Читать книгу A Fire of Driftwood: A Collection of Short Stories (D. K. Broster) (Literary Thoughts Edition) - D. K. Broster - Страница 15

VI

There still runs a tale in the Baud district concerning the exploit of Yves le Guerric of St. Nicholas and Jean-Marie, his nephew; how they posted themselves with fifteen picked men one night on the Auray road where it runs narrowing through the forest of Camors; how they set upon a body of dragoons which presently came along, the leading horses whereof fell incontinently into a trench which Yves had caused to be dug in the sand and covered over with pine-branches; and how Yves and his men thereupon plucked that famous leader l’Invincible from the closed carriage where he sat fettered in the middle of the escort, opposite a Republican officer with a drawn sword. . . .

It is legend now; it was a fact, and a somewhat bloody one, on that June night of 1795. Out on the narrow road, a quarter of an hour afterwards, a flying moon lit carelessly the scene of the struggle, showing for a moment or two the black bulk of the overturned carriage, with the dead officer lying beside it, in the midst of a huddle of slaughtered horses and men. In the wood it filtered through the pine stems to silver the stern and exultant faces of the Bretons, as they gazed silently at l’Invincible, where he stood and read, by the light of a torch, the letter which Yves had just delivered to him. There was blood on Hervé’s clothes, but it was not his own.

“How far is the château de Kermelven from here?” he asked suddenly, folding up the letter.

“About nine miles north-east of Locminé,” replied his foster-father, devouring him with his eyes. “Are we to go there now, Monsieur Hervé?”

“This is to warn me to be there the day after to-morrow to meet two ladies bearing an important communication from the Regent. I shall want sufficient men to prevent a surprise.”

“You shall have them, Monsieur Hervé,” said Yves. “There is plenty of time.” He hesitated a moment, fumbling in his pocket. “I hope you will pardon me, Monsieur le Comte,” he continued in an apologetic tone, “ – and do not stay to read it now – but here is another letter that I promised to give you. It is from my grand-daughter. The poor child is very unhappy. It seems that the little medal which she gave you at parting, when it was taken from you by the Blues, was passed round until it came into the hands of a young man of Pontivy in the battalion, Jean Delorme, who once courted my grand-daughter, and he recognised it as hers. The little one says he has told her that he intends to kill you – and she says it is her fault for giving you the medal. . . . You will pardon the poor child, will you not, for troubling you?”

Saint-Armel took the letter, a little amused. “A good many people have sworn to kill me, Yves,” he said carelessly, putting it in his pocket, “ – among others the unfortunate gentleman now lying in the road. But I have you to thank that he did not succeed, have I not?” He gave the old man a little smile, and turning away began issuing rapid orders in Breton.

It was not until later that night, as he lay among his followers in the heart of the forest, that Saint-Armel bethought him of the letter, and raising himself on his elbow he struck a light and read it.

Monsieur le Comte,

My grandfather will have told you of the misfortune which has befallen, and how Jean Delorme knew the little medal which I so foolishly pressed Monsieur le Comte to accept. But there is a worse thing, which I have not told my grandfather; and I pray Monsieur le Comte to have pity on a poor girl, and to forget it. But it must be told that he may beware of Jean Delorme. When the soldiers came to look for Monsieur le Comte after he had left our cottage, they found in my room a lock of hair that had been cut from his head when my grandfather dressed his wound, and Jean Delorme came to know of this too, and he thought that Monsieur le Comte had given it to me. . . . I cannot sleep for thinking of what I have done. . . .

The lines of l’Invincible’s face softened for a moment.

“Poor child!” he said, musing. That furious young grenadier, then, at his capture, must have been Jean Delorme. He put away the pitiful little missive, and fell to studying a map of the road to Kermelven.