Chapter XIV: In a Fortified Town

IT was growing dark when at length they drove through the gates into Verdun.

No one then said a needless word, not even Roy. The sense of banishment and of captivity pressed upon them all with a new force at the sight of this fortified town, with its massive encircling walls, its iron gates, its pervading gendarmerie. If any lack of realisation of their true position had helped them hitherto, it had small chance of surviving this hour.

At the gate they had to pause, a gendarme coming to the coach-door. He said something to Denham, which made Colonel Baron ask sharply, "Eh? What's that?"

"We are to go first to the citadel. Not necessary for Mrs. Baron and Roy. You and I might walk it, sir, and send them on."

"No, no," Mrs. Baron interposed. "I cannot go alone. We will keep together."

On reaching the citadel Mrs. Baron and Roy were desired by the Colonel to remain in the coach, while he and Denham disappeared, to be carefully examined and closely questioned, and again to give their parole, after which they came out, the Colonel saying shortly, "That business is done! Tell them where to go, Den. They seem determined to know us again."

"Were they civil?" his wife asked.

"No end of a fuss, my dear. As if the word of an English gentleman were not sufficient! Close description of us both written in the register."

Once more they drove on, Roy gazing from side to side, noting the small insignificant shops, and exclaiming at occasional peeps of the river, with an interest which never failed him. The others were silent, and saw less. Mrs. Baron's eyes were dim; the Colonel was preoccupied; and Ivor, usually the most observant of men, seemed to notice nothing.

Presently they stopped before the gateway of a large old house or small private hotel, with an untidy courtyard. An old Frenchman, in quaint dress, grey-haired, with an imposing pigtail, came to meet them, bowing profoundly to the gentlemen, and still more profoundly to Mrs. Baron.

"C'est, sans doute, Monsieur le Colonel—et Madame."

Colonel Baron's particular gift did not lie in foreign languages. He never could talk French, and he never would, no matter how many years he might live in France.

"Oui, Monsieur. Bonjour. C'est nous qui sont viendrai," he responded, feeling it incumbent on him to say something, as he descended from the old coach. "J'espère que vous ètes bien. Je suis bien aise que nous sommes haut—pas bas—pas près de le rivière. Denham, you can do it better than I. Just say what's suitable."

Denham obeyed, and the next sight which dawned upon them was the gentle face of Lucille de St. Roques. The Colonel and his wife gratefully expressed their thanks for her past kindness to their boy, as she led the way upstairs to the first floor. There stood Mme. Courant, a fat and smiling little Frenchwoman, ready to bestow unlimited welcomes upon the unfortunate foreigners.

Lucille exchanged bows with Ivor, and then she had a few words with him, scanning his face with troubled glances. The rooms had to be inspected, and they were found to be not bad as to size, though meagrely furnished. Lucille had evidently worked hard, trying to make things wear as far as possible an English look. If her efforts were less successful than she wished, nobody betrayed the fact.

"But it has been no trouble—not at all," she assured them, when they apologised.

While anxious to help, and full of sympathy for their position, she plainly feared to be guilty of intrusion, and soon she took herself off with Mme. Courant to the ground floor. A clumsy but well-intentioned maiden had been deputed to wait upon the upstairs party, probably had been hired for the purpose, since Mme. Courant, an excellent bourgeoise, did most of her own house-work.

Dinner was laid in the smaller salon, in readiness for their arrival; and on the whole that first meal might be called a success. Mme. Courant was no mean cook; and though not much could be said as to the waiting from an English point of view, that was a minor matter, compared with the comfort of clean and cosy quarters, not to speak of the kind reception.

When, however, dinner was at an end, and they had moved into the larger salon, when a long evening lay before them, and there was nothing that had to be done, beyond some amount of unpacking which no one cared to begin at once,—then a change came. Then the black shadow of their captivity descended upon them all, even upon the valiant Roy; and for once the spirit of cheerfulness vanished.

For a quarter of an hour they kept together, nobody speaking. No one was able to speak. They had nothing to say.

Presently Mrs. Baron made a move, retreating into her own bedroom; and her husband followed her. Denham had flagged completely, taking refuge in a shady corner of the big fireplace, where he could scarcely be seen; and for Den to flag meant the flagging of everybody. As for Roy, but that he would have been ashamed, he could at this stage have flung himself on the ground, and have cried like a little child for very home-sickness.

He wanted Molly,—oh, most awfully! He wanted her this evening more than he had ever wanted anybody or anything in his life. The craving that took possession of him for Molly's face, Molly's voice, Molly's companionship, the passionate desire to have dear little Molly once more by his side, was a pain never to be forgotten.

Roy did not know how to bear himself under it. He had nothing to do, nothing with which to pass the time. He stood at the window, trying desperately to be cool and stoical as the minutes lagged past. Denham never moved, never spoke a word. Roy could make out his dark outline, as motionless as a carved image, a few yards distant. If only Denham would have talked, if something would have happened, to keep going would have been easier.

Presently Denham did speak. "Come here," he said.

Roy obeyed rather unwillingly.

"Feel very bad this evening, Roy?"

The question took Roy by surprise, and Denham understood his silence. "Never mind," he said. "It's the same with all of us, you know. And there is one comfort for you, that Molly wants you at least as much as you want her. Some people would give a good deal for a like certainty."

Roy tried to explain matters away. "I didn't say—"

"No, I know. Never mind, my boy. Things will mend by and by."

Denham's chair shook as Roy leant against it. He fought his little battle, and Denham waited, racking his brain to think of some occupation for the boy.

"We shall all feel better to-morrow," came presently. "Things cannot look comfortable at first in a strange place. Roy, I wish you would unpack my valise for me—just the things I shall want to-night. It would be a help."

"May I really? Den, aren't you well?"

"Rather done. Yes, I wish you would."

Roy was delighted, and went off at full speed. Outside the door he all but rushed into Lucille's arms. She drew back, and held up something.

"A letter from England, Roy!"

"O I say, that's good. Who for? Den! I'm glad. He's just floored to-night."

"And this is medicine for Monsieur."

Roy flung open the salon door, announcing, "A letter A letter for you, Den. From England."

"From the post?" asked Denham, receiving from her hand a folded and sealed packet.

"Non, Monsieur. It arrives from M. de Bertrand. It was sent to him from England—under cover—and he waited till he should learn your address. Then he sent it to me by one travelling this way. I am glad," she softly added.

Denham bent nearer to the candle, trying with drawn brows and aching eyes to make out the handwriting. As he did so, a curious light crept into his face.

"You are very good, Mademoiselle. I am much indebted to you and to M. de Bertrand."

"Den, I do believe 'tis Polly's writing," cried Roy.

Denham glanced towards him.

"Yes. It is from Polly."