"Will you leave me here?
So wrong, so proud, so weak, so unconsoled,
So mere a woman!--and I love you so,
I love you . . ."
E. B. BROWNING, _Aurora Leigh_.
"Did he do right--did he do right to go?" Virginia de Courtomer asked
herself, on this the ninth day after her son's departure. Yes, of
course he had done right, but had he done wisely? They are not always
the same, she thought. And then, "Oh, you foolish, faint-hearted
mother! you ought to be proud of having a son who does not count the
cost of devotion!"
And she was proud; she had made no attempt to hold him back. Had he not
told her, at last, with all the rest, of an arm with five burns upon
it? Moreover, there was always that flooded river. And of his friend's
innocence she had no doubt . . . but supposing he could not establish
it? It was not only on Laurent's account that she had shivered as she
thought of what had been going forward these last few days at
Aurannes--a sort of Bois des Fauvettes over again, as Laurent had put
it. But Laurent himself would be there this time.
Yes, indeed she was glad that he was with L'Oiseleur in his ordeal, but
still, she was a mother--a foolish mother, no doubt. And the General's
words had been very weighty that day in the salon. Laurent could hardly
have flouted them more openly and more immediately than he had done!
No, Laurent cared nothing for himself and his reputation where his
friend's was concerned--Laurent, who, as he had so absurdly remarked on
the day which saw the beginning of all this enslavement, would never be
a mother.
"Dear boy!" said the Comtesse de Courtomer, and went and worshipped the
recent miniature of him on her table. No woman, she was sure, had ever
had a son like hers. It was just possible that to-day would bring him
back, and that to-morrow they could start for their stay at their
country house in Picardy as they had arranged . . . without the Aunts.
They would have a delightful autumn, with plenty to occupy them at
Courtomer. But she paused on this thought. Yes, it would be delightful
provided that Laurent did not return from Brittany broken-hearted. If
M. de la Rocheterie were not cleared he _would_ be broken-hearted. What
in that case was she to do with him?
But, of course, L'Oiseleur would be acquitted. Yet . . . he had really
sent the letter--and, of course, for the sake of a woman! Back came the
memory of that evening in Devonshire when she had begun her clumsy
remark and he had replied that there was no danger. "Dear me,"
reflected Mme de Courtomer, sighing, "we women . . . it is not only as
mothers that we are to be condemned! And this one . . . 'did not
understand.' Well, I think, from my recollection of him, that I could
have 'understood' anything that M. de la Rocheterie had done. I have
that amount of infatuation in common with Laurent, at all events."
And to her thus congratulating herself entered a domestic.
"Will Madame receive"--the card was presented to her--"Mme la Comtesse
de Villecresne?"
"The Comtesse de Villecresne!" ejaculated Mme de Courtomer. She remained
speechless for a moment. "Yes, of course. Where is she? In the large
drawing-room? Ask her to be so kind as to come here to my boudoir."
She could not have been more astonished had she learnt that the Empress
of China had called upon her. Mme de Villecresne herself . . . she,
precisely, who had not "understood," who had been so cruel . . . but
who was not to be blamed for it (Laurent's dictum).
The pale girl who came in did not look like an empress, nor like a woman
who could be cruel, nor even like one who did not understand. She
looked as if she understood two things only too well--loss and a regret
unutterable and hopeless. That comprehension spoke so clearly in her
whole appearance that it caught Mme de Courtomer by the throat.
"Oh, you poor thing!" her heart cried. But one did not begin like that
at a first call.
Rather, "How kind of you to give me this opportunity of making your
acquaintance, Madame," when the visitor was seated, and the August sun
came in from the Rue St. Dominique on to her wonderful hair. "Now I can
thank you for all your kindness to my son during his stay at Sessignes,
of which he has so often spoken to me."
"It was . . . your son who was kind to me," was Avoye's unexpected
rejoinder to this. And she went on, looking at Mme de Courtomer with
the saddest eyes the elder woman had ever seen. "If it were possible I
should like to have the opportunity of speaking to him again."
"It is not I whom she has come to visit at all," reflected Mme de
Courtomer. "It is Laurent--to find out, of course, what has happened at
Aurannes." "I am so sorry," she said gently, "but my son has not yet
returned, and I have heard nothing. I think, however, that we may
expect him to-morrow--or even possibly to-day--and if you will allow
him he shall wait upon you at once and let you know the verdict. But,
of course, it will be favourable."
The bewilderment in the eyes gazing at her was succeeded by terror.
"Verdict . . . what verdict?"
Good Heavens, did she not know? Well, she would have to tell her now,
having blundered into it!
"Laurent is at Aurannes with your cousin, Madame. M. de la Rocheterie
asked for a court of enquiry. If he has not informed you it was no
doubt that he wished to spare you unnecessary anxiety, and I regret
very much that I should have mentioned the matter. But, of course, he
will be acquitted . . . must indeed be already acquitted by this time,
and we shall soon hear the news."
One great effort did her visitor make to save appearances. "I left
Sessignes so unexpectedly," she said with a formal air and a piteously
trembling lip, "that the news has not followed me. Perhaps I shall
hear. . . ." It was no use. The strained voice broke. "Aymar
court-martialled--_Aymar!_" she whispered to herself, and covered her
face.
Mme de Courtomer impulsively put out a hand. But it was not seen, and
she withdrew it. "No, no, Madame, it is not a court-martial. M. de la
Rocheterie asked for it himself. He is not under arrest, I know.
Besides, I am sure it can only be a matter of form; he _must_ be
acquitted."
Behind the shrouding hands the girl was quietly weeping. Mme de
Courtomer rose and went to the window and stood there thinking. Since
Avoye de Villecresne knew nothing of this business at Aurannes--which
in itself was strange--it could not have been anxiety as to the verdict
which had brought her here in the hope of seeing Laurent. It must just
have been hunger for some tidings of the lover of whom, now, she knew
nothing. Since his friend might know, she had come, a suppliant, for
some crumb of information--to be presented with this! Poor child, poor
child!
In a little Virginia de Courtomer became aware that her visitor had
regained command of herself, and she came back to her place. "I cannot
blame myself enough, Madame," she said, as she sat down again, "for
having inadvertently thrown away, as it were, M. de la Rocheterie's
consideration for your feelings. I shall have to make my peace with
him!" she added more lightly.
Avoye's face was suddenly flooded with colour. "What! are you expecting
him here, Madame?"
"Oh, no," responded Mme de Courtomer instantly. "No, I wish I were. I
share my son's admiration, you know, for M. de la Rocheterie. At my
age, fortunately, one can confess to a penchant for a young man. My
son's devotion to your cousin, which dated, I think, from the first
moment he set eyes on him, is quite comprehensible to me. I am glad he
is with him now--when no woman can be."
"It is not the first time," murmured Avoye, and she fixed her eyes on
Laurent's miniature. "What would Aymar have done there in captivity
without your son? He would have died. Oh, Madame, he has told me . . .
of that wonderful devotion, that never tired . . . night after night,
day after day, not only when he was so near death, but for weeks
afterwards, and he--your son--unused to anything of the kind. . . ."
"I have found once or twice in my life, Madame," said Virginia de
Courtomer softly, "that a man can be tenderer than a woman on
occasions. I like to think that my Laurent belongs to that company."
But Avoye had caught her handkerchief to her mouth and looked away.
"Good gracious," thought her hostess, "was ever any one such a
blunderer as I this afternoon? She must think that I am contrasting her
behaviour over the whole business with Laurent's . . . which was not in
the least my intention."
Not to leave time for this reflection to sink in she hurried on, harking
back to her visitor's question of a little while ago. "No, I expect M.
de la Rocheterie is on his way back to Sessignes now, with this
unfortunate affair no more than a bad memory."
"Did M. de Courtomer say that my cousin intended to return there if the
. . . verdict was favourable?"
"No; I only assumed it, Madame, as the natural thing. There was no
indication of his subsequent plans, I believe, in his letter to my
son."
But Avoye leant forward. "Are you sure there was no sign of what he
. . . meant to do if the verdict was not favourable?"
Mme de Courtomer suddenly got up and seemed to consider that a vase of
flowers near Laurent's portrait needed attention. The fact was that she
had suddenly and very vividly remembered Laurent telling her of such an
indication, and she was afraid that her face might betray her. She did
not want to pass on the knowledge to that poor child. And yet, was it
not her duty? For really, if L'Oiseleur did come to that desperate
step, and took it quickly, sailing perhaps from Nantes or La Rochelle,
he might well be out of France before ever Mme de Villecresne could see
him again, unless she were warned.
"Your cousin did say, I believe," she murmured, "that if the verdict
were unfavourable--which of course, is unthinkable--he should probably
leave France altogether, and go, possibly, to the United States."
Every remaining vestige of colour went from Mme de Villecresne's face.
"But of course, dear Madame," went on Virginia, glancing at her
anxiously, "that possibility is not worth considering; he is bound to
be acquitted." And she made another attempt to lighten the atmosphere
by adding, half laughing, "For purely selfish reasons I am glad to feel
so certain of that, for otherwise Laurent would probably want to
accompany him to America, and I cannot spare him!"
Her effort had no success. Gazing at her with a poignant directness and
absence of concealment Avoye said, "Madame, I envy your son more than
any one else in the world. He had his chance and took it, whereas
I----"
Virginia de Courtomer could resist no longer. She stooped over her and
possessed herself of her hand. "Oh, my dear, surely it is not too late
yet! Forgive me--but I am so much older than you, and I do desire M. de
la Rocheterie's happiness, which I am sure is bound up with you alone!"
And Avoye clung for a moment to the kind hand. Then she loosed it, as
one who has no right to comfort. "Yes, it is too late. He could not
forgive the things I said to him that day. And I shall never see him
again now. I have deserved it all, because I had so little faith. And
he went through martyrdom for me--martyrdom. He is going through it
again now. That alone--the enquiry, Aymar being what he is--is enough
to kill him. Only, I do thank God that he is not by himself there . . .
that your son is with him. . . ."
She rose, in a calm of despair more moving than tears. Mme de Courtomer,
looking at her in pity, suddenly heard a door bang downstairs, and a
voice. . . . Was it? "Wait, Madame, pray! Do not go yet! That sounds
like Laurent. If it is, he can give us news."
Avoye shrank back. Mme de Courtomer caught her hands. "My child, have
courage! It _must_ be good news!"
Apparently it was. There was the further sound of a light foot running
up the stairs, a voice outside saying cheerfully to someone, "Is Madame
la Comtesse in here?" and a hand on the door. The mother of this
presence left her visitor, who shrank still farther back towards the
windows. The door burst open.
"Maman, maman chérie, me voilà! Yes, yes, of course it's all right--his
sword given back to him untarnished, as the General said, and quite an
ovation afterwards . . . supper with d'Andigné, no less. It was he
who--oh, first, I must tell you that I've brought back a friend from
Aurannes with me, rather against his will . . . in fact, I had the
deuce of a tussle over it, so you will give him a warm welcome, won't
you? He can't run up the stairs like me, so I came on in advance."
"But who is it, dearest?" asked his mother, disengaging herself from the
whirlwind. "And you have not seen, Laurent, that I have a visi----"
But Laurent had gone to the half-open door and flung it wide. The guest
who could not run up the stairs had just arrived on the threshold.
There was a faint cry from the other side of the room. But Aymar only
saw Mme de Courtomer.
"I really was brought by brute force; that must be my excuse, Madame,"
he said, smiling. "To inflict myself on you was no part of my plans. It
has been as near a case of kidnapping as I ever remember to have heard
of."
Mme de Courtomer, the tears coming into her eyes, gave him both her
hands. "My dear Vicomte!" she said rather unsteadily. And Aymar bent
his head and raised her hands to his lips.
It was at this juncture that Laurent became aware of Mme de
Villecresne's presence. The shock, in his state of effervescence, was
almost calculated to unseat his reason. But perhaps so many shocks in
one room counteracted each other. Aymar was the only person who had not
yet received his. At any rate, Laurent was able to cross the room and
kiss Mme de Villecresne's hand; he did not quite know what he said to
her, nor she, doubtless, what she said to him. Afterwards he had the
impression that she never even saw him, her eyes being elsewhere.
Laurent's went in the same direction, and so he saw Aymar receive his
shock. He changed colour, stiffened a little, and bowed, but he showed
no signs of advancing from Mme de Courtomer's vicinity.
The Englishwoman out-generalled him, however. "Come, Vicomte," she said,
laying her hand for an instant on his arm, "you will want a word with
your cousin. It was a lucky chance that Mme de Villecresne was calling
here to-day, and can be the first to congratulate you."
And, making a little sign to Laurent (for his part ready enough to
receive it) she slipped out by an unobtrusive door, followed by her
son, and almost before they knew it, Aymar and Avoye were alone . . .
in a silence.
"Forgive my intrusion," said Aymar quietly but formally to the carpet.
"Had I known that you were here. . . ." The sentence was fully
completed by his slight movement of withdrawal.
"The court-martial . . . you were acquitted?"
"I was acquitted. My honour is cleared . . . in the eyes of the world at
least. I succeeded in keeping your name from the public. If you really
wish to hear any details, M. de Courtomer will no doubt give them to
you." He paused a moment, and then added, "Before I relieve you of my
presence I should be glad if you will tell me why you are in Paris?"
She tried to answer, but nothing came. If he would only look at her--but
he kept his eyes resolutely averted.
"No, of course it is no business of mine," he agreed, still gently. "I
had hoped . . . but that was not very likely in the circumstances. I am
sorry to have deprived you of a home also. There is no more to be
said." He bowed, and this time turned in earnest and walked to the
door.
But the room was long, and the faint, heart-broken cry fluttered to him
before he reached it. "Aimé . . . Aimé . . . !" Too many memories clung
about that name for it to pass unregarded. Aymar paused, while the lips
that had uttered it tried to say more, and could not for tears.
And slowly Aymar turned, and came back to the little figure--came much
closer this time; and now he looked at her at last.
"Why are you crying, Avoye? Why do you . . . have you been ill?" he
asked, himself as white as a sheet.
Twenty minutes later a self-posted sentry, Laurent, still leant over the
balustrade of the great staircase outside. He had already beaten off
Tante Clotilde, desirous of offering her congratulations on general
grounds to the "hero of Penescouët," and equally outraged and puzzled
at being refused admittance by her great-nephew and told with a nervous
laugh that her felicitations might be premature.
And now . . . it seemed a long time that they had been left alone in
there--those two. Was it a hopeful sign or no? Surely, surely. . . .
But when Aymar was hers in very truth, would he be less _his_ friend?
. . . A surge of loneliness went over Laurent, but he fought it back.
What did that matter, if Aymar had his heart's desire?
He heard the door open at last. He was afraid to turn round. Then he
felt a hand on his shoulder, and a voice said "Laurent!" and he did
turn . . . to learn what Aymar's eyes were like when he was really
happy.
"She wants to speak to you--to thank you. She owes you so much. But I,
Laurent, how shall I . . . ?" He paused as if to steady himself, and,
abandoning the sentence, merely whispered, "Friend of friends!" and
laid his hand over Laurent's where they clutched the rail. Their looks
met, and Laurent knew, knew with certainty, that he would always be
that to him--that happiness would not loosen the bond which unhappiness
had so securely forged.
Then he suddenly perceived Avoye de Villecresne standing there beside
her lover. And her face, too, was wonderful. But it was at _him_ that
she was looking.
"I shall never forget . . . Laurent!" she said, and held out both her
hands.
The End
Transcriber's Note: Throughout the text, the author's and publisher's
original typesetting has been used for: choice of roman or italic text
for French words and phrases; choice of three-dot or four-dot ellipses.
In addition to the frequent use of em-dashes, the original text also
contains double-length em-dashes when an em-dash ends a sentence.
These have been rendered in the transcription as ----.
The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the
public domain.