CHAPTER III

THE RETURN OF THE EMPEROR

I

But even as Madame la Duchesse douairière d'Agen placed her aristocratic

hand upon the handle of the door, it was opened from without with what

might almost be called undue haste, and Hector appeared in the doorway.

Hector in truth! but not the sober-faced, pompous, dignified Hector of

the household of M. le Comte de Cambray, but a red-visaged, excited,

fussy Hector, who for the moment seemed to have forgotten where he was,

as well as the etiquette which surrounded the august personality of his

master. He certainly contrived to murmur a humble if somewhat hasty

apology, when he found himself confronted at the door by Mme. la

Duchesse herself, but he did not stand aside to let her pass.

She had stepped back into the room at sight of him, for obviously

something very much amiss must have occurred thus to ruffle Hector's

ingrained dignity, and even M. le Comte was involuntarily dragged out of

his aristocratic aloofness and almost--though not quite--jumped up from

his chair.

"What is it, Hector?" he exclaimed, peremptorily.

"M. le Comte," gasped Hector, who seemed to be out of breath from sheer

excitement, "the Corsican . . . he has come back . . . he is marching on

Grenoble . . . M. le préfet is here! . . ."

But already M. le Comte had--with a wave of the hand as it were--swept

the unwelcome news aside.

"What rubbish is this?" he said wrathfully. "You have been dreaming in

broad daylight, Hector . . . and this excitement is most unseemly. Show

Mme. la Duchesse to her apartments," he added with a great show of calm.

Hector--thus reproved, coloured a yet more violent crimson to the very

roots of his hair. He made a great effort to recover his pomposity and

actually took up the correct attitude which a well-trained servant

assumes when he shows a great lady out of a room. But even then--despite

the well-merited reproof--he took it upon himself to insist:

"M. le préfet is here, M. le Comte," he said, "and begs to be received

at once."

"Well, then, you may show him up when Mme. la Duchesse has retired,"

said the Comte with quiet dignity.

"By your leave, my brother," quoth the Duchesse decisively, "I'll wait

and hear what M. le préfet has to say. The news--if news there be--is

too interesting to be kept waiting for me."

And accustomed as she was to get her own way in everything, Mme. la

Duchesse calmly sailed back into the room, and once more sat down in the

chair beside her brother's bureau, whilst Hector with as much grandeur

of mien as he could assume under the circumstances was still waiting for

orders.

M. le Comte would undoubtedly have preferred that his sister should

leave the room before the préfet was shown in: he did not approve of

women taking part in political conversations, and his manner now plainly

showed to Mme. la Duchesse that he would like to receive M. le préfet

alone. But he said nothing--probably because he knew that words would be

useless if Madame had made up her mind to remain, which she evidently

had, so, after a brief pause, he said curtly to Hector:

"Show M. le préfet in."

He took up his favourite position, in his throne-shaped chair--one leg

bent, the other stretched out, displaying to advantage the shapely calf

and well-shod foot. M. le préfet Fourier, mathematician of great renown,

and member of the Institut was one of those converted Bonapartists to

whom it behoved at all times to teach a lesson of decorum and dignity.

And certainly when, presently Hector showed M. Fourier in, the two

men--the aristocrat of the old regime and the bureaucrat of the

new--presented a marked and curious contrast. M. le Comte de Cambray

calm, unperturbed, slightly supercilious, in a studied attitude and

moving with pompous deliberation to greet his guest, and Jacques

Fourier, man of science and préfet of the Isère department, short of

stature, scant of breath, flurried and florid!

Both men were conscious of the contrast, and M. Fourier did his very

best to approach Mme. la Duchesse with a semblance of dignity, and to

kiss her hand in something of the approved courtly manner. When he had

finally sat down, and mopped his streaming forehead, M. le Comte said

with kindly condescension:

"You are perturbed, my good M. Fourier!"

"Alas, M. le Comte," replied the worthy préfet, still somewhat out of

breath, "how can I help being agitated . . . this awful news! . . ."

"What news?" queried the Comte with a lifting of the brows, which was

meant to convey complete detachment and indifference to the subject

matter.

"What news?" exclaimed the préfet who, on the other hand, was unable to

contain his agitation and had obviously given up the attempt, "haven't

you heard? . . ."

"No," replied the Comte.

And Madame also shook her head.

"Town-gossip does not travel as far as the Castle of Brestalou," added

M. le Comte gravely.

"Town gossip!" reiterated M. Fourier, who seemed to be calling Heaven

to witness this extraordinary levity, "town gossip, M. le Comte! . . .

But God in Heaven help us all. Bonaparte landed at Antibes five days

ago. He was at Sisteron this morning, and unless the earth opens and

swallows him up, he will be on us by Tuesday!"

"Bah! you have had a nightmare, M. le préfet," rejoined the Comte drily.

"We have had news of the landing of Bonaparte at least once a month this

half-year past."

"But it is authentic news this time, M. le Comte," retorted Fourier,

who, gradually, under the influence of de Cambray's calm demeanour, had

succeeded in keeping his agitation in check. "The préfet of the Var

department, M. le Comte de Bouthillier, sent an express courier on

Thursday last to the préfet of the Basses-Alpes, who sent that courier

straight on to me, telling me that he and General Loverdo, who is in

command of the troops in that district, promptly evacuated Digue because

they were not certain of the loyalty of the garrison. The Corsican it

seems only landed with about a thousand of his old guard, but since

then, the troops in every district which he has traversed, have deserted

in a body, and rallied round his standard. It has been, so I hear, a

triumphal march for him from the Littoral to Digne, and altogether the

news which the courier brought me this morning was of such alarming

nature, that I thought it my duty, M. le Comte, to apprise you of it

immediately."

"That," said M. le Comte condescendingly, "was exceedingly thoughtful

and considerate, my good M. Fourier. And what is the alarming news?"

"Firstly, that Bonaparte made something like a state entry into Digne

yesterday. The city was beflagged and decorated. The national guard

turned out and presented arms, drums were beating, the population

acclaimed him with cries of 'Vive l'Empereur!' The préfet and the

general in command had intended to resist his entry into the city, but

all the notabilities of the town forced them into submission. Duval, the

préfet, fled to a neighbouring village, taking the public funds with

him, while General Loverdo with a mere handful of loyal troops has

retreated on Sisteron."

Though M. le Comte de Cambray had listened to the préfet's narrative

with all his habitual grandeur of mien, it soon became obvious that some

of his aristocratic sangfroid had already abandoned him. His furrowed

cheeks had become a shade paler than usual, and the slender hand which

toyed with an ivory paper-knife on his desk had not its wonted

steadiness. Mme. la Duchesse perceived this, no doubt, for her keen eyes

were fixed scrutinisingly upon her brother; she saw too that his thin

lips were quivering and that the reason why he made no comment on what

he had just heard was because he could not quite trust himself to speak.

It was she, therefore, who now remarked quietly:

"And in your department, M. le préfet, in Grenoble itself, is the

garrison equally likely to go over to the Corsican brigand?"

M. Fourier shrugged his shoulders. He was not at all sure.

"After what has happened at Digne, Mme. la Duchesse," he said, "I would

not care to prophesy. Général Marchand does not intend to trust entirely

to the garrison. He has sent to Vienne and to Chambéry for

reinforcements . . . but . . ."

The préfet was hesitating, evidently he had not a great deal of faith in

the loyalty of those reinforcements either.

M. le Comte made a vigorous protest. "Surely, M. Fourier," he said, "you

don't mean to suggest that Grenoble is going to turn traitor to the

King?"

But M. le préfet apparently had meant to suggest it.

"Alas, M. le Comte!" he said, "we must always bear in mind that the

whole of the Dauphiné has remained throughout a bed of Bonapartism."

"But in that case . . ." ejaculated the Comte.

"Général Marchand is doing all he can to ensure effectual resistance, M.

le Comte. But we are in the hands of the army, and the army has never

been truly loyal to the King. At the bottom of every soldier's haversack

there is an old and worn tricolour cockade, which is there ready to be

fetched out at a moment's notice, and will be fetched out at the mere

sound of the Corsican's voice. We are in the hands of the army, M. le

Comte, and in the Dauphiné; alas! the army is only too ready to cry:

'Vive l'Empereur!'"

There was silence in the stately room now, silence only broken by the

tap-tap of the ivory paper-knife with which M. le Comte was still

nervously fidgeting. M. Fourier was wiping the perspiration from his

overheated brow.

"For God's sake, André, stop that irritating noise," said Mme. Duchesse

after awhile, "that tapping has got on my nerves."

"I beg your pardon, Sophie," said the Comte loftily.

He was offended with her for drawing M. Fourier's attention to his own

nervous restlessness, yet grateful to be thus forcibly made aware of it

himself. His attitude was on the verge of incorrectness. Where was the

aristocratic sangfroid which should have made him proof even against so

much perturbing news? What had become of the lesson in decorum which

should have been taught to this vulgar little bureaucrat?

M. le Comte pulled himself together with a jerk: he straightened out his

spare figure, put on that air of detachment which became him so well,

and finally turned once more to the préfet a perfectly calm and

unruffled countenance.

Then he said with his accustomed urbanity:

"And now, my good M. Fourier, since you have so admirably put the

situation before me, will you also tell me in what way I may be of

service to you in this--or to Général Marchand?"

"I am coming to that, M. le Comte," replied the préfet. "It will explain

the reason of my disturbing you at this hour, when I was coming anyhow

to partake of your gracious hospitality later on. But I do want your

assistance, M. le Comte, as the matter of which I wish to speak with you

concerns the King himself."

"Everything that you have told me hitherto, my good M. Fourier, concerns

His Majesty and the security of his throne. I cannot help wondering how

much of this news has reached him by now."

"All of it at this hour, I should say. For already on Friday the Prince

d'Essling sent a despatch to His Majesty--by courier as far as Lyons and

thence by aërial telegraph to Paris. The King--may God preserve him!"

added the ex-Bonapartist fervently, "knows as much of the Corsican's

movements at the present moment as we do; and God alone knows what he

will decide to do."

"Whatever happens," interjected the Comte de Cambray solemnly, "Louis de

Bourbon, XVIIIth of his name, by the Grace of God, will act like a king

and a gentleman."

"Amen to that," retorted the préfet. "And now let me come to my point,

M. le Comte, and the chief object of my visit to you."

"I am at your service, my dear M. Fourier."

"You will remember, M. le Comte, that directly you were installed at

Brestalou and I was confirmed in my position as préfet of this

department, I thought it was my duty to tell you of the secret funds

which are kept in the cellars of our Hôtel de Ville by order of M. de

Talleyrand."

"Yes, of course I remember that perfectly. French money, which the

unfortunate wife of that brigand Bonaparte was taking out of the

country."

"Quite so," assented Fourier. "The funds are in a convenient and

portable form, being chiefly notes and bankers' drafts to bearer, but

the amount is considerable, namely, twenty-five millions of francs."

"A comfortable sum," interposed Mme. la Duchesse drily. "I did not know

that Grenoble sheltered so vast a treasure."

"The money was seized," said the Comte, "from Marie Louise when she was

fleeing the country. Talleyrand did it all, and it was his idea to keep

the money in this part of the country against likely emergencies."

"But the emergency has arisen," exclaimed M. Fourier excitedly, "and the

money at Grenoble is useless to His Majesty in Paris. Nay! it is worse

than useless, it is in danger of spoliation," he added with unconscious

_naiveté_. "If the Corsican marches into Grenoble, if the garrison and

the townspeople rally to him, he will of a truth occupy the Hôtel de

Ville and the brigand will seize the King's treasure which lies now in

one of its cellars."

"True," mused the Comte, "I hadn't thought of that."

"Well!" exclaimed Madame with light sarcasm, "seeing that the money was

originally taken from his wife, the brigand will not be committing an

altogether unlikely act, I imagine, by taking what was originally his."

"His, my good Sophie?" exclaimed the Comte, highly shocked. "Money

robbed by that usurper from France--his?"

"We won't argue, André," said Madame sharply, "let us hear what M. le

préfet proposes."

"Propose, Mme. la Duchesse," ejaculated the unfortunate préfet, "I have

nothing to propose! I am at my wits' end what to do! I came to M. le

Comte for advice."

"And you were quite right, my dear M. Fourier," said the Comte affably.

He paused for a few seconds in order to collect his thoughts, then

continued: "Now let us consider this question from every side, and then

see to what conclusion we can arrive that will be for the best. Firstly,

of course, there is the possibility of your following the example of the

préfet of the Basses-Alpes and taking yourself and the money to a

convenient place outside Grenoble."

But at this suggestion M. Fourier was ready to burst into tears.

"Impossible, M. le Comte," he cried pitiably, "I could not do it. . . .

Where could I go? . . . The existence of the money is known . . . known

to the Bonapartists, I am convinced. . . . There's Dumoulin, the

glovemaker, he knows everything that goes on in Grenoble . . . and his

friend Emery, who is an army surgeon in the pay of Bonaparte . . . both

these men have been to and from Elba incessantly these past few months

. . . then there's the Bonapartist club in Grenoble . . . with a

membership of over two thousand . . . the members have friends and spies

everywhere . . . even inside the Hôtel de Ville . . . why! the other day

I had to dismiss a servant who . . ."

"Easy, easy, M. le préfet," broke in M. le Comte impatiently, "the long

and the short of it is that you would not feel safe with the money

anywhere outside Grenoble."

"Or inside it, M. le Comte."

"Very well, then, the money must be deposited there, where it will be

safe. Now what do you think of Dupont's Bank?"

"Oh, M. le Comte! an avowed Bonapartist! . . . M. de Talleyrand would

not trust him with the money last year."

"That is so . . . but . . ."

"It seems to me," here interposed Mme. la Duchesse abruptly, "that by

far the best plan--since this district seems to be a hot-bed of

disloyalty--would be to convey the money straightway to Paris, and then

the King or M. de Talleyrand can dispose of it as best they like."

"Ah, Mme. la Duchesse," sighed M. Fourier ecstatically as he clasped his

podgy little hands together and looked on Madame with eyes full of

admiration for her wisdom, "how cleverly that was spoken! If only I

could be relieved from that awful responsibility . . . five and twenty

millions under my charge and that Corsican ogre at our gates! . . ."

"That is all very well!" quoth the Comte with marked impatience, "but

how is it going to be done? 'Convey the money to Paris' is easily said.

But who is going to do it? M. le préfet here says that the Bonapartists

have spies everywhere round Grenoble, and . . ."

"Ah, M. le Comte!" exclaimed the préfet eagerly. "I have already thought

of such a beautiful plan! If only you would consent . . ."

M. le Comte's thin lips curled in a sarcastic smile.

"Oh! you have thought it all out already, M. le préfet?" he said. "Well!

let me hear your plan, but I warn you that I will not have the money

brought here. I don't half trust the peasantry of the neighbourhood, and

I won't have a fight or an outrage committed in my house!"

M. le préfet was ready with a protest:

"No, no, M. le Comte!" he said, "I wouldn't suggest such a thing for the

world. If the Corsican brigand is successful in capturing Grenoble, no

place would be sacred to him. No! My idea was if you, M. le Comte--who

have oft before journeyed to Paris and back--would do it now . . .

before Bonaparte gets any nearer to Grenoble . . . and take the money

with you . . ."

"I?" exclaimed the Comte. "But, man, if--as you say--Grenoble is full of

Bonapartist spies, my movements are no doubt just as closely watched as

your own."

"No, no, M. le Comte, not quite so closely, I am sure."

The insinuating manner of the worthy man, however, was apparently

getting on M. le Comte's nerves.

"Ah, ça, M. le préfet," he ejaculated abruptly, "but meseems that the

splendid plan you thought on merely consists in transferring

responsibility from your shoulders to mine own."

And M. le Comte cast such a wrathful look on poor M. Fourier that the

unfortunate man was stricken dumb with confusion.

"Moreover," concluded the Comte, "I don't know that you, M. le préfet,

have the right to dispose of this money which was entrusted to you by M.

de Talleyrand in the King's behalf without consulting His Majesty's

wishes in the matter."

"Bah, André," broke in the Duchesse in her incisive way, "you are

talking nonsense, and you know it. There is no time for red-tapeism now

with that ogre at our gates. How are you going to consult His Majesty's

wishes--who is in Paris--between now and Tuesday, I would like to know?"

she added with a shrug of the shoulders.

Whereupon M. le Comte waxed politely sarcastic.

"Perhaps," he said, "you would prefer us to consult yours."

"You might do worse," she retorted imperturbably. "The question is one

which is very easily solved. Ought His Majesty the King to have that

money, or should M. le préfet here take the risk of its falling in

Bonaparte's hands? Answer me that," she said decisively, "and then I

will tell you how best to succeed in carrying out your own wishes."

"What a question, my good Sophie!" said the Comte stiffly. "Of course we

desire His Majesty to have what is rightfully his."

"You mean he ought to have the twenty-five millions which the Prince de

Bénévant stole from Marie Louise. Very well then, obviously that money

ought to be taken to Paris before Bonaparte gets much nearer to

Grenoble--but it should not be taken by you, my good André, nor yet by

M. le préfet."

"By whom then?" queried the Comte irritably.

"By me," replied Mme. la Duchesse.

"By you, Sophie! Impossible!"

"And God alive, why impossible, I pray you?" she retorted. "The money, I

understand, is in a very portable form, notes and bankers' drafts, which

can be stowed away quite easily. Why shouldn't I be journeying back to

Paris after Crystal's wedding? Who would suspect me, I should like to

know, of carrying twenty-five millions under my petticoats? All I should

want would be a couple of sturdy fellows on the box to protect me

against footpads. Impossible?" she continued tartly. "Men are always so

ready with that word. Get a sensible woman, I say, and she will solve

your difficulties before you have finished exclaiming: 'Impossible!'"

And she looked triumphantly from one man to the other. There was obvious

relief on the ruddy face of little M. Fourier, and even M. le Comte was

visibly taken with the idea.

"Well!" he at last condescended to say, "it does sound feasible after

all."

"Feasible? Of course it's feasible," said Madame with a shrug of

contempt. "Either the King is in want of the money, or he is not. Either

Bonaparte is likely to get it or he is not. If the King wants it, he

must have it at any cost and any risk. Twenty-five millions in

Bonaparte's hands at this juncture would help him to reconstitute his

army and make it very unpleasant for the King and for us all. M. le

préfet, who has been in charge of the money all along, and M. le Comte

de Cambray, who is the only true royalist in the district, are both

marked down by spies: ergo Mme. la Duchesse d'Agen is the only possible

agent for the business, and an inoffensive old woman without any

political standing is the least likely to be molested in her task. If I

fail, I fail," concluded Madame decisively, "if I am stopped on the way

and the money taken from me, well! I am stopped, that's all! and M. le

préfet or M. le Comte de Cambray or any male agent they may have sent

would have been stopped likewise. But I maintain that a woman travelling

alone is far safer at this business and more likely to succeed than a

man. So now, for God's sake, don't let's argue any more about it.

Crystal is to be married on Tuesday and I could start that same

afternoon. Can you bring the money over with you to-night?"

She put her query directly to the préfet, who was obviously overjoyed,

and intensely relieved at the suggestion.

M. le Comte too seemed to be won over by his sister's persuasive

rhetoric: her strength of mind and firmness of purpose always imposed

themselves on those over whom she chose to exert her will: and men of

somewhat weak character like the Comte de Cambray came very easily under

the sway of her dominating personality.

But he thought it incumbent upon his dignity to make one more protest

before he finally yielded to his sister's arguments.

"I don't like," he said, "the idea of your travelling alone through the

country without sufficient escort. The roads are none too safe and

. . ."

"Bah!" broke in Madame impatiently. "I pray you, Monsieur my brother, to

strengthen your arguments, if you are really determined to oppose this

sensible scheme of mine. Travelling alone, forsooth! Did I not arrive

only yesterday, having travelled all the way from Boulogne and with no

escort save two louts on the box of a hired coach?"

"You chose to travel alone, my dear sister, for reasons best known to

yourself," retorted the Comte, greatly angered that M. le préfet should

hear the fact that Mme. la Duchesse douairière had travelled at any time

without an escort.

"And who shall say me nay, if I choose to travel back alone again, I

should like to know? So now if you have exhausted your string of

objections, my dear brother, perhaps you will allow M. le préfet to

answer my question."

Whereupon M. le préfet promptly satisfied Mme. la Duchesse on the point:

he certainly could and would bring the money over with him this evening.

And M. le Comte had no further objections to offer.

In the archives of the Ministry of War in Paris, any one who looks may

read that in the subsequent trial of Général Marchand for high

treason--after the Hundred Days and Napoleon's second abdication--préfet

Fourier during the course of his evidence gave a detailed account of

this same interview which he had with M. le Comte de Cambray and Mme. la

Duchesse douairière d'Agen on Sunday, March the 5th. In his deposition

he naturally laid great stress upon his own zeal in the matter,

declaring that he it was who finally overcame by his eloquence M. le

Comte's objections to the scheme and decided him to give his

acquiescence thereto.[1]

[Footnote 1: Déposition de Fourier. (Dossier de Marchant Arch. Guerre.)]

Certain it is that there was but little argument after this between Mme.

la Duchesse and the two men, and that the details of the scheme were

presently discussed soberly and in all their bearings.

"I shall have the honour presently," said Fourier, "of coming back here

to respond to M. le Comte's gracious invitation to dinner. Why

shouldn't I bring the money with me then?"

"Indeed you must bring the money then," retorted the irascible old lady,

"and let there be no shirking or delay. Promptitude is our great chance

of success. I ought not to start later than Tuesday, and I could do so

soon after the wedding ceremony. I could arrange to sleep at Lyons that

night, at Dijon the next day, be in Paris by Thursday evening and in the

King's presence on Friday."

"Provided you are not delayed," sighed the Comte.

"If I am delayed, my good André, then anyhow the game is up. But we are

not going to anticipate misfortune and we are going to believe in our

lucky star."

"Would to God I could bring myself to approve wholeheartedly of this

expedition! The whole thing seems to me chivalrous and romantic rather

than prudent, and Heaven knows how prudent we should be just now!"

"You look back on history, my dear brother," remarked Madame drily, "and

you'll see that more great events have been brought about by chivalry

and romance than by prudence and circumspection. The romance of Joan of

Arc delivered France from foreign yoke, the chivalry of François I.

saved the honour of France after the disaster of Pavie, and it certainly

was not prudence which set Henry of Navarre upon the throne of France

and in the heart of his people. So for gracious' sake do not let us talk

of prudence any more. Rather let us allow M. le préfet to return quietly

to the Hôtel de Ville, so that he and Mme. Fourier may proceed to dress

for to-night's ceremony, just as if nothing untoward had happened. In

the meanwhile I will complete my preparations for Tuesday. There are one

or two little details in connection with my journey--hostelries,

servants, horses and so on--which you, my dear André, will kindly decide

for me. And now, gentlemen," she added, rising from her chair, "I have

the honour to wish you both a very good afternoon."

She did not wait long enough to allow M. le Comte time to ring for

Hector, and she appeared so busy with her lace shawl that she was unable

to do more than acknowledge with a slight inclination of the head M. le

préfet's respectful salute. But then Mme. la Duchesse douairière

d'Agen--though a fervent royalist herself--had a wholesome contempt for

these opportunists. Fourier, celebrated mathematician, loaded with gifts

and honours by Napoleon, who had made him a member of the Institute of

Science and given him the prefecture of the Isère, had turned his coat

very readily at the Restoration, and the oaths of loyalty which he had

tendered to the Emperor seemed not to weigh overheavily upon his

conscience when he reiterated them to the King.

Mme. la Duchesse d'Agen, therefore, did not willingly place her

aristocratic fingers in the hand of a renegade, who she felt might turn

renegade again if his personal interest so dictated it. Perhaps

something of what lay behind Madame's curt nod to him, struck the

préfet's sensibilities, for the high colour suddenly fled from his round

face, and he did not attempt to approach her for the ceremonial

hand-kissing. But he ran across the room as fast as his short legs would

carry him, and he opened the door for her and bowed to her as she sailed

past him with all the deference which in the olden days of the Empire he

had accorded to the Empress Marie Louise.

"It is a mad scheme, my good M. Fourier," sighed the Comte when he found

himself once more alone with the préfet, "but such as it is I can think

of nothing better."

"M. le Comte," exclaimed the préfet with delight, "no one could think of

anything better. Ah, the women of France!" he added ecstatically, "the

women! how often have they saved France in moments of crises? France

owes her grandeur to her women, M. le Comte!"

"And also her reverses, my dear M. Fourier," remarked the Comte drily.

II

When Bobby Clyffurde came back to Brestalou, after his long day's ride,

he found the stately rooms of the old castle already prepared for the

arrival of M. le Comte's guests. The large reception hall had been

thrown open, as--after supper--M. le Comte would be receiving some of

the notabilities of Grenoble in honour of a great occasion: the

signature of the _contrat de mariage_ between Mlle. Crystal de Cambray

de Brestalou and M. Victor de Marmont. There was an array of liveried

servants in the hall and along the corridor through which Bobby had to

pass on the way to his own room: their liveries of purple with canary

facings--the heraldic colours of the family of Cambray de

Brestalou--hardly showed, in the flickering light of wax candles, the

many ravages of moth and mildew which twenty years of neglect had

wrought upon the once fine and brilliant cloth.

Downstairs the formal supper which was to precede the reception was laid

for twenty guests. The table was resplendent with the silver so kindly

lent by a benevolent and far-seeing king to those of his friends who had

not the means of replacing the ancient family treasures filched from

them by the revolutionary government.

There were no flowers upon the table, and only very few wax candles

burned in the ormolu and crystal chandelier overhead. Flowers and wax

candles were luxuries which must be paid for with ready money--a

commodity which was exceedingly scarce in the grandiose Château de

Brestalou--but they also were a luxury which could easily be dispensed

with, for did not M. le Comte de Cambray set the fashions and give the

tone to the whole _département_? and if he chose to have no flowers upon

his supper table and but few candles in his silver sconces, why then

society must take it for granted that such now was _bon ton_ and the

prevailing fashion at the Tuileries.

Bobby, knowing his host's fastidious tastes in such matters, had made a

very careful toilet, all the while that his thoughts were busy with the

wonderful news which Emery had brought this day, and which was all over

Grenoble by now. He and his two companions had left Notre Dame de Vaulx

soon after their _déjeuner_, and together had entered the city at five

o'clock in the afternoon. On their way they had encountered the

travelling-coach of Général Mouton-Duveret, who, accompanied by his

aide-de-camp, was on his way to Gap, where he intended to organise

strong resistance against Bonaparte.

He parleyed some time with Emery, whom he knew by sight and suspected of

being an emissary of the Corsican. Emery, with true southern verve, gave

the worthy general a highly-coloured account of the triumphal progress

through Provence and the Dauphiné of Napoleon, whom he boldly called

"the Emperor." Mouton--in no way belying his name--was very upset not

only by the news, but by his own helplessness with regard to Emery, who

he knew would presently be in Grenoble distributing the usurper's

proclamations all over the city, whilst he--Mouton--with his one

aide-de-camp and a couple of loutish servants on the box of his coach,

could do nothing to detain him.

As soon as the three men had ridden away, however, he sent his

aide-de-camp back to Grenoble by a round-about way, ordering him to make

as great speed as possible, and to see Général Marchand as soon as may

be, so that immediate measures might be taken to prevent that emissary

if not from entering the city, at least from posting up proclamations on

public buildings.

But Mouton's aide-de-camp was no match against the enthusiasm and

ingenuity of Emery and de Marmont, and when he--in his turn--entered

Grenoble soon after five o'clock, he was confronted by the printed

proclamations signed by the familiar and dreaded name "Napoleon" affixed

to the gates of the city, to the Hôtel de Ville, the mairie, the prison,

the barracks, and to every street corner in Grenoble.

The three friends had parted at the porte de Bonne, Emery to go to his

friend Dumoulin, the glovemaker--de Marmont to his lodgings in the rue

Montorge, whilst Bobby Clyffurde rode straight back to Brestalou.

A couple of hours later Victor de Marmont had also arrived at the

castle. He too had made an elaborate toilet, and then had driven over in

a hackney coach in advance of the other guests, seeing that he desired

to have a final interview with M. le Comte before he affixed his name to

his _contrat de mariage_ with Mlle. de Cambray. An air of solemnity sat

well upon his good-looking face, but it was obvious that he was

trying--somewhat in vain--to keep an inward excitement in check.

M. le Comte de Cambray, believing that this excitement was entirely due

to the solemnity of the occasion, had smiled indulgently--a trifle

contemptuously too--at young de Marmont's very apparent eagerness. A

vulgar display of feelings, an inability to control one's words and

movements when under the stress of emotion was characteristic of the

parvenus of to-day, and de Marmont's unfettered agitation when coming to

sign his own marriage contract was only on a par with préfet Fourier's

nervousness this afternoon.

The Comte received his future son-in-law with a gracious smile. The

thought of an alliance between Mlle. de Cambray de Brestalou and a de

Marmont of Nowhere had been a bitter pill to swallow, but M. le Comte

was too proud to show how distasteful it had been. Chatting pleasantly

the two men repaired together to the library.

III

Bobby Clyffurde--immaculately dressed in fine cloth coat and satin

breeches, with fine Mechlin lace at throat and wrist, and his light

brown hair tied at the nape of the neck with a big black bow--came down

presently to the reception room. He found the place silent and deserted.

But the stately apartment looked more cosy and home-like than usual. A

cheerful fire was burning in the monumental hearth and the soft light of

the candles fixed in sconces round the walls tempered to a certain

degree that bare and severe look of past grandeur which usually hung

upon every corner of the old château.

Clyffurde went up to the tall hearth. He rested his hand on the ledge of

the mantel and leaning his forehead against it he stared moodily into

the fire.

Thoughts of all that he had learned in the past few hours, of the new

chapter in the book of the destinies of France, begun a few days ago in

the bay of Jouan, crowded in upon his mind. What difference would the

unfolding of that new chapter make to the destinies of the Comte de

Cambray and of Crystal? What had Fate in store for the bold adventurer

who was marching across France with a handful of men to reconquer a

throne and remake an empire? what had she in store for the stiff-necked

aristocrat of the old regime who still believed that God himself had

made special laws for the benefit of one class of humanity, and that He

had even created them differently to the rest of mankind?

And what had Fate in store for the beautiful, delicate girl whose future

had been so arbitrarily settled by two men--father and lover--one the

buyer, the other the seller of her exquisite person, the shrine of her

pure and idealistic soul--and bargained for by father and lover as the

price of so many acres of land--a farm--a château--an ancestral estate?

Father and lover were sitting together even now discussing values--the

purchase price--"You give me back my lands, I will give you my

daughter!" Blood money! soul money! Clyffurde called it as he ground his

teeth together in impotent rage.

What folly it was to care! what folly to have allowed the tendrils of

his over-sensitive heart to twine themselves round this beautiful girl,

who was as far removed from his destiny as were the ambitions of his

boyhood, the hopes, the dreams which the hard circumstances of fate had

forced him to bury beneath the grave-mound of rigid and unswerving duty.

But what a dream it had been, this love for Crystal de Cambray! It had

filled his entire soul from the moment when first he saw her--down in

the garden under an avenue of ilex trees which cast their mysterious

shadows over her; her father had called to her and she had come across

to where he--Clyffurde--stood silently watching this approaching vision

of loveliness which never would vanish from his mental gaze again.

Even at that supreme moment, when her blue eyes, her sweet smile, the

exquisite grace of her took possession of his soul, even then he knew

already that his dream could have but one awakening. She was already

plighted to another, a happier man, but even if she were free, Crystal

would never have bestowed a thought upon the stranger--the commonplace

tradesman, whose only merit in her sight lay in his friendship with

another gallant English gentleman.

And knowing this--when he saw her after that, day after day, hour after

hour--poor Bobby Clyffurde grew reconciled to the knowledge that the

gates of his Paradise would for ever be locked against him: he grew

contented just to peep through those gates; and the Angel who was on

guard there, holding the flaming sword of caste prejudice against him,

would relent at times and allow him to linger on the threshold and to

gaze into a semblance of happiness.

Those thoughts, those dreams, those longings, he had been able to

endure; to-day reality had suddenly become more insistent and more

stern: the Angel's flaming sword would sear his soul after this, if he

lingered any longer by the enchanted gates: and thus had the semblance

of happiness yielded at last to dull regret.

He sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.

IV

The sound of the opening and shutting of a door, the soft frou-frou of a

woman's skirt roused him from his gloomy reverie, and caused him to jump

to his feet.

Mlle. Crystal was coming across the long reception room, walking with a

slow and weary step toward the hearth. She was obviously not yet aware

of Clyffurde's presence, and he had full leisure to watch her as she

approached, to note the pallor of her cheeks and lips and that pathetic

look of childlike self-pity and almost of appeal which veiled the

brilliance of her deep blue eyes.

A moment later she saw him and came more quickly across the room, with

hand extended, and an air of gracious condescension in her whole

attitude.

"Ah! M. Clyffurde," she said in perfect English, "I did not know you

were here . . . and all alone. My father," she added, "is occupied with

serious matters downstairs, else he would have been here to receive

you."

"I know, Mademoiselle," he said after he had kissed the tips of three

cold little fingers which had been held out to him. "My friend de

Marmont is with him just now: he desired to speak with M. le Comte in

private . . . on a matter which closely concerns his happiness."

"Ah! then you knew?" she asked coldly.

"Yes, Mademoiselle, I knew," he replied.

She had settled herself down in a high-backed chair close to the hearth,

the ruddy light of the wood-fire played upon her white satin gown, upon

her bare arms, and the ends of her lace scarf, upon her satin shoes and

the bunch of snowdrops at her breast, but her face was in shadow and she

did not look up at Clyffurde, whilst he--poor fool!--stood before her,

absorbed in the contemplation of this dainty picture which mayhap after

to-night would never gladden his eyes again.

"You are a great friend of M. de Marmont?" she asked after a while.

"Oh, Mademoiselle--a friend?" he replied with a self-deprecatory shrug

of the shoulders, "friendship is too great a name to give to our chance

acquaintanceship. I met Victor de Marmont less than a fortnight ago, in

Grenoble. . . ."

"Ah yes! I had forgotten--he told me that he had first met you at the

house of a M. Dumoulin . . ."

"In the shop of M. Dumoulin, Mademoiselle," broke in Clyffurde with his

good-humoured smile. "M. Dumoulin, the glovemaker, with whom I was

transacting business at the moment when M. de Marmont walked in, in

order to buy himself a pair of gloves."

"Of course," she added coldly, "I had forgotten. . . ."

"You were not likely to remember such a trivial circumstance,

Mademoiselle. M. de Marmont saw me after that here as guest in your

father's house. He was greatly surprised at finding me--a mere

tradesman--in such an honoured position. Surprise laid the foundation of

pleasing intercourse between us, but you see, Mademoiselle, that M. de

Marmont has no cause to boast of his friendship with me."

"Oh! M. de Marmont is not so prejudiced. . . ."

"As you are, Mademoiselle?" he asked quietly, for she had paused and he

saw that she bit her lips with her tiny white teeth as if she meant to

check the words that would come tumbling out.

Thus directly questioned she gave a little shrug of disdain.

"My opinions in the matter are not in question, Sir," she said coldly.

She smothered a little yawn which may have been due to ennui, but also

to the tingling of her nerves. Clyffurde saw that her hands were never

still for a moment; she was either fingering the snowdrops in her belt

or smoothing out the creases in her lace scarf; from time to time she

raised her head and a tense expression came into her face, as if she

were trying to listen to what was going on elsewhere in the

house--downstairs perhaps--in the library where she was being finally

bargained for and sold.

Clyffurde felt an intense--an unreasoning pity for her, and because of

that pity--the gentle kinsman of fierce love--he found it in his heart

to forgive her all her prejudices, that almost arrogant pride of caste

which was in her blood, for which she was no more responsible than she

was for the colour of her hair or the vivid blue of her eyes; she seemed

so forlorn--such a child, in the midst of all this decadent grandeur.

She was being so ruthlessly sacrificed for ideals that were no longer

tenable, that had ceased to be tenable five and twenty years ago when

this château and these lands were overrun by a savage and vengeful mob,

who were loudly demanding the right to live in happiness, in comfort,

and in freedom. That right had been denied to them through the past

centuries by those who were of her own kith and kin, and it was

snatched with brutal force, with lust of hate and thirst for reprisals,

by the revolutionary crowd when it came into its own at last.

Something of the pity which he felt for this beautiful and innocent

victim of rancour, oppression and prejudice, must have been manifest in

Clyffurde's earnest eyes, for when Crystal looked up to him and met his

glance she drew herself up with an air of haughty detachment. And with

that, she wished to convey still more tangibly to him the idea of that

barrier of caste which must for ever divide her from him.

Obviously his look of pity had angered her, for now she said abruptly

and with marked coldness:

"My father tells me, Sir, that you are thinking of leaving France

shortly."

"Indeed, Mademoiselle," he replied, "I have trespassed too long as it is

on M. le Comte's gracious hospitality. My visit originally was only for

a fortnight. I thought of leaving for England to-morrow."

A little lift of the eyebrows, an unnecessary smoothing of an invisible

crease in her gown and Crystal asked lightly:

"Before the . . . my wedding, Sir?"

"Before your wedding, Mademoiselle."

She frowned--vaguely stirred to irritation by his ill-concealed

indifference. "I trust," she rejoined pointedly, "that you are satisfied

with your trade in Grenoble."

The little shaft was meant to sting, but if Bobby felt any pain he

certainly appeared to bear it with perfect good-humour.

"I am quite satisfied," he said. "I thank you, Mademoiselle."

"It must be very pleasing to conclude such affairs satisfactorily," she

continued.

"Very pleasing, Mademoiselle."

"Of course--given the right temperament for such a career--it must be so

much more comfortable to spend one's life in making money--buying and

selling things and so on--rather than to risk it every day for the

barren honour of serving one's king and country."

"As you say, Mademoiselle," he said quite imperturbably, "given the

right temperament, it certainly is much more comfortable."

"And you, Sir, I take it, are the happy possessor of such a

temperament."

"I suppose so, Mademoiselle."

"You are content to buy and to sell and to make money? to rest at ease

and let the men who love their country and their king fight for you and

for their ideals?"

Her voice had suddenly become trenchant and hard, her manner

contemptuous--at strange variance with the indifferent kindliness

wherewith she had hitherto seemed to regard her father's English guest.

Certainly her nerves--he thought--were very much on edge, and no doubt

his own always unruffled calm--the combined product of temperament,

nationality and education--had an irritating effect upon her. Had he not

been so intensely sorry for her, he would have resented this final taunt

of hers--an arrow shot this time with intent to wound.

But as it was he merely said with a smile:

"Surely, Mademoiselle, my contentment with my own lot, and any other

feelings of which I may be possessed, are of such very little

consequence--seeing that they are only the feelings of a very

commonplace tradesman--that they are not worthy of being discussed."

Then as quickly her manner changed: the contemptuous look vanished from

her eyes, the sarcastic curl from her lips, and with one of those quick

transitions of mood which were perhaps the principal charm of Crystal de

Cambray's personality, she looked up at Bobby with a winning smile and

an appeal for forgiveness.

"Your pardon, Sir," she said softly. "I was shrewish and ill-tempered,

and deserve a severe lesson in courtesy. I did not mean to be

disagreeable," she added with a little sigh, "but my nerves are all

a-quiver to-day and this awful news has weighed upon my spirit. . . ."

"What awful news, Mademoiselle?" he asked.

"Surely you have heard?"

"You mean the news about Napoleon . . . ?"

"I mean the awful certainty," she retorted with a sudden outburst of

vehemence, "that that brigand, that usurper, that scourge of mankind has

escaped from an all too lenient prison where he should never have been

confined, seeing how easy was escape from it. I mean that all the

horrors of the past twenty years will begin again now, misery,

starvation, exile probably. Oh, surely," she added with ever-increasing

passion, "surely God will not permit such an awful thing to happen;

surely he will strike the ogre dead, ere he devastates France once

again!"

"I am afraid that you must not reckon quite so much on divine

interference, Mademoiselle. A nation--like every single individual--must

shape its own destiny, and must not look to God to help it in its

political aims."

"And France must look once more to England, I suppose. It is humiliating

to be always in need of help," she said with an impatient little sigh.

"Each nation in its turn has it in its power to help a sister. Sometimes

help may come from the weaker vessel. Do you remember the philosopher's

fable of the lion and the mouse? France may be the mouse just now--some

day it may be in her power to requite the lion."

She shook her head reprovingly. "I don't know," she said, "that I

approve of your calling France--the mouse."

"I only did so in order to drive my parable still further home."

Then as she looked a little puzzled, he continued--speaking very slowly

this time and with an intensity of feeling which was quite different to

his usual pleasant, good-tempered, oft-times flippant manner:

"Mademoiselle Crystal--if you will allow me to speak of such an

insignificant person as I am--I am at present in the position of the

mouse with regard to your father and yourself--the lions of my parable.

You might so easily have devoured me, you see," he added with a quaint

touch of humour. "Well! the time may come when you may have need of a

friend, just as I had need of one when I came here--a stranger in a

strange land. Events will move with great rapidity in the next few days,

Mademoiselle Crystal, and the mouse might at any time be in a position

to render a service to the lion. Will you remember that?"

"I will try, Monsieur," she replied.

But already her pride was once more up in arms. She did not like his

tone, that air of protection which his attitude suggested. And indeed

she could not think of any eventuality which would place the Comte de

Cambray de Brestalou in serious need of a tradesman for his friend.

Then as quickly again her mood softened and as she raised her eyes to

his he saw that they were full of tears.

"Indeed! indeed!" she said gently, "I do deserve your contempt, Sir, for

my shrewishness and vixenish ways. How can I--how can any of us--afford

to turn our backs upon a loyal friend? To-day too, of all days, when

that awful enemy is once more at our gates! Oh!" she added, clasping her

hands together with a sudden gesture of passionate entreaty, "you are

English, Sir--a friend of all those gallant gentlemen who saved my dear

father and his family from those awful revolutionaries--you will be

loyal to us, will you not? The English hate Bonaparte as much as we do!

you hate him too, do you not? you will do all you can to help my poor

father through this awful crisis? You will, won't you?" she pleaded.

"Have I not already offered you my humble services, Mademoiselle?" he

rejoined earnestly.

Indeed this was a very serious ordeal for quiet, self-contained Bobby

Clyffurde--an Englishman, remember--with all an Englishman's shyness of

emotion, all an Englishman's contempt of any display of sentiment. Here

was this beautiful girl--whom he loved with all the passionate ardour of

his virile, manly temperament--sitting almost at his feet, he looking

down upon her fair head, with its wealth of golden curls, and into her

blue eyes which were full of tears.

Who shall blame him if just then a desperate longing seized him to throw

all prudence, all dignity and honour to the winds and to clasp this

exquisite woman for one brief and happy moment in his arms--to forget

the world, her position and his--to risk disgrace and betray

hospitality, for the sake of one kiss upon her lips? The temptation was

so fierce--indeed for one short second it was all but irresistible--that

something of the battle which was raging within his soul became

outwardly visible, and in the girl's tear-dimmed eyes there crept a

quick look of alarm--so strange, so ununderstandable was his glance, the

rigidity of his attitude--as if every muscle had become taut and every

nerve strained to snapping point, while his face looked hard and lined,

almost as if he were fighting physical pain.

V

Thus a few seconds went by in absolute silence--while the great gilt

clock upon its carved bracket ticked on with stolid relentlessness,

marking another minute--and yet another--of this hour which was so full

of portent for the destinies of France. Clyffurde would gladly have

bartered the future years of his life for the power to stay the hand of

Time just now--for the power to remain just like this, standing before

this beautiful woman whom he loved, feeling that at any moment he could

take her in his arms and kiss her eyes and her lips, even if she were

unwilling, even if she hated him for ever afterwards.

The sense of power to do that which he might regret to the end of his

days was infinitely sweet, the power to fight against that

all-compelling passion was perhaps sweeter still. Then came the pride of

victory. The habits of a lifetime had come to his aid: self-respect and

self-control, hard and wilful taskmasters, fought against passion, until

it yielded inch by inch.

The battle was fought and won in those few moments of silence: the

strain of the man's attitude relaxed, the set lines on his face

vanished, leaving it serene and quietly humorous, calm and

self-deprecatory. Only his voice was not quite so steady as usual, as he

said softly:

"Mademoiselle Crystal, is there anything that I can do for you?--now at

once, I mean? If there is, I do entreat you most earnestly to let me

serve you."

Had the pure soul of the woman been touched by the fringe of that

magnetic wave of passion even as it rose to its utmost height, nearly

sweeping the man off his feet, and in its final retreat leaving him with

quivering nerves and senses bruised and numb? Did something of the man's

suffering, of his love and of his despair appear--despite his

efforts--upon his face and in the depth of his glance?--and thus made

visible did they--even through their compelling intensity--cause that

invisible barrier of social prejudices to totter and to break? It were

difficult to say. Certain it is that Crystal's whole heart warmed to the

stranger as it had never warmed before. She felt that here was a _man_

standing before her now, whose promises would never be mere idle words,

whose deeds would speak more loudly than his tongue. She felt that in

the midst of all the enmity which encompassed her and her father in

their newly regained home and land, here at any rate was a friend on

whom they could count to help, to counsel and to accomplish. And deep

down in the very bottom of her soul there was a curious unexplainable

longing that circumstances should compel her to ask one day for his

help, and a sweet knowledge that that help would be ably rendered and

pleasing to receive.

But for the moment, of course, there was nothing that she could ask: she

would be married in a couple of days--alas! so soon!--and after that it

would be to her husband that she must look for devotion, for guidance

and for sympathy.

A little sigh of regret escaped her lips, and she said gently:

"I thank you, Sir, from the bottom of my heart, for the words of

friendship which you have spoken. I shall never forget them, never! and

if at any time in my life I am in trouble . . ."

"Which God forbid!" he broke in fervently.

"If any time I have need of a friend," she resumed, "I feel that I

should find one in you. Oh! if only I could think that you would extend

your devotion to my poor country, and to our King . . ." she exclaimed

with passionate earnestness.

"You love your country very dearly, Mademoiselle," he rejoined.

"I think that I love France more than anything else in the world," she

replied, "and I feel that there is no sacrifice which I would deem too

great to offer up for her."

"And by France you mean the Bourbon dynasty," he said almost

involuntarily, and with an impatient little sigh.

"I mean the King, by the grace of God!" she retorted proudly.

She had thrown back her head with an air of challenge as she said this,

meeting his glance eye to eye: she looked strong and wilful all of a

sudden, no longer girlish and submissive. And to the man who loved her,

this trait of power and latent heroism added yet another to the many

charms which he saw in her. Loyal to her country and to her king she

would be loyal in all things--to husband, kindred and to friends.

But he realised at the same time how impossible it would be for any man

to win her love if he were an enemy to her cause. St. Genis--royalist,

émigré, retrograde like herself--had obviously won his way to her heart

chiefly by the sympathy of his own convictions. But what of de Marmont,

to whom she was on the eve of plighting her troth? de Marmont the

hot-headed Bonapartist who owned but one god--Napoleon--and yet had

deliberately, and with cynical opportunism hidden his fanatical aims and

beliefs from the woman whom he had wooed and won?

The thought of that deception--and of the awakening which would await

the girl-wife on the very morrow of her wedding-day mayhap, was terribly

repellent to Clyffurde's straightforward, loyal nature, and bitter was

the contention within his soul as he found himself at the cross-roads of

a divided duty. Every instinct of chivalry towards the woman loudly

demanded that he should warn her--now--at once--before it was too

late--before she had actually pledged her life and future to a man whom

her very soul--if she knew the truth--would proclaim a renegade and a

traitor; and every instinct of loyalty to the man--that male solidarity

of sex which will never permit one man--if he be a gentleman--to betray

another--prompted him to hold his peace.

Crystal's gentle voice fell like dream-tones upon his ear. Vaguely only

did he hear what she said. She was still speaking of France, of all that

the country had suffered and all that was due to her from her sons and

daughters: she spoke of the King, God's own anointed as she called him,

endowed with rights divine, and all the while his thoughts were far

away, flying on the wings of memory to the little hamlet among the

mountains where two enthusiasts had exhausted every panegyric in praise

of their own hero, whom this girl called a usurper and a brigand. He

remembered every trait in de Marmont's face, every inflexion of his

voice as he said with almost cruel cynicism: "She will learn to love me

in time."

That, Clyffurde knew now, Crystal de Cambray would never do. Indifferent

to de Marmont to-day, she would hate and loathe him the day that she

discovered how infamously he had deceived her: and to Clyffurde's

passionate temperament the thought of Crystal's future unhappiness was

absolutely intolerable.

Here indeed was a battle far more strenuous and difficult of issue than

that of a man's will against his passions: here was a problem far more

difficult to solve than any that had assailed Bobby Clyffurde throughout

his life.

His heart cried out "She must know the truth: she must. To-day! this

minute, while there was yet time! Anon she will be pledged irrevocably

to a man who has lied to her, whom she will curse as a renegade, a

traitor, false to his country, false to his king!"

And the words hovered on his lips: "Mademoiselle Crystal! do not plight

your troth to de Marmont! he is no friend of yours, his people are not

your people! his God is not your God! and there is neither blessing nor

holiness in an union 'twixt you and him!"

But the words remained unspoken, because the unwritten code--the bond

'twixt man and man--tried to still this natural cry of his heart and

reason argued that he must hold his peace. His heart rebelled,

contending that to remain silent was cowardly--that his first duty was

to the woman whom he loved better than his soul, whilst ingrained

principles, born and bred in the bone of him, threw themselves into the

conflict, warning him that if he spoke he would be no better than an

informer, meriting the contempt alike of those whom he wished to help

and of the man whom he would betray.

It was one sound coming from below which settled the dispute 'twixt

heart and reason--the sound of de Marmont's voice which though he was

apparently speaking of indifferent matters had that same triumphant ring

in it which Clyffurde had heard at Notre Dame de Vaulx this morning.

The sound had caused Crystal to give a quick gasp and to clasp her hands

against her breast, as she said with a nervous little laugh:

"Imagine how happy we are to have M. de Marmont's support in this

terrible crisis! His influence in Grenoble and in the whole province is

very great: his word in the town itself may incline the whole balance of

public feeling on the side of the King, and who knows, it may even help

to strengthen the loyalty of the troops. Oh! that Corsican brigand

little guesses what kind of welcome we in the Dauphiné are preparing for

him!"

Her enthusiasm, her trust, her loyalty ended the conflict in Clyffurde's

mind far more effectually than any sober reasoning could have done. He

realised in a moment that neither abstract principles, nor his own

feelings in the matter, were of the slightest account at such a

juncture.

What was obvious, certain, and not to be shirked, was duty to a woman

who was on the point of being shamefully deceived, also duty to the man

whose hospitality he had enjoyed. To remain silent would be cowardly--of

that he became absolutely certain, and once Bobby had made up his mind

what duty was no power on earth could make him swerve from its

fulfilment.

"Mlle. Crystal," he began slowly and deliberately, "just now, when I was

bold enough to offer you my friendship, you deigned to accept it, did

you not?"

"Indeed I did, Sir," she replied, a little astonished. "Why should you

ask?"

"Because the time has come sooner than I expected for me to prove the

truth of that offer to you. There is something which I must say to you

which no one but a friend ought to do. May I?"

But before she could frame the little "Yes!" which already trembled on

her lips, her father's voice and de Marmont's rang out from the further

end of the room itself.

The folding doors had been thrown open: M. le Comte and his son-in-law

elect were on the point of entering and had paused for a moment just

under the lintel. De Marmont was talking in a loud voice and apparently

in response to something which M. le Comte had just told him.

"Ah!" he said, "Mme. la Duchesse will be leaving Brestalou? I am sorry

to hear that. Why should she go so soon?"

"An affair of business, my dear de Marmont," replied the Comte. "I will

tell you about it at an early opportunity."

After which there was a hubbub of talk in the corridors outside, the

sound of greetings, the pleasing confusion of questions and answers

which marks the simultaneous arrival of several guests.

Crystal rose and turned to Bobby with a smile.

"You will have to tell me some other time," she said lightly. "Don't

forget!"

The psychological moment had gone by and Clyffurde cursed himself for

having fought too long against the promptings of his heart and lost the

precious moments which might have changed the whole of Crystal's

future. He cursed himself for not having spoken sooner, now that he saw

de Marmont with glowing eyes and ill-concealed triumph approach his

beautiful fiancée and with the air of a conqueror raise her hand to his

lips.

She looked very pale, and to the man who loved her so ardently and so

hopelessly it seemed as if she gave a curious little shiver and that for

one brief second her blue eyes flashed a pathetic look of appeal up to

his.

VI

M. le Comte's guests followed closely on the triumphant bridegroom's

heels: M. le préfet, fussy and nervous, secretly delighted at the idea

of affixing his official signature to such an aristocratic _contrat de

mariage_ as was this between Mlle. de Cambray de Brestalou and M. Victor

de Marmont, own nephew to Marshal the duc de Raguse; Madame la préfète,

resplendent in the latest fashion from Paris, the Duc and Duchesse

d'Embrun, cousins of the bride, the Vicomte de Génevois and his mother,

who was Abbess of Pont Haut and godmother by proxy to Crystal de

Cambray; whilst Général Marchand, in command of the troops of the

district, fresh from the Council of War which he had hastily convened,

was trying to hide behind a _débonnaire_ manner all the anxiety which

"the brigand's" march on Grenoble was causing him.

The chief notabilities of the province had assembled to do honour to the

occasion, later on others would come, lesser lights by birth and

position than this select crowd who would partake of the _souper des

fiançailles_ before the _contrat_ was signed in their presence as

witnesses to the transaction.

Everyone was talking volubly: the ogre's progress through France--no

longer to be denied--was the chief subject of conversation. Some spoke

of it with contempt, others with terror. The ex-Bonapartists Fourier

and Marchand were loudest in their curses against "the usurper."

Clyffurde, silent and keeping somewhat aloof from the brilliant throng,

saw that de Marmont did not enter into any of these conversations. He

kept resolutely close to Crystal, and spoke to her from time to time in

a whisper, and always with that assured air of the conqueror, which

grated so unpleasantly on Clyffurde's irritable nerves.

The Comte, affable and gracious, spoke a few words to each of his guests

in turn, whilst Mme. la Duchesse douairière d'Agen was talking openly of

her forthcoming return journey to the North.

"I came in great haste," she said loudly to the circle of ladies

gathered around her, "for my little Crystal's wedding. But I was in the

middle of a Lenten retreat at the Sacred Heart, and I only received

permission from my confessor to spend three days in all this gaiety."

"When do you leave us again, Mme. la Duchesse?" queried Mlle. Marchand,

the General's daughter, in a honeyed voice.

"On Tuesday, directly after the religious ceremony, Mademoiselle,"

replied Madame, whilst M. le préfet tried to look unconcerned. He had

brought the money over as Mme. la Duchesse had directed. Twenty-five

millions of francs in notes and drafts had been transferred from the

cellar of the Hôtel de Ville to his own pockets first and then into the

keeping of Madame. He had driven over from the Hôtel de Ville in his

private coach, he himself in an agony of fear every time the road looked

lonely, or he heard the sound of horse's hoofs upon the road behind

him--for there might be mounted highwaymen about. Now he felt infinitely

relieved; he had shifted all responsibility of that vast sum of money on

to more exalted shoulders than his own, and inwardly he was marvelling

how coolly Mme. la Duchesse seemed to be taking such an awful

responsibility.

Now Hector threw open the great doors and announced that M. le Comte was

served. Through the vast corridor beyond appeared a vista of liveried

servants in purple and canary, wearing powdered perruque, silk stockings

and buckled shoes.

There was a general hubbub in the room, the men moved towards the ladies

who had been assigned to them for partners. M. le Comte in his grandest

manner approached Mme. la Duchesse d'Embrun in order to conduct her down

to supper. An air of majestic grandeur, of solemnity and splendid

decorum pervaded the fine apartment; it sought out every corner of the

vast reception room, flickered round every wax candle; it spread itself

over the monumental hearth, the stiff brocade-covered chairs, the gilt

consoles and tall mirrors. It emanated alike from the graciousness of M.

le Comte de Cambray and the pompousness of his majordomo. Hector in fact

appeared at this moment as the high priest in a temple of good manners

and bon ton: the muscles of his face were rigid, his mouth was set as if

ready to pronounce sacrificial words; in his right hand he carried a

gold-headed wand, emblem of his high office.

But suddenly there was a disturbance--an unseemly noise came from the

further end of the corridor, where rose the magnificent staircase.

Hector's face became a study in rapidly changing expressions: from

pompousness, to astonishment, then horror, and finally wrath when he

realised that an intruder in stained cloth clothes and booted and

spurred was actually making his way through the ranks of liveried and

gaping servants and loudly demanding to speak with M. le Comte.

Such an unseemly disturbance had not occurred at the Château de

Brestalou since Hector had been installed there as majordomo nearly

twelve months ago, and he was on the point of literally throwing

himself upon the impious malapert who thus dared to thrust his ill-clad

person upon the brilliant company, when he paused--more aghast than

before. In this same impious malapert he had recognised M. le Marquis de

St. Genis!

The young man looked to be labouring under terrible excitement: his face

was flushed and he was panting as if he had been running hard:

"M. le Comte!" he cried breathlessly as soon as he caught sight of

Hector, "tell M. le Comte that I must speak with him at once."

"But M. le Marquis . . . M. le Marquis . . ."

This was all that poor, bewildered Hector could stammer: his

slowly-moving brain was torn between the duties of his position and his

respect for M. le Marquis, and in the struggle the worthy man was

enduring throes of anxiety.

Fortunately M. le Comte himself put an end to Hector's dilemma. He had

recognised St. Genis' voice. Unlike his majordomo, he knew at once that

something terribly grave must have happened, else the young man would

never have committed such a serious breach of good manners. And M. le

Comte himself was never at a loss how to turn any situation to a

dignified and proper issue: he murmured a quick and courteous apology to

Mme. la Duchesse d'Embrun and a comprehensive one to all his guests,

then he hastened to meet St. Genis at the door.

Already St. Genis had entered. His rough clothes and muddy boots looked

strangely in contrast to the immaculate get-up of the Comte's guests,

but of this he hardly seemed to be aware. His face was flushed; with his

right hand he clutched a small riding cane, and his glowering dark eyes

swept a rapid glance over every one in the room.

And to the Comte he said hoarsely: "I must offer you my humblest

apologies, my dear Comte, for obtruding my very untidy person upon you

at this hour. I have walked all the way from Grenoble, as I could not

get a hackney-coach, else I had been here earlier and spared you this

unpleasantness."

"You are always welcome in this house, my good Maurice," said the Comte

in his loftiest manner, "and at any hour of the day."

And he added with a certain tone of dignified reproach: "I did ask you

to be my guest to-night, if you remember."

"And I," said St. Genis, "was churlish enough to refuse. I would not

have come now only that I felt I might be in time to avert the most

awful catastrophe that has yet fallen upon your house."

Again his restless, dark eyes--sullen and wrathful and charged with a

look of rage and of hate--wandered over the assembled company. The look

frightened the ladies. They took to clinging to one another, standing in

compact little groups together, like frightened birds, watchful and

wide-eyed. They feared that the young man was mad. But the men exchanged

significant glances and significant smiles. They merely thought that St.

Genis had been drinking, or that jealousy had half-turned his brain.

Only Clyffurde, who stood somewhat apart from the others, knew--by some

unexplainable intuition--what it was that had brought Maurice de St.

Genis to this house in this excited state and at this hour. He felt

excited too, and mightily thankful that the catastrophe would be brought

about by others--not by himself.

But all his thoughts were for Crystal, and an instinctive desire to

stand by her and to shield her if necessary from some unknown or

unguessed evil, made him draw nearer to her. She stood on the fringe of

the little crowd--as isolated as Bobby was himself.

De Marmont--whose face had become the colour of dead ashes--had left

her side: one step at a time and very slowly he was getting nearer and

nearer to St. Genis, as if the latter's wrath-filled eyes were drawing

him against his will.

At the young man's ominous words, M. le Comte's sunken cheeks grew a

shade more pale.

"What catastrophe, _mon Dieu!_" he exclaimed, "could fall on my house

that would be worse than twenty years of exile?"

"An alliance with a traitor, M. le Comte," said St. Genis firmly.

A gasp went round the room, a sigh, a cry. The women looked in mute

horror from one man to the other, the men already had their right hand

on their swords. But Clyffurde's eyes were fixed upon Crystal, who pale,

silent, rigid as a marble statue, with lips parted and nostrils

quivering, stood not five paces away from him, her dilated eyes

wandering ceaselessly from the face of St. Genis to that of de Marmont

and thence to that of her father. But beyond that look of tense

excitement she revealed nothing of what she thought and felt.

Already de Marmont--his hand upon his sword--had advanced menacingly

towards St. Genis.

"M. le Marquis," he said between set teeth, "you will, by God! eat those

words, or----"

"Eat my words, man?" retorted St. Genis with a harsh laugh. "By Heaven!

have I not come here on purpose to throw my words into your lying face?"

There was a brief but violent skirmish, for de Marmont had made a

movement as if he meant to spring at his rival's throat, and Général

Marchand and the Vicomte de Génevois, who happened to be near, had much

ado to seize and hold him: even so they could not stop the hoarse cries

which he uttered:

"Liar! Liar! Liar! Let me go! Let me get to him! I must kill him! I must

kill him!"

The Comte interposed his dignified person between the two men.

"Maurice," he said, in tones of calm and dispassionate reproof, "your

conduct is absolutely unjustifiable. You seem to forget that you are in

the presence of ladies and of my guests. If you had a quarrel with M. de

Marmont. . . ."

"A quarrel, my dear Comte?" exclaimed St. Genis, "nay, 'tis no quarrel I

have with him: and my conduct would have been a thousand times more vile

if I had not come to-night and stopped his hand from touching that of

Mlle. Crystal de Cambray--his hand which was engaged less than two hours

ago in affixing to the public buildings of Grenoble the infamous message

of the Corsican brigand to the army and the people of France."

A hoarse murmur--a sure sign that men or women are afraid--came from

every corner of the room.

"The message?--What message?"

Some people turned instinctively to M. le préfet, others to Général

Marchand. Every one knew that Bonaparte had landed on the Littoral,

every one had heard the rumour that he was marching in triumph through

Provence and the Dauphiné--but no one had altogether believed this--as

for a message--a proclamation--a call to the army--and this in Grenoble

itself. No one had heard of that--every one had been at home, getting

dressed for this festive function, thinking of good suppers and of

wedding bells. It was as if after a clap of thunder and a flash of

lightning the house was found to be in flames. M. le préfet in answer to

these mute queries had shrugged his shoulders, and Général Marchand

looked grim and silent.

But St. Genis with arm uplifted and shaking hand pointed a finger at de

Marmont.

"Ask him," he cried. "Ask him, my dear Comte, ask the miserable traitor

who with lies and damnable treachery has stolen his way into your

house, has stolen your regard, your hospitality, and was on the point of

stealing your most precious treasure--your daughter! Ask him! He knows

every word of that infamous message by heart! I doubt not but a copy of

it is inside his coat now. Ask him! Général Mouton-Duveret met him

outside Grenoble in company with that cur Emery and I saw him with mine

own eyes distributing these hellish papers among our townspeople and

pinning them up at the street-corners of our city."

While St. Genis was speaking--or rather screaming--for his voice,

pitched high, seemed to fill the entire room--every glance was fixed

upon de Marmont. Every one of course expected a contradiction as hot and

intemperate as was the accusation. It was unthinkable, impossible that

what St. Genis said could be true. They all knew de Marmont well. Nephew

of the Duc de Raguse who had borne the lion's share in surrendering

Paris to the allies and bringing about the downfall of the Corsican

usurper, he was one of the most trusted members of the royalist set in

Dauphiné. They had talked quite freely before him, consulted with him

when local Bonapartism appeared uncomfortably rampant. De Marmont was

one of themselves.

And yet he said nothing even now when St. Genis accused him and hurled

insult upon insult at him:--he said nothing to refute the awful

impeachment, to justify his conduct, to explain his companionship with

Emery. His face was still livid, but it was with rage--not indignation.

Marchand and Génevois still held him by the arms, else he and St. Genis

would have been at one another's throat before now. But his gestures as

he struggled to free himself, the imprecations which he uttered were

those of a man who was baffled and found out--not of one who is

innocent.

But as St. Genis continued to speak and worked himself up every moment

into a still greater state of excitement, de Marmont gradually seemed to

calm down. He ceased to curse: he ceased to struggle, and on his

face--which still was livid--there gradually crept a look of

determination and of defiance. He dug his teeth into his under lip until

tiny drops of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth and trickled

slowly down his chin.

Marchand and Génevois relaxed the grip upon his arms, since he no longer

fought, and thus released he contrived to pull himself together. He

tossed back his head and looked his infuriated accuser boldly in the

face.

By the time St. Genis paused in his impassioned denunciation, he had

himself completely under control: only his eyes appeared to glow with an

unnatural fire, and little beads of moisture appeared upon his brow and

matted the dark hair against his forehead. The Comte de Cambray at this

juncture would certainly have interposed with one of those temperate

speeches, full of dignity and brimming over with lofty sentiments, which

he knew so well how to deliver, but de Marmont gave him no time to

begin. When St. Genis paused for breath, he suddenly freed himself

completely with a quick movement, from Marchand's and Génevois' hold;

and then he turned to the Comte and to the rest of the company:

"And what if I did pin the Emperor's proclamation on the walls of

Grenoble," he said proudly and with a tremor of enthusiasm in his voice,

"the Emperor, whom treachery more vile than any since the days of the

Iscariot sent into humiliation and exile! The Emperor has come back!"

cried the young devotee with that extraordinary fervour which Napoleon

alone--of all men that have ever walked upon this earth--was able to

suscitate: "his Imperial eagles once more soar over France carrying on

their wings her honour and glory to the outermost corners of Europe. His

proclamation is to his people who have always loved him, to his

soldiers who in their hearts have always been true to him. His

proclamation?" he added as with a kind of exultant war-cry he drew a

roll of paper from his pocket and held it out at arm's length above his

head, "his proclamation? Here it is! Vive l'Empereur! by the grace of

God!"

Who shall attempt to describe the feelings of all those who were

assembled round this young enthusiast as he hurled his challenge right

in the face of those who called him a liar and a traitor? Surely it were

a hard task for the chronicler to search into the minds and hearts of

this score of men and women--who worshipped one God and reverenced one

King--at the moment when they saw that King threatened upon his throne,

their faith mocked and their God blasphemed: that the young man spoke

words of truth no one thought of denying. Napoleon's name had the power

to strike terror in the heart of every citizen who desired peace above

all things and of every royalist who wished to see King Louis in

possession of the throne of his fathers. But the army which had fought

under him, the army which he had led in triumph and to victory from one

end of the Continent of Europe to the other, that army still loved him

and had never been rightly loyal to King Louis. The horrors of war which

had lain so heavily over France and over Europe for the past twenty

years were painfully vivid still in everybody's mind, and all these

horrors were intimately associated with the name which stood out now in

bold characters on the paper which de Marmont was triumphantly waving.

M. le Comte had become a shade or two paler than he had been before: he

looked very old, very careworn, all of a sudden, and his pale eyes had

that look in them which comes into the eyes of the old after years of

sorrow and of regret.

But never for a moment did he depart from his attitude of dignity. When

de Marmont's exultant cry of "Vive l'Empereur!" had ceased to echo round

the majestic walls of this stately château, he straightened out his

spare figure and with one fine gesture begged for silence from his

guests.

Then he said very quietly: "M. Marmont, this is neither the place nor

the opportunity which I should have chosen for confronting you with all

the lies which you have told in the past ten months ever since you

entered my house as an honoured guest. But M. de St. Genis has left me

no option. Burning with indignation at your treachery he came hot-foot

to unmask you, before my daughter's fair hand had affixed her own

honourable name beneath that of a cheat and a traitor. . . . Yes! M. de

Marmont," he reiterated with virile force, breaking in on the hot

protests which had risen to the young man's lips, "no one but a cheat

and a traitor could thus have wormed himself into the confidence of an

old man and of a young girl! No one but a villainous blackguard could

have contemplated the abominable deceptions which you have planned

against me and against my daughter."

For a moment or two after the old man had finished speaking Victor de

Marmont remained silent. There were murmurs of indignation among the

guests, also of approval of the Comte's energetic words. De Marmont was

in the midst of a hostile crowd and he knew it. Here was no drawing-room

quarrel which could be settled at the point of a sword. Though--as Fate

and man so oft ordain it--a woman was the primary reason for the

quarrel, she was not its cause; and the hostility expressed against him

by every glance which de Marmont encountered was so general and so

great, that it overawed him even in the midst of his enthusiasm.

"M. le Comte," he said at last, and he made a great effort to appear

indifferent and unconcerned, "I wish for your daughter's sake that M.

de St. Genis had chosen some other time to make this fracas. We who have

learned chivalry at the Emperor's school would have hit our enemy when

he was in a position to defend himself. This, obviously, I cannot do at

this moment without trespassing still further upon your hospitality, and

causing Mlle. Crystal still more pain. I might even make a direct appeal

to her, since the decision in this matter rests, I imagine, primarily

with her, but with the Emperor at our gates, with the influence of his

power and of his pride dominating my every thought, I will with your

gracious permission relieve you of my unwelcome presence without taking

another leaf out of M. de St. Genis' book."

"As you will, Monsieur," said the Comte stiffly.

De Marmont bowed quite ceremoniously to him, and the Comte--courtly and

correct to the last--returned his salute with equal ceremony. Then the

young man turned to Crystal.

For the first time, perhaps, since the terrible fracas had begun, he

realised what it all must mean to her. She did not try to evade his

look, or to turn away from him. On the contrary she looked him straight

in the face, and watched him while he approached her, without retreating

one single step. But she watched him just as one would watch an abject

and revolting cur, that was too vile and too mean even to merit a kick.

Crystal's blue eyes were always expressive, but they had never been so

expressive as they were just then. De Marmont met her glance squarely,

and he read in it everything that she meant to convey--her contempt, her

loathing, her hatred--but above all her contempt. So overwhelming, so

complete was this contempt that it made him wince, as if he had been

struck in the face with a whip.

He stood still, for he knew that she would never allow him to kiss her

hand in farewell, and he had had enough of insults--he knew that he

could not bear that final one.

A red mist suddenly gathered before his eyes, a mad desire to strike, to

wound or to kill, and with it a wave of passion--he called it Love--for

this woman, such as he had never felt for her before. He gave her back

with a glance, hatred for hatred, but whereas her hatred for him was

smothered in contempt, his for her was leavened with a fierce and

dominant passion.

All this had taken but a few seconds in accomplishment. M. le Comte had

not done more than give a sign to Hector to see M. de Marmont safely out

of the castle, and Maurice de St. Genis had only had time to think of

interposing, if de Marmont tried to take Crystal's hand.

Only a few seconds, but a lifetime of emotion was crammed into them.

Then de Marmont, with Crystal's look of loathing still eating into his

soul, caught sight of Clyffurde who stood close by--Clyffurde whose one

thought throughout all this unhappy scene had been of Crystal, who

through it all had eyes and ears only for her.

Some kind of instinct made the young girl look up to him just then:

probably only in response to a wave of memory which brought back to her

at that very moment, the words of devotion and offer of service which he

had spoken awhile ago; or it may have been that same sense which had

told her at the time that here was a man whom she could always trust,

that he would always prove a friend, as he had promised, and the look

which she gave him was one of simple confidence.

But de Marmont just happened to intercept that look. He had never been

jealous of Clyffurde of course. Clyffurde--the foreigner, the bourgeois

tradesman--never could under any circumstances be a rival to reckon

with. At any other time he would have laughed at the idea of Mlle.

Crystal de Cambray bestowing the slightest favour upon the Englishman.

But within the last few seconds everything had become different. Victor

de Marmont, the triumphant and wealthy suitor of Mlle. de Cambray, had

become a pariah among all these ladies and gentlemen, and he had become

a man scorned by the woman whom he had wooed and thought to win so

easily.

The fierce love engendered for Crystal in his turbulent heart by all the

hatred and all the scorn which she lavished upon him, brought an

unreasoning jealousy into being. He felt suddenly that he detested

Clyffurde. He remembered Clyffurde's nationality and its avowed hatred

of the hero whom he--de Marmont--worshipped. And he realised also that

that same hatred must of necessity be a bond between the Englishman and

Crystal de Cambray.

Therefore--though this new untamed jealousy seized hold of him with

extraordinary power, though it brought that ominous red film before his

eyes, which makes a man strike out blindly and stupidly against his

rival, it also suggested to de Marmont a far simpler and far more

efficacious way of ridding himself once for all of any fear of rivalry

from Clyffurde.

When he had bowed quite formally to Crystal he looked up at Bobby and

gave him a pleasant and friendly nod.

"I suppose you will be coming with me, my good Clyffurde," he said

lightly, "we are rowing in the same boat, you and I. We were a very

happy party, were we not? you and Emery and I when Général Mouton met us

outside Grenoble: for we had just heard the glorious news that the

Emperor is marching triumphantly through France."

Then he turned once more to St. Genis: "Did not," he said, "the

General's aide-de-camp tell you that, M. de St. Genis?"

St. Genis had--during these few seconds while de Marmont held the centre

of the stage--succeeded in controlling his excitement, at any rate

outwardly. He was so absolutely master of the situation and had put his

successful rival so completely to rout, that the sense of satisfaction

helped to soothe his nerves: and when de Marmont spoke directly to him,

he was able to reply with comparative calm.

"Had you," he said to de Marmont, "attempted to deny the accusation

which I have brought against you, I was ready to confront you with the

report which Général Mouton's aide-de-camp brought into the town."

"I had no intention of denying my loyalty to the Emperor," rejoined de

Marmont, "but I would like to know what report Général Mouton's

aide-de-camp brought into Grenoble. The worthy General did not belie his

name, I assure you, he looked mightily scared when he recognised Emery."

"He was alone with his aide-de-camp and in his coach," retorted St.

Genis, "whilst that traitor Emery, you and your friend Mr. Clyffurde

were on horseback--you gave him the slip easily enough."

"That's true, of course," said de Marmont simply. "Well, shall we go, my

dear Clyffurde?"

He had accomplished the purpose of his jealousy even more effectually

than he could have wished. He looked round and saw that everyone had

thrown a casual glance of contempt upon Clyffurde and then turned away

to murmur with scornful indifference: "I always mistrusted that man."

Or: "The Comte ought never to have had the fellow in the house," while

the words: "English spy!" and "Informer" were on every lip.

But Clyffurde had made no movement during this brief colloquy. He

saw--just as de Marmont did--that everyone was listening more with

indifference than with horror. He--the stranger--was of so little

consequence after all!--a tradesman and an Englishman--what mattered

what his political convictions were? De Marmont was an object of

hatred, but he--Clyffurde--was only one of contempt.

He heard the muttered words: "English spy!" "Informer!" and others of

still more overwhelming disdain. But he cared little what these people

said. He knew that they would never trouble to hear any justification

from himself--they would not worry their heads about him a moment longer

once he had left the house in company with de Marmont.

He was not quite sure either whether de Marmont's spite had been

directed against himself, personally, or that it was merely the outcome

of his present humiliating position.

M. le Comte had not bestowed more than a glance upon him and that from

under haughtily raised brows and across half the width of the room: but

Crystal had looked up to him, and was still looking, and it was that

look which had driven all the blood from Clyffurde's face and caused his

lips to set closely as if with a sense of physical pain.

The insults which her father's guests were overtly murmuring, she had in

her mind and her eyes were conveying them to him far more plainly than

her lips could have done:

"English spy--traitor to friendship and to trust--liar, deceiver,

hypocrite." That and more did her scornful glance imply. But she said

nothing. He tried to plead with eyes as expressive as were her own, and

she merely turned away from him, just as if he no longer existed. She

drew her skirt closer round her and somehow with that gesture she seemed

to sweep him entirely out of her existence.

Even Mme. la Duchesse had not one glance for him. To these passionate,

hot-headed, impulsive royalists, an adherent of the Corsican ogre was

lower than the scum of the earth. They loathed de Marmont because he had

been one of themselves: he was a traitor, and not one man there but

would have liked to see him put up against a wall and summarily shot.

But the stranger they wiped out of their lives.

Was there any chance for Clyffurde, if he tried to defend himself? None

of a certainty. He could not call the accusation a lie, since he had

been in the company of Emery and of de Marmont most of the day, and mere

explanations would have fallen on deaf and unwilling ears.

Clyffurde knew this, nor did he attempt any explanation. There is a

certain pride in the heart of every English gentleman which in moments

of acute crisis rises to its full power and height. That pride would not

allow Clyffurde to utter a single word in his own defence. The futility

of attempting it also influenced his decision. He scorned the idea of

speaking on his own behalf, words which were doomed to be disbelieved.

In a moment he had found himself absolutely isolated in the centre of

the room, not far from the hearth where he had stood a little while ago

talking to Crystal, and close to the chair where she had sat with the

light of the fire playing upon her satin gown. The cushions still bore

the impress of her young figure as she had leaned up against them: the

sight of it was an additional pain which almost made Clyffurde wince.

He bowed silently and very low to Crystal and to Mme. la Duchesse, and

then to all the ladies and gentlemen who cold-shouldered him with such

contemptuous ostentation. De Marmont with head erect and an air of

swagger was already waiting for him at the door. Clyffurde in taking

leave of M. le Comte made a violent effort to say at any rate the one

word which weighed upon his heart.

"Will you at least permit me, M. le Comte," he said, "to thank you for

. . ."

But already the Comte had interrupted him, even before the words were

clearly out of his mouth.

"I will not permit you, Sir," he broke in firmly, "to speak a single

word other than a plain denial of M. de St. Genis' accusations against

you."

Then as Clyffurde relapsed into silence, M. le Comte continued with

haughty peremptoriness:

"A plain 'yes' or 'no' will suffice, Sir. Were you or were you not in

the company of those traitors Emery and de Marmont when Général

Mouton-Duvernet came upon them outside Grenoble?"

"I was," replied Clyffurde simply.

With a stiff nod of the head the Comte turned his back abruptly upon

him; no one took any further notice of the "English spy." The accused

had been condemned without enquiry and without trial. In times like

these all one's friends must be above suspicion. Clyffurde knew that

there was nothing to be said. With a quickly suppressed sigh, he too

turned away and in his habitual, English, dogged way he resolutely set

his teeth, and with a firm soldierly step walked quietly out of the

room.

"Hector, see that M. de Marmont's coach is ready for him," said M. le

Comte with well assumed indifference; "and that supper is no longer

delayed."

He then once more offered his arm to Mme. la Duchesse d'Embrun. "Mme. la

Duchesse," he said in his most courtly manner, "I beg that you will

accept my apologies for this unforeseen interruption. May I have the

honour of conducting you to supper?"