(1) Lucien du Boisfossé and Artamène de la Vergne would not have been themselves—particularly Artamène—if they had not remarked, during the next few days, that a state of curious restraint had come into existence between their leader and his chief of staff, the Comte de Brencourt. Indeed, apart from any intercourse that he held with M. de Kersaint, no one could fail to see that the Comte had returned from his mission another and a much less agreeable person. As Artamène remarked, he had never been genial in his manners, but at least he had some manners; now he seemed to have left them with the abandoned treasure at Mirabel. His moodiness and irritability vented themselves on all his subordinates, and he would harry gentleman and peasant alike for not saluting with sufficient precision, or not mounting guard properly. Indeed, the Chevalier de la Vergne opined that there might be a mutiny among the Chouans, caused for no other reason than that M. de Brencourt had something on his mind—was rongé with something or other, as he put it.
To what it could be that was thus gnawing at him the two young men then applied their wits, and, suddenly remembering that night at Hennebont, arrived without much trouble at a theory not very far removed from the truth. With the facile, half-contemptuous pity of youth, they threw a hasty crumb of sympathy to the elder man, obliged to return to the house where had lived the murdered lady for whom he had then confessed his admiration. Still, they wished it had not made him so unpleasant.
But Artus de Brencourt was to be pitied—and condemned—for reasons more acute than ‘les jeunes’ had divined.
He had come back to the Clos-aux-Grives after his escape from prison not only because, in the position he held, it was his plain duty to do so, but also because even a momentary return to Mirabel, where all his desire was set, would most certainly have involved Mme de Trélan in suspicion, or so he considered. Madly as he craved to see her again, his love was sufficiently unselfish to shrink from that. But he had by no means abandoned his intention of breaking down her opposition to his suit. When he got back to Finistère, and found that the Abbé had been despatched to Mirabel in spite of his letter of dissuasion (which had been prompted in reality less by fear for her safety than by anxiety about the preservation of her incognito) he decided that he must wait at the Clos-aux-Grives till the latter’s return, for, successful or unsuccessful, the priest would certainly bring some information about the concierge and the state of affairs at the chateau. Then he could make up his mind to his next move.
But there were tormenting elements in this course. If the Abbé proved unsuccessful in his quest, it was quite likely—having regard to the issues for Finistère hanging on the securing of the gold—that the Marquis himself would resolve to go after it, and then. . . . Or again, suppose that M. Chassin were successful, and that his very success brought “Mme Vidal” into suspicion? Prison at least would face her again—possibly deportation. Or, almost worst of all, suppose the self-contained little priest, anything but a fool, and deep, as he always suspected, in de Kersaint’s confidence, should discover who she was. What was there, indeed, to prevent her telling him? It was hardly surprising that during these days of suspense M. de Brencourt developed into a martinet.
For he had besides to endure the close daily companionship of the man he hated, envied, pretended to despise, admired, the man who—so he chose to put it—had deserted Valentine, the man who nevertheless had had for nineteen years the rights of a husband and to whom perhaps she was, in spite of everything, not indifferent. Had she not all but swooned at the news of his death, though he had so completely cast her off? That she might conceivably care for Gaston de Trélan still, that was the horrible doubt which gnawed at the Comte’s heart—almost more than a doubt in the hours when he allowed himself to realise how little foundation he had for the charges which he had made against the Duc. But he fed himself on those accusations till he had come almost to believe in their truth. They must be true—else why had he found Mme de Trélan under a false name, in an inconceivable situation, and ignorant whether her husband were alive or dead? He must have treated her abominably, or she would long ago have taken steps to join him! And now that, since his visit to Mirabel, suspicion as to de Kersaint’s identity existed no longer, for he knew, the perpetual craving to wound, to avenge himself—and her—together with the intoxicating consciousness of the secret which he held, and which he meant to keep for ever from the one man on earth who had a right to know it, and to whom it would mean, as he guessed, at the lowest estimation release from hell, and perhaps much more—all these were driving him insensibly to a precipice which now he could see gaping in front of him and that other man almost with joy, for even if both of them fell over it he cared little, provided they fell together.
The last day or two had lent a more sinister purpose to his gibes. It began to be clear to him that he could not even wait for the Abbé’s return, which might take place any day now. For what if he brought the news of the presence at Mirabel of something far more wonderful and precious than what he had gone to search for? All would be over then; he would certainly go to her. . . . The prospect was intolerable; the only way to render it impossible of realisation was to provoke de Kersaint—if he could—before the priest’s return. And despite the astonishing armour of self-control which the Marquis had succeeded in buckling on, the latter was beginning to lose patience at last.
The Comte saw it, and hugged the knowledge. Everything that he could say, short of direct personal insult, he had said to him whenever he had the chance, during the last four days. And he knew that his victim, unless he revealed his identity, was helpless to do more than resent his insinuations, since they were all directed against that presumably absent person, the Duc de Trélan. But the veil was wearing very thin now. The hour would soon come when the man who had woven it would be forced to tear it asunder with his own hands.
(2)
It had been a trying day, sultry, and overshadowed by the threat of thunder without its relief. A despatch had come too from a subordinate to say that the zeal of the recruits in his region was sensibly diminishing because only one in four could be armed. As usual for the last three nights, there had been one or two other officers to supper. M. de Brencourt could smile, now, at that effort at self-protection on the Marquis’s part. Hatred, like love, will find out the way. Yet he had not hoped that he could bring about the explosion that very evening.
After the other officers had withdrawn and the supper dishes were removed, M. de Kersaint was obliged to consult his chief of staff about the news which had just arrived. Nor, to do him justice, did the Comte de Brencourt give to the matter in hand much less attention than he would have done had their relations been perfectly normal.
At the end M. de Kersaint remarked that unless the gold from Mirabel was in their hands soon it would come too late to be of use.
“You have not heard further from the Abbé then?” asked his second-in-command, though he was aware that he had not.
“Not a word.”
“He may be arrested—the whole attempt a failure then, for all we know?”
“Yes,” said de Kersaint with a little sigh. “And with it the best of our hopes for Finistère.”
De Brencourt shook his head in an affectation of sympathy.
“I wonder you can sleep at night, Marquis, with so much on your mind!”
The proud grey eyes met his. “I do not find it difficult, thanks,” returned his leader drily, and he got up and went to the window, where he pulled aside the rough curtain and looked out. Moonlight came in when he did so.
The Comte made a movement as though to go, but he still lingered, his eyes fixed on the back turned to him.
“It begins to look as if Mirabel had proved as fatal to the Abbé as to Roland and myself and . . . its late mistress,” he observed.
“We must hope not,” replied the Marquis after a moment, drumming lightly on the window pane.
“I feel sure,” went on the Comte, “that, from what I have heard of him, de Trélan’s remorse over that business—assuming that he felt any—would be due rather to the damage suffered by his own reputation than to any affection for his wife. Don’t you think that is probable, de Kersaint?”
The man at the window suddenly flung open the casement as though he needed air. And indeed there was sweat on his forehead.
“By the way,” pursued his tormentor, as though struck by a sudden idea, “I don’t believe I ever asked you, Marquis, who was de Trélan’s heir? He had no legitimate children, I fancy?”
There was a momentary pause.
“No,” said M. de Kersaint, without moving. “The Duc de Savary-Lancosme, his cousin-german, would have come into most of his property.” And he shut the window again.
“Is Savary-Lancosme alive?”
“He was guillotined in ’94.”
“Humph. He must sleep more soundly, then, than his cousin.”
The Marquis de Kersaint dropped the curtain over the moonlit casement and half turned round. “I really do not know why he should,” he said shortly, yet speaking, as was evident, with the most careful self-restraint. “Shall we say good-night now, Comte?”
A very little more and he might do it, if he could only hit on the right thing. So, instead of taking this broad hint, the Comte de Brencourt sat down carelessly on the table.
“I wonder,” he observed slowly, and with a sort of casual reflectiveness, “if that was the reason of de Trélan’s . . . poltroonery.”
He waited, after that last substantive, either for an explosion, or for a question as to what he meant. Neither came. But, glancing across the zone of lamplight to the window, he saw the smitten rigidity of his victim, and was filled with hope.
“I mean,” he explained, “the fact of the late Duchesse’s childlessness . . . Poor lady!”
Luck had served him far better than he could ever know. He had stabbed at the rawest wound of all, the most torturing memory. The Marquis swung round with clenched hands.
“And who gave you the right to make suppositions about the private affairs of the Duc and Duchesse de Trélan, Monsieur?” he demanded in a voice of hardly suppressed fury.
The Comte got off the table and looked at him.
“The same Fates, I imagine,” he answered coolly, “which caused the Duchesse to stand, in her lifetime, so sadly in need of some champion, by making her husband what he was—what he is!”
And at that the string snapped entirely. M. de Kersaint strode round the table. “Mort de ma vie! this is insufferable! Monsieur de Brencourt, I have borne insolence and innuendo from you long enough! I have been far too patient——”
“The innuendo, Monsieur,” broke in de Brencourt with a grim exultation, “the innuendo, since you term it so, shall be dropped. God knows I desire nothing better! Anything............