“le vin est versé; il faut le boire.” the words of the old adage rang in valentine’s head to-night. not long ago gaston had quoted them. she had never before so felt their inexorable quality—for to-morrow he must set out to vannes to drink it. . . . he had said farewell to his very few remaining officers, disbanded, of his handful of men, all but a few sentries, and wanted to ride alone to his surrender, but ‘les jeunes’ had made such an outcry at this, and begged so hard to be his escort, that, as the other safe-conducts were blank, he consented.
it was past midnight, and he was still writing, by the light of a couple of candles, at a table in the embrasure of the large window in their room at la vergne. despite the cold, valentine was sitting on the seat in the space between her husband and the heavily curtained window—the seat where, that october night, she had found and kissed his sword. now, that same sword. . . . she looked between the candle-flames at his downbent face. one hand supported his head as he wrote, the fingers running up into the thick, rippling hair. the last three months of strain had aged him a little; but she saw nothing there that she did not love and honour.
the chateau was very still. now and again, even through the closed window, valentine could hear the footfall of the sentry on the flags below. but, after the recent armed occupation, this was like the last moments before death. to-morrow there would be no sentry—nothing to guard. it would all be over.
she pulled aside the curtain and looked out. there was a royal moon; she had forgotten it. the terrace sparkled with thinly fallen snow, and she could see how it powdered the bare, pleached boughs of the arbour where, in the spring, roland and the son and daughter of the house had planned the invasion of mirabel. and she saw, too, in the distance—or was it fancy?—a silver streak, the sea.
ah, if they were there, embarking—if gaston could but be spared the purgatory that lay before him first. she glanced at him again. he had death in his soul; she knew that. le vin est versé . . .
it was not merely that he shrank, as any soldier might, from the personal humiliation of surrendering his sword; it was also that he had given to this enterprise, so nearly successful, not only his arm, but his heart. only lately had she come to see what the overthrow of the cause meant to him; indeed she had not fully learnt it yet. was he writing to the comte d’artois, she wondered now—to the prince who, once again, had never come? if she had held the pen there were words, burning words, that she would have written to that royal laggard! o, how could the man exist who knew that a whole population was sacrificing itself for him and his family, that for years they had been dying for him on the battlefield and the scaffold, that his appearance was the one thing they asked of life, and his presence would cause all that suffering and sacrifice to be forgotten—how could he know all this . . . and not come!
valentine clenched her hands. he whom she loved was driven to this pass through charles of bourbon. he had fought to keep open a harbour for the sails that never came, and was now left, deserted and alone, to drink this bitter wine. . . . the tears began to creep down her face—tears of wrath. she did not want gaston to see them, and turning away, her forehead against the cold glass, she swallowed them down, trying to fix her thoughts instead on that silver gleam of sea, which, when the surrender was consummated, would bear them both away from the land of the once more lost cause.
when she had regained her self-control she dropped the curtain and turned back into the room. her husband had laid down his pen and was leaning back in his chair, his hands along the arms. his look was remote and very grave. she rose from the seat, knelt down beside him and took his right hand in both of hers. his gaze came from far off and rested on her—still very grave.
“gaston, i believe i can see the sea—the moon is so bright.”
“yes?” said he, with a note of enquiry.
“i wish we were down there now,” she went on rather unsteadily, “—where the yellow poppies bloomed last autumn. do you remember?”
“do i remember? do i ever forget? i have them safe—what you gave me.” he touched his breast with his other hand.
“my darling, if they could only bring you forgetfulness—forgetfulness of to-morrow!”
he shook his head. “they will not easily do that.” from her his glance strayed to the sheathed sword lying on the table. she could not bear to see his face when he looked at it, and hid her own.
he seemed then to make an effort to turn his thoughts. “you were speaking of the sea, beloved. when this . . . this business is over, the sea shall take us away at last to happiness.”
valentine raised her head quickly. “at last! gaston, no happiness over the sea, in tranquillity, can ever have the taste of this i have known, in warfare, since last summer! it can never be better, even as this, come what may, can never be less. if it ended to-morrow, you know that i have lived to see all that i dreamt of—more than i dreamt of! o, my knight, when the utmost has been wrought, what matters the broken sword! please god there are many more happy days before us . . . but not better, not happier days!”
their lips met in silence. then, as she knelt there, he bowed his head till it rested on her shoulder. grief and love were one.
the promise of the serene moon of the night was not fulfilled. flurries of sleet were sweeping over the countryside next morning; the strip of sea was the colour of slate, and the wind howled in all the tall chimneys.
in this tumult gaston bade farewell to valentine upstairs. he and his escort calculated to reach quimperlé that night, and vannes the next, so that, unless the roads were in very bad condition, she might hope to see him back on the fourth day.
downstairs in the wide hall with the young men were mme de la vergne and marthe, the former as if she clung to the fiction of speeding a parting guest. but they were all very quiet, looking silently at the staircase when the duc de trélan, pale and upright, came down it pulling on his gauntlets.
“you have your safe-conducts on you, gentlemen, i hope?” he said as he descended.
“have you your safe-conduct, monsieur le duc?” asked marthe impulsively, coming to the foot of the stairs. her little hands were clenched; she hated this business almost as much as he.
but gaston reassured the impetuous girl, and saluted mme de la vergne while artamène went down the steps to the horses, already there in charge of lucien and a groom. roland remained, the duc’s riding cloak over his arm.
“i hate this day more than any god ever made!” said his betrothed to him under her breath. her eyes looked as if she had not slept. roland took her hands and drew her to him, but he could not give her any verbal comfort.
and then, just as m. de trélan was bending in farewell over mme de la vergne’s fingers, there came with the cold wind through the open door the sound of a galloping horse stayed at the very perron, expostulatory voices at the bottom, and feet running up the steps. next moment, breathing hard, a man burst into the hall with artamène behind him.
“thank god, i am in time!” he jerked out—pulled off his hat as he saw the ladies, and revealed the features of the comte de brencourt.
he was spattered with mud and half melted snow up to his very shoulders; his riding boots were one cake of it. but he went straight towards the duc de trélan, disregarding every one else.
“don’t go to vannes, de kersaint!” (the old name was evidently still the more natural). “don’t go, for god’s sake—there is treachery!”
marthe gave a cry that went unheeded.
“treachery!” ejaculated gaston. his eyes lit up. “you dare to come and use that word in front of me—you!—but, perhaps, as an expert, you feel privileged?”
the comte at that terrible rebuff stood a moment rigid, then he reeled a step backwards exactly as if he had been struck. encountering a high-backed chair he gripped it with one hand, steadied himself, and said, in a voice that the air seemed to dissipate, “your safe-conduct is waste paper.” his face was quite grey.
the duc surveyed him pitilessly for a second or two; then he slightly shrugged his shoulders and turned away. “i am afraid that you have ridden very hard to no purpose, monsieur,” he observed. “roland, my cloak, please!”
the comte flung out his free hand. “you are going to your death!” he said wildly. “you are mad—i have warned you . . . where is mme de trélan, she might——”
“leave my wife’s name out of your fabrications, if you please!” said gaston like a rapier thrust, turning on his heel towards him for a brief instant. “well, roland?”
the thunderstruck young man approached with the cloak, and put it on his leader’s shoulders in the midst of an extraordinary silence which even artamène did not dare to break. it was the messenger of destiny himself who broke it, with something between a sob and a laugh.
“you are all mad here, i think . . . madame—or you, mademoiselle, perhaps you have some influence? as there is a god above us, it is a matter of this gentleman’s life. orders have come from the first consul to brune that his safe-conduct is not to be observed, and those orders have been transmitted at least as far as auray, and probably further by this time. can you not stop him?”
and at that gaston flung his cloak back on to roland’s arm, went up to mme de la vergne, said something to her in a low tone which caused her and marthe to withdraw to the other end of the hall, motioned roland and artamène also away, and, going up to the comte, looked him in the eyes and said in a voice vibrating with anger, “no man or woman living keeps me from doing what i intend to do—have you not learnt that yet, monsieur de brencourt? and, as for your story, i certainly put more faith in brune’s honour than in yours!”
the comte, livid, swallowed something in his throat. “your safe-conduct is waste paper,” he repeated. “i heard it with my own ears.” then he broke out with some of his old vehemence, “good god, de trélan, why won’t you believe me?—if this were not true, why do you think i have ridden nearly eighty miles, ill as i am, in this mad haste?”
the man he had so treacherously used continued to look at him. he had not raised his own voice at all, and it was low now, unhurried, and colder than the wind from glaciers. “that is a question which only you can answer, monsieur le comte. i cannot pretend to fathom the motives of a man so utterly false as you. i can only suppose that having failed in the past to deprive me of my life . . . and more than my life . . . you are now trying to take from me something more precious than either, my honour. but i am not to be frightened by talk of treachery into breaking my pledged word. you have failed this time also, monsieur de brencourt.—come, gentlemen, it is time to start.”
he had finally turned his back. the comte, speechless, bowed his head against the high chair to which he was holding. what could he do against this attitude? he had anticipated contempt, hatred, but never disbelief. he lifted his head once more, tried to say, “for your wife’s sake!” but the words stuck in his throat, and besides, the duc was at the door now with the young men—was descending the steps. all that came to his dry lips was the old tag, “your blood be on your own head!” then his limbs gave way beneath him, and he collapsed into the chair, hiding his face in his hands. outside there were sounds of mounting and of riding away; then silence.
marthe and her mother, with rather pale faces, looked at each other, and then at the mudstained figure huddled in the chair, the elder woman uneasily, marthe with distaste. since the duc so disbelieved his story, they disbelieved it too. then mme de la vergne, mindful as ever of the claims of hospitality, addressed the stranger.
“may i not order some refreshment for you after your ride, monsieur?”
at her voice de brencourt roused himself, and rose stiffly. but he responded by a question.
“this is your house, madame, i think—not the duc de trélan’s?”
“certainly it is my house,” responded mme de la vergne. the gentleman looked ghastly ill, as she now saw.
“then i should be very glad of a glass of wine . . . before i ride away again. my mission . . . has been fruitless, but i am . . . i have . . .” his voice tailed off into nothing.
“monsieur, sit down again—you are unwell!” cried mme de la vergne sharply. whatever the subject of disagreement between him and m. de trélan—and it must have been very acute—she did not want to have him fainting in her hall. “marthe, go and order something to be brought at once—and pray give yourself the trouble to come to the fire, monsieur; you must be frozen.”
m. de brencourt obeyed, but with difficulty, and sank into a great chair that she pushed forward. “you do not object to my being in your house a little? the treachery—you heard that?—is not what you probably think. o, my god, my god, why did i come myself? he might have listened to someone else!”
but he found himself alone. he put his cold hand over his eyes and groaned aloud. yes, the desperate fight he had had with himself to do this thing in person, after his failure to find a trustworthy messenger—and the result, the reward! surely, in the few minutes that had passed, he had paid to the full. but he had paid in vain. . . .
his head was swimming; his body frozen. a tray appeared beside him, brought by that scornful girl herself. she vanished again. he seized and drained the glass of wine upon it, and a little warmth stole into him. he heard a footstep, the flow of a robe; the lady of the house back again, no doubt. but, when he looked round, there, gazing at him in astonishment, was the duchesse de trélan.
he got up and flung himself towards her.
“i did it for your sake,” he cried, hardly knowing what he said, “—and he repulsed me like a dog. i was told i should live to do you a service . . . and i thought the day had come. but he . . . he affected to think it was . . . false . . . and he has gone, despite my warning.”
“warning!” stammered valentine, blanching. “warning of what? i was above—i did not know that you were here.”
“i imagine so,” he retorted bitterly. but she had no room in her mind for any emotion but one.
“you came to warn m. de trélan?” she said, and he saw that she was twisting her fingers together. “that was . . . i thank you. but—what is the danger? . . . because he is gone!” the last four words came out with little less than terror behind them.
he could do her the immense, deliberate, though defeated wrong that he had done, but, face to face with her again, after all he had sinned and suffered, he shrank from dealing her the blow his undiluted knowledge must deal. and it was too late now for any benefit to come of it, for, as she had said, the duc was gone.
he dropped his eyes. “i heard a rumour,” he said, “that there was a regiment of the soldiers from holland somewhere on the vannes road, and that they might not be too particular in the observance of a safe-conduct. that was all; and no doubt it was false . . . and at any rate,” he added, his bitterness getting the better of him again, “m. de trélan saw fit not only to disregard my warning, but to insult me into the bargain.”
“not to observe the safe-conduct!” exclaimed the duchesse sharply. “but that is unthinkable!”
(yes, anything but his peril had passed her by; that was clear.)
“you are right, it is really unthinkable,” he answered wearily. “i was a fool to come, and i will relieve you of my presence.”
he meant, indeed, on that to walk straight out of the place. but he was not a young man; he had been ill; he had asked too much of his body. his head turned once more, and violently; he caught at the arm of the chair from which he had risen, and, not to fall altogether, slid back into it. and then the mud, the pallor, the deadly fatigue were all visible to valentine, and she realised with a shock the thing he had done—for her. he saw it in her face as she came to him.
“you do believe me then, valentine? it may not be true, but i believed it!” he said confusedly, forgetting that he had not revealed the heart of the peril. “and i tried to stop him—against my will, yes, against my will! but you do believe me,—in spite of the past?”
the hoarse words were torn out of him, and when she let him have her hand as she bent over him, he put his head down on it and broke into a moment’s strangled sobbing.
