Angelot: A Story of the First Empire

by Eleanor C. Price

"He ought to be one of us, that boy!" thought Martin. "I'll wait for him. I like a spark of the devil. My father says Monsieur Joseph was a thorough polisson, and almost as pretty as his nephew. He's a pious little gentleman now. They are a curious family!"

Angelot slipped through the dark empty chapel, and the wind howled behind him. He ran down the passage between rooms that were empty and dark, for Mademoiselle Moineau and her pupils had been allowed to go down to the ball. He went through stone-vaulted corridors, unlighted, cold and lonely, across half the length of the great house. He had to watch his moment for passing the head of the chief staircase, for there were people going up and down, servants trying to see what they could of the gay doings below. Waves of warm and scented air rolled up against his face as he darted past, keeping close to the wall, one moving shadow more. Music, laughing, talking, filled old Lancilly like a flood, ebbing and flowing so; and every now and then the tramping of feet on the ball-room floor echoed loudest.

Angelot knew of a little gallery room with narrow slits in the stonework, opening out of the further passage that led to Monsieur and Madame de Sainfoy's rooms. It used to be empty or filled with lumber; it now held several large wardrobes, but the perforated wall remained. He found the door open; it was not quite dark, for gleams of light made their way in from the chandeliers in the ball-room, one end of which it overlooked. There were also a couple of lights in the passage outside.

From this high point Angelot looked down upon the ball. And first it was nothing but a whirling confusion of sound and colour and light; the flying dresses, the uniforms, jewels, gold lace, glittering necklaces, flashing sword hilts. Then—that fair head, that white figure alone.

He could hear nothing of what was said; but he saw her brother come up with General Ratoneau, he watched the dance—and if those slits in the solid wall had been wider, there might have been danger of a young man's daring to drop down by his hands, trusting to fate to land him safely on the floor below. For he saw his love walk away with her partner down the ball-room, out of his sight, and then he waited in unbearable impatience, but saw her no more for what seemed a long time. He began to think that he must go, carrying with him the agony of leaving her in familiar talk with Ratoneau, when suddenly he saw her again, and forgot his mother, his uncle, César d'Ombré, and all the obligations of life. She came back alone; her brother was speaking to her; she looked troubled, there was something strange about it all, but Ratoneau was not there. That, at least, was well; and how divinely beautiful she looked!

Angelot gazed for a minute or two, holding his breath; then a sudden step and a voice in the corridor close by startled him violently. He had left the door half open, standing where he could not be seen through it. He now turned his head to see who was passing. It was the step of one person only, a quick and agitated step. Was this person then speaking to him? No, it was his cousin Hervé de Sainfoy, and he was talking to himself. He was repeating the same words over and over again: "But who can save us? What shall I do? What shall I do? Who can save us? A way out, he says? My God, there is none."

When his cousin had passed the door, Angelot stepped forward and looked after him. It was impossible not to do so. The Comte was like a man who had received some terrible blow. His face was white and drawn, and his whole frame trembled as he walked. He carried an open letter shaking and rustling in his hand, glanced at it now and then, flung his clenched fists out on each side of him.

Then he said aloud, "My God, it is her doing!"

Angelot forgot all caution and stepped out into the corridor. His cousin seemed to be walking on to his own room at the end; but before he reached it he turned suddenly round and came hurrying back. Angelot stood and faced him.

He, too, was pale from his imprisonment and the excitement of the night, but as he met Hervé de Sainfoy's astonished gaze the colour flooded his young face and his brave bright eyes fell.