He would attempt nothing against me, and he would give me at once an order for your release and a safe-conduct for you, in case it should now be necessary, so as to enable you to depart the country.'
There was silence. They continued to lean upon the parapet.
André-Louis fetched a ponderous sigh. 'You have been generous, Jean. I did not deserve this at your hands.'
'I am aware of it.' De Batz was stern. 'But I struck you yesterday, and I say again, it is my code that I must preserve the life of any man who has grounds for demanding satisfaction of me.'
André-Louis turned sideways against the stone parapet, so as to face the Gascon. 'But you also said that you have another reason?'
'It is true. I have preserved you also because I require of you in return a last service to the cause.'
'Ah, that, no! Name of God, I will not raise a finger ...'
'Wait, child! Hear first what the service is. It is one that you may actually desire to discharge. If you don't I'll not insist. I invite you to seek out the Comte de Provence. He should be at Turin by now, under the hospitality of his father-in-law, the King of Sardinia. Tell him of what has happened here, and of how we had brought matters to the very threshold of success for him. Then tell him how the chance was destroyed and why.'
It took André-Louis aback. 'To what purpose this?'
'The story has a moral. It may serve as a warning to him. Considering it, he may come into some acquaintance with honour. Let him know that his wanton neglect of it on this occasion has cost him more than the loss of Toulon. Thus he may render himself more worthy of the position he holds at the head of the monarchical cause in France, and he may see to it in future that he holds that position by virtue of something more than his birth. You may say that I sent you. Tell him that, if I remain, it is because I trust that this bitter lesson will not be wasted.' He paused, and the keen dark eyes flashed as he turned them upon his companion. 'Will you go?'
A smile of infinite bitterness broke across the haggard face of André-Louis.
'I will go, Jean.'
CHAPTER XLIV
ACCOUNT RENDERED
It may interest those who are concerned to analyse the sequel of events, the multiplication of circumstances, amœba-like by fission, to speculate upon what might have been the end of this story of André-Louis Moreau, but for that mission upon which the Baron de Batz despatched him, as a last service to the cause. Among his surviving papers there is no hint of what alternative he might have found.
Neither are there any details of the journey to Turin upon which he obediently set out. Remembering that the long line of French frontier from Belgium to the Mediterranean was an armed camp and that he would have to pass through it, the difficulties he encountered must have been considerable. We are also left to infer this from the fact that it was not until the early days of the following April that he rode into the capital of the Kingdom of Sardinia. He arrived there at just about the time that the triumphant Robespierrists, whose fate for a moment had lain in the hollow of his hand, were assuming the undisputed mastery of France. Danton's great head had rolled into the executioner's basket, and Robespierre, ably supported by his terrible acolytes Saint-Just and Couthon, was establishing with these two an evil triumvirate whose power was absolute. The restoration of the monarchy had never seemed so distant.
Turin, which André-Louis had deemed his goal, was to prove but a halting-place upon the way. He learned there that the Comte de Provence, unable to find an abiding refuge at the court of his timid father-in-law, had, after many humiliating appeals, been accorded in Verona the hospitality of the Republic of Venice. This as a result of representations made on his behalf by Russia and Spain, who undertook presently to provide for him more permanently.
His Highness had been received by the Most Serene Republic subject to certain rigorous conditions. He was to do nothing that should compromise the Republic's strict neutrality. The title of Regent which he had assumed would not there be recognized, nor must he look for any of the courtesies normally commanded by a person of royal blood.
To comply, he had assumed the title of Comte de Lisle, and he was quietly installed in the summer residence of the patrician family of Gazzola, near the Capuchin Convent in the suburbs of Verona. It was a simple, unpretentious villa, clad in jessamine and clematis.
His little court was much the same as it had been at Hamm. It was composed by the Counts d'Avaray and d'Entragues; two secretaries, one of whom was the Comte de Plougastel; a surgeon, Monsieur Colon; and four servants. The remainder of those who followed him or sought him in his exile were lodged in the inns of the town. For the rest, his existence was as impecunious as it had been in Westphalia, and he was constrained to continue the practice of a frugality unwelcome to one who loved good cheer as much as he did.
To seek him in these surroundings, André-Louis rode out from Turin again, and took the road through Piedmont and across the fertile plain of Lombardy where Spring had spread already her luxuriant carpets. It was on an April day that he rode at last, dusty and travel-worn, into the lovely, ancient, brick-and-marble city of the Scaligers, and drew rein in the courtyard of the Due Torri in the Piazza dei Signori.
Here, scarcely had he set foot to the ground, whilst an ostler led away his horse, and the landlord stood to receive his commands, a lady dressed for walking, in a long claret cloak and a wide black hat, who issued from the inn, was brought to a staggering halt on the very threshold by the sight of him.
André-Louis found himself looking into the face of Madame de Plougastel, a white face in which the lips were parted, the eyes wide, and the eyebrows raised, its whole expression blending astonishment and fear.
To him, too, there was, of course, surprise in the meeting. But it was slight and transient. Her presence here was very natural, and she was of those he must have sought before again departing.
He bared his head, and bowed low with a murmured 'Madame!'
Thereupon, after another instant's gaping pause, she brushed past the landlord and came to clutch the traveller by his two shoulders.
'André-Louis!' she cried, her note almost interrogative. 'André-Louis! It is you! It is you!'
There was a queer tenderness in her voice that moved him. He feared that she was about to weep. He schooled himself to reply in quiet, level tones.
'It is I, madame. I take you by surprise, no doubt.'
'No doubt? You take me by surprise! By surprise?' And now it seemed as if she wanted to laugh, or as if she balanced between laughter and tears. 'Whence are you? Whence do you spring?' she asked him.
'Why, from France, of course.'
'Of course? You say, of course? You spring from the grave, and you say: I come from France, of course.'
But as now it was his turn to stare, she took him by the arm.
'Come you in,' she said, and almost dragged him with her across the threshold, leaving the landlord to shrug his shoulders and to inform the waiting ostler in confidence that they were all mad, these French.
André-Louis was conducted along a gloomy, unevenly paved passage, and ushered into an austere but fairly spacious sitting-room on the left of it. A rug was spread on the stone floor. The ceiling was rudely frescoed in a pattern of fruit and flowers. The sparse furniture was of dark walnut roughly carved. The tall mullioned windows, about which green creepers rioted, looked out upon a garden splashed with sunshine.
He stood bemused in mid-apartment whilst for a moment again she surveyed him. Then, still bemused, she had taken him in her arms. She was kissing him fondly and fondly murmuring his name before he took alarm at her transports.
'Madame! Madame! In Heaven's name, collect yourself, madame.'
'Can I help it, André-Louis?