CHAPTER XVI.
A MASTERFUL MAN.
“Tous les raisonnements des hommes ne valent pas un sentiment d’une femme.”
It would seem that Lory de Vasselot had played the part of a stormypetrel when he visited Paris, for that calm Frenchman, the Baron deMélide, packed his wife off to Provence the same night, and the letterthat Lory wrote to the Abbé Susini, reaching Olmeta three days later,aroused its recipient from a contemplative perusal of the _PetitBastiais_ as if it had been a bomb-shell.
The abbé threw aside his newspaper and cigarette. He was essentially aman of action. He had been on his feet all day, hurrying hither andthither over his widespread parish, interfering in this man’s businessand that woman’s quarrels with that hastiness which usually characterizesthe doings of such as pride themselves upon their capability for actionand contempt for mere passive thought. It was now evening, and a blessedcool air was stealing down from the mountains. Successive days ofunbroken sunshine had burnt all the western side of the island, hadalmost dried up the Aliso, which crept, a mere rivulet in its stormy bed,towards St. Florent and the sea.
Susini went to-the window of his little room and opened the woodenshutters. His house is next to the church at Olmeta and faces north-west;so that in the summer the evening sun glares across the valley into itswindows. He was no great scholar, and had but a poor record in thearchives of the college at Corte. Lory de Vasselot had written in ahurry, and the letter was a long one. Susini read it once, and wasturning it to read again, when, glancing out of the window, he saw Denisecross the Place, and go into the church.
“Ah!” he said aloud, “that will save me a long walk.”
Then he read the letter again, with curt nods of the head from time totime, as if Lory were making points or giving minute instructions. Hefolded the letter, placed it in the pocket of his cassock, and gavehimself a smart tap on the chest, as if to indicate that this was themoment and himself the man. He was brisk and full of self-confidence,managing, interfering, commanding, as all true Corsicans are. He took hishat, hardly paused to blow the dust off it, and hurried out into thesunlit Place. He went rather slowly up the church steps, however, for hewas afraid of Denise. Her youth, and something spring-like and mystic inher being, disturbed him, made him uneasy and shy; which was perhaps hisreason for drawing aside the heavy leather curtain and going into thechurch, instead of waiting for her outside. He preferred to meet her onhis own ground--in the chill air, heavy with the odour of stale incense,and in the dim light of that place where he laid down, in blunt language,his own dim reading of God’s law.
He stood just within the curtain, looking at Denise, who was praying onone of the low chairs a few yards away from him; and he was betrayed intoa characteristic impatience when she remained longer on her knees than he(as a man) deemed necessary at that moment. He showed his impatience byshuffling with his feet, and still Denise took no notice.
The abbé, by chance or instinct, slipped his hand within his cassock, anddrew out the letter which he had just received. The rustle of the thinpaper brought Denise to her feet in a moment, facing him.
“The French mail has arrived,” said the priest.
“Yes,” replied Denise, quickly, looking down at his hands.
They were alone in the church which, as a matter of fact, was never verywell attended; and the abbé, who had not that respect for God or manwhich finds expression in a lowered voice, spoke in his natural tones.
“And I have news which affects you, mademoiselle.”
“I suppose that any news of France must do that,” replied Denise, withsome spirit.
“Of course--of course,” said the abbé, rubbing his chin with hisforefinger, and making a rasping sound on that shaven surface.
He reflected in silence for a moment, and Denise made, in her turn, ahasty movement of impatience. She had only met the abbé once or twice;and all that she knew of him was the fact that he had an imperious waywith him which aroused a spirit of opposition in herself.
“Well, Monsieur l’Abbé,” she said, “what is it?”
“It is that Mademoiselle Brun and yourself will have but two hours toprepare for your departure from the Casa Perucca,” he answered. And hedrew out a large silver watch, which he consulted with the quiet air of acommander.
Denise glanced at him with some surprise, and then smiled.
“By whose orders, Monsieur l’Abbe?” she inquired with a dangerousgentleness.
Then the priest realized that she meant fight, and all his combativenessleapt, as it were, to meet hers. His eyes flashed in the gloom of thetwilit church.
“I, mademoiselle,” he said, with that humility which is nought but anaggravated form of pride. He tapped himself on the chest with suchemphasis that a cloud of dust flew out of his cassock, and he blewdefiance at her through it. “I--who speak, take the liberty of makingthis suggestion. I, the Abbé Susini--and your humble servant.”
Which was not true: for he was no man’s servant, and only offered toheaven a half-defiant allegiance. Denise wanted to know the contents ofthe letter he held crushed within his fingers; so she restrained animpulse to answer him hastily, and merely laughed. The priest thoughtthat he had gained his point.
“I can give you two hours,” he said, “in which to make your preparations.At seven o’clock I shall arrive at the Casa Perucca with a carriage, inwhich to conduct Mademoiselle Brun and yourself to St. Florent, where ayacht is awaiting you.”
Denise bit her lip impatiently, and watched the thin brown fingers thatwere clenched round the letter.
“Then what is your news from France?” she asked. “From whence is yourletter--from the front?”
“It is from Paris,” answered the abbé, unfolding the paper carelessly;and Denise would not have been human had she resisted the temptation totry and decipher it.
“And--?”
“And,” continued the abbé, shrugging his shoulders, “I have nothing toadd, mademoiselle. You must quit Perucca before the morning. The news isbad, I tell you frankly. The empire is tottering to its fall, and thenews that I have in secret will be known all over Corsica to-morrow. Whoknows? the island may flare up like a heap of bracken, and no one bearinga French name, or known to have French sympathies, will be safe. You knowhow you yourself are regarded in Olmeta. It is foolhardy to venture herethis evening.”
Denise shrugged her shoulders. She had plenty of spirit, and, at allevents, that courage which refuses to admit the existence of danger.Perhaps she was not thinking of danger, or of herself, at all.
“Then the Count Lory de Vasselot has ordered us out of Corsica?” sheasked.
“Mademoiselle, we are wasting time,” answered the priest, folding theletter and replacing it in his pocket. “A yacht is awaiting you off St.Florent. All is organized--”
“By the Count Lory de Vasselot?”
The abbé stamped his foot impatiently.
“Bon Dieu, mademoiselle!” he cried, “you will make me lose my temper. Theyacht, I tell you, is at the entrance of the bay, and by to-morrowmorning it will be halfway to France. You cannot stay here. You must makeyour choice between returning to France and going into the Watrinbarracks at Bastia. Colonel Gilbert will, I fancy, know how to make youobey him. And all Corsica is in the hands of Colonel Gilbert--though noone but Colonel Gilbert knows that.”
He spoke rapidly, thrusting forward his dark, eager face, forgetting allhis shyness, glaring defiance into her quiet eyes.
“There, mademoiselle--and now your answer?”
“Would it not be well if the Count Lory de Vasselot attended to his ownaffairs at the Château de Vasselot, and the interests he has there?” replied Denise, turning away from his persistent eyes.
And the abbé’s face dropped as if she had shot him.
“Good!” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “I wash my hands of you.You refuse to go?”
“Yes,” answered Denise, going towards the door with a high head, and, itis possible, an ach
ing heart. For the two often go together.
And the abbé, a man little given to the concealment of his feelings,shook his fist at the leather curtain as it fell into place behind her.
“Ah--these women!” he said aloud. “A secret that is thirty years old!”
Denise hurried down the steps and away from the village. She knew thatthe postman, having passed through Olmeta, must now be on the high-roadon his way to Perucca, and she felt sure that he must have in his bag theletter of which she had followed, in imagination, the progress during thelast three days.
“Now it is in the train from Paris to Marseilles; now it is on board thePersévérance, steaming across the Gulf of Lyons,” had been her thoughtnight and morning. “Now it is at Bastia,” she had imagined on waking atdawn that day. And at length she had it now, in thought, close to her onthe Olmeta road in front of her.
At a turn of the road she caught sight of the postman, trudging alongbeneath the heavy chestnut trees. Then at length she overtook him, and hestopped to open the bag slung across his shoulder. He was a silent man,who saluted her awkwardly, and handed her several letters and anewspaper. With another salutation he walked on, leaving Denise standingby the low wall of the road alone. There was only one letter for her. Sheturned it over and examined the seal: a bare sword with a gay Frenchmotto beneath it--the device of the Vasselots.
She opened the envelope after a long pause. It contained nothing but herown travel-stained letter, of which the seal had not been broken. And, asshe thoughtfully examined both envelopes, there glistened in her eyesthat light which it is vouchsafed to a few men to see, and which is thenearest approach to the light of heaven that ever illumines this poorearth. For love has, among others, this peculiarity: that it may live inthe same heart with a great anger, and seems to gain only strength fromthe proximity.
Denise replaced the two letters in her pocket and walked on. A carriagepassed her, and she received a curt bow and salutation from the AbbéSusini who was in it. The carriage turned to the right at the crossroads,and rattled down the hill in the direction of Vasselot. Denise’s headwent an inch higher at the sight of it.
“I met the Abbé Susini at Olmeta,” she said to Mademoiselle Brun, a fewminutes later in the great bare drawing-room of the Casa Perucca. “And hetransmitted the Count de Vasselot’s command that we should leave the CasaPerucca to-night for France. I suggested that the order should be givento the Château de Vasselot instead of the Casa Perucca, and the abbé tookme at my word. He has gone to the Château de Vasselot now in a carriage.”
Mademoiselle Brun, who was busy with her work near the window, laid asideher needle and looked at Denise. She had a faculty of instantly going, asit were, to the essential part of a question and tearing the heart out ofit: which faculty is, with all respect, more a masculine than a femininequality. She ignored the side-issues and pounced, as it were, upon thecentral thread--the reason that Lory de Vasselot had had for sending suchan order. She rose and tore open the newspaper, glanced at the war-news,and laid it aside. Then she opened a letter addressed to herself. It wason superlatively thick paper and bore a coronet in one corner.
“My Dear” (it ran),
“This much I have learnt from two men who will tell me nothing--France islost. The Holy Virgin help us!
“Your devoted
“Jane De Mélide.”
Mademoiselle Brun turned away to the window, and stood there with herback to Denise for some moments. At length she came back, and the girlsaw something in the grey and wizened face which stirred her heart, sheknew not why; for all great thoughts and high qualities have power toillumine the humblest countenance.
“You may stay here if you like,” said Mademoiselle Brun, “but I am goingback to France to-night.”
“What do you mean?”
For reply Mademoiselle Brun handed her the Baroness de Mélide’s letter.
“Yes,” said Denise, when she had read the note. “But I do notunderstand.”
“No. Because you never knew your father--the bravest man God evercreated. But some other man will teach you some day.”
“Teach me what?” asked Denise, looking with wonder at the little woman.“Of what are you thinking?”
“Of that of which Lory de Vasselot, and Henri de Mélide, and Jane, andall good Frenchmen and Frenchwomen are thinking at this moment--ofFrance, and only France,” said Mademoiselle Brun; and out of hermouse-like eyes there shone, at that moment, the soul of a man--and of abrave man.
Her lips quivered for a moment, before she shut them with a snap. PerhapsDenise wanted to be persuaded to return to France. Perhaps the blood thatran in her veins was stirred by the spirit of Mademoiselle Brun, whosearguments were short and sharp, as became a woman much given to economyin words. At all events, the girl listened in silence while mademoiselleexplained that even two women might, in some minute degree, help Franceat this moment. For patriotism, like courage, is infectious; and it is apoor heart that hurries to abandon a sinking ship.
It thus came about that, soon after sunset, Mademoiselle Brun and Denisehurried down to the cross-roads to intercept the carriage, of which theycould perceive the lights slowly approaching across the dark valley ofVasselot.
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