CHAPTER XXI

In this storehouse the amiable conspirator shut up his nephew, and Angelot spent the next few days there, well employed in cleaning and polishing wood and steel. He slept at night on a sofa in the anteroom, but was allowed to go no farther. Monsieur Joseph had reasons of his own.

He was a very authoritative person, when once he took a matter into his own hands, and his influence with Angelot was great. He took a far more serious view of the arrest than Angelot himself did. He was sure that his nephew had been kidnapped by special orders from Paris—probably from Réal, whom he knew of old—in order to gain information as to any existing Chouan plots in Anjou. Thus the authorities meant to protect themselves from any consequences of the Prefect's indulgent character. It was even possible that some suspicion of the mission to England, only lately discussed by himself and his friends, might have filtered through to Paris; and in that case several persons were in serious danger.

Monsieur Joseph was confirmed in these ideas by the fact that his brother started off to Sonnay to demand of the authorities there the reason of his son's arrest, and found that absolutely nothing was known of it. Coming back in a state of rage and anxiety, which quite drove his philosophy out of the field, Urbain attacked his brother in words that Joseph found a little hard to bear, accusing him of having ruined Angelot's life with his foolish fancies, and of being the actual cause of this catastrophe which might bring the fate of a Chouan on the innocent fellow who cared for no politics at all.

"And what a life, to care for no cause at all!" cried Joseph, with eloquently waving hands. "But—you say you are going to Paris, to get to the bottom of this? Well, my friend, go! And I promise you, if Ange is in danger, I will follow and take his place. You and Anne may rely upon it, he shall not be punished for my sins."

"Come with me now, then! I start this very night," said Urbain.

"No, no! I will not accuse myself before it is necessary," said Joseph, shaking his head and smiling.

Urbain flung away in angry disgust. Joseph had a moment of profound sadness as he looked after him—they were standing in the courtyard of La Marinière—then stole away home through the lanes, carefully avoiding a sight of his sister-in-law.

"I let him go! I let him go, poor Urbain! and his boy safe at Les Chouettes all the time. Why do I do it? because the house is watched day and night; because neither I, nor Gigot, nor Tobie, can go into the woods without seeing the glitter of a police carbine through the leaves; because the dogs growl at night, and there is no safe place for Angelot outside Les Chouettes, till he is out of France altogether—and that I shall have to manage carefully. Because, if his father knew he had escaped from the police, all the world would know. Et puis,—I shall make a good Royalist of you in the end, my little Angelot. Your mother will not blame me for cutting you off from the Empire, and your father must comfort himself with his philosophy. And that hopeless passion for Mademoiselle Hélène—what can be kinder than to end it—and by the great cure of all—time, absence, impossibility! Yes; the matter is in my hands, and I shall carry it through, God helping me."

It was not a light burden that he had to carry, the little uncle. Never, since his brother's intervention brought him back to France and placed him where he and his old friends could amuse themselves with conspiracies which, as Joubard said, did little harm to any one, had he been in a position of such real difficulty. Riette did not at all realise what she was bringing upon her father, when she slipped into his room that night with the news that Angelot had escaped from the police. He had to keep his nephew quietly imprisoned till he could get him away safely; it required all his arguments, all his influence and strength of will, to do that; for Angelot was not an easy person to keep within four narrow walls, and only love and gratitude restrained him from obeying his own instincts, going out into the woods, risking a second arrest—hardly to be followed by a second escape—venturing over to La Marinière to see his mother. It distressed him far more to think of her, terribly anxious, ignorant of his safety, than of his father on the way to Paris. He, at any rate, though he would not find him, might come to the bottom of the mysterious business.

Monsieur Joseph danced in the air, shrugged his shoulders, waved his hands. If Angelot chose to go, let him! His recapture would probably mean the arrest and ruin of the whole family. A little patience, and he could disappear for the time. What else did he expect to be able to do? Would a man on whom the police had once laid their hands be allowed to rescue himself and to live peaceably in his own country? What did he take them for, the police? were they children at play? or were their proceedings grim and real earnest? Had those men behind, who pulled the strings of the puppet-show, no other object in view than an hour's amusement? Did Angelot know that the woods were patrolled by the police, the roads watched? The only surprising thing was, that no domiciliary visit had yet been made, either at Les Chouettes or La Marinière.

"However, they know I am a good marksman," said Monsieur Joseph, with his sweetest smile. "And even Tobie, with my authority, might think a gendarme fair game."

"I don't believe it is fear of you that keeps them away, Uncle Joseph," said Angelot. "As to that, I too can hit a tree by daylight. But these stealthy ways of theirs seem to tell me what I have thought all along, that it is a private enterprise of our friend Simon's own, without any authority whatever. The fellows with him were not gendarmes; they were not in uniform. Monsieur le Préfet being laid up, the good man thinks it the moment to do a little hunting on his own account with his own dogs, and to curry favour by taking his game to Paris. But he is not quite sure of himself; he has no warrant to search houses without a better reason than any he can give. He will catch me again if he can, no doubt; but as you say, Uncle Joseph, as long as I stay here in your cupboard, I am safe."

"So safe," laughed his uncle, "that I am going to begin my vintage to-morrow under their very noses, leaving Riette and the dogs to guard you, mon petit. But you are wrong, you are quite wrong. No police spy would dare to make such an arrest without a special order. If they have no warrant for searching, they will soon get one as soon as they are sure you are here. But at present you have vanished into the bowels of the earth. They can see that your father knows nothing of you; they have no reason to think that I am any wiser."

So passed those weary days, those long, mysterious nights at Les Chouettes.

Outside, with great care to keep themselves out of sight, Simon's scratch band searched the woods and lanes. Simon was mystified, as well as furious. He hardly dared return and report to his employer, who supposed that Angelot had been conveyed safely off to the mock prison where he meant to have him kept for a few weeks; then, when the affair of the marriage was arranged, to let him escape from it. Simon was himself too well known in the neighbourhood to make any enquiries; but one of his men found out at Lancilly that the family supposed young Ange to have been carried off to Paris, whither his father had followed him. 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 assured 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 fashion. 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'Ombré, 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 Marinière; 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 Général," 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 Marinière, 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, Hervé de Sainfoy came himself to the manor to ask if she had any news; but his manner was a little stiff and awkward; and Adélaïde 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 Marinière; 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 Hervé 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 Hélène, 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 Marinière. For herself, Anne would not have cared for it; but the old Curé 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 circumstances 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 Curé. "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 Curé 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 Marinière would say it was nothing—"

"I hope, Monsieur le Curé," 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 Marinière. To-night, however, he had a mission to fulfil.

It was horribly difficult. He sat down between her and the Curé, 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, rushing 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,—Hervé de Sainfoy, who for family reasons—"

"Oh, mon Dieu!" Anne cried, and burst out laughing. "You really mean that Hervé de Sainfoy has sent you as his ambassador—see our injustice, Monsieur le Curé, 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 Curé? 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 Hervé, my dear sister! I assure you, I showed him what I thought. But I perceived that his vexation is real—real and sincere. The circumstances—he explained them all in the most amiable manner—"

Anne interrupted him, laughing again. "I see the facts—the one fact—what are the circumstances to me?"

"They are a great deal to Hervé," Monsieur Joseph persisted.

"Hervé, Hervé!" she cried. "But Joseph—mon Dieu, how can you take his wretched excuses! I thought you loved Ange! I thought the boy—"

She broke off with a sob, turning white as death. The two men stared at her, Monsieur Joseph with wild eyes and trembling lips. Would this be more than he could bear?

He took refuge in talking. He talked so fast that he hardly knew what he was saying. He poured out Hervé's explanations, his regrets, his trouble of mind. Georges was bent upon this ball; it had been proposed long before his return; the first invitations had been sent out directly he came. He wished to make acquaintance with all the neighbours, old and new, official, or friends of the family; he wished to pay a special compliment to the officers at Sonnay, his brothers in arms. A formal invitation had been sent to General Ratoneau, who had actually accepted it, to Hervé's great surprise. He had laughed and said that the dog wanted another thrashing. But let him come, if he chose to humble himself! He might see even more clearly that Hélène was not for him. In Adélaïde's opinion, no private prejudices must have anything to do with this ball. It was given chiefly as a matter of politics, under imperial colours; it was for the interest of Georges that his family should thus definitely range itself with the Empire.

"Poor Hervé said that he had already, more than once, spoilt his wife's calculations and failed to support her views. She and Georges, whatever private feeling might be, thought it impossible to put off this ball because of the misfortune that happened to Angelot. They would be understood to show sympathy with the Chouans. Then he abused me well, poor Hervé," said Monsieur Joseph, amiably. "He said, as Urbain did, that I had ruined Angelot's life, and it was no one's fault but mine. 'Well, dear cousin,' I said to him, 'I will punish myself by not appearing at this fine ball of yours. Not that my dancing days are over, but for me, Ange's absence would spoil all.' 'You love that fellow!' says Hervé, looking at me. 'Love him!' says I. 'I would cut off my right hand to serve him, and that is a good deal for a sportsman.' Hervé laughed as I said it. I do not dislike that poor Hervé, though his wife rules him. Listen to me, you two. I believe if Ange had been reasonable and honest, Hervé might have given him his daughter."

"Heaven forbid!" cried Anne. "But if you love Ange, do not blame him. He was young, he was mad, the girl was beautiful—and, after all, Joseph, you had something to do with putting that into his head. Ah, we are all to blame! We have all been cruel, blind, selfish. You and I thought of the King, Urbain thought of his cousins, they thought of themselves. We left my boy to find his own way in a time like this, and your Chouan friends were as dangerous for him as Hélène de Sainfoy. Ah! and you excuse yourself with a laugh from dancing on his grave!"

She wrung her hands, threw herself back in her chair with a passionate sigh.

"Madame," said the Curé, suddenly;—his dim but watchful eyes had been fixed on Joseph; "Madame, Monsieur Joseph could tell you, if he would, what has become of Angelot. He is not dead; I doubt if he is even in prison. Ah, monsieur, you do not dissimulate well!" as Joseph made him an eager sign to be silent.

But it was too late, for Anne was holding his two hands, and in the light of her eyes all his secret doings lay open.

"Why did I come!" he said to himself, in the intervals of a very difficult explanation. "There is some magic in those walls of Lancilly, which attracts and ruins us all. If we live through this, thousand thunders, Hervé de Sainfoy may make his own excuses to our dear little Anne in future!"

CHAPTER XXII

"Ah, monsieur!" he murmured. "Have you thought what you are doing? Can you expect good to come out of evil? Your brother, who has done everything for us all, how are you treating him? If madame does not see it, I do. You are taking Ange, making him a conspirator and a Chouan. If you save him from one danger, you plunge him into a greater, for if he and Monsieur d'Ombré are caught on this mission, they will certainly pay for it with their lives. You are doing all this without his father's knowledge—"

"Ah, my dear Curé, I know the police better than you do," Monsieur Joseph said hastily. "These young fellows will not be the first who have escaped to England; and Ange cannot stay here with their eyes and claws upon him. Even his father would not wish that. Leave it to me. What is it, Anne? what are you thinking of?"

His sister-in-law had come back into the room, wrapped in a cloak, with a hood drawn over her face.

"I am going with you to see Ange," she said.

The wind was howling, the rain was pattering outside. But Monsieur Joseph had all the trouble in the world to make her give up this idea. At last, after many arguments and prayers, he persuaded her that she must not come to Les Chouettes but must absolutely trust Ange to him. He promised solemnly that the young man should not start without her knowing it, that, if possible, she should see her boy again.

"And if Urbain comes back before they are gone?" she said, looking whitely into his face. "I tell you positively, Joseph, I shall not dare—"

"My dear friend, owing to Monsieur le Curé's unfortunate second-sight, your son's life is in your hands. If Urbain comes back, tell him all, if you will. His presence did not save Ange from being arrested before, it will not save him from being retaken. My fault, perhaps, as Urbain said—all my fault—" He struck his breast as if in church, with his fine smile. "But then it is my place to save him, and I will do it, if you will let me—in my own way."

They were both trembling, and large tears ran down the old Curé's thin cheeks. Joseph, still smiling, bent to kiss her hand. He held it for a moment, then looked up with dark imploring eyes.

"Adieu, chère Anne! and think of me with all your charity!" he said.

A minute later he had slipped noiselessly out, and plunged alone into the wet, howling darkness.

Through those days of suspense, while Angelot was hidden at Les Chouettes, while master and servants alike acted on the supposition that the house was watched by gendarmes with all the power of the Ministry of Police behind them—through these days, one person alone was happy; it was Henriette. She adored her cousin; it was joy to watch over him, to scold him, to amuse him, to keep him, a difficult matter, within the bounds prescribed by his uncle. Every day Angelot said it was impossible; he must be ill, he must die, if he could not stretch his legs and breathe the open air. Every day Henriette, when her father was out, allowed him to race up and down the stairs, played at hide-and-seek with him in the passages, let him dance her round and round the lower rooms. Or else she played games with him, cards, chess, tric-trac; or he lay and listened to her while she told him fairy tales; listened with a dreamy half-understanding, with a certainty, underlying all his impatience, that there was nothing to live for now. What did it matter, after all? One moment, life and hope and youth made him thrill and tremble in every limb; the next, his fate weighed upon him like a millstone; he laid his head down on the broad pillow of the sofa, and while Henriette chattered his eyelashes were sometimes wet. All was settled now. He must be banished to England, to Germany, banished in a cause he did not care for, in which he was involved against his will. Never again should he walk with his gun and Négo, light-hearted, over his own old country. Never again, more certainly, should he see Hélène, feel the maddening sweetness of her touch, her kiss. There was to be a ball. Henriette told him all about it; he heard of his cousin Hervé's visit, and was half amused, half miserable. Hélène would dance; white and slender, her eyes full of sadness. She would dance with other men, thinking, he knew, of her lost friend, her Angelot. In time, one of them would be presented to her as her husband. Not Ratoneau; Angelot had her father's word for that, and he drew a long breath when he thought of it. But some one else; that was inevitable. Ah! as life must pass, why cannot it pass more quickly? Why must every day have such an endless number of hours and minutes? What torture is there greater than this of waiting, stifled and idle, for a fate arranged in spite of one's self?

Henriette flitted in and out, eager and earnest like her father. After Monsieur Joseph's visit to La Marinière, he sent her there one day with Marie, and she was embraced by her aunt Anne with a quite new passion of tenderness, and trusted with a letter and a huge parcel of necessaries for Angelot's journey. Monsieur Joseph laughed a little angrily over these.

"Tiens, mon petit! your mother thinks you are going to drive to the coast in a chaise and four," he said; but Angelot bent his head very gravely over the coats and the shirts that those little thin hands had folded together for him.

"You must give me fair notice, Uncle Joseph," he said. "Police or no police, I do not go without wishing her good-bye."

Everything came at once, as fate would have it. It was after dark, a wild, windy evening, stars looking through the hurrying clouds, no moonrise till early morning. With every precaution, Monsieur Joseph now allowed his nephew to dine in the dining-room, taking care to place him where he could not be seen from outside when Gigot came in through the shutters from the kitchen. Angelot had now been kept in hiding for ten days, and the police seemed to have disappeared from the woods, so that Monsieur Joseph's mind was easier.

Suddenly, as they sat at dinner that evening, all the dogs began to bark.

"Go into your den!" said the little uncle, starting up.

"No, dear uncle, this game pie is too good," Angelot said coolly. "I heard a horse coming down the lane. It is Monsieur d'Ombré's messenger."

"If it is—very true, you had better eat your dinner," said his uncle.

And to be sure, in a few minutes, Gigot came in with a letter, Angelot's marching orders. At five o'clock the next morning César d'Ombré would wait for him at the Étang des Morts, a lonely, legend-haunted pool in the woods where four roads met, about two leagues beyond the landes by way of La Joubardière.

"Very well; you will start at three o'clock," said Monsieur Joseph. "Give the man something to eat and send him back, Gigot, to meet his master."

"Three o'clock! I shall be asleep!" said Angelot. "Surely an hour will be enough to take me to the Étang des Morts—a cheerful rendezvous!"

He laughed and looked at Riette. She was very pale and grave, her dark eyes wide open.

"The good dead—they will watch over you, mon petit!" she murmured. "We must not be afraid of them."

"This is not a time for talking nonsense, children," said Monsieur Joseph; he looked at them severely, his mouth trembling. "Half-past three at latest; the boy might lose his way in the dark."

Riette got up suddenly and flung her arms round Angelot's neck.

"Mon petit, mon petit!" she repeated, burying her face on his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" he cried. "How am I to finish my dinner? You come between me and the best pie that Marie ever made! Get along with you, little good-for-nothing!"

He laughed; then Marie's pie seemed to choke him; he pushed back his chair, lifted Riette lightly and carried her out of the room.

"Now I am in prison no longer," he said. "I am going to run across to La Marinière; will you come too, little cousin?"

But Monsieur Joseph had something to say to that. He would not let Angelot go without sermons so long that the boy could hardly listen to them, on the care he was to take that no servant or dog at La Marinière saw him, on the things he might and might not say to his mother.

At last Angelot said aside to Henriette: "There is only one thing I regret—that I did not go straight home at first to my father and mother. That will bring misfortune on us all, if anything does—my uncle is absolutely too much of a conspirator."

"Hush, you are ungrateful," said Riette, gravely.

"Ah! It seems to me that I am nothing good or fortunate—everything bad and unlucky! My relations and their politics toss me like a ball," Angelot sighed impatiently. "I wish this night were over and we were on our way, I and that excellent grumpy César. And the farther I go, the more I shall want to come back. Tiens! Riette, I am miserable!"

The child gazed at him with her great eyes, full of the love and understanding of a woman.

"Courage!" she said. "You will come back—with the King."

"The King!" Angelot repeated bitterly. "Ask Martin Joubard about that. Hear him talk of the Emperor."

"A peasant! a common soldier! What does he know?" said the girl, scornfully. "I think my papa knows better."

"Ah, well! Believe in him; you are right," said Angelot.

They talked as they stood outside the house in the dim starlight, waiting a few moments for Monsieur Joseph: he chose to go part of the way with Angelot, and consented unwillingly to take Riette with him. The dead silence of the woods and fields was only broken by the moan of the wind; a sadness that struck to the heart brooded over the depths of lonely land; far down in the valley cold mists were creeping, and even on the lower slopes of Monsieur Joseph's meadow a chilly damp rose from the undrained ground. As far as one could tell, not a human being moved in the woods; the feet of Monsieur d'Ombré's messenger had passed up the lane out of hearing; all was solitary and silent about the quaint turreted house with its many shuttered windows and dark guards lying silent, stretched on the sand. Only one of these rose and shook himself and followed his master.

But the loneliness was not so great as it seemed. Behind a large tree to leeward of the house, Simon was lurking alone. He had sent his men away for the night, and he ground his teeth with rage when he saw his victim, out of reach for the time. For he had not the courage, with no law or right on his side, to face the uncle and nephew, armed and together.

Avoiding the open starlit slope, those three with the dog passed at once into the shadow of the woods, thus taking the safest, though not the shortest way to La Marinière. Simon stole after them at a safe distance. They came presently to a high corner in a lane, where, over the bank on which the pollard oaks stood in line, they could look across to the other side of the valley. As a rule, the Château de Lancilly was hardly to be seen after sunset, facing east, and its own woods shadowing it on three sides; but to-night its long front shone and glowed and flashed with light; every window seemed to be open and illuminated; the effect was so festal, so dazzling, that Riette cried out in admiration. Monsieur Joseph exclaimed angrily, and Angelot gazed in silence.

"Ah, papa! It is the ball! How beautiful! How I wish I could be there!" cried the child.

"No doubt!" said Monsieur Joseph. "Exactly! You would like to dance till to-morrow morning, while Ange is escaping. Well, shall I take you across there now? One of your pretty cousins would lend you a ball-dress!"

Riette's blushes could not be seen in the dark, but she said no more. Monsieur Joseph walked on a few paces and stopped.

"Ange will go quicker without us," he said. "Go, my boy, and God bless and protect you. We have given those rascals of police the slip, I think, or they have decided that you are not to be caught here. For the last day or two Tobie has seen nothing of them. But remember you are not safe; go cautiously and come back quickly. Do not let your mother keep you long. I believe I am doing very wrong in letting you go to her at all!"

"As to that, Uncle Joseph, it is certain that I won't leave the country without seeing her," said Angelot.

"Go, then, and don't be long, don't be rash; remember that I am dying with impatience. You have the pistols I gave you?"

"Yes."

"Don't shoot a gendarme if you can help it. It might make things more serious. Away with you! Come, Riette."

As the two walked back along the lane, Simon scrambled out of their way, like Angelot out of his, into the thick mass of one of the old truisses. The dog looked up at the tree and growled as they passed. Monsieur Joseph glanced sharply that way, but saw nothing, and called the dog to follow him, walking on a little more quickly.

"He will go straight to La Marinière," he was saying to Riette, "stay twenty minutes or so with his mother, and be back at Les Chouettes in less than an hour"—a piece of information not lost on Simon, who climbed down carefully from his tree, looked to his carbine, and chuckled as he walked slowly on towards La Marinière.

"Nothing in the world like patience," he said to himself. "Monsieur le Général ought to double my reward for this. I was right from the beginning; that old devil of a Chouan had the boy hidden in that robber's den of his. The fellows thought I was wasting my time and theirs. They didn't like being half starved and catching cold in the woods. I have had all the trouble in the world to hold them down to it. But what does it matter, so that we catch our game after all! I must choose a good place to drop on the youngster—lucky for me that he couldn't live without seeing his mother. Is he armed? Never mind! I must be fit to die of old age if I can't give an account of a boy like that. His mother, eh? Why did his father go to Paris, if they knew he was here? Perhaps they thought it wiser to keep the good news from Monsieur Urbain; these things divide families. They let him go off on a wild-goose chase after a pardon or something. Well, so that I catch him, tie him up out of the General's way, get my money, start off to Paris to see my father, and—perhaps—never come back—for this affair may make another department pleasanter—"

So ruminated Simon, as he strolled through the lanes in the starlight, following, as he supposed, in the footsteps of Angelot, and preparing to lie in wait for him at some convenient corner on his return.

But when his uncle and cousin left him, disappearing into the shadows, Angelot leaped up on the bank and stood for a minute or two gazing across at Lancilly. To watch till her shadow passed by one of those lighted windows—if not to climb to some point where he might see her, herself, without breaking his word to her father and attempting to speak to her—it might cost an extra half-hour and Uncle Joseph's displeasure, perhaps. But after all, what was leaving all the rest of the world compared with leaving her, Hélène, and practically for ever? His gentle, frightened love, to whom he had promised all the strength and protection he had to give, to whom invisible cords drew him across the valley!

"No, I cannot!" Angelot said to himself. He waited for no second thoughts, but jumped down into the field beyond the bank, and did not even trouble himself to keep in the shadow while with long light strides he ran towards Lancilly.

Two hours later Monsieur Joseph was pacing up and down, wildly impatient, in front of his house. Over his head, Riette listened behind closed shutters, and heard nothing but his quick tramp, and an angry exclamation now and then against Angelot. At last Monsieur Joseph stopped short and listened. The dogs barked, but he silenced them; then came a swinging light and two figures hurrying along the shadowy footpath from La Marinière. Another instant, and Urbain's strong voice rang through the night that brooded over Les Chouettes.

"Joseph, you incorrigible old Chouan! what have you done with my boy?"

CHAPTER XXIII

All this time, and lately with her son's energetic help, Madame de Sainfoy had been arranging her rooms in the most approved fashion of the day. The new furniture was far less beautiful than the old, and far less suited to the character of the house; still, like everything belonging to the Empire, it had a severe magnificence. The materials were mahogany and gilded bronze; the forms were classical, lyres, urns, winged sphinxes everywhere. In the large salon the walls were hung with yellow silk instead of the old, despised, but precious tapestries, the long curtains that swept the floor were yellow silk, with broad bands of red and yellow and a heavy fringe of red and yellow balls. These fashions were repeated in each room in different colours, green, blue, red; a smaller salon, Madame de Sainfoy's favourite, was hung with a peculiar green flecked with gold; and for the chairs in this room she, Hélène, Mademoiselle Moineau, and the young girls were working a special tapestry with wreaths of grapes or asters, lyres, Roman heads which suggested Napoleon. Certain unaccountable stains on this fine work brought a smile long years afterwards into the lovely eyes of Hélène.

Paper and paint, innovations at Lancilly, had much to do in beautifying the old place. Dark rooms were well lit up by a white paper with a broad border of red and yellow twisted ribbons. Old stone chimneypieces, window-sills, great solid shutters, were covered thick with yellow paint.

The ideas of Captain Georges were still more modern than those of Urbain, and suited his mother better. She was angry with Urbain for forsaking her business and hurrying off to Paris in search of his worthless son; she was especially angry that he went without giving her notice, or offering to do any of the thousand commissions she could gladly have given him. However, these faults in Urbain only made Georges more valuable; and it was with something not far short of fury that she refused to listen to her husband when he suggested that the ball might be put off because of the trouble and sorrow that hung over his cousins at La Marinière.

The ball was stately and splendid. At the dinner-party a few weeks before, only a certain number of notables had been present, and chiefly old friends of the family. To the ball came everybody of any pretension whatever, within a radius of many miles. Lancilly stood in Anjou, but near the borders of Touraine and Maine; all these old provinces were well represented. Many of the guests were returned emigrants: old sentiment connected with the names of Sainfoy and Lancilly brought them. Many more were new people of the Empire; mushroom families, on whom the older ones looked curiously and scornfully. There was a brilliant and dashing body of officers from Sonnay-le-Loir, with General Ratoneau at their head. There were a number of civil officials of the Empire, though the Prefect himself was not there.

Ratoneau was in a strange state of mind. In his full-dress uniform, his gold lace and plumes, he looked his best, a manly and handsome soldier. Every one turned to look at him, struck by the likeness to Napoleon, stronger than ever that night, for he was graver, quieter, more dignified than usual. He was not at his ease, and oddly enough, the false position suited him. There could not be anything but extreme coolness and stiffness in the greeting between him and his host. Hervé de Sainfoy had refused the man his daughter, and heartily despised him for accepting the formal invitation to this ball. Ratoneau knew that he was going to be forced as a son-in-law on this coldly courteous gentleman, but let no sign of his coming triumph escape him. Not, at least, to Hélène's father; her mother was a different story. As the General drew himself upright again, after bending stiffly to kiss her hand, he met his hostess's eyes with such a bold look of confident understanding that she flushed a little and almost felt displeased. He was not discreet, she thought. He had no business so to take her sympathy for granted. Other people might have caught that glance and misunderstood it.

She stood for a moment, frowning a little, the graceful lines of her satin and lace, her head crowned with curls, making a perfect picture of what she meant to be, a great lady of the Empire. Then her look softened suddenly, as Georges came up to her.

"Listen to me a moment, mamma. General Ratoneau wishes to dance with Hélène. She told me this afternoon that she would not dance with him. I say she must. What do you say?"

Madame de Sainfoy twirled her fan impatiently.

"Where is she?"

"There."

A quadrille was just beginning; the dancers were arranging themselves. The Vicomte des Barres, one of the most strongly declared Royalists present, was leading Mademoiselle de Sainfoy forward.

He was familiar with the details of the mission to England, on which the Baron d'Ombré was to start that very night; but not even to him had been confided Angelot's escape and Monsieur Joseph's further plans. He was one of the many guests who had been struck by the heartlessness of the Sainfoys in giving a ball at this moment, but who came to it for reasons of their own. He came with the object of hoodwinking the local police, who were watching him and his friends, of scattering the Chouan party and giving César d'Ombré more chance of a safe and quiet start.

The manners, the looks, the talk of Des Barres were all of the old régime. He had its charm, its sympathetic grace; and it was with a feeling of relief and safety that Hélène gave her hand to him for the dance, rather than to one of the young Empire heroes whose eyes were eagerly following her.

"Your sister is a fool," said Madame de Sainfoy, very low.

"That is my impression," said Georges; and they both gazed for an instant at the couple as they advanced.

Hélène's loveliness that night was extraordinary. The music, the lights, the wonderful beauty of the scene in those gorgeous rooms, the light-hearted talk and laughter all about her, had lifted the heavy sadness that lay on her brow and eyes. When every one seemed so gay, could life be quite hopeless, after all? The tender pink in her cheeks that night was not due to her mother's rouge-box, with which she had often been threatened. She was smiling at some pretty old-world compliment from Monsieur des Barres. He, for his part, asked himself what the grief could be which lay behind that smile of hers, and found it easy enough to have his question answered. In a few minutes, in the intervals of the dance, they were talking of her cousin Angelot, his mysterious arrest, the possible reasons for it. Hélène's story was plainly to be read in the passion of her low voice, her darkening eyes, the quick changes of her colour. Monsieur des Barres was startled, yet hardly surprised; it seemed as natural that two such young creatures should be attracted to each other, as that their love should be a hopeless fancy; for no reasonable person could dream that Monsieur de Sainfoy would give his daughter to a cousin neither rich nor fortunate. He did his best to cheer the girl, without showing that he guessed her secret. It must be some mistake, he assured her; the government could have no good reason for detaining her cousin, who—"unfortunately," said Monsieur des Barres, with a smile—"was not a Royalist conspirator at all." He had the satisfaction of gaining a look and a smile from Hélène which must have brought a young man to her feet, and which even made his well-trained heart beat a little quicker.

Georges de Sainfoy was resolved that his sister should not insult her family again by dancing with a known Chouan. For the next dance, Hélène found herself in the possession of General Ratoneau, clattering sword, creaking boots, and all. Monsieur des Barres, looking back as he withdrew, saw a cold statue, with white eyelids lowered, making a deep curtsey to the General under her brother's stern eyes.

"Poor little thing!" the Vicomte said to himself. "Poor children! The pretty boy is impossible, of course. These cousins are the devil. But it is a pity!"

General Ratoneau danced very badly, and did not care to dance much. He had no intention of making himself agreeable in this way to any lady but the daughter of the house, whom in his own mind he already regarded as betrothed to him. He had satisfactory letters from his friends in Paris, assuring him that the imperial order to the Comte de Sainfoy would be sent off immediately. It was difficult for him not to boast among his comrades of his coming marriage, but he had just decency enough to hold his tongue. According to his calculations, the order might have arrived at Lancilly to-day; it could scarcely be delayed beyond to-morrow.

Hélène endured him as a partner, and was a little proud of herself for it. She found him repulsive; disliked meeting the bold admiration of his eyes. But as no one had mentioned him to her during the last few weeks, Madame de Sainfoy and Georges prudently restraining themselves, and as he had not appeared at Lancilly since the dinner-party, she had ceased to have any immediate fear of him. And all the brilliancy of that evening, the triumphant swing of the music, the consciousness of her own beauty, delicately heightened by her first partner's looks and words, and last, not least, the comfort he had given her about Angelot, had raised her drooping spirits so that she found it not impossible to smile and speak graciously, even with General Ratoneau.

After dancing, he led her round the newly decorated rooms, and all the new fashions in furniture, in dress, in manners, made a subject for talk which helped her wonderfully. Ratoneau listened with a smiling stare, asked questions, and laughed now and then.

On the surface, his manner was not offensive; he was behaving beautifully, according to his standard; probably no young woman had ever been so politely treated by him before. In truth, Hélène's fair beauty and stateliness, the white dignity of a creature so far above his experience, awed him a little. But with a man of his kind, no such feeling was likely to last long. Any strange touch of shyness which protected the lovely girl by his side was passing off as he swore to himself: "I have risked something, God knows, but she's worth it all. I am a lucky man—I shall be proud of my wife."

They were in the farther salon, not many people near. He turned upon her suddenly, with a look which brought the colour to her face, "Do you know, mademoiselle, you are the most beautiful woman in the world!"

Hélène shook her head, a faint smile struggling with instant disgust and alarm. She looked round, but saw no one who could release her from this rough admirer. She was obliged to turn to him again, and listened to him with lowered eyes, a recollection of her mother's words weighing now upon her brain.

"The first time I saw you, mademoiselle," said Ratoneau, "was in this room. You were handing coffee with that cousin of yours—young La Marinière."

He saw the girl's face quiver and grow pale. His own changed, and his smile became unpleasant. He had not meant to mention that fellow, now shut up safely somewhere—it was strange, by the bye, that Simon had never come back to report himself and take his money! However, as he had let Angelot's name fall, there might be some advantage to be had out of it.

"I see his father is not here to-night," he said. "Sensible man, his father."

"How should he be here!" said Hélène, turning her head away. "He is gone to Paris to find him. How could he be here, dancing and laughing—I ask myself, how can anybody—"

She spoke half aside, breaking off suddenly.

"Yourself, for instance?" said Ratoneau, staring at her. "And why should you shut yourself up and make the whole world miserable, because your cousin is a fool? But you have not done so."

"Because it is impossible, I am not free."

"What would you be doing now, if you were free?"

Hélène shrugged her shoulders. Ratoneau laughed.

"Does Monsieur de la Marinière expect to bring his son back with him?" he asked.

His tone was sneering, but Hélène did not notice it.

"I do not know, monsieur," she said. "But my cousin will come back. He has done nothing. He has been in no plots. The Emperor cannot punish an innocent man."

She looked up suddenly, cheered by repeating what Monsieur des Barres had told her. Her pathetic eyes met Ratoneau's for a moment; surely no one could be cruel enough to deny such facts as these. In the General's full gaze there was plenty of what was odious to her, but no real kindness or pity. She blushed as she thought: "How dares this man look at me so? He is nothing but the merest acquaintance. He is insupportable."

"If we were to go back into the ball-room, monsieur," she said gravely, beginning to move away. "My mother will be looking for me."

"No, mademoiselle," said Ratoneau, coolly, "I think not. Madame la Comtesse saw me take you this way."

He sat down on a sofa, spreading his broad left hand over the gilded sphinx of its arm. With his right hand he pointed to the place beside him.

"Sit down there," he said.

Hélène frowned with astonishment, caught her breath and looked round. There were two or three people at the other end of the room, but all strangers to her, and all passing out gradually; no one coming towards her, no one to rescue her from the extraordinary manners of this man.

The glance she gave him was as withering as her gentle eyes could make it; then she turned her back upon him and began to glide away, alone, down the room.

"Mademoiselle—" said Ratoneau; his voice grated on her ears.

Was he laughing? was he angry? in any case she was resolved not to speak to the insolent creature again.

"Listen, mademoiselle," said Ratoneau, more loudly, and without rising. "Listen! I will bring your cousin back."

She wavered, paused, then turned and looked at him. He gazed at her gravely, intently; his look and manner were a little less offensive now.

"Yes—I am not an ogre," he said. "I don't eat boys and girls. But I assure you there are people in the Empire who do. And you are quite wrong if you think that an innocent man is never punished. The police may have their reasons—bang—there go the big gates of Vincennes, and the stronger reason that opens them again is hard to find. Innocent or guilty—after all, that pretty cousin of yours has touched a good deal of pitch in the way of chouannerie, mademoiselle."

"You said—" Hélène waited and stammered.

"I said I would bring him back. You want to understand me? Sit down beside me here."

The girl hesitated. "Courage! for Angelot!" she said to herself.

She did not believe in the man; she dreaded him; shrank from him; but the name she loved was even more powerful than Ratoneau had expected.

"Ah, but we will send that little cousin to the wars, or to America," he thought, as she came slowly back and let herself sink down, pale and cold, in the opposite corner of the sofa.

"Where is my cousin, monsieur?" she said under her breath.

"I suppose, as the police arrested him, that he is in their hands," said Ratoneau. "Where he is at this moment I know no more than you do."

"But you said—"

"Yes—I will do it. You can believe, can you not, that I have more influence at headquarters than poor Monsieur de la Marinière—a little country squire who has saved himself by licking the dust before each man in power?"

"It is not right for you to speak so of my father's cousin, who has been so excellent for us all," Hélène said quickly; then she blushed at her own boldness. "But if you can really do this—I shall be grateful, monsieur."

The words were coldly, impatiently said; she might have been throwing a bone to a begging dog. Ratoneau bent forward, devouring her with his eyes. The delicate line of her profile was partly turned away from him; the eyelids drooped so low that the long lashes almost rested on the cheek. All about her brow and ears, creeping down to her white neck, the fair curls clustered. Soft and narrow folds of white muslin, lace, and fine embroidery, clothed her slender figure with an exaggerated simplicity. Her foot, just advanced beyond the frills of the gown, her white long fingers clasping her fan; every feature, every touch, every detail, was as finely beautiful as art and nature could make it; Hélène was the perfection of dainty aristocracy in the exquisite freshness of its youth.

"I will do it—I will do it—for love of you," Ratoneau said, and his voice became suddenly hoarse. "You are beautiful—and you are mine—mine."

The girl shuddered from head to foot.

"No!" she said violently.

She did not look at Ratoneau. As to him, he did not speak, but laughed and bent nearer. She rose to her feet suddenly.

"You forget yourself—you are mad, Monsieur le Général," she said haughtily. "If that is the condition—no! Pray do not concern yourself about my cousin's affairs, you have nothing to do with them."

Ratoneau rose too, a little unsteadily.

"Listen one moment, mademoiselle," he said. "If I am mad, you are foolish, let me tell you. I said nothing about conditions, I stated facts. You will be my wife—therefore you are mine, you belong to me, and therefore there is nothing I will not do for love of you. My wife is the most beautiful woman in France, and she stands here."

"Never, never!" murmured Hélène. "It has come!" she said to herself.

Her mother had threatened her with this; and now, apparently, all had been settled without a word to her. Even her father, once on her side, must be against her now. He had been angry with her; not without reason, she knew. Yes, this horrible thing had been arranged by her father, her mother, Georges, while she was kept a prisoner upstairs. If they had been kinder to her in the last few days, it was only that they wished to bring their victim smiling to the sacrifice. No wonder Georges had insisted on her dancing with General Ratoneau. No wonder her mother had taken pains to dress her beautifully for this ball, which she hated and dreaded so much.

These thoughts, with a wild desire to escape, rushed through Hélène's mind as she stood breathless before this man who laid such a daring claim to her. He was smiling, though his lips were white. It is not pleasant to be treated as horrible scum of the earth by the woman you have arranged to marry; to see scorn, disgust, hatred in a girl's face, answering to your finest compliments.

"This young lady has a character—she has a temper—" he muttered between his teeth. "But you will be tamed, ma belle. Who would have thought with those pale cheeks of yours—well, the Emperor's command will bring you to reason. Pity I spoke, perhaps—but a man cannot keep cool always. That command—Ah, thousand thunders! what do I see?"

The last words were spoken aloud. As Hélène stood before him, silent, rooted with horror to the ground, he watching her with folded arms in a favourite imperial attitude, several sets of people strolled across the lower end of the room, for this was one of a suite of salons. Suddenly came the master of the house alone, walking slowly, his eyes fixed on a letter in his hand, his face deathly white in the glimmer of the many wax candles. Hélène did not see her father at first, for her back was turned to him, but at the General's words she turned quickly, and was just aware of him as he passed into the next room. Without another word or look she left her partner standing there, and fled away in pursuit of him. Ratoneau watched the white figure vanishing, laughed aloud, and swore heartily.

"This is dramatic," he said. "Fortunate that I have a friend at Court in Madame la Comtesse! Suppose I go and join her."

Hélène searched for her father in vain. By the time she reached the other room, he had quite unaccountably vanished. As she flew on rather distractedly among the guests, hurrying back to the ball-room, her brother's peremptory hand was laid upon her arm.

"What is the matter, Hélène? Where are you running? Are you dancing with no one, and why do you look so wild?"

Hélène answered none of these questions.

"Find me a partner, if you please," she said, with a sudden effort at collecting herself. "But, Georges—no more of your officers."

Georges looked at her with a queer smile, but only said—

"And no more of your Chouans!"