CHAPTER XXII
THE CHATEAU OF ETARPE
"One would scarcely believe," Wrayson remarked, leaning back in his chairand drawing in a long deep breath, "that we are within three miles of oneof the noisiest and most bustling of French watering places."
"It is incredible," his companion admitted.
They were seated in a garden behind the old inn of the _Lion d'Or_, inthe village of St. Etarpe. Before them was a round table, on whosespotless white cloth still remained dishes of fruit and a bottle ofwine--not the _vin ordinaire_ which had been served with their repast,but something which Wrayson had ordered specially, and which the landlordhimself, all smiles and bows, had uncorked and placed before them.Wrayson produced his cigarette case.
"How did you hear of this place?" he asked, watching the smoke curlupwards into the breathless air. "I fancy that you and I are the onlyguests here."
Wrayson's companion, tall, broad-shouldered, and heavily bearded, wasbusy filling a pipe from a pouch by his side. His features wereunmistakably Saxon, and his cheeks were tanned, as though by muchexposure to all sorts of weathers. He was still apparently on the rightside of middle age, but his manners were grave, almost reserved.
"I was in the neighbourhood many years ago," he answered. "I had a fancyto revisit the place. And you?"
"I discovered it entirely by accident," Wrayson admitted. "I walked outfrom Chourville this morning, stayed here for some luncheon, and was sodelighted that I took a room and went straight back for my bag. Thereisn't an emperor in Europe who has so beautiful a dining-room as this!"
Together they looked across the valley, a wonderful panorama of vine-cladslopes and meadows, starred with many-coloured wild flowers, throughwhich the river wound its way, now hidden, now visible, a thin line ofgleaming quicksilver. Tall poplars fringed its banks, and there werewhite cottages and farmhouses, mostly built in the shelter of thevine-covered cliffs. To the left a rolling mass of woods was pierced byone long green avenue, at the summit of which stretched the grey frontand towers of the Chateau de St. Etarpe. Wrayson looked long at thefertile and beautiful country, which seemed to fade so softly away in thehorizon; but he looked longest at the chateau amongst the woods.
"I wonder who lives there," he remarked. "I meant to have askedthe waiter."
"I can tell you," the stranger said. "The chateau belongs to the Baronessde Sturm."
"A Frenchwoman?" Wrayson asked.
"Half French, half Belgian. She has estates in both countries, Ibelieve," his companion answered. "As a matter of fact, I believe thatthis chateau is hers in her own right as a daughter of the Etarpes. Shemarried a Belgian nobleman."
"You seem well acquainted with the neighbourhood," Wrayson remarked.
"I have been here before," was the somewhat short answer.
Wrayson produced his card-case.
"As we seem likely to see something of one another during the next fewdays, _nolens volens_," he remarked, "may I introduce myself? My name isWrayson, Herbert Wrayson, and I come from London."
The stranger took the card a little doubtfully.
"I am much obliged," he said. "I do not carry a card-case, but my nameis Duncan."
"An Englishman, of course?" Wrayson remarked smiling.
"I am English," Mr. Duncan answered, "but I have not been in England formany years."
There was something about his manner which forbade any furtherquestioning on Wrayson's part. The two men sat together in silence, andWrayson, although not of a curious turn of mind, began to feel more thanan ordinary interest in his companion. One thing he noticed inparticular. Although, as the sun sank lower, the beauties of thelandscape below increased, Duncan's eyes scarcely for a moment restedupon them. He had turned his chair a little, and he sat directly facingthe chateau. The golden cornfields, the stained-glass windows of the greychurch rising like a cathedral, as it were, in the midst of thedaffodil-starred meadows, caught now with the flood of the dying sunlightmingled so harmoniously with their own time-mellowed richness, theincreasing perfume of the flowers by which they were surrounded,--none ofthese things seemed for one moment to distract his attention. Steadilyand fixedly he gazed up that deep green avenue, empty indeed of anymoving object, and yet seemingly not empty to him. For he had the air ofone who sees beyond the world of visible objects, of one who sees thingsdimmed to those of only natural powers. With what figures, Wraysonwondered, idly, was he peopling that empty avenue, what were the fancieswhich had crept out from his brain and held him spellbound? He hadadmitted a more or less intimate acquaintance with the place: was he,perhaps, a former lover of the Baroness, when she had been simply Amy deSt. Etarpe? Wrayson forgot, for a while, his own affairs, in followingout these mild speculations. The soft twilight stole down upon them; hereand there little patches of grey mist came curling up the valley. A batcame flying about their heads, and Wrayson at last rose.
"I shall take a stroll." he remarked, "and turn in. Good night, if Idon't see you again!"
The man named Duncan turned his head.
"Good night!" he said, mechanically.
Wrayson walked down the garden and passed through a wicket-gate into thebroad white road. Setting his back to the village, he came, in a fewminutes, to the great entrance gate of the chateau, hung from massivestone pillars of great age, and themselves fashioned of intricate andcuriously wrought ironwork. The gates themselves were closed fast, andthe smaller ones on either side, intended for pedestrians, were fastenedwith a padlock. Wrayson stood for a moment looking through the bars intothe park. The drive ran for half a mile perfectly straight, and then,taking an abrupt bend, passed upwards into the woods, amongst which wasthe chateau.
"What do you want?" an abrupt voice demanded.
Wrayson looked round in surprise. A man in gamekeeper's clothes hadissued from the lodge, carrying a gun.
"Good evening!" Wrayson said. "Is it permitted for the public to enterthe park?"
"By no means," was the surly answer. "Cannot monsieur see that the gatesare locked?"
"I understood from the landlord of the _Lion d'Or_" Wrayson said, "thatthe villagers were allowed the privilege of walking in the park."
The man looked at him suspiciously.
"You are not of the village," he said.
"I am staying there," Wrayson answered.
"It makes nothing. For the present, villagers and every one are forbiddento enter. There are visitors at the chateau."
Wrayson turned away.
"Very well," he said. "Good night!"
The man did not answer him. Wrayson continued to climb the hill whichskirted the park. He did not turn round, but he heard the gates open, andhe was convinced that he was being watched, if he was not followed. Hekept on, however, until he came to some more iron gates, from whichstretched the grass avenue which led straight to the gardens of thechateau. Dimly, through the gathering dusk, he caught a view of it, whichwas little more than an impression; silver grey and quiet with the peacewhich the centuries can bring, it seemed to him, with its fantastictowers, and imperfectly visible outline, like a palace of dreams ratherthan a dwelling house, however magnificent, of material stone and brick.An owl flew out from the trees a few yards to the left of him, anddrifted slowly over his head, with much flapping of wings, and a weird,soft call, faintly answered in the distance by his mate; from far awaydown in the valley came the slow ringing of a single evening bell. Savefor these things, a silence almost wonderful reigned. Gradually Wraysonbegan to feel that sense of soothed nerves, of inexpressible relief,which Nature alone dispenses--her one unequalled drug! All the agitationand turmoil of the last few months seemed to fall away from him. He feltthat he had been living in a world of false proportions; that the maze ofdoubts and fears through which he had wandered was, after all, no part oflife itself, merely a tissue of irrelevant issues, to which his distortedimagination had affixed a purely fictitious importance. What concern ofhis was it how Morris Barnes had lived or died? And who was Bentham thathis fate should eve
r disturb him? The secrets of other people were theirsto keep. His own secret was more wonderful by far. Alone, from amidst thetangle of his other emotions, he felt its survival--more than itssurvival, its absolute conquest of all other feelings and considerations.It was truth, he knew, that men sought after in the quiet places, and itwas the truth which he had found. If he could but see her coming down theavenue, coming to him across the daisy-strewn grass, beneath the shadowof the stately poplars! The very thought set his heart beating like aboy's. He felt the blood singing in his veins, the love-music swelling inhis heart. He shook the gates. They, too, were padlocked. Then helistened. There was no sound of any footfall in the road. He moved a fewsteps higher up, and, making use of the pillars of the gate, he climbedon to the wall. It was a six-foot drop, but he came down noiselesslyinto a bed of moss. Once more he paused to listen. There was no soundsave the burring of some night insect over his head. Stealthily, andkeeping in the shadow of the trees, he began to climb the grassy avenuetowards the chateau.
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