(1)
about the time that the contents of lucien’s pot were becoming only a tough memory, the marquis de kersaint was standing, with his hands behind his back, looking out through the casement of the small room on the upper floor of the clos-aux-grives which was set apart for his sole use, and out of which led a still smaller bedroom. under his gaze was the farmyard, still stocked with chickens and pigs, and then, almost at once, came the outposts of the great forest which stretched for many miles to the south-west, and whose friendly presence had been one of his reasons for his choice of headquarters. from the window of the inner room could be seen also the low bare contours of the lande, studded with menhirs.
m. de kersaint, however, was not occupied with the view. he was thinking about the singularly unsatisfactory interview which he had just had with his returned chief of staff. for m. de brencourt would hardly answer any questions about his doings, seemed to know almost nothing of the unusual concierge at mirabel (of whom, and of whose services to roland m. de kersaint had heard from the abbé) and, when taxed with having written from the temple, as he had, a letter dissuading his leader from sending another emissary after the treasure, could only reply that he supposed, at his age, captivity was extinguishing to the sense of adventure. and, when closer pressed as to why he had stated in so many words that the gold was impossible to get at and the place closely guarded, whereas the abbé had just written exactly the opposite, he had made no answer at all. decidedly, in view of the effect which mirabel had had on him, it would have been better not to have sent him at all.
the marquis turned at last from the window. he had discarded the peasant’s dress now-a-days, and wore a dark-green uniform with black facings, with the little red and white ribbon of the order of maria theresa on the breast, and a white scarf round the waist. out of a small travelling safe near the window he took some letters, and re-read roland de céligny’s ashamed appeal with something between a smile and a frown. after that, obeying the instinct which so often pushes a man to do what hurts him, he re-read also the three biting epistles from m. de carné which roland’s action had brought upon him. the first was thus conceived:
“monsieur le ‘marquis,’
i am most reluctant to enter into a correspondence with you, but as i am confined to my bed with an attack of gout, i cannot carry out my first intention of coming in person to see you. six days have now passed since you disbanded your cohort of young men, yet roland has not been sent back to me according to the promise on which i was weak enough to rely. where is the boy?”
this was the first intimation which the marquis had received that roland was missing. alarmed and angry, he wrote to the old man in that sense, but his disclaimer did not prevent his meanwhile receiving a second missive, now in his hand. “i find by a letter which has just reached me from my grandson, that instead of sending him back to me, you have despatched him on a secret and doubtless dangerous mission to paris, for that he can really have gone of his own initiative, as he says, i refuse to believe. i regret that my present infirmity, by making it impossible for me to offer you satisfaction, renders it impossible also for me to tell you what i think of your conduct—though, to be frank, that conduct does not surprise me.”
m. de kersaint, greatly roused, had answered that for his part he regretted his respect for the baron’s grey hairs should prevent his replying in the strain to which he was tempted, stating, however, that he did not send roland to paris, that on the contrary he had forbidden him to go, that he had only that day heard of his disobedience, and that he was at once instituting enquiries after him in the capital. his anxiety and his displeasure, he added, were not less than m. de carné’s own.
to which the old man had replied with brevity and effect:
“i have only to say that, to my bitter grief, i see at last in roland the dawn of those qualities whose appearance i have always so much dreaded. he is indeed his father’s son.”
even now the reader flushed as his eyes met this thrust, and he had been far angrier when he first received it—angry with himself too for having protected his own honour by revealing the boy’s disobedience. he might as well have taken the blame on his own shoulders, since the old man had contrived after all to put the responsibility there—on the score of that paternity which, during that visit to kerlidec last february, m. de carné had at length been obliged to acknowledge. . . .
had it not been for the existence of roland himself that brief amour with laure de céligny, more than twenty years ago, would have seemed now as unreal as a dream. it had come to pass so suddenly, been over so soon. down there at saint-chamans, in the south of olives and nightingales and orange blossom (the south to which, for some reason, his wife so unwillingly and so seldom accompanied him) passion flared up quickly. yet of the vicomtesse laure alone, among the many women who had loved him and the few he had loved, gaston de trélan had a particularly gentle memory. she had seemed to him like a dove in a cypress-tree.
the episode ended. that it had ever been was not discovered till laure’s sudden death, coming to light then only through the single letter her lover had written her, which (of course) she had kept. m. de céligny wrote to him. the duc de trélan posted down from paris to the olives and the nightingales and offered him satisfaction. very greatly to his surprise it was refused. the vicomte de céligny—the cypress-tree—intimated that, though he had proof enough that m. de trélan had been his wife’s lover, he had none that roland (now two years old) was not his own son. he should consider him his own, and a duel, whatever its result, could only bring disrepute on the name of his dead wife. roland should succeed to his estates, and the duc had no claim on him whatever. a strange interview.
so it was, and for three years the duc heard nothing more, and never visited his possessions in the south. then he learnt, incidentally, that the child had been sent to his grandfather in brittany to be brought up. the move, after de céligny’s declaration, puzzled him extremely, and in the end he went to kerlidec to investigate the matter. the fiery temper of the baron de carné, who had worshipped his dead daughter, led to the meeting which his son-in-law had declined, and the fact that gaston de trélan, a singularly fine swordsman, and a much younger man than himself (being then about six-and-thirty) disarmed him with ease, only increased m. de carné’s bitter resentment against him as the seducer—so he termed him—of his laure. no more than his son-in-law would he acknowledge the duc’s claim on the child, and forbade him, if he had any regard for laure’s memory, to see the boy again.
but m. de trélan had seen the five-year-old roland at that very visit, and the sight was enough to explain why m. de céligny had sent him away. at that age more than later, his resemblance to his real father was unmistakable; apparently m. de céligny had not been able to bear this speaking witness to his wife’s frailty, though it seemed that he had not moved from his intention of acknowledging him as his heir. to m. de carné the beautiful boy was merely the child of his beloved laure. . . . the duc said that he would undertake not to see him again during his supposed father’s lifetime; further than that he would not go. he had kept his word.
but now he could claim, had claimed, if not the full rights of a father—for he had promised not to reveal his relationship till roland was of age—at least some control over his movements. it was doubly unfortunate then, that roland had acted as he had about mirabel. was it true that he had handed down to the boy his own bad qualities—left conveniently unnamed in that stinging remark of m. de carné’s? at any rate, he thought now with a bitter smile, “i have not yet seen traces in the sweet-tempered roland of being his grandfather’s grandson.” and, lighting a candle, he burnt the baron’s three letters to ashes.
but there was a fourth—that which had come with roland’s—and it was couched in a milder vein. roland had evidently succeeded in convincing his grandfather that the marquis de kersaint was far indeed from having had a hand in his escapade, and the baron had consequently penned a rather stiff apology for his former insinuations, and, in addition, an obviously reluctant request for roland’s recall to the royalist colours, since he was, he confessed, eating his heart out at kerlidec. m. de kersaint had thereupon recalled the culprit.
so, in a week now, he might expect roland in person. he must do his best to show him just the amount of severity that he would have done to lucien or artamène, no less and no more. it would not be easy. the boy’s misdemeanour sprang after all from no worse fault than want of thought, and its very foolhardiness went far to redeem it. suppose he had paid for it with his life!
and as he locked the safe, the marquis said to himself, “how am i ever going to repay that woman for saving the child?”
(2)
m. le général marquis de kersaint and m. le comte de brencourt supped together that evening. the latter was no longer a treasure-hunter; he was m. de kersaint’s second-in-command, and he had been out of touch with his leader and the organisation of finistère for some weeks. he had to be initiated into the present state of royalist affairs in the department, and there were also a quantity of other matters to discuss: the proposed anglo-russian landing at the texel, and how it would affect the west, how much weight pichegru’s name would carry when he appeared as a royalist, and as ever, the difficulties created by the vacillating conduct of the comte d’artois’ advisers.
and over their meal they did discuss these, but, as they were neither of them men to waste words on a situation, they got through pretty quickly, and towards the end of the repast the comte was able to gratify the curious desire he now seemed to have to talk about mirabel.
“a monstrous fine place, you know, marquis,” he observed for the second time, refilling his glass.
“is it?” said m. de kersaint with indifference.
“well, you must realise that it is!” retorted the comte. “you speak as if you had never seen it.”
“i have seen it very seldom.”
“if that is so, then, parbleu, you have an astounding memory for topographical details! the accuracy of the plan of the interior you made for me was astounding, considering that you had only been there once.”
“i never said, surely, that i had only been there once.”
“your pardon, then. you gave me to understand as much, i thought, when you drew me the plan.”
“did i? i have no recollection of having said so, for as a matter of fact i must have been there quite three times in my life.”
the comte smiled curiously. “your plan becomes less miraculous then. but even so, the owner or someone must have conducted you into every hole and corner on the ground floor.”
to this deduction m. de kersaint made no response. the comte drank off a glass of wine, and then, just perceptibly taking a breath as one addressing himself to a plunge, said, “did you ever see the duchesse during any of your—three visits?”
“no,” replied the marquis, his eyes on the stem of his wineglass. “she was not there. she was often elsewhere. they had several other properties.”
“a great pity,” observed m. de brencourt meaningly, “that she was not elsewhere in august, ’92. why in god’s name did she not emigrate?”
“my dear comte, how can i say?” retorted m. de kersaint, twisting the wineglass round and round. (had he turned paler?)
“i wonder,” said his companion reflectively, “if her husband ever gave her the chance of going with him?”
how can a man in mental agony, however proud and determined, suppress every sign of what he is suffering? yet only a very close observer could have seen the throbbing of the vein at the marquis de kersaint’s temple. and this observer, though watching as the proverbial cat the mouse, missed it.
“you seem to forget,” returned m. de kersaint rather haughtily, “that my kinsman is a gentleman. and, for the matter of that, the duchesse could have gone at any time between ’90 and ’92.”
“quite true. and might be alive now had she done so.”
“so might many other people, if it comes to that.”
“it was a wise precaution, certainly, leaving france. i suppose one may say you owe your life to it, de kersaint?”
“possibly,” said his leader shortly. “more probably i owe it to josef schnitterl. pass me the wine if you have done with it, please.”
the comte’s glance lit for an instant on the scrap of ribbon on the speaker’s breast. it was schnitterl, the marquis’s austrian body-servant—not long ago serving their meal—who, as he was never tired of relating, had found his master half-dead on the battlefield of rivoli.
“if mme de trélan had emigrated,” the tormentor pursued, “the duc would be spared the burden of remorse which he carries—or does not carry, as the case may be.” with that he pushed the bottle of wine towards his companion and looked him full in the face.
but m. de kersaint, though rather white about the mouth, met the look quite steadily. “thank you,” he said, taking the bottle. but he offered no remark on the subject of the duc de trélan’s problematical burden.
“do you know, de kersaint,” shot out the comte suddenly, watching him as he filled his glass, “that there is a portrait at mirabel which reminded me very strongly of you—of what you must have been when you were younger.”
“well, you know i am kin to the family.” he had not spilled a drop of wine.
“but by marriage only!” riposted the comte like lightning. “you laid some stress on that once.”
the marquis shrugged his shoulders. “you forgot that, i expect, when you thought you saw a likeness. some people,” he pursued with commendable sangfroid, “are always seeing resemblances of that sort in relations by marriage.”
“indeed! well, you might have sat for this picture! i saw it when i was arrested, for i was taken up into the room where all your—i mean your kinsman’s—family portraits now hang. camain, the deputy of whom i have told you, happened to be there with a party of friends, including his bonne amie, mlle dufour—the actress, rose dufour.”
“yes?”
“it was piquant to see her there, with her great bourgeois admirer, going round the duc’s china under the eyes of all his ancestors—and under someone else’s, too,” he added mentally, “and must have been even more piquant for her—the duc’s former mistress.”
“his mistress!” exclaimed m. de kersaint sharply. “that she never was!”
the comte looked a rather mocking surprise. he had not expected to draw de kersaint thus, for he believed what he said. “what, you can answer for your kinsman’s private life to that extent, marquis! you must have known him pretty well, then, after all!”
“i knew him well enough to be sure that that story has no foundation,” retorted his companion with a frown.
“ah! was he then such a puritan, the duc de trélan?”
“certainly not. but every man draws the line somewhere.”
“i see,” observed m. de brencourt, looking down with a smile at the tablecloth. “your noble relative thought too highly of himself to lay his purse at the feet of an opera singer, yet he did not scruple to leave his wife to years of penury. the world, as you must recognise, would have thought nothing of the first—a mere peccadillo—the second——” he shrugged his shoulders.
obsessed with the ineffaceable picture of the duchesse in her shabby dress, he looked up to see how it was faring with his victim after this venomous thrust. the latter was gazing at him, sufficiently ghastly indeed, but with so much astonishment that the comte realised his slip.
“years of penury!” said the marquis harshly. “what are you talking of, de brencourt? mme de trélan was amply provided for during the two years of the duc’s emigration, and at her . . . death” (it was evident that he could scarcely bring out the word) “she certainly was not poor!”
and at that m. de brencourt himself went white. good heavens, supposing that in the delight of torturing him he let out something vital, as he had almost done now. he must curb his tongue. “no, no, that is true, i suppose,” he stammered. “i ought to beg m. de trélan’s pardon for saying that. . . .”
“i think you ought to beg his pardon for a good deal else that you have said about him,” remarked m. de trélan’s kinsman stiffly.
“why, so i would, perhaps,—if he were here,” replied m. de brencourt, shutting his eyes.
his leader looked at him contemptuously for a moment, then he said, “it is perhaps fortunate that he is not.—well, did you collect any more chroniques scandaleuses at mirabel?”
the colour returned to the comte’s face under the tone.
“no. one item, however, may interest you—as a kinsman by marriage. her portrait is no longer at mirabel.”
“whose portrait?”
“the late duchesse’s.” his secret felt safer now behind that adjective.
a moment’s pause. “what had happened to it then?”
“when the mob broke in that day, the mob which she had to face alone—picture it, de kersaint!—some ruffian with a pike dashed his weapon through it. no doubt he would have liked——”
“who told you that—about the portrait?” interrupted the marquis, setting down his glass. he had not drunk; and this time there was a stain on the cloth.
“who told me?—the concierge,” replied m. de brencourt after a second’s hesitation.
“ah, this concierge about whom you are so unwilling to tell me anything, although the abbé’s success or failure may possibly depend upon her.”
“unwilling—i!” exclaimed the comte harshly. “there is nothing to tell. she did not save me, like roland.” a sneer crept into his voice. “and probably in roland’s case it was merely that he is a taking youth, and she felt compassion for him, or——” an idea seemed suddenly to come into his mind that struck him silent for a moment; then with half a laugh he muttered, “no, morbleu, it could hardly have been that! on the contrary!”
“you are mysterious,” observed his leader coldly. “and i repeat that, since you knew this friendly woman to be in charge at mirabel, i cannot understand your trying to dissuade me from a further attempt on the treasure.”
m. de brencourt looked at the ceiling. “possibly you cannot,” he returned very slowly. “but i remembered that one woman had already gone to prison—and worse—from mirabel, and i did not——”
the marquis leant forward. “do you mean to insinuate,” he said hotly, “that i wish to make use of a woman and leave her to pay? because if so, monsieur de brencourt——”
he checked himself abruptly. “come in!”
the knock at the door had heralded lucien du boisfossé, who stood there saluting and signifying that the chef de canton called ‘sincèree’ had sent a messenger who would like to speak to the general at once.
“show him up,” said m. de kersaint. “no—wait! i’ll see him downstairs. excuse me, comte.” and he was gone.
m. de brencourt looked after him with an unpleasant smile; then he poured himself out another glass of wine and drank it down.
next evening m. du ménars and another officer were also at supper.
