The Battle Of The Strong: Chapter 46

Chapter 46

IN JERSEY-A YEAR LATER

"What is that for?" asked the child, pointing. Detricand put the watch to
the child's ear. "It's to keep time. Listen. Do you hear it-tic-tic,
tic-tic?"'

The child nodded his head gleefully, and his big eyes blinked with
understanding. "Doesn't it ever stop?" he asked.

"This watch never stops," replied Detricand. "But there are plenty of
watches that do."

"I like watches," said the child sententiously.

"Would you like this one?" asked Detricand.

The child drew in a gurgling breath of pleasure. "I like it. Why doesn't
mother have a watch?"

The man did not answer the last question. "You like it?" he said again,
and he nodded his head towards the little fellow. "H'm, it keeps good
time, excellent time it keeps," and he rose to meet the child's mother,
who having just entered the room, stood looking at them. It was Guida.
She had heard the last words, and she glanced towards the watch
curiously. Detricand smiled in greeting, and said to her: "Do you
remember it?" He held up the watch.

She came forward eagerly. "Is it--is it that indeed, the watch that the
dear grandpethe--?"

He nodded and smiled. "Yes, it has never once stopped since the moment he
gave it me in the Vier-Marchi seven years ago. It has had a charmed
existence amid many rough doings and accidents. I was always afraid of
losing it, always afraid of an accident to it. It has seemed to me that
if I could keep it things would go right with me, and things come out
right in the end. Superstition, of course, but I lived a long time in
Jersey. I feel more a Jerseyman than a Frenchman sometimes."

Although his look seemed to rest but casually on her face, it was evident
he was anxious to feel the effect of every word upon her, and he added:
"When the Sieur de Mauprat gave me the watch he said, 'May no time be ill
spent that it records for you.'"

"Perhaps he knows his wish was fulfilled," answered Guida.

"You think, then, that I've kept my promise?"

"I am sure he would say so," she replied warmly.

"It isn't the promise I made to him that I mean, but the promise I made
to you."

She smiled brightly. "You know what I think of that. I told you long
ago." She turned her head away, for a bright colour had come to her
cheek. "You have done great things, Prince," she added in a low tone.

He flashed a look of inquiry at her. To his ear there was in her voice a
little touch--not of bitterness, but of something, as it were, muffled or
reserved. Was she thinking how he had robbed her child of the chance of
heritage at Bercy? He did not reply, but, stooping, put the watch again
to the child's ear. "There you are, monseigneur!"

"Why do you call him monseigneur?" she asked. "Guilbert has no title to
your compliment."

A look half-amused, half-perplexed, crossed over Detricand's face. "Do
you think so?" he said musingly. Stooping once more, he said to the
child: "Would you like the watch?" and added quickly, "you shall have it
when you're grown up."

"Do you really mean it?" asked Guida, delighted; "do you really mean to
give him the grandpethe's watch one day?"

"Oh yes, at least that--one day. But I have something more," he added
quickly--"something more for you;" and he drew from his pocket a
miniature set in rubies and diamonds. "I have brought you this from the
Duc de Mauban--and this," he went on, taking a letter from his pocket,
and handing it with the gift. "The Duke thought you might care to have
it. It is the face of your godmother, the Duchess Guidabaldine."

Guida looked at the miniature earnestly, and then said a little
wistfully: "How beautiful a face--but the jewels are much too fine for
me! What should one do here with rubies and diamonds? How can I thank the
Duke!"

"Not so. He will thank you for accepting it. He begged me to say--as you
will find by his letter to you--that if you will but go to him upon a
visit with this great man here"--pointing to the child with a smile--"he
will count it one of the greatest pleasures of his life. He is too old to
come to you, but he begs you to go to him--the Chevalier, and you, and
Guilbert here. He is much alone now, and he longs for a little of that
friendship which can be given by but few in this world. He counts upon
your coming, for I said I thought you would."

"It would seem so strange," she answered, "to go from this cottage of my
childhood, to which I have come back in peace at last--from this kitchen,
to the chateau of the Duc de Mauban."

"But it was sure to come," he answered. "This kitchen to which I come
also to redeem my pledge after seven years, it belongs to one part of
your life. But there is another part to fulfil,"--he stooped and passed
his hands over the curls of the child, "and for your child here you
should do it."

"I do not find your meaning," she said after a moment's deliberation. "I
do not know what you would have me understand."

"In some ways you and I would be happier in simple surroundings," he
replied gravely, "but it would seem that to play duly our part in the
world, we must needs move in wider circles. To my mind this kitchen is
the most delightful spot in the world. Here I took a fresh commission of
life. I went out, a sort of battered remnant, to a forlorn hope; and now
I come back to headquarters once again--not to be praised," he added in
an ironical tone, and with a quick gesture of almost boyish shyness--"not
to be praised; only to show that from a grain of decency left in a man
may grow up some sheaves of honest work and plain duty."

"No, it is much more than that, it is much, much more than that," she
broke in.

"No, I am afraid it is not," he answered; "but that is not what I wished
to say. I wished to say that for monseigneur here--"

A little flash of anger came into her eyes. "He is no monseigneur, he is
Guilbert d'Avranche," she said bitterly. "It is not like you to mock my
child, Prince. Oh, I know you mean it playfully," she hurriedly added,
"but--but it does not sound right to me."

"For the sake of monseigneur the heir to the duchy of Bercy," he added,
laying his hand upon the child's head, "these things your devout friends
suggest, you should do, Princess."

Her clear unwavering eye looked steadfastly at him, but her face turned
pale.

"Why do you call him monseigneur the heir to the duchy of Bercy?" she
said almost coldly, and with a little fear in her look too.

"Because I have come here to tell you the truth, and to place in your
hands the record of an act of justice."

Drawing from his pocket a parchment gorgeous with seals, he stooped, and
taking the hands of the child, he placed it in them. "Hold it tight, hold
it tight, my little friend, for it is your very own," he said to the
child with cheerful kindliness. Then stepping back a little, and looking
earnestly at Guida, he added with a motion of the hand towards the child:

"You must learn the truth from him."

"Oh, what can you mean--what can you mean?" she exclaimed. Dropping upon
her knees, and running an arm round the child, she opened the parchment
and read.

"What--what right has he to this?" she cried in a voice of dismay. "A
year ago you dispossessed his father from the duchy. Ah, I do not
understand it! You--only you are the Duc de Bercy."

Her eyes were shining with a happy excitement and tenderness. No such
look had been in them for many a day. Something that had long slept was
waking in her, something long voiceless was speaking. This man brought
back to her heart a glow she had never thought to feel again, the glow of
the wonder of life and of a girlish faith.

"I am only Detricand of Vaufontaine," he answered. "What, did you--could
you think that I would dispossess your child? His father was the adopted
son of the Duc de Bercy. Nothing could wipe that out, neither law nor
nations. You are always Princess Guida, and your child is always Prince
Guilbert d'Avranche--and more than that."

His voice became lower, his war-beaten face lighted with that fire and
force which had made him during years past a figure in the war records of
Europe.

"I unseated Philip d'Avranche," he continued, "because he acquired the
duchy through--a misapprehension; because the claims of the House of
Vaufontaine were greater. We belonged; he was an alien. He had a right to
his adoption, he had no right to his duchy--no real right in the equity
of nations. But all the time I never forgot that the wife of Philip
d'Avranche and her child had rights infinitely beyond his own. All that
he achieved was theirs by every principle of justice. My plain duty was
to win for your child that succession belonging to him by all moral
right. When Philip d'Avranche was killed, I set to work to do for your
child what had been done by another for Philip d'Avranche. I have made
him my heir. When he is of age I shall abdicate from the duchy in his
favour. This deed, countersigned by the Powers that dispossessed his
father, secures to him the duchy when he is old enough to govern."

Guida had listened like one in a dream. A hundred feelings possessed her,
and one more than all. She suddenly saw all Detricand's goodness to her
stretch out in a long line of devoted friendship, from this day to that
far-off hour seven years before, when he had made a vow to her--kept how
nobly! Devoted friendship--was it devoted friendship alone, even with
herself? In a tumult of emotions she answered him hurriedly. "No, no, no,
no! I cannot accept it. This is not justice, this is a gift for which
there is no example in the world's history."

"I thought it best," he went on quietly, "to govern Bercy myself during
these troubled years. So far its neutrality has been honoured, but who
can tell what may come! As a Vaufontaine it is my duty to see that
Bercy's interests are duly protected amidst the troubles of Europe."

Guida got to her feet now and stood looking dazedly at the parchment in
her hand. The child, feeling himself neglected, ran out into the garden.

There was moisture in Guida's eyes as she presently said: "I had not
thought that any man could be so noble--no, not even you."

"You should not doubt yourself so," he answered meaningly. "I am the work
of your hands. If I have fought my way back to reputable life again--"

He paused, and took from his pocket a handkerchief. "This was the gage,"
he said, holding it up. "Do you remember the day I came to return it to
you, and carried it off again?"

"It was foolish of you to keep it," she answered softly, "as foolish of
you as to think that I shall accept for my child these great honours."

"But suppose the child in after years should blame you?" he answered
slowly and with emphasis. "Suppose that Guilbert should say, What right
had you, my mother, to refuse what was my due?"

This was the question she had asked herself long, long ago. It smote her
heart now. What right had she to reject this gift of Fate to her child?

Scarcely above a whisper she replied: "Of course he might say that, but
how, oh, how should we simple folk, he and I, be fitted for these high
places--yet? Now that what I desired all these years for him has come, I
have not the courage."

"You have friends to help you in all you do," he answered meaningly.

"But friends cannot always be with one," she answered.

"That depends upon the friends. There is one friend of yours who has
known you for eighteen years. Eighteen years' growth should make a strong
friendship--there was always friendship on his part at least. He can be a
still stronger and better friend. He comes now to offer you the remainder
of a life for which your own goodness is the guarantee. He comes to offer
you a love of which your own soul must be the only judge, for you have
eyes that see and a spirit that knows. The Chevalier needs you, and the
Duc de Mauban needs you, but Detricand of Vaufontaine needs you a
thousand times more."

"Oh, hush--but no, you must not!" she broke in, her face all crimson, her
lips trembling.

"But yes, I must," he answered quickly. "You find peace here, but it is
the peace of inaction. It dulls the brain, and life winds in upon itself
wearily at the last. But out there is light and fire and action and the
quick-beating pulse, and the joy of power wisely used, even to the end.
You come of a great people, you were born to great things; your child has
rights accorded now by every Court of Europe. You must act for him. For
your child's sake, for my sake come out into the great field of life with
me--as my wife, Guida."

She turned to him frankly, she looked at him steadfastly, the colour in
her face came and went, but her eyes glowed with feeling.

"After all that has happened?" she asked in a low tone.

"It could only be because of all that has happened," he answered.

"No, no, you do not understand," she said quickly, a great pain in her
voice. "I have suffered so, these many, many years! I shall never be
light-hearted again. And I am not fitted for such high estate. Do you not
see what you ask of me--to go from this cottage to a palace?"

"I love you too well to ask you to do what you could not. You must trust
me," he answered, "you must give your life its chance, you must--"

"But listen to me," she interjected with breaking tones; "I know as
surely as I know--as I know the face of my child, that the youth in me is
dead. My summer came--and went--long ago. No, no, you do not
understand--I would not make you unhappy. I must live only to make my
child happy. That love has not been marred."

"And I must be judge of what is for my own happiness. And for yours--if I
thought my love would make you unhappy for even one day, I should not
offer it. I am your lover, but I am also your friend. Had it not been for
you I might have slept in a drunkard's grave in Jersey. Were it not for
you, my bones would now be lying in the Vendee. I left my peasants, I
denied myself death with them to serve you. The old cause is gone. You
and your child are now my only cause--"

"You make it so hard for me," she broke in. "Think of the shadows from
the past always in my eyes, always in my heart--you cannot wear the
convict's chain without the lagging footstep afterwards."

"Shadows--friend of my soul, how should I dare come to you if there had
never been shadows in your life! It is because you--you have suffered,
because you know, that I come. Out of your miseries, the convict's
lagging step, you say? Think what I was. There was never any wrong in
you, but I was sunk in evil depths of folly--"

"I will not have you say so," she interrupted; "you never in your life
did a dishonourable thing."

"Then again I say, trust me. For, on the honour of a Vaufontaine, I
believe that happiness will be yours as my wife. The boy, you see how he
and I--"

"Ah, you are so good to him!"

"You must give me chance and right to serve him. What else have you or I
to look forward to? The honours of this world concern us little. The
brightest joys are not for us. We have work before us, no rainbow
ambitions. But the boy--think for him---" he paused.

After a little, she held out her hand towards him. "Good-bye," she said
softly.

"Good-bye--you say good-bye to me!" he exclaimed in dismay.

"Till--till to-morrow," she answered, and she smiled. The smile had a
little touch of the old archness which was hers as a child, yet, too, a
little of the sadness belonging to the woman. But her hand-clasp was firm
and strong; and her touch thrilled him. Power was there, power with
infinite gentleness. And he understood her; which was more than all.

He turned at the door. She was standing very still, the parchment with
the great seals yet in her hand. Without speaking, she held it out to
him, as though uncertain what to do with it.

As he passed through the doorway he smiled, and said:

"To-morrow--to-morrow!"

EPILOGUE

St. John's Eve had passed. In the fields at Bonne-Nuit Bay the
"Brow-brow! ben-ben!" of the Song of the Cauldron had affrighted the
night; riotous horns, shaming the blare of a Witches' Sabbath, had been
blown by those who, as old Jean Touzel said, carried little lead under
their noses. The meadows had been full of the childlike islanders
welcoming in the longest day of the year. Mid-summer Day had also come
and gone, but with less noise and clamour, for St. John's Fair had been
carried on with an orderly gaiety--as the same Jean Touzel said, like a
sheet of music. Even the French singers and dancers from St. Malo had
been approved in Norman phrases by the Bailly and the Jurats, for now
there was no longer war between England and France, Napoleon was at St.
Helena, and the Bourbons were come again to their own.

It had been a great day, and the roads were cloudy with the dust of
Mid-summer revellers going to their homes. But though some went many
stayed, camping among the booths, since the Fair was for tomorrow and for
other to-morrows after. And now, the day's sport being over, the
superstitious were making the circle of the rock called William's Horse
in Boulay Bay, singing the song of William, who, with the fabled sprig of
sacred mistletoe, turned into a rock the kelpie horse carrying him to
death.

There was one boat, however, which putting out into the Bay did not bear
towards William's Horse, but, catching the easterly breeze, bore away
westward towards the point of Plemont. Upon the stern of the boat was
painted in bright colours, Hardi Biaou. "We'll be there soon after
sunset," said the grizzled helmsman, Jean Touzel, as he glanced from the
full sail to the setting sun.

Neither of his fellow-voyagers made reply, and for a time there was
silence, save for the swish of the gunwale through the water. But at last
Jean said:

"Su' m'n ame, but it is good this, after that!" and he jerked his head
back towards the Fair-ground on the hill. "Even you will sleep to-night,
Dormy Jamais, and you, my wife of all."

Maitresse Aimable shook her great head slowly on the vast shoulders, and
shut her heavy eyelids. "Dame, but I think you are sleeping now--you,"
Jean went on.

Maitresse Aimable's eyes opened wide, and again she shook her head.

Jean looked a laugh at her through his great brass-rimmed spectacles and
added:

"Ba su, then I know. It is because we go to sleep in my hut at Plemont
where She live so long. I know, you never sleep there."

Maitresse Aimable shook her head once more, and drew from her pocket a
letter.

At sight of it Dormy Jamais crawled quickly over to where the Femme de
Ballast sat, and, 'reaching out, he touched it with both hands.

"Princess of all the world--bidemme," he said, and he threw out his arms
and laughed.

Two great tears were rolling down Maitresse Aimable's cheeks.

"How to remember she, ma fuifre!" said Jean Touzel. "But go on to the
news of her."

Maitresse Aimable spread the letter out and looked at it lovingly. Her
voice rose slowly up like a bubble from the bottom of a well, and she
spoke.

"Ah man pethe benin, when it come, you are not here, my Jean. I take it
to the Greffier to read for me. It is great news, but the way he read so
sour I do not like, ba su! I see Maitre Damian the schoolmaster pass my
door. I beckon, and he come. I take my letter here, I hold it close to
his eyes. 'Read on that for me, Maitre Damian--you,' I say. O my good,
when he read it, it sing sweet like a song, pergui! Once, two, three
times I make him read it out--he has the voice so soft and round, Maitre
Damian there."

"Glad and good!" interrupted Jean. "What is the news, my wife? What is
the news of highnesss--he?"

Maitresse Aimable smiled, then she tried to speak, but her voice broke.

"The son--the son--at last he is the Duke of Bercy. E'fin, it is all
here. The new King of France, he is there at the palace when the child
which it have sleep on my breast, which its mother I have love all the
years, kiss her son as the Duke of Bercy."

"Ch'est ben," said Jean, "you can trust the good God in the end."

Dormy Jamais did not speak. His eyes were fastened upon the north, where
lay the Paternoster Rocks. The sun had gone down, the dusk was creeping
on, and against the dark of the north there was a shimmer of fire--a fire
that leapt and quivered about the Paternoster Rocks.

Dormy pointed with his finger. Ghostly lights or miracle of Nature, these
fitful flames had come and gone at times these many years, and now again
the wonder of the unearthly radiance held their eyes.

"Gatd'en'ale, I don't understand you--you!" said Jean, speaking to the
fantastic fires as though they were human.

"There's plenty things we see we can't understand, and there's plenty we
understand we can't never see. Ah bah, so it goes!" said Maitresse
Aimable, and she put Guida's letter in her bosom.

.......................

Upon the hill of Plemont above them, a stone taken from the chimney of
the hut where Guida used to live, stood upright beside a little grave.
Upon it was carved:

                BIRIBI,
               Fidele ami
              De quels jours!

In the words of Maitresse Aimable, "Ah bah, so it goes."

FINIS

NOTE: IT is possible that students of English naval history may find in
the life of Philip d'Avranche, as set forth in this book, certain
resemblances to the singular and long forgotten career of the young
Jerseyman, Philip d'Auvergne of the "Arethusa," who in good time became
Vice-Admiral of the White and His Serene Highness the Duke of Bouillon.

Because all the relatives and direct descendants of Admiral Prince Philip
d'Auvergne are dead, I am the more anxious to state that, apart from one
main incident, the story here-before written is not taken from the life
of that remarkable man. Yet I will say also that I have drawn upon the
eloquence, courage, and ability of Philip d'Auvergne to make the better
part of Philip d'Avranche, whose great natural fault, an overleaping
ambition, was the same fault that brought the famous Prince Admiral to a
piteous death in the end.

In any case, this tale has no claim to be called a historical novel.

JERSEY WORDS AND PHRASES

WITH THEIR EQUIVALENTS IN ENGLISH OR FRENCH

A bi'tot = a bientot.
Achocre = dolt, ass.
Ah bah! (Difficult to render in English, but meaning much the same as
  "Well! well!")
Ah be! = eh bien.
Alles kedainne = to go quickly, to skedaddle.
Bachouar = a fool.
Ba su! = bien sur.
Bashin = large copper-lined stew-pan.
Batd'lagoule = chatterbox.
Bedgone = shortgown or deep bodice of print.
Beganne = daft fellow.
Biaou = beau.
Bidemme! = exclamation of astonishment.
Bouchi = mouthful.
Bilzard = idiot.
Chelin = shilling.
Ch'est ben = c'est bien.
Cotil = slope of a dale.
Coum est qu'on etes?        }
Coum est qu'ou vos portest? } Comment vous portez-vous!
Couzain or couzaine = cousin.
Crasset = metal oil-lamp of classic shape.
Critchett = cricket.
Diantre = diable.
Dreschiaux = dresser.
E'fant = enfant.
E'fin = enfin.
Eh ben = eh bien.
Esmanus = scarecrow.
Es-tu gentiment? = are you well?
Et ben = and now.
Gache-a-penn! = misery me!
Gaderabotin! = deuce take it!
Garche = lass.
Gatd'en'ale! = God be with us!
Grandpethe = grandpere.
Han = kind of grass for the making of ropes, baskets, etc.
Hanap = drinking-cup.
Hardi = very.
Hus = lower half of a door. (Doors of many old Jersey houses were
divided horizontally, for protection against cattle, to let out the
smoke, etc.)
Je me crais; je to crais; je crais ben! = I believe it; true for you; I
                    well believe it!
Ma fe!     }
Ma fistre! }= ma foi!
Ma fuifre! }
Mai grand doux! = but goodness gracious!
Man doux! = my good, oh dear! (Originally man Dieu!)
Man doux d'la vie! = upon my life!
Man gui, mon pethe! = mon Dieu, mon pere!
Man pethe benin! = my good father!
Marchi = marche.
Mogue = drinking-cup.
Nannin; nannin-gia! = no; no indeed!
Ni bouf ni baf  } Expression of absolute negation, untranslatable.
Ni fiche ni bran }
Oui-gia! = yes indeed!
Par made = par mon Dieu.
Pardi!     }
Pardingue! }= old forms of par Dieul
Pergui!    }
Pend'loque = ragamuffin.
Queminzolle = overcoat.
Racllyi = hanging rack from the rafters of a kitchen.
Respe d'la compagnie! = with all respect for present company.
Shale ben = very well.
Simnel = a sort of biscuit, cup-shaped, supposed to represent unleavened
    bread, specially eaten at Easter.
Soupe a la graisse = very thin soup, chiefly made of water, with a few
         vegetables and some dripping.
Su' m'n ame = sur mon ame!
Tcheche? = what's that you say?
Trejous = toujours.
Tres-ba = tres bien.
Veille = a wide low settle. (Probably from lit de fouaille.) Also
  applied to evening gatherings, when, sitting cross-legged on the
  veille, the neighbours sang, talked, and told stories.
Verges = the land measure of Jersey, equal to forty perches. Two and a
    quarter vergees are equivalent to the English acre.
Vier = vieux.
Vraic = a kind of sea-weed.

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