IN AN ENEMY I FIND A FRIEND.
FOR an instant I was too astonished to resist; then the indignity of
it--the indignity of the strong and cruel hands which seized and held
me--swept over me like flame, and I shook off my assailants and faced
Dubosq.
“Loose me!” I cried, struggling furiously with my bonds. “Loose me! I
demand that you loose me!”
Dubosq laughed sardonically.
“At your service,” he sneered. “Any other orders?”
I realized how impotent I was, and the knowledge struck chill to my
heart. Dubosq could stand me up at the side of the road and order me
shot, and no one would question or protest. He had only to give the
word. I felt as the wild beast feels caught in a sudden trap.
“But this is an outrage!” I protested thickly, striving to still the
trembling of my lips; for I was young--remember always, my reader, that
I was young and new to the world.
Dubosq stood regarding me, gnawing his mustache savagely. I dare say
the trembling lip did not escape him.
“Outrage or not,” he growled, “you are under arrest, citizen.”
“And for what?” I demanded.
“As an accomplice of the _ci-devant_ Favras.”
My astonishment was so overwhelming that even he discerned it.
“Of course you are innocent,” he sneered.
“Citizen Dubosq,” I said slowly, “I give you my word of honor that I
have never before even heard of the person you mention. As for being
his accomplice, that is too absurd to discuss.”
“It is strange, then,” commented Dubosq, grimly, “that you should have
been so complaisant as to permit him to ride away upon your horse. But
no doubt you have an explanation. There is always an explanation.”
“Oh!” I cried, understanding suddenly and looking down the empty road.
“So that was the _ci-devant_ Favras! I am glad to know his name, for I
have an account to settle with him. So far from permitting him to take
the horse, I had an impulse to murder him.”
“And why did you not?” Dubosq demanded. “That would at least have saved
your own neck.”
“I had given him my word,” I explained, and related the dilemma in
which I had found myself. “But even then,” I concluded, “I would have
killed him had he not turned his back.”
Dubosq listened, looking at me keenly. At the last words he nodded,
almost imperceptibly, as though he understood. Then he glanced moodily
away across the field.
I followed his eyes and saw approaching us from the grove two men
bearing the body of a third.
“Is that his work?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Dubosq; and fell silent until the bearers reached the road
and placed the body on the grass beneath the tree. I saw with a shudder
that the man had been stabbed in the back.
“Yes,” repeated Dubosq fiercely, “that is his work. He crept upon
him from behind and struck him down. He did not hesitate because his
victim’s back was turned. Oh, these traitors, these aristocrats, with
their talk of honor!” and he shook his clenched fists above his head.
“But how did he escape?” I queried, for even yet I did not understand.
“How did he escape?” yelled Dubosq, his face purple. “He escaped
because his wits are better than ours. There is that to be said for the
aristocrats--their wits are better than ours, clods that we are! He
murdered this man----”
“Not murder, citizen,” I interrupted. “Not that--self-defense.”
“Self-defense!” roared Dubosq. “In the back? Murder, I say! Then
shielding himself in that ditch yonder, he worked his way back to the
road, mounted your horse and was off, while we were blundering around
in that little grove. I should have thought of the ditch;” and he stood
glowering at it. “I did--too late! I disgust myself!”
“And I suffer in consequence,” I added. “Come, my friend, confess
that you believe my story. Look at me. I am no conspirator--in your
heart you know it. If I had been the friend of that fellow, I would
have ridden away behind him; certainly I should not have remained here
waiting for your return. To revenge yourself on me because your trap
has failed--that is unworthy of you. Besides I have suffered enough
already--and for no fault.”
He looked at me for a moment, and his face softened. I saw that the
storm was over.
“I believe you, citizen,” he said; “you are free,” and he whipped out
his knife and cut my bonds.
For thanks I held out my hand and he gripped it warmly.
“Come,” he urged, “join my troop, pin on the tri-color, and I will make
a man of you.”
But I shook my head.
“No, my friend,” I said, “an errand of honor calls me to Poitiers.”
He looked at me with renewed suspicion.
“Which reminds me,” he added, “that you have not yet told me the nature
of that errand.”
“I will tell you,” I said, “as a friend;” and I whispered a swift
sentence in his ear.
He burst out laughing, his good humor restored in an instant.
“Well, go your way,” he said, slapping me on the shoulder, “and good
luck go with you. At the fête, citizen, drink a health to old Dubosq.
As for me, I have the pleasant duty of burying my dead, and reporting
to my superiors that I am a fool and that the trap is empty;” and he
glowered angrily down the road, his mustache drooping dismally.
“Your turn will come,” I urged. “Or if not yours, mine--of that I am
certain.”
“Yes,” he agreed, with a growl, “I will yet get my hands on him, and
when I do, he will have reason to remember it. Adieu, citizen,” he
added. “My compliments to the lady. Come, my children, march!” And he
and his soldiers set off toward Tours, bearing their dead with them.
I watched them for a few moments with something like regret. After all,
Dubosq had spoken truly. I had seen little of the world, and he had
offered me a chance to see more in gallant company. I could not but
admit that he would have made an admirable guide and companion. If his
cockade were only white! But even then I could not have followed him.
For I was not free--another duty lay before me. Would I ever be free,
I wondered--free to march away whither I listed, to live a man’s life
and grow to man’s stature? Or would I always be tied to some woman’s
petticoat, imprisoned in a trivial round of daily duties, as were so
many men? Was I on this journey simply exchanging one petticoat for
another?
With such thoughts for companions,--surely less pleasant than
Dubosq!--I turned my face again to the south, and strode along with
such speed as my legs could compass. I am not fond of foot-exercise,
and it was not at all in this ridiculous fashion that I had thought to
make the journey to Poitiers. Besides there was need that my entry
into that city should be made with a certain dignity, and I knew well
that the whole contents of my purse would not purchase a new horse, to
say nothing of a new equipment.
For the horse was not all that I had lost. In the holsters of the
saddle was a pair of handsome pistols which had belonged to my father,
and in the portmanteau strapped behind it an array of gallant clothing
such as I had never possessed before, and would in all likelihood
never again possess. As to replenishing my purse, I remembered only
too acutely how my mother had pinched herself for months to provide me
with this outfit. No, decidedly, to repair this misfortune I had only
my own prowess to depend upon, and I am free to say that it was not of
a quality greatly to enhearten me. Certainly my first adventure in the
world had ended most disastrously.
So I trudged on, looking neither to the right nor to the left, turning
my misfortune over in my mind, and recalling the good points of my
horse,--a friend and companion almost since my boyhood,--the comfort
of my saddle, and the beauties of my wardrobe, as a starving man will
picture to himself the savory details of some banquet he has enjoyed in
happier days. And I almost found it in my heart to regret that I had
not struck the robber down in that moment when he had dared to turn his
back upon me.
There were few people on the road, but such as I met stared at me
curiously, evidently unable to understand how it was that a young
fellow so gallantly arrayed should be footing it through the dust with
sour countenance. This of course served only to increase my spleen,
and ended in my pulling my hat over my eyes and trudging on without
glancing up, even at the rustle of a petticoat. I know not how great a
distance I covered in this fashion, but at last the sun, rising high in
the heavens, beat down upon me with such ardor that my head began to
swim dizzily. I looked about for shelter, and seeing just ahead of me a
little cluster of mean houses, hastened my steps in the hope that there
might be an inn among them.
So indeed there proved to be. But when I came to the threshold of the
low, ill-smelling room, dark almost as a dungeon even in full day,
I hesitated, for I was armed only with sword and dagger and it was
impossible to see what lay within. Decidedly I had no wish to risk my
purse, and perhaps my life as well, for the sake of a bottle of bad
wine.
But a gay voice encouraged me.
“Enter, monsieur,” it called. “I was awaiting you.”
And as my eyes grew somewhat accustomed to the darkness, I descried,
seated at a table in one corner, my enemy, my despoiler, smiling at me
as though he were my dearest friend.
“Come,” he added, “join me;” and such was the wizardry of his voice and
the gesture which accompanied it, that whatever my reluctance, I could
not but obey.
“What is your name, monsieur?” he asked, as I took the seat opposite
his; and he smiled again as he caught my glance.
“Jean de Tavernay,” I answered; “and, monsieur, I have to say to
you----”
“One moment,” he broke in, holding up his hand. “My name perhaps you
have already heard?”
“Yes, if you are who the Republicans said you were.”
“And that was?”
“One M. de Favras.”
“They are not at your heels?”
“No, they returned to Tours.”
“Disappointed?”
“Extremely so.”
He laughed, then grew suddenly sober and knitted his brows in thought,
which I somehow dared not interrupt. After all, there was no cause for
haste. He could not escape me.
“It looked like a trap,” he said, at last.
“It was a trap,” I assured him.
“And set for me?”
“I believe so.”
He pondered this a moment longer, then put it from him.
“No matter,” he said. “Why waste thought on a trap from which one has
escaped? And now, M. de Tavernay, to your affair. I see the words which
are trembling on your lips; I read the thought which is passing in
your mind. You would say that I have not used you as one gentleman
uses another. I admit it. You are thinking that now you will revenge
yourself. I do not blame you. I owe you an apology for treating you in
the fashion that I did. But it was with me a question of life or death.
I had no alternative. And I assure you,” he added, smiling grimly, “I
should not have hesitated to kill you had you chosen to resist. I gave
you a chance for your life merely because I saw that you were not a
Republican, but a traveller like myself. Had you worn the tri-color,
nothing would have saved you.”
“All of which I saw in your eyes, monsieur,” I said. “It was for that
reason I did not resist.”
“Well,” he asked, looking at me, “which is it, monsieur--an apology and
this bottle of wine, or our swords back of the cabaret? For myself, I
hope it is the former. But it is for you to choose.”
There was a kindness in his tone not to be resisted, an authority in
his glance and in the expression of his face which bore in upon me anew
my own youth and inexperience.
“The wine, monsieur,” I said. “The other would be folly.”
He nodded and filled our glasses, then raised his to his lips.
“To our better acquaintance,” he said, and we drank the toast. I was
beginning to wonder how I had ever been so blind as to think this man
an enemy.
“There was one moment,” I confessed, “when you were in some danger.”
“I saw it,” he said quietly. “It was for that reason I turned my back
to you.”
I stared at him in amazement.
“To help you overcome temptation,” he explained. “One gentleman does
not break his word by stabbing another in the back.”
A warm flush of pleasure sprang to my cheeks. Then a sudden vision rose
before me of a limp body in Republican uniform----
“But you----” I stopped, confused, conscious that I was uttering my
thought aloud, and that the thought was not a pleasant one.
“Ah,” he went on, smiling sadly, “you would say that I stabbed that
poor fellow in the back. Believe me, monsieur, I should have preferred
a thousand times to meet him face to face. But I had no choice. A
moment’s delay, and I should have been taken. So I hardened my heart
and struck.”
“Pardon me, monsieur,” I murmured.
He nodded, the shadow still on his face.
“Fortune of war,” he said, with affected lightness. “We must make
the best of it. And now, M. de Tavernay,” he added, rising, “you
will find your horse awaiting you outside yonder door, as fresh as
when you started with him from Tours. I have secured another in a
less peremptory way than I found necessary to adopt with you. It is
foolhardy for me to linger here. I must push on at once. But you may be
weary, you may wish to avoid the heat of the day; you may, in a word,
prefer to continue your journey alone and at your leisure. If so,
farewell; but if you are ready to go on, I assure you that I shall be
very glad of your company.”
“Thank you, monsieur,” I said, my decision taken on the instant. “I am
quite ready to go.”
“Good! come then,” and throwing a gold-piece on the table he started
toward the door.
Not until that instant did I remember that the inn must have a keeper,
and that the keeper would have ears, which he had no doubt kept wide
open during all this talk. I looked around for him, and as though
guessing my thought, he shambled slowly forward from a dark corner--as
ill-favored a villain as I ever saw.
“Is there anything else monsieur wishes?” he asked, looking at me with
a glance so venomous that I recoiled as though a snake had struck at me.
“No,” I stammered, “except to tell you that there is your money.”
He picked up the coin without a word and spun it in his hand, while I
hastened after my companion, anxious to escape from that sinister place
into the clear day. I found him awaiting me just outside the door.
“Our horses will be here in a moment,” he said. “I have sent for them.”
“I shall breathe more freely when I am in the saddle and well away from
here,” I answered. “There is a fellow back yonder who is longing to
assassinate both of us.”
“Our host?” and he laughed lightly. “I noticed him. He is like all the
others--they would all jump to assassinate us, if they dared.”
“This one looked particularly wolfish.”
“They are all wolfish, and like the wolf arrant cowards, save when they
hunt in pack.”
“But if he overheard?”
“Perhaps we were a little indiscreet,” he agreed, sober for an instant.
“But one peril more or less--what does it matter?” he added, with
a shrug. “Here are the horses. Permit me to return you yours, with
apologies and thanks.”
“I am rejoiced to get him back,” I said, patting his nose.
“The pleasure seems to be mutual,” observed my companion; and indeed
there was no mistaking the joy in the eyes of my old friend. “You would
better look over your belongings,” he added. “There are thieves about.”
But I found that nothing had been disturbed. My pistols were in their
holsters, and my portmanteau was still strapped behind the saddle.
“Then let us be off,” said M. de Favras.
Not until we were well out of the village and cantering briskly toward
the south with a clear road behind us, did I feel at ease. Then I
took my chin from my shoulder and directed an admiring gaze at my
companion--would I ever acquire such an air? He caught my glance and
smiled.
“Where had you intended spending the night, M. de Tavernay?” he
inquired.
“At Châtellerault,” I said.
“But you cannot hope to reach Châtellerault to-day,” he protested,
“after the delay which I have caused you. You must be my guest
to-night. My château is just beyond Dange. I will see you on your
way at daybreak to-morrow, and you can reach Poitiers with ease by
sunset. I hope you will accept, my friend,” he went on, seeing that
I hesitated, “if only that I may feel you have wholly forgiven me.
Besides,” he added, with an air of finality, “it is folly to travel
unattended in this country after nightfall. It is overrun with brigands
who shout for liberty, equality, fraternity, only to conceal their
crimes.”
Truth to tell, I needed no urging. I tried to stammer something of the
pleasure the invitation gave me, but he stopped me with a kind little
wave of the hand.
“For the past month I have been in the Bocage,” he went on, when that
was settled. “Ah, if you would see true heroism, my friend, you must go
there. A devoted people, fighting for their homes and for their faith,
under leaders the most heroic that army ever had. It is against those
peasants of La Vendée that this cursed carnival of slaughter will wreck
itself.”
His face was alight with enthusiasm, his eyes shining with deep emotion.
“They are carrying all before them,” he went on, more calmly. “To-day,
they are mere scattered peasants, working in their fields. To-morrow,
they are an army of fifty thousand, springing from the very ground to
smite the enemy. They shoot him down from behind their hedges, they put
him to the sword, they send him staggering back to his barracks, all
but annihilated. Then the next day, if there is no more fighting, they
are back again with their flocks and herds. It recalls that golden age
of Greece when every man was eager to give his life for his country.”
“But surely,” I objected, “trained troops should be able easily to
stand against them.”
“They have not yet done so,” he retorted. “We have taken Les Herbiers,
Montaigu, Chantonnay, Cholet and Vihiers, one after the other, like
shaking ripe plums from a tree. After all, victory depends not so
much upon organization or generalship, or even numbers, as upon the
spirit of the men themselves. The army which goes into a battle with
each individual unit of it bent on victory wins the victory. The
army which fights half-heartedly loses. That is the history of every
battle. The people of the Bocage are fighting for their homes and their
religion--their souls are in the conflict, and they will never admit
themselves defeated until the last man has been slain. Within a month
the Blues will have been driven completely from Vendée, and the King
will reign there;” and at the words he crossed himself. “‘God and the
King’ is our watchword.”
He saw the question in the glance I turned upon him.
“You are wondering,” he said, “why at such a time I should have left
the army. Two nights since I received a message that my wife was
dangerously ill--dying even. The army will be victorious without
me--but my wife----”
He stopped. I understood and nodded gently.
“Only that could have brought me away,” he added--“the certainty that
she needed me. I started at once but found the Blues in force at
Coulonges. I attempted to turn aside and at once lost my way amid the
innumerable and abominable roads with which that country is cursed. I
was forced finally to ride on to Chinon and then along the Loire, for
it seemed as though every road was blocked by the enemy. I should have
reached the château last night, and behold me only this far;” and he
pricked his horse savagely and galloped forward.
I followed, and for a time we held the pace without exchanging a word,
he busy with his own thoughts, and I wrapped in contemplation of the
marvellous turn of fortune which had not only restored me all that I
had lost, but which had also given me the friendship of a man like
this. I looked at him from time to time, admiring more than ever the
fine face and graceful figure. He was, I judged, not over thirty; but
there was something in the glance of his eye, in the set of his lips,
which told me that he had played his part in the world for many years.
Perhaps the time was at hand when I should play my part, too.
At last we drew rein to give our horses breath, and my companion
pointed out to me some of the features of the country. To our right was
the gentle valley of the Vienne, and finally we dipped into it and
crossed the river at a ford.
“Now I am at home,” he said, looking about with a smile of pleasure.
“But in this case home is not without its dangers, for I may be
recognized at any turn, and the adventure of this morning warns me
to be careful. At the village, there may even be another detachment
of Republicans. So I think it would be wise to turn aside and take
that path yonder, by which we shall not only avoid the town but come
directly to my estate.”
“Very well, monsieur,” I agreed; and in another moment we had plunged
among the trees.
The soft earth of the wood, with its carpet of leaves, deadened the
sound of our horses’ hoofs and we went on silently among the shadows
for some time. Then we turned abruptly to the left, the wood opened,
and again I saw the river gleaming before us.
“There is the château,” he said suddenly, and following his gesture
I saw a lofty tower rising above the trees. “That tower,” he added,
smiling, “is my heritage from an amorous ancestor, who built it some
hundreds of years ago to shelter a fair lady, whom a rival coveted.
The tower was designed to withstand attack--and did withstand it--so
the lady remained in our family and helped perpetuate it. That brave
Marquis de Favras, who died so gallantly on the Place de Grève two
years ago, belonged to that branch; so you see we have no reason to
be ashamed of it, however irregular its origin. There is the modern
wing,” he added, as we came out suddenly upon the road, “built by my
father.”
It was a handsome building of white stone, and as we approached it I
saw two ladies strolling upon the terrace which ran across its front.
At the gate, a man, swart and heavy-set, stood for a moment eyeing us.
“Ah, Pasdeloup!” cried my companion; and at the word the man sprang
to the gate and threw it back with a clang, his face beaming. “Alert
as ever!” added his master, waved his hand to him and galloped past,
while the other gazed after him with something very like adoration
transfiguring his rough countenance.
At the sound of our horses’ hoofs upon the gravelled road, the ladies
turned and looked toward us. Then one of them flew down the steps, her
hands outstretched, her face alight.
“Madame!” cried my companion. “Madame!” and he threw himself from his
horse and caught her to his heart.