The Wounded Name

by D. K. Broster

On the whole, these four days, like his first supper-party at Sessignes, had been less agitating than he had feared. There was strain, of course, for Aymar, and for him, and, presumably, for Madame de Villecresne up to a point, because of what she knew; but Mme de la Rocheterie had not added to the inevitable malaise the extra tension which he had anticipated. Her attitude at present was one of half-amused toleration of Aymar's concern for his unfortunate men, and of a disregard of the possibilities of blame which was sublime in its contempt. Laurent's only hope was that sleeping dogs might be left to lie. For, used as he was to the society of old ladies, and versed in the ways that pleased them, Mme de la Rocheterie inspired in him a latent terror which his own formidable great-aunts had never roused. With her, one felt very much in the presence of an intelligence. When she set that intelligence to finding out anything, he was sure that she would succeed. He could only pray that his might not be the unwary tongue to kindle this desire.

About Mme de Villecresne he had now quite made up his mind. More girlish than he had pictured her, the widow, the six years' nominal wife (no older, indeed, than himself) more beautiful even than he had thought at first, and with a nameless charm of glance and voice, he now found her bewitching. He was for ever on the watch for the fleeting, half-tantalizing resemblances to Aymar himself; these, indeed, completed his subjugation. So, except that in his heart of hearts he did not think any woman good enough for his friend, he approved his choice. And, fortunately, there was no shadow of doubt that she loved Aymar deeply. He had seen her with him in the chaise . . . and looking at him to-day at déjeuner. And now, if it were not for this horrible cloud over him, of whose full proportions she was not aware, their long-delayed happiness was at hand. He did hope that Aymar would have no hesitation about taking it quickly. From something which his friend had let fall the other day he was a little afraid. . . . Being cousins, they would of course have to get a dispensation first. . . .

The young man reflected on their cousinship as he swung along. Had they not been lovers they must almost, he thought, feel like brother and sister, brought up together as they had been from so tender an age. And his thoughts flew instantly to a picture in the salon of the château which had charmed and delighted him from the first—a pastel wherein a beautiful, serious boy of ten or thereabouts held by the hand a younger girl-child, bright-haired like himself and smiling rather roguishly at the spectator. The little Aymar had a kite on which his other hand rested, somewhat as if on a shield, but his attention, obviously, was concentrated on his companion with an effect of care and protection not usual at the kite-flying age. It came to Laurent, as he neared Sessignes, how deeply that same attitude was still Aymar's, and how, to shelter his cousin now from the knowledge of what she, all innocently, had brought upon him, he was running what his friend could not but consider a very grave risk indeed. But it was not for him to say, "Tell her everything!" Aymar knew what he was doing.

And the whole future? The nightmare idea of arrest by his own side still sometimes visited Laurent, since the morning when Aymar had referred to it. But such a blow was unlikely to fall on him because, having raised and equipped his Eperviers entirely by his own efforts, he was under the direct orders of no commander whatever, not even of Sol de Grisolles himself. Yet, in spite of that, suppose that one day he were dragged off from Sessignes to answer for what he had done. . . . That was the terrible part of it—for what he had done.

"Oh, Sarrasin," said Laurent with a shiver, "you wise dog, if only you could help your master!" But the wolfhound merely swayed his tail, and they came up the avenue to the château, and turned along the side of the house to the highest terrace. And here the sunset, already brightening behind the woods that flanked the pastures on the other side of the Aven, was seen in all its half-tragic splendour, like the death of a hero. It tinged the river and smote on the bright, uncovered head of her who had been the little girl in the picture, as she stood by the terrace wall gazing out into the distance.

Laurent caught sight of her face; it looked so exceedingly grave that he stopped before she had perhaps, even heard his step. But Sarrasin went up to her, so she turned, and Laurent, realizing that she wished to speak to him, approached her.

"Monsieur de Courtomer," she began rather abruptly, "I want to consult you about something rather terrible—something which I hope may be kept from my cousin's knowledge."

"I am at your service, Madame," replied Laurent. This was indeed turning the tables in the matter of concealment.

Mme de Villecresne moved a trifle away, and, looking down, fingered the warm lichened stone of the terrace wall for a moment. The little curls at the back of her neck glowed like burnished gold. "It is about Pont-aux-Rochers. My cousin warned me himself that I might hear it said that the supposed treachery there was—his own. I had not heard it, and till this afternoon I could have sworn that it was impossible so atrocious a slander should even be breathed in Brittany of L'Oiseleur! Yet this very afternoon I have just heard worse—if it were possible—and I do not know what to do about it."

Her breath seemed to fail her for an instant. Laurent looked at her in mute uneasiness.