For Love of a Bedouin Maid

CHAPTER V

His captors marched St. Just along at a brisk pace and in a short time, they reached the Place de la Bastille, whose name achieved the double purpose of keeping alive the memories of the horrors that had been perpetrated within the grim fortress that had stood there, and of signalizing the triumph of democracy.

Continuing their way, they gained the prison that had been the last abiding place of the ill-fated Louis Capet. St. Just had often passed it, but had little thought he should ever find himself a prisoner within its walls; but that had been in the days when his honor was unsullied and he was glowing with the ardor of a young soldier, confident in his ability to cut his way to fortune with his sword. Alas how utterly had his hopes been falsified!

Vipont pulled vigorously at the bell, which answered his appeal with a strident clangor that made St. Just's heart thrill. It seemed to ring out the death-knell of his freedom, if not indeed his life. A wicket in the heavy gates was opened, and a man in uniform appeared behind it.

"A prisoner," said Vipont curtly. Then the party stepped inside and the little door was closed behind them.

They crossed the court—it had been the garden during the imprisonment of the Royal family—and the moon was shedding her rays upon the very tree under which the hapless monarch had been wont to take his daily exercise; causing the leaves to shimmer with a silver light as they were stirred by the gentle breeze. St. Just glanced up at the black facade, now dimly outlined against the dark wintry sky, and the gruesome thought flashed on him that, perhaps, he too was doomed to pace each day up and down, up and down, beneath that selfsame tree until that morning when he should be told that his last hour had come, and be hurried to the scaffold.

Vipont's party marched on with him and halted at a door, which, at the summons of the warder who had admitted them to the prison, was opened.

They entered the building, and then St. Just was escorted down a narrow passage to a flight of steps. These the man descended, and the others followed, emerging at the bottom on another passage, along which the jailer led the way, the rest of the party keeping close behind him, their footsteps echoing along the sunken corridor with thuds that reminded the prisoner of the blows he had heard at nights when the executioner and his assistants were setting up the scaffold, from which in the cold, gray morning some poor devil was to take his last look on the world. This reflection and the searching cold and damp, that seemed to pierce his very bones, and the mouldy smell that permeated the place, sent a shiver through St. Just that, despite his efforts to repress it, was visible to all.

Presently another iron door was reached, and, being opened, revealed a room about five yards by four in area. High up in one wall was a narrow, strongly barred window, that was little more than a slit, and communicated to the outer air by a sort of funnel, for even the cell's vaulted roof was below the surface of the ground. A small fireplace faced this window, and, to prevent the possibility of a prisoner's escape that way, a strong iron grating was fixed in the lower part of the chimney.

A low wooden bedstead a yard in width, a small deal table and a wooden stool comprised the furniture of this inhospitable apartment. At the sight of it St. Just's heart sank.

When the door of what was to be St. Just's home until he should be otherwise disposed of, had been thrown open, Vipont stood aside, and, bending before the prisoner in mock courtesy, motioned him to pass inside.

"I regret, Mons. le docteur," he said, "that we cannot offer you a more luxurious apartment; for this, I admit, is scarcely fitting for a member of the learned profession, I doubt not, you adorn. But, at any rate, you will be safe from thieves, and your scientific meditations will not be interrupted."

He wound up with a self-sufficient chuckle. St. Just made no reply, but crossed the threshold of his cell, into which the jailer had preceded him with a lantern. Then Vipont and his myrmidons withdrew. But, in a few minutes, he returned, as though he had forgotten something. He stepped quickly to the jailer's side and whispered something in his ear. Now that St. Just had had time to look at him, he saw that the jailer was a hard-featured, impassive, honest-looking fellow, with nothing in his countenance that augured cruelty or ill-nature, for the mere love of it. Whatever Vipont had said to him, the jailer raised the lantern and turned its light upon St. Just at the same time bestowing a keen glance on him. It will be borne in mind that St. Just was got up to pass for a serious, middle-aged member of a learned profession. The result of the jailer's scrutiny, which was made with much deliberation, was the muttered reply to his companion, "I am of your opinion."

Then he placed the lantern on the table and moved round behind St. Just, who, though suspicious of the glances cast at him, had no idea what they portended; but he was soon to know, for the man suddenly threw himself upon him, pinioning his arms behind him, so that he could not move.

Indeed St. Just made no attempt to do so, for the whole movement had been so rapid that he was taken quite aback. Before he had recovered his composure, Vipont had made a dash at his beard and plucked it off; when, instead of a middle-aged doctor, there stood before them a man clean-shaven and with youthful lineaments. The change it made in him was wonderful; even his frame seemed to have become more upright and muscular, so powerful is the influence of association.

Retaining in his grasp the beard, Vipont stepped back a pace and, advancing the lantern towards the prisoner's face, seemed to be diving into his memory for a clue that should enable him to fix the personality of the man in front of him; for the latter could see by the police agent's expression that he was convinced that they had met before.

Vipont looked long and earnestly at the captive, but to little purpose; he could not put a name to him.

All at once he in the book of memory found the page that contained the name he was in search of. A smile formed itself upon his face, the prelude to a mocking laugh, that rang loudly through the cell. He removed his hat and bent in mock courtesy before St. Just.

"Mons. St. Just," he said, "late lieutenant of the Guard at the Luxembourg Palace, we meet again. On the occasion that I have in mind, I have a fancy that I owe to you the failure of—well, an affair I need not specify. Now I have an opportunity of satisfying the debt; and be assured you shall be paid in full."

St. Just laughed scoffingly. "We shall see, my friend, I fear you not; the less so after the reminder you have given me of our first meeting, the circumstances of which had escaped my memory. I wonder whether the First Consul knows the part you played. For myself, I will not attempt to deny that I am St. Just—though, I think you would be put to it to prove it."

"Oh, no, I shouldn't," retorted Vipont, with a sneering laugh.

Just then the sound of a distant clock, which was striking ten; was borne across the frosty air, and penetrated to the prison. It checked the agent in the middle of his laugh.

"So late!" he exclaimed. "I have dallied here too long, and must be going."

Then he continued mockingly, "Do me the favor, my good Desmartins, to show this gentleman, in whom I take the deepest interest, every attention; treat him with the greatest deference; load his table with the daintiest viands; bring out for him your choicest wines; prepare for him your downiest bed; find him amusement, that he may not know a moment's weariness; guard him from every danger. In a word, do everything to keep him safe and happy, treating him as an honored guest, extending to him cheerfully the hospitality for which the genial custodian of the Temple is so famed." Then he turned to St. Just and, in the same mocking tone continued, "Can I add anything further, Sir, to ensure your comfort? I regret that I can no longer avail myself of the pleasure of your company; but I am already due at the Opera, where I have to report to the First Consul. I am desolated that I cannot have the honor of your company thither, but I shall be pleased to bear him any message you may charge me with."

There was a mocking smile on Vipont's lips, when he finished speaking, and, with pretended deference, he once more bent low before St. Just.

The latter glared savagely at the police agent, but, when he spoke, there was no passion in his voice, only a cold incisiveness in every word that fell upon the mocker's ears and, despite his well-assumed impassiveness, caused him some uneasiness.

"Yes, go, Sir," said St. Just. "Go, by all means, to the First Consul, and tell him from me, if you have the honesty and courage to keep your promise, that, on the night to which you have alluded, you and the rascal Sotin, were the men who tried to murder him by Mons. Barras' orders. I think, when he knows this, for all your activity in his behalf to-night, you will not be long in paying another visit to the Temple, but in a somewhat different capacity from that you occupy at present. You will have an opportunity of testing the hospitality of our good friend here; of participating in the luxuries you suggested he should heap on me."

Vipont turned pale and trembled with mingled rage and dread.

"You lie, coquin," he yelled, "you vile traducer of a trusted servant of the State. I know not what you mean. But I will soon silence your perjured tongue."

And he laid his hand upon his sword and half drew it from its sheath, at the same time taking a step forward. But Desmartins interposed, and laid his hand on the police agent's arm.

"No violence, Monsieur, I beg," he said. "It is not to be permitted. I am responsible for the prisoner's safety, and you shall not do him hurt." And he placed himself between the men.

The sword dropped back into its scabbard, and Vipont, scowling, removed his grasp from it. He glared furiously at St. Just.

"Why does he insult me, then," he snarled, "the gredin? But let him wait, the coward, till I have the opportunity of chastising him. Then we shall see."

"As you say," St. Just calmly interposed, "we shall see. But I care not to bandy further words with you; and surely you are forgetting your appointment." And, to show that conversation on his part was at an end, he turned his back on Vipont and took a step or two away.

The police spy shook his fist in menace at St. Just; then, with the words, "Au revoir, coquin," he turned on his heel and quitted the cell, followed by the jailer, who took with him the lantern, leaving St. Just to darkness and his thoughts.

For a while, he remained motionless where he stood, listening to the retreating footsteps of his late companions. At last, they died away, and the silence that ensued was deathlike.

"Will Halima hear what has befallen me?" he mused. "And how will she act if she do hear it? Will she leave me to my fate? No, no, she could not be so cruel!"

He paced restlessly about, tortured by the reflections that assailed him. Beneath his conviction of her love for him there always lurked a doubt of her fidelity. He did not forget that, on their meeting after nearly four years' separation, she had looked more radiantly beautiful than ever; there had been no evidence in her appearance that she had bewailed his loss; and he did not doubt that, in his absence, she had consoled herself with other lovers, and, in like circumstances, would do so again. She had frankly admitted that the indulgence of her passions was a necessity of her life. The thought threw him into a fever of impatience and rebellion at his helplessness, and he began to cast about for a means of informing her of his predicament.

Suddenly he halted in his aimless tramp about his cell. The blind beggar—who was not really blind—had seen his capture, and, if himself unknown to Halima, would know those who were acquainted with her, and so the news would reach her. St. Just had not had time to recognize the man, even if he had ever seen him before; but he was convinced that he was in the plot.

His wife would not be long in hearing what had happened; perhaps she had heard already. And she could save him, if she would, for she had in her possession the charm that Josephine had given him, the talisman that Buonaparte had promised should three times be effective in protecting him, should the need arise and Buonaparte have the power; and surely, surely Halima would use it in his behalf.

This hope, nay, this certainty—for, after all her protestations of undying love, she would never be so base as to desert him—brought with it comparative relief, and he was able to look his position in the face, without the dread that had but now oppressed him.

Then, with reawakened confidence, he threw himself upon his narrow pallet and, worn out by the excitement he had undergone, soon dropped off into a slumber in which all his troubles were forgotten; he even dreamed that he was with Halima.

A week passed by, and gradually the captive's spirits sank, for not a whisper from the outer world had come to him, and the dreadful thought was gaining on him that, after all, he was to be abandoned to his fate. The hours dragged on in horrible monotony, his only visitor being his jailer, who came at stated intervals to supply him with the sorry food that was his fare. But, though the man was rough and almost surly, and could with difficulty be got to speak—and, when he did, it was only in monosyllables—St. Just looked forward to his visits with positive delight, parting from him with regret and counting the hours, by the chimes of distant clocks, until he should be due again. He was the captive's sole link with humanity.

St. Just made various attempts to sound him, asked him whether anyone had called at the prison in reference to his case; whether he was being talked about outside; whether he had heard again from Vipont; but he said not a word of Halima.

But he could extract nothing from Desmartins; the man was as close as a mouse trap that has just achieved its purpose. All that could be got from him was that he knew nothing. Then St. Just tried to inveigle him into talk on general topics; he was so loth to lose the sight of a human face, the sound of a human voice. But his jailer discouraged conversation and would have none of it.

However, on the evening of the seventh day of his incarceration, and without any previous intimation, the door of his cell was opened, and—not Desmartins, as he had at first assumed—but a file of soldiers entered. They were followed by their officer. He bowed to the prisoner and then told him that he had orders to remove him, and that it would be necessary to blindfold him.

"Whither do you take me?" asked St. Just.

"That I am not at liberty to say," replied the officer; "but you will learn anon."

Then they blindfolded him, and two of the men placed themselves one on each side of him, and each took an arm to guide him; thus they led him from the room, and along the narrow passage, the jailer going in advance to show the way, and taking the same route as on St. Just's arrival.

Presently, by the change in the sounds above him, and the freshness of the atmosphere, St. Just knew that he was in the open air; in another minute he heard the prison gate clang to behind him. Then he was guided into a carriage, which was quickly driven away.

He was scarcely seated, when a voice muttered in a loud whisper in his ear, "Make no rash effort to escape, and do not speak, or attempt to remove your bandage, or you will suffer for it."

At the same time, to lend significance to the speaker's words, something cold and hard was pressed against the hearer's temple. St. Just knew it for the muzzle of a pistol, and, for a moment, shivered. But only for a moment; it needed little wit to know that, for the present at any rate, his life was safe. For all that, he deemed it prudent to obey the injunctions of his companion; so sat motionless and silent. He tried at first to follow in his mind the turns the carriage took, but, blindfold as he was, he found it hopeless, so gave it up, resigning himself with such patience as he could command to whatever was to follow. But his mind was in a fever of inquiry. Was he being conveyed to Halima's house, or to some place of safety at her instance; or were his captors taking him to some other prison, where the discipline was harsher, and the prisoners had less chance of making their escape?

The carriage creaked and rumbled on, with frequent jolts, for the roads, at all times, at that period, bad, were now, by the mingled action of frost and slush, a succession of alternate holes and hillocks. But, at last, when it seemed to St. Just that they had been traveling for hours, the carriage halted, and he was bidden to descend. Then he was again taken by the arm and guided up a narrow staircase. Arrived at the top, his conductor whispered a few words to some one there. A door was opened, and he was led into a room and halted. Then the same voice that had addressed him in the carriage spoke again.

"You are at your journey's end, and your bandage will now be removed. Light, you see, like everything else, comes to him who waits." He laughed pleasantly.

When the bandage had been removed, St. Just found himself in a moderate-sized apartment, whose walls were lined from floor to ceiling with books. He was standing before an open hearth, in which, burned a cheerful fire of wood, whose flames diffused a ruddy glow throughout the room, and a genial warmth that was more than grateful to a man who had been enduring for a week the chill, damp air of a prison cell. On one side of the room were two long windows, now closed with shutters and hung with dark red curtains. A large oil lamp, its brilliance tempered by a deep green shade, was burning on a table in the center of the room. On the side that faced the fire was a pair of folding doors, now closed. These details St. Just took in unconsciously, for what fixed his glance, immediately that his bandage was removed, was the figure of a man who was a stranger to him. He was standing by the fire and partially supporting himself on a stick. An elderly man, thin in figure, somewhat below the average height, and of shrivelled aspect. His face was long and lean and absolutely colorless; only redeemed from lifelessness by the piercing eyes, which were ever shifting restlessly, as though trying to find an entrance into the weak places of an opponent. He was dressed from head to foot in black.

Hard by St. Just there stood another man, whose green uniform with red facings proclaimed him to be an officer of Chasseurs. He had been St. Just's companion in his drive, and he it was who had removed the handkerchief from his eyes, for he still held it in his hand.

The elder man fixed his keen glance upon St. Just for several moments, without speaking. Then suddenly he addressed him in a high-pitched voice.

"Well Mons. St. Just, what have you to say for yourself for mixing in plots against the First Consul?"

Then, before his hearer could reply, he continued to the officer in attendance: "You can withdraw, Beaumont. Wait in the anteroom, in case you should be wanted—but not within earshot of this room." And he raised his finger meaningly at the young officer, who, coloring to the roots of his hair, stammered at the slur cast on him.

"Mons. de Talleyrand, I am a soldier and a man of honor. It is an insult to suggest—"

"Go, Sir," interrupted the other sternly. "I have not time to pick and choose my words, except when matters of State demand it."

And, without further parley, the officer retired.

Then the man who had been addressed as Talleyrand resumed his conversation with St. Just; but first he moved to a chair, halting slightly in his walk.

"Well, Sir," he said, "you find my question difficult to answer. But I will spare you the dishonor of inventing denials that would be unavailing; for the information at my command is unimpeachable. But one thing I should like to know, that you alone can tell me; and that is how it happens that you, who were reported dead in Egypt more than three years ago, have now turned up alive in Paris?"

This was a much easier question to reply to than the other, and St. Just detailed, shortly, the particulars—garbled for the occasion—of his capture in the desert and subsequent adventures, up to his landing and accident at Margala, explaining his strange loss of memory, that had extended even to his ignorance of his own identity; and how that memory had only recently been restored.