Servants of Sin

"To begin a new life! Yes?"

"Yes. A new life. As you know-who can help but know if they have been in France during the last year or so! – this country is colonising largely in America; there are great prospects for those who choose to go to the Mississippi; Louisiana is being peopled by the French; emigrants, planters are called for largely. If I go there, it is not at all probable that Desparre's vengeance will follow me; nay, a willing colonist can even get exemption for his sins committed in France. I intend to take steps for proceeding to the new world as soon as may be."

She bent her head as though to signify that she heard all he said, yet, even as she did so, there coursed again through her brain the thought of how she had blasted this man's life. She was driving him forth to a place of which she had heard the most terrible accounts, a place overrun by savages who disputed every inch of their native ground against the white man-sometimes, too, with other white men for their allies-the very countrymen of him who sat before her. Of herself she thought not at all; if he could endure the hardships that must be faced, why, she, his wife, could endure them-must endure them-too. She-but his voice aroused her from her thoughts, and it showed that for her, at least, there was no likelihood of such endurance being required.

"I intend," he was saying, "to take steps for proceeding there as soon as may be. But, ere I go, your welfare has to be consulted-provided for. This is what I purpose doing," while, as he spoke, he rose and went towards a large, firmly-locked bureau that stood in one corner of the room, and came back bearing in his hand a small iron box which he proceeded to open. "This," he said, with a smile that seemed to her as she watched him to be a terribly weary one, "contains all that I have left in the world, except what my mother contrives at various periods to furnish me with. It is not much now-but something. There are some four thousand livres here; enough to provide you with your subsistence for the time being; to assist you in doing what I wish-what I think best for you to do."

"What," she asked, still with her eyes fixed on him, "is that?"

"It would be best," he continued, "that, when I am gone, you should endeavour to make your way to England-to my mother. I shall write to her at once telling her that I am married, that my future necessitates my going to Louisiana, and that, out of her love for me, her last remaining child-for my brother is dead-she will receive you as her daughter. And she will do it, I know; she will greet you warmly as my wife. Only," and now his voice sank very low, was very gentle, as he continued, "one thing I must ask. It is that you do not undeceive her about-the-condition we stand in to one another-that, for her sake-she is old, and I am very dear to her-you will let her suppose-that-there is love-some love, at least-between us. If you will so far consent as to grant me this, it is all-the only demand-I will ever make of you."

He lifted his eyes towards where she sat, not having dared to glance at her while he made his request, but they did not meet hers in return. Unseen by him, she had raised her hood as a screen to the side of her face which was nearest to the logs; that, and her white hand, now hid her features from him. He could not see aught but that hand. Yet she had to speak, to make some answer to his request, and, a moment later, she said from behind her hand in a voice that sounded strangely changed to him:

"As you bid me I will do. All that you desire shall be carried out."

Then, for a moment, no further word was said by either. Presently he spoke again. "Desparre is paid what I owe him-what I lost at play. It will reach him by a safe hand at about the same time he learns that you are-my wife, not his. And I owe no money now in Paris. All is paid; during the past two days I have settled my affairs. As for these apartments, when you desire to set out, do what you will with all that they contain, excepting only those," and he pointed to the pictures of the country house, the horse, and his mother. "Those I should not desire to part with. I will take them with me to a friend. Now, I will summon the concierge; she has orders to attend to all your wants."

She rose as he spoke and turned towards him, and he saw that there was no colour left in her face; that, in truth, she was deathly pale. Her eyes, too, he thought were dim-perhaps, from some feeling of regard or gratitude which might have been awakened in her-and as she spoke her voice trembled.

"Is this then," she asked, "our parting? Our last farewell?"

"Nay. Nay," he said, "not now. Though it will be very soon. But I shall not leave Paris yet. Some trouble might arise; your uncle may endeavour to regain possession of you-though that he cannot do, since you are a married woman and have your lines. I shall stay near you for some days; I shall even be in this house should you require me. Have no fear. You will be quite safe. And, when I am assured that all is well with you, we will part; but not before."

He went towards the hall to ring for the woman, but, ere he could cross to where it was, she stopped him with a motion of her hand.

"Stay," she said, "stay. Let me speak now. Monsieur-my husband-I have heard every word that has fallen from your lips. Monsieur, I think you are the noblest man to whom ever woman plighted her troth-a troth, alas! that, as she gave it, she had no thought of carrying out. Oh!" she exclaimed, raising her eyes, "God forgive me for having accepted this man's sacrifice. God forgive me."

Then, in a moment, before he had time to form the slightest suspicion that she meditated any such thing, she had flung herself at his feet, and, with hands clasped before her, was beseeching him also to pardon her for having wrecked his life. But, gentle as ever, he raised her from the ground and placed her again in the seat she had left, beseeching her not to distress herself.

"Remember this," he said; "what I did I did out of the love I bore you when first I sought yours; remember that, though you had no love in your heart to give me, I had plighted my faith to you. Remember that my duty is pledged to you; that, if I prosper, as I hope to do, you shall prosper too. Or, better still, if in years to come this yoke which you took upon yourself galls too much, and you have no longer any need of it, we will find means to break it. I will find means to set you free."

"To-set-me-free!" she repeated slowly.

"Yes. Now I will go and seek the concierge. Then I will leave you until to-morrow. You will, as I have said, be perfectly safe here-perfectly at liberty. Have no fear, I beg. No one can harm you."

The concierge came at his summons and took his orders, he telling her briefly that the lady would occupy his apartments for a few days, and that he would use some other rooms at the top of the house which she had for disposal. Then, when he had seen a light meal brought to her and the woman had withdrawn, he bade his wife good-night.

"In the morning," he said, "I will tell you how my plans are progressing. I am about now to visit one who is much concerned with the colonisation of Louisiana, and, indeed, of the whole of the Mississippi-doubtless I may obtain some useful knowledge from him."

"And it is to this exile-this life in a savage land-that I have driven you! You, a gentleman-I, God only knows what," she exclaimed.

"Nay, nay. In any circumstances I must have gone forth to seek my living in some distant part of the world. It could not have been long delayed-as well now as a month or a year later."

"At least, you would have gone forth free-free to make a home for yourself, to have a wife, a-"

But he would listen to none of her self reproaches; would not, indeed, let her utter them. Instead, he held out his hand to her-permitting himself that one cold act of intimacy-and said, "Farewell. Farewell, for the present. Farewell until to-morrow."

"Not farewell," she murmured gently, "not farewell No, not that."

"So be it," he answered, commanding himself and forcing back any thoughts that rose to his mind at what seemed almost a plea from her. "So be it. Instead, au revoir. We shall meet again."

And he went forth.

CHAPTER VIII

THE STREET OF THE HOLY APOSTLES

When Walter left his wife it was with the intention of proceeding to the offices of the Louisiana Company, known more generally as Le Mississippi, situated in the Rue Quincampoix. For, at this exact period, which was one of a great crisis in the affairs of the "Law System," as it was universally called, those offices were open day and night, and were besieged by crowds made up of all classes of the community. Duchess's carriages-the carriages of women who had made Law the most welcome guest of their salons, who had petted and actually kissed him-as often as not at the instigation of their husbands, when they had any-jostled the equally sumptuous carriages of the rich tradesmen's wives and cocottes, as well as those of footmen who had suddenly become millionaires; while country people, who had trudged up from provincial towns and remote villages, rubbed shoulders with broken-down gentlemen and ladies, who had hoped to grow rich in a moment by the "System." Broken-down gentlemen and ladies who, after a few months of mirage-like affluence, were to find themselves plunged into a worse poverty than they had ever previously known.

For, as has been said, the "System" was breaking down, and France, with all in it, would soon be in a more terrible state of ruin than it had even been at the time of the death of that stupendous bankrupt and spendthrift, "Le Grand Monarque."

The Bank of France had almost failed-at least it could not pay its obligations or give cash for its notes, which had been issued to the amount of two thousand seven hundred million francs, and the Mississippi Company was approaching the same state; it could neither redeem its bonds nor pay any interest on them.

Therefore all France was in a turmoil, and, naturally, the turmoil was at its worst in Paris. Law-the creator of the "System" by which so many had been ruined-had sought safety at the Palais Royal, where the Regent lived; the gates of the Palais Royal itself were closed against the howling mob that sought to force an entrance, the streets were given up to anarchy and confusion. Meanwhile, in the hopes of quelling the tumult, it was being industriously put about all over Paris that fresh colonists were required to utilise the rich products of the soil of Louisiana, and that, so teeming was this soil with all good things for the necessary populating of the colony, that culprits in the prisons were being sent out in shiploads, with, as a reward for their emigration, a free pardon and a grant of land on their arrival in America. And-which was a masterstroke of genius well worthy of John Law-since the prisons were not considered full enough, innocent people were being arrested wholesale and on the most flimsy pretences, and thrust into those prisons, only to be thrust out of them again into the convict ships, and, afterwards, on to the shores of America.

Many writers have spoken truly enough when they have since said that a light purse dropped into an archer's or an exempt's hands might be made the instrument of a terrible, as well as a most unjust and inhuman, vengeance. It was done that night in Paris, and for many more nights, with awful success. Girls who had jilted men, men who had injured and betrayed women, successful rivals, faithless wives; a poet whose verses had been preferred to another's and read before De Parabére or the Duchesse de Berri and her lover and second husband, the bully, Riom; an elder brother, a hundred others, all disappeared during those nights of terror and were never seen or heard of again. Not in France, that is to say, though sometimes (when they lay dying, rotting to death on the shores of the Gulf of Mexico, and, in their last faint accents, would whisper how they had been trapped and sent to this spot where pestilence and famine reeked) those who listened to them shuddered and believed their story. For many of those who so listened had been victims of a similar plot.

Down the street which led to the Rue de la Dauphine-one which rejoiced in the name of the Rue des Saints Apostoliques-there came, at almost the same moment when Walter Clarges quitted his wife, a band of men. Of them, all were armed, some, the archers and the exempts,[2 - "Archers" were servants of the Provost Marshals and of a position between gendarmes and policemen, but in the service of the prisons. "Exempts" were a kind of Sheriff's officer.] being so by virtue of their duty of arresting troublesome people, especially drunkards and brawlers of both sexes, while two others walking behind wore the ordinary rapier carried by people of position. These two were Desparre and Vandecque. Inclusive of archers and exempts the band numbered six.

"We may take them together," Desparre whispered in his comrade's ear, "in which case so much the best. I imagine the English dog will show fight."

"Without doubt! When was there ever an Englishman who did not? Yet, what matter! These fellows," and Vandecque's eye indicated that he referred to the attendants, "will have to seize on him, we but to issue orders. Now," and he turned to the fellows mentioned, "we near the street where the birds are. You understand," addressing the man who seemed to be the leader, "what is to be done?"

"We understand," the man replied, though the answer was a husky one, as if he had been drinking. "We understand. Take them both, without injury if possible, then away with them to the prisons. She to St. Martin-des-Champs, he to La Bastille. Ha! la Bastille. The kindly mother, the gracious hostess! My faith! Yes."

"Yes," answered Vandecque. "Without injury, as you say, if possible. But, remember, you are paid well for what you may have to do; remember, too, the man is an Englishman; he has been a soldier and fought against the King of England for that other whom he calls the King; he will show his teeth. He is but newly married-this day-he will not willingly exchange the warm embraces of his beautiful young wife" (and as he spoke he could not resist looking at Desparre out of the side of his eye) "for a bed of straw. You must be prepared-for-for-well, for difficulties."

"We are prepared-I hope your purse is. We are near the spot-we should desire to have the earnest before we begin. While as for difficulties, why, if he makes any, we must-"

"Kill him-dead!"

The man started and looked round, appalled by the voice that hissed in his ear. Yet he should have recognised it, since he had heard it before that evening, though, perhaps, with scarcely so much venom in its shaking tones then. And, as he saw Desparre's face close to his, he drew back a little, while almost shuddering. There was something in the glance, in the half-closed eyelids-the eyes glittering through them-that unnerved him.

"Dead," hissed Desparre again. "Dead." And he put forth his hand and laid it on the archer's sleeve, and clutched at his arm through that sleeve so that the man winced with pain, as a moment before he had winced, or almost winced, from a feeling of creepiness.