The Last Hope

by Henry Seton Merriman

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  AN UNDERSTANDING

  Loo Barebone went back to the Chateau de Gemosac after those travels inProvence which terminated so oddly on board "The Last Hope," at anchor inthe Garonne River.

  The Marquis received him with enthusiasm and a spirit of optimism whichage could not dim.

  "Everything is going _a merveille!_" he cried. "In three months we shallbe ready to strike our blow--to make our great _coup_ for France. Thefailure of Turner's bank was a severe check, I admit, and for a moment Iwas in despair. But now we are sure that we shall have the money forAlbert de Chantonnay's Beauvoir estate by the middle of January. Thedeath of Madame la Duchesse was a misfortune. If we could have persuadedher to receive you--your face would have done the rest, mon ami--weshould have been invincible. But she was broken, that poor lady. Think ofher life! Few women would have survived half of the troubles that shecarried on those proud shoulders from childhood."

  They were sitting in the little salon in the building that adjoined thegate-house of Gemosac, of which the stone stairs must have rung beneaththe red spurs of fighting men; of which the walls were dented still withthe mark of arms.

  Barebone had given an account of his journey, which had been carriedthrough without difficulty. Everywhere success had waited uponhim--enthusiasm had marked his passage. In returning to France, he hadstolen a march on his enemies, for nothing seemed to indicate that hispresence in the country was known to them.

  "I tell you," the Marquis explained, "that he has his hands full--thatman in Paris. It is only a month since he changed his ministry. Who isthis St. Arnaud, his Minister of War? Who is Maupas, his Prefect ofPolice? Does Monsieur Manpas know that we are nearly ready for our_coup?_ Bah! Tell me nothing of that sort, gentlemen."

  And this was the universally accepted opinion at this time, of LouisBonaparte the President of a tottering Republic, divided against itself;a dull man, at his wits' end. For months, all Europe had been turningan inquiring and watchful eye on France. Socialism was rampant. Secretsocieties honeycombed the community. There was some danger in theair--men knew not what. Catastrophe was imminent, and none knew where tolook for its approach. But all thought that it must come at the end ofthe year. A sort of panic took hold of all classes. They dreaded theend of 1851.

  The Marquis de Gemosac spoke openly of these things before Juliette. Shehad been present when Loo and he talked together of this last journey, sohappily accomplished, so fruitful of result. And Loo did not tell theMarquis that he had seen his old ship, "The Last Hope," in the river atBordeaux, and had gone on board of her.

  Juliette listened, as she worked, beneath the lamp at the table in themiddle of the room. The lace-work she had brought from the convent-schoolwas not finished yet. It was exquisitely fine and delicate, and Julietteexecuted the most difficult patterns with a sort of careless ease.Sometimes, when the Marquis was more than usually extravagant in hisanticipations of success, or showed a superlative contempt for his foes,Juliette glanced at Barebone over her lace-work, but she rarely took partin the talk when politics were under discussion.

  In domestic matters, however, this new chatelaine showed considerableshrewdness. She was not ignorant of the price of hay, and knew to a caskhow much wine was stored in the vault beneath the old chapel. On thesesubjects the Marquis good-humouredly followed her advice sometimes. Hisword had always been law in the whole neighbourhood. Was he not the headof one of the oldest families in France?

  "But, _pardieu_, she shows a wisdom quite phenomenal, that little one,"the Marquis would tell his friends, with a hearty laugh. It was onlynatural that he should consider amusing the idea of uniting wisdom andyouth and beauty in one person. It is still a universally accepted lawthat old people must be wise and young persons only charming. Some maythink that they could point to a wise child born of foolish parents; to adaughter who is well-educated and shrewd, possessing a sense of logic,and a mother who is ignorant and foolish; to a son who has more sensethan his father: but of course such observers must be mistaken. Oldtheories must be the right ones. The Marquis had no doubt of this, at allevents, and thought it most amusing that Juliette should establish orderin the chaos of domestic affairs at Gemosac.

  "You are grave," said Juliette to Barebone, one evening soon after hisreturn, when they happened to be alone in the little drawing-room.Barebone was, in fact, not a lively companion; for he had sat staring atthe log-fire for quite three minutes when his eyes might assuredly havebeen better employed. "You are grave. Are you thinking of your sins?"

  "When I think of those, Mademoiselle, I laugh. It is when I think of youthat I am grave."

  "Thank you."

  "So I am always grave, you understand."

  She glanced quickly, not at him but toward him, and then continued herlace-making, with the ghost of a smile tilting the corners of her lips.

  "It is because I have something to tell you."

  "A secret?" she inquired, and she continued to smile, but differently,and her eyes hardened almost to resentment.

  "Yes; a secret. It is a secret only known to two other people in theworld besides myself. And they will never let you know even that theyshare it with you, Mademoiselle."

  "Then they are not women," she said, with a sudden laugh. "Tell it to me,then--your secret."

  There had been an odd suggestion of foreknowledge in her manner, as ifshe were humouring him by pretending to accept as a secret of vastimportance some news which she had long known--that little air ofpatronage which even schoolgirls bestow, at times, upon white-haired men.It is part of the maternal instinct. But this vanished when she heardthat she was to share the secret with two men, and she repeated,impatiently, "Tell me, please."

  "It is a secret which will make a difference to us all our lives,Mademoiselle," he said, warningly. "It will not leave us the same as itfound us. It has made a difference to all who know it. Therefore, I haveonly decided to tell you after long consideration. It is, in fact, apoint of honour. It is necessary for you to know, whatever the result maybe. Of that I have no doubt whatever."

  He laughed reassuringly, which made her glance at him gravely, almostanxiously.

  "And are you going on telling it to other people, afterward," sheinquired; "to my father, for instance?"

  "No, Mademoiselle. It comes to you, and it stops at you. I do not mindwithholding it from your father, and from all the friends who have beenso kind to me in France. I do not mind deceiving kings and emperors,Mademoiselle, and even the People, which is now always spelt in capitalletters, and must be spoken of with bated breath."

  She gave a scornful little laugh, as at the sound of an old jest--thenote of a deathless disdain which was in the air she breathed.

  "Not even the newspapers, which are trying to govern France. All that isa question of politics. But when it comes to you, Mademoiselle, that is adifferent matter."

  "Ah!"

  "Yes. It is then a question of love."

  Juliette slowly changed colour, but she gave a little gay laugh ofincredulity and bent her head away from the light of the lamp.

  "That is a different code of honour altogether," he said, gravely. "Acode one does not wish to tamper with."

  "No?" she inquired, with the odd little smile of foreknowledge again.

  "No. And, therefore, before I go any farther, I think it best to tell youthat I am not what I am pretending to be. I am pretending to be the sonof the little Dauphin, who escaped from the Temple. He may have escapedfrom the Temple; that I don't know. But I know, or at least I think Iknow, that he is not buried in Farlingford churchyard and he was not myfather. I can pass as the grandson of Louis XVI; I know that. I candeceive all the world. I can even climb to the throne of France, perhaps.There are many, as you know, who think I shall do it without difficulty.But I do not propose to deceive _you_, Mademoiselle."

  There was a short silence, while Loo watched her face. Juliette had noteven changed colour. When she was satisfied that he had nothing more toadd, she looked a
t him, her needle poised in the air.

  "Do you think it matters?" she asked, in a little cool, even voice.

  It was so different from what he had expected that, for a moment, he wastaken aback. Captain Clubbe's bluff, uncompromising reception of the samenews had haunted his thoughts. "The square thing," that sailor had said,"and damn your friends; damn France." Loo looked at Juliette in doubt;then, suddenly, he understood her point of view; he understood her. Hehad learnt to understand a number of people and a number of points ofview during the last twelve months.

  "So long as I succeed?" he suggested.

  "Yes," she answered, simply. "So long as you succeed, I do not see thatit can matter who you are."

  "And if I succeed," pursued Loo, gravely, "will you marry me,Mademoiselle?"

  "Oh! I never said that," in a voice that was ready to yield to a reallygood argument.

  "And if I fail--" Barebone paused for an instant. He still doubted hisown perception. "And if I fail, you would not marry me under anycircumstances?"

  "I do not think my father would let me," she answered, with her eyes castdown upon her lace-frame.

  Barebone leant forward to put together the logs, which burnt with a whiteincandescence that told of a frosty night. The Marquis had business inthe town, and would soon return from the notary's, in time to dress fordinner.

  "Well," said Loo, over his shoulder, "it is as well to understand eachother, is it not?"

  "Yes," she answered, significantly. She ignored the implied sarcasmaltogether. There was so much meaning in her reply that Loo turned tolook at her. She was smiling as she worked.

  "Yes," she went on; "you have told me your secret--a secret. But I havethe other, too; the secret you have not told me, _mon ami_. I have had italways."

  "Ah?"

  "The secret that you do not love me," said Juliette, in her little wise,even voice; "that you have never loved me. Ah! You think we do not know.You think that I am too young. But we are never too young to know that,to know all about it. I think we know it in our cradles."

  She spoke with a strange philosophy, far beyond her years. It might havebeen Madame de Chantonnay who spoke, with all that lady's vast experienceof life and without any of her folly.

  "You think I am pretty. Perhaps I am. Just pretty enough to enable you topretend, and you have pretended very well at times. You are good atpretending, one must conclude. Oh! I bear no ill-will ..."

  She broke off and looked at him, with a gay laugh, in which there wascertainly no note of ill-will to be detected.

  "But it is as well," she went on, "as you say, that we should understandeach other. Thank you for telling me your secret--the one you have toldme. I am flattered at that mark of your confidence. A woman is alwaysglad to be told a secret, and immediately begins to anticipate thepleasure she will take in telling it to others, in confidence."

  She looked up for a moment from her work; for Loo had given a shortlaugh. She looked, to satisfy herself that it was not the ungenerouslaugh that nine men out of ten would have cast at her; and it was not.For Loo was looking at her with frank amusement.

  "Oh, yes," she said; "I know that, too. It is one of the items notincluded in a convent education. It is unnecessary to teach us suchthings as that. We know them before we go in. Your secret is safe enoughwith me, however--the one you have told me. That is the least I canpromise in return for your confidence. As to the other secret, _bonDieu_! we will pretend I do not know it, if you like. At all events, youcan vow that you never told me, if--if ever you are called upon to doso."

  She paused for a moment to finish off a thread. Then, when she reachedout her hand for the reel, she glanced at him with a smile, not unkind.

  "So you need not pretend any more, monsieur," she said, seeing thatBarebone was wise enough to keep silence. "I do not know who you are,_mon ami,_" she went on, in a little burst of confidence; "and, as I toldyou just now, I do not care. And, as to that other matter, there is noill-will. I only permit myself to wonder, sometimes, if she is pretty.That is feminine, I suppose. One can be feminine quite young, youunderstand."

  She looked at him with unfathomable eyes and a little smile, such as mennever forget once they have seen it.

  "But you were inclined to be ironical just now, when I said I would marryyou if you were successful. So I mention that other secret just to showthat the understanding you wish to arrive at may be mutual--there may betwo sides to it. I hear my father coming. That is his voice at the gate.We will leave things as they stand: _n'est ce pas?_"

  She rose as she spoke and went toward the door. The Marquis's voice wasraised, and there seemed to be some unusual clamour at the gate.