CHAPTER XXXII
PRIMROSES
"If I go on, I go alone," Barebone had once said to Dormer Colville.The words, spoken in the heat of a quarrel, stuck in the memory ofboth, as such are wont to do. Perhaps, in moments of anger ordisillusionment--when we find that neither self nor friend is what wethought--the heart tears itself away from the grip of the cooler, calmerbrain and speaks untrammelled. And such speeches are apt to linger in themind long after the most brilliant jeu d'esprit has been forgotten.
What occupies the thoughts of the old man, sitting out the greyremainder of the day, over the embers of a hearth which he will only quitwhen he quits the world? Does he remember the brilliant sallies of wit,the greatest triumphs of the noblest minds with which he has consorted;or does his memory cling to some scene--simple, pastoral, withoutincident--which passed before his eyes at a moment when his heart wassore or glad? When his mind is resting from its labours and the sound ofthe grinding is low, he will scarce remember the neat saying or the loftythought clothed in perfect language; but he will never forget a hastyword spoken in an unguarded moment by one who was not clever at all, noreven possessed the worldly wisdom to shield the heart behind the bucklerof the brain.
"You will find things changed," Colville had said, as they walked acrossthe marsh from Farlingford, toward the Ipswich road. And the words cameback to the minds of both, on that Thursday of Madame de Chantonnay,which many remember to this day. Not only did they find things changed,but themselves they found no longer the same. Both remembered thequarrel, and the outcome of it.
Colville, ever tolerant, always leaning toward the compromise that easesa doubting conscience, had, it would almost seem unconsciously, preparedthe way for a reconciliation before there was any question of adifference. On their way back to France, without directly referring tothat fatal portrait and the revelation caused by Barebone's unaccountablefeat of memory, he had smoothed away any possible scruple.
"France must always be deceived," he had said, a hundred times. "Betterthat she should be deceived for an honest than a dishonest purpose--if itis deception, after all, which is very doubtful. The best patriot is hewho is ready to save his country at the cost of his own ease, whether ofbody or of mind. It does not matter who or what you are; it is what orwho the world thinks you to be, that is of importance."
Which of us has not listened to a score of such arguments, not alwaysfrom the lips of a friend, but most often in that still, small voicewhich rarely has the courage to stand out against the tendency of theage? There is nothing so contagious as laxity of conscience.
Barebone listened to the good-natured, sympathetic voice with amake-believe conviction which was part of his readiness to put off anevil moment. Colville was a difficult man to quarrel with. It seemedbearish and ill-natured to take amiss any word or action which could onlybe the outcome of a singularly tender consideration for the feelings ofothers.
But when they entered Madame de Chantonnay's drawing-room--when Dormer,impelled by some instinct of the fitness of things, stepped aside andmotioned to his companion to pass in first--the secret they had in commonyawned suddenly like a gulf between them. For the possession of a secreteither estranges or draws together. More commonly, it estranges. Forwhich of us is careful of a secret that redounds to our credit? Nearlyevery secret is a hidden disgrace; and such a possession, held in commonwith another, is not likely to insure affection.
Colville lingered on the threshold, watching Loo make the first steps ofthat progress which must henceforth be pursued alone. He looked round fora friendly face, but no one had eyes for him. They were all looking atLoo Barebone. Colville sought Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, usually in fullevidence, even in a room full of beautiful women and distinguished men.But she was not there. For a minute or two no one noticed him; and thenAlbert de Chantonnay, remembering his role, came forward to greet theEnglishman.
"It was," explained Colville, in a lowered voice, "as we thought. Anattempt was made to get him out of the way, but he effected his escape.He knew, however, the danger of attempting to communicate with any of usby post, and was awaiting some opportunity of transmitting a letter by asafe hand, when I discovered his hiding-place."
And this was the story that went half round France, from lip to lip,among those who were faithful to the traditions of a glorious past.
"Madame St. Pierre Lawrence," Albert de Chantonnay told Colville, inreply, "is not here to-night. She is, however, at her villa, at Royan.She has not, perhaps, displayed such interest in our meetings as she didbefore you departed on your long journey through France. But hergenerosity is unchanged. The money, which, in the hurry of the moment,you did not withdraw from her bank--"
"I doubt whether it was ever there," interrupted Colville.
"She informs me," concluded Albert, "is still at our service. We havemany other promises, which must now be recalled to the minds of those whomade them. But from no one have we received such generous support as fromyour kinswoman."
They were standing apart, and in a few minutes the Marquis de Gemosacjoined them.
"How daring! how audacious!" he whispered, "and yet how opportune--thisreturn. It is all to be recommenced, my friends, with a firmer grasp, anew courage."
"But my task is accomplished," returned Colville. "You have no furtheruse for a mere Englishman, like myself. I was fortunate in being able tolend some slight assistance in the original discovery of our friend; Ihave again been lucky enough to restore him to you. And now, with yourpermission, I will return to Royan, where I have my little apartment, asyou know."
He looked from one to the other, with his melancholy and self-deprecatingsmile.
"_Voila_" he added; "it remains for me to pay my respects to Madame deChantonnay. We have travelled far, and I am tired. I shall ask her toexcuse me."
"And Monsieur de Bourbon comes to Gemosac. That is understood. He will besafe there. His apartments have been in readiness for him these last twomonths. Hidden there, or in other dwellings--grander and better served,perhaps, than my poor ruin, but no safer--he can continue the great workhe began so well last winter. As for you, my dear Colville," continuedthe Marquis, taking the Englishman's two hands in his, "I envy you fromthe bottom of my heart. It is not given to many to serve France as youhave served her--to serve a King as you have served one. It will be mybusiness to see that both remember you. For France, I allow, sometimesforgets. Go to Royan, since you wish--but it is only for a time. You willbe called to Paris some day, that I promise you."
The Marquis would have embraced him then and there, had the cool-bloodedEnglishman shown the smallest desire for that honour. But DormerColville's sad and doubting smile held at arms' length one who was alwaysat the mercy of his own eloquence.
The card tables had lost their attraction; and, although many partieswere formed, and the cards were dealt, the players fell to talking acrossthe ungathered tricks, and even the Abbe Touvent was caught tripping inthe matter of a point.
"Never," exclaimed Madame de Chantonnay, as her guests took leave attheir wonted hour, and some of them even later--"never have I had aThursday so dull and yet so full of incident."
"And never, madame," replied the Marquis, still on tiptoe, as it were,with delight and excitement, "shall we see another like it."
Loo went back to Gemosac with the fluttering old man and Juliette.Juliette, indeed, was in no flutter, but had carried herself throughthe excitement of her first evening party with a demure little air ofself-possession.
She had scarce spoken to Loo during the evening. Indeed, it had been hisduty to attend on Madame de Chantonnay and on the older members of thesequiet Royalist families biding their time in the remote country villagesof Guienne and the Vendee.
On the journey home, the Marquis had so much to tell his companion, andtold it so hurriedly, that his was the only voice heard above the rattleof the heavy, old-fashioned carriage. But Barebone was aware ofJuliette's presence in a dark corner of the roomy vehicle, and his eyes,seeking to penetrate
the gloom, could just distinguish hers, which seemedto be turned in his direction.
Many changes had been effected at the chateau, and a suite of rooms hadbeen prepared for Barebone in the detached building known as the Italianhouse, which stands in the midst of the garden within the enceinte of thechateau walls.
"I have been able," explained the Marquis, frankly, "to obtain a smalladvance on the results of last autumn's vintage. My notary in the villagefound, indeed, that facilities were greater than he had anticipated. Withthis sum, I have been enabled to effect some necessary repairs to thebuildings and the internal decorations. I had fallen behind the times,perhaps. But now that Juliette is installed as chatelaine, many changeshave been effected. You will see, my dear friend; you will see foryourself. Yes, for the moment, I am no longer a pauper. As you yourselfwill have noticed, in your journey through the west, rural France isenjoying a sudden return of prosperity. It is unaccountable. No one canmake me believe that it is to be ascribed to this scandalous Government,under which we agonise. But there it is--and we must thank Heaven forit."
Which was only the truth. For France was at this time entering upon aperiod of plenty. The air was full of rumours of new railways, new roads,and new commercial enterprise. Banks were being opened in the provincialtowns, and loans made on easy terms to agriculturists for the improvementof their land.
Barebone found that there were indeed changes in the old chateau. Theapartments above that which had once been the stabling, hitherto occupiedby the Marquis, had been added to and a slight attempt at redecorationhad been made. There was no lack of rooms, and Juliette now had her ownsuite, while the Marquis lived, as hitherto, in three small apartmentsover the rooms occupied by Marie and her husband.
An elderly relation--one of those old ladies habited in black, who areready to efface themselves all day and occupy a garret all night inreturn for bed and board, had been added to the family. She contributed asilent and mysterious presence, some worldly wisdom, and a profoundrespect for her noble kinsman.
"She is quite harmless," Juliette explained, gaily, to Barebone, on thefirst occasion when they were alone together. This did not present itselfuntil Loo had been quartered in the Italian house for some days, with hisown servant. Although he took luncheon and dinner with the family in theold building near to the gate-house, and spent his evenings in Juliette'sdrawing-room, the Marquis or Madame Maugiron was always present, and asoften as not, they played a game of chess together.
"She is quite harmless," said Juliette, tying, with a thread, theprimroses she had been picking in that shady corner of the garden whichlay at the other side of the Italian house. The windows of Barebone'sapartment, by the way, looked down upon this garden, and he, havingperceived her, had not wasted time in joining her in the morningsunshine.
"I wonder if I shall be as harmless when I am her age."
And, indeed, danger lurked beneath her lashes as she glanced at him,asking this question with her lips and a hundred others with her eyes,with her gay air of youth and happiness--with her very attitude ofcoquetry, as she stood in the spring sunshine, with the scent of theprimroses about her.
"I think that any one who approaches you will always do so at his peril,Mademoiselle."
"Then why do it?" she asked, drawing back and busying herself with theflowers, which she laid against her breast, as if to judge the effect oftheir colour against the delicate white of her dress. "Why run intodanger? Why come downstairs at all?"
"Why breathe?" he retorted, with a laugh. "Why eat, or drink, or sleep?Why live? _Mon Dieu!_ because there is no choice. And when I see you inthe garden, there is no choice for me, Mademoiselle. I must come down andrun into danger, because I cannot help it any more than I can help--"
"But you need not stay," she interrupted, cleverly. "A brave man mayalways retire from danger into safety."
"But he may not always want to, Mademoiselle."
"Ah!"
And, with a shrug of the shoulders, she inserted the primroses within avery small waistband and turned away.
"Will you give me those primroses, Mademoiselle?" asked Loo, withoutmoving; for, although she had turned to go, she had not gone.
She turned on her heel and looked at him, with demure surprise, and thenbent her head to look at the flowers at her own waist.
"They are mine," she answered, standing in that pretty attitude, her hairhalf concealing her face. "I picked them myself."
"Two reasons why I want them."
"Ah! but," she said, with a suggestion of thoughtfulness, "one does notalways get what one wants. You ask a great deal, Monsieur."
"There is no limit to what I would ask, Mademoiselle."
She laughed gaily.
"If--" she inquired, with raised eyebrows.
"If I dared."
Again she looked at him with that little air of surprise.
"But I thought you were so brave?" she said. "So reckless of danger? Abrave man assuredly does not ask. He takes that which he would have."
It happened that she had clasped her hands behind her back, leaving theprimroses at her waist uncovered and half falling from the ribbon.
In a moment he had reached out his hand and taken them. She leapt back,as if she feared that he might take more, and ran back toward the house,placing a rough, tangle of brier between herself and this robber. Herlaughing face looked at him through the brier.
"You have your primroses," she said, "but I did not give them to you. Youwant too much, I think."
"I want what that ribbon binds," he answered. But she turned away and rantoward the house, without waiting to hear.
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