The Bronze Eagle (14 page)

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.

[Pg 110]
"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
[Pg 111]
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."

[Pg 112]
"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
[Pg 113]
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.

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 an
[Pg 114]
other—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
[Pg 115]
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.

[Pg 116]
"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.