IN A FORTIFIED TOWN
IT was growing dark when at length they drove through the gates into
Verdun.
No one then said a needless word, not even Roy. The sense of banishment
and of captivity pressed upon them all with a new force at the sight of
this fortified town, with its massive encircling walls, its iron gates,
its pervading gendarmerie. If any lack of realisation of their true
position had helped them hitherto, it had small chance of surviving
this hour.
At the gate they had to pause, a gendarme coming to the coach-door. He
said something to Denham, which made Colonel Baron ask sharply, "Eh?
What's that?"
"We are to go first to the citadel. Not necessary for Mrs. Baron and
Roy. You and I might walk it, sir, and send them on."
"No, no," Mrs. Baron interposed. "I cannot go alone. We will keep
together."
On reaching the citadel Mrs. Baron and Roy were desired by the
Colonel to remain in the coach, while he and Denham disappeared, to
be carefully examined and closely questioned, and again to give their
parole, after which they came out, the Colonel saying shortly, "That
business is done! Tell them where to go, Den. They seem determined to
know us again."
"Were they civil?" his wife asked.
"No end of a fuss, my dear. As if the word of an English gentleman were
not sufficient! Close description of us both written in the register."
Once more they drove on, Roy gazing from side to side, noting the small
insignificant shops, and exclaiming at occasional peeps of the river,
with an interest which never failed him. The others were silent, and
saw less. Mrs. Baron's eyes were dim; the Colonel was preoccupied; and
Ivor, usually the most observant of men, seemed to notice nothing.
Presently they stopped before the gateway of a large old house or small
private hotel, with an untidy courtyard. An old Frenchman, in quaint
dress, grey-haired, with an imposing pigtail, came to meet them, bowing
profoundly to the gentlemen, and still more profoundly to Mrs. Baron.
"C'est, sans doute, Monsieur le Colonel—et Madame."
Colonel Baron's particular gift did not lie in foreign languages. He
never could talk French, and he never would, no matter how many years
he might live in France.
"Oui, Monsieur. Bonjour. C'est nous qui sont viendrai," he responded,
feeling it incumbent on him to say something, as he descended from
the old coach. "J'espère que vous ètes bien. Je suis bien aise que
nous sommes haut—pas bas—pas près de le rivière. Denham, you can do it
better than I. Just say what's suitable."
Denham obeyed, and the next sight which dawned upon them was the gentle
face of Lucille de St. Roques. The Colonel and his wife gratefully
expressed their thanks for her past kindness to their boy, as she led
the way upstairs to the first floor. There stood Mme. Courant, a fat
and smiling little Frenchwoman, ready to bestow unlimited welcomes upon
the unfortunate foreigners.
Lucille exchanged bows with Ivor, and then she had a few words with
him, scanning his face with troubled glances. The rooms had to be
inspected, and they were found to be not bad as to size, though
meagrely furnished. Lucille had evidently worked hard, trying to make
things wear as far as possible an English look. If her efforts were
less successful than she wished, nobody betrayed the fact.
"But it has been no trouble—not at all," she assured them, when they
apologised.
While anxious to help, and full of sympathy for their position, she
plainly feared to be guilty of intrusion, and soon she took herself off
with Mme. Courant to the ground floor. A clumsy but well-intentioned
maiden had been deputed to wait upon the upstairs party, probably
had been hired for the purpose, since Mme. Courant, an excellent
bourgeoise, did most of her own house-work.
Dinner was laid in the smaller salon, in readiness for their arrival;
and on the whole that first meal might be called a success. Mme.
Courant was no mean cook; and though not much could be said as to
the waiting from an English point of view, that was a minor matter,
compared with the comfort of clean and cosy quarters, not to speak of
the kind reception.
When, however, dinner was at an end, and they had moved into the larger
salon, when a long evening lay before them, and there was nothing that
had to be done, beyond some amount of unpacking which no one cared
to begin at once,—then a change came. Then the black shadow of their
captivity descended upon them all, even upon the valiant Roy; and for
once the spirit of cheerfulness vanished.
For a quarter of an hour they kept together, nobody speaking. No one
was able to speak. They had nothing to say.
Presently Mrs. Baron made a move, retreating into her own bedroom; and
her husband followed her. Denham had flagged completely, taking refuge
in a shady corner of the big fireplace, where he could scarcely be
seen; and for Den to flag meant the flagging of everybody. As for Roy,
but that he would have been ashamed, he could at this stage have flung
himself on the ground, and have cried like a little child for very
home-sickness.
He wanted Molly,—oh, most awfully! He wanted her this evening more
than he had ever wanted anybody or anything in his life. The craving
that took possession of him for Molly's face, Molly's voice, Molly's
companionship, the passionate desire to have dear little Molly once
more by his side, was a pain never to be forgotten.
Roy did not know how to bear himself under it. He had nothing to do,
nothing with which to pass the time. He stood at the window, trying
desperately to be cool and stoical as the minutes lagged past. Denham
never moved, never spoke a word. Roy could make out his dark outline,
as motionless as a carved image, a few yards distant. If only Denham
would have talked, if something would have happened, to keep going
would have been easier.
Presently Denham did speak. "Come here," he said.
Roy obeyed rather unwillingly.
"Feel very bad this evening, Roy?"
The question took Roy by surprise, and Denham understood his silence.
"Never mind," he said. "It's the same with all of us, you know. And
there is one comfort for you, that Molly wants you at least as much as
you want her. Some people would give a good deal for a like certainty."
Roy tried to explain matters away. "I didn't say—"
"No, I know. Never mind, my boy. Things will mend by and by."
Denham's chair shook as Roy leant against it. He fought his little
battle, and Denham waited, racking his brain to think of some
occupation for the boy.
"We shall all feel better to-morrow," came presently. "Things cannot
look comfortable at first in a strange place. Roy, I wish you would
unpack my valise for me—just the things I shall want to-night. It would
be a help."
"May I really? Den, aren't you well?"
"Rather done. Yes, I wish you would."
Roy was delighted, and went off at full speed. Outside the door he all
but rushed into Lucille's arms. She drew back, and held up something.
"A letter from England, Roy!"
"O I say, that's good. Who for? Den! I'm glad. He's just floored
to-night."
"And this is medicine for Monsieur."
Roy flung open the salon door, announcing, "A letter A letter for you,
Den. From England."
"From the post?" asked Denham, receiving from her hand a folded and
sealed packet.
"Non, Monsieur. It arrives from M. de Bertrand. It was sent to him from
England—under cover—and he waited till he should learn your address.
Then he sent it to me by one travelling this way. I am glad," she
softly added.
Denham bent nearer to the candle, trying with drawn brows and aching
eyes to make out the handwriting. As he did so, a curious light crept
into his face.
"You are very good, Mademoiselle. I am much indebted to you and to M.
de Bertrand."
"Den, I do believe 'tis Polly's writing," cried Roy.
Denham glanced towards him.
"Yes. It is from Polly."