CHAPTER XXII
DROPPING THE PILOT
"The portrait of a lady," repeated Loo, slowly. "Young and beautiful.That much I remember."
The old nobleman had never removed his covering hand from the locket.He had never glanced at it himself. He looked slowly round the peeringfaces, two and three deep round the table. He was the oldest manpresent--one of the oldest in Paris--one of the few now living who hadknown Marie Antoinette.
Without uncovering the locket, he handed it to Barebone across the tablewith a bow worthy of the old regime and his own historic name.
"It is right that you should be the first to see it," he said. "Sincethere is no longer any doubt that the lady was your father's mother."
Loo took the locket, looked at it with strangely glittering eyes andsteady lips. He gave a sort of gasp, which all in the room heard. He washanding it back to the Vicomte de Castel Aunet without a word of comment,when a crashing fall on the bare floor startled every one. A lady hadfainted.
"Thank God!" muttered Dormer Colville almost in Barebone's ear and swayedagainst him. Barebone turned and looked into a face grey and haggard, andshining with perspiration. Instinctively he grasped him by the arm andsupported him. In the confusion of the moment no one noticed Colville;for all were pressing round the prostrate lady. And in a moment Colvillewas himself again, though the ready smile sat oddly on such white lips.
"For God's sake be careful," he said, and turned away, handkerchief inhand.
For the moment the portrait was forgotten until the lady was on her feetagain, smiling reassurances and rubbing her elbow.
"It is nothing," she said, "nothing. My heart--that is all."
And she staggered to a chair with the reassuring smile frozen on herface.
Then the portrait was passed from hand to hand in silence. It was aminiature of Marie Antoinette, painted on ivory, which had turned yellow.The colours were almost lost, but the face stood clearly enough. It wasthe face of a young girl, long and narrow, with the hair drawn straightup and dressed high and simply on the head without ornament.
"It is she," said one and another. "_C'est bien elle_."
"It was painted when she was newly a queen," commented the Vicomte deCastel Aunet. "I have seen others like it, but not that one before."
Barebone stood apart and no one offered to approach him. Dormer Colvillehad gone toward the great fireplace, and was standing by himself therewith his back toward the room. He was surreptitiously wiping from hisface the perspiration which had suddenly run down it, as one may see therain running down the face of a statue.
Things had taken an unexpected turn. The Marquis de Gemosac, himselfalways on the surface, had stirred others more deeply than he hadanticipated or could now understand. France has always been the victim ofher own emotions; aroused in the first instance half in idleness, allowedto swell with a semi-restraining laugh, and then suddenly sweeping andoverwhelming. History tells of a hundred such crises in the pilgrimage ofthe French people. A few more--and historians shall write "Ichabod"across the most favoured land in Europe.
It is customary to relate that, after a crisis, those most concerned init know not how they faced it or what events succeeded it. "He neverknew," we are informed, "how he got through the rest of the evening."
Loo Barebone knew and remembered every incident, every glance. He was infull possession of every faculty, and never had each been so keenly aliveto the necessity of the moment. Never had his quick brain been so alertas it was during the rest of the evening. And those who had come to theHotel Gemosac to confirm their adoption of a figure-head went away withthe startling knowledge in their hearts that they had never in the courseof an artificial life met a man less suited to play that undignifiedpart.
And all the while, in the back of his mind, there lingered with a deadlypatience the desire for the moment which must inevitably come when heshould at last find himself alone, face to face, with Dormer Colville.
It was nearly midnight before this moment came. At last the latest guesthad taken his leave, quitting the house by the garden door and making hisway across that forlorn and weedy desert by the dim light reflected fromthe clouds above. At last the Marquis de Gemosac had bidden them goodnight, and they were left alone in the vast bedroom which a dozencandles, in candelabras of silver blackened by damp and neglect, onlyserved to render more gloomy and mysterious.
In the confusion consequent on the departure of so many guests the lockethad been lost sight of, and Monsieur de Gemosac forgot to make inquiryfor it. It was in Barebone's pocket.
Colville put together with the toe of his boot the logs which weresmouldering in a glow of incandescent heat. He turned and glanced overhis shoulder toward his companion.
Barebone was taking the locket from his waistcoat pocket and approachingthe table where the candles burnt low in their sockets.
"You never really supposed you were the man, did you?" asked Colville,with a ready smile. He was brave, at all events, for he took the onlycourse left to him with a sublime assurance.
Barebone looked across the candles at the face which smiled, and smiled.
"That is what I thought," he answered, with a queer laugh.
"Do not jump to any hasty decisions," urged Colville instantly, as ifwarned by the laugh.
"No! I want to sift the matter carefully to the bottom. It will beinteresting to learn who are the deceived and who the deceivers."
Barebone had had time to think out a course of action. His face seemed topuzzle Colville, who was rarely at fault in such judgments of characteras came within his understanding. But he seemed for an instant to be onthe threshold of something beyond his understanding; and yet he hadlived, almost day and night, for some months with Barebone. Since thebeginning--that far-off beginning at Farlingford--their respectivepositions had been quite clearly defined. Colville, the elder by nearlytwenty years, had always been the guide and mentor and friend--thecompulsory pilot he had gaily called himself. He had a vast experience ofthe world. He had always moved in the best French society. All that heknew, all the influence he could command, and the experience upon whichhe could draw were unreservedly at Barebone's service. The difference inyears had only affected their friendship in so far as it defined theirrespective positions and prohibited any thought of rivalry. Colville hadbeen the unquestioned leader, Barebone the ready disciple.
And now in the twinkling of an eye the positions were reversed. Colvillestood watching Barebone's face with eyes rendered almost servile by agreat suspense. He waited breathless for the next words.
"This portrait," said Barebone, "of the Queen was placed in the locket byyou?"
Colville nodded with a laugh of conscious cleverness rewarded by completesuccess. There was nothing in his companion's voice to suggest suppressedanger. It was all right after all. "I had great difficulty in findingjust what I wanted," he added, modestly.
"What I remember--though the memory is necessarily vague--was a portraitof a woman older than this. Her style of dress was more elaborate. Herhair was dressed differently, with sort of curls at the side, and on thetop, half buried in the hair, was the imitation of a nest--a dove's nest.Such a thing would naturally stick in a child's memory. It stuck inmine."
"Yes--and nearly gave the game away to-night," said Colville, gulpingdown the memory of those tense moments.
"That portrait--the original--you have not destroyed it?"
"Oh no. It is of some value," replied Colville, almost naively. He feltin his pocket and produced a silver cigar-case. The miniature was wrappedin a piece of thin paper, which he unfolded. Barebone took the paintingand examined it with a little nod of recognition. His memory had notfailed after twenty years.
"Who is this lady?" he asked.
Dormer Colville hesitated.
"Do you know the history of that period?" he inquired, after a moment'sreflection. For the last hour he had been trying to decide on a course ofconduct. During the last few minutes he had been forced to change it halfa doz
en times.
"Septimus Marvin, of Farlingford, is one of the greatest livingauthorities on those reigns. I learnt a good deal from him," was theanswer.
"That lady is, I think, the Duchesse de Guiche."
"You think--"
"Even Marvin could not tell you for certain," replied Colville, mildly.He did not seem to perceive a difference in Barebone's manner towardhimself. The quickest intelligence cannot follow another's mind beyondits own depth.
"Then the inference is that my father was the illegitimate son of theComte d'Artois."
"Afterward Charles X, of France," supplemented Colville, significantly.
"Is that the inference?" persisted Barebone. "I should like to know youropinion. You must have studied the question very carefully. Your opinionshould be of some interest, though--"
"Though--" echoed Colville, interrogatively, and regretted itimmediately.
"Though it is impossible to say when you speak the truth and when youlie."
And any who doubted that there was royal blood in Leo Barebone's veinswould assuredly have been satisfied by a glance at his face at thatmoment; by the sound of his quiet, judicial voice; by the sudden andalmost terrifying sense of power in his measuring eyes.
Colville turned away with an awkward laugh and gave his attention to thelogs on the hearth. Then suddenly he regained his readiness of speech.
"Look here, Barebone," he cried. "We must not quarrel; we cannot affordto do that. And after all, what does it matter? You are only givingyourself the benefit of the doubt--that is all. For there is a doubt. Youmay be what you--what we say you are, after all. It is certain enoughthat Marie Antoinette and Fersen were in daily correspondence. They wereboth clever--two of the cleverest people in France--and they were bothdesperate. Remember that. Do you think that they would have failed in amatter of such intense interest to her, and therefore to him? All thesepretenders, Naundorff and the others, have proved that quite clearly, butnone has succeeded in proving that he was the man."
"And do you think that I shall be able to prove that I am the man--when Iam not?"
By way of reply Dormer Colville turned again to the fireplace and tookdown the print of Louis XVI engraved from a portrait painted when he wasstill Dauphin. A mirror stood near, and Colville came to the tablecarrying the portrait in one hand, the looking-glass in the other.
"Here," he said, eagerly, "Look at one and then at the other. Look in themirror and then at the portrait. Prove it! Why, God has proved it foryou."
"I do not think we had better bring Him into the question," was theretort: an odd reflex of Captain Clubbe's solid East Anglian piety. "No.If we go on with the thing at all, let us be honest enough to admit toourselves that we are dishonest. The portrait in that locket pointsclearly enough to the Truth."
"The portrait in that locket is of Marie Antoinette," replied Colville,half sullenly. "And no one can ever prove anything contrary to that. Noone except myself knows of--of this doubt which you have stumbled upon.De Gemosac, Parson Marvin, Clubbe--all of them are convinced that yourfather was the Dauphin."
"And Miss Liston?"
"Miriam Liston--she also, of course. And I believe she knew it longbefore I told her."
Barebone turned and looked at him squarely in the eyes. Colville wondereda second time why Loo Barebone reminded him of Captain Clubbe to-night.
"What makes you believe that?" he asked.
"Oh, I don't know. But that isn't the question. The question is about thefuture. You see how things are in France. It is a question of LouisNapoleon or a monarchy--you see that. Unless you stop him he will beEmperor before a year is out, and he will drag France in the gutter. Heis less a Bonaparte than you are a Bourbon. You remember that LouisBonaparte himself was the first to say so. He wrote a letter to the Pope,saying so quite clearly. You will go on with it, of course, Barebone. Sayyou will go on with it! To turn back now would be death. We could not doit if we wanted to. _I_ have been trying to think about it, and I cannot.That is the truth. It takes one's breath away. At the mere thought of itI feel as if I were getting out of my depth."
"We have been out of our depths the last month," admitted Barebone,curtly.
And he stood reflecting, while Colville watched him.
"If I go on," he said, at length, "I go on alone."
"Better not," urged Colville, with a laugh of great relief. "For youwould always have me and my knowledge hanging over you. If you succeeded,you would have me dunning you for hush-money."
Which seemed true enough. Few men knew more of one side of human naturethan Dormer Colville, it would appear.
"I am not afraid of that."
"You can never tell," laughed Colville, but his laugh rather paled underBarebone's glance. "You can never tell."
"Wise men do not attempt to blackmail--kings."
And Colville caught his breath.
"Perhaps you are right," he admitted, after a pause. "You seem to betaking to the position very kindly, Barebone. But I do not mind, youknow. It does not matter what we say to each other, eh? We have been goodfriends so long. You must do as you like. And if you succeed, I must becontent to leave my share of the matter to your consideration. Youcertainly seem to know the business already, and some day perhaps youwill remember who taught you to be a King."
"It was an old North Sea skipper who taught me that," replied Barebone."That is one of the things I learnt at sea."
"Yes--yes," agreed Colville, almost nervously. "And you will go on withthe thing, will you not? Like a good fellow, eh? Think about it tillto-morrow morning. I will go now. Which is my candle? Yes. You will thinkabout it. Do not jump to any hasty decision."
He hurried to the door as he spoke. He could not understand Barebone atall.
"If I do go on with it," was the reply, "it will not be in response toany of your arguments. It will be only and solely for the sake ofFrance."
"Yes--of course," agreed Colville, and closed the door behind him.
In his own room he turned and looked toward the door leading through tothat from which he had hurriedly escaped. He passed his hand across hisface, which was white and moist.
"For the sake of France!" he echoed in bewilderment. "For the sake ofFrance! Gad! I believe he _is_ the man after all."
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