(8)
About a quarter of an hour afterwards Laurent found himself arm-in-arm under the stars with M. Perrelet, his purpose being to escort that excellent gentleman back to his inn. Prudence had dictated to all in the coffee-room of the Hôtel de l'Ecusson who were amenable to military discipline a quiet and speedy dispersal, and Laurent himself had only waited till M. Perrelet had finished with his victim. The wound was not dangerous, but it was painful; on hearing which its author had expressed the most unchivalrous gratification.
The couple were now in unfeelingly good spirits as they picked their way in the darkness over gutters.
"I wish I could scold you as you deserve to be scolded, mauvais sujet!" said M. Perrelet, pressing the arm under his. "But I am incapable of it. And it was so neat—so clever, even, considering that you can know nothing of anatomy! . . . And your success, your championship of La Rocheterie, had an extraordinary effect—I felt it."
"Do you really think so?" asked Laurent, soaring into a still higher heaven.
"I am sure of it. It was almost a pity that none of the——"
"That none of the Nine Muses were there," finished the young man, laughing. "Yes, that is my pretty name for the gentlemen of the Court of Enquiry. But on the whole, it's a good thing they were not.—By the way, Monsieur Perrelet, did you ever get that letter I wrote you?"
M. Perrelet stopped on the brink of a dark streamlet. "I did, my child, and thankful I was to get it, though it made me more than ever distressed and ashamed about that incident at La Baussaine. But what he said that night was really most damning. (No, I shall not tell you what it was.) Still, I shall never forgive myself for acting as I did. . . . And how much more trying that shooting business, too, must have been for the poor boy than I realized."
"Yes," said Laurent rather sadly, "and the worst of it is, that to have gone through all that suffering and shame only leaves him in a more critical position than he was before. You heard this afternoon how it was cast up against him, and to what cruel allegations it led. As for to-morrow——"
"Oh, to-morrow will be all right, you will see," announced M. Perrelet, resuming his advance. "—If he can hold out till the end, that is. He is not really in the least fit for this affair, of course.—Ah, this was what I wanted to ask you—round this corner is my way—what in the name of fortune made those marks on his arm which he tried, too late, to conceal from me when I was examining him after you left? They are burns, and he says he did them himself, by accident—and expects me, a doctor, to believe him!"
This time it was Laurent who stopped, and under a convenient street lamp. "Ah, he said that, did he? Of course he would! Accident, indeed!" He made one of his hot, boyish gestures. "It was the most deliberate, cold-blooded——"
He never reached his noun. A gesture was made behind him; a hand fell on his shoulder. "I regret to have to demand your sword, Monsieur," said an abrupt military voice. "You are placed under arrest. Kindly follow me at once!"
It is hard to know which of the couple was the more thunderstruck. Words were completely smitten from both of them. On the very threshold of his thrilling revelation Laurent was plucked away, vanishing like a dream from the eyes of M. Perrelet, who, a moment later was left, a stout and bewildered little civilian, in the light of the convenient street lamp, while the footsteps of the patrol and the captured duellist died away round the corner. Elijah and Elisha had not a more dramatic parting.
The threads of events lay thereafter in M. Perrelet's hands. After a short period of dismayed reflection he hurried back to Aymar's lodging. But that young man lay relaxed in the profound and beneficent slumber of his physician's own procuring, and it would have been a crime to wake him. So, except that the hazard of sleep afforded M. Perrelet an uninterrupted view of the branded arm, he gained little by his visit, and hastened off to M. de Fresne, conceiving that there was nothing criminal in waking him with the news.
M. de Fresne was hardly of that opinion. By the time his nocturnal caller had introduced himself and explained his errand he was, and perhaps justifiably, in a thoroughly bad temper. "Poor boy, indeed! Feather-brained young scamp! Let him cool his heels—it won't hurt him. And I can do nothing; the only possible course is for La Rocheterie, if he can, to get permission in the morning for him to attend the Court under open arrest, as a witness. A nice witness for a case where already the testimony is so short of the mark!"
M. Perrelet shook his head at the irate gentleman sitting up in his bed. "I consider that he acted very properly, Monsieur. And as for being feather-brained, let me tell you, in all seriousness, that but for him there would be no La Rocheterie here to-day at all!"
"Humph!" said M. de Fresne, and laying down, turned over on his other side. "Well, I will come and see La Rocheterie about it at half-past six. Good-night."
A little before that hour, therefore, M. Perrelet was on foot once more, and having obtained admission, peeped in on his patient.
The russet head moved at once on the pillow. "You are up early, Monsieur Perrelet!"
"Have you slept, my dear boy?" enquired the doctor, coming in.
"I have not had a night like this," replied Aymar, "for weeks! It is fortunate . . . but mysterious! . . . Why, is that de Fresne up early, too?"
M. Perrelet glanced behind him. "M. de Fresne wants you to write a letter for him to take to the General," he observed casually. "Just a line to request formally that one of your witnesses may be released from arrest in order to attend the Court this morning."
"One of my witnesses arrested!" exclaimed Aymar, raising himself on an elbow. "You don't mean to say that they have arrested Colonel Richard!—his coming here was all arranged with the General-in-Chief."
"No, not Richard, I am glad to say," replied his lieutenant. "But your friend, M. de Courtomer, made the devil of a disturbance in my hotel last night, and he is now in custody."
"Laurent—Laurent made a disturbance!"
"I should rather say—and I was present," put in M. Perrelet, "that he made an impression, and a very gallant one. But as he also made an incision in a member of the party——"
"You mean he fought someone!" exclaimed Aymar, starting up in bed. "And in my quarrel—I can guess it! My God, he's not hurt—don't tell me he is hurt!" he cried, clutching hold of M. Perrelet.
"No, my dear boy, he is not—he had not a scratch. It is the other who is hors de combat, and he is not seriously damaged, either. But Laurent is laid by the heels—I do not even know where, it happened so suddenly . . . in the street as we were coming home."
De Fresne, meanwhile, had got paper and ink and brought them to the bedside. "Why did you not wake me last night?" cried Aymar, seizing them. "He has been a whole night, then, under arrest—in discomfort and anxiety."