CHAPTER XXXVI
LEFT-HANDED MATTHEW
It was about this time that Matteo le Gaucher--Matteo theLeft-handed--began to interest himself in our concerns. At first sightnothing was more unlikely than that Matteo could ever make the slightestdifference to the fate of any human soul. Yet great and even finalevents hung upon Matteo le Gaucher. He was an Italian from Arqua, and,as was said by his comrades, a "spiteful toad." He was deformed in body,and of course carried with him the repute of a _jettatore_. The evil eyecertainly looked out from under his low brows, but it was with his eviltongue that he could actually do the most mischief.
He had been employed by Arcadius in his garden. He was not a badworkman. "The ground," as he said, "was not too far off for him." Hecould work when he chose, better than anyone at the task of the day. Buthe was a born fault-finder, a born idler, insolent and quarrelsome. Thefour who were his room-mates and who worked with him bore longer withhim because of his bodily infirmity and also because of the Evil Eye,which they mocked at but devoutly believed in. At last he arousedArcadius, across whose path he had always been loath to come.
Arcadius found a fault. Matteo found a knife. All men knew the lightgardening hoe which seldom left the hand of Arcadius. Well, the master'seye was accurate, and Matteo went to the town hospital with a brokenwrist and a right hand almost hagged off. Let no one for a moment besorry for Matteo. In that comprehensive interval he began to plot manythings rendered natural by years of vendetta practice.
Directly, he could not hurt Arcadius. He had tried that and Chanot hadonly laughed at him. No, even to please him, the Committee of PublicSafety would not shoot the man who sent them their finest, indeed theironly, early fruits. Arcadius had no store of gold hid in his chimney. Hehad spent it all with Chanot's uncle the notary, buying new land, evermore and more--and some still not paid for--but all regularly beingcovered instalment and interest. This Chanot knew, because in his daysof (oh, so dull) respectability, Chanot had had to make out thereceipts. And how he hated the thought of the long days of deskwork.
Matteo mourned over his broken wrist, which hurt the more abominablywhenever he hated anyone and could in no wise wreck his hatred. He mustthink out something else. He retired into his pillows, turned his faceto the wall, and for a day and a night thought by what means he couldbest hurt Arcadius or the friends of the master-gardener.
He had been in the corner of the hangar-dormitory that night when thefour Tuscans had been called up to follow the lantern of Arcadius. TheToad, with the venom attributed to him for centuries, had risen quietlyand from behind the great arbutus, had seen the boat with Keller Beylying stark on his stretcher, and the beautiful girl watching over him,push out into the night.
On their return the Tuscans had exhibited their newly earned gold, andall innocently had striven to set his cupidity wild by tales of thewonderful paradise of fertility and riches under the brow of the hill ofMont St. Andre.
Matteo le Gaucher snarled at them, denying that the coins were good, or,if good, that they had been won (as they asserted) by merely carrying asick man up a hill.
Not for such service did men give gold Napoleons. They lied, Carlo,Beppo, Lorenzo, and the oaf from San Ghomigniano of the Seven Towers.They all lied, and Matteo, who was certainly in most evil humour thatday, tried to knock up the hand in which the Tuscan was jingling them.He of the City of the Seven Towers felled Matteo, who would never haveforgiven him, if the bone-splintering blow of the mattock in the hand ofArcadius had not come to fill the hater with the hope of a greatervengeance.
Nevertheless the thought of the rich man who dwelt on the slopes of MontSt. Andre, with sacks of golden Napoleons on either side of every room,kept haunting him. Matteo could neither eat nor sleep till he had seen.So he took a half-holiday without asking permission (the beginning ofhis quarrel with the huge Arcadius) and, stealing a skiff from aneighbouring landing, scrambled up the steep face of Mont St. Andre.
Fortune willed that he should meet the junior _lyceens_ out for a walk,two and two, with only a weak _pion_ to restrain them. Naturally Matteowas mocked and mobbed. Matteo drew a knife, and grinned like a wild cat,but recognised his error in time, accepted the situation, and with thehate of hell in his heart, began to show the juniors knife tricks--howto let it fall always with the point down, how to send it whizzing likea gleam of light deep into the heart of a tree, which might just as wellhave been the heart of a man.
At last he got clear of them, smiling and bowing, till the sober-coatedlittle rascals were lost to sight on the high path. Then he brandishedhis knife in fury, and vowed that if he could he would cut the throat ofevery wretched imp among them.
But at the sound of voices he subdued his anger, and, humbly asking hisway from this passer-by and that other, he at last made his way toGobelet. He knocked long for admission at the porter's lodge, but theporteress seeing such a calumny on God's handiwork outside, and scentingappeals for charity, eyed him disfavourably through the littlecross-barred spy-window and let him knock.
A little farther down the road, he was quite as unsuccessful at thetower port of the Garden Cottage, over which the Tessiers had been wontto sleep.
There was no one in the house at all, yet Matteo le Gaucher quicklyrunning to the top of the bank opposite, imagined he saw faces mockinghim at every window.
It chanced that for his sins (whatever they may have been) my father wasat that moment coming leisurely down the hill, his hands behind hisback. He had been up to call upon his friend Renard before his siesta,and they two had argued over-long as to the purport of the fourteenthchapter of the Koran.
Suddenly full in his path he found Matteo grovelling before him, hishands and knees covered with blood, foam from his lips, and to allappearance in a state of extreme exhaustion. Now my father, GordonCawdor, was a man of very simple and direct mind, so far as the actionsof those about him went. He believed that what he saw was the reality.Indeed, so transparent was his honesty that men took fright at it,counting it as the last achievement of duplicity, so that on an averagehe was as seldom deceived as any other man in the country.
Now he cried out for help, and after one or two shouts Saunders McKieand Hugh Deventer came through the gate and took up the seemingepileptic.
Saunders was wholly sceptical and when ordered by his master to wash thefroth from the sufferer's mouth prospected with such good will for soapwithin that Matteo, had he dared, would gladly have bitten the fingeroff. He was compelled to swallow what might have served him anothertime.
"Dowse him wi' a bucket o' water, and let him gang his ways. I like notthe look o' the speldron. He is like the Brownie that my Uncle Jockyince saw on the Lang Hill o' Lowden--a fearsome taed it was, juist likethis Eytalian."
"Hold your peace, Saunders," commented my father. "You, he, and I are asGod made us, and little that matters. What is written of us in the Book,_that_ alone shall praise or condemn us!"
"Lord's sake, Maister Cawdor," said Saunders, who always wilted beforemy father in his moments of spiritual reproof, "I was sayin' andthinkin' no different. The Book and What is Written Therein! That's therub, an' no to be spoken o' lichtly. And after a' the craitur's acraitur, though I will say----"
"Say nothing, Saunders, till you have given the unfortunate to eat anddrink. Then when he is recovered I shall speak with him a moment."
"Weel, Maister Cawdor, let your speech be silver, and no gowden."
"You mean, Saunders?"
"I juist mean that the buckie has a gallow's look aboot him, and if yeare so ill-advised and--aye, I will say it--sae wicked as to gie himgold, we shall a' hae our throats cuttit in our beds yin o' thaenichts!"
Whereupon my father reproved his old servant for narrow-mindedness andevil thinking, but Saunders held his own.
"Narrow-mindedness here and ill-thinkin' there," he said, "blessed arethey that think no evil, I ken, and that blessing ye are sure o',Maister Cawdor. But ye pay me a wage to keep watch and ward for ye overall evil-doers, and may I never
taste porridge mair if this lad doesnasmell the reek o' the deil's peats a mile away."
Saunders prevailed in the matter of the gold, and it was only afive-franc piece that Matteo carried away from the gate of Gobelet. HughDeventer and Alida came out to see off the man who had caused such adisturbance in the peace of the quiet villa. Matteo gazed at Alida withthe look of a wild beast before whose cage passes a fine-skinned plumpgazelle.
He was full to the lips with rage, bitterness, and all uncharitableness.Gobelet he had seen, but owing to the machinations of that enemy ofmankind, Saunders, only the great paved kitchen in which the menservantsand maidservants passed to and fro, all gazing at him with inquisitiveand contemptuous eyes. Ah, if only he could make them smart for that,those full-fed minions whose broken meats had been set down to him,Matteo of Arqua. Not but that these were good, yes, and the wine wasexcellent. It might be worth while, when he should decide to turnhonest, to find some such place, perhaps as porter or lodge-keeperagainst his old age.
So after ringing the piece of a hundred sous on a stone, Matteo gavehimself to meditation as he descended to his boat. The house was rich.There were many servants, and access to the money-bags along the wallwould be impossible to him.
But there were others who would think but little of the task. If only hewere at Arqua, he knew of as pretty a gang as ever donned masks--honest,too, in their way, men who would not cheat the indicator of goodbusiness out of his lawful share.
But here Matteo le Gaucher must think things over. It was vain for himto give away a valuable secret without some guarantee of gain. So Matteocrept back and took to his bed, where he turned the matter over andturned it over, till he began to despair of ever finding a way ofbettering his condition without having to work. The touch of thefive-franc piece in his pocket, gained by a little dissimulation, haddisgusted him with the culture of cauliflower and early potato.
Next morning he scamped his work, fell athwart the bluff bows ofArcadius, and so found himself with a broken bone and a wounded wrist inthe hospital of La Grace at Aramon.
Here he fell in the way of ex-notary's clerk Chanot, whose practice inhis uncle's office soon wormed Matteo's whole confidence from him--thatis, save on one point which he kept obstinately to himself.
It had long been a question with the Committee of Public Safety whereKeller had disappeared to. It was not believed that he had remained longin the Chateau. A boat had been seen in mid-stream--the sound of voicesheard by watchers on the bridge. He might have been less seriouslywounded than they supposed, and at Arles, Aix, or even Marseilles hemight be seeking help from old-fashioned revolutionaries like himself.
The Committee of Public Safety had for some time abandoned all pretenceof government. The little red newspaper had stopped. The shops were putunder weekly contributions in return for permission to open their doors.No maids or wives came any more to the Aramon markets, and thoughprovisions continued to arrive, they were brought in by farmers who camein bands and well armed.
The "government" sat no more in the seats of the mighty, but lounged andswung their legs from the tables, openly and shamelessly discussing thenext _coup a faire_, houses to dismantle, or rich men to hold to ransomor doom to death. They smoked and deliberated, an oath at every word.
Men who had worked at the Small Arms Factory were now few, though therewere still several who had dug the foundations of the big-gun annex--aprofessional bully or two from the city, deprived by the war of hishareem and his means of livelihood, one or two well-educated youths,_lycee_-bred even, who had "turned out badly," a few clever apprenticeworkmen from the town, locksmiths and plumbers chiefly, who appreciatedidleness and a share in the profits of their skill in opening locks morethan the lash of the patron's tongue and the long day's toil from six tosix, year in and year out.
But all were less martial and more cautious now. They did not think anymore of attacking the strong, entrenched position behind which DennisDeventer and Jack Jaikes kept watch and ward, night and day.
They had courage--no man could truthfully say that they lacked that.They had given their proofs. But they knew that the men within the Workswere growing stronger. There were rumours that Dennis Deventer had onlyto hold up his hand and that he would have all the men he wanted withinthe Chateau walls.
The men who had fought the troops, cleared the town, and set up the"Tatter of Scarlet," the "Old Reds of the Midi," were no longer with therabble who used the black flag as an excuse for plunder and massacre.
The original Commune of Aramon (like that of Paris) had always beenmeticulously careful as to the rights of private property. NoCommunalist in Paris enriched himself one sou, at a time when the wealthof all the banks and shops lay within the push of a gun-butt or theexplosion of a dynamite cartridge.
The men of the Old Commune had come to Dennis, Pere Felix at their head,as Nicodemus came to Another long ago, secretly by night. Their chiefprayer had been to be allowed, though late, to take part in the defence.Pere Felix appealed to Dennis not to discourage these willing hearts.They were all approved Republicans and would fight for their opinion ifnecessary, but they were no robbers nor murderers--nor would they haveany dealings with such.
But Dennis had enough men and desired no more. He had kept his ownbounds and let any attack him at their peril. Still, there was much theycould do. They could send him word of any new scheme of devilry. Awritten word wrapped about a stone and tossed over the wall at aconvenient corner, where a watch was kept, would be sufficient. Or, ifproper notice were given, they could come, as to-night, to the Orchardport. But this only upon matters of serious import which could not beput off.
Moreover, since Pere Felix had all the country of Vaucluse open to him,he could collect provisions from Orange to the Durance. For anythingfresh and portable good prices would be given. Yes, they could bedelivered at the Orchard gate. Three times a week, on such nights asPere Felix would appoint, he would have a guard put there to receive andtransport. Jack Jaikes would settle the bills. They all knew JackJaikes.
The men looked from one to the other and smiled. Yes, they all knewMonsieur Jack. There was never a man nor a boy in all the Ateliers butknew Monsieur Jack. He had a way with him. He asked for what he wanted,did Monsieur Jack. And he could do more with his bare hands and bootedfeet when it came to a melee (what Jack Jaikes would have called ascrap) than half a dozen ordinary men armed to the teeth. Oh yes, awell-known figure in the Works, Monsieur Jack. In fact, quite afavourite!
And they winked at one another, being quite aware that, without thequiver of an eyelash, Dennis Deventer was winking too.
* * * * *
Matteo lay on his couch in the Hopital de Grace nursing his arm. Thewound had healed and they were treating the bone by frictionnow--reducing and suppling it, but causing Matteo a good deal ofincidental pain, which the hospital doctors in their careless way tookvery much as a matter of course. If Matteo had had the long Arqua knifewhich had been taken away from him, the two _internes_ might have beensurprised by a sudden revelation of the sentiments of the patient undertreatment.
Matteo had privileges, however. The house surgeons only tortured himonce a day, and generally about four Chanot came to bring him a screw oftobacco, a little brandy, and the news of the town, adroitly seasoned tosuit Matteo's taste in publicity.
"Ah, my good Matteo," he would say, as he came in with that nonchalantease in his gait and that devilish glitter in his eye which made Matteoat once envy and adore him. "Matteo of the left hand, how goes the otherto-day? Have you had dreams of the beautiful lady you saw--or imaginedyou saw--at the house on the hill?"
"It was no dream, Master," said the Gaucher, "I saw her. She had brownhair, a wilderness of it, and her lips were redder than the grenadineflower."
"The house was a rich one?"
"Wonderfully rich. I did not see much of it myself, being only on theground floor with the servants, but I have four comrades who saw thebags of golden coins heaped up like corn sacks against th
e wall, and themaster is an old man, very wise and learned, who speaks my speech onlywith a southern accent. He dips his hands into the gold and draws outthe Napoleons, jingling and glittering. They run over his palms, setclose together like a cup, and slip through his fingers upon the floor,where they lie, for it is not worth while among so much to pick them up.The sweeper has them for his pains in stooping. It is true Master, asGod is in heaven. My comrades saw all this and swore on the bones of theblessed Saint Catherine of Siena, whose servant I am, that they spoke nolie."
Then would Chanot rise and go his way meditating. There might be sometruth at the bottom of this fairy tale. It was worth while thinkingover. But there were points to study. Should he take the whole gang intohis confidence or only a few? That would depend on the number andcourage of the servants--their dispositions to fight for theirmaster--and then the girl--that also was a point to be weighed mostcarefully. Yet Chanot could by no means put off too long, for the hillof St. Andre was not far away, and the wind of the rich trover might bewafted down on any breeze.
Chanot had no need of temptations to plot or to do evil. These camenatural to him. He was better acquainted with the evil he had done thanwith that which he was going to do. His future was not, if one might sayso, on the knees of his gods, but on those of his devils. Anton Chanothad been bred good, but up till now he had never thought, desired, ordone aught but evil. Evil, indeed, was his good, and if on occasion heshowed himself a little kind, as in the bringing of Matteo's tobacco, itwas only that he might obtain the secrets of some man's heart.
But Matteo was an Italian, and an Italian of Arqua. He was full of ruseand as little trustful as a Norman peasant. He saw through Chanot'slittle luxuries. He weighed the news gossip as in a balance, and eventhe tobacco he smelt curiously, and found of second quality. One personhe meant at all hazards to benefit, and that person was Matteo leGaucher.
He was a shrewd schemer, and if it had not been for one thing hisconclusions would have been sound. He had forgotten that Anton Chanotwould just as lief kill him as any other, without thought or remorse,smiling all the while as when he handed him over the daily paper oftobacco in the hospital of Aramon.