THE LOSING HANDS
I
An hour later Maurice de St. Genis was in Brussels. Though his head
still ached his mind was clear, and thoughts of Crystal--of happiness
with her now at last within sight--had chased every other thought away.
His home had been with the de Cambrays ever since those old, sad days in
England; he had a home to go to now:--a home where the kindly friendship
of the Comte as well as the love of Crystal was ready to welcome him.
The warmth of anticipated happiness and well-being warmed his heart and
gave strength to his body. The horrors of the past few hours seemed all
to have melted away behind him on the Brussels road as did the
remembrance of a man--wounded himself and spent--risking his life for
the sake of a friend. Not that St. Genis meant to be ungrateful--nor did
he forget that wounded man--lying alone and sick on the fringe of the
wood by the roadside.
As soon as he had taken his horse round to the barracks in the rue des
Comédiens, and before even he had a wash or had his uniform cleaned of
stains and mud, he rushed to the headquarters of the Army Service to see
how soon a conveyance could be sent out to his friend--and when he was
unable to obtain what he wanted there, he rushed from hospital to
hospital, thence to two or three doctors whom he knew of to see what
could be done. But the hospitals were already over-full and over-busy:
their ambulances were all already on the way: as for the doctors, they
were all from home--all at work where their skill was most needed--an
army of doctors, of ambulances and drivers would not suffice at this
hour to bring all the wounded in from the spot where that awful battle
was raging.
And Maurice saw time slipping by: he had already spent an hour in a
fruitless quest. He longed to see Crystal and waxed impatient at the
delay. Anon at the English hospital a kindly person--who listened
sympathetically to his tale--promised him that the ambulance which was
just setting out in the direction of Mont Saint Jean would be on the
look-out for his wounded friend by the roadside; and Maurice with a sigh
of relief felt that he had indeed done his duty and done his best.
At the English hospital Clyffurde would be splendidly looked
after--nowhere else could he find such sympathetic treatment! And
Maurice with a light heart went back to the barracks in the rue des
Comédiens, where he had a wash and had his uniform cleaned. Somewhat
refreshed, though still very tired, he hurried round to the rue du
Marais, where the Comte de Cambray had his lodgings. The first sight of
Brussels had already told him the whole pitiable tale of panic and of
desolation which had filled the city in the wake of the fugitive troops.
The streets were encumbered with vehicles of every kind--carts,
barouches, barrows--with horses loosely tethered, with the wounded who
lay about on litters of straw along the edges of the pavement, in
doorways, under archways in the centre of open places, with crowds of
weeping women and crying children wandering aimlessly from place to
place trying to find the loved one who might be lying here, hurt or
mayhap dying.
And everywhere men in tattered uniforms, with grimy hands and faces, and
boots knee-deep in stains of mud, stood about or sat in the empty
carts, talking, gesticulating, giving sundry, confused and contradictory
accounts of the great battle--describing Napoleon's decisive
victory--Wellington's rout--the prolonged absence of Blücher and the
Prussians, cause of the terrible disaster.
M. le Comte d'Artois had rushed precipitately from Brussels up to Ghent
to warn His Majesty the King of France that all hope of saving his
throne was now at an end, and that the wisest course to pursue was to
return to England and resign himself once more to obscurity and exile.
M. le Prince de Condé too had gone off to Antwerp in a huge barouche,
having under his care the treasure and jewels of the crown hastily
collected three months ago at the Tuileries.
In every open space a number of prisoners were being guarded by mixed
patrols of Dutch, Belgian or German soldiers, and their cry of "Vive
l'Empereur!" which they reiterated with unshakable obstinacy roused the
ire of their captors, and provoked many a savage blow, and many a broken
head.
But St. Genis did not pause to look on these sights: he had not the
strength to stand up in the midst of these confused masses of
terror-driven men and women, and to shout to them that they were
fools--that all their panic must be turned to joy, their lamentations to
shouts of jubilation. News of victory was bound to spread through the
city within the next hour, and he himself longed only to see Crystal, to
reassure her as to his own safety, to see the light of happiness kindled
in her eyes by the news which he brought. He had not the strength for
more.
It was old Jeanne who opened the door at the lodgings in the rue du
Marais when Maurice finally rang the bell there.
"M. le Marquis!" she exclaimed. "Oh! but you are ill."
"Only very tired and weak, Jeanne," he said. "It has been an awful day."
"Ah! but M. le Comte will be pleased!"
"And Mademoiselle Crystal?" asked Maurice with a smile which had in it
all the self-confidence of the accepted lover.
"Mademoiselle Crystal will be happy too," said Jeanne. "She has been so
unhappy, so desperately anxious all day."
"Can I see her?"
"Mademoiselle is out for the moment, M. le Marquis. And M. le Comte has
gone to the Cercle des Légitimistes in the rue des Cendres--perhaps M.
le Marquis knows--it is not far."
"I would like to see Mademoiselle Crystal first. You understand, don't
you, Jeanne?"
"Yes, I do, M. le Marquis," sighed faithful Jeanne, who was always
inclined to be sentimental.
"How long will she be, do you think?"
"Oh! another half hour. Perhaps more. Mademoiselle has gone to the
cathedral. If M. le Marquis will give himself the trouble to walk so
far, he cannot fail to see Mademoiselle when she comes out of church."
But already--before Jeanne had finished speaking--Maurice had turned on
his heel and was speeding back down the narrow street. Tired and weak as
he was, his one idea was to see Crystal, to hear her voice, to see the
love-light in her eyes. He felt that at sight of her all fatigue would
be gone, all recollections of the horrors of this day wiped out with the
first look of joy and relief with which she would greet him.
II
The service was over, and the congregation had filed out of the
cathedral. Crystal was one of the last to go. She stood for a long while
in the porch looking down with unseeing eyes on the bustle and
excitement which went on in the Place down below. Her mind was not
here. It was far indeed from the crowd of terror-stricken or gossiping
men and women, of wounded soldiers, terrified peasantry and anxious
townsfolk that encumbered the precincts of the stately edifice.
From the remote distance--out toward the south--came the boom and roar
of cannon and musket fire--almost incessant still. There was her heart!
there her thoughts! with the brave men who were fighting for their
national existence--with the British troops and with their
sufferings--and she stood here, staring straight out before
her--dry-eyed and pale and small white hands clasped tightly together.
The greater part of to-day she had sat by the open window in the shabby
drawing-room in the rue du Marais, listening to that awful fusillade,
wondering with mind well-nigh bursting with horror and with misery which
of those cruel shots which she heard in the dim distance would still for
ever the brave and loyal heart that had made so many silent sacrifices
for her.
And her father, vaguely thinking that she was anxious about
Maurice--vaguely wondering that she cared so much--had done his best to
try and comfort her: "She need not fear much for Maurice," he had told
her as reassuringly as he could--"the Brunswickers were not likely to
suffer much. The brunt of the conflict would fall upon the British. Ah!
but they would lose very heavily. Wellington had not more than seventy
thousand men to put up against the Corsican's troops; and only a hundred
and fifty cannon against two hundred and eighty. Yes, the British would
probably be annihilated by superior forces: but no doubt the other
allies--and the Brunswickers--would come off a great deal better."
But Mme. la Duchesse douairière d'Agen offered no such consolation. She
contented herself with saying that she was sure in her mind that
Maurice would come through quite safely, and that she prayed to God with
all her heart and soul that the gallant British troops would not suffer
too heavily. Then with her fine, gentle hand she patted Crystal's fair
curls which were clinging matted and damp against the young girl's
burning forehead. And she stooped and kissed those aching dry blue eyes
and whispered quite under her breath so that Crystal could not be sure
if she heard correctly: "May God protect him too! He is a brave and a
good man!"
And then Crystal had gone out to seek peace and rest in beautiful old
Ste. Gudule, so full of memories of other conflicts, other prayers,
other deeds of heroism of long ago. Here in the dim light and the
silence and the peace, her quivering nerves had become somewhat stilled:
and when she came out she was able just for the moment neither to see or
hear the terror-mongers down below and only to think of the heroes out
there on the field of battle for whom she had just prayed with such
passionate earnestness.
Suddenly in the crowd she recognised Maurice. He was coming up the
cathedral steps, looking for her, no doubt--Jeanne must have directed
him. When he drew near to her, he saw that a look of happy surprise and
of true joy lit up the delicate pathos of her face. He ran quickly to
her now. He would have taken her in his arms--here in face of the
crowd--but there was something in her manner which instinctively sobered
him and he had to be content with the little cold hands which she held
out to him and with imprinting a kiss upon her finger tips.
Already in his eyes she had read that the news which he brought was not
so bad as rumour had foretold.
"Maurice," she cried excitedly, with a little catch in her throat, "you
are well and safe, thank God! And what news? . . ."
"The news is good," Maurice replied. "Victory is assured by now. It has
been a hard day, but we have won."
She said nothing for a moment. But the tears gathered in her eyes, her
lips quivered and Maurice knew that she was thanking God. Then she
turned back to him and he could see her face glowing with excitement.
"And our allies," she asked, and now that little catch in her throat was
more marked, "the British troops? . . . We heard that they behaved like
heroes, and bore the brunt of this awful battle."
"I don't know much about the British troops, my sweet," he replied
lightly, "but what news I have I will have to impart to your father as
well as to you. So it will have to keep until I see him . . . but just
now, Crystal, while we are alone . . . I have other things to say to
you."
But it is doubtful if Crystal heard more than just the first words which
he had spoken, for she broke in quite irrelevantly:
"You don't know about the British troops, Maurice? Oh! but you must
know! . . . Don't you know what British regiments were engaged? . . ."
"I know that none of our own people were in British regiments, Crystal,"
he retorted somewhat drily, "whereas the Brunswickers and Nassauers were
as much French as German . . . they fought gallantly all day . . . you
do not ask so much about them."
"But . . ." she stammered while a hot flush spread over her cheeks, "I
thought . . . you said . . ."
"Are you not content for the moment, Crystal," he called out with tender
reproach, "to know that victory has crowned our King and his allies and
that I have come back to you safely out of that raging hell at Waterloo?
Are you not glad that I am here?"
He spoke more vehemently now, for there was something in Crystal's calm
attitude which had begun to chill him. Had he not been in deadly danger
all the day? Had she not heard that distant cannon's roar which had
threatened his life throughout all these hours? Had he not come back out
of the very jaws of Death?
And yet here she stood white as a lily and as unruffled; except for that
one first exclamation of joy not a single cry from the heart had forced
itself through her pale, slightly trembling lips: yet she was sweet and
girlish and tender as of old and even now at the implied reproach her
eyes had quickly filled with tears.
"How can you ask, Maurice?" she protested gently. "I have thought of you
and prayed for you all day."
It was her quiet serenity that disconcerted him--the kindly tone of her
voice--her calm, unembarrassed manner checked his passionate impulse and
caused him to bite his underlip with vexation until it bled.
The shadows of evening were closing in around them: from the windows of
the houses close by dim, yellow lights began to blink like eyes.
Overhead, the exquisite towers of Ste. Gudule stood out against the
stormy sky like perfect, delicate lace-work turned to stone, whilst the
glass of the west window glittered like a sheet of sapphires and
emeralds and rubies, as it caught the last rays of the sinking sun.
Crystal's graceful figure stood out in its white, summer draperies,
clear and crystalline as herself against the sombre background of the
cathedral porch.
And Maurice watched her through the dim shadows of gathering twilight:
he watched her as a fowler watches the bird which he has captured and
never wholly tamed. Somehow he felt that her love for him was not quite
what it had been until now: that she was no longer the same girlish,
submissive creature on whose soft cheeks a word or look from him had the
power to raise a flush of joy.
She was different now--in a curious, intangible way which he could not
define.
And jealousy reared up its threatening head more insistently:--bitter
jealousy which embraced de Marmont, Clyffurde, Fate and
Circumstance--but Clyffurde above all--the stranger hitherto deemed of
no account, but who now--wounded, abandoned, dying, perhaps--seemed a
more formidable rival than Maurice awhile ago had deemed possible.
He cursed himself for that touch of sentiment--he called it
cowardice--which the other night, after the ball, had prompted him to
write to Crystal. But for that voluntary confession--he thought--she
could never have despised him. And following up the train of his own
thoughts, and realising that these had not been spoken aloud, he
suddenly called out abruptly:
"Is it because of my letter, Crystal?"
She gave a start, and turned even paler than she had been before.
Obviously she had been brought roughly back from the land of dreams.
"Your letter, Maurice?" she asked vaguely, "what do you mean?"
"I wrote you a letter the other night," he continued, speaking quickly
and harshly, "after the ball. Did you receive it?"
"Yes."
"And read it?"
"Of course."
"And is it because of it that your love for me has gone?"
He had not meant to put his horrible suspicions into words. The very
fact--now that he had spoken--appeared more tangible, even irremediable.
She did not reply to his taunt, and he came a little closer to her and
took her hand, and when she tried to withdraw it from his grasp he held
it tightly and bent down his head so that in the gathering gloom he
could read every line of her face.
"Because of what I told you in my letter you despised me, did you not?"
he asked.
Again she made no reply. What could she say that would not hurt him far
more than did her silence? The next moment he had drawn her back right
into the shadow of the cathedral walls, into a dark angle, where no one
could see either her or him. He placed his hands upon her shoulders and
compelled her to look him straight in the face.
"Listen, Crystal," he said slowly and with desperate earnestness. "Once,
long ago, I gave you up to de Marmont, to affluence and to
considerations of your name and of our caste. It all but broke my heart,
but I did it because your father demanded that sacrifice from you and
from me. I was ready then to stand aside and to give up all the dreams
of my youth. . . . But now everything is different. For one thing, the
events of the past hundred days have made every man many years older:
the hell I went through to-day has helped to make a more sober, more
determined man of me. Now I will not give you up. I will not. My way is
clear: I can win you with your father's consent and give him and you all
that de Marmont had promised. The King trusts me and will give me what I
ask. I am no longer a wastrel, no longer poor and obscure. And I will
not give you up--I swear it by all that I have gone through to-day. I
will not! if I have to kill with my own hand every one who stands in my
way."
And Crystal, smiling, quite kindly and a little abstractedly at his
impulsive earnestness, gently removed his hands from her shoulders and
said calmly:
"You are tired, Maurice, and overwrought. Shall we go in and wait for
father? He will be getting anxious about me." And without waiting to see
if he followed her, she turned to walk toward the steps.
St. Genis smothered a violent oath, but he said nothing more. He was
satisfied with what he had done. He knew that women liked a masterful
man and he meant every word which he said. He would not give her up
. . . not now . . . and not to . . . Ye gods! he would not think of
that;--he would not think of the lonely roadside nor of the wounded man
who had robbed him of Crystal's love. He had done his duty by
Clyffurde--what more could he have done at this hour?--and he meant to
do far more than that--he meant to go back to the English hospital as
soon as possible, to see that Clyffurde had every attention, every care,
every comfort that human sympathy can bestow. What more could he do? He
would have done no good by going out with the ambulance himself--surely
not--he would have missed seeing Crystal--and she would have fretted and
been still more anxious . . . his first duty was to Crystal . . . and
. . . and . . . St. Genis only thought of Crystal and of himself and the
voice of Conscience was compulsorily stilled.
III
Having lulled his conscience to sleep and satisfied his self-love by a
passionate tirade, Maurice followed Crystal down the steps at the west
front of Ste. Gudule.
Immediately opposite them at the corner of the narrow rue de Ligne was
the old Auberge des Trois Rois, from whence the diligence started twice
a day in time to catch the tide and the English packet at Ostend.
Maurice and Crystal stood for a moment together on the steps watching
the bustle and excitement, the comings and goings of the crowd, which
always attend such departures. All day there had been a steady stream of
fugitives out of the town, taking their belongings with them: the
diligence was for the well-to-do and the indifferent who hurried away to
England to await the advent of more settled times.
Victor de Marmont had secured his place inside the coach. He had
exchanged his borrowed uniform for civilian clothes, he had bestowed his
belongings in the vehicle and he was standing about desultorily waiting
for the hour of departure. The diligence would not arrive at Ostend till
five o'clock in the morning: then with the tide the packet would go out,
getting into London well after midday. Chance, as represented by the
tide, had seriously handicapped de Marmont's plans. But enthusiasm and
doggedness of purpose whispered to him that he still held the winning
card. The English packet was timed to arrive in London by two o'clock in
the afternoon, he would still have two hours to his credit before
closing time on 'Change and another hour in the street. Time to find his
broker and half an hour to spare: that would still leave him an hour
wherein to make a fortune for his Emperor.
At one time he was afraid that he would not be able to secure a seat in
the diligence, so numerous were the travellers who wished to leave
Brussels behind them. But in this, Chance and the length of his purse
favoured him: he bought his seat for an exorbitant price, but he bought
it; and at nine o'clock the diligence was timed to start.
It was now half-past eight. And just then de Marmont caught sight of
Crystal and St. Genis coming down the cathedral steps.
He had half an hour to spare and he followed them. He wanted to speak to
Crystal--he had wanted it all day--but the difficulty of getting what
clothes he required and the trouble and time spent in bargaining for a
seat in the diligence had stood in his way. M. le Comte de Cambray would
never, of course, admit him inside his doors, and it would have meant
hanging about in the rue du Marais and trusting to a chance meeting with
Crystal when she went out, and for this he had not the time.
And the chance meeting had come about in spite of all adverse
circumstances: and de Marmont followed Crystal through the crowded
streets, hoping that St. Genis would take leave of her before she went
indoors. But even if he did not, de Marmont meant to have a few words
with Crystal. He was going to win a gigantic fortune for the
Emperor--one wherewith that greatest of all adventurers could once again
recreate the Empire of France: he himself--rich already--would become
richer still and also--if his coup succeeded--one of the most trusted,
most influential men in the recreated Empire. He felt that with the
offer of his name he could pour out a veritable cornucopia of abundant
glory, honours, wealth at a woman's feet. And his ambition had always
been bound up in a great measure with Crystal de Cambray. He certainly
loved her in his way, for her beauty and her charm; but, above all, he
looked on her as the very personification of the old and proud regime
which had thought fit to scorn the parvenu noblesse of the Empire, and
for a powerful adherent of Napoleon to be possessed of a wife out of
that exclusive milieu was like a fresh and glorious trophy of war on a
conqueror's chariot-wheel.
De Marmont had the supreme faith of an ambitious man in the power of
wealth and of court favour. He knew that Napoleon was not a man who ever
forgot a service efficiently rendered, and would repay this
one--rendered at the supreme hour of disaster--with a surfeit of
gratitude and of gifts which must perforce dazzle any woman's eyes and
conquer her imagination.
Besides his schemes, his ambitions, the future which awaited him, what
had an impecunious wastrel like St. Genis to offer to a woman like
Crystal de Cambray?
Outside the house in the rue du Marais where the Comte de Cambray
lodged, St. Genis and Crystal paused, and de Marmont, who still kept
within the shadows, waited for a favourable opportunity to make his
presence known.
"I'll find M. le Comte and bring him back with me," he heard St. Genis
saying. "You are sure I shall find him at the Légitimiste?"
"Quite sure," Crystal replied. "He did not mean to leave the Cercle till
about nine. He is sure to wait for every bit of news that comes in."
"It will be a great moment for me, if I am the first to bring in
authentic good news."
"You will be quite the first, I should say," she assented, "but don't
let father stay too long talking. Bring him back quickly. Remember I
haven't heard all the news yet myself."
St. Genis went up to the front door and rang the bell, then he took
leave of Crystal. De Marmont waited his opportunity. Anon, Jeanne opened
the door, and St. Genis walked quickly back down the street.
Crystal paused a moment by the open door in order to talk to Jeanne, and
while she did so de Marmont slipped quickly past her into the house and
was some way down the corridor before the two women had recovered from
their surprise. Jeanne, as was her wont, was ready to scream, but
despite the fast gathering gloom Crystal had at once recognised de
Marmont. She turned a cold look upon him.
"An intrusion, Monsieur?" she asked quietly.
"We'll call it that, Mademoiselle, an you will," he replied
imperturbably, "and if you will kindly order your servant to go, it
shall be a very brief one."
"My father is from home," she said.
De Marmont smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
"I know that," he said, "or I would not be here."
"Then your intrusion is that of a coward, if you knew that I was
unprotected."
"Are you afraid of me, Crystal?" he asked with a sneer.
"I am afraid of no one," she replied. "But since you and I have nothing
to say to one another, I beg that you will no longer force your company
upon me."
"Your pardon, but there is something very important which I must say to
you. I have news of to-day's doings out there at Waterloo, which bear
upon the whole of your future and upon your happiness. I myself leave
for England in less than half an hour. I was taking my place in the
diligence outside the Trois Rois when I saw you coming down the
cathedral steps. Fate has given me an opportunity for which I sought
vainly all day. You will never regret it, Crystal, if you listen to me
now."
"I listen," she broke in coolly. "I pray you be as brief as you can."
"Will you order the servant to go?"
For a moment longer she hesitated. Commonsense told her that it was
neither prudent nor expedient to hold converse with this man, who was an
avowed and bitter enemy of her cause. But he had spoken of the doings at
Waterloo and spoken of them in connection with her own future and her
happiness, and--prudent or not--she wanted to hear what he had to say,
in the vague hope that from a chance word carelessly dropped by Victor
de Marmont she would glean, if only a scrap, some news of that on which
St. Genis would not dwell but on which hung her heart and her very
life--the fate of the British troops.
After all he might know something, he might say something which would
help her to bear this intolerable misery of uncertainty: and on the
merest chance of that she threw prudence to the winds.
"You may go, Jeanne," she said. "But remain within call. Leave the front
door open," she added. "M. le Comte and M. le Marquis will be here
directly."
"Oh! you are well protected," said Victor de Marmont with a careless
shrug of the shoulders, as Jeanne's heavy, shuffling footsteps died away
down the corridor.
"Now, M. de Marmont," said Crystal coolly. "I listen."
She was leaning back against the wall--her hands behind her, her pale
face and large blue eyes with their black dilated pupils turned
questioningly upon him. The walls of the corridor were painted white,
after the manner of Flemish houses, the tiled floor was white too, and
Crystal herself was dressed all in white, so that the whole scene made
up of pale, soft tints looked weird and ghostly in the twilight and
Crystal like an ethereal creature come down from the land of nymphs and
of elves.
And de Marmont, too--like St. Genis a while ago--felt that never had
this beautiful woman--she was no longer a girl now--looked more
exquisite and more desirable, and he--conscious of the power which
fortune and success can give, thought that he could woo and win her once
again in spite of caste-prejudice and of political hatred. St. Genis had
felt his position unassailable by virtue of old associations, common
sympathies and youthful vows: de Marmont relied on feminine ambition,
love of power, of wealth and of station, and at this moment in Crystal's
shining eyes he only read excitement and the unspoken desire for all
that he was prepared to offer.
"I have only a few moments to spare, Crystal," he said slowly, and with
earnest emphasis, "so I will be very brief. For the moment the Emperor
has suffered a defeat--as he did at Eylau or at Leipzic--his defeats are
always momentary, his victories alone are decisive and abiding. The
whole world knows that. It needs no proclaiming from me. But in order to
retrieve that momentary defeat of to-day he has deigned to ask my help.
The gods are good to me! they have put it within my power to help my
Emperor in his need. I am going to England to-night in order to carry
out his instructions. By to-morrow afternoon I shall have finished my
work. The Empire of France will once more rise triumphant and glorious
out of the ashes of a brief defeat; the Emperor once more, Phœbus-like,
will drive the chariot of the Sun, Lord and Master of Europe, greater
since his downfall, more powerful, more majestic than ever before. And
I, who will have been the humble instrument of his reconquered glory,
will deserve to the full his bounty and his gratitude."
He paused for lack of breath, for indeed he had talked fast and volubly:
Crystal's voice, cold and measured, broke in on the silence that ensued.
"And in what way does all this concern me, M. de Marmont?" she asked.
"It concerns your whole future, Crystal," he replied with ever-growing
solemnity and conviction. "You must have known all along that I have
never ceased to love you: you have always been the only possible woman
for me--my ideal, in fact. Your father's injustice I am willing to
forget. Your troth was plighted to me and I have done nothing to deserve
all the insults which he thought fit to heap upon me. I wanted you to
know, Crystal, that my love is still yours, and that the fortune and
glory which I now go forth to win I will place with inexpressible joy at
your feet."
She shrugged her shoulders and an air of supreme indifference spread
over her face. "Is that all?" she asked coldly.
"All? What do you mean? I don't understand."
"I mean that you persuaded me to listen to you on the pretence that you
had news to tell me of the doings at Waterloo--news on which my
happiness depended. You have not told me a single fact that concerns me
in the least."
"It concerns you as it concerns me, Crystal. Your happiness is bound up
with mine. You are still my promised wife. I go to win glory for my name
which will soon be yours. You and I, Crystal, hand in hand! think of
it! our love has survived the political turmoils--united in love,
united in glory, you and I will be the most brilliant stars that will
shine at the Imperial Court of France."
She did not try to interrupt his tirade, but looked on him with cool
wonderment, as one gazes on some curious animal that is raving and
raging behind iron bars. When he had finished she said quietly:
"You are mad, I think, M. de Marmont. At any rate, you had better go
now: time is getting on, and you will lose your place in the diligence."
He was less to her than the dust under her feet, and his protestations
had not even the power to rouse her wrath. Indeed, all that worried her
at this moment was vexation with herself for having troubled to listen
to him at all: it had been worse than foolish to suppose that he had any
news to impart which did not directly concern himself. So now, while he,
utterly taken aback, was staring at her open-mouthed and bewildered, she
turned away, cold and full of disdain, gathering her draperies round
her, and started to walk slowly toward the stairs. Her clinging white
skirt made a soft, swishing sound as it brushed the tiled floor, and she
herself--with her slender figure, graceful neck and crown of golden
curls, looked, as the gloom of evening wrapped her in, more like an
intangible elf--an apparition--gliding through space, than just a
scornful woman who had thought fit to reject the importunate addresses
of an unwelcome suitor.
She left de Marmont standing there in the corridor--like some
presumptuous beggar--burning with rage and humiliation, too
insignificant even to be feared. But he was not the man to accept such a
situation calmly: his love for Crystal had never been anything but a
selfish one--born of the desire to possess a high-born, elegant wife,
taken out of the very caste which had scorned him and his kind: her
acquiescence he had always taken for granted: her love he meant to win
after his wooing of her hand had been successful--until then he could
wait. So certain too was he of his own power to win her, in virtue of
all that he had to offer, that he would not take her scorn for real or
her refusal to listen to him as final.
IV
Before she had reached the foot of the stairs, he was already by her
side, and with a masterful hand upon her arm had compelled her, by
physical strength, to turn and to face him once more.
"Crystal," he said, forcing himself to speak quietly, even though his
voice quivered with excitement and passionate wrath, "as you say, I have
only a few moments to spare, but they are just long enough for me to
tell you that it is you who are mad. I daresay that it is difficult to
believe in the immensity of a disaster. M. de St. Genis no doubt has
been filling your ears with tales of the allied armies' victories. But
look at me, Crystal--look at me and tell me if you have ever seen a man
more in deadly earnest. I tell you that I am on my way to aid the
Emperor in reforming his Empire on a more solid basis than it has ever
stood before. Have you ever known Napoleon to fail in what he set
himself to do? I tell you that he is not crushed--that he is not even
defeated. Within a month the allies will be on their knees begging for
peace. The era of your Bourbon kings is more absolutely dead to-day than
it has ever been. And after to-day there will be nothing for a royalist
like your father or like Maurice de St. Genis but exile and humiliation
more dire than before. Your father's fate rests entirely in your hands.
I can direct his destiny, his life or his death, just as I please. When
you are my wife, I will forgive him the insults which he heaped on me at
Brestalou . . . but not before. . . . As for Maurice de St. Genis
. . ."
"And what of him, you abominable cur?"
The shout which came from behind him checked the words on de Marmont's
lips. He let go his hold of Crystal's arm as he felt two sinewy hands
gripping him by the throat. The attack was so swift and so unexpected
that he was entirely off his guard: he lost his footing upon the
slippery floor, and before he could recover himself he was being forced
back and back until his spine was bent nearly double and his head
pressed down backward almost to the level of his knees.
"Let him go, Maurice! you might kill him. Throw him out of the door."
It was M. le Comte de Cambray who spoke. He and St. Genis had arrived
just in time to save Crystal from a further unpleasant scene. She,
however, had not lost her presence of mind. She had certainly listened
to de Marmont's final tirade, because she knew that she was helpless in
his hands, but she had never been frightened for a moment. Jeanne was
within call, and she herself had never been timorous: at the same time
she was thankful enough that her father and St. Genis were here.
Maurice was almost blind with rage: he would have killed de Marmont but
for the Comte's timely words, which luckily had the effect of sobering
him at this critical moment. He relaxed his convulsive grip on de
Marmont's throat, but the latter had already lost his balance; he fell
heavily, his body sliding along the slippery floor, while his head
struck against the projecting woodwork of the door.
He uttered a loud cry of pain as he fell, then remained lying inert on
the ground, and in the dim light his face took on an ashen hue.
In an instant Crystal was by his side.
"You have killed him, Maurice," she cried, as woman-like--tender and
full of compassion now--she ran to the stricken man.
"I hope I have," said St. Genis sullenly. "He deserved the death of a
cur."
"Father, dear," said Crystal authoritatively, "will you call to Jeanne
to bring water, a sponge, towels--quickly: also some brandy."
She paid no heed to St. Genis: and she had already forgotten de
Marmont's dastardly attitude toward herself. She only saw that he was
helpless and in pain: she knelt by his side, pillowed his head on her
lap, and with soothing, gentle fingers felt his shoulders, his arms, to
see where he was hurt. He opened his eyes very soon and encountered
those tender blue eyes so full of sweet pity now: "It is only my head, I
think," he said.
Then he tried to move, but fell back again with a groan of pain: "My leg
is broken, I am afraid," he murmured feebly.
"I had best fetch a doctor," rejoined M. le Comte.
"If you can find one, father, dear," said Crystal. "M. de Marmont ought
to be moved at once to his home."
"No! no!" protested Victor feebly, "not home! to the Trois Rois . . .
the diligence. . . . I must go to England to-night . . . the Emperor's
orders."
"The doctor will decide," said Crystal gently. "Father, dear, will you
go?"
Jeanne came with water and brandy. De Marmont drank eagerly of the one,
and then sipped the other.
"I must go," he said more firmly, "the diligence starts at nine
o'clock."
Again he tried to move, and a great cry of agony rose to his throat--not
of physical pain, though that was great too, but the wild, agonising
shriek of mental torment, of disappointment and wrath and misery,
greater than human heart could bear.
"The Emperor's orders!" he cried. "I must go!"
Crystal was silent. There was something great and majestic, something
that compelled admiration and respect in this tragic impotence, this
failure brought about by uncontrolled passion at the very hour when
success--perhaps--might yet have changed the whole destinies of the
world. De Marmont lying here, helpless to aid his Emperor--through the
furious and jealous attack of a rival--was at this moment more worthy of
a good woman's regard than he had been in the flush of his success and
of his arrogance, for his one thought was of the Emperor and what he
could no longer do for him. He tried to move and could not: "The
Emperor's orders!" came at times with pathetic persistence from his
lips, and Crystal--woman-like--tried to soothe and comfort him in his
failure, even though his triumph would only have aroused her scorn.
And time sped on. From the towers of the cathedral came booming the hour
of nine. The shadows in the narrow street were long and dark, only a
pale thin reflex of the cold light of the moon struck into the open
doorway and the white corridor, and detached de Marmont's pale face from
the surrounding gloom.
The Emperor's orders and because of a woman these could now no longer be
obeyed. If de Marmont had not seen Crystal on the cathedral steps, if he
had not followed her--if he had not allowed his passion and arrogant
self-will to blind him to time and to surroundings--who knows? but the
whole map of Europe might yet have been changed.
A fortune in London was awaiting a gambler who chose to stake everything
on a last throw--a fortune wherewith the greatest adventurer the world
has ever known might yet have reconstituted an army and reconquered an
Empire--and he who might have won that fortune was lying in the narrow
corridor of an humble lodging house--with a broken leg--helpless and
eating out his heart now with vain regret. Why? Because of a girl with
fair curls and blue eyes--just a woman--young and desirable--another
tiny pawn in the hands of the Great Master of this world's game.
The rain in the morning at Waterloo--Blücher's arrival or Grouchy's--a
man's selfish passion for a woman who cared nothing for him--who shall
dare to say that these tiny, trivial incidents changed the destinies of
the world?
Think on it, O ye materialists! ye worshippers of Chance! Is it indeed
the infinitesimal doings of pigmies that bring about the great upheavals
of the earth? Do ye not rather see God's will in that fall of rain?
God's breath in those dying heroes who fell on Mont Saint Jean? do ye
not recognise that it was God's finger that pointed the way to Blücher
and stretched de Marmont down helpless on the ground?
V
The arrival of M. le Comte de Cambray, accompanied by a doctor and two
men carrying an improvised stretcher, broke the spell of silence that
had fallen on this strange scene of pathetic failure which seemed but an
humble counterpart of that great and irretrievable one which was being
enacted at this same hour far away on the road to Genappe.
After the booming of the cathedral clock, de Marmont had ceased to
struggle: he accepted defeat probably because he, too--in spite of
himself--saw that the day of his idol's destiny was over, and that the
brilliant Star which had glittered on the firmament of Europe for a
quarter of a century had by the will of God now irretrievably declined.
He had accepted Crystal's ministrations for his comfort with a look of
gratitude. Jeanne had put a pillow to his head, and he lay now outwardly
placid and quiescent.
Even, perhaps--for such is human nature and such the heart of youth--as
he saw Crystal's sweet face bent with so much pity toward him a sense
of hope, of happiness yet to be, chased the more melancholy thoughts
away. Crystal was kind--he argued to himself--she has already
forgiven--women are so ready to forgive faults and errors that spring
from an intensity of love.
He sought her hand and she gave it--just as a sweet Sister of Mercy and
Gentleness would do, for whom the individual man--even the enemy--does
not exist--only the suffering human creature whom her touch can soothe.
He persuaded himself easily enough that when he pressed her hand she
returned the pressure, and renewed hope went forth once more soaring
upon the wings of fancy.
Then the doctor came. M. le Comte had been fortunate in securing
him--had with impulsive generosity promised him ample payment--and then
brought him along without delay. He praised Mlle. de Cambray for her
kindness to the patient, asked a few questions as to how the accident
had occurred, and was satisfied that M. de Marmont had slipped on the
tiled floor and then struck his head against the door. He was not likely
to examine the purple bruises on the patient's throat: his business
began and ended with a broken leg to mend. As M. le Comte de Cambray
assured him that M. de Marmont was very wealthy, the worthy doctor most
readily offered his patient the hospitality of his own house until
complete recovery.
He then superintended the lifting of the sick man on to the stretcher,
and having taken final leave of M. le Comte, Mademoiselle and all those
concerned and given his instructions to the bearers, he was the first to
leave the house.
M. le Comte, pleasantly conscious of Christian duty toward an enemy
nobly fulfilled, nodded curtly to de Marmont, whom he hated with all his
heart, and then turned his back on an exceedingly unpleasant scene,
fervently wishing that it had never occurred in his house, and equally
fervently thankful that the accident had not more fateful consequences.
He retired to his smoking-room, calling to St. Genis and to Crystal to
follow him.
But Crystal did not go at once. She stood in the dark corridor--quite
still--watching the stretcher bearers in their careful, silent work,
little guessing on what a filmy thread her whole destiny was hanging at
this moment. The Fates were spinning, spinning, spinning and she did not
know it. Had the solemn silence which hung so ominously in the twilight
not been broken till after the sick man had been borne away, the whole
of Crystal's future would have been shaped differently.
But as with the rain at Waterloo, God had need of a tool for the
furtherance of His will and it was Maurice de St. Genis whom He
chose--Maurice who with his own words set the final seal to his destiny.
De Marmont's eyes as he was being carried over the threshold dwelt upon
the graceful form of Crystal--clad all in white--all womanliness and
gentleness now--her sweet face only faintly distinguishable in the
gloom. St. Genis, whose nerves were still jarred with all that he had
gone through to-day and irritated by Crystal's assiduity beside the sick
man, resented that last look of farewell which de Marmont dared to throw
upon the woman whom he loved. An ungenerous impulse caused him to try
and aim a last moral blow at his enemy:
"Come, Crystal," he said coldly, "the man has been better looked after
than he deserves. But for your father's interference I should have wrung
his neck like the cowardly brute that he was."
And with the masterful air of a man who has both right and privilege on
his side, he put his arm round Crystal's waist and tried to draw her
away, and as he did so he whispered a tender: "Come, Crystal!" in her
ear.
De Marmont--who at this moment was taking a last fond look at the girl
he loved, and was busy the while making plans for a happy future
wherein Crystal would play the chief rôle and would console him for all
disappointments by the magnitude of her love--de Marmont was brought
back from the land of dreams by the tender whisperings of his rival. His
own helplessness sent a flood of jealous wrath surging up to his brain.
The wild hatred which he had always felt for St. Genis ever since that
awful humiliation which he had suffered at Brestalou, now blinded him to
everything save to the fact that here was a rival who was gloating over
his helplessness--a man who twice already had humiliated him before
Crystal de Cambray--a man who had every advantage of caste and of
community of sympathy! a man therefore who must be in his turn
irretrievably crushed in the sight of the woman whom he still hoped to
win!
De Marmont had no definite idea as to what he meant to do. Perhaps, just
at this moment, the pale, intangible shadow of Reason had lifted up one
corner of the veil that hid the truth from before his eyes--the absolute
and naked fact that Crystal de Cambray was not destined for him. She
would never marry him--never. The Empire of France was no more--the
Emperor was a fugitive. To St. Genis and his caste belonged the
future--and the turn had come for the adherents of the fallen Emperor to
sink into obscurity or to go into exile.
Be that as it may, it is certain that in this fateful moment de Marmont
was only conscious of an all-powerful overwhelming feeling of hatred and
the determination that whatever happened to himself he must and would
prevent St. Genis from ever approaching Crystal de Cambray with words of
love again. That he had the power to do this he was fully conscious.
"Crystal!" he called, and at the same time ordered the bearers to halt
on the doorstep for a moment. "Crystal, will you give me your hand in
farewell?"
The young girl would probably have complied with his wish, but St. Genis
interposed.
"Crystal," he said authoritatively, "your father has already called you.
You have done everything that Christian charity demands. . . ." And once
more he tried to draw the young girl away.
"Do not touch her, man," called de Marmont in a loud voice, "a coward
like you has no right to touch the hand of a good woman."
"M. de Marmont," broke in Crystal hotly, "you presume on your
helplessness. . . ."
"Pay no heed to the ravings of a maniac, Crystal," interposed St. Genis
calmly, "he has fallen so low now, that contemptuous pity is all that he
deserves."
"And contempt without pity is all that you deserve, M. le Marquis de St.
Genis," cried de Marmont excitedly. "Ask him, Mademoiselle Crystal, ask
him where is the man who to-day saved his life? whom I myself saw to-day
on the roadside, wounded and half dead with fatigue, on horseback, with
the inert body of M. de St. Genis lying across his saddle-bow. Ask him
how he came to lie across that saddle-bow? and whether his English
friend and mine, Bobby Clyffurde, did not--as any who passed by could
guess--drag him out of that hell at Waterloo and bring him into safety,
whilst risking his own life. Ask him," he continued, working himself up
into a veritable fever of vengeful hatred, as he saw that St.
Genis--sullen and glowering--was doing his best to drag Crystal away, to
prevent her from listening further to this awful indictment, these
ravings of a lunatic half-distraught with hate. "Ask him where is
Clyffurde now? to what lonely spot he has crawled in order to die while
M. le Marquis de St. Genis came back in gay apparel to court Mlle.
Crystal de Cambray? Ah! M. de St. Genis, you tried to heap opprobrium
upon me--you talked glibly of contempt and of pity. Of a truth 'tis I
do pity you now, for Mademoiselle Crystal will surely ask you all those
questions, and by the Lord I marvel how you will answer them."
He fell back exhausted, in a dead faint no doubt, and St. Genis with a
wild cry like that of a beast in fury seized the nearest weapon that
came to his hand--a heavy oak chair which stood against the wall in the
corridor--and brandished it over his head. He would--had not Crystal at
once interposed--have killed de Marmont with one blow: even so he tried
to avoid Crystal in order to forge for himself a clear passage, to free
himself from all trammels so that he might indulge his lust to kill.
"Take the sick man away! quickly!" cried Crystal to the stretcher
bearers. And they--realising the danger--the awfulness of the tragedy
which, with that clumsy weapon wielded by a man who was maddened with
rage, was hovering in the air, hurried over the threshold with their
burden as fast as they could: then out into the street: and Crystal
seizing hold of the front door shut it to with a loud bang after them.
VI
Then with a cry that was just primitive in its passion--savage almost
like that of a lioness in the desert who has been robbed of her
young--she turned upon St. Genis:
"Where is he now?" she called, and her voice was quite unrecognisable,
harsh and hoarse and peremptory.
"Crystal, let me assure you," protested Maurice, "that I have already
done all that lay in my power. . . ."
"Where is he now?" she broke in with the same fierce intensity.
She stood there before him--wild, haggard, palpitating--a passionate
creature passionately demanding to know where the loved one was. It
seemed as if she would have torn the words out of St. Genis' throat, so
bitter and intense was the look of contempt and of hatred wherewith she
looked on him.
M. le Comte--very much upset and ruffled by all that he had heard--came
out of his room just in time to see the stretcher-bearers disappearing
with their burden through the front door, and the door itself closed to
with a bang by Crystal. Truly his sense of decorum and of the fitness of
things had received a severe shock and now he had the additional
mortification of seeing his beautiful daughter--his dainty and
aristocratic Crystal--in a state bordering on frenzy.
"My darling Crystal," he exclaimed, as he made his way quickly to her
side and put a restraining hand upon her arm.
But Crystal now was far beyond his control: she shook off his hand--she
paid no heed to him, she went closer up to St. Genis and once more
repeated her ardent, passionate query:
"Where is he now?"
"At the English hospital, I hope," said St. Genis with as much cool
dignity as he could command. "Have I not assured you, Crystal, that I've
done all I could? . . ."
"At the English hospital? . . . you hope? . . ." she retorted in a voice
that sounded trenchant and shrill through the overwhelming passion which
shook and choked it in her throat. "But the roadside--where you left him
. . . to die in a ditch perhaps . . . like a dog that has no home? . . .
where was that?"
"I gave full directions at the English hospital," he replied. "I
arranged for an ambulance to go and find him . . . for a bed for him
. . . I. . . ."
"Give me those directions," she commanded.
"On the way to Waterloo . . . on the left side of the road . . . close
by the six kilomètre milestone . . . the angle of the forest of Soigne
is just there . . . and there is a meadow which joins the edge of the
wood where they were making hay to-day. . . . No driver can fail to find
the place, Crystal . . . the ambulance. . . ."
But now she was no longer listening to him. She had abruptly turned her
back on him and made for the door. Her father interposed.
"What do you want to do, Crystal?" he said peremptorily.
"Go to him, of course," she said quietly--for she was quite calm now--at
any rate outwardly--strong and of set purpose.
"But you do not know where he is."
"I'll go to the English hospital first . . . father, dear, will you let
me pass?"
"Crystal," said M. le Comte firmly, as he stood his ground between his
daughter and the door, "you cannot go rushing through the streets of
Brussels alone--at this hour of the night--through all the soldiery and
all the drunken rabble."
"He is dying," she retorted, "and I am going to find him. . . ."
"You have taken leave of your senses, Crystal," said the Comte sternly.
"You seem to have forgotten your own personal dignity. . . ."
"Father! let me go!" she demanded--for she had tried to measure her
physical strength against his, and he was holding her wrists now whilst
a look of great anger was on his face.
"I tell you, Crystal," he said, "that you cannot go. I will do all that
lies in my power in the matter: I promise you: and Maurice," he added
harshly, "if he has a spark of manhood left in him will do his best to
second me . . . but I cannot allow my daughter to go into the streets at
this hour of the night."
"But you cannot prevent your sister from doing as she likes," here broke
in a tart voice from the back of the corridor. "Crystal, child! try and
bear up while I run to the English hospital first and, if necessary, to
the English doctor afterwards. And you, Monsieur my brother, be good
enough to allow Jeanne to open the door for me."
And Madame la Duchesse d'Agen in bonnet and shawl, helpful and
practical, made her way quietly to the door, preceded by faithful
Jeanne. With a cry of infinite relief--almost of happiness--Crystal at
last managed to disengage herself from her father's grasp and ran to the
old woman: "_Ma tante_," she said imploringly, "take me with you . . .
if I do not go to find him now . . . at once . . . my heart will break."
M. le Comte shrugged his shoulders and stood aside. He knew that in an
argument with his sister, he would surely be worsted: and there was a
look in Madame's face which, even in this dim twilight, he knew how to
interpret. It meant that Madame would carry out her programme just as
she had stated it, and that she would take Crystal with her--with or
without the father's consent. So, realising this, M. le Comte had but
one course left open to him and that was to safeguard his own dignity by
making the best of this situation--of which he still highly disapproved.
"Well, my dear Sophie," he said, "I suppose if you insist on having your
way, you must have it: though what the women of our rank are coming to
nowadays I cannot imagine. At the same time I for my part must insist
that Crystal at least puts on a bonnet and shawl and does not career
about the streets dressed like a kitchen wench."
"Crystal," whispered Madame, who was nothing if not practical, "do as
your father wishes--it will save a lot of argument and save time as
well."
But even before the words were out of Madame's mouth, Crystal was
running along the corridor--ready to obey. At the foot of the stairs St.
Genis intercepted her.
"Let me pass!" she cried wildly.
"Not before you have said that you have forgiven me!" he entreated as he
clung to her white draperies with a passionate gesture of appeal.
An exclamation which was almost one of loathing escaped her lips and
with a jerk she freed her skirt from his clutch. Then she ran quickly up
the stairs. Outside the door of her own room on the first landing she
paused for one minute, and from out of the gloom her voice came to him
like the knell of passing hope.
"If he comes back alive out of the hell to which you condemned him," she
said, "I may in the future endure the sight of you again. . . . If he
dies . . . may God forgive you!"
The opening and shutting of a door told him that she was gone, and he
was left in company with his shame.