CHAPTER IX
THE COAST OF FRANCE
I
The whole of that wretched mournful day Yvonne Dewhurst spent upon thedeck of the ship which was bearing her away every hour, every minute,further and still further from home and happiness. She seldom spoke: sheate and drank when food was brought to her: she was conscious neither ofcold nor of wet, of well-being or ill. She sat upon a pile of cordagesin the stern of the ship leaning against the taffrail and in imaginationseeing the coast of England fade into illimitable space.
Part of the time it rained, and then she sat huddled up in the shawlsand tarpaulins which the woman placed about her: then, when the sun cameout, she still sat huddled up, closing her eyes against the glare.
When daylight faded into dusk, and then twilight into night she gazedinto nothingness as she had gazed on water and sky before, thinking,thinking, thinking! This could not be the end--it could not. So muchhappiness, such pure love, such perfect companionship as she had hadwith the young husband whom she idolised could not all be wrenched fromher like that, without previous foreboding and without some warning fromFate. This miserable, sordid, wretched journey to an unknown land couldnot be the epilogue to the exquisite romance which had suddenly changedthe dreary monotony of her life into one long, glowing dream of joy andof happiness! This could not be the end!
And gazing into the immensity of the far horizon she thought and thoughtand racked her memory for every word, every look which she had had fromher dear milor. And upon the grey background of sea and sky she seemedto perceive the vague and dim outline of that mysterious friend--the manwho knew everything--who foresaw everything, even and above all thedangers that threatened those whom he loved. He had foreseen this awfuldanger too! Oh! if only milor and she herself had realised its fullextent! But now surely! surely! he would help, he would know what to do.Milor was wont to speak of him as being omniscient and having marvellouspowers.
Once or twice during the day M. le duc de Kernogan came to sit besidehis daughter and tried to speak a few words of comfort and of sympathy.Of a truth--here on the open sea--far both from home and kindred andfrom the new friends he had found in hospitable England--his heart smotehim for all the wrong he had done to his only child. He dared not thinkof the gentle and patient wife who lay at rest in the churchyard ofKernogan, for he feared that with his thoughts he would conjure up herpale, avenging ghost who would demand an account of what he had donewith her child.
Cold and exposure--the discomfort of the long sea-journey in this roughtrading ship had somewhat damped M. de Kernogan's pride and obstinacy:his loyalty to the cause of his King had paled before the demands of afather's duty toward his helpless daughter.
II
It was close on six o'clock and the night, after the turbulent andcapricious alternations of rain and sunshine, promised to be beautifullyclear, though very cold. The pale crescent of the moon had just emergedfrom behind the thick veil of cloud and mist which still hungthreateningly upon the horizon: a fitful sheen of silver danced upon thewaves.
M. le duc stood beside his daughter. He had inquired after her healthand well-being and received her monosyllabic reply with an impatientsigh. M. Martin-Roget was pacing up and down the deck with restless andvigorous strides: he had just gone by and made a loud and cheery commenton the weather and the beauty of the night.
Could Yvonne Dewhurst have seen her father's face now, or had she caredto study it, she would have perceived that he was gazing out to sea inthe direction to which the schooner was heading with an intent look ofpuzzlement, and that there was a deep furrow between his brows. Half anhour went by and he still stood there, silent and absorbed: thensuddenly a curious exclamation escaped his lips: he stooped and seizedhis daughter by the wrist.
"Yvonne!" he said excitedly, "tell me! am I dreaming, or am I crazed?"
"What is it?" she asked coldly.
"Out there! Look! Just tell me what you see?"
He appeared so excited and his pressure on her wrist was so insistentthat she dragged herself to her feet and looked out to sea in thedirection to which he was pointing.
"Tell me what you see," he reiterated with ever-growing excitement, andshe felt that the hand which held her wrist trembled violently.
"The light from a lighthouse, I think," she said.
"And besides that?"
"Another light--a much smaller one--considerably higher up. It must beperched up on some cliffs."
"Anything else?"
"Yes. There are lights dotted about here and there. Some village on thecoast."
"On the coast?" he murmured hoarsely, "and we are heading towards it."
"So it appears," she said indifferently. What cared she to what shoreshe was being taken: every land save England was exile to her now.
Just at this moment M. Martin-Roget in his restless wanderings once morepassed by.
"M. Martin-Roget!" called the duc.
And vaguely Yvonne wondered why his voice trembled so.
"At your service, M. le duc," replied the other as he came to a halt,and then stood with legs wide apart firmly planted upon the deck, hishands buried in the pockets of his heavy mantle, his head thrown back,as if defiantly, his whole attitude that of a master condescending totalk with slaves.
"What are those lights over there, ahead of us?" asked M. le ducquietly.
"The lighthouse of Le Croisic, M. le duc," replied Martin-Roget dryly,"and of the guard-house above and the harbour below. All at yourservice," he added, with a sneer.
"Monsieur...." exclaimed the duc.
"Eh? what?" queried the other blandly.
"What does this mean?"
In the vague, dim light of the moon Yvonne could just distinguish thetwo men as they stood confronting one another. Martin-Roget, tall,massive, with arms now folded across his breast, shrugging his broadshoulders at the duc's impassioned query--and her father who suddenlyappeared to have shrunk within himself, who raised one trembling hand tohis forehead and with the other sought with pathetic entreaty thesupport of his daughter's arm.
"What does this mean?" he murmured again.
"Only," replied Martin-Roget with a laugh, "that we are close to thecoast of France and that with this unpleasant but useful north-westerlywind we shall be in Nantes two hours before midnight."
"In Nantes?" queried the duc vaguely, not understanding, speakingtonelessly like a somnambulist or a man in a trance. He was leaningheavily now on his daughter's arm, and she with that motherly instinctwhich is ever present in a good woman's heart even in the presence ofher most cruel enemy, drew him tenderly towards her, gave him thesupport he needed, not quite understanding herself yet what it was thathad befallen them both.
"Yes, in Nantes, M. le duc," reiterated Martin-Roget with a sneer.
"But 'twas to Holland we were going."
"To Nantes, M. le duc," retorted the other with a ringing note oftriumph in his voice, "to Nantes, from which you fled like a coward whenyou realised that the vengeance of an outraged people had at lastovertaken you and your kind."
"I do not understand," stammered the duc, and mechanicallynow--instinctively--father and daughter clung to one another as if eachwas striving to protect the other from the raving fury of this madman.Never for a moment did they believe that he was sane. Excitement, theythought, had turned his brain: he was acting and speaking like onepossessed.
"I dare say it would take far longer than the next four hours while weglide gently along the Loire, to make such as you understand that yourarrogance and your pride are destined to be humbled at last and that youare now in the power of those men who awhile ago you did not deem worthyto lick your boots. I dare say," he continued calmly, "you think that Iam crazed. Well! perhaps I am, but sane enough anyhow, M. le duc, toenjoy the full flavour of revenge."
"Revenge?... what have we done?... what has my daughter done?..."stammered the duc incoherently. "You swore you loved her ... desired tomake her your wife ... I consented ... she...."
Martin-Roget's harsh laugh broke in on his vague murmurings.
"And like an arrogant fool you fell into the trap," he said with calmirony, "and you were too blind to see in Martin-Roget, suitor for yourdaughter's hand, Pierre Adet, the son of the victim of your execrabletyranny, the innocent man murdered at your bidding."
"Pierre Adet ... I don't understand."
"'Tis but little meseems that you do understand, M. le duc," sneered theother. "But turn your memory back, I pray you, to the night four yearsago when a few hot-headed peasant lads planned to give you a fright inyour castle of Kernogan ... the plan failed and Pierre Adet, the leaderof that unfortunate band, managed to fly the country, whilst you, like acrazed and blind tyrant, administered punishment right and left for thefright which you had had. Just think of it! those boors! those louts!that swinish herd of human cattle had dared to raise a cry of revoltagainst you! To death with them all! to death! Where is Pierre Adet, theleader of those hogs? to him an exemplary punishment must be meted! adeterrent against any other attempt at revolt. Well, M. le duc, do youremember what happened then? Pierre Adet, severely injured in the melee,had managed to crawl away into safety. While he lay betwixt life anddeath, first in the presbytery of Vertou, then in various ditches on hisway to Paris, he knew nothing of what happened at Nantes. When hereturned to consciousness and to active life he heard that his father,Jean Adet the miller, who was innocent of any share in the revolt, hadbeen hanged by order of M. le duc de Kernogan."
He paused awhile and a curious laugh--half-convulsive and not unmixedwith sobs--shook his broad shoulders. Neither the duc nor Yvonne madeany comment on what they heard: the duc felt like a fly caught in adeath-dealing web. He was dazed with the horror of his position, dazedabove all with the rush of bitter remorse which had surged up in hisheart and mind, when he realised that it was his own folly, hisobstinacy--aye! and his heartlessness which had brought this awful fateupon his daughter. And Yvonne felt that whatever she might endure ofmisery and hopelessness was nothing in comparison with what her fathermust feel with the addition of bitter self-reproach.
"Are you beginning to understand the position better now, M. le duc?"queried Martin-Roget after awhile.
The duc sank back nerveless upon the pile of cordages close by. Yvonnewas leaning with her back against the taffrail, her two armsoutstretched, the north-west wind blowing her soft brown hair about herface whilst her eyes sought through the gloom to read the lines ofcruelty and hatred which must be distorting Martin-Roget's face now.
"And," she said quietly after awhile, "you have waited all these years,Monsieur, nursing thoughts of revenge and of hate against us. Ah!believe me," she added earnestly, "though God knows my heart is full ofmisery at this moment, and though I know that at your bidding death willso soon claim me and my father as his own, yet would I not change mywretchedness for yours."
"And I, citizeness," he said roughly, addressing her for the first timein the manner prescribed by the revolutionary government, "would notchange places with any king or other tyrant on earth. Yes," he added ashe came a step or two closer to her, "I have waited all these years. Forfour years I have thought and striven and planned, planned to be evenwith your father and with you one day. You had fled the country--likecowards, bah!--ready to lend your arms to the foreigner against your owncountry in order to re-establish a tyrant upon the throne whom the wholeof the people of France loathed and detested. You had fled, but soon Ilearned whither you had gone. Then I set to work to gain access toyou.... I learned English.... I too went to England ... under an assumedname ... with the necessary introductions so as to gain a footing in thecircles in which you moved. I won your father's condescension--almosthis friendship!... The rich banker from Brest should be fleeced in orderto provide funds for the armies that were to devastate France--and therich banker of Brest refused to be fleeced unless he was lured by thepromise of Mlle. de Kernogan's hand in marriage."
"You need not, Monsieur," rejoined Yvonne coldly, while Martin-Rogetpaused in order to draw breath, "you need not, believe me, take thetrouble to recount all the machinations which you carried through inorder to gain your ends. Enough that my father was so foolish as totrust you, and that we are now completely in your power, but...."
"There is no 'but,'" he broke in gruffly, "you are in my power and willbe made to learn the law of the talion which demands an eye for an eye,a life for a life: that is the law which the people are applying to thatherd of aristos who were arrogant tyrants once and are shrinking,cowering slaves now. Oh! you were very proud that night, MademoiselleYvonne de Kernogan, when a few peasant lads told you some home truthswhile you sat disdainful and callous in your carriage, but there is onefact that you can never efface from your memory, strive how you may, andthat is that for a few minutes I held you in my arms and that I kissedyou, my fine lady, aye! kissed you like I would any pert kitchen wench,even I, Pierre Adet, the miller's son."
He drew nearer and nearer to her as he spoke; she, leaning against thetaffrail, could not retreat any further from him. He laughed.
"If you fall over into the water, I shall not complain," he said, "itwill save our proconsul the trouble, and the guillotine some work. Butyou need not fear. I am not trying to kiss you again. You are nothing tome, you and your father, less than nothing. Your death in misery andwretchedness is all I want, whether you find a dishonoured grave in theLoire or by suicide I care less than nothing. But let me tell you this,"he added, and his voice came now like a hissing sound through his setteeth, "that there is no intention on my part to make glorious martyrsof you both. I dare say you have heard some pretty stories over inEngland of aristos climbing the steps of the guillotine with an ecstaticlook of martyrdom upon their face: and tales of the tumbrils of Parisladen with men and women going to their death and shouting "God save theKing" all the way. That is not the sort of paltry revenge which wouldsatisfy me. My father was hanged by yours as a malefactor--hanged, Isay, like a common thief! he, a man who had never wronged a single soulin the whole course of his life, who had been an example of fine living,of hard work, of noble courage through many adversities. My mother wasleft a widow--not the honoured widow of an honourable man--but a pariah,the relict of a malefactor who had died of the hangman's rope--my sisterwas left an orphan--dishonoured--without hope of gaining the love of arespectable man. All that I and my family owe to ci-devant M. le duc deKernogan, and therefore I tell you, that both he and hisdaughter shall not die like martyrs but like malefactorstoo--shamed--dishonoured--loathed and execrated even by their ownkindred! Take note of that, M. le duc de Kernogan! You have sown shame,shame shall you reap! and the name of which you are so proud will bedragged in the mire until it has become a by-word in the land for allthat is despicable and base."
Perhaps at no time of his life had Martin-Roget, erstwhile Pierre Adet,spoken with such an intensity of passion, even though he was at alltimes turbulent and a ready prey to his own emotions. But all that hehad kept hidden in the inmost recesses of his heart, ever since as ayoung stripling he had chafed at the social conditions of his country,now welled forth in that wild harangue. For the first time in his lifehe felt that he was really master of those who had once despised andoppressed him. He held them and was the arbiter of their fate. Thesense of possession and of power had gone to his head like wine: he wasintoxicated with his own feeling of triumphant revenge, and thisimpassioned rhetoric flowed from his mouth like the insentient babble ofa drunken man.
The duc de Kernogan, sitting on the coil of cordages with his elbows onhis knees and his head buried in his hands, had no thought of breakingin on the other man's ravings. The bitterness of remorse paralysed histhinking faculties. Martin-Roget's savage words struck upon his senseslike blows from a sledge-hammer. He knew that nothing but his own follywas the cause of Yvonne's and his own misfortune. Yvonne had been safefrom all evil fortune under the protection of her fine young Englishhusband; he--the father who should have been her chief protector--haddragged her by brute force away from that husband's
care and had landedher ... where?... A shudder like acute ague went through the unfortunateman's whole body as he thought of the future.
Nor did Yvonne Dewhurst attempt to make reply to her enemy's delirioustalk. She would not give him even the paltry satisfaction of feelingthat he had stung her into a retort. She did not fear him--she hated himtoo much for that--but like her father she had no illusions as to hispower over them both. While he stormed and raved she kept her eyessteadily fixed upon him. She could only just barely distinguish him inthe gloom, and he no doubt failed to see the expression of loftyindifference wherewith she contrived to regard him: but he _felt_ hercontempt, and but for the presence of the sailors on the deck heprobably would have struck her.
As it was when, from sheer lack of breath, he had to pause, he gave onelast look of hate on the huddled figure of the duc, and the proud,upstanding one of Yvonne, then with a laugh which sounded like that of afiend--so cruel, so callous was it, he turned on his heel, and as hestrode away towards the bow his tall figure was soon absorbed in thesurrounding gloom.
III
The duc de Kernogan and his daughter saw little or nothing ofMartin-Roget after that. For awhile longer they caught sight of him fromtime to time as he walked up and down the deck with ceaselessrestlessness and in the company of another man, who was much shorter andslimmer than himself and whom they had not noticed hitherto.Martin-Roget talked most of the time in a loud and excited voice, theother appearing to listen to him with a certain air of deference.Whether the conversation between these two was actually intended for theears of the two unfortunates, or whether it was merely chance whichbrought certain phrases to their ears when the two men passed closelyby, it were impossible to say. Certain it is that from such chancephrases they gathered that the barque would not put into Nantes, as thenavigation of the Loire was suspended for the nonce by order ofProconsul Carrier. He had need of the river for his awesome andnefarious deeds. Yvonne's ears were regaled with tales--told with loudostentation--of the terrible _noyades_, the wholesale drowning of men,women and children, malefactors and traitors, so as to ease the burdenof the guillotine.
After three bells it got so bitterly cold that Yvonne, fearing that herfather would become seriously ill, suggested their going down to theirstuffy cabins together. After all, even the foul and shut-up atmosphereof these close, airless cupboards was preferable to the propinquity ofthose two human fiends up on deck and the tales of horror and brutalitywhich they loved to tell.
And for two hours after that, father and daughter sat in the narrowcell-like place, locked in each other's arms. She had everything toforgive, and he everything to atone for: but Yvonne suffered so acutely,her misery was so great that she found it in her heart to pity thefather whose misery must have been even greater than hers. The supremesolace of bestowing love and forgiveness and of easing the rackingparoxysms of remorse which brought the unfortunate man to the verge ofdementia, warmed her heart towards him and brought surcease to her ownsorrow.