With what seemed an unnecessary boldness Detricand slept that night at
the inn, “The Golden Crown,” in the town of Bercy: a Royalist of the
Vendee exposing himself to deadly peril in a town sworn to alliance with
the Revolutionary Government. He knew that the town, even the inn, might
be full of spies; but one other thing he also knew: the innkeeper of
“The Golden Crown” would not betray him, unless he had greatly changed
since fifteen years ago. Then they had been friends, for his uncle
of Vaufontaine had had a small estate in Bercy itself, in ironical
proximity to the castle.
He walked boldly into the inn parlour. There were but four men in the
room--the landlord, two stout burghers, and Frange Pergot, the porter
of the castle, who had lost no time carrying his news: not to betray his
old comrade in escapade, but to tell a chosen few, Royalists under the
rose, that he had seen one of those servants of God, an officer of the
Vendee.
At sight of the white badge with the red cross on Detricand’s coat, the
four stood up and answered his greeting with devout respect; and he had
speedy assurance that in this inn he was safe from betrayal. Presently
he learned that three days hence a meeting of the States of Bercy was to
be held for setting the seal upon the Duke’s formal adoption of Philip,
and to execute a deed of succession. It was deemed certain that, ere
this, the officer sent to England would have returned with Philip’s
freedom and King George’s licence to accept the succession in the duchy.
From interest in these matters alone Detricand would not have remained
at Bercy, but he thought to use the time for secretly meeting officers
of the duchy likely to favour the cause of the Royalists.
During these three days of waiting he heard with grave concern a
rumour that the great meeting of the States would be marked by Philip’s
betrothal with the Comtesse Chantavoine. He cared naught for the
succession, but there was ever with him the remembrance of Guida
Landresse de Landresse, and what touched Philip d’Avranche he had come
to associate with her. Of the true relations between Guida and Philip he
knew nothing, but from that last day in Jersey he did know that Philip
had roused in her emotions, perhaps less vital than love but certainly
less equable than friendship.
Now in his fear that Guida might suffer, the more he thought of the
Comtesse Chantavoine as the chosen wife of Philip the more it troubled
him. He could not shake off oppressive thoughts concerning Guida
and this betrothal. They interwove themselves through all his secret
business with the Royalists of Bercy. For his own part, he would have
gone far and done much to shield her from injury. He had seen and
known in her something higher than Philip might understand--a simple
womanliness, a profound depth of character. His pledge to her had
been the key-note of his new life. Some day, if he lived and his cause
prospered, he would go back to Jersey--too late perhaps to tell her
what was in his heart, but not too late to tell her the promise had been
kept.
It was a relief when the morning of the third day came, bright and
joyous, and he knew that before the sun went down he should be on his
way back to Saumur.
His friend the innkeeper urged him not to attend the meeting of the
States of Bercy, lest he should be recognised by spies of government. He
was, however, firm in his will to go, but he exchanged his coat with the
red cross for one less conspicuous.
With this eventful morn came the news that the envoy to England had
returned with Philip’s freedom by exchange of prisoners, and with
the needful licence from King George. But other news too was carrying
through the town: the French Government, having learned of the Duke’s
intentions towards Philip, had despatched envoys from Paris to forbid
the adoption and deed of succession.
Though the Duke would have defied them, it behoved him to end the
matter, if possible, before these envoys’ arrival. The States therefore
was hurriedly convened two hours before the time appointed, and the race
began between the Duke and the emissaries of the French Government.
It was a perfect day, and as the brilliant procession wound down the
great rock from the castle, in ever-increasing, glittering line, the
effect was mediaeval in its glowing splendour. All had been ready for
two days, and the general enthusiasm had seized upon the occasion with
an adventurous picturesqueness, in keeping with this strange elevation
of a simple British captain to royal estate. This buoyant, clear-faced,
stalwart figure had sprung suddenly out of the dark into the garish
light of sovereign place, and the imagination of the people had been
touched. He was so genial too, so easy-mannered, this d’Avranche of
Jersey, whose genealogy had been posted on a hundred walls and carried
by a thousand mouths through the principality. As Philip rode past on
the left of the exulting Duke, the crowds cheered him wildly. Only on
the faces of Comte Carignan Damour and his friends was discontent, and
they must perforce be still. Philip himself was outwardly calm,
with that desperate quiet which belongs to the most perilous, most
adventurous achieving. Words he had used many years ago in Jersey kept
ringing in his ears--“‘Good-bye, Sir Philip’--I’ll be more than that
some day.”
The Assembly being opened, in a breathless silence the Governor-General
of the duchy read aloud the licence of the King of England for Philip
d’Avranche, an officer in his navy, to assume the honours to be
conferred upon him by the Duke and the States of Bercy. Then, by command
of the Duke, the President of the States read aloud the new order of
succession:
“1. To the Hereditary Prince Leopold John and his heirs male; in default
of which to
“2. The Prince successor, Philip d’Avranche and his heirs male; in
default of which to
“3. The heir male of the House of Vaufontaine.”
Afterwards came reading of the deed of gift by which the Duke made over
to Prince Philip certain possessions in the province of d’Avranche. To
all this the assent of Prince Leopold John had been formally secured.
After the Assembly and the chief officers of the duchy should have
ratified these documents and the Duke signed them, they were to be
enclosed in a box with three locks and deposited with the Sovereign
Court at Bercy. Duplicates were also to be sent to London and registered
in the records of the College of Arms. Amid great enthusiasm, the
States, by unanimous vote, at once ratified the documents. The one
notable dissentient was the Intendant, Count Carignan Damour, the
devout ally of the French Government. It was he who had sent Fouche word
concerning Philip’s adoption; it was also he who had at last, through
his spies, discovered Detricand’s presence in the town, and had taken
action thereupon. In the States, however, he had no vote, and wisdom
kept him silent, though he was watchful for any chance to delay events
against the arrival of the French envoys.
They should soon be here, and, during the proceedings in the States,
he watched the doors anxiously. Every minute that passed made him more
restless, less hopeful. He had a double motive in preventing this new
succession. With Philip as adopted son and heir there would be fewer
spoils of office; with Philip as duke there would be none at all,
for the instinct of distrust and antipathy was mutual. Besides, as a
Republican, he looked for his reward from Fouche in good time.
Presently it was announced by the President that the signatures to the
acts of the States would be set in private. Thereupon, with all the
concourse standing, the Duke, surrounded by the law, military, and civil
officers of the duchy, girded upon Philip the jewelled sword which
had been handed down in the House of d’Avranche from generation to
generation. The open function being thus ended, the people were enjoined
to proceed at once to the cathedral, where a Te Deum would be sung.
The public then retired, leaving the Duke and a few of the highest
officials of the duchy to formally sign and seal the deeds. When the
outer doors were closed, one unofficial person remained--Comte Detricand
de Tournay, of the House of Vaufontaine. Leaning against a pillar, he
stood looking calmly at the group surrounding the Duke at the great
council-table.
Suddenly the Duke turned to a door at the right of the President’s
chair, and, opening it, bowed courteously to some one beyond. An instant
afterwards there entered the Comtesse Chantavoine, with her uncle the
Marquis Grandjon-Larisse, an aged and feeble but distinguished figure.
They advanced towards the table, the lady on the Duke’s arm, and Philip,
saluting them gravely, offered the Marquis a chair. At first the Marquis
declined it, but the Duke pressed him, and in the subsequent proceedings
he of all the number was seated.
Detricand apprehended the meaning of the scene. This was the lady whom
the Duke had chosen as wife for the new Prince. The Duke had invited the
Comtesse to witness the final act which was to make Philip d’Avranche
his heir in legal fact as by verbal proclamation; not doubting that the
romantic nature of the incident would impress her. He had even hoped
that the function might be followed by a formal betrothal in the
presence of the officials; and the situation might still have been
critical for Philip had it not been for the pronounced reserve of the
Comtesse herself.
Tall, of gracious and stately carriage, the curious quietness of the
face of the Comtesse would have been almost an unbecoming gravity were
it not that the eyes, clear, dark, and strong, lightened it. The mouth
had a somewhat set sweetness, even as the face was somewhat fixed in
its calm. In her bearing, in all her motions, there was a regal quality;
yet, too, something of isolation, of withdrawal, in her self-possession
and unruffled observation. She seemed, to Detricand, a figure apart,
a woman whose friendship would be everlasting, but whose love would be
more an affectionate habit than a passion; and in whom devotion would be
strong because devotion was the key-note of her nature. The dress of a
nun would have turned her into a saint; of a peasant would have made her
a Madonna; of a Quaker, would have made her a dreamer and a devote; of a
queen, would have made her benign yet unapproachable. It struck him
all at once as he looked, that this woman had one quality in absolute
kinship with Guida Landresse--honesty of mind and nature; only with
this young aristocrat the honesty would be without passion. She had
straight-forwardness, a firm if limited intellect, a clear-mindedness
belonging somewhat to narrowness of outlook, but a genuine capacity for
understanding the right and the wrong of things. Guida, so Detricand
thought, might break her heart and live on; this woman would break her
heart and die: the one would grow larger through suffering, the other
shrink to a numb coldness.
So he entertained himself by these flashes of discernment, presently
merged in wonderment as to what was in Philip’s mind as he stood there,
destiny hanging in that drop of ink at the point of the pen in the
Duke’s fingers!
Philip was thinking of the destiny, but more than all else just now he
was thinking of the woman before him and the issue to be faced by him
regarding her. His thoughts were not so clear nor so discerning as
Detricand’s. No more than he understood Guida did he understand
this clear-eyed, still, self-possessed woman. He thought her cold,
unsympathetic, barren of that glow which should set the pulses of a man
like himself bounding. It never occurred to him that these still waters
ran deep, that to awaken this seemingly glacial nature, to kindle a fire
on this altar, would be to secure unto his life’s end a steady, enduring
flame of devotion. He revolted from her; not alone because he had a
wife, but because the Comtesse chilled him, because with her, in any
case, he should never be able to play the passionate lover as he had
done with Guida; and with Philip not to be the passionate lover was to
be no lover at all. One thing only appealed to him: she was the Comtesse
Chantavoine, a fitting consort in the eyes of the world for a sovereign
duke. He was more than a little carried off his feet by the marvel of
the situation. He could think of nothing quite clearly; everything was
confused and shifting in his mind.
The first words of the Duke were merely an informal greeting to his
council and the high officers present. He was about to speak further
when some one drew his attention to Detricand’s presence. An order was
given to challenge the stranger, but Detricand, without waiting for the
approach of the officer, advanced towards the table, and, addressing the
Duke, said:
“The Duc de Bercy will not forbid the presence of his cousin, Detricand
de Tournay, at this impressive ceremony?”
The Duke, dumfounded, though he preserved an outward calm, could not
answer for an instant. Then with a triumphant, vindictive smile which
puckered his yellow cheeks like a wild apple, he said:
“The Comte de Tournay is welcome to behold an end of the ambitions of
the Vaufontaines.” He looked towards Philip with an exulting
pride. “Monsieur le Comte is quite right,” he added, turning to his
council--“he may always claim the privileges of a relative of the
Bercys; but the hospitality goes not beyond my house and my presence,
and monsieur le comte will understand my meaning.”
At that moment Detricand caught the eye of Damour the Intendant, and he
understood perfectly. This man, the innkeeper had told him, was known to
be a Revolutionary, and he felt he was in imminent danger.
He came nearer, however, bowing to all present, and, making no reply to
the Duke save a simple, “I thank your Highness,” took a place near the
council-table.
The short ceremony of signing the deeds immediately followed. A few
formal questions were asked of Philip, to which he briefly replied, and
afterwards he made the oath of allegiance to the Duke, with his hand
upon the ancient sword of the d’Avranches. These preliminaries ended,
the Duke was just stooping to put his pen to the paper for signature,
when the Intendant, as much to annoy Philip as still to stay the
proceedings against the coming of Fouche’s men, said:
“It would appear that one question has been omitted in the formalities
of this Court.” He paused dramatically. He was only aiming a random
shot; he would make the most of it.
The Duke looked up perturbed, and said sharply: “What is that--what is
that, monsieur?”
“A form, monsieur le duc, a mere form. Monsieur”--he bowed towards
Philip politely--“monsieur is not already married? There is no--” He
paused again.
For an instant there was absolute stillness. Philip had felt his heart
give one great thump of terror: Did the Intendant know anything? Did
Detricand know anything.
Standing rigid for a moment, his pen poised, the Duke looked sharply
at the Intendant and then still more sharply at Philip. The progress of
that look had granted Philip an instant’s time to recover his composure.
He was conscious that the Comtesse Chantavoine had given a little start,
and then had become quite still and calm. Now her eyes were intently
fixed upon him.
He had, however, been too often in physical danger to lose his nerve at
this moment. The instant was big with peril; it was the turning point
of his life, and he felt it. His eyes dropped towards the spot of ink at
the point of the pen the Duke held. It fascinated him, it was destiny.
He took a step nearer to the table, and, drawing himself up, looked his
princely interlocutor steadily in the eyes.
“Of course there is no marriage--no woman?” asked the Duke a little
hoarsely, his eyes fastened on Philip’s. With steady voice Philip
replied: “Of course, monsieur le duc.”
There was another stillness. Some one sighed heavily. It was the
Comtesse Chantavoine.
The next instant the Duke stooped, and wrote his signature three times
hurriedly upon the deeds.
A moment afterwards, Detricand was in the street, making towards “The
Golden Crown.” As he hurried on he heard the galloping of horses ahead
of him. Suddenly some one plucked him by the arm from a doorway.
“Quick--within!” said a voice. It was that of the Duke’s porter, Frange
Pergot. Without hesitation or a word, Detricand did as he was bid, and
the door clanged to behind him.
“Fouche’s men are coming down the street; spies have betrayed you,”
whispered Pergot. “Follow me. I will hide you till night, and then you
must away.”
Pergot had spoken the truth. But Detricand was safely hidden, and
Fouche’s men came too late to capture the Vendean chief or to forbid
those formal acts which made Philip d’Avranche a prince.
Once again at Saumur, a week later, Detricand wrote a long letter to
Carterette Mattingley, in Jersey, in which he set forth these strange
events at Bercy, and asked certain questions concerning Guida.