Chapter XVI: Ordered to Valenciennes

"DEN, I say—do come along," urged Roy.

"All right, if you don't mind paying a call."

Roy was ready for anything, and they went first toward the lower part of the town, on a level with the river. Roy, full as usual of talk, poured out items of information which he had gathered from Mademoiselle de St. Roques.

"She says Verdun is an awfully old place—goes back to almost the time of Charlemagne. Let's go on the ramparts. Don't they look like boulevards, with those trees? Mademoiselle says the ramparts are three miles long, all round. Where are we going, Den?"

"I want to look up a Mr. and Mrs. Curtis, a young artist and his wife. He was pointed out to me at appel. They were at Brussels on their wedding tour, when the arrest took place, and it seems to be a serious matter with them. Mr. Kinsland asked me to call."

"Are you going to help the Curtises?"

"That is as may be. I wish to find out how matters are with them. And I am taking you because, if you can keep Mrs. Curtis's attention engaged, it will give me a chance of a few words with her husband. You see, Roy, I'm treating you as my friend." Roy's glance showed full comprehension.

Mr. Curtis proved to be a gentlemanly young fellow, with a keen clever face, much overshadowed by present care. His wife, hardly more than a child in age, was kittenlike in small plump prettiness.

"O it is quite dreadful!" she said, fraternising at once with Roy. Having six brothers of her own, she was much at home with boys in general. "We were to have gone back the very next week, and everybody said there could be no need to hurry. And we were so enjoying ourselves—you know," with a blush. "Then that terrible order came, that we were to count ourselves prisoners. At least my husband was to be a prisoner, and, of course, that meant the same for me. And our dear little house, where we meant to be so happy, has been waiting for us ever since, empty. And Hugh's studio, and the picture he had in hand, which was to have been finished this autumn! He," lowering her voice, and speaking with childish unreserve, "was to have had a hundred pounds for it. Now everything is at a standstill. But you are in the same trouble too. I mustn't be selfish, and think only of ourselves."

She stole a glance across at Ivor, who was speaking in an undertone to her husband.

"It is so good of Captain Ivor to call. Mr. Kinsland, the clergyman, said he would ask him to come, but we never dreamt of seeing him so soon. We feel strange here, you know, and it is a help to see any one come in." Mrs. Curtis dropped her voice afresh. "What a pleasant-looking man he is; and so soldierly! Mr. Kinsland said he had never seen a handsomer face, and I don't think I ever did either. It is such a kind face, too. Mr. Kinsland said you were desperately fond of him."

Roy laughed. It was not his fashion to talk of being "fond" of people. "Den's just the best fellow that ever lived!" he declared—his usual formula. "And I suppose you got here before we did?"

"Only three days ago. We had to come to these rooms. Not very home-like, are they? but the landlady is nice. And nothing else would matter much, if only Hugh could get back to his work. It makes him so depressed not to be able, poor fellow. Men are very soon depressed—don't you think so?"

Roy said "No" promptly, and then remembered Denham on the preceding evening, but he did not take back the monosyllable. He exerted himself to keep her talking, and he also did his utmost not to see or hear, yet he could not help being aware of a suspicious little movement of Denham's hand, and then of a startled "No, no! How can I? From a stranger!"

"We are not strangers. We are brothers in misfortune," Denham answered, with the smile which always drew people to him. "Call it a loan if you like. For your wife's sake—" very softly—"do not refuse."

Roy did not hear all this, but he heard more than he was meant to hear. A move then was made, and Curtis replied huskily to some careless remark, as the callers took leave.

"Den, I say, I didn't mean to listen, but I couldn't quite help," came outside as a confession.

"Then your next duty is to forget. Now for the ramparts," Ivor said, dropping the subject at once. Roy knew better than to put any questions.

When first Verdun was appointed to be a depot for prisoners, the commandant was a General Roussel, of whom no English prisoner had any complaint to make. He treated them well and justly, and such hardships as they had to endure were for the most part not his fault but the fault of the French Government.

Unhappily, before many months were past General Roussel was sent elsewhere, and his successor, General Wirion, soon showed himself to be a man of a totally different stamp. Wirion was a product of the Revolution, the son of a pork-dealer in Picardy, at first an attorney's clerk with a shady reputation, then an active terrorist, approved of by the villain Robespierre. He was, in fact, a low-born and ill-bred scoundrel, avaricious and grasping, who under Napoleon had risen to be a general of gendarmerie.

Prolonged captivity, with such a creature in authority, was likely to become even worse than it had been before; and so, to their cost, the captives at Verdun speedily found.

All indulgences allowed by the first commandant were removed. Prisoners and détenus alike, no matter what their grade or position, were compelled twice a day to report themselves at appel, unless they preferred by payment to escape the unpleasant necessity. Instead of being free to walk or drive as far as five miles from the town in any direction, they now might not leave the gates without payment of six francs. Incessant douceurs were demanded on every possible pretext; and oppressions, bribery, and rank injustice became the order of the day.

Again and again numbers of the détenus, on some false excuse, or with no excuse at all, were closely imprisoned in the citadel, being set free only on the payment of heavy sums of money. This dread hung over them all as a perpetual possibility.

Far worse still was the terror of being some day suddenly despatched to the "black fortress," Bitche, where large numbers of British prisoners pined in a more grim confinement than at Verdun. The tales of Bitche dungeons, of Bitche horrors, which from time to time filtered round to those who lived in Verdun, read now like stories of mediæval days.

Roy was still at Verdun. Every effort to get a passport for him had failed.

During the autumn of 1805, not many weeks before the Battle of Trafalgar, a fresh blow fell.

Roy had felt his captivity much, boyishly gay though he was, and rarely out of spirits. But he had had Denham all through, and Denham, though commonly regarded as a grave man of dignified demeanour, had been to Roy the most delightful of companions. From the spring of 1803 to the autumn of 1805 the two had seldom been apart for a whole day. Denham had been not only Roy's elder brother, but his friend, his tutor, his playfellow.

"I don't know, for my part, what Roy would do without you," Colonel Baron sometimes said gratefully to Ivor. And Ivor would reply, "Roy is as much to me as I am to him." But though in a sense this was true, it could not be true in all senses.

September came, and with it a fresh device of the pork-dealer's son. General Wirion decided to send a large party of the Verdun détenus away to Valenciennes, a distance of about one hundred and fifty miles. No reasons were vouchsafed, and the choice made of those who should go was entirely arbitrary.

On Saturday, September 17th, the order went forth that about forty of them were to leave on the Monday, only two days later.

Early on Monday morning the first batch started, being seen off at the gates by a crowd of their English friends; and that afternoon, at appel, forty more were desired to hold themselves in readiness to start on the Wednesday following.

The second forty departed; and on Thursday another announcement was made to a third forty, that they too must prepare to depart on the Saturday.

Upon some who were concerned the blow fell a few hours earlier. Although Wirion curtly declined to inform the détenus themselves which among them would be despatched next, he did take the trouble to send lists of their names to some leading tradesmen in the town. From those quarters information might be obtained, though many of the détenus proudly refused so to seek it.

"Roy, I want a word with you," said Denham, towards the evening of Wednesday, putting his head into the salon. "Come here."

"Just in a minute. May I get—?"

"Never mind anything else. Come to my room."

Roy obeyed at once.

"Shut the door. I have something to say." Ivor motioned the boy to a second chair. "I have just seen Curtis."

The tone was unusual. Roy looked hard at Denham.

"Is something the matter?"

"Yes. Wirion!"—significantly.

"Do tell me."

"Mrs. Curtis was so anxious about this Valenciennes business, that she persuaded her husband to see one of the shop lists."

"I know. Papa said he'd have nothing to do with that way of finding out."

"No. But Curtis went, and—"

"Are they ordered of? O I'm sorry! Mrs. Curtis is so jolly—like a boy almost. I shall miss them ever so much. Are they really going? What a bother!"

"Yes."

"Anybody else?"

"Yes."

Denham's grave eyes met Roy's, with an expression which somehow sent Roy's heart down and down into his very shoes. The boy sat and stared—aghast and wordless.

"I want you to know beforehand, not to be taken by surprise. For your mother's sake you must bear it bravely."

Roy had grown pale, and his gaze spoke of dismay and incredulity.

"But you don't mean—you! Not you!"

"Yes."

"Den!"

"It is not difficult to find a cause. You see, we have held aloof from Wirion's set, and have declined his invitations. Also, I have managed to hold back one or two young fellows from those miserable gaming-tables. No doubt he prefers to have me out of the way for a while. It may be only for a few weeks. But—"

Roy walked off to the window, and stood with his back to Denham. Silence lasted fully five minutes. Denham remained where he was, looking sadly enough towards the boy. He had much to do, but Roy was his first consideration; and he knew from his own sensations what the parting would be to the other.

"Come," he said at length. "It can't be helped. And—I don't know what you feel about it, but I have an objection to letting Wirion see that he can make us unhappy."

Roy came back slowly.

"That—brute!" he burst out, choking over the word.

"Yes—I know. There's no sort of excuse for him. Roy, I want a promise from you."

"What?"

"You know the sort of thing that is going on here. Promise me faithfully that, whatever happens, you will keep clear of the gaming-tables. You may be tempted, and I shall not be at hand to look after you."

Roy was silent—perhaps because of those last words. "Promise. I can depend upon your word."

"I do—promise," Roy said with difficulty.

"And you will do your best to keep up your mother's spirits? You must be the same plucky fellow with them that you have been all along with me. Don't make any difference. They will need it now more than ever."

"It's so beastly hard," muttered Roy.

"Yes," and a pause. "There's one thought that's sometimes a comfort to me. Perhaps it might be to you too. Whatever happens, one may remember still—that God is over all. Things won't go on for ever like this."

The interview was getting to be too much for both of them. Denham drew one hand across his forehead. "There!—that will do. No need to say any more. Now I must go and speak to your father."

* * * * * * *

Three days later the third company of forty détenus quitted Verdun for Valenciennes. Roy and Colonel Baron were at the gate, with many others, in the early morning, to see the detachment off upon their enforced pilgrimage. Denham had never held his head higher, or looked more composed, and Roy did his best to imitate his friend. But he found it hard work. This was not like any ordinary farewell. He and Denham alike knew themselves to be in the power of an unscrupulous martinet, behind whom was another equally unscrupulous and quite irresponsible despot. Neither could conjecture what might become of the other, or whether they might again meet before the close of the war; and each was sure that every possible impediment would be thrown in the way of their communicating by letter.

Roy returned with his father to M. Courant's house, a heavy sense of blank weighing upon them both. Ivor's was a personality which never failed to make itself felt, and he had the power of winning affection, without apparent effort. The difference made in their little circle by his departure was more than could beforehand have been imagined.

Not in their own little circle only. Many in Verdun knew that they had lost a valued friend that day; and even downstairs Denham was strangely missed. Somebody else, beside Roy, shed at night a few quiet tears, when nobody could see. Lucille herself was perplexed at the acute consciousness which clung to her of Captain Ivor's absence.

Somehow she had not of late thought a very great deal of that poor young De Bertrand, whose image once had filled her thoughts. Not that she forgot him, but other thoughts and other interests had taken possession of her mind.