Читать книгу Sir Isumbras at the Ford - D. K. Broster - Страница 26

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When the Chevalier de la Vireville, wet and draggled from his long ride, flung himself off his horse at the gate, and knocked on the door of the little house at Canterbury, that door was not very speedily opened. Yet the occupants of Rose Cottage were not engaged in anything visibly nefarious: Mme. de Chaulnes was merely copying a paper, in her regular pointed writing, at the table in the little hall, and, after exchanging a glance with her sister-in-law, she quite unhurriedly sanded over what she had written and, putting it away in a drawer, took up some embroidery. Mlle. Angèle, equally unhurried, rose and opened.

So La Vireville saw, through the frame of the door, an idyllic picture of a beautiful and serene old age bent over fine needlework. His mouth tightened a little as he took off his dripping hat to Mlle. de Chaulnes.

"Mesdames will permit that I enter?" he asked in his own tongue.

"If you have business with us, certainly, Monsieur," replied Mlle. Angèle, standing back, and the very steadiness of her tone, its absence of surprise, seemed to hint that she knew what he had come about. He threw a look down the path at his horse, standing, too spent to move, at the gate, and stepped in, uttering apologies for his wet and muddy condition.

"Monsieur appears indeed to have ridden far, and in haste," remarked Mme. de Chaulnes, responding to his salute with an inclination of the head, but still continuing her embroidery. "Pray give yourself the trouble to hang your cloak by the fire. Angèle, perhaps Monsieur will partake of some refreshment?"

But Monsieur declined. "I am in haste, Mesdames. I think you can guess why. I have come, on the part of his grandfather, to take away the little boy whom you have with you—Anne-Hilarion de Flavigny."

Mme. de Chaulnes raised her still beautifully-marked eyebrows. "What a singular hour to arrive, Monsieur! But you are forestalled. The little boy went back with his nurse this afternoon—no, not by the stage-coach, in a postchaise. They must be at Rochester by now; you will have passed them on the road."

The émigré's face grew dark. "Madame, would not truth be better? I am not a very credulous person. It will be quite easy for me to procure a magistrate's warrant against you. I have the written authority of the boy's grandfather."

Mme. de Chaulnes looked at him with a very finished composure. "I am afraid that I do not quite follow you, Monsieur. I have already had the honour to tell you that the child was sent back this afternoon. . . . Ah, I see—you do not believe me! Well, it will no doubt be quite easy to procure a warrant; we are only two women in a strange country; but I think it would advantage you very little, since no amount of search warrants—if that is what you are threatening—will produce what is not there. Pray examine our poor house yourself, if that will give you satisfaction; you are at perfect liberty to do so. Angèle, light a candle and conduct Monsieur."

It was on the tip of La Vireville's tongue to refuse, for he was convinced that the offer would never have been made if the boy were still there. In that respect at least the truth had probably been spoken. But the operation would give him time for thought. "Yes, if you please, I will do so," he said, and while the younger lady lighted a candle, stood silent, looking at the elder, as she calmly threaded a needle. Of how many lives like his had not those fragile old fingers lately held and twisted the thread!

Mlle. Angèle preceded him up the stairs.

"See," she said, throwing open a door, "here is my sister's bedroom; pray do not hesitate to enter! There is a cupboard on that side; he might be hidden there, might he not? Here is my own room; let me light the candles for you. There is no cupboard in this room—one of its disadvantages. And this is the room the child had; as you see, it could hardly be emptier."

The exquisitely-ordered room certainly bore no sign of recent occupation nor of hurried flight. The spotless bed, new clothed, looked as if no one had ever slept therein; every chair was in its place, and the dimity-hung dressing-table, whose glass had reflected—how short a time ago?—Anne's childish countenance, seemed primly to reproach the intruder for his suspicions. Yet a chill despair invaded the Frenchman's heart. All had been indeed well planned!

Mlle. Angèle stood regarding him with a curious smile on her round, comfortable face as he walked mechanically to the bow-window in which, with a little space round it, stood the dressing-table. And La Vireville was there almost a score of seconds, looking down at the polished boards at something half hidden by the folds of dimity, before he realised at what he was staring—at a goldfish slowly swimming round and round in a glass bowl.

He stooped and picked it up, and, without speaking, faced Mlle. de Chaulnes, holding it out a little towards her. Then, still silent, he went past her and downstairs, the glass dangling from his hand, and water and fish swinging violently in their prison. Mme. de Chaulnes was still bent over her needlework as he set his discovery down in front of her.

"A sign of a somewhat hurried departure, Madame, I think," he said quietly. "I conceive the child would hardly be likely to leave this willingly behind, nor would there be any reason why he should—if he were returning to his grandfather's house, as you allege."

"You should be in the secret service, Monsieur,' was all that Mme. de Chaulnes vouchsafed, but she looked at the little captive and compressed her lips.

"Thank you, Madame," retorted the émigré, seating himself at a little distance. "I leave that trade henceforward to your sex. It is only recently that one has become aware of your talents in that direction—talents rather unusual in one of your birth."

The old lady was quite unruffled. "If it is your intention, Monsieur, to remain here to insult us, of course you can do so with impunity. We cannot eject you. Otherwise I would suggest your returning to London, if you wish to see the little boy . . . or else continuing your interrupted journey to Jersey, and relieving the impatience of the Prince de Bouillon."

La Vireville, though he received this stroke with a steady bearing, had nevertheless a somewhat numb sensation, for of course her knowledge of his destination almost certainly meant that Anne had been talking.

"Ah, you know me?" he asked carelessly.

"You could not expect our little visitor to be tongue-tied, especially on a subject so interesting to him as M. le Chevalier de la Vireville."

Probably the worst was coming now. But, at all events, it was something that she should let him see how much she knew.

"Yes," went on Mme. de Chaulnes, "he gave us a very agreeable and lifelike picture of his doings in Cavendish Square, and of his many French friends, so that it was not hard to recognise you, Monsieur . . . Augustin!"

The name was merely breathed. La Vireville was only just able to check an exclamation. Anne had indeed, poor innocent, betrayed him! But how did he know his nom de guerre? Then he remembered that it had been used in the child's presence when he sat on his lap that night in Mr. Elphinstone's dining-room. . . . Well, it was his own doing, for it was he who had retained him there. Perhaps it did not very much matter after all; it was quite conceivable that these old plotters, with the sources of information which had in the past been only too open to them, had found out his identity by other means. But, remembering that meeting, a very disquieting fear suddenly came over him. How much of another matter had Anne heard and understood?

Mme. de Chaulnes looked at his face and openly laughed.

"You are wondering. M. le Chevalier . . . M. Augustin—which do you prefer?—how much the child remembered of the conversation you held about the proposed Government expedition? But, you see, we know all about that—from other sources. Only the place—the suggested place of landing. . . . Unfortunately, Anne was not able at first to recall the name."

"Why do you say 'at first'?" broke in La Vireville.

"Because it is the truth. By now he may have remembered."

"Where is he?" demanded the Chouan, who was holding himself in with difficulty.

Mme. de Chaulnes shrugged her shoulders. "I have told you. Somewhere between here and Rochester."

"Madame, you are lying!" said La Vireville. "Between here and Paris would be nearer the mark. You have sent him over to France because you think he knows a thing which, if he did know it, is not of the slightest importance."

"Your assurance on that point, Monsieur, is naturally most valuable! What he told us about yourself, for instance, was of so little moment, was it not?"

"Of very little," returned La Vireville hardily. "You probably knew it already. . . . Come, Madame, let us play with our cards on the table. I know yours, even if you do not display them, and you, I fancy, know mine now. Do not think to keep up any longer this farce of having sent the child home. You have shipped him over to France. God knows of what use the revelations of a child of five or six can be to the Committee of Public Safety, even if he do reveal anything to them, and that I am certain he would never do unless he were tricked into it, as you tricked him."

"Ah, Monsieur," said the old lady, smiling, "you speak as a man, and a strong man. It is not so difficult to make a small boy speak—or remember!"

A thrill of fear and abhorrence ran down La Vireville's spine, and he drew back from the table on which he was leaning.

"No, no!" said Mme. de Chaulnes, putting up a delicate mittened hand. "No, nothing of that sort was necessary. Angèle here can testify to that. We were old friends of his father's, devoted Royalists—what need for more? But if he were obstinate, I could not answer . . ."

The mask was off now. They had sent him to France, then.

"Madame, where is he?" asked La Vireville sternly. "It is I who can put force in motion here, remember!"

"You threaten us with those same repugnant methods, then, Monsieur?"

"God forbid! I merely want to come to terms. If the child has already reached France——"

"Then neither you, Monsieur, whatever power you may command here, nor his grandfather, nor all the magistrates' warrants in England will get him out again—no, not the whole British Army!"

La Vireville made no reply to this unpleasant truth. "What I cannot understand," he said, "is your motive for sending him there—unless it be sheer cruelty. You cannot seriously regard him as a source of information; moreover, you have, apparently, already pumped him dry."

Mme. de Chaulnes smiled a little. "He is an intelligent child, and an attractive. His father no doubt adores him—motherless only son as he is."

And on that, in a flash, La Vireville saw the whole thing. They were going to use Anne as a bait. They hoped his father, that adversary of parts, would follow him into the jaws of destruction.

"As you are no doubt aware," he said slowly, "the Marquis de Flavigny is little likely to hear of his son's kidnapping for some time to come. Your acquaintance, however procured, with the family affairs will tell you that he is not in England at present."

"Measures will be taken to inform him during the course of his travels on the Continent," replied Mme. de Chaulnes with calm. "If the information does not reach him, well——"

She left the sentence unfinished, her needle pursuing its unfaltering course. La Vireville watched it, his brain busy with all sorts of desperate schemes.

"I have almost the feelings of a father for Anne myself," he remarked at length.

"That is most creditable to you, Monsieur."

"Would it not be possible for me to play the part designed for the Marquis de Flavigny, or is he irreplaceable?"

Mme. de Chaulnes put down her needle and looked her compatriot in the face. In those old clear eyes, wells of falsehood, he could read nothing save an implacable will.

"You would do . . . better," she said.

"Faith, I am flattered!" cried La Vireville gaily, though, to tell the truth, he felt a little cold. "Will you instruct me how to play the part?"

"It is simple. Fired with this quasi-paternal anxiety, you go to France after the child and attempt to recover him."

The Chevalier de la Vireville laughed. "A fine 'attempt'! Do you think, Madame, that I am fool enough to venture my head for no better a chance than that? After all, I am not his father."

"No," said Mme. de Chaulnes cooly, "naturally you could never recover him that way. But, of course, there is another method."

"You mean . . . exchange?"

"Precisely."

There was a pregnant silence. The goldfish suddenly ceased swimming, and gaped at the Frenchman through its prison walls.

"But you are not his father, one sees," resumed the old lady, and took up her embroidery again. "So why consider it? He will forget England and his surroundings—in time. I do not suppose he will be unkindly used; someone will probably adopt him and bring him up to a useful trade."

"Some foster-father like Simon, no doubt," commented the émigré bitterly. In his mind was the little prisoner of the Temple, so soon, had La Vireville known it, to be free of his captivity for ever. The thought of that martyred innocence pierced him as nothing else could have done, and he went straight to the point. "How could I possible have any guarantee that, if I gave myself up, the bargain would be respected, and the boy sent back unharmed?"

For the second time the old lady looked at him long and steadily. Then she opened a drawer in the table and took out a paper which she laid before him.

"That has been arranged for," said she. "Here is the child's passport out of France all ready. You have only to convey it to him."

"Parbleu!" exclaimed the émigré, "this has all been very prettily planned! I can scarcely flatter myself that it was entirely for my benefit, since it was by mere chance that I came upon this errand."

Again Mme. de Chaulnes smiled that wintry smile. "Do not seek to probe too deeply, Monsieur. Yet, since you spoke of playing with the cards on the table, the Convention would, perhaps, rather see your band of Chouans leaderless, Monsieur Augustin, than possess themselves of the person of M. de Flavigny, who, after all, has no such forces at his disposal. 'Tout étant fait pour une fin, tout est nécessairement pour la meilleure fin.' You know your Candide, no doubt. . . . But to return to business. Does this safe-conduct convince you?"

"Only tolerably," answered La Vireville, as he examined it. "It would convey to me much more conviction if there were ever any chance of its reaching the child. You know as well as I, Madame, that I should be apprehended as an émigré the moment I set foot at Calais or Boulogne. No doubt that would suit the Convention just as well—better, in fact—but you can scarce expect it to make much appeal to me. I shall never have a second head; I do not propose to make those gentlemen a present of it for nothing. I also must have some kind of a safe-conduct, to protect me till my business is done."

"Really, Monsieur Augustin, you are very exacting," observed Mme. de Chaulnes. "Yet there is sense in what you say."

"I dare say that you, in your providence, have already such a safe-conduct made out for me?" hazarded he.

"Not altogether fully," said his adversary, and again she put her hand into the drawer. "It is blank, for we did not know who might be fired by the idea of rescue—though, to tell the truth, from what the boy said of your relations with him, we began to hope that we might have the pleasure of seeing you. . . . Shall we fill it in?"

La Vireville looked at her steadily as she faced him, the embroidery still in one frail, blue-veined hand, mockery round her mouth. It was sheer insanity. He had no right to do it, for he knew his life to be a hundred times more valuable than a child's happiness. He could be very ill-spared in Northern Brittany, in Jersey. . . . And though his real intention was not merely to cross the Channel and deliver himself up as a hostage, but by hook or by crook to get Anne out of France and himself into the bargain, the chances were quite fifty to one against his succeeding, and he knew it. It was just the knowledge that he was acting against all the canons of common sense and perhaps even of duty that decided La Vireville—that, and an intolerable picture of a little boy who had never known an unkind word being "brought up to some useful trade."

He nodded. "Yes, if you please."

"Angèle, ma chérie," said Mme. de Chaulnes, putting down the embroidery, "you can pen M. le Chevalier's description better than I. Have the goodness, Monsieur, to tell my sister your height and your age; the rest she can see for herself."

Mlle Angèle got pen and ink, while La Vireville, not unamused, gave her the required information. Then, looking up at him from time to time as he sat there, she wrote much more, and he knew that such a description of his personal appearance, drawn from the life, must almost inevitably, in the end, be his ruin, for in sitting for his own portrait he was also sitting for that of 'Monsieur Augustin.' And he wondered whether the picture now taking shape under her pen were flattering or the reverse. Some of the Government 'signalements' which he had seen posted up in Brittany were remarkable for their fidelity to detail. . . . At any rate, he was not forced to reveal to this artist, now accumulating unimpeachable material, what other scars he carried besides that, only too obvious, on his cheek.

"It will be best, Angèle," said Mme. de Chaulnes as the writer finished, "to put, not Monsieur's name, which for this purpose he might find inconvenient, but 'the person recommended by' and then the cypher signature. It will be best also to fill in the route to be taken, lest a fancy should seize Monsieur Augustin to go by way of Brittany, for example."

The émigré was about to protest, when it occurred to him that she might conceivably indicate the same route as that taken by Anne and his escort, which it would be a great convenience to know, since his mind was entirely set on overtaking them before they got to Paris. It need hardly be said that he had no intention of putting foot in that city if he could possibly avoid it.

Mlle. de Chaulnes passed the document to her sister-in-law, who read it through carefully.

"Excellent," she said. "I fear, M. Augustin, that you will not henceforward derive much immunity from the inaccuracy of the Convention's previous description of your person. You have taken a copy, Angèle?"

"Yes," said the younger lady.

Mme. de Chaulnes folded the passport, and gave it, together with Anne-Hilarion's safe-conduct back to England, to the prospective rescuer. "Voilà, Monsieur!" she said. "Take that to the Committee of Public Safety and you will find that it will do what you wish for the child. You need have no fear that it will not, for the Committee is something in our debt. But I take leave to doubt if your intentions are quite as heroic as they appear."

"I lay claim to no heroism of any kind," said La Vireville shortly, and, putting the papers in his breast, he took up his wet cloak.

Mme. de Chaulnes meanwhile had, for the first time, got to her feet, and stood leaning upon her stick. "Of course, M. le Chevalier, you do not think we are so blind as not to know what you mean to do. But, believe me, you will never be able to do it. For one thing, you will not be able to overtake them before Paris. They have twenty-four hours' start of you."

"Madame," retorted Fortuné de la Vireville, his hand on the latch of the door, "some have thought that children are peculiarly the objects of angelic protection. We shall see about that twenty-four hours' start!"

As he shut the door he was aware of a little laugh, and the words, in a voice of mock surprise, "Monsieur est donc dévot?"

Dévot indeed La Vireville was not, and no real confidence in celestial intervention, but wrath and dismay filled his heart as he rode off in the rain and the darkness. But it was not in him to show other than a bold front to an enemy, whatever his secret apprehensions. It was not very likely that he would be able to get the boy out of the hands of his captors without, himself, paying the ultimate penalty. Still, there was a chance, and he meant to stake everything upon it. Only, as he hastened to the Rose and Crown to change his horse, it occurred to him most unpleasantly that perhaps he was being utterly duped; that Anne-Hilarion had, perhaps, never been taken to France after all, and that he was going to put his head into the lion's mouth for nothing. And he cursed the maddening uncertainty of the whole affair, where the only fact that stood out with real clearness was the jeopardy in which he was about to place his own neck.

In the midst of the business of hiring another horse, he suddenly remembered Elspeth, and wondered that he had not thought of her before. She must know something. But where was she? Had they shipped her off too? It seemed unlikely—yet equally unlikely was it that they had either left her free to hurry back to London with her tale, or had made away with her. They had probably arranged for a temporary disappearance. If he looked for her he would waste the time on which so much depended, and even if he found her she would not, probably, be able to tell him a great deal. And so La Vireville, whose life of late years had taught him the faculty of quick decision, resolved not to pursue that trail.

He wrote at the inn a letter to Mr. Elphinstone, explaining what he was about to do, made arrangements for it to be taken by special messenger to London, and, in a quarter of an hour or so, on a fresh horse, was galloping through the rainy night along the Dover road.