MY LORD AWAITS HIS HOST
"A fine host," sneered my Lord Denningham, with an oath,--"a right
jovial and noble host, eh, Steenie? Demme it, man! I didn't come to
this old rat-trap to look at you, and be poisoned with ragouts au
Bourbon and cold shoulders a Varenac. What in the world is friend
Morice up to?"
"Split me if I know," growled Sir Stephen, who was far from being in
the most amiable of moods himself.
"He and Marcel started the day before we did, and we should have found
him here on arrival. Something must have befallen him."
"The devil flown away with him en route? Hardly likely, my friend,
when you consider everything."
"He may have gone to Paris with Trouet."
"That's not Trouet's game--no, no, no. More likely a saucy pair of
eyes or a neat waist. Some of these little Bretonnes are worth
kissing; I've honoured more than one already. But kissing should not
be taken seriously when there is work on hand, and the orders of the
London Corresponding Society should be obeyed."
"Orders?"
"What you will, Steenie! We've taken the hand of Madame Republic, and
we've got to grip hard--mutual obligations, you know. They may be able
to serve us in the same way, later on, when our own business is
advanced."
Sir Stephen yawned.
"England ain't France. You'll find that 'a la lanterne' won't fit
English throats, any more than 'Ca ira.' Besides, Pitt has his eye on
us."
"And we have our eye on Pitt. Rot me, Steenie, you've not got the
heart of a mouse. The Society is spreading its nets _and_ papers
pretty far afield. However, to return to our baa-lambs--or rather that
woolly-headed sheep, friend Morice. What the deuce is _he_ doing,
hiding away and never turning up at the ancestral mansion? Old Goaty
seemed to know nothing at all, but gabbled on about Monsieur le Marquis
Gilles de Varenac. We ain't come to dig up corpses."
"Or look for them, either, eh, Jack? Stap me, but I've had enough
serious conversation. Swearin' won't bring Morry along a step quicker.
Let's have a turn with the dice to kill time."
The suggestion was agreed on, and soon nothing was heard but the rattle
of the dice-box, and an occasional lusty oath over an unlucky throw.
The Manor of Varenac was an ancient building surrounded by trees and
built in a hollow. The rooms were low and dark, the passages
innumerable, with many an intricate winding and turn, sufficient to
confuse any new-comer.
The salon, in which the two uninvited guests sat playing, was
exceptionally low, with heavy beams of black oak across the ceiling,
and a deep wainscotting, which added to the gloom of the long, narrow
apartment. Candles in heavy silver and brass sconces had been lighted
by the ancient major-domo, Pierre Koustak, who had eyed the strange
Messieurs with strongly disapproving eye.
It was true that M'nsieur Jehan had told him that the new M'nsieur le
Marquis was more English than Breton, although he was the son of
Mademoiselle Marie. Pierre's ideas of the English were vague and a
good deal prejudiced. His opinion of the new master had not been
raised when these English friends put in an appearance before M'nsieur
le Marquis himself, and announced that they were here by his invitation.
You may be sure that Pierre Koustak paid many a visit to the keyhole to
be assured that the strangers were still there, and did not appear to
have any burglarious intentions on the treasures of the Manor of
Varenac.
Sir Stephen's luck was in that evening. The pile of gold crowns grew
by his side. The wine in these dusty cellars, too, was excellent,
though old Goaty evidently found it a difficult task to bring bottle
after bottle in.
Sir Stephen, therefore, considering all things, was merry.
My Lord Denningham, on the other hand, considering all things, was very
sour of mood.
To begin with, the latter's luck was abominable. The dice were
certainly bewitched--or cursed. To go on with, he was angry at not
finding Morice Conyers here.
He had come to France to win for himself a name for zeal in the cause
of liberty, which would raise him to prominence amongst his
fellow-members in that London Corresponding Society which had for its
object the stirring up of the English people into a sister Revolution.
This zeal fell decidedly flat in a tete-a-tete gamble with Sir Stephen
Berrington.
The latter's fatuous laugh irritated him, as did his noisy triumph over
his winnings. The jingling of lost gold jarred on my lord's delicate
nerves.
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[Transcriber's note: page 176 was missing from source book]
... carriage without in the avenue; it stops. Our friend Morice, no
doubt."
He turned, with a sneer, to meet the expected host whom they had
forestalled.
But it was not Morice Conyers who stood in the doorway, but his sister
Gabrielle, her hood flung back from her dark hair, cheeks flushed, and
hazel eyes defiant.
She scarcely deigned to bestow a glance at the man before her, but
looked past him eagerly.
"Morice!" she cried. "Morice!"
Then swiftly she turned to Denningham.
"Where is my brother?" she asked peremptorily.