Part 45 (1/2)
”Woman, your tongue overrules your senses!” said Cazeau, with rising temper, ”You rail against the Church like an ungrateful heathen, even though you owe your son's recovery to the Church! For what is Cardinal Bonpre but a Prince of the Church?”
Martine stuck her arms akimbo, and surveyed him disdainfully.
”OH--HE!” she cried, ”My tongue overrules my senses, Monsieur Clause Cazeau! Take care that your cunning does not overrule yourself! Did I ever deny the worth and the goodness of Cardinal Bonpre? Though if I were to speak the whole truth, and if I were to believe the nonsense-talk of a child, I should perhaps give the credit of the miracle to the stray boy whom the Cardinal found outside the Cathedral door--”Cazeau started--”For Fabien says that he began to feel strong the moment that little lad touched him!”
”The boy!” exclaimed Cazeau--”The boy!”
A curious silence ensued. Jean Patoux lifting his drowsy eyes gazed fixedly at the whitewashed ceiling,--Madame, his wife, stood beside him watching the changes on Cazeau's yellow face--and Martine sat down to take breath after her voluble outburst.
”The boy!” muttered Cazeau again--then he broke into a harsh laugh.
”What folly!” he exclaimed, ”As if a little tramp of the streets could have anything to do with a Church miracle! Martine Doucet, if you were to say such a thing at the Vatican--”
”_I_ have not said it,” said Martine angrily, ”I only told you what my Fabien says. I am not answerable for the thoughts of the child! That he is well and strong--that he has the look and the soul of an angel, is enough for me to praise G.o.d all my life. But I shall never say the Laus Deo at the Vatican,--you will have no chance to trap me in that way!”
Cazeau stared at her haughtily.
”You must be mad!” he said, ”No one wishes to 'trap' you, as you express it! The miracle of healing performed on your child is a very remarkable one,--it should not be any surprise to you that the Head of the Church seeks to know all the details of it thoroughly, in order to ratify and confirm it, and perhaps bestow new honour on the eminent Cardinal--”
”I rather doubt that!” interposed Patoux slowly, ”For I gather from our Archbishop that the Holy Father was suspicious of some trick rather than an excess of sanct.i.ty!”
Cazeau reddened through his pallid skin.
”I know nothing of that!” he said curtly, ”But my orders are imperative, and I shall seek the a.s.sistance of the Archbishop to enforce and carry them out! For the moment I have the honour to wish you good-night, Monsieur Patoux!--and you also, Mesdames!”
And he departed abruptly, in an anger which he was at no pains to disguise. Personally he cared nothing about the miracle or how it had been accomplished, but he cared very much for his own advancement,--and he saw, or thought he saw, a chance of very greatly improving his position among the ecclesiastical authorities if he only kept a cool head and a clear mind. He recognised that there was a desire on the part of the Pope to place Cardinal Bonpre under close observance and restraint on account of his having condoned the Abbe Vergniaud's confession to his congregation in Paris; and he rightly judged that anything he could do to aid the accomplishment of that end would not be without its reward. And the few words which Martine Doucet had let drop concerning the stray boy who now lived under the Cardinal's protection, had given him a new idea which he resolved to act upon when he returned to Rome. For it was surely very strange that an eminent Prince of the Church should allow himself to be constantly attended by a little tramp rescued from the street! There was something in it more than common,--and Cazeau decided that he would suggest a close enquiry being made on this point.
Crossing the square opposite the Hotel Poitiers, he hesitated before turning the corner of the street which led towards the avenue where the Archbishop's house was situated. The night was fine and calm--the air singularly balmy,--and he suddenly decided to take a stroll by the river before finally returning to his rooms for the night. There is one very quiet bit of the Seine in Rouen where the water flows between unspoilt gra.s.sy banks, which in summer are a frequent resort for lovers to dream the dreams which so often come to nothing,--and here Cazeau betook himself to smoke and meditate on the brilliancy of his future prospects. The river had been high in flood during the week, and the gra.s.s which sloped towards the water was still wet, and heavy to the tread. But Cazeau limited his walk to the broad summit of the bank, being aware that the river just below flowed over a muddy quicksand, into which, should a man chance to fall, it would be death and fast burial at one and the same moment. And Cazeau set a rather exorbitant value on his own life, as most men do whose lives are of no sort of consequence to the world. So he was careful to walk where there was the least danger of slipping,--and as he lit an excellent cigar, and puffed the faint blue rings of smoke out into the clear moonlit atmosphere, he was in a very agreeable frame of mind. He was crafty and clever in his way,--one of those to whom the Yankee term ”cute” would apply in its fullest sense,--and he had the happy knack of forgetting his own mistakes and follies, and excusing his own sins with as much ease as though he were one of the ”blood-royal” of nations. Vices he had in plenty in common with most men,--except that his particular form of licentiousness was distinguished by a callousness and cruelty in which there was no touch of redeeming quality. As a child he had loved to tear the wings off flies and other insects, and one of his keenest delights in boyhood had been to watch the writhings of frogs into whose soft bodies he would stick long pins,--the frogs would live under this treatment four and five hours--sometimes longer, and while observing their agonies he enjoyed ”that contented mind which is a perpetual feast.” Now that he was a man, he delighted in torturing human beings after the same methods applied mentally, whenever he could find a vulnerable part through which to thrust a sharp spear of pain.
”The eminent Cardinal Bonpre!” he mused now; ”What is he to me! If I could force the Archbishop of Rouen into high favour at the Vatican instead of this foolish old Saint Felix, it would be a better thing for my future. After all, it was at Rouen that the miracle was performed--the city should have some credit! And Bonpre has condoned a heretic . . . he is growing old and feeble--possibly he is losing his wits. And then there is that boy . . .”
He started violently as a fantastic shadow suddenly crossed his path, in the moonlight, and a peal of violent laughter a.s.sailed his ears.
”Enfin! Toi, mon Claude!--enfin!--Grace a Dieu! Enfin!”
And the crazed creature, known as Marguerite, ”La Folle”, stood before him, her long black hair streaming over her bare chest and gaunt arms, her eyes dilated, and glowing with the mingled light of madness and despair.
Cazeau turned a livid white in the moon-rays;--his blood grew icy cold.
What! After two years of dodging about the streets of Rouen to avoid meeting this wretched woman whom he had tricked and betrayed, had she found him at last!
”When did you come back from the fair?” cried the girl shrilly, ”I lost you there, you know-and you man-aged to lose ME--but I have waited!--waited patiently for news of you! . . . and when none came, I still waited, making myself beautiful! . . . see!--” And she thrust her fingers through her long hair, throwing it about in wilder disorder than ever. ”You thought you had killed me--and you were glad!--it makes all men glad to kill women when they can! But I--I was not killed so easily,--I have lived!--for this night--just for this night! Listen!”
and she sprang forward and threw herself violently against his breast, ”Do you love me now? Tell me again--as you told me at the fair--you love me?”
He staggered under her weight--and tried for a moment to thrust her back, but she held him in a grip of iron, looking up at him with her great feverish dark eyes, and grasping his shoulders with thin burning hands. He trembled;--he was beginning to grow horribly afraid. What devil had sent this woman whom he had ruined so long as two years ago, across his path to-night? Would it be possible to soothe her?
”Marguerite--” he began.
”Yes, yes, Marguerite! Say it again!” she cried wildly, ”Marguerite!
Say it again! Sweet--sweet and tenderly as you said it then! Poor Marguerite! Your pale ugly face seemed the face of a G.o.d to her once, because she thought you loved her--we all find men so beautiful when we think they love us! Yes--your cold eyes and cruel lips and hard brow!--it was quite a different face at the fair! So was mine a different face--but you!--YOU have made mine what it is now!--look at it! What!--you thought you could murder a woman and never be found out!
You thought you could kill poor Marguerite, and that no one would ever know--”