HAPPENINGS IN A POSTCHAISE
(1)
Anne-Hilarion was sorry to say good-bye to the _Trois Frères_ at
Caen, and all the way up the river from the little port at Ouistreham
he sat quietly on deck with a pensive expression. That the vessel's
speed at sea had not been very noticeably greater than that with
which she now approached the spires of the town distressed him
not at all. Everything about her had been delightful, from her
dolphin figurehead to her old-fashioned poop, and he only regretted
that M. le Chevalier had not allowed him to chatter to her crew
as much as he desired.
La Vireville too owed the old barque gratitude. Whether her master
really believed his story or no, he had kept to his contract, and
asked few supplementary questions. It had been a fine breezy morning
when the émigré stood on her deck as she lumbered along the coast
towards Dieppe, and looked up at the tricolour beating at the mizen,
reflecting that it was the first time he had ever sailed beneath
this parvenu flag of his country. Two or three miles out at sea
a couple of frigates were visible, the rearguard of the Brest
fleet. Against those vessels that flag was their talisman. But
he had not looked at it with love for all that.
* * * * *
The alluring prospect of a long ride in a postchaise had been
purposely held out to the Comte de Flavigny as he regretfully left
the _Trois Frères_, clutching the striped and polished foreign
shell which the captain had given him at parting. It was true that
there were some rather unpleasant formalities to be gone through
first, in a place which he was told was M. le Maire's office,
where a man with a red, white, and blue scarf tied in a great bow--a
man whom he instinctively disliked--asked M. le Chevalier a
great many questions, and looked at him, Anne-Hilarion, very
suspiciously. At last, however, he wrote something on the papers
which M. le Chevalier had produced, and then they went to a little
hôtel and had a meal, and presently Anne was being assisted into
a two-horsed postchaise not quite like those he had seen in England.
"All's well that ends well!" said M. le Chevalier, his mouth relaxing,
as with great crackings of the postilion's whip they rolled through
the streets of Caen. "They were suspicious of thy good uncle, Anne
. . . Annibal, I should say. Imagine, they were disinclined to
believe what he said--he who has always been noted for his veracity.
But the papers of thy other uncle--the one we left behind at
Abbeville, in . . . in bed--convinced them at last."
"You had, perhaps, to invent some more histories about us," suggested
his fellow-traveller.
"My nephew, I had. However, they need not concern you. Our kinship
still continues."
"Of that," remarked the Comte de Flavigny earnestly, "I am glad."
He slipped his hand under his friend's arm. "That other, I did not
like him. Could you be my uncle in England also, do you think?"
"Yes, little cabbage," said the Chouan, pulling a curl. "I shall
be delighted, once in England again, to assume any relationship you
please. At present I feel something like an inexperienced grandmother."
Anne-Hilarion gave a squeak of laughter and hugged his arm. "You are
so amusing," he said, looking up at La Vireville with appreciative
eyes. "How long before we get to England, M. le Chevalier?"
"That I am afraid I cannot tell you. Only a few days, I trust. But
this is how we hope to get there. We shall arrive to-night at a
place called Vire, and tomorrow we shall go on to Granville, which,
as perhaps you know, Anne, is the nearest port, but one, of all
France to Jersey. I think, however, that we shall not enter Granville
itself, but that somewhere on the coast we will hire a fisherman's
boat to take us to Jersey. And Jersey, you know, is English, and
from there it is easy to go to England. Also, after we have left
Vire, we shall be on the edge of the country of the Chouans of
Normandy, and so we may find friends. And thus I have hopes that
there will be no difficulty in procuring a boat, provided that
nothing disagreeable happens to us in the town of Vire; for in
towns, my dear Anne, they have not that entire faith in the candour
of your uncle that we could wish."
"Another boat!" exclaimed Anne. "I shall like that, if the sea is
not rough. And then another after that! For Jersey is an island,
is it not?"
"You are singularly well informed, nephew. Jersey _is_ an island,
and one, moreover, which is a good deal nearer to France than to
England. Very probably, you will go home in an English man-of-war.
I think you are enjoying your tour in France, are you not, nephew
Annibal?"
"Yes, since _you_ came, M. le Chevalier," replied the child. "But
I do want to see Papa soon, and Grandpapa, and Elspeth, and----"
He checked himself with a sigh. "I suppose I shall never see it
again. M. le Chevalier, do you think the grey cat will have eaten it?"
"Eaten what, my child?" asked the émigré, looking down into the
dark eyes, clouded with a sudden apprehension. "Ah, you mean your
goldfish?"
Anne nodded, the tiniest little droop at the corners of his mouth.
"I think," said the Chevalier de la Vireville, taking his hand,
"that we shall find, when we get to Cavendish Square, that Elspeth
has contrived to bring away the goldfish from the house of the
old ladies, and that it will be swimming round and round on Grandpapa's
table in the library."
A gleam of hope passed over the Comte de Flavigny's grave face,
and died away as he said dolefully, "I do not see how Elspeth
could find it, and perhaps the old ladies would not let her in.
And . . . and . . . where _is_ Elspeth?"
"I am sure that she is quite safe," answered La Vireville in a
consoling tone. "She will be in London, you may be certain, before
we are. . . . My child, what _is_ the matter?"
For Anne-Hilarion, overtaken by a sudden whirlwind of sobs, had
buried his head in the corner of the chaise.
(2)
It was the inevitable breakdown come at last. Had La Vireville
reflected a moment, he need not have been so startled; rather
would he have felt surprise that it had not happened earlier. For
a child of Anne-Hilarion's tender years to have been through so
much without the occurrence of something of the sort would have
been phenomenal, had his companion paused to think of it. But the
little boy was so sedate in his ways that he gave the impression
of being older than he was, and La Vireville was not experienced as
a nurse. However, some explanation of this seizure did dawn upon
him after a moment.
"My poor little rabbit!" he exclaimed, putting his arm round him.
"There, don't cry so--it is all right! You will soon see Elspeth
again; and meanwhile, here is your uncle to look after you."
But the little rabbit did not, apparently, want even his adoptive
uncle. He burrowed yet farther into the cushions of the carriage,
his whole body convulsed with weeping. Fragmentary ejaculations
of "Papa! Papa!" mingled with appeals for his grandfather and
for Elspeth emerged from his sobs, which now started to partake
of the character of screams. His grief was getting beyond his
control, and La Vireville began to be alarmed. Not only did he
think that such abandonment of distress must be bad for the child,
to whose nature it seemed so foreign, but it also occurred to him
that a passer-by, or even possibly the postilion, hearing such
testimony of affliction, and becoming curious as to what was going
forward in the chaise, might institute an investigation which could
hardly fail of being disastrous. Anne in this state would certainly
give the impression that he was being kidnapped--by his rescuer.
The émigré pulled up the window nearest to him, which was open,
and redoubled his efforts to quiet the boy.
"I want to go home!" screamed Anne. "I want Papa! I want Papa! I
want my goldfish!" He beat with his fists against the dingy cushions,
and even repulsed his dear Chevalier's attempts at consolation.
Fortuné hardly knew him for the same child.
And meanwhile they were slowing down at the entrance to Villers-Bocage,
a small place which would not have called for this attention but for
the fact that the whole infant population appeared to be at play upon
the road, thereby causing their pace to slacken.
"Anne, you _must_ be quiet!" said his 'uncle,' giving him a little
shake, and speaking with a severity which he had never thought
to employ towards him.
He might as well have tried to restrain a thunderstorm; he had
better have been dealing with a refractory Chouan. Anne was now
physically incapable of obeying him, nor were the narrow confines
of the chaise sufficient to enclose the torrents of his woe.
La Vireville's heart sank as the vehicle came to a standstill,
and in another moment the head of the postilion, a Norman youth
with a flaming crop of hair, appeared like a setting sun at the
window. La Vireville instantly motioned to him to proceed. The
youth continued to make signs outside the glass, while other heads,
of a rustic type, began to gather behind him. At last, rapidly
losing his temper, La Vireville let down the glass.
"What the devil have you pulled up for?" he demanded. "Go on,
confound you! We don't want to stop here!"
"I thought something was wrong," responded the youth, though how
he could have heard anything through the beat of his horses' hoofs
was hard to say. But by now Anne's lamentations, flowing through
the opened window, were convincing the inhabitants of the little
town that the postilion's surmise was just.
"There is nothing whatever wrong," asserted La Vireville shortly,
and, on the surface, mendaciously. "Drive on at once!" And he
began to pull up the window.
Ere he could fulfil his intention a large, knotted hand was laid
upon it, and its frame became the setting for another study in
genre--a large, solemn, be-whiskered old face surmounted by a
hat of ancient fashion decorated with a tricolour cockade. The
sight of this emblem, and still more of the parti-coloured sash
crossing its wearer's breast, caused in the Chouan an outburst of
silent blasphemy. From absurd the situation had become dangerous.
The worst had come upon them--the intervention of officialdom--and
that in a place where they need never have encountered it but for
Anne-Hilarion's unfortunate access of woe.
"Well, citizen, and why have you stopped here?" demanded this
apparition.
"Parbleu, citizen, that is just what I want to know!" ejaculated
the émigré, a trifle taken aback. "The postilion took it into his
head to pull up without orders, because he said he heard my little
nephew crying--as you perceive."
"In truth, I do perceive it," returned the ancient drily, with
his hand to his ear to catch La Vireville's reply through the
all-pervading sound of sobbing. "And what is he crying for?"
Since La Vireville could hardly reply, "Because he is suddenly
overcome with longing for his émigré father and his English grandfather
in London, whither I am taking him," he said, much more tamely,
"Because, citizen, he is tired, and perhaps a little hungry."
The old man bent his gaze upon Anne, who, looking up at that moment,
suspended a howl to return the compliment. "Poor child!" he said
unexpectedly. "You are in haste, citizen?"
"Oh, so-so," replied La Vireville. It did not seem altogether
desirable to admit that he was, very much in haste.
"You have come from far?"
"Only from Caen this morning. Do you wish to see my papers, citizen
procureur-syndic?" For the Chouan guessed that he spoke with that
official--in less Republican phrase, the mayor.
"Presently," said the other. "For the moment I was going to suggest
that as my daughter is, I know, preparing some excellent soup
for déjeuner, and since the little boy is crying because he is
hungry . . ."
"You are too kind, citizen," said La Vireville, at once touched,
astonished, and full of a wish that he had not ascribed Anne's
tears to a quite problematical appetite. "But I fear that, though
not unduly pressed, we can hardly spare the time to get out. And
indeed we have some food with us."
"But not good hot soup, I feel sure," said this benevolent old
mayor. "See, I will send for a bowl of it while you show me your
papers. One of my grandchildren here shall go for it. Here, Toinette,
run off to your mother and tell her----" The rest was lost as he
turned away from the window.
"I don't want any soup," immediately said (like a later famous
character) Anne-Hilarion. He spoke peevishly, and, what was much
worse, in English. The apparition of the unknown official had
distinctly sobered him, but he was still intermittently heaving
with sobs.
"My child," interposed La Vireville in the same tongue, since
he dared not say it in French, "I have told you before that you
_must_ not talk English!" And he went on quickly in his own language,
"Take the bowl of soup when it comes, to please this kind old
man, and then we shall be able to go on again."
"But I don't want it!" repeated Anne--reverting, however, to French.
Then he added, just as the procureur-syndic was turning back to
the window again, "Why must I not talk English, M. le Chevalier?"
"Oh, untamable tongue of childhood!" thought the luckless Chouan.
Anne had called him by his title too! The situation hung on the
mayor's deafness. La Vireville frowned at Anne, said meaningly
in a low tone, "Thy _uncle_ wishes thee to drink the soup, Annibal!"
and immediately after, in a loud one to the old man, "Will the
citizen procureur-syndic see my papers now? He will find them
in good order." For on that score at least, since his interview
at Caen, he was happy.
As the citizen expressed his desire and readiness to do so without
any demur, it seemed clear that he had not caught the child's
remarks, so that Fortuné was not called upon to put into practice the
wild expedients which had scurried through his fertile brain--as, to
assert that his proper name was Chevalier (which would not be borne
out by those papers in the name of Duchâtel) or (on the chance that
the sound of English was unfamiliar to the procureur-syndic) that
Anne-Hilarion had been pedantically brought up to speak Latin on
occasions. He began to pull out his papers and was preparing to leave
the chaise, when the mayor suggested that he should enter instead,
and since the traveller could find no good reason against this, he
gathered the now tearless Anne-Hilarion out of the way--for there
were only two seats--and set him on his knee, while the old man got
out his spectacles and wetted his thumb for the proper perusal of
the documents.
Then the soup came, borne by an elderly, responsible person of
about ten. Neither she, however, nor the train of smaller fry who
accompanied her were exempt from curiosity, and clambered up on
both steps of the chaise to witness its consumption. Anne received
the refreshment with resignation. It was all very kind and homely
and unexpected, this gift from the enemy, but if anybody ever
realised the discomfort caused by coals of fire on the head, it
was M. de la Vireville. Nor was he unaware of the ludicrousness
of his position, conscious that possible pursuers on the road
from Caen might overtake them because their postchaise, instead
of hastening towards the coast, was stationary in the _place_ of
Villers-Bocage, while a little boy unwillingly drank soup in the
company of the official who ought to be arresting them.
The old mayor, who was taken with Anne because, as he explained,
his numerous grandchildren were mostly girls, would plainly have
liked to talk to him--a proceeding which, in the child's present
unnerved state, would surely have resulted in some disastrous
revelation or other. But Anne, for once, was not inclined to
converse, and also there was the soup to be disposed of. Never,
to La Vireville's knowledge, had soup been so hot in this world;
it seemed to him that it must have been specially heated by demons
in a lower, so long did it take to consume.
At last--at long last--the ordeal was over, the nearly empty bowl
handed back to Toinette, her train ejected from the steps, the
postilion on his horse, the charitable old procureur-syndic
back, smiling, on the stones of the _place_. The horses jerked
forward . . .
"Well, nephew Annibal," began La Vireville, "of all the uncomfortable
quarters of an hour----" But nephew Annibal, worn out by emotion
and full of good soup, had fallen instantly asleep like a puppy,
his head against the Chouan's breast.
(3)
Fortuné shifted the child so that he should lie more comfortably.
Tear-stains were on Anne-Hilarion's cheeks, and round his mouth
traces of the refreshment which his harassed uncle had forced
upon his appetite. "Pauvre mioche!" thought 'Monsieur Augustin,'
looking down at the head now resting on his arm. And he thought
also, "I never knew he had it in him to be so troublesome!"
For himself, he fell into reflection over recent events--the first
opportunity, so it seemed to him, that he had had to review them
in quiet, for on board the _Trois Frères_, a peaceable enough
refuge in itself, he felt always on the point of having to talk
to the captain or to fend off awkward inquiries. Yet it was in
the captain's cabin, after breakfast that first morning, that
Anne had given him a more or less detailed account of happenings
at Rose Cottage; how M. Duchâtel had taken him to the Cathedral
and had been very friendly and talkative, and of the particularly
sound sleep which had come upon him, Anne-Hilarion, that evening.
It had needed questioning to bring out the story of Mlle. Angèle's
nasty-tasting posset, for he was too innocent to connect that
draught with his slumbers. No details, however, could be furnished
of the departure from Dover, anxious as Fortuné was to obtain
them, for the simple reason that the small traveller had not
wakened till midway between England and France, in what he had
reported to be "a little ship, not so big as this." From what
he could gather La Vireville thought it must have been a lugger,
Heaven knew how procured.
On arrival at Calais, M. Duchâtel appeared to have conveyed Anne,
frightened, as he admitted, but still somewhat stupefied, to a
private house--unidentifiable from the child's description--to
have put him to bed and left him behind a locked door, lest, as
he put it, his father's enemies should break in and steal him away.
For he had told Anne that he was taking him to France by his father's
wish, expressed through the old ladies, his father's friends, and
the child had believed him. So Anne thought he was going to Verona,
and at first was not ill-pleased.
It had been, he thought, afternoon when he had been imprisoned in
this way at Calais, and yet they had not left that town till next
day; of that Anne was positive. He could give no reason for the
delay. La Vireville was driven to suppose that Duchâtel had some
secret service business of his own in Calais--possibly unknown
to Mme. de Chaulnes, who had spoken so exultantly about the
twenty-four hours' start. Moreover, he probably little expected
to be pursued so soon. But the delay in Calais had been providential
from Fortuné's point of view. He could not help wondering now, or
a second or two, whether, supposing the pursued to be at present
hunting the pursuer, the soup episode might not prove as providential
from Duchâtel's.
That was all the conversation which he and Anne had had on the
point at the time, owing to the advent of a sailor into the cabin;
but later, that evening in fact, as Anne was looking over the
side at the water, tinged with sunset, which heaved slowly past,
he suddenly said:
"The ship I came from England in moved about more than this, M.
le Chevalier."
"Mon oncle," corrected La Vireville, looking round to see if anyone
was in earshot. "Did it, Annibal? Were you frightened?"
"I was down in a cabin," said Anne. "I could not see the sea then.
But I knew I was in a ship. And I thought"--he paused, and then
went on--"I thought you were drowned, mon oncle, and that it was
my fault."
"Thought I was drowned, child? How could that be--and why should
it be your fault?"
"Like my dream," said the little boy, staring hard over the bulwark
at the sea. "You were drowned because . . . because I . . . I told
_them_ things about you." His face was scarlet.
"Well, my child," said the émigré, putting his arm round him, "it
does not matter so much if you did." And, seeing signs of still
greater emotional discomfort, he embellished this questionable
statement. "It does not matter the scratch of a pin. I like to be
talked about, Anne--it's a failing of mine! . . . But everybody
doesn't, you know, little one. Did you tell them much about anybody
else?"
Anne had put his knuckles into his eyes, and in a small and faltering
voice had confessed that he had talked about M. de Soucy and a
little about M. l'Abbé, because 'they,' the old ladies, were Papa's
friends, and he did not know . . .
La Vireville took him on to his knee, and after waiting to see
that the captain was not really coming right up to them, whispered
to him not to cry. "You are not to blame, child," he went on.
"Those old ladies cheated you, as they have cheated older and
wiser folk. But there is one thing--a place, not a person . . . I
wonder if you told them the name of the place where the expedition
is going to land? Can you remember if you did?"
His tone was very gentle as he put the question through Anne's
rather tangled curls into his ear, but there was a lively anxiety
in his eyes.
"I could not remember," sighed the little boy almost apologetically.
"I tried. They said they would give me a crown piece for my money-box
if I could. I cannot remember it now."
"Don't try!" said La Vireville hastily, thanking his Maker, though
not doubting that the name would eventually be known through some
other agency.
"And I said," proceeded Anne, "that if I could remember it I would
not tell them--no, that part came in my dream, where the Queen
of Elfland was in the boat," he corrected conscientiously. "I said,
really, that I often forgot names and remembered them, sometimes,
afterwards."
"And did they ask you afterwards? Did M. Duchâtel ask you?"
It appeared that the old ladies had asked him afterwards, and that
M. Duchâtel's solicitude on the point, though vain, had been extreme
all the way from Calais to Abbeville. But M. Duchâtel had never,
it seemed, been actually unkind (it would not have suited his book,
thought La Vireville) and it was not till the episode of the Citizen
Pourcelles' declamation that the Verona idea had lost its hold on
Anne's mind. But then, child though he was, he had gathered from
the turgid but unequivocal statements of the Ode that he was not
in the company of those who could in any way be described as 'Papa's
friends.'
Yet, except for that final shower of tears at Abbeville, it did
not appear that the kidnapper had ever had any trouble with the
little boy. The rescuer, now, could not say so much.