The Bronze Eagle: A Story of the Hundred Days

V

Thus a few seconds went by in absolute silence—while the great gilt clock upon its carved bracket ticked on with stolid relentlessness, marking another minute—and yet another—of this hour which was so full of portent for the destinies of France. Clyffurde would gladly have bartered the future years of his life for the power to stay the hand of Time just now—for the power to remain just like this, standing before this beautiful woman whom he loved, feeling that at any moment he could take her in his arms and kiss her eyes and her lips, even if she were unwilling, even if she hated him for ever afterwards.

The sense of power to do that which he might regret to the end of his days was infinitely sweet, the power to fight against that all-compelling passion was perhaps sweeter still. Then came the pride of victory. The habits of a lifetime had come to his aid: self-respect and self-control, hard and wilful taskmasters, fought against passion, until it yielded inch by inch.

The battle was fought and won in those few moments of silence: the strain of the man's attitude relaxed, the set lines on his face vanished, leaving it serene and quietly humorous, calm and self-deprecatory. Only his voice was not quite so steady as usual, as he said softly:

"Mademoiselle Crystal, is there anything that I can do for you?—now at once, I mean? If there is, I do entreat you most earnestly to let me serve you."

Had the pure soul of the woman been touched by the fringe of that magnetic wave of passion even as it rose to its utmost height, nearly sweeping the man off his feet, and in its final retreat leaving him with quivering nerves and senses bruised and numb? Did something of the man's suffering, of his love and of his despair appear—despite his efforts—upon his face and in the depth of his glance?—and thus made visible did they—even through their compelling intensity—cause that invisible barrier of social prejudices to totter and to break? It were difficult to say. Certain it is that Crystal's whole heart warmed to the stranger as it had never warmed before. She felt that here was a man standing before her now, whose promises would never be mere idle words, whose deeds would speak more loudly than his tongue. She felt that in the midst of all the enmity which encompassed her and her father in their newly regained home and land, here at any rate was a friend on whom they could count to help, to counsel and to accomplish. And deep down in the very bottom of her soul there was a curious unexplainable longing that circumstances should compel her to ask one day for his help, and a sweet knowledge that that help would be ably rendered and pleasing to receive.

But for the moment, of course, there was nothing that she could ask: she would be married in a couple of days—alas! so soon!—and after that it would be to her husband that she must look for devotion, for guidance and for sympathy.

A little sigh of regret escaped her lips, and she said gently:

"I thank you, Sir, from the bottom of my heart, for the words of friendship which you have spoken. I shall never forget them, never! and if at any time in my life I am in trouble . . ."

"Which God forbid!" he broke in fervently.

"If any time I have need of a friend," she resumed, "I feel that I should find one in you. Oh! if only I could think that you would extend your devotion to my poor country, and to our King . . ." she exclaimed with passionate earnestness.

"You love your country very dearly, Mademoiselle," he rejoined.

"I think that I love France more than anything else in the world," she replied, "and I feel that there is no sacrifice which I would deem too great to offer up for her."

"And by France you mean the Bourbon dynasty," he said almost involuntarily, and with an impatient little sigh.

"I mean the King, by the grace of God!" she retorted proudly.

She had thrown back her head with an air of challenge as she said this, meeting his glance eye to eye: she looked strong and wilful all of a sudden, no longer girlish and submissive. And to the man who loved her, this trait of power and latent heroism added yet another to the many charms which he saw in her. Loyal to her country and to her king she would be loyal in all things—to husband, kindred and to friends.

But he realised at the same time how impossible it would be for any man to win her love if he were an enemy to her cause. St. Genis—royalist, émigré, retrograde like herself—had obviously won his way to her heart chiefly by the sympathy of his own convictions. But what of de Marmont, to whom she was on the eve of plighting her troth? de Marmont the hot-headed Bonapartist who owned but one god—Napoleon—and yet had deliberately, and with cynical opportunism hidden his fanatical aims and beliefs from the woman whom he had wooed and won?

The thought of that deception—and of the awakening which would await the girl-wife on the very morrow of her wedding-day mayhap, was terribly repellent to Clyffurde's straightforward, loyal nature, and bitter was the contention within his soul as he found himself at the cross-roads of a divided duty. Every instinct of chivalry towards the woman loudly demanded that he should warn her—now—at once—before it was too late—before she had actually pledged her life and future to a man whom her very soul—if she knew the truth—would proclaim a renegade and a traitor; and every instinct of loyalty to the man—that male solidarity of sex which will never permit one man—if he be a gentleman—to betray another—prompted him to hold his peace.

Crystal's gentle voice fell like dream-tones upon his ear. Vaguely only did he hear what she said. She was still speaking of France, of all that the country had suffered and all that was due to her from her sons and daughters: she spoke of the King, God's own anointed as she called him, endowed with rights divine, and all the while his thoughts were far away, flying on the wings of memory to the little hamlet among the mountains where two enthusiasts had exhausted every panegyric in praise of their own hero, whom this girl called a usurper and a brigand. He remembered every trait in de Marmont's face, every inflexion of his voice as he said with almost cruel cynicism: "She will learn to love me in time."

That, Clyffurde knew now, Crystal de Cambray would never do. Indifferent to de Marmont to-day, she would hate and loathe him the day that she discovered how infamously he had deceived her: and to Clyffurde's passionate temperament the thought of Crystal's future unhappiness was absolutely intolerable.

Here indeed was a battle far more strenuous and difficult of issue than that of a man's will against his passions: here was a problem far more difficult to solve than any that had assailed Bobby Clyffurde throughout his life.

His heart cried out "She must know the truth: she must. To-day! this minute, while there was yet time! Anon she will be pledged irrevocably to a man who has lied to her, whom she will curse as a renegade, a traitor, false to his country, false to his king!"

And the words hovered on his lips: "Mademoiselle Crystal! do not plight your troth to de Marmont! he is no friend of yours, his people are not your people! his God is not your God! and there is neither blessing nor holiness in an union 'twixt you and him!"

But the words remained unspoken, because the unwritten code—the bond 'twixt man and man—tried to still this natural cry of his heart and reason argued that he must hold his peace. His heart rebelled, contending that to remain silent was cowardly—that his first duty was to the woman whom he loved better than his soul, whilst ingrained principles, born and bred in the bone of him, threw themselves into the conflict, warning him that if he spoke he would be no better than an informer, meriting the contempt alike of those whom he wished to help and of the man whom he would betray.

It was one sound coming from below which settled the dispute 'twixt heart and reason—the sound of de Marmont's voice which though he was apparently speaking of indifferent matters had that same triumphant ring in it which Clyffurde had heard at Notre Dame de Vaulx this morning.

The sound had caused Crystal to give a quick gasp and to clasp her hands against her breast, as she said with a nervous little laugh:

"Imagine how happy we are to have M. de Marmont's support in this terrible crisis! His influence in Grenoble and in the whole province is very great: his word in the town itself may incline the whole balance of public feeling on the side of the King, and who knows, it may even help to strengthen the loyalty of the troops. Oh! that Corsican brigand little guesses what kind of welcome we in the Dauphiné are preparing for him!"

Her enthusiasm, her trust, her loyalty ended the conflict in Clyffurde's mind far more effectually than any sober reasoning could have done. He realised in a moment that neither abstract principles, nor his own feelings in the matter, were of the slightest account at such a juncture.

What was obvious, certain, and not to be shirked, was duty to a woman who was on the point of being shamefully deceived, also duty to the man whose hospitality he had enjoyed. To remain silent would be cowardly—of that he became absolutely certain, and once Bobby had made up his mind what duty was no power on earth could make him swerve from its fulfilment.

"Mlle. Crystal," he began slowly and deliberately, "just now, when I was bold enough to offer you my friendship, you deigned to accept it, did you not?"

"Indeed I did, Sir," she replied, a little astonished. "Why should you ask?"

"Because the time has come sooner than I expected for me to prove the truth of that offer to you. There is something which I must say to you which no one but a friend ought to do. May I?"

But before she could frame the little "Yes!" which already trembled on her lips, her father's voice and de Marmont's rang out from the further end of the room itself.

The folding doors had been thrown open: M. le Comte and his son-in-law elect were on the point of entering and had paused for a moment just under the lintel. De Marmont was talking in a loud voice and apparently in response to something which M. le Comte had just told him.

"Ah!" he said, "Mme. la Duchesse will be leaving Brestalou? I am sorry to hear that. Why should she go so soon?"

"An affair of business, my dear de Marmont," replied the Comte. "I will tell you about it at an early opportunity."

After which there was a hubbub of talk in the corridors outside, the sound of greetings, the pleasing confusion of questions and answers which marks the simultaneous arrival of several guests.

Crystal rose and turned to Bobby with a smile.

"You will have to tell me some other time," she said lightly. "Don't forget!"

The psychological moment had gone by and Clyffurde cursed himself for having fought too long against the promptings of his heart and lost the precious moments which might have changed the whole of Crystal's future. He cursed himself for not having spoken sooner, now that he saw de Marmont with glowing eyes and ill-concealed triumph approach his beautiful fiancée and with the air of a conqueror raise her hand to his lips.

She looked very pale, and to the man who loved her so ardently and so hopelessly it seemed as if she gave a curious little shiver and that for one brief second her blue eyes flashed a pathetic look of appeal up to his.

VI

M. le Comte's guests followed closely on the triumphant bridegroom's heels: M. le préfet, fussy and nervous, secretly delighted at the idea of affixing his official signature to such an aristocratic contrat de mariage as was this between Mlle. de Cambray de Brestalou and M. Victor de Marmont, own nephew to Marshal the duc de Raguse; Madame la préfète, resplendent in the latest fashion from Paris, the Duc and Duchesse d'Embrun, cousins of the bride, the Vicomte de Génevois and his mother, who was Abbess of Pont Haut and godmother by proxy to Crystal de Cambray; whilst Général Marchand, in command of the troops of the district, fresh from the Council of War which he had hastily convened, was trying to hide behind a débonnaire manner all the anxiety which "the brigand's" march on Grenoble was causing him.

The chief notabilities of the province had assembled to do honour to the occasion, later on others would come, lesser lights by birth and position than this select crowd who would partake of the souper des fiançailles before the contrat was signed in their presence as witnesses to the transaction.

Everyone was talking volubly: the ogre's progress through France—no longer to be denied—was the chief subject of conversation. Some spoke of it with contempt, others with terror. The ex-Bonapartists Fourier and Marchand were loudest in their curses against "the usurper."

Clyffurde, silent and keeping somewhat aloof from the brilliant throng, saw that de Marmont did not enter into any of these conversations. He kept resolutely close to Crystal, and spoke to her from time to time in a whisper, and always with that assured air of the conqueror, which grated so unpleasantly on Clyffurde's irritable nerves.

The Comte, affable and gracious, spoke a few words to each of his guests in turn, whilst Mme. la Duchesse douairière d'Agen was talking openly of her forthcoming return journey to the North.

"I came in great haste," she said loudly to the circle of ladies gathered around her, "for my little Crystal's wedding. But I was in the middle of a Lenten retreat at the Sacred Heart, and I only received permission from my confessor to spend three days in all this gaiety."

"When do you leave us again, Mme. la Duchesse?" queried Mlle. Marchand, the General's daughter, in a honeyed voice.

"On Tuesday, directly after the religious ceremony, Mademoiselle," replied Madame, whilst M. le préfet tried to look unconcerned. He had brought the money over as Mme. la Duchesse had directed. Twenty-five millions of francs in notes and drafts had been transferred from the cellar of the Hôtel de Ville to his own pockets first and then into the keeping of Madame. He had driven over from the Hôtel de Ville in his private coach, he himself in an agony of fear every time the road looked lonely, or he heard the sound of horse's hoofs upon the road behind him—for there might be mounted highwaymen about. Now he felt infinitely relieved; he had shifted all responsibility of that vast sum of money on to more exalted shoulders than his own, and inwardly he was marvelling how coolly Mme. la Duchesse seemed to be taking such an awful responsibility.

Now Hector threw open the great doors and announced that M. le Comte was served. Through the vast corridor beyond appeared a vista of liveried servants in purple and canary, wearing powdered perruque, silk stockings and buckled shoes.

There was a general hubbub in the room, the men moved towards the ladies who had been assigned to them for partners. M. le Comte in his grandest manner approached Mme. la Duchesse d'Embrun in order to conduct her down to supper. An air of majestic grandeur, of solemnity and splendid decorum pervaded the fine apartment; it sought out every corner of the vast reception room, flickered round every wax candle; it spread itself over the monumental hearth, the stiff brocade-covered chairs, the gilt consoles and tall mirrors. It emanated alike from the graciousness of M. le Comte de Cambray and the pompousness of his majordomo. Hector in fact appeared at this moment as the high priest in a temple of good manners and bon ton: the muscles of his face were rigid, his mouth was set as if ready to pronounce sacrificial words; in his right hand he carried a gold-headed wand, emblem of his high office.

But suddenly there was a disturbance—an unseemly noise came from the further end of the corridor, where rose the magnificent staircase. Hector's face became a study in rapidly changing expressions: from pompousness, to astonishment, then horror, and finally wrath when he realised that an intruder in stained cloth clothes and booted and spurred was actually making his way through the ranks of liveried and gaping servants and loudly demanding to speak with M. le Comte.

Such an unseemly disturbance had not occurred at the Château de Brestalou since Hector had been installed there as majordomo nearly twelve months ago, and he was on the point of literally throwing himself upon the impious malapert who thus dared to thrust his ill-clad person upon the brilliant company, when he paused—more aghast than before. In this same impious malapert he had recognised M. le Marquis de St. Genis!

The young man looked to be labouring under terrible excitement: his face was flushed and he was panting as if he had been running hard:

"M. le Comte!" he cried breathlessly as soon as he caught sight of Hector, "tell M. le Comte that I must speak with him at once."

"But M. le Marquis . . . M. le Marquis . . ."

This was all that poor, bewildered Hector could stammer: his slowly-moving brain was torn between the duties of his position and his respect for M. le Marquis, and in the struggle the worthy man was enduring throes of anxiety.

Fortunately M. le Comte himself put an end to Hector's dilemma. He had recognised St. Genis' voice. Unlike his majordomo, he knew at once that something terribly grave must have happened, else the young man would never have committed such a serious breach of good manners. And M. le Comte himself was never at a loss how to turn any situation to a dignified and proper issue: he murmured a quick and courteous apology to Mme. la Duchesse d'Embrun and a comprehensive one to all his guests, then he hastened to meet St. Genis at the door.

Already St. Genis had entered. His rough clothes and muddy boots looked strangely in contrast to the immaculate get-up of the Comte's guests, but of this he hardly seemed to be aware. His face was flushed; with his right hand he clutched a small riding cane, and his glowering dark eyes swept a rapid glance over every one in the room.

And to the Comte he said hoarsely: "I must offer you my humblest apologies, my dear Comte, for obtruding my very untidy person upon you at this hour. I have walked all the way from Grenoble, as I could not get a hackney-coach, else I had been here earlier and spared you this unpleasantness."

"You are always welcome in this house, my good Maurice," said the Comte in his loftiest manner, "and at any hour of the day."

And he added with a certain tone of dignified reproach: "I did ask you to be my guest to-night, if you remember."

"And I," said St. Genis, "was churlish enough to refuse. I would not have come now only that I felt I might be in time to avert the most awful catastrophe that has yet fallen upon your house."

Again his restless, dark eyes—sullen and wrathful and charged with a look of rage and of hate—wandered over the assembled company. The look frightened the ladies. They took to clinging to one another, standing in compact little groups together, like frightened birds, watchful and wide-eyed. They feared that the young man was mad. But the men exchanged significant glances and significant smiles. They merely thought that St. Genis had been drinking, or that jealousy had half-turned his brain.

Only Clyffurde, who stood somewhat apart from the others, knew—by some unexplainable intuition—what it was that had brought Maurice de St. Genis to this house in this excited state and at this hour. He felt excited too, and mightily thankful that the catastrophe would be brought about by others—not by himself.

But all his thoughts were for Crystal, and an instinctive desire to stand by her and to shield her if necessary from some unknown or unguessed evil, made him draw nearer to her. She stood on the fringe of the little crowd—as isolated as Bobby was himself.

De Marmont—whose face had become the colour of dead ashes—had left her side: one step at a time and very slowly he was getting nearer and nearer to St. Genis, as if the latter's wrath-filled eyes were drawing him against his will.

At the young man's ominous words, M. le Comte's sunken cheeks grew a shade more pale.

"What catastrophe, mon Dieu!" he exclaimed, "could fall on my house that would be worse than twenty years of exile?"

"An alliance with a traitor, M. le Comte," said St. Genis firmly.

A gasp went round the room, a sigh, a cry. The women looked in mute horror from one man to the other, the men already had their right hand on their swords. But Clyffurde's eyes were fixed upon Crystal, who pale, silent, rigid as a marble statue, with lips parted and nostrils quivering, stood not five paces away from him, her dilated eyes wandering ceaselessly from the face of St. Genis to that of de Marmont and thence to that of her father. But beyond that look of tense excitement she revealed nothing of what she thought and felt.

Already de Marmont—his hand upon his sword—had advanced menacingly towards St. Genis.

"M. le Marquis," he said between set teeth, "you will, by God! eat those words, or–"

"Eat my words, man?" retorted St. Genis with a harsh laugh. "By Heaven! have I not come here on purpose to throw my words into your lying face?"

There was a brief but violent skirmish, for de Marmont had made a movement as if he meant to spring at his rival's throat, and Général Marchand and the Vicomte de Génevois, who happened to be near, had much ado to seize and hold him: even so they could not stop the hoarse cries which he uttered:

"Liar! Liar! Liar! Let me go! Let me get to him! I must kill him! I must kill him!"

The Comte interposed his dignified person between the two men.

"Maurice," he said, in tones of calm and dispassionate reproof, "your conduct is absolutely unjustifiable. You seem to forget that you are in the presence of ladies and of my guests. If you had a quarrel with M. de Marmont. . . ."

"A quarrel, my dear Comte?" exclaimed St. Genis, "nay, 'tis no quarrel I have with him: and my conduct would have been a thousand times more vile if I had not come to-night and stopped his hand from touching that of Mlle. Crystal de Cambray—his hand which was engaged less than two hours ago in affixing to the public buildings of Grenoble the infamous message of the Corsican brigand to the army and the people of France."

A hoarse murmur—a sure sign that men or women are afraid—came from every corner of the room.

"The message?—What message?"

Some people turned instinctively to M. le préfet, others to Général Marchand. Every one knew that Bonaparte had landed on the Littoral, every one had heard the rumour that he was marching in triumph through Provence and the Dauphiné—but no one had altogether believed this—as for a message—a proclamation—a call to the army—and this in Grenoble itself. No one had heard of that—every one had been at home, getting dressed for this festive function, thinking of good suppers and of wedding bells. It was as if after a clap of thunder and a flash of lightning the house was found to be in flames. M. le préfet in answer to these mute queries had shrugged his shoulders, and Général Marchand looked grim and silent.

But St. Genis with arm uplifted and shaking hand pointed a finger at de Marmont.

"Ask him," he cried. "Ask him, my dear Comte, ask the miserable traitor who with lies and damnable treachery has stolen his way into your house, has stolen your regard, your hospitality, and was on the point of stealing your most precious treasure—your daughter! Ask him! He knows every word of that infamous message by heart! I doubt not but a copy of it is inside his coat now. Ask him! Général Mouton-Duveret met him outside Grenoble in company with that cur Emery and I saw him with mine own eyes distributing these hellish papers among our townspeople and pinning them up at the street-corners of our city."

While St. Genis was speaking—or rather screaming—for his voice, pitched high, seemed to fill the entire room—every glance was fixed upon de Marmont. Every one of course expected a contradiction as hot and intemperate as was the accusation. It was unthinkable, impossible that what St. Genis said could be true. They all knew de Marmont well. Nephew of the Duc de Raguse who had borne the lion's share in surrendering Paris to the allies and bringing about the downfall of the Corsican usurper, he was one of the most trusted members of the royalist set in Dauphiné. They had talked quite freely before him, consulted with him when local Bonapartism appeared uncomfortably rampant. De Marmont was one of themselves.

And yet he said nothing even now when St. Genis accused him and hurled insult upon insult at him:—he said nothing to refute the awful impeachment, to justify his conduct, to explain his companionship with Emery. His face was still livid, but it was with rage—not indignation. Marchand and Génevois still held him by the arms, else he and St. Genis would have been at one another's throat before now. But his gestures as he struggled to free himself, the imprecations which he uttered were those of a man who was baffled and found out—not of one who is innocent.

But as St. Genis continued to speak and worked himself up every moment into a still greater state of excitement, de Marmont gradually seemed to calm down. He ceased to curse: he ceased to struggle, and on his face—which still was livid—there gradually crept a look of determination and of defiance. He dug his teeth into his under lip until tiny drops of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth and trickled slowly down his chin.

Marchand and Génevois relaxed the grip upon his arms, since he no longer fought, and thus released he contrived to pull himself together. He tossed back his head and looked his infuriated accuser boldly in the face.

By the time St. Genis paused in his impassioned denunciation, he had himself completely under control: only his eyes appeared to glow with an unnatural fire, and little beads of moisture appeared upon his brow and matted the dark hair against his forehead. The Comte de Cambray at this juncture would certainly have interposed with one of those temperate speeches, full of dignity and brimming over with lofty sentiments, which he knew so well how to deliver, but de Marmont gave him no time to begin. When St. Genis paused for breath, he suddenly freed himself completely with a quick movement, from Marchand's and Génevois' hold; and then he turned to the Comte and to the rest of the company:

"And what if I did pin the Emperor's proclamation on the walls of Grenoble," he said proudly and with a tremor of enthusiasm in his voice, "the Emperor, whom treachery more vile than any since the days of the Iscariot sent into humiliation and exile! The Emperor has come back!" cried the young devotee with that extraordinary fervour which Napoleon alone—of all men that have ever walked upon this earth—was able to suscitate: "his Imperial eagles once more soar over France carrying on their wings her honour and glory to the outermost corners of Europe. His proclamation is to his people who have always loved him, to his soldiers who in their hearts have always been true to him. His proclamation?" he added as with a kind of exultant war-cry he drew a roll of paper from his pocket and held it out at arm's length above his head, "his proclamation? Here it is! Vive l'Empereur! by the grace of God!"

Who shall attempt to describe the feelings of all those who were assembled round this young enthusiast as he hurled his challenge right in the face of those who called him a liar and a traitor? Surely it were a hard task for the chronicler to search into the minds and hearts of this score of men and women—who worshipped one God and reverenced one King—at the moment when they saw that King threatened upon his throne, their faith mocked and their God blasphemed: that the young man spoke words of truth no one thought of denying. Napoleon's name had the power to strike terror in the heart of every citizen who desired peace above all things and of every royalist who wished to see King Louis in possession of the throne of his fathers. But the army which had fought under him, the army which he had led in triumph and to victory from one end of the Continent of Europe to the other, that army still loved him and had never been rightly loyal to King Louis. The horrors of war which had lain so heavily over France and over Europe for the past twenty years were painfully vivid still in everybody's mind, and all these horrors were intimately associated with the name which stood out now in bold characters on the paper which de Marmont was triumphantly waving.

M. le Comte had become a shade or two paler than he had been before: he looked very old, very careworn, all of a sudden, and his pale eyes had that look in them which comes into the eyes of the old after years of sorrow and of regret.

But never for a moment did he depart from his attitude of dignity. When de Marmont's exultant cry of "Vive l'Empereur!" had ceased to echo round the majestic walls of this stately château, he straightened out his spare figure and with one fine gesture begged for silence from his guests.

Then he said very quietly: "M. Marmont, this is neither the place nor the opportunity which I should have chosen for confronting you with all the lies which you have told in the past ten months ever since you entered my house as an honoured guest. But M. de St. Genis has left me no option. Burning with indignation at your treachery he came hot-foot to unmask you, before my daughter's fair hand had affixed her own honourable name beneath that of a cheat and a traitor. . . . Yes! M. de Marmont," he reiterated with virile force, breaking in on the hot protests which had risen to the young man's lips, "no one but a cheat and a traitor could thus have wormed himself into the confidence of an old man and of a young girl! No one but a villainous blackguard could have contemplated the abominable deceptions which you have planned against me and against my daughter."

For a moment or two after the old man had finished speaking Victor de Marmont remained silent. There were murmurs of indignation among the guests, also of approval of the Comte's energetic words. De Marmont was in the midst of a hostile crowd and he knew it. Here was no drawing-room quarrel which could be settled at the point of a sword. Though—as Fate and man so oft ordain it—a woman was the primary reason for the quarrel, she was not its cause; and the hostility expressed against him by every glance which de Marmont encountered was so general and so great, that it overawed him even in the midst of his enthusiasm.