By very hard going the four riders got to Quimperlé that night, despite the state of the roads. They slept there entirely1 unmolested; a small detachment of troops indeed occupied the town, but the mere2 sight of Brune’s signature was enough. And the anxiety of ‘les jeunes’ at least—the Duc would not discuss the matter—‘les jeunes’ who had only half heard, was much allayed3. It did not strike them that they were still within the confines of Finistère, and that possibly the disgraceful orders had not yet crossed the Scorff. Yet, all unknown to their leader, they took that night in the h?tel a certain precaution which might have remained unknown to him, had he not, waking in the dark of the early morning, and perplexed4 by a sound outside his door for which he could not account, lit a candle and softly opened it; and so come on his own son stretched out there asleep across the threshold, his pistols within reach of his hand, and his drawn5 sword beneath his head.
Gaston looked down, not a little moved, at that embodiment of his own youth guarding him, and, shading the light, contemplated6 the sleeping boy as he had done last year in the attic7 at Hennebont. Laure’s face, grown so shadowy now, came back for a moment to haunt him. “I wish I could tell him,” he said to himself. But there was his promise; and with a sigh he went in and closed the door again.
The Duc made no reference next morning to his discovery, and thus never learnt that they had all taken their turns in devotion. When they reached Pont-Scorff they were already in the Morbihan, but through Pont-Scorff they rode without even having to show their safe-conducts. As Auray was rather too long a stage before the mid-day meal, and as the horses, with the exception of Zéphyr, were now going none too well, they decided8 to eat déjeuner at Hennebont, and about noon they drew rein9 before the chief inn in the little town which had seen them creep into it like thieves in the dusk, nearly a year ago. But though they came openly now they were incomparably heavier-hearted.
As they dismounted, Gaston desired two of them to look after the tired horses while he ordered the meal. Lucien and Artamène detached themselves for this duty, and disappeared down a dark entry with the four steeds. The Duc, followed by Roland, entered the inn.
Evidently Hennebont was full of soldiers; officers of all arms were lounging outside and inside the door of the hostelry, but, though they looked with extreme curiosity at the Royalists, no one seemed to find their presence unnatural11, or made the faintest show of asking for some authorisation of it. Not even to Gaston did it occur that here, in the Morbihan, they were being taken for officers of Cadoudal’s disbanded army who had presumably not yet divested12 themselves of their uniforms, but who were none the less amnestied. To Roland it was an extraordinary experience to pass through these throngs13 of Blues14 as if they possessed15 some charm; they did not even need to show those safe-conducts. But of course they were safe with an honourable16 foe17; were their enemies not fellow-countrymen?
The inn parlour, with its small round tables, was crowded with guests, both civil and military. As M. de Trélan came in, followed by the young man, not a few looked up at the two handsome Chouan officers, of whom Gaston’s high rank could only be guessed at by the air of distinction that never left him, for he was not openly wearing his scarf, and the little cross on his breast was too rare a decoration to be widely known. They sat down at the only unoccupied table, one in a corner opposite the door, and the Duc ordered four covers. The be-coiffed peasant girl who received his commands asked for indulgence if there were delay, for, as the gentlemen could see, they were very busy.
“Shall I go out then, and help the others with the horses, Sir?” suggested Roland. His leader nodded, and Roland got up, still thinking how odd it was to sit down placidly18 and eat in a room full of Blues. There were quite a dozen officers there—hussars, dragoons and infantry19. The eyes of some of these officers followed him as he threaded his way between the tables. Possibly they also found it piquant20 to see a former foe moving about unmolested.
Feminine eyes followed him, too, appreciative21 of his youth and looks, eyes set in the face of a youngish, buxom22 woman wearing an extravagant23 bonnet24 and luxurious25 furs of marten who sat—strangely enough, with her back to most of the company—at a table in one of the other corners. With her was a big florid man over whose air of importance, every time he looked at his companion, there passed a milder and obscuring gleam, even as a light cloud drifts over the face of the moon. Any guests who had noticed them decided that they were probably bride and bridegroom, and all the more sentimental26 because they were neither of them in their first youth. And newly wed10 in fact they were—M. and Mme Georges Camain, on their way to Lorient, at which port M. Camain had to inspect some warehouses27 for the Government. By taking his Rose with him he hoped to combine pleasure with business.
Mme Camain’s eyes, therefore, travelled after the young man, as he entered her sphere of vision just before going through the door. Her husband thereupon leant over the table and tapped her on the pretty, plump hand with the new wedding ring.
“He reminds me of someone, that child,” observed the lady reflectively. “A long time ago . . .”
“Eat your partridge, ma mie, and never mind about the days before the Flood,” commanded Camain, setting her the example. “Remember, too, that we have ordered the carriage to be at the door by one o’clock, and that time is getting on.”
“It is not only a right, but a duty!” returned the monster cheerfully, going on eating, however, with a very care-free appetite.
But Rose was intrigued30 by the passage of the young man. “I wonder if he was alone?” she murmured, and, between taking pecks at her partridge, continually turned her head and craned her neck towards that quarter of the room from which she divined that he had come. But it was in vain; for, short of getting up and turning round altogether, she could not see it.
And Gaston de Trélan, at that table in the corner, his head on his hand, his thoughts far away, sat waiting for the advent31 of the meal and the return of his aides-de-camp. The two nearest officers, dragoons, with their heads close together over their wine, alternately looked at him and whispered to one another. Meanwhile people ate steadily32.
All at once Rose, whose curiosity, though almost motiveless33, was proving too strong for her, saying to her astonished husband, “I think I must have dropped my handkerchief from my reticule as I came in,” got up from her place before he had time to protest, and walked, her eyes on the floor as though searching for something, till she came to a spot whence she could conveniently glance at that one table in the corner which she could not see when seated. Having arrived there, she sped a look at it—at the Royalist officer sitting there alone who, as she moved across the room, raised preoccupied34 eyes in her direction. . . .
Next moment the entire company was electrified35 to see the pretty little woman in the marten furs clasp her hands suddenly together, and give a tiny scream which penetrated37 through all the clatter38 of knives and the babel of conversation. And then, more or less of silence having descended39, she broke out with a name—
“Monsieur de Trélan! Is it possible!”
And not to realise who was the object of this touching40 recognition was difficult, for the solitary41 Chouan officer in the corner, after staring a moment, rose slowly to his feet and bowed—as a man bows to an unknown lady. Yet Rose stood there, her face quite white under her preposterous42 bonnet, apparently43 oblivious44 that every eye was either on her, or on the man to whom she had drawn attention. Then the wave of mild universal surprise was broken into and flung aside by a billow of a much more menacing kind. For, with an exclamation45, one of the neighbouring officers of dragoons leapt to his feet, his chair falling backwards46 behind him, and strode in front of the Royalist’s table.
“Monsieur de Trélan—or Monsieur de Kersaint, as you prefer—will you have the kindness to follow me?”
Gaston, coldly amused, surveyed him for a moment. “No, Monsieur, I must beg to decline,” he said. “Your zeal47 is admirable, but misplaced.” And he laid his hand on the back of his chair, with a view, evidently, to sitting down again.
“You deny then that you are de Kersaint, the general of Finistère?”
“Not for a moment!”
“Then,” said the officer with a gesture, “it is my unpleasant duty to arrest you. You will be wise, as you see, not to resist.”
The Duc de Trélan relinquished48 his hold of the chair and drew himself up. “You must be dreaming, Monsieur,” he retorted. “You have no power to arrest me. I am on my way to Vannes under General Brune’s safe-conduct. You must know that, since you know who I am.”
For all reply the officer turned and beckoned49 to the rest. But his companion was already there beside him, and from every quarter of the room the other Republicans were hurrying, between the tables, to that table in the corner behind which stood their quarry50, alone.
“I have a safe-conduct,” repeated Gaston very haughtily51. “Am I not speaking to Frenchmen?—I have this also!” He took a step or two backwards, and his sword sprang out.
“You had better come without resistance, Monsieur de Kersaint,” said the officer of dragoons menacingly. “I have a squadron of my men out there within hail, and these gentlemen, you can see, are in receipt of the same orders. As for your aide-de-camp——” He snapped his fingers.
But Camain, pushing his bulky form through the onlookers52, here broke in. “Look here, gentlemen, this officer says he has a safe-conduct. Give him at least the chance of showing it!”
“Who are you?” asked the dragoon rudely over his shoulder. “A damned civilian53! This is a matter for the military, thanks! The Chouan general de Kersaint is to be arrested, safe-conduct or no safe-conduct; those are the orders of the First Consul54 himself!”
Camain drew up his imposing55 figure. “I am deputy for the department of Maine-et-Loire,” he declared in his deepest voice. “(Be quiet, Rose!) What you are proposing to do is atrocious, and I protest!”
“Go back to your department then, and protest there!” retorted the officer insolently56. “Now that Madame has so obligingly furnished the identification we wanted . . . Once more, Monsieur de Kersaint, will you come, or will you have a useless mêlée here?”
Gaston set his teeth. It was true after all, this incredible infamy57! If he had listened to de Brencourt! . . . Valentine—should he ever see her again? The room, seething58 now with excitement, swam for a second. . . . No, they should not take him alive! This, the last, would be a good fight—one against how many . . . twelve, thirteen? He slipped a couple of feet further backwards still, till he was almost in the angle of the wall, the blade he had never thought to use again glittering in his hand. Then he smiled, not altogether scornfully. His intention was obvious.
In the ring now round him several other swords slid out. Most of the guests, vociferating, had already made a bolt for the door, but Rose was clinging to her husband in a frenzy59. “Georges! Georges! don’t let them do it! It is the Duc, it is indeed! Tell them you had charge of Mirabel—tell them . . .” But her words, vain in any case, could not penetrate36 the uproar60. And, even as she spoke61, the officer of dragoons drew and cocked a pistol. “Now, for the last time, Monsieur de Kersaint! See, we do not want to harm your escort, if you have one—our business is not with them—but if you drive us to use force, you will certainly get them killed as well as yourself!”
His escort! that escort for the moment, mercifully, out of hearing. In the imminent62 prospect63 of combat Gaston had forgotten them. Good God, that was only too true—they would certainly get themselves cut to pieces for him! Roland—Roland!—and those other boys slaughtered64 for his sake . . . and uselessly! The idea was too horrible. He must let them take him—quickly. His face grew sombre, and he lowered his point a little.
“So this is the First Consul’s honour!” he said, but his voice cut like a sword, “—and yours, soldiers and Frenchmen! I was warned of this—but I would not believe such a thing possible!”
“It is orders!” a chorus answered him.
“Swear that you will let my escort go unharmed—no, how can I rely on your word?” he said, looking contemptuously round, and this time no one answered him. “At least I shall never give up my sword now, since there is no one left worthy65 to receive it.” And before anyone had moved he had put his left hand to the naked blade, and, bending his knee, snapped the weapon across. Then he threw the two halves at his feet and folded his arms. “I am at your disposal . . . gentlemen . . . only be quick about it!”
They had no desire to be other than speedy. There was a travelling carriage just drawn up at the inn door; small matter that it belonged to the Deputy who had tried to interfere66. Five minutes later, with fifty dragoons round it, that carriage had started for Auray and Vannes, while the remaining officers, having thrust aside the doubly infuriated Camain, were dealing67 in the passage with the distracted young men of their prisoner’s escort, to whom news of the catastrophe68 had meanwhile penetrated. The short and furious mêlée was indeed none of the Republicans’ seeking, but its end was just as inevitable69 as if it had been. . . . For Artamène, his head laid open by a sabre, having stumbled, blinded with blood, into the eating-room, and fallen his length among the tables, lay there without stirring; while Lucien, his arm fractured, leant with shut eyes against the doorpost, his uniform torn on one side from shoulder to waist. And in the now emptied setting of the drama which she had unwittingly brought about, Rose Camain, kneeling by the bleeding and unconscious boy on the floor, but not trying in any way to succour him, her hands to the sides of her head in approved theatrical70 fashion, was sending forth71 shriek72 after shriek. . . .
(2)
But Roland, uninjured though almost crazy, was in the yard, his hands shaking so much as he re-saddled Zéphyr that he could hardly pull the girths. Even so, he had enough wits left to realise that the large stout73 man, himself greatly discomposed, who had, as far as he remembered, dragged him bodily out of the affray, was right when he said that it was perfectly74 useless to follow the vanished carriage along the Auray road. The best thing that he could do was to hasten back to Finistère and spread the news. Roland was conscious that his adviser75 was helping76 him now, keeping up, as he put on Zéphyr’s bridle77, a running accompaniment of wrath—“Disgraceful . . . infamous78 . . . to purloin79 a carriage too. . . .”
“Look here, boy,” he said suddenly, throwing the reins80 over the Arab’s neck, “—by the way, I suppose you’re his son, are you not?”
Roland, too dazed and wretched to be surprised at the idea, shook his head, and put his foot in the stirrup.
“You’re devilish like him,” said Camain explanatorily. “Wait a minute—I want to say something. The Duchesse de Trélan—if you see her, tell her she can command my services. Camain, my name is; she knew me at Mirabel . . . I expect you have heard about that. H?tel du Lion d’Or at Lorient will find me.”
Roland, in the saddle now, nodded. O God, O God, they had let him be taken!
“I’ll see that your comrades are looked after,” added the Deputy kindly81, looking up at his young, desperate face. “I hope it is all a mistake—damn it all, it must be! and that they will release him when they get to Vannes. Yet it is best not to count on it. Good luck to you!”
Roland bent82 down and seized the hand of the ex-administrator of Mirabel, who so little divined in him the “marauder” of last April, and next moment was out of the courtyard.
But even as he passed under the tunnel leading to the street he heard this Camain calling after him, and impatiently reined83 up again.
“Look here, young man,” said the Deputy in a lowered tone, “as it was owing to my—as I feel a sort of interest in the Trélan family, I’m damned if I don’t follow those scoundrels to Vannes to-night, just to keep an eye on the business. Tell the Duchesse that—and should she come to Vannes in person, tell her to go to the H?tel de l’Epée, and if I am not still there myself I will leave a message for her.”
“God bless you!” said Roland, with tears in his eyes. Then he was in the street, and a moment or two later, riding like mad back along the road to Finistère.
For some miles he galloped84 on almost without thought, he was so numb85 with misery86 and incredulity. Zéphyr, the incomparable, seemed quite fresh, despite the distance he had come since yesterday morning. That was why he had taken him. . . . A rescue—how was it to be brought about? It all seemed to rest on his shoulders. A terrible feeling of helplessness began to wrap him round as he pushed on through the cold rain which was now beating on him. Was he really acting87 for the best in returning like this, and what was to be done when he got back—the men all disbanded? If only the Abbé were there! And how should he ever tell the Duchesse? The clouds about him seemed thick with the shame and anguish88 in his heart. And Zéphyr was not so fresh after all.
What did they mean to do with the Duc? Hold him as a hostage? They dared do nothing worse, in the face of that full safe-conduct. Even the First Consul would not dare. It was a mistake; yes, a piece of bravado89. Yet if only they had listened to M. de Brencourt!
He had covered many miles without drawing rein. The night was beginning, the early February night. And Zéphyr, the tireless and surefooted, had stumbled twice. “O Zéphyr, don’t you fail too, as we have failed!” cried his rider.
Over the border at last into Finistère, and through Quimperlé, where they had slept yesterday. It was dark now, and snowing a little. He meant to ride all night, but at Bannalec it was plain that it was an impossibility both for him and his gallant90 horse. He tried to get another; could not, and fell asleep from exhaustion91 even as he argued about it with the people of the inn. They carried him up and put him to bed. He had covered not quite half of the distance back.
It was afternoon of the next day when at last he got to La Vergne, and he could hardly get out of the saddle, hardly drag himself up the steps. No sentry92 now. He lifted the great knocker; the door swung open. Someone had heard the hoofs93. It was Marthe. She caught at him as he stumbled into the hall. “Roland, what is it? O, what has happened?”
“Bad news,” said he, so weary he could scarcely frame the words. “The Duc——” A cold mist suddenly drove at him across the hall; when it cleared he saw Mme de la Vergne hurrying towards him, and that Marthe had her arms round him, half supporting him. And who was the man rising from a chair by the hearth94? But he saw also the Duchesse de Trélan, who must have been coming down the great staircase, standing95 as if turned to marble in her descent, a few feet from the bottom. . . . And he broke away from Marthe, for he knew he must tell her at once.
“Madame, they have arrested the Duc at Hennebont—they have taken him to Vannes . . . it was true about the safe-conduct . . . the others are hurt—killed, perhaps . . .” And sobbing96 out, “How can we save him?” clutching at her dress, he sank forward exhausted97 on the stairs, his head against her very feet.
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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wed
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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throngs
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blues
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possessed
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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foe
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placidly
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infantry
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piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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appreciative
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buxom
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extravagant
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bonnet
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luxurious
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sentimental
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warehouses
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jocosely
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pouted
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intrigued
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advent
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steadily
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motiveless
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preoccupied
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electrified
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penetrate
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penetrated
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clatter
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descended
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touching
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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apparently
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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exclamation
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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beckoned
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quarry
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haughtily
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onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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insolently
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| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
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infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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purloin
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| v.偷窃 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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reined
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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97
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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