A SCENT OF DANGER.
I BORE the blow with such stoicism as I possessed, and even made some
show of listening and laughing at M. le Comte’s account of our meeting
and subsequent reconciliation. Both women were unaffectedly delighted
with the story, which, indeed, was told with a wit and spirit quite
beyond my reproduction. As I write these lines I am again impressed
with the wide difference between the awkward country boy who sat
scowling in that pleasant company and the accomplished and finished
gentleman who did so much to entertain it. For I know now that my
assumption of ease and interest could have deceived no one. All of
us, I think, looking back over the mistakes and gaucheries of our
youth must feel our cheeks crimson more than once; certainly mine grow
red when I think upon the sorry figure I made that evening. But when
I started to set this history upon paper I determined not to spare
myself, nor will I.
“But who could have sent the message?” asked madame when M. le Comte
had finished the story.
“I cannot even guess,” he answered.
“How was it delivered to you? How came you to believe it?”
“I believed it,” he explained, “because it was brought to me by one of
our old servants--Laroche--whom I left in charge of the stables.”
“Ah, true,” murmured madame. “Laroche disappeared a week ago. I fancied
he had run away to join the Revolutionists.”
“Perhaps he did,” said her husband quietly.
Madame looked at him with a start of alarm.
“The Revolutionists?” she repeated. “It was they who sent the message?
But why? What was their object? Ah, I know,” she added with sudden
conviction. “It was to deprive the Vendéans of your sword, in order
that they might be defeated.”
M. le Comte smiled as he looked down into her fond, admiring eyes.
“Ah, my dear,” he said, “my sword is not so powerful as that. The
Vendéans will win their battles just the same without me. I think the
message was merely the bait for a trap----”
“From which you have escaped!” she cried triumphantly, and clapped her
hands.
“Yes,” he agreed; but there was still in his face a certain anxiety
which she perceived.
“What is it, Henri?” she demanded. “You are not now in danger?”
He threw off his preoccupation with a laugh of genuine amusement.
“In danger?” he repeated. “No--or at least the only danger to which I
am exposed at this moment, madame, is that of falling in love with you
more violently than ever.”
“For shame, sir!” she cried, blushing like a girl. “You forget that we
are not alone.”
“On the contrary,” he retorted, “I think our example a most excellent
one for our young friends yonder;” and he looked across at us with
beaming face, and with a meaning in his eyes which I tried in vain to
fathom. “I hope they will profit by it.”
“Monsieur! Monsieur!” protested madame, restraining him, yet unable to
preserve a stern countenance.
“Besides,” he added, laughing more and more, “it delights me to confuse
that pert young lady sitting opposite us yonder--to make her blush, as
she is doing at this moment,--and I swear, so is Tavernay! What a pair
of children! If their parents had only had the good judgment to betroth
them----”
“Monsieur!” interrupted madame, more sharply. “You will not break your
promise. There was to be no word----”
“And I will say none; pardon me,” broke in M. le Comte. “The temptation
was very great; and I hate to see a fellow-man barred out from
Paradise;” and he looked at me, still laughing.
But I bent above my plate, all pleasure in the meal struck from me, for
suddenly I found myself groaning beneath my burden. Barred out from
Paradise--how apt the words were!--and with bars that could never be
removed. Ah, yes, if our parents----
“What is it, monsieur?” asked a low voice at my side, and I raised
my eyes to find myself gazing into the depths of those I loved. “You
sighed,” she added, seeing that I did not understand.
“Did I?” I said, wondering somewhat that she remained so unruffled by
the fire of raillery which had been turned upon her. “One is apt to
sigh when there is something one desires very much and yet may not
possess.”
“Perhaps I can help you,” she suggested, and I saw again in her
eyes that light which should have set me on my guard. “If it is my
smelling-bottle----”
“No, thank you,” I answered, with dignity. “I do not need it.”
“So you refuse to confide in me, even when I offer you my aid?”
“I fear you cannot aid me, mademoiselle; and if any one in the world
could, it would be you.”
“I am not fond of riddles, M. de Tavernay; and it seems to me that you
have just propounded one.”
“I spoke very seriously,” I said, “and as plainly as I could.”
“Oh, you mean it is my wits which are deficient! I must say,
monsieur----”
“I meant nothing of the sort,” I protested. “I meant----”
“No matter,” she broke in. “Nothing is so wearisome as to have to
explain one’s meaning--unless it be to listen to the explanation. I am
sure it argues dulness somewhere.”
“I am sorry that I bore you,” I retorted, stung to a sort of
desperation. “I had hoped that I might at least continue to furnish you
amusement.”
“Really,” she cried, casting me a brilliant glance, “not a bad
_riposte_. Come, we are quits, then?”
“With all my heart,” I agreed; “especially since you have removed your
button.”
“Well, finish it,” she cried, her eyes dancing. “Finish it.”
“While I am too gallant to follow your example,” I added, relentlessly.
“Good!” she applauded. “_Touché!_ I assure you, monsieur, you are not
boring me in the least. All you need is a little practise, a little
more assurance--you hesitate, as all beginners do, to drive the point
home----”
“I am not bloodthirsty,” I interrupted. “On the contrary, I am of a
disposition the most amiable.”
“And there is still about you a slight clumsiness,” she went on, not
heeding me, “a lack of style and finish.”
“Remember, I have never been to Paris,” I reminded her, “nor even to
Orléans.”
“I shall not remember it long, for there will soon be nothing about you
to suggest it.”
I bowed my thanks.
“Especially if I may remain near you,” I said.
“Oh that--of course!” she agreed. “Well, you have my permission, and
you will find M. le Comte most hospitable; so remain, unless this
mysterious business of yours is imperative.”
“It is,” I said, my face clouding again. “I must set out at daybreak.”
“Ungallant man!” she retorted, looking at me with sparkling eyes. “Do
you ask a favor only to refuse it? Do you understand what you are
saying?”
“Only too well, mademoiselle,” I murmured desolately; “and I would
rather have cut off my right hand than utter those words.”
“Still the riddle!” she cried, with a gesture of despair. “Really,
monsieur, you weary me. Whatever it is you desire, I advise you to ask
for it. One gets nothing in this world without asking--and if it is
refused, taking it just the same.”
“But when one may neither ask nor take, mademoiselle?”
“Oh, then,” she retorted, with a shrug of the shoulders, “one is
certainly in a bad way. One would better stop desiring;” and she turned
her shoulder to me in the most impudent manner possible and gave her
attention to M. le Comte.
“It is La Vendée which will re-establish monarchy in France,” he was
saying, his face alight. “Those peasants are unconquerable. There are
two hundred thousand of them, peaceful men, tilling the soil, tending
their herds, as they had always done, with no thought of resisting the
Republic until the Republic attempted to take from them their priests
and to draft them forth to fight on the frontiers. Then they rose as
one man, fell upon their oppressors, routed them, cut them to pieces
among the hedges. Now they are back in their homes again to make their
Easter; that over, they will march against Thouars and Saumur.”
“But, M. le Comte,” I protested, forgetting for a moment my own
troubles in the interest of the narrative, “fighting of that sort can
be successful only near home and in a most favorable country. For a
campaign troops must have organization.”
“That is true, my friend,” he agreed. “Well, these troops are being
organized. Once the Bocage is free of the Blues, which will be within
the month, our army will be ready to cross the Loire, take Nantes,
advance through Brittany, Normandy, and Maine, where we shall be well
received, and at last march at the head of a united north-west against
Paris itself! I tell you, Tavernay, the Republic is doomed!”
His eyes were sparkling, his face flushed with excitement. An electric
shock seemed to run around the board, and madame sprang to her feet,
glass in hand.
“The King!” she cried, and as we rose to drink the toast I had a vision
of a boy of twelve issuing triumphantly from the gate of the Temple to
avenge his murdered father.
“And may God protect him!” added M. le Comte, as we set our glasses
down.
There was gloom for a moment in our hearts, and I at least felt the
stark horror of the Revolution as I had never done. I saw more clearly
its blood-guiltiness, its red madness. For in our quiet home at
Beaufort the delirium of Paris had seemed far away, almost of another
age and country.
We had shuddered at the stories of the September massacres, but only as
one shudders at any tale of horror; even yet we scarcely believed that
the King was really dead. It seemed impossible that such things could
happen. Just as the body pushed beyond a certain limit of pain grows
numb and suffers no more, so the mind after a certain time refuses
to be impressed. It was thus with the reports which came from Paris,
as one followed another, each more terrible than the last. Not even
the actors in that hideous drama comprehended what was passing there;
they were but chips in a maelstrom, hurled hither and thither, utterly
powerless to stay or to direct the flood which hurried them on and
finally sucked them down.
We of Beaufort were far off the beaten track, and of too little
consequence to cause the tide of revolution to sweep in our direction;
so it had passed us by at such a distance that we had caught only the
faint, confused murmur of it. True, our peasants had for the most part
deserted us; our fields were untilled, our flocks untended. There was
no money in the till and little meat in the larder. But personally we
had experienced no danger, and expected none. We had been content to
sit quietly by while France wrought out her destiny, pitying those less
fortunate than ourselves, and happy in the safety which our obscurity
won for us.
Now I was suddenly brought face to face with the question, What was
my duty? Was it to stay at home and permit these scoundrels to have
their way unquestioned? Was it not rather to join the army of La Vendée
and add my atom to its strength, to do what in me lay to render that
campaign against the cannibals at Paris not a dream but a reality? For
at last I understood. Those hideous tales were true. The fair land of
France lay at the mercy of the vilest of her people----
“Still pondering the riddle?” asked my companion; and I turned to find
her again regarding me with a provoking scrutiny.
“No, mademoiselle,” I said. “I was thinking that when M. le Comte rides
back to the Bocage I will accompany him.”
Her eyes flashed a swift approval.
“That is a man’s place!” she said. “That is where I would be, were I a
man!”
“You will wish me God-speed, then?” I questioned.
“Yes--provided, of course,” she added, looking at me searchingly, “that
you are free to go.”
“Free to go!” I repeated, and my chin fell on my breast. What instinct
was it gave her this power to stab home whenever she chose?
“Then you are not free to go?” she queried, eyeing me still more
closely.
“I confess,” I stammered, “that it was not to don a white cockade I
left Beaufort.”
“But surely any mere personal matter of business may be put aside when
one’s country calls!”
“Alas!” I murmured, “this is not an affair of that nature.”
“Well,” she said coolly, “you must of course decide for yourself,
monsieur; more especially since you seem to wish to shroud yourself in
a veil of mystery.”
“Mademoiselle,” I said desperately, “I should like your advice.”
“But I understand nothing of the matter.”
“You shall understand, if you will do me the honor to hear me.”
“Would not M. le Comte’s advice be of more service?” she asked with a
sudden trepidation which surprised me.
“No,” I said, decidedly, “not in this instance. I hope you will not
refuse me.”
She glanced at my anxious face and smiled curiously.
“Very well,” she assented. “Proceed, then.”
“O, not here!” I protested, with a glance at the others. “Perhaps after
dinner, mademoiselle, you will walk with me in the garden.”
“In the garden?” she repeated, in an astonished tone, and looked at me
with lifted brows.
“I know that it is a great favor I am asking,” I continued hastily.
“Yes, it is more than that,” she broke in sharply. “It is not
convenable. What strange customs you must have at Beaufort, monsieur!
Are the young ladies there accustomed to grant such requests?”
“I do not know,” I answered miserably. “I have never before preferred
such a one. I am not familiar with etiquette--with the nice rules of
conduct. If I have done wrong, forgive me.”
I saw her glance at me quickly from the corner of her eye, and my heart
grew bolder.
“It is a beautiful garden,” I went on. “I saw it this evening from my
window. There are paths, seats----”
“I am familiar with the garden, monsieur,” she interposed dryly.
“And the moon will be full to-night,” I concluded.
“The more reason I should refuse you,” she retorted. “It will be a
dangerous place. Though I am amply able to take care of myself,” she
added.
“I do not doubt it, mademoiselle,” I agreed humbly, “especially with
me. That has already been proved, has it not?”
“Yes,” she said, with a queer little smile; “yes, I think it has.”
“Believe me, it is not a ruse,” I added earnestly, “even were I capable
of a ruse, which I am not. God knows I should like to walk with you
there, but not to tell you what I shall to-night have to tell you.”
She looked at me again with a strange mixture of timidity and daring.
“Very well, M. de Tavernay,” she said at last. “In the garden
then--provided, of course, that madame consents.”
“Thank you,” I said, my heart warm with gratitude. “Shall I ask her?”
“No; I will attend to that;” and she smiled a little as she glanced
across the board. “But I know that it is not discreet; I am falling a
victim to my curiosity. You have piqued it most successfully. Although
I can never solve a riddle for myself, I cannot rest until I know the
solution. I hope your riddle will be worth the risk.”
“It will,” I assured her; and fell silent, nerving myself for the task
which lay before me.
“But will you hear what this tyrant is saying?” cried madame--“that I
must leave the château to dwell amid the fogs of England----”
“Or beneath the blue skies of Italy,” said M. le Comte. “Really,
madame, I fear the château is no longer safe for you. The Revolution is
looking this way--and not with friendly eyes.”
“Does the Revolution, then, make war on women?”
“Have you forgotten Mlle. de Lamballe?”
Madame went white at the retort, almost brutal in its brevity.
“But that was the _canaille_ of Paris,” she protested. “There are no
such monsters here in Poitou.”
“Ah, my dear,” said her husband, sadly, “I fear there are monsters of
the same sort wherever there are suffering and degraded men and women.
And since it is us they blame for their suffering and degradation,
it is upon us they try to avenge themselves. Besides, since the
Republicans are trying to entrap me, they will doubtless end by coming
here; and not finding me, they may throw you into prison as the surest
way of causing me to suffer.”
“We have the tower!” cried madame. “We will defend ourselves!”
“The tower was not built to withstand artillery,” her husband pointed
out; “and even if the Republicans have no cannon they need only camp
about it and bide their time to starve you into surrender, since you
could expect no aid from any quarter.”
“But to leave the château--to abandon it to pillage--oh, I could never
endure it!”
“Better that than to lose it and our lives together. Yes, decidedly,
you must set out to-morrow----”
“To-morrow!” echoed madame, in despairing tones.
“M. de Tavernay will accompany you as far as Poitiers. At Poitiers,
Mlle. de Chambray----”
“Charlotte goes with me to Italy, do you not, my dear? It was arranged,
you know, that you should remain with me.”
“I do not know, madame,” Charlotte stammered, turning very red. “I--I
think perhaps I would better stop at Chambray.”
For some reason which I could not fathom both monsieur and madame burst
into a peal of laughter, while my companion turned an even deeper
crimson.
“As you will,” said her hostess when she had taken breath. “I myself
think that you might do worse, happy as I would be to have you with me.”
“Why cannot you stop at Chambray also, madame?” questioned Charlotte,
her face slowly regaining its normal hue. “At least until you find some
friend also bound for Italy? You will be quite safe at Chambray.”
M. le Comte nodded.
“She is right, my dear,” he said. “Accept, and thank her. No one will
look for you there--besides, it is not for you they are searching, but
for me.”
“And where will you be, monsieur?”
“I shall be in the Bocage,” he answered simply, “fighting the enemies
of France.”
Madame bit her lips to restrain their trembling, as she cast upon him a
glance full of love and pride.
“That is where I would be also,” she said, “if the choice were mine.
Madame de la Rochejaquelein accompanies her husband.”
“That is true,” he assented, “and she is sometimes frightfully in the
way. If you knew that country, my love, you would see how impossible
it is for women. Besides, I am not Rochejaquelein--I am not a leader,
but a follower. I must go where I am ordered, and at once, without
question. I shall fight better--I shall be worth more--knowing that you
are in safety.”
“Very well, monsieur,” she said, her eyes shining. “As you will. You
know best.”
He seized her hand and kissed it.
“We shall have many happy days together,” he said, “when the fight is
won.”
And as I looked at them I fancied that happy future already realized.
“You perceive, M. de Tavernay,” he smiled, catching my eyes, “that
though I have the honor to be this lady’s husband, I have never ceased
to be her lover.”
“Indeed, that is not wonderful, M. le Comte,” I said, with a glance at
the adoring face beside him. “Anything else is inconceivable.”
“Thank you, monsieur!” cried madame. “You have the tongue of a
courtier.”
“I assure you, madame,” I protested, “that came from the heart.”
She laughed as she rose to her feet, and held out her hand to me with a
quick little pressure of the fingers.
“Do not be long,” she said. “We women will be lonely.”
I held back the drapery at the door for her and watched her as she
passed--the beautiful, fair head, set imperiously upon the slender
neck; the little ear, pink-tinted; the rounded, perfect arm----
Then another vision passed and eclipsed the first one, though all I
caught of it was a glance from a pair of eyes dancing with mischief.
“M. de Tavernay,” said my host, coming up behind me and placing his
hand affectionately upon my shoulder, “I confess to you that I do not
wish to sit nodding here over the wine. I had not seen my wife for near
a month, until a few hours ago; after to-morrow it may be that I shall
never see her again. I know you will pardon me when I say that I cannot
bear the thought of spending one moment of this night away from her.”
“I beg of you to say no more,” I protested. “I too wish to join the
ladies.”
“I knew it!” he laughed; then his face sobered as he looked at me.
“Come, my friend, I am going to speak to you frankly. It is a wonderful
chance which brought you here to meet Charlotte; I cannot tell you how
wonderful--you will learn for yourself some day. Make the most of it.
She is a woman worth winning--but you have seen that. What perhaps you
have not seen--since there are no eyes so blind as a lover’s--is that
she may be won.”
I caught a deep breath--a breath as much of agony as of joy.
“You think so?” I murmured. “You think so?”
“I am sure of it!” he said, and wrung my hand. “Good luck to you!
Remember,” he added laughing, “a fortress of that sort is never to be
taken by siege--it must be carried by assault!” and he led the way into
the drawing-room.