Roads of Destiny

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ROADS OF DESTINY

by

O. HENRY

Author of "The Voice of the City," "The Trimmed Lamp,"
"Strictly Business," "Whirligigs," "Sixes and Sevens," Etc.

1919







[Illustration: "The old medical outrage . . . had a nigger along."
(Frontispiece)]




CONTENTS

I. Roads of Destiny
II. The Guardian of the Accolade
III. The Discounters of Money
IV. The Enchanted Profile
V. "Next to Reading Matter"
VI. Art and the Bronco
VII. Phoebe
VIII. A Double-dyed Deceiver
IX. The Passing of Black Eagle
X. A Retrieved Reformation
XI. Cherchez la Femme
XII. Friends in San Rosario
XIII. The Fourth in Salvador
XIV. The Emancipation of Billy
XV. The Enchanted Kiss
XVI. A Departmental Case
XVII. The Renaissance at Charleroi
XVIII. On Behalf of the Management
XIX. Whistling Dick's Christmas Stocking
XX. The Halberdier of the Little Rheinschloss
XXI. Two Renegades
XXII. The Lonesome Road





I

ROADS OF DESTINY


I go to seek on many roads
What is to be.
True heart and strong, with love to light--
Will they not bear me in the fight
To order, shun or wield or mould
My Destiny?

Unpublished Poems of David Mignot.


The song was over. The words were David's; the air, one of the
countryside. The company about the inn table applauded heartily,
for the young poet paid for the wine. Only the notary, M. Papineau,
shook his head a little at the lines, for he was a man of books, and
he had not drunk with the rest.

David went out into the village street, where the night air drove
the wine vapour from his head. And then he remembered that he and
Yvonne had quarrelled that day, and that he had resolved to leave
his home that night to seek fame and honour in the great world
outside.

"When my poems are on every man's tongue," he told himself, in a
fine exhilaration, "she will, perhaps, think of the hard words she
spoke this day."

Except the roisterers in the tavern, the village folk were abed.
David crept softly into his room in the shed of his father's cottage
and made a bundle of his small store of clothing. With this upon a
staff, he set his face outward upon the road that ran from Vernoy.

He passed his father's herd of sheep, huddled in their nightly
pen--the sheep he herded daily, leaving them to scatter while he
wrote verses on scraps of paper. He saw a light yet shining in
Yvonne's window, and a weakness shook his purpose of a sudden.
Perhaps that light meant that she rued, sleepless, her anger, and
that morning might--But, no! His decision was made. Vernoy was no
place for him. Not one soul there could share his thoughts. Out
along that road lay his fate and his future.

Three leagues across the dim, moonlit champaign ran the road,
straight as a ploughman's furrow. It was believed in the village
that the road ran to Paris, at least; and this name the poet
whispered often to himself as he walked. Never so far from Vernoy
had David travelled before.



THE LEFT BRANCH

_Three leagues, then, the road ran, and turned into a puzzle.
It joined with another and a larger road at right angles. David
stood, uncertain, for a while, and then took the road to the
left._

Upon this more important highway were, imprinted in the dust, wheel
tracks left by the recent passage of some vehicle. Some half an
hour later these traces were verified by the sight of a ponderous
carriage mired in a little brook at the bottom of a steep hill.
The driver and postilions were shouting and tugging at the horses'
bridles. On the road at one side stood a huge, black-clothed man and
a slender lady wrapped in a long, light cloak.

David saw the lack of skill in the efforts of the servants. He
quietly assumed control of the work. He directed the outriders to
cease their clamour at the horses and to exercise their strength
upon the wheels. The driver alone urged the animals with his
familiar voice; David himself heaved a powerful shoulder at the
rear of the carriage, and with one harmonious tug the great vehicle
rolled up on solid ground. The outriders climbed to their places.

David stood for a moment upon one foot. The huge gentleman waved a
hand. "You will enter the carriage," he said, in a voice large, like
himself, but smoothed by art and habit. Obedience belonged in the
path of such a voice. Brief as was the young poet's hesitation, it
was cut shorter still by a renewal of the command. David's foot went
to the step. In the darkness he perceived dimly the form of the lady
upon the rear seat. He was about to seat himself opposite, when the
voice again swayed him to its will. "You will sit at the lady's
side."

The gentleman swung his great weight to the forward seat. The
carriage proceeded up the hill. The lady was shrunk, silent, into
her corner. David could not estimate whether she was old or young,
but a delicate, mild perfume from her clothes stirred his poet's
fancy to the belief that there was loveliness beneath the mystery.
Here was an adventure such as he had often imagined. But as yet he
held no key to it, for no word was spoken while he sat with his
impenetrable companions.

In an hour's time David perceived through the window that the
vehicle traversed the street of some town. Then it stopped in front
of a closed and darkened house, and a postilion alighted to hammer
impatiently upon the door. A latticed window above flew wide and a
nightcapped head popped out.

"Who are ye that disturb honest folk at this time of night? My house
is closed. 'Tis too late for profitable travellers to be abroad.
Cease knocking at my door, and be off."

"Open!" spluttered the postilion, loudly; "open for Monsiegneur the
Marquis de Beaupertuys."

"Ah!" cried the voice above. "Ten thousand pardons, my lord. I did
not know--the hour is so late--at once shall the door be opened, and
the house placed at my lord's disposal."

Inside was heard the clink of chain and bar, and the door was flung
open. Shivering with chill and apprehension, the landlord of the
Silver Flagon stood, half clad, candle in hand, upon the threshold.

David followed the Marquis out of the carriage. "Assist the lady,"
he was ordered. The poet obeyed. He felt her small hand tremble as
he guided her descent. "Into the house," was the next command.

The room was the long dining-hall of the tavern. A great oak table
ran down its length. The huge gentleman seated himself in a chair at
the nearer end. The lady sank into another against the wall, with an
air of great weariness. David stood, considering how best he might
now take his leave and continue upon his way.

"My lord," said the landlord, bowing to the floor, "h-had I
ex-expected this honour, entertainment would have been ready.
T-t-there is wine and cold fowl and m-m-maybe--"

"Candles," said the marquis, spreading the fingers of one plump
white hand in a gesture he had.

"Y-yes, my lord." He fetched half a dozen candles, lighted them, and
set them upon the table.

"If monsieur would, perhaps, deign to taste a certain
Burgundy--there is a cask--"

"Candles," said monsieur, spreading his fingers.

"Assuredly--quickly--I fly, my lord."

A dozen more lighted candles shone in the hall. The great bulk of
the marquis overflowed his chair. He was dressed in fine black from
head to foot save for the snowy ruffles at his wrist and throat.
Even the hilt and scabbard of his sword were black. His expression
was one of sneering pride. The ends of an upturned moustache reached
nearly to his mocking eyes.

The lady sat motionless, and now David perceived that she was young,
and possessed of pathetic and appealing beauty. He was startled from
the contemplation of her forlorn loveliness by the booming voice of
the marquis.

"What is your name and pursuit?"

"David Mignot. I am a poet."

The moustache of the marquis curled nearer to his eyes.

"How do you live?"

"I am also a shepherd; I guarded my father's flock," David answered,
with his head high, but a flush upon his cheek.

"Then listen, master shepherd and poet, to the fortune you have
blundered upon to-night. This lady is my niece, Mademoiselle Lucie
de Varennes. She is of noble descent and is possessed of ten
thousand francs a year in her own right. As to her charms, you
have but to observe for yourself. If the inventory pleases your
shepherd's heart, she becomes your wife at a word. Do not interrupt
me. To-night I conveyed her to the _chateau_ of the Comte de
Villemaur, to whom her hand had been promised. Guests were present;
the priest was waiting; her marriage to one eligible in rank and
fortune was ready to be accomplished. At the alter this demoiselle,
so meek and dutiful, turned upon me like a leopardess, charged
me with cruelty and crimes, and broke, before the gaping priest,
the troth I had plighted for her. I swore there and then, by ten
thousand devils, that she should marry the first man we met after
leaving the _chateau_, be he prince, charcoal-burner, or thief. You,
shepherd, are the first. Mademoiselle must be wed this night. If
not you, then another. You have ten minutes in which to make your
decision. Do not vex me with words or questions. Ten minutes,
shepherd; and they are speeding."

The marquis drummed loudly with his white fingers upon the table.
He sank into a veiled attitude of waiting. It was as if some great
house had shut its doors and windows against approach. David would
have spoken, but the huge man's bearing stopped his tongue. Instead,
he stood by the lady's chair and bowed.

"Mademoiselle," he said, and he marvelled to find his words flowing
easily before so much elegance and beauty. "You have heard me say
I was a shepherd. I have also had the fancy, at times, that I
am a poet. If it be the test of a poet to adore and cherish the
beautiful, that fancy is now strengthened. Can I serve you in any
way, mademoiselle?"

The young woman looked up at him with eyes dry and mournful. His
frank, glowing face, made serious by the gravity of the adventure,
his strong, straight figure and the liquid sympathy in his blue
eyes, perhaps, also, her imminent need of long-denied help and
kindness, thawed her to sudden tears.

"Monsieur," she said, in low tones, "you look to be true and kind.
He is my uncle, the brother of my father, and my only relative. He
loved my mother, and he hates me because I am like her. He has made
my life one long terror. I am afraid of his very looks, and never
before dared to disobey him. But to-night he would have married me
to a man three times my age. You will forgive me for bringing this
vexation upon you, monsieur. You will, of course, decline this
mad act he tries to force upon you. But let me thank you for your
generous words, at least. I have had none spoken to me in so long."

There was now something more than generosity in the poet's eyes.
Poet he must have been, for Yvonne was forgotten; this fine, new
loveliness held him with its freshness and grace. The subtle perfume
from her filled him with strange emotions. His tender look fell
warmly upon her. She leaned to it, thirstily.

"Ten minutes," said David, "is given me in which to do what I would
devote years to achieve. I will not say I pity you, mademoiselle; it
would not be true--I love you. I cannot ask love from you yet, but
let me rescue you from this cruel man, and, in time, love may come.
I think I have a future; I will not always be a shepherd. For the
present I will cherish you with all my heart and make your life less
sad. Will you trust your fate to me, mademoiselle?"

"Ah, you would sacrifice yourself from pity!"

"From love. The time is almost up, mademoiselle."

"You will regret it, and despise me."

"I will live only to make you happy, and myself worthy of you."

Her fine small hand crept into his from beneath her cloak.

"I will trust you," she breathed, "with my life. And--and love--may
not be so far off as you think. Tell him. Once away from the power
of his eyes I may forget."

David went and stood before the marquis. The black figure stirred,
and the mocking eyes glanced at the great hall clock.

"Two minutes to spare. A shepherd requires eight minutes to decide
whether he will accept a bride of beauty and income! Speak up,
shepherd, do you consent to become mademoiselle's husband?"

"Mademoiselle," said David, standing proudly, "has done me the
honour to yield to my request that she become my wife."

"Well said!" said the marquis. "You have yet the making of a
courtier in you, master shepherd. Mademoiselle could have drawn a
worse prize, after all. And now to be done with the affair as quick
as the Church and the devil will allow!"

He struck the table soundly with his sword hilt. The landlord came,
knee-shaking, bringing more candles in the hope of anticipating the
great lord's whims. "Fetch a priest," said the marquis, "a priest;
do you understand? In ten minutes have a priest here, or--"

The landlord dropped his candles and flew.

The priest came, heavy-eyed and ruffled. He made David Mignot and
Lucie de Verennes man and wife, pocketed a gold piece that the
marquis tossed him, and shuffled out again into the night.

"Wine," ordered the marquis, spreading his ominous fingers at the
host.

"Fill glasses," he said, when it was brought. He stood up at the
head of the table in the candlelight, a black mountain of venom and
conceit, with something like the memory of an old love turned to
poison in his eyes, as it fell upon his niece.

"Monsieur Mignot," he said, raising his wineglass, "drink after
I say this to you: You have taken to be your wife one who will
make your life a foul and wretched thing. The blood in her is an
inheritance running black lies and red ruin. She will bring you
shame and anxiety. The devil that descended to her is there in her
eyes and skin and mouth that stoop even to beguile a peasant. There
is your promise, monsieur poet, for a happy life. Drink your wine.
At last, mademoiselle, I am rid of you."

The marquis drank. A little grievous cry, as if from a sudden wound,
came from the girl's lips. David, with his glass in his hand,
stepped forward three paces and faced the marquis. There was little
of a shepherd in his bearing.

"Just now," he said, calmly, "you did me the honor to call me
'monsieur.' May I hope, therefore that my marriage to mademoiselle
has placed me somewhat nearer to you in--let us say, reflected
rank--has given me the right to stand more as an equal to
monseigneur in a certain little piece of business I have in my
mind?"

"You may hope, shepherd," sneered the marquis.

"Then," said David, dashing his glass of wine into the contemptuous
eyes that mocked him, "perhaps you will condescend to fight me."

The fury of the great lord outbroke in one sudden curse like a blast
from a horn. He tore his sword from its black sheath; he called to
the hovering landlord: "A sword there, for this lout!" He turned to
the lady, with a laugh that chilled her heart, and said: "You put
much labour upon me, madame. It seems I must find you a husband and
make you a widow in the same night."

"I know not sword-play," said David. He flushed to make the
confession before his lady.

"'I know not sword-play,'" mimicked the marquis. "Shall we fight
like peasants with oaken cudgels? _Hola!_ Francois, my pistols!"

A postilion brought two shining great pistols ornamented with carven
silver, from the carriage holsters. The marquis tossed one upon the
table near David's hand. "To the other end of the table," he cried;
"even a shepherd may pull a trigger. Few of them attain the honour
to die by the weapon of a De Beaupertuys."

The shepherd and the marquis faced each other from the ends of the
long table. The landlord, in an ague of terror, clutched the air
and stammered: "M-M-Monseigneur, for the love of Christ! not in my
house!--do not spill blood--it will ruin my custom--" The look of
the marquis, threatening him, paralyzed his tongue.

"Coward," cried the lord of Beaupertuys, "cease chattering your
teeth long enough to give the word for us, if you can."

Mine host's knees smote the floor. He was without a vocabulary. Even
sounds were beyond him. Still, by gestures he seemed to beseech
peace in the name of his house and custom.

"I will give the word," said the lady, in a clear voice. She went up
to David and kissed him sweetly. Her eyes were sparkling bright, and
colour had come to her cheek. She stood against the wall, and the
two men levelled their pistols for her count.

"_Un--deux--trois!_"

The two reports came so nearly together that the candles flickered
but once. The marquis stood, smiling, the fingers of his left hand
resting, outspread, upon the end of the table. David remained erect,
and turned his head very slowly, searching for his wife with his
eyes. Then, as a garment falls from where it is hung, he sank,
crumpled, upon the floor.

With a little cry of terror and despair, the widowed maid ran and
stooped above him. She found his wound, and then looked up with her
old look of pale melancholy. "Through his heart," she whispered.
"Oh, his heart!"

"Come," boomed the great voice of the marquis, "out with you to the
carriage! Daybreak shall not find you on my hands. Wed you shall be
again, and to a living husband, this night. The next we come upon,
my lady, highwayman or peasant. If the road yields no other, then
the churl that opens my gates. Out with you into the carriage!"

The marquis, implacable and huge, the lady wrapped again in the
mystery of her cloak, the postilion bearing the weapons--all moved
out to the waiting carriage. The sound of its ponderous wheels
rolling away echoed through the slumbering village. In the hall of
the Silver Flagon the distracted landlord wrung his hands above the
slain poet's body, while the flames of the four and twenty candles
danced and flickered on the table.



THE RIGHT BRANCH

_Three leagues, then, the road ran, and turned into a puzzle.
It joined with another and a larger road at right angles. David
stood, uncertain, for a while, and then took the road to the
right._

Whither it led he knew not, but he was resolved to leave Vernoy far
behind that night. He travelled a league and then passed a large
_chateau_ which showed testimony of recent entertainment. Lights
shone from every window; from the great stone gateway ran a tracery
of wheel tracks drawn in the dust by the vehicles of the guests.

Three leagues farther and David was weary. He rested and slept for a
while on a bed of pine boughs at the roadside. Then up and on again
along the unknown way.

Thus for five days he travelled the great road, sleeping upon
Nature's balsamic beds or in peasants' ricks, eating of their black,
hospitable bread, drinking from streams or the willing cup of the
goatherd.

At length he crossed a great bridge and set his foot within the
smiling city that has crushed or crowned more poets than all the
rest of the world. His breath came quickly as Paris sang to him in a
little undertone her vital chant of greeting--the hum of voice and
foot and wheel.

High up under the eaves of an old house in the Rue Conti, David paid
for lodging, and set himself, in a wooden chair, to his poems. The
street, once sheltering citizens of import and consequence, was now
given over to those who ever follow in the wake of decline.

The houses were tall and still possessed of a ruined dignity, but
many of them were empty save for dust and the spider. By night there
was the clash of steel and the cries of brawlers straying restlessly
from inn to inn. Where once gentility abode was now but a rancid and
rude incontinence. But here David found housing commensurate to his
scant purse. Daylight and candlelight found him at pen and paper.

One afternoon he was returning from a foraging trip to the lower
world, with bread and curds and a bottle of thin wine. Halfway up
his dark stairway he met--or rather came upon, for she rested on the
stair--a young woman of a beauty that should balk even the justice
of a poet's imagination. A loose, dark cloak, flung open, showed a
rich gown beneath. Her eyes changed swiftly with every little shade
of thought. Within one moment they would be round and artless like
a child's, and long and cozening like a gypsy's. One hand raised
her gown, undraping a little shoe, high-heeled, with its ribbons
dangling, untied. So heavenly she was, so unfitted to stoop, so
qualified to charm and command! Perhaps she had seen David coming,
and had waited for his help there.

Ah, would monsieur pardon that she occupied the stairway, but the
shoe!--the naughty shoe! Alas! it would not remain tied. Ah! if
monsieur _would_ be so gracious!

The poet's fingers trembled as he tied the contrary ribbons. Then he
would have fled from the danger of her presence, but the eyes grew
long and cozening, like a gypsy's, and held him. He leaned against
the balustrade, clutching his bottle of sour wine.

"You have been so good," she said, smiling. "Does monsieur, perhaps,
live in the house?"

"Yes, madame. I--I think so, madame."

"Perhaps in the third story, then?"

"No, madame; higher up."

The lady fluttered her fingers with the least possible gesture of
impatience.

"Pardon. Certainly I am not discreet in asking. Monsieur will
forgive me? It is surely not becoming that I should inquire where he
lodges."

"Madame, do not say so. I live in the--"

"No, no, no; do not tell me. Now I see that I erred. But I cannot
lose the interest I feel in this house and all that is in it. Once
it was my home. Often I come here but to dream of those happy days
again. Will you let that be my excuse?"

"Let me tell you, then, for you need no excuse," stammered the poet.
"I live in the top floor--the small room where the stairs turn."

"In the front room?" asked the lady, turning her head sidewise.

"The rear, madame."

The lady sighed, as if with relief.

"I will detain you no longer then, monsieur," she said, employing
the round and artless eye. "Take good care of my house. Alas! only
the memories of it are mine now. Adieu, and accept my thanks for
your courtesy."

She was gone, leaving but a smile and a trace of sweet perfume.
David climbed the stairs as one in slumber. But he awoke from it,
and the smile and the perfume lingered with him and never afterward
did either seem quite to leave him. This lady of whom he knew
nothing drove him to lyrics of eyes, chansons of swiftly conceived
love, odes to curling hair, and sonnets to slippers on slender feet.

Poet he must have been, for Yvonne was forgotten; this fine, new
loveliness held him with its freshness and grace. The subtle perfume
about her filled him with strange emotions.



On a certain night three persons were gathered about a table in a
room on the third floor of the same house. Three chairs and the
table and a lighted candle upon it was all the furniture. One of the
persons was a huge man, dressed in black. His expression was one of
sneering pride. The ends of his upturned moustache reached nearly to
his mocking eyes. Another was a lady, young and beautiful, with eyes
that could be round and artless, as a child's, or long and cozening,
like a gypsy's, but were now keen and ambitious, like any other
conspirator's. The third was a man of action, a combatant, a bold
and impatient executive, breathing fire and steel. He was addressed
by the others as Captain Desrolles.

This man struck the table with his fist, and said, with controlled
violence:

"To-night. To-night as he goes to midnight mass. I am tired of the
plotting that gets nowhere. I am sick of signals and ciphers and
secret meetings and such _baragouin_. Let us be honest traitors. If
France is to be rid of him, let us kill in the open, and not hunt
with snares and traps. To-night, I say. I back my words. My hand
will do the deed. To-night, as he goes to mass."

The lady turned upon him a cordial look. Woman, however wedded to
plots, must ever thus bow to rash courage. The big man stroked his
upturned moustache.

"Dear captain," he said, in a great voice, softened by habit, "this
time I agree with you. Nothing is to be gained by waiting. Enough of
the palace guards belong to us to make the endeavour a safe one."

"To-night," repeated Captain Desrolles, again striking the table.
"You have heard me, marquis; my hand will do the deed."

"But now," said the huge man, softly, "comes a question. Word must
be sent to our partisans in the palace, and a signal agreed upon.
Our stanchest men must accompany the royal carriage. At this hour
what messenger can penetrate so far as the south doorway? Ribouet is
stationed there; once a message is placed in his hands, all will go
well."

"I will send the message," said the lady.

"You, countess?" said the marquis, raising his eyebrows. "Your
devotion is great, we know, but--"