The Bronze Eagle (13 page)

"And also her reverses, my dear M. Fourier," remarked the Comte drily.

When Bobby Clyffurde came back to Brestalou, after his long day's ride,
he found the stately rooms of the old castle already prepared for the
arrival of M. le Comte's guests. The large reception hall had been
thrown open, as—after supper—M. le Comte would be receiving some of
the notabilities of Grenoble in honour of a great occasion: the
signature of the
contrat de mariage
between Mlle. Crystal de Cambray
de Brestalou and M. Victor de Marmont. There was an array of liveried
servants in the hall and along the corridor through which Bobby had to
pass on the way to his own room: their liveries of purple with canary
facings—the heraldic colours of the family of Cambray de
Brestalou—hardly showed, in the flickering light of wax candles, the
many ravages of moth and mildew which twenty years of neglect had
wrought upon the once fine and brilliant cloth.

Downstairs the formal supper which was to precede the reception was laid
for twenty guests. The table was resplendent with the silver so kindly
lent by a benevolent and far-seeing king to those of his friends who had
not the means of replacing the ancient family treasures filched from
them by the revolutionary government.

There were no flowers upon the table, and only very few wax candles
burned in the ormolu and crystal chandelier overhead. Flowers and wax
candles were luxuries which must be paid for with ready money—a
commodity which was exceedingly scarce in the grandiose Château de
Brestalou—but they also were a luxury which could easily be dispensed
with, for did not M. le Comte de
[Pg 102]
Cambray set the fashions and give the
tone to the whole
département
? and if he chose to have no flowers upon
his supper table and but few candles in his silver sconces, why then
society must take it for granted that such now was
bon ton
and the
prevailing fashion at the Tuileries.

Bobby, knowing his host's fastidious tastes in such matters, had made a
very careful toilet, all the while that his thoughts were busy with the
wonderful news which Emery had brought this day, and which was all over
Grenoble by now. He and his two companions had left Notre Dame de Vaulx
soon after their
déjeuner
, and together had entered the city at five
o'clock in the afternoon. On their way they had encountered the
travelling-coach of Général Mouton-Duveret, who, accompanied by his
aide-de-camp, was on his way to Gap, where he intended to organise
strong resistance against Bonaparte.

He parleyed some time with Emery, whom he knew by sight and suspected of
being an emissary of the Corsican. Emery, with true southern verve, gave
the worthy general a highly-coloured account of the triumphal progress
through Provence and the Dauphiné of Napoleon, whom he boldly called
"the Emperor." Mouton—in no way belying his name—was very upset not
only by the news, but by his own helplessness with regard to Emery, who
he knew would presently be in Grenoble distributing the usurper's
proclamations all over the city, whilst he—Mouton—with his one
aide-de-camp and a couple of loutish servants on the box of his coach,
could do nothing to detain him.

As soon as the three men had ridden away, however, he sent his
aide-de-camp back to Grenoble by a round-about way, ordering him to make
as great speed as possible, and to see Général Marchand as soon as may
be, so that immediate measures might be taken to prevent that
[Pg 103]
emissary
if not from entering the city, at least from posting up proclamations on
public buildings.

But Mouton's aide-de-camp was no match against the enthusiasm and
ingenuity of Emery and de Marmont, and when he—in his turn—entered
Grenoble soon after five o'clock, he was confronted by the printed
proclamations signed by the familiar and dreaded name "Napoleon" affixed
to the gates of the city, to the Hôtel de Ville, the mairie, the prison,
the barracks, and to every street corner in Grenoble.

The three friends had parted at the porte de Bonne, Emery to go to his
friend Dumoulin, the glovemaker—de Marmont to his lodgings in the rue
Montorge, whilst Bobby Clyffurde rode straight back to Brestalou.

A couple of hours later Victor de Marmont had also arrived at the
castle. He too had made an elaborate toilet, and then had driven over in
a hackney coach in advance of the other guests, seeing that he desired
to have a final interview with M. le Comte before he affixed his name to
his
contrat de mariage
with Mlle. de Cambray. An air of solemnity sat
well upon his good-looking face, but it was obvious that he was
trying—somewhat in vain—to keep an inward excitement in check.

M. le Comte de Cambray, believing that this excitement was entirely due
to the solemnity of the occasion, had smiled indulgently—a trifle
contemptuously too—at young de Marmont's very apparent eagerness. A
vulgar display of feelings, an inability to control one's words and
movements when under the stress of emotion was characteristic of the
parvenus of to-day, and de Marmont's unfettered agitation when coming to
sign his own marriage contract was only on a par with préfet Fourier's
nervousness this afternoon.

The Comte received his future son-in-law with a gracious smile. The
thought of an alliance between Mlle. de Cam
[Pg 104]
bray de Brestalou and a de
Marmont of Nowhere had been a bitter pill to swallow, but M. le Comte
was too proud to show how distasteful it had been. Chatting pleasantly
the two men repaired together to the library.

Bobby Clyffurde—immaculately dressed in fine cloth coat and satin
breeches, with fine Mechlin lace at throat and wrist, and his light
brown hair tied at the nape of the neck with a big black bow—came down
presently to the reception room. He found the place silent and deserted.

But the stately apartment looked more cosy and home-like than usual. A
cheerful fire was burning in the monumental hearth and the soft light of
the candles fixed in sconces round the walls tempered to a certain
degree that bare and severe look of past grandeur which usually hung
upon every corner of the old château.

Clyffurde went up to the tall hearth. He rested his hand on the ledge of
the mantel and leaning his forehead against it he stared moodily into
the fire.

Thoughts of all that he had learned in the past few hours, of the new
chapter in the book of the destinies of France, begun a few days ago in
the bay of Jouan, crowded in upon his mind. What difference would the
unfolding of that new chapter make to the destinies of the Comte de
Cambray and of Crystal? What had Fate in store for the bold adventurer
who was marching across France with a handful of men to reconquer a
throne and remake an empire? what had she in store for the stiff-necked
aristocrat of the old regime who still believed that God himself had
made special laws for the benefit of one class of humanity, and that He
had even created them differently to the rest of mankind?

And what had Fate in store for the beautiful, delicate girl whose future
had been so arbitrarily settled by two men
[Pg 105]
—father and lover—one the
buyer, the other the seller of her exquisite person, the shrine of her
pure and idealistic soul—and bargained for by father and lover as the
price of so many acres of land—a farm—a château—an ancestral estate?

Father and lover were sitting together even now discussing values—the
purchase price—"You give me back my lands, I will give you my
daughter!" Blood money! soul money! Clyffurde called it as he ground his
teeth together in impotent rage.

What folly it was to care! what folly to have allowed the tendrils of
his over-sensitive heart to twine themselves round this beautiful girl,
who was as far removed from his destiny as were the ambitions of his
boyhood, the hopes, the dreams which the hard circumstances of fate had
forced him to bury beneath the grave-mound of rigid and unswerving duty.

But what a dream it had been, this love for Crystal de Cambray! It had
filled his entire soul from the moment when first he saw her—down in
the garden under an avenue of ilex trees which cast their mysterious
shadows over her; her father had called to her and she had come across
to where he—Clyffurde—stood silently watching this approaching vision
of loveliness which never would vanish from his mental gaze again.

Even at that supreme moment, when her blue eyes, her sweet smile, the
exquisite grace of her took possession of his soul, even then he knew
already that his dream could have but one awakening. She was already
plighted to another, a happier man, but even if she were free, Crystal
would never have bestowed a thought upon the stranger—the commonplace
tradesman, whose only merit in her sight lay in his friendship with
another gallant English gentleman.

And knowing this—when he saw her after that, day
[Pg 106]
after day, hour after
hour—poor Bobby Clyffurde grew reconciled to the knowledge that the
gates of his Paradise would for ever be locked against him: he grew
contented just to peep through those gates; and the Angel who was on
guard there, holding the flaming sword of caste prejudice against him,
would relent at times and allow him to linger on the threshold and to
gaze into a semblance of happiness.

Those thoughts, those dreams, those longings, he had been able to
endure; to-day reality had suddenly become more insistent and more
stern: the Angel's flaming sword would sear his soul after this, if he
lingered any longer by the enchanted gates: and thus had the semblance
of happiness yielded at last to dull regret.

He sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.

The sound of the opening and shutting of a door, the soft frou-frou of a
woman's skirt roused him from his gloomy reverie, and caused him to jump
to his feet.

Mlle. Crystal was coming across the long reception room, walking with a
slow and weary step toward the hearth. She was obviously not yet aware
of Clyffurde's presence, and he had full leisure to watch her as she
approached, to note the pallor of her cheeks and lips and that pathetic
look of childlike self-pity and almost of appeal which veiled the
brilliance of her deep blue eyes.

A moment later she saw him and came more quickly across the room, with
hand extended, and an air of gracious condescension in her whole
attitude.

"Ah! M. Clyffurde," she said in perfect English, "I did not know you
were here . . . and all alone. My father," she added, "is occupied with
serious matters downstairs, else he would have been here to receive
you."

"I know, Mademoiselle," he said after he had kissed the tips of three
cold little fingers which had been held out
[Pg 107]
to him. "My friend de
Marmont is with him just now: he desired to speak with M. le Comte in
private . . . on a matter which closely concerns his happiness."

"Ah! then you knew?" she asked coldly.

"Yes, Mademoiselle, I knew," he replied.

She had settled herself down in a high-backed chair close to the hearth,
the ruddy light of the wood-fire played upon her white satin gown, upon
her bare arms, and the ends of her lace scarf, upon her satin shoes and
the bunch of snowdrops at her breast, but her face was in shadow and she
did not look up at Clyffurde, whilst he—poor fool!—stood before her,
absorbed in the contemplation of this dainty picture which mayhap after
to-night would never gladden his eyes again.

"You are a great friend of M. de Marmont?" she asked after a while.

"Oh, Mademoiselle—a friend?" he replied with a self-deprecatory shrug
of the shoulders, "friendship is too great a name to give to our chance
acquaintanceship. I met Victor de Marmont less than a fortnight ago, in
Grenoble. . . ."

"Ah yes! I had forgotten—he told me that he had first met you at the
house of a M. Dumoulin . . ."

"In the shop of M. Dumoulin, Mademoiselle," broke in Clyffurde with his
good-humoured smile. "M. Dumoulin, the glovemaker, with whom I was
transacting business at the moment when M. de Marmont walked in, in
order to buy himself a pair of gloves."

"Of course," she added coldly, "I had forgotten. . . ."

"You were not likely to remember such a trivial circumstance,
Mademoiselle. M. de Marmont saw me after that here as guest in your
father's house. He was greatly surprised at finding me—a mere
tradesman—in such an honoured position. Surprise laid the foundation of
pleasing
[Pg 108]
intercourse between us, but you see, Mademoiselle, that M. de
Marmont has no cause to boast of his friendship with me."

"Oh! M. de Marmont is not so prejudiced. . . ."

"As you are, Mademoiselle?" he asked quietly, for she had paused and he
saw that she bit her lips with her tiny white teeth as if she meant to
check the words that would come tumbling out.

Thus directly questioned she gave a little shrug of disdain.

"My opinions in the matter are not in question, Sir," she said coldly.

She smothered a little yawn which may have been due to ennui, but also
to the tingling of her nerves. Clyffurde saw that her hands were never
still for a moment; she was either fingering the snowdrops in her belt
or smoothing out the creases in her lace scarf; from time to time she
raised her head and a tense expression came into her face, as if she
were trying to listen to what was going on elsewhere in the
house—downstairs perhaps—in the library where she was being finally
bargained for and sold.

Clyffurde felt an intense—an unreasoning pity for her, and because of
that pity—the gentle kinsman of fierce love—he found it in his heart
to forgive her all her prejudices, that almost arrogant pride of caste
which was in her blood, for which she was no more responsible than she
was for the colour of her hair or the vivid blue of her eyes; she seemed
so forlorn—such a child, in the midst of all this decadent grandeur.
She was being so ruthlessly sacrificed for ideals that were no longer
tenable, that had ceased to be tenable five and twenty years ago when
this château and these lands were overrun by a savage and vengeful mob,
who were loudly demanding the right to live in happiness, in comfort,
and in freedom. That right had been denied to them through the past
centuries by those
[Pg 109]
who were of her own kith and kin, and it was
snatched with brutal force, with lust of hate and thirst for reprisals,
by the revolutionary crowd when it came into its own at last.