CHAPTER 7.VIII.
Le glaive est contre toi tourne de toutes parties.
La Harpe, "Jeanne de Naples," Act iv. sc. 4.
(The sword is raised against you on all sides.)
In the mean time Glyndon, after an audience of some length with
C--, in which the final preparations were arranged, sanguine of
safety, and foreseeing no obstacle to escape, bent his way back
to Fillide. Suddenly, in the midst of his cheerful thoughts, he
fancied he heard a voice too well and too terribly recognised,
hissing in his ear, "What! thou wouldst defy and escape me! thou
wouldst go back to virtue and content. It is in vain,--it is too
late. No, _I_ will not haunt thee; HUMAN footsteps, no less
inexorable, dog thee now. Me thou shalt not see again till in
the dungeon, at midnight, before thy doom! Behold--"
And Glyndon, mechanically turning his head, saw, close behind
him, the stealthy figure of a man whom he had observed before,
but with little heed, pass and repass him, as he quitted the
house of Citizen C--. Instantly and instinctively he knew that
he was watched,--that he was pursued. The street he was in was
obscure and deserted, for the day was oppressively sultry, and it
was the hour when few were abroad, either on business or
pleasure. Bold as he was, an icy chill shot through his heart,
he knew too well the tremendous system that then reigned in Paris
not to be aware of his danger. As the sight of the first plague-
boil to the victim of the pestilence, was the first sight of the
shadowy spy to that of the Revolution: the watch, the arrest,
the trial, the guillotine,--these made the regular and rapid
steps of the monster that the anarchists called Law! He breathed
hard, he heard distinctly the loud beating of his heart. And so
he paused, still and motionless, gazing upon the shadow that
halted also behind him.
Presently, the absence of all allies to the spy, the solitude of
the streets, reanimated his courage; he made a step towards his
pursuer, who retreated as he advanced. "Citizen, thou followest
me," he said. "Thy business?"
"Surely," answered the man, with a deprecating smile, "the
streets are broad enough for both? Thou art not so bad a
republican as to arrogate all Paris to thyself!"
"Go on first, then. I make way for thee."
The man bowed, doffed his hat politely, and passed forward. The
next moment Glyndon plunged into a winding lane, and fled fast
through a labyrinth of streets, passages, and alleys. By degrees
he composed himself, and, looking behind, imagined that he had
baffled the pursuer; he then, by a circuitous route, bent his way
once more to his home. As he emerged into one of the broader
streets, a passenger, wrapped in a mantle, brushing so quickly by
him that he did not observe his countenance, whispered, "Clarence
Glyndon, you are dogged,--follow me!" and the stranger walked
quickly before him. Clarence turned, and sickened once more to
see at his heels, with the same servile smile on his face, the
pursuer he fancied he had escaped. He forgot the injunction of
the stranger to follow him, and perceiving a crowd gathered close
at hand, round a caricature-shop, dived amidst them, and, gaining
another street, altered the direction he had before taken, and,
after a long and breathless course, gained without once more
seeing the spy, a distant quartier of the city.
Here, indeed, all seemed so serene and fair that his artist eye,
even in that imminent hour, rested with pleasure on the scene.
It was a comparatively broad space, formed by one of the noble
quays. The Seine flowed majestically along, with boats and craft
resting on its surface. The sun gilt a thousand spires and
domes, and gleamed on the white palaces of a fallen chivalry.
Here fatigued and panting, he paused an instant, and a cooler air
from the river fanned his brow. "Awhile, at least, I am safe
here," he murmured; and as he spoke, some thirty paces behind
him, he beheld the spy. He stood rooted to the spot; wearied
and spent as he was, escape seemed no longer possible,--the river
on one side (no bridge at hand), and the long row of mansions
closing up the other. As he halted, he heard laughter and
obscene songs from a house a little in his rear, between himself
and the spy. It was a cafe fearfully known in that quarter.
Hither often resorted the black troop of Henriot,--the minions
and huissiers of Robespierre. The spy, then, had hunted the
victim within the jaws of the hounds. The man slowly advanced,
and, pausing before the open window of the cafe, put his head
through the aperture, as to address and summon forth its armed
inmates.
At that very instant, and while the spy's head was thus turned
from him, standing in the half-open gateway of the house
immediately before him, he perceived the stranger who had warned;
the figure, scarcely distinguishable through the mantle that
wrapped it, motioned to him to enter. He sprang noiselessly
through the friendly opening: the door closed; breathlessly he
followed the stranger up a flight of broad stairs and through a
suite of empty rooms, until, having gained a small cabinet, his
conductor doffed the large hat and the long mantle that had
hitherto concealed his shape and features, and Glyndon beheld
Zanoni!
