Chapter XXXIII: Captives Still

LIFE at Verdun went wearily on, week after week, month after month. Little happened there, to vary the dead monotony of existence.

Months, many and long, had dragged past since the day when Roy was hurried away to Bitche. No news of him had since been received. Letters had been written by Roy, but they had not reached his friends. Letters had been written by Colonel and Mrs. Baron, and money had been sent; but whether these had found their way to Roy was utterly uncertain. A few Bitche prisoners who had arrived knew nothing of him.

Lucille had come across Jean Paulet, and had done her best to enlist his help. But they had now almost ceased to look for Jean's appearance.

How Mrs. Baron would have lived through this prolonged suspense it is hard to say, but for the pressing need to forget herself in attendance upon Ivor. She had not in the past, with all her attractiveness, been unselfish; but trouble was teaching her to put self into the background.

Denham's complete breakdown after the march from Valenciennes was ascribed by his friends to the arrest of Roy; and no doubt that event had a hand in the matter. For many weeks he was in a state of more or less acute danger. They had their hands full—Lucille as well as the Barons. During the greater part of a month, he could seldom be left alone, night or day. Even when the worst was over, his recovery proved to be of a very slow and intermittent kind. Weakness seemed incurable.

It dawned upon Mrs. Baron one day how long a time had passed with no mention of Polly. Ivor was not given to talking about his own affairs; and much of this abstention might be due to his excessive languor; yet such persistent silence was hardly thus to be fully accounted for. If unable to write to Polly himself; he could have sent a message. Hitherto Mrs. Baron had avoided with him all distressing subjects. She began to wonder if this plan had been wise.

"If only Jean would come!" sighed Lucille.

"Yes," Mrs. Baron replied. "Den thinks a great deal of my boy. It keeps him back. I know that. But—there is Polly too."

Lucille's face clouded slightly.

"That old affair, does it continue still, madame? Mademoiselle Keene does not write. Captain Ivor does not ask after her. May it not be that they forget?"

"Denham does not forget." Mrs. Baron saw with clearness a danger for Lucille. No answer came. Lucille hastily left the room.

Denham had been ordered to take daily exercise; and he had just started for a turn, with the help of Colonel Baron's arm. Reaching the end of the street, they turned a corner and came upon Curtis. He was hurrying along, a troubled frown upon his face.

"Ivor!—taking a stroll. You don't look like getting on much. Colonel, can I have a word with you presently—merely a trifle—business, I mean," with a hasty self-correction.

"Anything pressing?" asked the Colonel.

"N—o. That is to say—"

"News from Bitche?" inquired Ivor. Curtis, taken by surprise, faltered. "I thought so. What is it?"

"I assure you—nothing definite as to Roy." The suppressed agitation in Curtis's manner hardly bore out his words.

"Anybody arrived from Bitche? Has Roy been seen?"

Curtis hesitated again. He was a bad hand at evasion.

"Whatever has been told you, we must hear the whole—and at once. No keeping back of anything, please."

Under a small tree, some paces off, was an unoccupied seat. Denham moved thither, the other two standing. "Now!" he said.

Colonel Baron had not spoken thus far. In reply to an appealing glance, he muttered, "Yes; no use! You have said too much. Tell the whole." And Curtis obeyed.

The tale which he had to repeat was not new in kind, though perhaps worse than aught which had yet reached their ears. He gave it briefly, making as little as might be of facts which could not be softened down. It was a story which readers of this book already know—about a party of young fellows, chiefly middies, who sought to escape from Bitche over the high outer wall. A French officer of rank, who heard of the project, had kept watch till it neared completion. Then, at the critical moment, he had cut through the rope on which the lads hung; by which brutal deed many of them had been killed on the spot, many others severely hurt.

Colonel Baron's lips were compressed, and his look was stern. Ivor heard with outward quietness.

"Was Roy one of them?"

"They don't know. They can't say. I told you, I have no certain news of Roy."

"No. But you have some reason to suppose that he might have been one of the party."

Curtis hesitated again. "He—one of the men—did hear a report. They were only a night or two at Bitche, in the great dungeon, some time after this happened. It was said that Roy had been there—up to the day when the escape was attempted. And after that—"

"After that—?"

"Roy had disappeared. As well as the midshipmen."

Dead silence followed. Denham was the first to speak.

"No certainty—either way. This must not reach Mrs. Baron. Take care that it does not come to her ears."

"It will be all over Verdun in a day." Colonel Baron spoke in a gloomy tone. "But perhaps—if I warn friends—"

"Go at once—both of you. Never mind me. For Heaven's sake, keep it from her, at least till we know the truth," urged Ivor passionately.

Colonel Baron insisted on giving him an arm as far as the house; after which he and Curtis went off together, and Denham dragged himself slowly upstairs. Lucille was gone out; and Mrs. Baron came to meet him. "My dear Den—how ill you look! What made you go so far?"

Ivor was past speaking, and she busied herself for some minutes, bathing his brow, till he could murmur, "I'm a trouble to everybody."

"One does not talk of trouble when people are—what you are to us."

He could not smile, thinking of that which might have come to Roy.

"I wish I could see you a little stronger. Such a short turn ought not to knock you up like this. Lucille says you are kept back by the suspense as to my boy. Is that true?" She spoke steadily, for trouble long-continued had taught the once spoilt wife self-control.

Denham's hand closed on hers silently.

"You must not be too anxious. I think it shows a want of trust. I try hard not to be so myself. My boy is in God's hands, and He will not fail us. I do believe our prayers will be heard—and Roy be taken care of."

"Such trust—cannot be thrown away!"

"Lucille still hopes to hear from Jean."

"Yes—"

"Den, I want to ask you something else. Are you worrying yourself about getting so few letters from home? From Polly, I mean. I don't think you need. We know how often she may have written, and not a single letter reach us."

Denham would not refuse the subject. Anything at that moment was better than questions as to Roy. A slight movement checked her.

"No," he said very low. "I heard, while at Valenciennes. That is—at an end."

"Not—you and Polly! You do not mean that she will not wait!"

"She is so young. It could not be the same to her—as to—"

"But you do not know this for a certainty."

"She was engaged—months ago—to Captain Peirce."

Mrs. Baron understood now, only too well, the change in Ivor's looks on his return to Verdun, the dangerous illness, and the tardy convalescence.

"And—that broke you down."

"I suppose it helped."

"Did Polly herself write?"

"No. A friend."

"But not Polly! May it not be a mistake?"

"I am afraid not. The authority was good."

"You would have waited twenty years for her?" Scalding tears were in Mrs. Baron's eyes.

"I!—yes."

"Den, I don't know how to believe it."

"I am glad to have told you. It is right that you should know. But after this—I cannot talk of her—even to you."

Yet it might be that he was conscious of relief at having spoken. He did his best presently to seem more cheerful.

An hour later Colonel Baron returned; and two minutes after Lucille, who had been out, threw open the door.

"At last! At last!" she cried, joyously clapping her hands. "Ah, Madame,—good news at last! Jean is come, to tell us of Roy. Ah, the good man,—is he not good? He comes to say that Roy is escaped—Roy is safe—Roy is gone to England. Entrez! Entrez! Ah, come, Monsieur, and tell the news."

Mrs. Baron cried out in startled tones, while the Colonel's overcast brow was wondrously lightened, and Denham sprang to his feet with almost the energy of old days.

"Oui, oui, Monsieur—grâce à Dieu—it is good news that I have the happiness to bring. Monsieur is no longer in that frightful Bitche. He is by now, I sincerely hope, safe in his own country. Oui, Monsieur, I travelled with him, and I stayed with him till he left France—in an English vessel bound for England. It was long waiting for a vessel, but the opportunity came at last. And I have returned, as I promised cette bonne demoiselle that I would assuredly do. I have found my way to Verdun, to set the hearts of monsieur's friends at rest—the heart of Madame sa Mère, and of Monsieur son Père, and of Monsieur le Capitaine. I grieve to see Monsieur still si malade. But Monsieur Roy is safe—out of reach of l'Empéreur."

Jean had to stop, for Lucille was crying; and Mrs. Baron was clinging to her husband, overcome by the very joy of relief; and the Colonel could only choke when he tried to speak; and Denham, no less voiceless, had grasped Jean's hand in gratitude.

"Mais, Monsieur—mais, Madame—mais, Mademoiselle —I have done nothing, truly nothing at all. Save that which cette bonne demoiselle desired me to do. And truly, for the matter of thanks, that which ces messieurs did in the past for me and my mother can never be forgotten."

Then Jean's voice failed him too.