CHAPTER V - FREE--WITH A BROKEN WING

"I swear I will not ask your meaning in it:

I do believe yourself against yourself,

And will henceforward rather die than doubt."

TENNYSON, _Geraint and Enid_.

(1)

The first moments of Laurent's grief were savage. He stood for some time

at the window, his hands clenched together before him, his head against

the grey panelling at the side, choking down the spasms of grief and

fury which rose in his throat. He could not bear to look at the silent

room. At last he stumbled over to Aymar's deserted bed and flung

himself there, face downwards. God only knew where Aymar would lie

to-night!

But very soon his mind was plotting the details of his own escape. This

window here by Aymar's bed, after dark, because it looked out round the

corner, not on the facade; it would be quite easy. If he could only

have elicited from L'Oiseleur where he intended to go! But Aymar seemed

to have no plan--how could he? The fiat had been to them both like an

unforeseen sentence of death.

Laurent stirred and gripped the pillow--Aymar's pillow--where his face

was buried. The remembrance of the offer of Aymar's cross--a death-bed

action--was not comforting. That Aymar could attempt such a thing

showed--what did it show? Laurent clutched the pillow harder. For

L'Oiseleur had at last definitely confessed that he could not clear

himself. Did he then know himself to be irretrievably ruined over this

black business, in which, after all, that shadowy de Fresne had not

played the villain? And could it be that in consequence he contemplated

taking his own life? Was that why he had tried to bestow on his friend

that significant gift, and was that why he had said: "You will never

see me again"?

Laurent sprang up and threw open the window by the bed. The sentry very

rarely paced round this corner. If he did, there was a convenient bush

almost under the window. And the prisoner had not wasted his

opportunities for observation during his walks on the terrace, so that

he knew roughly the extent and lie of M. d'Arbelles' domain, was aware

that it was not hampered with walls, and had a very good idea at what

points the sentries were posted. But there were hours yet to get

through before dark.

At about eight o'clock, as he was sitting in gloom and fever, watching

the rain which had now come on, there unexpectedly entered to him

Lieutenant Rigault. He looked concerned and somewhat shamefaced, but

Laurent soon discovered that this embarrassment was not, as he at first

supposed, on Aymar's account, but on his, Laurent's. The Colonel, it

appeared, had given orders that one of the old dungeons which survived

from the original château was to be prepared for M. de Courtomer's

reception, but this retreat was in such a condition that it could not

be ready till the morrow. Rigault feared, however, that this would be

M. de Courtomer's last night in his present quarters.

Laurent (who was privately of the same opinion), while thanking him for

the interest he took in his fate, intimated that he considered no

dungeon was deep enough for Colonel Guitton to expiate the turning out

of a wounded prisoner, scarcely able to stand, to die, perhaps, of

exposure. But the young chasseur, while admitting that this had seemed

to him rather inhuman, asked whether Laurent, in their place, would be

disposed to condone treachery by making much of a traitor.

"Making much of!" exclaimed Laurent contemptuously. "You haven't run

much risk of that at Arbelles, have you? What about yesterday's

proceedings?--Were you there?"

"We all were; we had to be--orders. But do not go away with the idea,

pray, Monsieur de Courtomer"--as Monsieur de Courtomer bent upon him a

very pregnant look--"that the Colonel had it all his own way at that

interview! There is not much of the Early Christian martyr about the

modern Saint Sebas----I beg your pardon! He said some pretty stinging

things himself."

"He could hardly say anything stinging enough in reply to that

suggestion that he should accept a commission with you!"

"Oh, he simply said he would rather die than do that. It was not very

judicious," commented Rigault reflectively, "because then the Colonel

was able to retort, 'I daresay you would rather like me to have you

shot, since you think, no doubt, that the balls of an enemy

firing-party would efface the marks of your own. I should never do

_that_; a soldier's death is too good for you.' And," finished the

young officer, as Laurent flushed hotly, "if the facts are as Colonel

Richard reported them, I quite agree with that opinion."

"If you talked till next year, Monsieur," retorted Laurent scornfully

and impolitely, "you would not get me to believe that it is Colonel

Guitton's excessive highmindedness which has led him to do what he has

done to-day! He has never forgiven M. de la Rocheterie for baulking him

over du Tremblay's plans. There is personal vengeance behind his

abominable action."

"Yes," said Rigault thoughtfully, "I believe you are right. It is not so

much what La Rocheterie has done, as what he refused to do. . . . But,

with regard to his turning out, he had his money, you know, Monsieur de

Courtomer. He could have gone to the village inn, if he had chosen,

instead of starting off to nowhere along the Saint-Caradec road."

Laurent became very attentive. "He went along the Saint-Caradec road?"

"Yes. He turned to the right at the château gates."

"You are sure of that? Naturally I am interested to know where he has

gone."

"Naturally. Yes, I know he did. The fact is," said Lieutenant Rigault,

looking out of the window, "that I happened to be in the avenue at the

time--by pure chance, I assure you; I was not there as a spectator of

. . . misfortune. Well, when La Rocheterie got to the gates--he had no

escort then--the sentry would not let him pass; evidently he had no

orders to that effect. I foresaw that he might be turned back, and have

to come up the avenue again, and that would have been cruel. So I

hurried down and told the sentry that he was released; and I saw,

therefore, that he turned along the Saint-Caradec road."

At that absence of explicit orders--intentional, he felt sure--Laurent

had ground his teeth. And how many _had_ been in the avenue to watch

him? "I wonder he ever reached the gates at all," he muttered savagely.

"Did he look very much exhausted?"

"I must confess that I would not have backed him to go much farther,"

admitted the young Imperialist. "Indeed, I think he was holding on to

the gate when I got there, but when he saw me he stood up straight and

thanked me very civilly." He paused a moment, and then added, it seemed

against his will, "I admit that I am puzzled by him. I cannot square

what he has done with . . . what he seems to be."

But Laurent was not so elated by this confession as he might have been

in earlier days. What did it matter now? He said nothing, and Rigault

went on, "I watched him to the bend--about a furlong it is--he was

walking very slowly, but fairly steadily."

"What is along that road?" enquired Laurent in a gloomy and exasperated

voice.

"Nothing till you come to Saint-Caradec. It is not a high road, properly

speaking, but the country people sometimes use it. La Rocheterie might

get a lift in a farmer's cart."

"And if not?"

"I don't know," replied the other, also rather gloomily. He gave a short

sigh. "I wish it had not happened. . . . As to the Colonel's intentions

with regard to you, we are going to raise a strong protest directly

there is a chance of being listened to, so we must hope for the best."

To this evidence of good feeling Laurent made no response whatever; he

was with Aymar in the rain, on the road that led to nowhere. Rigault

went to the door. And when Laurent, staring forlornly through the

blurred window, said to himself, "If only I knew where he was!" he had

really forgotten the Imperialist's presence.

He was reminded of it by a touch on the shoulder. The young officer had

recrossed the space between them. And he now remarked to the prisoner

in a rather strange and hurried voice, "The windows of this room are

only sixteen feet from the ground."

"I calculated that they would be about that," returned M. de Courtomer.

And then, suddenly realizing what a surprising thing had just taken

place, he turned and stared at the speaker. Lieutenant Rigault of the

garrison of Arbelles got noticeably red, somehow found the captive's

hand, gulped out very low "Good luck!" and bolted for the door.

(2)

Many times during the last few weeks had Laurent told himself how easy

it would be to escape from captivity if he were ever to cast his

thoughts that way. Yet, in the event, the simplicity of his departure

rather staggered him; for, twenty minutes after he had clung bat-like

to the sill of the window by which Vert-Vert also had left the château,

he was outside the domain of M. le Baron d'Arbelles altogether, and was

creeping, with looks to right and left, along the dim pallor of the

Saint-Caradec road.

He had encountered no obstacles of any kind whatever, and only a minute

or so of suspense, while the sentry stood meditating on the other side

of the bush which momentarily concealed the acrobat after his drop. It

was a dark night, which would have been auspicious for an ordinary

fugitive, but was not so fortunate for a fugitive who was searching for

someone else. However, Aymar must be somewhere along this road (always

supposing that he had not got a lift) because he would never have had

the strength to climb its high banks even if he wished to leave it.

But soon, a little to Laurent's dismay, the bank and hedge on his left

broke into what seemed to be a thicket of some extent. Instantly he

felt sure that Aymar had turned in there, and that he should find him.

He went in. But under the trees it was so dark that he began to

stumble. He listened, but only heard gently running water; he called

very softly but without result. He dared not go on for fear L'Oiseleur

should be there after all, asleep or unconscious; yet he could not

search the thicket thoroughly until it grew lighter. So, feeling,

unreasonably enough, that he was somehow betraying his quest, he lay

down in a dry ditch and presently swam off into an uncomfortable

slumber.

But before the first thrush began he had hunted through every foot of

the coppice. L'Oiseleur was not there--not a trace of him. All these

hours, then, had been wasted; while Aymar--in what plight was he by

now? The night had not been warm.

Horribly disappointed and anxious, Laurent stood on the side of the

thicket farthest from Arbelles and surveyed the prospect. The tiny wood

gave on to rolling country, fields of large extent. He could not free

himself from the conviction that Aymar had been in the wood at some

time, if only to rest. By which way would he have left it in that

case--by the fields or by the road? It seemed to Laurent that he must

search both exits. He resolved that he would first cover a section of

the road--the more hazardous proceeding for himself--and then search

the field back again to the copse. After that it would become a choice

between the next section of the road and the open country.

Looking to see that the coast was clear, he ran cautiously up the road,

glancing to either side as he went. It was perfectly empty save for a

meditative rabbit in the middle, who whisked off at his step; it gave,

in fact, in the morning stillness, between its holly hedges, the

impression of not being meant for human foot at all.

He clambered over a gate into the field, and was just setting his face

once more for the thicket, when something about a haystack not far off

caught his eye. Part of it had been sliced away, but not completely, so

that there still remained, about two feet from the ground, a ledge

rather wider than a man's body. And on this ledge a man was

lying. . . .

Laurent stood stock still, his heart thumping suffocatingly. The next

moment he was at the refuge so nearly missed. Aymar was lying slightly

curled up, his face towards the wall of hay, his head pillowed on his

bent arm--as a tired boy might lie. Laurent stooped over him. Yes,

thank God, he was breathing naturally--in fact, he seemed to be sound

asleep.

But he looked deadly weary. Laurent touched his left hand, lying loosely

on his breast; it was very cold. So he took off his own coat and spread

it over him, and, reluctant to wake him yet, squatted down beside him

on the grass just out of his line of vision, and said to himself

contentedly, "I knew I should find him!"

He had not been there, however, for more than five minutes or so when

the sleeper stirred, sighed, and woke; then, realizing that there was a

covering over him where covering had been none, raised himself on an

elbow and gazed round in bewilderment.

"Good morning," observed Laurent, getting up and coming into view. "I

have kept my word, you see. And I have brought you your breakfast."

Voluntarily or involuntarily, he had adopted a thoroughly British

method of cloaking his feelings. Aymar gave an exclamation and, falling

back against the hay, stared as if he hardly knew him. At last, rather

weakly, he began to laugh.

"I told you I should do it," said Laurent cheerfully, very much pleased

with the success of his little coup de théâtre. But on that he suddenly

found himself deprived of further speech. He went down on his knees by

the ledge of hay and mutely embraced him, French fashion; after which

he began to fumble in his pocket for the provisions he had brought--the

major part of his own supper.

". . . How did you do it, Laurent--how did you do it?" Aymar was asking

incredulously.

"I climbed out of the window," responded the adventurer briefly. "Have

you had anything to eat since you left yesterday?"

"I was not hungry. I had the brandy, you know."

"Heavens above, you must be starving! Eat this quickly. No, first----Is

the eau-de-vie in this pocket?"

"Always that brandy-flask," commented Aymar, trying to smile, as,

supporting himself on an elbow, he took the little cup. But his hand

shook so much that Laurent caught it from him with an exclamation, and,

seating himself on the ledge, slipped an arm round his ex-patient and

supported him while he held the cup to his lips. There was re-awakened

fury in his heart.

"This is like old times," remarked L'Oiseleur, and lay still a moment

against his friend's shoulder.

"There's only one alleviation," muttered Laurent, with some of the fury

audible in his voice, "and that is, that your release was undoubtedly

vengeance on that scoundrel's part. Viewed in that light, it is almost

a compliment."

"Oh, are you speaking of Guitton?" murmured Aymar. "I had forgotten him

for the moment. I was thinking about someone better worth considering."

He caught at the hand that had held the cup, and pulled it to him. "I

was convinced that I should never see you again, Laurent. . . . Shall I

ever be able to repay you?"

"I don't know what you are talking about," said Laurent, as gruffly as

any of his English forbears, but he returned the pressure of the two

cold hands which held his. "Now eat; and when you have eaten you can

tell me how you found the strength to get so far."

So Aymar ate, when Laurent had consented to do the same, and told him.

It appeared that he _had_ gone into the copse, and been there for

hours, perhaps--he did not seem sure. Nor was he, evidently, quite

clear whether he had lost consciousness there or not; but he admitted

that he had thought, "quite erroneously," that he could not possibly go

farther. . . . However, towards evening he made another effort, drank

some water, and went on by the field way, rather blindly, his only

object being to put as much distance between himself and Arbelles as he

could. In the twilight he almost stumbled into the haystack, and having

thus fortunately come on it, subsided there.

"Well, thank God for the haystack," observed Laurent. "Were you cold in

the night? It's horribly open here."

"I am never very warm now," said Aymar simply. "Yes, it is open. And

that is why, mon ami, you have stayed here long enough. It is high time

you went on, for if they have not discovered your absence already----"

But Laurent exclaimed, as the speaker had once incautiously done to

Guitton, "For what do you take me?" And he continued with warmth, "Why

do you suppose I was at the trouble of wriggling out of that window?

Directly you feel able we will go on (though I shall not be missed till

breakfast-time) and as you know the district a little, perhaps you can

think of a suitable place to make for. Was there not some woman from

your part of the country? . . . No, Aymar, really it is no use

arguing--it only wastes time. Remember that I have English blood in me,

and that it is quite as obstinate as your Norse. I only give in to you

when I am in awe of you--which at this moment I am not."

So Aymar himself surrendered, and they started, he on Laurent's arm,

across the great field towards another little wood, both as affording

cover and as being in the direction of the farm of La Baussaine, where

lived this woman from Sessignes who had known Aymar all his life, and

had married and settled and achieved widowhood in this region.

Provided, said Aymar, that her elder son, a soldier of the Imperial

Guard, were not at home--which in existing circumstances was

practically impossible--she would be only too glad to give them

shelter.

In the little wood Laurent made his companion sit down and rest, for

even the short, sustained exertion had rendered him very breathless.

Indeed to progress thus, in stages, was the only possible method. Even

so, after about an hour, the proceeding was making nearly intolerable

demands on his little stock of strength. The stages began to get

shorter, the rests longer. Twice there were gates to climb, once a

hedge to push through, once retirement into a ditch was thought prudent

to avoid a herdsman. And when they came forth from this retreat they

had still, Aymar calculated, a good mile and a half to go; on hearing

which, and surveying the speaker, Laurent wondered rather despairingly

whether they would not have to try to find a nearer refuge.

A large, uncompromising drop of rain on his nose startled him at that

moment, and he looked up. Was it possible--a thunderstorm on a morning

like this? However, one could not argue about its unfitness; the point

was to prevent Aymar from being instantly soaked to the skin. In the

middle of the open pasture which they were skirting he espied a long,

low object that looked like the shelter over a sheep trough, save that,

fortunately, there was no trough beneath it now.

"Quick, Aymar!" he exclaimed, almost dragging him along. They had to

crawl in on hands and knees, but once inside it was just possible for

Laurent, at all events, to sit upright. Aymar lay down at full length,

his head on his friend's knee, and shut his eyes. And then the rain

descended.

"Talking about rain," observed Laurent suddenly, "how wet did you get

yesterday?"

"I don't know," replied Aymar. "I did not trouble about it. You talk as

if I were a girl, my dear Laurent. Do you suppose I have not slept

scores of times in the open before--and in the rain, too? I am a Chouan

. . . that is to say, I was," he added in a lower tone, and fell

silent.

"I wonder if a thunderstorm ever came à propos," he remarked a few

moments later to the accompaniment of the first peal, and shivered

suddenly.

Laurent looked down at him rather unhappily. "I am afraid you must be

horribly tired, and the devil knows how long this storm is going on. I

wish we had something left to eat."

But Aymar answered, without opening his eyes, in a voice gone suddenly

remote and drowsy, "I am neither tired nor hungry--a little cold, that

is all. I think I am going to sleep."

Perhaps that was the best thing that could happen to him, and if it did,

Laurent saw some chance of slipping off his own coat and wrapping it

round him. But he had had little sleep himself that night, and, lulled

by the downpour on the shingled roof, he half dozed off as he sat

there. He was recalled by a violent shiver running through the

shoulders resting against his knees.

"That letter," said their owner reflectively. "That letter . . . I am

glad I burnt it. It was the only way to cleanse it. It had been in his

horrible hands all this while." Here he shivered again, but went on

almost immediately, his eyes fixed on some point out in the rainy

landscape, "Yes, he had it all the time, and never guessed. And

downstairs, for all his questioning . . . I could hardly bear it . . .

he never found out."

"That was fortunate," murmured Laurent vaguely, uncertain whether Aymar

were speaking to himself, or expecting a reply. But speculation gave

way to alarm the next moment, when a third shudder drove through

L'Oiseleur's body, and his teeth clicked together.

"Mon ami, what is the matter with you? Are you so cold as that? Come up

closer to me. Confound this rain!" And he edged himself nearer, till he

could get his companion into his arms. Aymar's hands were as cold as

ice, but there was a faint flush on either cheek.

"I saw the Colonel looking at my wrists once," he began again, with a

complete absence of his usual extreme reserve. "He said . . . he said

it was not _there_ that he should like to put a rope. . . ." The

narrator gave a sort of laugh. "It was round here!" He carried his hand

to his throat, and a double flicker of lightning ran through the

shelter as though to emphasize this disclosure.

"Damn him!" exclaimed Laurent passionately, while the long roll

reverberated overhead.

"I suppose he might have done it if he had chosen," proceeded Aymar with

the same uncanny fluency. "We could not either of us have prevented

him, could we, Laurent? They laughed, some of them. . . . I did want

very much to stand all the time . . . but I was not able to. I had to

sit down. And I did not mean to lose my temper, but I did--once--and it

only made it worse for me, because----" But his teeth were now

chattering so that he could get no further.

"Oh, don't try to talk!" cried Laurent. "And why, in God's name, are you

shivering like this?"

For his brief experience of nursing had been mainly surgical, and he had

never imagined that shivering was other than a semi-voluntary action.

But Aymar's whole body was beginning to be convulsed every few seconds

by a sort of galvanic shock, and his teeth were now going like

castanets, to the complete exclusion of any more confidences. Laurent,

really frightened, stripped off his own coat and wrapped it round him,

attempted to pour brandy between the chattering teeth, most of it being

spilled in the process, and held him as closely as he could to the

warmth of his own body.

Gradually the fit passed, but it had so exhausted its already spent

victim that he lay in Laurent's hold inert, with closed eyes. Whether

this seizure were due to last night's exposure or no, it was clear to

the perplexed Laurent that Aymar was going to be ill--was ill already,

or he would never have volunteered those revelations--and they were

nothing like in safety yet. For all the splendid suppleness that had

once been his, L'Oiseleur, lying across his knees like this, seemed

uncommonly heavy; he knew that he could not carry him more than a few

yards.

A ray of sunshine suddenly struck on to the head on his arm. The living

bronze glowed (as once in the detested cart) and, looking up, Laurent

realized that the storm was over. But of what use was that now?

However, he must do his best.

"Aymar," he said, stooping to his ear, "it has stopped raining, and we

must go on. Can you hear me?"

"Yes," answered Aymar--and actually began to struggle up. "Yes--I'll try

. . ."

(3)

"And so M. Perrelet, back at Arbelles, is the nearest doctor?" repeated

Laurent thoughtfully, looking at Mme Allard.

Madeleine Allard was forty-nine years of age and still comely. She had

lost her husband, but she had at La Baussaine six cows, ten pigs,

fifty-five hens, and an idiot son. To her that afternoon as she was

kneading bread had entered her afflicted offspring making signs that

there were strangers approaching. Now one of these strangers--only to

Madeleine he was no stranger at all--was ensconced in her absent son

Jérôme's bed, and the other was standing in her kitchen making

enquiries about medical aid, which would certainly have to be procured

somehow.

"Could you send for M. Perrelet then, Madame?" asked Laurent.

"I could send Jeannot with a letter, Monsieur--he could not take a

message, poor boy. He is not as other boys. And, as villages frighten

him, he would probably deliver the letter at the wrong house, or

perhaps not at all. Yet certainly M. le Vicomte must have a doctor, and

as soon as possible.--Could you not go for M. Perrelet yourself,

Monsieur?"

"Yes, of course, I _could_," said Laurent reflectively. There did seem

something ironical in the prospect of abandoning his friend, whom he

had escaped to find, and risking, for his sake, the experience of a

much more rigorous captivity. He would probably never succeed in

reaching the village, for the whole garrison of Arbelles must be on the

alert about him; still, even if he were retaken, he could doubtless

contrive to get a message to the surgeon (who was to return, he knew,

that evening). "Yes," he resumed, "I will go directly it is dusk--if M.

de la Rocheterie is not better."

Mme Allard intimated that in her opinion there was small hope of that.

Aymar's condition had deeply shocked her. To Laurent, indeed, it was

still something of a mystery how he had succeeded in transporting him

from the sheep-shelter to La Baussaine, seeing that no real reliance

could be placed on his legs, and less and less on the directing brain.

And the effort had tired Laurent himself more than a little, as Mme

Allard for all her preoccupation now observed, and she begged him to

eat and sleep; should the soldiers come she could very quickly hide him

under the cider-press . . . but where to conceal M. le Vicomte, ill as

he was, she did not know. So, for Aymar's own sake, Laurent had to tell

her, to her bewilderment, that the Bonapartists would not search for

him, since they had released him themselves.

The light was failing when, some hours later, he went down the three

steps into the low-ceilinged bedroom on the ground floor to take his

final resolution; for though he would go unhesitatingly, he still hoped

that he would not have to go. But Mme Allard, who was sitting there,

shook her head, and Aymar, sunk in the big, billowing farmhouse bed,

now seemed very drowsy and confused; his hands were as hot as they had

previously been cold, and his breathing sounded quick and shallow. And

when Laurent tried to feel his pulse he said dreamily, "You will find

that much more convenient, Monsieur, when the bandages are off." . . .

No; Aymar must undoubtedly have M. Perrelet's care, and he himself, if

necessary, pay the very unpleasant price of obtaining it. He dared not

take an articulate farewell of him, lest his intention should be

divined. "Good-bye, Aymar," he said within himself, and went sadly from

the room.

Then he was furnished by Mme Allard, who had followed him, with an

unattractive blue blouse and a sort of rough cape smelling horribly of

the farmyard, and an old hat, and directions for his five-mile journey

to Arbelles, to be taken, for greater safety, across country. And,

looking down at himself, the Comte de Courtomer thought what a pity it

was that the only patois with which he could sustain the character

which he represented was broad Devonshire.

He regretted this still more when, between ten and eleven, he stood

under the smoky oil lamp opposite M. Perrelet's door in the main street

of Arbelles village, where every house, including the surgeon's, seemed

to be wrapped in the blankest of slumbers. He had had an eventless

journey, so far as human kind were concerned, though the darkness had

betrayed him pretty deeply into a stagnant ditch between two fields. By

carefully avoiding the neighbourhood of the château he appeared very

successfully to have avoided any of its garrison; but now a series of

modest taps on M. Perrelet's front door--and he dared not attempt a

more sonorous summons--had failed to bring any one. If he could not get

admitted to have private speech with the doctor his position was rather

precarious, for any public parley was highly undesirable. But that must

be risked; as must, also, the chance of that discreetly curtained

window not being that of M. Perrelet's bedchamber after all.

Laurent withdrew from his pocket a handful of small stones collected en

route for just such an emergency, and launched them upwards. They

tinkled against the glass and fell back baffled on to the cobbles.

Twice he did it. Then the curtains were violently wrenched asunder, and

between them appeared a stout white form. In another moment the sash

went smartly up.

No miracle-working saint could have been more rapturously greeted by a

suppliant than was that nightcapped head by the young man in the street

below. But he dared not proclaim his rapture.

"Who is it?" asked the head shortly.

"You are wanted, Monsieur Perrelet," responded Laurent in a cautious

tone.

"That's no answer," snapped the surgeon. "I'm always being wanted. But

I've got to be wanted to some purpose to-night. Are you from Mme

Lambert?"

"No, from Mme Allard. It's a very urgent case," pleaded Laurent. "If you

would only come down----"

"Mme Allard! Why, she's fifty, and a widow!" objected M. Perrelet.

"Stay, is it that cousin of hers I promised to attend? You are sure it

is not a false alarm?

"Oh, no!" replied Laurent earnestly. "It's . . . an old patient of

yours. If you will only come down I will explain. He's been having the

most horrible shivering fits, and now----"

"_He!_" fairly bellowed M. Perrelet from the window. "He! Why did you not

say at once that it was a man? For nothing but a confinement will I

stir from this house to-night! Go away, wretched bucolic!" And he

started furiously to draw down the window.

Now Laurent was indeed desperate. Having no stave that he might uplift,

and fearing to hit M. Perrelet if he threw a stone, he swirled off the

cloak that he wore and sent it flying window-wards. A good deal of its

unsavoury bulk caught in the descending sash and stayed its progress.

The window went up again with even more passion than had propelled its

descent.

"What is this filthy object you have thrown up?" demanded M. Perrelet in

a fury. "Pah! it stinks! I shall be infected with I know not what!" And

he threw the offensive garment down again with all his force at its

wearer.

But Laurent, still afraid to pronounce either his or Aymar's name, was

now trying a different and more hazardous method of self-revelation. He

stepped back across the narrow street and came under the light of the

lamp on the other side, where, snatching off his hat, he exposed his

features to its rays, M. Perrelet, and any one else whom the

altercation might have drawn to their windows. And at the sight of this

young man in a blouse, holding his hat rigidly at arm's length and

pointing to his own face with the other hand, all M. Perrelet's powers

of speech (fortunately) deserted him for the moment. He disappeared

from the window without even shutting it, which Laurent took for a

hopeful sign. Darting across to the door, he was standing just outside

when it opened to reveal the doctor, now clad in a dressing-gown and

with a candle in his hand.

He waved the intruder into the nearest room and then said in a resigned

manner, "Now, perhaps, you will be good enough to explain, Monsieur de

Courtomer, why you are serenading me. I presume you are on parole. It

appears to be a masquerade as well . . . pfui! that garment again!" And

holding his nose he added, "I will gladly contribute some bergamot to

your costume."

"You can't object to it, sir, as much as I do, who have had its company

for five miles," protested Laurent. "But let me discharge my errand,

and then I will leave you at once, or I may get you into trouble. You

obviously don't know that I escaped last night from the château!"

"The deuce you did! Why this curious fancy for Arbelles then, and this

flattering midnight visit to my door? Ah, I forgot; you said you wanted

me for someone or other."

"I do," said Laurent significantly, "and I'll tell you why!"

Now M. de Courtomer had counted, during his trudge, on making some

impression upon M. Perrelet with this recital, if ever he succeeded in

penetrating to his presence. Nor was he disappointed; indeed he was

satisfied--and even surprised--at the little doctor's language, and,

considering what he himself felt on the subject of Colonel Guitton, his

standard of requirement was not low. So angry, in fact, was M. Perrelet

that he made short work of Laurent's half-reluctant request that, if he

did not actually give him up, he should see no more of him. M. Perrelet

insisted, on the contrary, on driving him back with him in his gig,

into which the young man was now directed to put the mare, while her

owner dressed. And very shortly the doctor and the escaped prisoner

were driving comfortably away in the darkness.

Once past the château gates unchallenged (for the sentries knew this

equipage well) Laurent remarked cheerfully that he should have liked a

peep at the dungeon, of whose preparation he had already informed his

companion.

"Humph," said M. Perrelet, "you would not have found it at all amusing,

and it would probably have meant rheumatism for the rest of your

days--no, that's wrong, for I should have had you out of it in a brace

of shakes. But you don't seem to realize what a risk you are running

for that young man. Not but what," he added, "there's something about

him, even at his most difficult, that makes one want to do things for

him."

"You once said that you felt something of the sort the first moment you

saw him, I think," observed Laurent.

"So I did," assented the old doctor, "and he wasn't looking his best,

either . . . lying there senseless on the floor of the hall, half

stripped, roughly bandaged, and very extensively bloodstained. Add to

that your friend Rigault had thoughtfully thrown a bucket of water over

him, in the hopes of bringing him round--young idiot! I said, 'Good

God, what's all this?' for every officer in the garrison seemed to be

standing round him; and the Colonel replied, 'It's the Royalist leader

L'Oiseleur, who has just been brought in shot--dying, if not dead. But

I want him saved, if you can possibly do it.' . . . I thought myself at

first that it was hopeless . . . cold as ice he was to touch

anywhere--and then that damned pool of water. However, I got him

wrapped up and had bricks heated, and while I worked at him they told

me the story of how he had been found and what he had done--a shocking

story, and one which at first I saw no reason to doubt. . . . But

somehow, when I had his head on my arm, although as you know I'm no

sentimentalist"--Laurent smiled in the darkness--"I found myself

thinking, 'I never saw any man who looked less like doing what they say

he has done!' . . . Yes, when he decided at last to come back to the

world he was quitting, and his chest lifted a trifle, and I said to

myself, 'Continue, my young man; you've had the habit of breathing for

about five-and-twenty years, I suppose; just take it up again--it's

quite easy!' . . . when that happened, I was ridiculously pleased, I

admit . . . I little thought I should have it all to do over again

within the week!"

They drove on in silence for a while, M. Perrelet having presumably just

drained his powers of invective to the bottom over Guitton's latest

brutality, and Laurent conscious that he himself could not produce

anything new or better.

"Yes," resumed the old surgeon after a few minutes, "I've changed my

mind. Perhaps you have converted me. I am convinced now that La

Rocheterie is innocent, and that he knows who is guilty, and, though I

think he's foolish, I cannot help admiring him for holding his tongue,

because I can see what it has cost him.--You know, Monsieur de

Courtomer," he added gravely, "there were times when I was a little

afraid for his reason, especially when it turned out that his men did

shoot him. But he may thank his stars for the activity of that cavalry

patrol on the first of May."

"Cavalry patrol? . . . but it was not cavalry that found him, surely,"

returned Laurent absently; he was thinking of that desperate "I cannot

clear myself."

"I know that. I mean the one that captured you, my boy!"

And on that they drove round a turn and straight into a patrol

themselves . . . only it was infantry this time.

M. Perrelet acted with singular promptitude.

"Imbeciles! no, I am not to be stopped for any senseless questions!

Sacrebleu! you know who I am--Dr. Perrelet from Arbelles, and I am off

in a tearing hurry to the farm of La Claviere. What?--this is the boy

who fetched me, of course! Let go the mare's head--she'll have me in

the ditch! And every moment you delay me----"

A lantern flashed. "It's M. Perrelet all right," said a gruff voice.

"Let go!" The surgeon slashed at the mare, who plunged, and the lantern

light rocked past Laurent's face without revealing it. They were off

again.

Laurent drew a long breath. "Monsieur Perrelet, you ought to be a

general! I suppose this _is_ the last place they would expect to find

me. But if Guitton discovers----"

"Je m'en fiche de lui," observed the little doctor with great calm.

"Now, I wonder if those gentry have been looking for you over at La

Baussaine, and worrying that lad of mine--you're both of you nothing

but lads to me. Short of that, it is better than anything one could

have hoped for, that the place should be searched while you are out of

it."

And when they got there, they found that this desirable thing had really

come to pass. Laurent was rewarded, therefore, for having run into

danger by being preserved from it. No, said Madeleine, they had not

troubled much about M. le Vicomte; their business was not, they said,

with the red-haired renegade, whatever they meant by that word--and

anyhow M. Aymar's hair was not red! She thought that he was rather

better the last hour or so; at any rate, he was quite sensible.

Aymar was, indeed, to Laurent's great relief, much more himself; he gave

M. Perrelet his most charming smile as he stretched out a hot, dry hand

and began to thank him for coming, a proceeding which the latter soon

cut short.

"No--and M. de Courtomer doesn't want any thanks, either! Be quiet,

young man! Have you got a pain there when you breathe--or there? I

thought so. Have you been coughing?--Monsieur de Courtomer, oblige me

by going to bed! No; I will not have you here to-night; it is not

necessary."

But the moment his back was turned L'Oiseleur beckoned.

"How could you do it, Laurent!" he whispered, seizing his hands. "I

should never have consented if I had known. No man ever had a friend

like you! . . . But I will not try to thank you; it has gone beyond

thanks between you and me now!"

"Go to sleep, mon cher," said Laurent.

"I would, only . . . it's so odd, every now and then I am in the wood

again . . . I can count the trees--nine beeches, and the may-tree,

and----"

"What!" exclaimed M. Perrelet, turning round "--still there? Be off at

once!"

So Laurent threw himself on his bed and slept till nearly sunrise. Then,

feeling suddenly wakeful, he thought he would see if M. Perrelet would

let him relieve his vigil for a little.

In spite of the prohibition he crept downstairs to Aymar's door. He

heard his voice, so he must be awake. He opened the door gently without

knocking. Before he had time to get inside, M. Perrelet was on him,

and, driving him back into the passage, closed the door behind them

both.

"What do you want?" he demanded quite fiercely. "I thought I told you I

would not have you here!"

"I'm so sorry----" began Laurent meekly.

"Then don't come again!" snapped the doctor, and he went in as quickly

as he had come out.

"And I was going to do him a good turn!" thought Laurent, as half

ruefully, half thankfully he went back to bed.

(4)

When he came out of his room at seven o'clock Madeleine informed him,

rather to his surprise, that M. Perrelet had gone, M. le Vicomte being

much better, and in fact, asleep at the moment. The doctor, however,

had said that he would come again in the evening to see how he did.

So evidently this threatened illness had relaxed its grip. Laurent could

not be too thankful. He stole into Aymar's room. His friend was better,

and, like himself, he was free, and the sun was shining, and there was

a bunch of stocks by the bed. . . . Of what use were these things to a

man whose face wore, even in sleep, a look of such ineffable sadness?

It struck Laurent to the heart, that look. The consolations which he

had been adding up in his mind were too facile--even freedom. Yes,

perhaps freedom most of all. What was Aymar, when he was well enough,

going to do with his freedom, if he could not clear himself? He turned

and went out of the room.

To distract himself he then set out in quest of a hiding-place that

might have baffled the soldiers last night, and finally selected the

roof of a large barn near the house, which was overhung by the branch

of a huge walnut tree. No one who was not unusually agile could

possibly have gained it by means of that branch, and, for that very

reason, searchers were unlikely to imagine that a fugitive had gained

it at all. But Laurent, with time heavy on his hands, tried the ascent,

and found it feasible, if hazardous.

When, therefore, he sat in the afternoon with Aymar, somewhat languid

but evidently much better, it amused him to find the invalid obsessed

with the idea that the soldiers would return and make a more thorough

search, and that Laurent ought therefore to find himself a refuge

beforehand--one, moreover, which should if possible be unknown to

Madeleine, so that she could deny the knowledge of his whereabouts.

Laurent heard him out, and then told him that the refuge was already

secured. "Perhaps I had better not tell you either what it is," he

added, laughing, but Aymar insisted upon knowing.

"It sounds a most excellent, breakneck spot," he observed, "but,

Laurent, it would be so much better if you did not wait to play the

squirrel, but left me to-day. I am well looked after, and nobody will

hunt for _me_! I do beseech you not to go on risking your liberty for

me! You risked it too desperately yesterday, going back as you did into

the very lion's mouth for my sake, since I am sure Guitton would have

treated you abominably if he had got you into his hands again."

"Oh, he had made preparations before I left, in the best mediaeval

style, for doing that," replied Laurent light-heartedly, and told him

what they were. "Imagine to yourself anybody in this century

'languishing in a dungeon'! The very word strikes me as ludicrous!"

"But the fact would not be. And you knew that when you went back

yesterday!"

"It made passing the château in M. Perrelet's gig all the more

enjoyable."

"Laurent, to please me--don't stay here! Get back to Vendée!"

"But, my dear fellow," protested M. d'Autichamp's aide-de-camp, "I tried

to do that once, and came to grief! I shall go by sea when I do go. But

it would be foolish to attempt it till the hue and cry for me has died

down a little--till the soldiers, for instance, have paid this second

visit on which you seem to have set your heart.--Will you bet on it, by

the way?"

"Englishman!" retorted Aymar, smiling; and lay silent for a little.

Laurent sniffed the stocks by the bed and said, "I wonder when Père

Perrelet will let you get up?"

"To-morrow, I hope. He ought to be pleased with me. But I did not see

him this morning; he slipped away when I was asleep."

"A lamb this morning, then! He was quite fierce in the night. I came in

about three o'clock--at least I tried to come in, but he would not let

me. He almost used force to keep me out. You were having a conversation

with him, I fancy."

Aymar, who was turning about in the bed, became suddenly rigid, leaning

on one elbow.

"I, a conversation with him! . . . I never spoke in the night . . . I

was too drowsy. I hardly knew he was there. I . . ."

He broke off, and Laurent was amazed to see a flood of colour mount up

from his bare throat to the very roots of his hair. It was gone in a

moment, however, and he dropped back on to his pillows and began to

speak of some thing else; but Laurent could see that his attention was

wandering, and, thinking that he was tiring him, he left him not long

afterwards.

It was about six o'clock that he heard the wheels of M. Perrelet's gig

and ran out. "He's much better, Doctor!"

M. Perrelet seemed in a great hurry. "I need not have come, then," he

muttered as he got down. "Do you mind holding the mare, Monsieur de

Courtomer; she's a little fresh." And he went into the farmhouse with

hardly a glance at him.

Laurent did as he was desired for a minute or two, then he whistled to

Jeannot and made him take his place. He wanted to hear M. Perrelet's

jolly voice rallying his patient and saying that he had got him there

under false pretences. But instead of that it was very quiet in Aymar's

room, and the young man, seeing through the half-open door that the

surgeon was listening to his patient's breathing, stayed silently

outside.

"Yes, there is no trace of anything," he heard M. Perrelet say, in a

voice singularly free from jollity. "You have been extremely lucky

. . . I shall not need to come again. Have the wound in your shoulder

dressed every third or fourth day for a little; the other dressings can

come off now. You may get up the day after to-morrow. If you are going

to stay on here for a while I will speak to the good woman about you."

"Have you dismissed M. de Courtomer then?" Laurent heard Aymar reply. "I

have not succeeded in doing so."

"No, quite so," answered M. Perrelet in a very peculiar tone. "I am

afraid he carries his fidelity too far."

Aymar's hand suddenly gripped the blanket.

"Tell me one thing," he said in a whisper which, nevertheless, Laurent

heard well enough. "Was I . . . delirious . . . last night?"

"You had that--misfortune," replied the old surgeon, and stood looking

down at him, his little gimlet eyes almost invisible under a frown.

Then, as the young man in the bed flung his arm across his own eyes, M.

Perrelet abruptly brushed away something--a fly perhaps--below his

spectacles, and on that Laurent, very uncomfortable at having

eavesdropped, came openly in.

"Ah, Monsieur de Courtomer," said the doctor, "I can leave my patient

with every confidence in your hands now, for the time that you are

here. He will not need me any more."

And Aymar said, in a strange, suffocated voice, "I have nothing to offer

you, Monsieur Perrelet, in exchange for my life, but thanks, which are

. . . equally worthless."

"They are good enough," returned M. Perrelet roughly, "for an old fool."

And without another word he walked out of the bedroom.

Laurent, puzzled and embarrassed, followed him.

"M. de la Rocheterie is all right," said M. Perrelet in an

unenthusiastic voice, his foot on the step of his gig. "There is no

more danger of pulmonary trouble, though he has had the nearest escape

from congestion of the lungs that I ever came across."

"Was that why he was delirious last night?"

"How do you know he was?"

"I heard you say so just now."

The old surgeon looked sharply at him. "You did not hear what he was

saying when you came to the door early this morning, did you?--Not, of

course, that it matters," he added hastily.

Laurent stared at him. "No, I didn't catch a word. Why, was he saying

anything uncomplimentary about me?"

"No, no!" returned M. Perrelet. "Oh, no, not at all! Besides, delirium

is too strong a word; he was only rambling." And he climbed up, but not

before Laurent had seen his face relax in obvious relief. "Well, I must

be off, Monsieur de Courtomer; I have an appointment. I sincerely trust

that you will keep out of Guitton's reach."

He bent down, gripped his late assistant's hand very hard for a second,

and, looking fixedly at the glove he was pulling on, said gruffly,

"Life is full of disillusionments, young man; never trust it!--But all

the same, though I have never regretted being a bachelor, I could have

done with a son--if he were like you! . . . Get on, mare!" And the gig

passed out of the yard, leaving Laurent thoroughly bewildered. What an

extraordinary thing to say to him!

As he got into the farmhouse he heard Aymar's voice calling, an unusual

phenomenon. He hurried to his open door. L'Oiseleur was sitting up in

bed.

"Ask M. Perrelet to come in here again when he has finished with

Madeleine," he said earnestly. "I have something to say to

him--something particular."

"Oh, I am sorry!" ejaculated Laurent. "He has just driven off. He did

not see Madeleine at all."

Aymar remained an instant motionless. Then he said in a dulled voice,

"It's of no consequence," and lay down again, with his face this time

to the wall.

He was extremely silent all the rest of the evening, and as by ten

o'clock he looked to Laurent much more ill than he had done at that

hour in the morning the latter decided to spend the night in his room,

in an ancestral and not uncomfortable chair. What could Aymar and M.

Perrelet have disagreed about, as they obviously had, and when could

the disagreement have taken place? Clearly only during the doctor's

first visit--during the night, in fact. Then Aymar had been fibbing to

him when he said that no conversation had passed between them. Pausing

a moment over this distasteful idea he remembered with relief that, on

M. Perrelet's showing, Aymar had been slightly light-headed. His friend

need not then have been consciously lying to him. Still, one couldn't

quarrel in delirium--the thing was preposterous; and surely no doctor

would take offence at anything said in that state! What could M.

Perrelet have been thinking about to be so touchy? He had seemed this

evening as if he hardly cared what happened to the man he had dragged

back from death and been so devoted to--"that lad of mine" as he had

called him less than twenty-four hours ago. Laurent began to feel

rather annoyed with the old surgeon, and, remembering, too, what he had

said about his own "over-fidelity," even angry. What a cruelly unjust

thing to hint at to Aymar, who had tried so hard to get his friend to

leave him!

Aymar's own voice broke in on his reflections and preparations.

"What are you doing there?" he demanded rather sharply.

"I am going to spend the night in here with you."

Aymar flung round instantly. "No, indeed you are not!" he said with

vehemence. "If you do, I don't sleep in this bed!"

"Certainly I will not, then," returned Laurent, somewhat offended. He

resumed his coat. "I don't wish to force my society on you to that

extent!"

"Laurent," said his friend quickly, beseechingly, "I beg your pardon!

I'm . . . I'm in a vile temper to-night. I am better alone, that is all

I meant. . . . Forgive me for saying that!"

"My dear fellow!" said Laurent, instantly melted. He came over to the

bed. How frightfully strained he looked! "Of course I forgive you!

Well, let me shake up your pillows for you. You have something to drink

there, haven't you? Promise me, at least, that you will call me if you

need anything?"

He gave him his hand to show him that he bore him no rancour for his

display of petulance, but he was rather embarrassed when Aymar bowed

his head and put his lips to it. Decidedly L'Oiseleur was deeply shaken

out of his composure to-night.

It was not until he was himself half undressed that the explanation of

everything came on Laurent like a thunderclap--of M. Perrelet's

unaccountable demeanour, of Aymar's distress, of his own

semi-banishment from his room just now. Last night, in fever, Aymar had

let slip his carefully guarded secret--_and knew it_. Moreover, to have

sent away M. Perrelet, who was so fond of him, who only yesterday was

so whole-heartedly proclaiming his belief in him--to have sent him

away, as it had, a changed man, it could be no honourable mystery,

after all. It _was_ something disgraceful, something of which, for good

reasons, Aymar could not clear himself . . . as he had acknowledged

with his own lips.

That was why M. Perrelet had pushed him, Laurent, out of the room last

night, why he had asked him this evening if he had overheard anything,

and been relieved at his reply. He wanted him, poor fool, to preserve

his illusions. . . . Fool, fool, indeed, as Rigault, he knew, had

always thought him, and blind beyond belief! And the fact that it had

taken him hours to recognize what was now so horribly clear to

him--that he had not at once realized the sharp significance of the

doctor's profoundly altered attitude towards his cherished patient,

seemed to open beneath Laurent's feet further abysses of self-delusion.

He had been so secure in this fool's paradise of his. . . . But it was

Aymar, Aymar himself who had shattered it--Aymar who had so plainly

showed alarm when he told him this morning that he had been talking in

the night--Aymar whose demeanour to M. Perrelet also had altered . . .

guiltily altered. . . . Aymar who had driven _him_ out of his room for

fear of a recurrence of the same thing. . . . Aymar who had in fact

betrayed himself!

And with a sensation as though his heart were being slowly cased in ice

Laurent de Courtomer sat on the side of the farmhouse bed staring at

the dwindling candle, till at last it went out and left him in physical

darkness also.

(5)

The coffee in the bowl steamed invitingly, and as long as Madeleine was

in the kitchen Laurent made some pretence of eating the bread. The

moment that she was gone he took his head between his hands and all but

groaned aloud.

A very much curtailed visit to Aymar's room this morning had shown him

what a wretchedly bad actor he himself was--almost as bad as M.

Perrelet, whose bad acting it had nevertheless taken him, poor

dunderhead, such a long time to see through. Aymar, he was sure, must

have noticed the constraint in his manner--he who felt that the Aymar

he had known and believed in and loved existed no longer--never had

existed. It was that thought which made the blackness of his misery.

He took a great gulp of the hot coffee. How was he going to get through

the day like this in the company of this unknown person, this

_simulacrum_ of L'Oiseleur, this man to whom no decent human being

would ever willingly speak again? And even as he fiercely drank down

the remainder of the coffee Fate answered his question by showing the

unlikelihood of his being required, or indeed able, to spend it in this

way at all. For Mme Allard burst abruptly into the kitchen

gesticulating--"They are on their way--they will be here immediately!

Hide, Monsieur, quickly!"

"What, soldiers?" cried Laurent. "Where?"

"Riding along the road. Jeannot has seen them. Oh, be quick, Monsieur,

before they reach the house!"

"I've got a place," quoth Laurent. "Tell M. de la Rocheterie then!" And,

suppressing the instinctive desire to rush in to him, he sped out of

the farmhouse towards his walnut tree.

He might well congratulate himself on having chosen a refuge beforehand,

and also on having already scaled it. Dropping with a thud, he flung

himself flat on the thatch between the two sloping dormers of the barn,

and almost immediately the foremost soldiers came clattering into the

yard below. A moment later Laurent heard orders given to make a cordon

round the place and search the outbuildings first, the voice that

issued these being undoubtedly that of a _maréchal des logis_. They had

then no commissioned officer with them, though, by the sound, they

numbered a score or more. More clattering and shouting showed that

these orders were being obeyed.

Laurent held his breath. But he knew that there existed no ladder at La

Baussaine long enough to reach this roof. He heard the dragoons in the

barn below, cursing; he heard them saying that this time they had got

to find him, that Arbelles would be too hot to hold them if they did

not. . . .

It seemed a long time before they gave up the search outside, and went

into the farmhouse. And with the temporary fading of excitement and

apprehension the anguish of the night rolled back again over Laurent's

soul. He stretched himself out on the warm thatch of his eyrie and

buried his face on his arms, and began to suffer even more than he had

suffered then, because he was less stunned now, because this morning

the agonizing readjustment of ideas had begun in his mind--that

readjustment which brought quite logically in its train the conclusion

that all the time "they" had been quite right at Arbelles. L'Oiseleur,

whom he had so championed, on whose behalf he had gone through a whole

gamut of emotions, had done a thing so infamous that, as Colonel

Guitton had said, shooting was too good for him. . . . The Imperialist,

hateful as he was, was less despicable, after all, than the man he had

ill-treated. . . . Laurent writhed at the thought.

The situation could not go on; that was manifest even to his

"over-fidelity." He saw now the true meaning of that remark, not so

unjust to Aymar after all! What was he going to do, then? Leave La

Rocheterie here without seeking to plumb the shameful secret, or tax

him with it, and have to witness his avowal . . . or his attempt to lie

about it?--No, not that. At least, as he had never attempted to justify

himself, he would not lie.

Why not? Why should he be so sure that La Rocheterie would not lie? He

asked himself that, and all the reply that came was a picture of a face

whose eyes were not those of a liar, nor the firm and sensitive

mouth. . . . That mouth had said to him less than four days ago, "Try

to go on believing that I am not a traitor!" And here, already----

No, no! He did not believe it! The wave turned upon itself. There must

be some other explanation; Aymar could not, could not have done it.

Those very words were in themselves a denial. And in that case, if he

taxed him with the thing, he broke their friendship for ever. If Aymar

were innocent, he could never forgive him.

The sun was so hot now--for time was going on--that Laurent was obliged

to clasp his hands together over the back of his neck. But nothing

could interrupt his thoughts; they went circling back to their first

standpoint. Innocent; with that "haunted" look on him did he seem

innocent--had he behaved all along as an innocent man would behave? M.

Perrelet's early observations on that point came back to him. Yet Aymar

had tried to recall M. Perrelet yesterday evening. He had perhaps some

explanation to offer of whatever it was he had said in the night. . . .

But why could he not have offered him, Laurent, some explanation during

all these weeks of companionship? Aymar had seemed to feel that himself

at their parting the other day. If he still was not going to tell him

the story he would have to ask him for it--not so much because he

believed him guilty, but because he could not endure the strain of

ignorance. Aymar _must_ tell him why he "had no one but himself to

thank."

By the time that Laurent had come to this resolution fresh sounds from

below suddenly warned him that the soldiers were emerging from the

farmhouse. He had been so absorbed that he had not realized that it

must be nearly two hours since they came. Well, they had not found him,

and unless they did so now . . .

An altercation seemed to be taking place about their ill-success. Only

scraps of it floated up to him. "We ought to have gone on." . . . "It

would not have been any use. Why, the impudent devil was laughing!"

. . . "Yes, to begin with . . ." "I could have bet my boots that the

cupboard . . ." . . . "What shall you report, _maréchal?_" "Why . . .

hunted high and low and could find no . . ." . . . "What about that

unmade bed . . . coffee . . . ?" . . . "I did not see them," returned

what was probably the non-commissioned officer's voice, and Laurent was

sure that he winked.

"They've been questioning Aymar," he thought, amid the sounds of

mounting and moving off below. "I suppose the search was amusing, but

he must be in better spirits than I am to have laughed at it. . . . At

any rate, he has not treated me as he treated his men!"

Then he was horribly, bitingly ashamed of himself.

He was too much obsessed by the thought of what he was going to do to

allow a really prudent interval ere he descended his walnut tree, but

once on _terra firma_ he approached the house with a lagging step. As

he went along the flagged passage to the kitchen he heard a sound of

sobbing, and surmised that the troopers had made themselves unpleasant

to Mme Allard. However, nothing seemed to matter much--not even that

they had failed to find him.

Madeleine _was_ sobbing, searching meanwhile in a press. But when she

heard his step she turned round.

"Oh, Monsieur de Courtomer, an awful thing has happened!" She dabbed

with her apron at her face, disfigured with crying, and Laurent

ejaculated quickly "What? Tell me!"

She gulped a moment, then recovered speech. "After they had searched

every hole and corner for you, everywhere you can conceive, and I had

told them I had no idea where you were, they began to threaten M. Aymar

if he would not tell them . . . they said the most abominable things to

him . . . and at last they said that as he was a Chouan they should

imitate the Chouans----"

"Imitate the Chouans--what do you mean?" exclaimed Laurent.

"What they used to do in the old days to make people speak," gasped

Madeleine.

"Good God!" said the young man, turning pale, for he knew by repute of

those past methods.

"--And they turned me out of M. le Vicomte's room where they had been

questioning me, too, and when I came into the kitchen here there was

one of them holding something in the fire--a ramrod, I think it was. I

tried to get it from him and fling it away, but they held me . . ."

But Laurent was no longer there. With a cold sweat breaking out on him

he was at the door of the bedroom. His horror had carried him there

like a whirlwind--and then he feared to enter because of what he might

find. But the first thing he saw was Aymar, raising himself a little in

the bed, and saying eagerly, "Are you sure they are gone? For Heaven's

sake don't show yourself----"

"They are gone--but if they were not--Aymar, what in God's name have the

devils been doing to you . . . and how could you let them . . . it

wasn't worth it--my liberty! Let me see! Oh, if I had known! Let me

see!" It came pouring out in incoherent distress, and, as L'Oiseleur

relapsed on to his pillows again and shut his eyes, he was bending over

him half choking: "My God, my God, what have they done?"

"I see Madeleine has been frightening you," said Aymar rather faintly,

but with the glimmer of an amused smile. "That was all they did to me,

mon ami--tried to frighten me."

And all the time the trickle of blood on his chin from his bitten

underlip gave him the lie.

"Don't believe him!" cried Madeleine at the door, a bottle of oil and a

bunch of rags in her hand. "They did more than that. . . . If only I

had known where you were--I'd have told them fast enough!"

"I wish you had, I wish you had!" groaned Laurent. "For pity's sake tell

me . . ."

"It's his arm, Monsieur," said Madeleine. And Laurent, now perceiving

that the bedclothes were somewhat suspiciously bestowed, lifted them

off and saw.

Only one of the burns was really severe, and that not nearly as bad as

it might have been, given such an instrument and so unscrupulous an

intention, but the five imprints of the iron between right wrist and

elbow were more than enough for Laurent. The even spacing of an inch or

two between each gave them an air of deliberation that was sickening.

He fell on his knees by the bedside, uncontrollably moved, his English

strain all swept away, and put his head down on the hand of that seared

and blistered arm with the tears running down his face.

Aymar drew a sharp breath. "My dear Laurent," he said, opening his eyes

and smiling at him, "excuse me . . . but your method of treatment . . .

I believe oil, and not . . ." Then he fainted.

(6)

A greater peace reigned next afternoon in Madeleine Allard's little plot

of garden, where the great pear tree stood sentinel over the stocks and

gillyflowers and the old lavender hedge, than any one acquainted with

the events of the previous day would have believed possible. In the

shade of the pear tree had been placed the ancient chair, and in this,

with his swathed right arm extended on its shabby leather, and his legs

on another chair, was ensconced L'Oiseleur. Laurent, elbow-propped, lay

near him on the grass, and every now and then threw at some prowling

hen one of the tiny unripe pears which strewed it.

"You would not do for the artillery, mon cher," observed Aymar lazily,

smiling down at him under halfdropped lashes.

"But I am not trying to hit," retorted Laurent, equally lazily.

Abased in spirit to the very dust as he still was, he was also

extraordinarily happy. For he had Aymar back, the real Aymar, who,

wounded, weak and alone, had five times gone through agony for him--it

must have been agony, whatever he said. He shot a swift but almost

adoring glance at him now, where he leant his head back against

Madeleine's best pillow-case. He was nearly as colourless as the linen,

and the circles under his eyes were very deep and dark, but at least he

did not seem to be in pain any longer. Yet while Aymar, ill and

defenceless, had been undergoing _that_ for his sake, he, in security,

had been thinking. . . . The very remembrance almost choked him as he

lay there under Aymar's eyes. If he knew . . . if he knew!

Aymar, who had heard the soldiers talking, believed Guitton to be at the

back of the disgraceful business. It appeared that he had so bullied

the first search-party when he learnt (not, however, for hours

afterwards) of L'Oiseleur's presence at the farm that the second hardly

dared to face him without the escaped prisoner, whom he correctly

assumed to be there also. Indeed, Aymar was of opinion that the Colonel

had gone so far as to hint that there was no need to stand on ceremony

with _him_. . . . Perhaps that was even why they had been sent without

an officer. He asserted that he bore the dragoon no ill-will for

proceeding to extremities; they were really desperate--and if their

commanding officer had assured them that, since he was beyond the pale,

it did not matter what they did to him, could they be blamed for

believing him? They had only used the ramrod as a last resource, and

unwillingly--or there would not have been such a long prelude of

threats first.

But, however much their victim tried to extenuate them, Laurent felt, as

he said, that he was not so proud of being a Frenchman as he had been.

His disgust and horror suddenly got the better of him again now, and,

abruptly smiting the grass, he swore. And then, for the twentieth time,

he said, "How _could_ you let them do it! And how I wish I had not told

you about that dungeon!"

"My dear fellow, you are making a tempest in a teacup once more,"

responded Aymar. "And do you suppose that the exact degree of captivity

with which you were threatened made any difference? Or"--unconsciously

he threw back his head a little against the pillow--"or that if you had

been my worst enemy I should have yielded up the secret of your

hiding-place to force? Think of that aspect of it, if it is any

consolation to you; also of the fact that I got a testimonial out of

it. For though they began by remarking that I was not likely to require

any violent persuasion----Oh, I'm sorry, I did not mean to tell you

that--they ended by saying that I was a stubborn devil, which I took as

a high compliment. . . . No, Laurent, in all seriousness, it was

child's play to what it might have been."

"Even if that were true," said Laurent, pulling up grass distractedly,

"you did not know whether at any moment it might not cease being

'child's play'--nor when it was going to end at all!" And as Aymar said

nothing to this, he shot out the query, "Why did it end?"

"Perhaps owing to the intervention of your patron saint," suggested

Aymar, smiling. "He had considerable experience of the effects of heat,

we are told.--No, I think they were ashamed to go on any longer, and a

little frightened at what they had done, insignificant though it was.

Moreover, iron does not keep hot for ever, and though they talked of

going into the kitchen to reheat it I really think they dared not face

Madeleine again. My impression is that she screamed continuously

throughout, and that distressed me more than anything, because I was

afraid you might hear her, and come in."

"I only wish I had!" sighed Laurent, running his fingers through his

hair. "But, Aymar"--he was unable to leave the hated subject--"if the

accursed thing was cooling, as you say, how is it that the last burn is

so much the worst?"

Aymar looked up at the pear tree. "Because they kept the ramrod on about

three times as long, that is why. . . . What is that book you are not

reading?"

Laurent raised himself and laid on his knee the little copy of _The

Vicar of Wakefield_ which he had inadvertently brought away from

Arbelles in his pocket.

"Ah, my old friend," remarked L'Oiseleur, and fell to turning over the

pages with one hand.

Laurent returned to his pose on the grass. Yes, Aymar could talk and

even jest about yesterday's ordeal; he would never be able to do so

about that horrible inquisition at Arbelles, in which he had suffered

no actual physical violence.

Presently, indeed, the reader gave an exclamation of amusement.

"Laurent, listen to what I have lighted on!" And he read out, in his

careful English, "'My friends,' said I, 'this is severe weather in

which you are come to take me to a prison; and it is particularly

unfortunate at this time as one of my arms has lately been burnt in a

terrible manner' . . ."

Laurent could not help smiling. "Really," he remarked appreciatively,

"that book is extraordinarily apt. It always seems to hit the

situation."

"Yes," agreed Aymar, "for it goes on to say, 'And I want clothes to

cover me.'" He glanced at the three or four inches of wrist protruding

from the sleeve of M. Arbelles' coat. "But how did this unfortunate

divine come by his burnt arm? I have not read it."

"By rescuing his infant children from his house, which burst into flames

before his eyes in what I have always considered the most surprising

manner. If you'll give me the book I will find the place--it is a few

chapters earlier." He reached up, found the page, and read: "'It was

now near midnight that I came to knock at my door: all was still and

silent--my heart dilated with unutterable happiness, when, to my

amazement, I saw the house bursting out into a blaze of fire, and every

aperture red with conflagration. I gave a loud convulsive outcry, and

fell upon the pavement insensible.'"

"Very surprising, indeed," assented Aymar gravely. "But tell me, why did

you say that the book was always so appropriate? I do not remember in

our readings any other circumstances of the life of M. Primrose which

your ingenuity could apply to either of us."

Laurent bent his head to conceal from him how red he had got. How could

he have been such a fool as to let slip that remark? For what had been

in his mind faced him now as he turned back from Chapter xxiv to

Chapter xxii--the famous and disturbing heading of the intermediate

chapter, which had given him such a shock at Arbelles--'NONE BUT THE

GUILTY CAN BE LONG AND COMPLETELY MISERABLE.'

"I--I can't find the other place," he stammered, hastily turning over

the leaves to get away from the damning phrase.

"But surely you can remember what the incident was?" persisted Aymar.

"Come, now!" and he threw a pear on to the book, while the unwary

Laurent, thankful at least to have got the volume out of the enquirer's

hands, cudgelled his brains desperately. At last inspiration leapt into

them.

"This is what I meant. Don't you remember, somewhere near the beginning,

where his daughter falls into a torrent--not a salmon river,

though--and is rescued by a stranger who plunges in?" He turned

feverishly in search of the episode and read it, and encouraged, by his

escape, looked up at his friend with a meaning smile and added, "We are

told a little earlier that 'the stranger's conversation, which was at

once pleasing and instructive, induced me to wish for a continuance of

it.'" Then he closed the dangerous volume firmly, returned it to his

own pocket and dropped his head again upon his arms on the warm grass.

"The sun is getting round," observed Aymar presently. "No, I am all

right. I like it on my feet. Come and lean up here; you will be out of

it then."

So Laurent dragged himself nearer and rested his back against the side

of the chair. Aymar amused himself by gently pulling his hair.

"Tiens," said Laurent with a little yawn, "that is what Maman used to do

to send me to sleep when I was small. It generally did; if not, she

would tell me a fairy story. Tell me one!" His head dropped on to

Aymar's knee.

The hand left his hair, and there was silence.

"If I told you a story, Laurent," came L'Oiseleur's voice at last, "it

would not be a fairy story. Nor do I think it would send you to sleep."

And, after a longer pause still, he added, so low that Laurent barely

heard it, "No, not to-day."

But Laurent was already carrying the words with him into a land of

dreams where they interpreted themselves as something quite different.

(7)

But even as misfortune pursued the Reverend Dr. Primrose, pressing on

him a fresh calamity in every chapter, so with Dr. Primrose's readers.

The day of peace to which they were both looking forward when Aymar was

next morning installed again under the pear tree was rudely broken by

the advent of a letter to Mme Allard from Jérôme, her elder son,

announcing his immediate return, ill. And Jérôme, there was no

possibility of doubt, would instantly denounce Laurent's presence to

the garrison at Arbelles.

"But not yours, surely," broke in Laurent when he heard this, thinking

of Madeleine's devotion.

"It is true that he would not find me a very profitable speculation,"

said Aymar drily. "But I do not choose to risk a second turning out at

the hands of an Imperialist. Madeleine has a plan for despatching me to

her brother-in-law, at Port-Marie, about six miles away, on the coast.

There is no need, however, for you to wait until I can be assured of a

fresh shelter. I suggest that you hurry off at once, especially as the

letter speaks of an Imperial victory on the frontier. Jérôme may arrive

to-day."

Laurent sat down upon the grass. "We go together," he said simply. "Tell

me now about this brother-in-law."

It appeared that Michel Royer was a fisherman of some means and of

Royalist leanings, having been out in the war of '99. There was

therefore reasonable hope that he would shelter them, and Jeannot had

been sent on the farm mare with a letter to ask this favour.

Laurent took it very philosophically; there was nothing else to do, it

seemed to him. "The coast, too," he observed. "Here is the finger of

Providence. Was I not talking of returning by sea?"

But he could see that Aymar was not finding philosophy so easy--who

would, as weak as he? He lay back frowning, looking very tired.

"Yes," he said listlessly, "you might find it convenient."

"But you?" said Laurent. "It is not good for you to be bundled about

like this, and, moreover, it is not necessary. You ought to go home now

to be nursed; you need so much care still. And Port-Marie is in exactly

the opposite direction from Sessignes, is it not?"

Aymar shut his eyes. "Yes," he answered, his voice grating a little, "it

is; but it may be very convenient for me also to be on the coast. When

I am a little stronger, I shall very likely leave France altogether."

Laurent stared at him, thunderstruck. The clean-cut, sensitive mouth was

set in a line that was half resolution, half pain. God in Heaven, what

did he mean by that? As he tried in one and in the same mental process

to arrive at his inner meaning and to ward it off from him, the face,

the chair, the background all rocked for a second before his sight.

"_Leave France altogether!_" he repeated when he could find his voice.

Aymar opened his eyes again, but he did not look at him. "Yes," he said.

Then he added, "Perhaps." And on that Madeleine, sniffing audibly, came

hurrying over the grass in her heelless shoes.

(8)

It was evening, saffron and sea-green. Jeannot had come back from

Port-Marie with a letter. Michel Royer would receive the two gentlemen,

but they must not arrive till dark, and he would meet them at the

turning under the chestnuts, half a mile out of the village.

"_I shall very likely leave France altogether._"

Whatever Laurent said or did in that wind-blown, lovely, interminable

day of waiting had those words sounding through it. Surely, though

Aymar might feel, as he had said, that he was unable to clear himself,

surely, with the consciousness of innocence to sustain him he might

try--or, at any rate, remain and mutely endure till that very endurance

should speak for him. Instead of that, L'Oiseleur, the incarnation of

courage and daring, was contemplating running away! That, surely, could

only mean one thing.

The ramrod with its attendant heroism and horror had altered nothing;

facts were too hard to be melted in the crucible of emotion. Laurent

began to see that now. And, numb with misery, he fought in the little

garden-plot with the spectre which yesterday, in the same place, he had

thanked God was laid for ever.

At last it was dusk, and they could start. That Aymar's burnt arm should

run no risk of contact with anything they put him on the right hand of

the one long seat; Laurent sat next him, and Jeannot drove from the

left. And very soon Madeleine and her tearful farewells and the low

buildings of La Baussaine were gone.

Heavy clouds were lumbering up over what had been the sunset. Aymar

hardly answered anything that was said to him, and indeed conversation

was difficult, for the idiot boy's driving was rudimentary, the farm

cart, though light, springless, and the roads which they had to take

abominable--one succession of deep ruts, in and out of which they

continuously rolled and jolted. About halfway it began to rain. Laurent

silently arranged the piece of sacking provided round his friend's

shoulders, and as they sat there, with bent heads, holding their rough

cape round them, it seemed to him that they were rather a sorry pair of

outcasts. Yet it might have been amusing and venturous, this odyssey.

Perhaps that was what L'Oiseleur was feeling so intensely. But if that

horrible thing should be true . . . he had made himself the outcast.

And more than once Laurent's thoughts went back to that drive in

England, rather more than a year ago, when he hardly knew him, and was

so elated at taking home a lion. He remembered thinking afterwards that

he had been too garrulous, and that his guest in consequence had

withdrawn himself a little. Now L'Oiseleur was infinitely farther away

than when he had been a stranger; and Laurent himself had never had

less heart for converse. At last they came to the sharp turn of the

road where they were to meet Royer. But even in the gloom under the

trees it was apparent that there was no one there. Aymar climbed

wearily down, remarking that they were perhaps too punctual, and, the

idiot boy refusing to wait on events, but driving off again, the two

fugitives were left stranded in the semi-darkness to await their host.

The rain, however, had stopped.

"This begins not to be amusing," remarked Aymar after a few minutes; and

indeed there was no amusement in his voice. "Dieu! How tired I am!"

He had sat down on a log that lay, in the long wet grass, close to a

broken-down gate which had once closed the entrance to a little lane,

and against this gate he now leant back. Overhead the chestnut leaves

were gently dripping.

"I'll go along the road a little and see if I can meet the man," said

Laurent.

In a few moments he came striding back, rather angry.

"Aymar, where are you? A confoundedly annoying thing has happened. I met

Royer in the road there, and he says he has changed his mind. It is too

risky, he thinks, to take us into his house in the village, but he says

that just along the coast to our left there is a smugglers' cave, the

'Panier', which we can easily reach, and which is quite habitable. He

will show us the way, and he is bringing some provisions with him. He

will be here himself in a minute or two."

Aymar on his log in the dusk was silent for a couple of seconds, then he

said, "If this is a joke, it is a damnably bad one."

"It is not a joke. I am far too much annoyed to jest. But of course we

cannot force the man to take us in."

"Well, I," declared L'Oiseleur, "am not going to set out at this time of

night for a cave along the coast."

"But you cannot spend the night here by the side of the road!" cried

Laurent.

"Why not?" enquired his friend.

"My dear Aymar, after that fever--itself the result of a night in the

open!"

"I assure you," replied Aymar, dropping his head on to his hand, "that I

don't care if I get a hundred fevers. I am not going any farther. I

. . . can't."

Laurent stood looking down at him in dismay. L'Oiseleur's courage

failing him at last! What on earth was he to do?

"Let us go to the inn at Port-Marie then--if there is one--and risk it,"

suggested he in some desperation.

"You mean that you would run the risk for my sake? I have already been

told that I allow you to carry your devotion too far. No; go to your

cave by yourself; I will find it in the morning--perhaps."

"I wish M. Perrelet had minded his own business!" said Laurent sharply.

"Come on, Aymar!"

"I tell you I am going no farther. Leave me, for God's sake!"

"Don't be absurd! How can you imagine that I should do such a thing?"

Aymar made a dimly seen gesture. "It's all I ask! . . . Leave me--leave

me! You would if you knew!"

And, as by a fleet arrow, Laurent was transfixed by annoyance. If only

he did know instead of having to listen to these eternal hints and

innuendoes!

"But _till_ I know!" he riposted sharply. "L'Oiseleur, for God's sake be

a man! . . . Here is my arm."

Aymar pulled himself instantly to his feet. "No, thanks!--Which is the

way?"

It was too dark to see his face, but his tone showed only too clearly

the effect of this adjuration. Even as he asked the question Michel

Royer had come up. Laurent, keeping down something in his own breast at

once miserable and fierce, drew the fisherman a little aside and

whispered to him, "My friend is ill. He may want assistance--but don't

touch his right arm. Give me half of what you are carrying."

The transfer was made. "This is the way, gentlemen," said the vague

figure, in a hoarse voice which seemed to have known many tempests, and

led off past the broken gate and down the very track by whose entrance

Aymar had been sitting. Aymar followed, without a glance at his friend,

and that friend brought up the rear, in a perfect daze of misery,

irritation, and anxiety.

(9)

Some three quarters of an hour afterwards Laurent stood, lantern in

hand, in the smugglers' cave, the "Panier," and looked remorsefully

down at Aymar, lying at his feet on the rough bed of sailcloth and

seaweed in the profound slumber of exhaustion. His own burst of

irritation had subsided now, and the sight of that bandaged arm made

him doubly ashamed of it; though as for having forced Aymar, as he had,

to use the last shred of his strength, he did not see what else he

could have done. But at least it was he himself, and not Royer, who,

when they had reached their goal, had guided L'Oiseleur, blind with

fatigue as he was, to this couch, on which he had dropped like a log,

not to move since.

Royer had gone, promising to come again to-morrow. The "Panier," as far

as Laurent could see by lantern-light, seemed wonderfully dry and

spacious, and there was a sufficiency of food and coverings. So there

was nothing to do but to go to sleep; and in sleep he could forget the

cruel rebirth which had taken place in his mind . . . perhaps in sleep

it would even go from him again. He lay down as quietly as possible by

L'Oiseleur and pulled a little of the covering over himself.

But it was soon obvious to him that he was not going to sleep; he was

far too conscious of Aymar's proximity--too conscious that his theory

about Aymar was crumbling to pieces as Aymar had foretold. Yet it was

he himself who felt the traitor. How could he bear to lie there, almost

touching that arm, martyred for him, and realize, as he did at length,

that that martyrdom could not change the past! It still was "If you

knew!" It still was that L'Oiseleur, for all his courage and endurance,

quailed before the thought of a future in his own country. Why . . .

why . . . why?

His thoughts buzzed and stung like flies. And now the recurrent plunge

of the tide, the sound that none can stay, began to torment him. Every

time the waves splashed outside they seemed to reiterate something

monotonous and final, some message charged with ruin and farewell. And

when Aymar, who had lain beside him all the time like a man drugged or

dead, stirred, and in stirring touched him, it was more than Laurent

could bear. He slipped from under the covering and groped his way

across the cave to its mouth.

It was a cloudy night. The sea looked dull--not sinister, not violent,

just a dimly seen expanse of moving mud. There was no moon visible and

not a star. It was like his own thoughts. Laurent sat down on a keg at

the mouth of the cave and gave himself over to the contemplation of

these.

They were far more bitter than on that night at La Baussaine, when the

veil of self-deception had first been rent, more bitter even than in

that hot vigil on the roof, because of the stage of revulsion and

remorse which lay between . . . and fruitlessly. For his reason coldly

said to him, "His undoubted affection for you, his more than undoubted

strength of will, may have carried him for your sake through an act of

heroism, and yet that does not prove that he could not have done . . .

the other thing." And it was in vain that his heart cried out, "Yes, it

does, it does, it does!" because reason then retorted, "Why, then, has

he not told you 'everything,' as he said that day at Arbelles he wished

he had? Why did he not tell you yesterday under the pear tree?

Evidently he will not--till you ask him!" But that Laurent would never

do now. He would leave him, but he would never ask him for his secret.

He could not abandon him yet, but when Aymar was well enough he would

say that he must go back to Vendée (as Aymar had urged him) and thus

their parting would have no special significance about it. All the

same, he would be tearing him out of his heart for ever, deliberately

slaying and burying the friendship which had come to mean so

immeasurably much to him . . . and condemning himself to go through the

rest of his life not knowing the real truth.

He covered his face with his hands, and pictures of the bright and

dishonoured head rose constantly before him: Aymar that night in

Devonshire, under his roof, looking at him with that quiet and

immensely attractive smile--Aymar in the great salon at the Hôtel de

Saint-Séverin with the King talking to him, the magnet for every

gaze--Aymar at Arbelles, helpless, suffering, despised . . . and all

the dearer for it then--Aymar wringing out his wet locks by the

swirling river in which he had just risked his life--for him. . . . And

he wondered if he would always see that picture-gallery when they had

parted, and he heard his name mentioned with loathing--his friend, his

friend, who could not have done the thing they said he had, even though

his own men believed it and had wreaked vengeance on him--even though

he, Laurent, his champion of champions, was at last brought to saying

so, too. . . .

Was he indeed saying that? saying it with the slow, hot tears running

down against his fingers? The sea was saying it relentlessly. . . . He

took away his hands and brushed off the moisture, and found that he

must have been there much longer than he knew, for it was light

outside, with a cold and heartless light, and from the port a sail was

stealing out as Aymar's might one day. And with that, out of the

darkness still prevalent within the cave, there came Aymar's voice, no

more than a little drowsy.

"What are you doing over there, Laurent? Did I disgust you so with my

. . . my want of manhood, that you will not share the same bed with

me?"

Laurent jumped. He had no idea that Aymar was awake, nor that he himself

was visible. In spite of the words, the tone was not sarcastic; it

merely held a sort of sad amusement.

"I . . . I found I couldn't sleep," he stammered hoarsely.

"You won't sleep sitting on that barrel!"

Almost unconsciously Laurent got up and sat down on the sand, putting

his shoulders against the rock. "It is dawn," he murmured.

He heard Aymar sigh.

"Is your arm hurting you?"

"No, thanks. . . . Laurent, come back to bed."

Laurent dug his fingers into the sand. "I was abominably rude to you

this evening," he said with a gulp.

"It was, I daresay, deserved. At any rate, you succeeded in getting me

here."

"Well, go to sleep again," murmured Laurent.

"I will, if you will tell me why you are sitting out there."

There was a long pause, filled by the sea. Laurent had just made up his

mind to one course of action--and now, suddenly, he was weighing the

opposite. Why not? It was more honest, fairer to _him_. And there was

so much in the voice, though it was even and unemotional, that tore his

very heart.

"I am sitting here," he said at last slowly, "because I was thinking

about you. Because the last few days I could not help . . ." He leant

forward, clenched his hands between his knees, and said in a rush,

"Aymar, what did you say to M. Perrelet that night?"

In the darkness Aymar observed quietly, "It _is_ that, then. I thought

so. God knows what I said! At any rate, M. Perrelet did not like it."

He gave a desolate little laugh. "Am I responsible to you also?"

"I never meant to ask you," said Laurent, fighting down his misery. "You

know what I have always thought about it all. . . . And after that

ramrod, too . . ." A sound like a sob escaped him. "You must tell me

something, Aymar. I'm . . . I'm too bewildered to go on in the dark any

longer."

Neither sound nor movement came from the other end of the cave; only,

outside, the sea came up twice, saluted the sand, and withdrew. Then

Aymar spoke. "Yes, I must do it. I ought to have done it long ago--I

know it. Only . . . well, you will know soon enough why I did not. Do

you want me to tell you the story now?"

"Good God, no!" said Laurent, raising his head. "To-morrow. . . ." And

then all his deep affection and a certain cold dread, warring together,

swept over him. He sprang to his feet, and, going uncertainly over to

him, dropped on his knees beside him. "--Or never, Aymar, if you

choose. Let it be never then! I have no right----"

"No right! If ever in the world a man had a right! You ought not to have

had to ask. As you have asked"--a suspicion of hardness crept into his

voice--"you shall have it, every word, to-morrow . . . or rather

to-day. What time is it?"

Laurent struck a light and looked at his watch, and had for his pains a

little picture of his friend lying there, with his bandaged arm,

challenged at last, on the heels of illness and suffering and extreme

fatigue. The tinder must have shown the wretchedness on his own face,

for Aymar put out his left hand a little and said very gently, "Why are

you reproaching yourself, Laurent? _You_ have no cause--no shadow of

cause! And as you do not yet know how much I have you could still lie

down here again . . . for a little."

And Laurent came instantly. He tried to seize the extended hand as he

lay down, but it evaded him; and he lay there on his face, motionless,

dreading the day. But the traitorous thoughts were stilled. . . .

(10)

Despite its spiritless dawn, it was a fine morning, with a breeze and

circling gulls--not at all a morning on which to be executed . . . for

that had been Laurent's sensation on rising. Only he was not sure now

which was the victim and which the executioner.

The two of them had just finished breakfast outside the cave. Laurent

felt himself far the more outwardly nervous, and when Aymar became

absolutely silent he grew very nervous indeed, thinking that the next

moment, or the next, would certainly hear him begin. But Aymar,

perhaps, was experiencing a shrinking from that moment more acute

still, for when Laurent, unable to bear the tension any longer,

scrambled to his feet and picked up the loaf and the empty bowls,

Aymar, too, got up, and without a word to him walked down towards the

sea. He stood there with his head bent; and Laurent remembered once

more how he had seen him, first in the sunshine, by moving water. He

turned and went into the cave.

He had barely put away the loaf when Aymar's figure darkened the

entrance.

"I will tell you what you want to know now," he said. "It shall be as

short as I can make it, but even at that it will take a little time if

you are to hear everything."

"Shall I come outside?" asked Laurent, not looking at him.

"No, I can tell you better in here, if you will allow me. The sea is

disturbing--louder than that salmon river of yours." He looked round

for a seat, and finally sat down on the heap of seaweed.

Then he, too, had been thinking of their first meeting. Laurent fetched

for himself the keg he had sat on during the night.

"I must say again," resumed Aymar after a moment, "that I am fully aware

you ought never to have had to ask for this. It was owed you on every

count. But at Arbelles I . . . put it off from day to day; when I was

turned out there was not time, and afterwards at Madeleine's, when I

had at least one excellent opportunity, I--well, never mind why I did

not take it. The only good excuse I have for my silence is, that to

tell you the story properly I must have told you something rather

intimate . . . and I did not know you very well at first. My other

excuse is not so good." He paused, and played for a moment with the

earing of the sail near his left hand. "The other excuse is merely my

own cowardice. I thought that when you knew you would----You see how

M. Perrelet took it."

"But in M. Perrelet's case you were wandering--whatever you said," began

Laurent, feeling a chill at the heart.

"Yes, I probably made him think it was worse than it was." He raised his

head and smiled, a little drawn smile. "But I am quite clear-headed now

. . . and you will not like what I am going to tell you, Laurent.

(Please don't interrupt me, or I shall not be able to tell you at all.)

Because I know that you have thought, until quite recently, that I was

shielding someone." For the first time his voice betrayed real

difficulty. "And I suppose I was. I was shielding . . . myself!"

As it came out he looked straight at his hearer, but Laurent, as though

he had been the accused, could not meet his eyes. He put his hand over

his own, his elbow on his knees.

"Go on," he said, all but inaudibly. He had turned very pale.

Aymar went on.