CHAPTER XIV.
IN A FORTIFIED TOWN.
It was growing dark when at length they drove through the gates into Verdun.
No one then said a needless word, not even Roy. The sense of banishment and of captivity pressed upon them all with a new force, at the sight of this fortified town, with its massive encircling walls, its iron gates, its pervading gendarmerie. If any lack of realisation of their true position had helped them hitherto, it had small chance of surviving this hour.
At the gate they had to pause, a gendarme coming to the coach door. He said something to Denham, which made Colonel Baron ask sharply—
"Eh, what's that?"
"We are to go first to the citadel. Not necessary for Mrs. Baron and Roy. You and I might walk it, sir, and send them on."
"No, no," Mrs. Baron interposed; "I cannot go on alone. We will keep together."
"A pity," murmured Ivor; and Colonel Baron looked doubtfully from him to his wife.
"I am not going to do it," she repeated, with her manner of graceful determination; and then, earnestly, "Do not ask it of me—pray do not!" No more could be said, and the man was ordered to drive on.
Verdun at that date lay in the then French province of Lorraine, the then French department of the Meuse, upon which river it was built. Distant from Paris somewhere about one hundred and fifty miles, it was also within about fifty miles, in different directions, of two towns which have since become vividly historic, Sédan and Metz. The river thereabouts follows a tortuous course, and the lower part of Verdun stood mainly on little islands in the Meuse, while the upper part led to the French citadel, which crowned a rocky summit.
The valley, containing the town, ran north-west and south-east, being surrounded by hills.
On reaching the citadel Mrs. Baron and Roy were desired by the Colonel to remain in the coach, while he and Denham disappeared within, there to be carefully examined and closely questioned, and having again to give their parole. After which they came out, the Colonel saying shortly—
"That business is done! Tell them where to go, Den. They seem determined to know us again."
"Were they civil?" his wife asked.
"No end of a fuss, my dear. As if the word of an English gentleman were not sufficient. Close description of us both written in the register."
Once more they drove on, Roy gazing from side to side, noting the small insignificant shops, and exclaiming at occasional peeps of the river with an interest which never quite failed him. The others were for the most part silent. Mrs. Baron's eyes were dim, the Colonel was pre-occupied, and Ivor, usually the most observant of men, seemed to see nothing.
Presently they stopped before the gateway of a large old house or small private "hôtel," with an untidy little courtyard. An old Frenchman, in quaint dress, grey-haired, with an imposing pig-tail, came to meet them, bowing profoundly to the gentlemen, and still more profoundly to Mrs. Baron.
"C'est, sans doute, Monsieur le Colonel—et Madame——"
Colonel Baron's particular gift did not lie in the direction of foreign languages. He never could talk French, and probably he never would, no matter how many years he might be compelled to live in France.
"Oui, monsieur. Bon jour. C'est nous qui sont viendrai," he responded, feeling it incumbent on him to say something, as he descended from the old coach. "J'espère que vous êtes bien. Je suis bien aise que nous sommes haut—pas bas—pas près de le rivière. Bother their grammar, Denham; you can do it better than I. Just say what's suitable."
Denham obeyed, and the next object which dawned upon Roy's perceptions was the sad and gentle face of Lucille de St. Roques. He seized her hand vehemently.
"I say, mademoiselle, it's nice to find you here. Isn't it, Den? Mamma, this is Mademoiselle de St. Roques. Papa, you know she helped to nurse me after I'd had small-pox. Are we going to live upstairs, mademoiselle? Is that what it's to be? The whole upstairs, all to ourselves? What fun! Which way is it? Oh, I see! This way, mamma. Those poor horses do look tired, just half-starved, and so skinny. Is there a stable for them? Are we to have tea? Dinner! that's right. We didn't get half a dinner to-day, and I'm famished. What a droll old staircase? Do look out of this window, mamma."
Roy's flow of spirits helped them all. The Colonel and his wife gratefully expressed their thanks to the French girl for her past kindness to their boy, both being much attracted by her face and her pretty manner as she led the way upstairs to the first floor. There stood Madame Courant, a fat and smiling little Frenchwoman, ready to bestow unlimited welcomes upon the unfortunate foreigners.
Lucille had exchanged bows with Ivor at first, and then had a few words with him, scanning his face as she talked, with rather troubled glances. There was, however, small leisure at first for any quiet conversation. The rooms had to be inspected, and they were found to be not at all bad as to size, though meagrely furnished. Lucille had set her heart on making everything wear as far as possible an English look, using her childish recollections of a home across the Channel; and if she was less successful than she had hoped, nobody betrayed the fact. It was clear to them all how hard she had worked to render the place comfortable.
"But it has been no trouble—non, vraiment—not at all," she assured them, with her pensive smile, when they apologised.
While sincerely anxious to help, full of sympathy for their position, and most desirous to cheer them up, she plainly feared to be guilty of intrusion, and very soon she took herself off with Madame Courant to the ground floor. A somewhat clumsy but well-intentioned maiden had been deputed to wait upon the upstairs party—probably had been hired for the purpose, since Madame Courant did most of her own house-work—and dinner was laid in the smaller salon in readiness for their arrival.
On the whole that first meal might be reckoned a success. Madame Courant was no mean cook; and though not much could be said as to the actual waiting, from an English point of view, that was a minor matter, compared with the comfort of finding clean and cosy quarters, not to speak of a kind reception. Roy did his best to supply all deficiencies in the conversational line, and his efforts were seconded, though not vigorously, by Denham.
When, however, dinner was at an end, and they had moved into the larger salon, which was to be their drawing-room—when a long evening lay before them, and there was nothing that had to be done, beyond a certain amount of unpacking and arranging, which no one felt disposed to begin upon at once—then a change came. Then the shadow of their captivity descended heavily upon them all, even upon the valiant Roy; and for once the spirit of cheerfulness and of keeping up seemed to vanish.
For a quarter of an hour they all remained together, no one speaking. No one was able to speak. They had nothing whatever to say. And presently, when this had gone on a little while, Mrs. Baron made a move, retreating into her own bedroom, avowedly to "see to a few things," but in reality, as they all knew, to indulge in a breakdown—her husband, after a brief hesitation, going thither also. Denham had flagged completely, retreating to a shady corner near the big fireplace, where he could scarcely be seen; and for Ivor to flag meant the flagging of everybody. As for Roy—but that he would have been ashamed, counting himself already almost a man, he could at this stage have flung himself on the ground and cried like a little child for very home-sickness.
He wanted Molly—oh, most awfully! He wanted her this evening more than he had ever wanted anything or anybody in his whole life. The craving that took possession of him for Molly's face, Molly's voice, Molly's companionship—the passionate desire to have dear little Molly once more by his side—was a pain never to be forgotten.
Roy did not know how to bear himself under it. He had nothing to do, nothing with which to pass the time. He stood at the window, looking out upon the darkness, trying desperately to be cool and stoical, as one five minutes crawled by after another. Denham never moved, never spoke a word. Roy could just make out his dark outline, as motionless as a carved image, a few yards distant. If only Denham would have talked, if something would have happened, if somebody would have come in, it would have been easier to keep going. But nobody came, nothing happened, and Denham did not stir.
Roy drummed with his fingers on the window-sill. He could hear shrill voices out in the street, not far off, and the sound of some tuneless instrument. One of the two candles was gone with Mrs. Baron, leaving the room dim. He tried to listen, tried not to think. And just when he counted himself victorious, there was a queer little catch of his breath which sounded suspicious. Roy drummed again angrily, hoping that Denham had not heard. He might be asleep, he was so still. But, after a slight break, he said—
"Come here."
Roy unwillingly obeyed. He would have liked to refuse, but he looked upon Ivor as in some sort his commanding officer, so of course he had no choice.
"They're making no end of a row out there," he remarked in a tone of profound indifference, as he lounged nearer. "Can't think what it's all for. Just listen."
"Yes; I wish they would stop."
"Don't know what's it's all about. Something or other—going on. I shouldn't wonder—if they're quarrelling."
That odd little catch again.
"Feel very bad this evening, Roy?"
The question took Roy by surprise, and a lump in his throat prevented an immediate reply.
Denham understood.
"Never mind," he said. "It's the same with all of us, you know. And there's one comfort for you—that Molly wants you at least as much as you want her. Some people would give a good deal for that certainty."
Roy tried to explain matters away.
"I didn't say——"
"My dear boy, there's no need for you to say anything; I know well enough. Don't you see?"
Denham's chair shook as Roy leant against it, but no further sound came. He fought his battle courageously, and Denham waited.
"We shall all feel better to-morrow," the latter presently remarked. "It's a strange place, and things look uncomfortable to-night—can't well do otherwise. Suppose you and I have a game of chess. Better than to sit brooding over what can't be cured. My little travelling set is somewhere about, I believe."
"O yes." Roy's voice told of instant relief. "You gave it to me to take care of. Don't you mind a game, really? I should like that. Will you give me your queen?"
"No; not to-day. I'm not at my best. We'll try on even terms. Get out the pieces."
Roy obeyed with alacrity, and whatever the move meant to Denham, it served to lift Roy out of his unwonted fit of misery. He was soon deeply absorbed in the mimic fight, and for once he found himself on the way to win an easy victory. Roy became exultant—till the honour and glory of success were impaired by the casual discovery that Ivor could not tell a knight from a bishop except by feeling. Roy stared wonderingly into the spare bronzed face.
"Why, Den!"
"All right; this is my bishop."
"I say, you didn't take that for a knight?"
"I believe I was under the delusion for a moment."
"But why? There, now it's your turn. Oh, I say!—you're going to move my king."
Denham laughed slightly.
"I am rather a futile opponent, seemingly. Never mind. Now it is your turn."
"What's the matter? Can't you see?"
"Not well; just a headache. Go on; you'll soon end the game at this rate."
Roy showed himself capable of heroism. Though he had never yet beaten Denham in full fight, without having some of his adversary's best pieces presented to him, though the desire of his heart was for a victory, and though he was on the high road to administering checkmate, one more glance decided him. He swept his arm over the board.
Denham half smiled, and made no protest.
"You are a kind fellow," he said, as he went back to his former retreat; and Roy dropped on the floor to pick up the scattered pieces.
"Why didn't you tell me? You'd no business to play. Can't I do anything for you?"
"Yes, if you don't mind"—after a moment's racking of his brain to think of anything that might keep the boy occupied. "I wish you would unpack my valise—just the things that I shall want to-night."
Roy was delighted and went off at full speed. In the passage he found himself face to face with Lucille, and all but rushed into her arms. Lucille drew back.
"I say! Oh, I beg your pardon, mademoiselle. I'm going to unpack for Den. He's just floored; can't even play chess. It's all this horrid beastly bother, having to come to Verdun, you know. He never used to be like that. Den was always up to anything. What have you got there?" as she held up one hand. "A letter!"
"It is medicine for Monsieur le Capitaine—from England," Lucille said, with a look of heartfelt pleasure.
"It really is from England! Won't he be glad? Where did you get it from? You shall give it to him yourself. Yes; I declare you shall."
Roy flung open the salon door, and announced, "Here's Mademoiselle de St. Roques. Den, she's got something for you! Guess what it is. Come in, Mademoiselle."
Ivor stood up, not grateful to Roy at this moment.
"Pray take a seat," he urged.
"It's a letter—a letter—a letter from England," cried the boy.
"You have brought this from the post?" asked Denham, as he received from her hand a folded and sealed packet.
"Non, it is not that. The letter arrives from M. de Bertrand. It was send to him from England under cover, and he waited till he should learn your address and have opportunity to send it with safety. When I wrote to him that you all were ordered to Verdun, then he sent the letter to me by one travelling this way. It is but now arrived. I am glad!" Lucille added, under her breath.
Denham bent nearer to the candle, trying with drawn brows to make out the handwriting. As he did so, a curious light crept over his face. Lucille thought she could read its meaning.
"You are very good, mademoiselle. I am much indebted to you and to M. de Bertrand," he said.
"Den, I do believe it's Polly's writing!" exclaimed Roy.
Denham glanced towards him.
"Yes; it is from Polly."
(To be continued.)
[FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.]
By "THE LADY DRESSMAKER."
EVENING DRESSES FOR CHRISTMAS FESTIVITIES.
The winter is always distinguished by a rather dowdy style of dress, especially in town, where, for at least three months of the year, the days are so dark and the light so poor at best that everyone says, "It really cannot matter what one puts on in such sombre weather as this." Such is the sentiment expressed by the general public, but, of course, does not apply to those who, having carriages at their disposal, can blossom out like the lilies of King Solomon, and be carried over the mud and through the gloom without let or hindrance. It is only on sunny days during the winter and at Church Parade in Hyde Park that one sees the brighter side of winter dress. Otherwise it only blooms in the shops, at the dressmakers', and at the endless afternoon teas which constitute the main amusement during the winter. One must have at least one nice walking-dress for the winter, in spite of the gloom, for these last-named festive occasions, and one generally needs a cape or mantle as well to wear in turn with our costume or with it as we may require. Besides this, most women have a certain amount of "wearing out" to do of clothes that must put in a second winter. Those wise people who have established a kind of rule for themselves in the purchase of dress get a handsome cape or mantle one year and a handsome gown the next, the latter becoming less visible and important the second year when worn under the new mantle. Both of these should come from first-rate shops, in order to get the full value out of them. Then there are the people who wait for the sales to supply themselves with winter clothes, and say they manage to finish out the last year's stock by this means in the still darker and shorter days before Christmas. I always consider the wearing out of one's winter things a grievous bother which falls most heavily on the shoulders of those who are very careful wearers of their garments. I know people who really are never able to wear out their clothes, and become quite dispirited at the constant sight of them. I know one lady who is able to clothe several others poorer than herself because she takes such good care of what she wears, and things are hardly worn in appearance when she has them repaired and brushed up.
The class which has the most difficulty in clothing themselves so as to present a respectable appearance is composed of these very poor ladies, who are governesses, lady-helps, or companions, and no doubt my readers will have noticed the moving appeals issued by many of the societies and agencies which are interested in procuring work for them. As we are always anxious to find out good works for our women and girls, we commend to them this one, as one of the most blessed both to giver and receiver.
The return to fashion of dresses made from the same material entirely instead of those which have been so long in wear, which consisted of a blouse, more or less handsome, and a skirt, has brought in a necessity for mantles and capes, and so these are really the most fashionable of the out-of-door garments for the winter months. There is no fear, however, of the skirt and jacket disappearing from amongst us, for they have been found too useful to lose their place in our esteem; and the winter jackets are, some of them, very pretty and tight-fitting, with large buttons, and generally of three-quarter length, though there are many quite short ones, but which seem more used for cycling or golf than for real walking or driving.
TWO WINTER GOWNS.
One of these costumes with a tight-fitting coat is shown in our illustration of "a gown with braid and fur," which is a very handsome example of the walking-gowns of the winter. The skirt is made with the fashionable tightness, the much-worn shaped flounce, and the braiding is carried down the front on either side in a graceful arabesque design, which is wider and fuller in detail at the top near the waist. The points are braided in the same manner, and the tops of the sleeves. The fronts have revers of mink fur. The dress itself is in dark blue cloth, and the braiding is in black. The hat is of blue velvet, with white and green wings, and blue and green velvet trimmings. This admixture of blue and green seems more popular than ever this winter, and I have frequently seen a blue hat with a bright green velvet choux bow placed in a conspicuous position in front.
The choux and the Louis XII. or true lovers' knot are the two fashionable bows of the season, for hats and bonnets as well as for dress. The first-named seems ubiquitous in evening dress, where black velvet also appears to be most popular as a trimming.
GOWN WITH BRAID AND FUR.
Both velvet and velveteen are much worn, and are suited to the fashions of the day, and the velveteen blouse retains its popularity, but is more dressy and fanciful than it was. In some cases velvet is used for the coat-shaped bodices, with short square tails that are much seen, and these have almost invariably fancy vests or yokes. In most instances, too, these are of finely tucked silk muslin, which, in cream or white, is quite the most popular material for them, in spite of its perishable nature and apparent unseasonableness.
So far as materials are concerned, everything that is clinging and soft is sought after, and even the rustling silks that lined our skirts and gave us such a feeling of opulence have been relinquished in favour of something more clinging. Cashmere and nuns' veiling are used for the lining of day dresses, and China silks for evening ones. For slight people this clinging effect is sometimes trying, but where stout people are concerned the matter becomes worse, and we shall hear of all kinds of cures for obesity in order to wear the new skirts.
Of course, as is usual at this season, many evening dresses for small Christmas festivities are simple, and our illustration shows three of these, which are inexpensive and pretty. The first seated figure to the right wears a pink silk muslin, plain for wearing over the accordion-kilted skirt, and having a small black leaf-like pattern on it for the pointed overskirt; a ruching of rose-coloured silk goes round the latter part of the bodice and sleeves, and the back is finished with a wide band and bow with ends of rose colour. This can, of course, be carried out in any hue, but in white or cream-colour it is very pretty, and there are such numbers of fancy gauzes and nets that a pretty choice can be made which would be more inexpensive than the model we present.
The centre figure wears a dress of mousseline-de-soie of a pale shade of Parma violet, which is trimmed with narrow ribbons, drawn up to form small ruches. These are of a slightly darker violet. The small Eton jacket is of the same shade of violet velvet or satin, with bands of velvet and paste buckles. The standing-up figure wears a dress of jet-embroidered net, with bands of passementerie on the front of the bodice. The evening wrap is of a soft yellow brocade, which is lined with a pale violet, and trimmed with flounces of lace and silk. The collar is edged with white fur, and a bow of chiffon ornaments the neck at the back. In giving these dresses I should observe that, although they seem costly, they can be copied in less expensive materials. Nuns' veiling, China silk, velveteen, taffetas, Russian net, and Brussels net are all in fashion, and all are comparatively so moderate in price as to be attainable by those who have slender purses. This season we also have the embroidered net skirts that were introduced last year, with the improvement that this season the bodice-piece is sold as well. So we have not to make troublesome inquiries and huntings for the material to decorate them. There seems to be a tendency likewise to return to the use of a three-quarter length sleeve, which fits the arm smoothly as far as the elbow and terminates in a frill. The long net and chiffon sleeves are still worn, and I notice that there are some very pretty high net bodices without sleeves, or, at least, with a few folds of satin, which answer the purpose. These will be a novelty if they should be adopted, and will be charming for the evening with all thin materials.
The illustration of two winter gowns shows one of the new skirts and a bodice fastened at the back. The skirt is also fastened there in the newest fashion; the trimming consists of rows of fine black braid, the dress being of fine cloth, of a pervenche blue. The bodice is trimmed with points of velvet, of a darker shade of blue, and the same is used for the bows at the back. The second dress is one of those tucked throughout. It is of a soft satin cloth, of a pale shade of grey. The revers are braided, and there is a front of dark-grey velvet and a high collar, with the lining braided, like the revers. I hope you will notice that this skirt opens on one side, usually the left, and it is finished by a row of tiny buttons, or by a small ruching of ribbon.
A great deal of this ribbon ruching is seen, as well as much piping. Silk braids, very fine and very narrow, in black and white, form a feature of this year's decorations, and silver braids as well. Crystal buttons are more liked than paste or steel ones, and there is a craze for old lace and for mixing fur with it. Black and white are in as much favour as this mixture has always found during the last four years, and the two are constantly mixed in trimmings.
I think I mentioned in my last that the hair was worn low on the neck—certainly far lower than has been the custom for some little time. But I do not find that the knot of hair is quite so low just now. Evidently the idea has not quite "caught on," as the slang phrase has it, and most of the well-dressed heads I have lately seen have had the coil of hair at the back of the head midway down. Perhaps, later on, we shall see more of the low hair dressing than we do now.
Truly the swing of the pendulum has quite carried us away from the neat and ever-becoming black stockings, and the new ones are a study in colour and design. I think the tartan ones will be worn, and will look well; but I cannot say I like the others; nevertheless, that may be because one has grown used to a lack of colour for so long.
So far as boots and shoes are concerned, the most fashionable people wear the American ones with their extremely pointed toes and narrow feet, but it is open to the sensible to wear something more comfortable if they do not mind a loss of style, for we cannot be really smart unless our poor feet be pinched and pointed to the last degree.