AT THE CHATEAU
The two girls, arm in arm, approached the postern gate beside the wide
iron grille that was never opened save for the passage of horses or a
motor car. There was a little round shutter in the postern at the
height of a man's head; for aforetime the main gateway had been of
massive oak, bolt-studded and impervious to anything less than cannon
shot. The wall of masonry that surrounded the chateau was both high
and thick, built four hundred years or so before for defence.
An old-fashioned rope-pull hung beside the postern. Henriette dragged
on this sharply, but the girls could not hear the tongue of the bell,
for it struck far back in the so-called offices of the chateau, where
the serving people had had their quarters before these war times had
come upon the earth.
Now there were but few servants remaining at the chateau. For the most
part the elderly Countess Marchand lived alone and used but few of the
rooms.
As the girls waited an answer to their summons, Henriette said, in
reference to what had already passed in conversation between them:
"It hurts me, dear friend, that anybody should doubt the loyalty of our
countess whom _we_ know to be so good. Why! there are people even
wicked enough to connect her with that--that awful Thing we know of,"
and the girl dropped her voice and looked suddenly around her, as
though she feared an unseen presence.
"As though she were a werwolf," she added, with a shudder.
"Pooh!" and Ruth Fielding laughed. "Nobody in their senses would
connect Madame la Countess with such tales, having once seen her."
She thought now, as they waited, of her first visit to the chateau, and
of the appearance of the Countess Marchand in her bare library.
Whatever her sons might be--the young count who was missing, or this
major whom she had just met in the grassy lane--Ruth Fielding was
confident that the lady of the chateau was a loyal subject of France,
and that she was trusted by the Government.
Ruth had called here herself on that occasion with a secret agent,
Monsieur Lafrane, to clear up the mystery of a trio of criminals who
had come from America to prey upon the Red Cross. These crooks had
succeeded in robbing the Supply Department of the Red Cross, in which
Ruth herself was engaged. But in the end they had fallen into the
toils of the French secret service and Ruth had aided in their
overthrow.
All this is told in the volume of this series immediately preceding our
present story, entitled: "Ruth Fielding in the Red Cross; or, Doing Her
Best for Uncle Sam." This was the thirteenth volume of the Ruth
Fielding Series.
Of the twelve books that have gone before that only a brief mention can
be made while Ruth and the young French girl are waiting for an answer
to the bell.
At first we meet Ruth Fielding as she approaches Cheslow and the Red
Mill beside the Lumano River, where Uncle Jabez, the miserly miller,
awaits her coming in no pleasant frame of mind. He is her only living
relative and he considers little Ruth Fielding a "charity child." She
is made to feel this by his treatment and by the way in which the girls
in the district school talk of her.
Ruth makes three friends from the start, however, who, in their several
ways, help her to endure her troubles. One is Aunt Alvirah Boggs, who
is nobody's relation but everybody's aunt, and whom Jabez Potter, the
miller, has taken from the poorhouse to keep his home tidy and
comfortable. Aunt Alvirah sees the good underlying miserly Uncle
Jabez's character when nobody else can. She lavishes upon the little
orphan girl all the love and affection that she would have given to her
own children had she been blessed with any.
Ruth's other two close friends were the Cameron twins, Helen and Tom,
the children of a wealthy storekeeper who lived not far from the Red
Mill. The early adventures of these three are all related in the first
book of the series, "Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill."
One virtue of Uncle Jabez's, which shines as brightly in his rather
gloomy character as a candle in the dark, is that he always pays his
debts. If he considers he owes anybody anything he is not satisfied
until he pays it. Therefore, when Ruth recovers some money which had
been stolen from him, he is convinced that it is only right for him to
pay her tuition for at least a year at Briarwood Hall, where she goes
to school with Helen Cameron, while Tom goes to a boy's boarding school
called Seven Oaks.
The girls and Tom and his friends often got together for good times
during their school years, and, in successive volumes, we meet them in
winter adventures in the Northern woods at Snow Camp; in the summer at
Lighthouse Point; in Wyoming at Silver Ranch; in lakeside and woodsy
adventures on Cliff Island; enjoying most exciting weeks at Sunrise
Farm, where Ruth wins a reward of five thousand dollars in aiding in
the recovery of a pearl necklace stolen by the Gypsies. There are
volumes, too, telling of the serious loss by fire of a dormitory
building at Briarwood and how Ruth Fielding rebuilt it by the
production of a moving picture; of her vacation down in Dixie; of her
first year at Ardmore College, which she and Helen and several of her
Briarwood chums entered; then of Ruth Fielding in the saddle when she
went West again, this time for the production of a great picture
entitled: "The Forty-Niners."
With the entrance into the war of the United States, Tom Cameron
enlisted and went to France as a second lieutenant with the first
Expeditionary Force. Ruth and Helen went into Red Cross work, leaving
college before the end of their sophomore year for that purpose.
Ruth could not go as a nurse, but in the Supply Department she gained
commendation and when a supply unit of the Red Cross was sent to France
she went with it, while Helen went over with her father, who was on a
commission to the front. Once there, the black-eyed girl found work to
do in Paris while Ruth was enabled to be of use much nearer the front.
Indeed, at the opening of the present story the girl of the Red Mill is
at work in the evacuation hospital at Clair, right behind a sector of
the battle line that had been taken over by General Pershing's forces.
Tom Cameron is with his regiment not many miles away. Indeed, his
company might be engaged in this very activity that had suddenly broken
out within sound, if not in sight, of Clair and the Chateau Marchand.
There was reason for Ruth Fielding's gravity of countenance--and grave
it was, despite its natural cheerfulness of expression--for her
interest in Tom Cameron and his interest in her had long been marked by
their friends. Tom was in peril daily--hourly. It was no wonder that
she revealed the ravages of war upon her mind.
"Sh!" whispered Henriette. "Here comes Dolge, the gardener. Now that
Bessie is gone he is the oldest person Madame la Countess has in her
employ."
"I wonder what became of Bessie. Monsieur Lafrane told me she was not
apprehended with those men who helped her get away from the chateau."
"It is a mystery. She had served Madame so many years. And then--at
the last--they say she was a spy for _les Boches_!"
Dolge appeared, with his toothless grin, at the round opening in the
postern.
"The little Hetty and _Mademoiselle l'Americaine_," he mumbled.
"Madame la Countess expects you."
He unchained the door and let them pass through. Then he shut and
chained the door again just as though the chateau was besieged.
The girls did not wait for him. They walked up the curved avenue to
the wide entrance to the great pile of masonry. The chateau was as
large as a good-sized hotel.
Before the war there had been many comforts, Ruth understood, that now
the countess was doing without. For instance, electric lights and some
kind of expensive heating arrangement.
Now the lady of the chateau burned oil, or candles, like the peasants,
and the chateau doors were wide open that the sun and air of this
grateful day might help dry the tomb-like atmosphere of the reception
hall.
"_Ma foi_!" said Henriette, commenting on this in a low voice, "even
the beautiful old armor--the suits of mail that the ancient Marchands
wore in the times of the Crusades--is rusty. See you! madame has not
servants enough now to _begin_ to care for the place."
"I suppose she has stored away the rugs and the books from the library
shelves," began Ruth; but Henriette quickly said:
"_Non_! _non_! You do not understand, Mademoiselle, what our good lady
has done. The wonderful rugs she has sold--that off the library floor,
which, they say, the old count himself brought from Bagdad. And the
books--all her library--have gone to the convalescent hospitals, or to
the poilus in the trenches. For they, poor men, need the distraction
of reading."
"And some of your neighbors suspect her," repeated Ruth thoughtfully.
"It is because of that awful Thing--the werwolf!" hissed Henriette.
Then there was time for no further speech. A middle-aged woman
appeared, asked the girls in, and led the way to the library. A table
was set near the huge open fireplace in which a cheerful fire crackled.
On the table was a silver tea service and some delicate porcelain cups
and saucers.
The kettle bubbled on the hob. Chairs were drawn close before the
blaze, for, despite the "springiness" in the air without, the
atmosphere in the vast library of the chateau was damp and chill.
As the girls waited before the fire a curtain at the end of the room
swayed, parted, and the tall and plainly robed figure of the countess
entered. She had the air of a woman who had been strikingly beautiful
in her younger days. Indeed, she was beautiful still.
Her snowy hair was dressed becomingly; her checks were naturally pink
and quite smooth, despite the countless wrinkles that netted her
throat. The old lace at the neck of her gown softened her ivory-hued
skin and made its texture less noticeable.
Her gown was perfectly plain, cut in long, sweeping lines. Nor did she
wear a single jewel. She swept forward, smiling, and holding out her
hand to Ruth.
"Here is our little Hetty," she said, nodding to the French girl, who
blushed and bridled. "And Mademoiselle Fielding!" giving the latter a
warm handclasp and then patting Henriette's cheek. "Welcome!" She put
them at their ease at once.
The few family portraits on the walls were all the decorations of the
room. The book cases themselves were empty. Madame la Countess made
the tea. On the table were thin slices of war bread. There was no
butter, no sugar, and no milk.
"We are learning much these days," laughed the countess. "I am even
learning to like my chocolate without milk or cream."
"Oh!" And Henriette whipped from the pocket of her underskirt
something that had been making her dress sag on that side. When she
removed the wrappings she produced a small jar of thick yellow cream.
"My child! It is a luxury!" cried the countess. "I shall feel wicked."
"Perhaps it will be nice to feel wicked for once," Ruth said, feeling a
little choke in her throat.
She drew from concealment her own contribution to the "feast"--several
lumps of sugar.
"Do not fear," she added, smiling. "None of the poor poilus are
deprived. This is from my own private store. I wish there was more of
it, but I can't resist giving a lump now and then to the village
children. They are so hungry for it. They call me 'Mam'zelle Sucre'."
"And I would bring you cream often, Madame," Henriette hastened to add,
"but our good old Lally died, you know, and the little cow does not
give much milk as yet, and it is not as rich. Oh! if that werwolf had
not appeared to us! You remember, Mademoiselle Ruth? Then old Lally
died at once," and the French girl nodded her head vigorously, being
fully convinced of the truth of the old superstition.
The countess flushed and then paled, but nobody but Ruth noticed this.
The American girl watched her hostess covertly. The bare mention of a
superstition that had the whole countryside by the throat, disturbed
much the countess' self-control.
The next moment there was a step in the hall and then the door opened
to admit the same young officer Ruth Fielding had met in the
lane--Major Henri Marchand.
"Pardon, Maman," he said, bowing, and speaking to his mother quite like
a little boy. "Do I offend?"
"Do come in and have a cup of tea, Henri. There is sugar and real
cream--thanks to our two young friends here. You remember our petite
Hetty, of course? And this is our very brave Mademoiselle Ruth
Fielding, of the American Red Cross. My younger son, Monsieur Henri,"
the countess said easily.
Major Marchand advanced into the room promptly. To Henriette he bowed
with a smile. Ruth put out her hand impulsively, and he bowed low
above it and touched his lips to her fingers.
The girl started a little and glowed. The manner of his address rather
shocked her, for she was unused to the European form of greeting.
Henri's deep, purple eyes looked long into her own brown ones as he
lingeringly released her hand.
"Mademoiselle!" he murmured. "I am charmed."
Ruth did not know whether she was altogether charmed or not! She felt
that there was something rather overpowering in such a greeting, and
she rather doubted the sincerity of it.
She could understand, however, little Henriette's sentimental worship
of the young major. Henri Marchand was the type of man to hold the
interest of most girls. His eyes were wonderful; his cheek as clear
and almost as soft as a woman's; he wore his uniform with an air
scarcely to be expressed in ordinary words.
Henriette immediately became tongue-tied. Ruth's experience had,
however, given her ease in any company. The wonderful Major Marchand
made little impression upon her. It was plain that he wished to
interest the Americaine Mademoiselle.
The little tea party was interrupted by the appearance of Dolge at the
library door.
"A young American in an ambulance inquires for Mademoiselle Fielding at
the gate," said Dolge, cap in hand. "She is needed in haste, below
there at the hospital."