CHAPTER XIX

LA PORTE DU MANOIR

(1)

A cold and grey light was in the sky when La Vireville came back to consciousness, and, for the moment greatly puzzled, raised his head and looked about him. There was no fallen horse, no sign of hussars, nothing left of the night's doings but a sick feeling in the mouth, a bruised shoulder, and a foot that ached ten thousand times worse than he had ever thought a foot could ache. But, as he struggled to one elbow, he saw another relic--he tricolour sash about his body. He surveyed it without much approbation. Was it that symbol which had saved him? No; it had been too dark when he came down; they could not have seen it. Had they thought him killed, then, and ridden off and left him? Hardly, because if they knew whom they were hunting, which was probable, they would have been anxious for the reward, since he was equally marketable alive or dead--did he not carry that guarantee on his person? And where was his wounded horse? He came at last to the conclusion that his steed must have picked itself up and galloped on, and that the hussars had pursued it, not seeing that it was riderless, or that their quarry was lying at their mercy by the échalier. They must almost have ridden over him as he lay senseless. All of which was very miraculous, and seemed to denote a special care on the part of Providence that was encouraging. "If only the brute had chosen my other foot to roll on!" thought the victim. "But of course he would not!"

However, long as the grass was, and early as the hour, it was unbecoming to lie there like a lame sheep and wait to be picked up. A coppice ran along the side of this second field, and towards this, on his hands and knees, the ends of the tricolour sash dragging in the wet grass, La Vireville made his way. And in the coppice, having drunk some brandy, cut off his slashed boot and applied the same restorative to his swollen foot, he very stoically lay down under an oak, thinking to sleep. That solace, however, he could not compass; his foot hurt too much. Moreover, he had a fairly knotty problem to solve--how best to remove himself from his present environment to a safer. And he saw no way, short of crawling or hopping. For even if he were physically capable of working his way towards Carhoët he could only safely do it under cover of darkness, and for darkness, near as he was to Porhoët, he could not afford to wait. "I was really better in my cupboard," he reflected. Certainly his knight-errantry, if it had proved of any avail for the lady--which was more than doubtful--had left its author in no happy plight.

And at last it was borne in upon La Vireville that, daylight or no daylight, he must somehow set a greater distance between himself and the now enlightened village of Porhoët. With luck, the copse where he lay might turn out to be a spur of the wood of Roscanvel, which he knew, from a previous study of the map, to be somewhere thereabouts. In that case, by going a little farther he might find shelter till the evening, even if he had to climb a tree to attain it. He sighed, sat up, and tried to draw the remains of his boot over his foot--an attempt that proved out of the question. So he tied up the injured member as best he could, cut himself a stout stick out of the coppice, and, just as the first rays of the sun began to strike through the trees, set his face towards the thickness of the wood.

(2)

Because it had been raining hard since ten in the morning--though now, by sunset, it had ceased--the bad road was exceedingly muddy and full of extensive pools. These it was at the moment so profoundly delighting a small male child to stir up with a twig that he did not observe the slow approach of a wayfarer, nor look up till he heard himself addressed. He then saw a tall man leaning upon a stick and wearing only one boot. He was bareheaded, wet, and very pale; but he wore a tricolour sash.

"Child," said the apparition, and its voice sounded strange and small, like the voice of Uncle Pierre when he was ill of the fever--"child, is there any house along this road . . . not far away?"

The boy was frightened, and much desired to return no answer at all, but he knew that you must not trifle with those who wore the tricolour scarf, or it would be the worse for you. So, rubbing his bare toes for solace in the delicious mud, he responded truthfully:

"Round the next corner, Citizen, you will see the old manoir of L'Estournel. But nobody lives there, and it is full of ghosts, witches, and all manner of evil things. One does not pass it after dark."

"Thank you," said the man with the tricolour. And adding solemnly, "May you live to be an ornament to your country," he gave him a silver piece and limped on. The boy watched him with open mouth till he disappeared round the bend.

It seemed to La Vireville that he had never known the possession of two sound feet; also, that he had been walking for several days, though it was only at noon that he had left the forest, which had not proved a very happy resting-place. But since then he had set he knew not how many miles between himself and Porhoët; indeed, by now he had almost lost count of direction. He was wet and hungry, while his foot was a plaster of mud, blood, and devouring pain. Finally, he was on an open road, where he little desired to find himself. But he hoped now to force an entrance into the deserted house.

Round the turn of the road he saw it at last, steep-roofed, peering greyly at him over its high wall. All round it the overgrown trees flamed with spring and sunset, and, behind, two slim poplars mounted like spires to heaven. The wall brimmed with the stems of matted creepers, and in it, sheltered in a stone archway with a living thatch of grass, was an old green door. He would go through this and rest.

As he had the thought, La Vireville's heart stood still, for he had caught the sound of many hoofs in front of him. Was he neatly trapped after all his fatigue and pain? Then at least he would not be taken alive, nor die with their accursed rag on his body! He tore off the sash and flung it into the ditch, drew behind the row of chestnuts which fringed the road--a perfectly inadequate cover--and, a hand on each pistol, waited. . . .

And they passed, at a canter, half a squadron of red hussars, looking neither to right nor left!

Strong-nerved as he was, Fortuné de la Vireville turned a moment giddy with the revulsion. Then once more he saw the trees beckoning over the wall, the friendly green door, the grey roofs. If only he could get inside he could at least drop down in peace in the garden, and after that he cared little what happened. He hobbled forward, steadying himself from chestnut to chestnut. In all the rainpools the sunset gleamed, and the reflection bothered him, dancing up and down. "I must reach the door! I must reach the door!" he kept repeating. Only twenty-five steps farther, perhaps . . . or count it by trees, that was better. . . . The effort of keeping his head steady in the dizzying pain was as difficult as the actual walking. At last he had shuffled across the road, and was at the old green door, and dared not try whether it were fastened. La Vireville had never in his life, he thought, desired anything so vehemently as to be able to pass it--though in truth he knew not if he should find safety on the other side. . . . The latch was stiff; his fingers seemed stiffening too. . . . It lifted, the door gave, creaking on its old hinges, and he found himself inside. He had just enough sense to close it after him.

Within, it was all as he had guessed it would be, of a neglect so ancient that every growing thing had set itself to repair and clothe it. But all that he saw clearly was the great, nail-studded door above the flight of shallow steps, for it stood wide open, and through the archway, framed in a tangle of still rust-coloured creeper, was cool darkness. It drew him more than the rioting garden, and he got himself somehow up the steps. And, once in the place, that was half-hall, half-kitchen, and that was lofty, with many great beams, he knew himself to be vanquished, for there was mist before his eyes and the sea in his ears. Yet he staggered as far as the huge old table, thick in dust, that stood before the great empty hearth, before he felt himself falling. He made a grab at the oak, missed it, stood swaying, and then sank heavily to the cold hearthstone. Consciousness had left him before he reached it.

(3)

When the familiar pain in his foot laid hold of him once more, and pulled him up, reluctant, from this happy blankness he was aware, as he came, of other sensations. Something wet and cold, smelling strongly of brandy, was passing slowly over his forehead; something hard was rubbing one of his hands. A voice said, "He is coming to," and this being now his own opinion, La Vireville opened his eyes.

He was lying where he had fallen, but his head was resting in the crook of someone's arm. On the other side knelt Grain d'Orge, chafing one of his hands between his own horny palms; he looked ridiculously lugubrious. La Vireville stirred.

"You are safe, Monsieur, you are safe!" said a woman's voice above him--a voice with a break in it. "Oh, your poor foot!"

The émigré removed his gaze from Grain d'Orge, who kissed the hand he was holding, and, looking up, beheld the face of Mme. de Guéfontaine, stamped with a new character of pity and tenderness. He concluded that she was no longer desirous of his blood. But how was it that she and Grain d'Orge were here? He tried to ask her, but the words were unaccountably difficult to say.

"You shall know in good time, Monsieur le Chevalier," she said gently. "Meanwhile, lie still. Grain d'Orge, roll up that cloak and put it under his head. That is better." She slipped her arm from under La Vireville's head, and his eyes closed again in spite of himself. A little time passed; he heard the Chouan murmuring prayers. Then light fingers were unwrapping the rags from about his lacerated foot, and he felt on it the sting of water, deliciously cold. He reopened his eyes.

"I am afraid that I am giving you a great deal of trouble," he said slowly and politely to the kneeling figure.

Mme. de Guéfontaine lifted her head, and, to his amazement, the tears were running down her cheeks. "I did not betray you!" she said, clasping her hands together over the dripping cloth they held. "Oh, believe me, M. le Chevalier, whatever I said to you in my madness, I did not give you up! I could not do it--by the time I was downstairs again I was ashamed of having said I would. But, by the most evil chance, which I still cannot understand, the section having got wind, somehow, of your arrival, chose that very moment to break in to arrest you. And when they found you, as they thought, gone, they arrested me instead . . . and if it had not been for you . . . And you,"--she finished brokenly, looking down at his foot,--"you went through all this for me, thinking I had betrayed you."

"Why," said La Vireville, with more animation, "if it comes to that, Madame, you were yourself under a slight misapprehension with regard to me!"

"I know! I know! Oh, can you ever forgive me?" she cried, leaving her task and kneeling down once more by his side. "I know now--it was your cousin the Marquis--but the name, the likeness, your having been at Coblentz--I felt so sure----"

"Then how do you know now?" queried La Vireville, still more puzzled.

"Because," she answered, "I have had someone to tell me the truth. I told you that I was leaving Porhoët in a day or two. I was, in fact, expecting my other brother from Guernsey to take me away--he is in the Comte d'Oilliamson's regiment there. He was to meet me here at L'Estournel, rather than come to Porhoët, because the manoir was unoccupied, and we both knew it, as it belonged once to our kin. So I made Grain d'Orge bring me here; it seemed the best thing to do, since we could not safely return to Porhoët, and Henri, when he came, could help Grain d'Orge to look for you."

She broke off, and returned to her ministrations.

"And then, Madame?" suggested her patient.

"Henri was here waiting for me! He had come earlier by a day than we had arranged. And he told me about poor André--how that it was your cousin the Marquis. Indeed, I had been already prepared for this, because Grain d'Orge spoke once or twice of you as 'Monsieur le Chevalier.' . . . All day we have been searching for you, as best we could--my brother is not yet returned. (Oh, this foot . . . what you must have suffered!) But I, when I came in a little while ago and saw you lying like a dead man across the hearthstone, I could scarcely believe it--and that fate had given me a chance after all of telling you that--a chance of undoing what I did----"

"What you did not do, rather," corrected La Vireville.

"But you thought I had--and yet you saved me!"

It was impossible categorically to deny this accusation, yet La Vireville was beginning to answer when a step was heard on the flagged floor, and Mme. de Guéfontaine sprang to her feet.

"Henri--he is here!"

And into the prostrate man's somewhat limited field of vision came a dark, good-looking young man whose resemblance to Mme. de Guéfontaine proclaimed his relationship. His sister slipped her arm into his.

("Now I wonder," thought Fortuné, "how far her fraternal affection for _this_ brother would carry her!")

"Monsieur," began Henri du Coudrais, with emotion, standing looking down upon the Chouan. "I have no words to express my apologies, my gratitude, or my sense of your magnanimity. But why did you not tell my sister the truth?"

"Monsieur," replied La Vireville from the floor, "I began to do so, but . . . had not time to finish. And I do not think that I should have been believed. . . . But permit me to say, M. du Coudrais, that if I had a sister, and she had been placed in like circumstances, I could only be flattered if her affection for me had led her to do the same, in all things, as Madame has done."

Mme. de Guéfontaine lifted her head from her brother's shoulder, against which she had suddenly hidden her face. "In all things?" she repeated, stressing the words, and with something like a remembered horror in her eyes.

Fortuné de la Vireville raised himself a trifle, while his fingers, as if unconsciously, tapped out a little tune on the handle of his hunting-knife. "Yes," he said, smiling at her meaningly and half-mischievously, "_in all things!_"

And the old beams, which had heard so many wise and foolish utterances, caught and flung to each other his perverse and fantastic condonation.