The Greatest Works of Emma Orczy. Emma Orczy
follow his usual avocation. What he wanted above all, however, was to be alone, and then to wander into the town in search of news. And he knew that he would have to break that news to his wife. If he didn't tell her, she would guess, and when she knew she would surely die.
And so the old man — really old now though he was no more than fifty — wandered out into the streets of Choisy alone, communing with himself, trying all in vain to steel himself against the awful blow that was sure to fall. All the morning he wandered aimlessly. But at ten o'clock he came to a halt. There was something in the air that told him that the awesome deed was accomplished: it was a distant rumbling that sounded like the roll of thunder; but Levet knew in his heart that it was the roll of drums, announcing to the world that the head of a King of France had fallen under the guillotine. And in his heart he felt acute physical pain, and a sudden intense hatred for the people all around him. Old Levet fled down the street. It led to the river and the bridge. At the bridge-head he stopped. There was a cornerstone there he sat down on it; and waited. He had risen very early in the morning, and when he opened the front door of his house, he saw a note weighted down with a stone lying on the doorstep. He stooped and picked it up and read it, well knowing where the note came from. He had had several like it before, usually giving him instructions how to help in a deed of mercy. He had always been ready to help and to obey those instructions for they came from a man whom he only knew vaguely as a professor at some university, but whom he respected above all men he had ever come across. Charles Levet had always given what help he could, often at considerable risk to himself.
The note to-day also gave him instructions, very simple ones this time. All it said was: "Wait at the bridge-head from noon till dusk." It was only ten o'clock as yet, but old Levet didn't care. What were hours to him, now that such an awful calamity had sullied the fair name of France for ever? He was numb with cold and fatigue, but he didn't care. He just sat there, waiting and watching, with lacklustre eyes, the stream of traffic go by over the bridge.
A distant church clock had struck four when out of the crowd of passers-by two figures detached themselves and made straight for the corner-stone where old Levet was sitting, waiting patiently. A tall figure and a short one: two men, both dressed in black and wrapped in heavy capes against the cold. Levet shook himself out of his torpor. The taller of the two men helped him to struggle to his feet, and then said:
"This is the Abbé Edgeworth, Charles. He was with His Majesty until the last."
"We'll go straight home," Levet responded simply. "It is cold here, and Monsieur l'Abbé is welcome."
Without another word the three men started to walk back through the town. It was characteristic of Levet that he made no further comment, nor did he ask a question. He walked briskly, ahead of the other two, looking neither to right nor left. The priest appeared to be in a state of exhaustion; his tall friend held him tightly by the arm, to enable him to walk at all. At a distance of some hundred metres or so from his house old Levet came to a halt. He waited till the other two came close to him, then he said simply:
"My wife is very ill. She knows nothing yet. Perhaps she guesses. But I must prepare her. Will you wait here?"
It was quite dark now, and the fog very dense. Levet's shrunken figure was quickly lost to view.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Monsieur le Professeur
The Levet's house stood about four metres back from the road, behind a low wall which was surmounted by an iron railing. An iron grille gave access to a tiny front garden, intersected by a narrow brick path which led to the front door. Charles Levet went into the house, closing the door noiselessly. He took off his cloak, and went straight into the sitting-room. It adjoined his wife's bedroom. The double communicating doors were wide open, and he could see the invalid stretched out on her bed, with her thin arms spread outside the coverlet. Her great dark eyes looked agonisingly expectant. Her son Augustin was on his knees beside the bed, murmuring half-audible prayers. As soon as she caught sight of her husband, she guessed that all was over, and that the unforgivable crime had been committed. Old Levet knew that she guessed. He came quickly to the bedside. An ashen-grey hue spread over the dying woman's face and a film gathered over her eyes.
"The doctor," old Levet commanded, speaking to his son.
"Too late," Augustin responded without rising from his knees: "her soul has fled to God!" He turned over a page in his book of devotion and began reciting the Prayers for the Dead.
Levet stooped and kissed his dead wife's forehead. Then he reverently closed her eyes. The shock, even though she had expected it, had killed her. The death of her eldest son had stretched her on a bed of sickness, the death of her King had brought about the end. The horror of the deed the knowledge of the appalling sacrilege had snapped the attenuated thread that held her to life.
Levet broke in, with some impatience, on his son's orisons:
"Where is your sister?" he asked.
"She went out a few moments ago to fetch Pradel. I could see that my mother was passing away, so I sent her."
"She shouldn't have gone out alone at night, in this fog, too...."
"She wasn't alone," the young priest rejoined, "Louis Maurin was with her."
At the mention of the name the old man flared up: "You don't mean to tell me that to-day of all days, that renegade was in my house?"
Augustin gave an indifferent shrug. His father went on with unabated vehemence: "With your mother lying on the point of death, Augustin, you should not have allowed this outrage."
"Communion with the dying," the priest retorted, "was of greater import than political quarrels. Maurin didn't stay long," he went on; "I had to send for Pradel, I wanted him to go. But Blanche insisted on going herself. But what does it all matter, father? In face of what happened to-day what does anything matter in this sinful world?"
Charles Levet remained standing, silent and almost motionless by the bedside of his dead wife. Then he turned abruptly and went through the sitting-room out into the street. Some two hundred metres up the road he came on Blakeney and the priest who were waiting for him. The latter by now was scarcely able to stand; he was leaning heavily against the Englishman's shoulder.
Levet said simply: "My wife is dead," and then added: "Come, Monsieur l'Abbé, you are welcome! And you too, Monsieur le Professeur."
Between them the two men supported the tottering footsteps of the abbé, almost carried him, in fact, as far as the grille. Here the three men came to a halt, and Blakeney said:
"I think Monsieur l'Abbé will be all right now. When he has had some food and a short rest, he will be able to come with me as far as the château. Monsieur le Marquis will look after him the rest of the night and," he added speaking to the priest, "we hope within the next twenty-four hours, Monsieur l'Abbé, to have you well on the way to permanent safety."
"I don't know," the abbé murmured feebly, "how to show my gratitude to you, sir. You and your friends were heroic in dragging me away from that cruel mob. I don't even know who you are — yet you saved my life at risk of your own — why you did it I cannot guess —— "
"Don't try, Monsieur l'Abbé," Blakeney broke in quietly, "and reserve your gratitude for my friend Charles Levet, without whose loyalty my friends and I would have been helpless."
He gave Levet's hand a friendly squeeze and opened the grille for the two men to pass through. He waited a moment or two till they reached the front door, and was on the point of turning to go when he was confronted by two figures which had just emerged out of the fog. One of them was Blanche Levet. Blakeney raised his hat and she exclaimed:
"If it isn't Monsieur le Professor? Why! what are you doing in Choisy, monsieur, at this time of night?"
She turned to her companion and went on still lightly and inconsequently:
"Louis, don't