Читать книгу The Red Mass - Valentine Williams - Страница 14
ОглавлениеLOISON
It was then that all the instincts of Hector's upbringing asserted themselves. A wild and unreasoning anger seized upon him, a fierce revulsion against the Jacobins and all their works. Better a thousand times to die even as the man at his feet had died than to be carted like an ox to the slaughter. But he didn't mean to die just yet, or, if he must, he would, at least, die fighting. He sprang to his feet and darted out into the passage.
Now they were smashing in the panels of the front door with a flintlock; he could hear the woodwork shiver beneath the heavy blows of the iron-shod butt. A stream of filthy invective resounded from the other side of the straining woodwork as he tiptoed away down the corridor.
Only a confused plan of action was in his mind. Was there a back entrance, he wondered, a service staircase leading from the kitchen? If there were it would probably be guarded. Then perhaps a window? But the apartment was on the third floor, an almost impossible descent unless one had a rope. He opened a couple of doors—a small dining-room with stags' heads on the walls, a big, dark bedroom. Ah! here was the kitchen!
A louder crash than the rest, a roar of triumph from the corridor behind him announced that the front door had at last given way. Quickly he stepped into the kitchen and closed the door behind him.
A fire glowed redly on the big open hearth. By its light he glanced swiftly round. His heart sank. There was no door and the window was small and closely barred—barred!—the mockery of it!—because it gave on a shallow roof beneath. He was caught like a rat in a trap. Heavy feet went tramping through the corridor outside and loud voices rang through the apartment. First they would go into the sitting-room, he expected, and find the body: then they would proceed to ransack the whole place methodically.
They could not know of his presence yet, unless the old concierge had given him away. But she was not likely to speak unless she were asked, and no one else had seen him come to Engstrom's. They might never know he had been there if he could but escape them now. If he could but hide...!
Hide? But where? He cast a despairing glance round the kitchen. No place of concealment could he see. That flat cupboard with the shelves was useless; useless, too, the dresser ...
The dresser!
It was slowly moving forward, swinging inwards like a door, noiselessly without even a creak. A ray of light fell into the kitchen. In the opening a young girl stood, shielding a candle in one hand. When she saw him she drew back swiftly with the instinctive, distrustful movement of a frightened bird. But Hector stayed her with a gesture. He did not dare to speak. He put one finger to his lips. So they stood for a fleeting instant, regarding one another in silence. And then, in the passage outside, there fell upon their ears a footfall. The floor-boards creaked protestingly. And Hector Fotheringay remembered that the kitchen door was not locked.
He opened his right hand and disclosed the scarlet enamel snuff-box he had shown to Philippe. It was his last chance, and it did not fail him. The girl nodded in understanding and beckoned. In the corridor a voice cried, 'Voyons la chambre au fond du couloir!' and Hector followed the girl into the opening. The dresser fell back into place behind them with a slight click.
They were on a narrow flight of stairs. The girl went in front, and her slim, cool fingers enclosed the young man's wrist. They descended a dozen steps or so, then she stopped, fumbled with a catch, and a low door swung back.
She laid a little hand on the cross-beam of the door to warn her companion not to strike his head and, stooping, scrambled through. Hector followed, and found himself in a black and stuffy hole. But now the girl raised a curtain and showed a lighted room.
They emerged from under a long shelf, screened by a deep valance, that ran along one side of what was apparently a dressmaker's workshop. The shelf was strewn with paper patterns pinned to lengths of cloth in process of being cut out. A table in the centre of the room was littered with sewing materials and in a press in the corner a line of finished garments hung. On the far side of the room was a door, and the roof, which was paned with glass, ran up to a long skylight.
On the centre table a tiny lamp was burning, and by its light Hector surveyed his rescuer. She seemed little more than a child. Her blonde hair was braided in plaits round her head and her wide grey eyes were limpid with a child's look of trusting innocence. She wore a clean but ragged little frock of blue flowered muslin, high-waisted, and her coarse white stockings could not disguise the slimness of her ankles. Her skin was waxen white, her features pinched and wan, and she had an ethereal, a gossamer air about her which Hector had never met in a woman before.
'I was working late,' the girl said. 'And I came to see Monsieur Engstrom. Who are those men in the house?'
'They came to search Monsieur Engstrom's apartment,' Hector replied. 'He was arrested this morning!'
The girl laid her hand on her heart. Her eyes were dilated with fear.
'Arrested?' she repeated awe-struck. 'Alors ...?'
Hector nodded gravely.
'This evening,' he said.
The girl looked at him blankly for a moment.
'Then you are in grave danger,' she said. 'Where do you live? Have you any place to go to?'
'I arrived in Paris only a few hours since,' the young man answered. 'But if I can but get safe away from this house, I can make shift for myself!'
With a critical eye she surveyed him.
'Untie this riband in your hair,' she suggested. 'So!'
She went to the press and took down a long black cloak of silk with a hood.
'Put this on!' she commanded. 'Pull the hood over your head and carry your hat beneath the cloak. There is a box, an urgent order, to go to the house of the Citizeness Vallier to-night. She lives at the end of this street, the rue de la Loi, at Number 31, to the left when you leave the house. I was to take it, but you shall be my messenger. You will excite no suspicion if you are seen leaving the shop!'
'And you?' Hector asked.
'I shall stay here. It's not the first time I've sat up working in the atelier all night; allez!'
'But if they find that secret door?'
'They'll not find it. The wall is solid and the door cannot be opened from Monsieur Engstrom's side. For more than two years now he has used it when he desires to come back unseen. But now ...'
She bit her lip and turned away.
Hector took her hand.
'Mademoiselle,' he said, 'may I not be favoured with the name of the lady to whom I owe my safety?'
'Monsieur Engstrom called me "Mademoiselle," too,' she said. 'And he made me call him "Monsieur." I like it. It sounds so old-fashioned! Everybody calls me Loison, M'sieu! For my other name'—she shrugged her shoulders—'I don't need to use it, so why should you burden your memory? We shall not meet again!'
Hector bowed and kissed the small slim hand.
'Mademoiselle Loison,' he said, 'votre très obéissant serviteur!'
A little colour stole into her waxen cheeks.
'How strange that sounds!' she said. 'Once I met a ci-devant abbé who talked like that! C'est drôle tout de même!'
And she gave a little silvery laugh. Like a child she passed without effort from grave to gay.
From under the shelf she produced a large round cardboard hatbox and hung it on Hector's arm.
'You must pull out your hair thus!' she said, and suited the action to the word. 'And when you walk, take short steps! And take no notice of the men who speak to you in the street! These dirty Jacobins think that every woman is in love with them, the ...!'
And she rapped out a foul expression that Hector had never heard in a woman's mouth before even from the frail beauties of the Palais-Royal.
She used it quite naturally, so that it scarce seemed to sully her lips. Now she got up, and, opening the farther door, turned to watch the young man cross the workroom.
'Doucement, doucement!' she cried. 'You stride like a Tambour-Major of the National Guard! So! That's better! Leave the box with the concierge and say the Citoyenne Vallier must have it at once! And send the cloak back to-morrow!'
She led him through the dark front shop and stood for an instant, her hand resting on the latch of the door.
'When I open,' she said, 'slip out quickly.'
Then she bobbed to him.
'Mademoiselle,' she said, mimicking his formal air, 'votre très obéissante serviteuse!'
But her voice shook a little. He looked at her quickly. Suddenly the tears welled from her eyes and her small breasts were shaken with sobs.
'Go, go,' she pleaded as he was about to speak, and, opening the door, she pushed him out into the darkness.
