CHECK TO THE KNIGHT
It is doubtful if the Comte de Brencourt realised how his false tidings
about her husband would sweep out of Mme de Trélan’s head almost all
thought of himself, his proximity and his enterprise; and quite certain
that he would not have been pleased had he known where she spent the
greater part of the following morning. For she had deliberately gone up
to a part of the château which she had not yet entered, a part shut to
visitors—the Duc’s private apartments.
Stripped, dusty, neglected, they were yet the rooms which Gaston had
inhabited, and she wandered there too miserable, too self-reproachful
even for weeping. _Mort!_ the word with its hollow vowel seemed to go
echoing through the emptiness that had once been so different. No chance
now of reconciliation; no chance of that ultimate meeting somewhere,
somehow, to the hope of which, in spite of herself, she knew at last
that she had been desperately clinging—which had even, perhaps unknown
to her, been the determining factor in her acceptance of the post at
Mirabel. Whatever unsubstantial edifice she had been rearing was all in
ruins now, and neither in pride and resentment, nor in the love that
forgives everything, could they meet again on earth.
Now she knew the truth: she had always loved him, she always would. And
since, in its own surroundings, there was not a single possession of his
remaining, she went to the Galerie de Psyché, and, under the paintings
of that wife of fable who also lost her mate, she knelt down by Gaston’s
beautiful escritoire, and bowing her head upon it, kissed the place on
the tortoiseshell where his hand had used to rest. He was dead—so what
did it matter that he had long ceased to love her? He was dead; he was
hers now; she could love for both.
It was neither a cleaning nor a visiting day, and Valentine could not be
too thankful that, with these tidings fresh upon her heart, she would
not be obliged to act just yet the intolerable part she had so lightly
taken up. But, to her utter dismay, she heard, about two o’clock in the
afternoon, voices on the steps leading down to her room, and then the
sound of the entrance door opening, which showed that the arrivals must
include her master Camain, who now used the key he had had, it appeared,
all the time. And when Valentine went out unwillingly into the passage
she found him in the midst of a whole cortège of visitors, mostly
feminine. Hanging on to his arm was a pretty, plump woman of about
thirty-five, whom she recognised at once from the frequent prints of her
in Paris. It was Rose Dufour, the actress of the Ambigu-Comique.
A violent gust of repulsion went through the Duchesse de Trélan. True,
she had never been able to believe that her husband had really admired
Mlle Dufour, but nine or ten years ago rumour had certainly linked their
names for a space, and to see her in person to-day, of all days . . .
“Ha, here is our good friend, Mme Vidal!” said Camain, advancing. “Rose,
if you wish to leave your wrap in her care——” And without waiting for
permission he removed from the nymph’s very scantily attired shoulders a
handsome pelisse of violet satin edged with ermine.
“Good God, Camain, do you want me to die of cold in your old tomb of a
château!” exclaimed she, snatching at it.
“Well, it is true that you will not be suffocated without it. You might
almost as well have nothing on,” observed her admirer frankly, looking
at her transparent white muslin gown of classic cut, worn slightly damp,
according to the insane fashion of the day, to make it cling. Even Mlle
Dufour’s arms were bare to the shoulder, for the actress was not of
those who had to endure the accusation launched at the wearers of
sleeves, that they feared to show those members. And her mythological
garb, slit for a considerable distance up the side, revealed the golden
fastenings of the buskin clambering half-way up her leg, where a gilded
acorn clasped them. For that reason, presumably, she was not wearing,
like one of her companions, a jewelled thong around her ankle. But upon
her fair coiffure—probably a wig, for which the rage was extreme—rose
a confection of lilac crêpe, adorned with two rows of pearls and
surmounted by a rose and a pansy.
Valentine had turned her back, pretending to be busy. For nothing on
earth would she touch any of that creature’s belongings! However, the
dispute about the pelisse resolved itself into the lady’s decreeing that
her swain should carry it over his arm, lest she should wish to resume
it, and presently the whole party, laughing and talking, swept up the
stairway to the ground floor. Mme de Trélan, conscious of jangled
nerves, would fain have stayed behind, but Camain insisted on her
accompanying them, as was indeed her duty. He did not present her to his
mistress, but his affability stopped short only of that mark of
distinction.
In the great Salle Verte, for which they presently made, he acted
showman, while many remarks were passed on its size and decorations, and
surmises made as to what scenes (“orgies,” one of the male members of
the party termed them) had occurred in it.
“And there is an inner room, somewhat curious,” said the Deputy. “It was
designed, I believe, to be a sort of retreat for the prince—since the
château, as I daresay you know, was originally built for King François
I. It is worth looking at, Mesdames.” So the company obediently followed
him along the Salle Verte.
Valentine was conscious of a violent wish that they should not enter the
sallette. Till this moment she had been too much absorbed in the thought
of her dead husband to give much consideration to the Comte de Brencourt
and his doings. Now, although she knew that he had not attacked the
masonry, and although he would surely not be so rash as to attempt
anything in daylight, she had a premonition of disaster. But Camain
waved his hand towards the door, and there was nothing for it but to
open it.
However, to Mme de Trélan’s great relief—for she had somehow, against
her better sense, expected to see de Brencourt standing where she had
found him last night—the sallette was empty. And the company were
called on by the Deputy to admire the _cheminée royale_, with its
carving of Apollo and Daphne, and its nymph and pipe-playing satyr on
either side, but some of the ladies, unversed in mythological lore,
despite their present attire, were intrigued by the main subject, and
among these was the Citoyenne Dufour.
“What on earth is happening to that woman, Camain?” she demanded. “Her
arms are sprouting at the ends. And who is the man?”
“That, ma belle,” responded her admirer, “is the nymph Daphne, turning
into a laurel to escape the attentions of the god Apollo—a pretty
prudery not likely, I fancy, to find many imitators in these days, eh,
ladies?”
Violent protests from the ladies of the party.
“Oh, oh, Citizen Deputy, you have left some fleur-de-lys on the wall!”
observed one of them. “Is that to be on the safe side—in case a Bourbon
should return?”
“Fleur-de-lys? Nonsense!” returned M. Camain, putting up his spy-glass
to look at the poor scorched remnant of tapestry hanging there. “Those
things you see round that bit of border are . . . humming-birds,
heraldic humming-birds!”
Much laughter greeted this sally. “And what is this queer long beast
over the hearth?” demanded another voice.
“With a crown on its head, too! Oh fie!”
“It is not, at any rate,” said one of the two youngish men of the party,
in the extraordinary lisp cultivated by the would-be fashionable, “the
strange fowl to whose nest some one has set fire just as she was going
to lay, which we saw in the Salle Verte!”
So it went on, the flow of humour; and after visiting most of the
apartments on the first floor, where M. Camain tripped badly as an
expositor of the story of Psyche, and where Valentine’s own apartments,
though arousing much interest, were voted horribly old-fashioned in
decoration, they came to the second, to the door of the locked gallery
with the china and portraits. Mme de Trélan had hoped that she might
have been spared that—for how should she look upon that portrait in
primrose satin to-day?—and sick at heart as never before, she had
contrived to trail behind. She heard Camain’s voice explaining what was
in the room while he waited for her to unlock the door. Then she
realised that the key, being a special one, was not on the concierge’s
bunch, and that she had in consequence forgotten to bring it with her.
She came forward and said so. “But I will go and fetch it instantly,
Monsieur le Député.”
“Do, pray,—though I regret to put you to the trouble,” said her
employer. “Meanwhile, ladies, come out on to this balcony, and you will
see——”
Valentine hastened down the nearest stairs. Better to get it over as
soon as possible, the visit to that room, for it had to be gone through
with, and she had no one but herself to thank for that fact.
She had come down a minor staircase which deposited her at some distance
from her own quarters, and having arrived on the basement floor she
began to run, for she was still as light-footed as a girl, and she had a
constitutional dislike, for all her upbringing, to keeping people
waiting. And thus, round a corner, she almost collided with a man
hastening in the opposite direction. A second of stupefaction, and she
saw that it was the Comte de Brencourt.
“What!” she stammered out. “M. le Comte—what madness! Camain is here
himself!”
“I know!” returned he rather breathlessly. “They are after me—never
mind what happened—a folly of my own. I am trying to get as far away
from your rooms as possible.”
“But for God’s sake go back there!” said the Duchesse, seizing hold of
his arm, and all but pushing him. “Go to my room—you will be safe
there. They will not go in!”
“Never!” he exclaimed. “The last thing I should do—compromise you in
this affair!” And breaking away from her he disappeared without another
word, and was out of sight or hearing before she could even think of
some spot in which he could hide. And since her quick wit told her that
any delay in returning with the key might lead to Camain himself
descending to investigate, she ran on to her little parlour, snatched it
up and set off again with all haste. Terrible though it was to leave the
Comte to his fate, or at least to his own devices—for she heard no
sounds of pursuit yet—it was out of her power to help him now.
From what she caught, as she returned to the little group of persons on
the second floor, it seemed that Camain had been singing her praises in
her absence.
“I am afraid that you have hurried, Madame Vidal,” he said in a tone of
concern as he took the key from her. She was indeed very obviously out
of breath. “You should not have done so. These ladies seized the
opportunity of taking a breath of air on the balcony, and having a peep
from there at the park, which they tell me I ought to keep in better
order.”
“Indeed, Monsieur le Député,” put in one of the critics in an affected
voice, “you ought to be scolded! It seems, as far as one can judge from
up here, to be in the state of the tangled wood which surrounded the
castle of the Sleeping Beauty.” She pulled her gauze scarf about her
with a still more affected air, acquired with a good deal of pains above
her husband’s shop, and the five blue feathers in her turban quivered.
“Now that remark, Madame Constant,” said the Deputy, stooping and
fitting the key into the lock, “gives me an opening, does it not, for a
pretty speech about the Sleeping Beauty herself? However, Mme Vidal
doesn’t like pretty speeches, so I won’t make it.” He opened the door,
invited the ladies to enter, and after casting upon Valentine a glance
which could only be described as ogling, followed the bevy, who had
already fluttered in with exclamations—two of them also casting glances
of another nature upon the concierge as they passed.
Mme de Trélan, every sense on the alert, remained outside. Dared she run
down the stairs again, and could she do any good if she did? She had not
long to hesitate, for in an instant Camain’s voice was heard summoning
her within, and she obeyed, anxiety as to what was going forward
downstairs swallowing for the moment every other feeling.
“You might show these gentlemen the pictures, Madame Vidal,” said her
master, looking up from his favourite Sèvres. And as the three men of
the party attached themselves to her, the Duchesse began to move slowly
along the line of Trélans, starting as far as possible from her
husband’s portrait. She heard, before beginning her own unwilling
exposition, Camain saying, “You see this plate, ladies; I believe it was
one of a service painted for the late Duchesse on her marriage.” And she
guessed to what he was directing the attention of those fair and envious
vulgarians, to the plate of green Sèvres with the alternate medallions
of cherubs on clouds, baskets of flowers, and green wreaths, round the
rim whose extreme edge was of dark blue hatched with gold.
“That must be the poor woman’s monogram in the middle, then,” said one
of them, and Valentine knew that she was looking at the gold T in the
centre, intertwined with a V of roses and forget-me-nots, and surmounted
by a coronet. “T for Trélan, of course—I wonder what the V stood for?”
“I don’t know,” said Camain. “Victoire or Victorine, I expect. Do you
know, Mademoiselle Dufour?”
“Why on earth should I?” asked Rose Dufour indifferently. “Let me look
at it, Georges—I’ll take it in my own hands, thanks . . . Great God,
how clumsy you are!” For the sound of a smash told that the late
Duchesse de Trélan’s plate now existed only in fragments.
Through the ensuing recriminations between the Deputy and his
_innamorata_, and the expressions of concern from everybody else in the
room, including her own three prospective picture-gazers, Valentine’s
ears were strained to catch other sounds. And as she still did not hear
them she began to entertain a faint hope. The château was so large that
a man might lead his pursuers a good dance and elude them in the end.
Unfortunately M. de Brencourt was not familiar with its topography.
“If you say you dropped it because you were carrying my pelisse I’ll
take the pelisse myself!” Mlle Dufour’s voice emerged again, sounding
less good-humoured than usual. “No, I’m not going to carry it on my
arm—Heaven forbid. You can put it on my shoulders, only don’t drop it
also—Bon Dieu, what’s that?”
For a loud knock had come at the door, which stood ajar—a knock that
sounded to Valentine like the summons of Fate. Moving a trifle, she was
able to see the soldier outside, whose approaching footfalls the recent
scene had drowned. A sensitive lady gave a little scream.
“Who’s there?” asked Camain, the violet satin held above Mlle Dufour’s
bare shoulders. “Excuse me, ma mie!” He dropped the cloak upon its
destination without much ceremony, and strode to the door, where the
National Guard was seen to salute and to say something in a low voice.
“Tut, tut!” said the Deputy. “Well, I suppose I had better come down and
ask him a few questions.”
“What is it, Georges?” asked the Dufour, who had glided to the door
after him, the ermine slipping half off her shoulders.
“The guard have captured a man who has just made an entrance into the
building, and they would like me to have a look at him before marching
him off.”
“How interesting!” cried the actress. “What a coup de théâtre! Do not go
down to him, Georges! Let them bring him up here! This might have been
arranged for us. What was he doing?”
Nobody could answer that question but Valentine, and she only in part.
Camain hesitated a moment, but only a moment. “Very well,” he said.
“Tell them to bring him up here,” he added to the National Guard.
A hot flame of indignation ran over the Duchesse. The Comte de
Brencourt, a gentleman, was then to be made a show for the passing
curiosity of a courtesan and her friends! But what had he been about, in
daylight too? The same question no doubt was exercising the Deputy, for
he turned round, his look seeking her out; and, being half a head taller
than any one else in the room, he easily found her.
“Here is a pretty find to be made on your domain, Madame Vidal!” he
said. The voice sounded jocular, but she was not sure of the genuineness
of that jocularity. She was saved the necessity of a reply by a remark
from one of the ladies, winged by a malicious side-glance at her, the
shabby, middle-aged caretaker; “Perhaps it is the Prince come after the
Sleeping Beauty!”
Half ashamed, the men sniggered too. Valentine’s anger, lit in spite of
her contempt, served usefully to steady her. “It is more likely,
Monsieur le Député,” she said coldly, “that he has come after something
in this room—there are valuables here, are there not?”
“At the moment, most certainly!” cut in one of the youngish men, bowing
with a fatuous air in the direction of Rose and the others.
“But in the daytime!” said Camain musingly. His eyes strayed to the
jasper cup. “I’ll have the room made surer.”
“And I shall beg leave to give up the key,” said Valentine, her head
high. Anything to foster the idea of ordinary theft.
“I shall not ask you——” Camain was beginning, when the tramp of feet
in the corridor interrupted him. “Ah, here is our adventurer. Yes, bring
him in, men.”
If the Comte de Brencourt felt the indignity of his position, he did not
show it. His chief preoccupation, Valentine could not but feel, was to
avoid looking at her. He had not been secured without a struggle, that
was evident, for there was a cut on his forehead, and his neckcloth was
wrenched half off. His arms were bound to his sides by a pipe-clayed
cross-belt. Valentine could not keep her eyes off him, but the Comte
himself looked nowhere but at Camain. And Camain, advancing a little,
studied him for a moment, his hands behind his back, his rather
prominent blue eyes suddenly grown searching.
“Your report, corporal?” he said abruptly, still running his gaze over
the captive.
The National Guard related a story to which no one in the room listened
more fixedly than the concierge of Mirabel: how the sentry—apparently
neither Grégoire nor Jacques—happening to look round at the château not
very long after the entry of the Deputy and his party, had seen a man
getting in at one of the ground-floor windows, how he had summoned the
guard and they, selecting the same window, as the quickest mode of
entrance, had at last run the intruder to earth on the basement floor
and, after a lively resistance, captured him.
“Very smart work, corporal,” said the Deputy. “But that window—what
window was it?”
“We found ourselves when we got in, Citizen Deputy, in that room they
call the ‘sallette.’”
“The sallette!” echoed Camain in surprise, and Valentine suppressed an
exclamation. How nearly right her presentiments had been, then! But to
enter by the window, in broad daylight, in view of the sentry; it
sounded crazy!
“And what had he in his pockets?” went on the Deputy.
“These small tools, Citizen Deputy, a handkerchief, and a case with
assignats; we have not counted them yet.”
(He must have had time to get rid of the plan, then.)
“Well, my fine fellow, and what have you to say for yourself?” The words
were careless, but the tone was so different from anything which Mme de
Trélan had yet heard him use, that, for the first time, she realised how
Georges Camain might have been a Terrorist.
To this the prisoner was understood to mutter, in a strong patois, that
he hoped the citizen would not be too severe on a poor man, that the
times were bitter hard—no work, no food—and he had thought he might
light on something or other in Mirabel that nobody would miss . . .
His dishevelled appearance, the blood trickling down one cheek, and a
certain amount of dirt that M. de Brencourt had somehow accumulated,
went really a good way to obliterate the marks of race. Perhaps he would
succeed in carrying it off that he was a common thief. The Deputy seemed
inclined to believe it.
“I rather think, my man,” he said, with a smile which had in it nothing
of amiable, “that you have known the inside of a gaol already, from the
look of you. However, we shall hear all about that later. You had better
take him to the guard-house for the present,” he remarked to the
corporal, “and make arrangements for having him conveyed to Paris.”
By the end of this little speech Valentine had realised where the
captive’s eyes, which had already removed themselves from his
inquisitor’s, were now fixed—on the portrait of her husband as a young
man which faced him all the while.