The Arm and the Darkness Read online

  Have I not told you that? Have I not implored you to take care, to cease, to—”

  Arsène interrupted remorselessly: “You should have listened to him. You should have questioned him. This is most frightfully important.”

  “Why?” cried Armand, forgetting caution in the extremity of his fear. “Why should this matter to you? No, no, do not answer me! I cannot bear it! I shall not listen. I shall not ask you again to consider your father, his position, all that I have wanted, and gained, and intrigued for, and desired—”

  Arsène’s expression revealed that he heard nothing of this. It was hard and intent.

  “Have you heard from Paul? Have you seen him? Has he disappeared? In the name of God, my father, you must answer this for me!”

  Armand had never heard such a note in his son’s voice before, stern, implacable, coldly agitated. He wrung his hands together, tried to shrink before those inexorable eyes.

  “You will kill me!” he moaned. “Is there no peace on earth for me? Shall I have no pleasure in what I have—”

  “Lied for, betrayed for, violated for!” said Arsène, in a low and bitter tone. He bent over his father, pressed his hands on the other’s shoulders, forced him to look into his own eyes.

  “You must answer me. Where is Paul? Was he—did he —where is Paul?”

  Armand shuddered, whimpered. “How you torture me, Arsène. There is no compassion in you, no affection for me, no consideration. What is this Paul de Vitry to me? I loathe him, I hate him, for what he is doing to—I know nothing, Arsène! I only know that two days after you—disappeared —he came to this house and asked for you, and pretended amazement when I said you had not returned from one of your nocturnal excursions. His arm—it was in a sling under his cloak. He was very pale.”

  “Then,” said Arsène, aloud, but to himself, “he got away, safely.” He sighed; the stern paleness of his face lessened. He even smiled a little. And then because he was so weak, he staggered, caught himself by clutching the window draperies.

  Armand continued, stammering in his extremity: “He came again, only recently. I told him that you had sent an abbé, a miserable creature, with a message that you were well, and would soon return. I—I cursed him for leading you into dangerous and amorous adventures at night.”

  Arsène thought of that fiery and dedicated friend, and smiled involuntarily. He could not resist asking:

  “And what did Paul say?”

  Armand’s eyes glittered vindictively. He said: “‘It is wrong, most certainly, and foolish. But a young man must have amusement. I humbly crave your forgiveness, Monsieur le Marquis. But what is one to do when one’s blood is hot, and life is short? Surely, you are not guiltless of such escapades, and are young, still, with an appreciation of them.’” Armand smiled, and so capricious were his emotions, so facile, that even in these stern and terrifying moments he could bridle, put his head on one side, and shake his oiled ringlets, simpering reminiscently.

  “I told him,” he continued, “that there must be discretion even in adventure, and love. Husbands are notoriously narrow-minded with regard to their wives. I told him that he was no fit companion for you, Arsène, and that I would thank him to terminate the friendship.”

  Arsène could see as clearly as if he had been there during that interview the vivid terror on his father’s face, could hear his screaming vehemence and hysteria as he denounced Paul de Vitry, and none too subtly threatened him.

  “You are too virtuous to have such a son as I, my father,” he said, gravely.

  Armand, the facile and womanish, was outraged. “Young sir, I have had adventure such as you milk-blooded puppies could not conceive of, with your clumsy intrigues and dallyings. But I was discreet; there was some elegance in me. You are only coarse, like the boorish Germans, or the blood-swilling Englishmen. Ah, but I suppose that coarseness comes from your mother. Her grandfather was a German. The boorish taint is there, the animal lack of delicacy, the absence of the manner.”

  He was more at ease now, and only the tremor about his painted lips revealed through what an ordeal he had been passing. He spoke loudly, for the benefit of possible secret listeners.

  Arsène smiled. “There is much in what you say,” he admitted. He played with a golden tassel that hung from the draperies. His heart was slowing to its normal pace. “I will try to emulate you more, my father.”

  He went towards the door. Armand cried out.

  “That Louis!” he exclaimed, and the supreme terror was on his face again. “That cold white serpent! Beware, Arsène. Beware your tongue. There is an enemy to freeze a man’s blood. You will take care?”

  Arsène raised his hand, and inclined his head. “I will be discreet. Have no fear. It is I, now, who will do the questioning. Louis has no subtlety.”

  CHAPTER XI

  Arsène had not realized how weakened by illness he was until he began to descend the white fluid ribbon of the gilt and marble staircase, which curved and swung exquisitely through the center of the hôtel of the Marquis de Vaubon. It appeared to the young man that the staircase had lost its moorings, that it flowed and rippled through space, rising and falling, fluttering and streaming. He had to grip the golden banisters, and close his eyes, in order to keep from falling headlong. When he opened his eyes, finally, he was bathed in sweat. He was halfway down the staircase now; its lower reaches were shining in golden sunlight. He was face to face, on this landing, with the portrait of his grandfather, Étienne de Richepin, Marquis de Vaubon, heroic, and long dead of a stern martyrdom.

  The portrait hung in the shining silence against its background of rose-silk walls, recessed in its gilt frame. Arsène had often wondered, cynically, why his father had permitted this portrait to be displayed, for Étienne de Richepin had been one of the most ferocious enemies of Holy Mother Church. But finally he had come to the conclusion that vanity prompted this display, and not a secret fidelity and mournful conscience. For Étienne de Richepin, slender, dark and fiery, with eyes that glowed and pierced, was a compelling personage even in his portrait. There was both delicacy and strength in that aristocratic countenance, which a short pointed beard and black mustaches could not hide. Under his plumed hat his eyes were alive and vivid, and his brows were sharp and stern. Like most Huguenots, he had affected somber garb. His collar had no lace upon it, but was made of the stiffest white linen, as were the cuffs showing at his wrists. His coat, his doublet, were of dark crimson cloth, the buttons of plain gold. His white hand, slender and strong, rested on the hilt of his jewelled sword, the same sword that hung at Arsène’s hip.

  Arsène had always admired that portrait, though later he had smiled at the vivacious fanaticism of his grandfather’s eyes. Étienne de Richepin had believed ardently, and to the death, in something. Arsène believed in nothing. So he had smiled. Once, Armand, who spoke rarely of his father, had impulsively quoted him as saying: “Take from me all things, even life, but leave me faith in God and man and I shall still have everything.” Only a few months ago, Arsène had found those passionate words pathetically amusing. How naïve had been Étienne de Richepin!

  Now, as he paused, panting, beneath the portrait, it seemed to him that a clear loud voice had called him, and that the voice came from his grandfather’s thin stern lips. He looked into those glowing and austere eyes, and a living soul commanded him to listen, to meditate, to understand. Visitors had often declared that Arsène resembled his grandfather to a disconcerting degree, but Arsène had not believed it. He believed it now. The face that gazed down upon him was his own face, older and bearded, but surely his own.

  I am feverish, he thought, passing his hand over his wet forehead, and steadying himself by pressing his other hand on the wall beside the portrait. But he could not free himself from the eyes that both implored and imperiously demanded of him. The portrait took upon itself a third dimension. It was a living man, of flesh and blood and ardent spirit, who stood in that frame, and the breast under the white collar and crim
son cloth stirred and breathed.

  Arsène could hear the voice he had never heard in life. Its intonations were crisp and firm, arrogant yet patient, uncompromising yet oddly gentle. The words he did not hear. But the voice sank into his soul. He began to pant a little, in his agitation and weakness. He was caught up into swimming light and shifting shadow.

  Then, at the bottom of the staircase, which appeared to descend into eternity, he saw his brother Louis, standing calmly and watching him. The sun lay on that chaste and inexorable face, in those forbidding pale blue eyes like bits of lifeless but gleaming porcelain. It shimmered on that pale flaxen head, revealed the marble-like contours of his still lips. He was a statue in black robes.

  Surely, there was nothing forboding in that presence to the casual eye, yet Arsène suddenly found it sinister, inhuman. And, contrasted with the living portrait, strangely dead, significant and portentous. Dead, yes, but none the less potent and baleful. Arsène had the mysterious sensation that there was some intense spiritual meaning for him in the juxtaposition of the portrait and the priest, something revealed and tremendous. His breath stopped in his throat.

  Then, recovering himself, he slowly descended the staircase. Louis watched every step. There was a peculiar glitter in his eyes, like sun on icicles. Without a word, then, he moved, with his tall and stately tread, into the rose and blue frivolity of the reception room, and stood there, waiting for his brother.

  Arsène found him in the center of the room, incongruous against the white and gilt walls, his black robes harsh against the background of blue shimmering rug and dainty rose-damask chairs and love-seats. The hanging crystal chandelier hung over his head, splintering, in the sunlight, into thousands of brilliant and delicate colors. Some of those colors, thin and clear, ran over Louis’ impassive countenance. In a distant corner was a large marble group, a nymph and a satyr, in a most astounding posture, calculated to bring a blush even to a sophisticated cheek. Arsène, his eye touching that group, and then Louis, smiled involuntarily.

  “You are ill,” said Louis, in that voice of his which was as cool as snow and as lifeless. His eyes dwelt upon his brother with a remote curiosity in which there was no affection or concern.

  Arsène, dark and slender, and taller than average, yet was much shorter than Louis, and more spare of body. But there was vitality in every glance of his glittering and restive eyes under their sharp and tilted black brows. There was impatient animation in his mobile mouth, whose corners turned upwards more than they turned down. Even his nose, curved and slender, dilated of nostril, expressed unresting energy and zest. His movements were swift, ardent with life, full of grace and virility. He was fire in the presence of ice. Louis regarded him dispassionately, hating what his brother was, loathing him for that life-energy which he did not himself possess, and which he feared.

  “I have been ill,” said Arsène, indifferently. “But I am recovering. You wished to speak to me, Louis?”

  But Louis only gazed at him with his long slow look, a painted look without motion.

  Finally he said, coldly: “Yes. I must speak to you. It is extremely important. Important for our father, whose welfare and peace of mind are very close to my heart.”

  “Do you have a heart?” asked Arsène negligently. But the words were old and mechanical, for he had spoken them many times. Nevertheless, they brought a gleam to Louis’ face, as they always did.

  He said, calmly: “You have changed, Arsène. I cannot tell where the change is, but it is there. Is it too much to hope that this means more sobriety, more responsibility? Or, is it only the result of your illness?”

  He studied Arsène, and assured himself again, with faint surprise, that there was indeed a change. Were those restless eyes more steady, the mouth graver, the brow slightly drawn? What did this portend? Surely, there was sternness in the older man’s aspect, a sadness about his lips.

  Arsène said nothing. He was surprised himself. He wondered.

  “However,” said Louis, “I have little time. What I say must be said quickly. I hope you will give me your full attention, for I doubt that I will have such an opportunity again.”

  “You are becoming tedious,” said Arsène, sharply. Louis was putting himself into the ridiculous rôle of a schoolmaster chiding a recalcitrant student. It was intolerable, if amusing. Yet, Arsène felt danger about him. “Speak plainly, and have done. I wish to go to bed. As you can see for yourself, I am not yet completely recovered.”

  But Louis only stood in the center of the room, unmoved, in a long silence. Then he said:

  “I have heard that your dear friend, Comte de Vitry, is organizer of a nefarious Huguenot conspiracy called Les Blanches. Doubteless he has told you of this?”

  Arsène watched his brother closely. “I do not recall,” he murmured, coolly. “But what has this to do with me?”

  “You would lie, certainly,” stated Louis, with calm dignity. “That is to be expected. You were always a liar. Too, you would lie unblushingly to protect the Comte de Vitry. That does not concern me overmuch. What does concern me is your possible connection with Les Blanches. Even more than this, I am alarmed for my father.”

  “You are making absurd and unfounded accusations!” exclaimed Arsène. “But that is the nature of filthy priests. You think that when you make preposterous accusations, and utter ferocious threats, your victims, in an effort to defend themselves, will blurt out the real truth you suspected. That is a game you cannot play with me, Louis! The tricks of priests are well known to me. You speak of Les Blanches, and accuse Paul de Vitry of a connection with it. What is it? I know nothing about it, nor does Paul, I am certain. Where have you obtained your information? Who is your informant?”

  Louis was silent, his face unchanged. Then he began to smile, and the smile was more a convulsion than a human grimace.

  “I never underestimated your cleverness, Arsène,” he said, tranquilly. “But in this, you are too obvious, too unsubtle. Did you actually think you could goad me into giving you important information?”

  Arsène was both embarrassed and deeply alarmed. He had underestimated Louis, who had long been the butt of ribald jokes between himself and his father. Here was a deathly antagonist, it seemed, to be respected and feared. He assumed a nonchalant attitude, made himself frown in a puzzled way.

  “I do not know what you are talking about,” he said, artlessly, as if perplexed.

  Louis sighed. He shrugged. Then his features became stern, inexorable, and full of menace.

  “Let us have done with this nonsense. The Comte de Vitry will be dealt with at our leisure. That is nothing to me. As I have told you, my only concern is with my father. Should you be caught in de Vitry’s presence, during a meeting of Les Blanches, my father would die of grief and shock. For,” and he spoke slowly and balefully, “there would be no mercy given to any of de Vitry’s accomplices. You see, I speak plainly. The Cardinal’s Guards broke into a meeting some time ago near the Quai de Ferraile, and there was a fight to the death. Eight of the Guards were killed. Satan, himself, must have been protecting the members of Les Blanches—”

  Arsène had paled excessively; his eyes had glittered as he had listened. Now, at Louis’ last words, blood rushed into his cheeks, and he breathed deeply. Louis watched him, and that faint grim smile, so merciless, touched his mouth under-standingly.

  “But the next time, evil will not be triumphant,” continued Louis. “We know more, for one thing. It is true that all the members escaped, though not without injury to many. They must be remarkable swordsmen,” he mused. “Far superior to the picked men of the Guards. It is sad that they do not attach themselves to those powerful ones who would appreciate such dexterity and excellence.

  “But that is beside the point. As I have said, they will not be so lucky the next time. Plans will be laid too carefully. We have our spies, our informants. Of course,” he said, quickly, “all this is of no interest to you at all?”

  “Of course,” murmured
Arsène.

  “Forgive me if I bore you,” said Louis, and again, he smiled that merciless smile, which was now brightened with irony. “I thought, however, that as a friend of the Comte de Vitry you might be interested. You might warn him, for instance, to desist from his treason and his suspected crimes. I prefer to believe him puerile and childish, for he comes of a very illustrious family who have long given devoted service to France. The Comte, himself, has great gifts. He has been a visitor in this house, and his sister, as you know, is Mother Superior of the Convent of le Sacre Coeur in Marseilles. In the event he is captured with red hands, as he will be captured, not even I could help him, or would help him.”

  “I understand that,” said Arsène, with bitter contempt.

  Louis ignored this as a childish remark. He resumed, with tranquillity:

  “We have the names of many of the members of Les Blanches, but not all. It is only a matter of time until we have them. And after that, we will catch them during one of their meetings. Then there will be no saving any of them, no matter what their names, or their family connections, or their positions. We intend to stamp out this foul conspiracy to the last man. We intend to save France and the Church, and wash them clean in a river of blood—” His face became contorted with a cold and vindictive fury.

  “It is an old custom,” said Arsène, with a shrug, but surprised at this unusual manifestation of emotion in his brother. “Fire and blood are the usual weapons of Holy Mother Church. And the rack. That is proof of her eternal affection and solicitude.”

  Louis ignored this also. He continued: “The obscene blasphemy of the German Luther shall never pollute France again. We are determined on this. The Church is in the veins and the souls of Frenchmen, No foreign poison shall enter into them.”

  All at once, he was filled with madness. He looked at his brother, smiling, nonchalant and watchful in his dark satire, and hatred convulsed him. This graceful jackanapes! This light and colorful and laughing fool! This drunkard and libertine and dancer! This creature without sternness and strength! This, then, was the thing that his father loved and adored, and which must be protected for his sake! Louis’ fists clenched in the depths of his black robe, and all the yearning, all the anguish and bitterness of a lifetime, all the frustration and grief and hunger, welled up in him like a stream of fire! Ah, he could kill now, God help him! He did not know that the roaring about him was the roaring of his own disturbed and riven heart.