It had been a relief to Arsène, embarrassed and ashamed, that during his last days at the Hôtel du Vaubon, his young wife, Clarisse, had been at the home of her mother, Madame de Tremblant, consoling her for the death of Marguerite. Madame had evinced a passionate grief which astonished her friends, for surely there could have been little rapport between that coarse and brutal lady and the silent and docile young girl. A strong and vicious mare had given birth to a lamb, the ribald of Paris had often asserted. Now it appeared that this mare was inconsolable over the passing of this pretty lamb, who had lived and died insignificantly and gently in the shadow of her violent and lewd mother.
Clarisse, her favorite, therefore was necessary at the Hôtel de Tremblant. Madame clung to her, lying in her shaded masculine chamber. Her collapse was complete. Arsène, who had been fond of Marguerite in a careless way, found himself grateful to her for removing the embarrassing presence of his wife from his house. He remembered Clarisse with sheepish regret, but he had no doubt that his permanent removal from her side might some day be of considerable relief to her. He could not believe that she loved him as Cecile loved him. In truth, in conjecturing on this, he was uneasy and annoyed. He had removed her from his life, with ease. He wished her to remove him from hers with the same casualness. That Clarisse was with child, a fact that she had carefully concealed from him until such time as she could reveal it with proper grace, did not occur to him. However, the Marquis, who was much in her confidence, knew, and was delighted. The news was to be broken to Arsène after Clarisse’s return from her mother’s side. The Marquis, who was simple-minded in many respects, was certain that when Arsène knew, all the darkness and doubts and malaise which seemed annoyingly to be engrossing him these bewildering days would pass away, and he would immediately become more composed, and lose all the moodiness and abstraction which was so distressing to more orderly and realistic persons. Such as the Marquis. Deep in the Marquis’ mind lived the fatuous belief that obstetrics answered all problems, including those perplexing and obscure ones which tormented the human soul. They had never solved his problems, but he had an invincible conviction, sentimental and foolish, that they inevitably accomplished this pleasant result in others.
Having done with his old life, and now confronting a hazardous and gloomy future, fraught with violence and death, Arsène was irritated that no one else at the Hôtel du Vaubon, except Pierre, perceived his withdrawal. He did not wish the Marquis to be confronted with the inexorable fact that his spiritual withdrawal was a prelude to his actual withdrawal, but he did wish that the Marquis was less obtuse to the distress and despondency which agitated him. There was much of the theatrical and the dramatic in Arsène. He was an actor in a terrible drama, but the Marquis, the audience, was serenely oblivious of this. Yet, had the Marquis suddenly understood, no one would have regretted it more than Arsène, for all his egotism.
He had disliked his father, but had been fond of him in a careless and indulgent fashion. He had endured him, laughed at him, been annoyed by him. And now, in these last days, he loved him. How was it possible to love such a malicious and shallow creature, full of affectations and frivolities and malevolence? He was a brittle old chameleon, colorful in a silly and pretentious way, but of no value whatsoever. Yet, Arsène now found his attitudes endearing, and pathetic. He was a fool, and a malignant one, but he was amusing. There was pathos in this, too. Also, he loved Arsène, and it is impossible to be indifferent to a creature who loves one.
The Marquis had not been unaware, however, that Arsène was changing under his eyes. And changing much too ominously for the Marquis’ peace of mind. But he was convinced that if one ignored unpleasant things, the unpleasantness atrophied and disappeared. So he ignored Arsène’s moods so flagrantly and obstinately that the young man was more convinced than ever that his father was an old fool who never saw further than his nose.
On this last stressful day, he was uncommonly affectionate to the Marquis, and showed a tendency, in the last two hours, to be possessed of a deep love for him. The Marquis was going, later, to the gaming tables. He had been complaining that since the Cardinal had left, the tables were no longer the same. He complained incessantly, with a kind of feverishness. Arsène had said nothing about going to La Rochelle, and the Marquis forced himself to believe that if Arsène had thought of this, he did so no longer. Surely, Arsène, the voluble, would have mentioned it!
They were together in the Marquis’ gay and frivolous but tasteful chamber. Candles blazed everywhere. Lackeys, burdened with colorful satin and velvet garments, brought armfuls to be inspected and pettishly discarded by their lord. A fine array of curled wigs was set out before him on an inlaid table, and he examined them irritably. Another lackey was laying out the Marquis’ immense collection of jewelry. Still another was tentatively extending buckled and jewelled slippers and hose. The heavy but delightful odor of the Marquis’ latest scent pervaded the warm room. Arsène, smiling and dark and unusually quiet, sat nearby, affected to be interested in the wardrobe. The Marquis could not make up his mind. He sat before his dressing table, trying on one shade of rouge after another, plucking his eyebrows, preening, pressing his painted lips together to spread the paste, and wafting a handkerchief, impregnated with his new perfume querulously across his nose. But at each whiff, he smiled a little, with arrogant pleasure.
While he complained about the Cardinal, who had so incontinently left the gaming-tables for the arduous and miserable campaign against La Rochelle, the Marquis insisted on obtaining Arsène’s opinion as to the evening wardrobe. “I am slightly pale today,” he said. “The purple would give me a look of jaundice. Do you not think so, Arsène? Would you prefer the yellow? Or the blue? Madame de Chevrois complimented me upon the blue at the last soirée. She declared it gave me a vivacious appearance.”
He preened. A lackey, very alert, came forward and laid the soft and radiant blue of the coat against the Marquis’ cheek, for effect. It served to cast a corpselike shade over his raddled and painted face. “Curse the blue!” said the Marquis, violently thrusting the lackey and the coat away from him.
“If Madame de Chevrois admired the blue, wear it,” said Arsène. His heart was very heavy, for he knew that this was the last time he would ever see his father. However, he smiled indulgently. “Nevertheless, I prefer the black velvet. It has an air.”
The Marquis, who knew Arsène possessed considerable taste, contemplated the black with a thoughtful frown. “Perhaps,” he murmured. “The diamonds with it, certes. Drops of dew scattered among the laces. A glitter at the instep. Severe but elegant. And interesting, suggesting a romantic melancholy. Yes, no doubt it must be the black.”
The lackeys sprang forward eagerly. The black was laid out, smooth and sleek. The laces were fluttered. The other garments and jewels and shoes were whisked away like magic. The black hung over a chair in aristocratic austerity. The Marquis regarded it with satisfaction, and stretched out a leg to admire it in the delicate black hose. Ah, there was no better leg in Paris! And with that sparkle among the ribbons at the knee, the effect would be devastating. Curse Madame de Chevrois and her penchant for blue! What a hag it was, with those crowfeet. Now, young ladies adored elegance, especially if it suggested intriguing melancholy. There was mystery in black, as well as elegance, and a certain nobility known to be irresistible to ingenuous girls. He must remember to have dignity and gravity tonight, as if a certain fatefulness hung over him.
He turned to Arsène and smiled at him fondly. “I must consult you more often, my fine bravo,” he said. He added, with returning pettishness: “It is so long since you came to the tables. Have you not recovered from the death of that foolish friend of yours?”
Arsène’s smile became somewhat fixed. But he said: “I have no desire to lose money, tonight.” He rose, restlessly, and walked slowly up and down the chamber. The Marquis watched him with uneasiness. For a moment he contemplated telling Arsène that he was soon to be honored with fatherhood. But a strange impulse forced him to be silent. Nevertheless, his uneasiness and his efforts at control, made his painted face appear wizened. Wrinkles sprang out over it, like heavy cobwebs. He bit the nail of his right little finger, then hastily cursing the damage done to it, scrutinized it with infuriated dismay. He was proud of his fine effeminate hands, and was convinced that the slightest flaw ruined them.
A lackey produced a pot of solidified oil, which Armand vigorously rubbed into the ragged nail, then wiped with a fine silk kerchief. This absorbing and important task occupied him for several moments. However, the seams deepened in his raddled countenance. He held the injured finger to the light of the lamps, and studied it. He said:
“I understand that the death of Paul de Vitry caused you sadness Arsène. Nevertheless, will you forgive me if I confess that it has released me from much worry? Too, he was a young man without taste. He lacked a certain noblesse oblige, a certain aristocracy and elegance.”
Arsène did not answer. At first an impetuous and angry look had flashed into his eyes. Then, after a glance at his father, he smiled to himself. The Marquis’ casual words and air of deep absorption in his nail did not deceive him. He replied with considerable mildness: “You refer, of course, to his affection for the wretches who murdered him. I prefer to believe that he merely lacked discernment, and not taste.”
“It is the same thing,” said the Marquis, lifting a silver mirror and examining a pimple near his mouth. “Taste extends to a discernment of others. The obtuse are vulgar fellows.”
He put down the hand mirror, and his eyes met Arsène’s in the larger glass. For an instant or two Arsène thought that he saw in his father’s eyes a mournful sympathy. He turned away.
“You are careless in your dress, lately, my fine cavalier,” said the Marquis. “Am I to understand that you are going nowhere tonight?”
Arsène was silent for a little space, then he answered: “I may visit Clarisse.” He spoke the lie with reluctance, but was rewarded by his father’s smile of approval.
Impulsively, Arsène laid his hands on the Marquis’ shoulders, and they smiled at each other in the mirror. Then Arsène bent, and carefully touched his lips to the painted cheek. A strong emotion passed over the older man’s face. He laid his hand on one of the hands on his shoulder and pressed it with deep affection. A tear came in his eyes; he winked it away, bending forward a little to see that it had not smeared the kohl on his lashes.
“You are a rascal,” said the Marquis, in a light but changed voice.
But Arsène had lost his smile. His expression had become stern and grave. He said, looking full and sadly into the mirrored eyes that held his: “I know this. I ask you to forgive me.”
A cold sensation passed over the Marquis’ heart, a sensation akin to nameless terror. Arsène’s look, his manner, his voice, his words, struck at him icily. He turned about, and caught his son by the arm, and cried out: “I was jesting, you fool! What happiness or satisfaction I have had in life have been in you!” The grip on Arsène’s arm strengthened, as if with overwhelming fear, and the Marquis exclaimed: “Come with me, tonight! It has been very long since you accompanied me.”
Arsène hesitated. Then he said: “It is possible. I have been distrait too long.”
There was something in his manner which did not reassure the Marquis, but he put the thought from him and smiled. He resumed his toilette. Arsène pretended to be concerned with it also. They haggled over the wigs. Arsène declared that a too elaborate wig would ruin the effect of the black austerity and richness. “Those excessive curls are frivolous,” he argued, as the Marquis insisted that a particularly intricate wig was devastating. Finally, after exhaustive tryings-on, a dignified wig of long lustrous hair, slightly curled at the ends, was chosen. The Marquis stood up and pirouetted on one dainty heel, extending his arms, the hands drooping elegantly, head turned haughtily over one shoulder, while Arsène and the lackeys volubly admired. One lackey sprayed perfume over the entire costume as the Marquis rotated. Another whisked a brush over the deep and glistening velvet. The Marquis was all graceful splendor, glittering at the throat, wrist, finger, knee and instep. He had a manner, and a leg. He was as egotistically delighted as a child at the admiration of his son and his lackeys, but he maintained a lofty and reserved expression.
The carriage was waiting. A plumed hat was set carefully on the false curls. A cloak was tenderly draped over the black velvet. From beneath its folds the jewelled hilt of his slender rapier gleamed. A cane was given him, the knob glittering. The Marquis struck a last attitude in the mirror, then left the room with Arsène, laughing lightly at one of his own ribald jokes.
But Arsène never learned the point of the jest, for, as they reached the head of the curving white and gilt staircase, they were confronted by Louis, who was rapidly ascending.
All three halted, and a deep silence fell. Louis stood there, half-way up the stairs, his hand on the balustrade, the light of the great crystal chandelier that hung from the ceiling shining down into his wild blue eyes, distended and strained. There was a fierce and disordered air about his flowing black robes, his white and contorted face. When he looked at his brother, that face became a blaze of evil and hatred.
So intense, so mad, was that blaze, that Arsène involuntarily stepped back a pace. But Louis came on, like an avenging fury, distraught and beside himself. He looked only at his brother, and all his lifetime of humiliation, despair and loathing stood like a flame in his eyes.
“So!” he cried out, loudly and hoarsely, “you are to go to La Rochelle, you traitor, you mountebank, you liar! You are to betray your country, in the company of scurrilous heretics and foreign malcontents, against the arms, the religion, the safety and the throne of France!”
The Marquis was stupefied. He looked first at his younger son, and then at Arsène. But his stupefaction was less at Louis’ words than at the delirious ferocity that radiated from him.
Louis had reached his brother. He did not appear to see his father. He caught Arsène by the upper part of his doublet, and shook him savagely.
“But, you shall not go, even if I have to kill you with my own hand!”
They looked in each other’s eyes. He is mad, thought Arsène. He is mad at last. He was overcome with such a horror that he could not release himself from his brother’s grip. He fell back against the balustrade. He felt himself shaken like a mouse in a terrier’s mouth. Yes, there was no doubt about it: Louis was mad.
Louis, with a strange loud cry, flung his brother from him, so that he staggered backwards, and had to catch the upper curve of the balustrade to keep from crashing to the floor. He was seized with dizziness, and put up his hand before his face as if to defend it.
Now the Marquis came to life. He caught Louis by the arm; he lifted his hand and struck him violently across the face.
“How now, you brute, you dastard, you malignant priest!” he cried. “Leave my house at once, and never enter it again. I have always detested you. I loathe you now, you puling fool, you priestly imbecile!”
The blow, the cruel words, the look of detestation, halted Louis, whose mind was only a cauldron, whose tortured heart was being consumed to ashes. He looked at his father, and for an instant or two the madness, the wildness and deathly hatred, died away, and it was a dying man who stood there, motionless, with dying eyes.
Arsène had recovered himself. He saw that he must escape at once, while his father held his brother. He slipped past them, hurrying as if in a nightmare. He wished to be out of this house with all speed, away from this horror and sickening scene. There was no time for a last word with the Marquis, as he had planned, no last embrace or smile. He knew that if he was ever to leave, it must be now.
The stairs, in the strong and glittering light, seemed to extend beyond him into bottomless depths. He was trembling uncontrollably. His sweating hand gripped the hilt of his sword.
He had reached the bottom, when he heard a great and savage cry from Louis, a cry that was a loud hoarse scream. Some compulsion made him halt, and look back. Louis was descending the staircase. He seemed to be of enormous stature. His black robes flew about him. The chandelier made a golden halo about his large head. And in his hand was his drawn sword.
Unable to move, frozen into stone and ice, Arsène waited. It was an archangel with a flaming sword who was descending upon him. It was an archangel with a terrible face.
He did not know when he drew his own sword, but all at once he heard the clash of steel. Louis had flung aside his cloak. He was no longer a priest. He was an enemy with a fixed and frightful smile, on guard. Arsène had a dim impression of the Marquis, who had half descended the stairs, and who was standing there, motionless, with open mouth against which he had pressed the fingers of one hand. And beyond him, at the head of the staircase, crowded the gaping lackeys.
It is a dream, a ghastly dream, thought Arsène. He looked at Louis, and the dreamlike sensation increased. No man could have worn such a malignant and appalling expression; that was no human light in those glaring fixed eyes. Arsène dropped his sword, and instantly he felt a sharp pungent pang in his left shoulder not far above his heart.
This is death, said Arsène to himself. It is either my brother or myself. The horror made a thick nausea rise in his throat, and he swallowed to keep the salt water from spewing from his lips. He forced himself to cry out, as he parried aside that deadly glittering sword which lunged swiftly towards his heart:
“Louis! You are mad! You do not know what you are doing!”
But Louis only smiled again, that most frightful smile. Arsène saw the sharp gleam of his teeth between his drawn lips. The mad light in the blue eyes danced. Now he had his enemy before him, and between them was naked steel! Now all his lifetime was to be avenged on this symbol of his loneliness, his agony, his grief and fear! Now he was face to face with his supreme foe, and he would kill him in one last gesture of rage and hatred and despair!
In one awful instant, Arsène, with the prescience of those in deadly peril, understood. It was his life, or his brother’s. There was no retreating.
Now he was silent. He gripped his teeth on his lip. This was an enemy to be killed, and he intended to do it with dispatch. His sword darted and flashed like a tongue of cold flame. From somewhere came a strangled cry, and then utter silence.
The wound in his shoulder ached and bled. He felt its dripping down his left arm. He concentrated on the horrible task at hand. He would need all his strength, all his energy, all his skill, for Louis was one of the most accomplished swordsmen in France. Many a time, long ago, the two brothers had fenced, and Arsène had only one victory to his credit over Louis.
Yet, as he fought, with that fixed and frightful face before him, he could not shut out his awareness of the terrible aspects of this scene. He could feel, with intense sensation, the soft carpet under his feet, the portraits on the white and gilt walls, the face of his father on the steps nearby. A numbness began to pervade him. He shook his head to clear the mists from his eyes. Suddenly, he could not endure it.
He cried out: “You are my brother!”
And then Louis, as he stepped back for a moment’s breathing space, threw back his head and laughed aloud. The laugh started softly, and then became a most appalling howl, broken into tremulos, quivering like the howling of a wolf. Arsène’s heart rose on a wave of sickness, and he retched.
He felt a plunge of Louis’ sword not two inches above his heart, and very near the first bleeding wound. He fell back. His head whirled. Instinctively, he lifted his sword, and struck aside the darting blade reaching for a vital spot.
I must be done with this, he thought. I must be done with this, or I shall surely die of very horror.
He decided that he would wound and disarm his brother. He could not kill him! No, please God, he could not kill him! Let me not kill him, he prayed silently. Tears rose to his eyes, dazzled him.
The sword flashed a murderous beam within an inch of his throat. He struck it aside. The steel rang like a sharp bell. Louis fell back. Now was the time! A plunge over the right breast, and before Louis recovered a hurling away of his sword!
Arsène advanced upon his brother, his eye fixed on the very spot where he would wound and cripple him. But on that very instant, while Arsène’s sword darted towards him, Louis’ right ankle turned, throwing him sideways. And the sword plunged deeply into his left breast.
There was a sudden dreadful silence. Louis’ sword arm dropped. The fingers slowly loosened. The sword fell at his feet, its tip stained with Arsène’s blood. Louis looked at his brother, and the white fire slowly quenched itself on his face. His mouth and eyes opened wide in an expression of intense preoccupation and surprise. He stood there rigidly, not moving, and moment by moment, he turned to a pillar of snow.
And then, while Arsène, paralyzed, watched, the priest swayed. A faint moan came from him. His eyelids dropped over his eyes. His hands lifted with a helpless and irresolute gesture, as if he had become blind. He swayed heavily. And then, with a muffled cry, he fell forward on his face, his head striking Arsène’s feet.
Arsène, weighted down with stone, could not stir even a finger. He heard cries about him, confused, far-off cries. He felt his father’s arms about him, heard his father’s sobs. He heard the Marquis’ voice: “Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu! My son, you are hurt! That foul beast—! My son, my son!”
But Arsène looked only at his brother, silent and motionless, like a fallen statue, at his feet. A thin red trickle of blood writhed away from him from under his left arm. And then Arsène looked at the sword still in his hand. With a convulsive cry, he flung it from him. It struck against the far wall with a clanging and ominous sound.
Arsène thrust his father from him. He knelt down beside his brother. He lifted him in his arms and turned him over. Louis’ face was already gray with approaching death. But his eyes were open and steadfast. And very quiet. He tried to speak. Blood gushed from his mouth. Arsène wiped it away with his own kerchief. He began to weep.
And then Louis saw his tears. He struggled to speak once more. He whispered thickly: “You have always hated me.”
“No! No! In the name of God, no!” cried Arsène, drawing his brother closer to him. “I have never hated you, Louis. I swear it. Believe me, for Christ’s sake!”
In those dimming eyes, on those purple lips, a strange expression dimly appeared.
“I have even loved you, Louis,” said Arsène, and he felt as if his heart was dissolving within him with pain. “I have wanted to be friends with you. You would not allow this. I did not hate you, Louis. But you have hated me.”
“You have not hated me?” repeated Louis, and a look of wild surprise blazed up in his dying eyes, and incredulous joy.
Arsène could not speak. He bent over his brother, lying so heavily in his arms, and he kissed that cold wet brow, and pressed his cheek against the fair hair, now wet with blood. “O, forgive me,” he groaned, when he could speak again.
Louis stirred in his arms. Finally, with a last supreme effort, he lifted his right arm and let it fall feebly about Arsène’s neck. He smiled, and closed his eyes. He drew a long and shaking breath, and then appeared not to breathe again.
The two brothers remained like this for several endless moments, clasped in each other’s arms. And then at last Louis’ arm fell away, and he sank into unconsciousness.
Arsène looked up at his father, who was watching them with a strange expression. Streaks of wet black kohl ran over his painted cheeks. He was an old rouged man, trembling and undone.
“I have sent for my physician,” he said, meeting Arsène’s eyes.
“It is too late,” replied Arsène, speaking with difficulty. “He is dying.”
He gazed down at the dying priest in his arms. Louis seemed to be sleeping. There was a faint chill smile on his gray face.
Arsène laid him down, very gently. He saw the gaping and terrified lackeys behind his father. He stood up. It was almost midnight, and he could delay no longer. The wounds in his shoulder were nothing to the aching wound in his heart.
“Stay with him, to the last,” he said, turning to the Marquis. “He loved you.”
The Marquis, not comprehending, nodded his head. He approached his younger son, and stood, looking down at him. And then, with a dwindled sound like a whimper, he knelt and bent over Louis. He did not see Arsène slip away. He heard no far closing of a door.
The hotel was dreadfully still. No life seemed stirring in it. The faces of the lackeys were a painted back-drop. And the Marquis knelt beside his son and chaffed his unconscious hands, which were now as cold as dead stone.
At last Louis stirred, and sighed. He opened his eyes. He looked fully at his father, who bent his head as if in shame. But the Marquis felt a tremor in the hand he held. And now in that malicious and frivolous heart, so malevolent and greedy, a peculiar emotion stirred, as if of boundless grief.
He said: “Louis. Louis, my son.”
At those words, a long quiver passed over the dying man. He tried to raise himself. The Marquis caught him in his arms and pressed him against his breast, and he wept aloud, with a hoarse sound.
But Louis was speaking, in faint gasps: “He must not go! He will be killed. You must stop him, and bring him home. La Rochelle—it will fall, and he will die.”
The Marquis listened, and cried out. He felt Louis’ hands, with a last strength, gripping his own.
“Tonight—he is going. He will die!”
A deathly rattle sounded in his throat, and at that sound, the Marquis’ attention returned to his son. He raised his head upon his black velvet knee. He looked down into the glazing eyes.
“Louis,” he groaned. “Ah, my son!”
With much wildness, he kissed that stony brow, and then the cold lips. A far marble smile appeared on Louis’ face, a smile of supreme happiness. And then, he looked beyond his father, and those filmed eyes suddenly quickened, became alight with ecstasy.
“Marguerite,” he said, clearly and lightly, and his hands lifted for a moment, with humility, with unbelieving rapture.
The Marquis cast a wild confused look over his shoulder. But he did not see what his son was seeing. When he returned to Louis, his son was dead.