The Bronze Eagle (28 page)

"A sorry rôle?" protested the other.

"Yes, a sorry rôle. Are you not deceiving a woman? Am I not running
counter to my duty?"

"I but deceive Crystal temporarily. I love her and only deceive in order
to win her. The end justifies the means: Nor do you, in my opinion, run
counter to your duty. . . ."

But Clyffurde interrupted him roughly: "I pray you, Sir, make no comment
on mine actions. My own silent
[Pg 219]
comments on these are hard enough to
bear: your eulogies would raise bounds to my patience."

Whereupon he walked quickly up to the bed and from under the mattress
extricated five leather wallets which he threw one by one upon the
table.

"Here is the King's money," he said curtly; "you could never have taken
it from me by force, but I give it over to you willingly now. If within
a week from now I hear that the King has not received it, I will
proclaim you a liar and a thief."

"Sir . . . you dare . . ."

"Nay! we'll not quarrel. I don't want to do you any hurt. You know from
experience that I could kill you or wring your neck as easily as you
could kill a child; but Mlle. Crystal's love is like a protecting shield
all round you, so I'll not touch you again. But don't ask me to measure
my words, for that is beyond my power. Take the money, M. de St. Genis,
and earn not only the King's gratitude but also Mlle. Crystal's, which
is far better worth having. And now, I pray you, leave me to rest. You
must be tired too. And our mutual company hath become irksome to us
both."

He turned his back on St. Genis and sat down at the table, drawing
paper, pen and inkhorn toward him, and with clumsy, left hand began
laboriously to form written characters, as if St. Genis' presence or
departure no longer concerned him.

An importunate beggar could not have been more humiliatingly dismissed.
St. Genis had flushed to the very roots of his hair. He would have given
much to be able to chastise the insolent Englishman then and there. But
the latter had not boasted when he said that he could wring Maurice's
neck as easily with his left hand as with his right, and Maurice within
his heart was bound to own that the boast was no idle one. He knew that
in a hand-to-hand fight he
[Pg 220]
was no match for that heavy-framed,
hard-fisted product of a fog-ridden land.

He would not trust himself to speak any more, lest another word cause
prudence to yield to exasperation. Another moment of hesitation, a shrug
of the shoulders—perhaps a muttered curse or two—and St. Genis picked
up one by one the wallets from the table.

Clyffurde never looked up while he did so: he continued to form awkward,
illegible characters upon the paper before him, as if his very life
depended on being able to write with his left hand.

The next moment St. Genis had walked rapidly out of the room. Bobby left
off writing, threw down his pen, and resting his elbow upon the table
and his head in his hand, he remained silent and motionless while St.
Genis' quick and firm footsteps echoed first along the corridor, then
down the creaking stairs and finally on the floor below. After which
there came the sound of the opening and shutting of a door, the dragging
of a chair across a wooden floor, and nothing more.

All was still in the house at last. The old-fashioned clock downstairs
struck half-past two.

With a smothered cry of angry contempt Clyffurde seized on the papers
that lay scattered on the table and crushed them up in his hand with a
gesture of passionate wrath.

Then he strode up to the window, threw open the rickety casement and let
the pure cold air of night pour into the room and dissipate the
atmosphere of cowardice, of falsehood and of unworthy love that still
seemed to hang there where M. le Marquis de St. Genis had basely
bargained for his own ends, and outraged the very name of Love by
planning base deeds in its name.

[Pg 221]

Victor de Marmont had spent that same night in wearisome agitation. His
mortification and disappointment would not allow him to rest.

He had brought his squad of cavalry up as far as St. Priest, which lies
a little off the main road, about half-way between Lyons and the scene
of de Marmont's late discomfiture. Here he and his men had spent the
night, only to make a fresh start early the next morning—back for
Grenoble—seeing that M. le Comte d'Artois with thirty or forty thousand
troops was even now at Lyons.

When, an hour after leaving St. Priest, the little troop came upon a
solitary horseman, riding a heavy carriage horse with a postillion's
bridle, de Marmont at first had no other thought save that of malicious
pleasure at recognising the man, whom just now he hated more cordially
than any other man in the world.

M. de St. Genis—for indeed it was he—was peremptorily challenged and
questioned, and his wrath and impotent attempts at arrogance greatly
delighted de Marmont.

To make oneself actively unpleasant to a rival is apt to be a very
pleasurable sensation. Victor had an exceedingly disagreeable half-hour
to avenge and to declare St. Genis a prisoner of war, to order his
removal to Grenoble pending the Emperor's pleasure, to command him to
be
[Pg 222]
silent when he desired to speak was so much soothing balsam spread
upon the wounds which his own pride had suffered at Brestalou last
Sunday eve.

It was not until a casual remark from the sergeant under his command
caused him to notice the bulging pockets of St. Genis' coat, that Victor
thought to give the order to search the prisoner.

The latter entered a vigorous protest: he fought and he threatened: he
promised de Marmont the hangman's rope and his men terrible reprisals,
but of course he was fighting a losing battle. He was alone against five
and twenty, his first attempt at getting hold of the pistols in his belt
was met with a threat of summary execution: he was dragged out of the
saddle, his arms were forced behind his back, while rough hands turned
out the precious contents of his coat-pockets! All that he could do was
to curse fate which had brought these pirates on his way, and his own
short-sightedness and impatience in not waiting for the armed patrol
which undoubtedly would have been sent out to him from Lyons in response
to M. le Comte de Cambray's request.

Now he had the deadly chagrin and bitter disappointment of seeing the
money which he had wrested from Clyffurde last night at the price of so
much humiliation, transferred to the pockets of a real thief and
spoliator who would either keep it for himself or—what in the
enthusiastic royalist's eyes would be even worse—place it at the
service of the Corsican usurper. He could hardly believe in the reality
of his ill luck, so appalling was it. In one moment he saw all the hopes
of which he had dreamed last night fly beyond recall. He had lost
Crystal more effectually, more completely than he ever had done before.
If the Englishman ever spoke of what had occurred last night . . . if
Crystal ever knew that he had been fool enough to lose the treasure
which had been in his possession for a few hours—her con
[Pg 223]
tempt would
crush the love which she had for him: nor would the Comte de Cambray
ever relent.

De Marmont's triumph too was hard to bear: his clumsy irony was terribly
galling.

"Would M. le Marquis de St. Genis care to continue his journey to Lyons
now? would he prefer not to go to Grenoble?"

St. Genis bit his tongue with the determination to remain silent.

"M. de St. Genis is free to go whither he chooses."

The permission was not even welcome. Maurice would as lief be taken
prisoner and dragged back to Grenoble as face Crystal with the story of
his failure.

Quite mechanically he remounted, and pulled his horse to one side while
de Marmont ordered his little squad to form once more, and after the
brief word of command and a final sarcastic farewell, galloped off up
the road back toward Lyons at the head of his men, not waiting to see if
St. Genis came his way too or not.

The latter with wearied, aching eyes gazed after the fast disappearing
troop, until they became a mere speck on the long, straight road, and
the distant morning mist finally swallowed them up.

Then he too turned his horse's head in the same direction back toward
Lyons once more, and allowing the reins to hang loosely in his hand, and
letting his horse pick its own slow way along the road, he gave himself
over to the gloominess of his own thoughts.

He too had some difficulty in entering the town. M. le Duc d'Orléans,
cousin of the King, had just arrived to support M. le Comte d'Artois,
and together these two royal princes had framed and posted up a
proclamation to the brave Lyonese of the National Guard.

[Pg 224]
The whole city was in a turmoil, for M. le Duc d'Orléans—who was
nothing if not practical—had at once declared that there was not the
slightest chance of a successful defence of Lyons, and that by far the
best thing to do would be to withdraw the troops while they were still
loyal.

M. le Comte d'Artois protested; at any rate he wouldn't do anything so
drastic till after the arrival of Marshal Macdonald, to whom he had sent
an urgent courier the day before, enjoining him to come to Lyons without
delay. In the meanwhile he and his royal cousin did all they could to
kindle or at any rate to keep up the loyalty of the troops, but
defection was already in the air: here and there the men had been seen
to throw their white cockades into the mud, and more than one cry of
"Vive l'Empereur!" had risen even while Monsieur himself was reviewing
the National Guard on the Place Bellecour.

The bridge of La Guillotière was stoutly barricaded, but as St. Genis
waited out in the open road while his name was being taken to the
officer in command he saw crowds of people standing or walking up and
down on the opposite bank of the river.

They were waiting for the Emperor, the news of whose approach was
filling the townspeople with glee.

Heartsick and wretched, St. Genis, after several hours of weary waiting,
did ultimately obtain permission to enter the city by the ferry on the
south side of the city. Once inside Lyons, he had no difficulty in
ascertaining where such a distinguished gentleman as M. le Comte de
Cambray had put up for the night, and he promptly made his way to the
Hotel Bourbon, his mind, at this stage, still a complete blank as to how
he would explain his discomfiture to the Comte and to Crystal.

In the present state of M. le Comte d'Artois' difficulties the money
would have been thrice welcome, and St. Genis felt the load of failure
weighing thrice as heavily on his
[Pg 225]
soul, and dreaded the
reproaches—mute or outspoken—which he knew awaited him. If only he
could have thought of something! something plausible and not too
inglorious! There was, of course, the possibility that he had failed to
come upon the track of the thieves at all—but then he had no business
to come back so soon—and he didn't want to come back, only that there
was always the likelihood of the Englishman speaking of what had
occurred—not necessarily with evil intent . . . but . . . some words of
his: "If within a week I hear that the King of France has not received
this money, I will proclaim you a liar and a thief!" rang unpleasantly
in St. Genis' ears.

The young man's mind, I repeat, was at this point still a blank as to
what explanation he would give to the Comte de Cambray of his own
miserable failure.

He was returning—after an ardent promise to overtake the thief and to
force him to give up the money—without apparently having made any
effort in that direction—or having made the effort, failing signally
and ignominiously—a foolish and unheroic position in either case.

To tell the whole unvarnished truth, his interview with Clyffurde and
his thoughtlessness in wandering along the road all alone, laden with
twenty-five million francs, not waiting for the arrival of M. le Comte
d'Artois' patrol, was unthinkable.

Then what? St. Genis, determined not to tell the truth, found it a
difficult task to concoct a story that would be plausible and at the
same time redound to his credit. His disappointment was so bitter now,
his hopes of winning Crystal and glory had been so bright, that he found
it quite impossible to go back to the hard facts of life—to his own
poverty and the unattainableness of Crystal de Cambray—without making a
great effort to win back what Victor de Marmont had just wrested from
him.

Through the whirl of his thoughts, too, there was a
[Pg 226]
vague sense of
resentment against Clyffurde—coupled with an equally vague sense of
fear. He, Maurice, might easily keep silent over the transaction of last
night, but Clyffurde might not feel inclined to do so. He would want to
know sooner or later what had become of the money . . . had he not
uttered a threat which made Maurice's cheeks even now flush with wrath
and shame?

Certain words and gestures of the Englishman had stood out before
Maurice's mind in a way that had stirred up those latent jealousies
which always lurk in the heart of an unsuccessful wooer. Clyffurde had
been generous—blind to his own interests—ready to sacrifice what
recognition he had earned: he had spared his assailant and agreed to an
unworthy subterfuge, and St. Genis' tormented brain began to wonder why
he had done all this.

Was it for love of Crystal de Cambray?

St. Genis would not allow himself to answer that question, for he felt
that if he did he would hate that hard-fisted Englishman more thoroughly
than he had ever hated any man before—not excepting de Marmont. De
Marmont was an evil and vile traitor who never could cross Crystal's
path of life again. . . . But not so the Englishman, who had planned to
serve her and who would have succeeded so magnificently but for
his—Maurice's—interference!