Chapter III: A Letter and a Conclave

“C’est le caractère du Français, né malin, mais léger et bavard, de conspirer dans les endroits publics.” —FRANÇOIS COPPÉE, _Toute une Jeunesse_.

Had the Marquise de Château-Foix been able to overhear the conversation between her son and M. des Graves she might perhaps have held her surmises to be in a measure justified. To M. des Graves’ conjecture of “something worse than a mistake,” Gilbert de Chantemerle had indeed made no immediate reply, but glanced thoughtfully at the letter in his hand.

“You mean?” he asked at length.

“I mean that there is more information in the Vicomte’s letter than he is himself aware of.”

The younger man looked puzzled. “Naturally I see that Louis is under some misapprehension,” he said slowly, “since I have never, as he imagines, given in my adhesion to this scheme of which he speaks. Indeed, how could I, when his letter gives me the first hint of its existence?”

They had reached the end of the terrace.

“Will you read me the letter again?” asked the priest. “Or read, at least, the part relating to the plot, if so it is to be called.”

His companion complied at once, turning to the first page of the fine, closely-written missive.

“‘. . . I am extremely glad, my dear Gilbert, that you have allowed your name at least to be used in our plans, whether or no you mean to take any personal action. Any adhesion from Vendée will be of immense service to us. Between ourselves I am a little at a loss to think how you can have heard of our designs, but that is neither here nor there, since I have the important fact on good authority. I had meant soon to write to ask your opinion on the point, for, Liberal though you are . . . or were? . . . you cannot fail to see the possibilities of a strong Royalist-Girondin alliance, with possible assistance from the _émigrés_. The King is as passive as ever (it is a quality in which he excels), and we have not as yet communicated with Coblentz. I could, however, give you a goodly list of names on our side, were it not wiser to refrain. It seems strange, does it not, that the offer of alliance should have come from the enemy’s camp?’”

The reader paused.

“_Et dona ferentes_,” said M. des Graves softly. “But I fear me Louis has long ago forgotten the Virgil we did together. May I also have the passage relating to Madame d’Espaze?”

“It is further on, I think.

“‘I am sure that you must know how there was never yet a successful conspiracy without a woman in it. We too have a divinity who holds the threads of our destinies, and (we hope) those of France. When I tell you that she is as charming a hostess as she is a plotter, you will guess that her salon is always well attended. Indeed, it is the possession of that same salon which makes Madame d’Espaze so useful. And if rumour has coupled her name somewhat too closely with that of Lecorrier, the Girondin, M. des Graves will tell you that calumny generally dogs the footsteps of the good, as from my own experience I know that it tracks those of the fair. The other day, for instance. . . .’

“The rest, as you know, is not pertinent,” concluded the Marquis drily.

“Yet I am inclined to think that there is more pertinence in the remark about a woman’s rôle in a plot than the writer knows,” muttered his listener.

“I wish to goodness that Louis would think less about a woman’s rôle in any capacity,” returned the Marquis, with a slight show of impatience.

“Can the boy for a moment,” said the Curé, ignoring Château-Foix’ remark, “believe in the sincerity of this divinity, as he calls her? Surely he must know that there was a suspicion of her being implicated in the affair of the Necklace? If the idea of a Girondin-_émigré_ alliance were not on the face of it an impossibility, the mere presence of a woman ought to be enough to rouse suspicion. The game is as old as Delilah and Jael.”

“Then what do you make of this project of Louis’?” asked Gilbert.

“It is a trap,” returned the Curé, quickening his steps and his speech. “I have not a doubt of it. Can a leopard change his spots? No; and can the deputies of the Gironde, who have spent their time since the autumn in passing laws against the _émigrés_, now be desirous of an alliance with them. The idea is preposterous.”

“If they are,” said the Marquis, “their conversion must certainly have been speedy, for it is less than a month ago that the King’s constitutional guard was dismissed, and less still since Servan’s abominable proposals for the formation of a camp of scoundrels outside Paris passed the Assembly.”

“And if our last news is true—as seems likely—that the King refuses his assent to that, as he has done to Vergniaud’s iniquitous scheme for deportation of priests, you may be quite sure that the Gironde will never forgive him.”

“But if it is only a trap, a bogus conspiracy, what do the Girondin party hope to gain by it?” asked the Marquis, knitting his brows.

“This,” answered the priest. “The Gironde has long been hinting that the Court wishes for nothing less than the invasion of France by the Emperor, and that it communicates its desires by secret messages to Coblentz. But they have no proofs to show to the people. Very well, then, if they can persuade a certain number of young hotheads about the King to believe in their sincerity, they will have their names and signatures, most probably, as evidence, when the time for denunciation is ripe. That these ‘conspirators’ are unimportant does not matter a straw—they are Royalists. For all we know, a list of false names may be in circulation also, which would account for the appearance of yours.”

“If this explanation be anything like the truth,” said Château-Foix, “then not only the King and the Court are imperilled, but Louis himself is in the gravest danger. I had better start for Paris to-night.”

“I think you would be wise to do so,” said the priest quietly.

“Young fool!” muttered the Marquis somewhat irritably. “How could he be so blinded? He has a good enough head on his shoulders as a rule. . . . And, Father, what about you? I cannot bear the thought of leaving home when matters are so critical.”

“We are in God’s hands,” replied M. des Graves tranquilly. “When He permits it, but not before, the municipality will move. You cannot deny, Gilbert, that they have proved miraculously tolerant.”

“Yes; because no pressure has yet been brought to bear on them from Fontenay,” returned Château-Foix. “Directly that happens, we shall see the worth of their tolerant spirit. I tell you frankly, Father, I fear the worst. And if you are turned out there will be a riot in the village, and we shall have the scenes of last year at Apremont and Saint-Christophe-du-Ligneron over again.”

“Not if I can prevent it,” said the Curé firmly. “And, should I be ejected, I shall obey your wishes, and take up my residence in the Château.” It was not in his mind, any more than it was in his host’s, to consider the odium and danger in which such a course would involve the inhabitants of the Château, for the matter was not one of safety, but of duty.

The Marquis looked at him. “I shall leave full instructions,” was all his comment. “It seems a sorry trick of fate,” he added, “to drag me away at this juncture. However, it is evidently a pressing matter. I can satisfy myself also as to Lucienne’s well-being.” His voice had grown softer, and he paused for a second. “Well, I had better tell my mother. I am sure that you are right about my going, but I do not go willingly.”

The priest stood looking after him as he went towards the steps, and there shone on his face, for a moment, something of the love which he bore him.

“You have had a long conference down there,” said the Marquise cheerfully, as Gilbert mounted the steps. “Am I to share the secret?”

“Certainly,” replied Château-Foix. “We were discussing Louis’ affairs. He has entered into some exceedingly rash political relations, and, though he is evidently not aware of it, is at this moment most seriously compromised by them.”

He stood there looking down on her with a little frown, rather as if she were the offending entanglement.

At Saint-Ermay’s name the smile left Madame de Château-Foix’ lips, and a certain tightness came about them. “Oh, Louis . . .” she murmured, and took her embroidery and a skein of silk off the table. “Well?” she asked, bending her head and selecting a needle from her case.

“I am going to Paris to see him,” announced her son succinctly.

There was a moment’s pause, ere Madame de Château-Foix slowly raised her head. “You do not really mean that, surely?”

“Yes. Why not?”

The Marquise made a gesture with her still beautiful hands. “What sort of a scrape is in this time?” she demanded. “Debts, or a woman?”

“Neither,” said Gilbert. And, leaning against the stone balustrade, he gave her an outline of the situation, omitting all reference to Madame d’Espaze. At the end she took the embroidery and put it back on the table. Her colour was perceptibly heightened.

“I have no patience with Louis—nor with you, for the matter of that,” she observed, and there was more than irritation in her voice. “But it has always been the same. Surely Louis is old enough to look after himself. Who made you his keeper?”

“You yourself,” returned the Marquis, and there was the glimmer of a smile on his face. “Exactly eighteen years ago last March it was. Have you forgotten?”

Madame de Château-Foix gave vent to a monosyllable that sounded like “Pshaw!”

“My dear mother, you make yourself out a perfect Gorgon of hard-heartedness. Who would be the first to fly to Louis’ bedside if he were ill? Why, you, of course!”

“That is very different,” replied the Marquise, unmoved.

“Well, the difference lies in this, that Louis has never had a dangerous illness in his life, and that this affair is—dangerous.”

“Other things,” said his mother, “are dangerous, too—for other people. It is dangerous for you to go away now, when we do not know from day to day what the Directory at Fontenay may do next, when the village is on the point of revolt against them, when——”

Château-Foix got up from the balustrade. “Yes, I know all that,” he replied gravely, “and therefore nothing but an affair of life and death could persuade me to leave at this juncture. But I must go, and to-night.”

“Well, I hope we shall not all live to regret it,” said Madame de Château-Foix. “It is perfectly scandalous that you should be dragged away like this. And does M. des Graves approve of your going, may I ask?”

“He does,” said her son. “Try not to be so unjust to Louis, ma mère! You know what an ardent Royalist he is, and you are far from disapproving of him on that score. If he chooses to play his head for the cause, as he is doing now, it may be foolish of him, but it is hardly scandalous.”

The Marquise got up and gathered together her silks. “As you like, my dear boy,” she said, with an air of resignation. “I do not want to dictate to you. Dear me, what a singular hurry M. des Graves appears to be in!”

For the priest was now hastening along the terrace walk with a newspaper in his hand. He did not speak until he was nearly at the top of the steps.

“The courier has just brought the Paris paper,” he said, a little out of breath. “There is very serious news in it. The mob has invaded the Tuileries.”

“Invaded the Tuileries!” exclaimed the Marquise with incredulous horror. “Then—— O mon Dieu!”

“No one was injured, Madame,” put in the priest quickly. “The account most expressly says so.”

A heartfelt “Thank God!” from Gilbert, who had perceptibly paled, accompanied the Marquise’s sigh of relief as she sank down again into her chair.

“The paper merely says,” went on the Curé, glancing at it, “that several thousand armed persons from the Faubourgs Saint Antoine and Saint Marcel——”

“The worst quarters of Paris!” ejaculated the Marquise.

“—Accompanied to the Assembly a deputation demanding the recall of the Girondin ministry dismissed by the King on the 13th. Afterwards they forced an entrance into the palace, threatening to bring cannon to bear on the great gates if they were not opened. The newspaper—which is Jacobin—states that calm and order prevailed throughout, and that great enthusiasm was manifested when the King himself put on the _bonnet rouge_.”

“The King put on the cap of liberty!” exclaimed Madame de Château-Foix. “It is impossible!”

“Was the mob in Madame Elisabeth’s apartments?” asked the Marquis quickly. “Does it say anything about the Princess and her ladies?”

“I can see nothing specific,” replied the priest, holding out the newspaper, “except that Madame Elisabeth was with the King, while the Queen appears to have been in another room. But you had better read it for yourself. As far as I can gather, the crowd roamed for hours all over the palace—the gates were opened at half-past eleven, and the invaders were there till half-past eight at night. So it is probably useless for us to hope that Lucienne was spared the sight of them.”

Gilbert dashed the paper down on the balustrade. “It is monstrous!” he cried. “I am as good a Liberal as any man, but this outrage! . . . Now, at all events, I must start for Paris!”

“Poor, poor darling!” exclaimed Madame de Château-Foix, referring not to her son but to his betrothed. “Bring her back as quickly as you can, Gilbert—you will, of course, have to bring Madame de Fontenelle, too—though I do not know how you will manage, for she is very old. Perhaps I——”

“No, ma mère,” interposed the Marquis quickly, “I must go alone. And as to bringing Lucienne back here——” Instead of finishing his sentence he looked at the Curé.

The Marquise saw the glance and its answer. “You don’t mean to say that you are not going to bring her back?” she said in disappointed tones. Already she had the girl in bed, surrounded with remedies against shock. “In Heaven’s name, Gilbert, what will you do with the poor child if you do not bring her here?”

“I shall take, or send her, for a little while to Suffolk,” replied her son. “I do not think it desirable to bring her into the midst of so much unrest and potential disturbance as we have here at present, and M. des Graves agrees with me.”

“But _I_ am here!” exclaimed the Marquise, sitting up in her chair.

“Yes, but some day I may have to send you away, too,” returned Gilbert very gravely. “However, we will not discuss that now. I hope the time may never come. If it should, you will go and take care of Lucienne for me till I claim her, will you not, ma mère?” He bent and kissed her hand affectionately.

“I suppose I shall always do as you ask me, Gilbert,” answered Madame de Château-Foix, her unmistakable surprise at his last announcement softening a little. “But leave Chantemerle! . . . However, as you say, the time has not come for that. Now, will you tell Antoine what clothes to pack for you, or shall I?”