Читать книгу A Fire of Driftwood: A Collection of Short Stories (D. K. Broster) (Literary Thoughts Edition) - D. K. Broster - Страница 11

II

That evening the cottage had been full of the whirr of the spinning-wheel. A woman had as well work when she is anxious and cannot sleep, though by nine o’clock one must have the luxury of a light. So the room was lit by two smoky rushlights and also, a painter might perhaps have said, by Marie le Guerric’s golden head, bent over the embroidery of a man’s vest. Opposite to her, on the other side of the open hearth, in front of the lit clos which raised its panels to the blackened rafters, sat her grandmother with the wheel. But the wheel had stopped.

“Have you finished, grand’mère?”

“I thought I heard thy grandfather’s step,” answered the old woman a little tremulously.

Her dead son’s child laid down the vest. “I heard nothing,” she said, surprised. “How could you hear, grand’mère, with the wheel going and your deaf ear?”

The old woman smiled wisely, still listening, and made no answer.

“I thought I heard firing this afternoon in the direction of Le Daouët,” observed the girl, breaking the silence. “It is a week now since my grandfather went away with M. le Comte. Perhaps. . . . Ah! I hear something now!”

The unmistakable step outside was followed by a heavy kick at the door.

“Open, Catherine! It is I – thy husband!”

Madame le Guerric, little and active, ran and pulled the bolt. She gave a cry.

“Yves! what hast thou there?”

“M. le Comte,” said her husband succinctly. “Shut the door quickly. And thou, Marie, is the bed ready? . . . No, we cannot see there.”

He stumbled forward into the light. Marie had flown to push back the sliding panel of the lit clos, and now stood irresolute, looking at her grandfather, and the slim relaxed body in his arms, with its upturned face streaked by dry red rivulets, and its black hair falling loose from under the stained bandage.

“He is dead!” exclaimed Madame le Guerric, crossing herself. “The saints receive his soul!”

Yves took no notice, but stood as if unconscious of fatigue, with his motionless burden clasped closely to his breast, and his eyes roving round the little room.

“Put a pillow on the floor in front of the hearth, Marie,” he said at last. “I will lay him there for the present. Get some water, Catherine, and bandages – and scissors.”

The girl put her arm into the lit clos, and pulling out a pillow did as she was bid. Yves laid his foster-son tenderly down in front of the fire, and kneeling beside him settled the languid head on the pillow. Madame le Guerric knelt on the other side and held the bowl of water. Marie stood motionless by the bed. With two women there, it was the old man who tended the hurt. It was his right. He washed away the mask of blood, and with immeasurable carefulness unwound the white and crimson scarf.

“I can’t see,” he muttered. “Marie, get a candle, and hold it for me. . . . This must be cut off.” He put gently aside a lock of stiffened hair; the scissors went through it, and he bent closer. “Blessed St. Yves! The bullet has only glanced off!”

His hands suddenly shook violently. Madame le Guerric uttered praises to the Queen of Heaven, but the girl Marie, holding the candle, had eyes or thought for nothing but the alabaster face at her feet. Her grandfather bent and kissed it.

“My Hervé! My dear son! I knew it could not be. . . . The linen, Catherine!” As his wife folded and cut he sat back on his heels, gazing in a passion of love and relief at the beloved visage. Then, while Madame le Guerric raised the young man’s head, he wound the bandage gently round it, and having finished, crossed himself.

“Put back the candle, child,” said the old woman. “Go and say thy prayer, and thy grandfather and I will get Monsieur le Comte to bed.”

When Marie came back a little later, timidly, to ask if there were anything she could do, Yves and Catherine, conversing in whispers, were sitting on the settle by the fire. The old man had a bowl of soup on his knees, but every moment his eyes strayed to the lit clos. When he saw his grand-daughter he beckoned to her.

“Is it not an honour, little one, to have l’Invincible under our roof? And hast thou thanked the saints, Marie, who turned aside the bullet?”

“I have thanked Ste Anne and Ste Barbe for Monsieur le Comte’s life,” answered the young girl gravely.

The old man kissed her. “Go to bed, then, my darling. Thy grandmother and I will watch to-night.”

Marie kissed Madame le Guerric and turned to go; but as she went she stooped quickly and picked up something from the floor of beaten earth. It was a long lock of black hair. One end was stiff with dried blood, the other curled loosely over the edge of her palm, as, clutching it tightly, she went out of the room.