The Whites and the Blues. Alexandre DumasЧитать онлайн книгу.
shelter from his own innocence—the greatest of all dangers at such a time. He had been thrown, or rather had fallen, into the extreme party of which Schneider was a member; and now, trembling because of his share in the popular fury, and because he had been an accomplice in crime, he drifted, with his eyes shut, he knew not whither.
These three men were Schneider's inseparable friends. They had begun to feel alarmed by his prolonged absence, for each of them realized that Schneider was his pillar of strength. If Schneider toppled, they fell; if Schneider fell, they were dead men.
Monnet, the most nervous and consequently the most impatient of them all, had already risen to go for news, when they suddenly heard the grating of a key in the lock and the door was pushed violently open. At the same moment Schneider entered.
The session must have been a stormy one, for upon the ashy pallor of his forehead, blotches of purple blood stood out prominently. Although December was half gone, his face was covered with perspiration, and his loosened cravat showed the angry swelling of his bull-like neck. As he entered he threw his hat, which he had held in his hand, to the other end of the room.
When they saw him, the three men rose as if moved by a common spring, and hastened toward him. Charles on the contrary had drawn behind his chair as if for protection.
"Citizens," cried Schneider, gritting his teeth, "citizens, I have to announce to you the good news that I am to be married in eight days."
"You?" exclaimed the three men with one accord.
"Yes! What an astounding bit of news for Strasbourg when it gets about. 'Haven't you heard?—No.—The Monk of Cologne is to be married.—Yes?—Yes, that is a fact!' Young, you shall write the epithalamium; Edelmann shall set it to music, and Monnet, who is as cheerful as the grave, shall sing it. You must send the news to your father, Charles, by the next courier."
"And who are you going to marry?"
"I don't know anything about that as yet; and I don't care. I have almost a mind to marry my old cook. It would serve as a good example of the fusion of the classes."
"But what has happened? Tell us."
"Nothing much, but I have been interrogated, attacked, accused—yes, accused."
"Where?"
"At the Propagande."
"Oh!" cried Monnet, "a society that you created."
"Have you never heard of children who kill their own fathers?"
"But who attacked you?"
"Tétrell. You know he is the democrat who invented the luxurious party of sans-culottism; who has pistols from Versailles, pistols with fleur-de-lis on them, and horses fit for a prince to ride, and who is, I don't know why, the idol of the people of Strasbourg. Perhaps because he is gilded like a drum-major—he is tall enough for one! It seems to me that I have given enough pledges of good faith. But, no; the coat of a reporting commissioner cannot cover the frock of the Capuchin, or the cassock of the canon. He taunted me with this infamous stain of priesthood, which he says makes me constantly suspected by the true friends of liberty. Who has immolated more victims than I to the sainted cause of liberty? Haven't I cut off twenty-six heads in one month? Isn't that enough? How many do they want?"
"Calm yourself, Schneider, calm yourself!"
"It is enough to drive one crazy," continued Schneider, growing more and more excited, "between the Propagande, which is always saying, 'Not enough!' and Saint-Just, who says, 'Too much!' Yesterday I arrested six of these aristocrat dogs and four to-day. My Hussars of Death are constantly seen in the streets of Strasbourg and its environs; this very night I shall arrest an emigré, who has had the audacity to cross the Rhine in a contraband boat, and come to Plobsheim with his family, to conspire. That is at least a sure case. Ah! I understand one thing now!" he cried, lifting his arm threateningly; "and that is, that events are stronger than wills, and that although there are men who, like the war-chariots of Holy Writ, crush multitudes as they pass, they themselves are pushed forward by the same irresistible power that tears volcanoes and hurls cataracts."
Then, after this flow of words, which did not lack a certain eloquence, he burst into a harsh laugh.
"Bah!" said he, "there is nothing before life, and nothing after life. It is a waking nightmare, that is all. Is it worth while worrying over it while it lasts, or regretting when it is lost? Faith, no; let us dine. Valeat res ludicra, isn't that so, Charles?"
And preceding his friends, he led the way into the dining-room, where a sumptuous repast awaited them.
"But," said Young, seating himself with the others at the table, "what is there in all that to make you get married within the week?"
"Ah! true, I forgot the best part of the story. When they called me the Monk of Cologne—where I never was a monk—and the canon of Augsburg—where I never was a cannon—they reproached me for my orgies and debaucheries! My orgies! Let me tell you what they were; for thirty-four years I drank nothing but water and ate nothing but carrots; it is no more than fair that I should eat white bread and meat now. My debaucheries! If they think I threw my frock to the devil to live like Saint Anthony, they are mistaken. Well, there is one way to end all that, and that is to marry. I shall be as faithful a husband and as good a father of a family as another, if citizen Saint-Just will give me time."
"Have you at least selected the fortunate lady who is to have the honor of sharing your couch?" asked Edelmann.
"Oh!" said Schneider, "so long as there is a woman, the devil himself can look out for her."
"To the health of Schneider's future wife!" cried Young; "and since he has left the devil to provide her, may he at least send one who is young, beautiful, and rich."
"Hurrah for Schneider's wife!" said Monnet sadly.
Just then the door of the dining-room opened, and the old cook appeared on the threshold.
"There is a citizeness here," she said, "who wishes to speak to Euloge Schneider on urgent business."
"Well," said Schneider, "I know nothing more urgent than my dinner. Tell her to return to-morrow."
The old woman disappeared, but returned almost immediately. "She says that to-morrow will be too late."
"Then why didn't she come sooner?"
"Because that was impossible," said a soft supplicating voice in the ante-chamber. "Let me see you, I beg, I implore you!"
Euloge, with a gesture of impatience, bade the old cook pull the door to and come close to him. But then, remembering the freshness and youthfulness of the voice, he said with the smile of a satyr: "Is she young?"
"Maybe eighteen," replied the old woman.
"Pretty?"
"With the devil's own beauty."
The three men began to laugh.
"You hear, Schneider, the devil's own beauty.
"Now," said Young, "we need only find out if she is rich, and there is your wife ready to hand. Open the door, old woman, and don't keep her waiting. You ought to know the pretty child if she comes from the devil."
"Why not from God?" asked Charles, in such a sweet voice that the three men started at it.
"Because our friend Schneider has quarrelled with God, and he stands very high with the devil. I don't know any other reason."
"And because," said Young, "it is only the devil who gives such prompt answers to prayers."
"Well," said Schneider, "let her come in."
The old woman opened the door at once, and on its threshold there appeared the elegant figure of a young girl dressed in a travelling costume, and wrapped in a black satin mantle lined with rose-colored taffeta. She took one step into the room, then stopped at sight of the candles and the four guests, who were gazing at her with an admiration to