"Of course they were both ordered to be shot. I have given them all five minutes, but the time is up. Range them by the wall, men," he said, turning to the soldiers.
Cuthbert glanced for a moment and then turned away. The other women were mostly old, or at least middle-aged, and they stood scowling at the soldiers, and some of them pouring out the foulest imprecations upon them.
Minette stood in the centre of the line conspicuous by her red dress. One hand grasped that of Arnold, who was gazing upon her as if oblivious to all else. Her head was held erect and she looked at her executioners with an air of proud defiance.
Cuthbert hurried away, filled with an intense feeling of pity and regret. He heard Minette cry in a loud clear voice, "Vive la Commune!" Then there was a sharp volley and all was over, and a minute later the soldiers passed him on the way to join their comrades.
He stood for a time at the corner of the street irresolute. He had seen scores of dead in the streets. He had thought he could see nothing worse than he had witnessed, but he felt that he could not go back, as he had first thought of doing, to the scene of execution. Comrades had fallen by his side in the fight at Champigny, but he had not felt for them as for this comrade who lay behind him, or for the girl who, with her talents, might have had a bright future before her had she been thrown amid other surroundings. He wondered whether he could obtain their bodies for burial.
It did not seem to him possible. Vehicles could not be obtained at any price. The very request would seem suspicious, and suspicion at that hour was enough to condemn a man unheard. The difficulties in the way would be enormous. Indeed, it would matter nothing. Arnold and Minette. They had fallen together and would lie together in one of the great common graves in which the dead would be buried. It would be little short of a mockery to have the burial service read over her, and had Arnold been consulted he would have preferred to lie beside her to being laid in a grave apart.
So after a pause of five minutes Cuthbert moved away without venturing a single look back at the group huddled down by the wall, but walked away feeling crushed and overwhelmed by the untimely fate that had befallen two persons of whom he had seen so much during the past year, and feeling as feeble as he did when he first arose from his bed in the American ambulance.
Several times he had to pause and lean against the wall, andwhen he had passed the barricade at the Place de la Concorde, towards which he had almost instinctively made his way, he sat down on one of the deserted seats in the Champs Elysées, and burst into tears. It had hardly come upon him as a surprise, for he had felt that, conspicuous as he had made himself, the chances of Arnold making his escape were small indeed, especially as Minette would cling to the Commune until the very end. Still it never struck him as being possible that he himself might witness the end. He had thought that the same obscurity that hung over the fate of most of the other leaders of the Commune would envelop that of Arnold. He would have fallen, but how or when would never have been known. He would simply have disappeared. Rumor would have mentioned his name for a few days, the rumor that was already busy with the fate of other leaders of the insurrection, and he had never dreamt that it would be brought home to him in this fashion. After a time Cuthbert pulled himself together, waited until a fiacre came along for on this side of Paris things were gradually regaining their usual aspect and then drove back to Passy.
"What is the matter, Cuthbert?" Mary exclaimed as she caught sight of his face. "Are you ill? You look terribly pale and quite unlike yourself. What has happened?"
"I have had a shock, Mary," he said, with a faint attempt at a smile, "a very bad shock. Don't ask me about it just at present. Please get me some brandy. I have never fainted in my life, but I feel very near it just at present."
Mary hurried away to Madame Michaud, who now always discreetly withdrew as soon as Cuthbert was announced, and returned with some cognac, a tumbler, and water. She poured him out a glass that seemed to herself to be almost alarmingly strong, but he drank it at a draught.
"Don't be alarmed, Mary," he said, with a smile, at the consternation in her face. "You won't often see me do this, and I can assure you that spirit-drinking is not an habitual vice with me, but I really wanted it then. They are still fighting fiercely from Porte St. Martin down to the Place de la Bastille. I believe all resistance has been crushed out on the south side of the river, and in a couple of days the whole thing will be over."
"Fancy a week of fighting. It is awful to think of, Cuthbert. How many do you suppose will be killed altogether?"
"I have not the least idea, and I don't suppose it will ever be known; but if the resistance is as desperate for the next two days as it has been for the last three, I should say fully 20,000 will have fallen, besides those taken with arms in their hands, tried, and shot. I hear there are two general court-martials sitting permanently, and that seven or eight hundred prisoners are shot every day. Then there are some eighteen or twenty thousand at Versailles, but as these will not be tried until the fighting is over, and men's blood cooled down somewhat, no doubt much greater leniency will be shown."
"There is a terrible cloud of smoke over Paris, still."
"Yes, fresh fires are constantly breaking out. The Louvre is safe, and the firemen have checked the spread of the flames at the public buildings, but there are streets where every house is alight for a distance of a quarter of a mile; and yet, except at these spots, the damage is less than you would expect considering how fierce a battle has been raging. There are streets where scarce a bullet mark is to be seen on the walls or a broken pane of glass in a window, while at points where barricades have been defended, the scene of ruin is terrible."
Two days later a strange stillness succeeded the din and uproar that had for a week gone on without cessation night and day. Paris was conquered, the Commune was stamped out, its chiefs dead or fugitives, its rank and file slaughtered, or prisoners awaiting trial. France breathed again. It had been saved from a danger infinitely more terrible than a German occupation. In a short time the hotels were opened and visitors began to pour into Paris to gaze at the work of destruction wrought by the orgie of the Commune. One day Cuthbert, who was now installed in his own lodging, went up to Passy.
"I hear that the English Church is to be open to-morrow, Mary. I called on the clergyman to-day and told him that I should probably require his services next week."
"Cuthbert!" Mary exclaimed in surprise, "you cannot mean——" and a flush of color completed the sentence.
"Yes, that is just what I do mean, Mary. You have kept me waiting three years and I am not going to wait a day longer."
"I have given up much of my belief in women's rights, Cuthbert, but there are some I still maintain, and one of these is that a woman has a right to be consulted in a matter of this kind."
"Quite so, dear, and therefore I have left the matter open, and I will leave you to fix the day and you can choose any one you like from Monday to Saturday next week."
"But I must have time, Cuthbert," she said, desperately. "I have, of course, things to get."
"The things that you have will do perfectly well, my dear. Besides, many of the shops are open and you can get anything you want. As for a dress for the occasion, if you choose to fix Saturday you will have twelve days, which is twice as long as necessary. Putting aside my objection to waiting any longer I want to get away from here to some quiet place where we can forget the events of the past month, and get our nerves into working order again. If there is any reason that you can declare that you honestly believe to be true and valid of course I must give way, but if not let it be Saturday week. That is right. I see that you have nothing to urge," and a fortnight later they were settled in a châlet high up above the Lake of Lucerne.
René and Pierre acted as Cuthbert's witnesses at the marriage. Pierre had escaped before the fighting began. René had done service with the National Guard until the news came that the troops had entered Paris, then he had gone to M. Goudé's who had hidden him and seven or eight of the other students in an attic. When the troops approached, they had taken refuge on the roof and had remained there until the tide of battle had swept past, and they then descended, and arraying themselves in their painting blouses had taken up their work at the studio; and when, three days later, the general search for Communists began, they were found working so diligently that none suspected that they had ever fired a shot in the ranks of the Communists.
When the salon was opened, long after its usual time, Cuthbert's pictures were well hung and obtained an amount of praise that more than satisfied him, although his wife insisted that they were not half as warm as the pictures deserved. It was not until they had been for some time in Switzerland that Mary had learned the details of the deaths of Arnold and Minette Dampierre. That both were dead she knew, for when she mentioned their names for the first time after the close of the fighting, Cuthbert told her that he had learned that both were dead, and begged her to ask no question concerning them until he himself returned to the subject.
Mary wrote to her mother a day or two after she was married giving her the news. An answer was received from Scarborough expressing great satisfaction, and saying that it was probable that the family would settle where they were. Neither Cuthbert nor his wife liked the thought of returning to England, and for the next five years remained abroad. After spending a few months at Dresden, Munich, Rome, and Florence, they settled at Venice. Cuthbert continued to work hard, and each year two or three of his pictures hung on the walls of the Academy and attracted much attention, and were sold at excellent prices. All his earnings in this way and the entire income of Fairclose were put aside to pay off the mortgage, and when, at the end of the five years, Cuthbert, his wife, and two children returned to Fairclose, the greater portion of the mortgage had been paid off, and three years later it was entirely wiped out.
Although very warmly received by the county, Cuthbert retained his preference for London, and during the winter six months always moved up to a house in the artists' quarter at St. John's Wood. Although he no longer painted as if compelled to do so for a living, he worked regularly and steadily while in town, and being able to take his time in carrying out his conceptions, his pictures increased in value and he took a place in the front rank of artists, and some fifteen years after the siege of Paris was elected Academician. Before this he had sold Fairclose and built himself a house in Holland Park, where he was able to indulge his love for art to the fullest extent.
Of his wife's family he saw but little. Mary's sisters both married before he and his wife returned from abroad. Mary went down occasionally to Scarborough, and stayed with her father and mother, but Mr. Brander steadily refused all invitations to visit them in London, and until his death, fifteen years later, never left Scarborough, where he became a very popular man, although no persuasions could induce him to take a part in any of its institutions or public affairs.
Cuthbert has often declared that the most fortunate event in his life was that he was a besieged resident in Paris through its two sieges. As for Mary she has been heard to declare that she has no patience, whatever, with the persons who frequent platforms and talk about women's rights.
Not far from the spot in la Chaise where the pits in which countless numbers of Communists were buried are situated, stands a small marble cross, on whose pedestal are inscribed the words:—"To the memory of Arnold Dampierre and his wife, Minette, whose bodies rest near this place."
"The finish of the story is as artistic as is that of 'Vanity Fair.'"—N. Y. Journal.
"Ouida in her old age has written her best book."—Evening Sun.
"It is the strongest she has written with the possible exception of 'Under Two Flags.'"—N. Y. Press.
"Ouida beats them all; her latest story is more wicked than those of the modern sensationalist, and better told."—Chicago Journal.
"In some respects the ablest of all her books."—N. Y. Herald.
"There is not a dull page in the novel."—Boston Gazette.
"Ouida's stories are never dull, and this one is quite as lively as any of the others."—Army and Navy Register.
"She has not lost any of her cynicism nor any of her skill to weave a seductive plot."—Boston Globe.
"There is a distinct moral purpose running all through the book, a purpose which it will be impossible for the most careless reader to overlook."—The Beacon, Boston.
"A clever story of English high life as it is represented to-day."—The Bookseller.
"A decided story-interest and some clever character drawing."—The Outlook.
"Katherine Massarene is drawn with a skill that makes her one of the best female characters that 'Ouida' has given us."—Public Opinion.
"Will be read with interest."—Chicago Record.
"One of those typical American novels in conception and development."—Boston Courier.
"Of interest from first to last."—Public Opinion.
"A good, strong, skillfully told American novel."—Chicago News.
"A story that will create a sensation."—Boston Globe.
"One of the most original, able and remarkable of recent novels."—Minneapolis Tribune.
"The book is thrilling and dramatic."—New Orleans Item.
"Will not lack for admirers."—Boston Times.
"Very attractive story."—Plain Dealer.
"One of the best Southern novels we have ever read."—Atlanta Star.
"Miss Braddon skilfully uses as a background the great plague and fire in London, which gives realism to her picture."—Rochester Herald.
"The characters are clearly drawn and strongly contrasted. The manners of the times, the intrigues of the court, the landmarks of London, are unerringly painted."Boston Times.
"The first attempt Miss M. E. Braddon has made in the line of the historical novel."—Literary World.
"She has chosen the period of the Restoration of Charles the Second for her romance, and has given us an excellent description of the state of society in London and at the Court during the reign of that dissolute monarch."—Home Queen.
"It is needless to say that the story is well told."—San Francisco Chronicle.
"One of the strongest and most enjoyable of her stories"—Philadelphia Inquirer.
"It abounds in mystifying plot, lovable characters, rapid and thrilling incident and delightful descriptions of English scenery."—Boston Globe.
"A tale worth reading."—San Francisco Call.
"Full of incident, chapter after chapter, brimming with vital meanings."—Boston Courier.
"Beautiful, innocent and brave was Angela, the heroine."—Philadelphia Bulletin.
"It is a Braddon story in the famous old Braddon vein."—St. Louis Mirror.
"This one reviewing the days of Cromwell and the Charles is no shallow piece of work."—Philadelphia American.
"Miss Braddon has caught the atmosphere cleverly and manufactured a stirring novel which bears evidence of careful thought and planning."—Chicago Record.
"The scene is laid in England in the early days of the Restoration. Charles II., Nell Gwynne, Pepys, and Milton are among the characters."—Buffalo Express.
"None of her books tells a more interesting story."—St. Louis Star.
The Internationalin a recent issue had this to say concerning this talented authoress: "'Ossip Schubin' is the pseudonym of Aloysia Kirschmer, an Austrian authoress of growing popularity. She was born in Prague, in June, 1854, and her early youth was spent on a country estate of her parents. Since her eighteenth year she has travelled extensively, spending her winters in some one of the large cities. Rome, Paris or Brussels, and her work shows the keen observation and cool judgment of a cosmopolitan writer. She is well liked in England." The story under consideration is infinitely sad, beautiful, exalting. At one moment you are rejoicing at the idyllic happiness of the lover, the bright promise of a glorious future. Then the scene changes, and your heart is bleeding with unutterable anguish at the mute grief that follows the irreparable loss of his love, which carries in its train lost ambition, talent, manhood. Just let us quote one passage: "There is a suffering so painful that no hand is tender enough to touch it, and so deep that no heart is brave enough to fathom it. Dumbly we sink the head, as before something sacred. Never could he reproach her lying there before him, clad in the blue dress, of which every fold, so dear to him, cried 'forgive!' Not to our desecrated love do I appeal, but to our sweet caressing friendship,—forgive the sister what the bride has done!' How could he reproach her, with her parting kiss still on his lips?"
"It is a side of the slavery question of which Northern people knew nothing."—John A. Cockerill, N. Y. Advertiser.
"Strong and picturesque sketches of camp and field in the days of the Civil War."—San Francisco Chronicle.
"The book is being dramatized by Mr. James A. Herne, the well-known actor, author and manager."—N. Y. Press.
"It tells a splendid story."—Journal, Columbus, O
"Will be sure to attract the attention it deserves."—Philadelphia Press.
"In its scope and power it is unrivalled among war stories."—Ideas, Boston, Mass.
"In many ways the most remarkable historical novel of the Civil War."—Home Journal, Boston, Mass.
"The interview with Lincoln is one of the finest bits of dialogue in a modern book."—Chicago Herald.
"Will probably be the most popular and saleable novel since Robert Elsmere."—Republican.
"One of the most instructive and fascinating writers of our time."—Courier-Journal, Louisville.
"Is calculated to command as wide attention as Judge Tourgée's 'Fool's Errand.'"—N. Y. Evening Telegram.
"Has enriched American literature."—Item, Philadelphia.
"Remarkably true to history."—Inter-Ocean, Chicago
"Entitled to a place with standard histories of the War."—Atlanta Journal.