The Bronze Eagle (32 page)

Clyffurde, who was walking faster than they did, was just deliberating
in his mind whether he would turn back and go home some other way or
charge this unpleasant obstruction from the rear and risk the
consequences, when he noticed two figures still further on ahead walking
in the same direction as he himself and the rowdy crowd.

One of these two figures—thus viewed in the distance, through the mist
and from the back—looked nevertheless like that of a woman, which fact
at once decided Bobby as to what he would do next. He sprinted toward
the crowd as fast as he could, but unfortunately he did not come up with
them in time to prevent the two unfortunate pedestrians being surrounded
by the turbulent throng which, still arm in arm and to the accompaniment
of wild shouts, had formed a ring around them and were now vociferating
at the top of raucous voices:

"À bas la cocarde blanche! À bas! Vive l'Empereur!"

A flickering street lamp feebly lit up this unpleasant scene. Bobby saw
the vague outline of a man and of a woman,
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standing boldly in the midst
of the hostile crowd while two white cockades gleamed defiantly against
the dark background of their cloaks. To an Englishman, who was a
pastmaster in the noble art of using fists and knees to advantage, the
situation was neither uncommon nor very perilous. The crowd was noisy it
is true, and was no doubt ready enough for mischief, but Clyffurde's
swift and scientific onslaught from the rear staggered and disconcerted
the most bold. There was a good deal more shouting, plenty of cursing;
the Englishman's arms and legs seemed to be flying in every direction
like the arms of a windmill; a good many thuds and bumps, a few groans,
a renewal of the attack, more thuds and groans, and the discomfited
group of roisterers fled in every direction.

Bobby with a smile turned to the two motionless figures whom he had so
opportunely rescued from an unpleasant plight.

"Just a few turbulent blackguards," he said lightly, as he made a quick
attempt at readjusting the set of his coat and the position of his satin
stock. "There was not much fight in them really, and . . ."

He had, of course, lost his hat in the brief if somewhat stormy
encounter and now—as he turned—the thin streak of light from the
street-lamp fell full upon his face with its twinkling, deep-set eyes,
and the half-humorous, self-deprecatory curl of the firm mouth.

A simultaneous exclamation came from his two protégés and stopped the
easy flow of his light-hearted words. He peered closely into the gloom
and it was his turn now to exclaim, half doubting, wholly astonished:

"Mademoiselle Crystal . . . M. le Comte. . . ."

"Indeed, Sir," broke in the Comte slowly, and with a voice that seemed
to be trembling with emotion, "it is to my daughter and to myself that
you have just rendered a signal and generous service. For this I tender
you my
[Pg 252]
thanks, yet believe me, I pray you when I say that both she and
I would rather have suffered any humiliation or ill-usage from that
rough crowd than owe our safety and comfort to you."

There was so much contempt, hatred even, in the tone of voice of this
old man whose manner habitually was a pattern of moderation and of
dignity that for the moment Clyffurde was completely taken aback.
Puzzlement fought with resentment and with the maddening sense that he
was anyhow impotent to avenge even so bitter an insult as had just been
hurled upon him—against a man of the Comte's years and status.

"M. le Comte," he said at last, "will you let me remind you that the
other day when you turned me out of your house like a dishonest servant,
you would not allow me to say a single word in my own justification? The
man on whose word you condemned me then without a hearing, is a
scatter-brained braggart who you yourself must know is not a man to be
trusted and . . ."

"Pardon me, Monsieur," broke in the Comte with perfect sangfroid, "even
if I acted on that evening with undue haste and ill-considered judgment,
many things have happened since which you yourself surely would not wish
to discuss with me, just when you have rendered me a signal service."

"Your pardon, M. le Comte," retorted Clyffurde with equal coolness, "I
know of nothing which could possibly justify the charges which, not
later than last Sunday, you laid at my door."

"The charge which I laid at your door then, Mr. Clyffurde, has not been
lifted from its threshold yet. I charged you with deliberately
conspiring against my King and my country all the while that you were
eating bread and salt at my table. I charged you with striving to render
assistance to that Corsican usurper whom may the great
[Pg 253]
God punish, and
you yourself practically owned to this before you left my house."

"This I did not, M. le Comte," broke in Clyffurde hotly. "As a man of
honour I give you my word, that except for my being in de Marmont's
company on the day that he posted up the Emperor's proclamation in
Grenoble, I had no hand in any political scheme."

"And you would have me believe you," exclaimed the Comte, with
ever-growing vehemence, "when you talk of that Corsican brigand as 'the
Emperor.' Those words, Sir, are an insult, and had you not saved my
daughter and me just now from violence I would—old as I am—strike you
in the face for them."

With an impatient sigh at the old man's hot-headed obstinacy, Clyffurde
turned with a look of appeal to Crystal, who up to now had taken no part
in the discussion: "Mademoiselle," he said gently, "will you not at
least do me justice? Cannot you see that I am clumsy at defending mine
own honour, seeing that I have never had to do it before?"

"I only see, Monsieur," she retorted coldly, "that you are making vain
and pitiable efforts to regain my father's regard—no doubt for purposes
of your own. But why should you trouble? You have nothing more to gain
from us. Your clever comedy of a highwayman on the road has succeeded
beyond your expectations. The Corsican who now sits in the armchair
lately vacated by an infirm monarch whom you and yours helped to
dethrone, will no doubt reward you for your pains. As for me I can only
echo my father's feelings: I would ten thousand times sooner have been
torn to pieces by a rough crowd of ignorant folk than owe my safety to
your interference."

She took her father's arm and made a movement to go: instinctively
Clyffurde tried to stop her: at her words he had flushed with anger to
the very roots of his hair. The injustice of her accusation maddened
him, but the bitter
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resentment in the tone of her voice, the look of
passionate hatred with which she regarded him as she spoke, positively
appalled him.

"M. le Comte," he said firmly, "I cannot let you go like this, whilst
such horrible thoughts of me exist in your mind. England gave you
shelter for three and twenty years; in the name of my country's kindness
and hospitality toward you, I—as one of her sons—demand that you tell
me frankly and clearly exactly what I am supposed to have done to
justify this extraordinary hatred and contempt which you and
Mademoiselle Crystal seem now to have for me."

"One of England's sons, Monsieur!" retorted the Comte equally firmly.
"Nay! you are not even that. England stands for right and for justice,
for our legitimate King and the punishment of the usurper."

"Great God!" he exclaimed, more and more bewildered now, "are you
accusing me of treachery against mine own country? This will I allow no
man to do, not even . . ."

"Then, Sir, I pray you," rejoined Crystal proudly, "go and seek a
quarrel with the man who has unmasked you; who caught you red-handed
with the money in your possession which you had stolen from us, who
forced you to give up what you had stolen, and whom then you and your
friend Victor de Marmont waylaid and robbed once more. Go then, Mr.
Clyffurde, and seek a quarrel with the Marquis de St. Genis, who has
already struck you in the face once and no doubt will be ready to do so
again."

And what of Clyffurde's thoughts while the woman whom he loved with all
the strength of his lonely heart poured forth these hideous insults upon
him? Amazement, then wrath, bewilderment, then final hopelessness, all
these sensations ran riot through his brain.

St. Genis had behaved like an abominable blackguard! this he gathered
from what she said: he had lied like a mean skunk and betrayed the man
who had rendered him
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an infinitely great service. Of him Clyffurde
wouldn't even think! Such despicable, crawling worms did exist on God's
earth: he knew that! but he possessed the happy faculty, the sunny
disposition that is able to pass a worm by and ignore its existence
while keeping his eyes fixed upon all that is beautiful in earth and in
the sky. Of St. Genis, therefore, he would not think; some day, perhaps,
he might be able to punish him—but not now—not while this poor,
forlorn, heartsick girl pinned her implicit faith upon that wretched
worm and bestowed on him the priceless guerdon of her love. An infinity
of pity rose in his kindly heart for her and obscured every other
emotion. That same pity he had felt for her before, a sweet, protecting
pity—gentle sister to fiercer, madder love which had perhaps never been
so strong as it was at this hour when, for the second time, he was about
to make a supreme sacrifice for her.

That the sacrifice must be made, he already knew: knew it even when
first St. Genis' name escaped her lips. She loved St. Genis and she
believed in him, and he, Clyffurde, who loved her with every fibre of
his being, with all the passionate ardour of his lonely heart, could
serve her no better than by accepting this awful humiliation which she
put upon him. If he could have justified himself now, he would not have
done it, not while she loved St. Genis, and he—Clyffurde—was less than
nothing to her.

What did it matter after all what she thought of him? He would have
given his life for her love, but short of that everything else was
anyhow intolerable—her contempt, her hatred? what mattered? since
to-night anyhow he would pass out of her life for ever.

He was ready for the sacrifice—sacrifice of pride, of honour, of peace
of mind—but he did want to know that that sacrifice would be really
needed and that when made it would not be in vain: and in order to gain
this end he put a final question to her:

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"One moment, Mademoiselle," he said, "before you go will you tell me one
thing at least; was it M. de St. Genis himself who accused me of
treachery?"

"There is no reason why I should deny it, Sir," she replied coldly. "It
was M. de St. Genis himself who gave to my father and to me a full
account of the interview which he had with you at a lonely inn, some few
kilomètres from Lyons, and less than two hours after we had been
shamefully robbed on the highroad of money that belonged to the King."

"And did M. de St. Genis tell you, Mademoiselle, that I purposed to use
that money for mine own ends?"

"Or for those of the Corsican," she retorted impatiently. "I care not
which. Yes! Sir, M. de St. Genis told me that with his own lips and when
I had heard the whole miserable story of your duplicity and your
treachery, I—a helpless, deceived and feeble woman—did then and there
register a vow that I too would do you some grievous wrong one day—a
wrong as great as you had done not only to the King of France but to me
and to my father who trusted you as we would a friend. What you did
to-night has of course altered the irrevocableness of my vow. I owe,
perhaps, my father's life to your timely intervention and for this I
must be grateful, but . . ."

Her voice broke in a kind of passionate sob, and it took her a moment or
two to recover herself, even while Clyffurde stood by, mute and with
well-nigh broken heart, his very soul so filled with sorrow for her that
there was no room in it even for resentment.

"Father let us go now," Crystal said after a while with brusque
transition and in a steady voice; "no purpose can be served by further
recriminations."

"None, my dear," said the Comte in his usual polished manner.
"Personally I have felt all along that explanations could but aggravate
the unpleasantness of the present posi
[Pg 257]
tion. Mr. Clyffurde understands
perfectly, I am sure. He had his axe to grind—whether personal or
political we really do not care to know—we are not likely ever to meet
again. All we can do now is to thank him for his timely intervention on
our behalf and . . ."

"And brand him a liar," broke in Clyffurde almost involuntarily and with
bitter vehemence.

"Your pardon, Monsieur," retorted the Comte coldly, "neither my daughter
nor I have done that. It is your deeds that condemn you, your own
admissions and the word of M. de St. Genis. Would you perchance suggest
that he lied?"

"Oh, no," rejoined Clyffurde with perfect calm, "it is I who lied, of
course."

He had said this very slowly and as if speaking with mature
deliberation: not raising his voice, nor yet allowing it to quiver from
any stress of latent emotion. And yet there was something in the tone of
it, something in the man's attitude, that suggested such a depth of
passion that, quite instinctively, the Comte remained silent and awed.
For the moment, however, Clyffurde seemed to have forgotten the older
man's presence; wounded in every fibre of his being by the woman whom he
loved so tenderly and so devotedly, he had spoken only to her,
compelling her attention and stirring—even by this simple admission of
a despicable crime—an emotion in her which she could not—would not
define.

She turned large inquiring eyes on him, into which she tried to throw
all that she felt of hatred and contempt for him. She had meant to wound
him and it seemed indeed as if she had succeeded beyond her dearest
wish. By the dim, flickering light of the street-lamp his face looked
haggard and old. The traitor was suffering almost as much as he
deserved, almost as much—Crystal said obstinately to herself—as she
had wished him to do. And yet, at sight
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of him now, Crystal felt a
strong, unconquerable pity for him: the womanly instinct no doubt to
heal rather than to hurt.