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    Chapter 11

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    Chapter 12
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    CHAPTER 11

    Let Loose

    A late, dull autumn night was closing in upon the river Saone. The
    stream, like a sullied looking-glass in a gloomy place, reflected
    the clouds heavily; and the low banks leaned over here and there,
    as if they were half curious, and half afraid, to see their
    darkening pictures in the water. The flat expanse of country about
    Chalons lay a long heavy streak, occasionally made a little ragged
    by a row of poplar trees against the wrathful sunset. On the banks
    of the river Saone it was wet, depressing, solitary; and the night
    deepened fast.

    One man slowly moving on towards Chalons was the only visible
    figure in the landscape. Cain might have looked as lonely and
    avoided. With an old sheepskin knapsack at his back, and a rough,
    unbarked stick cut out of some wood in his hand; miry, footsore,
    his shoes and gaiters trodden out, his hair and beard untrimmed;
    the cloak he carried over his shoulder, and the clothes he wore,
    sodden with wet; limping along in pain and difficulty; he looked as
    if the clouds were hurrying from him, as if the wail of the wind
    and the shuddering of the grass were directed against him, as if
    the low mysterious plashing of the water murmured at him, as if the
    fitful autumn night were disturbed by him.

    He glanced here, and he glanced there, sullenly but shrinkingly;
    and sometimes stopped and turned about, and looked all round him.
    Then he limped on again, toiling and muttering.

    'To the devil with this plain that has no end! To the devil with
    these stones that cut like knives! To the devil with this dismal
    darkness, wrapping itself about one with a chill! I hate you!'

    And he would have visited his hatred upon it all with the scowl he
    threw about him, if he could. He trudged a little further; and
    looking into the distance before him, stopped again.
    'I, hungry, thirsty, weary. You, imbeciles, where the lights are
    yonder, eating and drinking, and warming yourselves at fires! I
    wish I had the sacking of your town; I would repay you, my
    children!'

    But the teeth he set at the town, and the hand he shook at the
    town, brought the town no nearer; and the man was yet hungrier, and
    thirstier, and wearier, when his feet were on its jagged pavement,
    and he stood looking about him.

    There was the hotel with its gateway, and its savoury smell of
    cooking; there was the cafe with its bright windows, and its
    rattling of dominoes; there was the dyer's with its strips of red
    cloth on the doorposts; there was the silversmith's with its
    earrings, and its offerings for altars; there was the tobacco
    dealer's with its lively group of soldier customers coming out pipe
    in mouth; there were the bad odours of the town, and the rain and
    the refuse in the kennels, and the faint lamps slung across the
    road, and the huge Diligence, and its mountain of luggage, and its
    six grey horses with their tails tied up, getting under weigh at
    the coach office. But no small cabaret for a straitened traveller
    being within sight, he had to seek one round the dark corner, where
    the cabbage leaves lay thickest, trodden about the public cistern
    at which women had not yet left off drawing water. There, in the
    back street he found one, the Break of Day. The curtained windows
    clouded the Break of Day, but it seemed light and warm, and it
    announced in legible inscriptions with appropriate pictorial
    embellishment of billiard cue and ball, that at the Break of Day
    one could play billiards; that there one could find meat, drink,
    and lodgings, whether one came on horseback, or came on foot; and
    that it kept good wines, liqueurs, and brandy. The man turned the
    handle of the Break of Day door, and limped in.

    He touched his discoloured slouched hat, as he came in at the door,
    to a few men who occupied the room. Two were playing dominoes at
    one of the little tables; three or four were seated round the
    stove, conversing as they smoked; the billiard-table in the centre
    was left alone for the time; the landlady of the Daybreak sat
    behind her little counter among her cloudy bottles of syrups,
    baskets of cakes, and leaden drainage for glasses, working at her
    needle.

    Making his way to an empty little table in a corner of the room
    behind the stove, he put down his knapsack and his cloak upon the
    ground. As he raised his head from stooping to do so, he found the
    landlady beside him.

    'One can lodge here to-night, madame?'

    'Perfectly!' said the landlady in a high, sing-song, cheery voice.

    'Good. One can dine--sup--what you please to call it?'

    'Ah, perfectly!' cried the landlady as before.
    'Dispatch then, madame, if you please. Something to eat, as
    quickly as you can; and some wine at once. I am exhausted.'

    'It is very bad weather, monsieur,' said the landlady.

    'Cursed weather.'

    'And a very long road.'

    'A cursed road.'

    His hoarse voice failed him, and he rested his head upon his hands
    until a bottle of wine was brought from the counter. Having filled
    and emptied his little tumbler twice, and having broken off an end
    from the great loaf that was set before him with his cloth and
    napkin, soup-plate, salt, pepper, and oil, he rested his back
    against the corner of the wall, made a couch of the bench on which
    he sat, and began to chew crust, until such time as his repast
    should be ready.
    There had been that momentary interruption of the talk about the
    stove, and that temporary inattention to and distraction from one
    another, which is usually inseparable in such a company from the
    arrival of a stranger. It had passed over by this time; and the
    men had done glancing at him, and were talking again.

    'That's the true reason,' said one of them, bringing a story he had
    been telling, to a close, 'that's the true reason why they said
    that the devil was let loose.' The speaker was the tall Swiss
    belonging to the church, and he brought something of the authority
    of the church into the discussion--especially as the devil was in
    question.

    The landlady having given her directions for the new guest's
    entertainment to her husband, who acted as cook to the Break of
    Day, had resumed her needlework behind her counter. She was a
    smart, neat, bright little woman, with a good deal of cap and a
    good deal of stocking, and she struck into the conversation with
    several laughing nods of her head, but without looking up from her
    work.

    'Ah Heaven, then,' said she. 'When the boat came up from Lyons,
    and brought the news that the devil was actually let loose at
    Marseilles, some fly-catchers swallowed it. But I? No, not I.'

    'Madame, you are always right,' returned the tall Swiss.
    'Doubtless you were enraged against that man, madame?'

    'Ay, yes, then!' cried the landlady, raising her eyes from her
    work, opening them very wide, and tossing her head on one side.
    'Naturally, yes.'

    'He was a bad subject.'

    'He was a wicked wretch,' said the landlady, 'and well merited what
    he had the good fortune to escape. So much the worse.'

    'Stay, madame! Let us see,' returned the Swiss, argumentatively
    turning his cigar between his lips. 'It may have been his
    unfortunate destiny. He may have been the child of circumstances.
    It is always possible that he had, and has, good in him if one did
    but know how to find it out. Philosophical philanthropy teaches--'

    The rest of the little knot about the stove murmured an objection
    to the introduction of that threatening expression. Even the two
    players at dominoes glanced up from their game, as if to protest
    against philosophical philanthropy being brought by name into the
    Break of Day.

    'Hold there, you and your philanthropy,' cried the smiling
    landlady, nodding her head more than ever. 'Listen then. I am a
    woman, I. I know nothing of philosophical philanthropy. But I
    know what I have seen, and what I have looked in the face in this
    world here, where I find myself. And I tell you this, my friend,
    that there are people (men and women both, unfortunately) who have
    no good in them--none. That there are people whom it is necessary
    to detest without compromise. That there are people who must be
    dealt with as enemies of the human race. That there are people who
    have no human heart, and who must be crushed like savage beasts and
    cleared out of the way. They are but few, I hope; but I have seen
    (in this world here where I find myself, and even at the little
    Break of Day) that there are such people. And I do not doubt that
    this man--whatever they call him, I forget his name--is one of
    them.'

    The landlady's lively speech was received with greater favour at
    the Break of Day, than it would have elicited from certain amiable
    whitewashers of the class she so unreasonably objected to, nearer
    Great Britain.

    'My faith! If your philosophical philanthropy,' said the landlady,
    putting down her work, and rising to take the stranger's soup from
    her husband, who appeared with it at a side door, 'puts anybody at
    the mercy of such people by holding terms with them at all, in
    words or deeds, or both, take it away from the Break of Day, for it
    isn't worth a sou.'

    As she placed the soup before the guest, who changed his attitude
    to a sitting one, he looked her full in the face, and his moustache
    went up under his nose, and his nose came down over his moustache.

    'Well!' said the previous speaker, 'let us come back to our
    subject. Leaving all that aside, gentlemen, it was because the man
    was acquitted on his trial that people said at Marseilles that the
    devil was let loose. That was how the phrase began to circulate,
    and what it meant; nothing more.'

    'How do they call him?' said the landlady. 'Biraud, is it not?'

    'Rigaud, madame,' returned the tall Swiss.

    'Rigaud! To be sure.'

    The traveller's soup was succeeded by a dish of meat, and that by
    a dish of vegetables. He ate all that was placed before him,
    emptied his bottle of wine, called for a glass of rum, and smoked
    his cigarette with his cup of coffee. As he became refreshed, he
    became overbearing; and patronised the company at the Daybreak in
    certain small talk at which he assisted, as if his condition were
    far above his appearance.

    The company might have had other engagements, or they might have
    felt their inferiority, but in any case they dispersed by degrees,
    and not being replaced by other company, left their new patron in
    possession of the Break of Day. The landlord was clinking about in
    his kitchen; the landlady was quiet at her work; and the refreshed
    traveller sat smoking by the stove, warming his ragged feet.

    'Pardon me, madame--that Biraud.'

    'Rigaud, monsieur.'

    'Rigaud. Pardon me again--has contracted your displeasure, how?'

    The landlady, who had been at one moment thinking within herself
    that this was a handsome man, at another moment that this was an
    ill-looking man, observed the nose coming down and the moustache
    going up, and strongly inclined to the latter decision. Rigaud was
    a criminal, she said, who had killed his wife.

    'Ay, ay? Death of my life, that's a criminal indeed. But how do
    you know it?'

    'All the world knows it.'

    'Hah! And yet he escaped justice?'

    'Monsieur, the law could not prove it against him to its
    satisfaction. So the law says. Nevertheless, all the world knows
    he did it. The people knew it so well, that they tried to tear him
    to pieces.'

    'Being all in perfect accord with their own wives?' said the guest.

    'Haha!'

    The landlady of the Break of Day looked at him again, and felt
    almost confirmed in her last decision. He had a fine hand, though,
    and he turned it with a great show. She began once more to think
    that he was not ill-looking after all.

    'Did you mention, madame--or was it mentioned among the gentlemen--
    what became of him?'
    The landlady shook her head; it being the first conversational
    stage at which her vivacious earnestness had ceased to nod it,
    keeping time to what she said. It had been mentioned at the
    Daybreak, she remarked, on the authority of the journals, that he
    had been kept in prison for his own safety. However that might be,
    he had escaped his deserts; so much the worse.

    The guest sat looking at her as he smoked out his final cigarette,
    and as she sat with her head bent over her work, with an expression
    that might have resolved her doubts, and brought her to a lasting
    conclusion on the subject of his good or bad looks if she had seen
    it. When she did look up, the expression was not there. The hand
    was smoothing his shaggy moustache.
    'May one ask to be shown to bed, madame?'

    Very willingly, monsieur. Hola, my husband! My husband would
    conduct him up-stairs. There was one traveller there, asleep, who
    had gone to bed very early indeed, being overpowered by fatigue;
    but it was a large chamber with two beds in it, and space enough
    for twenty. This the landlady of the Break of Day chirpingly
    explained, calling between whiles, 'Hola, my husband!' out at the
    side door.

    My husband answered at length, 'It is I, my wife!' and presenting
    himself in his cook's cap, lighted the traveller up a steep and
    narrow staircase; the traveller carrying his own cloak and
    knapsack, and bidding the landlady good night with a complimentary
    reference to the pleasure of seeing her again to-morrow. It was a
    large room, with a rough splintery floor, unplastered rafters
    overhead, and two bedsteads on opposite sides. Here 'my husband'
    put down the candle he carried, and with a sidelong look at his
    guest stooping over his knapsack, gruffly gave him the instruction,
    'The bed to the right!' and left him to his repose. The landlord,
    whether he was a good or a bad physiognomist, had fully made up his
    mind that the guest was an ill-looking fellow.

    The guest looked contemptuously at the clean coarse bedding
    prepared for him, and, sitting down on the rush chair at the
    bedside, drew his money out of his pocket, and told it over in his
    hand. 'One must eat,' he muttered to himself, 'but by Heaven I
    must eat at the cost of some other man to-morrow!'

    As he sat pondering, and mechanically weighing his money in his
    palm, the deep breathing of the traveller in the other bed fell so
    regularly upon his hearing that it attracted his eyes in that
    direction. The man was covered up warm, and had drawn the white
    curtain at his head, so that he could be only heard, not seen. But
    the deep regular breathing, still going on while the other was
    taking off his worn shoes and gaiters, and still continuing when he
    had laid aside his coat and cravat, became at length a strong
    provocative to curiosity, and incentive to get a glimpse of the
    sleeper's face.

    The waking traveller, therefore, stole a little nearer, and yet a
    little nearer, and a little nearer to the sleeping traveller's bed,
    until he stood close beside it. Even then he could not see his
    face, for he had drawn the sheet over it. The regular breathing
    still continuing, he put his smooth white hand (such a treacherous
    hand it looked, as it went creeping from him!) to the sheet, and
    gently lifted it away.

    'Death of my soul!' he whispered, falling back, 'here's
    Cavalletto!'

    The little Italian, previously influenced in his sleep, perhaps, by
    the stealthy presence at his bedside, stopped in his regular
    breathing, and with a long deep respiration opened his eyes. At
    first they were not awake, though open. He lay for some seconds
    looking placidly at his old prison companion, and then, all at
    once, with a cry of surprise and alarm, sprang out of bed.

    'Hush! What's the matter? Keep quiet! It's I. You know me?'
    cried the other, in a suppressed voice.

    But John Baptist, widely staring, muttering a number of invocations
    and ejaculations, tremblingly backing into a corner, slipping on
    his trousers, and tying his coat by the two sleeves round his neck,
    manifested an unmistakable desire to escape by the door rather than
    renew the acquaintance. Seeing this, his old prison comrade fell
    back upon the door, and set his shoulders against it.

    'Cavalletto! Wake, boy! Rub your eyes and look at me. Not the
    name you used to call me--don't use that--Lagnier, say Lagnier!'

    John Baptist, staring at him with eyes opened to their utmost
    width, made a number of those national, backhanded shakes of the
    right forefinger in the air, as if he were resolved on negativing
    beforehand everything that the other could possibly advance during
    the whole term of his life.

    'Cavalletto! Give me your hand. You know Lagnier, the gentleman.
    Touch the hand of a gentleman!'

    Submitting himself to the old tone of condescending authority, John
    Baptist, not at all steady on his legs as yet, advanced and put his
    hand in his patron's. Monsieur Lagnier laughed; and having given
    it a squeeze, tossed it up and let it go.

    'Then you were--' faltered John Baptist.

    'Not shaved? No. See here!' cried Lagnier, giving his head a
    twirl; 'as tight on as your own.'

    John Baptist, with a slight shiver, looked all round the room as if
    to recall where he was. His patron took that opportunity of
    turning the key in the door, and then sat down upon his bed.

    'Look!' he said, holding up his shoes and gaiters. 'That's a poor
    trim for a gentleman, you'll say. No matter, you shall see how
    Soon I'll mend it. Come and sit down. Take your old place!'

    John Baptist, looking anything but reassured, sat down on the floor
    at the bedside, keeping his eyes upon his patron all the time.

    'That's well!' cried Lagnier. 'Now we might be in the old infernal
    hole again, hey? How long have you been out?'

    'Two days after you, my master.'

    'How do you come here?'

    'I was cautioned not to stay there, and so I left the town at once,
    and since then I have changed about. I have been doing odds and
    ends at Avignon, at Pont Esprit, at Lyons; upon the Rhone, upon the
    Saone.' As he spoke, he rapidly mapped the places out with his
    sunburnt hand upon the floor.
    'And where are you going?'

    'Going, my master?'

    'Ay!'

    John Baptist seemed to desire to evade the question without knowing
    how. 'By Bacchus!' he said at last, as if he were forced to the
    admission, 'I have sometimes had a thought of going to Paris, and
    perhaps to England.'

    'Cavalletto. This is in confidence. I also am going to Paris and
    perhaps to England. We'll go together.'

    The little man nodded his head, and showed his teeth; and yet
    seemed not quite convinced that it was a surpassingly desirable
    arrangement.

    'We'll go together,' repeated Lagnier. 'You shall see how soon I
    will force myself to be recognised as a gentleman, and you shall
    profit by it. It is agreed? Are we one?'

    'Oh, surely, surely!' said the little man.

    'Then you shall hear before I sleep--and in six words, for I want
    sleep--how I appear before you, I, Lagnier. Remember that. Not
    the other.'

    'Altro, altro! Not Ri--' Before John Baptist could finish the
    name, his comrade had got his hand under his chin and fiercely shut
    up his mouth.

    'Death! what are you doing? Do you want me to be trampled upon
    and stoned? Do YOU want to be trampled upon and stoned? You would
    be. You don't imagine that they would set upon me, and let my
    prison chum go? Don't think it!'
    There was an expression in his face as he released his grip of his
    friend's jaw, from which his friend inferred that if the course of
    events really came to any stoning and trampling, Monsieur Lagnier
    would so distinguish him with his notice as to ensure his having
    his full share of it. He remembered what a cosmopolitan gentleman
    Monsieur Lagnier was, and how few weak distinctions he made.

    'I am a man,' said Monsieur Lagnier, 'whom society has deeply
    wronged since you last saw me. You know that I am sensitive and
    brave, and that it is my character to govern. How has society
    respected those qualities in me? I have been shrieked at through
    the streets. I have been guarded through the streets against men,
    and especially women, running at me armed with any weapons they
    could lay their hands on. I have lain in prison for security, with
    the place of my confinement kept a secret, lest I should be torn
    out of it and felled by a hundred blows. I have been carted out of
    Marseilles in the dead of night, and carried leagues away from it
    packed in straw. It has not been safe for me to go near my house;
    and, with a beggar's pittance in my pocket, I have walked through
    vile mud and weather ever since, until my feet are crippled--look
    at them! Such are the humiliations that society has inflicted upon
    me, possessing the qualities I have mentioned, and which you know
    me to possess. But society shall pay for it.'

    All this he said in his companion's ear, and with his hand before
    his lips.

    'Even here,' he went on in the same way, 'even in this mean
    drinking-shop, society pursues me. Madame defames me, and her
    guests defame me. I, too, a gentleman with manners and
    accomplishments to strike them dead! But the wrongs society has
    heaped upon me are treasured in this breast.'

    To all of which John Baptist, listening attentively to the
    suppressed hoarse voice, said from time to time, 'Surely, surely!'
    tossing his head and shutting his eyes, as if there were the
    clearest case against society that perfect candour could make out.

    'Put my shoes there,' continued Lagnier. 'Hang my cloak to dry
    there by the door. Take my hat.' He obeyed each instruction, as
    it was given. 'And this is the bed to which society consigns me,
    is it? Hah. Very well!'

    As he stretched out his length upon it, with a ragged handkerchief
    bound round his wicked head, and only his wicked head showing above
    the bedclothes, John Baptist was rather strongly reminded of what
    had so very nearly happened to prevent the moustache from any more
    going up as it did, and the nose from any more coming down as it
    did.

    'Shaken out of destiny's dice-box again into your company, eh? By
    Heaven! So much the better for you. You'll profit by it. I shall
    need a long rest. Let me sleep in the morning.'

    John Baptist replied that he should sleep as long as he would, and
    wishing him a happy night, put out the candle. One might have
    Supposed that the next proceeding of the Italian would have been to
    undress; but he did exactly the reverse, and dressed himself from
    head to foot, saving his shoes. When he had so done, he lay down
    upon his bed with some of its coverings over him, and his coat
    still tied round his neck, to get through the night.

    When he started up, the Godfather Break of Day was peeping at its
    namesake. He rose, took his shoes in his hand, turned the key in
    the door with great caution, and crept downstairs. Nothing was
    astir there but the smell of coffee, wine, tobacco, and syrups; and
    madame's little counter looked ghastly enough. But he had paid
    madame his little note at it over night, and wanted to see nobody--
    wanted nothing but to get on his shoes and his knapsack, open the
    door, and run away.

    He prospered in his object. No movement or voice was heard when he
    opened the door; no wicked head tied up in a ragged handkerchief
    looked out of the upper window. When the sun had raised his full
    disc above the flat line of the horizon, and was striking fire out
    of the long muddy vista of paved road with its weary avenue of
    little trees, a black speck moved along the road and splashed among
    the flaming pools of rain-water, which black speck was John Baptist
    Cavalletto running away from his patron.
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    Chapter 12
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