The Bronze Eagle: A Story of the Hundred Days
by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy · English · Gutenberg #25955 · 662,791 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Bronze Eagle: A Story of the Hundred Days
Author: Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy
Release date: July 3, 2008 [eBook #25955]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/25955
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BRONZE EAGLE: A STORY OF THE HUNDRED DAYS ***
E-text prepared by Steven desJardins and the Project Gutenberg Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
THE BRONZE EAGLE
by
BARONESS ORCZY
* * * * *
By BARONESS ORCZY
THE BRONZE EAGLE
A BRIDE OF THE PLAINS
THE LAUGHING CAVALIER
"UNTO CAESAR"
EL DORADO
MEADOWSWEET
THE NOBLE ROGUE
THE HEART OF A WOMAN
PETTICOAT RULE
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
NEW YORK
* * * * *
THE BRONZE EAGLE
A Story of the Hundred Days
by
BARONESS ORCZY
Author of "The Laughing Cavalier," "The Scarlet Pimpernel," Etc., Etc.
[Illustration]
New York
George H. Doran Company
Copyright, 1915,
by Baroness Orczy
Copyright, 1915,
by George H. Doran Company
This novel was published serially, under the title of "Waterloo"
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
THE LANDING AT JOUAN 9
I. THE GLORIOUS NEWS 14
II. THE OLD RÉGIME 49
III. THE RETURN OF THE EMPEROR 85
IV. THE EMPRESS' MILLIONS 138
V. THE RIVALS 196
VI. THE CRIME 221
VII. THE ASCENT OF THE CAPITOL 236
VIII. THE SOUND OF REVELRY BY NIGHT 261
IX. THE TARPEIAN ROCK 285
X. THE LAST THROW 305
XI. THE LOSING HANDS 338
XII. THE WINNING HAND 370
THE BRONZE EAGLE
THE LANDING AT JOUAN
The perfect calm of an early spring dawn lies over headland and
sea--hardly a ripple stirs the blue cheek of the bay. The softness of
departing night lies upon the bosom of the Mediterranean like the dew
upon the heart of a flower.
A silent dawn.
Veils of transparent greys and purples and mauves still conceal the
distant horizon. Breathless calm rests upon the water and that awed hush
which at times descends upon Nature herself when the finger of Destiny
marks an eventful hour.
But now the grey and the purple veils beyond the headland are lifted one
by one; the midst of dawn rises upwards like the smoke of incense from
some giant censers swung by unseen, mighty hands.
The sky above is of a translucent green, studded with stars that blink
and now are slowly extinguished one by one: the green has turned to
silver, and the silver to lemon-gold: the veils beyond the upland are
flying in the wake of departing Night.
The lemon-gold turns to glowing amber, anon to orange and crimson, and
far inland the mountain peaks, peeping shyly through the mist, blush a
vivid rose to find themselves so fair.
And to the south, there where fiery sea blends and merges with fiery
sky, a tiny black speck has just come into view. Larger and larger it
grows as it draws nearer to the land, now it seems like a bird with
wings outspread--an eagle flying swiftly to the shores of France.
In the bay the fisher folk, who are making ready for their day's work,
pause a moment as they haul up their nets: with rough brown hands held
above their eyes they look out upon that black speck--curious,
interested, for the ship is not one they have seen in these waters
before.
"'Tis the Emperor come back from Elba!" says someone.
The men laugh and shrug their shoulders: that tale has been told so
often in these parts during the past year: the good folk have ceased to
believe in it. It has almost become a legend now, that story that the
Emperor was coming back--their Emperor--the man with the battered hat
and the grey redingote: the people's Emperor, he who led them from
victory to victory, whose eagles soared above every capital and every
tower in Europe, he who made France glorious and respected: her
citizens, men, her soldiers, heroes.
And with stately majesty the dawn yields to day, the last tones of
orange have faded from the sky: it is once more of a translucent green
merging into sapphire overhead. And the great orb in the east rises from
out the trammels of the mist, and from awakening Earth and Sea comes the
great love-call, the triumphant call of Day. And far away upon the
horizon to the south, the black speck becomes more distinct and more
clear; it takes shape, substance, life.
It divides and multiplies, for now there are three or four specks
silhouetted against the sky--not three or four, but five--no! six--no!
seven! Seven black specks which detach themselves one by one, one from
another and from the vagueness beyond--experienced eyes scan the horizon
with enthusiasm and excitement which threaten to blur the clearness of
their vision. Anyone with an eye for sea-going craft can distinguish
that topsail-schooner there, well ahead of the rest of the tiny fleet,
skimming the water with swift grace, and immediately behind her the
three-masted polacca--hm! have we not seen her in these waters
before?--and the two graceful feluccas whose lateen sails look so like
the outspread wings of a bird!
But it is on the schooner that all eyes are riveted now: she skips along
so fast that within an hour her pennant is easily distinguishable--red
and white! the flag of Elba, of that diminutive toy-kingdom which for
the past twelve months has been ruled over by the mightiest conqueror
this modern world has ever known.
The flag of Elba! then it is the Emperor coming back!
A crowd had gathered on the headland now--a crowd made up of bare-footed
fisher-folk, men, women, children, and of the labourers from the
neighbouring fields and vineyards: they have all come to greet the
Emperor--the man with the battered hat and the grey redingote, the
curious, flashing eyes and mouth that always spoke genial words to the
people of France!
Traitors turned against him--Ney! de Marmont! Bernadotte! those on whom
he had showered the full measure of his friendship, whom he had loaded
with honours, with glory and with wealth. Foreign armies joined in
coalition against France and forced the people's Emperor to leave his
country which he loved so well, had sent him to humiliation and to
exile. But he had come back, as all his people had always said that he
would! He had come back, there was the topsail-schooner that was
bringing him home so swiftly now.
Another hour and the schooner's name can be deciphered quite
easily--_L'Inconstant_, and that of the polacca _Le Saint-Esprit_ . . .
and beyond these _L'Etoile_ and _Saint Joseph_, _Caroline_. And the
entire little fleet flies the flag of Elba.
The Emperor has come back! Bare-footed fisherfolk whisper it among
themselves, the labourers in the valley call the news to those upon the
hills.
Why! after another hour or so, there are those among the small knot who
stand congregated on the highest point of the headland, who swear that
they can see the Emperor--standing on the deck of the _L'Inconstant_.
He wears a black bicorne hat, and his grey redingote: he is pacing up
and down the deck of the schooner, his hands held behind his back in the
manner so familiar to the people of France. And on his hat is pinned the
tricolour of France. Everyone on shore who is on the look-out for the
schooner now can see the tricolour quite plainly. A mighty shout escapes
the lusty throats of the men on the beach, the women are on the verge of
tears from sheer excitement, and that shout is repeated again and again
and sends its ringing echo from cliff to cliff, and from fort to fort as
the red and white pennant of the kingdom of Elba is hauled down from the
ship's stern and the tricolour flag--the flag of Liberty and of
regenerate France--is hoisted in its stead.
The soft breeze from the south unfurls its folds and these respond to
his caress. The red, white and blue make a trenchant note of colour now
against the tender hues of the sea: flaunting its triumphant message in
the face of awakening nature.
The eagle has left the bounds of its narrow cage of Elba: it has taken
wing over the blue Mediterranean! within an hour, perhaps, or two, it
will rest on the square church tower of Antibes--but not for long. Soon
it will take to its adventurous flight again, and soar over valley and
mountain peak, from church belfry to church belfry until it finds its
resting-place upon the towers of Notre Dame.
One hour after noon the curtain has risen upon the first act of the most
adventurous tragedy the world has ever known.
Napoleon Bonaparte has landed in the bay of Jouan with eleven hundred
men and four guns to reconquer France and the sovereignty of the world.
Six hundred of his old guard, six score of his Polish light cavalry,
three or four hundred Corsican chasseurs: thus did that sublime
adventurer embark upon an expedition the most mad, the most daring, the
most heroic, the most egotistical, the most tragic and the most glorious
which recording Destiny has ever written in the book of this world.
The boats were lowered at one hour after noon, and the landing was
slowly and methodically begun: too slowly for the patience of the old
guard--the old "growlers" with grizzled moustache and furrowed cheeks,
down which tears of joy and enthusiasm were trickling at sight of the
shores of France. They were not going to wait for the return of those
boats which had conveyed the Polish troopers on shore: they took to the
water and waded across the bay, tossing the salt spray all around them
as they trod the shingle, like so many shaggy dogs enjoying a bath; and
when six hundred fur bonnets darkened the sands of the bay at the foot
of the Tower of la Gabelle, such a shout of "Vive l'Empereur" went forth
from six hundred lusty throats that the midday spring air vibrated with
kindred enthusiasm for miles and miles around.
CHAPTER I
THE GLORIOUS NEWS
I
Where the broad highway between Grenoble and Gap parts company from the
turbulent Drac, and after crossing the ravine of Vaulx skirts the
plateau of La Motte with its magnificent panorama of forests and
mountain peaks, a narrow bridle path strikes off at a sharp angle on the
left and in wayward curves continues its length through the woods
upwards to the hamlet of Vaulx and the shrine of Notre Dame.
Far away to the west the valley of the Drac lies encircled by the
pine-covered slopes of the Lans range, whilst towering some seven
thousand and more feet up the snow-clad crest of Grande Moucherolle
glistens like a sea of myriads of rose-coloured diamonds under the kiss
of the morning sun.
There was more than a hint of snow in the sharp, stinging air this
afternoon, even down in the valley, and now the keen wind from the
northeast whipped up the faces of the two riders as they turned their
horses at a sharp trot up the bridle path.
Though it was not long since the sun had first peeped out above the
forests of Pelvoux, the riders looked as if they had already a long
journey to their credit; their horses were covered with sweat and
sprinkled with lather, and they themselves were plentifully bespattered
with mud, for the road in the valley was soft after the thaw. But
despite probable fatigue, both sat their horse with that ease and
unconscious grace which marks the man accustomed to hard and constant
riding, though--to the experienced eye--there would appear a vast
difference in the style and manner in which each horseman handled his
mount.
One of them had the rigid precision of bearing which denotes military
training: he was young and slight of build, with unruly dark hair
fluttering round the temples from beneath his white sugar-loaf hat, and
escaping the trammels of the neatly-tied black silk bow at the nape of
the neck; he held himself very erect and rode his horse on the curb, the
reins gathered tightly in one gloved hand, and that hand held closely
and almost immovably against his chest.
The other sat more carelessly--though in no way more loosely--in his
saddle: he gave his horse more freedom, with a chain-snaffle and reins
hanging lightly between his fingers. He was obviously taller and
probably older than his companion, broader of shoulder and fairer of
skin; you might imagine him riding this same powerful mount across a
sweep of open country, but his friend you would naturally picture to
yourself in uniform on the parade ground.
The riders soon left the valley of the Drac behind them; on ahead the
path became very rocky, winding its way beside a riotous little mountain
stream, whilst higher up still, peeping through the intervening trees,
the white-washed cottages of the tiny hamlet glimmered with dazzling
clearness in the frosty atmosphere. At a sharp bend of the road, which
effectually revealed the foremost of these cottages, distant less than
two kilometres now, the younger of the two men drew rein suddenly, and
lifting his hat with outstretched arm high above his head, he gave a
long sigh which ended in a kind of exultant call of joy.
"There is Notre Dame de Vaulx," he cried at the top of his voice, and
hat still in hand he pointed to the distant hamlet. "There's the spot
where--before the sun darts its midday rays upon us--I shall hear great
and glorious and authentic news of _him_ from a man who has seen him as
lately as forty-eight hours ago, who has touched his hand, heard the
sound of his voice, seen the look of confidence and of hope in his eyes.
Oh!" he went on speaking with extraordinary volubility, "it is all too
good to be true! Since yesterday I have felt like a man in a dream!--I
haven't lived, I have scarcely breathed, I . . ."
The other man broke in upon his ravings with a good-humoured growl.
"You have certainly behaved like an escaped lunatic since early this
morning, my good de Marmont," he said drily. "Don't you think that--as
we shall have to mix again with our fellow-men presently--you might try
to behave with some semblance of reasonableness."
But de Marmont only laughed. He was so excited that his lips trembled
all the time, his hand shook and his eyes glowed just as if some inward
fire was burning deep down in his soul.
"No! I can't," he retorted. "I want to shout and to sing and to cry
'Vive l'Empereur' till those frowning mountains over there echo with my
shouts--and I'll have none of your English stiffness and reserve and
curbing of enthusiasm to-day. I am a lunatic if you will--an escaped
lunatic--if to be mad with joy be a proof of insanity. Clyffurde, my
dear friend," he added more soberly, "I am honestly sorry for you
to-day."
"Thank you," commented his companion drily. "May I ask how I have
deserved this genuine sympathy?"
"Well! because you are an Englishman, and not a Frenchman," said the
younger man earnestly; "because you--as an Englishman--must desire
Napoleon's downfall, his humiliation, perhaps his death, instead of
exulting in his glory, trusting in his star, believing in him,
following him. If I were not a Frenchman on a day like this, if my
nationality or my patriotism demanded that I should fight against
Napoleon, that I should hate him, or vilify him, I firmly believe that I
would turn my sword against myself, so shamed should I feel in my own
eyes."
It was the Englishman's turn to laugh, and he did it very heartily. His
laugh was quite different to his friend's: it had more enjoyment in it,
more good temper, more appreciation of everything that tends to gaiety
in life and more direct defiance of what is gloomy.
He too had reined in his horse, presumably in order to listen to his
friend's enthusiastic tirades, and as he did so there crept into his
merry, pleasant eyes a quaint look of half contemptuous tolerance
tempered by kindly humour.
"Well, you see, my good de Marmont," he said, still laughing, "you
happen to be a Frenchman, a visionary and weaver of dreams. Believe me,"
he added more seriously, "if you had the misfortune to be a prosy,
shop-keeping Englishman, you would certainly not commit suicide just
because you could not enthuse over your favourite hero, but you would
realise soberly and calmly that while Napoleon Bonaparte is allowed to
rule over France--or over any country for the matter of that--there will
never be peace in the world or prosperity in any land."
The younger man made no reply. A shadow seemed to gather over his
face--a look almost of foreboding, as if Fate that already lay in wait
for the great adventurer, had touched the young enthusiast with a
warning finger.
Whereupon Clyffurde resumed gaily once more:
"Shall we," he said, "go slowly on now as far as the village? It is not
yet ten o'clock. Emery cannot possibly be here before noon."
He put his horse to a walk, de Marmont keeping close behind him, and in
silence the two men rode up the incline toward Notre Dame de Vaulx. On
ahead the pines and beech and birch became more sparse, disclosing the
great patches of moss-covered rock upon the slopes of Pelvoux. On
Taillefer the eternal snows appeared wonderfully near in the brilliance
of this early spring atmosphere, and here and there on the roadside
bunches of wild crocus and of snowdrops were already visible rearing
their delicate corollas up against a background of moss.
The tiny village still far away lay in the peaceful hush of a Sunday
morning, only from the little chapel which holds the shrine of Notre
Dame came the sweet, insistent sound of the bell calling the dwellers of
these mountain fastnesses to prayer.
The northeasterly wind was still keen, but the sun was gaining power as
it rose well above Pelvoux, and the sky over the dark forests and
snow-crowned heights was of a glorious and vivid blue.
II
The words "Auberge du Grand Dauphin" looked remarkably inviting, written
in bold, shiny black characters on the white-washed wall of one of the
foremost houses in the village. The riders drew rein once more, this
time in front of the little inn, and as a young ostler in blue blouse
and sabots came hurriedly and officiously forward whilst mine host in
the same attire appeared in the doorway, the two men dismounted,
unstrapped their mantles from their saddle-bows and loudly called for
mulled wine.
Mine host, typical of his calling and of his race, rubicund of cheek,
portly of figure and genial in manner, was over-anxious to please his
guests. It was not often that gentlemen of such distinguished appearance
called at the "Auberge du Grand Dauphin," seeing that Notre Dame de
Vaulx lies perdu on the outskirts of the forests of Pelvoux, that the
bridle path having reached the village leads nowhere save into the
mountains and that La Motte is close by with its medicinal springs and
its fine hostels.
But these two highly-distinguished gentlemen evidently meant to make a
stay of it. They even spoke of a friend who would come and join them
later, when they would expect a substantial _déjeuner_ to be served with
the best wine mine host could put before them. Annette--mine host's
dark-eyed daughter--was all a-flutter at sight of these gallant
strangers, one of them with such fiery eyes and vivacious ways, and the
other so tall and so dignified, with fair skin well-bronzed by the sun
and large firm mouth that had such a pleasant smile on it; her eyes
sparkled at sight of them both and her glib tongue rattled away at truly
astonishing speed.
Would a well-baked omelette and a bit of fricandeau suit the
gentlemen?--Admirably? Ah, well then, that could easily be done!--and
now? in the meanwhile?--Only good mulled wine? That would present no
difficulty either. Five minutes for it to get really hot, as Annette had
made some the previous day for her father who had been on a tiring
errand up to La Mure and had come home cold and starved--and it was
specially good--all the better for having been hotted up once or twice
and the cloves and nutmeg having soaked in for nearly four and twenty
hours.
Where would the gentlemen have it--Outside in the sunshine? . . . Well!
it was very cold, and the wind biting . . . but the gentlemen had
mantles, and she, Annette, would see that the wine was piping hot. . . .
Five minutes and everything would be ready. . . .
What? . . . the tall, fair-skinned gentleman wanted to wash? . . . what
a funny idea! . . . hadn't he washed this morning when he got up? . . .
He had? Well, then, why should he want to wash again? . . . She,
Annette, managed to keep herself quite clean all day, and didn't need
to wash more than once a day. . . . But there! strangers had funny ways
with them . . . she had guessed at once that Monsieur was a stranger, he
had such a fair skin and light brown hair. Well! so long as Monsieur
wasn't English--for the English, she detested!
Why did she detest the English? . . . Because they made war against
France. Well! against the Emperor anyhow, and she, Annette, firmly
believed that if the English could get hold of the Emperor they would
kill him--oh, yes! they would put him on an island peopled by cannibals
and let him be eaten, bones, marrow and all.
And Annette's dark eyes grew very round and very big as she gave forth
her opinion upon the barbarous hatred of the English for "l'Empereur!"
She prattled on very gaily and very volubly, while she dragged a couple
of chairs out into the open, and placed them well in the lee of the wind
and brought a couple of pewter mugs which she set on the table.
She was very much interested in the tall gentleman who had availed
himself of her suggestion to use the pump at the back of the house,
since he was so bent on washing himself; and she asked many questions
about him from his friend.
Ten minutes later the steaming wine was on the table in a huge china
bowl and the Englishman was ladling it out with a long-handled spoon and
filling the two mugs with the deliciously scented cordial. Annette had
disappeared into the house in response to a peremptory call from her
father. The chapel bell had ceased to ring long ago, and she would miss
hearing Mass altogether to-day; and M. le curé, who came on alternate
Sundays all the way from La Motte to celebrate divine service, would be
very angry indeed with her.
Well! that couldn't be helped! Annette would have loved to go to Mass,
but the two distinguished gentlemen expected their friend to arrive at
noon, and the _déjeuner_ to be ready quite by then; so she comforted her
conscience with a few prayers said on her knees before the picture of
the Holy Virgin which hung above her bed, after which she went back to
her housewifely duty with a light heart; but not before she had decided
an important point in her mind--namely, which of those two handsome
gentlemen she liked the best: the dark one with the fiery eyes that
expressed such bold admiration of her young charms, or the tall one with
the earnest grey eyes who looked as if he could pick her up like a
feather and carry her running all the way to the summit of Taillefer.
Annette had indeed made up her mind that the giant with the soft brown
hair and winning smile was, on the whole, the more attractive of the
two.
III
The two friends, with mantles wrapped closely round them, sat outside
the "Grand Dauphin" all unconscious of the problem which had been
disturbing Annette's busy little brain.
The steaming wine had put plenty of warmth into their bones, and though
both had been silent while they sipped their first mug-full, it was
obvious that each was busy with his own thoughts.
Then suddenly the young Frenchman put his mug down and leaned with both
elbows upon the rough deal table, because he wanted to talk
confidentially with his friend, and there was never any knowing what
prying ears might be about.
"I suppose," he said, even as a deep frown told of puzzling thoughts
within the mind, "I suppose that when England hears the news, she will
up and at him again, attacking him, snarling at him even before he has
had time to settle down upon his reconquered throne."
"That throne is not reconquered yet, my friend," retorted the Englishman
drily, "nor has the news of this mad adventure reached England so far,
but . . ."
"But when it does," broke in de Marmont sombrely, "your Castlereagh will
rave and your Wellington will gather up his armies to try and crush the
hero whom France loves and acclaims."
"Will France acclaim the hero, there's the question?"
"The army will--the people will----"
Clyffurde shrugged his shoulders.
"The army, yes," he said slowly, "but the people . . . what people?--the
peasantry of Provence and the Dauphiné, perhaps--what about the town
folk?--your mayors and _préfets_?--your tradespeople? your shopkeepers
who have been ruined by the wars which your hero has made to further his
own ambition. . . ."
"Don't say that, Clyffurde," once more broke in de Marmont, and this
time more vehemently than before. "When you speak like that I could
almost forget our friendship."
"Whether I say it or not, my good de Marmont," rejoined Clyffurde with
his good-humoured smile, "you will anyhow--within the next few
months--days, perhaps--bury our friendship beneath the ashes of your
patriotism. No one, believe me," he added more earnestly, "has a greater
admiration for the genius of Napoleon than I have; his love of France is
sublime, his desire for her glory superb. But underlying his love of
country, there is the love of self, the mad desire to rule, to conquer,
to humiliate. It led him to Moscow and thence to Elba, it has brought
him back to France. It will lead him once again to the Capitol, no
doubt, but as surely too it will lead him on to the Tarpeian Rock whence
he will be hurled down this time, not only bruised, but shattered, a
fallen hero--and you will--a broken idol, for posterity to deal with in
after time as it lists."
"And England would like to be the one to give the hero the final push,"
said de Marmont, not without a sneer.
"The people of England, my friend, hate and fear Bonaparte as they have
never hated and feared any one before in the whole course of their
history--and tell me, have we not cause enough to hate him? For fifteen
years has he not tried to ruin us, to bring us to our knees? tried to
throttle our commerce? break our might upon the sea? He wanted to make a
slave of Britain, and Britain proved unconquerable. Believe me, we hate
your hero less than he hates us."
He had spoken with a good deal of earnestness, but now he added more
lightly, as if in answer to de Marmont's glowering look:
"At the same time," he said, "I doubt if there is a single English
gentleman living at the present moment--let alone the army--who would
refuse ungrudging admiration to Napoleon himself and to his genius. But
as a nation England has her interests to safeguard. She has suffered
enough--and through him--in her commerce and her prosperity in the past
twenty years--she must have peace now at any cost."
"Ah! I know," sighed the other, "a nation of shopkeepers. . . ."
"Yes. We are that, I suppose. We are shopkeepers . . . most of us.
. . ."
"I didn't mean to use the word in any derogatory sense," protested
Victor de Marmont with the ready politeness peculiar to his race. "Why,
even you . . ."
"I don't see why you should say 'even you,'" broke in Clyffurde quietly.
"I am a shopkeeper--nothing more. . . . I buy goods and sell them again.
. . . I buy the gloves which our friend M. Dumoulin manufactures at
Grenoble and sell them to any London draper who chooses to buy them
. . . a very mean and ungentlemanly occupation, is it not?"
He spoke French with perfect fluency, and only with the merest suspicion
of a drawl in the intonation of the vowels, which suggested rather than
proclaimed his nationality; and just now there was not the slightest
tone of bitterness apparent in his deep-toned and mellow voice. Once
more his friend would have protested, but he put up a restraining hand.
"Oh!" he said with a smile, "I don't imagine for a moment that you have
the same prejudices as our mutual friend M. le Comte de Cambray, who
must have made a very violent sacrifice to his feelings when he admitted
me as a guest to his own table. I am sure he must often think that the
servants' hall is the proper place for me."
"The Comte de Cambray," retorted de Marmont with a sneer, "is full up to
his eyes with the prejudices and arrogance of his caste. It is men of
his type--and not Marat or Robespierre--who made the revolution, who
goaded the people of France into becoming something worse than
man-devouring beasts. And, mind you, twenty years of exile did not sober
them, nor did contact with democratic thought in England and America
teach them the most elementary lessons of commonsense. If the Emperor
had not come back to-day, we should be once more working up for
revolution--more terrible this time, more bloody and vengeful, if
possible, than the last."
Then as Clyffurde made no comment on this peroration, the younger man
resumed more lightly:
"And--knowing the Comte de Cambray's prejudices as I do, imagine my
surprise--after I had met you in his house as an honoured guest and on
what appeared to be intimate terms of friendship--to learn that you
. . . in fact . . ."
"That I was nothing more than a shopkeeper," broke in Clyffurde with a
short laugh, "nothing better than our mutual friend M. Dumoulin,
glovemaker, of Grenoble--a highly worthy man whom M. le Comte de Cambray
esteems somewhat lower than his butler. It certainly must have surprised
you very much."
"Well, you know, old de Cambray has a horror of anything that pertains
to trade, and an avowed contempt for everything that he calls
'bourgeois.'"
"There's no doubt about that," assented Clyffurde fervently.
"Perhaps he does not know of your connection with . . ."
"Gloves?"
"With business people in Grenoble generally."
"Oh, yes, he does!" replied the Englishman quietly.
"Well, then?" queried de Marmont.
Then as his friend sat there silent with that quiet, good-humoured smile
lingering round his lips, he added apologetically:
"Perhaps I am indiscreet . . . but I never could understand it . . . and
you English are so reserved . . ."
"That I never told you how M. le Comte de Cambray, Commander of the
Order of the Holy Ghost, Grand Cross of the Order du Lys, Hereditary
Grand Chamberlain of France, etc., etc., came to sit at the same table
as a vendor and buyer of gloves," said Clyffurde gaily. "There's no
secret about it. I owe the Comte's exalted condescension to certain
letters of recommendation which he could not very well disregard."
"Oh! as to that . . ." quoth de Marmont with a shrug of the shoulders,
"people like the de Cambrays have their own codes of courtesy and of
friendship."
"In this case, my good de Marmont, it was the code of ordinary gratitude
that imposed its dictum even upon the autocratic and aristocratic Comte
de Cambray."
"Gratitude?" sneered de Marmont, "in a de Cambray?"
"M. le Comte de Cambray," said Clyffurde with slow emphasis, "his
mother, his sister, his brother-in-law and two of their faithful
servants, were rescued from the very foot of the guillotine by a band of
heroes--known in those days as the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel."
"I knew that!" said de Marmont quietly.
"Then perhaps you also knew that their leader was Sir Percy Blakeney--a
prince among gallant English gentlemen and my dead father's friend. When
my business affairs sent me to Grenoble, Sir Percy warmly recommended me
to the man whose life he had saved. What could M. le Comte de Cambray do
but receive me as a friend? You see, my credentials were exceptional and
unimpeachable."
"Of course," assented de Marmont, "now I understand. But you will admit
that I have had grounds for surprise. You--who were the friend of
Dumoulin, a tradesman, and avowed Bonapartist--two unpardonable crimes
in the eyes of M. le Comte de Cambray," he added with a return to his
former bitterness, "you to be seated at his table and to shake him by
the hand. Why, man! if he knew that I have remained faithful to the
Emperor . . ."
He paused abruptly, and his somewhat full, sensitive lips were pressed
tightly together as if to suppress an insistent outburst of passion.
But Clyffurde frowned, and when he turned away from de Marmont it was in
order to hide a harsh look of contempt.
"Surely," he said, "you have never led the Comte to suppose that you are
a royalist!"
"I have never led him to suppose anything. But he has taken my political
convictions for granted," rejoined de Marmont.
Then suddenly a look of bitter resentment darkened his face, making it
appear hard and lined and considerably older.
"My uncle, Marshal de Marmont, Duc de Raguse, was an abominable
traitor," he went on with ill-repressed vehemence. "He betrayed his
Emperor, his benefactor and his friend. It was the vilest treachery that
has ever disgraced an honourable name. Paris could have held out easily
for another four and twenty hours, and by that time the Emperor would
have been back. But de Marmont gave her over wilfully, scurvily to the
allies. But for his abominable act of cowardice the Emperor never would
have had to endure the shame of his temporary exile at Elba, and Louis
de Bourbon would never have had the chance of wallowing for twelve
months upon the throne of France. But that which is a source of
irreparable shame to me is a virtue in the eyes of all these royalists.
De Marmont's treachery against the Emperor has placed all his kindred in
the forefront of those who now lick the boots of that infamous Bourbon
dynasty, and it did not suit the plans of the Bonapartist party that
we--in the provinces--should proclaim our faith too openly until such
time as the Emperor returned."
"And if the Comte de Cambray had known that you are just an ardent
Bonapartist? . . ." suggested Clyffurde calmly.
"He would long before now have had me kicked out by his lacqueys," broke
in de Marmont with ever-increasing bitterness as he brought his clenched
fist crashing down upon the table, while his dark eyes glowed with a
fierce and passionate resentment. "For men like de Cambray there is only
one caste--the _noblesse_, one religion--the Catholic, one
creed--adherence to the Bourbons. All else is scum, trash, beneath
contempt, hardly human! Oh! if you knew how I loathe these people!" he
continued, speaking volubly and in a voice shaking with suppressed
excitement. "They have learnt nothing, these aristocrats, nothing, I
tell you! the terrible reprisals of the revolution which culminated in
that appalling Reign of Terror have taught them absolutely nothing! They
have not learnt the great lesson of the revolution, that the people will
no longer endure their arrogance and their pretensions, that the old
regime is dead--dead! the regime of oppression and pride and
intolerance! They have learnt nothing!" he reiterated with ever-growing
excitement, "nothing! 'humanity begins with the _noblesse_' is still
their watchword to-day as it was before the irate people sent hundreds
of them to perish miserably on the guillotine--the rest of mankind, to
them, is only cattle made to toil for the well-being of their class. Oh!
I loathe them, I tell you! I loathe them from the bottom of my soul!"
"And yet you and your kind are rapidly becoming at one with them," said
Clyffurde, his quiet voice in strange contrast to the other man's
violent agitation.
"No, we are not," protested de Marmont emphatically. "The men whom
Napoleon created marshals and peers of France have been openly snubbed
at the Court of Louis XVIII. Ney, who is prince of Moskowa and next to
Napoleon himself the greatest soldier of France, has seen his wife
treated little better than a chambermaid by the Duchesse d'Angoulême and
the ladies of the old _noblesse_. My uncle is marshal of France, and Duc
de Raguse and I am the heir to his millions, but the Comte de Cambray
will always consider it a mesalliance for his daughter to marry me."
The note of bitter resentment, of wounded pride and smouldering hatred
became more and more marked while he spoke: his voice now sounded hoarse
and his throat seemed dry. Presently he raised his mug to his lips and
drank eagerly, but his hand was shaking visibly as he did this, and some
of the wine was spilled on the table.
There was silence for a while outside the little inn, silence which
seemed full of portent, for through the pure mountain air there was
wafted the hot breath of men's passions--fierce, dominating,
challenging. Love, hatred, prejudices and contempt--all were portrayed
on de Marmont's mobile face: they glowed in his dark eyes and breathed
through his quivering nostrils. Now he rested his elbow on the table and
his chin in his hand, his nervy fingers played a tattoo against his
teeth, clenched together like those of some young feline creature which
sees its prey coming along and is snarling at the sight.
Clyffurde, with those deep-set, earnest grey eyes of his, was silently
watching his friend. His hand did not shake, nor did the breath come any
quicker from his broad chest. Yet deep down behind the wide brow, behind
those same overshadowed eyes, a keen observer would of a surety have
detected the signs of a latent volcano of passions, all the more strong
and virile as they were kept in perfect control. It was he who presently
broke the silence, and his voice was quite steady when he spoke, though
perhaps a trifle more toneless, more dead, than usual.
"And," he said, "what of Mlle. Crystal in all this?"
"Crystal?" queried the other curtly, "what about her?"
"She is an ardent royalist, more strong in her convictions and her
enthusiasms than women usually are."
"And what of that?" rejoined de Marmont fiercely. "I love Crystal."
"But when she learns that you . . ."
"She shall not learn it," rejoined the other cynically. "We sign our
marriage contract to-night: the wedding is fixed for Tuesday. Until then
I can hold my peace."
An exclamation of hot protest almost escaped the Englishman's lips: his
hand which rested on the table became so tightly clenched that the hard
knuckles looked as if they would burst through their fetters of sinew
and skin, and he made no pretence at concealing the look of burning
indignation which flashed from his eyes.
"But man!" he exclaimed, "a deception such as you propose is cruel and
monstrous. . . . In view, too, of what has occurred in the past few days
. . . in view of what may happen if the news which we have heard is true
. . ."
"In view of all that, my friend," retorted de Marmont firmly, "the old
regime has had its nine days of wonder and of splendour. The Emperor has
come back! we, who believe in him, who have remained true to him in his
humiliation and in his misfortunes may once more raise our heads and
loudly proclaim our loyalty. The return of the Emperor will once more
put his dukes and his marshals in their rightful place on a level with
the highest nobility of France. The Comte de Cambray will realise that
all his hopes of regaining his fortune through the favours of the
Bourbons have by force of circumstances come to naught. Like most of the
old _noblesse_ who emigrated he is without a sou. He may choose to look
on me with contempt, but he will no longer desire to kick me out of his
house, for he will be glad enough to see the Cambray 'scutcheon regilt
with de Marmont gold."
"But Mademoiselle Crystal?" insisted Clyffurde, almost appealingly, for
his whole soul had revolted at the cynicism of the other man.
"Crystal has listened to that ape, St. Genis," replied de Marmont drily,
"one of her own caste . . . a marquis with sixteen quarterings to his
family escutcheon and not a sou in his pockets. She is very young, and
very inexperienced. She has seen nothing of the world as yet--nothing.
She was born and brought up in exile--in England, in the midst of that
narrow society formed by impecunious _émigrés_. . . ."
"And shopkeeping Englishmen," murmured Clyffurde, under his breath.
"She could never have married St. Genis," reiterated Victor de Marmont
with deliberate emphasis. "The man hasn't a sou. Even Crystal realised
from the first that nothing ever could have come of that boy and girl
dallying. The Comte never would have consented. . . ."
"Perhaps not. But she--Mademoiselle Crystal--would she ever have
consented to marry you, if she had known what your convictions are?"
"Crystal is only a child," said de Marmont with a light shrug of the
shoulders. "She will learn to love me presently when St. Genis has
disappeared out of her little world, and she will accept my convictions
as she has accepted me, submissive to my will as she was to that of her
father."
Once more a hot protest of indignation rose to Clyffurde's lips, but
this too he smothered resolutely. What was the use of protesting? Could
he hope to change with a few arguments the whole cynical nature of a
man? And what right had he even to interfere? The Comte de Cambray and
Mademoiselle Crystal were nothing to him: in their minds they would
never look upon him even as an equal--let alone as a friend. So the
bitter words died upon his lips.
"And you have been content to win a wife on such terms!" was all that he
said.
"I have had to be content," was de Marmont's retort. "Crystal is the
only woman I have ever cared for. She will love me in time, I doubt not,
and her sense of duty will make her forget St. Genis quickly enough."
Then as Clyffurde made no further comment silence fell once more between
the two men. Perhaps even de Marmont felt that somehow, during the past
few moments, the slender bond of friendship which similarity of tastes
and a certain similarity of political ideals had forged between him and
the stranger had been strained to snapping point, and this for a reason
which he could not very well understand. He drank another draught of
wine and gave a quick sigh of satisfaction with the world in general,
and also with himself, for he did not feel that he had done or said
anything which could offend the keenest susceptibilities of his friend.
He looked with a sudden sense of astonishment at Clyffurde, as if he
were only seeing him now for the first time. His keen dark eyes took in
with a rapid glance the Englishman's powerful personality, the square
shoulders, the head well erect, the strong Anglo-Saxon chin firmly set,
the slender hands always in repose. In the whole attitude of the man
there was an air of will-power which had never struck de Marmont quite
so forcibly as it did now, and a virility which looked as ready to
challenge Fate as it was able to conquer her if she proved adverse.
And just now there was a curious look in those deep-set eyes--a look of
contempt or of pity--de Marmont was not sure which, but somehow the look
worried him and he would have given much to read the thoughts which were
hidden behind the high, square brow.
However, he asked no questions, and thus the silence remained unbroken
for some time save for the soughing of the northeast wind as it whistled
through the pines, whilst from the tiny chapel which held the shrine of
Notre Dame de Vaulx came the sound of a soft-toned bell, ringing the
midday Angelus.
Just then round that same curve in the road, where the two riders had
paused an hour ago in sight of the little hamlet, a man on horseback
appeared, riding at a brisk trot up the rugged, stony path.
Victor de Marmont woke from his rêverie:
"There's Emery," he cried.
He jumped to his feet, then he picked up his hat from the table where he
had laid it down, tossed it up into the air as high as it would go, and
shouted with all his might:
"Vive l'Empereur!"
IV
The man who now drew rein with abrupt clumsiness in front of the auberge
looked hot, tired and travel-stained. His face was covered with sweat
and his horse with lather, the lapel of his coat was torn, his breeches
and boots were covered with half-frozen mud.
But having brought his horse to a halt, he swung himself out of the
saddle with the brisk air of a boy who has enjoyed his first ride across
country. Surgeon-Captain Emery was a man well over forty, but to-day his
eyes glowed with that concentrated fire which burns in the heart at
twenty, and he shook de Marmont by the hand with a vigour which made the
younger man wince with the pain of that iron grip.
"My friend, Mr. Clyffurde, an English gentleman," said Victor de Marmont
hastily in response to a quick look of suspicious enquiry which flashed
out from under Emery's bushy eyebrows. "You can talk quite freely,
Emery; and for God's sake tell us your news!"
But Emery could hardly speak. He had been riding hard for the past three
hours, his throat was parched, and through it his voice came up hoarse
and raucous: nevertheless he at once began talking in short, jerky
sentences.
"He landed on Wednesday," he said. "I parted from him on Friday . . . at
Castellane . . . you had my message?"
"This morning early--we came at once."
"I thought we could talk better here--first--but I was spent last
night--I had to sleep at Corps . . . so I sent to you. . . . But now, in
Heaven's name, give me something to drink. . . ."
While he drank eagerly and greedily of the cold spiced wine which
Clyffurde had served out to him, he still scrutinised the Englishman
closely from under his frowning and bushy eyebrows.
Clyffurde's winning glance, however, seemed to have conquered his
mistrust, for presently, after he had put his mug down again, he
stretched out a cordial hand to him.
"Now that our Emperor is back with us," he said as if in apology for his
former suspicions, "we, his friends, are bound to look askance at every
Englishman we meet."
"Of course you are," said Clyffurde with his habitual good-humoured
smile as he grasped Surgeon-Captain Emery's extended hand.
"It is the hand of a friend I am grasping?" insisted Emery.
"Of a personal friend, if you will call him so," replied Clyffurde.
"Politically, I hardly count, you see. I am just a looker-on at the
game."
The surgeon-captain's keen eyes under their bushy brows shot a rapid
glance at the tall, well-knit figure of the Englishman.
"You are not a fighting man?" he queried, much amazed.
"No," replied Clyffurde drily. "I am only a tradesman."
"Your news, Emery, your news!" here broke in Victor de Marmont, who
during the brief colloquy between his two friends had been hardly able
to keep his excitement in check.
Emery turned away from the other man in silence. Clearly there was
something about that fine, noble-looking fellow--who proclaimed himself
a tradesman while that splendid physique of his should be at his
country's service--which still puzzled the worthy army surgeon.
But he was primarily very thirsty and secondly as eager to impart his
news as de Marmont was to hear it, so now without wasting any further
words on less important matter he sat down close to the table and
stretched his short, thick legs out before him.
"My news is of the best," he said with lusty fervour. "We left Porto
Ferrajo on Sunday last but only landed on Wednesday, as I told you, for
we were severely becalmed in the Mediterranean. We came on shore at
Antibes at midday of March 1st and bivouacked in an olive grove on the
way to Cannes. That was a sight good for sore eyes, my friends, to see
him sitting there by the camp fire, his feet firmly planted upon the
soil of France. What a man, Sir, what a man!" he continued, turning
directly to Clyffurde, "on board the _Inconstant_ he had composed and
dictated his proclamation to the army, to the soldiers of France! the
finest piece of prose, Sir, I have ever read in all my life. But you
shall judge of it, Sir, you shall judge. . . ."
And with hands shaking with excitement he fumbled in the bulging pocket
of his coat and extracted therefrom a roll of loose papers roughly tied
together with a piece of tape.
"You shall read it, Sir," he went on mumbling, while his trembling
fingers vainly tried to undo the knot in the tape, "you shall read it.
And then mayhap you'll tell me if your Pitt was ever half so eloquent.
Curse these knots!" he exclaimed angrily.
"Will you allow me, Sir?" said Clyffurde quietly, and with steady hand
and firm fingers he undid the refractory knots and spread the papers out
upon the table.
Already de Marmont had given a cry of loyalty and of triumph.
"His proclamation!" he exclaimed, and a sigh of infinite satisfaction
born of enthusiasm and of hero-worship escaped his quivering lips.
The papers bore the signature of that name which had once been
all-powerful in its magical charm, at sound of which Europe had trembled
and crowns had felt insecure, the name which men had breathed--nay!
still breathed--either with passionate loyalty or with bitter
hatred:--"Napoleon."
They were copies of the proclamation wherewith the heroic
adventurer--confident in the power of his diction--meant to reconquer
the hearts of that army whom he had once led to such glorious victories.
De Marmont read the long document through from end to end in a
half-audible voice. Now and again he gave a little cry--a cry of loyalty
at mention of those victories of Austerlitz and Jena, of Wagram and of
Eckmühl, at mention of those imperial eagles which had led the armies of
France conquering and glorious throughout the length and breadth of
Europe--or a cry of shame and horror at mention of the traitor whose
name he bore and who had delivered France into the hands of strangers
and his Emperor into those of his enemies.
And when the young enthusiast had read the proclamation through to the
end he raised the paper to his lips and fervently kissed the imprint of
the revered name: "Napoleon."
"Now tell me more about him," he said finally, as he leaned both elbows
on the table and fastened his glowing eyes upon the equally heated face
of Surgeon-Captain Emery.
"Well!" resumed the latter, "as I told you we bivouacked among the olive
trees on the way to Cannes. The Emperor had already sent Cambronne on
ahead with forty of his grenadiers to commandeer what horses and mules
he could, as we were not able to bring many across from Porto Ferrajo.
'Cambronne,' he said, 'you shall be in command of the vanguard in this
the finest campaign which I have ever undertaken. My orders are to you,
that you do not fire a single unnecessary shot. Remember that I mean to
reconquer my imperial crown without shedding one drop of French blood.'
Oh! he is in excellent health and in excellent spirits! Such a man! such
fire in his eyes! such determination in his actions! Younger, bolder
than ever! I tell you, friends," continued the worthy surgeon-captain as
he brought the palm of his hand flat down upon the table with an
emphatic bang, "that it is going to be a triumphal march from end to end
of France. The people are mad about him. At Roccavignon, just outside
Cannes, where we bivouacked on Thursday, men, women and children were
flocking round to see him, pressing close to his knees, bringing him
wine and flowers; and the people were crying 'Vive l'Empereur!' even in
the streets of Grasse."
"But the army, man? the army?" cried de Marmont, "the garrisons of
Antibes and Cannes and Grasse? did the men go over to him at once?--and
the officers?"
"We hadn't encountered the army yet when I parted from him on Friday,"
retorted Emery with equal impatience, "we didn't go into Antibes and we
avoided Cannes. You must give him time. The people in the towns wouldn't
at first believe that he had come back. General Masséna, who is in
command at Marseilles, thought fit to spread the news that a band of
Corsican pirates had landed on the littoral and were marching
inland--devastating villages as they marched. The peasants from the
mountains were the first to believe that the Emperor had really come,
and they wandered down in their hundreds to see him first and to spread
the news of his arrival ahead of him. By the time we reached Castellane
the mayor was not only ready to receive him but also to furnish him with
5,000 rations of meat and bread, with horses and with mules. Since then
he has been at Digue and at Sisteron. Be sure that the garrisons of
those cities have rallied round his eagles by now."
Then whilst Emery paused for breath de Marmont queried eagerly:
"And so . . . there has been no contretemps?"
"Nothing serious so far," replied the other. "We had to abandon our guns
at Grasse, the Emperor felt that they would impede the rapidity of his
progress; and our second day's march was rather trying, the mountain
passes were covered in snow, the lancers had to lead their horses
sometimes along the edge of sheer precipices, they were hampered too by
their accoutrements, their long swords and their lances; others--who had
no mounts--had to carry their heavy saddles and bridles on those
slippery paths. But _he_ was walking too, stick in hand, losing his
footing now and then, just as they did, and once he nearly rolled down
one of those cursed precipices: but always smiling, always cheerful,
always full of hope. At Antibes young Casabianca got himself arrested
with twenty grenadiers--they had gone into the town to requisition a few
provisions. When the news reached us some of the younger men tried to
persuade the Emperor to march on the city and carry the place by force
of arms before Casabianca's misfortune got bruited abroad: 'No!' he
said, 'every minute is precious. All we can do is to get along faster
than the evil news can travel. If half my small army were captive at
Antibes, I would still move on. If every man were a prisoner in the
citadel, I would march on alone.' That's the man, my friends," cried
Emery with ever-growing enthusiasm, "that's our Emperor!"
And he cast a defiant look on Clyffurde, as much as to say: "Bring on
your Wellington and your armies now! the Emperor has come back! the
whole of France will know how to guard him!" Then he turned to de
Marmont.
"And now tell me about Grenoble," he said.
"Grenoble had an inkling of the news already last night," said de
Marmont, whose enthusiasm was no whit cooler than that of Emery.
"Marchand has been secretly assembling his troops, he has sent to
Chambéry for the 7th and 11th regiment of the line and to Vienne for the
4th Hussars. Inside Grenoble he has the 5th infantry regiment, the 4th
of artillery and 3rd of engineers, with a train squadron. This morning
he is holding a council of war, and I know that he has been in constant
communication with Masséna. The news is gradually filtering through into
the town: people stand at the street corners and whisper among
themselves; the word 'l'Empereur' seemed wafted upon this morning's
breeze. . . ."
"And by to-night we'll have the Emperor's proclamation to his people
pinned up on the walls of the Hôtel de Ville!" exclaimed Emery, and with
hands still trembling with excitement he gathered the precious papers
once more together and slipped them back into his coat pocket. Then he
made a visible effort to speak more quietly: "And now," he said, "for
one very important matter which, by the way, was the chief reason for my
asking you, my good de Marmont, to meet me here before my getting to
Grenoble."
"Yes? What is it?" queried de Marmont eagerly.
Surgeon-Captain Emery leaned across the table; instinctively he dropped
his voice, and though his excitement had not abated one jot, though his
eyes still glowed and his hands still fidgeted nervously, he had forced
himself at last to a semblance of calm.
"The matter is one of money," he said slowly. "The Emperor has some
funds at his disposal, but as you know, that scurvy government of the
Restoration never handed him over one single sou of the yearly revenue
which it had solemnly agreed and sworn to pay to him with regularity.
Now, of course," he continued still more emphatically, "we who believe
in our Emperor as we believe in God, we are absolutely convinced that
the army will rally round him to a man. The army loves him and has
never ceased to love him, the army will follow him to victory and to
death. But the most loyal army in the world cannot subsist without
money, and the Emperor has little or none. The news of his triumphant
march across France will reach Paris long before he does, it will enable
His Most Excellent and Most Corpulent Majesty King Louis to skip over to
England or to Ghent with everything in the treasury on which he can lay
his august hands. Now, de Marmont, do you perceive what the serious
matter is which caused me to meet you here--twenty-five kilomètres from
Grenoble, where I ought to be at the present moment."
"Yes! I do perceive very grave trouble there," said de Marmont with
characteristic insouciance, "but one which need not greatly worry the
Emperor. I am rich, thank God! and . . ."
"And may God bless you, my dear de Marmont, for the thought," broke in
Emery earnestly, "but what may be called a large private fortune is as
nothing before the needs of an army. Soon, of course, the Emperor will
be in peaceful possession of his throne and will have all the resources
of France at his command, but before that happy time arrives there will
be much fighting, and many days--weeks perhaps--of anxiety to go
through. During those weeks the army must be paid and fed; and your
private fortune, my dear de Marmont, would--even if the Emperor were to
accept your sacrifice, which is not likely--be but as a drop in the
mighty ocean of the cost of a campaign. What are two or even three
millions, my poor, dear friend? It is forty, fifty millions that the
Emperor wants."
De Marmont this time had nothing to say. He was staring moodily and
silently before him.
"Now, that is what I have come to talk to you about," continued Emery
after a few seconds' pause, during which he had once more thrown a
quick, half-suspicious glance on the impassive, though obviously
interested face of the Englishman, "always supposing that Monsieur here
is on our side."
"Neither on your side nor on the other, Captain," said Bobby Clyffurde
with a slight tone of impatience. "I am a mere tradesman, as I have had
the honour to tell you: a spectator at this game of political conflicts.
M. de Marmont knows this well, else he had not asked me to accompany him
to-day nor offered me a mount to enable me to do so. But if you prefer
it," he added lightly, "I can go for a stroll while you discuss these
graver matters."
He would have risen from the table only that Emery immediately detained
him.
"No offence, Sir," said the surgeon-captain bluntly.
"None, I give you my word," assented the Englishman. "It is only natural
that you should wish to discuss such grave matters in private. Let me go
and see to our _déjeuner_ in the meanwhile. I feel sure that the
fricandeau is done to a turn by now. I'll have it dished up in ten
minutes. I pray you take no heed of me," he added in response to
murmured protestations from both de Marmont and Emery. "I would much
prefer to know nothing of these grave matters which you are about to
discuss."
This time Emery did not detain him as he rose and turned to go within in
order to find mine host or Annette. The two Frenchmen took no further
heed of him: wrapped up in the all engrossing subject-matter they
remained seated at the table, leaning across it, their faces close to
one another, their eyes dancing with excitement, questions and
answers--as soon as the stranger's back was turned--already tumbling out
in confusion from their lips.
Clyffurde turned to have a last look at them before he went into the
house, and while he did so his habitual, pleasant, gently-ironical smile
still hovered round his lips. But anon a quickly-suppressed sigh chased
the smile away, and over his face there crept a strange shadow--a look
of longing and of bitter regret.
It was only for a moment, however, the next he had passed his hand
slowly across his forehead, as if to wipe away that shadow and smooth
out those lines of unspoken pain.
Soon his cheerful voice was heard, echoing along the low rafters of the
little inn, loudly calling for Annette and for news of the baked
omelette and the fricandeau.
V
"You really could have talked quite freely before Mr. Clyffurde, my good
Emery," said de Marmont as soon as Bobby had disappeared inside the inn.
"He really takes no part in politics. He is a friend alike of the Comte
de Cambray and of glovemaker Dumoulin. He has visited our Bonapartist
Club. Dumoulin has vouched for him. You see, he is not a fighting man."
"I suppose that you are equally sure that he is not an English spy,"
remarked Emery drily.
"Of course I am sure," asserted de Marmont emphatically. "Dumoulin has
known him for years in business, though this is the first time that
Clyffurde has visited Grenoble. He is in the glove trade in England: his
interests are purely commercial. He came here with introductions to the
Comte de Cambray from a mutual friend in England who seems to be a
personage of vast importance in his own country and greatly esteemed by
the Comte--else you may be sure that that stiff-necked aristocrat would
never have received a tradesman as a guest in his house. But it was in
Dumoulin's house that I first met Bobby Clyffurde. We took a liking to
one another, and since then have ridden a great deal together. He is a
splendid horseman, and I was very glad to be able to offer him a mount
at different times. But our political conversations have never been
very heated or very serious. Clyffurde maintains a detached impersonal
attitude both to the Bonapartist and the royalist cause. I asked him to
accompany me this morning and he gladly consented, for he dearly loves a
horse. I assure you, you might have said anything before him."
"_Eh bien!_ I'm sorry if I've been obstinate and ungracious," said the
surgeon-captain, but in a tone that obviously belied his words, "though,
frankly, I am very glad that we are alone for the moment."
He paused, and with a wave of his thick, short-fingered hand he
dismissed this less important subject-matter and once more spoke with
his wonted eagerness on that which lay nearest his heart.
"Now listen, my good de Marmont," he said, "do you recollect last April
when the Empress--poor wretched, misguided woman--fled so precipitately
from Paris, abandoning the capital, France and her crown at one and the
same time, and taking away with her all the Crown diamonds and money and
treasure belonging to the Emperor? She was terribly ill-advised, of
course, but . . ."
"Yes, I remember all that perfectly well," broke in de Marmont
impatiently.
"Well, then, you know that that abominable Talleyrand sent one of his
emissaries after the Empress and her suite . . . that this
emissary--Dudon was his name--reached Orleans just before Marie Louise
herself got there. . . ."
"And that he ordered, in Talleyrand's name, the seizure of the Empress'
convoy as soon as it arrived in the city," broke in de Marmont again.
"Yes. I recollect that abominable outrage perfectly. Dudon, backed by
the officers of the gendarmerie, managed to rob the Empress of
everything she had, even to the last knife and fork, even to the last
pocket handkerchief belonging to the Emperor and marked with his
initials. Oh! it was monstrous! hellish! devilish! It makes my blood
boil whenever I think of it . . . whenever I think of those fatuous,
treacherous Bourbons gloating over those treasures at the Tuileries,
while our Empress went her way as effectually despoiled as if she had
been waylaid by so many brigands on a public highway."
"Just so," resumed Emery quietly after de Marmont's violent storm of
wrath had subsided. "But I don't know if you also recollect that when
the various cases containing the Emperor's belongings were opened at the
Tuileries, there was just as much disappointment as gloating. Some of
those fatuous Bourbons--as you so rightly call them--expected to find
some forty or fifty millions of the Emperor's personal savings
there--bank-notes and drafts on the banks of France, of England and of
Amsterdam, which they were looking forward to distributing among
themselves and their friends. Your friend the Comte de Cambray would no
doubt have come in too for his share in this distribution. But M. de
Talleyrand is a very wise man! always far-seeing, he knows the
improvidence, the prodigality, the ostentation of these new masters whom
he is so ready to serve. Ere Dudon reached Paris with his booty, M. de
Talleyrand had very carefully eliminated therefrom some five and twenty
million francs in bank-notes and bankers' drafts, which he felt would
come in very usefully once for a rainy day."
"But M. de Talleyrand is immensely rich himself," protested de Marmont.
"Ah! he did not eliminate those five and twenty millions for his own
benefit," said Emery. "I would not so boldly accuse him of theft. The
money has been carefully put away by M. de Talleyrand for the use of His
Corpulent Majesty Louis de Bourbon, XVIIIth of that name."
Then as Emery here made a dramatic pause and looked triumphantly across
at his companion, de Marmont rejoined somewhat bewildered:
"But . . . I don't understand . . ."
"Why I am telling you this?" retorted Emery, still with that triumphant
air. "You shall understand in a moment, my friend, when I tell you that
those five and twenty millions were never taken north to Paris, they
were conveyed in strict secrecy south to Grenoble!"
"To Grenoble?" exclaimed de Marmont.
"To Grenoble," reasserted Emery.
"But why? . . . why such a long way?--why Grenoble?" queried the young
man in obvious puzzlement.
"For several reasons," replied Emery. "Firstly both the préfet of the
department and the military commandant are hot royalists, whilst the
province of Dauphiné is not. In case of any army corps being sent down
there to quell possible and probable revolt, the money would have been
there to hand: also, if you remember, there was talk at the time of the
King of Naples proving troublesome. There, too, in case of a campaign on
the frontier, the money lying ready to hand at Grenoble could prove very
useful. But of course I cannot possibly pretend to give you all the
reasons which actuated M. de Talleyrand when he caused five and twenty
millions of stolen money to be conveyed secretly to Grenoble rather than
to Paris. His ways are more tortuous than any mere army-surgeon can
possibly hope to gauge. Enough that he did it and that at this very
moment there are five and twenty millions which are the rightful
property of the Emperor locked up in the cellars of the Hôtel de Ville
at Grenoble."
"But . . ." murmured de Marmont, who still seemed very bewildered at all
that he had heard, "are you sure?"
"Quite sure," affirmed Emery emphatically. "Dumoulin brought news of it
to the Emperor at Elba several months ago, and you know that he and his
Bonapartist Club always have plenty of spies in and around the
préfecture. The money is there," he reiterated with still greater
emphasis, "now the question is how are we going to get hold of it."
"Easily," rejoined de Marmont with his habitual enthusiasm, "when the
Emperor marches into Grenoble and the whole of the garrison rallies
around him, he can go straight to the Hôtel de Ville and take everything
that he wants."
"Always supposing that M. le préfet does not anticipate the Emperor's
coming by conveying the money to Paris or elsewhere before we can get
hold of it," quoth Emery drily.
"Oh! Fourier is not sufficiently astute for that."
"Perhaps not. But we must not neglect possibilities. That money would be
a perfect godsend to the Emperor. It was originally his too, _par Dieu!_
Anyhow, my good de Marmont, that is what I wanted to talk over quietly
with you before I get into Grenoble. Can you think of any means of
getting hold of that money in case Fourier has the notion of conveying
it to some other place of safety?"
"I would like to think that over, Emery," said de Marmont thoughtfully.
"As you say, we of the Bonapartist Club at Grenoble have spies inside
the Hôtel de Ville. We must try and find out what Fourier means to do as
soon as he realises that the Emperor is marching on Grenoble: and then
we must act accordingly and trust to luck and good fortune."
"And to the Emperor's star," rejoined Emery earnestly; "it is once more
in the ascendant. But the matter of the money is a serious one, de
Marmont. You will deal with it seriously?"
"Seriously!" ejaculated de Marmont.
Once more the unquenchable fire of undying devotion to his hero glowed
in the young man's eyes.
"Everything pertaining to the Emperor," he said fervently, "is serious
to me. For a whim of his I would lay down my life. I will think of all
you have told me, Emery, and here, beneath the blue dome of God's sky,
I swear that I will get the Emperor the money that he wants or lose mine
honour and my life in the attempt.
"Amen to that," rejoined Emery with a deep sigh of satisfaction. "You
are a brave man, de Marmont, would to heaven every Frenchman was like
you. And now," he added with sudden transition to a lighter mood, "let
Annette dish up the fricandeau. Here's our friend the tradesman, who was
born to be a soldier. M. Clyffurde," he added loudly, calling to the
Englishman who had just appeared in the doorway of the inn, "my grateful
thanks to you--not only for your courtesy, but for expediting that
delicious _déjeuner_ which tickles my appetite so pleasantly. I pray you
sit down without delay. I shall have to make an early start after the
meal, as I must be inside Grenoble before dark."
Clyffurde, good-humoured, genial, quiet as usual, quickly responded to
the surgeon-captain's desire. He took his seat once more at the table
and spoke of the weather and the sunshine, the Alps and the snows the
while Annette spread a cloth and laid plates and knives and forks before
the distinguished gentlemen.
"We all want to make an early start, eh, my dear Clyffurde?" ejaculated
de Marmont gaily. "We have serious business to transact this night with
M. le Comte de Cambray, and partake too of his gracious hospitality,
what?"
Emery laughed.
"Not I forsooth," he said. "M. le Comte would as soon have Satan or
Beelzebub inside his doors. And I marvel, my good de Marmont, that you
have succeeded in keeping on such friendly terms with that royalist
ogre."
"I?" said de Marmont, whose inward exultation radiated from his entire
personality, "I, my dear Emery? Did you not know that I am that royalist
ogre's future son-in-law? _Par Dieu!_ but this is a glorious day for me
as well as a glorious day for France! Emery, dear friend, wish me joy
and happiness. On Tuesday I wed Mademoiselle Crystal de
Cambray--to-night we sign our marriage contract! Wish me joy, I say!
she's a bride well worth the winning! Napoleon sets forth to conquer a
throne--I to conquer love. And you, old sober-face, do not look so
glum!" he added, turning to Clyffurde.
And his ringing laugh seemed to echo from end to end of the narrow
valley.
After which a lighter atmosphere hung around the table outside the
"Auberge du Grand Dauphin." There was but little talk of the political
situation, still less of party hatred and caste prejudices. The hero's
name was still on the lips of the two men who worshipped him, and
Clyffurde, faithful to his attitude of detachment from political
conflicts, listened quite unmoved to the impassioned dithyrambs of his
friends.
But so absorbed were these two in their conversation and their joy that
they failed to notice that Clyffurde hardly touched the excellent
_déjeuner_ set before him and left mine host's fine Burgundy almost
untasted.
CHAPTER II
THE OLD REGIME
I
On that same day and at about the same time when Victor de Marmont and
his English friend first turned their horses up the bridle path and
sighted Notre Dame de Vaulx (when, if you remember, the young Frenchman
drew rein and fell to apostrophising the hamlet, the day, the hour and
the glorious news which he was expecting to hear) at about that
self-same hour, I say, in the Château de Brestalou, situate on the right
bank of the Isère at a couple of kilomètres from Grenoble, the big
folding doors of solid mahogany which lead from the suite of vast
reception rooms to the small boudoir beyond were thrown open and Hector
appeared to announce that M. le Comte de Cambray would be ready to
receive Mme. la Duchesse in the library in a quarter of an hour.
Mme. la Duchesse douairière d'Agen thereupon closed the gilt-edged,
much-bethumbed Missal which she was reading--since this was Sunday and
she had been unable to attend Mass owing to that severe twinge of
rheumatism in her right knee--and placed it upon the table close to her
elbow; then with delicate, bemittened hand she smoothed out one unruly
crease in her puce silk gown and finally looked up through her round,
bone-rimmed spectacles at the sober-visaged, majestic personage who
stood at attention in the doorway.
"Tell M. le Comte, my good Hector," she said with slow deliberation,
"that I will be with him at the time which he has so graciously
appointed."
Hector bowed himself out of the room with that perfect decorum which
proclaims the well-trained domestic of an aristocratic house. As soon as
the tall mahogany doors were closed behind him, Mme. la Duchesse took
her spectacles off from her high-bred nose and gave a little sniff,
which caused Mademoiselle Crystal to look up from her book and mutely to
question Madame with those wonderful blue eyes of hers.
"Ah ça, my little Crystal," was Madame's tart response to that eloquent
enquiry, "does Monsieur my brother imagine himself to be a second
Bourbon king, throning it in the Tuileries and granting audiences to the
ladies of his court? or is it only for my edification that he plays this
magnificent game of etiquette and ceremonial and other stupid
paraphernalia which have set me wondering since last night? M. le Comte
will receive Mme. la Duchesse in a quarter of an hour forsooth," she
added, mimicking Hector's pompous manner; "_par Dieu!_ I should think
indeed that he would receive his own sister when and where it suited her
convenience--not his."
Crystal was silent for a moment or two: and in those same expressive
eyes which she kept fixed on Madame's face, the look of mute enquiry had
become more insistent. It almost seemed as if she were trying to
penetrate the underlying thoughts of the older woman, as if she tried to
read all that there was in that kindly glance of hidden sarcasm, of
humour or tolerance, or of gentle contempt. Evidently what she read in
the wrinkled face and the twinkling eyes pleased and reassured her, for
now the suspicion of a smile found its way round the corners of her
sensitive mouth.
There are some very old people living in Grenoble at the present day
whose mothers or fathers have told them that they remembered
Mademoiselle Crystal de Cambray quite well in the year that M. le Comte
returned from England and once more took possession of his ancestral
home on the bank of the Isère, which those awful Terrorists of '92 had
taken away from him. Louis XVIII., the Benevolent king, had promptly
restored the old château to its rightful owner, when he himself, after
years of exile, mounted the throne of his fathers, and the usurper
Bonaparte was driven out of France by the armies of Europe allied
against him, and sent to cool his ambitions in the island fastnesses of
Elba.
Mademoiselle de Cambray was just nineteen in that year 1814 which was so
full of grace for the Bourbon dynasty and all its faithful adherents,
and in February of the following year she attained her twentieth
birthday. Of course you know that she was born in England, and that her
mother was English, for had not M. le Comte been obliged to fly before
the fury of the Terrorists, whose dreaded Committee of Public Safety had
already arrested him as a "suspect" and condemned him to the guillotine.
He had contrived to escape death by what was nothing short of a miracle,
and he had lived for twenty years in England, and there had married a
beautiful English girl from whom Mademoiselle Crystal had inherited the
deep blue eyes and brilliant skin which were the greatest charm of her
effulgent beauty.
I like to think of her just as she was on that memorable day early in
March of the year 1815--just as she sat that morning on a low stool
close to Mme. la Duchesse's high-backed chair, and with her eyes fixed
so enquiringly upon Madame's kind old face. Her fair hair was done up in
the quaint loops and curls which characterised the mode of the moment:
she had on a white dress cut low at the neck and had wrapped a soft
cashmere shawl round her shoulders, for the weather was cold and there
was no fire in the stately open hearth.
Having presumably arrived at the happy conclusion that Madame's wrath
was only on the surface, Crystal now said gently:
"Father loves all this etiquette, _ma tante_; it brings back memories of
a very happy past. It is the only thing he has left now," she added with
a little sigh, "the only bit out of the past which that awful revolution
could not take away from him. You will try to be indulgent to him, aunt
darling, won't you?"
"Indulgent?" retorted the old lady with a shrug of her shoulders, "of
course I'll be indulgent. It's no affair of mine and he does as he
pleases. But I should have thought that twenty years spent in England
would have taught him commonsense, and twenty years' experience in
earning a precarious livelihood as a teacher of languages in . . ."
"Hush, aunt, for pity's sake," broke in Crystal hurriedly, and she put
up her hands almost as if she wished to stop the words in the old lady's
mouth.
"All right! all right! I won't mention it again," said Mme. la Duchesse
good-humouredly. "I have only been in this house four and twenty hours,
my dear child, but I have already learned my lesson. I know that the
memory of the past twenty years must be blotted right out of our
minds--out of the minds of every one of us. . . ."
"Not of mine, aunt, altogether," murmured Crystal softly.
"No, my dear--not altogether," rejoined Mme. la Duchesse as she placed
one of her fine white hands on the fair head of her niece; "your
beautiful mother belongs to the unforgettable memories, of those twenty
years. . . ."
"And not only my beautiful mother, aunt dear. There are men living in
England to-day whose names must remain for ever engraved upon my
father's heart, as well as on mine--if we should ever forget those
names and neglect for one single day our prayers of gratitude for their
welfare and their reward, we should be the meanest and blackest of
ingrates."
"Ah!" said Madame, "I am glad that Monsieur my brother remembers all
that in the midst of his restored grandeur."
"Have you been wronging him in your heart all this while, _ma tante_?"
asked Crystal, and there was a slight tone of reproach in her voices
"you used not to be so cynical once upon a time."
"Cynical!" exclaimed the Duchesse, "bless the child's heart! Of course I
am cynical--at my age what can you expect?--and what can I expect? But
there, don't distress yourself, I am not wronging your father--far from
it--only this grandeur--the state dinner last night--his gracious
manner--all that upset me. I am not used to it, my dear, you see. Twenty
years in that diminutive house in Worcester have altered my tastes, I
see, more than they did your father's . . . and these last ten months
which he seems to have spent in reviving the old grandeur of his
ancestral home, I spent, remember, with the dear little Sisters of Mercy
at Boulogne, praying amidst very humble surroundings that the future may
not become more unendurable than the past."
"But you are glad to be back at Brestalou again? and you _will_ remain
here with us--always?" queried Crystal, and with tender eagerness she
clasped the older woman's hands closely in her own.
"Yes, dear," replied Madame gently. "I am glad to be back in the old
château--my dear old home--where I was very happy and very young
once--oh, so very long ago! And I will remain with your father and look
after him all the time that his young bird is absent from the nest."
Again she stroked her niece's soft, wavy hair with a gesture which
apparently was habitual with her, and it seemed as if a note of sadness
had crept into her brisk, sharp voice. Over Crystal's cheeks a wave of
crimson had quickly swept at her aunt's last words: and the eyes which
she now raised to Madame's kindly face were full of tears.
"It seems so terribly soon now, _ma tante_," she said wistfully.
"Hm, yes!" quoth Mme. la Duchesse drily, "time has a knack now and then
of flying faster than we wish. Well, my dear, so long as this day brings
you happiness, the old folk who stay at home have no right to grumble."
Then as Crystal made no reply and held her little head resolutely away,
Madame said more insistently:
"You are happy, Crystal, are you not?"
"Of course I am happy, _ma tante_," replied Crystal quickly, "why should
you ask?"
But still she would not look straight into Madame's eyes, and the tone
of Madame's voice sounded anything but satisfied.
"Well!" she said, "I ask, I suppose, because I want an answer . . . a
satisfactory answer."
"You have had it, _ma tante_, have you not?"
"Yes, my dear. If you are happy, I am satisfied. But last night it
seemed to me as if your ideas of your own happiness and those of your
father on the same subject were somewhat at variance, eh?"
"Oh no, _ma tante_," rejoined Crystal quietly, "father and I are quite
of one mind on that subject."
"But your heart is pulling a different way, is that it?"
Then as Crystal once more relapsed into silence and two hot tears
dropped on the Duchesse's wrinkled hands, the old woman added softly:
"St. Genis, who hasn't a sou, was out of the question, I suppose."
Crystal shook her head in silence.
"And that young de Marmont is very rich?"
"He is his uncle's heir," murmured Crystal.
"And you, child, are marrying a kinsman of that abominable Duc de Raguse
in order to regild our family escutcheon."
"My father wished it so very earnestly," rejoined Crystal, who was
bravely swallowing her tears, "and I could not bear to run counter to
his desire. The Duc de Raguse has promised father that when I am a de
Marmont he will buy back all the forfeited Cambray estates and restore
them to us: Victor will be allowed to take up the name of Cambray and
. . . and . . . Oh!" she exclaimed passionately, "father has had such a
hard life, so much sorrow, so many disappointments, and now this poverty
is so horribly grinding. . . . I couldn't have the heart to disappoint
him in this!"
"You are a good child, Crystal," said Madame gently, "and no doubt
Victor de Marmont will prove a good husband to you. But I wish he wasn't
a Marmont, that's all."
But this remark, delivered in the old lady's most uncompromising manner,
brought forth a hot protest from Crystal:
"Why, aunt," she said, "the Duc de Raguse is the most faithful servant
the king could possibly wish to have. It was he and no one else who
delivered Paris to the allies and thus brought about the downfall of
Bonaparte, and the restoration of our dear King Louis to the throne of
France."
"Tush, child, I know that," said Madame with her habitual tartness of
speech, "I know it just as well as history will know it presently, and
methinks that history will pass on the Duc de Raguse just about the same
judgment as I passed on him in my heart last year. God knows I hate that
Bonaparte as much as anyone, and our Bourbon kings are almost as much a
part of my religion as is the hierarchy of saints, but a traitor like
de Marmont I cannot stomach. What was he before Bonaparte made him a
marshal of France and created him Duc de Raguse?--An out-at-elbows
ragamuffin in the ranks of the republican army. To Bonaparte he owed
everything, title, money, consideration, even the military talents which
gave him the power to turn on the hand that had fed him. Delivered Paris
to the allies indeed!" continued the Duchesse with ever-increasing
indignation and volubility, "betrayed Bonaparte, then licked the boots
of the Czar of Russia, of the Emperor, of King Louis, of all the deadly
enemies of the man to whom he owed his very existence. Pouah! I hate
Bonaparte, but men like Ney and Berthier and de Marmont sicken me! Thank
God that even in his life-time, de Marmont, Duc de Raguse, has already
an inkling of what posterity will say of him. Has not the French
language been enriched since the capitulation of Paris with a new word
that henceforth and for all times will always spell disloyalty: and
to-day when we wish to describe a particularly loathsome type of
treachery, do we not already speak of a 'ragusade'?"
Crystal had listened in silence to her aunt's impassioned tirade. Now
when Madame paused--presumably for want of breath--she said gently:
"That is all quite true, _ma tante_, but I am afraid that father would
not altogether see eye to eye with you in this. After all," she added
naively, "a pagan may become converted to Christianity without being
called a traitor to his false gods, and the Duc de Raguse may have
learnt to hate the idol whom he once worshipped, and for this profession
of faith we should honour him, I think."
"Yes," grunted Madame, unconvinced, "but we need not marry into his
family."
"But in any case," retorted Crystal, "poor Victor cannot help what his
uncle did."
"No, he cannot," assented the Duchesse decisively, "and he is very rich
and he loves you, and as your husband he will own all the old Cambray
estates which his uncle of ragusade fame will buy up for him, and
presently your son, my darling, will be Comte de Cambray, just as if
that awful revolution and all that robbing and spoliation had never
been. And of course everything will be for the best in the best possible
world, if only," concluded the old lady with a sigh, "if only I thought
that you would be happy."
Crystal took care not to meet Madame's kindly glance just then, for of a
surety the tears would have rushed in a stream to her eyes. But she
would not give way to any access of self-pity: she had chosen her part
in life and this she meant to play loyally, without regret and without
murmur.
"But of course, _ma tante_, I shall be happy," she said after a while;
"as you say, M. de Marmont is very kind and good and I know that father
will be happy when Brestalou and Cambray and all the old lands are once
more united in his name. Then he will be able to do something really
great and good for the King and for France . . . and I too, perhaps.
. . ."
"You, my poor darling!" exclaimed Madame, "what can you do, I should
like to know."
A curious, dreamy look came into the girl's eyes, just as if a
foreknowledge of the drama in which she was so soon destined to play the
chief _rôle_ had suddenly appeared to her through the cloudy and distant
veils of futurity.
"I don't know, _ma tante_," she said slowly, "but somehow I have always
felt that one day I might be called upon to do something for France.
There are times when that feeling becomes so strong that all thoughts of
myself and of my own happiness fade from my knowledge, and it seems as
if my duty to France and to the King were more insistent than my duty to
God."
"Poor France!" sighed Madame.
"Yes! that is just what I feel, _ma tante_. Poor France! She has
suffered so much more than we have, and she has regained so much less!
Enemies still lurk around her; the prowling wolf is still at her gate:
even the throne of her king is still insecure! Poor, poor France! our
country, _ma tante_! she should be our pride, our glory, and she is weak
and torn and beset by treachery! Oh, if only I could do something for
France and for the King I would count myself the happiest woman on God's
earth."
Now she was a woman transformed. She seemed taller and stronger. Her
girlishness, too, had vanished. Her cheeks burned, her eyes glowed, her
breath came and went rapidly through her quivering nostrils. Mme. la
Duchesse d'Agen looked down on her niece with naive admiration.
"_Hé_ my little Joan of Arc!" she said merrily, "_par Dieu_, your
eloquence, _ma mignonne_, has warmed up my old heart too. But, please
God, our dear old country will not have need of heroism again."
"I am not so sure of that, _ma tante_."
"You are thinking of that ugly rumour which was current in Grenoble
yesterday."
"Yes!"
"If that Corsican brigand dares to set his foot again upon this land
. . ." began the old lady vehemently.
"Let him come, _ma tante_," broke in Crystal exultantly, "we are ready
for him. Let him come, and this time when God has punished him again, it
won't be to Elba that he will be sent to expiate his villainies!"
"Amen to that, my child," concluded Madame fervently. "And now, my dear,
don't let me forget the hour of my audience. Hector will be back in a
moment or two, and I must not lose any more time gossiping. But before I
go, little one, will you tell me one thing?"
"Of course I will, _ma tante_."
"Quite frankly?"
"Absolutely."
"Well then, I want to know . . . about that English friend of yours.
. . ."
"Mr. Clyffurde, you mean?" asked Crystal. "What about him?"
"I want to know, my dear, what I ought to make of this Mr. Clyffurde."
Crystal laughed lightly, and looked up with astonished, inquiring,
wide-open eyes to her aunt.
"What should you want to make of him, _ma tante_?" she asked, wholly
unperturbed under the scrutinising gaze of Madame.
"Nothing," said the Duchesse abruptly. "I have had my answer, thank you,
dear."
Evidently she had no intention of satisfying the girl's obvious
curiosity, for she suddenly rose from her chair, gathered her lace shawl
round her shoulders, and said with abrupt transition:
"The hour for my audience is at hand. Not one minute must I keep my
august brother waiting. I can hear Hector's footsteps in the corridor,
and I will not have him see me in a fluster."
Crystal looked as if she would have liked to question Madame a little
more closely about her former cryptic utterance, but there was something
in the sarcastic twinkle of those sharp eyes which caused the young girl
to refrain from too many questions, and--very wisely--she decided to
hold her peace.
Madame la Duchesse threw a quick glance into the gilt-framed mirror
close by. She smoothed a stray wisp of hair which had escaped from under
her lace cap: she gave a tug to her fichu and a pat to her skirts. Then,
as the folding doors were once more thrown open, and Hector--stiff,
solemn and pompous--appeared under the lintel, Madame threw back her
head in the grand manner pertaining to the old days at Versailles.
"Precede me, Hector," she said with consummate dignity, "to M. le
Comte's audience chamber."
And with hands folded before her, her aristocratic head very erect, her
mouth and eyes composed to reposeful majesty, she sailed out through the
mahogany doors in a style which no one who had never curtsied to the
Bien-aimé Monarque could possibly hope to imitate.
II
For some little while after her aunt had sailed out of the room Crystal
remained where she was sitting on the low stool beside the high-backed
chair just vacated by the Duchess.
Her eyes were still glowing with the enthusiasm which had excited the
admiration of the older woman a while ago, and the high colour in her
cheeks, the tremor of her nostrils showed that that same enthusiasm
still kept her nerves on the quiver and caused the young, hot blood to
course swiftly through her veins.
But something of the lightness of her mood had vanished, something of
the exultant joy of the heroine had given place to the calmer
resignation of the potential martyr. Gradually the colour faded from her
cheeks, the light died slowly out of her eyes, and the young fair head
so lately tossed triumphantly in the ardour of patriotism sunk gradually
upon the still heaving breast.
Crystal was alone, and she was not ashamed to let the tears well up to
her eyes. Despite her proud profession of faith the insistent longing
for happiness, which is the inalienable share of youth, knocked at the
portals of her heart.
Not even to the devoted aunt who had brought her up, who had known her
every childish sorrow and gleaned her every childish tear, not even to
her would she show what it cost her to sink her individuality, her
longings, her hopes of happiness into that overwhelming sense of duty to
her father's wishes and to the demands of her name, her country and her
caste.
She had repeated it to herself often and often that her father had
suffered so much for the sake of his convictions, had endured poverty
and exile where opportunism would have dictated submission to the
usurper Bonaparte and the acceptance of riches and honours at his hands,
he had remained loyal in his beliefs, steadfast to his King through
twenty years of misery, akin to squalor, the remembrance of which would
for ever darken the rest of his life, but he had endured all that
without bitterness, scarcely without a murmur. And now that twenty years
of self-abnegation were at last finding their reward, now that the King
had come into his own, and the King's faithful friends were being
compensated in accordance with the length of the King's purse, would it
not be arrant cowardice and disloyalty for her--an only child--to oppose
her father's will in the ordering of her own future, to refuse the rich
marriage which would help to restore dignity and grandeur to the ancient
name and to the old home?
Crystal de Cambray was born in England: she had lived the whole of her
life in a small provincial town in this country. But she had been
brought up by her aunt, the Duchesse douairière d'Agen, and through that
upbringing she had been made to imbibe from her earliest childhood all
the principles of the old regime. These principles consisted chiefly of
implicit obedience by the children to the parents' decrees anent
marriage, of blind worship of the dignity of station, and of duty to
name and caste, to king and country.
The thought would never have entered Crystal's head that she could have
the right to order her own future, or to demand from life her own
special brand of happiness.
Now her fate had been finally decided on by her father, and she was on
the point of taking--at his wish--the irrevocable step which would bind
her for ever to a man whom she could never love. But she did not think
of rebellion, she had no thought of grumbling at Fate or at her father:
Crystal de Cambray had English blood in her veins, the blood that makes
men and women accept the inevitable with set teeth and a determination
to do the right thing even if it hurts. Crystal, therefore, had no
thought of rebellion; she only felt an infinity of regret for something
sweet and intangible which she had hardly realised, hardly expected,
which had been too elusive to be called hope, too remote to be termed
happiness. She gave herself the luxury of this short outburst of
tears--since nobody was near and nobody could see: there was a fearful
pain in her heart while she rested her head against the cushion of the
stiff high-backed chair and cried till it seemed that she never could
cry again whatever sorrow life might still have in store for her.
But when that outburst of grief had subsided she dried her eyes
resolutely, rose to her feet, arranged her hair in front of the mirror,
and feeling that her eyes were hot and her head heavy, she turned to the
tall French window, opened it and stepped out into the garden.
It had suffered from years of neglect, the shrubs grew rank and stalky,
the paths were covered with weeds, but there was a slight feeling of
spring in the air, the bare branches of the trees seemed swollen with
the rising sap, and upon the edge of the terrace balustrade a
red-breasted robin cocked its mischievous little eye upon her.
At the bottom of the garden there was a fine row of ilex, with here and
there a stone seat, and in the centre an old stone fountain moss-covered
and overshadowed by the hanging boughs of the huge, melancholy trees.
Crystal was very fond of this avenue; she liked to sit and watch the
play of sunshine upon the stone of the fountain: the melancholy quietude
of the place suited her present mood. It was so strange to look on these
big evergreen trees and on the havoc caused by weeds and weather on the
fine carving of the fountain, and to think of their going on here year
after year for the past twenty years, while that hideous revolution had
devastated the whole country, while men had murdered each other,
slaughtered women and children and committed every crime and every
infamy which lust of hate and revenge can engender in the hearts of men.
The old trees and the stone fountain had remained peaceful and still the
while, unscathed and undefiled, grand, dignified and majestic, while the
owner of the fine château of the gardens and the fountain and of half
the province around earned a precarious livelihood in a foreign land,
half-starved in wretchedness and exile.
She, Crystal, had never seen them until some ten months ago, when her
father came back into his own, and leading his daughter by the hand, had
taken her on a tour of inspection to show her the magnificence of her
ancestral home. She had loved at once the fine old château with its
lichen-covered walls, its fine portcullis and crenelated towers, she had
wept over the torn tapestries, the broken furniture, the family
portraits which a rough and impious rabble had wilfully damaged, she had
loved the wide sweep of the terrace walls, the views over the Isère and
across the mountain range to the peaks of the Grande Chartreuse, but
above all she had loved this sombre row of ilex trees, the broken
fountain, the hush and peace which always lay over this secluded portion
of the neglected garden.
The earth was moist and soft under her feet, the cheeky robin, curious
after the manner of his kind, had followed her and was flying from seat
to seat ahead of her watching her every movement.
"Crystal!"
At first she thought that it was the wind sighing through the trees, so
softly had her name been spoken, so like a sigh did it seem as it
reached her ears.
"Crystal!"
This time she could not be mistaken, someone had called her name,
someone was walking up the avenue rapidly, behind her. She would not
turn round, for she knew who it was that had called and she would not
allow surprise to resuscitate the outward signs of regret. But she stood
quite still while those hasty footsteps drew nearer, and she made a
great and successful effort to keep back the tears which once more
threatened to fill her eyes.
A minute later she felt herself gently drawn to the nearest stone seat,
and she sank down upon it, still trying very hard to remain calm and
above all not to cry.
"Oh! why, why did you come, Maurice?" she said at last, when she felt
that she could look with some semblance of composure on the
half-sitting, half-kneeling figure of the young man beside her. Despite
her obstinate resistance he had taken her hand in his and was covering
it with kisses.
"Why did you come," she reiterated pleadingly, "you must know that it is
no use. . . ."
"I can't believe it. I won't believe it," he protested passionately.
"Crystal, if you really cared you would not send me away from you."
"If I really cared?" she said dully. "Maurice, sometimes I think that if
_you_ really cared you would not make it so difficult for me. Can't you
see," she added more vehemently, "that every time you come you make me
more wretched, and my duty seem more hard? till sometimes I feel as if I
could not bear it any longer--as if in the struggle my poor heart would
suddenly break."
"And because your father is so heartless . . ." he began vehemently.
"My father is not heartless, Maurice," she broke in firmly, "but you
must try and see for yourself how impossible it was for him to give his
consent to our marriage even if he knew that my happiness was bounded by
your love. . . . Just think it over quietly--if you had a sister who was
all the world to you, would _you_ consent to such a marriage? . . ."
"With a penniless, out-at-elbows, good-for-nothing, you mean?" he said,
with a kind of resentful bitterness. "No! I dare say I should not.
Money!" he cried impetuously as he jumped to his feet, and burying his
hands in the pockets of his breeches he began pacing the path up and
down in front of her. "Money! always money! Always talk of duty and of
obedience . . . always your father and his sorrows and his desires . . .
do I count for nothing, then? Have I not suffered as he has suffered?
did I not live in exile as he did? Have I not made sacrifices for my
king and for my ideals? Why should I suffer in the future as well as in
the past? Why, because my king is powerless or supine in giving me back
what was filched from my father, should that be taken from me which
alone gives me incentive to live . . . you, Crystal," he added as once
again he knelt beside her. He encircled her shoulders with his arms,
then he seized her two hands and covered them with kisses. "You are all
that I want in this world. After all, we can live in poverty . . . we
have been brought up in poverty, you and I . . . and even then it is
only a question of a few years . . . months, perhaps . . . the King must
give us back what that abominable Revolution took from us--from us who
remained loyal to him and because we were loyal. My father owned rich
lands in Burgundy . . . the King must give those back to me . . . he
must . . . he shall . . . he will . . . if only you will be patient,
Crystal . . . if only you will wait. . . ."
The fiery blood of his race had rushed into Maurice de St. Genis' head.
He was talking volubly and at random, but he believed for the moment
everything that he said. Tears of passion and of fervour came to his
eyes and he buried his head in the folds of Crystal's white gown and
heavy sobs shook his bent shoulders. She, moved by that motherly
tenderness which is seldom absent from a good woman's love, stroked with
soothing fingers the matted hair from his hot forehead. For a while she
remained silent while the paroxysm of his passionate revolt spent itself
in tears, then she said quite softly:
"I think, Maurice, that in your heart you do us all an injustice--to me,
to father, to yourself, even to the King. The King cannot give you that
which is not his; your property--like ours--was confiscated by that
awful revolutionary government because your father and mine followed
their king into exile. The rich lands were sold for the benefit of the
nation: the nation presumably has spent the money, but the people who
bought the lands in good faith cannot be dispossessed by our King
without creating bitter ill-feeling against himself, as you well know,
and once more endangering his throne. Those are the facts, Maurice,
against which no hot-blooded argument, no passionate outbursts can
prevail. The King gave my father back this dear old castle, because it
happened to have proved unsaleable, and was still on the nation's hands.
Our rich lands--like yours--can never be restored to us: that hard fact
has been driven into poor father's head for the past ten months, and now
it has gone home at last. These grey walls, this neglected garden, a few
sticks of broken furniture, a handful of money from an over-generous
king's treasury is all that Fate has rescued for him from out the ashes
of the past. My father is every whit as penniless as you are yourself,
Maurice, as penniless as ever he was in England, when he gave French and
drawing lessons to a lot of young ragamuffins in a middle-class school.
But Victor de Marmont is rich, and his money--once I am his wife--will
purchase back all the estates which have been in our family for
hundreds of years. For my father's sake, for the sake of the name which
I bear, I must give my hand to Victor de Marmont, and pray to God that
some semblance of peace, the sense of duty accomplished, will compensate
me for the happiness to which I shall bid good-bye to-day."
"And you are willing to be sold to young de Marmont for the price of a
few acres of land!" retorted Maurice de St. Genis hotly. "Oh! it's
monstrous, Crystal, monstrous! All the more monstrous as you seem quite
unconscious of the iniquity of such a bargain."
"Women of our caste, Maurice," she said in her turn with a touch of
bitterness, "have often before now been sacrificed for the honour of
their name. Men have been accustomed to look to them for help when their
own means of gilding their escutcheons have failed."
"And you are willing, Crystal, to be sold like this?" he insisted.
"My father wishes me to marry Victor de Marmont," she replied with calm
dignity, "and after all that he has suffered for the honour and dignity
of our name, I should deem myself craven and treacherous if I refused to
obey him in this."
Maurice de St. Genis once more rose to his feet. All his vehemence, his
riotous outbreak of rebellion seemed to have been smothered beneath a
pall of dreary despair. His young, good-looking face appeared sombre and
sullen, his restless, dark eyes wandered obstinately from Crystal's fair
bent head to her stooping shoulders, to her hands, to her feet. It
seemed as if he was trying to engrave an image of her upon his turbulent
brain, or that he wished to force her to look on him again before she
spoke the last words of farewell.
But she wouldn't look at him. She kept her head resolutely averted,
looking far out over the undulating lands of Dauphiné and Savoie to
where in the far distant sky the stately Alps reared their snow-crowned
heads. At last, unable to bear her silence any longer, he said dully:
"Then it is your last word, Crystal?"
"You know that it must be, Maurice," she murmured in reply. "My marriage
contract will be signed to-night, and on Tuesday I go to the altar with
Victor de Marmont."
"And you mean to tear your love for me out of your heart?"
"Yes!"
"Were its roots a little deeper, a little stronger, you could not do it,
Crystal. But they are not so deep as those of your love for your
father."
She made no reply . . . perhaps something in her heart told her that
after all he might be right, that, unbeknown to herself even, there were
tendrils of affection in her that bound her, ivylike, and so closely--to
her father that even her girlish love for Maurice de St. Genis--the
first hint of passion that had stirred the smooth depths of her young
heart--could not tear her from that bulwark to which she clung.
"This is the last time that I shall see you, Crystal," said Maurice with
a sigh, seeing that obviously she meant to allow his taunt to pass
unchallenged.
"You are going away?" she asked.
"How can I stay--here, under this roof, where anon--in a few
hours--Victor de Marmont will have claims upon you which, if he
exercised them before me would make me wish to kill him or myself. I
shall leave to-morrow--early . . ." he added more quietly.
"Where will you go?"
"To Paris--or abroad--or the devil, I don't know which," he replied
moodily.
"Father will be sorry if you go?" she murmured under her breath, for
once again the tears were very insistent, and she felt an awful pain in
her heart, because of the misery which she had to inflict upon him.
"Your father has been passing kind to me. He gave me a home when I was
homeless, but it is not fitting that I should trespass any longer upon
his hospitality."
"Have you made any plans?"
"Not yet. But the King will give me a commission. There will be some
fighting now . . . there was a rumour in Grenoble last night that
Bonaparte had landed at Antibes, and was marching on Paris."
"A false rumour as usual, I suppose," she said indifferently.
"Perhaps," he replied.
There was silence between them for awhile after that, silence only
broken by the twitter of birds wakening to the call of spring. The word
"good-bye" remained unspoken: neither of them dared to say it lest it
broke the barrier of their resolve.
"Will you not go now, Maurice?" said Crystal at last in pitiable
pleading, "we only make each other hopelessly wretched, by lingering
near one another after this."
"Yes, I will go, Crystal," he replied, and this time he really forced
his voice to tones of gentleness, although his inward resentment still
bubbled out with every word he spoke, "I wish I could have left this
house altogether--now--at once--but your father would resent it--and he
has been so kind . . . I wish I could go to-day," he reiterated
obstinately, "I dread seeing Victor de Marmont in this house, where the
laws of chivalry forbid my striking him in the face."
"Maurice!" she exclaimed reproachfully.
"Nay! I'll not say it again: I have sufficient reason left in me, I
think, to show these parvenus how we, of the old regime, bear every blow
which fate chooses to deal to us. They have taken everything from us,
these new men--our lives, our lands, our very means of subsistence--now
they have taken to filching our sweethearts--curse them! but at least
let us keep our dignity!"
But again she was silent. What was there to say that had not been
said?--save that unspoken word "good-bye." And he asked very softly:
"May I kiss you for the last time, Crystal?"
"No, Maurice," she replied, "never again."
"You are still free," he urged. "You are not plighted to de Marmont
yet."
"No--not actually--not till to-night. . . ."
"Then . . . mayn't I?"
"No, Maurice," she said decisively.
"Your hand then?"
"If you like." He knelt down close to her; she yielded her hand to him
and he with his usual impulsiveness covered it with kisses into which he
tried to infuse the fervour of a last farewell.
Then without another word he rose to his feet and walked away with a
long and firm stride down the avenue. Crystal watched his retreating
figure until the overhanging branches of the ilex hid him from her view.
She made no attempt now to restrain her tears, they flowed
uninterruptedly down her cheeks and dropped hot and searing upon her
hands. With Maurice's figure disappearing down the dark avenue, with the
echo of his footsteps dying away in the distance, the last chapter of
her first book of romance seemed to be closing with relentless finality.
The afternoon sun was hidden behind a bank of grey clouds, the northeast
wind came whistling insistently through the trees:--even that feeling of
spring in the air had vanished. It was just a bleak grey winter's day
now. Crystal felt herself shivering with cold. She drew her shawl more
closely round her shoulders, then with eyes still wet with tears, but
small head held well erect, she rose to her feet and walked rapidly back
to the house.
III
Madame la Duchesse had in the meanwhile followed Hector along the
corridor and down the finely carved marble staircase. At a monumental
door on the ground floor the man paused, his hand upon the massive
ormolu handle, waiting for Madame la Duchesse to come up.
He felt a little uncomfortable at her approach for here in the big
square hall the light was very clear, and he could see Madame's keen,
searching eyes looking him up and down and through and through. She even
put up her lorgnon and though she was not very tall, she contrived to
look Hector through them straight between the eyes.
"Is M. le Comte in there?" Madame la Duchesse deigned to ask as she
pointed with her lorgnon to the door.
"In the small library beyond, Madame la Duchesse," replied Hector
stiffly.
"And . . ." she queried with sharp sarcasm, "is the antechamber very
full of courtiers and ladies just now?"
A quick, almost imperceptible blush spread over Hector's impassive
countenance, and as quickly vanished again.
"M. le Comte," he said imperturbably, "is disengaged at the present
moment. He seldom receives visitors at this hour."
On Madame's mobile lips the sarcastic curl became more marked. "And I
suppose, my good Hector," she said, "that since M. le Comte has only
granted an audience to his sister to-day, you thought it was a good
opportunity for putting yourself at your ease and wearing your patched
and mended clothes, eh?"
Once more that sudden wave of colour swept over Hector's solemn old
face. He was evidently at a loss how to take Mme. la Duchesse's
remark--whether as a rebuke or merely as one of those mild jokes of
which every one knew that Madame was inordinately fond.
Something of his dignity of attitude seemed to fall away from him as he
vainly tried to solve this portentous problem. His mouth felt dry and
his head hot, and he did not know on which foot he could stand with the
least possible discomfort, and how he could contrive to hide from Madame
la Duchesse's piercing eyes that very obvious patch in the right knee of
his breeches.
"Madame la Duchesse will forgive me, I hope," he stammered painfully.
But already Madame's kind old face had shed its mask of raillery.
"Never mind, Hector," she said gently, "you are a good fellow, and
there's no occasion to tell me lies about the rich liveries which are
put away somewhere, nor about the numerous retinue and countless number
of flunkeys, all of whom are having unaccountably long holidays just
now. It's no use trying to throw dust in my eyes, my poor friend, or put
on that pompous manner with me. I know that the carpets are not all
temporarily rolled up or the best of the furniture at a repairer's in
Grenoble--what's the use of pretending with me, old Hector? Those days
at Worcester are not so distant yet, are they? when all the family had
to make a meal off a pound of sausages, or your wife Jeanne, God bless
her! had to pawn her wedding-ring to buy M. le Comte de Cambray a
second-hand overcoat."
"Madame la Duchesse, I humbly pray your Grace . . ." entreated Hector
whose wrinkled, parchment-like face had become the colour of a peony,
and who, torn between the respect which he had for the great lady and
his horror at what she said was ready to sink through the floor in his
confusion.
"Eh what, man?" retorted the Duchesse lightly, "there is no one but
these bare walls to hear me; and my words, you'll find, will clear the
atmosphere round you--it was very stifling, my good Hector, when I
arrived. There now!" she added, "announce me to M. le Comte and then go
down to Jeanne and tell her that I for one have no intention of
forgetting Worcester, or the pawned ring, or the sausages, and that the
array of Grenoble louts dressed up for the occasion in moth-eaten
liveries dragged up out of some old chests do not please me half as much
round a dinner table as did her dear old, streaming face when she used
to bring us the omelette straight out of the kitchen."
She dropped her lorgnon, and folding her aristocratic hands upon her
bosom, she once more assumed the grand manner pertaining to Versailles,
and Hector having swallowed an uncomfortable lump in his throat, threw
open the huge, folding doors and announced in a stentorian voice:
"Madame la Duchesse douairière d'Agen!"
IV
M. le Comte de Cambray was at this time close on sixty years of age, and
the hardships which he had endured for close upon a quarter of a century
had left their indelible impress upon his wrinkled, careworn face.
But no one--least of all a younger man--could possibly rival him in
dignity of bearing and gracious condescension of manner. He wore his
clothes after the old-time fashion, and clung to the powdered peruque
which had been the mode at the Tuileries and Versailles before these
vulgar young republicans took to wearing their own hair in its natural
colour.
Now as he advanced from the inner room to meet Mme. la Duchesse, he
seemed a perfect presentation or rather resuscitation of the courtly and
vanished epoch of the Roi Soleil. He held himself very erect and walked
with measured step, and a stereotyped smile upon his lips. He paused
just in front of Mme. la Duchesse, then stopped and lightly touched with
his lips the hand which she held out to him.
"Tell me, Monsieur my brother," said Madame in her loudly-pitched voice,
"do you expect me to make before you my best Versailles curtsey,
for--with my rheumatic knee--I warn you that once I get down, you might
find it very difficult to get me up on my feet again."
"Hush, Sophie," admonished M. le Comte impatiently, "you must try and
subdue your voice a little, we are no longer in Worcester remember--"
But Madame only shrugged her thin shoulders.
"Bah!" she retorted, "there's only good old Hector on the other side of
the door, and you don't imagine you are really throwing dust in _his_
eyes do you? . . . good old Hector with his threadbare livery and his
ill-fed belly. . . ."
"Sophie!" exclaimed M. le Comte who was really vexed this time, "I must
insist. . . ."
"All right, all right my dear André. . . . I won't say anything more.
Take me to your audience chamber and I'll try to behave like a lady."
A smile that was distinctly mischievous still hovered round Madame's
lips, but she forced her eyes to look grave: she held out the tips of
her fingers to her brother and allowed him to lead her in the correct
manner into the next room.
Here M. le Comte invited her to sit in an upright chair which was placed
at a convenient angle close to his bureau while he himself sat upon a
stately throne-like armchair, one shapely knee bent, the other slightly
stretched forward, displaying the fine silk stocking and the set of his
well-cut, satin breeches. Mme. la Duchesse kept her hands folded in
front of her, and waited in silence for her brother to speak, but he
seemed at a loss how to begin, for her piercing gaze was making him
feel very uncomfortable: he could not help but detect in it the twinkle
of good-humoured sarcasm.
Madame of course would not help him out. She enjoyed his obvious
embarrassment, which took him down somewhat from that high altitude of
dignity wherein he delighted to soar.
"My dear Sophie," he began at last, speaking very deliberately and
carefully choosing his words, "before the step which Crystal is about to
take to-day becomes absolutely irrevocable, I desired to talk the matter
over with you, since it concerns the happiness of my only child."
"Isn't it a little late, my good André," remarked Madame drily, "to talk
over a question which has been decided a month ago? The contract is to
be signed to-night. Our present conversation might have been held to
some purpose soon after the New Year. It is distinctly useless to-day."
At Madame's sharp and uncompromising words a quick blush had spread over
the Comte's sunken cheeks.
"I could not consult you before, Sophie," he said coldly, "you chose to
immure yourself in a convent, rather than come back straightaway to your
old home as we all did when our King was restored to his throne. The
post has been very disorganised and Boulogne is a far cry from
Brestalou, but I did write to you as soon as Victor de Marmont made his
formal request for Crystal's hand. To this letter I had no reply, and I
could not keep him waiting in indefinite uncertainty."
"Your letter did not reach me until a month after it was written, as I
had the honour to tell you in my reply."
"And that same reply only reached me a fortnight ago," retorted the
Comte, "when Crystal had been formally engaged to Victor de Marmont for
over a month and the date for the signature of the contract and the
wedding-day had both been fixed. I then sent a courier at great expense
and in great haste immediately to you," he added with a tone of
dignified reproach, "I could do no more."
"Or less," she assented tartly. "And here I am, my dear brother, and I
am not blaming you for delays in the post. I merely remarked that it was
too late now to consult me upon a marriage which is to all intents and
purposes, an accomplished fact already."
"That is so of course. But it would be a great personal satisfaction to
me, my good Sophie, to hear your views upon the matter. You have brought
Crystal up from babyhood: in a measure, you know her better than even
I--her father--do and therefore you are better able than I am to judge
whether Crystal's marriage with de Marmont will be conducive to her
permanent happiness."
"As to that, my good André," quoth Madame, "you must remember that when
our father and mother decided that a marriage between me and M. le Duc
d'Agen was desirable, my personal feelings and character were never
consulted for a moment . . . and I suppose that--taking life as it is--I
was never particularly unhappy as his wife."
"And what do you adduce from those reminiscences, my dear Sophie?"
queried the Comte de Cambray suavely.
"That Victor de Marmont is not a bad fellow," replied Madame, "that he
is no worse than was M. le Duc d'Agen and that therefore there is no
reason to suppose that Crystal will be any more unhappy than I was in my
time."
"But . . ."
"There is no 'but' about it, my good André. Crystal is a sweet girl and
a devoted daughter. She will make the best, never you fear! of the
circumstances into which your blind worship of your own dignity and of
your rank have placed her."
"My good Sophie," broke in the Count hotly, "you talk _par Dieu_, as if
I was forcing my only child into a distasteful marriage."
"No, I do not talk as if you were forcing Crystal into a distasteful
marriage, but you know quite well that she only accepted Victor de
Marmont because it was your wish, and because his millions are going to
buy back the old Cambray estates, and she is so imbued with the sense of
her duty to you and to the family escutcheon, that she was willing to
sacrifice every personal feeling in the fulfilment of that duty."
"By 'personal feeling' I suppose that you mean St. Genis."
"Well, yes . . . I do," said Madame laconically.
"Crystal was very much in love with him at one time."
"She still is."
"But even you, my dear sister, must admit that a marriage with St. Genis
was out of the question," retorted the Count in his turn with some
acerbity. "I am very fond of Maurice and his name is as old and great as
ours, but he hasn't a sou, and you know as well as I do by now that the
restoration of confiscated lands is out of the question . . . parliament
will never allow it and the King will never dare. . . ."
"I know all that, my poor André," sighed Madame in a more conciliatory
spirit, "I know moreover that you yourself haven't a sou either, in
spite of your grandeur and your prejudices. . . . Money must be got
somehow, and our ancient family 'scutcheon must be regilt at any cost. I
know that we must keep up this state pertaining to the old regime, we
must have our lacqueys and our liveries, sycophants around us and gaping
yokels on our way when we sally out into the open. . . . We must blot
out from our lives those twenty years spent in a democratic and
enlightened country where no one is ashamed either of poverty or of
honest work--and above all things we must forget that there has ever
been a revolution which sent M. le Comte de Cambray, Commander of the
Order of the Holy Ghost, Grand Cross of the Ordre du Lys, Seigneur of
Montfleury and St. Eynard, hereditary Grand Chamberlain of France, to
teach French and drawing in an English Grammar School. . . ."
"You wrong me there, Sophie, I wish to forget nothing of the past twenty
years."
"I thought that you had given your memory a holiday."
"I forget nothing," he reiterated with dignified emphasis, "neither the
squalid poverty which I endured, nor the bitter experiences which I
gleaned in exile."
"Nor the devotion of those who saved your life."
"And yours . . ." he interposed.
"And mine, at risk of their own."
"Perhaps you will believe me when I tell you that not a day goes by but
Crystal and I speak of Sir Percy Blakeney, and of his gallant League of
the Scarlet Pimpernel."
"Well! we owe our lives to them," said Madame with deep-drawn sigh. "I
wonder if we shall ever see any of those fine fellows again!"
"God only knows," sighed M. le Comte in response. "But," he continued
more lightly, "as you know the League itself has ceased to be. We saw
very little of Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney latterly for we were too poor
ever to travel up to London. Crystal and I saw them, before we left
England, and I then had the opportunity of thanking Sir Percy Blakeney
for the last time, for the many valuable French lives which his plucky
little League had saved."
"He is indeed a gallant gentleman," said Mme. la Duchesse gently, even
whilst her bright, shrewd eyes gazed straight out before her as if on
the great bare walls of her own ancestral home, the ghostly hand of
memory had conjured up pictures of long ago:--her own, her husband's and
her brother's arrest here in this very room, the weeping servants, the
rough, half-naked soldiery--then the agony of a nine days' imprisonment
in a dark, dank prison-cell filled to overflowing with poor wretches in
the same pitiable plight as herself--the hasty trial, the insults, the
mockery:--her husband's death in prison and her own thoughts of
approaching death!
Then the gallant deed!--after all these years she could still see
herself, her brother and Jeanne, her faithful maid, and poor devoted
Hector all huddled up in a rickety tumbril, being dragged through the
streets of Paris on the road to death. On ahead she had seen the weird
outline of the guillotine silhouetted against the evening sky, whilst
all around her a howling, jeering mob sang that awful refrain: "Cà ira!
Cà ira! les aristos à la lanterne!"
Then it was that she had felt unseen hands snatching her out of the
tumbril, she had felt herself being dragged through that yelling crowd
to a place where there was silence and darkness and where she knew that
she was safe: thence she was conveyed--she hardly realised how--to
England, where she and her brother and Jeanne and Hector, their faithful
servants, had found refuge for over twenty years.
"It was a gallant deed!" whispered Mme. la Duchesse once again, "and one
which will always make me love every Englishman I meet, for the sake of
one who was called The Scarlet Pimpernel."
"Then why should you attribute vulgar ingratitude to me?" retorted the
Comte reproachfully. "My feelings I imagine are as sensitive as your
own. Am I not trying my best to be kind to that Mr. Clyffurde, who is an
honoured guest in my house--just because it was Sir Percy Blakeney who
recommended him to me?"
"It can't be very difficult to be kind to such an attractive young man,"
was Mme. la Duchesse's dry comment. "Recommendation or no recommendation
I liked your Mr. Clyffurde and if it were not so late in the day and
there was still time to give my opinion, I should suggest that Mr.
Clyffurde's money could quite well regild our family 'scutcheon. He is
very rich too, I understand."
"My good Sophie!" exclaimed the Comte in horror, "what can you be
thinking of?"
"Crystal principally," replied the Duchesse. "I thought Clyffurde a far
nicer fellow than de Marmont."
"My dear sister," said the Comte stiffly, "I really must ask you to
think sometimes before you speak. Of a truth you make suggestions and
comments at times which literally stagger one."
"I don't see anything so very staggering in the idea of a penniless
aristocrat marrying a wealthy English gentleman. . . ."
"A gentleman! my dear!" exclaimed the Comte.
"Well! Mr. Clyffurde is a gentleman, isn't he?"
"His family is irreproachable, I believe."
"Well then?"
"But . . . Mr. Clyffurde . . . you know, my dear. . . ."
"No! I don't know," said Madame decisively. "What is the matter with Mr.
Clyffurde?"
"Well! I didn't like to tell you, Sophie, immediately on your arrival
yesterday," said the Comte, who was making visible efforts to mitigate
the horror of what he was about to say: "but . . . as a matter of fact
. . . this Mr. Clyffurde whom you met in my house last night . . . who
sat next to you at my table . . . with whom you had that long and
animated conversation afterwards . . . is nothing better than a
shopkeeper!"
No doubt M. le Comte de Cambray expected that at this awful
announcement, Mme. la Duchesse's indignation and anger would know no
bounds. He was quite ready even now with a string of apologies which he
would formulate directly she allowed him to speak. He certainly felt
very guilty towards her for the undesirable acquaintance which she had
made in her brother's own house. Great was his surprise therefore when
Madame's wrinkled face wreathed itself into a huge smile, which
presently broadened into a merry laugh, as she threw back her head, and
said still laughing:
"A shopkeeper, my dear Comte? A shopkeeper at your aristocratic table?
and your meal did not choke you? Why! God forgive you, but I do believe
you are actually becoming human."
"I ought to have told you sooner, of course," began the Comte stiffly.
"Why bless your heart, I knew it soon enough."
"You knew it?"
"Of course I did. Mr. Clyffurde told me that interesting fact before he
had finished eating his soup."
"Did he tell you that . . . that he traded in . . . in gloves?"
"Well! and why not gloves?" she retorted. "Gloves are very nice things
and better manufactured at Grenoble than anywhere else in the world. The
English coquettes are very wise in getting their gloves from Grenoble
through the good offices of Mr. Clyffurde."
"But, my dear Sophie . . . Mr. Clyffurde buys gloves here from Dumoulin
and sells them again to a shop in London . . . he buys and sells other
things too and he does it for profit. . . ."
"Of course he does. . . . You don't suppose that any one would do that
sort of thing for pleasure, do you? Mr. Clyffurde," continued Madame
with sudden seriousness, "lost his father when he was six years old. His
mother and four sisters had next to nothing to live on after the bulk of
what they had went for the education of the boy. At eighteen he made up
his mind that he would provide his mother and sisters with all the
luxuries which they had lacked for so long and instead of going into the
army--which had been the burning ambition of his boyhood--he went into
business . . . and in less than ten years has made a fortune."
"You seem to have learnt a great deal of the man's family history in so
short a time."
"I liked him: and I made him talk to me about himself. It was not easy,
for these English men are stupidly reticent, but I dragged his story out
of him bit by bit--or at least as much of it as I could--and I can tell
you, my good André, that never have I admired a man so much as I do this
Mr. Clyffurde . . . for never have I met so unselfish a one. I declare
that if I were only a few years younger," she continued whimsically,
"and even so . . . heigh! but I am not so old after all. . . ."
"My dear Sophie!" ejaculated the Comte.
"Eh, what?" she retorted tartly, "you would object to a tradesman as a
brother-in-law, would you? What about a de Marmont for a son? Eh?"
"Victor de Marmont is a soldier in the army of our legitimate King. His
uncle the Duc de Raguse. . . ."
"That's just it," broke in Madame again, "I don't like de Marmont
because he is a de Marmont."
"Is that the only reason for your not liking him?"
"The only one," she replied. "But I must say that this Mr. Clyffurde
. . ."
"You must not harp on that string, Sophie," said the Comte sternly. "It
is too ridiculous. To begin with Clyffurde never cared for Crystal, and,
secondly, Crystal was already engaged to de Marmont when Clyffurde
arrived here, and, thirdly, let me tell you that my daughter has far too
much pride in her ever to think of a shopkeeper in the light of a
husband even if he had ten times this Mr. Clyffurde's fortune."
"Then everything is comfortably settled, André. And now that we have
returned to our sheep, and have both arrived at the conclusion that
nothing stands in the way of Crystal's marriage with Victor de Marmont,
I suppose that I may presume that my audience is at an end."
"I only wished to hear your opinion, my good Sophie," rejoined M. le
Comte. And he rose stiffly from his chair.
"Well! and you have heard it, André," concluded Madame as she too rose
and gathered her lace shawl round her shoulders. "You may thank God, my
dear brother, that you have in Crystal such an unselfish and obedient
child, and in me such a submissive sister. Frankly--since you have
chosen to ask my opinion at this eleventh hour--I don't like this de
Marmont marriage, though I have admitted that I see nothing against the
young man himself. If Crystal is not unhappy with him, I shall be
content: if she is, I will make myself exceedingly disagreeable, both to
him and to you, and that being my last word, I have the honour to wish
you a polite 'good-day.'"
She swept her brother an imperceptibly ironical curtsey, but he detained
her once again, as she turned to go.
"One word more, Sophie," he said solemnly. "You will be amiable with
Victor de Marmont this evening?"
"Of course I will," she replied tartly. "Ah, ça, Monsieur my brother, do
you take me for a washerwoman?"
"I am entertaining the préfet for the _souper du contrat_," continued
the Comte, quietly ignoring the old lady's irascibility of temper, "and
the general in command of the garrison. They are both converted
Bonapartists, remember."
"Hm!" grunted Madame crossly, "whom else are you going to entertain?"
"Mme. Fourier, the préfet's wife, and Mlle. Marchand, the general's
daughter, and of course the d'Embruns and the Genevois."
"Is that all?"
"Some half dozen or so notabilities of Grenoble. We shall sit down
twenty to supper, and afterwards I hold a reception in honour of the
coming marriage of Mlle. de Cambray de Brestalou with M. Victor de
Marmont. One must do one's duty. . . ."
"And pander to one's love of playing at being a little king in a limited
way. . . . All right! I won't say anything more. I promise that I won't
disgrace you, and that I'll put on a grand manner that will fill those
worthy notabilities and their wives with awe and reverence. And now, I'd
best go," she added whimsically, "ere my good resolutions break down
before your pomposity . . . I suppose the louts from the village will be
again braced up in those moth-eaten liveries, and the bottles of thin
Médoc purchased surreptitiously at a local grocer's will be duly
smothered in the dust of ages. . . . All right! all right! I'm going.
For gracious' sake don't conduct me to the door, or I'll really disgrace
you under Hector's uplifted nose. . . . Oh! shades of cold beef and
treacle pies of Worcester . . . and washing-day . . . do you remember?
. . . all right! all right, Monsieur my brother, I am dumb as a carp at
last."
And with a final outburst of sarcastic laughter, Madame finally sailed
across the room, while Monsieur fell back into his throne-like chair
with a deep sigh of relief.
CHAPTER III
THE RETURN OF THE EMPEROR
I
But even as Madame la Duchesse douairière d'Agen placed her aristocratic
hand upon the handle of the door, it was opened from without with what
might almost be called undue haste, and Hector appeared in the doorway.
Hector in truth! but not the sober-faced, pompous, dignified Hector of
the household of M. le Comte de Cambray, but a red-visaged, excited,
fussy Hector, who for the moment seemed to have forgotten where he was,
as well as the etiquette which surrounded the august personality of his
master. He certainly contrived to murmur a humble if somewhat hasty
apology, when he found himself confronted at the door by Mme. la
Duchesse herself, but he did not stand aside to let her pass.
She had stepped back into the room at sight of him, for obviously
something very much amiss must have occurred thus to ruffle Hector's
ingrained dignity, and even M. le Comte was involuntarily dragged out of
his aristocratic aloofness and almost--though not quite--jumped up from
his chair.
"What is it, Hector?" he exclaimed, peremptorily.
"M. le Comte," gasped Hector, who seemed to be out of breath from sheer
excitement, "the Corsican . . . he has come back . . . he is marching on
Grenoble . . . M. le préfet is here! . . ."
But already M. le Comte had--with a wave of the hand as it were--swept
the unwelcome news aside.
"What rubbish is this?" he said wrathfully. "You have been dreaming in
broad daylight, Hector . . . and this excitement is most unseemly. Show
Mme. la Duchesse to her apartments," he added with a great show of calm.
Hector--thus reproved, coloured a yet more violent crimson to the very
roots of his hair. He made a great effort to recover his pomposity and
actually took up the correct attitude which a well-trained servant
assumes when he shows a great lady out of a room. But even then--despite
the well-merited reproof--he took it upon himself to insist:
"M. le préfet is here, M. le Comte," he said, "and begs to be received
at once."
"Well, then, you may show him up when Mme. la Duchesse has retired,"
said the Comte with quiet dignity.
"By your leave, my brother," quoth the Duchesse decisively, "I'll wait
and hear what M. le préfet has to say. The news--if news there be--is
too interesting to be kept waiting for me."
And accustomed as she was to get her own way in everything, Mme. la
Duchesse calmly sailed back into the room, and once more sat down in the
chair beside her brother's bureau, whilst Hector with as much grandeur
of mien as he could assume under the circumstances was still waiting for
orders.
M. le Comte would undoubtedly have preferred that his sister should
leave the room before the préfet was shown in: he did not approve of
women taking part in political conversations, and his manner now plainly
showed to Mme. la Duchesse that he would like to receive M. le préfet
alone. But he said nothing--probably because he knew that words would be
useless if Madame had made up her mind to remain, which she evidently
had, so, after a brief pause, he said curtly to Hector:
"Show M. le préfet in."
He took up his favourite position, in his throne-shaped chair--one leg
bent, the other stretched out, displaying to advantage the shapely calf
and well-shod foot. M. le préfet Fourier, mathematician of great renown,
and member of the Institut was one of those converted Bonapartists to
whom it behoved at all times to teach a lesson of decorum and dignity.
And certainly when, presently Hector showed M. Fourier in, the two
men--the aristocrat of the old regime and the bureaucrat of the
new--presented a marked and curious contrast. M. le Comte de Cambray
calm, unperturbed, slightly supercilious, in a studied attitude and
moving with pompous deliberation to greet his guest, and Jacques
Fourier, man of science and préfet of the Isère department, short of
stature, scant of breath, flurried and florid!
Both men were conscious of the contrast, and M. Fourier did his very
best to approach Mme. la Duchesse with a semblance of dignity, and to
kiss her hand in something of the approved courtly manner. When he had
finally sat down, and mopped his streaming forehead, M. le Comte said
with kindly condescension:
"You are perturbed, my good M. Fourier!"
"Alas, M. le Comte," replied the worthy préfet, still somewhat out of
breath, "how can I help being agitated . . . this awful news! . . ."
"What news?" queried the Comte with a lifting of the brows, which was
meant to convey complete detachment and indifference to the subject
matter.
"What news?" exclaimed the préfet who, on the other hand, was unable to
contain his agitation and had obviously given up the attempt, "haven't
you heard? . . ."
"No," replied the Comte.
And Madame also shook her head.
"Town-gossip does not travel as far as the Castle of Brestalou," added
M. le Comte gravely.
"Town gossip!" reiterated M. Fourier, who seemed to be calling Heaven
to witness this extraordinary levity, "town gossip, M. le Comte! . . .
But God in Heaven help us all. Bonaparte landed at Antibes five days
ago. He was at Sisteron this morning, and unless the earth opens and
swallows him up, he will be on us by Tuesday!"
"Bah! you have had a nightmare, M. le préfet," rejoined the Comte drily.
"We have had news of the landing of Bonaparte at least once a month this
half-year past."
"But it is authentic news this time, M. le Comte," retorted Fourier,
who, gradually, under the influence of de Cambray's calm demeanour, had
succeeded in keeping his agitation in check. "The préfet of the Var
department, M. le Comte de Bouthillier, sent an express courier on
Thursday last to the préfet of the Basses-Alpes, who sent that courier
straight on to me, telling me that he and General Loverdo, who is in
command of the troops in that district, promptly evacuated Digue because
they were not certain of the loyalty of the garrison. The Corsican it
seems only landed with about a thousand of his old guard, but since
then, the troops in every district which he has traversed, have deserted
in a body, and rallied round his standard. It has been, so I hear, a
triumphal march for him from the Littoral to Digne, and altogether the
news which the courier brought me this morning was of such alarming
nature, that I thought it my duty, M. le Comte, to apprise you of it
immediately."
"That," said M. le Comte condescendingly, "was exceedingly thoughtful
and considerate, my good M. Fourier. And what is the alarming news?"
"Firstly, that Bonaparte made something like a state entry into Digne
yesterday. The city was beflagged and decorated. The national guard
turned out and presented arms, drums were beating, the population
acclaimed him with cries of 'Vive l'Empereur!' The préfet and the
general in command had intended to resist his entry into the city, but
all the notabilities of the town forced them into submission. Duval, the
préfet, fled to a neighbouring village, taking the public funds with
him, while General Loverdo with a mere handful of loyal troops has
retreated on Sisteron."
Though M. le Comte de Cambray had listened to the préfet's narrative
with all his habitual grandeur of mien, it soon became obvious that some
of his aristocratic sangfroid had already abandoned him. His furrowed
cheeks had become a shade paler than usual, and the slender hand which
toyed with an ivory paper-knife on his desk had not its wonted
steadiness. Mme. la Duchesse perceived this, no doubt, for her keen eyes
were fixed scrutinisingly upon her brother; she saw too that his thin
lips were quivering and that the reason why he made no comment on what
he had just heard was because he could not quite trust himself to speak.
It was she, therefore, who now remarked quietly:
"And in your department, M. le préfet, in Grenoble itself, is the
garrison equally likely to go over to the Corsican brigand?"
M. Fourier shrugged his shoulders. He was not at all sure.
"After what has happened at Digne, Mme. la Duchesse," he said, "I would
not care to prophesy. Général Marchand does not intend to trust entirely
to the garrison. He has sent to Vienne and to Chambéry for
reinforcements . . . but . . ."
The préfet was hesitating, evidently he had not a great deal of faith in
the loyalty of those reinforcements either.
M. le Comte made a vigorous protest. "Surely, M. Fourier," he said, "you
don't mean to suggest that Grenoble is going to turn traitor to the
King?"
But M. le préfet apparently had meant to suggest it.
"Alas, M. le Comte!" he said, "we must always bear in mind that the
whole of the Dauphiné has remained throughout a bed of Bonapartism."
"But in that case . . ." ejaculated the Comte.
"Général Marchand is doing all he can to ensure effectual resistance, M.
le Comte. But we are in the hands of the army, and the army has never
been truly loyal to the King. At the bottom of every soldier's haversack
there is an old and worn tricolour cockade, which is there ready to be
fetched out at a moment's notice, and will be fetched out at the mere
sound of the Corsican's voice. We are in the hands of the army, M. le
Comte, and in the Dauphiné; alas! the army is only too ready to cry:
'Vive l'Empereur!'"
There was silence in the stately room now, silence only broken by the
tap-tap of the ivory paper-knife with which M. le Comte was still
nervously fidgeting. M. Fourier was wiping the perspiration from his
overheated brow.
"For God's sake, André, stop that irritating noise," said Mme. Duchesse
after awhile, "that tapping has got on my nerves."
"I beg your pardon, Sophie," said the Comte loftily.
He was offended with her for drawing M. Fourier's attention to his own
nervous restlessness, yet grateful to be thus forcibly made aware of it
himself. His attitude was on the verge of incorrectness. Where was the
aristocratic sangfroid which should have made him proof even against so
much perturbing news? What had become of the lesson in decorum which
should have been taught to this vulgar little bureaucrat?
M. le Comte pulled himself together with a jerk: he straightened out his
spare figure, put on that air of detachment which became him so well,
and finally turned once more to the préfet a perfectly calm and
unruffled countenance.
Then he said with his accustomed urbanity:
"And now, my good M. Fourier, since you have so admirably put the
situation before me, will you also tell me in what way I may be of
service to you in this--or to Général Marchand?"
"I am coming to that, M. le Comte," replied the préfet. "It will explain
the reason of my disturbing you at this hour, when I was coming anyhow
to partake of your gracious hospitality later on. But I do want your
assistance, M. le Comte, as the matter of which I wish to speak with you
concerns the King himself."
"Everything that you have told me hitherto, my good M. Fourier, concerns
His Majesty and the security of his throne. I cannot help wondering how
much of this news has reached him by now."
"All of it at this hour, I should say. For already on Friday the Prince
d'Essling sent a despatch to His Majesty--by courier as far as Lyons and
thence by aërial telegraph to Paris. The King--may God preserve him!"
added the ex-Bonapartist fervently, "knows as much of the Corsican's
movements at the present moment as we do; and God alone knows what he
will decide to do."
"Whatever happens," interjected the Comte de Cambray solemnly, "Louis de
Bourbon, XVIIIth of his name, by the Grace of God, will act like a king
and a gentleman."
"Amen to that," retorted the préfet. "And now let me come to my point,
M. le Comte, and the chief object of my visit to you."
"I am at your service, my dear M. Fourier."
"You will remember, M. le Comte, that directly you were installed at
Brestalou and I was confirmed in my position as préfet of this
department, I thought it was my duty to tell you of the secret funds
which are kept in the cellars of our Hôtel de Ville by order of M. de
Talleyrand."
"Yes, of course I remember that perfectly. French money, which the
unfortunate wife of that brigand Bonaparte was taking out of the
country."
"Quite so," assented Fourier. "The funds are in a convenient and
portable form, being chiefly notes and bankers' drafts to bearer, but
the amount is considerable, namely, twenty-five millions of francs."
"A comfortable sum," interposed Mme. la Duchesse drily. "I did not know
that Grenoble sheltered so vast a treasure."
"The money was seized," said the Comte, "from Marie Louise when she was
fleeing the country. Talleyrand did it all, and it was his idea to keep
the money in this part of the country against likely emergencies."
"But the emergency has arisen," exclaimed M. Fourier excitedly, "and the
money at Grenoble is useless to His Majesty in Paris. Nay! it is worse
than useless, it is in danger of spoliation," he added with unconscious
_naiveté_. "If the Corsican marches into Grenoble, if the garrison and
the townspeople rally to him, he will of a truth occupy the Hôtel de
Ville and the brigand will seize the King's treasure which lies now in
one of its cellars."
"True," mused the Comte, "I hadn't thought of that."
"Well!" exclaimed Madame with light sarcasm, "seeing that the money was
originally taken from his wife, the brigand will not be committing an
altogether unlikely act, I imagine, by taking what was originally his."
"His, my good Sophie?" exclaimed the Comte, highly shocked. "Money
robbed by that usurper from France--his?"
"We won't argue, André," said Madame sharply, "let us hear what M. le
préfet proposes."
"Propose, Mme. la Duchesse," ejaculated the unfortunate préfet, "I have
nothing to propose! I am at my wits' end what to do! I came to M. le
Comte for advice."
"And you were quite right, my dear M. Fourier," said the Comte affably.
He paused for a few seconds in order to collect his thoughts, then
continued: "Now let us consider this question from every side, and then
see to what conclusion we can arrive that will be for the best. Firstly,
of course, there is the possibility of your following the example of the
préfet of the Basses-Alpes and taking yourself and the money to a
convenient place outside Grenoble."
But at this suggestion M. Fourier was ready to burst into tears.
"Impossible, M. le Comte," he cried pitiably, "I could not do it. . . .
Where could I go? . . . The existence of the money is known . . . known
to the Bonapartists, I am convinced. . . . There's Dumoulin, the
glovemaker, he knows everything that goes on in Grenoble . . . and his
friend Emery, who is an army surgeon in the pay of Bonaparte . . . both
these men have been to and from Elba incessantly these past few months
. . . then there's the Bonapartist club in Grenoble . . . with a
membership of over two thousand . . . the members have friends and spies
everywhere . . . even inside the Hôtel de Ville . . . why! the other day
I had to dismiss a servant who . . ."
"Easy, easy, M. le préfet," broke in M. le Comte impatiently, "the long
and the short of it is that you would not feel safe with the money
anywhere outside Grenoble."
"Or inside it, M. le Comte."
"Very well, then, the money must be deposited there, where it will be
safe. Now what do you think of Dupont's Bank?"
"Oh, M. le Comte! an avowed Bonapartist! . . . M. de Talleyrand would
not trust him with the money last year."
"That is so . . . but . . ."
"It seems to me," here interposed Mme. la Duchesse abruptly, "that by
far the best plan--since this district seems to be a hot-bed of
disloyalty--would be to convey the money straightway to Paris, and then
the King or M. de Talleyrand can dispose of it as best they like."
"Ah, Mme. la Duchesse," sighed M. Fourier ecstatically as he clasped his
podgy little hands together and looked on Madame with eyes full of
admiration for her wisdom, "how cleverly that was spoken! If only I
could be relieved from that awful responsibility . . . five and twenty
millions under my charge and that Corsican ogre at our gates! . . ."
"That is all very well!" quoth the Comte with marked impatience, "but
how is it going to be done? 'Convey the money to Paris' is easily said.
But who is going to do it? M. le préfet here says that the Bonapartists
have spies everywhere round Grenoble, and . . ."
"Ah, M. le Comte!" exclaimed the préfet eagerly. "I have already thought
of such a beautiful plan! If only you would consent . . ."
M. le Comte's thin lips curled in a sarcastic smile.
"Oh! you have thought it all out already, M. le préfet?" he said. "Well!
let me hear your plan, but I warn you that I will not have the money
brought here. I don't half trust the peasantry of the neighbourhood, and
I won't have a fight or an outrage committed in my house!"
M. le préfet was ready with a protest:
"No, no, M. le Comte!" he said, "I wouldn't suggest such a thing for the
world. If the Corsican brigand is successful in capturing Grenoble, no
place would be sacred to him. No! My idea was if you, M. le Comte--who
have oft before journeyed to Paris and back--would do it now . . .
before Bonaparte gets any nearer to Grenoble . . . and take the money
with you . . ."
"I?" exclaimed the Comte. "But, man, if--as you say--Grenoble is full of
Bonapartist spies, my movements are no doubt just as closely watched as
your own."
"No, no, M. le Comte, not quite so closely, I am sure."
The insinuating manner of the worthy man, however, was apparently
getting on M. le Comte's nerves.
"Ah, ça, M. le préfet," he ejaculated abruptly, "but meseems that the
splendid plan you thought on merely consists in transferring
responsibility from your shoulders to mine own."
And M. le Comte cast such a wrathful look on poor M. Fourier that the
unfortunate man was stricken dumb with confusion.
"Moreover," concluded the Comte, "I don't know that you, M. le préfet,
have the right to dispose of this money which was entrusted to you by M.
de Talleyrand in the King's behalf without consulting His Majesty's
wishes in the matter."
"Bah, André," broke in the Duchesse in her incisive way, "you are
talking nonsense, and you know it. There is no time for red-tapeism now
with that ogre at our gates. How are you going to consult His Majesty's
wishes--who is in Paris--between now and Tuesday, I would like to know?"
she added with a shrug of the shoulders.
Whereupon M. le Comte waxed politely sarcastic.
"Perhaps," he said, "you would prefer us to consult yours."
"You might do worse," she retorted imperturbably. "The question is one
which is very easily solved. Ought His Majesty the King to have that
money, or should M. le préfet here take the risk of its falling in
Bonaparte's hands? Answer me that," she said decisively, "and then I
will tell you how best to succeed in carrying out your own wishes."
"What a question, my good Sophie!" said the Comte stiffly. "Of course we
desire His Majesty to have what is rightfully his."
"You mean he ought to have the twenty-five millions which the Prince de
Bénévant stole from Marie Louise. Very well then, obviously that money
ought to be taken to Paris before Bonaparte gets much nearer to
Grenoble--but it should not be taken by you, my good André, nor yet by
M. le préfet."
"By whom then?" queried the Comte irritably.
"By me," replied Mme. la Duchesse.
"By you, Sophie! Impossible!"
"And God alive, why impossible, I pray you?" she retorted. "The money, I
understand, is in a very portable form, notes and bankers' drafts, which
can be stowed away quite easily. Why shouldn't I be journeying back to
Paris after Crystal's wedding? Who would suspect me, I should like to
know, of carrying twenty-five millions under my petticoats? All I should
want would be a couple of sturdy fellows on the box to protect me
against footpads. Impossible?" she continued tartly. "Men are always so
ready with that word. Get a sensible woman, I say, and she will solve
your difficulties before you have finished exclaiming: 'Impossible!'"
And she looked triumphantly from one man to the other. There was obvious
relief on the ruddy face of little M. Fourier, and even M. le Comte was
visibly taken with the idea.
"Well!" he at last condescended to say, "it does sound feasible after
all."
"Feasible? Of course it's feasible," said Madame with a shrug of
contempt. "Either the King is in want of the money, or he is not. Either
Bonaparte is likely to get it or he is not. If the King wants it, he
must have it at any cost and any risk. Twenty-five millions in
Bonaparte's hands at this juncture would help him to reconstitute his
army and make it very unpleasant for the King and for us all. M. le
préfet, who has been in charge of the money all along, and M. le Comte
de Cambray, who is the only true royalist in the district, are both
marked down by spies: ergo Mme. la Duchesse d'Agen is the only possible
agent for the business, and an inoffensive old woman without any
political standing is the least likely to be molested in her task. If I
fail, I fail," concluded Madame decisively, "if I am stopped on the way
and the money taken from me, well! I am stopped, that's all! and M. le
préfet or M. le Comte de Cambray or any male agent they may have sent
would have been stopped likewise. But I maintain that a woman travelling
alone is far safer at this business and more likely to succeed than a
man. So now, for God's sake, don't let's argue any more about it.
Crystal is to be married on Tuesday and I could start that same
afternoon. Can you bring the money over with you to-night?"
She put her query directly to the préfet, who was obviously overjoyed,
and intensely relieved at the suggestion.
M. le Comte too seemed to be won over by his sister's persuasive
rhetoric: her strength of mind and firmness of purpose always imposed
themselves on those over whom she chose to exert her will: and men of
somewhat weak character like the Comte de Cambray came very easily under
the sway of her dominating personality.
But he thought it incumbent upon his dignity to make one more protest
before he finally yielded to his sister's arguments.
"I don't like," he said, "the idea of your travelling alone through the
country without sufficient escort. The roads are none too safe and
. . ."
"Bah!" broke in Madame impatiently. "I pray you, Monsieur my brother, to
strengthen your arguments, if you are really determined to oppose this
sensible scheme of mine. Travelling alone, forsooth! Did I not arrive
only yesterday, having travelled all the way from Boulogne and with no
escort save two louts on the box of a hired coach?"
"You chose to travel alone, my dear sister, for reasons best known to
yourself," retorted the Comte, greatly angered that M. le préfet should
hear the fact that Mme. la Duchesse douairière had travelled at any time
without an escort.
"And who shall say me nay, if I choose to travel back alone again, I
should like to know? So now if you have exhausted your string of
objections, my dear brother, perhaps you will allow M. le préfet to
answer my question."
Whereupon M. le préfet promptly satisfied Mme. la Duchesse on the point:
he certainly could and would bring the money over with him this evening.
And M. le Comte had no further objections to offer.
In the archives of the Ministry of War in Paris, any one who looks may
read that in the subsequent trial of Général Marchand for high
treason--after the Hundred Days and Napoleon's second abdication--préfet
Fourier during the course of his evidence gave a detailed account of
this same interview which he had with M. le Comte de Cambray and Mme. la
Duchesse douairière d'Agen on Sunday, March the 5th. In his deposition
he naturally laid great stress upon his own zeal in the matter,
declaring that he it was who finally overcame by his eloquence M. le
Comte's objections to the scheme and decided him to give his
acquiescence thereto.[1]
[Footnote 1: Déposition de Fourier. (Dossier de Marchant Arch. Guerre.)]
Certain it is that there was but little argument after this between Mme.
la Duchesse and the two men, and that the details of the scheme were
presently discussed soberly and in all their bearings.
"I shall have the honour presently," said Fourier, "of coming back here
to respond to M. le Comte's gracious invitation to dinner. Why
shouldn't I bring the money with me then?"
"Indeed you must bring the money then," retorted the irascible old lady,
"and let there be no shirking or delay. Promptitude is our great chance
of success. I ought not to start later than Tuesday, and I could do so
soon after the wedding ceremony. I could arrange to sleep at Lyons that
night, at Dijon the next day, be in Paris by Thursday evening and in the
King's presence on Friday."
"Provided you are not delayed," sighed the Comte.
"If I am delayed, my good André, then anyhow the game is up. But we are
not going to anticipate misfortune and we are going to believe in our
lucky star."
"Would to God I could bring myself to approve wholeheartedly of this
expedition! The whole thing seems to me chivalrous and romantic rather
than prudent, and Heaven knows how prudent we should be just now!"
"You look back on history, my dear brother," remarked Madame drily, "and
you'll see that more great events have been brought about by chivalry
and romance than by prudence and circumspection. The romance of Joan of
Arc delivered France from foreign yoke, the chivalry of François I.
saved the honour of France after the disaster of Pavie, and it certainly
was not prudence which set Henry of Navarre upon the throne of France
and in the heart of his people. So for gracious' sake do not let us talk
of prudence any more. Rather let us allow M. le préfet to return quietly
to the Hôtel de Ville, so that he and Mme. Fourier may proceed to dress
for to-night's ceremony, just as if nothing untoward had happened. In
the meanwhile I will complete my preparations for Tuesday. There are one
or two little details in connection with my journey--hostelries,
servants, horses and so on--which you, my dear André, will kindly decide
for me. And now, gentlemen," she added, rising from her chair, "I have
the honour to wish you both a very good afternoon."
She did not wait long enough to allow M. le Comte time to ring for
Hector, and she appeared so busy with her lace shawl that she was unable
to do more than acknowledge with a slight inclination of the head M. le
préfet's respectful salute. But then Mme. la Duchesse douairière
d'Agen--though a fervent royalist herself--had a wholesome contempt for
these opportunists. Fourier, celebrated mathematician, loaded with gifts
and honours by Napoleon, who had made him a member of the Institute of
Science and given him the prefecture of the Isère, had turned his coat
very readily at the Restoration, and the oaths of loyalty which he had
tendered to the Emperor seemed not to weigh overheavily upon his
conscience when he reiterated them to the King.
Mme. la Duchesse d'Agen, therefore, did not willingly place her
aristocratic fingers in the hand of a renegade, who she felt might turn
renegade again if his personal interest so dictated it. Perhaps
something of what lay behind Madame's curt nod to him, struck the
préfet's sensibilities, for the high colour suddenly fled from his round
face, and he did not attempt to approach her for the ceremonial
hand-kissing. But he ran across the room as fast as his short legs would
carry him, and he opened the door for her and bowed to her as she sailed
past him with all the deference which in the olden days of the Empire he
had accorded to the Empress Marie Louise.
"It is a mad scheme, my good M. Fourier," sighed the Comte when he found
himself once more alone with the préfet, "but such as it is I can think
of nothing better."
"M. le Comte," exclaimed the préfet with delight, "no one could think of
anything better. Ah, the women of France!" he added ecstatically, "the
women! how often have they saved France in moments of crises? France
owes her grandeur to her women, M. le Comte!"
"And also her reverses, my dear M. Fourier," remarked the Comte drily.
II
When Bobby Clyffurde came back to Brestalou, after his long day's ride,
he found the stately rooms of the old castle already prepared for the
arrival of M. le Comte's guests. The large reception hall had been
thrown open, as--after supper--M. le Comte would be receiving some of
the notabilities of Grenoble in honour of a great occasion: the
signature of the _contrat de mariage_ between Mlle. Crystal de Cambray
de Brestalou and M. Victor de Marmont. There was an array of liveried
servants in the hall and along the corridor through which Bobby had to
pass on the way to his own room: their liveries of purple with canary
facings--the heraldic colours of the family of Cambray de
Brestalou--hardly showed, in the flickering light of wax candles, the
many ravages of moth and mildew which twenty years of neglect had
wrought upon the once fine and brilliant cloth.
Downstairs the formal supper which was to precede the reception was laid
for twenty guests. The table was resplendent with the silver so kindly
lent by a benevolent and far-seeing king to those of his friends who had
not the means of replacing the ancient family treasures filched from
them by the revolutionary government.
There were no flowers upon the table, and only very few wax candles
burned in the ormolu and crystal chandelier overhead. Flowers and wax
candles were luxuries which must be paid for with ready money--a
commodity which was exceedingly scarce in the grandiose Château de
Brestalou--but they also were a luxury which could easily be dispensed
with, for did not M. le Comte de Cambray set the fashions and give the
tone to the whole _département_? and if he chose to have no flowers upon
his supper table and but few candles in his silver sconces, why then
society must take it for granted that such now was _bon ton_ and the
prevailing fashion at the Tuileries.
Bobby, knowing his host's fastidious tastes in such matters, had made a
very careful toilet, all the while that his thoughts were busy with the
wonderful news which Emery had brought this day, and which was all over
Grenoble by now. He and his two companions had left Notre Dame de Vaulx
soon after their _déjeuner_, and together had entered the city at five
o'clock in the afternoon. On their way they had encountered the
travelling-coach of Général Mouton-Duveret, who, accompanied by his
aide-de-camp, was on his way to Gap, where he intended to organise
strong resistance against Bonaparte.
He parleyed some time with Emery, whom he knew by sight and suspected of
being an emissary of the Corsican. Emery, with true southern verve, gave
the worthy general a highly-coloured account of the triumphal progress
through Provence and the Dauphiné of Napoleon, whom he boldly called
"the Emperor." Mouton--in no way belying his name--was very upset not
only by the news, but by his own helplessness with regard to Emery, who
he knew would presently be in Grenoble distributing the usurper's
proclamations all over the city, whilst he--Mouton--with his one
aide-de-camp and a couple of loutish servants on the box of his coach,
could do nothing to detain him.
As soon as the three men had ridden away, however, he sent his
aide-de-camp back to Grenoble by a round-about way, ordering him to make
as great speed as possible, and to see Général Marchand as soon as may
be, so that immediate measures might be taken to prevent that emissary
if not from entering the city, at least from posting up proclamations on
public buildings.
But Mouton's aide-de-camp was no match against the enthusiasm and
ingenuity of Emery and de Marmont, and when he--in his turn--entered
Grenoble soon after five o'clock, he was confronted by the printed
proclamations signed by the familiar and dreaded name "Napoleon" affixed
to the gates of the city, to the Hôtel de Ville, the mairie, the prison,
the barracks, and to every street corner in Grenoble.
The three friends had parted at the porte de Bonne, Emery to go to his
friend Dumoulin, the glovemaker--de Marmont to his lodgings in the rue
Montorge, whilst Bobby Clyffurde rode straight back to Brestalou.
A couple of hours later Victor de Marmont had also arrived at the
castle. He too had made an elaborate toilet, and then had driven over in
a hackney coach in advance of the other guests, seeing that he desired
to have a final interview with M. le Comte before he affixed his name to
his _contrat de mariage_ with Mlle. de Cambray. An air of solemnity sat
well upon his good-looking face, but it was obvious that he was
trying--somewhat in vain--to keep an inward excitement in check.
M. le Comte de Cambray, believing that this excitement was entirely due
to the solemnity of the occasion, had smiled indulgently--a trifle
contemptuously too--at young de Marmont's very apparent eagerness. A
vulgar display of feelings, an inability to control one's words and
movements when under the stress of emotion was characteristic of the
parvenus of to-day, and de Marmont's unfettered agitation when coming to
sign his own marriage contract was only on a par with préfet Fourier's
nervousness this afternoon.
The Comte received his future son-in-law with a gracious smile. The
thought of an alliance between Mlle. de Cambray de Brestalou and a de
Marmont of Nowhere had been a bitter pill to swallow, but M. le Comte
was too proud to show how distasteful it had been. Chatting pleasantly
the two men repaired together to the library.
III
Bobby Clyffurde--immaculately dressed in fine cloth coat and satin
breeches, with fine Mechlin lace at throat and wrist, and his light
brown hair tied at the nape of the neck with a big black bow--came down
presently to the reception room. He found the place silent and deserted.
But the stately apartment looked more cosy and home-like than usual. A
cheerful fire was burning in the monumental hearth and the soft light of
the candles fixed in sconces round the walls tempered to a certain
degree that bare and severe look of past grandeur which usually hung
upon every corner of the old château.
Clyffurde went up to the tall hearth. He rested his hand on the ledge of
the mantel and leaning his forehead against it he stared moodily into
the fire.
Thoughts of all that he had learned in the past few hours, of the new
chapter in the book of the destinies of France, begun a few days ago in
the bay of Jouan, crowded in upon his mind. What difference would the
unfolding of that new chapter make to the destinies of the Comte de
Cambray and of Crystal? What had Fate in store for the bold adventurer
who was marching across France with a handful of men to reconquer a
throne and remake an empire? what had she in store for the stiff-necked
aristocrat of the old regime who still believed that God himself had
made special laws for the benefit of one class of humanity, and that He
had even created them differently to the rest of mankind?
And what had Fate in store for the beautiful, delicate girl whose future
had been so arbitrarily settled by two men--father and lover--one the
buyer, the other the seller of her exquisite person, the shrine of her
pure and idealistic soul--and bargained for by father and lover as the
price of so many acres of land--a farm--a château--an ancestral estate?
Father and lover were sitting together even now discussing values--the
purchase price--"You give me back my lands, I will give you my
daughter!" Blood money! soul money! Clyffurde called it as he ground his
teeth together in impotent rage.
What folly it was to care! what folly to have allowed the tendrils of
his over-sensitive heart to twine themselves round this beautiful girl,
who was as far removed from his destiny as were the ambitions of his
boyhood, the hopes, the dreams which the hard circumstances of fate had
forced him to bury beneath the grave-mound of rigid and unswerving duty.
But what a dream it had been, this love for Crystal de Cambray! It had
filled his entire soul from the moment when first he saw her--down in
the garden under an avenue of ilex trees which cast their mysterious
shadows over her; her father had called to her and she had come across
to where he--Clyffurde--stood silently watching this approaching vision
of loveliness which never would vanish from his mental gaze again.
Even at that supreme moment, when her blue eyes, her sweet smile, the
exquisite grace of her took possession of his soul, even then he knew
already that his dream could have but one awakening. She was already
plighted to another, a happier man, but even if she were free, Crystal
would never have bestowed a thought upon the stranger--the commonplace
tradesman, whose only merit in her sight lay in his friendship with
another gallant English gentleman.
And knowing this--when he saw her after that, day after day, hour after
hour--poor Bobby Clyffurde grew reconciled to the knowledge that the
gates of his Paradise would for ever be locked against him: he grew
contented just to peep through those gates; and the Angel who was on
guard there, holding the flaming sword of caste prejudice against him,
would relent at times and allow him to linger on the threshold and to
gaze into a semblance of happiness.
Those thoughts, those dreams, those longings, he had been able to
endure; to-day reality had suddenly become more insistent and more
stern: the Angel's flaming sword would sear his soul after this, if he
lingered any longer by the enchanted gates: and thus had the semblance
of happiness yielded at last to dull regret.
He sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
IV
The sound of the opening and shutting of a door, the soft frou-frou of a
woman's skirt roused him from his gloomy reverie, and caused him to jump
to his feet.
Mlle. Crystal was coming across the long reception room, walking with a
slow and weary step toward the hearth. She was obviously not yet aware
of Clyffurde's presence, and he had full leisure to watch her as she
approached, to note the pallor of her cheeks and lips and that pathetic
look of childlike self-pity and almost of appeal which veiled the
brilliance of her deep blue eyes.
A moment later she saw him and came more quickly across the room, with
hand extended, and an air of gracious condescension in her whole
attitude.
"Ah! M. Clyffurde," she said in perfect English, "I did not know you
were here . . . and all alone. My father," she added, "is occupied with
serious matters downstairs, else he would have been here to receive
you."
"I know, Mademoiselle," he said after he had kissed the tips of three
cold little fingers which had been held out to him. "My friend de
Marmont is with him just now: he desired to speak with M. le Comte in
private . . . on a matter which closely concerns his happiness."
"Ah! then you knew?" she asked coldly.
"Yes, Mademoiselle, I knew," he replied.
She had settled herself down in a high-backed chair close to the hearth,
the ruddy light of the wood-fire played upon her white satin gown, upon
her bare arms, and the ends of her lace scarf, upon her satin shoes and
the bunch of snowdrops at her breast, but her face was in shadow and she
did not look up at Clyffurde, whilst he--poor fool!--stood before her,
absorbed in the contemplation of this dainty picture which mayhap after
to-night would never gladden his eyes again.
"You are a great friend of M. de Marmont?" she asked after a while.
"Oh, Mademoiselle--a friend?" he replied with a self-deprecatory shrug
of the shoulders, "friendship is too great a name to give to our chance
acquaintanceship. I met Victor de Marmont less than a fortnight ago, in
Grenoble. . . ."
"Ah yes! I had forgotten--he told me that he had first met you at the
house of a M. Dumoulin . . ."
"In the shop of M. Dumoulin, Mademoiselle," broke in Clyffurde with his
good-humoured smile. "M. Dumoulin, the glovemaker, with whom I was
transacting business at the moment when M. de Marmont walked in, in
order to buy himself a pair of gloves."
"Of course," she added coldly, "I had forgotten. . . ."
"You were not likely to remember such a trivial circumstance,
Mademoiselle. M. de Marmont saw me after that here as guest in your
father's house. He was greatly surprised at finding me--a mere
tradesman--in such an honoured position. Surprise laid the foundation of
pleasing intercourse between us, but you see, Mademoiselle, that M. de
Marmont has no cause to boast of his friendship with me."
"Oh! M. de Marmont is not so prejudiced. . . ."
"As you are, Mademoiselle?" he asked quietly, for she had paused and he
saw that she bit her lips with her tiny white teeth as if she meant to
check the words that would come tumbling out.
Thus directly questioned she gave a little shrug of disdain.
"My opinions in the matter are not in question, Sir," she said coldly.
She smothered a little yawn which may have been due to ennui, but also
to the tingling of her nerves. Clyffurde saw that her hands were never
still for a moment; she was either fingering the snowdrops in her belt
or smoothing out the creases in her lace scarf; from time to time she
raised her head and a tense expression came into her face, as if she
were trying to listen to what was going on elsewhere in the
house--downstairs perhaps--in the library where she was being finally
bargained for and sold.
Clyffurde felt an intense--an unreasoning pity for her, and because of
that pity--the gentle kinsman of fierce love--he found it in his heart
to forgive her all her prejudices, that almost arrogant pride of caste
which was in her blood, for which she was no more responsible than she
was for the colour of her hair or the vivid blue of her eyes; she seemed
so forlorn--such a child, in the midst of all this decadent grandeur.
She was being so ruthlessly sacrificed for ideals that were no longer
tenable, that had ceased to be tenable five and twenty years ago when
this château and these lands were overrun by a savage and vengeful mob,
who were loudly demanding the right to live in happiness, in comfort,
and in freedom. That right had been denied to them through the past
centuries by those who were of her own kith and kin, and it was
snatched with brutal force, with lust of hate and thirst for reprisals,
by the revolutionary crowd when it came into its own at last.
Something of the pity which he felt for this beautiful and innocent
victim of rancour, oppression and prejudice, must have been manifest in
Clyffurde's earnest eyes, for when Crystal looked up to him and met his
glance she drew herself up with an air of haughty detachment. And with
that, she wished to convey still more tangibly to him the idea of that
barrier of caste which must for ever divide her from him.
Obviously his look of pity had angered her, for now she said abruptly
and with marked coldness:
"My father tells me, Sir, that you are thinking of leaving France
shortly."
"Indeed, Mademoiselle," he replied, "I have trespassed too long as it is
on M. le Comte's gracious hospitality. My visit originally was only for
a fortnight. I thought of leaving for England to-morrow."
A little lift of the eyebrows, an unnecessary smoothing of an invisible
crease in her gown and Crystal asked lightly:
"Before the . . . my wedding, Sir?"
"Before your wedding, Mademoiselle."
She frowned--vaguely stirred to irritation by his ill-concealed
indifference. "I trust," she rejoined pointedly, "that you are satisfied
with your trade in Grenoble."
The little shaft was meant to sting, but if Bobby felt any pain he
certainly appeared to bear it with perfect good-humour.
"I am quite satisfied," he said. "I thank you, Mademoiselle."
"It must be very pleasing to conclude such affairs satisfactorily," she
continued.
"Very pleasing, Mademoiselle."
"Of course--given the right temperament for such a career--it must be so
much more comfortable to spend one's life in making money--buying and
selling things and so on--rather than to risk it every day for the
barren honour of serving one's king and country."
"As you say, Mademoiselle," he said quite imperturbably, "given the
right temperament, it certainly is much more comfortable."
"And you, Sir, I take it, are the happy possessor of such a
temperament."
"I suppose so, Mademoiselle."
"You are content to buy and to sell and to make money? to rest at ease
and let the men who love their country and their king fight for you and
for their ideals?"
Her voice had suddenly become trenchant and hard, her manner
contemptuous--at strange variance with the indifferent kindliness
wherewith she had hitherto seemed to regard her father's English guest.
Certainly her nerves--he thought--were very much on edge, and no doubt
his own always unruffled calm--the combined product of temperament,
nationality and education--had an irritating effect upon her. Had he not
been so intensely sorry for her, he would have resented this final taunt
of hers--an arrow shot this time with intent to wound.
But as it was he merely said with a smile:
"Surely, Mademoiselle, my contentment with my own lot, and any other
feelings of which I may be possessed, are of such very little
consequence--seeing that they are only the feelings of a very
commonplace tradesman--that they are not worthy of being discussed."
Then as quickly her manner changed: the contemptuous look vanished from
her eyes, the sarcastic curl from her lips, and with one of those quick
transitions of mood which were perhaps the principal charm of Crystal de
Cambray's personality, she looked up at Bobby with a winning smile and
an appeal for forgiveness.
"Your pardon, Sir," she said softly. "I was shrewish and ill-tempered,
and deserve a severe lesson in courtesy. I did not mean to be
disagreeable," she added with a little sigh, "but my nerves are all
a-quiver to-day and this awful news has weighed upon my spirit. . . ."
"What awful news, Mademoiselle?" he asked.
"Surely you have heard?"
"You mean the news about Napoleon . . . ?"
"I mean the awful certainty," she retorted with a sudden outburst of
vehemence, "that that brigand, that usurper, that scourge of mankind has
escaped from an all too lenient prison where he should never have been
confined, seeing how easy was escape from it. I mean that all the
horrors of the past twenty years will begin again now, misery,
starvation, exile probably. Oh, surely," she added with ever-increasing
passion, "surely God will not permit such an awful thing to happen;
surely he will strike the ogre dead, ere he devastates France once
again!"
"I am afraid that you must not reckon quite so much on divine
interference, Mademoiselle. A nation--like every single individual--must
shape its own destiny, and must not look to God to help it in its
political aims."
"And France must look once more to England, I suppose. It is humiliating
to be always in need of help," she said with an impatient little sigh.
"Each nation in its turn has it in its power to help a sister. Sometimes
help may come from the weaker vessel. Do you remember the philosopher's
fable of the lion and the mouse? France may be the mouse just now--some
day it may be in her power to requite the lion."
She shook her head reprovingly. "I don't know," she said, "that I
approve of your calling France--the mouse."
"I only did so in order to drive my parable still further home."
Then as she looked a little puzzled, he continued--speaking very slowly
this time and with an intensity of feeling which was quite different to
his usual pleasant, good-tempered, oft-times flippant manner:
"Mademoiselle Crystal--if you will allow me to speak of such an
insignificant person as I am--I am at present in the position of the
mouse with regard to your father and yourself--the lions of my parable.
You might so easily have devoured me, you see," he added with a quaint
touch of humour. "Well! the time may come when you may have need of a
friend, just as I had need of one when I came here--a stranger in a
strange land. Events will move with great rapidity in the next few days,
Mademoiselle Crystal, and the mouse might at any time be in a position
to render a service to the lion. Will you remember that?"
"I will try, Monsieur," she replied.
But already her pride was once more up in arms. She did not like his
tone, that air of protection which his attitude suggested. And indeed
she could not think of any eventuality which would place the Comte de
Cambray de Brestalou in serious need of a tradesman for his friend.
Then as quickly again her mood softened and as she raised her eyes to
his he saw that they were full of tears.
"Indeed! indeed!" she said gently, "I do deserve your contempt, Sir, for
my shrewishness and vixenish ways. How can I--how can any of us--afford
to turn our backs upon a loyal friend? To-day too, of all days, when
that awful enemy is once more at our gates! Oh!" she added, clasping her
hands together with a sudden gesture of passionate entreaty, "you are
English, Sir--a friend of all those gallant gentlemen who saved my dear
father and his family from those awful revolutionaries--you will be
loyal to us, will you not? The English hate Bonaparte as much as we do!
you hate him too, do you not? you will do all you can to help my poor
father through this awful crisis? You will, won't you?" she pleaded.
"Have I not already offered you my humble services, Mademoiselle?" he
rejoined earnestly.
Indeed this was a very serious ordeal for quiet, self-contained Bobby
Clyffurde--an Englishman, remember--with all an Englishman's shyness of
emotion, all an Englishman's contempt of any display of sentiment. Here
was this beautiful girl--whom he loved with all the passionate ardour of
his virile, manly temperament--sitting almost at his feet, he looking
down upon her fair head, with its wealth of golden curls, and into her
blue eyes which were full of tears.
Who shall blame him if just then a desperate longing seized him to throw
all prudence, all dignity and honour to the winds and to clasp this
exquisite woman for one brief and happy moment in his arms--to forget
the world, her position and his--to risk disgrace and betray
hospitality, for the sake of one kiss upon her lips? The temptation was
so fierce--indeed for one short second it was all but irresistible--that
something of the battle which was raging within his soul became
outwardly visible, and in the girl's tear-dimmed eyes there crept a
quick look of alarm--so strange, so ununderstandable was his glance, the
rigidity of his attitude--as if every muscle had become taut and every
nerve strained to snapping point, while his face looked hard and lined,
almost as if he were fighting physical pain.
V
Thus a few seconds went by in absolute silence--while the great gilt
clock upon its carved bracket ticked on with stolid relentlessness,
marking another minute--and yet another--of this hour which was so full
of portent for the destinies of France. Clyffurde would gladly have
bartered the future years of his life for the power to stay the hand of
Time just now--for the power to remain just like this, standing before
this beautiful woman whom he loved, feeling that at any moment he could
take her in his arms and kiss her eyes and her lips, even if she were
unwilling, even if she hated him for ever afterwards.
The sense of power to do that which he might regret to the end of his
days was infinitely sweet, the power to fight against that
all-compelling passion was perhaps sweeter still. Then came the pride of
victory. The habits of a lifetime had come to his aid: self-respect and
self-control, hard and wilful taskmasters, fought against passion, until
it yielded inch by inch.
The battle was fought and won in those few moments of silence: the
strain of the man's attitude relaxed, the set lines on his face
vanished, leaving it serene and quietly humorous, calm and
self-deprecatory. Only his voice was not quite so steady as usual, as he
said softly:
"Mademoiselle Crystal, is there anything that I can do for you?--now at
once, I mean? If there is, I do entreat you most earnestly to let me
serve you."
Had the pure soul of the woman been touched by the fringe of that
magnetic wave of passion even as it rose to its utmost height, nearly
sweeping the man off his feet, and in its final retreat leaving him with
quivering nerves and senses bruised and numb? Did something of the man's
suffering, of his love and of his despair appear--despite his
efforts--upon his face and in the depth of his glance?--and thus made
visible did they--even through their compelling intensity--cause that
invisible barrier of social prejudices to totter and to break? It were
difficult to say. Certain it is that Crystal's whole heart warmed to the
stranger as it had never warmed before. She felt that here was a _man_
standing before her now, whose promises would never be mere idle words,
whose deeds would speak more loudly than his tongue. She felt that in
the midst of all the enmity which encompassed her and her father in
their newly regained home and land, here at any rate was a friend on
whom they could count to help, to counsel and to accomplish. And deep
down in the very bottom of her soul there was a curious unexplainable
longing that circumstances should compel her to ask one day for his
help, and a sweet knowledge that that help would be ably rendered and
pleasing to receive.
But for the moment, of course, there was nothing that she could ask: she
would be married in a couple of days--alas! so soon!--and after that it
would be to her husband that she must look for devotion, for guidance
and for sympathy.
A little sigh of regret escaped her lips, and she said gently:
"I thank you, Sir, from the bottom of my heart, for the words of
friendship which you have spoken. I shall never forget them, never! and
if at any time in my life I am in trouble . . ."
"Which God forbid!" he broke in fervently.
"If any time I have need of a friend," she resumed, "I feel that I
should find one in you. Oh! if only I could think that you would extend
your devotion to my poor country, and to our King . . ." she exclaimed
with passionate earnestness.
"You love your country very dearly, Mademoiselle," he rejoined.
"I think that I love France more than anything else in the world," she
replied, "and I feel that there is no sacrifice which I would deem too
great to offer up for her."
"And by France you mean the Bourbon dynasty," he said almost
involuntarily, and with an impatient little sigh.
"I mean the King, by the grace of God!" she retorted proudly.
She had thrown back her head with an air of challenge as she said this,
meeting his glance eye to eye: she looked strong and wilful all of a
sudden, no longer girlish and submissive. And to the man who loved her,
this trait of power and latent heroism added yet another to the many
charms which he saw in her. Loyal to her country and to her king she
would be loyal in all things--to husband, kindred and to friends.
But he realised at the same time how impossible it would be for any man
to win her love if he were an enemy to her cause. St. Genis--royalist,
émigré, retrograde like herself--had obviously won his way to her heart
chiefly by the sympathy of his own convictions. But what of de Marmont,
to whom she was on the eve of plighting her troth? de Marmont the
hot-headed Bonapartist who owned but one god--Napoleon--and yet had
deliberately, and with cynical opportunism hidden his fanatical aims and
beliefs from the woman whom he had wooed and won?
The thought of that deception--and of the awakening which would await
the girl-wife on the very morrow of her wedding-day mayhap, was terribly
repellent to Clyffurde's straightforward, loyal nature, and bitter was
the contention within his soul as he found himself at the cross-roads of
a divided duty. Every instinct of chivalry towards the woman loudly
demanded that he should warn her--now--at once--before it was too
late--before she had actually pledged her life and future to a man whom
her very soul--if she knew the truth--would proclaim a renegade and a
traitor; and every instinct of loyalty to the man--that male solidarity
of sex which will never permit one man--if he be a gentleman--to betray
another--prompted him to hold his peace.
Crystal's gentle voice fell like dream-tones upon his ear. Vaguely only
did he hear what she said. She was still speaking of France, of all that
the country had suffered and all that was due to her from her sons and
daughters: she spoke of the King, God's own anointed as she called him,
endowed with rights divine, and all the while his thoughts were far
away, flying on the wings of memory to the little hamlet among the
mountains where two enthusiasts had exhausted every panegyric in praise
of their own hero, whom this girl called a usurper and a brigand. He
remembered every trait in de Marmont's face, every inflexion of his
voice as he said with almost cruel cynicism: "She will learn to love me
in time."
That, Clyffurde knew now, Crystal de Cambray would never do. Indifferent
to de Marmont to-day, she would hate and loathe him the day that she
discovered how infamously he had deceived her: and to Clyffurde's
passionate temperament the thought of Crystal's future unhappiness was
absolutely intolerable.
Here indeed was a battle far more strenuous and difficult of issue than
that of a man's will against his passions: here was a problem far more
difficult to solve than any that had assailed Bobby Clyffurde throughout
his life.
His heart cried out "She must know the truth: she must. To-day! this
minute, while there was yet time! Anon she will be pledged irrevocably
to a man who has lied to her, whom she will curse as a renegade, a
traitor, false to his country, false to his king!"
And the words hovered on his lips: "Mademoiselle Crystal! do not plight
your troth to de Marmont! he is no friend of yours, his people are not
your people! his God is not your God! and there is neither blessing nor
holiness in an union 'twixt you and him!"
But the words remained unspoken, because the unwritten code--the bond
'twixt man and man--tried to still this natural cry of his heart and
reason argued that he must hold his peace. His heart rebelled,
contending that to remain silent was cowardly--that his first duty was
to the woman whom he loved better than his soul, whilst ingrained
principles, born and bred in the bone of him, threw themselves into the
conflict, warning him that if he spoke he would be no better than an
informer, meriting the contempt alike of those whom he wished to help
and of the man whom he would betray.
It was one sound coming from below which settled the dispute 'twixt
heart and reason--the sound of de Marmont's voice which though he was
apparently speaking of indifferent matters had that same triumphant ring
in it which Clyffurde had heard at Notre Dame de Vaulx this morning.
The sound had caused Crystal to give a quick gasp and to clasp her hands
against her breast, as she said with a nervous little laugh:
"Imagine how happy we are to have M. de Marmont's support in this
terrible crisis! His influence in Grenoble and in the whole province is
very great: his word in the town itself may incline the whole balance of
public feeling on the side of the King, and who knows, it may even help
to strengthen the loyalty of the troops. Oh! that Corsican brigand
little guesses what kind of welcome we in the Dauphiné are preparing for
him!"
Her enthusiasm, her trust, her loyalty ended the conflict in Clyffurde's
mind far more effectually than any sober reasoning could have done. He
realised in a moment that neither abstract principles, nor his own
feelings in the matter, were of the slightest account at such a
juncture.
What was obvious, certain, and not to be shirked, was duty to a woman
who was on the point of being shamefully deceived, also duty to the man
whose hospitality he had enjoyed. To remain silent would be cowardly--of
that he became absolutely certain, and once Bobby had made up his mind
what duty was no power on earth could make him swerve from its
fulfilment.
"Mlle. Crystal," he began slowly and deliberately, "just now, when I was
bold enough to offer you my friendship, you deigned to accept it, did
you not?"
"Indeed I did, Sir," she replied, a little astonished. "Why should you
ask?"
"Because the time has come sooner than I expected for me to prove the
truth of that offer to you. There is something which I must say to you
which no one but a friend ought to do. May I?"
But before she could frame the little "Yes!" which already trembled on
her lips, her father's voice and de Marmont's rang out from the further
end of the room itself.
The folding doors had been thrown open: M. le Comte and his son-in-law
elect were on the point of entering and had paused for a moment just
under the lintel. De Marmont was talking in a loud voice and apparently
in response to something which M. le Comte had just told him.
"Ah!" he said, "Mme. la Duchesse will be leaving Brestalou? I am sorry
to hear that. Why should she go so soon?"
"An affair of business, my dear de Marmont," replied the Comte. "I will
tell you about it at an early opportunity."
After which there was a hubbub of talk in the corridors outside, the
sound of greetings, the pleasing confusion of questions and answers
which marks the simultaneous arrival of several guests.
Crystal rose and turned to Bobby with a smile.
"You will have to tell me some other time," she said lightly. "Don't
forget!"
The psychological moment had gone by and Clyffurde cursed himself for
having fought too long against the promptings of his heart and lost the
precious moments which might have changed the whole of Crystal's
future. He cursed himself for not having spoken sooner, now that he saw
de Marmont with glowing eyes and ill-concealed triumph approach his
beautiful fiancée and with the air of a conqueror raise her hand to his
lips.
She looked very pale, and to the man who loved her so ardently and so
hopelessly it seemed as if she gave a curious little shiver and that for
one brief second her blue eyes flashed a pathetic look of appeal up to
his.
VI
M. le Comte's guests followed closely on the triumphant bridegroom's
heels: M. le préfet, fussy and nervous, secretly delighted at the idea
of affixing his official signature to such an aristocratic _contrat de
mariage_ as was this between Mlle. de Cambray de Brestalou and M. Victor
de Marmont, own nephew to Marshal the duc de Raguse; Madame la préfète,
resplendent in the latest fashion from Paris, the Duc and Duchesse
d'Embrun, cousins of the bride, the Vicomte de Génevois and his mother,
who was Abbess of Pont Haut and godmother by proxy to Crystal de
Cambray; whilst Général Marchand, in command of the troops of the
district, fresh from the Council of War which he had hastily convened,
was trying to hide behind a _débonnaire_ manner all the anxiety which
"the brigand's" march on Grenoble was causing him.
The chief notabilities of the province had assembled to do honour to the
occasion, later on others would come, lesser lights by birth and
position than this select crowd who would partake of the _souper des
fiançailles_ before the _contrat_ was signed in their presence as
witnesses to the transaction.
Everyone was talking volubly: the ogre's progress through France--no
longer to be denied--was the chief subject of conversation. Some spoke
of it with contempt, others with terror. The ex-Bonapartists Fourier
and Marchand were loudest in their curses against "the usurper."
Clyffurde, silent and keeping somewhat aloof from the brilliant throng,
saw that de Marmont did not enter into any of these conversations. He
kept resolutely close to Crystal, and spoke to her from time to time in
a whisper, and always with that assured air of the conqueror, which
grated so unpleasantly on Clyffurde's irritable nerves.
The Comte, affable and gracious, spoke a few words to each of his guests
in turn, whilst Mme. la Duchesse douairière d'Agen was talking openly of
her forthcoming return journey to the North.
"I came in great haste," she said loudly to the circle of ladies
gathered around her, "for my little Crystal's wedding. But I was in the
middle of a Lenten retreat at the Sacred Heart, and I only received
permission from my confessor to spend three days in all this gaiety."
"When do you leave us again, Mme. la Duchesse?" queried Mlle. Marchand,
the General's daughter, in a honeyed voice.
"On Tuesday, directly after the religious ceremony, Mademoiselle,"
replied Madame, whilst M. le préfet tried to loo
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