Sir Isumbras at the Ford

by D. K. Broster

It was something of a surprise to the Chevalier de la Vireville to learn, next morning, how near the manoir of L'Estournel stood to the sea. Henri du Coudrais had, it appeared, made all the necessary arrangements for conveying his sister to Guernsey that evening, and they were to embark, as soon as dusk fell, from a tiny cove not a mile distant from the old house, and, when they had sailed to a certain point, were to be picked up by a fishing smack, and so to St. Peter Port.

But La Vireville himself, as the brother and sister assured him, could lie very conveniently hidden at L'Estournel for another day or two, to permit his foot a further chance of recovery. This, however, was not a course which commended itself to the invalid. He declared that he also should leave that evening for Carhoët, taking the sole means of locomotion open to him, namely, Grain d'Orge's horse, which, having conveyed its double burden safely to the manoir, was now secretly tethered in one of the tumble-down stalls, nourished on handfuls of grass. If Grain d'Orge could not somehow procure another steed for his own use (which was improbable) he must go on foot, leading this beast, and his master upon it, under cover of night, and by ways known to himself, to Carhoët. Moreover, La Vireville proposed, since the coast was so conveniently near, to accompany Mme. de Guéfontaine and her brother thither, and speed their departure before himself turning inland for his own destination. And in these two resolutions he persisted all day, despite every effort to dissuade him.

But all morning and afternoon he obediently lay, or rather sat propped up, on his settle, his swathed foot extended in front of him, and conversed with the two émigrés, or watched the lady preparing the somewhat exiguous meals necessitated by the absence of fire, which they dared not light for fear of the betraying smoke. During the afternoon they held a solemn conclave, he and she, and she gave him a fresh quantity of valuable information about his new command, of which he took cypher notes.

"How am I going to replace you, Madame?" he said at the end, putting the notes away in his breast, and looking at her with a certain admiration and wonder.

"Shall I come back?" she suggested, smiling. And though he knew that she did not for a moment mean the offer to be accepted, and she had told him that the place, from its memories of the lost André, was hateful to her, he guessed at some lingering traces of regret, even of poignant regret, in her mind.

"You could not take up your quarters at Porhoët again, I fear," said he, smiling too. "I wonder if the Citizen Botidoux has got over his interview with the Commissary! Why did you so providentially keep that tricolour sash in your press, Madame? It is true that I have not felt my own man since I had it round me, but it certainly lent a most convincing—perhaps the convincing—touch to the whole affair."

"How amazingly you carried it off!" she exclaimed, her eyes glowing. "Oh, I kept the sash because . . . well, one never knew when it would prove useful—to an émigré embarking, for instance. It came off a dead Blue. But, as you can imagine, I could have bitten my tongue out afterwards for having screamed as I did. Yet I—yes, it seemed like a nightmare to recognise your voice. I thought for a moment, you see, that all the time you must have been a Government spy. I could hardly be expected, could I," she inquired, with the glimmer of a smile, "to grasp in a moment such unequalled magnanimity?"

"Madame," said La Vireville hardily, "I am getting somewhat tired of that word. You know, to be quite frank, I have not so much claim to it as you might think. In the first place, I rather admired you for . . . for that business with my hunting-knife—save that if you really want to stab a man you must not hesitate like that about it, and you must know just where to strike (I can show you if you wish); and secondly——"

"Monsieur," said his Jael, looking down and biting her lip, with a heightened colour, "either you are laughing at me, or you are trying to avenge yourself. I think it is true . . . you are not so magnanimous after all."

"Just as I told you!" cried Fortuné. "But I swear that I am not laughing at you. It is the truth, as I live, that when I knew the provocation you had received I thought not less of you, but more, for trying to rid yourself of me—I mean of my cousin Gaspard. But—there is one thing I am dying to know, though I do not feel certain that you can tell me."