After parting from Julian Arden by the chestnut tree, Lieutenant
Thornton proceeded to the house, his mind fully occupied with the
sudden and strange appearance of Julian, and the somewhat critical
position which they were all in; liable every moment to be discovered
and sent to a prison. It was vexatious, also, that Jean Plessis was
absent, as he was thus left with the female part of the family, to
stand the brunt of Sergeant François Perrin’s examination.
On reaching the hall door, he was met by Julia Plessis; she was not at
all uneasy, but handed him a pocket-book, saying—
“I have left Sergeant Perrin fully occupied over a bottle of Cognac,
to which he is greatly attached; you will have time to proceed to your
room, and run your eyes over the papers prepared for you, which are in
that book. It is unlucky my father is away; but the sergeant does not
appear to be at all inquisitive—merely requesting to see you and your
papers, and get you to write your name in his book.”
“If we can avoid bringing Pierre Bompart before him,” said our hero,
“there will be no suspicion excited.”
He then proceeded to his chamber, and read over the papers. He was
described as Monsieur Philip de Tourville, twenty-three years of age,
and a native of Pontri and Picardy, with an attendant, named Pierre
Bompart, also a native of the same place; there was no description
of person, &c., as became the case some years afterwards; the paper
being a simple register of name, and signed by the Paris official, and
required to be read and signed by the maire of the district. Marie de
Tourville had a separate paper. Having read the short document, he
descended to the sitting-room, anxious to see Mabel, fearing she might
be uneasy, and at the same time to break to her the joyful tidings of
not only her brother’s safety, but his being then actually at Dame
Moret’s.
On entering the room, Mabel looked anxiously into his face, to judge if
he felt alarmed; but he looked so cheerful, and made so light of the
matter, that her sweet features brightened, as he sat down by her side,
saying—
“I have intelligence, dear Mabel, that will gladden your heart.”
Our heroine looked anxious, saying—
“What have you heard, dear William, since I saw you? I learned from
Rose that you were gone to speak to a sailor, calling himself Louis
Lebeau. Did he bring you the good news you speak of? Do you know I
thought Rose looked as if she had something to communicate, and yet
refrained for some reason?”
“Rose, I dare say,” said the lieutenant, “wished me to impart a piece
of intelligence that will fill your heart with joy.”
“Can you mean, William,” said Mabel eagerly, and her hand resting on
that of her lover, “can you mean that you have heard any tidings of
poor Julian?”
“Yes,” said the lieutenant, kissing the fair hand resting on his; “yes,
sure and certain news of his not only being alive and well, but of his
arrival in France.”
“Heaven be praised!” fervently exclaimed Mabel, the tears coming into
her eyes; “what joy this will be to my beloved mother. Did this Louis
Lebeau bring you this joyful intelligence?”
“He did, dearest.”
And bending down his head, he whispered a few words in her ear.
With an uncontrollable feeling of deep emotion, Mabel threw her arms
round her lover’s neck, and laid her head upon his shoulder, weeping
with excess of joy.
“William, William, what joy you have imparted to my heart; dear Julian
so near me!”
The door opened as she uttered the words, and Madame Plessis and Julia
entered the room. They also had learned the news from Rose; for Julia,
kissing her friend kindly, wished her joy of the happy intelligence.
“But now, dear Mabel, put on a grave, or rather, a careless face; for
Sergeant Perrin is waiting for you both in the green-room.”
Mabel gave a slight shudder; but, looking up with a smile, said—
“I am ready; I feel no fear when with my good brother Philip;” and
putting her arm within Lieutenant Thornton’s, they left the room, and
proceeded to a chamber where Sergeant François Perrin awaited them,
seated at a table, on which stood a half-emptied decanter of Cognac
and some dried fruit and cakes; for Julia Plessis knew the worthy
gendarme’s love for “une petite verrée.”
Sergeant Perrin rose. He was not at all the worse for the refreshment
he had partaken of at Dame Moret’s, nor the ample addition he had just
imbibed; but his cheeks, and especially that interesting feature, his
nose, showed a great increase of colour.
“Well, sergeant,” said Lieutenant Thornton, “you are come, I hear, to
pay us the usual visit, and inspect our papers. All right; there is
nothing like regularity, and knowing who you have in your district in
these times.”
“Oui, monsieur, oui. You have a reasonable idea of our duty—not always
a very pleasant one; but mademoiselle here,” turning to Julia, “always
makes the château a pleasant place to visit.”
As he spoke, he placed his book on the table before him, and then very
politely requested Monsieur de Tourville to let him have a look at his
papers.
Sergeant Perrin read the paper presented, compared it with some remarks
in his book; and, with a bow returned it, saying—
“Quite correct, monsieur; but, if you please, I must just have a look
at your man, Pierre Bompart—a mere form, but it’s my duty, and Monsieur
le Maire requires an exact performance of my official duties.”
“Certainly,” said Lieutenant Thornton, “you shall see him, poor fellow.
He is, and has been for years, deaf and dumb; but as fine and faithful
a fellow as ever lived. I am so accustomed to his sighs and ways, that
I scarcely remark his being dumb.”
“Eh, mon Dieu!” said the sergeant, referring to his book, “it does not
say a word about Pierre Bompart’s deafness, or his being dumb either.”
“Nevertheless the poor fellow has to bear both severe afflictions,”
said Lieutenant Thornton; “but he is very cheerful, and looks well and
hearty.”
The sergeant’s book having been signed both by Mabel and our hero, as
Marie and Philip de Tourville, the ladies retired, and in a few minutes
Bill Saunders walked into the room, gazing at Sergeant Perrin with a
look of stolid indifference.
“Ha, mon Dieu! a fine fellow,” said the gendarme; “what a misfortune!”
He then looked at his book and read out: “Pierre Bompart, aged thirty,
native of Picardy. Tell him, monsieur, to write his name here,”
continued the sergeant, putting the book before our hero.
Here was a difficulty Lieutenant Thornton had not prepared for. Bill
could write very well his own name or anything else; but how to get him
to comprehend that he was to write Pierre Bompart before the sergeant
was another thing.
“Mon Dieu!” said our hero, “that part of his education was neglected,
owing to his infirmity; but I will get him to put his mark, if that
will do.”
“Sacristie, it must,” said the sergeant, helping himself to another
glass of Cognac, to brighten his ideas, which were getting rather
confused. “A deaf and dumb man cannot well be expected to write.
Pardon, monsieur; write his name yourself, and say, ‘For my servant,
Pierre Bompart, who is deaf and dumb.’”
This our hero did, and underneath the sergeant wrote “his mark,” and
handed the pen to Bill.
Lieutenant Thornton made a sign to the pretended Bompart to make a
cross where he put his finger.
Bill, with a very ludicrous expression of countenance, took the pen,
and made a cross very nearly as long and as broad as the cross-tree of
the Diamond; whilst the sergeant roared out—
“Tonnerre de Dieu! comment cela, diable—that cross.”
“It is very plain, but rather large,” returned our hero, vexed, though
inclined to laugh, whilst the sergeant was busy reducing the dimensions
of the formidable cross, which nearly erased all the previous writing.
Bill looked on, and tapping the sergeant rather hard on the head with
his knuckles, uttered such a hideous combination of guttural sounds,
that the gendarme sprang to his feet, looking at him rather startled.
“Poor fellow!” said Lieutenant Thornton, “he is very harmless, but not
quite right here,” and he touched his head.
“Ah, ça! do you say so?” said the Frenchman, packing up his books and
looking at Bill, who was amusing himself poising a large knife that was
lying on the table on the point of his finger. “Your man is un drole;
but, parbleu! I would rather he attended on you than me, monsieur.”
“I should say so, too, Sergeant Perrin; custom is everything; though
he is subject to strange freaks, and does odd things, and is not very
musical in the sounds he utters, yet his attachment makes up for every
other defect.”
Sergeant Perrin looked earnestly in the face of Lieutenant Thornton,
with a somewhat bewildered expression, but taking up his hat he took
his leave, passing out into the kitchen where he had left his comrade,
and shortly after both mounted their horses and rode away, taking the
direction of the château of Monsieur Gramont.
On reaching that mansion, the sergeant was ushered into a chamber where
Monsieur le Maire was sitting alone, doing what Frenchmen very seldom
do, sipping his claret after dinner.
“Well, sergeant, sit down and help yourself,” said Monsieur Gramont;
but the worthy gendarme had helped himself so often that day that his
faculties were slightly obscured. He sat down, however, and cast a
glance at the claret, a drink he detested, and said—
“I never drink claret, Monsieur le Maire; it sits uneasy on my stomach;
but, ma foi, I confess, thanks to Dame Moret, and afterwards to the
kindness of pretty Mademoiselle Julia, I have had enough. I do not
usually, you see, indulge, but I did so to-day, to suit monsieur’s
views.”
“You are very obliging, mon ami,” said Monsieur Gramont; “we must do
disagreeable things sometimes, but a small glass of Cognac will refresh
you after your ride;” and touching a bell, he ordered the domestic who
answered the summons to bring in some brandy.
“Now, sergeant, what have you discovered from your visit to Dame
Moret’s, and to the château Coulancourt?”
“Pardieu! monsieur, I have managed to track the whole proceedings of
this pretended Monsieur de Tourville, and his man Bompart, from the
very beginning.”
“Bien! just as I suspected,” said Monsieur Gramont; “but has this
pretended De Tourville any idea you suspect him?”
“Parbleu! no, monsieur. If he played his part well, so did I mine. But
there is another personage come on the stage that puzzles me.”
“Never mind him now, sergeant; stick to this Philip de Tourville.”
“Eh, bien! monsieur,” returned the sergeant, helping himself to a glass
of brandy, the liquor making him exceedingly loquacious. “A day or two
before I proceeded to Dame Moret’s I sent one of my men to the village
in plain clothes, just to saunter about and pick up all he could. He
learned that, on the morning of the wreck, two men came to Dame Moret’s
house, and, as he supposed, stayed there; but he heard afterwards, for
no one saw them come out, that the next morning two persons were seen
at the windows of Château Coulancourt, and a few days afterwards Dame
Moret gave out that a Monsieur de Tourville and his servant were come
to stay a few weeks at the château, to fish and look about the country.
This was all he could learn; but this satisfied me that these two
men were the two sailors seen crossing the sands from Lyon Point the
morning after the wreck of the Vengeance.”
“Of that I am quite satisfied,” said Bertram Gramont; “did you make any
further discoveries at Dame Moret’s, or in the village?”
“No, monsieur; the old woman was keen enough, and stuck to her report
of Monsieur de Tourville’s residing in the château; but I found a
young man in her house, who excites my suspicion, from his coming from
the same part of the coast where the Vengeance was wrecked. He gave
his name as Louis Lebeau, of Rouen, a sailor. He said he belonged
to a brig, from Bordeaux, bound to Hamburg; that he and the captain
quarrelled, and so he was put ashore at his own request. I appeared
quite satisfied, did not even examine his papers, but I have an
intelligent spy watching his movements; for it looks odd, all these
strangers coming from the same part of the coast, and where there are
no habitations.”
“Humph!” muttered Monsieur Gramont, “what can they be about? This
Lebeau, depend on it, is another Englishman. Keep your eye on him,
sergeant. Did you observe anything particular at the château?”
“No, Monsieur Gramont; they all seemed pretty well up to their parts;
that big fellow, that passes himself off as Pierre Bompart, rather
startled me; but I’ll swear he is neither deaf nor dumb. When he put
his mark to my book, he made one as large as his foot, and I could see
his eyes twinkle with suppressed laughter. What do you intend to do,
Monsieur Gramont? It will not do to let these English aristocrats loose
over the country.”
“No; such is not my intention,” said Bertram Gramont, “but we have them
safe enough; so let us find out their designs. There is something going
on between them and this ingenious Monsieur Plessis, who has contrived
hitherto to keep his head on his shoulders marvellously well. Do you
keep a watch upon this Louis Lebeau. I will send a messenger to Rouen,
and make some inquiries there; but do nothing rash. I will manage
before long to have the whole of them in a net they will not get out
of.”
As Sergeant Perrin and his men were bound to obey the instructions of
Monsieur Gramont, he replied—
“As you wish, monsieur, I am ready to follow up your instructions.”
Shortly after, the sergeant and his follower left the château.
The following day Bertram Gramont received letters from Paris; he and
Augustine Vadier were together when they arrived. One was an official
letter from the Minister of Police, and contained but the following
words:—
“Madame de Coulancourt has obtained permission to retire for the summer
months to her Château de Coulancourt. Have the movements of all the
persons in the château carefully watched.”
“I begin to fancy I see through their movements,” said Bertram
Gramont. “I am satisfied that Mademoiselle de Tourville is Madame de
Coulancourt’s daughter. That lady is coming down here, and I’ll venture
my life they have a project in their heads of escaping, with these
Englishman, some way or other, to England.”
“Eh, bien!” said Augustine Vadier, “let them make the trial, you will
gain your ends. She will forfeit her estates if she is mad enough to
attempt such a thing; and just as they are on the point of escaping,
you can entrap them, and hand them over to the mercy of the law.”
“Yes, that will do very well,” replied Monsieur Gramont; “but I have
taken a great fancy to the daughter; if I could make her my wife, and
throw these Englishmen into prison, I shall do much better. If I fail
I have still the other remedy. In a few days I will pay a friendly,
visit to Coulancourt, and see madame; as maire of the district, it is
my duty to do so.”
Augustine Vadier looked gloomy and discontented, but he made no further
remark or opposition to his patron’s projects.