“Le vin est versé; il faut le boire.” The words of the old adage rang in Valentine’s head to-night. Not long ago Gaston had quoted them. She had never before so felt their inexorable quality—for to-morrow he must set out to Vannes to drink it. . . . He had said farewell to his very few remaining officers, disbanded, of his handful of men, all but a few sentries, and wanted to ride alone to his surrender, but ‘les jeunes’ had made such an outcry at this, and begged so hard to be his escort, that, as the other safe-conducts were blank, he consented. It was past midnight, and he was still writing, by the light of a couple of candles, at a table in the embrasure of the large window in their room at La Vergne. Despite the cold, Valentine was sitting on the seat in the space between her husband and the heavily curtained window—the seat where, that October night, she had found and kissed his sword. Now, that same sword. . . . She looked between the candle-flames at his downbent face. One hand supported his head as he wrote, the fingers running up into the thick, rippling hair. The last three months of strain had aged him a little; but she saw nothing there that she did not love and honour.
The chateau was very still. Now and again, even through the closed window, Valentine could hear the footfall of the sentry on the flags below. But, after the recent armed occupation, this was like the last moments before death. To-morrow there would be no sentry—nothing to guard. It would all be over.
She pulled aside the curtain and looked out. There was a royal moon; she had forgotten it. The terrace sparkled with thinly fallen snow, and she could see how it powdered the bare, pleached boughs of the arbour where, in the spring, Roland and the son and daughter of the house had planned the invasion of Mirabel. And she saw, too, in the distance—or was it fancy?—a silver streak, the sea.
Ah, if they were there, embarking—if Gaston could but be spared the purgatory that lay before him first. She glanced at him again. He had death in his soul; she knew that. Le vin est versé . . .
It was not merely that he shrank, as any soldier might, from the personal humiliation of surrendering his sword; it was also that he had given to this enterprise, so nearly successful, not only his arm, but his heart. Only lately had she come to see what the overthrow of the cause meant to him; indeed she had not fully learnt it yet. Was he writing to the Comte d’Artois, she wondered now—to the Prince who, once again, had never come? If she had held the pen there were words, burning words, that she would have written to that royal laggard! O, how could the man exist who knew that a whole population was sacrificing itself for him and his family, that for years they had been dying for him on the battlefield and the scaffold, that his appearance was the one thing they asked of life, and his presence would cause all that suffering and sacrifice to be forgotten—how could he know all this . . . and not come!
Valentine clenched her hands. He whom she loved was driven to this pass through Charles of Bourbon. He had fought to keep open a harbour for the sails that never came, and was now left, deserted and alone, to drink this bitter wine. . . . The tears began to creep down her face—tears of wrath. She did not want Gaston to see them, and turning away, her forehead against the cold glass, she swallowed them down, trying to fix her thoughts instead on that silver gleam of sea, which, when the surrender was consummated, would bear them both away from the land of the once more lost cause.
When she had regained her self-control she dropped the curtain and turned back into the room. Her husband had laid down his pen and was leaning back in his chair, his hands along the arms. His look was remote and very grave. She rose from the seat, knelt down beside him and took his right hand in both of hers. His gaze came from far off and rested on her—still very grave.
“Gaston, I believe I can see the sea—the moon is so bright.”
“Yes?” said he, with a note of enquiry.
“I wish we were down there now,” she went on rather unsteadily, “—where the yellow poppies bloomed last autumn. Do you remember?”
“Do I remember? Do I ever forget? I have them safe—what you gave me.” He touched his breast with his other hand.
“My darling, if they could only bring you forgetfulness—forgetfulness of to-morrow!”
He shook his head. “They will not easily do that.” From her his glance strayed to the sheathed sword lying on the table. She could not bear to see his face when he looked at it, and hid her own.
He seemed then to make an effort to turn his thoughts. “You were speaking of the sea, beloved. When this . . . this business is over, the sea shall take us away at last to happiness.”
Valentine raised her head quickly. “At last! Gaston, no happiness over the sea, in tranquillity, can ever have the taste of this I have known, in warfare, since last summer! It can never be better, even as this, come what may, can never be less. If it ended to-morrow, you know that I have lived to see all that I dreamt of—more than I dreamt of! O, my knight, when the utmost has been wrought, what matters the broken sword! Please God there are many more happy days before us . . . but not better, not happier days!”
Their lips met in silence. Then, as she knelt there, he bowed his head till it rested on her shoulder. Grief and love were one.
The promise of the serene moon of the night was not fulfilled. Flurries of sleet were sweeping over the countryside next morning; the strip of sea was the colour of slate, and the wind howled in all the tall chimneys.
In this tumult Gaston bade farewell to Valentine upstairs. He and his escort calculated to reach Quimperlé that night, and Vannes the next, so that, unless the roads were in very bad condition, she might hope to see him back on the fourth day.
Downstairs in the wide hall with the young men were Mme de la Vergne and Marthe, the former as if she clung to the fiction of speeding a parting guest. But they were all very quiet, looking silently at the staircase when the Duc de Trélan, pale and upright, came down it pulling on his gauntlets.
“You have your safe-conducts on you, gentlemen, I hope?” he said as he descended.
“Have you your safe-conduct, Monsieur le Duc?” asked Marthe impulsively, coming to the foot of the stairs. Her little hands were clenched; she hated this business almost as much as he.
But Gaston reassured the impetuous girl, and saluted Mme de la Vergne while Artamène went down the steps to the horses, already there in charge of Lucien and a groom. Roland remained, the Duc’s riding cloak over his arm.
“I hate this day more than any God ever made!” said his betrothed to him under her breath. Her eyes looked as if she had not slept. Roland took her hands and drew her to him, but he could not give her any verbal comfort.
And then, just as M. de Trélan was bending in farewell over Mme de la Vergne’s fingers, there came with the cold wind through the open door the sound of a galloping horse stayed at the very perron, expostulatory voices at the bottom, and feet running up the steps. Next moment, breathing hard, a man burst into the hall with Artamène behind him.
“Thank God, I am in time!” he jerked out—pulled off his hat as he saw the ladies, and revealed the features of the Comte de Brencourt.
He was spattered with mud and half melted snow up to his very shoulders; his riding boots were one cake of it. But he went straight towards the Duc de Trélan, disregarding every one else.
“Don’t go to Vannes, de Kersaint!” (the old name was evidently still the more natural). “Don’t go, for God’s sake—there is treachery!”
Marthe gave a cry that went unheeded.
“Treachery!” ejaculated Gaston. His eyes lit up. “You dare to come and use that word in front of me—you!—But, perhaps, as an expert, you feel privileged?”
The Comte at that terrible rebuff stood a moment rigid, then he reeled a step backwards exactly as if he had been struck. Encountering a high-backed chair he gripped it with one hand, steadied himself, and said, in a voice that the air seemed to dissipate, “Your safe-conduct is waste paper.” His face was quite grey.
The Duc surveyed him pitilessly for a second or two; then he slightly shrugged his shoulders and turned away. “I am afraid that you have ridden very hard to no purpose, Monsieur,” he obs............