House of the White Shadows — Book 4, Chapters 15-16

GAUTRAN AND THE ADVOCATE

"How long have I been asleep?"

muttered Gautran, shaking himself and rubbing his eyes.

"It seems but a minute."

The clock on the mantel struck the hour of two.

"I counted twelve when I was in the grounds; I have been here two hours.

You might have let me sleep longer.

It is the first I have enjoyed for weeks--a sleep without a dream.

As I used to sleep before----" He shuddered, and did not complete the sentence.

"Give me something to drink, master."

"You have been helping yourself to my wine," said the Advocate.

"You know everything, master.

Yes, it was wine I drank, as mild as milk.

It went down like water.

Good for gentlemen, perhaps, but not for us.

I must have something stronger."

He looked anxiously round the room, and sighed and smiled; no appalling vision greeted his sight.

"Ah," he said, "I am safe here.

Give me some brandy."

"You will have none, Gautran," said the Advocate sternly.

"Ah, master," implored Gautran, "think better of it, I must have brandy--I must!"

"Must!"

echoed the Advocate, with a frown.

"Yes, master, must; I shall not be able to talk else.

My throat is parched--you can hear for yourself that it is as dry as a raven's. I

must have drink, and it mustn't be milk-wine.

I am not quite a fool, master.

If that horrible shadow were never to appear to me again, I would show those who have been hard on me a trick or two that would astonish them.

If you've a spark of compassion in you, master, give a poor wretch a glass of brandy."

The Advocate considered a moment, and then unlocked a small cupboard, from which he took a bottle of brandy.

He filled a glass, and gave it to Gautran.

"Here's confusion to our enemies," said Gautran.

"Ah, this is fine!

I

have never tasted such before.

It puts life into a man."

"What makes you drink to _our_ enemies, Gautran?"

asked the Advocate.

"Why, master, are not my enemies yours, and yours mine?

We row in the same boat.

If they found us out, it would be as bad for you as it would be for me.

Worse, master, worse, for you have much to lose; I have nothing.

You see, master, I have been thinking over things since we met in the lane yonder."

"You are bold and impudent.

What if I were to summon my servants and have you marched off to gaol?"

"What would you accuse me of?

I have not stolen anything; you may search me if you like.

No, no, master, I will take nothing from you.

What you give I shall be grateful for; but rob you?

No--you are mistaken in me.

I owe you too much already.

I am bound to you for life."

"You do not seem afraid of the gaol, Gautran."

"Not when you threaten me with it, master, for you are jesting with me.

It is not worth your while; I am a poor creature to make sport of."

"Yet I am dangerously near handing you over to justice."

"For what, master, for what?

For coming into your room, and not finding you there, throwing myself in a corner like a dog?"

"It is sufficient--and you have stolen my wine.

These are crimes which the law is ready to punish, especially in men with evil reputations."

"You are right, I've no doubt; you know more about the law than I do.

I don't intend to dispute with you, master.

But when they got hold of me they would question me, and my tongue would be loosened against my will.

I say again, you are jesting with me.

How warm and comfortable it is in this grand room, and how miserable outside!

Ah, why wasn't I born rich?

It was a most unfortunate accident."

"Your tongue would be loosened against your will!

What could you say?"

"What everybody suspects, but could not prove, master, thanks to you.

They owe me a grudge in the prison yonder--lawyers and judges and gaolers--and nothing would please them better than to hear what I could tell them--that I killed the girl, and that you knew I killed her.

You don't look pleased, master.

You drove me to say it."

"You slanderous villain!"

"I don't mind what you call me, master.

I can bear anything from you.

I am your slave, and there is nothing you could set me to do that I am not ready to perform.

I mean it, master.

Try me--only try me!

Think of something fearful, something it would take a bold, desperate man to do, and see if I shrink from it.

The gaoler was right when he said I was a lucky dog to get such an Advocate as you to defend me.

You knew the truth--you knew I did the deed--you knew no one else could save me--and you wanted to show them how clever you were, and what a fool any lawyer was to think he could stand against you.

And you did it, master, you did it.

How mad they must be with you!

I wonder how much they would give to cry Quits!

And you've done even more than that, master.

The spirit which has been with me night and day, in prison and out of prison, lying by me in bed, standing by my side in the court--you saw it there, master--dogging me through the streets and lanes, hiding behind trees and gliding upon me when I thought I had escaped it--it is gone, master, it is gone!

It will not come where you are.

It is afraid of you.

I don't care whether it is a holy or an unholy power you possess, I am your slave, and you can do with me as you will.

But you must not send me to prison again--no, you must not do that!

Why, master, simple as I am, and ignorant of the law, I feel that you are joking with me, when you threaten to summon your servants to march me off to gaol for coming into your house.

I should say to them, 'You are a pack of fools.

Don't you see he is jesting with you?

Here have we been talking together for half an hour, and he has given me his best brandy as a mark of friendship.

There is the bottle--feel the rim of it, and you will find it wet.

Look at the glass, if you don't believe me.

Smell it--smell my breath.'

Why, then they would ask you again if you were in earnest, and you would have to send them away.

Master, I was never taught to read or write, and there is very little I know--but I know well that there is a time to do a thing and a time not to do it, and that unless a thing is done at the proper time, there is no use afterwards attempting it.

I will tell you something, though I dare say I might save myself the trouble, for you can read what is in me.

If Madeline, when she ran from me along the river's bank, had escaped me, it is likely she would be alive at this moment, for the fiend that spurred me on to kill her might never again have been so strong within me, might never again have had such power over me as he had that night.

But he was too strong for me, and that was the time to do the deed, and she had to die.

Do you think I don't pity her?

I do, when she is not tormenting me.

But when she follows me, as she has done to-night, when she stands looking at me with eyes in which there is fire, but no light, I feel that I could kill her over again if I dared, and if I could get a good grip of her.

Are all spirits silent?

Have they no voice to speak?

It is terrible, terrible!

I must buy masses for her soul, and then, perhaps, she will rest in peace.

Master, give me another glass of that rare brandy of yours.

Talking is dry work."

"You'll get no more till you leave me."

"I am to leave you, then?"

"When I have done with you--when our conversation is at an end."

"I must obey you, master.

You could crush me if you liked."

"I could kill you if I liked," said the Advocate, in a voice so cold and determined that Gautran shuddered.

"You could, master--I know it well enough.

Not with your hands; I am your match there.

Few men can equal me in strength.

But you would not trust to that; you are too wise.

You would scorch and wither me with a lightning touch.

I should be a fool to doubt it.

If you will not give me brandy, give me a biscuit or some bread and meat.

Since noon I have had nothing to eat but a few apples, to which I helped myself.

The gaolers robbed me of my dinner in the middle of the day, and put before me only a slice of dry bread.

I would cut off two of my fingers to be even with them."

In the cupboard which contained the brandy and other liquors was a silver basket containing biscuits, which the Advocate brought forward and placed before Gautran, who ate them greedily and filled his pockets with them.

During the silence the Advocate's mind was busy with Gautran's words.

Ignorant as the man was, and confessed himself to be, there was an undisputable logic in the position he assumed.

Shrink from it as he might, the Advocate could not avoid confessing that between this man, who was little better than an animal, and himself, who had risen so high above his fellows--that in these extremes of intellectual degradation and superiority--existed a strange and, in its suggestiveness, an awful, equality.

And what afforded him food for serious reflection, from an abstract point of view, was that, though they travelled upon roads so widely apart, they both arrived at the same goal.

This was proved by Gautran's reasoning upon the Advocate's threat to put him in prison for breaking into the House of White Shadows.

"Sound logic," thought the Advocate, "learnt in a school in which the common laws of nature are the teachers.

A

decided kinship exists between this murderer and myself.

Am I, then, as low as he, and do the best of us, in our pride of winning the crown, indulge in self-delusions at which a child might feel ashamed?

Or is it that, strive as he may, the most earnest man cannot lift himself above the grovelling motives which set in motion every action of a human life?"

"Now, master," said Gautran, having finished munching.

"Now, Gautran," said the Advocate, "why do you come to me?"

"I belong to you," replied Gautran.

"You gave me my life and my liberty.

You had some meaning in it.

I don't ask you what it is, for you will tell me only what you choose to tell me.

I am yours, master, body and soul."

"And soul?"

questioned the Advocate ironically.

"So long," said Gautran, crossing himself, "as you do not ask me to do anything to imperil my salvation."

"Is it not already imperilled?

Murderer!"

"I have done nothing that I cannot buy off with masses.

Ask the priests.

If I could not get money any other way, to save myself I would rob a church."

"Admirable!"

exclaimed the Advocate.

"You interest me, Gautran.

How did you obtain admission into the grounds?"

"Over the wall at the back.

It is a mercy I did not break my bones."

"And into this room--how did you enter?"

"Through the window."

"Knowing it was my room?"

"Yes, master."

"How did you gain that knowledge?"

"I was told--and told, as well, that you lived in this house."

"By whom were you told?"

"As I ran from Madeline--she has left me forever, I hope--I came upon a man who, for some purpose of his own, was lingering on a hill a little distance from here.

I sought company, and was glad of his.

I

made up my mind to pass my night near something human, and did not intend to leave him.

But when he said that yonder was the house in which the great Advocate lived, and when he pointed out your study window, I gave him the slip, knowing I could do better than remain with him.

That is the truth, master."

"Are you acquainted with this man?"

"No, I never saw him before; I saw but little of him as it was, the night was so dark; but I know voices when I hear them.

His voice was strange to me."

"How happened it, then, that you conversed about me?"

"I can't remember exactly how it came about.

He gave me some brandy out of a flask--not such liquor as yours, master, but I was thankful for it--and I asked him if he had ever been followed by the spirit of a dead woman.

He questioned me about this woman, asking if she was fair and beautiful, whether she had met her death in the Rhone, whether her name was Madeline.

Yes, he called her up before me and I was spellbound.

When I came to my proper senses he was talking to himself about a great Advocate in the house he was staring at, and I said there was only one great Advocate--you who set me free--and I asked him if you lived in the house.

He said yes, and that the lights I saw were the lights in your study windows.

Upon that I left him, suddenly and secretly, and made my way here."

"Was the man watching this house?"

"It had the look of it.

He is no friend of yours, that I can tell you.

When he spoke of you it was with the voice of a man who could make you wince if he pleased.

You have served him some trick, and he wants to be revenged, I suppose.

But you can take care of yourself, master."

"That will do.

Leave me and leave this house, and as you value your life, enter it no more."

"Then, you will see me elsewhere.

Where, master, and when?"

"I will see you in no place and at no time.

I understand the meaning of looks, Gautran, and there is a threat in your eyes.

Beware!

I have means to punish you.

You have escaped the penalty of your crime, but there is no safety for you here.

You do not wish to die; the guilt of blood is on your soul, and you are afraid of death.

Well may you be afraid of it.

Such terrors await you in the life beyond as you cannot dream of.

Live, then, and repent; or die, and be eternally lost!

Dare to intrude yourself upon me, and death will be your portion, and you will go straight to your punishment.

Here, and at this moment only, you have the choice of either fate.

Choose, and swiftly."

The cold, stern, impressive voice, the commanding figure, had their effect upon Gautran.

He shook with fear; he was thoroughly subdued.

"If I am not safe here, master, where shall I find safety?"

"In a distant part of the country where you are not known."

"How am I to get there?

I have no money."

"I will give you sufficient for flight and subsistence.

Here are five gold pieces.

Now, go, and let me never see your murderous face again."

"Master," said Gautran humbly, as he turned the money over in his hand and counted it.

"I must have more--not for myself, but to pay for masses for the repose of Madeline's soul.

Then I may hope for forgiveness--then she will leave me in peace!"

The Advocate emptied his purse into Gautran's open palm, saying, "Let no man see you.

Depart as secretly as you came."

But Gautran lingered still.

"You promised me some more brandy, master."

The Advocate filled the glass, and Gautran, with fierce eagerness, drank the brandy.

"You will not give me another glass, master?"

"No, murderer.

I have spoken my last word to you."

Gautran spoke no more, but with head sunk upon his breast, left the room and the house.

"A vulgar expedient," mused the Advocate, when he was alone, "but the only one likely to prove effective with such a monster.

It is perhaps best that it has happened.

This man watching upon the hill is none other than John Vanbrugh.

I had almost forgotten him.

He does not come in friendship.

Let him watch and wait.

I will not see him."

CHAPTER XVI PIERRE LAMONT SEEKS THE HOSPITALITY OF

THE HOUSE OF WHITE SHADOWS.

The following day Pierre Lamont did not leave his bed, and was visited in his room by the Advocate and Christian Almer.

To the Advocate he said: "I trust I shall not incommode you, for I am compelled to throw myself upon your hospitality."

"Get well, then," said the Advocate, "and enjoy it--which you cannot do, thus confined."

"I do not know--I do not know," said the old lawyer, gazing at the Advocate, and wondering how it was possible that this profound thinker and observer could be blind to the drama which was being acted at his very door, "one can still follow the world.

Have you read the papers this morning?"

"No--I have not troubled myself to look at them."

"Here is one that will interest you.

What is called the freedom of the press is growing into a scandal.

Editors and critics abuse their charter, and need some wholesome check.

But you are not likely to be moved by what they say."

He handed a newspaper to the Advocate, who walked to the window and read the editorial comments upon the trial and the part he had played in it.

"The trial of Gautran is over, and the monster whom all believe to be guilty of a foul murder is set free.

The victim, unavenged, is in her grave, and a heavy responsibility lies not only upon the city, but upon the nation.

Neither for good nor ill can the words we write affect the future of Gautran.

Released, by the law, he is universally condemned.

Justice is not satisfied.

In all Switzerland there is but one man who in his soul believes the degraded wretch to be innocent, and that this man should be right and all others wrong we refuse to believe.

Never in a cause so weighty have we felt it our duty to raise our voice against a verdict reluctantly wrung from the citizens whose lot it was to judge a human being accused--and we insist, righteously accused--of a horrible crime.

The verdict cannot be disturbed.

Gautran is free!

There is a frightful significance in these words--Gautran is free!

"Removed from the feverish excitement of the court in which the trial took place, the report of the proceedings reads more like a stage drama than an episode of real life.

All the elements which led to the shameful result are eminently dramatic, and were, without doubt, planned by the great Advocate who defended the accused with an eye to dramatic effect.

It would scarcely surprise us were the climax now reached to be followed by an anti-climax in which Gautran's champion of yesterday would become his accuser of to-day.

Our courts of justice are becoming accustomed to this kind of theatrical display.

Consider the profound sensation which would be produced by the great lawyer coming forward and saying, 'Yesterday, after a long and exciting struggle, I proved to you that Gautran was innocent, and by my efforts he was let loose upon society.

To-day I propose to prove to you that he is guilty, and I ask you to mete out to him his just punishment.'

A

dangerous temptation, indeed, to one who studies effect.

But there is a safeguard against such a course.

It would so blacken the fame of any man who adopted it, however high that man might stand in the estimation of his peers and the people, that he could never hope to rise from the depths of shame into which his own act had plunged him.

"Many persons who believe that way will doubtless argue that there is something providential in the history of this ruthless murder of an unfortunate innocent being.

She is slain.

Not a soul comes forward to claim kinship with her.

None the less is she a child of God.

Human reason leads to the arrest and imprisonment of Gautran.

Providence brings upon the scene a great lawyer, who, unsolicited, undertakes the defence of a monster, association with whom is defilement.

The wretch is set free, and Justice stands appalled at what has been done in the name of the law.

But this is not the end.

Providence may have something yet in store which will bring punishment to the guilty and unravel this tangled skein.

What, then, will the great Advocate have to say who deliberately and voluntarily brought about a miscarriage of justice so flagrant as to cause every honest heart to thrill with indignation?"

The Advocate did not read any further, but laid the paper aside and said: "Men who take part in public matters are open to attacks of this kind.

There is nothing to complain of."

"And yet," thought Pierre Lamont, when the Advocate left him, "there was in his face, as he read the article, an expression denoting that he was moved.

Well,--well--men are but human, even the greatest."

Later in the day he was visited by Christian Almer, to whom he repeated his apologies.

"I have one of my bad attacks on me.

They frequently last for days.

At such times it is dangerous for me to be moved about."

"Then do not be moved about," said Almer, with a smile.

But despite this smile.

Almer was inwardly disquieted.

He had not been aware on the previous night that Pierre Lamont occupied the next room to his.

After the departure of the Advocate, Adelaide had not been careful; her voice had been frequently raised, and Almer was anxious to ascertain whether it had reached the old lawyer's ears.

"You slept well, I hope," he said.

"Yes, until the early morning, a little after sunrise.

I am a very deep sleeper for four or five hours.

The moment I close my eyes sleep claims me, and holds me so securely that, were the house on fire, it would be difficult to arouse me.

But the moment the sunshine peeps into my room, my rest is at an end.

When I had the use of my limbs I was an early riser."

Almer's mind was relieved.

"Sleeping in a strange bed is often not conducive to repose."

"I have slept in so many strange beds."

And Pierre Lamont thought as he spoke: "But never in a stranger bed than this."