At the Emperor’s Court an old friend of hers moved—one who had been formerly a Royalist, and who now for some years had attached himself to the fortunes of Buonaparte. Lucille had found it hard to pardon this change of front in her old friend—more strictly her parents’ friend—and intercourse between the two had been almost dropped. Yet Lucille had heard of him from time to time, and she knew that he was not one to forget the past, the more so in her case since that past included a heavy debt of gratitude from him to Lucille’s father.
It had one day occurred to her that she might write to this friend, explaining about Captain Ivor’s failing health, and begging him to intercede with the Emperor for permission for Ivor to go home. Lucille did not tell Jack—it was not needful—how many days she had held out against this notion. Not for Denham’s sake, but for her own. He had been so long the main centre of thought in her quiet existence, that she could hardly now picture life at Verdun without him. Not that she was exactly in love with Ivor, because from the very beginning she had always known him to be Polly’s, and she had not permitted him to become to her what he might easily have become. But she was very much his friend.
So she hesitated, till one day the selfishness of her own hesitation broke upon her, awakened by some fresh view of his altered looks. Then at once she acted. She wrote to the friend, putting the matter before him, frankly stating her own belief that Ivor was in point of fact slowly dying of captivity, and entreating him, in memory of old days, to interest himself in the matter, and, if possible, to get permission for Ivor’s return to England.
The friend, whose name Lucille did not mention to Jack, had answered her letter. He had written kindly, cordially, promising to take an opportunity sooner or later to lay the matter before the Emperor. He might or might not meet with success; but, at least, Mademoiselle de St. Roques could depend upon him to do his best for her English friend.
“And you think there is the smallest hope?” Jack said incredulously. He did not know that, at this very time or soon after, Major Charles Napier, taken prisoner in the Battle of Coruña, was generously released by Marshal Ney and sent to England, because he had there an old blind mother. The proviso was made only that he should count himself a prisoner on parole, debarred from fighting, until an exchange had been arranged for him, which in the course of a few months was done. Ney took this step on his own responsibility out of sheer kindliness of heart, not knowing whether the Emperor might not be seriously angry with his action. But the Emperor endorsed his decision with a readiness hardly to have been expected from that man of fire and blood. Even Napoleon was not so utterly bad in all respects as he was painted by some of his contemporaries. He might and did hate with a virulent hatred the British nation as a whole, he could be harsh to civilian détenus, and he was brutal to women; but to the individual English soldier he was quite capable of showing generosity.
“I cannot tell. There is no certainty—none,” Lucille answered. “But, until I hear from my friend that all is hopeless, I will not give up hope. You will not say one word to the Colonel or to Mrs. Baron—least of all to Captain Ivor?”
“Trust me—I’m staunch!” declared Jack. “Never do to raise his hopes for nothing.” Jack himself had not the faintest expectation of any result from Lucille’s efforts. None the less, he was gratified to be treated as her confidant. He liked her immensely and increasingly.
As a matter of course Jack had taken up his abode under the same roof with the Barons. Roy’s former room was given to him, and he made a markedly cheerful addition to the family circle.
One evening, some ten days later, they were together after dinner. Jack was dictating a letter to Molly, having pressed Lucille into his service as amanuensis. Whether the letter would ever reach its destination was doubtful; but Jack had resolved to send it off, and his right arm was still incapable. The Colonel was reading, his wife was working, and Denham for an hour past had not stirred or spoken. They all knew what this meant, and mercifully left him alone, speaking themselves in subdued tones. Jack’s glance wandered often towards the motionless figure in the sofa corner, and in the midst of his dictation he paused to murmur—