Читать книгу The Last Love - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 23

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At the junction of three small roads not far from the Briars there was a depression at one side. Water collected there after rains and during the autumn and winter months it became filled with leaves. No footmarks were ever found on the surface and all drivers of vehicles were careful to take the far side.

One afternoon, while accompanying the emperor on a walk, Betsy sighed deeply while passing this spot. “Poor Old Huff! she said.

“Old ’Uff? I seem to have heard that name mentioned. But why should your tone denote so much sorrow?”

“Because he’s buried there,” explained Betsy. “He was tutor to my brothers for a short time. A very nice old man and very learned. We were all so fond of him. But,” laying a forefinger on her temple, “a little touched here.”

“Ah, demented. But why is he buried on the road? Are there no graveyards?”

Betsy hesitated. “Well, sire, there was an inquest after he died and it was decided he had committed suicide. So he could not be buried in the churchyard.”

“No?” with a puzzled frown. “And why not?”

“I am sure no one would have objected. But we have a curate who is very set in his ideas. He said it could not be allowed.” She raised her voice to a high pitch in imitation of the Rev. Mr. Stodgkin, “ ‘I cannot condone any deviation from the hallowed rules of the past.’ So poor Old Huff, who did not know what he was doing, had to be buried here. The servants never walk this way at night unless there are several of them together. They say his ghost comes out and hides in the bushes, ready to pounce on them.”

“I am sure you do not believe in ghosts yourself, Betsee.”

“Oh, no, sire. Certainly not.”

“That is good. It shows you have a sensible head on your shoulders.”

“I have noticed,” said Betsy, “that we always turn back here. I was beginning to wonder if you had heard the story. But now I’m forced to believe it’s because you are getting a little lazy, as Mr. O’Meara says.”

“Not at all! It’s because my breath is a little short. I seem to tire easily.”

“Mr. O’Meara says—”

“Do not speak of that busybody! Sometimes I am sorry I brought him with me. He claims to be a surgeon but I suspect he knows very little about the human body.”

“But I thought you liked walking, sire.”

“In moderation, Betsee. The real difficulty is that I must give so much time to the notes. If that scion of an ancient family, our illustrious friend the marquis, had more nimble fingers, I would have more time for walking.”

“Then why don’t you get one of the others to help? With two of them taking turns, you would get the work done so much faster.”

“Now that seems a good idea.” Napoleon halted to think it over. “Gourgaud, of course. He has nothing to do. He even complains that I favor the others and keep him at a distance. An excellent solution. I will speak to Gourgaud at once.” He began to walk again. “I trust you like Gourgaud.”

“Sire,” said the candid Betsy, “it’s a little like your feeling about daily walks. I like Baron Gourgaud—in moderation.”