I
Theresia waited for a moment or two at the turn of the passage, until her keen ear had told her that Bertrand was no longer on the watch and had closed the door behind him. Then she retraced her steps—on tiptoe, lest he should hear.
She found her way to the front door; it was still on the latch. She opened it and peered out into the night. The little porch was deserted, but out there on the quay a few passersby still livened the evening with chatter or song. Theresia was on the point of stepping out of the porch, when a familiar voice hailed her softly by name:
“Citoyenne Cabarrus!”
A man, dressed in dark clothes, with high boots and sugar-loaf hat, came out from the dark angle behind the porch.
“Not here!” Theresia whispered eagerly. “Out on the quay. Wait for me there, my little Chauvelin. I’ll be with you anon. I have so much to tell you!”
Silently, he did as she desired. She waited for a moment in the porch, watching the meagre figure in the dark cloak making its way across to the quay, then walking rapidly in the direction of the Pent. The moon was dazzlingly brilliant. The harbour and the distant sea glistened like diamond-studded sheets of silver. From afar there came the sound of the castle clock striking ten. The groups of passersby had dwindled down to an occasional amorous couple strolling homewards, whispering soft nothings and gazing enraptured at the moon; or half-a-dozen sailors lolling down the quays arm in arm, on their way back to their ship, obstructing the road, yelling and singing the refrain of the newest ribald song; or perhaps a belated peddler, weary of an unprofitable beat, wending his way dejectedly home.
One of these poor wretches—a cripple with a wooden leg and bent nearly double with the heavy load on his pack—paused for a moment beside the porch, held out a grimy hand to Theresia, with a pitiable cry.
“Of your charity, kind sir! Buy a little something from the pore ole man, to buy a bit of bread!”
He looked utterly woebegone, with lank grey hair blown about by the breeze and a colourless face covered with sweat, that shone like painted metal in the moonlight.
“Buy a little something, kind sir!” he went on, in a shrill, throaty voice. “I’ve a sick wife at ’ome, and pore little gran’childen!”
Theresia—a little frightened, and not at all charitably inclined at this hour—turned hastily away and went back into to house, whither the cripple’s vigorous curses followed her.
“May Satan and all his armies—”
She shut the door on him and hastened up the passage. That cadaverous old reprobate had caused her to shudder as with the presentiment of coming evil.