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LORRAINE
A ROMANCE
By ROBERT W. CHAMBERS
Author of "Cardigan,"
"The Maid at Arms,"
"The Maids of Paradise,"
"The Fighting Chance," etc.
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by arrangement with Harper & Brothers
Copyright, 1897, by Harper & Brothers.
All rights reserved.
TO
MY FATHER
LORRAINE!
_When Yesterday shall dawn again,
And the long line athwart the hill
Shall quicken with the bugle's thrill,
Thine own shall come to thee, Lorraine!_
_Then in each vineyard, vale, and plain,
The quiet dead shall stir the earth
And rise, reborn, in thy new birth--
Thou holy martyr-maid, Lorraine!_
_Is it in vain thy sweet tears stain
Thy mother's breast? Her castled crest
Is lifted now! God guide her quest!
She seeks thine own for thee, Lorraine!_
_So Yesterday shall live again,
And the steel line along the Rhine
Shall cuirass thee and all that's thine.
France lives--thy France--divine Lorraine!_
R. W. C.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
The author desires to acknowledge his indebtedness to the
valuable volumes of Messrs. Victor Duruy, Archibald Forbes,
Sir William Fraser, Dr. J. von Pflugk-Harttung, G.
Tissandier, Comdt. Grandin, and "Un Officier de Marine,"
concerning (wholly or in part) the events of 1870-1871.
Occasionally the author has deemed it best to change the
names of villages, officers, and regiments or battalions.
The author believes that the romance separated from the
facts should leave the historical basis virtually accurate.
R. W. C.
New York, September, 1897.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A Maker of Maps 1
II. Telegrams for Two 11
III. Summer Thunder 20
IV. The Farandole 30
V. Cowards and Their Courage 39
VI. Trains East and West 51
VII. The Road To Paradise 59
VIII. Under the Yoke 63
IX. Saarbrück 79
X. An Unexpected Encounter 95
XI. "Keep Thy Faith" 102
XII. From the Frontier 116
XIII. Aide-de-camp 131
XIV. The Marquis Makes Himself Agreeable 139
XV. The Invasion of Lorraine 157
XVI. "In the Hollow of Thy Hand" 171
XVII. The Keepers of the House 179
XVIII. The Stretching of Necks 190
XIX. Rickerl's Sabre 205
XX. Sir Thorald Is Silent 213
XXI. The White Cross 226
XXII. A Door Is Locked 239
XXIII. Lorraine Sleeps 250
XXIV. Lorraine Awakes 258
XXV. Princess Imperial 270
XXVI. The Shadow of Pomp 278
XXVII. Ça Ira! 285
XXVIII. The Braconnier 297
XXIX. The Message of the Flag 306
XXX. The Valley of the Shadow 324
XXXI. The Prophecy of Lorraine 334
LORRAINE
I
A MAKER OF MAPS
There was a rustle in the bushes, the sound of twigs snapping, a
soft foot-fall on the dead leaves.
Marche stopped, took his pipe out of his mouth, and listened.
Patter! patter! patter! over the crackling underbrush, now near,
now far away in the depths of the forest; then sudden silence,
the silence that startles.
He turned his head warily, right, left; he knelt noiselessly,
striving to pierce the thicket with his restless eyes. After a
moment he arose on tiptoe, unslung his gun, cocked both barrels,
and listened again, pipe tightly clutched between his white
teeth.
All around lay the beautiful Lorraine forests, dim and sweet,
dusky as velvet in their leafy depths. A single sunbeam, striking
obliquely through the brush tangle, powdered the forest mould
with gold.
He heard the little river Lisse, flowing, flowing, where green
branches swept its placid surface with a thousand new-born
leaves; he heard a throstle singing in the summer wind.
Suddenly, far ahead, something gray shambled loosely across the
path, leaped a brush heap, slunk under a fallen tree, and loped
on again.
For a moment Marche refused to believe his own eyes. A wolf in
Lorraine!--a big, gray timber-wolf, here, within a mile of the
Château Morteyn! He could see it yet, passing like a shadow along
the trees. Before he knew it he was following, running noiselessly
over the soft, mossy path, holding his little shot-gun tightly. As
he ran, his eyes fixed on the spot where the wolf had disappeared,
he began to doubt his senses again, he began to believe that the
thing he saw was some shaggy sheep-dog from the Moselle, astray in
the Lorraine forests. But he held his pace, his pipe griped in his
teeth, his gun swinging at his side. Presently, as he turned into
a grass-grown carrefour, a mere waste of wild-flowers and tangled
briers, he caught his ankle in a strand of ivy and fell headlong.
Sprawling there on the moss and dead leaves, the sound of human
voices struck his ear, and he sat up, scowling and rubbing his
knees.
The voices came nearer; two people were approaching the carrefour.
Jack Marche, angry and dirty, looked through the bushes, stanching
a long scratch on his wrist with his pocket-handkerchief. The people
were in sight now--a man, tall, square-shouldered, striding swiftly
through the woods, followed by a young girl. Twice she sprang
forward and seized him by the arm, but he shook her off roughly
and hastened on. As they entered the carrefour, the girl ran in
front of him and pushed him back with all her strength.
"Come, now," said the man, recovering his balance, "you had
better stop this before I lose patience. Go back!"
The girl barred his way with slender arms out-stretched.
"What are you doing in my woods?" she demanded. "Answer me! I
will know, this time!"
"Let me pass!" sneered the man. He held a roll of papers in one
hand; in the other, steel compasses that glittered in the sun.
"I shall not let you pass!" she said, desperately; "you shall not
pass! I wish to know what it means, why you and the others come
into my woods and make maps of every path, of every brook, of
every bridge--yes, of every wall and tree and rock! I have seen
you before--you and the others. You are strangers in my country!"
"Get out of my path," said the man, sullenly.
"Then give me that map you have made! I know what you are! You
come from across the Rhine!"
The man scowled and stepped towards her.
"You are a German spy!" she cried, passionately.
"You little fool!" he snarled, seizing her arm. He shook her
brutally; the scarlet skirts fluttered, a little rent came in the
velvet bodice, the heavy, shining hair tumbled down over her
eyes.
In a moment Marche had the man by the throat. He held him there,
striking him again and again in the face. Twice the man tried to
stab him with the steel compasses, but Marche dragged them out of
his fist and hammered him until he choked and spluttered and
collapsed on the ground, only to stagger to his feet again and
lurch into the thicket of second growth. There he tripped and
fell as Marche had fallen on the ivy, but, unlike Marche, he
wriggled under the bushes and ran on, stooping low, never
glancing back.
The impulse that comes to men to shoot when anything is running
for safety came over Marche for an instant. Instinctively he
raised his gun, hesitated, lowered it, still watching the running
man with cold, bright eyes.
"Well," he said, turning to the girl behind him, "he's gone now.
Ought I to have fired? Ma foi! I'm sorry I didn't! He has torn
your bodice and your skirt!"
The girl stood breathless, cheeks aflame, burnished tangled hair
shadowing her eyes.
"We have the map," she said, with a little gasp.
Marche picked up a crumpled roll of paper from the ground and
opened it. It contained a rough topographical sketch of the
surrounding country, a detail of a dozen small forest paths, a
map of the whole course of the river Lisse from its source to its
junction with the Moselle, and a beautiful plan of the Château de
Nesville.
"That is my house!" said the girl; "he has a map of my house! How
dare he!"
"The Château de Nesville?" asked Marche, astonished; "are you
Lorraine?"
"Yes! I'm Lorraine. Didn't you know it?"
"Lorraine de Nesville?" he repeated, curiously.
"Yes! How dares that German to come into my woods and make maps and
carry them back across the Rhine! I have seen him before--twice--drawing
and measuring along the park wall. I told my father, but he thinks only
of his balloons. I have seen others, too--other strange men in the
chase--always measuring or staring about or drawing. Why? What do
Germans want of maps of France? I thought of it all day--every day; I
watched, I listened in the forest. And do you know what I think?"
"What?" asked Marche.
She pushed back her splendid hair and faced him.
"War!" she said, in a low voice.
"War?" he repeated, stupidly. She stretched out an arm towards
the east; then, with a passionate gesture, she stepped to his
side.
"War! Yes! War! War! War! I cannot tell you how I know it--I ask
myself how--and to myself I answer: 'It is coming! I, Lorraine,
know it!'"
A fierce light flashed from her eyes, blue as corn-flowers in
July.
"It is in dreams I see and hear now--in dreams; and I see the
vineyards black with helmets, and the Moselle redder than the
setting sun, and over all the land of France I see bayonets,
moving, moving, like the Rhine in flood!"
The light in her eyes died out; she straightened up; her lithe
young body trembled.
"I have never before told this to any one," she said, faintly;
"my father does not listen when I speak. You are Jack Marche, are
you not?"
He did not answer, but stood awkwardly, folding and unfolding the
crumpled maps.
"You are the vicomte's nephew--a guest at the Château Morteyn?"
she asked.
"Yes," said Marche.
"Then you are Monsieur Jack Marche?"
He took off his shooting-cap and laughed frankly. "You find me
carrying a gun on your grounds," he said; "I'm sure you take me
for a poacher."
She glanced at his leggings.
"Now," he began, "I ask permission to explain; I am afraid that
you will be inclined to doubt my explanation. I almost doubt it
myself, but here it is. Do you know that there are wolves in
these woods?"
"Wolves?" she repeated, horrified.
"I saw one; I followed it to this carrefour."
She leaned against a tree; her hands fell to her sides.
There was a silence; then she said, "You will not believe what I
am going to say--you will call it superstition--perhaps
stupidity. But do you know that wolves have never appeared along
the Moselle except before a battle? Seventy years ago they were
seen before the battle of Colmar. That was the last time. And now
they appear again."
"I may have been mistaken," he said, hastily; "those shaggy
sheep-dogs from the Moselle are very much like timber-wolves in
colour. Tell me, Mademoiselle de Nesville, why should you believe
that we are going to have a war? Two weeks ago the Emperor spoke
of the perfect tranquillity of Europe." He smiled and added,
"France seeks no quarrels. Because a brute of a German comes
sneaking into these woods to satisfy his national thirst for
prying, I don't see why war should result."
"War did result," she said, smiling also, and glancing at his
torn shooting-coat; "I haven't even thanked you yet, Monsieur
Marche--for your victory."
With a sudden gesture, proud, yet half shy, she held out one
hand, and he took it in his own hands, bronzed and brier
scratched.
"I thought," she said, withdrawing her fingers, "that I ought to
give you an American 'shake hands.' I suppose you are wondering
why we haven't met before. There are reasons."
She looked down at her scarlet skirt, touched a triangular tear
in it, and, partly turning her head, raised her arms and twisted
the tangled hair into a heavy burnished knot at her neck.
"You wear the costume of Lorraine," he ventured.
"Is it not pretty? I love it. Alone in the house I always wear
it, the scarlet skirts banded with black, the velvet bodice and
silver chains--oh! he has broken my chain, too!"
He leaned on his gun, watching her, fascinated with the grace of
her white fingers twisting her hair.
"To think that you should have first seen me so! What will they
say at the Château Morteyn?"
"But I shall tell nobody," laughed Marche.
"Then you are very honourable, and I thank you. Mon Dieu, they
talk enough about me--you have heard them--do not deny it,
Monsieur Marche. It is always, 'Lorraine did this, Lorraine did
that, Lorraine is shocking, Lorraine is silly, Lorraine--' O
Dieu! que sais'je! Poor Lorraine!"
"Poor Lorraine!" he repeated, solemnly. They both laughed
outright.
"I know all about the house-party at the Château Morteyn," she
resumed, mending a tear in her velvet bodice with a hair-pin. "I
was invited, as you probably know, Monsieur Marche; but I did not
go, and doubtless the old vicomte is saying, 'I wonder why
Lorraine does not come?' and Madame de Morteyn replies, 'Lorraine
is a very uncertain quantity, my dear'--oh, I am sure that they
are saying these things."
"I think I heard some such dialogue yesterday," said Marche, much
amused. Lorraine raised her head and looked at him.
"You think I am a crazy child in tatters, neglected and wild as a
falcon from the Vosges. I know you do. Everybody says so, and
everybody pities me and my father. Why? Parbleu! he makes
experiments with air-ships that they don't understand. Voilà! As
for me, I am more than happy. I have my forest and my fields; I
have my horses and my books. I dress as I choose; I go where I
choose. Am I not happy, Monsieur Marche?"
"I should say," he admitted, "that you are."
"You see," she continued, with a pretty, confidential nod, "I can
talk to you because you are the vicomte's American nephew, and I
have heard all about you and your lovely sister, and it is all
right--isn't it?"
"It is," said Marche, fervently.
"Of course. Now I shall tell you why I did not go to the Château
and meet your sister and the others. Perhaps you will not
comprehend. Shall I tell you?"
"I'll try to comprehend," said Marche, laughing.
"Well, then, would you believe it? I--Lorraine de Nesville--have
outgrown my clothes, monsieur, and my beautiful new gowns are
coming from Paris this week, and then--"
"Then!" repeated Marche.
"Then you shall see," said Lorraine, gravely.
Jack, bewildered, fascinated, stood leaning on his gun, watching
every movement of the lithe figure before him.
"Until your gowns arrive, I shall not see you again?" he asked.
She looked up quickly.
"Do you wish to?"
"Very much!" he blurted out, and then, aware of the undue fervor
he had shown, repeated: "Very much--if you don't mind," in a
subdued but anxious voice.
Again she raised her eyes to his, doubtfully, perhaps a little
wistfully.
"It wouldn't be right, would it--until you are presented?"
He was silent.
"Still," she said, looking up into the sky, "I often come to the
river below, usually after luncheon."
"I wonder if there are any gudgeon there?" he said; "I could
bring a rod--"
"Oh, but are you coming? Is that right? I think there are fish
there," she added, innocently, "and I usually come after
luncheon."
"And when your gowns arrive from Paris--"
"Then! Then you shall see! Oh! I shall be a very different
person; I shall be timid and silent and stupid and awkward, and I
shall answer, 'Oui, monsieur;' 'Non, monsieur,' and you will
behold in me the jeune fille of the romances."
"Don't!" he protested.
"I shall!" she cried, shaking out her scarlet skirts full
breadth. "Good-by!"
In a second she had gone, straight away through the forest,
leaving in his ears the music of her voice, on his finger-tips
the touch of her warm hand.
He stood, leaning on his gun--a minute, an hour?--he did not
know.
Presently earthly sounds began to come back to drown the
delicious voice in his ears; he heard the little river Lisse,
flowing, flowing under green branches; he heard a throstle
singing in the summer wind; he heard, far in the deeper forest,
something passing--patter, patter, patter--over the dead leaves.
II
TELEGRAMS FOR TWO
Jack Marche tucked his gun under his arm and turned away along
the overgrown wood-road that stretched from the De Nesville
forests to the more open woods of Morteyn.
He walked slowly, puffing his pipe, pondering over his encounter with
the châtelaine of the Château de Nesville. He thought, too, of the old
Vicomte de Morteyn and his gentle wife, of the little house-party of
which he and his sister Dorothy made two, of Sir Thorald and Lady
Hesketh, their youthful and totally irresponsible chaperons on the
journey from Paris to Morteyn.
"They're lunching on the Lisse," he thought. "I'll not get a bite
if Ricky is there."
When Madame de Morteyn wrote to Sir Thorald and Lady Hesketh on
the first of July, she asked them to chaperon her two nieces and
some other pretty girls in the American colony whom they might
wish to bring, for a month, to Morteyn.
"The devil!" said Sir Thorald when he read the letter; "am I to
pick out the girls, Molly?"
"Betty and I will select the men," said Lady Hesketh, sweetly;
"you may do as you please."
He did. He suggested a great many, and wrote a list for his wife.
That prudent young woman carefully crossed out every name, saying,
"Thorald! I am ashamed of you!" and substituted another list. She
had chosen, besides Dorothy Marche and Betty Castlemaine, the two
nieces in question, Barbara Lisle and her inseparable little German
friend, Alixe von Elster; also the latter's brother, Rickerl, or
Ricky, as he was called in diplomatic circles. She closed the list
with Cecil Page, because she knew that Betty Castlemaine, Madame
de Morteyn's younger niece, looked kindly, at times, upon this
blond giant.
And so it happened that the whole party invaded three first-class
compartments of an east-bound train at the Gare de l'Est, and
twenty-two hours later were trooping up the terrace steps of the
Château Morteyn, here in the forests and fragrant meadows of
Lorraine.
Madame de Morteyn kissed all the girls on both cheeks, and the
old vicomte embraced his nieces, Betty Castlemaine and Dorothy
Marche, and threatened to kiss the others, including Molly
Hesketh. He desisted, he assured them, only because he feared Sir
Thorald might feel bound to follow his example; to which Lady
Hesketh replied that she didn't care and smiled at the vicomte.
The days had flown very swiftly for all: Jack Marche taught
Barbara Lisle to fish for gudgeon; Betty Castlemaine tormented
Cecil Page to his infinitely miserable delight; Ricky von Elster
made tender eyes at Dorothy Marche and rowed her up and down the
Lisse; and his sister Alixe read sentimental verses under the
beech-trees and sighed for the sweet mysteries that young German
girls sigh for--heart-friendships, lovers, _Ewigkeit_--God knows
what!--something or other that turns the heart to tears until
everything slops over and the very heavens sob.
They were happy enough together in the Château and out-of-doors.
Little incidents occurred that might as well not have occurred,
but apparently no scars were left nor any incurable pang. True,
Molly Hesketh made eyes at Ricky von Elster; but she reproved him
bitterly when he kissed her hand in the orangery one evening;
true also that Sir Thorald whispered airy nothings into the
shell-like ear of Alixe von Elster until that German maiden could
not have repeated her German alphabet. But, except for the
chaperons, the unmarried people did well enough, as unmarried
people usually do when let alone.
So, on that cloudless day of July, 1870, Rickerl von Elster sat
in the green row-boat and tugged at the oars while Sir Thorald
smoked a cigar placidly and Lady Hesketh trailed her pointed
fingers over the surface of the water.
"Ricky, my son," said Sir Thorald, "you probably gallop better
than you row. Who ever heard of an Uhlan in a boat? Molly, take
his oars away."
"Ricky shall row me if he wishes," replied Molly Hesketh; "and
you do, don't you, Ricky? Thorald will set you on shore if you
want."
"I have no confidence in Uhlan officers," said her spouse,
darkly.
Rickerl looked pleased; perspiration stood on his blond eyebrows
and his broad face glowed.
"As an officer of cavalry in the Prussian army," he said, "and as
an attaché of the German Embassy in Paris, I suggest that we
return to first principles and rejoin our base of supplies."
"He's thirsty," said Molly, gravely. "The base of supplies, so
long cut loose from, is there under the willows, and I see six
feet two of Cecil Page carrying a case of bottles."
"Row, Ricky!" urged Sir Thorald; "they will leave nothing for
Uhlan foragers!"
The boat rubbed its nose against the mossy bank; Lady Hesketh
placed her fair hands in Ricky's chubby ones and sprang to the
shore.
"Cecil Page," she said, "I am thirsty. Where are the others?"
Betty and Dorothy looked out from their seat in the tall grass.
"Charles brought the hamper; there it is," said Cecil.
Barbara Lisle and sentimental little Alixe von Elster strolled up
and looked lovingly upon the sandwiches.
Cecil Page stood and sulked, until Dorothy took pity and made
room on the moss beside her.
"Can't you have a little mercy, Betty?" she whispered; "Cecil
moons like a wounded elephant."
So Betty smiled at him and asked for more salad, and Cecil
brought it and basked in her smiles.
"Where is Jack Marche?" asked Molly Hesketh. "Dorothy, your
brother went into the chase with a gun, and where is he?"
"What does he want to shoot in July? It's too late for rooks,"
said Sir Thorald, pouring out champagne-cup for Barbara Lisle.
"I don't know where Jack went," said Dorothy. "He heard one of
the keepers complain of the hawks, so, I suppose, he took a gun.
I wonder why that strange Lorraine de Nesville doesn't come to
call. I am simply dying to see her."
"I saw her once," observed Sir Thorald.
"You generally do," added his wife.
"What?"
"See what others don't."
Sir Thorald, a trifle disconcerted, applied himself to caviare
and, later, to a bottle of Moselle.
"She's a beauty, they say--" began Ricky, and might have
continued had he not caught the danger-signal in Molly Hesketh's
black eyes.
"Lorraine de Nesville," said Lady Hesketh, "is only a child of
seventeen. Her father makes balloons."
"Not the little, red, squeaky kind," added Sir Thorald; "Molly,
he is an amateur aeronaut."
"He'd much better take care of Lorraine. The poor child runs wild
all over the country. They say she rides like a witch on a
broom--"
"Astride?" cried Sir Thorald.
"For shame!" said his wife; "I--I--upon my word, I have heard
that she has done that, too. Ricky! what do you mean by yawning?"
Ricky had been listening, mouth open. He shut it hurriedly and
grew pink to the roots of his colourless hair.
Betty Castlemaine looked at Cecil, and Dorothy Marche laughed.
"What of it?" she said; "there is nobody here who would dare to!"
"Oh, shocking!" said little Alixe, and tried to look as though
she meant it.
At that moment Sir Thorald caught sight of Jack Marche, strolling
up through the trees, gun tucked under his left arm.
"No luncheon, no salad, no champagne-cup, no cigarette!" he
called; "all gone! all gone! Molly's smoked my last--"
"Jack Marche, where have you been?" demanded Molly Hesketh. "No,
you needn't dodge my accusing finger! Barbara, look at him!"
"It's a pretty finger--if Sir Thorald will permit me to say so,"
said Jack, laughing and setting his gun up against a tree.
"Dorrie, didn't you save any salad? Ricky, you devouring scourge,
there's not a bit of caviare! I'm hungry--Oh, thanks, Betty, you
did think of the prodigal, didn't you?"
"It was Cecil," she said, slyly; "I was saving it for him. What
did you shoot, Jack?"
"Now you people listen and I'll tell you what I didn't shoot."
"A poor little hawk?" asked Betty.
"No--a poor little wolf!"
In the midst of cries of astonishment and exclamations Sir
Thorald arose, waving a napkin.
"I knew it!" he said--"I knew I saw a wolf in the woods day
before yesterday, but I didn't dare tell Molly; she never
believes me."
"And you deliberately chose to expose us to the danger of being eaten
alive?" said Lady Hesketh, in an awful voice. "Ricky, I'm going to
get into that boat at once; Dorothy--Betty Castlemaine--bring Alixe
and Barbara Lisle. We are going to embark at once."
"Ricky and his boat-load of beauty," laughed Sir Thorald.
"Really, Molly, I hesitated to tell you because--I was afraid--"
"What, you horrid thing?--afraid he'd bite me?"
"Afraid you'd bite the wolf, my dear," he whispered so that
nobody but she heard it; "I say, Ricky, we ought to have a wolf
drive! What do you think?"
The subject started, all chimed in with enthusiasm except Alixe
von Elster, who sat with big, soulful eyes fixed on Sir Thorald
and trembled for that bad young man's precious skin.
"We have two weeks to stay yet," said Cecil, glancing
involuntarily at Betty Castlemaine; "we can get up a drive in a
week."
"You are not going, Cecil," said Betty, in a low voice, partly to
practise controlling him, partly to see him blush.
Lady Hesketh, however, took enough interest in the sport to
insist, and Jack Marche promised to see the head-keeper at once.
"I think I see him now," said Sir Thorald--"no, it's Bosquet's
boy from the post-office. Those are telegrams he's got."
The little postman's son came trotting across the meadow, waving
two blue envelopes.
"Monsieur le Capitaine Rickerl von Elster and Monsieur Jack
Marche--two telegrams this instant from Paris, messieurs! I
salute you." And he took off his peaked cap, adding, as he saw
the others, "Messieurs, mesdames," and nodded his curly, blond
head and smiled.
"Don't apologize--read your telegrams!" said Lady Hesketh; "dear
me! dear me! if they take you two away and leave Thorald, I
shall--I shall yawn!"
Ricky's broad face changed as he read his despatch; and Molly
Hesketh, shamelessly peeping over his shoulder, exclaimed, "It's
cipher! How stupid! Can you understand it, Ricky?"
Yes, Rickerl von Elster understood it well enough. He paled a
little, thrust the crumpled telegram into his pocket, and looked
vaguely at the circle of faces. After a moment he said, standing
very straight, "I must leave to-morrow morning."
"Recalled? Confound your ambassador, Ricky!" said Sir Thorald.
"Recalled to Paris in midsummer! Well, I'm--"
"Not to Paris," said Rickerl, with a curious catch in his
voice--"to Berlin. I join my regiment at once."
Jack Marche, who had been studying his telegram with puzzled
eyes, held it out to Sir Thorald.
"Can't make head or tail of it; can you?" he demanded.
Sir Thorald took it and read aloud: "New York _Herald_ offers you
your own price and all expenses. Cable, if accepted."
"'Cable, if accepted,'" repeated Betty Castlemaine; "accept
what?"
"Exactly! What?" said Jack. "Do they want a story? What do
'expenses' mean? I'm not going to Africa again if I know it."
"It sounds as though the _Herald_ wanted you for some expedition;
it sounds as if everybody knew about the expedition, except you.
Nobody ever hears any news at Morteyn," said Molly Hesketh,
dejectedly. "Are you going, Jack?"
"Going? Where?"
"Does your telegram throw any light on Jack's, Ricky?" asked Sir
Thorald.
But Rickerl von Elster turned away without answering.
III
SUMMER THUNDER
When the old vicomte was well enough to entertain anybody at all,
which was not very often, he did it skilfully. So when he filled
the Château with young people and told them to amuse themselves
and not bother him, the house-party was necessarily a success.
He himself sat all day in the sunshine, studying the week's Paris
newspapers with dim, kindly eyes, or played interminable chess
games with his wife on the flower terrace.
She was sixty; he had passed threescore and ten. They never
strayed far from each other. It had always been so from the
first, and the first was when Helen Bruce, of New York City,
married Georges Vicomte de Morteyn. That was long ago.
The chess-table stood on the terrace in the shadow of the
flower-crowned parapets; the old vicomte sat opposite his wife,
one hand touching the black knight, one foot propped up on a pile
of cushions. He pushed the knight slowly from square to square
and twisted his white imperial with stiff fingers.
"Helen," he asked, mildly, "are you bored?"
"No, dear."
Madame de Morteyn smiled at her husband and lifted a pawn in her
thin, blue-veined hand; but the vicomte had not finished, and she
replaced the pawn and leaned back in her chair, moving the two
little coffee-cups aside so that she could see what her husband
was doing with the knight.
From the lawn below came the chatter and laughter of girls. On
the edge of the lawn the little river Lisse glided noiselessly
towards the beech woods, whose depths, saturated with sunshine,
rang with the mellow notes of nesting thrushes.
The middle of July had found the leaves as fresh and tender as
when they opened in May, the willow's silver green cooled the
richer verdure of beach and sycamore; the round poplar leaves,
pale yellow and orange in the sunlight, hung brilliant as lighted
lanterns where the sun burned through.
"Helen?"
"Dear?"
"I am not at all certain what to do with my queen's knight. May I
have another cup of coffee?"
Madame de Morteyn poured the coffee from the little silver
coffee-pot.
"It is hot; be careful, dear."
The vicomte sipped his coffee, looking at her with faded eyes.
She knew what he was going to say; it was always the same, and
her answer was always the same. And always, as at that first
breakfast--their wedding-breakfast--her pale cheeks bloomed again
with a subtle colour, the ghost of roses long dead.
"Helen, are you thinking of that morning?"
"Yes, Georges."
"Of our wedding-breakfast--here--at this same table?"
"Yes, Georges."
The vicomte set his cup back in the saucer and, trembling, poured
a pale, golden liquid from a decanter into two tiny glasses.
"A glass of wine?--I have the honour, my dear--"
The colour touched her cheeks as their glasses met; the still air
tinkled with the melody of crystal touching crystal; a golden
drop fell from the brimming glasses. The young people on the lawn
below were very noisy.
She placed her empty glass on the table; the delicate glow in her
cheeks faded as skies fade at twilight. He, with grave head
leaning on his hand, looked vaguely at the chess-board, and saw,
mirrored on every onyx square, the eyes of his wife.
"Will you have the journals, dear?" she asked presently. She
handed him the _Gaulois_, and he thanked her and opened it,
peering closely at the black print.
After a moment he read: "M. Ollivier declared, in the Corps
Législatif, that 'at no time in the history of France has the
maintenance of peace been more assured than to-day.' Oh, that
journal is two weeks' old, Helen.
"The treaty of Paris in 1856 assured peace in the Orient, and the
treaty of Prague in 1866 assures peace in Germany," continued the
vicomte; "I don't see why it should be necessary for Monsieur
Ollivier to insist."
He dropped the paper on the stones and touched his white
mustache.
"You are thinking of General Chanzy," said his wife,
laughing--"you always twist your mustache like that when you're
thinking of Chanzy."
He smiled, for he was thinking of Chanzy, his sword-brother; and
the hot plains of Oran and the dusty columns of cavalry passed
before his eyes--moving, moving across a world of desert into the
flaming disk of the setting sun.
"Is to-day the 16th of July, Helen?"
"Yes, dear."
"Then Chanzy is coming back from Oran. I know you dread it. We
shall talk of nothing but Abd-el-Kader and Spahis and Turcos, and
how we lost our Kabyle tobacco at Bou-Youb."
She had heard all about it, too; she knew every étape of the 48th
of the Line--from the camp at Sathonay to Sidi-Bel-Abbès, and
from Daya to Djebel-Mikaidon. Not that she cared for sabres and
red trousers, but nothing that concerned her husband was
indifferent to her.
"I hope General Chanzy will come," she said, "and tell you all
about those poor Kabyles and the Legion and that horrid 2d
Zouaves that you and he laugh over. Are you tired, dear?"
"No. Shall we play? I believe it was my move. How warm it is in
the sun--no, don't stir, dear--I like it, and my gout is better
for it. What do you suppose all those young people are doing?
Hear Betty Castlemaine laugh! It is very fortunate for them,
Helen, that I married an American with an American's disregard of
French conventionalities."
"I am very strict," said his wife, smiling; "I can survey them en
chaperone."
"If you turn around. But you don't."
"I do when it is necessary," said Madame de Morteyn, indignantly;
"Molly Hesketh is there."
The vicomte laughed and picked up the knight again.
"You see," he said, waving it in the air, "that I also have
become a very good American. I think no evil until it comes, and
when it comes I say, 'Shocking!'"
"Georges!"
"That's what I say, my dear--"
"Georges!"
"There, dear, I won't tease. Hark! What is that?"
Madame de Morteyn leaned over the parapet.
"It is Jean Bosquet. Shall I speak to him?"
"Perhaps he has the Paris papers."
"Jean!" she called; and presently the little postman came
trotting up the long stone steps from the drive. Had he anything?
Nothing for Monsieur le Vicomte except a bundle of the week's
journals from Paris. So Madame de Morteyn took the papers, and
the little postman doffed his cap again and trotted away, blue
blouse fluttering and sabots echoing along the terrace pavement.
"I am tired of chess," said the old vicomte; "would you mind
reading the _Gaulois_?"
"The politics, dear?"
"Yes, the weekly summary--if it won't bore you."
"Tais toi! Écoute. This is dated July 3d. Shall I begin?"
"Yes, Helen."
She held the paper nearer and read: "'A Paris journal publishes a
despatch through l'agence Havas which declares that a deputation
from the Spanish Government has left Madrid for Berlin to offer
the crown of Spain to Leopold von Hohenzollern.'"
"What!" cried the vicomte, angrily. Two chessmen tipped over and
rolled among the others.
"It's what it says, mon ami; look--see--it is exactly as I read
it."
"Are those Spaniards crazy?" muttered the vicomte, tugging at his
imperial. "Look, Helen, read what the next day's journal says."
His wife unfolded the paper dated the 4th of July and found the
column and read: "'The press of Paris unanimously accuses the
Imperial Government of allowing Prim and Bismarck to intrigue
against the interests of France. The French ambassador, Count
Benedetti, interviewed the King of Prussia at Ems and requested
him to prevent Prince Leopold von Hohenzollern's acceptance. It
is rumoured that the King of Prussia declined to interfere.'"
Madame de Morteyn tossed the journal on to the terrace and opened
another.
"'On the 12th of July the Spanish ambassador to Paris informed
the Duc de Gramont, Minister of Foreign Affairs, that the Prince
von Hohenzollern renounces his candidacy to the Spanish throne.'"
"À la bonheur!" said the vicomte, with a sigh of relief; "that
settles the Hohenzollern matter. My dear, can you imagine France
permitting a German prince to mount the throne of Spain? It was
more than a menace--it was almost an insult. Do you remember
Count Bismarck when he was ambassador to France? He is a man who
fascinates me. How he used to watch the Emperor! I can see him
yet--those puffy, pale eyes! You saw him also, dear--you
remember, at Saint-Cloud?"
"Yes; I thought him brusque and malicious."
"I know he is at the bottom of this. I'm glad it is over. Did you
finish the telegraphic news?"
"Almost all. It says--dear me, Georges!--it says that the Duc de
Gramont refuses to accept any pledge from the Spanish ambassador
unless that old Von Werther--the German ambassador, you
know--guarantees that Prince Leopold von Hohenzollern will never
again attempt to mount the Spanish throne!"
There was a silence. The old vicomte stirred restlessly and
knocked over some more chessmen.
"Sufficient unto the day--" he said, at last; "the Duc de Gramont
is making a mistake to press the matter. The word of the Spanish
ambassador is enough--until he breaks it. General Leboeuf might
occupy himself in the interim--profitably, I think."
"General Leboeuf is minister of war. What do you mean, Georges?"
"Yes, dear, Leboeuf is minister of war."
"And you think this German prince may some time again--"
"I think France should be ready if he does. Is she ready? Not if
Chanzy and I know a Turco from a Kabyle. Perhaps Count Bismarck
wants us to press his king for guarantees. I don't trust him. If
he does, we should not oblige him. Gramont is making a grave
mistake. Suppose the King of Prussia should refuse and say it is
not his affair? Then we would be obliged to accept that answer,
or--"
"Or what, Georges?"
"Or--well, my dear--or fight. But Gramont is not wicked enough,
nor is France crazy enough, to wish to go to war over a
contingency--a possibility that might never happen. I foresee a
snub for our ambassador at Ems, but that is all. Do you care to
play any more? I tipped over my king and his castles."
"Perhaps it is an omen--the King of Prussia, you know, and his
fortresses. I feel superstitious, Georges!"
The vicomte smiled and set the pieces up on their proper squares.
"It is settled; the Spanish ambassador pledges his word that
Prince Hohenzollern will not be King of Spain. France should be
satisfied. It is my move, I believe, and I move so--check to you,
my dear!"
"I resign, dearest. Listen! Here come the children up the terrace
steps."
"But--but--Helen, you must not resign so soon. Why should you?"
"Because you are already beaten," she laughed, gently--"your king
and his castles and all his men! How headstrong you Chasseurs
d'Afrique are!"
"I'm not beaten!" said the old man, stoutly, and leaned closer
over the board. Then he also laughed, and said, "Tiens! tiens!
tiens!" and his wife rose and gave him her arm. Two pretty girls
came running up the terrace, and the old vicomte stood up,
crying: "Children! Naughty ones! I see you coming! Madame de
Morteyn has beaten me at chess. Laugh if you dare! Betty
Castlemaine, I see you smiling!"
"I?" laughed that young lady, turning her flushed face from her
aunt to her uncle.
"Yes, you did," repeated the vicomte, "and you are not the niece
that I love any more. Where have you been? And you, Dorothy
Marche?--your hair is very much tangled."
"We have been lunching by the Lisse," said Dorothy, "and Jack
caught a gudgeon; here it is."
"Pooh!" said the old vicomte; "I must show them how to fish.
Helen, I shall go fishing--"
"Some time," said his wife, gently. "Betty, where are the men?"
"Jack and Barbara Lisle are fishing; Sir Thorald and Lady Hesketh
are in the green boat, and Ricky is rowing them. The others are
somewhere. Ricky got a telegram, and must go to Berlin."
"Tell Rickerl von Elster that his king is making mischief,"
laughed the vicomte, "and he may go back to Berlin when he
chooses." Then, smiling at the young, flushed faces, he leaned on
his wife's arm and passed slowly along the terrace towards the
house.
"I wonder why Lorraine has not come?" he said to his wife. "Won't
she come to-night for the dance?"
"Lorraine is a very sweet but a very uncertain girl," replied
Madame de Morteyn. She led him through the great bay-window
opening on the terrace, drew his easy-chair before his desk,
placed the journals before him, and, stooping, kissed him.
"If you want me, send Charles. I really ought to be with the
young people a moment. I wonder why Ricky must leave?"
"How far away are you going, Helen?"
"Only to the Lisse."
"Then I shall read about Monsieur Bismarck and his Spanish
friends until you come. The day is long without you."
They smiled at each other, and she sat down by the window.
"Read," she said; "I can see my children from here. I wonder why
Ricky is leaving?"
Suddenly, in the silence of the summer noon, far in the east, a
dull sound shook the stillness. Again they heard it--again, and
again--a deep boom, muttering, reverberating like summer thunder.
"Why should they fire cannon to-day, Helen?" asked the old man,
querulously. "Why should they fire cannon beyond the Rhine?"
"It is thunder," she said, gently; "it will storm before long."
"I am tired," said the vicomte. "Helen, I shall sleep. Sit by
me--so--no--nearer yet! Are the children happy?"
"Yes, dear."
"When the cannon cease, I shall fall asleep. Listen! what is
that?"
"A blackbird singing in the pear-tree."
"And what is that--that sound of galloping? Look out and see,
Helen."
"It is a gendarme riding fast towards the Rhine."
IV
THE FARANDOLE
That evening Dorothy Marche stood on the terrace in the moonlight
waving her plumed fan and listening to the orchestra from the
hamlet of Saint-Lys. The orchestra--two violins, a reed-pipe, a
biniou, and a harp--were playing away with might and main.
Through the bay-window she could see the crystal chandeliers
glittering with prismatic light, the slender gilded chairs, the
cabinets and canapés, golden, backed with tapestry; and
everywhere massed banks of ferns and lilies. They were dancing in
there; she saw Lady Hesketh floating in the determined grip of
Cecil Page, she saw Sir Thorald proudly prancing to the air of
the farandole; Betty Castlemaine, Jack, Alixe, Barbara Lisle
passed the window only to re-pass and pass again in a whirl of
gauze and filmy colour; and the swish! swish! swish! of silken
petticoats, and the rub of little feet on the polished floor grew
into a rhythmic, monotonous cadence, beating, beating the measure
of the farandole.
Dorothy waved her fan and looked at Rickerl, standing in the
moonlight beside her.
"Why won't you dance, Ricky?" she asked; "it is your last
evening, if you are determined to leave to-morrow." He turned to
her with an abrupt gesture; she thought he was going to speak,
but he did not, and after a moment she said: "Do you know what
that despatch from the New York _Herald_ to my brother means?"
"Yes," he said. His voice was dull, almost indifferent.
"Will you tell me?"
"Yes, to-morrow."
"Is--is it anything dangerous that they want him to do?"
"Yes."
"Ricky--tell me, then! You frighten me."
"To-morrow--perhaps to-night."
"Perhaps to-night?"
"If I receive another telegram. I expect to."
"Then, if you receive another despatch, we shall all know?"
Rickerl von Elster bent his head and laid a gloved hand lightly
on her own.
"I am very unhappy," he said, simply. "May we not speak of other
things?"
"Yes, Ricky," she said, faintly. He looked almost handsome there
in the moonlight, but under his evening dress the square build of
the Prussian trooper, the rigid back, and sturdy limbs were
perhaps too apparent for ideal civilian elegance. Dorothy looked
into his serious young face. He touched his blond mustache, felt
unconsciously for the sabre that was not dangling from his left
hip, remembered, coloured, and stood up even straighter.
"We are thinking of the same thing," said Dorothy; "I was trying
to recall that last time we met--do you remember? In Paris?"
He nodded; eyes fixed on hers.
"At the Diplomatic Ball?"
"Yes."
"And you were in uniform, and your sabre was very beautiful,
but--do you remember how it clashed and banged on the marble
stairway, and how the other attachés teased you until you tucked
it under your left arm? Dear me! I was fascinated by your
patent-leather sabre-tache, and your little spurs, that rang like
tiny chimes when you walked. What sentimental creatures young
girls are! Ne c'est pas, Ricky?"
"I have never forgotten that evening," he said, in a voice so low
that she leaned involuntarily nearer.
"We were very young then," she said, waving her fan.
"It was not a year ago."
"We were young," she repeated, coldly.
"Yet I shall never forget, Dorothy."
She closed her fan and began to examine the fluffy plumes. Her
cheeks were red, and she bit her lips continually.
"Do you particularly admire Molly Hesketh's hand?" she asked,
indifferently.
He turned crimson. How could she know of the episode in the
orangery? Know? There was no mystery in that; Molly Hesketh had
told her. But Rickerl von Elster, loyal in little things, saw but
one explanation--Dorothy must have seen him.
"Yes--I kissed her hand," he said. He did not add that Molly had
dared him.
Dorothy raised her head with an icy smile.
"Is it honourable to confess such a thing?" she asked, in steady
tones.
"But--but you knew it, for you saw me--" he stammered.
"I did not!" she flashed out, and walked straight into the house.
"Dorrie!" cried her brother as she swept by him, "what do you
think? Lorraine de Nesville is coming this evening!"
"Lorraine?" said his sister--"dear me, I am dying to see her."
"Then turn around," whispered Betty Castlemaine, leaning across
from Cecil's arm. "Oh, Dorrie! what a beauty!"
At the same moment the old vicomte rose from his gilded chair and
stepped forward to the threshold, saying, "Lorraine! Lorraine!
Then you have come at last, little bad one?" And he kissed her
white hands and led her to his wife, murmuring, "Helen, what
shall we do with the little bad one who never comes to bid two
old people good-day?"
"Ah, Lorraine!" said Madame de Morteyn; "kiss me, my child."
There she stood, her cheeks faintly touched with colour, her
splendid eyes shining like azure stars, the candle-light setting
her heavy hair aglow till it glistened and burned as molten ore
flashes in a crucible. They pressed around her; she saw, through
the flare of yellow light, a sea of rosy faces; a vague mist of
lace set with jewels; and she smiled at them while the colour
deepened in her cheeks. There was music in her ears and music in
her heart, and she was dancing now--dancing with a tall, bronzed
young fellow who held her strong and safe, and whose eyes
continually sought her own.
"You see," she said, demurely, "that my gowns came to-day from
Paris."
"It is a dream--this one," he said, smiling back into her eyes,
"but I shall never forget the scarlet skirt and little bodice of
velvet, and the silver chains, and your hair--"
"My hair? It is still on my head."
"It was tangled across your face--then."
"Taisez-vous, Monsieur Marche!"
"And you seem to have grown taller--"
"It is my ball-gown."
"And you do not cast down your eyes and say, 'Oui, monsieur,'
'Non, monsieur'--"
"Non, monsieur."
Again they laughed, looking into each other's eyes, and there was
music in the room and music in their hearts.
Presently the candle-light gave place to moonlight, and they
found themselves on the terrace, seated, listening to the voice
of the wind in the forest; and they heard the little river Lisse
among the rushes and the murmur of leaves on the eaves.
When they became aware of their own silence they turned to each
other with the gentle haste born of confusion, for each feared
that the other might not understand. Then, smiling, half fearful,
they reassured each other with their silence.
She was the first to break the stillness, hesitating as one who
breaks the seal of a letter long expected, half dreaded: "I came
late because my father was restless, and I thought he might need
me. Did you hear cannon along the Rhine?"
"Yes. Some German fête. I thought at first it might be thunder.
Give me your fan."
"You do not hold it right--there--"
"Do you feel the breeze? Your fan is perfumed--or is it the
lilies on the terrace? They are dancing again; must we go back?"
She looked out into the dazzling moonlight of Lorraine; a
nightingale began singing far away in the distant swamp; a bat
darted by, turned, rose, dipped, and vanished.
"They are dancing," she repeated.
"Must we go?"
"No."
In the stillness the nightingale grew bolder; the woods seemed
saturated with song.
"My father is restless; I must return soon," she said, with a
little sigh. "I shall go in presently and make my adieux. I wish
you might know my father. Will you? He would like you. He speaks
to few people except me. I know all that he thinks, all that he
dreams of. I know also all that he has done, all that he is
doing, all that he will do--God willing. Why is it I tell you
this? Ma foi, I do not know. And I am going to tell you more.
Have you heard that my father has made a balloon?"
"Yes--everybody speaks of it," he answered, gravely.
"But--ah, this is the wonderful part!--he has made a balloon that
can be inflated in five seconds! Think! All other balloons
require a long, long while, and many tubes; and one must take
them to a usine de gaz. My father's balloon needs no gas--that
is, it needs no common illuminating gas."
"A montgolfier?" asked Marche, curiously.
"Oh, pooh! The idea! No, it is like other balloons, except
that--well--there is needed merely a handful of silvery dust--to
which you touch a drop of water--piff! puff! c'est fini! The
balloon is filled."
"And what is this silvery dust?" he asked, laughing.