KINDRED
I
The very atmosphere of the old Château de Courson had become
electrical--excitement was in the air. Even Mme. la Marquise, that
perfect pattern of aristocratic sang-froid, had been unable to sit still
all morning.
She wandered restlessly from room to room; she held long conversations
with her son, with her brother, with Fernande--even with old Matthieu
Renard and with Annette.
"I expect my son, M. de Maurel," she said to the worthy couple, who, of
a truth, could not understand why it was not the most natural thing in
the world for a mother to receive her son. "He may come over at about
noon and may stay to have dinner with us. Watch over your cooking, my
good Annette--see that everything is very plain but thoroughly good."
"_Bien, bien_, Mme. la Marquise," nodded Annette, who, womanlike, was
more ready to become impregnated with that fever of excitement which
pervaded the château than was sober old Matthieu. "You may be sure that
I will do my best. I saw the General when first he came home from the
war...."
"Not General, my good woman," interposed Madame la Marquise haughtily;
"my son is no General in the army of a parvenu. He is Comte de Maurel,
Duc de Montauban, and bears no other grade or title; and all the
democratic governments in the world cannot strip him of his rank."
Now that Ronnay had so quickly--if somewhat coldly--acceded to her
request for an interview, Mme. la Marquise's imagination went galloping
on the wings of fancy.
"We'll convert him yet," she said to her brother. "You'll see, my dear
Baudouin! I'll make that unrelenting democrat dance to my piping before
long. Once I have succeeded in drawing him away from that old fiend
Gaston's influence, I'll twirl him round my little finger."
M. de Courson gave a slight shrug. He was doubtful as to that. Madame
promptly turned to her son.
"Laurent, you are prepared to make friends with your brother, are you
not?" she said, in a tone almost of entreaty.
"If he will meet me half-way," retorted Laurent, not too genially. He
had been taught from his babyhood to hate his elder brother, not only
for the latter's political convictions, but because of the wealth which
an indiscriminating Fate had chosen to pour down at his feet. It was
difficult for a young and impetuous creature like Laurent de Mortain to
adapt himself quite so readily to his mother's new mood.
"At any rate, promise me that you will not quarrel!" added Mme. la
Marquise with unwonted earnestness.
At ten o'clock in the forenoon Madame decided that she would receive her
son in the noble--if somewhat dilapidated--reception-room where a few
gilt-legged fauteuils and the satin-wood parquet floor bore mute
testimony to past dignity and grandeur. Half an hour later she wandered
out upon the terrace, from whence, she thought, the aspect of the
neglected and overgrown garden would of a certainty touch the heart of
the visitor and incline him to generosity.
At eleven o'clock she thought that the small boudoir--the only living
room which she and her family had in use at the present moment--would
shame the wealthy son by its air of poverty and of simplicity. At
half-past, she was once more inclined to favour the reception-room, and
at noon she was back in the boudoir, discussing the question with her
brother and with her son, when a heavy and halting footstep was heard in
the corridor outside, and the next moment the door was thrown open and
Ronnay de Maurel appeared upon the threshold.
II
He had certainly put on a clean linen blouse, but a blouse it was--just
the same as those which his own employés wore at their work--of a faded
shade of blue, with wide sleeves and low, turned-down collar, out of
which rose his straight, firm neck, strong as a bull's, and crowned by
the square, massive head, which he threw up as he entered, with a
gesture that implied defiance. He certainly had discarded sabots; a pair
of heavy jack-boots reached just below his knees, and dark cloth
breeches encased his powerful thighs. His thick brown hair was held in
at the nape of the neck with a black ribbon, hastily tied. And--pinned
to his blouse--he wore the ribbon of Grand-Eagle of the Legion of
Honour, the highest distinction the new Empire could confer.
Madame's first sensation on seeing her son was one of horror. She had
heard tales of Ronnay de Maurel's uncouthness, of his rough clothes and
his bad manners, but in her mind she had--almost
involuntarily--associated all these rumoured rude ways of his with a
certain picturesqueness, a rough grandeur which she thought would appeal
to her.
But there was nothing either picturesque or grand about this ugly
apparition which had so summarily thrust itself into her presence. With
a genuine sinking of the heart Mme. la Marquise took in at a glance
Ronnay's uncomely appearance, the well-nigh repellent scowl which
disfigured his face, the heavy frown across his brow, his hands
discoloured by toil and by inclement weather--in fact, the whole of the
inelegant, not to say forbidding, aspect of this man whom a while ago
she had hoped to win over to her side.
And that this coarse, boorish creature was her son she could, alas! not
doubt for a moment. He appeared before her as the living image of the
man whom she had hated so bitterly throughout his life, and whom she had
never wholly succeeded in eradicating from her memory. In Ronnay she saw
the Bertrand of long ago, the heavy figure, the leonine head, the firm
neck, and obstinate jaw; she saw the unruly hair which rebelled against
comb or tie, she saw the eyes beneath the square, straight brow, which
appeared of a violet-blue in repose and flashed dark, almost black, in
anger. And in Ronnay de Maurel, too, she saw at this moment the man who
in the past had tyrannized over her, had contradicted her at every turn,
had struck her ... that once ... on that unforgettable day, when at last
she was able to regain her freedom.
And all the hatred which she had felt for Bertrand throughout all these
years, and which for a few brief hours she had tried to forget, was
suddenly reawakened at sight of the man whose whole demeanour as he
faced her at this moment seemed to proclaim the triumph of the
proletariat which she had never ceased to despise.
She made no sign to welcome him. Her eyes scanned him from top to toe
with what she intended to be a withering glance--a mute reproach at his
total lack of respect towards her, which his rough clothes and neglected
hands implied. But Ronnay de Maurel seemed quite unconscious both of his
own appearance and of the effect it had upon his lady mother. He
advanced further into the room and quite unceremoniously slammed the
door to behind him.
"You sent for me, Mme. la Marquise," he said quietly and unconcernedly,
"and I have come at your bidding. Will you tell me as briefly as you
can what it is you desire to say to me?"
The man's indifference, his callous attitude, put the final touch to
Madame's exasperation. The look in her eyes became more trenchant, more
withering than before. She drew herself up to her full height, which was
considerable, and folded her arms over her breast.
"When M. le Comte de Maurel, Duc de Montauban," she said, "has learned
how to present himself before his mother, I will speak to him and not
before. Baudouin," she added loftily, turning to her brother, "I think
that I may rely on you to teach this ... to teach my son the first
lesson of respect which he owes to me. Laurent, the door!"
Laurent hastened to obey. He held open the door, through which Mme. la
Marquise de Mortain now passed out, holding herself very erect--the
personification of outraged dignity.
III
De Maurel had taken refuge in a distant corner of the room. He was
gazing in utter bewilderment at the retreating figure of his mother. Her
tirade had evidently puzzled rather than angered him, for his deep-set
eyes were full of vague questionings as they wandered from the face of
his uncle to that of his young step-brother.
"Our lady-mother," he said at last, when Laurent had once more closed
the door, and the frou-frou of Madame's skirts no longer could be heard
swishing softly down the corridor, "our lady-mother seems somewhat
wayward in her moods. Yesterday she sent for me post-haste--to-day she
turns her back on me."
"Can you wonder?" broke in Laurent hotly. "Your conduct is
outrageous...."
"My conduct?" rejoined de Maurel. "Why? What have I done? I scarce
opened my mouth...."
An exclamation of wrath and of contempt escaped Laurent's quivering lips
... a hot retort was obviously on the tip of his tongue. M. de Courson
was only just in time to avert an avalanche of wrathful words which may
have led to a sudden, irretrievable quarrel. He interposed between the
two men with the perfect courtesy and tact of a high-born gentleman
receiving an honoured guest.
"My good de Maurel," he said, holding out his slender, aristocratic hand
to his nephew, "it is close on a quarter of a century since we have met,
and it is a pleasure to me to welcome you at Courson. Do you know that I
am your godfather, an honour which I share, if I remember rightly, with
M. le Marquis de la Fayette? I hope that you will always think of me in
that capacity and accept my help and counsel in all matters where the
experience of a man of the world may be useful to you."
Somewhat tentatively--more like a naughty child who is being coaxed into
good humour--Ronnay de Maurel took that thin, white hand which was being
held out to him. He could have crushed it in his own toil-worn one.
"I thank you," he said curtly, "I am too old now for help or counsel,
and my life has been spent in fighting for my country. I have no use for
the experiences of a man of the world, by which, I suppose, you mean a
dandy of drawing-rooms, a courtier or a sycophant."
"No, no, I did not mean that," rejoined M. de Courson conciliatingly.
"It is not necessary to be a dandy, nor yet a sycophant, in order to win
the regard of one's own kindred--those of one's own caste.
Unfortunately, it had not occurred to me to give you a word of warning
ere you came to meet your mother ... in this guise."
"In this guise!" echoed de Maurel roughly. "What hath my guise to do
with my coming here? My mother sent for me. Surely she did not do that
in order to look at my clothes."
"Good God, man!" here interposed Laurent sharply, "is this bland
simplicity of yours a pose or what? Do you really pretend not to know
that a workman's attire is not a suitable one wherein to present
yourself in the salons of the Marquise de Mortain?"
"The Marquise de Mortain was once Mme. de Maurel. I did not come here in
order to present myself in her salon, but to speak with my mother and at
her wish."
"You might have washed your hands and slipped on a decent coat in order
to do that," rejoined Laurent, who, forgetting his mother's entreaties
of a while ago, was letting his ebullient temper gradually overmaster
his prudence.
But de Maurel, too, seemed to have come to the end of his small stock of
patience.
"Have done, boy, with that nonsense," he retorted roughly, "I am not a
man of patience. I owe nothing to the lady, remember, who has long since
forfeited the name of 'mother' as far as I am concerned. I came at her
bidding, and against my better judgment--the son of my father can have
nothing in common with the Marquise de Mortain."
"An you turn to insult ..." exclaimed Laurent hotly.
"There is no insult in an unvarnished fact. Mme. la Marquise de Mortain
cares less about me than I do about an ill-conditioned cur. And if she
desires to see my clothes, I can send her a suit fashioned by a tailor
and stay at home myself the while."
"_Pardieu_, de Maurel," quoth M. de Courson with a laugh, "I had heard
tales of your tenacity and of your self-will, but none of a certainty
that do justice to the truth. Come, man! you surely will not allow petty
obstinacy in so trifling a matter to interfere with the amity which
should exist between your mother and yourself and towards which she
hath, you must admit, met you already more than half way."
"But, _nom de Dieu_!" rejoined de Maurel gruffly, "what do want me to do
_enfin_?"
"Let me take a message to Mme. la Marquise from you," replied M. le
Comte, "craving her pardon for your want of respect to her this
forenoon.... There is no shame in humbling one's pride before a woman
and...."
Then, as de Maurel, moody and wrathful, made no immediate rejoinder to
the proposal, M. de Courson added more lightly: "Well, what say you?"
"That I've neither mind nor leisure to lend myself to Mme. la Marquise's
whims and fancies," retorted de Maurel, whose obstinacy was growing in
proportion with the impatience and arrogance of his kinsmen.
"Nor decent clothes to wear, I warrant," broke in Laurent, as he felt
his temper flaring up into fury against this ill-bred creature, who
seemed wholly unconscious of his enormities. "Uncle Baudouin," he added,
with a sneer, "do not, I pray you, waste your time in trying to instil
some semblance of good manners into this oaf. One would think he had
sprung out of the gutter...."
"Hold on, boy!" interposed de Maurel, with a sudden hoarseness in his
voice, and a clenching of his mighty fist till the knuckles shone like
ivory through the flesh. "Have I not said that I am not a man of
patience...?"
"'Tis I who am not a man of patience," retorted Laurent. "Think you I
can bear much longer the studied insult to us all which your attitude
implies? Think you that because we are poor you can treat us as you
would hesitate to treat the meanest peasant on your land? Is your
apparel a pose or what? You cannot be as ignorant of the usages of good
society as you pretend to be. After all, we have all been in exile--we
have lived apart from those of our own breeding, of our own caste, but,
in spite of our misfortunes we have kept up in our hearts the traditions
of courtesy and gentle manners which were handed down to us all by our
fathers--aye, to us all!" he added vehemently, "to you as well as to us.
You bear one of the noblest names in France, and you pretend to have
forgotten the most ordinary elements of respect due to the sex which
hath every claim on our chivalry. Where, in Heaven's name have you been,
man? Where have you spent your life that you could so far forget the
traditions of your race?"
De Maurel had proclaimed himself to be a man devoid of patience. Yet he
had listened attentively to every word that his young brother said. He
had acquired throughout a hard, self-denying life the supreme virtue of
silence; he knew--no one better--how to listen. Therefore he did not
break in on Laurent's tirade. He listened to it to the end, and did not
even wince at the sneers which his younger brother hurled very freely at
him. But now that the latter had finished speaking, Ronnay came a step
or two nearer to him, and drawing himself to his full height, he said,
with perfect, outward calm:
"Where I spent my life, brother mine? Will you let me tell you, since
you do not know? My childhood I spent in the old Château of La
Vieuville, where my uncle Gaston took care of me since my father died
and my mother had abandoned me in order to pursue her own aims in life,
which were not those of the man to whom she had sworn fealty at the
altar...."
"Silence, man!" interposed Laurent excitedly. "I'll not have you vilify
my mother, whom...."
"I vilify no one," riposted de Maurel quietly. "You have taunted me with
the query as to how I have spent my life, and you _must_ listen to my
explanation. My uncle Gaston brought me up as best he could. His life
was spent in the service of his country; he had but little time to
devote to my education. Our country then, my good brother, required the
services of all her children, since those of our kindred and of our
caste were inciting half Europe to take up arms against her. My boyhood
I spent helping with my feeble might in the work of defending France
against the invasion of alien enemies who were bent on destroying her,
because forsooth they disagreed with her political ideals, and had no
sympathy with the aims of an entire people, goaded into rebellion by
centuries of tyranny. I was twelve years old when my uncle Gaston de
Maurel converted my father's iron foundries into huge factories for the
manufacture of steel and of gunpowder, wherewith to fight the foreign
foe abroad and the traitor at home ... aye! twelve years old, my dear
brother, when my hands ceased to be white and slender and aristocratic
in shape and colour, and became stained and rough ... unwashed you
called them just now. At the age when boys of my caste learn how to
dance and to strum on a spinet, to point their toes and kiss the ladies'
hands, I learned how to fashion saltpetre out of grit and how to
transmute church bells into cannon balls. At fifteen I knew how to wield
a sword and how to handle a gun. My manhood has been spent in camps, in
the armies of the finest military leader that hath ever led men to glory
and to victory. When France was attacked from the north and the south,
from the east and from the west by Austria and Prussia, by Italy and
England and Russia and Spain, a young general of artillery, not yet
twenty-three years of age, led her triumphantly from victory to victory
till the sacred soil of our beautiful country was swept clean of every
foe. I followed that young leader wherever he went. I fought under him
at Toulon, I followed him to Austria. I crossed the Alps in his train. I
fought and bled under his eye for the honour of France and the glory of
her flag. I starved with him in Egypt; I froze with him in Poland; I
stood by his side at Austerlitz when the Austrian sued for peace. At
first we marched and fought in wooden shoes, or with hay-ropes tied
round our feet; at dead of winter we fought half naked with bast-mats
slung round our shoulders. But we fought like men and kept whole Europe
at bay. No, my good Laurent, I did not learn how to enter a salon, or
how to turn a pretty compliment before ladies, but I know how to dispose
an army corps when the enemy is in sight. I do not know how to wave a
scented handkerchief in the air, but I do know how to meet a resolute
foe in a hand-to-hand combat. My life has been spent in ridding France
of foreigners, and of traitors, of idlers and slackers and useless
good-for-nothing sybarites, and in the process my hands have remained
rough and stained. I am a cripple now--not for always, I hope--and I
wear a workman's blouse, because I have become a workman since I no
longer can be a soldier. As soon as I can walk straight again I'll be
back to fight under the Tricolour flag of France--to fight against the
foreign enemy--to fight against treachery at home--to fight for the
rights of manhood and citizenship, with unquenchable spirit and dogged
determination, and continue to spend my life, as I have done up to now,
until, please God, mine will be the glory to shed my last drop of blood
for France!"
He paused--for want of breath mayhap--for, indeed, his rugged eloquence
was carrying him away on the wings of his fervour and his burning
patriotism. M. de Courson and Laurent de Mortain had listened to him in
sullen silence. Once or twice Laurent had made an effort to interrupt,
but de Maurel spoke very loudly and forcibly, and the other perforce had
to remain silent. Once or twice he affected to smother a yawn, and he
would have given much to be able to turn his back on this ranting
demagogue--as he inwardly termed him--and to leave him to continue his
ravings in solitude. But, in spite of himself, something held him back.
There was a certain forcefulness, a certain directness as well as pride
in Ronnay de Maurel's impassioned harangue which compelled attention,
even if it did not call for respect. Laurent de Mortain--and M. le Comte
de Courson also, for that matter--were soldiers and patriots, too. There
was much in them which was every whit as fine and brave as the soul of
de Maurel which was finding expression in his eloquent words. It was
only the divergence of ideals which stood between these Royalists and
the man who they considered had been a traitor to his caste.
There was the pity of it! The miserable, irretrievable pity! The
children of France were at deadly enmity with one another; their
different political aims had caused an abyss to form between them, which
nothing now could bridge over. There was a total lack of understanding,
and, alas! the many outrages perpetrated on both sides had rendered the
breach for ever impassable. M. de Courson and Laurent de Mortain saw in
de Maurel the product of the spirit of regicide, of the sanguinary
revolution which had committed the most brutal excesses the civilized
world had ever seen; and Ronnay de Maurel saw in his kinsmen only the
incarnation of that spirit which had not been content to fight for the
cause of its traditions, but had treacherously sold the country to the
foreign foe, had brought foreign armies within the sacred boundaries of
France, had sought the aid of foreigners to gain victory for its arms.
And these three men, in whom flowed the same blood of kinship, stood now
confronting one another with something like deadly hatred flashing in
their eyes. The two brothers, indeed, presented a strange contrast:
Laurent, slender and graceful, with smoothly-dressed dark hair crowning
a face full of charm and delicacy, with hands white and soft, with
clothes that fitted his elegant young figure to perfection; and Ronnay
de Maurel, tall and ungainly, in rough blouse and heavy boots, with
rugged face bronzed by campaigning in all weathers and furrowed long
before its time, with eyes of a deep blue, that appeared almost black
beneath the straight, square brow and firm mouth set in hard, obstinate
lines. Indeed, it was not six years that lay between them in age, but a
whole century--a century of thoughtlessness, of easy-going tyranny, of
selfishness on the one hand, and one of rebellion and self-will on the
other, and there was a century of suffering and of wrongs to be avenged
on either side.
IV
It seemed, indeed, as if nothing now could avert an immediate quarrel
between the two brothers. The breach between them had been widened by
bitter words on both sides, and if at this juncture it came to open
enmity between them, that breach mayhap would never be patched up again.
M. de Courson, as usual, tried to play his part of peace-maker. In his
heart of hearts he could not help but give a certain measure of
admiration to de Maurel's fearless exposé of the situation. He himself
being innately loyal, recognized and appreciated loyalty in others. He
did not want to see a quarrel between the brothers now. His sober
judgment still clung to the desire for conciliation, and he still clung
to the hope that this semi-educated boor could be tamed into something
that was not only presentable, but also useful to the cause which he and
his kindred had so much at heart.
Therefore he made one more effort to interpose in a conciliatory spirit
between these two smouldering tempers.
"It was not your brother's intention, my good de Maurel," he said, "nor,
I vow, was it mine to cast aspersions upon your manhood or your valour.
Your tirade--an you will permit me to say so without offence--was,
therefore, quite superfluous, since it had no bearing upon the subject
which we were discussing...."
"Namely, your want of respect to our mother," concluded Laurent
wrathfully.
"Nay!" retorted de Maurel curtly. "Methought that we were chiefly
engaged in discussing my clothes."
"Until you chose to cast aspersions on Mme. la Marquise de Mortain,
which I for one will not tolerate."
"If I have said aught to offend Mme. la Marquise," said Ronnay curtly,
"I'll crave her pardon.... I had no intention to offend."
"Yet you do, man, you do," riposted Laurent hotly; "not only with your
words, not only with your clothes, but by flaunting before her eyes that
badge of infamy which you wear upon your breast."
"Laurent!" interposed M. de Courson quickly, for unobservant and obtuse
though he was, he had not failed to note that de Maurel's face had
suddenly become extraordinarily livid in hue, and that the breath came
and went through his tightly clenched teeth with a curious, hissing
sound.
"Nay, M. le Comte," he broke in slowly after a while, "I pray you do not
try and stem the flow of my brother's eloquence. Meseems that the next
few moments will clear the somewhat close atmosphere of Courson from a
veritable fog of misunderstandings. I was under the impression that my
linen blouse and muddy boots had alone offended Mme. la Marquise's
aristocratic glance; it seems that there's something more about my
person which hath not found favour in her sight."
Laurent, at these words, uttered in a husky voice as if the man were
choking, broke into a strident laugh, and with uplifted hand he pointed
to the crimson ribbon on Ronnay's blouse.
"Eminently suitable in colour," he said with a sneer, which suddenly
sent the hot blood rushing back to the other's pale cheeks, "and well
chosen by a baseborn adventurer to commemorate all the innocent blood
which his treachery and vanity have helped to shed."
There came a quick flash in de Maurel's eyes, which the younger man
would have been wise to heed. "Hold on, man! hold on!" he said, still
speaking slowly and with seeming calm, "ere your profane mouth utter a
sacrilege! This ribbon was pinned upon my breast on the glorious field
of Austerlitz by the man whose valour and glory have won undying laurels
for France--by the patriot who swept the soil of our beautiful country
clean from foreign foes ... and whom an adoring nation hath proclaimed
its Lord and Emperor."
Laurent threw back his head, whilst a glance of withering scorn shot
from his fine eyes and swept the uncouth figure of his soldier brother.
"Lord and Emperor!" he exclaimed. "Hark at the miserable besotted fool!
at the traitor! the regicide! Lord and Emperor forsooth! the base-born
son of a vulgar father--a Corsican adventurer and knight of industry,
who is clever enough to gull a wretched nation into kissing the rod
which God hath devised for its punishment...."
"Silence!" thundered de Maurel, and with a quick movement forward he
gripped Laurent by the wrist. "Silence, you dolt! you fool! Another word
and I force you down on your knees to crave pardon in your stupid heart
for the impious nonsense which your insentient tongue hath uttered.
Silence, I say!"
"Silence!" retorted Laurent, who by now had lost complete control over
his nerves and whose voice sounded shrill and cracked. "Nay! why should
I be silent, when the whole of Europe cries anathema against the
usurper? Shame on you, my brother, shame! for parading your own
dishonour upon your breast."
"Dishonour?"
"Aye, dishonour! What else is it, I pray, but the livery of traitors, of
regicides and of murderers? Legion of Honour the Corsican has dared to
call it--and you, it seems, are one of his Grand-Eagles ... but we who
are loyal to France and to our King, we proclaim it the Legion of
Dishonour, and you and such as you a herd of devouring vultures. Shed
your livery of shame, my brother, ere I smite you with it in the face."
De Maurel up to now had been perhaps more bewildered than infuriated by
the ravings of this young madman; but now, ere he had time to realize
what Laurent was doing, and before M. de Courson could interfere, the
young Marquis had, with a quick and almost savage gesture, gripped the
crimson ribbon on his brother's breast and torn it violently from the
blouse. The next moment he threw it with an exclamation of loathing upon
the floor. A cry as of an enraged bull came from de Maurel's throat, and
his two hands--the hard, strong hands of the toiler--fastened themselves
like clamps of steel upon the young man's shoulders.
"On your knees, on your knees, you blasphemous malapert," he said, as
with well-nigh brutal strength he gradually forced Laurent down. "On
your knees! You shall lick the dust for this monstrous sacrilege....
Your unhallowed hands shall not touch that sacred badge ... with your
lips you shall pick it out of the dust ... you...."
"Let me go!" cried Laurent hoarsely. "Uncle Baudouin, _à moi_!"
"On your knees!" reiterated de Maurel fiercely.
He was possessed of immense strength. Laurent, despite his every effort
to free himself and to remain defiant, felt his knees giving way under
him. The pain in his shoulders and his back, caused by that iron grip,
turned him sick and faint, whilst M. le Comte's attempts at interference
were obviously of no avail. Insults and protests died upon his lips; he
saw the stern, dark face which was bending over him as through a veil of
mist ... that mist soon became of a crimson hue ... like blood. Laurent
felt all the tumultuous blood of his race rushing through his veins; his
head was swimming, his ears buzzing, and he saw red ... a sea of red in
front of his eyes. His hand with a last convulsive gesture wandered to
his hip, and was buried for a moment under his coat. The next moment it
reappeared with a hunting-knife in its grasp.
V
"Laurent, in the name of Heaven, think of what you are doing!"
The call, soft as that of a frightened bird, came from the door
immediately behind Laurent. He was down on one knee at that moment, with
one hand he was steadying himself against the floor, the other, holding
the large hunting-knife, was raised ready to strike. For one second
only; the next the grip on his shoulders was relaxed, the dark face,
distorted with wrath and contempt, seemed to fade away into the dim
distance, and he fell back half swooning against a heavy chair close by.
At the sound of that agonized woman's cry de Maurel's grip on his
brother's shoulders had suddenly relaxed. He looked up, and for a moment
it seemed to him as if he were gazing on something unreal; there was a
veil in front of his eyes, and he could see nothing clearly, not even
the apparition in the doorway ... a slender apparition clad all in white
... the exquisite form of a woman--a mere child--dressed in a white gown
cut low round the shoulders, in accordance with the prevailing mode;
her neck, shoulders and arms were bare; her tiny head was crowned with a
wealth of fair hair, which clustered in unruly curls round the perfect
oval of her face; her eyes, with large pupils dilated now with fear and
horror, were of an unfathomable blue. She had been carrying a sheaf of
bluebells in her arm, the spoils of the woodland round Courson; but at
the awful sight which greeted her as she pushed open the door of the
boudoir, the flowers fell from her hands and now lay scattered in a
delicious tangled mass of blue--like the colour of her eyes--at her
feet.
As Ronnay de Maurel slowly straightened out his herculean figure, the
details of the exquisite picture before him reached his perceptions one
by one. He saw the delicate hands stretched out toward him with a
feminine gesture of protection; he saw the dainty feet encased in
sandals, which looked as if they scarce would touch the ground; he saw
the full, red lips still parted with that cry of horror which she had
uttered, and the eyes of that unfathomable blue like the sea in the Bay
of Genoa, fixed upon him with puzzlement not unmixed with awe.
The vision cleared and he became conscious that it was reality. He heard
M. de Courson saying with a sigh of relief: "Fernande, thank God! you
came just in time." He saw the exquisite apparition hurrying to Laurent
and helping him to rise. Never in all his life had he seen anything so
ethereal and so pure--and suddenly he became conscious of himself--of
his rough clothes and his stained hands; he could have called to the
inanimate objects in the room to close in upon him and to bury him out
of sight. Like a wild animal at bay, he gave a rapid furtive glance
around; his eye alighted on the bit of red ribbon which a boy's impious
hand had torn from his breast. This he picked up, swiftly, stealthily;
then holding it tightly in his clenched hand, he turned without another
word, without another look, and fled precipitately from the room.