Front matter (continued 5)

The Abbé had raised his voice a little as he spoke. The street before them was empty, and he was unaware that they were being followed. A portion of what he said reached Dangeau's ears, for the prolonged conversation had made him uneasy, and he had hastened his steps. Up to now he had caught no word of what was passing, but Aline's gestures were familiar to him, and he recognised that lift of the head which was always with her a signal of distress. Now he had caught enough, and more than enough, and a couple of strides brought him level with them. Aline started violently, and looked quickly from Dangeau to the priest, and back again at Dangeau. He was very stern, and wore an expression of indignant contempt which was new to her.

"Good-day, Citizen," he said, with a sarcastic inflexion. "I will relieve you of the trouble of escorting my wife any farther."

Loisel was wondering how much had been overheard, and wished himself well out of the situation. He was not in the least afraid of going to prison or to the guillotine, but there were reasons enough and to spare why his liberty at the present juncture was imperative. One of the many plots for releasing the Queen was in progress, and he carried upon him papers of the first importance. It was to serve this plot that he had made a bid for Aline's help. In her unique position she might have rendered priceless services, but it was not to be, and he hastened to extricate himself from a position which threatened disaster to his central scheme.

"Good-day," he returned with composure, and was moving off, when Dangeau detained him with a gesture.

"One moment, Citizen. I neither know your name nor do I wish to know it, but it seemed to me that your conversation was distressing to my wife. I very earnestly deprecate any renewal of it, and should my wishes in the matter be disregarded I should conceive it my duty to inform myself more fully—but I think you understand me, Citizen?"

So this was the husband? A strong man, not the type to be hoodwinked, best to let the girl go; but as the thoughts flashed on his mind, he was aware of her at his elbow.

"M. l'Abbé," she said very low, "tell Marguerite—tell her—oh! ask her not to think hardly of me. I pray for her always, I hope to see her again, and I will do what I can."

She ran back again, without waiting for a reply, and walked in silence by Dangeau's side until they reached the house. He made no attempt to speak, but on the landing he hesitated a moment, and then followed her into her room.

"Danton spoke to me this morning," he said, moving to the window, where he stood looking out. "They want me to go South again. Lyons is in revolt, and is to be reduced by arms. Dubois-Crancy commands, but Bonnet has fallen sick, and I am to take his place."

Aline had seated herself, and picked up a strip of muslin. Under its cover her hands clasped each other very tightly. When he paused she said: "Yes, Monsieur."

"I am to start immediately."

"Yes, Monsieur."

He swung round, looked at her angrily for a moment, and then stared again into the dirty street.

"It is a question of what you are to do," he said impatiently.

"I? But I shall stay here. What else is there for me to do?"

"I cannot leave you alone in Paris again."

"Monsieur?"

"What!" he cried. "Have you forgotten?" and she bent to hide her sudden pallor.

"What am I to do, then?" she asked very low. Her submission at once touched and angered him. It allured by its resemblance to a wife's obedience, and repelled because the resemblance was only mirage, and not reality.

"I cannot have you here, I cannot take you with me, and there is only one place I can send you to—a little place called Rancy-les-Bois, about thirty miles from Paris. My mother's sisters live there, and I should ask them to receive you."

"I will do as you think best," murmured Aline.

"They are unmarried, one is an invalid, and they are good women. It is some years since I have seen them, but I remember my Aunt Ange was greatly beloved in Rancy. I think you would be safe with her."

A vision of safety and a woman's protection rose persuasively before Aline, and she looked up with a quick, confiding glance that moved Dangeau strangely. She was at once so rigid and so soft, so made for love and trusting happiness, and yet so resolute to repel it. He bit his lip as he stood looking at her, and a sort of rage against life and fate rose hotly, unsubdued within him. He turned to leave her, but she called him back, in a soft, hesitating tone that brought back the days of their first intercourse. When he looked round he saw that she was pale and agitated.

"Monsieur!" she stammered, and seemed afraid of her own voice; and all at once a wild stirring of hope set his heart beating.

"What is it? Won't you tell me?" he said; and again she tried to speak and broke off, then caught her courage and went on.

"Oh, Monsieur, if you would do something!"

"Why, what is it you want me to do, child?"

That was almost his old kind look, and it emboldened her. She rose and leaned towards him, clasping her hands.

"Oh, Monsieur, you have influence—" and at that his brow darkened.

"What is it?" he said.

"I heard—I heard—" She stopped in confusion. "Oh! it is my friend, Marguerite de Matigny. Her grandmother is dead, and she is alone. Monsieur, she is only seventeen, and such a pretty child, so gay, and she has done no harm to any one. It is impossible that she could do any harm."

"I thought you had no friends?"

"No, I had none; but in the prison they were good to me—all of them. Old Madame de Matigny knew my parents, and welcomed me for their sakes; but Marguerite I loved. She was like a kitten, all soft and caressing. Monsieur, if you could see her, so little, and pretty—just a child!" Her eyes implored him, but his were shadowed by frowning brows.

"Is that what the priest told you to say?" he asked harshly.

"The priest——"

"You 'd lie to me," he broke out, and stopped himself. "Do you think I didn't recognise the look, the tone? Did he put words into your mouth?"

Her eyes filled.

"He told me about Marguerite," she said simply. "He told me she was alone, and it came into my heart to ask you to help her. I have no one to ask but you."

The voice, the child's look would have disarmed him, but the words he had overheard came back, and made his torment.

"If it came into your heart, I know who put it there," he said. "And what else came with it? What else were you to do? Do you forget I overheard? If I thought you had lent yourself to be a tool, to influence, to bribe—mon Dieu, if I thought that——"

"Monsieur!" but the soft, agitated protest fell unheard.

"I should kill you—yes, I think that I should kill you," he said in a cold, level voice.

She moved a step towards him then, and if her voice had trembled, her eyes were clear and untroubled as they met his full.

"You shall not need to," she said quietly, and there was a long pause.

It was he who looked away at last, and then she spoke.

"I asked you at no one's prompting," she said softly. "See, Monsieur, let there be truth between us. That at least I can give, and will—yes, always. He, the man you saw, asked me to help him, to help others, and I told him no, my hands were tied. If he had asked for ever, I must still have said the same thing; and if it had cut my heart in two, I would still have said it. But about Marguerite, that was different. She knows nothing of any plots, she is no conspirator. I would not ask, if it touched your honour. I would not indeed."

"Are you sure?" he asked in a strange voice, and she answered his question with another.

"Would you have pledged your honour if you had not been sure?"

He gave a short, hard laugh.

"Upon my soul, child, I think so," he said, and the colour ran blazing to her face.

"Oh, Monsieur, I keep faith!" she cried in a voice that came from her heart.

Her outstretched hands came near to touching him, and he turned away with a sudden wrench of his whole body.

"And it is hard—yes, hard enough," he said bitterly, and went out with a mist before his eyes.

CHAPTER XXI

A NEW ENVIRONMENT

Madelon Pinel stood by the window of the inn parlour, and looked out with round shining eyes. She was in a state of pleasing excitement, and her comely cheeks vied in colour with the carnation riband in her cap, for this was her first jaunt with her husband since their marriage, and an expedition from quiet Rancy to the eight-miles-distant market-town was a dissipation of the most agreeable nature. The inn looked out on the small, crowded Place, where a great traffic of buying and selling, of cheapening and haggling was in process, and she chafed with impatience for her husband to finish his wine, and take her out into the thick of it again. He, good man, miller by the flour on his broad shoulders, stood at his ease beside her, smiling broadly. No one, he considered, could behold him without envy; for Madelon was the acknowledged belle of the countryside, and well dowered into the bargain. Altogether, a man very pleased with life, and full of pride in his married state, as he lounged beside his pretty wife, and drank his wine, one arm round her neat waist.

With a roll and a flourish the diligence drew up, and Madelon's excitement grew.

"Ah, my friend, look—look!" she cried. "There will be passengers from Paris. Oh! I hope it is full. No—what a pity! There are only four. See then, Jean Jacques, the fat old man with the nose. It is redder than Gargoulet's and one would have said that was impossible. And the little man like a rat. Fie! he has a wicked eye, that one—I declare he winked at me"; and she drew back, darting a virtuously coquettish glance at the unperturbed Jean Jacques.

"Not he," he observed with complete tranquillity. "Calm thyself, Madelon. Thou art no longer the prettiest girl in Rancy, but a sober matron. Thy winking days are over."

"My winking days!" exclaimed Madelon,—"my winking days indeed!" She tossed her head with feigned displeasure and leaned out again, wide-eyed.

A third passenger had just alighted, and stood by the door of the diligence holding out a hand to some one yet unseen.

"Seigneur!" cried Madelon maliciously; "look there, Jean Jacques, if that is not a fine man!"

"What, the rat?" grinned the miller.

"No, stupid!—the handsome man by the door there, he with the tricolour sash. Ciel! what a sash! What can he be, then,—a Deputy, thinkest thou? Oh, I hope he is a Deputy. There, now there is a woman getting out—he helps her down, and now he turns this way. They are coming in. Eh! what blue eyes he has! Well, I would not have him angry with me, that one; I should think his eyes would scorch like lightning."

"Eh, Madelon, how you talk!"

"There, they are on the step. Hold me then, Jean Jacques, or I shall fall. Do you think the woman is his wife? How white she is!—but quite young, not older than I. And her hair—oh, but that is pretty! I wish I had hair like that—all gold in the sun."

"Thy hair is well enough," said the enamoured Jean Jacques. "There, come back a little, Madelon, or thou wilt fall out. They are coming in."

Madelon turned from the window to watch the door, and in a minute Dangeau and Aline came in. For a moment Aline looked timidly round, then seeing the pleasant face and shining brown eyes of the miller's wife, she made her way gratefully towards her, and sat down on the rough bench which ran along the wall. Madelon disengaged herself from her husband's arm, gave him a little push in Dangeau's direction, and sat down too, asking at once, with a stare of frank curiosity:

"You are from Paris? All the way from Paris?"

"Yes, from Paris," said Aline rather wearily.

"Ciel! That is a distance to come. Are you not tired?"

"Just a little, perhaps."

"Paris is a big place, is it not? I have never been there, but my father has. He left the inn for a month last year, and went to Paris, and saw all the sights. Yes, he went to the Convention Hall, and heard the Deputies speak. Would any one believe there were so many of them? Four hundred and more, he said. Every one did not believe him,—Gargoulet even laughed, and spat on the floor,—but my father is a very truthful man, and not at all boastful. He would not say such a thing unless he had seen it, for he does not believe everything that he is told—oh no! For my part, I believed him, and Jean Jacques too. But imagine then, four hundred Deputies all making speeches!"

Aline could not help laughing.

"Yes, I believe there are quite as many as that. My husband is one of them, you know."

"Seigneur!" exclaimed Madelon. "I said so. Where is that great stupid of mine? I said the Citizen was a Deputy—at once I said it!"

"Why, how did you guess?"

"Oh, by the fine tricolour sash," said Madelon naively; "and then there is a look about him, is there not? Do you not think he has the air of being a Deputy?"

"I do not know," said Aline, smiling.

"Well, I think so. And now I will tell you another thing I said. I said that he could be angry, and that then I should not like to meet his eyes, they would be like blue fire. Is that true too?"

Aline was amused by the girl's confiding chatter.

"I do not think he is often angry," she said.

"Ah, but when he is," and Madelon nodded airily. "Those that are angry often—oh, well, one gets used to it, and in the end one takes no notice. It is like a kettle that goes on boiling until at last the water is all boiled away. But when one is like the Citizen Deputy, not angry often—oh, then that can be terrible, when it comes! I should think he was like that."

"Perhaps," said Aline, still smiling, but with a little contraction of the heart, as she remembered anger she had roused and faced. It did not frighten her, but it made her heart beat fast, and had a strange fascination for her now. Sometimes she even surprised a longing to heap fuel on the fire, to make it blaze high—high enough to melt the ice in which she had encased herself.

Then her own thought startled her, and she turned quickly to her companion.

"Is that your husband?" she asked, for the sake of saying something.

"Yes, indeed," said Madelon. "He is a fine man, is he not? He and the Citizen Deputy are talking together. They seem to have plenty to say—one would say they were old friends. Yes, that is my Jean Jacques; he is the miller of Rancy-les-Bois. We have travelled too, for Rancy is eight miles from here, and a road to break your heart."

"From Rancy—you come from Rancy?" said Aline, with a little, soft, surprised sound.

"Yes, from Rancy. Did I not say my father kept the inn there? But I have been married two months now"; and she twisted her wedding ring proudly.

"I am going to Rancy," said Aline on the impulse.

"You, Citoyenne?" and Madelon's brown eyes became completely round with surprise.

Aline nodded. She liked this girl with the light tongue and honest red cheeks. It was pleasant to talk to her after four hours of tense silence, during the most part of which she had feigned sleep, and even then had been aware of Dangeau's eyes upon her face.

"Yes," she said. "Does that surprise you so much? My husband goes South on mission, and I am to stay with his aunts at Rancy. They have written to say that I am welcome."

"Oh!" cried Madelon quickly. "Then I know who you are. Stupid that I am, not to have guessed before! All the world knows that the Citoyennes Desaix have a nephew who is a Deputy, and you must be his wife—you must be the Citoyenne Dangeau."

"Yes," said Aline.

"To be sure, if I had seen the Citoyenne Ange, she would have told me you were coming; but it is ten days since I saw her to speak to—there has been so much to do in the house. She will be pleased to have you. Both of them will be pleased. If they are proud of the nephew who is a Deputy—Seigneur!" and Madelon's plump brown hands were waved high and wide to express the pride of Dangeau's aunts.

"Yes?" said Aline again.

"But of course. It is a fine thing nowadays, a very fine thing indeed. All the world would turn out to look at him if he came to Rancy. What a pity he must go South! Have you been married long?"

Aline was vexed to feel the colour rise to her cheeks as she answered:

"No—not long."

"And already he must leave you! That is hard—yes, I find that very hard. If Jean Jacques were to go away, I should certainly be inconsolable. Before one is married it is different; one has a light heart, one is quick to forget. If a man goes, one does not care—there are always plenty more. But when one is married, then it is another story; then there is something that hurts one at the heart when they are not there—n'est-ce pas?"

Aline turned a tell-tale face away, and Madelon edged a little nearer.

"Later on, again, they say one does not mind so much. There are the children, you see, and that makes all the difference. For me, I hope for a boy—a strong, fat boy like Marie my sister-in-law had last year. Ah! that was a boy! and I hope mine will be just such another. If one has a girl, one feels as if one had committed a bêtise, do you not think so?—or"—with a polite glance at the averted face—"perhaps you desire a girl, Citoyenne?"

Aline felt an unbearable heat assail her, for suddenly her old dream flashed into her mind, and she saw herself with a child in her arms—a wailing, starving child with sad blue eyes. With an indistinct murmur she started up and moved a step or two towards the door, and as she did so, Dangeau nodded briefly to the miller, and came to meet her.

"We are fortunate," he said,—"really very fortunate. These worthy people are the miller of Rancy and his wife, as no doubt she has told you. I saw you were talking together."

"Yes, it is strange," said Aline.

"Nothing could have been more convenient, since they will be able to take you to my aunt's very door. I have spoken to the miller, and he is very willing. Nothing could have fallen out better."

"And you?" faltered Aline, her eyes on the ground.

"I go on at once. You know my orders—'to lose no time.' If it had been necessary, I should have taken you to Rancy, but as it turns out I have no excuse for not going on at once."

"At once?" she repeated in a little voice like a child's.

He nodded, and walked to the window, where he stood looking out for a moment.

"The horses are in," he said, turning again. "It is time I took my seat."

He passed out, saluting Pinel and Madelon, who was much elated by his bow.

Aline followed him into the square, and saw that the other two passengers were in their places. Her heart had begun to beat so violently that she thought it impossible that he should not hear it, but he only threw her a grave, cold look.

"You will like perhaps to know that your friend's case came on yesterday and that she was set free. There was nothing against her," he said, with some constraint.

"Marguerite?"

"Yes, the Citoyenne Matigny. She is free. I thought you would be glad to know."

"Yes—yes—oh, thank you! I am glad!"

"You will tell my aunts that my business was pressing, or I should have visited them. Give them my greetings. They will be good to you."

"Yes—the letter was kind."

"They are good women." He handed her a folded paper. "This is my direction. Keep it carefully, and if you need anything, or are in any trouble, you will write." His voice made it an order, not a request, and she winced.

"Yes," she said, with stiff lips.

Dangeau's face grew harder. If it were only over, this parting! He craved for action—longed to be away—to be quit of this intolerable strain. He had kept his word, he had assured her safety, let him be gone out of her life, into such a life as a man might make for himself, in the tumult and flame of war.

"Seigneur!" said Madelon, at the window. "See, Jean Jacques,"—and she nudged that patient man,—"see how he looks at her! Ma foi, I am glad it is not I! And with a face as if it had been cut out of stone, and there he gets in without so much as a touch of the hand, let alone a kiss! Is this the way of it in Paris?"

"Thou must still be talking, Madelon," said Jean Jacques, complacently.

"Well, I should not like it," shrugged Madelon pettishly.

"No, I 'll warrant you wouldn't," said the miller, with a grin and a hearty kiss.

At four o'clock the business and pleasure of the market-day were over, and the folk began to jog home again. Aline sat beside Madelon on the empty meal-sacks, and looked about her with a vague curiosity as they made their way through the poplar-bordered lanes, bumping prodigiously every now and then, in a manner that testified to the truth of Madelon's description of the road.

It was one of the days that seems to have drawn out all summer's beauty, whilst keeping yet faint memories of spring, and hinting in its breadth of evening shade at autumn's mellowness.

Madelon chattered all the way, but Aline's thoughts were too busy to be distracted. She thought continually of the smouldering South and its dangers, of the thousand perils that menaced Dangeau, and of the bitter hardness of his face as he turned from her at the last.

Jean Jacques let the reins fall loose after a while, and turning at his ease, slipped his arm about his wife's waist and drew her head to his shoulder. Aline's eyes smarted with sudden tears. Here were two happy people, here was love and home, and she out in the cold, barred out by a barrier of her own raising. Oh! if he had only looked kindly at the last!—if he had smiled, or taken her hand!

They came over the brow of a little hill, and dipped towards the wooded pocket where Rancy lay, among its trees, watched from half-way up the hill by an old grey stone château, on the windows of which the setting sun shone full, showing them broken and dusty.

"Who lives in the château?" asked Aline suddenly.

"No one—now," returned Jean Jacques; and Madelon broke in quickly.

"It was the château of the Montenay but a year ago.—Now why dost thou nudge me, Jean Jacques?—A year ago, I say, it was pillaged. Not by our own people, but by a mob from the town. They broke the windows and the furniture, and hunted high and low for traitors, and then went back again to where they came from. There was nobody there, so not much harm done."

"De Montenay?" said Aline in a low voice. How strange! So this was why the name of Rancy had seemed familiar from the first. They were of her kin, the De Montenay.

"Yes, the De Montenay," said Madelon, nodding. "They were great folk once, and now there is only the old Marquise left, and she has emigrated. She is very old now, but do you know they say the De Montenay can only die here? However ill they are in a foreign place, the spirit cannot pass, and I always wonder will the old Marquise come back, for she is a Montenay by birth as well as by marriage?"

"Eh, Madelon, how you talk!" said Jean Jacques, with an uneasy lift of his floury shoulders. He picked up the reins and flicked the mare's plump sides with a "Come up, Suzette; it grows late."

Madelon tossed her head.

"It is true, all the same," she protested. "Why, there was M. Réné,—all the world knows how she brought M. Réné here to die."

"Chut then, Madelon!" said the miller, in a decided tone this time; and, as she pouted, he spoke over his shoulder in a low voice, and Aline caught the words, "Ma'mselle Ange," whereon Madelon promptly echoed "Ma'mselle" with a teasing inflexion.

Jean Jacques became angry, and the back of his neck seemed to well over the collar of his blouse, turning very red as it did so.

"Tiens, Citoyenne Ange, then. Can a man remember all the time?" he growled, and flicked Suzette again. Madelon looked penitent.

"No, no, my friend," she said soothingly; "and the Citoyenne here understands well enough, I am sure. It is that my father is so good a patriot," she explained, "and he grows angry if one says Monsieur, Madame, or Mademoiselle any more. It must be Citizen and Citoyenne to please him, because we are all equal now. And Jean Jacques is quite as good a patriot as my father—oh, quite; but it is, see you, a little hard to remember always, for after all he has been saying the other for nearly forty years."

"Yes, it is hard always to remember," Aline agreed.

They came down into the shadow under the hill, and turned into the village street. The little houses lay all a-straggle along it, with the inn about half-way down. Madelon pointed out this cottage and that, named the neighbours, and informed Aline how many children they had. Jean Jacques did not make any contribution to the talk until they were clear of the houses, when he raised his whip, and pointing ahead, said:

"Now we are almost there—see, that is the house, the white one amongst those trees"; and in a moment Aline realised that she was nervous, and would be very thankful when the meeting with Dangeau's aunts should be over. Even as she tried to summon her courage, the cart drew up at the little white gate, and she found herself being helped down, whilst Madelon pressed her hands and promised to come and see her soon.

"The Citoyenne Ange knows me well enough," she said, laughing. "She taught me to read, and tried to make me wise, but it was too hard."

"There, there, come, Madelon. It is late," said the miller. "Good evening, Citoyenne. Come up, Suzette"; and in a moment Aline was alone, with her modest bundle by her side. She opened the gate, and found herself in a very pretty garden. The evening light slanted across the roof of the small white house, which stood back from the road with a modest air. It had green shutters to every window, and green creepers pushed aspiring tendrils everywhere. The garden was all aflash with summer, and the air fragrant with lavender, a tall hedge of which presented a surface of dim, sweet greenery, and dimmer, sweeter bloom. Behind the lavender was a double row of tall dark-eyed sunflowers, and in front blazed rose and purple phlox, carnations white and red, late larkspur, and gilly-flowers.

Such a feast of colour had not been spread before Aline's town-wearied eyes for many and many a long month, and the beauty of it came into her heart like the breath of some strong cordial. At the open door of the house were two large myrtle trees in tubs. The white flowers stood thick amongst the smooth dark leaves, and scented all the air with their sweetness. Aline set down her bundle, and went in, hesitating, and a murmur of voices directing her, she turned to the right.

It was dark after the evening glow outside, but the light shone through an open door, and she made her way to it, and stood looking in, upon a small narrow room, very barely furnished as to tables and chairs, but most completely filled with children of all ages.

They sat in rows, some on the few chairs, some on the floor, and some on the laps of the elder ones. Here and there a tiny baby dozed in the lap of an older girl, but for the most part they were from three years old and upwards.

All had clean, shining faces, and on the front of each child's dress was pinned a tricolour bow, whilst on the large corner table stood a coarse pottery jar stuffed full of white Margaret daisies, scarlet poppies, and bright blue cornflowers. Aline frowned a little impatiently and tapped with her foot on the floor, but no one took any notice. A tall lady with her back to the door was apparently concluding a tale to which all the children listened spellbound.

"Yes, indeed," Aline heard her say, in a full pleasant voice,—"yes, indeed, children, the dragon was most dreadfully fierce and wicked. His eyes shot out sparks, hot like the sparks at the forge, and flames ran out of his mouth so that all the ground was scorched, and the grass died.—Jeanne Marie, thou little foolish one, there is no need to cry. Have courage, and take Amelie's hand. The brave youth will not be harmed, because of the magic sword.—It was all very well for the dragon to spit fire at him, but he could not make him afraid. No, indeed! He raised the great sword in both hands, and struck at the monster. At the first blow the earth shook, and the sea roared. At the second blow the clouds fell down out of the sky, and all the wild beasts of the woods roared horribly, but at the third blow the dragon's head was cut clean off, and he fell down dead at the hero's feet. Then the chains that were on the wrists and ankles of the lovely lady vanished away, and she ran into the hero's arms, free and beautiful."

A long sigh went up from the rows of children, and one said regretfully:

"Is that all, Citoyenne?"

"That is all the story, my children; but now I shall ask questions. Félicité, say then, who is the young hero?"

A big, sharp-eyed girl looked up, and said in a quick sing-song, "He is the glorious Revolution and the dragon."

"Chut then,—I asked only for the hero. It is Candide who shall tell us who is the dragon."

Every one looked at Candide, who, for her part, looked at the ceiling, as if seeking inspiration there.

"The dragon is—is—

"Come then, my child, thou knowest."

"Is he not a dragon, then?" said Candide, opening eyes as blue as the sky, and quite as devoid of intelligence.

"Little stupid one,—and the times I have told thee! What is it, then, that the glorious Revolution has destroyed?"

She paused, and half a dozen arms went up eagerly, whilst as many voices clamoured:

"I know!"—"No, ask me!"—"No, me, Citoyenne!"—"No, me!"—"Me!"

"What! Jeanne knows? Little Jeanne Marie, who cried? She shall say. Tell us, then, my child,—who is the dragon?"

Jeanne looked wonderfully serious.

"It is the tyranny of kings, is it not, chère Citoyenne?"

"Very good, little one. And the lovely lady, who is the lovely lady?"

"France—our beautiful France!" cried all the children together.

Aline pushed the door quite wide and stepped forward, and as she came into view all the children became as quiet as mice, staring, and nudging one another.

At this, and the slight rustle of Aline's dress, Ange Desaix turned round, and uttered a cry of surprise. She was a tall woman, soft and ample of arm and bosom, with dark, silvered hair laid in classic fashion about a very nobly shaped head. Her skin was very white and soft, and her hazel eyes had a curious misty look, like the hollows of a hill brimmed with a weeping haze that never quite falls in rain. They were brooding eyes, and very peaceful, and they seemed to look right through Aline and away to some place of dreams beyond. All this was the impression of a moment—this, and the fact that the tall figure was all in white, with a large breast-knot of the same three-coloured flowers as stood in the jar. Then the motherly arms were round Aline, at once comfortable and appealing, and Mlle Desaix' voice said caressingly, "My dear niece, a thousand welcomes!"

After a moment she was quietly released, and Ange Desaix turned to the children.

"Away with you, little ones, and come again to-morrow. Louise and Marthe must give up their bows, but the rest can keep them."

The indescribable hubbub of a party of children preparing for departure arose, and Ange said smilingly, "We are late to-day, but on market-day some are from home, and like to know the children are safe with me."

As she spoke a little procession formed itself. Each child passed before Mlle Desaix, and received a kiss and a smile. Two little girls looked very downcast. They sniffed loudly as they unpinned their ribbon bows and gave them up.

"Another time you will be wise," said Ange consolingly; and Louise and Marthe went out hanging their heads.

"They chattered, instead of listening," explained Mlle Desaix. "I do not like punishments, but what will you? If children do not learn self-control, they grow up so unhappy."

There was an alluring simplicity in voice and manner that touched the child in Aline. To her own surprise she felt her eyes fill with tears—not the hot drops which burn and sting, but the pleasant water of sympathy, which refreshes the tired soul. On the impulse she said:

"It is good of you to let me come here. I—I am very grateful, chère Mademoiselle."

Ange put a hand on her arm.

"You will say 'ma tante,' will you not, dear child? Our nephew is dear to us, and we welcome his wife. Come then and see Marthe. She suffers much, my poor Marthe, and the children's chatter is too much for her, so I do not take them into her room, except now and then. She likes to see little Jeanne sometimes, and Candide, the little blue-eyed one. Marthe says she is like Nature—unconsciously stupid—and she finds that refreshing, since like Nature she is so beautiful. But there, the child is well enough—we cannot all be clever."

Mlle Desaix led the way through the hall and up a narrow stair as she spoke. Outside a door on the landing above she paused.

"But where, then, is Jacques—the dear Jacques?"

"After all he could not come," said Aline. "His orders were so strict,—'to press on without any delay,'—and if he had lost the diligence, it would have kept him twenty-four hours. He charged me with many messages."

"Ah," said Mlle Ange, "it will be a grief to Marthe. I told her all the time that perhaps he would not be able to come, but she counted on it. But of course, my dear, we understand that his duty must come first—only," with a sigh, "it will disappoint my poor Marthe."

She opened the door as she spoke, and they came into a room all in the dark except for the afterglow which filled the wide, square window. A bed or couch was drawn up to the open casement, and Aline took a quick breath, for the profile which was relieved against the light was startlingly like Dangeau's as she had seen it at the coach window that morning.

Ange drew her forward.

"See then, Marthe," she said, "our new niece is come, but alas, Jacques was not able to spare the time. Business of the Republic that could not wait."

Marthe Desaix turned her head with a sharp movement—a movement of restless pain.

"How do you do, my dear niece," she said, in a voice that distinctly indicated quotation marks. "As to seeing, it is too dark to see anything but the sky."

"Yes, truly," said Ange; "I will get the lamp. We are late to-night, but the tale was a long one, and I knew the market folk would be late on such a fine evening."

She went out quickly, and Aline, coming nearer to the window, uttered a little exclamation of pleasure.

"Ah, how lovely!" she said, just above her breath.

The window looked west through the open end of the hollow where Rancy lay, and a level wash of gold held the horizon. Wing-like clouds of grey and purple rested brooding above it, and between them shone the evening star. On either side the massed trees stood black against the glow, and the scent of the lavender came up like the incense of peace.

Marthe Desaix looked curiously at her, but all she could see was a slim form, in the dusk.

"You find that better than lamplight?" she asked.

"I find it very beautiful," said Aline. "It is so long since I saw trees and flowers, and the sun going down amongst the hills. My window in Paris looked into a street like a gutter, and one could only see, oh, such a little piece of sky."

As she spoke Ange came in with a lamp, which she set beside the bed; and immediately the glowing sky seemed to fade and recede to an immeasurable distance. In the lamplight the likeness which had startled Aline almost disappeared. Marthe Desaix' strong, handsome features were in their original cast almost identical with those of her nephew, but seen full face, they were so blanched and lined with pain that the resemblance was blurred, and the big dark eyes, like pools of ink, had nothing in common with Dangeau's.

Aline herself was conscious of being looked up and down. Then Marthe Desaix said, with a queer twist of the mouth:

"You did not live long in Paris, then?"

"It seemed a long time," said Aline. "It seems years when I try to look back, but it really is n't a year yet."

"You like the country?"

"Yes, I think so," faltered Aline, conscious of having said too much.

"Poor child," said Ange. "It is sad for you this separation. I know what you must feel. You have been married so short a time, and he has to leave you. It is very hard, but the time will pass, and we will try and make you happy."

"You are very good," said Aline in a low voice. Then she looked and saw Mlle Marthe's eyes gazing at her between perplexity and sarcasm.

When Aline was in bed, Ange heard her sister's views at length.

"A still tongue 's best, my Ange, but between you and me"—she shrugged her shoulders, and then bit her lip, as the movement jarred her—"there is certainly something strange about 'our new niece,' as you call her."

"Well, she is our nephew's wife," said Ange.

"Our nephew's wife, but no wife for our nephew, if I'm not much mistaken," returned Marthe sharply.

"I thought she looked sweet, and good."

"Good, good—yes, we 're all good at that age! Bless my soul, Ange, if goodness made a happy marriage, the devil would soon have more holidays than working days."

"Ma chérie, if any one heard you!"

"Well, they don't, and I should n't mind if they did. What I do mind is that Jacques should have made a marriage which will probably break his heart."

"But why, why?"

"Oh, my Angel, if you saw things under your nose as clearly as you do those that are a hundred years away, you would n't have to ask why."

"I saw nothing wrong," said Ange in a voice of distress.

"I did not say the girl was a thief, or a murderess," returned Marthe quickly. "No, I 'll not tell you what I mean,—not if you were to ask me on your knees,—not if you were to beg it with your last breath."

Ange laughed a little.

"Well, well, dearest, perhaps I shall guess. Good-night, and sleep well."

"As if I ever slept well!"

"Poor darling! Poor dearest! Is it so bad to-night? Let me turn the pillow. Is it a little better so?"

"Perhaps." Then as Ange reached the door:

"Angel!"

"What is it then, chérie?"

Mlle Marthe put a thin arm about her sister's neck and drew her close.

"After all, I will tell you."

"Though I did not beg it on my knees?"

"Chut!"

"Or with my last breath?"

"Very well, then; if you do not wish to hear——"

"No, no; tell me."

"Well then, Ange, she is noble—that girl."

"Oh no!"

"I am sure of it. The mystery, her coming here. Why has she no relations, no friends? And then her look, her manner. Why, the first tone of her voice made me start."

"Oh no, he would not——"

"Would not?" scoffed Marthe. "He 's a fool in love, and I suppose she was in danger. I tell you, I suspected it at once when his letter came. There, go to bed, and dream of our connection with the aristocracy. My faith, how times change! It is an edifying world."

She pushed Ange away, and lay a long time watching the stars.

CHAPTER XXII

AT HOME AND AFIELD

Aline slept late in the morning after her arrival. Everything was so fresh, and sweet, and clean that it was a pleasure just to lie between the lavender-scented sheets, and smell the softness of the summer air which came in at the open casement. She had meant to rise early, but whilst she thought of it, she slept again, drawn into the pleasant peace of the hour.

When she did awake the sun was quite high, and she dressed hastily and went down into the garden. Here she was aware of Mlle Ange, basket on arm, busily snipping, cutting, and choosing amongst the low herbs which filled this part of the enclosure. She straightened herself, and turned with a kind smile and kiss, which called about her the atmosphere of home. The look and touch seemed things at once familiar and comfortable, found again after many days of loss.

"Are you rested then, my dear?" asked the pleasant voice. "Yesterday you looked so tired, and pale. We must bring some roses into those cheeks, or Jacques will surely chide us when he comes."

On the instant the roses were there, and Aline stood transfigured; but they faded almost at once, and left her paler than before.

Mlle Ange opened her basket, and showed neat bunches of green herbs disposed within.

"I make ointments and tinctures," she said, "and to-day I must be busy, for some of the herbs I use are at their best just now, and if they are not picked, will spoil. All the village comes to me for simples and salves, so that between them, and the children, and my poor Marthe, I am not idle."

"May I help?" asked Aline eagerly; and Mlle Ange nodded a pleased "Yes, yes."

That was a pleasant morning. The buzz of the bees, the scent of the flowers, the warm freshness of the day—all were delightful; and presently, to watch Ange boiling one mysterious compound, straining another, distilling a third, had all the charm of a child's new game. Life's complications fell back, leaving a little space of peace like a fairy ring amongst new-dried grass. Mlle Marthe lay on her couch knitting, and watching. Every now and again she flashed a remark into the breathless silence, on which Ange would look up with her sweet smile, and then turn absently to her work again.

"There is then to be no food to-day?" said Marthe at last, her voice calmly sarcastic.

Ange finished counting the drops she was transferring from one mysterious vessel to another.

"Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve—what was that you said, chérie?"

"Nothing, my dear. Angels, of course, are not dependent on food, and Jacques is too far away to prosecute us if we starve his wife."

"Oh, tres chère, is it so late? Why did you not say? And after such a night, too—my poor dearest. See, I fly. Oh, I am vexed, and to-day too, when I told Jeanne I would make the omelette."

Marthe's eyebrows went up, and Ange turned in smiling distress to Aline.

"She will be so cross, our old Jeanne! She loves punctuality, and she adores making omelettes; but then, see you, she has no gift for making an omelette—it is just sheer waste of my good eggs—so to-day I said I would do it myself, in your honour."

"And mine," observed Marthe, with a click of the needles. "Jeanne's omelettes I will not eat."

"Oh, tres chère, be careful. She has such ears, she heard what you said about the last one, and she was so angry. Aline must come with me now, or I dare not face her."

They went down together and into the immaculate kitchen, where Jeanne, busily compounding a pie, turned a little cross, sallow face upon them, and rose, grumbling audibly, to fetch eggs and the pan.

"That good Jeanne," said Ange in an undertone, "she has all the virtues except a good temper. Marthe says she is like food without salt—all very good and wholesome, but so nasty; but she is really attached to us and after twenty years thinks she has a right to her temper."

Here, the returning Jeanne banged down a dish, and clattered with a small pile of spoons and forks.

Ange Desaix broke an egg delicately, and watched the white drip from the splintered shell.

"Things are beautiful, are they not, little niece? Just see this gold and white, and the speckled shell of this one, and the pink glow shining here. One could swear one saw the life brooding within, and here I break it, and its little embryo miracle, in order to please a taste which Jeanne considers the direct temptation of some imp who delights to plague her."

She laughed softly, and putting the egg-shells on one side, began to chop up a little bunch of herbs.

"An omelette is very much like a life, I think," she said after a moment. "No two are alike, though all are made with eggs. One puts in too many herbs, and the dish is bitter; another too few, and it is tasteless. Or we are impatient, and snatch at life in the raw; or idle, and burn our mixture. It is only one here and there who gets both matter and circumstance right."

Jeanne was hovering like an angry bird, and as Mlle Desaix' voice became more dreamy, and her eyes looked farther and farther away into space, she twitched out a small, vicious claw of a hand, and stealthily drew away the bowl that held the eggs.

"One must just make the most of what one has," Ange was saying. Was she thinking of that sudden blush and pallor of a few hours back, or of her sister's words the night before?

"If one's lot is tasteless, one must flavour it with cheerfulness; and if it is bitter, drink clear water after it, and forget."

Aline shivered a little, and then, in spite of herself, she smiled. Jeanne had her pan on the fire, and a sudden raw smell of burning rose up, almost palpably. The mistress of the house came back from her dreams with a start, looked wildly round, and missed her eggs, her herbs, her every ingredient. "Jeanne! but truly, Jeanne!" she cried hotly; and as she spoke the little figure at the fire whisked round and precipitated a burnt, sodden substance on to the waiting dish.

"Ma'mselle is served," she said snappishly, but there was a glint of triumph in her eye.

"No, Jeanne, it is too much," said Ange, flushing; whereat Jeanne merely picked up the dish and observed:

"If Ma'mselle will proceed into the other room, I will serve the dejeuner. Ma'mselle has perhaps not remarked that it grows late."

After which speech Mlle Desaix walked out of the room with a fine dignity, and the smell of the burnt omelette followed her.

Then began a time of household peace and quiet healing, in which at first Aline rested happily. In this small backwater, life went on very uneventfully,—birth and death in the village being the only happenings of note,—the state of Jeanne's temper the most pressing anxiety, since Mlle Marthe's suffering condition was a thing of such long standing as to be accepted as a matter of course, even by her devoted sister.

Of France beyond the hills—of Paris, only thirty miles away—they heard very little. The news of the Queen's trial and death did penetrate, and fell into the quiet like a stone into a sleeping pond. All the village rippled with it—broke into waves of discussion, splashes of lamentation, froth of approval, and then settled again into its wonted placidity.

Aline felt a pang of awakening. Whilst she was dreaming here amongst the peace of herby scents and the drowse of harvesting bees, tragedy still moved on Fate's highways, and she felt sudden terror and the sting of a sharp self-reproach. She shrank from Mlle Ange's kind eyes of pity, touched—just touched—with an unfaltering faith in the necessity for the appalling judgment. The misty hazel eyes wept bitterly, but the will behind them bowed loyally to the decrees of the Revolution.

"There 's no great cause without its victim, no new faith without bloodshed," she said to Marthe, with a kindling glance.

"I said nothing, my dear," was the dry reply.

Ange paced the room, brushing away hot tears.

"It is for the future, for the new generations, that we make these sacrifices, these terrible sacrifices," she cried.

"Oh, my dear!" said Marthe quickly, and then added with a shrug: "For me, I never felt any vocation for reforming the world; and if I were you, my Angel, I would let it alone. The devil has too much to do with things in general, that is my opinion."

"There is nothing I can do," said Ange, at her saddest.

"Thank Heaven for that!" observed her sister piously. "But I will tell you one thing—you need not talk of noble sacrifices and such-like toys in front of Jacques's wife."

"I would not hurt her," said Ange; "but, chérie, she is a Republican's wife—she must know his views, his aims. Why, he voted for the King's death!"

"Just so," nodded Marthe: "he voted for the King's death. I should keep a still tongue, if I were you."

"You still think——?"

"Think?" with scorn. "I am sure."

A few days later there was a letter from Dangeau, just a few lines. He was well. Lyons still held out, but they hoped that any day might end the siege. He begged to be commended to his aunts. Aline read the letter aloud, in a faltering voice, then laid it in her lap, and sat staring at it with eyes that suddenly filled, and saw the letters now blurred, now unnaturally black and large. Mlle Ange went out of the room, leaving her alone under Marthe's intent regard; but for once she was too absorbed to heed it, and sat there looking into her lap and twisting her wedding-ring round and round. Marthe's voice broke crisply in upon her thoughts.

"So he married you with his mother's ring?"

She started, covering it quickly with her other hand.

"Is it? No, I didn't know," she murmured confusedly. Then, with an effort at defence: "How do you know, Mademoiselle Marthe?"

"How does one know anything, child? By using one's eyes, and putting two and two together. Sometimes they make four, and sometimes they don't, but it 's worth trying. The ring is plainly old, and my sister wore just such another; and after her death Jacques wore it too, on his little finger. He adored his mother."

The scene of her wedding flashed before Aline. At the time she had not seemed to be aware of anything, but now she distinctly saw the priest's hand stretched out for the ring, and Dangeau's little pause of hesitation before he took it off and gave it.

Marthe's brows were drawn together.

"Now, did he give it her for love, or because there was need for haste?" she was thinking, and decided: "No, not for love, or he would have told her it was his mother's." And aloud she said calmly: "You see, you were married in such a hurry that there was no time to get a new one."

Aline looked up and spoke on impulse.

"What did he tell you about our marriage?" she asked.

"My dear, what was there to tell? He wrote a few lines—he does not love writing letters, it appears—he had married a young girl. Her name was Marie Aline Roche, and he commended her to our protection."

"Was that all?"

"Certainly."

"Then do you think I had better tell you more?" said Aline unsteadily.

Marthe looked at her with a certain pity in her glance.

"You did not learn prudence in an easy school," she said slowly, and then added: "No, better not; and besides, there 's not much need—it's all plain enough to any one who has eyes."

Dangeau's letter of about this date to Danton contained a little more information than that he sent his wife.

"The scoundrels have thrown off the mask at last," he wrote in a vigorous hand, which showed anger. "Yesterday Précy fought under the fleur-de-lys. Well, better an open enemy, an avowed Royalist, than a Girondist aping of Republican principles, and treachery under the surface. France may now guess at what she has been saved by the fall of the Gironde. They hope for reinforcements here. Our latest advices are that Sardinia will not move. As to Autichamp, he promises help, and instigates plots from a judicious distance; but he and his master, Artois, feel safer on any soil but that of France, and I gather that he will not leave Switzerland at present. Losses on both sides are considerable. To give the devil his due, Précy has the courage of ten, and we never know when he will be at our throats. Very brilliant work, those sallies of his. I wish we had half a dozen like him."

On the ninth of October Lyons fell, and the fiat of the Republic went forth. "Lyons has no longer a name among cities. Down with her to the dust from which she rose, and on the bloodstained site let build a pillar bearing these warning words: 'Lyons rebelled against the Republic: Lyons is no more.'"

Forthwith terror was let loose, and the town ran blood, till the shriek of its torment went up night and day unceasingly, and things were done which may not be written.

At this time Dangeau's letters ceased, and it was not until Christmas that news of him came again to Rancy. Then he wrote shortly, saying he had been wounded on the last day of the siege, and had lain ill for weeks, but was now recovered, and had received orders to join Dugommier, the Victor of Toulon, on his march against Spain. The letter was short enough, but something of the writer's longing to be up and away from reeking Lyons was discernible in the stiff, curt sentences.

In truth the tide of disgust rose high about him, and raise what barriers he would, it threatened to break in upon his convictions and drown them. News from Paris was worse and worse. The Queen's trial sickened, the Feast of Reason revolted him.

Down with tyrants, but for liberty's sake with decency! Away with superstition and all the network of priests' intrigues; but, in the outraged name of reason, no more of these drunken orgies, these feasts which defied public morality, whilst a light woman postured half naked on the altar where his mother had worshipped. This nauseated him, and drew from his pen an imprudently indignant letter, which Danton frowned over and consigned to the flames. He wrote back, however, scarcely less emphatically, though he recommended prudence and a still tongue.

"Mad times these, my friend, but decency I will have, though all Paris runs raving. It's a fool business, but you 'd best not say so. Take my advice and hold your tongue, though I 've not held mine."

Dangeau made haste to be gone from blood-drenched Lyons, and to wipe out his recollections of her punishment in the success which from the first attended Dugommier's arms.

Spain receded to the Pyrenees; and over the passes in wild wet weather, stung by the cold, and tormented by a wind that cut like a sword of ice, the French army followed.

Here, heroism was the order of the day. If in Paris, where Terror stalked, men were less than men and worse than brutes, because possessed by some devil soul, damned, and dancing, here they were more than men, animated by a superhuman courage and persistence. Yet, terrible puzzle of human life, the men were of the same breed, the same stuff, the same kin.

Antoine, shouting lewd songs about a desecrated altar, or watching with red, cruel eyes the death-agony of innocent women and young boys, was own brother to Jean, whose straw-shod feet carried his brave, starving body over the blood-stained Pyrenean passes, and who shared his last crust cheerfully with an unprovided comrade. One mother bore and nursed them both, and both were the spiritual children of that great Revolution who bore twin sons to France—Licence and Liberty. Nothing gives one so vivid a picture of France under the Terror as the realisation that to find relief from the prevailing horror and inhumanity one must turn to the battlefields.

The army fought with an empty stomach, bare back, and bleeding feet, and Dangeau found enough work to his hand to occupy the energies of ten men. The commissariat was disgraceful, supplies scant, and the men lacking of every necessary.

Having made inquiries, he turned back to France, and ranged the South like a flame, gathering stores, ammunition, arms, shoes—everything, in fact, of which that famished but indomitable army stood in such dire need. Summary enough the methods of those days, and Dangeau's way was as short a one as most, and more successful than many.

He would ride into a town, establish himself at the inn, and send for the Mayor, who, according as his nature were bold or timid, came blustering or trembling. France had no king, but the tricoloured feathers on her Commissioner's hat were a sign of power quite as autocratic as the obsolete fleur-de-lys.

Dangeau sat at a table spread with papers, wrote on for a space, and then—

"Citizen Mayor, I require, on behalf of the National Army, five hundred (or it might be a thousand) pairs of boots, so many beds, such and such provisions."

"But, Citizen Commissioner, we have them not."

Dangeau consulted a notebook.

"I can give you twenty-four hours to produce them, not more."

"But, Citizen, these are impossibilities. We cannot produce what we have not got."

"And neither can our armies save your throats from being cut if they are unprovided. Twenty-four hours, Citizen Mayor."

According to his nature, the Mayor swore or cringed.

"It is impossible."

Dangeau drew out a list. The principal towns of the South figured on it legibly. Setting a thick mark against one name, he fixed his eyes upon the man before him.

"Have you considered, Citizen," he said sternly, "that what is grudged to France will be taken by Spain? Also, it were wiser to yield to my demands than to those of such an embassy as the Republic sent to Lyons. My report goes in to-night."

"Your report?"

"Non-compliance with requisitions is to be reported to the Convention without delay. I have my orders, and you, Citizen Mayor, have yours."

"But, Citizen, where am I to get the things?"

Dangeau shrugged his shoulders.

"Is it my business? But I see you wear an excellent pair of shoes, I see well-shod citizens in your streets—you neither starve nor lie on the ground. Our soldiers do both. If any must go without, let it be the idle. Twenty-four hours, Citizen Mayor."

And in twenty-four hours boots, beds, and provisions were forthcoming. Lyons had not been rased for nothing, and with the smell of her burning yet upon the air, the shriek of her victims still in the wintry wind, no town had the courage to refuse what was asked for. Protestingly they gave; the army was provided, and Dangeau, shutting his ears to Paris and her madness, pressed forward with it into Spain.

CHAPTER XXIII

RETURN OF TWO FUGITIVES

"Aline, dear child!"

"Yes, dear aunt."

"I do not think I will leave Marthe to-day, the pain is so bad; but I do not like to disappoint old Mère Leroux. No one's hens are laying but mine, and I promised her an egg for her fête day. She is old, and old people are like children, and very little pleases or makes them unhappy."

Aline folded her work.

"Do you mean you would like me to go? But of course, dear aunt."

"If you will, my child. Take your warm cloak, and be back before sundown; and—Aline——"

"Yes," said Aline at the door.

"If you see Mathieu Leroux, stop and bid him 'Good-day.' Just say a word or two."

"I do not like Mathieu Leroux," observed Aline, with the old lift of the head.

Mlle Ange flushed a little.

"He has a good heart, I 'm sure he has a good heart, but he is suspicious by nature. Lately Madelon has let fall a hint or two. It does not do, my child, to let people think one is proud, or—or—in any way different."

Aline's eyes were a little startled.

"What, what do you mean?" she asked.

"Child, need you ask me that?"

"Oh!" she said quickly. "What did Madelon say?"

"Very little. You know she is afraid of her father, and so is Jean Jacques. It was to Marthe she spoke, and Marthe says Mathieu Leroux is a dangerous man; but then you know Marthe's way. Only, if I were you, I should bid him 'Good-day,' and say a friendly word or two as you pass."

As Aline walked down to the village at a pace suited to the sharpness of the February day, Mlle Ange's words kept ringing in her head. Had Mlle Marthe warned her far more emphatically, it would have made a slighter impression; but when Ange, who saw good in all, was aware of impending trouble, it seemed to Aline that the prospect was threatening indeed. All at once the pleasant monotony of her life at Rancy appeared to be at an end, and she looked into a cloudy and uncertain future, full of the perils from which she had had so short a respite.

When she came to the inn door and found it filled by the stout form of Mathieu Leroux she did her best to smile in neighbourly fashion; but her eyes sank before his, and her voice sounded forced as she murmured, "Bonjour, Citizen."

Leroux' black eyes looked over his heavy red cheeks at her. They were full of a desire to discover something discreditable about this stranger who had dropped into their little village, and who, though a patriot's wife, displayed none of the signs by which he, Leroux, estimated patriotism.

"Bonjour," he returned, without removing his pipe.

Aline struggled with her annoyance.

"How is your mother to-day?" she inquired. "My aunt has sent her a new-laid egg. May I go in?"

"Eh, she 's well enough," he grumbled. "There is too much fuss made over her. She 'll live this twenty years, and never do another stroke of work. That's my luck. A strong, economical, handy wife must needs die, whilst an old woman, who, you 'd think, would be glad enough to rest in her grave, hangs on and on. Oh, yes, go in, go in; she 'll be glad enough to have some one to complain to."

Aline slipped past him, frightened. He had evidently been drinking, and she knew from Madelon that he was liable to sudden outbursts of passion when this was the case.

In a small back room she found old Mère Leroux crouched by the fire, groaning a little as she rocked herself to and fro. When she saw that Aline was alone, she gave a little cry of disappointment.

"And Mlle Ange?" she cried in her cracked old voice.

"My aunt Marthe is bad to-day; she could not leave her," explained Aline.

"Oh, poor Ma'mselle Marthe—and I remember her straight and strong and handsome; not a beauty like Ma'mselle Ange, but well enough, well enough. Then she falls down a bank with a great stone on top of her, and there she is, no better than an old woman like me, who has had her life, and whom no one cares for any more."

"Oh, Mère Leroux, you should n't say that!"

"It's true, my dear, true enough. Mathieu is a bad son, a bad son. Some day he 'll turn me out, and I shall go to Madelon. She 's a good girl, Madelon; but when a girl has got a husband, what does she care for an old grandmother? Now Charles was a good son. Yes, if Charles had lived—but then it is always the best who go."

"You had another son, then?" said Aline, bringing a wooden stool to the old woman's side.

"Yes, my son Charles. Ah, a fine lad that, and handsome. He was M. Réné's body servant, and you should have seen him in his livery—a fine, straight man, handsomer than M. Réné. Ah, well, he fretted after his master, and then he took a fever and died of it, and Mathieu has never been a good son to me."

"M. Réné died?" asked Aline quickly, for the old woman had begun to cry.

Mère Leroux dried her eyes.

"Ah, yes; there 's no one who knows more about that than I. He was in Paris, and as he came out of M. le duc de Noailles's Hôtel, he met M. de Brézé, and M. de Brézé said to him, 'Well, Réné, we have been hearing of you,' and M. Réné said, 'How so?' 'Why,' says M. de Brézé (my son Charles was with M. Réné, and he heard it all), 'Why,' says M. de Brézé, 'I hear you have found a guardian angel of quite surpassing beauty. May I not be presented to her?' Then, Charles said, M. Réné looked straight at him and answered, 'When I bring Mme Réné de Montenay to Paris, I will present you.' M. de Brézé shrugged his shoulders, and slapped M. Réné on the arm. 'Oho,' said he, 'you are very sly, my friend. I was not talking of your marriage, but of your mistress.'

"Then M. Réné put his hand on his sword, and said, still very quietly, 'You have been misinformed; it is a question of my marriage.' Charles said that M. de Brézé was flushed with wine, or he would not have laughed as he did then. Well, well, well, it's a great many years ago, but it was a pity, a sad pity. M. de Brézé was the better swordsman, and he ran M. Réné through the body."

"And he died?" said Aline.

"Not then; no, not then. It would have been better like that—yes, much better."

"Oh, what happened?"

"Charles heard it all. The surgeon attended to the wound, and said that with care it would do well, only there must be perfect quiet, perfect rest. With his own ears he heard that said, and the old Marquise went straight from the surgeon to M. Réné's bedside, and sat down, and took his hand. Charles was in the next room, but the door was ajar, and he could hear and see.

"'Réné, my son,' she said, 'I hear your duel was about Ange Desaix.' M. Réné said, 'Yes, ma mere.' Then she said very scornfully, 'I have undoubtedly been misinformed, for I was told that you fought because—but no, it is too absurd.'

"M. Réné moved his hand. He was all strapped up, but his hand could move, and he jerked it, thus, to stop his mother; and she stopped and looked at him. Then he said, 'I fought M. de Brézé because he spoke disrespectfully of my future wife.' Yes, just like that he said it; and what it must have been to Madame to hear it, Lucifer alone knows, for her pride was like his. There was a long silence, and they looked hard at each other, and then Madame said, 'No!'—only that, but Charles said her face was dreadful, and M. Réné said 'Yes!' almost in a whisper, for he was weak, and then again there was silence. After a long time Madame got up and went out of the room, and M. Réné gave a long sigh, and called Charles, and asked for something to drink. Next day Madame came back. She did not sit down this time, but stood and stared at M. Réné. Big black eyes she had then, and her face all white, as white as his. 'Réné,' she said, 'are you still mad?' and M. Réné smiled and said, 'I am not mad at all.' She put her hand on his forehead. 'You would really do this thing?' she said. 'Lower our name, take as wife what you might have for the asking as mistress?' M. Réné turned in bed at that, and between pain and anger his voice sounded strong and loud. 'Whilst I am alive, there 's no man living shall say that,' he cried. 'On my soul I swear I shall marry her, and on my soul I swear she is fit to be a king's wife.'

"Madame took her hand away, and looked at it for a moment. Afterwards, when Charles told me, I thought, did she wonder if she should see blood on it? And then without another word she went out of the room, and gave orders that her carriages were to be got ready, for she was taking M. Réné to Rancy."

"Oh, no!" said Aline.

"Yes, my dear, yes; and she did it too, and he died of the journey—died calling for Mlle Ange."

"Oh, did she come?"

"Charles fetched her, and for that Madame never forgave him."

"Oh, how dreadful!"

"Yes, yes, it is sad; but it would have been a terrible mésalliance. A Montenay and his steward's daughter! No, no, it would not have done; one does not do such things."

Aline got up abruptly.

"Oh, I must go," she said. "I promised I would not be long. See, here is the egg."

"You are in such a hurry," mumbled the old woman, confused. She was still in the past, and the sudden change of subject bewildered her.

"I will come again," said Aline gently.

When she was clear of the inn she walked very fast for a few moments, and then stopped. She did not want to go home at once—the story she had just heard had taken possession of her, and she wanted to be alone to adjust her thoughts, to grow accustomed to kind placid Mlle Ange as the central figure of such a tragedy. After a moment's pause she took the path that led to the château, but stopped short at the high iron gates. Beyond them the avenue looked black and eerie. Her desire to go farther left her, and she leaned against the gates, taking breath after the climb.

The early dusk was settling fast upon the bare woods, and the hollow where the village lay below was already dark and flecked with a light or two. Above, a little yellowish glow lurked behind the low, sullen clouds.

It was very still, and Aline could hear the drip, drip of the moisture which last night had coated all the trees with white, and which to-night would surely freeze again. It was turning very cold; she would not wait. It was foolish to have come, more than foolish to let an old woman's words sting her so sharply—"One does not do such things." Was it her fancy that the dim eyes had been turned curiously upon her for a moment just then? Yes, of course, it was only fancy, for what could Mère Leroux know or suspect? She drew her cloak closer, and was about to turn away when a sound startled her. Close by the gate a stick cracked as if it had been trodden on, and there was a faint brushing sound as of a dress trailing against the bark of a tree. Aline peered into the shadows with a beating heart, and thought she saw some one move. Frightened and unnerved, she caught at the scroll-work of the gate and stared open-eyed, unable to stir; and again something rustled and moved within. This time it was plainly a woman's shape that flitted from one tree to the next—a woman who hid a moment, then leaned and looked, and at last came lightly down the avenue to the gate. Here the last of the light fell on Marguerite de Matigny's face, showing it very white and hollow-eyed. Aline's heart stood still. Could this be flesh and blood? Marguerite here? Not in the flesh, then.

"Marguerite," she breathed.

Marguerite's hand came through the wrought-work and caught at her. It was cold, but human, and Aline recovered herself with a gasp.

"Marguerite, you?"

"And Aline, you? I looked, and looked, and thought 't was you, and at last I thought, well, I 'll risk it. Oh, my dear!"

"But I don't understand. Oh, Marguerite, I thought you were a ghost."

"And wondered why I should come here? Well, I 've some right to, for my mother was a Montenay. Did you not know it?"

"No. But what brings you here, since you are not a ghost, but your very own self?"

"Tiens, Aline, I have wished myself any one or anything but myself this last fortnight! You must know that when I was set free—and oh, ma chérie, I heard it was your husband who saved me, and of course that means you——"

"Not me," said Aline quickly. "He did it. Who told you?"

"The Abbé Loisel. He knows everything—too much, I think! I don't like him, which is ungrateful, since he got me out of Paris."

"Did he? Where did you go then?"

"Why, to Switzerland, to Bâle, where I joined my father; and then, then—oh, Aline, do you know I am betrothed?"

"My dear, and you are happy?"

Marguerite screwed up her face in an unavailing attempt to keep grave, but after a moment burst out laughing.

"Why, Aline, he is so droll, and a countryman of your own. Indeed, I believe he is a cousin, for his name is Desmond."

"And you like him?"

"Oh, I adore him," said Mlle Marguerite calmly. "Aline, if you could see him! His hair—well, it's rather red; and he has freckles just like the dear little frogs we used to find by the ponds, Jean and I, when we were children; and his eyes are green and droll—oh, but to make you die of laughing——"

"He is not handsome, then?" said Aline, laughing too.

"Oh no, ugly—but most adorably ugly, and tall, and broad; and oh, Aline, he is nice, and he says that in Ireland I may love him as much as I please, and no one will think it a breach of decorum."

"Marguerite, you are just the same, you funny child!"

"Well, why not—it's not so long since we saw each other, is it? Only a few months."

"I feel as if it were centuries," said Aline, pressing her hands together.

"Ah, that's because you are married. Ciel! that was a sensation, your marriage. They talked—yes, they talked to split your ears. The things they said——"

"And you?"

"You are my friend," said Mlle de Matigny with decision. "But I must go on with my story. Well, I was at Bâle and betrothed, and then my father and Monsieur my fiancé set off to join the Princes, leaving me with Mme de Montenay, my great-aunt, who is ever so old, and quite, quite mad!"

"Oh, Marguerite!"

"Yes, but she is. Imagine being safe in Bâle, and then coming back here, all across France, just because she could not die anywhere but at the Château de Montenay in Rancy-les-Bois."

"She has come back?"

"Should I be here otherwise?" demanded Marguerite pathetically. "And the journey!—What I endured!—for I saw guillotines round every corner, and suspicious patriots on every doorstep. It is a miracle that we are here; and now that we have come, it is all very well for Madame my aunt, who has come here to die, and requires no food to accomplish that end; but for me, I do not fancy starving, and we have nothing to eat in the house."

"Oh, my poor dear! What made you come?"

"Could I let her come alone? She is too old and too weak; but I ought to have locked the door and kept the key—only, old as she is, she can still make every one do as she wants."

"You are not alone?"

"Jean and Louise, her old servants, started with us; but Jean got himself arrested. Poor Jean, he could not pretend well enough."

"And Louise?"

"Oh, Louise is there, but she is nearly as old as Madame."

"You must have food," said Aline decidedly. "I will bring you some."

"Oh, you angel!" exclaimed Marguerite, kissing her through the bars. "When you came I was standing here trying to screw up my courage to go down to the inn and ask for some."

"Oh, not the inn," said Aline quickly; "that's the last place to go. I 'm afraid there 's danger everywhere, but I 'll do what I can. Go back to the château, and I 'll come as soon as possible."

"Yes, as soon as possible, please, for I am hungry enough to eat you, my dear. See, have n't I got thin—yes, and pale too? I assure you that I have a most interesting air."

"Does M. my cousin find pallor interesting?" inquired Aline teasingly.

"No, my dear; he has a bourgeois's taste for colour. He compared me once to a carnation, but I punished him well for that. I stole the vinegar, and drank enough to make me feel shockingly ill. Then I powdered my cheeks, and then—then I talked all the evening to M. de Maillé!"

"And my cousin, M. le Chevalier, what did he do?"

Marguerite gave an irrepressible giggle.

"He went away, and I was just beginning to feel that perhaps he had been punished enough, when back he came, very easy and smiling, with a sweet large and beautiful bouquet of white carnations, and with an elegant bow he begged me to accept them, since white was my preference, though for his part he preferred the beauteous red that blushed like happy love!"

"And then?"

Marguerite's voice became very demure.

"Poor grandmamma used to say life was compromise, so I compromised; next morning I did not drink vinegar, and I wore a blush pink bud in my hair. M. le Chevalier was pleased to admire it extravagantly."

Aline ran off laughing, but she was grave enough before she had gone very far, for certainly the situation was not an easy one. She racked her brains for a plan, but could find none; and when she came in, Mlle Marthe's quick eyes at once discerned that something was wrong.

"What is it, child?" she said hastily. "Was Mathieu rude?"

"My dear, how late you are," said Mlle Ange, looking up from her needlework.

"Not Mathieu?" continued Marthe. "What has happened, Aline? You have not bad news? It is not Jacques?" and her lips grew paler.

"No, no, ma tante."

"What is it, then? Speak, or—or—why, you have been to the château!" she said abruptly, as Aline came into the lamplight.

"Why, Marthe, what makes you say that?" said Ange, in a startled voice.

"The rust on her cloak—see, it is all stained. She has been leaning against the iron gates. What took you there, and what has alarmed you?"

"I—I saw——"

"A ghost?" inquired Marthe with sharp sarcasm.

Ange rose up, trembling.

"Oh, she has come back! I know it, I have felt it! She has come back," she cried.

"Ange, don't be a fool," said Marthe, but her eyes were anxious.

"Speak then, Aline, and tell us what you saw."

"It is true, she has come back," said Aline, looking away from Mlle Ange, who put her hands before her eyes with a little cry and stood so a full minute, whilst Marthe gave a harsh laugh, and then bit her lip as if in pain.

"Come back to die?" Ange said at last, very low. "Alone?"—and she turned on Aline.

"No, a niece is with her. It was she whom I saw. I knew her in Paris—in prison; and, ma tante, they have no food in the house, and I said I would take them some."

"No food goes from this house to that," said Marthe loudly, but Ange caught her hand.

"Oh, we can't let them starve."

"And why not, Angel, why not? The old devil! She has done enough mischief in the world, and now that her time has come, let her go. Does she expect us, us, to weep for her?"

"No, no; but I can't let her starve—you know I can't."

Marthe laughed again.

"No, perhaps not, but I could, and I would." She paused. "So you 'd heap coals of fire—feed her, save her, eh, Angel?"

"Oh, Marthe, don't! For the love of God, don't speak to me like that—when you know—when you know!"

Marthe pulled her down with an impulsive gesture that drew a groan from her.

"Ah, Ange," she said in a queer, broken voice; and Ange kissed her passionately and ran out of the room.

There was a long, heavy pause. Then Marthe said:

"So you've heard the story? Who told you?"

"Mère Leroux, to-night."

"And a very suitable occasion. Who says life is not dramatic? So Mère Leroux told you, and you went up to the château to see if it was haunted, and it was. Ciel, if those stones could speak! But there 's enough without that—quite enough."

She was silent again, and after awhile Mlle Ange came back, wrapped in a thick cloak and carrying a basket.

Aline started forward.

"Ma tante, I may come too? It is so dark."

"And the dark is full of ghosts?" said Ange Desaix, under her breath. "Well, then, child, you may come. Indeed, the basket is heavy, and I shall be glad of your help."

Outside, the night had settled heavily, and without the small lantern which Mlle Ange produced from under her cloak, it would have been impossible to see the path. A little breeze had risen and seemed to follow them, moaning among the leafless boughs, and rustling the dead leaves below. They walked in silence, each with a hand on the heavy basket. It was very cold, and yet oppressive, as if snow were about to fall or a storm to break. Mlle Ange led the way up a bridle-path, and when the grey pile of the château loomed before them she turned sharply to the left, and Aline felt her hand taken. "This way," whispered Ange; and they stumbled up a broken step or two, and passed through a long, shattered window. "This way," said Ange again. "Mon Dieu, how long since I came here! Ah, mon Dieu!"

The empty room echoed to their steps and to that low-voiced exclamation, and the lantern light fell waveringly upon the shadows, driving them into the corners, where they crowded like ghosts out of that past of which the room seemed full.

It was a small room, and had been exquisite. Here and there a moulded cupid still smiled its dimpled smile, and clutched with plump, engaging fingers at the falling garland of white, heavy-bloomed roses which served it for girdle and plaything. In one corner a tattered rag of brocade still showed that the hangings had been green. Ange looked round mournfully.

"It was Madame's boudoir," she said slowly, with pauses between the sentences. "Madame sat here, by the window, because she liked to look out at the terrace, and the garden her Italian mother had made. Madame was beautiful then—like a picture, though her hair was too white to need powder. She had little hands, soft like a child's hands; but her eyes looked through you, and at once you thought of all the bad things you had ever done or thought. It was worse than confession, for there was no absolution afterwards." She paused and moved a step or two.

"I sat here. The hours I have read to her, or worked whilst she was busy with her letters!"

"You!" said Aline, surprised.

"Yes, I, her godchild, and a pet until—come then, child, until I forgot I was on the same footing as cat or dog, petted for their looks, and presumed to find a common humanity in myself and her. Ah, Marraine, it was you who made me a Republican. Oh, my child, pride is an evil god to serve! Don't sacrifice your life to him as mine was sacrificed."

She crossed hastily to the door as she spoke, and they came through a corridor to the great stairs, where the darkness seemed to lie in solid blocks, and the faint lantern light showed just one narrow path on which to set their feet. And on that path the dust lay thick; here drifted into mounds, and there spread desert-smooth along the broad, shallow steps, eloquent of desolation indescribable. But on the centre of the grey smoothness was a footmark—very small and lonely-looking. It seemed to make the gloom more eerie, the stillness more terrible, and the two women kept close together as they went up the stair.

At the top another corridor, and then a door in front of which Ange hesitated long. Twice she put out her hand, and twice drew back, until at last it was Aline who lifted the latch and drew her through the doorway. Darkness and silence.

Across that room, and to another. Darkness and silence still. At the third door Ange came forward again.

"It is past," she said, half to herself, and went in before Aline.

Whilst the west was all in darkness, this long east room fronted the rising moon, and the shimmer of it lay full across the chamber, making it light as day. Here the dust had been lately disturbed, for it hung like a mist in the air, and its shining particles floated all a-glitter in the broad wash of silver. Full in the moonlight stood a great canopied bed, its crimson hangings all wrenched away, and trailing to the dusty floor, where they lay like some ineffaceable stain of rusting blood. On the dark hearth a handful of sticks burned to a dull red ash, and between fire and moon there was a chair. It stood in to the hearth, as if for warmth, but aslant so that the moon shaft lay across it.

Ange set down the lantern and took a quick step forward, crying, "Madame!" Something stirred in the tattered chair, something grey amongst the grey of the shadows. It was like the movement of the roused spider, for here was the web, all dust and moonshine, and here, secret and fierce, grey and elusive, lurked the weaver. The shape in the chair leaned forward, and the oldest woman's face she had ever seen looked at Aline across the moted moonlight. The face was all grey; the bony ridge above the deep eye-pits, the wrinkled skin that lay beneath, the shrivelled, discoloured lips—plainly this was a woman not only old, but dying. Then the lids lifted, and Aline could have screamed, for the movement showed eyes as smoulderingly bright as the sudden sparks which fly up from grey ash that should be cold, but has still a heart of flame if stirred. They spoke of the indomitable will which had dragged this old, frail woman here to die.

Through the silence came a mere thread of a voice—

"Who is it?"

"I am Ange Desaix."

The shrivelled fingers picked at the shrouding shawl. Aline, watching uneasily, saw the pinched face fall into a new arrangement of wrinkles. The mouth opened like a pit, and from it came an attenuated sound. With creeping flesh she realised that this was a laugh—Madame was laughing.

"Ange Desaix, Ange Desaix,—Réné's Angel. Oh, la belle comédie!"

"Madame!" the sound came like a sob, and in a flash Aline guessed how long it was since any one had named Réné de Montenay before this woman who had loved him. After the silence of nearly forty years it stabbed her like a sword thrust.

Again that faint sound like the echo of laughter long dead:

"My compliments, Mlle Desaix. Will you not be seated, and let me know to what I owe the pleasure of this visit? But you are not alone. Who is that with you? Come here!"

Aline crossed the room obediently.

"Who are you?" said the faint voice again, and the burning eyes looked searchingly into her face.

Something stirred in Aline. This old wreck of womanhood was not only of her order, but of her kin. Before she knew it she heard her own voice say:

"I am Aline de Rochambeau."

Ange Desaix gave a great start. She had guessed,—but this was certainty, and the shock took her breath. From the chair a minute, tiny hand was beckoning.

"Rochambeau, Rochambeau. I know all the Rochambeau—Réné de Rochambeau was my first cousin, for I was a Montenay born, you know. He and his brother were the talk of the town when I was young. They married the twin heiresses of old M. de Vivonne, and every one sang the catch which M. de Coulanges made—

Fiers et beaux, les Rochambeau;

Fiere et bonnes, les belles Vivonne.'

Whose daughter are you?"

Aline knelt by the chair and kissed the little claw where a diamond shone from the gold circlet which was so much too loose.

"Réné de Rochambeau was my grandfather," she said.

"Well, he would have thought you a pretty girl. Beauty never came amiss to a Rochambeau, and you have your share. We are kinsfolk, Mademoiselle, and in other circumstances, I should have wished—have wished—" she drew her hand away impatiently and put it to her head. "Who said that Ange Desaix was here? Why does she come now? Réné is dead, and I have no more sons; I am really a little at a loss."

The words which should have sounded pathetic came in staccato mockery, and Aline sprang up in indignation, but even as she moved Mlle Ange spoke.

"Let the past alone, Madame," she said slowly. "Believe, if you can, that I have come to help you. You are not alone?"

"I have Louise, but she—really, I forget where she is at present, but she is not cooking, for we have nothing to cook. It is as well that I have come here to die, since for that there are always conveniences. One dies more comfortably chez soi. In fact, unless one had the honour of dying on the field of battle, there is to my mind something bourgeois about dying in a strange place. At least, it has never been our habit. Now I recollect when Réné was dying—dear me, how many years ago it is now?"

"It is thirty-seven years ago," said Ange Desaix in low muffled tones.

"Thank you, Mademoiselle, you are quite correct. Well, thirty-seven years ago, you, with that excellent memory of yours, will recall how I brought my son Réné here, that he might die at home."

"Yes," said Ange. "You brought him home that he might die."

The slight change of words was an accusation, and there was a moment's silence, broken by an almost inaudible whisper from Mlle Ange.

"Thirty-seven years. Oh, mon Dieu!"

The tremulous grey head moved a little, bent forward, and was propped by a shaking hand, but Madame's eyes shone unalterably amused.

"Yes, my dear Ange, he died—unmarried; and I had the consolations of religion, and also of knowing that a mésalliance is not possible in the grave."

Ange Desaix started forward with a sob.

"And have you never repented, Madame, have you never repented? Never thought that you might have had his children about your knees? That night, when I saw him die, I said, 'God will punish,' and are you not punished? You have neither son nor grandson; you are childless as I am childless; you are alone and the last of your line!"

The sudden fire transfigured her, and she looked like a prophetess. Madame de Montenay stared at her and fell to fidgeting with her shawl.

"I am too old for scenes," she said fretfully. "Réné was a fool—a fool. I never interfered with his amusements, but marriage—that is not an affair for oneself alone. Did he think I should permit? But it is enough, he is dead, and I think you forget yourself, Ange Desaix, when you come to my house and talk to me in such a strain. I should like to be alone."

The old imperious note swelled the thin voice; the old imperious gesture raised the trembling hand. Even in her recoil Aline felt a faint thrill of admiration as for something indomitable, indestructible.

Ange swept through the door.

"Ah!" she said with a long shuddering breath, "ah, mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" All her beautiful dreamy expression was gone. "Ah! what a coward I am; even now, even now she frightens me, cows me," and she leaned panting against the wall, whilst Aline closed the door.