Had Lydie told him that her husband had heaped torrents of abuse on her, and had concluded a noisy scene by striking her, he would have been very angry, but he would have understood.
"Hm!" he said placidly, "these English are mad, of a truth; we men of honour here cannot really comprehend them. Nevertheless, my dear Lydie, I suppose I, as your father, must be thankful that he did not lay hands on you, for English husbands are notoriously brutal. You are quite sure that you have nothing to complain of in your husband's conduct?"
"Quite sure, father dear."
"I had come prepared to take you away with me. My coach is below and I am driving to Château d'Aumont to-night. Would you like to come?"
"Not to-night, dear," she replied serenely, and her father was glad to note that a slight smile hovered round her lips. "I am a little tired, and will go straight to bed. . . . But to-morrow I'll come."
"Permanently?"
"If you will have me."
"Well! until you go to your Château of Vincennes, you know my views on that subject?"
"Yes, father dear. . . . We will talk of that another time. . . . I am very tired to-night."
"I understand that, my child," said Monsieur le Duc rather fussily now, and clearing his throat, as if there wassomething which still oppressed him and of which he would have liked to speak before leaving her.
There was that awkward pause, the result of a want of mutual understanding between two people who hitherto have been all in all to each other, but whom certain untoward events have suddenly drawn apart. Lydie sincerely wished that her father would go. She had much to think about, a great deal to do, and the strain of keeping up a semblance of serenity was very trying to her overwrought nerves. He on the other hand felt uncomfortable in her presence: he left quite angry with himself for not being able to discuss freely with her the subject matter which was uppermost in his mind. There were one or two details in connection with the expedition to the Scottish coast that he very much wanted to talk over with his daughter. The habits of a lifetime gave him the desire to consult her about these details, just as he had been wont to do on all public and official matters. He had come to her apartments chiefly for that purpose. Was she not at one with him, with the King and Gaston over the scheme? She had given substantial proof that she favoured the expedition. His Majesty had thanked her for her help: she had rendered such assistance as now made the whole affair not only feasible but easy of accomplishment.
It was therefore passing strange that Monsieur le Duc d'Aumont still felt an unaccountable bashfulness in her presence when referring to the Stuart prince at all.
So he went to work in a circuitous way, for there was another matter that troubled him, but less so than the expedition: therefore, perhaps, he spoke of it first.
"I presume, my dear child," he said lightly, "that you are sufficiently a woman of the world to understand that some sort of reparation is due from your husband to Monsieur de Stainville."
"Reparation? . . ." she asked. "For what?"
Again she stared at him blankly, and with that vague expression of puzzlement which irritated whilst it half-frightened him.
"You were there, my dear," he said impatiently, "you know . . . and of course you must have seen . . ."
"What?"
"Milor jeered at Gaston, then tripped him up with his foot, so that Monsieur de Stainville measured his full length on the floor."
"I did not notice. . . ." she said simply.
"But many people did . . . enough at all events to give Monsieur de Stainville the initiative in the necessary reparation. He was the insulted party."
"Oh! a duel, you mean," she said indifferently, "yes, I suppose my husband will fight Monsieur de Stainville if His Majesty will grant them leave."
"Gaston will not appeal to His Majesty, and milor cannot very well refuse to meet him. The King has oft declared his intention of permanently suppressing all duelling just as it has been done in England. Even to-night after the unfortunate fracas, when I had the honour of paying my final respects, His Majesty said to me: 'If milor Eglinton and Monsieur de Stainville fight and one of them is killed, we'll hang the survivor!'"
"Then they'll not fight, you think?"
Monsieur le Duc stared at his daughter. Such completeindifference as to her husband's actions in so grave a matter passed the bounds of correct behaviour.
"Mais oui!they will fight, my dear!" he said sternly. "You know as well as I do that Gaston could not pocket the slight put upon him by milor without covering himself with ridicule. But the duel need not be serious . . . a scratch or two and no more. . . . Gaston is a perfect swordsman . . . he never misses his man," added the Duke hesitatingly. "Is milor clever with the foils?"
"I do not know."
"He has never fought a duel to your knowledge?"
"I think never."
"Whilst Gaston's skill is famous. . . . But, my dear, you need have no anxiety. . . . It was also with a view to reassuring you on the subject that I have sought you so late. . . . You will believe your father's word, Lydie, if he tells you that your husband is in no grave danger at the hands of Gaston."
"I thank you, father dear," she rejoined with the same natural, even tone of voice which should have tranquillised him as to her mental condition, but which somehow failed to do so.
"Gaston must take up the matter . . . you understand that. . . . It is quite public and . . . he would be laughed at if he appealed for leave to fight from His Majesty . . . the matter was not serious and the result will be likewise. . . . Gaston will administer a slight punishment to milor . . . such a perfect swordsman, you understand, can select the very place on his opponent's body where he will inflict the scratch . . . it will be the shoulder perhaps . . . or . . . or . . . the cheek . . . nothing to be anxious about. . ."
"I am not anxious, father dear," she said with a serene smile, amused in spite of herself at his many circumlocutions, his obvious confusion, and his still quite apparent wish to speak of one more matter which seemed to be weighing on his mind.
"Is that all that you wished to say to me, dear?" she said gently, "for if so I can assure you that you need not be troubled on my account. I am neither anxious nor upset. . . . Milor I feel confident will take tender care of his shoulder . . . or of his cheek just as he does of his comfort and of his . . . his dignity."
"And you will not take it amiss from me, my dear, if I do not offer to be one of your husband's seconds in the affair?" he asked suddenly, throwing off his hesitation and speaking more frankly.
"Certainly not, father dear. . . . I feel sure that milor himself would not have suggested it. . . ."
"My position near His Majesty . . . you understand, my dear," he explained volubly, "and also my . . . our association with Gaston. . . ."
"Certainly—certainly," she repeated, emphasizing her words, "our association with Gaston. . . ."
"And he really is acting like a perfect gentleman . . . a man of honour. . . ."
"Indeed?"
"His enthusiasm, his courage, and devotion have been quite marvellous. And though we shall primarily owe the success of our enterprise to you, my dear, yet His Majesty feels as I do, that we also owe much to Monsieur de Stainville. Ah!mon Dieu!what it is to be young!"
"What has Monsieur de Stainville done, dear, to arouse your special enthusiasm?" she asked.
"You shall judge of it yourself, my dear. After the esclandre provoked by Irène to-night, the publicity given to our scheme, we held a hurried boudoir meeting, at which His Majesty and Madame de Pompadour were present, as well as myself and Gaston. We all felt that you too should have been there, dear, but you had gone with milor, and . . ."
"Yes, yes, never mind about me, father," she interrupted impatiently, seeing that he was getting lost in the mazes of his polite apologies. "You held a boudoir meeting. What did you decide? . . ."
"That after the publicity given to the main idea of our scheme, you understand," he rejoined, "it would be no longer safe to wait for its execution untilLe Levantinwas ready for sea. Something had to be risked, of course, but on the whole we all thought that now that the matter had become 'le secret de Polichinelle' a six days' delay would be dangerous, if not fatal to success. You were not there, Lydie," he repeated diffidently, "we could not consult you. . . ."
"No, no! Then what did you decide?"
"That we must sendLe Monarqueoff at once."
"Le Monarque? . . . at once? . . ."
"Yes! she is quite ready, so you told me this morning. And though we feared that Captain Barre might be too firm an adherent of the Stuart cause to be altogether reliable, still—as we had your own letter—we finally decided that we had better trust him now, rather than wait forLe Levantin. . . . I think we did right, do you not? . . . Lydie. . . . Lydie . . . child, what is it?"
The desperately anxious query had its justification in Lydie's terrible pallor, the wild dilation of her pupils, the dark purple rings which circled her eyes.
As her father spoke she had risen from the divan, and now she seemed unable to stand; she was trembling from head to foot, her hands were held out before her, as in a pathetic appeal for physical support. In a moment his arm was round her, and with gentle force he drew her back to the couch, pressing her head against his shoulder.
"Lydie . . . Lydie, dear . . . I am sure you are ill."
But already she had recovered from this sudden attack of faintness and dizziness, of which, with characteristic impatience for all feminine weaknesses, she was now thoroughly ashamed. Her nervous system had received so many severe shocks in the course of this terrible and memorable day, that it was small wonder that this last awful blow struck her physically as well as mentally.
"No, no, dear father," she said as lightly as she could for she still felt very faint and ill, "I am quite well, I assure you . . . please . . . please . . ." she urged earnestly, "do not worry about me now, but tell me quite clearly—and as briefly as you can—exactly what are your plans at this moment . . . yours and Gaston's, with regard to the expedition against the Stuart prince . . . you spoke of a duel just now . . . and then of Monsieur de Stainville's enthusiasm and courage. . . . I . . . I am a little confused . . . and I would like to understand."
"I will tell you as briefly as I can, my dear," he rejoined, not feeling altogether reassured, and regarding her withloving anxiety. "We decided that, instead of waiting forLe Levantinto be ready for sea, we would sendLe Monarque, and instruct Captain Barre in accordance with the plan and the letter which you gave us, and the secret orders framed by His Majesty and myself.Le Monarquehaving got the Stuart and his friends on board will make straight for the north-west coast of England, and land the Jacobites at the first possible port, where they can be handed over to the English authorities. Once this was settled, Gaston immediately offered to start for Le Havre at dawn with the secret orders. We are not really afraid of Captain Barre's possible disloyalty—and, of course, he is compelled to obey orders or suffer for his insubordination, which he is not likely to contemplate. On the whole I think we may safely say that we run far less risk by sendingLe Monarquethan by waiting forLe Levantin: and Gaston has full powers to promise Captain Barre a heavy bribe in accordance with the speed whichLe Monarquewill make. After that His Majesty was pleased to dismiss Monsieur de Stainville and myself, being most specially gratified with Gaston's enthusiastic offer to ride at breakneck speed to Le Havre, as soon as he could get to horse. Outside the boudoir, Gaston explained to me, however, that he could not shirk the duel with Lord Eglinton: his seconds, Monsieur de Belle-Isle and Monsieur de Lugeac, already had his instructions and would wait on milor to-night: to put it off now would be to cover himself with ridicule and to risk social ostracism; the affront put upon his wife could not be allowed to rest until after his own return. But the duel could take place at dawn, and then he could get to horse half an hour later. . . . So you see, my dear,that the duel cannot—because of these weighty reasons—have any serious consequences. As for our expedition, methinks everything now is most satisfactorily arranged, as Gaston swears that he will reach Le Havre ere the shades of the evening fall upon the sea."
Lydie had listened quite quietly to this long explanation, taking in every detail of the project, lest anything should escape her. Her father could indeed be completely reassured. She was perfectly calm, apparently cheerful, and when he had finished speaking she thanked him quite naturally and expressed approval of all that had been done.
"Everything is beautifully planned and arranged, my dear father," she said pleasantly, "methinks I cannot do better than take a rest. I fear I have been overwrought all day and have caused you much anxiety. All is for the best now, is it not? . . . Shall we both go to bed?"
Monsieur le Duc sighed with satisfaction. He seemed to have found a long-lost daughter. This was the one he knew, self-possessed, clear-headed, a comfort and a guide.
He drew her to him and kissed her tenderly, and if there was a suggestion of shrinking, of withdrawal in the young body, he was certainly too preoccupied to notice it. He bade her "good-night," and then with obvious relief and a light, elastic step, he finally went out of the room.
When Monsieur Achille, having escorted Madame la Marquise as far as her apartments, once more retraced his sedate footsteps toward those occupied by Lord Eglinton, he was much surprised to find the worthy Baptiste Durand in the octagonal room which gave immediately on milor's study.
The wizened little man looked singularly upset; he had a couple of heavy books under his arm: and two large white quills, one behind each ear, gave him the look of a frightened stork.
It was long past the usual hour when M. Durand laden with his bulky books habitually entered the Marquis's private room and remained closeted therein with milor until long past midnight. Every evening at the self-same hour he came to the octagonal room, passed the time of day with Monsieur Achille and then went in, to milor: he always carried a leather bag filled with papers neatly tied in bundles, and he wore a somewhat anxious look when he entered and one of relief when he finally departed. Monsieur Achille had often bent his broad and majestic back, in order to bring his ear down to the level of the keyhole of the door, through which Monsieur Durand invariably disappeared at ten o'clock in the evening; but all the satisfaction which his curiosity obtained was the sound oftwo voices, one steady and low and the other somewhat shrill, without any individual or comprehensible sentence detaching itself from the irritating babel.
And when M. Durand came out of the room after midnight, he bade Monsieur Achille a curt good-night and invariably refused any information with regard to the work he did for milor at that late hour of the night.
When closely pressed he would vaguely say: "Accounts!" which of course was ridiculous. Monsieur Achille had never heard of a nobleman troubling himself about accounts, at the time when most people of consideration were either atpetits soupersor else comfortably in bed.
As time went on Monsieur Achille ceased to take any interest in these nightly proceedings; they were so monotonous and so regular, that they were no longer exciting. But to-night everything seemed changed. M. Durand instead of marching straight through with his books into the study, stood in the middle of the room, a veritable picture of helpless perturbation.
"Why, M. Durand," said Achille greatly astonished, "what ails you? You look as if you had seen a ghost."
"Sh!—-sh!—-sh!" whispered the timorous little man, indicating with a jerk of his lean shoulder the distant door of the study, "do you hear that?"
Monsieur Achille bent his ear to listen. But strive how he might he could hear nothing but the great bracket-clock on the wall ticking monotonously. He shrugged his shoulders to indicate that the worthy Baptiste had been dreaming, but there was a certain look in the wizened face which caused him to tiptoe toward the study door and once more to bring his ear down to the level of the keyhole.
Then he shook his head, and tiptoed back to the centre of the room.
"I can hear nothing," he whispered. "Are you sure he is in there?"
"Quite, quite sure," replied Durand.
"Then why don't you go in as usual?"
"I . . . I can't!"
"Why not?"
"I . . . I don't know. . . . I seemed to hear such a funny sound as if . . ." he paused a moment searching for the words that would best render his impression of what he had heard. Finding none apparently, he reiterated:
"It is a very funny sound."
"Perhaps milor was asleep and snoring," suggested the practical Achille.
"No, no," protested Durand very energetically.
"Or ill . . ."
"Ah yes! . . . perhaps . . ." stammered the little man, "perhaps milor is ill."
"Then I'll to him at once."
And before M. Durand could prevent him—which undoubtedly he would have done—Achille had gone back to the study door and loudly knocked thereat.
At first there was no answer. M. Achille knocked again, and yet again, until a voice from within suddenly said:
"Who is it?"
"Achille, M. le Marquise!" responded the worthy with alacrity.
"I want nothing," said the voice. "Tell Durand that I shall not need him to-night."
M. Durand nearly dropped his heavy books on the floor.
"Not want me!" he ejaculated; "we shall get terribly in arrears!"
"Will milor go to bed?" again queried M. Achille.
"No!" came somewhat impatiently from within. "Do not wait up for me. If I want you later I will ring."
Achille looked at M. Durand and the worthy Baptiste returned the look of puzzlement and wonder. Both shrugged their shoulders.
"There's nothing to be done, my good Baptiste," said Achille at last; "you had best take your paraphernalia away and go to bed. I know that tone of voice, I have heard it once before when . . . but never mind that," he added abruptly checking himself, as if he feared to commit an indiscretion, "enough that I know if milor says, in that tone of voice, that he does not want you and that you are to go away—well then, my good Durand, he does not want you and you are to go away. . . . Do you see?"
And having delivered himself of this phrase of unanswerable logic he pointed toward the door.
M. Durand was about to take his friend's sound advice, when a loud ring broke in upon the silence which had fallen over this portion of the stately palace.
"A visitor at this late hour," mused Monsieur Achille. "Ma foi! methinks perhaps milor was expecting a fair and tardy visitor. . . . eh, M. Durand? . . . and that perhaps this was the reason why you and I were to go away . . . eh? . . . and why you were not wanted to-night, . . . What?"
M. Durand was doubtful as to that, but there was notime to discuss that little matter, for a second ring, louder and more peremptory than the first, caused M. Achille to pull himself together, to flick at his cravat, and to readjust the set of his coat, whilst M. Durand loath to retire before he knew something of the tardy visitor, withdrew with books, bag and papers into a dark corner of the room.
Already the sound of approaching footsteps drew nearer; the visitor had been admitted and was now being escorted through the reception rooms by the two footmen carrying torches. The next moment the doors leading to the official suite of apartments were thrown open, M. Achille put himself in position in the centre of the room, whilst a loud voice from the distant hall announced:
"M. le Marquis de Belle-Isle! M. le Comte de Lugeac!"
Achille's broad back was bent nearly double. The names were well known to him and represented, if not exactly the flower of aristocratic France, at least the invisible power which swayed her destinies. M. le Marquis de Belle-Isle was Madame de Pompadour's best friend, and M. de Lugeac was her nephew.
"Your master . . . is he within?"
It was M. de Belle-Isle who spoke; his voice was loud and peremptory, the voice of a man who only recently had been in a position to command.
"Milor is . . . er . . . within, M. le Marquis," said Achille with slight hesitation. It is not often that he was taken aback when in the exercise of his duties, but the situation was undoubtedly delicate, and he had not yet made up his mind exactly how he ought to deal with it.
Neither of the two gentlemen, however, seemed to have any intention of leaving him much longer in doubt.
"Go and tell him at once," said M. de Lugeac, "that Monsieur le Marquis de Belle-Isle and myself will have to trouble him for about two minutes."
Then as Achille seemed to be hesitating—for he did not move with any alacrity and his well-kept hand stroked his smooth, heavy chin—M. de Belle-Isle added more loudly:
"Go knave! and at once. . . . Par le diable, man! . . . how dare you hesitate?"
Indeed Monsieur Achille dared do that no longer. M. le Marquis de Belle-Isle was not a gentleman to be trifled with so he shrugged his majestic shoulders, and rubbed his hands together in token that the affair had passed out of their keeping, and that he no longer held himself responsible for any unpleasant consequences which might accrue from such unparalleled intrusion.
He strode with becoming majesty to the study door, his broad, straight back emphasising the protest of his whole attitude. Once more he knocked, but more loudly, less diffidently than before.
The voice from within queried with marked impatience:
"What is it now?"
"An urgent call, Monsieur le Marquis!" replied Achille in a firm voice.
"I can see no one. I am busy," said the voice from within.
M. de Belle-Isle felt that this little scene was not quite dignified; neither he nor M. de Lugeac was accustomed to stand behind a lacquey's back, parleying with a man through closed doors: therefore when Monsieur Achille turned to him now with a look which strove to indicaterespectfully but firmly that the incident was closed, he pushed him roughly aside and himself called loudly:
"Pardi, Marquis, methinks you are over-anxious to forbid your door to-night. I, André de Belle-Isle and my friend le Comte de Lugeac desire a word with you. We represent M. le Comte de Stainville, and unless you are closeted with a lady, I summon you to open this door."
Then as the door remained obstinately closed—too long at any rate for M. le Marquis's impatience—he boldly placed his hand on the knob and threw it open. The heavy panels flew back, revealing Lord Eglinton sitting at his secrétaire writing. His head was resting on his hand, but he turned to look at the two gentlemen, as they stood, momentarily silent and subdued in the doorway itself. He rose to greet them, but stared at them somewhat astonished and not a little haughtily, and he made no motion requesting them to enter.
"We crave your pardon, milor," began Monsieur de Belle-Isle, feeling, as he afterward explained, unaccountably bashful and crestfallen, "we would not have intruded, M. de Lugeac and I, only that there was a slight formality omitted this evening without which we cannot proceed and which we must pray you to fulfill."
"What formality, Monsieur?" asked milor courteously. "I am afraid I do not understand."
"The whole incident occurred very rapidly, we must admit," continued M. de Belle-Isle still standing in the doorway, still unwilling apparently to intrude any further on this man whom he had known for some time, yet who seemed to have become an utter stranger to him now: haughty, grave and courteous, with an extraordinary lookof aloofness in the face which repelled the very suggestion of familiarity. "And that is no doubt the reason, milor, why you omitted to name your seconds to Monsieur de Stainville."
"My seconds?" repeated milor. "I am afraid you must think me very stupid . . . but I still do not understand . . ."
"But surely, milor . . ." protested M. de Belle-Isle, a little taken aback.
"Would you be so kind as to explain? . . . if it is necessary."
"Necessary? Pardi, I should not have thought that it had been necessary. You, milor, in yourself also and through Madame la Marquise your wife have insulted M. le Comte de Stainville and Madame la Comtesse too. We represent M. le Comte de Stainville in this affair, wherein we presume that you are prepared to give him satisfaction. And we have come to-night, milor, to ask you kindly to name your own representatives so that we may arrange the details of this encounter in the manner pre-eminently satisfactory to M. le Comte de Stainville, since he is the aggrieved party."
Gradually M. de Belle-Isle had raised his voice. His feeling of bashfulness had entirely left him and he felt not a little wrathful at this strangerôlewhich he was being made to play. It was quite unheard of that a gentleman who had so grossly insulted another, as Lord Eglinton had insulted M. de Stainville, should require such lengthy explanations as to what the next course of events would necessarily be.
"Therefore, milor," he continued with some acerbityas Lord Eglinton had vouchsafed no reply to his tirade, "we pray you to name your seconds to us, without delay, so that we may no longer intrude upon your privacy."
"I need not do that, M. le Marquis," said milor quietly. "I require no seconds."
"No seconds?" gasped the two gentlemen with one breath.
"I am not going to fight M. de Stainville."
If Lord Eglinton had suddenly declared his intention of dethroning King Louis and placing the crown of France on his own head, he could not more have astonished his two interlocutors. Both M. de Belle-Isle and M. de Lugeac were in fact absolutely speechless: in all their vast experience of Court life such a situation had never occurred before, and literally neither of them knew exactly how to deal with it. M. de Lugeac, young and arrogant, was the first to recover his presence of mind. Like his successful relative Jeanne Poisson de Pompadour he had been born in the slums of Paris, his exalted fortune, following so quickly in the wake of the ex-victualler's wife, had given him an assurance and an amount of impudence which the older de Belle-Isle lacked, and which stood him in good stead in the present crisis.
"Are we to look on this as a formal refusal, milor?" he now asked boldly.
"As you please."
"You will not give M. le Comte de Stainville the satisfaction usually agreed upon between men of honour?"
"I will not fight M. de Stainville," repeated milor quietly. "I am busy with other things."
"But milor," here interposed M. de Belle-Isle testily: "you cannot have reflected on the consequences of such an act, which I myself at this moment would hardly dare to characterize."
"You will excuse me, gentlemen," said Lord Eglinton with seeming irrelevance, "but is there any necessity for prolonging this interview?"
"None at all," sneered M. de Lugeac. "It is not our business to comment on milor's conduct . . . at present," he added with audacious significance.
But M. de Belle-Isle, who, in spite of his undignified adherence to the Pompadour and her faction, was a sprig of the old noblesse of France, was loath to see the humiliation of a high-born gentleman—whatever his faults might be—before such an upstart as de Lugeac. A kindly instinct, not altogether unexplainable, caused him to say encouragingly:
"Let me assure you, milor—though perhaps in this I am overstepping my official powers—that M. le Comte de Stainville has no desire to deal harshly with you. The fact that he is the most noted swordsman in France may perhaps be influencing you at this moment, but will you trust to my old experience when I assure you that M. le Comte's noted skill is your very best safeguard? He will be quite content to inflict a slight punishment on you—being a past master with his sword he can do that easily, without causing you graver injury. I am telling you this in confidence of course, because I know that these are his intentions. Moreover he starts on an important journey to-morrow and would propose a very brief encounter with you at dawn, in one of the spinneys of the Park. A merescratch, I assure you, you need fear no more. Less he could not in all honour concede."
A whimsical smile played round the corners of milor's mouth, chasing momentarily the graver expression of his face.
"Your assurance is more than kind, M. de Belle-Isle," he said with perfect courtesy, "but I can only repeat what I said just now, that I will not fight M. de Stainville."
"And instead of repeating what I said just now, milor . . ." said de Lugeac with a wicked leer.
"You will elect to hold your tongue," said M. de Belle-Isle authoritatively, placing his hand on the younger man's wrist.
De Lugeac, who lived in perpetual fear of doing or saying something which would inevitably betray his plebeian origin, meekly obeyed M. de Belle-Isle's command. The latter, though very bewildered, would be sure to know the correct way in which gentlemen should behave under these amazing circumstances.
Lord Eglinton standing beside his secrétaire, his face in shadow, was obviously waiting for these intruders to go. M. de Belle-Isle shrugged his shoulders partly in puzzlement, partly in contempt; then he nodded casually to milor, turned on his heel, and walked out of the doorway into the octagonal room beyond, whilst M. de Lugeac imitated as best he could the careless nod and the look of contempt of his older friend. M. Achille stepping forward now closed the study doors behind the two gentlemen, shutting out the picture of that grave, haughty man who had just played the part of coward with such absolute perfection.
"Bah! these English!" said young de Lugeac, as he made the gesture of spitting on the ground. "I had not believed it,par tous les diables!had I not heard with mine own ears."
But de Belle-Isle gravely shook his head.
"I fear me the young man is only putting off the evil day. His skin will have to be tough indeed if he can put up with . . . well! with what he will get when this business becomes known."
"And it will become known," asserted de Lugeac spitefully. He had always hated what he called the English faction. Madame Lydie always snubbed him unmercifully, and milor had hitherto most conveniently ignored his very existence. "By G—d I hope that my glove will be the first to touch his cheek."
"Sh!—sh!—sh!" admonished de Belle-Isle, nodding toward Achille who was busy with the candelabrum.
"Nay! what do I care," retorted the other; "had you not restrained me I'd have called him a dirty coward then and there."
"That had been most incorrect, my good Lugeac," rejoined de Belle-Isle drily, and wilfully ignoring the language which, in moments of passion, so plainly betrayed the vulgar origin. "The right to insult Lord Eglinton belongs primarily to Gaston de Stainville, and afterward only to his friends."
And although M. le Marquis de Belle-Isle expressed himself in more elegant words than his plebeian friend, there was none the less spite and evil intent in the expression of his face as he spoke.
Then giving a sign to Achille to precede them with the light, the two representatives of M. le Comte de Stainville finally strode out of the apartments of the ex-Comptroller General of Finance.
M. Durand, with his bulky books and his papers under his arms, followed meekly, repeatedly shaking his head.
Lydie waited a few moments while her father's brisk steps died away along the stone-flagged corridors. In the silence of the evening, the quietude which rested on this distant portion of the palace, she could hear his brief word of command to the valet who had been stationed in the antechamber; then the Duke's quick, alert descent down the marble staircase, and finally the call for his coach oft repeated, when he reached the terrace and began skirting the building on his way to the main paved yard, where, no doubt, his horses were awaiting his return.
When everything in and around the palace seemed quiet again, Lydie rang for her maid.
"A dark hood and cloak," she ordered as soon as the girl appeared, and speaking very rapidly.
"Madame la Marquise goes out again?" asked the maid a little anxiously, seeing that the hour was late and she herself very sleepy.
"Only within the palace," replied Lydie. "Quick, girl! the cloak!"
Within two or three minutes she was enveloped from head to foot in a cloak of dark woollen material, that effectually hid the beautiful gown beneath. Then she bade the girl wait for her in her boudoir, and, not heeding the latter's anxious protestations, she walked quickly out of the room.
The corridors and reception halls were now quite deserted. Even from the main building of the palace, where the King himself was wont to sup copiously and long, there no longer came the faintest echo of revelry, of laughter or of music. The vast château built at the cost of a nation's heart's blood, kept up at the cost of her tears and her humiliation, now lay wrapped in sleep.
In this remote West Wing the silence was almost oppressive. From her own apartments Lydie could reach those occupied by milor, without going through the ante-chamber and corridors, where a few night-watchmen were always stationed. Thus she could pass unperceived; a dark, ghost-like figure, silent and swift, gliding through an enchanted castle, inhabited mayhap only by a sleeping beauty and her Court. From outside not a sound, save the occasional hoot of an owl or the flap of a bat's wings against the projecting masonry.
Lydie drew her cloak closely round her figure; though the August night was hot and heavy with the acrid scent of late summer flowers she felt an inward shivering, whilst her temples throbbed and her eyes seemed made of glowing charcoal. A few more rooms to traverse, a few moments longer wherein to keep her trembling knees from giving way beneath her, and she would be in milor's rooms.
She was a little astonished to find them just as deserted as the rest of the palace. The great audience chamber with its monumental bed, the antechamber wherein M. Durand's wizened figure always sat enthroned behind the huge secrétaire, and the worthy Baptiste himself was wont to hold intrusive callers at bay, all these rooms were empty, silent and sombre.
At last she reached the octagonal room, out of which opened the study. Here, too, darkness reigned supreme save for a thin streak of light which gleamed, thin and weird, from beneath the study door. Darkness itself fought with absolute stillness. Lydie came forward, walking as if in her sleep.
She called to milor's valet: "Achille!" but only in a whisper, lest milor from within should hear. Then as there was no sound, no movement, she called once more:
"Achille! is milor still awake? Achille! are you here?"
She had raised her voice a little, thinking the man might be asleep. But no sound answered her, save from outside the cry of a bird frightened by some midnight prowler.
Then she walked up to the door. There behind it, in that inner sanctum hung with curtains of dull gold, the man still sat whom she had so often, so determinedly wronged, and who had wounded her to-night with a cruelty and a surety of hand which had left her broken of spirit, bruised of heart, a suffering and passionate woman. She put her hand on the knob of the door. Nothing stirred within; milor was writing mayhap! Perhaps he had dropped asleep! And Gaston preparing to ride to Le Havre in order to send the swiftest ship to do its deed of treachery!
No! no! anything but that!
At this moment Lydie had nerved herself to endure every rebuff, to suffer any humiliation, to throw herself at her husband's feet, embrace his knees if need be, beg, pray and entreat for money, for help, anything that might even now perhaps avert the terrible catastrophe.
Boldly now she knocked at the door.
"Milor! milor! open! . . . it is I! . . . ! Lydie. . . . !"
Then as there was no answer from within she knocked louder still.
"Milor! Milor! awake! Milor! in the name of Heaven I entreat you to let me speak with you!"
At first she had thought that he slept, then that obstinate resentment caused him to deny her admittance. She tried to turn the knob of the door, but it did not yield.
"Milor! Milor!" she cried again, and then again.
Naught but silence was the reply.
Excitement grew upon her now, a febrile nervousness which caused her to pull at the lock, to bruise her fingers against the gilt ornaments of the panel, whilst her voice, hoarse and broken with sobs, rent with its echoes the peace and solemnity of the night.
"Milor! Milor!"
She had fallen on her knees, exhausted mentally and physically, the blood beating against her temples until the blackness around her seemed to have become a vivid red. In her ear was a sound like that of a tempestuous sea breaking against gigantic rocks, with voices calling at intervals, voices of dying men, loudly accusing her of treachery. The minutes were speeding by! Anon would come the dawn when Gaston would to horse, bearing the hideous message which would mean her lifelong infamy and the death of those who trusted her.
"Milor! milor! awake!" She now put her lips to the keyhole, breathing the words through the tiny orifice, hoping that he would hear. "Gaston will start at dawn . . . They will sendLe Monarque, and she is ready to put to sea. . . Milor! your friend is in deadly peril. . . ! I entreat you to let me enter!"
She beat her hands against the door, wounding her delicate flesh. She was not conscious of what she was doing. A mystic veil divided her reasoning powers from that terrible mental picture which glowed before her through the blood-red darkness. The lonely shore, the angry sea, the French shipLe Monarqueflying the pennant of traitors!
Then suddenly an astonished and deeply horrified voice broke in upon her ears.
"Madame la Marquise, in the name of Heaven! Madame la Marquise!"
She heard quick footsteps behind her, and left off hammering against the door, left off screaming and moaning, but she had not the power to raise herself from her knees.
"Madame la Marquise," came in respectful, yet frightened accents, "will Madame la Marquise deign to allow me to raise her—I fear Madame la Marquise is not well!"
She recognized the voice of Achille, milor's valet, yet it never entered her mind to feel ashamed at being found by a lacquey, thus kneeling before her husband's door. The worthy Achille was very upset. Etiquette forbade him to touch Madame la Marquise, but could he leave her there? in that position? He advanced timidly. His behaviour was superlatively correct even in this terrible emergency, and there was nothing in his deferential attitude to indicate that he thought anything abnormal had occurred.
"I thought I heard Madame la Marquise calling," he said, "and I thought perhaps Madame la Marquise would wish to speak with milor . . ."
But at the word she quickly interrupted him; rising to her feet even as she spoke.
"Yes! yes . . . ! milor . . . I do wish to speak with him . . . open the door, Achille . . . quick . . ."
"The door is locked on the outside, Madame la Marquise, but I have the key by me," said M. Achille gravely. "I had fortunately recollected that mayhap milor had forgotten to put out the lights, and would in any case have come to see that all was safe . . . if Madame la Marquise will deign to permit me . . ."
It was a little difficult to reconcile utmost respect of movement and demeanour with the endeavour to open the door against which Madame la Marquise was still standing. However, everything that was deferential and correct was possible to Monsieur Achille; he fitted the key in the lock and the next moment had thrown the door wide open, whilst he himself stood immediately aside to enable Madame la Marquise to enter.
Four candles were burning in one of the candelabra; milor had evidently forgotten to extinguish them. Everything else in the room was perfectly tidy. On the secrétaire there were two or three heavy books similar to those Monsieur Durand usually carried about with him when he had to interview milor, also the inkpot and sand-well, with two or three quills methodically laid on a silver tray. One window must have been open behind the drawn curtains, for the heavy damask hangings waved gently in the sudden current of air, caused by the opening of the door. The candles too, flickered weirdly in the draught. In the centre of the room was the armchair on which Lydie had sat awhile ago, the cushion of red embroidery which milor had put to her back, and below the little footstool covered in gold brocade on which her foot had rested . . . a while ago.
And beside the secrétaire his own empty chair, and on the table the spot where his hand had rested, white and slightly tremulous, when she proffered her self-accusation.
"Milor?" she murmured inquiringly, turning glowing eyes, dilated with the intensity of disappointment and despair on the impassive face of Achille, "milor . . . ? where is milor?"
"Milor has been gone some little time, Madame la Marquise," replied Achille.
"Gone? Whither?"
"I do not know, Madame la Marquise . . . Milor did not tell me . . . Two gentlemen called to see him at about ten o'clock; as soon as they had gone milor asked for his outdoor clothes and Hector booted and spurred him . . . whilst I dressed his hair and tied his cravat . . . Milor has been gone about half an hour, I think."
"Enough . . . that will do!"
That is all that she contrived to say. This final disappointment had been beyond the endurance of her nerves. Physically now she completely broke down, a mist gathered before her eyes, the candles seemed to flicker more and more weirdly until their lights assumed strange ghoul-like shapes which drew nearer to her and nearer; faces in the gloom grinned at her and seemed to mock, the walls of the room closed in around her, her senses reeled, her very brain felt as if it throbbed with pain, and without a cry or moan, only with one long sigh of infinite weariness, she sank lifeless to the ground.
M. le Comte de Stainville only shrugged his shoulders when M. de Belle-Isle and young de Lugeac brought him milor's reply.
"Bah!" he said with a sneer, "he'll have to fight me later on or I'll hound him out of France! Never fear, gentlemen, we'll have our meed of fun very soon."
On the whole Gaston was not sorry that this stupid so-called "affair of honour" would not force him to rise before dawn. He had no special ill-will againstle petit Anglais, for whom he had always tried to cultivate a modicum of contempt. He had not always succeeded in this praiseworthy endeavour, for milor as a rule chose to ignore M. de Stainville, as far as, and often more than, courtesy permitted.
The two men had not often met since the memorable evening when milor snatched the golden prize which Gaston had so clumsily cast aside. Their tastes were very dissimilar, and so was their entourage. Milor was officially considered to belong to the Queen's set, whilst Gaston clung to the more entertaining company of Madame de Pompadour and her friends; nor had M. de Stainville had the bad grace to interfere with his wife's obvious predeliction for Lord Eglinton's company.
The memorable day which was just drawing to its closehad seen many changes—changes that were almost upheavals of old traditions and of habitual conditions of court life. Gaston had deceived and then hideously outraged the woman whom long ago he had already wronged. A year ago she had humiliated him, had snatched from him the golden prize which his ambition had coveted, and which she made him understand that he could not obtain without her. To-day had been his hour; he had dragged her down to the very mire in which he himself had grovelled, he had laid her pride to dust and shaken the pinnacle of virtue and integrity on which she stood.
That she had partly revenged herself by a public affront against Irène mattered little to Gaston. He had long ago ceased to care forla belle brune de Bordeaux, the beautiful girl who had enchained his early affections and thereby become a bar to his boundless ambition. The social ostracism—applicable only by a certain set of puritanical dévotes—and the disdain of Queen Marie Leszcynska which his wife might have to endure would be more than compensated by the gratitude of Pompadour and of His Majesty himself, for the services rendered by Gaston in the cause of the proffered English millions.
But for him the expedition against the Stuart prince could never have been undertaken; at any rate, it had been fraught with great difficulties; delays and subsequent failure would probably have resulted. Gaston de Stainville felt sure that in the future he could take care that the King should never forget his services.
After his wife's indiscreet outburst he feared once more for the success of the plan. Remembering Lydie's reliance onLe Monarqueand her commander, he declared himselfprepared to start for Le Havre immediately. He was quite ready to display that endurance and enthusiasm, in the breakneck ride across the fields of Normandy, which Lydie had thought to find in him for the good of a noble cause.
Gaston de Stainville's pockets were always empty; the two millions which the King had promised him would be more than welcome. His Majesty had even offered to supplement these by an additional half million ifLe Monarquesailed out of Le Havre before sunset on the morrow.
The incident of the duel with milor would have delayed matters and—who knows—perhaps have made that pleasant half million somewhat problematical. Therefore Gaston received the news of the refusal with a sardonic grin, but not with real impatience.
He felt really no great ill-will toward Lord Eglinton; but for that incident when he was forcibly made to measure his length on the parquet floor, Gaston would have willingly extended a condescending hand to the man whose wife he had so infamously wronged.
The incident itself had angered him only to the extent of desiring to inflict a physical punishment on milor. Sure of his own wrist as the most perfect swordsman in France, he had fondled the thought of slicing off a finger or two, mayhap a thumb, from the hand ofle petit Anglais, or better still of gashing milor's face across nose and cheek so as to mar for ever those good looks which the ladies of Versailles had so openly admired.
Well! all these pleasant little occurrences could happen yet. M. de Stainville was quite sure that on his return from Le Havre he could provoke the Englishman to fight.Milor might be something of a coward—obviously he was one, else he had accepted so mild a challenge—but he could not always refuse to fight in the face of certain provocation, which would mean complete social ruin if disregarded.
The hour was late by the time Gaston de Stainville had bade good-night to Belle-Isle and Lugeac. Together the three men had drunk copiously, had laughed much and sneered continually at the pusillanimous Englishman.
"This comes of allowing all these aliens to settle amongst us," said de Lugeac impudently; "soon there will be neither honour nor chivalry left in France."
Whereupon de Stainville and Belle-Isle, both of whom bore ancient, aristocratic names, bethought themselves that it was time to break up the little party and to turn their backs on this arrogant gutter-snipe.
The three men separated at midnight. De Lugeac had a room in the palace, and Stainville and Belle-Isle repaired to their respective lodgings in the little town itself.
Soon after dawn Gaston de Stainville was on horseback. He started alone, for that extra half million was dangling before his eyes, and he was afraid that companionship—even that of a servant—might cause unlooked-for delay. He had a hundred and eighty leagues by road and field to cover, and soon the day would become very hot. He meant to reach Le Havre before five o'clock in the afternoon; within an hour after that, he could have handed over his instructions to Captain Barre, and seenLe Monarqueunfurl her sails and glide gracefully out of the harbour: an argosy anon to be laden with golden freight.
The little town of Versailles had scarce opened its eyesto the new day when the clink of a horse's hoofs on her cobble stones roused her from her morning sleep.
A few farmers, bringing in their produce from their gardens, gazed with keen interest at the beautiful animal and her gallant rider. The hour was indeed early for such a fine gentleman to be about.
Soon the rough paving of the town was left behind; the sun, who at first had hidden his newly-awakened glory behind a bank of clouds, now burnt his way through these heavy veils, and threw across the morning sky living flames of rose, of orange, and of vivid gold and tipped the towers and spires of distant Paris with innumerable tongues of fire.
Far away the clock of Notre Dame tolled the hour of five. Gaston cursed inwardly. It was later than he thought, later than he had intended to make a start. That business of the duel had kept him up longer than usual and he had felt lazy and tired in the morning. Now he would have to make top speed, and he did not feel as alert, nor so well prepared for the fatigues of a long day's ride, as he would have been two years ago, before the enervating dissipations of court life at Versailles had undermined the activity of his youth.
Fortunately the ground was soft and dry, the air keen and pure, and Gaston spurred his horse to a canter across the fields.
It is one hundred and fifty leagues from Versailles to the harbour of Le Havre as the crow flies, one hundred and eighty most like by road and across fields.
Gaston had twelve hours in which to cover the ground, a good horse, and the enthusiasm born of empty pockets when two and a half million livres loom temptingly at the end of the journey.
The fields, after the corn harvest, were excellent for a gallop, yielding just sufficiently to the mare's hoofs to give her a pleasant foothold, but not in any way spongy, with good stubble to give resistance and the sandy soil below to prevent the slightest jar. Riding under such conditions, in the cool hours of the morning, was distinctly pleasant.
Gaston reached Nantes soon after seven, having covered close on forty leagues of his journey without unduly tiring Belle Amie. He was a good rider and knew how to ease her, and there was Arab blood in her. She made light of the work, and enjoyed her gallops, being of the breed that never shows fatigue, own daughter to Jedran who had carried Maurice de Saxe on his famous ride from Paris to Saargemund, three hundred leagues in eighteen hours.
At Nantes, Stainville partook of a frugal breakfast, and Belle Amie had a rest and a mouthful of corn. He was again to horse within half an hour, crossing the Seine hereby the newly constructed stone bridge, thence on toward Elboeuf. By ten o'clock the sun was high in the heavens and was pouring heat like molten lead down on horse and rider. Progress had become much slower. Several halts had to be made at tiny wayside inns for a cooling drink and a rub down for Belle Amie. The enjoyment had gone out of the ride. It was heavy, arduous work, beside which despatch riding, with message of life and death, was mere child's play.
But this was not a case of life and death, but of that which was far dearer to Gaston than life without it. Money! money at the end of it all! even if Belle Amie dropped on the roadside and he himself had to cover the rest of the distance on foot. An extra half million ifLa Monarqueset sail before sunset to-day.
At Rouen, horse and rider had to part company. Belle Amie, who had covered close on a hundred leagues, and most of it in the full glare of the midday sun, wanted at least a couple of hours rest if she was to get to Le Havre at all, and this her rider was unwilling to give her. At the posting hostelry, which stands immediately at the rear of the cathedral, Stainville bargained for a fresh horse, and left Belle Amie in charge of mine host to be tended and cared for against his return, probably on the morrow.
Here, too, he partook of a light midday meal whilst the horse was being got ready for him. A good, solid Normandy mare this time, a perfect contrast to Belle Amie, short and thick in the legs, with a broad crupper, and a sleepy look in her eye. But she was a comfortable mount as Gaston soon found out, with a smooth, even canter, and though her stride was short, she got over the ground quickly enough.It was still very hot, but the roads beyond Rouen were sandy and light; the lanes were quite stoneless and shaded by tall trees; the Normandy mare settled down along them to an easy amble. She had not the spirit of Belle Amie but she made up in stolidity what she had lacked in swiftness. Gaston's first impatience at the slowness of her gait soon yielded to content, for she needed no checking, and urging being useless—since she could go no faster—the rider was soon able to let his mind rest and even to sink into semi-somnolence, trusting himself to the horse entirely.
At half-past five the towers of Notre Dame du Havre were in sight; an hour later than Gaston had dared to hope, but still far from the hour of sunset, and if he could infuse a sufficiency of enthusiasm into the commander ofLe Monarque, the gallant ship could still negotiate the harbour before dusk, the tide being favourable, and be out in the open ere the first stars appeared in the heavens.
The little seaport town, whose tortuous, unpaved, and narrow streets were ankle deep in slimy mud in spite of the persistent heat and dryness of the day, appeared to Gaston like the golden city of his dreams. On his left the wide mouth of the Seine, with her lonely shore beyond, was lost in the gathering mist, which rose rapidly now after the intense heat of the day. On his right, a few isolated houses were dotted here and there, built of mud, thatched and plastered over, and with diminutive windows not more than a few inches square, because of the tax which was heavy; they testified to the squalor and misery of their inhabitants, a few families earning an uncertain livelihood with their nets. Soon along the length of the river, as it gradually widened toward its mouth, a few isolated craftcame to view; fishing boats these mostly, with here and there a graceful brigantine laden with timber, and a few barges which did a precarious coasting-trade with salted fish and the meagre farm produce of the environs.
Gaston de Stainville took no heed of these, though the scene—if somewhat mournful and desolate—had a certain charm of rich colouring and hazy outline in the glow of the afternoon sun. The heat had altogether abated, and the damp which rose from the spongy soil, peculiar to the bed of the river, was already making itself felt. Gaston shivered beneath the light cloth coat which he had donned in the morning, in view of the fatigues of a hot summer's day. His eyes peered anxiously ahead and to the left of him. His mare, who had borne him stolidly for over five hours, was quite ready to give way; there was no Arab blood in her to cause her to go on until she dropped. She had settled down to a very slow jog-trot, which was supremely uncomfortable to the rider, whose tired back could scarcely endure this continuous jar. Fortunately the straggling, outlying portions of the townlet were already far behind; the little mud houses appeared quite frequently now, and from them, wizened figures came out to the doorway; women in ragged kirtles and children half-naked but for a meagre shift, gazed, wide-eyed, at the mud-bespattered cavalier and his obviously worn-out mount.
From the fine old belfry the chime had long tolled the half hour. Gaston vainly tried to spur the mare to a final effort. She had reached a stage of fatigue when blows would not have quickened her steps, whilst her rider, roused from his own somnolent weariness, was suddenly alert and eager. Goal was indeed in sight. The mud huts evenhad been left behind, and one or two stone houses testified to the importance of the town and the well-being of its inhabitants; the first inn—a miserable wooden construction quite uninviting even after a day's ride—had already been passed. Ahead was the church of Notre Dame, the fish market, and the residence of the governor; beyond were some low wooden buildings, suggestive of barracks, whilst the Seine, ever widening until her further shore was finally lost in the mist, now showed an ever-varying panorama of light and heavy craft upon her breast; brigantines, and fishing boats, and the new-fashioned top-sail schooners, and far ahead, majestic and sedate, one or two three-deckers of His Majesty's own navy.
Gaston strained his eyes, wondering which of these wasLe Monarque!
A few minutes later he had reached the principal inn of the town, "L'Auberge des Trois Matelots," immediately opposite the rough wooden jetty, and from the bay window of which Gaston immediately thought that a magnificent view must be obtainable of the stretch of the river and the English Channel far away.
He turned into the gate. The house itself was low, one-storied only, and built entirely of wood round a central court-yard, which was as deep in slime as the rest of the town of Le Havre. Opposite Gaston as he rode in, were some primitive stablings, and on his right some equally primitive open sheds; the remaining two sides apparently stood for the main portion of the building, as several doors gave upon a covered verandah, to which some four or five steps gave access.
A weary-eyed ostler in a blue blouse and huge wooden sabots, from which bunches of straw protruded at the heel came leisurely forward when Gaston drew rein. He seemed to have emerged from nowhere in particular, risen out of the mud mayhap, but he held the mare none too clumsily when M. le Comte dismounted.
The next moment a portly figure appeared in one of the doorways under the verandah, clad precisely like the ostler, save for the gorgeous scarlet kerchief round the gargantuanneck, whilst another, equally bright in hue, peeped out of the pocket of the blouse.
Above the scarlet neckerchief a round face, red as a Normandy apple, was turned meditatively on the mud-stained cavalier, whilst a pair of small, beady eyes blinked drowsily at the afternoon sun.
"See that the mare gets a good rub down at once, then a feed of corn with a dash of eau-de-vie in it, a litter of straw, and a drink of water; she is done to death," said Gaston, peremptorily to the sleepy-looking ostler. "I'll be round in a quarter of an hour to see if she is comfortable, and give you a taste of my whip if she is not."
The ostler did not reply, neither did he touch his forelock in token of obedience. He smothered a yawn and with slow, dragging steps he led the over-tired mare toward the rough stabling in the rear. Gaston then turned toward the verandah and to the few wooden steps which led up to the doorway, wherein the apple-faced man still stood with his hands behind him, drowsily blinking at the unexpected visitor.
"Are you the innkeeper?" asked Gaston curtly.
"Yes, M'sieu," replied the other with great deliberation.
"I shall want a good room for the night, and a well-cooked supper. See to it at once."
Mine host's placidity gave way somewhat at these peremptory orders, which were accompanied by a loud and significant tapping of a whip across a riding boot. But the placidity did not yield to eagerness, only to a certain effort at sulky protest, as Gaston, having mounted the steps, now stood facing him in his own doorway.
"My house is full, M'sieu . . ." he began.
"I am on the King's business," shouted Gaston now with angry impatience, "so none of this nonsense. Understand?"
Evidently mine host not only understood, but thought it best to obey with as good grace as he could muster. He stepped aside still somewhat grudgingly, and allowed Gaston de Stainville to enter: but he did not condescend to bow nor did he bid M'sieu the visitor welcome in his house.
Gaston however was not minded to notice the fat man's sulky temper. The moodiness of provincial innkeepers had become proverbial in France; they seemed to look upon all guests, who brought money into their pockets, as arrogant intruders, and treated them accordingly.
"See to a decent supper at once," repeated de Stainville now with that peremptoriness which he knew would alone ensure civility, "and send a wench into my room to see that it is properly aired, and that clean linen is put upon the bed."
The warning was no doubt necessary, judging by the appearance of the room in which Gaston now found himself. It was low and stuffy in the extreme. He was conscious of nothing else for the moment, as only two diminutive windows, hermetically closed, admitted a tiny modicum of light through four dirty and thick panes of rough glass. On the left there was a door evidently leading to another and larger room from which—as this door was ajar—came the sound of voices and also suffocating gusts of very pungent tobacco.
Obviously there was some light and air in that further room, whereas here it seemed to Gaston as if only cave-dwellers and moles could live and breathe.
"You had best serve my supper in there," he said, pointing with his riding whip toward that half-open door, and without waiting for the protests which mine host was obviously preparing himself to make, he strode boldly toward it and pushed it fully open.
The place was certainly very different to the one which he had just quitted. The floor was strewn with clean white sand, and, though the air was thick with the fumes of that same pungent tobacco, which already had offended Gaston's nostrils, it was not hopelessly unpleasant, as the deep and square oriel window at the extreme end of this long, low room was wide open, freely admitting the sweet, salt breeze which blew straight from the English Channel; affording too—as Gaston had originally surmised—a magnificent view of a panorama which embraced the mouth of the Seine, the rough harbour and tiny jetty, with the many small craft lying at anchor on the calm bosom of the river, and the graceful schooners and majestic three-deckers further away, all lit by the slanting rays of the slowly-sinking sun.
Gaston, without hesitation, walked straight up to a bench and trestle table, which to his pleasurable surprise he found was unoccupied. These were just inside the bay of the window, and he deliberately placed his hat, coat and whip upon the table in token that he took possession of it. Then he once more turned to mine host, who, much torn between respect for a man who travelled on the King's business—a nobleman mayhap—and pride of peasant at contact with an unwelcome visitor, had slowly followed Gaston, lolling with that peculiar gait which betrays the ex-sailor whilst firm if deferential protest was writ all over his rubicund countenance.
Jean Marie Palisson was born at Le Havre; he had beenarmateurere the welcome death of a relative put him in possession of the most frequented inn in the town together with a very comfortable competence, and the best furnished cellars this side of Rouen. He greatly resented the appearance of a stranger in the midst of his usual habitués, which distinguished circle embraced M. le Général commanding the fortress, M. the Military Governor of the port, M. the Civil Governor of the town, MM. the commanders on His Majesty's ships, not to speak of M. le Maire, and M. le Député of the Parliament of Rouen, in fact all the notabilities and dignitaries of the town and the harbour.
These gentlemen were wont to assemble in this the best room of "Les Trois Matelots" at five o'clock, "l'heure de l'apéritif," when eau-de-vie, punch or mulled wine were consumed, in order to coax recalcitrant appetites to a pleasurable anticipation of supper. It was an understood thing, between the worthy Jean Marie Palisson and his distinguished customers, that no strangers were to be admitted within this inner sanctum, save by the vote of the majority, nor had it ever occurred before that any one had thus forced an entrance past that magic door which mine host guarded with jealous care.