Wounded Name — Chapter 1: Running Water, part 2
(4) Twenty minutes later both adventurers were peeling off their soaked garments before a hastily lit fire in a room of the _Three Trouts_, and shortly afterwards, wrapped in blankets, were ensconced before it in a couple of large chairs, with two steaming glasses beside them.
And Walters the groom, to his own surprise, was riding across country on M. de Courtomer's cob to intercept the Bath coach at Midhampton and bring back the French gentleman's valise which it contained--this neat strategic idea having occurred to his master on his way to the inn, when it was borne in upon him that no clothes of his were likely to fit his guest, taller than himself by nearly a couple of inches.
Laurent had just now had, too, the opportunity of verifying what his first impressions had already told him, that his compatriot was an exceptionally well-built young man, with the lithe strength of steel.
He had also seen that he wore round his left arm, just above the elbow, a little strip of some plaited or woven substance, not fine enough to be hair.
Laurent had only obtained a momentary glimpse of this object, and his curiosity had not been gratified by another; but he had now the prospect of being able to study at leisure the appearance of this strangely made acquaintance, and he proceeded to do so.
He had the clear pallor and fine skin which often go with hair of warm colouring, and his, as it dried, was gradually resuming its proper shade, the deepest tone of September bracken.
Even his eyes, which at a distance looked dark, were seen at closer quarters to be of a deep red-brown.
The rest of his features were noticeably straight and delicate and strong; the chin, a little long, curved slightly forward and was squared at the corners, the mouth was firm and sweet-- altogether a face of great individuality and charm, without the weakness which sometimes accompanies the latter quality in a man.
Laurent took him to be about twenty-six--a couple of years older than himself.
"I do not know," he observed at last, ashamed to scrutinize any longer, "if it is correct to introduce oneself in this unconventional attire.
I
ought to have done it earlier.
My name is Courtomer--Laurent de Courtomer.
I have always lived in England."
"And mine," said the other, setting down his glass, "is La Rocheterie-- Aymar de la Rocheterie, at your service.
For my part, I have always lived in France."
"What!"
cried Laurent, nearly bounding out of his blanket.
"La .
.
.
La Rocheterie .
.
.
L'Oiseleur!
You, Monsieur, are L'Oiseleur!
Is it possible!"
In a lesser degree his companion also showed surprise.
"My name is then known to you, Monsieur?
But this is not Brittany!"
"But I am a Frenchman--and a Royalist!"
cried M. de Courtomer.
"I have known of you, Monsieur, for some time--no, I assure you that your name is not so unfamiliar over here as your modesty assumes.
We have heard of the defence of the Moulin Brûlé!
Indeed we were speaking of you only this morning, my great-aunts and I, and a gentleman who thinks he came over with you in the Brest packet.
But he said you were .
.
.
It's more than extraordinary!
.
.
.
L'Oiseleur, himself, here!"
"Ma foi, but this is to find oneself famous!"
said M. de la Rocheterie, laughing.
"One had, perhaps, the good--or ill--fortune to be known on the other side of the Channel, but over here, who cares for an obscure brigand, as our foes are so fond of calling us?"
Even in his present unusual attire, or absence of it, a young man who looked less like a brigand could hardly be imagined.
And the question of birth could be set at rest for ever by the beautifully shaped if sunburnt hands emerging from the blanket.
So Laurent, remembering M. de Vicq's picture of the hairy individual "not a gentleman" whose hand he had longed to shake, and mindful that he and the Aunts were coming to supper that evening, foresaw an amusing encounter.
.
.
.
But--to be sitting here tête-à-tête with this young hero, who had known countless days and nights of hazard and discomfort among the gorse and broom, with only a handful of men and his own wits and courage between him and Napoleon's vengeance .
.
.
and he wrapped in a blanket because he had jumped into the Dart after him--it was incredible!
He pulled himself together.
"I believe, Monsieur, that you bear a title, do you not?"
he asked, thinking of the introductions he should have to effect.
"A small one--Vicomte.
You, Monsieur, perhaps also?"
Laurent named his.
"But I do not use it here.
When we are in France I suppose I shall have to tack it on again."
"Ah, you are returning, of course?"
"Almost immediately.
Yet, since it is not really a return, it will be strange.
.
.
.
I was born in England; my father, now dead, married an Englishwoman and settled here in the early days of the Revolution."
"So Madame votre mère is English?"
observed the Vicomte de la Rocheterie, with interest.
"That then accounts for the perfection of your accent, Monsieur de Courtomer, and also--if as a Frenchman you can forgive me--for an appearance not altogether French.
As you stood in the river which has so happily brought us together I had no idea that you were a compatriot."
"You must remember that I have lived all my life in England," said Laurent to this.
"That, probably, has even more to do with it.
And since we are on the subject of personal appearance, may I say that I never took you for French, either--till you spoke?
Your hair .
.
.
you will excuse me, I trust?
is of an unusual colour for a Frenchman, is it not?"
The young man good-humouredly took hold of a damp bronze lock.
"This tiresome stuff?
Yes, I believe it is not often met with.
Indeed, I have found it inconvenient at times, for that reason; in a tight corner one usually does not wish to be identified.
As a matter of fact, I have some Norse blood in my veins, and the .
.
.
the other member of my family who shares that with me has much the same hair.
So no doubt it comes from that strain.
.
.
.
I hope that the next time I fall into a river I shall be wearing it short, which is probable, for I only keep it long to be like my Chouans.
I wish it would dry."
He put up his other hand to his head, and the blanket slipped instantly off his left shoulder and arm.
Before he could replace it Laurent's eyes had involuntarily darted to his elbow--and away again.
"You were looking at my bracelet, Monsieur?"
enquired its owner, in his pleasant voice.
"Now there, no doubt, is the explanation of my safe navigation of your river.
Are you superstitious, Monsieur de Courtomer?
No more than I, probably; so I would like you to realize that I wear this ridiculous thing for the sake of other people's superstitions only--I mean, of course, my men's." And the little half-smile he gave Laurent (he seemed rarely to smile fully) had a tinge of mischief in it.
"I could not help seeing it," confessed the latter, rather red.
"And that, then, is the famous charm which makes you invincible!
Might I .
.
?"
L'Oiseleur thrust out his arm again for his inspection.
The mysterious object upon it resolved itself into a band of plaited rushes or coarse grass, about half an inch wide, fitting just tightly enough not to slip down over the elbow.
"I will make you another confession about that, Monsieur," said its wearer, looking down at it.
"It is not even the original __jartier__ which is supposed to have been bestowed upon me by the fairy Mélusine or her deputy!
In a somewhat rough-and-tumble life a bracelet of rushes will not last for ever, and so I .
.
.
have it renewed from time to time.
Still, there is a strand of the original in it somewhere."
He smiled again as he made this rather cynical admission, and finished the remains of his punch.
Laurent was examining the talisman with deep interest.
"There is no fastening.
Then, Monsieur, the .
.
.
the fairy Mélusine plaits it on your arm every time?"
"She does," replied M. de la Rocheterie.
A woman's fingers, of course.
Perhaps he was married; but Laurent did not, somehow, think so.
He could not pursue further the question of the weaver, and, moreover, the possessor of the rush bracelet was now looking thoughtfully into the fire.
"And nothing has ever touched you, in all the time you have fought, since you wore that?"
asked Laurent after a moment.
L'Oiseleur turned his head, and the enquirer had a little shock of surprise.
.
.
.
Or had he merely imagined that a profound sadness looked for a moment out of the red-brown eyes?
It was gone so quickly that he was not sure--gone by the time his companion answered simply, "Nothing.
I have never received a scratch, so I cannot claim the honour of having shed my blood for the King, as so many better men have done."
"Yet," observed Laurent, "the King seems to consider that you have done fully enough for him without that.
That ribbon .
.
."
"Yes.
His Majesty was pleased to send me the Cross last year.
Some of my men had better deserved it.
_They_ had no talisman."
"You must really need a strong head, Monsieur de la Rocheterie, not to believe, after all, in the efficacy of yours!
Tell me, if I am not impertinent, whether there is not some one action which will break its power if you happen to do it?
In most fairy tales it is so."
"I believe," said the young leader, wrapping himself up again, "that there is some dark story in the past history of this object or its predecessors, but I do not know what moral it is supposed to point.
Apart from that--Morbleu, what an extraordinary thing!
It has just happened to me, and I never gave it a thought!"
"What is it?"
asked Laurent eagerly.
"I must never cross running water, except by a bridge, or on horseback, or by some means of that sort.
I must never go through it in person.
And, to do myself justice--and again in deference to those Chouans of mine--I never have .
.
.
until to-day.
But you cannot deny that I have crossed it this morning--water of the most running!"
And he looked at his fellow-adventurer in running water with unfeigned amusement.
(5) As Laurent de Courtomer tied his stock that evening in his own bedroom, he was both thoughtful and excited.
To fall into the river and narrowly escape drowning, to have a total stranger risk his life for him over it, to discover that the stranger in question was someone he knew about and admired, and, finally, to possess him at the moment as a guest under his own roof--these were sufficient reasons why the stock should be well tied .
.
.
and sufficient excuse for the fact that it was not.
Nor had Laurent quite shaken off the shyness which had unexpectedly descended upon him when he was driving home from the _Three Trouts_ with L'Oiseleur beside him--that sudden hot conviction that he, with nothing to his credit, had been chattering too freely to this young hero.
Had or had not M. de la Rocheterie seemed a little remote, a little withdrawn, during that drive?
A knock at the door, interrupting these cogitations, heralded the entrance of Mme de Courtomer, looking charming but pale.
Laurent's heart smote him as he turned round from the dressing-table.
She kissed him long and closely; she had not yet got over her emotion.
"I am just going down to the drawing-room, my darling," she said.
"I hope M. de la Rocheterie may be there; I want to see him alone.
When you brought him to me in the garden I was, I fear, rather selfishly absorbed in thoughts of you and your danger."
Laurent nodded.
"He tried to make me promise not to mention what he did, but of course--" "An absolute stranger, Laurent!
And such a risk!
I cannot get accustomed to the idea!"
Like her son, Mme de Courtomer seemed a firm believer in the theory of "intention."
Yet it had already been made perfectly clear to her by M. de la Rocheterie himself that he had in no sense saved Laurent's life.
"Maman," said Laurent, putting his arm round her, "if you can't get some more colour into those cheeks I shall not eat any dinner.
Dearest, dearest little mother, I did not do it on purpose!
--See now, I am going to kiss them very hard.
.
.
.
That's a trifle better!
Now go down and thank M. de la Rocheterie for spoiling a very elegant suit of clothes--if he gives you the chance.
Unless I have gauged him wrongly, you will not get very far."
"There is one thing that comforts me, Laurent," said Virginia de Courtomer, "and that is, that you would have done just the same in similar circumstances."
"Perhaps," replied her son.
"But not so quickly!"
The enlightenment of M. de Vicq and the old ladies that evening was indeed great fun, only it was too soon over, and Laurent was a little afraid of embarrassing his guest, who seemed genuinely averse from anything resembling posing or display.
But, probably just because he was so free from self-consciousness and so simply dignified, he took the ensuing adulation lightly, and yet with a fine courtesy as if he were aware that he was a young man receiving the homage of the old.
If he found the worshippers a little absurd, he did not betray it.
The impression which he had produced on Tante Clotilde, even before she realized whom the "Monsieur le Vicomte de la Rocheterie" of Laurent's introduction cloaked, was marked by her making him the suggestion of a curtsey of fifty years ago, with all Versailles behind it--an honour which no Englishman ever received from her.
And M. de la Rocheterie had kissed her hand in a manner which also had tradition behind it.
Yet more important to Laurent, really, than the unqualified success of his little coup de théâtre, than the joy of being able to whisper to M. de Vicq, "I expect you think, Monsieur, that L'Oiseleur has shaved since you saw him last?
I expect he has--_but not to that extent_!"
was his mother's murmur to him, just before they went in to supper.
"Your Chouan has already enslaved me, Laurent, I think he is charming!"
But now supper was going forward, and M. de la Rocheterie was making obvious efforts to efface himself, to avoid being what he had become, the centre of the little festivity.
But with everybody determined to make him so, it was impossible to get out of the position.
First of all, M. de Vicq's mistake of the packet had to be explained.
It appeared that L'Oiseleur _had_ come over in it, and that he had heard another passenger being pointed out as himself, "which," as he added with a little smile, "enabled me to escape an attention that I had then no idea I should encounter."
"Ah, Vicomte," interposed Tante Clotilde significantly at this, "you are doubtless in England--am I indiscreet?
--on the King's business?"
One felt it almost needed courage to reply, as L'Oiseleur did, "No, Madame; on a purely private matter."
However, Tante Clotilde's large face wore the air of one who "knows better."
"I think," said M. de Vicq, then addressing him, "that I once had the pleasure, a few years ago, of meeting a gentleman of your name--a good deal older than you, however.
Your father, perhaps?"
The young man's face changed subtly.
"My father was guillotined with my mother, during the Terror, Monsieur."
It only needed this avowal to complete his prestige in the eyes of the Aunts.
A ripple of emotion went round.
"Where did you meet M. de la Rocheterie, did you say, Laurent?"
enquired Tante Clotilde when she had contributed to it.
"In the river, ma tante."
The old lady looked severe, for she did not like being jested with.
"Please express yourself more accurately, great-nephew!"
So Laurent elaborated, without changing, his statement.
On the heels of the ensuing sensation M. de Vicq asked suddenly whether it was true that the guest possessed, or was popularly supposed to possess, a talisman of some kind.
"Quite true, Monsieur," responded L'Oiseleur soberly.
"I really have it--a magic garter, or __jartier__, as the common folk call it."
Then he caught Laurent's eye, and smiled.
"But its virtue is, of course, all nonsense."
"The popular voice, in short, ascribes to the possession of a charm what is in reality due solely to your own skill and valour!"
observed M. de Vicq rather sententiously, but pointing this remark as a compliment by a bow.
"I did not mean that!"
said Aymar de la Rocheterie, looking for the first time a trifle disconcerted.
"And I spoke too strongly, for undoubtedly my possession of the __jartier__ has influenced my men and given them confidence--they are exceedingly superstitious--so in that way the thing has its value.
That is, in fact, why I wear it."
"And how did you acquire this __jartier__?"
enquired Tante Clotilde massively.
"A witch gave it to me, Madame."
"A witch--a real witch!"
exclaimed his hostess.
"Oh, how, Monsieur de la Rocheterie--and why?"
"The 'why' makes rather a long story, Madame."
"We shall hope to hear it, then, after supper," announced Mlle Clotilde de Courtomer in a tone that seemed to settle the whole matter.
"And, perhaps, the whole story of the Moulin Brûlé too?"
hazarded M. de Vicq; but L'Oiseleur shook his head with a little smile.
Mme de Courtomer looked from one to the other.
"What _was_ the Moulin Brûlé?"
she enquired of the old gentleman in a low voice.
But it was Tante Clotilde who replied for him.
"My dear Virginia-- really!
--before the hero of Penescouët himself!
The details which reached us of that exploit were, I doubt not, inadequate, but surely we all treasure them too securely in our memories to ask 'What was the Moulin Brûlé'?"
Poor Mme de Courtomer, thus brought to book at her own table, before and on account of her guest, flushed, M. de la Rocheterie bit his lip and looked thoroughly uncomfortable, and Laurent's anger was kindled.
"You forget, I think, ma tante," he said as politely as he could, "that my mother, after all, is not French by birth; and it is quite plain that no one can have told her the story, for it is not one which she could ever have forgotten."
"Quite so--very well said!"
put in M. de Vicq hastily, and he gallantly monopolized the old lady's attention while the awkward wave in the conversation caused by the boulder she had cast into it spent itself.
Indeed Laurent, looking down the table after a moment's silent fight with his annoyance, was relieved to find that the "hero of Penescouët" was smiling delightfully at his hostess, and heard her say, smiling, too, "Will you ever be able to forgive me, Monsieur de la Rocheterie?"
"Madame," replied L'Oiseleur, "you cannot conceive what a relief it is to find that there is one fortunate being in Royalist circles who has not been pestered with the tale of that detestable old windmill!
I
sometimes wish I had never seen the place!"
When the ladies, following English custom, had left them, M. de Vicq drew in his chair and concentrated his attention on his fellow-guest.
"I remember the Vendée, of course," he remarked, "and the great days of the Chouannerie, Cadoudal's days.
You are too young to recall them, Monsieur--but you have relit the sacred fire!"
"No--only fanned the embers," said L'Oiseleur quickly.
"The fire is always there.
The Breton does not change.
Indeed, some of mine are identically the same as those of the great days.
And one has the same devotion to rely on, the same obstinacy to combat, the same superstitions to use or respect, and the same kind of warfare."
"That warfare of hedgerows and heather of which one has heard," put in Laurent, his chin on his hands, "and which needs, I imagine, a special aptitude."
"I suppose it does.
At any rate, it is the only kind which the Breton really understands.
You have to be always on the move; if you have very few men, as I had--at least at the beginning, when I started with twenty-five--that is easy.
And if you keep moving you are not only invisible, but the enemy thinks your numbers are much greater than they are.
I have never had more than six hundred men, but they were all picked, and if I had told any one of them to go immediately and cut off his hand the only delay would have been the finding of the chopper.
.
.
.
Well, that is all over now.
I suppose I ought to say, Thank God.
I do say it--but one does not like parting from one's comrades."
"You have disbanded them, then?"
"Not yet.
But I shall do so directly the King is actually in Paris."
"The King in Paris!"
exclaimed the Baron de Vicq in a rapt tone.
And he began a loyal reverie on that theme, to which the two young men listened with becoming patience.
Then he reverted somewhat abruptly to the question of L'Oiseleur's amulet, and asked so many questions about it, that in the end M. de la Rocheterie, beginning, Laurent fancied, to be slightly bored, offered to show it to him, and, while M. de Vicq murmured delightedly, "Monsieur, you are really too obliging!"
took off his coat with an apology to his host and turned up the sleeve of his fine shirt.
Laurent, leaning back on his chair, his hands behind his head, looked on amused.
Little exclamations broke from the old Royalist as, spectacles on nose, he bent over the table and scrutinized the circlet closely.
"And that is really the fairy garter of the legend--dear, dear, how wonderful!
After all these years .
.
.
so fresh and well-preserved .
.
there must be something in it, after all!
It is indeed to be hoped, Monsieur, that you will never lose that!"
The owner of the __jartier__, with his bare arm stretched out before him on the mahogany, caught his host's eye over the grey head.
"Yes, as you say, Monsieur, remarkably well-preserved!"
And Laurent, smiling back, had a delightful sense of complicity with him.
He was not going to tell the old fellow what he had told him!
