HOW MONSIEUR JOSEPH FOUND HIMSELF MASTER OF THE SITUATION
In the old labyrinth of rooms at Les Chouettes, Monsieur Joseph's
gun-room was the best hidden from the outside. It had solid shutters,
always kept closed and barred; the daylight only made its way in through
their chinks, or through the doors, one of which opened into Monsieur
Joseph's bedroom, the other into a little anteroom between that and the
hall. Both doors were generally locked, and the keys safely stowed away.
The gun-room was not meant for ordinary visitors; Angelot himself, as a
rule, was the only person admitted there. For the amount of arms and
ammunition kept there, some of it in cupboards cleverly hidden in the
panelling, some in a dry cellar entered by a trap-door in the floor, was
very different, both in kind and quality, from anything the most
energetic sportsman could require.
In this storehouse the amiable conspirator shut up his nephew, and
Angelot spent the next few days there, well employed in cleaning and
polishing wood and steel. He slept at night on a sofa in the anteroom,
but was allowed to go no farther. Monsieur Joseph had reasons of his
own.
He was a very authoritative person, when once he took a matter into his
own hands, and his influence with Angelot was great. He took a far more
serious view of the arrest than Angelot himself did. He was sure that
his nephew had been kidnapped by special orders from Paris--probably
from Réal, whom he knew of old--in order to gain information as to any
existing Chouan plots in Anjou. Thus the authorities meant to protect
themselves from any consequences of the Prefect's indulgent character.
It was even possible that some suspicion of the mission to England, only
lately discussed by himself and his friends, might have filtered through
to Paris; and in that case several persons were in serious danger.
Monsieur Joseph was confirmed in these ideas by the fact that his
brother started off to Sonnay to demand of the authorities there the
reason of his son's arrest, and found that absolutely nothing was known
of it. Coming back in a state of rage and anxiety, which quite drove his
philosophy out of the field, Urbain attacked his brother in words that
Joseph found a little hard to bear, accusing him of having ruined
Angelot's life with his foolish fancies, and of being the actual cause
of this catastrophe which might bring the fate of a Chouan on the
innocent fellow who cared for no politics at all.
"And what a life, to care for no cause at all!" cried Joseph, with
eloquently waving hands. "But--you say you are going to Paris, to get to
the bottom of this? Well, my friend, go! And I promise you, if Ange is
in danger, I will follow and take his place. You and Anne may rely upon
it, he shall not be punished for my sins."
"Come with me now, then! I start this very night," said Urbain.
"No, no! I will not accuse myself before it is necessary," said Joseph,
shaking his head and smiling.
Urbain flung away in angry disgust. Joseph had a moment of profound
sadness as he looked after him--they were standing in the courtyard of
La Marinière--then stole away home through the lanes, carefully avoiding
a sight of his sister-in-law.
"I let him go! I let him go, poor Urbain! and his boy safe at Les
Chouettes all the time. Why do I do it? because the house is watched day
and night; because neither I, nor Gigot, nor Tobie, can go into the
woods without seeing the glitter of a police carbine through the leaves;
because the dogs growl at night, and there is no safe place for Angelot
outside Les Chouettes, till he is out of France altogether--and that I
shall have to manage carefully. Because, if his father knew he had
escaped from the police, all the world would know. Et puis,--I shall
make a good Royalist of you in the end, my little Angelot. Your mother
will not blame me for cutting you off from the Empire, and your father
must comfort himself with his philosophy. And that hopeless passion for
Mademoiselle Hélène--what can be kinder than to end it--and by the great
cure of all--time, absence, impossibility! Yes; the matter is in my
hands, and I shall carry it through, God helping me."
It was not a light burden that he had to carry, the little uncle. Never,
since his brother's intervention brought him back to France and placed
him where he and his old friends could amuse themselves with
conspiracies which, as Joubard said, did little harm to any one, had he
been in a position of such real difficulty. Riette did not at all
realise what she was bringing upon her father, when she slipped into his
room that night with the news that Angelot had escaped from the police.
He had to keep his nephew quietly imprisoned till he could get him away
safely; it required all his arguments, all his influence and strength of
will, to do that; for Angelot was not an easy person to keep within four
narrow walls, and only love and gratitude restrained him from obeying
his own instincts, going out into the woods, risking a second
arrest--hardly to be followed by a second escape--venturing over to La
Marinière to see his mother. It distressed him far more to think of her,
terribly anxious, ignorant of his safety, than of his father on the way
to Paris. He, at any rate, though he would not find him, might come to
the bottom of the mysterious business.
Monsieur Joseph danced in the air, shrugged his shoulders, waved his
hands. If Angelot chose to go, let him! His recapture would probably
mean the arrest and ruin of the whole family. A little patience, and he
could disappear for the time. What else did he expect to be able to do?
Would a man on whom the police had once laid their hands be allowed to
rescue himself and to live peaceably in his own country? What did he
take them for, the police? were they children at play? or were their
proceedings grim and real earnest? Had those men behind, who pulled the
strings of the puppet-show, no other object in view than an hour's
amusement? Did Angelot know that the woods were patrolled by the police,
the roads watched? The only surprising thing was, that no domiciliary
visit had yet been made, either at Les Chouettes or La Marinière.
"However, they know I am a good marksman," said Monsieur Joseph, with
his sweetest smile. "And even Tobie, with my authority, might think a
gendarme fair game."
"I don't believe it is fear of you that keeps them away, Uncle Joseph,"
said Angelot. "As to that, I too can hit a tree by daylight. But these
stealthy ways of theirs seem to tell me what I have thought all along,
that it is a private enterprise of our friend Simon's own, without any
authority whatever. The fellows with him were not gendarmes; they were
not in uniform. Monsieur le Préfet being laid up, the good man thinks it
the moment to do a little hunting on his own account with his own dogs,
and to curry favour by taking his game to Paris. But he is not quite
sure of himself; he has no warrant to search houses without a better
reason than any he can give. He will catch me again if he can, no doubt;
but as you say, Uncle Joseph, as long as I stay here in your cupboard, I
am safe."
"So safe," laughed his uncle, "that I am going to begin my vintage
to-morrow under their very noses, leaving Riette and the dogs to guard
you, mon petit. But you are wrong, you are quite wrong. No police spy
would dare to make such an arrest without a special order. If they have
no warrant for searching, they will soon get one as soon as they are
sure you are here. But at present you have vanished into the bowels of
the earth. They can see that your father knows nothing of you; they have
no reason to think that I am any wiser."
So passed those weary days, those long, mysterious nights at Les
Chouettes.
Outside, with great care to keep themselves out of sight, Simon's
scratch band searched the woods and lanes. Simon was mystified, as well
as furious. He hardly dared return and report to his employer, who
supposed that Angelot had been conveyed safely off to the mock prison
where he meant to have him kept for a few weeks; then, when the affair
of the marriage was arranged, to let him escape from it. Simon was
himself too well known in the neighbourhood to make any enquiries; but
one of his men found out at Lancilly that the family supposed young Ange
to have been carried off to Paris, whither his father had followed him.
Martin Joubard, the only witness of the arrest, had made the most of his
story. He did not know the police officer by sight, but Monsieur Ange
had seemed to do so. This had made them all think that the order for the
arrest had come from Sonnay. But no! And as to any escape, this man was
assured that the young gentleman had not been seen by any one but Martin
Joubard, since he left his father's vineyard in the twilight of that
fatal evening.
At Les Chouettes all went on outwardly in its usual fashion. Monsieur
Joseph strolled out with his gun, directed the beginnings of his
vintage; his servants, trustworthy indeed, showed no sign of any special
watchfulness; Mademoiselle Henriette ordered the dogs about and sang her
songs as usual. If Monsieur Joseph was grave and preoccupied, no wonder;
every one knew he loved his nephew. But Simon, in truth, had met his
match. He was almost convinced that no fugitive from justice, real or
pretended, was hidden in or about Monsieur Joseph's habitation; and he
gradually made his cordon wider, still watching the house, but keeping
his men in cover by day, and searching the woods by night with less
exact caution. His only satisfaction was being aware of two visits paid
to Les Chouettes by the Baron d'Ombré, who came over the moor in the
evening and slept there. The mission to England was as yet beyond police
dreams, at least on this side of the country; but Simon kept his
knowledge for future use.
It might naturally be imagined that Angelot would have found a refuge in
some of the wild old precincts of La Marinière; but Simon soon convinced
himself that this was not the case. No mother whose son was hidden about
her home would have spent her time as Anne did, wandering restlessly
about, expecting nothing but her husband's return, or spending long
hours before the altar in the church, praying for her son's safety.
Simon began to suspect that his prisoner had got away to the west, into
Brittany, among the Chouans who were there so numerous that it was
better to leave them alone.
"Bien! his absence in any way will suit Monsieur le Général," Simon
reflected. "As to that, it does not much matter. But I and my fellows
will not get our promised pay, and that signifies a great deal. I, who
have given up my furlough to serve that animal!"
So he gnawed his nails in distraction, and still watched with a sort of
fascination the little square of country where he felt more and more
afraid that Master Angelot was no longer to be found.
The sympathy that Anne de la Marinière, in her lonely sorrow, might
have expected from the cousins at Lancilly who owed Urbain so much, she
neither asked nor found. Once or twice, Hervé de Sainfoy came himself to
the manor to ask if she had any news; but his manner was a little stiff
and awkward; and Adélaïde never came; and the messages he brought from
her were too evidently made by his politeness on the spur of the moment.
Was it not possible, Anne thought, to be too worldly, too unforgiving?
Had not her beautiful boy been punished enough for his presumption in
falling in love with their daughter, and behaving like a lover of the
olden time? They were even partly responsible for the arrest, she
thought, for it was to escape them that Ange had walked away with Martin
up the hill that evening.
Looking over at the great castle on the opposite hill, she accused it
bitterly of having robbed her not only of Urbain, but of Angelot.
The October days brought wilder autumn weather; the winds began to blow
in the woods, to howl at night in the wide old chimneys of La Marinière;
sometimes the cry of a wolf, in distant depths of forest, made sportsmen
and farmers talk of the hunts of which Lancilly used long ago to be the
centre. Those days would return again, they hoped, though Count Hervé
had not the energy or the country training of his ancestors. But his
son, when the war was over, seemed likely to vie with any seigneur of
them all. In the meanwhile, this young man's leave was shortened by an
express from the army--a fact which seemed at first unlikely to have any
influence on the fate of his cousin Angelot--but life has turns and
twists that baffle the wisest calculations. Neither Georges nor his
mother had been displeased at the arrest of Angelot; though they had the
decency to keep their congratulations for each other. As for Hélène, the
news had been allowed to reach her through the servants and Mademoiselle
Moineau. She dared not cry any more; her mother had scolded her enough
for spoiling her eyes and complexion. Pale and silent, she took this new
trouble as one more proof that she was never meant to be happy. Her
fairy prince was a dream; yet, whatever the poets may say, she found a
little joy and comfort, warmth and peace, in dreaming her dream again,
and even in this worst time, by some strange instinct of love, Angelot
seemed never far away from her.
One evening, when it was blowing and raining outside, a wood fire was
flaming in the salon at La Marinière. For herself, Anne would not have
cared for it; but the old Curé sat and warmed his hands after dining
with her and playing a game of tric-trac. Not indeed to please and
distract her, but himself; for he had long been accustomed to depend on
her for comfort in all his troubles. After the game was over he had told
her a piece of news; nothing that mattered very much, or that was very
surprising, characters and circumstances considered; but Anne took it
hardly.
"I cannot believe it," she said at first. "Who told you, do you say?"
"My brother at Lancilly told me," said the Curé. "You do not think him
worthy of much confidence, madame--and it may not be true--he had heard
the report in the village."
She shrugged her shoulders, with a little contempt for the Curé of
Lancilly. Her old friend watched her face, pathetically changed since
all this new sorrow came upon her; thinner, paler, its delicate beauty
hardened, purple shadows under the still lovely eyes, and a look of
bitter resentment that hurt him to see. He gazed at her imploringly.
"But, madame," he murmured--"it is nothing--Monsieur de la Marinière
would say it was nothing--"
"I hope, Monsieur le Curé," Anne said, "that after such cruel hardness
of heart he will waste his affection there no longer. Ah! who is that?"
There were quick steps outside. Somebody had come in, and might be heard
shaking himself in the hall; then Monsieur Joseph walked lightly into
the room, bringing a rush of outside air, a smell of wet leaves, and
that atmosphere of life which in his saddest moments never left him.
Madame Urbain received him a little coldly; she was cold to every one in
these days; but in truth his conscience told him that he might have
visited her more since Urbain went away. But then--how keep the secret
from Angelot's mother? No, impossible; and so he made his vintage an
excuse for avoiding La Marinière. To-night, however, he had a mission to
fulfil.
It was horribly difficult. He sat down between her and the Curé, looked
from one to the other, drank the coffee she offered him, and blushed
like a girl as he said, "No news from Urbain, I suppose?"
Anne's brows rose in a scornful arch; her lips pouted.
"News! How should there be any?" she said, as if Urbain had gone to
Paris to amuse himself. "And your vintage, Joseph?"
"I finished it to-day. It was difficult--the weather was not very
good--and--I have had distractions," said Monsieur Joseph, and waved
away the subject. "My dear Anne," he went on, rushing headlong into
another, "I have had a visitor to-day, who charged me to explain to you
a certain matter--which vexes him profoundly, by the bye,--Hervé de
Sainfoy, who for family reasons--"
"Oh, mon Dieu!" Anne cried, and burst out laughing. "You really mean
that Hervé de Sainfoy has sent you as his ambassador--see our injustice,
Monsieur le Curé, yours and mine--to announce to me that he is going to
give a ball while my son is in prison, in danger of his life, or
already dead, for all I know! Really, that is magnificent! What
politeness, what feeling for Urbain, n'est-ce pas? He did not wish me to
hear such interesting news through the gossip of the village--do you
hear, Monsieur le Curé? You brought it too soon. And my invitation?" she
held out her hand. "Did he give you a card for me, or will Madame la
Comtesse take the trouble to send it herself?"
"Ah, bah!" cried Joseph, springing from his chair and pirouetting before
the fire; "but you are a little too severe on poor Hervé, my dear
sister! I assure you, I showed him what I thought. But I perceived that
his vexation is real--real and sincere. The circumstances--he explained
them all in the most amiable manner--"
Anne interrupted him, laughing again. "I see the facts--the one
fact--what are the circumstances to me?"
"They are a great deal to Hervé," Monsieur Joseph persisted.
"Hervé, Hervé!" she cried. "But Joseph--mon Dieu, how can you take his
wretched excuses! I thought you loved Ange! I thought the boy--"
She broke off with a sob, turning white as death. The two men stared at
her, Monsieur Joseph with wild eyes and trembling lips. Would this be
more than he could bear?
He took refuge in talking. He talked so fast that he hardly knew what he
was saying. He poured out Hervé's explanations, his regrets, his
trouble of mind. Georges was bent upon this ball; it had been proposed
long before his return; the first invitations had been sent out directly
he came. He wished to make acquaintance with all the neighbours, old and
new, official, or friends of the family; he wished to pay a special
compliment to the officers at Sonnay, his brothers in arms. A formal
invitation had been sent to General Ratoneau, who had actually accepted
it, to Hervé's great surprise. He had laughed and said that the dog
wanted another thrashing. But let him come, if he chose to humble
himself! He might see even more clearly that Hélène was not for him. In
Adélaïde's opinion, no private prejudices must have anything to do with
this ball. It was given chiefly as a matter of politics, under imperial
colours; it was for the interest of Georges that his family should thus
definitely range itself with the Empire.
"Poor Hervé said that he had already, more than once, spoilt his wife's
calculations and failed to support her views. She and Georges, whatever
private feeling might be, thought it impossible to put off this ball
because of the misfortune that happened to Angelot. They would be
understood to show sympathy with the Chouans. Then he abused me well,
poor Hervé," said Monsieur Joseph, amiably. "He said, as Urbain did,
that I had ruined Angelot's life, and it was no one's fault but mine.
'Well, dear cousin,' I said to him, 'I will punish myself by not
appearing at this fine ball of yours. Not that my dancing days are over,
but for me, Ange's absence would spoil all.' 'You love that fellow!'
says Hervé, looking at me. 'Love him!' says I. 'I would cut off my right
hand to serve him, and that is a good deal for a sportsman.' Hervé
laughed as I said it. I do not dislike that poor Hervé, though his wife
rules him. Listen to me, you two. I believe if Ange had been reasonable
and honest, Hervé might have given him his daughter."
"Heaven forbid!" cried Anne. "But if you love Ange, do not blame him. He
was young, he was mad, the girl was beautiful--and, after all, Joseph,
you had something to do with putting that into his head. Ah, we are all
to blame! We have all been cruel, blind, selfish. You and I thought of
the King, Urbain thought of his cousins, they thought of themselves. We
left my boy to find his own way in a time like this, and your Chouan
friends were as dangerous for him as Hélène de Sainfoy. Ah! and you
excuse yourself with a laugh from dancing on his grave!"
She wrung her hands, threw herself back in her chair with a passionate
sigh.
"Madame," said the Curé, suddenly;--his dim but watchful eyes had been
fixed on Joseph; "Madame, Monsieur Joseph could tell you, if he would,
what has become of Angelot. He is not dead; I doubt if he is even in
prison. Ah, monsieur, you do not dissimulate well!" as Joseph made him
an eager sign to be silent.
But it was too late, for Anne was holding his two hands, and in the
light of her eyes all his secret doings lay open.
"Why did I come!" he said to himself, in the intervals of a very
difficult explanation. "There is some magic in those walls of Lancilly,
which attracts and ruins us all. If we live through this, thousand
thunders, Hervé de Sainfoy may make his own excuses to our dear little
Anne in future!"