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.
