“I had not before thought my own name of such consequence.”
The old man grunted amiably. “My faith, the very name begets a towering conceit wherever it goes,” he answered, and he brought his stick down on the floor with such vehemence that the emerald and ruby rings rattled on his shrunken fingers.
“Be seated—cousin,” he said with dry compliment, for Philip had remained standing, as if with the unfeigned respect of a cadet in the august presence of the head of his house. It was a sudden and bold suggestion, and it was not lost on the Duke. The aged nobleman was too keen an observer not to see the designed flattery, but he was in a mood when flattery was palatable, seeing that many of his own class were arrayed against him for not having joined the army of the Vendee; and that the Revolutionists, with whom he had compromised, for the safety of his lands of d’Avranche and his duchy of Bercy, regarded him with suspicion. Between the two, the old man—at heart most profoundly a Royalist—bided his time, in some peril but with no fear. The spirit of this young Englishman of his own name pleased him; the flattery, patent as it was, gratified him, for in revolutionary France few treated him with deference now. Even the Minister of Marine, with whom he was on good terms, called him “citizen” at times.
All at once it flashed on the younger man that this must be the Prince d’Avranche, Duc de Bercy, of that family of d’Avranche from which his own came in long descent—even from the days of Rollo, Duke of Normandy. He recalled on the instant the token of fealty of the ancient House of d’Avranche—the offering of a sword.
“Your Serene Highness,” he said with great deference and as great tact, “I must first offer my homage to the Prince d’Avranche, Duc de Bercy—” Then with a sudden pause, and a whimsical look, he added: “But, indeed, I had forgotten, they have taken away my sword!”
“We shall see,” answered the Prince, well pleased, “we shall see about that sword. Be seated.” Then, after a short pause: “Tell me now, monsieur, of your family, of your ancestry.”
His eyes were bent on Philip with great intentness, and his thin lips tightened in some unaccountable agitation.
Philip instantly responded. He explained how in the early part of the thirteenth century, after the great crusade against the Albigenses, a cadet of the house of d’Avranche had emigrated to England, and had come to place and honour under Henry III, who gave to the son of this d’Avranche certain tracts of land in Jersey, where he settled. Philip was descended in a direct line from this same receiver of king’s favours, and was now the only representative of his family.
While Philip spoke the Duke never took eyes from his face—that face so facile in the display of feeling or emotion. The voice also had a lilt of health and vitality which rang on the ears of age pleasantly. As he listened he thought of his eldest son, partly imbecile, all but a lusus naturae, separated from his wife immediately after marriage, through whom there could never be succession—he thought of him, and for the millionth time in his life winced in impotent disdain. He thought too of his beloved second son, lying in a soldier’s grave in Macedonia; of the buoyant resonance of that by-gone voice, of the soldierly good spirits like to the good spirits of the prisoner before him, and “his heart yearned towards the young man exceedingly.” If that second son had but lived there would be now no compromising with this Republican Government of France; he would be fighting for the white flag with the golden lilies over in the Vendee.
“Your ancestors were mine, then,” remarked the Duke gravely, after a pause, “though I had not heard of that emigration to England. However—however! Come, tell me of the engagement in which you lost your ship,” he added hurriedly in a low tone. He was now so intent that he did not stir in his seat, but sat rigidly still, regarding Philip kindly. Something in the last few moments’ experience had loosened the puckered skin, softened the crabbed look in the face, and Philip had no longer doubt of his friendly intentions.