Wounded Name — Chapter 5: Free - with a Broken Wing, part 1

CHAPTER V - FREE--WITH A BROKEN WING

"I swear I will not ask your meaning in it: I do believe yourself against yourself, And will henceforward rather die than doubt."

TENNYSON, _Geraint and Enid_.

(1) The first moments of Laurent's grief were savage.

He stood for some time at the window, his hands clenched together before him, his head against the grey panelling at the side, choking down the spasms of grief and fury which rose in his throat.

He could not bear to look at the silent room.

At last he stumbled over to Aymar's deserted bed and flung himself there, face downwards.

God only knew where Aymar would lie to-night!

But very soon his mind was plotting the details of his own escape.

This window here by Aymar's bed, after dark, because it looked out round the corner, not on the facade; it would be quite easy.

If he could only have elicited from L'Oiseleur where he intended to go!

But Aymar seemed to have no plan--how could he?

The fiat had been to them both like an unforeseen sentence of death.

Laurent stirred and gripped the pillow--Aymar's pillow--where his face was buried.

The remembrance of the offer of Aymar's cross--a death-bed action--was not comforting.

That Aymar could attempt such a thing showed--what did it show?

Laurent clutched the pillow harder.

For L'Oiseleur had at last definitely confessed that he could not clear himself.

Did he then know himself to be irretrievably ruined over this black business, in which, after all, that shadowy de Fresne had not played the villain?

And could it be that in consequence he contemplated taking his own life?

Was that why he had tried to bestow on his friend that significant gift, and was that why he had said: "You will never see me again"?

Laurent sprang up and threw open the window by the bed.

The sentry very rarely paced round this corner.

If he did, there was a convenient bush almost under the window.

And the prisoner had not wasted his opportunities for observation during his walks on the terrace, so that he knew roughly the extent and lie of M. d'Arbelles' domain, was aware that it was not hampered with walls, and had a very good idea at what points the sentries were posted.

But there were hours yet to get through before dark.

At about eight o'clock, as he was sitting in gloom and fever, watching the rain which had now come on, there unexpectedly entered to him Lieutenant Rigault.

He looked concerned and somewhat shamefaced, but Laurent soon discovered that this embarrassment was not, as he at first supposed, on Aymar's account, but on his, Laurent's. The Colonel, it appeared, had given orders that one of the old dungeons which survived from the original château was to be prepared for M. de Courtomer's reception, but this retreat was in such a condition that it could not be ready till the morrow.

Rigault feared, however, that this would be M.

de Courtomer's last night in his present quarters.

Laurent (who was privately of the same opinion), while thanking him for the interest he took in his fate, intimated that he considered no dungeon was deep enough for Colonel Guitton to expiate the turning out of a wounded prisoner, scarcely able to stand, to die, perhaps, of exposure.

But the young chasseur, while admitting that this had seemed to him rather inhuman, asked whether Laurent, in their place, would be disposed to condone treachery by making much of a traitor.

"Making much of!"

exclaimed Laurent contemptuously.

"You haven't run much risk of that at Arbelles, have you?

What about yesterday's proceedings?

--Were you there?"

"We all were; we had to be--orders.

But do not go away with the idea, pray, Monsieur de Courtomer"--as Monsieur de Courtomer bent upon him a very pregnant look--"that the Colonel had it all his own way at that interview!

There is not much of the Early Christian martyr about the modern Saint Sebas----I beg your pardon!

He said some pretty stinging things himself."

"He could hardly say anything stinging enough in reply to that suggestion that he should accept a commission with you!"

"Oh, he simply said he would rather die than do that.

It was not very judicious," commented Rigault reflectively, "because then the Colonel was able to retort, 'I daresay you would rather like me to have you shot, since you think, no doubt, that the balls of an enemy firing-party would efface the marks of your own.

I should never do _that_; a soldier's death is too good for you.'

And," finished the young officer, as Laurent flushed hotly, "if the facts are as Colonel Richard reported them, I quite agree with that opinion."

"If you talked till next year, Monsieur," retorted Laurent scornfully and impolitely, "you would not get me to believe that it is Colonel Guitton's excessive highmindedness which has led him to do what he has done to-day!

He has never forgiven M. de la Rocheterie for baulking him over du Tremblay's plans.

There is personal vengeance behind his abominable action."

"Yes," said Rigault thoughtfully, "I believe you are right.

It is not so much what La Rocheterie has done, as what he refused to do.

.

.

.

But, with regard to his turning out, he had his money, you know, Monsieur de Courtomer.

He could have gone to the village inn, if he had chosen, instead of starting off to nowhere along the Saint-Caradec road."

Laurent became very attentive.

"He went along the Saint-Caradec road?"

"Yes.

He turned to the right at the château gates."

"You are sure of that?

Naturally I am interested to know where he has gone."

"Naturally.

Yes, I know he did.

The fact is," said Lieutenant Rigault, looking out of the window, "that I happened to be in the avenue at the time--by pure chance, I assure you; I was not there as a spectator of .

.

misfortune.

Well, when La Rocheterie got to the gates--he had no escort then--the sentry would not let him pass; evidently he had no orders to that effect.

I foresaw that he might be turned back, and have to come up the avenue again, and that would have been cruel.

So I hurried down and told the sentry that he was released; and I saw, therefore, that he turned along the Saint-Caradec road."

At that absence of explicit orders--intentional, he felt sure--Laurent had ground his teeth.

And how many _had_ been in the avenue to watch him?

"I wonder he ever reached the gates at all," he muttered savagely.

"Did he look very much exhausted?"

"I must confess that I would not have backed him to go much farther," admitted the young Imperialist.

"Indeed, I think he was holding on to the gate when I got there, but when he saw me he stood up straight and thanked me very civilly."

He paused a moment, and then added, it seemed against his will, "I admit that I am puzzled by him.

I cannot square what he has done with .

.

.

what he seems to be."

But Laurent was not so elated by this confession as he might have been in earlier days.

What did it matter now?

He said nothing, and Rigault went on, "I watched him to the bend--about a furlong it is--he was walking very slowly, but fairly steadily."

"What is along that road?"

enquired Laurent in a gloomy and exasperated voice.

"Nothing till you come to Saint-Caradec.

It is not a high road, properly speaking, but the country people sometimes use it.

La Rocheterie might get a lift in a farmer's cart."

"And if not?"

"I don't know," replied the other, also rather gloomily.

He gave a short sigh.

"I wish it had not happened.

.

.

.

As to the Colonel's intentions with regard to you, we are going to raise a strong protest directly there is a chance of being listened to, so we must hope for the best."

To this evidence of good feeling Laurent made no response whatever; he was with Aymar in the rain, on the road that led to nowhere.

Rigault went to the door.

And when Laurent, staring forlornly through the blurred window, said to himself, "If only I knew where he was!"

he had really forgotten the Imperialist's presence.

He was reminded of it by a touch on the shoulder.

The young officer had recrossed the space between them.

And he now remarked to the prisoner in a rather strange and hurried voice, "The windows of this room are only sixteen feet from the ground."

"I calculated that they would be about that," returned M. de Courtomer.

And then, suddenly realizing what a surprising thing had just taken place, he turned and stared at the speaker.

Lieutenant Rigault of the garrison of Arbelles got noticeably red, somehow found the captive's hand, gulped out very low "Good luck!"

and bolted for the door.

(2) Many times during the last few weeks had Laurent told himself how easy it would be to escape from captivity if he were ever to cast his thoughts that way.

Yet, in the event, the simplicity of his departure rather staggered him; for, twenty minutes after he had clung bat-like to the sill of the window by which Vert-Vert also had left the château, he was outside the domain of M. le Baron d'Arbelles altogether, and was creeping, with looks to right and left, along the dim pallor of the Saint-Caradec road.

He had encountered no obstacles of any kind whatever, and only a minute or so of suspense, while the sentry stood meditating on the other side of the bush which momentarily concealed the acrobat after his drop.

It was a dark night, which would have been auspicious for an ordinary fugitive, but was not so fortunate for a fugitive who was searching for someone else.

However, Aymar must be somewhere along this road (always supposing that he had not got a lift) because he would never have had the strength to climb its high banks even if he wished to leave it.

But soon, a little to Laurent's dismay, the bank and hedge on his left broke into what seemed to be a thicket of some extent.

Instantly he felt sure that Aymar had turned in there, and that he should find him.

He went in.

But under the trees it was so dark that he began to stumble.

He listened, but only heard gently running water; he called very softly but without result.

He dared not go on for fear L'Oiseleur should be there after all, asleep or unconscious; yet he could not search the thicket thoroughly until it grew lighter.

So, feeling, unreasonably enough, that he was somehow betraying his quest, he lay down in a dry ditch and presently swam off into an uncomfortable slumber.

But before the first thrush began he had hunted through every foot of the coppice.

L'Oiseleur was not there--not a trace of him.

All these hours, then, had been wasted; while Aymar--in what plight was he by now?

The night had not been warm.

Horribly disappointed and anxious, Laurent stood on the side of the thicket farthest from Arbelles and surveyed the prospect.

The tiny wood gave on to rolling country, fields of large extent.

He could not free himself from the conviction that Aymar had been in the wood at some time, if only to rest.

By which way would he have left it in that case--by the fields or by the road?

It seemed to Laurent that he must search both exits.

He resolved that he would first cover a section of the road--the more hazardous proceeding for himself--and then search the field back again to the copse.

After that it would become a choice between the next section of the road and the open country.

Looking to see that the coast was clear, he ran cautiously up the road, glancing to either side as he went.

It was perfectly empty save for a meditative rabbit in the middle, who whisked off at his step; it gave, in fact, in the morning stillness, between its holly hedges, the impression of not being meant for human foot at all.

He clambered over a gate into the field, and was just setting his face once more for the thicket, when something about a haystack not far off caught his eye.

Part of it had been sliced away, but not completely, so that there still remained, about two feet from the ground, a ledge rather wider than a man's body.

And on this ledge a man was lying.

.

.

.

Laurent stood stock still, his heart thumping suffocatingly.

The next moment he was at the refuge so nearly missed.

Aymar was lying slightly curled up, his face towards the wall of hay, his head pillowed on his bent arm--as a tired boy might lie.

Laurent stooped over him.

Yes, thank God, he was breathing naturally--in fact, he seemed to be sound asleep.

But he looked deadly weary.

Laurent touched his left hand, lying loosely on his breast; it was very cold.

So he took off his own coat and spread it over him, and, reluctant to wake him yet, squatted down beside him on the grass just out of his line of vision, and said to himself contentedly, "I knew I should find him!"

He had not been there, however, for more than five minutes or so when the sleeper stirred, sighed, and woke; then, realizing that there was a covering over him where covering had been none, raised himself on an elbow and gazed round in bewilderment.

"Good morning," observed Laurent, getting up and coming into view.

"I have kept my word, you see.

And I have brought you your breakfast."

Voluntarily or involuntarily, he had adopted a thoroughly British method of cloaking his feelings.

Aymar gave an exclamation and, falling back against the hay, stared as if he hardly knew him.

At last, rather weakly, he began to laugh.

"I told you I should do it," said Laurent cheerfully, very much pleased with the success of his little coup de théâtre.

But on that he suddenly found himself deprived of further speech.

He went down on his knees by the ledge of hay and mutely embraced him, French fashion; after which he began to fumble in his pocket for the provisions he had brought--the major part of his own supper.

".

.

.

How did you do it, Laurent--how did you do it?"

Aymar was asking incredulously.

"I climbed out of the window," responded the adventurer briefly.

"Have you had anything to eat since you left yesterday?"

"I was not hungry.

I had the brandy, you know."

"Heavens above, you must be starving!

Eat this quickly.

No, first----Is the eau-de-vie in this pocket?"

"Always that brandy-flask," commented Aymar, trying to smile, as, supporting himself on an elbow, he took the little cup.

But his hand shook so much that Laurent caught it from him with an exclamation, and, seating himself on the ledge, slipped an arm round his ex-patient and supported him while he held the cup to his lips.

There was re-awakened fury in his heart.

"This is like old times," remarked L'Oiseleur, and lay still a moment against his friend's shoulder.

"There's only one alleviation," muttered Laurent, with some of the fury audible in his voice, "and that is, that your release was undoubtedly vengeance on that scoundrel's part.

Viewed in that light, it is almost a compliment."

"Oh, are you speaking of Guitton?"

murmured Aymar.

"I had forgotten him for the moment.

I was thinking about someone better worth considering."

He caught at the hand that had held the cup, and pulled it to him.

"I was convinced that I should never see you again, Laurent.

.

.

.

Shall I ever be able to repay you?"

"I don't know what you are talking about," said Laurent, as gruffly as any of his English forbears, but he returned the pressure of the two cold hands which held his.

"Now eat; and when you have eaten you can tell me how you found the strength to get so far."

So Aymar ate, when Laurent had consented to do the same, and told him.

It appeared that he _had_ gone into the copse, and been there for hours, perhaps--he did not seem sure.

Nor was he, evidently, quite clear whether he had lost consciousness there or not; but he admitted that he had thought, "quite erroneously," that he could not possibly go farther.

.

.

.

However, towards evening he made another effort, drank some water, and went on by the field way, rather blindly, his only object being to put as much distance between himself and Arbelles as he could.

In the twilight he almost stumbled into the haystack, and having thus fortunately come on it, subsided there.

"Well, thank God for the haystack," observed Laurent.

"Were you cold in the night?

It's horribly open here."

"I am never very warm now," said Aymar simply.

"Yes, it is open.

And that is why, mon ami, you have stayed here long enough.

It is high time you went on, for if they have not discovered your absence already----" But Laurent exclaimed, as the speaker had once incautiously done to Guitton, "For what do you take me?"

And he continued with warmth, "Why do you suppose I was at the trouble of wriggling out of that window?

Directly you feel able we will go on (though I shall not be missed till breakfast-time) and as you know the district a little, perhaps you can think of a suitable place to make for.

Was there not some woman from your part of the country?

.

.

.

No, Aymar, really it is no use arguing--it only wastes time.

Remember that I have English blood in me, and that it is quite as obstinate as your Norse.

I only give in to you when I am in awe of you--which at this moment I am not."

So Aymar himself surrendered, and they started, he on Laurent's arm, across the great field towards another little wood, both as affording cover and as being in the direction of the farm of La Baussaine, where lived this woman from Sessignes who had known Aymar all his life, and had married and settled and achieved widowhood in this region.

Provided, said Aymar, that her elder son, a soldier of the Imperial Guard, were not at home--which in existing circumstances was practically impossible--she would be only too glad to give them shelter.

In the little wood Laurent made his companion sit down and rest, for even the short, sustained exertion had rendered him very breathless.

Indeed to progress thus, in stages, was the only possible method.

Even so, after about an hour, the proceeding was making nearly intolerable demands on his little stock of strength.

The stages began to get shorter, the rests longer.

Twice there were gates to climb, once a hedge to push through, once retirement into a ditch was thought prudent to avoid a herdsman.

And when they came forth from this retreat they had still, Aymar calculated, a good mile and a half to go; on hearing which, and surveying the speaker, Laurent wondered rather despairingly whether they would not have to try to find a nearer refuge.

A large, uncompromising drop of rain on his nose startled him at that moment, and he looked up.

Was it possible--a thunderstorm on a morning like this?

However, one could not argue about its unfitness; the point was to prevent Aymar from being instantly soaked to the skin.

In the middle of the open pasture which they were skirting he espied a long, low object that looked like the shelter over a sheep trough, save that, fortunately, there was no trough beneath it now.

"Quick, Aymar!"

he exclaimed, almost dragging him along.

They had to crawl in on hands and knees, but once inside it was just possible for Laurent, at all events, to sit upright.

Aymar lay down at full length, his head on his friend's knee, and shut his eyes.

And then the rain descended.

"Talking about rain," observed Laurent suddenly, "how wet did you get yesterday?"

"I don't know," replied Aymar.

"I did not trouble about it.

You talk as if I were a girl, my dear Laurent.

Do you suppose I have not slept scores of times in the open before--and in the rain, too?

I am a Chouan .

.

that is to say, I was," he added in a lower tone, and fell silent.

"I wonder if a thunderstorm ever came à propos," he remarked a few moments later to the accompaniment of the first peal, and shivered suddenly.

Laurent looked down at him rather unhappily.

"I am afraid you must be horribly tired, and the devil knows how long this storm is going on.

I

wish we had something left to eat."

But Aymar answered, without opening his eyes, in a voice gone suddenly remote and drowsy, "I am neither tired nor hungry--a little cold, that is all.

I think I am going to sleep."

Perhaps that was the best thing that could happen to him, and if it did, Laurent saw some chance of slipping off his own coat and wrapping it round him.

But he had had little sleep himself that night, and, lulled by the downpour on the shingled roof, he half dozed off as he sat there.

He was recalled by a violent shiver running through the shoulders resting against his knees.

"That letter," said their owner reflectively.

"That letter .

.

.

I am glad I burnt it.

It was the only way to cleanse it.

It had been in his horrible hands all this while."

Here he shivered again, but went on almost immediately, his eyes fixed on some point out in the rainy landscape, "Yes, he had it all the time, and never guessed.

And downstairs, for all his questioning .

.

.

I could hardly bear it .

.

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he never found out."

"That was fortunate," murmured Laurent vaguely, uncertain whether Aymar were speaking to himself, or expecting a reply.

But speculation gave way to alarm the next moment, when a third shudder drove through L'Oiseleur's body, and his teeth clicked together.

"Mon ami, what is the matter with you?

Are you so cold as that?

Come up closer to me.

Confound this rain!"

And he edged himself nearer, till he could get his companion into his arms.

Aymar's hands were as cold as ice, but there was a faint flush on either cheek.

"I saw the Colonel looking at my wrists once," he began again, with a complete absence of his usual extreme reserve.

"He said .

.

.

he said it was not _there_ that he should like to put a rope.

.

.

."

The narrator gave a sort of laugh.

"It was round here!"

He carried his hand to his throat, and a double flicker of lightning ran through the shelter as though to emphasize this disclosure.

"Damn him!"

exclaimed Laurent passionately, while the long roll reverberated overhead.

"I suppose he might have done it if he had chosen," proceeded Aymar with the same uncanny fluency.

"We could not either of us have prevented him, could we, Laurent?

They laughed, some of them.

.

.

.

I did want very much to stand all the time .

.

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but I was not able to.

I had to sit down.

And I did not mean to lose my temper, but I did--once--and it only made it worse for me, because----" But his teeth were now chattering so that he could get no further.

"Oh, don't try to talk!"

cried Laurent.

"And why, in God's name, are you shivering like this?"

For his brief experience of nursing had been mainly surgical, and he had never imagined that shivering was other than a semi-voluntary action.

But Aymar's whole body was beginning to be convulsed every few seconds by a sort of galvanic shock, and his teeth were now going like castanets, to the complete exclusion of any more confidences.

Laurent, really frightened, stripped off his own coat and wrapped it round him, attempted to pour brandy between the chattering teeth, most of it being spilled in the process, and held him as closely as he could to the warmth of his own body.