do you ask?”
“Because I have come here from Paris to arrest him.”
She bent her head thoughtfully and laid the tips of her fingers on the sculptured balustrade.
“To me,” she said, “there’s no such thing as a political crime.”
“It is not for a political crime that we want John Buckhurst,” I said, watching her. “It is for a civil outrage.”
Her face was like marble; her hands tightened on the fretted carving.
“What crime is he charged with?” she asked, without moving.
“He is charged with being a common thief,” I said.
Now there was color enough in her face, and to spare, for the blood-stained neck and cheek, and even the bare shoulder under the torn crape burned pink.
“It is brutal to make such a charge!” she said. “It is shameful! – ” her voice quivered. “It is not true! Monsieur, give me your word of honor that the government means what it says and nothing more!”
“Madame,” I said, “I give my word of honor that no political crime is charged against that man.”
“Will you pledge me your honor that if he answers satisfactorily to that false charge of theft, the government will let him go free?”
“I will take it upon myself to do so,” said I. “But what in Heaven’s name is this man to you, madame? He is a militant anarchist, whose creed is not yours, whose propaganda teaches merciless violence, whose programme is terror. He is well known in the faubourgs; Belleville is his, and in the Château Rouge he has pointed across the river to the rich quarters, calling it the promised land! Yet here, at La Trappe, where your creed is peace and non-resistance, he is welcomed and harbored, he is deferred to, he is made executive head of a free commune which he has turned into a despotism … for his own ends!”
She was gazing at me with dilated eyes, hands holding tight to the balustrade.
“Did you not know that?” I asked, astonished.
“No,” she said.
“You are not aware that John Buckhurst is the soul and centre of the Belleville Reds?”
“It is – it is false!” she stammered.
“No, madame, it is true. He wears a smug mask here; he has deceived you all.”
She stood there, breathing rapidly, her head high.
“John Buckhurst will answer for himself,” she said, steadily.
“When, madame?”
For answer she stepped across the hall and laid one hand against the blank stone wall. Then, reaching upward, she drew from between the ponderous blocks little strips of steel, colored like mortar, dropping them to the stone floor, where they rang out. When she had flung away the last one, she stepped back and set her frail shoulder to the wall; instantly a mass of stone swung silently on an unseen pivot, a yellow light streamed out, and there was a tiny chamber, illuminated by a lamp, and a man just rising from his chair.
IV
PRISONERS
Instantly I recognized in him the insolent priest who had confronted me on my way to La Trappe that morning. I knew him, although now he was wearing neither robe nor shovel-hat, nor those square shoes too large to buckle closely over his flat insteps.
And he knew me.
He appeared admirably cool and composed, glancing at the Countess for an instant with an interrogative expression; then he acknowledged my presence by bowing almost humorously.
“This is Monsieur Scarlett, of the Imperial Military Police,” said the Countess, in a clear voice, ending with that slightly rising inflection which demands an answer.
“Mr. Buckhurst,” I said, “I am an Inspector of Military Police, and I cannot begin to tell you what a pleasure this meeting is to me.”
“I have no doubt of that, monsieur,” said Buckhurst, in his smooth, almost caressing tones. “It, however, inconveniences me a great deal to cross the frontier to-day, even in your company, otherwise I should have surrendered with my confrères.”
“But there is no question of your crossing the frontier, Mr. Buckhurst,” I said.
His colorless eyes sought mine, then dropped. They were almost stone white in the lamp-light – white as his delicately chiselled face and hands.
“Are we not to be exiled?” he asked.
“You are not,” I said.
“Am I not under arrest?”
I stepped forward and placed him formally under arrest, touching him slightly on the shoulder. He did not move a muscle, yet, beneath the thin cloth of his coat I could divine a frame of iron.
“Your creed is one of non-resistance to violence,” I said – “is it not?”
“Yes,” he replied. I saw that gray ring around the pale pupil of his eyes contracting, little by little.
“You have not asked me why I arrest you,” I suggested, “and, monsieur, I must ask you to step back from that table – quick! – don’t move! – not one finger!”
For a second he looked into the barrel of my pistol with concentrated composure, then glanced at the table-drawer which he had jerked open. A revolver lay shining among the litter of glass tubes and papers in the drawer.
The Countess, too, saw the revolver and turned an astonished face to my prisoner.
“Who brought you here?” asked Buckhurst, quietly of me.
“I did,” said the Countess, her voice almost breaking. “Tell this man and his government that you are ready to face every charge against your honor! There is a dreadful mistake; they – they think you are – ”
“A thief,” I interposed, with a smile. “The government only asks you to prove that you are not.”
Slowly Buckhurst turned his eyes on the Countess; the faintest glimmer of white teeth showed for an instant between the gray lines that were his lips.
“So you brought this man here?” he said. “Oh, I am glad to know it.”
“Then you cannot be that same John Buckhurst who stands in the tribune of the Château Rouge and promises all Paris to his chosen people,” I remarked, smiling.
“No,” he said, slowly, “I cannot be that man, nor can I – ”
“Stop! Stand back from that table!” I cried.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, coolly.
“Madame,” said I, without taking my eyes from him, “in a community dedicated to peace, a revolver is an anachronism. So I think – if you move I will shoot you, Mr. Buckhurst! – so I think I had better take it, table-drawer and all – ”
“Stop!”
