M. Goude grumbled much when he heard
that his whole class were going to be absent for three
days.
“A nice interruption to study,”
he said, “however, you were none of you doing
yourselves any good, and you may as well be out in
the fields as hanging about the streets gossiping.
We can always talk, but during the past six weeks
Paris has done nothing but talk. Don’t come
back with any of your number short. You have
all got something in you and are too good for food
for Prussian powder.”
Cuthbert went that evening to the
Michauds, in his uniform, not for the purpose of showing
it off, but because men in plain clothes, especially
if of fair complexions, were constantly stopped
and accused of being German spies, were often ill-treated,
and not unfrequently had to pass a night in the cells
before they could prove their identity. Mary gave
an exclamation of surprise at seeing him so attired,
but made no remark until after chatting for half an
hour with the Michauds. The husband presently
made the excuse that he had to attend a meeting and
went off, while madame took up some knitting,
settled herself in an easy chair, and prepared for
a quiet doze, then Mary said in English-
“I have no patience with you,
Cuthbert, taking part with these foolish people.
The more I see of them the more I get tired of their
bombast and their empty talk. Every man expects
everyone else to do something and no one does anything.”
“They have had nothing to stir
them into action yet,” he said, “only the
regulars and the moblots go outside the wall,
and the National Guard are practically useless until
the Germans make an assault. Besides, three parts
of them are married men with families, and nothing
short of their homes being in danger will stir them
up to risk their lives. We are going out for
three days to the outposts, we fall in at five o’clock
to-morrow morning.”
“You are going to risk your
life,” she said, indignantly, “for the
Parisians, who have no idea whatever of risking theirs.
I call it madness.”
“You are going against your
own doctrines, Miss Brander. Before you were
indignant with me for doing nothing and being in earnest
about nothing. Now that I am doing something
and that in grim earnest, you are just as indignant
as you were before.”
“I did not mean this sort of thing,” she
said.
“No, I don’t suppose you
contemplated this. But you wanted me to work
for work’s sake, although as it seemed then there
was no occasion for me to work.”
“If it had been on the other
side I should not have minded.”
“Just so,” he smiled.
“You have become Germanized, I have not.
My friends here have all enlisted; I am going with
them partly because they are my friends and partly
because it is evident the Germans might have well
stopped this war before now, but they demand terms
that France can never submit to as long as there is
the faintest hope of success. You need not be
at all anxious about me. We are not going to attack
the Prussian positions I can assure you. We are
only going out to do a little outpost duty, to learn
to hear the bullets flying without ducking, and to
fire our rifles without shutting our eyes. I don’t
suppose there are five men in the three companies who
have ever fired a rifle in their lives.
“You see the Franc-tireurs are
to a great extent independent of the military authorities-if
you can call men military authorities who exercise
next to no authority over their soldiers. The
Franc-tireurs come and go as they choose, and a good
many of them wear the uniform only as a means of escape
from serving, and as a whole they are next to useless.
I think our corps will do better things. We are
all students of art, law or physic, and a good deal
like such volunteer corps as the artists or ‘Inns
of Court.’ Some of the younger professors
are in the ranks, and at least we are all of average
intelligence and education, so I fancy we shall fight
if we get a chance. I don’t mean now, but
later on when we have gained confidence in ourselves
and in our rifles. Just at present the Parisians
are disposed to look upon the Germans as bogies, but
this will wear off, and as discipline is recovered
by the line, and the mobiles grow into soldiers, you
will see that things will be very different; and although
I don’t indulge in any vain fancy that we are
going to defeat the German army, I do think that we
shall bear ourselves like men and show something of
the old French spirit.”
“That will be a change, indeed,”
the girl said, scornfully.
“Yes, it will be a change,”
he answered, quietly, “but by no means an impossible
one. You must not take the vaporings and bombast
of the Paris Bourgeois or the ranting of Blanqui and
the Belleville roughs as the voice of France.
The Germans thought that they were going to take Paris
in three days. I doubt if they will take it in
three months. If we had provisions I should say
they would not take it in treble that time. They
certainly would not do it without making regular approaches,
and before they can do that they have to capture some
of the forts. These, as you know, are manned
by 10,000 sailors, hardy marines and Bretons,
well disciplined and untainted by the politics which
are the curse of this country. Well, I must be
going. I have to purchase my three days’
store of provisions on my way back to my lodgings
and shall have to turn out early.”
“Don’t do anything rash,” she said,
earnestly.
“I can assure you rashness is
not in my line at all, and I don’t suppose we
shall ever get within five hundred yards of a Prussian
soldier. You need not be in the least uneasy,
even supposing that you were inclined to fidget about
me?”
“Of course, I should fidget
about you,” she said, indignantly. “After
knowing you ever since I was a little child, naturally
I should be very sorry if anything happened to you.”
“By the way,” he said,
without pursuing the subject farther, “I hear
that there is a movement on foot for forming a corps
of women. If they should do so it will afford
you another illustration of the equality of your sex
to ours in all matters, and I will go so far as to
admit that I would much rather lead a company of the
market-women than one composed of these Parisian shopkeepers.”
“Don’t, Mr. Hartington,”
she said, appealingly, “I don’t feel equal
to fighting now.”
“Then we won’t fight.
Good-bye! If we are not lucky enough to light
upon some empty cottages to sleep in I fancy the gloss
will be taken out of this uniform before I see you
again.” He picked up his cap, shook hands,
and was gone.
Madame Michaud woke up as the door closed.
“He has gone? your tall countryman.”
“Yes, he is going out to-morrow
to the outposts. I think it is very silly of
him and very wrong mixing up in a quarrel that does
not concern him, especially when there are tens of
thousands here in Paris who, instead of fighting for
their country, are content to sit all day in cafes
and talk.”
“They will fight when the time
comes,” Madame Michaud said, complacently.
“They will fight like heroes. The Prussians
will learn what Frenchmen are capable of doing.”
But Mary had no patience just at present
to listen to this sort of thing, and with the excuse
that her head ached went at once to her room.
“I do not understand these English,”
Madame Michaud thought, as she drew the lamp nearer
and resumed her knitting, “here are a young woman
and a young man who are more like comrades than lovers.
She was angry, more angry than I thought she could
be, for she is generally good-tempered, when I asked
her, the first time he came, if they were affiances,
’We are old friends, madame,’ she
said, ’and nothing but friends. Cannot a
girl have a man as a friend without there being any
thought of love? In England people are friends,
they can talk and laugh to each other without any
silly ideas of this sort occurring to them. This
is one of the things that keeps woman back in the
scale, this supposition that she is always thinking
of love.’ I did not believe her then, but
I have listened to-night when they thought I was asleep,
and I even peeped out two or three times between my
eyelids. I could not understand a word of what
they said, but one can tell things by the tone without
understanding the words. There was no love-making.
She scolded him and he laughed. He sat carelessly
in his chair, and did not move an inch nearer to her.
She was as straight and as upright as she always is.
“That is not the way lovers
act when one is going out to fight. I peeped
out when he shook hands with her. He did not hold
her hand a moment, he just shook it. They are
strange people, these English. It would be wrong
for a French girl thus to talk to a young man, but
I suppose it is different with them. Who can
understand these strange islanders? Why, if Lucien
were going out to fight I should dissolve in tears,
I should embrace him and hang on his neck; I might
even have hysterics, though I have never had them
in my life. She is a good girl, too, though she
has such strange ideas about women. What can
she want for them? I manage the house and Lucien
goes to his office. If I say a thing is to be
done in the house it is done. I call that equality.
I cannot tell what she is aiming at. At times
it seems to me that she is even more mad than her
compatriots, and yet on other subjects she talks with
good sense. What her father and mother can be
about to let her be living abroad by herself is more
than I can think. They must be even more mad than
she is.”
Work at M. Goude’s school went
on steadily during the intervals between the turns
of the Franc-tireurs des Écoles going out
beyond the walls. Indeed M. Goude acknowledged
that the work was better than usual. Certainly
the studio was never merrier or more full of life.
So far from the active exercise and the rough work
entailed by the constant vigilance necessary during
the long night-watches, diminishing the interest of
the young fellows in their work in the studio, it seemed
to invigorate them, and they painted as if inflamed
with the determination to make up for lost time.
It converted them, in fact, for the
time, from a group of careless, merry young fellows,
into men with a sense of responsibility. Their
time when away from the studio had previously been
spent in follies and frivolities. They often
drank much more than was good for them, smoked inordinately,
were up half the night, and came in the morning to
work with heavy heads and nerveless hands. Now
they were soldiers, men who matched themselves against
the invaders of their country, who risked their lives
in her defence, and they bore themselves more erectly,
a tone of earnestness replaced a languid indifference
and a carelessness as to their work, and in spite
of some privations in the way of food their figures
seemed to expand.
The loss of two nights’ sleep
a week rendered early hours necessary, and ensured
sound sleep during the remaining five. The discipline
of the studio had been relaxed. The master felt
that at such a time he could not expect the same silent
concentration on work that it demanded at other times,
but he found to his surprise that while they laughed
and joked as they painted, they worked none the worse
for this, and that in fact there was a general improvement
manifest.
Cuthbert heartily enjoyed the change;
the prevailing tone was more like that to which he
was accustomed at the studios of St. John’s Wood
than was the somewhat strict discipline that had before
prevailed in the studio, and he enjoyed the hard work
and excitement outside the walls. The fact that
they were running the same risks and sharing in the
same work was an added bond of union among the students;
and, although, when they met, as they very frequently
did in each other’s lodgings, there was less
uproarious fun than before; there was a healthier atmosphere,
and more pleasant and earnest talk.
Arnold Dampierre was the only exception
to the general rule. When in the field he evinced
no want of spirit, and upon the contrary was always
ready to volunteer when a few men were required to
crawl forward at night to ascertain the precise position
of the Prussian outposts or to endeavor to find out
the meaning of any stir or movement that might be
heard towards their front. At other times his
fits of moodiness seemed to increase. He was
seldom present at any of the gatherings of his companions,
but went off after work at the studio was over, and
it was generally late at night before he returned
to his rooms.
Cuthbert felt that the American avoided
all opportunities of conversation with him alone.
He replied cordially enough to his greeting when they
met, but they no longer dropped in to smoke a pipe
in each other’s apartments as they formerly
had done. Cuthbert had no great difficulty in
guessing at the reasons for this change in their relations.
He himself when he first noticed that Arnold was taking
the first place with Minette had spoken to him half-jestingly,
half-seriously, on the subject. He had never made
any secret of his own distrust of the model, and in
the early days of their intercourse had spoken freely
to Arnold on the subject. He could understand
that if the American, as it appeared, had become really
attached to her, he would shrink from the risk of
any expostulations on the course he had adopted.
Cuthbert believed that his comrade
was at present in a state of indecision, and that,
although deeply in love, he had not as yet been able
to bring himself to the idea of taking Minette back
as his wife to his home in Louisiana.
“It would be sheer madness,”
he said to himself, “and yet I have no doubt
it will end in his doing so, but as he must know it
is a piece of stupendous folly, I can understand his
reluctance to risk my speaking to him on the subject.
I am awfully sorry for him, but I know it is one of
those cases in which, now that it has gone as far as
it has, it would be worse than useless to try to interfere,
and would only make him more bent upon going through
with it. I don’t see that one can do anything
but trust to the chapter of accidents. Minette,
dazzled as she might be by the prospect of marrying
a gentleman and a man of property, might still hesitate
to do so if it would entail her having to leave Paris
and live abroad.
“I have no doubt that she is
very fond of Dampierre, but she may change her mind.
He may be killed before this business is over.
He may decide to return to America directly the siege
ends, with the idea of coming over to fetch her afterwards,
and either he may get over his infatuation, or on
his return may find that some one else has supplanted
him in her affections. I should not fancy that
constancy would be one of her strong points; at any
rate I do not see that I can do any good by meddling
in the matter, though if Dampierre spoke to me about
it, I should certainly express my opinion frankly.
It is much the best that things should go on between
us as they are now doing. He is a hot-headed
beggar, and the probabilities are strong in the favor
of our having a serious quarrel if the subject were
ever broached between us.”
One evening Cuthbert had taken up
a book after his return from the studio, and sat reading
until it was long past his usual dinner hour before
he went out. He passed through several badly lighted
streets on his way to the restaurant in the Palais
Royal, where he intended to dine. There were
but few people about, for the evening was wet.
He was vaguely conscious that some one was going in
the same direction as himself, for he heard footsteps
following him a short distance behind. In one
of the worst lighted and most silent streets the steps
suddenly quickened. Cuthbert turned sharply round.
He was but just in time, for a man who had been following
him was on the point of springing upon him with uplifted
arm.
Cuthbert felt rather than saw that
there was a knife in his hand, and struck straight
from the shoulder at his face; the fellow was in the
act of striking when he received the blow. He
fell as if shot, the knife, flying from his hand,
clattering on the pavement several yards away.
Cuthbert stood for a moment prepared to strike again
if the man rose, but as he made no movement he turned
on his heel and walked on.
“It would serve him right if
I were to give the scoundrel in charge for attempted
murder,” he said, “but it would give me
no end of bother. It would not be worth the trouble,
and he has been pretty well punished. I have
cut my knuckles, and I imagine that when he comes to
be will find himself minus some of his teeth.
I wonder what his object was robbery, I suppose and
yet it is hardly likely that the fellow would have
singled me out and decided to kill me on the off chance
of finding something worth taking. He could not
have seen that I have a watch on, for my greatcoat
is buttoned. It is more like an act of private
revenge, but I have never given anyone of that class
any reason to dislike me. Cartainly the man followed
me for some distance, for I have heard the steps behind
me ever since I turned off into these quiet streets.
“By the way,” he exclaimed,
suddenly, “I should not be at all surprised
if he took me for Dampierre. We are about the
same height, and although I am a good many inches
wider than he is, that might not be noticed in the
dark. If the fellow was watching outside the door,
and had known nothing of there being another man of
the same height in the house, he might very well have
taken me for Arnold. He spends half his time up
at Montmartre, and may likely enough have given offence
to some of the ruffians up there; when he is not in
a pleasant temper he does not mind what he says.
Possibly, too, the fellow may be an admirer of Minette,
and the thing may be this outcome of jealousy.
At any rate I will tell him in the morning about the
affair and let him take warning by it if he chooses.”
Accordingly, next morning he waited
outside in the street for Arnold, who was generally
the last to arrive at the studio.
“Rather an unpleasant thing
happened yesterday evening, Dampierre. I was
followed from here and attacked suddenly in one of
the back streets leading up to the Boulevards.
I had heard footsteps behind me for a little time
and had a vague sort of idea that I was being followed.
The fellow ran up suddenly and I had just time to
turn and hit out. He was in the act of striking
with a knife, and if I had been a second later he
would probably have settled me. As it was I knocked
him down and I fancy I stunned him. At any rate
he did not move, so I walked on. Of course it
may have been a mere vulgar attempt at murder and robbery,
but from the fact that this man followed me for some
considerable distance I should say it was not so,
but a question of revenge. I don’t know
that anyone in Paris has any cause of quarrel with
me, but the idea afterwards occurred to me that it
might be that he took me for you. We are about
the same height, and if he was watching the house he
might, when I came out, mistake one for the other.
Of course I have not a shadow of reason for supposing
that you have an enemy, but at any rate I thought it
as well to tell you about it, so that you might be
on your guard, as I shall certainly be, in the future.”
Arnold was silent for a minute.
“I should not be surprised if
you are right, Hartington; they are a rough lot at
Montmartre, and it is possible that I may, without
knowing it, have rubbed some of them the wrong way.
I suppose you did not notice what he was like?”
“No, it was too dark, and the
whole affair too sudden for me to see anything of
the features. He was in a blouse with the low
cap workmen generally wear. I should say he stood
four or five inches shorter than we do-about
five feet eight or so. He was a square-built fellow.
If you happen to come across him I fancy you may recognize
him, not from my description but from my handiwork.
You see,” and he pointed to his right hand,
which was wrapped up in an handkerchief, “I hit
him hard and have cut two of my knuckles pretty badly-I
fancy against his teeth. If so, I think it likely
that two or three of them will be missing, and as a
man of that sort is hardly likely to go at once to
a dentist to have the gap filled up, it may prove
a guide to you.
“For the next day or two his
lips are sure to be swollen pretty badly. Of
course if you have no one in your mind’s eye
as being specially likely to make an attempt upon
your life these little things will afford you no clue
whatever, but if you have any sort of suspicion that
one of three or four men might be likely to have a
grudge against you, they may enable you to pick out
the fellow who attempted my life. Of course I
may be mistaken altogether and the fellow may have
been only an ordinary street ruffian. Personally
it won’t make much difference to me, for I am
pretty handy with my fists, but as I know you have
had no practice that way, I recommend you always to
carry a pistol when you go out at night.”
“I always do, Hartington; I
always have one in each pocket of my coat.”
“Well, they may be useful, but
I should recommend you to be careful, and to walk
in the middle of the street when you are in doubtful
neighborhoods. A pistol is very good in its way,
but it takes time to get it out, and cock it, while
one’s fist is always ready for service at an
instant’s notice.”
By this time they had arrived at the
door of the studio. Arnold made no allusion to
the subject for some days, and then meeting Cuthbert
at the door of his house, said-
“By the way, Hartington, I have
reason to believe that you were right that that blow
you luckily escaped was meant for me. However,
I don’t think there will be any recurrence of
the matter; in fact, I may say that I am sure there
won’t.”
“That is all right then, Dampierre.
Of course I don’t want the matter followed up
in any way, and should not have spoken about it had
I not thought that I ought to give you warning.”
“I feel very much indebted to
you anyhow, Hartington. Probably had I been in
your place the matter would have gone altogether differently.”
Arnold had in fact learnt with absolute
certainty who had been Cuthbert’s assailant.
When he went up to Montmartre he told Minette what
had happened, and added: “He suspects that
the scoundrel took him in the dark for me.”
“Why should any one bear ill-will to you?”
Minette asked.
“That I can’t say, but
I do think that very likely he is right. He keeps
himself to himself, never attends meetings of any kind,
and can hardly have made an enemy, while it is possible
that I may have done so.”
Minette was thoughtful for some time,
and when her father joined them and said that it was
time to be off to a meeting, she asked him abruptly-
“Have you seen Jean Diantre to-day?”
“Ay, I have seen him, and a pretty sight he
is.”
“How is that, father?”
“He took more liquor than was
good for him and got a bad fall as he was going upstairs
to his room, and as luck would have it, his mouth caught
the edge of the stone step. His lips were all
cut and swollen to four times their usual size and
three of his teeth are out. Mon Dieu, what a
crash he must have got! He has been drinking a
great deal lately, and I have warned him over and
over again that he would get himself into trouble;
but as a rule liquor does not affect him that way,
he gets sulky and bad-tempered, but he can generally
walk steadily enough.”
“Father, you must come with
us to his lodgings,” Minette exclaimed.
“I have something to say to him. I suppose
he is up?”
“But it is time to be at the
meeting Minette. What do you want to see him
for?”
“Never mind the meeting,”
she said, impatiently. “We shall be there
before it is done. It is more important that I
should see Jean.”
“Well, if it must be, it must,”
Dufaure grumbled, shrugging his shoulders. “When
you take a thing into your head I know it is of no
use talking.”
Jean Diantre was sitting
with two or three of his mates in his attic over a
small brazier of charcoal. They rose in surprise
at the entrance of Minette and her father, followed
by the American. The girl, without speaking,
walked straight up to Jean.
“I knew you were a miserable,”
she said, bitterly, “a drunken, worthless scamp,
but until now I did not know you were a murderer.
Yes, comrades, this man with whom you sit and smoke
is a miserable assassin. Yesterday evening he
tried to take the life of Arnold Dampierre here, whom
you all know as a friend of freedom and a hater of
tyranny. This brave companion of yours had not
the courage to meet him face to face, but stole up
behind him in the dark, and in another moment would
have slain the man he was following, when the tables
were turned. The man he had followed was not
Arnold Dampierre but another; and before this wretch
could strike with his knife, he knocked him down,
stunned him, and left him like a dog that he is on
the pavement. No doubt he has told you the lie
that he told my father, that he fell while going upstairs
drunk. It was a blow of the fist that has marked
him as you see. The man he had tried to murder
did not even care to give him in charge. He despised
this cur too much, and yet the fellow may think himself
fortunate. Had it been Monsieur Dampierre it
would not have been a fist but a bullet through his
head that would have punished him. Now mark me,
Jean Diantre,” and she moved a pace
forward, so suddenly that the man started back, “you
are a known assassin and poltroon. If at any time
harm befalls Monsieur Dampierre I will stab you with
my own hand. If you ever dare to speak to me
again I will hold you up to the scorn of the women
of the quarter. As it is, your comrades have
heard how mean and cowardly a scoundrel you are.
You had best move from Montmartre at once, for when
this is known no honest man will give you his hand,
no man who respects himself will work beside you.
Hide yourself elsewhere, for if you stay here I will
hound you down, I will see that you have not an hour’s
peace of your life. We reds have our ideas, but
we are not assassins. We do not sneak after a
man to stab him in the dark, and when we have arms
in our hands we are not to be beaten like curs by
an unarmed man.”
The other men had shrunk back from
him as she spoke. Jean quailed beneath her torrent
of contemptuous words and from the fury in her eyes.
There was no doubting the fact that her charges were
true.
“Who drove me to it?”
he said sullenly through his swollen lips.
“Who drove you! Drink and
your evil temper drove you to it. You wanted
to marry me-me who never gave you a word
of encouragement; who knew you au fond, who
knew that you were at the best an idle, worthless scamp,
and would never have married you had there been no
other living man in the universe. But enough.
I have said what I came to say, and you had best take
warning. Come, father, you have stood this fellow’s
friend, and you have been wrong, but you know him
now.”
Minette passed out through the door
Arnold held open for her; her father and Arnold followed,
and the four other men, without a word to Jean
Diantre, went down the stairs after them, leaving
him to himself.