “why did I have to have a fool and a woman for a father?”
His imagination, heightened by his recent illness, peopled the hovel with enemies within an hour, enemies coming secretly and silently, murdering him as he lay alone in his bed. The young girl, or her grandfather, might enter his chamber and find him weltering in his own blood, or worse, they might return during the sanguinary operations and be murdered in order to silence them forever.
It was strange, then, that this latter thought horrified the young man more than did the thought of his own death. It was frightful to contemplate that the only return he could give his benefactors was a swift and merciless death. He was intolerably alarmed, and started to his elbow, not even feeling the agony in his wounded arm. He did not have even his sword to protect him, and the old man and the girl, even if he had had the strength to rise and use it. He sweated, in the urgency of his vivid imaginings. He looked about like a frantic animal, for a place to hide. At that moment he heard a quiet sound. Someone was entering the hovel, softly.
Now the visitor was within the faint shaft of candlelight. It was François Grandjean, and behind him, Arsène could see the slender cloaked figure of Cecile.
CHAPTER VI
On leaving his labors, François Grandjean would linger at the gates of the Hôtel de Tremblant for his granddaughter, Cecile. He was old and weary, but there was more safety in his presence for the girl, as they walked through the crowded dark streets at night, than had she taken her way home alone. Perfumed gallants in chairs, or, cloaked and masked, and accompanied by young reckless bloods like themselves, often waylaid helpless young girls out of pure deviltry. The least the unfortunate young damsel could expect would be a lustful mauling, a few boisterous kisses. During these episodes, for which young women had no redress, the police would indulgently turn their heads, perhaps being rewarded for their blindness with a few flung coins. Moreover, the police knew that no good ever came of righteous or indignant interference. More than one guard found his broken head in the gutter if he was so indiscreet. (It was said that the King, himself, until he took an incontinent interest in culinary matters, often entered into these nocturnal sports.)
During their walk home together, François would carry a stout staff, and Cecile would pull her hood down closely over her beautiful head and would imitate the walk of an old woman at the approach of danger. She remembered, with shiverings, that a young servant girl with whom she had been friendly at the Hôtel de Tremblant, had mysteriously disappeared one midnight, while returning to the home of her bed-ridden mother.
They had stopped briefly at the markets, where Cecile had competently purchased a good fat hen, some herbs, a bottle of decent wine, bread, a handful of onions, and a rabbit. François, though astonished, remained silent while she haggled, and gaped incredulously at the gold coin she offered in payment. Pausing at a stall, she purchased a nosegay of purple spring violets, which she tucked into her bodice. When they were in the streets again, he said:
“My child, where did you secure this money?”
“I took it from the purse of Monsieur Arsène, with his permission. In truth, I took the whole purse,” the girl replied, coolly, from the depths of her hood. She paused at the door of a pastry shop, and while François, his head humming, remained outside, she purchased several dainty tarts. She placed these firmly in her grandfather’s hands. All at once, she began to laugh, grimly.
“The gentleman intimated that he disliked our fare,” she said.
“You asked him for money, Cecile?” questioned François, painfully.
“Most certainly. I have told you. He is a haughty wretch. We will be well rid of him, and good fare will hasten that day.”
François’ exhausted face flushed, and as they passed a watch carrying a torch, Cecile saw that he was deeply distressed.
“Grandfather,” she said, in her chill young voice, “there must be no nonsense. He came unbidden; we gave him Christian charity. He is prepared to repay us with contempt, believing that it is our mission to minister unto such as he. There is no gratitude in him. In a day or two, I shall demand full payment for our care.”
He could not see her face, but he felt the firmness of her step, and heard the uncompromising bitterness of her tone.
“I cannot permit this,” said François.
She leaned against him, and laughed, indulgently. “My grandfather, I am only fifteen, but I know the world. In this, I cannot obey you.”
“You are hard, ma petite,” sighed the old man. But he could not refrain from smiling slightly. “You have told me,” he added, “that our invalid is much better. That is excellent news. He has suffered greatly.”
“But that is not our fault, nor our matter. He should be thankful we did not betray him to the Cardinal’s guardsmen, or throw him into the gutter. We can expect nothing of such monsters, nothing of gratitude. At least, we can demand that we be recompensed. However, I hardly think he will respond to our demands.”
They reached their miserable dwelling-place. The abbé was not to be seen, but Arsène had struggled to an elbow as they entered the chamber, and was regarding them with great and febrile excitement.
“My pistol!” he exclaimed, weakly. “I must have it at once!”
François hurried to the bedside, anxiously, gazing with experienced eyes at the flushed and sunken cheeks of the sick man, at his wildly inflamed eyes. But Cecile, without a glance, passed the bed and went into the kitchen with her purchases.
“My pistol!” shouted Arsène, flinging aside François’ hand.
François, bewildered, turned his head, lifted the pistol from the bench, and silently gave it to the other. Arsène, struggling to sit up, cocked the pistol. Then he flung it from him with a groan.
“Empty!” he said. His eyes darted upon François feverishly.
“But yes,” said François, with gentleness. “Did you not use this weapon before you came to us?”
Arsène’s dry lips parted vehemently, then he was silent, panting on his pillow. François scrutinized him with concern, thinking that Cecile had been premature in her announcement of his recovery. Surely this man was in delirium, with his shouts for his pistol. Moreover, the absence of the abbé was puzzling. He had never failed them before.
However, François’ first thought was to calm Arsène.
“There is no need for weapons in this house,” he said, gently. He looked at the table, where stood a cup half-filled with water. He offered it to the sick man, but Arsène shook his head impatiently. His eyes dwelt on François with sparkling concentration. It was evident that he was losing control of himself.
“I have been a fool,” he muttered, through clenched teeth. “I have sent that miserable old imbecile of an abbé on an errand—” He paused, then burst out, his control gone: “I have sent him to my father, who is a woman and an idiot, and who will not listen to his tale! At any moment, murderers will burst into this house, to destroy us all!”
François listened, bewildered and fearful. Now Arsène’s eyes sharpened upon him.
“In some way, I must leave this house at once, for my sake, and your own.”
Then François went to the door, barred and locked it. He came back to the bed.
“Tell me,” he said, quietly.
He listened with intentness to Arsène’s furious and panting story. He showed no perturbation. After Arsène had done, he sat down wearily on the bench, and plunged himself into thought.
“Did you understand me, old man?” demanded Arsène, with wild impatience. “My father is Armand de Richepin, Marquis du Vaubon. And I have sent—”
“I have heard,” said François, with great calm. “It is not necessary for you to excite yourself so, Monsieur du Richepin. Did you expect me to be impressed? If so, I assure you I am not.
“Let us consider this calmly. The abbé Mourion is no fool, no child. He has dealt with many men, and understands. You must trust his wisdom. There is nothing else
to be done.”
Cecile had built the fire on the kitchen hearth, and had put the fowl and the rabbit in a large pot. She returned to the bedchamber, her manner undisturbed, her young face cold. She regarded Arsène with contempt.
“This is one who trusts no man,” she said. “But who can blame him, remembering that we can judge others only by ourselves?”
The candlelight glimmered in her beautiful blue eyes and on her light brown hair and white throat. She stood in the doorway, erect and still. Arsène stared at her, enraged.
“Go away, girl,” he said.
But she entered the room, and laid Arsène’s empty purse on the bed near his hand. Then she turned to her grandfather.
“I have heard his tale. Perhaps he is justified in his fears. But it is probable that the poor abbé will be discreet?”
“I have no fear of that, little one,” replied François, sighing heavily.
He was profoundly concerned at Arsène’s manner and agitation.
“Rest assured, Monsieur, there is no danger. None worse than we have already suffered. But you will sicken yourself more, if you allow your imagination to dwell too much on improbabilities.”
His voice and his manner were so calm, so gentle, that Arsène was soothed in spite of his fears and his knowledge of his father. He permitted François to smooth his pillow, to bathe his face and hands. Cecile watched, coldly and remotely.
“How can we endure it, if the abbé is injured by this?” she murmured, looking at Arsène with bitter blue eyes.
“We must trust the discretion of the abbé,” said François, with a reproving glance at the girl. “We know how wise he is. And we can be assured that no amount of coercion, or worse, will induce him to betray us.”
Arsène was again alarmed, and not for himself. “I shall not forgive myself if harm comes to him,” he said, and the words sounded strange even to his own ears.