Читать книгу Sir Isumbras at the Ford - D. K. Broster - Страница 8

But on the dining-room wall it was Janet Elphinstone, a fair-haired child of ten, in a long white dress girt with a blue sash, her arm over the neck of a deerhound, who looked down at the guests assembled round her father's table. Not one was of her own nationality, for Mr. Elphinstone himself had withdrawn after supper, following his custom on similar occasions, and was by now very tolerably engrossed, as usual, with his memoirs. His national shrewdness made him perfectly aware that some of his friends, and probably all of his domestics except Baptiste, esteemed that in his unfailing hospitality to his son-in-law's unfortunate compatriots he was allowing himself to be victimised by a pack of starveling adventurers, as he had once heard them called; but he considered that his conduct in this regard was no one's affair but his own, and for several of the Marquis's friends he had a great respect—they bore misfortune so gallantly. So he scratched away contentedly in the library, while in the dining-room René talked to his companions.

For though it was not primarily the personal attraction of the Marquis de Flavigny which bound together this evening's visitors, but rather devotion to a common cause, they were all his friends, from the old Abbé with the kindly, humorous mouth and the snuffy rabat to the tall, lean man with a scar on his cheek who, at the end of the table, was lazily drawing devices on a map spread before him on the mahogany, among the empty glasses. They were talking of the intrigues and counter-intrigues which ate like a canker into the heart of the Royalist cause, dividing that never very stable house against itself, setting the party of the Comte de Provence against that of his younger brother, the Comte d'Artois, and filling the clear-minded or the generous with mingled sorrow and disgust.

"I declare," said the gentleman with the scar at the end of the table, without lifting his eyes from his occupation, "that the behaviour of the Abbé Brottier, when I think of it, renders me the prey of indigestion. So I try not to think of it."

"Perhaps you remember, my son," interposed the old priest, "what Cardinal Maury is reported to have said of him—that he would bring disunion into the very host of heaven. And we émigrés, alas, are not angels."

"M. de la Vireville's disgust is natural," observed a middle-aged, thin-featured man on the other side of the Abbé. "I have no doubt he finds the atmosphere of London stifling, and is longing to be back in the broom of Brittany with his Chouans."

"It is my desire, de Soucy," confessed he with the map, briefly. "But even there one is not safe from the meddling of that intriguer and the agence de Paris. However, this does seem a chance of moving, for once, without it, for I understand you to say, René, that Mr. Windham seriously suggests your going personally to Verona to see the Regent?"

"He thinks it advisable," answered de Flavigny. "For my part, I would much rather not put my finger between the trunk and the bark, but it has been quite clear since last November that the agence de Paris is trying to get Spanish help instead of accepting that of England, and therefore someone not under the Abbé Brottier's influence ought to lay before the Comte de Provence what the English Government is inclined to do for us—and lay it before him directly, without the intervention of the Duc de la Vauguyon, who, as you know, is also a partisan of Madrid. Let me read to you, if I may, the notes of my conversation with Mr. Windham this morning."

He began to read out what had passed between him and that cultured, high-minded English gentleman, now Secretary for War, to whom the French émigrés in general owed so much. But he had not proceeded very far before the Chevalier de la Vireville, his bright, bold eyes fixed attentively on him, gave an exclamation:

"Messieurs, a new recruit! Welcome, small conspirator! Come in—but shut the door!"

And all the rest turned on the instant to look at the little figure, clad only in a nightshirt, which was visible in the doorway, behind René de Flavigny's back.

"Anne!" exclaimed the latter. "Whatever are you doing here—and in that costume!"

A trifle daunted, the child hung back, clutching the door handle, though he knew all the company, and one of them—he who had hailed him—had his especial favour. Then he made a dash for his father.

"Papa," he burst out, clinging to him, "do not go to Noroway-over-the-foam! You know what it says, how the feather-beds floated about in the waves, and they lost their shoes, and the sea came in, and they were all drowned fifty fathoms deep!"

"My child," said the young man gently, putting his arm round him, "what on earth are you talking about? I think you must be walking in your sleep. Nobody is going to Noroway, so nobody will be drowned. And you must not interrupt these gentlemen. You see, we are busy. You must go back to bed, my little one. La Vireville, have the goodness to ring the bell, will you?"

The tall Chouan leader rose at once from his place, but, instead of obeying, he snatched the cloth off a neighbouring table, and in a moment had picked up the intruder and enveloped him in it. "Bed is not recommended, I think, René, for this parishioner. We cannot, however, have such a sans-culotte amongst us. That lack being remedied, I fancy we shall sleep more comfortably here, don't you, Anne?" And he was back in his place, the boy, wrapped in the red and black tablecloth, on his knee, before even paternal authority could object.

"I am sure that is the best solution," said the old Abbé, smiling at the child over his glasses. "Pray proceed, Marquis."

So René de Flavigny finished his notes, and looked round for opinions, while his son whispered to the Chevalier de la Vireville, "Where is Verona? Could it be fifty fathoms deep there?" And the Chouan said softly, "No, foolish one, for it is nowhere near the sea, and all this talk only means that Papa is going to Italy to see the Regent, who is a stout, middle-aged gentleman, and not a king's daughter, so you need not be frightened."

"I am of Mr. Windham's opinion," the Vicomte de Soucy was meanwhile saying; "and I verily believe that he has our interests at heart, probably more than Mr. Pitt, certainly more than Mr. Dundas. If the British Government really means seriously to support an expedition to France, the Regent should be sounded."

"How much does the Duc d'Harcourt know of the Government's dispositions?" asked someone, referring to the Regent's accredited representative in London.

De Flavigny shook his head. "I do not know."

"In any case you must disregard him—go behind him, in fact," observed the Chevalier de la Vireville, settling Anne-Hilarion in his arms.

"I suppose so," said de Flavigny, with an expression of distaste, for he did not like the task, as he had said.

"And Monseigneur le Comte d'Artois?" asked the Abbé.

"Of course the Government will acquaint him in good time. Almost certainly His Royal Highness will wish to lead the expedition. But since he is so near, at Bremen or thereabouts, there will be little difficulty in personal communication with him later, if this project of the Government comes to anything."

"As no doubt it will not," observed La Vireville sceptically.

"If ever it did, Monsieur Augustin," remarked M. de Soucy, with an emphasis on the name, "it would concern you very much, I imagine. For if, as seems natural, it took place in the West, you could join it with your Chouans, while we, though we should bring our swords, could bring nothing else."

La Vireville nodded.

"It goes without question," said a voice, "that any expeditionary force should be landed in the West; the question is, Where?"

"A port would be needed, of course," said de Flavigny, "and the port would be best as near M. de Charette as possible, if not actually in Vendée."

"If the country south of the Loire is suggested," objected La Vireville, "the expedition will not have any support to speak of from the Chouans. I know the Breton; he will not willingly leave his province, even his corner of it. It will be as much as we can do to induce those of Northern Brittany to go to South Brittany, supposing, for instance, a landing were effected in the Morbihan, as being near Vendée."

"It was the Morbihan that Mr. Windham had in his mind, I think," said the Marquis de Flavigny. "He had even thought of a place, but he said that if it was finally decided upon, it would have, of course, to be kept secret till the last moment."

"And what was the place?"

René de Flavigny lowered his voice. "Quiberon Bay."

"Not a name of good omen to a Frenchman," observed the Abbé, thinking of Hawke's victory of nearly half a century ago.

"Where exactly is Quiberon Bay?" inquired M. de Soucy, who was of Lorraine.

The Chevalier de la Vireville pushed the map of Brittany towards him, putting his finger on a long, thin tongue of land at the bottom. "Permit me to observe, Messieurs," he said, "that we are wandering from the immediate question, which is, Verona or not Verona? I cannot see that to approach the Regent can do harm, and so long as I myself," he smiled, "am not required to undertake diplomatic service, I am more than willing to push a friend into it. If it be conceded that one of us should go, then I think that de Flavigny is the person. He has rank, something of diplomatic training in the past, and—though I say it to his face—an address likely to commend itself to Monseigneur. Then, too, René, you were in his household in old days, were you not?"

"I was one of his pages," assented the Marquis. "Well, gentlemen, if you wish it, I will go to Verona, and, I suppose, the sooner the better. Will you drink a glass of wine to my mission? Surely, Fortuné, that child is a nuisance, and must be asleep by now?"

For Anne-Hilarion, huddled in the tablecloth, was lying as still as a dormouse, and no longer sitting upright against his friend's breast, trying to follow the conversation.

"I will take him to bed," announced the émigré, without giving an opinion on the Comte de Flavigny's condition. "You permit, René?"