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III

During this period Adèle Moustier made occasional inquiries as to the progress of the wounded Vendéan, deriving a small but satisfying glow at the heart from her kind action. When one or two of her associates reproached her with her interest in this enemy of the nation, the glow was fanned into a momentary flame. She saw herself the traditional noble and womanly figure tending an injured foe. Penetrating the future, she beheld herself seated by the side of the wounded man, soothing him, talking to him, reading to him – when he was well enough to be soothed, talked to, and read to. This, she gathered, would not be for some time. There was a day when the surgeon, meeting her by chance, told her urgently that it would never be. She did not believe him; but as she sat before her glass that night, brushing out the thick fair hair which gave her so much pleasure, she thought a little of the Royalist and was sorry, though her principal feeling was annoyance that she should be asked to do ridiculous and impossible things in connection with him. However, the next day she had forgotten about him, and, as just at this time Lépine fils was being brought into great humiliation and subjection, it was with quite a little shock of surprise that she learnt, a few days later still, that the prisoner was out of danger.

And on that a sudden impulse seized Adèle. Having elicited from her informant, a woman of the village, that the Vendéan was quite conscious, and that his wounded leg was not visible, she presented herself the same afternoon at the church door with a small covered basket on her arm. A Republican soldier with his arm in a sling was smoking on the steps. He removed his pipe and stood aside for her to pass with a deferential air which made her pleasantly conscious of her errand of mercy. But when she questioned him as to the whereabouts of the captive, it was with visible surprise that he told her the brigand was in the ci-devant chapel of the ci-devant Virgin. Understanding this designation to apply to the chapel of Notre Dame de Bon Secours, Adèle slipped up the south aisle, endeavouring not to see any uncongenial sights. But there were not above a score of wounded remaining, and they were all in the nave, which, save for the presence of the dismantled high altar and the pillars, had the appearance of a rather ill-organised hospital.

The Vicomte de Beaumanoir was lying facing the entrance of the little side-chapel, and Adèle came upon him abruptly. Some charitable person had bestowed upon him a blanket and a coverlet, but his only pillow was a rolled-up military greatcoat, whose dark hue served admirably to enhance the drawn pallor of his features. He looked up full at Adèle, with bright and sunken eyes, but did not seem to know her. After a moment she went in and stood by him, and at that a look of recognition broke on his face.

“You have come . . . again!” he said, in a voice not much above a whisper.

“I am so sorry I have not come before,” responded Adèle – and at the moment she spoke the truth. “I . . . could not.”

“But you are here now!”

“I have brought you some soup,” went on the girl in an embarrassed voice, the gratitude in his eyes at once pleasing and reproaching her. “I am afraid it has got rather cold.”

But he could not feed himself, and so, after a little hesitation, she slipped an arm beneath his head and gave him the liquid spoonful by spoonful. “What a horrible pillow!” she remarked as she withdrew her arm. “Is that all you have had?”

“It did very well,” said the young man in his faint voice.

“I will bring you another,” said Adèle, putting the empty bowl into her basket. “I must go now; my father will be wanting me.” (M. le Maire was out for some hours.) “I will come again to-morrow, if I can.”

The Royalist said nothing, but his eyes followed her. She felt it, and went out of the church in great spirits.

Next day she brought the pillow in the best pillow-case she had. Was not her protégé a ci-devant? This time the young man’s face lit up with a smile as she appeared.

“Mademoiselle, you are too kind to a foe,” he murmured, in a voice perceptibly stronger than that of yesterday. “Mon Dieu, that is good!” He shut his eyes as his head sank back on the cool linen, and Adèle bundled the rejected greatcoat into a corner.

Coming back, she sat down on the altar-steps and looked at him. How different he was from Lépine, from the blacksmith’s nephew, even from the young notary at Doué! She wished that she knew who he was; and the simplest plan seemed to be to ask him.

“Would you mind telling me your name?” she said, for her a trifle timidly.

“Beaumanoir,” said the young man without opening his eyes. “Charles de Beaumanoir – the Vicomte de Beaumanoir when titles were in fashion.”

Adèle’s heart gave a little skip. She had been sure of it.

“And now you will tell me yours, Mademoiselle, will you not?” went on the Vendéan, opening his eyes and smiling at her; and she told him. His gaze roamed from her to the Madonna above her.

“There is another name that I should like to know,” he said. “What Virgin is that?”

“Oh, that’s Our Lady of Succour!” responded Adèle carelessly. “Nobody pays much heed to her now, though she used to have a great many devotees once.”

“I see – out of fashion!”

“Oh, more than that!” retorted Adèle. “Nobody of course believes in any bonne Vierge now – except the Blancs,” she added hastily.

“And I am a Blanc,” said Charles de Beaumanoir, smiling.

“I forgot,” said Adèle, a little confused. And she started from her seat on the steps, for a man was standing in the entrance to the little chapel. It was the old surgeon.

If Adèle was startled, he was astonished. “So you have come at last, citoyenne,” he said sardonically. “Well, since you are here, you can help me to dress this knee.”

Adèle gave one shuddering look at the roll of fresh dressings which he pulled out of his pocket, and fled past him without a word.

“Never do I go near that chapel again!” she exclaimed, as she arrived, hot with anger and speed, at her father’s door. Nevertheless, she woke next morning to a vague feeling of disappointment. She liked going to see her ci-devant, and it was a shame that she should be kept away. No doubt he would be expecting her. If she could only get a guarantee against further molestation she would yet go.

“Papa,” she said in the course of the morning, “I think you might invite that M. Guillon to supper.” And the Maire, a complacent parent, entirely unaware of his daughter’s works of mercy, obeyed her suggestion. Adèle succeeded in seeing the old surgeon alone for a moment as he was leaving.

“It is a pity, Monsieur Guillon,” she began in her best manner, “that you have prevented my going any more to see that poor young man. I think he . . . looked forward to my visits.”

“Very probably,” said the old man drily. “And how have I stopped them?”

“I have told you once,” responded the girl, with heat, “that I cannot, that I will not, have anything to do with his wound!”

“I thought you had changed your mind, Citoyenne Adèle. I beg your pardon. It shall not be suggested again. Moreover, it does not much matter.”

“And why not, pray?” asked Adèle. “Do you want him to die, after all?”

“He will not die of his wound, Mademoiselle,” returned M. Guillon.

His tone was so significant that Adèle was frightened. “What on earth do you mean?” she cried.

The old man bent a rather enigmatical glance upon her. “You had not thought of it? Yet you know the law against returned émigrés – and he is an émigré.”

Adèle slowly changed colour. “You mean that he will – that he will – – ”

“That he will be shot – when he is well enough,” returned the other grimly.

“It is not possible to do such a horrible thing!” said the girl in a low voice. “And you – how can you suffer it, after – – ”

“After doing my best to keep him alive?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I am under orders, Mademoiselle, like the rest of us. And I only heard it yesterday.”

He went, and Adèle spent the first sleepless night of her life.