CHAPTER XVIII
MY LORD AWAITS HIS HOST
"A fine host," sneered my Lord Denningham, with an oath,—"a right jovial and noble host, eh, Steenie? Demme it, man! I didn't come to this old rat-trap to look at you, and be poisoned with ragouts au Bourbon and cold shoulders à Varenac. What in the world is friend Morice up to?"
"Split me if I know," growled Sir Stephen, who was far from being in the most amiable of moods himself.
"He and Marcel started the day before we did, and we should have found him here on arrival. Something must have befallen him."
"The devil flown away with him en route? Hardly likely, my friend, when you consider everything."
"He may have gone to Paris with Trouet."
"That's not Trouet's game—no, no, no. More likely a saucy pair of eyes or a neat waist. Some of these little Bretonnes are worth kissing; I've honoured more than one already. But kissing should not be taken seriously when there is work on hand, and the orders of the London Corresponding Society should be obeyed."
"Orders?"
"What you will, Steenie! We've taken the hand of Madame Republic, and we've got to grip hard—mutual obligations, you know. They may be able to serve us in the same way, later on, when our own business is advanced."
Sir Stephen yawned.
"England ain't France. You'll find that 'à la lanterne' won't fit English throats, any more than 'Ça ira.' Besides, Pitt has his eye on us."
"And we have our eye on Pitt. Rot me, Steenie, you've not got the heart of a mouse. The Society is spreading its nets and papers pretty far afield. However, to return to our baa-lambs—or rather that woolly-headed sheep, friend Morice. What the deuce is he doing, hiding away and never turning up at the ancestral mansion? Old Goaty seemed to know nothing at all, but gabbled on about Monsieur le Marquis Gilles de Varenac. We ain't come to dig up corpses."
"Or look for them, either, eh, Jack? Stap me, but I've had enough serious conversation. Swearin' won't bring Morry along a step quicker. Let's have a turn with the dice to kill time."
The suggestion was agreed on, and soon nothing was heard but the rattle of the dice-box, and an occasional lusty oath over an unlucky throw.
The Manor of Varenac was an ancient building surrounded by trees and built in a hollow. The rooms were low and dark, the passages innumerable, with many an intricate winding and turn, sufficient to confuse any new-comer.
The salon, in which the two uninvited guests sat playing, was exceptionally low, with heavy beams of black oak across the ceiling, and a deep wainscotting, which added to the gloom of the long, narrow apartment. Candles in heavy silver and brass sconces had been lighted by the ancient major-domo, Pierre Koustak, who had eyed the strange Messieurs with strongly disapproving eye.
It was true that M'nsieur Jéhan had told him that the new M'nsieur le Marquis was more English than Breton, although he was the son of Mademoiselle Marie. Pierre's ideas of the English were vague and a good deal prejudiced. His opinion of the new master had not been raised when these English friends put in an appearance before M'nsieur le Marquis himself, and announced that they were here by his invitation.
You may be sure that Pierre Koustak paid many a visit to the keyhole to be assured that the strangers were still there, and did not appear to have any burglarious intentions on the treasures of the Manor of Varenac.
Sir Stephen's luck was in that evening. The pile of gold crowns grew by his side. The wine in these dusty cellars, too, was excellent, though old Goaty evidently found it a difficult task to bring bottle after bottle in.
Sir Stephen, therefore, considering all things, was merry.
My Lord Denningham, on the other hand, considering all things, was very sour of mood.
To begin with, the latter's luck was abominable. The dice were certainly bewitched—or cursed. To go on with, he was angry at not finding Morice Conyers here.
He had come to France to win for himself a name for zeal in the cause of liberty, which would raise him to prominence amongst his fellow-members in that London Corresponding Society which had for its object the stirring up of the English people into a sister Revolution.
This zeal fell decidedly flat in a tête-à-tête gamble with Sir Stephen Berrington.
The latter's fatuous laugh irritated him, as did his noisy triumph over his winnings. The jingling of lost gold jarred on my lord's delicate nerves.
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... carriage without in the avenue; it stops. Our friend Morice, no doubt."
He turned, with a sneer, to meet the expected host whom they had forestalled.
But it was not Morice Conyers who stood in the doorway, but his sister Gabrielle, her hood flung back from her dark hair, cheeks flushed, and hazel eyes defiant.
She scarcely deigned to bestow a glance at the man before her, but looked past him eagerly.
"Morice!" she cried. "Morice!"
Then swiftly she turned to Denningham.
"Where is my brother?" she asked peremptorily.