Chapter XX: Ordered to Bitche

ROY forgot everything except the affair on hand. He dashed upstairs and into the salon at a headlong pace, knocking over a chair as he entered. It fell with a crash, and Roy stopped short. Denham was on the sofa, no one else being present except Lucille, who, with her bonnet on, as if she were going out, had just taken an empty cup from his hand.

"Roy, you unkind boy," she said, turning with a look of positive anger. "How you can do it!"

"I'm sorry. I didn't remember. Isn't Den better?"

"Not remember! But you ought to remember. So without thought! It is selfishness."

For Lucille to be seriously displeased with Roy was an event new in his experience, and Roy gazed with astonished eyes.

"No matter," interposed Denham. "Had a good time, Roy?"

"I've seen lots of people. Den, I'm sorry—really. I didn't mean—"

"No, of course not. It's all right."

"Where is my father?" Roy asked in a subdued voice.

"Gone out but ten minutes since," said Lucille. "General Cunningham sent to see him on business. And Colonel Baron has to go with him somewhere, and cannot return soon. So dinner is put off till six."

"And mother?"

"Mrs. Baron had a call to pay in the same direction. Captain Ivor thought he might get an hour's sleep. Roy, be good, I entreat. Do not fidget, and knock over the chairs, and talk, talk, talk without ending."

Roy nodded, and Lucille moved towards the door, adding as she went, "I also have to see some one, but I shall be back soon."

Roy sat down in his favourite attitude, facing the back of a chair, and wondering what to do next. Would it be right to tell Denham what had happened? Would it be wrong to put off telling? Curtis had enjoined him to speak at once; but Curtis had not known the posture of affairs. The matter might be of consequence, or it might not. Roy was disquieted, but not seriously uneasy; and he hesitated to worry Denham without cause.

"Seen anybody?" asked Ivor.

"Yes, numbers."

Then a break.

"Found Curtis?"

"Yes. And Carey too. Would you like to hear all about it?"

"By and by, I think. It will keep."

Silence again, and Roy debated afresh. What if his action should mean bringing Curtis into trouble? That thought had considerable weight.

Three times he formed with his lips the preliminary "I say, Den!" and three times he refrained. The third time some slight sound escaped him, for Denham asked drowsily, "Anything you want?"

"Lucille told me not to talk. Does it matter?"

Ivor did not protest, as Roy had half hoped. He was evidently dropping off, and Roy decided that a short delay was unavoidable. He took up a volume that lay near, and, being no longer a book-hater, he became absorbed in its contents. General Wirion, chips of wood, the Imperial nose, and irate landladies faded out of his mind. The affair was no doubt a pity, but after all it meant only—so Roy supposed—a pull upon his father's purse. Boys are rather apt to look upon parental purses as unlimited in depth.

Denham was sound asleep, and Roy kept as motionless as a girl—not that girls are always quiet. An hour passed; another half-hour; and he began to grow restless. Might it be possible to slip away?

Gruff voices and heavy trampling feet in the hall below broke into the stillness, and Denham woke up. "This is lazy work," he said wearily. "Roy—here yet! What time is it?"

"Nearly five. Dinner isn't till six. Head any better?"

"Yes, rather. I'm wretched company for you to-day. Different to-morrow, I hope."

"You can't help it. You've just got to get rested, that's all. I say, what a noise they are making downstairs. Frenchmen do kick up such a rumpus about everything."

The door opened hurriedly, and Lucille came in, wearing still her bonnet, as if just returned from a walk.

"I am sorry," she said. "I do not know what it means, but I must tell. I have no choice. It surely must be a mistake—it cannot be truly—"

Lucille startled herself no less than her listeners by a sharp sob. She caught Roy's arm with both hands, holding him fast. "Roy, Roy, what is it that you have done? Ah, what have you done?" she cried.

"Is it that bosh about the image? I know. They want to be paid. Lucille, Den has been asleep, and I've been as quiet as anything, and then for you to come in like this I Den, you must keep still, and I'll speak to them. I'll settle it all."

"No, no, no!—stay, you must not go!" panted Lucille. "Stay—it is the gendarmes! And they come to arrest you—to take you away!"

The word "gendarmes" acted as an electric shock, bringing Denham to his feet.

"What is it all about? I do not understand." He touched Roy on the shoulder, with an imperative, "Tell me."

"It was only—I'd have told before, only I didn't like to bother you. It was at Curtis's. There was a bust of Boney on the mantelshelf, and I just shied bits of wood at it in fun. And I said 'Á bas Napoléon,' or something of that sort, and then I threw a ball, and the idiotic thing tumbled down and broke into pieces. And the landlady—she's a regular out-and-out virago—happened that very moment to come in, and she saw and heard. And she vowed she would tell of it. Curtis tried to explain things, and I offered to pay, but she wouldn't listen. She went on shrieking at us, and said it was an insult to the Emperor, and Wirion should know of it. She's a Bonapartist—worse luck! Curtis made me hurry off, and said I was to tell my father at once. But he was out, and you—you know—" with a glance at Lucille, who wrung her hands, while Ivor said—

"Roy, were you utterly mad?"

"I don't know. Was it very stupid? Will it matter, do you think? I'm sorry about you most. I thought they would wait till to-morrow; but I suppose they want me to pay directly. Is that it?" looking towards Lucille.

"No, no, no!" she answered, again wringing her hands. "It is to take—to take you—to the citadel!"

"To the citadel!" Roy opened his eyes. "I say, what a farce! For knocking down an image not worth fifty sous!"

"For breaking the bust of the Emperor, and for shouting 'Á bas—'" Lucille could not finish.

"You mean that they will keep him there to-night?" said Denham.

She looked at him with eyes that were almost wild with fear. "Oui, oui—the citadel to-night! And to-morrow, they say, to Bitche."

"To—Bitche!" whispered Roy. He grew white, for that word was a sound of terror in the ears of English prisoners, and his glance went in appeal to Ivor.

"Stay here, Roy. I will speak to them."

Ivor crossed the room with his resolute stride and went out, meeting the gendarmes on the stairs. Lucille clutched Roy's arm again, half in reproach, half in protection. "Ah, my poor boy I—mon pauvre garcon!—how could you? Ah, such folly! As if there were not already trouble enough! Ah, my unhappy Roy!"

"Shut up, Lucille! You needn't jaw a fellow like that! It can't mean anything, really, you know. Wirion just thinks he can screw a lot of money out of my father. And that's the worst of it," declared Roy, in an undertone. "I hate to have done such a stupid thing; and I hate the worry of it for Den, just now when he's like this. But you know they couldn't really send me to Bitche, only for smashing a paltry image. It would be ridiculous."

"Ah, Roy! even you little know—you—what it means to be under a despot such as—but one may not dare to speak."

Lucille's tears came fast. They stood listening. From the staircase rose loud rough voices, alternating with Ivor's not loud but masterful tones. That he was a prisoner, and that they had power to arrest him too, if they chose, made not a grain of difference in his bearing. It was not defiant or excited, but undoubtedly it was haughty; and Lucille, just able to see him where she stood, found herself wondering—did he wish to go to prison too with Roy? She could almost have believed it.

"Eh bien, Messieurs; since l'Empéreur sees fit to war with schoolboys, so be it," she heard him say sternly, in his polished French. "To me, as an Englishman, it appears that his Majesty might find a foe more worthy of his prowess."

"But, ah! why make them angry?" murmured Lucille.

A few more words, and Denham came back. One look at his face made questions almost needless.

"Then I am to go, Den?"

"I fear—no help for it. The men have authority. You will have to spend to-night in the citadel. But I am coming with you, and I shall insist upon seeing Wirion himself."

"But you—you cannot—you are ill," remonstrated Lucille. "Will not Colonel Baron go—not you?"

He put aside the objection as unimportant.

"Roy must take a few things with him, not more than he can carry himself. I hope it may be only for the one night. They allow us twenty minutes. That is a concession."

"I will put his things together for him," said Lucille quickly. "I can choose what he will most need."

"One moment. May I beg a kindness?"

"Anything in the world."

"If Colonel Baron does not return before we start—and he will not—would you, if possible, find him, and ask him to come at once to the citadel? Then Mrs. Baron—"

Ivor's set features yielded slightly. The thought of Roy's mother without her boy was hard to face. Lucille watched him with grieved eyes.

"I will tell her, but not everything—not yet as to Bitche, for that may be averted. I will stay with her—comfort her—do all that I am able. Is that what you would wish?"

"God bless you," he said huskily, and she hurried away.

"Den, have I got to go with those fellows really?" asked Roy, beginning to understand what he had brought upon himself. "I never thought of that. Can't you manage to get me off? Won't they let me wait till my father comes home?"

"They will consent to no delay. He will follow us soon. And, Roy, I must urge you to be careful what you say. Any word that you may let slip, without thinking, will be used against you. I hoped you had learnt that lesson."

A listener, overhearing Denham with the gendarmes, might have questioned whether he had learnt it himself; but Roy was in no condition of mind to be critical. He could not restrain some measure of dismay.

"And if you and my father can't get me off! If I am sent to Bitche—"

"If you are,—" with more of an effort than Roy could imagine, for Denham knew far better than Roy what such "sending" would mean—"then you will meet it like a man. Whatever comes, you will be brave and true through all. Keep up heart, and remember that it is only for a time. We shall do everything in our power to get you back here. And—I know you'll never let yourself be drawn into anything that you would be ashamed to tell your father."

"Or—you," with a slight catch of his breath.

"Or me either. You won't forget that you are an Englishman. For your mother's sake you must bear patiently, even if things are disagreeable. Don't make matters worse by useless anger. And—you'll think sometimes how she will be praying for you."

Denham found it not easy to say the words, and Roy's lips were unsteady.

"Yes, I will. Only, if you could get me off—I'd rather, you know."

"My dear boy—if they would take me in your stead—"

"Den, I'm awfully sorry! It isn't that I'm afraid—of course I'm not that. But it's so horrid to have to go. Just when you've come back, and it would have been so jolly—and it's such a horrid bother for you too. I do wish I had let that wretched image alone!"

Ten minutes later the two started, Roy under the gendarme escort, Ivor keeping pace with them. Lucille then hastened away on her sorrowful mission, leaving a message with old M. Courant, in case either Colonel or Mrs. Baron should return during her absence,—not the same message for Mrs. Baron as for the Colonel. A short search brought her into contact with the latter, and she poured forth a breathless tale. Heavier and heavier grew the cloud upon his face. He knew too well the uses that might be made of Roy's boyish escapade. At the sound of that dread word "Bitche," a grey shadow came.

"Captain Ivor went with Roy to the citadel. He ought not, he has been so suffering all day, but he would not let Roy go alone. And he asked, would you follow them as soon as possible? For me, I will find Mrs. Baron, and will stay with her."

The Colonel muttered words of thanks, and went off at his best speed.

Would he and Captain Ivor be able to do anything? Would they even be admitted to the presence of the autocratic Commandant? Denham might talk of insisting; but prisoners had no power to insist. If he did, he might only be thrown into prison himself. Was that what he wanted—to go with the boy? "Ah—j'espère que non!" Lucille muttered fervently. And if they were admitted, what then? Would money purchase Roy's immunity from punishment? General Wirion's known cupidity gave some ground for hope. Yet—would he neglect such an opportunity for displaying Imperialist zeal?

Lucille put these questions to herself as she flew homeward. On the way she met little Mrs. Curtis, and for one moment stopped, in response to the other's gesture.

"Is it true?" Mrs. Curtis asked, with a scared look. "They tell me Roy has been arrested. Is it so? My husband could do nothing. The landlady was off before he could speak to her again. He thought that Roy and the Colonel would be coming round directly, and so he waited in. But they did not come; and now two gendarmes are quartered in our lodgings, and Hugh may not stir without their leave. It is horrid. But—Roy?"

"I cannot wait. Roy is taken to the citadel. I have to see to his mother. Do not keep me, madam, I entreat;" and again Lucille sped homeward.

As she had hoped, yet dreaded, she found Mrs. Baron indoors before herself, alone in the salon, and uneasy at Captain Ivor's absence.

"He ought not to have gone out," Mrs. Baron said. "He will be seriously ill, if he does not let himself rest. It is Roy's doing, I suppose—so thoughtless of Roy. I must tell Denham that I will not have him spoil my boy in this way. It is not good for Roy, and Denham will suffer for it. You do not know where he is gone?"

"Oui," faltered Lucille, and Mrs. Baron looked at her.

"You have been crying. What is it?"

As gently as might be, Lucille broke the news of what had happened; and Mrs. Baron seemed stunned. Roy—her Roy—in the hands of the pitiless gendarmes! Roy imprisoned in the citadel! Lucille made no mention of Bitche; but too many prisoners had been passed on thither for the idea not to occur to Mrs. Baron.

"And it was I who brought him to France! It was I who would not let him be sent home, when he might have gone! O Roy, Roy!" she moaned. Lucille had hard work to bring any touch of comfort.

Hour after hour crept by. Once a messenger arrived, with a pencil-note from Colonel Baron to his wife—"Do not sit up if we are late. We are doing what we can. I cannot persuade Denham to go back."

Not sit up! Neither Mrs. Baron nor Lucille could dream of doing anything else. This suspense drew them together; and Lucille found herself to be one with the Barons in their trouble.

Nine o'clock, ten o'clock, and at length eleven o'clock struck. Soon after came a sound of footsteps—not of eager boyish steps. No Roy came bounding into the room. Lucille had found fault with him that afternoon for impulsiveness, but now from her very heart she would have welcomed his merry rush. Only Colonel Baron and Ivor entered.

The Colonel's face was heavily overclouded; while Denham's features were rigid as iron, and entirely without colour.

"Roy?" whispered Mrs. Baron.

Deep silence answered the unspoken question. Colonel Baron stood with folded arms, gazing at his wife. Denham moved two or three paces away, and rested one arm on the back of a tall chair, as if scarcely able to keep himself upright.

"Roy?" repeated Mrs. Baron, her voice sharpened and thinned. "You have not brought—Roy."

A single piercing cry rang out. She stopped the sound abruptly, with one quick indrawing of her breath, and waited.

Colonel Baron tried to speak, and no sound came. Denham remained motionless, not even attempting to raise his eyes.

"Oui," Lucille said restlessly. "Il est—il est—"

The Colonel managed a few short words. There was no possibility of softening what had to be said.

"To-night—the citadel. To-morrow—to Bitche!"

"To Bitche!" echoed Lucille. "Ah-h!"

To Bitche—that terrible fortress prison, the nightmare of Verdun prisoners! Their Roy to be sent to Bitche! Mrs. Baron swayed slightly, as if on the verge of fainting. Her petted Roy, her idolised darling, her boy so tenderly cared for—to be hurried away to Bitche!

It could hardly have been said which of the two Lucille was watching with the more strained attention—Mrs. Baron, stunned and wordless, or Denham Ivor, with that fixed, still face of suffering.

"And nothing—nothing—can be done?" she asked.

"We have tried—everything," the Colonel answered gloomily.