"Là-haut sur la montagne
Il y a un pré;
Les perdrix et les cailles
Y vont chanter.
J'ai pris mon arbalète,
J'y suis allé;
Croyant en tuer quatre,
J'ai tout manqué.
C'est le coeur de ma mie
Que j'ai blessé . . ."
(1)
The whole unhappy story, the substance of which was told that morning in
the cave, began on the radiant April day when Aymar de la Rocheterie
rode along the high bank of the river Aven on his way from the
conference with du Tremblay and other Royalist chiefs at Saint-Pierre
de Plesguen to his own house of Sessignes. He had left his men, some
five hundred strong, under M. Nicolas de Fresne, his second-in-command,
ensconced, very inconveniently for the Bonapartists, in the Bois des
Fauvettes, a spur on the great forest of Armor. And now, well pleased
with the scheme for which he and du Tremblay were chiefly responsible,
and in which he and his "Eperviers" would presently play a part, he was
intending for once to spend a night under his own roof, since by taking
this particular route back to his little force he would pass the very
gates of the château. And so he could pay his respects to his
grandmother, who ruled it for him, and to his cousin, Mme de
Villecresne, who dwelt there, neither widow nor wife.
And thus he came, about midday, to the village of Keraven, and found to
his surprise that it was full of troops of the line--but Royalist, for
they wore the white cockade--and just outside its pleasant inn, the
_Abeille d'Or_, encountered their commanding officer, the Chevalier de
Saint-Etienne, who was a friend of his. To him he expressed the hope
that his officers had not eaten up everything in the hostelry, since he
had been intending to get a meal there.
"Plenty to eat," replied M. de Saint-Etienne, as Aymar took the bridle
of his horse to lead him off. "And I have a private room . . . at least
. . ." he hesitated, "there is someone else in it, but----"
"Avow," said Aymar, laughing, "that the other person is Mme de
Saint-Etienne, disguised as your youngest subaltern." For his friend
was newly married, and much in love.
"No," said the young soldier seriously, "it is only a middle-aged
gentleman of my acquaintance, who stopped here to bait, and who is
going to share my meal. Will you not---" He broke off, said rather
hurriedly, "I'll see you when you have put up your horse," and
vanished--to Aymar's considerable surprise, since he was plainly on the
verge of asking him also to share this repast.
Aymar was going back to the inn door when, just in front of one of the
open windows, a spur came loose, and, stooping to fasten it, he
overheard a man's voice, with an authoritative but kindly ring about
it, saying, "So that was L'Oiseleur you were talking to! I have always
thought that I should like to make his acquaintance; here is the
opportunity. Can you persuade him, do you think, to come in and share
an omelette with a dull old country gentleman?"
"That is just what I--" his friend's voice was beginning, when Aymar
hastily pulled off his spur altogether and walked out of earshot. By
the time he had readjusted it on the doorstep the young Colonel emerged
and said, smiling, "'Mme de Saint-Etienne' is anxious to make your
acquaintance, La Rocheterie. I am afraid I have already told him who
you are--needless to say, I can answer for his discretion and
sentiments rather better than for my own."
"Your own discretion, my dear fellow, is as remarkable as if you really
had a lady in there!" retorted Aymar, amused, and putting an arm
through his. "But who is this veiled stranger?"
"Oh, nobody in particular," said the youthful commander, getting rather
red. "But you know how peppery old gentlemen sometimes are if their
convenience is not consulted."
Yet it was no "old gentleman" who was sitting at the window of the
parlour into which Saint-Etienne now drew his friend, but a man of
middle age with a distinguished and intelligent face--M. du Parc, to
whom Aymar was duly introduced, and whose conversation, as the three
sat at déjeuner together, he soon found anything but dull. M. du Parc
might be a country squire, but he had a very pretty, mordant wit
tempered by a great deal of natural bonhomie and humour; moreover,
L'Oiseleur could not help feeling that he possessed a wide experience
of life and of men, though exactly in what capacity he could not be
sure. But M. du Parc did not obtrude himself unnecessarily into the
talk; he rather listened with a sort of benevolent shrewdness to what
the two young Royalists had to say to each other.
Saint-Etienne, it appeared, was much, to his disgust, under orders to
remain at Keraven for three days, according to some plan of Sol de
Grisolles, the general-in-chief of the Royalist forces in Brittany. "I
would not object to waiting," he announced, "if there were only a
chance of doing something meanwhile--and indeed I am rather expected to
make myself unpleasant, if I can. But I find I am not strong enough to
make an attack on the Imperialists over at Saint-Goazec, as I should
like to do."
"Under a certain Colonel Richard, are they not?" enquired Aymar. "Is it
impossible? How strong are they?"
"Too strong for me, and sure to be well disposed round Saint-Goazec,
which is easily defended country. But it is deuced tempting, because I
am pretty sure that they do not yet know I am here. But why indulge in
these dreams? I could not bring off an attack."
"However, you ought to be able to dispose neatly of any parties that
they send out in this direction," observed Aymar. "I drink to your luck
in that respect."
"Why leave it to luck, gentlemen?" interposed M. du Parc suddenly. "Put
a bit of cheese on the end of a string, and draw it along in front of
the mouse's hole, and the mouse will come out . . . especially if he
doesn't know that there is a cat in the neighbourhood."
"But we haven't got a bit of cheese, sir," replied Saint-Etienne,
laughing rather ruefully, "and, moreover, if the whole mouse came out,
this cat alone is not strong enough to deal with him, as I have said."
Aymar had fixed his eyes on M. du Parc. What wisdom and daring there was
in that smiling, rather inscrutable visage! He turned them on his
friend. "But if you had another cat to help you?"
"Whom do you mean?"
"Myself," replied L'Oiseleur, a gleam in his eyes. "My men are in the
Bois des Fauvettes."
"But you could not move them over here rapidly enough, nor without the
Imperialists getting wind of it!"
"No," agreed the young Chouan, "but I did not mean that. I meant that if
one could only get Richard to march out in that direction, we could
both leap on him simultaneously from our respective positions."
"Yes," said his friend, "but to march out in that direction is, I fancy,
the last thing he is likely to do."
Aymar propped his chin on his fists. "Then he ought to have some
inducement provided to make him march out--as M. du Parc has said, a
bit of cheese.--Have you got a map here?"
Studying the two young men bent over it, M. du Parc himself here
remarked serenely, "Your little problem, gentlemen, reminds me of an
episode in the fighting in '95, when two Royalists of my acquaintance,
commanding bodies of volunteers, were in exactly the same situation as
you. They solved the problem rather neatly."
"How?" enquired the couple eagerly.
"By making one of the cats the cheese. My friend contrived to let the
Blues know that he and his men would be passing a certain point at a
certain time, meaning the Republicans in consequence to ambush him
there----"
"And what happened?" asked Saint-Etienne.
"The Blues were ambushed themselves by the other party," responded M. du
Parc, with a smile, "and the two Royalist bodies together accounted for
them completely."
The light in L'Oiseleur's eyes grew, but Saint-Etienne said, "It was a
very risky move, though, sir--since it depended, I suppose, upon the
most exact cooperation."
"Certainly--but twenty years ago one had to take those risks, so I have
been told." To which M. de Saint-Etienne, looking at the older man with
a little smile, said, "Yes, those were days of giants."
Meanwhile, Aymar de la Rocheterie, returned to his study of the map,
observed thoughtfully, "When I get my supplies of ammunition I shall be
moving my men over the Aven. The bridge they call Pont-aux-Rochers,
between these wooded heights here--the bridge which I shall in fact
cross--would be an excellent spot for an ambush; but that ammunition, I
am sorry to say, will not reach me before the end of the week, and I
cannot leave the forest until I have it."
"What a pity!" commented Saint-Etienne regretfully. "The bridge is
ideally situated for me, since, owing to this road here, I could
actually start some hours after the Imperialists and still get there
before them. And, as a matter of fact, an ambush would not be
essential. Your men and mine together would be able to account for
Colonel Richard, if only we could tempt him to come between us."
L'Oiseleur took his head in his hands and thought. The plan appealed to
him very strongly. Could he not go back to the forest now and move his
men without waiting for the supplies? But the probability was that he
would then never receive these at all, and he was pledged to
cooperation with du Tremblay in eight or nine days, and would need all
the ammunition he could lay hands on. No, the idea must be abandoned.
He explained to Saint-Etienne why.
"Besides," M. du Parc reminded them, "an indispensable part of the
scheme is that one of you must inform the enemy of your intended
movements, or of your ally's movements, if you will. And it is not, in
practice, a very easy thing to send information purporting to come
treacherously from your side in such a way that the enemy is ready to
believe it. The best plan," he added with a fine smile, "is to appear
to sell it."
Aymar de la Rocheterie made a movement. "I think I would rather forego a
coup than do--or seem to do--a thing like that!"
The smile grew. "Oh, _you_ don't do it, Monsieur de la Rocheterie,"
explained this astute old country gentleman. "That would be a trifle
too suspicious; the enemy might not swallow the bait. One of your men
who has a grudge against you 'sells' the information."
They all laughed, and the conversation passed to other matters; indeed,
not long afterwards Aymar was again in the saddle, wishing
Saint-Etienne, and being wished, good luck. And he rode off, thinking
no more of that half-forged scheme for luring out the enemy, save with
a moment's regret that it could not be. The same sun shone, he had
before his eyes the same face--the only face in the world for him--and
nothing warned him that in the _Abeille d'Or_ at Keraven Fate had sat
at table with him.
(2)
The road went for a while under larches, absorbed in their enchanted
dream of spring; and L'Oiseleur rode beneath their green mist absorbed
in his own dream. He was thinking neither of the "Eperviers" nor of the
Emperor, but of the meeting full of pain and self-repression and
happiness towards which he was riding.
Avoye de la Rocheterie--Avoye de Villecresne as she had been for the
last six years--was Aymar's first cousin. Her father had gone to the
guillotine with his parents; her mother, widowed at twenty-three, had
adopted the little orphaned boy of five, and for two years had given
him such care as her broken heart and delicate health could compass.
Then she, too, died, and the two children passed into the guardianship
of their paternal grandmother, the dowager Vicomtesse de la Rocheterie,
and by that redoubtable lady they had been brought up as brother and
sister. When Avoye was eighteen Mme de la Rocheterie, who was
determined that Aymar should not marry her, brought about for her
granddaughter what she considered a suitable match with a fashionable
and wealthy man much older than herself, the Comte Frédéric de
Villecresne. The inexperienced girl felt no objections to the marriage,
was even rather flattered by the attentions of this man of the world,
while Aymar, her almost brother, constituted so natural a part of her
life that she hardly figured to herself how little he would fill it in
the future. As for Aymar himself, the final arrangements were concluded
when he was away, and without his knowledge. Moreover, he was still a
minor. The marriage took place. Four months later Avoye left her
husband and went to live with relatives of her mother's in Paris.
Over this outcome of Mme de la Rocheterie's schemes there took place at
Sessignes a combat as fierce as any which the château could have
witnessed since its foundation. Aymar, now of age, insisted that his
cousin should be invited to make Sessignes once more her home if she
wished. She had no other, and she refused to take her husband's money.
His grandmother pointed out that M. de Villecresne's house was still
open to her; on which the young man asked her whether even in the
crusading days of their ancient race any lady of the line had consented
to enter a harem. Plain speech was a luxury from which the Vicomtesse
never shrank, and she joined battle. It was most undesirable that Avoye
should return to live under the same roof as a young unmarried kinsman.
Aymar replied that part of her objection was mere hypocrisy, and
twofold at that; he knew that while, on the one hand, she cared not a
snap of the fingers for other people's opinion, on the other she
considered that no breath of scandal dare attach itself to a menage
over which she ruled. The rest was an insult to Mme de Villecresne and
to himself. Even apart from the fact, of which he professed himself
fully aware, that Avoye had no feelings for him other than for a
brother, as a Catholic she would never divorce her husband and marry
again--for Mme de la Rocheterie, though herself at heart a
free-thinker, was far too aristocratic not to have had her
grand-children reared in the strict tenets of the Church. And if his
grandmother placed so little reliance on his self-control, he would
contrive to absent himself a good deal, to travel, as much as his means
permitted, to go and fight abroad, perhaps. But Avoye should come back.
And Avoye, not being to her knowledge in love with her cousin, did come
back, and in the end made Sessignes once more her home. Aymar carried
out his programme; but perhaps it was his very absences from the house
which was so full of the memories of their joint childhood which showed
her at last her own heart. Yet, however much now in name only, she was
still the wife of Frédéric de Villecresne, and as such she knew quite
well that her cousin regarded her. She had made the mistake of her
life; she must pay for it. But she did not realize how heavily Aymar
was paying, too. And no doubt it was only because of the tenacious,
self-denying Northern blood which the cousins shared that they were
either of them able to stand the strain of a position which made such
difficult demands, to go on waiting year after year, to face the
prospect of waiting, most likely, for years longer, until death should
remove the barrier to their happiness.
At times, indeed, it did seem as if they might not have to wait much
longer. Last year, when Aymar had undertaken his self-imposed and
repugnant mission to Bath, to interview M. de Villecresne on a money
matter connected with his wife, he had found the profligate very much
of an invalid. He had recovered, it was true, and returned to France,
but he was ill again now--how seriously Aymar was not sure. Avoye would
tell him when he got to Sessignes.
He had something to tell her, too--this new plan which he had just made
with M. du Tremblay, for (except his love, of which he was very chary
in speaking to her) there was little in his life that she did not
share. She was, in thought, the comrade of all his hopes and
enterprises--had once been a comrade in deed also. But for that he had
scolded her.
(3)
The towers of Sessignes came at last into view--Sessignes, Sept-Cygnes,
the castle of the Seven Swans emblazoned on the La Rocheterie shield.
Little remained now of the feudal stronghold which the first Aymar de
la Rocheterie had built in the days of Philip Augustus, yet the
château's very position hinted at a warrior's eye. A later and softer
generation would have planted it, not on the scarp, but lower down
where the pastures sloped to the Aven, loitering here by banks of
meadowsweet.
"Madame is well, Monsieur Aymar; but Mme la Comtesse was summoned away
about four days ago to M. de Villecresne, who is very ill," said the
old, tremulously smiling man-servant in response to his master's
enquiries about the family.
Summoned away! She was not here! But the shock of that disappointment
was succeeded by the thought, "De Villecresne must be at the point of
death; she would never have gone to him else." Aymar's heart beat so
fast that for the moment he hardly heard what the old man was saying
further. But he mechanically took the letter which he was holding out,
and saw that it was addressed in the hand of his second-in-command, M.
de Fresne.
"How did this come here, Célestin?" he asked in some surprise.
"One of your _gars_ brought it, Monsieur le Vicomte, this morning, from
the Bois des Fauvettes."
"He is still here?"
"No, Monsieur Aymar. He went back at once."
L'Oiseleur tore open the missive all the more hastily that he was
expecting nothing from that quarter. It contained a few words to say
that as the looked-for ammunition had arrived earlier than was
anticipated M. de Fresne was, in accordance with his leader's known
intentions, going to move the "Eperviers" over the river at once,
leaving their encampment in the Bois des Fauvettes at sunrise on
Friday. He should expect in that case to be across the Pont-aux-Rochers
by eight in the morning. It did not, he concluded, seem necessary or
even prudent (having regard to the reinforcements just received by the
Bonapartists at Arbelles) to wait for La Rocheterie's return in person,
especially as its exact hour was uncertain; but, knowing that he
intended to pass by Sessignes, he was sending this information there,
so that his leader should not attempt to go all the way back to the
Bois des Fauvettes, but could rejoin his force at some nearer point.
Portions of this brief epistle were in cipher, but Aymar knew his own
cipher so well that he could read it off. The result rather annoyed
him. To-morrow was Friday; why could not de Fresne wait for his return?
. . . He was just going to put the letter in his pocket, when he
stopped, and, frugal of gestures though he was, smote his forehead.
"Dieu! why had I not this letter at noon at Keraven?" If only he had
known then that the ammunition had arrived, and that he could, in
consequence, safely move his men across the river, he would certainly
have concluded that tempting arrangement with Saint-Etienne. There
seemed a sort of grin of Fortune in sending the news now--just too
late.
But was it too late? Letter in hand, he sat down under his young
father's portrait and thought rapidly. He would have to ride back
instantly to the _Abeille d'Or_, arrange with Saint-Etienne, send one
of Saint-Etienne's men to warn de Fresne--or better still, go
himself--and then somehow despatch information of de Fresne's movements
to the Bonapartists at Saint-Goazec.
Yes, but how was he going to do that plausibly? There lay the difficulty
as that shrewd old M. du Parc had pointed out. One of Saint-Etienne's
men would have to play the supposed traitor. He might pretend, for
instance, to have stolen this very letter, and to be desirous of
selling it to the enemy . . . as M. du Parc had advised.
Sarrasin, the great wolfhound, stared up at him anxiously as he leant
forward, his elbows on his knees. No, it would not do. The Imperialists
could not be lured to Pont-aux-Rochers in the time. There would be two
cats at the bridge, but no mouse. Because, even if he started this
instant to ride back to Keraven he could not get there much before
eleven at night, and, allowing an hour to thrash out the matter
thoroughly with his friend, and to coach up the supposedly traitorous
emissary, the latter could not reach Colonel Richard at Saint-Goazec
before six in the morning, which would be too late.
L'Oiseleur got up rather sadly . . . and then stood still. For suppose
the letter was sent to the enemy, not from Keraven at all, but directly
and now from Sessignes itself, which was so much nearer--though he had
small idea to whom to entrust it. It would reach the Imperialist
commander this evening, in about two hours, in fact. Meanwhile, he
himself would be halfway back to Saint-Etienne, who had ample time in
any event to get to Pont-aux-Rochers before the enemy.
And by this plan Aymar was really tempted. It had just that spice of
daring which appealed to him, and he began to walk up and down the hall
considering it. But in a moment he saw that it would be difficult to
make such a sending plausible--doubly, trebly so as in this case the
letter _must_ come directly from himself. And it was exactly that
coming from himself which his keen sense of personal honour could not
stomach. He had an innate aversion to even the semblance of
treachery--to even the appearance of such a horrible thing as the
betrayal of his own men.
He thrust de Fresne's letter resolutely into his pocket and went to find
his grandmother. Had Avoye gone to her husband because release was
near?
The silver swans of La Rocheterie, with the golden crowns round their
necks, sailed without progress on the azure of the shield above his
grandmother's head, where she sat by the hearth in the salon, slim and
upright, a book on her knee. She had been a very pretty girl--and not,
it really seemed, so long ago.
She exclaimed with surprise and pleasure as her grandson appeared at the
door, since, though she had sometimes a very captious method of
showing--or cloaking--her affection for him, and often took a malicious
joy in combating him; at bottom she adored him--fiercely. For the
victory which, at one-and-twenty, his will had won over hers in the
matter of his cousin, she bore him no grudge. The grudge was against
Avoye, who had "spoilt his life," keeping him, the last of his line,
unmarried, when (especially since the Moulin Brûlé and the rest had
added a romantic prestige to his personal attractions and the fact of
his ancient lineage) he might, she felt, have carried off any heiress
in France.
"So you have left your beloved Eperviers to see an old woman!" she said,
as he kissed her unwrinkled and still delicately coloured cheek. "But
more probably it was to see a young one. . . . She is away, though--as
you have doubtless ascertained already."
"Célestin told me," replied Aymar, a trifle stonily. "He also told me
where she had gone."
Mme de la Rocheterie looked at him, and then dropped her expressive
eyes. "But, since he did not know it himself, he could not calm your
agitation by telling you that I expect her back to-night. I almost
thought she would have been here by now."
A flush rose in Aymar's cheek. Conscious of it, he turned away and
rested his spurred foot on the hearthstone, his hand above him on the
mantel. "And . . . de Villecresne?" he asked after a moment.
Mme de la Rocheterie breathed a decorous sigh. "Poor Avoye, poor child!
She writes sad news."
"What, is he better?" exclaimed the young man.
"Aymar, think what you are saying!" But her mouth twitched with
appreciation. "On the contrary, she was too late. The Comte de
Villecresne died about three hours before she got there."
L'Oiseleur drew a sharp breath, and, putting his other hand on the high
mantel, bowed his head between his arms. His face was quite invisible,
but there was no superfluity of colour in it now. After a moment's
complete silence he gave a sound which might or might not have been a
laugh.
"What did you say?" demanded Mme de la Rocheterie.
"I? Nothing," he responded, without moving. "But what I should like to
say is, For whom in the world is the news of de Villecresne's death bad
news?"
"Possibly for his creditors," said his grandmother drily. "I suppose
that you have some idea of their number, since your visit to him. . . .
We sup in a quarter of an hour, Aymar."
No meal in his life had seemed so interminable to the young man as that
of which he partook that evening with the old woman who had brought him
up, whose jealous, half-tormenting affection was perfectly aware that
his whole soul was full of the news she had just given him, the news he
had waited years to hear, and that his ears were straining all the time
for the sound of wheels . . . and who would not so much as glance at
the subject of Avoye's release, nor make even the slightest further
reference to her return.
But she talked of politics--and he had to attend and reply: of the
coming struggle in the west--and he had to give his opinion of the
small movements which had already taken place; of the shock given to
the countryside by the Bonapartists' summary execution of a woman spy,
a peasant, a few days ago. "A foolish shock," was Mme de la
Rocheterie's comment. "Marie Lasserre knew what she was risking. And I
do not approve, in any case, of women aping men and usurping their
roles. If they do, they should at least be prepared to pay the same
penalty."
No doubt she was hoping to get up an argument on the subject of Avoye's
exploit at Chalais, which had been so much talked about since the
Restoration. But Aymar did not accept the challenge. And, having
endured various thrusts at his want of appetite (which he hoped he had
disguised) he was able at last to escape from the table and the candles
and the necessity of answering coherently, to the place where a lover
should carry his rapture--under the open sky and the stars. And he went
across the grass of the rose-garden where, late as it was, a peacock
was parading, past the sundial and into the orchard, and leant against
a tree there. Truly his happiness was almost more than he could bear.
And he had waited so long for it--it seemed a lifetime. It _was_ his
lifetime. . . .
(4)
He raised his head at last. Through the apple-boughs the stars peered,
laughing, and there was, as there should be, the fairy boat of the
young moon low in the west. It was indeed a night for her to come to
him, as any moment now she might come. She, too, should look at the
stars between the lattice-roof of blossoms--blossom and star herself.
Nothing between them any more! that evil shadow which had made a mockery
of her life gone for ever! Aymar could scarcely believe it yet, but his
heart so ached with the almost intolerable joy of the thought that the
strange, sweet pain seemed to seal it as true. He reached up to the
tree under which he stood, and broke off a little bough with its
pink-flushed blossoms, pale now in the starlight. The branch was tough;
he had to tug at it, and as he tugged he felt something give round his
left arm. He knew what it was--that absurd talisman of his.
He put the apple blossom to his face and kissed it, as he would kiss
Avoye when he gave it to her. Perhaps these moments . . . and still
more, those that were coming . . . were worth, after all, their heavy
toll of endurance and restraint, the meetings that were only pain, the
partings whose full sorrow might not be tasted, the enforced absences,
the perpetual struggle to be content with a little for fear of losing
all. But struggle was over now, and he could lay at her feet a heart as
clean as his sword.
The peacock's jarring note roused him, and he remembered that the
_jartier_ was broken on his arm. Avoye should weave him a new one--but
not to-night. Early in the morning he would get rushes from the river,
and before he rode away she should plait him another bracelet and
fasten it on . . . if indeed it were necessary to continue this farce
nowadays. He never had to show that he carried on his person the
earnest of his good fortune and his prestige. But he must not let the
broken charm be found; and, putting down the apple blossom, he shook
the twist of rushes down his sleeve and drew it out. Strange that it
had broken like that, when it had survived much more strenuous doings!
He was fingering it when he became aware of galloping hoofs in the
distance. His heart galloped, too--Avoye at last! No--it was a single
horse, a saddle horse; and it was coming along the little-used
bridle-path that led by the river and almost passed the orchard where
he was. Who on earth could it be? He went across the orchard and
vaulted the gate, and saw that the horseman, riding as a tired and
heavy man rides, had abandoned the path, and was making for the same
point. He must be coming to the château--must know the way well,
too . . .
"Who is it?" Aymar called out.
"Is that you, La Rocheterie?" returned a voice full of relief. "Thank
God, thank God! I did not know you were at Sessignes. I have brought
the most terrible news!--Wait a moment."
He climbed stiffly out of the saddle. It was the Marquis de Vaubernier,
a neighbour and old friend of the family--Avoye's godfather, in fact.
He now came up to the young man, wrenched out of his ecstasy of a
moment ago into what he imagined to be tidings of some military mishap,
and said, "Your cousin Avoye is in the hands of the Bonapartists at
Saint-Goazec, and--Oh, my God, I can hardly believe it yet--they intend
to shoot her to-morrow morning!"
"Nonsense!" said Aymar sharply . . . but the world went black.
"Impossible!" he repeated after a moment. "Marquis, you are dreaming!
What, in Heaven's name, should they do that for?"
"Because you allowed her to obtain that information for you," retorted
the old man, tears in his voice. "Because they suspect her--unjustly
this time. They have her in custody at the _Cheval Blanc_ just outside
Saint-Goazec. And they will do it--I have seen their colonel. Have you
not heard about Marie Lasserre?"
Aymar stood in the starlight as if he had been shot himself, so still
that the old Marquis, wringing his hands, exclaimed, "Good God, man,
can't you speak! There's no time to wool-gather! And find me some place
to sit down--I'm dead with fatigue!"
"If what you tell me is true," said Aymar in a very quiet voice, "I will
go and give myself up in her place, of course. But I must know a little
more first." He opened the orchard gate. "Come up to the seat in the
rose-garden. I will not take you into the house. There is no need to
tell my grandmother."
And in the rose-garden, sitting on a stone bench, to the accompaniment
of the discordant cries of the peacock, incoherently but convincingly
the Marquis de Vaubernier told his tale.
He had been out riding when he heard that a lady travelling with her
maid had been detained by the Imperialist troops near Saint-Goazec; the
replies to his queries convinced him that the lady in question was Mme
de Villecresne, of whose recent journey he was aware; and, becoming
very uneasy, because, as he confessed, he could not help wondering if
they knew of her former "exploit" at Chalais, he went to the _Cheval
Blanc_, where she was detained, and succeeded in seeing the senior
officer there. The Bonapartist's curtness and obvious unwillingness to
speak of the matter alarmed the nervous old man still more, and when
the officer began, in his turn, to question him about the lady, his
chief desire was to get away, lest, as he said now, "I should let slip
something indiscreet about her.
"And then, La Rocheterie, just as I was going to mount, a young officer
who had been in the room came up to me and said, very gravely, 'It does
not matter what questions you answer or do not answer, Monsieur, about
that unfortunate lady--nothing can make any difference now.' When I
asked him what, in Heaven's name, he meant, he said in a very low
voice, looking, as I could see, as if he could hardly bring himself to
tell me, 'Her fate is fixed; she cannot be allowed to go free. _We know
too much about her_.' And when, God help me, I still did not take in
the full horror of what he was saying to me, he whispered, 'Another
Marie Lasserre!'
"Then, Aymar, I did understand, and I frantically caught his arm, and
said I would go back instantly and see their commander again. The young
man said, 'Useless! We, his officers, have all remonstrated. Yet we
have not quite given up hope, though one must say that, but for a
miracle, she will be shot to-morrow morning. A spy is a spy, even
though she be of noble birth.' Then, hardly knowing what I did, I said
I must see _her_ at once; but he declared that it was out of the
question, and that he himself would be cashiered if it was known that
he had even told me about it; that all I could do now for her was to go
home and pray. . . . So I did not see the child--I came straight here,
riding as I have not ridden for twenty years. And at least _you_ are
here. . . ."
Aymar had stood rigid before him, his hands gripping each other behind
his back. Now he said thickly, "Marquis, it must be a mistake."
"Whose mistake?" asked the old man. "Not mine! I wish it were! I tell
you the colonel's manner was most sinister, and when that young officer
held my stirrup for me I saw the tears in his eyes."
"But perhaps it is not Avoye at all?"
"They spoke of her by name. Besides, I saw her carriage in the yard--one
of yours."
"But--but it is an incredible thing to do!" said Aymar, as one speaking
in a nightmare.
"That is what everybody said about Marie Lasserre . . . but they did
it. . . . Oh, Avoye, my little Avoye!" He began to break down.
L'Oiseleur walked away to the sundial.
When, after a few moments, the old man followed him there, Aymar was
slowly tracing out the figures on its metal plate, cold with dew. "What
are you doing, La Rocheterie?" he exclaimed, seizing him by the
shoulder. "It is your fault that she is in danger!--There's no time to
lose. . . . Think of something, for pity's sake!"
"For pity's sake, be quiet then!" flashed out the young man. "Cannot you
see that I am trying to think of some way? Do you suppose that I do not
want to save her a thousand times more than you do--that I would not
give every drop of blood in my body to spare her a pinprick--that I
would not get on your horse this instant and ride to Saint-Goazec and
give myself up . . . if I could!"
The passion in his voice silenced the Marquis de Vaubernier, and he went
off to the other side of the lawn. And Avoye's lover, his elbows on the
sundial, his clenched fists pressed to his head, was fighting hard
against the almost overwhelming impulse to do what he had
said--fighting because it did not seem to him consistent with his
honour and his obligations. Was he not bound to du Tremblay by their
joint scheme (more his, indeed, in conception than the other's), did he
not know that his own men were useless for any enterprise requiring
foresight without his leadership--that de Fresne knew nothing of the
fresh arrangements, and that without seeing him it would be very
difficult to ensure his grasping his part in them? No, if he
surrendered himself to this Colonel Richard, as he longed to do, though
for him it would only mean prison and inactivity (for of shooting him
there could be no question) he was making the enemy a present not only
of himself, but of his small yet valuable force as well, stultifying
his comrade's plans--in short, deserting his post. And yet it would
have been so sure, so easy; to have him, L'Oiseleur, in their hands,
they would certainly open the door of the cage to any woman, were she
ten times a spy.
But if honour forbade him to surrender himself, what could he do
instead? Try to rescue her? Almost impossible, single-handed. None of
the servants would be of any use. If he had Eveno, or a couple of his
best men . . . but even the Chouan who had brought de Fresne's letter
had gone back. . . .
The blood leapt to Aymar's face. Why, he had the way to save Avoye in
his very hands after all! He had only to utilize the scheme almost
completed that noon with Saint-Etienne--almost entered upon on his own
initiative when he found de Fresne's news. He had only to strike a
bargain before the information--the letter--was given up; and the very
fact that he had now a bargain to strike lent infinitely more colour to
the genuineness of the whole affair. In fact, Avoye's danger gave him
the pretext which had been wanting. He might not only save her, but
snatch also the military success which had so tempted him. Had he not
already contemplated the sending of that letter with nothing but that
success to gain by it? And, since Saint-Etienne and his regiment were
so much nearer Pont-aux-Rochers than the Bonapartists were, there was
no more risk than before: if he sent the letter at once, from
Sessignes, he still had ample time to ride back to the _Abeille d'Or_
and complete the arrangements.
He snatched his subordinate's letter out of his pocket. Vaubernier, of
course, must take it; he could not. The striking of the bargain--no
easy task--must be entrusted to that agitated old gentleman; but again
there was no help for it. His very agitation ought at least to convince
the Imperialist commander of the genuineness of the motive behind the
sending of the information. And though the scheme was less sure than
the one he longed to adopt--that of paying for his love's freedom with
his own--yet, if this Colonel Richard should suspect the existence of a
trap somewhere, so long as he was ignorant of Saint-Etienne's presence
at Keraven he could not possibly know in what the trap consisted. And
surely the chance--however much he recognized it to be merely a
chance--of crushing a very obnoxious enemy was worth more than the
gratification of shooting a woman.
With the letter in his hand L'Oiseleur looked across the dim garden at
Vaubernier, considering what instructions he should give him in order
to convince Colonel Richard. And then it slid into his mind, more than
a little dizzied by the violent transition from rapture to horror, that
he was going deliberately to commit the very act on account of which he
had a few hours earlier rejected an alluring scheme. He was sending the
letter himself. In other words, he was about to sell information--and
information about his own men--in order to save a kinswoman's
life. . . . At least, that was how his action would appear to Colonel
Richard--how he must pray indeed that it would appear. . . .
The spring night seemed suddenly very cold. Was he really going to lay
at an enemy's feet the most precious thing he had--his untarnished
honour? For Avoye's sake, yes . . . till the day came. When the
Imperialists fell into the joint trap prepared for them he would be
abundantly cleared.
He went over the lawn.
"Monsieur de Vaubernier, do you mind what figure you cut in this
business--not but what I am reserving the least reputable for myself?"
"With Avoye's life at stake!" said the Marquis tremulously. "No, you can
make of me what you will."
Aymar looked hard at him. Obviously it would really be more convincing
that Vaubernier should pretend to have stolen the letter from him, or
something of the kind, and should affect to be the person really
responsible. . . . No, in spite of his willingness, he could not let
him brand himself as a traitor--an old man like that--for the ensuing
military coup would hardly clear him, who had no part in it, as it
would L'Oiseleur.
"I only want you to be an intermediary," he said firmly. "I propose,
Marquis, that you shall strike a bargain with Colonel Richard for my
cousin's safety with this letter, which contains important information
about the movements of my force to-morrow. It is a letter which I have
only just received from my second-in-command. You must assure Colonel
Richard that it is genuine, that you have had it straight from me . . .
and if he wishes to know how I could bring myself to do such a thing,
you must lay stress on the fact that Mme de Villecresne is my cousin.
You must not give him the letter till he promises to let Avoye go; it
would be better if you could contrive not to interview him with it on
you. . . . But I do not ask you to take any responsibility; all that
rests on me. You are merely a go-between."
"I understand," said the old gentleman. "And I understand, also, of
course, that you intend----"
"You had better understand nothing of the kind," put in Aymar quickly.
"Colonel Richard will question you; you must know nothing
--_nothing_--but that I am horribly concerned for Mme de
Villecresne's safety--which God knows is true enough!--and you will be
prepared to swear that the information is genuine, for I have told you
so, on the word of a gentleman."
And, even as he said it, he wondered how much faith Colonel Richard,
when he got that letter, would put in the word of a man who could send
it.
"Perhaps you had better not know, even, what is in it," he went on,
looking down at it. "Indeed, unless one strikes a light, you cannot
see. I think that I will seal it up. I can get into the house without
being seen."
He went through the open window of the dining-room and lit a candle on
the writing-table there. But first he read the letter through again,
and realized that place and time, and a little besides, were
unintelligible, because they were in cipher. If the letter was to be of
any use as a bribe, he must with his own hand decipher these passages.
And Aymar hesitated, penetrated through and through with the horrible
apparent significance of what he was doing. But it _was_ only apparent;
it _was_ only a ruse. And, if he could help it, Avoye should never know
the means he was employing to save her; no more than he himself would
she like the sound of it. Vaubernier must, if possible, make it a part
of the bargain that she should not be told the reason for her release;
he must not even see her in person lest she should guess some
connection with him, Aymar. And almost more than from Avoye must what
he had done for Avoye be kept from his grandmother, who considered
already, as he knew, that his cousin had spoilt his life. It was for
that reason, not to spare Mme de la Rocheterie's sensibilities, that he
hoped even Avoye's danger might not reach her ears. It was just
conceivable that Avoye herself, on her return, might keep it from her.
If she did not return. . . . But that was unthinkable!
Unthinkable or no, that nightmare thought had him in its grip as he
hastily wrote in the words above the cipher. Then he sealed up the
letter again with his own seal, and went back into the garden to
deliver it to his messenger.
"_Sans tache_," he said to himself as he went. "Oh, Avoye, my darling!"
"Ah, here you are at last!" said his grandmother, laying down her book.
"I was just thinking how delightful it must be to be young and not to
dread the dew. But I fear that we shall not welcome Avoye to-night
now."
"No, I do not think that she will come to-night," answered Aymar without
looking at her. "And, if she does I shall not see her, for I must
rejoin my men without a moment's delay. I have come to take leave of
you, Grand'mère; Hirondelle is at the door."
"What!" exclaimed Mme de la Rocheterie. "Is there anything wrong?" But
she saw in an instant that there was; at least, that he was holding
down some very strong emotion. And he was in uniform again.
"I hope not. Not if I go back at once. Good-bye, Grand'mère." He took
her hand and lifted it to his cold lips.
"But, Aymar," she said, roused to real concern, "you have been in the
saddle all day--you ate no supper. You cannot ride straight back to the
Bois des Fauvettes--you will kill yourself!"
"I trust not to go as far as that!" he answered. "When--when Avoye
comes, tell her I had to go."
"That is a pity," said the old lady, suddenly moved with sympathy; he
looked so horribly pale and drawn. "I hope, mon fils, that your bad
news is unfounded?"
"I hope so, too," said Aymar, and was gone from the room.
And when his grandmother, her book on her knee, heard Sarrasin's dismal
howling in the hall, she knew that he was gone from Sessignes
altogether.
(5)
The April night, its scents and caressing breeze, meant little enough
now to Aymar de la Rocheterie as Hirondelle carried him away at a smart
pace from Sessignes--and farther from Avoye, too. That was the hardest
thing of all, to ride off and leave his love's fate in the not very
capable hands of the Marquis de Vaubernier--so hard that when the young
man had gone a quarter of a mile along the road to Keraven, he suddenly
reined up the bay mare and turned her half round. But no--it was done
now; nothing, not even an appeal from Avoye herself, could make it
other than infamous to go back. He had given the lives of his men into
Colonel Richard's hands until such time as he himself completed his
arrangements with Saint-Etienne. L'Oiseleur set his teeth and pushed
the mare forward.
Waves of agonizing fear for Avoye broke over him every now and then; and
if they ebbed, it was only to be succeeded by a cold tide of distaste
at what he had done. Oh, if only he could have offered himself in
exchange, instead of engaging on this tortuous and insecure path of
outwitting the enemy! But to give himself up would not be honourable;
it would not really be the _beau geste_ of which it might perhaps wear
the semblance . . . even as what he had done instead was not really
vile, as it appeared. Yet he _had_ branded his own stainless name,
though it were but for a few hours. What if the blot did not wash off
so easily as he had told himself? A ruse . . . yes, but one with a
bargain involved. . . . Moreover, he was undoubtedly trying to trick
the Imperialists into giving him something for nothing. It galled
Aymar's fastidiousness, that idea. But surely Colonel Richard, a
soldier himself, would recognize the proceeding as a move in a game.
Aymar had not guaranteed that the "Eperviers" would be waiting at
Pont-aux-Rochers for the Bonapartists to snap up; he had only
guaranteed that that was what was planned. It was a contest as to which
could outwit the other. If only so much did not depend on how
Vaubernier conducted the negotiations!
To ride fast was a relief, yet it surprised Aymar to find how quickly he
had covered half the distance back to Keraven. It was not yet one
o'clock in the morning. All the better. He had met the river again,
left it, and was going in the shadow of a wood when he heard a distant
shot. And, as he pulled up to listen, the thought struck him for the
first time, Suppose I fell into an enemy patrol and was captured--what
of de Fresne at Pont-aux-Rochers then?
The idea turned him cold. How could he have been such a fool as to think
that there was no risk about this business? Till he was actually at
Keraven the whole scheme, all his men's lives, rested on his shoulders
alone. Nervousness about his own personal safety was a feeling which
Aymar de la Rocheterie had never tasted in his life; but he tasted it
thenceforward all the way to Keraven, and it had not a pleasant savour.
The spire of the village church at last, standing up in the light of
dawn. He was here, unmolested, and drew his breath more freely. Then he
opened his cloak as he rode, to show his uniform for the benefit of
Saint-Etienne's sentries.
But there were no sentries in Keraven.
So soundly did the village sleep that not a window was raised as
Hirondelle's hoofs clattered on the cobbles of the _place_. And for
centuries her rider sat her there, under the church tower, motionless
and asleep himself--was he not?--in some cold and evil dream. Then the
clock above him struck the hour of three, and he knew that he had not
the fortune to be dreaming. Saint-Etienne's force, on which his whole
plan turned, and which was to have been at Keraven till Sunday, had
gone.
A few minutes later, bending from the saddle, L'Oiseleur was hammering
frantically on the door of the _Abeille d'Or_. A nightcapped head--the
host's--came forth from a window. "How long has M. de Saint-Etienne's
regiment been gone?"
"They left about four o'clock yesterday afternoon, Monsieur; a despatch
came ordering them off to Allonnes without delay. I will come down and
open the door, Monsieur de la Rocheterie."
Allonnes! It was hopeless to contemplate their cooperation at that
distance. They had been gone eleven hours--ordered off not long after
his own departure yesterday. And Saint-Etienne had seemed so certain of
remaining! Still a little stunned, Aymar watched Hirondelle trying to
eat the honeysuckle on the trellis, and thought of the words used in
this place only yesterday about the cats and the mouse. Who was going
to be the mouse now?
He pulled himself together. Though there could be no triumphant coup for
him, there need be no disaster. Having allowed plenty of time for
Saint-Etienne's infantry to get to Pont-aux-Rochers before Colonel
Richard could possibly reach it, he naturally had ample time to ride
beyond it himself.
"Get me a glass of wine and a crust," he said hurriedly as the host
emerged half dressed, "and tell me, have you that English horse of
yours? I want him saddled at once, then--no, I'll do it myself while
you fetch me the wine. I shall do better to have a fresh horse, for I
must ride like the devil now to the cross-roads on the other side of
Pont-aux-Rochers."
"Pont-aux-Rochers?" said the innkeeper. "Then you will be better
advised, Monsieur le Vicomte, to make a detour by Plélan and cross at
the ford, for the Blues' patrols may very well be out in strength on
the other road. I am not sure of it, but there were rumours last
night."
Aymar remembered the shot in the night. He could not afford to meet any
patrols. "I will go round by Plélan then--but even so I can do it," he
added to himself. "Quick, the stable key!"
Yes, he could easily do it, even by the longer route. He kept assuring
himself of that over and over again, as the English horse carried him
down the way by the ravine at a pace little short of dangerous.
Who could have foreseen this horrible trick of Fate? Or had he been
incredibly rash in staking so much on Saint-Etienne's continued
presence at Keraven? Surely not, since Saint-Etienne had his orders to
remain there for three days, and on that assumption they had all but
completed their joint plan against the Imperialists. And, good God,
even had he known that there was a possibility of the regiment's being
ordered off, could he have done otherwise? Could he have left Avoye to
perish, even if this scheme were hazardous?
But it was not of Avoye now that he was thinking as he galloped on under
the imminent sunrise. Despite the knowledge that, with a horse like
this beneath him, he could get across the river and intercept de Fresne
well before the latter reached Pont-aux-Rochers, his mind was obsessed
with horrible little vignettes of what would happen if by any ultimate
chance he failed to do it. He tried to shut them from his mental
vision, encouraging his horse, but husbanding him as a good rider can,
for almost everything depended on his staying power--himself
unconscious of fatigue, though he had been in the saddle, without much
intermission, since ten o'clock yesterday morning.
By five o'clock he was on the Lande of Languédias, a desolate heathy
patch of country, riding very hard under clouds and wind. For time, it
seemed to him, was going even faster than he--or perhaps it was only
that the nervous strain was beginning to tell on him. And his thoughts
went faster than either. He wondered what Avoye were doing if . . . O
God, not if! . . . she were alive. Yes, she _was_ alive . . . free
. . . he was sure of it. . . . Rather, what were they saying of him,
Colonel Richard and his officers, as they marched to lie in wait at
Pont-aux-Rochers, unaware that he was racing them by the other
road--racing to stop what he himself had set in motion?
Racing, yes! Why had he listened to rumours about patrols and gone
round--why had he been prudent against his own inclination? And he
would have done better in the end, perhaps, to have kept Hirondelle,
though she was not fresh. Yet this horse was going gallantly enough,
though the pace was beginning to distress him; there was foam on his
nostrils, and he was sweating more than he should. But de Fresne would
probably be rather after than before his time; he would not leave the
Bois des Fauvettes before sunrise, and there was always delay about
getting the men on the move. . . . It _could_ not be that he should
arrive too late; he had only about eight miles to the ford now, and
three beyond, and he could still get that much out of the innkeeper's
horse--at the cost perhaps of cruelty. He had not yet used the spur at
all; he was keeping that for the end. . . . And what if at the end he
found that the Imperialists were not at Pont-aux-Rochers at all, and
his men in no danger? In that case Avoye . . . but his mind,
shuddering, refused the alternative. No, his men _were_ in danger . . .
but only, please God, in such danger as he could avert.
Aymar never was to spur the English horse. It was not more than four or
five minutes after this that it put its foot in a rabbit hole and came
crashing down. Its rider had just time to know what had happened, then
a curtain was drawn over everything.
Later, he gripped the heather and pulled himself to an elbow, sick and
giddy. He had been flung clear. But a glance showed him that his
horse's neck was broken. He sank back again; the fall had been so
violent that probably only the springy heather in which he lay had
saved him from broken limbs himself. For a moment or two he was not
sure that it _had_ saved him. But he sat up again, his throbbing head
in his hands. His horse was dead; if not behind time already he had
little to spare; he had just lost . . . how much? and, worst of all,
there were no dwellings on the Lande, or at best only a miserable
cottage where it would be out of the question to procure a horse. But
somewhere, somehow, he _must_ procure one! L'Oiseleur staggered to his
feet, and, after standing a moment to steady himself and take his
bearings, started to run stumblingly through the tangled heather
towards a thread of smoke just visible about two miles away.
"A horse!" mumbled the old man. "No, my young gentleman, no horses here!
A goat or two. Horses!" He emitted a high cracked sound of mirth. "Not
if you were the King of France himself!"
A bundle of rags on the other side of the hearth disclosed itself in the
dim and smoky light to be a human being. "Maturin over at the
quarry-pit has a horse," it said, in the voice of a woman. "He uses it
for drawing up the stones--a strong beast it is."
"Where is the quarry?" exclaimed Aymar. "Quick, it's life or death."
They told him, slowly. They were not sure of the distance--two miles,
four miles? . . . He tossed them a piece of gold and ran out of the
hut.
How long had he been in finding this place--out of his road as it was?
He only knew that he had nearly missed it altogether. And now the
quarryman was very unwilling to surrender his stocky grey steed--slow
enough, as one could see, but still . . . a horse.
"I can't spare him, Monsieur, and he is not used to being ridden, and I
have no saddle."
"That's not of the least consequence. Take off those traces quickly! I
will give you twenty-five napoleons for him--about twice what he is
worth--and if possible I will return him to you and not reclaim the
money. If that does not content you, I shall take him whether you will
or no."
The quarryman did not look content, but this pale, stern young officer
frightened him, though he made no motion to use his arms. So he stood
sulkily aside, while Aymar got on to the grey's back; only, as he rode
off, he shouted _Thief!_ after him, and threw a few stones before he
sat down to recount the money.
Of all tortures, to ride a slow horse when the very heaven and earth
depended on its speed! Once or twice Aymar thought of abandoning it and
taking to his own legs again, but by spurring the grey without mercy he
did get out of it a certain measure of progress. And there was his own
bodily fatigue, which he could no longer disregard, to reckon with
also. Oh, for half an hour of Hirondelle! But even Hirondelle could not
get him there in time now.
The ford over the Aven at last! All that shining water had come down
from Pont-aux-Rochers! What had it seen there?
The grey did not like it; he refused to enter. Twice Aymar lashed and
spurred him; then, desperate, he jumped off, and, in water himself to
mid-thigh, tugged him over. It had meant fresh delay, but nothing short
of a miracle could save the Eperviers now. Ironically, the quarryman's
horse went better after the contest. But all the last three miles his
rider's mind seemed to revolve round one word. Nothing but a miracle
. . . a miracle. . . . O God, send a miracle!
At the cross-roads, not a sign. Had they passed or no? A little way off
in a field, a girl was herding goats. He called to her.
"Yes, Monsieur, some Chouans--a great many--went by about an hour ago.
There has been firing since. They went along there--towards the
bridge."
Without a word Aymar set spurs to his horse. There had been no miracle.
But at least he might be in time to die with them.
Even that was denied him. A mile or so farther along the road turned
sharply to the left; and here, where it was wide and tree-shadowed, and
had a spacious grassy margin on one side, he saw the first fugitives of
all. There were perhaps a dozen; they ran past him in twos and threes,
panic-pursued. Not one had a visible wound. They had just run . . . his
men.
He did not try to stay them, for even in that hasty passing he had seen
that they were his newer, his least reliable recruits. Then he came on
one fallen by the roadside, with another bending over him. For an
instant he pulled up.
"What has happened at the bridge?" he asked, but his voice stuck in his
throat, for he knew.
"It was a cursed trap!" answered the man, panting. He did not look up.
"The Blues . . . ambushed there . . . they have made mincemeat of
us. . . . See, Yannik, if I tie this round your leg you could get on
farther."
"O God!" said L'Oiseleur, and rode on--rode on blindly to see more men
running under the trees on either side, to hear himself at last called
by name, to find himself then in the midst of a small body retreating
with some semblance of order, and, clutching his bridle convulsively
and looking up at him with wild eyes, his youngest officer, Clément de
Soulanges, a boy of twenty--to hear him crying out of the clamour, "La
Rocheterie, La Rocheterie, why were you not with us? It was awful . . .
I have got away what I could . . . and I think Magloire Le Bihan has
got more . . . he had the rearguard . . . but all the rest----"
"De Fresne?"
"Killed, I think. I saw him go down. The Imperialists were all posted
there--they must have known!" And he half broke into a sob. "Oh,
L'Oiseleur, L'Oiseleur . . . !"
"We will go back to the bridge," said Aymar, turning his ghastly face
away. "My children----"
A man suddenly scrambled down the high bank into the road, a huge
Breton, breathless and bloodstained. "I saw you, L'Oiseleur, from the
field. We are making for the forest again. You have heard what
happened? God's truth, if we could find the man who did it! My nephew
lies there. . . ."
"We will go back and avenge him," said Aymar quickly. "How many men have
you over there, Magloire? Bring them into the road. Have they all their
muskets?"
"Go back!" ejaculated the giant. "You are mad, Monsieur le Vicomte!
After the trouble we have had in getting away as many as we have! The
place is a shambles, more or less!"
"Magloire is right," said young de Soulanges. "You were not there.
Believe me, it is of no use! The front ranks were eaten up--those that
were not killed. Besides," he added, sinking his voice and pulling with
a bleeding hand at his leader's arm, so that L'Oiseleur bent his head,
"besides, I doubt if you could get them to follow you!"
And looking round the men whose moods he knew so well L'Oiseleur saw
that this was probably true. It would have been a terrible blow, had he
been capable of feeling it.
"Very well," he said between his teeth, "then I shall go alone. Stand
back, please!"
The boy clung all the tighter. "La Rocheterie, you are our only hope!
Don't desert us! Oh, don't do that! It is suicide . . . and to what
purpose?"
To what purpose, indeed! Aymar tried to loosen the bleeding fingers. De
Soulanges clasped his boot.
"You will only get yourself captured, La Rocheterie," he sobbed, "and
what good will that do?"
Captured! That was the last thing Aymar intended--and by Colonel
Richard, too. . . . The fugitives, hearing the altercation, were
pressing closely round his horse now, supplicating like children that
he should not abandon them. And he saw Magloire's face of black
amazement as he turned suddenly round and heard.
Well, he could always do it later on by his own hand. Aymar made a
supreme effort, and, rallying all his faculties, began to issue orders
as quickly and clearly as if, in the last few minutes, the whole of
life had not gone sliding down to ruin.
And somehow he got them back, straggling and disheartened remnant that
they were--ninety odd out of five hundred men--to their old quarters in
the Bois des Fauvettes, where for the present they would be safe, and
where (almost more important still) they felt that they were safe. And
there they lifted him, stiff and spent, from his horse--L'Oiseleur, who
had heard of the ambush and had nearly killed himself in riding to warn
them of it, L'Oiseleur, who was so terribly distressed at what had
befallen their comrades, but who, at least, was with them again. Could
they do too much for him?
Their simple care for him was the final sword-thrust; and when, having
dragged himself into the deserted little woodcutter's hut which was his
own old headquarters, it became apparent that his right arm and
shoulder were by this time temporarily useless from his fall, and
Clément de Soulanges, wounded as he was himself, had insisted on
rubbing them for him, it had been all Aymar could do to refrain from
putting one of his pistols into the boy's hand and saying, "If you want
to do something for me, use _that_!"
But soon he was too utterly exhausted for remorse or horror or any other
emotion to play on him longer. He threw himself down on his couch of
bracken and sleep descended like a pall. The long day was over.
(6)
But there was a waking--only too early. And by five o'clock next
morning, when Aymar, very drawn but composed, was giving orders to
young de Soulanges, he had already lived through years of torment. He
was despatching Clément to warn du Tremblay of the disaster, and to
tell him that in consequence he must not count on the support of the
"Eperviers." And he had further ordered Clément--much to the latter's
dismay--not to return to him, but to remain with du Tremblay.
"For I shall probably have to disband this remnant before you can get
back," he said. "You see that, Clément, don't you?"