Chapter 27

HOW ANGELOT KEPT HIS TRYST

For Hélène, the next wonder in that autumn night's dream was the arrival at Les Chouettes, the mysterious house which bore the character of a den of Chouans, but the thought of which had always pleased her, as the home of Angelot's most attractive uncle.

Angelot hurried her through the lanes, almost in silence. At last he stopped under a tall poplar, which gleamed grey in the starlight among the other lower trees. It was close to the spot where, coming from Les Chouettes in the evening, he had been irresistibly drawn by the lights of Lancilly. Here he took Hélène in his arms and kissed her for the first time since the Curé had joined their hands.

"Mine!" he said. "My love, Hélène! you are not unhappy, you are not afraid, my own?"

"I am with you," the girl said, very low.

"Ah! if only--anyhow, I am the happiest man in the world. Come, dearest!"

Hélène wondered at him a little. He was changed, somehow, her gay, talkative, light-hearted, single-minded Angelot. He had become grave. She longed to ask him many things--how had he escaped or been released from prison?--was it his father's doing?--would his father and mother be displeased at his marriage?--but in spite of the rapture of knowing that they belonged to each other, she felt strangely shy of him. In that silent, hurried walk she dimly realised that her boy friend and lover had grown suddenly into a man. There was keen anxiety as well as joy in the quick, passionate embrace he allowed himself before bringing her to his uncle's hands.

They walked up to the house, over the grass and the spreading sand. All was silent and dark, except a gleam of light from Monsieur Joseph's window. A dog came up and jumped on Angelot, with a little whine of welcome; another pressed up to Hélène and licked her hand. She was standing between the dog and Angelot when Monsieur Joseph, hearing footsteps, suddenly opened the window and stepped out with his gun.

He stared a moment in astonished silence--then: "It is you, Anne! He has been home, then, the good-for-nothing! You have seen your father, Ange? Well, I told him, and I tell you, that you must go all the same--yes, my nephew does not break promises, or fail to keep appointments--but come in, Anne! What is the use of racing about the country all night? How did you miss him, the worthless fellow?"

"This is not my mother, Uncle Joseph," Angelot said, laughter struggling with earnestness, while his arm slid round Hélène. "Let me present you to my wife."

"What are you saying?" cried Monsieur Joseph, very sharply and sternly, coming a step nearer. "I see now--but who is this lady? None of your insolent jokes--who is it? Dieu! What have you done!"

"I have been to the ball at Lancilly," said Angelot. "You see, this is my cousin Hélène. She preferred a walk with me to a dance with other people. And Uncle Hervé thought--"

"Be silent," said Monsieur Joseph. He walked forward, pushed his nephew aside--a touch was enough for Angelot--and gently taking Hélène's hand, drew her into the light that streamed from his window. "Mademoiselle," he said, "my nephew is distracted. What truth is there in all this? Are you here with your father's knowledge. Something extraordinary must have happened, it seems to me."

"It is true, monsieur," Hélène said, blushing scarlet. "It was my father's doing. He sent for the Curé, and we were married in the chapel, not an hour ago. Do not be angry with us, I beg of you, monsieur. He said he must bring me to you first--and he loves you. My father did it to save me. Ange will explain. My father sent his compliments to you--and he said--he said you will see that your nephew's duty lies in France now."

Hélène was astonished at her own eloquent boldness. Angelot watched her, smiling, enchanted. Monsieur Joseph listened very gravely, his eyes upon her troubled face. When she paused, he bent and kissed her hand.

"I do not understand the mystery," he said. "I only see that my nephew is the most fortunate man in France. But I repeat, that he may hear me--honour comes before happiness. Go round to the salon, my friends. I will bring a light and open the door."

"Is it really myself--or am I dreaming?--yes, it must be all a dream!" Hélène murmured, as she sat alone in Monsieur Joseph's salon, beside a flaming wood fire that he had lighted with his own hands.

His first shock once over, the little uncle treated his nephew's wife like a princess. He made her sit in his largest chair, he put a cushion behind her, a footstool under her feet. With gentle hands he lifted the cloak that had slipped from her slight shoulders, advising her to keep it on till the room had grown warm, for she was shivering, though hardly conscious of it. He went himself to fetch wine and cakes, set them on a table beside her, tried unsuccessfully to make her eat and drink. Then he glanced at his watch and turned in his quick way to Angelot, who had been looking on at these attentions with a smile, almost jealous of the little uncle, yet happy that he should thus accept the new situation and take Hélène to his affectionate heart.

"Come with me, Angelot," said Monsieur Joseph. "Excuse us for a few minutes, my dear niece,"--he bowed to Hélène. "Affairs of state"--he smiled, dancing on tiptoe with his most birdlike air.

But as Angelot followed him out of the room, his look became as stern and secret as that of any fierce Chouan among them all.

Hélène waited; the time seemed long; and her situation almost too strange to be realised. Those small hours of the morning, dark and weird, brought their own special chill and shiver, both physical and spiritual; the thought began to trouble her that Angelot's father and mother would be very angry, perhaps--would not receive them, possibly--and that Uncle Joseph, in his lonely house, might be their only refuge; the thought of her own mother's indignation became a thought of terror, now that Angelot's dear presence was not there to send it away; all these ghosts crowded alarmingly upon her solitude, almost driving before them the one great certainty and wonder of the night. She looked round the shadowy, firelit room; she noticed with curious attention the quaint coverings of the furniture, the bright-coloured churches, windmills, farms, peasants at their work, all on a clear white ground, the ancient _perse_ that had been bought and arranged by Angelot's grandmother. She thought it much prettier than anything at Lancilly. It distracted her a little, as the minutes went on; but surely these affairs took a long time to settle; and the wind rose higher, and howled in the chimney and whistled in the shutters, and she saw herself, white and solitary, in a great glass at the end of the room.

When Angelot at last opened the door, she sprang from the chair and ran to meet him; the only safe place was in his arms.

"Don't leave me again," she whispered, as soon as it was possible to speak.

Angelot was very pale, his eyes were burning. With broken words and passionate kisses he put her back into the chair, and kneeling down beside her, struggled for calmness to explain.

He was in honour bound to go; he must ride away; the horse was already saddled, and he had only a few minutes in which to say good-bye. He must leave her in Uncle Joseph's care till he came back. Uncle Joseph said it was his duty to go. That very morning he was to have started for England; his companion would be waiting for him and running a thousand risks; he must meet him at the appointed place and send him on his way alone. He did not tell her that Uncle Joseph, after all his chivalrous kindness to her, had cordially wished women, love affairs, and marriages at the devil, even when perfectly well aware that it was not only Hélène, with her soft hands, who was holding his nephew back and keeping him in Anjou.

"You know my father went to Paris, sweet?" said Angelot. "He has come back--he has been here this very night, looking for me. He would have found me at home, if you had not called me across the fields to see you dancing, you know! He saw all the authorities, even the Emperor himself. Nobody knew anything about that arrest of mine, and I think a certain Simon may get into hot water for it--though that is too much to expect, perhaps. Anyhow, they say it was a mistake."

"Monsieur des Barres told me so. He said he was sure of it," said the girl.

"Hélène--how beautiful you are!"

She had laid her hand on his head, and was looking down at him, smiling, though her eyes were wet. He took her hand and held it against his lips.

"How I adore you!" he whispered.

"Then you are free--free to be happy," she said.

"As far as I know--unless that clever father of mine has asked the Emperor for a commission for me--but I think, for my mother's sake, he would not do that. He has not told Uncle Joseph so, at any rate; the dear uncle would not have received an officer of Napoleon's so nicely."

Hélène shuddered; the very word "officer" brought Ratoneau to her mind. But she felt safe at least, safe for ever now, from _him_.

"I hate soldiers," she said. "Must every one fight and kill?"

Her bridegroom was still kneeling at her feet when Monsieur Joseph came back, bringing Henriette with him. The child's dark eyes were full of sleep, her cropped hair stood on end, her small figure was wrapped in her little flannel gown; she looked a strange and pathetic creature, roused out of sleep, brought down to take her part in these realities. But she was equal to the occasion. Riette never failed in the duties of love; she was never called upon in vain. She went round to the back of Hélène's chair, took her face in her two small hands, leaned forward and kissed her forehead under the curls.

"Go, mon petit!" she said to Angelot. "I will keep her safe till you are back in the morning."

She spoke slowly, sleepily.

"Riette is always my friend," said Angelot.

"I told you long ago," said the child, "that papa and I would help you to the last drop of our blood."

"Ah! we have not reached that point yet," said Monsieur Joseph, laughing softly. "Now, my children, say good-bye. After all--for a few hours--it is not a tragedy."

* * * * *

The Lancilly ball was the most brilliant, the most beautiful, for many hours the most successful, that had taken place in that country-side since before the Revolution. Many people arriving late, the crowd of guests went on increasing, and they danced with so much energy, the music was so beautiful, the whole affair went with such a swing, strangely mixed as the company was from a political point of view, that Madame de Sainfoy in the midst of her duties as hostess had no time to give more than an occasional thought to her own family. She watched Georges and his proceedings with satisfaction, but after missing Hélène and sending Mademoiselle Moineau to look for her, she forgot her again; and she did not miss her husband till he failed to be in his place at supper-time, to lead the oldest lady into the dining-room. When time went on, and he did not appear, she began to be puzzled and anxious, while exerting herself to the full, in order that no one should be aware of his absence.

She was passing through the inner salon, alone for the moment, on her way to find a servant that she might send in search of Monsieur de Sainfoy, when General Ratoneau, having made his bow to the lady he had brought back from supper, and who was heartily glad to be rid of him, came to meet her with a swaggering air, partly owing to champagne.

Smiling, he told her with an oath that her daughter was confoundedly pretty, the prettiest girl in Anjou, and the wildest and most unmanageable; that she would not listen to a word of compliment, and had run away from him when he told her, in plain soldier fashion--"as I always speak, madame"--that she was to be his wife.

"Ah, Monsieur le Général--you are so certain of that?" murmured Adélaïde, considering him with her blue eyes a little coldly.

"Certain, madame? I suppose it will not occur to you or to Monsieur de Sainfoy to disobey the Emperor! Why, the order might have arrived to-day--it certainly will to-morrow--ah, I mean yesterday or to-day, for midnight is long passed. Yes, but she is a detestable mixture, that daughter of yours, Madame la Comtesse, and it would take all my courage to venture on such a wife, without your encouragement. Cold as ice, as stately as an old queen of France--upon my soul, it needs a brave man to face the possibilities of such a ménage. But I suppose she is timid with it all--eh? I must be firm with her, I must show resolution, n'est-ce pas?"

"Apparently your compliments frightened her. Yes, she is timid enough," said Madame de Sainfoy. "She not only ran away from you, but from the ball. I understand her now. She is a mere child, Monsieur le Général, unaccustomed to--to--" Adélaïde broke off, a little absently. "I sent a person to find her. I will send again, but--if you will forgive me--" with a dazzling smile--"I would advise you not to say much more to Hélène till the affair is really decided beyond all question--yes, what is it?"

A servant came up to her, hesitating, glancing at the General, who said quickly, his face darkening, "I consider it decided now."

"So do I--so it is, of course," she said quickly. "Well?" to the servant.

"Monsieur de la Marinière asks if he can see Madame la Comtesse for five minutes."

"Ask him to wait--" she was beginning, coldly, when Monsieur Urbain came hurrying impatiently across the room.

"Ah--my very good friend, Monsieur de la Marinière," Ratoneau said with a grin.

He did not move away. Urbain came up and kissed Adélaïde's hand and looked at her with an extraordinary expression. He was plainly dressed for travelling, a strange-looking guest in those rooms. His square face was drawn into hard lines, his mouth was set, his eyes were staring. She gazed at him, fascinated, and her lips formed the words, "What is it, Urbain?" Then she suddenly said, turning white, "Something has happened to Hervé!"

"To Hervé? I don't know. Yes, he seems to have gone mad," said Urbain. "You know nothing of it? I thought as much--but I have come straight to you. Where is Hervé? He is here now, surely? I must speak to him."

"What are you talking about? Are you sure it is not _you_ who have gone mad? As to Hervé, I have not seen him for the last hour. I was looking for him."

"He looked devilish queer when I saw him last," muttered the General. "Mademoiselle ran after him; they are a pretty pair."

Urbain and Adélaïde both looked at him vaguely; then again at each other.

"Where is he now? Do you know?" she said.

"He left the château, madame, with your daughter and her husband," Urbain said, slowly and indistinctly, grinding his teeth as he spoke.

"Urbain!" she cried.

"_What_ are you saying, monsieur?" growled the General, with his hand on his sword.

"Peace, peace, Monsieur le Général, you will know all presently," Urbain said more calmly. "Some one has betrayed our plans," he went on, looking at Adélaïde, who was white and speechless. "These are my adventures. I went to Paris in search of my son, to find out where he was, and why he had been arrested. I could hear nothing of him. I saw the Préfet de la Police, I saw the Duc de Rovigo, I saw Réal and a dozen more officials. No one knew anything. Finally I saw Duroc, an old acquaintance, and he introduced me to the Emperor. His Majesty was gracious. He gave me a free pardon for Angelot, in case he had been mixed up against his will with any Chouan conspiracies. I pledged my honour for him in the future. But still the mystery remained--I could not find him."

Adélaïde seemed turned to stone. These two gazed at each other, speechless, and did not now give a look or a thought to the third person present. He stood transfixed, listening; the angry blood rushed into his face, then ebbed as suddenly, leaving him a livid, deathlike yellow.

"But mon Dieu, why all this story?" Adélaïde burst out with almost a scream. "What is he to me, your silly Angelot? What did you say just now? My daughter and--I must have heard you wrongly."

Urbain gave a short, crackling laugh. "Nevertheless, I shall go on with my story. I came home a few hours ago. My wife told me that Angelot was safe with his uncle at Les Chouettes." The General started violently, but neither of them noticed him. "We went there together, and found that the boy was gone to La Marinière, to see his mother--Joseph had planned to pack him off out of the way of the police--with his usual discretion--but enough of that."

"Urbain, you will madden me! What do I care for all this?"

Adélaïde made a few steps and let herself fall into a chair.

"Patience!" he said; and there was something solemn, almost awful, in the way he stretched out his right hand to her. "We hastened back to La Marinière, and found no Angelot there. Then I began to think that Joseph's fears of the police might not be exaggerated--Angelot escaped from them on the very day he was arrested--the man who arrested him, why, I cannot discover, was that fellow Simon, the spy, and according to Joseph he has been watching the woods ever since. I went out, for I could not rest indoors, and as I walked down the road I met Monsieur le Curé and Martin Joubard, coming from Lancilly. I turned back with the old man, and he told me his story."

He stopped and drew a long breath.

"I hardly listened to the details," he said. "But by some means Hervé had heard of the expected order--and--distrusting all the world, it seems, even you, his wife, he sent for the Curé at midnight and forced him to celebrate the marriage. Ah, Monsieur le Général, you may well take it hardly; yet I do not believe you are more angry than I am."

"As to that, monsieur," said Ratoneau, glaring at him with savage fury, "I believe you have played me false and arranged the whole affair. Your scamp of a son has escaped the prison he richly deserved, and you have plotted to marry him to your cousin's daughter. I always thought you as clever as the devil, monsieur. But look here--and you too, madame, listen to me. I will ruin the whole set of you--and as to that boy of yours, let him beware how he meets me. I swear I will be his death."

Urbain shrugged his shoulders and turned from him to Adélaïde, who was beckoning feebly and could hardly find voice to speak.

"I am very stupid, I suppose," she said. "I cannot understand clearly. My husband has forced on Hélène's marriage with some one. Who is it, Urbain? Did the Curé tell you? Do not be afraid to tell me--I can bear it--you were always my friend."

There was something so unnatural in her manner, so terrible and stony in her look, that Urbain turned pale and hesitated.

"Mon Dieu!" he murmured. "You do not understand!"

"Mille tonnerres, Madame la Comtesse," roared the General, striding up to her chair--"they have married this man's son to your daughter. My congratulations on the splendid match. Ange de la Marinière and Hélène de Sainfoy--a pretty couple--but by all that's sacred their happiness shall not last long!"

"Hush, hush! Go away, for God's sake," cried Urbain. "You brute, you are killing her."

Adélaïde's eyelids had dropped, and she lay back unconscious.

There were people in the room, a confusion of voices, of wondering exclamations. Then, through the thickening crowd, Hervé de Sainfoy and Georges pushed their way, white and excited, followed by Mademoiselle Moineau, whose trembling limbs could hardly carry her.

The Comte de Sainfoy and General Ratoneau met face to face, and exchanged a few low words as Ratoneau walked out.

"You are a pretty host, Monsieur le Comte!"

"I have taught you a lesson, I hope, Monsieur le Général. I shall have no more interference with my family affairs."

"Sapristi! it is a new thing for you, is it not, to pose as the head of your own family? How did His Majesty's intention come to your knowledge? I am curious to know that."

"Let me ask you to leave my house. You shall hear from me. We will settle our affairs another day."

"Ah! You had better consult Madame la Comtesse. She is not pleased with you."

Ratoneau went out, snarling. Scarcely knowing which way he turned, he found himself in an outer vestibule at the foot of the great staircase. The autumn wind was blowing in, fresh and cool across the valley; grey light was beginning to glimmer, a shiver of dawn to pass over the world outside. A group of men were standing in the doorway, and Ratoneau found himself surrounded by them. One of them was Simon, with his head bound up; the others were some of the police employed to watch Chouan proceedings in the province generally.

"What, fool!" the General began furiously to Simon. "And all this time you--" he checked himself, remembering the presence of the others, who were looking at him curiously.

"We have something to report to Monsieur le Général," Simon said hurriedly, with an eager sign of caution. "To save time--as Monsieur le Préfet is not here. A new conspiracy has been hatched at Les Chouettes--_Les Chouettes_, monsieur! Some of the gentlemen are probably there now. Some are to meet at the Étang des Morts, to start for England this very morning. They will be caught easily. But Les Chouettes should be searched, monsieur--important arrests can be made there."

He came forward, almost pushing the General back against the stairs.

"There are enough of us," he said, "but not enough authority. If Monsieur le Général would go himself"--he came up closer and muttered in Ratoneau's ear--"I know all--they are there--we can at least arrest the men--safe this time--the police have real evidence, and I have seen nightly visitors to Monsieur de la Marinière. But _they are there_, monsieur--I saw them on their way--I met the priest going back. And on my word, Monsieur le Comte managed it neatly."

"Did he give you that broken head, fool? And why did you not come to me sooner?"

"That was a gentleman with a wooden leg. Yes, he delayed me half an hour."

"More fool you! Come, we must have these Chouans. Say nothing. Get me a horse--one that will carry double, mind you. Four of you fellows go on and watch the house. I and Simon will overtake you."

He swore between his teeth as he turned away, "I will be the death of him, and I will have her yet!"