“It must have given you great pleasure to know that at Windsor her Majesty has given tokens of honour to the famous singer, the wife of a notable French subject, who, while passionately eager to keep alive French sentiment, has, as we believe, a deep loyalty to England.”
The Governor had said too much. He had thought to give the Seigneur an opportunity to recede from his seditious position there and then, and to win his future loyalty. M. Racine’s situation had peril, and the Governor had here shown him the way of escape. But he had said one thing that drove Louis Racine mad. He had given him unknown information about his own wife. Louis did not know that Madelinette had been received by the Queen, or that she had received “tokens of honour.” Wild with resentment, he saw in the Governor’s words a consideration for himself based only on the fact that he was the husband of the great singer. He trembled to his feet.
At that moment there was a cheering outside—great cheering—but he did not heed it; he was scarcely aware of it. If it touched his understanding at all, it only meant to him a demonstration in honour of the Governor.
“Loyalty to the flag of England, your Excellency!” he said, in a hoarse acrid voice—“you speak of loyalty to us whose lives for two centuries—” He paused, for he heard a voice calling his name.
“Louis! Louis! Louis!”
The fierce words he had been about to utter died on his lips, his eyes stared at the open window, bewildered and even frightened.
“Louis! Louis!”
Now the voice was inside the house. He stood trembling, both hands grasping the arms of the chair. Every eye in the room was now turned towards the door. As it opened, the Seigneur sank back in the chair, a look of helpless misery, touched by a fierce pride, covering his face.
“Louis!”
It was Madelinette, who, disregarding the assembled company, ran forward to him and caught both his hands in hers.
“O Louis, I have heard of your accident, and—” she stopped suddenly short. The Governor turned away his head. Every person in the room did the same. For as she bent over him—she saw. She saw for the first time; for the first time knew!
A look of horrified amazement, of shrinking anguish, crossed over her face. He felt the lightning-like silence, he knew that she had seen; he struggled to his feet, staring fiercely at her.
That one torturing instant had taken all the colour from her face, but there was a strange brightness in her eyes, a new power in her bearing. She gently forced him into the seat again.
“You are not strong enough, Louis. You must be tranquil.”
She turned now to the Governor. He made a sign to his suite, who, bowing, slowly left the room. “Permit me to welcome you to your native land again, Madame,” he said. “You have won for it a distinction it could never have earned, and the world gives you many honours.”
She was smiling and still, and with one hand clasping her husband’s, she said:
“The honour I value most my native land has given me: I am lady of the Manor here, and wife of the Seigneur Racine.”
Agitated triumph came upon Louis Racine’s face; a weird painful vanity entered into him. He stood up beside his wife, as she turned and looked at him, showing not a sign that what she saw disturbed her.
“It is no mushroom honour to be Seigneur of Pontiac, your Excellency,” he said, in a tone that jarred. “The barony is two hundred years old. By rights granted from the crown of France, I am Baron of Pontiac.”
“I think England has not yet recognised the title,” said the Governor suggestively, for he was here to make peace, and in the presence of this man, whose mental torture was extreme, he would not allow himself to be irritated.
“Our baronies have never been recognised,” said the Seigneur harshly. “And yet we are asked to love the flag of England and—”
“And to show that we are too proud to ask for a right that none can take away,” interposed Madelinette graciously and eagerly, as though to prevent Louis from saying what he intended. All at once she had had to order her life anew, to replace old thoughts by new ones. “We honour and obey the rulers of our land, and fly the English flag, and welcome the English Governor gladly when he comes to us—will your Excellency have some refreshment?” she added quickly, for she saw the cloud on the Seigneur’s brow. “Louis,” she added quickly, “will you—”
“I have ordered refreshment,” said the Seigneur excitedly, the storm passing from his face, however. “Havel, Tardif—where are you, fellows!” He stamped his foot imperiously.
Havel entered with a tray of wine and glasses, followed by Tardif loaded with cakes and comfits, and set them on the table.
Ten minutes later the Governor took his leave. At the front door he stopped surprised, for a guard of honour of twenty men were drawn up. He turned to the Seigneur.
“What soldiers are these?” he asked.
“The Seigneury company, your Excellency,” replied Louis.
“What uniform is it they wear?” he asked in an even tone, but with a black look in his eye, which did not escape Madelinette.
“The livery of the Barony of Pontiac,” answered the Seigneur.
The Governor looked at them a moment without speaking. “It is French uniform of the time of Louis Quinze,” he said. “Picturesque, but informal,” he added.
He went over, and taking a carbine from one of the men, examined it. “Your carbines are not so unconventional and antique,” he said meaningly, and with a frosty smile. “The compromise of the centuries—hein?” he added to the Cure, who, with the Avocat, was now looking on with some trepidation. “I am wondering if it is quite legal. It is charming to have such a guard of honour, but I am wondering—wondering—eh, monsieur l’avocat, is it legal?”
The Avocat made no reply, but the Cure’s face was greatly troubled. The Seigneur’s momentary placidity passed.
“I answer for their legality, your Excellency,” he said, in a high, assertive voice.
“Of course, of course, you will answer for it,” said the Governor, smiling enigmatically. He came forward and held out his hand to Madelinette.
“Madame, I shall remember your kindness, and I appreciate the simple honours done me here. Your arrival at the moment of my visit is a happy circumstance.”
There was a meaning in his eye—not in his voice—which went straight to Madelinette’s understanding. She murmured something in reply, and a moment afterwards the Governor, his suite, and the crowd were gone; and the men-at-arms-the fantastic body of men in their antique livery-armed with the latest modern weapons, had gone back to civic life again.
Inside the house once more, Madelinette laid her hand upon Louis’ arm with a smile that wholly deceived him for a moment. He thought now that she must have known of his deformity before she came—the world was so full of tale-bearers—and no doubt had long since reconciled herself to the painful fact. She had shown no surprise, no shrinking. There had been only the one lightning instant in which he had felt a kind of suspension of her breath and being, but when he had looked her in the face, she was composed and smiling. After all his frightened anticipation the great moment had come and gone without tragedy. With satisfaction he looked in the mirror in the hall as they passed inside the house. He saw no reason to quarrel with his face. Was it possible that the deformity did not matter after all?
He felt Madelinette’s hand on his arm. He turned and clasped her to his breast.
He did not notice that she kept her hands under her chin as he drew her to him, that she did not, as had been her wont, put them on his shoulders. He did not feel her shrink, and no one, seeing, could have said that she shrank from him in ever so little.