The reception was over. The last guest had departed. The house had been closed. Sir Gervaise Yeovil and his son and the Countess Laure had bidden the old Marquis good night and retired to their several apartments. There were wakeful hours ahead for the Governor, who repaired to his cabinet and got to work. The tidings which had been brought him by the young Baron St. Laurent were sufficiently grave and perturbing to render sleep impossible, even if he had nothing to do. In great astonishment the Marquis had questioned Major Lestoype closely and from him had received a frank and accurate version of the whole affair. The Major would have died rather than betray a comrade, but in this instance the betrayal had already been effected and there was nothing whatever to be gained, from Marteau's point of view or from anybody's point of view, by an attempt at concealment.
The old Marquis had acted with dazzling promptitude. His personal escort had consisted of a troop of loyalist cavalry from the King's household guard and it had not yet returned to Paris. He could depend absolutely upon these men. They had none of them been soldiers of the grand armies of the Emperor. They had been recruited in loyal and long-suffering Vendée. He placed them under the command of St. Laurent, of whose conduct he highly approved, being in ignorance of the offer of secrecy made by that young soldier, Lestoype being too fine a man to attempt to better his case by bringing the Lieutenant into disgrace. This detachment had searched the Major's quarters thoroughly. They had found them, of course, deserted.
Captain Grenier, being forthwith summoned to headquarters, had stated truthfully that Marteau had taken the Eagle and gone and thereafter the assembly had dispersed. He declared upon his word of honor that he had no knowledge where he had gone or what he had done with the Eagle. The Marquis had a complete description of Marteau drawn up and sent to every gate in the walled town. The guard was ordered to permit nobody and nothing to pass without the severest scrutiny and the closest search or inspection. The Governor made preparations for public proclamation on the morrow, offering a large reward for the fugitive's apprehension dead or alive, and also an additional reward for information that would lead to the discovery of the missing Eagle.
Promising himself to deal with the matter even more thoroughly in the morning, he had at last dismissed his subordinates and retired. If Marteau was within the city walls—and it was impossible to see how he could have got out of the town without a pass after twelve o'clock at night—he would find him if he had to search every house in the town. The spirit of the old man was high and aflame. To be so braved, to have his command the scene of such an outbreak of disloyalty and treason to the King was more than he could bear with equanimity.
There was another regiment in the town that had formerly been known as the Seventh-of-the-Line, commanded by Colonel Labédoyère, and there were detachments of artillery. The Eagle of the Seventh had never been sent to the War Office in Paris. It, too, had disappeared. But that had been months before the Marquis' time, and he had no responsibility for that. Colonel Labédoyère was more than suspected of lukewarmness, but as he was a young man of great influence, high social standing and much personal popularity no steps had as yet been taken against him. The Marquis determined to have it out with him also at the first convenient season, and unless he could be assured of his absolute devotion to King Louis, he would report to the Minister of War the necessity of the Colonel's removal.
The old man was fully alive to the Napoleonic sentiment among the soldiers, a sentiment which arose from a variety of motives. In the first place, war was the trade of most of the soldiers. They lived on it, thrived by it, delighted in it. The permanence of the monarchy meant peace. There would be little chance for advancement and none at all for plunder. Self-interest predisposed every old soldier to continue an imperialist.
In the second place, the finances of France were naturally in a most disordered condition. The pay of officers and men was greatly in arrears; promises made had not been kept, and there was much heart-felt dissatisfaction on that account. The pay of a soldier is in no sense an adequate compensation for the risks he runs, the perils to which he voluntarily and willingly subjects himself, but it is a universal experience that although his pay is in no degree commensurate, yet the soldier whose pay is withheld instantly becomes insubordinate and mutinous, however high or patriotic the motives back of his enlistment.
Again the officers had, most of them, been degraded in rank. Many of them had been retired on pittances which were not paid. Those who were lucky enough to be retained in active service were superseded by superannuated, often incompetent old officers of the old royal army before the revolution, or by young scions of nobility with no knowledge or fitness to command veterans, to whom the gross-bodied, uninspiring, gouty old King did not appeal. Again, the regimental names and associations had been changed and the old territorial or royal and princely designations had been reëstablished; the Napoleonic victories had been erased from the battle-flags; the Eagles had been taken away.
The plain people of France were more or less apathetic toward Emperor or King. France had been drained of its best for so long that it craved rest and peace and time to recuperate above everything else. It had been sated with glory and was alike indifferent to victory or defeat. But the army was a seething mass of discontent. It had nothing to gain by the continuance of present conditions and everything to lose. It was a body of soldiers-of-fortune held in control temporarily by circumstances but ready to break the leash and respond instantly to the call of the greatest soldier-of-fortune of all.
And while all this is true it must also be admitted that there were many officers and men like Marteau who were profoundly humiliated and distressed over conditions in France and who, passionately wrapped up in and devoted to the Emperor, had spurned commissions and dignities and preferments. If they were obscure men they remained in France unnoticed; if they were great men they had expatriated themselves and sought seclusion and safety in other countries, oftentimes at great personal sacrifice of property, ease and comfort.
The King, who was by no means lacking in shrewdness and wit, and his chief advisers in Paris, did not fail to realize something of this, but keen-sighted men like the Marquis d'Aumenier, away from the person of the monarch, realized it much more fully, although even he had not the least idea of the wide extent and depth of this feeling. But the old man knew instinctively that he must control things in Grenoble at least with an iron hand and that no temporizing was possible. The return of Marteau, who was a man of parts and power, he admitted—he recalled how well he had borne himself before the little group in the drawing-room!—followed by the midnight gathering, the joy of the veterans, their worship almost of the Eagle, enlightened him. He would put down sedition with an iron hand, he swore to himself. The King had committed this important place to him. It was, in a certain sense, a frontier city if the impossible happened. Well, the King should find that he had not reposed trust in the Marquis for nothing.
So the old man thought as he lay sleepless during the night. He was not the only one who lay sleepless during the night. Laure d'Aumenier sought rest and oblivion in vain. She had been more moved by Marteau's conduct and bearing and presence in the old Château d'Aumenier, a year ago, than she had been willing to admit until she thought him dead. The Marteaux had always been a good-looking, self-respecting people. Madame Marteau, his mother, had been an unusual woman who had, it was said, married beneath her when she became the wife of old Jean Marteau, although she never in her long married life thought of it in that way. The present Jean Marteau was as handsome and distinguished looking a man as there was in France. The delicacy and refinement of his bearing and appearance did not connote weakness either, as she could testify.
The young woman owed her life and honor to the young soldier. But long before that chance meeting they had been companions in childhood, intimate companions, too. The boy had been her servitor, but he had been more. He had been her protector and friend. In her memory she could recall incident after incident when he had helped her, shielded her. Never once had he failed to show anything but devotion absolute and unbounded toward her.
The proposition of marriage he had made in the old hall, which she had laughed to scorn, had by no means escaped her memory. She had dwelt upon it, she had even speculated upon the possibility of an acceptance of his proposal. Why not? She knew no man more gentle at heart, more gallant in soul, more noble in spirit than he. That, too, she had turned over and over in her mind.
She admired Frank Yeovil. He was a likable man, frank by nature as well as name and brave, sunny in disposition and ardently devoted to her. When the betrothal had been made at her uncle's urgent insistence that she accept Captain Yeovil's suit, it had been a great match for her, for the d'Aumeniers were impoverished exiles, while the Yeovils were a rich family and of a line almost as long as her own. It had been easy enough to plight her troth to the young Englishman at first, but since she had seen Marteau, she realized that it would not be easy to keep that engagement. Fortunately, Captain Yeovil had been on service in Spain and the South of France with the Duke of Wellington's army, and only a few weeks before had he joined her uncle and herself in Paris on leave of absence. He had pressed her to name the day but she had temporized and avoided the issue; not for any definite reason but because as the time drew near she became less and less willing to be the Englishman's wife.
Marteau had been reported killed at Arcis. Perhaps that report had done more to enlighten her to the true state of her affections than anything else. Her pride of birth, her rank and station would never have permitted her, it may be, to dwell upon a living Marteau as a possible husband, but since he was dead there could be no harm in dreams of that kind; and in her grief she had indulged herself in them to the full. It had been a shock to her, of course, but not so great a shock as it would have been if an engagement had subsisted between the two, or she had permitted herself to think that she could ever look favorably on the proposition he had made to her. Nevertheless, it had been a great sorrow. There were some alleviations to the situation, however. Since it had become impossible, since she believed Marteau dead, she could indulge her grief and her mind could dwell upon those attractions which had influenced her so powerfully.
The period was one of intense anxiety and excitement. The old Marquis had lived much alone. He was not versed in woman's ways. Her agitation and grief passed unnoticed. By degrees she got control of herself. Since it was not to be Marteau it might as well be young Yeovil. The whole episode with which the French officer was concerned she viewed from a point of detachment as a romantic dream. His arrival had rudely shattered that dream and awakened her to the reality of the situation. She loved him.
For Laure d'Aumenier to marry Marteau was impossible. The Marquis would never consent. He was her legal guardian, the head of her race. Marriage without his consent was unthinkable. Loving Marteau she would fain not marry Yeovil; yet her troth being plighted in the most public manner and with her consent, the Marquis would force her to keep her word. She knew exactly the pressure that would be brought to bear upon her. Although she had lost some of the pride of her ancestors, she could see the situation from their point of view. There was a deadlock before her and there appeared to be no way of breaking it.
It was a wild night outside. The rain beat upon the casement windows of the old castle. The tempest without seemed fit accompaniment to the tempest within, thought the woman.
A long time she lay thinking, planning, hoping, praying; alike unavailingly. Toward morning, utterly exhausted by the violence of her emotions, the scene she had gone through—and it had been a torture to stand and receive the townspeople after the departure of Marteau—she fell at last into a troubled sleep.
She was awakened by a slight sound, as of a light footstep. She enjoyed the faculty of awakening with full command of her senses at once. She parted the curtains of the bed. With her eyes wide open, holding her breath, she listened. She heard soft movements. There was someone in the room!
Laure d'Aumenier, as has been said, had been trained to self-reliance. She could wield a sword expertly and was an accurate shot with a firearm. She could ride with any woman in England. She had, in full, the intrepidity and courage of her ancestors. Her prowess, so strange and so unusual in that day in a woman, had been a subject of disapproval on the part of her uncle, but Sir Gervaise Yeovil and his son had viewed it with delight. Frank Yeovil had brought her from Spain a beautiful Toledo blade and a pair of Spanish dueling pistols, light, easily handled and of deadly accuracy. The blade hung from a peg in the wall by the head of her bed. The pistols lay in a case on the table upon which her lighted bedroom candle stood. They were charged and ready for use.
Throwing back the cover without a sound, presently she stepped through the hangings and out on the floor. A loose wrapper lay at the foot of the bed, which was a tall old four-poster, heavily curtained. Whoever was in the room was on the other side of the bed, near the wall. The curtains hung between.
She was as light as a bird in her movements. She drew the bed-gown nearer, thrust her feet into heelless slippers, placed convenient for her morning rising by her maid, opened the box of pistols, lifted one of them, examining it on the instant to see that it was ready for use, slipped on the wrapper, stepped toward the foot of the bed and waited.
The beat of the rain, the shriek of the wind, the roar of the thunder filled the room with sound, but the woman had good ears and they were well trained. She could hear someone softly moving. Sometimes, in lulls in the storm, she thought she could detect heavy breathing.
The natural impulse of the ordinary woman would have been to scream or if not that, having gained the floor, to rush to the door, or if not that to pull the bell cord and summon help. But Laure d'Aumenier was not an ordinary woman. She knew that any sound would bring aid and rescue at once. There would be plenty of time to scream, to pull the bell or to do whatever was necessary later. And something, she could not tell what, something she could not recognize, impelled her to take the course she did; to wait, armed.
But the wait began to tell on her sensibilities. The sound of somebody or something moving mysteriously to-and-fro behind the curtains over against the wall at the other end of the room began to work on her nerves. It takes an iron steadiness, a passive capacity for endurance which is quite different from woman's more or less emotional courage, to wait under circumstances like that.
Just when she had reached the limit of her endurance and was persuaded that she could stand no more, her attention was attracted by a slight click as of a lock or catch, a movement as of something heavy, as of a drawer or door, and then the footsteps turned and came toward the window. The moment of action had arrived and with it came the return of her wavering courage.
To reach the window the intruder must pass by the foot of the bed where she stood. Now the light was on the table at the head of the bed and the table was far enough from the bed to shine past her into the room. The moving figure suddenly came into view. It was a man, shrouded in a heavy cloak. He did not glance toward the bed. His eyes were fixed on the window. His astonishment, therefore, was overwhelming when he suddenly found himself looking into the barrel of a pistol and confronted by a woman.
That astonishment was so great when the man recognized the woman that he threw up his hands and stepped backward. As he did so his sodden cloak, which he had gathered closely around him, opened and fell. The next instant his hand tore his hat from his head and he stood revealed in the full light of the candle.
"Marteau!" exclaimed the woman in a surprise and dismay equal to that of the man she confronted.
Her arm that held the pistol dropped weakly to her side. With the other hand she drew the peignoir about her, a vivid crimson wave rushed over her whole body. To surprise a man, a thief, in her room at night, was one thing; to confront the man she loved in such a guise was another. Her heart rose in her throat. For a moment she thought she would have fainted.
"You! You!" she choked out brokenly. "Mon Dieu!"
"Mademoiselle," began the man desperately, his confusion and dismay growing with every flying moment, "I——"
"What do you here," she went on impetuously, finding voice, "in my bedroom at night? I thought you——"
"For God's sake hear me. I came to——" and then he stopped lamely and in agonized embarrassment.
"For what did you come?" she insisted.
"Mademoiselle," he said, throwing his head up, "I cannot tell you. But when I was stationed here before this was the bedroom of the Commanding-Officer. I supposed it was so still. I had not the faintest idea that you—that it was——"
"And what would you do in the bedroom of the Commanding-Officer?" asked the woman, forgetting for the moment the strangeness of the situation in her anxiety to solve the problem.
"And that, I repeat, I cannot tell."
"Not even to me, who——" she stopped in turn.
"Yes, yes, go on," urged the young man, stepping nearer to her. "Not even to you who——"
"Who espoused your cause in the hall this very night, who befriended you," she went on rather lamely and inadequately having checked herself in time.
"Oh," said the young officer in great disappointment, "that?"
"Yes."
"You see, the Governor——"
"Did you wish to kill him?"
"Mademoiselle!" he protested. "I swear to you that I would not harm him for the world but I——"
"Are you in need? He offered you money. I have a few resources."
"For God's sake, mademoiselle," interposed the officer desperately, but she went resolutely on.
"Whatever I have is yours. See——" she stripped rings from her fingers and proffered them—"take them."
"Mademoiselle," said the young man sadly, "you wrong me."
"Well, if it was not for murder or for gain, for what cause did you take so frightful a risk?"
"Is there no other motive, mademoiselle, that makes men risk their lives than revenge or greed?"
"What do you mean?"
"Love."
"But you said you did not know this was my room!"
The words came from her impetuously and before she thought she realized when it was too late.
"Ah, mademoiselle, love of woman is a great passion. I know it only too well, too sadly. But it is not the only love."
"Have you another in your heart?" asked the Countess with a sinking in her own.
"Love of honor."
"I don't understand."
"And yet I know that you are the very soul of honor yourself."
"I thank you, but——"
"Mademoiselle," said the young man, coming to a sudden resolution, "appearances are frightfully against me. That I should be here, in your room, at this hour of the night, under the circumstances, condemns me utterly in your opinion, especially as I have offered no adequate explanation. I am about to throw myself on your mercy, to trust to your honor."
"You shall not trust in vain, monsieur."
"I know that. I trusted to your honor in the Château d'Aumenier and you did not fail me then."
"Nor will I now."
"Will you give me your word not to reveal what I tell you, and not to make use of the knowledge I communicate, until I give you leave?"
"Does it concern the honor or the welfare of those I love?"
"You mean that Englishman?"
"I do not love—I mean the Marquis, my uncle."
"It does not," said the young man, noting with throbbing heart the broken sentence.
"Then I give my promise. Speak."
"I came here to conceal something, mademoiselle."
"What?"
"An emblem."
"Yours?"
"The Emperor's."
"You mean——"
"The Eagle of the Fifth-regiment-of-the-Line."
"Why here?"
"It is a long story. I brought it back, having fished it out of the river Aube, where it had lain since that day——"
"When I thought you killed," said the young woman, her hand pressed to her heart.
"And were you sorry?"
"Sorry? I—— But go on."
"I showed it to the officers of the regiment tonight at Major Lestoype's quarters. We were discovered. The matter was reported to your uncle. Rather than give up the Eagle I said that I would hide it."
"And why here?"
"Because being as I thought the quarters of the Commanding-Officer it would be the last place in Grenoble where it would be sought."
"And where did you hide it?"
"Back of one of the drawers in the cupboard yonder."
"And how did you know of the place?"
"I was stationed here when I first joined the regiment. The château was untenanted. I rambled all over it. I explored its nooks and corners. I discovered that secret hiding place by chance and now the Eagle is there."
"And there it shall remain until it is discovered or until you give me leave to produce it," said the girl firmly.
"I have your promise?"
"You know well that I shall keep it."
"I thank you, mademoiselle. Twice you have saved my life and now, what is more to me than life, the emblem of my faith as a soldier, the honor of my regiment."
"But why keep it, this Eagle, at all," asked the girl, "and run this risk?"
"It may be needed again."
"But by whom?"
"The Emperor."
"The name is forbid."
"But the man is not."
"Ah, you think he will return?"
"I do."
"And when?"
"Mademoiselle has all my secrets. I am in her power absolutely. Why keep anything from her?"
"Why, indeed?" assented the woman, thrilling to the acknowledgment of her power over the man she loved as any woman would.
"When the violets bloom again," said the young man, bowing. "Now, mademoiselle, I am at your service," he resumed as she stared at him.
"At my service? What do you mean?"
"You have caught me here in your room. You have only to call out to summon assistance. I shall be removed from your pathway forever."
"But the Eagle?"
"I shall find means before I die to tell someone where to look for it if it should be needed."
"And I am to condemn you to death?"
"Why not?" said the young man. "I only lived to bring it back. I never dreamed that I was to have the happiness of seeing you again."
"Happiness? This anguish?" murmured the young woman in daring self-revelation.
She had forgot the hour, her dress, the strangeness of the situation, the awful impropriety of it all, the possibility of discovery. She only saw the man she loved. She saw how he loved her. She hung upon his words, and would fain hear more—more!
"My God!" he responded with a sort of fierce pride that was almost arrogant. "Although I was born a peasant, mademoiselle, not the finest gentleman in France or England could love you as I do. Yet it is impossible for you to love me now that the Emperor is no longer here. Your uncle would never consent. You, yourself, love that English gentleman. Why give thought to Marteau? Summon assistance, deliver me up and remember me as one who loved you with all the fervor of his heart, or forget me, if you can."
"I would not have you die," said the woman, shuddering. "God forbid."
"It is best so. Life holds nothing for me now."
"But if the violets bloom again?" asked the other.
"Ah!" exclaimed the man, throwing up his hands and drawing a long breath. "Then!"
"How came you here, monsieur?"
"By that window there. There is a ladder without. It reaches most of the way. I am a good climber. The ivy——"
"Go as you came. None shall be the wiser."
"To you always the disposition of my life, mademoiselle," said Marteau simply. "I obey your command. Farewell. It is but a postponement, anyway," he added as he turned away. "I can never escape from Grenoble. They will seize me sooner or later and——"
"Stay!" she cried.
Moved by an unaccountable impulse the girl took a step nearer to him. She loosened her clutch upon her garment and held out her hands to him.
"If it is to be farewell," she said tenderly, "know that I do not love that English Captain, no, and that. I——"
He seized her hand and covered it with kisses.
"I can die with better grace now," he said at last.
Not daring to trust himself further he turned to the window again. As he put his hand on the lock of the casement he heard shouts and cries outside, he saw torches. Escape that way was barred. The whole castle seemed suddenly to awake. He realized it all in a moment. He had been traced there. In another minute he would be discovered in the Countess's room at that hour of the morning. He turned swiftly to the dismayed girl.
"They are there," he said. "Escape is cut off."
Steps and voices resounded in the corridor.
"Quick," she said, "the closet yonder—you can hide."
She understood the peril as well as he.
"And bring disgrace upon you when they caught me? Never!"
"Marteau, for God's sake, I love you," said the woman agonizingly. "I cannot——"
She stretched out her hands to him again. Very lovely she looked, the peignoir falling from her white shoulders, the soft candle-light illuminating and yet concealing in its vague shadows the beauty of face and figure. Marteau did not dare to dwell upon that. He must act and instantly. He rushed toward the woman. He caught her by the hand. He even shook her a little.
"Shriek," he whispered in her ear.
He picked up the pistol from the bed upon which she had thrown it and pointing it upward pulled the trigger. Startled by his utterly unexpected action, the meaning of which she could not fathom, she did scream loudly. The next instant the door was thrown open and into the room half clad, sword in hand, burst the Marquis. With him were Sir Gervaise Yeovil and the young Captain, and attending them were servants and guards bearing lights.
The Marquis stared from his niece back to the young officer.
"My God!" he exclaimed. "Is it you?"
Marteau could only bow. He had a few seconds to make up his mind, a few seconds to decide upon the role he must play. Well, his life was certainly forfeit, his reputation he would also give for hers. Any explanation that he could make would be disbelieved unless, of course, he produced the Eagle, which was not to be thought of. Failing the Eagle the more he endeavored to account for his presence the more deeply would he involve the woman he loved.
"I find you here, you that I treated almost like a gentleman, who, I thought, nearly measured up to the title, in my niece's room at this hour of the morning," continued the enraged old man. "Laure, has he—has he harmed you?"
"You came too quickly, monsieur," answered Marteau, himself, giving the young woman time to recover herself. "You heard the pistol shot." He threw the weapon from him. "We were struggling. It went off and——"
"You damned low-born coward," gritted out the English officer, stepping toward him furious with anger.
"Steady, Frank. There is something strange about this," said Sir Gervaise gloomily, catching his son by the arm. "He is no coward. That I'll warrant."
"But to seek entry into a woman's bed-chamber!" continued Frank furiously. "If you were a gentleman I'd——"
"That 'almost,'" said Marteau, "saves me in this instance."
"I feel this action almost as if it had been my own son, had God blessed me with one," said the old Marquis, slowly recovering his self-command. "A loyal Marteau, a thief, a despoiler of women! Why, she knelt to you in the hall. She raised her voice in your defense, and now you—you——" His fingers twitched. "'The Count d'Aumenier,'" he added in bittery mockery. "You could not bear the title if it had been left in your hand. I shall have you branded as a thief in the morning and——"
"My uncle," said the woman, "he——"
"Mademoiselle," interposed Marteau sharply, resolved to protect her at all hazards, "is not my case black enough without further testimony from you? I beseech you to be silent."
"Speak, Laure," said the old Marquis. "If you have anything to say which will make his punishment surer and harder, I charge you to say it."
"Nothing, nothing," answered the poor young woman. "Oh, if ever a woman's soul was tortured——"
"You tortured her, did you?" cried the Englishman, struggling in his father's arms. "I once thought of meeting you in the field—you—you! I would like to strangle you with my bare hands."
"It is just. I honor monsieur for his rage. It is true, I love the woman, and——"
"Is this the way a gentleman shows his affection?" roared out the English captain.
"Monsieur forgets that I am almost, not quite, a gentleman."
"And there is another score we have to settle with you," cried the Marquis. "That cursed Eagle—where is it?"
"Before I sought mademoiselle," said Marteau, "I placed it in safety and in such keeping as will watch over it. You will never find it. It will only be produced when"—he stopped—"when the violets bloom again."
"What is this damned nonsense about flowers I hear everywhere?" burst out Sir Gervaise.
"Well, monsieur," said the Marquis, "it will be produced before that time, or when the violets do bloom they will find some red soil out of which to spring."
"You mean——"
"As I live I will have you court-martialed in the morning and shot for high treason. I stand for the King, for the ancient laws of France. I will have no paltering with traitors, and I am more inclined to deal swiftly and summarily with you since to treason you add theft and this attempt upon a woman. Produce that Eagle, or you die."
"I must die, then," said the young man.
"By heaven," said Sir Gervaise; looking keenly at the officer, "there is more in this than I can understand. Give me leave, my lord," he turned to Marteau. "I have liked you always. I would befriend you now. I do not believe in appearances always. Can you not explain?"
"Sir," said Marteau, "I am grateful to find one here who still believes——" He stopped. "The circumstances speak for themselves. I love mademoiselle. I was mad. I came here, I——"
"Gentlemen," said the Marquis, "let us withdraw. It is scandalous that we should be here under such circumstances. You, sir," he turned to Marteau, "this way."
The poor Countess had stood in agony and despair. Marteau did not look at her. He bent his head low as he passed her. Two soldiers of the guard grasped him by the arms, the rest closed about him.
"Go, gentlemen. I will see you presently," said the Marquis. "One of you servants yonder send the Countess's women here."
"I thank God," said young Yeovil, "that we got here in time. If he had harmed you, dearest Laure, I would have killed him here where he stood."
Her lover attempted to take her hand, but she shrank away from him. As Sir Gervaise passed her she bent forward and seized the old Baronet's hand and kissed it. He, at least, had seen that there was something beneath the surface.
"Now, my child," said the old Marquis kindly, but with fearful sternness, as the door closed behind the others, "what have you to add to what has been told?"
"What do you mean?"
"I know men. I know that that young man did not come here to assault you, or for robbery. You cannot tell me that the blood of the Marteaux runs in his veins for nothing. And I know you did not invite him here, either. You are a d'Aumenier. What is the explanation of it all?"
But the poor little Countess made no answer. She slowly collapsed on the floor at the feet of the iron old man, who, to save her honor and reputation, had played his part, even as Marteau, in her bedroom on that mad March morning.
The old Marquis was face to face with a terribly difficult problem. That the Eagle had been brought back did not admit of doubt. St. Laurent had seen it, and the officers who had been present at the midnight meeting in the Major's rooms made no attempt whatever to deny it. Marteau admitted it. But it had disappeared. He had not the faintest idea where it was. The most rigorous search had so far failed to discover it. Marteau had been questioned, appealed to, threatened, with no results whatsoever. His lips were sealed and no pressure that could be brought to bear sufficed to open them. He did not deny that he knew where the Eagle was. He simply remained silent, immutably silent, when he was asked where.
From the few loyalist officers in the regiments and in the town a court had been convened and Marteau had been put on trial. He had been found guilty—indeed, there was no other verdict possible, since he calmly admitted everything—of treason, disobedience of orders, a whole catalogue of crimes. The Marquis acted on the old feudal idea that he possessed all the rights of the ancient nobility, the high and low, the middle justice. And, indeed, he represented the King with full powers. The court, completely under his influence, had condemned the young soldier to death. Marteau might have appealed, he might have protested, but he did neither. He accepted the inevitable. What was the difference? No appeal would have been entertained, no protest would have availed. It all came to this, he would either have to give up the Eagle or his life.
Well, life was not worth very much to him, as he had said. Even though he realized from her desperate avowal of the night before that the interest of the Countess in him was more than she would have admitted, had not the words been surprised and wrung from her by his deadly peril, he knew that there was absolutely nothing to be hoped for in that direction. Even though his comrades, alarmed by the imminence of his danger, and aroused by the energetic determination of the old Marquis, besought him to give up the Eagle, he refused. He would have considered himself a forsworn man had he done so.
The Marquis had visited the prisoner and had condescended to make a personal appeal to him, imploring him by that old duty and friendship which had subsisted between the families, but his appeals had been as fruitless as his commands and his threats. The old noble was iron hard. He had no sympathy with the Empire or its Emperor, but the determination of the young officer did arouse a certain degree of admiration. He would fain have spared him if he could, but, as he had sacrificed everything he possessed for the King, and counted the sacrifice as nothing, his sympathies did not abate his determination to punish treason and contumacy one whit.
The Marquis was accustomed to having things his own way, and the long period of exile had not changed his natural bent of mind in that particular. He was angry, too, at the stubbornness which he nevertheless admired. In other directions the Marquis was balked. He had seen through the little drama that had been played by Marteau and the Countess Laure in her bedchamber. That was one reason why he would fain have saved him, because he had so gallantly allowed himself to occupy the hideous role which he had assumed, to save the girl's honor. The Marquis had not the faintest suspicion that there was anything wrong in the situation, or even that his niece had actually given her heart to this man. Such a thought could not be entertained at all.
It was inconceivable, but he knew that, however innocent might have been that meeting, if it had been prearranged the world would consider the Countess disgraced, unless the explanation which Marteau had suggested was allowed to become current. He had summoned his niece before him, and had sought in every way to force her to tell him the whole truth, but she had partaken, in some degree, of Marteau's stubbornness. All she would say was, that Marteau was innocent of any crime or any wrong. But, when the bewildered Marquis asked her if she had invited him there, and if he was there by her permission, she had indignantly repudiated the suggestion as an insult, which left him more puzzled than before.
The idea that Marteau had come there to hide the Eagle had never entered the Marquis' mind for all his acuteness. He had asked the girl whether Marteau had brought anything into the room or taken anything from it, and she had answered truthfully that when she saw him he had been exactly as when they saw him. The testimony of the Marquis and the two Englishmen rendered it unnecessary for the Countess to be present at the court-martial. There was nothing material she could add, and, indeed, it was not for attempted theft, or assault, that Marteau had been condemned—the Marquis had suppressed that as much as possible—but for his conduct with the Eagle.
It was the fifth of March, a warm and sunny day in the south of France, even amid the mountains and hills of ancient Dauphiné. Great things were toward, although the Marquis did not yet know it. The execution of the condemned was set for the next day. At ten o'clock in the morning the regiment was to be paraded and Marteau was to be shot. He had asked that he might be granted a soldier's death, and the Marquis had seen fit to grant the request.
There were very few troops in Grenoble which could be counted as loyal to the King, but there were some. From them the Marquis intended to draw his firing party, and with them he intended to over-awe the regiment if there should be any outbreak. He was too keen a judge of humanity, and too well able to read the characters of men not to realize the whole regiment was in a mutinous temper over the Eagle episode, that they looked upon Marteau as a martyr, and that there might be outbreaks and grave difficulties before he was shot. Well, difficulties did not daunt the stout-hearted, inflexible old noble. He rather enjoyed them. He rather welcomed this occasion, too, because he intended to be master now, and, having once mastered the regiment, he felt he would have no difficulty in controlling it in any future emergency.
To him, as he sat in his cabinet maturing his plans for the morrow, came a message from his niece, asking admittance. The privilege was, of course, instantly granted, and Laure d'Aumenier presently entered the room.
"Have you come, my child," began the old man, regarding her tenderly, for in the few years she had been with him he had learned to estimate the worth of her character and love her as she deserved, "to explain this mystery, to tell me why you declare that the presence of a man in the room of a woman of my house at three o'clock in the morning is innocent? I repeat," he went on reassuringly, "that I cannot conceive of or admit any wrong on your part, and that makes the situation more impossible of explanation."
"My uncle," answered the Countess, "I can only say that Monsieur Jean Marteau is not guilty, as he seems."
"And I can quite believe that," said the old Marquis. "Indeed, our English friend, who for all his bluntness is not without discrimination and good sense, has said as much to me. He declared with great emphasis that there was something in it all which he could not understand."
"And you—what did you say?"
"I asked him if that was meant for any reflection on the honor of my family, for if it were I should accord him the pleasure of crossing swords with me and in the end run him through."
"And he said——"
"He disclaimed absolutely the idea. He is as convinced of your sweetness, your innocence and purity, as I am."
"And Captain Yeovil?"
"He lacks his father's insight and finesse. He is young. He takes matters as he sees them, and fancies Marteau the common, vulgar thief he appeared."
"Impossible!" cried the Countess. "He is——"
"No doubt he is not especially prepossessed in favor of Monsieur Marteau, who has presumed to love you, and perhaps that accounts for his willingness to believe anything derogatory of him."
"He is blind, and I——"
"But you are not declining his hand on that account!"
"No, the marriage stands. I could wish that it did not," said the woman passionately. "I could be happier if he suspected me of anything, however base, and in his suspicion set me free."
"Hark ye, Laure," said the Marquis earnestly. "I am an old man, and the life I have led has not served to maintain my youth. What I am engaged in now does not conduce to that ease of body and peace of mind which promotes long life. To you I say what I have said to no one else. We are standing, as it were, on a volcano. The army is in no sense loyal to the King. I advised that it be disbanded absolutely, but I was overruled. It is seething with sedition. The envoys of the powers at Vienna are playing, idling, debating endlessly, and while they play and idle and talk in their fools' paradise, the Emperor, he who is so called by misguided France, will return. I should not be surprised at any moment to receive tidings that he has landed."
"And that is what they mean when they speak about the violets blooming again?"
"Yes, that is it. And, do you know as I walked in the garden this morning I found this."
He tossed the first tiny purple violet of the spring on the table before her.
"But he will be dead before the Emperor comes," murmured the woman, her hand upon her heart.
"Put that thought out of your mind, my child," said the old man. "Think rather of Captain Yeovil."
"I hate him," said the Countess, which was most unjust, for he had done nothing at all to deserve such an expression on her part.
"Hate is the passion of old age," said the Marquis slowly, "love that of youth. I told you that my race would soon be run. I am an old man. I have suffered much. I shall be content to die if I can serve my King here a little after all these years of weary waiting. The title-deeds that young man gave back do not cover much. The estate has been divided and granted to strangers. It is practically all gone but the old château. I have little or nothing to leave you beyond those small amounts which your father used to send me, which I never would touch because they came from a disloyal France. The Yeovils are true and worthy people. The boy is a gallant lad, a brave soldier, even if not overly acute. Sir Gervaise is a man of consideration and of great wealth. You are portionless. He is most generous. I am very happy in the thought that you will be taken care of. I know what it is to be alone and poor."
"I cannot bear——"
"We have to bear a great many things that we do not wish to in this life. You owe me some consideration. I still retain my faith and confidence in you. I have not pressed you to the wall with hard questions about last night."
"I know, I know, but——"
"And, as the head of the house, I must have even from the children the obedience which is my due."
"I do not wish to fail in my duty toward you, monsieur, but——"
"And your word, the word of a d'Aumenier, has been plighted. You entered into this engagement of your own free will. There was no constraint."
"But there was pressure."
"Yes, certainly, I know what is best for you, but you were not forced in any way, and your troth, having been plighted, your word given"—the old man stopped, looked at her solemnly, his long fingers tapping lightly on the table—"it must be kept," he said, with that air of absolute finality which none could assume better than he.
"It shall be, although it kills me."
"If I live I shall see that it is; and if I die I have your promise?"
"You have."
"That is well. You will live to thank me and bless me. I have fancied, of late, that your heart had been allowed to decline a little to this Marteau. Oh, he is a brave man and true, I know. I take no stock in his confession of theft or assault upon you. Why, I would have cut him down where he stood, or have him kill me if I believed that! But he is of another race, another blood. The Eagle does not stoop to the barnyard fowl. The heart of a woman is a strange thing. It leads her in strange ways if she follows its impulses. Thank God there are men who can and will direct and control those impulses. Put him out of your mind. It is best. To-morrow he will be a dead man. At any rate, I am rather glad of that," said the Marquis, half reflectively, knowing what trouble he might have made if he were to be allowed to live on. It was cold-blooded, but he could sacrifice Marteau for his niece's happiness, and find abundant justification in the annals of his house, where he could read of many Marteaux who had been sacrificed or had sacrificed themselves for the d'Aumeniers.
"I—I will promise," faltered the girl, "but on one condition."
"I like it not when youth makes conditions with age. Nevertheless, what is in your mind?"
"I want to see Marteau again."
"Impossible!"
"Wait," said the woman quickly. "Is it not true, have I not heard that he is condemned outwardly because he brought an Eagle here and it is gone?"
"Yes, that is true."
"And has it not been said that if he produced the Eagle his life could be spared and he could go?"
"That is also true."
"And would it not allay the dissatisfaction of the regiment and contribute to the establishment of your authority if he gave it up?"
"My authority is established by the King."
"The maintenance of it, then. Would it not enable you to control and hold in check these people, if you could show that you had not been balked?"
"That may be," said the Marquis. "Go on."
"And, if he should produce the Eagle——"
"I would save his life, but he would be a discredited man among his comrades, if I know anything about it."
"Oh, not that, surely."
"Surely; and I may tell you that if I were in his place I would do exactly as he has done."
The woman stepped nearer and put her hand to her head.
"Nevertheless, I must see him. Have mercy!" she entreated piteously.
"Why? Do you think you can persuade him to produce the Eagle—to his discredit, be it remembered?" asked the old man, surveying her keenly, realizing at last the extraordinary interest she took in Marteau.
"But it is his life if he does not."
"Do you care so much for—his life?"
"Yes," answered the woman, looking the Marquis straight in the eyes.
He recognized a will as inflexible as his own. It aroused his admiration. He arose to his feet. He bowed before her.
"Mademoiselle," he said firmly, "you have the strength of our house. Perhaps it might be well if he could be induced to produce the Eagle and be thus discredited in the eyes of his comrades. It would tend to make my authority more secure. It would be to the advantage of the King."
"Yes, yes."
"But what argument can you bring?"
"I—I do not know."
"Alas, my child, you know more than you will tell. Oh, I recognize that it is useless to appeal, and impossible to constrain. Well, you give me your word of honor that whatever happens you will carry through the engagement with Captain Yeovil, and that we will together arrange a proper time and that you——"
"I give it."
"Your hand," said the Marquis. "Without there!" He raised his voice. An orderly appeared. "Send Monsieur St. Laurent to me."
"Monsieur," continued the old man, as the officer presented himself, "you will conduct the Countess Laure d'Aumenier to the small drawing-room; you will leave her there; you will then go to the guard-house and bring thence the prisoner, Marteau; you will conduct him to mademoiselle, my niece, and you will leave them together for half an hour; you will see that the prisoner is carefully guarded, that sentries are posted outside of the windows, and you, yourself, will remain with other escort, in front of the door."
"But out of hearing," said the young woman quickly.
"That, of course. And on your honor, on your duty, on your allegiance, you will say absolutely nothing about this to any one. Do you understand?"
"I understand, monsieur. I shall obey," said St. Laurent, a youth of rare quality, as has been seen.
"Good. You have one half-hour, my child. God grant that you may serve France and induce this wretched prisoner to give up the Eagle. Your impulse of mercy does you credit," he said adroitly, making the best of the situation for St. Laurent's benefit. "Now you may go."
"This way, mademoiselle," said St. Laurent, bowing low before her at the open door.
As the Countess passed down the long corridor she almost ran into young Pierre, the boy. He had been questioned with the rest, but had absolutely nothing to tell. Of course, he knew about the recovery of the Eagle, but that was all. He had known nothing about the midnight meeting. The Countess Laure had taken him into her service, her uncle being willing. And he had spent a miserable day when not with her, wondering and hoping and praying for Marteau. With others in the regiments he had received important news in the last hour, and had made every effort to get it to Marteau, as had been suggested to him, but he had hitherto failed. No sentry would pass him, and there was no way he could get speech with the prisoner.
He was in despair when he saw the Countess approaching, St. Laurent marching ceremoniously ahead, as if to clear the way.
"Mademoiselle," he whispered, plucking her gown.
"What is it?" asked the girl, naturally sinking her voice to the other's pitch.
"You will see—him?"
"Yes."
"A message."
"What is it?"
"Give him this."
The boy thrust into her hand two or three flowers like those her uncle had picked, the first purple blossoms of the virgin spring.
"And the message?"
"The violets have bloomed," said the boy, and he was gone.