(1)
not artamène de la vergne himself had received the command to boot and saddle, which set the clos-aux-grives in such a pleasurable commotion at sunrise that morning, more jubilantly than lucien du boisfossé. none of the three had been more thrilled than he with the joyful news about the english frigate and its cargo, and the prospect of a brush with the blues before that cargo could be secured.
but alas for those bright anticipations! the youthful philosopher was destined to have no hand in disembarking barrels of powder on the beach of sainte-brigitte. because m. de kersaint considered him the youngest officer with a head on his shoulders—how gladly would poor lucien have foregone that flattering opinion!—he had been left behind with thirty men or so to guard the deserted headquarters. and there, late the next afternoon, he still was, trying to read rabelais in the empty ‘nursery,’ in spite of a headache. for on top of his head, bandaged up like a mummy’s, there was a fairly extensive sabre cut—though there had been no fighting at the clos-aux-grives. but lucien had seen some rather murderous fighting, for all that.
it was m. de brencourt who was the fons et origo of that headache—m. de brencourt who had so mysteriously disappeared, who could not be found for any searching before the column started on its march to the sea . . . but who had just as mysteriously reappeared, about four hours after its departure, to fall into such a paroxysm of rage and despair when he learnt what had happened as lucien hoped never to witness again. it was plain that the comte feared lucien and everyone else would attribute his strange defection (of which he offered no explanation) to cowardice, an idea which had never entered the youth’s head, and which he endeavoured tactfully to convey to his superior would enter the head of no living man who knew him. in the end the comte did what du boisfossé had seen from the first he would do—rode off like a madman along the road to the sea.
in a couple of hours he was back again, his roan horse a lather. it seemed that when he had got a certain distance he had heard a piece of news which had sent him back as hard as he could gallop. the blues had got wind of the convoy, and it seemed likely that they would attack the chouans in force from the far side of sainte-brigitte. that could not concern m. de brencourt now, but what had sent him back was the news that a smaller body—of cavalry, it was said—were probably setting out to fall upon their rear from the north-east. this contingent would pass within some six or seven miles of lanvennec. and, since every available chouan in the district who possessed arms had gone with the marquis de kersaint, m. de brencourt proposed to take the headquarters guard, all but a man or two, and ambush this column at a certain ford which it must cross—if he could get there in time.
it was not for lucien to protest; m. de brencourt was not merely his superior officer, but the second-in-command. and the youth was only too pleased at the prospect of seeing some fighting after all, and perhaps doing a great service to his departed comrades. for this was how its originator seemed to regard the enterprise. so they set out, and they did get there in time, and yesterday, almost at this hour, lucien had found himself, musket in hand, kneeling with the rest behind a fringe of willows on the bank of a broadish stream. and as they waited, and the willow leaves tickled his nose, m. du boisfossé, who had only just learnt from the comte the numerical strength of the enemy, began to realise that thirty men, even posted as they were, with all the advantage of a surprise, could hardly hope to stop or account for two hundred and fifty horsemen, and that m. de brencourt was doing something that was a great deal more than rash. could it be that he wanted to get himself killed? if so, he possibly had a right to indulge this fancy, but hardly to include him, du boisfossé, and the major part of the headquarters guard in his desire. however . . .
now, looking back on yesterday’s mêlée, the young philosopher, though he had no reason to modify this view of the comte’s motives when he remembered how recklessly that gentleman had exposed himself throughout, knew at least that the second-in-command could congratulate himself on having caused the foe, after all, something worse than confusion and delay. for the republicans, counting presumably on annexing the english muskets to their own use, had with them, and in the front of the column too, some empty ammunition waggons, and these were their bane. at the very first volley, poured into their unsuspecting ranks just as they were about to ford the stream, the now riderless horses of one of these waggons had dashed down into the river, and being there instantly shot, and the waggon overturned by their dying struggles, the narrow passage was for some time entirely blocked, while a hail of bullets came from the invisible marksmen on the opposite bank. undoubtedly the blues lost their heads in the surprise of it, or they would have rushed the ford and discovered how lightly it was held, but in the turmoil many saddles were emptied before the passage was clear. when at last they splashed over they were in too much haste to investigate the willows, but their infuriated rear ranks, without drawing rein, did use the sabre on anyone they could see—and lucien happened to be one of these.
he woke up to find himself lying on the trampled, muddy bank, amid a strong smell of bruised peppermint. m. de brencourt himself was bathing his head, and told him that he had had a nasty knock, but that, luckily, the blade had turned. two of their men had been less fortunate.
but the ford! lucien dreamed of it that night; yet what he still saw with most particularity was none of the slain cavalrymen, but one dead rawboned chestnut horse, which lay pathetically with outstretched neck in the stream which was not deep enough to float it, the cut traces bobbing on the current.
and now the youth, relieved of his command, since the comte was at the farmhouse, sat in the nursery and longed for its other occupants. m. de brencourt had been unwontedly genial to him, and really solicitous about his hurt, but his manner was sometimes very strange, he was restless to an extraordinary degree, and looked as if he had not slept for nights. and though rumours were beginning to come in of the complete success of the expedition, rumours indeed that it had beaten off the enemy and was on its way back with what it had gone to fetch, m. de kersaint’s chief of staff seemed in no way uplifted by them. lucien could not make him out.
he was in fact thinking about him now when the door of the nursery opened a little way and a small barefooted boy looked timidly in.
“hallo!” said the young man. “what do you want, mon gars? come in!”
“yes, go in, child, and tell us what you want,” commanded de brencourt, appearing at that moment behind him. “why, you are from the ferme des vieilles, are you not—le blé-aux-champs’ brother?”
the boy, half frightened, half alert, looked up with dark eyes at the gentleman who had him by the shoulder. “yes, monsieur le comte.”
“you came to see if he was back, i suppose?”
“no, monsieur le comte. i came on a message,” said the boy, rubbing one bare and dirty foot against the ankle of the other. “i knew they were not back. but soon they will be. there is dust hanging over the road from the sea.”
“ah, a good scout already,” observed m. de brencourt, releasing him. “how is that head, du boisfossé?”
“better, thank you, sir,” responded lucien politely. “how soon do you think they will be here?”
the comte gave an odd little movement of the shoulders, as if to say that the matter did not interest him. he was certainly very strange.
“well, and what did you come here for, child?” he asked carelessly.
“only to say that there is a lady from paris at our farm,” responded the small messenger, “and that she wishes to wait on m. le marquis when he returns. that is all, monsieur.”
it seemed, however, to be more than enough for the comte de brencourt. he grabbed hold of the small shoulder again, almost throwing the child off his balance.
“what did you say! a lady from paris asking for the marquis?”
“yes,” said the boy, wriggling; and his face turned sulky, just like his elder brother’s.
“well, go on!” said the comte, shaking him.
“there is nothing else,” muttered mercury. “she came yesterday. she is waiting. and when m. le marquis returns . . . let me go, monsieur le comte—i have to drive the cow home.”
without another word m. de brencourt dragged the boy out of the room. the expression on his face was startling. so was the amazement on lucien’s.
and about two minutes later the young man was craning his swathed head recklessly out of the window. there had been a sudden clatter of hoofs on the cobbles of the yard, but the rider was already gone.
“well,” thought m. du boisfossé, “the mysterious lady may have intended to interview m. le marquis, but i think it is m. le comte whom she will see first. here, perhaps, is some explanation of—everything! oh, why are roland and artamène not back!”
(2)
they were not far away. that dust above the road from the sea hung over a column winding triumphantly along, with a string of country carts in its midst piled high with the cases and barrels which, since dawn, they had been receiving from the english sailors on the beach at sainte-brigitte. the chouans were intoxicated with their success; had they not yesterday, before ever arriving at the little bay, routed what seemed to them a huge body of blues; had not hostile cavalry, too, broken harmlessly during the night on the covering force which m. le marquis had so wisely stationed on the road to protect his operations? vaguely they themselves realised that they had been brilliantly handled, and assented without hesitation to the opinion of hardbitten veterans of former wars like sans-souci and fleur d’epine when they said, “we have a great general—another charette, perhaps.”
at the head of his victorious array, rather weary from strain and want of sleep, his right arm still in a sling, but erect and easy as ever, rode gaston de trélan on the beautiful black horse which had once been marthe de la vergne’s. by his side was m. du ménars, and the two were already discussing the best method of distributing the muskets and ammunition through the department, and how far they would meet their needs till the gold of mirabel could procure more.
“still, this is an excellent beginning,” observed m. du ménars contentedly. “we shall be in soon now. . . . i wonder if we shall find any news of de brencourt when we get back? his disappearance at this juncture is the most inexplicable thing i ever heard of. has it occurred to you, marquis, that it might conceivably be the result of foul play?”
his leader looked round at him, evidently startled. du ménars knew that he had had very little time for any speculation about his missing subordinate.
“foul play?” he ejaculated. “no, i had not thought of that. i know no more than you why . . . my god!”
and his horse suddenly bounded forward as if he had unconsciously driven in the spurs. checking him, he turned his head sharply aside, then addressed his aide-de-camp over his shoulder.
“monsieur de céligny, have the goodness to ride back till you come to the abbé, and tell him that i must speak to him at once. i will wait for him here, by the side of the road. don’t halt the column, du ménars; go on and i will catch you up.”
and as roland turned to obey he rode across to the side of the road, and sat there waiting while the ranks trudged past. in these, sooner or later, would come the abbé, who always marched with the men. at last the priest came abreast, and stepping aside, stood by the black horse and its rider, while the loaded carts and their escort passed. when the embroidered jacket, baggy breeches and wide-brimmed hat of the last chouan had gone by, his foster-brother swung off his steed. his face was fearfully stern.
“pierre,” he said in a voice unlike his own, “a terrible thought has just come to me. i cannot understand why i have not had it earlier. as de brencourt knew my wife in the old days,” he paused; the priest guessed only too well what was coming, “—as he knew her personally, he must have been aware that she was alive—was at mirabel—and . . . deliberately kept the knowledge from me!”
the priest looked down at the dusty road. “i am afraid that he did, gaston.”
“god!” said gaston de trélan, and smote his fist upon his saddle. the thoroughbred reared a little, and the abbé caught the reins.
“i tried to force him to tell you. but my own position was so difficult,” he began.
“to keep silent after i had consented to meet him,” exclaimed the duc, his eyes blazing, “after he had taken my hand . . . it revolts me! i can hardly believe it—be quiet, zéphyr!”
“he was mad, i suppose, at seeing her again,” said the priest, shaking his head. “it has revolted me, too. perhaps his disappearance—where are you going, gaston?”
for m. de trélan, already back in the saddle, was turning his horse’s head in the opposite direction.
“i must get away for a little,” he said, very grim. “this is a thunderbolt—horrible. i must have time to get accustomed to it before i can face anybody. go on after the men, pierre; do not get left behind.”
he set spurs to his horse in earnest; zéphyr went half across to the opposite bank, tried vainly to get his head down, and next moment was going down the road like an arrow, and, annoyed at his cavalier treatment, pulling so hard that for a moment or two his rider thought that he would prove too much for his bridle hand, and regretted his disabled right arm. the struggle for mastery, however, gave him some physical relief in the black whirlwind of repulsion and horror that had broken on him. between the demands of leadership and the overwhelming news about his wife, he had had no time or inclination these two days to think out the part de brencourt had played—scarcely time, indeed, till this homeward march, to think of him at all, in spite of his singular disappearance. and now the realisation of the comte’s cold-blooded treachery and deceit, coming on top of his provocations, on top of the duel, on top of his own sparing of him, despite his resolve to the contrary—for gaston de trélan was no more exclusively right-handed than another—and, most repulsive of all, on top of their reconciliation . . . it was surely enough to put any decent man beside himself, and how much more the man who had been his victim! he turned zéphyr on to a track that made for the lande, and for a space, in which time hardly seemed to exist, galloped him madly over the heather.
gradually he began to regain control over himself, too. the man had probably taken himself off for good; though he could never forgive him, nor forget what he had done, he would not be called upon to meet him again. and he had not succeeded in his devil’s work. so he himself would rather think of this tremendous news of valentine’s survival—if indeed it were not after all some mistake, some cruel imposture, which he would discover for such when he got to mirabel.
—no, the evidence was too strong! she was there—no impostress, but the real valentine; not the dead valentine whom he had grown to love and look to, but the living. and so their meeting was to be in this world after all—though he himself in the last few days had so nearly gone to another. and how would the living valentine receive him? perhaps she would altogether turn from him. could he blame her if she did?
he rode off the lande by way of the ferme des vieilles, zéphyr by this time quieted, indeed exhausted. “poor zéphyr!” said his master remorsefully. “because i have been treated like a brute, i have treated you like one!”
as he drew near the farm he saw the old mother of the family outside, violently agitating her arms and crying, “monsieur le marquis! monsieur le marquis!”
he drew rein. “what is it, mother? your sons are safe; le blé-aux-champs has done very well.”
the old woman’s wrinkled face lighted up. “ste. anne be praised! but it is not that, monsieur le marquis. i thought i had better make sure if you had met the lady out there on the lande—among the stones, i think she is.”
“lady! what lady?”
“you have not come from the clos-aux-grives, then? you have not had the message i sent by yvot?”
“what message?—no, i have not been there yet. out with it, in heaven’s name!”
“a lady has come from paris to see you, monsieur le marquis; she arrived yesterday. so we gave her a bed here—poor lying, but the best we could do till you——”
“here! now! with you?” and in a second he was on the road by her side.
“ma doué, monsieur le marquis, how you startled me, getting off so quickly! no, she is not here now—she went out on the lande a little while ago, and i thought i saw her walking in the allée. being from paris she does not understand how evil they are, the old ones, about sundown, though i warned her . . . bless us, monsieur le marquis, you look as if someone had put a spell on you!”
for, stricken with an odd silence, and very pale, the leader of finistère had taken a step or two backwards, till he was brought up by his horse’s quarter, and there he was staring at her, his hand to his head.
“no, it is the breaking of a spell, please god!” said he, recovering himself. “i will go and find this lady on the lande. it may be that . . . that she will not return to you, mère salaun.”
he took zéphyr by the bridle, and went back on to the heather. but, once out of sight, he drew a long shuddering breath, and throwing his arm over zéphyr’s crest, pressed his forehead against the warm satin of his neck, and so remained for a while.
and zéphyr, convinced by now that the master he knew had returned to him, put his head round and lipped at his shoulder. then he cocked his little ears and listened. far away, the beat of another horse’s hoofs was audible on the highroad. his rider gave no sign of having heard it, but in a moment or two took the bridle again and went forward towards the allée des vieilles.
