AFTER THE STORM
I
It was close upon midnight when Fernande made her way to Madame la
Marquise's boudoir. She found her there, on her knees still, her hands
folded and stretched out over the window-sill, her head buried in her
arms.
The rain was coming down in torrents. Fernande herself, on her way home,
had been drenched to the skin. But this was not the time to think of wet
and cold, of health or of prudence. She had thrown down her cloak in the
hall and at once went up to her aunt's room.
The boudoir was dark, only from the next room there came the feeble rays
of reflected light from the lamp. With a cry of burning anxiety Fernande
ran to Madame. Denise de Mortain had knelt before the open window ever
since her son's flying footsteps had ceased to resound through the
château; she had knelt here absolutely prostrate with grief, her heart
tortured with the desire to see her beloved son killed rather than
openly disgraced. Fernande, as she bent over her, could feel that her
arms and shoulders, her hands and her hair were soaked through. With
gentle words and persuasive strength she tried to drag her away from the
window.
"_Ma tante_," she said appealingly, "it is I--Fernande. Won't you speak
to me?"
She felt a shiver going right through Denise's kneeling form; she
racked her brain in wonderment as to what had caused this utter moral
collapse in a woman who was always so full of indomitable energy.
"_Ma tante!_" she reiterated more firmly, "I pray you listen to me.
There is something which I must tell you now--at once."
She managed gradually to raise Madame up in her own strong young arms,
and to lead her to a chair close by. Denise was only half conscious. She
sat in the chair, with her head rolling from left to right against its
back, her eyes closed, her hands inert. Fernande ran into the bedroom.
She brought in the lamp and a towel, and she dried Madame's face and
hands and wiped the moisture from her dress and hair. Then she took the
cold, numb hands in hers and began chafing them, rubbing the fingers,
trying to infuse life into them with her warm breath.
After a while consciousness began to return. The head ceased its weird
rolling, and lay quite still against the back of the chair. A certain
degree of warmth communicated itself to the fingers and an occasional
tremor shook the pain-wearied frame.
Then Madame la Marquise opened her eyes. For a moment or two she looked
round her dazed, and still held in the arms of semi-consciousness. She
looked straight into the lamp, and the pupils of her eyes slowly
contracted until they appeared like small pin-points, with the iris
round them steely and pale.
Then her gaze fastened itself on Fernande--first on the hem of her gown,
wet and muddy after the long tramp through the rain; then it wandered up
by degrees to the girl's slender, white hands, with the delicate fingers
interlaced and the diamond ring--Laurent's gift--gleaming in the
lamplight.
Then she met the girl's blue eyes fixed compassionately, tenderly upon
her. In a moment full consciousness returned to her. She drew herself
up, and, leaning her hands against the arms of the chair, she was able
to struggle to her feet.
"_Ma tante_ ..." began Fernande gently.
"Who are you?" queried Madame la Marquise coldly, "and what do you
want?"
Instinctively Fernande put out her arms: the strange query, the raucous
timbre of the voice, struck with unexplainable terror into her
heart--something, she thought, had happened during her
absence--something awesome and terrific, which had unhinged this woman's
cool and powerful brain.
"Who are you?" reiterated Denise de Mortain coldly.
"Why, _ma tante_," rejoined Fernande gently, "do you not know me? I am
Fernande--I have just come home and found you here...."
"No, you are not Fernande," broke in Madame harshly--"not my niece,
Fernande de Courson, the daughter of my dear, dear brother. You are a
ghoul!" she cried excitedly, "a monster ... a hideous abortion ... a de
Courson turned traitor.... I do not know you!"
Still Fernande did not realize the truth. She was convinced now that the
excitement of the day and the weary watching throughout the evening had
acted banefully on Denise de Mortain's brain. That she was unnerved
there could be no doubt; there was an unnatural glow in her eyes, and
the pallor of her cheeks was almost ghost-like. The young girl,
genuinely alarmed, made a movement in the direction of the bell-pull.
She and Annette could, at any rate, put Madame to bed ere a high fever
brought on any further complications. But before she could reach the
bell Madame had interposed calmly:
"I am neither ill nor insane," she said. "But this is my room, and I
order you out of it. Go! Out of my sight--now--at once--do you hear?"
"_Ma tante_," protested Fernande, who, of a truth, felt so bewildered
that she did not know what to think, what to say, what to make of this
extraordinary, this appalling situation. "Something has unnerved you,"
she continued with calm dignity. "An you will not allow me to attend to
you or to ring for Annette, I had best retire until you are in a fit
condition to listen to what I have to say. But I warn you that it is
urgent. Every second wasted in this unexplainable misunderstanding may
mean danger ... if not worse ... to my father and to our friends."
"Your treachery," retorted Madame quietly, "has already wrought all the
evil and brought untold danger to all our friends and death to a great
many--to your father, perhaps, to Laurent, certainly. There is nothing
that you can say to me now which can avert the awful catastrophe for
which you and you alone are responsible."
"Treachery!" exclaimed Fernande. "I?"
"Yes, you! The surprise coup planned by de Puisaye has failed. The alarm
was given at the armament works an hour and a half ago; since then there
has been continuous firing in the direction of Mortain. The garrison
there has been aroused, that of Domfront, too, no doubt. Some of our
contingents have been surprised. They are selling their lives dearly at
this hour. Your father is probably fighting over there. Who is it, then,
who has betrayed us to Ronnay de Maurel and delivered our brave little
army into the hands of our enemies?"
"Not I!" protested Fernande loudly.
Light had suddenly broken on the hideous mystery which had confronted
her when she first entered this room. She understood everything now--her
aunt's prostration, her despair, the semi-insanity which was
overclouding her brain, making her see lurid phantoms of treachery.
She--Fernande--was suspected of having betrayed her father, her lover,
her friends; and Madame la Marquise, clinging to that abominable
thought, was rapidly losing all sense of justice, of reasoning and of
right. The girl's very soul was outraged at the monstrous accusation.
"How dared you harbour such abominable thoughts of me?" she cried
indignantly.
A strident laugh broke from Denise de Mortain's throat.
"Would you prefer it if I thought that you had stolen out of the
château to-night--and alone--in order to meet a swain behind the nearest
hedge?"
"Oh!"
"That was Laurent's estimate of you; and I--like a fool--thought he must
be mad."
"Laurent?"
"Laurent was here--to-night," continued Madame, as she came a step or
two nearer to Fernande, and the words--hot, passionate, fierce--came
tumbling through her lips. "For two days he was tortured with thoughts
of your treachery. I tell you he seemed nearly mad. To-night he could
hold out no longer. He deserted his post--he, who is the soul of honour!
He came here, just in time to see you steal out of the château like a
flirty wench. An hour and a half ago the alarm bell from the factories
clanged through the night. Laurent was here then, pouring out his heart
in bitterness and in misery. But the sound recalled him to his duty,
which he had forgotten while thinking of you. He went back in order to
redeem the hour of folly which led him to desert his post. He went back
in order to die fighting beside my brother and his friends."
"Oh, my God!" moaned Fernande, as she covered her face with her hands.
Even while she allowed the torrent of Madame's unjust reproaches to
break over her innocent head, she had already realized the hopelessness
of her own situation, the hopelessness of it all. Guiltless as she knew
herself to be, she almost understood, and was nigh to forgiving Madame's
horrible suspicions of her. The awful seed of the dastardly murder
projected against a defenceless man had, indeed, borne bitter fruits of
disaster and of shame; and she, who had tried to avert one awful
catastrophe, had unknowingly precipitated another. By her absence from
home to-night she had left Laurent at the mercy of his mother; and he,
with the guilt of desertion upon his conscience, was left to face her
until, driven to desperation by the harshness and the cruelty which
still glittered in Denise de Mortain's eyes, he had rushed off, blindly
perhaps, to his death.
An overwhelming pity for this hard, callous woman suddenly filled
Fernande's sensitive heart. All that she herself had suffered, all that
she was yet destined to suffer, was as nothing compared to the
bitterness of self-reproach which anon must assail the mother of
Laurent--the mother of Ronnay de Maurel: and when, exhausted by the
vehemence of her own eloquence, Madame la Marquise fell back into her
chair, panting and overwrought, Fernande drew near to her, despite her
vigorous protest, and knelt affectionately by her side.
"_Ma tante_," she said gently, while tears of sweet compassion gathered
in her eyes, "you have been passing cruel and unjust to me, and just for
a moment I felt nothing but anger against you. But since you have told
me about Laurent, I feel that I can understand. Before the God who made
me, I swear to you that I had no hand in warning our enemies of what was
intended. How could I have, seeing that my own dear father's life was
involved in the affair? I went to the factory to-night with the sole
intention of staying Leroux' hand from committing a dastardly murder--a
murder, _ma tante_," she continued with firm energy, "that despite
victory, despite the utmost triumphs, would for ever have sullied our
cause and weighed us all down with bitter self-reproach. Had Leroux
listened to me, I still believe that M. de Maurel would never have
suspected what was in the air; it was Leroux' threats, Leroux' attitude,
which put him on the scent. I was there; I saw it all. When Leroux, with
his wild and menacing talk, had given away the best part of M. de
Puisaye's plan, Ronnay de Maurel--your son, _ma tante_--stood with a
naked light in his hand ready to blow up the entire factory rather than
let it fall into our hands. Leroux and his mates were cowed; they were
poltroons as well as fools, and M. de Maurel forced one of the men to
ring the alarm bell. That is what happened at the La Frontenay works,
_ma tante_. The hooting of the sirens roused the neighbouring villages
and the garrison of Domfront. I escaped out of the factory as soon as I
was able; since then I have been on the high road, tortured with fears
as to what has happened to my father and what to Laurent. But by all
that I hold most dear, _ma tante_, what I have told you is the truth."
Madame had listened in silence, at first with averted head and with a
look of sullen obstinacy on her face. She would have given much to
remain unconvinced. The burning indignation which she had felt at
Laurent's conduct had to vent itself on the innocent cause of it. After
a while she looked into Fernande's face with a piercing, searching gaze.
She would have liked to hold the girl's soul naked before her eyes, and
to search within its innermost recesses for a sign of guilt or even of
weakness. But it was impossible to look for long into the sweet, earnest
face and the limpid blue eyes which were the true mirrors of candour and
of purity, and to affect doubt which no longer could exist. In her heart
Madame knew that Fernande spoke the truth. Everything that she said bore
the impress of actual facts witnessed and faithfully recorded. Madame
was bound to admit it, but she was far too self-willed and obstinate to
do so generously--and, above all, she knew that never as long as she
lived would she forgive Fernande de Courson for having been the
cause--however innocent--of Laurent's unpardonable conduct.
"It may be the truth," she said grudgingly--"it is the truth, no doubt,
since you are prepared to swear it."
"Do you still doubt me, _ma tante_?"
"No. But one thing, my girl, is certain--and that is if Laurent had not
seen you stealing out of the château--if he had spoken for five minutes
with you--he would have gone straight back to his post, and would not
now be under the suspicion of having deserted his men in the hour of
danger."
To this senseless accusation Fernande made no reply. What would have
been the use? She could not have convinced Madame that it was Laurent's
insensate jealousy which had been the primary cause of his undoing.
Except for those few brief seconds, when she boldly faced a horrible
death beside the man whom she loved, she had not harboured one disloyal
thought of Laurent, or spoken one disloyal word. Her love for Ronnay de
Maurel she could not destroy; it had its roots in the innermost fibres
of her heart. She was no more responsible for that feeling than was
Denise de Mortain for her callousness or Laurent for his vehement
temper. All that she could do to wrench herself away from its influence
she had done; and in the process she had plucked out her heart-strings
and martyrized her very soul. In the lonely walk from the factories to
the château she had fought against the veriest thought of rebellion; she
had sacrificed her whole life, her every hope of happiness on the altar
of unimpassioned loyalty. Whenever she met Laurent again she could look
him fearlessly in the eyes, she could grasp his hand in all honour and
friendship. The image of Ronnay de Maurel lay buried deep down in her
heart, and to the memory of that one mad and rapturous moment she had
bidden an eternal farewell.
Now when she felt Madame's cold enmity enveloping her as with an icy
mantle, she felt how desperately far from her would happiness lie in the
future. On the merest threshold of her life she saw the endless years
that were in store for her, between a man who would for ever torture her
with his turbulent passion and a woman who would paralyse her with
relentless animosity. The catastrophe of this night--and God alone knew
yet its full extent--would always be laid at her door. She saw this in
Denise de Mortain's every look, in the scornful stiffening of her whole
attitude, as she drew herself away from the slightest contact with her
niece; and after a moment or two of silence, the involuntary appeal
broke from the poor girl's lips: "Will you always hate me like this, _ma
tante_?"
Madame la Marquise looked at her coldly.
"I do not know," she replied. "Always is a long time, and it is
impossible for any human mind to know if it will ever forget. But this I
do know, that never with my consent will you become my daughter. If
Laurent is spared this night, I shall devote every hour, every moment of
my life, to parting him from you."
"You will remain unjust to the last?"
"Unjust?"--and Denise de Mortain shrugged her shoulders calmly. "Love
and hate are never just, and I could never dissociate you from the
memories of this night."
She rose from her chair, her whole attitude now one of cool
indifference. Ever since she had accepted Fernande's explanation she had
made desperate efforts to regain the mastery over her nerves and to
conceal every outward manifestation of the burning anxiety which she
felt. At last she had succeeded, but the struggle had left her weary and
wellnigh spent. Her face was pale, her eyes circled with purple, and
there was a feeble quiver round her bloodless lips.
"It may be hours," she said coldly, "and it may be days, ere we get
authentic news. What do you propose to do?"
"To start for Courson at daybreak," replied Fernande with equal calm. "I
must be on the spot in case my father is able to return there."
"And I will remain here until I know that both he and Laurent are safe.
But remember," she added, and something of the old domineering, managing
tone crept back into her voice, "that the peace and quietude of the past
year are at an end; that once more we are on the branch, once more we
stand with one foot on the way to exile. For the next few days there
will be perquisitions, molestations, arrests. The infamous police of
Bonaparte will not be slow to avenge the scare it has received this
night."
"I shall be ready to follow my father whenever or wherever he may want
me," rejoined Fernande coldly.
For a moment it was on the tip of her tongue to tell Madame that Ronnay
de Maurel would look after the safety of her father and of Laurent. She
had his promise, and he was not a man to leave a stone unturned ere he
fulfilled that promise. Though her heart was aching with anxiety, she
felt comforted in the thought that the one man who could help those she
cared for, by standing by them at this hour, would do it
whole-heartedly, and would throw into the scales of any pending
reprisals the whole weight of his influence and of his wealth.
But it would have been worse than futile to mention de Maurel's name
again now. Madame, in any case, would refuse to be comforted, and the
floodgates of her resentment would certainly break out afresh.
She--Fernande--was sorely in need of quietude; she felt that she could
not endure another scene. She was desperately sorry for her aunt;
Madame's anxiety for Laurent must be positively heartrending, but
nothing could be gained by further recriminations, further reproaches,
which only helped to embitter these hours of suspense and of dread.
Fernande felt confident that de Maurel would send her news as soon as he
knew anything definite; until then many weary hours would go by, she
knew, but at least let them go by in peace. Her hope rested in God and,
next to Him, in the loyalty and the power of the man who loved her so
selflessly.
So she bade her aunt a formal good night, and with a great sense of
relief she went quickly to her room.
II
Denise de Mortain, too, was glad to find herself alone once more. She
drew the chair to the open window and sat down, prepared to wait. Though
she was so tired that she could hardly move, she felt that she could not
rest. The house was very still now; all the servants had long since gone
to bed. They were a set of faithful but utterly stupid peasants from the
village, and had no notion of what went on outside the park gates.
Matthieu Renard and Annette knew, and they remained on the watch. Old
Matthieu would not go to bed until he could bring Madame la Marquise
some news which would comfort her, and Annette waited where she could
hear the bell, in case Madame wanted anything.
Madame, sitting by the open window, peered out into the night. The
firing sounded more distant now and more intermittent; the rain had
ceased and the darkness was less intense. Overhead large patches of
star-studded indigo appeared between the fissures in the clouds. The
weary watcher, gazing out into nothingness, her eyes aching with
sleeplessness and many unshed tears, fell anon into a semi-wakeful
languor, while the early hours of the morning sped leaden-footed by.
Suddenly something woke her to full consciousness. She sat up, shivering
a little; the morning air struck fresh and cool against her face.
Through her torpor-like sleep she had been conscious of the swift gallop
of a horse on the hard road drawing rapidly nearer. Now she was fully
awake, she could hear the clatter of the hoofs--someone was coming along
at break-neck speed--bringing news probably. She jumped to her feet; the
horse had been brought to a halt outside the gates; the next moment she
heard a murmur of voices and then the sound of footsteps coming up the
drive.
Madame, leaning out of the window, called out peremptorily: "Who goes
there?"
But she received no reply. Whoever had arrived at this early hour had
gone into the house. Through the dream-like recollections of what she
had heard, it seemed to Denise that the voice of Fernande had mingled
with that of two men, one of whom might have been old Matthieu.
She rang the bell violently. Then she looked at the clock. It was close
on five.
After a few minutes there was a knock at the door, and in response to an
impatient "Come in!" it was opened, and Fernande, pale, obviously tired
to death, and with dark circles under her eyes, came into the room.
"What is it?" queried Madame, in a voice broken by fatigue and
nerve-strain.
"One of the overseers from the armament works, _ma tante_," replied
Fernande, "with a message from M. de Maurel."
"I desire no message from M. de Maurel," said Madame curtly; "let him
tell you what he wants and go back the way he came."
"There is another man with him, _ma tante_," hazarded Fernande, after
some hesitation--"one of our people--a prisoner with news of M. de
Puisaye."
Madame waited a moment or two, frowning, debating between her pride
which prompted her to refuse to see an emissary of de Maurel, and the
agony of suspense which was near to killing her. Anxiety gained the
victory.
"Very well," she said. "Let the men come up."
Fernande went, and a minute or two later she returned followed by two
men, one of whom was Mathurin, chief overseer of the de Maurel smelting
works. Both men looked as if they had ridden hard. Mathurin's coat and
hat were covered with dust; the other--a true type of the Chouans, of
those who had fought under de Frotté and Cadoudal--was dressed in a
tattered blouse and ragged linen breeches; the soles of his boots had
parted from their uppers; he was unkempt and unwashed. Fernande closed
the door behind them, then she slipped round behind Madame to the corner
by the open window, where she could feel the fresh morning air and rest
her aching head against the heavy curtain. Mathurin had already told her
briefly what he had been sent to say: his orders were to see
Mademoiselle de Courson first, and then Madame la Marquise if she asked
for him. Fernande, ensconced beside the window, unseen by her aunt,
could safely indulge in the luxury of tears and of silence.
When the men entered, Madame la Marquise had looked for a moment keenly
and searchingly at the old Chouan. She was ready and eager to catch the
slightest movement or flitting glance which might have been meant for a
signal. She felt anxious and puzzled, marvelling why de Maurel had sent
a messenger to her--at this hour--and what was the meaning of this
prisoner brought hither to speak with her. Then she turned haughtily to
Mathurin.
"Who has sent you?" she queried peremptorily.
"M. le Maréchal Comte de Maurel," replied Mathurin, after he had touched
his forelock with every mark of respect.
"And who are you?" asked Madame again.
"Chief overseer at the smelting works."
"Why did M. de Maurel send you?"
"M. le Maréchal thought Madame la Marquise and Mademoiselle de Courson
would be anxious to know what had happened last night."
"Well," she said coldly, "what did happen?"
"Our alarm bells and sirens went off at half-past ten, Madame la
Marquise."
"I know that--I heard them."
"The mutineers, with Paul Leroux at their head, have been arrested by
our watchmen. Leroux confessed that he had been bribed to murder M. le
Maréchal, and to deliver the armament works into the hands of a band of
Royalists under M. de Puisaye."
"Did M. de Maurel order you to say this?"
"He desired Madame la Marquise to know that Leroux was a coward as well
as a traitor."
"Leroux' personality.... Who is Leroux, by the way?... does not interest
me. Go on."
"Our sirens aroused the garrison of Domfront. The commandant sent over
one of his officers with a small detachment of infantry to see what was
amiss. He only thought of fire or of a mutiny among the convicts, and he
was ready to send us help."
"Well? And then?"
"M. le Maréchal interrogated Leroux in the presence of the officer.
Leroux made a clean breast of all he knew. M. de Maurel then sent his
own couriers from the works to Domfront, to Tinchebrai, and to Mortain,
warning the different commandants against possible attacks from roaming
bands of Chouans. Within a couple of hours all the garrisons were afoot
and in touch with one another."
"Then what happened?"
"This man here, Madame la Marquise," said Mathurin, indicating his
companion, "will be able to tell you better than I can what happened in
the ranks of the Chouans. He fell a prisoner in our hands early in the
night. M. le Maréchal had ridden over to Mortain, and I was with him
when this man was brought in a prisoner. M. le Maréchal questioned him,
and then gave him over into my charge. 'Take the fellow over to La
Frontenay, Mathurin,' he said to me. 'Madame la Marquise de Mortain and
Mademoiselle de Courson will want to hear what he has to say.' So we
both got to horse and rode hither as fast as we could."
"Very good," said Madame determinedly. "Leave the man here with me. I
desire to speak with him alone."
Mathurin, at the peremptory command, appeared to hesitate. "Madame la
Marquise ..." he stammered.
"_Ah çà_," she retorted haughtily, "has M. de Maurel sent you here
perchance as my jailer?"
Mathurin, thus challenged, did not know what to say. Madame la Marquise
had a way with her which imposed her will on every one around her. The
worthy overseer was certainly not vested with powers to gainsay her
wishes. He was a shrewd man, loyal to the depth of his simple heart and
ready to be hacked to pieces for M. le Maréchal; he would have defied an
army of haughty ladies if he thought any harm could come from a private
interview with this ill-conditioned old rascal; but in this case
prudence and conciliation was perhaps the wisest course. And somehow he
felt that Mademoiselle de Courson's presence was, in any case, a
safeguard against any further intrigues against his master. So after an
imperceptible moment of hesitation he made a curt obeisance and backed
out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Far be it from me to suggest that good old Mathurin listened at the
keyhole, but I make bold to assert that very little of Madame la
Marquise's private conversation with the old Chouan escaped him.
III
As soon as the door had closed on Mathurin, Denise de Mortain turned to
the man and said, speaking curtly and rapidly:
"Your name is Jean Blanchet. I know you. Well, tell me quickly
everything you know. When was the alarm given in your camp?"
"At about half-past eleven, Madame la Marquise," replied the man. "I and
six of my mates were patrolling the approaches of the town, when we
heard a rumour that the garrison inside the city was astir. News had
arrived, so 'twas said, that bands of Chouans were preparing a surprise
attack. M. de Puisaye had his headquarters in the Cerf-Volant woods
south of the town; there was only just time to run and warn him of what
was in the air."
"Well?"
"M. de Puisaye at once ordered the alarm to be sounded. Within ten
minutes the whole camp was afoot and M. de Puisaye then commanded the
retreat."
"What?" exclaimed Madame. "Without striking a blow?"
"What would have been the use?" retorted the man with a shrug of the
shoulders. "We had next to no arms, and to make a stand would have meant
fighting against at least two companies of infantry and a battery of
artillery, which could easily have cut us to pieces even before
reinforcements came from Tinchebrai and Domfront. There is a
half-battery of artillery at both those places, and we knew by then that
all the garrisons round were in touch with one another. To have made a
stand," reiterated the man gruffly, "would have meant useless bloodshed.
M. de Puisaye was alive to that. He chose the wiser course."
"Not the most heroic," murmured Madame, under her breath.
"He had a lot of undisciplined, ill-fed, ill-clothed men to look after.
What could he do? Now if we could have equipped ourselves at the
factories of La Frontenay ..." he added with a harsh laugh.
"I know, I know," said Madame impatiently. "And M. de Puisaye has
retreated--whither?"
"I do not know. To Avranches, I should say. The way was open, and, in
any case, his losses would be very slight."
"And...." A name was on Madame's lips; she checked herself. She did not
dare to speak it--not before this man ... in case....
"And M. de Courson?" she asked.
"M. de Courson must be with M. de Puisaye, I think. I believe M. d'Aché
is with him and M. Prigent."
Then at last anxiety could hold out no longer. Madame had made heroic
efforts to appear calm, but now the hoarse query broke from her lips:
"And M. le Marquis de Mortain?"
Was it her own fevered fancy? But it seemed to her as if the man
hesitated for a second or two ere he replied; he twisted his cap between
his fingers, and a shock of unruly hair falling over his forehead hid
the expression of his eyes.
"M. de Puisaye sent orders to M. de Mortain," he said at last, "to
defend the rear in case the commandant of the garrison got wind of the
retreat and sent a company in pursuit. But M. de Mortain was not at his
post then. M. de Fleurot was in command."
Madame leaned her weight against the chair close by; she passed her
tongue once or twice over her parched lips. The man was evidently
determined not to meet her eye.
"What," she asked after a while, "was the firing which I heard in the
direction of Mortain?"
"M. de Fleurot," replied Blanchet curtly, "fighting a rearguard action
and covering the main retreat. I was in his company."
"And ... what was the result ... of the action, I mean?"
"I cannot say. I was taken prisoner quite early. I only heard rumours
afterwards."
"What were they?"
"That our small contingent was entirely cut up ... there were some
prisoners taken ... but it is generally believed that scarce a man
escaped."
"And ... has anything been heard of M. de Puisaye?"
"No, Madame la Marquise, nothing."
"Or of M. de Courson, or any of the others?"
"No. But," added Blanchet significantly, as he nodded in the direction
of the door, "I believe that Mathurin there knows something."
"You think ..." began Madame involuntarily. Then she paused; something
in the man's look--furtive and compassionate--froze the words upon her
lips.
"Can't you tell me?" she asked under her breath.
"I don't know for certain, Madame la Marquise," he replied.
IV
It meant another struggle against resentment and against pride. But, in
any case, the present uncertainty was unendurable. Denise de Mortain
felt that she would have gone on her knees to the devil himself if he
brought her authentic news of Laurent. She went boldly to the door, and,
opening it, she called:
"Mathurin! Are you there?"
"At your orders, Madame la Marquise," replied the man.
He came back into the room, reluctantly this time. He was a good
fellow, with wife and children of his own. Temperamentally and
traditionally he hated these Royalists--packs of rebels and intriguers,
he called them--and he knew this haughty lady had plotted against her
own son--M. le Maréchal--whom he adored; but there was something which
he had yet to tell her, and in his own rough way he shrank from the
task, feeling nothing but pity for her, because of what she was doomed
to suffer.
"The prisoner tells me," began Madame la Marquise, as calmly as she
could, "that you can give me news of M. le Marquis de Mortain, my son.
Is that so?"
"Yes, Madame la Marquise," replied the man slowly.
"Well," she asked, "why did you not give me that news at once?"
Thus commanded, Mathurin could not help but obey as quickly as possible.
He shifted from one foot to the other, and a look of real pity softened
for a moment the rugged lines of his face.
"Well, Madame la Marquise," he began, "you must know that after the
fight with M. de Puisaye's rearguard we had several prisoners in our
hands. M. le Maréchal took the trouble to interrogate each one
separately. When he had finished, he ordered me to accompany him, and
together we went to the spot where the affray had taken place. It was on
the edge of the wood. It was then about three o'clock in the morning and
the dawn was breaking. The place was littered with dead. I counted over
sixty myself, among them young M. de Fleurot, whom I knew."
"Yes?" said Madame la Marquise quietly, for the man had paused. She knew
well enough what he was about to tell her. He looked her straight in the
eyes. They expressed a query, and he nodded silently in reply. A low
moan of pain broke from Madame's lips; she pressed her handkerchief to
her lips to smother a louder cry.
"M. le Maréchal found M. le Marquis de Mortain lying amongst the dead,"
said Mathurin slowly after a while. "He told me to tell Madame la
Marquise that M. Laurent must have died like a hero; he had a broken
sword in his hand and three bullet wounds in his chest.... M. le
Maréchal lifted him up in his arms and carried him to his horse. I
helped to lift the body into the saddle, and M. le Maréchal ordered me
to ride back to Mortain as fast as I could and to send out half a dozen
men to him at once. 'When you have done that, Mathurin,' he said to me,
'go to La Frontenay as quickly as may be, take the prisoner Jean
Blanchet with you, and see Madame la Marquise de Mortain and
Mademoiselle de Courson. Tell them that I have conveyed M. le Marquis to
the Château of Courson, and that there I will await their pleasure.' And
that is all, Madame la Marquise," concluded Mathurin clumsily, for,
indeed, he felt overawed by the look of hopeless grief which had spread
over Madame's marble-like face. "M. le Maréchal ordered the carriole to
be sent for Madame la Marquise. It should be here by now."
When he had finished speaking she gave him a stately nod.
"I thank you, good Mathurin," she said slowly. "I pray you go back to
your master now and tell him that Mademoiselle Fernande and I will be at
the Château of Courson within the hour."
She appeared like a statue, pale and unbending. One slender hand rested
on the back of the chair to steady herself; the other closed tightly
over her lace handkerchief. The kerchief round her shoulders looked less
white than her cheeks: the golden light of a summer's morning crept in
through the narrow window. A glorious sunshine followed on the storm of
the night; the warm rays glinted on Madame's white hair, on her pale
forehead and on the rings upon her fingers. Mathurin, who had been in
Paris in the hot days of the Terror, remembered, as he looked on her,
the martyred Queen going to her death.
He gave a sign to Jean Blanchet. He would not have dared to say another
word; he felt the majesty of this overwhelming grief, and, having made a
profound obeisance, he and the old Chouan went out of the room.
V
Fernande's arms were round the unfortunate woman who had sunk
half-swooning into the chair.
So this was the end of it all: the sequel of so many intrigues, so many
hopes, of the carefully-laid plans and the certainty of victory.
Laurent, with his tempestuous, impulsive nature, had atoned with his
life for his one hour of folly; the small band of Royalists was
dispersed, its leaders fugitives; and a proud and self-willed woman
would henceforth be destined to eat out her heart in vain remorse and
regret. Callously she would have sacrificed one son, even whilst God
decreed that He would take the other. Laurent de Mortain had fallen a
victim to the dastardly attempt planned against his brother, just as
much as to the unreasoning jealousy which had made him desert his post
and forfeit his honour.
Madame la Marquise was a broken old woman now; even her hatred against
Fernande was swallowed up in the immensity of her grief. She allowed the
young girl to attend on her, to find her mantle and hood, and then
gently to lead her downstairs. She could not bring herself to speak to
her, however; in her heart, beside the bitterness of self-reproach,
there lurked the dull resentment against the woman who had ruled over
her son's heart until the hour of his death.
Half an hour later the two women, sitting side by side in the carriole,
were driven rapidly to Courson.