Denounced: A Romance

by John Bloundelle-Burton

"I will tell you nothing. It is possible I may be mistaken; more than possible. If I am not, then you will know."

And with this the other had to be content, and to prepare to proceed to his new quarters outside Paris.

The Jesuit's idea was, indeed, one about which he might well say that he could not believe it should ever assume a tangible shape. It was nothing else than that he believed he had seen those jewels--especially that tiara--before.

He had examined them many times since they had been taken away from D'Aunay and his companion and kept in the custody of the Mayor of Amiens--had turned them over and over in his hands; scrutinised the settings to see if he could observe any mark or inscription upon them. But there was nothing--no coronet engraved inside the tiara with a name, or initials, such as might well have been looked for in such costly gewgaws--nothing! Yet the tiara forced itself upon his memory, seemed to be a thing he had seen before--worn upon a woman's head at some great ceremony. Especially he seemed to remember one diamond to the extreme left of the diadem, a yellow, light brown stone that had flashed out a different light from its fellows beneath the gleams of many-lustred candelabras. But where? Where? Where?

"Almost," he whispered to himself, "I seem to see, as through a mist, the head, the face that was beneath it. Dark hair, grizzled grey; pale olive complexion; lines of care. Who was it? Who? If I could remember that."

At night as he lay upon his truckle bed, or as he walked by the banks of the Somme, or held the jewels in his hands--for more than once he went to see them--he mused on all this. Nay, when the memory of his beloved brother and his cruel death was more than usually strong upon him, he would ponder upon the idea that was ever in his mind as he stood at night, solitary and alone, in the Place de la Cathédrale before the great west door, and on the very spot where his loved one had fallen. But still memory failed him, or, as he came near believing now, he was the sport of a delusion.

Practised by long training in every mental art, he took next to recalling each scene of splendour--for in some such scene it was, he felt sure, that he had seen that gleaming hoop worn, if he had ever seen it at all--in which he had ever taken part from the time he had been ordained a priest, from the time when, an ardent enthusiast of the Stuart cause, he had mixed in the great court circles. Scenes at Versailles, at Marly and Vincennes, St. Germain and Fontainebleau--for he had been amidst them all--were recalled carefully, yet still the phantom of the dark-haired woman with the threads of grey running through that hair evaded him. He had known so many such, he told himself, wearily; had seen so many women to whom jewels and adornments were the natural accompaniments, that, perhaps, it was not strange he should forget. Also, he reflected, how easy for him, who had seen countless jewelled head-dresses worn, to imagine that he remembered this particular one!

Yet he could swear he remembered that yellow, brown diamond!

Tortured thus by his struggles with the dim shadows of his memory, he bade farewell to the others as they departed, and left him alone in the city so bitterly dear to him.

"Farewell, Kate," he said, "farewell. God bless you! You are separated, as I think, for ever from a man utterly unworthy of you; yet you have still the consolation of being without dishonour--ay, without speck or blemish. He will never trouble you again, I do believe. Let him, therefore, go his evil way, and go you yours in peace and happiness. I would that I could see a way to your obtaining the one happiness that should belong to you; wish it for your sake and Bertie's. But it cannot be. Not yet, at least. Therefore bear up. Heaven in its mercy will, I know, protect and prosper you."