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diff --git a/8942-h/8942-h.htm b/8942-h/8942-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..279e89b --- /dev/null +++ b/8942-h/8942-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,14319 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" name="linkgenerator" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + The Last Hope, by Henry Seton Merriman + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} + .x-small {font-size: 75%;} + .small {font-size: 85%;} + .large {font-size: 115%;} + .x-large {font-size: 130%;} + .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} + .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} + .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} + .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} + .indent25 { margin-left: 25%;} + .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} + .indent35 { margin-left: 35%;} + .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; + font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; + text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; + border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} + .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} + span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Last Hope, by Henry Seton Merriman + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + +Title: The Last Hope + +Author: Henry Seton Merriman + +Release Date: September, 2005 [EBook #8942] +First Posted: August 28, 2003 +Last Updated: November 10, 2018 + + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAST HOPE *** + +Etext produced by Jonathan Ingram, Mary Meehan and Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE LAST HOPE + </h1> + <h2> + By Henry Seton Merriman + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + “What is it thou knowest, sweet voice?” I cried. + “A hidden hope,” the voice replied. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h3> + CONTENTS + </h3> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto" cellpadding="4" border="3"> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a> + </td> + <td> + LE ROI EST MORT + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a> + </td> + <td> + VIVE LE ROI + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a> + </td> + <td> + THE RETURN OF “THE LAST HOPE” + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </td> + <td> + THE MARQUIS’S CREED + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a> + </td> + <td> + ON THE DYKE + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </td> + <td> + THE STORY OF THE CASTAWAYS + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a> + </td> + <td> + ON THE SCENT + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a> + </td> + <td> + THE LITTLE BOY WHO WAS A KING + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a> + </td> + <td> + A MISTAKE + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a> + </td> + <td> + IN THE ITALIAN HOUSE + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a> + </td> + <td> + A BEGINNING + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a> + </td> + <td> + THE SECRET OF GEMOSAC + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a> + </td> + <td> + WITHIN THE GATES + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV </a> + </td> + <td> + THE LIFTED VEIL + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV </a> + </td> + <td> + THE TURN OF THE TIDE + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI </a> + </td> + <td> + THE GAMBLERS + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII </a> + </td> + <td> + ON THE PONT ROYAL + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII </a> + </td> + <td> + THE CITY THAT SOON FORGETS + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX </a> + </td> + <td> + IN THE BREACH + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX </a> + </td> + <td> + “NINETEEN” + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI </a> + </td> + <td> + NO. 8 RUELLE ST. JACOB + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII </a> + </td> + <td> + DROPPING THE PILOT + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII </a> + </td> + <td> + A SIMPLE BANKER + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV </a> + </td> + <td> + THE LANE OF MANY TURNINGS + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV </a> + </td> + <td> + SANS RANCUNE + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI </a> + </td> + <td> + RETURNED EMPTY + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII </a> + </td> + <td> + OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII </a> + </td> + <td> + BAREBONE’S PRICE + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX </a> + </td> + <td> + IN THE DARK + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX </a> + </td> + <td> + IN THE FURROW AGAIN + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI </a> + </td> + <td> + THE THURSDAY OF MADAME DE CHANTONNAY + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII </a> + </td> + <td> + PRIMROSES + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII </a> + </td> + <td> + DORMER COLVILLE IS BLIND + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV </a> + </td> + <td> + A SORDID MATTER + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXV </a> + </td> + <td> + A SQUARE MAN + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XXXVI </a> + </td> + <td> + MRS. ST. PIERRE LAWRENCE DOES NOT UNDERSTAND + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXXVII </a> + </td> + <td> + AN UNDERSTANDING + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XXXVIII </a> + </td> + <td> + A COUP-D'ÉTAT + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XXXIX </a> + </td> + <td> + “JOHN DARBY” + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XL </a> + </td> + <td> + FARLINGFORD ONCE MORE + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I — LE ROI EST MORT + </h2> + <p> + “There; that’s it. That’s where they buried Frenchman,” + said Andrew—known as River Andrew. For there was another Andrew who + earned his living on the sea. + </p> + <p> + River Andrew had conducted the two gentlemen from “The Black Sailor” + to the churchyard by their own request. A message had been sent to him in + the morning that this service would be required of him, to which he had + returned the answer that they would have to wait until the evening. It was + his day to go round Marshford way with dried fish, he said; but in the + evening they could see the church if they still set their minds on it. + </p> + <p> + River Andrew combined the light duties of grave-digger and clerk to the + parish of Farlingford in Suffolk with a small but steady business in fish + of his own drying, nets of his own netting, and pork slain and dressed by + his own weather-beaten hands. + </p> + <p> + For Farlingford lies in that part of England which reaches seaward toward + the Fatherland, and seems to have acquired from that proximity an + insatiable appetite for sausages and pork. On these coasts the killing of + pigs and the manufacture of sausages would appear to employ the leisure of + the few, who for one reason or another have been deemed unfit for the sea. + It is not our business to inquire why River Andrew had never used the + fickle element. All that lay in the past. And in a degree he was saved + from the disgrace of being a landsman by the smell of tar and bloaters + that heralded his coming, by the blue jersey and the brown homespun + trousers which he wore all the week, and by the saving word which + distinguished him from the poor inland lubbers who had no dealings with + water at all. + </p> + <p> + He had this evening laid aside his old sou’wester—worn in fair + and foul weather alike—for his Sunday hat. His head-part was + therefore official and lent additional value to the words recorded. He + spoke them, moreover, with a dim note of aggressiveness which might only + have been racy of a soil breeding men who are curt and clear of speech. + But there was more than an East Anglian bluffness in the statement and the + manner of its delivery, as his next observation at once explained. + </p> + <p> + “Passen thinks it’s over there by the yew-tree—but he’s + wrong. That there one was a wash-up found by old Willem the lighthouse + keeper one morning early. No! this is where Frenchman was laid by.” + </p> + <p> + He indicated with the toe of his sea-boot a crumbling grave which had + never been distinguished by a headstone. The grass grew high all over + Farlingford churchyard, almost hiding the mounds where the forefathers + slept side by side with the nameless “wash-ups,” to whom they + had extended a last hospitality. + </p> + <p> + River Andrew had addressed his few remarks to the younger of his two + companions, a well-dressed, smartly set-up man of forty or thereabouts, + who in turn translated the gist of them into French for the information of + his senior, a little white-haired gentleman whom he called “Monsieur + le Marquis.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke glibly enough in either tongue, with a certain indifference of + manner. This was essentially a man of cities, and one better suited to the + pavement than the rural quiet of Farlingford. To have the gift of tongues + is no great recommendation to the British born, and River Andrew looked + askance at this fine gentleman while he spoke French. He had received + letters at the post-office under the name of Dormer Colville: a name not + unknown in London and Paris, but of which the social fame had failed to + travel even to Ipswich, twenty miles away from this mouldering churchyard. + </p> + <p> + “It’s getting on for twenty-five years come Michaelmas,” + put in River Andrew. “I wasn’t digger then; but I remember the + burial well enough. And I remember Frenchman—same as if I see him + yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + He plucked a blade of grass from the grave and placed it between his + teeth. + </p> + <p> + “He were a mystery, he were,” he added, darkly, and turned to + look musingly across the marshes toward the distant sea. For River Andrew, + like many hawkers of cheap wares, knew the indirect commercial value of + news. + </p> + <p> + The little white-haired Frenchman made a gesture of the shoulders and + outspread hands indicative of a pious horror at the condition of this + neglected grave. The meaning of his attitude was so obvious that River + Andrew shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. + </p> + <p> + “Passen,” he said, “he don’t take no account of + the graves. He’s what you might call a bookworm. Always a sitting + indoors reading books and pictures. Butcher Franks turns his sheep in from + time to time. But along of these tempests and the hot sun the grass has + shot up a bit. Frenchman’s no worse off than others. And there’s + some as are fallen in altogether.” + </p> + <p> + He indicated one or two graves where the mound had sunk, and suggestive + hollows were visible in the grass. “First, it’s the coffin + that bu’sts in beneath the weight, then it’s the bones,” + he added, with that grim realism which is begotten of familiarity. + </p> + <p> + Dormer Colville did not trouble to translate these general truths. He + suppressed a yawn as he contemplated the tottering headstones of certain + master-mariners and Trinity-pilots taking their long rest in the immediate + vicinity. The churchyard lay on the slope of rising ground upon which the + village of Farlingford straggled upward in one long street. Farlingford + had once been a town of some commercial prosperity. Its story was the + story of half a dozen ports on this coast—a harbour silted up, a + commerce absorbed by a more prosperous neighbour nearer to the railway. + </p> + <p> + Below the churchyard was the wide street which took a turn eastward at the + gates and led straight down to the river-side. Farlingford Quay—a + little colony of warehouses and tarred huts—was separated from + Farlingford proper by a green, where the water glistened at high tide. In + olden days the Freemen of Farlingford had been privileged to graze their + horses on the green. In these later times the lord of the manor pretended + to certain rights over the pasturage, which Farlingford, like one man, + denied him. + </p> + <p> + “A mystery,” repeated River Andrew, waiting very clearly for + Mr. Dormer Colville to translate the suggestive word to the French + gentleman. But Colville only yawned. “And there’s few in + Farlingford as knew Frenchman as well as I did.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Colville walked toward the church porch, which seemed to appeal to his + sense of the artistic; for he studied the Norman work with the eye of a + connoisseur. He was evidently a cultured man, more interested in a work of + art than in human story. + </p> + <p> + River Andrew, seeing him depart, jingled the keys which he carried in his + hand, and glanced impatiently toward the older man. The Marquis de + Gemosac, however, ignored the sound as completely as he had ignored River + Andrew’s remarks. He was looking round him with eyes which had once + been dark and bright, and were now dimly yellow. He looked from tomb to + tomb, vainly seeking one that should be distinguished, if only by the + evidence of a little care at the hands of the living. He looked down the + wide grass-grown street—partly paved after the manner of the + Netherlands—toward the quay, where the brown river gleamed between + the walls of the weather-beaten brick buildings. There was a ship lying at + the wharf, half laden with hay; a coasting craft from some of the greater + tidal rivers, the Orwell or the Blackwater. A man was sitting on a piece + of timber on the quay, smoking as he looked seaward. But there was no one + else in sight. For Farlingford was half depopulated, and it was tea-time. + Across the river lay the marshes, unbroken by tree or hedge, barren of + even so much as a hut. In the distance, hazy and grey in the eye of the + North Sea, a lighthouse stood dimly, like a pillar of smoke. To the south—so + far as the eye could pierce the sea haze—marshes. To the north—where + the river ran between bare dykes—marshes. + </p> + <p> + And withal a silence which was only intensified by the steady hum of the + wind through the gnarled branches of the few churchyard trees which turn a + crouching back toward the ocean. + </p> + <p> + In all the world—save, perhaps, in the Arctic world—it would + be hard to find a picture emphasising more clearly the fact that a man’s + life is but a small matter, and the memory of it like the seed of grass + upon the wind to be blown away and no more recalled. + </p> + <p> + The bearer of one of the great names of France stood knee-deep in the + sun-tanned grass and looked slowly round as if seeking to imprint the + scene upon his memory. He turned to glance at the crumbling church behind + him, built long ago by men speaking the language in which his own thoughts + found shape. He looked slowly from end to end of the ill-kept burial + ground, crowded with the bones of the nameless and insignificant dead, + who, after a life passed in the daily struggle to wrest a sufficiency of + food from a barren soil, or the greater struggle to hold their own against + a greedy sea, had faded from the memory of the living, leaving naught + behind them but a little mound where the butcher put his sheep to graze. + </p> + <p> + Monsieur de Gemosac was so absorbed in his reflections that he seemed to + forget his surroundings and stood above the grave, pointed out to him by + River Andrew, oblivious to the cold wind that blew in from the sea, deaf + to the clink of the sexton’s inviting keys, forgetful of his + companion who stood patiently waiting within the porch. The Marquis was a + little bent man, spare of limb, heavy of shoulder, with snow-white hair + against which his skin, brown and wrinkled as a walnut shell, looked + sallow like old ivory. His face was small and aquiline; not the face of a + clever man, but clearly the face of an aristocrat. He had the grand manner + too, and that quiet air of self-absorption which usually envelops the + bearers of historic names. + </p> + <p> + Dormer Colville watched him with a good-natured patience which pointed, as + clearly as his attitude and yawning indifference, to the fact that he was + not at Farlingford for his own amusement. Presently he lounged back again + toward the Marquis and stood behind him. “The wind is cold, Marquis,” + he said, pleasantly. “One of the coldest spots in England. What + would Mademoiselle say if I allowed you to take a chill?” + </p> + <p> + De Gemosac turned and looked at him over his shoulder with a smile full of + pathetic meaning. He spread out his arms in a gesture indicative of horror + at the bleakness of the surroundings; at the mournfulness of the decaying + village; the dreary hopelessness of the mouldering church and tombs. + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking, my friend,” he said. “That was all. It + is not surprising ... that one should think.” + </p> + <p> + Colville heaved a sigh and said nothing. He was, it seemed, essentially a + sympathetic man; not of a thoughtful habit himself, but tolerant of + thought in others. It was abominably windy and cold, although the corn was + beginning to ripen; but he did not complain. Neither did he desire to + hurry his companion in any way. + </p> + <p> + He looked at the crumbling grave with a passing shadow in his clever and + worldly eyes, and composed himself to await his friend’s pleasure. + </p> + <p> + In his way he must have been a philosopher. His attitude did not suggest + that he was bored, and yet it was obvious that he was eminently out of + place in this remote spot. He had nothing in common, for instance, with + River Andrew, and politely yawned that reminiscent fish-curer into + silence. His very clothes were of a cut and fashion never before seen in + Farlingford. He wore them, too, with an air rarely assumed even in the + streets of Ipswich. + </p> + <p> + Men still dressed with care at this time; for d’Orsay was not yet + dead, though his fame was tarnished. Mr. Dormer Colville was not a dandy, + however. He was too clever to go to that extreme and too wise not to be + within reach of it in an age when great tailors were great men, and it was + quite easy to make a reputation by clothes alone. + </p> + <p> + Not only was his dress too fine for Farlingford, but his personality was + not in tune with this forgotten end of England. His movements were too + quick for a slow-moving race of men; no fools, and wiser than their + midland brethren; slow because they had yet to make sure that a better way + of life had been discovered than that way in which their Saxon forefathers + had always walked. + </p> + <p> + Colville seemed to look at the world with an exploiting eye. He had a + speculative mind. Had he lived at the end of the Victorian era instead of + the beginning he might have been a notable financier. His quick glance + took in all Farlingford in one comprehensive verdict. There was nothing to + be made of it. It was uninteresting because it obviously had no future, + nor encouraged any enterprise. He looked across the marshes indifferently, + following the line of the river as it made its devious way between high + dykes to the sea. And suddenly his eye lighted. There was a sail to the + south. A schooner was standing in to the river mouth, her sails glowing + rosily in the last of the sunset light. + </p> + <p> + Colville turned to see whether River Andrew had noticed, and saw that + landsman looking skyward with an eye that seemed to foretell the early + demise of a favouring wind. + </p> + <p> + “That’s ‘The Last Hope,’” he said, in answer + to Dormer Colville’s question. “And it will take all Seth + Clubbe’s seamanship to save the tide. ‘The Last Hope.’ + There’s many a ‘Hope,’ built at Farlingford, and that’s + the last, for the yard is closed and there’s no more building now.” + </p> + <p> + The Marquis de Gemosac had turned away from the grave, but as Colville + approached him he looked back to it with a shake of the head. + </p> + <p> + “After eight centuries of splendour, my friend,” he said. + “Can that be the end—that?” + </p> + <p> + “It is not the end,” answered Colville, cheerfully, “It + is only the end of a chapter. <i>Le roi est mort—vive le roi!</i>” + </p> + <p> + He pointed with his stick, as he spoke, to the schooner creeping in + between the dykes. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II — VIVE LE ROI + </h2> + <p> + “The Last Hope” had been expected for some days. It was known + in Farlingford that she was foul, and that Captain Clubbe had decided to + put her on the slip-way at the end of the next voyage. Captain Clubbe was + a Farlingford man. “The Last Hope” was a Farlingford built + ship, and Seth Clubbe was not the captain to go past his own port for the + sake of saving a few pounds. + </p> + <p> + “Farlingford’s his nation,” they said of him down at the + quay. “Born and bred here, man and boy. He’s not likely to put + her into a Thames dry-dock while the slip-way’s standing empty.” + </p> + <p> + All the village gossips naturally connected the arrival of the two + gentlemen from London with the expected return of “The Last Hope.” + Captain Clubbe was known to have commercial relations with France. It was + currently reported that he could speak the language. No one could tell the + number of his voyages backward and forward from the Bay to Bristol, to + Yarmouth, and even to Bergen, carrying salt-fish to those countries where + their religion bids them eat that which they cannot supply from their own + waters, and bringing back wine from Bordeaux and brandy from Charente. + </p> + <p> + It is not etiquette, however, on these wind-swept coasts to inquire too + closely into a man’s business, and, as in other places, the talk was + mostly among those who knew the least—namely, the women. There had + been a question of repairing the church. The generation now slowly finding + its way to its precincts had discussed the matter since their childhood + and nothing had come of it. + </p> + <p> + One bold spirit put forth the suggestion that the two gentlemen were + London architects sent down by the Queen to see to the church. But the + idea fell to the ground before the assurance from Mrs. Clopton’s own + lips that the old gentleman was nothing but a Frenchman. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clopton kept “The Black Sailor,” and knew a deal more + than she was ready to tell people; which is tantamount to saying that she + was a woman in a thousand. It had leaked out, however, that the spokesman + of the party, Mr. Dormer Colville, had asked Mrs. Clopton whether it was + true that there was claret in the cellars of “The Black Sailor.” + And any one having doubts could satisfy himself with a sight of the empty + bottles, all mouldy, standing in the back yard of the inn. + </p> + <p> + They were wine-merchants from France, concluded the wiseacres of + Farlingford over their evening beer. They had come to Farlingford to see + Captain Clubbe. What could be more natural! For Farlingford was proud of + Captain Clubbe. It so often happens that a man going out into the world + and making a great name there, forgets his birthplace and the rightful + claim to a gleam of reflected glory which the relations of a great man—who + have themselves stayed at home and done nothing—are always ready to + consider their due reward for having shaken their heads over him during + the earlier struggles. + </p> + <p> + Though slow of tongue, the men of Farlingford were of hospitable + inclination. They were sorry for Frenchmen, as for a race destined to + smart for all time under the recollection of many disastrous defeats at + sea. And of course they could not help being ridiculous. Heaven had made + them like that while depriving them of any hope of ever attaining to good + seamanship. Here was a foreigner, however, cast up in their midst, not by + the usual channel indeed, but by a carriage and pair from Ipswich. He must + feel lonesome, they thought, and strange. They, therefore, made an effort + to set him at his ease, and when they met him in “the street” + jerked their heads at him sideways. The upward jerk is less friendly and + usually denotes the desire to keep strictly within the limits of + acquaintanceship. To Mr. Dormer Colville they gave the upward lift of the + chin as to a person too facile in speech to be desirable. + </p> + <p> + The dumbness of the Marquis do Gemosac appealed perhaps to a race of + seafaring men very sparingly provided by nature with words in which to + clothe thoughts no less solid and sensible by reason of their terseness. + It was at all events unanimously decided that everything should be done to + make the foreigner welcome until the arrival of “The Last Hope.” + A similar unanimity characterised the decision that he must without delay + be shown Frenchman’s grave. + </p> + <p> + River Andrew’s action and the unprecedented display of his Sunday + hat on a week-day were nothing but the outcome of a deep-laid scheme. Mrs. + Clopton had been instructed to recommend the gentlemen to inspect the + church, and the rest had been left to the wit of River Andrew, a man whose + calling took him far and wide, and gave him opportunities of speech with + gentlefolk. + </p> + <p> + These opportunities tempted River Andrew to go beyond his instructions so + far as to hint that he could, if encouraged, make disclosures of interest + respecting Frenchman. Which was untrue; for River Andrew knew no more than + the rest of Farlingford of a man who, having been literally cast up by the + sea at their gates, had lived his life within those gates, had married a + Farlingford woman, and had at last gone the way of all Farlingford without + telling any who or what he was. + </p> + <p> + From sundry open cottage doors and well-laden tea-tables glances of + inquiry were directed toward the strangers’ faces as they walked + down the street after having viewed the church. Some prescient females + went so far as to state that they could see quite distinctly in the elder + gentleman’s demeanour a sense of comfort and consolation at the + knowledge thus tactfully conveyed to him that he was not the first of his + kind to be seen in Farlingford. + </p> + <p> + Hard upon the heels of the visitors followed River Andrew, wearing his sou’wester + now and carrying the news that “The Last Hope” was coming up + on the top of the tide. + </p> + <p> + Farlingford lies four miles from the mouth of the river, and no ship can + well arrive unexpected at the quay; for the whole village may see her + tacking up under shortened sail, heading all ways, sometimes close-hauled, + and now running free as she follows the zigzags of the river. + </p> + <p> + Thus, from the open door, the villagers calculated the chances of being + able to finish the evening meal at leisure and still be down at the quay + in time to see Seth Clubbe bring his ship alongside. One by one the men of + Farlingford, pipe in mouth, went toward the river, not forgetting the + kindly, sideward jerk of the head for the old Frenchman already waiting + there. + </p> + <p> + It was nearly the top of the tide and the clear green water swelled and + gurgled round the weedy piles of the quay, bringing on its surface tokens + from the sea—shadowy jelly-fish, weed, and froth. “The Last + Hope” was quite close at hand now, swinging up in mid-stream. The + sun had set and over the marshes the quiet of evening brooded hazily. + Captain Clubbe had taken in all sail except a jib. His anchor was swinging + lazily overside, ready to drop. The watchers on the quay could note the + gentle rise and fall of the crack little vessel as the tide lifted her + from behind. She seemed to be dancing to her home like a maiden back from + school. The swing of her tapering masts spoke of the heaving seas she had + left behind. + </p> + <p> + It was characteristic of Farlingford that no one spoke. River Andrew was + already in his boat, ready to lend a hand should Captain Clubbe wish to + send a rope ashore. But it was obvious that the captain meant to anchor in + the stream for the night: so obvious that if any one on shore had + mentioned the conclusion his speech would have called for nothing but a + contemptuous glance from the steady blue eyes all round him. + </p> + <p> + It was equally characteristic of a Farlingford ship that there were no + greetings from the deck. Those on shore could clearly perceive the burly + form of Captain Clubbe, standing by the weather rigging. Wives could + distinguish their husbands, and girls their lovers; but, as these were + attending to their business with a taciturn concentration, no hand was + raised in salutation. + </p> + <p> + The wind had dropped now. For these are coasts of quiet nights and + boisterous days. The tide was almost slack. “The Last Hope” + was scarcely moving, and in the shadowy light looked like a phantom ship + sailing out of a dreamy sunset sky. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly the silence was broken, so unexpectedly, so dramatically, that + the old Frenchman, to whose nature such effects would naturally appeal + with a lightning speed, rose to his feet and stood looking with startled + eyes toward the ship. A clear strong voice had broken joyously into song, + and the words it sang were French: + </p> + <p> + “C’est le Hasard, Qui, tôt ou tard, Ici bas nous seconde; Car, + D’un bout du monde A l’autre bout, Le Hasard seul fait tout.” + </p> + <p> + Not only were the words incongruous with their quaint, sadly gay air of a + dead epoch of music and poetry; but the voice was in startling contrast to + the tones of a gruff and slow-speaking people. For it was a clear tenor + voice with a ring of emotion in it, half laughter, half tears, such as no + Briton could compass himself, or hear in another without a dumb feeling of + shame and shyness. + </p> + <p> + But those who heard it on the shore—and all Farlingford was there by + this time—only laughed curtly. Some of the women exchanged a glance + and made imperfectly developed gestures, as of a tolerance understood + between mothers for anything that is young and inconsequent. + </p> + <p> + “We’ve gotten Loo Barebone back at any rate,” said a + man, bearing the reputation of a wit. And after a long pause one or two + appreciators answered: + </p> + <p> + “You’re right,” and laughed good-humouredly. + </p> + <p> + The Marquis de Gemosac sat down again, with a certain effort at + self-control, on the balk of timber which had been used by some + generations of tide-watchers. He turned and exchanged a glance with Dormer + Colville, who stood at his side leaning on his gold-headed cane. Colville’s + expression seemed to say: + </p> + <p> + “I told you what it would be. But wait: there is more to come.” + </p> + <p> + His affable eyes made a round of the watching faces, and even exchanged a + sympathetic smile with some, as if to hint that his clothes were only fine + because he belonged to a fine generation, but that his heart was as human + as any beating under a homelier coat. + </p> + <p> + “There’s Passen,” said one woman to another, behind the + corner of her apron, within Colville’s hearing. “It takes a + deal to bring him out o’ doors nowadays, and little Sep and—Miss + Miriam.” + </p> + <p> + Dormer Colville heard the words. And he heard something unspoken in the + pause before the mention of the last name. He did not look at once in the + direction indicated by a jerk of the speaker’s thumb, but waited + until a change of position enabled him to turn his head without undue + curiosity. He threw back his shoulders and stretched his legs after the + manner of one cramped by standing too long in one attitude. + </p> + <p> + A hundred yards farther up the river, where the dyke was wider, a + grey-haired man was walking slowly toward the quay. In front of him a boy + of ten years was endeavouring to drag a young girl toward the jetty at a + quicker pace than she desired. She was laughing at his impetuosity and + looking back toward the man who followed them with the abstraction and + indifference of a student. + </p> + <p> + Colville took in the whole picture in one quick comprehensive glance. But + he turned again as the singer on board “The Last Hope” began + another verse. The words were clearly audible to such as knew the + language, and Colville noted that the girl turned with a sudden gravity to + listen to them. + </p> + <p> + “Un tel qu’on vantait Par hasard était D’origine assez + minoe; Par hasard il plut, Par hasard il fut Baron, ministre, et prince.” + </p> + <p> + Captain Clubbe’s harsh voice broke into the song with the order to + let go the anchor. As the ship swung to the tide the steersman, who wore + neither coat nor waistcoat, could be seen idly handling the wheel still, + though his duties were necessarily at an end. He was a young man, and a + gay salutation of his unemployed hand toward the assembled people—as + if he were sure that they were all friends—stamped him as the + light-hearted singer, so different from the Farlingford men, so strongly + contrasted to his hearers, who nevertheless jerked their heads sideways in + response. He had, it seemed, rightly gauged the feelings of these cold + East Anglians. They were his friends. + </p> + <p> + River Andrew’s boat was alongside “The Last Hope” now. + Some one had thrown him a rope, which he had passed under his bow thwart + and now held with one hand, while with the other he kept his distance from + the tarry side of the ship. There was a pause until the schooner felt her + moorings, then Captain Clubbe looked over the side and nodded a curt + salutation to River Andrew, bidding him, by the same gesture, wait a + minute until he had donned his shore-going jacket. The steersman was + pulling on his coat while he sought among the crowd the faces of his more + familiar friends. He was, it seemed, a privileged person, and took it for + granted that he should go ashore with the captain. He was, perhaps, one of + those who seemed to be privileged at their birth by Fate, and pass through + life on the sunny side with a light step and laughing lips. + </p> + <p> + Captain Clubbe was the first to step ashore, with one comprehensive nod of + the head for all Farlingford. Close on his heels the younger sailor was + already returning the greetings of his friends. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo, Loo!” they said; or, “How do, Barebone?” + For their tongues are no quicker than their limbs, and to this day, + “How do?” is the usual greeting. + </p> + <p> + The Marquis de Gemosac, who was sitting in the background, gave a sharp + little exclamation of surprise when Barebone stepped ashore, and turned to + Dormer Colville to say in an undertone: + </p> + <p> + “Ah—but you need say nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “I promised you,” answered Colville, carelessly, “that I + should tell you nothing till you had seen him.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III — THE RETURN OF “THE LAST HOPE” + </h2> + <p> + Not only France, but all Europe, had at this time to reckon with one who, + if, as his enemies said, was no Bonaparte, was a very plausible imitation + of one. + </p> + <p> + In 1849 France, indeed, was kind enough to give the world a breathing + space. She had herself just come through one of those seething years from + which she alone seems to have the power of complete recovery. Paris had + been in a state of siege for four months; not threatened by a foreign foe, + but torn to pieces by internal dissension. Sixteen thousand had been + killed and wounded in the streets. A ministry had fallen. A ministry + always does fall in France. Bad weather may bring about such a descent at + any moment. A monarchy had been thrown down—a king had fled. Another + king; and one who should have known better than to put his trust in a + people. + </p> + <p> + Half a dozen generals had attempted to restore order in Paris and + confidence in France. Then, at the very end of 1848, the fickle people + elected this Napoleon, who was no Bonaparte, President of the new + Republic, and Europe was accorded a breathing space. At the beginning of + 1849 arrangements were made for it—military arrangements—and + the year was almost quiet. + </p> + <p> + It was in the summer of the next year, 1850, that the Marquis de Gemosac + journeyed to England. It was not his first visit to the country. Sixty + years earlier he had been hurried thither by a frenzied mother, a little + pale-faced boy, not bright or clever, but destined to pass through days of + trial and years of sorrow which the bright and clever would scarcely have + survived. For brightness must always mean friction, while cleverness will + continue to butt its head against human limitations so long as men shall + walk this earth. + </p> + <p> + He had been induced to make this journey thus, in the evening of his days, + by the Hope, hitherto vain enough, which many Frenchmen had pursued for + half a century. For he was one of those who refused to believe that Louis + XVII had died in the prison of the Temple. + </p> + <p> + Not once, but many times, Dormer Colville laughingly denied any + responsibility in the matter. + </p> + <p> + “I will not even tell the story as it was told to me,” he said + to the Marquis de Gemosac, to the Abbé Touvent and to the Comtesse de + Chantonnay, whom he met frequently enough at the house of his cousin, Mrs. + St. Pierre Lawrence, in that which is now the Province of the Charente + Inférieure. “I will not even tell you the story as it was told to + me, until one of you has seen the man. And then, if you ask me, I will + tell you. It is nothing to me, you understand. I am no dreamer, but a very + material person, who lives in France because he loves the sunshine, and + the cuisine, and the good, kind hearts, which no government or want of + government can deteriorate.” + </p> + <p> + And Madame de Chantonnay, who liked Dormer Colville—with whom she + admitted she always felt herself in sympathy—smiled graciously in + response to his gallant bow. For she, too, was a materialist who loved the + sunshine and the cuisine; more especially the cuisine. + </p> + <p> + Moreover, Colville never persuaded the Marquis de Gemosac to come to + England. He went so far as to represent, in a realistic light, the + discomforts of the journey, and only at the earnest desire of many persons + concerned did he at length enter into the matter and good-naturedly + undertake to accompany the aged traveller. + </p> + <p> + So far as his story was concerned, he kept his word, entertaining the + Marquis on the journey and during their two days’ sojourn at the + humble inn at Farlingford with that flow of sympathetic and easy + conversation which always made Madame de Chantonnay protest that he was no + Englishman at all, but all that there was of the most French. Has it not + been seen that Colville refused to translate the dark sayings of River + Andrew by the side of the grass-grown grave, which seemed to have been + brought to the notice of the travellers by the merest accident? + </p> + <p> + “I promised you that I should tell you nothing until you had seen + him,” he repeated, as the Marquis followed with his eyes the + movements of the group of which the man they called Loo Barebone formed + the centre. + </p> + <p> + No one took much notice of the two strangers. It is not considered good + manners in a seafaring community to appear to notice a new-comer. Captain + Clubbe was naturally the object of universal attention. Was he not + bringing foreign money into Farlingford, where the local purses needed + replenishing now that trade had fallen away and agriculture was so sorely + hampered by the lack of roads across the marsh? + </p> + <p> + Clubbe pushed his way through the crowd to shake hands with the Rev. + Septimus Marvin, who seemed to emerge from a visionary world of his own in + order to perform that ceremony and to return thither on its completion. + </p> + <p> + Then the majority of the onlookers straggled homeward, leaving a few wives + and sweethearts waiting by the steps, with patient eyes fixed on the + spidery figures in the rigging of “The Last Hope.” Dormer + Colville and the Marquis de Gemosac were left alone, while the rector + stood a few yards away, glaring abstractedly at them through his + gold-rimmed spectacles as if they had been some strange flotsam cast up by + the high tide. + </p> + <p> + “I remember,” said Colville to his companion, “that I + have an introduction to the pastor of the village, who, if I am not + mistaken, is even now contemplating opening a conversation. It was given + to me by my banker in Paris, who is a Suffolk man. You remember, Marquis, + John Turner, of the Rue Lafayette?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes,” answered the Marquis, absently. He was still + watching the retreating villagers, with eyes old and veiled by the trouble + that they had seen. + </p> + <p> + “I will take this opportunity of presenting myself,” said + Colville, who was watching the little group from the rectory without + appearing to do so. He rose as he spoke and went toward the clergyman, who + was probably much younger than he looked. For he was ill-dressed and + ill-shorn, with straggling grey hair hanging to his collar. He had a musty + look, such as a book may have that is laid on a shelf in a deserted room + and never opened or read. Septimus Marvin, the world would say, had been + laid upon a shelf when he was inducted to the spiritual cure of + Farlingford. But no man is ever laid on a shelf by Fate. He climbs up + there of his own will, and lies down beneath the dust of forgetfulness + because he lacks the heart to arise and face the business of life. + </p> + <p> + Seeing that Dormer Colville was approaching him, he came forward with a + certain scholarly ease of manner as if he had once mixed with the best on + an intellectual equality. + </p> + <p> + Colville’s manners were considered perfect, especially by those who + were unable to detect a fine line said to exist between ease and too much + ease. Mr. Marvin recollected John Turner well. Ten years earlier he had, + indeed, corresponded at some length with the Paris banker respecting a + valuable engraving. Was Mr. Colville interested in engravings? Colville + confessed to a deep and abiding pleasure in this branch of art, tempered, + he admitted with a laugh, by a colossal ignorance. He then proceeded to + give the lie to his own modesty by talking easily and well of mezzotints + and etchings. + </p> + <p> + “But,” he said, interrupting himself with evident reluctance, + “I am forgetting my obligations. Let me present to you my companion, + an old friend, the Marquis de Gemosac.” + </p> + <p> + The two gentlemen bowed, and Mr. Marvin, knowing no French, proceeded to + address the stranger in good British Latin, after the manner of the + courtly divines of his day. Which Latin, from its mode of pronunciation, + was entirely unintelligible to its hearer. + </p> + <p> + In return, the rector introduced the two strangers to his niece, Miriam + Liston. + </p> + <p> + “The mainstay of my quiet house,” he added, with his vague and + dreamy smile. + </p> + <p> + “I have already heard of you,” said Dormer Colville at once, + with his modest deference, “from my cousin, Mrs. St. Pierre + Lawrence.” + </p> + <p> + He seemed, as sailors say, never to be at a loose end; but to go through + life with a facile readiness, having, as it were, his hands full of + threads among which to select, with a careless affability, one that must + draw him nearer to high and low, men and women, alike. + </p> + <p> + They talked together for some minutes, and, soon after the discovery that + Mariam Liston was as good a French scholar as himself, and therefore able + to converse with the Marquis de Gemosac, Colville regretted that it was + time for them to return to their simple evening meal at “The Black + Sailor.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Colville to Monsieur de Gemosac, as they walked + slowly across the green toward the inn, embowered in its simple + cottage-garden, all ablaze now with hollyhocks and poppies—“well, + after your glimpse at this man, Marquis, are you desirous to see more of + him?” + </p> + <p> + “My friend,” answered the Frenchman, with a quick gesture, + descriptive of a sudden emotion not yet stilled, “he took my breath + away. I can think of nothing else. My poor brain is buzzing still, and I + know not what answers I made to that pretty English girl. Ah! You smile at + my enthusiasm; you do not know what it is to have a great hope dangling + before the eyes all one’s life. And that face—that face!” + </p> + <p> + In which judgment the Marquis was no doubt right. For Dormer Colville was + too universal a man to be capable of concentrated zeal upon any one + object. He laughed at the accusation. + </p> + <p> + “After dinner,” he answered, “I will tell you the little + story as it was told to me. We can sit on this seat, outside the inn, in + the scent of the flowers and smoke our cigarette.” + </p> + <p> + To which proposal Monsieur de Gemosac assented readily enough. For he was + an old man, and to such the importance of small things, such as dinner or + a passing personal comfort, are apt to be paramount. Moreover, he was a + remnant of that class to which France owed her downfall among the nations; + a class represented faithfully enough by its King, Louis XVI, who + procrastinated even on the steps of the guillotine. + </p> + <p> + The wind went down with the sun, as had been foretold by River Andrew, and + the quiet of twilight lay on the level landscape like sleep when the two + travellers returned to the seat at the inn door. A distant curlew was + whistling cautiously to its benighted mate, but all other sounds were + still. The day was over. + </p> + <p> + “You remember,” said Colville to his companion, “that + six months after the execution of the King, a report ran through Paris and + all France that the Dillons had succeeded in rescuing the Dauphin from the + Temple.” + </p> + <p> + “That was in July, 1793—just fifty-seven years ago—the + news reached me in Austria,” answered the Marquis. + </p> + <p> + Colville glanced sideways at his companion, whose face was set with a + stubbornness almost worthy of the tenacious Bourbons themselves. + </p> + <p> + “The Queen was alive then,” went on the Englishman, half + diffidently, as if prepared for amendment or correction. “She had + nearly three months to live. The separation from her children had only + just been carried out. She was not broken by it yet. She was in full + possession of her health and energy. She was one of the cleverest women of + that time. She was surrounded by men, some of whom were frankly + half-witted, others who were drunk with excess of a sudden power for which + they had had no preparation. Others, again, were timorous or cunning. All + were ignorant, and many had received no education at all. For there are + many ignorant people who have been highly educated, Marquis.” + </p> + <p> + He gave a short laugh and lighted a cigarette. “Mind,” he + continued, after a pause devoted to reflection which appeared to be + neither deep nor painful, for he smiled as he gazed across the hazy + marshes, “mind, I am no enthusiast, as you yourself have observed. I + plead no cause. She was not my Queen, Marquis, and France is not my + country. I endeavour to look at the matter with the eye of common-sense + and wisdom. And I cannot forget that Marie Antoinette was at bay: all her + senses, all her wit alert. She can only have thought of her children. + Human nature would dictate such thoughts. One cannot forget that she had + devoted friends, and that these friends possessed unlimited money. Do you + think, Marquis, that any one man of that rabble was above the reach—of + money?” + </p> + <p> + And Mr. Dormer Colville’s reflective smile, as he gazed at the + distant sea, would seem to indicate that, after a considerable experience + of men and women, he had reluctantly arrived at a certain conclusion + respecting them. + </p> + <p> + “No man born of woman, Marquis, is proof against bribery or flattery—or + both.” + </p> + <p> + “One can believe anything that is bad of such dregs of human-kind, + my friend,” said Monsieur de Gemosac, contemptuously. + </p> + <p> + “I speak to one,” continued Colville, “who has given the + attention of a lifetime to the subject. If I am wrong, correct me. What I + have been told is that a man was found who was ready, in return for a + certain sum paid down, to substitute his own son for the little Dauphin—to + allow his son to take the chance of coming alive out of that predicament. + One can imagine that such a man could be found in France at that period.” + </p> + <p> + Monsieur de Gemosac turned, and looked at his companion with a sort of + surprise. + </p> + <p> + “You speak as if in doubt, Monsieur Colville,” he said, with a + sudden assumption of that grand manner with which his father had faced the + people on the Place de la Révolution—had taken a pinch of snuff in + the shadow of the guillotine one sunny July day. “You speak as if in + doubt. Such a man was found. I have spoken with him: I, who speak to you.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV — THE MARQUIS’S CREED + </h2> + <p> + Dormer Colville smiled doubtfully. He was too polite, it seemed, to be + sceptical, and by his attitude expressed a readiness to be convinced as + much from indifference as by reasoning. + </p> + <p> + “It is intolerable,” said the Marquis de Gemosac, “that + a man of your understanding should be misled by a few romantic writers in + the pay of the Orleans.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not misled, Marquis; I am ignorant,” laughed Colville. + “It is not always the same thing.” + </p> + <p> + Monsieur de Gemosac threw away his cigarette and turned eagerly toward his + companion. + </p> + <p> + “Listen,” he said. “I can convince you in a few words.” + </p> + <p> + And Colville leaned back against the weather-worn seat with the air of one + prepared to give a post-prandial attention. + </p> + <p> + “Such a man was found as you yourself suggest. A boy was found who + could not refuse to run that great risk, who could not betray himself by + indiscreet speech—because he was dumb. In order to allay certain + rumours which were going the round of Europe, the National Convention sent + three of its members to visit the Dauphin in prison, and they themselves + have left a record that he answered none of their questions and spoke no + word to them. Why? Because he was dumb. He merely sat and looked at them + solemnly, as the dumb look. It was not the Dauphin at all. He was hidden + in the loft above. The visit of the Conventionals was not satisfactory. + The rumours were not stilled by it. There is nothing so elusive or so + vital as a rumour. Ah! you smile, my friend.” + </p> + <p> + “I always give a careful attention to rumours,” admitted + Colville. “More careful than that which one accords to official + announcements.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, the dumb boy was not satisfactory. Those who were paid for + this affair began to be alarmed. Not for their pockets. There was plenty + of money. Half the crowned heads in Europe, and all the women, were ready + to open their purses for the sake of a little boy, whose ill-treatment + appealed to their soft hearts: who in a sense was sacred, for he was + descended from sixty-six kings. No! Barras and all the other scoundrels + began to perceive that there was only one way out of the difficulty into + which they had blundered. The Dauphin must die! So the dumb boy + disappeared. One wonders whither he went and what his fate might be—” + </p> + <p> + “With so much to tell,” put in Dormer Colville, musingly; + “so much unspoken.” + </p> + <p> + It was odd how the <i>rôles</i> had been reversed. For the Marquis de + Gemosac was now eagerly seeking to convince his companion. The surest way + to persuade a man is to lead him to persuade himself. + </p> + <p> + “The only solution was for the Dauphin to die—in public. So + another substitution was effected,” continued Monsieur de Gemosac. + “A dying boy from the hospital was made to play the part of the + Dauphin. He was not at all like him; for he was tall and dark—taller + and darker than a son of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette could ever have + been. The prison was reconstructed so that the sentry on guard could not + see his prisoner, but was forced to call to him in order to make sure that + he was there. It was a pity that he did not resemble the Dauphin at all, + this scrofulous child. But they were in a hurry, and they were at their + wits’ ends. And it is not always easy to find a boy who will die in + a given time. This boy had to die, however, by some means or other. It was + for France, you understand, and the safety of the Great Republic.” + </p> + <p> + “One hopes that he appreciated his privilege,” observed + Colville, philosophically. + </p> + <p> + “And he must die in public, duly certified for by persons of + undoubted integrity. They called in, at the last moment, Desault, a great + doctor of that day. But Desault was, unfortunately, honest. He went home + and told his assistant that this was not the Dauphin, and that, whoever he + might be, he was being poisoned. The assistant’s name was Choppart, + and this Choppart made up a medicine, on Desault’s prescription, + which was an antidote to poison.” + </p> + <p> + Monsieur de Gemosac paused, and, turning to his companion, held up one + finger to command his full attention. + </p> + <p> + “Desault died, my friend, four days later, and Choppart died five + days after him, and the boy in the Temple died three days after Choppart. + And no one knows what they died of. They were pretty bunglers, those + gentlemen of the Republic! Of course, they called in others in a hurry; + men better suited to their purpose. And one of these, the citizen + Pelletan, has placed on record some preposterous lies. These doctors + certified that this was the Dauphin. They had never seen him before, but + what matter? Great care was taken to identify the body. Persons of + position, who had never seen the son of Louis XVI, were invited to visit + the Temple. Several of them had the temerity to protect themselves in the + certificate. ‘We saw what we were informed was the body of the + Dauphin,’ they said.” + </p> + <p> + Again the old man turned, and held up his hand in a gesture of warning. + </p> + <p> + “If they wanted a witness whose testimony was without question—whose + word would have laid the whole question in that lost and forgotten grave + for ever—they had one in the room above. For the Dauphin’s + sister was there, Marie Thérèse Charlotte, she who is now Duchess of + Angoulême. Why did they not bring her down to see the body, to testify + that her brother was dead and the line of Louis XVI ended? Was it + chivalry? I ask you if these had shown chivalry to Madame de Lamballe? to + Madame Elizabeth? to Marie Antoinette? Was it kindness toward a child of + unparalleled misfortune? I ask you if they had been kind to those whom + they called the children of the tyrant? No! They did not conduct her to + that bedside, because he who lay there was not her brother. Are we + children, Monsieur, to be deceived by a tale of a sudden softness of + heart? They wished to spare this child the pain! Had they ever spared any + one pain—the National Assembly?” + </p> + <p> + And the Marquis de Gemosac’s laugh rang with a hatred which must, it + seems, outlive the possibility of revenge. + </p> + <p> + “There was to be a public funeral. Such a ceremony would have been + of incalculable value at that time. But, at the last minute, their courage + failed them. The boy was thrown into a forgotten corner of a Paris + churchyard, at nine o’clock one night, without witnesses. The spot + itself cannot now be identified. Do you tell me that that was the Dauphin? + Bah! my friend, the thing was too childish!” + </p> + <p> + “The ignorant and the unlettered,” observed Colville, with the + air of making a concession, “are always at a disadvantage—even + in crime.” + </p> + <p> + “That the Dauphin was, in the mean time, concealed in the garret of + the Tower appears to be certain. That he was finally conveyed out of the + prison in a clothes-basket is as certain, Monsieur, as it is certain that + the sun will rise to-morrow. And I believe that the Queen knew, when she + went to the guillotine, that her son was no longer in the Temple. I + believe that Heaven sent her that one scrap of comfort, tempered as it was + by the knowledge that her daughter remained a prisoner in their hands. But + it was to her son that her affections were given. For the Duchess never + had the gift of winning love. As she is now—a cold, hard, composed + woman—so she was in her prison in the Temple at the age of fifteen. + You may take it from one who has known her all his life. And from that + moment to this—” + </p> + <p> + The Marquis paused, and made a gesture with his hands, descriptive of + space and the unknown. + </p> + <p> + “From that moment to this—nothing. Nothing of the Dauphin.” + </p> + <p> + He turned in his seat and looked questioningly up toward the crumbling + church, with its square tower, stricken, years ago, by lightning; with its + grass-grown graveyard marked by stones all grey and hoary with immense age + and the passage of cold and stormy winters. + </p> + <p> + “Who knows,” he added, “what may have become of him? Who + can say where he lies? For a life begun as his began was not likely to be + a long one. Though troubles do not kill. Witness myself, who am five years + his senior.” + </p> + <p> + Colville looked at him in obedience to an inviting gesture of the hand; + looked as at something he did not understand, something beyond his + understanding, perhaps. For the troubles had not been Monsieur de Gemosac’s + own troubles, but those of his country. + </p> + <p> + “And the Duchess?” said the Englishman at length, after a + pause, “at Frohsdorf—what does she say—or think?” + </p> + <p> + “She says nothing,” replied the Marquis de Gemosac, sharply. + “She is silent, because the world is listening for every word she + may utter. What she thinks ... Ah! who knows? She is an old woman, my + friend, for she is seventy-one. Her memories are a millstone about her + neck. No wonder she is silent. Think what her life has been. As a child, + three years of semi-captivity at the Tuileries, with the mob howling round + the railings. Three and a half years a prisoner in the Temple. Both + parents sent to the guillotine—her aunt to the same. All her world—massacred. + As a girl, she was collected, majestic; or else she could not have + survived those years in the Temple, alone—the last of her family. + What must her thoughts have been, at night in her prison? As a woman, she + is cold, sad, unemotional. No one ever lived through such troubles with so + little display of feeling. The Restoration, the Hundred Days, the second + Restoration, Louis XVIII, and his flight to England; Charles X and his + abdication; her own husband, the Duc d’Angoulême—the Dauphin + for many years, the King for half an hour—these are some of her + experiences. She has lived for forty years in exile in Mittau, Memel, + Warsaw, Königsberg, Prague, England; and now she is at Frohsdorf, awaiting + the end. You ask me what she says? She says nothing, but she knows—she + has always known—that her brother did not die in the Temple.” + </p> + <p> + “Then—” suggested Colville, who certainly had acquired + the French art of putting much meaning into one word. + </p> + <p> + “Then why not seek him? you would ask. How do you know that she has + not done so, my friend, with tears? But as years passed on, and brought no + word of him, it became less and less desirable. While Louis XVIII + continued to reign there was no reason to wish to find Louis XVII, you + understand. For there was still a Bourbon, of the direct line, upon the + throne. Louis XVIII would scarcely desire it. One would not expect him to + seek very diligently for one who would deprive him of the crown. Charles + X, knowing he must succeed his brother, was no more enthusiastic in the + search. And the Duchess d’Angoulême herself, you ask? I can see the + question in your face.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet,” conceded Colville. “For, after all, he was her + brother.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—and if she found him, what would be the result? Her uncle + would be driven from the throne; her father-in-law would not inherit; her + own husband, the Dauphin, would be Dauphin no longer. She herself could + never be Queen of France. It is a hard thing to say of a woman—” + </p> + <p> + Monsieur de Gemosac paused for a moment in reflection. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said at length, “a hard thing. But this is a + hard world, Monsieur Colville, and will not allow either men or women to + be angels. I have known and served the Duchess all my life, and I confess + that she has never lost sight of the fact that, should Louis XVII be + found, she herself would never be Queen of France. One is not a Bourbon + for nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “One is not a stateswoman and a daughter of kings for nothing,” + amended Colville, with his tolerant laugh; for he was always ready to make + allowances. “Better, perhaps, that France should be left quiet, + under the <i>régime</i> she had accepted, than disturbed by the offer of + another <i>régime</i>, which might be less acceptable. You always remind + me—you, who deal with France—of a lion-tamer at a circus. You + have a very slight control over your performing beasts. If they refuse to + do the trick you propose, you do not press it, but pass on to another + trick; and the bars of the cage always appear to the onlooker to be very + inadequate. Perhaps it was better, Marquis, to let the Dauphin go; to pass + him over, and proceed to the tricks suitable to the momentary humour of + your wild animals.” + </p> + <p> + The Marquis de Gemosac gave a curt laugh, which thrilled with a note of + that fearful joy known to those who seek to control the uncontrollable. + </p> + <p> + “At that time,” he admitted, “it might be so. But not + now. At that time there lived Louis XVIII and Charles X, and his sons, the + Duc d’Angoulême and the Duc de Berri, who might reasonably be + expected to have sons in their turn. There were plenty of Bourbons, it + seemed. And now—where are they? What is left of them?” + </p> + <p> + He gave a nod of the head toward the sea that lay between him and Germany. + </p> + <p> + “One old woman, over there, at Frohsdorf, the daughter of Marie + Antoinette, awaiting the end of her bitter pilgrimage—and this Comte + de Chambord. This man who will not when he may. No, my friend, it has + never been so necessary to find Louis XVII as it is now. Necessary for + France—for the whole world. This Prince President, this last + offshoot of a pernicious republican growth, will drag us all in the mud if + he gets his way with France. And those who have watched with seeing eyes + have always known that such a time as the present must eventually come. + For France will always be the victim of a clever adventurer. We have + foreseen it, and for that reason we have treated as serious possibilities + these false Dauphins who have sprung up like mushrooms all over Europe and + even in America. And what have they proved? What have the Bourbons proved + in frustrating their frauds? That the son of Louis XVI did not die in the + Temple. That is all. And Madame herself has gathered further strength to + her conviction that the little King was not buried in that forgotten + corner of the graveyard of Sainte Marguérite. At the same time, she knows + that none of these—neither Naundorff, nor Havergault, nor Bruneau, + nor de Richemont, nor any other pretender—was her brother. No! The + King, either because he did not know he was King, or because he had had + enough of royalty, never came forward and never betrayed his whereabouts. + He was to be sought; he is still to be sought. And it is now that he is + wanted.” + </p> + <p> + “That is why I offer to tell you this story now. That is my reason + for bringing you to Farlingford now,” said Colville, quietly. It + seemed that he must have awaited, as the wise do in this world, the + propitious moment, and should it never come they are content to forego + their purpose. He gave a light laugh and stretched out his long legs, + contemplating his strapped trousers and neat boots with the eye of a + connoisseur. “And should I be the humble means of doing a good turn + to France and others, will France—and others—remember it, I + wonder. Perhaps I hold in my hands the Hope of France, Marquis.” + </p> + <p> + He paused, and lapsed for a moment into thought. It was eight o’clock, + and the long northern twilight was fading into darkness now. The bell of + Captain Clubbe’s ship rang out the hour—a new sound in the + stillness of this forgotten town. + </p> + <p> + “The Last Hope,” added Dormer Colville, with a queer laugh. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V — ON THE DYKE + </h2> + <p> + Neither had spoken again when their thoughts were turned aside from that + story which Colville, instead of telling, had been called upon to hear. + </p> + <p> + For the man whose story it presumably was passed across the green ere the + sound of the ship’s bell had died away. He had changed his clothes, + or else it would have appeared that he was returning to his ship. He + walked with his head thrown up, with long lithe steps, with a gait and + carnage so unlike the heavy tread of men wearing sea-boots all their + working days, that none would have believed him to be born and bred in + Farlingford. For it is not only in books that history is written, but in + the turn of a head, in the sound of a voice, in the vague and dreamy + thoughts half formulated by the human mind ‘twixt sleeping and + waking. + </p> + <p> + Monsieur de Gemosac paused, with his cigarette held poised halfway to his + lips, and watched the man go past, while Dormer Colville, leaning back + against the wall, scanned him sideways between lowered lids. + </p> + <p> + It would seem that Barebone must have an appointment. He walked without + looking about him, like one who is late. He rather avoided than sought the + greeting of a friend from the open cottage-doors as he passed on. On + reaching the quay he turned quickly to the left, following the path that + led toward the dyke at the riverside. + </p> + <p> + “He is no sailor at heart,” commented Colville. “He + never even glanced at his ship.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet it was he who steered the ship in that dangerous river.” + </p> + <p> + “He may be skilful in anything he undertakes,” suggested + Colville, in explanation. “It is Captain Clubbe who will tell us + that. For Captain Clubbe has known him since his birth, and was the friend + of his father.” + </p> + <p> + They sat in silence watching the shadowy figure on the dyke, outlined + dimly against the hazy horizon. He was walking, still with haste as if to + a certain destination, toward the rectory buried in its half circle of + crouching trees. And already another shadow was hurrying from the house to + meet him. It was the boy, little Sep Marvin, and in the stillness of the + evening his shrill voice could be heard in excited greeting. + </p> + <p> + “What have you brought? What have you brought?” he was crying, + as he ran toward Barebone. They seemed to have so much to say to each + other that they could not wait until they came within speaking distance. + The boy took Barebone’s hand, and turning walked back with him to + the old house peeping over the dyke toward the sea. He could scarcely walk + quietly, for joy at the return of his friend, and skipped from side to + side, pouring out questions and answering them himself as children and + women do. + </p> + <p> + But Barebone gave him only half of his attention and looked before him + with grave eyes, while the boy talked of nests and knives. Barebone was + looking toward the garden, concealed like an entrenchment behind the dyke. + It was a quiet evening, and the rector was walking slowly backward and + forward on the raised path, made on the dyke itself, like a ship-captain + on his quarter-deck, with hands clasped behind his bent back and eyes that + swept the horizon at each turn with a mechanical monotony. At one end of + the path, which was worn smooth by the Reverend Septimus Marvin’s + pensive foot, the gleam of a white dress betrayed the presence of his + niece, Miriam Liston. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, is that you?” asked the rector, holding out a limp hand. + “Yes. I remember Sep was allowed to sit up till half-past eight in + the hope that you might come round to see us. Well, Loo, and how are you? + Yes—yes.” + </p> + <p> + And he looked vaguely out to sea, repeating below his breath the words + “Yes—yes” almost in a whisper, as if communing secretly + with his own thoughts out of hearing of the world. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I should come round to see you,” answered Barebone. + “Where else should I go? So soon as we had had tea and I could + change my clothes and get away from that dear Mrs. Clubbe. It seems so + strange to come back here from the racketing world—and France is a + racketing world of its own—and find everything in Farlingford just + the same.” + </p> + <p> + He had shaken hands with the rector and with Miriam Liston as he spoke, + and his speech was not the speech of Farlingford men at all, but rather of + Septimus Marvin himself, of whose voice he had acquired the ring of + education, while adding to it a neatness and quickness of enunciation + which must have been his own; for none in Suffolk could have taught it to + him. + </p> + <p> + “Just the same,” he repeated, glancing at the book Miriam had + laid aside for a moment to greet him and had now taken up again. “That + book must be very large print,” he said, “for you to be able + to read by this light.” + </p> + <p> + “It is large print,” answered the girl, with a friendly laugh, + as she returned to it. + </p> + <p> + “And you are still resolved to be a sailor?” inquired Marvin, + looking at him with kind eyes for ever asleep, it would appear, in some + long slumber which must have been the death of one of the sources of human + energy—of ambition or of hope. + </p> + <p> + “Until I find a better calling,” answered Loo Barebone, with + his eager laugh. “When I am away I wonder how any can be content to + live in Farlingford and let the world go by. And when I am here I wonder + how any can be so foolish as to fret and fume in the restless world while + he might be sitting quietly at Farlingford.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” murmured the rector, musingly, “you are for the + world. You, with your capacities, your quickness for learning, your—well, + your lightness of heart, my dear Loo. That goes far in the great world. To + be light of heart—to amuse. Yes, you are for the world. You might do + something there.” + </p> + <p> + “And nothing in Farlingford?” inquired Barebone, gaily; but he + turned, as he spoke, and glanced once more at Miriam Liston as if in some + dim way the question could not be answered by any other. She was absorbed + in her book again. The print must indeed have been large and clear, for + the twilight was fading fast. + </p> + <p> + She looked up and met his glance with direct and steady eyes of a clear + grey. A severe critic of that which none can satisfactorily define—a + woman’s beauty—would have objected that her face was too wide, + and her chin too square. Her hair, which was of a bright brown, grew with + a singular strength and crispness round a brow which was serene and + square. In her eyes there shone the light of tenacity, and a steady + purpose. A student of human nature must have regretted that the soul + looking out of such eyes should have been vouchsafed to a woman. For + strength and purpose in a man are usually exercised for the good of + mankind, while in a woman such qualities must, it would seem, benefit no + more than one man of her own generation, and a few who may follow her in + the next. + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing,” she said, turning to her book again, + “for a man to do in Farlingford.” + </p> + <p> + “And for a woman—?” inquired Barebone, without looking + at her. + </p> + <p> + “There is always something—everywhere.” + </p> + <p> + And Septimus Marvin’s reflective “Yes—yes,” as he + paused in his walk and looked seaward, came in appropriately as a grave + confirmation of Miriam’s jesting statement. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes,” he repeated, turning toward Barebone, who + stood listening to the boy’s chatter. “You find us as you left + us, Loo. Was it six months ago? Ah! How time flies when one remains + stationary. For you, I dare say, it seems more.” + </p> + <p> + “For me—oh yes, it seems more,” replied Barebone, with + his gay laugh, and a glance toward Miriam. + </p> + <p> + “A little older,” continued the rector. “The church a + little mouldier. Farlingford a little emptier. Old Godbold is gone—the + last of the Godbolds of Farlingford, which means another empty cottage in + the street.” + </p> + <p> + “I saw it as I came down,” answered Barebone. “They look + like last year’s nests—those empty cottages. But you have been + all well, here at the rectory, since we sailed? The cottages—well, + they are only cottages after all.” + </p> + <p> + Miriam’s eyes were raised for a moment from her book. + </p> + <p> + “Is it like that they talk in France?” she asked. “Are + those the sentiments of the great republic?” + </p> + <p> + Barebone laughed aloud. + </p> + <p> + “I thought I could make you look up from your book,” he + answered. “One has merely to cast a slur upon the poor—your + dear poor of Farlingford—and you are up in arms in an instant. But I + am not the person to cast a slur, since I am one of the poor of + Farlingford myself, and owe it to charity—to the charity of the + rectory—that I can read and write.” + </p> + <p> + “But it came to you very naturally,” observed Marvin, looking + vaguely across the marshes to the roofs of the village, “to suggest + that those who live in cottages are of a different race of beings—” + </p> + <p> + He broke off, following his own thoughts in silence, as men soon learn to + do who have had no companion by them capable of following whithersoever + they may lead. + </p> + <p> + “Did it?” asked Barebone, sharply. He turned to look at his + old friend and mentor with a sudden quick distress. “I hope not. I + hope it did not sound like that. For you have never taught me such + thoughts, have you? Quite the contrary. And I cannot have learned it from + Clubbe.” + </p> + <p> + He broke off with a laugh of relief, for he had perceived that Septimus + Marvin’s thoughts were already elsewhere. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you are right,” he added, turning to Miriam. “It + may be that one should go to a republic in order to learn—once for + all—that all men are not equal.” + </p> + <p> + “You say it with so much conviction,” was the retort, “that + you must have known it before.” + </p> + <p> + “But I do not know it. I deny such knowledge. Where could I have + learned such a principle?” + </p> + <p> + He spread out his arms in emphatic denial. For he was quick in all his + gestures—quick to laugh or be grave—quick, with the rapidity + of a woman to catch a thought held back by silence or concealed in speech. + </p> + <p> + Marvin merely looked at him with a dreamy smile and lapsed again into + those speculations which filled his waking moments; for the business of + life never received his full attention. He contemplated the world from + afar off, and was like that blind man at Bethsaida who saw men as trees + walking, and rubbed his eyes and wondered. He turned at the sound of the + church clock and looked at his son, whose attitude towards Barebone was + that of an admiring younger brother. + </p> + <p> + “Sep,” he said, “your extra half-hour has passed. You + will have time tomorrow and for many days to come to exchange views with + Loo.” + </p> + <p> + The boy was old before his time, as the children of elderly parents always + are. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” he said, with a grave nod. “But you must + not tell Loo where those young herons are after I am gone to bed.” + </p> + <p> + He went slowly toward the house, looking back suspiciously from time to + time. + </p> + <p> + “Herons? no. Why should I? Where are they?” muttered Mr. + Marvin, vaguely, and he absent-mindedly followed his son, leaving Miriam + Liston sitting in the turf shelter, built like an embrasure in the dyke, + and Barebone standing a little distance from her, looking at her. + </p> + <p> + A silence fell upon them—the silence that follows the departure of a + third person when those who are left behind turn a new page. Miriam laid + her book upon her lap and looked across the river now slowly turning to + its ebb. She did not look at Barebone, but her eyes were conscious of his + proximity. Her attitude, like his, seemed to indicate the knowledge that + this moment had been inevitable from the first, and that there was no + desire on either part to avoid it or to hasten its advent. + </p> + <p> + “I had a haunting fear as we came up the river,” he said at + length, quietly and with an odd courtesy of manner, “that you might + have gone away. That is the calamity always hanging over this quiet house.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke with the ease of manner which always indicates a long friendship, + or a close <i>camaraderie</i>, resulting from common interests or a common + endeavour. + </p> + <p> + “Why should I go away?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “On the other hand, why should you stay?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I fancy I am wanted,” she replied, in the lighter + tone which he had used. “It is gratifying to one’s vanity, you + know, whether it be true or not.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it is true enough. One cannot imagine what they would do + without you.” + </p> + <p> + He was watching Septimus Marvin as he spoke. Sep had joined him and was + walking gravely by his side toward the house. They were ill-assorted. + </p> + <p> + “But there is a limit even to self-sacrifice and—well, there + is another world open to you.” + </p> + <p> + She gave a curt laugh as if he had touched a topic upon which they would + disagree. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—yes,” he laughed. “I leave myself open to a <i>tu + quoque</i>, I know. There are other worlds open to me also, you would say.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her with his gay and easy smile; but she made no answer, and + her resolute lips closed together sharply. The subject had been closed by + some past conversation or incident which had left a memory. + </p> + <p> + “Who are those two men staying at ‘The Black Sailor?’” + she asked, changing the subject, or only turning into a by-way, perhaps. + “You saw them.” + </p> + <p> + She seemed to take it for granted that he should have seen them, though he + had not appeared to look in their direction. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—yes. I saw them, but I do not know who they are. I came + straight here as soon as I could.” + </p> + <p> + “One of them is a Frenchman,” she said, taking no heed of the + excuse given for his ignorance of Farlingford news. + </p> + <p> + “The old man—I thought so. I felt it when I looked at him. It + was perhaps a fellow feeling. I suppose I am a Frenchman after all. Clubbe + always says I am one when I am at the wheel and let the ship go off the + wind.” + </p> + <p> + Miriam was looking along the dyke, peering into the gathering darkness. + </p> + <p> + “One of them is coming toward us now,” she said, almost + warningly. “Not the Marquis de Gemosac, but the other—the + Englishman.” + </p> + <p> + “Confound him,” muttered Barebone. “What does he want?” + </p> + <p> + And to judge from Mr. Dormer Colville’s pace it would appear that he + chiefly desired to interrupt their <i>tête-à-tête</i>. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI — THE STORY OF THE CASTAWAYS + </h2> + <p> + When River Andrew stated that there were few at Farlingford who knew more + of Frenchman than himself, it is to be presumed that he spoke by the + letter, and under the reserve that Captain Clubbe was not at the moment on + shore. + </p> + <p> + For Captain Clubbe had known Frenchman since boyhood. + </p> + <p> + “I understand,” said Dormer Colville to him two or three days + after the arrival of “The Last Hope,” “that the Marquis + de Gemosac cannot do better than apply to you for some information he + desires to possess. In fact, it is on that account that we are here.” + </p> + <p> + The introduction had been a matter requiring patience. For Captain Clubbe + had not laid aside in his travels a certain East Anglian distrust of the + unknown. He had, of course, noted the presence of the strangers when he + landed at Farlingford quay, but his large, immobile face had betrayed no + peculiar interest. There had been plenty to tell him all that was known of + Monsieur de Gemosac and Dormer Colville, and a good deal that was only + surmised. But the imagination of even the darksome River Andrew failed to + soar successfully under the measuring blue eye, and the total lack of + comment of Captain Clubbe. + </p> + <p> + There was, indeed, little to tell, although the strangers had been seen to + go to the rectory in quite a friendly way, and had taken a glass of sherry + in the rector’s study. Mrs. Clacy was responsible for this piece of + news, and her profession giving her the <i>entrée</i> to almost every back + door in Farlingford enabled her to gather news at the fountain-head. For + Mrs. Clacy went out to oblige. She obliged the rectory on Mondays, and + Mrs. Clubbe, with what was technically described as the heavy wash, on + Tuesdays. Whatever Mrs. Clacy was asked to do she could perform with a + rough efficiency. But she always undertook it with reluctance. It was not, + she took care to mention, what she was accustomed to, but she would do it + to oblige. Her charge was eighteen-pence a day with her dinner, and (she + made the addition with a raised eyebrow, and the resigned sigh of one who + takes her meals as a duty toward those dependent on her) a bit of tea at + the end of the day. + </p> + <p> + It was on a Wednesday that Dormer Colville met Captain Clubbe face to face + in the street, and was forced to curb his friendly smile and half-formed + nod of salutation. For Captain Clubbe went past him with a rigid face and + steadily averted eyes, like a walking monument. For there was something in + the captain’s deportment dimly suggestive of stone, and the dignity + of stillness. His face meant security, his large limbs a slow, sure + action. + </p> + <p> + Colville and Monsieur de Gemosac were on the quay in the afternoon at high + tide when “The Last Hope” was warped on to the slip-way. All + Farlingford was there too, and Captain Clubbe carried out the difficult + task with hardly any words at all from a corner of the jetty, with Loo + Barebone on board as second in command. + </p> + <p> + Captain Clubbe could not fail to perceive the strangers, for they stood a + few yards from him, Monsieur de Gemosac peering with his yellow eyes + toward the deck of “The Last Hope,” where Barebone stood on + the forecastle giving the orders transmitted to him by a sign from his + taciturn captain. Colville seemed to take a greater interest in the + proceedings, and noted the skill and precision of the crew with the air of + a seaman. + </p> + <p> + Presently, Septimus Marvin wandered down the dyke and stood irresolutely + at the far corner of the jetty. He always approached his flock with + diffidence, although they treated him kindly enough, much as they treated + such of their own children as were handicapped in the race of life by some + malformation or mental incapacity. + </p> + <p> + Colville approached him and they stood side by side until “The Last + Hope” was safely moored and chocked. Then it was that the rector + introduced the two strangers to Captain Clubbe. It being a Wednesday, + Clubbe must have known all that there was to know, and more, of Monsieur + de Gemosac and Dormer Colville; for Mrs. Clacy, it will be remembered, + obliged Mrs. Clubbe on Tuesdays. Nothing, however, in the mask-like face, + large and square, of the ship-captain indicated that he knew aught of his + new acquaintances, or desired to know more. And when Colville frankly + explained their presence in Farlingford, Captain Clubbe nodded gravely and + that was all. + </p> + <p> + “We can wait, however, until a more suitable opportunity presents + itself,” Colville hastened to add. “You are busy, as even a + landsman can perceive, and cannot be expected to think of anything but + your vessel until the tide leaves her high and dry.” + </p> + <p> + He turned and explained the situation to the Marquis, who shrugged his + shoulders impatiently as if at the delay. For he was a southerner, and + was, perhaps, ignorant of the fact that in dealing with any born on the + shores of the German Ocean nothing is gained and, more often than not, all + is lost by haste. + </p> + <p> + “You hear,” Colville added, turning to the Captain, and + speaking in a curter manner; for so strongly was he moved by that human + kindness which is vaguely called sympathy that his speech varied according + to his listener. “You hear the Marquis only speaks French. It is + about a fellow-countryman of his buried here. Drop in and have a glass of + wine with us some evening; to-night, if you are at liberty.” + </p> + <p> + “What I can tell you won’t take long,” said Clubbe, over + his shoulder; for the tide was turning, and in a few minutes would be + ebbing fast. + </p> + <p> + “Dare say not. But we have a good bin of claret at ‘The Black + Sailor,’ and shall be glad of your opinion on it.” + </p> + <p> + Clubbe nodded, with a curt laugh, which might have been intended to + deprecate the possession of any opinion on a vintage, or to express his + disbelief that Dormer Colville desired to have it. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, his large person loomed in the dusk of the trees soon after + sunset, in the narrow road leading from his house to the church and the + green. + </p> + <p> + Monsieur de Gemosac and his companion were sitting on the bench outside + the inn, leaning against the sill of their own parlour-window, which stood + open. The Captain had changed his clothes, and now wore those in which he + went to church and to the custom-house when in London or other large + cities. + </p> + <p> + “There walks a just man,” commented Dormer Colville, lightly, + and no longer word could have described Captain Clubbe more aptly. He + would rather have stayed in his own garden this evening to smoke his pipe + in contemplative silence. But he had always foreseen that the day might + come when it would be his duty to do his best by Loo Barebone. He had not + sought this opportunity, because, being a wise as well as a just man, he + was not quite sure that he knew what the best would be. + </p> + <p> + He shook hands gravely with the strangers, and by his manner seemed to + indicate his comprehension of Monsieur de Gemosac’s well-turned + phrases of welcome. Dormer Colville appeared to be in a silent humour, + unless perchance he happened to be one of those rare beings who can either + talk or hold their tongues as occasion may demand. + </p> + <p> + “You won’t want me to put my oar in, I see,” observed + he, tentatively, as he drew forward a small table whereon were set three + glasses and a bottle of the celebrated claret. + </p> + <p> + “I can understand French, but I don’t talk it,” replied + the Captain, stolidly. + </p> + <p> + “And if I interpret as we go along, we shall sit here all night, and + get very little said.” + </p> + <p> + Colville explained the difficulty to the Marquis de Gemosac, and agreed + with him that much time would be saved if Captain Clubbe would be kind + enough to tell in English all that he knew of the nameless Frenchman + buried in Farlingford churchyard, to be translated by Colville to Monsieur + de Gemosac at another time. As Clubbe understood this, and nodded in + acquiescence, there only remained to them to draw the cork and light their + cigars. + </p> + <p> + “Not much to tell,” said Clubbe, guardedly. “But what + there is, is no secret, so far as I know. It has not been told because it + was known long ago, and has been forgotten since. The man’s dead and + buried, and there’s an end of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Of him, yes, but not of his race,” answered Colville. + </p> + <p> + “You mean the lad?” inquired the Captain, turning his calm and + steady gaze to Colville’s face. The whole man seemed to turn, + ponderously and steadily, like a siege-gun. + </p> + <p> + “That is what I meant,” answered Colville. “You + understand,” he went on to explain, as if urged thereto by the fixed + glance of the clear blue eye—“you understand, it is none of my + business. I am only here as the Marquis de Gemosac’s friend. Know + him in his own country, where I live most of the time.” + </p> + <p> + Clubbe nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Frenchman was picked up at sea fifty-five years ago this July,” + he narrated, bluntly, “by the ‘Martha and Mary’ brig of + this port. I was apprentice at the time. Frenchman was a boy with fair + hair and a womanish face. Bit of a cry-baby I used to think him, but being + a boy myself I was perhaps hard on him. He was with his—well, his + mother.” + </p> + <p> + Captain Clubbe paused. He took the cigar from his lips and carefully + replaced the outer leaf, which had wrinkled. Perhaps he waited to be asked + a question. Colville glanced at him sideways and did not ask it. + </p> + <p> + “Dark night,” the Captain continued, after a short silence, + “and a heavy sea, about mid-channel off Dieppe. We sighted a French + fishing-boat yawing about abandoned. Something queer about her, the + skipper thought. Those were queer times in France. We hailed her, and + getting no answer put out a boat and boarded her. There was nobody on + board but a woman and a child. Woman was half mad with fear. I have seen + many afraid, but never one like that. I was only a boy myself, but I + remember thinking it wasn’t the sea and drowning she was afraid of. + We couldn’t find out the smack’s name. It had been painted out + with a tar-brush, and she was half full of water. The skipper took the + woman and child off, and left the fishing-smack as we found her yawing + about—all sail set. They reckoned she would founder in a few + minutes. But there was one old man on board, the boatswain, who had seen + many years at sea, who said that she wasn’t making any water at all, + because he had been told to look for the leak and couldn’t find it. + He said that the water had been pumped into her so as to waterlog her; and + it was his belief that she had not been abandoned many minutes, that the + crew were hanging about somewhere near in a boat waiting to see if we + sighted her and put men on board.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dormer Colville was attending to the claret, and pressed Captain + Clubbe by a gesture of the hand to empty his glass. + </p> + <p> + “Something wrong somewhere?” he suggested, in a conversational + way. + </p> + <p> + “By daylight we were ramping up channel with three French men-of-war + after us,” was Captain Clubbe’s comprehensive reply. “As + chance had it, the channel squadron hove in sight round the Foreland, and + the Frenchmen turned and left us.” + </p> + <p> + Clubbe marked a pause in his narrative by a glass of claret, taken at one + draught like beer. + </p> + <p> + “Skipper was a Farlingford man, name of Doy,” he continued. + “Long as he lived he was pestered by inquiries from the French + government respecting a Dieppe fishing-smack supposed to have been picked + up abandoned at sea. He had picked up no fishing-smack, and he answered no + letters about it. He was an old man when it happened, and he died at sea + soon after my indentures expired. The woman and child were brought here, + where nobody could speak French, and, of course, neither of them could + speak any English. The boy was white-faced and frightened at first, but he + soon picked up spirit. They were taken in and cared for by one and another—any + who could afford it. For Farlingford has always bred seafaring men ready + to give and take.” + </p> + <p> + “So we were told yesterday by the rector. We had a long talk with + him in the morning. A clever man, if—” + </p> + <p> + Dormer Colville did not complete the remark, but broke off with a sigh. He + had no doubt seen trouble himself. For it is not always the ragged and + unkempt who have been sore buffeted by the world, but also such as have a + clean-washed look almost touching sleekness. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Clubbe, slowly and conclusively. “So you + have seen the parson.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” Colville remarked, cheerfully, after a pause; for + we cannot always be commiserating the unfortunate. “Of course, all + this happened before his time, and Monsieur de Gemosac does not want to + learn from hearsay, you understand, but at first hand. I fancy he would, + for instance, like to know when the woman, the—mother died.” + </p> + <p> + Clubbe was looking straight in front of him. He turned in his + disconcerting, monumental way and looked at his questioner, who had + imitated with a perfect ingenuousness his own brief pause before the word + mother. Colville smiled pleasantly at him. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you frankly, Captain,” he said, “it would suit + me better if she wasn’t the mother.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not here to suit you,” murmured Captain Clubbe, without + haste or hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “No. Well, let us say for the present that she was the mother. We + can discuss that another time. When did she die?” + </p> + <p> + “Seven years after landing here.” + </p> + <p> + Colville made a mental calculation and nodded his head with satisfaction + at the end of it. He lighted another cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “I am a business man, Captain,” he said at length. “Fair + dealing and a clean bond. That is what I have been brought up to. + Confidence for confidence. Before we go any further—” He + paused and seemed to think before committing himself. Perhaps he saw that + Captain Clubbe did not intend to go much further without some <i>quid pro + quo</i>. “Before we go any further, I think I may take it upon + myself to let you into the Marquis’s confidence. It is about an + inheritance, Captain. A great inheritance and—well, that young + fellow may well be the man. He may be born to greater things than a + seafaring life, Captain.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want any marquis to tell me that,” answered + Clubbe, with his slow judicial smile. “For I’ve brought him up + since the cradle. He’s been at sea with me in fair weather and foul—and + he is not the same as us.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII — ON THE SCENT + </h2> + <p> + Dormer Colville attached so much importance to the Captain’s grave + jest that he interpreted it at once to Monsieur de Gemosac. + </p> + <p> + “Captain Clubbe,” he said, “tells us that he does not + need to be informed that this Loo Barebone is the man we seek. He has long + known it.” + </p> + <p> + Which was a near enough rendering, perhaps, to pass muster in the hearing + of two persons imperfectly acquainted with the languages so translated. + Then, turning again to the sailor, he continued: + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur de Gemosac would naturally wish to know whether there were + papers or any other means of identification found on the woman or the + child?” + </p> + <p> + “There were a few papers. The woman had a Roman Catholic Missal in + her pocket, and the child a small locket with a miniature portrait in it.” + </p> + <p> + “Of the Queen Marie Antoinette?” suggested Colville, quickly. + </p> + <p> + “It may well have been. It is many years since I saw it. It was + faded enough. I remember that it had a fall, and would not open afterward. + No one has seen it for twenty-five years or so.” + </p> + <p> + “The locket or the portrait?” inquired Colville, with a light + laugh, with which to disclaim any suggestion of a cross-examination. + </p> + <p> + “The portrait.” + </p> + <p> + “And the locket?” + </p> + <p> + “My wife has it somewhere, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + Colville gave an impatient laugh. For the peaceful air of Farlingford had + failed to temper that spirit of energy and enterprise which he had + acquired in cities—in Paris, most likely. He had no tolerance for + quiet ways and a slow, sure progress, such as countrymen seek, who are so + leisurely that the years slide past and death surprises them before they + have done anything in the world but attend to its daily demand for a + passing effort. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” he cried, “but all that must be looked into if we + are to do anything for this young fellow. You will find the Marquis + anxious to be up and doing at once. You go so slowly in Farlingford, + Captain. The world is hurrying on and this chance will be gone past before + we are ready. Let us get these small proofs of identity collected together + as soon as possible. Let us find that locket. But do not force it open. + Give it to me as it is. Let us find the papers.” + </p> + <p> + “There are no papers,” interrupted Captain Clubbe, with a calm + deliberation quite untouched by his companion’s hurry. + </p> + <p> + “No papers?” + </p> + <p> + “No; for Frenchman burnt them before my eyes.” + </p> + <p> + Dormer Colville meditated for a moment in silence. Although his manner was + quick, he was perhaps as deliberate in his choice of a question as was + Captain Clubbe in answering it. + </p> + <p> + “Why did he do that? Did he know who he was? Did he ever say + anything to you about his former life—his childhood—his + recollections of France?” + </p> + <p> + “He was not a man to say much,” answered Clubbe, himself no + man to repeat much. + </p> + <p> + Colville had been trying for some time to study the sailor’s face, + quietly through his cigar smoke. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Captain,” he said, after a pause. “Let us + understand each other. There is a chance, just a chance, that we can prove + this Loo Barebone to be the man we think him, but we must all stand + together. We must be of one mind and one purpose. We four, Monsieur de + Gemosac, you, Barebone, and my humble self. I fancy—well, I fancy it + may prove to be worth our while.” + </p> + <p> + “I am willing to do the best I can for Loo,” was the reply. + </p> + <p> + “And I am willing to do the best I can for Monsieur de Gemosac, + whose heart is set on this affair. And,” Colville added, with his + frank laugh, “let us hope that we may have our reward; for I am a + poor man myself, and do not like the prospect of a careful old age. I + suppose, Captain, that if a man were overburdened with wealth he would + scarcely follow a seafaring life, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Then there is money in it?” inquired Clubbe, guardedly. + </p> + <p> + “Money,” laughed the other. “Yes—there is money + for all concerned, and to spare.” + </p> + <p> + Captain Clubbe had been born and bred among a people possessing little + wealth and leading a hard life, only to come to want in old age. It was + natural that this consideration should carry weight. He was anxious to do + his best for the boy who had been brought up as his own son. He could + think of nothing better than to secure him from want for the rest of his + days. There were many qualities in Loo Barebone which he did not + understand, for they were quite foreign to the qualities held to be + virtues in Farlingford; such as perseverance and method, a careful + economy, and a rigid common sense. Frenchman had brought these strange + ways into Farlingford when he was himself only a boy of ten, and they had + survived his own bringing up in some of the austerest houses in the town, + so vitally as to enable him to bequeath them almost unchastened to his + son. + </p> + <p> + As has been noted, Loo had easily lived down the prejudices of his own + generation against an un-English gaiety, and inconsequence almost + amounting to emotion. And nothing is, or was in the solid days before + these trumpet-blowing times, so unwelcome in British circles as emotion. + </p> + <p> + Frenchman had no doubt prepared the way for his son; but the peculiarities + of thought and manner which might be allowed to pass in a foreigner would + be less easily forgiven in Loo, who had Farlingford blood in his veins. + For his mother had been a Clubbe, own cousin, and, as gossips whispered, + once the sweetheart of Captain Clubbe himself and daughter of Seth Clubbe + of Maiden’s Grave, one of the largest farmers on the Marsh. + </p> + <p> + “It cannot be for no particular purpose that the boy has been + created so different from any about him,” Captain Clubbe muttered, + reflectively, as he thought of Dormer Colville’s words. For he had + that simple faith in an Almighty Purpose, without which no wise man will + be found to do business on blue water. + </p> + <p> + “It is strange how a man may be allowed to inherit from a + grandfather he has never seen a trick of manner, or a face which are not + the manner or face of his father,” observed Colville, adapting + himself, as was his habit, to the humour of his companion. “There + must, as you suggest, be some purpose in it. God writes straight on + crooked lines, Captain.” + </p> + <p> + Thus Dormer Colville found two points of sympathy with this skipper of a + slow coaster, who had never made a mistake at sea nor done an injustice to + any one serving under him; a simple faith in the Almighty Purpose and a + very honest respect for money. This was the beginning of a sort of + alliance between four persons of very different character which was to + influence the whole lives of many. + </p> + <p> + They sat on the tarred seat set against the weather-beaten wall of “The + Black Sailor” until darkness came stealing in from the sea with the + quiet that broods over flat lands, and an unpeopled shore. Colville had + many questions to ask and many more which he withheld till a fitter + occasion. But he learnt that Frenchman had himself stated his name to be + Barebone when he landed, a forlorn and frightened little boy, on this + barren shore, and had never departed from that asseveration when he came + to learn the English language and marry an English wife. Captain Clubbe + told also how Frenchman, for so he continued to be called long after his + real name had been written twice in the parish register, had soon after + his marriage destroyed the papers carefully preserved by the woman whom he + never called mother, though she herself claimed that title. + </p> + <p> + She had supported herself, it appeared, by her needle, and never seemed to + want money, which led the villagers to conclude that she had some secret + store upon which to draw when in need. She had received letters from + France, which were carefully treasured by her until her death, and for + long afterward by Frenchman, who finally burnt all at his marriage, saying + that he was now an Englishman and wanted to retain no ties with France. At + this time, Clubbe remembered, Louis XVIII was firmly established on the + throne of France, the Restoration—known as the Second—having + been brought about by the Allied Powers with a high hand after the Hundred + Days and the final downfall of Napoleon. + </p> + <p> + Frenchman may well have known that it might be worth his while to return + to France and seek fortune there; but he never spoke of this knowledge nor + made reference to the recollections of his childhood, which cast a cold + reserve over his soul and steeped it with such a deadly hatred of France + and all things French, that he desired to sever all memories that might + link him with his native country or awake in the hearts of any children he + should beget the desire to return thither. + </p> + <p> + A year after his marriage his wife died, and thus her son, left to the + care of a lonely and misanthropic father, was brought up a Frenchman after + all, and lisped his first words in that tongue. + </p> + <p> + “He lived long enough to teach him to speak French and think like a + Frenchman, and then he died,” said Captain Clubbe—“a + young man reckoning by years, but in mind he was an older man than I am + today.” + </p> + <p> + “And his secret died with him?” suggested Dormer Colville, + looking at the end of his cigar with a queer smile. But Captain Clubbe + made no answer. + </p> + <p> + “One may suppose that he wanted it to die with him, at all events,” + added Colville, tentatively. + </p> + <p> + “You are right,” was the reply, a local colloquialism in + common use, as a clincher to a closed argument or an unwelcome truth. + Captain Clubbe rose as he spoke and intimated his intention of departing, + by jerking his head sideways at Monsieur de Gemosac, who, however, held + out his hand with a Frenchman’s conscientious desire to follow the + English custom. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll be getting home,” said Clubbe, simply. As he spoke + he peered across the marsh toward the river, and Colville, following the + direction of his gaze, saw the black silhouette of a large lug-sail + against the eastern sky, which was softly grey with the foreglow of the + rising moon. + </p> + <p> + “What is that?” asked Colville. + </p> + <p> + “That’s Loo Barebone going up with the sea-breeze. He has been + down to the rectory. He mostly goes there in the evening. There is a + creek, you know, runs down from Maiden’s Grave to the river.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” answered Colville, thoughtfully, almost as if the creek + and the large lug-sail against the sky explained something which he had + not hitherto understood. + </p> + <p> + “I thought he might have come with you this evening,” he + added, after a pause. “For I suppose everybody in Farlingford knows + why we are here. He does not seem very anxious to seek his fortune in + France.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” answered Clubbe, lifting his stony face to the sky and + studying the little clouds that hovered overhead awaiting the moon. + “No—you are right.” + </p> + <p> + Then he turned with a jerk of the head and left them. The Marquis de + Gemosac watched him depart, and made a gesture toward the darkness of the + night, into which he had vanished, indicative of a great despair. + </p> + <p> + “But,” he exclaimed, “they are of a placidity—these + English. There is nothing to be done with them, my friend, nothing to be + done with such men as that. Now I understand how it is that they form a + great nation. It is merely because they stand and let you thump them until + you are tired, and then they proceed to do what they intended to do from + the first.” + </p> + <p> + “That is because we know that he who jumps about most actively will + be the first to feel fatigue, Marquis,” laughed Colville, + pleasantly. “But you must not judge all England from these eastern + people. It is here that you will find the concentrated essence of British + tenacity and stolidity—the leaven that leavens the whole.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it is our misfortune to have to deal with these concentrated + English—that is all.” + </p> + <p> + The Marquis shrugged his shoulders with that light despair which is + incomprehensible to any but men of Latin race. + </p> + <p> + “No, Marquis! there you are wrong,” corrected Dormer Colville, + with a sudden gravity, “for we have in Captain Clubbe the very man + we want—one of the hardest to find in this chattering world—a + man who will not say too much. If we can only make him say what we want + him to say he will not ruin all by saying more. It is so much easier to + say a word too much than a word too little. And remember he speaks French + as well as English, though, being British, he pretends that he cannot.” + </p> + <p> + Monsieur de Gemosac turned to peer at his companion in the darkness. + </p> + <p> + “You speak hopefully, my friend,” he said. “There is + something in your voice—” + </p> + <p> + “Is there?” laughed Colville, who seemed elated. “There + may well be. For that man has been saying things in that placid monotone + which would have taken your breath away had you been able to understand + them. A hundred times I rejoiced that you understood no English, for your + impatience, Marquis, might have silenced him as some rare-voiced bird is + silenced by a sudden movement. Yes, Marquis, there is a locket containing + a portrait of Marie Antoinette. There are other things also. But there is + one draw-back. The man himself is not anxious to come forward. There are + reasons, it appears, here in Farlingford, why he should not seek his + fortune elsewhere. To-morrow morning—” + </p> + <p> + Dormer Colville rose and yawned audibly. It almost appeared that he + regretted having permitted himself a moment’s enthusiasm on a + subject which scarcely affected his interests. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow morning I will see to it.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII — THE LITTLE BOY WHO WAS A KING + </h2> + <p> + The Reverend Septimus Marvin had lost his wife five years earlier. It was + commonly said that he had never been the same man since. Which was untrue. + Much that is commonly said will, on investigation, be found to be far from + the truth. Septimus Marvin had, so to speak, been the same man since + infancy. He had always looked vaguely at the world through spectacles; had + always been at a loss among his contemporaries—a generation already + tainted by that shallow spirit of haste which is known to-day as modernity—at + a loss for a word; at a loss for a companion soul. + </p> + <p> + He was a scholar and a learned historian. His companions were books, and + he communed in spirit with writers who were dead and gone. + </p> + <p> + Had he ever been a different man his circumstances would assuredly have + been other. His wife, for instance, would in all human probability have + been alive. His avocation might have been more suited to his capabilities. + He was not intended for a country parish, and that practical, human + comprehension of the ultimate value of little daily details, without which + a pastor never yet understood his flock, was not vouchsafed to him. + </p> + <p> + “Passen takes no account o’ churchyard,” River Andrew + had said, and neither he nor any other in Farlingford could account for + the special neglect to which was abandoned that particular corner of the + burial ground where the late Mrs. Marvin reposed beneath an early + Victorian headstone of singular hideousness. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marvin always went round the other way. + </p> + <p> + “Seems as he has forgotten her wonderful quick,” commented the + women of Farlingford. But perhaps they were wrong. If he had forgotten, he + might be expected to go round by the south side of the church by accident + occasionally, especially as it was the shorter way from the rectory to the + porch. He was an absent-minded man, but he always remembered, as River + Andrew himself admitted, to go north about. And his wife’s grave was + overgrown by salted grass as were the rest. + </p> + <p> + Farlingford had accepted him, when his College, having no use for such a + dreamer elsewhere, gave him the living, not only with resignation, but + with equanimity. This remote parish, cut off from the busier mainland by + wide heaths and marshes, sparsely provided with ill-kept roads, had never + looked for a bustling activity in its rectors. Their forefathers had been + content with a gentleman, given to sport and the pursuits of a country + squire, marked on the seventh day by a hearty and robust godliness. They + would have preferred Parson Marvin to have handled a boat and carried a + gun. But he had his good qualities. He left them alone. And they are the + most independent people in the world. + </p> + <p> + When his wife died, his sister, the widow of an Indian officer, bustled + eastward, from a fashionable Welsh watering-place, just to satisfy + herself, as she explained to her West-country friends, that he would not + marry his cook before six months elapsed. After that period she proposed + to wash her hands of him. She was accompanied by her only child, Miriam, + who had just left school. + </p> + <p> + Six months later Septimus Marvin was called upon to give away his sister + to a youthful brother officer of her late husband, which ceremony he + performed with a sigh of relief audible in the farthest recess of the + organ loft. While the wedding-bells were still ringing, the bride, who was + not dreamy or vague like her brother, gave Septimus to understand that he + had promised to provide Miriam with a home—that he really needed a + woman to keep things going at the rectory and to watch over the tender + years of little Sep—and that Miriam’s boxes were packed. + </p> + <p> + Septimus had no recollection of the promise. And his sister was quite hurt + that he should say such a thing as that on her wedding day and spoil + everything. He had no business to make the suggestion if he had not + intended to carry it out. So the bride and bridegroom went away in a + shower of good wishes and rice to the life of organized idleness, for + which the gentleman’s education and talents eminently befitted him, + and Miriam returned to Farlingford with Septimus. + </p> + <p> + In those days the railway passed no nearer to Farlingford than Ipswich, + and before the arrival of their train at that station Miriam had + thoroughly elucidated the situation. She had discovered that she was not + expected at the rectory, and that Septimus had never offered of his own + free will the home which he now kindly pressed upon her—two truths + which the learned historian fondly imagined to be for ever locked up in + his own heart, which was a kind one and the heart of a gentleman. + </p> + <p> + Miriam also learned that Septimus was very poor. She did not need to be + informed that he was helpless. Her instinct had told her that long ago. + She was only nineteen, but she looked at men and women with those + discerning grey eyes, in which there seemed to lurk a quiet light like the + light of stars, and saw right through them. She was woman enough—despite + the apparent inconsequence of the schoolroom, which still lent a vagueness + to her thoughts and movements—to fall an easy victim to the appeal + of helplessness. Years, it would appear, are of no account in certain + feminine instincts. Miriam had probably been woman enough at ten years of + age to fly to the rescue of the helpless. + </p> + <p> + She did not live permanently at the rectory, but visited her mother from + time to time, either in England, or at one of the foreign resorts of idle + people. But the visits, as years went by, became shorter and rarer. At + twenty-one Miriam came into a small fortune of her own, left by her father + in the hands of executors, one of whom was that John Turner, the Paris + banker, who had given Dormer Colville a letter of introduction to Septimus + Marvin. The money was sorely needed at the rectory, and Miriam drew freely + enough on John Turner. + </p> + <p> + “You are an extravagant girl,” said that astute financier to + her, when they met at the house of Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, at Royan, in + France. “I wonder what you spend it on! But I don’t trouble my + head about it. You need not explain, you understand. But you can come to + me when you want advice or help. You will find me—in the background. + I am a fat old man, in the background. Useful enough in my way, perhaps, + even to a pretty girl with a sound judgment.” + </p> + <p> + There were many, who, like Loo Barebone, reflected that there were other + worlds open to Miriam Liston. At first she went into those other worlds, + under the flighty wing of her mother, and looked about her there. Captain + and Mrs. Duncan belonged to the Anglo-French society, which had sprung + into existence since the downfall of Napoleon I, and was in some degree + the outcome of the part played by Great Britain in the comedy of the + Bourbon and Orleanist collapse. Captain Duncan had retired from the army, + changing his career from one of a chartered to an unchartered uselessness, + and he herded with tarnished aristocracy and half-pay failures in the + smoking-rooms of Continental clubs. + </p> + <p> + Miriam returned, after a short experience of this world, to Farlingford, + as to the better part. At first she accepted invitations to some of the + country houses open to her by her connection with certain great families. + But after a time she seemed to fall under the spell of that quiet life + which is still understood and lived in a few remote places. + </p> + <p> + “What can you find to do all day and to think about all night at + that bleak corner of England?” inquired her friends, themselves + restless by day and sleepless by night by reason of the heat of their + pursuit of that which is called pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “If he wants to marry his cook let him do it and be done with us,” + wrote her mother from the south of France. “Come and join us at + Biarritz. The Prince President will be here this winter. We shall be very + gay.... P.S. We shall not ask you to stay with us as we are hard up this + quarter; but to share expenses. Mind come.” + </p> + <p> + But Miriam remained at Farlingford, and there is nothing to be gained by + seeking to define her motive. There are two arguments against seeking a + woman’s motive. Firstly, she probably has none. Secondly, should she + have one she will certainly have a counterfeit, which she will dangle + before your eyes, and you will seize it. + </p> + <p> + Dormer Colville might almost be considered to belong to the world of which + Captain and Mrs. Duncan were such brilliant ornaments. But he did not so + consider himself. For their world was essentially British, savoured here + and there by a French count or so, at whose person and title the French + aristocracy of undoubted genuineness looked askance. Dormer Colville + counted his friends among these latter. In fact, he moved in those + royalist circles who thought that there was little to choose between the + Napoleonic and the Orleanist <i>régime</i>. He carefully avoided intimacy + with Englishmen whose residence in foreign parts was continuous and in + constant need of explanation. Indeed, if a man’s life needs + explanation, he must sooner or later find himself face to face with some + one who will not listen to him. + </p> + <p> + Colville, however, knew all about Captain Duncan, and knew what was + ignored by many, namely, that he was nothing worse than foolish. He knew + all about Miriam, for he was in the confidence of Mrs. St. Pierre + Lawrence. He knew that that lady wondered why Miriam preferred Farlingford + to the high-bred society of her own circle at Royan and in Paris. + </p> + <p> + He thought he knew why Loo Barebone showed so little enterprise. And he + was, as Madame de Chantonnay had frequently told him, more than half a + Frenchman in the quickness of his intuitions. He picked a flower for his + buttonhole from the garden of the “Black Sailor,” and set + forth the morning after his interview with Captain Clubbe toward the + rectory. It was a cool July morning, with the sun half obscured by a + fog-bank driven in from the sea. Through the dazzling white of that which + is known on these coasts as the water-smoke the sky shone a cloudless + blue. The air was light and thin. It is the lightest and thinnest air in + England. Dormer Colville hummed a song under his breath as he walked on + the top of the dyke. He was a light-hearted man, full of hope and + optimism. + </p> + <p> + “Am I disturbing your studies?” he asked, with his easy laugh, + as he came rather suddenly on Miriam and little Sep in the turf-shelter at + the corner of the rectory garden. “You must say so if I am.” + </p> + <p> + They had, indeed, their books, and the boy’s face wore that + abstracted look which comes from a very earnest desire not to see the many + interesting things on earth and sea, which always force themselves upon + the attention of the young at the wrong time. Colville had already secured + Sep’s friendship by the display of a frank ignorance of natural + history only equalled by his desire to be taught. + </p> + <p> + “We’re doing history,” replied Sep, frankly, jumping up + and shaking hands. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes. William the Conqueror, ten hundred and sixty-six, and all + the rest of it. I know. At least I knew once, but I have forgotten.” + </p> + <p> + “No. We’re doing French history. Miriam likes that best, but I + hate it.” + </p> + <p> + “French history,” said Colville, thoughtfully. “Yes. + That is interesting. Miss Liston likes that best, does she? Or, perhaps, + she thinks that it is best for you to know it. Do you know all about Louis + XVI and Marie Antoinette?” + </p> + <p> + “Pretty well,” admitted Sep, doubtfully. + </p> + <p> + “When I was a little chap like you, I knew many people who had seen + Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. That was long, long ago,” he added, + turning to Miriam to make the admission. “But those are not the + things that one forgets, are they, Miss Liston?” + </p> + <p> + “Then I wish Sep could know somebody who would make him remember,” + answered Miriam, half closing the book in her hand; for she was very quick + and had seen Colville’s affable glance take it in in passing, as it + took in everything within sight. + </p> + <p> + “A King, for instance,” he said, slowly. “A King of + France. Others—prophets and righteous men—have desired to see + that, Miss Liston.” + </p> + <p> + It seemed, however, that he had seen enough to know the period which they + were studying. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” he said, after a pause, “that in this + studious house you talk and think history, and more especially French + history. It must be very quiet and peaceful. Much more restful than acting + in it as my friend de Gemosac has done all his life, as I myself have done + in a small way. For France takes her history so much more violently than + you do in England. France is tossed about by it, while England stands and + is hammered on the anvil of Time, as it were, and remains just the same + shape as before.” + </p> + <p> + He broke off and turned to Sep. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know the story of the little boy who was a King?” he + asked, abruptly. “They put him in prison and he escaped. He was + carried out in a clothes-basket. Funny, is it not? And he escaped from his + enemies and reached another country, where he became a sailor. He grew to + be a man and he married a woman of that country, and she died, leaving him + with a little boy. And then he died himself and left the little boy, who + was taken care of by his English relations, who never knew that he was a + King. But he was; for his father was a King before him, and his + grandfathers—far, far back. Back to the beginning of the book that + Miss Liston holds in her hand. The little boy—he was an orphan, you + see—became a sailor. He never knew that he was a King—the Hope + of his country, of all the old men and the wise men in it—the holder + of the fate of nations. Think of that.” + </p> + <p> + The story pleased Sep, who sat with open lips and eager eyes, listening to + it. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think it is an interesting story? What do you think is the + end of it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” answered Sep, gravely. + </p> + <p> + “Neither do I. No one knows the end of that story—yet. But if + you were a King—if you were that boy—what would you do? Would + you go and be a King, or would you be afraid?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I should go and be a King. And fight battles.” + </p> + <p> + “But you would have to leave everybody. You would have to leave your + father.” + </p> + <p> + “I should not mind that,” answered Sep, brutally. + </p> + <p> + “You would leave Miss Liston?” + </p> + <p> + “I should have to,” was the reply, with conviction. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes,” said Colville, with a grave nod of the head. + “Yes. I suppose you would have to if you were anything of a man at + all. There would be no alternative—for a real man.” + </p> + <p> + “Besides,” put in Sep, jumping from side to side on his seat + with eagerness, “she would make me—wouldn’t you, Miriam?” + </p> + <p> + Colville had turned away and was looking northward toward the creek, known + as Maiden’s Grave, running through the marshes to the river. A large + lug-sail broke the flat line of the horizon, though the boat to which it + belonged was hidden by the raised dyke. + </p> + <p> + “Would she?” inquired Colville, absent-mindedly, without + taking his eyes from the sail which was creeping slowly toward them. + “Well—you know Miss Liston’s character better than I do, + Sep. And no doubt you are right. And you are not that little boy, so it + doesn’t matter; does it?” + </p> + <p> + After a pause he turned and glanced sideways at Miriam, who was looking + straight in front of her with steady eyes and white cheeks. + </p> + <p> + They could hear Loo Barebone singing gaily in the boat, which was hidden + below the level of the dyke. And they watched, in a sudden silence, the + sail pass down the river toward the quay. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX — A MISTAKE + </h2> + <p> + The tide was ebbing still when Barebone loosed his boat, one night, from + the grimy steps leading from the garden of Maiden’s Grave farm down + to the creek. It was at the farm-house that Captain Clubbe now lived when + on shore. He had lived there since the death of his brother, two years + earlier—that grim Clubbe of Maiden’s Grave, whose methods of + life and agriculture are still quoted on market days from Colchester to + Beccles. + </p> + <p> + The evenings were shorter now, for July was drawing to a close, and the + summer is brief on these coasts. The moon was not up yet, but would soon + rise. Barebone hoisted the great lug-sail, that smelt of seaweed and + tannin. There was a sleepy breeze blowing in from the cooler sea, to take + the place of that hot and shimmering air which had been rising all day + from the corn-fields. He was quicker in his movements than those who + usually handled these stiff ropes and held the clumsy tiller. Quick—and + quiet for once. He had been three nights to the rectory, only to find the + rector there, vaguely kind, looking at him with a watery eye, through the + spectacles which were rarely straight upon his nose, with an unasked + question on his hesitating lips. + </p> + <p> + For Septimus Marvin knew that Colville, in the name of the Marquis de + Gemosac, had asked Loo Barebone to go to France and institute proceedings + there to recover a great heritage, which it seemed must be his. And + Barebone had laughed and put off his reply from day to day for three days. + </p> + <p> + Few knew of it in Farlingford, though many must have suspected the true + explanation of the prolonged stay of the two strangers at the “Black + Sailor.” Captain Clubbe and Septimus Marvin, Dormer Colville and + Monsieur de Gemosac shared this knowledge, and awaited, impatiently + enough, an answer which could assuredly be only in the affirmative. Clubbe + was busy enough throughout the day at the old slip-way, where “The + Last Hope” was under repair—the last ship, it appeared likely, + that the rotten timbers could support or the old, old shipwrights mend. + </p> + <p> + Loo Barebone was no less regular in his attendance at the river-side, and + worked all day, on deck or in the rigging, at leisurely sail-making or + neat seizing of a worn rope. He was gay, and therefore incomprehensible to + a slow-thinking, grave-faced race. + </p> + <p> + “What do I want with a heritage?” he asked, carelessly. + “I am mate of ‘The Last Hope’—and that is all. Give me + time. I have not made up my mind yet, but I think it will be No.” + </p> + <p> + And oddly enough, it was Colville who preached patience to his companions + in suspense. + </p> + <p> + “Give him time,” he said. “There can only be one answer + to such a proposal. But he is young. It is not when we are young that we + see the world as it really is, but live in a land of dreams. Give him + time.” + </p> + <p> + The Marquis de Gemosac was impatient, however, and was for telling + Barebone more than had been disclosed to him. + </p> + <p> + “There is no knowing,” he cried, “what that <i>canaille</i> + is doing in France.” + </p> + <p> + “There is no knowing,” admitted Colville, with his air of + suppressing a half-developed yawn, “but I think we know, all the + same—you and I, Marquis. And there is no hurry.” + </p> + <p> + After three days Loo Barebone had still given no answer. As he hoisted the + sail and felt for the tiller in the dark, he was, perhaps, meditating on + this momentous reply, or perhaps he had made up his mind long before, and + would hold to the decision even to his own undoing, as men do who are + impulsive and not strong. The water lapped and gurgled round the bows, for + the wind was almost ahead, and it was only by nursing the heavy boat that + he saved the necessity of making a tack across the narrow creek. In the + morning he had, as usual, run down into the river and to the slip-way, + little suspecting that Miriam and Sep were just above him behind the dyke, + where they had sat three days before listening to Dormer Colville’s + story of the little boy who was a King. To-night he ran the boat into the + coarse and wiry grass where Septimus Marvin’s own dinghy lay, half + hidden by the reeds, and he stumbled ashore clutching at the dewy grass as + he climbed the side of the dyke. + </p> + <p> + He went toward the turf-shelter half despondently, and then stopped short + a few yards away from it. For Miriam was there. He thought she was alone, + and paused to make sure before he spoke. She was sitting at the far + corner, sheltered from the north wind. For Farlingford is like a ship—always + conscious of the lee- and the weather-side, and all who live there are + half sailors in their habits—subservient to the wind. + </p> + <p> + “At last,” said Loo, with a little vexed laugh. He could see + her face turned toward him, but her eyes were only dark shadows beneath + her hair. Her face looked white in the darkness. Her answering laugh had a + soothing note in it. + </p> + <p> + “Why—at last?” she asked. Her voice was frank and + quietly assured in its friendliness. They were old comrades, it seemed, + and had never been anything else. The best friendship is that which has + never known a quarrel, although poets and others may sing the tenderness + of a reconciliation. The friendship that has a quarrel and a + reconciliation in it is like a man with a weak place left in his + constitution by a past sickness. He may die of something else in the end, + but the probability is that he must reckon at last with that healed sore. + The friendship may perish from some other cause—a marriage, or + success in life, one of the two great severers—but that salved + quarrel is more than likely to recur and kill at last. + </p> + <p> + These two had never fallen out. And it was the woman who, contrary to + custom, fended the quarrel now. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! because I have been here three nights in succession, I suppose, + and did not find you here. I was disappointed.” + </p> + <p> + “But you found Uncle Septimus in his study. I could hear you talking + there until quite late.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I was very glad to see him and talk with him. For it is + to him that I owe a certain half-developed impatience with the uneducated—with + whom I deal all my life, except for a few hours now and then in the study + and here in the turf-shelter with you. I can see—even in the dark—that + you look grave. Do not do that. It is not worth that.” + </p> + <p> + He broke off with his easy laugh, as if to banish any suggestion of + gravity coming from himself. + </p> + <p> + “It is not worth looking grave about. And I am sorry if I was rude a + minute ago. I had no right, of course, to assume that you would be here. I + suppose it was impertinent—was that it?” + </p> + <p> + “I will not quarrel,” she answered, soothingly—“if + that is what you want.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice was oddly placid. It almost seemed to suggest that she had come + to-night for a certain purpose; that one subject of conversation alone + would interest her, and that to all others she must turn a deaf ear. + </p> + <p> + He came a little nearer, and, leaning against the turf wall, looked down + at her. He was suddenly grave now. The <i>róles</i> were again reversed; + for it was the woman who was tenacious to one purpose and the man who + seemed inconsequent, flitting from grave to gay, from one thought to + another. His apology had been made graciously enough, but with a queer + pride, quite devoid of the sullenness which marks the pride of the humbly + situated. + </p> + <p> + “No; I do not want that,” he answered. “I want a little + sympathy, that is all; because I have been educated above my station. And + I looked for it from those who are responsible for that which is nearly + always a catastrophe. And it is your uncle who educated me. He is + responsible in the first instance, and, of course, I am grateful to him.” + </p> + <p> + “He could never have educated you,” put in Miriam, “if + you had not been ready for the education.” + </p> + <p> + Barebone put aside the point. He must, at all events, have learnt humility + from Septimus Marvin—a quality not natural to his temperament. + </p> + <p> + “And you are responsible, as well,” he went on, “because + you have taught me a use for the education.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed!” she said, gently and interrogatively, as if at last + he had reached the point to which she wished to bring him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; the best use to which I could ever put it. To talk to you on + an equality.” + </p> + <p> + He looked hard at her through the darkness, which was less intense now; + for the moon was not far below the horizon. Her face looked white, and he + thought that she was breathing quickly. But they had always been friends; + he remembered that just in time. + </p> + <p> + “It is only natural that I should look forward, when we are at sea, + to coming back here—” He paused and kicked the turf-wall with + his heel, as if to remind her that she had sat in the same corner before + and he had leant against the same wall, talking to her. “They are + good fellows, of course, with a hundred fine qualities which I lack, but + they do not understand half that one may say, or think—even the + Captain. He is well educated, in his way, but it is only the way of a + coasting-captain who has risen by his merits to the command of a + foreign-going ship.” + </p> + <p> + Miriam gave an impatient little sigh. He had veered again from the point. + </p> + <p> + “You think that I forget that he is my relative,” said Loo, + sharply, detecting in his quickness of thought a passing resentment. + “I do not. I never forget that. I am the son of his cousin. I know + that, and thus related to many in Farlingford. But I have never called him + cousin, and he has never asked me to.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Miriam, with averted eyes, in that other voice, + which made him turn and look at her, catching his breath. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” he said, with a sudden laugh of comprehension. “You + have heard what, I suppose, is common talk in Farlingford. You know what + has brought these people here—this Monsieur de Gemosac, and the + other—what is his name? Dormer Colville. You have heard of my + magnificent possibilities. And I—I had forgotten all about them.” + </p> + <p> + He threw out his arms in a gesture of gay contempt; for even in the dark + he could not refrain from adding to the meaning of mere words a + hundred-fold by the help of his lean hands and mobile face. + </p> + <p> + “I have heard of it, of course,” she admitted, “from + several people. But I have heard most from Captain Clubbe. He takes it + more seriously than you do. You do not know, because he is one of those + men who are most silent with those to whom they are most attached. He + thinks that it is providential that my uncle should have had the desire to + educate you, and that you should have displayed such capacity to learn.” + </p> + <p> + “Capacity?” he protested—“say genius! Do not let + us do things by halves. Genius to learn—yes; go on.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! you may laugh,” Miriam said, lightly, “but it is + serious enough. You will find circumstances too strong for you. You will + have to go to France to claim your—heritage.” + </p> + <p> + “Not I, if it means leaving Farlingford for ever and going to live + among strange people, like the Marquis de Gemosac, for instance, who gives + me the impression of a thousand petty ceremonies and a million futile + memories.” + </p> + <p> + He turned and lifted his face to the breeze which blew from the sea over + flat stretches of sand and seaweed—the crispest, most invigorating + air in the world except that which blows on the Baltic shores. + </p> + <p> + “I prefer Farlingford. I am half a Clubbe—and the other half!—Heaven + knows what that is! The offshoot of some forgotten seedling blown away + from France by a great storm. If my father knew, he never said anything. + And if he knew, and said nothing, one may be sure that it was because he + was ashamed of what he knew. You never saw him, or you would have known + his dread of France, or anything that was French. He was a man living in a + dream. His body was here in Farlingford, but his mind was elsewhere—who + knows where? And at times I feel that, too—that unreality—as + if I were here, and somewhere else at the same time. But all the same, I + prefer Farlingford, even if it is a dream.” + </p> + <p> + The moon had risen at last; a waning half-moon, lying low and yellow in + the sky, just above the horizon, casting a feeble light on earth. Loo + turned and looked at Miriam, who had always met his glance with her + thoughtful, steady eyes. But now she turned away. + </p> + <p> + “Farlingford is best, at all events,” he said, with an odd + conviction. “I am only the grandson of old Seth Clubbe, of Maiden’s + Grave. I am a Farlingford sailor, and that is all. I am mate of ‘The + Last Hope’—at your service.” + </p> + <p> + “You are more than that.” + </p> + <p> + He made a step nearer to her, looking down at her white face, averted from + him. For her voice had been uncertain—unsteady—as if she were + speaking against her will. + </p> + <p> + “Even if I am only that,” he said, suddenly grave, “Farlingford + may still be a dream—Farlingford and—you.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” she asked, in a quick, mechanical voice, + as if she had reached a desired crisis at last and was prepared to act. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I only mean what I have meant always,” he answered. + “But I have been afraid—afraid. One hears, sometimes, of a + woman who is generous enough to love a man who is a nobody—to think + only of love. Sometimes—last voyage, when you used to sit where you + are sitting now—I have thought that it might have been my + extraordinary good fortune to meet such a woman.” + </p> + <p> + He waited for some word or sign, but she sat motionless. + </p> + <p> + “You understand,” he went on, “how contemptible must + seem their talk of a heritage in France, when such a thought is in one’s + mind, even if—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she interrupted, hastily. “You were quite wrong. + You were mistaken.” + </p> + <p> + “Mistaking in thinking you—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she interrupted again. “You are quite mistaken, + and I am very sorry, of course, that it should have happened.” + </p> + <p> + She was singularly collected, and spoke in a matter-of-fact voice. + Barebone’s eyes gleamed suddenly; for she had aroused-perhaps + purposely—a pride which must have accumulated in his blood through + countless generations. She struck with no uncertain hand. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, slowly; “it is to be regretted. Is it + because I am the son of a nameless father and only the mate of ‘The + Last Hope’?” + </p> + <p> + “If you were before the mast—” she answered—“if + you were a King, it would make no difference. It is simply because I do + not care for you in that way.” + </p> + <p> + “You do not care for me—in that way,” he echoed, with a + laugh, which made her move as if she were shrinking. “Well, there is + nothing more to be said to that.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her slowly, and then took off his cap as if to bid her + good-bye. But he forgot to replace it, and he went away with the cap in + his hand. She heard the clink of a chain as he loosed his boat. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X — IN THE ITALIAN HOUSE + </h2> + <p> + The Abbé Touvent was not a courageous man, and the perspiration, induced + by the climb from the high-road up that which had once been the ramp to + the Château of Gemosac, ran cold when he had turned the key in the rusty + lock of the great gate. It was not a dark night, for the moon sailed + serenely behind fleecy clouds, but the shadows cast by her silvery light + might harbour any terror. + </p> + <p> + It is easy enough to be philosophic at home in a chair beside the lamp. + Under those circumstances, the Abbé had reflected that no one would rob + him, because he possessed nothing worth stealing. But now, out here in the + dark, he recalled a hundred instances of wanton murder duly recorded in + the newspaper which he shared with three parishioners in Gemosac. + </p> + <p> + He paused to wipe his brow with a blue cotton handkerchief before pushing + open the gate, and, being alone, was not too proud to peep through the + keyhole before laying his shoulder against the solid and weather-beaten + oak. He glanced nervously at the loopholes in the flanking towers and + upward at the machicolated battlement overhanging him, as if any crumbling + peep-hole might harbour gleaming eyes. He hurried through the passage + beneath the vaulted roof without daring to glance to either side, where + doorways and steps to the towers were rendered more fearsome by heavy + curtains of ivy. + </p> + <p> + The enceinte of the castle of Gemosac is three-sided, with four towers + jutting out at the corners, from which to throw a flanking fire upon any + who should raise a ladder against the great curtains, built of that + smooth, white stone which is quarried at Brantôme and on the banks of the + Dordogne. The fourth side of the enceinte stands on a solid rock, above + the little river that loses itself in the flatlands bordering the Gironde, + so that it can scarce be called a tributary of that wide water. A + moss-grown path round the walls will give a quick walker ten minutes’ + exercise to make the round from one tower of the gateway to the other. + </p> + <p> + Within the enciente are the remains of the old castle, still solid and + upright; erected, it is recorded, by the English during their long + occupation of this country. A more modern château, built after the final + expulsion of the invader, adjoins the ancient structure, and in the centre + of the vast enclosure, raised above the walls, stands a square house, in + the Italian style, built in the time of Marie de Medici, and never yet + completed. There are, also, gardens and shaded walks and vast stables, a + chapel, two crypts, and many crumbling remains inside the walls, that + offered a passive resistance to the foe in olden time, and as successfully + hold their own to-day against the prying eye of a democratic curiosity. + </p> + <p> + Above the stables, quite close to the gate, half a dozen rooms were in the + occupation of the Marquis de Gemosac; but it was not to these that the + Abbé Touvent directed his tremulous steps. + </p> + <p> + Instead, he went toward the square, isolated house, standing in the middle + of that which had once been the great court, and was now half garden, half + hayfield. The hay had been cut, and the scent of the new stack, standing + against the walls of the oldest château and under its leaking roof, came + warm and aromatic to mix with the breath of the evening primrose and + rosemary clustering in disorder on the ill-defined borders. The grim + walls, that had defended the Gemosacs against franker enemies in other + days, served now to hide from the eyes of the villagers the fact—which + must, however, have been known to them—that the Marquis de Gemosac, + in gloves, kept this garden himself, and had made the hay with no other + help than that of his old coachman and Marie, that capable, brown-faced <i>bonne-à-tout-faire</i>, + who is assuredly the best man in France to-day. + </p> + <p> + In this clear, southern atmosphere the moon has twice the strength of that + to which we are accustomed in mistier lands, and the Abbè looked about him + with more confidence as he crossed the great court. There were frogs in a + rainwater tank constructed many years ago, when some enterprising foe had + been known to cut off the water-supply of a besieged château, and their + friendly croak brought a sense of company and comfort to the Abbè's timid + soul. + </p> + <p> + The door of the Italian house stood open, for the interior had never been + completed, and only one apartment, a lofty banqueting-hall, had ever been + furnished. Within the doorway, the Abbè fumbled in the pocket of his + soutane and rattled a box of matches. He carried a parcel in his hand, + which he now unfolded, and laid out on the lid of a mouldy chest half a + dozen candles. When he struck a match a flight of bats whirred out of the + doorway, and the Abbè's breath whistled through his teeth. + </p> + <p> + He lighted two candles, and carrying them, alight, in one hand—not + without dexterity, for candles played an important part in his life—he + went forward. The flickering light showed his face to be a fat one, kind + enough, gleaming now with perspiration and fear, but shiny at other times + with that Christian tolerance which makes men kind to their own failings. + It was very dark within the house, for all the shutters were closed. + </p> + <p> + The Abbé lighted a third candle and fixed it, with a drop of its own wax, + on the high mantel of the great banqueting-hall. There were four or five + candlesticks on side-tables, and a candelabra stood in the centre of a + long table, running the length of the room. In a few minutes the Abbé had + illuminated the apartment, which smelt of dust and the days of a dead + monarchy. Above his head, the bats were describing complicated figures + against a ceiling which had once been painted in the Italian style, to + represent a trellis roof, with roses and vines entwined. Half a dozen + portraits of men, in armour and wigs, looked down from the walls. One or + two of them were rotting from their frames, and dangled a despondent + corner out into the room. + </p> + <p> + There were chairs round the table, set as if for a phantom banquet amid + these mouldering environments, and their high carved backs threw fantastic + shadows on the wall. + </p> + <p> + While the Abbé was still employed with the candles, he heard a heavy step + and loud breathing in the hall without, where he had carefully left a + light. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you not wait for me on the hill, <i>malhonnête</i>?” + asked a thick voice, like the voice of a man, but the manner was the + manner of a woman. “I am sure you must have heard me. One hears me + like a locomotive, now that I have lost my slimness.” + </p> + <p> + She came into the room as she spoke, unwinding a number of black, knitted + shawls, in which she was enveloped. There were so many of them, and of + such different shape and texture, that some confusion ensued. The Abbé ran + to her assistance. + </p> + <p> + “But, Madame,” he cried, “how can you suspect me of such + a crime? I came early to make these preparations. And as for hearing you—would + to Heaven I had! For it needs courage to be a Royalist in these days—especially + in the dark, by one’s self.” + </p> + <p> + He seemed to know the shawls, for he disentangled them with skill and laid + them aside, one by one. + </p> + <p> + The Comtesse de Chantonnay breathed a little more freely, but no friendly + hand could disencumber her of the mountains of flesh, which must have + weighed down any heart less buoyant and courageous. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, bah!” she cried, gaily. “Who is afraid? What could + they do to an old woman? Ah! you hold up your hands. That is kind of you. + But I am no longer young, and there is my Albert—with those stupid + whiskers. It is unfilial to wear whiskers, and I have told him so. And you—who + could harm you—a priest? Besides, no one could be a priest, and not + a Royalist, Abbé!” + </p> + <p> + “I know it, Madame, and that is why I am one. Have we been seen, + Madame la Comtesse? The village was quiet, as you came through?” + </p> + <p> + “Quiet as my poor husband in his grave. Tell me? Abbé, now, + honestly, am I thinner? I have deprived myself of coffee these two days.” + </p> + <p> + The Abbe walked gravely round her. It was quite an excursion. + </p> + <p> + “Who would have you different, Madame, to what you are?” he + temporized. “To be thin is so ungenerous. And Albert—where is + he? You have not surely come alone?” + </p> + <p> + “Heaven forbid!—and I a widow!” replied Madame de + Chantonnay, arranging, with a stout hand, the priceless lace on her dress. + “Albert is coming. We brought a lantern, although it is a moon. It + is better. Besides, it is always done by those who conspire. And Albert + had his great cloak, and he fell up a step in the courtyard and dropped + the lantern, and lost it in the long grass. I left him looking for it, in + the dark. He was not afraid, my brave Albert!” + </p> + <p> + “He has the dauntless heart of his mother,” murmured the Abbé, + gracefully, as he ran round the table setting the chairs in order. He had + already offered the largest and strongest to the Comtesse, and it was + creaking under her now, as she moved to set her dress in order. + </p> + <p> + “Assuredly,” she admitted, complacently. “Has not France + produced a Jeanne d’Arc and a Duchesse de Berri? It was not from his + father, at all events, that he inherited his courage. For he was a + poltroon, that man. Yes, my dear Abbé, let us be honest, and look at life + as it is. He was a poltroon, and I thought I loved him—for two or + three days only, however. And I was a child then. I was beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + “Was?” echoed the Abbé, reproachfully. + </p> + <p> + “Silence, wicked one! And you a priest.” + </p> + <p> + “Even an ecclesiastic, Madame, may have eyes,” he said, + darkly, as he snuffed a candle and, subsequently, gave himself a + mechanical thump on the chest, in the region of the heart. + </p> + <p> + “Then they should wear blinkers, like a horse,” said Madame, + severely, as if wearied by an admiration so universal that it palled. + </p> + <p> + At this moment, Albert de Chantonnay entered the room. He was enveloped in + a long black cloak, which he threw off his shoulders and cast over the + back of a chair, not without an obvious appreciation of its possibilities + of the picturesque. He looked round the room with a mild eye, which + refused to lend itself to mystery or a martial ruthlessness. + </p> + <p> + He was a young man with a very thin neck, and the whiskers, of which his + mother made complaint, were scarcely visible by the light of the Abbé’s + candles. + </p> + <p> + “Good!” he said, in a thin tenor voice. “We are in time.” + </p> + <p> + He came forward to the table, with long, nervous strides. He was not + exactly impressive, but his manner gave the assurance of a distinct + earnestness of purpose. The majority of us are unfortunately situated + toward the world, as regards personal appearance. Many could pass for + great if their physical proportions were less mean. There are thousands of + worthy and virtuous young men who never receive their due in social life + because they have red hair or stand four-feet-six high, or happen to be + the victim of an inefficient dentist. The world, it would seem, does not + want virtue or solid worth. It prefers appearance to either. Albert de + Chantonnay would, for instance, have carried twice the weight in Royalist + councils if his neck had been thicker. + </p> + <p> + He nodded to the Abbé. + </p> + <p> + “I received your message,” he said, in the curt manner of the + man whose life is in his hand, or is understood, in French theatrical + circles, to be thus uncomfortably situated. “The letter?” + </p> + <p> + “It is here, Monsieur Albert,” replied the Abbé, who was + commonplace, and could not see himself as he wished others to see him. + There was only one Abbé Touvent, for morning or afternoon, for church or + fête, for the château or the cottage. There were a dozen Albert de + Chantonnays, fierce or tender, gay or sad, a poet or a soldier—a + light persifleur, who had passed through the mill, and had emerged hard + and shining, or a young man of soul, capable of high ideals. To-night, he + was the politician—the conspirator—quick of eye, curt of + speech. + </p> + <p> + He held out his hand for the letter. + </p> + <p> + “You are to read it, as Monsieur le Marquis instructs me, Monsieur + Albert,” hazarded the Abbé, touching the breast pocket of his + soutane, where Monsieur de Gemosac’s letter lay hidden, “to + those assembled.” + </p> + <p> + “But, surely, I am to read it to myself first,” was the + retort; “or else how can I give it proper value?” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI — A BEGINNING + </h2> + <p> + There may be some who refuse to take seriously a person like Albert de + Chantonnay because, forsooth, he happened to possess a sense of the + picturesque. There are, as a matter of fact, thousands of sensible persons + in the British Isles who fail completely to understand the average + Frenchman. To the English comprehension it is, for instance, surprising + that in time of stress—when Paris was besieged by a German army—a + hundred <i>franc-tireur</i> corps should spring into existence, who + gravely decked themselves in sombreros and red waist-cloths, and called + themselves the “Companions of Death,” or some claptrap title + of a similar sound. Nevertheless, these “Companions of Death” + fought at Orleans as few have fought since man walked this earth, and died + as bravely as any in a government uniform. Even the stolid German foe + forgot, at last, to laugh at the sombrero worn in midwinter. + </p> + <p> + It is useless to dub a Frenchman unreal and theatrical when he gaily + carries his unreality and his perception of the dramatic to the lucarne of + the guillotine and meets imperturbably the most real thing on earth, + Death. + </p> + <p> + Albert de Chantonnay was a good Royalist—a better Royalist, as many + were in France at this time, than the King—and, perhaps, he carried + his loyalty to the point that is reached by the best form of flattery. + </p> + <p> + Let it be remembered that when, on the 3rd of May, 1814, Louis XVIII was + reinstated, not by his own influence or exertions, but by the allied + sovereigns who had overthrown Napoleon, he began at once to issue + declarations and decrees as of the nineteenth year of his reign, ignoring + the Revolution and Napoleon. Did this Bourbon really take himself + seriously? Did he really expect the world to overlook Napoleon, or did he + know as all the world knows to-day, that long after the Bourbons have sunk + into oblivion the name of Napoleon will continue to be a household word? + </p> + <p> + If a situation is thus envisaged by a King, what may the wise expect from + a Royalist? + </p> + <p> + In the absence of the Marquis de Gemosac, Albert de Chantonnay was + considered to be the leader of the party in that quiet corner of + south-western France which lies north of Bordeaux and south of that great + dividing river, the Loire. He was, moreover, looked upon as representing + that younger blood of France, to which must be confided the hopes and + endeavours of the men, now passing away one by one, who had fought and + suffered for their kings. + </p> + <p> + It was confidently whispered throughout this pastoral country that August + Persons, living in exile in England and elsewhere, were in familiar and + confidential correspondence with the Marquis de Gemosac, and, in a minor + degree, with Albert de Chantonnay. For kings, and especially deposed + kings, may not be choosers, but must take the instrument that comes to + hand. A constitutional monarch is, by the way, better placed in this + respect, for it is his people who push the instrument into his grasp, and + in the long run the people nearly always read a man aright despite the + efforts of a cheap press to lead them astray. + </p> + <p> + “If it were not written in the Marquis’s own writing I could + not have believed it,” said Albert de Chantonnay, speaking aloud his + own thoughts. He turned the letter this way and that, examining first the + back of it and then the front. + </p> + <p> + “It has not been through the post.” he said to the Abbé, who + stood respectfully watching his face, which, indeed, inspired little + confidence, for the chin receded in the wrong way—not like the chin + of a shark, which indicates, not foolishness, but greed of gain—and + the eyes were large and pale like those of a sheep. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Heaven forbid!” cried the Abbé. “Such a letter as + that! Where should we all be if it were read by the government? And all + know that letters passing through the post to the address of such as + Monsieur Albert are read in passing—by the Prince President himself, + as likely as not.” + </p> + <p> + Albert gave a short, derisive laugh, and shrugged his shoulders, which + made his admiring mother throw back her head with a gesture, inviting the + Abbé to contemplate, with satisfaction, the mother of so brave a man. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Voilà</i>,” she said, “but tell us, my son, what is + in the letter?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet,” was the reply. “It is to be read to all when + they are assembled. In the mean time—” + </p> + <p> + He did not finish the sentence in words, but by gesture conveyed that the + missive, now folded and placed in his breast-pocket, was only to be + obtained bespattered with his life’s blood. And the Abbé wiped his + clammy brow with some satisfaction that it should be thus removed from his + own timorous custody. + </p> + <p> + Albert de Chantonnay was looking expectantly at the door, for he had heard + footsteps, and now he bowed gravely to a very old gentleman, a notary of + the town, who entered the room with a deep obeisance to the Comtesse. + Close on the notary’s heels came others. Some were in riding + costume, and came from a distance. + </p> + <p> + One sprightly lady wore evening dress, only partially concealed by a + cloak. She hurried in with a nod for Albert de Chantonnay, and a kiss for + the Comtesse. Her presence had the immediate effect of imparting an air of + practical common-sense energy to the assembly, which it had hitherto + lacked. There was nothing of the old <i>régime</i> in this lady, who + seemed to over-ride etiquette, and cheerfully ignore the dramatic side of + the proceedings. + </p> + <p> + “Is it not wonderful?” she whispered aloud, after the manner + of any modern lady at one of those public meetings in which they take so + large a part with so small a result in these later days. “Is it not + wonderful?” And her French, though pure enough, was full and round—the + French of an English tongue. “I have had a long letter from Dormer + telling me all about it. Oh—” And she broke off, silenced by + the dark frown of Albert de Chantonnay, to which her attention had been + forcibly directed by his mother. “I have been dining with Madame de + Rathe,” she went on, irrepressibly, changing the subject in + obedience to Albert de Chantonnay’s frown. “The Vicomtesse + bids me make her excuses. She feared an indigestion, so will be absent + to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” returned the Comtesse de Chantonnay. “It is not + that. I happen to know that the Vicomtesse de Rathe has the digestion of a + schoolboy. It is because she has no confidence in Albert. But we shall see—we + shall see. It is not for the nobility of Louis Philippe to—to have a + poor digestion.” + </p> + <p> + And the Comtesse de Chantonnay made a gesture and a meaning grimace which + would have been alarming enough had her hand and face been less dimpled + with good nature. + </p> + <p> + There were now assembled about a dozen persons, and the Abbé was kept in + countenance by two others of his cloth. There were several ladies; one of + whom was young and plain and seemed to watch Albert de Chantonnay with a + timid awe. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, seated next to the Comtesse de + Chantonnay, was the only lady who made any attempt at gay apparel, and + thus stood rather conspicuous among her companions clad in sober and + somewhat rusty black. All over the west of France such meetings of the + penniless Royalists were being held at this time, not, it has been + averred, without the knowledge of the Prince President, who has been + credited with the courage to treat the matter with contempt. About no + monarch, living or dead, however, have so many lies been written, by + friend or foe, with good or ill intent, as about him, who subsequently + carried out the astounding feat of climbing to the throne of France as + Napoleon III. And it seems certain that he has been given credit for + knowing much of which he must have been ignorant to an extent hardly + credible, even now, in face of subsequent events. + </p> + <p> + The Comtesse de Chantonnay was still tossing her head, at intervals, at + the recollection of the Vicomtesse de Rathe’s indigestion. This was + only typical of the feelings that divided every camp in France at this + time—at any time, indeed, since the days of Charlemagne—for + the French must always quarrel among themselves until they are actually on + the brink of national catastrophe. And even when they are fallen into that + pit they will quarrel at the bottom, and bespatter each other with the mud + that is there. + </p> + <p> + “Are we all here?” asked Albert de Chantonnay, standing in an + effective attitude at the end of the table, with his hand on the back of + his chair. He counted the number of his fellow-conspirators, and then sat + down, drawing forward a candelabra. + </p> + <p> + “You have been summoned in haste,” he said, “by the + request of the Marquis de Gemosac to listen to the perusal of a letter of + importance. It may be of the utmost importance—to us—to France—to + all the world.” + </p> + <p> + He drew the letter from his pocket and opened it amid a breathless + silence. His listeners noted the care with which he attended to gesture + and demeanour, and accounted it to him for righteousness; for they were + French. An English audience would have thought him insincere, and they + would have been wrong. + </p> + <p> + “The letter is dated from a place called Farlingford, in England. I + have never heard of it. It is nowhere near to Twickenham or Clarement, nor + is it in Buckinghamshire. The rest of England—no one knows.” + Albert paused and held up one hand for silence. + </p> + <p> + “At last,” he read—“at last, my friends, after a + lifetime of fruitless search, it seems that I have found—through the + good offices of Dormer Colville—not the man we have sought, but his + son. We have long suspected that Louis XVII must be dead. Madame herself, + in her exile at Frohsdorff, has admitted to her intimates that she no + longer hoped. But here in the full vigour of youth—a sailor, strong + and healthy, living a simple life on shore as at sea—I have found a + man whose face, whose form, and manner would clearly show to the most + incredulous that he could be no other than the son of Louis XVII. A + hundred tricks of manner and gesture he has inherited from the father he + scarce remembers, from the grandfather who perished on the guillotine many + years before he himself was born. No small proof of the man’s + sincerity is the fact that only now, after long persuasion, has he + consented to place himself in our hands. I thought of hurrying at once to + Frohsdorff to present to the aged Duchess a youth whom she cannot fail to + recognize as her nephew. But better counsels have prevailed. Dormer + Colville, to whom we owe so much, has placed us in his farther debt for a + piece of sage advice. ‘Wait,’ he advises, ‘until the + young man has learned what is expected of him, until he has made the + personal acquaintance of his supporters. Reserve until the end the + presentation to the Duchesse d’Angouleme, which must only be made + when all the Royalists in France are ready to act with a unanimity which + will be absolute, and an energy which must prove irresistible.’ + </p> + <p> + “There are more material proofs than a face so strongly resembling + that of Louis XVI and Monsieur d’Artois, in their early manhood, as + to take the breath away; than a vivacity inherited from his grandmother, + together with an independence of spirit and impatience of restraint; than + the slight graceful form, blue eyes, and fair skin of the little prisoner + of the Temple. There are dates which go to prove that this boy’s + father was rescued from a sinking fishing-boat, near Dieppe, a few days + after the little Dauphin was known to have escaped from the Temple, and to + have been hurried to the north coast disguised as a girl. There is + evidence, which Monsieur Colville is now patiently gathering from these + slow-speaking people, that the woman who was rescued with this child was + not his mother. And there are a hundred details known to the villagers + here which go to prove what we have always suspected to be the case, + namely, that Louis XVII was rescued from the Temple by the daring and + ingenuity of a devoted few who so jealously guarded their secret that they + frustrated their own object; for they one and all must have perished on + the guillotine, or at the hands of some other assassin, without divulging + their knowledge, and in the confusion and horror of those days the little + Dauphin was lost to sight. + </p> + <p> + “There is a trinket—a locket—containing a miniature, + which I am assured is a portrait of Marie Antoinette. This locket is in + the possession of Dormer Colville, who suggests that we should refrain + from using violence to open it until this can be done in France in the + presence of suitable witnesses. A fall or some mishap has so crushed the + locket that it can only be opened by a jeweller provided with suitable + instruments. It has remained closed for nearly a quarter of a century, but + a reliable witness in whose possession it has been since he, who was + undoubtedly Louis XVII, died in his arms, remembers the portrait, and has + no doubt of its authenticity. I have told you enough to make it clear to + you that my search is at last ended. What we require now is money to + enable us to bring this King of France to his own; to bring him, in the + first place, to my humble château of Gemosac, where he can lie hidden + until all arrangements are made. I leave it to you, my dear Albert, to + collect this preliminary sum.” + </p> + <p> + De Chantonnay folded the letter and looked at the faces surrounding the + dimly lighted table. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, who must have known the contents of the letter, + and, therefore, came provided, leaned across the table with a discreet + clink of jewellery and laid before Albert de Chantonnay a note for a + thousand francs. + </p> + <p> + “I am only an Englishwoman,” she said, simply, “but I + can help.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII — THE SECRET OF GEMOSAC + </h2> + <p> + There is no sentiment so artificial as international hatred. In olden days + it owed its existence to churchmen, and now an irresponsible press foments + that dormant antagonism. Wherever French and English individuals are + thrown together by a common endeavour, both are surprised at the mutual + esteem which soon develops into friendship. But as nations we are no + nearer than we were in the great days of Napoleon. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence was only one-quarter French and three-quarters + English. Her grandmother had been a St. Pierre; but it was not from that + lady that she inherited a certain open-handedness which took her French + friends by surprise. + </p> + <p> + “It is not that she has the cause at heart,” commented Madame + de Chantonnay, as she walked laboriously on Albert’s arm down the + ramp of the Château de Gemosac at the termination of the meeting. “It + is not for that that she throws her note of a thousand francs upon the + table and promises more when things are in train. It is because she can + refuse nothing to Dormer Colville. <i>Allez</i>, my son! I have a woman’s + heart! I know!” + </p> + <p> + Albert contented himself with a sardonic laugh. He was not in the humour + to talk of women’s hearts; for Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence’s + action had struck a sudden note of British realism into the harmony of his + political fancies. He had talked so much, had listened to so much talk + from others, that the dream of a restored monarchy had at last been raised + to those far realms of the barely possible in which the Gallic fancy + wanders in moments of facile digestion. + </p> + <p> + It was sufficient for the emergency that the others present at the meeting + could explain that one does not carry money in one’s pocket in a + country lane at night, But in their hearts all were conscious of a slight + feeling of resentment toward Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence; of a vague sense of + disappointment, such as a dreamer may experience on being roughly + awakened. + </p> + <p> + The three priests folded their hands with complacency. Poverty, their most + cherished possession, spoke for itself in their case. The notary blinked + and fumbled at his lips with yellow fingers in hasty thought. He was a + Royalist notary because there existed in the country of the Deux Sevres a + Royalist <i>clientèle</i>. In France, even a washerwoman must hold + political views and stand or fall by them. It was astounding how poor + every one felt at that moment, and it rested, as usual, with a woman’s + intuition to grasp the only rope within reach. “The vintage,” + this lady murmured. The vintage promised to be a bad one. Nothing, + assuredly, could be undertaken, and no promise made, until the vintage was + over. + </p> + <p> + So the meeting broke up without romance, and the conspirators dispersed to + their homes, carrying in their minds that mutual distrust which is ever + awakened in human hearts by the chink of gold, while the dormant national + readiness to detect betrayal by England was suddenly wide awake. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had supplied the one ingredient + necessary to leaven the talk of these dreamers into action. Even the + notary found himself compelled to contribute when Albert de Chantonnay + asked him outright for a subscription. And the priests, ably led by the + Abbé Touvent, acted after the manner of the sons of Levi since olden + times. They did not give themselves, but they told others to give, which + is far better. + </p> + <p> + In due course the money was sent to England. It was the plain truth that + the Marquis de Gemosac had not sufficient in his pocket to equip Loo + Barebone with the clothes necessary to a seemly appearance in France; or, + indeed, to cover the expense of the journey thither. Dormer Colville never + had money to spare. “Heaven shaped me for a rich man,” he + would say, lightly, whenever the momentous subject was broached, “but + forgot to fill my pockets.” + </p> + <p> + It was almost the time of the vintage, and the country roads were dotted + with the shambling figures of those knights of industry who seem to spring + from the hedgerows at harvest-time in any country in the world, when the + Abbé Touvent sought out Marie in her cottage at the gates of the château. + </p> + <p> + “<i>A la cave</i>” answered the lady’s voice. “In + the cellar—do you not know that it is Monday and I wash?” + </p> + <p> + The Abbé did not repeat his summons on the kitchen table with the handle + of his stick, but drew forward a chair. + </p> + <p> + “I know it is very hot, and that I am tired,” he shouted + toward the cellar door, which stood open, giving egress to a warm smell of + soap. + </p> + <p> + “Precisely—and does Monsieur l’Abbé want me to come up + as I am?” + </p> + <p> + The suggestion was darkly threatening, and the Abbé replied that Marie + must take her time, since it was washing-day. + </p> + <p> + The cottage was built on sloping ground at the gate of the château, + probably of the stones used for some earlier fortification. That which + Marie called the cellar was but half underground, and had an exit to the + garden which grew to the edge of the cliff. It was not long before she + appeared at the head of the stone steps, a square-built woman with a face + that had been sunburnt long ago by work in the vineyards, and eyes looking + straight at the world from beneath a square and wrinkled forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur l’Abbé,” she said, shortly—a salutation, + and a comment in one; for it conveyed the fact that she saw it was he and + perceived that he was in his usual health. “It is news from + Monsieur, I suppose,” she added, slowly, turning down her sleeves. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, the Marquis writes that he is on his way to Gemosac and wishes + you to prepare the château for his return.” + </p> + <p> + The Abbé waved his hand toward the castle gates with an air suggestive of + retainers and lackeys, of busy stables and a hundred windows lighted after + dark. His round eyes did not meet the direct glance fixed on his face, but + wandered from one object to another in the room, finally lighting on the + great key of the château gate, which hung on a nail behind the door. + </p> + <p> + “Then Monsieur le Marquis is coming into residence,” said + Marie, gravely. + </p> + <p> + And by way of reply the Abbé waved his hand a second time toward the + castle walls. + </p> + <p> + “And the worst of it is,” he added, timidly, to this silent + admission, “that he brings a guest.” + </p> + <p> + He moistened his fat lips and sat smiling in a foolish way at the open + door; for he was afraid of all women, and most afraid of Marie. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” she retorted, shortly. “To sleep in the oubliette, + one may suppose. For there is no other bed in the château, as you quite + well know, Monsieur l’Abbé. It is another of your kings no doubt. + Oh! you need not hold up your hands—when Monsieur Albert reads aloud + that letter from Monsieur le Marquis, in England, without so much as + closing the door of the banquet hall! It is as well that it was no other + than I who stood on the stairs outside and heard all.” + </p> + <p> + “But it is wrong to listen behind doors,” protested the Abbé. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, bah!” replied this unregenerate sheep of his flock. + “But do not alarm yourself, Monsieur l’Abbé, I can keep a + quiet tongue. And a political secret—what is it? It is an amusement + for the rich—your politics—but a vice for the poor. Come, let + us go to the château, while there is still day, and you can see for + yourself whether we are ready for a guest.” + </p> + <p> + While she spoke she hastily completed a toilet, which, despite the Abbé’s + caution, had the appearance of incompleteness, and taking the great key + from behind the door, led the way out into the glare of the setting sun. + She unlocked the great gate and threw her weight against it with quick, + firm movements like the movements of a man. Indeed, she was a better man + than her companion; of a stronger common sense; with lither limbs and a + stouter heart; the best man that France has latterly produced, and, so far + as the student of racial degeneration may foretell, will ever produce + again—her middle-class woman. + </p> + <p> + Built close against the flanking tower on the left hand of the courtyard + was a low, square house of two stories only. The whole ground floor was + stabling, room and to spare for half a hundred horses, and filled + frequently enough, no doubt, in the great days of the Great Henry. On the + first floor, to which three or four staircases gave access, there were + plenty of apartments; indeed, suites of them. But nearly all stood empty, + and the row of windows looked blank and curtainless across the crumbling + garden to the Italian house. + </p> + <p> + It was one of the many tragedies of that smiling, sunny land where only + man, it seems, is vile; for nature has enclosed within its frontier-lines + all the varied wealth and beauty of her treasures. + </p> + <p> + Marie led the way up the first staircase, which was straight and narrow. + The carpet, carefully rolled and laid aside on the landing, was threadbare + and colourless. The muslin curtains, folded back and pinned together, were + darned and yellow with frequent washing and the rust of ancient damp. She + opened the door of the first room at the head of the stairs. It had once + been the apartment of some servitor; now it contained furniture of the + gorgeous days of Louis XIV, with all the colour gone from its tapestry, + all the woodwork grey and worm-eaten. + </p> + <p> + “Not that one,” said Marie, as the Abbé struggled with the + lever that fastened the window. “That one has not been opened for + many years. See! the glass rattles in the frame. It is the other that + opens.” + </p> + <p> + Without comment the Abbé opened the other window and threw back the + shutters, from which all the paint had peeled away, and let in the scented + air. Mignonette close at hand—which had bloomed and died and cast + its seed amid the old walls and falling stones since Marie Antoinette had + taught the women of France to take an interest in their gardens; and from + the great plains beyond—flat and fat—carefully laid there by + the Garonne to give the world its finest wines, rose up the subtle scent + of vines in bloom. + </p> + <p> + “The drawing-room,” said Marie, and making a mock-curtsey + toward the door, which stood open to the dim stairs, she made a grand + gesture with her hand, still red and wrinkled from the wash-tub. “Will + the King of France be pleased to enter and seat himself? There are three + chairs, but one of them is broken, so his Majesty’s suite must + stand.” + </p> + <p> + With a strident laugh she passed on to the next room through folding + doors. + </p> + <p> + “The principal room,” she announced, with that hard irony in + her voice, which had, no doubt, penetrated thither from the soul of a + mother who had played no small part in the Revolution. “The + guest-chamber, one may say, provided that Monsieur le Marquis will sleep + on the floor in the drawing-room, or in the straw down below in the + stable.” + </p> + <p> + The Abbé threw open the shutter of this room also and stood meekly eyeing + Marie with a tolerant smile. The room was almost bare of furniture. A bed + such as peasants sleep on; a few chairs; a dressing-table tottering + against the window-breast, and modestly screened in one corner, the + diminutive washing-stand still used in southern France. For Gemosac had + been sacked and the furniture built up into a bonfire when Marie was a + little child and the Abbé Touvent a fat-faced timorous boy at the Seminary + of Saintes. + </p> + <p> + “Beyond is Mademoiselle’s room,” concluded Marie, + curtly. She looked round her and shrugged her shoulders with a grim laugh + which made the Abbé shrink. They looked at each other in silence, the two + participants in the secret of Gemosac; for Marie’s husband, the + third who had access to the chateau, did not count. He was a shambling, + silent man, now working in the vineyard beneath the walls. He always did + what his wife told him, without comment or enthusiasm, knowing well that + he would be blamed for doing it badly. + </p> + <p> + The Abbé had visited the rooms once before, during a brief passage of the + Marquis, soon after his wife’s death in Paris. But, as a rule, only + Marie and Jean had access to the apartment. He looked round with an eye + always ready with the tear of sympathy; for he was a soft-hearted man. + Then he looked at Marie again, shamefacedly. But she, divining his + thoughts, shrugged her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, bah!” she said, “one must take the world as it is. + And Monsieur le Marquis is only a man. One sees that, when he announces + his return on washing-day, and brings a guest. You must write to him, that + is all, and tell him that with time I can arrange, but not in a hurry like + this. Where is the furniture to come from? A chair or two from the + banquet-hall; I can lend a bed which Jean can carry in after dark so that + no one knows; you have the jug and basin you bought when the Bishop came, + that you must lend—” She broke off and ran to the window. + “Good,” she cried, in a despairing voice, “I hear a + carriage coming up the hill. Run, Monsieur l’Abbé—run to the + gate and bolt it. Guest or no guest, they cannot see the rooms like this. + Here, let me past.” + </p> + <p> + She pushed him unceremoniously aside at the head of the stairs and ran + past him. Long concealment of the deadly poverty within the walls had + taught her to close the gates behind her whenever she entered, but now for + greater security, or to gain time, she swung the great oaken beam round on + its pivot across the doors on the inside. Then turning round on her heels + she watched the bell that hung above her head. The Abbé, who had followed + her as quickly as he could, was naively looking for a peep-hole between + the timbers of the huge doors. + </p> + <p> + A minute later the bell swung slowly, and gave a single clang which echoed + beneath the vaulted roof, and in the hollow of the empty towers on either + side. + </p> + <p> + “Marie, Marie!” cried a gay girlish voice from without. + “Open at once. It is I.” + </p> + <p> + “There,” said Marie, in a whisper. “It is Mademoiselle, + who has returned from the good Sisters. And the story that you told of the + fever at Saintes is true.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII — WITHIN THE GATES + </h2> + <p> + The great bell hanging inside the gates of Gemosac was silent for two days + after the return of Juliette de Gemosac from her fever-stricken convent + school, at Saintes. + </p> + <p> + But on the third day, soon after nightfall, it rang once more, breaking + suddenly in on the silence of the shadowy courts and gardens, bidding the + frogs in the tank be still with a soft, clear voice, only compassed by the + artificers who worked in days when silver was little accounted of in the + forging of a bell. + </p> + <p> + It was soon after eight o’clock, and darkness had not long covered + the land and sent the workers home. There was no moon. Indeed, the summons + to the gate, coming so soon after nightfall, seemed to suggest the arrival + of a traveller, who had not deemed it expedient to pass through the + winding streets of Gemosac by daylight. + </p> + <p> + The castle lies on a height, sufficiently removed from the little town to + temper the stir of its streets to a pleasant and unobtrusive evidence of + neighbourhood. Had the traveller come in a carriage, the sound of its + wheels would certainly have been heard; and nearer at hand, the tramp of + horses on the hollow of the old drawbridge, not raised these hundred + years, must have heralded the summons of the bell. But none of these + sounds had warned Juliette de Gemosac, who sat alone in the little white + room upstairs, nor Marie and her husband, dumb and worn by the day’s + toil, who awaited bedtime on a stone seat by the stable door. + </p> + <p> + Juliette, standing at the open window, heard Jean stir himself, and + shuffle, in his slippers, toward the gate. + </p> + <p> + “It is some one who comes on foot,” she heard Marie say. + “Some beggar—the roads are full of them. See that he gets no + farther than the gate.” + </p> + <p> + She heard Jean draw back the bolts and answer gruffly, in a few words, + through the interstice of a grudging door, what seemed to be inquiries + made in a voice that was not the voice of a peasant. Marie rose and went + to the gate. In a few minutes they returned, and Juliette drew back from + the window, for they were accompanied by the new-comer, whose boots made a + sharper, clearer sound on the cobble-stones. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Juliette heard him explain, “I am an Englishman, + but I come from Monsieur de Gemosac, for all that. And since Mademoiselle + is here, I must see her. It was by chance that I heard, on the road, that + there is fever at Saintes, and that she had returned home. I was on my way + to Saintes to see her and give her my news of her father.” + </p> + <p> + “But what news?” asked Marie, and the answer was lost as the + speakers passed into the doorway, the new-comer evidently leading the way, + the peasant and his wife following without protest, and with that + instinctive obedience to unconscious command which will survive all the + iconoclasm of a hundred revolutions. + </p> + <p> + There followed a tramping on the stairs and a half-suppressed laugh as the + new-comer stumbled upward. Marie opened the door slowly. + </p> + <p> + “It is a gentleman,” she announced, “who does not give + his name.” + </p> + <p> + Juliette de Gemosac was standing at the far side of the table, with the + lamp throwing its full light upon her. She was dressed in white, with a + blue ribbon at her waist and wrists. Another ribbon of the same colour + tied back her hair, which was of a bright brown, with curls that caught + the light in a score of tendrils above her ears. No finished coquette + could have planned a prettier surprise than that which awaited Loo + Barebone, as he made Marie stand aside, and came, hat in hand, into the + room. + </p> + <p> + He paused for an instant, breathless, before Juliette, who stood, with a + little smile of composed surprise parting her lips. This child, fresh from + the quiet of a convent-school, was in no wise taken aback nor at a loss + how to act. She did not speak, but stood with head erect, not ungracious, + looking at him with clear brown eyes, awaiting his explanation. And Loo + Barebone, all untaught, who had never spoken to a French lady in his life, + came forward with an assurance and a readiness which must have lain + dormant in his blood, awaiting the magic of this moment. + </p> + <p> + “Since my name would convey nothing to Mademoiselle,” he said, + with a bow which he had assuredly not learnt in Farlingford, “it was + useless to mention it. But it is at the disposal of Mademoiselle, + nevertheless. It is an English name—Barebone. I am the Englishman + who has been fortunate enough to engage the interest of your father, who + journeyed to England to find me—and found me.” + </p> + <p> + He broke off with a laugh, spreading out his arms to show himself, as it + were, and ask indulgence. + </p> + <p> + “I have a heritage, it appears, in France,” he went on, + “but know nothing of it, yet. For the weather has been bad and our + voyage a stormy one. I was to have been told during the journey, but we + had no time for that. And I know no more than you, mademoiselle.” + </p> + <p> + Juliette had changed colour, and her cheeks, which were usually of a most + delicate pink, were suddenly quite white. She did not touch upon the + knowledge to which he referred, but went past it to its object. + </p> + <p> + “You do not speak like an Englishman,” she said. “For I + know one or two. One came to the school at Saintes. He was a famous + English prelate, and he had the manner—well, of a tree. And when he + spoke, it was what one would expect of a tree, if it suddenly had speech. + But you—you are not like that.” + </p> + <p> + Loo Barebone laughed with an easy gaiety, which seemed infectious, though + Marie did not join in it, but stood scowling in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, “you have described them exactly. I know + a hundred who are like great trees. Many are so, but they are kind and + still like trees—the English, when you know them, mademoiselle.” + </p> + <p> + “They?” she said, with her prettily arched eyebrows raised + high. + </p> + <p> + “We, I mean,” he answered, quickly, taking her meaning in a + flash. “I almost forgot that I was an Englishman. It is my heritage, + perhaps, that makes me forget—or yourself. It is so easy and natural + to consider one’s self a Frenchman—and so pleasant.” + </p> + <p> + Marie shuffled with her feet and made a movement of impatience, as if to + remind them that they were still far from the business in hand and were + merely talking of themselves, which is the beginning of all things—or + may be the beginning of the inevitable end. + </p> + <p> + “But I forgot,” said Barebone, at once. “And it is + getting late. Your father has had a slight misfortune. He has sprained his + ankle. He is on board my ship, the ship of which I am—I have been—an + officer, lying at anchor in the river near here, off the village of + Mortagne. I came from Mortagne at your father’s request, with + certain messages, for yourself, mademoiselle, and for Marie—if + Madame is Marie.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied the grim voice in the doorway. “Madame is + Marie.” + </p> + <p> + Loo had turned toward her. It seemed his happy fate to be able to disarm + antagonism at the first pass. He looked at Marie and smiled; and slowly, + unwillingly, her grim face relaxed. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, “you are not to expect Monsieur le + Marquis to-night, nor yet, for some time to come. For he will go on to + Bordeaux, where he can obtain skilled treatment for his injured ankle, and + remain there until he can put his foot to the ground. He is comfortable + enough on board the ship, which will proceed up the river to-morrow + morning to Bordeaux. Monsieur le Marquis also told me to set your mind at + rest on another point. He was to have brought with him a guest—” + </p> + <p> + Loo paused and bowed to Marie, with a gay grace. + </p> + <p> + “A humble one. But I am not to come to Gemosac just now. I am going, + instead, with Monsieur Dormer Colville, to stay at Royan with Mrs. St. + Pierre Lawrence. It is, I hope, a pleasure deferred. I cannot, it appears, + show myself in Bordeaux at present, and I quit the ship to-night. It is + some question of myself and my heritage in France, which I do not + understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that so?” said Marie. “One can hardly believe it.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nothing,” replied Marie, looking at his face with a close + scrutiny, as if it were familiar to her. + </p> + <p> + “And that is all that I had to tell you, Madame Marie,” + concluded Barebone. + </p> + <p> + And, strangely enough, Marie smiled at him as he turned away, not + unkindly. + </p> + <p> + “To you, mademoiselle,” he went on, turning again to Juliette, + whose hand was at her hair, for she had been taken by surprise, “my + message is simpler. Monsieur, your father, will be glad to have your + society at Bordeaux, while he stays there, if that is true which the + Gironde pilot told him—of fever at Saintes, and the hurried + dispersal of the schools.” + </p> + <p> + “It is true enough, monsieur,” answered Juliette, in her + low-pitched voice of the south, and with a light of anticipation in her + eye; for it was dull enough at Gemosac, all alone in this empty château. + “But how am I to reach Bordeaux?” + </p> + <p> + “Your father did not specify the route or method. He seemed to leave + that to you, mademoiselle. He seemed to have an entire faith in your + judgment, and that is why I was so surprised when I saw you. I thought—well, + I figured to myself that you were older, you understand.” + </p> + <p> + He broke off with a laugh and a deprecatory gesture of the hand, as if he + had more in his mind but did not want to put it into words. His meaning + was clear enough in his eyes, but Juliette was fresh from a + convent-school, where they seek earnestly to teach a woman not to be a + woman. + </p> + <p> + “One may be young, and still have understanding, monsieur,” + she said, with the composed little smile on her demure lips, which must + only have been the composure of complete innocence: almost a monopoly of + children, though some women move through life without losing it. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” answered Loo, looking into her eyes. “So it + appears. So, how will you go to Bordeaux? How does one go from Gemosac to + Bordeaux?” + </p> + <p> + “By carriage to Mortagne, where a boat is always to be obtained. It + is a short journey, if the tide is favourable,” broke in Marie, who + was practical before she was polite. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said Loo, as quick as thought, “drive back with + me now to Mortagne. I have left my horse in the town, my boat at the pier + at Mortagne. It is an hour’s drive. In an hour and a half you will + be on board ‘The Last Hope,’ at anchor in the river. There is + accommodation on board for both you and Madame; for I, alas! Leave the + ship to-night with Monsieur Colville, and thus vacate two cabins.” + </p> + <p> + Juliette reflected for a moment, but she did not consult, even by a + glance, Marie; who, in truth, appeared to expect no such confidences, but + awaited the decision with a grim and grudging servitude which was as + deeply pressed in upon her soul as was the habit of command in the soul of + a de Gemosac. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Juliette, at length, “that will be best. It + is, of course, important that my father should reach Bordeaux as soon as + possible.” + </p> + <p> + “He will be there at midday to-morrow, if you will come with me now,” + answered Loo, and his gay eyes said “Come!” as clearly as his + lips, though Juliette could not, of course, be expected to read such + signals. + </p> + <p> + The affair was soon settled, and Jean ordered to put the horse into the + high, old-fashioned carriage still in use at the château. For Juliette de + Gemosac seemed to be an illustration of the fact, known to many much-tried + parents, that one is never too young to know one’s mind. + </p> + <p> + “There is a thunder-storm coming from the sea,” was Jean’s + only comment. + </p> + <p> + There was some delay in starting; for Marie had to change her own clothes + as well as pack her young mistress’s simple trunks. But the time did + not hang heavily on the hands of the two waiting in the little + drawing-room, and Marie turned an uneasy glance toward the open door more + than once at the sound of their laughter. + </p> + <p> + Barebone was riding a horse hired in the village of Mortagne, and quitted + the château first, on foot, saying that the carriage must necessarily + travel quicker than he, as his horse was tired. The night was dark, and + darkest to the west, where lightning danced in and out among heavy clouds + over the sea. + </p> + <p> + As in all lands that have been torn hither and thither by long wars, the + peasants of Guienne learnt, long ago, the wisdom of dwelling together in + closely built villages, making a long journey to their fields or vineyards + every day. In times past, Gemosac had been a walled town, dominated, as + usual, by the almost impregnable castle. + </p> + <p> + Barebone rode on, alone, through the deserted vineyards, of which the + scent, like that of a vinery in colder lands, was heavy and damp. The road + runs straight, from point to point, and there was no chance of missing the + way or losing his companions. He was more concerned with watching the + clouds, which were rising in dark towers against the western sky. He had + noted that others were watching them, also, standing at their doors in + every street. It was the period of thunder and hailstorms—the deadly + foe of the vine. + </p> + <p> + At length Barebone pulled up and waited; for he could hear the sound of + wheels behind him, and noted that it was not increasing in loudness. + </p> + <p> + “Can you not go faster?” he shouted to Jean, when, at length, + the carriage approached. + </p> + <p> + Jean made no answer, but lashed his horse and pointed upward to the sky + with his whip. Barebone rode in front to encourage the slower horse. At + the village of Mortagne he signed to Jean to wait before the inn until he + had taken his horse to the stable and paid for its hire. Then he clambered + to the box beside him and they rattled down the long street and out into + the open road that led across the marshes to the port—a few wooden + houses and a jetty, running out from the shallows to the channel. + </p> + <p> + When they reached the jetty, going slowly at the last through the heavy + dust, the air was still and breathless. The rounded clouds still towered + above them, making the river black with their deep shadows. A few lights + twinkled across the waters. They were the lightships marking the middle + bank of the Gironde, which is many miles wide at this spot and rendered + dangerous by innumerable sand-banks. + </p> + <p> + “In five minutes it will be upon us,” said Jean. “You + had better turn back.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no,” was the reply, with a reassuring laugh. “In + the country where I come from, they do not turn back.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV — THE LIFTED VEIL + </h2> + <p> + “Where is the boatman?” asked Marie, as she followed Juliette + and Barebone along the deserted jetty. A light burnt dimly at the end of + it and one or two boats must have been moored near at hand; for the water + could be heard lapping under their bows, a secretive, whispering sound + full of mystery. + </p> + <p> + “I am the boatman,” replied Loo, over his shoulder. “Are + you afraid?” + </p> + <p> + “What is the good of being afraid?” asked this woman of the + world, stopping at the head of the steps and peering down into the + darkness into which he had descended. “What is the good of being + afraid when one is old and married? I was afraid enough when I was a girl, + and pretty and coquette like Mademoiselle, here. I was afraid enough then, + and it was worth my while—<i>allez</i>!” + </p> + <p> + Barebone made no answer to this dark suggestion of a sprightly past. The + present darkness and the coming storm commanded his full attention. In the + breathless silence, Juliette and Marie—and behind them, Jean, + panting beneath the luggage balanced on his shoulder—could hear the + wet rope slipping through his fingers and, presently, the bump of the + heavy boat against the timber of the steps. + </p> + <p> + This was followed by the gurgle of a rope through a well-greased sheave + and the square lug, which had been the joy of little Sep Marvin at + Farlingford, crept up to the truck of the stubby mast. + </p> + <p> + “There is no wind for that,” remarked Marie, pessimistically. + </p> + <p> + “There will be to spare in a few minutes,” answered Barebone, + and the monosyllabic Jean gave an acquiescent grunt. + </p> + <p> + “Luggage first,” said Barebone, lapsing into the curtness of + the sea. “Come along. Let us make haste.” + </p> + <p> + They stumbled on board as best they could, and were guided to a safe place + amidships by Loo, who had thrown a spare sail on the bottom of the boat. + </p> + <p> + “As low as you can,” he said. “Crouch down. Cover + yourselves with this. Right over your heads.” + </p> + <p> + “But why?” grumbled Marie. + </p> + <p> + “Listen,” was all the answer he gave her. And as he spoke, the + storm rushed upon them like a train, with the roar and whirl of a + locomotive. + </p> + <p> + Loo jumped aft to the tiller. In the rush of the hail, they heard him give + a sharp order to Jean, who must have had some knowledge of the sea, for he + obeyed at once, and the boat, set free, lurched forward with a flap of her + sail, which was like the report of a cannon. For a moment, all seemed + confusion and flapping chaos, then came a sense of tenseness, and the boat + heeled over with a swish, which added a hundred-weight of solid water to + the beating of the hail on the spare sail, beneath which the women + crouched. + </p> + <p> + “What? Did you speak?” shouted Loo, putting his face close to + the canvas. + </p> + <p> + “It is only Marie calling on the saints,” was the answer, in + Juliette’s laughing voice. + </p> + <p> + In a few minutes it was over; and, even at the back of the winds, could be + heard the retreat of the hail as it crashed onward toward the valleys of + which every slope is a named vineyard, to beat down in a few wild moments + the result of careful toil and far-sighted expenditure; to wipe out that + which is unique, which no man can replace—the vintage of a year. + </p> + <p> + When the hail ceased beating on it, Juliette pushed back the soaked + canvas, which had covered them like a roof, and lifted her face to the + cooler air. The boat was rushing through the water, and close to Juliette’s + cheek, just above the gunwale, rose a curved wave, green and white, and + all shimmering with phosphorescence, which seemed to hover like a hawk + above its prey. + </p> + <p> + The aftermath of the storm was flying overhead in riven ribbons of cloud, + through which the stars were already peeping. To the westward the sky was + clear, and against the last faint glow of the departed sun the lightning + ran hither and thither, skipping and leaping, without sound or cessation, + like fairies dancing. + </p> + <p> + Immediately overhead, the sail creaked and tugged at its earings, while + the wind sang its high clear song round mast and halliards. + </p> + <p> + Juliette turned to look at Barebone. He was standing, ankle deep, in + water, leaning backward to windward, in order to give the boat every pound + of weight he could. The lambent summer-lightning on the western horizon + illuminated his face fitfully. In that moment Juliette saw what is given + to few to see and realise—though sailors, perforce, lie down to + sleep knowing it every night—that under Heaven her life was wholly + and solely in the two hands of a fellow-being. She knew it, and saw that + Barebone knew it, though he never glanced at her. She saw the whites of + his eyes gleaming as he looked up, from moment to moment, to the head of + the sail and stooped again to peer under the foot of it into the darkness + ahead. He braced himself, with one foot against the thwart, to haul in a + few inches of sheet, to which the clumsy boat answered immediately. Marie + was praying aloud now, and when she opened her eyes the sight of the + tossing figure in the stern of the boat suddenly turned her terror into + anger. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” she cried, “that Jean is a fool. And he, who + pretends to have been a fisherman when he was young—to let us come + to our deaths like this!” + </p> + <p> + She lifted her head, and ducked it again, as a sea jumped up under the bow + and rattled into the boat. + </p> + <p> + “I see no ship,” she cried. “Let us go back, if we can. + Name of God!—we shall be drowned! I see no ship, I tell you!” + </p> + <p> + “But I do,” answered Barebone, shaking the water from his + face, for he had no hand to spare. “But I do, which is more + important. And you are not even wet!” + </p> + <p> + And he laughed as he brought the boat up into the wind for a few seconds, + to meet a wild gust. Juliette turned in surprise at the sound of his + voice. In the safe and gentle seclusion of the convent-school no one had + thought to teach her that death may be faced with equanimity by others + than the ordained of the Church, and that in the storm and stress of life + men laugh in strange places and at odd times. + </p> + <p> + Loo was only thinking of his boat and watching the sky for the last of the + storm—that smack, as it were, in the face—with which the + Atlantic ends those black squalls that she sends us, not without thunder + and the curtailed lightning of northern seas. He was planning and shaping + his course; for the watchers on board “The Last Hope” had + already seen him, as he could ascertain by a second light, which suddenly + appeared, swung low, casting a gleam across the surf-strewn water, to show + him where the ladder hung overside. + </p> + <p> + “Tell Monsieur de Gemosac that I have Mademoiselle and her maid here + in the boat,” Barebone called out to Captain Clubbe, whose large + face loomed above the lantern he was holding overside, as he made fast the + rope that had been thrown across his boat and lowered the dripping sail. + The water was smooth enough under the lee of “The Last Hope,” + which, being deeply laden, lay motionless at her anchor, with the stream + rustling past her cables. + </p> + <p> + “Stand up, mademoiselle,” said Barebone, himself balanced on + the after-thwart. “Hold on to me, thus, and when I let you go, let + yourself go.” + </p> + <p> + There was no time to protest or to ask questions. And Juliette felt + herself passed on from one pair of strong arms to another, until she was + standing on the deck under the humming rigging, surrounded by men who + seemed huge in their gleaming oil-skins. + </p> + <p> + “This way, mademoiselle,” said one, who was even larger than + the others, in English, of which she understood enough to catch his + meaning. “I will take you to your father. Show a light this way, one + of you.” + </p> + <p> + His fingers closed round her arm, and he led her, unconscious of a + strength that almost lifted her from her feet, toward an open door, where + a lamp burnt dimly within. It smelt abominably of an untrimmed wick, + Juliette thought, and the next minute she was kissing her father, who lay + full length on a locker in the little cabin. + </p> + <p> + She asked him a hundred questions, and waited for few of the answers. + Indeed, she supplied most of them herself; for she was very quick and gay. + </p> + <p> + “I see,” she cried, “that your foot has been tied up by + a sailor. He has tried to mend it as if it were a broken spar. I suppose + that was the Captain who brought me to you, and then ran away again, as + soon as he could. Yes; I have Marie with me. She is telling them to be + careful with the luggage. I can hear her. I am so glad we had a case of + fever at the school. It was a lay sister, a stupid woman. But how lucky + that I should be at home just when you wanted me!” + </p> + <p> + She stood upright again, after deftly loosening the bandage round her + father’s ankle, and looked at him and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Poor, dear old papa,” she said. “One sees that you want + some one to take care of you. And this cabin—oh! <i>mon Dieu</i>! + how bare and uncomfortable! I suppose men have to go to sea alone because + they can persuade no woman to go with them.” + </p> + <p> + She pounced upon her father again, and arranged afresh the cushions behind + his back, with a little air of patronage and protection. Her back was + turned toward the door, when some one came in, but she heard the + approaching steps and looked quickly round the cabin walls. + </p> + <p> + “Heavens!” she exclaimed, in a gay whisper. “No + looking-glass! One sees that it is only men who live here.” + </p> + <p> + And she turned, with smiling eyes and a hand upraised to her disordered + hair, to note the new-comer. It was Dormer Colville, who laid aside his + waterproof as he came and greeted her as an old friend. He had, indeed, + known her since her early childhood, and had always succeeded in keeping + pace with her, even in the rapid changes of her last year at school. + </p> + <p> + “Here is an adventure,” he said, shaking hands. “But I + can see that you have taken no harm, and have not even been afraid. For + us, it is a pleasant surprise.” + </p> + <p> + He glanced at her with a smiling approbation, not without a delicate + suggestion of admiration, such as he might well permit himself, and she + might now even consider her due. He was only keeping pace. + </p> + <p> + “I stayed behind to initiate your maid, who is, of course, unused to + a ship, and the steward speaks but little French. But now they are + arranging your cabin together.” + </p> + <p> + “How delightful!” cried Juliette. “I have never been on + a ship before, you know. And it is all so strange and so nice. All those + big men, like wet ghosts, who said nothing! I think they are more + interesting than women; perhaps it is because they talk less.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps it is,” admitted Colville, with a sudden gravity, + similar to that with which she had made the suggestion. + </p> + <p> + “You should hear the Sisters talk—when they are allowed,” + she said, confidentially. + </p> + <p> + “And whisper when they are not. I can imagine it,” laughed + Colville. “But now you have left all that behind, and have come out + into the world—of men, one may say. And you have begun at once with + an adventure.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes! And we are going to Bordeaux, papa and I, until his foot is + well again. Of course, I was in despair when I was first told of it, but + now that I see him I am no longer anxious. And your messenger assured me + that it was not serious.” + </p> + <p> + She paused to look round the cabin, to make sure that they were alone. + </p> + <p> + “How strange he is!” she said to both her hearers, in + confidence, looking from one to the other with a quick, bird-like turn of + the head and bright eyes. “I have never seen any one like him.” + </p> + <p> + “No?” said Dormer Colville, encouragingly. + </p> + <p> + “He said he was an Englishman; but, of course, he is not. He is, + French, and has not the manner of a <i>bourgeoie</i> or a sailor. He has + the manner of an aristocrat—one would say a Royalist—like + Albert de Chantonnay, only a thousand times better.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Colville, glancing at Monsieur de Gemosac. + </p> + <p> + “More interesting, and so quick and amusing. He spoke of a heritage + in France, and yet he said he was an Englishman. I hope he will secure his + heritage.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” murmured Colville, still looking at Monsieur de + Gemosac. + </p> + <p> + “And then, when we were in the boat,” continued Juliette, + still in confidence to them both, “he changed quite suddenly. He was + short and sharp. He ordered us to do this and that; and one did it, + somehow, without question. Even Marie obeyed him without hesitating, + although she was half mad with fear. We were in danger. I knew that. Any + one must have known it. And yet I was not afraid; I wonder why? And he—he + laughed—that was all. <i>Mon Dieu!</i> he was brave. I never knew + that any one could be so brave!” + </p> + <p> + She broke off suddenly, with her finger to her lips; for some one had + opened the cabin door. Captain Clubbe came in, filling the whole cabin + with his bulk, and on his heels followed Loo Barebone, his face and hair + still wet and dripping. + </p> + <p> + “Mademoiselle was wondering,” said Dormer Colville, who, it + seemed, was quick to step into that silence which the object of a + conversation is apt to cause—“Mademoiselle was wondering how + it was that you escaped shipwreck in the storm.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! because one has a star. Even a poor sailor may have a star, + mademoiselle. As well as the Prince Napoleon, who boasts that he has one + of the first magnitude, I understand.” + </p> + <p> + “You are not a poor sailor, monsieur,” said Juliette. + </p> + <p> + “Then who am I?” he asked, with a gay laugh, spreading out his + hands and standing before them, beneath the swinging lamp. + </p> + <p> + The Marquis de Gemosac raised himself on one elbow. + </p> + <p> + “I will tell you who you are,” he said, in a low, quick voice, + pointing one hand at Loo. “I will tell you.” And his voice + rose. + </p> + <p> + “You are the grandson of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. You are the + Last Hope of the French. That is your heritage. Juliette! this is the King + of France!” + </p> + <p> + Juliette turned and looked at him, with all the colour gone from her face. + Then, instinctively, she dropped on one knee, and before he had + understood, or could stop her, had raised his hand to her lips. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV — THE TURN OF THE TIDE + </h2> + <p> + “Tide’s a-turning, sir,” said a voice at the open + doorway of the cabin, and Captain Clubbe turned his impassive face toward + Dormer Colville, who looked oddly white beneath the light of the lamp. + </p> + <p> + Barebone had unceremoniously dragged his hand away from the hold of + Juliette’s fingers. He made a step back and then turned toward the + door at the sound of his shipmate’s well-known voice. He stood + staring out into the darkness like one who is walking in his sleep. No one + spoke, and through the open doorways no sound came to them but the song of + the wind through the rigging. + </p> + <p> + At last Barebone turned, and there was no sign of fear or misgiving in his + face. He looked at Clubbe, and at no one else, as if the Captain and he + were alone in the cabin where they had passed so many years together in + fair weather, to bring out that which is evil in a man, and foul, to + evolve the good. + </p> + <p> + “What do <i>you</i> say?” he asked, in English, and he must + have known that Captain Clubbe understood French better than he was ready + to admit. + </p> + <p> + Clubbe passed his hand slowly across his cheek and chin, not in order to + gain time, or because he had not an answer ready, but because he came of a + slow-speaking race. His answer had been made ready weeks before while he + sat on the weather-beaten seat set against the wall of “The Black + Sailor” at Farlingford. + </p> + <p> + “Tide’s turned,” he answered, simply. “You’d + better get your oilskins on again and go.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Loo, with a queer laugh. “I fancy I shall + want my oilskins.” + </p> + <p> + The boat which had been sent from Royan, at the order of the pilot, who + went ashore there, had followed “The Last Hope” up the river, + and was now lying under the English ship’s stern awaiting her two + passengers and the turn of the tide. + </p> + <p> + Dormer Colville glanced at the cabin clock. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” he said, briskly, “let us be going. It will be + late enough as it is before we reach my cousin’s house.” + </p> + <p> + He turned and translated his remark for the benefit of the Marquis and + Juliette, remembering that they must needs fail to understand a colloquy + in the muttered and clipped English of the east coast. He was nervously + anxious, it would appear, to tide over a difficult moment; to give Loo + Barebone breathing space, and yet to avoid unnecessary question and + answer. He had not lived forty adventurous years in the world without + learning that it is the word too much which wrecks the majority of human + schemes. + </p> + <p> + Their preparations had been made beforehand in readiness for the return of + the tide, without the help of which the voyage back to Royan against a + contrary wind must necessarily be long and wearisome. + </p> + <p> + There was nothing to wait for. Captain Clubbe was not the man to prolong a + farewell or waste his words in wishes for the future, knowing how vain + such must always be. Loo was dazed still by the crash of the storm and the + tension of the effort to bring his boat safely through it. + </p> + <p> + The rest had not fully penetrated to his inmost mind yet. There had been + only time to act, and none to think, and when the necessity to act was + past, when he found himself crouching down under the weather gunwale of + the French fishing-boat without even the necessity of laying hand on sheet + or tiller, when, at last, he had time to think, he found that the ability + to do so was no longer his. For Fortune, when she lifts up or casts down, + usually numbs the understanding at the first turn of her wheel, sending + her victim staggering on his way a mere machine, astonishingly alive to + the necessity of the immediate moment, careful of the next step, but + capable of looking neither forward nor backward with an understanding eye. + </p> + <p> + The waning moon came up at last, behind a distant line of trees on the + Charente side, lighting up with a silver lining the towering clouds of the + storm, which was still travelling eastward, leaving in its wake battered + vines and ruined crops, searing the face of the land as with a hot iron. + Loo lifted his head and looked round him. The owner of the boat was at the + tiller, while his assistant sat amidships, his elbows on his knees, + looking ahead with dreamy eyes. Close to Barebone, crouching from the wind + which blew cold from the Atlantic, was Dormer Colville, affably silent. If + Loo turned to glance at him he looked away, but when his back was turned + Loo was conscious of watching eyes, full of sympathy, almost uncomfortably + quick to perceive the inward working of another’s mind, and suit his + own thereto. + </p> + <p> + Thus the boat plunged out toward the sea and the flickering lights that + mark the channel, tacking right across to that spit of land lying between + the Gironde and the broad Atlantic, where grows a wine without match in + all the world. Thus Loo Barebone turned his back on the ship which had + been his home so long and set out into a new world; a new and unknown + life, with the Marquis de Gemosac’s ringing words buzzing in his + brain yet; with the warm touch of Juliette’s lips burning still upon + his hand. + </p> + <p> + “You are the grandson of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette! You are the + Last Hope of France!” + </p> + <p> + And he remembered the lights and shadows on Juliette’s hair as he + looked down upon her bent head. + </p> + <p> + Colville was talking to the “patron” now. He knew the coast, + it seemed, and, somewhere or other, had learnt enough of such matters of + local seafaring interest as to set the fisherman at his ease and make him + talk. + </p> + <p> + They were arranging where to land, and Colville was describing the exact + whereabouts of a little jetty used for bathing purposes, which ran out + from the sandy shore, quite near to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence’s + house, in the pine-trees, two miles south of Royan. It was no easy matter + to find this spot by the dim light of a waning moon, and, + half-mechanically, Loo joined in the search, and presently, when the jetty + was reached, helped to make fast in a choppy sea. + </p> + <p> + They left the luggage on the jetty and walked across the silent sand side + by side. + </p> + <p> + “There,” said Colville, pointing forward. “It is through + that opening in the pine-trees. A matter of five minutes and we shall be + at my cousin’s house.” + </p> + <p> + “It is very kind of Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence,” answered + Barebone, “to—well, to take me up. I suppose that is the best + way to look at it.” + </p> + <p> + Colville laughed quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—put it thus, if you like,” he said. They walked on + in silence for a few yards, and then Dormer Colville slipped his hand + within his companion’s arm, as was the fashion among men even in + England in those more expansive days. + </p> + <p> + “I think I know how you feel,” he said, suiting his step to + Barebone’s. “You must feel like a man who is set down to a + table to play a game of which he knows nothing, and on taking up his cards + finds that he holds a hand all courtcards and trumps—and he doesn’t + know how to play them.” + </p> + <p> + Barebone made no answer. He had yet to unlearn Captain Clubbe’s + unconscious teaching that a man’s feelings are his own concern and + no other has any interest or right to share in them, except one woman, and + even she must guess the larger half. + </p> + <p> + “But as the game progresses,” went on Colville, reassuringly, + “you will find out how it is played. You will even find that you are + a skilled player, and then the gambler’s spirit will fire your blood + and arouse your energies. You will discover what a damned good game it is. + The great game—Barebone—the great game! And France is the + country to play it in.” + </p> + <p> + He stamped his foot on the soil of France as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “The moment I saw you I knew that you would do. No man better fitted + to play the game than yourself; for you have wit and quickness,” + went on this friend and mentor, with a little pressure on his companion’s + arm. “But—you will have to put your back into it, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Well—I noticed at Farlingford a certain reluctance to begin. + It is in the blood, I suppose. There is, you know, in the Bourbon blood a + certain strain of—well, let us say of reluctance to begin. Others + call it by a different name. One is not a Bourbon for nothing, I suppose. + And everything—even if it be a vice—that serves to emphasise + identity is to be cultivated. But, as I say, you will have to put your + back into it later on. At present there will be less to do. You will have + to play close and hold your hand, and follow any lead that is given you by + de Gemosac, or by my humble self. You will find that easy enough, I know. + For you have all a Frenchman’s quickness to understand. And I + suppose—to put it plainly as between men of the world—now that + you have had time to think it over—you are not afraid, Barebone?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no!” laughed Barebone. “I am not afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “One is not a Barebone—or a Bourbon—for nothing,” + observed Colville, in an aside to himself. “Gad! I wish I could say + that I should not be afraid myself under similar circumstances. My heart + was in my mouth, I can tell you, in that cabin when de Gemosac blurted it + all out. It came suddenly at the end, and—well!—it rather hit + one in the wind. And, as I say, one is not a Bourbon for nothing. You come + into a heritage, eight hundred years old, of likes and dislikes, of genius + and incapacity, of an astounding cleverness, and a preposterous + foolishness without compare in the history of dynasties. But that doesn’t + matter nowadays. This is a progressive age, you know; even the Bourbons + cannot hold back the advance of the times.” + </p> + <p> + “I come into a heritage of friends and of enemies,” said + Barebone, gaily—“all ready made. That seems to me more + important.” + </p> + <p> + “Gad! you are right,” exclaimed Colville. “I said you + would do the moment I saw you step ashore at Farlingford. You have gone + right to the heart of the question at the first bound. It is your friends + and your enemies that will give you trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “More especially my friends,” suggested Loo, with a light + laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Right again,” answered Colville, glancing at him sideways + beneath the brim of his hat. And there was a little pause before he spoke + again. + </p> + <p> + “You have probably learnt how to deal with your enemies at sea,” + he said thoughtfully at length. “Have you ever noticed how an + English ship comes into a foreign harbour and takes her berth at her + moorings? There is nothing more characteristic of the nation. And one + captain is like another. No doubt you have seen Clubbe do it a hundred + times. He comes in, all sail set, and steers straight for the berth he has + chosen. And there are always half a dozen men in half a dozen small boats + who go out to meet him. They stand up and wave their arms, and point this + way and that. They ask a hundred questions, and with their hands round + their faces, shout their advice. And in answer to one and the other the + Captain looks over the side and says, ‘You be damned.’ That + will be the way to deal with some of your friends and all your enemies + alike, Barebone, if you mean to get on in France. You will have to look + over the side at the people in small boats who are shouting and say, + ‘You be damned.’” + </p> + <p> + They were at the gate of a house now, set down in a clearing amid the + pine-trees. + </p> + <p> + “This is my cousin’s house,” said Dormer Colville. + “It is to be your home for the present. And you need not scruple, as + she will tell you, to consider it so. It is not a time to think of + obligations, you understand, or to consider that you are running into any + one’s debt. You may remember that afterward, perhaps, but that is as + may be. For the present there is no question of obligations. We are all in + the same boat—all playing the same game.” + </p> + <p> + And he laughed below his breath as he closed the gate with caution; for it + was late and the house seemed to hold none but sleepers. + </p> + <p> + “As for my cousin herself,” he continued, as they went toward + the door, “you will find her easy to get on with—a clever + woman, and a good-looking one. <i>Du reste</i>—it is not in that + direction that your difficulties will lie. You will find it easy enough to + get on with the women of the party, I fancy—from what I have + observed.” + </p> + <p> + And again he seemed to be amused. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI — THE GAMBLERS + </h2> + <p> + In a sense, politics must always represent the game that is most + attractive to the careful gambler. For one may play at it without having + anything to lose. It is one of the few games within the reach of the + adventurous, where no stake need be cast upon the table. The gambler who + takes up a political career plays to win or not to win. He may jump up + from the gutter and shout that he is the man of the moment, without + offering any proof of his assertion beyond the loudness of a strident + voice. And if no one listens to him he loses nothing but his breath. + </p> + <p> + And in France the man who shouts loudest is almost certain to have the + largest following. In England the same does not yet hold good, but the day + seems to be approaching when it will. + </p> + <p> + In France, ever since the great Revolution, men have leapt up from the + gutter to grasp the reins of power. Some, indeed, have sprung from the + gutter of a palace, which is no more wholesome, it would appear, than the + drain of any street, or a ditch that carries off the refuse of a cheap + Press. + </p> + <p> + There are certain rooms in the north wing of the Louvre, in Paris, rooms + having windows facing across the Rue de Rivoli toward the Palais Royal, + where men must have sat in the comfortable leather-covered chair of the + High Official and laughed at the astounding simplicity of the French + people. But he laughs best who laughs last, and the People will assuredly + be amused in a few months, or a few years, at the very sudden and very + humiliating discomfiture of a gentleman falling face-foremost into the + street or hanging forlornly from a lamp-post at the corner of it. For some + have quitted these comfortable chairs, in these quiet double-windowed + rooms overlooking the Rue de Rivoli, for no better fate. + </p> + <p> + It was in the August of 1850 that a stout gentleman, seated in one of + these comfortable chairs, succumbed so far to the warmth of the palace + corridors as to fall asleep. He was not in the room of a high official, + but in the waiting-room attached to it. + </p> + <p> + He knew, moreover, that the High Official himself was scarcely likely to + dismiss a previous visitor or a present occupation any the earlier for + being importuned; for he was aware of the official’s antecedents, + and knew that a Jack-in-office, who has shouted himself into office, is + nearly always careful to be deaf to other voices than his own. + </p> + <p> + Moreover, Mr. John Turner was never pressed for time. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he had been known to say, “I was in Paris in + ‘48. Never missed a meal.” + </p> + <p> + Whereas others, with much less at stake than this great banker, had + omitted not only meals, but their night’s rest—night after + night—in those stirring times. + </p> + <p> + John Turner was still asleep when the door leading to the Minister’s + room was cautiously opened, showing an inner darkness such as prevails in + an alcove between double doors. The door opened a little wider. No doubt + the peeping eye had made sure that the occupant of the waiting-room was + asleep. On the threshold stood a man of middle height, who carried himself + with a certain grace and quiet dignity. He was pale almost to sallowness, + a broad face with a kind mouth and melancholy eyes, without any light in + them. The melancholy must have been expressed rather by the lines of the + brows than by the eye itself, for this was without life or expression—the + eye of a man who is either very short-sighted or is engaged in looking + through that which he actually sees, to something he fancies he perceives + beyond it. + </p> + <p> + His lips smiled, but the smile died beneath a neatly waxed moustache and + reached no higher on the mask-like face. Then he disappeared in the outer + darkness between the two doors, and the handle made no noise in turning. + </p> + <p> + In a few minutes an attendant, in a gay uniform, came in by the same door, + without seeking to suppress the clatter of his boots on the oak floor. + </p> + <p> + “Holà! monsieur,” he said, in a loud voice. And Mr. John + Turner crossed his legs and leant farther back in the chair, preparatory + to opening his eyes, which he did directly on the new-comer’s face, + without any of that vague flitting hither and thither of glance which + usually denotes the sleeper surprised. + </p> + <p> + The eyes were of a clear blue, and Mr. Turner looked five years younger + with them open than with them shut. But he was immensely stout. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my friend,” he said, soothingly; for the Minister’s + attendant had a truculent ministerial manner. “Why so much noise?” + </p> + <p> + “The Minister will see you.” + </p> + <p> + John Turner yawned and reached for his hat. + </p> + <p> + “The Minister is pressed for time.” + </p> + <p> + “So was I,” replied the Englishman, who spoke perfect French, + “when I first sat down here, half an hour ago. But even haste will + pass in time.” + </p> + <p> + He rose, and followed the servant into the inner room, where he returned + the bow of a little white-bearded gentleman seated at a huge desk. + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir,” said this gentleman, with the abrupt manner which + has come to be considered Napoleonic on the stage or in the political + world to-day. “Your business?” + </p> + <p> + The servant had withdrawn, closing the door behind him with an emphasis of + the self-accusatory sort. + </p> + <p> + “I am a banker,” replied John Turner, looking with an obese + deliberation toward one of the deep windows, where, half-concealed by the + heavy curtain, a third person stood gazing down into the street. + </p> + <p> + The Minister smiled involuntarily, forgetting his dignity of a two-years’ + growth. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you may speak before Monsieur,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “But I am behind him,” was the immediate reply. + </p> + <p> + The gentleman leaning against the window-breast did not accept this + somewhat obvious invitation to show his face. He must have heard it, + however, despite an absorption which was probably chronic; for he made a + movement to follow with his glance the passage of some object of interest + in the street below. And the movement seemed to supply John Turner with + the information he desired. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am a banker,” he said, more genially. + </p> + <p> + The Minister gave a short laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” he said, “every one in Europe knows that. + Proceed.” + </p> + <p> + “And I only meddle in politics when I see the possibility of making + an honest penny.” + </p> + <p> + “Already made—that honest penny—if one may believe the + gossip—of Europe,” said the Minister. “So many pence + that it is whispered that you do not know what to do with them.” + </p> + <p> + “It is unfortunate,” admitted Turner, “that one can only + dine once a day.” + </p> + <p> + The little gentleman in office had more than once invited his visitor to + be seated, indicating by a gesture the chair placed ready for him. After a + slow inspection of its legs, Mr. John Turner now seated himself. It would + seem that he, at the same time, tacitly accepted the invitation to ignore + the presence of a third person. + </p> + <p> + “Since you seem to know all about me,” he said, “I will + not waste any more of your time, or mine, by trying to make you believe + that I am eminently respectable. The business that brought me here, + however, is of a political nature. A plain man, like myself, only touches + politics when he sees his gain clearly. There are others who enter that + field from purer motives, I am told. I have not met them.” + </p> + <p> + The Minister smiled on one side of his face, and all of it went white. He + glanced uncomfortably at that third person, whom he had suggested + ignoring. + </p> + <p> + “And yet,” went on John Turner, very dense or greatly daring, + “I have lived many years in France, Monsieur le Ministre.” + </p> + <p> + The Minister frowned at him, and made a quick gesture of one hand toward + the window. + </p> + <p> + “So long,” pursued the Englishman, placidly, “as the + trains start punctually, and there is not actually grape-shot in the + streets, and one may count upon one’s dinner at the hour, one form + of government in this country seems to me to be as good as another, + Monsieur le Ministre. A Bourbon Monarchy or an Orleans Monarchy, or a + Republic, or—well, an Empire, Monsieur le Ministre.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Mon Dieu!</i> have you come here to tell me this?” cried + the Minister, impatiently, glancing over his shoulder toward the window, + and with one hand already stretched out toward the little bell standing on + his desk. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” answered Turner, leaning forward to draw the bell out + of reach. He nodded his head with a friendly smile, and his fat cheeks + shook. “Yes, and other things as well. Some of those other matters + are perhaps even more worthy of your earnest attention. It is worth your + while to listen. More especially, as you are paid for it—by the + hour.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed inside himself, with a hollow sound, and placidly crossed his + legs. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I came to tell you, firstly, that the present form of + government, and, er—any other form which may evolve from it—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!—proceed, monsieur!” exclaimed the Minister, + hastily, while the man in the recess of the window turned and looked over + his shoulder at John Turner’s profile with a smile, not unkind, on + his sphinx-like face. + </p> + <p> + “—has the inestimable advantage of my passive approval. That + is why I am here, in fact. I should be sorry to see it upset.” + </p> + <p> + He broke off, and turned laboriously in his chair to look toward the + window, as if the gaze of the expressionless eyes there had tickled the + back of his neck like a fly. But by the time the heavy banker had got + round, the curtain had fallen again in its original folds. + </p> + <p> + “—by a serious Royalist plot,” concluded Turner, in his + thick, deliberate way. + </p> + <p> + “So, assuredly, would any patriot or any true friend of France,” + said the Minister, in his best declamatory manner. + </p> + <p> + “Um—m. That is out of my depth,” returned the + Englishman, bluntly. “I paddle about in the shallow water at the + edge and pick up what I can, you understand. I am too fat for a <i>voyant</i> + bathing-costume, and the deep waters beyond, Monsieur le Ministre.” + </p> + <p> + The Minister drummed impatiently on his desk with his five fingers, and + looked at Turner sideways beneath his brows. + </p> + <p> + “Royalist plots are common enough,” he said, tentatively, + after a pause. + </p> + <p> + “Not a Royalist plot with money in it,” was the retort. + “I dare say an honest politician, like yourself, is aware that in + France it is always safe to ignore the conspirator who has no money, and + always dangerous to treat with contempt him who jingles a purse. There is + only a certain amount of money in the world, Monsieur le Ministre, and we + bankers usually know where it is. I do not mean the money that the world + pours into its own stomach. That is always afloat—changing hands + daily. I mean the Great Reserves. We watch those, you understand. And if + one of the Great Reserves, or even one of the smaller reserves, moves, we + wonder why it is being moved and we nearly always find out.” + </p> + <p> + “One supposes,” said the Minister, hazarding an opinion for + the first time, and he gave it with a sidelong glance toward the window, + “that it is passing from the hands of a financier possessing money + into those of one who has none.” + </p> + <p> + “Precisely. And if a financier possessing money is persuaded to part + with it in such a quarter as you suggest, one may conclude that he has + good reason to anticipate a substantial return for the loan. You, who are + a brilliant collaborateur in the present government, should know that, if + any one does, Monsieur le Ministre.” + </p> + <p> + The Minister glanced toward the window, and then gave a good-natured and + encouraging laugh, quite unexpectedly, just as if he had been told to do + so by the silent man looking down into the street, who may, indeed, have + had time to make a gesture. + </p> + <p> + “And,” pursued the banker, “if a financier possessing + money parts with it—or, to state the case more particularly, if a + financier possessing no money, to my certain knowledge, suddenly raises it + from nowhere definite, for the purposes of a Royalist conspiracy, the + natural conclusion is that the Royalists have got hold of something good.” + </p> + <p> + John Turner leant back in his chair and suppressed a yawn. + </p> + <p> + “This room is very warm,” he said, producing a + pocket-handkerchief. Which was tantamount to a refusal to say more. + </p> + <p> + The Minister twisted the end of his moustache in reflection. It was at + this time the fashion in France to wear the moustache waxed. Indeed, men + displayed thus their political bias to all whom it might concern. + </p> + <p> + “There remains nothing,” said the official at length, with a + gracious smile, “but to ask your terms.” + </p> + <p> + For he who was afterward Napoleon the Third had introduced into French + political and social life a plain-spoken cynicism which characterises both + to this day. + </p> + <p> + “Easy,” replied Turner. “You will find them easy. + Firstly, I would ask that your stupid secret police keeps its fingers out; + secondly, that leniency be assured to one person, a client of mine—the + woman who supplies the money—who is under the influence—well, + that influence which makes women do nobler and more foolish things, + monsieur, than men are capable of.” + </p> + <p> + He rose as he spoke, collected his hat and stick, and walked slowly to the + door. With his hand on the handle, he paused. + </p> + <p> + “You can think about it,” he said, “and let me know at + your leisure. By the way, there is one more point, Monsieur le Ministre. I + would ask you to let this matter remain a secret, known only to our two + selves and—the Prince President.” + </p> + <p> + And John Turner went out, without so much as a glance toward the window. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII — ON THE PONT ROYAL + </h2> + <p> + It would appear that John Turner had business south of the Seine, though + his clients were few in the Faubourg St. Germain. For this placid British + banker was known to be a good hater. His father before him, it was said, + had had dealings with the Bourbons, while many a great family of the + Emigration would have lost more than the esteem of their fellows in their + panic-stricken flight, had it not been that one cool-headed and calm man + of business stayed at his post through the topsy-turvy days of the Terror, + and did his duty by the clients whom he despised. + </p> + <p> + On quitting the Louvre, by the door facing the Palais Royal, Turner moved + to the left. To say that he walked would be to overstate the action of his + little stout legs, which took so short a stride that his progress + suggested wheels and some one pushing behind. He turned to the left again, + and ambled under the great arch, to take the path passing behind the + Tuileries. + </p> + <p> + His stoutness was, in a sense, a safeguard in streets where the travelling + Englishman, easily recognised, has not always found a welcome. His clothes + and his walk were studiously French. Indeed, no one, passing by with a + casual glance, would have turned to look a second time at a figure so + typical of the Paris streets. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Turner quitted the enclosure of the Tuileries gardens and crossed the + quay toward the Pont Royal. But he stopped short under the trees by the + river wall, with a low whistle of surprise. Crossing the bridge, toward + him, and carrying a carpet-bag of early Victorian design, was Mr. Septimus + Marvin, rector of Farlingford, in Suffolk. + </p> + <p> + After a moment’s thought, John Turner went toward the bridge, and + stationed himself on the pavement at the corner. The pavement is narrow, + and Turner was wide. In order to pass him, Septimus Marvin would need to + step into the road. This he did, without resentment; with, indeed, a + courtly and vague inclination of the head toward the human obstruction. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Sep,” said Turner, “you are not going to + pass an old schoolfellow like that.” + </p> + <p> + Septimus Marvin lurched onward one or two steps, with long loose strides. + Then he clutched his carpet-bag with both hands and looked back at his + interlocutor, with the scared eyes of a detected criminal. This gave place + to the habitual gentle smile when, at last, the recognition was complete. + </p> + <p> + “What have you got there?” asked Turner, pointing with his + stick at the carpet-bag. “A kitten?” + </p> + <p> + “No—no,” replied Marvin, looking this way and that, to + make sure that none could overhear. + </p> + <p> + “A Nanteuil—engraved from his own drawing, Jack—a real + Nanteuil. I have just been to a man I know—the print-shop opposite + the statue on the Quai Voltaire—to have my own opinion verified. I + was sure of it. He says that I am undoubtedly right. It is a genuine + Nanteuil—a proof before letters.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! And you have just picked it up cheap? Picked it up, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, quite the contrary,” Marvin replied, in a + confidential whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Stolen—dear, dear! I am sorry to hear that, Septimus.” + </p> + <p> + And Septimus Marvin broke into the jerky, spasmodic laugh of one who has + not laughed for long—perhaps for years. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Jack,” he said; “you are still up to a joke.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I should hope so. We are quite close to my club. Come, and + have luncheon, and tell me all about it.” + </p> + <p> + So the Social and Sporting Club, renowned at that day for its matchless + cuisine and for nothing else of good repute at all, entertained an angel + unawares, and was much amused at Septimus Marvin’s appearance, + although the amusement was not apparent. The members, it would appear, + were gentlemen of that good school of old France which, like many good + things both French and English, is fast disappearing. And with all those + faults, which we are so ready to perceive in any Frenchman, there is none + on earth who will conceal from you so effectually the fact that in his + heart he is vastly amused. + </p> + <p> + It was with some difficulty that Septimus was persuaded to consign his + carpet-bag to the custody of the hall-porter. + </p> + <p> + “If it wasn’t a Nanteuil,” he explained in a whisper to + his friend, “I should have no hesitation; for I am sure the man is + honest and in every way to be relied upon. But a Nanteuil—<i>ad + vivum</i>—Jack. There are none like him. It is priceless.” + </p> + <p> + “You used not to be a miser,” said Turner, panting on the + stairs, when at last the bag was concealed in a safe place. “What + matter what the value may be, so long as you like it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! but the value is of great importance,” answered Septimus, + rather sheepishly. + </p> + <p> + “Then you have changed a good deal since you and I were at Ipswich + school together. There, sit down at this table. I suppose you are hungry. + I hope you are. Try and think—there’s a good fellow—and + remember that they have the best cook in Paris here. Their morals ain’t + of the first water, but their cook is without match. Yes, you have changed + a good deal, if you think of money.” + </p> + <p> + Septimus Marvin had changed colour, at all events, in the last few + minutes. + </p> + <p> + “I have to, Jack, I have to. That is the truth of it. I have come to + Paris to sell that Nanteuil. To realise, I suppose you would call it in + the financial world. <i>Pro aris et focis</i>, old friend. I want money + for the altar and the hearth. It has come to that. I cannot ask them in + Farlingford for more money, for I know they have none. And the church is + falling about our ears. The house wants painting. It is going the way of + the church, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Turner, glancing at him over the bill of fare. + “So you have to sell an engraving. It goes to the heart, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + Marvin laughed and rubbed his spare hands together, with an assumption of + cheerfulness in which some one less stout and well-to-do than his + companion might have perceived that dim minor note of pathos, which always + rings somewhere in a forced laugh. + </p> + <p> + “One has to face it,” he replied. “<i>Ne cedas malis</i>, + you know. I suddenly found it was necessary. It was forced upon me, in + fact. I found that my niece was secretly helping to make both ends meet. A + generous action, made doubly generous by the manner in which it was + performed.” + </p> + <p> + “Miriam?” put in John Turner, who appeared to be absorbed in + the all-important document before him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Miriam. Do you know her? Ah! I forgot. You are her guardian + and trustee. I sometimes think my memory is failing. I found her out quite + by accident. It must have been going on for quite a long time. Heaven will + reward her, Turner! One cannot doubt it.” + </p> + <p> + He absent-mindedly seized two pieces of bread from the basket offered to + him by a waiter, and began to eat as if famished. + </p> + <p> + “Steady, man, steady,” exclaimed Turner, leaning forward with + a horror-stricken face to restrain him. “Don’t spoil a grand + appetite on bread. Gad! I wish I could fall on my food like that. You seem + to be starving.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I forgot to have any breakfast,” said Marvin, + apologetically. + </p> + <p> + “I dare say you did!” was the angry retort. “You always + were a bit of an ass, you know, Sep. But I have ordered a tiptop luncheon, + and I’ll trouble you not to wolf like that.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—well, I’m sorry,” said the other, who, even + in the far-off days at Ipswich school, had always been in the clouds, + while John Turner moved essentially on the earth. + </p> + <p> + “And do not sell that Nanteuil to the first bidder,” went on + Turner, with a glance, of which the keenness was entirely disarmed by the + good-natured roundness of his huge cheeks. “I know a man who will + buy it—at a good price, too. Where did you get it?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! that is a long story,” replied Marvin, looking dreamily + out of the window. “I bought it, years ago, at Farlingford. But it + is a long story.” + </p> + <p> + “Then tell it, slowly. While I eat this <i>sole à la Normande</i>. I + see you’ve nearly finished yours, and I have scarcely begun.” + </p> + <p> + It was a vague and disjointed enough story, as related by Septimus Marvin. + And it was the story of Loo Barebone’s father. As it progressed John + Turner grew redder and redder in the face, while he drank glass after + glass of Burgundy. + </p> + <p> + “A queer story,” he ejaculated, breathlessly. “Go on. + And you bought this engraving from the man himself, before he died? Did he + tell you where he got it? It is the portrait of a woman, you say.” + </p> + <p> + “Portrait of a woman—yes, yes. But he did not know who she + was. And I do not know whether I gave him enough for it. Do you think I + did, Jack?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know how much you gave him, but I have no doubt that it + was too much. Where did he get it?” + </p> + <p> + “He thinks it was brought from France by his mother, or the woman + who was supposed in Farlingford to be his mother—together with other + papers, which he burnt, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “And then he died?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes. He died—but he left a son.” + </p> + <p> + “The devil he did! Why did you not mention that before? Where is the + son? Tell me all about him, while I see how they’ve served this <i>langue + fourrée</i>, which should be eaten slowly; though it is too late to remind + you of that now. Go on. Tell me all about the son.” + </p> + <p> + And before the story of Loo Barebone was half told, John Turner laid aside + his knife and fork and turned his attention to the dissection of this + ill-told tale. As the story neared its end, he glanced round the room, to + make sure that none was listening to their conversation. + </p> + <p> + “Dormer Colville,” he repeated. “Does he come into it?” + </p> + <p> + “He came to Farlingford with the Marquis de Gemosac, out of pure + good-nature—because the Marquis could speak but little English. He + is a charming man. So unselfish and disinterested.” + </p> + <p> + “Who? The Marquis?” + </p> + <p> + “No; Dormer Colville.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes!” said John Turner, returning to the cold tongue. + “Yes; a charming fellow.” + </p> + <p> + And he glanced again at his friend, with a queer smile. When luncheon was + finished, Turner led the way to a small smoking-room, where they would be + alone, and sent a messenger to fetch Septimus Marvin’s bag from + downstairs. + </p> + <p> + “We will have a look at your precious engraving,” he said, + “while we smoke a cigar. It is, I suppose, a relic of the Great + Monarchy, and I may tell you that there is rather a small demand just now + for relics of that period. It would be wiser not to take it into the open + market. I think my client would give you as good a price as any; and I + suppose you want to get as much as you can for it now that you have made + up your mind to the sacrifice?” + </p> + <p> + Marvin suppressed a sigh, and rubbed his hands together with that forced + jocularity which had made his companion turn grave once before. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I mean to drive a hard bargain, I can tell you!” was the + reply, with an assumption of worldly wisdom on a countenance little + calculated to wear that expression naturally. + </p> + <p> + “What did your friend in the print-shop on the Quai Voltaire mention + as a probable price?” asked Turner, carelessly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, he said he might be able to sell it for me at four thousand + francs. I would not hear of his running any risk in the matter, however. + Such a good fellow, he is. So honest.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he is likely to be that,” said Turner, with his broad + smile. He was a little sleepy after a heavy luncheon, and sipped his + coffee with a feeling of charity toward his fellow-men. “You would + find lots of honest men in the Quai Voltaire, Sep. I will tell you what I + will do. Give me the print, and I will do my best for you. Would ten + thousand francs help you out of your difficulties?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not remember saying that I was in difficulties,” + objected the Reverend Septimus, with heightened colour. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you? Memory <i>is</i> bad, is it not? Would ten + thousand francs paint the rectory, then?” + </p> + <p> + “It would ease my mind and sweeten my sleep at night to have half + that sum, my friend. With two hundred pounds I could face the world <i>aequo + animo</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “I will see what I can do. This is the print, is it? I don’t + know much about such things myself, but I should put the price down at ten + thousand francs.” + </p> + <p> + “But the man in the Quai Voltaire?” + </p> + <p> + “Precisely. I know little about prints, but a lot about the Quai + Voltaire. Who is the lady? I presume it is a portrait?” + </p> + <p> + “It is a portrait, but I cannot identify the original. To an expert + of that period it should not be impossible, however.” Septimus + Marvin was all awake now, with flushed cheeks and eyes brightened by + enthusiasm. “Do you know why? Because her hair is dressed in a + peculiar way—<i>poufs de sentiment</i>, these curls are called. They + were only worn for a brief period. In those days the writings of Jean + Jacques Rousseau had a certain vogue among the idle classes. The women + showed their sentiments in the dressing of their hair. Very curious—very + curious. And here, in the hair, half-concealed, is an imitation dove’s + nest.” + </p> + <p> + “The deuce there is!” ejaculated Turner, pulling at his cigar. + </p> + <p> + “A fashion which ruled for a still briefer period.” + </p> + <p> + “I should hope so. Well, roll the thing up, and I will do my best + for you. I’m less likely to be taken in than you are, perhaps. If I + sell it, I will send you a cheque this evening. It is a beautiful face.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” agreed Septimus Marvin, with, a sharp sigh. “It + is a beautiful face.” + </p> + <p> + And he slowly rolled up his most treasured possession, which John Turner + tucked under his arm. On the Pont Royal they parted company. + </p> + <p> + “By the way,” said John Turner, after they had shaken hands, + “You never told me what sort of a man this young fellow is—this + Loo Barebone?” + </p> + <p> + “The dearest fellow in the world,” answered Marvin, with eyes + aglow behind his spectacles. “To me he has been as a son—an + elder brother, as it were, to little Sep. I was already an elderly man, + you know, when Sep was born. Too old, perhaps. Who knows? Heaven’s + way is not always marked very clearly.” + </p> + <p> + He nodded vaguely and went away a few paces. Then he remembered something + and came back. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know if I ought to speak of such a thing. But I quite + hoped, at one time, that Miriam might one day recognise his goodness of + heart.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” interrupted Turner. “The mate of a coasting + schooner!” + </p> + <p> + “He is more than that, my friend,” answered Septimus Marvin, + nodding his head slowly, so that the sun flashed on his spectacles in such + a manner as to make Turner blink. Then he turned away again and crossed + the bridge, leaving the English banker at the corner of it, still + blinking. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII — THE CITY THAT SOON FORGETS + </h2> + <p> + There are in humble life some families which settle their domestic + differences on the doorstep, while the neighbours, gathered hastily by the + commotion, tiptoe behind each other to watch the fun. In the European + congerie France represents this loud-voiced household, and Paris—Paris, + the city that soon forgets—is the doorstep whereon they wrangle. + </p> + <p> + The bones of contention may be pitched far and wide by the chances and + changes of exile, but the contending dogs bark and yap in Paris. At this + time there lived, sometimes in Italy, sometimes at Frohsdorf, a jovial + young gentleman, fond of sport and society, cultivating the tastes and + enjoying the easy existence of a country-gentleman of princely rank—the + Comte de Chambord. Son of that Duchesse de Berri who tried to play a great + part and failed, he was married to an Italian princess and had no + children. He was, therefore, the last of the Bourbons, and passed in + Europe as such. But he did not care. Perhaps his was the philosophy of the + indolent which saith that some one must be last and why not I? + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, there ran in his veins some energetic blood. On his father’s + side he was descended from sixty-six kings of France. From his mother he + inherited a relationship to many makers of history. For the Duchesse de + Berri’s grandmother was the sister of Marie Antoinette. Her mother + was aunt to that Empress of the French, Marie Louise, who was a notable + exception to the rule that “Bon sang ne peut mentir.” Her + father was a king of Sicily and Naples. She was a Bourbon married to a + Bourbon. When she was nineteen she gave birth to a daughter, who died next + day. In a year she had a son who died in twenty hours. Two years later her + husband died in her arms, assassinated, in a back room of the Opera House + in Paris. + </p> + <p> + Seven months after her husband’s death she gave birth to the Comte + de Chambord, the last of the old Bourbons. She was active, energetic and + of boundless courage. She made a famous journey through La Vendée on + horseback to rally the Royalists. She urged her father-in-law, Charles X, + to resist the revolution. She was the best Royalist of them all. And her + son was the Comte de Chambord, who could have been a king if he had not + been a philosopher, or a coward. + </p> + <p> + He was waiting till France called him with one voice. As if France had + ever called for anything with one voice! + </p> + <p> + Amid the babel there rang out not a few voices for the younger branch of + the Royal line—the Orleans. Louis Philippe—king for eighteen + years—was still alive, living in exile at Claremont. Two years + earlier, in the rush of the revolution of 1848, he had effected his escape + to Newhaven. The Orleans always seek a refuge in England, and always turn + and abuse that country when they can go elsewhere in safety. And England + is not one penny the worse for their abuse, and no man or country was ever + yet one penny the better for their friendship. + </p> + <p> + Louis Philippe had been called to the throne by the people of France. His + reign of eighteen years was marked by one great deed. He threw open the + Palace of Versailles—which was not his—to the public. And then + the people who called him in, hooted him out. His life had been attempted + many times. All the other kings hated him and refused to let their + daughters marry his sons. He and his sons were waiting at Claremont while + the talkers in Paris talked their loudest. + </p> + <p> + There was a third bone of contention—the Imperial line. At this time + the champions of this morsel were at the summit; for a Bonaparte was + riding on the top of the revolutionary scrimmage. + </p> + <p> + By the death of the great Napoleon’s only child, the second son of + his third brother became the recognised claimant to the Imperial crown. + </p> + <p> + For France has long ceased to look to the eldest son as the rightful heir. + There is, in fact, a curse on the first-born of France. Napoleon’s + son, the King of Rome, died in exile, an Austrian. The Duc de Bordeaux, + born eight years after him, never wore the crown, and died in exile, + childless. The Comte de Paris, born also at the Tuileries, was exiled when + he was ten years old, and died in England. All these, of one generation. + And of the next, the Prince Imperial, hurried out of France in 1870, + perished on the Veldt. The King of Rome lies in his tomb at Vienna, the + Duc de Bordeaux at Göritz, the Comte de Paris at Weybridge, the Prince + Imperial at Farnborough. These are the heirs of France, born in the palace + of the Tuileries. How are they cast upon the waters of the world! And + where the palace of the Tuileries once stood the pigeons now call to each + other beneath the trees, while, near at hand, lolls on the public seat he + whom France has always with her, the <i>vaurien</i>—the + worth-nothing. + </p> + <p> + So passes the glory of the world. It is not a good thing to be born in a + palace, nor to live in one. + </p> + <p> + It was in the Rue Lafayette that John Turner had his office, and when he + emerged from it into that long street on the evening of the 25th of + August, 1850, he ran against, or he was rather run against by, the newsboy + who shrieked as he pattered along in lamentable boots and waved a sheet in + the face of the passer: “The King is dead! The King is dead!” + </p> + <p> + And Paris—the city that soon forgets—smiled and asked what + King? + </p> + <p> + Louis Philippe was dead in England, at the age of seventy-seven, the bad + son of a bad father, another of those adventurers whose happy + hunting-ground always has been, always will be, France. + </p> + <p> + John Turner, like many who are slow in movement, was quick in thought. He + perceived at once that the death of Louis Philippe left the field open to + the next adventurer; for he left behind him no son of his own mettle. + </p> + <p> + Turner went back to his office, where the pen with which he had signed a + cheque for four hundred pounds, payable to the Reverend Septimus Marvin, + was still wet; where, at the bottom of the largest safe, the portrait of + an unknown lady of the period of Louis XVI lay concealed. He wrote out a + telegram to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, addressed to her at her villa near + Royan, and then proceeded to his dinner with the grave face of the careful + critic. + </p> + <p> + The next morning he received the answer, at his breakfast-table, in the + apartment he had long occupied in the Avenue d’Antin. But he did not + open the envelope. He had telegraphed to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, asking + if it would be convenient for her to put him up for a few days. And he + suspected that it would not. + </p> + <p> + “When I am gone,” he said to his well-trained servant, “put + that into an envelope and send it after me to the Villa Cordouan, Royan. + Pack my portmanteau for a week.” + </p> + <p> + Thus John Turner set out southward to join a party of those Royalists whom + his father before him had learnt to despise. And in a manner he was + pre-armed; for he knew that he would not be welcome. It was in those days + a long journey, for the railway was laid no farther than Tours, from + whence the traveller must needs post to La Rochelle, and there take a boat + to Royan—that shallow harbour at the mouth of the Gironde. + </p> + <p> + “Must have a change—of cooking,” he explained to Mrs. + St. Pierre Lawrence. “Doctor says I am getting too stout.” + </p> + <p> + He shook her deliberately by the hand without appearing to notice her + blank looks. + </p> + <p> + “So I came south and shall finish up at Biarritz, which they say is + going to be fashionable. I hope it is not inconvenient for you to give me + a bed—a solid one—for a night or two.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no!” answered Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, who had charming + manners, and was one of those fortunate persons who are never at a loss. + “Did you not receive my telegram?” + </p> + <p> + “Telling me you were counting the hours till my arrival?” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” admitted Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, wisely reflecting + that he would ultimately see the telegram, “hardly so fervent as + that—” + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord!” interrupted Turner, looking behind her toward the + veranda, which was cool and shady, where two men were seated near a table + bearing coffee-cups. “Who is that?” + </p> + <p> + “Which?” asked Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, without turning to + follow the direction of his glance. “Oh! one is Dormer Colville, I + see that. But the other—gad!” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you say gad?” asked the lady, with surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Where did he get that face from?” was the reply. + </p> + <p> + Turner took off his hat and mopped his brow; for it was very hot and the + August sun was setting over a copper sea. + </p> + <p> + “Where we all get our faces from, I suppose!” answered Mrs. + St. Pierre Lawrence, with her easy laugh. She was always mistress of the + situation. “The heavenly warehouse, one supposes. His name is + Barebone. He is a friend of Dormer’s.” + </p> + <p> + “Any friend of Dormer Colville’s commands my interest.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence glanced quickly at her companion beneath the + shade of her lace-trimmed parasol. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by that?” she asked, in a voice suddenly + hard and resentful. + </p> + <p> + “That he chooses his friends well,” returned the banker, with + his guileless smile. His face was bovine, and in the heat of summer apt to + be shiny. No one would attribute an inner meaning to a stout person thus + outwardly brilliant. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence appeared to be mollified, + and turned toward the house with a gesture inviting him to walk with her. + </p> + <p> + “I will be frank with you,” she said. “I telegraphed to + tell you that the Villa Cordouan is for the moment unfortunately filled + with guests.” + </p> + <p> + “What matter? I will go to the hotel. In fact, I told the driver of + my carriage to wait for further orders. I half feared that at this time of + year, you know, house would be full. I’ll just shake hands with + Colville and then be off. You will let me come in after dinner, perhaps. + You and I must have a talk about money, you will remember.” + </p> + <p> + There was no time to answer; for Dormer Colville, perceiving their + approach, was already hurrying down the steps of the veranda to meet them. + He laughed as he came, for John Turner’s bulk made him a laughing + matter in the eyes of most men, and his good humour seemed to invite them + to frank amusement. + </p> + <p> + The greeting was, therefore, jovial enough on both sides, and after being + introduced to Loo Barebone, Mr. Turner took his leave without farther + defining his intentions for the evening. + </p> + <p> + “I do not think it matters much,” Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence + said to her two guests, when he had left. “And he may not come, + after all.” + </p> + <p> + Her self-confidence sufficiently convinced Loo, who was always ready to + leave something to chance. But Colville shook his head. + </p> + <p> + It thus came about that sundry persons of title and importance who had + been invited to come to the Villa Cordouan after dinner for a little music + found the English banker complacently installed in the largest chair, with + a shirt-front evading the constraint of an abnormal waistcoat, and a + sleepy chin drooping surreptitiously toward it. + </p> + <p> + “He is my banker from Paris,” whispered Mrs. St. Pierre + Lawrence to one and another. “He knows nothing, and so far as I am + aware, is no politician—merely a banker, you understand. Leave him + alone and he will go to sleep.” + </p> + <p> + During the three weeks which Loo Barebone had spent very pleasantly at the + Villa Cordouan, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had provided music and light + refreshment for her friends on several occasions. And each evening the + drawing-room, which was not a small one, had been filled to overflowing. + Friends brought their friends and introduced them to the hostess, who in + turn presented them to Barebone. Some came from a distance, driving from + Saintes or La Rochelle or Pons. Others had taken houses for the + bathing-season at Royan itself. + </p> + <p> + “He never makes a mistake,” said the hostess to Dormer + Colville, behind her fan, a hundred times, following with her shrewd eyes + the gay and easy movements of Loo, who seemed to be taught by some + instinct to suit his manner to his interlocutor. + </p> + <p> + To-night there was more music and less conversation. + </p> + <p> + “Play him to sleep,” Dormer Colville had said to his cousin. + And at length Turner succumbed to the soft effect of a sonata. He even + snored in the shade of a palm, and the gaiety of the proceedings in no way + suffered. + </p> + <p> + It was only Colville who seemed uneasy and always urged any who were + talking earnestly to keep out of earshot of the sleeping Englishman. Once + or twice he took Barebone by the arm and led him to the other end of the + room, for he was always the centre of the liveliest group and led the + laughter there. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! but he is charming, my dear,” more than one guest + whispered to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, as they took their departure. + </p> + <p> + “He will do—he will do,” the men said with a new light + of hope in their grave faces. + </p> + <p> + Nearly all had gone when John Turner at length woke up. Indeed, Colville + threw a book upon the floor to disturb his placid sleep. + </p> + <p> + “I will come round to-morrow,” he said, bidding his hostess + good night. “I have some papers for you to sign since you are + determined to sell your <i>rentes</i> and leave the money idle at your + bank.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I am quite determined,” she answered, gaily, for she was + before her time inasmuch as she was what is known in these days of + degenerate speech as cock-sure. + </p> + <p> + And when John Turner, carrying a bundle of papers, presented himself at + the Villa Cordouan next morning he found Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence sitting + alone in the veranda. + </p> + <p> + “Dormer and his friend have left me to my own devices. They have + gone away,” she mentioned, casually, in the course of conversation. + </p> + <p> + “Suddenly?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no,” she answered, carelessly, and wrote her name in a + clear firm hand on the document before her. And John Turner looked dense. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX — IN THE BREACH + </h2> + <p> + The Marquis de Gemosac was sitting at the open window of the little + drawing-room in the only habitable part of the château. From his position + he looked across the courtyard toward the garden where stiff cypress-trees + stood sentry among the mignonette and the roses, now in the full glory of + their autumn bloom. + </p> + <p> + Beyond the garden, the rough outline of the walls cut a straight line + across the distant plains, which melted away into the haze of the + marsh-lands by the banks of the Gironde far to the westward. + </p> + <p> + The Marquis had dined. They dined early in those days in France, and + coffee was still served after the evening meal. + </p> + <p> + The sun was declining toward the sea in a clear copper-coloured sky, but a + fresh breeze was blowing in from the estuary to temper the heat of the + later rays. + </p> + <p> + The Marquis was beating time with one finger, and within the room, to an + impromptu accompaniment invented by Juliette, Barebone was singing: + </p> + <p> + C’est le Hasard, Qui, tôt ou tard, Ici-bas nous seconde; Car, D’un + bout du monde A l’autre bout, Le Hasard seul fait tout. + </p> + <p> + He broke off with a laugh in which Juliette’s low voice joined. + </p> + <p> + “That is splendid, mademoiselle,” he cried, and the Marquis + clapped his thin hands together. + </p> + <p> + Un tel qu’on vantait Par hasard était D’origine assez mince; + Par hasard il plut, Par hasard il fut Baron, ministre et prince: C’est + le Hasard, Qui, tôt ou tard, Ici bas nous seconde; Car, D’un bout du + monde A l’autre bout, Le Hasard seul fait tout. + </p> + <p> + “There—that is all I know. It is the only song I sing.” + </p> + <p> + “But there are other verses,” said Juliette, resting her hands + on the keys of the wheezy spinet which must have been a hundred years old. + “What are they about?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know, mademoiselle,” he answered, looking down at + her. “I think it is a love-song.” + </p> + <p> + She had pinned some mignonette, strong scented as autumn mignonette is, in + the front of her muslin dress, and the heavy heads had dragged the stems + to one side. She put the flowers in order, slowly, and then bent her head + to enjoy the scent of them. + </p> + <p> + “It scarcely sounds like one,” she said, in a low and + inquiring voice. The Marquis was a little deaf. “Is it all chance + then?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes,” he answered, and as he spoke without lowering his + voice she played softly on the old piano the simple melody of his song. + “It is all chance, mademoiselle. Did they not teach you that at the + school at Saintes?” + </p> + <p> + But she was not in a humour to join in his ready laughter. The room was + rosy with the glow of the setting sun, she breathed the scent of the + mignonette at every breath, the air which she had picked out on the spinet + in unison with his clear and sympathetic voice had those minor tones and + slow slurring from note to note which are characteristic of the gay and + tearful songs of southern France and all Spain. None of which things are + conducive to gaiety when one is young. + </p> + <p> + She glanced at him with one quick turn of the head and made no answer. But + she played the air over again—the girls sing it to this day over + their household work at Farlingford to other words—with her foot on + the soft pedal. The Marquis hummed it between his teeth at the other end + of the room. + </p> + <p> + “This room is hot,” she exclaimed, suddenly, and rose from her + seat without troubling to finish the melody. “And that window will + not open, mademoiselle; for I have tried it,” added Barebone, + watching her impatient movements. + </p> + <p> + “Then I am going into the garden,” she said, with a sharp sigh + and a wilful toss of the head. It was not his fault that the setting sun, + against which, as many have discovered, men shut their doors, should + happen to be burning hot or that the window would not open. But Juliette + seemed to blame him for it or for something else, perhaps. One never + knows. Barebone did not follow her at once, but stood by the window + talking to the Marquis, who was in a reminiscent humour. The old man + interrupted his own narrative, however. + </p> + <p> + “There,” he cried, “is Juliette on that wall overhanging + the river. It is where the English effected a breach long ago, my friend—you + need not smile, for you are no Englishman—and the château has only + been taken twice through all the centuries of fighting. There! She + ventures still farther. I have told her a hundred times that the wall is + unsafe.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I go and warn her the hundred-and-first time?” asked + Loo, willing enough. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my friend, do. And speak to her severely. She is only a child, + remember.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—I will remember that.” + </p> + <p> + Juliette did not seem to hear his approach across the turf where the goats + fed now, but stood with her back toward him, a few feet below him, + actually in that breach effected long ago by those pestilential English. + They must have prized out the great stones with crowbars and torn them + down with their bare hands. + </p> + <p> + Juliette was looking over the vineyards toward the river, which gleamed + across the horizon. She was humming to herself the last lines of the song: + </p> + <p> + D’un bout du monde A l’autre bout, Le Hasard seul fait tout. + </p> + <p> + She turned with a pretty swing of her skirts to gather them in her hand. + </p> + <p> + “You must go no farther, mademoiselle,” said Loo. + </p> + <p> + She stopped, half bending to take her skirt, but did not look back. Then + she took two steps downward from stone to stone. The blocks were half + embedded in the turf and looked ready to fall under the smallest + additional weight. + </p> + <p> + “It is not I who say so, but your father who sent me,” + explained the admonisher from above. + </p> + <p> + “Since it is all chance—” she said, looking downward. + </p> + <p> + She turned suddenly and looked up at him with that impatience which gives + way in later life to a philosophy infinitely to be dreaded when it comes; + for its real name is Indifference. + </p> + <p> + Her movements were spasmodic and quick as if something angered her, she + knew not what; as if she wanted something, she knew not what. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” she said, “that it was chance that saved + our lives that night two months ago, out there.” + </p> + <p> + And she stood with one hand stretched out behind her pointing toward the + estuary, which was quiet enough now, looking up at him with that strange + anger or new disquietude—it was hard to tell which—glowing in + her eyes. The wind fluttered her hair, which was tied low down with a + ribbon in the mode named “à la diable” by some French wit with + a sore heart in an old man’s breast. For none other could have so + aptly described it. + </p> + <p> + “All chance, mademoiselle,” he answered, looking over her head + toward the river. + </p> + <p> + “And it would have been the same had it been only Marie or Marie and + Jean in the boat with you?” + </p> + <p> + “The boat would have been as solid and the ropes as strong.” + </p> + <p> + “And you?” asked the girl, with a glance from her persistent + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no!” he answered, with a laugh. “I should not have + been the same. But you must not continue to stand there, mademoiselle; the + wall is unsafe.” + </p> + <p> + She shrugged her shoulders and stood with half-averted face, looking down + at the vineyards which stretched away to the dunes by the river. Her + cheeks were oddly flushed. + </p> + <p> + “Your father sent me to say so,” continued Loo, “and if + he sees that you take no heed he will come himself to learn why.” + </p> + <p> + Juliette gave a curt laugh and climbed the declivity toward him. The + argument was, it seemed, a sound one. When she reached his level he made a + step or two along the path that ran round the enceinte—not toward + the house, however—but away from it. She accepted the tacit + suggestion, not tacitly, however. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we not go and tell papa we have returned without mishap?” + she amended, with a light laugh. + </p> + <p> + “No, mademoiselle,” he answered. It was his turn to be grave + now and she glanced at him with a gleam of satisfaction beneath her lids. + She was not content with that, however, but wished to make him angry. So + she laughed again and they would have quarrelled if he had not kept his + lips firmly closed and looked straight in front of him. + </p> + <p> + They passed between the unfinished ruin known as the Italian house and the + rampart. The Italian house screened them from the windows of that portion + of the ancient stabling which the Marquis had made habitable when he + bought back the château of Gemosac from the descendant of an adventurous + republican to whom the estate had been awarded in the days of the Terror. + A walk of lime-trees bordered that part of the garden which lies to the + west of the Italian house, and no other part was visible from where + Juliette paused to watch the sun sink below the distant horizon. Loo was + walking a few paces behind her, and when she stopped he stopped also. She + sat down on the low wall, but he remained standing. + </p> + <p> + Her profile, clear-cut and delicate with its short chin and beautifully + curved lips, its slightly aquiline nose and crisp hair rising in a bold + curve from her forehead, was outlined against the sky. He could see the + gleam of the western light in her eyes, which were half averted. While she + watched the sunset, he watched her with a puzzled expression about his + lips. + </p> + <p> + He remembered perhaps the Marquis’s last words, that Juliette was + only a child. He knew that she could in all human calculation know nothing + of the world; that at least she could have learned nothing of it in the + convent where she had been educated. So, if she knew anything, she must + have known it before she went there, which was impossible. She knew + nothing, therefore, and yet she was not a child. As a matter of fact, she + was the most beautiful woman Loo Barebone had ever seen. He was thinking + that as she sat on the low wall, swinging one slipper half falling from + her foot, watching the sunset, while he watched her and noted the anger + slowly dying from her eyes as the light faded from the sky. That strange + anger went down, it would appear, with the sun. After the long silence—when + the low bars of red cloud lying across the western sky were fading from + pink to grey—she spoke at last in a voice which he had never heard + before, gentle and confidential. + </p> + <p> + “When are you going away?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “To-night.” + </p> + <p> + And he knew that the very hour of his departure was known to her already. + </p> + <p> + “And when will you come back?” + </p> + <p> + “As soon as I can,” he answered, half-involuntarily. There was + a turn of the head half toward him, something expectant in the tilt at the + corner of her parted lips, which made it practically impossible to make + any other answer. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” she asked, in little more than a whisper—then she + broke into a gay laugh and leapt off the wall. She walked quickly past + him. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” she repeated over her shoulder as she passed him. And + he was too quick for her, for he caught her hand and touched it with his + lips before she jerked it away from him. + </p> + <p> + “Because you are here,” he answered, with a laugh. But she was + grave again and looked at him with a queer searching glance before she + turned away and left him standing in the half-light—thinking of + Miriam Liston. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX — “NINETEEN” + </h2> + <p> + As Juliette returned to the Gate House she encountered her father, walking + arm-in-arm with Dormer Colville. The presence of the Englishman within the + enceinte of the chateau was probably no surprise to her, for she must have + heard the clang of the bell just within the gate, which could not be + opened from outside; by which alone access was gained to any part of the + château. + </p> + <p> + Colville was in riding costume. It was, indeed, his habitual dress when + living in France, for he made no concealment of his partnership in a + well-known business house in Bordeaux. + </p> + <p> + “I am a sleeping partner,” he would say, with that easy flow + of egotistic confidence which is the surest way of learning somewhat of + your neighbour’s private affairs. “I am a sleeping partner at + all times except the vintage, when I awake and ride round among the + growers, to test their growth.” + </p> + <p> + It was too early yet for these journeys, for the grapes were hardly ripe. + But any one who wished to move from place to place must needs do so in the + saddle in a country where land is so valuable that the width of a road is + grudged, and bridle-ways are deemed good enough for the passage of the + long and narrow carts that carry wine. + </p> + <p> + Ever since their somewhat precipitate departure from the Villa Cordouan at + Royan, Dormer Colville and Barebone had been in company. They had stayed + together, in one friend’s house or another. Sometimes they enjoyed + the hospitality of a château, and at others put up with the scanty + accommodation of a priest’s house or the apartment of a retired + military officer, in one of those little towns of provincial France at + which the cheap journalists of Paris are pleased to sneer without ceasing. + </p> + <p> + They avoided the large towns with extraordinary care. + </p> + <p> + “Why should we go to towns,” asked Colville, jovially, “when + we have business in the country and the sun is still high in the sky?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he would reply to the questions of an indiscreet + fellow-traveller, at table or on the road. “Yes; I am a buyer of + wine. We are buyers of wine. We are travelling from place to place to + watch the growth. For the wine is hidden in the grape, and the grape is + ripening.” + </p> + <p> + And, as often as not, the chance acquaintance of an inn dejeuner would + catch the phrase and repeat it thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! is that so?” he would ask, with a sudden glance at Dormer + Colville’s companion, who had hitherto passed unobserved as the + silent subordinate of a large buyer; learning his trade, no doubt. “The + grape is ripening. Good!” + </p> + <p> + And as sure as he seemed to be struck with this statement of a + self-evident fact, he would, in the next few minutes, bring the numeral + “nineteen”—<i>tant bien que mal</i>—into his + conversation. + </p> + <p> + “With nineteen days of sun, the vintage will be upon us,” he + would say; or, “I have but nineteen kilometres more of road before + me to-day.” + </p> + <p> + Indeed, it frequently happened that the word came in very inappropriately, + as if tugged heroically to the front by a clumsy conversationalist. + </p> + <p> + There is no hazard of life so certain to discover sympathy or antagonism + as travel—a fact which points to the wisdom of beginning married + life with a journey. The majority of people like to know the worst at + once. To travel, however, with Dormer Colville was a liberal education in + the virtues. No man could be less selfish or less easily fatigued; which + are the two bases upon which rest all the stumbling-blocks of travel. + </p> + <p> + Up to a certain point, Barebone and Dormer Colville became fast friends + during the month that elapsed between their departure from Mrs. St. Pierre + Lawrence’s house and their arrival at the inn at Gemosac. The + “White Horse,” at Gemosac, was no better and no worse than any + other “White Horse” in any other small town of France. It was, + however, better than the principal inn of a town of the same size in any + other habitable part of the globe. + </p> + <p> + There were many reasons why the Marquis de Gemosac had yielded to Colville’s + contention—that the time had not yet come for Loo Barebone to be his + guest at the chateau. + </p> + <p> + “He is inclined to be indolent,” Colville had whispered. + “One recognises, in many traits of character, the source from whence + his blood is drawn. He will not exert himself so long as there is some one + else at hand who is prepared to take trouble. He must learn that it is + necessary to act for himself. He needs rousing. Let him travel through + France, and see for himself that of which he has as yet only learnt at + second-hand. That will rouse him.” + </p> + <p> + And the journey through the valleys of the Garonne and the Dordogne had + been undertaken. + </p> + <p> + Another, greater journey, was now afoot, to end at no less a centre of + political life than Paris. A start was to be made this evening, and Dormer + Colville now came to report that all was ready and the horses at the gate. + </p> + <p> + “If there were scenes such as this for all of us to linger in, + mademoiselle,” he said, lifting his face to the western sky and + inhaling the scent of the flowers growing knee-deep all around him, + “men would accomplish little in their brief lifetime.” + </p> + <p> + His eyes, dreamy and reflective, wandered over the scene and paused, just + for a moment in passing, on Juliette’s face. She continued her way, + with no other answer than a smile. + </p> + <p> + “She grows, my dear Marquis—she grows every minute of the day + and wakes up a new woman every morning,” said Colville, in a + confidential aside, and he went forward to meet Loo with his accustomed + laugh of good-fellowship. He whom the world calls a good fellow is never a + wise man. + </p> + <p> + Barebone walked toward the gate without joining in the talk of his + companions. He was thoughtful and uneasy. He had come to say good-bye and + nothing else. He was wondering if he had really meant what he had said. + </p> + <p> + “Come,” interrupted Colville’s smooth voice. “We + must get into the saddle and begone. I was just telling Monsieur and + Mademoiselle Juliette, that any man might be tempted to linger at Gemosac + until the active years of a lifetime rolled by.” + </p> + <p> + The Marquis made the needful reply; hoping that he might yet live to see + Gemosac—and not only Gemosac, but a hundred châteaux like it—reawakened + to their ancient glory, and thrown open to welcome the restorer of their + fallen fortunes. + </p> + <p> + Colville looked from one to the other, and then, with his foot in the + stirrup, turned to look at Juliette, who had followed them to the gate. + </p> + <p> + “And mademoiselle,” he said; “will she wish us good + luck, also? Alas! those times are gone when we could have asked for her + ribbon to wear, and to fight for between ourselves when we are tired and + cross at the end of a journey. Come, Barchone—into the saddle.” + </p> + <p> + They waited, both looking at Juliette; for she had not spoken. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you good luck,” she said, at length, patting the neck + of Colville’s horse, her face wearing a little mystic smile. + </p> + <p> + Thus they departed, at sunset, on a journey of which old men will still + talk in certain parts of France. Here and there, in the Angoumois, in + Guienne, in the Vendée, and in the western parts of Brittany, the student + of forgotten history may find an old priest who will still persist in + dividing France into the ancient provinces, and will tell how Hope rode + through the Royalist country when he himself was busy at his first cure. + </p> + <p> + The journey lasted nearly two months, and before they passed north of the + Loire at Nantes and quitted the wine country, the vintage was over. + </p> + <p> + “We must say that we are cider merchants, that is all,” + observed Dormer Colville, when they crossed the river, which has always + been the great divider of France. + </p> + <p> + “He is sobering down. I believe he will become serious,” wrote + he to the Marquis de Gemosac. But he took care to leave Loo Barebone as + free as possible. + </p> + <p> + “I am, in a way, a compulsory pilot,” he explained, airily, to + his companion. “The ship is yours, and you probably know more about + the shoals than I do. You must have felt that a hundred times when you + were at sea with that solemn old sailor, Captain Clubbe. And yet, before + you could get into port, you found yourself forced to take the compulsory + pilot on board and make him welcome with such grace as you could command, + feeling all the while that he did not want to come and you could have done + as well without him. So you must put up with my company as gracefully as + you can, remembering that you can drop me as soon as you are in port.” + </p> + <p> + And surely, none other could have occupied an uncomfortable position so + gracefully. + </p> + <p> + Barebone found that he had not much to do. He soon accommodated himself to + a position which required nothing more active than a ready ear and a + gracious patience. For, day by day—almost hour by hour—it was + his lot to listen to protestations of loyalty to a cause which smouldered + none the less hotly because it was hidden from the sight of the Prince + President’s spies. + </p> + <p> + And, as Colville had predicted, Barebone sobered down. He would ride now, + hour after hour, in silence, whereas at the beginning of the journey he + had talked gaily enough, seeing a hundred humorous incidents in the + passing events of the day; laughing at the recollection of an interview + with some provincial notable who had fallen behind the times, or jesting + readily enough with such as showed a turn for joking on the road. + </p> + <p> + But now the unreality of his singular change of fortune was vanishing. + Every village priest who came after dark to take a glass of wine with them + at their inn sent it farther into the past, every provincial noble + greeting him on the step of his remote and quiet house added a note to the + drumming reality which dominated his waking moments and disturbed his + sleep at night. + </p> + <p> + Day by day they rode on, passing through two or three villages between + such halts as were needed by the horses. At every hamlet, in the large + villages, where they rested and had their food, at the remote little town + where they passed a night, there was always some one expecting them, who + came and talked of the weather and more or less skilfully brought in the + numeral nineteen. “Nineteen! Nineteen!” It was a watchword all + over France. + </p> + <p> + Long before, on the banks of the Dordogne, Loo had asked his companion why + that word had been selected—what it meant. + </p> + <p> + “It means Louis XIX,” replied Dormer Colville, gravely. + </p> + <p> + And now, as they rode through a country so rural, so thinly populated and + remote that nothing like it may be found in these crowded islands, the + number seemed to follow them; or, rather, to pass on before them and await + their coming. + </p> + <p> + Often Colville would point silently with his whip to the numerals, + scrawled on a gate-post or written across a wall. At this time France was + mysteriously flooded with cheap portraits of the great Napoleon. It was + before the days of pictorial advertisement, and young ladies who wished to + make an advantageous marriage had no means of advertising the fact and + themselves in supplements to illustrated papers. The walls of inns and + shops and <i>diligence</i> offices were therefore barer than they are + to-day. And from these bare walls stared out at this time the well-known + face of the great Napoleon. It was an innovation, and as such readily + enough accepted. + </p> + <p> + At every fair, at the great fête of St. Jean, at St. Jean d’Angély + and a hundred other fêtes of purely local notoriety, at least one hawker + of cheap lithographs was to be found. And if the buyer haggled, he could + get the portrait of the great Emperor for almost nothing. + </p> + <p> + “One cannot print it at such a cost,” the seller assured his + purchasers, which was no less than the truth. + </p> + <p> + The fairs were, and are to this day, the link between the remoter villages + and the world; and the peasants carried home with them a picture, for the + first time, to hang on their walls. Thus the Prince President fostered the + Napoleonic legend. + </p> + <p> + Dormer Colville would walk up to these pictures, and, as often as not, + would turn and look over his shoulder at Barebone, with a short laugh. For + as often as not, the numerals were scrawled across the face in pencil. + </p> + <p> + But Barebone had ceased to laugh at the constant repetition now. Soon + Colville ceased to point out the silent witness, for he perceived that Loo + was looking for it himself, detecting its absence with a gleam of + determination in his eyes or noting its recurrence with a sharp sigh, as + of the consciousness of a great responsibility. + </p> + <p> + Thus the reality was gradually forced upon him that that into which he had + entered half in jest was no jest at all; that he was moving forward on a + road which seemed easy enough, but of which the end was not perceptible; + neither was there any turning to one side or the other. + </p> + <p> + All men who have made a mark—whether it be a guiding or warning sign + to those that follow—must at one moment of their career have perceived + their road before them, thus. Each must have realised that once set out + upon that easy path there is no turning aside and no turning back. And + many have chosen to turn back while there was yet time, leaving the mark + unmade. For most men are cowards and shun responsibility. Most men + unconsciously steer their way by proverb or catchword; and all the wise + saws of all the nations preach cowardice. + </p> + <p> + Barebone saw his road now, and Dormer Colville knew that he saw it. + </p> + <p> + When they crossed the Loire they passed the crisis, and Colville breathed + again like one who had held his breath for long. Those colder, sterner men + of Brittany, who, in later times, compared notes with the nobles of + Guienne and the Vendée, seemed to talk of a different man; for they spoke + of one who rarely laughed, and never turned aside from a chosen path which + was in no wise bordered by flowers. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI — NO. 8 RUELLE ST. JACOB + </h2> + <p> + Between the Rue de Lille and the Boulevard St. Germain, in the narrow + streets which to this day have survived the sweeping influence of Baron + Haussmann, once Prefect of the Seine, there are many houses which scarcely + seem to have opened door or window since the great Revolution. + </p> + <p> + One of these, to be precise, is situated in the Ruelle St. Jacob, hardly + wider than a lane—a short street with a blind end against high walls—into + which any vehicle that enters must needs do so with the knowledge of + having to back out again. For there is no room to turn. Which is an + allegory. All the windows, in fact, that look forlornly at the blank walls + or peep over the high gateways into the Ruelle St. Jacob are Royalist + windows looking into a street which is blinded by a high wall and is too + narrow to allow of turning. + </p> + <p> + Many of the windows would appear to have gathered dust since those days + more than a hundred years ago when white faces peeped from them and + trembling hands unbarred the sash to listen to the roar of voices in the + Rue du Bac, in the open space by the church of St. Germain des Près, in + the Cité, all over Paris, where the people were making history. + </p> + <p> + To this house in the Ruelle St. Jacob, Dormer Colville and Loo Barebone + made their way on foot, on their arrival in Paris at the termination of + their long journey. + </p> + <p> + It was nearly dark, for Colville had arranged to approach the city and + leave their horses at a stable at Meudon after dusk. + </p> + <p> + “It is foolish,” he said, gaily, to his companion, “to + flaunt a face like yours in Paris by daylight.” + </p> + <p> + They had driven from Meudon in a hired carriage to the corner of the Champ + de Mars, in those days still innocent of glass houses and exhibition + buildings, for Paris was not yet the toy-shop of the world; and from the + Champ de Mars they came on foot through the ill-paved, feebly lighted + streets. In the Ruelle St. Jacob itself there was only one lamp, burning + oil, swinging at the corner. The remainder of the lane depended for its + illumination on the windows of two small shops retailing firewood and + pickled gherkins and balls of string grey with age, as do all the shops in + the narrow streets on the wrong side of the Seine. + </p> + <p> + Dormer Colville led the way, picking his steps from side to side of the + gutter which meandered odoriferously down the middle of the street toward + the river. He stopped in front of the great gateway and looked up at the + arch of it, where the stone carving had been carefully obliterated by some + enthusiastic citizen armed with a hatchet. + </p> + <p> + “Ichabod,” he said, with a short laugh; and cautiously laid + bold of the dangling bell-handle which had summoned the porter to open to + a Queen in those gay days when Marie Antoinette light-heartedly pushed a + falling monarchy down the incline. + </p> + <p> + The great gate was not opened in response, but a small side door, + deep-sunken in the thickness of the wall. On either jamb of the door was + affixed in the metal letters ordained by the municipality the number + eight. Number Eight Ruelle St. Jacob had once been known to kings as the + Hotel Gemosac. + </p> + <p> + The man who opened earned a lantern and held the door ajar with a grudging + hand while he peered out. One could almost imagine that he had survived + the downfall and the Restoration, and a couple of republics, behind the + high walls. + </p> + <p> + The court-yard was paved with round cobble-stones no bigger than an apple, + and, even by the flickering light of the lantern, it was perceptible that + no weed had been allowed to grow between the stones or in the seams of the + wide, low steps that led to an open door. + </p> + <p> + The house appeared to be dark and deserted. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Monsieur le Marquis—Monsieur le Marquis is at home,” + muttered the man with a bronchial chuckle, and led the way across the + yard. He wore a sort of livery, which must have been put away for years. A + young man had been measured for the coat which now displayed three deep + creases across a bent back. + </p> + <p> + “Attention—attention!” he said, in a warning voice, + while he scraped a sulphur match in the hall. “There are holes in + the carpets. It is easy to trip and fall.” + </p> + <p> + He lighted the candle, and after having carefully shut and bolted the + door, he led the way upstairs. At their approach, easily audible in the + empty house by reason of the hollow creaking of the oak floor, a door was + opened at the head of the stairs and a flood of light met the new-comers. + </p> + <p> + In the doorway, which was ten feet high, the little bent form of the + Marquis de Gemosac stood waiting. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! ah!” he said, with that pleasant manner of his + generation, which was refined and spirituelle and sometimes dramatic, and + yet ever failed to touch aught but the surface of life. “Ah! ah! + Safely accomplished—the great journey. Safely accomplished. You + permit—” + </p> + <p> + And he embraced Barebone after the custom of his day. “From all + sides,” he said, when the door was closed, “I hear that you + have done great things. From every quarter one hears your praise.” + </p> + <p> + He held him at arm’s length. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said. “Your face is graver and—more + striking in resemblance than ever. So now you know—now you have + seen.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” answered Barebone, gravely. “I have seen and I + know.” + </p> + <p> + The Marquis rubbed his white hands together and gave a little crackling + laugh of delight as he drew forward a chair to the fire, which was of logs + as long as a barrel. The room was a huge one, and it was lighted from end + to end with lamps, as if for a reception or a ball. The air was damp and + mouldly. There were patches of grey on the walls, which had once been + painted with garlands of roses and Cupids and pastoral scenes by a noted + artist of the Great Age. + </p> + <p> + The ceiling had fallen in places, and the woodwork of the carved furniture + gave forth a subtle scent of dry rot. + </p> + <p> + But everything was in an exquisite taste which vulgarer generations have + never yet succeeded in imitating. Nothing was concealed, but rather + displayed with a half-cynical pride. All was moth-ridden, worm-eaten, + fallen to decay—but it was of the Monarchy. Not half a dozen houses + in Paris, where already the wealth, which has to-day culminated in a + ridiculous luxury of outward show, was beginning to build new palaces, + could show room after room furnished in the days of the Great Louis. The + very air, faintly scented it would seem by some forgotten perfume, + breathed of a bygone splendour. And the last of the de Gemosacs scorned to + screen his poverty from the eyes of his equals, nor sought to hide from + them a desolation which was only symbolic of that which crushed their + hearts and bade them steal back from time to time like criminals to the + capital. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” he said to Colville and Barebone, “I have + kept my promise, I have thrown open this old house once more for to-night’s + meeting. You will find that many friends have made the journey to Paris + for the occasion—Madame de Chantonnay and Albert, Madame de Rathe + and many from the Vendée and the West whom you have met on your journey. + And to-night one may speak without fear, for none will be present who are + not vouched for by the Almanac de Gotha. There are no Royalists <i>pour + rire</i> or <i>pour vivre</i> to-night. You have but time to change your + clothes and dine. Your luggage arrived yesterday. You will forgive the + stupidity of old servants who have forgotten their business. Come, I will + lead the way and show you your rooms.” + </p> + <p> + He took a candle and did the honours of the deserted dust-ridden house in + the manner of the high calling which had been his twenty years ago when + Charles X was king. For some there lingers a certain pathos in the sight + of a belated survival, while the majority of men and women are ready to + smile at it instead. And yet the Monarchy lasted eight centuries and the + Revolution eight years. Perhaps Fate may yet exact payment for the + excesses of those eight years from a nation for which the watching world + already prepares a secondary place in the councils of empire. + </p> + <p> + The larger room had been assigned to Loo. There was a subtle difference in + the Marquis’s manner toward him. He made an odd bow as he quitted + the room. + </p> + <p> + “There,” said Colville, whose room communicated with this + great apartment by a dressing-room and two doors. He spoke in English, as + they always did when they were alone together. “There—you are + launched. You are <i>lancé</i>, my friend. I may say you are through the + shoals now and out on the high seas—” + </p> + <p> + He paused, candle in hand, and looked round the room with a reflective + smile. It was obviously the best room in the house, with a fireplace as + wide as a gate, where logs of pine burnt briskly on high iron dogs. The + bed loomed mysteriously in one corner with its baldachin of Gobelin + tapestry. Here, too, the dim scent of fallen monarchy lingered in the + atmosphere. A portrait of Louis XVI in a faded frame hung over the + mantelpiece. + </p> + <p> + “And the time will come,” pursued Colville, with his + melancholy, sympathetic smile, “when you will find it necessary to + drop the pilot—to turn your face seaward and your back upon old + recollections and old associations. You cannot make an omelette without + breaking eggs, my friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes,” replied Barebone, with a brisk movement of the head, + “I shall have to forget Farlingford.” + </p> + <p> + Colville had moved toward the door that led to his own room. He paused, + examining the wick of the candle he carried in his hand. Then, though glib + of speech, he decided in favour of silence, and went away without making + reply. + </p> + <p> + Loo sat down in a grey old arm-chair in front of the fire. The house was + astoundingly noiseless, though situated in what had once been the heart of + Paris. It was one of the few houses left in this quarter with a large + garden. And the traffic passing in and out of the Ruelle St. Jacob went + slipshod on its own feet. The busy crackle of the wood was the only sound + to break a silence which seemed part of this vast palace of memories. + </p> + <p> + Loo had ridden far and was tired. He smiled grimly at the fire. It is to + be supposed that he was sitting down to the task he had set himself—to + forget Farlingford. + </p> + <p> + There was a great reception at the Hotel Gemosac that night, and after + twenty years of brooding silence the rooms, hastily set in order, were + lighted up. + </p> + <p> + There was, as the Marquis had promised, no man or woman present who was + not vouched for by a noble name or by history. As the old man presented + them, their names were oddly familiar to the ear, while each face looking + at Loo seemed to be the face of a ghost looking out of a past which the + world will never forget so long as history lives. + </p> + <p> + And here, again, was the subtle difference. They no longer talked to Loo, + but stood apart and spoke among themselves in a hushed voice. Men made + their bow to him and met his smile with grave and measuring eyes. Some + made a little set speech, which might mean much or nothing. Others + embarked on such a speech and paused—faltered, and passed on gulping + something down in their throats. + </p> + <p> + Women made a deep reverence to him and glanced at him with parted lips and + white faces—no coquetry in their eyes. They saw that he was young + and good-looking; but they forgot that he might think the same of them. + Then they passed on and grouped themselves together, as women do in + moments of danger or emotion, their souls instinctively seeking the + company of other souls tuned to catch a hundred passing vibrations of the + heart-strings of which men remain in ignorance. They spoke together in + lowered voices without daring, or desiring perhaps, to turn and look at + him again. + </p> + <p> + “It only remains,” some one said, “for the Duchesse d’Angouléme + to recognise his claim. A messenger has departed for Frohsdorf.” + </p> + <p> + And Barebone, looking at them, knew that there was a barrier between him + and them which none could cast aside: a barrier erected in the past and + based on the sure foundations of history. + </p> + <p> + “She is an old woman,” said Monsieur do Gemosac to any who + spoke to him on this subject. “She is seventy-two, and fifty-eight + of those years have been marked by greater misfortunes than ever fell to + the lot of a woman. When she came out of prison she had no tears left, my + friends. We cannot expect her to turn back willingly to the past now. But + we know that in her heart she has never been sure that her brother died in + the Temple. You know how many disappointments she has had. We must not + awake her sleeping sorrow until all is ready. I shall make the journey to + Frohsdorf—that I promise you. But to-night we have another task + before us.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes,” answered his listeners. “You are to + open the locket. Where is it?—show it to us.” + </p> + <p> + And the locket which Captain Clubbe’s wife had given to Dormer + Colville was handed from one to another. It was not of great value, but it + was of gold with stones, long since discoloured, set in silver around it. + It was crushed and misshapen. + </p> + <p> + “It has never been opened for twenty years,” they told each + other. “It has been mislaid in an obscure village in England for + nearly half a century.” + </p> + <p> + “The Vicomte de Castel Aunet—who is so clever a mechanician—has + promised to bring his tools,” said Monsieur de Gemosac. “He + will open it for us—even if he find it necessary to break the + locket.” + </p> + <p> + So the thing went round the room until it came to Loo Barebone. + </p> + <p> + “I have seen it before,” he said. “I think I remember + seeing it long ago—when I was a little child.” + </p> + <p> + And he handed it to the old Vicomte de Castel Aunet, whose shaking fingers + closed round it in a breathless silence. He carried it to the table, and + some one brought candles. The Viconite was very old. He had learnt + clock-making, they said, in prison during the Terror. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Il n’y a moyen,</i>” he whispered to himself. + “I must break it.” + </p> + <p> + With one effort he prised up the cover, but the hinge snapped, and the lid + rolled across the table into Barebone’s hand. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” he cried, in that breathless silence, “now I + remember it. I remember the red silk lining of the cover, and in the other + side there is the portrait of a lady with—” + </p> + <p> + The Vicomte paused, with his palm covering the other half of the locket + and looked across at Loo. And the eyes of all Royalist France were fixed + on the same face. + </p> + <p> + “Silence!” whispered Dormer Colville in English, crushing + Barebone’s foot under the table. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII — DROPPING THE PILOT + </h2> + <p> + “The portrait of a lady,” repeated Loo, slowly. “Young + and beautiful. That much I remember.” + </p> + <p> + The old nobleman had never removed his covering hand from the locket. He + had never glanced at it himself. He looked slowly round the peering faces, + two and three deep round the table. He was the oldest man present—one + of the oldest in Paris—one of the few now living who had known Marie + Antoinette. + </p> + <p> + Without uncovering the locket, he handed it to Barebone across the table + with a bow worthy of the old régime and his own historic name. + </p> + <p> + “It is right that you should be the first to see it,” he said. + “Since there is no longer any doubt that the lady was your father’s + mother.” + </p> + <p> + Loo took the locket, looked at it with strangely glittering eyes and + steady lips. He gave a sort of gasp, which all in the room heard. He was + handing it back to the Vicomte de Castel Aunet without a word of comment, + when a crashing fall on the bare floor startled every one. A lady had + fainted. + </p> + <p> + “Thank God!” muttered Dormer Colville almost in Barebone’s + ear and swayed against him. Barebone turned and looked into a face grey + and haggard, and shining with perspiration. Instinctively he grasped him + by the arm and supported him. In the confusion of the moment no one + noticed Colville; for all were pressing round the prostrate lady. And in a + moment Colville was himself again, though the ready smile sat oddly on + such white lips. + </p> + <p> + “For God’s sake be careful,” he said, and turned away, + handkerchief in hand. + </p> + <p> + For the moment the portrait was forgotten until the lady was on her feet + again, smiling reassurances and rubbing her elbow. + </p> + <p> + “It is nothing,” she said, “nothing. My heart—that + is all.” + </p> + <p> + And she staggered to a chair with the reassuring smile frozen on her face. + </p> + <p> + Then the portrait was passed from hand to hand in silence. It was a + miniature of Marie Antoinette, painted on ivory, which had turned yellow. + The colours were almost lost, but the face stood clearly enough. It was + the face of a young girl, long and narrow, with the hair drawn straight up + and dressed high and simply on the head without ornament. + </p> + <p> + “It is she,” said one and another. “<i>C’est bien + elle</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “It was painted when she was newly a queen,” commented the + Vicomte de Castel Aunet. “I have seen others like it, but not that + one before.” + </p> + <p> + Barebone stood apart and no one offered to approach him. Dormer Colville + had gone toward the great fireplace, and was standing by himself there + with his back toward the room. He was surreptitiously wiping from his face + the perspiration which had suddenly run down it, as one may see the rain + running down the face of a statue. + </p> + <p> + Things had taken an unexpected turn. The Marquis de Gemosac, himself + always on the surface, had stirred others more deeply than he had + anticipated or could now understand. France has always been the victim of + her own emotions; aroused in the first instance half in idleness, allowed + to swell with a semi-restraining laugh, and then suddenly sweeping and + overwhelming. History tells of a hundred such crises in the pilgrimage of + the French people. A few more—and historians shall write “Ichabod” + across the most favoured land in Europe. + </p> + <p> + It is customary to relate that, after a crisis, those most concerned in it + know not how they faced it or what events succeeded it. “He never + knew,” we are informed, “how he got through the rest of the + evening.” + </p> + <p> + Loo Barebone knew and remembered every incident, every glance. He was in + full possession of every faculty, and never had each been so keenly alive + to the necessity of the moment. Never had his quick brain been so alert as + it was during the rest of the evening. And those who had come to the Hotel + Gemosac to confirm their adoption of a figure-head went away with the + startling knowledge in their hearts that they had never in the course of + an artificial life met a man less suited to play that undignified part. + </p> + <p> + And all the while, in the back of his mind, there lingered with a deadly + patience the desire for the moment which must inevitably come when he + should at last find himself alone, face to face, with Dormer Colville. + </p> + <p> + It was nearly midnight before this moment came. At last the latest guest + had taken his leave, quitting the house by the garden door and making his + way across that forlorn and weedy desert by the dim light reflected from + the clouds above. At last the Marquis de Gemosac had bidden them good + night, and they were left alone in the vast bedroom which a dozen candles, + in candelabras of silver blackened by damp and neglect, only served to + render more gloomy and mysterious. + </p> + <p> + In the confusion consequent on the departure of so many guests the locket + had been lost sight of, and Monsieur de Gemosac forgot to make inquiry for + it. It was in Barebone’s pocket. + </p> + <p> + Colville put together with the toe of his boot the logs which were + smouldering in a glow of incandescent heat. He turned and glanced over his + shoulder toward his companion. + </p> + <p> + Barebone was taking the locket from his waistcoat pocket and approaching + the table where the candles burnt low in their sockets. + </p> + <p> + “You never really supposed you were the man, did you?” asked + Colville, with a ready smile. He was brave, at all events, for he took the + only course left to him with a sublime assurance. + </p> + <p> + Barebone looked across the candles at the face which smiled, and smiled. + </p> + <p> + “That is what I thought,” he answered, with a queer laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Do not jump to any hasty decisions,” urged Colville + instantly, as if warned by the laugh. + </p> + <p> + “No! I want to sift the matter carefully to the bottom. It will be + interesting to learn who are the deceived and who the deceivers.” + </p> + <p> + Barebone had had time to think out a course of action. His face seemed to + puzzle Colville, who was rarely at fault in such judgments of character as + came within his understanding. But he seemed for an instant to be on the + threshold of something beyond his understanding; and yet he had lived, + almost day and night, for some months with Barebone. Since the beginning—that + far-off beginning at Farlingford—their respective positions had been + quite clearly defined. Colville, the elder by nearly twenty years, had + always been the guide and mentor and friend—the compulsory pilot he + had gaily called himself. He had a vast experience of the world. He had + always moved in the best French society. All that he knew, all the + influence he could command, and the experience upon which he could draw + were unreservedly at Barebone’s service. The difference in years had + only affected their friendship in so far as it defined their respective + positions and prohibited any thought of rivalry. Colville had been the + unquestioned leader, Barebone the ready disciple. + </p> + <p> + And now in the twinkling of an eye the positions were reversed. Colville + stood watching Barebone’s face with eyes rendered almost servile by + a great suspense. He waited breathless for the next words. + </p> + <p> + “This portrait,” said Barebone, “of the Queen was placed + in the locket by you?” + </p> + <p> + Colville nodded with a laugh of conscious cleverness rewarded by complete + success. There was nothing in his companion’s voice to suggest + suppressed anger. It was all right after all. “I had great + difficulty in finding just what I wanted,” he added, modestly. + </p> + <p> + “What I remember—though the memory is necessarily vague—was + a portrait of a woman older than this. Her style of dress was more + elaborate. Her hair was dressed differently, with sort of curls at the + side, and on the top, half buried in the hair, was the imitation of a nest—a + dove’s nest. Such a thing would naturally stick in a child’s + memory. It stuck in mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—and nearly gave the game away to-night,” said + Colville, gulping down the memory of those tense moments. + </p> + <p> + “That portrait—the original—you have not destroyed it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no. It is of some value,” replied Colville, almost + naively. He felt in his pocket and produced a silver cigar-case. The + miniature was wrapped in a piece of thin paper, which he unfolded. + Barebone took the painting and examined it with a little nod of + recognition. His memory had not failed after twenty years. + </p> + <p> + “Who is this lady?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Dormer Colville hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know the history of that period?” he inquired, after a + moment’s reflection. For the last hour he had been trying to decide + on a course of conduct. During the last few minutes he had been forced to + change it half a dozen times. + </p> + <p> + “Septimus Marvin, of Farlingford, is one of the greatest living + authorities on those reigns. I learnt a good deal from him,” was the + answer. + </p> + <p> + “That lady is, I think, the Duchesse de Guiche.” + </p> + <p> + “You think—” + </p> + <p> + “Even Marvin could not tell you for certain,” replied + Colville, mildly. He did not seem to perceive a difference in Barebone’s + manner toward himself. The quickest intelligence cannot follow another’s + mind beyond its own depth. + </p> + <p> + “Then the inference is that my father was the illegitimate son of + the Comte d’Artois.” + </p> + <p> + “Afterward Charles X, of France,” supplemented Colville, + significantly. + </p> + <p> + “Is that the inference?” persisted Barebone. “I should + like to know your opinion. You must have studied the question very + carefully. Your opinion should be of some interest, though—” + </p> + <p> + “Though—” echoed Colville, interrogatively, and + regretted it immediately. + </p> + <p> + “Though it is impossible to say when you speak the truth and when + you lie.” + </p> + <p> + And any who doubted that there was royal blood in Leo Barebone’s + veins would assuredly have been satisfied by a glance at his face at that + moment; by the sound of his quiet, judicial voice; by the sudden and + almost terrifying sense of power in his measuring eyes. + </p> + <p> + Colville turned away with an awkward laugh and gave his attention to the + logs on the hearth. Then suddenly he regained his readiness of speech. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Barebone,” he cried. “We must not quarrel; + we cannot afford to do that. And after all, what does it matter? You are + only giving yourself the benefit of the doubt—that is all. For there + is a doubt. You may be what you—what we say you are, after all. It + is certain enough that Marie Antoinette and Fersen were in daily + correspondence. They were both clever—two of the cleverest people in + France—and they were both desperate. Remember that. Do you think + that they would have failed in a matter of such intense interest to her, + and therefore to him? All these pretenders, Naundorff and the others, have + proved that quite clearly, but none has succeeded in proving that he was + the man.” + </p> + <p> + “And do you think that I shall be able to prove that I am the man—when + I am not?” + </p> + <p> + By way of reply Dormer Colville turned again to the fireplace and took + down the print of Louis XVI engraved from a portrait painted when he was + still Dauphin. A mirror stood near, and Colville came to the table + carrying the portrait in one hand, the looking-glass in the other. + </p> + <p> + “Here,” he said, eagerly, “Look at one and then at the + other. Look in the mirror and then at the portrait. Prove it! Why, God has + proved it for you.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not think we had better bring Him into the question,” + was the retort: an odd reflex of Captain Clubbe’s solid East Anglian + piety. “No. If we go on with the thing at all, let us be honest + enough to admit to ourselves that we are dishonest. The portrait in that + locket points clearly enough to the Truth.” + </p> + <p> + “The portrait in that locket is of Marie Antoinette,” replied + Colville, half sullenly. “And no one can ever prove anything + contrary to that. No one except myself knows of—of this doubt which + you have stumbled upon. De Gemosac, Parson Marvin, Clubbe—all of + them are convinced that your father was the Dauphin.” + </p> + <p> + “And Miss Liston?” + </p> + <p> + “Miriam Liston—she also, of course. And I believe she knew it + long before I told her.” + </p> + <p> + Barebone turned and looked at him squarely in the eyes. Colville wondered + a second time why Loo Barebone reminded him of Captain Clubbe to-night. + </p> + <p> + “What makes you believe that?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t know. But that isn’t the question. The + question is about the future. You see how things are in France. It is a + question of Louis Napoleon or a monarchy—you see that. Unless you + stop him he will be Emperor before a year is out, and he will drag France + in the gutter. He is less a Bonaparte than you are a Bourbon. You remember + that Louis Bonaparte himself was the first to say so. He wrote a letter to + the Pope, saying so quite clearly. You will go on with it, of course, + Barebone. Say you will go on with it! To turn back now would be death. We + could not do it if we wanted to. <i>I</i> have been trying to think about + it, and I cannot. That is the truth. It takes one’s breath away. At + the mere thought of it I feel as if I were getting out of my depth.” + </p> + <p> + “We have been out of our depths the last month,” admitted + Barebone, curtly. + </p> + <p> + And he stood reflecting, while Colville watched him. + </p> + <p> + “If I go on,” he said, at length, “I go on alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Better not,” urged Colville, with a laugh of great relief. + “For you would always have me and my knowledge hanging over you. If + you succeeded, you would have me dunning you for hush-money.” + </p> + <p> + Which seemed true enough. Few men knew more of one side of human nature + than Dormer Colville, it would appear. + </p> + <p> + “I am not afraid of that.” + </p> + <p> + “You can never tell,” laughed Colville, but his laugh rather + paled under Barebone’s glance. “You can never tell.” + </p> + <p> + “Wise men do not attempt to blackmail—kings.” + </p> + <p> + And Colville caught his breath. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you are right,” he admitted, after a pause. “You + seem to be taking to the position very kindly, Barebone. But I do not + mind, you know. It does not matter what we say to each other, eh? We have + been good friends so long. You must do as you like. And if you succeed, I + must be content to leave my share of the matter to your consideration. You + certainly seem to know the business already, and some day perhaps you will + remember who taught you to be a King.” + </p> + <p> + “It was an old North Sea skipper who taught me that,” replied + Barebone. “That is one of the things I learnt at sea.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes,” agreed Colville, almost nervously. “And + you will go on with the thing, will you not? Like a good fellow, eh? Think + about it till to-morrow morning. I will go now. Which is my candle? Yes. + You will think about it. Do not jump to any hasty decision.” + </p> + <p> + He hurried to the door as he spoke. He could not understand Barebone at + all. + </p> + <p> + “If I do go on with it,” was the reply, “it will not be + in response to any of your arguments. It will be only and solely for the + sake of France.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—of course,” agreed Colville, and closed the door + behind him. + </p> + <p> + In his own room he turned and looked toward the door leading through to + that from which he had hurriedly escaped. He passed his hand across his + face, which was white and moist. + </p> + <p> + “For the sake of France!” he echoed in bewilderment. “For + the sake of France! Gad! I believe he <i>is</i> the man after all.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII — A SIMPLE BANKER + </h2> + <p> + Mr. John Turner had none of the outward signs of the discreet adviser in + his person or surroundings. He had, it was currently whispered, inherited + from his father an enormous clientèle of noble names. And to such as have + studied the history of Paris during the whole of the nineteenth century, + it will appear readily comprehensible that the careful or the penniless + should give preference to an English banker. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Turner’s appearance suggested solidity, and the carpet of his + private room was a good one. The room smelt of cigar smoke, while the + office, through which the client must pass to reach it, was odoriferous of + ancient ledgers. + </p> + <p> + Half a dozen clerks were seated in the office, which was simply furnished + and innocent of iron safes. If a client entered, one of the six, whose + business it was, looked up, while the other five continued to give their + attention to the books before them. + </p> + <p> + One cold morning, toward the end of the year, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence was + admitted by the concierge. She noted that only one clerk gave heed to her + entry, and, it is to be presumed, the quiet perfection of her furs. + </p> + <p> + “Of the six young men in your office,” she observed, when she + was seated in the bare wooden chair placed invitingly by the side of John + Turner’s writing-table, “only one appears to be in full + possession of his senses.” + </p> + <p> + Turner, sitting—if the expression be allowed—in a heap in an + armchair before a table provided with pens, ink, and a blotting-pad, but + otherwise bare, looked at his client with a bovine smile. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t pay them to admire my clients,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + “If Mademoiselle de Montijo came in, I suppose the other five would + not look up.” + </p> + <p> + John Turner settled himself a little lower into his chair, so that he + appeared to be in some danger of slipping under the table. + </p> + <p> + “If the Archangel Gabriel came in, they would still attend to their + business,” he replied, in his thick, slow voice. “But he won’t. + He is not one of my clients. Quite the contrary.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence smoothed the fur that bordered her neat jacket + and glanced sideways at her banker. Then she looked round the room. It was + bare enough. A single picture hung on the wall—a portrait of an old + lady. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence raised her eyebrows, and continued her + scrutiny. Here, again, was no iron safe. There were no ledgers, no + diaries, no note-books, no paraphernalia of business. Nothing but a bare + table and John Turner seated at it, in a much more comfortable chair than + that provided for the client, staring apathetically at a date-case which + stood on a bare mantelpiece. + </p> + <p> + The lady’s eyes returned to the portrait on the wall. + </p> + <p> + “You used to have a portrait of Louis Philippe there,” she + said. + </p> + <p> + “When Louis Philippe was on the throne,” admitted the banker. + </p> + <p> + “And now?” inquired this daughter of Eve, looking at the + portrait. + </p> + <p> + “My maternal aunt,” replied Turner, making a gesture with two + fingers, as if introducing his client to the portrait. + </p> + <p> + “You keep her, one may suppose, as a stop-gap—between the + dynasties. It is so safe—a maternal aunt!” + </p> + <p> + “One cannot hang a republic on the wall, however much one may want + to.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you are a Royalist?” inquired Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. + </p> + <p> + “No; I am only a banker,” replied Turner, with his chin + sinking lower on his bulging waistcoat and his eyes scarcely visible + beneath the heavy lids. + </p> + <p> + The remark, coupled with a thought that Turner was going to sleep, seemed + to remind the client of her business. + </p> + <p> + “Will you kindly ask one of your clerks to let me know how much + money I have?” she said, casting a glance not wholly innocent of + scornful reproach at the table, so glaringly devoid of the bare + necessities of a banking business. + </p> + <p> + “Only eleven thousand francs and fourteen sous,” replied + Turner, with a promptness which seemed to suggest that he kept no diary or + note-book on the table before him because he had need of neither. + </p> + <p> + “I feel sure I must have more than that,” said Mrs. St. Pierre + Lawrence, with some spirit. “I quite thought I had.” + </p> + <p> + But John Turner only moistened his lips and sat patiently gazing at the + date. His attitude dimly suggested—quite in a nice way—that + the chair upon which Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence sat was polished bright by + the garments of persons who had found themselves labouring under the same + error. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I must have a hundred thousand francs to-morrow; that is all. + Simply must. And in notes, too. I told you I should want it when you came + to see me at Royan. You must remember. I told you at luncheon.” + </p> + <p> + “When we were eating a sweetbread <i>aux champignons.</i> I remember + perfectly. We do not get sweetbreads like that in Paris.” + </p> + <p> + And John Turner shook his head sadly. “Well, will you let me have + the money to-morrow morning—in notes?” + </p> + <p> + “I remember I advised you not to sell just now; after we had + finished the sweetbread and had gone on to a <i>crême renversée</i>—very + good one, too. Yes, it is a bad time to sell. Things are uncertain in + France just now. One cannot even get one’s meals properly served. + Cook’s head is full of politics, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow morning—in notes,” repeated Mrs. St. Pierre + Lawrence. + </p> + <p> + “Now, your man at Royan was excellent—kept his head all + through—and a light hand, too. Got him with you in Paris?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I have not. To-morrow morning, about ten o’clock—in + notes.” + </p> + <p> + And Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence tapped a neat gloved finger on the corner of + the table with some determination. + </p> + <p> + “I remember—at dessert—you told me you wanted to realise + a considerable sum of money at the beginning of the year, to put into some + business venture. Is this part of that sum?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” returned the lady, arranging her veil. + </p> + <p> + “A venture of Dormer Colville’s, I think you told me—while + we were having coffee. One never gets coffee hot enough in a private + house, but yours was all right.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” mumbled Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, behind her quick + finger, busy with the veil. + </p> + <p> + Beneath the sleepy lids John Turner’s eyes, which were small and + deep-sunken in the flesh, like the eyes of a pig, noted in passing that + his client’s cheeks were momentarily pink. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you don’t mean to suggest that there is anything + unsafe in Mr. Colville as a business man?” + </p> + <p> + “Heaven forbid!” ejaculated Turner. “On the contrary, he + is most enterprising. And I know no one who smokes a better cigar than + Colville—when he can get it. And the young fellow seemed nice + enough.” + </p> + <p> + “Which young fellow?” inquired the lady, sharply. + </p> + <p> + “His young friend—the man who was with him. I think you told + me, after luncheon, that Colville required the money to start his young + friend in business.” + </p> + <p> + “Never!” laughed Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, who, if she felt + momentarily uneasy, was quickly reassured. For this was one of those + fortunate ladies who go through life with the comforting sense of being + always cleverer than their neighbour. If the neighbour happen to be a man, + and a stout one, the conviction is the stronger for those facts. “Never! + I never told you that. You must have dreamt it.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I did,” admitted the banker, placidly. “I am + afraid I often feel sleepy after luncheon. Perhaps I dreamt it. But I + could not hand such a sum in notes to an unprotected lady, even if I can + effect a sale of your securities so quickly as to have the money ready by + to-morrow morning. Perhaps Colville will call for it himself.” + </p> + <p> + “If he is in Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “Every one is in Paris now,” was Mr. Turner’s opinion. + “And if he likes to bring his young friend with him, all the better. + In these uncertain times it is not fair on a man to hand to him a large + sum of money in notes.” He paused and jerked his thumb toward the + window, which was a double one, looking down into the Rue Lafayette. + “There are always people in the streets watching those who pass in + and out of a bank. If a man comes out smiling, with his hand on his + pocket, he is followed, and if an opportunity occurs, he is robbed. Better + not have it in notes.” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” replied Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, not troubling + further to deceive one so lethargic and simple. “I know that Dormer + wants it in notes.” + </p> + <p> + “Then let him come and fetch it.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence rose from her chair and shook her dress into + straighter folds, with the air of having accomplished a task which she had + known to be difficult, but not impossible to one equipped with wit and + self-confidence. + </p> + <p> + “You will sell the securities, and have it all ready by ten o’clock + to-morrow morning,” she repeated, with a feminine insistence. + </p> + <p> + “You shall have the money to-morrow morning, whether I succeed in + selling for cash or not,” was the reply, and John Turner concealed a + yawn with imperfect success. + </p> + <p> + “A loan?” + </p> + <p> + “No banker lends—except to kings,” replied Turner, + stolidly. “Call it an accommodation.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence glanced at him sharply over the fur collar which + she was clasping round her neck. Here was a banker, reputed wealthy, who + sat in a bare room, without so much as a fireproof safe to suggest riches; + a business man of world-wide affairs, who drummed indolent fingers on a + bare table; a philosopher with a maxim ever ready to teach, as all maxims + do, cowardice in the guise of prudence, selfishness masquerading as + worldly wisdom, hard-heartedness passing for foresight. Here was one who + seemed to see, and was yet too sleepy to perceive. Mrs. St. Pierre + Lawrence was not always sure of her banker, but now, as ever before, one + glance at his round, heavy face reassured her. She laughed and went away, + well satisfied with the knowledge, only given to women, of having once + more carried out her object with the completeness which is known as + twisting round the little finger. + </p> + <p> + She nodded to Turner, who had ponderously risen from the chair which was + more comfortable than the client’s seat, and held the door open for + her to pass. He glanced at the clock as he did so. And she knew that he + was thinking that it was nearly the luncheon hour, so transparent to the + feminine perception are the thoughts of men. + </p> + <p> + When he had closed the door he returned to his writing-table. Like many + stout people, he moved noiselessly, and quickly enough when the occasion + demanded haste. + </p> + <p> + He wrote three letters in a very few minutes, and, when they were + addressed, he tapped on the table with the end of his pen-holder, which + brought, in the twinkling of an eye, that clerk whose business it was to + abandon his books when called. + </p> + <p> + “I shall not go out to luncheon until I have the written receipt for + each one of those letters,” said the banker, knowing that until he + went out to luncheon his six clerks must needs go hungry. “Not an + answer,” he explained, “but a receipt in the addressee’s + writing.” + </p> + <p> + And while the clerk hurried from the room and down the stone stairs at a + break-neck speed, Turner sank back into his chair, with lustreless eyes + fixed on space. + </p> + <p> + “No one can wait,” he was in the habit of saying, “better + than I can.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV — THE LANE OF MANY TURNINGS + </h2> + <p> + If John Turner expected Colville to bring Loo Barebone with him to the Rue + Lafayette he was, in part, disappointed. Colville arrived in a hired + carriage, of which the blinds were partially lowered. + </p> + <p> + The driver had been instructed to drive into the roomy court-yard of the + house of which Turner’s office occupied the first floor. Carriages + frequently waited there, by the side of a little fountain which splashed + all day and all night into a circular basin. + </p> + <p> + Colville descended from the carriage and turned to speak to Loo, who was + left sitting within it. Since the unfortunate night at the Hotel Gemosac, + when they had been on the verge of a quarrel, a certain restraint had + characterised their intercourse. Colville was shy of approaching the + subject upon which they had differed. His easy laugh had not laughed away + the grim fact that he had deceived Loo in such a manner that complicity + was practically forced upon an innocent man. + </p> + <p> + Loo had not given his decision yet. He had waited a week, during which + time Colville had not dared to ask him whether his mind was made up. There + was a sort of recklessness in Loo’s manner which at once puzzled and + alarmed his mentor. At times he was gay, as he always had been, and in the + midst of his gaiety he would turn away with a gloomy face and go to his + own room. + </p> + <p> + To press the question would be to precipitate a catastrophe. Dormer + Colville decided to go on as if nothing had happened. It is a compromise + with the inconveniences of untruth to which we must all resort at some + crisis or another in life. + </p> + <p> + “I will not be long,” he assured Barebone, with a gay laugh. + The prospect of handling one hundred thousand francs in notes was perhaps + exhilarating; though the actual possession of great wealth would seem to + be of the contrary tendency. There is a profound melancholy peculiar to + the face of the millionaire. “I shall not be long; for he is a man + of his word, and the money will be ready.” + </p> + <p> + John Turner was awaiting his visitor, and gave a large soft hand inertly + into Colville’s warm grasp. + </p> + <p> + “I always wish I saw more of you,” said the new-comer. + </p> + <p> + “Is there not enough of me already?” inquired the banker, + pointing to the vacant chair, upon which fell the full light of the double + window. A smaller window opposite to it afforded a view of the court-yard. + And it was at this smaller window that Colville glanced as he sat down, + with a pause indicative of reluctance. + </p> + <p> + Turner saw the glance and noted the reluctance. He concluded, perhaps, in + the slow, sure mind that worked behind his little peeping eyes, that Loo + Barebone was in the carriage in the court-yard, and that Colville was + anxious to return to him as soon as possible. + </p> + <p> + “It is very kind of you to say that, I am sure,” pursued + Turner, rousing himself to be pleasant and conversational. “But, + although the loss is mine, my dear Colville, the fault is mostly yours. + You always know where to find me when you want my society. I am anchored + in this chair, whereas one never knows where one has a butterfly like + yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “A butterfly that is getting a bit heavy on the wing,” + answered Colville, with his wan and sympathetic smile. He sat forward in + the chair in an attitude antipathetic to digression from the subject in + hand. + </p> + <p> + “I do not see any evidence of that. One hears of you here and there + in France. I suppose, for instance, you know more than any man in Paris at + the present moment of the—” he paused and suppressed a yawn, + “the—er—vintage. Anything in it—eh?” + </p> + <p> + “So far as I could judge, the rains came too late; but I shall be + glad to tell you all about it another time. This morning—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I know. You want your money. I have it all ready for you. But + I must make out some sort of receipt, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Turner felt vaguely in his pocket, and at last found a letter, from which + he tore the blank sheet, while his companion, glancing from time to time + at the window, watched him impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “Seems to me,” said Turner, opening his inkstand, “that + the vintage of 1850 will not be drunk by a Republic.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you think?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, to tell you the truth, my mind was more occupied in the + quality of the vintage than in its ultimate fate. If you make out a + receipt on behalf of Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, I will sign it,” + answered Colville, fingering the blotting-paper. + </p> + <p> + “Received on behalf of, and for, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, the sum + of one hundred thousand francs,” muttered the banker, as he wrote. + </p> + <p> + “She is only a client, you understand, my dear Colville,” he + went on, holding out his hand for the blotting-paper, “or I would + not part with the money so easily. It is against my advice that Mrs. St. + Pierre Lawrence realises this sum.” + </p> + <p> + “If a woman sets her heart on a thing, my dear fellow—” + began Colville, carelessly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know—reason goes to the wall. Sign there, will you?” + </p> + <p> + Turner handed him pen and receipt, but Colville was looking toward the + window sunk deep in the wall on the inner side of the room. This was not a + double window, and the sound of carriage wheels rose above the gentle, + continuous plash of the little fountain in the court-yard. + </p> + <p> + Colville rose from his seat, but to reach the window he had to pass behind + Turner’s chair. Turner rose at the same moment, and pushed his chair + back against the wall in doing so. This passage toward the window being + completely closed by the bulk of John Turner, Colville hurried round the + writing-table. But Turner was again in front of him, and, without + appearing to notice that his companion was literally at his heels, he + opened a large cupboard sunk in the panelling of the wall. The door of it + folded back over the little window, completely hiding it. + </p> + <p> + Turning on his heel, with an agility which was quite startling in one so + stout, he found Colville’s colourless face two feet from his own. In + fact, Colville almost stumbled against him. For a moment they looked each + other in the eyes in silence. With his right hand, John Turner held the + cupboard-door over the window. + </p> + <p> + “I have the money here,” he said, “in this cupboard.” + And as he spoke, a hollow rumble, echoing in the court-yard, marked the + exit of a carriage under the archway into the Rue Lafayette. There had + been only one carriage in attendance in the court-yard—that in which + Colville had left Barebone. + </p> + <p> + “Here, in this cupboard,” repeated Turner to unheeding ears. + For Dormer Colville was already hurrying across the room toward the other + window that looked out into the Rue Lafayette. The house was a lofty one, + with a high entresol, and from the windows of the first floor it was not + possible to see the street immediately below without opening the sashes. + </p> + <p> + Turner closed the cupboard and locked it, without ceasing to watch + Colville, who was struggling with the stiff fastening of the outer sash. + </p> + <p> + “Anything the matter?” inquired the banker, placidly. “Lost + a dog?” + </p> + <p> + But Colville had at length wrenched open the window and was leaning out. + The roar of the traffic drowned any answer he may have made. It was + manifest that the loss of three precious minutes had made him too late. + After a glance down into the street, he came back into the centre of the + room and snatched up his hat from Turner’s bare writing-table. + </p> + <p> + He hurried to the door, but turned again, with his back against it, to + face his companion, with the eyes usually so affable and sympathetic, + ablaze for once with rage. + </p> + <p> + “Damn you!” he cried. “Damn you!” + </p> + <p> + And the door banged on his heels as he hurried through the outer office. + </p> + <p> + Turner was left standing, a massive incarnation of bewilderment, in the + middle of the room. He heard the outer door close with considerable + emphasis. Then he sat down again, his eyebrows raised high on his round + forehead, and gazed sadly at the date-card. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Colville had left Leo Barebone seated in the hired carriage in a frame of + mind far from satisfactory. A seafaring life, more than any other, teaches + a man quickness in action. A hundred times a day the sailor needs to + execute, with a rapidity impossible to the landsman, that which knowledge + tells him to be the imminent necessity of the moment. At sea, life is so + far simpler than in towns that there are only two ways: the right and the + wrong. In the devious paths of a pavement-ridden man there are a hundred + byways: there is the long, long lane of many turnings called Compromise. + </p> + <p> + Loo Barebone had turned into this lane one night at the Hotel Gemosac, in + the Ruelle St. Jacob, and had wandered there ever since. Captain Clubbe + had taught him the two ways of seamanship effectively enough. But the + education fell short of the necessities of this crisis. Moreover, Barebone + had in his veins blood of a race which had fallen to low estate through + Compromise and Delay. + </p> + <p> + Let those throw the first stone at him who have seen the right way gaping + before their feet with a hundred pitfalls and barriers, apparently + insurmountable, and have resolutely taken that road. For the devious path + of Compromise has this merit—that the obstacles are round the + corner. + </p> + <p> + Barebone, absorbed in thought, hardly noticed that the driver of his + carriage descended from the box and lounged toward the archway, where the + hum of traffic and the passage of many people would serve to beguile a + long wait. After a minute’s delay, a driver returned and climbed to + the seat—but it was not the same driver. He wore the same coat and + hat, but a different face looked out from the sheep-skin collar turned up + to the ears. There was no one in the court-yard to notice this trifling + change. Barebone was not even looking out of the window. He had never + glanced at the cabman’s face, whose vehicle had happened to be + lingering at the corner of the Ruelle St. Jacob when Colville and his + companion had emerged from the high doorway of the Hotel Gemosac. + </p> + <p> + Barebone was so far obeying instructions that he was leaning back in the + carriage, his face half hidden by the collar of his coat. For it was a + cold morning in mid-winter. He hardly looked up when the handle of the + door was turned. Colville had shut this door five minutes earlier, + promising to return immediately. It was undoubtedly his hand that opened + the door. But suddenly Barebone sat up. Both doors were open. + </p> + <p> + Before he could make another movement, two men stepped quietly into the + carriage, each closing the door by which he had entered quickly and + noiselessly. One seated himself beside Barebone, the other opposite to + him, and each drew down a blind. They seemed to have rehearsed the actions + over and over again, so that there was no hitch or noise or bungling. The + whole was executed as if by clock-work, and the carriage moved away the + instant the doors were closed. + </p> + <p> + In the twilight, within the carriage, the two men grasped Loo Barebone, + each by one arm, and held him firmly against the back of the carriage. + </p> + <p> + “Quietly, <i>mon bon monsieur</i>; quietly, and you will come to no + harm.” + </p> + <p> + Barebone made no resistance, and only laughed. + </p> + <p> + “You have come too soon,” he said, without attempting to free + his arms, which were held, as if by a vice, at the elbow and shoulder. + “You have come too soon, gentlemen! There is no money in the + carriage. Not so much as a sou.” + </p> + <p> + “It is not for money that we have come,” replied the man who + had first spoken—and the absolute silence of his companion was + obviously the silence of a subordinate. + </p> + <p> + “Though, for a larger sum than monsieur is likely to offer, one + might make a mistake, and allow of escape—who knows?” + </p> + <p> + The remark was made with the cynical honesty of dishonesty which had so + lately been introduced into France by him who was now Dictator of that + facile people. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I offer nothing,” replied Barebone. “For a good + reason. I have nothing to offer. If you are not thieves, what are you?” + </p> + <p> + The carriage was rattling along the Rue Lafayette, over the cobble-stones, + and the inmates, though their faces were close together, had to shout in + order to be heard. + </p> + <p> + “Of the police,” was the reply. “Of the high police. I + fancy that monsieur’s affair is political?” + </p> + <p> + “Why should you fancy that?” + </p> + <p> + “Because my comrade and I are not engaged on other cases. The + criminal receives very different treatment. Permit me to assure you of + that. And no consideration whatever. The common police is so unmannerly. + There!—one may well release the arms—since we understand each + other.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall not try to escape—if that is what you mean,” + replied Barebone, with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing else—nothing else,” his affable captor assured + him. + </p> + <p> + And for the remainder of a long drive through the noisy streets the three + men sat upright in the dim and musty cab in silence. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV — SANS RANCUNE + </h2> + <p> + A large French fishing-lugger was drifting northward on the ebb tide with + its sails flapping idly against the spars. It had been a fine morning, and + the Captain, a man from Fécamp, where every boy that is born is born a + sailor, had been fortunate in working his way in clear weather across the + banks that lie northward of the Thames. + </p> + <p> + He had predicted all along in a voice rendered husky by much shouting in + dirty weather that the fog-banks would be drifting in from the sea before + nightfall. And now he had that mournful satisfaction which is the special + privilege of the pessimistic. These fog-banks, the pest of the east coast, + are the materials that form the light fleecy clouds which drift westward + in sunny weather like a gauze veil across the face of the sky. They roll + across the North Sea from their home in the marshes of Holland on the face + of the waters, and the mariner, groping his way with dripping eyelashes + and a rosy face through them, can look up and see the blue sky through the + rifts overhead. When the fog-bank touches land it rises, slowly lifted by + the warm breath of the field. On the coast-line it lies low; a mile inland + it begins to break into rifts, so that any one working his way down one of + the tidal rivers, sails in the counting of twenty seconds from sunshine + into a pearly shadow. Five miles inland there is a transparent veil across + the blue sky slowly sweeping toward the west, and rising all the while, + until those who dwell on the higher lands of Essex and Suffolk perceive + nothing but a few fleecy clouds high in the heavens. + </p> + <p> + The lugger was hardly moving, for the tide had only turned half an hour + ago. + </p> + <p> + “Provided,” the Captain had muttered within the folds of his + woollen scarf rolled round and round his neck until it looked like a dusky + life-belt—“provided that they are ringing their bell on the + Shipwash, we shall find our way into the open. Always sea-sick, this + traveller, always sea-sick!” + </p> + <p> + And he turned with a kindly laugh to Loo Barebone, who was lying on a heap + of old sails by the stern rail, concealing as well as he could the pangs + of a consuming hunger. + </p> + <p> + “One sees that you will never be a sailor,” added the man from + Fécamp, with that rough humour which sailors use. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I do not want to be one,” replied Barebone, with a + ready gaiety which had already made him several friends on this tarry + vessel, although the voyage had lasted but four days. + </p> + <p> + “Listen,” interrupted the Captain, holding up a mittened hand. + “Listen! I hear a bell, or else it is my conscience.” + </p> + <p> + Barebone had heard it for some time. It was the bell-buoy at the mouth of + Harwich River. But he did not deem it necessary for one who was a prisoner + on board, and no sailor, to interfere in the navigation of a vessel now + making its way to the Faröe fisheries for the twentieth time. + </p> + <p> + “My conscience,” he observed, “rings louder than that.” + </p> + <p> + The Captain took a turn round the tiller with a rope made fast to the rail + for the purpose, and went to the side of the ship, lifting his nose toward + the west. + </p> + <p> + “It is the land,” he said. “I can smell it. But it is + only the Blessed Virgin who knows where we are.” + </p> + <p> + He turned and gave a gruff order to a man half hidden in the mist in the + waist of the boat to try a heave of the lead. + </p> + <p> + The sound of the bell could be heard clearly enough now—the + uncertain, hesitating clang of a bell-buoy rocked in the tideway—with + its melancholy note of warning. Indeed, there are few sounds on sea or + land more fraught with lonesomeness and fear. Behind it and beyond it a + faint “tap-tap” was now audible. Barebone knew it to be the + sound of a caulker’s hammer in the Government repairing yard on the + south side. They were drifting past the mouth of the Harwich River. + </p> + <p> + The leadsman called out a depth which Loo could have told without the help + of line or lead. For he had served a long apprenticeship on these coasts + under a captain second to none in the North Sea. + </p> + <p> + He turned a little on his bed of sails under repair, at which the Captain + had been plying his needle while the weather remained clear, and glanced + over his shoulder toward the ship’s dinghy towing astern. The rope + that held it was made fast round the rail a few feet away from him. The + boat itself was clumsy, shaped like a walnut, of a preposterous strength + and weight. It was fitted with a short, stiff mast and a balance lug-sail. + It floated more lightly on the water than the bigger vessel, which was + laden with coal and provender and salt for the North Atlantic fishery, and + the painter hung loose, while the dinghy, tide-borne, sidled up to stern + of its big companion like a kitten following its mother with the uncertain + steps of infancy. + </p> + <p> + The face of the water was glassy and of a yellow green. Although the scud + swept in toward the land at a fair speed, there was not enough wind to + fill the sails. Moreover, the bounty of Holland seemed inexhaustible. + There was more to come. This fog-bank lay on the water halfway across the + North Sea, and the brief winter sun having failed to disperse it, was now + sinking to the west, cold and pale. + </p> + <p> + “The water seems shallow,” said Barebone to the Captain. + “What would you do if the ship went aground?” + </p> + <p> + “We should stay there, <i>mon bon monsieur</i>, until some one came + to help us at the flood tide. We should shout until they heard us.” + </p> + <p> + “You might fire a gun,” suggested Barebone. + </p> + <p> + “We have no gun on board, mon bon monsieur,” replied the + Captain, who had long ago explained to his prisoner that there was no + ill-feeling. + </p> + <p> + “It is the fortune of war,” he had explained before the white + cliffs of St. Valérie had faded from sight. “I am a poor man who + cannot afford to refuse a good offer. It is a Government job, as you no + doubt know without my telling you. You would seem to have incurred the + displeasure or the distrust of some one high placed in the Government. + ‘Treat him well,’ they said to me. ‘Give him your best, + and see that he comes to no harm unless he tries to escape. And be careful + that he does not return to France before the mackerel fishing begins.’ + And when we do return to Fécamp, I have to lie to off Notre Dame de la + Garde and signal to the Douane that I have you safe. They want you out of + the way. You are a dangerous man, it seems. <i>Salut</i>!” + </p> + <p> + And the Captain raised his glass to one so distinguished by Government. He + laughed as he set his glass down on the little cabin table. + </p> + <p> + “No ill-feeling on either side,” he added. “<i>C’est + entendu</i>.” + </p> + <p> + He made a half-movement as if to shake hands across the table and thought + better of it, remembering, perhaps, that his own palm was not innocent of + blood-money. For the rest they had been friendly enough on the voyage. And + had the “Petite Jeanne” been in danger, it is probable that + Barebone would have warned his jailer, if only in obedience to a seaman’s + instinct against throwing away a good ship. + </p> + <p> + He had noted every detail, however, of the dinghy while he lay on the deck + of the “Petite Jeanne”; how the runner fitted to the mast; + whether the halliards were likely to run sweetly through the sheaves or + were knotted and would jamb. He knew the weight of the gaff and the great + tan-soddened sail to a nicety. Some dark night, he had thought, on the + Dogger, he would slip overboard and take his chance. He had never looked + for thick weather at this time of year off the Banks, so near home, within + a few hours’ sail of the mouth of Farlingford River. + </p> + <p> + If a breeze would only come up from the south-east, as it almost always + does in these waters toward the evening of a still, fine day! Without + lifting his head he scanned the weather, noting that the scud was blowing + more northward now. It might only be what is known as a slant. On the + other hand, it might prove to be a true breeze, coming from the usual + quarter. The “tap-tap” of the caulker’s hammer on the + slip-way in Harwich River was silent now. There must be a breeze in-shore + that carried the sound away. + </p> + <p> + The topsail of the “Petite Jeanne” filled with a jerk, and the + Captain, standing at the tiller, looked up at it. The lower sails soon + took their cue, and suddenly the slack sheets hummed taut in the breeze. + The “Petite Jeanne” answered to it at once, and the waves + gurgled and laughed beneath her counter as she moved through the water. + She could sail quicker than her dinghy: Barebone knew that. But he also + knew that he could handle an open boat as few even on the Côtes-du-Nord + knew how. + </p> + <p> + If the breeze came strong, it would blow the fog-bank away, and Barebone + had need of its covert. Though there must be many English boats within + sight should the fog lift—indeed, the guardship in Harwich harbour + would be almost visible across the spit of land where Landguard Fort lies + hidden—Barebone had no intention of asking help so compromising. He + had but a queer story to tell to any in authority, and on the face of it + he must perforce appear to have run away with the dinghy of the “Petite + Jeanne.” + </p> + <p> + He desired to get ashore as unobtrusively as possible. For he was not + going to stay in England. The die was cast now. Where Dormer Colville’s + persuasions had failed, where the memory of that journey through Royalist + France had yet left him doubting, the incidents of the last few days had + clinched the matter once for all. Barebone was going back to France. + </p> + <p> + He moved as if to stretch his limbs and lay down once more, with his + shoulders against the rail and his elbow covering the stanchion round + which the dinghy’s painter was made fast. + </p> + <p> + The proper place for the dinghy was on deck should the breeze freshen. + Barebone knew that as well as the French Captain of the “Petite + Jeanne.” For seamanship is like music—it is independent of + language or race. There is only one right way and one wrong way at sea, + all the world over. The dinghy was only towing behind while the fog + continued to be impenetrable. At any moment the Captain might give the + order to bring it inboard. + </p> + <p> + At any moment Barebone might have to make a dash for the boat. + </p> + <p> + He watched the Captain, who continued to steer in silence. To drift on the + tide in a fog is a very different thing to sailing through it at ten miles + an hour on a strong breeze, and the steersman had no thought to spare for + anything but his sails. Two men were keeping the look-out in the bows. + Another—the leadsman—was standing amidships peering over the + side into the mist. + </p> + <p> + Still Barebone waited. Captain Clubbe had taught him that most difficult + art—to select with patience and a perfect judgment the right moment. + The “Petite Jeanne” was rustling through the glassy water + northward toward Farlingford. + </p> + <p> + At a word from the Captain the man who had been heaving the lead came aft + to the ship’s bell and struck ten quick strokes. He waited and + repeated the warning, but no one answered. They were alone in these + shallow channels. Fortunately the man faced forward, as sailors always do + by instinct, turning his back upon the Captain and Barebone. + </p> + <p> + The painter was cast off now and, under his elbow, Barebone was slowly + hauling in. The dinghy was heavy and the “Petite Jeanne” was + moving quickly through the water. Suddenly Barebone rose to his feet, + hauled in hand over hand, and when the dinghy was near enough, leaped + across two yards of water to her gunwale. + </p> + <p> + The Captain heard the thud of his feet on the thwart, and looking back + over his shoulder saw and understood in a flash of thought. But even then + he did not understand that Loo was aught else but a landsman + half-recovered from sea-sickness. He understood it a minute later, + however, when the brown sail ran up the mast and, holding the tiller + between his knees, Barebone hauled in the sheet hand over hand and steered + a course out to sea. + </p> + <p> + He looked back over the foot of the sail and waved his hand. “<i>Sans + rancune!</i>” he shouted. “<i>C’est entendu!</i>” + The Captain’s own words. + </p> + <p> + The “Petite Jeanne” was already round to the wind, and the + Captain was bellowing to his crew to trim the sails. It could scarcely be + a chase, for the huge deep-sea fishing-boat could sail half as fast again + as her own dinghy. The Captain gave his instructions with all the + quickness of his race, and the men were not slow to carry them out. The + safe-keeping of the prisoner had been made of personal advantage to each + member of the crew. + </p> + <p> + The Captain hailed Barebone with winged words which need not be set down + here, and explained to him the impossibility of escape. + </p> + <p> + “How can you—a landsman,” he shouted, “hope to get + away from us? Come back and it shall be as you say ‘<i>sans rancune.</i>’ + Name of God! I bear you no ill-will for making the attempt.” + </p> + <p> + They were so close together that all on board the “Petite Jeanne” + could see Barebone laugh and shake his head. He knew that there was no gun + on board the fishing-boat. The lugger rushed on, sailing quicker, lying up + closer to the wind. She was within twenty yards of the little boat now—would + overhaul her in a minute. + </p> + <p> + But in an instant Barebone was round on the other tack, and the Captain + swore aloud, for he knew now that he was not dealing with a landsman. The + “Petite Jeanne” spun round almost as quickly, but not quite. + Every time that Barebone put about, the “Petite Jeanne” must + perforce do the same, and every time she lost a little in the manoeuvre. + On a long tack or running before the wind the bigger boat was immeasurably + superior. Barebone had but one chance—to make short tacks—and + he knew it. The Captain knew it also, and no landsman would have possessed + the knowledge. He was trying to run the boat down now. + </p> + <p> + Barebone might succeed in getting far enough away to be lost in the fog. + But in tacking so frequently he was liable to make a mistake. The bigger + boat was not so likely to miss stays. He passed so close to her that he + could read the figures cut on her stern-post indicating her draught of + water. + </p> + <p> + There was another chance. The “Petite Jeanne” was drawing six + feet; the dinghy could sail across a shoal covered by eighteen inches of + water. But such a shoal would be clearly visible on the surface of the + water. Besides, there was no shallow like that nearer than the Goodwins. + Barebone pressed out seaward. He knew every channel and every bank between + the Thames and Thorpeness. He kept on pressing out to sea by short tacks. + All the while he was peeping over the gunwale out of the corner of his + eye. He was near, he must be near, a bank covered by five feet of water at + low tide. A shoal of five feet is rarely visible on the surface. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he rose from his seat on the gunwale, and stood with the tiller + in one hand and the sheet in the other, half turning back to look at + “Petite Jeanne” towering almost over him. And as he looked, + her bluff black bows rose upward with an odd climbing movement like a + horse stepping up a bank. With a rattle of ropes and blocks she stood + still. + </p> + <p> + Barebone went about again and sailed past her. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Sans rancune</i>!” he shouted. But no one heeded him, for + they had other matters to attend to. And the dinghy sailed into the veil + of the mist toward the land. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVI — RETURNED EMPTY + </h2> + <p> + The breeze freshened, and, as was to be expected, blew the fog-bank away + before sunset. + </p> + <p> + Sep Marvin had been an unwilling student all day. Like many of his cloth + and generation, Parson Marvin pinned all his faith on education. “Give + a boy a good education,” he said, a hundred times. “Make a + gentleman of him, and you have done your duty by him.” + </p> + <p> + “Make a gentleman of him—and the world will be glad to feed + and clothe him,” was the real thought in his mind, as it was in the + mind of nearly all his contemporaries. The wildest dreamer of those days + never anticipated that, in the passage of one brief generation, social + advancement should be for the shrewdly ignorant rather than for the + scholar; that it would be better for a man that his mind be stored with + knowledge of the world than the wisdom of the classics; that the + successful grocer might find a kinder welcome in a palace than the + scholar; that the manufacturer of kitchen utensils might feed with kings + and speak to them, without aspirates, between the courses. + </p> + <p> + Parson Marvin knew none of these things, however; nor suspected that the + advance of civilisation is not always progressive, but that she may take + hands with vulgarity and dance down-hill, as she does to-day. His one + scheme of life for Sep was that he should be sent to the ancient school + where field-sports are cultivated to-day and English gentlemen turned upon + the world more ignorant than any other gentlemen in the universe. Then, of + course, Sep must go to that College with which his father’s life had + been so closely allied. And if it please God to call him to the Church, + and the College should remember that it had given his father a living, and + do the same by him—for that reason and no other—then, of + course, Sep would be a made man. + </p> + <p> + And the making of Sep had been in progress during the winter day that a + fog-bank came in from the North Sea and clung tenaciously to the low, + surfless coast. In the afternoon the sun broke through at last, wintry and + pale. Sep, who, by some instinct—the instinct, it is to be supposed, + of young animals—knew that he was destined to be of a generation + that should cultivate ignorance out of doors, rather than learning by the + fireside, threw aside his books and cried out that he could no longer + breathe in his father’s study. + </p> + <p> + So Parson Marvin went off, alone, to visit a distant parishioner—one + who was dying by himself out on the marsh, in a cottage cut off from all + the world in a spring tide. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t forget that it is high tide at five o’clock, and + that there is no moon, and that the dykes will be full. You will never + find your way across the marsh after dark,” said Sep—the + learned in tides and those practical affairs of nature, which were as a + closed book to the scholar. + </p> + <p> + Parson Marvin vaguely acknowledged the warning and went away, leaving Sep + to accompany Miriam on her daily errand to the simple shops in + Farlingford, which would awake to life and business now that the sea-fog + was gone. For the men of Farlingford, like nearly all seafarers, are + timorous of bad weather on shore and sit indoors during its passage, while + they treat storm and rain with a calm contempt at sea. + </p> + <p> + “Sail a-coming up the river, master,” River Andrew said to + Sep, who was awaiting Miriam in the village street, and he walked on, + without further comment, spade on shoulder, toward the church-yard, where + he spent a portion of his day, without apparent effect. + </p> + <p> + So, when Miriam had done her shopping, it was only natural that they + should turn their footsteps toward the quay and the river-wall. Or was it + fate? So often is the natural nothing but the inevitable in holiday garb. + </p> + <p> + “That is no Farlingford boat,” said Sep, versed in riverside + knowledge, so soon as he saw the balance-lug moving along the line of the + river-wall, half a mile below the village. + </p> + <p> + They stood watching. Few coasters were at sea in these months of wild + weather, and there was nothing moving on the quay. The moss-grown + slip-way, where “The Last Hope” had been drawn up for repair, + stood gaunt and empty, half submerged by the flowing tide. Many + Farlingford men were engaged in the winter fisheries on the Dogger, and + farther north, in Lowestoft boats. In winter, Farlingford—thrust out + into the North Sea, surrounded by marsh—is forgotten by the world. + </p> + <p> + The solitary boat came round the corner into the wider sheet of water, + locally known as Quay Reach. + </p> + <p> + “A foreigner!” cried Sep, jumping, as was his wont, from one + foot to the other with excitement. “It is like the boat that was + brought up by the tide, with a dead man in it, long ago. And that was a + Belgian boat.” + </p> + <p> + Miriam was looking at the boat with a sudden brightness in her eyes, a + rush of colour to her cheeks, which were round and healthy and of that + soft clear pink which marks a face swept constantly by mist and a salty + air. In flat countries, where men may see each other, unimpeded by hedge + or tree or hillock, across a space measured only by miles, the eye is soon + trained—like the sailor’s eye—to see and recognise at a + great distance. + </p> + <p> + There was no mistaking the attitude of the solitary steersman of this + foreign boat stealing quietly up to Farlingford on the flood tide. It was + Loo Barebone sitting on the gunwale as he always sat, with one knee raised + on the thwart, to support his elbow, and his chin in the palm of his hand, + so that he could glance up the head of the sail or ahead, without needing + to change his position. + </p> + <p> + Sep turned and looked up at her. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you said he was never coming back,” he said, + reproachfully. + </p> + <p> + “So I did. I thought he was never coming back.” + </p> + <p> + Sep looked at her again, and then at the boat. One never knows how much + children, and dogs—who live daily with human beings—understand. + </p> + <p> + “Your face is very red,” he observed. “That comes from + telling untruths.” + </p> + <p> + “It comes from the cold wind,” replied Miriam, with an odd, + breathless laugh. + </p> + <p> + “If we do not go home, he will be there before us,” said Sep, + gravely. “He will make one tack across to the other side, and then + make the mouth of the creek.” + </p> + <p> + They turned and walked, side by side, on the top of the sea-wall toward + the rectory. Their figures must have been outlined against the sky, for + any watching from the river. The girl, tall and strong, walking with the + ease that comes from health and a steadfast mind; the eager, restless boy + running and jumping by her side. Barebone must have seen them as soon as + they saw him. They were part of Farlingford, these two. He had a sudden + feeling of having been away for years, with this difference—that he + came back and found nothing changed. Whereas, in reality, he who returns + after a long absence usually finds no one awaiting him. + </p> + <p> + He did as Sep had foretold—crossing to the far side of the river, + and then gaining the mouth of the creek in one tack. Miriam and Sep had + reached the rectory garden first, and now stood waiting for him. He came + on in silence. Last time—on “The Last Hope”—he had + come up the river singing. + </p> + <p> + Sep waved his hand, and, in response, Barebone nodded his head, with one + eye peering ahead, for the breeze was fresh. + </p> + <p> + The old chain was still there, imperfectly fastened round a tottering post + at the foot of the tide-washed steps. It clinked as he made fast the boat. + Miriam had not heard the sound of it since that night, long ago, when Loo + had gone down the steps in the dark and cast off. + </p> + <p> + “I was given a passage home in a French fishing-boat, and borrowed + their dinghy to come ashore in,” said Loo, as he came up the steps. + He knew that Farlingford would want some explanation, and that Sep would + be proud to give it. An explanation is never the worse for a spice of + truth. + </p> + <p> + “Miriam told me you were never coming home again,” answered + Sep, still nourishing that grievance. + </p> + <p> + “Well, she was wrong, and here I am!” was Loo’s reply, + with his old, ready laugh. “And here is Farlingford—unchanged, + and no harm done.” + </p> + <p> + “Why should there be any harm done?” was Sep’s prompt + question. + </p> + <p> + Barebone was shaking hands with Miriam. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t know,” he answered. “Because there + always is harm done, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + Miriam was thinking that he had changed; that the man who had unmoored his + boat at these steps six months ago had departed for ever, and that another + had come back in his place. A minute later, as he turned to close the gate + that shut off the rectory garden from the river-wall, chance ruled it that + their eyes should meet for an instant, and she knew that he had not + changed; that he might, perhaps, never change so long as he lived. She + turned abruptly and led the way to the house. + </p> + <p> + Sep had a hundred questions to ask, but only a few of them were personal. + Children live in a world of their own, and are not slow to invite those + whom they like to come into it, while to the others, they shut the door + with a greater frankness than is permissible later in life. + </p> + <p> + “Father,” he explained, “has gone to see old Doy, who is + dying.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he still dying? He will never die, I am sure; for he has been + trying to do it ever since I remember,” laughed Barebone; who was + interested, it seemed, in Sep’s affairs, and never noticed that + Miriam was walking more quickly than they were. + </p> + <p> + “And I am rather anxious about him,” continued Sep, with the + gravity that comes of a realised responsibility. “He moons along, + you know, with his mind far away, and he doesn’t know the path + across the marsh a bit. He is bound to lose his way, and it is getting + dark. Suppose I shall have to go and look for him.” + </p> + <p> + “With a lantern,” suggested Loo, darkly, without looking + toward Miriam. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes!” replied Sep, with delight. “With a lantern, + of course. Nobody but a fool would go out on to the marshes after dark + without a lantern. The weed on the water makes it the same as the grass, + and that old woman who was nearly drowned last winter, you know, she + walked straight in, and thought it was dry land.” + </p> + <p> + And Loo heard no more, for they were at the door; and Miriam, in the + lighted hall, was waiting for them, with all the colour gone from her + face. + </p> + <p> + “He is sure to be in in a few minutes,” she said; for she had + heard the end of their talk. She could scarcely have helped hearing Loo’s + weighty suggestion of a lantern, which had had the effect he must have + anticipated. Sep was already hurriedly searching for matches. It would be + difficult to dissuade him from his purpose. What boy would willingly give + up the prospect of an adventure on the marsh alone, with a bull’s-eye? + Miriam tried, and tried in vain. She gained time, however, and was + listening for Marvin’s footstep on the gravel all the while. + </p> + <p> + Sep found the matches—and it chanced that there was a sufficiency of + oil in his lantern. He lighted up and went away, leaving an abominable + smell of untrimmed wick behind him. + </p> + <p> + It was tea-time, and, half a century ago, that meal was a matter of + greater importance than it is to-day. A fire burned in the dining-room, + glowing warmly on the mellow walls and gleaming furniture; but there was + no lamp, nor need of one, in a room with large windows facing the sunset + sky. + </p> + <p> + Miriam led the way into this room, and lifted the shining, old-fashioned + kettle to the hob. She took a chair that stood near, and sat, with her + shoulder turned toward him, looking into the fire. + </p> + <p> + “We will have tea as soon as they come in,” she said, in that + voice of camaraderie which speaks of a life-long friendship between a man + and a woman—if such a friendship be possible. Is it?—who + knows? “They will not be long, I am sure. You will like tea, after + having been so long abroad. It is one of the charms of coming home, or one + of the alleviations. I don’t know which. And now, tell me all that + has happened since you went away—if you care to.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVII — OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES + </h2> + <p> + Miriam’s manner toward him was the same as it had always been so + long as he could remember. He had once thought—indeed, he had made + to her the accusation—that she was always conscious of the social + gulf existing between them; that she always remembered that she was by + birth and breeding a lady, whereas he was the son of an obscure Frenchman + who was nothing but a clockmaker whose name could be read (and can to this + day be deciphered) on a hundred timepieces in remote East Anglian farms. + </p> + <p> + Since his change of fortune he had, as all men who rise to a great height + or sink to the depths will tell, noted a corresponding change in his + friends. Even Captain Clubbe had altered, and the affection which peeped + out at times almost against his puritanical will seemed to have suffered a + chill. The men of Farlingford, and even those who had sailed in “The + Last Hope” with him, seemed to hold him at a distance. They nodded + to him with a brief, friendly smile, but were shy of shaking hands. The + hand which they would have held out readily enough, had he needed + assistance in misfortune, slunk hastily into a pocket. For he who climbs + will lose more friends than the ne’er-do-well. Some may account this + to human nature for righteousness and others quite the contrary: for + jealousy, like love, lies hidden in unsuspected corners. + </p> + <p> + Juliette do Gemosac had been quite different to Loo since learning his + story. Miriam alone remained unchanged. He had accused her of failing to + rise superior to arbitrary social distinctions, and now, standing behind + her in the fire-lit dining-room of the rectory, he retracted that + accusation once and for all time in his own heart, though her + justification came from a contrary direction to that from which it might + have been expected. + </p> + <p> + Miriam alone remained a friend—and nothing else, he added, bitterly, + in his own heart. And she seemed to assume that their friendship, begun in + face of social distinctions, should never have to suffer from that + burthen. + </p> + <p> + “I should like to hear,” she repeated, seeing that he was + silent, “all that has happened since you went away; all that you may + care to tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “My heritage, you mean?” + </p> + <p> + She moved in her seat but did not look round. She had laid aside her hat + on coming into the house, and as she sat, leaning forward with her hands + clasped together in her lap, gazing thoughtfully at the fire which glowed + blue and white for the salt water that was in the drift-wood, her hair, + loosened by the wind, half concealed her face. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she answered, slowly. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what it is—my heritage?” lapsing, as he + often did when hurried by some pressing thought, into a colloquialism half + French. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head, but made no audible reply. + </p> + <p> + “Do you suspect what it is?” he insisted. + </p> + <p> + “I may have suspected, perhaps,” she admitted, after a pause. + </p> + <p> + “When? How long?” + </p> + <p> + She paused again. Quick and clever as he was, she was no less so. She + weighed the question. Perhaps she found no answer to it, for she turned + toward the door that stood open and looked out into the hall. The light of + the lamp there fell for a moment across her face. + </p> + <p> + “I think I hear them returning,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he retorted, “for I should hear them before you + did. I was brought up at sea. Do not answer the question, however, if you + would rather not. You ask what has happened since I went away. A great + many things have happened which are of no importance. Such things always + happen, do they not? But one night, when we were quarrelling, Dormer + Colville mentioned your name. He was very much alarmed and very angry, so + he perhaps spoke the truth—by accident. He said that you had always + known that I might be the King of France. Many things happened, as I tell + you, which are of no importance, and which I have already forgotten, but + that I remember and always shall.” + </p> + <p> + “I have always known,” replied Miriam, “that Mr. Dormer + Colville is a liar. It is written on his face, for those who care to read.” + </p> + <p> + A woman at bay is rarely merciful. + </p> + <p> + “And I thought for an instant,” pursued Loo, “that such + a knowledge might have been in your mind that night, the last I was here, + last summer, on the river-wall. I had a vague idea that it might have + influenced in some way the reply you gave me then.” + </p> + <p> + He had come a step nearer and was standing over her. She could hear his + hurried breathing. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no,” she replied, in a calm voice full of friendliness. + “You are quite wrong. The reason I gave you still holds good, and—and + always will.” + </p> + <p> + In the brief silence that followed this clear statement of affairs, they + both heard the rattle of the iron gate by the seawall. Sep and his father + were coming. Loo turned to look toward the hall and the front door, dimly + visible in the shadow of the porch. While he did so Miriam passed her hand + quickly across her face. When Loo turned again and glanced down at her, + her attitude was unchanged. + </p> + <p> + “Will you look at me and say that again?” he asked, slowly. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” she replied. And she rose from her chair. She + turned and faced him with the light of the hall-lamp full upon her. She + was smiling and self-confident. + </p> + <p> + “I thought,” he said, looking at her closely, “as I + stood behind you, that there were tears in your eyes.” + </p> + <p> + She went past him into the hall to meet Sep and his father, who were + already on the threshold. + </p> + <p> + “It must have been the firelight,” she said to Barebone as she + passed him. + </p> + <p> + A minute later Septimus Marvin was shaking him by the hand with a vague + and uncertain but kindly grasp. + </p> + <p> + “Sep came running to tell me that you were home again,” he + said, struggling out of his overcoat. “Yes—yes. Home again to + the old place. And little changed, I can see. Little changed, my boy. <i>Tempora + mutantur</i>, eh? and we <i>mutamur in illis</i>. But you are the same.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. Why should I change? It is too late to change for the + better now.” + </p> + <p> + “Never! Never say that. But we do not want you to change. We looked + for you to come in a coach-and-four—did we not, Miriam? For I + suppose you have secured your heritage, since you are here again. It is a + great thing to possess riches—and a great responsibility. Come, let + us have tea and not think of such things. Yes—yes. Let us forget + that such a thing as a heritage ever came between us—eh, Miriam?” + </p> + <p> + And with a gesture of old-world politeness he stood aside for his niece to + pass first into the dining-room, whither a servant had preceded them with + a lamp. + </p> + <p> + “It will not be hard to do that,” replied Miriam, steadily, + “because he tells me that he has not yet secured it.” + </p> + <p> + “All in good time—all in good time,” said Marvin, with + that faith in some occult power, seemingly the Government and Providence + working in conjunction, to which parsons and many women confide their + worldly affairs and sit with folded hands. + </p> + <p> + He asked many questions which were easy enough to answer; for he had no + worldly wisdom himself, and did not look for it in other people. And then + he related his own adventure—the great incident of his life—his + visit to Paris. + </p> + <p> + “A matter of business,” he explained. “Some duplicates—one + or two of my prints which I had decided to part with. Miriam also wished + me to see into some small money matters of her own. Her guardian, John + Turner, you may remember, resides in Paris. A schoolfellow of my own, by + the way. But our ways diverged later in life. I found him unchanged—a + kind heart—always a kind heart. He attempts to conceal it, as many + do, under a flippant, almost a profane, manner of speech. <i>Brutum + fulmen.</i> But I saw through it—I saw through it.” + </p> + <p> + And the rector beamed on Loo through his spectacles with an innocent + delight in a Christian charity which he mistook for cunning. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” he went on, “we have spent a little money on + the rectory. To-morrow you will see that we have made good the roof of the + church. One could not ask the villagers to contribute, knowing that the + children want boots and scarcely know the taste of jam. Yes, John Turner + was very kind to me. He found me a buyer for one of my prints.” + </p> + <p> + The rector broke off with a sharp sigh and drank his tea. + </p> + <p> + “We shall never miss it,” he added, with the hopefulness of + those who can blind themselves to facts. “Come, tell me your + impressions of France.” + </p> + <p> + “I have been there before,” replied Loo, with a curtness so + unusual as to make Miriam glance at him. “I have been there before, + you know. It would be more interesting to hear your own impressions, which + must be fresher.” + </p> + <p> + Miriam knew that he did not want to speak of France, and wondered why. But + Marvin, eager to talk of his favourite study, seized the suggestion in all + innocence. He had gone to Paris as he had wandered through life, with the + mind of a child, eager, receptive, open to impression. Such minds pass by + much that is of value, but to one or two conclusions they bring a + perceptive comprehension which is photographic in its accuracy. + </p> + <p> + “I have followed her history with unflagging interest since boyhood,” + he said, “but never until now have I understood France. I walked + through the streets of Paris and I looked into the faces of the people, + and I realised that the astonishing history of France is true. One can see + it in those faces. The city is brilliant, beautiful, unreal. The reality + is in the faces of the people. Do you remember what Wellington said of + them half a century ago? ‘They are ripe,’ he said, ‘for + another Napoleon.’ But he could not see that Napoleon on the + political horizon. And that is what I saw in their faces. They are ripe + for something—they know not what.” + </p> + <p> + “Did John Turner tell you that?” asked Loo, in an eager voice. + “He who has lived in Paris all his life?” + </p> + <p> + And Miriam caught the thrill of excitement in the voice that put this + question. She glanced at Loo. His eyes were bright and his cheeks + colourless. She knew that she was in the presence of some feeling that she + did not understand. It was odd that an old scholar, knowing nothing but + history, could thus stir a listener whose touch had hitherto only skimmed + the surface of life. + </p> + <p> + “No,” answered Marvin, with assurance. “I saw it myself + in their faces. Ah! if another such as Napoleon could only arise—such + as he, but different. Not an adventurer, but a King and the descendant of + Kings—not allied, as Napoleon was, with a hundred other adventurers.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Loo, in a muffled voice, looking away toward the + fire. + </p> + <p> + “A King whose wife should be a Queen,” pursued the dreamer. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Loo again, encouragingly. + </p> + <p> + “They could save France,” concluded Marvin, taking off his + spectacles and polishing them with a silk handkerchief. Loo turned and + looked at him, for the action so characteristic of a mere onlooker + indicated that the momentary concentration of a mind so stored with + knowledge that confusion reigned there was passing away. + </p> + <p> + “From what?” asked Loo. “Save France from what?” + </p> + <p> + “From inevitable disaster, my boy,” replied Marvin, gravely. + “That is what I saw in those gay streets.” + </p> + <p> + Loo glanced at him sharply. He had himself seen the same all through those + provinces which must take their cue from Paris whether they will or no. + </p> + <p> + “What a career!” murmured Marvin. “What a mission for a + man to have in life—to save France! One does not like to think of + the world without a France to lead it in nearly everything, or with a + France, a mere ghost of her former self, exploited, depleted by another + Bonaparte. And we must look in vain for that man as did the good Duke + years ago.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to have a shot at it,” put in Sep, who had just + despatched a large piece of cake. + </p> + <p> + “Heaven forbid!” exclaimed his father, only half in jest. + </p> + <p> + “Better sit all day under the lee of a boat and make nets, like Sea + Andrew,” advised Loo, with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think so?” said Miriam, without looking up. + </p> + <p> + “All the same, I’d like to have a shot at it,” persisted + Sep. “Pass the cake, please.” + </p> + <p> + Loo had risen and was looking at the clock. His face was drawn and tired + and his eyes grave. + </p> + <p> + “You will come in and see us as often as you can while you are here?” + said the kindly rector, as if vaguely conscious of a change in this + visitor. “You will always find a welcome whether you come in a + coach-and-four or on foot—you know that.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you—yes. I know that.” + </p> + <p> + The rector peered at him through his spectacles. “I hope,” he + said, “that you will soon be successful in getting your own. You are + worried about it, I fear. The responsibilities of wealth, perhaps. And yet + many rich people are able to do good in the world, and must therefore be + happy.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not suppose I shall ever be rich,” said Loo, with a + careless laugh. + </p> + <p> + “No, perhaps not. But let us hope that all will be for the best. You + must not attach too much importance to what I said about France, you know. + I may be wrong. Let us hope I am. For I understand that your heritage is + there.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” answered Loo, who was shaking hands with Sep and + Miriam, “my heritage is there.” + </p> + <p> + “And you will go back to France?” inquired Marvin, holding out + his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” was the reply, with a side glance in the direction of + Miriam. “I shall go back to France.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVIII — BAREBONE’S PRICE + </h2> + <p> + At Farlingford, forgotten of the world, events move slowly and men’s + minds assimilate change without shock. Old people look for death long + before it arrives, so that when at last the great change comes it is + effected quite calmly. There is no indecent haste, no scrambling to put a + semblance of finish to the incomplete, as there is in the hurried death of + cities. Young faces grow softly mellow without those lines and anxious + crow’s-feet that mar the features of the middle-aged, who, to earn + their daily bread or to kill the tedium of their lives, find it necessary + to dwell in streets. + </p> + <p> + “Loo’s home again,” men told each other at “The + Black Sailor”; and the women, who discussed the matter in the + village street, had little to add to this bare piece of news. There was + nothing unusual about it. Indeed, it was customary for Farlingford men to + come home again. They always returned, at last, from wide wanderings, + which a limited conversational capacity seemed to deprive of all interest. + Those that stayed at home learnt a few names, and that was all. + </p> + <p> + “Where are ye now from, Willum?” the newly returned sailor + would be kindly asked, with the sideward jerk of the head. + </p> + <p> + “A’m now from Va’paraiso.” + </p> + <p> + And that was all that there was to be said about Valparaiso and the + experiences of this circumnavigator. Perhaps it was not considered good + form to inquire further into that which was, after all, his own business. + If you ask an East Anglian questions he will tell you nothing; if you do + not inquire he will tell you less. + </p> + <p> + No one, therefore, asked Barebone any questions. More especially is it + considered, in seafaring communities, impolite to make inquiry into your + neighbour’s misfortune. If a man have the ill luck to lose his ship, + he may well go through the rest of his life without hearing the mention of + her name. It was understood in Farlingford that Loo Barebone had resigned + his post on “The Last Hope” in order to claim a heritage in + France. He had returned home, and was living quietly at Maidens Grave Farm + with Mrs. Clubbe. It was, therefore, to be presumed that he had failed in + his quest. This was hardly a matter for surprise to such as had inherited + from their forefathers a profound distrust in Frenchmen. + </p> + <p> + The brief February days followed each other with that monotony, marked by + small events, that quickly lays the years aside. Loo lingered on, with a + vague indecision in his mind which increased as the weeks passed by and + the spell of the wide marsh-lands closed round his soul. He took up again + those studies which the necessity of earning a living had interrupted + years before, and Septimus Marvin, who had never left off seeking, opened + new historical gardens to him and bade him come in and dig. + </p> + <p> + Nearly every morning Loo went to the rectory to look up an obscure + reference or elucidate an uncertain period. Nearly every evening, after + the rectory dinner, he returned the books he had borrowed, and lingered + until past Sep’s bedtime to discuss the day’s reading. + Septimus Marvin, with an enthusiasm which is the reward of the + simple-hearted, led the way down the paths of history while Loo and Miriam + followed—the man with the quick perception of his race, the woman + with that instinctive and untiring search for the human motive which can + put heart into a printed page of history. + </p> + <p> + Many a whole lifetime has slipped away in such occupations; for history, + already inexhaustible, grows in bulk day by day. Marvin was happier than + he had ever been, for a great absorption is one of Heaven’s kindest + gifts. + </p> + <p> + For Barebone, France and his quest there, the Marquis de Gemosac, Dormer + Colville, Juliette, lapsed into a sort of dream, while Farlingford + remained a quiet reality. Loo had not written to Dormer Colville. Captain + Clubbe was trading between Alexandria and Bristol. “The Last Hope” + was not to be expected in England before April. To communicate with + Colville would be to turn that past dream, not wholly pleasant, into a + grim reality. Loo therefore put off from day to day the evil moment. By + nature and by training he was a man of action. He tried to persuade + himself that he was made for a scholar and would be happy to pass the rest + of his days in the study of that history which had occupied Septimus + Marvin’s thoughts during a whole lifetime. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps he was right. He might have been happy enough to pass his days + thus if life were unchanging; if Septimus Marvin should never age and + never die; if Miriam should be always there, with her light touch on the + deeper thoughts, her half-French way of understanding the unspoken, with + her steady friendship which might change, some day, into something else. + This was, of course, inconsistent. Love itself is the most inconsistent of + all human dreams; for it would have some things change and others remain + ever as they are. Whereas nothing stays unchanged for a single day: love, + least of all. For it must go forward or back. + </p> + <p> + “See!” cried Septimus Marvin, one evening, laying his hand on + the open book before him. “See how strong are racial things. Here + are the Bourbons for ever shutting their eyes to the obvious, for ever + putting off the evil moment, for ever temporising—from father to + son, father to son; generation after generation. Finally we come to Louis + XVI. Read his letters to the Comte d’Artois. They are the letters of + a man who knows the truth in his own heart and will not admit it even to + himself.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” admitted Loo. “Yes—you are right. It is + racial, one must suppose.” + </p> + <p> + And he glanced at Miriam, who did not meet his eyes but looked at the open + page, with a smile on her lips half sad, wholly tolerant. + </p> + <p> + Next morning, Loo thought, he would write to Dormer Colville. But the + following evening came, and he had not done so. He went, as usual, to the + rectory, where the same kind welcome awaited him. Miriam knew that he had + not written. Like him, she knew that an end of some sort must soon come. + And the end came an hour later. + </p> + <p> + Some day, Barebone knew, Dormer Colville would arrive. Every morning he + half looked for him on the sea-wall, between “The Black Sailor” + and the rectory garden. Any evening, he was well aware, the smiling face + might greet him in the lamp-lit drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + Sep had gone to bed earlier that night. The rector was reading aloud an + endless collection of letters, from which the careful student could + scarcely fail to gather side-lights on history. Both Miriam and Loo heard + the clang of the iron gate on the sea-wall. + </p> + <p> + A minute or two later the old dog, who lived mysteriously in the back + premises, barked, and presently the servant announced that a gentleman was + desirous of speaking to the rector. There were not many gentlemen within a + day’s walk of the rectory. Some one must have put up at “The + Black Sailor.” Theoretically, the rector was at the call of any of + his parishioners at all moments; but in practice the people of Farlingford + never sought his help. + </p> + <p> + “A gentleman,” said Marvin, vaguely; “well, let him come + in, Sarah.” + </p> + <p> + Miriam and Barebone sat silently looking at the door. But the man who + appeared there was not Dormer Colville. It was John Turner. + </p> + <p> + He evinced no surprise on seeing Barebone, but shook hands with him with a + little nod of the head, which somehow indicated that they had business + together. + </p> + <p> + He accepted the chair brought forward by Marvin and warmed his hands at + the fire, in no hurry, it would appear, to state the reason for this + unceremonious call. After all, Marvin was his oldest friend and Miriam his + ward. Between old friends, explanations are often better omitted. + </p> + <p> + “It is many years,” he said, at length, “since I heard + their talk. They speak with their tongues and their teeth, but not their + lips.” + </p> + <p> + “And their throats,” put in Marvin, eagerly. “That is + because they are of Teuton descent. So different from the French, eh, + Turner?” + </p> + <p> + Turner nodded a placid acquiescence. Then he turned, as far, it would + appear, as the thickness of his neck allowed, toward Barebone. + </p> + <p> + “Saw in a French paper,” he said, “that the ‘Petite + Jeanne’ had put in to Lowestoft, to replace a dinghy lost at sea. So + I put two and two together. It is my business putting two and two + together, and making five of them when I can, but they generally make + four. I thought I should find you here.” + </p> + <p> + Loo made no answer. He had only seen John Turner once in his life—for + a short hour, in a room full of people, at Royan. The banker stared + straight in front of him for a few moments. Then he raised his sleepy + little eyes directly to Miriam’s face. He heaved a sigh, and fell to + studying the burning logs again. And the colour slowly rose to Miriam’s + cheeks. The banker, it seemed, was about his business again, in one of + those simple addition sums, which he sometimes solved correctly. + </p> + <p> + “To you,” he said, after a moment’s pause, with a glance + in Loo’s direction, “to you, it must appear that I am + interfering in what is not my own business. You are wrong there.” + </p> + <p> + He had clasped his hands across his abnormal waistcoat, and he half closed + his eyes as he blinked at the fire. + </p> + <p> + “I am a sort of intermediary angel,” he went on, “between + private persons in France and their friends in England. Nothing to do with + state affairs, you understand, at least, very little. Many persons in + England have relations or property in France. French persons fall in love + with people on this side of the Channel, and vice versa. And, sooner or + later, all these persons, who are in trouble with their property or their + affections, come to me, because money is invariably at the bottom of the + trouble. Money is invariably at the bottom of all trouble. And I represent + money.” + </p> + <p> + He pursed up his lips and gazed somnolently at the fire. + </p> + <p> + “Ask anybody,” he went on, dreamily, after a pause, “if + that is not the bare truth. Ask Colville, ask Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, + ask Miriam Liston, sitting here beside us, if I exaggerate the importance + of—of myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Every one,” admitted Barebone, cheerfully, “knows that + you occupy a great position in Paris.” + </p> + <p> + Turner glanced at him and gave a thick chuckle in his throat. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” he said. “Very decent of you. And that + point being established, I will explain further, that I am not here of my + own free will. I am only an agent. No man in his senses would come to + Farlingford in mid-winter unless—” he broke off, with a sharp + sigh, and glanced down at Miriam’s slipper resting on the fender, + “unless he was much younger than I am. I came because I was paid to + do it. Came to make you a proposition.” + </p> + <p> + “To make me a proposition?” inquired Loo, as the identity of + Turner’s hearers had become involved. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. And I should recommend you to give it your gravest + consideration. It is one of the most foolish propositions, from the + proposer’s point of view, that I have ever had to make. I should + blush to make it, if it were any use blushing, but no one sees blushes on + my cheeks now. Do not decide in a hurry—sleep on it. I always sleep + on a question.” + </p> + <p> + He closed his eyes, and seemed about to compose himself to slumber then + and there. + </p> + <p> + “I am no longer young,” he admitted, after a pause, “and + therefore propose to take one of the few alleviations allowed to advancing + years and an increasing avoirdupois. I am going to give you some advice. + There is only one thing worth having in this life, and that is happiness. + Even the possibility of it is worth all other possibilities put together. + If a man have a chance of grasping happiness—I mean a home and the + wife he wants.... and all that—he is wise to throw all other chances + to the wind. Such, for instance, as the chance of greatness, of fame or + wealth, of gratified vanity or satisfied ambition.” + </p> + <p> + He had spoken slowly, and at last he ceased speaking, as if overcome by a + growing drowsiness. A queer silence followed this singular man’s + words. Barebone had not resumed his seat. He was standing by the + mantelpiece, as he often did, being quick and eager when interested, and + not content to sit still and express himself calmly in words, but must + needs emphasise his meaning by gestures and a hundred quick movements of + the head. + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” he said. “Let us have the proposition.” + </p> + <p> + “And no more advice?” + </p> + <p> + Loo glanced at Miriam. He could see all three faces where he stood, but + only by the light of the fire. Miriam was nearest to the hearth. He could + see that her eyes were aglow—possibly with anger. + </p> + <p> + Barebone shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “You are not an agent—you are an advocate,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Turner raised his eyes with the patience of a slumbering animal that has + been prodded. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said—“your advocate. There is one more + chance I should advise any man to shun—to cast to the four winds, + and hold on only to that tangible possibility of happiness in the present—it + is the chance of enjoying, in some dim and distant future, the + satisfaction of having, in a half-forgotten past, done one’s duty. + One’s first duty is to secure, by all legitimate means, one’s + own happiness.” + </p> + <p> + “What is the proposition?” interrupted Barebone, quickly; and + Turner, beneath his heavy lids, had caught in the passing the glance from + Miriam’s eyes, for which possibly both he and Loo Barebone had been + waiting. + </p> + <p> + “Fifty thousand pounds,” replied the banker, bluntly, “in + first-class English securities, in return for a written undertaking on + your part to relinquish all claim to any heritage to which you may think + yourself entitled in France. You will need to give your word of honour + never to set foot on French soil—and that is all.” + </p> + <p> + “I never, until this moment,” replied Barebone, “knew + the value of my own pretensions.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Turner, quietly; “that is the obvious + retort. And having made it, you can now give a few minutes’ calm + reflection to my proposition—say five minutes, until that clock + strikes half-past nine—and then I am ready to answer any questions + you may wish to ask.” + </p> + <p> + Barebone laughed good-humouredly, and so far fell in with the suggestion + that he leant his elbow on the corner of the mantelpiece, and looked at + the clock. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIX — IN THE DARK + </h2> + <p> + Had John Turner been able to see round the curve of his own vast cheeks he + might have perceived the answer to his proposition lurking in a little + contemptuous smile at the corner of Miriam’s closed lips. Loo saw it + there, and turned again to the contemplation of the clock on the + mantelpiece which had already given a preliminary click. + </p> + <p> + Thus they waited until the minutes should elapse, and Turner, with a smile + of simple pleasure at their ready acquiescence in his suggestion, probably + reflected behind his vacuous face that silence rarely implies indecision. + </p> + <p> + When at last the clock struck, Loo turned to him with a laugh and a shake + of the head as if the refusal were so self-evident that to put it into + words were a work of supererogation. + </p> + <p> + “Who makes the offer?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Turner smiled on him with visible approbation as upon a quick and worthy + foe who fought a capable fight with weapons above the board. + </p> + <p> + “No matter—since you are disposed to refuse. The money is in + my hands, as is the offer. Both are good. Both will hold good till + to-morrow morning.” + </p> + <p> + Septimus Marvin gave a little exclamation of approval. He had been sitting + by the table looking from one to the other over his spectacles with the + eager smile of the listener who understands very little, and while wishing + that he understood more, is eager to put in a word of approval or + disapprobation on safe and general lines. It was quite obvious to John + Turner, who had entered the room in ignorance on this point, that Marvin + knew nothing of Barebone’s heritage in France while Miriam knew all. + </p> + <p> + “There is one point,” he said, “which is perhaps + scarcely worth mentioning. The man who makes the offer is not <i>only the + most unscrupulous</i>, but is likely to become one of the most powerful + men in Eur—men I know. There is a reverse side to the medal. There + always is a reverse side to the good things of this world. Should you + refuse his ridiculously generous offer you will make an enemy for life—one + who is nearing that point where men stop at nothing.” + </p> + <p> + Turner glanced at Miriam again. Her clean-cut features had a stony + stillness and her eyes looked obstinately at the clock. The banker moved + in his chair as if suddenly conscious that it was time to go. + </p> + <p> + “Do not,” he said to Barebone, “be misled or mislead + yourself into a false estimate of the strength of your own case. The offer + I make you does not in any way indicate that you are in a strong position. + It merely shows the indolence of a man naturally open-handed, who would + always rather pay than fight.” + </p> + <p> + “Especially if the money is not his own.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” admitted Turner, stolidly, “that is so. + Especially if the money is not his own. I dare say you know the weakness + of your own case: others know it too. A portrait is not much to go on. + Portraits are so easily copied; so easily changed.” + </p> + <p> + He rose as he spoke and shook hands with Marvin. + </p> + <p> + Then he turned to Miriam, but he did not meet her glance. Last of all he + shook hands with Barebone. + </p> + <p> + “Sleep on it,” he said. “Nothing like sleeping on a + question. I am staying at ‘The Black Sailor.’ See you + tomorrow.” + </p> + <p> + He had come, had transacted his business and gone, all in less than an + hour, with an extraordinary leisureliness almost amounting to indolence. + He had lounged into the house, and now he departed without haste or + explanation. Never hurry, never explain, was the text upon which John + Turner seemed to base the sleepy discourse of his life. For each of us is + a living sermon to his fellows, and, it is to be feared, the majority are + warnings. + </p> + <p> + Turner had dragged on his thick overcoat, not without Loo’s + assistance, and, with the collar turned up about his ears, he went out + into the night, leaving the three persons whom he had found in the + drawing-room standing in the hall looking at the door which he closed + decisively behind him. “Seize your happiness while you can,” + he had urged. “If not—” and the decisive closing of a + door on his departing heel said the rest. + </p> + <p> + The clocks struck ten. It was not worth while going back to the + drawing-room. All Farlingford was abed in those days by nine o’clock. + Barebone took his coat and prepared to follow Turner. Miriam was already + lighting her bedroom candle. She bade the two men good night and went + slowly upstairs. As she reached her own room she heard the front door + closed behind Loo and the rattle of the chain under the uncertain fingers + of Septimus Marvin. The sound of it was like the clink of that other chain + by which Barebone had made fast his boat to the tottering post on the + river-wall. + </p> + <p> + Miriam’s room was at the front of the house, and its square Georgian + windows faced eastward across the river to the narrow spit of marsh-land + and the open sea beyond it. A crescent of moon far gone on the wane, + yellow and forlorn, was rising from the sea. An uncertain path of light + lay across the face of the far-off tide-way—broken by a narrow strip + of darkness and renewed again close at hand across the wide river almost + to the sea-wall beneath the window. From this window no house could be + seen by day—nothing but a vast expanse of water and land hardly less + level and unbroken. No light was visible on sea or land now, nothing but + the waning moon in a cold clear sky. + </p> + <p> + Miriam threw herself, all dressed, on her bed with the abandonment of one + who is worn out by some great effort, and buried her face in the pillow. + </p> + <p> + Barebone’s way lay to the left along the river-wall by the side of + the creek. Turner had gone to the right, taking the path that led down the + river to the old quay and the village. Whereas Barebone must turn his back + on Farlingford to reach the farm which still crouches behind a shelter of + twisted oaks and still bears the name of Maiden’s Grave; though the + name is now nothing but a word. For no one knows who the maiden was, or + where her grave, or what brought her to it. + </p> + <p> + The crescent moon gave little light, but Loo knew his way beneath the + stunted cedars and through the barricade of ilex drawn round the rectory + on the northern side. His eyes, trained to darkness, saw the shadowy form + of a man awaiting him beneath the cedars almost as soon as the door was + closed. + </p> + <p> + He went toward him, perceiving with a sudden misgiving that it was not + John Turner. A momentary silhouette against the northern sky showed that + it was Colville, come at last. + </p> + <p> + “Quick—this way!” he whispered, and taking Barebone’s + arm he led him through the bushes. He halted in a little open space + between the ilex and the river-wall, which is fifteen feet high at the + meeting of the creek and the larger stream. “There are three men, + who are not Farlingford men, on the outer side of the sea-wall below the + rectory landing. Turner must have placed them there. I’ll be even + with him yet. There is a large fishing-smack lying at anchor inside the + Ness—just across the marsh. It is the ‘Petite Jeanne.’ I + found this out while you were in there. I could hear your voices.” + </p> + <p> + “Could you hear what he said?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” answered Colville, with a sudden return to his old + manner, easy and sympathetic. “No—this is no time for joking, + I can tell you that. You have had a narrow escape, I assure you, Barebone. + That man, the Captain of the ‘Petite Jeanne,’ is well known. + There are plenty of people in France who want to get quietly rid of some + family encumbrance—a man in the way, you understand, a son too many, + a husband too much, a stepson who will inherit—the world is full of + superfluities. Well, the Captain of the ‘Petite Jeanne’ will + take them a voyage for their health to the Iceland fisheries. They are so + far and so remote—the Iceland fisheries. The climate is bad and + accidents happen. And if the ‘Petite Jeanne’ returns + short-handed, as she often does, the other boats do the same. It is only a + question of a few entries in the custom-house books at Fécamp. Do you see?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” admitted Barebone, thoughtfully. “I see.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it suggested itself to you when you were on board, and + that is why you took the first chance of escape.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, hardly; but I escaped, so it does not matter.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” acquiesced Colville. “It doesn’t matter. But + how are we to get out of this? They are waiting for us under the sea-wall. + Is there a way across the marsh?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—I know a way. But where do you want to go to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “Out of this,” whispered Colville, eagerly. “Out of + Farlingford and Suffolk before the morning if we can. I tell you there is + a French gunboat at Harwich, and another in the North Sea. It may be + chance and it may not. But I suspect there is a warrant out against you. + And, failing that, there is the ‘Petite Jeanne’ hanging about + waiting to kidnap you a second time. And Turner’s at the bottom of + it, damn him!” + </p> + <p> + Again Dormer Colville allowed a glimpse to appear of another man quite + different from the easy, indolent man-of-the-world, the well-dressed + adventurer of a day when adventure was mostly sought in drawing-rooms, + when scented and curled dandies were made or marred by women. For a moment + Colville was roused to anger and seemed capable of manly action. But in an + instant the humour passed and he shrugged his shoulders and gave a short, + indifferent laugh beneath his breath. + </p> + <p> + “Come,” he said, “lead the way and I will follow. I have + been out here since eight o’clock and it is deucedly cold. I + followed Turner from Paris, for I knew he was on your scent. Once across + the marsh we can talk without fear as we go along.” + </p> + <p> + Barebone obeyed mechanically, leading the way through the bushes to the + kitchen-garden and over an iron fencing on to the open marsh. This + stretched inland for two miles without a hedge or other fence but the + sunken dykes which intersected it across and across. Any knowing his way + could save two miles on the longer way by the only road connecting + Farlingford with the mainland and tapping the great road that runs north + and south a few miles inland. + </p> + <p> + There was no path, for few ever passed this way. By day, a solitary + shepherd watched his flocks here. By night the marsh was deserted. Across + some of the dykes a plank is thrown, the whereabouts of which is indicated + by a post, waist-high, driven into the ground, easily enough seen by day, + but hard to find after dark. Not all the dykes have a plank, and for the + most part the marsh is divided into squares, each only connected at one + point with its neighbour. + </p> + <p> + Barebone knew the way as well as any in Farlingford, and he struck out + across the thick grass which crunched briskly under the foot, for it was + coated with rime, and the icy wind blew in from the sea a freezing mist. + Once or twice Barebone, having made a bee-line across from dyke to dyke, + failed to strike the exact spot where the low post indicated a plank, and + had to pause and stoop down so as to find its silhouette against the sky. + When they reached a plank he tried its strength with one foot and then led + the way across it, turning and waiting at the far end for Colville to + follow. It was unnecessary to warn him against a slip, for the plank was + no more than nine inches wide and shone white with rime. Each foot must be + secure before its fellow was lifted. + </p> + <p> + Colville, always ready to fall in with a companion’s humour, ever + quick to understand the thoughts of others, respected his silence. Perhaps + he was not far from guessing the cause of it. + </p> + <p> + Loo was surprised to find that Dormer Colville was less antipathetic than + he had anticipated. For the last month, night and day, he had dreaded + Colville’s arrival, and now that he was here he was almost glad to + see him; almost glad to quit Farlingford. And his heart was hot with anger + against Miriam. + </p> + <p> + Turner’s offer had at all events been worth considering. Had he been + alone when it was made he would certainly have considered it; he would + have turned it this way and that. He would have liked to play with it as a + cat plays with a mouse, knowing all the while that he must refuse in the + end. Perhaps Turner had made the offer in Miriam’s presence, + expecting to find in her a powerful ally. It was only natural for him to + think this. Ever since the beginning, men have assigned to women the rôle + of the dissuader, the drag, the hinderer. It is always the woman, + tradition tells us, who persuades the man to be a coward, to stay at home, + to shirk a difficult or a dangerous duty. + </p> + <p> + As a matter of fact, Turner had made this mistake. He had always wondered + why Miriam Liston elected to live at Farlingford when with her wealth and + connections, both in England and France, she might live a gayer life + elsewhere. There must, he reflected, be some reason for it. + </p> + <p> + When whosoever does anything slightly unconventional or leaves undone what + custom and gossip make almost obligatory, a relation or a mere interfering + neighbour is always at hand to wag her head and say there must be some + reason for it. Which means, of course, one specific reason. And the worst + of it is that she is nearly always right. + </p> + <p> + John Turner, laboriously putting two small numerals together, after his + manner, had concluded that Loo Barebone was the reason. Even banking may, + it seems, be carried on without the loss of all human weakness, especially + if the banker be of middle age, unmarried, and deprived by an unromantic + superfluity of adipose tissue of the possibility of living through a + romance of his own. Turner had consented to countenance, if not actually + to take part in, a nefarious scheme, to rid France and the present + government of one who might easily bring about its downfall, on certain + conditions. Knowing quite well that Loo Barebone could take care of + himself at sea, and was quite capable of effecting an escape if he desired + it, he had put no obstacle in the way of the usual voyage to the Iceland + fisheries. Since those days many governments in France have invented many + new methods of disposing of a political foe. Dormer Colville was only + anticipating events when he took away the character of the Captain of the + “Petite Jeanne.” + </p> + <p> + Turner had himself proposed this alternative method of securing Barebone’s + silence. He had even named the sum. He had seized the excellent + opportunity of laying it before Barebone in the quiet intimacy of the + rectory drawing-room with Miriam in the soft lamp-light beside him, with + the scent of the violets at her breast mingling with the warm smell of the + wood fire. + </p> + <p> + And Barebone had laughed at the offer. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXX — IN THE FURROW AGAIN + </h2> + <p> + Turner, stumbling along the road to “The Black Sailor,” + probably wondered why he had failed. It is to be presumed that he knew + that the ally he had looked to for powerful aid had played him false at + the crucial moment. + </p> + <p> + His misfortune is common to all men who presume to take anything for + granted from a woman. + </p> + <p> + Barebone, stumbling along in the dark in another direction, was as angry + with Miriam as she in her turn was angry with Turner. She was, Barebone + reflected, so uncompromising. She saw her course so clearly, so + unmistakably—as birds that fly in the night—and from that + course nothing, it seemed, would move her. It was a question of + temperament and not of principle. For, even half a century ago, high + principles were beginning to go out of fashion in the upper strata of a + society which in these days tolerates anything except cheating at games. + </p> + <p> + Barebone himself was of a different temperament. He liked to blind himself + to the inevitable end, to temporise with the truth, whereas Miriam, with a + sort of dogged courage essentially English, perceived the hard truth at + once and clung to it, though it hurt. And all the while Barebone knew at + the back of his heart that his life was not his own to shape. At the end, + says an Italian motto, stands Destiny. Barebone wanted to make believe; he + wanted to pretend that his path lay down a flowery way, knowing all the + while that he had a hill to climb and Destiny stood at the top. + </p> + <p> + Colville had come at the right time. It is the fate of some men to come at + the right moment, just as it is the lot of others never to be there when + they are wanted and their place is filled by a bystander and an + opportunity is gone for ever. Which is always a serious matter, for God + only gives one or two opportunities to each of us. + </p> + <p> + Colville had come with his ready sympathy, not expressed as the world + expresses its sympathy, in words, but by a hundred little + self-abnegations. He was always ready to act up to the principles of his + companion for the moment or to act up to no principles at all should that + companion be deficient. Moreover, he never took it upon himself to judge + others, but extended to his neighbour a large tolerance, in return for + which he seemed to ask nothing. + </p> + <p> + “I have a carriage,” he said, when on a broader cart-track + they could walk side by side, “waiting for me at the roadside inn at + the junction of the two roads. The man brought me from Ipswich to the + outskirts of Farlingford, and I sent him back to the high road to wait for + me there, to put up and stay all night, if necessary.” + </p> + <p> + Barebone was beginning to feel tired. The wind was abominably cold. He + heard with satisfaction that Colville had as usual foreseen his wishes. + </p> + <p> + “I dogged Turner all the way from Paris, hardly letting him out of + my sight,” Colville explained, cheerily, when they at length reached + the road. “It is easy enough to keep in touch with one so remarkably + stout, for every one remembers him. What did he come to Farlingford for?” + </p> + <p> + “Apparently to try and buy me off.” + </p> + <p> + “For Louis Bonaparte?” + </p> + <p> + “He did not say so,” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Colville. “He would not say so. But it is + pretty generally suspected that he is in that galley, and pulls an + important oar in it, too. What did he offer you?” + </p> + <p> + “Fifty thousand pounds.” + </p> + <p> + “Whew!” whistled Colville. He stopped short in the middle of + the road. “Whew!” he repeated, thoughtfully, “fifty + thousand pounds! Gad! They must be afraid of you. They must think that we + are in a strong position. And what did you say, Barebone?” + </p> + <p> + “I refused.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + Barebone paused, and after a moment’s thought made no answer at all. + He could not explain to Dormer Colville his reason for refusing. + </p> + <p> + “Outright?” inquired Colville, deep in thought. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Colville turned and glanced at him sideways, though it was too dark to see + his face. + </p> + <p> + “I should have thought,” he said, tentatively, after a while, + “that it would have been wise to accept. A bird in the hand, you + know—a damned big bird! And then afterwards you could see what + turned up.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean I could break my word later on,” inquired Barebone, + with that odd downrightness which at times surprised Colville and made him + think of Captain Clubbe. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you know,” he explained, with a tolerant laugh, “in + politics it often turns out that a man’s duty is to break his word—duty + toward his party, and his country, and that sort of thing.” + </p> + <p> + Which was plausible enough, as many eminent politicians seem to have found + in these later times. + </p> + <p> + “I dare say it may be so,” answered Barebone, “but I + refused outright, and there is an end to it.” + </p> + <p> + For now that he was brought face to face with the situation, shorn of side + issues and set squarely before him, he envisaged it clearly enough. He did + not want fifty thousand pounds. He had only wanted the money for a moment + because the thought leapt into his mind that fifty thousand pounds meant + Miriam. Then he saw that little contemptuous smile tilting the corner of + her lips, and he had no use for a million. + </p> + <p> + If he could not have Miriam, he would be King of France. It is thus that + history is made, for those who make it are only men. And Clio, that + greatest of the daughters of Zeus, about whose feet cluster all the famous + names of the makers of this world’s story, has, after all, only had + the reversion of the earth’s great men. She has taken them after + some forgotten woman of their own choosing has had the first refusal. + </p> + <p> + Thus it came about that the friendship so nearly severed one evening at + the Hotel Gemosac, in Paris, was renewed after a few months; and Barebone + felt assured once more that no one was so well disposed toward him as + Dormer Colville. + </p> + <p> + There was no formal reconciliation, and neither deemed it necessary to + refer to the past. Colville, it will be remembered, was an adept at that + graceful tactfulness which is somewhat clumsily described by this tolerant + generation as going on as if nothing had happened. + </p> + <p> + By the time that the waning moon was high enough in the eastern sky to + shed an appreciable light upon their path, they reached the junction of + the two roads and set off at a brisk pace southward toward Ipswich. So far + as the eye could reach, the wide heath was deserted, and they talked at + their ease. + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing for it but to wake up my driver and make him take + us back to Ipswich to-night. To-morrow morning we can take train to London + and be there almost as soon as John Turner realises that you have given + him the slip,” said Colville, cheerily. + </p> + <p> + “And then?” + </p> + <p> + “And then back to France—where the sun shines, my friend, and + the spring is already in the air. Think of that! It is so, at least, at + Gemosac, for I heard from the Marquis before I quitted Paris. Your + disappearance has nearly broken a heart or two down there, I can tell you. + The old Marquis was in a great state of anxiety. I have never seen him so + upset about anything, and Juliette did not seem to be able to offer him + any consolation.” + </p> + <p> + “Back to France?” echoed Barebone, not without a tone of + relief, almost of exultation, in his voice. “Will it be possible to + go back there, since we have to run away from Farlingford?” + </p> + <p> + “Safer there than here,” replied Colville. “It may sound + odd, but it is true. De Gemosac is one of the most powerful men in France—not + intellectually, perhaps, but by reason of his great name—and they + would not dare to touch a protégé or a guest of his. If you go back there + now you must stay at Gemosac; they have put the château into a more + habitable condition, and are ready to receive you.” + </p> + <p> + He turned and glanced at Loo’s face in the moonlight. + </p> + <p> + “There will be a difference, you understand. You will be a different + person from what you were when last there,” he went on, in a muffled + voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I understand,” replied Barebone, gravely. Already the + dream was taking shape—Colville’s persuasive voice had + awakened him to find that it was no dream, but a reality—and + Farlingford was fading back into the land of shadows. It was only France, + after all, that was real. + </p> + <p> + “That journey of ours,” explained Colville, vaguely, “has + made an extraordinary difference. The whole party is aroused and in deadly + earnest now.” + </p> + <p> + Barebone made no answer, and they walked on in meditative silence toward + the roadside inn, which stood up against the southern sky a few hundred + yards ahead. + </p> + <p> + “In fact,” Colville added, after a silence, “the ball is + at your feet, Barebone. There can be no looking back now.” + </p> + <p> + And again Barebone made no answer. It was a tacit understanding, then. + </p> + <p> + For greater secrecy, Barebone walked on toward Ipswich alone, while + Colville went into the inn to arouse his driver, whom he found slumbering + in the wide chimney corner before a log fire. From Ipswich to London, and + thus on to Newhaven, they journeyed pleasantly enough in company, for they + were old companions of the road, and Colville’s unruffled good + humour made him an easy comrade for travel even in days when the idea of + comfort reconciled with speed had not suggested itself to the mind of man. + </p> + <p> + Such, indeed, was his foresight that he had brought with him to London, + and there left awaiting further need of it, that personal baggage which + Loo had perforce left behind him at the Hotel Gemosac in Paris. + </p> + <p> + They made but a brief halt in London, where Colville admitted gaily that + he had no desire to be seen. + </p> + <p> + “I might meet my tailor in Piccadilly,” he said. “And + there are others who may perhaps consider themselves aggrieved.” + </p> + <p> + At Colville’s club, where they dined, he met more than one friend. + </p> + <p> + “Hallo!” said one who had the ruddy countenance and bluff + manners of a retired major. “Hallo! Who’d have expected to see + you here? I didn’t know—I—thought—eh! dammy!” + </p> + <p> + And a hundred facetious questions gleamed from the major’s eye. + </p> + <p> + “All right, my boy,” answered Colville, cheerfully. “I + am off to France to-morrow morning.” + </p> + <p> + The Major shook his head wisely as if in approval of a course of conduct + savouring of that prudence which is the better part of valour, glanced at + Loo Barebone, and waited in vain for an invitation to take a vacant chair + near at hand. + </p> + <p> + “Still in the south of France, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Still in the south of France,” replied Colville, turning to + Barebone in a final way, which had the effect of dismissing this + inquisitive idler. + </p> + <p> + While they were at dinner another came. He was a raw-boned Scotchman, who + spoke in broken English when the waiter was absent and in perfect French + when that servitor hovered near. + </p> + <p> + “I wish I could show my face in Paris,” he said, frankly, + “but I can’t. Too much mixed up with Louis Philippe to find + favour in the eyes of the Prince President.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” asked Colville. “What could you gain by showing + in Paris a face which I am sure has the stamp of innocence all over it?” + </p> + <p> + The Scotchman laughed curtly. + </p> + <p> + “Gain?” he answered. “Gain? I don’t say I would, + but I think I might be able to turn an honest penny out of the approaching + events.” + </p> + <p> + “What events?” + </p> + <p> + “The Lord alone knows,” replied the Scotchman, who had never + set foot in his country, but had acquired elsewhere the prudent habit of + never answering a question. “France doesn’t, I am sure of + that. I am thinking there will be events, though, before long, Colville. + Will there not, now?” + </p> + <p> + Colville looked at him with an open smile. + </p> + <p> + “You mean,” he said, slowly, “the Prince President.” + </p> + <p> + “That is what he calls himself at present. I’m wondering how + long. Eh! man. He is just pouring money into the country from here, from + America, from Austria—from wherever he can get it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why is he doing that?” + </p> + <p> + “You must ask somebody who knows him better than I do. They say you + knew him yourself once well enough, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “He is not a man I have much faith in,” said Colville, + vaguely. “And France has no faith in him at all.” + </p> + <p> + “So I’m told. But France—well, does France know what she + wants? She mostly wants something without knowing what it is. She is like + a woman. It’s excitement she wants, perhaps. And she will buy it at + any cost, and then find afterward she has paid too dear for it. That is + like a woman, too. But it isn’t another Bonaparte she wants, I am + sure of that.” + </p> + <p> + “So am I,” answered Colville, with a side glance toward + Barebone, a mere flicker of the eyelids. + </p> + <p> + “Not unless it is a Napoleon of that ilk.” + </p> + <p> + “And he is not,” completed Colville. + </p> + <p> + “But—” the Scotchman paused, for a waiter came at this + moment to tell him that his dinner was ready at a table nearer to the + fire. “But,” he went on, in French, for the waiter lingered, + “but he might be able to persuade France that it is himself she + wants—might he not, now? With money at the back of it, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “He might,” admitted Colville, doubtfully. The Scotchman moved + away, but came back again. + </p> + <p> + “I am thinking,” he said, with a grim smile, “that like + all intelligent people who know France, you are aware that it is a King + she wants.” + </p> + <p> + “But not an Orleans King,” replied Colville, with his friendly + and indifferent laugh. + </p> + <p> + The Scotchman smiled more grimly still and went away. + </p> + <p> + He was seated too near for Colville and Loo to talk of him. But Colville + took an opportunity to mention his name in an undertone. It was a name + known all over Europe then, and forgotten now. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXI — THE THURSDAY OF MADAME DE CHANTONNAY + </h2> + <p> + “It is,” Madame de Chantonnay had maintained throughout the + months of January and February—“it is an affair of the heart.” + </p> + <p> + She continued to hold this opinion with, however, a shade less conviction, + well into a cold March. + </p> + <p> + “It is an affair of the heart, Abbé,” she said. “<i>Allez</i>! + I know what I talk of. It is an affair of the heart and nothing more. + There is some one in England: some blonde English girl. They are always + washing, I am told. And certainly they have that air—like a garment + that has been too often to the <i>blanchisseuse</i> and has lost its + substance. A beautiful skin, I allow you. But so thin—so thin.” + </p> + <p> + “The skin, madame?” inquired the Abbé Touvent, with that + gentle and cackling humour in which the ordained of any Church may indulge + after a good dinner. + </p> + <p> + The Abbé Touvent had, as a matter of fact, been Madame de Chantonnay’s + most patient listener through the months of suspense that followed Loo + Barebone’s sudden disappearance. Needless to say he agreed ardently + with whatever explanation she put forward. Old ladies who give good + dinners to a Low Church British curate, or an abbé of the Roman + confession, or, indeed, to the needy celibate exponents of any creed + whatsoever, may always count upon the active conversational support of + their spiritual adviser. And it is not only within the fold of Papacy that + careful Christians find the road to heaven made smooth by the arts of an + efficient cook. + </p> + <p> + “You know well enough what I mean, malicious one,” retorted + the lady, arranging her shawl upon her fat shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “I always think,” murmured the Abbé, sipping his digestive + glass of eau-de-vie d’Armagnac, which is better than any cognac of + Charente—“I always think that to be thin shows a mean mind, + lacking generosity.” + </p> + <p> + “Take my word for it,” pursued Madame de Chantonnay, warming + to her subject, “that is the explanation of the young man’s + disappearance. They say the government has taken some underhand way of + putting him aside. One does not give credence to such rumours in these + orderly times. No: it is simply that he prefers the pale eyes of some Mees + to glory and France. Has it not happened before, Abbé?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Madame—” another sip of Armagnac. + </p> + <p> + “And will it not happen again? It is the heart that has the first + word and the last. I know—I who address you, I know!” + </p> + <p> + And she touched her breast where, very deeply seated it is to be presumed, + she kept her own heart. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Madame. Who better?” murmured the Abbé. + </p> + <p> + “Na, na!” exclaimed Madame de Chantonnay, holding up one hand, + heavy with rings, while with the other she gathered her shawl closer about + her as if for protection. + </p> + <p> + “Now you tread on dangerous ground, wicked one—<i>wicked</i>! + And you so demure in your soutane!” + </p> + <p> + But the Abbé only laughed and held up his small glass after the manner of + any abandoned layman drinking a toast. + </p> + <p> + “Madame,” he said, “I drink to the hearts you have + broken. And now I go to arrange the card tables, for your guests will soon + be coming.” + </p> + <p> + It was, in fact, Madame de Chantonnay’s Thursday evening to which + were bidden such friends as enjoyed for the moment her fickle good graces. + The Abbé Touvent was, so to speak, a permanent subscriber to these + favours. The task was easy enough, and any endowed with a patience to + listen, a readiness to admire that excellent young nobleman, Albert de + Chantonnay, and the credulity necessary to listen to the record (more + hinted at than clearly spoken) of Madame’s own charms in her youth, + could make sure of a game of dominoes on the evening of the third Thursday + in the month. + </p> + <p> + The Abbé bustled about, drawing cards and tables nearer to the lamps, away + from the draught of the door, not too near the open wood fire. His + movements were dainty, like those of an old maid of the last generation. + He hissed through his teeth as if he were working very hard. It served to + stimulate a healthy excitement in the Thursday evening of Madame de + Chantonnay. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I am not uneasy,” said that lady, as she watched him. She + had dined well and her digestion had outlived those charms to which she + made such frequent reference. “I am not uneasy. He will return, more + or less sheepish. He will make some excuse more or less inadequate. He + will tell us a story more or less creditable. <i>Allez</i>! Oh, you men. + If you intend that chair for Monsieur de Gemosac, it is the wrong one. + Monsieur de Gemosac sits high, but his legs are short; give him the little + chair that creaks. If he sits too high he is apt to see over the top of + one’s cards. And he is so eager to win—the good Marquis.” + </p> + <p> + “Then he will come to-night despite the cold? You think he will + come, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure of it. He has come more frequently since Juliette came to + live at the château. It is Juliette who makes him come, perhaps. Who + knows?” + </p> + <p> + The Abbé stopped midway across the floor and set down the chair he carried + with great caution. + </p> + <p> + “Madame is incorrigible,” he said, spreading out his hands. + “Madame would perceive a romance in a cradle.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, one must begin somewhere, Materialist. Once it was for me + that the guests crowded to my poor Thursdays. But now it is because Albert + is near. Ah! I know it. I say it without jealousy. Have you noticed, my + dear Abbé, that he has cut his whiskers a little shorter—a shade + nearer to the ear? It is effective, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “It gives an air of hardihood,” assented the Abbé. “It + lends to that intellectual face something martial. I would almost say that + to the timorous it might appear terrible and overbearing.” + </p> + <p> + Thus they talked until the guests began to arrive, and for Madame de + Chantonnay the time no doubt seemed short enough. For no one appreciated + Albert with such a delicacy of touch as the Abbé Touvent. + </p> + <p> + The Marquis de Gemosac and Juliette were the last to arrive. The Marquis + looked worn and considerably aged. He excused himself with a hundred + gestures of despair for being late. + </p> + <p> + “I have so much to do,” he whispered. “So much to think + of. We are leaving no stone unturned, and at last we have a clue.” + </p> + <p> + The other guests gathered round. + </p> + <p> + “But speak, my dear friend, speak,” cried Madame de + Chantonnay. “You keep us in suspense. Look around you. We are among + friends, as you see. It is only ourselves.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” replied the Marquis, standing upright and fingering + the snuff-box which had been given to his grandfather by the Great Louis. + “Well, my friends, our invaluable ally, Dormer Colville, has gone to + England. There is a ray of hope. That is all I can tell you.” + </p> + <p> + He looked round, smiled on his audience, and then proceeded to tell them + more, after the manner of any Frenchman. + </p> + <p> + “What,” he whispered, “if an unscrupulous republican + government had got scent of our glorious discovery! What if, + panic-stricken, they threw all vestige of honour to the wind and decided + to kidnap an innocent man and send him to the Iceland fisheries, where so + many lives are lost every winter; with what hopes in their republican + hearts, I leave to your imagination. What if—let us say it for once—Monsieur + de Bourbon should prove a match for them? Alert, hardy, full of resource, + a skilled sailor, he takes his life in his hand with the daring audacity + of royal blood and effects his escape to England. I tell you nothing—” + </p> + <p> + He held up his hands as if to stay their clamouring voices, and nodded his + head triumphantly toward Albert de Chantonnay, who stood near a lamp + fingering his martial whisker of the left side with the air of one who + would pause at naught. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you nothing. But such a theory has been pieced together upon + excellent material. It may be true. It may be a dream. And, as I tell you, + our dear friend Dormer Colville, who has nothing at stake, who loses or + gains little by the restoration of France, has journeyed to England for + us. None could execute the commission so capably, or without danger of + arousing suspicion. There! I have told you all I know. We must wait, my + compatriots. We must wait.” + </p> + <p> + “And in the mean time,” purred the voice of the Abbé Touvent, + “for the digestion, Monsieur le Marquis—for the digestion.” + </p> + <p> + For it was one of the features of Madame de Chantonnay’s Thursdays + that no servants were allowed in the room; but the guests waited on each + other. If the servants, as is to be presumed, listened outside the door, + they were particular not to introduce each succeeding guest without first + knocking, which caused a momentary silence and added considerably to the + sense of political importance of those assembled. The Abbé Touvent made it + his special care to preside over the table where small glasses of + eau-de-vie d’Armagnac and other aids to digestion were set out in a + careful profusion. + </p> + <p> + “It is a theory, my dear Marquis,” admitted Madame de + Chantonnay. “But it is nothing more. It has no heart in it, your + theory. Now I have a theory of my own.” + </p> + <p> + “Full of heart, one may assure oneself, Madame; full of heart,” + murmured the Marquis. “For you yourself are full of heart—is + it not so?” + </p> + <p> + “I hope not,” Juliette whispered to her fan, with a little + smile of malicious amusement. For she had a youthful contempt for persons + old and stout, who talk ignorantly of matters only understood by such as + are young and slim and pretty. She looked at her fan with a gleam of + ill-concealed irony and glanced over it toward Albert de Chantonnay, who, + with a consideration which must have been hereditary, was uneasy about the + alteration he had made in his whiskers. It was perhaps unfair, he felt, to + harrow young and tender hearts. + </p> + <p> + It was at this moment that a loud knock commanded a breathless silence, + for no more guests were expected. Indeed the whole neighbourhood was + present. + </p> + <p> + The servant, in his faded gold lace, came in and announced with a dramatic + assurance: “Monsieur de Barebone—Monsieur Colville.” + </p> + <p> + And that difference which Dormer Colville had predicted was manifested + with an astounding promptness; for all who were seated rose to their feet. + It was Colville who had given the names to the servant in the order in + which they had been announced, and at the last minute, on the threshold, + he had stepped on one side and with his hand on Barebone’s shoulder + had forced him to take precedence. + </p> + <p> + The first person Barebone saw on entering the room was Juliette, standing + under the spreading arms of a chandelier, half turned to look at him—Juliette, + in all the freshness of her girlhood and her first evening dress, flushing + pink and white like a wild rose, her eyes, bright with a sudden + excitement, seeking his. + </p> + <p> + Behind her, the Marquis de Gemosac, Albert de Chantonnay, his mother, and + all the Royalists of the province, gathered in a semicircle, by accident + or some tacit instinct, leaving only the girl standing out in front, + beneath the chandelier. They bowed with that grave self-possession which + falls like a cloak over the shoulders of such as are of ancient and + historic lineage. + </p> + <p> + “We reached the château of Gemosac only a few minutes after Monsieur + le Marquis and Mademoiselle had quitted it to come here,” Barebone + explained to Madame de Chantonnay; “and trusting to the good-nature—so + widely famed—of Madame la Comtesse, we hurriedly removed the dust of + travel, and took the liberty of following them hither.” + </p> + <p> + “You have not taken me by surprise,” replied Madame de + Chantonnay. “I expected you. Ask the Abbé Touvent. He will tell you, + gentlemen, that I expected you.” + </p> + <p> + As Barebone turned away to speak to the Marquis and others, who were + pressing forward to greet him, it became apparent that that mantle of + imperturbability, which millions made in trade can never buy, had fallen + upon his shoulders, too. For most men are, in the end, forced to play the + part the world assigns to them. We are not allowed to remain what we know + ourselves to be, but must, at last, be that which the world thinks us. + </p> + <p> + Madame de Chantonnay, murmuring to a neighbour a mystic reference to her + heart and its voluminous premonitions, watched him depart with a vague + surprise. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Mon Dieu! mon Dieu</i>!” she whispered, breathlessly. + “It is not a resemblance. It is the dead come to life again.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXII — PRIMROSES + </h2> + <p> + “If I go on, I go alone,” Barebone had once said to Dormer + Colville. The words, spoken in the heat of a quarrel, stuck in the memory + of both, as such are wont to do. Perhaps, in moments of anger or + disillusionment—when we find that neither self nor friend is what we + thought—the heart tears itself away from the grip of the cooler, + calmer brain and speaks untrammelled. And such speeches are apt to linger + in the mind long after the most brilliant jeu d’esprit has been + forgotten. + </p> + <p> + What occupies the thoughts of the old man, sitting out the grey remainder + of the day, over the embers of a hearth which he will only quit when he + quits the world? Does he remember the brilliant sallies of wit, the + greatest triumphs of the noblest minds with which he has consorted; or + does his memory cling to some scene—simple, pastoral, without + incident—which passed before his eyes at a moment when his heart was + sore or glad? When his mind is resting from its labours and the sound of + the grinding is low, he will scarce remember the neat saying or the lofty + thought clothed in perfect language; but he will never forget a hasty word + spoken in an unguarded moment by one who was not clever at all, nor even + possessed the worldly wisdom to shield the heart behind the buckler of the + brain. + </p> + <p> + “You will find things changed,” Colville had said, as they + walked across the marsh from Farlingford, toward the Ipswich road. And the + words came back to the minds of both, on that Thursday of Madame de + Chantonnay, which many remember to this day. Not only did they find things + changed, but themselves they found no longer the same. Both remembered the + quarrel, and the outcome of it. + </p> + <p> + Colville, ever tolerant, always leaning toward the compromise that eases a + doubting conscience, had, it would almost seem unconsciously, prepared the + way for a reconciliation before there was any question of a difference. On + their way back to France, without directly referring to that fatal + portrait and the revelation caused by Barebone’s unaccountable feat + of memory, he had smoothed away any possible scruple. + </p> + <p> + “France must always be deceived,” he had said, a hundred + times. “Better that she should be deceived for an honest than a + dishonest purpose—if it is deception, after all, which is very + doubtful. The best patriot is he who is ready to save his country at the + cost of his own ease, whether of body or of mind. It does not matter who + or what you are; it is what or who the world thinks you to be, that is of + importance.” + </p> + <p> + Which of us has not listened to a score of such arguments, not always from + the lips of a friend, but most often in that still, small voice which + rarely has the courage to stand out against the tendency of the age? There + is nothing so contagious as laxity of conscience. + </p> + <p> + Barebone listened to the good-natured, sympathetic voice with a + make-believe conviction which was part of his readiness to put off an evil + moment. Colville was a difficult man to quarrel with. It seemed bearish + and ill-natured to take amiss any word or action which could only be the + outcome of a singularly tender consideration for the feelings of others. + </p> + <p> + But when they entered Madame de Chantonnay’s drawing-room—when + Dormer, impelled by some instinct of the fitness of things, stepped aside + and motioned to his companion to pass in first—the secret they had + in common yawned suddenly like a gulf between them. For the possession of + a secret either estranges or draws together. More commonly, it estranges. + For which of us is careful of a secret that redounds to our credit? Nearly + every secret is a hidden disgrace; and such a possession, held in common + with another, is not likely to insure affection. + </p> + <p> + Colville lingered on the threshold, watching Loo make the first steps of + that progress which must henceforth be pursued alone. He looked round for + a friendly face, but no one had eyes for him. They were all looking at Loo + Barebone. Colville sought Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, usually in full + evidence, even in a room full of beautiful women and distinguished men. + But she was not there. For a minute or two no one noticed him; and then + Albert de Chantonnay, remembering his rôle, came forward to greet the + Englishman. + </p> + <p> + “It was,” explained Colville, in a lowered voice, “as we + thought. An attempt was made to get him out of the way, but he effected + his escape. He knew, however, the danger of attempting to communicate with + any of us by post, and was awaiting some opportunity of transmitting a + letter by a safe hand, when I discovered his hiding-place.” + </p> + <p> + And this was the story that went half round France, from lip to lip, among + those who were faithful to the traditions of a glorious past. + </p> + <p> + “Madame St. Pierre Lawrence,” Albert de Chantonnay told + Colville, in reply, “is not here to-night. She is, however, at her + villa, at Royan. She has not, perhaps, displayed such interest in our + meetings as she did before you departed on your long journey through + France. But her generosity is unchanged. The money, which, in the hurry of + the moment, you did not withdraw from her bank—” + </p> + <p> + “I doubt whether it was ever there,” interrupted Colville. + </p> + <p> + “She informs me,” concluded Albert, “is still at our + service. We have many other promises, which must now be recalled to the + minds of those who made them. But from no one have we received such + generous support as from your kinswoman.” + </p> + <p> + They were standing apart, and in a few minutes the Marquis de Gemosac + joined them. + </p> + <p> + “How daring! how audacious!” he whispered, “and yet how + opportune—this return. It is all to be recommenced, my friends, with + a firmer grasp, a new courage.” + </p> + <p> + “But my task is accomplished,” returned Colville. “You + have no further use for a mere Englishman, like myself. I was fortunate in + being able to lend some slight assistance in the original discovery of our + friend; I have again been lucky enough to restore him to you. And now, + with your permission, I will return to Royan, where I have my little + apartment, as you know.” + </p> + <p> + He looked from one to the other, with his melancholy and self-deprecating + smile. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Voila</i>” he added; “it remains for me to pay my + respects to Madame de Chantonnay. We have travelled far, and I am tired. I + shall ask her to excuse me.” + </p> + <p> + “And Monsieur de Bourbon comes to Gemosac. That is understood. He + will be safe there. His apartments have been in readiness for him these + last two months. Hidden there, or in other dwellings—grander and + better served, perhaps, than my poor ruin, but no safer—he can + continue the great work he began so well last winter. As for you, my dear + Colville,” continued the Marquis, taking the Englishman’s two + hands in his, “I envy you from the bottom of my heart. It is not + given to many to serve France as you have served her—to serve a King + as you have served one. It will be my business to see that both remember + you. For France, I allow, sometimes forgets. Go to Royan, since you wish—but + it is only for a time. You will be called to Paris some day, that I + promise you.” + </p> + <p> + The Marquis would have embraced him then and there, had the cool-blooded + Englishman shown the smallest desire for that honour. But Dormer Colville’s + sad and doubting smile held at arms’ length one who was always at + the mercy of his own eloquence. + </p> + <p> + The card tables had lost their attraction; and, although many parties were + formed, and the cards were dealt, the players fell to talking across the + ungathered tricks, and even the Abbé Touvent was caught tripping in the + matter of a point. + </p> + <p> + “Never,” exclaimed Madame de Chantonnay, as her guests took + leave at their wonted hour, and some of them even later—“never + have I had a Thursday so dull and yet so full of incident.” + </p> + <p> + “And never, madame,” replied the Marquis, still on tiptoe, as + it were, with delight and excitement, “shall we see another like it.” + </p> + <p> + Loo went back to Gemosac with the fluttering old man and Juliette. + Juliette, indeed, was in no flutter, but had carried herself through the + excitement of her first evening party with a demure little air of + self-possession. + </p> + <p> + She had scarce spoken to Loo during the evening. Indeed, it had been his + duty to attend on Madame de Chantonnay and on the older members of these + quiet Royalist families biding their time in the remote country villages + of Guienne and the Vendée. + </p> + <p> + On the journey home, the Marquis had so much to tell his companion, and + told it so hurriedly, that his was the only voice heard above the rattle + of the heavy, old-fashioned carriage. But Barebone was aware of Juliette’s + presence in a dark corner of the roomy vehicle, and his eyes, seeking to + penetrate the gloom, could just distinguish hers, which seemed to be + turned in his direction. + </p> + <p> + Many changes had been effected at the chateâu, and a suite of rooms had + been prepared for Barebone in the detached building known as the Italian + house, which stands in the midst of the garden within the enceinte of the + château walls. + </p> + <p> + “I have been able,” explained the Marquis, frankly, “to + obtain a small advance on the results of last autumn’s vintage. My + notary in the village found, indeed, that facilities were greater than he + had anticipated. With this sum, I have been enabled to effect some + necessary repairs to the buildings and the internal decorations. I had + fallen behind the times, perhaps. But now that Juliette is installed as + châtelaine, many changes have been effected. You will see, my dear friend; + you will see for yourself. Yes, for the moment, I am no longer a pauper. + As you yourself will have noticed, in your journey through the west, rural + France is enjoying a sudden return of prosperity. It is unaccountable. No + one can make me believe that it is to be ascribed to this scandalous + Government, under which we agonise. But there it is—and we must + thank Heaven for it.” + </p> + <p> + Which was only the truth. For France was at this time entering upon a + period of plenty. The air was full of rumours of new railways, new roads, + and new commercial enterprise. Banks were being opened in the provincial + towns, and loans made on easy terms to agriculturists for the improvement + of their land. + </p> + <p> + Barebone found that there were indeed changes in the old château. The + apartments above that which had once been the stabling, hitherto occupied + by the Marquis, had been added to and a slight attempt at redecoration had + been made. There was no lack of rooms, and Juliette now had her own suite, + while the Marquis lived, as hitherto, in three small apartments over the + rooms occupied by Marie and her husband. + </p> + <p> + An elderly relation—one of those old ladies habited in black, who + are ready to efface themselves all day and occupy a garret all night in + return for bed and board, had been added to the family. She contributed a + silent and mysterious presence, some worldly wisdom, and a profound + respect for her noble kinsman. + </p> + <p> + “She is quite harmless,” Juliette explained, gaily, to + Barebone, on the first occasion when they were alone together. This did + not present itself until Loo had been quartered in the Italian house for + some days, with his own servant. Although he took luncheon and dinner with + the family in the old building near to the gate-house, and spent his + evenings in Juliette’s drawing-room, the Marquis or Madame Maugiron + was always present, and as often as not, they played a game of chess + together. + </p> + <p> + “She is quite harmless,” said Juliette, tying, with a thread, + the primroses she had been picking in that shady corner of the garden + which lay at the other side of the Italian house. The windows of Barebone’s + apartment, by the way, looked down upon this garden, and he, having + perceived her, had not wasted time in joining her in the morning sunshine. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if I shall be as harmless when I am her age.” + </p> + <p> + And, indeed, danger lurked beneath her lashes as she glanced at him, + asking this question with her lips and a hundred others with her eyes, + with her gay air of youth and happiness—with her very attitude of + coquetry, as she stood in the spring sunshine, with the scent of the + primroses about her. + </p> + <p> + “I think that any one who approaches you will always do so at his + peril, Mademoiselle.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why do it?” she asked, drawing back and busying herself + with the flowers, which she laid against her breast, as if to judge the + effect of their colour against the delicate white of her dress. “Why + run into danger? Why come downstairs at all?” + </p> + <p> + “Why breathe?” he retorted, with a laugh. “Why eat, or + drink, or sleep? Why live? <i>Mon Dieu!</i> because there is no choice. + And when I see you in the garden, there is no choice for me, Mademoiselle. + I must come down and run into danger, because I cannot help it any more + than I can help—” + </p> + <p> + “But you need not stay,” she interrupted, cleverly. “A + brave man may always retire from danger into safety.” + </p> + <p> + “But he may not always want to, Mademoiselle.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + And, with a shrug of the shoulders, she inserted the primroses within a + very small waistband and turned away. + </p> + <p> + “Will you give me those primroses, Mademoiselle?” asked Loo, + without moving; for, although she had turned to go, she had not gone. + </p> + <p> + She turned on her heel and looked at him, with demure surprise, and then + bent her head to look at the flowers at her own waist. + </p> + <p> + “They are mine,” she answered, standing in that pretty + attitude, her hair half concealing her face. “I picked them myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Two reasons why I want them.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! but,” she said, with a suggestion of thoughtfulness, + “one does not always get what one wants. You ask a great deal, + Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “There is no limit to what I would ask, Mademoiselle.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed gaily. + </p> + <p> + “If—” she inquired, with raised eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “If I dared.” + </p> + <p> + Again she looked at him with that little air of surprise. + </p> + <p> + “But I thought you were so brave?” she said. “So + reckless of danger? A brave man assuredly does not ask. He takes that + which he would have.” + </p> + <p> + It happened that she had clasped her hands behind her back, leaving the + primroses at her waist uncovered and half falling from the ribbon. + </p> + <p> + In a moment he had reached out his hand and taken them. She leapt back, as + if she feared that he might take more, and ran back toward the house, + placing a rough, tangle of brier between herself and this robber. Her + laughing face looked at him through the brier. + </p> + <p> + “You have your primroses,” she said, “but I did not give + them to you. You want too much, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “I want what that ribbon binds,” he answered. But she turned + away and ran toward the house, without waiting to hear. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIII — DORMER COLVILLE IS BLIND + </h2> + <p> + It was late when Dormer Colville reached the quiet sea-coast village of + Royan on the evening of his return to the west. He did not seek Mrs. St. + Pierre Lawrence until the luncheon hour next morning, when he was informed + that she was away from home. + </p> + <p> + “Madame has gone to Paris,” the man said, who, with his wife, + was left in charge of the empty house. “It was a sudden resolution, + one must conclude,” he added, darkly, “but Madame took no one + into her confidence. She received news by post, which must have brought + about this sudden decision.” + </p> + <p> + Colville was intimately acquainted with his cousin’s affairs; many + hazarded an opinion that, without the help of Madame St. Pierre Lawrence, + this rolling stone would have been bare enough. She had gone to Paris for + one of two reasons, he concluded. Either she had expected him to return + thither from London, and had gone to meet him with the intention of coming + to some arrangement as to the disposal of the vast sum of money now in + Turner’s hands awaiting further developments, or some hitch had + occurred with respect to John Turner himself. + </p> + <p> + Dormer Colville returned, thoughtfully, to his lodging, and in the evening + set out for Paris. + </p> + <p> + He himself had not seen Turner since that morning in the banker’s + office in the Rue Lafayette, when they had parted so unceremoniously, in a + somewhat heated spirit. But, on reflection, Colville, who had sought to + reassure himself with regard to one whose name stood for the incarnation + of gastronomy and mental density in the Anglo-French clubs of Paris, had + come to the conclusion that nothing was to be gained by forcing a quarrel + upon Turner. It was impossible to bring home to him an accusation of + complicity in an outrage which had been carried through with remarkable + skill. And when it is impossible to force home an accusation, a wise man + will hold his tongue. + </p> + <p> + Colville could not prove that Turner had known Barebone to be in the + carriage waiting in the courtyard, and his own action in the matter had + been limited to the interposition of his own clumsy person between + Colville and the window; which might, after all, have been due to + stupidity. This, as a matter of fact, was Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence’s + theory on the subject. For that lady, resting cheerfully on the firm basis + of a self-confidence which the possession of money nearly always confers + on women, had laughed at Turner all her life, and now proposed to continue + that course of treatment. + </p> + <p> + “Take my word,” she had assured Colville, “he was only + acting in his usual dense way, and probably thinks now that you are + subject to brief fits of mental aberration. I am not afraid of him or + anything that he can do. Leave him to me, and devote all your attention to + finding Loo Barebone again.” + </p> + <p> + Upon which advice Colville had been content to act. He had a faith in Mrs. + St. Pierre Lawrence’s wit which was almost as great as her own; and + thought, perhaps rightly enough, that if any one were a match for John + Turner it was his sprightly and capable client. For there are two ways of + getting on in this world: one is to get credit for being cleverer than you + are, and the other to be cleverer than your neighbour suspects. But the + latter plan is seldom followed, for the satisfaction it provides must + necessarily be shared with no confidant. + </p> + <p> + Colville knew where to look for Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence in Paris, where + she always took an apartment in a quiet and old-fashioned hotel rejoicing + in a select Royalist clientèle on the Place Vendôme. On arriving at the + capital, he hurried thither, and was told that the lady he sought had gone + out a few minutes earlier. “But Madame’s maid,” the + porter added, “is no doubt within.” + </p> + <p> + Colville was conducted to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence’s room, and was + hardly there before the lady’s French maid came hurrying in with + upraised hands. + </p> + <p> + “A just Heaven has assuredly sent Monsieur at this moment!” + she exclaimed. “Madame only quitted this room ten minutes ago, and + she was agitated—she, who is usually so calm. She would tell me + nothing; but I know—I, who have done Madame’s hair these ten + years! And there is only one thing that could cause her anxiety—except, + of course, any mishap to Monsieur; that would touch the heart—yes!” + </p> + <p> + “You are very kind, Catherine,” said Colville, with a laugh, + “to think me so important. Is that letter for me?” And he + pointed to a note in the woman’s hand. + </p> + <p> + “But—yes!” was the reply, and she gave up the letter, + somewhat reluctantly. “There is only one thing, and that is money,” + she concluded, watching him tear open the envelope. + </p> + <p> + “I am going to John Turner’s office,” Mrs. St. Pierre + Lawrence wrote. “If, by some lucky chance, you should pass through + Paris, and happen to call this morning, follow me to the Rue Lafayette. M. + St. P. L.” + </p> + <p> + It was plain enough. Colville reflected that Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had + heard of the success of his mission to England and the safe return to + Gemosac of Loo Barebone. For the moment, he could not think how the news + could have reached her. She might have heard it from Miriam Liston; for + their journey hack to Gemosac had occupied nearly a week. On learning the + good news, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had promptly grasped the situation; + for she was very quick in thought and deed. The money would be wanted at + once. She had gone to Turner’s office to withdraw it in person. + </p> + <p> + Dormer Colville bought a flower in a shop in the Rue de la Paix, and had + it affixed to his buttonhole by the handmaid of Flora, who made it her + business to linger over the office with a gentle familiarity no doubt + pleasing enough to the majority of her clients. + </p> + <p> + Colville was absent-minded as he drove, in a hired carriage, to the Rue + Lafayette. He was wondering whether Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence’s maid + had any grounds for stating that a mishap to him would touch her mistress’s + heart. He was a man of unbounded enterprise; but, like many who are + gamblers at heart, he was superstitious. He had never dared to try his + luck with Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. She was so hard, so worldly, so + infinitely capable of managing her own affairs and regulating her own + life, that to offer her his hand and heart in exchange for her fortune had + hitherto been dismissed from his mind as a last expedient, only to be + faced when ruin awaited him. + </p> + <p> + She had only been a widow three years. She had never been a sentimental + woman, and now her liberty and her wealth were obviously so dear to her + that, in common sense, he could scarcely, with any prospect of success, + ask her outright to part with them. Moreover, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence + knew all about Dormer Colville, as men say. Which is only a saying; for no + human being knows all about another human being, nor one-half, nor + one-tenth of what there is to know. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence knew enough, + at all events, Colville reflected, rather ruefully, to disillusionise a + schoolgirl, much more a woman of the world, knowing good and evil. + </p> + <p> + He had not lived forty years in the world, and twenty years in that world + of French culture which digs and digs into human nature, without having + heard philosophers opine that, in matters of the heart, women have no + illusions at all, and that it is only men who go blindfold into the + tortuous ways of love. But he was too practical a man to build up a false + hope on so frail a basis as a theory applied to a woman’s heart. + </p> + <p> + He bought a flower for his buttonhole then, and squared his shoulders, + without any definite design. It was a mere habit—the habit acquired + by twenty years of unsuccessful enterprise, and renewed effort and + deferred hope—of leaving no stone unturned. + </p> + <p> + His cab wheeled into the Rue Lafayette, and the man drove more slowly, + reading the numbers on the houses. Then he stopped altogether, and turned + round in his seat. + </p> + <p> + “Citizen,” he said, “there is a great crowd at the house + you named. It extends half across the street. I will go no further. It is + not I who care about publicity.” + </p> + <p> + Colville stood up and looked in the direction indicated by his driver’s + whip. The man had scarcely exaggerated. A number of people were waiting + their turn on the pavement and out into the roadway, while two gendarmes + held the door. Dormer Colville paid his cabman and walked into that crowd, + with a sinking heart. + </p> + <p> + “It is the great English banker,” explained an on-looker, even + before he was asked, “who has failed.” + </p> + <p> + Colville had never found any difficulty in making his way through a crowd—a + useful accomplishment in Paris at all times, where government is + conducted, thrones are raised and toppled over, provinces are won and lost + again, by the mob. He had that air of distinction which, if wielded + good-naturedly, is the surest passport in any concourse. Some, no doubt, + recognised him as an Englishman. One after another made way for him. + Persons unknown to him commanded others to step aside and let him pass; + for the busybody we have always with us. + </p> + <p> + In a few minutes he was at the top of the stairs, and there elbowed his + way into the office, where the five clerks sat bent up over their ledgers. + The space on the hither side of the counter was crammed with men, who + whispered impatiently together. If any one raised his voice, the clerk + whose business it was lifted his head and looked at the speaker with a + mute surprise. + </p> + <p> + One after another these white-faced applicants leant over the counter. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Voyons</i>, Monsieur!” they urged; “tell me this or + inform me of that.” + </p> + <p> + But the clerk only smiled and shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Patience, Monsieur,” he answered. “I cannot tell you + yet. We are awaiting advices from London.” + </p> + <p> + “But when will you receive them?” inquired several, at once. + </p> + <p> + “It may be to-morrow. It may not be for several days.” + </p> + <p> + “But can one see Mr. Turner?” inquired one, more daring than + the rest. + </p> + <p> + “He is engaged.” + </p> + <p> + Colville caught the eye of the clerk, and by a gesture made it known that + he must be allowed to pass on into the inner room. Once more his air of + the great world, his good clothes, his flower in the buttonhole, gave him + the advantage over others; and the clerk got down from his stool. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence is with him, I know,” whispered + Colville. “I come by appointment to meet her here.” + </p> + <p> + He was shown in without further trouble, and found Mrs. St. Pierre + Lawrence sitting, white-faced and voluble, in the visitors’ chair. + </p> + <p> + John Turner had his usual air of dense placidity, but the narrow black tie + he always tied in a bow was inclined slightly to one side; his hair was + ruffled, and, although the weather was not warm, his face wore a shiny + look. Any banker, with his clients clamouring on the stairs and out into + the street, might look as John Turner looked. + </p> + <p> + “You have heard the news?” asked Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, + turning sharply in her chair and looking at Colville with an expression of + sudden relief. She carried a handkerchief in her hand, but her eyes were + dry. She was, after all, only a forerunner of those who now propose to + manage human affairs. And even in these later days of their great advance, + they have not left their pocket-handkerchiefs behind them. + </p> + <p> + “I was told by one of the crowd,” replied Colville, with a + side smile full of sympathy for Turner, “that the—er—bank + had come to grief.” + </p> + <p> + “Was just telling Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence,” said Turner, + imperturbably, “that it is too early in the day to throw up the + sponge and cry out that all is lost.” + </p> + <p> + “All!” echoed Colville, angrily. “But do you mean to say—Why, + surely, there is generally something left.” + </p> + <p> + Turner shrugged his shoulders and sat in silence, gnawing the middle joint + of his thumb. + </p> + <p> + “But I must have the money!” cried Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. + “It is most important, and I must have it at once. I withdraw it + all. See, I brought my cheque-book with me. And I know that there are over + a hundred thousand pounds in my account. As well as that, you hold + securities for two hundred and fifty thousand more—my whole fortune. + The money is not yours: it is mine. I draw it all out, and I insist on + having it.” + </p> + <p> + Turner continued to bite his thumb, and glanced at her without speaking. + </p> + <p> + “Now, damn it all, Turner!” said Colville, in a voice suddenly + hoarse; “hand it over, man.” + </p> + <p> + “I tell you it is gone,” was the answer. + </p> + <p> + “What? Three hundred and fifty thousand pounds? Then you are a + rogue! You are a fraudulent trustee! I always thought you were a damned + scoundrel, Turner, and now I know it. I’ll get you to the galleys + for the rest of your life, I promise you that.” + </p> + <p> + “You will gain nothing by that,” returned the banker, staring + at the date-card in front of him. “And you will lose any chance + there is of recovering something from the wreck. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence + had better take the advice of her lawyer—in preference to yours.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I am ruined!” said that lady, rising, with an air of + resolution. She was brave, at all events. + </p> + <p> + “At the present moment, it looks like it,” admitted Turner, + without meeting her eye. + </p> + <p> + “What am I to do?” murmured Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, looking + helplessly round the room and finally at the banker’s stolid face. + </p> + <p> + “Like the rest of us, I suppose,” he admitted. “Begin + the world afresh. Perhaps your friends will come forward.” + </p> + <p> + And he looked calmly toward Colville. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence’s + face suddenly flushed, and she turned away toward the door. Turner rose, + laboriously, and opened it. + </p> + <p> + “There is another staircase through this side door,” he said, + opening a second door, which had the appearance of a cupboard. “You + can avoid the crowd.” + </p> + <p> + They passed out together, and Turner, having closed the door behind them, + crossed the room to where a small mirror was suspended. He set his tie + straight and smoothed his hair, and then returned to his chair, with a + vague smile on his face. + </p> + <p> + Colville took the vacant seat in Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence’s + brougham. She still held a handkerchief in her hand. + </p> + <p> + “I do not mind for myself,” she exclaimed, suddenly, when the + carriage moved out of the court-yard. “It is only for your sake, + Dormer.” + </p> + <p> + She turned and glanced at him with eyes that shone, but not with tears. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Don’t you understand?” she asked, in a whisper. + “Don’t you see, Dormer?” + </p> + <p> + “A way out of it?” he answered, hurriedly, almost interrupting + her. He withdrew his hand, upon which she had laid her own; withdrew it + sympathetically, almost tenderly. “See a way out of it?” he + repeated, in a reflective and business-like voice. “No, I am afraid, + for the moment, I don’t.” + </p> + <p> + He sat stroking his moustache, looking out of the window, while she looked + out of the other, resolutely blinking back her tears. They drove back to + her hotel without speaking. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIV — A SORDID MATTER + </h2> + <p> + “<i>Bon Dieu!</i> my old friend, what do you expect?” replied + Madame de Chantonnay to a rather incoherent statement made to her one May + afternoon by the Marquis de Gemosac. “It is the month of May,” + she further explained, indicating with a gesture of her dimpled hand the + roses abloom all around them. For the Marquis had found her in a chair + beneath the mulberry-tree in the old garden of that house near Gemosac + which looks across the river toward the sea. “It is the month of + May. One is young. Such things have happened since the world began. They + will happen until it ends, Marquis. It happened in our own time, if I + remember correctly.” + </p> + <p> + And Madame de Chantonnay heaved a prodigious sigh, in memory of the days + that were no more. + </p> + <p> + “Given a young man of enterprise and not bad looking, I allow. He + has the grand air and his face is not without distinction. Given a young + girl, fresh as a flower, young, innocent, not without feeling. Ah! I know, + for I was like that myself. Place them in a garden, in the springtime. + What will they talk of—politics? Ah—bah! Let them have long + evenings together while their elders play chess or a hand at bézique. What + game will they play? A much older game than chess or bézique, I fancy.” + </p> + <p> + “But the circumstances were so exceptional,” protested the + Marquis, who had a pleased air, as if his anger were not without an + antidote. + </p> + <p> + “Circumstances may be exceptional, my friend, but Love is a Rule. + You allow him to stay six weeks in the château, seeing Juliette daily, and + then you are surprised that one fine morning Monsieur de Bourbon comes to + you and tells you brusquely, as you report it, that he wants to marry your + daughter.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” admitted the Marquis. “He was what you may + describe as brusque. It is the English way, perhaps, of treating such + matters. Now, for myself I should have been warmer, I think. I should have + allowed myself a little play, as it were. One says a few pretty things—is + it not so? One suggests that the lady is an angel and oneself entirely + unworthy of a happiness which is only to be compared with the happiness + that is promised to us in the hereafter. It is an occasion upon which to + be eloquent.” + </p> + <p> + “Not for the English,” corrected Madame de Chantonnay, holding + up a hand to emphasise her opinion. “And you must remember, that + although our friend is French, he has been brought up in that cold country—by + a minister of their frozen religion, I understand. I, who speak to you, + know what they are, for once I had an Englishman in love with me. It was + in Paris, when Louis XVIII was King. And did this Englishman tell me that + he was heart-broken, I ask you? Never! On the contrary, he appeared to be + of an indifference only to be compared with the indifference of a tree. He + seemed to avoid me rather than seek my society. Once, he made believe to + forget that he had been presented to me. A ruse—a mere ruse to + conceal his passion. But I knew, I knew always.” + </p> + <p> + “And what was the poor man’s fate? What was his name, + Comtesse?” + </p> + <p> + “I forget, my friend. For the moment I have forgotten it. But tell + me more about Monsieur de Bourbon and Juliette. He is passionately in love + with her, of course; he is so miserable.” + </p> + <p> + The Marquis reflected for a few moments. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, at last, “he may be so; he may be so, + Comtesse.” + </p> + <p> + “And you—what did you say?” + </p> + <p> + The Marquis looked carefully round before replying. Then he leant forward + with his forefinger raised delicately to the tip of his nose. + </p> + <p> + “I temporised, Comtesse,” he said, in a low voice. “I + explained as gracefully as one could that it was too early to think of + such a development—that I was taken by surprise.” + </p> + <p> + “Which could hardly have been true,” put in Madame de + Chantonnay in an audible aside to the mulberry-tree, “for neither + Guienne nor la Vendée will be taken by surprise.” + </p> + <p> + “I said, in other words—a good many words, the more the + better, for one must be polite—‘Secure your throne, Monsieur, + and you shall marry Juliette.’ But it is not a position into which + one hurries the last of the house of Gemosac—to be the wife of an + unsuccessful claimant, eh?” + </p> + <p> + Madame de Chantonnay approved in one gesture of her stout hand of these + principles and of the Marquis de Gemosac’s masterly demonstration of + them. + </p> + <p> + “And Monsieur de Bourbon—did he accept these conditions?” + </p> + <p> + “He seemed to, Madame. He seemed content to do so,” replied + the Marquis, tapping his snuff-box and avoiding the lady’s eye. + </p> + <p> + “And Juliette?” inquired Madame, with a sidelong glance. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Juliette is sensible,” replied the fond father. “My + daughter is, I hope, sensible, Comtesse.” + </p> + <p> + “Give yourself no uneasiness, my old friend,” said Madame de + Chantonnay, heartily. “She is charming.” + </p> + <p> + Madame sat back in her chair and fanned herself thoughtfully. It was the + fashion of that day to carry a fan and wield it with grace and effect. To + fan oneself did not mean that the heat was oppressive, any more than the + use of incorrect English signifies to-day ill-breeding or a lack of + education. Both are an indication of a laudable desire to be unmistakably + in the movement of one’s day. + </p> + <p> + Over her fan Madame cast a sidelong glance at the Marquis, whom she, like + many of his friends, suspected of being much less simple and spontaneous + than he appeared. + </p> + <p> + “Then they are not formally affianced?” she suggested. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Mon Dieu!</i> no. I clearly indicated that there were other + things to be thought of at the present time. A very arduous task lies + before him, but he is equal to it, I am certain. My conviction as to that + grows as one knows him better.” + </p> + <p> + “But you are not prepared to allow the young people to force you to + take a leap in the dark,” suggested Madame de Chantonnay. “And + that poor Juliette must consume her soul in patience; but she is sensible, + as you justly say. Yes, my dear Marquis, she is charming.” + </p> + <p> + They were thus engaged in facile talk when Albert de Chantonnay emerged + from the long window of his study, a room opening on to a moss-grown + terrace, where this plotter walked to and fro like another Richelieu and + brooded over nation-shaking schemes. + </p> + <p> + He carried a letter in his hand and wore an air of genuine perturbment. + But even in his agitation he looked carefully round before he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Here,” he said to the Marquis and his fond mother, who + watched him with complacency—“here I have a letter from Dormer + Colville. It is necessarily couched in very cautious language. He probably + knows, as I know, that any letter addressed to me is liable to be opened. + I have reason to believe that some of my letters have not only been + opened, but that copies of them are actually in the possession of that man—the + head of that which is called the Government.” + </p> + <p> + He turned and looked darkly into a neighbouring clump of rhododendrons, as + if Louis Napoleon were perhaps lurking there. But he was nevertheless + quite right in his suspicions, which were verified twenty years later, + along with much duplicity which none had suspected. + </p> + <p> + “Nevertheless,” he went on, “I know what Colville seeks + to convey to us, and is now hurrying away from Paris to confirm to us by + word of mouth. The bank of John Turner in the Rue Lafayette has failed, + and with it goes all the fortune of Madame St. Pierre Lawrence.” + </p> + <p> + Both his hearers exclaimed aloud, and Madame de Chantonnay showed signs of + a desire to swoon; but as no one took any notice, she changed her mind. + </p> + <p> + “It is a ruse to gain time,” explained Albert, brushing the + thin end of his moustache upward with a gesture of resolution. “Just + as the other was a ruse to gain time. It is at present a race between two + resolute parties. The party which is ready first and declares itself will + be the victor. For to-day our poor France is in the gutter: she is in the + hands of the canaille, and the canaille will accept the first who places + himself upon an elevation and scatters gold. What care they—King or + Emperor, Emperor or King! It is the same to them so long as they have a + change of some sort and see, or think they see, gain to themselves to be + snatched from it.” + </p> + <p> + From which it will be seen that Albert de Chantonnay knew his countrymen. + </p> + <p> + “But,” protested Madame de Chantonnay, who had a Frenchwoman’s + inimitable quickness to grasp a situation—“the Government + could scarcely cause a bank to fail—such an old-established bank as + Turner’s, which has existed since the day of Louis XIV—in + order to gain time.” + </p> + <p> + “An unscrupulous Government can do anything in France,” + replied the lady’s son. “Their existence depends upon delay, + and they are aware of it. They would ruin France rather than forego their + own aggrandisement. And this is part of their scheme. They seek to delay + us at all costs. To kidnap de Bourbon was the first move. It failed. This + is their second move. What must be our counter-move?” + </p> + <p> + He clasped his hands behind his willowy back and paced slowly backward and + forward. By a gesture, Madame de Chantonnay bade the Marquis keep silence + while she drew his attention to the attitude of her son. When he paused + and fingered his whisker she gasped excitedly. + </p> + <p> + “I have it,” said Albert, with an upward glance of + inspiration. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my son?” + </p> + <p> + “The Beauvoir estate,” replied Albert, “left to me by my + uncle. It is worth three hundred thousand francs. That is enough for the + moment. That must be our counter-move.” + </p> + <p> + Madame de Chantonnay protested volubly. For if Frenchmen are ready to + sacrifice, or, at all events, to risk all for a sentiment—and + history says nothing to the contrary—Frenchwomen are eminently + practical and far-sighted. + </p> + <p> + Madame had a hundred reasons why the Beauvoir estate should not be sold. + Many of them contradicted each other. She was not what may be called a + close reasoner, but she was roughly effective. Many a general has won a + victory not by the accuracy, but by the volume of his fire. + </p> + <p> + “What will become of France,” she cried to Albert’s + retreating back as he walked to and fro, “if none of the old + families has a son to bless itself with? And Heaven knows that there are + few enough remaining now. Besides, you will want to marry some day, and + what will your bride say when you have no money? There are no <i>dots</i> + growing in the hedgerows now. Not that I am a stickler for a <i>dot</i>. + Give me heart, I always say, and keep the money yourself. And some day you + will find a loving heart, but no <i>dot</i>. And there is a tragedy at + once—ready made. Is it not so, my old friend?” + </p> + <p> + She turned to the Marquis de Gemosac for confirmation of this forecast. + </p> + <p> + “It is a danger, Madame,” was the reply. “It is a danger + which it would be well to foresee.” + </p> + <p> + They had discussed a hundred times the possibility of a romantic marriage + between their two houses. Juliette and Albert—the two last + representatives of an old nobility long-famed in the annals of the west—might + well fall in love with each other. It would be charming, Madame thought; + but, alas! Albert would be wise to look for a <i>dot</i>. + </p> + <p> + The Marquis paused. Again he temporised. For he could not all in an + instant decide which side of this question to take. He looked at Albert, + frail, romantic; an ideal representative of that old nobility of France + which was never practical, and elected to go to the guillotine rather than + seek to cultivate that modern virtue. + </p> + <p> + “At the same time, Madame, it is well to remember that a loan + offered now may reasonably be expected to bring such a return in the + future as will provide <i>dots</i> for the de Chantonnays to the end of + time.” + </p> + <p> + Madame was about to make a spirited reply; she might even have suggested + that the Beauvoir estate would be better apportioned to Albert’s + wife than to Juliette as the wife of another, but Albert himself stopped + in front of them and swept away all argument by a passionate gesture of + his small, white hand. + </p> + <p> + “It is concluded,” he said. “I sell the Beauvoir estate! + Have not the Chantonnays proved a hundred times that they are equal to any + sacrifice for the sake of France?” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXV — A SQUARE MAN + </h2> + <p> + All through the summer of 1851—a year to be marked for all time in + the minds of historians, not in red, but in black letters—the war of + politics tossed France hither and thither. + </p> + <p> + There were, at this time, five parties contending for mastery. Should one + of these appear for the moment to be about to make itself secure in power, + the other four would at once unite to tear the common adversary from his + unstable position. Of these parties, only two were of real cohesion: the + Legitimists and the Bonapartists. The Socialists, the Moderate + Republicans, and the Orleanists were too closely allied in the past to be + friendly in the present. Socialists are noisy, but rarely clever. A man + who in France describes himself as Moderate must not expect to be popular + for any length of time. The Orleanists were only just out of office. It + was scarcely a year since Louis Philippe had died in exile at Claremont—only + three years since he signed his abdication and hurried across to Newhaven. + It was not the turn of the Orleanists. + </p> + <p> + There is no quarrel so deadly as a family quarrel; no fall so sudden as + that of a house divided against itself. All through the spring and summer + of 1851 France exhibited herself in the eyes of the world a laughing-stock + to her enemies, a thing of pity to those who loved that great country. + </p> + <p> + The Republic of 1848 was already a house divided against itself. + </p> + <p> + Its President, Louis Bonaparte, had been elected for four years. He was, + as the law then stood, not eligible again until after the lapse of another + four years. His party tried to abrogate this law, and failed. “No + matter,” they said, “we shall elect him again, and President + he shall be, despite the law.” + </p> + <p> + This was only one of a hundred such clouds, no bigger than a man’s + hand, arising at this time on the political horizon. For France was + beginning to wander down that primrose path where a law is only a law so + long as it is convenient. + </p> + <p> + There was one man, Louis Bonaparte, who kept his head when others lost + that invaluable adjunct; who pushed on doggedly to a set purpose; whose + task was hard even in France, and would have been impossible in any other + country. For it is only in France that ridicule does not kill. And twice + within the last fifteen years—once at Strasbourg, once at Boulogne—he + had made the world hold its sides at the mention of his name, greeting + with the laughter which is imbittered by scorn, a failure damned by + ridicule. + </p> + <p> + It has been said that Louis Bonaparte never gave serious thought to the + Legitimist party. He had inherited, it would seem, that invaluable + knowledge of men by which his uncle had risen to the greatest throne of + modern times. He knew that a party is never for a moment equal to a Man. + And the Legitimists had no man. They had only the Comte de Chambord. + </p> + <p> + At Frohsdorff they still clung to their hopes, with that old-world belief + in the ultimate revival of a dead régime which was eminently + characteristic. And at Frohsdorff there died, in the October of this year, + the Duchess of Angoulême, Marie Therese Charlotte, daughter of Marie + Antoinette, who had despised her two uncles, Louis XVIII and Charles X, + for the concessions they had made—who was more Royalist than the + King. She was the last of her generation, the last of her family, and with + her died a part of the greatness of France, almost all the dignity of + royalty, and the last master-mind of the Bourbon race. + </p> + <p> + If, as Albert de Chantonny stated, the failure of Turner’s bank was + nothing but a ruse to gain time, it had the desired effect. For a space, + nothing could be undertaken, and the Marquis de Gemosac and his friends + were hindered from continuing the work they had so successfully begun. + </p> + <p> + All through the summer Loo Barebone remained in France, at Gemosac as much + as anywhere. The Marquis de Gemosac himself went to Frohsdorff. + </p> + <p> + “If she had been ten years younger,” he said, on his return, + “I could have persuaded her to receive you. She has money. All the + influence is hers. It is she who has had the last word in all our affairs + since the death of the Due de Berri. But she is old—she is broken. I + think she is dying, my friend.” + </p> + <p> + It was the time of the vintage again. Barebone remembered the last + vintage, and his journey through those provinces that supply all the world + with wine, with Dormer Colville for a companion. Since then he had + journeyed alone. He had made a hundred new friends, had been welcomed in a + hundred historic houses. Wherever he had passed, he had left enthusiasm + behind him—and he knew it. + </p> + <p> + He had grown accustomed to his own power, and yet its renewed evidence was + a surprise to him every day. There was something unreal in it. There is + always something unreal in fame, and great men know in their own hearts + that they are not great. It is only the world that thinks them so. When + they are alone—in a room by themselves—they feel for a moment + their own smallness. But the door opens, and in an instant they arise and + play their part mechanically. + </p> + <p> + This had come to be Barebone’s daily task. It was so easy to make + his way in this world, which threw its doors open to him, greeted him with + outstretched hands, and only asked him to charm them by being himself. He + had not even to make an effort to appear to be that which he was not. He + had only to be himself, and they were satisfied. + </p> + <p> + Part of his rôle was Juliette de Gemosac. He found it quite easy to make + love to her; and she, it seemed, desired nothing better. Nothing definite + had been said by the Marquis de Gemosac. They were not formally affianced. + They were not forbidden to see each other. But the irregularity of these + proceedings lent a certain spice of surreptitiousness to their intercourse + which was not without its charm. They did not see so much of each other + after Loo had spoken to the Marquis de Gemosac on this subject; for + Barebone had to make visits to other parts of France. Once or twice + Juliette herself went to stay with relatives. During these absences they + did not write to each other. + </p> + <p> + It was, in fact, impossible for Barebone to keep up any correspondence + whatever. He heard that Dormer Colville was still in Paris, seeking to + snatch something from the wreck of Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence’s + fortune. The Marquis de Gemosac had been told that affairs might yet be + arranged. He was no financier, however, he admitted; he did not understand + such matters, and all that he knew was that the promised help from the + Englishwoman was not forthcoming. + </p> + <p> + “It is,” he concluded, “a question of looking elsewhere. + It is not only that we want money. It is that we must have it at once.” + </p> + <p> + It was not, strictly speaking, Loo’s part to think of or to + administer the money. His was the part to be played by Kings—so + easy, if the gift is there, so impossible to acquire if it be lacking—to + know many people and to charm them all. + </p> + <p> + Thus the summer ripened into autumn. It had been another great vintage in + the south, and Bordeaux was more than usually busy when Barebone arrived + there, at daybreak, one morning in November, having posted from Toulouse. + He was more daring in winter, and went fearlessly through the streets. In + cold weather it is so much easier for a man to conceal his identity; for a + woman to hide her beauty, if she wish to—which is a large If. + Barebone could wear a fur collar and turn it up round that tell-tale chin, + which made the passer-by pause and turn to look at him again if it was + visible. + </p> + <p> + He breakfasted at the old-fashioned inn in the heart of the town, where to + this day the diligences deposit their passengers, and then he made his way + to the quay, from whence he would take passage down the river. It was a + cold morning, and there are few colder cities, south of Paris, than + Bordeaux. Barebone hurried, his breath frozen on the fur of his collar. + Suddenly he stopped. His new self—that phantom second-nature bred of + custom—vanished in the twinkling of an eye, and left him plain Loo + Barebone, of Farlingford, staring across the green water toward “The + Last Hope,” deep-laden, anchored in mid-stream. + </p> + <p> + Seeing him stop, a boatman ran toward him from a neighbouring flight of + steps. + </p> + <p> + “An English ship, monsieur,” he said; “just come in. Her + anchors are hardly home. Does monsieur wish to go on board?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do, comrade—as quick as you like,” he + answered, with a gay laugh. It was odd that the sight of this structure, + made of human hands, should change him in a flash of thought, should make + his heart leap in his breast. + </p> + <p> + In a few minutes he was seated in the wherry, half way out across the + stream. Already a face was looking over the bulwarks. The hands were on + the forecastle, still busy clearing decks after the confusion of letting + go anchor and hauling in the jib-boom. + </p> + <p> + Barebone could see them leave off work and turn to look at him. One or two + raised a hand in salutation and then turned again to their task. Already + the mate—a Farlingford man, who had succeeded Loo—was standing + on the rail fingering a coil of rope. + </p> + <p> + “Old man is down below,” he said, giving Barebone a hand. From + the forecastle came sundry grunts, and half a dozen heads were jerked + sideways at him. + </p> + <p> + Captain Clubbe was in the cabin, where the remains of breakfast had been + pushed to one end of the table to make room for pens and ink. The Captain + was laboriously filling in the countless documents required by the French + custom-house. He looked up, pen in hand, and all the wrinkles, graven by + years of hardship and trouble, were swept away like writing from a slate. + </p> + <p> + He laid aside his pen and held his hand out across the table. + </p> + <p> + “Had your breakfast?” he asked, curtly, with a glance at the + empty coffee-pot. + </p> + <p> + Loo laughed as he sat down. It was all so familiar—the disorder of + the cabin; the smell of lamp-oil; the low song of the wind through the + rigging, that came humming in at the doorway, which was never closed, + night or day, unless the seas were washing to and fro on the main deck. He + knew everything so well; the very pen and the rarely used ink-pot; the + Captain’s attitude, and the British care that he took not to speak + with his lips that which was in his heart. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Captain Clubbe, taking up his pen again, “how + are you getting on?” + </p> + <p> + “With what?” + </p> + <p> + “With the business that brought you to this country,” answered + Clubbe, with a sudden gruffness; for he was, like the majority of big men, + shy. + </p> + <p> + Barebone looked at him across the table. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what the business is that brought me to this country?” + he asked. And Captain Clubbe looked thoughtfully at the point of his pen. + </p> + <p> + “Did the Marquis de Gemosac and Dormer Colville tell you everything, + or only a little?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t suppose they told me everything,” was the + reply. “Why should they? I am only a seafaring man.” + </p> + <p> + “But they told you enough,” persisted Barebone, “for you + to draw your own conclusions as to my business over here.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” answered Clubbe, with a glance across the table. + “Is it going badly?” + </p> + <p> + “No. On the contrary, it is going splendidly,” answered + Barebone, gaily; and Captain Clubbe ducked his head down again over the + papers of the French custom-house. “It is going splendidly, but—” + </p> + <p> + He paused. Half an hour ago he had no thought in his mind of Captain + Clubbe or of Farlingford. He had come on board merely to greet his old + friends, to hear some news of home, to take up for a moment that old self + of bygone days and drop it again. And now, in half a dozen questions and + answers, whither was he drifting? Captain Clubbe filled in a word, slowly + and very legibly. + </p> + <p> + “But I am not the man, you know,” said Barebone, slowly. It + was as if the sight of that just man had bidden him cry out the truth. + “I am not the man they think me. My father was not the son of Louis + XVI, I know that now. I did not know it at first, but I know it now. And I + have been going on with the thing, all the same.” + </p> + <p> + Clubbe sat back in his chair. He was large and ponderous in body. And the + habit of the body at length becomes the nature of the mind. + </p> + <p> + “Who has been telling you that?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Dormer Colville. He told me one thing first and then the other. + Only he and you and I know of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Then he must have told one lie,” said Clubbe, reflectively. + “One that we know of. And what he says is of no value either way; + for he doesn’t know. No one knows. Your father was a friend of mine, + man and boy, and he didn’t know. He was not the same as other men; I + know that—but nothing more.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, if you were me, you would give yourself the benefit of the + doubt?” asked Barebone, with a rather reckless laugh. “For the + sake of others—for the sake of France?” + </p> + <p> + “Not I,” replied Clubbe, bluntly. + </p> + <p> + “But it is practically impossible to go back now,” explained + Loo. “It would be the ruin of all my friends, the downfall of + France. In my position, what would you do?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand your position,” replied Clubbe. + “I don’t understand politics; I am only a seafaring man. But + there is only one thing to do—the square thing.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” protested Dormer Colville’s pupil, “I + cannot throw over my friends. I cannot abandon France now.” + </p> + <p> + “The square thing,” repeated the sailor, stubbornly. “The + square thing; and damn your friends—damn France!” + </p> + <p> + He rose as he spoke, for they had both heard the customs officers come on + board; and these functionaries were now bowing at the cabin-door. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVI — MRS. ST. PIERRE LAWRENCE DOES NOT UNDERSTAND + </h2> + <p> + It was early in November that the report took wing in Paris that John + Turner’s bank was, after all, going to weather the storm. Dormer + Colville was among the first to hear this news, and strangely enough he + did not at once impart it to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. + </p> + <p> + All through the year, John Turner had kept his client supplied with ready + money. He had, moreover, made no change in his own mode of living. Which + things are a mystery to all who have no money of their own nor the good + fortune to handle other people’s. There is no doubt some explanation + of the fact that bankers and other financiers seem to fail, and even + become bankrupt, without tangible effect upon their daily comfort, but the + unfinancial cannot expect to understand it. + </p> + <p> + There had, as a matter of fact, been no question of discomfort for Mrs. + St. Pierre Lawrence either. + </p> + <p> + “Can I spend as much as I like?” she had asked Turner, and his + reply had been in the affirmative. + </p> + <p> + “No use in saving?” + </p> + <p> + “None whatever,” he replied. To which Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence + made answer that she did not understand things at all. + </p> + <p> + “It is no use collecting straws against a flood,” the banker + answered, sleepily. + </p> + <p> + There was, of course, no question now of supplying the necessary funds to + the Marquis de Gemosac and Albert de Chantonnay, who, it was understood, + were raising the money, not without difficulty, elsewhere. Mrs. St. Pierre + Lawrence had indeed heard little or nothing of her Royalist friends in the + west. Human nature is the same, it would appear, all the world over, but + the upper crust is always the hardest. + </p> + <p> + When Colville was informed of the rumour, he remembered that he had never + quarrelled with John Turner. He had, of course, said some hard things in + the heat of the moment, but Turner had not retorted. There was no quarrel. + Colville, therefore, took an early opportunity of lunching at the club + then reputed to have the best chef in Paris. He went late and found that + the majority of members had finished déjeuner and were taking coffee in + one or other of the smoking-rooms. + </p> + <p> + After a quick and simple meal, Colville lighted a cigarette and went + upstairs. There were two or three small rooms where members smoked or + played cards or read the newspapers, and in the quietest of these John + Turner was alone, asleep. Colville walked backward into the room, talking + loudly as he did so with a friend in the passage. When well over the + threshold he turned. John Turner, whose slumbers had been rudely + disturbed, was sitting up rubbing his eyes. The surprise was of course + mutual, and for a moment there was an awkward pause; then, with a smile of + frank good-fellowship, Colville advanced, holding out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “I hope we have known each other too many years, old fellow,” + he said, “to bear any lasting ill-will for words spoken in the heat + of anger or disappointment, eh?” + </p> + <p> + He stood in front of the banker frankly holding out the hand of + forgiveness, his head a little on one side, that melancholy smile of + toleration for poor human weakness in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” admitted Turner, “we’ve certainly known + each other a good many years.” + </p> + <p> + He somewhat laboriously hoisted himself up, his head emerging from his + tumbled collar like the head of a tortoise aroused from sleep, and gave + into Colville’s affectionate grasp a limp and nerveless hand. + </p> + <p> + “No one could feel for you more sincerely than I do,” Colville + assured him, drawing forward a chair,—“more than I have done + all through these trying months.” + </p> + <p> + “Very kind, I’m sure,” murmured Turner, looking drowsily + at his friend’s necktie. One must look somewhere, and Turner always + gazed at the necktie of any one who sat straight in front of him, which + usually induced an uneasy fingering of that ornament and an early + consultation of the nearest mirror. “Have a cigar.” + </p> + <p> + There was the faint suggestion of a twinkle beneath the banker’s + heavy lids as Colville accepted this peace-offering. It was barely + twenty-four hours since he had himself launched in Colville’s + direction the rumour which had brought about this reconciliation. + </p> + <p> + “And I’m sure,” continued the other, turning to cut the + end of the cigar, “that no one would be better pleased to hear that + better times are coming—eh? What did you say?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. Didn’t speak,” was the reply to this vague + interrogation. Then they talked of other things. There was no lack of + topics for conversation at this time in France; indeed, the whole country + was in a buzz of talk. But Turner was not, it seemed, in a talkative mood. + Only once did he rouse himself to take more than a passing interest in the + subject touched upon by his easy-going companion. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he admitted, “he may be the best cook in Paris, + but he is not what he was. It is this Revision of the Constitution which + is upsetting the whole country, especially the lower classes. The man’s + hand is shaky. I can see it from his way of pouring the mayonnaise over a + salad.” + </p> + <p> + After touching upon each fresh topic, Colville seemed to return + unconsciously to that which must of necessity be foremost in his companion’s + thoughts—the possibility of saving Turner’s bank from failure. + And each time he learnt a little more. At last, with that sympathetic + spontaneity which was his chief charm, Dormer Colville laid his hand + confidentially on Turner’s sleeve. + </p> + <p> + “Frankly, old fellow,” he said, “are you going to pull + it through?” + </p> + <p> + “Frankly, old fellow, I am,” was the reply, which made + Colville glance hastily at the clock. + </p> + <p> + “Gad!” he exclaimed, “look at the time. You have kept me + gossiping the whole afternoon. Must be off. Nobody will be better pleased + than I am to hear the good news. But of course I am mum. Not a word will + they hear from me. I <i>am</i> glad. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say you are,” murmured Turner to the closed door. + </p> + <p> + Dormer Colville was that which is known as an opportunist. It was a dull + grey afternoon. He would be sure to find Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence at home. + She had taken an apartment in the Rue de Lille in the St. Germain quarter. + His way was past the flower-shop, where he sometimes bestowed a fickle + custom. He went in and bought a carnation for his buttonhole. + </p> + <p> + It is to be presumed that John Turner devoted the afternoon to his + affairs. It was at all events evening before he also bent his steps toward + the Rue de Lille. + </p> + <p> + Yes, the servant told him, Madame was at home and would assuredly see him. + Madame was not alone. No. It was, however, only Monsieur Colville, who was + so frequent a visitor. + </p> + <p> + Turner followed the servant along the corridor. The stairs had rather + tried one who had to elevate such a weight at each step; he breathed hard, + but placidly. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence received him with an unusual <i>empressement</i>. + Dormer Colville, who was discovered sitting as far from her as the size of + the room allowed, was less eager, but he brought forward a chair for the + banker and glanced sharply at his face as he sat down. + </p> + <p> + “So glad to see you,” the hostess explained. “It is + really kind of you to come and cheer one up on such a dull afternoon. + Dormer and I—won’t you take off your coat? No, let <i>me</i> + put it aside for you. Dormer and I were just—just saying how dull it + was. Weren’t we?” + </p> + <p> + She looked from one to the other with a rather unnatural laugh. One would + have thought that she was engaged in carrying off a difficult situation + and, for so practised a woman of the world, not doing it very well. Her + cheeks were flushed, which made her look younger, and a subtle uncertainty + in her voice and manner added to this illusion charmingly. For a young + girl’s most precious possession is her inexperience. Mrs. St. Pierre + Lawrence, for the first time in her life, was not sure of herself. + </p> + <p> + “Now I hope you have not come on business,” she added, drawing + forward her own chair and passing a quick hand over her hair. “Bother + business! Do not let us think about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly,” replied Turner, recovering his breath. “Quite + agree with you. Let us say, ‘Bother business,’ and not think + of it. Though, for an old man who is getting stout, there is nothing much + left but business and his dinner, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Do not say that,” cried the lady. “Never say that. + It is time enough to think that years hence when we are all white-haired. + But I used to think that myself once, you know. When I first had my money. + Do you remember? I was so pleased to have all that wealth that I + determined to learn all about cheque-books and things and manage it + myself. So you taught me, and at last you admitted that I was an excellent + man of business. I know I thought I was myself. And I suppose I lapsed + into a regular business woman and only thought of money and how to + increase it. How horrid you must have thought me!” + </p> + <p> + “Never did that,” protested Turner, stoutly. + </p> + <p> + “But I know I learnt to think much too much about it,” Mrs. + St. Pierre Lawrence went on eagerly. “And now that it is all gone, I + do not care <i>that</i> for it.” + </p> + <p> + She snapped her finger and thumb and laughed gaily. + </p> + <p> + “Not that,” she repeated. She turned and glanced at Dormer + Colville, raising her eyebrows in some mute interrogation only + comprehensible to him. “Shall I tell him?” she asked, with a + laugh of happiness not very far removed from tears. Then she turned to the + banker again. + </p> + <p> + “Listen,” she said. “I am going to tell you something + which no one else in the world can tell you. Dormer and I are going to be + married. I dare say lots of people will say that they have expected it for + a long time. They can say what they like. We don’t care. And I am + glad that you are the first person to hear it. We have only just settled + it, so you are the very first to be told. And I am glad to tell you before + anybody else because you have been so kind to me always. You have been my + best friend, I think. And the kindest thing you ever did for me was to + lose my money, for if you had not lost it, Dormer never would have asked + me to marry him. He has just said so himself. And I suppose all men feel + that. All the nice ones, I mean. It is one of the drawbacks of being rich, + is it not?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it is,” answered Turner, stolidly, without turning + an eyelash in the direction of Colville. “Perhaps that is why no one + has ever asked me to marry them.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence laughed jerkily at this witticism. She laughed + again when John Turner rose from his chair to congratulate her, but the + laugh suddenly ceased when he raised her hand to his lips with a courtesy + which was even in those days dying out of the world, and turned away from + him hastily. She stood with her back toward them for a minute or two + looking at some flowers on a side table. Then she came back into the + middle of the room, all smiles, replacing her handkerchief in her pocket. + </p> + <p> + “So that is the news I have to tell you,” she said. + </p> + <p> + John Turner had placidly resumed his chair after shaking hands with Dormer + Colville for the second time since luncheon. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he answered, “it is news indeed. And I have a + little news to give you. I do not say that it is quite free from the taint + of business, but at all events it is news. Like yours, it has the merit of + being at first hand, and you are the first to hear it. No one else could + tell it to you.” + </p> + <p> + He broke off and rubbed his chin while he looked apathetically at Colville’s + necktie. + </p> + <p> + “It has another merit, rare enough,” he went on. “It is + good news. I think, in fact I may say I am sure, that we shall pull + through now and your money will be safely returned to you.” + </p> + <p> + “I am so glad,” said Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, with a glance + at Dormer Colville. “I cannot tell you how glad I am.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at the banker with bright eyes and the flush still in her + cheeks that made her look younger and less sure of herself. + </p> + <p> + “Not only for my own sake, you know. For yours, because I am sure + you must be relieved, and for—well, for everybody’s sake. Tell + me all about it, please.” And she pushed her chair sideways nearer + to Colville’s. + </p> + <p> + John Turner bit the first joint of his thumb reflectively. It is so rare + that one can tell any one all about anything. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me first,” Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence suggested, “whether + Miriam Liston’s money is all safe as well.” + </p> + <p> + “Miriam’s money never was in danger,” he replied. + “Miriam is my ward; you are only my client. There is no chance of + Miriam being able to make ducks and drakes of her money.” + </p> + <p> + “That sounds as if I had been trying to do that with mine. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” admitted the banker, with a placid laugh, “if it + had not been for my failure—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t call it hard names,” put in Dormer Colville, + generously. “It was not a failure.” + </p> + <p> + “Call it a temporary suspension of payment, then,” agreed the + banker, imperturbably. “If it had not been for that, half your + fortune would have been goodness knows where by now. You wanted to put it + into some big speculation in this country, if I remember aright. And big + speculations in France are the very devil just now. Whereas, now, you see, + it is all safe and you can invest it in the beginning of next year in some + good English securities. It seems providential, does it not?” + </p> + <p> + He rose as he spoke and held out his hand to say good-bye. He asked the + question of Colville’s necktie, apparently, for he smiled stupidly + at it. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I do not understand business after all, I admit that,” + Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence called out gaily to him as he went toward the + door. “I do not understand things at all.” + </p> + <p> + “No, and I don’t suppose you ever will,” Turner replied + as he followed the servant into the corridor. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVII — AN UNDERSTANDING + </h2> + <p> + Loo Barebone went back to the Château de Gemosac after those travels in + Provence which terminated so oddly on board “The Last Hope,” + at anchor in the Garonne River. + </p> + <p> + The Marquis received him with enthusiasm and a spirit of optimism which + age could not dim. + </p> + <p> + “Everything is going <i>à merveille!</i>” he cried. “In + three months we shall be ready to strike our blow—to make our great + <i>coup</i> for France. The failure of Turner’s bank was a severe + check, I admit, and for a moment I was in despair. But now we are sure + that we shall have the money for Albert de Chantonnay’s Beauvoir + estate by the middle of January. The death of Madame la Duchesse was a + misfortune. If we could have persuaded her to receive you—your face + would have done the rest, mon ami—we should have been invincible. + But she was broken, that poor lady. Think of her life! Few women would + have survived half of the troubles that she carried on those proud + shoulders from childhood.” + </p> + <p> + They were sitting in the little salon in the building that adjoined the + gate-house of Gemosac, of which the stone stairs must have rung beneath + the red spurs of fighting men; of which the walls were dented still with + the mark of arms. + </p> + <p> + Barebone had given an account of his journey, which had been carried + through without difficulty. Everywhere success had waited upon him—enthusiasm + had marked his passage. In returning to France, he had stolen a march on + his enemies, for nothing seemed to indicate that his presence in the + country was known to them. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you,” the Marquis explained, “that he has his + hands full—that man in Paris. It is only a month since he changed + his ministry. Who is this St. Arnaud, his Minister of War? Who is Maupas, + his Prefect of Police? Does Monsieur Manpas know that we are nearly ready + for our <i>coup?</i> Bah! Tell me nothing of that sort, gentlemen.” + </p> + <p> + And this was the universally accepted opinion at this time, of Louis + Bonaparte the President of a tottering Republic, divided against itself; a + dull man, at his wits’ end. For months, all Europe had been turning + an inquiring and watchful eye on France. Socialism was rampant. Secret + societies honeycombed the community. There was some danger in the air—men + knew not what. Catastrophe was imminent, and none knew where to look for + its approach. But all thought that it must come at the end of the year. A + sort of panic took hold of all classes. They dreaded the end of 1851. + </p> + <p> + The Marquis de Gemosac spoke openly of these things before Juliette. She + had been present when Loo and he talked together of this last journey, so + happily accomplished, so fruitful of result. And Loo did not tell the + Marquis that he had seen his old ship, “The Last Hope,” in the + river at Bordeaux, and had gone on board of her. + </p> + <p> + Juliette listened, as she worked, beneath the lamp at the table in the + middle of the room. The lace-work she had brought from the convent-school + was not finished yet. It was exquisitely fine and delicate, and Juliette + executed the most difficult patterns with a sort of careless ease. + Sometimes, when the Marquis was more than usually extravagant in his + anticipations of success, or showed a superlative contempt for his foes, + Juliette glanced at Barebone over her lace-work, but she rarely took part + in the talk when politics were under discussion. + </p> + <p> + In domestic matters, however, this new châtelaine showed considerable + shrewdness. She was not ignorant of the price of hay, and knew to a cask + how much wine was stored in the vault beneath the old chapel. On these + subjects the Marquis good-humouredly followed her advice sometimes. His + word had always been law in the whole neighbourhood. Was he not the head + of one of the oldest families in France? + </p> + <p> + “But, <i>pardieu</i>, she shows a wisdom quite phenomenal, that + little one,” the Marquis would tell his friends, with a hearty + laugh. It was only natural that he should consider amusing the idea of + uniting wisdom and youth and beauty in one person. It is still a + universally accepted law that old people must be wise and young persons + only charming. Some may think that they could point to a wise child born + of foolish parents; to a daughter who is well-educated and shrewd, + possessing a sense of logic, and a mother who is ignorant and foolish; to + a son who has more sense than his father: but of course such observers + must be mistaken. Old theories must be the right ones. The Marquis had no + doubt of this, at all events, and thought it most amusing that Juliette + should establish order in the chaos of domestic affairs at Gemosac. + </p> + <p> + “You are grave,” said Juliette to Barebone, one evening soon + after his return, when they happened to be alone in the little + drawing-room. Barebone was, in fact, not a lively companion; for he had + sat staring at the log-fire for quite three minutes when his eyes might + assuredly have been better employed. “You are grave. Are you + thinking of your sins?” + </p> + <p> + “When I think of those, Mademoiselle, I laugh. It is when I think of + you that I am grave.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “So I am always grave, you understand.” + </p> + <p> + She glanced quickly, not at him but toward him, and then continued her + lace-making, with the ghost of a smile tilting the corners of her lips. + </p> + <p> + “It is because I have something to tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “A secret?” she inquired, and she continued to smile, but + differently, and her eyes hardened almost to resentment. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; a secret. It is a secret only known to two other people in the + world besides myself. And they will never let you know even that they + share it with you, Mademoiselle.” + </p> + <p> + “Then they are not women,” she said, with a sudden laugh. + “Tell it to me, then—your secret.” + </p> + <p> + There had been an odd suggestion of foreknowledge in her manner, as if she + were humouring him by pretending to accept as a secret of vast importance + some news which she had long known—that little air of patronage + which even schoolgirls bestow, at times, upon white-haired men. It is part + of the maternal instinct. But this vanished when she heard that she was to + share the secret with two men, and she repeated, impatiently, “Tell + me, please.” + </p> + <p> + “It is a secret which will make a difference to us all our lives, + Mademoiselle,” he said, warningly. “It will not leave us the + same as it found us. It has made a difference to all who know it. + Therefore, I have only decided to tell you after long consideration. It + is, in fact, a point of honour. It is necessary for you to know, whatever + the result may be. Of that I have no doubt whatever.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed reassuringly, which made her glance at him gravely, almost + anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “And are you going on telling it to other people, afterward,” + she inquired; “to my father, for instance?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Mademoiselle. It comes to you, and it stops at you. I do not + mind withholding it from your father, and from all the friends who have + been so kind to me in France. I do not mind deceiving kings and emperors, + Mademoiselle, and even the People, which is now always spelt in capital + letters, and must be spoken of with bated breath.” + </p> + <p> + She gave a scornful little laugh, as at the sound of an old jest—the + note of a deathless disdain which was in the air she breathed. + </p> + <p> + “Not even the newspapers, which are trying to govern France. All + that is a question of politics. But when it comes to you, Mademoiselle, + that is a different matter.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It is then a question of love.” + </p> + <p> + Juliette slowly changed colour, but she gave a little gay laugh of + incredulity and bent her head away from the light of the lamp. + </p> + <p> + “That is a different code of honour altogether,” he said, + gravely. “A code one does not wish to tamper with.” + </p> + <p> + “No?” she inquired, with the odd little smile of foreknowledge + again. + </p> + <p> + “No. And, therefore, before I go any farther, I think it best to + tell you that I am not what I am pretending to be. I am pretending to be + the son of the little Dauphin, who escaped from the Temple. He may have + escaped from the Temple; that I don’t know. But I know, or at least + I think I know, that he is not buried in Farlingford churchyard and he was + not my father. I can pass as the grandson of Louis XVI; I know that. I can + deceive all the world. I can even climb to the throne of France, perhaps. + There are many, as you know, who think I shall do it without difficulty. + But I do not propose to deceive <i>you</i>, Mademoiselle.” + </p> + <p> + There was a short silence, while Loo watched her face. Juliette had not + even changed colour. When she was satisfied that he had nothing more to + add, she looked at him, her needle poised in the air. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think it matters?” she asked, in a little cool, even + voice. + </p> + <p> + It was so different from what he had expected that, for a moment, he was + taken aback. Captain Clubbe’s bluff, uncompromising reception of the + same news had haunted his thoughts. “The square thing,” that + sailor had said, “and damn your friends; damn France.” Loo + looked at Juliette in doubt; then, suddenly, he understood her point of + view; he understood her. He had learnt to understand a number of people + and a number of points of view during the last twelve months. + </p> + <p> + “So long as I succeed?” he suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she answered, simply. “So long as you succeed, I + do not see that it can matter who you are.” + </p> + <p> + “And if I succeed,” pursued Loo, gravely, “will you + marry me, Mademoiselle?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I never said that,” in a voice that was ready to yield to + a really good argument. + </p> + <p> + “And if I fail—” Barebone paused for an instant. He + still doubted his own perception. “And if I fail, you would not + marry me under any circumstances?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not think my father would let me,” she answered, with + her eyes cast down upon her lace-frame. + </p> + <p> + Barebone leant forward to put together the logs, which burnt with a white + incandescence that told of a frosty night. The Marquis had business in the + town, and would soon return from the notary’s, in time to dress for + dinner. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Loo, over his shoulder, “it is as well to + understand each other, is it not?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she answered, significantly. She ignored the implied + sarcasm altogether. There was so much meaning in her reply that Loo turned + to look at her. She was smiling as she worked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she went on; “you have told me your secret—a + secret. But I have the other, too; the secret you have not told me, <i>mon + ami</i>. I have had it always.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah?” + </p> + <p> + “The secret that you do not love me,” said Juliette, in her + little wise, even voice; “that you have never loved me. Ah! You + think we do not know. You think that I am too young. But we are never too + young to know that, to know all about it. I think we know it in our + cradles.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke with a strange philosophy, far beyond her years. It might have + been Madame de Chantonnay who spoke, with all that lady’s vast + experience of life and without any of her folly. + </p> + <p> + “You think I am pretty. Perhaps I am. Just pretty enough to enable + you to pretend, and you have pretended very well at times. You are good at + pretending, one must conclude. Oh! I bear no ill-will ...” + </p> + <p> + She broke off and looked at him, with a gay laugh, in which there was + certainly no note of ill-will to be detected. + </p> + <p> + “But it is as well,” she went on, “as you say, that we + should understand each other. Thank you for telling me your secret—the + one you have told me. I am flattered at that mark of your confidence. A + woman is always glad to be told a secret, and immediately begins to + anticipate the pleasure she will take in telling it to others, in + confidence.” + </p> + <p> + She looked up for a moment from her work; for Loo had given a short laugh. + She looked, to satisfy herself that it was not the ungenerous laugh that + nine men out of ten would have cast at her; and it was not. For Loo was + looking at her with frank amusement. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes,” she said; “I know that, too. It is one of the + items not included in a convent education. It is unnecessary to teach us + such things as that. We know them before we go in. Your secret is safe + enough with me, however—the one you have told me. That is the least + I can promise in return for your confidence. As to the other secret, <i>bon + Dieu</i>! we will pretend I do not know it, if you like. At all events, + you can vow that you never told me, if—if ever you are called upon + to do so.” + </p> + <p> + She paused for a moment to finish off a thread. Then, when she reached out + her hand for the reel, she glanced at him with a smile, not unkind. + </p> + <p> + “So you need not pretend any more, monsieur,” she said, seeing + that Barebone was wise enough to keep silence. “I do not know who + you are, <i>mon ami,</i>” she went on, in a little burst of + confidence; “and, as I told you just now, I do not care. And, as to + that other matter, there is no ill-will. I only permit myself to wonder, + sometimes, if she is pretty. That is feminine, I suppose. One can be + feminine quite young, you understand.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with unfathomable eyes and a little smile, such as men + never forget once they have seen it. + </p> + <p> + “But you were inclined to be ironical just now, when I said I would + marry you if you were successful. So I mention that other secret just to + show that the understanding you wish to arrive at may be mutual—there + may be two sides to it. I hear my father coming. That is his voice at the + gate. We will leave things as they stand: <i>n’est ce pas?</i>” + </p> + <p> + She rose as she spoke and went toward the door. The Marquis’s voice + was raised, and there seemed to be some unusual clamour at the gate. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVIII — A COUP-D'ÉTAT + </h2> + <p> + As the Marquis de Gemosac’s step was already on the stairs, Barebone + was spared the necessity of agreeing in words to the inevitable. + </p> + <p> + A moment later the old man hurried into the room. He had not even waited + to remove his coat and gloves. A few snow-flakes powdered his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” he cried, on perceiving Barebone. “Good—you + are safe!” He turned to speak to some one who was following him up + the stairs with the slower steps of one who knew not his way. + </p> + <p> + “All is well!” he cried. “He is here. Give yourself no + anxiety.” + </p> + <p> + And the second comer crossed the threshold, coming suddenly out of the + shadow of the staircase. It was Dormer Colville, white with snow, his face + grey and worn. He shook hands with Barebone and bowed to Juliette, but the + Marquis gave him no time to speak. + </p> + <p> + “I go down into the town,” he explained, breathlessly. “The + streets are full. There is a crowd on the marketplace, more especially + round the tobacconist’s, where the newspapers are to be bought. No + newspapers, if you please. The Paris journals of last Sunday, and this is + Friday evening. Nothing since that. No Bordeaux journal. No news at all + from Paris: absolute silence from Toulouse and Limoges. ‘It is + another revolution,’ they tell each other. Something has happened + and no one knows what. A man comes up to me and tugs at my sleeve. ‘Inside + your walls, Monsieur le Marquis, waste no time,’ he whispers, and is + gone. He is some stable-boy. I have seen him somewhere. I! inside my + walls! Here in Gemosac, where I see nothing but bare heads as I walk + through the streets. Name of God! I should laugh at such a precaution. And + while I am still trying to gather information the man comes back to me. + ‘It is not the people you have to fear,’ he whispers in my + ear, ‘it is the Government. The order for your arrest is at the + Gendarmerie, for it was I who took it there. Monsieur Albert was arrested + yesterday, and is now in La Rochelle. Madame de Chantonnay’s house + is guarded. It is from Madame I come.’ And again he goes. While I am + hesitating, I hear the step of a horse, tired and yet urged to its utmost. + It is Dormer Colville, this faithful friend, who is from Paris in + thirty-six hours to warn us. He shall tell his story himself.” + </p> + <p> + “There is not much to tell,” said Colville, in a hollow voice. + He looked round for a chair and sat down rather abruptly. “Louis + Bonaparte is absolute master of France; that is all. He must be so by this + time. When I escaped from Paris yesterday morning nearly all the streets + were barricaded. But the troops were pouring into the city as I rode out—and + artillery. I saw one barricade carried by artillery. Thousands must have + been killed in the streets of Paris yesterday—” + </p> + <p> + “—And, <i>bon Dieu!</i> it is called a <i>coup-d'état</i>,” + interrupted the Marquis. + </p> + <p> + “That was on Tuesday,” explained Colville, in his tired voice—“at + six o’clock on Tuesday morning. Yesterday and Wednesday were days of + massacre.” + </p> + <p> + “But, my friend,” exclaimed the Marquis, impatiently, “tell + us how it happened. You laugh! It is no time to laugh.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know,” replied Colville, with an odd smile. “I + think there is nothing else to be done—it is all so complete. We are + all so utterly fooled by this man whom all the world took to be a dolt. On + Tuesday morning he arrested seventy-eight of the Representatives. When + Paris awoke, the streets had been placarded in the night with the decree + of the President of the Republic. The National Assembly was dissolved. The + Council of State was dissolved. Martial law was declared. And why? He does + not even trouble to give a reason. He has the army at his back. The + soldiers cried ‘<i>Vive l’Empereur</i>’ as they charged + the crowd on Wednesday. He has got rid of his opponents by putting them in + prison. Many, it is said, are already on their way to exile in Cayenne; + the prisons are full. There is a warrant out against myself; against you, + Barebone; against you, of course, Monsieur le Marquis. Albert de + Chantonnay was arrested at Tours, and is now in La Rochelle. We may escape—we + may get away to-night—” + </p> + <p> + He paused and looked hurriedly toward the door, for some one was coming up + the stairs—some one who wore sabots. It was the servant, Marie, who + came unceremoniously into the room with the exaggerated calm of one who + realises the gravity of the situation and means to master it. + </p> + <p> + “The town is on fire,” she explained, curtly; “they have + begun on the Gendarmerie. Doubtless they have heard that these gentlemen + are to be arrested, and it is to give other employment to the gendarmes. + But the cavalry has arrived from Saintes, and I come upstairs to ask + Monsieur to come down and help. It is my husband who is a fool. Holy + Virgin! how many times have I regretted having married such a blockhead as + that. He says he cannot raise the drawbridge. To raise it three feet would + be to gain three hours. So I came to get Monsieur,” she pointed at + Barebone with a steady finger, “who has his wits on the top always + and two hands at the end of his arms.” + </p> + <p> + “But it is little use to raise the drawbridge,” objected the + Marquis. “They will soon get a ladder and place it against the + breach in the wall and climb in.” + </p> + <p> + “Not if I am on the wall who amuse myself with a hayfork, Monsieur + le Marquis,” replied Marie, with that exaggerated respect which + implies a knowledge of mental superiority. She beckoned curtly to Loo and + clattered down the stairs, followed by Barebone. The others did not + attempt to go to their assistance, and the Marquis de Gemosac had a + hundred questions to ask Colville. + </p> + <p> + The Englishman had little to tell of his own escape. There were so many + more important arrests to be made that the overworked police of Monsieur + de Maupas had only been able to apportion to him a bungler whom Colville + had easily outwitted. + </p> + <p> + “And Madame St. Pierre Lawrence?” inquired the Marquis. + </p> + <p> + “Madame quitted Paris on Tuesday for England under the care of John + Turner, who had business in London. He kindly offered to escort her across + the Channel.” + </p> + <p> + “Then she, at all events, is safe,” said the Marquis, with a + little wave of the hand indicating his satisfaction. “He is not + brilliant, Monsieur Turner—so few English are—but he is solid, + I think.” + </p> + <p> + “I think he is the cleverest man I know,” said Dormer + Colville, thoughtfully. And before they had spoken again Loo Barebone + returned. + </p> + <p> + He, like Marie, had grasped at once the serious aspect of the situation, + whereas the Marquis succeeded only in reaching it with a superficial + touch. He prattled of the political crisis in Paris and bade his friends + rest assured that law and order must ultimately prevail. He even seemed to + cherish the comforting assurance that Providence must in the end interfere + on behalf of a Legitimate Succession. For this old noble was the true son + of a father who had believed to the end in that King who talked + grandiloquently of the works of Seneca and Tacitus while driving from the + Temple to his trial, with the mob hooting and yelling imprecations into + the carriage windows. + </p> + <p> + The Marquis de Gemosac found time to give a polite opinion on John Turner + while the streets of Gemosac were being cleared by the cavalry from + Saintes, and the Gendarmerie, burning briskly, lighted up a scene of + bloodshed. + </p> + <p> + “We have raised the drawbridge a few feet,” said Barebone; + “but the chains are rusted and may easily be broken by a blacksmith. + It will serve to delay them a few minutes; but it is not the mob we seek + to keep out, and any organised attempt to break in would succeed in half + an hour. We must go, of course.” + </p> + <p> + He turned to Colville, with whom he had met and faced difficulties in the + past. Colville might easily have escaped to England with Mrs. St. Pierre + Lawrence, but he had chosen the better part. He had undertaken a long + journey through disturbed France only to throw in his lot at the end of it + with two pre-condemned men. Loo turned to him as to one who had proved + himself capable enough in an emergency, brave in face of danger. + </p> + <p> + “We cannot stay here,” he said; “the gates will serve to + give us an hour’s start, but no more. I suppose there is another way + out of the château.” + </p> + <p> + “There are two ways,” answered the Marquis. “One leads + to a house in the town and the other emerges at the mill down below the + walls. But, alas! both are lost sight of. My ancestors—” + </p> + <p> + “I know the shorter one,” put in Juliette, “the passage + that leads to the mill. I can show you the entrance to that, which is in + the crypt of the chapel, hidden behind the casks of wine.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke to Barebone, only half-concealing, as Marie had done, the fact + that the great respect with which the Marquis de Gemosac was treated was + artificial, and would fall to pieces under the strain of an emergency—a + faint echo of the old regime. + </p> + <p> + “When you are gone,” the girl continued, still addressing + Barebone, “Marie and I can keep them out at least an hour—probably + more. We may be able to keep them outside the walls all night, and when at + last they come in it will take them hours to satisfy themselves that you + are not concealed within the enceinte.” + </p> + <p> + She was quite cool, and even smiled at him with a white face. + </p> + <p> + “You are always right, Mademoiselle, and have a clear head,” + said Barebone. + </p> + <p> + “But no heart?” she answered in an undertone, under cover of + her father’s endless talk to Colville and with a glance which + Barebone could not understand. + </p> + <p> + In a few minutes Dormer Colville pronounced himself ready to go, and + refused to waste further precious minutes in response to Monsieur de + Gemosac’s offers of hospitality. No dinner had been prepared, for + Marie had sterner business in hand and could be heard beneath the windows + urging her husband to display a courage superior to that of a rabbit. + Juliette hurried to the kitchen and there prepared a parcel of cold meat + and bread for the fugitives to eat as they fled. + </p> + <p> + “We might remain hidden in a remote cottage,” Barebone had + suggested to Colville, “awaiting the development of events, but our + best chance is ‘The Last Hope.’ She is at Bordeaux, and must be + nearly ready for sea.” + </p> + <p> + So it was hurriedly arranged that they should make their way on foot to a + cottage on the marsh while Jean was despatched to Bordeaux with a letter + for Captain Clubbe. + </p> + <p> + “It is a pity,” said Marie, when informed of this plan, + “that it is not I who wear the breeches. But I will make it clear to + Jean that if he fails to carry out his task he need not show his face at + the gate again.” + </p> + <p> + The Marquis ran hither and thither, making a hundred suggestions, which + were accepted in the soothing manner adopted toward children. He assured + Juliette that their absence would be of short duration; that there was + indeed no danger, but that he was acceding to the urgent persuasions of + Barebone and Colville, who were perhaps unnecessarily alarmed—who + did not understand how affairs were conducted in France. He felt assured + that law and order must prevail. + </p> + <p> + “But if they have put Albert de Chantonnay in prison, why should you + be safe?” asked Juliette. To which the Marquis replied with a + meaning cackle that she had a kind heart, and that it was only natural + that it should be occupied at that moment with thoughts of that excellent + young man who, in his turn, was doubtless thinking of her in his cell at + La Rochelle. + </p> + <p> + Which playful allusion to Albert de Chantonnay’s pretensions was + received by their object with a calm indifference. + </p> + <p> + “When Jean returns,” she said, practically, “I will send + him to you at the Brémonts’ cottage with food and clothing. But you + must not attempt to communicate with us. You would only betray your + whereabouts and do no good to us. We shall be quite safe in the château. + Marie and I and Madame Maugiron are not afraid.” + </p> + <p> + At which the Marquis laughed heartily. It was so amusing to think that one + should be young and pretty—and not afraid. In the mean time Barebone + was sealing his letter to Captain Clubbe. He had written it in the Suffolk + dialect, spelling all the words as they are pronounced on that coast and + employing when he could the Danish and Dutch expressions in daily use on + the foreshore, which no French official seeking to translate could find in + any dictionary. + </p> + <p> + Loo gave his instructions to Jean himself, who received them in a silence + not devoid of intelligence. The man had been round the walls and reported + that nothing stirred beneath them; that there was more than one fire in + the town, and that the streets appeared to be given over to disorder and + riot. + </p> + <p> + “It is assuredly a change in the Government,” he explained, + simply. “And there will be many for Monsieur l’Abbé to bury on + Sunday.” + </p> + <p> + Jean was to accompany them to the cottage of an old man who had once lived + by ferrying the rare passenger across the Gironde. Having left them here, + he could reach Blaye before daylight, from whence a passage up the river + to Bordeaux would be easily procurable. + </p> + <p> + The boatman’s cottage stood on the bank of a creek running into the + Gironde. It was a lone building hidden among the low dunes that lie + between the river and the marsh. Any one approaching it by daylight would + be discernible half an hour in advance, and the man’s boat, though + old, was seaworthy. None would care to cross the lowlands at night except + under the guidance of one or two, who, like Jean, knew their way even in + the dark. + </p> + <p> + Colville and Barebone had to help Jean to move the great casks stored in + the crypt of the old chapel by which the entrance to the passage was + masked. + </p> + <p> + “It is, I recollect having been told, more than a passage—it + is a ramp,” explained the Marquis, who stood by. “It was + intended for the passage of horses, so that a man might mount here and + ride out into the mill-stream, actually beneath the mill-wheel which + conceals the exit.” + </p> + <p> + Juliette, a cloak thrown over her evening dress, had accompanied them and + stood near, holding a lantern above her head to give them light. It was an + odd scene—a strange occupation for the last of the de Gemosacs. + Through the gaps in the toppling walls they could hear the roar of voices + and the occasional report of a firearm in the streets of the town below. + The door opened easily enough, and Jean, lighting a candle, led the way. + Barebone was the last to follow. Within the doorway he turned to say + good-bye. The light of the lantern flickered uncertainly on Juliette’s + fair hair. + </p> + <p> + “We may be back sooner than you expect, mademoiselle,” said + Barebone. + </p> + <p> + “Or you may go—to England,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIX — “JOHN DARBY” + </h2> + <p> + Although it was snowing hard, it was not a dark night. There was a half + moon hidden behind those thin, fleecy clouds, which carry the snow across + the North Sea and cast it noiselessly upon the low-lying coast, from + Thanet to the Wash, which knows less rain and more snow than any in + England. + </p> + <p> + A gale of wind was blowing from the north-east; not in itself a wild gale, + but at short intervals a fresh burst of wind brought with it a thicker + fall of snow, and during these squalls the force of the storm was + terrific. A man, who had waited on the far shore of the river for a quiet + interval, had at last made his way to the Farlingford side. He moored his + boat and stumbled heavily up the steps. + </p> + <p> + There was no one on the quay. The street was deserted, but the lights + within the cottages glowed warmly through red blinds here and there. The + majority of windows were, however, secured with a shutter, screwed tight + from within. The man trotted steadily up the street. He had an + unmistakable air of discipline. It was only six o’clock, but night + had closed in three hours ago. The coast-guard looked neither to one side + nor the other, but ran on at the pace of one who had run far and knows + that he cannot afford to lose his breath; for his night’s work was + only begun. + </p> + <p> + The coast-guard station stands on the left-hand side of the street, a + long, low house in a bare garden. In answer to the loud summons, a + red-faced little man opened the door and let out into the night a smell of + bloaters and tea—the smell that pervades all Farlingford at six o’clock + in the evening. + </p> + <p> + “Something on the Inner Curlo Bank,” shouted the coast-guard + in his face, and turning on his heel, he ran with the same slow, organised + haste, leaving the red-faced man finishing a mouthful on the mat. + </p> + <p> + The next place of call was at River Andrew’s, the little low cottage + with rounded corners, below the church. + </p> + <p> + “Come out o’ that,” said the coast-guard, with a + contemptuous glance of snow-rimmed eyes at River Andrew’s + comfortable tea-table. “Ring yer bell. Something on the Inner Curlo + Bank.” + </p> + <p> + River Andrew had never hurried in his life, and like all his fellows, he + looked upon coast-guards as amateurs mindful, as all amateurs are, of + their clothes. + </p> + <p> + “A’m now going,” he answered, rising laboriously from + his chair. The coast-guard glanced at his feet clad in the bright green + carpet-slippers, dear to seafaring men. Then he turned to the side of the + mantelpiece and took the church keys from the nail. For everybody knows + where everybody else keeps his keys in Farlingford. He forgot to shut the + door behind him, and River Andrew, pessimistically getting into his + sea-boots, swore at his retreating back. + </p> + <p> + “Likely as not, he’ll getten howld o’ the wrong roup,” + he muttered; though he knew that every boy in the village could point out + the rope of “John Darby,” as that which had a piece of faded + scarlet flannel twisted through the strands. + </p> + <p> + In a few minutes the man, who hastened slowly, gave the call, which every + man in Farlingford answered with an emotionless, mechanical promptitude. + From each fireside some tired worker reached out his hand toward his most + precious possession, his sea-boots, as his forefathers had done before him + for two hundred years at the sound of “John Darby.” The women + crammed into the pockets of the men’s stiff oilskins a piece of + bread, a half-filled bottle—knowing that, as often as not, their + husbands must pass the night and half the next day on the beach, or out at + sea, should the weather permit a launch through the surf. + </p> + <p> + There was no need of excitement, or even of comment. Did not “John + Darby” call them from their firesides or their beds a dozen times + every winter, to scramble out across the shingle? As often as not, there + was nothing to be done but drag the dead bodies from the surf; but + sometimes the dead revived—some fair-haired, mystic foreigner from + the northern seas, who came to and said, “T’ank you,” + and nothing else. And next day, rigged out in dry clothes and despatched + toward Ipswich on the carrier’s cart, he would shake hands awkwardly + with any standing near and bob his head and say “T’ank you” + again, and go away, monosyllabic, mystic, never to be heard of more. But + the ocean, as it is called at Farlingford, seemed to have an inexhaustible + supply of such Titans to throw up on the rattling shingle winter after + winter. And, after all, they were seafaring men, and therefore brothers. + Farlingford turned out to a man, each seeking to be first across the river + every time “John Darby” called them, as if he had never called + them before. + </p> + <p> + To-night none paused to finish the meal, and many a cup raised half-way + was set down again untasted. It is so easy to be too late. + </p> + <p> + Already the flicker of lanterns on the sea-wall showed that the rectory + was astir. For Septimus Marvin, vaguely recalling some schoolboy instinct + of fair-play, knew the place of the gentleman and the man of education + among humbler men in moments of danger and hardship, which should, + assuredly, never be at the back. + </p> + <p> + “Yonder’s parson,” some one muttered. “His head is + clear now, I’ll warrant, when he hears ‘John Darby.’” + </p> + <p> + “‘Tis only on Sundays, when ‘John’ rings slow, + ‘tis misty,” answered a sharp-voiced woman, with a laugh. For + half of Farlingford was already at the quay, and three or four boats were + bumping and splashing against the steps. The tide was racing out, and the + wind, whizzing slantwise across it, pushed it against the wooden piles of + the quay, making them throb and tremble. + </p> + <p> + “Not less’n four to the oars!” shouted a gruff voice, at + the foot of the steps, where the salt water, splashing on the snow, had + laid bare the green and slimy moss. Two or three volunteers stumbled down + the steps, and the first boat got away, swinging down-stream at once, only + to be brought slowly back, head to wind. She hung motionless a few yards + from the quay, each dip of the oars stirring the water into a whirl of + phosphorescence, and then forged slowly ahead. + </p> + <p> + Septimus Marvin was not alone, but was accompanied by a bulky man, not + unknown in Farlingford—John Turner, of Ipswich, understood to live + “foreign,” but to return, after the manner of East Anglians, + when occasion offered. The rector was in oilskins and sou’wester, + like any one else, and the gleam of his spectacles under the snowy brim of + his headgear seemed to strike no one as incongruous. His pockets bulged + with bottles and bandages. Under his arm he carried a couple of blanket + horse-cloths, useful for carrying the injured or the dead. + </p> + <p> + “The Curlo—the Inner Curlo—yes, yes!” he shouted + in response to information volunteered on all sides. “Poor fellows! + The Inner Curlo, dear, dear!” + </p> + <p> + And he groped his way down the steps, into the first boat he saw, with a + simple haste. John Turner followed him. He had tied a silk handkerchief + over his soft felt hat and under his chin. + </p> + <p> + “No, no!” he said, as Septimus Marvin made room for him on the + after-thwart. “I’m too heavy for a passenger. Put my weight on + an oar,” and he clambered forward to a vacant thwart. + </p> + <p> + “Mind you come back for us, River Andrew!” cried little Sep’s + thin voice, as the boat swirled down stream. His wavering bull’s-eye + lantern followed it, and showed River Andrew and another pulling stroke to + John Turner’s bow, for the banker had been a famous oar on the + Orwell in his boyhood. Then, with a smack like a box on the ear, another + snow-squall swept in from the sea, and forced all on the quay to turn + their backs and crouch. Many went back to their homes, knowing that + nothing could be known for some hours. Others crouched on the landward + side of an old coal-shed, peeping round the corner. + </p> + <p> + Miriam and Sep, and a few others, waited on the quay until River Andrew or + another should return. It was an understood thing that the helpers, such + as could man a boat or carry a drowned man, should go first. In a few + minutes the squall was past, and by the light of the moon, now thinly + covered by clouds, the black forms of the first to reach the other shore + could be seen straggling across the marsh toward the great shingle-bank + that lies between the river and the sea. Two boats were moored at the far + side, another was just making the jetty, while a fourth was returning + toward the quay. It was River Andrew, faithful to his own element, who + preferred to be first here, rather than obey orders on the open beach. + </p> + <p> + There were several ready to lend a helping hand against tide and wind, and + Miriam and Sep were soon struggling across the shingle, in the footsteps + of those who had gone before. The north-east wind seared their faces like + a hot iron, but the snow had ceased falling. As they reached the summit of + the shingle-bank, they could see in front of them the black line of the + sea, and on the beach, where the white of the snow and the white of the + roaring surf merged together, a group of men. + </p> + <p> + One or two stragglers had left this group to search the beach, north or + south; but it was known, from a long and grim experience, that anything + floating in from the tail of the Inner Curlo Bank must reach the shore at + one particular point. A few lanterns twinkled here and there, but near the + group of watchers a bonfire of wreckage and tarry fragments and old rope, + brought hither for the purpose, had been kindled. + </p> + <p> + Two boats, hauled out of reach of a spring tide, were being leisurely + prepared for launching. There was no hurry; for it had been decided by the + older men that no boat could be put to sea through the surf then rolling + in. At the turn of the tide, in two hours’ time, something might be + done. + </p> + <p> + “Us cannot see anything,” a bystander said to Miriam. “It + is just there, where I am pointing. Sea Andrew saw something a while back—says + it looked like a schooner.” + </p> + <p> + The man stood pointing out to sea to the southward. He carried an + unlighted torch—a flare, roughly made, of tarred rope, bound round a + stick. At times, one or another would ignite his flare, and go down the + beach holding it above his head, while he stood knee deep in the churning + foam to peer out to sea. He would presently return, without comment, to + beat out his flare against his foot and take his place among the silent + watchers. No one spoke; but if any turned his head sharply to one side or + other, all the rest wheeled, like one man, in the same direction and after + staring at the tumbled sea would turn reproachful glances on the false + alarmist. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, after a long wait, four men rushed without a word into the surf; + their silent fury suggesting oddly the rush of hounds upon a fox. They had + simultaneously caught sight of something dark, half sunk in the shallow + water. In a moment they were struggling up the shingle slope toward the + fire, carrying a heavy weight. They laid their burden by the fire, where + the snow had melted away, and it was a man. He was in oilskins, and some + one cut the tape that tied his sou’wester. His face was covered with + blood. + </p> + <p> + “‘Tis warm,” said the man who had cut away the oilskin + cap, and with his hand he wiped the blood away from the eyes and mouth. + Some one in the background drew a cork, with his teeth, and a bottle was + handed down to those kneeling on the ground. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly the man sat up—and coughed. + </p> + <p> + “Shipmets,” he said, with a splutter, and lay down again. + </p> + <p> + Some one held the bottle to his lips and wiped the blood away from his + face again. + </p> + <p> + “My God!” shouted a bystander, gruffly. “‘Tis + William Brooke, of the Cottages.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. ‘Tis me,” said the man, sitting up again. “Not + that arm, mate; don’t ye touch it. ‘Tis bruk. Yes; ‘tis + me. And ‘The Last Hope’ is on the tail of the Inner Curlo—and + the spar that knocked me overboard fell on the old man, and must have half + killed him. But Loo Barebone’s aboard.” + </p> + <p> + He rose to his knees, with one arm hanging straight and piteous from his + shoulder, then slowly to his feet. He stood wavering for a moment, and + wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and spluttered. Then, looking + straight in front of him, with that strange air of a whipped dog which + humble men wear when the hand of Heaven is upon them, he staggered up the + beach toward the river and Farlingford. + </p> + <p> + “Where are ye goin’?” some one asked. + </p> + <p> + “Over to mine,” was the reply. “A’m going to my + old woman, shipmets.” + </p> + <p> + And he staggered away in the darkness. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XL — FARLINGFORD ONCE MORE + </h2> + <p> + After a hurried consultation, Septimus Marvin was deputed to follow the + injured man and take him home, seeing that he had as yet but half + recovered his senses. This good Samaritan had scarcely disappeared when a + shout from the beach drew the attention of all in another direction. + </p> + <p> + One of the outposts was running toward the fire, waving his lantern and + shouting incoherently. It was a coast-guard. + </p> + <p> + “Comin’ ashore in their own boat,” he cried. “They’re + coming in in their own boat!” + </p> + <p> + “There she rides—there she rides!” added Sea Andrew, + almost immediately, and he pointed to the south. + </p> + <p> + Quite close in, just outside the line of breakers, a black shadow was + rising and falling on the water. It seemed to make scarcely any way at + all, and each sea that curled underneath the boat and roared toward the + beach was a new danger. + </p> + <p> + “They’re going to run her in here,” said Sea Andrew. + “There’s more left on board; that’s what that means, and + they’re goin’ back for ‘em. If ‘twasn’t so they’d + run in anywheres and let her break.” + </p> + <p> + For one sailor will always tell what another is about, however great the + distance intervening. + </p> + <p> + Slowly the boat came on, rolling tremendously on the curve of the + breakers, between the broken water of the tideway and the spume of the + surf. + </p> + <p> + “That’s Loo at the hellum,” said Sea Andrew—the + keenest eyes in Farlingford. + </p> + <p> + And suddenly Miriam swayed sideways against John Turner, who was perhaps + watching her, for he gripped her arm and stood firm. No one spoke. The + watchers on the beach stared open-mouthed, making unconscious grimaces as + the boat rose and fell. All had been ready for some minutes; every + preparation made according to the time-honoured use of these coasts: four + men with life-lines round them standing knee-deep waiting to dash in + deeper, others behind them grouped in two files, some holding the slack of + the life-lines, forming a double rank from the shore to the fire, giving + the steersman his course. There was no need to wave a torch or shout an + order. They were Farlingford men on the shore and Farlingford men in the + boat. + </p> + <p> + At last, after breathless moments of suspense, the boat turned, and came + spinning in on the top of a breaker, with the useless oars sticking out + like the legs of some huge insect. For a few seconds it was impossible to + distinguish anything. The moment the boat touched ground, the waves + beating on it enveloped all near it in a whirl of spray, and the black + forms seemed to be tumbling over each other in confusion. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” said Turner to Miriam, “he has come back to + you after all.” + </p> + <p> + She did not answer but stood, her two hands clasped together on her + breast, seeking to disentangle the confused group, half in half out of the + water. + </p> + <p> + Then they heard Loo Barebone’s voice, cheerful and energetic, almost + laughing. Before they could understand what was taking place his voice was + audible again, giving a sharp, clear order, and all the black forms rushed + together down into the surf. A moment later the boat danced out over the + crest of a breaker, splashing into the next and throwing up a fan of + spray. + </p> + <p> + “She’s through, she’s through!” cried some one. + And the boat rode for a brief minute head to wind before she turned + southward. There were only three on the thwarts—Loo Barebone and two + others. + </p> + <p> + The group now broke up and straggled up toward the fire. One man was being + supported, and could scarcely walk. It was Captain Clubbe, hatless, his + grey hair plastered across his head by salt water. + </p> + <p> + He did not heed any one, but sat down heavily on the shingle and felt his + leg with one hand, the other arm hung limply. + </p> + <p> + “Leave me here,” he said, gruffly, to two or three who were + spreading out a horse-cloth and preparing to carry him. “Here I stay + till all are ashore.” + </p> + <p> + Behind him were several new-comers, one of them a little man talking + excitedly to his companion. + </p> + <p> + “But it is a folly,” he was saying in French, “to go + back in such a sea as that.” + </p> + <p> + It was the Marquis de Gemosac, and no one was taking any notice of him. + Dormer Colville, stumbling over the shingle beside him, recognised Miriam + in the firelight and turned again to look at her companion as if scarcely + believing the evidence of his own eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Is that you, Turner?” he said. “We are all here,—the + Marquis, Barebone, and I. Clubbe took us on board one dark night in the + Gironde and brought us home.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you hurt?” asked Turner, curtly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. But Clubbe’s collar-bone is broken and his leg is + crushed. We had to leave four on board; not room for them in the boat. + That fool Barebone has gone back for them. He promised them he would. The + sea out there is awful!” + </p> + <p> + He knelt down and held his shaking hands to the flames. Some one handed + him a bottle, but he turned first and gave it the Marquis de Gemosac, who + was shaking all over like one far gone in a palsy. + </p> + <p> + Sea Andrew and the coast-guard captain were persuading Captain Clubbe to + quit the beach, but he only answered them roughly in monosyllables. + </p> + <p> + “My place is here till all are safe,” he said. “Let me + lie.” + </p> + <p> + And with a groan of pain he lay back on the beach. Miriam folded a blanket + and placed it under his head. He looked round, recognised her and nodded. + </p> + <p> + “No place for you, miss,” he said, and closed his eyes. After + a moment he raised himself on his elbow and looked into the faces peering + down at him. + </p> + <p> + “Loo will beach her anywhere he can. Keep a bright lookout for him,” + he said. Then he was silent, and all turned their faces toward the sea. + </p> + <p> + Another snow-squall swept in with a rush from the eastward, and half of + the fire was blown away—a trail of sparks hissing on the snow. They + built up the fire again and waited, crouching low over the embers. They + could see nothing out to sea. There was nothing to be done but to wait. + Some had gone along the shore to the south, keeping pace with the supposed + progress of the boat, ready to help should she be thrown ashore. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly the Marquis de Gemosac, shivering over the fire, raised his voice + querulously. His emotions always found vent in speech. + </p> + <p> + “It is a folly,” he repeated, “that he has committed. I + do not understand, gentlemen, how he was permitted to do such a thing—he + whose life is of value to millions.” + </p> + <p> + He turned his head to glance sharply at Captain Clubbe, at Colville, at + Turner, who listened with that half-contemptuous silence which Englishmen + oppose to unnecessary or inopportune speech. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” he said, “you do not understand—you + Englishmen—or you do not believe, perhaps, that he is the King. You + would demand proofs which you know cannot be produced. I demand no proofs, + for I know. I know without any proof at all but his face, his manner, his + whole being. I knew at once when I saw him step out of his boat here in + this sad village, and I have lived with him almost daily ever since—only + to be more sure than at first.” + </p> + <p> + His hearers made no answer. They listened tolerantly enough, as one + listens to a child or to any other incapable of keeping to the business in + hand. + </p> + <p> + “Oh. I know more than you suspect,” said the Marquis, + suddenly. “There are some even in our own party who have doubts, who + are not quite sure. I know that there was a doubt as to that portrait of + the Queen,” he half glanced toward Dormer Colville. “Some say + one thing, some another. I have been told that, when the child—Monsieur + de Bourbon’s father—landed here, there were two portraits + among his few possessions—the miniature and a larger print, an + engraving. Where is that engraving, one would ask?” + </p> + <p> + “I have it in my safe in Paris,” said a thick voice in the + darkness. “Thought it was better in my possession than anywhere + else.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed! And now, Monsieur Turner—” the Marquis raised + himself on his knees and pointed in his eager way a thin finger in the + direction of the banker—“tell me this. Those portraits to + which some would attach importance—they are of the Duchess de + Guiche. Admitted? Good! If you yourself—who have the reputation of + being a man of wit—desired to secure the escape of a child and his + nurse, would you content yourself with the mere precaution of concealing + the child’s identity? Would you not go farther and provide the nurse + with a subterfuge, a blind, something for the woman to produce and say, + ‘This is not the little Dauphin. This is so-and-so. See, here is the + portrait of his mother?’ What so effective, I ask you? What so + likely to be believed as a scandal directed against the hated aristocrats? + Can you advance anything against that theory?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Monsieur,” replied Turner. + </p> + <p> + “But Monsieur de Bourbon knows of these doubts,” went on the + Marquis. “They have even touched his own mind, I know that. But he + has continued to fight undaunted. He has made sacrifices—any looking + at his face can see that. It was not in France that he looked for + happiness, but elsewhere. He was not heart-whole—I who have seen him + with the most beautiful women in France paying court to him know that. But + this sacrifice, also, he made for the sake of France. Or perhaps some + woman of whom we know nothing stepped back and bade him go forward alone, + for the sake of his own greatness—who can tell?” + </p> + <p> + Again no one answered him. He had not perceived Miriam, and John Turner, + with that light step which sometimes goes with a vast bulk, had placed + himself between her and the firelight. Monsieur de Gemosac rose to his + feet and stood looking seaward. The snow-clouds were rolling away to the + west, and the moon, breaking through, was beginning to illumine the wild + sky. + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen,” said the Marquis, “they have been gone a + long time?” + </p> + <p> + Captain Clubbe moved restlessly, but he made no answer. The Marquis had, + of course, spoken in French, and the Captain had no use for that language. + </p> + <p> + The group round the fire had dwindled until only half a dozen remained. + One after another the watchers had moved away uneasily toward the beach. + The Marquis was right—the boat had been gone too long. + </p> + <p> + At last the moon broke through, and the snowy scene was almost as light as + day. + </p> + <p> + John Turner was looking along the beach to the south, and one after + another the watchers by the fire turned their anxious eyes in the same + direction. The sea, whipped white, was bare of any wreck. “The Last + Hope” of Farlingford was gone. She had broken up or rolled into deep + water. + </p> + <p> + A number of men were coming up the shingle in silence. Sea Andrew, + dragging his feet wearily, approached in advance of them. + </p> + <p> + “Boat’s thrown up on the beach,” he said to Captain + Clubbe. “Stove in by a sea. We’ve found them.” + </p> + <p> + He stood back and the others, coming slowly into the light, deposited + their burdens side by side near the fire. The Marquis, who had understood + nothing, took a torch from the hand of a bystander and held it down toward + the face of the man they had brought last. + </p> + <p> + It was Loo Barebone, and the clean-cut, royal features seemed to wear a + reflective smile. + </p> + <p> + Miriam had come forward toward the fire, and by chance or by some vague + instinct the bearers had laid their burden at her feet. After all, as John + Turner had said, Loo Barebone had come back to her. She had denied him + twice, and the third time he would take no denial. The taciturn sailors + laid him there and stepped back—as if he was hers and this was the + inevitable end of his short and stormy voyage. + </p> + <p> + She looked down at him with tired eyes. She had done the right, and this + was the end. There are some who may say that she had done what she thought + was right, and this only seemed to be the end. It may be so. + </p> + <p> + The Marquis de Gemosac was dumb for once. He looked round him with a + half-defiant question in his eyes. Then he pointed a lean finger down + toward the dead man’s face. + </p> + <p> + “Others may question,” he said, “but I know—I <i>know</i>.” + </p> + <h3> + THE END + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Last Hope, by Henry Seton Merriman + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAST HOPE *** + +***** This file should be named 8942-h.htm or 8942-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/9/4/8942/ + +Etext produced by Jonathan Ingram, Mary Meehan and Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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