(5)
When Laurent first saw that afternoon the ramshackle conveyance in the similitude of a chaise which waited for them at the famous turning under the chestnuts he thought—and said—that it would never take them even as far as Sarzeau. And though the ancient postilion fixed Lyons or Marseilles as the goal of which it was, on the contrary, capable, Laurent was right. The wheel did not, it is true, actually leave the axle, but its intention of shortly doing so was clear enough. Hence the prophet of disaster found himself, towards dusk, a mile and a half out from Sarzeau, trying to help the postilion render the last services to the worn-out linch-pin, and to prevent Aymar from doing the same—Aymar who would probably now have to walk into Sarzeau before he could sup.
"When this happens in romances," observed the amateur wheelwright regretfully, "some kind Samaritan usually appears and offers hospitality."
But it was not till a good twenty minutes later, when the wheel was on the point of being pronounced good for the short distance, that an oldish gentleman came walking briskly round the turn of the road, and, to Laurent's surreptitiously manifested joy, did warmly press them to sup with him. It seemed that he had witnessed their plight from an upper window of his house, near by, and had issued forth with that design, so that, had they wished, it would have been difficult to reject his invitation.
So the postilion was despatched with the chaise to the inn at Sarzeau to order them a room, and, as they walked away together, the old gentleman made himself known to his guests—M. de Lanascol. Aymar and Laurent named themselves in response, and as his friend did so a slight spasm of apprehension shot across Laurent's mind: would not the name of La Rocheterie be known to their host—what might he not have heard? But either the name meant nothing or M. de Lanascol had heard nothing.
Some half-hour later, in a large room with faded rugs and old-fashioned furniture, they were awaiting a supper which already announced itself by an appetizing smell. M. de Lanascol had monarchical sympathies, as he soon divulged; indeed, having regard to Laurent's unmistakable uniform, he would hardly have bidden the travellers else. And very shortly, after due elation over the Allied victory and speculation as to its ultimate results (since, from what he said, it was by no means obvious yet what was going to happen in France) he was sounding that young man, in a well-bred manner, on the fighting he supposed him to have seen.
"But I have seen none, sir," avowed M. de Courtomer frankly. "I have been a prisoner since the first of May and have not very long escaped."
"Escaped!" exclaimed the old gentleman. "Ah, you must tell me about that, Monsieur! A prisoner in Vendée, I suppose, for I am not wrong, I think, in taking you for a Vendean officer?"
"No, you are quite right. But I was captured in Brittany, after carrying despatches."
"And on the first of May, I think you said," observed M. de Lanascol. "Then you had left Vendée before the arrival there of the lamented Marquis de la Rochejaquelein? Ah, what a loss! There are rumours also, that since Sunday the Vendeans have lost another fight and another general. Yes, Vendée has been unfortunate throughout," he finished regretfully. "Really we have done better here in Brittany. Of course there have been set-backs, as for instance Sol de Grisolles' defeat at Auray only five days ago—have you heard of that?—and just about the time that you were captured, that horrible affair at the bridge of Pont-aux-Rochers. (But that was due to treachery, as I expect you know.) Still, Brittany has gathered, I think I may justly say, more laurels than her sister."
At the mention of the fatal bridge Laurent felt the blood rushing to his face. He did not look at his companion, and yet he knew that Aymar, silent in his highbacked seventeenth-century chair, had suddenly gone rigid. He himself wished with all his heart that they had not accepted M. de Lanascol's hospitality. And the old gentleman had now transferred his attention to his other guest.
"And you, Monsieur de la Rocheterie, is it indiscreet. . . ?"
"I have taken part in the campaign, Monsieur," replied Aymar. Even in that uncomfortable moment Laurent noticed that he did not use the word "fought." "But, like my friend, I had the misfortune to be made prisoner near its commencement."
"Indeed!" said M. de Lanascol. "I condole with you. And . . . wounded, too, I think?" For under his coat Aymar was still wearing his arm in a sling.
"Yes," said his guest rather hesitatingly. And Laurent trusted that in his zeal for exactitude he would not think it necessary to explain further.
"Severely wounded, I am afraid," hazarded M. de Lanascol with sympathetic interest. "For indeed, Monsieur, if you will pardon the remark, you look like it. I regret that I did not offer you a glass of wine on arrival, especially as our supper delays somewhat unaccountably. May I ring for one now?"
"On no account, thank you, Monsieur. I am perfectly recovered."
His host had his eyes fixed on the clear, pale visage. The daylight outside had now faded sufficiently to allow full play to the candelabrum on the table at his elbow, whose radiance struck its own unmistakable colour out of Aymar's hair.
M. de Lanascol moved suddenly. "Pardon me, again, Monsieur de la Rocheterie, but if I might presume . . . pray do not take it amiss if I suggest, that, with your appearance, you should be a little cautious how you traverse the country round Locmélar. Feeling is very strong there about the disaster at Pont-aux-Rochers, and though that man L'Oiseleur was subsequently shot by his own troops for it, it is rumoured that he is still alive. I once had a glimpse of him, and you are so . . . you resemble him so strikingly—though, of course, with a great difference—that I feel a warning. . . . Please believe that I have no intention of being offensive."
In the arctic, aching silence which succeeded this speech Laurent knew not whether his own heart-beats or the ticking of the clock were the louder. Oh, that they were back on the high road, at the inn, anywhere!
Aymar was on his feet. He had not flushed; his colourless face was unbetraying. "I am . . . L'Oiseleur. As you would evidently not wish to extend your hospitality to him, Monsieur, I will relieve you of the necessity."
He made the slightest, most formal inclination of the head, and walked towards the door. Laurent began hotly, "You are completely misinformed, Monsieur! There was no——"
But Aymar stopped him with a look, and after a second he turned and silently followed him out, leaving the old gentleman apparently petrified in the act of rising from his chair.
The door of the hall stood open, for it was a very warm evening. Without a word the two went through it, and down the steps and along the straight wide path to the gates. Venus hung in the west, lovely and indifferent to human hurts; an owl hooted in the distance. The silence between them was like heavy metal; what was there in all the world to say? Desperately Laurent cast about for the phrase that should break it, but they were walking down the avenue before he brought it out.
"We must go to the inn," he said in an almost unnaturally matter-of-fact manner. His companion did not reply for a moment. Then he said, still walking on,
"They may think me too much like 'that man L'Oiseleur' there also." His voice was curiously flat and toneless. Laurent braced himself to make his next suggestion.
"Then I will go in and order supper. Our room is ordered."
"Do," replied Aymar in the same expressionless voice. "Supper for yourself, I mean. I will follow a little later and order mine. You need not know me."
"Do you really imagine that I——" began Laurent, and then stopped with a great sigh, and, coming a little nearer as he walked, slid his arm into Aymar's and gripped it close.
They were late for the table d'hôte supper at the inn, and were served separately at the side of the room, attracting little notice. Laurent's head at least was spinning from the blow. His own side! His own side could believe a thing like that of L'Oiseleur, on hearsay, without investigation. It had not taken long to give the lie to his own arguments on that score a few days ago.
Once upstairs alone, in the room which had been reserved for them, Aymar turned on his companion.
"Laurent, this has got to end! We must say good-bye."
Laurent, already unfastening his uniform, shook his head with a smile. "I am not going to be dismissed like that!"
"You are not going to be exposed again to what happened this evening!"
"Probably not. It will not happen again. And at any rate I took no harm."
"Did you enjoy it, then?" asked Aymar, suddenly flaring up. "What do you think I felt like, seeing you involved in my shame?"
Laurent ceased undressing and looked at him. "If you want me to leave you on account of your own feelings," he said gently, "I suppose I must consider it."
There was an oaken coffer standing at the foot of the fourposter bed. Aymar sat down on it without a word, and covered his eyes with his hand.
"Must I consider it, Aymar?" asked Laurent after a long pause. (He had thought he could control his voice better than that.)
"Not if you can . . . bear with me," replied Aymar, in a voice still less under his own management; and, turning, he hid his face for a moment against the end of the bed.
Nothing more was said about parting.