The Battle Of The Strong: Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Not many evenings after Philip's first interview with the Comtesse
Chantavoine, a visitor arrived at the castle. From his roundabout
approach up the steep cliff in the dusk it was clear he wished to avoid
notice. Of gallant bearing, he was attired in a fashion unlike the
citizens of Bercy, or the Republican military often to be seen in the
streets of the town. The whole relief of the costume was white: white
sash, white cuffs turned back, white collar, white rosette and band,
white and red bandeau, and the faint glitter of a white shirt. In
contrast were the black hat and plume, black top boots with huge spurs,
and yellow breeches. He carried a gun and a sword, and a pistol was stuck
in the white sash. But one thing caught the eye more than all else: a
white square on the breast of the long brown coat, strangely ornamented
with a red heart and a cross. He was evidently a soldier of high rank,
but not of the army of the Republic.

The face was that of a devotee, not of peace but of war--of some forlorn
crusade. It had deep enthusiasm, which yet to the trained observer would
seem rather the tireless faith of a convert than the disposition of the
natural man. It was somewhat heavily lined for one so young, and the
marks of a hard life were on him, but distinction and energy were in his
look and in every turn of his body.

Arriving at the castle, he knocked at the postern. At first sight of him
the porter suspiciously blocked the entrance with his person, but seeing
the badge upon his breast, stood at gaze, and a look of keen curiosity
crossed over his face. On the visitor announcing himself as a
Vaufontaine, this curiosity gave place to as keen surprise; he was
admitted with every mark of respect, and the gates closed behind him.

"Has his Highness any visitors?" he asked as he dismounted.

The porter nodded assent.

"Who are they?" He slipped a coin into the porter's hand.

"One of the family--for so his Serene Highness calls him."

"H'm, indeed! A Vaufontaine, friend?"

"No, monsieur, a d'Avranche."

"What d'Avranche? Not Prince Leopold John?"

"No, monsieur, the name is the same as his Highness's."

"Philip d'Avranche? Ah, from whence?"

"From Paris, monsieur, with his Highness."

The visitor, whistling softly to himself, stood thinking a moment.

Presently he said:

"How old is he?"

"About the same age as monsieur."

"How does he occupy himself?"

"He walks, rides, talks with his Highness, asks questions of the people,
reads in the library, and sometimes shoots and fishes."

"Is he a soldier?"

"He carries no sword, and he takes long aim with a gun."

A sly smile was lurking about the porter's mouth. The visitor drew from
his pocket a second gold piece, and, slipping it into the other's hand,
said:

"Tell it all at once. Who is the gentleman, and what is his business
here? Is he, perhaps, on the side of the Revolution, or does he--keep
better company?"

He looked keenly into the eyes of the porter, who screwed up his own,
returning the gaze unflinchingly. Handing back the gold piece, the man
answered firmly:

"I have told monsieur what every one in the duchy knows; there's no
charge for that. For what more his Highness and--and those in his
Highness's confidence know," he drew himself up with brusque importance,
"there's no price, monsieur."

"Body o' me, here's pride and vainglory!" answered the other. "But I know
you, my fine Pergot, I knew you almost too well years ago; and then you
were not so sensitive; then you were a good Royalist like me, Pergot."

This time he fastened the man's look with his own and held it until
Pergot dropped his head before it.

"I don't remember monsieur," he answered, perturbed.

"Of course not. The fine Pergot has a bad memory, like a good Republican,
who by law cannot worship his God, or make the sign of the Cross, or, ask
the priest to visit him when he's dying. A red Revolutionist is our
Pergot now!"

"I'm as good a Royalist as monsieur," retorted the man with some
asperity. "So are most of us. Only--only his Highness says to us--"

"Don't gossip of what his Highness says, but do his bidding, Pergot. What
a fool are you to babble thus! How d'ye know but I'm one of Fouche's or
Barere's men? How d'ye know but there are five hundred men beyond waiting
for my whistle?"

The man changed instantly. His hand was at his side like lightning.
"They'd never hear that whistle, monsieur, though you be Vaufontaine or
no Vaufontaine!"

The other, smiling, reached out and touched him on the shoulder kindly.

"My dear Frange Pergot," said he, "that's the man I knew once, and the
sort of man that's been fighting with me for the Church and for the King
these months past in the Vendee. Come, come, don't you know me, Pergot?
Don't you remember the scapegrace with whom, for a jape, you waylaid my
uncle the Cardinal and robbed him, then sold him back his jewelled watch
for a year's indulgences?"

"But no, no," answered the man, crossing himself quickly, and by the dim
lanthorn light peering into the visitor's face, "it is not possible,
monsieur. The Comte Detricand de Tournay--God rest him!--died in the
Jersey Isle, with him they called Rullecour."

"Well, well, you might at least remember this," rejoined the other, and
with a smile he showed an old scar in the palm of his hand.

A little later was ushered into the library of the castle the Comte
Detricand de Tournay, who, under the name of Savary dit Detricand, had
lived in the Isle of Jersey for many years. There he had been a
dissipated idler, a keeper of worthless company, an alien coolly
accepting the hospitality of a country he had ruthlessly invaded as a
boy. Now, returned from vagabondage, he was the valiant and honoured heir
of the House of Vaufontaine, and heir-presumptive of the House of Bercy.

True to his intention, Detricand had joined de la Rochejaquelein, the
intrepid, inspired leader of the Vendee, whose sentiments became his
own--"If I advance, follow me; if I retreat, kill me; if I fall, avenge
me."

He had proven himself daring, courageous, resourceful. His unvarying
gaiety of spirits infected the simple peasants with a rebounding energy;
his fearlessness inspired their confidence; his kindness to the wounded,
friend or foe, his mercy to prisoners, the respect he showed devoted
priests who shared with the peasants the perils of war, made him beloved.

From the first all the leaders trusted him, and he sprang in a day, as
had done the peasants Cathelineau, d'Elbee, and Stofflet, or gentlemen
like Lescure and Bonchamp, and noble fighters like d'Antichamp and the
Prince of Talmont, to an outstanding position in the Royalist army. Again
and again he had been engaged in perilous sorties and leading forlorn
hopes. He had now come from the splendid victory at Saumur to urge his
kinsman, the Duc de Bercy, to join the Royalists.

He had powerful arguments to lay before a nobleman the whole traditions
of whose house were of constant alliance with the Crown of France, whose
very duchy had been the gift of a French monarch. Detricand had not seen
the Duke since he was a lad at Versailles, and there would be much in his
favour, for of all the Vaufontaines the Duke had reason to dislike him
least, and some winning power in him had of late grown deep and
penetrating.

When the Duke entered upon him in the library, he was under the immediate
influence of a stimulating talk with Philip d'Avranche and the chief
officers of the duchy. With the memory of past feuds and hatreds in his
mind, and predisposed against any Vaufontaine, his greeting was
courteously disdainful, his manner preoccupied.

Remarking that he had but lately heard of monsieur le comte's return to
France, he hoped he had enjoyed his career in--was it then England or
America? But yes, he remembered, it began with an expedition to take the
Channel Isles from England, an insolent, a criminal business in time of
peace, fit only for boys or buccaneers. Had monsieur le comte then spent
all these years in the Channel Isles--a prisoner perhaps? No? Fastening
his eyes cynically on the symbol of the Royalist cause on Detricand's
breast, he asked to what he was indebted for the honour of this present
visit. Perhaps, he added drily, it was to inquire after his own health,
which, he was glad to assure monsieur le comte and all his cousins of
Vaufontaine, was never better.

The face was like a leather mask, telling nothing of the arid sarcasm in
the voice. The shoulders were shrunken, the temples fallen in, the neck
behind was pinched, and the eyes looked out like brown beads alive with
fire, and touched with the excitement of monomania. His last word had a
delicate savagery of irony, though, too, there could be heard in the tone
a defiance, arguing apprehension, not lost upon his visitor.

Detricand had inwardly smiled during the old man's monologue, broken only
by courteous, half-articulate interjections on his own part. He knew too
well the old feud between their houses, the ambition that had possessed
many a Vaufontaine to inherit the dukedom of Bercy, and the Duke's futile
revolt against that possibility. But for himself, now heir to the
principality of Vaufontaine, and therefrom, by reversion, to that of
Bercy, it had no importance.

He had but one passion now, and it burned clear and strong, it dominated,
it possessed him. He would have given up any worldly honour to see it
succeed. He had idled and misspent too many years, been vaurien and
ne'er-do-well too long to be sordid now. Even as the grievous sinner,
come from dark ways, turns with furious and tireless strength to piety
and good works, so this vagabond of noble family, wheeling suddenly in
his tracks, had thrown himself into a cause which was all sacrifice,
courage, and unselfish patriotism--a holy warfare. The last bitter thrust
of the Duke had touched no raw flesh, his withers were unwrung. Gifted to
thrust in return, and with warrant to do so, he put aside the temptation,
and answered his kinsman with daylight clearness.

"Monsieur le duc," said he, "I am glad your health is good--it better
suits the purpose of this interview. I am come on business, and on that
alone. I am from Saumur, where I left de la Rochejaquelein, Stofflet,
Cathelineau, and Lescure masters of the city and victors over Coustard's
army. We have taken eleven thousand prisoners, and--"

"I have heard a rumour--" interjected the Duke impatiently.

"I will give you fact," continued Detricand, and he told of the series of
successes lately come to the army of the Vendee. It was the heyday of the
cause.

"And how does all this concern me?" asked the Duke.

"I am come to beg you to join us, to declare for our cause, for the
Church and for the King. Yours is of the noblest names in France. Will
you not stand openly for what you cannot waver from in your heart? If the
Duc de Bercy declares for us, others will come out of exile, and from
submission to the rebel government, to our aid. My mission is to beg you
to put aside whatever reasons you may have had for alliance with this
savage government, and proclaim for the King."

The Duke never took his eyes from Detricand's.

What was going on behind that parchment face, who might say?

"Are you aware," he answered Detricand at last, "that I could send you
straight from here to the guillotine?"

"So could the porter at your gates, but he loves France almost as well as
does the Duc de Bercy."

"You take refuge in the fact that you are my kinsman," returned the Duke
acidly.

"The honour is stimulating, but I should not seek salvation by it. I have
the greater safety of being your guest," answered Detricand with dignity.

"Too premature a sanctuary for a Vaufontaine!" retorted the Duke,
fighting down growing admiration for a kinsman whose family he would
gladly root out, if it lay in his power.

Detricand made a gesture of impatience, for he felt that his appeal had
availed nothing, and he had no heart for a battle of words. His wit had
been tempered in many fires, his nature was non-incandescent to praise or
gibe. He had had his share of pastime; now had come his share of toil,
and the mood for give and take of words was not on him.

He went straight to the point now. Hopelessly he spoke the plain truth.

"I want nothing of the Prince d'Avranche but his weight and power in a
cause for which the best gentlemen of France are giving their lives. I
fasten my eyes on France alone: I fight for the throne of Louis, not for
the duchy of Bercy. The duchy of Bercy may sink or swim for all of me, if
so be it does not stand with us in our holy war."

The Duke interjected a disdainful laugh. Suddenly there shot into
Detricand's mind a suggestion, which, wild as it was, might after all
belong to the grotesque realities of life. So he added with deliberation:

"If alliance must still be kept with this evil government of France, then
be sure there is no Vaufontaine who would care to inherit a duchy so
discredited. To meet that peril the Duc de Bercy will do well to consult
his new kinsman--Philip d'Avranche."

For a moment there was absolute silence in the room. The old nobleman's
look was like a flash of flame in a mask of dead flesh. The short upper
lip was arrested in a sort of snarl, the fingers, half-closed, were
hooked like talons, and the whole man was a picture of surprise, fury,
and injured pride. The Duc de Bercy to be harangued to his duty, scathed,
measured, disapproved, and counselled, by a stripling Vaufontaine--it was
monstrous.

It had the bitterness of aloes also, for in his own heart he knew that
Detricand spoke truth. The fearless appeal had roused him, for a moment
at least, to the beauty and righteousness of a sombre, all but hopeless,
cause, while the impeachment had pierced every sore in his heart. He felt
now the smarting anger, the outraged vanity of the wrong-doer who, having
argued down his own conscience, and believing he has blinded others as
himself, suddenly finds that himself and his motives are naked before the
world.

Detricand had known regretfully, even as he spoke, that the Duke, no
matter what the reason, would not now ally himself with the Royalists;
though, had his life been in danger, he still would have spoken the
truth. So he had been human enough to try and force open the door of
mystery by a biting suggestion; for he had a feeling that in the presence
of the mysterious kinsman, Philip d'Avranche, lay the cause of the Duke's
resistance to his prayer. Who was this Philip d'Avranche? At the moment
it seemed absurd to him that his mind should travel back to the Isle of
Jersey.

The fury of the Duke was about to break forth, when the door of the
chamber opened and Philip stepped inside. The silence holding two men now
held three, and a curious, cold astonishment possessed the two younger.
The Duke was too blind with anger to see the start of recognition his
visitors gave at sight of each other, and by a concurrence of feeling
neither Detricand nor Philip gave sign of acquaintance. Wariness was
Philip's cue, wondering caution Detricand's attitude.

The Duke spoke first. Turning from Philip, he said to Detricand with
malicious triumph:

"It will disconcert your pious mind to know I have yet one kinsman who
counts it no shame to inherit Bercy. Monsieur le comte, I give you here
the honour to know Captain Philip d'Avranche."

Something of Detricand's old buoyant self came back to him. His face
flushed with sudden desire to laugh, then it paled in dumb astonishment.
So this man, Philip d'Avranche, was to be set against him even in the
heritage of his family, as for one hour in a Jersey kitchen they had been
bitter opposites. For the heritage of the Houses of Vaufontaine and Bercy
he cared little--he had deeper ambitions; but this adventuring sailor
roused in him again the private grudge he had once begged him to
remember. Recovering himself, he answered meaningly, bowing low:

"The honour is memorable--and monstrous." Philip set his teeth, but
replied: "I am overwhelmed to meet one whose reputation is known--in
every taproom."

Neither had chance to say more, for the Duke, though not conceiving the
cause or meaning of the biting words, felt the contemptuous suggestion in
Detricand's voice, and burst out in anger:

"Go tell the prince of Vaufontaine that the succession is assured to my
house. Monsieur my cousin, Captain Philip d'Avranche, is now my adopted
son; a wife is chosen for him, and soon, monsieur le comte, there will be
still another successor to the title."

"The Duc de Bercy should add inspired domestic prophecy to the family
record in the 'Almanach de Gotha,"' answered Detricand.

"God's death!" cried the old nobleman, trembling with rage, and
stretching towards the bell-rope, "you shall go to Paris and the Temple.
Fouche will take care of you."

"Stop, monsieur le duc!" Detricand's voice rang through the room. "You
shall not betray even the humblest of your kinsmen, like that monster
d'Orleans who betrayed the highest of his. Be wise: there are hundreds of
your people who still will pass a Royalist on to safety."

The Duke's hand dropped from the bell-rope. He knew that Detricand's
words were true. Ruling himself to quiet, he said with cold hatred:

"Like all your breed, crafty and insolent. But I will make you pay for it
one day."

Glancing towards Philip as though to see if he could move him, Detricand
answered: "Make no haste on my behalf; years are not of such moment to me
as to your Highness."

Philip saw Detricand's look, and felt his moment and his chance had come.
"Monsieur le comte!" he exclaimed threateningly.

The Duke glanced proudly at Philip. "You will collect the debt, cousin,"
said he, and the smile on his face was wicked as he again turned towards
Detricand.

"With interest well compounded," answered Philip firmly.

Detricand smiled. "I have drawn the Norman-Jersey cousin, then?" said he.
"Now we can proceed to compliments." Then with a change of manner he
added quietly: "Your Highness, may the House of Bercy have no worse enemy
than I! I came only to plead the cause which, if it give death, gives
honour too. And I know well that at least you are not against us in
heart. Monsieur d'Avranche"--he turned to Philip, and his words were slow
and deliberate--"I hope we may yet meet in the Place du Vier Prison--but
when and where you will; and you shall find me in the Vendee when you
please." So saying, he bowed, and, turning, left the room.

"What meant the fellow by his Place du Vier Prison?" asked the Duke.

"Who knows, monsieur le duc?" answered Philip. "A fanatic like all the
Vaufontaines--a roysterer yesterday, a sainted chevalier to-morrow," said
the Duke irritably. "But they still have strength and beauty--always!" he
added reluctantly. Then he looked at the strong and comely frame before
him, and was reassured. He laid a hand on Philip's broad shoulder, and
said admiringly:

"You will of course have your hour with him, cousin: but not--not till
you are a d'Avranche of Bercy."

"Not till I am a d'Avranche of Bercy," responded Philip in a low voice.

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