Our Novelettes. AN ARTIST’S SACRIFICE.

Western Star, Issue 944, 2 May 1885, Page 1 (Supplement)

Our Novelettes. AN ARTIST’S SACRIFICE.

Chapter Til.—Continued. “ But suppose, jet again, that it was usual and proper, and according to the way of the world, that the yoko should speak to us first, the hand stretch out towards us first, and that, in crying out in our despair, although we might save our soul, we must sacrifice our own dignity and more—perhaps the very friend’s esteem—what would you say, then, Monsieur ?”

But Lucien kept a puzzled silence. “Oh, I can see that I offend you!” she said, tremulously. “ Have some pity on me, Monsieur—have some pity on me, for it breaks—it breaks—my heart!” and for a moment or two a torrent of tears stopped further speech. “It is I,” she resumed, “ who stand On the edge of a resolve which, once taken, shuts out life and hope for over ; it is I who need to call to the helping hand, yet know not how to do it! My heart will not throb loud enough for him to hear—my tears will not speak for me—and how shall I say it ? What shall Ido ?” "Tell me what it is,” said Lucien, feeling strangely agitated by her words and her manner of saying them. “ Tell you ! Shall I—may I tell you ? Then pity me—don’t bo angry with me—but —I love you—love you, Lucien!" and she hid her burning face in her trembling white hands, and bowed her head as if the passion* ate avowal were shameful.

Then there was a pause of deep, unbroken, silence, which neither Lucien or Cecile seemed able to break, “ And what is the resolve of which you spoke!” asked Lucien, seeking to end the embarrassment without noticing her confession, which indeed he wished had never been spoken at all, because, although he had a friendly regard for Cecile Benault, it had never, even in his own thoughts, shaped itself into any tenderer feeling, and, moreover, it seemed to him a treason to that the other beauty of whom he dreamed that words like these should pass between him and any other than herself.

" What is the resolve he asked again. “ Nothing—it does not matter,’’ she said, sullenly.

“ Will you not tell me P” “ No, no 5 it is of little consequence. You are angry with me for what 1 have said; what does it all matter ? What does anything matter ? Oh, lam a fool to have said what I did ! You despise me for it—l can see that you do ; you hate me, and I hate myself—l do—l do !” and she rooked backwards and forwards in a passion of tears. Presently, without saying a word, without a look or gesture, she rose slowly and left the room.

Scarcely, however, had Lueien turned from looking afner his strange patient as she passed the window, than his door opened and V6oile again stood in the doorway, but without attempting to enter the room. “ Come in. Mademoiselle,” said Lueien.

“ No, Monsieur, never again 5 you think ill enough of me as it is—you will think yet worse of me presently.” “ Worse ? Nonsense; I have no fading of the sort. You are too censorious, Mademoiselle.”

“ Wait,” she returned. “ 1 know more about you than you think I know, and, knowing it, I must have been doubly mad to say what I did.”

“ Knowing what ?” “ I cannot answer questions. I cannot tell you how it is that I know what I do, but listen. A proscite named Laura Lemyridre was lodged in prison this morning. She is denounced by Citizen Maurice Legarde, and she will die.”

Lucien’s heart seemed to swell and throb, and the blood surged upwards with a great rush, the room seemed to leap up and whirl round, and th°n all became still. When he came to himself, it was to find the door closed and his visitor gone. Chaftbb IV.

Jean Valdry eat in his studio and smoked his ;pipe disconsolately. It is true that the magnum opus was completed, but in that time Of terror and famine his picture was, commercially at all events, a very doubtful and profitless success. That in itself, perhaps, would not have greatly affected Jean’s spirits, because naturally he would bo in no hurry to part with his work. To him, at least, is was no mere piece of mechanical skill, which consumed so many days and was turned adrift at once for its value, as if it were a good riddance. It meant to him old times which were gone, bright hopes which were dimmed; it represented the only link and remnant of his ’youth, which seemed to be swallowed up utterly in a round of cares and troubles. So that Jean would not be in a hurry to part with his picture, so far as caring for the money it would produce went j but the want of money and the scarcity of employment brought him nearer to the alternative of accepting Maurice’s situation or finding some other means of subsistence, and indeed Madame’s need and Madame’s tongue left the poor fellow scarce a hope of evasion. It was not that the work in itself was distasteful, but it was the kind of work, the mechanical plodding and scribbling, the looking forward to which made him disconsolate 5 it was the loss of his liberty—liberty which is the mother of art. A skylarK watch ing the construction of a cage which to imprison it will give some idea of Jean disconsolately smoking in his studio, not without the pipe of course, which perhaps was in his favour.

A little child who stood at his knees kept looking up into his gloomy face with a wonder that sadly interfered with the enjoyment of her bread-and-butter; then she toddled about the room, and, still looking back every now and then at her father’s thoughtful face, made her way to the picture, and stood before it with her great eyes full of awe and astonishment. Prssently she made her way back to Jean’s knees, and, pointing to the picture witn her tiny finaers, whispered — “ Oh pretty lady— pretty lady in the sunshine 1”

Whereupon poor Jean stroked the little head, and then hid his face in his hands and cried bitterlyi like a poor faint-heart that he was. Presently he resumed his pipe, which was again interrupted by Citizen Dufrane, who entered the room hurriedly and with a pale, aniions face. “Jean,” he gasped, she is gone—gone, I say !”—Gone P” “ Yes; she is in prison. Do you hear, Jean ? In prison. She will be tried, and-—”

“ Oh, no, no! Some help must be possible surely. It shall be possible I” “ Yes,” said Lucien, •' our friend Maurice has done us a bad turn, but himself a worse.” “ It, was Maurice, then ?” “ Oh, yes, it was he. I don’t know rightly how he did it, and what I do know was wrung, half by threats and half by prayers, from his mother. He met Laure and myseif in the street, and told me of an urgent case that needed prompt attention. Strangely enough, for the moment I did not suspect him, and, although a suspicion crossed my »M M I hume4 along, aUU, when J got to

the house he had fold mo of, and found that there really was a patient who needed instant help, my suspicion died away—l thought that I had wronged him. I wish I had ; it would have been better—much better for me and for him.”

** There was a real patient then ?’’ said Jcan, bringing his friend back to his story. “ Yes, yes; there was so much truth and no [more. I fancy that he knows Laure, and has some hold on her. He took her to his mother’s house, and kept 1 er prisoner there ; he used his advantage, whatever it may have been, and tried threats and persuasion to frighten or induce her to marry him ; and, failing in his purpose, he has conveyed her to prison and no doubt denounced her.” “ Have you seen Maur’ce ?” asked Jean, not knowing very well what to say. “Seen him !” Lucien said, bitterly. “ Why, my poor Jean, how you talk! No, I have not been able to see him ; there might have been mischief else.”

“ We must act cautiously, old friend.” "Cautiously 1 Well, yes, you are right, Jean ; ;but it is hard to be cheated by a knave—cheated and wronged—and yet to act cautiously.” “ Yes, it is hard,” said Jean —“ very hard; but the scoundrel is too cunning and too cowardly to come in the way of an honest man’s cudgel, so we must seek other means of reaching him.” “ I see that such are necessary, but I feel powerless to suggest them. If I were only grip to grip with him, or if I might but dash my hands against the bars of her dungeon aud seek to wrench them out, that at least would be something, I seem to lose myself at times. I feel as if I must make my way and sound the tocsin, and try to raise a new revolt against the tyranny that tramples on us 5 and the next moment I feel as if I could not bear this trial, Jean, and that I must sit down and cry like a woman and let my heart break. But still," Lucien went on, “give me your advice, Jean, for I wish no stone to be left unturned while her life trembles in the balance. I will try anything, everything—l will, though the end bo death to us both—at least we shall die together. She shall not die, and by his hand too, whilst mine can be lifted. I say she shall not, Jean!” "I dare not advise you otherwise, for I would do the same thing myself, I hope,” said Jean; “ bub still let us, as you say, leave no stone unturned. I think that I may be abie to say something, and, if so, you know how willingly I wilt say it. Let us gain time j he shall grant me this at least. I have got a confused idea of some desperate chance, but I am afraid to speak of it now j wait till tomorrow, Lucien. Ah, bow little I thought that I should take my place as clerk in an office with such anxious interest as I shall tomorrow 1”

“Wbat do you mean, Joan P For pity’s sake, tell me! What is the desperate chance you refer to P” “I cannot fully enlighten you. It is only a half-formed hope, and, until I know more of the office and its routine, I cannot tell how far my scheme is reasonable or possible. Don’t you see my idea ? I shall be a clerk in the Bureau des Pieces Accusatives; and is it not possible that papers may pass through my bands or come within my grasp ? But there —I must not dream of it till I know more—l dare not, for fear I should be wrong.” " Ah, I see what you mean, but I see, too, that any service of -that sort would be both difficult and dangerous to you ; and yet I am grown so selfish that I cannot forbid you to run the risk.” “ Never frar,” said Jean. “ I think a little excitement—dangerous excitement mosi of all —would do me good ; in fact, you know, I feel so thoroughly at loggerheads with all the world that I mast have it out somehow, and, if I can only foil our dear Maurice with his own weapons, I do believe that I shall have a happy day at last—and I have waited a long time for it. Come—l need not tell you that you must not despair, that you must look at the brightest side and hope for the best." « Yes, yes, you are very kind, old friend. I—l feel strangely weak and helpless, and unlike my old self, but t will do the best I can, and bear it and hope for the best j and, if tlie worst comes, why, I will meet it. Good-bye, Jean."

With hasty steps and a heavy heart Lucien Dufrane walked homewards to busy himself with hia patients, for, fortunately, he had an occupation which compelled him to come out of his own grief at times, and taught him, too, that, however great our griefs may seem to ourselves personally, we are not by any means alone in that respect. As he entered the room where his patients waited, he was surprised to find but one waiting; he was more surprised when he looked again 'and found that one was Cecile Perhaps his own love had taught him a large charity, perhaps it was the worn, hopeless expression of her face, or the pitiful look in her eyes that seemed to entreat his forbearance, butLuoien's heart smote him as if bad been guilty of an unkindness to her. He thought that he had spoken, at their last interview, less kindly than he might have done, and he seemed at that instant to comprehend how truly she must have loved him to say what she did, and he could understand now haw bitter it must be to love in vain—infinitely more bitter even than his own trouble, because at least his love was returned. "Ah, Cecile,” he said, purposely appearing to have forgotten all about their last interview, "you here! lam glad to see you. After all, there is no antidote to misfortune like an old friend’s face.” “Isn’t there, Monsieur? Well, no, I think you are right.” “Yes, I am right. Our grief makes us selfish ; and I suppose we like to have about us those who will forget our faults, and be gentle towards the grief that absorbs all our thoughts, and shuts out the great world beyond.” “ I don’t know,” she said, " but I did not think that men grieved like (hat. It seems to me that, if I were a man, I could conquer my grief. Men have so much the best of it in this world that I wonder almost that they care to be lovers, when they may be heros and poets—when they have only to say ‘ I will' to attain what they wish.” “True in part, Cecile; but then, you know, ‘ I will ’ waits upon * I must ’ sometimes. Wo cannot always choose our lot.” « No; but you can make even misfortune a glory —difficulty a ladder to climb with.” ° “Why,” said Lucien, “to hear you talk, one would think that men were gifted with strange power that controlled destiny.” “ So they ’are—they are strong and selfish.” This discussion was brought to au abrupt close by an event of no rare occurrence at that time—the passing of the tumbrel which was convoying its load of unfortunates to the scaffold. Both Citizen Dufrane and Cecile involuntarily hurried to the window, and watched the mournful procession as it hurried along. Perhaps the sigh which escaped Lucien was due uot only to his sorrow at the eight, but also to a strange feeling of relief that onr fair head at least was not of the number. But Mademoiselle Cecile Uid not heave a sigh; on the contrary, she stamped her foot, and said, in her fierce way—- “ More victims—and men amongst then, too—men going to be quietly killed like sheep. Oh, it is monstrous to think that a tenth of the world are such knaves, and the other nsOQ*tentbe swell heartless, cewtfiy tm"'

But Lucien, who leaned against the window, still looking after the tutrbrel, made no answer; and Cecile, holding out her hand, said presently—- “ But I came to say good-bye, Monsieur Dufrane. I am going on a journey—along journey it maybe—and I thought that you would not mind mv coming to say ‘ good bye/ for I am indebted to you for many kindnesses.”

“ Good bye, Ceeile, since you are leaving us. As for the kindnesses,' they are wellrepaid since you think me worth saying ‘ good-bye’ to. Good-bye, and a pleasant journey.” But, when Cecile got outside into the street, the expression of her face changed, and she walked away slowly, speaking to herself iu her fierce, vehement way—“ What a fool I was to come! He thinks lam really going on a journey, or perhaps does not trouble to think at all about it, but just say “good-bye as he would to any stranger. And why not indeed ? Ah, when he learns the journey, and where if will end, I wonder will he pity me, or merely think that I am mad ?”

She walked at a slow pace, but collectedly, and without stopping, till she came to the house in which Robespierre lived. This she entered, and ascended the stairs towards a room on the first floor, where could be heard a number of masculine voices in conversation, but all of which eventually became slenced save one which in shrill, unmusical tones continued to harangue the company. Ti e door of the room stood a little way open, and those in the room, seemingly interested in what the speaker said, crowded about the table before which he sat. All this Cecile saw, without being seen or heard, through the half-open doorway, where she stood leaning against the wall as if in a stupor of terror or irresolution.

The speaker was Maximillion Robespierre, who was apparently concluding one of those speeches which in themselves appeared so artificial, but which, from his mouth and with his manner, appeared to be so much in earnest.

“ The idea,” he said, emphasising his words with his raised hand, " of a Supreme Being and the immortality of the soul, is a continual invocation to justice ; it is there* fore a social and republican principle.”

Daring these latter words Cecile had noiselessly entered the room and, coming behind those present, looked over their shoulders at the speaker. At the same instant Robespierre’s eyes caught hers, and he stopped abruptly, and, rising from his seat, looked at her curiously and asked—- " Who are you ? Whom do you want?” *' I want to see Citizen Robespierre,” she said.

“ Who are you P I say : and what do you want ?”

“ I want,” she repeated, “to see Citizen Robespierre.” "Why? What is your purpose in seeing him ?”

“My purpose,” she cried, “is to see how a tyrant looks— to see whether his heart has blood in it as other men’s have.”

And with one bound she sprang in front of him, her uplifted hand holding a knife, which one of the bystanders seized, cutting Cecile’s hand and his own in the struggle, but by the moment’s delay saved the life of Robespierre, which was so soon to meet with an end more terrible even than that by the knife which Cecile Benault would have plunged into bis heart.

As they surrounded and secured her, she flung the knife upon the ground, saying in a low, sad voice—

“ It does not matter j the journey is ended now.”

Ceaptee V., and Last.

Jean Valdry entered upon his new course of life with such an apparent course of contentment, and he followed it up so zealously, that Madame and her brother Maurice were taken quite, by surprise. To Madame, indeed, it seemed almost as irritating as if Jean had refused it altogether, because now there was nothing really to grumble about—a state of things which, to Madame, seemed to be inverting altogether the first principles of enjoyment. Jean, however, made no remark ; he put away his paints and canvases, and visited his study only late at night, when the family was asleep, and, uncovering his picture, sat down and smoked a pipe, as if he were trying for a few minutes to live orer again the dead past. Then he would knock the ashes from his pipe, cover up the picture, and seek in sleep and dreams the sunshine that seemed to have forsaken his waking hours so utterly. He become a prim, businesslike citizen, took an immense interest in bis work and the office, learned quickly all its routine, and performed his duties so diligently that his conduct became a matter of special remark and commendation.

To the Bureau des Pieces Accusatives came all the papers relating to accused persons, and, when once they had passed through that office, the fate of the victims was not long delayed. With a strange interest Jean saw, read, and transcribed many of these documents, which were, in fact, so many deathwarrants j but, however much he may have wished that he could make a bonfire of every day’s harvest of them, he kept his wishes to himself, for there were watchful eyes about, only too ready to find treason even in sympathy, Still Jean was an ingenious person, when he chose to exercise his native wit, and as he was but one clerk among“several, and as, consequently, but a small proportion of the documents passed through his hands, he had perpetually to exercise craft, aud to vary the manner of its exercise, so that he might get a look at the documents which passed through the hands of the other clerks.

It thus happened that he was one day talking to the occupant of the next stool, and keeping a sharp look-out oyer that gentleman’s shoulder as he turned over bis papers, when there stared him in tbe face that name for which, with a terrible curiosity, he had for days been looking—the name of Lempridre, At last the papers had appeared which com tained a statement of Laure Lempriffie’s crime, and Jean knew only too well how easily the crime would bo considered as proved, and how quickly it would be punished when once those papers had passed, in the usual routine, from the office, Jean went back to his desk without a word, for he dared not appear to be in the least interested in any unfortunate whose name happened to appear among those terrible documents. The opportunity which he had thought of as something which was barely possible might occur had occurred, and yet there remained the difficult question to solve —how the opportunity was to be made available—how the chance which now presented itself for a few hours only Was to be seized and used in the interests of his friends. The position was one of great anxiety to Jean, because there, in the offie, amongst the officials, to get possession of the papers without detection was simply impossible, while to express any interest m them was extremely hakardous } and yet ho knew that on the monow the papers would leave the offiee, and the chance which now presented iieelf would be gvne—completely and for ever, (Tq h ognimed)