“If I go on, I go alone,” Barebone had once said to Dormer Colville. The
words, spoken in the heat of a quarrel, stuck in the memory of both,
as such are wont to do. Perhaps, in moments of anger or
disillusionment--when we find that neither self nor friend is what we
thought--the heart tears itself away from the grip of the cooler, calmer
brain and speaks untrammelled. And such speeches are apt to linger in
the mind long after the most brilliant jeu d'esprit has been forgotten.
What occupies the thoughts of the old man, sitting out the grey
remainder of the day, over the embers of a hearth which he will only
quit when he quits the world? Does he remember the brilliant sallies
of wit, the greatest triumphs of the noblest minds with which he has
consorted; or does his memory cling to some scene--simple, pastoral,
without incident--which passed before his eyes at a moment when his
heart was sore or glad? When his mind is resting from its labours and
the sound of the grinding is low, he will scarce remember the neat
saying or the lofty thought clothed in perfect language; but he will
never forget a hasty word spoken in an unguarded moment by one who was
not clever at all, nor even possessed the worldly wisdom to shield the
heart behind the buckler of the brain.
“You will find things changed,” Colville had said, as they walked across
the marsh from Farlingford, toward the Ipswich road. And the words came
back to the minds of both, on that Thursday of Madame de Chantonnay,
which many remember to this day. Not only did they find things changed,
but themselves they found no longer the same. Both remembered the
quarrel, and the outcome of it.
Colville, ever tolerant, always leaning toward the compromise that eases
a doubting conscience, had, it would almost seem unconsciously,
prepared the way for a reconciliation before there was any question of
a difference. On their way back to France, without directly referring
to that fatal portrait and the revelation caused by Barebone's
unaccountable feat of memory, he had smoothed away any possible scruple.
“France must always be deceived,” he had said, a hundred times. “Better
that she should be deceived for an honest than a dishonest purpose--if
it is deception, after all, which is very doubtful. The best patriot is
he who is ready to save his country at the cost of his own ease, whether
of body or of mind. It does not matter who or what you are; it is what
or who the world thinks you to be, that is of importance.”
Which of us has not listened to a score of such arguments, not always
from the lips of a friend, but most often in that still, small voice
which rarely has the courage to stand out against the tendency of the
age? There is nothing so contagious as laxity of conscience.
Barebone listened to the good-natured, sympathetic voice with a
make-believe conviction which was part of his readiness to put off an
evil moment. Colville was a difficult man to quarrel with. It seemed
bearish and ill-natured to take amiss any word or action which could
only be the outcome of a singularly tender consideration for the
feelings of others.
But when they entered Madame de Chantonnay's drawing-room--when Dormer,
impelled by some instinct of the fitness of things, stepped aside and
motioned to his companion to pass in first--the secret they had in
common yawned suddenly like a gulf between them. For the possession of a
secret either estranges or draws together. More commonly, it estranges.
For which of us is careful of a secret that redounds to our credit?
Nearly every secret is a hidden disgrace; and such a possession, held in
common with another, is not likely to insure affection.
Colville lingered on the threshold, watching Loo make the first steps
of that progress which must henceforth be pursued alone. He looked round
for a friendly face, but no one had eyes for him. They were all looking
at Loo Barebone. Colville sought Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, usually in
full evidence, even in a room full of beautiful women and distinguished
men. But she was not there. For a minute or two no one noticed him; and
then Albert de Chantonnay, remembering his role, came forward to greet
the Englishman.
“It was,” explained Colville, in a lowered voice, “as we thought. An
attempt was made to get him out of the way, but he effected his escape.
He knew, however, the danger of attempting to communicate with any of us
by post, and was awaiting some opportunity of transmitting a letter by a
safe hand, when I discovered his hiding-place.”
And this was the story that went half round France, from lip to lip,
among those who were faithful to the traditions of a glorious past.
“Madame St. Pierre Lawrence,” Albert de Chantonnay told Colville, in
reply, “is not here to-night. She is, however, at her villa, at Royan.
She has not, perhaps, displayed such interest in our meetings as she
did before you departed on your long journey through France. But her
generosity is unchanged. The money, which, in the hurry of the moment,
you did not withdraw from her bank--”
“I doubt whether it was ever there,” interrupted Colville.
“She informs me,” concluded Albert, “is still at our service. We have
many other promises, which must now be recalled to the minds of those
who made them. But from no one have we received such generous support as
from your kinswoman.”
They were standing apart, and in a few minutes the Marquis de Gemosac
joined them.
“How daring! how audacious!” he whispered, “and yet how opportune--this
return. It is all to be recommenced, my friends, with a firmer grasp, a
new courage.”
“But my task is accomplished,” returned Colville. “You have no further
use for a mere Englishman, like myself. I was fortunate in being able to
lend some slight assistance in the original discovery of our friend; I
have again been lucky enough to restore him to you. And now, with your
permission, I will return to Royan, where I have my little apartment, as
you know.”
He looked from one to the other, with his melancholy and
self-deprecating smile.
“Voila,” he added; “it remains for me to pay my respects to Madame de
Chantonnay. We have travelled far, and I am tired. I shall ask her to
excuse me.”
“And Monsieur de Bourbon comes to Gemosac. That is understood. He will
be safe there. His apartments have been in readiness for him these last
two months. Hidden there, or in other dwellings--grander and better
served, perhaps, than my poor ruin, but no safer--he can continue the
great work he began so well last winter. As for you, my dear Colville,”
continued the Marquis, taking the Englishman's two hands in his, “I envy
you from the bottom of my heart. It is not given to many to serve France
as you have served her--to serve a King as you have served one. It
will be my business to see that both remember you. For France, I allow,
sometimes forgets. Go to Royan, since you wish--but it is only for a
time. You will be called to Paris some day, that I promise you.”
The Marquis would have embraced him then and there, had the cool-blooded
Englishman shown the smallest desire for that honour. But Dormer
Colville's sad and doubting smile held at arms' length one who was
always at the mercy of his own eloquence.
The card tables had lost their attraction; and, although many parties
were formed, and the cards were dealt, the players fell to talking
across the ungathered tricks, and even the Abbe Touvent was caught
tripping in the matter of a point.
“Never,” exclaimed Madame de Chantonnay, as her guests took leave at
their wonted hour, and some of them even later--“never have I had a
Thursday so dull and yet so full of incident.”
“And never, madame,” replied the Marquis, still on tiptoe, as it were,
with delight and excitement, “shall we see another like it.”
Loo went back to Gemosac with the fluttering old man and Juliette.
Juliette, indeed, was in no flutter, but had carried herself through
the excitement of her first evening party with a demure little air of
self-possession.
She had scarce spoken to Loo during the evening. Indeed, it had been his
duty to attend on Madame de Chantonnay and on the older members of these
quiet Royalist families biding their time in the remote country villages
of Guienne and the Vendee.
On the journey home, the Marquis had so much to tell his companion, and
told it so hurriedly, that his was the only voice heard above the
rattle of the heavy, old-fashioned carriage. But Barebone was aware of
Juliette's presence in a dark corner of the roomy vehicle, and his
eyes, seeking to penetrate the gloom, could just distinguish hers, which
seemed to be turned in his direction.
Many changes had been effected at the chateau, and a suite of rooms had
been prepared for Barebone in the detached building known as the Italian
house, which stands in the midst of the garden within the enceinte of
the chateau walls.
“I have been able,” explained the Marquis, frankly, “to obtain a small
advance on the results of last autumn's vintage. My notary in the
village found, indeed, that facilities were greater than he had
anticipated. With this sum, I have been enabled to effect some necessary
repairs to the buildings and the internal decorations. I had fallen
behind the times, perhaps. But now that Juliette is installed as
chatelaine, many changes have been effected. You will see, my dear
friend; you will see for yourself. Yes, for the moment, I am no longer
a pauper. As you yourself will have noticed, in your journey through
the west, rural France is enjoying a sudden return of prosperity. It is
unaccountable. No one can make me believe that it is to be ascribed to
this scandalous Government, under which we agonise. But there it is--and
we must thank Heaven for it.”
Which was only the truth. For France was at this time entering upon
a period of plenty. The air was full of rumours of new railways, new
roads, and new commercial enterprise. Banks were being opened in the
provincial towns, and loans made on easy terms to agriculturists for the
improvement of their land.
Barebone found that there were indeed changes in the old chateau.
The apartments above that which had once been the stabling, hitherto
occupied by the Marquis, had been added to and a slight attempt at
redecoration had been made. There was no lack of rooms, and Juliette now
had her own suite, while the Marquis lived, as hitherto, in three small
apartments over the rooms occupied by Marie and her husband.
An elderly relation--one of those old ladies habited in black, who are
ready to efface themselves all day and occupy a garret all night in
return for bed and board, had been added to the family. She contributed
a silent and mysterious presence, some worldly wisdom, and a profound
respect for her noble kinsman.
“She is quite harmless,” Juliette explained, gaily, to Barebone, on
the first occasion when they were alone together. This did not present
itself until Loo had been quartered in the Italian house for some days,
with his own servant. Although he took luncheon and dinner with the
family in the old building near to the gate-house, and spent his
evenings in Juliette's drawing-room, the Marquis or Madame Maugiron
was always present, and as often as not, they played a game of chess
together.
“She is quite harmless,” said Juliette, tying, with a thread, the
primroses she had been picking in that shady corner of the garden which
lay at the other side of the Italian house. The windows of Barebone's
apartment, by the way, looked down upon this garden, and he, having
perceived her, had not wasted time in joining her in the morning
sunshine.
“I wonder if I shall be as harmless when I am her age.”
And, indeed, danger lurked beneath her lashes as she glanced at him,
asking this question with her lips and a hundred others with her eyes,
with her gay air of youth and happiness--with her very attitude of
coquetry, as she stood in the spring sunshine, with the scent of the
primroses about her.
“I think that any one who approaches you will always do so at his peril,
Mademoiselle.”
“Then why do it?” she asked, drawing back and busying herself with the
flowers, which she laid against her breast, as if to judge the effect
of their colour against the delicate white of her dress. “Why run into
danger? Why come downstairs at all?”
“Why breathe?” he retorted, with a laugh. “Why eat, or drink, or sleep?
Why live? Mon Dieu! because there is no choice. And when I see you in
the garden, there is no choice for me, Mademoiselle. I must come down
and run into danger, because I cannot help it any more that I can
help--”
“But you need not stay,” she interrupted, cleverly. “A brave man may
always retire from danger into safety.”
“But he may not always want to, Mademoiselle.”
“Ah!”
And, with a shrug of the shoulders, she inserted the primroses within a
very small waistband and turned away.
“Will you give me those primroses, Mademoiselle?” asked Loo, without
moving; for, although she had turned to go, she had not gone.
She turned on her heel and looked at him, with demure surprise, and then
bent her head to look at the flowers at her own waist.
“They are mine,” she answered, standing in that pretty attitude, her
hair half concealing her face. “I picked them myself.”
“Two reasons why I want them.”
“Ah! but,” she said, with a suggestion of thoughtfulness, “one does not
always get what one wants. You ask a great deal, Monsieur.”
“There is no limit to what I would ask, Mademoiselle.”
She laughed gaily.
“If--” she inquired, with raised eyebrows.
“If I dared.”
Again she looked at him with that little air of surprise.
“But I thought you were so brave?” she said. “So reckless of danger? A
brave man assuredly does not ask. He takes that which he would have.”
It happened that she had clasped her hands behind her back, leaving the
primroses at her waist uncovered and half falling from the ribbon.
In a moment he had reached out his hand and taken them. She leapt back,
as if she feared that he might take more, and ran back toward the house,
placing a rough tangle of brier between herself and this robber. Her
laughing face looked at him through the brier.
“You have your primroses,” she said, “but I did not give them to you.
You want too much, I think.”
“I want what that ribbon binds,” he answered. But she turned away and
ran toward the house, without waiting to hear.