Читать книгу A Sheaf of Bluebells - Baroness Orczy - Страница 19

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It seemed, indeed, as if nothing now could avert an immediate quarrel between the two brothers. The breach between them had been widened by bitter words on both sides, and if at this juncture it came to open enmity between them, that breach mayhap would never be patched up again. M. de Courson, as usual, tried to play his part of peace-maker. In his heart of hearts he could not help but give a certain measure of admiration to de Maurel’s fearless exposé of the situation. He himself being innately loyal, recognized and appreciated loyalty in others. He did not want to see a quarrel between the brothers now. His sober judgment still clung to the desire for conciliation, and he still clung to the hope that this semi-educated boor could be tamed into something that was not only presentable, but also useful to the cause which he and his kindred had so much at heart.

Therefore he made one more effort to interpose in a conciliatory spirit between these two smouldering tempers.

“It was not your brother’s intention, my good de Maurel,” he said, “nor, I vow, was it mine to cast aspersions upon your manhood or your valour. Your tirade—an you will permit me to say so without offence—was, therefore, quite superfluous, since it had no bearing upon the subject which we were discussing....”

“Namely, your want of respect to our mother,” concluded Laurent wrathfully.

“Nay!” retorted de Maurel curtly. “Methought that we were chiefly engaged in discussing my clothes.”

“Until you chose to cast aspersions on Mme. la Marquise de Mortain, which I for one will not tolerate.”

“If I have said aught to offend Mme. la Marquise,” said Ronnay curtly, “I’ll crave her pardon.... I had no intention to offend.”

“Yet you do, man, you do,” riposted Laurent hotly; “not only with your words, not only with your clothes, but by flaunting before her eyes that badge of infamy which you wear upon your breast.”

“Laurent!” interposed M. de Courson quickly, for unobservant and obtuse though he was, he had not failed to note that de Maurel’s face had suddenly become extraordinarily livid in hue, and that the breath came and went through his tightly clenched teeth with a curious, hissing sound.

“Nay, M. le Comte,” he broke in slowly after a while, “I pray you do not try and stem the flow of my brother’s eloquence. Meseems that the next few moments will clear the somewhat close atmosphere of Courson from a veritable fog of misunderstandings. I was under the impression that my linen blouse and muddy boots had alone offended Mme. la Marquise’s aristocratic glance; it seems that there’s something more about my person which hath not found favour in her sight.”

Laurent, at these words, uttered in a husky voice as if the man were choking, broke into a strident laugh, and with uplifted hand he pointed to the crimson ribbon on Ronnay’s blouse.

“Eminently suitable in colour,” he said with a sneer, which suddenly sent the hot blood rushing back to the other’s pale cheeks, “and well chosen by a baseborn adventurer to commemorate all the innocent blood which his treachery and vanity have helped to shed.”

There came a quick flash in de Maurel’s eyes, which the younger man would have been wise to heed. “Hold on, man! hold on!” he said, still speaking slowly and with seeming calm, “ere your profane mouth utter a sacrilege! This ribbon was pinned upon my breast on the glorious field of Austerlitz by the man whose valour and glory have won undying laurels for France—by the patriot who swept the soil of our beautiful country clean from foreign foes ... and whom an adoring nation hath proclaimed its Lord and Emperor.”

Laurent threw back his head, whilst a glance of withering scorn shot from his fine eyes and swept the uncouth figure of his soldier brother.

“Lord and Emperor!” he exclaimed. “Hark at the miserable besotted fool! at the traitor! the regicide! Lord and Emperor forsooth! the base-born son of a vulgar father—a Corsican adventurer and knight of industry, who is clever enough to gull a wretched nation into kissing the rod which God hath devised for its punishment....”

“Silence!” thundered de Maurel, and with a quick movement forward he gripped Laurent by the wrist. “Silence, you dolt! you fool! Another word and I force you down on your knees to crave pardon in your stupid heart for the impious nonsense which your insentient tongue hath uttered. Silence, I say!”

“Silence!” retorted Laurent, who by now had lost complete control over his nerves and whose voice sounded shrill and cracked. “Nay! why should I be silent, when the whole of Europe cries anathema against the usurper? Shame on you, my brother, shame! for parading your own dishonour upon your breast.”

“Dishonour?”

“Aye, dishonour! What else is it, I pray, but the livery of traitors, of regicides and of murderers? Legion of Honour the Corsican has dared to call it—and you, it seems, are one of his Grand-Eagles ... but we who are loyal to France and to our King, we proclaim it the Legion of Dishonour, and you and such as you a herd of devouring vultures. Shed your livery of shame, my brother, ere I smite you with it in the face.”

De Maurel up to now had been perhaps more bewildered than infuriated by the ravings of this young madman; but now, ere he had time to realize what Laurent was doing, and before M. de Courson could interfere, the young Marquis had, with a quick and almost savage gesture, gripped the crimson ribbon on his brother’s breast and torn it violently from the blouse. The next moment he threw it with an exclamation of loathing upon the floor. A cry as of an enraged bull came from de Maurel’s throat, and his two hands—the hard, strong hands of the toiler—fastened themselves like clamps of steel upon the young man’s shoulders.

“On your knees, on your knees, you blasphemous malapert,” he said, as with well-nigh brutal strength he gradually forced Laurent down. “On your knees! You shall lick the dust for this monstrous sacrilege.... Your unhallowed hands shall not touch that sacred badge ... with your lips you shall pick it out of the dust ... you....”

“Let me go!” cried Laurent hoarsely. “Uncle Baudouin, à moi!”

“On your knees!” reiterated de Maurel fiercely.

He was possessed of immense strength. Laurent, despite his every effort to free himself and to remain defiant, felt his knees giving way under him. The pain in his shoulders and his back, caused by that iron grip, turned him sick and faint, whilst M. le Comte’s attempts at interference were obviously of no avail. Insults and protests died upon his lips; he saw the stern, dark face which was bending over him as through a veil of mist ... that mist soon became of a crimson hue ... like blood. Laurent felt all the tumultuous blood of his race rushing through his veins; his head was swimming, his ears buzzing, and he saw red ... a sea of red in front of his eyes. His hand with a last convulsive gesture wandered to his hip, and was buried for a moment under his coat. The next moment it reappeared with a hunting-knife in its grasp.