Читать книгу A Fire of Driftwood: A Collection of Short Stories (D. K. Broster) (Literary Thoughts Edition) - D. K. Broster - Страница 16

VII

The little towers of the château de Kermelven, when they came in sight two days later, showed dark against a flaming sunset sky. As Saint-Armel rode slowly at the head of his men – two hundred strong – up the over-grown avenue, he was surprised to find how quickly Nature resumes her sway over the deserted outposts of man. The château had been uninhabited but a few years, yet its surrounding trees seemed already nothing but the outermost waves of the great neighbouring forest sea, the sweep of drive before the façade was green with weeds, and grass pushed triumphant fingers between the stones of the perron. The house itself, a pleasant-looking building of no great antiquity, had suffered less than its surroundings, though much of the glass in its shuttered windows was broken, and the stone escutcheon over the entrance had been defaced. To Saint-Armel’s knowledge the château had more than once served as a convenient secret rendezvous, its position and its deserted state alike favouring the choice, but he had never seen it before, and could only hope that the fair Royalists whom it harboured were not too uncomfortably lodged. The sex of the chosen messengers caused him little surprise, and it was as much in deference to the source of their orders as to the ladies themselves that he had abandoned his Breton dress for the close-fitting uniform of green and black which marked the Royalist and the émigré.

Since his scouts had already searched the vicinity of the château, and he had made his dispositions, Hervé, when he dismounted at the foot of the steps, had but a few orders to give. He went up unaccompanied to the barred door. At the top of the perron, however, he turned and watched the Bretons filing silently off to right and left. Jean-Marie only stood like a faithful dog at the bottom of the steps, and the young man smiled to himself, for he knew that Yves in his suspicious soul was still half fearful of a trap. But he preferred to enter alone, and tapped unhesitatingly on the great door with his sword-hilt.

A grille slid instantly back.

“The counter-sign?” said a man’s voice.

“Saint Louis,” replied l’Invincible, and the door swung open.

At the foot of the dusty staircase which swept up from the unfurnished hall stood a lady no longer young, but with very bright eyes under her plentiful grey hair. A glance showed Hervé that she was a woman of the great world, and as he went forward, a slim and gallant figure, his bearing took on insensibly more of the courtier than of the Chouan leader. The lady smiled as he bent his handsome head over her hand.

“So you are l’Invincible, the never beaten,” she said gaily. “I protest I am honoured to meet you, Monsieur. I am Clarise de Rocquigny, very much at your service.”

Saint-Armel bowed low to her ceremonious curtsey.

“I think I once had the honour of meeting you in Paris, Marquise,” he said, “but I am ashamed to say that I cannot remember where. – Shall we talk by the fire?”

“I have a worse confession to make,” observed Madame de Rocquigny as he led her towards the great fireplace, where a somewhat smoky fire of green wood had been lit to dispel the damp. “I – we – have never heard of you but by your nom de guerre.”

“I assure you that arrogant name was none of my choosing,” said its owner, smiling. “My real name is Hervé de Saint-Armel.”

Madame de Rocquigny gave a little start. A strange expression came over her face as, seating herself in the chair which Hervé brought for her, she allowed herself a full minute’s pause ere she began:

“Before we have our little conversation, Monsieur de Saint-Armel, I must make Madame de Bellegarde’s apologies. She was so tired that I – – ”

“Bellegarde!” exclaimed Hervé. “Bellegarde, did you say? . . . I interrupt you, Madame – pardon me!” He was very pale.

But Madame de Rocquigny did not say that, ever since she had heard his real name, she had expected that interruption. She resumed smoothly, wondering, nevertheless, from the look of him whether he heard what she was saying: “Yes, I persuaded Madame de Bellegarde to take a little repose. She will do herself the honour of receiving you later, and she will put into your hands the Regent’s commission, while I give you his orders – a division of responsibility, for caution’s sake.”

L’Invincible sat down beside her; his full attention was hers now, she could see that, and together they plunged into the discussion of plans relating to Chouan co-operation with the Royalist expedition even then fitting out at Portsmouth. But Madame de Rocquigny, armed though she was with instructions from Verona, from the Comte de Provence, the Regent, found that she had less to teach than to learn.

“I understand why you are l’Invincible,” she said at the end, with her fine smile. “And now, shall we seek Madame de Bellegarde in the room over there, where we hope to entertain you at supper? – By the way, Comte, do not mention her husband to her – you are indeed scarce likely to have cause. . . .”

Hervé looked at her. “Guillotined?” he asked after a moment.

“Yes,” replied the Marquise grimly; “but not as a Royalist. He turned Jacobin. She will carry that scar always. But come!” She swept across the hall, opened a door, said: “Ma chère, I bring M. l’Invincible,” slipped out again and closed the door behind her.

Here, too, a fire was burning. A lady rose from a great chair before it – rose, and came no further. Hervé stood equally motionless by the door, uttering a name, but under his breath. . . .

“You!” said Madame de Bellegarde. “You l’Invincible! Oh dear saints, it is not possible!” As white as paper, she put her hand to her breast.

Still Hervé gazed at her without a word and she at him; then he went quickly forward, and seizing both her hands in his dropped on one knee and pressed them to his lips. She swayed back against the high chair, her eyes closed. “Hervé!” she said faintly, “I didn’t know. . . . I can’t realise. . . .”

He sprang up and put her gently into the chair. Her beautiful proud head rested like a broken flower against the carved back.

“You, Hervé . . . you!”

L’Invincible knelt down beside her once again. “And why not! why not!” There was flame in his voice and in his eyes.

“Oh, I am proud . . . proud!” she whispered. He put her hand to his lips as he knelt there. Suddenly she leant forward.

“Kiss me!” she said like a queen, and l’Invincible, as pale as the dead, kissed her on the mouth.