“Fall out,” said the Colonel, not even caring to risk going through the correct procedure for dismissing.
The parade broke up. The ordered ranks dissolved in a crowd, and the soldiers streamed off towards their barracks. The officers alone remained.
“I should have shot him, Sir, in another instant,” said the Colonel.
“No good,” said Sorrento, “to shoot one man; it would only infuriate them. I will have a couple of machine-guns down here tomorrow morning, and we shall see then what will happen.”
He turned suddenly, interrupted by a storm of broken and confused cheering. The soldiers had almost reached their barracks; one man was raised on the shoulders of others, and surrounded by the rest of the regiment, waving their helmets, brandishing their rifles, and cheering wildly.
“It is the sergeant,” said the Colonel.
“So I perceive,” replied Sorrento bitterly. “A popular man, I suppose. Have you many noncommissioned officers like that?” The Colonel made no reply. “Gentlemen,” said the War-Minister to the officers who loitered on the square, “I would recommend you to go to your quarters. You are rather tempting targets here, and I believe your regiment is a particularly good shooting regiment. Is it not, Colonel?”
With which taunt he turned and rode away, sick at heart with anger and anxiety, while the officers of the 11th Regiment of Lauranian Infantry retired to their quarters to hide their shame and face their danger.
XV
Surprises
It had been a busy and exciting day for Savrola. He had seen his followers, had issued orders, restrained the impetuous, stimulated the weak, encouraged the timid. All day long messages and reports had reached him about the behaviour of the soldiers. The departure of the Guard, and the refusal of the supporting brigade to march, were equally pleasing events. The conspiracy had now been made known to so many persons that he doubted the possibility of keeping it much longer secret from the Government agents. From every consideration he felt that the hour had come. The whole of the elaborate plan that he had devised had been put into execution. The strain had been severe, but at length all the preparations were completed, and the whole strength of the Revolutionary party was concentrated for the final struggle. Godoy, Renos, and the others were collected at the Mayoralty, whence at dawn the Provisional Government was to be proclaimed. Moret, to whom the actual duty of calling the people to arms had been assigned, instructed his agents at his own house and made arrangements for the posting of the proclamation. All was ready. The leader on whom everything depended, whose brain had conceived, whose heart had inspired, the great conspiracy, lay back in his chair. He needed and desired a few moments’ rest and quiet reflection to review his schemes, to look for omissions, to brace his nerves.
A small bright fire burned in the grate, and all around were the ashes of burnt papers. For an hour he had been feeding the flames. One phase of his life was over; there might be another, but it was well to have done with this one first. Letters from friends, dead now or alienated; letters of congratulation, of praise that had inspired his younger ambitions; letters from brilliant men and some from beautiful women—all had met a common fate. Why should these records, be preserved for the curious eye of unsympathetic posterity? If he perished, the world might forget him, and welcome; if he lived, his life would henceforth be within the province of the historian. A single note, preserved from the general destruction, lay on the table beside him. It was the one with which Lucile had accompanied her invitation to the State Ball, the only one he had ever received from her.
As he balanced it in his fingers, his thoughts drifted away from the busy hard realities of life to that kindred soul and lovely face. That episode too was over. A barrier stood between them. Whatever the result of the revolt, she was lost to him, unless—and that terrible unless was pregnant with suggestions of such awful wickedness that his mind recoiled from it as a man’s hand starts from some filthy thing he has by inadvertence touched. There were sins, sins against the commonwealth of mankind, against the phenomenon of life itself, the stigma of which would cling through death, and for which there was pardon only in annihilation. Yet he hated Molara with a fierce hatred; nor did he care to longer hide from himself the reason. And with the recollection of the reason his mind reverted to a softer mood. Would he ever see her again? Even the sound of her name pleased him; “Lucile,” he whispered sadly.
There was a quick step outside; the door opened, and she stood before him. He sprang up in mute astonishment.
Lucile looked greatly embarrassed. Her mission was a delicate one. Indeed she did not know her own mind, or did not care to know it. It was for her husband’s sake, she said to herself; but the words she spoke belied her. “I have come to tell you that I did not betray your secret.”
“I know—I never feared,” replied Savrola.
“How do you know?”
“I have not yet been arrested.”
“No, but he suspects.”
“Suspects what?”
“That you are conspiring against the Republic.”
“Oh!” said Savrola, greatly relieved; “he has no proofs.”
“Tomorrow he may have.”
“Tomorrow will be too late.”
“Too late?”
“Yes,” said Savrola; “the game begins tonight.” He took out his watch; it was a quarter to eleven.
“At twelve o’clock you will hear the alarm-bells. Sit down, and let us talk.”
Lucile sat down mechanically.
“You love me,” he said in an even voice, looking at her dispassionately, and as if the whole subject of their relations was but a psychological problem, “and I love you.” There was no answer; he continued: “But we must part. In this world we are divided, nor do I see how the barrier can be removed. All my life I shall
