(9)
Some three quarters of an hour afterwards Laurent stood, lantern in hand, in the smugglers' cave, the "Panier," and looked remorsefully down at Aymar, lying at his feet on the rough bed of sailcloth and seaweed in the profound slumber of exhaustion. His own burst of irritation had subsided now, and the sight of that bandaged arm made him doubly ashamed of it; though as for having forced Aymar, as he had, to use the last shred of his strength, he did not see what else he could have done. But at least it was he himself, and not Royer, who, when they had reached their goal, had guided L'Oiseleur, blind with fatigue as he was, to this couch, on which he had dropped like a log, not to move since.
Royer had gone, promising to come again to-morrow. The "Panier," as far as Laurent could see by lantern-light, seemed wonderfully dry and spacious, and there was a sufficiency of food and coverings. So there was nothing to do but to go to sleep; and in sleep he could forget the cruel rebirth which had taken place in his mind . . . perhaps in sleep it would even go from him again. He lay down as quietly as possible by L'Oiseleur and pulled a little of the covering over himself.
But it was soon obvious to him that he was not going to sleep; he was far too conscious of Aymar's proximity—too conscious that his theory about Aymar was crumbling to pieces as Aymar had foretold. Yet it was he himself who felt the traitor. How could he bear to lie there, almost touching that arm, martyred for him, and realize, as he did at length, that that martyrdom could not change the past! It still was "If you knew!" It still was that L'Oiseleur, for all his courage and endurance, quailed before the thought of a future in his own country. Why . . . why . . . why?
His thoughts buzzed and stung like flies. And now the recurrent plunge of the tide, the sound that none can stay, began to torment him. Every time the waves splashed outside they seemed to reiterate something monotonous and final, some message charged with ruin and farewell. And when Aymar, who had lain beside him all the time like a man drugged or dead, stirred, and in stirring touched him, it was more than Laurent could bear. He slipped from under the covering and groped his way across the cave to its mouth.
It was a cloudy night. The sea looked dull—not sinister, not violent, just a dimly seen expanse of moving mud. There was no moon visible and not a star. It was like his own thoughts. Laurent sat down on a keg at the mouth of the cave and gave himself over to the contemplation of these.
They were far more bitter than on that night at La Baussaine, when the veil of self-deception had first been rent, more bitter even than in that hot vigil on the roof, because of the stage of revulsion and remorse which lay between . . . and fruitlessly. For his reason coldly said to him, "His undoubted affection for you, his more than undoubted strength of will, may have carried him for your sake through an act of heroism, and yet that does not prove that he could not have done . . . the other thing." And it was in vain that his heart cried out, "Yes, it does, it does, it does!" because reason then retorted, "Why, then, has he not told you 'everything,' as he said that day at Arbelles he wished he had? Why did he not tell you yesterday under the pear tree? Evidently he will not—till you ask him!" But that Laurent would never do now. He would leave him, but he would never ask him for his secret.
He could not abandon him yet, but when Aymar was well enough he would say that he must go back to Vendée (as Aymar had urged him) and thus their parting would have no special significance about it. All the same, he would be tearing him out of his heart for ever, deliberately slaying and burying the friendship which had come to mean so immeasurably much to him . . . and condemning himself to go through the rest of his life not knowing the real truth.
He covered his face with his hands, and pictures of the bright and dishonoured head rose constantly before him: Aymar that night in Devonshire, under his roof, looking at him with that quiet and immensely attractive smile—Aymar in the great salon at the Hôtel de Saint-Séverin with the King talking to him, the magnet for every gaze—Aymar at Arbelles, helpless, suffering, despised . . . and all the dearer for it then—Aymar wringing out his wet locks by the swirling river in which he had just risked his life—for him. . . . And he wondered if he would always see that picture-gallery when they had parted, and he heard his name mentioned with loathing—his friend, his friend, who could not have done the thing they said he had, even though his own men believed it and had wreaked vengeance on him—even though he, Laurent, his champion of champions, was at last brought to saying so, too. . . .
Was he indeed saying that? saying it with the slow, hot tears running down against his fingers? The sea was saying it relentlessly. . . . He took away his hands and brushed off the moisture, and found that he must have been there much longer than he knew, for it was light outside, with a cold and heartless light, and from the port a sail was stealing out as Aymar's might one day. And with that, out of the darkness still prevalent within the cave, there came Aymar's voice, no more than a little drowsy.
"What are you doing over there, Laurent? Did I disgust you so with my . . . my want of manhood, that you will not share the same bed with me?"
Laurent jumped. He had no idea that Aymar was awake, nor that he himself was visible. In spite of the words, the tone was not sarcastic; it merely held a sort of sad amusement.
"I . . . I found I couldn't sleep," he stammered hoarsely.
"You won't sleep sitting on that barrel!"
Almost unconsciously Laurent got up and sat down on the sand, putting his shoulders against the rock. "It is dawn," he murmured.
He heard Aymar sigh.
"Is your arm hurting you?"
"No, thanks. . . . Laurent, come back to bed."
Laurent dug his fingers into the sand. "I was abominably rude to you this evening," he said with a gulp.
"It was, I daresay, deserved. At any rate, you succeeded in getting me here."
"Well, go to sleep again," murmured Laurent.
"I will, if you will tell me why you are sitting out there."
There was a long pause, filled by the sea. Laurent had just made up his mind to one course of action—and now, suddenly, he was weighing the opposite. Why not? It was more honest, fairer to him. And there was so much in the voice, though it was even and unemotional, that tore his very heart.
"I am sitting here," he said at last slowly, "because I was thinking about you. Because the last few days I could not help . . ." He leant forward, clenched his hands between his knees, and said in a rush, "Aymar, what did you say to M. Perrelet that night?"
In the darkness Aymar observed quietly, "It is that, then. I thought so. God knows what I said! At any rate, M. Perrelet did not like it." He gave a desolate little laugh. "Am I responsible to you also?"
"I never meant to ask you," said Laurent, fighting down his misery. "You know what I have always thought about it all. . . . And after that ramrod, too . . ." A sound like a sob escaped him. "You must tell me something, Aymar. I'm . . . I'm too bewildered to go on in the dark any longer."
Neither sound nor movement came from the other end of the cave; only, outside, the sea came up twice, saluted the sand, and withdrew. Then Aymar spoke. "Yes, I must do it. I ought to have done it long ago—I know it. Only . . . well, you will know soon enough why I did not. Do you want me to tell you the story now?"
"Good God, no!" said Laurent, raising his head. "To-morrow. . . ." And then all his deep affection and a certain cold dread, warring together, swept over him. He sprang to his feet, and, going uncertainly over to him, dropped on his knees beside him. "—Or never, Aymar, if you choose. Let it be never then! I have no right——"
"No right! If ever in the world a man had a right! You ought not to have had to ask. As you have asked"—a suspicion of hardness crept into his voice—"you shall have it, every word, to-morrow . . . or rather to-day. What time is it?"
Laurent struck a light and looked at his watch, and had for his pains a little picture of his friend lying there, with his bandaged arm, challenged at last, on the heels of illness and suffering and extreme fatigue. The tinder must have shown the wretchedness on his own face, for Aymar put out his left hand a little and said very gently, "Why are you reproaching yourself, Laurent? You have no cause—no shadow of cause! And as you do not yet know how much I have you could still lie down here again . . . for a little."
And Laurent came instantly. He tried to seize the extended hand as he lay down, but it evaded him; and he lay there on his face, motionless, dreading the day. But the traitorous thoughts were stilled. . . .