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_A Sheaf of Bluebells_
_By Baroness Orczy, Author of "The
Scarlet Pimpernel," "The Elusive Pimpernel," etc._
[Illustration: Decoration]
_TORONTO:
WILLIAM BRIGGS
1917_
_Printed in Great Britain_
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I.--THE MASTERS OF FRANCE 1
II.--THE RETURN OF THE NATIVES 11
III.--THE HERMITS OF LA VIEUVILLE 27
IV.--KINDRED 42
V.--THE SPRINGTIME OF THE YEAR 59
VI.--THE LEGEND OF ST. FRONT 73
VII.--THE SILENT POOL 78
VIII.--THE GENERAL 101
IX.--THE COOING OF THE PIGEONS 117
X.--THE FOUNDRIES OF LA FRONTENAY 126
XI.--THE FIRST TRICK 143
XII.--A FOOL AND HIS FOLLY 157
XIII.--AFTER A YEAR 174
XIV.--THE TOOL 188
XV.--A NOTE OF WARNING 196
XVI.--THE IRREPARABLE 212
XVII.--A LAST APPEAL 227
XVIII.--THE WORD OF THE MASTER 239
XIX.--THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 254
XX.--THE STRAW 265
XXI.--THE CRASH OF THE STORM 279
XXII.--HEAVEN AND EARTH 296
XXIII.--AN HOUR'S FOLLY 311
XXIV.--AFTER THE STORM 324
XXV.--THE WHITE PIGEON 344
A SHEAF OF BLUEBELLS
CHAPTER I
THE MASTERS OF FRANCE
I
Among the many petitions presented that year by émigrés desirous of
returning to France under the conditional amnesty granted to them by the
newly-crowned Emperor, was one signed by Mme. la Marquise de Mortain and
by her son Laurent, then aged twenty-one years, and one signed by M. le
Comte de Courson for himself and his daughter Fernande. Gaillard says in
his memoirs of Fouché that the latter was greatly averse to the petition
being granted; but that Napoleon, then on the point of starting for his
campaign in Prussia, was inclined to leniency in this matter--leniency
which roused the ire and contempt of the Minister of Police--the man
who, of a truth, and above the Emperor himself, was virtual dictator of
France these days.
"A brood of plotters and intriguers," he said scornfully. "I should have
thought your Majesty had had enough of those _soi-disant_ great ladies
and gentlemen of Normandy and Brittany. I wouldn't have them inside
these dominions if I had my way."
It seems that this phrase: "If I had my way," highly amused the Emperor.
Was it not a well-known fact that in all matters pertaining to the
internal organization of the new Empire of France, Fouché ruled far
more absolutely than did Napoleon? He knew more. He suspected more.
Minister of Police and Minister of the Interior at this time, Fouché had
made himself feared even--so it was said--by his imperial and capricious
master.
And so--the obscure secretary who was present at this interview tells
us--the Emperor laughed, and for once Fouché did not have his way. On
the eve of the campaign which was to culminate in the humiliation of
Prussia and the Peace of Tilsit, the soldier-Emperor had a throe of
compassion, of mercy, a shrugging of the shoulders which meant immunity
from exile for hundreds of men and women--a home for countless wanderers
in foreign lands.
Fouché argued. "The Fouvielles I don't mind, nor yet Joubert, nor those
Fumels. They won't do much harm. We might allow the Liancourts to
return, though their property has been sold by the State, which always
leads to trouble. But the Mortains!!! and the Coursons!!... Why! I would
as lief grant the shades of Fox and Pitt a free permit to wander through
France at will."
But we may take it that for once his arguments were of no avail.
Napoleon's clemency was extended to the Mortains, as it was to the
Coursons--this we know, seeing that both the young Marquis and the Comte
de Courson, his maternal uncle, figured so prominently in the events
which this true chronicle sets forth to record. As to the cause of this
clemency, or, rather, as to the cause of Fouché not getting his way this
once ... well, 'tis our turn to shrug our shoulders.
Had Fouché really desired to keep the Mortains and the Coursons out of
France, Fouché would have had his way. Of this there can be no doubt,
seeing that Napoleon left the country at the head of his army soon after
the day when he had that interview with his Minister of Police, leaving
the latter more absolutely master of France than he had ever been
before; so why should Fouché not have had his way with the Mortains and
with Baudouin de Courson and his daughter Fernande?
Have we not cause for shrugging our shoulders? and for giving credence
to the rumours which were current throughout France at this
time--namely, that the dreaded Minister of Police had at this time begun
to coquet with the Royalist party, as well as with the Jacobins and the
English agents, with Talleyrand and with the Comte d'Artois--with any
and every party in fact, who plotted against the master whom in his
heart he had already betrayed.
II
The aforesaid obscure secretary who hath so aptly described the
interview between the Emperor and Fouché, tells us that the latter,
after he had bowed himself out of the Presence, returned to his private
chamber in the ministry, and promptly sent for M. Dubois--then Chief
Préfet of Police.
"M. Dubois," he commanded, "I want the dossier of the Mortains and also
of the de Coursons now at once. The Emperor is inclined to grant them
leave to return ... but I don't know ... I must consider...."
"I can tell you all about the Mortains and the Coursons without
referring to their dossier," retorted Dubois gruffly.
"Well?"
"The ci-devant Marquise de Mortain...."
"Not ci-devant any longer, M. Dubois," broke in Fouché with a suave
smile. "The lady is Mme. la Marquise now ... you yourself are
'Monsieur,' are you not? We have left the 'citizen' and 'citizeness' of
our revolutionary era well behind us, remember, since our illustrious
Master placed the crown of Imperial France upon his own head. France is
an Empire now, Monsieur Dubois. There are no ci-devants any more, and
quite a number of aristocrats."
Dubois gave a growl of understanding. It was not easy for his rough,
uncultured mind to grasp all the various subtleties of Fouché's irony.
He hated Napoleon's all-powerful Minister, hated him all the more that
Fouché's astute and tortuous mentality was beyond his comprehension and
that he never knew whether the great man was laughing at him or not.
"Well," he said finally, with a shrug of his wide shoulders, "Marquise
or ci-devant I care not; but, anyhow, she is not a woman I would care to
trust, and the Emperor is very ill-advised...."
"The Emperor, my dear M. Dubois," once more broke in the Minister
urbanely, "takes advice from no one. He starts next week for Prussia at
the head of his army; he will return anon, having won fresh laurels for
France and further undying glory for himself ... to-day he is inclined
to clemency. Mme. la Marquise de Mortain and her son will be allowed to
return to France, so will M. le Comte de Courson and his daughter
Fernande; they will be allowed to retake possession of their château and
of such of their lands as have not been sold by the State...."
"The lands have all been sold," rejoined the préfet curtly, "to worthy
farmers whom it were a scandal to dispossess...."
"Are we dispossessing any one, my dear M. Dubois?" queried Fouché, with
an indulgent smile directed at the other's Republican ardour--"any one,
I mean, who happens to have bought confiscated land?"
"Not yet," muttered the other under his breath; "but...."
"As you were saying, M. le Préfet?..." here interposed the Minister more
haughtily, "Mme. la Marquise de Mortain is a widow, I think."
"Yes. For the second time."
"She was first the wife of Bertrand de Maurel...."
"Who would have been a good patriot had he lived."
"We must imagine so," said Fouché, with a smile.
"He died in '82--separated from his wife whom he hated."
"But there was a child of that marriage."
"Yes, Ronnay de Maurel, a loyal patriot ... a fine Republican...."
"Shall we say a fine Bonapartist, my good M. Dubois?" said the Minister
of Police significantly. "I like and trust Ronnay de Maurel. I would not
like to see him tarred with the worn-out brush of the past decade."
"Well ... Republican or Bonapartist--'tis all the same--what? I was one
of those who voted for the proclamation and Ronnay de Maurel was
another. First Consul for life, with all the splendours of past
monarchies, or frankly Emperor of the French, there was not much to
choose. You were an ardent Republican, too, at one time--eh, M. le
Ministre?"
"Quite so--quite so. But we were not speaking of mine unworthy self, but
of Mme. la Marquise de Mortain and of her son Ronnay de Maurel."
"Son, indeed!" retorted Dubois, with a gruff laugh. "M. de Maurel has
been taught to execrate his mother. He was only four years old when his
father died, but an uncle brought him up--old Gaston de Maurel--a
magnificent patriot if ever there was one. Nothing of the whilom aristo
about him ... eats peas with his knife and wears sabots and a blouse ...
he voted for the death of the King ... just as you did--eh, M. le
Ministre?"
"Just as I did, my dear friend--and I am proud of it. Gaston de Maurel
and I sat in the Assembly of the Convention as representatives of the
people of France, and in the name of the people we decreed that the
tyrant Louis Capet, known to the world as Louis XVI., King of France,
should die upon the scaffold as a traitor to the nation which he had set
out to govern. Gaston de Maurel may eat peas with a knife, but he
rendered the Republic and the Directorate infinite services in quelling
the so-called Royalist risings in his own province of Normandy."
"Now he is old. Some say that he has not many months to live. Ronnay de
Maurel dwells with him in his Château de la Vieuville, near Villemor.
They both live like peasants in a couple of rooms in the sumptuous
château. The old man is a miser: he has accumulated immense wealth in
these past twenty years. Ronnay de Maurel, on the other hand, owns the
sumptuous demesnes of La Frontenay, which he inherited from his father,
together with the foundries, where he employs five thousand men and
manufactures war material for the Grand Army. He is already one of the
richest men in France--and he is his uncle's sole heir; when old Gaston
dies the de Maurel riches will be uncountable...."
"And he, too, eats peas with his knife," concluded Fouché, with a
sardonic smile.
"And hardly knows how to read and write," assented the préfet of police.
"A succession of tutors at La Vieuville testify to the rough temper and
the obstinate savagery of this descendant of aristos."
"Yes, so I have been told," mused Fouché. "I understand that a de Maurel
fought in the First Crusade, that another was Captain of Musketeers
under Louis XIII.; but the present holder of the historic name is an
ardent Bonapartist, as you say. He fought like a lion against the
Royalists in Vendée; he crossed the Alps with Napoleon, and was wounded
at Marengo and at Hohenlinden. At Austerlitz, where he accomplished
prodigies of valour, an Austrian bullet lamed him for life. He is a
Grand Eagle of the Legion of Honour. His religion is Bonaparte ... he
knows no science save that of arms--reads no books and does not know the
Carmagnole from the Marseillaise--he is illiterate, uncultured, almost a
savage.... These are all facts, are they not, M. Dubois?"
"Aye! Ronnay de Maurel is all that and more. He lives at La Vieuville,
not ten kilomètres from Courson, where Mme. la Marquise, his mother,
will now be taking up her abode. Oh!" added the préfet of police with a
malevolent grin, "how those two will execrate one another!"
"And watch over one another," commented Fouché with his enigmatic
smile. "Ronnay de Maurel will act as a check on the intrigues which
might be hatching presently in Mme. de Mortain's fertile brain."
"Nothing--and no one can act as a check on that woman's love of
intrigue," growled Dubois surlily. "She and her son Laurent will give us
all plenty to do until...."
He made a significant gesture with his hand against his neck. Fouché
smiled. "We can always give them plenty of rope," he said. "How old is
Laurent de Mortain?"
"Twenty-one or two ... but he has fought against his own country since
he was sixteen. Mme. de Mortain favours a marriage for him with Fernande
de Courson, his cousin."
"The daughter of Baudouin de Courson?"
"Yes. His only daughter. He is Mme. de Mortain's only brother. Their
properties adjoin."
"I know. He, too, has been granted leave by the Emperor to return to
France."
"A whole pack of those confounded émigrés," once more growled the préfet
of police--this time with a savage oath, "settled down in the most
disaffected province of France. Joseph de Puisaye still at large ... the
department seething with discontent ... everything ready for rebellion
... the Emperor away.... Ah! we shall have a fine time down there, I
reckon."
"Bah!" quoth Fouché lightly, "they are not very dangerous now. For one
thing, the Mortains, the Coursons and the whole pack of them are as poor
as church mice. Their lands and farms have all been sold; the Mortains
have not even a château in which to live."
"The Château of Courson stands."
"A dilapidated barrack."
"Quite so--but large enough to harbour every rebel who chooses to hatch
a plot against the safety of the Empire. The Mortains and Coursons will
herd together there: Joseph de Puisaye, François Prigent and D'Aché
will use it as their headquarters. From there their bands of brigands
will be let loose upon both departments--highway robbery, intimidation,
pillage and arson--those Chouans stick at nothing nowadays. England no
longer supplies them with money for their so-called Royalist cause, and
they must get money somehow. You remember their criminal outrage upon
old M. de Ris, and their theft in his château of money, valuables and
jewellery. You remember the murder of Andrein, the Constitutional Bishop
of Quimper, and the abduction of the Bishop of Vannes--all for purposes
of robbery.... Well, in my opinion, those exploits will sink into
insignificance beside the ones which will be invented and organized in
Courson under the presidency of Mme. la Marquise and her precious son
and brother."
M. Dubois, préfet of police, had, while he spoke, worked himself up into
a passion of fury. He gesticulated wildly with both arms, shrugged his
wide shoulders, and banged his fist from time to time upon the desk in
front of him, so that the inkstand and the papers rattled unceasingly
and M. le Ministre's nerves were irritated beyond endurance. Now M.
Dubois had perforce to pause for want of breath. He drew his large
coloured handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead, which was
streaming.
"You exaggerate, my good M. Dubois," said Fouché soothingly. "You have
an excellent colleague at Caen in the person of M. Vincent...."
"Bah!" ejaculated Dubois contemptuously. "He is hand in glove with the
Royalists."
"And there's M. Caffarello, the préfet...."
Again an expressive shrug of the shoulders from M. Dubois, who
apparently had not much faith in the capabilities of his subordinates.
"And in Ronnay de Maurel you will have a valuable adjunct," added the
Minister, "unless...."
He paused, then continued with seeming irrelevance:
"Is Fernande de Courson pretty?"
"She has a reputation for beauty," replied Dubois. "Why do you ask?"
"Nothing ... nothing ... a passing thought ... a dart shot at random....
You will have to keep your eyes very wide open, my good M. Dubois."
"You may trust me to do that, M. le Ministre," rejoined Dubois, with a
leer of comprehension; there was no subtlety about the suggestion, and
he had understood it well enough this time.
"There's not much of the lady-killer about Ronnay de Maurel," he added,
laughing.
"Perhaps not," rejoined Fouché dryly.
"And he may rejoin the army, after all."
"No. He cannot do that. The Emperor won't let him. He is far too useful
in Normandy just now to be mere food for Prussian cannon."
There was a pause. The préfet of police was tacitly dismissed. M. le
Ministre drew some papers close to him, and his delicate, blue-veined
hand toyed with the pen.
"You don't want me any more?" queried Dubois abruptly. He was always
thankful to shake the dust of the ministerial chamber from his feet.
"Well ... unless you have anything else to report, my good M. Dubois,"
rejoined Fouché pleasantly, "or any further information to impart to me
about those Mortains--or the Coursons."
"There's nothing else. But I wish to God that the Emperor would
reconsider his decision."
"The Emperor seldom reconsiders any decision, my dear Dubois ... once it
is a decision. The Mortains and the Coursons have probably landed in
France by now."
"May they break their necks on the gangway," growled Dubois.
"Amen to that," quoth Fouché lightly. "In the meanwhile, will you see M.
de Réal on that subject and send special recommendations to the préfet
and the commissary of police at Caen?..."
"And to Ronnay de Maurel, I should say."
"No," interposed the Minister peremptorily, "leave de Maurel alone. I
will write to him myself."
Such in substance was the interview between the Minister of Police and
the chief préfet. The secretary, among whose papers was found the above
account, goes on to say that M. Dubois, having taken his leave, the
great man was busy for the next half-hour writing a letter with his own
hand. With his own hand also he folded it, sealed it and addressed it.
Then he handed it to his secretary with the express order that it should
be sent to its destination by the next ministerial courier.
The letter was addressed to M. le Comte Ronnay de Maurel, at his Château
de la Vieuville, near Villemor, Département de l'Orne.