Not many evenings after Philip’s first interview with the Comtesse
Chantavoine, a visitor arrived at the castle. From his roundabout
approach up the steep cliff in the dusk it was clear he wished to avoid
notice. Of gallant bearing, he was attired in a fashion unlike the
citizens of Bercy, or the Republican military often to be seen in the
streets of the town. The whole relief of the costume was white: white
sash, white cuffs turned back, white collar, white rosette and band,
white and red bandeau, and the faint glitter of a white shirt. In
contrast were the black hat and plume, black top boots with huge spurs,
and yellow breeches. He carried a gun and a sword, and a pistol was
stuck in the white sash. But one thing caught the eye more than all
else: a white square on the breast of the long brown coat, strangely
ornamented with a red heart and a cross. He was evidently a soldier of
high rank, but not of the army of the Republic.
The face was that of a devotee, not of peace but of war--of some forlorn
crusade. It had deep enthusiasm, which yet to the trained observer would
seem rather the tireless faith of a convert than the disposition of the
natural man. It was somewhat heavily lined for one so young, and the
marks of a hard life were on him, but distinction and energy were in his
look and in every turn of his body.
Arriving at the castle, he knocked at the postern. At first sight of him
the porter suspiciously blocked the entrance with his person, but seeing
the badge upon his breast, stood at gaze, and a look of keen curiosity
crossed over his face. On the visitor announcing himself as a
Vaufontaine, this curiosity gave place to as keen surprise; he was
admitted with every mark of respect, and the gates closed behind him.
“Has his Highness any visitors?” he asked as he dismounted.
The porter nodded assent.
“Who are they?” He slipped a coin into the porter’s hand.
“One of the family--for so his Serene Highness calls him.”
“H’m, indeed! A Vaufontaine, friend?”
“No, monsieur, a d’Avranche.”
“What d’Avranche? Not Prince Leopold John?”
“No, monsieur, the name is the same as his Highness’s.”
“Philip d’Avranche? Ah, from whence?”
“From Paris, monsieur, with his Highness.”
The visitor, whistling softly to himself, stood thinking a moment.
Presently he said:
“How old is he?”
“About the same age as monsieur.”
“How does he occupy himself?”
“He walks, rides, talks with his Highness, asks questions of the people,
reads in the library, and sometimes shoots and fishes.”
“Is he a soldier?”
“He carries no sword, and he takes long aim with a gun.”
A sly smile was lurking about the porter’s mouth. The visitor drew from
his pocket a second gold piece, and, slipping it into the other’s hand,
said:
“Tell it all at once. Who is the gentleman, and what is his business
here? Is he, perhaps, on the side of the Revolution, or does he--keep
better company?”
He looked keenly into the eyes of the porter, who screwed up his own,
returning the gaze unflinchingly. Handing back the gold piece, the man
answered firmly:
“I have told monsieur what every one in the duchy knows; there’s no
charge for that. For what more his Highness and--and those in his
Highness’s confidence know,” he drew himself up with brusque importance,
“there’s no price, monsieur.”
“Body o’ me, here’s pride and vainglory!” answered the other. “But I
know you, my fine Pergot, I knew you almost too well years ago; and
then you were not so sensitive; then you were a good Royalist like me,
Pergot.”
This time he fastened the man’s look with his own and held it until
Pergot dropped his head before it.
“I don’t remember monsieur,” he answered, perturbed.
“Of course not. The fine Pergot has a bad memory, like a good
Republican, who by law cannot worship his God, or make the sign of
the Cross, or, ask the priest to visit him when he’s dying. A red
Revolutionist is our Pergot now!”
“I’m as good a Royalist as monsieur,” retorted the man with some
asperity. “So are most of us. Only--only his Highness says to us--”
“Don’t gossip of what his Highness says, but do his bidding, Pergot.
What a fool are you to babble thus! How d’ye know but I’m one of
Fouche’s or Barere’s men? How d’ye know but there are five hundred men
beyond waiting for my whistle?”
The man changed instantly. His hand was at his side like lightning.
“They’d never hear that whistle, monsieur, though you be Vaufontaine or
no Vaufontaine!”
The other, smiling, reached out and touched him on the shoulder kindly.
“My dear Frange Pergot,” said he, “that’s the man I knew once, and the
sort of man that’s been fighting with me for the Church and for the King
these months past in the Vendee. Come, come, don’t you know me, Pergot?
Don’t you remember the scapegrace with whom, for a jape, you waylaid my
uncle the Cardinal and robbed him, then sold him back his jewelled watch
for a year’s indulgences?”
“But no, no,” answered the man, crossing himself quickly, and by the
dim lanthorn light peering into the visitor’s face, “it is not possible,
monsieur. The Comte Detricand de Tournay--God rest him!--died in the
Jersey Isle, with him they called Rullecour.”
“Well, well, you might at least remember this,” rejoined the other, and
with a smile he showed an old scar in the palm of his hand.
A little later was ushered into the library of the castle the Comte
Detricand de Tournay, who, under the name of Savary dit Detricand,
had lived in the Isle of Jersey for many years. There he had been
a dissipated idler, a keeper of worthless company, an alien coolly
accepting the hospitality of a country he had ruthlessly invaded as a
boy. Now, returned from vagabondage, he was the valiant and honoured
heir of the House of Vaufontaine, and heir-presumptive of the House of
Bercy.
True to his intention, Detricand had joined de la Rochejaquelein, the
intrepid, inspired leader of the Vendee, whose sentiments became his
own--“If I advance, follow me; if I retreat, kill me; if I fall, avenge
me.”
He had proven himself daring, courageous, resourceful. His unvarying
gaiety of spirits infected the simple peasants with a rebounding energy;
his fearlessness inspired their confidence; his kindness to the wounded,
friend or foe, his mercy to prisoners, the respect he showed devoted
priests who shared with the peasants the perils of war, made him
beloved.
From the first all the leaders trusted him, and he sprang in a day, as
had done the peasants Cathelineau, d’Elbee, and Stofflet, or gentlemen
like Lescure and Bonchamp, and noble fighters like d’Antichamp and the
Prince of Talmont, to an outstanding position in the Royalist army.
Again and again he had been engaged in perilous sorties and leading
forlorn hopes. He had now come from the splendid victory at Saumur to
urge his kinsman, the Duc de Bercy, to join the Royalists.
He had powerful arguments to lay before a nobleman the whole traditions
of whose house were of constant alliance with the Crown of France, whose
very duchy had been the gift of a French monarch. Detricand had not seen
the Duke since he was a lad at Versailles, and there would be much in
his favour, for of all the Vaufontaines the Duke had reason to dislike
him least, and some winning power in him had of late grown deep and
penetrating.
When the Duke entered upon him in the library, he was under the
immediate influence of a stimulating talk with Philip d’Avranche and the
chief officers of the duchy. With the memory of past feuds and hatreds
in his mind, and predisposed against any Vaufontaine, his greeting was
courteously disdainful, his manner preoccupied.
Remarking that he had but lately heard of monsieur le comte’s return to
France, he hoped he had enjoyed his career in--was it then England or
America? But yes, he remembered, it began with an expedition to take the
Channel Isles from England, an insolent, a criminal business in time of
peace, fit only for boys or buccaneers. Had monsieur le comte then spent
all these years in the Channel Isles--a prisoner perhaps? No? Fastening
his eyes cynically on the symbol of the Royalist cause on Detricand’s
breast, he asked to what he was indebted for the honour of this present
visit. Perhaps, he added drily, it was to inquire after his own health,
which, he was glad to assure monsieur le comte and all his cousins of
Vaufontaine, was never better.
The face was like a leather mask, telling nothing of the arid sarcasm in
the voice. The shoulders were shrunken, the temples fallen in, the neck
behind was pinched, and the eyes looked out like brown beads alive with
fire, and touched with the excitement of monomania. His last word had
a delicate savagery of irony, though, too, there could be heard in the
tone a defiance, arguing apprehension, not lost upon his visitor.
Detricand had inwardly smiled during the old man’s monologue, broken
only by courteous, half-articulate interjections on his own part. He
knew too well the old feud between their houses, the ambition that had
possessed many a Vaufontaine to inherit the dukedom of Bercy, and the
Duke’s futile revolt against that possibility. But for himself, now heir
to the principality of Vaufontaine, and therefrom, by reversion, to that
of Bercy, it had no importance.
He had but one passion now, and it burned clear and strong, it
dominated, it possessed him. He would have given up any worldly honour
to see it succeed. He had idled and misspent too many years, been
vaurien and ne’er-do-well too long to be sordid now. Even as the
grievous sinner, come from dark ways, turns with furious and tireless
strength to piety and good works, so this vagabond of noble family,
wheeling suddenly in his tracks, had thrown himself into a cause which
was all sacrifice, courage, and unselfish patriotism--a holy warfare.
The last bitter thrust of the Duke had touched no raw flesh, his withers
were unwrung. Gifted to thrust in return, and with warrant to do so,
he put aside the temptation, and answered his kinsman with daylight
clearness.
“Monsieur le duc,” said he, “I am glad your health is good--it better
suits the purpose of this interview. I am come on business, and on that
alone. I am from Saumur, where I left de la Rochejaquelein, Stofflet,
Cathelineau, and Lescure masters of the city and victors over Coustard’s
army. We have taken eleven thousand prisoners, and--”
“I have heard a rumour--” interjected the Duke impatiently.
“I will give you fact,” continued Detricand, and he told of the series
of successes lately come to the army of the Vendee. It was the heyday of
the cause.
“And how does all this concern me?” asked the Duke.
“I am come to beg you to join us, to declare for our cause, for the
Church and for the King. Yours is of the noblest names in France. Will
you not stand openly for what you cannot waver from in your heart? If
the Duc de Bercy declares for us, others will come out of exile, and
from submission to the rebel government, to our aid. My mission is to
beg you to put aside whatever reasons you may have had for alliance with
this savage government, and proclaim for the King.”
The Duke never took his eyes from Detricand’s.
What was going on behind that parchment face, who might say?
“Are you aware,” he answered Detricand at last, “that I could send you
straight from here to the guillotine?”
“So could the porter at your gates, but he loves France almost as well
as does the Duc de Bercy.”
“You take refuge in the fact that you are my kinsman,” returned the Duke
acidly.
“The honour is stimulating, but I should not seek salvation by it. I
have the greater safety of being your guest,” answered Detricand with
dignity.
“Too premature a sanctuary for a Vaufontaine!” retorted the Duke,
fighting down growing admiration for a kinsman whose family he would
gladly root out, if it lay in his power.
Detricand made a gesture of impatience, for he felt that his appeal had
availed nothing, and he had no heart for a battle of words. His wit had
been tempered in many fires, his nature was non-incandescent to praise
or gibe. He had had his share of pastime; now had come his share of
toil, and the mood for give and take of words was not on him.
He went straight to the point now. Hopelessly he spoke the plain truth.
“I want nothing of the Prince d’Avranche but his weight and power in a
cause for which the best gentlemen of France are giving their lives. I
fasten my eyes on France alone: I fight for the throne of Louis, not for
the duchy of Bercy. The duchy of Bercy may sink or swim for all of me,
if so be it does not stand with us in our holy war.”
The Duke interjected a disdainful laugh. Suddenly there shot into
Detricand’s mind a suggestion, which, wild as it was, might after
all belong to the grotesque realities of life. So he added with
deliberation:
“If alliance must still be kept with this evil government of France,
then be sure there is no Vaufontaine who would care to inherit a duchy
so discredited. To meet that peril the Duc de Bercy will do well to
consult his new kinsman--Philip d’Avranche.”
For a moment there was absolute silence in the room. The old nobleman’s
look was like a flash of flame in a mask of dead flesh. The short upper
lip was arrested in a sort of snarl, the fingers, half-closed, were
hooked like talons, and the whole man was a picture of surprise,
fury, and injured pride. The Duc de Bercy to be harangued to his
duty, scathed, measured, disapproved, and counselled, by a stripling
Vaufontaine--it was monstrous.
It had the bitterness of aloes also, for in his own heart he knew that
Detricand spoke truth. The fearless appeal had roused him, for a moment
at least, to the beauty and righteousness of a sombre, all but hopeless,
cause, while the impeachment had pierced every sore in his heart. He
felt now the smarting anger, the outraged vanity of the wrong-doer who,
having argued down his own conscience, and believing he has blinded
others as himself, suddenly finds that himself and his motives are naked
before the world.
Detricand had known regretfully, even as he spoke, that the Duke, no
matter what the reason, would not now ally himself with the Royalists;
though, had his life been in danger, he still would have spoken the
truth. So he had been human enough to try and force open the door
of mystery by a biting suggestion; for he had a feeling that in the
presence of the mysterious kinsman, Philip d’Avranche, lay the cause of
the Duke’s resistance to his prayer. Who was this Philip d’Avranche? At
the moment it seemed absurd to him that his mind should travel back to
the Isle of Jersey.
The fury of the Duke was about to break forth, when the door of the
chamber opened and Philip stepped inside. The silence holding two men
now held three, and a curious, cold astonishment possessed the
two younger. The Duke was too blind with anger to see the start
of recognition his visitors gave at sight of each other, and by a
concurrence of feeling neither Detricand nor Philip gave sign of
acquaintance. Wariness was Philip’s cue, wondering caution Detricand’s
attitude.
The Duke spoke first. Turning from Philip, he said to Detricand with
malicious triumph:
“It will disconcert your pious mind to know I have yet one kinsman who
counts it no shame to inherit Bercy. Monsieur le comte, I give you here
the honour to know Captain Philip d’Avranche.”
Something of Detricand’s old buoyant self came back to him. His face
flushed with sudden desire to laugh, then it paled in dumb astonishment.
So this man, Philip d’Avranche, was to be set against him even in the
heritage of his family, as for one hour in a Jersey kitchen they had
been bitter opposites. For the heritage of the Houses of Vaufontaine
and Bercy he cared little--he had deeper ambitions; but this adventuring
sailor roused in him again the private grudge he had once begged him to
remember. Recovering himself, he answered meaningly, bowing low:
“The honour is memorable--and monstrous.” Philip set his teeth, but
replied: “I am overwhelmed to meet one whose reputation is known--in
every taproom.”
Neither had chance to say more, for the Duke, though not conceiving the
cause or meaning of the biting words, felt the contemptuous suggestion
in Detricand’s voice, and burst out in anger:
“Go tell the prince of Vaufontaine that the succession is assured to my
house. Monsieur my cousin, Captain Philip d’Avranche, is now my adopted
son; a wife is chosen for him, and soon, monsieur le comte, there will
be still another successor to the title.”
“The Duc de Bercy should add inspired domestic prophecy to the family
record in the ‘Almanach de Gotha,”’ answered Detricand.
“God’s death!” cried the old nobleman, trembling with rage, and
stretching towards the bell-rope, “you shall go to Paris and the Temple.
Fouche will take care of you.”
“Stop, monsieur le duc!” Detricand’s voice rang through the room. “You
shall not betray even the humblest of your kinsmen, like that monster
d’Orleans who betrayed the highest of his. Be wise: there are hundreds
of your people who still will pass a Royalist on to safety.”
The Duke’s hand dropped from the bell-rope. He knew that Detricand’s
words were true. Ruling himself to quiet, he said with cold hatred:
“Like all your breed, crafty and insolent. But I will make you pay for
it one day.”
Glancing towards Philip as though to see if he could move him, Detricand
answered: “Make no haste on my behalf; years are not of such moment to
me as to your Highness.”
Philip saw Detricand’s look, and felt his moment and his chance had
come. “Monsieur le comte!” he exclaimed threateningly.
The Duke glanced proudly at Philip. “You will collect the debt, cousin,”
said he, and the smile on his face was wicked as he again turned towards
Detricand.
“With interest well compounded,” answered Philip firmly.
Detricand smiled. “I have drawn the Norman-Jersey cousin, then?” said
he. “Now we can proceed to compliments.” Then with a change of manner
he added quietly: “Your Highness, may the House of Bercy have no worse
enemy than I! I came only to plead the cause which, if it give death,
gives honour too. And I know well that at least you are not against us
in heart. Monsieur d’Avranche”--he turned to Philip, and his words
were slow and deliberate--“I hope we may yet meet in the Place du Vier
Prison--but when and where you will; and you shall find me in the Vendee
when you please.” So saying, he bowed, and, turning, left the room.
“What meant the fellow by his Place du Vier Prison?” asked the Duke.
“Who knows, monsieur le duc?” answered Philip. “A fanatic like all the
Vaufontaines--a roysterer yesterday, a sainted chevalier to-morrow,”
said the Duke irritably. “But they still have strength and
beauty--always!” he added reluctantly. Then he looked at the strong and
comely frame before him, and was reassured. He laid a hand on Philip’s
broad shoulder, and said admiringly:
“You will of course have your hour with him, cousin: but not--not till
you are a d’Avranche of Bercy.”
“Not till I am a d’Avranche of Bercy,” responded Philip in a low voice.