Under the Red Robe by Stanley John Weyman (trending books to read .txt) 📖

‘There is a bush handy outside the window. Let them air.’

‘Ohe, the bush? Well, to be sure they are damp. But—yes, yes, Monsieur, it is done. And the bolsters?’

‘There also,’ I said harshly. ‘Throw them out. Faugh! The place reeks of leather. Now, a clean hearth. And set the table before the open door, so that we may see the garden—so. And tell the cook that we dine at eleven, and that Madame and Mademoiselle will descend.’

‘Ohe! But M. le Capitaine ordered the dinner for half-past eleven.’

‘It must be advanced, then; and, mark you, my friend, if it is not ready when Madame comes down, you will suffer, and the cook too.’

When he was gone on his errand, I looked round. What else was lacking? The sun shone cheerily on the polished floor; the air, freshened by the rain which had fallen in the night, entered freely through the open doorway. A few bees lingering with the summer hummed outside. The fire crackled bravely; an old hound, blind and past work, lay warming its hide on the hearth. I could think of nothing more, and I stood and stood and watched the man set out the table and spread the cloth.

‘For how many, Monsieur?’ he asked in a scared tone.

‘For five,’ I answered; and I could not help smiling at myself.

For what would Zaton’s say could it see Berault turned housewife? There was a white glazed cup, an old-fashioned piece of the second Henry’s time, standing on a shelf. I took it down and put some late flowers in it, and set it in the middle of the table, and stood off myself to look at it. But a moment later, thinking I heard them coming, I hurried it away in a kind of panic, feeling on a sudden ashamed of the thing. The alarm proved to be false, however; and then again, taking another turn, I set the piece back. I had done nothing so foolish for—for more years than I like to count.

But when Madame and Mademoiselle came down, they had eyes neither for the flowers nor the room. They had heard that the Captain was out beating the village and the woods for the fugitive, and where I had looked for a comedy I found a tragedy. Madame’s face was so red with weeping that all her beauty was gone. She started and shook at the slightest sound, and, unable to find any words to answer my greeting, could only sink into a chair and sit crying silently.

Mademoiselle was in a mood scarcely more cheerful. She did not weep, but her manner was hard and fierce. She spoke absently, and answered fretfully. Her eyes glittered, and she had the air of straining her ears continually to catch some dreaded sound.

‘There is no news, Monsieur?’ she said as she took her seat. And she shot a swift look at me.

‘None, Mademoiselle.’

‘They are searching the village?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Where is Clon?’ This in a lower voice, and with a kind of shrinking in her face.

I shook my head. ‘I believe that they have him confined somewhere. And Louis, too,’ I said. ‘But I have not seen either of them.’

‘And where are—I thought these people would be here,’ she muttered. And she glanced askance at the two vacant places. The servant had brought in the meal.

‘They will be here presently,’ I said coolly. Let us make the most of the time. A little wine and food will do Madame good.’

She smiled rather sadly.

‘I think that we have changed places,’ she said. ‘And that you have turned host and we guests.’

‘Let it be so,’ I said cheerfully. ‘I recommend some of this ragout. Come, Mademoiselle, fasting can aid no one. A full meal has saved many a man’s life.’

It was clumsily said, perhaps; for she shuddered and looked at me with a ghastly smile. But she persuaded her sister to take something; and she took something on her own plate and raised her fork to her lips. But in a moment she laid it down again.

‘I cannot,’ she murmured. ‘I cannot swallow. Oh, my God, at this moment they may be taking him.’

I thought that she was about to burst into a passion of tears, and I repented that I had induced her to descend. But her self-control was not yet exhausted. By an effort, painful to see, she recovered her composure. She took up her fork, and ate a few mouthfuls. Then she looked at me with a fierce under-look.

‘I want to see Clon,’ she whispered feverishly. The man who waited on us had left the room.

‘He knows?’ I said.

She nodded, her beautiful face strangely disfigured. Her closed teeth showed between her lips. Two red spots burned in her white cheeks, and she breathed quickly. I felt, as I looked at her, a sudden pain at my heart, and a shuddering fear, such as a man, awaking to find himself falling over a precipice, might feel. How these women loved the man!

For a moment I could not speak. When I found my voice it sounded dry and husky.

‘He is a safe confidant,’ I muttered. ‘He can neither read nor write, Mademoiselle.’

‘No, but—’ and then her face became fixed. ‘They are coming,’ she whispered. ‘Hush!’ She rose stiffly, and stood supporting herself by the table. ‘Have they—have they—found him?’ she muttered. The woman by her side wept on, unconscious of what was impending.

I heard the Captain stumble far down the passage, and swear loudly; and I touched Mademoiselle’s hand.

‘They have not!’ I whispered. ‘All is well, Mademoiselle. Pray, pray calm yourself. Sit down and meet them as if nothing were the matter. And your sister! Madame, Madame,’ I cried, almost harshly, ‘compose yourself. Remember that you have a part to play.’

My appeal did something. Madame stifled her sobs. Mademoiselle drew a deep breath and sat down; and though she was still pale and still trembled, the worst was past.

And only just in time. The door flew open with a crash. The Captain stumbled into the room, swearing afresh.

‘SACRE NOM DU DIABLE!’ he cried, his face crimson with rage. ‘What fool placed these things here? My boots? My—’

His jaw fell. He stopped on the word, stricken silent by the new aspect of the room, by the sight of the little party at the table, by all the changes I had worked.

‘SAINT SIEGE!’ he muttered. ‘What is this?’ The Lieutenant’s grizzled face peering over his shoulder completed the picture.

‘You are rather late, M. le Capitaine,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Madame’s hour is eleven. But, come here are your seats waiting for you.’

‘MILLE TONNERRES!’ he muttered, advancing