In one thing alone was M. de Kersaint singular, in that he already had a regular headquarters and was able to occupy it unmolested. Even Cadoudal and his subordinates in the Morbihan judged it prudent to leave theirs by night, and sleep dispersed in the forest. That M. de Kersaint and his officers could remain with impunity at the Clos-aux-Grives, that despatches found their way there and that it was the discreet centre of a continual going and coming of emissaries, as the work of organisation advanced towards completion, was owing to the fact that it stood in furthest Finistère, the most remote and untouched part of the intractable West. It was too difficult for the Blues, as they were termed, to get at it.
And so, in this large farm-house, once a manoir, all but the superior officers of M. de Kersaint’s staff were awaiting their noontide meal this August day. The old greenish glass in the tiny panes admitted a tempered light, but the room was large enough to have windows on both sides, and it was a pleasant apartment. At night it was used as a dormitory by the younger officers, who slept on pallets on the floor, for which reason, and also because it was mainly ‘les jeunes’ who inhabited it at any time, M. du Ménars, acting second-in-command till the Comte de Brencourt’s return, had christened it ‘the nursery’—earning thereby small gratitude from Lucien and Artamène and their peers. On the long table, dark with the polish of ages, were set platters, horn spoons and forks, bowls of the cheerful Quimper ware, and jugs of cider, but the meal, whatever its nature, seemed to be dependent on the boiling of Lucien’s pot, to which process, indeed, other eyes than Artamène’s were directed.
M. de la Vergne himself was moved at last to expostulate, though as a matter of fact he had only come into the ‘nursery’ five minutes before. Stretching out an arm, he tapped the pot with his switch, and said gently, “What is in this receptacle, my good Lucien? Stones?”
“I am sure I don’t know,” replied M. du Boisfossé in a rather exasperated voice. “They brought it in here from the kitchen, and said it would finish cooking nicely, if I would just see that the fire was kept up. And I’ve put sticks and sticks on the wretched thing——”
“And blacked your face into the bargain,” finished his friend brutally. “I expect it is the mortal part of that superannuated cow I have seen about. . . . Never mind, time conquers all things, even cows. Put on yet more sticks, and while the old lady simmers I will tell you a piece of news. M. le Marquis is going to recall—you can guess whom!”
“Not our long-lost Roland?” exclaimed Lucien, starting up.
Artamène nodded. “If you agitate yourself, mon ami, you will knock your head against the hearth next. Yes, it appears that the convalescent adventurer has written him so penitent and piteous a letter from Kerlidec that our leader’s heart is softened, and he is writing to tell Roland that he may rejoin us. You have heard, of course, gentlemen,” he went on, addressing a little group of newly-joined young officers who had strolled over to the hearth, “how our paladin was unhorsed at Roncesvalles—that is to say, winged by the guard of the enchanted castle of Mirabel. But he did not fall into the hands of the Saracens, like M. de Brencourt, his successor, for the princess who inhabits the same, in other words, the concierge, taking pity on him, nursed and smuggled him out of Mirabel again to his relatives in Paris. Thence, when he was sufficiently recovered, the poor Roland returned home to, I am afraid, a very irate grandparent.—Keep the dowager going, Lucien!”
“And now you say that Charlemagne has relented, and is going to summon him here?” said Lucien, taking up his friend’s metaphor. “What a mercy!”
“I suppose M. le Marquis has been anxious about M. de Céligny?” suggested one of the newcomers.
“Yes, very anxious—and more than anxious, exceedingly angry,” replied M. du Boisfossé. “Isn’t that so, Artamène.”