Roads of Destiny | Page 7

the
mystery of her cloak, the postilion bearing the weapons--all moved out
to the waiting carriage. The sound of its ponderous wheels rolling away
echoed through the slumbering village. In the hall of the Silver Flagon
the distracted landlord wrung his hands above the slain poet's body,
while the flames of the four and twenty candles danced and flickered
on the table.

THE RIGHT BRANCH
/Three leagues, then, the road ran, and turned into a puzzle. It joined
with another and a larger road at right angles. David stood, uncertain,
for a while, and then took the road to the right./
Whither it led he knew not, but he was resolved to leave Vernoy far
behind that night. He travelled a league and then passed a large
/chateau/ which showed testimony of recent entertainment. Lights
shone from every window; from the great stone gateway ran a tracery
of wheel tracks drawn in the dust by the vehicles of the guests.
Three leagues farther and David was weary. He rested and slept for a
while on a bed of pine boughs at the roadside. Then up and on again
along the unknown way.
Thus for five days he travelled the great road, sleeping upon Nature's
balsamic beds or in peasants' ricks, eating of their black, hospitable
bread, drinking from streams or the willing cup of the goatherd.
At length he crossed a great bridge and set his foot within the smiling

city that has crushed or crowned more poets than all the rest of the
world. His breath came quickly as Paris sang to him in a little
undertone her vital chant of greeting--the hum of voice and foot and
wheel.
High up under the eaves of an old house in the Rue Conti, David paid
for lodging, and set himself, in a wooden chair, to his poems. The street,
once sheltering citizens of import and consequence, was now given
over to those who ever follow in the wake of decline.
The houses were tall and still possessed of a ruined dignity, but many
of them were empty save for dust and the spider. By night there was the
clash of steel and the cries of brawlers straying restlessly from inn to
inn. Where once gentility abode was now but a rancid and rude
incontinence. But here David found housing commensurate to his scant
purse. Daylight and candlelight found him at pen and paper.
One afternoon he was returning from a foraging trip to the lower world,
with bread and curds and a bottle of thin wine. Halfway up his dark
stairway he met--or rather came upon, for she rested on the stair --a
young woman of a beauty that should balk even the justice of a poet's
imagination. A loose, dark cloak, flung open, showed a rich gown
beneath. Her eyes changed swiftly with every little shade of thought.
Within one moment they would be round and artless like a child's, and
long and cozening like a gypsy's. One hand raised her gown, undraping
a little shoe, high-heeled, with its ribbons dangling, untied. So heavenly
she was, so unfitted to stoop, so qualified to charm and command!
Perhaps she had seen David coming, and had waited for his help there.
Ah, would monsieur pardon that she occupied the stairway, but the
shoe!--the naughty shoe! Alas! it would not remain tied. Ah! if
monsieur /would/ be so gracious!
The poet's fingers trembled as he tied the contrary ribbons. Then he
would have fled from the danger of her presence, but the eyes grew
long and cozening, like a gypsy's, and held him. He leaned against the
balustrade, clutching his bottle of sour wine.

"You have been so good," she said, smiling. "Does monsieur, perhaps,
live in the house?"
"Yes, madame. I--I think so, madame."
"Perhaps in the third story, then?"
"No, madame; higher up."
The lady fluttered her fingers with the least possible gesture of
impatience.
"Pardon. Certainly I am not discreet in asking. Monsieur will forgive
me? It is surely not becoming that I should inquire where he lodges."
"Madame, do not say so. I live in the--"
"No, no, no; do not tell me. Now I see that I erred. But I cannot lose the
interest I feel in this house and all that is in it. Once it was my home.
Often I come here but to dream of those happy days again. Will you let
that be my excuse?"
"Let me tell you, then, for you need no excuse," stammered the poet. "I
live in the top floor--the small room where the stairs turn."
"In the front room?" asked the lady, turning her head sidewise.
"The rear, madame."
The lady sighed, as if with relief.
"I will detain you no longer then, monsieur," she said, employing the
round