Lord Tony’s Wife Baroness Orczy (story read aloud .TXT) 📖

ankle-deep in mud: the rest of the time the mud was baked into cakes and emitted clouds of sticky dust under the shuffling feet of the passersby. At night it was dimly lighted by one or two broken-down lanterns which were hung on transverse chains overhead from house to house. These lanterns only made a very small circle of light immediately below them: the rest of the street was left in darkness, save for the faint glimmer which filtrated through an occasional ill-fitting doorway or through the chinks of some insecurely fastened shutter.

The Carrefour de la Poissonnerie was practically deserted in the daytime; only a few children⁠—miserable little atoms of humanity showing their meagre, emaciated bodies through the scanty rags which failed to cover their nakedness⁠—played weird, mirthless games in the mud and filth of the street. But at night it became strangely peopled with vague and furtive forms that were wont to glide swiftly by, beneath the hanging lanterns, in order to lose themselves again in the welcome obscurity beyond: men and women⁠—ill-clothed and unshod, with hands buried in pockets or beneath scanty shawls⁠—their feet, ofttimes bare, making no sound as they went squishing through the mud. A perpetual silence used to reign in this kingdom of squalor and of darkness, where nighthawks alone fluttered their wings; only from time to time a joyless greeting of boon-companions, or the hoarse cough of some wretched consumptive would wake the dormant echoes that lingered in the gloom.

II

Martin-Roget knew his way about the murky street well enough. He went up to the house which lay a little back from the others. It appeared even more squalid than the rest, not a sound came from within⁠—hardly a light⁠—only a narrow glimmer found its way through the chink of a shutter on the floor above. To right and left of it the houses were tall, with walls that reeked of damp and of filth: from one of these⁠—the one on the left⁠—an iron sign dangled and creaked dismally as it swung in the wind. Just above the sign there was a window with partially closed shutters: through it came the sound of two husky voices raised in heated argument.

In the open space in front of Louise Adet’s house vague forms standing about or lounging against the walls of the neighbouring houses were vaguely discernible in the gloom. Martin-Roget and Chauvelin as they approached were challenged by a raucous voice which came to them out of the inky blackness around.

“Halt! who goes there?”

“Friends!” replied Martin-Roget promptly. “Is citizeness Adet within?”

“Yes! she is!” retorted the man bluntly; “excuse me, friend Adet⁠—I did not know you in this confounded darkness.”

“No harm done,” said Martin-Roget. “And it is I who am grateful to you all for your vigilance.”

“Oh!” said the other with a laugh, “there’s not much fear of your bird getting out of its cage. Have no fear, friend Adet! That Kernogan rabble is well looked after.”

The small group dispersed in the darkness and Martin-Roget rapped against the door of his sister’s house with his knuckles.

“That is the Rat Mort,” he said, indicating the building on his left with a nod of the head. “A very unpleasant neighbourhood for my sister, and she has oft complained of it⁠—but name of a dog! won’t it prove useful this night?”

Chauvelin had as usual followed his colleague in silence, but his keen eyes had not failed to note the presence of the village lads of whom Martin-Roget had spoken. There are no eyes so watchful as those of hate, nor is there aught so incorruptible. Every one of these men here had an old wrong to avenge, an old score to settle with those ci-devant Kernogans who had once been their masters and who were so completely in their power now. Louise Adet had gathered round her a far more efficient bodyguard than even the proconsul could hope to have.

A moment or two later the door was opened, softly and cautiously, and Martin-Roget asked: “Is that you, Louise?” for of a truth the darkness was almost deeper within than without, and he could not see who it was that was standing by the door.

“Yes! it is,” replied a weary and querulous voice. “Enter quickly. The wind is cruel, and I can’t keep myself warm. Who is with you, Pierre?”

“A friend,” said Martin-Roget drily. “We want to see the aristo.”

The woman without further comment closed the door behind the newcomers. The place now was as dark as pitch, but she seemed to know her way about like a cat, for her shuffling footsteps were heard moving about unerringly. A moment or two later she opened another door opposite the front entrance, revealing an inner room⁠—a sort of kitchen⁠—which was lighted by a small lamp.

“You can go straight up,” she called curtly to the two men.

The narrow, winding staircase was divided from this kitchen by a wooden partition. Martin-Roget, closely followed by Chauvelin, went up the stairs. On the top of these there was a tiny landing with a door on either side of it. Martin-Roget without any ceremony pushed open the door on his right with his foot.

A tallow candle fixed in a bottle and placed in the centre of a table in the middle of the room flickered in the draught as the door flew open. It was bare of everything save a table and a chair, and a bundle of straw in one corner. The tiny window at right angles to the door was innocent of glass, and the northwesterly wind came in an icy stream through the aperture. On the table, in addition to the candle, there was a broken pitcher half-filled with water, and a small chunk of brown bread blotched with stains of mould.

On the chair beside the table and immediately facing the door sat Yvonne Lady Dewhurst. On the wall above her head a hand unused to calligraphy had traced in clumsy characters the words: “Liberté! Fraternité! Egalité!” and