Madame's wrinkled face wreathed itself into a huge smile, which
presently broadened into a merry laugh, as she threw back her head, and
said still laughing:

"A shopkeeper, my dear Comte? A shopkeeper at your aristocratic table?
and your meal did not choke you? Why! God forgive you, but I do believe
you are actually becoming human."

"I ought to have told you sooner, of course," began the Comte stiffly.

"Why bless your heart, I knew it soon enough."

"You knew it?"

"Of course I did. Mr. Clyffurde told me that interesting fact before he
had finished eating his soup."

"Did he tell you that . . . that he traded in . . . in gloves?"

"Well! and why not gloves?" she retorted. "Gloves are very nice things
and better manufactured at Grenoble than anywhere else in the world. The
English coquettes are very wise in getting their gloves from Grenoble
through the good offices of Mr. Clyffurde."

"But, my dear Sophie . . . Mr. Clyffurde buys gloves here from Dumoulin
and sells them again to a shop in London . . . he buys and sells other
things too and he does it for profit. . . ."

"Of course he does. . . . You don't suppose that any one would do that
sort of thing for pleasure, do you? Mr. Clyffurde," continued Madame
with sudden seriousness, "lost his father when he was six years old. His
mother and four sisters had next to nothing to live on after the bulk of
what they had went for the education of the boy. At eighteen he made up
his mind that he would provide his mother and sisters with all the
luxuries which they had lacked for so long and instead of going into the
army--which had been the burning ambition of his boyhood--he went into
business . . . and in less than ten years has made a fortune."

"You seem to have learnt a great deal of the man's family history in so
short a time."

"I liked him: and I made him talk to me about himself. It was not easy,
for these English men are stupidly reticent, but I dragged his story out
of him bit by bit--or at least as much of it as I could--and I can tell
you, my good André, that never have I admired a man so much as I do this
Mr. Clyffurde . . . for never have I met so unselfish a one. I declare
that if I were only a few years younger," she continued whimsically,
"and even so . . . heigh! but I am not so old after all. . . ."

"My dear Sophie!" ejaculated the Comte.

"Eh, what?" she retorted tartly, "you would object to a tradesman as a
brother-in-law, would you? What about a de Marmont for a son? Eh?"

"Victor de Marmont is a soldier in the army of our legitimate King. His
uncle the Duc de Raguse. . . ."

"That's just it," broke in Madame again, "I don't like de Marmont
because he is a de Marmont."

"Is that the only reason for your not liking him?"

"The only one," she replied. "But I must say that this Mr. Clyffurde
. . ."

"You must not harp on that string, Sophie," said the Comte sternly. "It
is too ridiculous. To begin with Clyffurde never cared for Crystal, and,
secondly, Crystal was already engaged to de Marmont when Clyffurde
arrived here, and, thirdly, let me tell you that my daughter has far too
much pride in her ever to think of a shopkeeper in the light of a
husband even if he had ten times this Mr. Clyffurde's fortune."

"Then everything is comfortably settled, André. And now that we have
returned to our sheep, and have both arrived at the conclusion that
nothing stands in the way of Crystal's marriage with Victor de Marmont,
I suppose that I may presume that my audience is at an end."

"I only wished to hear your opinion, my good Sophie," rejoined M. le
Comte. And he rose stiffly from his chair.

"Well! and you have heard it, André," concluded Madame as she too rose
and gathered her lace shawl round her shoulders. "You may thank God, my
dear brother, that you have in Crystal such an unselfish and obedient
child, and in me such a submissive sister. Frankly--since you have
chosen to ask my opinion at this eleventh hour--I don't like this de
Marmont marriage, though I have admitted that I see nothing against the
young man himself. If Crystal is not unhappy with him, I shall be
content: if she is, I will make myself exceedingly disagreeable, both to
him and to you, and that being my last word, I have the honour to wish
you a polite 'good-day.'"

She swept her brother an imperceptibly ironical curtsey, but he detained
her once again, as she turned to go.

"One word more, Sophie," he said solemnly. "You will be amiable with
Victor de Marmont this evening?"

"Of course I will," she replied tartly. "Ah, ça, Monsieur my brother, do
you take me for a washerwoman?"

"I am entertaining the préfet for the _souper du contrat_," continued
the Comte, quietly ignoring the old lady's irascibility of temper, "and
the general in command of the garrison. They are both converted
Bonapartists, remember."

"Hm!" grunted Madame crossly, "whom else are you going to entertain?"

"Mme. Fourier, the préfet's wife, and Mlle. Marchand, the general's
daughter, and of course the d'Embruns and the Genevois."

"Is that all?"

"Some half dozen or so notabilities of Grenoble. We shall sit down
twenty to supper, and afterwards I hold a reception in honour of the
coming marriage of Mlle. de Cambray de Brestalou with M. Victor de
Marmont. One must do one's duty. . . ."

"And pander to one's love of playing at being a little king in a limited
way. . . . All right! I won't say anything more. I promise that I won't
disgrace you, and that I'll put on a grand manner that will fill those
worthy notabilities and their wives with awe and reverence. And now, I'd
best go," she added whimsically, "ere my good resolutions break down
before your pomposity . . . I suppose the louts from the village will be
again braced up in those moth-eaten liveries, and the bottles of thin
Médoc purchased surreptitiously at a local grocer's will be duly
smothered in the dust of ages. . . . All right! all right! I'm going.
For gracious' sake don't conduct me to the door, or I'll really disgrace
you under Hector's uplifted nose. . . . Oh! shades of cold beef and
treacle pies of Worcester . . . and washing-day . . . do you remember?
. . . all right! all right, Monsieur my brother, I am dumb as a carp at
last."

And with a final outburst of sarcastic laughter, Madame finally sailed
across the room, while Monsieur fell back into his throne-like chair
with a deep sigh of relief.

THE RETURN OF THE EMPEROR

But even as Madame la Duchesse douairière d'Agen placed her aristocratic
hand upon the handle of the door, it was opened from without with what
might almost be called undue haste, and Hector appeared in the doorway.

Hector in truth! but not the sober-faced, pompous, dignified Hector of
the household of M. le Comte de Cambray, but a red-visaged, excited,
fussy Hector, who for the moment seemed to have forgotten where he was,
as well as the etiquette which surrounded the august personality of his
master. He certainly contrived to murmur a humble if somewhat hasty
apology, when he found himself confronted at the door by Mme. la
Duchesse herself, but he did not stand aside to let her pass.

She had stepped back into the room at sight of him, for obviously
something very much amiss must have occurred thus to ruffle Hector's
ingrained dignity, and even M. le Comte was involuntarily dragged out of
his aristocratic aloofness and almost--though not quite--jumped up from
his chair.

"What is it, Hector?" he exclaimed, peremptorily.

"M. le Comte," gasped Hector, who seemed to be out of breath from sheer
excitement, "the Corsican . . . he has come back . . . he is marching on
Grenoble . . . M. le préfet is here! . . ."

But already M. le Comte had--with a wave of the hand as it were--swept
the unwelcome news aside.

"What rubbish is this?" he said wrathfully. "You have been dreaming in
broad daylight, Hector . . . and this excitement is most unseemly. Show
Mme. la Duchesse to her apartments," he added with a great show of calm.

Hector--thus reproved, coloured a yet more violent crimson to the very
roots of his hair. He made a great effort to recover his pomposity and
actually took up the correct attitude which a well-trained servant
assumes when he shows a great lady out of a room. But even then--despite
the well-merited reproof--he took it upon himself to insist:

"M. le préfet is here, M. le Comte," he said, "and begs to be received
at once."

"Well, then, you may show him up when Mme. la Duchesse has retired,"
said the Comte with quiet dignity.

"By your leave, my brother," quoth the Duchesse decisively, "I'll wait
and hear what M. le préfet has to say. The news--if news there be--is
too interesting to be kept waiting for me."

And accustomed as she was to get her own way in everything, Mme. la
Duchesse calmly sailed back into the room, and once more sat down in the
chair beside her brother's bureau, whilst Hector with as much grandeur
of mien as he could assume under the circumstances was still waiting for
orders.

M. le Comte would undoubtedly have preferred that his sister should
leave the room before the préfet was shown in: he did not approve of
women taking part in political conversations, and his manner now plainly
showed to Mme. la Duchesse that he would like to receive M. le préfet
alone. But he said nothing--probably because he knew that words would be
useless if Madame had made up her mind to remain, which she evidently
had, so, after a brief pause, he said curtly to Hector:

"Show M. le préfet in."

He took up his favourite position, in his throne-shaped chair--one leg
bent, the other stretched out, displaying to advantage the shapely calf
and well-shod foot. M. le préfet Fourier, mathematician of great renown,
and member of the Institut was one of those converted Bonapartists to
whom it behoved at all times to teach a lesson of decorum and dignity.

And certainly when, presently Hector showed M. Fourier in, the two
men--the aristocrat of the old regime and the bureaucrat of the
new--presented a marked and curious contrast. M. le Comte de Cambray
calm, unperturbed, slightly supercilious, in a studied attitude and
moving with pompous deliberation to greet his guest, and Jacques
Fourier, man of science and préfet of the Isère department, short of
stature, scant of breath, flurried and florid!

Both men were conscious of the contrast, and M. Fourier did his very
best to approach Mme. la Duchesse with a semblance of dignity, and to
kiss her hand in something of the approved courtly manner. When he had
finally sat down, and mopped his streaming forehead, M. le Comte said
with kindly condescension:

"You are perturbed, my good M. Fourier!"

"Alas, M. le Comte," replied the worthy préfet, still somewhat out of
breath, "how can I help being agitated . . . this awful news! . . ."

"What news?" queried the Comte with a lifting of the brows, which was
meant to convey complete detachment and indifference to the subject
matter.

"What news?" exclaimed the préfet who, on the other hand, was unable to
contain his agitation and had obviously given up the attempt, "haven't
you heard? . . ."

"No," replied the Comte.

And Madame also shook her head.

"Town-gossip does not travel as far as the Castle of Brestalou," added
M. le Comte gravely.

"Town gossip!" reiterated M. Fourier, who seemed to be calling Heaven
to witness this extraordinary levity, "town gossip, M. le Comte! . . .
But God in Heaven help us all. Bonaparte landed at Antibes five days
ago. He was at Sisteron this morning, and unless the earth opens and
swallows him up, he will be on us by Tuesday!"

"Bah! you have had a nightmare, M. le préfet," rejoined the Comte drily.
"We have had news of the landing of Bonaparte at least once a month this
half-year past."

"But it is authentic news this time, M. le Comte," retorted Fourier,
who, gradually, under the influence of de Cambray's calm demeanour, had
succeeded in keeping his agitation in check. "The préfet of the Var
department, M. le Comte de Bouthillier, sent an express courier on
Thursday last to the préfet of the Basses-Alpes, who sent that courier
straight on to me, telling me that he and General Loverdo, who is in
command of the troops in that district, promptly evacuated Digue because
they were not certain of the loyalty of the garrison. The Corsican it
seems only landed with about a thousand of his old guard, but since
then, the troops in every district which he has traversed, have deserted
in a body, and rallied round his standard. It has been, so I hear, a
triumphal march for him from the Littoral to Digne, and altogether the
news which the courier brought me this morning was of such alarming
nature, that I thought it my duty, M. le Comte, to apprise you of it
immediately."

"That," said M. le Comte condescendingly, "was exceedingly thoughtful
and considerate, my good M. Fourier. And what is the alarming news?"

"Firstly, that Bonaparte made something like a state entry into Digne
yesterday. The city was beflagged and decorated. The national guard
turned out and presented arms, drums were beating, the population
acclaimed him with cries of 'Vive l'Empereur!' The préfet and the
general in command had intended to resist his entry into the city, but
all the notabilities of the town forced them into submission. Duval, the
préfet, fled to a neighbouring village, taking the public funds with
him, while General Loverdo with a mere handful of loyal troops has
retreated on Sisteron."

Though M. le Comte de Cambray had listened to the préfet's narrative
with all his habitual grandeur of mien, it soon became obvious that some
of his aristocratic sangfroid had already abandoned him. His furrowed
cheeks had become a shade paler than usual, and the slender hand which
toyed with an ivory paper-knife on his desk had not its wonted
steadiness. Mme. la Duchesse perceived this, no doubt, for her keen eyes
were fixed scrutinisingly upon her brother; she saw too that his thin
lips were quivering and that the reason why he made no comment on what
he had just heard was because he could not quite trust himself to speak.
It was she, therefore, who now remarked quietly:

"And in your department, M. le préfet, in Grenoble itself, is the
garrison equally likely to go over to the Corsican brigand?"

M. Fourier shrugged his shoulders. He was not at all sure.

"After what has happened at Digne, Mme. la Duchesse," he said, "I would
not care to prophesy. Général Marchand does not intend to trust entirely
to the garrison. He has sent to Vienne and to Chambéry for
reinforcements . . . but . . ."

The préfet was hesitating, evidently he had not a great deal of faith in
the loyalty of those reinforcements either.

M. le Comte made a vigorous protest. "Surely, M. Fourier," he said, "you
don't mean to suggest that Grenoble is going to turn traitor to the
King?"

But M. le préfet apparently had meant to suggest it.

"Alas, M. le Comte!" he said, "we must always bear in mind that the
whole of the Dauphiné has remained throughout a bed of Bonapartism."

"But in that case . . ." ejaculated the Comte.

"Général Marchand is doing all he can to ensure effectual resistance, M.
le Comte. But we are in the hands of the army, and the army has never
been truly loyal to the King. At the bottom of every soldier's haversack
there is an old and worn tricolour cockade, which is there ready to be
fetched out at a moment's notice, and will be fetched out at the mere
sound of the Corsican's voice. We are in the hands of the army, M. le
Comte, and in the Dauphiné; alas! the army is only too ready to cry:
'Vive l'Empereur!'"

There was silence in the stately room now, silence only broken by the
tap-tap of the ivory paper-knife with which M. le Comte was still
nervously fidgeting. M. Fourier was wiping the perspiration from his
overheated brow.

"For God's sake, André, stop that irritating noise," said Mme. Duchesse
after awhile, "that tapping has got on my nerves."

"I beg your pardon, Sophie," said the Comte loftily.

He was offended with her for drawing M. Fourier's attention to his own
nervous restlessness, yet grateful to be thus forcibly made aware of it
himself. His attitude was on the verge of incorrectness. Where was the
aristocratic sangfroid which should have made him proof even against so
much perturbing news? What had become of the lesson in decorum which
should have been taught to this vulgar little bureaucrat?

M. le Comte pulled himself together with a jerk: he straightened out his
spare figure, put on that air of detachment which became him so well,
and finally turned once more to the préfet a perfectly calm and
unruffled countenance.

Then he said with his accustomed urbanity:

"And now, my good M. Fourier, since you have so admirably put the
situation before me, will you also tell me in what way I may be of
service to you in this--or to Général Marchand?"

"I am coming to that, M. le Comte," replied the préfet. "It will explain
the reason of my disturbing you at this hour, when I was coming anyhow
to partake of your gracious hospitality later on. But I do want your
assistance, M. le Comte, as the matter of which I wish to speak with you
concerns the King himself."

"Everything that you have told me hitherto, my good M. Fourier, concerns
His Majesty and the security of his throne. I cannot help wondering how
much of this news has reached him by now."

"All of it at this hour, I should say. For already on Friday the Prince
d'Essling sent a despatch to His Majesty--by courier as far as Lyons and
thence by aërial telegraph to Paris. The King--may God preserve him!"
added the ex-Bonapartist fervently, "knows as much of the Corsican's
movements at the present moment as we do; and God alone knows what he
will decide to do."

"Whatever happens," interjected the Comte de Cambray solemnly, "Louis de
Bourbon, XVIIIth of his name, by the Grace of God, will act like a king
and a gentleman."

"Amen to that," retorted the préfet. "And now let me come to my point,
M. le Comte, and the chief object of my visit to you."

"I am at your service, my dear M. Fourier."

"You will remember, M. le Comte, that directly you were installed at
Brestalou and I was confirmed in my position as préfet of this
department, I thought it was my duty to tell you of the secret funds
which are kept in the cellars of our Hôtel de Ville by order of M. de
Talleyrand."

"Yes, of course I remember that perfectly. French money, which the
unfortunate wife of that brigand Bonaparte was taking out of the
country."

"Quite so," assented Fourier. "The funds are in a convenient and
portable form, being chiefly notes and bankers' drafts to bearer, but
the amount is considerable, namely, twenty-five millions of francs."

"A comfortable sum," interposed Mme. la Duchesse drily. "I did not know
that Grenoble sheltered so vast a treasure."

"The money was seized," said the Comte, "from Marie Louise when she was
fleeing the country. Talleyrand did it all, and it was his idea to keep
the money in this part of the country against likely emergencies."

"But the emergency has arisen," exclaimed M. Fourier excitedly, "and the
money at Grenoble is useless to His Majesty in Paris. Nay! it is worse
than useless, it is in danger of spoliation," he added with unconscious
_naiveté_. "If the Corsican marches into Grenoble, if the garrison and
the townspeople rally to him, he will of a truth occupy the Hôtel de
Ville and the brigand will seize the King's treasure which lies now in
one of its cellars."

"True," mused the Comte, "I hadn't thought of that."

"Well!" exclaimed Madame with light sarcasm, "seeing that the money was
originally taken from his wife, the brigand will not be committing an
altogether unlikely act, I imagine, by taking what was originally his."

"His, my good Sophie?" exclaimed the Comte, highly shocked. "Money
robbed by that usurper from France--his?"

"We won't argue, André," said Madame sharply, "let us hear what M. le
préfet proposes."

"Propose, Mme. la Duchesse," ejaculated the unfortunate préfet, "I have
nothing to propose! I am at my wits' end what to do! I came to M. le
Comte for advice."

"And you were quite right, my dear M. Fourier," said the Comte affably.

He paused for a few seconds in order to collect his thoughts, then
continued: "Now let us consider this question from every side, and then
see to what conclusion we can arrive that will be for the best. Firstly,
of course, there is the possibility of your following the example of the
préfet of the Basses-Alpes and taking yourself and the money to a
convenient place outside Grenoble."

But at this suggestion M. Fourier was ready to burst into tears.

"Impossible, M. le Comte," he cried pitiably, "I could not do it. . . .
Where could I go? . . . The existence of the money is known . . . known
to the Bonapartists, I am convinced. . . . There's Dumoulin, the
glovemaker, he knows everything that goes on in Grenoble . . . and his
friend Emery, who is an army surgeon in the pay of Bonaparte . . . both
these men have been to and from Elba incessantly these past few months
. . . then there's the Bonapartist club in Grenoble . . . with a
membership of over two thousand . . . the members have friends and spies
everywhere . . . even inside the Hôtel de Ville . . . why! the other day
I had to dismiss a servant who . . ."

"Easy, easy, M. le préfet," broke in M. le Comte impatiently, "the long
and the short of it is that you would not feel safe with the money
anywhere outside Grenoble."

"Or inside it, M. le Comte."

"Very well, then, the money must be deposited there, where it will be
safe. Now what do you think of Dupont's Bank?"

"Oh, M. le Comte! an avowed Bonapartist! . . . M. de Talleyrand would
not trust him with the money last year."

"That is so . . . but . . ."

"It seems to me," here interposed Mme. la Duchesse abruptly, "that by
far the best plan--since this district seems to be a hot-bed of
disloyalty--would be to convey the money straightway to Paris, and then
the King or M. de Talleyrand can dispose of it as best they like."

"Ah, Mme. la Duchesse," sighed M. Fourier ecstatically as he clasped his
podgy little hands together and looked on Madame with eyes full of
admiration for her wisdom, "how cleverly that was spoken! If only I
could be relieved from that awful responsibility . . . five and twenty
millions under my charge and that Corsican ogre at our gates! . . ."

"That is all very well!" quoth the Comte with marked impatience, "but
how is it going to be done? 'Convey the money to Paris' is easily said.
But who is going to do it? M. le préfet here says that the Bonapartists
have spies everywhere round Grenoble, and . . ."

"Ah, M. le Comte!" exclaimed the préfet eagerly. "I have already thought
of such a beautiful plan! If only you would consent . . ."

M. le Comte's thin lips curled in a sarcastic smile.

"Oh! you have thought it all out already, M. le préfet?" he said. "Well!
let me hear your plan, but I warn you that I will not have the money
brought here. I don't half trust the peasantry of the neighbourhood, and
I won't have a fight or an outrage committed in my house!"

M. le préfet was ready with a protest:

"No, no, M. le Comte!" he said, "I wouldn't suggest such a thing for the
world. If the Corsican brigand is successful in capturing Grenoble, no
place would be sacred to him. No! My idea was if you, M. le Comte--who
have oft before journeyed to Paris and back--would do it now . . .
before Bonaparte gets any nearer to Grenoble . . . and take the money
with you . . ."

"I?" exclaimed the Comte. "But, man, if--as you say--Grenoble is full of
Bonapartist spies, my movements are no doubt just as closely watched as
your own."

"No, no, M. le Comte, not quite so closely, I am sure."

The insinuating manner of the worthy man, however, was apparently
getting on M. le Comte's nerves.

"Ah, ça, M. le préfet," he ejaculated abruptly, "but meseems that the
splendid plan you thought on merely consists in transferring
responsibility from your shoulders to mine own."

And M. le Comte cast such a wrathful look on poor M. Fourier that the
unfortunate man was stricken dumb with confusion.

"Moreover," concluded the Comte, "I don't know that you, M. le préfet,
have the right to dispose of this money which was entrusted to you by M.
de Talleyrand in the King's behalf without consulting His Majesty's
wishes in the matter."

"Bah, André," broke in the Duchesse in her incisive way, "you are
talking nonsense, and you know it. There is no time for red-tapeism now
with that ogre at our gates. How are you going to consult His Majesty's
wishes--who is in Paris--between now and Tuesday, I would like to know?"
she added with a shrug of the shoulders.

Whereupon M. le Comte waxed politely sarcastic.

"Perhaps," he said, "you would prefer us to consult yours."

"You might do worse," she retorted imperturbably. "The question is one
which is very easily solved. Ought His Majesty the King to have that
money, or should M. le préfet here take the risk of its falling in
Bonaparte's hands? Answer me that," she said decisively, "and then I
will tell you how best to succeed in carrying out your own wishes."

"What a question, my good Sophie!" said the Comte stiffly. "Of course we
desire His Majesty to have what is rightfully his."

"You mean he ought to have the twenty-five millions which the Prince de
Bénévant stole from Marie Louise. Very well then, obviously that money
ought to be taken to Paris before Bonaparte gets much nearer to
Grenoble--but it should not be taken by you, my good André, nor yet by
M. le préfet."

"By whom then?" queried the Comte irritably.

"By me," replied Mme. la Duchesse.

"By you, Sophie! Impossible!"

"And God alive, why impossible, I pray you?" she retorted. "The money, I
understand, is in a very portable form, notes and bankers' drafts, which
can be stowed away quite easily. Why shouldn't I be journeying back to
Paris after Crystal's wedding? Who would suspect me, I should like to
know, of carrying twenty-five millions under my petticoats? All I should
want would be a couple of sturdy fellows on the box to protect me
against footpads. Impossible?" she continued tartly. "Men are always so
ready with that word. Get a sensible woman, I say, and she will solve
your difficulties before you have finished exclaiming: 'Impossible!'"

And she looked triumphantly from one man to the other. There was obvious
relief on the ruddy face of little M. Fourier, and even M. le Comte was
visibly taken with the idea.

"Well!" he at last condescended to say, "it does sound feasible after
all."

"Feasible? Of course it's feasible," said Madame with a shrug of
contempt. "Either the King is in want of the money, or he is not. Either
Bonaparte is likely to get it or he is not. If the King wants it, he
must have it at any cost and any risk. Twenty-five millions in
Bonaparte's hands at this juncture would help him to reconstitute his
army and make it very unpleasant for the King and for us all. M. le
préfet, who has been in charge of the money all along, and M. le Comte
de Cambray, who is the only true royalist in the district, are both
marked down by spies: ergo Mme. la Duchesse d'Agen is the only possible
agent for the business, and an inoffensive old woman without any
political standing is the least likely to be molested in her task. If I
fail, I fail," concluded Madame decisively, "if I am stopped on the way
and the money taken from me, well! I am stopped, that's all! and M. le
préfet or M. le Comte de Cambray or any male agent they may have sent
would have been stopped likewise. But I maintain that a woman travelling
alone is far safer at this business and more likely to succeed than a
man. So now, for God's sake, don't let's argue any more about it.
Crystal is to be married on Tuesday and I could start that same
afternoon. Can you bring the money over with you to-night?"

She put her query directly to the préfet, who was obviously overjoyed,
and intensely relieved at the suggestion.

M. le Comte too seemed to be won over by his sister's persuasive
rhetoric: her strength of mind and firmness of purpose always imposed
themselves on those over whom she chose to exert her will: and men of
somewhat weak character like the Comte de Cambray came very easily under
the sway of her dominating personality.

But he thought it incumbent upon his dignity to make one more protest
before he finally yielded to his sister's arguments.

"I don't like," he said, "the idea of your travelling alone through the
country without sufficient escort. The roads are none too safe and
. . ."

"Bah!" broke in Madame impatiently. "I pray you, Monsieur my brother, to
strengthen your arguments, if you are really determined to oppose this
sensible scheme of mine. Travelling alone, forsooth! Did I not arrive
only yesterday, having travelled all the way from Boulogne and with no
escort save two louts on the box of a hired coach?"

"You chose to travel alone, my dear sister, for reasons best known to
yourself," retorted the Comte, greatly angered that M. le préfet should
hear the fact that Mme. la Duchesse douairière had travelled at any time
without an escort.

"And who shall say me nay, if I choose to travel back alone again, I
should like to know? So now if you have exhausted your string of
objections, my dear brother, perhaps you will allow M. le préfet to
answer my question."

Whereupon M. le préfet promptly satisfied Mme. la Duchesse on the point:
he certainly could and would bring the money over with him this evening.
And M. le Comte had no further objections to offer.

In the archives of the Ministry of War in Paris, any one who looks may
read that in the subsequent trial of Général Marchand for high
treason--after the Hundred Days and Napoleon's second abdication--préfet
Fourier during the course of his evidence gave a detailed account of
this same interview which he had with M. le Comte de Cambray and Mme. la
Duchesse douairière d'Agen on Sunday, March the 5th. In his deposition
he naturally laid great stress upon his own zeal in the matter,
declaring that he it was who finally overcame by his eloquence M. le
Comte's objections to the scheme and decided him to give his
acquiescence thereto.[1]

[Footnote 1: Déposition de Fourier. (Dossier de Marchant Arch. Guerre.)]

Certain it is that there was but little argument after this between Mme.
la Duchesse and the two men, and that the details of the scheme were
presently discussed soberly and in all their bearings.

"I shall have the honour presently," said Fourier, "of coming back here
to respond to M. le Comte's gracious invitation to dinner. Why
shouldn't I bring the money with me then?"

"Indeed you must bring the money then," retorted the irascible old lady,
"and let there be no shirking or delay. Promptitude is our great chance
of success. I ought not to start later than Tuesday, and I could do so
soon after the wedding ceremony. I could arrange to sleep at Lyons that
night, at Dijon the next day, be in Paris by Thursday evening and in the
King's presence on Friday."

"Provided you are not delayed," sighed the Comte.

"If I am delayed, my good André, then anyhow the game is up. But we are
not going to anticipate misfortune and we are going to believe in our
lucky star."

"Would to God I could bring myself to approve wholeheartedly of this
expedition! The whole thing seems to me chivalrous and romantic rather
than prudent, and Heaven knows how prudent we should be just now!"

"You look back on history, my dear brother," remarked Madame drily, "and
you'll see that more great events have been brought about by chivalry
and romance than by prudence and circumspection. The romance of Joan of
Arc delivered France from foreign yoke, the chivalry of François I.
saved the honour of France after the disaster of Pavie, and it certainly
was not prudence which set Henry of Navarre upon the throne of France
and in the heart of his people. So for gracious' sake do not let us talk
of prudence any more. Rather let us allow M. le préfet to return quietly
to the Hôtel de Ville, so that he and Mme. Fourier may proceed to dress
for to-night's ceremony, just as if nothing untoward had happened. In
the meanwhile I will complete my preparations for Tuesday. There are one
or two little details in connection with my journey--hostelries,
servants, horses and so on--which you, my dear André, will kindly decide
for me. And now, gentlemen," she added, rising from her chair, "I have
the honour to wish you both a very good afternoon."

She did not wait long enough to allow M. le Comte time to ring for
Hector, and she appeared so busy with her lace shawl that she was unable
to do more than acknowledge with a slight inclination of the head M. le
préfet's respectful salute. But then Mme. la Duchesse douairière
d'Agen--though a fervent royalist herself--had a wholesome contempt for
these opportunists. Fourier, celebrated mathematician, loaded with gifts
and honours by Napoleon, who had made him a member of the Institute of
Science and given him the prefecture of the Isère, had turned his coat
very readily at the Restoration, and the oaths of loyalty which he had
tendered to the Emperor seemed not to weigh overheavily upon his
conscience when he reiterated them to the King.

Mme. la Duchesse d'Agen, therefore, did not willingly place her
aristocratic fingers in the hand of a renegade, who she felt might turn
renegade again if his personal interest so dictated it. Perhaps
something of what lay behind Madame's curt nod to him, struck the
préfet's sensibilities, for the high colour suddenly fled from his round
face, and he did not attempt to approach her for the ceremonial
hand-kissing. But he ran across the room as fast as his short legs would
carry him, and he opened the door for her and bowed to her as she sailed
past him with all the deference which in the olden days of the Empire he
had accorded to the Empress Marie Louise.

"It is a mad scheme, my good M. Fourier," sighed the Comte when he found
himself once more alone with the préfet, "but such as it is I can think
of nothing better."

"M. le Comte," exclaimed the préfet with delight, "no one could think of
anything better. Ah, the women of France!" he added ecstatically, "the
women! how often have they saved France in moments of crises? France
owes her grandeur to her women, M. le Comte!"

"And also her reverses, my dear M. Fourier," remarked the Comte drily.

II

When Bobby Clyffurde came back to Brestalou, after his long day's ride,
he found the stately rooms of the old castle already prepared for the
arrival of M. le Comte's guests. The large reception hall had been
thrown open, as--after supper--M. le Comte would be receiving some of
the notabilities of Grenoble in honour of a great occasion: the
signature of the _contrat de mariage_ between Mlle. Crystal de Cambray
de Brestalou and M. Victor de Marmont. There was an array of liveried
servants in the hall and along the corridor through which Bobby had to
pass on the way to his own room: their liveries of purple with canary
facings--the heraldic colours of the family of Cambray de
Brestalou--hardly showed, in the flickering light of wax candles, the
many ravages of moth and mildew which twenty years of neglect had
wrought upon the once fine and brilliant cloth.

Downstairs the formal supper which was to precede the reception was laid
for twenty guests. The table was resplendent with the silver so kindly
lent by a benevolent and far-seeing king to those of his friends who had
not the means of replacing the ancient family treasures filched from
them by the revolutionary government.

There were no flowers upon the table, and only very few wax candles
burned in the ormolu and crystal chandelier overhead. Flowers and wax
candles were luxuries which must be paid for with ready money--a
commodity which was exceedingly scarce in the grandiose Château de
Brestalou--but they also were a luxury which could easily be dispensed
with, for did not M. le Comte de Cambray set the fashions and give the
tone to the whole _département_? and if he chose to have no flowers upon
his supper table and but few candles in his silver sconces, why then
society must take it for granted that such now was _bon ton_ and the
prevailing fashion at the Tuileries.

Bobby, knowing his host's fastidious tastes in such matters, had made a
very careful toilet, all the while that his thoughts were busy with the
wonderful news which Emery had brought this day, and which was all over
Grenoble by now. He and his two companions had left Notre Dame de Vaulx
soon after their _déjeuner_, and together had entered the city at five
o'clock in the afternoon. On their way they had encountered the
travelling-coach of Général Mouton-Duveret, who, accompanied by his
aide-de-camp, was on his way to Gap, where he intended to organise
strong resistance against Bonaparte.

He parleyed some time with Emery, whom he knew by sight and suspected of
being an emissary of the Corsican. Emery, with true southern verve, gave
the worthy general a highly-coloured account of the triumphal progress
through Provence and the Dauphiné of Napoleon, whom he boldly called
"the Emperor." Mouton--in no way belying his name--was very upset not
only by the news, but by his own helplessness with regard to Emery, who
he knew would presently be in Grenoble distributing the usurper's
proclamations all over the city, whilst he--Mouton--with his one
aide-de-camp and a couple of loutish servants on the box of his coach,
could do nothing to detain him.

As soon as the three men had ridden away, however, he sent his
aide-de-camp back to Grenoble by a round-about way, ordering him to make
as great speed as possible, and to see Général Marchand as soon as may
be, so that immediate measures might be taken to prevent that emissary
if not from entering the city, at least from posting up proclamations on
public buildings.

But Mouton's aide-de-camp was no match against the enthusiasm and
ingenuity of Emery and de Marmont, and when he--in his turn--entered
Grenoble soon after five o'clock, he was confronted by the printed
proclamations signed by the familiar and dreaded name "Napoleon" affixed
to the gates of the city, to the Hôtel de Ville, the mairie, the prison,
the barracks, and to every street corner in Grenoble.

The three friends had parted at the porte de Bonne, Emery to go to his
friend Dumoulin, the glovemaker--de Marmont to his lodgings in the rue
Montorge, whilst Bobby Clyffurde rode straight back to Brestalou.

A couple of hours later Victor de Marmont had also arrived at the
castle. He too had made an elaborate toilet, and then had driven over in
a hackney coach in advance of the other guests, seeing that he desired
to have a final interview with M. le Comte before he affixed his name to
his _contrat de mariage_ with Mlle. de Cambray. An air of solemnity sat
well upon his good-looking face, but it was obvious that he was
trying--somewhat in vain--to keep an inward excitement in check.

M. le Comte de Cambray, believing that this excitement was entirely due
to the solemnity of the occasion, had smiled indulgently--a trifle
contemptuously too--at young de Marmont's very apparent eagerness. A
vulgar display of feelings, an inability to control one's words and
movements when under the stress of emotion was characteristic of the
parvenus of to-day, and de Marmont's unfettered agitation when coming to
sign his own marriage contract was only on a par with préfet Fourier's
nervousness this afternoon.

The Comte received his future son-in-law with a gracious smile. The
thought of an alliance between Mlle. de Cambray de Brestalou and a de
Marmont of Nowhere had been a bitter pill to swallow, but M. le Comte
was too proud to show how distasteful it had been. Chatting pleasantly
the two men repaired together to the library.

Bobby Clyffurde--immaculately dressed in fine cloth coat and satin
breeches, with fine Mechlin lace at throat and wrist, and his light
brown hair tied at the nape of the neck with a big black bow--came down
presently to the reception room. He found the place silent and deserted.

But the stately apartment looked more cosy and home-like than usual. A
cheerful fire was burning in the monumental hearth and the soft light of
the candles fixed in sconces round the walls tempered to a certain
degree that bare and severe look of past grandeur which usually hung
upon every corner of the old château.

Clyffurde went up to the tall hearth. He rested his hand on the ledge of
the mantel and leaning his forehead against it he stared moodily into
the fire.

Thoughts of all that he had learned in the past few hours, of the new
chapter in the book of the destinies of France, begun a few days ago in
the bay of Jouan, crowded in upon his mind. What difference would the
unfolding of that new chapter make to the destinies of the Comte de
Cambray and of Crystal? What had Fate in store for the bold adventurer
who was marching across France with a handful of men to reconquer a
throne and remake an empire? what had she in store for the stiff-necked
aristocrat of the old regime who still believed that God himself had
made special laws for the benefit of one class of humanity, and that He
had even created them differently to the rest of mankind?

And what had Fate in store for the beautiful, delicate girl whose future
had been so arbitrarily settled by two men--father and lover--one the
buyer, the other the seller of her exquisite person, the shrine of her
pure and idealistic soul--and bargained for by father and lover as the
price of so many acres of land--a farm--a château--an ancestral estate?

Father and lover were sitting together even now discussing values--the
purchase price--"You give me back my lands, I will give you my
daughter!" Blood money! soul money! Clyffurde called it as he ground his
teeth together in impotent rage.

What folly it was to care! what folly to have allowed the tendrils of
his over-sensitive heart to twine themselves round this beautiful girl,
who was as far removed from his destiny as were the ambitions of his
boyhood, the hopes, the dreams which the hard circumstances of fate had
forced him to bury beneath the grave-mound of rigid and unswerving duty.

But what a dream it had been, this love for Crystal de Cambray! It had
filled his entire soul from the moment when first he saw her--down in
the garden under an avenue of ilex trees which cast their mysterious
shadows over her; her father had called to her and she had come across
to where he--Clyffurde--stood silently watching this approaching vision
of loveliness which never would vanish from his mental gaze again.

Even at that supreme moment, when her blue eyes, her sweet smile, the
exquisite grace of her took possession of his soul, even then he knew
already that his dream could have but one awakening. She was already
plighted to another, a happier man, but even if she were free, Crystal
would never have bestowed a thought upon the stranger--the commonplace
tradesman, whose only merit in her sight lay in his friendship with
another gallant English gentleman.

And knowing this--when he saw her after that, day after day, hour after
hour--poor Bobby Clyffurde grew reconciled to the knowledge that the
gates of his Paradise would for ever be locked against him: he grew
contented just to peep through those gates; and the Angel who was on
guard there, holding the flaming sword of caste prejudice against him,
would relent at times and allow him to linger on the threshold and to
gaze into a semblance of happiness.

Those thoughts, those dreams, those longings, he had been able to
endure; to-day reality had suddenly become more insistent and more
stern: the Angel's flaming sword would sear his soul after this, if he
lingered any longer by the enchanted gates: and thus had the semblance
of happiness yielded at last to dull regret.

He sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.

IV

The sound of the opening and shutting of a door, the soft frou-frou of a
woman's skirt roused him from his gloomy reverie, and caused him to jump
to his feet.

Mlle. Crystal was coming across the long reception room, walking with a
slow and weary step toward the hearth. She was obviously not yet aware
of Clyffurde's presence, and he had full leisure to watch her as she
approached, to note the pallor of her cheeks and lips and that pathetic
look of childlike self-pity and almost of appeal which veiled the
brilliance of her deep blue eyes.

A moment later she saw him and came more quickly across the room, with
hand extended, and an air of gracious condescension in her whole
attitude.

"Ah! M. Clyffurde," she said in perfect English, "I did not know you
were here . . . and all alone. My father," she added, "is occupied with
serious matters downstairs, else he would have been here to receive
you."

"I know, Mademoiselle," he said after he had kissed the tips of three
cold little fingers which had been held out to him. "My friend de
Marmont is with him just now: he desired to speak with M. le Comte in
private . . . on a matter which closely concerns his happiness."

"Ah! then you knew?" she asked coldly.

"Yes, Mademoiselle, I knew," he replied.

She had settled herself down in a high-backed chair close to the hearth,
the ruddy light of the wood-fire played upon her white satin gown, upon
her bare arms, and the ends of her lace scarf, upon her satin shoes and
the bunch of snowdrops at her breast, but her face was in shadow and she
did not look up at Clyffurde, whilst he--poor fool!--stood before her,
absorbed in the contemplation of this dainty picture which mayhap after
to-night would never gladden his eyes again.

"You are a great friend of M. de Marmont?" she asked after a while.

"Oh, Mademoiselle--a friend?" he replied with a self-deprecatory shrug
of the shoulders, "friendship is too great a name to give to our chance
acquaintanceship. I met Victor de Marmont less than a fortnight ago, in
Grenoble. . . ."

"Ah yes! I had forgotten--he told me that he had first met you at the
house of a M. Dumoulin . . ."

"In the shop of M. Dumoulin, Mademoiselle," broke in Clyffurde with his
good-humoured smile. "M. Dumoulin, the glovemaker, with whom I was
transacting business at the moment when M. de Marmont walked in, in
order to buy himself a pair of gloves."

"Of course," she added coldly, "I had forgotten. . . ."

"You were not likely to remember such a trivial circumstance,
Mademoiselle. M. de Marmont saw me after that here as guest in your
father's house. He was greatly surprised at finding me--a mere
tradesman--in such an honoured position. Surprise laid the foundation of
pleasing intercourse between us, but you see, Mademoiselle, that M. de
Marmont has no cause to boast of his friendship with me."

"Oh! M. de Marmont is not so prejudiced. . . ."

"As you are, Mademoiselle?" he asked quietly, for she had paused and he
saw that she bit her lips with her tiny white teeth as if she meant to
check the words that would come tumbling out.

Thus directly questioned she gave a little shrug of disdain.

"My opinions in the matter are not in question, Sir," she said coldly.

She smothered a little yawn which may have been due to ennui, but also
to the tingling of her nerves. Clyffurde saw that her hands were never
still for a moment; she was either fingering the snowdrops in her belt
or smoothing out the creases in her lace scarf; from time to time she
raised her head and a tense expression came into her face, as if she
were trying to listen to what was going on elsewhere in the
house--downstairs perhaps--in the library where she was being finally
bargained for and sold.

Clyffurde felt an intense--an unreasoning pity for her, and because of
that pity--the gentle kinsman of fierce love--he found it in his heart
to forgive her all her prejudices, that almost arrogant pride of caste
which was in her blood, for which she was no more responsible than she
was for the colour of her hair or the vivid blue of her eyes; she seemed
so forlorn--such a child, in the midst of all this decadent grandeur.
She was being so ruthlessly sacrificed for ideals that were no longer
tenable, that had ceased to be tenable five and twenty years ago when
this château and these lands were overrun by a savage and vengeful mob,
who were loudly demanding the right to live in happiness, in comfort,
and in freedom. That right had been denied to them through the past
centuries by those who were of her own kith and kin, and it was
snatched with brutal force, with lust of hate and thirst for reprisals,
by the revolutionary crowd when it came into its own at last.

Something of the pity which he felt for this beautiful and innocent
victim of rancour, oppression and prejudice, must have been manifest in
Clyffurde's earnest eyes, for when Crystal looked up to him and met his
glance she drew herself up with an air of haughty detachment. And with
that, she wished to convey still more tangibly to him the idea of that
barrier of caste which must for ever divide her from him.

Obviously his look of pity had angered her, for now she said abruptly
and with marked coldness:

"My father tells me, Sir, that you are thinking of leaving France
shortly."

"Indeed, Mademoiselle," he replied, "I have trespassed too long as it is
on M. le Comte's gracious hospitality. My visit originally was only for
a fortnight. I thought of leaving for England to-morrow."

A little lift of the eyebrows, an unnecessary smoothing of an invisible
crease in her gown and Crystal asked lightly:

"Before the . . . my wedding, Sir?"

"Before your wedding, Mademoiselle."

She frowned--vaguely stirred to irritation by his ill-concealed
indifference. "I trust," she rejoined pointedly, "that you are satisfied
with your trade in Grenoble."

The little shaft was meant to sting, but if Bobby felt any pain he
certainly appeared to bear it with perfect good-humour.

"I am quite satisfied," he said. "I thank you, Mademoiselle."

"It must be very pleasing to conclude such affairs satisfactorily," she
continued.

"Very pleasing, Mademoiselle."

"Of course--given the right temperament for such a career--it must be so
much more comfortable to spend one's life in making money--buying and
selling things and so on--rather than to risk it every day for the
barren honour of serving one's king and country."

"As you say, Mademoiselle," he said quite imperturbably, "given the
right temperament, it certainly is much more comfortable."

"And you, Sir, I take it, are the happy possessor of such a
temperament."

"I suppose so, Mademoiselle."

"You are content to buy and to sell and to make money? to rest at ease
and let the men who love their country and their king fight for you and
for their ideals?"

Her voice had suddenly become trenchant and hard, her manner
contemptuous--at strange variance with the indifferent kindliness
wherewith she had hitherto seemed to regard her father's English guest.
Certainly her nerves--he thought--were very much on edge, and no doubt
his own always unruffled calm--the combined product of temperament,
nationality and education--had an irritating effect upon her. Had he not
been so intensely sorry for her, he would have resented this final taunt
of hers--an arrow shot this time with intent to wound.

But as it was he merely said with a smile:

"Surely, Mademoiselle, my contentment with my own lot, and any other
feelings of which I may be possessed, are of such very little
consequence--seeing that they are only the feelings of a very
commonplace tradesman--that they are not worthy of being discussed."

Then as quickly her manner changed: the contemptuous look vanished from
her eyes, the sarcastic curl from her lips, and with one of those quick
transitions of mood which were perhaps the principal charm of Crystal de
Cambray's personality, she looked up at Bobby with a winning smile and
an appeal for forgiveness.

"Your pardon, Sir," she said softly. "I was shrewish and ill-tempered,
and deserve a severe lesson in courtesy. I did not mean to be
disagreeable," she added with a little sigh, "but my nerves are all
a-quiver to-day and this awful news has weighed upon my spirit. . . ."

"What awful news, Mademoiselle?" he asked.

"Surely you have heard?"

"You mean the news about Napoleon . . . ?"

"I mean the awful certainty," she retorted with a sudden outburst of
vehemence, "that that brigand, that usurper, that scourge of mankind has
escaped from an all too lenient prison where he should never have been
confined, seeing how easy was escape from it. I mean that all the
horrors of the past twenty years will begin again now, misery,
starvation, exile probably. Oh, surely," she added with ever-increasing
passion, "surely God will not permit such an awful thing to happen;
surely he will strike the ogre dead, ere he devastates France once
again!"

"I am afraid that you must not reckon quite so much on divine
interference, Mademoiselle. A nation--like every single individual--must
shape its own destiny, and must not look to God to help it in its
political aims."

"And France must look once more to England, I suppose. It is humiliating
to be always in need of help," she said with an impatient little sigh.

"Each nation in its turn has it in its power to help a sister. Sometimes
help may come from the weaker vessel. Do you remember the philosopher's
fable of the lion and the mouse? France may be the mouse just now--some
day it may be in her power to requite the lion."

She shook her head reprovingly. "I don't know," she said, "that I
approve of your calling France--the mouse."

"I only did so in order to drive my parable still further home."

Then as she looked a little puzzled, he continued--speaking very slowly
this time and with an intensity of feeling which was quite different to
his usual pleasant, good-tempered, oft-times flippant manner:
"Mademoiselle Crystal--if you will allow me to speak of such an
insignificant person as I am--I am at present in the position of the
mouse with regard to your father and yourself--the lions of my parable.
You might so easily have devoured me, you see," he added with a quaint
touch of humour. "Well! the time may come when you may have need of a
friend, just as I had need of one when I came here--a stranger in a
strange land. Events will move with great rapidity in the next few days,
Mademoiselle Crystal, and the mouse might at any time be in a position
to render a service to the lion. Will you remember that?"

"I will try, Monsieur," she replied.

But already her pride was once more up in arms. She did not like his
tone, that air of protection which his attitude suggested. And indeed
she could not think of any eventuality which would place the Comte de
Cambray de Brestalou in serious need of a tradesman for his friend.

Then as quickly again her mood softened and as she raised her eyes to
his he saw that they were full of tears.

"Indeed! indeed!" she said gently, "I do deserve your contempt, Sir, for
my shrewishness and vixenish ways. How can I--how can any of us--afford
to turn our backs upon a loyal friend? To-day too, of all days, when
that awful enemy is once more at our gates! Oh!" she added, clasping her
hands together with a sudden gesture of passionate entreaty, "you are
English, Sir--a friend of all those gallant gentlemen who saved my dear
father and his family from those awful revolutionaries--you will be
loyal to us, will you not? The English hate Bonaparte as much as we do!
you hate him too, do you not? you will do all you can to help my poor
father through this awful crisis? You will, won't you?" she pleaded.

"Have I not already offered you my humble services, Mademoiselle?" he
rejoined earnestly.

Indeed this was a very serious ordeal for quiet, self-contained Bobby
Clyffurde--an Englishman, remember--with all an Englishman's shyness of
emotion, all an Englishman's contempt of any display of sentiment. Here
was this beautiful girl--whom he loved with all the passionate ardour of
his virile, manly temperament--sitting almost at his feet, he looking
down upon her fair head, with its wealth of golden curls, and into her
blue eyes which were full of tears.

Who shall blame him if just then a desperate longing seized him to throw
all prudence, all dignity and honour to the winds and to clasp this
exquisite woman for one brief and happy moment in his arms--to forget
the world, her position and his--to risk disgrace and betray
hospitality, for the sake of one kiss upon her lips? The temptation was
so fierce--indeed for one short second it was all but irresistible--that
something of the battle which was raging within his soul became
outwardly visible, and in the girl's tear-dimmed eyes there crept a
quick look of alarm--so strange, so ununderstandable was his glance, the
rigidity of his attitude--as if every muscle had become taut and every
nerve strained to snapping point, while his face looked hard and lined,
almost as if he were fighting physical pain.

V

Thus a few seconds went by in absolute silence--while the great gilt
clock upon its carved bracket ticked on with stolid relentlessness,
marking another minute--and yet another--of this hour which was so full
of portent for the destinies of France. Clyffurde would gladly have
bartered the future years of his life for the power to stay the hand of
Time just now--for the power to remain just like this, standing before
this beautiful woman whom he loved, feeling that at any moment he could
take her in his arms and kiss her eyes and her lips, even if she were
unwilling, even if she hated him for ever afterwards.

The sense of power to do that which he might regret to the end of his
days was infinitely sweet, the power to fight against that
all-compelling passion was perhaps sweeter still. Then came the pride of
victory. The habits of a lifetime had come to his aid: self-respect and
self-control, hard and wilful taskmasters, fought against passion, until
it yielded inch by inch.

The battle was fought and won in those few moments of silence: the
strain of the man's attitude relaxed, the set lines on his face
vanished, leaving it serene and quietly humorous, calm and
self-deprecatory. Only his voice was not quite so steady as usual, as he
said softly:

"Mademoiselle Crystal, is there anything that I can do for you?--now at
once, I mean? If there is, I do entreat you most earnestly to let me
serve you."

Had the pure soul of the woman been touched by the fringe of that
magnetic wave of passion even as it rose to its utmost height, nearly
sweeping the man off his feet, and in its final retreat leaving him with
quivering nerves and senses bruised and numb? Did something of the man's
suffering, of his love and of his despair appear--despite his
efforts--upon his face and in the depth of his glance?--and thus made
visible did they--even through their compelling intensity--cause that
invisible barrier of social prejudices to totter and to break? It were
difficult to say. Certain it is that Crystal's whole heart warmed to the
stranger as it had never warmed before. She felt that here was a _man_
standing before her now, whose promises would never be mere idle words,
whose deeds would speak more loudly than his tongue. She felt that in
the midst of all the enmity which encompassed her and her father in
their newly regained home and land, here at any rate was a friend on
whom they could count to help, to counsel and to accomplish. And deep
down in the very bottom of her soul there was a curious unexplainable
longing that circumstances should compel her to ask one day for his
help, and a sweet knowledge that that help would be ably rendered and
pleasing to receive.

But for the moment, of course, there was nothing that she could ask: she
would be married in a couple of days--alas! so soon!--and after that it
would be to her husband that she must look for devotion, for guidance
and for sympathy.

A little sigh of regret escaped her lips, and she said gently:

"I thank you, Sir, from the bottom of my heart, for the words of
friendship which you have spoken. I shall never forget them, never! and
if at any time in my life I am in trouble . . ."

"Which God forbid!" he broke in fervently.

"If any time I have need of a friend," she resumed, "I feel that I
should find one in you. Oh! if only I could think that you would extend
your devotion to my poor country, and to our King . . ." she exclaimed
with passionate earnestness.

"You love your country very dearly, Mademoiselle," he rejoined.

"I think that I love France more than anything else in the world," she
replied, "and I feel that there is no sacrifice which I would deem too
great to offer up for her."

"And by France you mean the Bourbon dynasty," he said almost
involuntarily, and with an impatient little sigh.

"I mean the King, by the grace of God!" she retorted proudly.

She had thrown back her head with an air of challenge as she said this,
meeting his glance eye to eye: she looked strong and wilful all of a
sudden, no longer girlish and submissive. And to the man who loved her,
this trait of power and latent heroism added yet another to the many
charms which he saw in her. Loyal to her country and to her king she
would be loyal in all things--to husband, kindred and to friends.

But he realised at the same time how impossible it would be for any man
to win her love if he were an enemy to her cause. St. Genis--royalist,
émigré, retrograde like herself--had obviously won his way to her heart
chiefly by the sympathy of his own convictions. But what of de Marmont,
to whom she was on the eve of plighting her troth? de Marmont the
hot-headed Bonapartist who owned but one god--Napoleon--and yet had
deliberately, and with cynical opportunism hidden his fanatical aims and
beliefs from the woman whom he had wooed and won?

The thought of that deception--and of the awakening which would await
the girl-wife on the very morrow of her wedding-day mayhap, was terribly
repellent to Clyffurde's straightforward, loyal nature, and bitter was
the contention within his soul as he found himself at the cross-roads of
a divided duty. Every instinct of chivalry towards the woman loudly
demanded that he should warn her--now--at once--before it was too
late--before she had actually pledged her life and future to a man whom
her very soul--if she knew the truth--would proclaim a renegade and a
traitor; and every instinct of loyalty to the man--that male solidarity
of sex which will never permit one man--if he be a gentleman--to betray
another--prompted him to hold his peace.

Crystal's gentle voice fell like dream-tones upon his ear. Vaguely only
did he hear what she said. She was still speaking of France, of all that
the country had suffered and all that was due to her from her sons and
daughters: she spoke of the King, God's own anointed as she called him,
endowed with rights divine, and all the while his thoughts were far
away, flying on the wings of memory to the little hamlet among the
mountains where two enthusiasts had exhausted every panegyric in praise
of their own hero, whom this girl called a usurper and a brigand. He
remembered every trait in de Marmont's face, every inflexion of his
voice as he said with almost cruel cynicism: "She will learn to love me
in time."

That, Clyffurde knew now, Crystal de Cambray would never do. Indifferent
to de Marmont to-day, she would hate and loathe him the day that she
discovered how infamously he had deceived her: and to Clyffurde's
passionate temperament the thought of Crystal's future unhappiness was
absolutely intolerable.

Here indeed was a battle far more strenuous and difficult of issue than
that of a man's will against his passions: here was a problem far more
difficult to solve than any that had assailed Bobby Clyffurde throughout
his life.

His heart cried out "She must know the truth: she must. To-day! this
minute, while there was yet time! Anon she will be pledged irrevocably
to a man who has lied to her, whom she will curse as a renegade, a
traitor, false to his country, false to his king!"

And the words hovered on his lips: "Mademoiselle Crystal! do not plight
your troth to de Marmont! he is no friend of yours, his people are not
your people! his God is not your God! and there is neither blessing nor
holiness in an union 'twixt you and him!"

But the words remained unspoken, because the unwritten code--the bond
'twixt man and man--tried to still this natural cry of his heart and
reason argued that he must hold his peace. His heart rebelled,
contending that to remain silent was cowardly--that his first duty was
to the woman whom he loved better than his soul, whilst ingrained
principles, born and bred in the bone of him, threw themselves into the
conflict, warning him that if he spoke he would be no better than an
informer, meriting the contempt alike of those whom he wished to help
and of the man whom he would betray.

It was one sound coming from below which settled the dispute 'twixt
heart and reason--the sound of de Marmont's voice which though he was
apparently speaking of indifferent matters had that same triumphant ring
in it which Clyffurde had heard at Notre Dame de Vaulx this morning.

The sound had caused Crystal to give a quick gasp and to clasp her hands
against her breast, as she said with a nervous little laugh:

"Imagine how happy we are to have M. de Marmont's support in this
terrible crisis! His influence in Grenoble and in the whole province is
very great: his word in the town itself may incline the whole balance of
public feeling on the side of the King, and who knows, it may even help
to strengthen the loyalty of the troops. Oh! that Corsican brigand
little guesses what kind of welcome we in the Dauphiné are preparing for
him!"

Her enthusiasm, her trust, her loyalty ended the conflict in Clyffurde's
mind far more effectually than any sober reasoning could have done. He
realised in a moment that neither abstract principles, nor his own
feelings in the matter, were of the slightest account at such a
juncture.

What was obvious, certain, and not to be shirked, was duty to a woman
who was on the point of being shamefully deceived, also duty to the man
whose hospitality he had enjoyed. To remain silent would be cowardly--of
that he became absolutely certain, and once Bobby had made up his mind
what duty was no power on earth could make him swerve from its
fulfilment.

"Mlle. Crystal," he began slowly and deliberately, "just now, when I was
bold enough to offer you my friendship, you deigned to accept it, did
you not?"

"Indeed I did, Sir," she replied, a little astonished. "Why should you
ask?"

"Because the time has come sooner than I expected for me to prove the
truth of that offer to you. There is something which I must say to you
which no one but a friend ought to do. May I?"

But before she could frame the little "Yes!" which already trembled on
her lips, her father's voice and de Marmont's rang out from the further
end of the room itself.

The folding doors had been thrown open: M. le Comte and his son-in-law
elect were on the point of entering and had paused for a moment just
under the lintel. De Marmont was talking in a loud voice and apparently
in response to something which M. le Comte had just told him.

"Ah!" he said, "Mme. la Duchesse will be leaving Brestalou? I am sorry
to hear that. Why should she go so soon?"

"An affair of business, my dear de Marmont," replied the Comte. "I will
tell you about it at an early opportunity."

After which there was a hubbub of talk in the corridors outside, the
sound of greetings, the pleasing confusion of questions and answers
which marks the simultaneous arrival of several guests.

Crystal rose and turned to Bobby with a smile.

"You will have to tell me some other time," she said lightly. "Don't
forget!"

The psychological moment had gone by and Clyffurde cursed himself for
having fought too long against the promptings of his heart and lost the
precious moments which might have changed the whole of Crystal's
future. He cursed himself for not having spoken sooner, now that he saw
de Marmont with glowing eyes and ill-concealed triumph approach his
beautiful fiancée and with the air of a conqueror raise her hand to his
lips.

She looked very pale, and to the man who loved her so ardently and so
hopelessly it seemed as if she gave a curious little shiver and that for
one brief second her blue eyes flashed a pathetic look of appeal up to
his.

VI

M. le Comte's guests followed closely on the triumphant bridegroom's
heels: M. le préfet, fussy and nervous, secretly delighted at the idea
of affixing his official signature to such an aristocratic _contrat de
mariage_ as was this between Mlle. de Cambray de Brestalou and M. Victor
de Marmont, own nephew to Marshal the duc de Raguse; Madame la préfète,
resplendent in the latest fashion from Paris, the Duc and Duchesse
d'Embrun, cousins of the bride, the Vicomte de Génevois and his mother,
who was Abbess of Pont Haut and godmother by proxy to Crystal de
Cambray; whilst Général Marchand, in command of the troops of the
district, fresh from the Council of War which he had hastily convened,
was trying to hide behind a _débonnaire_ manner all the anxiety which
"the brigand's" march on Grenoble was causing him.

The chief notabilities of the province had assembled to do honour to the
occasion, later on others would come, lesser lights by birth and
position than this select crowd who would partake of the _souper des
fiançailles_ before the _contrat_ was signed in their presence as
witnesses to the transaction.

Everyone was talking volubly: the ogre's progress through France--no
longer to be denied--was the chief subject of conversation. Some spoke
of it with contempt, others with terror. The ex-Bonapartists Fourier
and Marchand were loudest in their curses against "the usurper."

Clyffurde, silent and keeping somewhat aloof from the brilliant throng,
saw that de Marmont did not enter into any of these conversations. He
kept resolutely close to Crystal, and spoke to her from time to time in
a whisper, and always with that assured air of the conqueror, which
grated so unpleasantly on Clyffurde's irritable nerves.

The Comte, affable and gracious, spoke a few words to each of his guests
in turn, whilst Mme. la Duchesse douairière d'Agen was talking openly of
her forthcoming return journey to the North.

"I came in great haste," she said loudly to the circle of ladies
gathered around her, "for my little Crystal's wedding. But I was in the
middle of a Lenten retreat at the Sacred Heart, and I only received
permission from my confessor to spend three days in all this gaiety."

"When do you leave us again, Mme. la Duchesse?" queried Mlle. Marchand,
the General's daughter, in a honeyed voice.

"On Tuesday, directly after the religious ceremony, Mademoiselle,"
replied Madame, whilst M. le préfet tried to look unconcerned. He had
brought the money over as Mme. la Duchesse had directed. Twenty-five
millions of francs in notes and drafts had been transferred from the
cellar of the Hôtel de Ville to his own pockets first and then into the
keeping of Madame. He had driven over from the Hôtel de Ville in his
private coach, he himself in an agony of fear every time the road looked
lonely, or he heard the sound of horse's hoofs upon the road behind
him--for there might be mounted highwaymen about. Now he felt infinitely
relieved; he had shifted all responsibility of that vast sum of money on
to more exalted shoulders than his own, and inwardly he was marvelling
how coolly Mme. la Duchesse seemed to be taking such an awful
responsibility.

Now Hector threw open the great doors and announced that M. le Comte was
served. Through the vast corridor beyond appeared a vista of liveried
servants in purple and canary, wearing powdered perruque, silk stockings
and buckled shoes.

There was a general hubbub in the room, the men moved towards the ladies
who had been assigned to them for partners. M. le Comte in his grandest
manner approached Mme. la Duchesse d'Embrun in order to conduct her down
to supper. An air of majestic grandeur, of solemnity and splendid
decorum pervaded the fine apartment; it sought out every corner of the
vast reception room, flickered round every wax candle; it spread itself
over the monumental hearth, the stiff brocade-covered chairs, the gilt
consoles and tall mirrors. It emanated alike from the graciousness of M.
le Comte de Cambray and the pompousness of his majordomo. Hector in fact
appeared at this moment as the high priest in a temple of good manners
and bon ton: the muscles of his face were rigid, his mouth was set as if
ready to pronounce sacrificial words; in his right hand he carried a
gold-headed wand, emblem of his high office.

But suddenly there was a disturbance--an unseemly noise came from the
further end of the corridor, where rose the magnificent staircase.
Hector's face became a study in rapidly changing expressions: from
pompousness, to astonishment, then horror, and finally wrath when he
realised that an intruder in stained cloth clothes and booted and
spurred was actually making his way through the ranks of liveried and
gaping servants and loudly demanding to speak with M. le Comte.

Such an unseemly disturbance had not occurred at the Château de
Brestalou since Hector had been installed there as majordomo nearly
twelve months ago, and he was on the point of literally throwing
himself upon the impious malapert who thus dared to thrust his ill-clad
person upon the brilliant company, when he paused--more aghast than
before. In this same impious malapert he had recognised M. le Marquis de
St. Genis!

The young man looked to be labouring under terrible excitement: his face
was flushed and he was panting as if he had been running hard:

"M. le Comte!" he cried breathlessly as soon as he caught sight of
Hector, "tell M. le Comte that I must speak with him at once."

"But M. le Marquis . . . M. le Marquis . . ."

This was all that poor, bewildered Hector could stammer: his
slowly-moving brain was torn between the duties of his position and his
respect for M. le Marquis, and in the struggle the worthy man was
enduring throes of anxiety.

Fortunately M. le Comte himself put an end to Hector's dilemma. He had
recognised St. Genis' voice. Unlike his majordomo, he knew at once that
something terribly grave must have happened, else the young man would
never have committed such a serious breach of good manners. And M. le
Comte himself was never at a loss how to turn any situation to a
dignified and proper issue: he murmured a quick and courteous apology to
Mme. la Duchesse d'Embrun and a comprehensive one to all his guests,
then he hastened to meet St. Genis at the door.

Already St. Genis had entered. His rough clothes and muddy boots looked
strangely in contrast to the immaculate get-up of the Comte's guests,
but of this he hardly seemed to be aware. His face was flushed; with his
right hand he clutched a small riding cane, and his glowering dark eyes
swept a rapid glance over every one in the room.

And to the Comte he said hoarsely: "I must offer you my humblest
apologies, my dear Comte, for obtruding my very untidy person upon you
at this hour. I have walked all the way from Grenoble, as I could not
get a hackney-coach, else I had been here earlier and spared you this
unpleasantness."

"You are always welcome in this house, my good Maurice," said the Comte
in his loftiest manner, "and at any hour of the day."

And he added with a certain tone of dignified reproach: "I did ask you
to be my guest to-night, if you remember."

"And I," said St. Genis, "was churlish enough to refuse. I would not
have come now only that I felt I might be in time to avert the most
awful catastrophe that has yet fallen upon your house."

Again his restless, dark eyes--sullen and wrathful and charged with a
look of rage and of hate--wandered over the assembled company. The look
frightened the ladies. They took to clinging to one another, standing in
compact little groups together, like frightened birds, watchful and
wide-eyed. They feared that the young man was mad. But the men exchanged
significant glances and significant smiles. They merely thought that St.
Genis had been drinking, or that jealousy had half-turned his brain.

Only Clyffurde, who stood somewhat apart from the others, knew--by some
unexplainable intuition--what it was that had brought Maurice de St.
Genis to this house in this excited state and at this hour. He felt
excited too, and mightily thankful that the catastrophe would be brought
about by others--not by himself.

But all his thoughts were for Crystal, and an instinctive desire to
stand by her and to shield her if necessary from some unknown or
unguessed evil, made him draw nearer to her. She stood on the fringe of
the little crowd--as isolated as Bobby was himself.

De Marmont--whose face had become the colour of dead ashes--had left
her side: one step at a time and very slowly he was getting nearer and
nearer to St. Genis, as if the latter's wrath-filled eyes were drawing
him against his will.

At the young man's ominous words, M. le Comte's sunken cheeks grew a
shade more pale.

"What catastrophe, _mon Dieu!_" he exclaimed, "could fall on my house
that would be worse than twenty years of exile?"

"An alliance with a traitor, M. le Comte," said St. Genis firmly.

A gasp went round the room, a sigh, a cry. The women looked in mute
horror from one man to the other, the men already had their right hand
on their swords. But Clyffurde's eyes were fixed upon Crystal, who pale,
silent, rigid as a marble statue, with lips parted and nostrils
quivering, stood not five paces away from him, her dilated eyes
wandering ceaselessly from the face of St. Genis to that of de Marmont
and thence to that of her father. But beyond that look of tense
excitement she revealed nothing of what she thought and felt.

Already de Marmont--his hand upon his sword--had advanced menacingly
towards St. Genis.

"M. le Marquis," he said between set teeth, "you will, by God! eat those
words, or----"

"Eat my words, man?" retorted St. Genis with a harsh laugh. "By Heaven!
have I not come here on purpose to throw my words into your lying face?"

There was a brief but violent skirmish, for de Marmont had made a
movement as if he meant to spring at his rival's throat, and Général
Marchand and the Vicomte de Génevois, who happened to be near, had much
ado to seize and hold him: even so they could not stop the hoarse cries
which he uttered:

"Liar! Liar! Liar! Let me go! Let me get to him! I must kill him! I must
kill him!"

The Comte interposed his dignified person between the two men.

"Maurice," he said, in tones of calm and dispassionate reproof, "your
conduct is absolutely unjustifiable. You seem to forget that you are in
the presence of ladies and of my guests. If you had a quarrel with M. de
Marmont. . . ."

"A quarrel, my dear Comte?" exclaimed St. Genis, "nay, 'tis no quarrel I
have with him: and my conduct would have been a thousand times more vile
if I had not come to-night and stopped his hand from touching that of
Mlle. Crystal de Cambray--his hand which was engaged less than two hours
ago in affixing to the public buildings of Grenoble the infamous message
of the Corsican brigand to the army and the people of France."

A hoarse murmur--a sure sign that men or women are afraid--came from
every corner of the room.

"The message?--What message?"

Some people turned instinctively to M. le préfet, others to Général
Marchand. Every one knew that Bonaparte had landed on the Littoral,
every one had heard the rumour that he was marching in triumph through
Provence and the Dauphiné--but no one had altogether believed this--as
for a message--a proclamation--a call to the army--and this in Grenoble
itself. No one had heard of that--every one had been at home, getting
dressed for this festive function, thinking of good suppers and of
wedding bells. It was as if after a clap of thunder and a flash of
lightning the house was found to be in flames. M. le préfet in answer to
these mute queries had shrugged his shoulders, and Général Marchand
looked grim and silent.

But St. Genis with arm uplifted and shaking hand pointed a finger at de
Marmont.

"Ask him," he cried. "Ask him, my dear Comte, ask the miserable traitor
who with lies and damnable treachery has stolen his way into your
house, has stolen your regard, your hospitality, and was on the point of
stealing your most precious treasure--your daughter! Ask him! He knows
every word of that infamous message by heart! I doubt not but a copy of
it is inside his coat now. Ask him! Général Mouton-Duveret met him
outside Grenoble in company with that cur Emery and I saw him with mine
own eyes distributing these hellish papers among our townspeople and
pinning them up at the street-corners of our city."

While St. Genis was speaking--or rather screaming--for his voice,
pitched high, seemed to fill the entire room--every glance was fixed
upon de Marmont. Every one of course expected a contradiction as hot and
intemperate as was the accusation. It was unthinkable, impossible that
what St. Genis said could be true. They all knew de Marmont well. Nephew
of the Duc de Raguse who had borne the lion's share in surrendering
Paris to the allies and bringing about the downfall of the Corsican
usurper, he was one of the most trusted members of the royalist set in
Dauphiné. They had talked quite freely before him, consulted with him
when local Bonapartism appeared uncomfortably rampant. De Marmont was
one of themselves.

And yet he said nothing even now when St. Genis accused him and hurled
insult upon insult at him:--he said nothing to refute the awful
impeachment, to justify his conduct, to explain his companionship with
Emery. His face was still livid, but it was with rage--not indignation.
Marchand and Génevois still held him by the arms, else he and St. Genis
would have been at one another's throat before now. But his gestures as
he struggled to free himself, the imprecations which he uttered were
those of a man who was baffled and found out--not of one who is
innocent.

But as St. Genis continued to speak and worked himself up every moment
into a still greater state of excitement, de Marmont gradually seemed to
calm down. He ceased to curse: he ceased to struggle, and on his
face--which still was livid--there gradually crept a look of
determination and of defiance. He dug his teeth into his under lip until
tiny drops of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth and trickled
slowly down his chin.

Marchand and Génevois relaxed the grip upon his arms, since he no longer
fought, and thus released he contrived to pull himself together. He
tossed back his head and looked his infuriated accuser boldly in the
face.

By the time St. Genis paused in his impassioned denunciation, he had
himself completely under control: only his eyes appeared to glow with an
unnatural fire, and little beads of moisture appeared upon his brow and
matted the dark hair against his forehead. The Comte de Cambray at this
juncture would certainly have interposed with one of those temperate
speeches, full of dignity and brimming over with lofty sentiments, which
he knew so well how to deliver, but de Marmont gave him no time to
begin. When St. Genis paused for breath, he suddenly freed himself
completely with a quick movement, from Marchand's and Génevois' hold;
and then he turned to the Comte and to the rest of the company:

"And what if I did pin the Emperor's proclamation on the walls of
Grenoble," he said proudly and with a tremor of enthusiasm in his voice,
"the Emperor, whom treachery more vile than any since the days of the
Iscariot sent into humiliation and exile! The Emperor has come back!"
cried the young devotee with that extraordinary fervour which Napoleon
alone--of all men that have ever walked upon this earth--was able to
suscitate: "his Imperial eagles once more soar over France carrying on
their wings her honour and glory to the outermost corners of Europe. His
proclamation is to his people who have always loved him, to his
soldiers who in their hearts have always been true to him. His
proclamation?" he added as with a kind of exultant war-cry he drew a
roll of paper from his pocket and held it out at arm's length above his
head, "his proclamation? Here it is! Vive l'Empereur! by the grace of
God!"

Who shall attempt to describe the feelings of all those who were
assembled round this young enthusiast as he hurled his challenge right
in the face of those who called him a liar and a traitor? Surely it were
a hard task for the chronicler to search into the minds and hearts of
this score of men and women--who worshipped one God and reverenced one
King--at the moment when they saw that King threatened upon his throne,
their faith mocked and their God blasphemed: that the young man spoke
words of truth no one thought of denying. Napoleon's name had the power
to strike terror in the heart of every citizen who desired peace above
all things and of every royalist who wished to see King Louis in
possession of the throne of his fathers. But the army which had fought
under him, the army which he had led in triumph and to victory from one
end of the Continent of Europe to the other, that army still loved him
and had never been rightly loyal to King Louis. The horrors of war which
had lain so heavily over France and over Europe for the past twenty
years were painfully vivid still in everybody's mind, and all these
horrors were intimately associated with the name which stood out now in
bold characters on the paper which de Marmont was triumphantly waving.

M. le Comte had become a shade or two paler than he had been before: he
looked very old, very careworn, all of a sudden, and his pale eyes had
that look in them which comes into the eyes of the old after years of
sorrow and of regret.

But never for a moment did he depart from his attitude of dignity. When
de Marmont's exultant cry of "Vive l'Empereur!" had ceased to echo round
the majestic walls of this stately château, he straightened out his
spare figure and with one fine gesture begged for silence from his
guests.

Then he said very quietly: "M. Marmont, this is neither the place nor
the opportunity which I should have chosen for confronting you with all
the lies which you have told in the past ten months ever since you
entered my house as an honoured guest. But M. de St. Genis has left me
no option. Burning with indignation at your treachery he came hot-foot
to unmask you, before my daughter's fair hand had affixed her own
honourable name beneath that of a cheat and a traitor. . . . Yes! M. de
Marmont," he reiterated with virile force, breaking in on the hot
protests which had risen to the young man's lips, "no one but a cheat
and a traitor could thus have wormed himself into the confidence of an
old man and of a young girl! No one but a villainous blackguard could
have contemplated the abominable deceptions which you have planned
against me and against my daughter."

For a moment or two after the old man had finished speaking Victor de
Marmont remained silent. There were murmurs of indignation among the
guests, also of approval of the Comte's energetic words. De Marmont was
in the midst of a hostile crowd and he knew it. Here was no drawing-room
quarrel which could be settled at the point of a sword. Though--as Fate
and man so oft ordain it--a woman was the primary reason for the
quarrel, she was not its cause; and the hostility expressed against him
by every glance which de Marmont encountered was so general and so
great, that it overawed him even in the midst of his enthusiasm.

"M. le Comte," he said at last, and he made a great effort to appear
indifferent and unconcerned, "I wish for your daughter's sake that M.
de St. Genis had chosen some other time to make this fracas. We who have
learned chivalry at the Emperor's school would have hit our enemy when
he was in a position to defend himself. This, obviously, I cannot do at
this moment without trespassing still further upon your hospitality, and
causing Mlle. Crystal still more pain. I might even make a direct appeal
to her, since the decision in this matter rests, I imagine, primarily
with her, but with the Emperor at our gates, with the influence of his
power and of his pride dominating my every thought, I will with your
gracious permission relieve you of my unwelcome presence without taking
another leaf out of M. de St. Genis' book."

"As you will, Monsieur," said the Comte stiffly.

De Marmont bowed quite ceremoniously to him, and the Comte--courtly and
correct to the last--returned his salute with equal ceremony. Then the
young man turned to Crystal.

For the first time, perhaps, since the terrible fracas had begun, he
realised what it all must mean to her. She did not try to evade his
look, or to turn away from him. On the contrary she looked him straight
in the face, and watched him while he approached her, without retreating
one single step. But she watched him just as one would watch an abject
and revolting cur, that was too vile and too mean even to merit a kick.

Crystal's blue eyes were always expressive, but they had never been so
expressive as they were just then. De Marmont met her glance squarely,
and he read in it everything that she meant to convey--her contempt, her
loathing, her hatred--but above all her contempt. So overwhelming, so
complete was this contempt that it made him wince, as if he had been
struck in the face with a whip.

He stood still, for he knew that she would never allow him to kiss her
hand in farewell, and he had had enough of insults--he knew that he
could not bear that final one.

A red mist suddenly gathered before his eyes, a mad desire to strike, to
wound or to kill, and with it a wave of passion--he called it Love--for
this woman, such as he had never felt for her before. He gave her back
with a glance, hatred for hatred, but whereas her hatred for him was
smothered in contempt, his for her was leavened with a fierce and
dominant passion.

All this had taken but a few seconds in accomplishment. M. le Comte had
not done more than give a sign to Hector to see M. de Marmont safely out
of the castle, and Maurice de St. Genis had only had time to think of
interposing, if de Marmont tried to take Crystal's hand.

Only a few seconds, but a lifetime of emotion was crammed into them.
Then de Marmont, with Crystal's look of loathing still eating into his
soul, caught sight of Clyffurde who stood close by--Clyffurde whose one
thought throughout all this unhappy scene had been of Crystal, who
through it all had eyes and ears only for her.

Some kind of instinct made the young girl look up to him just then:
probably only in response to a wave of memory which brought back to her
at that very moment, the words of devotion and offer of service which he
had spoken awhile ago; or it may have been that same sense which had
told her at the time that here was a man whom she could always trust,
that he would always prove a friend, as he had promised, and the look
which she gave him was one of simple confidence.

But de Marmont just happened to intercept that look. He had never been
jealous of Clyffurde of course. Clyffurde--the foreigner, the bourgeois
tradesman--never could under any circumstances be a rival to reckon
with. At any other time he would have laughed at the idea of Mlle.
Crystal de Cambray bestowing the slightest favour upon the Englishman.
But within the last few seconds everything had become different. Victor
de Marmont, the triumphant and wealthy suitor of Mlle. de Cambray, had
become a pariah among all these ladies and gentlemen, and he had become
a man scorned by the woman whom he had wooed and thought to win so
easily.

The fierce love engendered for Crystal in his turbulent heart by all the
hatred and all the scorn which she lavished upon him, brought an
unreasoning jealousy into being. He felt suddenly that he detested
Clyffurde. He remembered Clyffurde's nationality and its avowed hatred
of the hero whom he--de Marmont--worshipped. And he realised also that
that same hatred must of necessity be a bond between the Englishman and
Crystal de Cambray.

Therefore--though this new untamed jealousy seized hold of him with
extraordinary power, though it brought that ominous red film before his
eyes, which makes a man strike out blindly and stupidly against his
rival, it also suggested to de Marmont a far simpler and far more
efficacious way of ridding himself once for all of any fear of rivalry
from Clyffurde.

When he had bowed quite formally to Crystal he looked up at Bobby and
gave him a pleasant and friendly nod.

"I suppose you will be coming with me, my good Clyffurde," he said
lightly, "we are rowing in the same boat, you and I. We were a very
happy party, were we not? you and Emery and I when Général Mouton met us
outside Grenoble: for we had just heard the glorious news that the
Emperor is marching triumphantly through France."

Then he turned once more to St. Genis: "Did not," he said, "the
General's aide-de-camp tell you that, M. de St. Genis?"

St. Genis had--during these few seconds while de Marmont held the centre
of the stage--succeeded in controlling his excitement, at any rate
outwardly. He was so absolutely master of the situation and had put his
successful rival so completely to rout, that the sense of satisfaction
helped to soothe his nerves: and when de Marmont spoke directly to him,
he was able to reply with comparative calm.

"Had you," he said to de Marmont, "attempted to deny the accusation
which I have brought against you, I was ready to confront you with the
report which Général Mouton's aide-de-camp brought into the town."

"I had no intention of denying my loyalty to the Emperor," rejoined de
Marmont, "but I would like to know what report Général Mouton's
aide-de-camp brought into Grenoble. The worthy General did not belie his
name, I assure you, he looked mightily scared when he recognised Emery."

"He was alone with his aide-de-camp and in his coach," retorted St.
Genis, "whilst that traitor Emery, you and your friend Mr. Clyffurde
were on horseback--you gave him the slip easily enough."

"That's true, of course," said de Marmont simply. "Well, shall we go, my
dear Clyffurde?"

He had accomplished the purpose of his jealousy even more effectually
than he could have wished. He looked round and saw that everyone had
thrown a casual glance of contempt upon Clyffurde and then turned away
to murmur with scornful indifference: "I always mistrusted that man."
Or: "The Comte ought never to have had the fellow in the house," while
the words: "English spy!" and "Informer" were on every lip.

But Clyffurde had made no movement during this brief colloquy. He
saw--just as de Marmont did--that everyone was listening more with
indifference than with horror. He--the stranger--was of so little
consequence after all!--a tradesman and an Englishman--what mattered
what his political convictions were? De Marmont was an object of
hatred, but he--Clyffurde--was only one of contempt.

He heard the muttered words: "English spy!" "Informer!" and others of
still more overwhelming disdain. But he cared little what these people
said. He knew that they would never trouble to hear any justification
from himself--they would not worry their heads about him a moment longer
once he had left the house in company with de Marmont.

He was not quite sure either whether de Marmont's spite had been
directed against himself, personally, or that it was merely the outcome
of his present humiliating position.

M. le Comte had not bestowed more than a glance upon him and that from
under haughtily raised brows and across half the width of the room: but
Crystal had looked up to him, and was still looking, and it was that
look which had driven all the blood from Clyffurde's face and caused his
lips to set closely as if with a sense of physical pain.

The insults which her father's guests were overtly murmuring, she had in
her mind and her eyes were conveying them to him far more plainly than
her lips could have done:

"English spy--traitor to friendship and to trust--liar, deceiver,
hypocrite." That and more did her scornful glance imply. But she said
nothing. He tried to plead with eyes as expressive as were her own, and
she merely turned away from him, just as if he no longer existed. She
drew her skirt closer round her and somehow with that gesture she seemed
to sweep him entirely out of her existence.

Even Mme. la Duchesse had not one glance for him. To these passionate,
hot-headed, impulsive royalists, an adherent of the Corsican ogre was
lower than the scum of the earth. They loathed de Marmont because he had
been one of themselves: he was a traitor, and not one man there but
would have liked to see him put up against a wall and summarily shot.
But the stranger they wiped out of their lives.

Was there any chance for Clyffurde, if he tried to defend himself? None
of a certainty. He could not call the accusation a lie, since he had
been in the company of Emery and of de Marmont most of the day, and mere
explanations would have fallen on deaf and unwilling ears.

Clyffurde knew this, nor did he attempt any explanation. There is a
certain pride in the heart of every English gentleman which in moments
of acute crisis rises to its full power and height. That pride would not
allow Clyffurde to utter a single word in his own defence. The futility
of attempting it also influenced his decision. He scorned the idea of
speaking on his own behalf, words which were doomed to be disbelieved.

In a moment he had found himself absolutely isolated in the centre of
the room, not far from the hearth where he had stood a little while ago
talking to Crystal, and close to the chair where she had sat with the
light of the fire playing upon her satin gown. The cushions still bore
the impress of her young figure as she had leaned up against them: the
sight of it was an additional pain which almost made Clyffurde wince.

He bowed silently and very low to Crystal and to Mme. la Duchesse, and
then to all the ladies and gentlemen who cold-shouldered him with such
contemptuous ostentation. De Marmont with head erect and an air of
swagger was already waiting for him at the door. Clyffurde in taking
leave of M. le Comte made a violent effort to say at any rate the one
word which weighed upon his heart.

"Will you at least permit me, M. le Comte," he said, "to thank you for
. . ."

But already the Comte had interrupted him, even before the words were
clearly out of his mouth.

"I will not permit you, Sir," he broke in firmly, "to speak a single
word other than a plain denial of M. de St. Genis' accusations against
you."

Then as Clyffurde relapsed into silence, M. le Comte continued with
haughty peremptoriness:

"A plain 'yes' or 'no' will suffice, Sir. Were you or were you not in
the company of those traitors Emery and de Marmont when Général
Mouton-Duvernet came upon them outside Grenoble?"

"I was," replied Clyffurde simply.

With a stiff nod of the head the Comte turned his back abruptly upon
him; no one took any further notice of the "English spy." The accused
had been condemned without enquiry and without trial. In times like
these all one's friends must be above suspicion. Clyffurde knew that
there was nothing to be said. With a quickly suppressed sigh, he too
turned away and in his habitual, English, dogged way he resolutely set
his teeth, and with a firm soldierly step walked quietly out of the
room.

"Hector, see that M. de Marmont's coach is ready for him," said M. le
Comte with well assumed indifference; "and that supper is no longer
delayed."

He then once more offered his arm to Mme. la Duchesse d'Embrun. "Mme. la
Duchesse," he said in his most courtly manner, "I beg that you will
accept my apologies for this unforeseen interruption. May I have the
honour of conducting you to supper?"

CHAPTER IV

THE EMPRESS' MILLIONS

De Marmont, having successfully shot his poisoned arrow and brought down
his enemy, had no longer any ill-feeling against Clyffurde. His jealousy
had been short-lived; it was set at rest by the brief episode which had
culminated in the Englishman's final exit from the Castle of Brestalou.

Not a single detail of that moving little episode had escaped de
Marmont's keen eyes: he had seen Crystal's look of positive abhorrence
wherewith she had regarded Clyffurde, he had seen the gathering up of
her skirts away--as it were--from the contaminating propinquity of the
"English spy."

And de Marmont was satisfied.

He was perfectly ready to pick up the strained strands of friendship
with the Englishman and affected not to notice the latter's absorption
and moodiness.

"Can I drive you into Grenoble, my good Clyffurde?" he asked airily as
he paused on the top of the perron steps, waiting for the hackney coach.

"I thank you," replied Clyffurde; "I prefer to walk."

"It is eight kilometres and a pitch-dark night."

"I know my way, I thank you."

"Just as you like."

He paused a moment, and began humming the "Marseillaise." Clyffurde
started walking down the monumental steps.

"Well, I'll say 'good-night,' de Marmont," he said coldly. "And
'good-bye,' too."

"You are not going away?" queried the other.

"As soon as I can get the means of going."

"Troops will be on the move all over the country soon. Foreigners will
be interned. You will have some difficulty in getting away."

"I know that. That's why I want to make arrangements as early as
possible."

"Where will you stay in the meanwhile?"

"Possibly at the 'Trois-Dauphins' if I can get a room."

"I shall see you again then. The Emperor will stay there while he is in
Grenoble. Well, good-night, my dear friend," said de Marmont, as he
extended a cordial hand to Clyffurde, who, in the dark, evidently failed
to see it. "And don't take the insults of all these fools too much to
heart." And he gave an expressive nod in the direction of the stately
castle behind him.

"They are dolts," he continued airily; "if they possessed a grain of
sense they would have kept on friendly terms with me. As that old fool's
son-in-law I could have saved him from all the reprisals which will
inevitably fall on all these royalist traitors, now that the Emperor has
come into his own again."

Clyffurde was half-way down the stone steps when these words of de
Marmont struck upon his ear. Instinctively he retraced his steps. There
was a suggestion of impending danger to Crystal in what the young man
had said.

"What do you mean by talking about reprisals?" he asked.

"Oh! . . . only the inevitable," replied de Marmont. "The people of the
Dauphiné never cared for these royalists, you know . . . and didn't
learn to like them any better in these past eleven months since the
Restoration. M. le Comte de Cambray has been very high and mighty since
his return from exile. He may yet come to wish that he had never quitted
the comfortable little provincial town in England where he gave drawing
lessons and French lessons to some very bourgeois boys. . . . But here's
that coach at last!" he continued with that jaunty air which he had
assumed since turning his back upon the reception halls of Brestalou.
"Are you sure that you would rather walk than drive with me?"

"No," replied Clyffurde abruptly, "I am not sure. Thank you very much. I
think that if you don't object to my somewhat morose company I would
like a lift as far as Grenoble."

He wanted to make de Marmont talk, to hear what the young man had to
say. From it he thought that he could learn more accurately what danger
would threaten Brestalou in the event of Napoleon's successful march to
Paris.

That the great adventurer's triumph would be short-lived Clyffurde was
perfectly sure. He knew the temper of England and believed in the
military genius of Wellington. England would never tolerate for a moment
longer than she could help that the firebrand of Europe should once more
sit upon the throne of France, and unless the allies had greatly altered
their policy in the past ten months and refused England the necessary
support, Wellington would be more than a match for the decimated army of
Bonaparte.

But a few weeks--months, perhaps, might elapse before Napoleon was once
again put entirely out of action--and this time more completely and more
effectually than with a small kingdom wherein to dream again of European
conquests; during those weeks and months Brestalou and its inhabitants
would be at the mercy of the man from Corsica--the island of unrest and
of never sleeping vendetta.

De Marmont was ready enough to talk. He knew nothing, of course, of
Napoleon's plans and ideas save what Emery had told him. But what he
lacked in knowledge he more than made up in imagination. Excitement too
had made him voluble. He talked freely and incessantly: "The Emperor
would do this. . . . The Emperor will never tolerate that . . ." was all
the time on his lips.

He bragged and he swaggered, launched into passionate eulogies of the
Emperor, and fiery denunciations of his enemies. Berthier, Clark,
Foucher, de Marmont, they all deserved death. Ney alone was to be
pardoned, for Ney was a fine soldier--always supposing that Ney would
repent. But men like the Comte de Cambray were a pest in any
country--mischief-making and intriguing. Bah! the Emperor will never
tolerate them.

Suddenly Clyffurde--who had become half-drowsy, lulled to somnolence by
de Marmont's incessant chatter and the monotonous jog-trot of the
horses--woke to complete consciousness. He pricked his ears and in a
moment was all attention.

"They think that they can deceive me," de Marmont was saying airily.
"They think that I am as great a fool as they are, with their talk of
Mme. la Duchesse's journey north, directly after the wedding! Bah! any
dolt can put two and two together: the Comte tells me in one breath that
he had a visit from Fourier in the afternoon, and that the Duchesse--who
only arrived in Brestalou yesterday--would leave again for Paris on the
day after to-morrow, and he tells it me with a mysterious air, and adds
a knowing wink, and a promise that he would explain himself more fully
later on. I could have laughed--if it were not all so miserably stupid."

He paused for want of breath and tried to peer through the window of the
coach.

"It is pitch-dark," he said, "but we can't be very far from the city
now."

"I don't see," rejoined Clyffurde, ostentatiously smothering a yawn,
"what M. le préfet's visit to Brestalou had to do with the Duchesse's
journey to the north. You have got intrigues on the brain, my good de
Marmont."

And with well-feigned indifference, he settled himself more cosily into
the dark corner of the carriage.

De Marmont laughed. "What Fourier's afternoon visit has to do with Mme.
d'Agen's journey?" he retorted, "I'll tell you, my good Clyffurde.
Fourier went to see M. le Comte de Cambray this afternoon because he is
a poltroon. He is terrified at the thought that the unfortunate Empress'
money and treasure are still lying in the cellars of the Hôtel de Ville
and he went out to Brestalou in order to consult with the Comte what had
best be done with the money."

"I didn't know the ex-Empress' money was lying in the cellar of the
Hôtel de Ville," remarked Clyffurde with well-assumed indifference.

"Nor did I until Emery told me," rejoined de Marmont. "The money is
there though: stolen from the Empress Marie Louise by that
arch-intriguer Talleyrand. Twenty-five millions in notes and drafts! the
Emperor reckons on it for current expenses until he has reached Paris
and taken over the Treasury."

"Even then I don't see what Mme. la Duchesse d'Agen has to do with it."

"You don't," said de Marmont drily: "but I did in a moment. Fourier
wouldn't keep the money at the Hôtel de Ville: the Comte de Cambray
would not allow it to be deposited in his house. They both want the
Bourbon to have it. So--in order to lull suspicion--they have decided
that Madame la Duchesse shall take the money to Paris."

"Well!--perhaps!--" said Clyffurde with a yawn. "But are we not in
Grenoble yet?"

Once more he lapsed into silence, closed his eyes and to all intents and
purposes fell asleep, for never another word did de Marmont get out of
him, until Grenoble was reached and the rue Montorge.

Here de Marmont had his lodgings, three doors from the "Hôtel des
Trois-Dauphins," where fortunately Clyffurde managed to secure a
comfortable room for himself.

He parted quite amicably from de Marmont, promising to call in upon him
in the morning. It would be foolish to quarrel with that young wind-bag
now. He knew some things, and talked of a great many more.

II

Preparations against the arrival of the Corsican ogre were proceeding
apace. Général Marchand had been overconfident throughout the day--which
was the 5th of March: "The troops," he said, "were loyal to a man. They
were coming in fast from Chambéry and Vienne; the garrison would and
could repulse that band of pirates, and take upon itself to fulfil the
promise which Ney had made to the King--namely to bring the ogre to His
Majesty bound and gagged in an iron cage."

But the following day, which was the 6th, many things occurred to shake
the Commandant's confidence: Napoleon's proclamation was not only posted
up all over the town, but the citizens were distributing the printed
leaflets among themselves: one of the officers on the staff pointed out
to Général Marchand that the 4th regiment of artillery quartered in
Grenoble was the one in which Bonaparte had served as a lieutenant
during the Revolution--the men, it was argued, would never turn their
arms against one whom they had never ceased to idolize: it would not be
safe to march out into the open with men whose loyalty was so very
doubtful.

There was a rumour current in the town that when the men of the 5th
regiment of engineers and the 4th of artillery were told that Napoleon
had only eleven hundred men with him, they all murmured with one accord:
"And what about us?"

Therefore Général Marchand, taking all these facts into consideration,
made up his mind to await the ogre inside the walls of Grenoble. Here at
any rate defections and desertions would be less likely to occur than in
the field. He set to work to organise the city into a state of defence;
forty-seven guns were put in position upon the ramparts which dominate
the road to the south, and he sent a company of engineers and a
battalion of infantry to blow up the bridge of Ponthaut at La Mure.

The royalists in the city, who were beginning to feel very anxious, had
assembled in force to cheer these troops as they marched out of the
city. But the attitude of the sapeurs created a very unpleasant
impression: they marched out in disorder, some of them tore the white
cockade from their shakos, and one or two cries of "Vive l'Empereur!"
were distinctly heard in their ranks.

At La Mure, M. le Maire argued very strongly against the destruction of
the bridge of Ponthaut: "It would be absurd," he said, "to blow up a
valuable bridge, since not one kilometre away there was an excellent
ford across which Napoleon could march his troops with perfect ease."
The sapeurs murmured an assent, and their officer, Colonel Delessart,
feeling the temper of his men, did not dare insist.

He quartered them at La Mure to await the arrival of the infantry, and
further orders from Général Marchand. When the 5th regiment of infantry
was reported to have reached Laffray, Delessart had the sapeurs out and
marched out to meet them, although it was then close upon midnight.

While Delessart and his troops encamped at Laffray, Cambronne--who was
in command of Napoleon's vanguard--himself occupied La Mure. This was on
the 7th. The Mayor--who had so strongly protested against the
destruction of the bridge of Ponthaut--gathered the population around
him, and in a body men, women and children marched out of the borough
along the Corps-Sisteron road in order to give "the Emperor" a rousing
welcome.

It was still early morning. Napoleon at the head of his Old Guard
entered La Mure; a veritable ovation greeted him, everyone pressed round
him to see him or touch his horse, his coat, his stirrups; he spoke to
the people and held the Mayor and municipal officials in long
conversation.

Just as practically everywhere else on his route, he had won over every
heart; but his small column which had been eleven hundred strong when he
landed at Jouan, was still only eleven hundred strong: he had only
rallied four recruits to his standard. True, he had met with no
opposition, true that the peasantry of the Dauphiné had loudly acclaimed
him, had listened to his harangues and presented him with flowers, but
he had not had a single encounter with any garrison on his way, nor
could he boast of any defections in his favour; now he was nearing
Grenoble--Grenoble, which was strongly fortified and well
garrisoned--and Grenoble would be the winning or losing cast of this
great gamble for the sovereignty of France.

It was close on eleven when the great adventurer set out upon this
momentous stage of his journey: the Polish Lancers leading, then the
chasseurs of his Old Guard with their time-worn grey coats and heavy
bear-skins; some of them were on foot, others packed closely together in
wagons and carts which the enthusiastic agriculturists of La Mure had
placed at the disposal of "the Emperor."

Napoleon himself followed in his coach, his horse being led along.
Amidst thundering cries of "God speed" the small column started on its
way.

As for the rest, 'tis in the domain of history; every phase of it has
been put on record:--Delessart--worried in his mind that he had not been
able to obey Général Marchand's orders and destroy the bridge of
Ponthaut--his desire to communicate once more with the General; his
decision to await further orders and in the meanwhile to occupy the
narrow defile of Laffray as being an advantageous position wherein to
oppose the advance of the ogre: all this on the one side.

On the other, the advance of the Polish Lancers, of the carts and wagons
wherein are crowded the soldiers of the Old Guard, and Napoleon himself,
the great gambler, sitting in his coach gazing out through the open
windows at the fair land of France, the peaceful valley on his left, the
chain of ice-covered lakes and the turbulent Drac; on his right beyond
the hills frowning Taillefer, snow-capped and pine-clad, and far ahead
Grenoble still hidden from his view as the future too was still
hidden--the mysterious gate beyond which lay glory and an Empire or the
ignominy of irretrievable failure.

History has made a record of it all, and it is not the purpose of this
true chronicle to do more than recall with utmost brevity the chief
incident of that memorable encounter, the Polish Lancers galloping back
with the report that the narrow pass was held against them in strong
force: the Old Guard climbing helter-skelter out of carts and wagons,
examining their arms, making ready: Napoleon stepping quickly out of his
coach and mounting his charger.

On the other side Delessart holding hurried consultation with the
Vicomte de St. Genis whom Général Marchand has despatched to him with
orders to shoot the brigand and his horde as he would a pack of wolves.

Napoleon is easily recognisable in the distance, with his grey overcoat,
his white horse and his bicorne hat; presently he dismounts and walks up
and down across the narrow road, evidently in a state of great mental
agitation.

Delessart's men are sullen and silent; a crowd of men and women from
Grenoble have followed them up thus far; they work their way in and out
among the infantrymen: they have printed leaflets in their hands which
they cram one by one into the hands or pockets of the soldiers--copies
of Napoleon's proclamation.

Now an officer of the Old Guard is seen to ride up the pass. Delessart
recognises him. They were brothers in arms two years ago and served
together under the greatest military genius the world has ever known.
Napoleon has sent the man on as an emissary, but Delessart will not
allow him to speak.

"I mean to do my duty," he declares.

But in his voice too there has already crept that note of sullenness
which characterised the sapeurs from the first.

Then Captain Raoul, own aide-de-camp to Napoleon, comes up at full
gallop: nor does he draw rein till he is up with the entire front of
Delessart's battalion.

"Your Emperor is coming," he shouts to the soldiers, "if you fire, the
first shot will reach him: and France will make you answerable for this
outrage!"

While he shouts and harangues the men are still sullen and silent. And
in the distance the lances of the Polish cavalry gleam in the sun, and
the shaggy bear-skins of the Old Guard are seen to move forward up the
pass. Delessart casts a rapid piercing glance over his men. Sullenness
had given place to obvious terror.

"Right about turn! . . . Quick! . . . March!" he commands.

Resistance obviously would be useless with these men, who are on the
verge of laying down their arms. He forces on a quick march, but the
Polish Lancers are already gaining ground: the sound of their horses'
hoofs stamping the frozen ground, the snorting, the clanging of arms is
distinctly heard. Delessart now has no option. He must make his men turn
once more and face the ogre and his battalion before they are attacked
in the rear.

As soon as the order is given and the two little armies stand face to
face the Polish Lancers halt and the Old Guard stand still.

And it almost seems for the moment as if Nature herself stood still and
listened, and looked on. The genial midday sun is slowly melting the
snow on pine trees and rocks; one by one the glistening tiny crystals
blink and vanish under the warmth of the kiss; the hard, white road
darkens under the thaw and slowly a thin covering of water spreads over
the icy crust of the lakes.

Napoleon tells Colonel Mallet to order the men to lower their arms.
Mallet protests, but Napoleon reiterates the command, more peremptorily
this time, and Mallet must obey. Then at the head of his old chasseurs,
thus practically disarmed, the Emperor--and he is every inch an Emperor
now--walks straight up to Delessart's opposing troops.

Hot-headed St. Genis cries: "Here he is!--Fire, in Heaven's name!"

But the sapeurs--the old regiment in which Napoleon had served as a
young lieutenant in those glorious olden days--are now as pale as death,
their knees shake under them, their arms tremble in their hands.

At ten paces away from the foremost ranks Napoleon halts:

"Soldiers," he cries loudly. "Here I am! your Emperor, do you know me?"

Again he advances and with a calm gesture throws open his well-worn grey
redingote.

"Fire!" cries St. Genis in mad exasperation.

"Fire!" commands Delessart in a voice rendered shaky with overmastering
emotion.

Silence reigns supreme. Napoleon still advances, step by step, his
redingote thrown open, his broad chest challenging the first bullet
which would dare to end the bold, adventurous, daring life.

"Is there one of you soldiers here who wants to shoot his Emperor? If
there is, here I am! Fire!"

Which of these soldiers who have served under him at Jena and Austerlitz
could resist such a call. His voice has lost nothing yet of its charm,
his personality nothing of its magic. Ambitious, ruthless, selfish he
may be, but to the army, a friend, a comrade as well as a god.

Suddenly the silence is broken. Shouts of "Vive l'Empereur!" rend the
air, they echo down the narrow valley, re-echo from hill to hill and
reverberate upon the pine-clad heights of Taillefer. Broken are the
ranks, white cockades fly in every direction, tricolours appear in their
hundreds everywhere. Shakos are waved on the points of the bayonets, and
always, always that cry: "Vive l'Empereur!"

Sapeurs and infantrymen crowd around the little man in the worn grey
redingote, and he with that rough familiarity which bound all soldiers'
hearts to him, seizes an old sergeant by the ends of his long moustache:

"So, you old dog," he says, "you were going to shoot your Emperor, were
you?"

"Not me," replies the man with a growl. "Look at our guns. Not one of
them was loaded."

Delessart, in despair yet shaken to the heart, his eyes swimming in
tears, offers his sword to Napoleon, whereupon the Emperor grasps his
hand in friendship and comforts him with a few inspiring words.

Only St. Genis has looked on all this scene with horror and contempt.
His royalist opinions are well known, his urgent appeal to Delessart a
while ago to "shoot the brigand and his hordes" still rings in every
soldier's ear. He is half-crazy with rage and there is quite an element
of terror in the confused thoughts which crowd in upon his brain.

Already the sapeurs and infantrymen have joined the ranks of the Old
Guard, and Napoleon, with that inimitable verve and inspiring eloquence
of which he was pastmaster, was haranguing his troops. Just then three
horsemen, dressed in the uniform of officers of the National Guard and
wearing enormous tricolour cockades as large as soup-plates on their
shakos, are seen to arrive at a break-neck gallop down the pass from
Grenoble.

St. Genis recognised them at a glance: they were Victor de Marmont,
Surgeon-Captain Emery and their friend the glovemaker, Dumoulin. The
next moment these three men were at the feet of their beloved hero.

"Sire," said Dumoulin the glovemaker, "in the name of the citizens of
Grenoble we hereby offer you our services and one hundred thousand
francs collected in the last twenty-four hours for your use."

"I accept both," replied the Emperor, while he grasped vigorously the
hands of his three most devoted friends.

St. Genis uttered a loud and comprehensive curse: then he pulled his
horse abruptly round and with such a jerk that it reared and plunged
madly forward ere it started galloping away with its frantic rider in
the direction of Grenoble.

And Grenoble itself was in a turmoil.

In the barracks the cries of "Vive l'Empereur!" were incessant; Général
Marchand was indefatigable in his efforts to still that cry, to rouse in
the hearts of the soldiers a sense of loyalty to the King.

"Your country and your King," he shouted from barrack-room to
barrack-room.

"Our country and our Emperor!" responded the soldiers with ever-growing
enthusiasm.

The spirit of the army and of the people were Bonapartist to the core.
They had never trusted either Marchand or préfet Fourier, who had turned
their coats so readily at the Restoration: they hated the émigrés--the
Comte de Cambray, the Vicomte de St. Genis, the Duc d'Embrun--with their
old-fashioned ideas of the semi-divine rights of the nobility second
only to the godlike ones of the King. They thought them arrogant and
untamed, over-ready to grab once more all the privileges which a bloody
Revolution had swept away.

To them Napoleon, despite the brilliant days of the Empire, despite his
autocracy, his militarism and his arrogance, represented "the people,"
the advanced spirit of the Revolution; his downfall had meant a return
to the old regime--the regime of feudal rights, of farmers general, of
heavy taxation and dear bread.

"Vive l'Empereur!" was cried in the barracks and "Vive l'Empereur!" at
the street corners.

A squadron of Hussars had marched into Grenoble from Vienne just before
noon: the same squadron which a few months ago at a revue by the Comte
d'Artois in the presence of the King had shouted "Vive l'Empereur!" What
faith could be put in their loyalty now?

But two infantry regiments came in at the same time from Chambéry and on
these Général Marchand hoped to be able to reckon. The Comte Charles de
la Bédoyère was in command of the 7th regiment, and though he had served
in Prussia under Napoleon he had tendered his oath loyally to Louis
XVIII. at the Restoration. He was a tried and able soldier and Marchand
believed in him. The General himself reviewed both infantry regiments on
the Place d'Armes on their arrival, and then posted them upon the
ramparts of the city, facing direct to the southeast and dominating the
road to La Mure.

De la Bédoyère remained in command of the 7th.

For two hours he paced the ramparts in a state of the greatest possible
agitation. The nearness of Napoleon, of the man who had been his comrade
in arms first and his leader afterwards, had a terribly disturbing
effect upon his spirit. From below in the city the people's mutterings,
their grumbling, their sullen excitement seemed to rise upwards like an
intoxicating incense. The attitude of the troops, of the gunners, as
well as of the garrison and of his own regiment, worked more potently
still upon the Colonel's already shaken loyalty.

Then suddenly his mind is made up. He draws his sword and shouts: "Vive
l'Empereur!"

"Soldiers!" he calls. "Follow me! I will show you the way to duty!
Follow me! Vive l'Empereur!"

"Vive l'Empereur!" vociferate the troops.

"After me, my men! to the Bonne Gate! After me!" cries De la Bédoyère.

And to the shouts of "Vive l'Empereur!" the 7th regiment of infantry
passes through the gate and marches along the streets of the suburb on
towards La Mure.

Général Marchand, hastily apprised of the wholesale defection, sends
Colonel Villiers in hot haste in the wake of De la Bédoyère. Villiers
comes up with the latter two kilomètres outside Grenoble. He talks, he
persuades, he admonishes, he scolds, De la Bédoyère and his men are
firm.

"Your country and your king!" shouts Villiers.

"Our country and our Emperor!" respond the men. And they go to join the
Old Guard at Laffray while Villiers in despair rides back into Grenoble.

In the town the desertion of the 7th has had a very serious effect. The
muttered cries of "Vive l'Empereur!" are open shouts now. Général
Marchand is at his wits' ends. He has ordered the closing of every city
gate, and still the soldiers in batches of tens and twenties at a time
contrive to escape out of the town carrying their arms and in many cases
baggage with them. The royalist faction--the women as well as the
men--spend the whole day in and out of the barrack-rooms talking to the
men, trying to infuse into them loyalty to the King, and to cheer them
up by bringing them wine and provisions.

In the afternoon the Vicomte de St. Genis, sick, exhausted, his horse
covered with lather, comes back with the story of the pass of Laffray,
and Napoleon's triumphant march toward Grenoble. Marchand seriously
contemplates evacuating the city in order to save the garrison and his
stores.

Préfet Fourier congratulates himself on his foresight and on that he has
transferred the twenty-five million francs from the cellars of the Hôtel
de Ville into the safe keeping of M. le Comte de Cambray. He and Général
Marchand both hope and think that "the brigand and his horde" cannot
possibly be at the gates of Grenoble before the morrow, and that Mme. la
Duchesse d'Agen would be well on her way to Paris with the money by that
time.

Marchand in the meanwhile has made up his mind to retire from the city
with his troops. It is only a strategical measure, he argues, to save
bloodshed and to save his stores, pending the arrival of the Comte
d'Artois at Lyons, with the army corps. He gives the order for the
general retreat to commence at two o'clock in the morning.

Satisfied that he has done the right thing, he finally goes back to his
quarters in the Hotel du Dauphiné close to the ramparts. The Comte de
Cambray is his guest at dinner, and toward seven o'clock the two men at
last sit down to a hurried meal, both their minds filled with
apprehension and not a little fear as to what the next few days will
bring.