there is no sentiment so artificial as international hatred. in olden days it owed its existence to churchmen, and now an irresponsible press foments that dormant antagonism. wherever french and english individuals are thrown together by a common endeavour, both are surprised at the mutual esteem which soon develops into friendship. but as nations we are no nearer than we were in the great days of napoleon.
mrs. st. pierre lawrence was only one-quarter french and three-quarters english. her grandmother had been a st. pierre; but it was not from that lady that she inherited a certain open-handedness which took her french friends by surprise.
“it is not that she has the cause at heart,” commented madame de chantonnay, as she walked laboriously on albert's arm down the ramp of the chateau de gemosac at the termination of the meeting. “it is not for that that she throws her note of a thousand francs upon the table and promises more when things are in train. it is because she can refuse nothing to dormer colville. allez, my son! i have a woman's heart! i know!”
albert contented himself with a sardonic laugh. he was not in the humour to talk of women's hearts; for mrs. st. pierre lawrence's action had struck a sudden note of british realism into the harmony of his political fancies. he had talked so much, had listened to so much talk from others, that the dream of a restored monarchy had at last been raised to those far realms of the barely possible in which the gallic fancy wanders in moments of facile digestion.
it was sufficient for the emergency that the others present at the meeting could explain that one does not carry money in one's pocket in a country lane at night. but in their hearts all were conscious of a slight feeling of resentment toward mrs. st. pierre lawrence; of a vague sense of disappointment, such as a dreamer may experience on being roughly awakened.
the three priests folded their hands with complacency. poverty, their most cherished possession, spoke for itself in their case. the notary blinked and fumbled at his lips with yellow fingers in hasty thought. he was a royalist notary because there existed in the country of the deux sevres a royalist clientele. in france, even a washerwoman must hold political views and stand or fall by them. it was astounding how poor every one felt at that moment, and it rested, as usual, with a woman's intuition to grasp the only rope within reach. “the vintage,” this lady murmured. the vintage promised to be a bad one. nothing, assuredly, could be undertaken, and no promise made, until the vintage was over.
so the meeting broke up without romance, and the conspirators dispersed to their homes, carrying in their minds that mutual distrust which is ever awakened in human hearts by the chink of gold, while the dormant national readiness to detect betrayal by england was suddenly wide awake.
nevertheless, mrs. st. pierre lawrence had supplied the one ingredient necessary to leaven the talk of these dreamers into action. even the notary found himself compelled to contribute when albert de chantonnay asked him outright for a subscription. and the priests, ably led by the abbe touvent, acted after the manner of the sons of levi since olden times. they did not give themselves, but they told others to give, which is far better.
in due course the money was sent to england. it was the plain truth that the marquis de gemosac had not sufficient in his pocket to equip loo barebone with the clothes necessary to a seemly appearance in france; or, indeed, to cover the expense of the journey thither. dormer colville never had money to spare. “heaven shaped me for a rich man,” he would say, lightly, whenever the momentous subject was broached, “but forgot to fill my pockets.”
it was almost the time of the vintage, and the country roads were dotted with the shambling figures of those knights of industry who seem to spring from the hedgerows at harvest-time in any country in the world, when the abbe touvent sought out marie in her cottage at the gates of the chateau.
“a la cave,” answered the lady's voice. “in the cellar—do you not know that it is monday and i wash?”
the abbe did not repeat his summons on the kitchen table with the handle of his stick, but drew forward a chair.
“i know it is very hot, and that i am tired,” he shouted toward the cellar door, which stood open, giving egress to a warm smell of soap.
“precisely—and does monsieur l'abbe want me to come up as i am?”
the suggestion was darkly threatening, and the abbe replied that marie must take her time, since it was washing-day.
the cottage was built on sloping ground at the gate of the chateau, probably of the stones used for some earlier fortification. that which marie called the cellar was but half underground, and had an exit to the garden which grew to the edge of the cliff. it was not long before she appeared at the head of the stone steps, a square-built woman with a face that had been sunburnt long ago by work in the vineyards, and eyes looking straight at the world from beneath a square and wrinkled forehead.
“monsieur l'abbe,” she said, shortly—a salutation and a comment in one; for it conveyed the fact that she saw it was he and perceived that he was in his usual health. “it is news from monsieur, i suppose,” she added, slowly, turning down her sleeves.
“yes, the marquis writes that he is on his way to gemosac and wishes you to prepare the chateau for his return.”
the abbe waved his hand toward the castle gates with an air suggestive of retainers and lackeys, of busy stables and a hundred windows lighted after dark. his round eyes did not meet the direct glance fixed on his face, but wandered from one object to another in the room, finally lighting on the great key of the chateau gate, which hung on a nail behind the door.
“then monsieur le marquis is coming into residence,” said marie, gravely.
and by way of reply the abbe waved his hand a second time toward the castle walls.
“and the worst of it is,” he added, timidly, to this silent admission, “that he brings a guest.”
he moistened his fat lips and sat smiling in a foolish way at the open door; for he was afraid of all women, and most afraid of marie.
“ah!” she retorted, shortly. “to sleep in the oubliette, one may suppose. for there is no other bed in the chateau, as you quite well know, monsieur l'abbe. it is another of your kings no doubt. oh! you need not hold up your hands—when monsieur albert reads aloud that letter from monsieur le marquis, in england, without so much as closing the door of the banquet hall! it is as well that it was no other than i who stood on the stairs outside and heard all.”
“but it is wrong to listen behind doors,” protested the abbe.
“ah, bah!” replied this unregenerate sheep of his flock. “but do not alarm yourself, monsieur l'abbe, i can keep a quiet tongue. and a political secret—what is it? it is an amusement for the rich—your politics—but a vice for the poor. come, let us go to the chateau, while there is still day, and you can see for yourself whether we are ready for a guest.”
while she spoke she hastily completed a toilet, which, despite the abbe's caution, had the appearance of incompleteness, and taking the great key from behind the door, led the way out into the glare of the setting sun. she unlocked the great gate and threw her weight against it with quick, firm movements like the movements of a man. indeed, she was a better man than her companion; of a stronger common sense; with lither limbs and a stouter heart; the best man that france has latterly produced, and, so far as the student of racial degeneration may foretell, will ever produce again—her middle-class woman.
built close against the flanking tower on the left hand of the courtyard was a low, square house of two stories only. the whole ground floor was stabling, room and to spare for half a hundred horses, and filled frequently enough, no doubt, in the great days of the great henry. on the first floor, to which three or four staircases gave access, there were plenty of apartments; indeed, suites of them. but nearly all stood empty, and the row of windows looked blank and curtainless across the crumbling garden to the italian house.
it was one of the many tragedies of that smiling, sunny land where only man, it seems, is vile; for nature has enclosed within its frontier-lines all the varied wealth and beauty of her treasures.
marie led the way up the first staircase, which was straight and narrow. the carpet, carefully rolled and laid aside on the landing, was threadbare and colourless. the muslin curtains, folded back and pinned together, were darned and yellow with frequent washing and the rust of ancient damp. she opened the door of the first room at the head of the stairs. it had once been the apartment of some servitor; now it contained furniture of the gorgeous days of louis xiv., with all the colour gone from its tapestry, all the woodwork grey and worm-eaten.
“not that one,” said marie, as the abbe struggled with the lever that fastened the window. “that one has not been opened for many years. see! the glass rattles in the frame. it is the other that opens.”
without comment the abbe opened the other window and threw back the shutters, from which all the paint had peeled away, and let in the scented air. mignonette close at hand—which had bloomed and died and cast its seed amid the old walls and falling stones since marie antoinette had taught the women of france to take an interest in their gardens; and from the great plains beyond—flat and fat—carefully laid there by the garonne to give the world its finest wines, rose up the subtle scent of vines in bloom.
“the drawing-room,” said marie, and making a mock-curtsey toward the door, which stood open to the dim stairs, she made a grand gesture with her hand, still red and wrinkled from the wash-tub. “will the king of france be pleased to enter and seat himself? there are three chairs, but one of them is broken, so his majesty's suite must stand.”
with a strident laugh she passed on to the next room through folding doors.
“the principal room,” she announced, with that hard irony in her voice, which had, no doubt, penetrated thither from the soul of a mother who had played no small part in the revolution. “the guest-chamber, one may say, provided that monsieur le marquis will sleep on the floor in the drawing-room, or in the straw down below in the stable.”
the abbe threw open the shutter of this room also and stood meekly eyeing marie with a tolerant smile. the room was almost bare of furniture. a bed such as peasants sleep on; a few chairs; a dressing-table tottering against the window-breast, and modestly screened in one corner, the diminutive washing-stand still used in southern france. for gemosac had been sacked and the furniture built up into a bonfire when marie was a little child and the abbe touvent a fat-faced timorous boy at the seminary of saintes.
“beyond is mademoiselle's room,” concluded marie, curtly. she looked round her and shrugged her shoulders with a grim laugh which made the abbe shrink. they looked at each other in silence, the two participants in the secret of gemosac; for marie's husband, the third who had access to the chateau, did not count. he was a shambling, silent man, now working in the vineyard beneath the walls. he always did what his wife told him, without comment or enthusiasm, knowing well that he would be blamed for doing it badly.
the abbe had visited the rooms once before, during a brief passage of the marquis, soon after his wife's death in paris. but, as a rule, only marie and jean had access to the apartment. he looked round with an eye always ready with the tear of sympathy; for he was a soft-hearted man. then he looked at marie again, shamefacedly. but she, divining his thoughts, shrugged her shoulders.
“ah, bah!” she said, “one must take the world as it is. and monsieur le marquis is only a man. one sees that, when he announces his return on washing-day, and brings a guest. you must write to him, that is all, and tell him that with time i can arrange, but not in a hurry like this. where is the furniture to come from? a chair or two from the banquet-hall; i can lend a bed which jean can carry in after dark so that no one knows; you have the jug and basin you bought when the bishop came, that you must lend—” she broke off and ran to the window. “good,” she cried, in a despairing voice, “i hear a carriage coming up the hill. run, monsieur l'abbe—run to the gate and bolt it. guest or no guest, they cannot see the rooms like this. here, let me past.”
she pushed him unceremoniously aside at the head of the stairs and ran past him. long concealment of the deadly poverty within the walls had taught her to close the gates behind her whenever she entered, but now for greater security, or to gain time, she swung the great oaken beam round on its pivot across the doors on the inside. then turning round on her heels she watched the bell that hung above her head. the abbe, who had followed her as quickly as he could, was naively looking for a peep-hole between the timbers of the huge doors.
a minute later the bell swung slowly, and gave a single clang which echoed beneath the vaulted roof, and in the hollow of the empty towers on either side.
“marie, marie!” cried a gay girlish voice from without. “open at once. it is i.”
“there,” said marie, in a whisper. “it is mademoiselle, who has returned from the good sisters. and the story that you told of the fever at saintes is true.”
