“when love comes tapping
???on the pane,
let not his summons
???be in vain;
—‘enter, sweet, bring thou
???sun or rain!’?”
sang marthe de la vergne to the harpsichord in her light sweet voice. the strains floated through the open salon window to valentine de trélan as she sat outside in the september sunshine. the music changed:
“should the king honour
???my poor door;
—‘take, sire, my sword-arm
???and my store!’
so spake my fathers
???long before.”
there was a thrill in the young voice. yes, thought mme de trélan, marthe, if she had been a man, would certainly have given her sword-arm and her store to-day; in fact she had given them, in her brother, and—another.
the chords ceased; somebody had come into the room, and valentine recognised her hostess’s voice, though she could not hear what she said. she resumed the embroidery which she had put down to listen to mlle de la vergne’s singing, but in a moment or two that had slipped to her lap, and her thoughts were miles away—back at the allée des vieilles, at the clos-aux-grives. once more she rode into the courtyard of gaston’s headquarters on gaston’s horse, once more she renewed her acquaintance with roland and the abbé chassin; once more she lay in the little room which her husband had given up to her—a soldier’s wife, in a soldier’s bare environment. and once more she was arranging gaston’s sling for him—that sling for which she could not learn the reason, since he evaded her questions about his wound—and he suddenly caught sight of her hands, not quite the white and exquisite hands he remembered, and she perceived that the slight transformation brought home to him almost intolerably the years of which he could not bear her to speak. he had broken down at the sight, and before she could quiet him the palms of those hands, kissed over and over again, were wet with his tears. yes, the lover she had never known she had now, and in those short five days together at the clos-aux-grives, interrupted though their companionship necessarily was, she had lived the only part of all her years that was worth the living.
yet, lover though he were, gaston de trélan had almost instantly to sacrifice his happiness and hers. even with a woman to wait on her he would not have it said that the chief of finistère had his wife with him at his headquarters; would not at any rate permit himself a privilege he would not have accorded to any of his officers. he sent artamène to ask mme de la vergne if she would receive his wife for a while—and so the brief idyll came to an end. for nearly a fortnight now the duchesse de trélan—her identity was no secret here—had been living, for the first time in seven years, with women of her own class, of whom the younger was already her slave. and she was happy here, where she was made so gladly welcome; but her thoughts had an incorrigible habit, as now, of flying away.
for besides those hours with gaston there had been conversations with the abbé chassin, in which she learnt what had at first puzzled her, why her husband had changed his name; and to her pierre chassin revealed, saying he thought he owed it to her as well as to his foster-brother, something of the utter despair and grief of seven years ago, and its sequel. he told her indeed, in so many words, that the profound change in gaston was due to her—to her memory; but valentine had both combated this and said that there was no change—it was but the fruition of what had been there all the time. . . .
fruition, yes—fruition of character, fruition of prayer. she had prayed and longed, and lo, after years, here was the answer! its symbol lay across her very knees—the white silk of which she was making a scarf for the general commanding for the king in finistère. and that general was her husband—her husband who loved her.
could a heart, not very young, break with excess of happiness and gratitude? spring’s joy was not like this—not so secure, not so blest. surely this, the joy of autumn, was better!
her eyes were full of tears as she looked at the golden tranquillity before her, the still trees whence floated the murmur of marthe’s pigeons, the late flowers, the windless blue sky behind the poplars. but they did not fall; and after sitting a moment longer gazing before her she rose, and going to the window, looked in. marthe, alone once more, was still seated at the harpsichord.
“what a charming little song, my child,” said valentine, “and what a fresh voice you have!”
mlle de la vergne rose and, smiling, made her a curtsey. “chère madame, it is a little song that artamène unearthed somewhere; we used to sing it when he was here in the spring recovering of his wound, m. de céligny and he and i. there is another verse.”
“will you not sing it then? sing it all again, if you will, to please me?”
she sat down in the room this time, and once more marthe sang the words, to the light tripping measure of the first stanza, and the martial rhythm of the second. for the third, the music changed yet again to more solemn harmonies:
“then, when death batters
???at my gate,
one boon, i pray thee,
???grant me, fate—
instant to open
???ere he wait!”
the chords ended in the minor.
looking up, marthe saw that mme de trélan had leant her head on one hand. she rose, stood a moment irresolute, and then darted to her, and flinging herself on her knees beside her seized her other hand.
“madame! madame! i should not have sung the last verse! you are thinking—forgive me, but i can guess—that, when the fighting begins——”
valentine put her arm round her. “my child, you shame me! you have more courage than i! have you not given your brother to the same danger, and more than your brother?”
marthe hid her face on the elder woman’s shoulder, and thus, the dark head and the golden-grey together, they were when the door at the end of the great salon opened. mlle de la vergne drew away at the sound, and both ladies looked up. on the threshold stood the tall figure of the duc de trélan, with two aides-de-camp behind him; and the aides-de-camp were roland and artamène.
a moment the three invaders stood there, smiling, all three of them; then the sun-barred parquet rang under a spurred tread as gaston came forward to kiss his wife’s hand, and afterwards her cheek. his arm was no longer in a sling; he was wearing the cross of maria theresa. as he lifted marthe’s fingers to his lips she thought—though she had never been to a court which had ceased to exist by the time she was of an age to be presented—“one sees, just by his manner of doing this, what a great gentleman he is. and i wonder if, in all those brilliant ceremonies at versailles, in the days when he was first gentleman of the bedchamber to the king, whether mme de trélan ever saw him to such advantage as here in our drawing-room, in that plain, dark uniform, with his sword and that air of purpose.”
and the young girl’s reflection was near enough to valentine’s inmost thought as, clinging to her husband’s arm, she went with him through the long window into the sunshine outside, which was so filled with her thoughts of him. out there, his arms round her, her hands on his breast, her eyes closed, she took and gave on the lips a kiss at once grave and passionate, a kiss like the first kiss of lovers—a salute which had no special affinity with courts.
“o gaston, how i have dreamed of this!”
“not more, my heart of hearts, than i! but i could not well have come, had i not been leaving my headquarters for a few days in any case.”
“to fight? not yet, surely?”
“no—to talk!” said he with a little rueful look. “but it will end in fighting, i trust. i am bound for the chateau of la jonchère, near pouancé—just over the border in anjou—where all the chiefs are to meet on the fifteenth, to take a final decision.”
“and you think it will be war?”
“i hope so. circumstances have never been so favourable. but you are standing all this while; let us go and sit down in the arbour.”
they were seated under the linden arch, as yet untouched by autumn, when she said, “a rumour came yesterday, gaston, that vendée had already risen. but we are so out-of-the-way here; is it true?”
her husband’s face darkened. “valentine, it is true. risen, and risen unsuccessfully, alas. forestier—you may remember hearing of him in the grande guerre—came back from spain to lead the rising. he was defeated and, it is feared, mortally wounded, at civière, on the thirtieth of august.”
valentine gave a little shiver. defeat . . . wounds. . . . “gaston, why was it? surely in vendée if anywhere——”
“my darling, vendée is more a name than a power now. that heroic earth is a desert; half her grown men have perished. three years have not nearly sufficed to raise her from ruins. and yet”——he stopped, and dropped his voice a little. “yet one thing might have done it. one thing might even have raised the bones of the slain to life and made soldiers of them—the coming of a prince. it is the old cry—charette’s cry, the cry of quiberon.”
she detected bitterness in his tone. “does so much, then, depend for us now, in brittany, on the comte d’artois’ coming in person?”
the duc bent his head. “it is hard to say how much.”
“perhaps i should not ask this, gaston,” she suggested, uneasy, “but does he mean to come?”
“he says so,” replied m. de trélan gravely. “i have no doubt he means it. it is that nest of intriguers round him who can never be made to see the necessity. they put it on the british government.”
valentine was silent, thinking of the irresponsible prince charming whom they had both known personally in the vanished days of versailles; then she sighed, and changed the topic. but after a little her husband said that it was his duty to pay his respects to mme de la vergne, whom he had not yet seen. and as he rose, reluctantly, he said, “could we not ride together somewhere this afternoon, valentine—alone?”
it was what she had been hoping for. “to the sea, then?” she suggested. “i have not been there yet, though you can see it from the upper windows, and hear it too, when there is wind. let us go there together.”
“soit!” said he, and went off in search of the lady of the house.
in the salon, meanwhile, marthe entertained the aides-de-camp.
“no, you must kiss my left hand to-day, monsieur de céligny,” she said, laughing, and put her right behind her back. “i keep the other exclusively now for our general.”
she had a flame-coloured ribbon in her hair, and her eyes danced as always. yes, she was worth all that mirabel unpleasantness! but roland had already seen her since his return.
“mademoiselle,” he said with some audacity, “if i am to follow m. le duc’s example in salutation to mme de trélan, after the hand comes . . . the cheek. but there, too, i would be content with the left!”
“that also,” said marthe with dignity, “is reserved for someone else!” and she provokingly held it up to her brother, who kissed her on both.
“did i hear you singing sur le seuil just now, ma petite?” he enquired. “that was why you never heard us riding up. you were making such a to-do among those low notes, for death battering on the gate, that he really might have been battering for all you heard.”
but, presently, with a little wise smile, artamène drifted out of the salon. he went into the garden and climbed up into an apple tree which he knew of, where he could lie at his ease in a fork and try some of the small green apples. “maman and i,” he thought, “are de trop in this establishment. m. le marquis—his pardon, m. le duc—and his resuscitated spouse (who is worthy of him) in the arbour, roland and marthe in the salon . . . je me fais hermite.”
but his departure had not greatly facilitated matters, for presently mme de la vergne came in and carried off marthe on some business concerned with the nourishment of the gentlemen who had descended on her, and a moment or two later, when roland stood irresolute and alone by the window, he perceived his leader coming in search of his hostess.
“go and talk to mme de trélan, my boy,” said the duc. “she is in the arbour. i imagine you still have memories of mirabel to discuss.”
so roland went to the arbour, where valentine was, and having at her request fetched her embroidery, sat himself down precariously at her feet on an overturned wateringpot.
“madame, i have a grievance against m. le duc,” he began. “i must lay it before you, for you are the only person who can do anything for me in the matter.”
valentine looked up. “what is it, my child?”
“my locket!” said roland. “the locket you gave me. he has never returned it since that night!”
“have you ever asked him?”
roland shook his head, and his eyes said plainly who he proposed should perform that office. valentine met them—and her needle slipped. the memory of another garden came back to her. he was like gaston in just that light, when he wore just that expression. . . .
“blood!” cried the young man. “madame, you are quite pale! if you would allow me——” and out came his handkerchief.
she shook her head, and twisted her own round the scratch, which had already flecked the silk of the scarf. suppose her first impression had been correct after all? well, it was part of the pain of the past, stretching onwards, which she must face. and did it hurt so much in this wonderful present? but her look was grave when she said lightly, “is there not some other person’s locket you would prefer to the concierge’s, roland?”
he flushed a little. “even if she would have me, if mme de la vergne and her brother—and my grandfather—would give their consents, i am more or less penniless, madame. my estates were sequestrated when my father died two years ago.”
his father! her heart leapt up again. and yet . . . was it possible that she wished he were gaston’s son?
“sequestrated by the government, i suppose? you never told me that. where are they, roland—in brittany also?”
“no, madame; right down in the south, near avignon.”
quite abruptly the duchesse de trélan stood up, dropping the scarf; and the youth, trying to follow her example with the alacrity which politeness demanded, all but rolled off the wateringcan. and valentine apologised. “i suddenly felt it too hot here. i will go under the trees, i think.”
near avignon! so was saint-chamans. she really felt faint, and yet it was not exactly with distaste. but she must know. and since nothing, not even that, had power to come between them now she would ask gaston himself at the first opportunity. she did not even feel that she must have time to reflect on this.
but perhaps gaston meant to tell her of his own free will . . .
then she saw him and marthe coming that way through the sunshine, under the apple trees, and she went towards him, followed by roland. and in his hermitage the chevalier de la vergne, making a wry face over a sour apple, roused himself to peer down at the sound of voices.
“everything that there is of a family party!” he observed softly. and with that, judging it time to discover himself, he dropped down from his tree and joined the quartet.
“oh, there you are, young gentleman,” remarked m. de trélan. “mademoiselle and i have been looking for you. how far did you say it was to the sea, mademoiselle?”
“about five miles, monsieur le duc.”
“then you shall lend me your horse after déjeuner, artamène, and mme de trélan shall ride zéphyr. he prefers to carry a lady, does he not, mademoiselle?”
“i could not vouch for that, monsieur le duc. he has been more honoured since he ceased to do so.”
“you perhaps have not had time to realise, valentine,” said gaston, addressing his wife with a smile creeping round his mouth, “that, as in eastern countries—and not only there, i fancy—where an accused, fearing an adverse judgment, is prompt to send a substantial present to the judge beforehand, so zéphyr (himself of eastern origin) came to me as a . . . bribe . . . and my hands, i fear, are somewhat stained by corruption.”
“how is that?” asked the duchesse, glancing from her husband to the laughing girl.
“but my lips, by the same token, are sealed,” finished m. de trélan.
“mesdames, messieurs, le déjeuner est servi,” announced the recently promoted séraphin, approaching with the gait of a rustic and the livery of a major-domo.
