The Battle Of The Strong, Complete - Gilbert Parker
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And he had answered her: "I think I feel that too, garcon Carterette."
To which she had replied: "It isn't hard to forget here--not so very
hard, is it?"
She did not mean Guida, nor what he had felt for Guida, but rather the
misery of the past. He had nodded his head in reply, but had not spoken;
and she, with a quick: "A bi'tot," had taken her blanket and gone to that
portion of the rock set apart for her own. Then he had sat by the fire
thinking through the long hours of night until the sun rose. That day
Richambeau had sent his flag of truce, and the end of their stay on Perch
Rock was come.
Yes, he would marry Carterette. Yet he was not disloyal, even in memory.
What had belonged to Guida belonged to her for ever, belonged to a past
life with which henceforth he should have naught to do. What had sprung
up in his heart for Carterette belonged to the new life. In this new land
there was work to do--what might he not accomplish here? He realised that
within one life a man may still live several lives, each loyal and honest
after its kind. A fate stronger than himself had brought him here; and
here he would stay with fate. It had brought him to Carterette, and who
could tell what good and contentment might not yet come to him, and how
much to her!
That evening he went to Carterette and asked her to be his wife. She
turned pale, and, looking up into his eyes with a kind of fear, she said
brokenly:
"It's not because you feel you must? It's not because you know I love
you, Ranulph--is it? It's not for that alone?"
"It is because I want you, garcon Carterette," he answered tenderly,
"because life will be nothing without you."
"I am so happy--par made, I am so happy!" she answered, and she hid her
face on his breast.
CHAPTER XLI
Detricand, Prince of Vaufontaine, was no longer in the Vendee. The whole
of Brittany was in the hands of the victorious Hoche, the peasants were
disbanded, and his work for a time at least was done.
On the same day of that momentous scene in the Cohue Royale when Guida
was vindicated, Detricand had carried to Granville the Comtesse
Chantavoine, who presently was passed over to the loving care of her
kinsman General Grandjon-Larisse. This done, he proceeded to England.
From London he communicated with Grandjon-Larisse, who applied himself to
secure from the Directory leave for the Chouan chieftain to return to
France, with amnesty for his past "rebellion." This was got at last
through the influence of young Bonaparte himself. Detricand was free now
to proceed against Philip.
He straightway devoted himself to a thing conceived on the day that Guida
was restored to her rightful status as a wife. His purpose now was to
wrest from Philip the duchy of Bercy. Philip was heir by adoption only,
and the inheritance had been secured at the last by help of a lie--surely
his was a righteous cause!
His motives had not their origin in hatred of Philip alone, nor in desire
for honours and estates for himself, nor in racial antagonism, for had he
not been allied with England in this war against the Government? He hated
Philip the man, but he hated still more Philip the usurper who had
brought shame to the escutcheon of Bercy. There was also at work another
and deeper design to be shown in good time. Philip had retired from the
English navy, and gone back to his duchy of Bercy. Here he threw himself
into the struggle with the Austrians against the French. Received with
enthusiasm by the people, who as yet knew little or nothing of the doings
in the Cohue Royale, he now took over command of the army and proved
himself almost as able in the field as he had been at sea. Of these
things Detricand knew, and knew also that the lines were closing in round
the duchy; that one day soon Bonaparte would send a force which should
strangle the little army and its Austrian allies. The game then would be
another step nearer the end. Free to move at will, he visited the Courts
of Prussia, Russia, Spain, Italy, and Austria, and laid before them his
claims to the duchy, urging an insistence on its neutrality, and a trial
of his cause against Philip. Ceaselessly, adroitly, with persistence and
power, he toiled towards his end, the way made easier by tales told of
his prowess in the Vendee. He had offers without number to take service
in foreign armies, but he was not to be tempted. Gossip of the Courts
said that there was some strange romance behind this tireless pursuit of
an inheritance, but he paid no heed. If at last there crept over Europe
wonderful tales of Detricand's past life in Jersey, of the real Duchesse
de Bercy, and of the new Prince of Vaufontaine, Detricand did not, or
feigned not to, hear them; and the Comtesse Chantavoine had disappeared
from public knowledge. The few who guessed his romance were puzzled to
understand his cause: for if he dispossessed Philip, Guida must also be
dispossessed. This, certainly, was not lover-like or friendly.
But Detricand was not at all puzzled; his mind and purpose were clear.
Guida should come to no injury through him--Guida who, as they left the
Cohue Royale that day of days, had turned on him a look of heavenly trust
and gratitude; who, in the midst of her own great happenings, found time
to tell him by a word how well she knew he had kept his promise to her,
even beyond belief. Justice for her was now the supreme and immediate
object of his life. There were others ready also to care for France, to
fight for her, to die for her, to struggle towards the hour when the King
should come to his own; but there was only one man in the world who could
achieve Guida's full justification, and that was himself, Detricand of
Vaufontaine.
He was glad to turn to the Chevalier's letters from Jersey. It was from
the Chevalier's lips he had learned the whole course of Guida's life
during the four years of his absence from the island. It was the
Chevalier who drew for him pictures of Guida in her new home, none other
than the house of Elie Mattingley, which the Royal Court having
confiscated now handed over to her as an act of homage. The little world
of Jersey no longer pointed the finger of scorn at Guida Landresse de
Landresse, but bent the knee to Princess Guida d'Avranche.
Detricand wrote many letters to the Chevalier, and they with their
cheerful and humorous allusions were read aloud to Guida--all save one
concerning Philip. Writing of himself to the Chevalier on one occasion,
he laid bare with a merciless honesty his nature and his career.
Concerning neither had he any illusions.
I do not mistake myself, Chevalier [he wrote], nor these late doings
of mine. What credit shall I take to myself for coming to place and
some little fame? Everything has been with me: the chance of
inheritance, the glory of a cause as hopeless as splendid, and more
splendid because hopeless; and the luck of him who loads the dice--
for all my old comrades, the better men, are dead, and I, the least
of them all, remain, having even outlived the cause. What praise
shall I take for this? None--from all decent fellows of the earth,
none at all. It is merely laughable that I should be left, the
monument of a sacred loyalty greater than the world has ever known.
I have no claims--But let me draw the picture, dear Chevalier. Here
was a discredited, dissolute fellow whose life was worth a pin to
nobody. Tired of the husks and the swine, and all his follies grown
stale by over-use, he takes the advice of a good gentleman, and
joins the standard of work and sacrifice. What greater luxury shall
man ask? If this be not running the full scale of life's enjoyment,
pray you what is? The world loves contrasts. The deep-dyed sinner
raising the standard of piety is picturesque. If, charmed by his
own new virtues, he is constant in his enthusiasm, behold a St.
Augustine! Everything is with the returned prodigal--the more so if
he be of the notorious Vaufontaines, who were ever saints turned
sinners, or sinners turned saints.
Tell me, my good friend, where is room for pride in me? I am
getting far more out of life than I deserve; it is not well that you
and others should think better of me than I do of myself. I do not
pretend that I dislike it, it is as balm to me. But it would seem
that the world is monstrously unjust. One day when I'm grown old--I
cannot imagine what else Fate has spared me for--I shall write the
Diary of a Sinner, the whole truth. I shall tell how when my
peasant fighters were kneeling round me praying for success, even
thanking God for me, I was smiling in my glove--in scorn of myself,
not of them, Chevalier, no,--no, not of them! The peasant's is the
true greatness. Everything is with the aristocrat; he has to kick
the great chances from his path; but the peasant must go hunting
them in peril. Hardly snatching sustenance from Fate, the peasant
fights into greatness; the aristocrat may only win to it by
rejecting Fate's luxuries. The peasant never escapes the austere
teaching of hard experience, the aristocrat the languor of good
fortune. There is the peasant and there am I. Voila! enough of
Detricand of Vaufontaine. . . . The Princess Guida and the
child, are they--
So the letter ran, and the Chevalier read it aloud to Guida up to the
point where her name was writ. Afterwards Guida would sit and think of
what Detricand had said, and of the honesty of nature that never allowed
him to deceive himself. It pleased her also to think she had in some
small way helped a man to the rehabilitation of his life. He had said
that she had helped him, and she believed him; he had proved the
soundness of his aims and ambitions; his career was in the world's mouth.
The one letter the Chevalier did not read to Guida referred to Philip. In
it Detricand begged the Chevalier to hold himself in readiness to proceed
at a day's notice to Paris.
So it was that when, after months of waiting, the Chevalier suddenly left
St. Heliers to join Detricand, Guida did not know the object of his
journey. All she knew was that he had leave from the Directory to visit
Paris. Imagining this to mean some good fortune for him, with a light
heart she sent him off in charge of Jean Touzel, who took him to St. Malo
in the Hardi Biaou, and saw him safely into the hands of an escort from
Detricand.
CHAPTER XLII
Three days later there was opened in one of the chambers of the Emperor's
palace at Vienna a Congress of four nations--Prussia, Russia, Austria,
and Sardinia. Detricand's labours had achieved this result at last.
Grandjon-Larisse, his old enemy in battle, now his personal friend and
colleague in this business, had influenced Napoleon, and the Directory
through him, to respect the neutrality of the duchy of Bercy, for which
the four nations of this Congress declared. Philip himself little knew
whose hand had secured the neutrality until summoned to appear at the
Congress, to defend his rights to the title and the duchy against those
of Detricand Prince of Vaufontaine. Had he known that Detricand was
behind it all he would have fought on to the last gasp of power and died
on the battle-field. He realised now that such a fate was not for
him--that he must fight, not on the field of battle like a prince, but in
a Court of Nations like a doubtful claimant of sovereign honours.
His whole story had become known in the duchy, and though it begot no
feeling against him in war-time, now that Bercy was in a neutral zone of
peace there was much talk of the wrongs of Guida and the Countess
Chantavoine. He became moody and saturnine, and saw few of his subjects
save the old Governor-General and his whilom enemy, now his friend, Count
Carignan Damour. That at last he should choose to accompany him to Vienna
the man who had been his foe during the lifetime of the old Duke, seemed
incomprehensible. Yet, to all appearance, Damour was now Philip's zealous
adherent. He came frankly repenting his old enmity, and though Philip did
not quite believe him, some perverse temper, some obliquity of vision
which overtakes the ablest minds at times, made him almost eagerly accept
his new partisan. One thing Philip knew: Damour had no love for
Detricand, who indeed had lately sent him word that for his work in
sending Fouche's men to attempt his capture in Bercy, he would have him
shot, if the Court of Nations upheld his rights to the duchy. Damour was
able, even if Damour was not honest. Damour, the able, the implacable and
malignant, should accompany him to Vienna.
The opening ceremony of the Congress was simple, but it was made notable
by the presence of the Emperor of Austria, who addressed a few words of
welcome to the envoys, to Philip, and, very pointedly, to the
representative of the French Nation, the aged Duc de Mauban, who, while
taking no active part in the Congress, was present by request of the
Directory. The Duke's long residence in Vienna and freedom from share in
the civil war in France had been factors in the choice of him when the
name was submitted to the Directory by General Grandjon-Larisse, upon
whom in turn it had been urged by Detricand.
The Duc de Mauban was the most marked figure of the Court, the Emperor
not excepted. Clean shaven, with snowy linen and lace, his own natural
hair, silver white, tied in a queue behind, he had large eloquent
wondering eyes that seemed always looking, looking beyond the thing he
saw. At first sight of him at his court, the Emperor had said: "The stars
have frightened him." No fanciful supposition, for the Duc de Mauban was
as well known an astronomer as student of history and philanthropist.
When the Emperor mentioned de Mauban's name Philip wondered where he had
heard it before. Something in the sound of it was associated with his
past, he knew not how. He had a curious feeling too that those
deliberate, searching dark eyes saw the end of this fight, this battle of
the strong. The face fascinated him, though it awed him. He admired it,
even as he detested the ardent strength of Detricand's face, where the
wrinkles of dissipation had given way to the bronzed carven look of the
war-beaten soldier.
It was fair battle between these two, and there was enough hatred in the
heart of each to make the fight deadly. He knew--and he had known since
that day, years ago, in the Place du Vier Prison--that Detricand loved
the girl whom he himself had married and dishonoured. He felt also that
Detricand was making this claim to the duchy more out of vengeance than
from desire to secure the title for himself. He read the whole deep
scheme: how Detricand had laid his mine at every Court in Europe to bring
him to this pass.
For hours Philip's witnesses were examined, among them the officers of
his duchy and Count Carignan Damour. The physician of the old Duke of
Bercy was examined, and the evidence was with Philip. The testimony of
Dalbarade, the French ex-Minister of Marine, was read and considered.
Philip's story up to the point of the formal signature by the old Duke
was straightforward and clear. So far the Court was in his favour.
Detricand, as natural heir of the duchy, combated each step in the
proceedings from the stand-point of legality, of the Duke's fatuity
concerning Philip, and his personal hatred of the House of Vaufontaine.
On the third day, when the Congress would give its decision, Detricand
brought the Chevalier to the palace. At the opening of the sitting he
requested that Damour be examined again. The Count was asked what
question had been put to Philip immediately before the deeds of
inheritance were signed. It was useless for Damour to evade the point,
for there were other officers of the duchy present who could have told
the truth. Yet this truth, of itself, need not ruin Philip. It was no
phenomenon for a prince to have one wife unknown, and, coming to the
throne, to take to himself another more exalted.
Detricand was hoping that the nice legal sense of mine and thine should
be suddenly weighted in his favour by a prepared tour de force. The
sympathies of the Congress were largely with himself, for he was of the
order of the nobility, and Philip's descent must be traced through
centuries of yeoman blood; yet there was the deliberate adoption by the
Duke to face, with the formal assent of the States of Bercy, but little
lessened in value by the fact that the French Government had sent its
emissaries to Bercy to protest against it. The Court had come to a point
where decision upon the exact legal merits of the case was difficult.
After Damour had testified to the question the Duke asked Philip when
signing the deeds at Bercy, Detricand begged leave to introduce another
witness, and brought in the Chevalier. Now he made his great appeal.
Simply, powerfully, he told the story of Philip's secret marriage with
Guida, and of all that came after, up to the scene in the Cohue Royale
when the marriage was proved and the child given back to Guida; when the
Countess Chantavoine, turning from Philip, acknowledged to Guida the
justice of her claim. He drove home the truth with bare unvarnished
power--the wrong to Guida, the wrong to the Countess, the wrong to the
Dukedom of Bercy, to that honour which should belong to those in high
estate. Then at the last he told them who Guida was: no peasant girl, but
the granddaughter of the Sieur Larchant de Mauprat of de Mauprats of
Chambery: the granddaughter of an exile indeed, but of the noblest blood
of France.
The old Duc de Mauban fixed his look on him intently, and as the story
proceeded his hand grasped the table before him in strong emotion. When
at last Detricand turned to the Chevalier and asked him to bear witness
to the truth of what he had said, the Duke, in agitation, whispered to
the President.
All that Detricand had said moved the Court powerfully, but when the
withered little flower of a man, the Chevalier, told in quaint brief
sentences the story of the Sieur de Mauprat, his sufferings, his exile,
and the nobility of his family, which had indeed, far back, come of royal
stock, and then at last of Guida and the child, more than one member of
the Court turned his head away with misty eyes.
It remained for the Duc de Mauban to speak the word which hastened and
compelled the end. Rising in his place, he addressed to the Court a few
words of apology, inasmuch as he was without real power there, and then
he turned to the Chevalier.
"Monsieur le chevalier," said he, "I had the honour to know you in
somewhat better days for both of us. You will allow me to greet you here
with my profound respect. The Sieur Larchant de Mauprat"--he turned to
the President, his voice became louder--"the Sieur de Mauprat was my
friend. He was with me upon the day I married the Duchess Guidabaldine.
Trouble, exile came to him. Years passed, and at last in Jersey I saw him
again. It was the very day his grandchild was born. The name given to her
was Guidabaldine--the name of the Duchese de Mauban. She was Guidabaldine
Landresse de Landresse, she is my godchild. There is no better blood in
France than that of the de Mauprats of Chambery, and the grandchild of my
friend, her father being also of good Norman blood, was worthy to be the
wife of any prince in Europe. I speak in the name of our order, I speak
for Frenchmen, I speak for France. If Detricand, Prince of Vaufontaine,
be not secured in his right of succession to the dukedom of Bercy, France
will not cease to protest till protest hath done its work. From France
the duchy of Bercy came. It was the gift of a French king to a Frenchman,
and she hath some claims upon the courtesy of the nations."
For a moment after he took his seat there was absolute silence. Then the
President wrote upon a paper before him, and it was passed to each member
of the Court sitting with him. For a moment longer there was nothing
heard save the scratching of a quill. Philip recalled that day at Bercy
when the Duke stooped and signed his name upon the deed of adoption and
succession three times-three fateful times.
At last the President, rising in his place, read the pronouncement of the
Court: that Detricand, Prince of Vaufontaine, be declared true inheritor
of the duchy of Bercy, the nations represented here confirming him in his
title.
The President having spoken, Philip rose, and, bowing to the Congress
with dignity and composure, left the chamber with Count Carignan Damour.
As he passed from the portico into the grounds of the palace, a figure
came suddenly from behind a pillar and touched him on the arm. He turned
quickly, and received upon the face a blow from a glove.
The owner of the glove was General Grandjon-Larisse.
CHAPTER XLIII
"You understand, monsieur?" said Grandjon-Larisse.
"Perfectly--and without the glove, monsieur le general," answered Philip
quietly. "Where shall my seconds wait upon you?" As he spoke he turned
with a slight gesture towards Damour.
"In Paris, monsieur, if it please you."
"I should have preferred it here, monsieur le general--but Paris, if it
is your choice."
"At 22, Rue de Mazarin, monsieur." Then he made an elaborate bow to
Philip. "I bid you good-day, monsieur."
"Monseigneur, not monsieur," Philip corrected. "They may deprive me of my
duchy, but I am still Prince Philip d'Avranche. I may not be robbed of my
adoption."
There was something so steady, so infrangible in Philip's composure now,
that Grandjon-Larisse, who had come to challenge a great adventurer, a
marauder of honour, found his furious contempt checked by some integral
power resisting disdain. He intended to kill Philip--he was one of the
most expert swordsmen in France--yet he was constrained to respect a
composure not sangfroid and a firmness in misfortune not bravado. Philip
was still the man who had valiantly commanded men; who had held of the
high places of the earth. In whatever adventurous blood his purposes had
been conceived, or his doubtful plans accomplished, he was still,
stripped of power, a man to be reckoned with: resolute in his course once
set upon, and impulsive towards good as towards evil. He was never so
much worth respect as when, a dispossessed sovereign with an empty title,
discountenanced by his order, disbarred his profession, he held himself
ready to take whatever penalty now came.
In the presence of General Grandjon-Larisse, with whom was the might of
righteous vengeance, he was the more distinguished figure. To Philip now
there came the cold quiet of the sinner, great enough to rise above
physical fear, proud enough to say to the world: "Come, I pay the debt I
owe. We are quits. You have no favours to give, and I none to take. You
have no pardon to grant, and I none to ask."
At parting Grandjon-Larisse bowed to Philip with great politeness, and
said: "In Paris then, monsieur le prince."
Philip bowed his head in assent.
When they met again, it was at the entrance to the Bois de Boulogne near
the Maillot gate.
It was a damp grey morning immediately before sunrise, and at first there
was scarce light enough for the combatants to see each other perfectly,
but both were eager and would not delay.
As they came on guard the sun rose. Philip, where he stood, was full in
its light. He took no heed, and they engaged at once. After a few passes
Grandjon-Larisse said: "You are in the light, monseigneur; the sun shines
full upon you," and he pointed to the shade of a wall near by. "It is
darker there."
"One of us must certainly be in the dark-soon," answered Philip grimly,
but he removed to the wall. From the first Philip took the offensive. He
was more active, and he was quicker and lighter of fence than his
antagonist. But Grandjon-Larisse had the surer eye, and was invincibly
certain of hand and strong of wrist. At length Philip wounded his
opponent slightly in the left breast, and the seconds came forward to
declare that honour was satisfied. But neither would listen or heed;
their purpose was fixed to fight to the death. They engaged again, and
almost at once the Frenchman was slightly wounded in the wrist. Suddenly
taking the offensive and lunging freely, Grandjon-Larisse drove Philip,
now heated and less wary, backwards upon the wall. At last, by a
dexterous feint, he beat aside Philip's guard and drove the sword through
his right breast at one fierce lunge.
With a moan Philip swayed and fell forward into the arms of Damour, still
grasping his weapon. Grandjon-Larisse stooped to the injured man.
Unloosing his fingers from the sword, Philip stretched up a hand to his
enemy.
"I am hurt to death," he said. "Permit my compliments to the best
swordsman I have ever known." Then with a touch of sorry humour he added:
"You cannot doubt their sincerity."
Grandjon-Larisse was turning away when Philip called him back. "Will you
carry my profound regret to the Countess Chantavoine?" he whispered. "Say
that it lies with her whether Heaven pardon me."
Grandjon-Larisse hesitated an instant, then answered: