Читать книгу A Fire of Driftwood - D. K. Broster - Страница 20

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In the little chapel of the château, with candles at his head and feet, his hands crossed over his broken sword, and two great June roses hiding the wound in his breast, Hervé de Saint-Armel lay under the flag of France. Yves le Guerric, his head fallen forward on the fleur-de-lis, and his hands clasped together over his rosary, was kneeling by him when Armande de Bellegarde came softly in, and, looking long at the dead face, stooped and kissed it.

“Yves,” she said gently, “do you know the story of the Inn of the Sword?”

Le Guerric raised his ravaged old countenance, and looked at her across the pall of white and gold.

“Were you the lady?” was all his answer.

“Yes,” said Armande, “and this is the Inn of the Sword. The sword is the device of the house.”

“I did not know it,” said Yves fiercely. “Should he have come here had I known? ... And it was you that brought him here!” he added, with a hushed and savage vehemence.

Madame de Bellegarde took no notice. “See, Yves,” she said, more gently still, “here are two roses, and when they bury him to-morrow we will each take one, because we loved him best, and because we are both glad that he sleeps so well at the Inn of the Sword, under the Lilies. ... You are not sorry, are you, Yves?”

But Yves, instead of answering the beautiful poignant voice, broke into a storm of sobbing.