Obrazy na stronie
PDF
ePub

CHAPTER XXVII

THE OLD HOUSE AT NANTES

It was a picturesque old house, one side looking to the river. A broad road, dusty white in the sun, swept past in front. On the other side lay the Castle moat-grim, gray walls rising above it in dreary grandeur. Up in the sky sailed a cloud like a tortoise with a little white head and a curly tail.

'I shall never see another cloud like that,' said Lucien, to justify his irresolution as he stood looking.

At length he forced himself to knock.

The voice and manner of the maid who let him in were quiet, almost cloistral. The cool, cave-like air of the stone corridor through which she ushered him, the soft reposeful silence, stilled and refreshed him. He crossed a little yard, followed his guide up a staircase with iron railings, and found himself in a long, low parlour, between dark wainscoted walls on which a stain of faded colour showed here a maiden against an urn, there a dovecot, and there, again, a ruined tower against a tranquil golden sky. In the shadowy window-seat, an open book on her knee, sat a tall, graceful lady in a white cap. Near the table stood another, filling a bowl with deep red roses. The beautiful hair drawn straight up from her forehead was white, and there were lines along the brow though she was not yet old; the hazel eyes were full of half-wistful regret— of the unspoken tenderness of one who does not readily

express herself in words. Under her strong, nervous hands the roses seemed to grow this way and that. 'Monsieur Sylvestre, I believe?' the elder lady said, coming forward with gentle eagerness.

Neither she nor her sister showed surprise, only pleasure; he knew at once that, by name, at least, he was no stranger to them.

'We have a letter for you-from the sieur de Coquet,' she continued, smiling as she placed it in his hands. 'Pray be seated, sir. The heat has made you a little faint, has it not?

Still Lucien could not speak. This question beat in him like a live thing, choking utterance.

[ocr errors]

'Is the marquis well?' he said at last.

Quite well,' said mademoiselle du Guiny. 'We do not call him " the marquis " at Nantes, you know. He is the sieur de Coquet. Be so good as to read your letter. There may be a message in it for me.'

Lucien opened it as she suggested; but his hand shook, and for a minute he could not see. It was a short note, merely informing him that mesdemoiselles du Guiny would see to his accommodation, and provide him with anything that he wanted.

'Where is he-where is the sieur de Coquet?'

'I do not know myself; he escaped from the fight at la Pénissière, but he has been in close hiding ever since. The Orleanists were furious; they lost heavily.

[ocr errors]

You are very anxious about him?' asked mademoiselle Pauline.

'I thought he was dead,' said Lucien, turning away. They were all three silent.

'Ah, well!' said the elder lady, ' I should never think the sieur de Coquet was dead, unless he told me so

himself. His guardian angel takes good care of him; he has escaped five or six times when any reasonable man would have been killed. It ought not to surprise you, sir, so much; if what I hear be true, it is not your fault that you left la Pénissière alive either. Now that we have told you all we can about the sieur de Coquet, have you any news to give us of Petit-Pierre?'

There was something in the manner of Mesdemoiselles du Guiny which encouraged autobiography in those who talked to them. They did not only listen; they followed Lucien along the dusty road, over the dangerous bridge. Never before had he felt conscious that he possessed remarkable power as a story-teller.

'Dear Eulalie!' murmured mademoiselle Pauline. 'Those moments on the bridge before you came back -what they must have been for her!'

'And to think it was all happening an hour or two ago, when we were down in the kitchen scolding Marie because the coffee was not hot enough!' said her sister. 'One can hardly bear it.'

Little by little, not questioning much, but by their craft of silent expectation, of looks, of sighs, of halfbreathed cries of sympathy, they drew from him all that he knew of Madame-almost all that he knew of himself. Nor did the time, though the tale of a life was told in it, seem long to any of the three. Mademoiselle Pauline set the last rose in the bowl just as he finished.

'And now,' her sister murmured, with a glance at the failing light,' we must not keep you. We are following our leader in Nantes; we mean to be bold. I have obtained permission for you to lodge in one of the deserted rooms of the Castle; they will not suspect a

Royalist of hiding there. An old servant of ours takes care of the State apartments; she will see to your comfort, and the oftener you favour us with your society, the better we shall be pleased. In a day or two -who knows?-Petit-Pierre may be under this roof. Our good friend, monsieur de Kersabiec, is in prison, and suspicion will, I fear, attach to his house. We have a famous hiding-place upstairs.'

'A famous hiding-place!'

Lucien recollected the hole at la Mouchetièreshuddered-thought what a fool he was to shudder.

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE DAYS FLY FAST

As he entered the large, bare room, bright with bouquets of la France, which Mademoiselle Pauline had prepared for him, Lucien little thought that this would be his home for five months yet to come.

Strong desire urged him to quit Nantes at once for Paris. The marquis was there; Hugo was there; madame de Feuchères-who might, perhaps, tell him his name was there. Stronger desire held him fast to that room in the Castle. Madame had not gone. How could he go? how could he leave her? As for his name, what did that matter? He meant to make himself a name.

At the end of three days Madame came to the demoiselles du Guiny, bringing with her monsieur de Mesnard, and Stylite de Kersabiec instead of her sister Eulalie, who had broken down after the long strain. She still kept the same resolute silence about the marquis. Once or twice, when Lucien mentioned him, she affected not to hear; nor did she ever speak of the fight at la Pénissière.

Lucien appealed to the elder of the two hostesses, who looked distressed.

'I fear there has been a misunderstanding,' said she, 'I do not know what it is. The sieur de Coquet has the most loyal heart in France.'

« PoprzedniaDalej »