Part 37 (2/2)
Martin Joubard, the only witness of the arrest, had made the most of his story. He did not know the police officer by sight, but Monsieur Ange had seemed to do so. This had made them all think that the order for the arrest had come from Sonnay. But no! And as to any escape, this man was a.s.sured that the young gentleman had not been seen by any one but Martin Joubard, since he left his father's vineyard in the twilight of that fatal evening.
At Les Chouettes all went on outwardly in its usual fas.h.i.+on. Monsieur Joseph strolled out with his gun, directed the beginnings of his vintage; his servants, trustworthy indeed, showed no sign of any special watchfulness; Mademoiselle Henriette ordered the dogs about and sang her songs as usual. If Monsieur Joseph was grave and preoccupied, no wonder; every one knew he loved his nephew. But Simon, in truth, had met his match. He was almost convinced that no fugitive from justice, real or pretended, was hidden in or about Monsieur Joseph's habitation; and he gradually made his cordon wider, still watching the house, but keeping his men in cover by day, and searching the woods by night with less exact caution. His only satisfaction was being aware of two visits paid to Les Chouettes by the Baron d'Ombre, who came over the moor in the evening and slept there. The mission to England was as yet beyond police dreams, at least on this side of the country; but Simon kept his knowledge for future use.
It might naturally be imagined that Angelot would have found a refuge in some of the wild old precincts of La Mariniere; but Simon soon convinced himself that this was not the case. No mother whose son was hidden about her home would have spent her time as Anne did, wandering restlessly about, expecting nothing but her husband's return, or spending long hours before the altar in the church, praying for her son's safety.
Simon began to suspect that his prisoner had got away to the west, into Brittany, among the Chouans who were there so numerous that it was better to leave them alone.
”Bien! his absence in any way will suit Monsieur le General,” Simon reflected. ”As to that, it does not much matter. But I and my fellows will not get our promised pay, and that signifies a great deal. I, who have given up my furlough to serve that animal!”
So he gnawed his nails in distraction, and still watched with a sort of fascination the little square of country where he felt more and more afraid that Master Angelot was no longer to be found.
The sympathy that Anne de la Mariniere, in her lonely sorrow, might have expected from the cousins at Lancilly who owed Urbain so much, she neither asked nor found. Once or twice, Herve de Sainfoy came himself to the manor to ask if she had any news; but his manner was a little stiff and awkward; and Adelade never came; and the messages he brought from her were too evidently made by his politeness on the spur of the moment.
Was it not possible, Anne thought, to be too worldly, too unforgiving?
Had not her beautiful boy been punished enough for his presumption in falling in love with their daughter, and behaving like a lover of the olden time? They were even partly responsible for the arrest, she thought, for it was to escape them that Ange had walked away with Martin up the hill that evening.
Looking over at the great castle on the opposite hill, she accused it bitterly of having robbed her not only of Urbain, but of Angelot.
The October days brought wilder autumn weather; the winds began to blow in the woods, to howl at night in the wide old chimneys of La Mariniere; sometimes the cry of a wolf, in distant depths of forest, made sportsmen and farmers talk of the hunts of which Lancilly used long ago to be the centre. Those days would return again, they hoped, though Count Herve had not the energy or the country training of his ancestors. But his son, when the war was over, seemed likely to vie with any seigneur of them all. In the meanwhile, this young man's leave was shortened by an express from the army--a fact which seemed at first unlikely to have any influence on the fate of his cousin Angelot--but life has turns and twists that baffle the wisest calculations. Neither Georges nor his mother had been displeased at the arrest of Angelot; though they had the decency to keep their congratulations for each other. As for Helene, the news had been allowed to reach her through the servants and Mademoiselle Moineau. She dared not cry any more; her mother had scolded her enough for spoiling her eyes and complexion. Pale and silent, she took this new trouble as one more proof that she was never meant to be happy. Her fairy prince was a dream; yet, whatever the poets may say, she found a little joy and comfort, warmth and peace, in dreaming her dream again, and even in this worst time, by some strange instinct of love, Angelot seemed never far away from her.
One evening, when it was blowing and raining outside, a wood fire was flaming in the salon at La Mariniere. For herself, Anne would not have cared for it; but the old Cure sat and warmed his hands after dining with her and playing a game of tric-trac. Not indeed to please and distract her, but himself; for he had long been accustomed to depend on her for comfort in all his troubles. After the game was over he had told her a piece of news; nothing that mattered very much, or that was very surprising, characters and circ.u.mstances considered; but Anne took it hardly.
”I cannot believe it,” she said at first. ”Who told you, do you say?”
”My brother at Lancilly told me,” said the Cure. ”You do not think him worthy of much confidence, madame--and it may not be true--he had heard the report in the village.”
She shrugged her shoulders, with a little contempt for the Cure of Lancilly. Her old friend watched her face, pathetically changed since all this new sorrow came upon her; thinner, paler, its delicate beauty hardened, purple shadows under the still lovely eyes, and a look of bitter resentment that hurt him to see. He gazed at her imploringly.
”But, madame,” he murmured--”it is nothing--Monsieur de la Mariniere would say it was nothing--”
”I hope, Monsieur le Cure,” Anne said, ”that after such cruel hardness of heart he will waste his affection there no longer. Ah! who is that?”
There were quick steps outside. Somebody had come in, and might be heard shaking himself in the hall; then Monsieur Joseph walked lightly into the room, bringing a rush of outside air, a smell of wet leaves, and that atmosphere of life which in his saddest moments never left him.
Madame Urbain received him a little coldly; she was cold to every one in these days; but in truth his conscience told him that he might have visited her more since Urbain went away. But then--how keep the secret from Angelot's mother? No, impossible; and so he made his vintage an excuse for avoiding La Mariniere. To-night, however, he had a mission to fulfil.
It was horribly difficult. He sat down between her and the Cure, looked from one to the other, drank the coffee she offered him, and blushed like a girl as he said, ”No news from Urbain, I suppose?”
Anne's brows rose in a scornful arch; her lips pouted.
”News! How should there be any?” she said, as if Urbain had gone to Paris to amuse himself. ”And your vintage, Joseph?”
”I finished it to-day. It was difficult--the weather was not very good--and--I have had distractions,” said Monsieur Joseph, and waved away the subject. ”My dear Anne,” he went on, rus.h.i.+ng headlong into another, ”I have had a visitor to-day, who charged me to explain to you a certain matter--which vexes him profoundly, by the bye,--Herve de Sainfoy, who for family reasons--”
”Oh, mon Dieu!” Anne cried, and burst out laughing. ”You really mean that Herve de Sainfoy has sent you as his amba.s.sador--see our injustice, Monsieur le Cure, yours and mine--to announce to me that he is going to give a ball while my son is in prison, in danger of his life, or already dead, for all I know! Really, that is magnificent! What politeness, what feeling for Urbain, n'est-ce pas? He did not wish me to hear such interesting news through the gossip of the village--do you hear, Monsieur le Cure? You brought it too soon. And my invitation?” she held out her hand. ”Did he give you a card for me, or will Madame la Comtesse take the trouble to send it herself?”
”Ah, bah!” cried Joseph, springing from his chair and pirouetting before the fire; ”but you are a little too severe on poor Herve, my dear sister! I a.s.sure you, I showed him what I thought. But I perceived that his vexation is real--real and sincere. The circ.u.mstances--he explained them all in the most amiable manner--”
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