(1)
the brief but acrimonious interview of m. de brencourt and m. chassin had scarcely terminated when roland de céligny emerged from his leader’s bedroom to the outer room. he shut the door behind him quickly, and stood there a moment with his back to it, curiously combining the air of a sentinel and that of a fugitive. and indeed, breathing rather fast, he was saying to himself, “no one shall go in—not even the abbé!”
he had just been witnessing something which, though he did not fully understand it, he felt no eyes ought to have witnessed; he was hot and shaken with the thought that his own unwilling but necessary presence had been an outrage. . . . but since he was there, as he knew, to answer what he was asked, and since the marquis de kersaint could ask anything of him, even to his life, he had stayed, and averted his eyes through the storm of questioning, behind which could be divined a man’s very soul on the rack—till that final bowing of the proud, unhappy head over the battered trinket that roland had withdrawn from his own neck and held out as proof irrefragable . . . yet a proof of what he still did not know.
he was so agitated that it was only after a few seconds of this self-imposed vigil that he realised he was facing an empty room. the abbé was not there, the comte was not there. and in a minute or two more, still hearing no movement from within he thought, “i must not stay here; he would not like it . . . i must tell the abbé something. but i must also contrive that no one else goes in.” and, casting a glance on the wasted victuals of that supper-table which he had been so instrumental in breaking up, he went out.
a little later he was knocking at the aum?nier’s door. m. chassin, barely entered himself, opened it. his face lit up when he saw who stood there.
“my dear boy, i am glad to see you! come in!”
roland still hesitated. “are you alone, mon père?”
“absolutely, my child. come in!” he almost steered him in. “now sit down, and we will have a talk. i was hoping that you would come.”
but roland would not sit down. in his young mind he was afraid, if he did that, of being led into saying more than he wanted to say. he did not know how much he ought to reveal. as a matter of fact he hated saying anything at all about what he had seen, but, bewildered as he was, he felt that the abbé had better be told something.
standing there by the bed, he began at the end. “i . . . i ventured to tell the officer of the guard that no one was to approach m. le marquis to-night except through you—because of his wound,” he said.
“excellent! very good indeed!” said the priest, and he clapped him on the shoulder. roland wondered a little why he seemed so elated; to him, fresh from that scene with his leader, it did not seem quite decent.
“you are perhaps going to see him now, mon père?” he hazarded.
“god forbid, my son! if ever a man’s privacy should be respected, his should be at this moment . . . if you have done what i prayed you might be doing!”
“but, monsieur l’abbé,” besought the perplexed and almost unhappy roland, “what is it that i have done? what is it all?”
“tell me first what you did do?” said the priest. “no,”—for the boy had instantly turned away and was showing a disposition to go—“i do not want to hear anything about m. de kersaint. i can see from your face how you feel about it. i only want to know this—how did you convince him . . . if you did . . . that mme vidal, who has some brown specks in one of her eyes, was . . . someone he had known before?”
“i showed him,” said roland, looking at the floor, “a little old locket she gave me when i left. and when he saw that——” he stopped dead.
“yes, yes,” said the priest, putting a hand on his arm. “when he saw that he was convinced, was he not? that’s all it is necessary for me to know, my child. please god the rest will come right now.”
“o, monsieur l’abbé, couldn’t you tell me what is to come right?”
“not just yet,” said m. chassin, smiling. “but you shall know soon. anyhow, my son, you can go to bed, as i hope you are about to do, with the reflection that you have this evening done the best day’s work you ever did in your young life. . . . i think you have not yet had your scolding for going to mirabel? no! well, you will never get it now——from m. de kersaint.” and adding, “go to bed! god bless you!” he, to roland’s astonishment, bestowed upon him a hearty embrace.
and the author of so much disturbance, somewhat comforted, lay down a little later by the side of artamène and lucien, whose scrupulous abstention, on his request, from all enquiries about his supper-party seemed a thing phenomenal, an almost chilly lack. so, also, did the absence of the little locket and its chain from roland’s own neck.
(2)
how well inspired m. l’abbé chassin, for his part, had been to lie down to sleep that night almost fully dressed, was proved at about a quarter to five next morning, when he woke to find m. du ménars, rather scantily clothed, standing beside his bed. he blinked up at him a moment, for if he had expected to be roused by anyone, it was by gaston himself.
“do you know where de brencourt is, abbé?” asked the comte’s next in rank. “he is nowhere to be found, and i must see either him or the marquis at once, the marquis by preference. but for that i want your permission, as i understand he was not to be disturbed without it.”
“what has happened?” asked the abbé, getting off the bed.
“cadoudal has just sent an express to say that the english convoy with muskets and ammunition for the morbihan which he was expecting has arrived—arrived two days ago,” he added, glancing at the open letter in his hand, “but that, knowing m. de kersaint to be in need of both, and that he would probably be in a position to repay him in kind later on, he detached one ship for us before it unloaded, and directed it to put in at sainte-brigitte, and as the wind is favourable it ought to be there this evening. splendid news—provided we can reach the coast quickly. and of course we shall want every man we can get together to cover the disembarkation, for the blues are certain to get wind of it.”
“i will rouse the marquis instantly,” said m. chassin. “only do me the favour, monsieur du ménars, of allowing me to see him first. he was much indisposed last night. . . .”
and a few seconds later, with cadoudal’s despatch in his hand, he was knocking gently on his foster-brother’s door. receiving no answer he tried the handle. to his surprise it gave, so he went in, shutting the door quickly.
it was light, of course; had been light for long enough, added to which the sun would soon be up. all the eastern sky already expected him. but in the room there still survived the pale, forgotten ghost of a candle flame, and the open window was curtained over. and by the window, fully dressed, his sound arm stretched out along the wide ledge, his head sunk forward on that arm, sat gaston de trélan asleep. at least he did not move until the priest touched him on the shoulder.
“who is it?” he asked without moving. “i thought the door was locked.”
“it is i, pierre,” answered the abbé, his voice very stirred. “gaston, my brother . . .”
and his brother sighed, lifted his head, and pulled himself up from the sill, stiffly, as if he had been there a long time. in his one available hand he held something tightly. he looked like a man who has had as much as he can bear in this world, from whom shock has shorn away everything, even the power to feel joy.
“i fell asleep, i think,” he said uncertainly. “i suppose you have come to tell me, pierre, that it is all a dream?”
“no, thank the ever-merciful god, it is true. look in your hand!”
the duc de trélan obeyed him, opening his fingers with difficulty, as if they too were stiff. and he gazed at the little locket, at the worn, dangling chain, as a man sleepwalking or entranced might gaze. then he said, in one and the same breath, “it can’t, it can’t be true! . . . i must start for mirabel instantly!” and rose to his feet.
the abbé faced him. “something is asked of you, gaston, before you meet her. as a soldier . . . you did not hear a horseman gallop into the yard a short time ago?”
the sleepwalker shook his head mutely. “who was it?” he asked with indifference.
“a messenger in haste from georges—with great news. he brought this. m. du ménars opened it, and is outside now, waiting to consult you.” and he held out the open despatch.
the wounded man transferred the locket to the keeping of his hampered right hand, and took it. a quick touch of colour shot into his face as he read, and he bit his lip hard. then, even paler than before, he held out the letter again. “tell du ménars and de brencourt to see to it then, pierre. i must start for mirabel at once.”
the priest said nothing, and made no motion to take the despatch, but looked at him with some of his own steady colour fading, a most unusual phenomenon. ah, was that inherent wilfulness going to ruin this also!
“you do not approve?” said gaston de trélan sharply. “but how could you understand! i would go to her over a world in flames!”
“and over your own honour, too?—gaston, gaston, reflect a moment, i implore you! do not spoil this almost incredible miracle that god has wrought for you by snatching at it before the hour! see how she has been preserved for you all these years, how wonderfully the knowledge of it has come to light, and have patience a few days longer! for this unexpected coming of arms—why, it is the fulfilment of your greatest desire!”
“i have a greater now,” said gaston de trélan, looking far beyond him. “are you human, pierre, that you do not realise it?” cadoudal’s despatch was almost crumpled to nothing in his clenched hand; he became aware of it. “take this, before i—but, my god, that it should have come to-day!”
this time the priest accepted the letter, and retained the hand that gave it him as well. “mon frère, consider!” he said pleadingly. “it only means the shortest of delays. you can hasten to mirabel afterwards.”
“yes,” said his brother with an indescribable intonation, “if you will guarantee that i shall still be alive—afterwards!” and he withdrew his hand.
there indeed lay the hazard, and they both knew it. disabled, too, as he was, he might well be killed before that meeting could take place, for there would be fighting over this business of the convoy. and death, the long desired, had terrors for him now.
nevertheless the little priest did not budge. gaston would thank him for it, he knew, when his brain was clear of this tremendous shock.
“no, my first duty is to her,” went on the duc de trélan with all his old stubbornness. “i can never offer her sufficient reparation; at least what i can offer her shall be instant. and—she may be in danger there! i have plenty of competent officers; de brencourt, du ménars can handle the men as well as i for this affair. it will not amount to more than a skirmish at most—perhaps there will be no collision with the republicans at all.”
“then why,” said the abbé very low, looking at the floor, “did you speak just now of the possibility of your falling yourself before you and she could meet?”
his shot went home. the tired eyes flashed like steel. “pierre!” said the duc de trélan in a warning voice.
the priest raised his head. there were tears in his own eyes. “the men are untried, gaston, most of them. they will follow you, but who really knows whether they will follow du ménars? and the comte de brencourt—no one knows where he is. there may be no big engagement with the republicans over this business, but it will be no easy task to cover the disembarkation and get the arms away from sainte-brigitte. you are a soldier; i do not need to tell you that. with these peasants it will need the most skilful leadership. and . . . to throw away, after all our prayers, the chance of arming finistère! my brother, my brother . . .”
but his brother had already turned away and was at the window, his back to him, and the priest heard him say in a stifled voice, “finistère, finistère . . . o my god, what a refinement of cruelty!”
the sun was up now; the curtain could not withhold it. in the silence could be heard the tread of m. du ménars as he walked up and down in the room outside—waiting. pierre chassin looked at the crumpled despatch that he held, and its characters seemed to him like the writing on the wall. yet how natural was the impulse to disregard it—how brutal to stand in the way of disregarding it . . . . but because he loved the man by the window so much he struck again at him, and harder.
“you said just now, gaston, that your first duty was to your wife. yes, i think it is, but only because your duty to your king and your position coincide with it—risen though she be from the dead. think for a moment of her—what she would choose—not of your own most natural desires! which would she have, that you should be false to your trust in order to hasten to her, or that you fulfil it first, setting her second . . . even” his voice shook a little, “even if need be, that you should die in fulfilling it. o—forgive me, my brother—you know which she would have . . .”
but gaston gave no sign.
“forgive me, too,” resumed pierre rather brokenly, “for saying things so harsh now! but this is the testing-moment; you will never meet another more crucial. you could not lay before your noble wife a nobler reparation than this—to put your fidelity to a trust before the instincts of your own heart. . . .”
the words died away as his own heart sank. and had he gone too far? he knew that no other man would have ventured to say a tithe as much to that haughty and wounded spirit. but he knew, too, with conviction, that gaston’s better self must echo every cruel word. and as the tall figure still stood motionless, the forehead leaning on the bent left arm against the frame of the curtained window, pierre chassin prayed as he had not prayed even for their reunion, that the man faced with so tense a choice should not fail.
“of course, you have seen her,” said the duc at last, breaking the vibrating silence, but in a voice that told how slowly mental circulation was coming back to him. “you have seen her . . . spoken with her! pierre, you knew all this then—knew and never told me!—concierge at mirabel! it is like a nightmare!”
indeed there was much to explain—but not now. “i only knew at the eleventh hour,” said the priest quickly. “and under the seal, gaston; so i could not tell you. my promise to you prevented my telling her before i had time to consider whether i were justified in breaking it. that time was never given me; but had i not had to leave in such haste i should have told her. but—listen, gaston, for god’s sake—all may yet come right of itself, for i pressed her so strongly to come to brittany in person to see the ‘marquis de kersaint,’ giving her full directions, that i fully believe she will come. and if the sword lies between you and that meeting she would urge you——”
“to take it up,” said the leader of finistère. “yes, yes. you are right. i don’t see things clearly this morning.” he drew a long breath, jerked back the little curtain from before the casement, and the risen sun entered gloriously. then he turned round, his figure dark against it, and said, in his voice of everyday,
“tell du ménars to come in, pierre.”
the abbé went quickly up to him and kissed him.
