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THE BRONZE EAGLE
by
BARONESS ORCZY
* * * * *
By BARONESS ORCZY
THE BRONZE EAGLE
A BRIDE OF THE PLAINS
THE LAUGHING CAVALIER
"UNTO CAESAR"
EL DORADO
MEADOWSWEET
THE NOBLE ROGUE
THE HEART OF A WOMAN
PETTICOAT RULE
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
NEW YORK
* * * * *
THE BRONZE EAGLE
A Story of the Hundred Days
by
BARONESS ORCZY
Author of "The Laughing Cavalier," "The Scarlet Pimpernel," Etc., Etc.
[Illustration]
New York
George H. Doran Company
Copyright, 1915,
by Baroness Orczy
Copyright, 1915,
by George H. Doran Company
This novel was published serially, under the title of "Waterloo"
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
THE LANDING AT JOUAN 9
I. THE GLORIOUS NEWS 14
II. THE OLD RÉGIME 49
III. THE RETURN OF THE EMPEROR 85
IV. THE EMPRESS' MILLIONS 138
V. THE RIVALS 196
VI. THE CRIME 221
VII. THE ASCENT OF THE CAPITOL 236
VIII. THE SOUND OF REVELRY BY NIGHT 261
IX. THE TARPEIAN ROCK 285
X. THE LAST THROW 305
XI. THE LOSING HANDS 338
XII. THE WINNING HAND 370
THE BRONZE EAGLE
THE LANDING AT JOUAN
The perfect calm of an early spring dawn lies over headland and
sea--hardly a ripple stirs the blue cheek of the bay. The softness of
departing night lies upon the bosom of the Mediterranean like the dew
upon the heart of a flower.
A silent dawn.
Veils of transparent greys and purples and mauves still conceal the
distant horizon. Breathless calm rests upon the water and that awed hush
which at times descends upon Nature herself when the finger of Destiny
marks an eventful hour.
But now the grey and the purple veils beyond the headland are lifted one
by one; the midst of dawn rises upwards like the smoke of incense from
some giant censers swung by unseen, mighty hands.
The sky above is of a translucent green, studded with stars that blink
and now are slowly extinguished one by one: the green has turned to
silver, and the silver to lemon-gold: the veils beyond the upland are
flying in the wake of departing Night.
The lemon-gold turns to glowing amber, anon to orange and crimson, and
far inland the mountain peaks, peeping shyly through the mist, blush a
vivid rose to find themselves so fair.
And to the south, there where fiery sea blends and merges with fiery
sky, a tiny black speck has just come into view. Larger and larger it
grows as it draws nearer to the land, now it seems like a bird with
wings outspread--an eagle flying swiftly to the shores of France.
In the bay the fisher folk, who are making ready for their day's work,
pause a moment as they haul up their nets: with rough brown hands held
above their eyes they look out upon that black speck--curious,
interested, for the ship is not one they have seen in these waters
before.
"'Tis the Emperor come back from Elba!" says someone.
The men laugh and shrug their shoulders: that tale has been told so
often in these parts during the past year: the good folk have ceased to
believe in it. It has almost become a legend now, that story that the
Emperor was coming back--their Emperor--the man with the battered hat
and the grey redingote: the people's Emperor, he who led them from
victory to victory, whose eagles soared above every capital and every
tower in Europe, he who made France glorious and respected: her
citizens, men, her soldiers, heroes.
And with stately majesty the dawn yields to day, the last tones of
orange have faded from the sky: it is once more of a translucent green
merging into sapphire overhead. And the great orb in the east rises from
out the trammels of the mist, and from awakening Earth and Sea comes the
great love-call, the triumphant call of Day. And far away upon the
horizon to the south, the black speck becomes more distinct and more
clear; it takes shape, substance, life.
It divides and multiplies, for now there are three or four specks
silhouetted against the sky--not three or four, but five--no! six--no!
seven! Seven black specks which detach themselves one by one, one from
another and from the vagueness beyond--experienced eyes scan the horizon
with enthusiasm and excitement which threaten to blur the clearness of
their vision. Anyone with an eye for sea-going craft can distinguish
that topsail-schooner there, well ahead of the rest of the tiny fleet,
skimming the water with swift grace, and immediately behind her the
three-masted polacca--hm! have we not seen her in these waters
before?--and the two graceful feluccas whose lateen sails look so like
the outspread wings of a bird!
But it is on the schooner that all eyes are riveted now: she skips along
so fast that within an hour her pennant is easily distinguishable--red
and white! the flag of Elba, of that diminutive toy-kingdom which for
the past twelve months has been ruled over by the mightiest conqueror
this modern world has ever known.
The flag of Elba! then it is the Emperor coming back!
A crowd had gathered on the headland now--a crowd made up of bare-footed
fisher-folk, men, women, children, and of the labourers from the
neighbouring fields and vineyards: they have all come to greet the
Emperor--the man with the battered hat and the grey redingote, the
curious, flashing eyes and mouth that always spoke genial words to the
people of France!
Traitors turned against him--Ney! de Marmont! Bernadotte! those on whom
he had showered the full measure of his friendship, whom he had loaded
with honours, with glory and with wealth. Foreign armies joined in
coalition against France and forced the people's Emperor to leave his
country which he loved so well, had sent him to humiliation and to
exile. But he had come back, as all his people had always said that he
would! He had come back, there was the topsail-schooner that was
bringing him home so swiftly now.
Another hour and the schooner's name can be deciphered quite
easily--_L'Inconstant_, and that of the polacca _Le Saint-Esprit_ . . .
and beyond these _L'Etoile_ and _Saint Joseph_, _Caroline_. And the
entire little fleet flies the flag of Elba.
The Emperor has come back! Bare-footed fisherfolk whisper it among
themselves, the labourers in the valley call the news to those upon the
hills.
Why! after another hour or so, there are those among the small knot who
stand congregated on the highest point of the headland, who swear that
they can see the Emperor--standing on the deck of the _L'Inconstant_.
He wears a black bicorne hat, and his grey redingote: he is pacing up
and down the deck of the schooner, his hands held behind his back in the
manner so familiar to the people of France. And on his hat is pinned the
tricolour of France. Everyone on shore who is on the look-out for the
schooner now can see the tricolour quite plainly. A mighty shout escapes
the lusty throats of the men on the beach, the women are on the verge of
tears from sheer excitement, and that shout is repeated again and again
and sends its ringing echo from cliff to cliff, and from fort to fort as
the red and white pennant of the kingdom of Elba is hauled down from the
ship's stern and the tricolour flag--the flag of Liberty and of
regenerate France--is hoisted in its stead.
The soft breeze from the south unfurls its folds and these respond to
his caress. The red, white and blue make a trenchant note of colour now
against the tender hues of the sea: flaunting its triumphant message in
the face of awakening nature.
The eagle has left the bounds of its narrow cage of Elba: it has taken
wing over the blue Mediterranean! within an hour, perhaps, or two, it
will rest on the square church tower of Antibes--but not for long. Soon
it will take to its adventurous flight again, and soar over valley and
mountain peak, from church belfry to church belfry until it finds its
resting-place upon the towers of Notre Dame.
One hour after noon the curtain has risen upon the first act of the most
adventurous tragedy the world has ever known.
Napoleon Bonaparte has landed in the bay of Jouan with eleven hundred
men and four guns to reconquer France and the sovereignty of the world.
Six hundred of his old guard, six score of his Polish light cavalry,
three or four hundred Corsican chasseurs: thus did that sublime
adventurer embark upon an expedition the most mad, the most daring, the
most heroic, the most egotistical, the most tragic and the most glorious
which recording Destiny has ever written in the book of this world.
The boats were lowered at one hour after noon, and the landing was
slowly and methodically begun: too slowly for the patience of the old
guard--the old "growlers" with grizzled moustache and furrowed cheeks,
down which tears of joy and enthusiasm were trickling at sight of the
shores of France. They were not going to wait for the return of those
boats which had conveyed the Polish troopers on shore: they took to the
water and waded across the bay, tossing the salt spray all around them
as they trod the shingle, like so many shaggy dogs enjoying a bath; and
when six hundred fur bonnets darkened the sands of the bay at the foot
of the Tower of la Gabelle, such a shout of "Vive l'Empereur" went forth
from six hundred lusty throats that the midday spring air vibrated with
kindred enthusiasm for miles and miles around.
CHAPTER I
THE GLORIOUS NEWS
I
Where the broad highway between Grenoble and Gap parts company from the
turbulent Drac, and after crossing the ravine of Vaulx skirts the
plateau of La Motte with its magnificent panorama of forests and
mountain peaks, a narrow bridle path strikes off at a sharp angle on the
left and in wayward curves continues its length through the woods
upwards to the hamlet of Vaulx and the shrine of Notre Dame.
Far away to the west the valley of the Drac lies encircled by the
pine-covered slopes of the Lans range, whilst towering some seven
thousand and more feet up the snow-clad crest of Grande Moucherolle
glistens like a sea of myriads of rose-coloured diamonds under the kiss
of the morning sun.
There was more than a hint of snow in the sharp, stinging air this
afternoon, even down in the valley, and now the keen wind from the
northeast whipped up the faces of the two riders as they turned their
horses at a sharp trot up the bridle path.
Though it was not long since the sun had first peeped out above the
forests of Pelvoux, the riders looked as if they had already a long
journey to their credit; their horses were covered with sweat and
sprinkled with lather, and they themselves were plentifully bespattered
with mud, for the road in the valley was soft after the thaw. But
despite probable fatigue, both sat their horse with that ease and
unconscious grace which marks the man accustomed to hard and constant
riding, though--to the experienced eye--there would appear a vast
difference in the style and manner in which each horseman handled his
mount.
One of them had the rigid precision of bearing which denotes military
training: he was young and slight of build, with unruly dark hair
fluttering round the temples from beneath his white sugar-loaf hat, and
escaping the trammels of the neatly-tied black silk bow at the nape of
the neck; he held himself very erect and rode his horse on the curb, the
reins gathered tightly in one gloved hand, and that hand held closely
and almost immovably against his chest.
The other sat more carelessly--though in no way more loosely--in his
saddle: he gave his horse more freedom, with a chain-snaffle and reins
hanging lightly between his fingers. He was obviously taller and
probably older than his companion, broader of shoulder and fairer of
skin; you might imagine him riding this same powerful mount across a
sweep of open country, but his friend you would naturally picture to
yourself in uniform on the parade ground.
The riders soon left the valley of the Drac behind them; on ahead the
path became very rocky, winding its way beside a riotous little mountain
stream, whilst higher up still, peeping through the intervening trees,
the white-washed cottages of the tiny hamlet glimmered with dazzling
clearness in the frosty atmosphere. At a sharp bend of the road, which
effectually revealed the foremost of these cottages, distant less than
two kilometres now, the younger of the two men drew rein suddenly, and
lifting his hat with outstretched arm high above his head, he gave a
long sigh which ended in a kind of exultant call of joy.
"There is Notre Dame de Vaulx," he cried at the top of his voice, and
hat still in hand he pointed to the distant hamlet. "There's the spot
where--before the sun darts its midday rays upon us--I shall hear great
and glorious and authentic news of _him_ from a man who has seen him as
lately as forty-eight hours ago, who has touched his hand, heard the
sound of his voice, seen the look of confidence and of hope in his eyes.
Oh!" he went on speaking with extraordinary volubility, "it is all too
good to be true! Since yesterday I have felt like a man in a dream!--I
haven't lived, I have scarcely breathed, I . . ."
The other man broke in upon his ravings with a good-humoured growl.
"You have certainly behaved like an escaped lunatic since early this
morning, my good de Marmont," he said drily. "Don't you think that--as
we shall have to mix again with our fellow-men presently--you might try
to behave with some semblance of reasonableness."
But de Marmont only laughed. He was so excited that his lips trembled
all the time, his hand shook and his eyes glowed just as if some inward
fire was burning deep down in his soul.
"No! I can't," he retorted. "I want to shout and to sing and to cry
'Vive l'Empereur' till those frowning mountains over there echo with my
shouts--and I'll have none of your English stiffness and reserve and
curbing of enthusiasm to-day. I am a lunatic if you will--an escaped
lunatic--if to be mad with joy be a proof of insanity. Clyffurde, my
dear friend," he added more soberly, "I am honestly sorry for you
to-day."
"Thank you," commented his companion drily. "May I ask how I have
deserved this genuine sympathy?"
"Well! because you are an Englishman, and not a Frenchman," said the
younger man earnestly; "because you--as an Englishman--must desire
Napoleon's downfall, his humiliation, perhaps his death, instead of
exulting in his glory, trusting in his star, believing in him,
following him. If I were not a Frenchman on a day like this, if my
nationality or my patriotism demanded that I should fight against
Napoleon, that I should hate him, or vilify him, I firmly believe that I
would turn my sword against myself, so shamed should I feel in my own
eyes."
It was the Englishman's turn to laugh, and he did it very heartily. His
laugh was quite different to his friend's: it had more enjoyment in it,
more good temper, more appreciation of everything that tends to gaiety
in life and more direct defiance of what is gloomy.
He too had reined in his horse, presumably in order to listen to his
friend's enthusiastic tirades, and as he did so there crept into his
merry, pleasant eyes a quaint look of half contemptuous tolerance
tempered by kindly humour.
"Well, you see, my good de Marmont," he said, still laughing, "you
happen to be a Frenchman, a visionary and weaver of dreams. Believe me,"
he added more seriously, "if you had the misfortune to be a prosy,
shop-keeping Englishman, you would certainly not commit suicide just
because you could not enthuse over your favourite hero, but you would
realise soberly and calmly that while Napoleon Bonaparte is allowed to
rule over France--or over any country for the matter of that--there will
never be peace in the world or prosperity in any land."
The younger man made no reply. A shadow seemed to gather over his
face--a look almost of foreboding, as if Fate that already lay in wait
for the great adventurer, had touched the young enthusiast with a
warning finger.
Whereupon Clyffurde resumed gaily once more:
"Shall we," he said, "go slowly on now as far as the village? It is not
yet ten o'clock. Emery cannot possibly be here before noon."
He put his horse to a walk, de Marmont keeping close behind him, and in
silence the two men rode up the incline toward Notre Dame de Vaulx. On
ahead the pines and beech and birch became more sparse, disclosing the
great patches of moss-covered rock upon the slopes of Pelvoux. On
Taillefer the eternal snows appeared wonderfully near in the brilliance
of this early spring atmosphere, and here and there on the roadside
bunches of wild crocus and of snowdrops were already visible rearing
their delicate corollas up against a background of moss.
The tiny village still far away lay in the peaceful hush of a Sunday
morning, only from the little chapel which holds the shrine of Notre
Dame came the sweet, insistent sound of the bell calling the dwellers of
these mountain fastnesses to prayer.
The northeasterly wind was still keen, but the sun was gaining power as
it rose well above Pelvoux, and the sky over the dark forests and
snow-crowned heights was of a glorious and vivid blue.
II
The words "Auberge du Grand Dauphin" looked remarkably inviting, written
in bold, shiny black characters on the white-washed wall of one of the
foremost houses in the village. The riders drew rein once more, this
time in front of the little inn, and as a young ostler in blue blouse
and sabots came hurriedly and officiously forward whilst mine host in
the same attire appeared in the doorway, the two men dismounted,
unstrapped their mantles from their saddle-bows and loudly called for
mulled wine.
Mine host, typical of his calling and of his race, rubicund of cheek,
portly of figure and genial in manner, was over-anxious to please his
guests. It was not often that gentlemen of such distinguished appearance
called at the "Auberge du Grand Dauphin," seeing that Notre Dame de
Vaulx lies perdu on the outskirts of the forests of Pelvoux, that the
bridle path having reached the village leads nowhere save into the
mountains and that La Motte is close by with its medicinal springs and
its fine hostels.
But these two highly-distinguished gentlemen evidently meant to make a
stay of it. They even spoke of a friend who would come and join them
later, when they would expect a substantial _déjeuner_ to be served with
the best wine mine host could put before them. Annette--mine host's
dark-eyed daughter--was all a-flutter at sight of these gallant
strangers, one of them with such fiery eyes and vivacious ways, and the
other so tall and so dignified, with fair skin well-bronzed by the sun
and large firm mouth that had such a pleasant smile on it; her eyes
sparkled at sight of them both and her glib tongue rattled away at truly
astonishing speed.
Would a well-baked omelette and a bit of fricandeau suit the
gentlemen?--Admirably? Ah, well then, that could easily be done!--and
now? in the meanwhile?--Only good mulled wine? That would present no
difficulty either. Five minutes for it to get really hot, as Annette had
made some the previous day for her father who had been on a tiring
errand up to La Mure and had come home cold and starved--and it was
specially good--all the better for having been hotted up once or twice
and the cloves and nutmeg having soaked in for nearly four and twenty
hours.
Where would the gentlemen have it--Outside in the sunshine? . . . Well!
it was very cold, and the wind biting . . . but the gentlemen had
mantles, and she, Annette, would see that the wine was piping hot. . . .
Five minutes and everything would be ready. . . .
What? . . . the tall, fair-skinned gentleman wanted to wash? . . . what
a funny idea! . . . hadn't he washed this morning when he got up? . . .
He had? Well, then, why should he want to wash again? . . . She,
Annette, managed to keep herself quite clean all day, and didn't need
to wash more than once a day. . . . But there! strangers had funny ways
with them . . . she had guessed at once that Monsieur was a stranger, he
had such a fair skin and light brown hair. Well! so long as Monsieur
wasn't English--for the English, she detested!
Why did she detest the English? . . . Because they made war against
France. Well! against the Emperor anyhow, and she, Annette, firmly
believed that if the English could get hold of the Emperor they would
kill him--oh, yes! they would put him on an island peopled by cannibals
and let him be eaten, bones, marrow and all.
And Annette's dark eyes grew very round and very big as she gave forth
her opinion upon the barbarous hatred of the English for "l'Empereur!"
She prattled on very gaily and very volubly, while she dragged a couple
of chairs out into the open, and placed them well in the lee of the wind
and brought a couple of pewter mugs which she set on the table.
She was very much interested in the tall gentleman who had availed
himself of her suggestion to use the pump at the back of the house,
since he was so bent on washing himself; and she asked many questions
about him from his friend.
Ten minutes later the steaming wine was on the table in a huge china
bowl and the Englishman was ladling it out with a long-handled spoon and
filling the two mugs with the deliciously scented cordial. Annette had
disappeared into the house in response to a peremptory call from her
father. The chapel bell had ceased to ring long ago, and she would miss
hearing Mass altogether to-day; and M. le curé, who came on alternate
Sundays all the way from La Motte to celebrate divine service, would be
very angry indeed with her.
Well! that couldn't be helped! Annette would have loved to go to Mass,
but the two distinguished gentlemen expected their friend to arrive at
noon, and the _déjeuner_ to be ready quite by then; so she comforted her
conscience with a few prayers said on her knees before the picture of
the Holy Virgin which hung above her bed, after which she went back to
her housewifely duty with a light heart; but not before she had decided
an important point in her mind--namely, which of those two handsome
gentlemen she liked the best: the dark one with the fiery eyes that
expressed such bold admiration of her young charms, or the tall one with
the earnest grey eyes who looked as if he could pick her up like a
feather and carry her running all the way to the summit of Taillefer.
Annette had indeed made up her mind that the giant with the soft brown
hair and winning smile was, on the whole, the more attractive of the
two.
III
The two friends, with mantles wrapped closely round them, sat outside
the "Grand Dauphin" all unconscious of the problem which had been
disturbing Annette's busy little brain.
The steaming wine had put plenty of warmth into their bones, and though
both had been silent while they sipped their first mug-full, it was
obvious that each was busy with his own thoughts.
Then suddenly the young Frenchman put his mug down and leaned with both
elbows upon the rough deal table, because he wanted to talk
confidentially with his friend, and there was never any knowing what
prying ears might be about.
"I suppose," he said, even as a deep frown told of puzzling thoughts
within the mind, "I suppose that when England hears the news, she will
up and at him again, attacking him, snarling at him even before he has
had time to settle down upon his reconquered throne."
"That throne is not reconquered yet, my friend," retorted the Englishman
drily, "nor has the news of this mad adventure reached England so far,
but . . ."
"But when it does," broke in de Marmont sombrely, "your Castlereagh will
rave and your Wellington will gather up his armies to try and crush the
hero whom France loves and acclaims."
"Will France acclaim the hero, there's the question?"
"The army will--the people will----"
Clyffurde shrugged his shoulders.
"The army, yes," he said slowly, "but the people . . . what people?--the
peasantry of Provence and the Dauphiné, perhaps--what about the town
folk?--your mayors and _préfets_?--your tradespeople? your shopkeepers
who have been ruined by the wars which your hero has made to further his
own ambition. . . ."
"Don't say that, Clyffurde," once more broke in de Marmont, and this
time more vehemently than before. "When you speak like that I could
almost forget our friendship."
"Whether I say it or not, my good de Marmont," rejoined Clyffurde with
his good-humoured smile, "you will anyhow--within the next few
months--days, perhaps--bury our friendship beneath the ashes of your
patriotism. No one, believe me," he added more earnestly, "has a greater
admiration for the genius of Napoleon than I have; his love of France is
sublime, his desire for her glory superb. But underlying his love of
country, there is the love of self, the mad desire to rule, to conquer,
to humiliate. It led him to Moscow and thence to Elba, it has brought
him back to France. It will lead him once again to the Capitol, no
doubt, but as surely too it will lead him on to the Tarpeian Rock whence
he will be hurled down this time, not only bruised, but shattered, a
fallen hero--and you will--a broken idol, for posterity to deal with in
after time as it lists."
"And England would like to be the one to give the hero the final push,"
said de Marmont, not without a sneer.
"The people of England, my friend, hate and fear Bonaparte as they have
never hated and feared any one before in the whole course of their
history--and tell me, have we not cause enough to hate him? For fifteen
years has he not tried to ruin us, to bring us to our knees? tried to
throttle our commerce? break our might upon the sea? He wanted to make a
slave of Britain, and Britain proved unconquerable. Believe me, we hate
your hero less than he hates us."
He had spoken with a good deal of earnestness, but now he added more
lightly, as if in answer to de Marmont's glowering look:
"At the same time," he said, "I doubt if there is a single English
gentleman living at the present moment--let alone the army--who would
refuse ungrudging admiration to Napoleon himself and to his genius. But
as a nation England has her interests to safeguard. She has suffered
enough--and through him--in her commerce and her prosperity in the past
twenty years--she must have peace now at any cost."
"Ah! I know," sighed the other, "a nation of shopkeepers. . . ."
"Yes. We are that, I suppose. We are shopkeepers . . . most of us.
. . ."
"I didn't mean to use the word in any derogatory sense," protested
Victor de Marmont with the ready politeness peculiar to his race. "Why,
even you . . ."
"I don't see why you should say 'even you,'" broke in Clyffurde quietly.
"I am a shopkeeper--nothing more. . . . I buy goods and sell them again.
. . . I buy the gloves which our friend M. Dumoulin manufactures at
Grenoble and sell them to any London draper who chooses to buy them
. . . a very mean and ungentlemanly occupation, is it not?"
He spoke French with perfect fluency, and only with the merest suspicion
of a drawl in the intonation of the vowels, which suggested rather than
proclaimed his nationality; and just now there was not the slightest
tone of bitterness apparent in his deep-toned and mellow voice. Once
more his friend would have protested, but he put up a restraining hand.
"Oh!" he said with a smile, "I don't imagine for a moment that you have
the same prejudices as our mutual friend M. le Comte de Cambray, who
must have made a very violent sacrifice to his feelings when he admitted
me as a guest to his own table. I am sure he must often think that the
servants' hall is the proper place for me."
"The Comte de Cambray," retorted de Marmont with a sneer, "is full up to
his eyes with the prejudices and arrogance of his caste. It is men of
his type--and not Marat or Robespierre--who made the revolution, who
goaded the people of France into becoming something worse than
man-devouring beasts. And, mind you, twenty years of exile did not sober
them, nor did contact with democratic thought in England and America
teach them the most elementary lessons of commonsense. If the Emperor
had not come back to-day, we should be once more working up for
revolution--more terrible this time, more bloody and vengeful, if
possible, than the last."
Then as Clyffurde made no comment on this peroration, the younger man
resumed more lightly:
"And--knowing the Comte de Cambray's prejudices as I do, imagine my
surprise--after I had met you in his house as an honoured guest and on
what appeared to be intimate terms of friendship--to learn that you
. . . in fact . . ."
"That I was nothing more than a shopkeeper," broke in Clyffurde with a
short laugh, "nothing better than our mutual friend M. Dumoulin,
glovemaker, of Grenoble--a highly worthy man whom M. le Comte de Cambray
esteems somewhat lower than his butler. It certainly must have surprised
you very much."
"Well, you know, old de Cambray has a horror of anything that pertains
to trade, and an avowed contempt for everything that he calls
'bourgeois.'"
"There's no doubt about that," assented Clyffurde fervently.
"Perhaps he does not know of your connection with . . ."
"Gloves?"
"With business people in Grenoble generally."
"Oh, yes, he does!" replied the Englishman quietly.
"Well, then?" queried de Marmont.
Then as his friend sat there silent with that quiet, good-humoured smile
lingering round his lips, he added apologetically:
"Perhaps I am indiscreet . . . but I never could understand it . . . and
you English are so reserved . . ."
"That I never told you how M. le Comte de Cambray, Commander of the
Order of the Holy Ghost, Grand Cross of the Order du Lys, Hereditary
Grand Chamberlain of France, etc., etc., came to sit at the same table
as a vendor and buyer of gloves," said Clyffurde gaily. "There's no
secret about it. I owe the Comte's exalted condescension to certain
letters of recommendation which he could not very well disregard."
"Oh! as to that . . ." quoth de Marmont with a shrug of the shoulders,
"people like the de Cambrays have their own codes of courtesy and of
friendship."
"In this case, my good de Marmont, it was the code of ordinary gratitude
that imposed its dictum even upon the autocratic and aristocratic Comte
de Cambray."
"Gratitude?" sneered de Marmont, "in a de Cambray?"
"M. le Comte de Cambray," said Clyffurde with slow emphasis, "his
mother, his sister, his brother-in-law and two of their faithful
servants, were rescued from the very foot of the guillotine by a band of
heroes--known in those days as the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel."
"I knew that!" said de Marmont quietly.
"Then perhaps you also knew that their leader was Sir Percy Blakeney--a
prince among gallant English gentlemen and my dead father's friend. When
my business affairs sent me to Grenoble, Sir Percy warmly recommended me
to the man whose life he had saved. What could M. le Comte de Cambray do
but receive me as a friend? You see, my credentials were exceptional and
unimpeachable."
"Of course," assented de Marmont, "now I understand. But you will admit
that I have had grounds for surprise. You--who were the friend of
Dumoulin, a tradesman, and avowed Bonapartist--two unpardonable crimes
in the eyes of M. le Comte de Cambray," he added with a return to his
former bitterness, "you to be seated at his table and to shake him by
the hand. Why, man! if he knew that I have remained faithful to the
Emperor . . ."
He paused abruptly, and his somewhat full, sensitive lips were pressed
tightly together as if to suppress an insistent outburst of passion.
But Clyffurde frowned, and when he turned away from de Marmont it was in
order to hide a harsh look of contempt.
"Surely," he said, "you have never led the Comte to suppose that you are
a royalist!"
"I have never led him to suppose anything. But he has taken my political
convictions for granted," rejoined de Marmont.
Then suddenly a look of bitter resentment darkened his face, making it
appear hard and lined and considerably older.
"My uncle, Marshal de Marmont, Duc de Raguse, was an abominable
traitor," he went on with ill-repressed vehemence. "He betrayed his
Emperor, his benefactor and his friend. It was the vilest treachery that
has ever disgraced an honourable name. Paris could have held out easily
for another four and twenty hours, and by that time the Emperor would
have been back. But de Marmont gave her over wilfully, scurvily to the
allies. But for his abominable act of cowardice the Emperor never would
have had to endure the shame of his temporary exile at Elba, and Louis
de Bourbon would never have had the chance of wallowing for twelve
months upon the throne of France. But that which is a source of
irreparable shame to me is a virtue in the eyes of all these royalists.
De Marmont's treachery against the Emperor has placed all his kindred in
the forefront of those who now lick the boots of that infamous Bourbon
dynasty, and it did not suit the plans of the Bonapartist party that
we--in the provinces--should proclaim our faith too openly until such
time as the Emperor returned."
"And if the Comte de Cambray had known that you are just an ardent
Bonapartist? . . ." suggested Clyffurde calmly.
"He would long before now have had me kicked out by his lacqueys," broke
in de Marmont with ever-increasing bitterness as he brought his clenched
fist crashing down upon the table, while his dark eyes glowed with a
fierce and passionate resentment. "For men like de Cambray there is only
one caste--the _noblesse_, one religion--the Catholic, one
creed--adherence to the Bourbons. All else is scum, trash, beneath
contempt, hardly human! Oh! if you knew how I loathe these people!" he
continued, speaking volubly and in a voice shaking with suppressed
excitement. "They have learnt nothing, these aristocrats, nothing, I
tell you! the terrible reprisals of the revolution which culminated in
that appalling Reign of Terror have taught them absolutely nothing! They
have not learnt the great lesson of the revolution, that the people will
no longer endure their arrogance and their pretensions, that the old
regime is dead--dead! the regime of oppression and pride and
intolerance! They have learnt nothing!" he reiterated with ever-growing
excitement, "nothing! 'humanity begins with the _noblesse_' is still
their watchword to-day as it was before the irate people sent hundreds
of them to perish miserably on the guillotine--the rest of mankind, to
them, is only cattle made to toil for the well-being of their class. Oh!
I loathe them, I tell you! I loathe them from the bottom of my soul!"
"And yet you and your kind are rapidly becoming at one with them," said
Clyffurde, his quiet voice in strange contrast to the other man's
violent agitation.
"No, we are not," protested de Marmont emphatically. "The men whom
Napoleon created marshals and peers of France have been openly snubbed
at the Court of Louis XVIII. Ney, who is prince of Moskowa and next to
Napoleon himself the greatest soldier of France, has seen his wife
treated little better than a chambermaid by the Duchesse d'Angoulême and
the ladies of the old _noblesse_. My uncle is marshal of France, and Duc
de Raguse and I am the heir to his millions, but the Comte de Cambray
will always consider it a mesalliance for his daughter to marry me."
The note of bitter resentment, of wounded pride and smouldering hatred
became more and more marked while he spoke: his voice now sounded hoarse
and his throat seemed dry. Presently he raised his mug to his lips and
drank eagerly, but his hand was shaking visibly as he did this, and some
of the wine was spilled on the table.
There was silence for a while outside the little inn, silence which
seemed full of portent, for through the pure mountain air there was
wafted the hot breath of men's passions--fierce, dominating,
challenging. Love, hatred, prejudices and contempt--all were portrayed
on de Marmont's mobile face: they glowed in his dark eyes and breathed
through his quivering nostrils. Now he rested his elbow on the table and
his chin in his hand, his nervy fingers played a tattoo against his
teeth, clenched together like those of some young feline creature which
sees its prey coming along and is snarling at the sight.
Clyffurde, with those deep-set, earnest grey eyes of his, was silently
watching his friend. His hand did not shake, nor did the breath come any
quicker from his broad chest. Yet deep down behind the wide brow, behind
those same overshadowed eyes, a keen observer would of a surety have
detected the signs of a latent volcano of passions, all the more strong
and virile as they were kept in perfect control. It was he who presently
broke the silence, and his voice was quite steady when he spoke, though
perhaps a trifle more toneless, more dead, than usual.
"And," he said, "what of Mlle. Crystal in all this?"
"Crystal?" queried the other curtly, "what about her?"
"She is an ardent royalist, more strong in her convictions and her
enthusiasms than women usually are."
"And what of that?" rejoined de Marmont fiercely. "I love Crystal."
"But when she learns that you . . ."
"She shall not learn it," rejoined the other cynically. "We sign our
marriage contract to-night: the wedding is fixed for Tuesday. Until then
I can hold my peace."
An exclamation of hot protest almost escaped the Englishman's lips: his
hand which rested on the table became so tightly clenched that the hard
knuckles looked as if they would burst through their fetters of sinew
and skin, and he made no pretence at concealing the look of burning
indignation which flashed from his eyes.
"But man!" he exclaimed, "a deception such as you propose is cruel and
monstrous. . . . In view, too, of what has occurred in the past few days
. . . in view of what may happen if the news which we have heard is true
. . ."
"In view of all that, my friend," retorted de Marmont firmly, "the old
regime has had its nine days of wonder and of splendour. The Emperor has
come back! we, who believe in him, who have remained true to him in his
humiliation and in his misfortunes may once more raise our heads and
loudly proclaim our loyalty. The return of the Emperor will once more
put his dukes and his marshals in their rightful place on a level with
the highest nobility of France. The Comte de Cambray will realise that
all his hopes of regaining his fortune through the favours of the
Bourbons have by force of circumstances come to naught. Like most of the
old _noblesse_ who emigrated he is without a sou. He may choose to look
on me with contempt, but he will no longer desire to kick me out of his
house, for he will be glad enough to see the Cambray 'scutcheon regilt
with de Marmont gold."
"But Mademoiselle Crystal?" insisted Clyffurde, almost appealingly, for
his whole soul had revolted at the cynicism of the other man.
"Crystal has listened to that ape, St. Genis," replied de Marmont drily,
"one of her own caste . . . a marquis with sixteen quarterings to his
family escutcheon and not a sou in his pockets. She is very young, and
very inexperienced. She has seen nothing of the world as yet--nothing.
She was born and brought up in exile--in England, in the midst of that
narrow society formed by impecunious _émigrés_. . . ."
"And shopkeeping Englishmen," murmured Clyffurde, under his breath.
"She could never have married St. Genis," reiterated Victor de Marmont
with deliberate emphasis. "The man hasn't a sou. Even Crystal realised
from the first that nothing ever could have come of that boy and girl
dallying. The Comte never would have consented. . . ."
"Perhaps not. But she--Mademoiselle Crystal--would she ever have
consented to marry you, if she had known what your convictions are?"
"Crystal is only a child," said de Marmont with a light shrug of the
shoulders. "She will learn to love me presently when St. Genis has
disappeared out of her little world, and she will accept my convictions
as she has accepted me, submissive to my will as she was to that of her
father."
Once more a hot protest of indignation rose to Clyffurde's lips, but
this too he smothered resolutely. What was the use of protesting? Could
he hope to change with a few arguments the whole cynical nature of a
man? And what right had he even to interfere? The Comte de Cambray and
Mademoiselle Crystal were nothing to him: in their minds they would
never look upon him even as an equal--let alone as a friend. So the
bitter words died upon his lips.
"And you have been content to win a wife on such terms!" was all that he
said.
"I have had to be content," was de Marmont's retort. "Crystal is the
only woman I have ever cared for. She will love me in time, I doubt not,
and her sense of duty will make her forget St. Genis quickly enough."
Then as Clyffurde made no further comment silence fell once more between
the two men. Perhaps even de Marmont felt that somehow, during the past
few moments, the slender bond of friendship which similarity of tastes
and a certain similarity of political ideals had forged between him and
the stranger had been strained to snapping point, and this for a reason
which he could not very well understand. He drank another draught of
wine and gave a quick sigh of satisfaction with the world in general,
and also with himself, for he did not feel that he had done or said
anything which could offend the keenest susceptibilities of his friend.
He looked with a sudden sense of astonishment at Clyffurde, as if he
were only seeing him now for the first time. His keen dark eyes took in
with a rapid glance the Englishman's powerful personality, the square
shoulders, the head well erect, the strong Anglo-Saxon chin firmly set,
the slender hands always in repose. In the whole attitude of the man
there was an air of will-power which had never struck de Marmont quite
so forcibly as it did now, and a virility which looked as ready to
challenge Fate as it was able to conquer her if she proved adverse.
And just now there was a curious look in those deep-set eyes--a look of
contempt or of pity--de Marmont was not sure which, but somehow the look
worried him and he would have given much to read the thoughts which were
hidden behind the high, square brow.
However, he asked no questions, and thus the silence remained unbroken
for some time save for the soughing of the northeast wind as it whistled
through the pines, whilst from the tiny chapel which held the shrine of
Notre Dame de Vaulx came the sound of a soft-toned bell, ringing the
midday Angelus.
Just then round that same curve in the road, where the two riders had
paused an hour ago in sight of the little hamlet, a man on horseback
appeared, riding at a brisk trot up the rugged, stony path.
Victor de Marmont woke from his rêverie:
"There's Emery," he cried.
He jumped to his feet, then he picked up his hat from the table where he
had laid it down, tossed it up into the air as high as it would go, and
shouted with all his might:
"Vive l'Empereur!"
IV
The man who now drew rein with abrupt clumsiness in front of the auberge
looked hot, tired and travel-stained. His face was covered with sweat
and his horse with lather, the lapel of his coat was torn, his breeches
and boots were covered with half-frozen mud.
But having brought his horse to a halt, he swung himself out of the
saddle with the brisk air of a boy who has enjoyed his first ride across
country. Surgeon-Captain Emery was a man well over forty, but to-day his
eyes glowed with that concentrated fire which burns in the heart at
twenty, and he shook de Marmont by the hand with a vigour which made the
younger man wince with the pain of that iron grip.
"My friend, Mr. Clyffurde, an English gentleman," said Victor de Marmont
hastily in response to a quick look of suspicious enquiry which flashed
out from under Emery's bushy eyebrows. "You can talk quite freely,
Emery; and for God's sake tell us your news!"
But Emery could hardly speak. He had been riding hard for the past three
hours, his throat was parched, and through it his voice came up hoarse
and raucous: nevertheless he at once began talking in short, jerky
sentences.
"He landed on Wednesday," he said. "I parted from him on Friday . . . at
Castellane . . . you had my message?"
"This morning early--we came at once."
"I thought we could talk better here--first--but I was spent last
night--I had to sleep at Corps . . . so I sent to you. . . . But now, in
Heaven's name, give me something to drink. . . ."
While he drank eagerly and greedily of the cold spiced wine which
Clyffurde had served out to him, he still scrutinised the Englishman
closely from under his frowning and bushy eyebrows.
Clyffurde's winning glance, however, seemed to have conquered his
mistrust, for presently, after he had put his mug down again, he
stretched out a cordial hand to him.
"Now that our Emperor is back with us," he said as if in apology for his
former suspicions, "we, his friends, are bound to look askance at every
Englishman we meet."
"Of course you are," said Clyffurde with his habitual good-humoured
smile as he grasped Surgeon-Captain Emery's extended hand.
"It is the hand of a friend I am grasping?" insisted Emery.
"Of a personal friend, if you will call him so," replied Clyffurde.
"Politically, I hardly count, you see. I am just a looker-on at the
game."
The surgeon-captain's keen eyes under their bushy brows shot a rapid
glance at the tall, well-knit figure of the Englishman.
"You are not a fighting man?" he queried, much amazed.
"No," replied Clyffurde drily. "I am only a tradesman."
"Your news, Emery, your news!" here broke in Victor de Marmont, who
during the brief colloquy between his two friends had been hardly able
to keep his excitement in check.
Emery turned away from the other man in silence. Clearly there was
something about that fine, noble-looking fellow--who proclaimed himself
a tradesman while that splendid physique of his should be at his
country's service--which still puzzled the worthy army surgeon.
But he was primarily very thirsty and secondly as eager to impart his
news as de Marmont was to hear it, so now without wasting any further
words on less important matter he sat down close to the table and
stretched his short, thick legs out before him.
"My news is of the best," he said with lusty fervour. "We left Porto
Ferrajo on Sunday last but only landed on Wednesday, as I told you, for
we were severely becalmed in the Mediterranean. We came on shore at
Antibes at midday of March 1st and bivouacked in an olive grove on the
way to Cannes. That was a sight good for sore eyes, my friends, to see
him sitting there by the camp fire, his feet firmly planted upon the
soil of France. What a man, Sir, what a man!" he continued, turning
directly to Clyffurde, "on board the _Inconstant_ he had composed and
dictated his proclamation to the army, to the soldiers of France! the
finest piece of prose, Sir, I have ever read in all my life. But you
shall judge of it, Sir, you shall judge. . . ."
And with hands shaking with excitement he fumbled in the bulging pocket
of his coat and extracted therefrom a roll of loose papers roughly tied
together with a piece of tape.
"You shall read it, Sir," he went on mumbling, while his trembling
fingers vainly tried to undo the knot in the tape, "you shall read it.
And then mayhap you'll tell me if your Pitt was ever half so eloquent.
Curse these knots!" he exclaimed angrily.
"Will you allow me, Sir?" said Clyffurde quietly, and with steady hand
and firm fingers he undid the refractory knots and spread the papers out
upon the table.
Already de Marmont had given a cry of loyalty and of triumph.
"His proclamation!" he exclaimed, and a sigh of infinite satisfaction
born of enthusiasm and of hero-worship escaped his quivering lips.
The papers bore the signature of that name which had once been
all-powerful in its magical charm, at sound of which Europe had trembled
and crowns had felt insecure, the name which men had breathed--nay!
still breathed--either with passionate loyalty or with bitter
hatred:--"Napoleon."
They were copies of the proclamation wherewith the heroic
adventurer--confident in the power of his diction--meant to reconquer
the hearts of that army whom he had once led to such glorious victories.
De Marmont read the long document through from end to end in a
half-audible voice. Now and again he gave a little cry--a cry of loyalty
at mention of those victories of Austerlitz and Jena, of Wagram and of
Eckmühl, at mention of those imperial eagles which had led the armies of
France conquering and glorious throughout the length and breadth of
Europe--or a cry of shame and horror at mention of the traitor whose
name he bore and who had delivered France into the hands of strangers
and his Emperor into those of his enemies.
And when the young enthusiast had read the proclamation through to the
end he raised the paper to his lips and fervently kissed the imprint of
the revered name: "Napoleon."
"Now tell me more about him," he said finally, as he leaned both elbows
on the table and fastened his glowing eyes upon the equally heated face
of Surgeon-Captain Emery.
"Well!" resumed the latter, "as I told you we bivouacked among the olive
trees on the way to Cannes. The Emperor had already sent Cambronne on
ahead with forty of his grenadiers to commandeer what horses and mules
he could, as we were not able to bring many across from Porto Ferrajo.
'Cambronne,' he said, 'you shall be in command of the vanguard in this
the finest campaign which I have ever undertaken. My orders are to you,
that you do not fire a single unnecessary shot. Remember that I mean to
reconquer my imperial crown without shedding one drop of French blood.'
Oh! he is in excellent health and in excellent spirits! Such a man! such
fire in his eyes! such determination in his actions! Younger, bolder
than ever! I tell you, friends," continued the worthy surgeon-captain as
he brought the palm of his hand flat down upon the table with an
emphatic bang, "that it is going to be a triumphal march from end to end
of France. The people are mad about him. At Roccavignon, just outside
Cannes, where we bivouacked on Thursday, men, women and children were
flocking round to see him, pressing close to his knees, bringing him
wine and flowers; and the people were crying 'Vive l'Empereur!' even in
the streets of Grasse."
"But the army, man? the army?" cried de Marmont, "the garrisons of
Antibes and Cannes and Grasse? did the men go over to him at once?--and
the officers?"
"We hadn't encountered the army yet when I parted from him on Friday,"
retorted Emery with equal impatience, "we didn't go into Antibes and we
avoided Cannes. You must give him time. The people in the towns wouldn't
at first believe that he had come back. General Masséna, who is in
command at Marseilles, thought fit to spread the news that a band of
Corsican pirates had landed on the littoral and were marching
inland--devastating villages as they marched. The peasants from the
mountains were the first to believe that the Emperor had really come,
and they wandered down in their hundreds to see him first and to spread
the news of his arrival ahead of him. By the time we reached Castellane
the mayor was not only ready to receive him but also to furnish him with
5,000 rations of meat and bread, with horses and with mules. Since then
he has been at Digue and at Sisteron. Be sure that the garrisons of
those cities have rallied round his eagles by now."
Then whilst Emery paused for breath de Marmont queried eagerly:
"And so . . . there has been no contretemps?"
"Nothing serious so far," replied the other. "We had to abandon our guns
at Grasse, the Emperor felt that they would impede the rapidity of his
progress; and our second day's march was rather trying, the mountain
passes were covered in snow, the lancers had to lead their horses
sometimes along the edge of sheer precipices, they were hampered too by
their accoutrements, their long swords and their lances; others--who had
no mounts--had to carry their heavy saddles and bridles on those
slippery paths. But _he_ was walking too, stick in hand, losing his
footing now and then, just as they did, and once he nearly rolled down
one of those cursed precipices: but always smiling, always cheerful,
always full of hope. At Antibes young Casabianca got himself arrested
with twenty grenadiers--they had gone into the town to requisition a few
provisions. When the news reached us some of the younger men tried to
persuade the Emperor to march on the city and carry the place by force
of arms before Casabianca's misfortune got bruited abroad: 'No!' he
said, 'every minute is precious. All we can do is to get along faster
than the evil news can travel. If half my small army were captive at
Antibes, I would still move on. If every man were a prisoner in the
citadel, I would march on alone.' That's the man, my friends," cried
Emery with ever-growing enthusiasm, "that's our Emperor!"
And he cast a defiant look on Clyffurde, as much as to say: "Bring on
your Wellington and your armies now! the Emperor has come back! the
whole of France will know how to guard him!" Then he turned to de
Marmont.
"And now tell me about Grenoble," he said.
"Grenoble had an inkling of the news already last night," said de
Marmont, whose enthusiasm was no whit cooler than that of Emery.
"Marchand has been secretly assembling his troops, he has sent to
Chambéry for the 7th and 11th regiment of the line and to Vienne for the
4th Hussars. Inside Grenoble he has the 5th infantry regiment, the 4th
of artillery and 3rd of engineers, with a train squadron. This morning
he is holding a council of war, and I know that he has been in constant
communication with Masséna. The news is gradually filtering through into
the town: people stand at the street corners and whisper among
themselves; the word 'l'Empereur' seemed wafted upon this morning's
breeze. . . ."
"And by to-night we'll have the Emperor's proclamation to his people
pinned up on the walls of the Hôtel de Ville!" exclaimed Emery, and with
hands still trembling with excitement he gathered the precious papers
once more together and slipped them back into his coat pocket. Then he
made a visible effort to speak more quietly: "And now," he said, "for
one very important matter which, by the way, was the chief reason for my
asking you, my good de Marmont, to meet me here before my getting to
Grenoble."
"Yes? What is it?" queried de Marmont eagerly.
Surgeon-Captain Emery leaned across the table; instinctively he dropped
his voice, and though his excitement had not abated one jot, though his
eyes still glowed and his hands still fidgeted nervously, he had forced
himself at last to a semblance of calm.
"The matter is one of money," he said slowly. "The Emperor has some
funds at his disposal, but as you know, that scurvy government of the
Restoration never handed him over one single sou of the yearly revenue
which it had solemnly agreed and sworn to pay to him with regularity.
Now, of course," he continued still more emphatically, "we who believe
in our Emperor as we believe in God, we are absolutely convinced that
the army will rally round him to a man. The army loves him and has
never ceased to love him, the army will follow him to victory and to
death. But the most loyal army in the world cannot subsist without
money, and the Emperor has little or none. The news of his triumphant
march across France will reach Paris long before he does, it will enable
His Most Excellent and Most Corpulent Majesty King Louis to skip over to
England or to Ghent with everything in the treasury on which he can lay
his august hands. Now, de Marmont, do you perceive what the serious
matter is which caused me to meet you here--twenty-five kilomètres from
Grenoble, where I ought to be at the present moment."
"Yes! I do perceive very grave trouble there," said de Marmont with
characteristic insouciance, "but one which need not greatly worry the
Emperor. I am rich, thank God! and . . ."
"And may God bless you, my dear de Marmont, for the thought," broke in
Emery earnestly, "but what may be called a large private fortune is as
nothing before the needs of an army. Soon, of course, the Emperor will
be in peaceful possession of his throne and will have all the resources
of France at his command, but before that happy time arrives there will
be much fighting, and many days--weeks perhaps--of anxiety to go
through. During those weeks the army must be paid and fed; and your
private fortune, my dear de Marmont, would--even if the Emperor were to
accept your sacrifice, which is not likely--be but as a drop in the
mighty ocean of the cost of a campaign. What are two or even three
millions, my poor, dear friend? It is forty, fifty millions that the
Emperor wants."
De Marmont this time had nothing to say. He was staring moodily and
silently before him.
"Now, that is what I have come to talk to you about," continued Emery
after a few seconds' pause, during which he had once more thrown a
quick, half-suspicious glance on the impassive, though obviously
interested face of the Englishman, "always supposing that Monsieur here
is on our side."
"Neither on your side nor on the other, Captain," said Bobby Clyffurde
with a slight tone of impatience. "I am a mere tradesman, as I have had
the honour to tell you: a spectator at this game of political conflicts.
M. de Marmont knows this well, else he had not asked me to accompany him
to-day nor offered me a mount to enable me to do so. But if you prefer
it," he added lightly, "I can go for a stroll while you discuss these
graver matters."
He would have risen from the table only that Emery immediately detained
him.
"No offence, Sir," said the surgeon-captain bluntly.
"None, I give you my word," assented the Englishman. "It is only natural
that you should wish to discuss such grave matters in private. Let me go
and see to our _déjeuner_ in the meanwhile. I feel sure that the
fricandeau is done to a turn by now. I'll have it dished up in ten
minutes. I pray you take no heed of me," he added in response to
murmured protestations from both de Marmont and Emery. "I would much
prefer to know nothing of these grave matters which you are about to
discuss."
This time Emery did not detain him as he rose and turned to go within in
order to find mine host or Annette. The two Frenchmen took no further
heed of him: wrapped up in the all engrossing subject-matter they
remained seated at the table, leaning across it, their faces close to
one another, their eyes dancing with excitement, questions and
answers--as soon as the stranger's back was turned--already tumbling out
in confusion from their lips.
Clyffurde turned to have a last look at them before he went into the
house, and while he did so his habitual, pleasant, gently-ironical smile
still hovered round his lips. But anon a quickly-suppressed sigh chased
the smile away, and over his face there crept a strange shadow--a look
of longing and of bitter regret.
It was only for a moment, however, the next he had passed his hand
slowly across his forehead, as if to wipe away that shadow and smooth
out those lines of unspoken pain.
Soon his cheerful voice was heard, echoing along the low rafters of the
little inn, loudly calling for Annette and for news of the baked
omelette and the fricandeau.
V
"You really could have talked quite freely before Mr. Clyffurde, my good
Emery," said de Marmont as soon as Bobby had disappeared inside the inn.
"He really takes no part in politics. He is a friend alike of the Comte
de Cambray and of glovemaker Dumoulin. He has visited our Bonapartist
Club. Dumoulin has vouched for him. You see, he is not a fighting man."
"I suppose that you are equally sure that he is not an English spy,"
remarked Emery drily.
"Of course I am sure," asserted de Marmont emphatically. "Dumoulin has
known him for years in business, though this is the first time that
Clyffurde has visited Grenoble. He is in the glove trade in England: his
interests are purely commercial. He came here with introductions to the
Comte de Cambray from a mutual friend in England who seems to be a
personage of vast importance in his own country and greatly esteemed by
the Comte--else you may be sure that that stiff-necked aristocrat would
never have received a tradesman as a guest in his house. But it was in
Dumoulin's house that I first met Bobby Clyffurde. We took a liking to
one another, and since then have ridden a great deal together. He is a
splendid horseman, and I was very glad to be able to offer him a mount
at different times. But our political conversations have never been
very heated or very serious. Clyffurde maintains a detached impersonal
attitude both to the Bonapartist and the royalist cause. I asked him to
accompany me this morning and he gladly consented, for he dearly loves a
horse. I assure you, you might have said anything before him."
"_Eh bien!_ I'm sorry if I've been obstinate and ungracious," said the
surgeon-captain, but in a tone that obviously belied his words, "though,
frankly, I am very glad that we are alone for the moment."
He paused, and with a wave of his thick, short-fingered hand he
dismissed this less important subject-matter and once more spoke with
his wonted eagerness on that which lay nearest his heart.
"Now listen, my good de Marmont," he said, "do you recollect last April
when the Empress--poor wretched, misguided woman--fled so precipitately
from Paris, abandoning the capital, France and her crown at one and the
same time, and taking away with her all the Crown diamonds and money and
treasure belonging to the Emperor? She was terribly ill-advised, of
course, but . . ."
"Yes, I remember all that perfectly well," broke in de Marmont
impatiently.
"Well, then, you know that that abominable Talleyrand sent one of his
emissaries after the Empress and her suite . . . that this
emissary--Dudon was his name--reached Orleans just before Marie Louise
herself got there. . . ."
"And that he ordered, in Talleyrand's name, the seizure of the Empress'
convoy as soon as it arrived in the city," broke in de Marmont again.
"Yes. I recollect that abominable outrage perfectly. Dudon, backed by
the officers of the gendarmerie, managed to rob the Empress of
everything she had, even to the last knife and fork, even to the last
pocket handkerchief belonging to the Emperor and marked with his
initials. Oh! it was monstrous! hellish! devilish! It makes my blood
boil whenever I think of it . . . whenever I think of those fatuous,
treacherous Bourbons gloating over those treasures at the Tuileries,
while our Empress went her way as effectually despoiled as if she had
been waylaid by so many brigands on a public highway."
"Just so," resumed Emery quietly after de Marmont's violent storm of
wrath had subsided. "But I don't know if you also recollect that when
the various cases containing the Emperor's belongings were opened at the
Tuileries, there was just as much disappointment as gloating. Some of
those fatuous Bourbons--as you so rightly call them--expected to find
some forty or fifty millions of the Emperor's personal savings
there--bank-notes and drafts on the banks of France, of England and of
Amsterdam, which they were looking forward to distributing among
themselves and their friends. Your friend the Comte de Cambray would no
doubt have come in too for his share in this distribution. But M. de
Talleyrand is a very wise man! always far-seeing, he knows the
improvidence, the prodigality, the ostentation of these new masters whom
he is so ready to serve. Ere Dudon reached Paris with his booty, M. de
Talleyrand had very carefully eliminated therefrom some five and twenty
million francs in bank-notes and bankers' drafts, which he felt would
come in very usefully once for a rainy day."
"But M. de Talleyrand is immensely rich himself," protested de Marmont.
"Ah! he did not eliminate those five and twenty millions for his own
benefit," said Emery. "I would not so boldly accuse him of theft. The
money has been carefully put away by M. de Talleyrand for the use of His
Corpulent Majesty Louis de Bourbon, XVIIIth of that name."
Then as Emery here made a dramatic pause and looked triumphantly across
at his companion, de Marmont rejoined somewhat bewildered:
"But . . . I don't understand . . ."
"Why I am telling you this?" retorted Emery, still with that triumphant
air. "You shall understand in a moment, my friend, when I tell you that
those five and twenty millions were never taken north to Paris, they
were conveyed in strict secrecy south to Grenoble!"
"To Grenoble?" exclaimed de Marmont.
"To Grenoble," reasserted Emery.
"But why? . . . why such a long way?--why Grenoble?" queried the young
man in obvious puzzlement.
"For several reasons," replied Emery. "Firstly both the préfet of the
department and the military commandant are hot royalists, whilst the
province of Dauphiné is not. In case of any army corps being sent down
there to quell possible and probable revolt, the money would have been
there to hand: also, if you remember, there was talk at the time of the
King of Naples proving troublesome. There, too, in case of a campaign on
the frontier, the money lying ready to hand at Grenoble could prove very
useful. But of course I cannot possibly pretend to give you all the
reasons which actuated M. de Talleyrand when he caused five and twenty
millions of stolen money to be conveyed secretly to Grenoble rather than
to Paris. His ways are more tortuous than any mere army-surgeon can
possibly hope to gauge. Enough that he did it and that at this very
moment there are five and twenty millions which are the rightful
property of the Emperor locked up in the cellars of the Hôtel de Ville
at Grenoble."
"But . . ." murmured de Marmont, who still seemed very bewildered at all
that he had heard, "are you sure?"
"Quite sure," affirmed Emery emphatically. "Dumoulin brought news of it
to the Emperor at Elba several months ago, and you know that he and his
Bonapartist Club always have plenty of spies in and around the
préfecture. The money is there," he reiterated with still greater
emphasis, "now the question is how are we going to get hold of it."
"Easily," rejoined de Marmont with his habitual enthusiasm, "when the
Emperor marches into Grenoble and the whole of the garrison rallies
around him, he can go straight to the Hôtel de Ville and take everything
that he wants."
"Always supposing that M. le préfet does not anticipate the Emperor's
coming by conveying the money to Paris or elsewhere before we can get
hold of it," quoth Emery drily.
"Oh! Fourier is not sufficiently astute for that."
"Perhaps not. But we must not neglect possibilities. That money would be
a perfect godsend to the Emperor. It was originally his too, _par Dieu!_
Anyhow, my good de Marmont, that is what I wanted to talk over quietly
with you before I get into Grenoble. Can you think of any means of
getting hold of that money in case Fourier has the notion of conveying
it to some other place of safety?"
"I would like to think that over, Emery," said de Marmont thoughtfully.
"As you say, we of the Bonapartist Club at Grenoble have spies inside
the Hôtel de Ville. We must try and find out what Fourier means to do as
soon as he realises that the Emperor is marching on Grenoble: and then
we must act accordingly and trust to luck and good fortune."
"And to the Emperor's star," rejoined Emery earnestly; "it is once more
in the ascendant. But the matter of the money is a serious one, de
Marmont. You will deal with it seriously?"
"Seriously!" ejaculated de Marmont.
Once more the unquenchable fire of undying devotion to his hero glowed
in the young man's eyes.
"Everything pertaining to the Emperor," he said fervently, "is serious
to me. For a whim of his I would lay down my life. I will think of all
you have told me, Emery, and here, beneath the blue dome of God's sky,
I swear that I will get the Emperor the money that he wants or lose mine
honour and my life in the attempt.
"Amen to that," rejoined Emery with a deep sigh of satisfaction. "You
are a brave man, de Marmont, would to heaven every Frenchman was like
you. And now," he added with sudden transition to a lighter mood, "let
Annette dish up the fricandeau. Here's our friend the tradesman, who was
born to be a soldier. M. Clyffurde," he added loudly, calling to the
Englishman who had just appeared in the doorway of the inn, "my grateful
thanks to you--not only for your courtesy, but for expediting that
delicious _déjeuner_ which tickles my appetite so pleasantly. I pray you
sit down without delay. I shall have to make an early start after the
meal, as I must be inside Grenoble before dark."
Clyffurde, good-humoured, genial, quiet as usual, quickly responded to
the surgeon-captain's desire. He took his seat once more at the table
and spoke of the weather and the sunshine, the Alps and the snows the
while Annette spread a cloth and laid plates and knives and forks before
the distinguished gentlemen.
"We all want to make an early start, eh, my dear Clyffurde?" ejaculated
de Marmont gaily. "We have serious business to transact this night with
M. le Comte de Cambray, and partake too of his gracious hospitality,
what?"
Emery laughed.
"Not I forsooth," he said. "M. le Comte would as soon have Satan or
Beelzebub inside his doors. And I marvel, my good de Marmont, that you
have succeeded in keeping on such friendly terms with that royalist
ogre."
"I?" said de Marmont, whose inward exultation radiated from his entire
personality, "I, my dear Emery? Did you not know that I am that royalist
ogre's future son-in-law? _Par Dieu!_ but this is a glorious day for me
as well as a glorious day for France! Emery, dear friend, wish me joy
and happiness. On Tuesday I wed Mademoiselle Crystal de
Cambray--to-night we sign our marriage contract! Wish me joy, I say!
she's a bride well worth the winning! Napoleon sets forth to conquer a
throne--I to conquer love. And you, old sober-face, do not look so
glum!" he added, turning to Clyffurde.
And his ringing laugh seemed to echo from end to end of the narrow
valley.
After which a lighter atmosphere hung around the table outside the
"Auberge du Grand Dauphin." There was but little talk of the political
situation, still less of party hatred and caste prejudices. The hero's
name was still on the lips of the two men who worshipped him, and
Clyffurde, faithful to his attitude of detachment from political
conflicts, listened quite unmoved to the impassioned dithyrambs of his
friends.
But so absorbed were these two in their conversation and their joy that
they failed to notice that Clyffurde hardly touched the excellent
_déjeuner_ set before him and left mine host's fine Burgundy almost
untasted.