The Arm and the Darkness Read online

  François regarded him gently. “We must trust the abbé,” he repeated.

  They gazed at each other in a sudden and moved silence. The girl was impressed, in spite of her dislike and antagonism. She looked at Arsène with some softness, which recalled to Arsène the memory of fever-ridden nights when she had ministered to him.

  Impulsive, rather than ardent, he exclaimed: “Mademoiselle, I have not thanked you for your kindness and your charity. I shall never forget it, and I swear this by all that is sacred.”

  “Sacred to us, or to you, Monsieur?” she asked, coolly, but her blue eyes twinkled a little. “But do not be afraid that I, at least, shall forget. We are poor and wretched. It is in your power to alleviate our condition in a measure.”

  He smiled, involuntarily. “Gold cannot repay you, Mademoiselle,” he said, ceremoniously, and with some delicious mockery.

  “But it will go a long way,” she assured him. And they laughed together, though François pursed his lips wryly, and shook his head at his granddaughter’s words.

  “A thousand crowns,” pursued Cecile, looking at Arsène with mingled laughter and calculation, “will purchase for us an excellent farm. Or, Monsieur, perhaps a thousand crowns is too high a price for your life?”

  François rose, protesting. But Arsène replied gravely: “A thousand thousand crowns would not be too much in my opinion, Mademoiselle.”

  “That,” said Cecile, consideringly, “is a matter of opinion, Monsieur.” She added, with a smile: “It is not my opinion.”

  She went into the kitchen again, and, as she worked over the supper, she sang in a sweet clear voice. The sound was delightful to Arsène, and he listened with pleasure.

  “It is a bold baggage,” said François, with indulgent regret. “There is no softness in the wench.” He sighed. “She is a one who looks at life with open eyes. As for myself, old as I am, I cannot bear the sight of it. I must retreat into philosophy, into a dream.”

  “And you think a dream, a philosophy, is protection against the wounds of living?” asked Arsène. He was soothed, now, and a pleasant drowsiness was creeping over him.

  “It is a drug,” admitted François. “There are some who retreat to wine, to pleasure, to wars, to cloisters, to women, and to adventure, when life becomes intolerable. We must all have our anodyne. Adventure, Monsieur, was yours.”

  Arsène frowned. He could hardly admit this weakness, even if it were true. He lay back on his pillows and looked at François with his dark and vehement eyes, sparkling with renewed vitality in the candlelight.

  “I have hated hypocrisy and lies,” he said. “I have hated subtle machinations and fraud. If to fight against them is a mean adventure, an escape, then I am guilty.”

  “But why have you fought them?” asked François, quietly, with a piercing look. “To free the oppressed, to alleviate the torment of the helpless, to liberate the imprisoned? To burst the door of the cell so that all men can see the light?”

  Arsène was silent, but the sparkle in his eye brightened, changed, was suffused, became fiery.

  François shook his head. “No, you have not.”

  “I am a Huguenot,” muttered Arsène, uneasily.

  “But why?” pursued François.

  Arsène became excited again. He flung out his hands. “Because I hate the priests, the plotters, the intriguers, the liars, the Jesuits—all the hierarchy of the devil.”

  “It is a personal hatred, then, springing from a personal loathing,” said François, sadly. “This hatred comes not from a moral indignation, a universal compassion, a comprehension of the sufferings of the people.”

  Arsène was silent. He remembered his dream. The shadow of it dimmed his eyes as he looked at, but did not see, the old man. But François knew that something mysterious was taking place in the heart of the young nobleman.

  “The evil men,” murmured François, “pervert even the words of God and His saints into their wicked service. They use the torch of God to burn the houses of the people. They lift up the Cross as a stave to lacerate and wound the shoulders of the helpless. In fighting the destroyers of religion, we frequently destroy faith. That is wrong. André Mourion is a priest, yet you would hardly call him a liar, a hypocrite and a rogue.” He added, with a catch in his breath: “No one suffers more than he—”

  He rose and went to a wooden cupboard at the opposite wall. He brought from it three tattered volumes, and held them in his worn hands as he stood beside the bed.

  “Here are the words of Erasmus, of Huss, of Luther. You are a Huguenot, Monsieur, but I would stake my life on it that you have not read these books.”

  Arsène regarded the volumes with humor. “I have not read these books in my life,” he admitted. He stretched out his weak and trembling hand. “But I shall read them, if you will.” He added, with surprise: “Are you a Huguenot, François Grandjean?”

  François was silent a moment, then he said: “There is no name upon me, no mark or sign. Appellations are chosen by uncertain men, who are unsure of themselves, and must have a word to crystallize their vague emotions, a feeble light to guide their unsure feet.”

  He sat down again on the bench. He said: “Rome is no longer a City of Faith, a citadel of holy mysticism. It is a political organization, and its priests are statesmen and politicians, bent on the glories of temporal might and the subjugation of kings and governments, of fat lives of power for themselves. The Holy Roman Empire, through corruption and intrigue and avarice, has become the Black Roman Empire seeking the enslavement of all men for its own richness. What of the faith that once gave it radiance and verity? That has become a ruthless sword in their hands.” He added: “Until the sword of their lust is broken, no man in any corner of the world is safe, no government is safe, and the dream of just men, a dream of liberty and enlightenment, must be dreamt in prison cells and in dark loneliness.”

  He sighed deeply. “The Church of God has become the Church of rogues and mountebanks, of actors and malefactors, of liars and enemies, of plotters in scarlet. The shadow of the mitred head is blotting out the sun of Christ.”

  Arsène had closed his tired eyes, but François’ words were like words of fire written against blackness.

  “But do not think,” said François, sternly, “that the Reformation will bring universal enlightenment, freedom and justice to men, if it concerns itself only with material things. For faith must always be the first hunger of the soul, and the ceremony of faith the first delight of the eye.” He added, after a little silence: “There can be no true liberation of the spirit without God. In a struggle against the Church, we must remember not to abandon faith.”

  His words drifted away from Arsène’s ears, and the young man slept. His sleep was deep and profound, and refreshing.

  He must have slept for some time, for his first impression on wakening, was that hours had passed. And his first sight was that of the abbé’s face, bending over him, smiling sweetly.

  An intense relief pervaded the young man’s awakened mind, and he cried out.

  “Hush,” said the abbé, laying his hand on the other’s forehead. “All is well.”

  “You have seen my father?” demanded Arséne, trying to raise himself.

  “No,” said the abbé. “They told me he was unwell, sickened by anxiety for his son, Arsène de Richepin, who had mysteriously disappeared.”

  Arsène stared up at him from the pillows. Then he turned away his eyes, as though ashamed. “Tell me,” he muttered. He thought of his father, suffering that terrible grief and anxiety, unable to speak for fear of further jeopardizing his son. He felt a strange pang, which opened a wound in his careless heart.

  “I spoke to the young man of whom you told me,” said the abbé, in his gentle voice. “He took me then, to your brother, Louis de Richepin, whom they called to your father’s bedside. Monseigneur de Richepin was very gracious, and very concerned.”

  Arsène turned to him, and gazed at him without speaking. He saw his br
other clearly, with his pale and ascetic face and fair hair, and stern fanatic eyes. He had no real fear of this fraternal enemy, because of the unrequited love Louis bore for his father. Nevertheless, he experienced a qualm.

  “You did not trust him, even as a priest?” he demanded at last. “My brother is one of the Cardinal’s closest friends, and was ordained by him. He is my brother, but in some things I would rather trust the devil, himself.”

  “He asked me no dangerous questions,” replied the abbé, with a faint smile. “Nor was he overly surprised when I told him my careful story, that you had been wounded, and were now being nursed by friends. He was satisfied with that, though he regarded me strangely and coldly, as though with suspicion. Then he said: ‘I am content if he is in your hands, mon abbé. Take heed of his soul, also, as well as his flesh.’” He fumbled in his pocket, and brought forth a golden cross, which he laid in Arsène’s hand. “He told me to tell you that he had blessed this, himself, and hoped that it would be a light to guide you home.”

  Arséne burst into such violent laughter that he tore his throat, and was thrown into a fit of coughing. He thrust the cross towards the abbé.

  “Take it, from your youthful father in Christ!” he exclaimed.

  The abbé lifted the beautiful, jewel-encrusted thing in his hands and regarded it with deep intensity. Then he gently laid it in Arsène’s hand.

  “It is not the cross which is polluted,” he said, very gravely. “It will not harm you, Monsieur, and it may give you comfort. Take it, then, with my own blessing.”

  Arsène turned it over in his hot hands, then laid it carelessly on the table at his bedside. “With your blessing, mon abbé, it will have some potency,” he said, with graciousness. “You see, then, that I am a trial to my family?”

  The abbé ignored this. He pointed to a portmanteau on the table. “In there are some garments, as you requested. Also, one hundred golden crowns.”

  “My dear brother did not ask you for details about my condition?”

  The abbé hesitated. He remembered the swift and unconcealed shadow of hope that had flashed into the young priest’s eyes when he had told him that Arsène had been extremely ill, had almost died. He remembered, too, how the gleam had faded when he had assured Louis de Richepin that his brother would recover, and the severe accents which commented on this had convinced him, uneasily, that the younger priest was not too happy over this news, and that in some way he, the abbé, was to blame for a disappointing outcome. But he said: “I told him all I could, with discretion, and he was satisfied.”

  “He did not detain you overlong?”

  “No,” said the abbé, with more hesitation. “He seemed too concerned with his father’s condition.” He did not add that Louis de Richepin had been extremely uneasy during the interview, and that he kept glancing at the door of the private chamber as though he feared eavesdroppers, and that it was he, rather than the abbé, who had been hasty and hurried. Moreover, he appeared not overly anxious for details. When the abbé had offered a few, the young priest had visibly winced, and when the abbé had hinted at the circumstances which had brought Arsène to the hovel, Louis de Richepin had lifted his hand with a peremptory and haughty gesture.

  “If my brother will engage in nocturnal, and, no doubt, disgracefully amorous adventures, I do not see the need why his family should be annoyed by the details,” he had said, coldly, and had risen with an air of dismissal. “Arsène is imprudent and reckless. He must suffer his own consequences.”

  But Arsène, watching the abbé shrewdly, guessed at much of this. He remembered that Louis had been sedulous in spreading the rumor that Arsène was a lustful vagabond, with a penchant for other men’s wives and mistresses. Fear of the truth prompted this rumor-mongering, as Arsène well knew. Arsène’s life had been made considerably more gay and pleasant because of the rumors, and more than one beautiful lady had pursued him with ardor, because of his reputation.

  Poor miserable Louis, thought Arsène, with indulgent contempt. How he must shake in his ascetic hotel, how he must be torn by his conscience, for the protecting of his hated brother for their father’s sake. Arsène was pleased by the thought of the conflict between filial affection and holy duty. However, there was no predicting how close was the disastrous day when duty would gain the upper hand.

  “You were not followed? You are sure of that?” he asked the abbé.

  “I am sure of it,” responded the other.

  There came a soft knock upon the outer door, and the abbé rose to answer it, for François was busy with Cecile in the kitchen in the final preparations of the unusually savory and luxurious meal, purchased with Arsène’s gold.

  CHAPTER VII

  Abbe Mourion greeted the newcomer with tender exclamations of pleasure, and brought him to Arsène’s bedside. “Here, Monsieur,” he said, beaming, “is another of your nurses, my nephew, Henri.”

  Wearied by the new exertion of gratitude, Arsène smiled politely, as the stranger bowed diffidently, with a confused smirk. The vehement Arsène, given always to impatient extremes, decided instantly that he did not like Henri Chalon. The proud dignity of François, the gentle heroism of the abbé, the chill independence and gravity of the young Cecile, were all absent in this young man. His manner was sensitive, nervous, ingratiating, and overwhelmed, and almost servile.

  There was something, also, in the pale clear pallor of his thin face that reminded Arsène of his brother, Louis. Henri was tall and slender, with bent rounded shoulders, and futile and uncertain gestures. His clothing, poor though it was, had a faintly dandified air. There was a flutter of poor lace at his throat and thin wrists, and he wore boots obviously cast-offs, though lacquered to a shining brilliance. His hair, dark and long, curled on his shoulders with an artificial grace. However, he had a kind of attenuated beauty, which Arsène vaguely remembered. His features were fine, even delicate, and there was a high-bred flare to the sensitive nostrils of his thin long nose. His eyes were extraordinarily large for a man, and were soft and deep, like brown velvet. His mouth was pretty, small and weak. It was his expression, however, which most annoyed Arsène, for it was too eager, too timid, too placating, and yet, given at moments, to a suspicious hauteur. In his hand he deferentially held a plumed hat. This, then, was the poet, the betrothed of the stern young Cecile, the aspirant to the position of footman in the household of Madame de Tremblant.

  Arsène felt ridicule for this poor artificial gentleman. He disliked his manner towards the adoring abbé, for it was petulant, imperious and arrogant, like the manner of a spoiled woman. But towards Arsène himself, he was all self-consciousness, all graceful attitudes, all deference.

  “I trust, Monsieur, that you are recovering after our labors?” he said, in a high, too consciously musical voice.

  “I am well,” replied Arsène, with a curtness he could not restrain. “And I thank you.”

  “Oh, it was nothing, nothing at all,” said Henri, with an eager gesture. He glanced haughtily and contemptuously about the miserable room. “Our only regret was that such a gentleman must be bedded in such a hovel. Had we known your identity—”

  “I am Arsène de Richepin,” said Arsène. He glanced at the abbé, who was gazing at Henri with fatuous adoration and pride. He felt angered at this, as though the abbé had degraded himself.

  Henri bowed again, his long curled hair falling almost to his knees. He made a flourish with his plumed hat. Arsène bit his lip.

  “And I, Monsieur de Richepin, am Henri Chalon, at your service.” He turned imperiously to the abbé. “Uncle, has Monsieur de Richepin all that he desires tonight?”

  “Yes, Henri. It will not be necessary for you to spend the night here any longer.” One of the abbé’s wrinkled hands touched his nephew’s sleeve.

  Henri Chalon seemed deeply disappointed. Then he said, pontifically: “I do not agree, my uncle. A night or two more will be necessary.”

  “On the contrary,” said Arsène. “I am almost rec
overed. I shall not deprive you of your sleep another night.”

  “It will be no deprivation, Monsieur, I assure you,” said Henri, with another bow. “It will be a pleasure to keep Monsieur company.”

  He became aware of the delicious odors coming from the kitchen, and looked at the abbé inquiringly.

  “Yes, we feast tonight,” said the abbé, with simple pleasure. Henri Chalon’s pale and narrow face lit up with an extraordinary elation. A vague restlessness seized Arsène, and he turned his head and closed his eyes. His old fierceness and egotism returned, as the strength of his body returned. His sharp black brows drew together, knotted, over his shut eyelids, and his aquiline profile tightened. Reared in a tradition which regarded the people as less than vermin, and less potent, he could not restrain himself from a qualm of contempt for these creatures who found joy in the simple anticipation of a meal. Then he felt contempt for himself that he could descend so low as to honor this vermin with his disdain.

  Thinking that he was drowsing in his weakness, the abbé and his nephew sat quietly in the candlelight near the bed and conversed in low voices. Arsène listened, his eyebrows twitching with impatience. He forgot everything, his new gratitude, new wonder, new gentleness, which he had experienced with François Grandjean and the Abbé Mourion. The old man and the young prattled of childish things. They discussed the people who lived about them, the weather, and other inconsequential things. The abbé’s voice was low and soft, and Henri’s pompous and querulous, filled with vanity and conceit. If they knew anything of the great world beyond their miserable borders, they did not speak of it. All at once, Arsène, who had despised the labyrinthine intrigues, the scandal and the debauchery of the nobles and the Court, found these things suddenly of importance, and amusing, exciting and significant. He amused himself by thinking of Clarisse, his betrothed, and he felt a deep yearning for her which he had never experienced before.

  He forgot his strange dream of fury and liberation, and was conscious only of his straw bed, the fetid dusty odors of the room, the sickening smell of cooking rabbit and fowl. He moved restlessly on the bed, sighed deeply. He felt the abbé rising, bending over him, and he winced.