CHAPTER VI_The Bronze Eagle: A Story of the Hundred Days

THE CRIME

Victor de Marmont had spent that same night in wearisome agitation. His

mortification and disappointment would not allow him to rest.

He had brought his squad of cavalry up as far as St. Priest, which lies

a little off the main road, about half-way between Lyons and the scene

of de Marmont's late discomfiture. Here he and his men had spent the

night, only to make a fresh start early the next morning--back for

Grenoble--seeing that M. le Comte d'Artois with thirty or forty thousand

troops was even now at Lyons.

When, an hour after leaving St. Priest, the little troop came upon a

solitary horseman, riding a heavy carriage horse with a postillion's

bridle, de Marmont at first had no other thought save that of malicious

pleasure at recognising the man, whom just now he hated more cordially

than any other man in the world.

M. de St. Genis--for indeed it was he--was peremptorily challenged and

questioned, and his wrath and impotent attempts at arrogance greatly

delighted de Marmont.

To make oneself actively unpleasant to a rival is apt to be a very

pleasurable sensation. Victor had an exceedingly disagreeable half-hour

to avenge and to declare St. Genis a prisoner of war, to order his

removal to Grenoble pending the Emperor's pleasure, to command him to

be silent when he desired to speak was so much soothing balsam spread

upon the wounds which his own pride had suffered at Brestalou last

Sunday eve.

It was not until a casual remark from the sergeant under his command

caused him to notice the bulging pockets of St. Genis' coat, that Victor

thought to give the order to search the prisoner.

The latter entered a vigorous protest: he fought and he threatened: he

promised de Marmont the hangman's rope and his men terrible reprisals,

but of course he was fighting a losing battle. He was alone against five

and twenty, his first attempt at getting hold of the pistols in his belt

was met with a threat of summary execution: he was dragged out of the

saddle, his arms were forced behind his back, while rough hands turned

out the precious contents of his coat-pockets! All that he could do was

to curse fate which had brought these pirates on his way, and his own

short-sightedness and impatience in not waiting for the armed patrol

which undoubtedly would have been sent out to him from Lyons in response

to M. le Comte de Cambray's request.

Now he had the deadly chagrin and bitter disappointment of seeing the

money which he had wrested from Clyffurde last night at the price of so

much humiliation, transferred to the pockets of a real thief and

spoliator who would either keep it for himself or--what in the

enthusiastic royalist's eyes would be even worse--place it at the

service of the Corsican usurper. He could hardly believe in the reality

of his ill luck, so appalling was it. In one moment he saw all the hopes

of which he had dreamed last night fly beyond recall. He had lost

Crystal more effectually, more completely than he ever had done before.

If the Englishman ever spoke of what had occurred last night . . . if

Crystal ever knew that he had been fool enough to lose the treasure

which had been in his possession for a few hours--her contempt would

crush the love which she had for him: nor would the Comte de Cambray

ever relent.

De Marmont's triumph too was hard to bear: his clumsy irony was terribly

galling.

"Would M. le Marquis de St. Genis care to continue his journey to Lyons

now? would he prefer not to go to Grenoble?"

St. Genis bit his tongue with the determination to remain silent.

"M. de St. Genis is free to go whither he chooses."

The permission was not even welcome. Maurice would as lief be taken

prisoner and dragged back to Grenoble as face Crystal with the story of

his failure.

Quite mechanically he remounted, and pulled his horse to one side while

de Marmont ordered his little squad to form once more, and after the

brief word of command and a final sarcastic farewell, galloped off up

the road back toward Lyons at the head of his men, not waiting to see if

St. Genis came his way too or not.

The latter with wearied, aching eyes gazed after the fast disappearing

troop, until they became a mere speck on the long, straight road, and

the distant morning mist finally swallowed them up.

Then he too turned his horse's head in the same direction back toward

Lyons once more, and allowing the reins to hang loosely in his hand, and

letting his horse pick its own slow way along the road, he gave himself

over to the gloominess of his own thoughts.

He too had some difficulty in entering the town. M. le Duc d'Orléans,

cousin of the King, had just arrived to support M. le Comte d'Artois,

and together these two royal princes had framed and posted up a

proclamation to the brave Lyonese of the National Guard.

The whole city was in a turmoil, for M. le Duc d'Orléans--who was

nothing if not practical--had at once declared that there was not the

slightest chance of a successful defence of Lyons, and that by far the

best thing to do would be to withdraw the troops while they were still

loyal.

M. le Comte d'Artois protested; at any rate he wouldn't do anything so

drastic till after the arrival of Marshal Macdonald, to whom he had sent

an urgent courier the day before, enjoining him to come to Lyons without

delay. In the meanwhile he and his royal cousin did all they could to

kindle or at any rate to keep up the loyalty of the troops, but

defection was already in the air: here and there the men had been seen

to throw their white cockades into the mud, and more than one cry of

"Vive l'Empereur!" had risen even while Monsieur himself was reviewing

the National Guard on the Place Bellecour.

The bridge of La Guillotière was stoutly barricaded, but as St. Genis

waited out in the open road while his name was being taken to the

officer in command he saw crowds of people standing or walking up and

down on the opposite bank of the river.

They were waiting for the Emperor, the news of whose approach was

filling the townspeople with glee.

Heartsick and wretched, St. Genis, after several hours of weary waiting,

did ultimately obtain permission to enter the city by the ferry on the

south side of the city. Once inside Lyons, he had no difficulty in

ascertaining where such a distinguished gentleman as M. le Comte de

Cambray had put up for the night, and he promptly made his way to the

Hotel Bourbon, his mind, at this stage, still a complete blank as to how

he would explain his discomfiture to the Comte and to Crystal.

In the present state of M. le Comte d'Artois' difficulties the money

would have been thrice welcome, and St. Genis felt the load of failure

weighing thrice as heavily on his soul, and dreaded the

reproaches--mute or outspoken--which he knew awaited him. If only he

could have thought of something! something plausible and not too

inglorious! There was, of course, the possibility that he had failed to

come upon the track of the thieves at all--but then he had no business

to come back so soon--and he didn't want to come back, only that there

was always the likelihood of the Englishman speaking of what had

occurred--not necessarily with evil intent . . . but . . . some words of

his: "If within a week I hear that the King of France has not received

this money, I will proclaim you a liar and a thief!" rang unpleasantly

in St. Genis' ears.

The young man's mind, I repeat, was at this point still a blank as to

what explanation he would give to the Comte de Cambray of his own

miserable failure.

He was returning--after an ardent promise to overtake the thief and to

force him to give up the money--without apparently having made any

effort in that direction--or having made the effort, failing signally

and ignominiously--a foolish and unheroic position in either case.

To tell the whole unvarnished truth, his interview with Clyffurde and

his thoughtlessness in wandering along the road all alone, laden with

twenty-five million francs, not waiting for the arrival of M. le Comte

d'Artois' patrol, was unthinkable.

Then what? St. Genis, determined not to tell the truth, found it a

difficult task to concoct a story that would be plausible and at the

same time redound to his credit. His disappointment was so bitter now,

his hopes of winning Crystal and glory had been so bright, that he found

it quite impossible to go back to the hard facts of life--to his own

poverty and the unattainableness of Crystal de Cambray--without making a

great effort to win back what Victor de Marmont had just wrested from

him.

Through the whirl of his thoughts, too, there was a vague sense of

resentment against Clyffurde--coupled with an equally vague sense of

fear. He, Maurice, might easily keep silent over the transaction of last

night, but Clyffurde might not feel inclined to do so. He would want to

know sooner or later what had become of the money . . . had he not

uttered a threat which made Maurice's cheeks even now flush with wrath

and shame?

Certain words and gestures of the Englishman had stood out before

Maurice's mind in a way that had stirred up those latent jealousies

which always lurk in the heart of an unsuccessful wooer. Clyffurde had

been generous--blind to his own interests--ready to sacrifice what

recognition he had earned: he had spared his assailant and agreed to an

unworthy subterfuge, and St. Genis' tormented brain began to wonder why

he had done all this.

Was it for love of Crystal de Cambray?

St. Genis would not allow himself to answer that question, for he felt

that if he did he would hate that hard-fisted Englishman more thoroughly

than he had ever hated any man before--not excepting de Marmont. De

Marmont was an evil and vile traitor who never could cross Crystal's

path of life again. . . . But not so the Englishman, who had planned to

serve her and who would have succeeded so magnificently but for

his--Maurice's--interference!

If this explanation of Clyffurde's strangely magnanimous conduct was the

true one, then indeed St. Genis felt that he would have everything to

fear from him. For indeed was it so very unlikely that the Englishman

was throughout acting in collusion with Victor de Marmont, who was known

to be his friend?

Was it so very unlikely that--seeing himself unmasked--he had found a

sure and rapid way of allowing the money to pass through St. Genis'

hands into those of de Marmont, and at the same time hopelessly

humiliating and discrediting his rival in the affections of Mlle. de

Cambray?

That the suggestion of handing the money over to him had come originally

from Maurice de St. Genis himself, the young man did not trouble himself

to remember. The more he thought this new explanation of past events

over, the more plausible did it seem and the more likely of acceptance

by M. le Comte de Cambray and by Crystal, and St. Genis at last saw his

way to appearing before them not only zealous but heroic--even if

unfortunate--and it was with a much lightened heart that he finally drew

rein outside the Hotel Bourbon.

III

M. le Comte de Cambray, it seems, was staying at the Hotel for a few

days, so the proprietor informed M. de St. Genis. M. le Comte had gone

out, but Mme. la Duchesse d'Agen was upstairs with Mlle. de Cambray.

With somewhat uncertain step St. Genis followed the obsequious

proprietor, who had insisted on conducting M. le Marquis to the ladies'

apartments himself. They occupied a suite of rooms on the first floor,

and after a timid knock at the door, it was opened by Jeanne from

within, and Maurice found himself in the presence of Crystal and of the

Duchesse and obliged at once to enter upon the explanation which, with

their first cry of surprise, they already asked of him.

"Well!" exclaimed Crystal eagerly, "what news?"

"Of the money?" murmured Maurice vaguely, who above all things was

anxious to gain time.

"Yes! the King's money!" rejoined the girl with slight impatience. "Have

you tracked the thieves? Do you know where they are? Is there any hope

of catching them?"

"None, I am afraid," he replied firmly.

Crystal gave a cry of bitter disappointment and reproach. "Then,

Maurice," she exclaimed almost involuntarily, "why are you here?"

And Mme. la Duchesse, folding her mittened hands before her, seemed

mutely to be asking the same question.

"But did you come upon the thieves at all?" continued Crystal with eager

volubility. "Where did they go to for the night? You must have come on

some traces of their passage. Oh!" she added vehemently, "you ought not

to have deserted your post like this!"

"What could I do," he murmured. "I was all alone . . . against so many.

. . ."

"You said that you would get on the track of the thieves," she urged,

"and father told you that he would speak with M. le Comte d'Artois as

soon as possible. Monsieur has promised that an armed patrol would be

sent out to you, and would be on the lookout for you on the road."

"An armed patrol would be no use. I came back on purpose to stop one

being sent."

"But why, in Heaven's name?" exclaimed the Duchesse.

"Because a troop of deserters with that traitor Victor de Marmont is

scouring the road, and . . ."

"We know that," said Crystal, "we were stopped by them last night, after

you left us. They were after the money for the usurper, who had sent

them, and I thanked God that twenty-five millions had enriched a common

thief rather than the Corsican brigand."

"Surely, Maurice," said the Duchesse with her usual tartness, "you were

not fool enough to allow the King's money to fall into that abominable

de Marmont's hands?"

"How could I help it?" now exclaimed the young man, as if driven to the

extremity of despair. "The whole thing was a huge plot beyond one man's

power to cope with. I tracked the thieves," he continued with vehemence

as eager as Crystal's, "I tracked them to a lonely hostelry off the

beaten track--at dead of night--a den of cutthroats and conspirators. I

tracked the thief to his lair and forced him to give the money up to

me."

"You forced him? . . . Oh! how splendid!" cried Crystal. "But then

. . ."

"Ah, then! there was the hideousness of the plot. The thief, feeling

himself unmasked, gave up his stolen booty; I forced him to his knees,

and five wallets containing twenty-five million francs were safely in my

pockets at last."

"You forced him--how splendid!" reiterated Crystal, whose glowing eyes

were fixed upon Maurice with all the admiration which she felt.

"Yes! that money was in my pocket for the rest of the happy night, but

the abominable thief knew well that his friend Victor de Marmont was on

the road with five and twenty armed deserters in the pay of the Corsican

brigand. Hardly had I left the hostelry and found my way back to the

main road when I was surrounded, assailed, searched and robbed. I

repeat!" continued St. Genis, warming to his own narrative, "what could

I do alone against so many?--the thief and his hirelings I managed

successfully, but with the money once in my possession I could not risk

staying an hour longer than I could help in that den of cutthroats. But

they were in league with de Marmont, and, though I would have guarded

the King's money with my life, it was filched from me ere I could draw a

single weapon in its defence."

He had sunk in a chair, half exhausted with the effort of his own

eloquence, and now, with elbows resting on his knees and head buried in

his hands, he looked the picture of heroic misery.

Crystal said nothing for a while; there was a deep frown of puzzlement

between her eyes.

"Maurice," she said resolutely at last, "you said just now that the

thief was in collusion with his friend de Marmont. What did you mean by

that?"

"I would rather that you guessed what I meant, Crystal," replied Maurice

without looking up at her.

"You mean . . . that . . ." she began slowly.

"That it was Mr. Clyffurde, our English friend," broke in Madame tartly,

"who robbed us on the broad highway. I suspected it all along."

"You suspected it, _ma tante_, and said nothing?" asked the girl, who

obviously had not taken in the full significance of Maurice's statement.

"I said absolutely nothing," replied Madame decisively, "firstly,

because I did not think that I would be doing any good by putting my own

surmises into my brother's head, and, secondly, because I must confess

that I thought that nice young Englishman had acted pour le bon motif."

"How could you think that, _ma tante_?" ejaculated Crystal hotly: "a

good motive? to rob us at dead of night--he, a friend of Victor de

Marmont--an adherent of the Corsican! . . ."

"Englishmen are not adherents of the Corsican, my dear," retorted Madame

drily, "and until Maurice's appearance this morning, I was satisfied

that the money would ultimately reach His Majesty's own hands."

"But we were taking the money to His Majesty ourselves."

"And Victor de Marmont was after it. Mr. Clyffurde may have known that.

. . . Remember, my dear," continued Madame, "that these were my

impressions last night. Maurice's account of the den of cutthroats has

modified these entirely."

Again Crystal was silent. The frown had darkened on her face: there was

a line of bitter resentment round her lips--a look of contempt, of hate,

of a desire to hurt, in her eyes.

"Maurice," she said abruptly at last.

"Yes?"

"I did wound that thief, did I not?"

"Yes. In the shoulder . . . it gave me a slight advantage . . ." he said

with affected modesty.

"I am glad. And you . . . you were able to punish him too, I hope."

"Yes. I punished him."

He was watching her very closely, for inwardly he had been wondering how

she had taken his news. She was strangely agitated, so Maurice's

troubled, jealous heart told him; her face was flushed, her eyes were

wet and a tiny lace handkerchief which she twisted between her fingers

was nothing but a damp rag.

"Oh! I hate him! I hate him!" she murmured as with an impatient gesture

she brushed the gathering tears from her eyes. "Father had been so kind

to him--so were we all. How could he? how could he?"

"His duty, I suppose," said St. Genis magnanimously.

"His duty?" she retorted scornfully.

"To the cause which he served."

"Duty to a usurper, a brigand, the enemy of his country. Was he, then,

paid to serve the Corsican?"

"Probably."

"His being in trade--buying gloves at Grenoble--was all a plant then?"

"I am afraid so," said St. Genis, who much against his will now was

sinking ever deeper and deeper in the quagmire of lying and cowardice

into which he had allowed himself to drift.

"And he was nothing better than a spy!"

No one, not even Crystal herself, could have defined with what feelings

she said this. Was it solely contempt? or did a strange mixture of

regret and sorrow mingle with the scorn which she felt? Swiftly her

thoughts had flown back to that Sunday evening--a very few days

ago--when the course of her destiny was so suddenly changed once more,

when her marriage with a man whom she could never love was broken off,

when the possibilities once more rose upon the horizon of her life, of a

renewed existence of poverty and exile in the wake of a dispossessed

king.

That same evening a man whom she had hardly noticed before--a man

neither of her own nationality nor of her own caste--this same

Englishman, Clyffurde, had entered into her life--not violently or

aggressively, but just with a few words of intense sympathy and with a

genuine offer of friendship; and she somehow, despite much kindness

which encompassed her always, had felt cheered and warmed by his words,

and a strange and sweet sense of security against hurt and sorrow had

entered her heart as she listened to them.

And now she knew that all that was false--false his sympathy, false his

offers of friendship--his words were false, his hand-grasp false.

Treachery lurked behind that kindly look in his eyes, and falsehood

beneath his smile.

"He was nothing better than a spy!" The sting of that thought hurt her

more than she could have thought possible. She had so few real friends

and this one had proved a sham. Had she been alone she would have given

way to tears, but before Maurice or even her aunt she was ashamed of her

grief, ashamed of her feelings and of her thoughts. There was a great

deal yet that she wished to know, but somehow the words choked her when

she wanted to ask further questions. Fortunately Mme. la Duchesse was

taking Maurice thoroughly to task. She asked innumerable questions, and

would not spare him the relation of a single detail.

"Tell us all about it from the beginning, Maurice," she said. "Where did

you first meet the rogue?"

And Maurice--weary and ashamed--was forced to embark on a minute account

of adventures that were lies from beginning to end: he had stumbled

across the wayside hostelry on a lonely by-path: he had found it full of

cut-throats: he had stalked and waylaid their chief in his own room,

and forced him to give up the money by the weight of his fists.

It was paltry and pitiable: nevertheless, St. Genis, as he warmed to his

tale, lost the shame of it; only wrath remained with him: anger that he

should be forced into this despicable rôle through the intrigues of a

rival.

In his heart he was already beginning to find innumerable excuses for

his cowardice: and his rage and hatred grew against Clyffurde as

Madame's more and more persistent questions taxed his imagination almost

to exhaustion.

When, after half an hour of this wearying cross-examination, Madame at

last granted him a respite, he made a pretext of urgent business at M.

le Comte d'Artois' headquarters and took his leave of the ladies. He

waited in vain hope that the Duchesse's tact would induce her to leave

him alone for a moment with Crystal. Madame stuck obstinately to her

chair and was blind and deaf to every hint of appeal from him, whilst

Crystal, who was singularly absorbed and had lent but a very indifferent

ear to his narrative, made no attempt to detain him.

She gave him her hand to kiss, just as Madame had done; it lay hot and

moist in his grasp.

"Crystal," he continued to murmur as his lips touched her fingers, "I

love you . . . I worked for you . . . it is not my fault that I failed."

She looked at him kindly and sympathetically through her tears, and gave

his hand a gentle little pressure.

"I am sure it was not your fault," she replied gently, "poor Maurice.

. . ."

It was not more than any kind friend would say under like circumstances,

but to a lover every little word from the beloved has a significance of

its own, every look from her has its hidden meaning. Somewhat satisfied

and cheered Maurice now took his final leave:

"Does M. le Comte propose to continue his journey to Paris?" he asked at

the last.

"Oh, yes!" Crystal replied, "he could not stay away while he feels that

His Majesty may have need of him. Oh, Maurice!" she added suddenly,

forgetting her absorption, her wrath against Clyffurde, her own

disappointment--everything--in face of the awful possible calamity, and

turning anxious, appealing eyes upon the young man, "you don't think, do

you, that that abominable usurper will succeed in ousting the King once