Marjorie Bowen - The Folding Doors

Durosoy laughed and poured out more wine. The tinkling of the glass on the silver stand had the same thin quality as his voice.

"There is always Toulon," he said. "The Royalists there are giving us a good deal of trouble."

"I do not fancy going there to be hewn down by a lot of rascals. I leave that to braver men," smiled de Jaurès lazily; but his blood leapt with the desire to be with these same Royalists in Toulon, with his sword drawn against such as this Deputy, whose wine seemed to scorch and choke to-night. When would the man go? The carriage that was waiting at the back might be noticed. The servant in the plot would begin to wonder at the delay; and she, could she hear? She must be undergoing torture — as he was.

"Then there is the revolt in Caen," said the Deputy; "we want good men there."

"I've no fancy to go soldiering."

"You are dull to-night, Citizen. Does the business of the Widow Capet interest you? It is to come on this month."

"Ah! The trial?"

"Yes."

"I heard something of it. No, I am not interested."

When would this babbling cease? Ten minutes past eleven, and the rendezvous in the rue du Temple at twelve.

"Not interested?" echoed the Deputy. "Now if I might hazard a guess, my friend, I should say that you were rather too interested."

M. de Jaurès looked at him steadily.

"How — too interested?" he asked in accents painfully calm.

"I do not think you would like the Widow Capet to take the same journey to the Place de la Révolution as her husband did."

"Why should I trouble?" answered M. de Jaurès, who for one instant had thought himself suspected. He drew his breath a little unevenly; the delay, the suspense, were beginning to tell on him, were becoming serious, too. He remembered that the hour had been altered at the last moment from one to twelve, and that he had had no opportunity of telling Hortense so. They had to be so careful, there had been so few chances for them to meet at all. Hortense would think they had an hour longer than was the case.

The Deputy was taking his third glass; he seemed to be settled comfortably in his chair. It appeared as if he might maunder on with his idle talk for another hour; and the delay of another hour would be fatal to M. de Jaurès.

"It must seem very strange to you," said the Deputy reflectively, "this year one of liberty."

M. de Jaurès sat forward on the couch. Durosoy had never taken this tone of gravity with him before.

"No stranger to me than to you," he answered. He finished the wine, and set the glass back on the table.

"Well, then, strange to me and to you."

M. de Jaurès laughed; he could not control himself.

"What makes you say that?" he asked. The Deputy shrugged.

"The thought will occur — sitting here in this palace that I used to pass with awe — talking to you whom I used to regard with awe — married to Hortense! Yes, you are right, it is strange to me."

The noble's mouth tightened; a black shame overwhelmed him that he was sitting here listening to this man.

"You," continued the Deputy, "used to know the former owner of this house, did you not?"

M. de Jaurès rose.

"I knew him."

"He was killed at La Force, was he not?"

"I believe so; why do you recall him?" M. de Jaurès leant against the mantelpiece. The cold, white room, the inane Deputy, were fast becoming intolerable. He began to be hideously conscious of two things: the clock whose hands were coming round slowly to the half-hour, and the folding doors behind which Hortense waited. The interruption, of which he had thought nothing at first, was like to prove fatal. Could he do it in less than half an hour? Merciful God! it was not possible! Some of them were already at the rendezvous — the Queen was ready.

"Let us go back upstairs," he said. "It is, after all, rather doleful here."

"On the contrary, I am very comfortable," smiled the Deputy, crossing his legs.

"You will be missed," said M. de Jaurès. His thoughts were racing furiously. How could he convey to Hortense that the time had been altered — that he could not wait?

The Deputy nodded towards the high ceiling. "Missed? You hear the music? I think they are enjoying themselves."

To abandon her, or to miss the appointment in the rue du Temple ; to break faith with his friends or with her, to lose all chance of redemption, to jeopardise the Queen's escape, or to forsake Hortense (for success meant that he must be across the frontier, and failure meant death; either way he was useless to her) — it was fast narrowing to these terrible decisions.

He looked at his face in the large mirror above the mantelpiece, and was almost startled to see how white it was above the close cravat and blue striped waistcoat. Surely Durosoy must notice!

The Deputy sat looking into the fire. M. de Jaurès, glancing at him out of furtive eyes, observed that he, too, was pale.

A pause of silence was broken by the shrill chimes of the gilt clock striking the half-hour.

M. de Jaurès could not restrain a start. He must go. He could come back for her if alive; his honour (Heaven help him! he still thought of that) was the pledge to them, his affection to her — she would understand. Perhaps by the servant waiting with the carriage at the back entrance he could convey a message, telling her of the changed time.

"You will forgive me," he said with that ease with which breed enabled him to cover his agony, "but I am due at my chambers" — he raised his voice for her to hear—"the truth is I have business — important business to-night. Good-evening, Durosoy."

He went towards the door; it would be quick running to make the rue du Temple in time. Heaven enlighten her as to the cause of his desertion.

"Business?" said the Deputy good-humouredly. "There is no business nowadays but politics or plots. I hope you axe not engaged in the latter, my dear Camille."

M. de Jaurès had his hand on the door-knob. "This is private business," he answered, "about my property. I am trying to save some of it."

The Deputy turned in his chair.

"Why, I did not know that your estates were confiscated. Why did not you tell me? I might have helped you."

M. de Jaurès opened the door.

"You are such a busy man, Durosoy. I think I shall manage the affair satisfactorily."

"Monseigneur le Duc."

At that title he turned sharply, and saw the Deputy standing before the fire looking at him.

"Why do you say that?" he asked, and his nostrils widened.

"Forgive me, the expression slipped out. I still think of you as Monseigneur le Duc. It is an astonishing thing, but I believe I am still in awe of you, as I used to be in my little office in Lyons." He smiled fatuously, lowered his eyes to the floor and shook his head.

"Why did you call me?"

"Well, I wanted to speak to you. Take another glass of wine; it is still early."

"Indeed, it is impossible for me to stay. I have an appointment."

"Bah! Make him wait."

"It is a rendezvous that I would rather keep."

"A strange hour for a business appointment. Are you sure it is not a lady that you are so anxious to see?"

"Say a lady, then," said M. de Jaurès; "but, believe me that I must go." He was leaving on that, when the Deputy called after him.

"I entreat you to stay. It is also a lady of whom I wish to speak."

M. de Jaurès turned slowly and closed the door.

"Come," smiled the Deputy, "another glass."

"What have you to say to me, Durosoy?" He felt as if the hand of fate were on his shoulder, dragging him back into the room; yet every moment — nay, every second — was precious, fast becoming doubly precious.

The Deputy was pouring out the wine. His grey and black figure was illumined by the increasing glow of the fire. He moved bottles and glasses clumsily by reason of the bandaged forefinger of his right hand; behind him the clock showed twenty minutes to twelve.