The Arm and the Darkness by Taylor Caldwell
At length he reached the end of the corridor. He stretched up his hands and felt the roughness of rusty iron. He thrust with the last of his failing strength. The iron moved. He pushed upwards, and as the iron plate moved aside, he saw the brightness of warm stars. It took him several moments to heave himself up, and longer to replace the iron plate.
He was in a deserted alley, filled with refuse, the walls leaning inwards. He looked about him. He heard the distant voice of the city. Pulling the cloak closely about him, drawing down his hat, and keeping close to the crumbling walls, he hurried down the length of the alley. He emerged into a street near the Luxembourg.
It was a quiet street, empty, lined with small but dignified houses, whose diamond-paned windows were yellow with lamp and candlelight. No one was abroad here. A fresh spring wind blew through the street, and the stars overhead brightened. Over one roof the glowing argent crescent of the new moon peered. Arsène hurried down the cobbled road, keeping his head bent. He reached a small but stately gray house with balconied windows. The gray silk draperies were drawn, but he saw a line of light in one upper room. He crept to the rear, between green hedges odorous with new leaf and bud.
He knocked swiftly at the garden door, and waited. His breath was labored, and he felt nauseated. The crescent moon brightened. There was a sweet wind, whispering and mysterious.
At the end of the garden there was a brick wall, covered with flowering vines. A bird twittered sleepily in one of the old thick trees. There was no other sound.
Then the door silently opened, and a woman stood on the threshold, holding high a flickering candle. The light trembled on her pale and pointed face, which was framed smoothly with black and shining hair. She was a young voluptuous woman, with a splendid figure and carriage, clad in rich dark silks. A chain of gold and diamonds glittered about her full white throat. Her eyes, in the candlelight, were cold and watchful, black as velvet, and inscrutable, and her mouth was a crimson plum.
This was Madame Antoinette duPres, the mistress of Paul de Vitry, and Arsène had always detested her when he had condescended to notice her. Her husband had been a small shopkeeper, one of Paul’s most devoted followers. He had been killed in a street riot. Shortly after that, Paul had taken his wife as the mistress of both his bed and his house. Friendship and passion had both prompted this, and Madame duPres was apparently devoted to her lover, who could see no fault in her. But Arsène had noted the hard corners of her lips, the avaricious gleam in her eyes, the arrogance of her manner which was the arrogance of the plebeian. She also had impudence of the plebeian, and tried to conceal the coarseness of her blood with grand manners and exaggerated elegances. She intimidated the more gentle and naïve of Paul’s friends, who vaguely believed her to be a grande dame, for she was haughty and impertinent.
For the rest, she managed Paul’s household with a hard and parsimonious hand, bullying the two servants and keeping an undeceived eye upon the larder. She also managed Paul, who adored her, and was a trifle afraid of her. He acknowledged her flinty and practical intelligence with amusement, for his was a lavish and generous nature, and of great sweetness and compassion.
“Were it not for my little Netta, I would soon be begging on the streets of Paris,” he would say, fondly, as he caressed her white neck or played with her plump white fingers.
Arsène usually ignored her. In his eyes, she was no more than a scullery wench. Her deep and dusky voice irritated him. It annoyed him that Paul fatuously insisted upon her presence during all conferences and little dinners. There she would sit haughtily and complacently at the foot of the table, attending to the wants of the guests, bridling her handsome head, throwing glances about with what she imagined was the grand manner of a great lady of the blood. She had an indulgent and patronizing way with Paul, and sometimes imperiously pouted when he devoted too much attention to his friends.
Now, as she threw the candlelight on Arsène’s face, inimical fire leapt to her big black eyes, and her full mouth tightened. A flush rose over her cheeks. Her breast heaved. She had hoped he was dead. Yet, there was a quivering about her heart.
“Monsieur le Comte?” asked Arsène, abruptly.
Madame duPres inclined her head backwards, with an impudent look. Arsène brushed by her, and in the passageway he removed his cloak and hat. He flung them into her arms, as he would have thrown them to a servant. Flushing, she began to let them drop to the floor, then caught them back as Arsène’s eye fixed her. He then went on, tightening his baldric, which had become too loose for him during his illness.
He found Paul de Vitry lying on a couch in the little drawing-room, before a low fire. The room was austere, but tastefully furnished, and on the walls hung the portraits of de Vitry’s illustrious ancestors. A large silver candelabrum stood upon a gilt table, and by this light Paul was reading. Arsène stood in the doorway watching him for an instant, observing how pale and drawn was his friend’s face, how listless his attitude. One arm hung in a sling across his breast, and the fingers were white and waxen.
Arsène’s heart swelled with love as he stood, still unseen, in the doorway. Morbleu! he thought. He is in worse condition than I.
Paul de Vitry was a dark and slender young man, lean and vital, with quick gray eyes both humorous and tender, and more than a little naïve. He had good clear features, and an expression of mingled sadness and sweetness and humor. Unlike Arsène, he wore his dark curly hair cropped very short, in the manner of the English Puritans, or Roundheads. This gave him a youthful and fawnlike look, and revealed his small ears. His clothing, too, was severe and Puritanical, made of black wool. His shirt was white and plain, and open at the neck. His hose were woolen, also, his shoes of rough leather.
About him there was an air both gentle yet resolute, stead-fast and kind. As he turned the pages of the book, he sighed a little. Then, feeling Arsène’s gaze upon him, he glanced up quickly. He was startled. Then he smiled, and the smile was eager, alive with affection and delight. “Arsène! You have returned!” His voice, very soft but clear, trembled. He stretched out his free arm, and Arsène took his hand. They looked at each other, smiling.
“Ah, but you have been ill, and hurt,” said Paul, scrutinizing the scar on his friend’s cheek, and still holding his hand.
“And you. You did not fare any better,” replied Arsène. He sat on the edge of the couch. “The others: have they recovered, too?”
Paul nodded, still smiling. “Yes. All but poor Gaston de Bouilliard.” His face saddened. “There was a wound in his right lung. It is not expected that he will recover.”
He sat up on his cushions. “But tell me: where have you been? What happened to you, after that night?”
Madame duPres entered the room. She sat down in a nearby chair, took up some delicate embroidery. She seemed absorbed in it. But she listened, her head averted.
Arsène recounted his adventures and Paul listened with deep intensity, his features expressing all his various emotions.
“We have a traitor amongst us,” said Arsène. His eyes darkened with ferocity. “We must discover him, and deal with him. At once. So long as he lives, we are not safe.”
“I have thought and thought,” said Paul, with distress. “But who can it be? We have been very discreet. Only your servant, Pierre, and the servant of de Bouilliard accompanied us, knew about our meeting place. Is it possible we were followed?”
“We could have been followed only by those who have been informed,” remarked Arsène. “Moreover, it is now known that you are head of Les Blanches. Who could have disclosed this? Too, several other names are known.”
Paul drew his brows together in alarmed perplexity. “This is bad news,” he murmured. “It is evident that we must not hold a meeting for some time. But who is the traitor?” He repeated the names of all the members of Les Blanches, questioningly, and at each name Arsène shook his head with impatience.
“No. Not that one!” he said, over and over. “A man is a traitor for one of
He frowned, concentrating his thoughts. Madame duPres bent closer over her embroidery.
“If we begin to suspect each other, then we are lost,” complained Paul. He shifted uneasily on his cushions. Madame duPres rose instantly, adjusted the cushions. He smiled up at her adoringly, and she passed her hand swiftly over his head before returning to her chair. He followed her for a moment with his eyes.
Arsène watched this little play, and scowled. He stood up and regarded the fire. He said, without looking up: “If you please, Paul, I should like to talk to you, in privacy.”
There was a small but piercing silence in the room. Arsène felt, rather than saw, the apologetic glance Paul gave his mistress. She rose with a rustle and a flounce, gathered up her embroidery, and sailed from the room. Arsène waited a few moments, then went to the carved doors and drew them tightly together, with a bang. Paul watched him, smilingly uneasily, a flush on his pale cheek. But he said nothing.
Arsène sat down again at his friend’s side, and regarded him with sparkling eyes and a grave countenance. Paul quickened. He saw, for the first time, some mysterious change in the other. Arsène began to speak quickly, in a low voice:
“Paul, once you accused me of joining Les Blanches because I loved adventure and had an aversion for priests, and not because of some passionate conviction.”
“Yes, that is true,” admitted Paul, wonderingly.
“You spoke truly,” said Arsène. He hesitated. He looked away, and frowned.
“I have seen and heard some strange things,” he muttered. “My mind is in an upheaval. I cannot think clearly. I have laughed at you in the past, not understanding you. I did not try to understand. Now, you can tell me.”
Paul was silent. But he was much moved. Arsène turned to him, and saw his expression, delighted yet still incredulous. Instinctively, their hands met again.
Then Paul began to speak, softly, meditatively, and his gray eyes dilated in the firelight, so that they glowed and welled with an inner radiance:
“All my life, since my first thoughts, I have had a dream, and I have questioned in my heart. I have thought to myself: What sustains the people in their eternal unrelieved anguish, their hopelessness, and endless, repeated pain? Are they helpless, like sea-weed moved by dark and resistless tides, and thoughtless, capable only of dim suffering, and incapable of questioning and revolt? Do they endure, I asked myself, because they can do nothing else?”
His face reflected old pain and sadness as he gazed up at Arsène, who listened with intensity.
“Or,” said Paul, “is there in the people some vast unconscious faith, some profound movement which comes partly from themselves and partly from some deep and mystic source? Is there some divine moon which raises the tide in human hearts, and sends it roaring over the stony shingle of the world, bringing with it strange treasures and strange creatures and the shapes of new life? Is this, then, the secret of the endurance, the primordial unthinking faith of the dumb people, that in them is eternity, the arching of the tidal wave, the source of all life, the promise of the future, and the outline of new continents of man’s desire and man’s hope?”
He could not contain himself. He rose, and stood beside Arsène, and the light increased in fervor in his eyes.
“Who can resist the people when they feel this immensity in themselves? No one, neither King nor priest, arms or fury or death. And then I knew that in this age the tumult in the people was beginning again, after sluggish centuries of oppression and despair. This was the age of enlightenment, of consciousness, of recognition of tyrants, of the understanding of the power of the people!”
He laid his shaking hand on Arsène’s shoulder urgently.
“I am not a Huguenot by tradition, or by irritable revolt, like yours, Arsène! I am a Huguenot because I believe, and know, that in the Reformation sounds the voice of the people, stern and passionate, desirous of freedom, heavy with the future. The people are rising once more out of the ruck and mud of blind centuries, and they are looking about them. This age is clamorous with their voices, filled with the lightning of their eyes! The people everywhere, in England, France, Spain, Germany, Italy! This is the movement whose waves shall roll into the coming centuries, bearing upon them the sails of liberty, brotherhood, peace, knowledge and equality!”
Arsène was passionately moved. He heard a dim tumult in his ears, and he closed his eyes on a vivid remembrance of his dream.
“This is only the dawn,” said Paul, in a trembling voice. “We shall not see the full noon in our lifetime, Arsène. But it is coming. Who can obscure the sun, cause it to hurtle down again beyond the black horizon? No one! The sound of the day is here, when there shall not be Frenchmen or Englishmen, Germans or Spaniards, Russians or Italians. There shall be only men. And all the foulness and plottings of evil men, of kings and priests and tyrants, can only darken the day a little with passing clouds. But they cannot halt the sun in his course.”
Incredible words, words without meaning! thought Arsène. Yet he felt a movement in his heart below the incredulity of his mind. So must the Pagans have felt, at the first words of Christ.
Paul continued, and his voice was stronger: “The rivers of the world flow through every man’s door. We are attached by an umbilical cord to the farthest star. This is a truth which wicked men have, through thousands of years, tried to deny, with lies and superstition, with treachery and greed. It was a truth which I did not always know. My mother was a devout Catholic; I was nurtured in the faith of Rome. Did it teach me the universality of all men? No, it taught me superstition and ignorance, oppression and bigotry. Who were the perpetrators of this montrous sin against all men? Christianity? No, the evil ones who served Christianity! Therefore, I have no quarrel with the Church. My quarrel is with her servants. It is they we must combat, destroy, if brotherhood and compassion are to come upon the world.”
He paused, then went on: “And so it is that I have thought of de Buckingham, of Germany. I have thought to go to England, to the Germans, and enlist them in my crusade. There are some among them who think as I do—”
But Arsène was suddenly horrified, and alarmed.
“The English! Our hereditary enemies! And their brothers, the Germans, who are also our hereditary enemies! This is preposterous. It is treason, Paul. I loathe the English. I particularly despise the Germans. I have visited Prussia and Saxony. What boars! What indelicate beasts! The German soul is at once coarse and mystical, romantic and piggish, practical and illogical. It is also ghoulish, and full of nightmare, concerned with delicate fantasy and horrible cheeses.” He laughed a little. “Once I heard the Duc de Richelieu say: ‘A nation that concocts and eats such putrid cheeses is worthy of Luther.’”
Paul sighed, he smiled a little, and shook his head. He sat down again and contemplated the fire.
Arsène was sobered. He leaned over his friend. “Paul, I do not understand much of what you have said. But I have felt a little in my heart. But I cannot be allied with anything which is treacherous to France—”
“You do not understand!” cried Paul, with impetuous sadness. “I have not made you understand! I have not made you see that there are no nations, but only men, and that our business is with men, and not kingdoms, not politics. I talk to you of men’s souls and men’s freedom, and you answer me with rubbish about cheeses! You are only a bravo, after all. There is no place for you at my side.”
But Arsène was not offended. He stared sharply at Paul, and bit his lip.
“The Reformation,” said Paul, clasping his hands and gazing at the fire, “is more than a religious movement. It is truly secular. It is the coming of a new world, a world of new boundaries, of new economi
His face shone, became vivid with the violence of his faith and his passion. He seemed to forget Arsène. He struck his clenched fist slowly and heavily upon his knee. He took on himself a glowing beauty and fervor.
Arsène sighed, shook his head again. “I cannot encompass these things, Paul. Morbleu! With all my heart I wish I could understand! But though I do not understand, I know you speak truth. I will stand beside you, blindly, as a soldier stands, not comprehending the full extent of the orders he has been given, but wishing only to obey, trusting.”
Paul smiled. He reached up and took Arsène’s hand, pressing it warmly and firmly. “I have always trusted you, Arsène. I know I can still trust you.”
“You are a saint!” exclaimed Arsène, impulsively, swelling with his love for his friend. “It is not given to men to understand saints, but only to adore them.”
Paul laughed a little at this extravagance. He was still heavy-hearted. He had not made this exuberant, this headlong and foolhardy young man understand. But he knew his devotion, and though it was built only on personal affection, it was strong and ardent.