HIS DEPARTURE THENCE
Thus it was that Roland de Céligny’s exit from Mirabel was not so
speedily effected as his hostess had planned. And without Suzon Tessier
it is doubtful whether it would have been effected at all. For if Mme de
Trélan was cast for the romantic part in this drama of deliverance, it
was Suzon who played the indispensable go-between with MM. de Céligny
_aînés_, she who brought in the additional and choicer provisions
required for the invalid, she who supported, on cleaning-day, the
fiction of Mme Vidal’s not being able to leave her room, and personally
enforced, in consequence, a surprising quiet among the myrmidons of
Louise. But Roland hardly realised his debt to Mme Tessier; the ardour
of his gratitude glowed at the feet of Mme de Vidal—as he persisted in
calling her.
But on the fourth evening he was well enough to go, the two women
thought; and, for his part, well enough to be sorry to go.
It had been arranged that at ten o’clock a carriage should be in waiting
outside a certain little door in the park wall at the end of the
lime-tree avenue known as the Allée des Soupirs—a door which the
Duchesse had already investigated, and from which, when she oiled the
rusty bolts, she had torn away in readiness the plastered ivy. This door
was some distance down the park, and, therefore, to accustom him to the
use of his legs, Valentine had caused her patient to walk several times
round the room with the assistance of Suzon and herself. It was already
getting dark; Suzon had gone back to Paris, and, since Mme de Trélan
dared not have her patient in her living-room in case of a surprise, she
had taken her armchair into her bedroom and ensconced him in it, to eat
his supper before he faced the journey to the door, and herself sat down
to bear him company.
And while he ate Roland talked; or, to be more accurate, when he was not
talking, he ate. Propped up with pillows in his chair, bright-eyed, with
a varying colour, he appeared, as he was, excited, and not the less
attractive for his condition. His wound was not, Suzon said, doing very
well, but he seemed free from fever, and it was too dangerous for him to
stay longer. Both Valentine and he knew that. So he utilised the last
remaining half-hour in converse, and not being of a suspicious nature,
never considered that this woman who was saving him could quite easily
betray him afterwards when she had gained from him all the information
she wanted, nor even that it might be worth her while letting him slip
for the sake of that information. The concierge’s extraordinary kindness
and generosity had earned, besides his undying gratitude, his
whole-hearted confidence. Moreover, as he told himself, however she came
to her present position, it was not a position natural to her. Apart
from her voice, her bearing, what concierge ever had filbert nails like
that? Yes, Roland wished he were not going out of Mirabel with the
prospect of never seeing its guardian again.
So he chatted unrestrainedly about the little band in Brittany. Chiefly
he dwelt upon M. de Kersaint, and manifested astonishment when he learnt
that his hostess did not know of the heroic part that gentleman had
played in the great Austrian defeat at Rivoli two and a half years ago.
“You forget, Monsieur Roland,” observed Valentine, smiling, “that I do
not live in Royalist circles. But I think I do remember hearing at the
time that one of the Austrian columns was commanded by a French émigré,
but I never learnt his name.”
“It was M. de Kersaint. He has the cross of Maria Theresa for it.”
“Indeed! I am afraid the Directory would give him a very different
decoration if they had him in their hands.”
“They are not likely to have him there,” asserted Roland confidently.
“But I remember hearing M. de Brencourt say that Masséna in
particular—not to speak of General Bonaparte——”
“Whom did you say?” asked Valentine, struck.
“General Masséna. He came up during the night, you know, to Joubert’s
assistance, Bonaparte being of course in supreme command——”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted the Duchesse again, less interested in the
battle of Rivoli (on which this young man seemed to be an expert) than
in something else. “I mean—what name—whom did you say you overheard?
. . . M. de Brencourt?”
Roland nodded. “The Comte de Brencourt is M. de Kersaint’s
second-in-command. He said that Masséna was furious——”
“Tell me, what is he like, this M. de Brencourt?”
Roland, surprised, described him. “Why, do you know him, Madame?”
“It cannot be the same,” said Valentine hastily. “I did not mean to
interrupt you, Monsieur de Céligny. Go on, pray, with what you were
telling me about M. de Kersaint and Rivoli.”
But she did not listen. Pictures were floating in her head of her stay
at Spa in 1787, of her first meeting at that fashionable resort with the
Comte de Brencourt, whose admiration had almost amounted to persecution,
who had threatened once to shoot himself because of her coldness, and
who had followed her against her bidding to her country house.
It was the same man, of course. Dimly she heard about Lucien and
Artamène and the “Abbé,” of the disbanding, of greater plans for the
future, and it was not for some moments that she came back entirely to
her room and her attractive refugee, and found that the young man,
leaning slightly forward in the big chair, was asking her a question.
“Do you not think, Madame de Vidal, that you might add to your
never-to-be-forgotten kindness by telling me in your turn, something
about yourself? You—pardon me—you are no concierge! You are as gently
born as I!”
“You think so? Well, the world has been upside down these ten years, has
it not? Ten years ago—if you were old enough then to give a thought to
the future—you would not have expected to grow up a house-breaker,
Monsieur Roland!”
But from the way he looked at her then she could almost see his young
and romantic mind working, and probably making up wild stories about
her. She decided to present him with one ready-made, and not so far from
the truth.
“Yes,” she said quietly, “it is useless to deny that I am gently born,
but I trust that my employer, the Deputy who has charge of the château,
is not aware of the fact. For him I am the aunt of his cousin, Mme
Tessier. My late husband, an émigré, died abroad, and I was obliged to
earn my living, like many a better woman. I used to earn it by
needlework; now I do so by looking after Mirabel. There you have my
history in the proverbial nutshell. And now”—she glanced at the little
clock on the shelf, “it is nearly time to start for the Allée des
Soupirs.”
The colour leapt into Roland’s face. “You have been so divinely kind,
Madame, that I dare ask one more kindness. Something—the merest
trifle—as a memento of what indeed I shall need no memento to keep in
lifelong memory!”
It was a long time since young men had asked Valentine de Trélan for
souvenirs. That they had asked in vain was neither here nor there.
“But, my child,” she responded with a maternal air, “I have nothing to
give you . . . unless you would like a thimble or a pair of scissors!”
“I should like anything,” said the petitioner humbly.
“I suppose,” said she, rising, “that what you would like best would be
some of this semi-mythical treasure.—Roland!” she said, struck by a
sudden thought, “promise me that you will not come back after it when
you are better! Promise me!”
The boy had flushed with pleasure at the sound of his unprefixed name.
“Alas, the treasure will probably be gone before I am well enough for
that, Madame. The Marquis de Kersaint will send somebody—but not one of
us. He said it was work for an older and wiser head, and I suppose he
was right. I suspect he will send M. de Brencourt, if he can spare him.”
“Oh!” said Valentine, and was silent all at once.
“But,” went on the youth, unregarding, “if I am to promise not to
return, Madame de Vidal, you must give me a remembrance of you to take
away with me. Otherwise——”
“I think you are threatening me,” observed Valentine, recovering
herself. “For my part I can ill spare my thimble, but if it will prevent
your climbing that wall again—Stay, I believe I have something after
all.”
And going into the outer room she came back with the locket she had
found in the work table in her boudoir.
“If you care for this, Monsieur de Céligny,” she said, “you are welcome
to it. It has no value. It was mine as a girl, before my marriage.”
But she need not have said that, for the V, which alone stood out
clearly among the twisted pearls and garnets of the monogram, he could
easily take for “Vidal.” Getting with some difficulty to his feet the
young man reverently received the trinket, looked at it, and having
kissed it slipped the worn chain about his neck. Mme de Trélan brought
some garments from the bed.
“It is really time to go, mon enfant. You will need all your courage for
the journey. Here is your hat; I brought it in afterwards from the
guardianship of the statue; and you must put on this cloak, for it is
raining hard. All the better, for rain drowns noises—though I hope
there is no one to hear in any case. Now, you must lean on me hard, for
I am very strong.”
It was indeed raining from a light spring sky which somehow concealed a
moon. On the limes of the Allée des Soupirs, when they got there, the
drops pattered heavily. The journey had been slow and trying, but at
last they reached the door. Roland, panting, leant against the wall
while Valentine opened it.
It was lucky that she had oiled bolts and hinges, for even then it
protested as she pulled at it. The last ivy tendril gave. Mme de Trélan
went through and heard an unseen horse blow out its nostrils and a bit
jingle, and then saw two dim forms waiting in the lane. One of them
touched her on the shoulder.
“He is there?” asked an educated man’s voice.
“Just inside,” she answered. “Be quick, for he can scarcely stand.”
The two men went through the door, and in a moment Roland came out
between them, stumbling a little but not so spent that he did not try to
stop as he passed her. His supporters very properly would have none of
this, but she heard the boy’s low, broken words of gratitude and
farewell before the three had vanished in the shadows.
She turned to go in. And then the same man’s form loomed through the
darkness again.
“This is for your inestimable services, and your discretion, my good
woman,” he whispered. “You can guess whence it comes.” And, seizing one
of her hands in the obscurity, he thrust something into it and closed
her fingers round the gift.
Very shortly afterwards the Duchesse de Trélan stood alone in the rain
under the wet limes of the Allée des Soupirs in her park of Mirabel. Her
arm was lightened of the burden she had supported down the avenue, but
her heart, although it knew a great relief, beat to an odd little ache
that was almost regret. And she stood there between tears and laughter,
because of what she held in her hand as an exchange for Roland de
Céligny—a considerable bundle of assignats.