Authors: Baroness Emmuska Orczy
After the booming of the cathedral clock, de Marmont had ceased to
struggle: he accepted defeat probably because he, too—in spite of
himself—saw that the day of his idol's destiny was over, and that the
brilliant Star which had glittered on the firmament of Europe for a
quarter of a century had by the will of God now irretrievably declined.
He had accepted Crystal's ministrations for his comfort with a look of
gratitude. Jeanne had put a pillow to his head, and he lay now outwardly
placid and quiescent.
Even, perhaps—for such is human nature and such the heart of youth—as
he saw Crystal's sweet face bent with
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so much pity toward him a sense
of hope, of happiness yet to be, chased the more melancholy thoughts
away. Crystal was kind—he argued to himself—she has already
forgiven—women are so ready to forgive faults and errors that spring
from an intensity of love.
He sought her hand and she gave it—just as a sweet Sister of Mercy and
Gentleness would do, for whom the individual man—even the enemy—does
not exist—only the suffering human creature whom her touch can soothe.
He persuaded himself easily enough that when he pressed her hand she
returned the pressure, and renewed hope went forth once more soaring
upon the wings of fancy.
Then the doctor came. M. le Comte had been fortunate in securing
him—had with impulsive generosity promised him ample payment—and then
brought him along without delay. He praised Mlle. de Cambray for her
kindness to the patient, asked a few questions as to how the accident
had occurred, and was satisfied that M. de Marmont had slipped on the
tiled floor and then struck his head against the door. He was not likely
to examine the purple bruises on the patient's throat: his business
began and ended with a broken leg to mend. As M. le Comte de Cambray
assured him that M. de Marmont was very wealthy, the worthy doctor most
readily offered his patient the hospitality of his own house until
complete recovery.
He then superintended the lifting of the sick man on to the stretcher,
and having taken final leave of M. le Comte, Mademoiselle and all those
concerned and given his instructions to the bearers, he was the first to
leave the house.
M. le Comte, pleasantly conscious of Christian duty toward an enemy
nobly fulfilled, nodded curtly to de Marmont, whom he hated with all his
heart, and then turned his back on an exceedingly unpleasant scene,
fervently wishing that it had never occurred in his house, and equally
fervently thankful that the accident had not more fateful
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consequences.
He retired to his smoking-room, calling to St. Genis and to Crystal to
follow him.
But Crystal did not go at once. She stood in the dark corridor—quite
still—watching the stretcher bearers in their careful, silent work,
little guessing on what a filmy thread her whole destiny was hanging at
this moment. The Fates were spinning, spinning, spinning and she did not
know it. Had the solemn silence which hung so ominously in the twilight
not been broken till after the sick man had been borne away, the whole
of Crystal's future would have been shaped differently.
But as with the rain at Waterloo, God had need of a tool for the
furtherance of His will and it was Maurice de St. Genis whom He
chose—Maurice who with his own words set the final seal to his destiny.
De Marmont's eyes as he was being carried over the threshold dwelt upon
the graceful form of Crystal—clad all in white—all womanliness and
gentleness now—her sweet face only faintly distinguishable in the
gloom. St. Genis, whose nerves were still jarred with all that he had
gone through to-day and irritated by Crystal's assiduity beside the sick
man, resented that last look of farewell which de Marmont dared to throw
upon the woman whom he loved. An ungenerous impulse caused him to try
and aim a last moral blow at his enemy:
"Come, Crystal," he said coldly, "the man has been better looked after
than he deserves. But for your father's interference I should have wrung
his neck like the cowardly brute that he was."
And with the masterful air of a man who has both right and privilege on
his side, he put his arm round Crystal's waist and tried to draw her
away, and as he did so he whispered a tender: "Come, Crystal!" in her
ear.
De Marmont—who at this moment was taking a last fond look at the girl
he loved, and was busy the while making
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plans for a happy future
wherein Crystal would play the chief rôle and would console him for all
disappointments by the magnitude of her love—de Marmont was brought
back from the land of dreams by the tender whisperings of his rival. His
own helplessness sent a flood of jealous wrath surging up to his brain.
The wild hatred which he had always felt for St. Genis ever since that
awful humiliation which he had suffered at Brestalou, now blinded him to
everything save to the fact that here was a rival who was gloating over
his helplessness—a man who twice already had humiliated him before
Crystal de Cambray—a man who had every advantage of caste and of
community of sympathy! a man therefore who must be in his turn
irretrievably crushed in the sight of the woman whom he still hoped to
win!
De Marmont had no definite idea as to what he meant to do. Perhaps, just
at this moment, the pale, intangible shadow of Reason had lifted up one
corner of the veil that hid the truth from before his eyes—the absolute
and naked fact that Crystal de Cambray was not destined for him. She
would never marry him—never. The Empire of France was no more—the
Emperor was a fugitive. To St. Genis and his caste belonged the
future—and the turn had come for the adherents of the fallen Emperor to
sink into obscurity or to go into exile.
Be that as it may, it is certain that in this fateful moment de Marmont
was only conscious of an all-powerful overwhelming feeling of hatred and
the determination that whatever happened to himself he must and would
prevent St. Genis from ever approaching Crystal de Cambray with words of
love again. That he had the power to do this he was fully conscious.
"Crystal!" he called, and at the same time ordered the bearers to halt
on the doorstep for a moment. "Crystal, will you give me your hand in
farewell?"
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The young girl would probably have complied with his wish, but St. Genis
interposed.
"Crystal," he said authoritatively, "your father has already called you.
You have done everything that Christian charity demands. . . ." And once
more he tried to draw the young girl away.
"Do not touch her, man," called de Marmont in a loud voice, "a coward
like you has no right to touch the hand of a good woman."
"M. de Marmont," broke in Crystal hotly, "you presume on your
helplessness. . . ."
"Pay no heed to the ravings of a maniac, Crystal," interposed St. Genis
calmly, "he has fallen so low now, that contemptuous pity is all that he
deserves."
"And contempt without pity is all that you deserve, M. le Marquis de St.
Genis," cried de Marmont excitedly. "Ask him, Mademoiselle Crystal, ask
him where is the man who to-day saved his life? whom I myself saw to-day
on the roadside, wounded and half dead with fatigue, on horseback, with
the inert body of M. de St. Genis lying across his saddle-bow. Ask him
how he came to lie across that saddle-bow? and whether his English
friend and mine, Bobby Clyffurde, did not—as any who passed by could
guess—drag him out of that hell at Waterloo and bring him into safety,
whilst risking his own life. Ask him," he continued, working himself up
into a veritable fever of vengeful hatred, as he saw that St.
Genis—sullen and glowering—was doing his best to drag Crystal away, to
prevent her from listening further to this awful indictment, these
ravings of a lunatic half-distraught with hate. "Ask him where is
Clyffurde now? to what lonely spot he has crawled in order to die while
M. le Marquis de St. Genis came back in gay apparel to court Mlle.
Crystal de Cambray? Ah! M. de St. Genis, you tried to heap opprobrium
upon me—you talked glibly of contempt and of pity. Of a truth 'tis
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I
do pity you now, for Mademoiselle Crystal will surely ask you all those
questions, and by the Lord I marvel how you will answer them."
He fell back exhausted, in a dead faint no doubt, and St. Genis with a
wild cry like that of a beast in fury seized the nearest weapon that
came to his hand—a heavy oak chair which stood against the wall in the
corridor—and brandished it over his head. He would—had not Crystal at
once interposed—have killed de Marmont with one blow: even so he tried
to avoid Crystal in order to forge for himself a clear passage, to free
himself from all trammels so that he might indulge his lust to kill.
"Take the sick man away! quickly!" cried Crystal to the stretcher
bearers. And they—realising the danger—the awfulness of the tragedy
which, with that clumsy weapon wielded by a man who was maddened with
rage, was hovering in the air, hurried over the threshold with their
burden as fast as they could: then out into the street: and Crystal
seizing hold of the front door shut it to with a loud bang after them.
Then with a cry that was just primitive in its passion—savage almost
like that of a lioness in the desert who has been robbed of her
young—she turned upon St. Genis:
"Where is he now?" she called, and her voice was quite unrecognisable,
harsh and hoarse and peremptory.
"Crystal, let me assure you," protested Maurice, "that I have already
done all that lay in my power. . . ."
"Where is he now?" she broke in with the same fierce intensity.
She stood there before him—wild, haggard, palpitating—a passionate
creature passionately demanding to know where the loved one was. It
seemed as if she would have torn the words out of St. Genis' throat, so
bitter and in
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tense was the look of contempt and of hatred wherewith she
looked on him.
M. le Comte—very much upset and ruffled by all that he had heard—came
out of his room just in time to see the stretcher-bearers disappearing
with their burden through the front door, and the door itself closed to
with a bang by Crystal. Truly his sense of decorum and of the fitness of
things had received a severe shock and now he had the additional
mortification of seeing his beautiful daughter—his dainty and
aristocratic Crystal—in a state bordering on frenzy.
"My darling Crystal," he exclaimed, as he made his way quickly to her
side and put a restraining hand upon her arm.
But Crystal now was far beyond his control: she shook off his hand—she
paid no heed to him, she went closer up to St. Genis and once more
repeated her ardent, passionate query:
"Where is he now?"
"At the English hospital, I hope," said St. Genis with as much cool
dignity as he could command. "Have I not assured you, Crystal, that I've
done all I could? . . ."
"At the English hospital? . . . you hope? . . ." she retorted in a voice
that sounded trenchant and shrill through the overwhelming passion which
shook and choked it in her throat. "But the roadside—where you left him
. . . to die in a ditch perhaps . . . like a dog that has no home? . . .
where was that?"
"I gave full directions at the English hospital," he replied. "I
arranged for an ambulance to go and find him . . . for a bed for him
. . . I. . . ."
"Give me those directions," she commanded.
"On the way to Waterloo . . . on the left side of the road . . . close
by the six kilomètre milestone . . . the angle of the forest of Soigne
is just there . . . and there
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is a meadow which joins the edge of the
wood where they were making hay to-day. . . . No driver can fail to find
the place, Crystal . . . the ambulance. . . ."
But now she was no longer listening to him. She had abruptly turned her
back on him and made for the door. Her father interposed.
"What do you want to do, Crystal?" he said peremptorily.
"Go to him, of course," she said quietly—for she was quite calm now—at
any rate outwardly—strong and of set purpose.
"But you do not know where he is."
"I'll go to the English hospital first . . . father, dear, will you let
me pass?"
"Crystal," said M. le Comte firmly, as he stood his ground between his
daughter and the door, "you cannot go rushing through the streets of
Brussels alone—at this hour of the night—through all the soldiery and
all the drunken rabble."
"He is dying," she retorted, "and I am going to find him. . . ."
"You have taken leave of your senses, Crystal," said the Comte sternly.
"You seem to have forgotten your own personal dignity. . . ."
"Father! let me go!" she demanded—for she had tried to measure her
physical strength against his, and he was holding her wrists now whilst
a look of great anger was on his face.
"I tell you, Crystal," he said, "that you cannot go. I will do all that
lies in my power in the matter: I promise you: and Maurice," he added
harshly, "if he has a spark of manhood left in him will do his best to
second me . . . but I cannot allow my daughter to go into the streets at
this hour of the night."
"But you cannot prevent your sister from doing as she likes," here broke
in a tart voice from the back of the
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corridor. "Crystal, child! try and
bear up while I run to the English hospital first and, if necessary, to
the English doctor afterwards. And you, Monsieur my brother, be good
enough to allow Jeanne to open the door for me."
And Madame la Duchesse d'Agen in bonnet and shawl, helpful and
practical, made her way quietly to the door, preceded by faithful
Jeanne. With a cry of infinite relief—almost of happiness—Crystal at
last managed to disengage herself from her father's grasp and ran to the
old woman: "
Ma tante
," she said imploringly, "take me with you . . .
if I do not go to find him now . . . at once . . . my heart will break."