There is no sentiment so artificial as international hatred. In olden
days it owed its existence to churchmen, and now an irresponsible press
foments that dormant antagonism. Wherever French and English individuals
are thrown together by a common endeavour, both are surprised at the
mutual esteem which soon develops into friendship. But as nations we are
no nearer than we were in the great days of Napoleon.
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence was only one-quarter French and three-quarters
English. Her grandmother had been a St. Pierre; but it was not from that
lady that she inherited a certain open-handedness which took her French
friends by surprise.
“It is not that she has the cause at heart,” commented Madame de
Chantonnay, as she walked laboriously on Albert's arm down the ramp of
the Chateau de Gemosac at the termination of the meeting. “It is not for
that that she throws her note of a thousand francs upon the table and
promises more when things are in train. It is because she can refuse
nothing to Dormer Colville. Allez, my son! I have a woman's heart! I
know!”
Albert contented himself with a sardonic laugh. He was not in the humour
to talk of women's hearts; for Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's action
had struck a sudden note of British realism into the harmony of his
political fancies. He had talked so much, had listened to so much talk
from others, that the dream of a restored monarchy had at last been
raised to those far realms of the barely possible in which the Gallic
fancy wanders in moments of facile digestion.
It was sufficient for the emergency that the others present at the
meeting could explain that one does not carry money in one's pocket in
a country lane at night. But in their hearts all were conscious of a
slight feeling of resentment toward Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence; of a
vague sense of disappointment, such as a dreamer may experience on being
roughly awakened.
The three priests folded their hands with complacency. Poverty, their
most cherished possession, spoke for itself in their case. The notary
blinked and fumbled at his lips with yellow fingers in hasty thought. He
was a Royalist notary because there existed in the country of the Deux
Sevres a Royalist clientele. In France, even a washerwoman must hold
political views and stand or fall by them. It was astounding how poor
every one felt at that moment, and it rested, as usual, with a woman's
intuition to grasp the only rope within reach. “The vintage,” this lady
murmured. The vintage promised to be a bad one. Nothing, assuredly,
could be undertaken, and no promise made, until the vintage was over.
So the meeting broke up without romance, and the conspirators dispersed
to their homes, carrying in their minds that mutual distrust which is
ever awakened in human hearts by the chink of gold, while the dormant
national readiness to detect betrayal by England was suddenly wide
awake.
Nevertheless, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had supplied the one ingredient
necessary to leaven the talk of these dreamers into action. Even the
notary found himself compelled to contribute when Albert de Chantonnay
asked him outright for a subscription. And the priests, ably led by the
Abbe Touvent, acted after the manner of the sons of Levi since olden
times. They did not give themselves, but they told others to give, which
is far better.
In due course the money was sent to England. It was the plain truth that
the Marquis de Gemosac had not sufficient in his pocket to equip Loo
Barebone with the clothes necessary to a seemly appearance in France;
or, indeed, to cover the expense of the journey thither. Dormer Colville
never had money to spare. “Heaven shaped me for a rich man,” he would
say, lightly, whenever the momentous subject was broached, “but forgot
to fill my pockets.”
It was almost the time of the vintage, and the country roads were dotted
with the shambling figures of those knights of industry who seem to
spring from the hedgerows at harvest-time in any country in the world,
when the Abbe Touvent sought out Marie in her cottage at the gates of
the chateau.
“A la cave,” answered the lady's voice. “In the cellar--do you not know
that it is Monday and I wash?”
The Abbe did not repeat his summons on the kitchen table with the handle
of his stick, but drew forward a chair.
“I know it is very hot, and that I am tired,” he shouted toward the
cellar door, which stood open, giving egress to a warm smell of soap.
“Precisely--and does Monsieur l'Abbe want me to come up as I am?”
The suggestion was darkly threatening, and the Abbe replied that Marie
must take her time, since it was washing-day.
The cottage was built on sloping ground at the gate of the chateau,
probably of the stones used for some earlier fortification. That which
Marie called the cellar was but half underground, and had an exit to the
garden which grew to the edge of the cliff. It was not long before she
appeared at the head of the stone steps, a square-built woman with a
face that had been sunburnt long ago by work in the vineyards, and
eyes looking straight at the world from beneath a square and wrinkled
forehead.
“Monsieur l'Abbe,” she said, shortly--a salutation and a comment in one;
for it conveyed the fact that she saw it was he and perceived that he
was in his usual health. “It is news from Monsieur, I suppose,” she
added, slowly, turning down her sleeves.
“Yes, the Marquis writes that he is on his way to Gemosac and wishes you
to prepare the chateau for his return.”
The Abbe waved his hand toward the castle gates with an air suggestive
of retainers and lackeys, of busy stables and a hundred windows lighted
after dark. His round eyes did not meet the direct glance fixed on
his face, but wandered from one object to another in the room, finally
lighting on the great key of the chateau gate, which hung on a nail
behind the door.
“Then Monsieur le Marquis is coming into residence,” said Marie,
gravely.
And by way of reply the Abbe waved his hand a second time toward the
castle walls.
“And the worst of it is,” he added, timidly, to this silent admission,
“that he brings a guest.”
He moistened his fat lips and sat smiling in a foolish way at the open
door; for he was afraid of all women, and most afraid of Marie.
“Ah!” she retorted, shortly. “To sleep in the oubliette, one may
suppose. For there is no other bed in the chateau, as you quite well
know, Monsieur l'Abbe. It is another of your kings no doubt. Oh! you
need not hold up your hands--when Monsieur Albert reads aloud that
letter from Monsieur le Marquis, in England, without so much as closing
the door of the banquet hall! It is as well that it was no other than I
who stood on the stairs outside and heard all.”
“But it is wrong to listen behind doors,” protested the Abbe.
“Ah, bah!” replied this unregenerate sheep of his flock. “But do not
alarm yourself, Monsieur l'Abbe, I can keep a quiet tongue. And a
political secret--what is it? It is an amusement for the rich--your
politics--but a vice for the poor. Come, let us go to the chateau, while
there is still day, and you can see for yourself whether we are ready
for a guest.”
While she spoke she hastily completed a toilet, which, despite the
Abbe's caution, had the appearance of incompleteness, and taking the
great key from behind the door, led the way out into the glare of the
setting sun. She unlocked the great gate and threw her weight against it
with quick, firm movements like the movements of a man. Indeed, she was
a better man than her companion; of a stronger common sense; with
lither limbs and a stouter heart; the best man that France has latterly
produced, and, so far as the student of racial degeneration may
foretell, will ever produce again--her middle-class woman.
Built close against the flanking tower on the left hand of the courtyard
was a low, square house of two stories only. The whole ground floor
was stabling, room and to spare for half a hundred horses, and filled
frequently enough, no doubt, in the great days of the Great Henry. On
the first floor, to which three or four staircases gave access, there
were plenty of apartments; indeed, suites of them. But nearly all stood
empty, and the row of windows looked blank and curtainless across the
crumbling garden to the Italian house.
It was one of the many tragedies of that smiling, sunny land where
only man, it seems, is vile; for nature has enclosed within its
frontier-lines all the varied wealth and beauty of her treasures.
Marie led the way up the first staircase, which was straight and
narrow. The carpet, carefully rolled and laid aside on the landing, was
threadbare and colourless. The muslin curtains, folded back and pinned
together, were darned and yellow with frequent washing and the rust of
ancient damp. She opened the door of the first room at the head of
the stairs. It had once been the apartment of some servitor; now it
contained furniture of the gorgeous days of Louis XIV., with all the
colour gone from its tapestry, all the woodwork grey and worm-eaten.
“Not that one,” said Marie, as the Abbe struggled with the lever that
fastened the window. “That one has not been opened for many years. See!
the glass rattles in the frame. It is the other that opens.”
Without comment the Abbe opened the other window and threw back the
shutters, from which all the paint had peeled away, and let in the
scented air. Mignonette close at hand--which had bloomed and died
and cast its seed amid the old walls and falling stones since Marie
Antoinette had taught the women of France to take an interest in their
gardens; and from the great plains beyond--flat and fat--carefully laid
there by the Garonne to give the world its finest wines, rose up the
subtle scent of vines in bloom.
“The drawing-room,” said Marie, and making a mock-curtsey toward the
door, which stood open to the dim stairs, she made a grand gesture with
her hand, still red and wrinkled from the wash-tub. “Will the King of
France be pleased to enter and seat himself? There are three chairs, but
one of them is broken, so his Majesty's suite must stand.”
With a strident laugh she passed on to the next room through folding
doors.
“The principal room,” she announced, with that hard irony in her voice,
which had, no doubt, penetrated thither from the soul of a mother who
had played no small part in the Revolution. “The guest-chamber, one may
say, provided that Monsieur le Marquis will sleep on the floor in the
drawing-room, or in the straw down below in the stable.”
The Abbe threw open the shutter of this room also and stood meekly
eyeing Marie with a tolerant smile. The room was almost bare
of furniture. A bed such as peasants sleep on; a few chairs; a
dressing-table tottering against the window-breast, and modestly
screened in one corner, the diminutive washing-stand still used in
southern France. For Gemosac had been sacked and the furniture built
up into a bonfire when Marie was a little child and the Abbe Touvent a
fat-faced timorous boy at the Seminary of Saintes.
“Beyond is Mademoiselle's room,” concluded Marie, curtly. She looked
round her and shrugged her shoulders with a grim laugh which made the
Abbe shrink. They looked at each other in silence, the two participants
in the secret of Gemosac; for Marie's husband, the third who had access
to the chateau, did not count. He was a shambling, silent man, now
working in the vineyard beneath the walls. He always did what his wife
told him, without comment or enthusiasm, knowing well that he would be
blamed for doing it badly.
The Abbe had visited the rooms once before, during a brief passage of
the Marquis, soon after his wife's death in Paris. But, as a rule, only
Marie and Jean had access to the apartment. He looked round with an eye
always ready with the tear of sympathy; for he was a soft-hearted man.
Then he looked at Marie again, shamefacedly. But she, divining his
thoughts, shrugged her shoulders.
“Ah, bah!” she said, “one must take the world as it is. And Monsieur le
Marquis is only a man. One sees that, when he announces his return on
washing-day, and brings a guest. You must write to him, that is all,
and tell him that with time I can arrange, but not in a hurry like
this. Where is the furniture to come from? A chair or two from the
banquet-hall; I can lend a bed which Jean can carry in after dark so
that no one knows; you have the jug and basin you bought when the Bishop
came, that you must lend--” She broke off and ran to the window. “Good,”
she cried, in a despairing voice, “I hear a carriage coming up the hill.
Run, Monsieur l'Abbe--run to the gate and bolt it. Guest or no guest,
they cannot see the rooms like this. Here, let me past.”
She pushed him unceremoniously aside at the head of the stairs and ran
past him. Long concealment of the deadly poverty within the walls had
taught her to close the gates behind her whenever she entered, but now
for greater security, or to gain time, she swung the great oaken beam
round on its pivot across the doors on the inside. Then turning round on
her heels she watched the bell that hung above her head. The Abbe,
who had followed her as quickly as he could, was naively looking for a
peep-hole between the timbers of the huge doors.
A minute later the bell swung slowly, and gave a single clang which
echoed beneath the vaulted roof, and in the hollow of the empty towers
on either side.
“Marie, Marie!” cried a gay girlish voice from without. “Open at once.
It is I.”
“There,” said Marie, in a whisper. “It is Mademoiselle, who has returned
from the good Sisters. And the story that you told of the fever at
Saintes is true.”