The Last Hope Read online

  CHAPTER XII

  THE SECRET OF GEMOSAC

  There is no sentiment so artificial as international hatred. In oldendays it owed its existence to churchmen, and now an irresponsible pressfoments that dormant antagonism. Wherever French and English individualsare thrown together by a common endeavour, both are surprised at themutual esteem which soon develops into friendship. But as nations we areno nearer than we were in the great days of Napoleon.

  Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence was only one-quarter French and three-quartersEnglish. Her grandmother had been a St. Pierre; but it was not from thatlady that she inherited a certain open-handedness which took her Frenchfriends by surprise.

  "It is not that she has the cause at heart," commented Madame deChantonnay, as she walked laboriously on Albert's arm down the ramp ofthe Chateau de Gemosac at the termination of the meeting. "It is not forthat that she throws her note of a thousand francs upon the table andpromises more when things are in train. It is because she can refusenothing to Dormer Colville. _Allez_, my son! I have a woman's heart! Iknow!"

  Albert contented himself with a sardonic laugh. He was not in the humourto talk of women's hearts; for Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's action hadstruck a sudden note of British realism into the harmony of his politicalfancies. 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 thosefar realms of the barely possible in which the Gallic fancy wanders inmoments of facile digestion.

  It was sufficient for the emergency that the others present at themeeting could explain that one does not carry money in one's pocket in acountry lane at night, But in their hearts all were conscious of a slightfeeling of resentment toward Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence; of a vague senseof disappointment, such as a dreamer may experience on being roughlyawakened.

  The three priests folded their hands with complacency. Poverty, theirmost cherished possession, spoke for itself in their case. The notaryblinked and fumbled at his lips with yellow fingers in hasty thought. Hewas a Royalist notary because there existed in the country of the DeuxSevres a Royalist _clientele_. In France, even a washerwoman must holdpolitical views and stand or fall by them. It was astounding how poorevery one felt at that moment, and it rested, as usual, with a woman'sintuition to grasp the only rope within reach. "The vintage," this ladymurmured. The vintage promised to be a bad one. Nothing, assuredly, couldbe undertaken, and no promise made, until the vintage was over.

  So the meeting broke up without romance, and the conspirators dispersedto their homes, carrying in their minds that mutual distrust which isever awakened in human hearts by the chink of gold, while the dormantnational readiness to detect betrayal by England was suddenly wide awake.

  Nevertheless, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had supplied the one ingredientnecessary to leaven the talk of these dreamers into action. Even thenotary found himself compelled to contribute when Albert de Chantonnayasked him outright for a subscription. And the priests, ably led by theAbbe Touvent, acted after the manner of the sons of Levi since oldentimes. They did not give themselves, but they told others to give, whichis far better.

  In due course the money was sent to England. It was the plain truth thatthe Marquis de Gemosac had not sufficient in his pocket to equip LooBarebone with the clothes necessary to a seemly appearance in France; or,indeed, to cover the expense of the journey thither. Dormer Colvillenever had money to spare. "Heaven shaped me for a rich man," he wouldsay, lightly, whenever the momentous subject was broached, "but forgot tofill my pockets."

  It was almost the time of the vintage, and the country roads were dottedwith the shambling figures of those knights of industry who seem tospring 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 thechateau.

  "_A la cave_" answered the lady's voice. "In the cellar--do you not knowthat it is Monday and I wash?"

  The Abbe did not repeat his summons on the kitchen table with the handleof his stick, but drew forward a chair.

  "I know it is very hot, and that I am tired," he shouted toward thecellar 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 Mariemust 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 whichMarie called the cellar was but half underground, and had an exit to thegarden which grew to the edge of the cliff. It was not long before sheappeared at the head of the stone steps, a square-built woman with a facethat had been sunburnt long ago by work in the vineyards, and eyeslooking straight at the world from beneath a square and wrinkledforehead.

  "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 wasin 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 youto prepare the chateau for his return."

  The Abbe waved his hand toward the castle gates with an air suggestive ofretainers and lackeys, of busy stables and a hundred windows lightedafter dark. His round eyes did not meet the direct glance fixed on hisface, but wandered from one object to another in the room, finallylighting on the great key of the chateau gate, which hung on a nailbehind 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 thecastle 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 opendoor; 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 nothold up your hands--when Monsieur Albert reads aloud that letter fromMonsieur le Marquis, in England, without so much as closing the door ofthe banquet hall! It is as well that it was no other than I who stood onthe 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 notalarm yourself, Monsieur l'Abbe, I can keep a quiet tongue. And apolitical secret--what is it? It is an amusement for the rich--yourpolitics--but a vice for the poor. Come, let us go to the chateau, whilethere is still day, and you can see for yourself whether we are ready fora guest."

  While she spoke she hastily completed a toilet, which, despite the Abbe'scaution, had the appearance of incompleteness, and taking the great keyfrom 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 manthan her companion; of a stronger common sense; with lither limbs and astouter heart; the best man that France has latterly produced, and, sofar as the student of racial degeneration may foretell, will ever produceagain--her middle-class woman.

  Built close against the flanking tower on the left hand of the courtyardwas a low, square house of two stories only. The whole ground floor wasstabling, room and to spare for half a hundred horses, and filledfrequently enough, no doubt, in the great days of the Great Henry. On thefirst floor, to which three or four staircases gave access, there wereplenty of apartments; indeed, suites of them. But nearly all stood empty,and the row of windows looked blank and curtainless across the crumblinggarden to the Italian house.

  It was one of the many tragedies of that smiling, sunny land where onlyman, it seems, is vile; for nature has enclosed within its frontier-linesall the varied wealth and beauty of her treasures.

  Mar
ie led the way up the first staircase, which was straight and narrow.The carpet, carefully rolled and laid aside on the landing, wasthreadbare and colourless. The muslin curtains, folded back and pinnedtogether, were darned and yellow with frequent washing and the rust ofancient damp. She opened the door of the first room at the head of thestairs. It had once been the apartment of some servitor; now it containedfurniture of the gorgeous days of Louis XIV, with all the colour gonefrom its tapestry, all the woodwork grey and worm-eaten.

  "Not that one," said Marie, as the Abbe struggled with the lever thatfastened 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 theshutters, from which all the paint had peeled away, and let in thescented air. Mignonette close at hand--which had bloomed and died andcast its seed amid the old walls and falling stones since MarieAntoinette had taught the women of France to take an interest in theirgardens; and from the great plains beyond--flat and fat--carefully laidthere by the Garonne to give the world its finest wines, rose up thesubtle scent of vines in bloom.

  "The drawing-room," said Marie, and making a mock-curtsey toward thedoor, which stood open to the dim stairs, she made a grand gesture withher hand, still red and wrinkled from the wash-tub. "Will the King ofFrance be pleased to enter and seat himself? There are three chairs, butone of them is broken, so his Majesty's suite must stand."

  With a strident laugh she passed on to the next room through foldingdoors.

  "The principal room," she announced, with that hard irony in her voice,which had, no doubt, penetrated thither from the soul of a mother whohad played no small part in the Revolution. "The guest-chamber, one maysay, provided that Monsieur le Marquis will sleep on the floor in thedrawing-room, or in the straw down below in the stable."

  The Abbe threw open the shutter of this room also and stood meekly eyeingMarie with a tolerant smile. The room was almost bare of furniture. A bedsuch as peasants sleep on; a few chairs; a dressing-table totteringagainst the window-breast, and modestly screened in one corner, thediminutive washing-stand still used in southern France. For Gemosac hadbeen sacked and the furniture built up into a bonfire when Marie was alittle child and the Abbe Touvent a fat-faced timorous boy at theSeminary of Saintes.

  "Beyond is Mademoiselle's room," concluded Marie, curtly. She lookedround her and shrugged her shoulders with a grim laugh which made theAbbe shrink. They looked at each other in silence, the two participantsin the secret of Gemosac; for Marie's husband, the third who had accessto the chateau, did not count. He was a shambling, silent man, nowworking in the vineyard beneath the walls. He always did what his wifetold him, without comment or enthusiasm, knowing well that he would beblamed for doing it badly.

  The Abbe had visited the rooms once before, during a brief passage of theMarquis, soon after his wife's death in Paris. But, as a rule, only Marieand Jean had access to the apartment. He looked round with an eye alwaysready with the tear of sympathy; for he was a soft-hearted man. Then helooked 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 Monsieurle Marquis is only a man. One sees that, when he announces his returnon 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 likethis. Where is the furniture to come from? A chair or two from thebanquet-hall; I can lend a bed which Jean can carry in after dark so thatno 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," shecried, 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, theycannot see the rooms like this. Here, let me past."

  She pushed him unceremoniously aside at the head of the stairs and ranpast him. Long concealment of the deadly poverty within the walls hadtaught her to close the gates behind her whenever she entered, but nowfor greater security, or to gain time, she swung the great oaken beamround on its pivot across the doors on the inside. Then turning round onher heels she watched the bell that hung above her head. The Abbe, whohad followed her as quickly as he could, was naively looking for apeep-hole between the timbers of the huge doors.

  A minute later the bell swung slowly, and gave a single clang whichechoed beneath the vaulted roof, and in the hollow of the empty towers oneither side.

  "Marie, Marie!" cried a gay girlish voice from without. "Open at once. Itis I."

  "There," said Marie, in a whisper. "It is Mademoiselle, who has returnedfrom the good Sisters. And the story that you told of the fever atSaintes is true."