The Refugees - Arthur Conan Doyle

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French to the eye, nor are his ways like our ways.”

      “He has chosen an evil time for his visit.”

      “Some wise purpose may lie hid in it.”

      “And you have left him in the house?”

      “Yes; he was sat with this Dalbert, smoking with him, and telling him strange tales.”

      “What guard could he be? He is a stranger in a strange land. You did ill to leave Adele thus, uncle.”

      “She is in God’s hands, Amory.”

      “I trust so. Oh, I am on fire to be there!”

      He thrust his head through the cloud of dust which rose from the wheels, and craned his neck to look upon the long curving river and broad-spread city, which was already visible before them, half hid by a thin blue haze, through which shot the double tower of Notre Dame, with the high spire of St. Jacques and a forest of other steeples and minarets, the monuments of eight hundred years of devotion. Soon, as the road curved down to the river-bank, the city wall grew nearer and nearer, until they had passed the southern gate, and were rattling over the stony causeway, leaving the broad Luxembourg upon their right, and Colbert’s last work, the Invalides, upon their left. A sharp turn brought them on to the river quays, and crossing over the Pont Neuf, they skirted the stately Louvre, and plunged into the labyrinth of narrow but important streets which extended to the northward. The young officer had his head still thrust out of the window, but his view was obscured by a broad gilded carriage which lumbered heavily along in front of them. As the road broadened, however, it swerved to one side, and he was able to catch a glimpse of the house to which they were making.

      It was surrounded on every side by an immense crowd.

      Chapter 6.

       A House of Strife

       Table of Contents

      The house of the Huguenot merchant was a tall, narrow building standing at the corner of the Rue St. Martin and the Rue de Biron. It was four stories in height, grim and grave like its owner, with high peaked roof, long diamond-paned windows, a frame-work of black wood, with gray plaster filling the interstices, and five stone steps which led up to the narrow and sombre door. The upper story was but a warehouse in which the trader kept his stock, but the second and third were furnished with balconies edged with stout wooden balustrades. As the uncle and the nephew sprang out of the caleche, they found themselves upon the outskirts of a dense crowd of people, who were swaying and tossing with excitement, their chins all thrown forwards and their gaze directed upwards. Following their eyes, the young officer saw a sight which left him standing bereft of every sensation save amazement.

      From the upper balcony there was hanging head downwards a man clad in the bright blue coat and white breeches of one of the king’s dragoons. His hat and wig had dropped off, and his close-cropped head swung slowly backwards and forwards a good fifty feet above the pavement. His face was turned towards the street, and was of a deadly whiteness, while his eyes were screwed up as though he dared not open them upon the horror which faced them. His voice, however, resounded over the whole place until the air was filled with his screams for mercy.

      Above him, at the corner of the balcony, there stood a young man who leaned with a bent back over the balustrades, and who held the dangling dragoon by either ankle. His face, however, was not directed towards his victim, but was half turned over his shoulder to confront a group of soldiers who were clustering at the long, open window which led out into the balcony. His head, as he glanced at them, was poised with a proud air of defiance, while they surged and oscillated in the opening, uncertain whether to rush on or to retire.

      Suddenly the crowd gave a groan of excitement. The young man had released his grip upon one of the ankles, and the dragoon hung now by one only, his other leg flapping helplessly in the air. He grabbed aimlessly with his hands at the wall and the wood-work behind him, still yelling at the pitch of his lungs.

      “Pull me up, son of the devil, pull me up!” he screamed. “Would you murder me, then? Help, good people, help!”

      “Do you want to come up, captain?” said the strong clear voice of the young man above him, speaking excellent French, but in an accent which fell strangely upon the ears of the crowd beneath.

      “Yes, sacred name of God, yes!”

      “Order off your men, then.”

      “Away, you dolts, you imbeciles! Do you wish to see me dashed to pieces? Away, I say! Off with you!”

      “That is better,” said the youth, when the soldiers had vanished from the window. He gave a tug at the dragoon’s leg as he spoke, which jerked him up so far that he could twist round and catch hold of the lower edge of the balcony. “How do you find yourself now?” he asked.

      “Hold me, for heaven’s sake, hold me!”

      “I have you quite secure.”

      “Then pull me up!”

      “Not so fast, captain. You can talk very well where you are.”

      “Let me up, sir, let me up!”

      “All in good time. I fear that it is inconvenient to you to talk with your heels in the air.”

      “Ah, you would murder me!”

      “On the contrary, I am going to pull you up.”

      “Heaven bless you!”

      “But only on conditions.”

      “Oh, they are granted! I am slipping!”

      “You will leave this house—you and your men. You will not trouble this old man or this young girl any further. Do you promise?”

      “Oh yes; we shall go.”

      “Word of honour?”

      “Certainly. Only pull me up!”

      “Not so fast. It may be easier to talk to you like this. I do not know how the laws are over here. Maybe this sort of thing is not permitted. You will promise me that I shall have no trouble over the matter.”

      “None, none. Only pull me up!”

      “Very good. Come along!”

      He dragged at the dragoon’s leg while the other gripped his way up the balustrade until, amid a buzz of congratulation from the crowd, he tumbled all in a heap over the rail on to the balcony, where he lay for a few moments as he had fallen. Then staggering to his feet, without a glance at his opponent, he rushed, with a bellow of rage, through the open window.

      While this little drama had been enacted overhead, the young guardsman had shaken off his first stupor of amazement, and had pushed his way through the crowd with such vigour that he and his companion had nearly reached the bottom of the steps. The uniform of the king’s guard was in itself a passport anywhere, and the face of old Catinat was so well known in the district that everyone drew back to clear a path for him towards his house. The door was flung open for them, and an old servant stood wringing his hands in the dark passage.

      “Oh, master! Oh, master!” he cried.

      “Such doings, such infamy! They will murder him!”

      “Whom, then?”

      “This brave monsieur from America. Oh, my God, hark to them now!”

      As he spoke, a clatter and shouting which had burst out again upstairs ended suddenly in a tremendous crash, with volleys of oaths and a prolonged bumping and smashing, which shook the old house to its foundations. The soldier and the Huguenot rushed swiftly up the first flight of stairs, and were about to ascend the second one, from the head of which the uproar seemed to proceed, when a great eight-day clock came hurtling down, springing four steps at a time, and ending with a leap across the landing and a crash against the wall, which left it

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