THE LAST HOPE

By Henry Seton Merriman

 "What is it thou knowest, sweet voice?" I cried. "A hidden hope, " the voice replied. 

CONTENTS

 I. LE ROI EST MORT II. VIVE LE ROI III. THE RETURN OF "THE LAST HOPE" IV. THE MARQUIS'S CREED V. ON THE DYKE VI. THE STORY OF THE CASTAWAYS VII. ON THE SCENT VIII. THE LITTLE BOY WHO WAS A KING IX. A MISTAKE X. IN THE ITALIAN HOUSE XI. A BEGINNING XII. THE SECRET OF GEMOSAC XIII. WITHIN THE GATES XIV. THE LIFTED VEIL XV. THE TURN OF THE TIDE XVI. THE GAMBLERS XVII. ON THE PONT ROYAL XVIII. THE CITY THAT SOON FORGETS XIX. IN THE BREACH XX. "NINETEEN" XXI. NO. 8 RUELLE ST. JACOB XXII. DROPPING THE PILOT XXIII. A SIMPLE BANKER XXIV. THE LANE OF MANY TURNINGS XXV. SANS RANCUNE XXVI. RETURNED EMPTY XXVII. OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES XXVIII. BAREBONE'S PRICE XXIX. IN THE DARK XXX. IN THE FURROW AGAIN XXXI. THE THURSDAY OF MADAME DE CHANTONNAY XXXII. PRIMROSES XXXIII. DORMER COLVILLE IS BLIND XXXIV. A SORDID MATTER XXXV. A SQUARE MAN XXXVI. MRS. ST. PIERRE LAWRENCE DOES NOT UNDERSTAND XXXVII. AN UNDERSTANDING XXXVIII. A COUP-D'ETAT XXXIX. "JOHN DARBY" XL. FARLINGFORD ONCE MORE

CHAPTER I. LE ROI EST MORT

"There; that's it. That's where they buried Frenchman, " saidAndrew--known as River Andrew. For there was another Andrew who earnedhis living on the sea. 

River Andrew had conducted the two gentlemen from "The Black Sailor" tothe churchyard by their own request. A message had been sent to him inthe morning that this service would be required of him, to which he hadreturned the answer that they would have to wait until the evening. Itwas his day to go round Marshford way with dried fish, he said; but inthe evening they could see the church if they still set their minds onit. 

River Andrew combined the light duties of grave-digger and clerk to theparish of Farlingford in Suffolk with a small but steady business infish of his own drying, nets of his own netting, and pork slain anddressed by his own weather-beaten hands. 

For Farlingford lies in that part of England which reaches seawardtoward the Fatherland, and seems to have acquired from that proximity aninsatiable appetite for sausages and pork. On these coasts the killingof pigs and the manufacture of sausages would appear to employ theleisure of the few, who for one reason or another have been deemed unfitfor the sea. It is not our business to inquire why River Andrew hadnever used the fickle element. All that lay in the past. And in a degreehe was saved from the disgrace of being a landsman by the smell of tarand bloaters that heralded his coming, by the blue jersey and the brownhomespun trousers which he wore all the week, and by the saving wordwhich distinguished him from the poor inland lubbers who had no dealingswith water at all. 

He had this evening laid aside his old sou'wester--worn in fair and foulweather alike--for his Sunday hat. His head-part was therefore officialand lent additional value to the words recorded. He spoke them, moreover, with a dim note of aggressiveness which might only have beenracy of a soil breeding men who are curt and clear of speech. But therewas more than an East Anglian bluffness in the statement and the mannerof its delivery, as his next observation at once explained. 

"Passen thinks it's over there by the yew-tree--but he's wrong. Thatthere one was a wash-up found by old Willem the lighthouse keeper onemorning early. No! this is where Frenchman was laid by. "

He indicated with the toe of his sea-boot a crumbling grave which hadnever been distinguished by a headstone. The grass grew high all overFarlingford churchyard, almost hiding the mounds where the forefathersslept side by side with the nameless "wash-ups, " to whom they hadextended a last hospitality. 

River Andrew had addressed his few remarks to the younger of his twocompanions, a well-dressed, smartly set-up man of forty or thereabouts, who in turn translated the gist of them into French for the informationof his senior, a little white-haired gentleman whom he called "Monsieurle Marquis. "

He spoke glibly enough in either tongue, with a certain indifference ofmanner. This was essentially a man of cities, and one better suited tothe pavement than the rural quiet of Farlingford. To have the gift oftongues is no great recommendation to the British born, and River Andrewlooked askance at this fine gentleman while he spoke French. He hadreceived letters at the post-office under the name of Dormer Colville:a name not unknown in London and Paris, but of which the social fame hadfailed to travel even to Ipswich, twenty miles away from this moulderingchurchyard. 

"It's getting on for twenty-five years come Michaelmas, " put in RiverAndrew. "I wasn't digger then; but I remember the burial well enough. And I remember Frenchman--same as if I see him yesterday. "

He plucked a blade of grass from the grave and placed it between histeeth. 

"He were a mystery, he were, " he added, darkly, and turned to lookmusingly across the marshes toward the distant sea. For River Andrew, like many hawkers of cheap wares, knew the indirect commercial value ofnews. 

The little white-haired Frenchman made a gesture of the shoulders andoutspread hands indicative of a pious horror at the condition of thisneglected grave. The meaning of his attitude was so obvious that RiverAndrew shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. 

"Passen, " he said, "he don't take no account of the graves. He's whatyou might call a bookworm. Always a sitting indoors reading books andpictures. Butcher Franks turns his sheep in from time to time. Butalong of these tempests and the hot sun the grass has shot up a bit. Frenchman's no worse off than others. And there's some as are fallen inaltogether. "

He indicated one or two graves where the mound had sunk, and suggestivehollows were visible in the grass. 

"First, it's the coffin that bu'sts in beneath the weight, then it'sthe bones, " he added, with that grim realism which is begotten offamiliarity. 

Dormer Colville did not trouble to translate these general truths. Hesuppressed a yawn as he contemplated the tottering headstones ofcertain master-mariners and Trinity-pilots taking their long rest inthe immediate vicinity. The churchyard lay on the slope of rising groundupon which the village of Farlingford straggled upward in one longstreet. Farlingford had once been a town of some commercial prosperity. Its story was the story of half a dozen ports on this coast--a harboursilted up, a commerce absorbed by a more prosperous neighbour nearer tothe railway. 

Below the churchyard was the wide street which took a turn eastward atthe gates and led straight down to the river-side. Farlingford Quay--alittle colony of warehouses and tarred huts--was separated fromFarlingford proper by a green, where the water glistened at high tide. In olden days the Freemen of Farlingford had been privileged to grazetheir horses on the green. In these later times the lord of the manorpretended to certain rights over the pasturage, which Farlingford, likeone man, denied him. 

"A mystery, " repeated River Andrew, waiting very clearly for Mr. DormerColville to translate the suggestive word to the French gentleman. ButColville only yawned. "And there's few in Farlingford as knew Frenchmanas well as I did. "

Mr. Colville walked toward the church porch, which seemed to appeal tohis sense of the artistic; for he studied the Norman work with the eyeof a connoisseur. He was evidently a cultured man, more interested in awork of art than in human story. 

River Andrew, seeing him depart, jingled the keys which he carried inhis hand, and glanced impatiently toward the older man. The Marquisde Gemosac, however, ignored the sound as completely as he had ignoredRiver Andrew's remarks. He was looking round him with eyes which hadonce been dark and bright, and were now dimly yellow. He looked fromtomb to tomb, vainly seeking one that should be distinguished, if onlyby the evidence of a little care at the hands of the living. He lookeddown the wide grass-grown street--partly paved after the manner of theNetherlands--toward the quay, where the brown river gleamed between thewalls of the weather-beaten brick buildings. There was a ship lyingat the wharf, half laden with hay; a coasting craft from some of thegreater tidal rivers, the Orwell or the Blackwater. A man was sitting ona piece of timber on the quay, smoking as he looked seaward. But therewas no one else in sight. For Farlingford was half depopulated, andit was tea-time. Across the river lay the marshes, unbroken by tree orhedge, barren of even so much as a hut. In the distance, hazy and greyin the eye of the North Sea, a lighthouse stood dimly, like a pillarof smoke. To the south--so far as the eye could pierce the seahaze--marshes. To the north--where the river ran between baredykes--marshes. 

And withal a silence which was only intensified by the steady hum of thewind through the gnarled branches of the few churchyard trees which turna crouching back toward the ocean. 

In all the world--save, perhaps, in the Arctic world--it would be hardto find a picture emphasising more clearly the fact that a man's life isbut a small matter, and the memory of it like the seed of grass upon thewind to be blown away and no more recalled. 

The bearer of one of the great names of France stood knee-deep in thesun-tanned grass and looked slowly round as if seeking to imprint thescene upon his memory. He turned to glance at the crumbling churchbehind him, built long ago by men speaking the language in which his ownthoughts found shape. He looked slowly from end to end of the ill-keptburial ground, crowded with the bones of the nameless and insignificantdead, who, after a life passed in the daily struggle to wrest asufficiency of food from a barren soil, or the greater struggle to holdtheir own against a greedy sea, had faded from the memory of the living, leaving naught behind them but a little mound where the butcher put hissheep to graze. 

Monsieur de Gemosac was so absorbed in his reflections that he seemed toforget his surroundings and stood above the grave, pointed out to him byRiver Andrew, oblivious to the cold wind that blew in from the sea, deafto the clink of the sexton's inviting keys, forgetful of his companionwho stood patiently waiting within the porch. The Marquis was a littlebent man, spare of limb, heavy of shoulder, with snow-white hair againstwhich his skin, brown and wrinkled as a walnut shell, looked sallow likeold ivory. His face was small and aquiline; not the face of a cleverman, but clearly the face of an aristocrat. He had the grand manner too, and that quiet air of self-absorption which usually envelops the bearersof historic names. 

Dormer Colville watched him with a good-natured patience which pointed, as clearly as his attitude and yawning indifference, to the fact that hewas not at Farlingford for his own amusement. 

Presently he lounged back again toward the Marquis and stood behind him. 

"The wind is cold, Marquis, " he said, pleasantly. "One of the coldestspots in England. What would Mademoiselle say if I allowed you to take achill?"

De Gemosac turned and looked at him over his shoulder with a smile fullof pathetic meaning. He spread out his arms in a gesture indicative ofhorror at the bleakness of the surroundings; at the mournfulness of thedecaying village; the dreary hopelessness of the mouldering church andtombs. 

"I was thinking, my friend, " he said. "That was all. It is notsurprising... That one should think. "

Colville heaved a sigh and said nothing. He was, it seemed, essentiallya sympathetic man; not of a thoughtful habit himself, but tolerant ofthought in others. It was abominably windy and cold, although the cornwas beginning to ripen; but he did not complain. Neither did he desireto hurry his companion in any way. 

He looked at the crumbling grave with a passing shadow in his clever andworldly eyes, and composed himself to await his friend's pleasure. 

In his way he must have been a philosopher. His attitude did not suggestthat he was bored, and yet it was obvious that he was eminently out ofplace in this remote spot. He had nothing in common, for instance, with River Andrew, and politely yawned that reminiscent fish-curer intosilence. His very clothes were of a cut and fashion never before seen inFarlingford. He wore them, too, with an air rarely assumed even in thestreets of Ipswich. 

Men still dressed with care at this time; for d'Orsay was not yet dead, though his fame was tarnished. Mr. Dormer Colville was not a dandy, however. He was too clever to go to that extreme and too wise not to bewithin reach of it in an age when great tailors were great men, and itwas quite easy to make a reputation by clothes alone. 

Not only was his dress too fine for Farlingford, but his personality wasnot in tune with this forgotten end of England. His movements were tooquick for a slow-moving race of men; no fools, and wiser than theirmidland brethren; slow because they had yet to make sure that a betterway of life had been discovered than that way in which their Saxonforefathers had always walked. 

Colville seemed to look at the world with an exploiting eye. He had aspeculative mind. Had he lived at the end of the Victorian era insteadof the beginning he might have been a notable financier. His quickglance took in all Farlingford in one comprehensive verdict. There wasnothing to be made of it. It was uninteresting because it obviously hadno future, nor encouraged any enterprise. He looked across the marshesindifferently, following the line of the river as it made its deviousway between high dykes to the sea. And suddenly his eye lighted. Therewas a sail to the south. A schooner was standing in to the river mouth, her sails glowing rosily in the last of the sunset light. 

Colville turned to see whether River Andrew had noticed, and saw thatlandsman looking skyward with an eye that seemed to foretell the earlydemise of a favouring wind. 

"That's 'The Last Hope, '" he said, in answer to Dormer Colville'squestion. "And it will take all Seth Clubbe's seamanship to save thetide. 'The Last Hope. ' There's many a 'Hope, ' built at Farlingford, andthat's the last, for the yard is closed and there's no more buildingnow. "

The Marquis de Gemosac had turned away from the grave, but as Colvilleapproached him he looked back to it with a shake of the head. 

"After eight centuries of splendour, my friend, " he said. "Can that bethe end--that?"

"It is not the end, " answered Colville, cheerfully. "It is only the endof a chapter. Le roi est mort--vive le roi!"

He pointed with his stick, as he spoke, to the schooner creeping inbetween the dykes. 

CHAPTER II. VIVE LE ROI

"The Last Hope" had been expected for some days. It was known inFarlingford that she was foul, and that Captain Clubbe had decided toput her on the slip-way at the end of the next voyage. Captain Clubbewas a Farlingford man. "The Last Hope" was a Farlingford built ship, andSeth Clubbe was not the captain to go past his own port for the sake ofsaving a few pounds. 

"Farlingford's his nation, " they said of him down at the quay. "Bornand bred here, man and boy. He's not likely to put her into a Thamesdry-dock while the slip-way's standing empty. "

All the village gossips naturally connected the arrival of the twogentlemen from London with the expected return of "The Last Hope. "Captain Clubbe was known to have commercial relations with France. Itwas currently reported that he could speak the language. No one couldtell the number of his voyages backward and forward from the Bay toBristol, to Yarmouth, and even to Bergen, carrying salt-fish to thosecountries where their religion bids them eat that which they cannotsupply from their own waters, and bringing back wine from Bordeaux andbrandy from Charente. 

It is not etiquette, however, on these wind-swept coasts to inquire tooclosely into a man's business, and, as in other places, the talk wasmostly among those who knew the least--namely, the women. There had beena question of repairing the church. The generation now slowly findingits way to its precincts had discussed the matter since their childhoodand nothing had come of it. 

One bold spirit put forth the suggestion that the two gentlemen wereLondon architects sent down by the Queen to see to the church. But theidea fell to the ground before the assurance from Mrs. Clopton's ownlips that the old gentleman was nothing but a Frenchman. 

Mrs. Clopton kept "The Black Sailor, " and knew a deal more than she wasready to tell people; which is tantamount to saying that she was a womanin a thousand. It had leaked out, however, that the spokesman of theparty, Mr. Dormer Colville, had asked Mrs. Clopton whether it was truethat there was claret in the cellars of "The Black Sailor. " And any onehaving doubts could satisfy himself with a sight of the empty bottles, all mouldy, standing in the back yard of the inn. 

They were wine-merchants from France, concluded the wiseacres ofFarlingford over their evening beer. They had come to Farlingford to seeCaptain Clubbe. What could be more natural! For Farlingford was proud ofCaptain Clubbe. It so often happens that a man going out into the worldand making a great name there, forgets his birthplace and the rightfulclaim to a gleam of reflected glory which the relations of a greatman--who have themselves stayed at home and done nothing--are alwaysready to consider their due reward for having shaken their heads overhim during the earlier struggles. 

Though slow of tongue, the men of Farlingford were of hospitableinclination. They were sorry for Frenchmen, as for a race destined tosmart for all time under the recollection of many disastrous defeats atsea. And of course they could not help being ridiculous. Heaven had madethem like that while depriving them of any hope of ever attaining togood seamanship. Here was a foreigner, however, cast up in theirmidst, not by the usual channel indeed, but by a carriage and pairfrom Ipswich. He must feel lonesome, they thought, and strange. They, therefore, made an effort to set him at his ease, and when they met himin "the street" jerked their heads at him sideways. The upward jerk isless friendly and usually denotes the desire to keep strictly within thelimits of acquaintanceship. To Mr. Dormer Colville they gave the upwardlift of the chin as to a person too facile in speech to be desirable. 

The dumbness of the Marquis de Gemosac appealed perhaps to a race ofseafaring men very sparingly provided by nature with words in which toclothe thoughts no less solid and sensible by reason of their terseness. It was at all events unanimously decided that everything should be doneto make the foreigner welcome until the arrival of "The Last Hope. " Asimilar unanimity characterised the decision that he must without delaybe shown Frenchman's grave. 

River Andrew's action and the unprecedented display of his Sunday haton a week-day were nothing but the outcome of a deep-laid scheme. Mrs. Clopton had been instructed to recommend the gentlemen to inspect thechurch, and the rest had been left to the wit of River Andrew, a manwhose calling took him far and wide, and gave him opportunities ofspeech with gentlefolk. 

These opportunities tempted River Andrew to go beyond his instructionsso far as to hint that he could, if encouraged, make disclosures ofinterest respecting Frenchman. Which was untrue; for River Andrew knewno more than the rest of Farlingford of a man who, having been literallycast up by the sea at their gates, had lived his life within thosegates, had married a Farlingford woman, and had at last gone the way ofall Farlingford without telling any who or what he was. 

From sundry open cottage doors and well-laden tea-tables glances ofinquiry were directed toward the strangers' faces as they walked downthe street after having viewed the church. Some prescient females wentso far as to state that they could see quite distinctly in the eldergentleman's demeanour a sense of comfort and consolation at theknowledge thus tactfully conveyed to him that he was not the first ofhis kind to be seen in Farlingford. 

Hard upon the heels of the visitors followed River Andrew, wearing hissou'wester now and carrying the news that "The Last Hope" was coming upon the top of the tide. 

Farlingford lies four miles from the mouth of the river, and no ship canwell arrive unexpected at the quay; for the whole village may seeher tacking up under shortened sail, heading all ways, sometimesclose-hauled, and now running free as she follows the zigzags of theriver. 

Thus, from the open door, the villagers calculated the chances of beingable to finish the evening meal at leisure and still be down at the quayin time to see Seth Clubbe bring his ship alongside. One by one the menof Farlingford, pipe in mouth, went toward the river, not forgetting thekindly, sideward jerk of the head for the old Frenchman already waitingthere. 

It was nearly the top of the tide and the clear green water swelledand gurgled round the weedy piles of the quay, bringing on its surfacetokens from the sea--shadowy jelly-fish, weed, and froth. "The LastHope" was quite close at hand now, swinging up in mid-stream. Thesun had set and over the marshes the quiet of evening brooded hazily. Captain Clubbe had taken in all sail except a jib. His anchor wasswinging lazily overside, ready to drop. The watchers on the quay couldnote the gentle rise and fall of the crack little vessel as the tidelifted her from behind. She seemed to be dancing to her home like amaiden back from school. The swing of her tapering masts spoke of theheaving seas she had left behind. 

It was characteristic of Farlingford that no one spoke. River Andrew wasalready in his boat, ready to lend a hand should Captain Clubbe wish tosend a rope ashore. But it was obvious that the captain meant to anchorin the stream for the night: so obvious that if any one on shore hadmentioned the conclusion his speech would have called for nothing but acontemptuous glance from the steady blue eyes all round him. 

It was equally characteristic of a Farlingford ship that there were nogreetings from the deck. Those on shore could clearly perceive the burlyform of Captain Clubbe, standing by the weather rigging. Wives coulddistinguish their husbands, and girls their lovers; but, as these wereattending to their business with a taciturn concentration, no hand wasraised in salutation. 

The wind had dropped now. For these are coasts of quiet nights andboisterous days. The tide was almost slack. "The Last Hope" was scarcelymoving, and in the shadowy light looked like a phantom ship sailing outof a dreamy sunset sky. 

Suddenly the silence was broken, so unexpectedly, so dramatically, thatthe old Frenchman, to whose nature such effects would naturally appealwith a lightning speed, rose to his feet and stood looking with startledeyes toward the ship. A clear strong voice had broken joyously intosong, and the words it sang were French:

 "C'est le Hasard, Qui, tot ou tard, Ici bas nous seconde; Car, D'un bout du monde A l'autre bout, Le Hasard seul fait tout. "

Not only were the words incongruous with their quaint, sadly gay airof a dead epoch of music and poetry; but the voice was in startlingcontrast to the tones of a gruff and slow-speaking people. For it wasa clear tenor voice with a ring of emotion in it, half laughter, halftears, such as no Briton could compass himself, or hear in anotherwithout a dumb feeling of shame and shyness. 

But those who heard it on the shore--and all Farlingford was there bythis time--only laughed curtly. Some of the women exchanged a glanceand made imperfectly developed gestures, as of a tolerance understoodbetween mothers for anything that is young and inconsequent. 

"We've gotten Loo Barebone back at any rate, " said a man, bearing thereputation of a wit. And after a long pause one or two appreciatorsanswered:

"You're right, " and laughed good-humouredly. 

The Marquis de Gemosac sat down again, with a certain effort atself-control, on the balk of timber which had been used by somegenerations of tide-watchers. He turned and exchanged a glance withDormer Colville, who stood at his side leaning on his gold-headed cane. Colville's expression seemed to say:

"I told you what it would be. But wait: there is more to come. "

His affable eyes made a round of the watching faces, and even exchangeda sympathetic smile with some, as if to hint that his clothes were onlyfine because he belonged to a fine generation, but that his heart was ashuman as any beating under a homelier coat. 

"There's Passen, " said one woman to another, behind the corner of herapron, within Colville's hearing. "It takes a deal to bring him out o'doors nowadays, and little Sep and--Miss Miriam. "

Dormer Colville heard the words. And he heard something unspoken in thepause before the mention of the last name. He did not look at once inthe direction indicated by a jerk of the speaker's thumb, but waiteduntil a change of position enabled him to turn his head without unduecuriosity. He threw back his shoulders and stretched his legs after themanner of one cramped by standing too long in one attitude. 

A hundred yards farther up the river, where the dyke was wider, agrey-haired man was walking slowly toward the quay. In front of him aboy of ten years was endeavouring to drag a young girl toward the jettyat a quicker pace than she desired. She was laughing at his impetuosityand looking back toward the man who followed them with the abstractionand indifference of a student. 

Colville took in the whole picture in one quick comprehensive glance. But he turned again as the singer on board "The Last Hope" began anotherverse. The words were clearly audible to such as knew the language, andColville noted that the girl turned with a sudden gravity to listen tothem. 

 "Un tel qu'on vantait Par hasard etait D'origine assez mince; Par hasard il plut, Par hasard il fut Baron, ministre, et prince. "

Captain Clubbe's harsh voice broke into the song with the order to letgo the anchor. As the ship swung to the tide the steersman, who woreneither coat nor waistcoat, could be seen idly handling the wheel still, though his duties were necessarily at an end. He was a young man, and agay salutation of his unemployed hand toward the assembled people--asif he were sure that they were all friends--stamped him as thelight-hearted singer, so different from the Farlingford men, so stronglycontrasted to his hearers, who nevertheless jerked their heads sidewaysin response. He had, it seemed, rightly gauged the feelings of thesecold East Anglians. They were his friends. 

River Andrew's boat was alongside "The Last Hope" now. Some one hadthrown him a rope, which he had passed under his bow thwart and now heldwith one hand, while with the other he kept his distance from thetarry side of the ship. There was a pause until the schooner felt hermoorings, then Captain Clubbe looked over the side and nodded a curtsalutation to River Andrew, bidding him, by the same gesture, wait aminute until he had donned his shore-going jacket. The steersman waspulling on his coat while he sought among the crowd the faces of hismore familiar friends. He was, it seemed, a privileged person, andtook it for granted that he should go ashore with the captain. He was, perhaps, one of those who seemed to be privileged at their birth byFate, and pass through life on the sunny side with a light step andlaughing lips. 

Captain Clubbe was the first to step ashore, with one comprehensive nodof the head for all Farlingford. Close on his heels the younger sailorwas already returning the greetings of his friends. 

"Hullo, Loo!" they said; or, "How do, Barebone?" For their tongues areno quicker than their limbs, and to this day, "How do?" is the usualgreeting. 

The Marquis de Gemosac, who was sitting in the background, gave a sharplittle exclamation of surprise when Barebone stepped ashore, and turnedto Dormer Colville to say in an undertone:

"Ah--but you need say nothing. "

"I promised you, " answered Colville, carelessly, "that I should tell younothing till you had seen him. "

CHAPTER III. THE RETURN OF "THE LAST HOPE"

Not only France, but all Europe, had at this time to reckon with onewho, if, as his enemies said, was no Bonaparte, was a very plausibleimitation of one. 

In 1849 France, indeed, was kind enough to give the world a breathingspace. She had herself just come through one of those seething yearsfrom which she alone seems to have the power of complete recovery. Paris had been in a state of siege for four months; not threatened by aforeign foe, but torn to pieces by internal dissension. Sixteen thousandhad been killed and wounded in the streets. A ministry had fallen. Aministry always does fall in France. Bad weather may bring about such adescent at any moment. A monarchy had been thrown down--a king had fled. Another king; and one who should have known better than to put his trustin a people. 

Half a dozen generals had attempted to restore order in Paris andconfidence in France. Then, at the very end of 1848, the fickle peopleelected this Napoleon, who was no Bonaparte, President of the newRepublic, and Europe was accorded a breathing space. At the beginning of1849 arrangements were made for it--military arrangements--and the yearwas almost quiet. 

It was in the summer of the next year, 1850, that the Marquis de Gemosacjourneyed to England. It was not his first visit to the country. Sixtyyears earlier he had been hurried thither by a frenzied mother, a littlepale-faced boy, not bright or clever, but destined to pass through daysof trial and years of sorrow which the bright and clever wouldscarcely have survived. For brightness must always mean friction, whilecleverness will continue to butt its head against human limitations solong as men shall walk this earth. 

He had been induced to make this journey thus, in the evening of hisdays, by the Hope, hitherto vain enough, which many Frenchmen hadpursued for half a century. For he was one of those who refused tobelieve that Louis XVII. Had died in the prison of the Temple. 

Not once, but many times, Dormer Colville laughingly denied anyresponsibility in the matter. 

"I will not even tell the story as it was told to me, " he said tothe Marquis de Gemosac, to the Abbe Touvent and to the Comtesse deChantonnay, whom he met frequently enough at the house of his cousin, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, in that which is now the Province of theCharente Inferieure. "I will not even tell you the story as it was toldto me, until one of you has seen the man. And then, if you ask me, Iwill tell you. It is nothing to me, you understand. I am no dreamer, but a very material person, who lives in France because he lovesthe sunshine, and the cuisine, and the good, kind hearts, which nogovernment or want of government can deteriorate. "

And Madame de Chantonnay, who liked Dormer Colville--with whom sheadmitted she always felt herself in sympathy--smiled graciously inresponse to his gallant bow. For she, too, was a materialist who lovedthe sunshine and the cuisine; more especially the cuisine. 

Moreover, Colville never persuaded the Marquis de Gemosac to come toEngland. He went so far as to represent, in a realistic light, thediscomforts of the journey, and only at the earnest desire ofmany persons concerned did he at length enter into the matter andgood-naturedly undertake to accompany the aged traveller. 

So far as his story was concerned, he kept his word, entertaining theMarquis on the journey and during their two days' sojourn at the humbleinn at Farlingford with that flow of sympathetic and easy conversationwhich always made Madame de Chantonnay protest that he was no Englishmanat all, but all that there was of the most French. Has it not been seenthat Colville refused to translate the dark sayings of River Andrew bythe side of the grass-grown grave, which seemed to have been brought tothe notice of the travellers by the merest accident?

"I promised you that I should tell you nothing until you had seen him, "he repeated, as the Marquis followed with his eyes the movements of thegroup of which the man they called Loo Barebone formed the centre. 

No one took much notice of the two strangers. It is not consideredgood manners in a seafaring community to appear to notice a new-comer. Captain Clubbe was naturally the object of universal attention. Washe not bringing foreign money into Farlingford, where the local pursesneeded replenishing now that trade had fallen away and agriculture wasso sorely hampered by the lack of roads across the marsh?

Clubbe pushed his way through the crowd to shake hands with the Rev. Septimus Marvin, who seemed to emerge from a visionary world of hisown in order to perform that ceremony and to return thither on itscompletion. 

Then the majority of the onlookers straggled homeward, leaving a fewwives and sweethearts waiting by the steps, with patient eyes fixed onthe spidery figures in the rigging of "The Last Hope. " Dormer Colvilleand the Marquis de Gemosac were left alone, while the rector stood afew yards away, glaring abstractedly at them through his gold-rimmedspectacles as if they had been some strange flotsam cast up by the hightide. 

"I remember, " said Colville to his companion, "that I have anintroduction to the pastor of the village, who, if I am not mistaken, iseven now contemplating opening a conversation. It was given to me bymy banker in Paris, who is a Suffolk man. You remember, Marquis, JohnTurner, of the Rue Lafayette?"

"Yes--yes, " answered the Marquis, absently. He was still watching theretreating villagers, with eyes old and veiled by the trouble that theyhad seen. 

"I will take this opportunity of presenting myself, " said Colville, whowas watching the little group from the rectory without appearing to doso. He rose as he spoke and went toward the clergyman, who was probablymuch younger than he looked. For he was ill-dressed and ill-shorn, withstraggling grey hair hanging to his collar. He had a musty look, suchas a book may have that is laid on a shelf in a deserted room and neveropened or read. Septimus Marvin, the world would say, had been laid upona shelf when he was inducted to the spiritual cure of Farlingford. Butno man is ever laid on a shelf by Fate. He climbs up there of his ownwill, and lies down beneath the dust of forgetfulness because he lacksthe heart to arise and face the business of life. 

Seeing that Dormer Colville was approaching him, he came forward with acertain scholarly ease of manner as if he had once mixed with the beston an intellectual equality. 

Colville's manners were considered perfect, especially by those who wereunable to detect a fine line said to exist between ease and too muchease. Mr. Marvin recollected John Turner well. Ten years earlier he had, indeed, corresponded at some length with the Paris banker respecting avaluable engraving. Was Mr. Colville interested in engravings? Colvilleconfessed to a deep and abiding pleasure in this branch of art, tempered, he admitted with a laugh, by a colossal ignorance. He thenproceeded to give the lie to his own modesty by talking easily and wellof mezzotints and etchings. 

"But, " he said, interrupting himself with evident reluctance, "I amforgetting my obligations. Let me present to you my companion, an oldfriend, the Marquis de Gemosac. "

The two gentlemen bowed, and Mr. Marvin, knowing no French, proceededto address the stranger in good British Latin, after the manner of thecourtly divines of his day. Which Latin, from its mode of pronunciation, was entirely unintelligible to its hearer. 

In return, the rector introduced the two strangers to his niece, MiriamListon. 

"The mainstay of my quiet house, " he added, with his vague and dreamysmile. 

"I have already heard of you, " said Dormer Colville at once, with hismodest deference, "from my cousin, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. "

He seemed, as sailors say, never to be at a loose end; but to go throughlife with a facile readiness, having, as it were, his hands full ofthreads among which to select, with a careless affability, one that mustdraw him nearer to high and low, men and women, alike. 

They talked together for some minutes, and, soon after the discoverythat Miriam Liston was as good a French scholar as himself, andtherefore able to converse with the Marquis de Gemosac, Colvilleregretted that it was time for them to return to their simple eveningmeal at "The Black Sailor. "

"Well, " said Colville to Monsieur de Gemosac, as they walked slowlyacross the green toward the inn, embowered in its simple cottage-garden, all ablaze now with hollyhocks and poppies--"well, after your glimpse atthis man, Marquis, are you desirous to see more of him?"

"My friend, " answered the Frenchman, with a quick gesture, descriptiveof a sudden emotion not yet stilled, "he took my breath away. I canthink of nothing else. My poor brain is buzzing still, and I know notwhat answers I made to that pretty English girl. Ah! You smile at myenthusiasm; you do not know what it is to have a great hope danglingbefore the eyes all one's life. And that face--that face!"

In which judgment the Marquis was no doubt right. For Dormer Colvillewas too universal a man to be capable of concentrated zeal upon any oneobject. He laughed at the accusation. 

"After dinner, " he answered, "I will tell you the little story as it wastold to me. We can sit on this seat, outside the inn, in the scent ofthe flowers and smoke our cigarette. "

To which proposal Monsieur de Gemosac assented readily enough. For hewas an old man, and to such the importance of small things, such asdinner or a passing personal comfort, are apt to be paramount. Moreover, he was a remnant of that class to which France owed her downfall amongthe nations; a class represented faithfully enough by its King, LouisXVI. , who procrastinated even on the steps of the guillotine. 

The wind went down with the sun, as had been foretold by River Andrew, and the quiet of twilight lay on the level landscape like sleep when thetwo travellers returned to the seat at the inn door. A distant curlewwas whistling cautiously to its benighted mate, but all other soundswere still. The day was over. 

"You remember, " said Colville to his companion, "that six months afterthe execution of the King, a report ran through Paris and all Francethat the Dillons had succeeded in rescuing the Dauphin from the Temple. "

"That was in July, 1793--just fifty-seven years ago--the news reached mein Austria, " answered the Marquis. 

Colville glanced sideways at his companion, whose face was set with astubbornness almost worthy of the tenacious Bourbons themselves. 

"The Queen was alive then, " went on the Englishman, half diffidently, asif prepared for amendment or correction. "She had nearly three months tolive. The separation from her children had only just been carried out. She was not broken by it yet. She was in full possession of her healthand energy. She was one of the cleverest women of that time. She wassurrounded by men, some of whom were frankly half-witted, others whowere drunk with excess of a sudden power for which they had had nopreparation. Others, again, were timorous or cunning. All were ignorant, and many had received no education at all. For there are many ignorantpeople who have been highly educated, Marquis. "

He gave a short laugh and lighted a cigarette. 

"Mind, " he continued, after a pause devoted to reflection which appearedto be neither deep nor painful, for he smiled as he gazed across thehazy marshes, "mind, I am no enthusiast, as you yourself have observed. I plead no cause. She was not my Queen, Marquis, and France is not mycountry. I endeavour to look at the matter with the eye of common-senseand wisdom. And I cannot forget that Marie Antoinette was at bay:all her senses, all her wit alert. She can only have thought of herchildren. Human nature would dictate such thoughts. One cannot forgetthat she had devoted friends, and that these friends possessed unlimitedmoney. Do you think, Marquis, that any one man of that rabble was abovethe reach--of money?"

And Mr. Dormer Colville's reflective smile, as he gazed at the distantsea, would seem to indicate that, after a considerable experience of menand women, he had reluctantly arrived at a certain conclusion respectingthem. 

"No man born of woman, Marquis, is proof against bribery or flattery--orboth. "

"One can believe anything that is bad of such dregs of human-kind, myfriend, " said Monsieur de Gemosac, contemptuously. 

"I speak to one, " continued Colville, "who has given the attention ofa lifetime to the subject. If I am wrong, correct me. What I have beentold is that a man was found who was ready, in return for a certain sumpaid down, to substitute his own son for the little Dauphin--to allowhis son to take the chance of coming alive out of that predicament. Onecan imagine that such a man could be found in France at that period. "

Monsieur de Gemosac turned, and looked at his companion with a sort ofsurprise. 

"You speak as if in doubt, Monsieur Colville, " he said, with a suddenassumption of that grand manner with which his father had faced thepeople on the Place de la Revolution--had taken a pinch of snuff in theshadow of the guillotine one sunny July day. "You speak as if in doubt. Such a man was found. I have spoken with him: I, who speak to you. "

CHAPTER IV. THE MARQUIS'S CREED

Dormer Colville smiled doubtfully. He was too polite, it seemed, to besceptical, and by his attitude expressed a readiness to be convinced asmuch from indifference as by reasoning. 

"It is intolerable, " said the Marquis de Gemosac, "that a man of yourunderstanding should be misled by a few romantic writers in the pay ofthe Orleans. "

"I am not misled, Marquis; I am ignorant, " laughed Colville. "It is notalways the same thing. "

Monsieur de Gemosac threw away his cigarette and turned eagerly towardhis companion. 

"Listen, " he said. "I can convince you in a few words. "

And Colville leaned back against the weather-worn seat with the air ofone prepared to give a post-prandial attention. 

"Such a man was found as you yourself suggest. A boy was found whocould not refuse to run that great risk, who could not betray himselfby indiscreet speech--because he was dumb. In order to allay certainrumours which were going the round of Europe, the National Conventionsent three of its members to visit the Dauphin in prison, and theythemselves have left a record that he answered none of their questionsand spoke no word to them. Why? Because he was dumb. He merely sat andlooked at them solemnly, as the dumb look. It was not the Dauphin atall. He was hidden in the loft above. The visit of the Conventionals wasnot satisfactory. The rumours were not stilled by it. There is nothingso elusive or so vital as a rumour. Ah! you smile, my friend. "

"I always give a careful attention to rumours, " admitted Colville. "Morecareful than that which one accords to official announcements. "

"Well, the dumb boy was not satisfactory. Those who were paid for thisaffair began to be alarmed. Not for their pockets. There was plenty ofmoney. Half the crowned heads in Europe, and all the women, were readyto open their purses for the sake of a little boy, whose ill-treatmentappealed to their soft hearts: who in a sense was sacred, for he wasdescended from sixty-six kings. No! Barras and all the other scoundrelsbegan to perceive that there was only one way out of the difficultyinto which they had blundered. The Dauphin must die! So the dumb boydisappeared. One wonders whither he went and what his fate might be--"

"With so much to tell, " put in Dormer Colville, musingly; "so muchunspoken. "

It was odd how the roles had been reversed. For the Marquis de Gemosacwas now eagerly seeking to convince his companion. The surest way topersuade a man is to lead him to persuade himself. 

"The only solution was for the Dauphin to die--in public. So anothersubstitution was effected, " continued Monsieur de Gemosac. "A dying boyfrom the hospital was made to play the part of the Dauphin. He was notat all like him; for he was tall and dark--taller and darker than a sonof Louis XVI. And Marie Antoinette could ever have been. The prison wasreconstructed so that the sentry on guard could not see his prisoner, but was forced to call to him in order to make sure that he wasthere. It was a pity that he did not resemble the Dauphin at all, thisscrofulous child. But they were in a hurry, and they were at their wits'ends. And it is not always easy to find a boy who will die in a giventime. This boy had to die, however, by some means or other. It was forFrance, you understand, and the safety of the Great Republic. "

"One hopes that he appreciated his privilege, " observed Colville, philosophically. 

"And he must die in public, duly certified for by persons of undoubtedintegrity. They called in, at the last moment, Desault, a great doctorof that day. But Desault was, unfortunately, honest. He went home andtold his assistant that this was not the Dauphin, and that, whoever hemight be, he was being poisoned. The assistant's name was Choppart, andthis Choppart made up a medicine, on Desault's prescription, which wasan antidote to poison. "

Monsieur de Gemosac paused, and, turning to his companion, held up onefinger to command his full attention. 

"Desault died, my friend, four days later, and Choppart died five daysafter him, and the boy in the Temple died three days after Choppart. And no one knows what they died of. They were pretty bunglers, thosegentlemen of the Republic! Of course, they called in others in a hurry;men better suited to their purpose. And one of these, the citizenPelletan, has placed on record some preposterous lies. These doctorscertified that this was the Dauphin. They had never seen him before, but what matter? Great care was taken to identify the body. Personsof position, who had never seen the son of Louis XVI. , were invited tovisit the Temple. Several of them had the temerity to protect themselvesin the certificate. 'We saw what we were informed was the body of theDauphin, ' they said. "

Again the old man turned, and held up his hand in a gesture of warning. 

"If they wanted a witness whose testimony was without question--whoseword would have laid the whole question in that lost and forgotten gravefor ever--they had one in the room above. For the Dauphin's sister wasthere, Marie Therese Charlotte, she who is now Duchess of Angouleme. Whydid they not bring her down to see the body, to testify that her brotherwas dead and the line of Louis XVI. Ended? Was it chivalry? I ask you ifthese had shown chivalry to Madame de Lamballe? to Madame Elizabeth?to Marie Antoinette? Was it kindness toward a child of unparalleledmisfortune? I ask you if they had been kind to those whom they calledthe children of the tyrant? No! They did not conduct her to thatbedside, because he who lay there was not her brother. Are we children, Monsieur, to be deceived by a tale of a sudden softness of heart?They wished to spare this child the pain! Had they ever spared any onepain--the National Assembly?"

And the Marquis de Gemosac's laugh rang with a hatred which must, itseems, outlive the possibility of revenge. 

"There was to be a public funeral. Such a ceremony would have been ofincalculable value at that time. But, at the last minute, their couragefailed them. The boy was thrown into a forgotten corner of a Parischurchyard, at nine o'clock one night, without witnesses. The spotitself cannot now be identified. Do you tell me that that was theDauphin? Bah! my friend, the thing was too childish!"

"The ignorant and the unlettered, " observed Colville, with the air ofmaking a concession, "are always at a disadvantage--even in crime. "

"That the Dauphin was, in the mean time, concealed in the garret of theTower appears to be certain. That he was finally conveyed out of theprison in a clothes-basket is as certain, Monsieur, as it is certainthat the sun will rise to-morrow. And I believe that the Queen knew, when she went to the guillotine, that her son was no longer in theTemple. I believe that Heaven sent her that one scrap of comfort, tempered as it was by the knowledge that her daughter remained aprisoner in their hands. But it was to her son that her affections weregiven. For the Duchess never had the gift of winning love. As she isnow--a cold, hard, composed woman--so she was in her prison in theTemple at the age of fifteen. You may take it from one who has known herall his life. And from that moment to this--"

The Marquis paused, and made a gesture with his hands, descriptive ofspace and the unknown. 

"From that moment to this--nothing. Nothing of the Dauphin. "

He turned in his seat and looked questioningly up toward the crumblingchurch, with its square tower, stricken, years ago, by lightning; withits grass-grown graveyard marked by stones all grey and hoary withimmense age and the passage of cold and stormy winters. 

"Who knows, " he added, "what may have become of him? Who can say wherehe lies? For a life begun as his began was not likely to be a longone. Though troubles do not kill. Witness myself, who am five years hissenior. "

Colville looked at him in obedience to an inviting gesture of the hand;looked as at something he did not understand, something beyond hisunderstanding, perhaps. For the troubles had not been Monsieur deGemosac's own troubles, but those of his country. 

"And the Duchess?" said the Englishman at length, after a pause, "atFrohsdorf--what does she say--or think?"

"She says nothing, " replied the Marquis de Gemosac, sharply. "She issilent, because the world is listening for every word she may utter. What she thinks.... Ah! who knows? She is an old woman, my friend, forshe is seventy-one. Her memories are a millstone about her neck. Nowonder she is silent. Think what her life has been. As a child, threeyears of semi-captivity at the Tuileries, with the mob howling round therailings. Three and a half years a prisoner in the Temple. Both parentssent to the guillotine--her aunt to the same. All her world--massacred. As a girl, she was collected, majestic; or else she could not havesurvived those years in the Temple, alone--the last of her family. Whatmust her thoughts have been, at night in her prison? As a woman, she iscold, sad, unemotional. No one ever lived through such troubles with solittle display of feeling. The Restoration, the Hundred Days, the secondRestoration, Louis XVIII. , and his flight to England; Charles X. And hisabdication; her own husband, the Duc d'Angouleme--the Dauphin for manyyears, the King for half an hour--these are some of her experiences. Shehas lived for forty years in exile in Mittau, Memel, Warsaw, Konigsberg, Prague, England; and now she is at Frohsdorf, awaiting the end. Youask me what she says? She says nothing, but she knows--she has alwaysknown--that her brother did not die in the Temple. "

"Then--" suggested Colville, who certainly had acquired the French artof putting much meaning into one word. 

"Then why not seek him? you would ask. How do you know that she has notdone so, my friend, with tears? But as years passed on, and broughtno word of him, it became less and less desirable. While Louis XVIII. Continued to reign there was no reason to wish to find Louis XVII. , youunderstand. For there was still a Bourbon, of the direct line, upon thethrone. Louis XVIII. Would scarcely desire it. One would not expecthim to seek very diligently for one who would deprive him of thecrown. Charles X. , knowing he must succeed his brother, was no moreenthusiastic in the search. And the Duchess d'Angouleme herself, youask? I can see the question in your face. "

"Yes, " conceded Colville. "For, after all, he was her brother. "

"Yes--and if she found him, what would be the result? Her uncle wouldbe driven from the throne; her father-in-law would not inherit; herown husband, the Dauphin, would be Dauphin no longer. She herself couldnever be Queen of France. It is a hard thing to say of a woman--"

Monsieur de Gemosac paused for a moment in reflection. 

"Yes, " he said at length, "a hard thing. But this is a hard world, Monsieur Colville, and will not allow either men or women to be angels. I have known and served the Duchess all my life, and I confess that shehas never lost sight of the fact that, should Louis XVII. Be found, she herself would never be Queen of France. One is not a Bourbon fornothing. "

"One is not a stateswoman and a daughter of kings for nothing, " amendedColville, with his tolerant laugh; for he was always ready to makeallowances. "Better, perhaps, that France should be left quiet, underthe regime she had accepted, than disturbed by the offer of anotherregime, which might be less acceptable. You always remind me--you, whodeal with France--of a lion-tamer at a circus. You have a very slightcontrol over your performing beasts. If they refuse to do the trick youpropose, you do not press it, but pass on to another trick; and the barsof the cage always appear to the onlooker to be very inadequate. Perhapsit was better, Marquis, to let the Dauphin go; to pass him over, andproceed to the tricks suitable to the momentary humour of your wildanimals. "

The Marquis de Gemosac gave a curt laugh, which thrilled with a note ofthat fearful joy known to those who seek to control the uncontrollable. 

"At that time, " he admitted, "it might be so. But not now. At thattime there lived Louis XVIII. And Charles X. , and his sons, the Ducd'Angouleme and the Duc de Berri, who might reasonably be expected tohave sons in their turn. There were plenty of Bourbons, it seemed. Andnow--where are they? What is left of them?"

He gave a nod of the head toward the sea that lay between him andGermany. 

"One old woman, over there, at Frohsdorf, the daughter of MarieAntoinette, awaiting the end of her bitter pilgrimage--and this Comte deChambord. This man who will not when he may. No, my friend, it hasnever been so necessary to find Louis XVII. As it is now. Necessary forFrance--for the whole world. This Prince President, this last offshootof a pernicious republican growth, will drag us all in the mud if hegets his way with France. And those who have watched with seeing eyeshave always known that such a time as the present must eventually come. For France will always be the victim of a clever adventurer. Wehave foreseen it, and for that reason we have treated as seriouspossibilities these false Dauphins who have sprung up like mushrooms allover Europe and even in America. And what have they proved? What havethe Bourbons proved in frustrating their frauds? That the son of LouisXVI. Did not die in the Temple. That is all. And Madame herself hasgathered further strength to her conviction that the little King was notburied in that forgotten corner of the graveyard of Sainte Marguerite. At the same time, she knows that none of these--neither Naundorff, norHavergault, nor Bruneau, nor de Richemont, nor any other pretender--washer brother. No! The King, either because he did not know he was King, or because he had had enough of royalty, never came forward and neverbetrayed his whereabouts. He was to be sought; he is still to be sought. And it is now that he is wanted. "

"That is why I offer to tell you this story now. That is my reason forbringing you to Farlingford now, " said Colville, quietly. It seemedthat he must have awaited, as the wise do in this world, the propitiousmoment, and should it never come they are content to forego theirpurpose. He gave a light laugh and stretched out his long legs, contemplating his strapped trousers and neat boots with the eye of aconnoisseur. "And should I be the humble means of doing a good turnto France and others, will France--and others--remember it, I wonder. Perhaps I hold in my hands the Hope of France, Marquis. "

He paused, and lapsed for a moment into thought. It was eight o'clock, and the long northern twilight was fading into darkness now. The bell ofCaptain Clubbe's ship rang out the hour--a new sound in the stillness ofthis forgotten town. 

"The Last Hope, " added Dormer Colville, with a queer laugh. 

CHAPTER V. ON THE DYKE

Neither had spoken again when their thoughts were turned aside from thatstory which Colville, instead of telling, had been called upon to hear. 

For the man whose story it presumably was passed across the green erethe sound of the ship's bell had died away. He had changed his clothes, or else it would have appeared that he was returning to his ship. Hewalked with his head thrown up, with long lithe steps, with a gait andcarriage so unlike the heavy tread of men wearing sea-boots all theirworking days, that none would have believed him to be born and bred inFarlingford. For it is not only in books that history is written, butin the turn of a head, in the sound of a voice, in the vague and dreamythoughts half formulated by the human mind 'twixt sleeping and waking. 

Monsieur de Gemosac paused, with his cigarette held poised halfway tohis lips, and watched the man go past, while Dormer Colville, leaningback against the wall, scanned him sideways between lowered lids. 

It would seem that Barebone must have an appointment. He walked withoutlooking about him, like one who is late. He rather avoided than soughtthe greeting of a friend from the open cottage-doors as he passed on. Onreaching the quay he turned quickly to the left, following the path thatled toward the dyke at the riverside. 

"He is no sailor at heart, " commented Colville. "He never even glancedat his ship. "

"And yet it was he who steered the ship in that dangerous river. "

"He may be skilful in anything he undertakes, " suggested Colville, inexplanation. "It is Captain Clubbe who will tell us that. For CaptainClubbe has known him since his birth, and was the friend of his father. "

They sat in silence watching the shadowy figure on the dyke, outlineddimly against the hazy horizon. He was walking, still with haste as ifto a certain destination, toward the rectory buried in its half circleof crouching trees. And already another shadow was hurrying fromthe house to meet him. It was the boy, little Sep Marvin, and in thestillness of the evening his shrill voice could be heard in excitedgreeting. 

"What have you brought? What have you brought?" he was crying, as he rantoward Barebone. They seemed to have so much to say to each other thatthey could not wait until they came within speaking distance. The boytook Barebone's hand, and turning walked back with him to the old housepeeping over the dyke toward the sea. He could scarcely walk quietly, for joy at the return of his friend, and skipped from side to side, pouring out questions and answering them himself as children and womendo. 

But Barebone gave him only half of his attention and looked before himwith grave eyes, while the boy talked of nests and knives. Barebone waslooking toward the garden, concealed like an intrenchment behind thedyke. It was a quiet evening, and the rector was walking slowlybackward and forward on the raised path, made on the dyke itself, likea ship-captain on his quarter-deck, with hands clasped behind his bentback and eyes that swept the horizon at each turn with a mechanicalmonotony. At one end of the path, which was worn smooth by the ReverendSeptimus Marvin's pensive foot, the gleam of a white dress betrayed thepresence of his niece, Miriam Liston. 

"Ah, is that you?" asked the rector, holding out a limp hand. "Yes. Iremember Sep was allowed to sit up till half-past eight in the hope thatyou might come round to see us. Well, Loo, and how are you? Yes--yes. "

And he looked vaguely out to sea, repeating below his breath the words"Yes--yes" almost in a whisper, as if communing secretly with his ownthoughts out of hearing of the world. 

"Of course I should come round to see you, " answered Barebone. "Whereelse should I go? So soon as we had had tea and I could change myclothes and get away from that dear Mrs. Clubbe. It seems so strange tocome back here from the racketing world--and France is a racketing worldof its own--and find everything in Farlingford just the same. "

He had shaken hands with the rector and with Miriam Liston as he spoke, and his speech was not the speech of Farlingford men at all, but ratherof Septimus Marvin himself, of whose voice he had acquired the ring ofeducation, while adding to it a neatness and quickness of enunciationwhich must have been his own; for none in Suffolk could have taught itto him. 

"Just the same, " he repeated, glancing at the book Miriam had laid asidefor a moment to greet him and had now taken up again. "That book must bevery large print, " he said, "for you to be able to read by this light. "

"It is large print, " answered the girl, with a friendly laugh, as shereturned to it. 

"And you are still resolved to be a sailor?" inquired Marvin, lookingat him with kind eyes for ever asleep, it would appear, in some longslumber which must have been the death of one of the sources of humanenergy--of ambition or of hope. 

"Until I find a better calling, " answered Loo Barebone, with his eagerlaugh. "When I am away I wonder how any can be content to live inFarlingford and let the world go by. And when I am here I wonder howany can be so foolish as to fret and fume in the restless world while hemight be sitting quietly at Farlingford. "

"Ah, " murmured the rector, musingly, "you are for the world. You, withyour capacities, your quickness for learning, your--well, your lightnessof heart, my dear Loo. That goes far in the great world. To be lightof heart--to amuse. Yes, you are for the world. You might do somethingthere. "

"And nothing in Farlingford?" inquired Barebone, gaily; but he turned, as he spoke, and glanced once more at Miriam Liston as if in some dimway the question could not be answered by any other. She was absorbed inher book again. The print must indeed have been large and clear, for thetwilight was fading fast. 

She looked up and met his glance with direct and steady eyes of a cleargrey. A severe critic of that which none can satisfactorily define--awoman's beauty--would have objected that her face was too wide, andher chin too square. Her hair, which was of a bright brown, grew witha singular strength and crispness round a brow which was serene andsquare. In her eyes there shone the light of tenacity, and a steadypurpose. A student of human nature must have regretted that the soullooking out of such eyes should have been vouchsafed to a woman. Forstrength and purpose in a man are usually exercised for the good ofmankind, while in a woman such qualities must, it would seem, benefit nomore than one man of her own generation, and a few who may follow her inthe next. 

"There is nothing, " she said, turning to her book again, "for a man todo in Farlingford. "

"And for a woman--?" inquired Barebone, without looking at her. 

"There is always something--everywhere. "

And Septimus Marvin's reflective "Yes--yes, " as he paused in his walkand looked seaward, came in appropriately as a grave confirmation ofMiriam's jesting statement. 

"Yes--yes, " he repeated, turning toward Barebone, who stood listening tothe boy's chatter. "You find us as you left us, Loo. Was it six monthsago? Ah! How time flies when one remains stationary. For you, I daresay, it seems more. "

"For me--oh yes, it seems more, " replied Barebone, with his gay laugh, and a glance toward Miriam. 

"A little older, " continued the rector. "The church a little mouldier. Farlingford a little emptier. Old Godbold is gone--the last of theGodbolds of Farlingford, which means another empty cottage in thestreet. "

"I saw it as I came down, " answered Barebone. "They look like lastyear's nests--those empty cottages. But you have been all well, here atthe rectory, since we sailed? The cottages--well, they are only cottagesafter all. "

Miriam's eyes were raised for a moment from her book. 

"Is it like that they talk in France?" she asked. "Are those thesentiments of the great republic?"

Barebone laughed aloud. 

"I thought I could make you look up from your book, " he answered. "One has merely to cast a slur upon the poor--your dear poor ofFarlingford--and you are up in arms in an instant. But I am not theperson to cast a slur, since I am one of the poor of Farlingford myself, and owe it to charity--to the charity of the rectory--that I can readand write. "

"But it came to you very naturally, " observed Marvin, looking vaguelyacross the marshes to the roofs of the village, "to suggest that thosewho live in cottages are of a different race of beings--"

He broke off, following his own thoughts in silence, as men soonlearn to do who have had no companion by them capable of followingwhithersoever they may lead. 

"Did it?" asked Barebone, sharply. He turned to look at his old friendand mentor with a sudden quick distress. "I hope not. I hope it did notsound like that. For you have never taught me such thoughts, have you?Quite the contrary. And I cannot have learned it from Clubbe. "

He broke off with a laugh of relief, for he had perceived that SeptimusMarvin's thoughts were already elsewhere. 

"Perhaps you are right, " he added, turning to Miriam. "It may be thatone should go to a republic in order to learn--once for all--that allmen are not equal. "

"You say it with so much conviction, " was the retort, "that you musthave known it before. "

"But I do not know it. I deny such knowledge. Where could I have learnedsuch a principle?"

He spread out his arms in emphatic denial. For he was quick in all hisgestures--quick to laugh or be grave--quick, with the rapidity of awoman to catch a thought held back by silence or concealed in speech. 

Marvin merely looked at him with a dreamy smile and lapsed again intothose speculations which filled his waking moments; for the business oflife never received his full attention. He contemplated the world fromafar off, and was like that blind man at Bethsaida who saw men as treeswalking, and rubbed his eyes and wondered. He turned at the sound of thechurch clock and looked at his son, whose attitude towards Barebone wasthat of an admiring younger brother. 

"Sep, " he said, "your extra half-hour has passed. You will have timeto-morrow and for many days to come to exchange views with Loo. "

The boy was old before his time, as the children of elderly parentsalways are. 

"Very well, " he said, with a grave nod. "But you must not tell Loo wherethose young herons are after I am gone to bed. "

He went slowly toward the house, looking back suspiciously from time totime. 

"Herons? no. Why should I? Where are they?" muttered Mr. Marvin, vaguely, and he absent-mindedly followed his son, leaving Miriam Listonsitting in the turf shelter, built like an embrasure in the dyke, andBarebone standing a little distance from her, looking at her. 

A silence fell upon them--the silence that follows the departure of athird person when those who are left behind turn a new page. Miriam laidher book upon her lap and looked across the river now slowly turning toits ebb. She did not look at Barebone, but her eyes were conscious ofhis proximity. Her attitude, like his, seemed to indicate the knowledgethat this moment had been inevitable from the first, and that there wasno desire on either part to avoid it or to hasten its advent. 

"I had a haunting fear as we came up the river, " he said at length, quietly and with an odd courtesy of manner, "that you might have goneaway. That is the calamity always hanging over this quiet house. "

He spoke with the ease of manner which always indicates a longfriendship, or a close camaraderie, resulting from common interests or acommon endeavour. 

"Why should I go away?" she asked. 

"On the other hand, why should you stay?"

"Because I fancy I am wanted, " she replied, in the lighter tone whichhe had used. "It is gratifying to one's vanity, you know, whether it betrue or not. "

"Oh, it is true enough. One cannot imagine what they would do withoutyou. "

He was watching Septimus Marvin as he spoke. Sep had joined him and waswalking gravely by his side toward the house. They were ill-assorted. 

"But there is a limit even to self-sacrifice and--well, there is anotherworld open to you. "

She gave a curt laugh as if he had touched a topic upon which they woulddisagree. 

"Oh--yes, " he laughed. "I leave myself open to a tu quoque, I know. There are other worlds open to me also, you would say. "

He looked at her with his gay and easy smile; but she made no answer, and her resolute lips closed together sharply. The subject had beenclosed by some past conversation or incident which had left a memory. 

"Who are those two men staying at 'The Black Sailor'", she asked, changing the subject, or only turning into a by-way, perhaps. "You sawthem. "

She seemed to take it for granted that he should have seen them, thoughhe had not appeared to look in their direction. 

"Oh--yes. I saw them, but I do not know who they are. I came straighthere as soon as I could. "

"One of them is a Frenchman, " she said, taking no heed of the excusegiven for his ignorance of Farlingford news. 

"The old man--I thought so. I felt it when I looked at him. It wasperhaps a fellow feeling. I suppose I am a Frenchman after all. Clubbealways says I am one when I am at the wheel and let the ship go off thewind. "

Miriam was looking along the dyke, peering into the gathering darkness. 

"One of them is coming toward us now, " she said, almost warningly. "Notthe Marquis de Gemosac, but the other--the Englishman. "

"Confound him, " muttered Barebone. "What does he want?"

And to judge from Mr. Dormer Colville's pace it would appear that hechiefly desired to interrupt their tete-a-tete. 

CHAPTER VI. THE STORY OF THE CASTAWAYS

When River Andrew stated that there were few at Farlingford who knewmore of Frenchman than himself, it is to be presumed that he spoke bythe letter, and under the reserve that Captain Clubbe was not at themoment on shore. 

For Captain Clubbe had known Frenchman since boyhood. 

"I understand, " said Dormer Colville to him two or three days afterthe arrival of "The Last Hope, " "that the Marquis de Gemosac cannot dobetter than apply to you for some information he desires to possess. Infact, it is on that account that we are here. "

The introduction had been a matter requiring patience. For CaptainClubbe had not laid aside in his travels a certain East Anglian distrustof the unknown. He had, of course, noted the presence of the strangerswhen he landed at Farlingford quay, but his large, immobile face hadbetrayed no peculiar interest. There had been plenty to tell him allthat was known of Monsieur de Gemosac and Dormer Colville, and a gooddeal that was only surmised. But the imagination of even the darksomeRiver Andrew failed to soar successfully under the measuring blue eye, and the total lack of comment of Captain Clubbe. 

There was, indeed, little to tell, although the strangers had been seento go to the rectory in quite a friendly way, and had taken a glass ofsherry in the rector's study. Mrs. Clacy was responsible for this pieceof news, and her profession giving her the entree to almost every backdoor in Farlingford enabled her to gather news at the fountain-head. ForMrs. Clacy went out to oblige. She obliged the rectory on Mondays, andMrs. Clubbe, with what was technically described as the heavy wash, onTuesdays. Whatever Mrs. Clacy was asked to do she could perform with arough efficiency. But she always undertook it with reluctance. It wasnot, she took care to mention, what she was accustomed to, but she woulddo it to oblige. Her charge was eighteen-pence a day with her dinner, and (she made the addition with a raised eyebrow, and the resigned sighof one who takes her meals as a duty toward those dependent on her) abit of tea at the end of the day. 

It was on a Wednesday that Dormer Colville met Captain Clubbe faceto face in the street, and was forced to curb his friendly smile andhalf-formed nod of salutation. For Captain Clubbe went past him with arigid face and steadily averted eyes, like a walking monument. For therewas something in the captain's deportment dimly suggestive of stone, and the dignity of stillness. His face meant security, his large limbs aslow, sure action. 

Colville and Monsieur de Gemosac were on the quay in the afternoonat high tide when "The Last Hope" was warped on to the slip-way. AllFarlingford was there too, and Captain Clubbe carried out the difficulttask with hardly any words at all from a corner of the jetty, with LooBarebone on board as second in command. 

Captain Clubbe could not fail to perceive the strangers, for they stooda few yards from him, Monsieur de Gemosac peering with his yelloweyes toward the deck of "The Last Hope, " where Barebone stood on theforecastle giving the orders transmitted to him by a sign from histaciturn captain. Colville seemed to take a greater interest in theproceedings, and noted the skill and precision of the crew with the airof a seaman. 

Presently, Septimus Marvin wandered down the dyke and stood irresolutelyat the far corner of the jetty. He always approached his flock withdiffidence, although they treated him kindly enough, much as theytreated such of their own children as were handicapped in the race oflife by some malformation or mental incapacity. 

Colville approached him and they stood side by side until "The LastHope" was safely moored and chocked. Then it was that the rectorintroduced the two strangers to Captain Clubbe. It being a Wednesday, Clubbe must have known all that there was to know, and more, of Monsieurde Gemosac and Dormer Colville; for Mrs. Clacy, it will be remembered, obliged Mrs. Clubbe on Tuesdays. Nothing, however, in the mask-likeface, large and square, of the ship-captain indicated that he knew aughtof his new acquaintances, or desired to know more. And when Colvillefrankly explained their presence in Farlingford, Captain Clubbe noddedgravely and that was all. 

"We can wait, however, until a more suitable opportunity presentsitself, " Colville hastened to add. "You are busy, as even a landsman canperceive, and cannot be expected to think of anything but your vesseluntil the tide leaves her high and dry. "

He turned and explained the situation to the Marquis, who shrugged hisshoulders impatiently as if at the delay. For he was a southerner, andwas, perhaps, ignorant of the fact that in dealing with any born on theshores of the German Ocean nothing is gained and, more often than not, all is lost by haste. 

"You hear, " Colville added, turning to the Captain, and speaking in acurter manner; for so strongly was he moved by that human kindnesswhich is vaguely called sympathy that his speech varied according to hislistener. "You hear the Marquis only speaks French. It is about a fellowcountryman of his buried here. Drop in and have a glass of wine with ussome evening; to-night, if you are at liberty. "

"What I can tell you won't take long, " said Clubbe, over his shoulder;for the tide was turning, and in a few minutes would be ebbing fast. 

"Dare say not. But we have a good bin of claret at 'The Black Sailor, 'and shall be glad of your opinion on it. "

Clubbe nodded, with a curt laugh, which might have been intended todeprecate the possession of any opinion on a vintage, or to express hisdisbelief that Dormer Colville desired to have it. 

Nevertheless, his large person loomed in the dusk of the trees soonafter sunset, in the narrow road leading from his house to the churchand the green. 

Monsieur de Gemosac and his companion were sitting on the bench outsidethe inn, leaning against the sill of their own parlour-window, whichstood open. The Captain had changed his clothes, and now wore those inwhich he went to church and to the custom-house when in London or otherlarge cities. 

"There walks a just man, " commented Dormer Colville, lightly, and nolonger word could have described Captain Clubbe more aptly. He wouldrather have stayed in his own garden this evening to smoke his pipe incontemplative silence. But he had always foreseen that the day mightcome when it would be his duty to do his best by Loo Barebone. He hadnot sought this opportunity, because, being a wise as well as a justman, he was not quite sure that he knew what the best would be. 

He shook hands gravely with the strangers, and by his manner seemed toindicate his comprehension of Monsieur de Gemosac's well-turned phrasesof welcome. Dormer Colville appeared to be in a silent humour, unlessperchance he happened to be one of those rare beings who can either talkor hold their tongues as occasion may demand. 

"You won't want me to put my oar in, I see, " observed he, tentatively, as he drew forward a small table whereon were set three glasses and abottle of the celebrated claret. 

"I can understand French, but I don't talk it, " replied the Captain, stolidly. 

"And if I interpret as we go along, we shall sit here all night, and getvery little said. "

Colville explained the difficulty to the Marquis de Gemosac, and agreedwith him that much time would be saved if Captain Clubbe would be kindenough to tell in English all that he knew of the nameless Frenchmanburied in Farlingford churchyard, to be translated by Colville toMonsieur de Gemosac at another time. As Clubbe understood this, andnodded in acquiescence, there only remained to them to draw the cork andlight their cigars. 

"Not much to tell, " said Clubbe, guardedly. "But what there is, is nosecret, so far as I know. It has not been told because it was knownlong ago, and has been forgotten since. The man's dead and buried, andthere's an end of him. "

"Of him, yes, but not of his race, " answered Colville. 

"You mean the lad?" inquired the Captain, turning his calm and steadygaze to Colville's face. The whole man seemed to turn, ponderously andsteadily, like a siege-gun. 

"That is what I meant, " answered Colville. "You understand, " he went onto explain, as if urged thereto by the fixed glance of the clear blueeye--"you understand, it is none of my business. I am only here as theMarquis de Gemosac's friend. Know him in his own country, where I livemost of the time. "

Clubbe nodded. 

"Frenchman was picked up at sea fifty-five years ago this July, " henarrated, bluntly, "by the 'Martha and Mary' brig of this port. Iwas apprentice at the time. Frenchman was a boy with fair hair and awomanish face. Bit of a cry-baby I used to think him, but being a boymyself I was perhaps hard on him. He was with his--well, his mother. "

Captain Clubbe paused. He took the cigar from his lips and carefullyreplaced the outer leaf, which had wrinkled. Perhaps he waited to beasked a question. Colville glanced at him sideways and did not ask it. 

"Dark night, " the Captain continued, after a short silence, "and a heavysea, about mid-channel off Dieppe. We sighted a French fishing-boatyawing about abandoned. Something queer about her, the skipper thought. Those were queer times in France. We hailed her, and getting no answerput out a boat and boarded her. There was nobody on board but a womanand a child. Woman was half mad with fear. I have seen many afraid, butnever one like that. I was only a boy myself, but I remember thinking itwasn't the sea and drowning she was afraid of. We couldn't find out thesmack's name. It had been painted out with a tar-brush, and she was halffull of water. The skipper took the woman and child off, and left thefishing-smack as we found her yawing about--all sail set. They reckonedshe would founder in a few minutes. But there was one old man on board, the boatswain, who had seen many years at sea, who said that she wasn'tmaking any water at all, because he had been told to look for the leakand couldn't find it. He said that the water had been pumped into herso as to waterlog her; and it was his belief that she had not beenabandoned many minutes, that the crew were hanging about somewhere nearin a boat waiting to see if we sighted her and put men on board. "

Mr. Dormer Colville was attending to the claret, and pressed CaptainClubbe by a gesture of the hand to empty his glass. 

"Something wrong somewhere?" he suggested, in a conversational way. 

"By daylight we were ramping up channel with three French men-of-warafter us, " was Captain Clubbe's comprehensive reply. "As chance had it, the channel squadron hove in sight round the Foreland, and the Frenchmenturned and left us. "

Clubbe marked a pause in his narrative by a glass of claret taken at onedraught like beer. 

"Skipper was a Farlingford man, name of Doy, " he continued. "Long as helived he was pestered by inquiries from the French government respectinga Dieppe fishing-smack supposed to have been picked up abandoned at sea. He had picked up no fishing-smack, and he answered no letters about it. He was an old man when it happened, and he died at sea soon after myindentures expired. The woman and child were brought here, where nobodycould speak French, and, of course, neither of them could speak anyEnglish. The boy was white-faced and frightened at first, but hesoon picked up spirit. They were taken in and cared for by one andanother--any who could afford it. For Farlingford has always bredseafaring men ready to give and take. "

"So we were told yesterday by the rector. We had a long talk with him inthe morning. A clever man, if--"

Dormer Colville did not complete the remark, but broke off with a sigh. He had no doubt seen trouble himself. For it is not always the raggedand unkempt who have been sore buffeted by the world, but also such ashave a clean-washed look almost touching sleekness. 

"Yes, " said Clubbe, slowly and conclusively. "So you have seen theparson. "

"Of course, " Colville remarked, cheerfully, after a pause; for we cannotalways be commiserating the unfortunate. "Of course, all this happenedbefore his time, and Monsieur de Gemosac does not want to learn fromhearsay, you understand, but at first hand. I fancy he would, forinstance, like to know when the woman, the--mother died. "

Clubbe was looking straight in front of him. He turned in hisdisconcerting, monumental way and looked at his questioner, who hadimitated with a perfect ingenuousness his own brief pause before theword mother. Colville smiled pleasantly at him. 

"I tell you frankly, Captain, " he said, "it would suit me better if shewasn't the mother. "

"I am not here to suit you, " murmured Captain Clubbe, without haste orhesitation. 

"No. Well, let us say for the present that she was the mother. We candiscuss that another time. When did she die?"

"Seven years after landing here. "

Colville made a mental calculation and nodded his head with satisfactionat the end of it. He lighted another cigarette. 

"I am a business man, Captain, " he said at length. "Fair dealing anda clean bond. That is what I have been brought up to. Confidence forconfidence. Before we go any further--" He paused and seemed to thinkbefore committing himself. Perhaps he saw that Captain Clubbe did notintend to go much further without some quid pro quo. "Before we go anyfurther, I think I may take it upon myself to let you into the Marquis'sconfidence. It is about an inheritance, Captain. A great inheritanceand--well, that young fellow may well be the man. He may be born togreater things than a seafaring life, Captain. "

"I don't want any marquis to tell me that, " answered Clubbe, with hisslow judicial smile. "For I've brought him up since the cradle. He'sbeen at sea with me in fair weather and foul--and he is not the same asus. "

CHAPTER VII. ON THE SCENT

Dormer Colville attached so much importance to the captain's grave jestthat he interpreted it at once to Monsieur de Gemosac. 

"Captain Clubbe, " he said, "tells us that he does not need to beinformed that this Loo Barebone is the man we seek. He has long knownit. "

Which was a near enough rendering, perhaps, to pass muster in thehearing of two persons imperfectly acquainted with the languages sotranslated. Then, turning again to the sailor, he continued:

"Monsieur de Gemosac would naturally wish to know whether there werepapers or any other means of identification found on the woman or thechild?"

"There were a few papers. The woman had a Roman Catholic Missal in herpocket, and the child a small locket with a miniature portrait in it. "

"Of the Queen Marie Antoinette?" suggested Colville, quickly. 

"It may well have been. It is many years since I saw it. It was fadedenough. I remember that it had a fall, and would not open afterward. Noone has seen it for twenty-five years or so. "

"The locket or the portrait?" inquired Colville, with a light laugh, with which to disclaim any suggestion of a cross-examination. 

"The portrait. "

"And the locket?"

"My wife has it somewhere, I believe. "

Colville gave an impatient laugh. For the peaceful air of Farlingfordhad failed to temper that spirit of energy and enterprise which he hadacquired in cities--in Paris, most likely. He had no tolerance for quietways and a slow, sure progress, such as countrymen seek, who are soleisurely that the years slide past and death surprises them before theyhave done anything in the world but attend to its daily demand for apassing effort. 

"Ah!" he cried, "but all that must be looked into if we are to doanything for this young fellow. You will find the Marquis anxious tobe up and doing at once. You go so slowly in Farlingford, Captain. Theworld is hurrying on and this chance will be gone past before we areready. Let us get these small proofs of identity collected together assoon as possible. Let us find that locket. But do not force it open. Give it to me as it is. Let us find the papers. "

"There are no papers, " interrupted Captain Clubbe, with a calmdeliberation quite untouched by his companion's hurry. 

"No papers?"

"No; for Frenchman burnt them before my eyes. "

Dormer Colville meditated for a moment in silence. Although his mannerwas quick, he was perhaps as deliberate in his choice of a question aswas Captain Clubbe in answering it. 

"Why did he do that? Did he know who he was? Did he ever say anything toyou about his former life--his childhood--his recollections of France?"

"He was not a man to say much, " answered Clubbe, himself no man torepeat much. 

Colville had been trying for some time to study the sailor's face, quietly through his cigar smoke. 

"Look here, Captain, " he said, after a pause. "Let us understand eachother. There is a chance, just a chance, that we can prove this LooBarebone to be the man we think him, but we must all stand together. Wemust be of one mind and one purpose. We four, Monsieur de Gemosac, you, Barebone, and my humble self. I fancy--well, I fancy it may prove to beworth our while. "

"I am willing to do the best I can for Loo, " was the reply. 

"And I am willing to do the best I can for Monsieur de Gemosac, whoseheart is set on this affair. And, " Colville added, with his frank laugh, "let us hope that we may have our reward; for I am a poor man myself, and do not like the prospect of a careful old age. I suppose, Captain, that if a man were overburdened with wealth he would scarcely follow aseafaring life, eh?"

"Then there is money in it?" inquired Clubbe, guardedly. 

"Money, " laughed the other. "Yes--there is money for all concerned, andto spare. "

Captain Clubbe had been born and bred among a people possessing littlewealth and leading a hard life, only to come to want in old age. It wasnatural that this consideration should carry weight. He was anxious todo his best for the boy who had been brought up as his own son. He couldthink of nothing better than to secure him from want for the rest ofhis days. There were many qualities in Loo Barebone which he did notunderstand, for they were quite foreign to the qualities held to bevirtues in Farlingford; such as perseverance and method, a carefuleconomy, and a rigid common sense. Frenchman had brought these strangeways into Farlingford when he was himself only a boy of ten, and theyhad survived his own bringing up in some of the austerest houses in thetown, so vitally as to enable him to bequeath them almost unchastened tohis son. 

As has been noted, Loo had easily lived down the prejudices of hisown generation against an un-English gaiety, and inconsequence almostamounting to emotion. And nothing is, or was in the solid days beforethese trumpet-blowing times, so unwelcome in British circles as emotion. 

Frenchman had no doubt prepared the way for his son; but thepeculiarities of thought and manner which might be allowed to pass ina foreigner would be less easily forgiven in Loo, who had Farlingfordblood in his veins. For his mother had been a Clubbe, own cousin, and, as gossips whispered, once the sweetheart of Captain Clubbe himself anddaughter of Seth Clubbe of Maiden's Grave, one of the largest farmers onthe Marsh. 

"It cannot be for no particular purpose that the boy has been created sodifferent from any about him, " Captain Clubbe muttered, reflectively, ashe thought of Dormer Colville's words. For he had that simple faithin an Almighty Purpose, without which no wise man will be found to dobusiness on blue water. 

"It is strange how a man may be allowed to inherit from a grandfather hehas never seen a trick of manner, or a face which are not the manneror face of his father, " observed Colville, adapting himself, as was hishabit, to the humour of his companion. "There must, as you suggest, besome purpose in it. God writes straight on crooked lines, Captain. "

Thus Dormer Colville found two points of sympathy with this skipper of aslow coaster, who had never made a mistake at sea nor done an injusticeto any one serving under him: a simple faith in the Almighty Purposeand a very honest respect for money. This was the beginning of a sort ofalliance between four persons of very different character which was toinfluence the whole lives of many. 

They sat on the tarred seat set against the weather-beaten wall of "TheBlack Sailor" until darkness came stealing in from the sea with thequiet that broods over flat lands, and an unpeopled shore. Colvillehad many questions to ask and many more which he withheld till a fitteroccasion. But he learnt that Frenchman had himself stated his name tobe Barebone when he landed, a forlorn and frightened little boy, on thisbarren shore, and had never departed from that asseveration when he cameto learn the English language and marry an English wife. Captain Clubbetold also how Frenchman, for so he continued to be called long after hisreal name had been written twice in the parish register, had soon afterhis marriage destroyed the papers carefully preserved by the woman whomhe never called mother, though she herself claimed that title. 

She had supported herself, it appeared, by her needle, and never seemedto want money, which led the villagers to conclude that she had somesecret store upon which to draw when in need. She had received lettersfrom France, which were carefully treasured by her until her death, andfor long afterward by Frenchman, who finally burnt all at his marriage, saying that he was now an Englishman and wanted to retain no tieswith France. At this time, Clubbe remembered, Louis XVIII. Was firmlyestablished on the throne of France, the Restoration--known as theSecond--having been brought about by the Allied Powers with a high handafter the Hundred Days and the final downfall of Napoleon. 

Frenchman may well have known that it might be worth his while to returnto France and seek fortune there; but he never spoke of this knowledgenor made reference to the recollections of his childhood, which cast acold reserve over his soul and steeped it with such a deadly hatred ofFrance and all things French, that he desired to sever all memories thatmight link him with his native country or awake in the hearts of anychildren he should beget the desire to return thither. 

A year after his marriage his wife died, and thus her son, left to thecare of a lonely and misanthropic father, was brought up a Frenchmanafter all, and lisped his first words in that tongue. 

"He lived long enough to teach him to speak French and think likea Frenchman, and then he died, " said Captain Clubbe--"a young manreckoning by years, but in mind he was an older man than I am to-day. "

"And his secret died with him?" suggested Dormer Colville, looking atthe end of his cigar with a queer smile. But Captain Clubbe made noanswer. 

"One may suppose that he wanted it to die with him, at all events, "added Colville, tentatively. 

"You are right, " was the reply, a local colloquialism in common use, asa clincher to a closed argument or an unwelcome truth. Captain Clubberose as he spoke and intimated his intention of departing, by jerkinghis head sideways at Monsieur de Gemosac, who, however, held out hishand with a Frenchman's conscientious desire to follow the Englishcustom. 

"I'll be getting home, " said Clubbe, simply. As he spoke he peeredacross the marsh toward the river, and Colville, following the directionof his gaze, saw the black silhouette of a large lug-sail against theeastern sky, which was softly grey with the foreglow of the rising moon. 

"What is that?" asked Colville. 

"That's Loo Barebone going up with the sea-breeze. He has been down tothe rectory. He mostly goes there in the evening. There is a creek, youknow, runs down from Maiden's Grave to the river. "

"Ah!" answered Colville thoughtfully, almost as if the creek and thelarge lug-sail against the sky explained something which he had nothitherto understood. 

"I thought he might have come with you this evening, " he added, after apause. "For I suppose everybody in Farlingford knows why we are here. Hedoes not seem very anxious to seek his fortune in France. "

"No, " answered Clubbe, lifting his stony face to the sky and studyingthe little clouds that hovered overhead awaiting the moon. "No--you areright. "

Then he turned with a jerk of the head and left them. The Marquis deGemosac watched him depart, and made a gesture toward the darkness ofthe night, into which he had vanished, indicative of a great despair. 

"But, " he exclaimed, "they are of a placidity--these English. There isnothing to be done with them, my friend, nothing to be done with suchmen as that. Now I understand how it is that they form a great nation. It is merely because they stand and let you thump them until you aretired, and then they proceed to do what they intended to do from thefirst. "

"That is because we know that he who jumps about most actively will bethe first to feel fatigue, Marquis, " laughed Colville, pleasantly. "Butyou must not judge all England from these eastern people. It is herethat you will find the concentrated essence of British tenacity andstolidity--the leaven that leavens the whole. "

"Then it is our misfortune to have to deal with these concentratedEnglish--that is all. "

The Marquis shrugged his shoulders with that light despair which isincomprehensible to any but men of Latin race. 

"No, Marquis! there you are wrong, " corrected Dormer Colville, with asudden gravity, "for we have in Captain Clubbe the very man we want--oneof the hardest to find in this chattering world--a man who will not saytoo much. If we can only make him say what we want him to say he willnot ruin all by saying more. It is so much easier to say a word toomuch than a word too little. And remember he speaks French as well asEnglish, though, being British, he pretends that he cannot. "

Monsieur de Gemosac turned to peer at his companion in the darkness. 

"You speak hopefully, my friend, " he said. "There is something in yourvoice--"

"Is there?" laughed Colville, who seemed elated. "There may well be. For that man has been saying things, in that placid monotone which wouldhave taken your breath away had you been able to understand them. A hundred times I rejoiced that you understood no English, for yourimpatience, Marquis, might have silenced him as some rare-voiced birdis silenced by a sudden movement. Yes, Marquis, there is a locketcontaining a portrait of Marie Antoinette. There are other thingsalso. But there is one drawback. The man himself is not anxious to comeforward. There are reasons, it appears, here in Farlingford, why heshould not seek his fortune elsewhere. To-morrow morning--"

Dormer Colville rose and yawned audibly. It almost appeared that heregretted having permitted himself a moment's enthusiasm on a subjectwhich scarcely affected his interests. 

"To-morrow morning I will see to it. "

CHAPTER VIII. THE LITTLE BOY WHO WAS A KING

The Reverend Septimus Marvin had lost his wife five years earlier. Itwas commonly said that he had never been the same man since. Which wasuntrue. Much that is commonly said will, on investigation, be found tobe far from the truth. Septimus Marvin had, so to speak, been the sameman since infancy. He had always looked vaguely at the world throughspectacles; had always been at a loss among his contemporaries--ageneration already tainted by that shallow spirit of haste whichis known to-day as modernity--at a loss for a word; at a loss for acompanion soul. 

He was a scholar and a learned historian. His companions were books, andhe communed in spirit with writers who were dead and gone. 

Had he ever been a different man his circumstances would assuredly havebeen other. His wife, for instance, would in all human probabilityhave been alive. His avocation might have been more suited to hiscapabilities. He was not intended for a country parish, and thatpractical human comprehension of the ultimate value of little dailydetails, without which a pastor never yet understood his flock, was notvouchsafed to him. 

"Passen takes no account o' churchyard, " River Andrew had said, andneither he nor any other in Farlingford could account for the specialneglect to which was abandoned that particular corner of the burialground where the late Mrs. Marvin reposed beneath an early Victorianheadstone of singular hideousness. 

Mr. Marvin always went round the other way. 

"Seems as he has forgotten her wonderful quick, " commented the women ofFarlingford. But perhaps they were wrong. If he had forgotten, he mightbe expected to go round by the south side of the church by accidentoccasionally, especially as it was the shorter way from the rectory tothe porch. He was an absent-minded man, but he always remembered, asRiver Andrew himself admitted, to go north about. And his wife's gravewas overgrown by salted grass as were the rest. 

Farlingford had accepted him, when his College, having no use for sucha dreamer elsewhere, gave him the living, not only with resignation, butwith equanimity. This remote parish, cut off from the busier mainlandby wide heaths and marshes, sparsely provided with ill-kept roads, hadnever looked for a bustling activity in its rectors. Their forefathershad been content with a gentleman, given to sport and the pursuits ofa country squire, marked on the seventh day by a hearty and robustgodliness. They would have preferred Parson Marvin to have handled aboat and carried a gun. But he had his good qualities. He left themalone. And they are the most independent people in the world. 

When his wife died, his sister, the widow of an Indian officer, bustledeastward, from a fashionable Welsh watering-place, just to satisfyherself, as she explained to her West-country friends, that he would notmarry his cook before six months elapsed. After that period she proposedto wash her hands of him. She was accompanied by her only child, Miriam, who had just left school. 

Six months later Septimus Marvin was called upon to give away his sisterto a youthful brother officer of her late husband, which ceremony heperformed with a sigh of relief audible in the farthest recess of theorgan loft. While the wedding-bells were still ringing, the bride, whowas not dreamy or vague like her brother, gave Septimus to understandthat he had promised to provide Miriam with a home--that he reallyneeded a woman to keep things going at the rectory and to watch over thetender years of little Sep--and that Miriam's boxes were packed. 

Septimus had no recollection of the promise. And his sister was quitehurt that he should say such a thing as that on her wedding day andspoil everything. He had no business to make the suggestion if he hadnot intended to carry it out. So the bride and bridegroom went away ina shower of good wishes and rice to the life of organized idleness, forwhich the gentleman's education and talents eminently befitted him, andMiriam returned to Farlingford with Septimus. 

In those days the railway passed no nearer to Farlingford than Ipswich, and before the arrival of their train at that station Miriam hadthoroughly elucidated the situation. She had discovered that she was notexpected at the rectory, and that Septimus had never offered of hisown free will the home which he now kindly pressed upon her--two truthswhich the learned historian fondly imagined to be for ever locked up inhis own heart, which was a kind one and the heart of a gentleman. 

Miriam also learned that Septimus was very poor. She did not need to beinformed that he was helpless. Her instinct had told her that longago. She was only nineteen, but she looked at men and women with thosediscerning grey eyes, in which there seemed to lurk a quiet lightlike the light of stars, and saw right through them. She was womanenough--despite the apparent inconsequence of the schoolroom, whichstill lent a vagueness to her thoughts and movements--to fall an easyvictim to the appeal of helplessness. Years, it would appear, are of noaccount in certain feminine instincts. Miriam had probably been womanenough at ten years of age to fly to the rescue of the helpless. 

She did not live permanently at the rectory, but visited her mother fromtime to time, either in England, or at one of the foreign resorts ofidle people. But the visits, as years went by, became shorter and rarer. At twenty-one Miriam came into a small fortune of her own, left by herfather in the hands of executors, one of whom was that John Turner, theParis banker, who had given Dormer Colville a letter of introduction toSeptimus Marvin. The money was sorely needed at the rectory, and Miriamdrew freely enough on John Turner. 

"You are an extravagant girl, " said that astute financier to her, whenthey met at the house of Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, at Royan, in France. "I wonder what you spend it on! But I don't trouble my head about it. You need not explain, you understand. But you can come to me when youwant advice or help. You will find me--in the background. I am a fatold man, in the background. Useful enough in my way, perhaps, even to apretty girl with a sound judgment. "

There were many, who, like Loo Barebone, reflected that there were otherworlds open to Miriam Liston. At first she went into those other worlds, under the flighty wing of her mother, and looked about her there. Captain and Mrs. Duncan belonged to the Anglo-French society, which hadsprung into existence since the downfall of Napoleon I. , and was in somedegree the outcome of the part played by Great Britain in the comedy ofthe Bourbon and Orleanist collapse. Captain Duncan had retired fromthe army, changing career from one of a chartered to an unchartereduselessness, and he herded with tarnished aristocracy and half-payfailures in the smoking-rooms of Continental clubs. 

Miriam returned, after a short experience of this world, to Farlingford, as to the better part. At first she accepted invitations to some ofthe country houses open to her by her connection with certain greatfamilies. But after a time she seemed to fall under the spell of thatquiet life which is still understood and lived in a few remote places. 

"What can you find to do all day and to think about at night at thatbleak corner of England?" inquired her friends, themselves restless byday and sleepless by night by reason of the heat of their pursuit ofthat which is called pleasure. 

"If he wants to marry his cook let him do it and be done with us, " wroteher mother from the south of France. "Come and join us at Biarritz. ThePrince President will be here this winter. We shall be very gay.... P. S. We shall not ask you to stay with us as we are hard up this quarter; butto share expenses. Mind come. "

But Miriam remained at Farlingford, and there is nothing to be gained byseeking to define her motive. There are two arguments against seekinga woman's motive. Firstly, she probably has none. Secondly, should shehave one she will certainly have a counterfeit, which she will danglebefore your eyes, and you will seize it. 

Dormer Colville might almost be considered to belong to the world ofwhich Captain and Mrs. Duncan were such brilliant ornaments. But hedid not so consider himself. For their world was essentially British, savoured here and there by a French count or so, at whose person andtitle the French aristocracy of undoubted genuineness looked askance. Dormer Colville counted his friends among these latter. In fact, hemoved in those royalist circles who thought that there was little tochoose between the Napoleonic and the Orleanist regime. He carefullyavoided intimacy with Englishmen whose residence in foreign parts wascontinuous and in constant need of explanation. Indeed, if a man's lifeneeds explanation, he must sooner or later find himself face to facewith some one who will not listen to him. 

Colville, however, knew all about Captain Duncan, and knew what wasignored by many, namely, that he was nothing worse than foolish. Heknew all about Miriam, for he was in the confidence of Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. He knew that that lady wondered why Miriam preferredFarlingford to the high-bred society of her own circle at Royan and inParis. 

He thought he knew why Loo Barebone showed so little enterprise. And hewas, as Madame de Chantonnay had frequently told him, more than half aFrenchman in the quickness of his intuitions. He picked a flower forhis buttonhole from the garden of the "Black Sailor, " and set forth themorning after his interview with Captain Clubbe toward the rectory. Itwas a cool July morning, with the sun half obscured by a fog-bank drivenin from the sea. Through the dazzling white of that which is known onthese coasts as the water-smoke the sky shone a cloudless blue. Theair was light and thin. It is the lightest and thinnest air in England. Dormer Colville hummed a song under his breath as he walked on the topof the dyke. He was a light-hearted man, full of hope and optimism. 

"Am I disturbing your studies?" he asked, with his easy laugh, as hecame rather suddenly on Miriam and little Sep in the turf-shelter at thecorner of the rectory garden. "You must say so if I am. "

They had, indeed, their books, and the boy's face wore that abstractedlook which comes from a very earnest desire not to see the manyinteresting things on earth and sea, which always force themselvesupon the attention of the young at the wrong time. Colville had alreadysecured Sep's friendship by the display of a frank ignorance of naturalhistory only equalled by his desire to be taught. 

"We're doing history, " replied Sep, frankly, jumping up and shakinghands. 

"Ah, yes. William the Conqueror, ten hundred and sixty-six, and all therest of it. I know. At least I knew once, but I have forgotten. "

"No. We're doing French history. Miriam likes that best, but I hate it. "

"French history, " said Colville, thoughtfully. "Yes. That isinteresting. Miss Liston likes that best, does she? Or, perhaps, shethinks that it is best for you to know it. Do you know all about LouisXVI. And Marie Antoinette?"

"Pretty well, " admitted Sep, doubtfully. 

"When I was a little chap like you, I knew many people who had seenLouis XVI. And Marie Antoinette. That was long, long ago, " he added, turning to Miriam to make the admission. "But those are not the thingsthat one forgets, are they, Miss Liston?"

"Then I wish Sep could know somebody who would make him remember, "answered Miriam, half closing the book in her hand; for she was veryquick and had seen Colville's affable glance take it in in passing, asit took in everything within sight. 

"A King, for instance, " he said, slowly. "A King of France. Others--prophets and righteous men--have desired to see that, MissListon. "

It seemed, however, that he had seen enough to know the period whichthey were studying. 

"I suppose, " he said, after a pause, "that in this studious house youtalk and think history, and more especially French history. It mustbe very quiet and peaceful. Much more restful than acting in it as myfriend de Gemosac has done all his life, as I myself have done in asmall way. For France takes her history so much more violently than youdo in England. France is tossed about by it, while England stands andis hammered on the anvil of Time, as it were, and remains just the sameshape as before. "

He broke off and turned to Sep. 

"Do you know the story of the little boy who was a King?" he asked, abruptly. "They put him in prison and he escaped. He was carried out ina clothes-basket. Funny, is it not? And he escaped from his enemies andreached another country, where he became a sailor. He grew to be a manand he married a woman of that country, and she died, leaving him witha little boy. And then he died himself and left the little boy, who wastaken care of by his English relations, who never knew that he wasa King. But he was; for his father was a King before him, and hisgrandfathers--far, far back. Back to the beginning of the book thatMiss Liston holds in her hand. The little boy--he was an orphan, yousee--became a sailor. He never knew that he was a King--the Hope of hiscountry, of all the old men and the wise men in it--the holder of thefate of nations. Think of that. "

The story pleased Sep, who sat with open lips and eager eyes, listeningto it. 

"Do you think it is an interesting story? What do you think is the endof it?"

"I don't know, " answered Sep, gravely. 

"Neither do I. No one knows the end of that story yet. But if you werea King--if you were that boy--what would you do? Would you go and be aKing, or would you be afraid?"

"No. I should go and be a King. And fight battles. "

"But you would have to leave everybody. You would have to leave yourfather. "

"I should not mind that, " answered Sep, brutally. 

"You would leave Miss Liston?"

"I should have to, " was the reply, with conviction. 

"Ah, yes, " said Colville, with a grave nod of the head. "Yes. I supposeyou would have to if you were anything of a man at all. There would beno alternative--for a real man. "

"Besides, " put in Sep, jumping from side to side on his seat witheagerness, "she would make me--wouldn't you, Miriam?"

Colville had turned away and was looking northward toward the creek, known as Maiden's Grave, running through the marshes to the river. Alarge lug-sail broke the flat line of the horizon, though the boat towhich it belonged was hidden by the raised dyke. 

"Would she?" inquired Colville, absent-mindedly, without taking his eyesfrom the sail which was creeping slowly toward them. "Well--you knowMiss Liston's character better than I do, Sep. And no doubt you areright. And you are not that little boy, so it doesn't matter; does it?"

After a pause he turned and glanced sideways at Miriam, who was lookingstraight in front of her with steady eyes and white cheeks. 

They could hear Loo Barebone singing gaily in the boat, which was hiddenbelow the level of the dyke. And they watched, in a sudden silence, thesail pass down the river toward the quay. 

CHAPTER IX. A MISTAKE

The tide was ebbing still when Barebone loosed his boat, one night, fromthe grimy steps leading from the garden of Maiden's Grave farm down tothe creek. It was at the farm-house that Captain Clubbe now lived whenon shore. He had lived there since the death of his brother, two yearsearlier--that grim Clubbe of Maiden's Grave, whose methods of life andagriculture are still quoted on market days from Colchester to Beccles. 

The evenings were shorter now, for July was drawing to a close, and thesummer is brief on these coasts. The moon was not up yet, but would soonrise. Barebone hoisted the great lug-sail, that smelt of seaweed andtannin. There was a sleepy breeze blowing in from the cooler sea, totake the place of that hot and shimmering air which had been rising allday from the corn-fields. He was quicker in his movements than those whousually handled these stiff ropes and held the clumsy tiller. Quick--andquiet for once. He had been three nights to the rectory, only to findthe rector there, vaguely kind, looking at him with a watery eye, through the spectacles which were rarely straight upon his nose, with anunasked question on his hesitating lips. 

For Septimus Marvin knew that Colville, in the name of the Marquisde Gemosac, had asked Loo Barebone to go to France and instituteproceedings there to recover a great heritage, which it seemed must behis. And Barebone had laughed and put off his reply from day to day forthree days. 

Few knew of it in Farlingford, though many must have suspected the trueexplanation of the prolonged stay of the two strangers at the "BlackSailor. " Captain Clubbe and Septimus Marvin, Dormer Colville andMonsieur de Gemosac shared this knowledge, and awaited, impatientlyenough, an answer which could assuredly be only in the affirmative. Clubbe was busy enough throughout the day at the old slip-way, where"The Last Hope" was under repair--the last ship, it appeared likely, that the rotten timbers could support or the old, old shipwrights mend. 

Loo Barebone was no less regular in his attendance at the river-side, and worked all day, on deck or in the rigging, at leisurelysail-making or neat seizing of a worn rope. He was gay, and thereforeincomprehensible to a slow-thinking, grave-faced race. 

"What do I want with a heritage?" he asked, carelessly. "I am mate of'The Last Hope'--and that is all. Give me time. I have not made up mymind yet, but I think it will be No. "

And oddly enough, it was Colville who preached patience to hiscompanions in suspense. 

"Give him time, " he said. "There can only be one answer to such aproposal. But he is young. It is not when we are young that we see theworld as it really is, but live in a land of dreams. Give him time. "

The Marquis de Gemosac was impatient, however, and was for tellingBarebone more than had been disclosed to him. 

"There is no knowing, " he cried, "what that canaille is doing inFrance. "

"There is no knowing, " admitted Colville, with his air of suppressinga half-developed yawn, "but I think we know, all the same--you and I, Marquis. And there is no hurry. "

After three days Loo Barebone had still given no answer. As hehoisted the sail and felt for the tiller in the dark, he was, perhaps, meditating on this momentous reply, or perhaps he had made up his mindlong before, and would hold to the decision even to his own undoing, asmen do who are impulsive and not strong. The water lapped and gurgledround the bows, for the wind was almost ahead, and it was only bynursing the heavy boat that he saved the necessity of making a tackacross the narrow creek. In the morning he had, as usual, run down intothe river and to the slip-way, little suspecting that Miriam and Sepwere just above him behind the dyke, where they had sat three daysbefore listening to Dormer Colville's story of the little boy who wasa King. To-night he ran the boat into the coarse and wiry grass whereSeptimus Marvin's own dinghy lay, half hidden by the reeds, and hestumbled ashore clutching at the dewy grass as he climbed the side ofthe dyke. 

He went toward the turf-shelter half despondently, and then stoppedshort a few yards away from it. For Miriam was there. He thought she wasalone, and paused to make sure before he spoke. She was sitting at thefar corner, sheltered from the north wind. For Farlingford is like aship--always conscious of the lee- and the weather-side, and all wholive there are half sailors in their habits--subservient to the wind. 

"At last, " said Loo, with a little vexed laugh. He could see her faceturned toward him, but her eyes were only dark shadows beneath herhair. Her face looked white in the darkness. Her answering laugh had asoothing note in it. 

"Why--at last?" she asked. Her voice was frank and quietly assured inits friendliness. They were old comrades, it seemed, and had neverbeen anything else. The best friendship is that which has never knowna quarrel, although poets and others may sing the tenderness of areconciliation. The friendship that has a quarrel and a reconciliationin it is like a man with a weak place left in his constitution by a pastsickness. He may die of something else in the end, but the probabilityis that he must reckon at last with that healed sore. The friendship mayperish from some other cause--a marriage, or success in life, one of thetwo great severers--but that salved quarrel is more than likely to recurand kill at last. 

These two had never fallen out. And it was the woman who, contrary tocustom, fended the quarrel now. 

"Oh! because I have been here three nights in succession, I suppose, anddid not find you here. I was disappointed. "

"But you found Uncle Septimus in his study. I could hear you talkingthere until quite late. "

"Of course I was very glad to see him and talk with him. For it isto him that I owe a certain half-developed impatience with theuneducated--with whom I deal all my life, except for a few hours now andthen in the study and here in the turf-shelter with you. I can see--evenin the dark--that you look grave. Do not do that. It is not worth that. "

He broke off with his easy laugh, as if to banish any suggestion ofgravity coming from himself. 

"It is not worth looking grave about. And I am sorry if I was rude aminute ago. I had no right, of course, to assume that you would be here. I suppose it was impertinent--was that it?"

"I will not quarrel, " she answered, soothingly--"if that is what youwant. "

Her voice was oddly placid. It almost seemed to suggest that she hadcome to-night for a certain purpose; that one subject of conversationalone would interest her, and that to all others she must turn a deafear. 

He came a little nearer, and, leaning against the turf wall, looked downat her. He was suddenly grave now. The roles were again reversed; forit was the woman who was tenacious to one purpose and the man who seemedinconsequent, flitting from grave to gay, from one thought to another. His apology had been made graciously enough, but with a queer pride, quite devoid of the sullenness which marks the pride of the humblysituated. 

"No; I do not want that, " he answered. "I want a little sympathy, thatis all; because I have been educated above my station. And I lookedfor it from those who are responsible for that which is nearly always acatastrophe. And it is your uncle who educated me. He is responsible inthe first instance, and, of course, I am grateful to him. "

"He could never have educated you, " put in Miriam, "if you had not beenready for the education. "

Barebone put aside the point. He must, at all events, have learnthumility from Septimus Marvin--a quality not natural to his temperament. 

"And you are responsible, as well, " he went on, "because you have taughtme a use for the education. "

"Indeed!" she said, gently and interrogatively, as if at last he hadreached the point to which she wished to bring him. 

"Yes; the best use to which I could ever put it. To talk to you on anequality. "

He looked hard at her through the darkness, which was less intense now;for the moon was not far below the horizon. Her face looked white, andhe thought that she was breathing quickly. But they had always beenfriends; he remembered that just in time. 

"It is only natural that I should look forward, when we are at sea, tocoming back here--" He paused and kicked the turf-wall with his heel, asif to remind her that she had sat in the same corner before and he hadleant against the same wall, talking to her. "They are good fellows, of course, with a hundred fine qualities which I lack, but they do notunderstand half that one may say, or think--even the Captain. He is welleducated, in his way, but it is only the way of a coasting-captain whohas risen by his merits to the command of a foreign-going ship. "

Miriam gave an impatient little sigh. He had veered again from thepoint. 

"You think that I forget that he is my relative, " said Loo, sharply, detecting in his quickness of thought a passing resentment. "I do not. I never forget that. I am the son of his cousin. I know that, and thusrelated to many in Farlingford. But I have never called him cousin, andhe has never asked me to. "

"No, " said Miriam, with averted eyes, in that other voice, which madehim turn and look at her, catching his breath. 

"Oh!" he said, with a sudden laugh of comprehension. "You have heardwhat, I suppose, is common talk in Farlingford. You know what hasbrought these people here--this Monsieur de Gemosac, and the other--whatis his name? Dormer Colville. You have heard of my magnificentpossibilities. And I--I had forgotten all about them. "

He threw out his arms in a gesture of gay contempt; for even in thedark he could not refrain from adding to the meaning of mere words ahundred-fold by the help of his lean hands and mobile face. 

"I have heard of it, of course, " she admitted, "from several people. ButI have heard most from Captain Clubbe. He takes it more seriously thanyou do. You do not know, because he is one of those men who are mostsilent with those to whom they are most attached. He thinks that it isprovidential that my uncle should have had the desire to educate you, and that you should have displayed such capacity to learn. "

"Capacity?" he protested--"say genius! Do not let us do things byhalves. Genius to learn--yes; go on. "

"Ah! you may laugh, " Miriam said, lightly, "but it is serious enough. You will find circumstances too strong for you. You will have to go toFrance to claim your--heritage. "

"Not I, if it means leaving Farlingford for ever and going to live amongstrange people, like the Marquis de Gemosac, for instance, who givesme the impression of a thousand petty ceremonies and a million futilememories. "

He turned and lifted his face to the breeze which blew from the sea overflat stretches of sand and seaweed--the crispest, most invigorating airin the world except that which blows on the Baltic shores. 

"I prefer Farlingford. I am half a Clubbe--and the other half!--Heavenknows what that is! The offshoot of some forgotten seedling blown awayfrom France by a great storm. If my father knew, he never said anything. And if he knew, and said nothing, one may be sure that it was because hewas ashamed of what he knew. You never saw him, or you would have knownhis dread of France, or anything that was French. He was a man livingin a dream. His body was here in Farlingford, but his mind waselsewhere--who knows where? And at times I feel that, too--thatunreality--as if I were here, and somewhere else at the same time. Butall the same, I prefer Farlingford, even if it is a dream. "

The moon had risen at last; a waning half-moon, lying low and yellow inthe sky, just above the horizon, casting a feeble light on earth. Looturned and looked at Miriam, who had always met his glance with herthoughtful, steady eyes. But now she turned away. 

"Farlingford is best, at all events, " he said, with an odd conviction. "I am only the grandson of old Seth Clubbe, of Maiden's Grave. I am aFarlingford sailor, and that is all. I am mate of 'The Last Hope'--atyour service. "

"You are more than that. "

He made a step nearer to her, looking down at her white face, avertedfrom him. For her voice had been uncertain--unsteady--as if she werespeaking against her will. 

"Even if I am only that, " he said, suddenly grave, "Farlingford maystill be a dream--Farlingford and--you. "

"What do you mean?" she asked, in a quick, mechanical voice, as if shehad reached a desired crisis at last and was prepared to act. 

"Oh, I only mean what I have meant always, " he answered. "But I havebeen afraid--afraid. One hears, sometimes, of a woman who isgenerous enough to love a man who is a nobody--to think only of love. Sometimes--last voyage, when you used to sit where you are sittingnow--I have thought that it might have been my extraordinary goodfortune to meet such a woman. "

He waited for some word or sign, but she sat motionless. 

"You understand, " he went on, "how contemptible must seem their talk ofa heritage in France, when such a thought is in one's mind, even if--"

"Yes, " she interrupted, hastily. "You were quite wrong. You weremistaken. "

"Mistaking in thinking you--"

"Yes, " she interrupted again. "You are quite mistaken, and I am verysorry, of course, that it should have happened. "

She was singularly collected, and spoke in a matter-of-fact voice. Barebone's eyes gleamed suddenly; for she had aroused--perhapspurposely--a pride which must have accumulated in his blood throughcountless generations. She struck with no uncertain hand. 

"Yes, " he said, slowly; "it is to be regretted. Is it because I am theson of a nameless father and only the mate of 'The Last Hope'?"

"If you were before the mast--" she answered--"if you were a King, itwould make no difference. It is simply because I do not care for you inthat way. "

"You do not care for me--in that way, " he echoed, with a laugh, whichmade her move as if she were shrinking. "Well, there is nothing more tobe said to that. "

He looked at her slowly, and then took off his cap as if to bid hergood-bye. But he forgot to replace it, and he went away with the cap inhis hand. She heard the clink of a chain as he loosed his boat. 

CHAPTER X. IN THE ITALIAN HOUSE

The Abbe Touvent was not a courageous man, and the perspiration, inducedby the climb from the high-road up that which had once been the ramp tothe Chateau of Gemosac, ran cold when he had turned the key in the rustylock of the great gate. It was not a dark night, for the moon sailedserenely behind fleecy clouds, but the shadows cast by her silvery lightmight harbour any terror. 

It is easy enough to be philosophic at home in a chair beside the lamp. Under those circumstances, the Abbe had reflected that no one would robhim, because he possessed nothing worth stealing. But now, out here inthe dark, he recalled a hundred instances of wanton murder duly recordedin the newspaper which he shared with three parishioners in Gemosac. 

He paused to wipe his brow with a blue cotton handkerchief beforepushing open the gate, and, being alone, was not too proud to peepthrough the keyhole before laying his shoulder against the solidand weather-beaten oak. He glanced nervously at the loopholes in theflanking towers and upward at the machicolated battlement overhanginghim, as if any crumbling peep-hole might harbour gleaming eyes. Hehurried through the passage beneath the vaulted roof without daringto glance to either side, where doorways and steps to the towers wererendered more fearsome by heavy curtains of ivy. 

The enceinte of the castle of Gemosac is three-sided, with four towersjutting out at the corners, from which to throw a flanking fire uponany who should raise a ladder against the great curtains, built of thatsmooth, white stone which is quarried at Brantome and on the banks ofthe Dordogne. The fourth side of the enceinte stands on a solid rock, above the little river that loses itself in the flat-lands bordering theGironde, so that it can scarce be called a tributary of that wide water. A moss-grown path round the walls will give a quick walker ten minutes'exercise to make the round from one tower of the gateway to the other. 

Within the enceinte are the remains of the old castle, still solidand upright; erected, it is recorded, by the English during their longoccupation of this country. A more modern chateau, built after the finalexpulsion of the invader, adjoins the ancient structure, and in thecentre of the vast enclosure, raised above the walls, stands a squarehouse, in the Italian style, built in the time of Marie de Medici, andnever yet completed. There are, also, gardens and shaded walks and vaststables, a chapel, two crypts, and many crumbling remains inside thewalls, that offered a passive resistance to the foe in olden time, and as successfully hold their own to-day against the prying eye of ademocratic curiosity. 

Above the stables, quite close to the gate, half a dozen rooms were inthe occupation of the Marquis de Gemosac; but it was not to these thatthe Abbe Touvent directed his tremulous steps. 

Instead, he went toward the square, isolated house, standing in themiddle of that which had once been the great court, and was now halfgarden, half hayfield. The hay had been cut, and the scent of the newstack, standing against the walls of the oldest chateau and under itsleaking roof, came warm and aromatic to mix with the breath of theevening primrose and rosemary clustering in disorder on the ill-definedborders. The grim walls, that had defended the Gemosacs against frankerenemies in other days, served now to hide from the eyes of the villagersthe fact--which must, however, have been known to them--that the Marquisde Gemosac, in gloves, kept this garden himself, and had made thehay with no other help than that of his old coachman and Marie, thatcapable, brown-faced bonne-a-tout-faire, who is assuredly the best manin France to-day. 

In this clear, southern atmosphere the moon has twice the strength ofthat to which we are accustomed in mistier lands, and the Abbe lookedabout him with more confidence as he crossed the great court. Therewere frogs in a rainwater tank constructed many years ago, when someenterprising foe had been known to cut off the water-supply of abesieged chateau, and their friendly croak brought a sense of companyand comfort to the Abbe's timid soul. 

The door of the Italian house stood open, for the interior had neverbeen completed, and only one apartment, a lofty banqueting-hall, hadever been furnished. Within the doorway, the Abbe fumbled in the pocketof his soutane and rattled a box of matches. He carried a parcel in hishand, which he now unfolded, and laid out on the lid of a mouldy chesthalf a dozen candles. When he struck a match a flight of bats whirredout of the doorway, and the Abbe's breath whistled through his teeth. 

He lighted two candles, and carrying them, alight, in one hand--notwithout dexterity, for candles played an important part in his life--hewent forward. The flickering light showed his face to be a fat one, kind enough, gleaming now with perspiration and fear, but shiny at othertimes with that Christian tolerance which makes men kind to their ownfailings. It was very dark within the house, for all the shutters wereclosed. 

The Abbe lighted a third candle and fixed it, with a drop of its ownwax, on the high mantel of the great banqueting-hall. There were four orfive candlesticks on side-tables, and a candelabra stood in the centreof a long table, running the length of the room. In a few minutes theAbbe had illuminated the apartment, which smelt of dust and the days ofa dead monarchy. Above his head, the bats were describing complicatedfigures against a ceiling which had once been painted in the Italianstyle, to represent a trellis roof, with roses and vines entwined. Half a dozen portraits of men, in armour and wigs, looked down from thewalls. One or two of them were rotting from their frames, and dangled adespondent corner out into the room. 

There were chairs round the table, set as if for a phantom banquetamid these mouldering environments, and their high carved backs threwfantastic shadows on the wall. 

While the Abbe was still employed with the candles, he heard a heavystep and loud breathing in the hall without, where he had carefully lefta light. 

"Why did you not wait for me on the hill, malhonnete?" asked a thickvoice, like the voice of a man, but the manner was the manner ofa woman. "I am sure you must have heard me. One hears me like alocomotive, now that I have lost my slimness. "

She came into the room as she spoke, unwinding a number of black, knitted shawls, in which she was enveloped. There were so many of them, and of such different shape and texture, that some confusion ensued. TheAbbe ran to her assistance. 

"But, Madame, " he cried, "how can you suspect me of such a crime? Icame early to make these preparations. And as for hearing you--wouldto Heaven I had! For it needs courage to be a Royalist in thesedays--especially in the dark, by one's self. "

He seemed to know the shawls, for he disentangled them with skill andlaid them aside, one by one. 

The Comtesse de Chantonnay breathed a little more freely, but nofriendly hand could disencumber her of the mountains of flesh, whichmust have weighed down any heart less buoyant and courageous. 

"Ah, bah!" she cried, gaily. "Who is afraid? What could they do to anold woman? Ah! you hold up your hands. That is kind of you. But I am nolonger young, and there is my Albert--with those stupid whiskers. It isunfilial to wear whiskers, and I have told him so. And you--who couldharm you--a priest? Besides, no one could be a priest, and not aRoyalist, Abbe!"

"I know it, Madame, and that is why I am one. Have we been seen, Madamela Comtesse? The village was quiet, as you came through?"

"Quiet as my poor husband in his grave. Tell me, Abbe, now, honestly, amI thinner? I have deprived myself of coffee these two days. "

The Abbe walked gravely round her. It was quite an excursion. 

"Who would have you different, Madame, to what you are?" he temporized. "To be thin is so ungenerous. And Albert--where is he? You have notsurely come alone?"

"Heaven forbid!--and I a widow!" replied Madame de Chantonnay, arranging, with a stout hand, the priceless lace on her dress. "Albertis coming. We brought a lantern, although it is a moon. It is better. Besides, it is always done by those who conspire. And Albert had hisgreat cloak, and he fell up a step in the courtyard and dropped thelantern, and lost it in the long grass. I left him looking for it, inthe dark. He was not afraid, my brave Albert!"

"He has the dauntless heart of his mother, " murmured the Abbe, gracefully, as he ran round the table setting the chairs in order. Hehad already offered the largest and strongest to the Comtesse, and itwas creaking under her now, as she moved to set her dress in order. 

"Assuredly, " she admitted, complacently. "Has not France produced aJeanne d'Arc and a Duchesse de Berri? It was not from his father, at allevents, that he inherited his courage. For he was a poltroon, that man. Yes, my dear Abbe, let us be honest, and look at life as it is. He wasa poltroon, and I thought I loved him--for two or three days only, however. And I was a child then. I was beautiful. "

"Was?" echoed the Abbe, reproachfully. 

"Silence, wicked one! And you a priest. "

"Even an ecclesiastic, Madame, may have eyes, " he said, darkly, as hesnuffed a candle and, subsequently, gave himself a mechanical thump onthe chest, in the region of the heart. 

"Then they should wear blinkers, like a horse, " said Madame, severely, as if wearied by an admiration so universal that it palled. 

At this moment, Albert de Chantonnay entered the room. He was envelopedin a long black cloak, which he threw off his shoulders and castover the back of a chair, not without an obvious appreciation of itspossibilities of the picturesque. He looked round the room with a mildeye, which refused to lend itself to mystery or a martial ruthlessness. 

He was a young man with a very thin neck, and the whiskers, of which hismother made complaint, were scarcely visible by the light of the Abbe'scandles. 

"Good!" he said, in a thin tenor voice. "We are in time. "

He came forward to the table, with long, nervous strides. He was notexactly impressive, but his manner gave the assurance of a distinctearnestness of purpose. The majority of us are unfortunately situatedtoward the world, as regards personal appearance. Many could pass forgreat if their physical proportions were less mean. There are thousandsof worthy and virtuous young men who never receive their due in sociallife because they have red hair or stand four-feet-six high, or happento be the victim of an inefficient dentist. The world, it would seem, does not want virtue or solid worth. It prefers appearance to either. Albert de Chantonnay would, for instance, have carried twice the weightin Royalist councils if his neck had been thicker. 

He nodded to the Abbe. 

"I received your message, " he said, in the curt manner of the man whoselife is in his hand, or is understood, in French theatrical circles, tobe thus uncomfortably situated. "The letter?"

"It is here, Monsieur Albert, " replied the Abbe, who was commonplace, and could not see himself as he wished others to see him. There was onlyone Abbe Touvent, for morning or afternoon, for church or fete, for thechateau or the cottage. There were a dozen Albert de Chantonnays, fierceor tender, gay or sad, a poet or a soldier--a light persifleur, who hadpassed through the mill, and had emerged hard and shining, or ayoung man of soul, capable of high ideals. To-night, he was thepolitician--the conspirator--quick of eye, curt of speech. 

He held out his hand for the letter. 

"You are to read it, as Monsieur le Marquis instructs me, MonsieurAlbert, " hazarded the Abbe, touching the breast pocket of his soutane, where Monsieur de Gemosac's letter lay hidden, "to those assembled. "

"But, surely, I am to read it to myself first, " was the retort; "or elsehow can I give it proper value?"

CHAPTER XI. A BEGINNING

There may be some who refuse to take seriously a person like Albertde Chantonnay because, forsooth, he happened to possess a sense ofthe picturesque. There are, as a matter of fact, thousands of sensiblepersons in the British Isles who fail completely to understand theaverage Frenchman. To the English comprehension it is, for instance, surprising that in time of stress--when Paris was besieged by a Germanarmy--a hundred franc-tireur corps should spring into existence, whogravely decked themselves in sombreros and red waist-cloths, and calledthemselves the "Companions of Death, " or some claptrap title of asimilar sound. Nevertheless, these "Companions of Death" fought atOrleans as few have fought since man walked this earth, and died asbravely as any in a government uniform. Even the stolid German foeforgot, at last, to laugh at the sombrero worn in midwinter. 

It is useless to dub a Frenchman unreal and theatrical when he gailycarries his unreality and his perception of the dramatic to the lucarneof the guillotine and meets imperturbably the most real thing on earth, Death. 

Albert de Chantonnay was a good Royalist--a better Royalist, as manywere in France at this time, than the King--and, perhaps, he carried hisloyalty to the point that is reached by the best form of flattery. 

Let it be remembered that when, on the 3rd of May, 1814, Louis XVIII. Was reinstated, not by his own influence or exertions, but by theallied sovereigns who had overthrown Napoleon, he began at once toissue declarations and decrees as of the nineteenth year of his reign, ignoring the Revolution and Napoleon. Did this Bourbon really takehimself seriously? Did he really expect the world to overlook Napoleon, or did he know as all the world knows to-day, that long after theBourbons have sunk into oblivion the name of Napoleon will continue tobe a household word?

If a situation is thus envisaged by a King, what may the wise expectfrom a Royalist?

In the absence of the Marquis de Gemosac, Albert de Chantonnay wasconsidered to be the leader of the party in that quiet corner ofsouth-western France which lies north of Bordeaux and south of thatgreat dividing river, the Loire. He was, moreover, looked upon asrepresenting that younger blood of France, to which must be confided thehopes and endeavours of the men, now passing away one by one, who hadfought and suffered for their kings. 

It was confidently whispered throughout this pastoral country thatAugust Persons, living in exile in England and elsewhere, were infamiliar and confidential correspondence with the Marquis de Gemosac, and, in a minor degree, with Albert de Chantonnay. For kings, andespecially deposed kings, may not be choosers, but must take theinstrument that comes to hand. A constitutional monarch is, by theway, better placed in this respect, for it is his people who push theinstrument into his grasp, and in the long run the people nearly alwaysread a man aright despite the efforts of a cheap press to lead themastray. 

"If it were not written in the Marquis's own writing I could nothave believed it, " said Albert de Chantonnay, speaking aloud his ownthoughts. He turned the letter this way and that, examining first theback of it and then the front. 

"It has not been through the post, " he said to the Abbe, who stoodrespectfully watching his face, which, indeed, inspired littleconfidence, for the chin receded in the wrong way--not like the chin ofa shark, which indicates, not foolishness, but greed of gain--and theeyes were large and pale like those of a sheep. 

"Oh, Heaven forbid!" cried the Abbe. "Such a letter as that! Whereshould we all be if it were read by the government? And all know thatletters passing through the post to the address of such as MonsieurAlbert are read in passing--by the Prince President himself, as likelyas not. "

Albert gave a short, derisive laugh, and shrugged his shoulders, whichmade his admiring mother throw back her head with a gesture, invitingthe Abbe to contemplate, with satisfaction, the mother of so brave aman. 

"Voila, " she said, "but tell us, my son, what is in the letter?"

"Not yet, " was the reply. "It is to be read to all when they areassembled. In the mean time--"

He did not finish the sentence in words, but by gesture conveyed thatthe missive, now folded and placed in his breast-pocket, was only tobe obtained bespattered with his life's blood. And the Abbe wiped hisclammy brow with some satisfaction that it should be thus removed fromhis own timorous custody. 

Albert de Chantonnay was looking expectantly at the door, for he hadheard footsteps, and now he bowed gravely to a very old gentleman, anotary of the town, who entered the room with a deep obeisance to theComtesse. Close on the notary's heels came others. Some were in ridingcostume, and came from a distance. 

One sprightly lady wore evening dress, only partially concealed by acloak. She hurried in with a nod for Albert de Chantonnay, and a kissfor the Comtesse. Her presence had the immediate effect of impartingan air of practical common-sense energy to the assembly, which it hadhitherto lacked. There was nothing of the old regime in this lady, whoseemed to over-ride etiquette, and cheerfully ignore the dramatic sideof the proceedings. 

"Is it not wonderful?" she whispered aloud, after the manner of anymodern lady at one of those public meetings in which they take solarge a part with so small a result in these later days. "Is it notwonderful?" And her French, though pure enough, was full and round--theFrench of an English tongue. "I have had a long letter from Dormertelling me all about it. Oh--" And she broke off, silenced by the darkfrown of Albert de Chantonnay, to which her attention had been forciblydirected by his mother. "I have been dining with Madame de Rathe, " shewent on, irrepressibly, changing the subject in obedience to Albert deChantonnay's frown. "The Vicomtesse bids me make her excuses. She fearedan indigestion, so will be absent to-night. "

"Ah!" returned the Comtesse de Chantonnay. "It is not that. I happen toknow that the Vicomtesse de Rathe has the digestion of a schoolboy. Itis because she has no confidence in Albert. But we shall see--we shallsee. It is not for the nobility of Louis Philippe to--to have a poordigestion. "

And the Comtesse de Chantonnay made a gesture and a meaning grimacewhich would have been alarming enough had her hand and face been lessdimpled with good nature. 

There were now assembled about a dozen persons, and the Abbe was kept incountenance by two others of his cloth. There were several ladies; oneof whom was young and plain and seemed to watch Albert de Chantonnaywith a timid awe. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, seated next to the Comtessede Chantonnay, was the only lady who made any attempt at gay apparel, and thus stood rather conspicuous among her companions clad in sober andsomewhat rusty black. All over the west of France such meetings ofthe penniless Royalists were being held at this time, not, it has beenaverred, without the knowledge of the Prince President, who has beencredited with the courage to treat the matter with contempt. About nomonarch, living or dead, however, have so many lies been written, byfriend or foe, with good or ill intent, as about him, who subsequentlycarried out the astounding feat of climbing to the throne of France asNapoleon III. And it seems certain that he has been given credit forknowing much of which he must have been ignorant to an extent hardlycredible, even now, in face of subsequent events. 

The Comtesse de Chantonnay was still tossing her head, at intervals, atthe recollection of the Vicomtesse de Rathe's indigestion. This wasonly typical of the feelings that divided every camp in France at thistime--at any time, indeed, since the days of Charlemagne--for the Frenchmust always quarrel among themselves until they are actually on thebrink of national catastrophe. And even when they are fallen into thatpit they will quarrel at the bottom, and bespatter each other with themud that is there. 

"Are we all here?" asked Albert de Chantonnay, standing in an effectiveattitude at the end of the table, with his hand on the back of hischair. He counted the number of his fellow-conspirators, and then satdown, drawing forward a candelabra. 

"You have been summoned in haste, " he said, "by the request of theMarquis de Gemosac to listen to the perusal of a letter of importance. It may be of the utmost importance--to us--to France--to all the world. "

He drew the letter from his pocket and opened it amid a breathlesssilence. His listeners noted the care with which he attended to gestureand demeanour, and accounted it to him for righteousness; for they wereFrench. An English audience would have thought him insincere, and theywould have been wrong. 

"The letter is dated from a place called Farlingford, in England. I havenever heard of it. It is nowhere near to Twickenham or Claremont, nor isit in Buckinghamshire. The rest of England--no one knows. " Albert pausedand held up one hand for silence. 

"At last, " he read--"at last, my friends, after a lifetime of fruitlesssearch, it seems that I have found--through the good offices ofDormer Colville--not the man we have sought, but his son. We have longsuspected that Louis XVII. Must be dead. Madame herself, in her exile atFrohsdorff, has admitted to her intimates that she no longer hoped. Buthere in the full vigour of youth--a sailor, strong and healthy, livinga simple life on shore as at sea--I have found a man whose face, whoseform, and manner would clearly show to the most incredulous that hecould be no other than the son of Louis XVII. A hundred tricks of mannerand gesture he has inherited from the father he scarce remembers, fromthe grandfather who perished on the guillotine many years before hehimself was born. No small proof of the man's sincerity is the fact thatonly now, after long persuasion, has he consented to place himself inour hands. I thought of hurrying at once to Frohsdorff to present to theaged Duchess a youth whom she cannot fail to recognize as her nephew. But better counsels have prevailed. Dormer Colville, to whom we oweso much, has placed us in his farther debt for a piece of sage advice. 'Wait, ' he advises, 'until the young man has learned what is expectedof him, until he has made the personal acquaintance of his supporters. Reserve until the end the presentation to the Duchesse d'Angouleme, which must only be made when all the Royalists in France are ready toact with a unanimity which will be absolute, and an energy which mustprove irresistible. '

"There are more material proofs than a face so strongly resembling thatof Louis XVI. And Monsieur d'Artois, in their early manhood, as totake the breath away; than a vivacity inherited from his grandmother, together with an independence of spirit and impatience of restraint;than the slight graceful form, blue eyes, and fair skin of the littleprisoner of the Temple. There are dates which go to prove that thisboy's father was rescued from a sinking fishing-boat, near Dieppe, a fewdays after the little Dauphin was known to have escaped from the Temple, and to have been hurried to the north coast disguised as a girl. Thereis evidence, which Monsieur Colville is now patiently gathering fromthese slow-speaking people, that the woman who was rescued with thischild was not his mother. And there are a hundred details known to thevillagers here which go to prove what we have always suspected to be thecase, namely, that Louis XVII. Was rescued from the Temple by the daringand ingenuity of a devoted few who so jealously guarded their secretthat they frustrated their own object; for they one and all must haveperished on the guillotine, or at the hands of some other assassin, without divulging their knowledge, and in the confusion and horror ofthose days the little Dauphin was lost to sight. 

"There is a trinket--a locket--containing a miniature, which I amassured is a portrait of Marie Antoinette. This locket is in thepossession of Dormer Colville, who suggests that we should refrainfrom using violence to open it until this can be done in France in thepresence of suitable witnesses. A fall or some mishap has so crushed thelocket that it can only be opened by a jeweller provided with suitableinstruments. It has remained closed for nearly a quarter of a century, but a reliable witness in whose possession it has been since he, who wasundoubtedly Louis XVII. , died in his arms, remembers the portrait, andhas no doubt of its authenticity. I have told you enough to make itclear to you that my search is at last ended. What we require now ismoney to enable us to bring this King of France to his own; to bringhim, in the first place, to my humble chateau of Gemosac, where he canlie hidden until all arrangements are made. I leave it to you, my dearAlbert, to collect this preliminary sum. "

De Chantonnay folded the letter and looked at the faces surrounding thedimly lighted table. 

Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, who must have known the contents of theletter, and, therefore, came provided, leaned across the table with adiscreet clink of jewellery and laid before Albert de Chantonnay a notefor a thousand francs. 

"I am only an Englishwoman, " she said, simply, "but I can help. "

CHAPTER XII. THE SECRET OF GEMOSAC

There is no sentiment so artificial as international hatred. In oldendays it owed its existence to churchmen, and now an irresponsible pressfoments that dormant antagonism. Wherever French and English individualsare thrown together by a common endeavour, both are surprised at themutual esteem which soon develops into friendship. But as nations we areno nearer than we were in the great days of Napoleon. 

Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence was only one-quarter French and three-quartersEnglish. Her grandmother had been a St. Pierre; but it was not from thatlady that she inherited a certain open-handedness which took her Frenchfriends by surprise. 

"It is not that she has the cause at heart, " commented Madame deChantonnay, as she walked laboriously on Albert's arm down the ramp ofthe Chateau de Gemosac at the termination of the meeting. "It is not forthat that she throws her note of a thousand francs upon the table andpromises more when things are in train. It is because she can refusenothing to Dormer Colville. Allez, my son! I have a woman's heart! Iknow!"

Albert contented himself with a sardonic laugh. He was not in the humourto talk of women's hearts; for Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's actionhad struck a sudden note of British realism into the harmony of hispolitical fancies. He had talked so much, had listened to so much talkfrom others, that the dream of a restored monarchy had at last beenraised to those far realms of the barely possible in which the Gallicfancy wanders in moments of facile digestion. 

It was sufficient for the emergency that the others present at themeeting could explain that one does not carry money in one's pocket ina country lane at night. But in their hearts all were conscious of aslight feeling of resentment toward Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence; of avague sense of disappointment, such as a dreamer may experience on beingroughly awakened. 

The three priests folded their hands with complacency. Poverty, theirmost cherished possession, spoke for itself in their case. The notaryblinked and fumbled at his lips with yellow fingers in hasty thought. Hewas a Royalist notary because there existed in the country of the DeuxSevres a Royalist clientele. In France, even a washerwoman must holdpolitical views and stand or fall by them. It was astounding how poorevery one felt at that moment, and it rested, as usual, with a woman'sintuition to grasp the only rope within reach. "The vintage, " this ladymurmured. The vintage promised to be a bad one. Nothing, assuredly, could be undertaken, and no promise made, until the vintage was over. 

So the meeting broke up without romance, and the conspirators dispersedto their homes, carrying in their minds that mutual distrust which isever awakened in human hearts by the chink of gold, while the dormantnational readiness to detect betrayal by England was suddenly wideawake. 

Nevertheless, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had supplied the one ingredientnecessary to leaven the talk of these dreamers into action. Even thenotary found himself compelled to contribute when Albert de Chantonnayasked him outright for a subscription. And the priests, ably led by theAbbe Touvent, acted after the manner of the sons of Levi since oldentimes. They did not give themselves, but they told others to give, whichis far better. 

In due course the money was sent to England. It was the plain truth thatthe Marquis de Gemosac had not sufficient in his pocket to equip LooBarebone with the clothes necessary to a seemly appearance in France;or, indeed, to cover the expense of the journey thither. Dormer Colvillenever had money to spare. "Heaven shaped me for a rich man, " he wouldsay, lightly, whenever the momentous subject was broached, "but forgotto fill my pockets. "

It was almost the time of the vintage, and the country roads were dottedwith the shambling figures of those knights of industry who seem tospring from the hedgerows at harvest-time in any country in the world, when the Abbe Touvent sought out Marie in her cottage at the gates ofthe chateau. 

"A la cave, " answered the lady's voice. "In the cellar--do you not knowthat it is Monday and I wash?"

The Abbe did not repeat his summons on the kitchen table with the handleof his stick, but drew forward a chair. 

"I know it is very hot, and that I am tired, " he shouted toward thecellar door, which stood open, giving egress to a warm smell of soap. 

"Precisely--and does Monsieur l'Abbe want me to come up as I am?"

The suggestion was darkly threatening, and the Abbe replied that Mariemust take her time, since it was washing-day. 

The cottage was built on sloping ground at the gate of the chateau, probably of the stones used for some earlier fortification. That whichMarie called the cellar was but half underground, and had an exit to thegarden which grew to the edge of the cliff. It was not long before sheappeared at the head of the stone steps, a square-built woman with aface that had been sunburnt long ago by work in the vineyards, andeyes looking straight at the world from beneath a square and wrinkledforehead. 

"Monsieur l'Abbe, " she said, shortly--a salutation and a comment in one;for it conveyed the fact that she saw it was he and perceived that hewas in his usual health. "It is news from Monsieur, I suppose, " sheadded, slowly, turning down her sleeves. 

"Yes, the Marquis writes that he is on his way to Gemosac and wishes youto prepare the chateau for his return. "

The Abbe waved his hand toward the castle gates with an air suggestiveof retainers and lackeys, of busy stables and a hundred windows lightedafter dark. His round eyes did not meet the direct glance fixed onhis face, but wandered from one object to another in the room, finallylighting on the great key of the chateau gate, which hung on a nailbehind the door. 

"Then Monsieur le Marquis is coming into residence, " said Marie, gravely. 

And by way of reply the Abbe waved his hand a second time toward thecastle walls. 

"And the worst of it is, " he added, timidly, to this silent admission, "that he brings a guest. "

He moistened his fat lips and sat smiling in a foolish way at the opendoor; for he was afraid of all women, and most afraid of Marie. 

"Ah!" she retorted, shortly. "To sleep in the oubliette, one maysuppose. For there is no other bed in the chateau, as you quite wellknow, Monsieur l'Abbe. It is another of your kings no doubt. Oh! youneed not hold up your hands--when Monsieur Albert reads aloud thatletter from Monsieur le Marquis, in England, without so much as closingthe door of the banquet hall! It is as well that it was no other than Iwho stood on the stairs outside and heard all. "

"But it is wrong to listen behind doors, " protested the Abbe. 

"Ah, bah!" replied this unregenerate sheep of his flock. "But do notalarm yourself, Monsieur l'Abbe, I can keep a quiet tongue. And apolitical secret--what is it? It is an amusement for the rich--yourpolitics--but a vice for the poor. Come, let us go to the chateau, whilethere is still day, and you can see for yourself whether we are readyfor a guest. "

While she spoke she hastily completed a toilet, which, despite theAbbe's caution, had the appearance of incompleteness, and taking thegreat key from behind the door, led the way out into the glare of thesetting sun. She unlocked the great gate and threw her weight against itwith quick, firm movements like the movements of a man. Indeed, she wasa better man than her companion; of a stronger common sense; withlither limbs and a stouter heart; the best man that France has latterlyproduced, and, so far as the student of racial degeneration mayforetell, will ever produce again--her middle-class woman. 

Built close against the flanking tower on the left hand of the courtyardwas a low, square house of two stories only. The whole ground floorwas stabling, room and to spare for half a hundred horses, and filledfrequently enough, no doubt, in the great days of the Great Henry. Onthe first floor, to which three or four staircases gave access, therewere plenty of apartments; indeed, suites of them. But nearly all stoodempty, and the row of windows looked blank and curtainless across thecrumbling garden to the Italian house. 

It was one of the many tragedies of that smiling, sunny land whereonly man, it seems, is vile; for nature has enclosed within itsfrontier-lines all the varied wealth and beauty of her treasures. 

Marie led the way up the first staircase, which was straight andnarrow. The carpet, carefully rolled and laid aside on the landing, wasthreadbare and colourless. The muslin curtains, folded back and pinnedtogether, were darned and yellow with frequent washing and the rust ofancient damp. She opened the door of the first room at the head ofthe stairs. It had once been the apartment of some servitor; now itcontained furniture of the gorgeous days of Louis XIV. , with all thecolour gone from its tapestry, all the woodwork grey and worm-eaten. 

"Not that one, " said Marie, as the Abbe struggled with the lever thatfastened the window. "That one has not been opened for many years. See!the glass rattles in the frame. It is the other that opens. "

Without comment the Abbe opened the other window and threw back theshutters, from which all the paint had peeled away, and let in thescented air. Mignonette close at hand--which had bloomed and diedand cast its seed amid the old walls and falling stones since MarieAntoinette had taught the women of France to take an interest in theirgardens; and from the great plains beyond--flat and fat--carefully laidthere by the Garonne to give the world its finest wines, rose up thesubtle scent of vines in bloom. 

"The drawing-room, " said Marie, and making a mock-curtsey toward thedoor, which stood open to the dim stairs, she made a grand gesture withher hand, still red and wrinkled from the wash-tub. "Will the King ofFrance be pleased to enter and seat himself? There are three chairs, butone of them is broken, so his Majesty's suite must stand. "

With a strident laugh she passed on to the next room through foldingdoors. 

"The principal room, " she announced, with that hard irony in her voice, which had, no doubt, penetrated thither from the soul of a mother whohad played no small part in the Revolution. "The guest-chamber, one maysay, provided that Monsieur le Marquis will sleep on the floor in thedrawing-room, or in the straw down below in the stable. "

The Abbe threw open the shutter of this room also and stood meeklyeyeing Marie with a tolerant smile. The room was almost bareof furniture. A bed such as peasants sleep on; a few chairs; adressing-table tottering against the window-breast, and modestlyscreened in one corner, the diminutive washing-stand still used insouthern France. For Gemosac had been sacked and the furniture builtup into a bonfire when Marie was a little child and the Abbe Touvent afat-faced timorous boy at the Seminary of Saintes. 

"Beyond is Mademoiselle's room, " concluded Marie, curtly. She lookedround her and shrugged her shoulders with a grim laugh which made theAbbe shrink. They looked at each other in silence, the two participantsin the secret of Gemosac; for Marie's husband, the third who had accessto the chateau, did not count. He was a shambling, silent man, nowworking in the vineyard beneath the walls. He always did what his wifetold him, without comment or enthusiasm, knowing well that he would beblamed for doing it badly. 

The Abbe had visited the rooms once before, during a brief passage ofthe Marquis, soon after his wife's death in Paris. But, as a rule, onlyMarie and Jean had access to the apartment. He looked round with an eyealways ready with the tear of sympathy; for he was a soft-hearted man. Then he looked at Marie again, shamefacedly. But she, divining histhoughts, shrugged her shoulders. 

"Ah, bah!" she said, "one must take the world as it is. And Monsieur leMarquis is only a man. One sees that, when he announces his return onwashing-day, and brings a guest. You must write to him, that is all, and tell him that with time I can arrange, but not in a hurry likethis. Where is the furniture to come from? A chair or two from thebanquet-hall; I can lend a bed which Jean can carry in after dark sothat no one knows; you have the jug and basin you bought when the Bishopcame, that you must lend--" She broke off and ran to the window. "Good, "she cried, in a despairing voice, "I hear a carriage coming up the hill. Run, Monsieur l'Abbe--run to the gate and bolt it. Guest or no guest, they cannot see the rooms like this. Here, let me past. "

She pushed him unceremoniously aside at the head of the stairs and ranpast him. Long concealment of the deadly poverty within the walls hadtaught her to close the gates behind her whenever she entered, but nowfor greater security, or to gain time, she swung the great oaken beamround on its pivot across the doors on the inside. Then turning round onher heels she watched the bell that hung above her head. The Abbe, who had followed her as quickly as he could, was naively looking for apeep-hole between the timbers of the huge doors. 

A minute later the bell swung slowly, and gave a single clang whichechoed beneath the vaulted roof, and in the hollow of the empty towerson either side. 

"Marie, Marie!" cried a gay girlish voice from without. "Open at once. It is I. "

"There, " said Marie, in a whisper. "It is Mademoiselle, who has returnedfrom the good Sisters. And the story that you told of the fever atSaintes is true. "

CHAPTER XIII. WITHIN THE GATES

The great bell hanging inside the gates of Gemosac was silent for twodays after the return of Juliette de Gemosac from her fever-strickenconvent school, at Saintes. 

But on the third day, soon after nightfall, it rang once more, breakingsuddenly in on the silence of the shadowy courts and gardens, biddingthe frogs in the tank be still with a soft, clear voice, only compassedby the artificers who worked in days when silver was little accounted ofin the forging of a bell. 

It was soon after eight o'clock, and darkness had not long covered theland and sent the workers home. There was no moon. Indeed, the summonsto the gate, coming so soon after nightfall, seemed to suggest thearrival of a traveller, who had not deemed it expedient to pass throughthe winding streets of Gemosac by daylight. 

The castle lies on a height, sufficiently removed from the little townto temper the stir of its streets to a pleasant and unobtrusive evidenceof neighbourhood. Had the traveller come in a carriage, the sound of itswheels would certainly have been heard; and nearer at hand, the trampof horses on the hollow of the old drawbridge, not raised these hundredyears, must have heralded the summons of the bell. But none of thesesounds had warned Juliette de Gemosac, who sat alone in the little whiteroom upstairs, nor Marie and her husband, dumb and worn by the day'stoil, who awaited bedtime on a stone seat by the stable door. 

Juliette, standing at the open window, heard Jean stir himself, andshuffle, in his slippers, toward the gate. 

"It is some one who comes on foot, " she heard Marie say. "Somebeggar--the roads are full of them. See that he gets no farther than thegate. "

She heard Jean draw back the bolts and answer gruffly, in a few words, through the interstice of a grudging door, what seemed to be inquiriesmade in a voice that was not the voice of a peasant. Marie rose and wentto the gate. In a few minutes they returned, and Juliette drew back fromthe window, for they were accompanied by the new-comer, whose boots madea sharper, clearer sound on the cobble-stones. 

"Yes, " Juliette heard him explain, "I am an Englishman, but I come fromMonsieur de Gemosac, for all that. And since Mademoiselle is here, Imust see her. It was by chance that I heard, on the road, that thereis fever at Saintes, and that she had returned home. I was on my way toSaintes to see her and give her my news of her father. "

"But what news?" asked Marie, and the answer was lost as the speakerspassed into the doorway, the new-comer evidently leading the way, the peasant and his wife following without protest, and with thatinstinctive obedience to unconscious command which will survive all theiconoclasm of a hundred revolutions. 

There followed a tramping on the stairs and a half-suppressed laugh asthe new-comer stumbled upward. Marie opened the door slowly. 

"It is a gentleman, " she announced, "who does not give his name. "

Juliette de Gemosac was standing at the far side of the table, with thelamp throwing its full light upon her. She was dressed in white, with ablue ribbon at her waist and wrists. Another ribbon of the same colourtied back her hair, which was of a bright brown, with curls that caughtthe light in a score of tendrils above her ears. No finished coquettecould have planned a prettier surprise than that which awaited LooBarebone, as he made Marie stand aside, and came, hat in hand, into theroom. 

He paused for an instant, breathless, before Juliette, who stood, witha little smile of composed surprise parting her lips. This child, freshfrom the quiet of a convent-school, was in no wise taken aback nor ata loss how to act. She did not speak, but stood with head erect, not ungracious, looking at him with clear brown eyes, awaiting hisexplanation. And Loo Barebone, all untaught, who had never spoken to aFrench lady in his life, came forward with an assurance and a readinesswhich must have lain dormant in his blood, awaiting the magic of thismoment. 

"Since my name would convey nothing to Mademoiselle, " he said, with abow which he had assuredly not learnt in Farlingford, "it was useless tomention it. But it is at the disposal of Mademoiselle, nevertheless. Itis an English name--Barebone. I am the Englishman who has been fortunateenough to engage the interest of your father, who journeyed to Englandto find me--and found me. "

He broke off with a laugh, spreading out his arms to show himself, as itwere, and ask indulgence. 

"I have a heritage, it appears, in France, " he went on, "but knownothing of it, yet. For the weather has been bad and our voyage a stormyone. I was to have been told during the journey, but we had no time forthat. And I know no more than you, mademoiselle. "

Juliette had changed colour, and her cheeks, which were usually of amost delicate pink, were suddenly quite white. She did not touch uponthe knowledge to which he referred, but went past it to its object. 

"You do not speak like an Englishman, " she said. "For I know one or two. One came to the school at Saintes. He was a famous English prelate, andhe had the manner--well, of a tree. And when he spoke, it was what onewould expect of a tree, if it suddenly had speech. But you--you are notlike that. "

Loo Barebone laughed with an easy gaiety, which seemed infectious, though Marie did not join in it, but stood scowling in the doorway. 

"Yes, " he said, "you have described them exactly. I know a hundred whoare like great trees. Many are so, but they are kind and still liketrees--the English, when you know them, mademoiselle. "

"They?" she said, with her prettily arched eyebrows raised high. 

"We, I mean, " he answered, quickly, taking her meaning in a flash. "Ialmost forgot that I was an Englishman. It is my heritage, perhaps, that makes me forget--or yourself. It is so easy and natural to considerone's self a Frenchman--and so pleasant. "

Marie shuffled with her feet and made a movement of impatience, as if toremind them that they were still far from the business in hand and weremerely talking of themselves, which is the beginning of all things--ormay be the beginning of the inevitable end. 

"But I forgot, " said Barebone, at once. "And it is getting late. Yourfather has had a slight misfortune. He has sprained his ankle. He is onboard my ship, the ship of which I am--I have been--an officer, lying atanchor in the river near here, off the village of Mortagne. I came fromMortagne at your father's request, with certain messages, for yourself, mademoiselle, and for Marie--if Madame is Marie. "

"Yes, " replied the grim voice in the doorway. "Madame is Marie. "

Loo had turned toward her. It seemed his happy fate to be able to disarmantagonism at the first pass. He looked at Marie and smiled; and slowly, unwillingly, her grim face relaxed. 

"Well, " he said, "you are not to expect Monsieur le Marquis to-night, nor yet, for some time to come. For he will go on to Bordeaux, wherehe can obtain skilled treatment for his injured ankle, and remain thereuntil he can put his foot to the ground. He is comfortable enough onboard the ship, which will proceed up the river to-morrow morning toBordeaux. Monsieur le Marquis also told me to set your mind at rest onanother point. He was to have brought with him a guest--"

Loo paused and bowed to Marie, with a gay grace. 

"A humble one. But I am not to come to Gemosac just now. I am going, instead, with Monsieur Dormer Colville, to stay at Royan with Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. It is, I hope, a pleasure deferred. I cannot, it appears, show myself in Bordeaux at present, and I quit the shipto-night. It is some question of myself and my heritage in France, whichI do not understand. "

"Is that so?" said Marie. "One can hardly believe it. "

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing, " replied Marie, looking at his face with a close scrutiny, as if it were familiar to her. 

"And that is all that I had to tell you, Madame Marie, " concludedBarebone. 

And, strangely enough, Marie smiled at him as he turned away, notunkindly. 

"To you, mademoiselle, " he went on, turning again to Juliette, whosehand was at her hair, for she had been taken by surprise, "my messageis simpler. Monsieur, your father, will be glad to have your society atBordeaux, while he stays there, if that is true which the Girondepilot told him--of fever at Saintes, and the hurried dispersal of theschools. "

"It is true enough, monsieur, " answered Juliette, in her low-pitchedvoice of the south, and with a light of anticipation in her eye; for itwas dull enough at Gemosac, all alone in this empty chateau. "But how amI to reach Bordeaux?"

"Your father did not specify the route or method. He seemed to leavethat to you, mademoiselle. He seemed to have an entire faith inyour judgment, and that is why I was so surprised when I saw you. Ithought--well, I figured to myself that you were older, you understand. "

He broke off with a laugh and a deprecatory gesture of the hand, asif he had more in his mind but did not want to put it into words. Hismeaning was clear enough in his eyes, but Juliette was fresh from aconvent-school, where they seek earnestly to teach a woman not to be awoman. 

"One may be young, and still have understanding, monsieur, " she said, with the composed little smile on her demure lips, which must only havebeen the composure of complete innocence: almost a monopoly of children, though some women move through life without losing it. 

"Yes, " answered Loo, looking into her eyes. "So it appears. So, how willyou go to Bordeaux? How does one go from Gemosac to Bordeaux?"

"By carriage to Mortagne, where a boat is always to be obtained. It isa short journey, if the tide is favourable, " broke in Marie, who waspractical before she was polite. 

"Then, " said Loo, as quick as thought, "drive back with me now toMortagne. I have left my horse in the town, my boat at the pier atMortagne. It is an hour's drive. In an hour and a half you will be onboard 'The Last Hope, ' at anchor in the river. There is accommodation onboard for both you and Madame; for I, alas! leave the ship to-night withMonsieur Colville, and thus vacate two cabins. "

Juliette reflected for a moment, but she did not consult, even by aglance, Marie; who, in truth, appeared to expect no such confidences, but awaited the decision with a grim and grudging servitude which was asdeeply pressed in upon her soul as was the habit of command in the soulof a de Gemosac. 

"Yes, " said Juliette, at length, "that will be best. It is, of course, important that my father should reach Bordeaux as soon as possible. "

"He will be there at midday to-morrow, if you will come with me now, "answered Loo, and his gay eyes said "Come!" as clearly as his lips, though Juliette could not, of course, be expected to read such signals. 

The affair was soon settled, and Jean ordered to put the horse into thehigh, old-fashioned carriage still in use at the chateau. For Juliettede Gemosac seemed to be an illustration of the fact, known to manymuch-tried parents, that one is never too young to know one's mind. 

"There is a thunder-storm coming from the sea, " was Jean's only comment. 

There was some delay in starting; for Marie had to change her ownclothes as well as pack her young mistress's simple trunks. But thetime did not hang heavily on the hands of the two waiting in the littledrawing-room, and Marie turned an uneasy glance toward the open doormore than once at the sound of their laughter. 

Barebone was riding a horse hired in the village of Mortagne, andquitted the chateau first, on foot, saying that the carriage mustnecessarily travel quicker than he, as his horse was tired. The nightwas dark, and darkest to the west, where lightning danced in and outamong heavy clouds over the sea. 

As in all lands that have been torn hither and thither by long wars, thepeasants of Guienne learnt, long ago, the wisdom of dwelling togetherin closely built villages, making a long journey to their fields orvineyards every day. In times past, Gemosac had been a walled town, dominated, as usual, by the almost impregnable castle. 

Barebone rode on, alone, through the deserted vineyards, of which thescent, like that of a vinery in colder lands, was heavy and damp. Theroad runs straight, from point to point, and there was no chance ofmissing the way or losing his companions. He was more concerned withwatching the clouds, which were rising in dark towers against thewestern sky. He had noted that others were watching them, also, standingat their doors in every street. It was the period of thunder andhailstorms--the deadly foe of the vine. 

At length Barebone pulled up and waited; for he could hear the sound ofwheels behind him, and noted that it was not increasing in loudness. 

"Can you not go faster?" he shouted to Jean, when, at length, thecarriage approached. 

Jean made no answer, but lashed his horse and pointed upward to the skywith his whip. Barebone rode in front to encourage the slower horse. Atthe village of Mortagne he signed to Jean to wait before the inn untilhe had taken his horse to the stable and paid for its hire. Then heclambered to the box beside him and they rattled down the long streetand out into the open road that led across the marshes to the port--afew wooden houses and a jetty, running out from the shallows to thechannel. 

When they reached the jetty, going slowly at the last through the heavydust, the air was still and breathless. The rounded clouds still toweredabove them, making the river black with their deep shadows. A few lightstwinkled across the waters. They were the lightships marking the middlebank of the Gironde, which is many miles wide at this spot and rendereddangerous by innumerable sandbanks. 

"In five minutes it will be upon us, " said Jean. "You had better turnback. "

"Oh, no, " was the reply, with a reassuring laugh. "In the country whereI come from they do not turn back. "

CHAPTER XIV. THE LIFTED VEIL

"Where is the boatman?" asked Marie, as she followed Juliette andBarebone along the deserted jetty. A light burnt dimly at the end of itand one or two boats must have been moored near at hand; for the watercould be heard lapping under their bows, a secretive, whispering soundfull of mystery. 

"I am the boatman, " replied Loo, over his shoulder. "Are you afraid?"

"What is the good of being afraid?" asked this woman of the world, stopping at the head of the steps and peering down into the darknessinto which he had descended. "What is the good of being afraid when oneis old and married? I was afraid enough when I was a girl, and prettyand coquette like Mademoiselle, here. I was afraid enough then, and itwas worth my while--allez!"

Barebone made no answer to this dark suggestion of a sprightly past. Thepresent darkness and the coming storm commanded his full attention. In the breathless silence, Juliette and Marie--and behind them, Jean, panting beneath the luggage balanced on his shoulder--could hear the wetrope slipping through his fingers and, presently, the bump of the heavyboat against the timber of the steps. 

This was followed by the gurgle of a rope through a well-greased sheaveand the square lug, which had been the joy of little Sep Marvin atFarlingford, crept up to the truck of the stubby mast. 

"There is no wind for that, " remarked Marie, pessimistically. 

"There will be to spare in a few minutes, " answered Barebone, and themonosyllabic Jean gave an acquiescent grunt. 

"Luggage first, " said Barebone, lapsing into the curtness of the sea. "Come along. Let us make haste. "

They stumbled on board as best they could, and were guided to a safeplace amidships by Loo, who had thrown a spare sail on the bottom of theboat. 

"As low as you can, " he said. "Crouch down. Cover yourselves with this. Right over your heads. "

"But why?" grumbled Marie. 

"Listen, " was all the answer he gave her. And as he spoke, the stormrushed upon them like a train, with the roar and whirl of a locomotive. 

Loo jumped aft to the tiller. In the rush of the hail, they heard himgive a sharp order to Jean, who must have had some knowledge of the sea, for he obeyed at once, and the boat, set free, lurched forward with aflap of her sail, which was like the report of a cannon. For a moment, all seemed confusion and flapping chaos, then came a sense of tenseness, and the boat heeled over with a swish, which added a hundred-weight ofsolid water to the beating of the hail on the spare sail, beneath whichthe women crouched. 

"What? Did you speak?" shouted Loo, putting his face close to thecanvas. 

"It is only Marie calling on the saints, " was the answer, in Juliette'slaughing voice. 

In a few minutes it was over; and, even at the back of the winds, couldbe heard the retreat of the hail as it crashed onward toward the valleysof which every slope is a named vineyard, to beat down in a few wildmoments the result of careful toil and far-sighted expenditure; to wipeout that which is unique, which no man can replace--the vintage of ayear. 

When the hail ceased beating on it, Juliette pushed back the soakedcanvas, which had covered them like a roof, and lifted her face tothe cooler air. The boat was rushing through the water, and close toJuliette's cheek, just above the gunwale, rose a curved wave, green andwhite, and all shimmering with phosphorescence, which seemed to hoverlike a hawk above its prey. 

The aftermath of the storm was flying overhead in riven ribbons ofcloud, through which the stars were already peeping. To the westward thesky was clear, and against the last faint glow of the departed sun thelightning ran hither and thither, skipping and leaping, without sound orcessation, like fairies dancing. 

Immediately overhead, the sail creaked and tugged at its earings, whilethe wind sang its high clear song round mast and halliards. 

Juliette turned to look at Barebone. He was standing, ankle deep, inwater, leaning backward to windward, in order to give the boat everypound of weight he could. The lambent summer-lightning on the westernhorizon illuminated his face fitfully. In that moment Juliette saw whatis given to few to see and realise--though sailors, perforce, lie downto sleep knowing it every night--that under Heaven her life was whollyand solely in the two hands of a fellow-being. She knew it, and saw thatBarebone knew it, though he never glanced at her. She saw the whites ofhis eyes gleaming as he looked up, from moment to moment, to the headof the sail and stooped again to peer under the foot of it into thedarkness ahead. He braced himself, with one foot against the thwart, to haul in a few inches of sheet, to which the clumsy boat answeredimmediately. Marie was praying aloud now, and when she opened her eyesthe sight of the tossing figure in the stern of the boat suddenly turnedher terror into anger. 

"Ah!" she cried, "that Jean is a fool. And he, who pretends to have beena fisherman when he was young--to let us come to our deaths like this!"

She lifted her head, and ducked it again, as a sea jumped up under thebow and rattled into the boat. 

"I see no ship, " she cried. "Let us go back, if we can. Name of God!--weshall be drowned! I see no ship, I tell you!"

"But I do, " answered Barebone, shaking the water from his face, for hehad no hand to spare. "But I do, which is more important. And you arenot even wet!"

And he laughed as he brought the boat up into the wind for a fewseconds, to meet a wild gust. Juliette turned in surprise at the soundof his voice. In the safe and gentle seclusion of the convent-school noone had thought to teach her that death may be faced with equanimity byothers than the ordained of the Church, and that in the storm and stressof life men laugh in strange places and at odd times. 

Loo was only thinking of his boat and watching the sky for the last ofthe storm--that smack, as it were, in the face--with which the Atlanticends those black squalls that she sends us, not without thunder and thecurtailed lightning of northern seas. He was planning and shaping hiscourse; for the watchers on board "The Last Hope" had already seen him, as he could ascertain by a second light, which suddenly appeared, swunglow, casting a gleam across the surf-strewn water, to show him where theladder hung overside. 

"Tell Monsieur de Gemosac that I have Mademoiselle and her maid herein the boat, " Barebone called out to Captain Clubbe, whose large faceloomed above the lantern he was holding overside, as he made fast therope that had been thrown across his boat and lowered the dripping sail. The water was smooth enough under the lee of "The Last Hope, " which, being deeply laden, lay motionless at her anchor, with the streamrustling past her cables. 

"Stand up, mademoiselle, " said Barebone, himself balanced on theafter-thwart. "Hold on to me, thus, and when I let you go, let yourselfgo. "

There was no time to protest or to ask questions. And Juliette feltherself passed on from one pair of strong arms to another, until she wasstanding on the deck under the humming rigging, surrounded by men whoseemed huge in their gleaming oil-skins. 

"This way, mademoiselle, " said one, who was even larger than the others, in English, of which she understood enough to catch his meaning. "I willtake you to your father. Show a light this way, one of you. "

His fingers closed round her arm, and he led her, unconscious of astrength that almost lifted her from her feet, toward an open door, where a lamp burnt dimly within. It smelt abominably of an untrimmedwick, Juliette thought, and the next minute she was kissing her father, who lay full length on a locker in the little cabin. 

She asked him a hundred questions, and waited for few of the answers. Indeed, she supplied most of them herself; for she was very quick andgay. 

"I see, " she cried, "that your foot has been tied up by a sailor. Hehas tried to mend it as if it were a broken spar. I suppose that was theCaptain who brought me to you, and then ran away again, as soon as hecould. Yes; I have Marie with me. She is telling them to be careful withthe luggage. I can hear her. I am so glad we had a case of fever at theschool. It was a lay sister, a stupid woman. But how lucky that I shouldbe at home just when you wanted me!"

She stood upright again, after deftly loosening the bandage round herfather's ankle, and looked at him and laughed. 

"Poor, dear old papa, " she said. "One sees that you want some oneto take care of you. And this cabin-oh! mon Dieu! how bare anduncomfortable! I suppose men have to go to sea alone because they canpersuade no woman to go with them. "

She pounced upon her father again, and arranged afresh the cushionsbehind his back, with a little air of patronage and protection. Her backwas turned toward the door, when some one came in, but she heard theapproaching steps and looked quickly round the cabin walls. 

"Heavens!" she exclaimed, in a gay whisper. "No looking-glass! One seesthat it is only men who live here. "

And she turned, with smiling eyes and a hand upraised to her disorderedhair, to note the new-comer. It was Dormer Colville, who laid aside hiswaterproof as he came and greeted her as an old friend. He had, indeed, known her since her early childhood, and had always succeeded in keepingpace with her, even in the rapid changes of her last year at school. 

"Here is an adventure, " he said, shaking hands. "But I can see thatyou have taken no harm, and have not even been afraid. For us, it is apleasant surprise. "

He glanced at her with a smiling approbation, not without a delicatesuggestion of admiration, such as he might well permit himself, and shemight now even consider her due. He was only keeping pace. 

"I stayed behind to initiate your maid, who is, of course, unused toa ship, and the steward speaks but little French. But now they arearranging your cabin together. "

"How delightful!" cried Juliette. "I have never been on a ship before, you know. And it is all so strange and so nice. All those big men, likewet ghosts, who said nothing! I think they are more interesting thanwomen; perhaps it is because they talk less. "

"Perhaps it is, " admitted Colville, with a sudden gravity, similar tothat with which she had made the suggestion. 

"You should hear the Sisters talk--when they are allowed, " she said, confidentially. 

"And whisper when they are not. I can imagine it, " laughed Colville. "But now you have left all that behind, and have come out intothe world--of men, one may say. And you have begun at once with anadventure. "

"Yes! And we are going to Bordeaux, papa and I, until his foot is wellagain. Of course, I was in despair when I was first told of it, but nowthat I see him I am no longer anxious. And your messenger assured methat it was not serious. "

She paused to look round the cabin, to make sure that they were alone. 

"How strange he is!" she said to both her hearers, in confidence, looking from one to the other with a quick, birdlike turn of the headand bright eyes. "I have never seen any one like him. "

"No?" said Dormer Colville, encouragingly. 

"He said he was an Englishman; but, of course, he is not. He is French, and has not the manner of a bourgeois or a sailor. He has the manner ofan aristocrat--one would say a Royalist--like Albert de Chantonnay, onlya thousand times better. "

"Yes, " said Colville, glancing at Monsieur de Gemosac. 

"More interesting, and so quick and amusing. He spoke of a heritage inFrance, and yet he said he was an Englishman. I hope he will secure hisheritage. "

"Yes, " murmured Colville, still looking at Monsieur de Gemosac. 

"And then, when we were in the boat, " continued Juliette, still inconfidence to them both, "he changed quite suddenly. He was short andsharp. He ordered us to do this and that; and one did it, somehow, without question. Even Marie obeyed him without hesitating, althoughshe was half mad with fear. We were in danger. I knew that. Any onemust have known it. And yet I was not afraid; I wonder why? And he--helaughed--that was all. Mon Dieu! he was brave. I never knew that any onecould be so brave!"

She broke off suddenly, with her finger to her lips; for some one hadopened the cabin door. Captain Clubbe came in, filling the whole cabinwith his bulk, and on his heels followed Loo Barebone, his face and hairstill wet and dripping. 

"Mademoiselle was wondering, " said Dormer Colville, who, it seemed, wasquick to step into that silence which the object of a conversation isapt to cause--"Mademoiselle was wondering how it was that you escapedshipwreck in the storm. "

"Ah! because one has a star. Even a poor sailor may have a star, mademoiselle. As well as the Prince Napoleon, who boasts that he has oneof the first magnitude, I understand. "

"You are not a poor sailor, monsieur, " said Juliette. 

"Then who am I?" he asked, with a gay laugh, spreading out his hands andstanding before them, beneath the swinging lamp. 

The Marquis de Gemosac raised himself on one elbow. 

"I will tell you who you are, " he said, in a low, quick voice, pointingone hand at Loo. "I will tell you. " And his voice rose. 

"You are the grandson of Louis XVI. And Marie Antoinette. You are theLast Hope of the French. That is your heritage. Juliette! this is theKing of France!"

Juliette turned and looked at him, with all the colour gone from herface. Then, instinctively, she dropped on one knee, and before he hadunderstood, or could stop her, had raised his hand to her lips. 

CHAPTER XV. THE TURN OF THE TIDE

"Tide's a-turning, sir, " said a voice at the open doorway of the cabin, and Captain Clubbe turned his impassive face toward Dormer Colville, wholooked oddly white beneath the light of the lamp. 

Barebone had unceremoniously dragged his hand away from the hold ofJuliette's fingers. He made a step back and then turned toward the doorat the sound of his shipmate's well-known voice. He stood staring outinto the darkness like one who is walking in his sleep. No one spoke, and through the open doorways no sound came to them but the song of thewind through the rigging. 

At last Barebone turned, and there was no sign of fear or misgiving inhis face. He looked at Clubbe, and at no one else, as if the Captain andhe were alone in the cabin where they had passed so many years togetherin fair weather, to bring out that which is evil in a man, and foul, toevolve the good. 

"What do YOU say?" he asked, in English, and he must have known thatCaptain Clubbe understood French better than he was ready to admit. 

Clubbe passed his hand slowly across his cheek and chin, not in order togain time, or because he had not an answer ready, but because he came ofa slow-speaking race. His answer had been made ready weeks before whilehe sat on the weather-beaten seat set against the wall of "The BlackSailor" at Farlingford. 

"Tide's turned, " he answered, simply. "You'd better get your oilskins onagain and go. "

"Yes, " said Loo, with a queer laugh. "I fancy I shall want my oilskins. "

The boat which had been sent from Royan, at the order of the pilot, whowent ashore there, had followed "The Last Hope" up the river, and wasnow lying under the English ship's stern awaiting her two passengers andthe turn of the tide. 

Dormer Colville glanced at the cabin clock. 

"Then, " he said, briskly, "let us be going. It will be late enough as itis before we reach my cousin's house. "

He turned and translated his remark for the benefit of the Marquis andJuliette, remembering that they must needs fail to understand a colloquyin the muttered and clipped English of the east coast. He was nervouslyanxious, it would appear, to tide over a difficult moment; to give LooBarebone breathing space, and yet to avoid unnecessary question andanswer. He had not lived forty adventurous years in the world withoutlearning that it is the word too much which wrecks the majority of humanschemes. 

Their preparations had been made beforehand in readiness for the returnof the tide, without the help of which the voyage back to Royan againsta contrary wind must necessarily be long and wearisome. 

There was nothing to wait for. Captain Clubbe was not the man to prolonga farewell or waste his words in wishes for the future, knowing how vainsuch must always be. Loo was dazed still by the crash of the storm andthe tension of the effort to bring his boat safely through it. 

The rest had not fully penetrated to his inmost mind yet. There had beenonly time to act, and none to think, and when the necessity to act waspast, when he found himself crouching down under the weather gunwaleof the French fishing-boat without even the necessity of laying hand onsheet or tiller, when, at last, he had time to think, he found that theability to do so was no longer his. For Fortune, when she lifts up orcasts down, usually numbs the understanding at the first turn ofher wheel, sending her victim staggering on his way a mere machine, astonishingly alive to the necessity of the immediate moment, careful ofthe next step, but capable of looking neither forward nor backward withan understanding eye. 

The waning moon came up at last, behind a distant line of trees on theCharente side, lighting up with a silver lining the towering cloudsof the storm, which was still travelling eastward, leaving in its wakebattered vines and ruined crops, searing the face of the land as witha hot iron. Loo lifted his head and looked round him. The owner of theboat was at the tiller, while his assistant sat amidships, his elbows onhis knees, looking ahead with dreamy eyes. Close to Barebone, crouchingfrom the wind which blew cold from the Atlantic, was Dormer Colville, affably silent. If Loo turned to glance at him he looked away, butwhen his back was turned Loo was conscious of watching eyes, full ofsympathy, almost uncomfortably quick to perceive the inward working ofanother's mind, and suit his own thereto. 

Thus the boat plunged out toward the sea and the flickering lightsthat mark the channel, tacking right across to that spit of land lyingbetween the Gironde and the broad Atlantic, where grows a wine withoutmatch in all the world. Thus Loo Barebone turned his back on the shipwhich had been his home so long and set out into a new world; a new andunknown life, with the Marquis de Gemosac's ringing words buzzing in hisbrain yet; with the warm touch of Juliette's lips burning still upon hishand. 

"You are the grandson of Louis XVI. And Marie Antoinette! You are theLast Hope of France!"

And he remembered the lights and shadows on Juliette's hair as he lookeddown upon her bent head. 

Colville was talking to the "patron" now. He knew the coast, it seemed, and, somewhere or other, had learnt enough of such matters of localseafaring interest as to set the fisherman at his ease and make himtalk. 

They were arranging where to land, and Colville was describing the exactwhereabouts of a little jetty used for bathing purposes, which ran outfrom the sandy shore, quite near to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's house, inthe pine-trees, two miles south of Royan. It was no easy matter to findthis spot by the dim light of a waning moon, and, half-mechanically, Loojoined in the search, and presently, when the jetty was reached, helpedto make fast in a choppy sea. 

They left the luggage on the jetty and walked across the silent sandside by side. 

"There, " said Colville, pointing forward. "It is through that opening inthe pine-trees. A matter of five minutes and we shall be at my cousin'shouse. "

"It is very kind of Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, " answered Barebone, "to--well, to take me up. I suppose that is the best way to look at it. "

Colville laughed quietly. 

"Yes--put it thus, if you like, " he said. They walked on in silencefor a few yards, and then Dormer Colville slipped his hand within hiscompanion's arm, as was the fashion among men even in England in thosemore expansive days. 

"I think I know how you feel, " he said, suiting his step to Barebone's. "You must feel like a man who is set down to a table to play a game ofwhich he knows nothing, and on taking up his cards finds that he holds ahand all court-cards and trumps--and he doesn't know how to play them. "

Barebone made no answer. He had yet to unlearn Captain Clubbe'sunconscious teaching that a man's feelings are his own concern and noother has any interest or right to share in them, except one woman, andeven she must guess the larger half. 

"But as the game progresses, " went on Colville, reassuringly, "you willfind out how it is played. You will even find that you are a skilledplayer, and then the gambler's spirit will fire your blood and arouseyour energies. You will discover what a damned good game it is. Thegreat game--Barebone--the great game! And France is the country to playit in. "

He stamped his foot on the soil of France as he spoke. 

"The moment I saw you I knew that you would do. No man better fitted toplay the game than yourself; for you have wit and quickness, " went onthis friend and mentor, with a little pressure on his companion's arm. "But--you will have to put your back into it, you know. "

"What do you mean?"

"Well--I noticed at Farlingford a certain reluctance to begin. It is inthe blood, I suppose. There is, you know, in the Bourbon blood a certainstrain of--well, let us say of reluctance to begin. Others call it bya different name. One is not a Bourbon for nothing, I suppose. Andeverything--even if it be a vice--that serves to emphasise identity isto be cultivated. But, as I say, you will have to put your back intoit later on. At present there will be less to do. You will have to playclose and hold your hand, and follow any lead that is given you by deGemosac, or by my humble self. You will find that easy enough, Iknow. For you have all a Frenchman's quickness to understand. And Isuppose--to put it plainly as between men of the world--now that youhave had time to think it over--you are not afraid, Barebone?"

"Oh no!" laughed Barebone. "I am not afraid. "

"One is not a Barebone--or a Bourbon--for nothing, " observed Colville, in an aside to himself. "Gad! I wish I could say that I should not beafraid myself under similar circumstances. My heart was in my mouth, Ican tell you, in that cabin when de Gemosac blurted it all out. It camesuddenly at the end, and--well!--it rather hit one in the wind. And, asI say, one is not a Bourbon for nothing. You come into a heritage, eighthundred years old, of likes and dislikes, of genius and incapacity, ofan astounding cleverness, and a preposterous foolishness without comparein the history of dynasties. But that doesn't matter nowadays. This isa progressive age, you know; even the Bourbons cannot hold back theadvance of the times. "

"I come into a heritage of friends and of enemies, " said Barebone, gaily--"all ready made. That seems to me more important. "

"Gad! you are right, " exclaimed Colville. "I said you would do themoment I saw you step ashore at Farlingford. You have gone right to theheart of the question at the first bound. It is your friends and yourenemies that will give you trouble. "

"More especially my friends, " suggested Loo, with a light laugh. 

"Right again, " answered Colville, glancing at him sideways beneath thebrim of his hat. And there was a little pause before he spoke again. 

"You have probably learnt how to deal with your enemies at sea, " he saidthoughtfully at length. "Have you ever noticed how an English ship comesinto a foreign harbour and takes her berth at her moorings? There isnothing more characteristic of the nation. And one captain is likeanother. No doubt you have seen Clubbe do it a hundred times. He comesin, all sail set, and steers straight for the berth he has chosen. Andthere are always half a dozen men in half a dozen small boats who go outto meet him. They stand up and wave their arms, and point this way andthat. They ask a hundred questions, and with their hands round theirfaces, shout their advice. And in answer to one and the other theCaptain looks over the side and says, 'You be damned. ' That will bethe way to deal with some of your friends and all your enemies alike, Barebone, if you mean to get on in France. You will have to look overthe side at the people in small boats who are shouting and say, 'You bedamned. '"

They were at the gate of a house now, set down in a clearing amid thepine-trees. 

"This is my cousin's house, " said Dormer Colville. "It is to be yourhome for the present. And you need not scruple, as she will tell you, to consider it so. It is not a time to think of obligations, youunderstand, or to consider that you are running into any one's debt. You may remember that afterward, perhaps, but that is as may be. Forthe present there is no question of obligations. We are all in the sameboat--all playing the same game. "

And he laughed below his breath as he closed the gate with caution; forit was late and the house seemed to hold none but sleepers. 

"As for my cousin herself, " he continued, as they went toward thedoor, "you will find her easy to get on with-a clever woman, and agood-looking one. Du reste--it is not in that direction that yourdifficulties will lie. You will find it easy enough to get on with thewomen of the party, I fancy--from what I have observed. "

And again he seemed to be amused. 

CHAPTER XVI. THE GAMBLERS

In a sense, politics must always represent the game that is mostattractive to the careful gambler. For one may play at it without havinganything to lose. It is one of the few games within the reach of theadventurous, where no stake need be cast upon the table. The gambler whotakes up a political career plays to win or not to win. He may jumpup from the gutter and shout that he is the man of the moment, withoutoffering any proof of his assertion beyond the loudness of a stridentvoice. And if no one listens to him he loses nothing but his breath. 

And in France the man who shouts loudest is almost certain to have thelargest following. In England the same does not yet hold good, but theday seems to be approaching when it will. 

In France, ever since the great Revolution, men have leapt up from thegutter to grasp the reins of power. Some, indeed, have sprung from thegutter of a palace, which is no more wholesome, it would appear, thanthe drain of any street, or a ditch that carries off the refuse of acheap Press. 

There are certain rooms in the north wing of the Louvre, in Paris, roomshaving windows facing across the Rue de Rivoli toward the Palais Royal, where men must have sat in the comfortable leather-covered chair of theHigh Official and laughed at the astounding simplicity of the Frenchpeople. But he laughs best who laughs last, and the People willassuredly be amused in a few months, or a few years, at the very suddenand very humiliating discomfiture of a gentleman falling face-foremostinto the street or hanging forlornly from a lamp-post at the cornerof it. For some have quitted these comfortable chairs, in these quietdouble-windowed rooms overlooking the Rue de Rivoli, for no better fate. 

It was in the August of 1850 that a stout gentleman, seated in one ofthese comfortable chairs, succumbed so far to the warmth of the palacecorridors as to fall asleep. He was not in the room of a high official, but in the waiting-room attached to it. 

He knew, moreover, that the High Official himself was scarcely likely todismiss a previous visitor or a present occupation any the earlier forbeing importuned; for he was aware of the official's antecedents, andknew that a Jack-in-office, who has shouted himself into office, isnearly always careful to be deaf to other voices than his own. 

Moreover, Mr. John Turner was never pressed for time. 

"Yes, " he had been known to say, "I was in Paris in '48. Never missed ameal. "

Whereas others, with much less at stake than this great banker, hadomitted not only meals, but their night's rest--night after night--inthose stirring times. 

John Turner was still asleep when the door leading to the Minister'sroom was cautiously opened, showing an inner darkness such as prevailsin an alcove between double doors. The door opened a little wider. No doubt the peeping eye had made sure that the occupant of thewaiting-room was asleep. On the threshold stood a man of middle height, who carried himself with a certain grace and quiet dignity. He was palealmost to sallowness, a broad face with a kind mouth and melancholyeyes, without any light in them. The melancholy must have been expressedrather by the lines of the brows than by the eye itself, for thiswas without life or expression--the eye of a man who is either veryshort-sighted or is engaged in looking through that which he actuallysees, to something he fancies he perceives beyond it. 

His lips smiled, but the smile died beneath a neatly waxed moustacheand reached no higher on the mask-like face. Then he disappeared in theouter darkness between the two doors, and the handle made no noise inturning. 

In a few minutes an attendant, in a gay uniform, came in by the samedoor, without seeking to suppress the clatter of his boots on the oakfloor. 

"Hola! monsieur, " he said, in a loud voice. And Mr. John Turner crossedhis legs and leant farther back in the chair, preparatory to opening hiseyes, which he did directly on the new-comer's face, without any of thatvague flitting hither and thither of glance which usually denotes thesleeper surprised. 

The eyes were of a clear blue, and Mr. Turner looked five years youngerwith them open than with them shut. But he was immensely stout. 

"Well, my friend, " he said, soothingly; for the Minister's attendant hada truculent ministerial manner. "Why so much noise?"

"The Minister will see you. "

John Turner yawned and reached for his hat. 

"The Minister is pressed for time. "

"So was I, " replied the Englishman, who spoke perfect French, "whenI first sat down here, half an hour ago. But even haste will pass intime. "

He rose, and followed the servant into the inner room, where he returnedthe bow of a little white-bearded gentleman seated at a huge desk. 

"Well, sir, " said this gentleman, with the abrupt manner which hascome to be considered Napoleonic on the stage or in the political worldto-day. "Your business?"

The servant had withdrawn, closing the door behind him with an emphasisof the self-accusatory sort. 

"I am a banker, " replied John Turner, looking with an obese deliberationtoward one of the deep windows, where, half-concealed by the heavycurtain, a third person stood gazing down into the street. 

The Minister smiled involuntarily, forgetting his dignity of atwo-years' growth. 

"Oh, you may speak before Monsieur, " he said. 

"But I am behind him, " was the immediate reply. 

The gentleman leaning against the window-breast did not accept thissomewhat obvious invitation to show his face. He must have heard it, however, despite an absorption which was probably chronic; for he madea movement to follow with his glance the passage of some object ofinterest in the street below. And the movement seemed to supply JohnTurner with the information he desired. 

"Yes, I am a banker, " he said, more genially. 

The Minister gave a short laugh. 

"Monsieur, " he said, "every one in Europe knows that. Proceed. "

"And I only meddle in politics when I see the possibility of making anhonest penny. "

"Already made--that honest penny--if one may believe the gossip--ofEurope, " said the Minister. "So many pence that it is whispered that youdo not know what to do with them. "

"It is unfortunate, " admitted Turner, "that one can only dine once aday. "

The little gentleman in office had more than once invited his visitor tobe seated, indicating by a gesture the chair placed ready for him. Aftera slow inspection of its legs, Mr. John Turner now seated himself. Itwould seem that he, at the same time, tacitly accepted the invitation toignore the presence of a third person. 

"Since you seem to know all about me, " he said, "I will not waste anymore of your time, or mine, by trying to make you believe that I ameminently respectable. The business that brought me here, however, is ofa political nature. A plain man, like myself, only touches politics whenhe sees his gain clearly. There are others who enter that field frompurer motives, I am told. I have not met them. "

The Minister smiled on one side of his face, and all of it went white. He glanced uncomfortably at that third person, whom he had suggestedignoring. 

"And yet, " went on John Turner, very dense or greatly daring, "I havelived many years in France, Monsieur le Ministre. "

The Minister frowned at him, and made a quick gesture of one hand towardthe window. 

"So long, " pursued the Englishman, placidly, "as the trains startpunctually, and there is not actually grape-shot in the streets, and onemay count upon one's dinner at the hour, one form of government in thiscountry seems to me to be as good as another, Monsieur le Ministre. ABourbon Monarchy or an Orleans Monarchy, or a Republic, or--well, anEmpire, Monsieur le Ministre. "

"Mon Dieu! have you come here to tell me this?" cried the Minister, impatiently, glancing over his shoulder toward the window, and with onehand already stretched out toward the little bell standing on his desk. 

"Yes, " answered Turner, leaning forward to draw the bell out of reach. He nodded his head with a friendly smile, and his fat cheeks shook. "Yes, and other things as well. Some of those other matters are perhapseven more worthy of your earnest attention. It is worth your while tolisten. More especially, as you are paid for it--by the hour. "

He laughed inside himself, with a hollow sound, and placidly crossed hislegs. 

"Yes; I came to tell you, firstly, that the present form of government, and, er--any other form which may evolve from it--"

"Oh!--proceed, monsieur!" exclaimed the Minister, hastily, while the manin the recess of the window turned and looked over his shoulder at JohnTurner's profile with a smile, not unkind, on his sphinx-like face. 

"--has the inestimable advantage of my passive approval. That is why Iam here, in fact. I should be sorry to see it upset. "

He broke off, and turned laboriously in his chair to look toward thewindow, as if the gaze of the expressionless eyes there had tickled theback of his neck like a fly. But by the time the heavy banker had gotround, the curtain had fallen again in its original folds. 

"--by a serious Royalist plot, " concluded Turner, in his thick, deliberate way. 

"So, assuredly, would any patriot or any true friend of France, " saidthe Minister, in his best declamatory manner. 

"Um--m. That is out of my depth, " returned the Englishman, bluntly. "Ipaddle about in the shallow water at the edge and pick up what I can, you understand. I am too fat for a voyant bathing-costume, and the deepwaters beyond, Monsieur le Ministre. "

The Minister drummed impatiently on his desk with his five fingers, andlooked at Turner sideways beneath his brows. 

"Royalist plots are common enough, " he said, tentatively, after a pause. 

"Not a Royalist plot with money in it, " was the retort. "I dare say anhonest politician, like yourself, is aware that in France it is alwayssafe to ignore the conspirator who has no money, and always dangerousto treat with contempt him who jingles a purse. There is only a certainamount of money in the world, Monsieur le Ministre, and we bankersusually know where it is. I do not mean the money that the world poursinto its own stomach. That is always afloat--changing hands daily. Imean the Great Reserves. We watch those, you understand. And if oneof the Great Reserves, or even one of the smaller reserves, moves, wewonder why it is being moved and we nearly always find out. "

"One supposes, " said the Minister, hazarding an opinion for the firsttime, and he gave it with a sidelong glance toward the window, "that itis passing from the hands of a financier possessing money into those ofone who has none. "

"Precisely. And if a financier possessing money is persuaded to partwith it in such a quarter as you suggest, one may conclude that he hasgood reason to anticipate a substantial return for the loan. You, whoare a brilliant collaborateur in the present government, should knowthat, if any one does, Monsieur le Ministre. "

The Minister glanced toward the window, and then gave a good-natured andencouraging laugh, quite unexpectedly, just as if he had been told to doso by the silent man looking down into the street, who may, indeed, havehad time to make a gesture. 

"And, " pursued the banker, "if a financier possessing money parts withit--or, to state the case more particularly, if a financier possessingno money, to my certain knowledge, suddenly raises it from nowheredefinite, for the purposes of a Royalist conspiracy, the naturalconclusion is that the Royalists have got hold of something good. "

John Turner leant back in his chair and suppressed a yawn. 

"This room is very warm, " he said, producing a pocket-handkerchief. Which was tantamount to a refusal to say more. 

The Minister twisted the end of his moustache in reflection. It was atthis time the fashion in France to wear the moustache waxed. Indeed, mendisplayed thus their political bias to all whom it might concern. 

"There remains nothing, " said the official at length, with a gracioussmile, "but to ask your terms. "

For he who was afterward Napoleon the Third had introduced into Frenchpolitical and social life a plain-spoken cynicism which characterisesboth to this day. 

"Easy, " replied Turner. "You will find them easy. Firstly, I would askthat your stupid secret police keeps its fingers out; secondly, thatleniency be assured to one person, a client of mine--the woman whosupplies the money--who is under the influence--well, that influencewhich makes women do nobler and more foolish things, monsieur, than menare capable of. "

He rose as he spoke, collected his hat and stick, and walked slowly tothe door. With his hand on the handle, he paused. 

"You can think about it, " he said, "and let me know at your leisure. Bythe way, there is one more point, Monsieur le Ministre. I would askyou to let this matter remain a secret, known only to our two selvesand--the Prince President. "

And John Turner went out, without so much as a glance toward the window. 

CHAPTER XVII. ON THE PONT ROYAL

It would appear that John Turner had business south of the Seine, though his clients were few in the Faubourg St. Germain. For this placidBritish banker was known to be a good hater. His father before him, itwas said, had had dealings with the Bourbons, while many a great familyof the Emigration would have lost more than the esteem of their fellowsin their panic-stricken flight, had it not been that one cool-headed andcalm man of business stayed at his post through the topsy-turvy days ofthe Terror, and did his duty by the clients whom he despised. 

On quitting the Louvre, by the door facing the Palais Royal, Turnermoved to the left. To say that he walked would be to overstate theaction of his little stout legs, which took so short a stride that hisprogress suggested wheels and some one pushing behind. He turned to theleft again, and ambled under the great arch, to take the path passingbehind the Tuileries. 

His stoutness was, in a sense, a safeguard in streets where thetravelling Englishman, easily recognised, has not always found awelcome. His clothes and his walk were studiously French. Indeed, noone, passing by with a casual glance, would have turned to look a secondtime at a figure so typical of the Paris streets. 

Mr. Turner quitted the enclosure of the Tuileries gardens and crossedthe quay toward the Pont Royal. But he stopped short under the treesby the river wall, with a low whistle of surprise. Crossing the bridge, toward him, and carrying a carpet-bag of early Victorian design, was Mr. Septimus Marvin, rector of Farlingford, in Suffolk. 

After a moment's thought, John Turner went toward the bridge, andstationed himself on the pavement at the corner. The pavement is narrow, and Turner was wide. In order to pass him, Septimus Marvin would needto step into the road. This he did, without resentment; with, indeed, acourtly and vague inclination of the head toward the human obstruction. 

"Look here, Sep, " said Turner, "you are not going to pass an oldschoolfellow like that. "

Septimus Marvin lurched onward one or two steps, with long loosestrides. Then he clutched his carpet-bag with both hands and looked backat his interlocutor, with the scared eyes of a detected criminal. Thisgave place to the habitual gentle smile when, at last, the recognitionwas complete. 

"What have you got there?" asked Turner, pointing with his stick at thecarpet-bag. "A kitten?"

"No--no, " replied Marvin, looking this way and that, to make sure thatnone could overhear. 

"A Nanteuil--engraved from his own drawing, Jack--a real Nanteuil. Ihave just been to a man I know--the print-shop opposite the statue onthe Quai Voltaire--to have my own opinion verified. I was sure of it. He says that I am undoubtedly right. It is a genuine Nanteuil--a proofbefore letters. "

"Ah! And you have just picked it up cheap? Picked it up, eh?"

"No, no, quite the contrary, " Marvin replied, in a confidential whisper. 

"Stolen--dear, dear! I am sorry to hear that, Septimus. "

And Septimus Marvin broke into the jerky, spasmodic laugh of one who hasnot laughed for long--perhaps for years. 

"Ah, Jack, " he said; "you are still up to a joke. "

"Well, I should hope so. We are quite close to my club. Come, and haveluncheon, and tell me all about it. "

So the Social and Sporting Club, renowned at that day for its matchlesscuisine and for nothing else of good repute at all, entertained an angelunawares, and was much amused at Septimus Marvin's appearance, althoughthe amusement was not apparent. The members, it would appear, weregentlemen of that good school of old France which, like many goodthings both French and English, is fast disappearing. And with all thosefaults, which we are so ready to perceive in any Frenchman, there isnone on earth who will conceal from you so effectually the fact that inhis heart he is vastly amused. 

It was with some difficulty that Septimus was persuaded to consign hiscarpet-bag to the custody of the hall-porter. 

"If it wasn't a Nanteuil, " he explained in a whisper to his friend, "Ishould have no hesitation; for I am sure the man is honest and in everyway to be relied upon. But a Nanteuil--ad vivum--Jack. There are nonelike him. It is priceless. "

"You used not to be a miser, " said Turner, panting on the stairs, whenat last the bag was concealed in a safe place. "What matter what thevalue may be, so long as you like it?"

"Oh! but the value is of great importance, " answered Septimus, rathersheepishly. 

"Then you have changed a good deal since you and I were at Ipswichschool together. There, sit down at this table. I suppose you arehungry. I hope you are. Try and think--there's a good fellow--andremember that they have the best cook in Paris here. Their morals ain'tof the first water, but their cook is without match. Yes, you havechanged a good deal, if you think of money. "

Septimus Marvin had changed colour, at all events, in the last fewminutes. 

"I have to, Jack, I have to. That is the truth of it. I have come toParis to sell that Nanteuil. To realise, I suppose you would call it inthe financial world. Pro aris et focis, old friend. I want money forthe altar and the hearth. It has come to that. I cannot ask them inFarlingford for more money, for I know they have none. And the church isfalling about our ears. The house wants painting. It is going the way ofthe church, indeed. "

"Ah!" said Turner, glancing at him over the bill of fare. "So you haveto sell an engraving. It goes to the heart, I suppose?"

Marvin laughed and rubbed his spare hands together, with an assumptionof cheerfulness in which some one less stout and well-to-do than hiscompanion might have perceived that dim minor note of pathos, whichalways rings somewhere in a forced laugh. 

"One has to face it, " he replied. "Ne cedas malis, you know. I suddenlyfound it was necessary. It was forced upon me, in fact. I found that myniece was secretly helping to make both ends meet. A generous action, made doubly generous by the manner in which it was performed. "

"Miriam?" put in John Turner, who appeared to be absorbed in theall-important document before him. 

"Yes, Miriam. Do you know her? Ah! I forgot. You are her guardian andtrustee. I sometimes think my memory is failing. I found her out quiteby accident. It must have been going on for quite a long time. Heavenwill reward her, Turner! One cannot doubt it. "

He absent-mindedly seized two pieces of bread from the basket offered tohim by a waiter, and began to eat as if famished. 

"Steady, man, steady, " exclaimed Turner, leaning forward with ahorror-stricken face to restrain him. "Don't spoil a grand appetite onbread. Gad! I wish I could fall on my food like that. You seem to bestarving. "

"I think I forgot to have any breakfast, " said Marvin, apologetically. 

"I dare say you did!" was the angry retort. "You always were a bit ofan ass, you know, Sep. But I have ordered a tiptop luncheon, and I'lltrouble you not to wolf like that. "

"Well--well, I'm sorry, " said the other, who, even in the far-off daysat Ipswich school, had always been in the clouds, while John Turnermoved essentially on the earth. 

"And do not sell that Nanteuil to the first bidder, " went on Turner, with a glance, of which the keenness was entirely disarmed by thegood-natured roundness of his huge cheeks. "I know a man who will buyit--at a good price, too. Where did you get it?"

"Ah! that is a long story, " replied Marvin, looking dreamily out ofthe window. "I bought it, years ago, at Farlingford. But it is a longstory. "

"Then tell it, slowly. While I eat this sole a la Normande. I see you'venearly finished yours, and I have scarcely begun. "

It was a vague and disjointed enough story, as related by SeptimusMarvin. And it was the story of Loo Barebone's father. As it progressedJohn Turner grew redder and redder in the face, while he drank glassafter glass of Burgundy. 

"A queer story, " he ejaculated, breathlessly. "Go on. And you boughtthis engraving from the man himself, before he died? Did he tell youwhere he got it? It is the portrait of a woman, you say. "

"Portrait of a woman--yes, yes. But he did not know who she was. And Ido not know whether I gave him enough for it. Do you think I did, Jack?"

"I do not know how much you gave him, but I have no doubt that it wastoo much. Where did he get it?"

"He thinks it was brought from France by his mother, or the womanwho was supposed in Farlingford to be his mother--together with otherpapers, which he burnt, I believe. "

"And then he died?"

"Yes--yes. He died--but he left a son. "

"The devil he did! Why did you not mention that before? Where is theson? Tell me all about him, while I see how they've served this languefourree, which should be eaten slowly; though it is too late to remindyou of that now. Go on. Tell me all about the son. "

And before the story of Loo Barebone was half told, John Turner laidaside his knife and fork and turned his attention to the dissection ofthis ill-told tale. As the story neared its end, he glanced round theroom, to make sure that none was listening to their conversation. 

"Dormer Colville, " he repeated. "Does he come into it?"

"He came to Farlingford with the Marquis de Gemosac, out of puregood-nature--because the Marquis could speak but little English. He is acharming man. So unselfish and disinterested. "

"Who? The Marquis?"

"No; Dormer Colville. "

"Oh yes!" said John Turner, returning to the cold tongue. "Yes; acharming fellow. "

And he glanced again at his friend, with a queer smile. When luncheonwas finished, Turner led the way to a small smoking-room, where theywould be alone, and sent a messenger to fetch Septimus Marvin's bag fromdownstairs. 

"We will have a look at your precious engraving, " he said, "while wesmoke a cigar. It is, I suppose, a relic of the Great Monarchy, and Imay tell you that there is rather a small demand just now for relics ofthat period. It would be wiser not to take it into the open market. Ithink my client would give you as good a price as any; and I supposeyou want to get as much as you can for it now that you have made up yourmind to the sacrifice?"

Marvin suppressed a sigh, and rubbed his hands together with that forcedjocularity which had made his companion turn grave once before. 

"Oh, I mean to drive a hard bargain, I can tell you!" was the reply, with an assumption of worldly wisdom on a countenance little calculatedto wear that expression naturally. 

"What did your friend in the print-shop on the Quai Voltaire mention asa probable price?" asked Turner, carelessly. 

"Well, he said he might be able to sell it for me at four thousandfrancs. I would not hear of his running any risk in the matter, however. Such a good fellow, he is. So honest. "

"Yes, he is likely to be that, " said Turner, with his broad smile. Hewas a little sleepy after a heavy luncheon, and sipped his coffee with afeeling of charity toward his fellow-men. "You would find lots of honestmen in the Quai Voltaire, Sep. I will tell you what I will do. Give methe print, and I will do my best for you. Would ten thousand francs helpyou out of your difficulties?"

"I do not remember saying that I was in difficulties, " objected theReverend Septimus, with heightened colour. 

"Don't you? Memory IS bad, is it not? Would ten thousand francs paintthe rectory, then?"

"It would ease my mind and sweeten my sleep at night to have half thatsum, my friend. With two hundred pounds I could face the world aequoanimo. "

"I will see what I can do. This is the print, is it? I don't knowmuch about such things myself, but I should put the price down at tenthousand francs. "

"But the man in the Quai Voltaire?"

"Precisely. I know little about prints, but a lot about the QuaiVoltaire. Who is the lady? I presume it is a portrait?"

"It is a portrait, but I cannot identify the original. To an expert ofthat period it should not be impossible, however. " Septimus Marvin wasall awake now, with flushed cheeks and eyes brightened by enthusiasm. "Do you know why? Because her hair is dressed in a peculiar way--poufsde sentiment, these curls are called. They were only worn for a briefperiod. In those days the writings of Jean Jacques Rousseau had acertain vogue among the idle classes. The women showed their sentimentsin the dressing of their hair. Very curious--very curious. And here, inthe hair, half-concealed, is an imitation dove's nest. "

"The deuce there is!" ejaculated Turner, pulling at his cigar. 

"A fashion which ruled for a still briefer period. "

"I should hope so. Well, roll the thing up, and I will do my best foryou. I'm less likely to be taken in than you are, perhaps. If I sell it, I will send you a cheque this evening. It is a beautiful face. "

"Yes, " agreed Septimus Marvin, with a sharp sigh. "It is a beautifulface. "

And he slowly rolled up his most treasured possession, which John Turnertucked under his arm. On the Pont Royal they parted company. 

"By the way, " said John Turner, after they had shaken hands, "you nevertold me what sort of a man this young fellow is--this Loo Barebone?"

"The dearest fellow in the world, " answered Marvin, with eyes aglowbehind his spectacles. "To me he has been as a son--an elder brother, asit were, to little Sep. I was already an elderly man, you know, when Sepwas born. Too old, perhaps. Who knows? Heaven's way is not always markedvery clearly. "

He nodded vaguely and went away a few paces. Then he rememberedsomething and came back. 

"I don't know if I ought to speak of such a thing. But I quite hoped, atone time, that Miriam might one day recognise his goodness of heart. "

"What?" interrupted Turner. "The mate of a coasting schooner!"

"He is more than that, my friend, " answered Septimus Marvin, nodding hishead slowly, so that the sun flashed on his spectacles in such a manneras to make Turner blink. Then he turned away again and crossed thebridge, leaving the English banker at the corner of it, still blinking. 

CHAPTER XVIII. THE CITY THAT SOON FORGETS

There are in humble life some families which settle their domesticdifferences on the doorstep, while the neighbours, gathered hastilyby the commotion, tiptoe behind each other to watch the fun. In theEuropean congerie France represents this loud-voiced household, andParis--Paris, the city that soon forgets--is the doorstep whereon theywrangle. 

The bones of contention may be pitched far and wide by the chances andchanges of exile, but the contending dogs bark and yap in Paris. At thistime there lived, sometimes in Italy, sometimes at Frohsdorf, a jovialyoung gentleman, fond of sport and society, cultivating the tastes andenjoying the easy existence of a country-gentleman of princely rank--theComte de Chambord. Son of that Duchesse de Berri who tried to play agreat part and failed, he was married to an Italian princess and hadno children. He was, therefore, the last of the Bourbons, and passed inEurope as such. But he did not care. Perhaps his was the philosophy ofthe indolent which saith that some one must be last and why not I?

Nevertheless, there ran in his veins some energetic blood. On hisfather's side he was descended from sixty-six kings of France. From hismother he inherited a relationship to many makers of history. For theDuchesse de Berri's grandmother was the sister of Marie Antoinette. Hermother was aunt to that Empress of the French, Marie Louise, who was anotable exception to the rule that "Bon sang ne peut mentir. " Her fatherwas a king of Sicily and Naples. She was a Bourbon married to a Bourbon. When she was nineteen she gave birth to a daughter, who died next day. In a year she had a son who died in twenty hours. Two years later herhusband died in her arms, assassinated, in a back room of the OperaHouse in Paris. 

Seven months after her husband's death she gave birth to the Comte deChambord, the last of the old Bourbons. She was active, energetic andof boundless courage. She made a famous journey through La Vendee onhorseback to rally the Royalists. She urged her father-in-law, CharlesX. , to resist the revolution. She was the best Royalist of them all. Andher son was the Comte de Chambord, who could have been a king if he hadnot been a philosopher, or a coward. 

He was waiting till France called him with one voice. As if France hadever called for anything with one voice!

Amid the babel there rang out not a few voices for the younger branchof the Royal line--the Orleans. Louis Philippe--king for eighteenyears--was still alive, living in exile at Claremont. Two years earlier, in the rush of the revolution of 1848, he had effected his escape toNewhaven. The Orleans always seek a refuge in England, and always turnand abuse that country when they can go elsewhere in safety. And Englandis not one penny the worse for their abuse, and no man or country wasever yet one penny the better for their friendship. 

Louis Philippe had been called to the throne by the people of France. His reign of eighteen years was marked by one great deed. He threw openthe Palace of Versailles--which was not his--to the public. And then thepeople who called him in, hooted him out. His life had been attemptedmany times. All the other kings hated him and refused to let theirdaughters marry his sons. He and his sons were waiting at Claremontwhile the talkers in Paris talked their loudest. 

There was a third bone of contention--the Imperial line. At this timethe champions of this morsel were at the summit; for a Bonaparte wasriding on the top of the revolutionary scrimmage. 

By the death of the great Napoleon's only child, the second son of histhird brother became the recognised claimant to the Imperial crown. 

For France has long ceased to look to the eldest son as the rightfulheir. There is, in fact, a curse on the first-born of France. Napoleon'sson, the King of Rome, died in exile, an Austrian. The Duc de Bordeaux, born eight years after him, never wore the crown, and died in exile, childless. The Comte de Paris, born also at the Tuileries, was exiledwhen he was ten years old, and died in England. All these, of onegeneration. And of the next, the Prince Imperial, hurried out of Francein 1870, perished on the Veldt. The King of Rome lies in his tomb atVienna, the Duc de Bordeaux at Goritz, the Comte de Paris at Weybridge, the Prince Imperial at Farnborough. These are the heirs of France, bornin the palace of the Tuileries. How are they cast upon the waters of theworld! And where the palace of the Tuileries once stood the pigeons nowcall to each other beneath the trees, while, near at hand, lolls onthe public seat he whom France has always with her, the vaurien--theworth-nothing. 

So passes the glory of the world. It is not a good thing to be born in apalace, nor to live in one. 

It was in the Rue Lafayette that John Turner had his office, and whenhe emerged from it into that long street on the evening of the 25thof August, 1850, he ran against, or he was rather run against by, thenewsboy who shrieked as he pattered along in lamentable boots and waveda sheet in the face of the passer: "The King is dead! The King is dead!"

And Paris--the city that soon forgets--smiled and asked what King?

Louis Philippe was dead in England, at the age of seventy-seven, thebad son of a bad father, another of those adventurers whose happyhunting-ground always has been, always will be, France. 

John Turner, like many who are slow in movement, was quick in thought. He perceived at once that the death of Louis Philippe left the fieldopen to the next adventurer; for he left behind him no son of his ownmettle. 

Turner went back to his office, where the pen with which he had signed acheque for four hundred pounds, payable to the Reverend Septimus Marvin, was still wet; where, at the bottom of the largest safe, the portrait ofan unknown lady of the period of Louis XVI. Lay concealed. He wrote outa telegram to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, addressed to her at her villanear Royan, and then proceeded to his dinner with the grave face of thecareful critic. 

The next morning he received the answer, at his breakfast-table, in theapartment he had long occupied in the Avenue d'Antin. But he did notopen the envelope. He had telegraphed to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, asking if it would be convenient for her to put him up for a few days. And he suspected that it would not. 

"When I am gone, " he said to his well-trained servant, "put that intoan envelope and send it after me to the Villa Cordouan, Royan. Pack myportmanteau for a week. "

Thus John Turner set out southward to join a party of those Royalistswhom his father before him had learnt to despise. And in a manner hewas pre-armed; for he knew that he would not be welcome. It was in thosedays a long journey, for the railway was laid no farther than Tours, from whence the traveller must needs post to La Rochelle, and there takea boat to Royan--that shallow harbour at the mouth of the Gironde. 

"Must have a change--of cooking, " he explained to Mrs. St. PierreLawrence. "Doctor says I am getting too stout. "

He shook her deliberately by the hand without appearing to notice herblank looks. 

"So I came south and shall finish up at Biarritz, which they say isgoing to be fashionable. I hope it is not inconvenient for you to giveme a bed--a solid one--for a night or two. "

"Oh no!" answered Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, who had charming manners, and was one of those fortunate persons who are never at a loss. "Did younot receive my telegram?"

"Telling me you were counting the hours till my arrival?"

"Well, " admitted Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, wisely reflecting that hewould ultimately see the telegram, "hardly so fervent as that--"

"Good Lord!" interrupted Turner, looking behind her toward the veranda, which was cool and shady, where two men were seated near a table bearingcoffee-cups. "Who is that?"

"Which?" asked Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, without turning to follow thedirection of his glance. 

"Oh! one is Dormer Colville, I see that. But the other--gad!"

"Why do you say gad?" asked the lady, with surprise. 

"Where did he get that face from?" was the reply. 

Turner took off his hat and mopped his brow; for it was very hot and theAugust sun was setting over a copper sea. 

"Where we all get our faces from, I suppose!" answered Mrs. St. PierreLawrence, with her easy laugh. She was always mistress of the situation. "The heavenly warehouse, one supposes. His name is Barebone. He is afriend of Dormer's. "

"Any friend of Dormer Colville's commands my interest. "

Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence glanced quickly at her companion beneath theshade of her lace-trimmed parasol. 

"What do you mean by that?" she asked, in a voice suddenly hard andresentful. 

"That he chooses his friends well, " returned the banker, with hisguileless smile. His face was bovine, and in the heat of summer apt tobe shiny. No one would attribute an inner meaning to a stout person thusoutwardly brilliant. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence appeared to be mollified, and turned toward the house with a gesture inviting him to walk withher. 

"I will be frank with you, " she said. "I telegraphed to tell you thatthe Villa Cordouan is for the moment unfortunately filled with guests. "

"What matter? I will go to the hotel. In fact, I told the driver of mycarriage to wait for further orders. I half feared that at this time ofyear, you know, house would be full. I'll just shake hands with Colvilleand then be off. You will let me come in after dinner, perhaps. You andI must have a talk about money, you will remember. "

There was no time to answer; for Dormer Colville, perceiving theirapproach, was already hurrying down the steps of the veranda to meetthem. He laughed as he came, for John Turner's bulk made him a laughingmatter in the eyes of most men, and his good humour seemed to invitethem to frank amusement. 

The greeting was, therefore, jovial enough on both sides, and afterbeing introduced to Loo Barebone, Mr. Turner took his leave withoutfarther defining his intentions for the evening. 

"I do not think it matters much, " Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence said to hertwo guests, when he had left. "And he may not come, after all. "

Her self-confidence sufficiently convinced Loo, who was always ready toleave something to chance. But Colville shook his head. 

It thus came about that sundry persons of title and importance who hadbeen invited to come to the Villa Cordouan after dinner for a littlemusic found the English banker complacently installed in the largestchair, with a shirt-front evading the constraint of an abnormalwaistcoat, and a sleepy chin drooping surreptitiously toward it. 

"He is my banker from Paris, " whispered Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence toone and another. "He knows nothing, and so far as I am aware, is nopolitician--merely a banker, you understand. Leave him alone and he willgo to sleep. "

During the three weeks which Loo Barebone had spent very pleasantlyat the Villa Cordouan, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had provided music andlight refreshment for her friends on several occasions. And eachevening the drawing-room, which was not a small one, had been filled tooverflowing. Friends brought their friends and introduced them tothe hostess, who in turn presented them to Barebone. Some came from adistance, driving from Saintes or La Rochelle or Pons. Others had takenhouses for the bathing-season at Royan itself. 

"He never makes a mistake, " said the hostess to Dormer Colville, behindher fan, a hundred times, following with her shrewd eyes the gay andeasy movements of Loo, who seemed to be taught by some instinct to suithis manner to his interlocutor. 

To-night there was more music and less conversation. 

"Play him to sleep, " Dormer Colville had said to his cousin. And atlength Turner succumbed to the soft effect of a sonata. He even snoredin the shade of a palm, and the gaiety of the proceedings in no waysuffered. 

It was only Colville who seemed uneasy and always urged any who weretalking earnestly to keep out of earshot of the sleeping Englishman. Once or twice he took Barebone by the arm and led him to the other endof the room, for he was always the centre of the liveliest group and ledthe laughter there. 

"Oh! but he is charming, my dear, " more than one guest whispered to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, as they took their departure. 

"He will do--he will do, " the men said with a new light of hope in theirgrave faces. 

Nearly all had gone when John Turner at length woke up. Indeed, Colvillethrew a book upon the floor to disturb his placid sleep. 

"I will come round to-morrow, " he said, bidding his hostess good night. "I have some papers for you to sign since you are determined to sellyour rentes and leave the money idle at your bank. "

"Yes. I am quite determined, " she answered, gaily, for she was beforeher time inasmuch as she was what is known in these days of degeneratespeech as cock-sure. 

And when John Turner, carrying a bundle of papers, presented himselfat the Villa Cordouan next morning he found Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrencesitting alone in the veranda. 

"Dormer and his friend have left me to my own devices. They have goneaway, " she mentioned, casually, in the course of conversation. 

"Suddenly?"

"Oh no, " she answered, carelessly, and wrote her name in a clear firmhand on the document before her. And John Turner looked dense. 

CHAPTER XIX. IN THE BREACH

The Marquis de Gemosac was sitting at the open window of the littledrawing-room in the only habitable part of the chateau. From hisposition he looked across the courtyard toward the garden where stiffcypress-trees stood sentry among the mignonette and the roses, now inthe full glory of their autumn bloom. 

Beyond the garden, the rough outline of the walls cut a straight lineacross the distant plains, which melted away into the haze of themarsh-lands by the banks of the Gironde far to the westward. 

The Marquis had dined. They dined early in those days in France, andcoffee was still served after the evening meal. 

The sun was declining toward the sea in a clear copper-coloured sky, buta fresh breeze was blowing in from the estuary to temper the heat of thelater rays. 

The Marquis was beating time with one finger, and within the room, to animpromptu accompaniment invented by Juliette, Barebone was singing:

 C'est le Hasard, Qui, tot ou tard, Ici-bas nous seconde; Car, D'un bout du monde A l'autre bout, Le Hasard seul fait tout. 

He broke off with a laugh in which Juliette's low voice joined. 

"That is splendid, mademoiselle, " he cried, and the Marquis clapped histhin hands together. 

 Un tel qu'on vantait Par hasard etait D'origine assez mince; Par hasard il plut, Par hasard il fut Baron, ministre et prince: C'est le Hasard, Qui, tot ou tard, Ici bas nous seconde; Car, D'un bout du monde A l'autre bout, Le Hasard seul fait tout. 

"There--that is all I know. It is the only song I sing. "

"But there are other verses, " said Juliette, resting her hands on thekeys of the wheezy spinet which must have been a hundred years old. "What are they about?"

"I do not know, mademoiselle, " he answered, looking down at her. "Ithink it is a love-song. "

She had pinned some mignonette, strong scented as autumn mignonette is, in the front of her muslin dress, and the heavy heads had dragged thestems to one side. She put the flowers in order, slowly, and then benther head to enjoy the scent of them. 

"It scarcely sounds like one, " she said, in a low and inquiring voice. The Marquis was a little deaf. "Is it all chance then?"

"Oh yes, " he answered, and as he spoke without lowering his voice sheplayed softly on the old piano the simple melody of his song. "It isall chance, mademoiselle. Did they not teach you that at the school atSaintes?"

But she was not in a humour to join in his ready laughter. The room wasrosy with the glow of the setting sun, she breathed the scent of themignonette at every breath, the air which she had picked out on thespinet in unison with his clear and sympathetic voice had those minortones and slow slurring from note to note which are characteristic ofthe gay and tearful songs of southern France and all Spain. None ofwhich things are conducive to gaiety when one is young. 

She glanced at him with one quick turn of the head and made no answer. But she played the air over again--the girls sing it to this day overtheir household work at Farlingford to other words--with her foot on thesoft pedal. The Marquis hummed it between his teeth at the other end ofthe room. 

"This room is hot, " she exclaimed, suddenly, and rose from her seatwithout troubling to finish the melody. 

"And that window will not open, mademoiselle; for I have tried it, "added Barebone, watching her impatient movements. 

"Then I am going into the garden, " she said, with a sharp sigh and awilful toss of the head. 

It was not his fault that the setting sun, against which, as many havediscovered, men shut their doors, should happen to be burning hot orthat the window would not open. But Juliette seemed to blame him for itor for something else, perhaps. One never knows. 

Barebone did not follow her at once, but stood by the window talking tothe Marquis, who was in a reminiscent humour. The old man interruptedhis own narrative, however. 

"There, " he cried, "is Juliette on that wall overhanging the river. Itis where the English effected a breach long ago, my friend--you need notsmile, for you are no Englishman--and the chateau has only been takentwice through all the centuries of fighting. There! She ventures stillfarther. I have told her a hundred times that the wall is unsafe. "

"Shall I go and warn her the hundred-and-first time?" asked Loo, willingenough. 

"Yes, my friend, do. And speak to her severely. She is only a child, remember. "

"Yes--I will remember that. "

Juliette did not seem to hear his approach across the turf where thegoats fed now, but stood with her back toward him, a few feet below him, actually in that breach effected long ago by those pestilential English. They must have prized out the great stones with crowbars and torn themdown with their bare hands. 

Juliette was looking over the vineyards toward the river, which gleamedacross the horizon. She was humming to herself the last lines of thesong:

 D'un bout du monde A l'autre bout, Le Hasard seul fait tout. 

She turned with a pretty swing of her skirts to gather them in her hand. 

"You must go no farther, mademoiselle, " said Loo. 

She stopped, half bending to take her skirt, but did not look back. Thenshe took two steps downward from stone to stone. The blocks werehalf embedded in the turf and looked ready to fall under the smallestadditional weight. 

"It is not I who say so, but your father who sent me, " explained theadmonisher from above. 

"Since it is all chance--" she said, looking downward. 

She turned suddenly and looked up at him with that impatience whichgives way in later life to a philosophy infinitely to be dreaded when itcomes; for its real name is Indifference. 

Her movements were spasmodic and quick as if something angered her, sheknew not what; as if she wanted something, she knew not what. 

"I suppose, " she said, "that it was chance that saved our lives thatnight two months ago, out there. "

And she stood with one hand stretched out behind her pointing toward theestuary, which was quiet enough now, looking up at him with that strangeanger or new disquietude--it was hard to tell which--glowing in hereyes. The wind fluttered her hair, which was tied low down with a ribbonin the mode named "a la diable" by some French wit with a sore heart inan old man's breast. For none other could have so aptly described it. 

"All chance, mademoiselle, " he answered, looking over her head towardthe river. 

"And it would have been the same had it been only Marie or Marie andJean in the boat with you?"

"The boat would have been as solid and the ropes as strong. "

"And you?" asked the girl, with a glance from her persistent eyes. 

"Oh no!" he answered, with a laugh. "I should not have been the same. But you must not continue to stand there, mademoiselle; the wall isunsafe. "

She shrugged her shoulders and stood with half-averted face, lookingdown at the vineyards which stretched away to the dunes by the river. Her cheeks were oddly flushed. 

"Your father sent me to say so, " continued Loo, "and if he sees that youtake no heed he will come himself to learn why. "

Juliette gave a curt laugh and climbed the declivity toward him. Theargument was, it seemed, a sound one. When she reached his level he madea step or two along the path that ran round the enceinte--not toward thehouse, however--but away from it. She accepted the tacit suggestion, nottacitly, however. 

"Shall we not go and tell papa we have returned without mishap?" sheamended, with a light laugh. 

"No, mademoiselle, " he answered. It was his turn to be grave now and sheglanced at him with a gleam of satisfaction beneath her lids. She wasnot content with that, however, but wished to make him angry. So shelaughed again and they would have quarrelled if he had not kept his lipsfirmly closed and looked straight in front of him. 

They passed between the unfinished ruin known as the Italian house andthe rampart. The Italian house screened them from the windows of thatportion of the ancient stabling which the Marquis had made habitablewhen he bought back the chateau of Gemosac from the descendant of anadventurous republican to whom the estate had been awarded in the daysof the Terror. A walk of lime-trees bordered that part of the gardenwhich lies to the west of the Italian house, and no other part wasvisible from where Juliette paused to watch the sun sink below thedistant horizon. Loo was walking a few paces behind her, and when shestopped he stopped also. She sat down on the low wall, but he remainedstanding. 

Her profile, clear-cut and delicate with its short chin and beautifullycurved lips, its slightly aquiline nose and crisp hair rising in a boldcurve from her forehead, was outlined against the sky. He could see thegleam of the western light in her eyes, which were half averted. Whileshe watched the sunset, he watched her with a puzzled expression abouthis lips. 

He remembered perhaps the Marquis's last words, that Juliette was onlya child. He knew that she could in all human calculation know nothingof the world; that at least she could have learned nothing of it in theconvent where she had been educated. So, if she knew anything, she musthave known it before she went there, which was impossible. She knewnothing, therefore, and yet she was not a child. As a matter of fact, she was the most beautiful woman Loo Barebone had ever seen. He wasthinking that as she sat on the low wall, swinging one slipper halffalling from her foot, watching the sunset, while he watched her andnoted the anger slowly dying from her eyes as the light faded from thesky. That strange anger went down, it would appear, with the sun. After the long silence--when the low bars of red cloud lying across thewestern sky were fading from pink to grey--she spoke at last in a voicewhich he had never heard before, gentle and confidential. 

"When are you going away?" she asked. 

"To-night. "

And he knew that the very hour of his departure was known to heralready. 

"And when will you come back?"

"As soon as I can, " he answered, half-involuntarily. There was a turn ofthe head half toward him, something expectant in the tilt at the cornerof her parted lips, which made it practically impossible to make anyother answer. 

"Why?" she asked, in little more than a whisper--then she broke into agay laugh and leapt off the wall. She walked quickly past him. 

"Why?" she repeated over her shoulder as she passed him. And he wastoo quick for her, for he caught her hand and touched it with his lipsbefore she jerked it away from him. 

"Because you are here, " he answered, with a laugh. But she was graveagain and looked at him with a queer searching glance before she turnedaway and left him standing in the half-light--thinking of Miriam Liston. 

CHAPTER XX. "NINETEEN"

As Juliette returned to the Gate House she encountered her father, walking arm-in-arm with Dormer Colville. The presence of the Englishmanwithin the enceinte of the chateau was probably no surprise to her, forshe must have heard the clang of the bell just within the gate, whichcould not be opened from outside; by which alone access was gained toany part of the chateau. 

Colville was in riding costume. It was, indeed, his habitual dress whenliving in France, for he made no concealment of his partnership in awell-known business house in Bordeaux. 

"I am a sleeping partner, " he would say, with that easy flow ofegotistic confidence which is the surest way of learning somewhat ofyour neighbour's private affairs. "I am a sleeping partner at all timesexcept the vintage, when I awake and ride round among the growers, totest their growth. "

It was too early yet for these journeys, for the grapes were hardlyripe. But any one who wished to move from place to place must needs doso in the saddle in a country where land is so valuable that the widthof a road is grudged, and bridle-ways are deemed good enough for thepassage of the long and narrow carts that carry wine. 

Ever since their somewhat precipitate departure from the Villa Cordouanat Royan, Dormer Colville and Barebone had been in company. They hadstayed together, in one friend's house or another. Sometimes theyenjoyed the hospitality of a chateau, and at others put up with thescanty accommodation of a priest's house or the apartment of a retiredmilitary officer, in one of those little towns of provincial Franceat which the cheap journalists of Paris are pleased to sneer withoutceasing. 

They avoided the large towns with extraordinary care. 

"Why should we go to towns, " asked Colville, jovially, "when we havebusiness in the country and the sun is still high in the sky?"

"Yes, " he would reply to the questions of an indiscreetfellow-traveller, at table or on the road. "Yes; I am a buyer of wine. We are buyers of wine. We are travelling from place to place to watchthe growth. For the wine is hidden in the grape, and the grape isripening. "

And, as often as not, the chance acquaintance of an inn dejeuner wouldcatch the phrase and repeat it thoughtfully. 

"Ah! is that so?" he would ask, with a sudden glance at DormerColville's companion, who had hitherto passed unobserved as the silentsubordinate of a large buyer; learning his trade, no doubt. "The grapeis ripening. Good!"

And as sure as he seemed to be struck with this statement of aself-evident fact, he would, in the next few minutes, bring the numeral"nineteen"--tant bien que mal--into his conversation. 

"With nineteen days of sun, the vintage will be upon us, " he would say;or, "I have but nineteen kilometres more of road before me to-day. "

Indeed, it frequently happened that the word came in veryinappropriately, as if tugged heroically to the front by a clumsyconversationalist. 

There is no hazard of life so certain to discover sympathy or antagonismas travel--a fact which points to the wisdom of beginning married lifewith a journey. The majority of people like to know the worst at once. To travel, however, with Dormer Colville was a liberal education in thevirtues. No man could be less selfish or less easily fatigued; which arethe two bases upon which rest all the stumbling-blocks of travel. 

Up to a certain point, Barebone and Dormer Colville became fast friendsduring the month that elapsed between their departure from Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's house and their arrival at the inn at Gemosac. The"White Horse, " at Gemosac, was no better and no worse than any other"White Horse" in any other small town of France. It was, however, betterthan the principal inn of a town of the same size in any other habitablepart of the globe. 

There were many reasons why the Marquis de Gemosac had yielded toColville's contention--that the time had not yet come for Loo Bareboneto be his guest at the chateau. 

"He is inclined to be indolent, " Colville had whispered. "Onerecognises, in many traits of character, the source from whence hisblood is drawn. He will not exert himself so long as there is some oneelse at hand who is prepared to take trouble. He must learn that it isnecessary to act for himself. He needs rousing. Let him travel throughFrance, and see for himself that of which he has as yet only learnt atsecond-hand. That will rouse him. "

And the journey through the valleys of the Garonne and the Dordogne hadbeen undertaken. 

Another, greater journey, was now afoot, to end at no less a centreof political life than Paris. A start was to be made this evening, andDormer Colville now came to report that all was ready and the horses atthe gate. 

"If there were scenes such as this for all of us to linger in, mademoiselle, " he said, lifting his face to the western sky and inhalingthe scent of the flowers growing knee-deep all around him, "men wouldaccomplish little in their brief lifetime. "

His eyes, dreamy and reflective, wandered over the scene and paused, just for a moment in passing, on Juliette's face. She continued her way, with no other answer than a smile. 

"She grows, my dear Marquis--she grows every minute of the day and wakesup a new woman every morning, " said Colville, in a confidentialaside, and he went forward to meet Loo with his accustomed laugh ofgood-fellowship. He whom the world calls a good fellow is never a wiseman. 

Barebone walked toward the gate without joining in the talk of hiscompanions. He was thoughtful and uneasy. He had come to say good-byeand nothing else. He was wondering if he had really meant what he hadsaid. 

"Come, " interrupted Colville's smooth voice. "We must get into thesaddle and begone. I was just telling Monsieur and MademoiselleJuliette, that any man might be tempted to linger at Gemosac until theactive years of a lifetime rolled by. "

The Marquis made the needful reply; hoping that he might yet live tosee Gemosac--and not only Gemosac, but a hundred chateaux likeit--reawakened to their ancient glory, and thrown open to welcome therestorer of their fallen fortunes. 

Colville looked from one to the other, and then, with his foot in thestirrup, turned to look at Juliette, who had followed them to the gate. 

"And mademoiselle, " he said; "will she wish us good luck, also? Alas!those times are gone when we could have asked for her ribbon to wear, and to fight for between ourselves when we are tired and cross at theend of a journey. Come, Barebone--into the saddle. "

They waited, both looking at Juliette; for she had not spoken. 

"I wish you good luck, " she said, at length, patting the neck ofColville's horse, her face wearing a little mystic smile. 

Thus they departed, at sunset, on a journey of which old men will stilltalk in certain parts of France. Here and there, in the Angoumois, in Guienne, in the Vendee, and in the western parts of Brittany, thestudent of forgotten history may find an old priest who will stillpersist in dividing France into the ancient provinces, and will tell howHope rode through the Royalist country when he himself was busy at hisfirst cure. 

The journey lasted nearly two months, and before they passed north ofthe Loire at Nantes and quitted the wine country, the vintage was over. 

"We must say that we are cider merchants, that is all, " observed DormerColville, when they crossed the river, which has always been the greatdivider of France. 

"He is sobering down. I believe he will become serious, " wrote he to theMarquis de Gemosac. But he took care to leave Loo Barebone as free aspossible. 

"I am, in a way, a compulsory pilot, " he explained, airily, to hiscompanion. "The ship is yours, and you probably know more about theshoals than I do. You must have felt that a hundred times when you wereat sea with that solemn old sailor, Captain Clubbe. And yet, before youcould get into port, you found yourself forced to take the compulsorypilot on board and make him welcome with such grace as you couldcommand, feeling all the while that he did not want to come and youcould have done as well without him. So you must put up with my companyas gracefully as you can, remembering that you can drop me as soon asyou are in port. "

And surely, none other could have occupied an uncomfortable position sogracefully. 

Barebone found that he had not much to do. He soon accommodated himselfto a position which required nothing more active than a ready ear and agracious patience. For, day by day--almost hour by hour--it was his lotto listen to protestations of loyalty to a cause which smoulderednone the less hotly because it was hidden from the sight of the PrincePresident's spies. 

And, as Colville had predicted, Barebone sobered down. He would ridenow, hour after hour, in silence, whereas at the beginning of thejourney he had talked gaily enough, seeing a hundred humorous incidentsin the passing events of the day; laughing at the recollection of aninterview with some provincial notable who had fallen behind the times, or jesting readily enough with such as showed a turn for joking on theroad. 

But now the unreality of his singular change of fortune was vanishing. Every village priest who came after dark to take a glass of wine withthem at their inn sent it farther into the past, every provincial noblegreeting him on the step of his remote and quiet house added a note tothe drumming reality which dominated his waking moments and disturbedhis sleep at night. 

Day by day they rode on, passing through two or three villages betweensuch halts as were needed by the horses. At every hamlet, in the largevillages, where they rested and had their food, at the remote littletown where they passed a night, there was always some one expectingthem, who came and talked of the weather and more or less skilfullybrought in the numeral nineteen. "Nineteen! Nineteen!" It was awatchword all over France. 

Long before, on the banks of the Dordogne, Loo had asked his companionwhy that word had been selected--what it meant. 

"It means Louis XIX. , " replied Dormer Colville, gravely. 

And now, as they rode through a country so rural, so thinly populatedand remote that nothing like it may be found in these crowded islands, the number seemed to follow them; or, rather, to pass on before them andawait their coming. 

Often Colville would point silently with his whip to the numerals, scrawled on a gate-post or written across a wall. At this time Francewas mysteriously flooded with cheap portraits of the great Napoleon. It was before the days of pictorial advertisement, and young ladies whowished to make an advantageous marriage had no means of advertising thefact and themselves in supplements to illustrated papers. The walls ofinns and shops and diligence offices were therefore barer than they areto-day. And from these bare walls stared out at this time the well-knownface of the great Napoleon. It was an innovation, and as such readilyenough accepted. 

At every fair, at the great fete of St. Jean, at St. Jean d'Angely anda hundred other fetes of purely local notoriety, at least one hawker ofcheap lithographs was to be found. And if the buyer haggled, he couldget the portrait of the great Emperor for almost nothing. 

"One cannot print it at such a cost, " the seller assured his purchasers, which was no less than the truth. 

The fairs were, and are to this day, the link between the remotervillages and the world; and the peasants carried home with them apicture, for the first time, to hang on their walls. Thus the PrincePresident fostered the Napoleonic legend. 

Dormer Colville would walk up to these pictures, and, as often as not, would turn and look over his shoulder at Barebone, with a short laugh. For as often as not, the numerals were scrawled across the face inpencil. 

But Barebone had ceased to laugh at the constant repetition now. SoonColville ceased to point out the silent witness, for he perceived thatLoo was looking for it himself, detecting its absence with a gleam ofdetermination in his eyes or noting its recurrence with a sharp sigh, asof the consciousness of a great responsibility. 

Thus the reality was gradually forced upon him that that into which hehad entered half in jest was no jest at all; that he was moving forwardon a road which seemed easy enough, but of which the end was notperceptible; neither was there any turning to one side or the other. 

All men who have made a mark--whether it be a guiding or warning signto those that follow--must at one moment of their career have perceivedtheir road before them, thus. Each must have realised that once set outupon that easy path there is no turning aside and no turning back. Andmany have chosen to turn back while there was yet time, leaving themark unmade. For most men are cowards and shun responsibility. Most menunconsciously steer their way by proverb or catchword; and all the wisesaws of all the nations preach cowardice. 

Barebone saw his road now, and Dormer Colville knew that he saw it. 

When they crossed the Loire they passed the crisis, and Colvillebreathed again like one who had held his breath for long. Those colder, sterner men of Brittany, who, in later times, compared notes with thenobles of Guienne and the Vendee, seemed to talk of a different man;for they spoke of one who rarely laughed, and never turned aside from achosen path which was in no wise bordered by flowers. 

CHAPTER XXI. NO. 8 RUELLE ST. JACOB

Between the Rue de Lille and the Boulevard St. Germain, in the narrowstreets which to this day have survived the sweeping influence ofBaron Haussmann, once Prefect of the Seine, there are many houses whichscarcely seem to have opened door or window since the great Revolution. 

One of these, to be precise, is situated in the Ruelle St. Jacob, hardly wider than a lane--a short street with a blind end against highwalls--into which any vehicle that enters must needs do so with theknowledge of having to back out again. For there is no room to turn. Which is an allegory. All the windows, in fact, that look forlornly atthe blank walls or peep over the high gateways into the Ruelle St. Jacobare Royalist windows looking into a street which is blinded by a highwall and is too narrow to allow of turning. 

Many of the windows would appear to have gathered dust since those daysmore than a hundred years ago when white faces peeped from them andtrembling hands unbarred the sash to listen to the roar of voices in theRue du Bac, in the open space by the church of St. Germain des Pres, inthe Cite, all over Paris, where the people were making history. 

To this house in the Ruelle St. Jacob, Dormer Colville and Loo Barebonemade their way on foot, on their arrival in Paris at the termination oftheir long journey. 

It was nearly dark, for Colville had arranged to approach the city andleave their horses at a stable at Meudon after dusk. 

"It is foolish, " he said, gaily, to his companion, "to flaunt a facelike yours in Paris by daylight. "

They had driven from Meudon in a hired carriage to the corner ofthe Champ de Mars, in those days still innocent of glass houses andexhibition buildings, for Paris was not yet the toy-shop of the world;and from the Champ de Mars they came on foot through the ill-paved, feebly lighted streets. In the Ruelle St. Jacob itself there was onlyone lamp, burning oil, swinging at the corner. The remainder of thelane depended for its illumination on the windows of two small shopsretailing firewood and pickled gherkins and balls of string grey withage, as do all the shops in the narrow streets on the wrong side of theSeine. 

Dormer Colville led the way, picking his steps from side to side ofthe gutter which meandered odoriferously down the middle of the streettoward the river. He stopped in front of the great gateway and lookedup at the arch of it, where the stone carving had been carefullyobliterated by some enthusiastic citizen armed with a hatchet. 

"Ichabod, " he said, with a short laugh; and cautiously laid hold of thedangling bell-handle which had summoned the porter to open to a Queenin those gay days when Marie Antoinette light-heartedly pushed a fallingmonarchy down the incline. 

The great gate was not opened in response, but a small side door, deep-sunken in the thickness of the wall. On either jamb of the doorwas affixed in the metal letters ordained by the municipality the numbereight. Number Eight Ruelle St. Jacob had once been known to kings as theHotel Gemosac. 

The man who opened carried a lantern and held the door ajar with agrudging hand while he peered out. One could almost imagine that he hadsurvived the downfall and the Restoration, and a couple of republics, behind the high walls. 

The court-yard was paved with round cobble-stones no bigger thanan apple, and, even by the flickering light of the lantern, it wasperceptible that no weed had been allowed to grow between the stones orin the seams of the wide, low steps that led to an open door. 

The house appeared to be dark and deserted. 

"Yes, Monsieur le Marquis--Monsieur le Marquis is at home, " muttered theman with a bronchial chuckle, and led the way across the yard. He wore asort of livery, which must have been put away for years. A young man hadbeen measured for the coat which now displayed three deep creases acrossa bent back. 

"Attention--attention!" he said, in a warning voice, while he scraped asulphur match in the hall. "There are holes in the carpets. It is easyto trip and fall. "

He lighted the candle, and after having carefully shut and bolted thedoor, he led the way upstairs. At their approach, easily audible in theempty house by reason of the hollow creaking of the oak floor, a doorwas opened at the head of the stairs and a flood of light met thenew-comers. 

In the doorway, which was ten feet high, the little bent form of theMarquis de Gemosac stood waiting. 

"Ah! ah!" he said, with that pleasant manner of his generation, whichwas refined and spirituelle and sometimes dramatic, and yet everfailed to touch aught but the surface of life. "Ah! ah! Safelyaccomplished--the great journey. Safely accomplished. You permit--"

And he embraced Barebone after the custom of his day. 

"From all sides, " he said, when the door was closed, "I hear that youhave done great things. From every quarter one hears your praise. "

He held him at arm's length. 

"Yes, " he said. "Your face is graver and--more striking in resemblancethan ever. So now you know--now you have seen. "

"Yes, " answered Barebone, gravely. "I have seen and I know. "

The Marquis rubbed his white hands together and gave a little cracklinglaugh of delight as he drew forward a chair to the fire, which was oflogs as long as a barrel. The room was a huge one, and it was lightedfrom end to end with lamps, as if for a reception or a ball. The airwas damp and mouldly. There were patches of grey on the walls, which hadonce been painted with garlands of roses and Cupids and pastoral scenesby a noted artist of the Great Age. 

The ceiling had fallen in places, and the woodwork of the carvedfurniture gave forth a subtle scent of dry rot. 

But everything was in an exquisite taste which vulgarer generationshave never yet succeeded in imitating. Nothing was concealed, but ratherdisplayed with a half-cynical pride. All was moth-ridden, worm-eaten, fallen to decay--but it was of the Monarchy. Not half a dozen housesin Paris, where already the wealth, which has to-day culminated in aridiculous luxury of outward show, was beginning to build new palaces, could show room after room furnished in the days of the Great Louis. The very air, faintly scented it would seem by some forgotten perfume, breathed of a bygone splendour. And the last of the de Gemosacs scornedto screen his poverty from the eyes of his equals, nor sought to hidefrom them a desolation which was only symbolic of that which crushedtheir hearts and bade them steal back from time to time like criminalsto the capital. 

"You see, " he said to Colville and Barebone, "I have kept my promise, I have thrown open this old house once more for to-night's meeting. You will find that many friends have made the journey to Paris for theoccasion--Madame de Chantonnay and Albert, Madame de Rathe and many fromthe Vendee and the West whom you have met on your journey. And to-nightone may speak without fear, for none will be present who are not vouchedfor by the Almanac de Gotha. There are no Royalists pour rire or pourvivre to-night. You have but time to change your clothes and dine. Your luggage arrived yesterday. You will forgive the stupidity of oldservants who have forgotten their business. Come, I will lead the wayand show you your rooms. "

He took a candle and did the honours of the deserted dust-ridden housein the manner of the high calling which had been his twenty years agowhen Charles X. Was king. For some there lingers a certain pathos inthe sight of a belated survival, while the majority of men and womenare ready to smile at it instead. And yet the Monarchy lasted eightcenturies and the Revolution eight years. Perhaps Fate may yet exactpayment for the excesses of those eight years from a nation for whichthe watching world already prepares a secondary place in the councils ofempire. 

The larger room had been assigned to Loo. There was a subtle differencein the Marquis's manner toward him. He made an odd bow as he quitted theroom. 

"There, " said Colville, whose room communicated with this greatapartment by a dressing-room and two doors. He spoke in English, as theyalways did when they were alone together. "There--you are launched. Youare lance, my friend. I may say you are through the shoals now and outon the high seas--"

He paused, candle in hand, and looked round the room with a reflectivesmile. It was obviously the best room in the house, with a fireplace aswide as a gate, where logs of pine burnt briskly on high iron dogs. The bed loomed mysteriously in one corner with its baldachin of Gobelintapestry. Here, too, the dim scent of fallen monarchy lingered in theatmosphere. A portrait of Louis XVI. In a faded frame hung over themantelpiece. 

"And the time will come, " pursued Colville, with his melancholy, sympathetic smile, "when you will find it necessary to drop thepilot--to turn your face seaward and your back upon old recollectionsand old associations. You cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs, my friend. "

"Oh yes, " replied Barebone, with a brisk movement of the head, "I shallhave to forget Farlingford. "

Colville had moved toward the door that led to his own room. He paused, examining the wick of the candle he carried in his hand. Then, thoughglib of speech, he decided in favour of silence, and went away withoutmaking reply. 

Loo sat down in a grey old arm-chair in front of the fire. The house wasastoundingly noiseless, though situated in what had once been the heartof Paris. It was one of the few houses left in this quarter with a largegarden. And the traffic passing in and out of the Ruelle St. Jacob wentslipshod on its own feet. The busy crackle of the wood was the onlysound to break a silence which seemed part of this vast palace ofmemories. 

Loo had ridden far and was tired. He smiled grimly at the fire. It is tobe supposed that he was sitting down to the task he had set himself--toforget Farlingford. 

There was a great reception at the Hotel Gemosac that night, and aftertwenty years of brooding silence the rooms, hastily set in order, werelighted up. 

There was, as the Marquis had promised, no man or woman present who wasnot vouched for by a noble name or by history. As the old man presentedthem, their names were oddly familiar to the ear, while each facelooking at Loo seemed to be the face of a ghost looking out of a pastwhich the world will never forget so long as history lives. 

And here, again, was the subtle difference. They no longer talked toLoo, but stood apart and spoke among themselves in a hushed voice. Menmade their bow to him and met his smile with grave and measuring eyes. Some made a little set speech, which might mean much or nothing. Othersembarked on such a speech and paused--faltered, and passed on gulpingsomething down in their throats. 

Women made a deep reverence to him and glanced at him with parted lipsand white faces--no coquetry in their eyes. They saw that he was youngand good-looking; but they forgot that he might think the same of them. Then they passed on and grouped themselves together, as women do inmoments of danger or emotion, their souls instinctively seeking thecompany of other souls tuned to catch a hundred passing vibrations ofthe heart-strings of which men remain in ignorance. They spoke togetherin lowered voices without daring, or desiring perhaps, to turn and lookat him again. 

"It only remains, " some one said, "for the Duchesse d'Angouleme torecognise his claim. A messenger has departed for Frohsdorf. "

And Barebone, looking at them, knew that there was a barrier between himand them which none could cast aside: a barrier erected in the past andbased on the sure foundations of history. 

"She is an old woman, " said Monsieur de Gemosac to any who spoke to himon this subject. "She is seventy-two, and fifty-eight of those yearshave been marked by greater misfortunes than ever fell to the lot of awoman. When she came out of prison she had no tears left, my friends. We cannot expect her to turn back willingly to the past now. But we knowthat in her heart she has never been sure that her brother died in theTemple. You know how many disappointments she has had. We must not awakeher sleeping sorrow until all is ready. I shall make the journey toFrohsdorf--that I promise you. But to-night we have another task beforeus. "

"Yes--yes, " answered his listeners. "You are to open the locket. Whereis it?--show it to us. "

And the locket which Captain Clubbe's wife had given to Dormer Colvillewas handed from one to another. It was not of great value, but it wasof gold with stones, long since discoloured, set in silver around it. Itwas crushed and misshapen. 

"It has never been opened for twenty years, " they told each other. "Ithas been mislaid in an obscure village in England for nearly half acentury. "

"The Vicomte de Castel Aunet--who is so clever a mechanician--haspromised to bring his tools, " said Monsieur de Gemosac. "He will open itfor us--even if he find it necessary to break the locket. "

So the thing went round the room until it came to Loo Barebone. 

"I have seen it before, " he said. "I think I remember seeing it longago--when I was a little child. "

And he handed it to the old Vicomte de Castel Aunet, whose shakingfingers closed round it in a breathless silence. He carried it to thetable, and some one brought candles. The Vicomte was very old. He hadlearnt clock-making, they said, in prison during the Terror. 

"Il n'y a moyen, " he whispered to himself. "I must break it. "

With one effort he prised up the cover, but the hinge snapped, and thelid rolled across the table into Barebone's hand. 

"Ah!" he cried, in that breathless silence, "now I remember it. Iremember the red silk lining of the cover, and in the other side thereis the portrait of a lady with--"

The Vicomte paused, with his palm covering the other half of the locketand looked across at Loo. And the eyes of all Royalist France were fixedon the same face. 

"Silence!" whispered Dormer Colville in English, crushing Barebone'sfoot under the table. 

CHAPTER XXII. DROPPING THE PILOT

"The portrait of a lady, " repeated Loo, slowly. "Young and beautiful. That much I remember. "

The old nobleman had never removed his covering hand from the locket. He had never glanced at it himself. He looked slowly round the peeringfaces, two and three deep round the table. He was the oldest manpresent--one of the oldest in Paris--one of the few now living who hadknown Marie Antoinette. 

Without uncovering the locket, he handed it to Barebone across the tablewith a bow worthy of the old regime and his own historic name. 

"It is right that you should be the first to see it, " he said. "Sincethere is no longer any doubt that the lady was your father's mother. "

Loo took the locket, looked at it with strangely glittering eyes andsteady lips. He gave a sort of gasp, which all in the room heard. Hewas handing it back to the Vicomte de Castel Aunet without a word ofcomment, when a crashing fall on the bare floor startled every one. Alady had fainted. 

"Thank God!" muttered Dormer Colville almost in Barebone's ear andswayed against him. Barebone turned and looked into a face grey andhaggard, and shining with perspiration. Instinctively he grasped him bythe arm and supported him. In the confusion of the moment no one noticedColville; for all were pressing round the prostrate lady. And in amoment Colville was himself again, though the ready smile sat oddly onsuch white lips. 

"For God's sake be careful, " he said, and turned away, handkerchief inhand. 

For the moment the portrait was forgotten until the lady was on her feetagain, smiling reassurances and rubbing her elbow. 

"It is nothing, " she said, "nothing. My heart--that is all. "

And she staggered to a chair with the reassuring smile frozen on herface. 

Then the portrait was passed from hand to hand in silence. It wasa miniature of Marie Antoinette, painted on ivory, which had turnedyellow. The colours were almost lost, but the face stood clearly enough. It was the face of a young girl, long and narrow, with the hair drawnstraight up and dressed high and simply on the head without ornament. 

"It is she, " said one and another. "C'est bien elle. "

"It was painted when she was newly a queen, " commented the Vicomte deCastel Aunet. "I have seen others like it, but not that one before. "

Barebone stood apart and no one offered to approach him. Dormer Colvillehad gone toward the great fireplace, and was standing by himself therewith his back toward the room. He was surreptitiously wiping from hisface the perspiration which had suddenly run down it, as one may see therain running down the face of a statue. 

Things had taken an unexpected turn. The Marquis de Gemosac, himselfalways on the surface, had stirred others more deeply than he hadanticipated or could now understand. France has always been the victimof her own emotions; aroused in the first instance half in idleness, allowed to swell with a semi-restraining laugh, and then suddenlysweeping and overwhelming. History tells of a hundred such crises in thepilgrimage of the French people. A few more--and historians shall write"Ichabod" across the most favoured land in Europe. 

It is customary to relate that, after a crisis, those most concernedin it know not how they faced it or what events succeeded it. "He neverknew, " we are informed, "how he got through the rest of the evening. "

Loo Barebone knew and remembered every incident, every glance. He wasin full possession of every faculty, and never had each been so keenlyalive to the necessity of the moment. Never had his quick brain been soalert as it was during the rest of the evening. And those who had cometo the Hotel Gemosac to confirm their adoption of a figure-head wentaway with the startling knowledge in their hearts that they had neverin the course of an artificial life met a man less suited to play thatundignified part. 

And all the while, in the back of his mind, there lingered with a deadlypatience the desire for the moment which must inevitably come when heshould at last find himself alone, face to face, with Dormer Colville. 

It was nearly midnight before this moment came. At last the latest guesthad taken his leave, quitting the house by the garden door and makinghis way across that forlorn and weedy desert by the dim light reflectedfrom the clouds above. At last the Marquis de Gemosac had bidden themgood night, and they were left alone in the vast bedroom which a dozencandles, in candelabras of silver blackened by damp and neglect, onlyserved to render more gloomy and mysterious. 

In the confusion consequent on the departure of so many guests thelocket had been lost sight of, and Monsieur de Gemosac forgot to makeinquiry for it. It was in Barebone's pocket. 

Colville put together with the toe of his boot the logs which weresmouldering in a glow of incandescent heat. He turned and glanced overhis shoulder toward his companion. 

Barebone was taking the locket from his waistcoat pocket and approachingthe table where the candles burnt low in their sockets. 

"You never really supposed you were the man, did you?" asked Colville, with a ready smile. He was brave, at all events, for he took the onlycourse left to him with a sublime assurance. 

Barebone looked across the candles at the face which smiled, and smiled. 

"That is what I thought, " he answered, with a queer laugh. 

"Do not jump to any hasty decisions, " urged Colville instantly, as ifwarned by the laugh. 

"No! I want to sift the matter carefully to the bottom. It will beinteresting to learn who are the deceived and who the deceivers. "

Barebone had had time to think out a course of action. His face seemedto puzzle Colville, who was rarely at fault in such judgments ofcharacter as came within his understanding. But he seemed for an instantto be on the threshold of something beyond his understanding; and yethe had lived, almost day and night, for some months with Barebone. Sincethe beginning--that far-off beginning at Farlingford--their respectivepositions had been quite clearly defined. Colville, the elder by nearlytwenty years, had always been the guide and mentor and friend--thecompulsory pilot he had gaily called himself. He had a vast experienceof the world. He had always moved in the best French society. All thathe knew, all the influence he could command, and the experience uponwhich he could draw were unreservedly at Barebone's service. Thedifference in years had only affected their friendship in so far asit defined their respective positions and prohibited any thought ofrivalry. Colville had been the unquestioned leader, Barebone the readydisciple. 

And now in the twinkling of an eye the positions were reversed. Colvillestood watching Barebone's face with eyes rendered almost servile by agreat suspense. He waited breathless for the next words. 

"This portrait, " said Barebone, "of the Queen was placed in the locketby you?"

Colville nodded with a laugh of conscious cleverness rewarded bycomplete success. There was nothing in his companion's voice to suggestsuppressed anger. It was all right after all. "I had great difficulty infinding just what I wanted, " he added, modestly. 

"What I remember--though the memory is necessarily vague--was a portraitof a woman older than this. Her style of dress was more elaborate. Herhair was dressed differently, with sort of curls at the side, and onthe top, half buried in the hair, was the imitation of a nest--a dove'snest. Such a thing would naturally stick in a child's memory. It stuckin mine. "

"Yes--and nearly gave the game away to-night, " said Colville, gulpingdown the memory of those tense moments. 

 "That portrait--the original--you have not destroyed it?"

"Oh no. It is of some value, " replied Colville, almost naively. Hefelt in his pocket and produced a silver cigar case. The miniature waswrapped in a piece of thin paper, which he unfolded. Barebone took thepainting and examined it with a little nod of recognition. His memoryhad not failed after twenty years. 

"Who is this lady?" he asked. 

Dormer Colville hesitated. 

"Do you know the history of that period?" he inquired, after a moment'sreflection. For the last hour he had been trying to decide on a courseof conduct. During the last few minutes he had been forced to change ithalf a dozen times. 

"Septimus Marvin, of Farlingford, is one of the greatest livingauthorities on those reigns. I learnt a good deal from him, " was theanswer. 

"That lady is, I think, the Duchesse de Guiche. "

"You think--"

"Even Marvin could not tell you for certain, " replied Colville, mildly. He did not seem to perceive a difference in Barebone's manner towardhimself. The quickest intelligence cannot follow another's mind beyondits own depth. 

"Then the inference is that my father was the illegitimate son of theComte d'Artois. "

"Afterward Charles X. , of France, " supplemented Colville, significantly. 

"Is that the inference?" persisted Barebone. "I should like to know youropinion. You must have studied the question very carefully. Your opinionshould be of some interest, though--"

"Though--" echoed Colville, interrogatively, and regretted itimmediately. 

"Though it is impossible to say when you speak the truth and when youlie. "

And any who doubted that there was royal blood in Loo Barebone's veinswould assuredly have been satisfied by a glance at his face at thatmoment; by the sound of his quiet, judicial voice; by the sudden andalmost terrifying sense of power in his measuring eyes. 

Colville turned away with an awkward laugh and gave his attention to thelogs on the hearth. Then suddenly he regained his readiness of speech. 

"Look here, Barebone, " he cried. "We must not quarrel; we cannot affordto do that. And after all, what does it matter? You are only givingyourself the benefit of the doubt--that is all. For there is a doubt. You may be what you--what we say you are, after all. It is certainenough that Marie Antoinette and Fersen were in daily correspondence. They were both clever--two of the cleverest people in France--and theywere both desperate. Remember that. Do you think that they would havefailed in a matter of such intense interest to her, and therefore tohim? All these pretenders, Naundorff and the others, have proved thatquite clearly, but none has succeeded in proving that he was the man. "

"And do you think that I shall be able to prove that I am the man--whenI am not?"

By way of reply Dormer Colville turned again to the fireplace and tookdown the print of Louis XVI. Engraved from a portrait painted when hewas still Dauphin. A mirror stood near, and Colville came to the tablecarrying the portrait in one hand, the looking-glass in the other. 

"Here, " he said, eagerly. "Look at one and then at the other. Look inthe mirror and then at the portrait. Prove it! Why, God has proved itfor you. "

"I do not think we had better bring Him into the question, " was theretort: an odd reflex of Captain Clubbe's solid East Anglian piety. "No. If we go on with the thing at all, let us be honest enough to admitto ourselves that we are dishonest. The portrait in that locket pointsclearly enough to the Truth. "

"The portrait in that locket is of Marie Antoinette, " replied Colville, half sullenly. "And no one can ever prove anything contrary to that. Noone except myself knows of--of this doubt which you have stumbled upon. De Gemosac, Parson Marvin, Clubbe--all of them are convinced that yourfather was the Dauphin. "

"And Miss Liston?"

"Miriam Liston--she also, of course. And I believe she knew it longbefore I told her. "

Barebone turned and looked at him squarely in the eyes. Colvillewondered a second time why Loo Barebone reminded him of Captain Clubbeto-night. 

"What makes you believe that?" he asked. 

"Oh, I don't know. But that isn't the question. The question is aboutthe future. You see how things are in France. It is a question of LouisNapoleon or a monarchy--you see that. Unless you stop him he will beEmperor before a year is out, and he will drag France in the gutter. He is less a Bonaparte than you are a Bourbon. You remember that LouisBonaparte himself was the first to say so. He wrote a letter to thePope, saying so quite clearly. You will go on with it, of course, Barebone. Say you will go on with it! To turn back now would be death. We could not do it if we wanted to. I have been trying to think aboutit, and I cannot. That is the truth. It takes one's breath away. At themere thought of it I feel as if I were getting out of my depth. "

"We have been out of our depths the last month, " admitted Barebone, curtly. 

And he stood reflecting, while Colville watched him. 

"If I go on, " he said, at length, "I go on alone. "

"Better not, " urged Colville, with a laugh of great relief. "Foryou would always have me and my knowledge hanging over you. If yousucceeded, you would have me dunning you for hush-money. "

Which seemed true enough. Few men knew more of one side of human naturethan Dormer Colville, it would appear. 

"I am not afraid of that. "

"You can never tell, " laughed Colville, but his laugh rather paled underBarebone's glance. "You can never tell. "

"Wise men do not attempt to blackmail--kings. "

And Colville caught his breath. 

"Perhaps you are right, " he admitted, after a pause. "You seem to betaking to the position very kindly, Barebone. But I do not mind, youknow. It does not matter what we say to each other, eh? We have beengood friends so long. You must do as you like. And if you succeed, Imust be content to leave my share of the matter to your consideration. You certainly seem to know the business already, and some day perhapsyou will remember who taught you to be a King. "

"It was an old North Sea skipper who taught me that, " replied Barebone. "That is one of the things I learnt at sea. "

"Yes--yes, " agreed Colville, almost nervously. "And you will go on withthe thing, will you not? Like a good fellow, eh? Think about it tillto-morrow morning. I will go now. Which is my candle? Yes. You willthink about it. Do not jump to any hasty decision. "

He hurried to the door as he spoke. He could not understand Barebone atall. 

"If I do go on with it, " was the reply, "it will not be in responseto any of your arguments. It will be only and solely for the sake ofFrance. "

"Yes--of course, " agreed Colville, and closed the door behind him. 

In his own room he turned and looked toward the door leading through tothat from which he had hurriedly escaped. He passed his hand across hisface, which was white and moist. 

"For the sake of France!" he echoed in bewilderment. "For the sake ofFrance! Gad! I believe he IS the man after all. "

CHAPTER XXIII. A SIMPLE BANKER

Mr. John Turner had none of the outward signs of the discreet adviserin his person or surroundings. He had, it was currently whispered, inherited from his father an enormous clientele of noble names. Andto such as have studied the history of Paris during the whole of thenineteenth century, it will appear readily comprehensible that thecareful or the penniless should give preference to an English banker. 

Mr. Turner's appearance suggested solidity, and the carpet of hisprivate room was a good one. The room smelt of cigar smoke, while theoffice, through which the client must pass to reach it, was odoriferousof ancient ledgers. 

Half a dozen clerks were seated in the office, which was simplyfurnished and innocent of iron safes. If a client entered, one of thesix, whose business it was, looked up, while the other five continued togive their attention to the books before them. 

One cold morning, toward the end of the year, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrencewas admitted by the concierge. She noted that only one clerk gave heedto her entry, and, it is to be presumed, the quiet perfection of herfurs. 

"Of the six young men in your office, " she observed, when she was seatedin the bare wooden chair placed invitingly by the side of John Turner'swriting-table, "only one appears to be in full possession of hissenses. "

Turner, sitting--if the expression be allowed--in a heap in an armchairbefore a table provided with pens, ink, and a blotting-pad, butotherwise bare, looked at his client with a bovine smile. 

"I don't pay them to admire my clients, " he replied. 

"If Mademoiselle de Montijo came in, I suppose the other five would notlook up. "

John Turner settled himself a little lower into his chair, so that heappeared to be in some danger of slipping under the table. 

"If the Archangel Gabriel came in, they would still attend to theirbusiness, " he replied, in his thick, slow voice. "But he won't. He isnot one of my clients. Quite the contrary. "

Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence smoothed the fur that bordered her neat jacketand glanced sideways at her banker. Then she looked round the room. Itwas bare enough. A single picture hung on the wall--a portrait of an oldlady. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence raised her eyebrows, and continued herscrutiny. Here, again, was no iron safe. There were no ledgers, nodiaries, no note-books, no paraphernalia of business. Nothing but a baretable and John Turner seated at it, in a much more comfortable chairthan that provided for the client, staring apathetically at a date-casewhich stood on a bare mantelpiece. 

The lady's eyes returned to the portrait on the wall. 

"You used to have a portrait of Louis Philippe there, " she said. 

"When Louis Philippe was on the throne, " admitted the banker. 

"And now?" inquired this daughter of Eve, looking at the portrait. 

"My maternal aunt, " replied Turner, making a gesture with two fingers, as if introducing his client to the portrait. 

"You keep her, one may suppose, as a stop-gap--between the dynasties. Itis so safe--a maternal aunt!"

"One cannot hang a republic on the wall, however much one may want to. "

"Then you are a Royalist?" inquired Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. 

"No; I am only a banker, " replied Turner, with his chin sinking loweron his bulging waistcoat and his eyes scarcely visible beneath the heavylids. 

The remark, coupled with a thought that Turner was going to sleep, seemed to remind the client of her business. 

"Will you kindly ask one of your clerks to let me know how much moneyI have?" she said, casting a glance not wholly innocent of scornfulreproach at the table, so glaringly devoid of the bare necessities of abanking business. 

"Only eleven thousand francs and fourteen sous, " replied Turner, with apromptness which seemed to suggest that he kept no diary or note-book onthe table before him because he had need of neither. 

"I feel sure I must have more than that, " said Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, with some spirit. "I quite thought I had. "

But John Turner only moistened his lips and sat patiently gazing at thedate. His attitude dimly suggested--quite in a nice way--that the chairupon which Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence sat was polished bright by thegarments of persons who had found themselves labouring under the sameerror. 

"Well, I must have a hundred thousand francs to-morrow; that is all. Simply must. And in notes, too. I told you I should want it when youcame to see me at Royan. You must remember. I told you at luncheon. "

"When we were eating a sweetbread aux champignons. I remember perfectly. We do not get sweetbreads like that in Paris. "

And John Turner shook his head sadly. 

"Well, will you let me have the money to-morrow morning--in notes?"

"I remember I advised you not to sell just now; after we had finishedthe sweetbread and had gone on to a creme renversee--very good one, too. Yes, it is a bad time to sell. Things are uncertain in France just now. One cannot even get one's meals properly served. Cook's head is full ofpolitics, I suppose. "

"To-morrow morning--in notes, " repeated Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. 

"Now, your man at Royan was excellent--kept his head all through--and alight hand, too. Got him with you in Paris?"

"No, I have not. To-morrow morning, about ten o'clock--in notes. "

And Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence tapped a neat gloved finger on the cornerof the table with some determination. 

"I remember--at dessert--you told me you wanted to realise aconsiderable sum of money at the beginning of the year, to put into somebusiness venture. Is this part of that sum?"

"Yes, " returned the lady, arranging her veil. 

"A venture of Dormer Colville's, I think you told me--while we werehaving coffee. One never gets coffee hot enough in a private house, butyours was all right. "

"Yes, " mumbled Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, behind her quick finger, busywith the veil. 

Beneath the sleepy lids John Turner's eyes, which were small anddeep-sunken in the flesh, like the eyes of a pig, noted in passing thathis client's cheeks were momentarily pink. 

"I hope you don't mean to suggest that there is anything unsafe in Mr. Colville as a business man?"

"Heaven forbid!" ejaculated Turner. "On the contrary, he is mostenterprising. And I know no one who smokes a better cigar thanColville--when he can get it. And the young fellow seemed nice enough. "

"Which young fellow?" inquired the lady, sharply. 

"His young friend--the man who was with him. I think you told me, afterluncheon, that Colville required the money to start his young friend inbusiness. "

"Never!" laughed Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, who, if she felt momentarilyuneasy, was quickly reassured. For this was one of those fortunateladies who go through life with the comforting sense of being alwayscleverer than their neighbour. If the neighbour happen to be a man, anda stout one, the conviction is the stronger for those facts. "Never! Inever told you that. You must have dreamt it. "

"Perhaps I did, " admitted the banker, placidly. "I am afraid I oftenfeel sleepy after luncheon. Perhaps I dreamt it. But I could not handsuch a sum in notes to an unprotected lady, even if I can effect a saleof your securities so quickly as to have the money ready by to-morrowmorning. Perhaps Colville will call for it himself. "

"If he is in Paris. "

"Every one is in Paris now, " was Mr. Turner's opinion. "And if he likesto bring his young friend with him, all the better. In these uncertaintimes it is not fair on a man to hand to him a large sum of money innotes. " He paused and jerked his thumb toward the window, which wasa double one, looking down into the Rue Lafayette. "There are alwayspeople in the streets watching those who pass in and out of a bank. If aman comes out smiling, with his hand on his pocket, he is followed, andif an opportunity occurs, he is robbed. Better not have it in notes. "

"I know, " replied Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, not troubling further todeceive one so lethargic and simple, "I know that Dormer wants it innotes. "

"Then let him come and fetch it. "

Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence rose from her chair and shook her dress intostraighter folds, with the air of having accomplished a task which shehad known to be difficult, but not impossible to one equipped with witand self-confidence. 

"You will sell the securities, and have it all ready by ten o'clockto-morrow morning, " she repeated, with a feminine insistence. 

"You shall have the money to-morrow morning, whether I succeed inselling for cash or not, " was the reply, and John Turner concealed ayawn with imperfect success. 

"A loan?"

"No banker lends--except to kings, " replied Turner, stolidly. "Call itan accommodation. "

Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence glanced at him sharply over the fur collarwhich she was clasping round her neck. Here was a banker, reputedwealthy, who sat in a bare room, without so much as a fireproof safeto suggest riches; a business man of world-wide affairs, who drummedindolent fingers on a bare table; a philosopher with a maxim everready to teach, as all maxims do, cowardice in the guise of prudence, selfishness masquerading as worldly wisdom, hard-heartedness passingfor foresight. Here was one who seemed to see, and was yet too sleepyto perceive. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence was not always sure of her banker, but now, as ever before, one glance at his round, heavy face reassuredher. She laughed and went away, well satisfied with the knowledge, onlygiven to women, of having once more carried out her object with thecompleteness which is known as twisting round the little finger. 

She nodded to Turner, who had ponderously risen from the chair which wasmore comfortable than the client's seat, and held the door open for herto pass. He glanced at the clock as he did so. And she knew that he wasthinking that it was nearly the luncheon hour, so transparent to thefeminine perception are the thoughts of men. 

When he had closed the door he returned to his writing-table. Like manystout people, he moved noiselessly, and quickly enough when the occasiondemanded haste. 

He wrote three letters in a very few minutes, and, when they wereaddressed, he tapped on the table with the end of his pen-holder, whichbrought, in the twinkling of an eye, that clerk whose business it was toabandon his books when called. 

"I shall not go out to luncheon until I have the written receipt foreach one of those letters, " said the banker, knowing that until he wentout to luncheon his six clerks must needs go hungry. "Not an answer, " heexplained, "but a receipt in the addressee's writing. "

And while the clerk hurried from the room and down the stone stairs at abreak-neck speed, Turner sank back into his chair, with lustreless eyesfixed on space. 

"No one can wait, " he was in the habit of saying, "better than I can. "

CHAPTER XXIV. THE LANE OF MANY TURNINGS

If John Turner expected Colville to bring Loo Barebone with him to theRue Lafayette he was, in part, disappointed. Colville arrived in a hiredcarriage, of which the blinds were partially lowered. 

The driver had been instructed to drive into the roomy court-yard ofthe house of which Turner's office occupied the first floor. Carriagesfrequently waited there, by the side of a little fountain which splashedall day and all night into a circular basin. 

Colville descended from the carriage and turned to speak to Loo, whowas left sitting within it. Since the unfortunate night at the HotelGemosac, when they had been on the verge of a quarrel, a certainrestraint had characterised their intercourse. Colville was shy ofapproaching the subject upon which they had differed. His easy laugh hadnot laughed away the grim fact that he had deceived Loo in such a mannerthat complicity was practically forced upon an innocent man. 

Loo had not given his decision yet. He had waited a week, during whichtime Colville had not dared to ask him whether his mind was made up. There was a sort of recklessness in Loo's manner which at once puzzledand alarmed his mentor. At times he was gay, as he always had been, andin the midst of his gaiety he would turn away with a gloomy face and goto his own room. 

To press the question would be to precipitate a catastrophe. DormerColville decided to go on as if nothing had happened. It is a compromisewith the inconveniences of untruth to which we must all resort at somecrisis or another in life. 

"I will not be long, " he assured Barebone, with a gay laugh. Theprospect of handling one hundred thousand francs in notes was perhapsexhilarating; though the actual possession of great wealth would seem tobe of the contrary tendency. There is a profound melancholy peculiar tothe face of the millionaire. "I shall not be long; for he is a man ofhis word, and the money will be ready. "

John Turner was awaiting his visitor, and gave a large soft hand inertlyinto Colville's warm grasp. 

"I always wish I saw more of you, " said the new-comer. 

"Is there not enough of me already?" inquired the banker, pointing tothe vacant chair, upon which fell the full light of the double window. Asmaller window opposite to it afforded a view of the court-yard. And itwas at this smaller window that Colville glanced as he sat down, with apause indicative of reluctance. 

Turner saw the glance and noted the reluctance. He concluded, perhaps, in the slow, sure mind that worked behind his little peeping eyes, thatLoo Barebone was in the carriage in the court-yard, and that Colvillewas anxious to return to him as soon as possible. 

"It is very kind of you to say that, I am sure, " pursued Turner, rousinghimself to be pleasant and conversational. "But, although the loss ismine, my dear Colville, the fault is mostly yours. You always knowwhere to find me when you want my society. I am anchored in this chair, whereas one never knows where one has a butterfly like yourself. "

"A butterfly that is getting a bit heavy on the wing, " answeredColville, with his wan and sympathetic smile. He sat forward in thechair in an attitude antipathetic to digression from the subject inhand. 

"I do not see any evidence of that. One hears of you here and there inFrance. I suppose, for instance, you know more than any man in Parisat the present moment of the--" he paused and suppressed a yawn, "the--er--vintage. Anything in it--eh?"

"So far as I could judge, the rains came too late; but I shall be gladto tell you all about it another time. This morning--"

"Yes; I know. You want your money. I have it all ready for you. But Imust make out some sort of receipt, you know. "

Turner felt vaguely in his pocket, and at last found a letter, fromwhich he tore the blank sheet, while his companion, glancing from timeto time at the window, watched him impatiently. 

"Seems to me, " said Turner, opening his inkstand, "that the vintage of1850 will not be drunk by a Republic. "

"Ah! indeed. "

"What do you think?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, my mind was more occupied in the qualityof the vintage than in its ultimate fate. If you make out a receipt onbehalf of Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, I will sign it, " answered Colville, fingering the blotting-paper. 

"Received on behalf of, and for, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, the sum ofone hundred thousand francs, " muttered the banker, as he wrote. 

"She is only a client, you understand, my dear Colville, " he went on, holding out his hand for the blotting-paper, "or I would not partwith the money so easily. It is against my advice that Mrs. St. PierreLawrence realises this sum. "

"If a woman sets her heart on a thing, my dear fellow--" began Colville, carelessly. 

"Yes, I know--reason goes to the wall. Sign there, will you?"

Turner handed him pen and receipt, but Colville was looking toward thewindow sunk deep in the wall on the inner side of the room. This was nota double window, and the sound of carriage wheels rose above the gentle, continuous plash of the little fountain in the court-yard. 

Colville rose from his seat, but to reach the window he had to passbehind Turner's chair. Turner rose at the same moment, and pushed hischair back against the wall in doing so. This passage toward the windowbeing completely closed by the bulk of John Turner, Colville hurriedround the writing-table. But Turner was again in front of him, and, without appearing to notice that his companion was literally at hisheels, he opened a large cupboard sunk in the panelling of the wall. Thedoor of it folded back over the little window, completely hiding it. 

Turning on his heel, with an agility which was quite startling in oneso stout, he found Colville's colourless face two feet from his own. In fact, Colville almost stumbled against him. For a moment they lookedeach other in the eyes in silence. With his right hand, John Turner heldthe cupboard-door over the window. 

"I have the money here, " he said, "in this cupboard. " And as he spoke, ahollow rumble, echoing in the court-yard, marked the exit of a carriageunder the archway into the Rue Lafayette. There had been only onecarriage in attendance in the court-yard--that in which Colville hadleft Barebone. 

"Here, in this cupboard, " repeated Turner to unheeding ears. For DormerColville was already hurrying across the room toward the other windowthat looked out into the Rue Lafayette. The house was a lofty one, witha high entresol, and from the windows of the first floor it was notpossible to see the street immediately below without opening the sashes. 

Turner closed the cupboard and locked it, without ceasing to watchColville, who was struggling with the stiff fastening of the outer sash. 

"Anything the matter?" inquired the banker, placidly. "Lost a dog?"

But Colville had at length wrenched open the window and was leaningout. The roar of the traffic drowned any answer he may have made. It wasmanifest that the loss of three precious minutes had made him too late. After a glance down into the street, he came back into the centre of theroom and snatched up his hat from Turner's bare writing-table. 

He hurried to the door, but turned again, with his back against it, toface his companion, with the eyes usually so affable and sympathetic, ablaze for once with rage. 

"Damn you!" he cried. "Damn you!"

And the door banged on his heels as he hurried through the outer office. 

Turner was left standing, a massive incarnation of bewilderment, inthe middle of the room. He heard the outer door close with considerableemphasis. Then he sat down again, his eyebrows raised high on his roundforehead, and gazed sadly at the date-card. 

 * * *

Colville had left Loo Barebone seated in the hired carriage in a frameof mind far from satisfactory. A sea-faring life, more than any other, teaches a man quickness in action. A hundred times a day the sailorneeds to execute, with a rapidity impossible to the landsman, that whichknowledge tells him to be the imminent necessity of the moment. At sea, life is so far simpler than in towns that there are only two ways: theright and the wrong. In the devious paths of a pavement-ridden man thereare a hundred byways: there is the long, long lane of many turningscalled Compromise. 

Loo Barebone had turned into this lane one night at the Hotel Gemosac, in the Ruelle St. Jacob, and had wandered there ever since. CaptainClubbe had taught him the two ways of seamanship effectively enough. Butthe education fell short of the necessities of this crisis. Moreover, Barebone had in his veins blood of a race which had fallen to low estatethrough Compromise and Delay. 

Let those throw the first stone at him who have seen the rightway gaping before their feet with a hundred pitfalls and barriers, apparently insurmountable, and have resolutely taken that road. For thedevious path of Compromise has this merit--that the obstacles are roundthe corner. 

Barebone, absorbed in thought, hardly noticed that the driver of hiscarriage descended from the box and lounged toward the archway, wherethe hum of traffic and the passage of many people would serve to beguilea long wait. After a minute's delay, a driver returned and climbed tothe seat--but it was not the same driver. He wore the same coat and hat, but a different face looked out from the sheepskin collar turned up tothe ears. There was no one in the court-yard to notice this triflingchange. Barebone was not even looking out of the window. He had neverglanced at the cabman's face, whose vehicle had happened to be lingeringat the corner of the Ruelle St. Jacob when Colville and his companionhad emerged from the high doorway of the Hotel Gemosac. 

Barebone was so far obeying instructions that he was leaning back in thecarriage, his face half hidden by the collar of his coat. For it was acold morning in mid-winter. He hardly looked up when the handle ofthe door was turned. Colville had shut this door five minutes earlier, promising to return immediately. It was undoubtedly his hand that openedthe door. But suddenly Barebone sat up. Both doors were open. 

Before he could make another movement, two men stepped quietly intothe carriage, each closing the door by which he had entered quickly andnoiselessly. One seated himself beside Barebone, the other oppositeto him, and each drew down a blind. They seemed to have rehearsed theactions over and over again, so that there was no hitch or noise orbungling. The whole was executed as if by clock-work, and the carriagemoved away the instant the doors were closed. 

In the twilight, within the carriage, the two men grasped Loo Barebone, each by one arm, and held him firmly against the back of the carriage. 

"Quietly, mon bon monsieur; quietly, and you will come to no harm. "

Barebone made no resistance, and only laughed. 

"You have come too soon, " he said, without attempting to free his arms, which were held, as if by a vice, at the elbow and shoulder. "You havecome too soon, gentlemen! There is no money in the carriage. Not so muchas a sou. "

"It is not for money that we have come, " replied the man who had firstspoken--and the absolute silence of his companion was obviously thesilence of a subordinate. "Though, for a larger sum than monsieur islikely to offer, one might make a mistake, and allow of escape--whoknows?"

The remark was made with the cynical honesty of dishonesty which had solately been introduced into France by him who was now Dictator of thatfacile people. 

"Oh! I offer nothing, " replied Barebone. "For a good reason. I havenothing to offer. If you are not thieves, what are you?"

The carriage was rattling along the Rue Lafayette, over thecobble-stones, and the inmates, though their faces were close together, had to shout in order to be heard. 

"Of the police, " was the reply. "Of the high police. I fancy thatmonsieur's affair is political?"

"Why should you fancy that?"

"Because my comrade and I are not engaged on other cases. The criminalreceives very different treatment. Permit me to assure you of that. And no consideration whatever. The common police is so unmannerly. There!--one may well release the arms--since we understand each other. "

"I shall not try to escape--if that is what you mean, " replied Barebone, with a laugh. 

"Nothing else--nothing else, " his affable captor assured him. 

And for the remainder of a long drive through the noisy streets thethree men sat upright in the dim and musty cab in silence. 

CHAPTER XXV. SANS RANCUNE

A large French fishing-lugger was drifting northward on the ebb tidewith its sails flapping idly against the spars. It had been a finemorning, and the Captain, a man from Fecamp, where every boy that isborn is born a sailor, had been fortunate in working his way in clearweather across the banks that lie northward of the Thames. 

He had predicted all along in a voice rendered husky by much shoutingin dirty weather that the fog-banks would be drifting in from the seabefore nightfall. And now he had that mournful satisfaction which is thespecial privilege of the pessimistic. These fog-banks, the pest of theeast coast, are the materials that form the light fleecy clouds whichdrift westward in sunny weather like a gauze veil across the face of thesky. They roll across the North Sea from their home in the marshes ofHolland on the face of the waters, and the mariner, groping his way withdripping eyelashes and a rosy face through them, can look up and see theblue sky through the rifts overhead. When the fog-bank touches land itrises, slowly lifted by the warm breath of the field. 

On the coast-line it lies low; a mile inland it begins to break intorifts, so that any one working his way down one of the tidal rivers, sails in the counting of twenty seconds from sunshine into a pearlyshadow. Five miles inland there is a transparent veil across the bluesky slowly sweeping toward the west, and rising all the while, untilthose who dwell on the higher lands of Essex and Suffolk perceivenothing but a few fleecy clouds high in the heavens. 

The lugger was hardly moving, for the tide had only turned half an hourago. 

"Provided, " the Captain had muttered within the folds of his woollenscarf rolled round and round his neck until it looked like a duskylife-belt--"provided that they are ringing their bell on the Shipwash, we shall find our way into the open. Always sea-sick, this traveller, always seasick!"

And he turned with a kindly laugh to Loo Barebone, who was lying on aheap of old sails by the stern rail, concealing as well as he could thepangs of a consuming hunger. 

"One sees that you will never be a sailor, " added the man from Fecamp, with that rough humour which sailors use. 

"Perhaps I do not want to be one, " replied Barebone, with a readygaiety which had already made him several friends on this tarry vessel, although the voyage had lasted but four days. 

"Listen, " interrupted the Captain, holding up a mittened hand. "Listen!I hear a bell, or else it is my conscience. "

Barebone had heard it for some time. It was the bell-buoy at the mouthof Harwich River. But he did not deem it necessary for one who was aprisoner on board, and no sailor, to interfere in the navigation of avessel now making its way to the Faroe fisheries for the twentieth time. 

"My conscience, " he observed, "rings louder than that. "

The Captain took a turn round the tiller with a rope made fast to therail for the purpose, and went to the side of the ship, lifting his nosetoward the west. 

"It is the land, " he said. "I can smell it. But it is only the BlessedVirgin who knows where we are. "

He turned and gave a gruff order to a man half hidden in the mist in thewaist of the boat to try a heave of the lead. 

The sound of the bell could be heard clearly enough now--the uncertain, hesitating clang of a bell-buoy rocked in the tideway--with itsmelancholy note of warning. Indeed, there are few sounds on sea or landmore fraught with lonesomeness and fear. Behind it and beyond it afaint "tap-tap" was now audible. Barebone knew it to be the sound ofa caulker's hammer in the Government repairing yard on the south side. They were drifting past the mouth of the Harwich River. 

The leadsman called out a depth which Loo could have told without thehelp of line or lead. For he had served a long apprenticeship on thesecoasts under a captain second to none in the North Sea. 

He turned a little on his bed of sails under repair, at which theCaptain had been plying his needle while the weather remained clear, andglanced over his shoulder toward the ship's dinghy towing astern. Therope that held it was made fast round the rail a few feet away fromhim. The boat itself was clumsy, shaped like a walnut, of a preposterousstrength and weight. It was fitted with a short, stiff mast and abalance lug-sail. It floated more lightly on the water than the biggervessel, which was laden with coal and provender and salt for theNorth Atlantic fishery, and the painter hung loose, while the dinghy, tide-borne, sidled up to stern of its big companion like a kittenfollowing its mother with the uncertain steps of infancy. 

The face of the water was glassy and of a yellow green. Although thescud swept in toward the land at a fair speed, there was not enough windto fill the sails. Moreover, the bounty of Holland seemed inexhaustible. There was more to come. This fog-bank lay on the water halfway acrossthe North Sea, and the brief winter sun having failed to disperse it, was now sinking to the west, cold and pale. 

"The water seems shallow, " said Barebone to the Captain. "What would youdo if the ship went aground?"

"We should stay there, mon bon monsieur, until some one came to help usat the flood tide. We should shout until they heard us. "

"You might fire a gun, " suggested Barebone. 

"We have no gun on board, mon bon monsieur, " replied the Captain, whohad long ago explained to his prisoner that there was no ill-feeling. 

"It is the fortune of war, " he had explained before the white cliffs ofSt. Valerie had faded from sight. "I am a poor man who cannot affordto refuse a good offer. It is a Government job, as you no doubt knowwithout my telling you. You would seem to have incurred the displeasureor the distrust of some one high placed in the Government. 'Treat himwell, ' they said to me. 'Give him your best, and see that he comes to noharm unless he tries to escape. And be careful that he does not returnto France before the mackerel fishing begins. ' And when we do return toFecamp, I have to lie to off Notre Dame de la Garde and signal to theDouane that I have you safe. They want you out of the way. You are adangerous man, it seems. Salut!"

And the Captain raised his glass to one so distinguished by Government. He laughed as he set his glass down on the little cabin table. 

"No ill-feeling on either side, " he added. "C'est entendu. "

He made a half-movement as if to shake hands across the table andthought better of it, remembering, perhaps, that his own palm was notinnocent of blood-money. For the rest they had been friendly enough onthe voyage. And had the "Petite Jeanne" been in danger, it is probablethat Barebone would have warned his jailer, if only in obedience to aseaman's instinct against throwing away a good ship. 

He had noted every detail, however, of the dinghy while he lay on thedeck of the "Petite Jeanne"; how the runner fitted to the mast; whetherthe halliards were likely to run sweetly through the sheaves or wereknotted and would jamb. He knew the weight of the gaff and the greattan-soddened sail to a nicety. Some dark night, he had thought, on theDogger, he would slip overboard and take his chance. He had never lookedfor thick weather at this time of year off the Banks, so near home, within a few hours' sail of the mouth of Farlingford River. 

If a breeze would only come up from the south-east, as it almost alwaysdoes in these waters toward the evening of a still, fine day! Withoutlifting his head he scanned the weather, noting that the scud wasblowing more northward now. It might only be what is known as a slant. On the other hand, it might prove to be a true breeze, coming from theusual quarter. The "tap-tap" of the caulker's hammer on the slip-wayin Harwich River was silent now. There must be a breeze in-shore thatcarried the sound away. 

The topsail of the "Petite Jeanne" filled with a jerk, and the Captain, standing at the tiller, looked up at it. The lower sails soon tooktheir cue, and suddenly the slack sheets hummed taut in the breeze. The "Petite Jeanne" answered to it at once, and the waves gurgled andlaughed beneath her counter as she moved through the water. She couldsail quicker than her dinghy: Barebone knew that. But he also knew thathe could handle an open boat as few even on the Cotes-du-Nord knew how. 

If the breeze came strong, it would blow the fog-bank away, and Barebonehad need of its covert. Though there must be many English boats withinsight should the fog lift--indeed, the guardship in Harwich harbourwould be almost visible across the spit of land where Landguard Fortlies hidden--Barebone had no intention of asking help so compromising. He had but a queer story to tell to any in authority, and on the faceof it he must perforce appear to have run away with the dinghy of the"Petite Jeanne. "

He desired to get ashore as unobtrusively as possible. For he was notgoing to stay in England. The die was cast now. Where Dormer Colville'spersuasions had failed, where the memory of that journey throughRoyalist France had yet left him doubting, the incidents of the last fewdays had clinched the matter once for all. Barebone was going back toFrance. 

He moved as if to stretch his limbs and lay down once more, with hisshoulders against the rail and his elbow covering the stanchion roundwhich the dinghy's painter was made fast. 

The proper place for the dinghy was on deck should the breeze freshen. Barebone knew that as well as the French Captain of the "Petite Jeanne. "For seamanship is like music--it is independent of language or race. There is only one right way and one wrong way at sea, all the worldover. The dinghy was only towing behind while the fog continued to beimpenetrable. At any moment the Captain might give the order to bring itinboard. 

At any moment Barebone might have to make a dash for the boat. 

He watched the Captain, who continued to steer in silence. To drift onthe tide in a fog is a very different thing to sailing through it at tenmiles an hour on a strong breeze, and the steersman had no thought tospare for anything but his sails. Two men were keeping the look-out inthe bows. Another--the leadsman--was standing amidships peering over theside into the mist. 

Still Barebone waited. Captain Clubbe had taught him that most difficultart--to select with patience and a perfect judgment the right moment. The "Petite Jeanne" was rustling through the glassy water northwardtoward Farlingford. 

At a word from the Captain the man who had been heaving the lead cameaft to the ship's bell and struck ten quick strokes. He waited andrepeated the warning, but no one answered. They were alone in theseshallow channels. Fortunately the man faced forward, as sailors alwaysdo by instinct, turning his back upon the Captain and Barebone. 

The painter was cast off now and, under his elbow, Barebone was slowlyhauling in. The dinghy was heavy and the "Petite Jeanne" was movingquickly through the water. Suddenly Barebone rose to his feet, hauled inhand over hand, and when the dinghy was near enough, leaped across twoyards of water to her gunwale. 

The Captain heard the thud of his feet on the thwart, and looking backover his shoulder saw and understood in a flash of thought. But eventhen he did not understand that Loo was aught else but a landsmanhalf-recovered from seasickness. He understood it a minute later, however, when the brown sail ran up the mast and, holding the tillerbetween his knees, Barebone hauled in the sheet hand over hand andsteered a course out to sea. 

He looked back over the foot of the sail and waved his hand. 

"Sans rancune!" he shouted. "C'est entendu!" The Captain's own words. 

The "Petite Jeanne" was already round to the wind, and the Captain wasbellowing to his crew to trim the sails. It could scarcely be a chase, for the huge deep-sea fishing-boat could sail half as fast again as herown dinghy. The Captain gave his instructions with all the quickness ofhis race, and the men were not slow to carry them out. The safe-keepingof the prisoner had been made of personal advantage to each member ofthe crew. 

The Captain hailed Barebone with winged words which need not be set downhere, and explained to him the impossibility of escape. 

"How can you--a landsman, " he shouted, "hope to get away from us? Comeback and it shall be as you say, 'sans rancune. ' Name of God! I bear youno ill-will for making the attempt. "

They were so close together that all on board the "Petite Jeanne" couldsee Barebone laugh and shake his head. He knew that there was no gun onboard the fishing-boat. The lugger rushed on, sailing quicker, lyingup closer to the wind. She was within twenty yards of the little boatnow--would overhaul her in a minute. 

But in an instant Barebone was round on the other tack, and the Captainswore aloud, for he knew now that he was not dealing with a landsman. The "Petite Jeanne" spun round almost as quickly, but not quite. Everytime that Barebone put about, the "Petite Jeanne" must perforce do thesame, and every time she lost a little in the manoeuvre. On a long tackor running before the wind the bigger boat was immeasurably superior. Barebone had but one chance--to make short tacks--and he knew it. The Captain knew it also, and no landsman would have possessed theknowledge. He was trying to run the boat down now. 

Barebone might succeed in getting far enough away to be lost in the fog. But in tacking so frequently he was liable to make a mistake. The biggerboat was not so likely to miss stays. He passed so close to her that hecould read the figures cut on her stern-post indicating her draught ofwater. 

There was another chance. The "Petite Jeanne" was drawing six feet; thedinghy could sail across a shoal covered by eighteen inches of water. But such a shoal would be clearly visible on the surface of the water. Besides, there was no shallow like that nearer than the Goodwins. Barebone pressed out seaward. He knew every channel and every bankbetween the Thames and Thorpeness. He kept on pressing out to sea byshort tacks. All the while he was peeping over the gunwale out of thecorner of his eye. He was near, he must be near, a bank covered by fivefeet of water at low tide. A shoal of five feet is rarely visible on thesurface. 

Suddenly he rose from his seat on the gunwale, and stood with the tillerin one hand and the sheet in the other, half turning back to look at"Petite Jeanne" towering almost over him. And as he looked, her bluffblack bows rose upward with an odd climbing movement like a horsestepping up a bank. With a rattle of ropes and blocks she stood still. 

Barebone went about again and sailed past her. 

"Sans rancune!" he shouted. But no one heeded him, for they had othermatters to attend to. And the dinghy sailed into the veil of the misttoward the land. 

CHAPTER XXVI. RETURNED EMPTY

The breeze freshened, and, as was to be expected, blew the fog-bank awaybefore sunset. 

Sep Marvin had been an unwilling student all day. Like many of his clothand generation, Parson Marvin pinned all his faith on education. "Givea boy a good education, " he said, a hundred times. "Make a gentleman ofhim, and you have done your duty by him. "

"Make a gentleman of him--and the world will be glad to feed and clothehim, " was the real thought in his mind, as it was in the mind ofnearly all his contemporaries. The wildest dreamer of those daysnever anticipated that, in the passage of one brief generation, socialadvancement should be for the shrewdly ignorant rather than for thescholar: that it would be better for a man that his mind be storedwith knowledge of the world than the wisdom of the classics: that thesuccessful grocer might find a kinder welcome in a palace than thescholar: that the manufacturer of kitchen utensils might feed with kingsand speak to them, without aspirates, between the courses. 

Parson Marvin knew none of these things, however; nor suspected that theadvance of civilisation is not always progressive, but that she may takehands with vulgarity and dance down-hill, as she does to-day. His onescheme of life for Sep was that he should be sent to the ancient schoolwhere field-sports are cultivated to-day and English gentlemen turnedupon the world more ignorant than any other gentlemen in the universe. Then, of course, Sep must go to that College with which his father'slife had been so closely allied. And if it please God to call him to theChurch, and the College should remember that it had given his father aliving, and do the same by him--for that reason and no other--then, ofcourse, Sep would be a made man. 

And the making of Sep had been in progress during the winter day thata fog-bank came in from the North Sea and clung tenaciously to the low, surfless coast. In the afternoon the sun broke through at last, wintry and pale. Sep, who, by some instinct--the instinct, it is tobe supposed, of young animals--knew that he was destined to be of ageneration that should cultivate ignorance out of doors, rather thanlearning by the fireside, threw aside his books and cried out that hecould no longer breathe in his father's study. 

So Paid Marvin went off, alone, to visit a distant parishioner--one whowas dying by himself out on the marsh, in a cottage cut off from all theworld in a spring tide. 

"Don't forget that it is high tide at five o'clock, and that there isno moon, and that the dykes will be full. You will never find your wayacross the marsh after dark, " said Sep--the learned in tides and thosepractical affairs of nature, which were as a closed book to the scholar. 

Parson Marvin vaguely acknowledged the warning and went away, leavingSep to accompany Miriam on her daily errand to the simple shops inFarlingford, which would awake to life and business now that the sea-fogwas gone. For the men of Farlingford, like nearly all seafarers, aretimorous of bad weather on shore and sit indoors during its passage, while they treat storm and rain with a calm contempt at sea. 

"Sail a-coming up the river, master, " River Andrew said to Sep, who wasawaiting Miriam in the village street, and he walked on, without furthercomment, spade on shoulder, toward the church-yard, where he spent aportion of his day, without apparent effect. 

So, when Miriam had done her shopping, it was only natural that theyshould turn their footsteps toward the quay and the river-wall. Or wasit fate? So often is the natural nothing but the inevitable in holidaygarb. 

"That is no Farlingford boat, " said Sep, versed in riverside knowledge, so soon as he saw the balance-lug moving along the line of theriver-wall, half a mile below the village. 

They stood watching. Few coasters were at sea in these months of wildweather, and there was nothing moving on the quay. The moss-grownslip-way, where "The Last Hope" had been drawn up for repair, stoodgaunt and empty, half submerged by the flowing tide. Many Farlingfordmen were engaged in the winter fisheries on the Dogger, and farthernorth, in Lowestoft boats. In winter, Farlingford--thrust out into theNorth Sea, surrounded by marsh--is forgotten by the world. 

The solitary boat came round the corner into the wider sheet of water, locally known as Quay Reach. 

"A foreigner!" cried Sep, jumping, as was his wont, from one foot to theother with excitement. "It is like the boat that was brought up by thetide, with a dead man in it, long ago. And that was a Belgian boat. "

Miriam was looking at the boat with a sudden brightness in her eyes, arush of colour to her cheeks, which were round and healthy and of thatsoft clear pink which marks a face swept constantly by mist and a saltyair. In flat countries, where men may see each other, unimpeded by hedgeor tree or hillock, across a space measured only by miles, the eye issoon trained--like the sailor's eye--to see and recognise at a greatdistance. 

There was no mistaking the attitude of the solitary steersman of thisforeign boat stealing quietly up to Farlingford on the flood tide. Itwas Loo Barebone sitting on the gunwale as he always sat, with one kneeraised on the thwart, to support his elbow, and his chin in the palmof his hand, so that he could glance up the head of the sail or ahead, without needing to change his position. 

Sep turned and looked up at her. 

"I thought you said he was never coming back, " he said, reproachfully. 

"So I did. I thought he was never coming back. "

Sep looked at her again, and then at the boat. One never knows how muchchildren, and dogs--who live daily with human beings--understand. 

"Your face is very red, " he observed. "That comes from tellinguntruths. "

"It comes from the cold wind, " replied Miriam, with an odd, breathlesslaugh. 

"If we do not go home, he will be there before us, " said Sep, gravely. "He will make one tack across to the other side, and then make the mouthof the creek. "

They turned and walked, side by side, on the top of the sea-wall towardthe rectory. Their figures must have been outlined against the sky, forany watching from the river. The girl, tall and strong, walking with theease that comes from health and a steadfast mind; the eager, restlessboy running and jumping by her side. Barebone must have seen them assoon as they saw him. They were part of Farlingford, these two. He had asudden feeling of having been away for years, with this difference--thathe came back and found nothing changed. Whereas, in reality, he whoreturns after a long absence usually finds no one awaiting him. 

He did as Sep had foretold--crossing to the far side of the river, andthen gaining the mouth of the creek in one tack. Miriam and Sep hadreached the rectory garden first, and now stood waiting for him. He cameon in silence. Last time--on "The Last Hope"--he had come up the riversinging. 

Sep waved his hand, and, in response, Barebone nodded his head, with oneeye peering ahead, for the breeze was fresh. 

The old chain was still there, imperfectly fastened round a totteringpost at the foot of the tide-washed steps. It clinked as he made fastthe boat. Miriam had not heard the sound of it since that night, longago, when Loo had gone down the steps in the dark and cast off. 

"I was given a passage home in a French fishing-boat, and borrowed theirdinghy to come ashore in, " said Loo, as he came up the steps. He knewthat Farlingford would want some explanation, and that Sep would beproud to give it. An explanation is never the worse for a spice oftruth. 

"Miriam told me you were never coming home again, " answered Sep, stillnourishing that grievance. 

"Well, she was wrong, and here I am!" was Loo's reply, with his old, ready laugh. "And here is Farlingford--unchanged, and no harm done. "

"Why should there be any harm done?" was Sep's prompt question. 

Barebone was shaking hands with Miriam. 

"Oh, I don't know, " he answered. "Because there always is harm done, Isuppose. "

Miriam was thinking that he had changed; that the man who had unmooredhis boat at these steps six months ago had departed for ever, and thatanother had come back in his place. A minute later, as he turned toclose the gate that shut off the rectory garden from the river-wall, chance ruled it that their eyes should meet for an instant, and she knewthat he had not changed; that he might, perhaps, never change so long ashe lived. She turned abruptly and led the way to the house. 

Sep had a hundred questions to ask, but only a few of them werepersonal. Children live in a world of their own, and are not slow toinvite those whom they like to come to it, while to the others, theyshut the door with a greater frankness than is permissible later inlife. 

"Father, " he explained, "has gone to see old Doy, who is dying. "

"Is he still dying? He will never die, I am sure; for he has been tryingto do it ever since I remember, " laughed Barebone; who was interested, it seemed, in Sep's affairs, and never noticed that Miriam was walkingmore quickly than they were. 

"And I am rather anxious about him, " continued Sep, with the gravitythat comes of a realised responsibility. "He moons along, you know, withhis mind far away, and he doesn't know the path across the marsh a bit. He is bound to lose his way, and it is getting dark. Suppose I shallhave to go and look for him. "

"With a lantern, " suggested Loo, darkly, without looking toward Miriam. 

"Oh, yes!" replied Sep, with delight. "With a lantern, of course. Nobodybut a fool would go out on to the marshes after dark without a lantern. The weed on the water makes it the same as the grass, and that old womanwho was nearly drowned last winter, you know, she walked straight in, and thought it was dry land. "

And Loo heard no more, for they were at the door; and Miriam, in thelighted hall, was waiting for them, with all the colour gone from herface. 

"He is sure to be in in a few minutes, " she said; for she had heard theend of their talk. She could scarcely have helped hearing Loo'sweighty suggestion of a lantern, which had had the effect he must haveanticipated. Sep was already hurriedly searching for matches. It wouldbe difficult to dissuade him from his purpose. What boy would willinglygive up the prospect of an adventure on the marsh alone, with abull's-eye? Miriam tried, and tried in vain. She gained time, however, and was listening for Marvin's footstep on the gravel all the while. 

Sep found the matches--and it chanced that there was a sufficiency ofoil in his lantern. He lighted up and went away, leaving an abominablesmell of untrimmed wick behind him. 

It was tea-time, and, half a century ago, that meal was a matter ofgreater importance than it is to-day. A fire burned in the dining-room, glowing warmly on the mellow walls and gleaming furniture; but there wasno lamp, nor need of one, in a room with large windows facing the sunsetsky. 

Miriam led the way into this room, and lifted the shining, old-fashionedkettle to the hob. She took a chair that stood near, and sat, with hershoulder turned toward him, looking into the fire. 

"We will have tea as soon as they come in, " she said, in that voice ofcamaraderie which speaks of a life-long friendship between a man and awoman--if such a friendship be possible. Is it?--who knows? "They willnot be long, I am sure. You will like tea, after having been solong abroad. It is one of the charms of coming home, or one of thealleviations. I don't know which. And now, tell me all that has happenedsince you went away--if you care to. "

CHAPTER XXVII. OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES

Miriam's manner toward him was the same as it had always been so long ashe could remember. He had once thought--indeed, he had made to her theaccusation--that she was always conscious of the social gulf existingbetween them; that she always remembered that she was by birth andbreeding a lady, whereas he was the son of an obscure Frenchman who wasnothing but a clockmaker whose name could be read (and can to this daybe deciphered) on a hundred timepieces in remote East Anglian farms. 

Since his change of fortune he had, as all men who rise to a greatheight or sink to the depths will tell, noted a corresponding change inhis friends. Even Captain Clubbe had altered, and the affection whichpeeped out at times almost against his puritanical will seemed to havesuffered a chill. The men of Farlingford, and even those who had sailedin "The Last Hope" with him, seemed to hold him at a distance. Theynodded to him with a brief, friendly smile, but were shy of shakinghands. The hand which they would have held out readily enough, had heneeded assistance in misfortune, slunk hastily into a pocket. For he whoclimbs will lose more friends than the ne'er-do-well. Some may accountthis to human nature for righteousness and others quite the contrary:for jealousy, like love, lies hidden in unsuspected corners. 

Juliette de Gemosac had been quite different to Loo since learning hisstory. Miriam alone remained unchanged. He had accused her of failing torise superior to arbitrary social distinctions, and now, standingbehind her in the fire-lit dining-room of the rectory, he retractedthat accusation once and for all time in his own heart, though herjustification came from a contrary direction to that from which it mighthave been expected. 

Miriam alone remained a friend--and nothing else, he added, bitterly, inhis own heart. And she seemed to assume that their friendship, begunin face of social distinctions, should never have to suffer from thatburthen. 

"I should like to hear, " she repeated, seeing that he was silent, "allthat has happened since you went away; all that you may care to tellme. "

"My heritage, you mean?"

She moved in her seat but did not look round. She had laid aside her haton coming into the house, and as she sat, leaning forward with herhands clasped together in her lap, gazing thoughtfully at the fire whichglowed blue and white for the salt water that was in the drift-wood, herhair, loosened by the wind, half concealed her face. 

"Yes, " she answered, slowly. 

"Do you know what it is--my heritage?" lapsing, as he often did whenhurried by some pressing thought, into a colloquialism half French. 

She shook her head, but made no audible reply. 

"Do you suspect what it is?" he insisted. 

"I may have suspected, perhaps, " she admitted, after a pause. 

"When? How long?"

She paused again. Quick and clever as he was, she was no less so. Sheweighed the question. Perhaps she found no answer to it, for she turnedtoward the door that stood open and looked out into the hall. The lightof the lamp there fell for a moment across her face. 

"I think I hear them returning, " she said. 

"No, " he retorted, "for I should hear them before you did. I was broughtup at sea. Do not answer the question, however, if you would rather not. You ask what has happened since I went away. A great many things havehappened which are of no importance. Such things always happen, do theynot? But one night, when we were quarrelling, Dormer Colville mentionedyour name. He was very much alarmed and very angry, so he perhaps spokethe truth--by accident. He said that you had always known that I mightbe the King of France. Many things happened, as I tell you, which are ofno importance, and which I have already forgotten, but that I rememberand always shall. "

"I have always known, " replied Miriam, "that Mr. Dormer Colville is aliar. It is written on his face, for those who care to read. "

A woman at bay is rarely merciful. 

"And I thought for an instant, " pursued Loo, "that such a knowledgemight have been in your mind that night, the last I was here, lastsummer, on the river-wall. I had a vague idea that it might haveinfluenced in some way the reply you gave me then. "

He had come a step nearer and was standing over her. She could hear hishurried breathing. 

"Oh, no, " she replied, in a calm voice full of friendliness. "You arequite wrong. The reason I gave you still holds good, and--and alwayswill. "

In the brief silence that followed this clear statement of affairs, they both heard the rattle of the iron gate by the seawall. Sep and hisfather were coming. Loo turned to look toward the hall and the frontdoor, dimly visible in the shadow of the porch. While he did so Miriampassed her hand quickly across her face. When Loo turned again andglanced down at her, her attitude was unchanged. 

"Will you look at me and say that again?" he asked, slowly. 

"Certainly, " she replied. And she rose from her chair. She turned andfaced him with the light of the hall-lamp upon her. She was smiling andself-confident. 

"I thought, " he said, looking at her closely, "as I stood behind you, that there were tears in your eyes. "

She went past him into the hall to meet Sep and his father, who werealready on the threshold. 

"It must have been the firelight, " she said to Barebone as she passedhim. 

A minute later Septimus Marvin was shaking him by the hand with a vagueand uncertain but kindly grasp. 

"Sep came running to tell me that you were home again, " he said, struggling out of his overcoat. "Yes--yes. Home again to the old place. And little changed, I can see. Little changed, my boy. Tempora mutantur, eh? and we mutamur in illis. But you are the same. "

"Of course. Why should I change? It is too late to change for the betternow. "

"Never! Never say that. But we do not want you to change. We looked foryou to come in a coach-and-four--did we not, Miriam? For I suppose youhave secured your heritage, since you are here again. It is a greatthing to possess riches--and a great responsibility. Come, let us havetea and not think of such things. Yes--yes. Let us forget that such athing as a heritage ever came between us--eh, Miriam?"

And with a gesture of old-world politeness he stood aside for his nieceto pass first into the dining-room, whither a servant had preceded themwith a lamp. 

"It will not be hard to do that, " replied Miriam, steadily, "because hetells me that he has not yet secured it. "

"All in good time--all in good time, " said Marvin, with that faith insome occult power, seemingly the Government and Providence workingin conjunction, to which parsons and many women confide their worldlyaffairs and sit with folded hands. 

He asked many questions which were easy enough to answer; for he hadno worldly wisdom himself, and did not look for it in other people. Andthen he related his own adventure--the great incident of his life--hisvisit to Paris. 

"A matter of business, " he explained. "Some duplicates--one or two ofmy prints which I had decided to part with. Miriam also wished me to seeinto some small money matters of her own. Her guardian, John Turner, youmay remember, resides in Paris. A schoolfellow of my own, by the way. But our ways diverged later in life. I found him unchanged--a kindheart--always a kind heart. He attempts to conceal it, as many do, undera flippant, almost a profane, manner of speech. Brutum fulmen. But I sawthrough it--I saw through it. "

And the rector beamed on Loo through his spectacles with an innocentdelight in a Christian charity which he mistook for cunning. 

"You see, " he went on, "we have spent a little money on the rectory. To-morrow you will see that we have made good the roof of the church. One could not ask the villagers to contribute, knowing that the childrenwant boots and scarcely know the taste of jam. Yes, John Turner was verykind to me. He found me a buyer for one of my prints. "

The rector broke off with a sharp sigh and drank his tea. 

"We shall never miss it, " he added, with the hopefulness of thosewho can blind themselves to facts. "Come, tell me your impressions ofFrance. "

"I have been there before, " replied Loo, with a curtness so unusual asto make Miriam glance at him. "I have been there before, you know. Itwould be more interesting to hear your own impressions, which must befresher. "

Miriam knew that he did not want to speak of France, and wondered why. But Marvin, eager to talk of his favourite study, seized the suggestionin all innocence. He had gone to Paris as he had wandered through life, with the mind of a child, eager, receptive, open to impression. Suchminds pass by much that is of value, but to one or two conclusions theybring a perceptive comprehension which is photographic in its accuracy. 

"I have followed her history with unflagging interest since boyhood, "he said, "but never until now have I understood France. I walked throughthe streets of Paris and I looked into the faces of the people, and Irealised that the astonishing history of France is true. One can see itin those faces. The city is brilliant, beautiful, unreal. The reality isin the faces of the people. Do you remember what Wellington said of themhalf a century ago? 'They are ripe, ' he said, 'for another Napoleon. 'But he could not see that Napoleon on the political horizon. And thatis what I saw in their faces. They are ripe for something--they know notwhat. "

"Did John Turner tell you that?" asked Loo, in an eager voice. "He whohas lived in Paris all his life?"

And Miriam caught the thrill of excitement in the voice that put thisquestion. She glanced at Loo. His eyes were bright and his cheekscolourless. She knew that she was in the presence of some feeling thatshe did not understand. It was odd that an old scholar, knowing nothingbut history, could thus stir a listener whose touch had hitherto onlyskimmed the surface of life. 

"No, " answered Marvin, with assurance. "I saw it myself in their faces. Ah! if another such as Napoleon could only arise--such as he, butdifferent. Not an adventurer, but a King and the descendant ofKings--not allied, as Napoleon was, with a hundred other adventurers. "

"Yes, " said Loo, in a muffled voice, looking away toward the fire. 

"A King whose wife should be a Queen, " pursued the dreamer. 

"Yes, " said Loo again, encouragingly. 

"They could save France, " concluded Marvin, taking off his spectaclesand polishing them with a silk handkerchief. Loo turned and looked athim, for the action so characteristic of a mere onlooker indicated thatthe momentary concentration of a mind so stored with knowledge thatconfusion reigned there was passing away. 

"From what?" asked Loo. "Save France from what?"

"From inevitable disaster, my boy, " replied Marvin, gravely. "That iswhat I saw in those gay streets. "

Loo glanced at him sharply. He had himself seen the same all throughthose provinces which must take their cue from Paris whether they willor no. 

"What a career!" murmured Marvin. "What a mission for a man to have inlife--to save France! One does not like to think of the world without aFrance to lead it in nearly everything, or with a France, a mere ghostof her former self, exploited, depleted by another Bonaparte. And wemust look in vain for that man as did the good Duke years ago. "

"I should like to have a shot at it, " put in Sep, who had justdespatched a large piece of cake. 

"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed his father, only half in jest. 

"Better sit all day under the lee of a boat and make nets, like SeaAndrew, " advised Loo, with a laugh. 

"Do you think so?" said Miriam, without looking up. 

"All the same, I'd like to have a shot at it, " persisted Sep. "Pass thecake, please. "

Loo had risen and was looking at the clock. His face was drawn and tiredand his eyes grave. 

"You will come in and see us as often as you can while you are here?"said the kindly rector, as if vaguely conscious of a change inthis visitor. "You will always find a welcome whether you come in acoach-and-four or on foot--you know that. "

"Thank you--yes. I know that. "

The rector peered at him through his spectacles. 

"I hope, " he said, "that you will soon be successful in getting yourown. You are worried about it, I fear. The responsibilities of wealth, perhaps. And yet many rich people are able to do good in the world, andmust therefore be happy. "

"I do not suppose I shall ever be rich, " said Loo, with a carelesslaugh. 

"No, perhaps not. But let us hope that all will be for the best. Youmust not attach too much importance to what I said about France, youknow. I may be wrong. Let us hope I am. For I understand that yourheritage is there. "

"Yes, " answered Loo, who was shaking hands with Sep and Miriam, "myheritage is there. "

"And you will go back to France?" inquired Marvin, holding out his hand. 

"Yes, " was the reply, with a side glance in the direction of Miriam. "Ishall go back to France. "

CHAPTER XXVIII. BAREBONE'S PRICE

At Farlingford, forgotten of the world, events move slowly and men'sminds assimilate change without shock. Old people look for death longbefore it arrives, so that when at last the great change comes it iseffected quite calmly. There is no indecent haste, no scrambling toput a semblance of finish to the incomplete, as there is in the hurrieddeath of cities. Young faces grow softly mellow without those lines andanxious crow's-feet that mar the features of the middle-aged, who, toearn their daily bread or to kill the tedium of their lives, find itnecessary to dwell in streets. 

"Loo's home again, " men told each other at "The Black Sailor"; and thewomen, who discussed the matter in the village street, had little to addto this bare piece of news. There was nothing unusual about it. Indeed, it was customary for Farlingford men to come home again. They alwaysreturned, at last, from wide wanderings, which a limited conversationalcapacity seemed to deprive of all interest. Those that stayed at homelearnt a few names, and that was all. 

"Where are ye now from, Willum?" the newly returned sailor would bekindly asked, with the sideward jerk of the head. 

"A'm now from Valparaiso. "

And that was all that there was to be said about Valparaiso and theexperiences of this circumnavigator. Perhaps it was not consideredgood form to inquire further into that which was, after all, his ownbusiness. If you ask an East Anglian questions he will tell you nothing;if you do not inquire he will tell you less. 

No one, therefore, asked Barebone any questions. More especially is itconsidered, in seafaring communities, impolite to make inquiry into yourneighbour's misfortune. If a man have the ill luck to lose his ship, hemay well go through the rest of his life without hearing the mentionof her name. It was understood in Farlingford that Loo Barebone hadresigned his post on "The Last Hope" in order to claim a heritage inFrance. He had returned home, and was living quietly at Maidens GraveFarm with Mrs. Clubbe. It was, therefore, to be presumed that he hadfailed in his quest. This was hardly a matter for surprise to such ashad inherited from their forefathers a profound distrust in Frenchmen. 

The brief February days followed each other with that monotony, markedby small events, that quickly lays the years aside. Loo lingered on, with a vague indecision in his mind which increased as the weeks passedby and the spell of the wide marsh-lands closed round his soul. Hetook up again those studies which the necessity of earning a living hadinterrupted years before, and Septimus Marvin, who had never left offseeking, opened new historical gardens to him and bade him come in anddig. 

Nearly every morning Loo went to the rectory to look up an obscurereference or elucidate an uncertain period. Nearly every evening, afterthe rectory dinner, he returned the books he had borrowed, and lingereduntil past Sep's bedtime to discuss the day's reading. Septimus Marvin, with an enthusiasm which is the reward of the simple-hearted, led theway down the paths of history while Loo and Miriam followed--the manwith the quick perception of his race, the woman with that instinctiveand untiring search for the human motive which can put heart into aprinted page of history. 

Many a whole lifetime has slipped away in such occupations; for history, already inexhaustible, grows in bulk day by day. Marvin was happierthan he had ever been, for a great absorption is one of Heaven's kindestgifts. 

For Barebone, France and his quest there, the Marquis de Gemosac, DormerColville, Juliette, lapsed into a sort of dream, while Farlingfordremained a quiet reality. Loo had not written to Dormer Colville. Captain Clubbe was trading between Alexandria and Bristol. "The LastHope" was not to be expected in England before April. To communicatewith Colville would be to turn that past dream, not wholly pleasant, into a grim reality. Loo therefore put off from day to day the evilmoment. By nature and by training he was a man of action. He tried topersuade himself that he was made for a scholar and would be happyto pass the rest of his days in the study of that history which hadoccupied Septimus Marvin's thoughts during a whole lifetime. 

Perhaps he was right. He might have been happy enough to pass his daysthus if life were unchanging; if Septimus Marvin should never age andnever die; if Miriam should be always there, with her light touch on thedeeper thoughts, her half-French way of understanding the unspoken, withher steady friendship which might change, some day, into something else. This was, of course, inconsistent. Love itself is the most inconsistentof all human dreams; for it would have some things change and othersremain ever as they are. Whereas nothing stays unchanged for a singleday: love, least of all. For it must go forward or back. 

"See!" cried Septimus Marvin, one evening, laying his hand on theopen book before him. "See how strong are racial things. Here are theBourbons for ever shutting their eyes to the obvious, for ever puttingoff the evil moment, for ever temporising--from father to son, father toson; generation after generation. Finally we come to Louis XVI. Read hisletters to the Comte d'Artois. They are the letters of a man who knowsthe truth in his own heart and will not admit it even to himself. "

"Yes, " admitted Loo. "Yes--you are right. It is racial, one mustsuppose. "

And he glanced at Miriam, who did not meet his eyes but looked at theopen page, with a smile on her lips half sad, wholly tolerant. 

Next morning, Loo thought, he would write to Dormer Colville. But thefollowing evening came, and he had not done so. He went, as usual, tothe rectory, where the same kind welcome awaited him. Miriam knew thathe had not written. Like him, she knew that an end of some sort mustsoon come. And the end came an hour later. 

Some day, Barebone knew, Dormer Colville would arrive. Every morning hehalf looked for him on the seawall, between "The Black Sailor" and therectory garden. Any evening, he was well aware, the smiling face mightgreet him in the lamp-lit drawing-room. 

Sep had gone to bed earlier that night. The rector was reading aloudan endless collection of letters, from which the careful student couldscarcely fail to gather side-lights on history. Both Miriam and Looheard the clang of the iron gate on the sea-wall. 

A minute or two later the old dog, who lived mysteriously in the backpremises, barked, and presently the servant announced that a gentlemanwas desirous of speaking to the rector. There were not many gentlemenwithin a day's walk of the rectory. Some one must have put up at "TheBlack Sailor. " Theoretically, the rector was at the call of any of hisparishioners at all moments; but in practice the people of Farlingfordnever sought his help. 

"A gentleman, " said Marvin, vaguely; "well, let him come in, Sarah. "

Miriam and Barebone sat silently looking at the door. But the man whoappeared there was not Dormer Colville. It was John Turner. 

He evinced no surprise on seeing Barebone, but shook hands with him witha little nod of the head, which somehow indicated that they had businesstogether. 

He accepted the chair brought forward by Marvin and warmed his handsat the fire, in no hurry, it would appear, to state the reason for thisunceremonious call. After all, Marvin was his oldest friend and Miriamhis ward. Between old friends, explanations are often better omitted. 

"It is many years, " he said, at length, "since I heard their talk. Theyspeak with their tongues and their teeth, but not their lips. "

"And their throats, " put in Marvin, eagerly. "That is because they areof Teuton descent. So different from the French, eh, Turner?"

Turner nodded a placid acquiescence. Then he turned, as far, it wouldappear, as the thickness of his neck allowed, toward Barebone. 

"Saw in a French paper, " he said, "that the 'Petite Jeanne' had putin to Lowestoft, to replace a dinghy lost at sea. So I put two and twotogether. It is my business putting two and two together, and makingfive of them when I can, but they generally make four. I thought Ishould find you here. "

Loo made no answer. He had only seen John Turner once in his life--fora short hour, in a room full of people, at Royan. The banker staredstraight in front of him for a few moments. Then he raised his sleepylittle eyes directly to Miriam's face. He heaved a sigh, and fell tostudying the burning logs again. And the colour slowly rose to Miriam'scheeks. The banker, it seemed, was about his business again, in one ofthose simple addition sums, which he sometimes solved correctly. 

"To you, " he said, after a moment's pause, with a glance in Loo'sdirection, "to you, it must appear that I am interfering in what is notmy own business. You are wrong there. "

He had clasped his hands across his abnormal waistcoat, and he halfclosed his eyes as he blinked at the fire. 

"I am a sort of intermediary angel, " he went on, "between privatepersons in France and their friends in England. Nothing to do with stateaffairs, you understand; at least, very little. Many persons in Englandhave relations or property in France. French persons fall in love withpeople on this side of the Channel, and vice versa. And, sooner orlater, all these persons, who are in trouble with their property ortheir affections, come to me, because money is invariably at the bottomof the trouble. Money is invariably at the bottom of all trouble. And Irepresent money. "

He pursed up his lips and gazed somnolently at the fire. "Ask anybody, "he went on, dreamily, after a pause, "if that is not the bare truth. AskColville, ask Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, ask Miriam Liston, sitting herebeside us, if I exaggerate the importance of--of myself. "

"Every one, " admitted Barebone, cheerfully, "knows that you occupy agreat position in Paris. "

Turner glanced at him and gave a thick chuckle in his throat. 

"Thank you, " he said. "Very decent of you. And that point beingestablished, I will explain further, that I am not here of my own freewill. I am only an agent. No man in his senses would come to Farlingfordin mid-winter unless--" he broke off, with a sharp sigh, and glanceddown at Miriam's slipper resting on the fender, "unless he was muchyounger than I am. I came because I was paid to do it. Came to make youa proposition. "

"To make me a proposition?" inquired Loo, as the identity of Turner'shearers had become involved. 

"Yes. And I should recommend you to give it your gravest consideration. It is one of the most foolish propositions, from the proposer's pointof view, that I have ever had to make: I should blush to make it, if itwere any use blushing, but no one sees blushes on my cheeks now. Do notdecide in a hurry--sleep on it. I always sleep on a question. "

He closed his eyes, and seemed about to compose himself to slumber thenand there. 

"I am no longer young, " he admitted, after a pause, "and thereforepropose to take one of the few alleviations allowed to advancing yearsand an increasing avoirdupois. I am going to give you some advice. Thereis only one thing worth having in this life, and that is happiness. Eventhe possibility of it is worth all other possibilities put together. Ifa man have a chance of grasping happiness--I mean a home and the wifehe wants.... And all that--he is wise to throw all other chances to thewind. Such, for instance, as the chance of greatness, of fame or wealth, of gratified vanity or satisfied ambition. "

He had spoken slowly, and at last he ceased speaking, as if overcomeby a growing drowsiness. A queer silence followed this singular man'swords. Barebone had not resumed his seat. He was standing by themantelpiece, as he often did, being quick and eager when interested, andnot content to sit still and express himself calmly in words, but mustneeds emphasise his meaning by gestures and a hundred quick movements ofthe head. 

"Go on, " he said. "Let us have the proposition. "

"And no more advice?"

Loo glanced at Miriam. He could see all three faces where he stood, but only by the light of the fire. Miriam was nearest to the hearth. Hecould see that her eyes were aglow--possibly with anger. 

Barebone shrugged his shoulders. 

"You are not an agent--you are an advocate, " he said. 

Turner raised his eyes with the patience of a slumbering animal that hasbeen prodded. 

"Yes, " he said--"your advocate. There is one more chance I should adviseany man to shun--to cast to the four winds, and hold on only to thattangible possibility of happiness in the present--it is the chance ofenjoying, in some dim and distant future, the satisfaction of having, ina half-forgotten past, done one's duty. One's first duty is to secure, by all legitimate means, one's own happiness. "

"What is the proposition?" interrupted Barebone, quickly; and Turner, beneath his heavy lids, had caught in the passing the glance fromMiriam's eyes, for which possibly both he and Loo Barebone had beenwaiting. 

"Fifty thousand pounds, " replied the banker, bluntly, "in first-classEnglish securities, in return for a written undertaking on your partto relinquish all claim to any heritage to which you may think yourselfentitled in France. You will need to give your word of honour never toset foot on French soil--and that is all. "

"I never, until this moment, " replied Barebone, "knew the value of myown pretensions. "

"Yes, " said Turner, quietly; "that is the obvious retort. And havingmade it, you can now give a few minutes' calm reflection to myproposition--say five minutes, until that clock strikes half-pastnine--and then I am ready to answer any questions you may wish to ask. "

Barebone laughed good-humouredly, and so far fell in with the suggestionthat he leant his elbow on the corner of the mantelpiece, and looked atthe clock. 

CHAPTER XXIX. IN THE DARK

Had John Turner been able to see round the curve of his own vast cheekshe might have perceived the answer to his proposition lurking in alittle contemptuous smile at the corner of Miriam's closed lips. Loosaw it there, and turned again to the contemplation of the clock on themantelpiece which had already given a preliminary click. 

Thus they waited until the minutes should elapse, and Turner, with asmile of simple pleasure at their ready acquiescence in his suggestion, probably reflected behind his vacuous face that silence rarely impliesindecision. 

When at last the clock struck, Loo turned to him with a laugh and ashake of the head as if the refusal were so self-evident that to put itinto words were a work of supererogation. 

"Who makes the offer?" he asked. 

Turner smiled on him with visible approbation as upon a quick and worthyfoe who fought a capable fight with weapons above the board. 

"No matter--since you are disposed to refuse. The money is in my hands, as is the offer. Both are good. Both will hold good till to-morrowmorning. "

Septimus Marvin gave a little exclamation of approval. He had beensitting by the table looking from one to the other over his spectacleswith the eager smile of the listener who understands very little, andwhile wishing that he understood more, is eager to put in a word ofapproval or disapprobation on safe and general lines. It was quiteobvious to John Turner, who had entered the room in ignorance on thispoint, that Marvin knew nothing of Barebone's heritage in France whileMiriam knew all. 

"There is one point, " he said, "which is perhaps scarcely worthmentioning. The man who makes the offer is not only the mostunscrupulous, but is likely to become one of the most powerful men inEur--men I know. There is a reverse side to the medal. There always isa reverse side to the good things of this world. Should you refuse hisridiculously generous offer you will make an enemy for life--one who isnearing that point where men stop at nothing. "

Turner glanced at Miriam again. Her clean-cut features had a stonystillness and her eyes looked obstinately at the clock. The banker movedin his chair as if suddenly conscious that it was time to go. 

"Do not, " he said to Barebone, "be misled or mislead yourself into afalse estimate of the strength of your own case. The offer I make youdoes not in any way indicate that you are in a strong position. Itmerely shows the indolence of a man naturally open-handed, who wouldalways rather pay than fight. "

"Especially if the money is not his own. "

"Yes, " admitted Turner, stolidly, "that is so. Especially if the moneyis not his own. I dare say you know the weakness of your own case:others know it too. A portrait is not much to go on. Portraits are soeasily copied; so easily changed. "

He rose as he spoke and shook hands with Marvin. Then he turned toMiriam, but he did not meet her glance. Last of all he shook hands withBarebone. 

"Sleep on it, " he said. "Nothing like sleeping on a question. I amstaying at 'The Black Sailor. ' See you to-morrow. "

He had come, had transacted his business and gone, all in less than anhour, with an extraordinary leisureliness almost amounting to indolence. He had lounged into the house, and now he departed without haste orexplanation. Never hurry, never explain, was the text upon which JohnTurner seemed to base the sleepy discourse of his life. For each of usis a living sermon to his fellows, and, it is to be feared, the majorityare warnings. 

Turner had dragged on his thick overcoat, not without Loo's assistance, and, with the collar turned up about his ears, he went out into thenight, leaving the three persons whom he had found in the drawing-roomstanding in the hall looking at the door which he closed decisivelybehind him. "Seize your happiness while you can, " he had urged. "Ifnot--" and the decisive closing of a door on his departing heel said therest. 

The clocks struck ten. It was not worth while going back to thedrawing-room. All Farlingford was abed in those days by nine o'clock. Barebone took his coat and prepared to follow Turner. Miriam was alreadylighting her bedroom candle. She bade the two men good night and wentslowly upstairs. As she reached her own room she heard the front doorclosed behind Loo and the rattle of the chain under the uncertainfingers of Septimus Marvin. The sound of it was like the clink of thatother chain by which Barebone had made fast his boat to the totteringpost on the river-wall. 

Miriam's room was at the front of the house, and its square Georgianwindows faced eastward across the river to the narrow spit of marsh-landand the open sea beyond it. A crescent of moon far gone on the wane, yellow and forlorn, was rising from the sea. An uncertain path of lightlay across the face of the far-off tide-way--broken by a narrow strip ofdarkness and renewed again close at hand across the wide river almost tothe sea-wall beneath the window. From this window no house could be seenby day--nothing but a vast expanse of water and land hardly less leveland unbroken. No light was visible on sea or land now, nothing but thewaning moon in a cold clear sky. 

Miriam threw herself, all dressed, on her bed with the abandonment ofone who is worn out by some great effort, and buried her face in thepillow. 

Barebone's way lay to the left along the river-wall by the side of thecreek. Turner had gone to the right, taking the path that led down theriver to the old quay and the village. Whereas Barebone must turn hisback on Farlingford to reach the farm which still crouches behind ashelter of twisted oaks and still bears the name of Maiden's Grave;though the name is now nothing but a word. For no one knows who themaiden was, or where her grave, or what brought her to it. 

The crescent moon gave little light, but Loo knew his way beneath thestunted cedars and through the barricade of ilex drawn round the rectoryon the northern side. His eyes, trained to darkness, saw the shadowyform of a man awaiting him beneath the cedars almost as soon as the doorwas closed. 

He went toward him, perceiving with a sudden misgiving that it was notJohn Turner. A momentary silhouette against the northern sky showed thatit was Colville, come at last. 

"Quick--this way!" he whispered, and taking Barebone's arm he led himthrough the bushes. He halted in a little open space between the ilexand the river-wall, which is fifteen feet high at the meeting ofthe creek and the larger stream. "There are three men, who are notFarlingford men, on the outer side of the sea-wall below the rectorylanding. Turner must have placed them there. I'll be even with him yet. There is a large fishing-smack lying at anchor inside the Ness--justacross the marsh. It is the 'Petite Jeanne. ' I found this out while youwere in there. I could hear your voices. "

"Could you hear what he said?"

"No, " answered Colville, with a sudden return to his old manner, easyand sympathetic. "No--this is no time for joking, I can tell you that. You have had a narrow escape, I assure you, Barebone. That man, theCaptain of the 'Petite Jeanne, ' is well known. There are plentyof people in France who want to get quietly rid of some familyencumbrance--a man in the way, you understand, a son too many, ahusband too much, a stepson who will inherit--the world is full ofsuperfluities. Well, the Captain of the 'Petite Jeanne' will take them avoyage for their health to the Iceland fisheries. They are so far and soremote--the Iceland fisheries. The climate is bad and accidents happen. And if the 'Petite Jeanne' returns short-handed, as she often does, theother boats do the same. It is only a question of a few entries in thecustom-house books at Fecamp. Do you see?"

"Yes, " admitted Barebone, thoughtfully. "I see. "

"I suppose it suggested itself to you when you were on board, and thatis why you took the first chance of escape. "

"Well, hardly; but I escaped, so it does not matter. "

"No, " acquiesced Colville. "It doesn't matter. But how are we to getout of this? They are waiting for us under the sea-wall. Is there a wayacross the marsh?"

"Yes--I know a way. But where do you want to go to-night?"

"Out of this, " whispered Colville, eagerly. "Out of Farlingford andSuffolk before the morning if we can. I tell you there is a Frenchgunboat at Harwich, and another in the North Sea. It may be chanceand it may not. But I suspect there is a warrant out against you. And, failing that, there is the 'Petite Jeanne' hanging about waiting tokidnap you a second time. And Turner's at the bottom of it, damn him!"

Again Dormer Colville allowed a glimpse to appear of another man quitedifferent from the easy, indolent man-of-the-world, the well-dressedadventurer of a day when adventure was mostly sought in drawing-rooms, when scented and curled dandies were made or marred by women. For amoment Colville was roused to anger and seemed capable of manly action. But in an instant the humour passed and he shrugged his shoulders andgave a short, indifferent laugh beneath his breath. 

"Come, " he said, "lead the way and I will follow. I have been out heresince eight o'clock and it is deucedly cold. I followed Turner fromParis, for I knew he was on your scent. Once across the marsh we cantalk without fear as we go along. "

Barebone obeyed mechanically, leading the way through the bushes tothe kitchen-garden and over an iron fencing on to the open marsh. Thisstretched inland for two miles without a hedge or other fence but thesunken dykes which intersected it across and across. Any knowing hisway could save two miles on the longer way by the only road connectingFarlingford with the mainland and tapping the great road that runs northand south a few miles inland. 

There was no path, for few ever passed this way. By day, a solitaryshepherd watched his flocks here. By night the marsh was deserted. Across some of the dykes a plank is thrown, the whereabouts of which isindicated by a post, waist-high, driven into the ground, easily enoughseen by day, but hard to find after dark. Not all the dykes have aplank, and for the most part the marsh is divided into squares, eachonly connected at one point with its neighbour. 

Barebone knew the way as well as any in Farlingford, and he struck outacross the thick grass which crunched briskly under the foot, for it wascoated with rime, and the icy wind blew in from the sea a freezing mist. Once or twice Barebone, having made a bee-line across from dyke to dyke, failed to strike the exact spot where the low post indicated a plank, and had to pause and stoop down so as to find its silhouette against thesky. When they reached a plank he tried its strength with one footand then led the way across it, turning and waiting at the far end forColville to follow. It was unnecessary to warn him against a slip, forthe plank was no more than nine inches wide and shone white with rime. Each foot must be secure before its fellow was lifted. 

Colville, always ready to fall in with a companion's humour, ever quickto understand the thoughts of others, respected his silence. Perhaps hewas not far from guessing the cause of it. 

Loo was surprised to find that Dormer Colville was less antipatheticthan he had anticipated. For the last month, night and day, he haddreaded Colville's arrival, and now that he was here he was almost gladto see him; almost glad to quit Farlingford. And his heart was hot withanger against Miriam. 

Turner's offer had at all events been worth considering. Had he beenalone when it was made he would certainly have considered it; he wouldhave turned it this way and that. He would have liked to play with it asa cat plays with a mouse, knowing all the while that he must refusein the end. Perhaps Turner had made the offer in Miriam's presence, expecting to find in her a powerful ally. It was only natural for himto think this. Ever since the beginning, men have assigned to women therole of the dissuader, the drag, the hinderer. It is always the woman, tradition tells us, who persuades the man to be a coward, to stay athome, to shirk a difficult or a dangerous duty. 

As a matter of fact, Turner had made this mistake. He had alwayswondered why Miriam Liston elected to live at Farlingford when with herwealth and connections, both in England and France, she might live agayer life elsewhere. There must, he reflected, be some reason for it. 

When whosoever does anything slightly unconventional or leaves undonewhat custom and gossip make almost obligatory, a relation or a mereinterfering neighbour is always at hand to wag her head and say theremust be some reason for it. Which means, of course, one specific reason. And the worst of it is that she is nearly always right. 

John Turner, laboriously putting two small numerals together, after hismanner, had concluded that Loo Barebone was the reason. Even bankingmay, it seems, be carried on without the loss of all human weakness, especially if the banker be of middle age, unmarried, and deprived byan unromantic superfluity of adipose tissue of the possibility of livingthrough a romance of his own. Turner had consented to countenance, ifnot actually to take part in, a nefarious scheme, to rid France and thepresent government of one who might easily bring about its downfall, oncertain conditions. Knowing quite well that Loo Barebone could take careof himself at sea, and was quite capable of effecting an escape if hedesired it, he had put no obstacle in the way of the usual voyage tothe Iceland fisheries. Since those days many governments in Francehave invented many new methods of disposing of a political foe. DormerColville was only anticipating events when he took away the character ofthe Captain of the "Petite Jeanne. "

Turner had himself proposed this alternative method of securingBarebone's silence. He had even named the sum. He had seized theexcellent opportunity of laying it before Barebone in the quiet intimacyof the rectory drawing-room with Miriam in the soft lamp-light besidehim, with the scent of the violets at her breast mingling with the warmsmell of the wood fire. 

And Barebone had laughed at the offer. 

CHAPTER XXX. IN THE FURROW AGAIN

Turner, stumbling along the road to "The Black Sailor, " probablywondered why he had failed. It is to be presumed that he knew thatthe ally he had looked to for powerful aid had played him false at thecrucial moment. 

His misfortune is common to all men who presume to take anything forgranted from a woman. 

Barebone, stumbling along in the dark in another direction, was as angrywith Miriam as she in her turn was angry with Turner. She was, Barebonereflected, so uncompromising. She saw her course so clearly, sounmistakably--as birds that fly in the night--and from that coursenothing, it seemed, would move her. It was a question of temperamentand not of principle. For, even half a century ago, high principles werebeginning to go out of fashion in the upper strata of a society which inthese days tolerates anything except cheating at games. 

Barebone himself was of a different temperament. He liked to blindhimself to the inevitable end, to temporise with the truth, whereasMiriam, with a sort of dogged courage essentially English, perceived thehard truth at once and clung to it, though it hurt. And all the whileBarebone knew at the back of his heart that his life was not his ownto shape. At the end, says an Italian motto, stands Destiny. Barebonewanted to make believe; he wanted to pretend that his path lay downa flowery way, knowing all the while that he had a hill to climb andDestiny stood at the top. 

Colville had come at the right time. It is the fate of some men to comeat the right moment, just as it is the lot of others never to be therewhen they are wanted and their place is filled by a bystander and anopportunity is gone for ever. Which is always a serious matter, for Godonly gives one or two opportunities to each of us. 

Colville had come with his ready sympathy, not expressed as theworld expresses its sympathy, in words, but by a hundred littleself-abnegations. He was always ready to act up to the principles ofhis companion for the moment or to act up to no principles at all shouldthat companion be deficient. Moreover, he never took it upon himself tojudge others, but extended to his neighbour a large tolerance, in returnfor which he seemed to ask nothing. 

"I have a carriage, " he said, when on a broader cart-track they couldwalk side by side, "waiting for me at the roadside inn at the junctionof the two roads. The man brought me from Ipswich to the outskirts ofFarlingford, and I sent him back to the high road to wait for me there, to put up and stay all night, if necessary. "

Barebone was beginning to feel tired. The wind was abominably cold. Heheard with satisfaction that Colville had as usual foreseen his wishes. 

"I dogged Turner all the way from Paris, hardly letting him out of mysight, " Colville explained, cheerily, when they at length reached theroad. "It is easy enough to keep in touch with one so remarkably stout, for every one remembers him. What did he come to Farlingford for?"

"Apparently to try and buy me off. "

"For Louis Bonaparte?"

"He did not say so. "

"No, " said Colville. "He would not say so. But it is pretty generallysuspected that he is in that galley, and pulls an important oar in it, too. What did he offer you?"

"Fifty thousand pounds. "

"Whew!" whistled Colville. He stopped short in the middle of the road. "Whew!" he repeated, thoughtfully, "fifty thousand pounds! Gad! Theymust be afraid of you. They must think that we are in a strong position. And what did you say, Barebone?"

"I refused. "

"Why?"

Barebone paused, and after a moment's thought made no answer at all. Hecould not explain to Dormer Colville his reason for refusing. 

"Outright?" inquired Colville, deep in thought. 

"Yes. "

Colville turned and glanced at him sideways, though it was too dark tosee his face. 

"I should have thought, " he said, tentatively, after a while, "that itwould have been wise to accept. A bird in the hand, you know--a damnedbig bird! And then afterwards you could see what turned up. "

"You mean I could break my word later on, " inquired Barebone, with thatodd downrightness which at times surprised Colville and made him thinkof Captain Clubbe. 

"Well, you know, " he explained, with a tolerant laugh, "in politics itoften turns out that a man's duty is to break his word--duty toward hisparty, and his country, and that sort of thing. "

Which was plausible enough, as many eminent politicians seem to havefound in these later times. 

"I dare say it may be so, " answered Barebone, "but I refused outright, and there is an end to it. "

For now that he was brought face to face with the situation, shorn ofside issues and set squarely before him, he envisaged it clearly enough. He did not want fifty thousand pounds. He had only wanted the money fora moment because the thought leapt into his mind that fifty thousandpounds meant Miriam. Then he saw that little contemptuous smile tiltingthe corner of her lips, and he had no use for a million. 

If he could not have Miriam, he would be King of France. It is thusthat history is made, for those who make it are only men. And Clio, that greatest of the daughters of Zeus, about whose feet cluster all thefamous names of the makers of this world's story, has, after all, onlyhad the reversion of the earth's great men. She has taken them aftersome forgotten woman of their own choosing has had the first refusal. 

Thus it came about that the friendship so nearly severed one eveningat the Hotel Gemosac, in Paris, was renewed after a few months; andBarebone felt assured once more that no one was so well disposed towardhim as Dormer Colville. 

There was no formal reconciliation, and neither deemed it necessary torefer to the past. Colville, it will be remembered, was an adept atthat graceful tactfulness which is somewhat clumsily described by thistolerant generation as going on as if nothing had happened. 

By the time that the waning moon was high enough in the eastern sky toshed an appreciable light upon their path, they reached the junction ofthe two roads and set off at a brisk pace southward toward Ipswich. Sofar as the eye could reach, the wide heath was deserted, and they talkedat their ease. 

"There is nothing for it but to wake up my driver and make him take usback to Ipswich to-night. To-morrow morning we can take train to Londonand be there almost as soon as John Turner realises that you have givenhim the slip, " said Colville, cheerily. 

"And then?"

"And then back to France--where the sun shines, my friend, and thespring is already in the air. Think of that! It is so, at least, atGemosac, for I heard from the Marquis before I quitted Paris. Yourdisappearance has nearly broken a heart or two down there, I can tellyou. The old Marquis was in a great state of anxiety. I have never seenhim so upset about anything, and Juliette did not seem to be able tooffer him any consolation. "

"Back to France?" echoed Barebone, not without a tone of relief, almostof exultation, in his voice. "Will it be possible to go back there, since we have to run away from Farlingford?"

"Safer there than here, " replied Colville. "It may sound odd, but itis true. De Gemosac is one of the most powerful men in France--notintellectually, perhaps, but by reason of his great name--and they wouldnot dare to touch a protege or a guest of his. If you go back therenow you must stay at Gemosac; they have put the chateau into a morehabitable condition, and are ready to receive you. "

He turned and glanced at Loo's face in the moonlight. 

"There will be a difference, you understand. You will be a differentperson from what you were when last there, " he went on, in a muffledvoice. 

"Yes, I understand, " replied Barebone, gravely. Already the dream wastaking shape--Colville's persuasive voice had awakened him to find thatit was no dream, but a reality--and Farlingford was fading back into theland of shadows. It was only France, after all, that was real. 

"That journey of ours, " explained Colville, vaguely, "has made anextraordinary difference. The whole party is aroused and in deadlyearnest now. "

Barebone made no answer, and they walked on in meditative silence towardthe roadside inn, which stood up against the southern sky a few hundredyards ahead. 

"In fact, " Colville added, after a silence, "the ball is at your feet, Barebone. There can be no looking back now. "

And again Barebone made no answer. It was a tacit understanding, then. 

For greater secrecy, Barebone walked on toward Ipswich alone, whileColville went into the inn to arouse his driver, whom he foundslumbering in the wide chimney corner before a log fire. From Ipswichto London, and thus on to Newhaven, they journeyed pleasantly enoughin company, for they were old companions of the road, and Colville'sunruffled good humour made him an easy comrade for travel even in dayswhen the idea of comfort reconciled with speed had not suggested itselfto the mind of man. 

Such, indeed, was his foresight that he had brought with him to London, and there left awaiting further need of it, that personal baggage whichLoo had perforce left behind him at the Hotel Gemosac in Paris. 

They made but a brief halt in London, where Colville admitted gaily thathe had no desire to be seen. 

"I might meet my tailor in Piccadilly, " he said. "And there are otherswho may perhaps consider themselves aggrieved. "

At Colville's club, where they dined, he met more than one friend. 

"Hallo!" said one who had the ruddy countenance and bluff manners ofa retired major. "Hallo! Who'd have expected to see you here? I didn'tknow--I--thought--eh! dammy!"

And a hundred facetious questions gleamed from the major's eye. 

"All right, my boy, " answered Colville, cheerfully. "I am off to Franceto-morrow morning. "

The Major shook his head wisely as if in approval of a course of conductsavouring of that prudence which is the better part of valour, glancedat Loo Barebone, and waited in vain for an invitation to take a vacantchair near at hand. 

"Still in the south of France, I suppose?"

"Still in the south of France, " replied Colville, turning to Barebone ina final way, which had the effect of dismissing this inquisitive idler. 

While they were at dinner another came. He was a raw-boned Scotchman, who spoke in broken English when the waiter was absent and in perfectFrench when that servitor hovered near. 

"I wish I could show my face in Paris, " he said, frankly, "but I can't. Too much mixed up with Louis Philippe to find favour in the eyes of thePrince President. "

"Why?" asked Colville. "What could you gain by showing in Paris a facewhich I am sure has the stamp of innocence all over it?"

The Scotchman laughed curtly. 

"Gain?" he answered. "Gain? I don't say I would, but I think I might beable to turn an honest penny out of the approaching events. "

"What events?"

"The Lord alone knows, " replied the Scotchman, who had never set footin his country, but had acquired elsewhere the prudent habit of neveranswering a question. "France doesn't, I am sure of that. I am thinkingthere will be events, though, before long, Colville. Will there not, now?"

Colville looked at him with an open smile. 

"You mean, " he said, slowly, "the Prince President. "

"That is what he calls himself at present. I'm wondering how long. Eh!man. He is just pouring money into the country from here, from America, from Austria--from wherever he can get it. "

"Why is he doing that?"

"You must ask somebody who knows him better than I do. They say you knewhim yourself once well enough, eh?"

"He is not a man I have much faith in, " said Colville, vaguely. "AndFrance has no faith in him at all. "

"So I'm told. But France--well, does France know what she wants? Shemostly wants something without knowing what it is. She is like a woman. It's excitement she wants, perhaps. And she will buy it at any cost, andthen find afterward she has paid too dear for it. That is like a woman, too. But it isn't another Bonaparte she wants, I am sure of that. "

"So am I, " answered Colville, with a side glance toward Barebone, a mereflicker of the eyelids. 

"Not unless it is a Napoleon of that ilk. "

"And he is not, " completed Colville.. 

"But--" the Scotchman paused, for a waiter came at this moment to tellhim that his dinner was ready at a table nearer to the fire. "But, " hewent on, in French, for the waiter lingered, "but he might be able topersuade France that it is himself she wants--might he not, now? Withmoney at the back of it, eh?"

"He might, " admitted Colville, doubtfully. 

The Scotchman moved away, but came back again. 

"I am thinking, " he said, with a grim smile, "that like all intelligentpeople who know France, you are aware that it is a King she wants. "

"But not an Orleans King, " replied Colville, with his friendly andindifferent laugh. 

The Scotchman smiled more grimly still and went away. 

He was seated too near for Colville and Loo to talk of him. But Colvilletook an opportunity to mention his name in an undertone. It was a nameknown all over Europe then, and forgotten now. 

CHAPTER XXXI. THE THURSDAY OF MADAME DE CHANTONNAY

"It is, " Madame de Chantonnay had maintained throughout the months ofJanuary and February--"it is an affair of the heart. "

She continued to hold this opinion with, however, a shade lessconviction, well into a cold March. 

"It is an affair of the heart, Abbe, " she said. "Allez! I know what Italk of. It is an affair of the heart and nothing more. There is someone in England: some blonde English girl. They are always washing, I amtold. And certainly they have that air--like a garment that has been toooften to the blanchisseuse and has lost its substance. A beautiful skin, I allow you. But so thin--so thin. "

"The skin, madame?" inquired the Abbe Touvent, with that gentle andcackling humour in which the ordained of any Church may indulge after agood dinner. 

The Abbe Touvent had, as a matter of fact, been Madame de Chantonnay'smost patient listener through the months of suspense that followed LooBarebone's sudden disappearance. Needless to say he agreed ardently withwhatever explanation she put forward. Old ladies who give good dinnersto a Low Church British curate, or an abbe of the Roman confession, or, indeed, to the needy celibate exponents of any creed whatsoever, mayalways count upon the active conversational support of their spiritualadviser. And it is not only within the fold of Papacy that carefulChristians find the road to heaven made smooth by the arts of anefficient cook. 

"You know well enough what I mean, malicious one, " retorted the lady, arranging her shawl upon her fat shoulders. 

"I always think, " murmured the Abbe, sipping his digestive glass ofeau-de-vie d'Armagnac, which is better than any cognac of Charente--"Ialways think that to be thin shows a mean mind, lacking generosity. "

"Take my word for it, " pursued Madame de Chantonnay, warming to hersubject, "that is the explanation of the young man's disappearance. Theysay the government has taken some underhand way of putting him aside. One does not give credence to such rumours in these orderly times. No:it is simply that he prefers the pale eyes of some Mees to glory andFrance. Has it not happened before, Abbe?"

"Ah! Madame--" another sip of Armagnac. 

"And will it not happen again? It is the heart that has the first wordand the last. I know--I who address you, I know!"

And she touched her breast where, very deeply seated it is to bepresumed, she kept her own heart. 

"Ah! Madame. Who better?" murmured the Abbe. 

"Na, na!" exclaimed Madame de Chantonnay, holding up one hand, heavywith rings, while with the other she gathered her shawl closer abouther as if for protection. "Now you tread on dangerous ground, wickedone--WICKED! And you so demure in your soutane!"

But the Abbe only laughed and held up his small glass after the mannerof any abandoned layman drinking a toast. 

"Madame, " he said, "I drink to the hearts you have broken. And now I goto arrange the card tables, for your guests will soon be coming. "

It was, in fact, Madame de Chantonnay's Thursday evening to which werebidden such friends as enjoyed for the moment her fickle good graces. The Abbe Touvent was, so to speak, a permanent subscriber to thesefavours. The task was easy enough, and any endowed with a patience tolisten, a readiness to admire that excellent young nobleman, Albert deChantonnay, and the credulity necessary to listen to the record (morehinted at than clearly spoken) of Madame's own charms in her youth, could make sure of a game of dominoes on the evening of the thirdThursday in the month. 

The Abbe bustled about, drawing cards and tables nearer to the lamps, away from the draught of the door, not too near the open wood fire. Hismovements were dainty, like those of an old maid of the last generation. He hissed through his teeth as if he were working very hard. It servedto stimulate a healthy excitement in the Thursday evening of Madame deChantonnay. 

"Oh, I am not uneasy, " said that lady, as she watched him. She had dinedwell and her digestion had outlived those charms to which she madesuch frequent reference. "I am not uneasy. He will return, more or lesssheepish. He will make some excuse more or less inadequate. He will tellus a story more or less creditable. Allez! Oh, you men. If you intendthat chair for Monsieur de Gemosac, it is the wrong one. Monsieur deGemosac sits high, but his legs are short; give him the little chairthat creaks. If he sits too high he is apt to see over the top of one'scards. And he is so eager to win--the good Marquis. "

"Then he will come to-night despite the cold? You think he will come, Madame?"

"I am sure of it. He has come more frequently since Juliette came tolive at the chateau. It is Juliette who makes him come, perhaps. Whoknows?"

The Abbe stopped midway across the floor and set down the chair hecarried with great caution. 

"Madame is incorrigible, " he said, spreading out his hands. "Madamewould perceive a romance in a cradle. "

"Well, one must begin somewhere, Materialist. Once it was for me thatthe guests crowded to my poor Thursdays. But now it is because Albertis near. Ah! I know it. I say it without jealousy. Have you noticed, mydear Abbe, that he has cut his whiskers a little shorter--a shade nearerto the ear? It is effective, eh?"

"It gives an air of hardihood, " assented the Abbe. "It lends to thatintellectual face something martial. I would almost say that to thetimorous it might appear terrible and overbearing. "

Thus they talked until the guests began to arrive, and for Madame deChantonnay the time no doubt seemed short enough. For no one appreciatedAlbert with such a delicacy of touch as the Abbe Touvent. 

The Marquis de Gemosac and Juliette were the last to arrive. The Marquislooked worn and considerably aged. He excused himself with a hundredgestures of despair for being late. 

"I have so much to do, " he whispered. "So much to think of. We areleaving no stone unturned, and at last we have a clue. "

The other guests gathered round. 

"But speak, my dear friend, speak, " cried Madame de Chantonnay. "Youkeep us in suspense. Look around you. We are among friends, as you see. It is only ourselves. "

"Well, " replied the Marquis, standing upright and fingering thesnuff-box which had been given to his grandfather by the Great Louis. "Well, my friends, our invaluable ally, Dormer Colville, has gone toEngland. There is a ray of hope. That is all I can tell you. "

He looked round, smiled on his audience, and then proceeded to tell themmore, after the manner of any Frenchman. 

"What, " he whispered, "if an unscrupulous republican government had gotscent of our glorious discovery! What if, panic-stricken, they threw allvestige of honour to the wind and decided to kidnap an innocent man andsend him to the Iceland fisheries, where so many lives are lost everywinter; with what hopes in their republican hearts, I leave to yourimagination. What if--let us say it for once--Monsieur de Bourbonshould prove a match for them? Alert, hardy, full of resource, a skilledsailor, he takes his life in his hand with the daring audacity of royalblood and effects his escape to England. I tell you nothing--"

He held up his hands as if to stay their clamouring voices, and noddedhis head triumphantly toward Albert de Chantonnay, who stood near a lampfingering his martial whisker of the left side with the air of one whowould pause at naught. 

"I tell you nothing. But such a theory has been pieced together uponexcellent material. It may be true. It may be a dream. And, as I tellyou, our dear friend Dormer Colville, who has nothing at stake, wholoses or gains little by the restoration of France, has journeyed toEngland for us. None could execute the commission so capably, or withoutdanger of arousing suspicion. There! I have told you all I know. We mustwait, my compatriots. We must wait. "

"And in the mean time, " purred the voice of the Abbe Touvent, "for thedigestion, Monsieur le Marquis--for the digestion. "

For it was one of the features of Madame de Chantonnay's Thursdays thatno servants were allowed in the room; but the guests waited on eachother. If the servants, as is to be presumed, listened outside the door, they were particular not to introduce each succeeding guest withoutfirst knocking, which caused a momentary silence and added considerablyto the sense of political importance of those assembled. The AbbeTouvent made it his special care to preside over the table where smallglasses of eau-de-vie d'Armagnac and other aids to digestion were setout in a careful profusion. 

"It is a theory, my dear Marquis, " admitted Madame de Chantonnay. "Butit is nothing more. It has no heart in it, your theory. Now I have atheory of my own. "

"Full of heart, one may assure oneself, Madame; full of heart, " murmuredthe Marquis. "For you yourself are full of heart--is it not so?"

"I hope not, " Juliette whispered to her fan, with a little smile ofmalicious amusement. For she had a youthful contempt for persons oldand stout, who talk ignorantly of matters only understood by such asare young and slim and pretty. She looked at her fan with a gleam ofill-concealed irony and glanced over it toward Albert de Chantonnay, who, with a consideration which must have been hereditary, was uneasyabout the alteration he had made in his whiskers. It was perhaps unfair, he felt, to harrow young and tender hearts. 

It was at this moment that a loud knock commanded a breathless silence, for no more guests were expected. Indeed the whole neighbourhood waspresent. 

The servant, in his faded gold lace, came in and announced with adramatic assurance: "Monsieur de Borbone--Monsieur Colville. "

And that difference which Dormer Colville had predicted was manifestedwith an astounding promptness; for all who were seated rose to theirfeet. It was Colville who had given the names to the servant in theorder in which they had been announced, and at the last minute, on thethreshold, he had stepped on one side and with his hand on Barebone'sshoulder had forced him to take precedence. 

The first person Barebone saw on entering the room was Juliette, standing under the spreading arms of a chandelier, half turned to lookat him--Juliette, in all the freshness of her girlhood and her firstevening dress, flushing pink and white like a wild rose, her eyes, bright with a sudden excitement, seeking his. 

Behind her, the Marquis de Gemosac, Albert de Chantonnay, his mother, and all the Royalists of the province, gathered in a semicircle, byaccident or some tacit instinct, leaving only the girl standing outin front, beneath the chandelier. They bowed with that graveself-possession which falls like a cloak over the shoulders of such asare of ancient and historic lineage. 

"We reached the chateau of Gemosac only a few minutes after Monsieurle Marquis and Mademoiselle had quitted it to come here, " Bareboneexplained to Madame de Chantonnay; "and trusting to the good-nature--sowidely famed--of Madame la Comtesse, we hurriedly removed the dust oftravel, and took the liberty of following them hither. "

"You have not taken me by surprise, " replied Madame de Chantonnay. "Iexpected you. Ask the Abbe Touvent. He will tell you, gentlemen, that Iexpected you. "

As Barebone turned away to speak to the Marquis and others, who werepressing forward to greet him, it became apparent that that mantle ofimperturbability, which millions made in trade can never buy, had fallenupon his shoulders, too. For most men are, in the end, forced to playthe part the world assigns to them. We are not allowed to remain what weknow ourselves to be, but must, at last, be that which the world thinksus. 

Madame de Chantonnay, murmuring to a neighbour a mystic reference to herheart and its voluminous premonitions, watched him depart with a vaguesurprise. 

"Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" she whispered, breathlessly. "It is not aresemblance. It is the dead come to life again. "

CHAPTER XXXII. PRIMROSES

"If I go on, I go alone, " Barebone had once said to Dormer Colville. Thewords, spoken in the heat of a quarrel, stuck in the memory of both, as such are wont to do. Perhaps, in moments of anger ordisillusionment--when we find that neither self nor friend is what wethought--the heart tears itself away from the grip of the cooler, calmerbrain and speaks untrammelled. And such speeches are apt to linger inthe mind long after the most brilliant jeu d'esprit has been forgotten. 

What occupies the thoughts of the old man, sitting out the greyremainder of the day, over the embers of a hearth which he will onlyquit when he quits the world? Does he remember the brilliant salliesof wit, the greatest triumphs of the noblest minds with which he hasconsorted; or does his memory cling to some scene--simple, pastoral, without incident--which passed before his eyes at a moment when hisheart was sore or glad? When his mind is resting from its labours andthe sound of the grinding is low, he will scarce remember the neatsaying or the lofty thought clothed in perfect language; but he willnever forget a hasty word spoken in an unguarded moment by one who wasnot clever at all, nor even possessed the worldly wisdom to shield theheart behind the buckler of the brain. 

"You will find things changed, " Colville had said, as they walked acrossthe marsh from Farlingford, toward the Ipswich road. And the words cameback to the minds of both, on that Thursday of Madame de Chantonnay, which many remember to this day. Not only did they find things changed, but themselves they found no longer the same. Both remembered thequarrel, and the outcome of it. 

Colville, ever tolerant, always leaning toward the compromise that easesa doubting conscience, had, it would almost seem unconsciously, prepared the way for a reconciliation before there was any question ofa difference. On their way back to France, without directly referringto that fatal portrait and the revelation caused by Barebone'sunaccountable feat of memory, he had smoothed away any possible scruple. 

"France must always be deceived, " he had said, a hundred times. "Betterthat she should be deceived for an honest than a dishonest purpose--ifit is deception, after all, which is very doubtful. The best patriot ishe who is ready to save his country at the cost of his own ease, whetherof body or of mind. It does not matter who or what you are; it is whator who the world thinks you to be, that is of importance. "

Which of us has not listened to a score of such arguments, not alwaysfrom the lips of a friend, but most often in that still, small voicewhich rarely has the courage to stand out against the tendency of theage? There is nothing so contagious as laxity of conscience. 

Barebone listened to the good-natured, sympathetic voice with amake-believe conviction which was part of his readiness to put off anevil moment. Colville was a difficult man to quarrel with. It seemedbearish and ill-natured to take amiss any word or action which couldonly be the outcome of a singularly tender consideration for thefeelings of others. 

But when they entered Madame de Chantonnay's drawing-room--when Dormer, impelled by some instinct of the fitness of things, stepped aside andmotioned to his companion to pass in first--the secret they had incommon yawned suddenly like a gulf between them. For the possession of asecret either estranges or draws together. More commonly, it estranges. For which of us is careful of a secret that redounds to our credit?Nearly every secret is a hidden disgrace; and such a possession, held incommon with another, is not likely to insure affection. 

Colville lingered on the threshold, watching Loo make the first stepsof that progress which must henceforth be pursued alone. He looked roundfor a friendly face, but no one had eyes for him. They were all lookingat Loo Barebone. Colville sought Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, usually infull evidence, even in a room full of beautiful women and distinguishedmen. But she was not there. For a minute or two no one noticed him; andthen Albert de Chantonnay, remembering his role, came forward to greetthe Englishman. 

"It was, " explained Colville, in a lowered voice, "as we thought. Anattempt was made to get him out of the way, but he effected his escape. He knew, however, the danger of attempting to communicate with any of usby post, and was awaiting some opportunity of transmitting a letter by asafe hand, when I discovered his hiding-place. "

And this was the story that went half round France, from lip to lip, among those who were faithful to the traditions of a glorious past. 

"Madame St. Pierre Lawrence, " Albert de Chantonnay told Colville, inreply, "is not here to-night. She is, however, at her villa, at Royan. She has not, perhaps, displayed such interest in our meetings as shedid before you departed on your long journey through France. But hergenerosity is unchanged. The money, which, in the hurry of the moment, you did not withdraw from her bank--"

"I doubt whether it was ever there, " interrupted Colville. 

"She informs me, " concluded Albert, "is still at our service. We havemany other promises, which must now be recalled to the minds of thosewho made them. But from no one have we received such generous support asfrom your kinswoman. "

They were standing apart, and in a few minutes the Marquis de Gemosacjoined them. 

"How daring! how audacious!" he whispered, "and yet how opportune--thisreturn. It is all to be recommenced, my friends, with a firmer grasp, anew courage. "

"But my task is accomplished, " returned Colville. "You have no furtheruse for a mere Englishman, like myself. I was fortunate in being able tolend some slight assistance in the original discovery of our friend; Ihave again been lucky enough to restore him to you. And now, with yourpermission, I will return to Royan, where I have my little apartment, asyou know. "

He looked from one to the other, with his melancholy andself-deprecating smile. 

"Voila, " he added; "it remains for me to pay my respects to Madame deChantonnay. We have travelled far, and I am tired. I shall ask her toexcuse me. "

"And Monsieur de Bourbon comes to Gemosac. That is understood. He willbe safe there. His apartments have been in readiness for him these lasttwo months. Hidden there, or in other dwellings--grander and betterserved, perhaps, than my poor ruin, but no safer--he can continue thegreat work he began so well last winter. As for you, my dear Colville, "continued the Marquis, taking the Englishman's two hands in his, "I envyyou from the bottom of my heart. It is not given to many to serve Franceas you have served her--to serve a King as you have served one. Itwill be my business to see that both remember you. For France, I allow, sometimes forgets. Go to Royan, since you wish--but it is only for atime. You will be called to Paris some day, that I promise you. "

The Marquis would have embraced him then and there, had the cool-bloodedEnglishman shown the smallest desire for that honour. But DormerColville's sad and doubting smile held at arms' length one who wasalways at the mercy of his own eloquence. 

The card tables had lost their attraction; and, although many partieswere formed, and the cards were dealt, the players fell to talkingacross the ungathered tricks, and even the Abbe Touvent was caughttripping in the matter of a point. 

"Never, " exclaimed Madame de Chantonnay, as her guests took leave attheir wonted hour, and some of them even later--"never have I had aThursday so dull and yet so full of incident. "

"And never, madame, " replied the Marquis, still on tiptoe, as it were, with delight and excitement, "shall we see another like it. "

Loo went back to Gemosac with the fluttering old man and Juliette. Juliette, indeed, was in no flutter, but had carried herself throughthe excitement of her first evening party with a demure little air ofself-possession. 

She had scarce spoken to Loo during the evening. Indeed, it had been hisduty to attend on Madame de Chantonnay and on the older members of thesequiet Royalist families biding their time in the remote country villagesof Guienne and the Vendee. 

On the journey home, the Marquis had so much to tell his companion, andtold it so hurriedly, that his was the only voice heard above therattle of the heavy, old-fashioned carriage. But Barebone was aware ofJuliette's presence in a dark corner of the roomy vehicle, and hiseyes, seeking to penetrate the gloom, could just distinguish hers, whichseemed to be turned in his direction. 

Many changes had been effected at the chateau, and a suite of rooms hadbeen prepared for Barebone in the detached building known as the Italianhouse, which stands in the midst of the garden within the enceinte ofthe chateau walls. 

"I have been able, " explained the Marquis, frankly, "to obtain a smalladvance on the results of last autumn's vintage. My notary in thevillage found, indeed, that facilities were greater than he hadanticipated. With this sum, I have been enabled to effect some necessaryrepairs to the buildings and the internal decorations. I had fallenbehind the times, perhaps. But now that Juliette is installed aschatelaine, many changes have been effected. You will see, my dearfriend; you will see for yourself. Yes, for the moment, I am no longera pauper. As you yourself will have noticed, in your journey throughthe west, rural France is enjoying a sudden return of prosperity. It isunaccountable. No one can make me believe that it is to be ascribed tothis scandalous Government, under which we agonise. But there it is--andwe must thank Heaven for it. "

Which was only the truth. For France was at this time entering upona period of plenty. The air was full of rumours of new railways, newroads, and new commercial enterprise. Banks were being opened in theprovincial towns, and loans made on easy terms to agriculturists for theimprovement of their land. 

Barebone found that there were indeed changes in the old chateau. The apartments above that which had once been the stabling, hithertooccupied by the Marquis, had been added to and a slight attempt atredecoration had been made. There was no lack of rooms, and Juliette nowhad her own suite, while the Marquis lived, as hitherto, in three smallapartments over the rooms occupied by Marie and her husband. 

An elderly relation--one of those old ladies habited in black, who areready to efface themselves all day and occupy a garret all night inreturn for bed and board, had been added to the family. She contributeda silent and mysterious presence, some worldly wisdom, and a profoundrespect for her noble kinsman. 

"She is quite harmless, " Juliette explained, gaily, to Barebone, onthe first occasion when they were alone together. This did not presentitself until Loo had been quartered in the Italian house for some days, with his own servant. Although he took luncheon and dinner with thefamily in the old building near to the gate-house, and spent hisevenings in Juliette's drawing-room, the Marquis or Madame Maugironwas always present, and as often as not, they played a game of chesstogether. 

"She is quite harmless, " said Juliette, tying, with a thread, theprimroses she had been picking in that shady corner of the garden whichlay at the other side of the Italian house. The windows of Barebone'sapartment, by the way, looked down upon this garden, and he, havingperceived her, had not wasted time in joining her in the morningsunshine. 

"I wonder if I shall be as harmless when I am her age. "

And, indeed, danger lurked beneath her lashes as she glanced at him, asking this question with her lips and a hundred others with her eyes, with her gay air of youth and happiness--with her very attitude ofcoquetry, as she stood in the spring sunshine, with the scent of theprimroses about her. 

"I think that any one who approaches you will always do so at his peril, Mademoiselle. "

"Then why do it?" she asked, drawing back and busying herself with theflowers, which she laid against her breast, as if to judge the effectof their colour against the delicate white of her dress. "Why run intodanger? Why come downstairs at all?"

"Why breathe?" he retorted, with a laugh. "Why eat, or drink, or sleep?Why live? Mon Dieu! because there is no choice. And when I see you inthe garden, there is no choice for me, Mademoiselle. I must come downand run into danger, because I cannot help it any more that I canhelp--"

"But you need not stay, " she interrupted, cleverly. "A brave man mayalways retire from danger into safety. "

"But he may not always want to, Mademoiselle. "

"Ah!"

And, with a shrug of the shoulders, she inserted the primroses within avery small waistband and turned away. 

"Will you give me those primroses, Mademoiselle?" asked Loo, withoutmoving; for, although she had turned to go, she had not gone. 

She turned on her heel and looked at him, with demure surprise, and thenbent her head to look at the flowers at her own waist. 

"They are mine, " she answered, standing in that pretty attitude, herhair half concealing her face. "I picked them myself. "

"Two reasons why I want them. "

"Ah! but, " she said, with a suggestion of thoughtfulness, "one does notalways get what one wants. You ask a great deal, Monsieur. "

"There is no limit to what I would ask, Mademoiselle. "

She laughed gaily. 

"If--" she inquired, with raised eyebrows. 

"If I dared. "

Again she looked at him with that little air of surprise. 

"But I thought you were so brave?" she said. "So reckless of danger? Abrave man assuredly does not ask. He takes that which he would have. "

It happened that she had clasped her hands behind her back, leaving theprimroses at her waist uncovered and half falling from the ribbon. 

In a moment he had reached out his hand and taken them. She leapt back, as if she feared that he might take more, and ran back toward the house, placing a rough tangle of brier between herself and this robber. Herlaughing face looked at him through the brier. 

"You have your primroses, " she said, "but I did not give them to you. You want too much, I think. "

"I want what that ribbon binds, " he answered. But she turned away andran toward the house, without waiting to hear. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. DORMER COLVILLE IS BLIND

It was late when Dormer Colville reached the quiet sea-coast village ofRoyan on the evening of his return to the west. He did not seek Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence until the luncheon hour next morning, when he wasinformed that she was away from home. 

"Madame has gone to Paris, " the man said, who, with his wife, was leftin charge of the empty house. "It was a sudden resolution, onemust conclude, " he added, darkly, "but Madame took no one into herconfidence. She received news by post, which must have brought aboutthis sudden decision. "

Colville was intimately acquainted with his cousin's affairs; manyhazarded an opinion that, without the help of Madame St. PierreLawrence, this rolling stone would have been bare enough. She had goneto Paris for one of two reasons, he concluded. Either she had expectedhim to return thither from London, and had gone to meet him with theintention of coming to some arrangement as to the disposal of the vastsum of money now in Turner's hands awaiting further developments, orsome hitch had occurred with respect to John Turner himself. 

Dormer Colville returned, thoughtfully, to his lodging, and in theevening set out for Paris. 

He himself had not seen Turner since that morning in the banker's officein the Rue Lafayette, when they had parted so unceremoniously, in asomewhat heated spirit. But, on reflection, Colville, who had sought toreassure himself with regard to one whose name stood for the incarnationof gastronomy and mental density in the Anglo-French clubs of Paris, had come to the conclusion that nothing was to be gained by forcinga quarrel upon Turner. It was impossible to bring home to him anaccusation of complicity in an outrage which had been carried throughwith remarkable skill. And when it is impossible to force home anaccusation, a wise man will hold his tongue. 

Colville could not prove that Turner had known Barebone to be in thecarriage waiting in the courtyard, and his own action in the matterhad been limited to the interposition of his own clumsy person betweenColville and the window; which might, after all, have been due tostupidity. This, as a matter of fact, was Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence'stheory on the subject. For that lady, resting cheerfully on the firmbasis of a self-confidence which the possession of money nearly alwaysconfers on women, had laughed at Turner all her life, and now proposedto continue that course of treatment. 

"Take my word, " she had assured Colville, "he was only acting in hisusual dense way, and probably thinks now that you are subject to brieffits of mental aberration. I am not afraid of him or anything that hecan do. Leave him to me, and devote all your attention to finding LooBarebone again. "

Upon which advice Colville had been content to act. He had a faith inMrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's wit which was almost as great as her own; andthought, perhaps rightly enough, that if any one were a match for JohnTurner it was his sprightly and capable client. For there are two waysof getting on in this world: one is to get credit for being clevererthan you are, and the other to be cleverer than your neighbour suspects. But the latter plan is seldom followed, for the satisfaction it providesmust necessarily be shared with no confidant. 

Colville knew where to look for Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence in Paris, where she always took an apartment in a quiet and old-fashioned hotelrejoicing in a select Royalist clientele on the Place Vendome. Onarriving at the capital, he hurried thither, and was told that the ladyhe sought had gone out a few minutes earlier. "But Madame's maid, " theporter added, "is no doubt within. "

Colville was conducted to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's room, and washardly there before the lady's French maid came hurrying in withupraised hands. 

"A just Heaven has assuredly sent Monsieur at this moment!" sheexclaimed. "Madame only quitted this room ten minutes ago, and she wasagitated--she, who is usually so calm. She would tell me nothing; but Iknow--I, who have done Madame's hair these ten years! And there is onlyone thing that could cause her anxiety--except, of course, any mishap toMonsieur; that would touch the heart--yes!"

"You are very kind, Catherine, " said Colville, with a laugh, "to thinkme so important. Is that letter for me?" And he pointed to a note in thewoman's hand. 

"But--yes!" was the reply, and she gave up the letter, somewhatreluctantly. "There is only one thing, and that is money, " sheconcluded, watching him tear open the envelope. 

"I am going to John Turner's office, " Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence wrote. "If, by some lucky chance, you should pass through Paris, and happen tocall this morning, follow me to the Rue Lafayette. M. St. P. L. "

It was plain enough. Colville reflected that Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrencehad heard of the success of his mission to England and the safe returnto Gemosac of Loo Barebone. For the moment, he could not think how thenews could have reached her. She might have heard it from MiriamListon; for their journey back to Gemosac had occupied nearly a week. On learning the good news, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had promptly graspedthe situation; for she was very quick in thought and deed. The moneywould be wanted at once. She had gone to Turner's office to withdraw itin person. 

Dormer Colville bought a flower in a shop in the Rue de la Paix, and hadit affixed to his buttonhole by the handmaid of Flora, who made it herbusiness to linger over the office with a gentle familiarity no doubtpleasing enough to the majority of her clients. 

Colville was absent-minded as he drove, in a hired carriage, to the RueLafayette. He was wondering whether Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's maid hadany grounds for stating that a mishap to him would touch her mistress'sheart. He was a man of unbounded enterprise; but, like many who aregamblers at heart, he was superstitious. He had never dared to try hisluck with Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. She was so hard, so worldly, soinfinitely capable of managing her own affairs and regulating her ownlife, that to offer her his hand and heart in exchange for her fortunehad hitherto been dismissed from his mind as a last expedient, only tobe faced when ruin awaited him. 

She had only been a widow three years. She had never been a sentimentalwoman, and now her liberty and her wealth were obviously so dear to herthat, in common sense, he could scarcely, with any prospect of success, ask her outright to part with them. Moreover, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrenceknew all about Dormer Colville, as men say. Which is only a saying; forno human being knows all about another human being, nor one-half, nor one-tenth of what there is to know. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrenceknew enough, at all events, Colville reflected, rather ruefully, todisillusionise a schoolgirl, much more a woman of the world, knowinggood and evil. 

He had not lived forty years in the world, and twenty years in thatworld of French culture which digs and digs into human nature, withouthaving heard philosophers opine that, in matters of the heart, womenhave no illusions at all, and that it is only men who go blindfold intothe tortuous ways of love. But he was too practical a man to build up afalse hope on so frail a basis as a theory applied to a woman's heart. 

He bought a flower for his buttonhole then, and squared his shoulders, without any definite design. It was a mere habit--the habit acquired bytwenty years of unsuccessful enterprise, and renewed effort and deferredhope--of leaving no stone unturned. 

His cab wheeled into the Rue Lafayette, and the man drove more slowly, reading the numbers on the houses. Then he stopped altogether, andturned round in his seat. 

"Citizen, " he said, "there is a great crowd at the house you named. Itextends half across the street. I will go no further. It is not I whocare about publicity. "

Colville stood up and looked in the direction indicated by his driver'swhip. The man had scarcely exaggerated. A number of people were waitingtheir turn on the pavement and out into the roadway, while two gendarmesheld the door. Dormer Colville paid his cabman and walked into thatcrowd, with a sinking heart. 

"It is the great English banker, " explained an on-looker, even before hewas asked, "who has failed. "

Colville had never found any difficulty in making his way through acrowd--a useful accomplishment in Paris at all times, where governmentis conducted, thrones are raised and toppled over, provinces are won andlost again, by the mob. He had that air of distinction which, if wieldedgood-naturedly, is the surest passport in any concourse. Some, no doubt, recognised him as an Englishman. One after another made way for him. Persons unknown to him commanded others to step aside and let him pass;for the busybody we have always with us. 

In a few minutes he was at the top of the stairs, and there elbowedhis way into the office, where the five clerks sat bent up over theirledgers. The space on the hither side of the counter was crammed withmen, who whispered impatiently together. If any one raised his voice, the clerk whose business it was lifted his head and looked at thespeaker with a mute surprise. 

One after another these white-faced applicants leant over the counter. 

"Voyons, Monsieur!" they urged; "tell me this or inform me of that. "

But the clerk only smiled and shook his head. 

"Patience, Monsieur, " he answered. "I cannot tell you yet. We areawaiting advices from London. "

"But when will you receive them?" inquired several, at once. 

"It may be to-morrow. It may not be for several days. "

"But can one see Mr. Turner?" inquired one, more daring than the rest. 

"He is engaged. "

Colville caught the eye of the clerk, and by a gesture made it knownthat he must be allowed to pass on into the inner room. Once more hisair of the great world, his good clothes, his flower in the buttonhole, gave him the advantage over others; and the clerk got down from hisstool. 

"Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence is with him, I know, " whispered Colville. "Icome by appointment to meet her here. "

He was shown in without further trouble, and found Mrs. St. PierreLawrence sitting, white-faced and voluble, in the visitors' chair. 

John Turner had his usual air of dense placidity, but the narrow blacktie he always tied in a bow was inclined slightly to one side; his hairwas ruffled, and, although the weather was not warm, his face wore ashiny look. Any banker, with his clients clamouring on the stairs andout into the street, might look as John Turner looked. 

"You have heard the news?" asked Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, turningsharply in her chair and looking at Colville with an expression ofsudden relief. She carried a handkerchief in her hand, but her eyes weredry. She was, after all, only a forerunner of those who now proposeto manage human affairs. And even in these later days of their greatadvance, they have not left their pocket-handkerchiefs behind them. 

"I was told by one of the crowd, " replied Colville, with a side smilefull of sympathy for Turner, "that the--er--bank had come to grief. "

"Was just telling Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, " said Turner, imperturbably, "that it is too early in the day to throw up the sponge and cry out thatall is lost. "

"All!" echoed Colville, angrily. "But do you mean to say--Why, surely, there is generally something left. "

Turner shrugged his shoulders and sat in silence, gnawing the middlejoint of his thumb. 

"But I must have the money!" cried Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. "It is mostimportant, and I must have it at once. I withdraw it all. See, Ibrought my cheque-book with me. And I know that there are over a hundredthousand pounds in my account. As well as that, you hold securities fortwo hundred and fifty thousand more--my whole fortune. The money is notyours: it is mine. I draw it all out, and I insist on having it. "

Turner continued to bite his thumb, and glanced at her without speaking. 

"Now, damn it all, Turner!" said Colville, in a voice suddenly hoarse;"hand it over, man. "

"I tell you it is gone, " was the answer. 

"What? Three hundred and fifty thousand pounds? Then you are a rogue!You are a fraudulent trustee! I always thought you were a damnedscoundrel, Turner, and now I know it. I'll get you to the galleys forthe rest of your life, I promise you that. "

"You will gain nothing by that, " returned the banker, staring at thedate-card in front of him. "And you will lose any chance there is ofrecovering something from the wreck. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had bettertake the advice of her lawyer--in preference to yours. "

"Then I am ruined!" said that lady, rising, with an air of resolution. She was brave, at all events. 

"At the present moment, it looks like it, " admitted Turner, withoutmeeting her eye. 

"What am I to do?" murmured Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, looking helplesslyround the room and finally at the banker's stolid face. 

"Like the rest of us, I suppose, " he admitted. "Begin the world afresh. Perhaps your friends will come forward. "

And he looked calmly toward Colville. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's facesuddenly flushed, and she turned away toward the door. Turner rose, laboriously, and opened it. 

"There is another staircase through this side door, " he said, opening asecond door, which had the appearance of a cupboard. "You can avoid thecrowd. "

They passed out together, and Turner, having closed the door behindthem, crossed the room to where a small mirror was suspended. He set histie straight and smoothed his hair, and then returned to his chair, witha vague smile on his face. 

Colville took the vacant seat in Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's brougham. She still held a handkerchief in her hand. 

"I do not mind for myself, " she exclaimed, suddenly, when the carriagemoved out of the court-yard. "It is only for your sake, Dormer. "

She turned and glanced at him with eyes that shone, but not with tears. 

"Oh! Don't you understand?" she asked, in a whisper. "Don't you see, Dormer?"

"A way out of it?" he answered, hurriedly, almost interrupting her. He withdrew his hand, upon which she had laid her own; withdrew itsympathetically, almost tenderly. "See a way out of it?" he repeated, ina reflective and business-like voice. "No, I am afraid, for the moment, I don't. "

He sat stroking his moustache, looking out of the window, while shelooked out of the other, resolutely blinking back her tears. They droveback to her hotel without speaking. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. A SORDID MATTER

"Bon Dieu! my old friend, what do you expect?" replied Madame deChantonnay to a rather incoherent statement made to her one Mayafternoon by the Marquis de Gemosac. "It is the month of May, " shefurther explained, indicating with a gesture of her dimpled hand theroses abloom all around them. For the Marquis had found her in a chairbeneath the mulberry-tree in the old garden of that house near Gemosacwhich looks across the river toward the sea. "It is the month of May. One is young. Such things have happened since the world began. Theywill happen until it ends, Marquis. It happened in our own time, if Iremember correctly. "

And Madame de Chantonnay heaved a prodigious sigh, in memory of the daysthat were no more. 

"Given a young man of enterprise and not bad looking, I allow. He hasthe grand air and his face is not without distinction. Given a younggirl, fresh as a flower, young, innocent, not without feeling. Ah!I know, for I was like that myself. Place them in a garden, in thespringtime. What will they talk of--politics? Ah--bah! Let them havelong evenings together while their elders play chess or a hand atbezique. What game will they play? A much older game than chess orbezique, I fancy. "

"But the circumstances were so exceptional, " protested the Marquis, whohad a pleased air, as if his anger were not without an antidote. 

"Circumstances may be exceptional, my friend, but Love is a Rule. Youallow him to stay six weeks in the chateau, seeing Juliette daily, andthen you are surprised that one fine morning Monsieur de Bourbon comesto you and tells you brusquely, as you report it, that he wants to marryyour daughter. "

"Yes, " admitted the Marquis. "He was what you may describe as brusque. It is the English way, perhaps, of treating such matters. Now, formyself I should have been warmer, I think. I should have allowed myselfa little play, as it were. One says a few pretty things--is it not so?One suggests that the lady is an angel and oneself entirely unworthyof a happiness which is only to be compared with the happiness thatis promised to us in the hereafter. It is an occasion upon which to beeloquent. "

"Not for the English, " corrected Madame de Chantonnay, holding up ahand to emphasise her opinion. "And you must remember, that althoughour friend is French, he has been brought up in that cold country--bya minister of their frozen religion, I understand. I, who speak to you, know what they are, for once I had an Englishman in love with me. It wasin Paris, when Louis XVIII. Was King. And did this Englishman tell methat he was heart-broken, I ask you? Never! On the contrary, he appearedto be of an indifference only to be compared with the indifference of atree. He seemed to avoid me rather than seek my society. Once, he madebelieve to forget that he had been presented to me. A ruse--a mere ruseto conceal his passion. But I knew, I knew always. "

"And what was the poor man's fate? What was his name, Comtesse?"

"I forget, my friend. For the moment I have forgotten it. But tell memore about Monsieur de Bourbon and Juliette. He is passionately in lovewith her, of course; he is so miserable. "

The Marquis reflected for a few moments. 

"Well, " he said, at last, "he may be so; he may be so, Comtesse. "

"And you--what did you say?"

The Marquis looked carefully round before replying. Then he leantforward with his forefinger raised delicately to the tip of his nose. 

"I temporised, Comtesse, " he said, in a low voice. "I explained asgracefully as one could that it was too early to think of such adevelopment--that I was taken by surprise. "

"Which could hardly have been true, " put in Madame de Chantonnay in anaudible aside to the mulberry-tree, "for neither Guienne nor la Vendeewill be taken by surprise. "

"I said, in other words--a good many words, the more the better, forone must be polite--'Secure your throne, Monsieur, and you shall marryJuliette. ' But it is not a position into which one hurries the last ofthe house of Gemosac--to be the wife of an unsuccessful claimant, eh?"

Madame de Chantonnay approved in one gesture of her stout hand of theseprinciples and of the Marquis de Gemosac's masterly demonstration ofthem. 

"And Monsieur de Bourbon--did he accept these conditions?"

"He seemed to, Madame. He seemed content to do so, " replied the Marquis, tapping his snuff-box and avoiding the lady's eye. 

"And Juliette?" inquired Madame, with a sidelong glance. 

"Oh, Juliette is sensible, " replied the fond father. "My daughter is, Ihope, sensible, Comtesse. "

"Give yourself no uneasiness, my old friend, " said Madame de Chantonnay, heartily. "She is charming. "

Madame sat back in her chair and fanned herself thoughtfully. It was thefashion of that day to carry a fan and wield it with grace and effect. To fan oneself did not mean that the heat was oppressive, any more thanthe use of incorrect English signifies to-day ill-breeding or a lackof education. Both are an indication of a laudable desire to beunmistakably in the movement of one's day. 

Over her fan Madame cast a sidelong glance at the Marquis, whom she, like many of his friends, suspected of being much less simple andspontaneous than he appeared. 

"Then they are not formally affianced?" she suggested. 

"Mon Dieu! no. I clearly indicated that there were other things to bethought of at the present time. A very arduous task lies before him, buthe is equal to it, I am certain. My conviction as to that grows as oneknows him better. "

"But you are not prepared to allow the young people to force you totake a leap in the dark, " suggested Madame de Chantonnay. "And that poorJuliette must consume her soul in patience; but she is sensible, as youjustly say. Yes, my dear Marquis, she is charming. "

They were thus engaged in facile talk when Albert de Chantonnay emergedfrom the long window of his study, a room opening on to a moss-grownterrace, where this plotter walked to and fro like another Richelieu andbrooded over nation-shaking schemes. 

He carried a letter in his hand and wore an air of genuine perturbment. But even in his agitation he looked carefully round before he spoke. 

"Here, " he said to the Marquis and his fond mother, who watched himwith complacency--"here I have a letter from Dormer Colville. It isnecessarily couched in very cautious language. He probably knows, asI know, that any letter addressed to me is liable to be opened. I havereason to believe that some of my letters have not only been opened, butthat copies of them are actually in the possession of that man--the headof that which is called the Government. "

He turned and looked darkly into a neighbouring clump of rhododendrons, as if Louis Napoleon were perhaps lurking there. But he was neverthelessquite right in his suspicions, which were verified twenty years later, along with much duplicity which none had suspected. 

"Nevertheless, " he went on, "I know what Colville seeks to convey to us, and is now hurrying away from Paris to confirm to us by word of mouth. The bank of John Turner in the Rue Lafayette has failed, and with itgoes all the fortune of Madame St. Pierre Lawrence. "

Both his hearers exclaimed aloud, and Madame de Chantonnay showed signsof a desire to swoon; but as no one took any notice, she changed hermind. 

"It is a ruse to gain time, " explained Albert, brushing the thin end ofhis moustache upward with a gesture of resolution. "Just as the otherwas a ruse to gain time. It is at present a race between two resoluteparties. The party which is ready first and declares itself will be thevictor. For to-day our poor France is in the gutter: she is in thehands of the canaille, and the canaille will accept the first who placeshimself upon an elevation and scatters gold. What care they--King orEmperor, Emperor or King! It is the same to them so long as they have achange of some sort and see, or think they see, gain to themselves to besnatched from it. "

From which it will be seen that Albert de Chantonnay knew hiscountrymen. 

"But, " protested Madame de Chantonnay, who had a Frenchwoman'sinimitable quickness to grasp a situation--"but the Government couldscarcely cause a bank to fail--such an old-established bank as Turner's, which has existed since the day of Louis XIV. --in order to gain time. "

"An unscrupulous Government can do anything in France, " replied thelady's son. "Their existence depends upon delay, and they are aware ofit. They would ruin France rather than forego their own aggrandisement. And this is part of their scheme. They seek to delay us at all costs. To kidnap de Bourbon was the first move. It failed. This is their secondmove. What must be our countermove?"

He clasped his hands behind his willowy back and paced slowly backwardand forward. By a gesture, Madame de Chantonnay bade the Marquis keepsilence while she drew his attention to the attitude of her son. When hepaused and fingered his whisker she gasped excitedly. 

"I have it, " said Albert, with an upward glance of inspiration. 

"Yes, my son?"

"The Beauvoir estate, " replied Albert, "left to me by my uncle. It isworth three hundred thousand francs. That is enough for the moment. Thatmust be our counter-move. "

Madame de Chantonnay protested volubly. For if Frenchmen are ready tosacrifice, or, at all events, to risk all for a sentiment--and historysays nothing to the contrary--Frenchwomen are eminently practical andfar-sighted. 

Madame had a hundred reasons why the Beauvoir estate should not be sold. Many of them contradicted each other. She was not what may be called aclose reasoner, but she was roughly effective. Many a general has won avictory not by the accuracy, but by the volume of his fire. 

"What will become of France, " she cried to Albert's retreating back ashe walked to and fro, "if none of the old families has a son to blessitself with? And Heaven knows that there are few enough remaining now. Besides, you will want to marry some day, and what will your bride saywhen you have no money? There are no dots growing in the hedgerows now. Not that I am a stickler for a dot. Give me heart, I always say, andkeep the money yourself. And some day you will find a loving heart, butno dot. And there is a tragedy at once--ready made. Is it not so, my oldfriend?"

She turned to the Marquis de Gemosac for confirmation of this forecast. 

"It is a danger, Madame, " was the reply. "It is a danger which it wouldbe well to foresee. "

They had discussed a hundred times the possibility of a romanticmarriage between their two houses. Juliette and Albert--the two lastrepresentatives of an old nobility long-famed in the annals of thewest--might well fall in love with each other. It would be charming, Madame thought; but, alas! Albert would be wise to look for a dot. 

The Marquis paused. Again he temporised. For he could not all in aninstant decide which side of this question to take. He looked at Albert, frail, romantic; an ideal representative of that old nobility of Francewhich was never practical, and elected to go to the guillotine ratherthan seek to cultivate that modern virtue. 

"At the same time, Madame, it is well to remember that a loan offerednow may reasonably be expected to bring such a return in the future aswill provide dots for the de Chantonnays to the end of time. "

Madame was about to make a spirited reply; she might even have suggestedthat the Beauvoir estate would be better apportioned to Albert's wifethan to Juliette as the wife of another, but Albert himself stopped infront of them and swept away all argument by a passionate gesture of hissmall, white hand. 

"It is concluded, " he said. "I sell the Beauvoir estate! Have not theChantonnays proved a hundred times that they are equal to any sacrificefor the sake of France?"

CHAPTER XXXV. A SQUARE MAN

All through the summer of 1851--a year to be marked for all time inthe minds of historians, not in red, but in black letters--the war ofpolitics tossed France hither and thither. 

There were, at this time, five parties contending for mastery. Shouldone of these appear for the moment to be about to make itself secure inpower, the other four would at once unite to tear the common adversaryfrom his unstable position. Of these parties, only two were of realcohesion: the Legitimists and the Bonapartists. The Socialists, theModerate Republicans, and the Orleanists were too closely allied in thepast to be friendly in the present. Socialists are noisy, but rarelyclever. A man who in France describes himself as Moderate must notexpect to be popular for any length of time. The Orleanists were onlyjust out of office. It was scarcely a year since Louis Philippe had diedin exile at Claremont--only three years since he signed his abdicationand hurried across to Newhaven. It was not the turn of the Orleanists. 

There is no quarrel so deadly as a family quarrel; no fall so suddenas that of a house divided against itself. All through the spring andsummer of 1851 France exhibited herself in the eyes of the world alaughing-stock to her enemies, a thing of pity to those who loved thatgreat country. 

The Republic of 1848 was already a house divided against itself. 

Its President, Louis Bonaparte, had been elected for four years. Hewas, as the law then stood, not eligible again until after the lapse ofanother four years. His party tried to abrogate this law, and failed. "No matter, " they said, "we shall elect him again, and President heshall be, despite the law. "

This was only one of a hundred such clouds, no bigger than a man's hand, arising at this time on the political horizon. For France was beginningto wander down that primrose path where a law is only a law so long asit is convenient. 

There was one man, Louis Bonaparte, who kept his head when others lostthat invaluable adjunct; who pushed on doggedly to a set purpose; whosetask was hard even in France, and would have been impossible in anyother country. For it is only in France that ridicule does not kill. And twice within the last fifteen years--once at Strasbourg, once atBoulogne--he had made the world hold its sides at the mention of hisname, greeting with the laughter which is imbittered by scorn, a failuredamned by ridicule. 

It has been said that Louis Bonaparte never gave serious thought tothe Legitimist party. He had inherited, it would seem, that invaluableknowledge of men by which his uncle had risen to the greatest throne ofmodern times. He knew that a party is never for a moment equal to a Man. And the Legitimists had no man. They had only the Comte de Chambord. 

At Frohsdorff they still clung to their hopes, with that old-worldbelief in the ultimate revival of a dead regime which was eminentlycharacteristic. And at Frohsdorff there died, in the October of thisyear, the Duchess of Angouleme, Marie Therese Charlotte, daughter ofMarie Antoinette, who had despised her two uncles, Louis XVIII. AndCharles X. , for the concessions they had made--who was more Royalistthan the King. She was the last of her generation, the last of herfamily, and with her died a part of the greatness of France, almost allthe dignity of royalty, and the last master-mind of the Bourbon race. 

If, as Albert de Chantonnay stated, the failure of Turner's bank wasnothing but a ruse to gain time, it had the desired effect. For a space, nothing could be undertaken, and the Marquis de Gemosac and his friendswere hindered from continuing the work they had so successfully begun. 

All through the summer Loo Barebone remained in France, at Gemosac asmuch as anywhere. The Marquis de Gemosac himself went to Frohsdorff. 

"If she had been ten years younger, " he said, on his return, "I couldhave persuaded her to receive you. She has money. All the influence ishers. It is she who has had the last word in all our affairs since thedeath of the Duc de Berri. But she is old--she is broken. I think she isdying, my friend. "

It was the time of the vintage again. Barebone remembered the lastvintage, and his journey through those provinces that supply all theworld with wine, with Dormer Colville for a companion. Since then he hadjourneyed alone. He had made a hundred new friends, had been welcomedin a hundred historic houses. Wherever he had passed, he had leftenthusiasm behind him--and he knew it. 

He had grown accustomed to his own power, and yet its renewed evidencewas a surprise to him every day. There was something unreal in it. Thereis always something unreal in fame, and great men know in their ownhearts that they are not great. It is only the world that thinks themso. When they are alone--in a room by themselves--they feel for a momenttheir own smallness. But the door opens, and in an instant they ariseand play their part mechanically. 

This had come to be Barebone's daily task. It was so easy to make hisway in this world, which threw its doors open to him, greeted him withoutstretched hands, and only asked him to charm them by being himself. He had not even to make an effort to appear to be that which he was not. He had only to be himself, and they were satisfied. 

Part of his role was Juliette de Gemosac. He found it quite easy tomake love to her; and she, it seemed, desired nothing better. Nothingdefinite had been said by the Marquis de Gemosac. They were notformally affianced. They were not forbidden to see each other. Butthe irregularity of these proceedings lent a certain spice ofsurreptitiousness to their intercourse which was not without its charm. They did not see so much of each other after Loo had spoken to theMarquis de Gemosac on this subject; for Barebone had to make visits toother parts of France. Once or twice Juliette herself went to stay withrelatives. During these absences they did not write to each other. 

It was, in fact, impossible for Barebone to keep up any correspondencewhatever. He heard that Dormer Colville was still in Paris, seeking tosnatch something from the wreck of Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's fortune. The Marquis de Gemosac had been told that affairs might yet be arranged. He was no financier, however, he admitted; he did not understand suchmatters, and all that he knew was that the promised help from theEnglishwoman was not forthcoming. 

"It is, " he concluded, "a question of looking elsewhere. It is not onlythat we want money. It is that we must have it at once. "

It was not, strictly speaking, Loo's part to think of or to administerthe money. His was the part to be played by Kings--so easy, if the giftis there, so impossible to acquire if it be lacking--to know many peopleand to charm them all. Thus the summer ripened into autumn. It had beenanother great vintage in the south, and Bordeaux was more than usuallybusy when Barebone arrived there, at daybreak, one morning in November, having posted from Toulouse. He was more daring in winter, and wentfearlessly through the streets. In cold weather it is so much easier fora man to conceal his identity; for a woman to hide her beauty, if shewish to--which is a large If. Barebone could wear a fur collar and turnit up round that tell-tale chin, which made the passer-by pause and turnto look at him again if it was visible. 

He breakfasted at the old-fashioned inn in the heart of the town, whereto this day the diligences deposit their passengers, and then he madehis way to the quay, from whence he would take passage down the river. It was a cold morning, and there are few colder cities, south of Paris, than Bordeaux. Barebone hurried, his breath frozen on the fur of hiscollar. Suddenly he stopped. His new self--that phantom second-naturebred of custom--vanished in the twinkling of an eye, and left him plainLoo Barebone, of Farlingford, staring across the green water toward "TheLast Hope, " deep-laden, anchored in mid-stream. 

Seeing him stop, a boatman ran toward him from a neighbouring flight ofsteps. 

"An English ship, monsieur, " he said; "just come in. Her anchors arehardly home. Does monsieur wish to go on board?"

"Of course I do, comrade--as quick as you like, " he answered, with a gaylaugh. It was odd that the sight of this structure, made of human hands, should change him in a flash of thought, should make his heart leap inhis breast. 

In a few minutes he was seated in the wherry, half way out across thestream. Already a face was looking over the bulwarks. The hands were onthe forecastle, still busy clearing decks after the confusion of lettinggo anchor and hauling in the jib-boom. 

Barebone could see them leave off work and turn to look at him. One ortwo raised a hand in salutation and then turned again to their task. Already the mate--a Farlingford man, who had succeeded Loo--was standingon the rail fingering a coil of rope. 

"Old man is down below, " he said, giving Barebone a hand. From theforecastle came sundry grunts, and half a dozen heads were jerkedsideways at him. 

Captain Clubbe was in the cabin, where the remains of breakfast hadbeen pushed to one end of the table to make room for pens and ink. TheCaptain was laboriously filling in the countless documents requiredby the French custom-house. He looked up, pen in hand, and all thewrinkles, graven by years of hardship and trouble, were swept away likewriting from a slate. 

He laid aside his pen and held his hand out across the table. 

"Had your breakfast?" he asked, curtly, with a glance at the emptycoffee-pot. 

Loo laughed as he sat down. It was all so familiar--the disorder ofthe cabin; the smell of lamp-oil; the low song of the wind through therigging, that came humming in at the doorway, which was never closed, night or day, unless the seas were washing to and fro on the main deck. He knew everything so well; the very pen and the rarely used ink-pot;the Captain's attitude, and the British care that he took not to speakwith his lips that which was in his heart. 

"Well, " said Captain Clubbe, taking up his pen again, "how are yougetting on?"

"With what?"

"With the business that brought you to this country, " answered Clubbe, with a sudden gruffness; for he was, like the majority of big men, shy. 

Barebone looked at him across the table. 

"Do you know what the business is that brought me to this country?" heasked. And Captain Clubbe looked thoughtfully at the point of his pen. 

"Did the Marquis de Gemosac and Dormer Colville tell you everything, oronly a little?"

"I don't suppose they told me everything, " was the reply. "Why shouldthey? I am only a seafaring man. "

"But they told you enough, " persisted Barebone, "for you to draw yourown conclusions as to my business over here. "

"Yes, " answered Clubbe, with a glance across the table. "Is it goingbadly?"

"No. On the contrary, it is going splendidly, " answered Barebone, gaily;and Captain Clubbe ducked his head down again over the papers of theFrench custom-house. "It is going splendidly, but--"

He paused. Half an hour ago he had no thought in his mind of CaptainClubbe or of Farlingford. He had come on board merely to greet his oldfriends, to hear some news of home, to take up for a moment thatold self of bygone days and drop it again. And now, in half a dozenquestions and answers, whither was he drifting? Captain Clubbe filled ina word, slowly and very legibly. 

"But I am not the man, you know, " said Barebone, slowly. It was as ifthe sight of that just man had bidden him cry out the truth. "I am notthe man they think me. My father was not the son of Louis XVI. , I knowthat now. I did not know it at first, but I know it now. And I have beengoing on with the thing, all the same. "

Clubbe sat back in his chair. He was large and ponderous in body. Andthe habit of the body at length becomes the nature of the mind. 

"Who has been telling you that?" he asked. 

"Dormer Colville. He told me one thing first and then the other. Only heand you and I know of it. "

"Then he must have told one lie, " said Clubbe, reflectively. "One thatwe know of. And what he says is of no value either way; for he doesn'tknow. No one knows. Your father was a friend of mine, man and boy, and he didn't know. He was not the same as other men; I know that--butnothing more. "

"Then, if you were me, you would give yourself the benefit of thedoubt?" asked Barebone, with a rather reckless laugh. "For the sake ofothers--for the sake of France?"

"Not I, " replied Clubbe, bluntly. 

"But it is practically impossible to go back now, " explained Loo. "Itwould be the ruin of all my friends, the downfall of France. In myposition, what would you do?"

"I don't understand your position, " replied Clubbe. "I don't understandpolitics; I am only a seafaring man. But there is only one thing todo--the square thing. "

"But, " protested Dormer Colville's pupil, "I cannot throw over myfriends. I cannot abandon France now. "

"The square thing, " repeated the sailor, stubbornly. "The square thing;and damn your friends--damn France!"

He rose as he spoke, for they had both heard the customs officers comeon board; and these functionaries were now bowing at the cabin-door. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. MRS. ST. PIERRE LAWRENCE DOES NOT UNDERSTAND

It was early in November that the report took wing in Paris thatJohn Turner's bank was, after all, going to weather the storm. DormerColville was among the first to hear this news, and strangely enough hedid not at once impart it to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. 

All through the year, John Turner had kept his client supplied withready money. He had, moreover, made no change in his own mode of living. Which things are a mystery to all who have no money of their own northe good fortune to handle other people's. There is no doubt someexplanation of the fact that bankers and other financiers seem to fail, and even become bankrupt, without tangible effect upon their dailycomfort, but the unfinancial cannot expect to understand it. 

There had, as a matter of fact, been no question of discomfort for Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence either. 

"Can I spend as much as I like?" she had asked Turner, and his reply hadbeen in the affirmative. 

"No use in saving?"

"None whatever, " he replied. To which Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence madeanswer that she did not understand things at all. 

"It is no use collecting straws against a flood, " the banker answered, sleepily. 

There was, of course, no question now of supplying the necessaryfunds to the Marquis de Gemosac and Albert de Chantonnay, who, it wasunderstood, were raising the money, not without difficulty, elsewhere. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had indeed heard little or nothing of herRoyalist friends in the west. Human nature is the same, it would appear, all the world over, but the upper crust is always the hardest. 

When Colville was informed of the rumour, he remembered that he hadnever quarrelled with John Turner. He had, of course, said some hardthings in the heat of the moment, but Turner had not retorted. There wasno quarrel. Colville, therefore, took an early opportunity of lunchingat the club then reputed to have the best chef in Paris. He went lateand found that the majority of members had finished dejeuner and weretaking coffee in one or other of the smoking-rooms. 

After a quick and simple meal, Colville lighted a cigarette and wentupstairs. There were two or three small rooms where members smoked orplayed cards or read the newspapers, and in the quietest of theseJohn Turner was alone, asleep. Colville walked backward into the room, talking loudly as he did so with a friend in the passage. When well overthe threshold he turned: John Turner, whose slumbers had been rudelydisturbed, was sitting up rubbing his eyes. The surprise was of coursemutual, and for a moment there was an awkward pause; then, with a smileof frank good-fellowship, Colville advanced, holding out his hand. 

"I hope we have known each other too many years, old fellow, " he said, "to bear any lasting ill-will for words spoken in the heat of anger ordisappointment, eh?"

He stood in front of the banker frankly holding out the hand offorgiveness, his head a little on one side, that melancholy smile oftoleration for poor human weakness in his eyes. 

"Well, " admitted Turner, "we've certainly known each other a good manyyears. "

He somewhat laboriously hoisted himself up, his head emerging from histumbled collar like the head of a tortoise aroused from sleep, and gaveinto Colville's affectionate grasp a limp and nerveless hand. 

"No one could feel for you more sincerely than I do, " Colville assuredhim, drawing forward a chair, --"more than I have done all through thesetrying months. "

"Very kind, I'm sure, " murmured Turner, looking drowsily at his friend'snecktie. One must look somewhere, and Turner always gazed at the necktieof any one who sat straight in front of him, which usually inducedan uneasy fingering of that ornament and an early consultation of thenearest mirror. "Have a cigar. "

There was the faint suggestion of a twinkle beneath the banker's heavylids as Colville accepted this peace-offering. It was barely twenty-fourhours since he had himself launched in Colville's direction the rumourwhich had brought about this reconciliation. 

"And I'm sure, " continued the other, turning to cut the end of thecigar, "that no one would be better pleased to hear that better timesare coming--eh? What did you say?"

"Nothing. Didn't speak, " was the reply to this vague interrogation. Then they talked of other things. There was no lack of topics forconversation at this time in France; indeed, the whole country was in abuzz of talk. But Turner was not, it seemed, in a talkative mood. Onlyonce did he rouse himself to take more than a passing interest in thesubject touched upon by his easy-going companion. 

"Yes, " he admitted, "he may be the best cook in Paris, but he is notwhat he was. It is this Revision of the Constitution which is upsettingthe whole country, especially the lower classes. The man's hand isshaky. I can see it from his way of pouring the mayonnaise over asalad. "

After touching upon each fresh topic, Colville seemed to returnunconsciously to that which must of necessity be foremost in hiscompanion's thoughts--the possibility of saving Turner's bank fromfailure. And each time he learnt a little more. At last, with thatsympathetic spontaneity which was his chief charm, Dormer Colville laidhis hand confidentially on Turner's sleeve. 

"Frankly, old fellow, " he said, "are you going to pull it through?"

"Frankly, old fellow, I am, " was the reply, which made Colville glancehastily at the clock. 

"Gad!" he exclaimed, "look at the time. You have kept me gossiping thewhole afternoon. Must be off. Nobody will be better pleased than I amto hear the good news. But of course I am mum. Not a word will they hearfrom me. I AM glad. Good-bye. "

"I dare say you are, " murmured Turner to the closed door. 

Dormer Colville was that which is known as an opportunist. It was a dullgrey afternoon. He would be sure to find Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence athome. She had taken an apartment in the Rue de Lille in the St. Germainquarter. His way was past the flower-shop, where he sometimes bestowed afickle custom. He went in and bought a carnation for his buttonhole. 

It is to be presumed that John Turner devoted the afternoon to hisaffairs. It was at all events evening before he also bent his stepstoward the Rue de Lille. 

Yes, the servant told him, Madame was at home and would assuredly seehim. Madame was not alone. No. It was, however, only Monsieur Colville, who was so frequent a visitor. 

Turner followed the servant along the corridor. The stairs had rathertried one who had to elevate such a weight at each step; he breathedhard, but placidly. 

Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence received him with an unusual empressement. Dormer Colville, who was discovered sitting as far from her as the sizeof the room allowed, was less eager, but he brought forward a chair forthe banker and glanced sharply at his face as he sat down. 

"So glad to see you, " the hostess explained. "It is really kind of youto come and cheer one up on such a dull afternoon. Dormer and I--won'tyou take off your coat? No, let ME put it aside for you. Dormer and Iwere just--just saying how dull it was. Weren't we?"

She looked from one to the other with a rather unnatural laugh. Onewould have thought that she was engaged in carrying off a difficultsituation and, for so practised a woman of the world, not doing it verywell. Her cheeks were flushed, which made her look younger, and a subtleuncertainty in her voice and manner added to this illusion charmingly. For a young girl's most precious possession is her inexperience. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, for the first time in her life, was not sure ofherself. 

"Now I hope you have not come on business, " she added, drawing forwardher own chair and passing a quick hand over her hair. "Bother business!Do not let us think about it. "

"Not exactly, " replied Turner, recovering his breath. "Quite agree withyou. Let us say, 'Bother business, ' and not think of it. Though, for anold man who is getting stout, there is nothing much left but businessand his dinner, eh?"

"No. Do not say that, " cried the lady. "Never say that. It is timeenough to think that years hence when we are all white-haired. But Iused to think that myself once, you know. When I first had my money. Doyou remember? I was so pleased to have all that wealth that I determinedto learn all about cheque-books and things and manage it myself. Soyou taught me, and at last you admitted that I was an excellent man ofbusiness. I know I thought I was myself. And I suppose I lapsed into aregular business woman and only thought of money and how to increase it. How horrid you must have thought me!"

"Never did that, " protested Turner, stoutly. 

"But I know I learnt to think much too much about it, " Mrs. St. PierreLawrence went on eagerly. "And now that it is all gone, I do not careTHAT for it. "

She snapped her finger and thumb and laughed gaily. 

"Not that, " she repeated. She turned and glanced at Dormer Colville, raising her eyebrows in some mute interrogation only comprehensible tohim. "Shall I tell him?" she asked, with a laugh of happiness not veryfar removed from tears. Then she turned to the banker again. 

"Listen, " she said. "I am going to tell you something which no one elsein the world can tell you. Dormer and I are going to be married. I daresay lots of people will say that they have expected it for a long time. They can say what they like. We don't care. And I am glad that you arethe first person to hear it. We have only just settled it, so you arethe very first to be told. And I am glad to tell you before anybodyelse because you have been so kind to me always. You have been my bestfriend, I think. And the kindest thing you ever did for me was to losemy money, for if you had not lost it, Dormer never would have asked meto marry him. He has just said so himself. And I suppose all men feelthat. All the nice ones, I mean. It is one of the drawbacks of beingrich, is it not?"

"I suppose it is, " answered Turner, stolidly, without turning an eyelashin the direction of Colville. "Perhaps that is why no one has ever askedme to marry them. "

Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence laughed jerkily at this witticism. She laughedagain when John Turner rose from his chair to congratulate her, butthe laugh suddenly ceased when he raised her hand to his lips with acourtesy which was even in those days dying out of the world, and turnedaway from him hastily. She stood with her back toward them for a minuteor two looking at some flowers on a side table. Then she came back intothe middle of the room, all smiles, replacing her handkerchief in herpocket. 

"So that is the news I have to tell you, " she said. 

John Turner had placidly resumed his chair after shaking hands withDormer Colville for the second time since luncheon. 

"Yes, " he answered, "it is news indeed. And I have a little news to giveyou. I do not say that it is quite free from the taint of business, butat all events it is news. Like yours, it has the merit of being at firsthand, and you are the first to hear it. No one else could tell it toyou. "

He broke off and rubbed his chin while he looked apathetically atColville's necktie. 

"It has another merit, rare enough, " he went on. "It is good news. Ithink, in fact I may say I am sure, that we shall pull through now andyour money will be safely returned to you. "

"I am so glad, " said Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, with a glance at DormerColville. "I cannot tell you how glad I am. "

She looked at the banker with bright eyes and the flush still in hercheeks that made her look younger and less sure of herself. 

"Not only for my own sake, you know. For yours, because I am sure youmust be relieved, and for--well, for everybody's sake. Tell me all aboutit, please. " And she pushed her chair sideways nearer to Colville's. 

John Turner bit the first joint of his thumb reflectively. It is so rarethat one can tell any one all about anything. 

"Tell me first, " Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence suggested, "whether MiriamListon's money is all safe as well. "

"Miriam's money never was in danger, " he replied. "Miriam is my ward;you are only my client. There is no chance of Miriam being able to makeducks and drakes of her money. "

"That sounds as if I had been trying to do that with mine. "

"Well, " admitted the banker, with a placid laugh, "if it had not beenfor my failure--"

"Don't call it hard names, " put in Dormer Colville, generously. "It wasnot a failure. "

"Call it a temporary suspension of payment, then, " agreed the banker, imperturbably. "If it had not been for that, half your fortune wouldhave been goodness knows where by now. You wanted to put it intosome big speculation in this country, if I remember aright. And bigspeculations in France are the very devil just now. Whereas, now, yousee, it is all safe and you can invest it in the beginning of next yearin some good English securities. It seems providential, does it not?"

He rose as he spoke and held out his hand to say goodbye. He asked thequestion of Colville's necktie, apparently, for he smiled stupidly atit. 

"Well, I do not understand business after all, I admit that, " Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence called out gaily to him as he went toward the door. "Ido not understand things at all. "

"No, and I don't suppose you ever will, " Turner replied as he followedthe servant into the corridor. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. AN UNDERSTANDING

Loo Barebone went back to the Chateau de Gemosac after those travels inProvence which terminated so oddly on board "The Last Hope, " at anchorin the Garonne River. 

The Marquis received him with enthusiasm and a spirit of optimism whichage could not dim. 

"Everything is going a merveille!" he cried. "In three months we shallbe ready to strike our blow--to make our great coup for France. Thefailure of Turner's bank was a severe check, I admit, and for a momentI was in despair. But now we are sure that we shall have the money forAlbert de Chantonnay's Beauvoir estate by the middle of January. Thedeath of Madame la Duchesse was a misfortune. If we could have persuadedher to receive you--your face would have done the rest, mon ami--weshould have been invincible. But she was broken, that poor lady. Thinkof her life! Few women would have survived half of the troubles that shecarried on those proud shoulders from childhood. "

They were sitting in the little salon in the building that adjoined thegate-house of Gemosac, of which the stone stairs must have rung beneaththe red spurs of fighting men; of which the walls were dented still withthe mark of arms. 

Barebone had given an account of his journey, which had been carriedthrough without difficulty. Everywhere success had waited uponhim--enthusiasm had marked his passage. In returning to France, he hadstolen a march on his enemies, for nothing seemed to indicate that hispresence in the country was known to them. 

"I tell you, " the Marquis explained, "that he has his hands full--thatman in Paris. It is only a month since he changed his ministry. Whois this St. Arnaud, his Minister of War? Who is Maupas, his Prefect ofPolice? Does Monsieur Maupas know that we are nearly ready for our coup?Bah! Tell me nothing of that sort, gentlemen. "

And this was the universally accepted opinion at this time, of LouisBonaparte the President of a tottering Republic, divided against itself;a dull man, at his wits' end. For months, all Europe had been turningan inquiring and watchful eye on France. Socialism was rampant. Secretsocieties honeycombed the community. There was some danger in theair--men knew not what. Catastrophe was imminent, and none knew where tolook for its approach. But all thought that it must come at the end ofthe year. A sort of panic took hold of all classes. They dreaded the endof 1851. 

The Marquis de Gemosac spoke openly of these things before Juliette. Shehad been present when Loo and he talked together of this last journey, so happily accomplished, so fruitful of result. And Loo did not tell theMarquis that he had seen his old ship, "The Last Hope, " in the river atBordeaux, and had gone on board of her. 

Juliette listened, as she worked, beneath the lamp at the table inthe middle of the room. The lace-work she had brought from theconvent-school was not finished yet. It was exquisitely fine anddelicate, and Juliette executed the most difficult patterns with a sortof careless ease. Sometimes, when the Marquis was more than usuallyextravagant in his anticipations of success, or showed a superlativecontempt for his foes, Juliette glanced at Barebone over her lace-work, but she rarely took part in the talk when politics were underdiscussion. 

In domestic matters, however, this new chatelaine showed considerableshrewdness. She was not ignorant of the price of hay, and knew to a caskhow much wine was stored in the vault beneath the old chapel. On thesesubjects the Marquis good-humouredly followed her advice sometimes. Hisword had always been law in the whole neighbourhood. Was he not the headof one of the oldest families in France?

"But, pardieu, she shows a wisdom quite phenomenal, that little one, "the Marquis would tell his friends, with a hearty laugh. It was onlynatural that he should consider amusing the idea of uniting wisdom andyouth and beauty in one person. It is still a universally accepted lawthat old people must be wise and young persons only charming. Some maythink that they could point to a wise child born of foolish parents; toa daughter who is well-educated and shrewd, possessing a sense of logic, and a mother who is ignorant and foolish; to a son who has more sensethan his father: but of course such observers must be mistaken. Oldtheories must be the right ones. The Marquis had no doubt of this, atall events, and thought it most amusing that Juliette should establishorder in the chaos of domestic affairs at Gemosac. 

"You are grave, " said Juliette to Barebone, one evening soon afterhis return, when they happened to be alone in the little drawing-room. Barebone was, in fact, not a lively companion; for he had sat staring atthe log-fire for quite three minutes when his eyes might assuredly havebeen better employed. "You are grave. Are you thinking of your sins?"

"When I think of those, Mademoiselle, I laugh. It is when I think of youthat I am grave. "

"Thank you. "

"So I am always grave, you understand. "

She glanced quickly, not at him but toward him, and then continued herlace-making, with the ghost of a smile tilting the corners of her lips. 

"It is because I have something to tell you. "

"A secret?" she inquired, and she continued to smile, but differently, and her eyes hardened almost to resentment. 

"Yes; a secret. It is a secret only known to two other people in theworld besides myself. And they will never let you know even that theyshare it with you, Mademoiselle. "

"Then they are not women, " she said, with a sudden laugh. "Tell it tome, then--your secret. "

There had been an odd suggestion of foreknowledge in her manner, asif she were humouring him by pretending to accept as a secret of vastimportance some news which she had long known--that little air ofpatronage which even schoolgirls bestow, at times, upon white-hairedmen. It is part of the maternal instinct. But this vanished when sheheard that she was to share the secret with two men, and she repeated, impatiently, "Tell me, please. "

"It is a secret which will make a difference to us all our lives, Mademoiselle, " he said, warningly. "It will not leave us the same as itfound us. It has made a difference to all who know it. Therefore, I haveonly decided to tell you after long consideration. It is, in fact, apoint of honour. It is necessary for you to know, whatever the resultmay be. Of that I have no doubt whatever. "

He laughed reassuringly, which made her glance at him gravely, almostanxiously. 

"And are you going on telling it to other people, afterward, " sheinquired; "to my father, for instance?"

"No, Mademoiselle. It comes to you, and it stops at you. I do not mindwithholding it from your father, and from all the friends who have beenso kind to me in France. I do not mind deceiving kings and emperors, Mademoiselle, and even the People, which is now always spelt in capitalletters, and must be spoken of with bated breath. "

She gave a scornful little laugh, as at the sound of an old jest--thenote of a deathless disdain which was in the air she breathed. 

"Not even the newspapers, which are trying to govern France. All that isa question of politics. But when it comes to you, Mademoiselle, that isa different matter. "

"Ah!"

"Yes. It is then a question of love. "

Juliette slowly changed colour, but she gave a little gay laugh ofincredulity and bent her head away from the light of the lamp. 

"That is a different code of honour altogether, " he said, gravely. "Acode one does not wish to tamper with. "

"No?" she inquired, with the odd little smile of foreknowledge again. 

"No. And, therefore, before I go any farther, I think it best to tellyou that I am not what I am pretending to be. I am pretending to bethe son of the little Dauphin, who escaped from the Temple. He may haveescaped from the Temple; that I don't know. But I know, or at least Ithink I know, that he is not buried in Farlingford churchyard and he wasnot my father. I can pass as the grandson of Louis XVI. ; I know that. I can deceive all the world. I can even climb to the throne of France, perhaps. There are many, as you know, who think I shall do it withoutdifficulty. But I do not propose to deceive YOU, Mademoiselle. "

There was a short silence, while Loo watched her face. Juliette had noteven changed colour. When she was satisfied that he had nothing more toadd, she looked at him, her needle poised in the air. 

"Do you think it matters?" she asked, in a little cool, even voice. 

It was so different from what he had expected that, for a moment, hewas taken aback. Captain Clubbe's bluff, uncompromising reception of thesame news had haunted his thoughts. "The square thing, " that sailor hadsaid, "and damn your friends; damn France. " Loo looked at Juliette indoubt; then, suddenly, he understood her point of view; he understoodher. He had learnt to understand a number of people and a number ofpoints of view during the last twelve months. 

"So long as I succeed?" he suggested. 

"Yes, " she answered, simply. "So long as you succeed, I do not see thatit can matter who you are. "

"And if I succeed, " pursued Loo, gravely, "will you marry me, Mademoiselle?"

"Oh! I never said that, " in a voice that was ready to yield to a reallygood argument. 

"And if I fail--" Barebone paused for an instant. He still doubtedhis own perception. "And if I fail, you would not marry me under anycircumstances?"

"I do not think my father would let me, " she answered, with her eyescast down upon her lace-frame. 

Barebone leant forward to put together the logs, which burnt witha white incandescence that told of a frosty night. The Marquis hadbusiness in the town, and would soon return from the notary's, in timeto dress for dinner. 

"Well, " said Loo, over his shoulder, "it is as well to understand eachother, is it not?"

"Yes, " she answered, significantly. She ignored the implied sarcasmaltogether. There was so much meaning in her reply that Loo turned tolook at her. She was smiling as she worked. 

"Yes, " she went on; "you have told me your secret--a secret. But I havethe other, too; the secret you have not told me, mon ami. I have had italways. "

"Ah?"

"The secret that you do not love me, " said Juliette, in her little wise, even voice; "that you have never loved me. Ah! You think we do not know. You think that I am too young. But we are never too young to know that, to know all about it. I think we know it in our cradles. "

She spoke with a strange philosophy, far beyond her years. It mighthave been Madame de Chantonnay who spoke, with all that lady's vastexperience of life and without any of her folly. 

"You think I am pretty. Perhaps I am. Just pretty enough to enable youto pretend, and you have pretended very well at times. You are good atpretending, one must conclude. Oh! I bear no ill-will.... "

She broke off and looked at him, with a gay laugh, in which there wascertainly no note of ill-will to be detected. 

"But it is as well, " she went on, "as you say, that we should understandeach other. Thank you for telling me your secret--the one you have toldme. I am flattered at that mark of your confidence. A woman is alwaysglad to be told a secret, and immediately begins to anticipate thepleasure she will take in telling it to others, in confidence. "

She looked up for a moment from her work; for Loo had given a shortlaugh. She looked, to satisfy herself that it was not the ungenerouslaugh that nine men out of ten would have cast at her; and it was not. For Loo was looking at her with frank amusement. 

"Oh, yes, " she said; "I know that, too. It is one of the items notincluded in a convent education. It is unnecessary to teach us suchthings as that. We know them before we go in. Your secret is safe enoughwith me, however--the one you have told me. That is the least I canpromise in return for your confidence. As to the other secret, bon Dieu!we will pretend I do not know it, if you like. At all events, you canvow that you never told me, if--if ever you are called upon to do so. "

She paused for a moment to finish off a thread. Then, when she reachedout her hand for the reel, she glanced at him with a smile, not unkind. 

"So you need not pretend any more, monsieur, " she said, seeing thatBarebone was wise enough to keep silence. "I do not know who you are, mon ami, " she went on, in a little burst of confidence; "and, as I toldyou just now, I do not care. And, as to that other matter, there is noill-will. I only permit myself to wonder, sometimes, if she is pretty. That is feminine, I suppose. One can be feminine quite young, youunderstand. "

She looked at him with unfathomable eyes and a little smile, such as mennever forget once they have seen it. 

"But you were inclined to be ironical just now, when I said I wouldmarry you if you were successful. So I mention that other secret just toshow that the understanding you wish to arrive at may be mutual--theremay be two sides to it. I hear my father coming. That is his voice atthe gate. We will leave things as they stand: n'est ce pas?"

She rose as she spoke and went toward the door. The Marquis's voice wasraised, and there seemed to be some unusual clamour at the gate. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. A COUP-D'ETAT

As the Marquis de Gemosac's step was already on the stairs, Barebone wasspared the necessity of agreeing in words to the inevitable. 

A moment later the old man hurried into the room. He had not even waitedto remove his coat and gloves. A few snow-flakes powdered his shoulders. 

"Ah!" he cried, on perceiving Barebone. "Good--you are safe!" He turnedto speak to some one who was following him up the stairs with the slowersteps of one who knew not his way. 

"All is well!" he cried. "He is here. Give yourself no anxiety. "

And the second comer crossed the threshold, coming suddenly out of theshadow of the staircase. It was Dormer Colville, white with snow, hisface grey and worn. He shook hands with Barebone and bowed to Juliette, but the Marquis gave him no time to speak. 

"I go down into the town, " he explained, breathlessly. "The streets arefull. There is a crowd on the market-place, more especially round thetobacconist's, where the newspapers are to be bought. No newspapers, if you please. The Paris journals of last Sunday, and this is Fridayevening. Nothing since that. No Bordeaux journal. No news at all fromParis: absolute silence from Toulouse and Limoges. 'It is anotherrevolution, ' they tell each other. Something has happened and no oneknows what. A man comes up to me and tugs at my sleeve. 'Inside yourwalls, Monsieur le Marquis, waste no time, ' he whispers, and is gone. Heis some stable-boy. I have seen him somewhere. I! inside my walls! Herein Gemosac, where I see nothing but bare heads as I walk through thestreets. Name of God! I should laugh at such a precaution. And while Iam still trying to gather information the man comes back to me. 'Itis not the people you have to fear, ' he whispers in my ear, 'it is theGovernment. The order for your arrest is at the Gendarmerie, for it wasI who took it there. Monsieur Albert was arrested yesterday, and isnow in La Rochelle. Madame de Chantonnay's house is guarded. It is fromMadame I come. ' And again he goes. While I am hesitating, I hearthe step of a horse, tired and yet urged to its utmost. It is DormerColville, this faithful friend, who is from Paris in thirty-six hours towarn us. He shall tell his story himself. "

"There is not much to tell, " said Colville, in a hollow voice. He lookedround for a chair and sat down rather abruptly. "Louis Bonaparte isabsolute master of France; that is all. He must be so by this time. When I escaped from Paris yesterday morning nearly all the streets werebarricaded. But the troops were pouring into the city as I rode out--andartillery. I saw one barricade carried by artillery. Thousands must havebeen killed in the streets of Paris yesterday--"

"--And, bon Dieu! it is called a coup-d'etat, " interrupted the Marquis. 

"That was on Tuesday, " explained Colville, in his tired voice--"atsix o'clock on Tuesday morning. Yesterday and Wednesday were days ofmassacre. "

"But, my friend, " exclaimed the Marquis, impatiently, "tell us how ithappened. You laugh! It is no time to laugh. "

"I do not know, " replied Colville, with an odd smile. "I think there isnothing else to be done--it is all so complete. We are all so utterlyfooled by this man whom all the world took to be a dolt. On Tuesdaymorning he arrested seventy-eight of the Representatives. When Parisawoke, the streets had been placarded in the night with the decree ofthe President of the Republic. The National Assembly was dissolved. TheCouncil of State was dissolved. Martial law was declared. And why? Hedoes not even trouble to give a reason. He has the army at his back. Thesoldiers cried 'Vive l'Empereur' as they charged the crowd on Wednesday. He has got rid of his opponents by putting them in prison. Many, itis said, are already on their way to exile in Cayenne; the prisons arefull. There is a warrant out against myself; against you, Barebone;against you, of course, Monsieur le Marquis. Albert de Chantonnay wasarrested at Tours, and is now in La Rochelle. We may escape--we may getaway to-night--"

He paused and looked hurriedly toward the door, for some one was comingup the stairs--some one who wore sabots. It was the servant, Marie, whocame unceremoniously into the room with the exaggerated calm of one whorealises the gravity of the situation and means to master it. 

"The town is on fire, " she explained, curtly; "they have begun on theGendarmerie. Doubtless they have heard that these gentlemen are to bearrested, and it is to give other employment to the gendarmes. But thecavalry has arrived from Saintes, and I come upstairs to ask Monsieurto come down and help. It is my husband who is a fool. Holy Virgin! howmany times have I regretted having married such a blockhead as that. Hesays he cannot raise the drawbridge. To raise it three feet would be togain three hours. So I came to get Monsieur, " she pointed at Barebonewith a steady finger, "who has his wits on the top always and two handsat the end of his arms. "

"But it is little use to raise the drawbridge, " objected the Marquis. "They will soon get a ladder and place it against the breach in the walland climb in. "

"Not if I am on the wall who amuse myself with a hayfork, Monsieur leMarquis, " replied Marie, with that exaggerated respect which impliesa knowledge of mental superiority. She beckoned curtly to Loo andclattered down the stairs, followed by Barebone. The others did notattempt to go to their assistance, and the Marquis de Gemosac had ahundred questions to ask Colville. 

The Englishman had little to tell of his own escape. There were so manymore important arrests to be made that the overworked police of Monsieurde Maupas had only been able to apportion to him a bungler whom Colvillehad easily outwitted. 

"And Madame St. Pierre Lawrence?" inquired the Marquis. 

"Madame quitted Paris on Tuesday for England under the care of JohnTurner, who had business in London. He kindly offered to escort heracross the Channel. "

"Then she, at all events, is safe, " said the Marquis, with a little waveof the hand indicating his satisfaction. "He is not brilliant, MonsieurTurner--so few English are--but he is solid, I think. "

"I think he is the cleverest man I know, " said Dormer Colville, thoughtfully. And before they had spoken again Loo Barebone returned. 

He, like Marie, had grasped at once the serious aspect of the situation, whereas the Marquis succeeded only in reaching it with a superficialtouch. He prattled of the political crisis in Paris and bade his friendsrest assured that law and order must ultimately prevail. He even seemedto cherish the comforting assurance that Providence must in the endinterfere on behalf of a Legitimate Succession. For this old noble wasthe true son of a father who had believed to the end in that King whotalked grandiloquently of the works of Seneca and Tacitus whiledriving from the Temple to his trial, with the mob hooting and yellingimprecations into the carriage windows. 

The Marquis de Gemosac found time to give a polite opinion on JohnTurner while the streets of Gemosac were being cleared by the cavalryfrom Saintes, and the Gendarmerie, burning briskly, lighted up a sceneof bloodshed. 

"We have raised the drawbridge a few feet, " said Barebone; "but thechains are rusted and may easily be broken by a blacksmith. It willserve to delay them a few minutes; but it is not the mob we seek tokeep out, and any organised attempt to break in would succeed in half anhour. We must go, of course. "

He turned to Colville, with whom he had met and faced difficulties inthe past. Colville might easily have escaped to England with Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, but he had chosen the better part. He had undertakena long journey through disturbed France only to throw in his lot at theend of it with two pre-condemned men. Loo turned to him as to one whohad proved himself capable enough in an emergency, brave in face ofdanger. 

"We cannot stay here, " he said; "the gates will serve to give us anhour's start, but no more. I suppose there is another way out of thechateau. "

"There are two ways, " answered the Marquis. "One leads to a house in thetown and the other emerges at the mill down below the walls. But, alas!both are lost sight of. My ancestors--"

"I know the shorter one, " put in Juliette, "the passage that leads tothe mill. I can show you the entrance to that, which is in the crypt ofthe chapel, hidden behind the casks of wine. "

She spoke to Barebone, only half-concealing, as Marie had done, the factthat the great respect with which the Marquis de Gemosac was treated wasartificial, and would fall to pieces under the strain of an emergency--afaint echo of the old regime. 

"When you are gone, " the girl continued, still addressing Barebone, "Marie and I can keep them out at least an hour--probably more. We maybe able to keep them outside the walls all night, and when at last theycome in it will take them hours to satisfy themselves that you are notconcealed within the enceinte. "

She was quite cool, and even smiled at him with a white face. 

"You are always right, Mademoiselle, and have a clear head, " saidBarebone. 

"But no heart?" she answered in an undertone, under cover of herfather's endless talk to Colville and with a glance which Barebone couldnot understand. 

In a few minutes Dormer Colville pronounced himself ready to go, andrefused to waste further precious minutes in response to Monsieur deGemosac's offers of hospitality. No dinner had been prepared, for Mariehad sterner business in hand and could be heard beneath the windowsurging her husband to display a courage superior to that of a rabbit. Juliette hurried to the kitchen and there prepared a parcel of cold meatand bread for the fugitives to eat as they fled. 

"We might remain hidden in a remote cottage, " Barebone had suggested toColville, "awaiting the development of events, but our best chance is'The Last Hope. ' She is at Bordeaux, and must be nearly ready for sea. "

So it was hurriedly arranged that they should make their way on footto a cottage on the marsh while Jean was despatched to Bordeaux with aletter for Captain Clubbe. 

"It is a pity, " said Marie, when informed of this plan, "that it is notI who wear the breeches. But I will make it clear to Jean that ifhe fails to carry out his task he need not show his face at the gateagain. "

The Marquis ran hither and thither, making a hundred suggestions, whichwere accepted in the soothing manner adopted toward children. He assuredJuliette that their absence would be of short duration; that there wasindeed no danger, but that he was acceding to the urgent persuasions ofBarebone and Colville, who were perhaps unnecessarily alarmed--who didnot understand how affairs were conducted in France. He felt assuredthat law and order must prevail. 

"But if they have put Albert de Chantonnay in prison, why should yoube safe?" asked Juliette. To which the Marquis replied with a meaningcackle that she had a kind heart, and that it was only natural that itshould be occupied at that moment with thoughts of that excellent youngman who, in his turn, was doubtless thinking of her in his cell at LaRochelle. 

Which playful allusion to Albert de Chantonnay's pretensions wasreceived by their object with a calm indifference. 

"When Jean returns, " she said, practically, "I will send him to you atthe Bremonts' cottage with food and clothing. But you must not attemptto communicate with us. You would only betray your whereabouts and dono good to us. We shall be quite safe in the chateau. Marie and I andMadame Maugiron are not afraid. "

At which the Marquis laughed heartily. It was so amusing to think thatone should be young and pretty and not afraid. In the mean time Barebonewas sealing his letter to Captain Clubbe. He had written it in theSuffolk dialect, spelling all the words as they are pronounced on thatcoast and employing when he could the Danish and Dutch expressionsin daily use on the foreshore, which no French official seeking totranslate could find in any dictionary. 

Lao gave his instructions to Jean himself, who received them in asilence not devoid of intelligence. The man had been round the walls andreported that nothing stirred beneath them; that there was more thanone fire in the town, and that the streets appeared to be given over todisorder and riot. 

"It is assuredly a change in the Government, " he explained, simply. "Andthere will be many for Monsieur l'Abbe to bury on Sunday. "

Jean was to accompany them to the cottage of an old man who had oncelived by ferrying the rare passenger across the Gironde. Having leftthem here, he could reach Blaye before daylight, from whence a passageup the river to Bordeaux would be easily procurable. 

The boatman's cottage stood on the bank of a creek running into theGironde. It was a lone building hidden among the low dunes that liebetween the river and the marsh. Any one approaching it by daylightwould be discernible half an hour in advance, and the man's boat, thoughold, was seaworthy. None would care to cross the lowlands at nightexcept under the guidance of one or two, who, like Jean, knew their wayeven in the dark. 

Colville and Barebone had to help Jean to move the great casks storedin the crypt of the old chapel by which the entrance to the passage wasmasked. 

"It is, I recollect having been told, more than a passage--it is aramp, " explained the Marquis, who stood by. "It was intended for thepassage of horses, so that a man might mount here and ride out into themill-stream, actually beneath the mill-wheel which conceals the exit. "

Juliette, a cloak thrown over her evening dress, had accompanied themand stood near, holding a lantern above her head to give them light. Itwas an odd scene--a strange occupation for the last of the de Gemosacs. Through the gaps in the toppling walls they could hear the roar ofvoices and the occasional report of a firearm in the streets of the townbelow. The door opened easily enough, and Jean, lighting a candle, ledthe way. Barebone was the last to follow. Within the doorway he turnedto say good-bye. The light of the lantern flickered uncertainly onJuliette's fair hair. 

"We may be back sooner than you expect, mademoiselle, " said Barebone. 

"Or you may go--to England, " she answered. 

CHAPTER XXXIX. "JOHN DARBY"

Although it was snowing hard, it was not a dark night. There was ahalf moon hidden behind those thin, fleecy clouds, which carry the snowacross the North Sea and cast it noiselessly upon the low-lying coast, from Thanet to the Wash, which knows less rain and more snow than any inEngland. 

A gale of wind was blowing from the north-east; not in itself a wildgale, but at short intervals a fresh burst of wind brought with it athicker fall of snow, and during these squalls the force of the stormwas terrific. A man, who had waited on the far shore of the river fora quiet interval, had at last made his way to the Farlingford side. Hemoored his boat and stumbled heavily up the steps. 

There was no one on the quay. The street was deserted, but the lightswithin the cottages glowed warmly through red blinds here and there. Themajority of windows were, however, secured with a shutter, screwedtight from within. The man trotted steadily up the street. He had anunmistakable air of discipline. It was only six o'clock, but night hadclosed in three hours ago. The coast-guard looked neither to one sidenor the other, but ran on at the pace of one who had run far and knowsthat he cannot afford to lose his breath; for his night's work was onlybegun. 

The coast-guard station stands on the left-hand side of the street, a long, low house in a bare garden. In answer to the loud summons, ared-faced little man opened the door and let out into the night a smellof bloaters and tea--the smell that pervades all Farlingford at sixo'clock in the evening. 

"Something on the Inner Curlo Bank, " shouted the coast-guard in hisface, and turning on his heel, he ran with the same slow, organisedhaste, leaving the red-faced man finishing a mouthful on the mat. 

The next place of call was at River Andrew's, the little low cottagewith rounded corners, below the church. 

"Come out o' that, " said the coast-guard, with a contemptuous glanceof snow-rimmed eyes at River Andrew's comfortable tea-table. "Ring yerbell. Something on the Inner Curlo Bank. "

River Andrew had never hurried in his life, and like all his fellows, he looked upon coast-guards as amateurs mindful, as all amateurs are, oftheir clothes. 

"A'm now going, " he answered, rising laboriously from his chair. The coast-guard glanced at his feet clad in the bright greencarpet-slippers, dear to seafaring men. Then he turned to the side ofthe mantelpiece and took the church keys from the nail. For everybodyknows where everybody else keeps his keys in Farlingford. He forgot toshut the door behind him, and River Andrew, pessimistically getting intohis sea-boots, swore at his retreating back. 

"Likely as not, he'll getten howld o' the wrong roup, " he muttered;though he knew that every boy in the village could point out the rope of"John Darby, " as that which had a piece of faded scarlet flannel twistedthrough the strands. 

In a few minutes the man, who hastened slowly, gave the call, whichevery man in Farlingford answered with an emotionless, mechanicalpromptitude. From each fireside some tired worker reached out his handtoward his most precious possession, his sea-boots, as his forefathershad done before him for two hundred years at the sound of "John Darby. "The women crammed into the pockets of the men's stiff oilskins a pieceof bread, a half-filled bottle--knowing that, as often as not, theirhusbands must pass the night and half the next day on the beach, or outat sea, should the weather permit a launch through the surf. 

There was no need of excitement, or even of comment. Did not "JohnDarby" call them from their firesides or their beds a dozen times everywinter, to scramble out across the shingle? As often as not, there wasnothing to be done but drag the dead bodies from the surf; but sometimesthe dead revived--some fair-haired, mystic foreigner from the northernseas, who came to and said, "T'ank you, " and nothing else. And next day, rigged out in dry clothes and despatched toward Ipswich on the carrier'scart, he would shake hands awkwardly with any standing near and bob hishead and say "T'ank you" again, and go away, monosyllabic, mystic, neverto be heard of more. But the ocean, as it is called at Farlingford, seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of such Titans to throw up onthe rattling shingle winter after winter. And, after all, they wereseafaring men, and therefore brothers. Farlingford turned out to a man, each seeking to be first across the river every time "John Darby" calledthem, as if he had never called them before. 

To-night none paused to finish the meal, and many a cup raised half-waywas set down again untasted. It is so easy to be too late. 

Already the flicker of lanterns on the sea-wall showed that the rectorywas astir. For Septimus Marvin, vaguely recalling some schoolboyinstinct of fair-play, knew the place of the gentleman and the man ofeducation among humbler men in moments of danger and hardship, whichshould, assuredly, never be at the back. 

"Yonder's parson, " some one muttered. "His head is clear enow, I'llwarrant, when he hears 'John Darby. '"

"'Tis only on Sundays, when 'John' rings slow, 'tis misty, " answered asharp-voiced woman, with a laugh. For half of Farlingford was already atthe quay, and three or four boats were bumping and splashing against thesteps. The tide was racing out, and the wind, whizzing slantwise acrossit, pushed it against the wooden piles of the quay, making them throband tremble. 

"Not less'n four to the oars!" shouted a gruff voice, at the foot of thesteps, where the salt water, splashing on the snow, had laid bare thegreen and slimy moss. Two or three volunteers stumbled down the steps, and the first boat got away, swinging down-stream at once, only to bebrought slowly back, head to wind. She hung motionless a few yardsfrom the quay, each dip of the oars stirring the water into a whirl ofphosphorescence, and then forged slowly ahead. 

Septimus Marvin was not alone, but was accompanied by a bulky man, notunknown in Farlingford--John Turner, of Ipswich, understood to live"foreign, " but to return, after the manner of East Anglians, whenoccasion offered. The rector was in oilskins and sou'wester, like anyone else, and the gleam of his spectacles under the snowy brim of hisheadgear seemed to strike no one as incongruous. His pockets bulgedwith bottles and bandages. Under his arm he carried a couple of blankethorse-cloths, useful for carrying the injured or the dead. 

"The Curlo--the Inner Curlo--yes, yes!" he shouted in response toinformation volunteered on all sides. "Poor fellows! The Inner Curlo, dear, dear!"

And he groped his way down the steps, into the first boat he saw, with asimple haste. John Turner followed him. He had tied a silk handkerchiefover his soft felt hat and under his chin. 

"No, no!" he said, as Septimus Marvin made room for him on theafter-thwart. "I'm too heavy for a passenger. Put my weight on an oar, "and he clambered forward to a vacant thwart. 

"Mind you come back for us, River Andrew!" cried little Sep's thinvoice, as the boat swirled down stream. His wavering bull's-eye lanternfollowed it, and showed River Andrew and another pulling stroke to JohnTurner's bow, for the banker had been a famous oar on the Orwell in hisboyhood. Then, with a smack like a box on the ear, another snow-squallswept in from the sea, and forced all on the quay to turn their backsand crouch. Many went back to their homes, knowing that nothing couldbe known for some hours. Others crouched on the landward side of an oldcoal-shed, peeping round the corner. 

Miriam and Sep, and a few others, waited on the quay until River Andrewor another should return. It was an understood thing that the helpers, such as could man a boat or carry a drowned man, should go first. Ina few minutes the squall was past, and by the light of the moon, nowthinly covered by clouds, the black forms of the first to reach theother shore could be seen straggling across the marsh toward the greatshingle-bank that lies between the river and the sea. Two boats weremoored at the far side, another was just making the jetty, while afourth was returning toward the quay. It was River Andrew, faithful tohis own element, who preferred to be first here, rather than obey orderson the open beach. 

There were several ready to lend a helping hand against tide and wind, and Miriam and Sep were soon struggling across the shingle, in thefootsteps of those who had gone before. The north-east wind seared theirfaces like a hot iron, but the snow had ceased falling. As they reachedthe summit of the shingle-bank, they could see in front of them theblack line of the sea, and on the beach, where the white of the snow andthe white of the roaring surf merged together, a group of men. 

One or two stragglers had left this group to search the beach, north orsouth; but it was known, from a long and grim experience, that anythingfloating in from the tail of the Inner Curlo Bank must reach the shoreat one particular point. A few lanterns twinkled here and there, butnear the group of watchers a bonfire of wreckage and tarry fragments andold rope, brought hither for the purpose, had been kindled. 

Two boats, hauled out of reach of a spring tide, were being leisurelyprepared for launching. There was no hurry; for it had been decided bythe older men that no boat could be put to sea through the surf thenrolling in. At the turn of the tide, in two hours' time, something mightbe done. 

"Us cannot see anything, " a bystander said to Miriam. "It is just there, where I am pointing. Sea Andrew saw something a while back--says itlooked like a schooner. "

The man stood pointing out to sea to the southward. He carried anunlighted torch--a flare, roughly made, of tarred rope, bound round astick. At times, one or another would ignite his flare, and go downthe beach holding it above his head, while he stood knee deep in thechurning foam to peer out to sea. He would presently return, withoutcomment, to beat out his flare against his foot and take his place amongthe silent watchers. No one spoke; but if any turned his head sharplyto one side or other, all the rest wheeled, like one man, in the samedirection and after staring at the tumbled sea would turn reproachfulglances on the false alarmist. 

Suddenly, after a long wait, four men rushed without a word into thesurf; their silent fury suggesting oddly the rush of hounds upon a fox. They had simultaneously caught sight of something dark, half sunk inthe shallow water. In a moment they were struggling up the shingle slopetoward the fire, carrying a heavy weight. They laid their burden bythe fire, where the snow had melted away, and it was a man. He was inoilskins, and some one cut the tape that tied his sou'wester. His facewas covered with blood. 

"'Tis warm, " said the man who had cut away the oilskin cap, and with hishand he wiped the blood away from the eyes and mouth. Some one in thebackground drew a cork, with his teeth, and a bottle was handed down tothose kneeling on the ground. 

Suddenly the man sat up--and coughed. 

"Shipmets, " he said, with a splutter, and lay down again. Some one heldthe bottle to his lips and wiped the blood away from his face again. 

"My God!" shouted a bystander, gruffly. "'Tis William Brooke, of theCottages. "

"Yes. 'Tis me, " said the man, sitting up again. "Not that arm, mate;don't ye touch it. 'Tis bruk. Yes; 'tis me. And 'The Last Hope' is onthe tail of the Inner Curlo--and the spar that knocked me overboardfell on the old man, and must have half killed him. But Loo Barebone'saboard. "

He rose to his knees, with one arm hanging straight and piteous from hisshoulder, then slowly to his feet. He stood wavering for a moment, andwiped his mouth with the back of his hand and spluttered. Then, lookingstraight in front of him, with that strange air of a whipped dog whichhumble men wear when the hand of Heaven is upon them, he staggered upthe beach toward the river and Farlingford. 

"Where are ye goin'?" some one asked. 

"Over to mine, " was the reply. "A'm going to my old woman, shipmets. "

And he staggered away in the darkness. 

CHAPTER XL. FARLINGFORD ONCE MORE

After a hurried consultation, Septimus Marvin was deputed to followthe injured man and take him home, seeing that he had as yet but halfrecovered his senses. This good Samaritan had scarcely disappeared whena shout from the beach drew the attention of all in another direction. 

One of the outposts was running toward the fire, waving his lantern andshouting incoherently. It was a coastguard. 

"Comin' ashore in their own boat, " he cried. "They're coming in in theirown boat!"

"There she rides--there she rides!" added Sea Andrew, almostimmediately, and he pointed to the south. 

Quite close in, just outside the line of breakers, a black shadow wasrising and falling on the water. It seemed to make scarcely any way atall, and each sea that curled underneath the boat and roared toward thebeach was a new danger. 

"They're going to run her in here, " said Sea Andrew. "There's more lefton board; that's what that means, and they're goin' back for 'em. If'twasn't so they'd run in anywheres and let her break. "

For one sailor will always tell what another is about, however great thedistance intervening. 

Slowly the boat came on, rolling tremendously on the curve of thebreakers, between the broken water of the tideway and the spume of thesurf. 

"That's Loo at the hellum, " said Sea Andrew--the keenest eyes inFarlingford. 

And suddenly Miriam swayed sideways against John Turner, who was perhapswatching her, for he gripped her arm and stood firm. No one spoke. Thewatchers on the beach stared open-mouthed, making unconscious grimacesas the boat rose and fell. All had been ready for some minutes; everypreparation made according to the time-honoured use of these coasts:four men with life-lines round them standing knee-deep waiting to dashin deeper, others behind them grouped in two files, some holding theslack of the life-lines, forming a double rank from the shore to thefire, giving the steersman his course. There was no need to wave atorch or shout an order. They were Farlingford men on the shore andFarlingford men in the boat. 

At last, after breathless moments of suspense, the boat turned, and camespinning in on the top of a breaker, with the useless oars sticking outlike the legs of some huge insect. For a few seconds it was impossibleto distinguish anything. The moment the boat touched ground, the wavesbeating on it enveloped all near it in a whirl of spray, and the blackforms seemed to be tumbling over each other in confusion. 

"You see, " said Turner to Miriam, "he has come back to you after all. "

She did not answer but stood, her two hands clasped together on herbreast, seeking to disentangle the confused group, half in half out ofthe water. 

Then they heard Loo Barebone's voice, cheerful and energetic, almostlaughing. Before they could understand what was taking place his voicewas audible again, giving a sharp, clear order, and all the black formsrushed together down into the surf. A moment later the boat danced outover the crest of a breaker, splashing into the next and throwing up afan of spray. 

"She's through, she's through!" cried some one. And the boat rode for abrief minute head to wind before she turned southward. There were onlythree on the thwarts--Loo Barebone and two others. 

The group now broke up and straggled up toward the fire. One manwas being supported, and could scarcely walk. It was Captain Clubbe, hatless, his grey hair plastered across his head by salt water. 

He did not heed any one, but sat down heavily on the shingle and felthis leg with one hand, the other arm hung limply. 

"Leave me here, " he said, gruffly, to two or three who were spreadingout a horse-cloth and preparing to carry him. "Here I stay till all areashore. "

Behind him were several new-comers, one of them a little man talkingexcitedly to his companion. 

"But it is a folly, " he was saying in French, "to go back in such a seaas that. "

It was the Marquis de Gemosac, and no one was taking any notice ofhim. Dormer Colville, stumbling over the shingle beside him, recognisedMiriam in the firelight and turned again to look at her companion as ifscarcely believing the evidence of his own eyes. 

"Is that you, Turner?" he said. "We are all here, --the Marquis, Barebone, and I. Clubbe took us on board one dark night in the Girondeand brought us home. "

"Are you hurt?" asked Turner, curtly. 

"Oh, no. But Clubbe's collar-bone is broken and his leg is crushed. Wehad to leave four on board; not room for them in the boat. That foolBarebone has gone back for them. He promised them he would. The sea outthere is awful!"

He knelt down and held his shaking hands to the flames. Some one handedhim a bottle, but he turned first and gave it the Marquis de Gemosac, who was shaking all over like one far gone in a palsy. 

Sea Andrew and the coast-guard captain were persuading Captain Clubbe toquit the beach, but he only answered them roughly in monosyllables. 

"My place is here till all are safe, " he said. "Let me lie. "

And with a groan of pain he lay back on the beach. Miriam folded ablanket and placed it under his head. He looked round, recognised herand nodded. 

"No place for you, miss, " he said, and closed his eyes. After a momenthe raised himself on his elbow and looked into the faces peering down athim. 

"Loo will beach her anywhere he can. Keep a bright lookout for him, " hesaid. Then he was silent, and all turned their faces toward the sea. 

Another snow-squall swept in with a rush from the eastward, and halfof the fire was blown away--a trail of sparks hissing on the snow. Theybuilt up the fire again and waited, crouching low over the embers. Theycould see nothing out to sea. There was nothing to be done but towait. Some had gone along the shore to the south, keeping pace withthe supposed progress of the boat, ready to help should she be thrownashore. 

Suddenly the Marquis de Gemosac, shivering over the fire, raised hisvoice querulously. His emotions always found vent in speech. 

"It is a folly, " he repeated, "that he has committed. I do notunderstand, gentlemen, how he was permitted to do such a thing--he whoselife is of value to millions. "

He turned his head to glance sharply at Captain Clubbe, at Colville, at Turner, who listened with that half-contemptuous silence whichEnglishmen oppose to unnecessary or inopportune speech. 

"Ah!" he said, "you do not understand--you Englishmen--or you do notbelieve, perhaps, that he is the King. You would demand proofs which youknow cannot be produced. I demand no proofs, for I know. I know withoutany proof at all but his face, his manner, his whole being. I knew atonce when I saw him step out of his boat here in this sad village, andI have lived with him almost daily ever since--only to be more sure thanat first. "

His hearers made no answer. They listened tolerantly enough, as onelistens to a child or to any other incapable of keeping to the businessin hand. 

"Oh, I know more than you suspect, " said the Marquis, suddenly. "Thereare some even in our own party who have doubts, who are not quite sure. I know that there was a doubt as to that portrait of the Queen, " he halfglanced toward Dormer Colville. "Some say one thing, some another. I have been told that, when the child--Monsieur de Bourbon'sfather--landed here, there were two portraits among his fewpossessions--the miniature and a larger print, an engraving. Where isthat engraving, one would ask?"

"I have it in my safe in Paris, " said a thick voice in the darkness. "Thought it was better in my possession than anywhere else. "

"Indeed! And now, Monsieur Turner--" the Marquis raised himself on hisknees and pointed in his eager way a thin finger in the direction ofthe banker--"tell me this. Those portraits to which some would attachimportance--they are of the Duchess de Guiche. Admitted? Good! If youyourself--who have the reputation of being a man of wit--desired tosecure the escape of a child and his nurse, would you content yourselfwith the mere precaution of concealing the child's identity? Wouldyou not go farther and provide the nurse with a subterfuge, a blind, something for the woman to produce and say, 'This is not the littleDauphin. This is so-and-so. See, here is the portrait of his mother?'What so effective, I ask you? What so likely to be believed as a scandaldirected against the hated aristocrats? Can you advance anything againstthat theory?"

"No, Monsieur, " replied Turner. 

"But Monsieur de Bourbon knows of these doubts, " went on the Marquis. "They have even touched his own mind, I know that. But he has continuedto fight undaunted. He has made sacrifices--any looking at his facecan see that. It was not in France that he looked for happiness, butelsewhere. He was not heart-whole--I who have seen him with the mostbeautiful women in France paying court to him know that. But thissacrifice, also, he made for the sake of France. Or perhaps some womanof whom we know nothing stepped back and bade him go forward alone, forthe sake of his own greatness--who can tell?"

Again no one answered him. He had not perceived Miriam, and John Turner, with that light step which sometimes goes with a vast bulk, had placedhimself between her and the firelight. Monsieur de Gemosac rose to hisfeet and stood looking seaward. The snow-clouds were rolling away to thewest, and the moon, breaking through, was beginning to illumine the wildsky. 

"Gentlemen, " said the Marquis, "they have been gone a long time?"

Captain Clubbe moved restlessly, but he made no answer. The Marquishad, of course, spoken in French, and the Captain had no use for thatlanguage. 

The group round the fire had dwindled until only half a dozen remained. One after another the watchers had moved away uneasily toward the beach. The Marquis was right--the boat had been gone too long. 

At last the moon broke through, and the snowy scene was almost as lightas day. 

John Turner was looking along the beach to the south, and one afteranother the watchers by the fire turned their anxious eyes in the samedirection. The sea, whipped white, was bare of any wreck. "The LastHope" of Farlingford was gone. She had broken up or rolled into deepwater. 

A number of men were coming up the shingle in silence. Sea Andrew, dragging his feet wearily, approached in advance of them. 

"Boat's thrown up on the beach, " he said to Captain Clubbe. "Stove in bya sea. We've found them. "

He stood back and the others, coming slowly into the light, depositedtheir burdens side by side near the fire. The Marquis, who hadunderstood nothing, took a torch from the hand of a bystander and heldit down toward the face of the man they had brought last. 

It was Loo Barebone, and the clean-cut, royal features seemed to wear areflective smile. 

Miriam had come forward toward the fire, and by chance or by some vagueinstinct the bearers had laid their burden at her feet. After all, asJohn Turner had said, Loo Barebone had come back to her. She had deniedhim twice, and the third time he would take no denial. The taciturnsailors laid him there and stepped back--as if he was hers and this wasthe inevitable end of his short and stormy voyage. 

She looked down at him with tired eyes. She had done the right, andthis was the end. There are some who may say that she had done what shethought was right, and this only seemed to be the end. It may be so. 

The Marquis de Gemosac was dumb for once. He looked round him with ahalf-defiant question in his eyes. Then he pointed a lean finger downtoward the dead man's face. 

"Others may question, " he said, "but I know--I KNOW. "