UNDER WHICH FLAG?
As the three men came out into the corridor, the large outer door opened and a sergeant of artillery stepped over the threshold, saluted the colonel, and stood awaiting orders. The fine snow drifted past him into the hall, stinging the faces of von Waldenmeer and his two prisoners.
The colonel turned toward the Frenchmen, and addressing them in his quick way, said:—
"It is a vile night. Give me your word not to leave the quarters to which I assign you until sent for, and I will permit you to pass the night more in comfort under this roof."
Tournay gladly assented, the young von Waldenmeer spoke a few words of command to the sergeant, who turned on his heel and repeated the order in guttural tones to some snow-covered figures behind him. The door closed with a loud bang and the escort was heard marching away.
Colonel Karl then led the way up a broad oaken staircase to a room at the end of a long corridor on the upper floor.
"My own room is just opposite," said he with a gesture of the head, as he threw open the door. "You will be more comfortable here than in the guard-house."
The house which General von Waldenmeer had chosen for his headquarters at Falzenberg was a commodious one, built around an open court, where in summer a fountain played in the centre of a green grass plot. Tournay stepped to one of the windows and looked out upon the scene. The bronze figure in the fountain was draped with ice, and a great mound of snow filled the centre of the square, where the soldiers had cleared a passage for themselves. On the opposite side were the stables, and from the neighing and stamping of hoofs, Tournay judged more than a dozen horses were kept there. Lights flashed here and there as a subaltern or private moved about in the performance of the night's duties.
The first thing which had struck Gaillard's eye on entering was a large canopied bed. This reminded him too forcibly of his fatigue to be resisted. He threw himself down upon it, boots and all, and was asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.
Von Waldenmeer stood in the centre of the room, slapping his hessians with a little flexible riding-whip. Tournay began to thank him for the courtesy he had shown them, when the latter stopped him in his abrupt way, saying:—
"I was watching the Marquis de Lacheville's face while he was denouncing Mademoiselle de Rochefort, and if ever I saw liar written upon a man's countenance it was on his then. I wish that he had lied when he accused you of being a colonel in the Republican army." And Colonel Karl strode toward the door impatiently.
"Why should you have wished that?" demanded Tournay. "I am proud of my position."
"Bah!" exclaimed the German, with his hand on the latch, "you should be in the Prussian army. It is an honor to serve in the army that was built up by the great Frederick. A man of your courage should not be content to serve among those Republican brigands. Good-night,"—and he disappeared rapidly through the door, slamming it behind him.
Tournay roused Gaillard from his slumber. Both men were numb with fatigue. They had not taken off their clothes and slept in a bed since leaving Paris, and five minutes later they had thrown off their garments and sunk into a deep sleep in the large, white bed.
For ten hours Tournay slept without moving. Then he yawned, threw out both arms, opened his eyes a little, and was preparing to sleep again when he became conscious that a man was standing beside the bed. Opening his heavy eyes a little further, he recognized Gaillard and said to him drowsily:—
"Well! What is it, Gaillard? Can't I get a few minutes' sleep undisturbed?"
"The forenoon is half gone," replied Gaillard; "you've slept enough for one man."
"You don't mean to say that it's morning already!" exclaimed Tournay, leaning on one elbow and blinking at the light.
"Morning! The finest kind of a morning," replied Gaillard gayly. "I've been up these two hours. I gained permission to go to our carriage, and I have taken out a change of linen from our equipment in the boot."
Tournay sprang from the bed and looked out of the window. The sun was high in the heaven, and the day was bright and cold.
"That Lieutenant Sauerkraut, or whatever his name may be," said Gaillard, "has just come up to say that the general would like to see you at your convenience. The lieutenant was particularly civil, for him, so I surmise nothing will interfere with our early departure. It's astonishing how quickly an underling takes his tone from his superior officer. I suppose it will be better for you to wait upon the general at once, while the old gentleman is in a good humor," continued Gaillard, "and as I have been given the liberty of the courtyard, I will employ the time in looking after our horses."
"Very well," said Tournay. "I will go to General von Waldenmeer. I hope nothing will interfere with our immediate departure."
General von Waldenmeer was seated at his table with a pile of maps and papers before him. At Tournay's entrance the two officers who were standing at the general's side withdrew to the further end of the room. It was the same room in which the scene of the previous evening had taken place. On the table at the general's elbow stood his beer-mug, filled with his morning draught. The old soldier was evidently very much absorbed in the work before him, for his heavy brows were drawn over his eyes and his lips were moving as he studied the papers. From time to time he reached out his left hand mechanically and took up the beer-mug, refreshing himself with a long pull. With the exception of the two officers, there were no other occupants of the room.
The picture of Mademoiselle Edmé, as she had appeared when pleading to the general in his behalf, was so vivid in Tournay's mind that he stood silently before the table, oblivious to his surroundings. He remained in this position for some minutes when the general, upon one of his searches for inspiration at the bottom of the beer-mug, glanced over the rim and saw the Frenchman standing like a statue before him.
"Potstausend!" he exclaimed, as soon as he had set down the mug and wiped the white froth from his mustache. "You were so quiet that I forgot your existence and have been studying out a plan of campaign against General Hoche under your very nose. He's a clever little man, is Hoche," continued the old German musingly. "There is some sport in beating him."
Tournay smiled quietly at hearing his idol patronizingly spoken of by an officer who had not won half his fame.
"I wish you better success than your predecessor in the attempt, General von Waldenmeer," he said.
The general smiled grimly at this hit and then changed the subject by saying:—
"Last evening I told you that I would send you back to France with an escort to the frontier."
Tournay bowed affirmatively.
"Since then, Mademoiselle de Rochefort has told me in full the story of her escape from Tours, recounting your part in it, and dwelling most flatteringly upon your bravery and discretion."
Tournay bowed again in acknowledgment.
"The service you have rendered the daughter of my old friend, by effecting her rescue and bringing her here in spite of such great obstacles, makes my obligation to you deep, very deep. My honor and my inclinations are one, when they move me to accord you, not only your freedom, but to offer you a commission in my son's regiment, the Tenth Prussian heavy artillery."
If the general had ordered him out to instant execution or conferred upon him in marriage the hand of his daughter Gretchen, Tournay could not have felt more surprise. For a few moments he could find no words in which to answer, and the general turned to the papers he had just laid down.
"Is my entry into your service made a condition of my freedom?" he finally found breath to inquire.
The Prussian general looked up from the map he had been studying, pressing his fat finger upon it to mark the place.
"Certainly not," he replied, "I make no conditions in paying a debt."
"Then I will take my liberty, which you have promised to restore to me," answered Tournay, "and return to France."
It was now the general's turn to be surprised.
"You mean to say that you will go back to Paris?"
"I shall return to the French army at—It is needless to tell you where, as you have been studying the map so attentively."
"But," interrupted General von Waldenmeer, "within six months our allied armies will be in Paris. There will be no more Republic, and every one who has been instrumental in the death of King Louis XVI. and the destruction of the monarchy will have to pay the penalty. You are a young man. You have been led into this republicanism by older heads. I offer you an opportunity—not only of escaping the consequences of your folly but the chance of redeeming yourself by fighting on the right side—and you refuse?" and the general reached out for the beer-mug to sustain himself in his disappointment. He was so sincere in his offer and in his amazement at its refusal that the angry color on Tournay's cheek faded away and a smile crept to his lips.
"Come," said the old general, putting down his mug after an unusually long pull at the contents, "you are thinking better of it. I can understand a soldier's disinclination to desert his colors, but this is not as if I were asking you to be a traitor to your country. A von Waldenmeer would cut out his own tongue rather than propose that to any other soldier. I am putting it in your way to leave the service of a faction who by anarchy and rebellion have gained control of France. Under the banner of the allies are the true patriots of your country. You have only to throw off that red, white, and blue uniform and put on the colors of Prussia and you are one of them."
Again the flush of resentment rose to Tournay's cheek, but as he looked down upon the German general who in perfect good faith and seriousness made him such a proposal, and as he realized the utter impossibility of either of them ever seeing the subject in the same light, his look of anger changed to one of amusement, and a grim smile twitched at the corners of his mustache.
"I appreciate the honor you would do me, General von Waldenmeer, but I prefer to pay the penalty of my folly and remain loyal to the French Republic."
The general took up his papers again. "Very well," he said gruffly. "I will provide you with an escort over the frontier. It will be ready to start within the hour." His eyebrows came down and he became deeply immersed in the study of the map.
Tournay stood for a few moments looking at the fat forefinger of the old soldier as it traced its way over the surface of the map. His thoughts were of Mademoiselle de Rochefort. He wondered whether she had set out on her way to Hagenhof. He almost hoped that she had left and that he would be spared the pain of parting from her. Yet if she were still at Falzenberg he knew he never could force himself to leave and not make an attempt to bid her good-by.
It was with these conflicting emotions, mingled with a reluctance to mention her name to the gruff old general, that he said in a low voice:—
"Has Mademoiselle de Rochefort started on her journey to Hagenhof?"
He received no answer.
There had been a slight tremor in his voice as he spoke Edmé's name. Hesitating for a moment, he stepped to the table and placing one hand on it he asked again in a steady tone, "When does Mademoiselle de Rochefort go to Hagenhof?"
The one word "To-morrow" came abruptly out of the large head buried in the papers before him.
Tournay drew a sigh of relief. If she had gone away, leaving him no word, he would have been the most miserable of men. Without further words with the general he turned and left the room.
As he went along the hallway be heard the rustle of a woman's gown behind him, and turning, saw to his great satisfaction the figure of Agatha hurrying toward him.
"Agatha," he exclaimed, as she came up to him, "where is mademoiselle? Can I see her?"
"Mademoiselle is in Frau Krieger's apartment at the further end of the east wing. If you will come with me I will show you where it is. It is fortunate that I have met you as I do, else it would have been difficult to find you in this large place."
"Then you were sent to fetch me?" inquired Tournay eagerly.
"I did not say that," replied Agatha with a quiet smile.
"But you evidently were in search of me," persisted Tournay.
"I have no time to answer questions now," she replied, with a laugh. "Here is the room," and she ushered him into a long old-fashioned salon, whose uncomfortable pieces of furniture looked as if they had stood for generations staring at their own ugly reflections in the polished surface of the floor.
At one end of the room stood a porcelain stove in which a fire was burning; but the large white sepulchral object seemed to chill the atmosphere more than the fire could warm it. Two high windows hung with heavy curtains faced the square in front of the house, while in the rear two other windows looked out upon the courtyard.
Frau Krieger, the widow of a Prussian officer of high rank, had reserved the salon and one or two adjoining rooms for her own use, and saw with pride the remainder of her domicile turned into barracks by General von Waldenmeer and his staff.
"Wait here a moment and I will tell mademoiselle," said Agatha, traversing the salon and disappearing through a door in the further side. Tournay walked to the front window and glanced out on the street.
The sentinel at the porte-cochère was on the point of presenting arms to Ludwig von Waldenmeer, who rode out; and two of the general's staff officers stood smoking and chatting in front of the building. Tournay's alert ear caught the sound of light footsteps, and he turned just as Edmé crossed the threshold from the inner room.
He had told himself many times within the last few minutes that the interview must be a brief one if he were to retain complete mastery over his feelings. As he approached her, his face, in spite of his efforts to control it, expressed some of the emotions which the sight of her awakened.
She extended her hand to him in her graceful, natural way, and he bent over it, mechanically uttering the words he had been repeating over and over to himself.
"I have come, mademoiselle, to say adieu."
At this, the color which had mantled her cheek as he touched her fingers disappeared.
"You have not seen General von Waldenmeer, then?" she asked quickly.
"Yes, mademoiselle, and because I have seen him I intend to start at once."
"General von Waldenmeer says that in less than three months' time the Prussian army will be in Paris," said Edmé.
A slight smile of incredulity was Tournay's only reply.
"The monarchy will be restored," she continued; "little mercy will be shown the Republicans. They will have justice meted out to them by their conquerors."
"The allied armies will never reach Paris, mademoiselle, and before they restore the monarchy they must kill every Republican who stands between them and the throne."
"I do not want them to kill you," she said simply.
His heart beat wildly. For an instant he did not speak. When he could trust his voice to answer he said:—
"I thank you deeply for your solicitude, mademoiselle, but whatever happens I must go back to my duty."
Edmé hesitated a moment, then spoke, at first with evident effort; then warming into a tone of almost passionate entreaty.
"You have done much for an unhappy woman, Robert Tournay. The remembrance of the loyalty and devotion with which you watched over and protected me shall never pass out of my memory. The de Rocheforts do not easily forget such a debt as I owe you. In an attempt to repay it in some measure, I persuaded General von Waldenmeer to offer you an honorable position in his service. I am a proud woman, Monsieur Tournay, and it cost me something to make such an appeal to the Prussian officer, and now you reject his offer and present yourself before me so coolly and say carelessly, 'I have come, mademoiselle, to bid you adieu.'"
"You think it easy for me to say those words?" replied Tournay vehemently.
She did not wait for him to finish, but went on:—
"I place it in your power to serve the rightful cause, honorably and loyally,—the cause of the king; my cause, Robert Tournay, and you refuse to do so."
"Do you not see that what you propose would be my dishonor?" he asked gently.
"No," answered Edmé firmly. "You are a brave but obstinate man, who madly pursues a wicked course; because, having once espoused it, you think to desert it would be disloyal. You are mad, Robert Tournay, but I will rescue you from your folly. I will save you in spite of yourself. I command you to stay here!" and with the same imperious gesture which he knew so well of old, she stood before him, her dark blue eyes, as was their wont under stress of excitement, flashing almost black. The tone was one of command, but there was in it a note of entreaty that went to his heart. He caught the hand which she held out to him, and exclaimed fervently:—
"I would give ten years of life to be able to obey you, but it cannot be. You do not know what you are asking of me or you would not put my honor thus upon the rack. It is cruel of you, mademoiselle, but I forgive you. You cannot understand. How should you—you are of the Monarchy, and I am of the Republic. The Republic calls me and I must go."
"The Republic!" repeated Edmé, "Oh! execrable Republic! It has robbed me of everything in the world—family, estate, friends, and now"—She paused, the sentence incomplete upon her lips, and looked at him with an expression of pain upon her face as if some violent struggle were taking place within her. "And now you are going back to it. You may become its victim; you, who are so brave and strong and noble. Yes," she continued, "I will give the word its full meaning, Robert Tournay, you are noble—too noble to become a martyr in such a cause. I entreat you not to go. I fear for your safety."
Tournay's head swam. For a moment he felt that he must fold her in his arms and tell her that for her sake he would give up everything in the world for which he had striven,—country, liberty, and honor; the Republic itself.
With a mighty effort he threw off the feeling of weakness, passionately crying, "For God's sake, mademoiselle, do not speak to me like that. You will make me forget my manhood. You will make me act so that your respect, which I have been so fortunate as to win, will turn to contempt. You could almost make me turn traitor to the Republic."
"What is this Republic? this creature of the imagination which you place above all else in the world?" she asked impetuously. "What has it done for France? What has it done for you?"
Before Tournay could answer, the sound of martial music was heard outside, and the measured tread of passing troops shook the room. He stepped to the window and drawing aside the curtains motioned Edmé to come to his side.
Wonderingly she approached and saw a brigade of infantry passing in review of the general of division. They marched with absolute precision, the sun reflecting on the polished barrels of their guns as on a solid wall.
"There go the best troops in the world," said Tournay. Edmé looked up in his face with surprise at his sudden change of manner.
"The soldiers of Prussia: at the command of their officers they will march like that to the batteries' mouth, closing up the gap of the fallen men with clock-work movements. There are two hundred thousand of them, and they are preparing to attack France. Joined with them are the tried veterans of Austria. On the sea," he continued, "the fleets of England are bearing down upon the ports of France. In the south, Spain is pouring her soldiers over the Pyrenees. These allied armies have banded together to destroy France. Yet we shall throw them back again, as we did at Wattignes and at Jemappes. There the flower of the European armies was scattered by our raw French troops. Although outnumbered and outmanœuvred, the men of France hurled back their foes in broken and disordered array. And why? Because in the heart of every Frenchman burns the new-born fire of liberty. He is fighting for the freedom he has bought so dearly. He is fighting for that Republic which has made him what he is—a man! It is France against the world! and by the Republic alone will she triumph over her enemies. That is my answer, mademoiselle. The Republic has made a new France, and I am part of it. At her call I must leave everything and go to her defense."
While he spoke thus, Edmé saw his face animated with a light she had learned to know so well,—the same light that had shone from his eyes when he confronted the mob in her château; the same fire that flashed as he defended himself before General von Waldenmeer.
"You say I place my duty to the Republic above any earthly consideration," he said. "Let me tell you that I hold your respect still dearer. If I should desert my cause, the cause for which I have lived, should I not lose that respect? Ask your own heart, mademoiselle, would it not be so?"
She stood in silence. Then her eyes met his. He read her answer there before she spoke, and in the look she gave him he thought he read still more—something he dared not believe, scarcely dared hope.
"You are right," she replied, speaking slowly and distinctly. "Go back to France! It is I who bid you go."
"I knew you would tell me to go," he replied.
The sound of voices in the corridor outside fell upon their ears.
"There are Gaillard and the escort," said Tournay, sadly. "Mademoiselle, good-by! I may never see you again. But I thank God that you are here in safety, and I shall find some happiness in the thought that I have been an instrument in your deliverance."
She did not answer, but stretched out her hand to him. He took it, and dropping on one knee, put it to his lips. "It is for the last time," he said, looking up at her. His face was deadly pale, and there was a look of pleading in his brown eyes.
She placed her other hand upon his head. It was but the slightest touch, as if she yielded to a sudden impulse, and then with the same swift movement she drew away from him.
"As it must be, I pray you to go quickly," she said, and without waiting for a reply she turned and left him.
Tournay rose to his feet,—"I swear to you now, mademoiselle, that some day I shall see you again," and he rushed from the room to the courtyard below.
"Are the horses ready?" he whispered hoarsely, grasping Gaillard by the arm.
"At the door with an escort of Prussian officers," was the reply.
"What time is it?"
"Three hours before dark."
"We must be over the frontier and well into France by to-night," was Tournay's rejoinder. "Come!"
Standing by the window, Edmé saw him leap into the saddle. He gave one look in her direction, but could not see her, concealed as she was by the heavy curtains.
She heard the officers laughing and talking among themselves. She saw one of the men jump from his horse, tighten a saddle girth, and remount with an agile spring. Then Colonel von Waldenmeer approached and addressed some remark to Robert Tournay. The latter, who had been sitting erect and motionless upon his horse, turned slightly in the saddle to answer the Prussian officer.
Edmé could see that his features were set and their expression stern.
Colonel von Waldenmeer mounted his own horse, gave a word of command, and the party started forward.
Edmé watched them as they went up the road. Ten horses riding two abreast, the snow flying out from under the heels of the galloping hoofs. She watched them until the square shoulders of Colonel Tournay were hardly distinguishable from those of Colonel Karl who rode beside him. The cavalcade disappeared around a bend in the road, and Edmé turned from the wintry aspect without to the dreary salon with a heavy heart.