Wounded Name — Chapter 8: The Love of Women, part 1
(1) How is it that the Fate who spins seems sometimes to take pleasure in falsifying, not only one's anticipations, but even one's apprehensions as to the pattern which her threads will weave?
This reflection, or something like it, was Laurent de Courtomer's next afternoon at Sessignes, where he sat on the window-seat in Aymar's pleasant room.
Things had proved so much less trying than he had feared; supper last night with the two ladies, for instance (Aymar was in his bed), had been punctuated only by questions such as he could answer.
The ladies naturally wished to know the details of his friend's captivity and illness, but among these he had been able to exercise selection; and he was certainly not going to undeceive them when they jumped to the conclusion that it was on account of his health that Aymar had been "released."
Details of the affair at Pont-aux-Rochers they could hardly expect from him, nor did Mme de la Rocheterie press for them, while her granddaughter, as he knew, had already been told enough by her cousin to avoid that subject, in public, like the plague.
In the second place, he and Aymar were not going to part immediately after all.
Once again the Spinner had twisted the thread.
The newspaper that morning, which confirmed the account of Napoleon's abdication, and told them that the King was on French soil again, apprised them also of the fact that Vendée had made peace two days before.
There was, therefore, not the slightest need for Laurent to return thither, and he had yielded only too willingly to Aymar's solicitations to remain a little at Sessignes.
Aymar himself had been examined that morning (considerably against his will) by the doctor whom Mme de la Rocheterie had summoned, and as a result, had been confined for the present to his room.
Under a promise of secrecy he had also, to Laurent's relief, allowed the doctor to see and prescribe for the burnt arm.
He was lying at this moment on a chaise-longue, pulling the ears of the enraptured wolfhound, whose head lay on his breast.
"When are you going to ride Hirondelle, Laurent?"
he asked, looking up.
"She is at your disposal any time, you know.
There are rods in the hall, and fish, though they are shy, in the stream; and if you want a gun, you have only to ask Célestin.
And if this one-idea'd beast will go with you, perhaps you will take him for a walk some time?"
The word seemed to be familiar to Sarrasin, for he beat his tail upon the floor so vigorously that a light knock at the door was scarcely audible.
A voice was then heard saying, "May I come in, Aymar?"
Laurent jumped up.
It was Mme de la Rocheterie.
L'Oiseleur also made instinctively to rise.
"Do not be foolish, Aymar; stay where you are," said his grandmother in her cold, gentle tones.
"And do not let me disturb you, Monsieur de Courtomer.
I have brought our invalid some peaches."
She had indeed a shallow basket in her hand, and a scarf thrown over her brilliant white hair, as though she had been in the garden.
"Ah, that incorrigible dog is up here again!"
"You mean that I am incorrigible, Grand'mère," said Aymar, good-humouredly, and he ordered Sarrasin to remove himself to a distance.
Meanwhile the Vicomtesse had accepted from Laurent a chair by the couch, and though she again besought the young man not to depart, he thereafter vanished, somewhat regretting that a gentleman could not listen at the keyhole.
Sitting there beside the chaise-longue Mme de la Rocheterie subjected its occupant to a long, quiet scrutiny.
Little, however, of what she really felt or thought was to be seen on her face.
"Gellois does not give me a very good account of you, Aymar," she said at last.
"But, from the look of you, I hardly expected it."
"You know that he is an alarmist, my dear grandmother," replied the invalid.
"There is nothing the matter with me now except that I get tired rather easily."
"He says that your heart is impaired."
"Temporarily, I dare say.
I suppose that is why he has condemned me to lie here in this ridiculous fashion."
"But, my dear boy, you have been very--by which I mean dangerously--ill, and you know it.
It is of no use to deny it, for M. de Courtomer has admitted the fact."
"I hope that you are being very charming to M. de Courtomer," responded her grandson, shifting the ground a little.
"If I have been as ill as you say, all the more credit and thanks to him that I am well now.
He nursed me with a devotion for which there are no words."
"You consider, in short, that you owe your life to him?"
Aymar smiled a little.
"If I cannot give him his due without making the admission which you are so anxious to wring out of me, Grand'mère yes, I do--to him and the doctor.
So be kind to him--for he is not leaving us to-day after all, I am glad to say."
"No friend of yours shall have anything to complain of from me, Aymar," responded his grandmother, "particularly one to whom you are so much indebted.
He seems a well-bred young man, for all his English upbringing.
The name, of course, is good.
I suppose he bears _sinople, three lions argent?
_" "I suppose so," said Aymar with a smile.
"The one thing which I do know for certain that he bears is--_a heart, or.
_" A smile flickered over Mme de la Rocheterie's face also.
"What a pretty speech!
M.
de Courtomer ought to be here.
--Now I will peel you a peach, and if it does not tire you to talk, you shall tell me of this unfortunate business of Pont-aux-Rochers.
We have heard the most unpleasant rumours about it here."
The young man twisted a trifle in the chair.
"Rumours of .
.
.
treachery?"
"Yes," continued the Vicomtesse, selecting a peach from the basket.
"And from all the details we could gather, from the completeness of the disaster--and from the fact that you were not there in person--it seems to me probable that they are true.
But I should like to know."
However, it was with a very undisturbed air that she began to peel the peach.
Aymar watched her for a moment.
"I understand that the idea might have arisen," he said at last.
"But it is a false one.
There was no treachery over the business."
His grandmother raised her eyebrows.
"My dear boy, what was there, then?
A miracle, worked for the Bonapartists?"
"A miscalculation--a grave error of judgment."
"Ah, I think I can guess whose!"
"Can you?
I fancy not!"
He gave a rather wan, ironic smile.
"It was my own, Grand'mère."
And at that Mme de la Rocheterie not only lifted her eyes from her occupation, but looked at him so piercingly that under her gaze the easily raised flush of convalescence ran across Aymar's own face for an instant.
"Your error in judgment, I suppose you imply, because you chose an incapable man for your subordinate," she remarked.
"I warn you, mon fils, that I have no patience with that kind of quixotry.
Our name, your reputation, shall not be used to shield a man who is a bungler, if no worse."
The flush came again, and deeper this time, but it left Aymar very pale.
"If you mean M. de Fresne, he is in no need of shielding--_shielding_, my God!"
he said under his breath.
"I committed the .
.
.
the mistake myself.
But if you have no objection, we will not talk about it."
"As you please," said the Vicomtesse calmly.
She had finished her task, and delicately wiped her fingers.
"I have you back safe and comparatively sound, which is all I care about.
The reputation of L'Oiseleur is strong enough to take care of itself.
All the same, as I do not wish you to be under a misapprehension as to my intelligence, I must tell you that I do not believe you about M. de Fresne."
Her grandson gave almost a groan of irritation and anger.
"You accuse me of lying, then?"
"I accuse you of having a bad memory.
The evening that you were here in April--the evening before the ambuscade--you told me casually at supper that M. de Fresne, without awaiting your orders, was moving your men across the river next morning.
I could see, though you did not say so, that you were a little annoyed.
Late that evening you received news which made you rush off post-haste to them; the next thing we hear is that they have walked into a trap and been cut up.
And then you say the blame is yours, and not your thick-headed lieutenant's!
You see, my dear boy, that you cannot hoodwink me like that!"
Aymar, taken aback as he was for the moment, pulled himself higher on the couch.
His eyes were bright, his mouth determined.
"I absolutely refuse to have M. de Fresne made a scapegoat any more!"
he said hotly.
"I, and I alone, am responsible for what happened at Pont-aux-Rochers.
I will not have another man's reputation sacrificed to save mine!"
"I was not aware," said his grandmother drily, "that M. de Fresne had any particular reputation to sacrifice.
But if you are going to agitate yourself over it like this, you shall take all the blame you want.
Lie down again, for Heaven's sake!"
She got up and rearranged his cushions.
"I begin to think that part of the reason why you look like a seven days' ghost is that you are taking this, your solitary reverse, so much au grand tragique.
That comes, my dear Aymar, of being the favourite of fortune--and of being young.
Well, time, unfortunately, will cure the latter----" "And has already cured the first," finished Aymar with a queer little smile, shutting his eyes for a second.
"Thank you, Bonne-maman."
He opened them again and looked at her as she resumed her seat.
"It is plain that you do not know how many men I lost over that affair."
"But what were your men for?"
enquired the Vicomtesse.
"I do not say that you exactly kept them in cotton-wool, but you have always been ridiculously sensitive about their welfare.
One must break eggs to make an omelette, as the vulgar say.
--Well, let us talk of something else.
There is a much pleasanter subject to hand, is there not?"
And her smile, though mischievous, was not unkind.
But Aymar looked away and said nothing.
"I have tired you so much that you cannot even talk about _her_?"
asked his grandmother after a moment.
"I shall have the young gentleman with the heart of gold taking me to task."
She got up, putting the peach near him.
"Another time, then; just now you can lie here and reflect how true it is that everything comes to him who waits.
.
.
.
Only, my dearest boy"--she bent and kissed him tenderly--"do try to see your late reverse in its proper proportions!
I should like to point out--if you will not take the consolation amiss--that now, owing to the signal victory of mid-June, it is of small consequence what happened to your little force at the end of April!"
Of small consequence!
Oh, if only it were!
As the door closed behind her Aymar turned and lay motionless, his face hidden in one of his cushions.
(2) The wolfhound Sarrasin, who, having a soul above rabbits, usually disdained the investigation of hedges, paced soberly along at Laurent's heels one fine evening, four days later, on the return from the walk they had taken together.
Their respective master and friend was not yet strong enough to accompany them, for he had only made his first appearance downstairs at déjeuner that day; moreover, he was closeted with Jacques Eveno, now become a kind of enquiry agent for him with regard to the victims of Pont-aux-Rochers.
It was nearly sunset, and Sessignes, as it came into sight, was bathed in a warm and flattering radiance.
Already Laurent loved the place, which seemed to fit Aymar so well--old and noble and secure and unpretentious.
Yet, much as he delighted in being here, and in feeling that he was of use to Aymar, both as his only real confidant and as an accomplice in diverting awkward questions, he was torn also with a desire to get back to his mother.
But Paris was probably invested by this time; though a friend, he was not likely to succeed in getting through the English and Prussian lines.
Directly, however, that there seemed to be a chance of penetrating to the capital, he would set off to her.
On the whole, these four days, like his first supper-party at Sessignes, had been less agitating than he had feared.
There was strain, of course, for Aymar, and for him, and, presumably, for Madame de Villecresne up to a point, because of what she knew; but Mme de la Rocheterie had not added to the inevitable malaise the extra tension which he had anticipated.
Her attitude at present was one of half-amused toleration of Aymar's concern for his unfortunate men, and of a disregard of the possibilities of blame which was sublime in its contempt.
Laurent's only hope was that sleeping dogs might be left to lie.
For, used as he was to the society of old ladies, and versed in the ways that pleased them, Mme de la Rocheterie inspired in him a latent terror which his own formidable great-aunts had never roused.
With her, one felt very much in the presence of an intelligence.
When she set that intelligence to finding out anything, he was sure that she would succeed.
He could only pray that his might not be the unwary tongue to kindle this desire.
About Mme de Villecresne he had now quite made up his mind.
More girlish than he had pictured her, the widow, the six years' nominal wife (no older, indeed, than himself) more beautiful even than he had thought at first, and with a nameless charm of glance and voice, he now found her bewitching.
He was for ever on the watch for the fleeting, half-tantalizing resemblances to Aymar himself; these, indeed, completed his subjugation.
So, except that in his heart of hearts he did not think any woman good enough for his friend, he approved his choice.
And, fortunately, there was no shadow of doubt that she loved Aymar deeply.
He had seen her with him in the chaise .
.
.
and looking at him to-day at déjeuner.
And now, if it were not for this horrible cloud over him, of whose full proportions she was not aware, their long-delayed happiness was at hand.
He did hope that Aymar would have no hesitation about taking it quickly.
From something which his friend had let fall the other day he was a little afraid.
.
.
.
Being cousins, they would of course have to get a dispensation first.
.
.
.
The young man reflected on their cousinship as he swung along.
Had they not been lovers they must almost, he thought, feel like brother and sister, brought up together as they had been from so tender an age.
And his thoughts flew instantly to a picture in the salon of the château which had charmed and delighted him from the first--a pastel wherein a beautiful, serious boy of ten or thereabouts held by the hand a younger girl-child, bright-haired like himself and smiling rather roguishly at the spectator.
The little Aymar had a kite on which his other hand rested, somewhat as if on a shield, but his attention, obviously, was concentrated on his companion with an effect of care and protection not usual at the kite-flying age.
It came to Laurent, as he neared Sessignes, how deeply that same attitude was still Aymar's, and how, to shelter his cousin now from the knowledge of what she, all innocently, had brought upon him, he was running what his friend could not but consider a very grave risk indeed.
But it was not for him to say, "Tell her everything!"
Aymar knew what he was doing.
And the whole future?
The nightmare idea of arrest by his own side still sometimes visited Laurent, since the morning when Aymar had referred to it.
But such a blow was unlikely to fall on him because, having raised and equipped his Eperviers entirely by his own efforts, he was under the direct orders of no commander whatever, not even of Sol de Grisolles himself.
Yet, in spite of that, suppose that one day he _were_ dragged off from Sessignes to answer for what he had done.
.
.
.
That was the terrible part of it--for what he _had_ done.
"Oh, Sarrasin," said Laurent with a shiver, "you wise dog, if only you could help your master!"
But the wolfhound merely swayed his tail, and they came up the avenue to the château, and turned along the side of the house to the highest terrace.
And here the sunset, already brightening behind the woods that flanked the pastures on the other side of the Aven, was seen in all its half-tragic splendour, like the death of a hero.
It tinged the river and smote on the bright, uncovered head of her who had been the little girl in the picture, as she stood by the terrace wall gazing out into the distance.
Laurent caught sight of her face; it looked so exceedingly grave that he stopped before she had perhaps, even heard his step.
But Sarrasin went up to her, so she turned, and Laurent, realizing that she wished to speak to him, approached her.
"Monsieur de Courtomer," she began rather abruptly, "I want to consult you about something rather terrible--something which I hope may be kept from my cousin's knowledge."
"I am at your service, Madame," replied Laurent.
This was indeed turning the tables in the matter of concealment.
Mme de Villecresne moved a trifle away, and, looking down, fingered the warm lichened stone of the terrace wall for a moment.
The little curls at the back of her neck glowed like burnished gold.
"It is about Pont-aux-Rochers.
My cousin warned me himself that I might hear it said that the supposed treachery there was--his own.
I had not heard it, and till this afternoon I could have sworn that it was impossible so atrocious a slander should even be breathed in Brittany of L'Oiseleur!
Yet this very afternoon I have just heard worse--if it were possible--and I do not know what to do about it."
Her breath seemed to fail her for an instant.
Laurent looked at her in mute uneasiness.
"I pray that Aymar himself does not know.
.
.
.
I hardly like even to repeat it, but my maid tells me that she heard a man in the village saying he had heard a report that it was Aymar's own men who shot him, on account of the disaster at the bridge.
If only he has not heard it himself--if only we can keep it from him!"
She raised her eyes at the last words.
But what she saw on the candid visage of her cousin's confidant caused her to put a hand quickly to her heart.
"Merciful Heavens--it is not _true!
_" Laurent lowered his head.
Mme de Villecresne gripped his arm, breathlessly repeating, "It is not true!
--it cannot be!"
"Unfortunately .
.
.
it is true," responded the young man, more than unwillingly.
His fair head and the sunset all reeled together, obviously, before the girl's eyes.
She loosed his arm and sank down on the broad wall beside him, her face drained of colour; then, as Laurent, alarmed, took a step towards her, she made a gesture as if to ward him off, and covered it with her hands.
"It was only two or three of them," added Laurent hesitatingly.
She made no answer, and after another terrible silence, during which her informant rooted up an entire pink from between the stones of the wall, she rose, her face still hidden, and went from him.
Aymar, sitting at a table in his room with a pen between his fingers and fatigue on his face, heard from Laurent the account of what had just happened without comment or change of expression.
"Where is she now?"
he asked, getting up.
"I do not know.
Oh, Aymar, I cannot blame myself enough!"
"There is no need to blame yourself at all.
It will be all over the place in a day or two.
I have just had a terrible scene with Eveno.
He had heard it in the village, too; and he was nearly demented.
He wanted to go off and do murder."
"He will not, I hope?"
exclaimed Laurent, startled.
"Not now.
Besides, he does not know, since I would not tell him, whom to murder.
Ninety men is rather a large order, single-handed."
He gave a weary little laugh, and went to the door.
"Really, I do not know which is more difficult to handle, the rebel or the fanatically faithful!"
For his friend's sake at least Laurent could not but be glad when he learnt later that he had not succeeded in getting speech with his cousin.
She had gone to her room, whence she did not appear again that evening.
She had a bad headache, it seemed.
But the Vicomtesse was in great spirits at supper, and entertained Laurent with some witty but rather doubtful stories.
"I wonder if she knows what heartache is," thought the young man .
.
.
and then remembered her guillotined sons.
