The Long Night | Page 7

listened at his father's knee, were not to be
over-ridden by the shadow of an injustice, which in the end had not
fallen. When the young man went abroad next morning and viewed the
tall towers of St. Peter, of which his father had spoken--when, from
those walls which had defied through so many months the daily and
nightly threats of an ever-present enemy, he looked on the sites of
conflicts still famous and on farmsteads but half risen from their
ruins--when, above all, he remembered for what those walls stood, and
that here, on the borders of the blue lake, and within sight of the
glittering peaks which charmed his eyes--if in any one place in
Europe--the battle of knowledge and freedom had been fought, and the
rule of the monk and the Inquisitor cast down, his old enthusiasm
revived. He thirsted for fresh conflicts, for new occasions: and it is to
be feared dreamt more of the Sword than of the sacred Book, which he
had come to study, and which, in Geneva, went hand in hand with it.
In the fervour of such thoughts and in the multitude of new interests
which opened before him, he had well-nigh forgotten the Syndic's
tyranny before he had walked a mile: nor might he have given a second
thought to it but for the need which lay upon him of finding a new
lodging before night. In pursuit of this he presently took his way to the
Corraterie, a row of gabled houses, at the western end of the High
Town, built within the ramparts, and enjoying over them a view of the
open country, and the Jura. The houses ran for some distance parallel
with the rampart, then retired inwards, and again came down to it; in
this way enclosing a triangular open space or terrace. They formed of

themselves an inner line of defence, pierced at the point farthest from
the rampart by the Porte Tertasse: a gate it is true, which was often
open even at night, for the wall in front of the Corraterie, though low
on the town side, looked down from a great height on the ditch and the
low meadows that fringed the Rhone. Trees planted along the rampart
shaded the triangular space, and made it a favourite lounge from which
the inhabitants of that quarter of the town could view the mountains
and the sunset while tasting the freshness of the evening air.
A score of times had Claude Mercier listened to a description of this
row of lofty houses dominating the ramparts. Now he saw it, and,
charmed by the position and the aspect, he trembled lest he should fail
to secure a lodging in the house which had sheltered his father's youth.
Heedless of the suspicious glances shot at him by the watch at the Porte
Tertasse, he consulted the rough plan which his father had made for
him--consulted it rather to assure himself against error than because he
felt doubt. The precaution taken, he made for a house a little to the right
of the Tertasse gate as one looks to the country. He mounted by four
steep steps to the door and knocked on it.
It was opened so quickly as to disconcert him. A lanky youth about his
own age bounced out and confronted him. The lad wore a cap and
carried two or three books under his arm as if he had been starting forth
when the summons came. The two gazed at one another a moment:
then, "Does Madame Royaume live here?" Claude asked.
The other, who had light hair and light eyes, said curtly that she did.
"Do you know if she has a vacant room?" Mercier asked timidly.
"She will have one to-night!" the youth answered with temper in his
tone: and he dashed down the steps and went off along the street
without ceremony or explanation. Viewed from behind he had a thin
neck which agreed well with a small retreating chin.
The door remained open, and after hesitating a moment Claude tapped
once and again with his foot. Receiving no answer he ventured over the
threshold, and found himself in the living-room of the house. It was

cool, spacious and well-ordered. On the left of the entrance a wooden
settle flanked a wide fireplace, in front of which stood a small heavy
table. Another table a little bigger occupied the middle of the room; in
one corner the boarded-up stairs leading to the higher floors bulked
largely. Two or three dark prints--one a portrait of Calvin--with a
framed copy of the Geneva catechism, and a small shelf of books, took
something from the plainness and added something to the comfort of
the apartment, which boasted besides a couple of old oaken dressers,
highly