The Wounded Name

by D. K. Broster

(7)

The adversaries who had never met went out together into the inn garden. There was in it a tunnel-like arbour, such as is not uncommon in French country hostelries; it was covered with a vine, and contained a rough table with a bench on either side. Colonel Richard threw a glance within, and saying, "We shall be undisturbed here, I think, Monsieur," led the way in.

The sun came greenly through the beautiful vine leaves behind the Imperialist's severe, upright head. Aymar looked him in the face and said, "I must tell you first who I am. You shall think it strange of me to seek you out like this, but I will not keep you long. My name is La Rocheterie."

The dry, rough-edged vine leaves seemed to twitter in the little breeze; there was no other sound for a few seconds. Aymar did not see Colonel Richard's face; it had vanished suddenly in a light green mist. But he heard his voice saying curtly, "We might as well sit down, Monsieur de la Rocheterie," and in a moment more he saw that the Imperialist had done so. But he himself remained on his feet.

"It is not worth it, Monsieur. I have only to say——"

He broke off short. A paralyzing idea had just occurred to him. He was going to ask a favour of this man, who must despise him from his heart, who might not improbably have him thrown out of the place altogether. And surely it would seem to the Bonapartist that he would never dare to do such a thing had he not believed himself to have a claim on his opponent . . . for the victory he had put within his grasp?

Even the clear vine leaves vanished this time. He felt some, however, in his left hand. . . . And once more he heard Colonel Richard's voice saying, "I think, Monsieur de la Rocheterie, that if we are to conduct this interview to any purpose, you had better sit down!"

And to this, lest the whole conversation should continue in this curious manner, with a person whom one heard but could not see, Aymar's brain assented. He found himself sitting on the opposite bench, the table between them, and in his left hand two vine leaves and a portion of a third. He did not know how they had come there.

"That is better," said the Bonapartist, looking at him very hard indeed. He had eyes like cold, clear water—eyes that would make short work of treachery. "Well, what is it that you were going to say?"

The voice, the eyes, steadied Aymar. He began again and his own voice was as cold as the other's.

"The letter addressed to me which was brought to you, Monsieur, at the Cheval Blanc near Saint-Goazec on the night of the 27th of April——"

"—Excuse me!" broke in the Imperialist, leaning forward, "but if you have come to tell me that that letter never really came from you . . ." He paused for a second, and Aymar went on quickly, "That was not in the least my intention. If my messenger on that occasion tried to take on himself any responsibility he was quite unjustified. I alone was responsible for sending the letter."

There had been a light in the eyes looking at him. It died down now as Colonel Richard said, "I was going on to remark that I have been hoping, ever since Pont-aux-Rochers, that there had been some mistake, and that some day I should hear it. I should not be very hard to convince that there had been. . . . You say the responsibility for that act, Monsieur, was yours alone. One has sometimes to shoulder unmerited responsibility; any soldier knows that. I would so much rather think that that had been the case."

Aymar met his gaze full. It was not entirely cold, after all.

"I am sorry," he answered steadily. "You are very kind. But . . . I sent the letter—knowingly. I myself deciphered those passages." He had taken his arm out of the sling, and began to arrange his three vine leaves on the table, the broken fragment in the middle. "It is of my motive in sending it that I wish to speak to you, if you will allow it."

Colonel Richard had an elbow on the table now. Shading his eyes with his hand, he motioned to him to proceed.

And Aymar left his pattern for the moment, gripping the edge of the table instead. "Am I wrong in fancying, Monsieur, that you have kept silence on that point, my motive? I have been a prisoner, and scarcely know yet what reports are going about, but I was in the hands of those who would not have scrupled to take full advantage of the knowledge, if they had had it. They did not seem to have it. . . . Might I know that I have not been deluding myself?"

For a moment the whole of existence seemed to turn on the answer to that question. And instead of answering it his enemy might say, and with justification, "Why should I tell you that? Are you trying to drive another bargain with me?"

The almost unendurable tension ended at last. "No, you have not been deluding yourself," said Colonel Richard slowly. "I promised your emissary that the lady should know nothing. I kept that promise; but as it happens I have done more. I mean, that no one else knows for whose sake you made your disastrous venture—nor indeed that it was made for the sake of any single person. And, as I have kept silence till now, I shall continue to keep it."

"Thank you," said Aymar; and for the moment could say no more. The vine leaves were in shreds by now. But after a silence he went on, "That is almost more than I dared to hope. If that lady can be spared the knowledge, I shall be . . . I am . . . most profoundly grateful to you."

Under the shading hand he could see the older man's mouth contract. Colonel Richard probably wished to get rid of him as soon as possible, so Aymar took hold of the table to pull himself up.

The other instantly removed his hand. "Oblige me by staying a moment, Monsieur de la Rocheterie! There are one or two things I should like to say to you. Will you tell me what you had up your sleeve when you sent that letter?"

Aymar did stay—and very still. "Why should I have had anything up my sleeve, Monsieur?"

"Because it is quite incredible that you should have made me an unconditional present of your men's lives! I thought so at the time—I think so more than ever now. You had some counterplan connected with their presence at the bridge; I am sure of it."

"What does that matter now?" asked Aymar with a long breath, and swept the torn vine leaves into a heap.

Colonel Richard leant over the table. "But you would oblige me greatly if you would answer my question. To me it seems that we have gone too far to leave the business there." And, as Aymar still did not answer, he said, half impatiently, half gently, "Well, then, as you seem determined not to defend yourself, Monsieur de la Rocheterie, take a further step still, and assure me that you intended your men to be ambushed, that you did not do everything in your power to prevent it! Come, now, why did your plan fail?"

Aymar lifted his head and met the keen, half-compassionate eyes for a second. Then, very briefly, he told his story to his adversary.

There was a silence in which even the vine leaves did not stir.

"Monsieur de la Rocheterie," said the man on the other side of the table at last, "will you allow me, as an old soldier with, I suppose, twenty years the disadvantage of you, to give you a piece of advice?"

Aymar, who had put his head back against the trellis, nodded, a little bewildered. This was fantastic—and yet very real.

"Ask for a court-martial, or rather, a court of enquiry!"

But at that the young man moved and flushed. "Impossible, sir."

"Why? Not, I am sure, that you would not face it? You seem to me, if I may be allowed to judge from what you are doing now, to possess a very rare kind of courage. Why do you say that a court-martial is impossible?"

The flush was deeper this time. "You are much too generous," said Aymar with some difficulty. "For a moment, after the disaster, a court-martial did seem the only way out, and I gave up my sword for that purpose to my second-in-command. But since then the case has been . . . judged . . ." (his voice failed him entirely for a second) ". . . and besides, I have had time to reflect. A court-martial would involve telling the whole truth—my motive for sending you the information. It would be absurd and odious to invite an enquiry and then to conceal a vital fact. Yet if I tell the whole truth I do the thing I most want to avoid—bring that lady's name into the business, so that she cannot fail to learn just what I pray she may never learn. You see that, Colonel, surely?"

"Perfectly. But have you reflected that, by concealing your motive for doing what you did, you are laying yourself open to the imputation of its being a far more disgraceful one than it was?"

"I have reflected." His mouth set itself. "The imputation has already been made."

"And you are going on like that? What about other people's feelings? You have a right, perhaps, to immolate your own, but you have kindred, I expect?"

"I have not forgotten them," answered Aymar, and for a moment he looked out of the green-framed doorway into the sunshine beyond. "I should indeed be selfish if I refused any means, however nearly intolerable, if they would clear me. But it is just my . . . motive, which seems to me to render the case hopeless from the first. If I could go before a court-martial and relate a story of a plan that miscarried, I might hope to be believed and acquitted, even though . . . even though I have since been shot by my own men. But to admit that the scheme was directed to saving a woman's—a kinswoman's—life . . . how could I hope, after its disastrous failure, to obtain acquittal on those grounds?—Would you acquit me, Colonel Richard?"

The Imperialist was looking thoughtfully at the table, one thin sinewy hand supporting his head, the fingers of the other drumming lightly on the wood. "I don't know—I don't know. It is a difficult case. Dispassionately considered I suppose—but hardly any tribunal is really dispassionate. However, I do recognize that you are not condemning yourself to obloquy entirely for the sake of sparing someone else's feelings—which in the end would obviously be the last result you would achieve by such a course. . . . I have seen that done with such fatal results, Monsieur, that you must excuse my perhaps unwarrantable interference in your private affairs. I hope you will excuse it in any case?"

"Excuse it!" exclaimed Aymar rather hoarsely. "I have no words to thank you for your kindness! I shall never forget it. I . . ." For an instant he put a hand over his eyes, then, removing it, went on, "But I should like to ask you a question in my turn. How was it that in your first interview with my messenger, earlier on that evening, he gained from you the impression that the lady was in serious danger, an impression which was so much strengthened, immediately afterwards, by one of your subalterns . . . to my cost?"

Colonel Richard abruptly got up and began to walk up and down the narrow arbour.

"I would rather you asked me any question but that, Monsieur de la Rocheterie."

"But I want to know," said Aymar faintly. "It has been such an enigma to me, how the idea ever arose that you intended to shoot her."

"If you will be persuaded by me you will not insist on knowing now."

"It is my only chance of learning the truth," urged L'Oiseleur. He was getting quite dazed with strain and fatigue.

But when Colonel Richard had finished it was not fatigue of which he was conscious. His head was propped on his clenched fists, his face invisible, and the elder man was leaning against the table with his back to him.

"Now you know why I almost regretted Pont-aux-Rochers," said the latter, looking at the floor, "and why I wished I had not let my officers know from whom I had the information which led to it . . . and most of all did I regret that I had allowed your lieutenant to have that letter back again, when I heard——"

"What had happened to me in consequence," supplied Aymar in an almost extinguished voice. He raised a face that matched it. "Yes, I understand. But you are excessively punctilious, Colonel Richard. Others will not judge so mercifully."

"They cannot, if you refuse to defend yourself."

"I have already explained to you why I cannot. And what you have just told me will hardly render my defence more easy, will it?" He gave the ghost of a laugh. "My God! it makes me almost a figure in a farce! But I thank you—I thank you for everything." And this time he got successfully to his feet.

"There is no need to thank me," said Colonel Richard almost curtly. "Have I not to end with an apology? But of what use is it to be ashamed when what is done is done?" He seemed to be struggling a trifle for his own self-control; and then abruptly changed the subject. "You are not travelling unaccompanied, I hope?"

"By no means. I have a friend with me."

"You have just been released, I presume?"

"Not precisely. It was ten days ago . . . if you can call it release."

"So long ago as that? Then I should say it was somewhat premature. But for that very reason I must not keep you standing longer." He held out his hand. "Will you shake hands with me?" And, as Aymar coloured and hesitated, he added "—if you feel that you can do so, after the confession I have just made you. Apart from that, there is no reason, is there, why you should not take my hand?"

He had gone again—into that curious mist. But Aymar felt his grasp, returned it, and heard him say, "I have never been so sorry about anything in my life as about this business—I would offer you my arm to the inn, but it might not, in the future, do you any good if we seemed to be on terms of intimacy. But get your friend, I beg you, to give you a glass of wine at once . . . I wish you—your sword again!"

Then Aymar himself was walking carefully up the inn garden.

"It was worth it," he said a few minutes later to Laurent in the deserted dining-room, trying to smile. "He has told no one—will tell no one now. And he was kind—wonderfully—gave me advice . . . even shook hands with me. . . . Yes, incredibly kind."

Laurent drew a long breath of relief. "But after all, you are L'Oiseleur! And what was the Moulin Brûlé to this?"

Aymar stared at the wine-glass he had just emptied. "But I got more out of the interview than I bargained for; something that I think I would rather not have had, after all."

"Not Colonel Richard's handshake, surely?"

"No. Colonel Richard's avowal."