Off Grouville Bay lay the squadron of the Jersey station. The St.
George’s Cross was flying at the fore of the Imperturbable, and on every
ship of the fleet the white ensign flapped in the morning wind. The
wooden-walled three-decked flag-ship, with her 32-pounders, and six
hundred men, was not less picturesque and was more important than the
Castle of Mont Orgueil near by, standing over two hundred feet above the
level of the sea: the home of Philip d’Avranche, Duc de Bercy, and the
Comtesse Chantavoine, now known to the world as the Duchesse de Bercy.
The Comtesse had arrived in the island almost simultaneously with
Philip, although he had urged her to remain at the ducal palace of
Bercy. But the duchy of Bercy was in hard case. When the imbecile Duke
Leopold John died and Philip succeeded, the neutrality of Bercy had been
proclaimed, but this neutrality had since been violated, and there was
danger at once from the incursions of the Austrians and the ravages of
the French troops. In Philip’s absence the valiant governor-general
of the duchy, aided by the influence and courage of the Comtesse
Chantavoine, had thus far saved it from dismemberment, in spite of
attempted betrayals by Damour the Intendant, who still remained Philip’s
enemy.
But when the Marquis Grandjon-Larisse, the uncle of the Comtesse, died,
her cousin, General Grandjon-Larisse of the Republican army--whose word
with Dalbarade had secured Philip’s release years before for her own
safety, first urged and then commanded her temporary absence from
the duchy. So far he had been able to protect it from the fury of the
Republicans and the secret treachery of the Jacobins. But a time of
great peril was now at hand. Under these anxieties and the lack of other
inspiration than duty, her health had failed, and at last she obeyed her
cousin, joining Philip at the Castle of Mont Orgueil.
More than a year had passed since she had seen him, but there was no
emotion, no ardour in their present greeting. From the first there had
been nothing to link them together. She had married, hoping that she
might love thereafter; he in choler and bitterness, and in the stress of
a desperate ambition. He had avoided the marriage so long as he might,
in hope of preventing it until the Duke should die, but with the irony
of fate the expected death had come two hours after the ceremony. Then,
shortly afterwards, came the death of the imbecile Leopold John; and
Philip found himself the Duc de Bercy, and within a year, by reason of a
splendid victory for the Imperturbable, an admiral.
Truth to tell, in this battle he had fought for victory for his ship and
a fall for himself: for the fruit he had plucked was turning to dust and
ashes. He was haunted by the memory of a wronged woman, as she herself
had foretold. Death, with the burial of private dishonour under the
roses of public victory--that had come to be his desire. But he had
found that Death is wilful and chooseth her own time; that she may be
lured, but she will not come with shouting. So he had stoically accepted
his fate, and could even smile with a bitter cynicism when ordered to
proceed to the coast of Jersey, where collision with a French squadron
was deemed certain.
Now, he was again brought face to face with his past; with the imminent
memory of Guida Landresse de Landresse. Where was Guida now? What had
happened to her? He dared not ask, and none told him. Whichever way he
turned--night or day--her face haunted him. Looking out from the windows
of Mont Orgueil Castle, or from the deck of the Imperturbable, he could
see--and he could scarce choose but see--the lonely Ecrehos. There, with
a wild eloquence, he had made a girl believe he loved her, and had taken
the first step in the path which should have led to true happiness and
honour. From this good path he had violently swerved--and now?
From all that could be seen, however, the world went very well with him.
He was the centre of authority. Almost any morning one might have seen a
boat shoot out from below the Castle wall, carrying a flag with the blue
ball of a Vice-Admiral of the White in the canton, and as the Admiral
himself stepped upon the deck of the Imperturbable between saluting
guards, across the water came a gay march played in his honour.
Jersey herself was elate, eager to welcome one of her own sons risen
to such high estate. When, the very day after his arrival, he passed
through the Vier Marchi on his way to visit the Lieutenant-Governor, the
redrobed jurats impulsively turned out to greet him. They were ready
to prove that memory is a matter of will and cultivation. There is no
curtain so opaque as that which drops between the mind of man and the
thing it is advantageous to forget. But how closely does the ear of
self-service listen for the footfall of a most distant memory, when to
do so is to share even a reflected glory!
A week had gone since Philip had landed on the island. Memories pursued
him. If he came by the shore of St. Clement’s Bay, he saw the spot where
he had stood with her the evening he married her, and she said to him:
“Philip, I wonder what we will think of this day a year from now!...
To-day is everything to you, but to-morrow is very much to me.” He
remembered Shoreham sitting upon the cromlech above singing the legend
of the gui-l’annee--and Shoreham was lying now a hundred fathoms deep.
As he walked through the Vier Marchi with his officers, there flashed
before his eyes the scene of sixteen years ago, when, through the grime
and havoc of battle, he had run to save Guida from the scimitar of the
garish Turk. Walking through the Place du Vier Prison, he recalled the
morning when he had rescued Ranulph from the hands of the mob. Where was
Ranulph now?
If he had but known it, that very morning as he passed Mattingley’s
house Ranulph had looked down at him with infinite scorn and
loathing--but with triumph too, for the Chevalier had just shown him a
certain page in a certain parish-register long lost, left with him by
Carterette Mattingley. Philip knew naught of Ranulph save the story
babbled by the islanders. He cared to hear of no one but Guida, and who
was now to mention her name to him? It was long--so long since he had
seen her face. How many years ago was it? Only five, and yet it seemed
twenty.
He was a boy then; now his hair was streaked with grey. He was
light-hearted then, and he was still buoyant with his fellows, still
alert and vigorous, quick of speech and keen of humour--but only before
the world. In his own home he was fitful of mood, impatient of the
grave, meditative look of his wife, of her resolute tenacity of thought
and purpose, of her unvarying evenness of mood, through which no warmth
played. It seemed to him that if she had defied him--given him petulance
for petulance, impatience for impatience, it would have been easier
to bear. If--if he could only read behind those passionless eyes, that
clear, unwrinkled forehead! But he knew her no better now than he did
the day he married her. Unwittingly she chilled him, and he felt he had
no right to complain, for he had done her the greatest wrong which can
be done a woman. Whatever chanced, Guida was still his wife; and there
was in him yet the strain of Calvinistic morality of the island race
that bred him. He had shrunk from coming here, but it had been far worse
than he had looked for.
One day, in a nervous, bitter moment, after an impatient hour with the
Comtesse, he had said: “Can you--can you not speak? Can you not tell me
what you think?” She had answered quietly:
“It would do no good. You would not understand. I know you in some ways
better than you know yourself. I cannot tell what it is, but there is
something wrong in your nature, something that poisons your life. And
not myself only has felt that. I never told you--but you remember the
day the old Duke died, the day we were married? You had gone from the
room a moment. The Duke beckoned me to him, and whispered ‘Don’t be
afraid--don’t be afraid--’ and then he died. That meant that he was
afraid, that death had cleared his sight as to you in some way. He was
afraid--of what? And I have been afraid--of what? I do not know. Things
have not gone well somehow. You are strong, you are brave, and I come of
a family that have been strong and brave. We ought to be near: yet,
yet we are lonely and far apart, and we shall never be nearer or less
lonely. That I know.”
To this he had made no reply and this anger vanished. Something in her
words had ruled him to her own calmness, and at that moment he had the
first flash of understanding of her nature and its true relation to his
own.
Passing through the Rue d’Egypte this day he met Dormy Jamais. Forgetful
of everything save that this quaint foolish figure had interested him
when a boy, he called him by name; but Dormy Jamais swerved away, eyeing
him askance.
At that instant he saw Jean Touzel standing in the doorway of his house.
A wave of remorseful feeling rushed over him. He could wait no longer:
he would ask Jean Touzel and his wife about Guida. He instantly
bethought him of an excuse for the visit. His squadron needed another
pilot; he would approach Jean in the matter.
Bidding his flag-lieutenant go on to Elizabeth Castle whither they were
bound, and await him there, he crossed over to Jean. By the time he
reached the doorway, however, Jean had retreated to the veille by the
chimney behind Maitresse Aimable, who sat in a great stave-chair mending
a net.
Philip knocked and stepped inside. When Mattresse Aimable saw who it was
she was so startled that she dropped her work, and made vague clutches
to recover it. Stooping, however, was a great effort for her. Philip
instantly stepped forward and picked up the net. Politely handing it to
her, he said:
“Ah, Maitresse Aimable, it is as if you had never stirred all these
years!” Then turning to her husband “I have come looking for a good
pilot, Jean.” Mattresse Aimable had at first flushed to a purple, had
afterwards gone pale, then recovered herself, and now returned Philip’s
look with a downright steadiness. Like Jean, she knew well enough he had
not come for a pilot--that was not the business of a Prince Admiral.
She did not even rise. Philip might be whatever the world chose to call
him, but her house was her own, and he had come uninvited, and he was
unwelcome.
She kept her seat, but her fat head inclined once in greeting, and she
waited for him to speak again. She knew why he had come; and somehow the
steady look in these slow, brown eyes, and the blinking glance behind
Jean’s brass-rimmed spectacles, disconcerted Philip. Here were people
who knew the truth about him, knew the sort of man he really was. These
poor folk who had had nothing of the world but what they earned, they
would never hang on any prince’s favours.
He read the situation rightly. The penalties of his life were teaching
him a discernment which could never have come to him through good
fortune alone. Having at last discovered his real self a little, he was
in the way of knowing others.
“May I shut the door?” he asked quietly. Jean nodded. Closing it he
turned to them again. “Since my return I have heard naught concerning
Mademoiselle Landresse,” he said. “I want to ask you about her now. Does
she still live in the Place du Vier Prison?”
Both Jean and Aimable shook their heads. They had spoken no word since
his entrance.
“She--she is not dead?” he asked. They shook their heads again.
“Her grandfather”--he paused--“is he living?” Once more they shook their
heads in negation. “Where is mademoiselle?” he asked, sick at heart.
Jean looked at his wife; neither moved nor answered. “Where does she
live?” urged Philip. Still there was no motion, no reply. “You might
as well tell me.” His tone was half pleading, half angry--little like a
sovereign duke, very like a man in trouble. “You must know I shall find
out from some one else, then,” he continued. “But it is better for you
to tell me. I mean her no harm, and I would rather know about her from
her friends.”
He took off his hat now. Something in the dignity of these two honest
folk rebuked the pride of place and spirit in him. As plainly as
though heralds had proclaimed it, he understood that these two knew the
abatements on the shield of his honour-argent, a plain point tenne, due
to him “that tells lyes to his Prince or General,” and argent, a gore
sinister tenne, due for flying from his colours.
Maitresse Aimable turned and looked towards Jean, but Jean turned away
his head. Then she did not hesitate. The voice so oft eluding her will
responded readily now. Anger--plain primitive rage-possessed her. She
had had no child, but as the years had passed all the love that might
have been given to her own was bestowed upon Guida, and in that mind she
spoke.
“O my grief, to think you have come here-you!” she burst forth. “You
steal the best heart in the world--there is none like her, nannin-gia.
You promise her, you break her life, you spoil her, and then you fly
away--ah coward you! Man pethe benin, was there ever such a man like
you! If my Jean there had done a thing as that I would sink him in the
sea--he would sink himself, je me crais! But you come back here, O my
Mother of God, you come back here with your sword, with your crown-ugh,
it is like a black cat in heaven--you!”
She got to her feet more nimbly than she had ever done in her life, and
the floor seemed to heave as she came towards Philip. “You speak to me
with soft words,” she said harshly--“but you shall have the good hard
truth from me. You want to know now where she is--I ask where you have
been these five years? Your voice it tremble when you speak of her now.
Oh ho! it has been nice and quiet these five years. The grand pethe of
her drop dead in his chair when he know. The world turn against her,
make light of her, when they know. All alone--she is all alone, but for
one fat old fool like me. She bear all the shame, all the pain, for
the crime of you. All alone she take her child and go on to the rock of
Plemont to live these five years. But you, you go and get a crown and be
Amiral and marry a grande comtesse--marry, oh, je crais ben! This is no
world for such men like you. You come to my house, to the house of Jean
Touzel, to ask this and that--well, you have the truth of God, ba su!
No good will come to you in the end, nannin-gia! When you go to die, you
will think and think and think of that beautiful Guida Landresse; you
will think and think of the heart you kill, and you will call, and she
will not come. You will call till your throat rattle, but she will not
come, and the child of sorrow you give her will not come--no, bidemme!
E’fin, the door you shut you can open now, and you can go from the house
of Jean Touzel. It belong to the wife of an honest man--maint’nant!”
In the moment’s silence that ensued, Jean took a step forward. “Ma
femme, ma bonne femme!” he said with a shaking voice. Then he pointed
to the door. Humiliated, overwhelmed by the words of the woman, Philip
turned mechanically towards the door without a word, and his fingers
fumbled for the latch, for a mist was before his eyes. With a great
effort he recovered himself, and passed slowly out into the Rue
d’Egypte.
“A child--a child!” he said brokenly. “Guida’s child--my God! And
I--have never--known. Plemont--Plemont, she is at Plemont!” He
shuddered. “Guida’s child--and mine,” he kept saying to himself, as in a
painful dream he passed on to the shore.
In the little fisherman’s cottage he had left, a fat old woman sat
sobbing in the great chair made of barrel-staves, and a man, stooping,
kissed her twice on the cheek--the first time in fifteen years. And then
she both laughed and cried.