CHAPTER XLIV. THE HALT AT CRECY
"Now, then, citizen, don't go to sleep; this is Crecy, our last halt!"
Armand woke up from his last dream. They had been moving steadily onsince they left Abbeville soon after dawn; the rumble of the wheels, theswaying and rocking of the carriage, the interminable patter of the rainhad lulled him into a kind of wakeful sleep.
Chauvelin had already alighted from the coach. He was helping Margueriteto descend. Armand shook the stiffness from his limbs and followed inthe wake of his sister. Always those miserable soldiers round them, withtheir dank coats of rough blue cloth, and the red caps on their heads!Armand pulled Marguerite's hand through his arm, and dragged her withhim into the house.
The small city lay damp and grey before them; the rough pavement of thenarrow street glistened with the wet, reflecting the dull, leaden skyoverhead; the rain beat into the puddles; the slate-roofs shone in thecold wintry light.
This was Crecy! The last halt of the journey, so Chauvelin had said. Theparty had drawn rein in front of a small one-storied building that had awooden verandah running the whole length of its front.
The usual low narrow room greeted Armand and Marguerite as they entered;the usual mildewed walls, with the colour wash flowing away in streaksfrom the unsympathetic beam above; the same device, "Liberte, Egalite,Fraternite!" scribbled in charcoal above the black iron stove; the usualmusty, close atmosphere, the usual smell of onion and stale cheese,the usual hard straight benches and central table with its soiled andtattered cloth.
Marguerite seemed dazed and giddy; she had been five hours inthat stuffy coach with nothing to distract her thoughts except therain-sodden landscape, on which she had ceaselessly gazed since theearly dawn.
Armand led her to the bench, and she sank down on it, numb and inert,resting her elbows on the table and her head in her hands.
"If it were only all over!" she sighed involuntarily. "Armand, at timesnow I feel as if I were not really sane--as if my reason had alreadygiven way! Tell me, do I seem mad to you at times?"
He sat down beside her and tried to chafe her little cold hands.
There was a knock at the door, and without waiting for permissionChauvelin entered the room.
"My humble apologies to you, Lady Blakeney," he said in his usual suavemanner, "but our worthy host informs me that this is the only room inwhich he can serve a meal. Therefore I am forced to intrude my presenceupon you."
Though he spoke with outward politeness, his tone had become moreperemptory, less bland, and he did not await Marguerite's reply beforehe sat down opposite to her and continued to talk airily.
"An ill-conditioned fellow, our host," he said--"quite reminds me ofour friend Brogard at the Chat Gris in Calais. You remember him, LadyBlakeney?"
"My sister is giddy and over-tired," interposed Armand firmly. "I prayyou, citizen, to have some regard for her."
"All regard in the world, citizen St. Just," protested Chauvelinjovially. "Methought that those pleasant reminiscences would cheerher. Ah! here comes the soup," he added, as a man in blue blouse andbreeches, with sabots on his feet, slouched into the room, carrying atureen which he incontinently placed upon the table. "I feel sure thatin England Lady Blakeney misses our excellent croutes-au-pot, the gloryof our bourgeois cookery--Lady Blakeney, a little soup?"
"I thank you, sir," she murmured.
"Do try and eat something, little mother," Armand whispered in her ear;"try and keep up your strength for his sake, if not for mine."
She turned a wan, pale face to him, and tried to smile.
"I'll try, dear," she said.
"You have taken bread and meat to the citizens in the coach?" Chauvelincalled out to the retreating figure of mine host.
"H'm!" grunted the latter in assent.
"And see that the citizen soldiers are well fed, or there will betrouble."
"H'm!" grunted the man again. After which he banged the door to behindhim.
"Citizen Heron is loath to let the prisoner out of his sight," explainedChauvelin lightly, "now that we have reached the last, most importantstage of our journey, so he is sharing Sir Percy's mid-day meal in theinterior of the coach."
He ate his soup with a relish, ostentatiously paying many smallattentions to Marguerite all the time. He ordered meat for her--bread,butter--asked if any dainties could be got. He was apparently in thebest of tempers.
After he had eaten and drunk he rose and bowed ceremoniously to her.
"Your pardon, Lady Blakeney," he said, "but I must confer with theprisoner now, and take from him full directions for the continuance ofour journey. After that I go to the guard-house, which is some distancefrom here, right at the other end of the city. We pick up a fresh squadhere, twenty hardened troopers from a cavalry regiment usually stationedat Abbeville. They have had work to do in this town, which is a hot-bedof treachery. I must go inspect the men and the sergeant who will be incommand. Citizen Heron leaves all these inspections to me; he likes tostay by his prisoner. In the meanwhile you will be escorted back to yourcoach, where I pray you to await my arrival, when we change guard first,then proceed on our way."
Marguerite was longing to ask him many questions; once again shewould have smothered her pride and begged for news of her husband,but Chauvelin did not wait. He hurried out of the room, and Armand andMarguerite could hear him ordering the soldiers to take them forthwithback to the coach.
As they came out of the inn they saw the other coach some fifty metresfurther up the street. The horses that had done duty since leavingAbbeville had been taken out, and two soldiers in ragged shirts, andwith crimson caps set jauntily over their left ear, were leading the twofresh horses along. The troopers were still mounting guard round boththe coaches; they would be relieved presently.
Marguerite would have given ten years of her life at this moment for theprivilege of speaking to her husband, or even of seeing him--of seeingthat he was well. A quick, wild plan sprang up in her mind that shewould bribe the sergeant in command to grant her wish while citizenChauvelin was absent. The man had not an unkind face, and he must bevery poor--people in France were very poor these days, though the richhad been robbed and luxurious homes devastated ostensibly to help thepoor.
She was about to put this sudden thought into execution when Heron'shideous face, doubly hideous now with that bandage of doubtfulcleanliness cutting across his brow, appeared at the carriage window.
He cursed violently and at the top of his voice.
"What are those d--d aristos doing out there?" he shouted.
"Just getting into the coach, citizen," replied the sergeant promptly.
And Armand and Marguerite were immediately ordered back into the coach.
Heron remained at the window for a few moments longer; he had atoothpick in his hand which he was using very freely.
"How much longer are we going to wait in this cursed hole?" he calledout to the sergeant.
"Only a few moments longer, citizen. Citizen Chauvelin will be back soonwith the guard."
A quarter of an hour later the clatter of cavalry horses on the rough,uneven pavement drew Marguerite's attention. She lowered the carriagewindow and looked out. Chauvelin had just returned with the new escort.He was on horseback; his horse's bridle, since he was but an indifferenthorseman, was held by one of the troopers.
Outside the inn he dismounted; evidently he had taken full command ofthe expedition, and scarcely referred to Heron, who spent most of histime cursing at the men or the weather when he was not lying half-asleepand partially drunk in the inside of the carriage.
The changing of the guard was now accomplished quietly and in perfectorder. The new escort consisted of twenty mounted men, including asergeant and a corporal, and of two drivers, one for each coach. Thecortege now was filed up in marching order; ahead a small party ofscouts, then the coach with Marguerite and Armand closely surrounded bymounted men, and at a short distance the second coach with citizen Heronand the prisoner equally well gu
arded.
Chauvelin superintended all the arrangements himself. He spoke for somefew moments with the sergeant, also with the driver of his own coach. Hewent to the window of the other carriage, probably in order to consultwith citizen Heron, or to take final directions from the prisoner,for Marguerite, who was watching him, saw him standing on the step andleaning well forward into the interior, whilst apparently he was takingnotes on a small tablet which he had in his hand.
A small knot of idlers had congregated in the narrow street; men inblouses and boys in ragged breeches lounged against the verandah ofthe inn and gazed with inexpressive, stolid eyes on the soldiers, thecoaches, the citizen who wore the tricolour scarf. They had seen thissort of thing before now--aristos being conveyed to Paris under arrest,prisoners on their way to or from Amiens. They saw Marguerite's paleface at the carriage window. It was not the first woman's face they hadseen under like circumstances, and there was no special interest aboutthis aristo. They were smoking or spitting, or just lounging idlyagainst the balustrade. Marguerite wondered if none of them had wife,sister, or mother, or child; if every sympathy, every kind of feeling inthese poor wretches had been atrophied by misery or by fear.
At last everything was in order and the small party ready to start.
"Does any one here know the Chapel of the Holy Sepulchre, close by thepark of the Chateau d'Ourde?" asked Chauvelin, vaguely addressing theknot of gaffers that stood closest to him.
The men shook their heads. Some had dimly heard of the Chateau d'Ourde;it was some way in the interior of the forest of Boulogne, but no oneknew about a chapel; people did not trouble about chapels nowadays. Withthe indifference so peculiar to local peasantry, these men knew no moreof the surrounding country than the twelve or fifteen league circle thatwas within a walk of their sleepy little town.
One of the scouts on ahead turned in his saddle and spoke to citizenChauvelin:
"I think I know the way pretty well; citizen Chauvelin," he said; "atany rate, I know it as far as the forest of Boulogne."
Chauvelin referred to his tablets.
"That's good," he said; "then when you reach the mile-stone that standson this road at the confine of the forest, bear sharply to yourright and skirt the wood until you see the hamlet of--Le--something.Le--Le--yes--Le Crocq--that's it in the valley below."
"I know Le Crocq, I think," said the trooper.
"Very well, then; at that point it seems that a wide road strikes atright angles into the interior of the forest; you follow that until astone chapel with a colonnaded porch stands before you on your left, andthe walls and gates of a park on your right. That is so, is it not, SirPercy?" he added, once more turning towards the interior of the coach.
Apparently the answer satisfied him, for he gave the quick word ofcommand, "En avant!" then turned back towards his own coach and finallyentered it.
"Do you know the Chateau d'Ourde, citizen St. Just?" he asked abruptlyas soon as the carriage began to move.
Armand woke--as was habitual with him these days--from some gloomyreverie.
"Yes, citizen," he replied. "I know it."
"And the Chapel of the Holy Sepulchre?"
"Yes. I know it too."
Indeed, he knew the chateau well, and the little chapel in the forest,whither the fisher-folk from Portel and Boulogne came on a pilgrimageonce a year to lay their nets on the miracle-working relic. The chapelwas disused now. Since the owner of the chateau had fled no one hadtended it, and the fisher-folk were afraid to wander out, lest theirsuperstitious faith be counted against them by the authorities, who hadabolished le bon Dieu.
But Armand had found refuge there eighteen months ago, on his way toCalais, when Percy had risked his life in order to save him--Armand--fromdeath. He could have groaned aloud with the anguish of thisrecollection. But Marguerite's aching nerves had thrilled at the name.
The Chateau d'Ourde! The Chapel of the Holy Sepulchre! That was theplace which Percy had mentioned in his letter, the place where he hadgiven rendezvous to de Batz. Sir Andrew had said that the Dauphin couldnot possibly be there, yet Percy was leading his enemies thither,and had given the rendezvous there to de Batz. And this despite thatwhatever plans, whatever hopes, had been born in his mind when he wasstill immured in the Conciergerie prison must have been set at naught bythe clever counter plot of Chauvelin and Heron.
"At the merest suspicion that you have played us false, at a hint thatyou have led us into an ambush, or if merely our hopes of finding Capetat the end of the journey are frustrated, the lives of your wife and ofyour friend are forfeit to us, and they will both be shot before youreyes."
With these words, with this precaution, those cunning fiends hadeffectually not only tied the schemer's hands, but forced him either todeliver the child to them or to sacrifice his wife and his friend.
The impasse was so horrible that she could not face it even in herthoughts. A strange, fever-like heat coursed through her veins, yetleft her hands icy-cold; she longed for, yet dreaded, the end of thejourney--that awful grappling with the certainty of coming death.Perhaps, after all, Percy, too, had given up all hope. Long ago he hadconsecrated his life to the attainment of his own ideals; and therewas a vein of fatalism in him; perhaps he had resigned himself to theinevitable, and his only desire now was to give up his life, as he hadsaid, in the open, beneath God's sky, to draw his last breath with thestorm-clouds tossed through infinity above him, and the murmur of thewind in the trees to sing him to rest.
Crecy was gradually fading into the distance, wrapped in a mantle ofdamp and mist. For a long while Marguerite could see the sloping slateroofs glimmering like steel in the grey afternoon light, and the quaintchurch tower with its beautiful lantern, through the pierced stoneworkof which shone patches of the leaden sky.
Then a sudden twist of the road hid the city from view; only theoutlying churchyard remained in sight, with its white monuments andgranite crosses, over which the dark yews, wet with the rain and shakenby the gale, sent showers of diamond-like sprays.