Читать книгу A Fire of Driftwood - D. K. Broster - Страница 13

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“Marie!”

“Monsieur le Comte?”

“Bring me my clothes, my child. I am going to get up and go out.”

What Yves had told his nephew about his foster-son was true enough. Hervé de Saint-Armel had been an élégant whose chief occupation in life had been doing nothing, and who had shown his individuality only in his graceful and distinguished manner of doing it. The Saint-Armel who had emigrated in 1791 had been a young man of great charm of manner, of rather frail health, polished, nonchalant and disillusioned. But this was not the Saint-Armel who for months had led in a lost cause the Chouans of Hennebont and others whom his brilliant courage and good fortune had attracted to him. The Saint-Armel whom his Bretons called l’Invincible was a very flame of war, an embodiment of its intensest spirit, a fighter whom no odds could turn aside, a leader as reckless of his own person as La Haye St-Hilaire, as fortunate as Aimé du Boisguy, with Cadoudal’s hold on his followers and all his power of making himself obeyed. He knew neither hesitation nor regret, and spared his Chouans as little as himself. In that characteristic, perhaps, lay his magnetism for these men of his own blood, capable as they were of an almost fanatical devotion. A word would send any one of them to certain death. And for this leader raised up to it the Royalist cause in the western Morbihan had to thank a woman loved and lost, herself the soul of passionate loyalty, who did not know what she had done, and whose motive hand no one saw....

“Monsieur le Comte,” said Marie, appearing at the side of the bed, “you are not well enough to get up!” Her voice strove between timidity and remonstrance.

“Si!” said Saint-Armel, smiling. “It will do me good. Hasten now, child, so that I may take a walk before the sun is too hot.”

She went, and beneath the bandage l’Invincible’s brow was drawn into a frown. A conversation between Yves and his nephew which he had overheard an hour ago had told him of the peril in which they all lay. The Blues from Pontivy were out in force to search for the leader whose exploits were daily becoming more intolerable. It was said that imperative orders had come from Paris to take him, dead or alive, in the highly reasonable expectation that his personal removal would effect all that encounters with him had failed to bring about. Half-asleep, Hervé had heard this inspiriting news being imparted to Jean-Marie, who had subsequently been sent out on to the hill-side to keep watch. Madame le Guerric, too, had been despatched on an errand. The wounded man, who was supposed to be ignorant of the whole affair, knew very well why. If he were found under Yves’ roof the consequences for the whole family would be practically the same as for himself. But Yves would never let him leave it in his present condition; he would rather immolate his whole household, if immolation had to be. Therefore Saint-Armel, feigning ignorance, lay still and watched his opportunity; and at last it had come. Yves and his musket had departed a few minutes ago, on some errand. Hervé was no sentimentalist, but there was only one thing to do.

He dragged himself up in the bed, and clasped his swimming head. Under the force of his tenacious will the room steadied itself with surprising quickness. He dropped his hands swiftly as Marie came in and deposited some clothes on a bench.

“There was blood on your coat and your shirt, Monsieur le Comte,” she said. “I have got a shirt of my uncle’s and his best coat—they are not fit for Monsieur, but——”

Saint-Armel was by no means anxious to make his escape bearing the incriminating signs of conflict. “Excellent,” he said cheerfully. “If there was any money in my pockets, give it to me. And you might cut me some bread, Marie.”

“But Monsieur Hervé will not attempt to go far?” asked Marie anxiously.

“You are becoming a tyrant now that you are in sole charge,” was Saint-Armel’s light reply. “By the way, where are Jean-Marie and Yves—did I hear them say that they were going out? And your grandmother, too, is she out?”

The poor girl flushed and then turned pale. “They—my grandfather said—yes, they are out ... my uncle and my grandfather are on the hill-side ... in case of any danger....” Unconsciously she looked at him as if imploring him not to press her any further, and it was perfectly clear to Hervé that she knew what was threatening and had been forbidden to tell him.

“I see,” he said carelessly. “Well, perhaps I may join them.” But it was the last thing that he meant to do.

Marie gone, he struggled out of bed, and, unsteadily enough, dressed himself in Jean-Marie’s clothes, took a turn or two about the floor to try his legs, and called for the girl again. She came, looking at him with a vague reproach in her dreamy eyes.

“My pistols, child. Had I a sword when Yves brought me here?”

“No, Monsieur,” replied the girl, as she fetched the pistols from the press.

“N’importe. Thank you. Now, shall I take off this bandage?”

“Oh, why, Monsieur le Comte?”

“It is hot,” replied Hervé, who did not wish to tell her that he half feared to be recognised by its presence. He put up his hands. “How is it fastened?”

“Oh, don’t take it off, Monsieur Hervé!” pleaded Marie. “That is dangerous. See then, I will unfasten it a little and look at the wound, and if it is well enough I will take it off.”

“That would be kind,” said the young man, with a smile, and straightway sat down on the settle. Marie’s fingers fluttered round his brow, but he was not thinking of them. He was engaged in calculations of distances.

“Monsieur Hervé,” reported Marie at length, “if I try to take off the linen the wound will bleed again. You must keep it on.”

“Very well,” said l’Invincible, who rarely wasted words on a hopeless situation. “Thank you, my child. Can you find me a hat of Jean-Marie’s, too?”

She ran to a peg and handed him an old one of her uncle’s—the ordinary Breton hat with wide brim and pendant ribbons. Saint-Armel put it on.

“That hides the bandage, does it not? Now, if anyone asks you whether I have been here, and you should tell them ‘No,’ I think you would be absolved for the lie.—Good-bye, Marie.” He put out his hand; the thought of thanks had entered neither his mind nor hers.

“Monsieur Hervé,” said the girl in a voice of agony, clasping her hands together, “you are going into danger. I will pray for you. But take this medal, too ... it is Notre Dame du Folgoët....” Unable to say more she put into his outstretched hand a little cheap medal attached to a ribbon. Hervé looked at it a moment and slipped it into his pocket.

“Thank you, Marie,” he said gravely. “I will wear it; and I hope that the saints will hear your prayers. Good-bye.” He took off his hat, drew her gently to him and kissed her on the cheek—a cold, kind kiss. The next moment he was gone.