Chapter XXIV: “i Sent a Letter to My Love”

“O thou unfaithful, still as ever dearest,
That in thy beauty to my eyes appearest,
In fancy rising now to reawaken
My love unshaken;
All thou’st forgotten, but no change can free thee,
No hate unmake thee; as thou wert I see thee.
. . . . . . . .
O thou my star of stars, among things wholly
Devoted, sacred, dim and melancholy,
The only joy of all the joys I cherished,
Thou hast not perished.” —ROBERT BRIDGES.

Fortune was markedly kind to the fugitives. The bar-parlour of the Soleil d’Or, whence indeed a considerable clamour was heard to issue, lay in the front of that hostelry; the stable-yard was completely deserted, and its deep dirt silenced the horses’ hoofs. In less than ten minutes after their reunion, the three men were riding unchallenged along the high-road, into which the lane from the yard had conveniently and unostentatiously conducted them.

“We are in luck, by Gad!” observed Mr Trenchard feelingly. “I cannot be sufficiently grateful for your warning, Monsieur. May I, without indiscretion, know whom I have the privilege of addressing? My name is Trenchard.”

“Forgive me,” said Louis, “and let me present my cousin, the Marquis de Château-Foix. He has a fancy for travelling as a druggist, and you may address him as the Citizen Pomponne. I am the Vicomte de Saint-Ermay, his incompetent assistant.”

“If I had only known——” began the Englishman in some confusion.

“You would not have given me ten sols,” finished Louis, laughing. “I know it, but I shall not return your bounty.”

The Marquis remarked politely that he was glad to make Mr Trenchard’s acquaintance, though in unpropitious circumstances, and asked him how long he had been in France.

“Quite long enough,” responded Mr Trenchard, “to see that this country, if you will pardon my saying so, is in a devilish bad way,” and launched therewith into a narrative of his experiences in Burgundy and Franche-Comté, in the course of which he contrived to impart to his companions a quantity of information about their native land, and to lay open his own convictions with no sparing hand. Louis, who rode in the middle, listened with concealed amusement; the Marquis scarcely attended to the sense of Mr Trenchard’s utterances, but the knowledge that somebody whom he did not know was talking copiously about matters which did not personally concern him, acted as a kind of vent for his own thoughts, and he let his mind float away on the stream. There reached him occasional fragments of what appeared to be a lecture on the English constitution—“the noblest in the world,” on the English system of local government, “which is just what your lower orders need,” on the duty of a landlord to reside on his estate. “I am so thankful,” he heard Mr Trenchard to remark at this point, “to think that the tradition of our own country is that the interests of the landlords are the interests of his tenants, and that he is always welcome back among them. Here, I am afraid it is very different; and this, it seems to me, is the root of the whole trouble.”

“I must tell you,” said Louis, with a note of enjoyment in his voice, “that my cousin has always lived on his estates, from choice.”

“Indeed!” said the Englishman, a little taken aback, and Gilbert was conscious that he was craning his neck in the darkness to look at him. “I did not believe that there was a single proprietor in France who did so; I had heard rumours, but discredited them.”

“There are,” said the Vicomte judicially, “a number of such persons, and in my opinion it is they who are responsible for the Revolution.”

The champion of the resident landlord could by no means accept this staggering statement, and he proceeded to combat it with due vigour, evidently expecting the Marquis to bear his part in rebutting the charge brought against him by his kinsman. But nothing was further from Gilbert’s intentions, and the argument, which had now taken the place of the lecture, continued as a duologue.

Owing to the inferior horses of the cousins, the little cavalcade progressed but slowly, but it did not appear that Mr Trenchard was at all chafing at having to accommodate his pace to theirs. Indeed, when pressed once or twice to leave them, he absolutely refused, asserting that since the Frenchmen were making for the Loire at Varades or Ingrande, and he was going to Nantes, their ways lay together as far as Candé. Dawn, therefore, found the three still jogging along the high-road. But since the paling of the stars conversation had flagged, and when, about six o’clock, the travellers came in sight of a little village, they drew rein not unwillingly. Having got a good meal, they then bought provisions, made an unsuccessful attempt to obtain better horses, an equally abortive one to induce Louis to rest for an hour, and set off again unmolested. At midday they rested themselves and their nearly worn-out horses by the side of the lonely road, and, though scanned curiously by a passing peasant or two, were unmolested by questions. Slow as their progress was thereafter, they had crossed the Oudon by five o’clock. A little later Mr Trenchard, who seemed determined to find characteristics markedly dissimilar in every one of the newly formed departments, realised that he had been for some time on the soil of Maine-et-Loire, and began to look about him with new interest that he might differentiate it from that of Mayenne. In so doing his glance fell upon a clump of wayside poppies.

“That—unfortunately—reminds me of my native Suffolk!” he exclaimed, pointing to it with his whip.

“You come from Suffolk, then?” asked Gilbert, surprised. He might have heard the fact being imparted to him during the night, had he been attending more closely.

“I live near Bury St Edmunds,” replied the Englishman. “But I suppose that conveys little to you, Monsieur le Marquis.”

“On the contrary,” returned Gilbert, “I know the neighborhood quite well. My mother’s sister married an Englishman, Sir William Ashley of Ashley Court, near Mildenhall. My cousin and I both stayed with him some years ago.”

Trenchard expressed considerable surprise, though he knew, it appeared, that Sir William’s late wife had been a Frenchwoman. Having elicited from Château-Foix that he had stayed in Suffolk partly for the sake of gaining an acquaintance with English methods of agriculture, he entered into a discussion of these which lasted for another five miles or so.

“When we part,” he concluded heartily, “you must let me take some message from you to Ashley Court. The distance is inconsiderable, and it would give me the greatest pleasure in the world.”

“You are very kind, Monsieur,” murmured Gilbert.

“There is Candé,” broke in Louis suddenly. He had not spoken a word since the Englishman’s revelation of his domicile.

They all pulled up, while Trenchard and the Marquis debated whether they should enter the little place or no, and finally agreed that the night could well be spent in a thick clump of pine trees some quarter-mile off the road, but that the Marquis was to push on a little towards Candé with the intention of making a sort of reconnaissance and also of procuring further provisions.

Nineteen hours on a bad horse had not improved the condition of Louis’ wounded shoulder, but he was not particularly occupied with the curious little shoots of pain along the top of his left arm as he sat in the fir wood with his back against a tree, and looked at Trenchard, busy with the horses at a short distance. For as he gazed at him he detached him from his surroundings, and saw him riding up the wide sweep of carefully gravelled avenue that led to Ashley Court, with a letter from Gilbert to Lucienne in his pocket. That Gilbert would send a letter he did not doubt. It seemed to Louis as if, armed with the overwhelming desire which swept through him, it would not be impossible by sheer force of will to dispossess Trenchard’s spirit from its habitation, and himself journey to England in its place. He shut his eyes and put his head back against the fir bole. His mind, wrenched from its moorings by physical fatigue and pain, was floating away from his control, and seemed to him to be curiously independent of his body. Scene after scene of the last few days swept mistily through his mind, but all the time, at the back of them, was some thought which he was reaching after and could not grasp. At last, quite abruptly, it formulated itself, and fell, as it were, into his hand, and he held it, a tangible object, for a moment in his palm. He, too, could send a letter to Lucienne.

The blood leaped in his veins, and he opened his eyes and saw Trenchard beside him.

“I thought you might be asleep,” said the Englishman half apologetically.

“I believe I was dozing,” responded Louis.

“You would be more comfortable lying down.”

“I suppose I should,” returned Saint-Ermay; but he made no movement, and continued to gaze at Trenchard so intently that the latter began to feel somewhat uncomfortable.

“No,” said Louis at last aloud, “I can’t!” And immediately he shifted his position, and with the aid of his unfettered arm slipped down to his full length at the foot of the tree.

Trenchard, rather alarmed, sprang up and stood over him. “Are you faint? I have some brandy in my holsters.”

“No, thanks,” said Louis. “I think I am sleepy.”

“Oh, very well,” returned the Englishman. “Look here, I’ll get you a saddle. You’ll be much more comfortable.”

* * * * * *

And meanwhile, seated on a fallen tree about half a mile away, his horse grazing beside him, Gilbert also was occupied about a letter to Lucienne. But there was in his mind no conflict over the question of sending it—what detained him was its contents. As he sat there, pencil in hand, there ran through him a thrilling desire, not indeed to accuse, but to beg for some explanation, for the recital of some condoning circumstance. Stronger motives stifled it. The events of the last few days had transmuted his love for Lucienne into a passion intensely protective, half lover-like, half paternal. He could not bear for her to have so far to humiliate herself as to acknowledge that her heart had strayed from him. Moreover, how short a way had it strayed! He took out and re-read the little singed letter. “I cannot bear it! Come to me!” The cry, forlorn and despairing, seemed to flutter across the miles which separated her from him, and to nestle, faint as a whisper, in his heart. He put the letter back, and a consuming rage lit his face. Yes, it was so; she _had_ appealed for protection against Louis—Louis, the traditional _homme à bonnes fortunes_, who had amused himself with her, no doubt, for a month or two, and passed on, regardless of the ruin he had caused. By God! it should be no one’s ruin but his own! Again the image of the copse smiled at Gilbert, and this time with preciser details. It was sunrise, and the Vicomte, in his reddening shirt, the sword fallen from his hand, lay writhing on the woodland grass. . . .

As he came in sight of the clump of firs Gilbert perceived his cousin lying under a tree with a saddle for a pillow, and a cloak spread carefully over him. Near him sat the owner of both. “What an excellent opportunity!” the rider reflected with a sneer.

Château-Foix slept little that night. Towards morning he sank into a deep slumber, from which he woke with a start to find Trenchard saddling the horses. Louis, apparently himself again, was assisting him as well as he could. Château-Foix remembered that they had arranged overnight for an early start and separation, since their ways no longer lay together—and it was already six o’clock.

“Why did you not wake me before?” he asked.

“It seemed a pity,” answered Louis cheerfully, pulling at a strap. “Conceive, also, the virtue I feel at being up before you. Can I help you with that girth, Mr Trenchard?”

“Thanks, I have finished,” said the Englishman. “What is our next move to be?”

“Breakfast,” responded Louis promptly. “Don’t I gather that Gilbert went foraging last night? We used to think an al fresco meal the height of bliss when we were boys.”

The Marquis went silently to his saddlebags and produced their contents. Louis talked throughout the brief meal which followed with his accustomed spirits. Château-Foix said very little. The minutes were slipping away, and he wished with all his heart that he could draw Trenchard aside to give him the letter to Lucienne, but it was impossible to do it without attracting Saint-Ermay’s attention. The idea that Louis would know all the time his purpose in doing so was insupportable to him. Sooner than that he would deliver his commission in front of him.

It was what he had to do in the end. Somewhat reluctantly the three led their horses out of the little wood. The upland was astir with the breath of a new morning. Trenchard’s way lay south-west; and to join his road, whose signpost rose against the sky half a mile away, ran a bridle path among the gorse. He mounted slowly; the others stood by their horses in front of him.

“I wish, by George, that this was not good-bye,” he said with real feeling. “I can’t make speeches, you know . . . but I’m deuced grateful to you both. If there’s ever anything I can do I hope you will command me. Ah, by the way, M. de Château-Foix, what about taking a message from you to Sir William Ashley?”

Gilbert paled a little. “I mean to take advantage of your kind offer,” he said, slipping his hand inside his coat. “I will ask you to convey this letter, not to Sir William himself, but to Mademoiselle Lucienne d’Aucourt, my affianced wife, who is at present under his care.”

“I shall be only too much honoured,” replied Trenchard, with an inclination.

“You will be putting me under a great obligation,” said Gilbert. He glanced mechanically at the letter as he held it, address uppermost. Louis, leaning against his horse’s neck, was looking away into the distance, and only his profile was visible. His air of unconcern stung the Marquis, in some inexplicable fashion, more sharply than any display of the vital interest he knew it to conceal. The constraint that he had been putting on himself snapped suddenly, like an overdrawn bow. “You have perhaps a message to send her too?” he said, launching the words at his cousin like a missile.

The second that they were out of his mouth he would have given all that he possessed to recall them. He saw, or thought he saw, Trenchard’s eyebrows go up, and the color ebb from Louis’ face as he turned sharply round and faced him. He had himself in hand again in a moment, and with a control immeasurably stronger for his outburst.

“My cousin and I were both brought up with Mademoiselle d’Aucourt,” he said to Trenchard with some sacrifice of accuracy. The same ease was apparent in his tone as he turned to the Vicomte and repeated his question. Louis had had time to collect himself, as he was meant to have. He forced a smile.

“Tell Mademoiselle d’Aucourt that I hope she is improving her English,” he said to Trenchard. He did not look at Gilbert, who handed to the Englishman the letter, which Trenchard put silently into an inner pocket. A moment later they had shaken hands with their companion.

“Good luck to you both,” said he, gathering up the reins. “May I say ‘Au revoir’? I shall expect to see you some day, Monsieur le Marquis, at Bury; it is a promise, is it not, if ever you come to Suffolk.”

“Certainly,” replied Château-Foix, with something resembling a smile. Then he drew himself up. “I hope to be at Ashley Court before very long.”

“To claim your betrothed,” finished Trenchard, crossing the t’s of this declaration without guessing at its significance. “Naturally. Well, I hope that day will soon come. Good-bye, sir. Good-bye, Vicomte. I trust your shoulder will not give you much more trouble. The invitation, of course, extends to you as well. If ever you can contrive it, I should be glad to hear from either of you . . . The best of luck! Au revoir!” He raised his hat and turned his mare.

Gilbert had but one thought in his mind—to repair his error. The last thing in the world that he desired at present was to provoke an explanation with Louis, and he bent his energies, quickened by apprehension, into the attempt to pass off his unfortunate remark as a natural question, or at least to prevent the Vicomte from thinking it over. He had never seen a situation more clearly, nor acted on his knowledge more promptly. Trenchard turned back once or twice in the saddle to wave his hand. At last he put his mare to the trot; he gained the signpost and was on the high-road, turned round for the last time, was seen to cram his hat more firmly on his head, and to set his face resolutely westward. The episode of the Englishman was over.

Gilbert plunged instantly into action. “There goes a good son of John Bull,” said he. “I trust that he will have a safe and pleasant journey to his native Suffolk. There is no doubt that he will instruct his neighbours in French methods of agriculture, but I am afraid that he will not represent them as superior to British. Did I not hear him lecturing you too on the subject, Louis?”

The Vicomte was looking at him rather oddly, but a smile strayed round his mouth at the remembrance. “There was more about the country gentlemen of England than about their farms, so far as I can recall,” he answered.

“I suspect,” observed Gilbert, pulling at his horse, “that the English country gentleman is to our friend the embodiment of all political and social virtue. I am sure that he thinks it a greater privilege to belong to that sacred class than to be born a Rohan or a Montmorency in France. . . . Well, shall we be starting? Can you manage to mount?”

“Perfectly, thanks,” responded the Vicomte, his foot in the stirrup. This solicitude was new, and the sudden flow of conversation amazed him.

“My idea,” resumed the Marquis, as he turned his horse’s head, “is to push on as far as La Cornuaille, and then, if we cannot possibly get other horses, to proceed on foot. These creatures will certainly not carry us further than that. We could then make up our minds whether to cross at Ingrande or Varades. Don’t you think that would be best?”

“Certainly,” answered the bewildered Louis.