Lorraine. A Romance E-Book

Robert W. Chambers

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Lorraine is a story about a young woman and her country. Lorraine comes of age during the dramatic war years in France. Its growth, conflicts and possible renewal are reflected in the country’s struggle for its independence against Germany.

Leseprobe

Contents

TO MY FATHER

CHAPTER I. A MAKER OF MAPS

CHAPTER II. TELEGRAMS FOR TWO

CHAPTER III. SUMMER THUNDER

CHAPTER IV. THE FARANDOLE

CHAPTER V. COWARDS AND THEIR COURAGE

CHAPTER VI. TRAINS EAST AND WEST

CHAPTER VII. THE ROAD TO PARADISE

CHAPTER VIII. UNDER THE YOKE

CHAPTER IX. SAARBRÜCK

CHAPTER X. AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER

CHAPTER XI. "KEEP THY FAITH"

CHAPTER XII. FROM THE FRONTIER

CHAPTER XIII. AIDE-DE-CAMP

CHAPTER XIV. THE MARQUIS MAKES HIMSELF AGREEABLE

CHAPTER XV. THE INVASION OF LORRAINE

CHAPTER XVI. "IN THE HOLLOW OF THY HAND"

CHAPTER XVII. THE KEEPERS OF THE HOUSE

CHAPTER XVIII. THE STRETCHING OF NECKS

CHAPTER XIX. RICKERL'S SABRE

CHAPTER XX. SIR THORALD IS SILENT

CHAPTER XXI. THE WHITE CROSS

CHAPTER XXII. A DOOR IS LOCKED

CHAPTER XXIII. LORRAINE SLEEPS

CHAPTER XXIV. LORRAINE AWAKES

CHAPTER XXV. PRINCESS IMPERIAL

CHAPTER XXVI. THE SHADOW OF POMP

CHAPTER XXVII. ÇA IRA!

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE BRACONNIER

CHAPTER XXIX. THE MESSAGE OF THE FLAG

CHAPTER XXX. THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW

CHAPTER XXXI. THE PROPHECY OF LORRAINE

TO MY FATHER

LORRAINE!

When Yesterday shall dawn again, And the long line athwart the hill Shall quicken with the bugle’s thrill, Thine own shall come to thee, Lorraine!

Then in each vineyard, vale, and plain, The quiet dead shall stir the earth And rise, reborn, in thy new birth–Thou holy martyr-maid, Lorraine!

Is it in vain thy sweet tears stain Thy mother’s breast? Her castled crest Is lifted now! God guide her quest! She seeks thine own for thee, Lorraine!

So Yesterday shall live again, And the steel line along the Rhine Shall cuirass thee and all that’s thine. France lives–thy France–divine Lorraine!

R. W. C.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

The author desires to acknowledge his indebtedness to the valuable volumes of Messrs. Victor Duruy, Archibald Forbes, Sir William Fraser, Dr. J. von Pflugk-Harttung, G. Tissandier, Comdt. Grandin, and “Un Officier de Marine,” concerning (wholly or in part) the events of 1870-1871.

Occasionally the author has deemed it best to change the names of villages, officers, and regiments or battalions.

The author believes that the romance separated from the facts should leave the historical basis virtually accurate.

R. W. C.

New York, September, 1897.

CHAPTER I

A MAKER OF MAPS

There was a rustle in the bushes, the sound of twigs snapping, a soft foot-fall on the dead leaves.

Marche stopped, took his pipe out of his mouth, and listened.

Patter! patter! patter! over the crackling underbrush, now near, now far away in the depths of the forest; then sudden silence, the silence that startles.

He turned his head warily, right, left; he knelt noiselessly, striving to pierce the thicket with his restless eyes. After a moment he arose on tiptoe, unslung his gun, cocked both barrels, and listened again, pipe tightly clutched between his white teeth.

All around lay the beautiful Lorraine forests, dim and sweet, dusky as velvet in their leafy depths. A single sunbeam, striking obliquely through the brush tangle, powdered the forest mould with gold.

He heard the little river Lisse, flowing, flowing, where green branches swept its placid surface with a thousand new-born leaves; he heard a throstle singing in the summer wind.

Suddenly, far ahead, something gray shambled loosely across the path, leaped a brush heap, slunk under a fallen tree, and loped on again.

For a moment Marche refused to believe his own eyes. A wolf in Lorraine!–a big, gray timber-wolf, here, within a mile of the Château Morteyn! He could see it yet, passing like a shadow along the trees. Before he knew it he was following, running noiselessly over the soft, mossy path, holding his little shot-gun tightly. As he ran, his eyes fixed on the spot where the wolf had disappeared, he began to doubt his senses again, he began to believe that the thing he saw was some shaggy sheep-dog from the Moselle, astray in the Lorraine forests. But he held his pace, his pipe griped in his teeth, his gun swinging at his side. Presently, as he turned into a grass-grown carrefour, a mere waste of wild-flowers and tangled briers, he caught his ankle in a strand of ivy and fell headlong. Sprawling there on the moss and dead leaves, the sound of human voices struck his ear, and he sat up, scowling and rubbing his knees.

The voices came nearer; two people were approaching the carrefour. Jack Marche, angry and dirty, looked through the bushes, stanching a long scratch on his wrist with his pocket-handkerchief. The people were in sight now–a man, tall, square-shouldered, striding swiftly through the woods, followed by a young girl. Twice she sprang forward and seized him by the arm, but he shook her off roughly and hastened on. As they entered the carrefour, the girl ran in front of him and pushed him back with all her strength.

“Come, now,” said the man, recovering his balance, “you had better stop this before I lose patience. Go back!”

The girl barred his way with slender arms out-stretched.

“What are you doing in my woods?” she demanded. “Answer me! I will know, this time!”

“Let me pass!” sneered the man. He held a roll of papers in one hand; in the other, steel compasses that glittered in the sun.

“I shall not let you pass!” she said, desperately; “you shall not pass! I wish to know what it means, why you and the others come into my woods and make maps of every path, of every brook, of every bridge–yes, of every wall and tree and rock! I have seen you before–you and the others. You are strangers in my country!”

“Get out of my path,” said the man, sullenly.

“Then give me that map you have made! I know what you are! You come from across the Rhine!”

The man scowled and stepped towards her.

“You are a German spy!” she cried, passionately.

“You little fool!” he snarled, seizing her arm. He shook her brutally; the scarlet skirts fluttered, a little rent came in the velvet bodice, the heavy, shining hair tumbled down over her eyes.

In a moment Marche had the man by the throat. He held him there, striking him again and again in the face. Twice the man tried to stab him with the steel compasses, but Marche dragged them out of his fist and hammered him until he choked and spluttered and collapsed on the ground, only to stagger to his feet again and lurch into the thicket of second growth. There he tripped and fell as Marche had fallen on the ivy, but, unlike Marche, he wriggled under the bushes and ran on, stooping low, never glancing back.

The impulse that comes to men to shoot when anything is running for safety came over Marche for an instant. Instinctively he raised his gun, hesitated, lowered it, still watching the running man with cold, bright eyes.

“Well,” he said, turning to the girl behind him, “he’s gone now. Ought I to have fired? Ma foi! I’m sorry I didn’t! He has torn your bodice and your skirt!”

The girl stood breathless, cheeks aflame, burnished tangled hair shadowing her eyes.

“We have the map,” she said, with a little gasp.

Marche picked up a crumpled roll of paper from the ground and opened it. It contained a rough topographical sketch of the surrounding country, a detail of a dozen small forest paths, a map of the whole course of the river Lisse from its source to its junction with the Moselle, and a beautiful plan of the Château de Nesville.

“That is my house!” said the girl; “he has a map of my house! How dare he!”

“The Château de Nesville?” asked Marche, astonished; “are you Lorraine?”

“Yes! I’m Lorraine. Didn’t you know it?”

“Lorraine de Nesville?” he repeated, curiously.

“Yes! How dares that German to come into my woods and make maps and carry them back across the Rhine! I have seen him before–twice–drawing and measuring along the park wall. I told my father, but he thinks only of his balloons. I have seen others, too–other strange men in the chase–always measuring or staring about or drawing. Why? What do Germans want of maps of France? I thought of it all day–every day; I watched, I listened in the forest. And do you know what I think?”

“What?” asked Marche.

She pushed back her splendid hair and faced him.

“War!” she said, in a low voice.

“War?” he repeated, stupidly. She stretched out an arm towards the east; then, with a passionate gesture, she stepped to his side.

“War! Yes! War! War! War! I cannot tell you how I know it–I ask myself how–and to myself I answer: ‘It is coming! I, Lorraine, know it!’”

A fierce light flashed from her eyes, blue as corn-flowers in July.

“It is in dreams I see and hear now–in dreams; and I see the vineyards black with helmets, and the Moselle redder than the setting sun, and over all the land of France I see bayonets, moving, moving, like the Rhine in flood!”

The light in her eyes died out; she straightened up; her lithe young body trembled.

“I have never before told this to any one,” she said, faintly; “my father does not listen when I speak. You are Jack Marche, are you not?”

He did not answer, but stood awkwardly, folding and unfolding the crumpled maps.

“You are the vicomte’s nephew–a guest at the Château Morteyn?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Marche.

“Then you are Monsieur Jack Marche?”

He took off his shooting-cap and laughed frankly. “You find me carrying a gun on your grounds,” he said; “I’m sure you take me for a poacher.”

She glanced at his leggings.

“Now,” he began, “I ask permission to explain; I am afraid that you will be inclined to doubt my explanation. I almost doubt it myself, but here it is. Do you know that there are wolves in these woods?”

“Wolves?” she repeated, horrified.

“I saw one; I followed it to this carrefour.”

She leaned against a tree; her hands fell to her sides.

There was a silence; then she said, “You will not believe what I am going to say–you will call it superstition–perhaps stupidity. But do you know that wolves have never appeared along the Moselle except before a battle? Seventy years ago they were seen before the battle of Colmar. That was the last time. And now they appear again.”

“I may have been mistaken,” he said, hastily; “those shaggy sheep-dogs from the Moselle are very much like timber-wolves in colour. Tell me, Mademoiselle de Nesville, why should you believe that we are going to have a war? Two weeks ago the Emperor spoke of the perfect tranquillity of Europe.” He smiled and added, “France seeks no quarrels. Because a brute of a German comes sneaking into these woods to satisfy his national thirst for prying, I don’t see why war should result.”

“War did result,” she said, smiling also, and glancing at his torn shooting-coat; “I haven’t even thanked you yet, Monsieur Marche–for your victory.”

With a sudden gesture, proud, yet half shy, she held out one hand, and he took it in his own hands, bronzed and brier scratched.

“I thought,” she said, withdrawing her fingers, “that I ought to give you an American ‘shake hands.’ I suppose you are wondering why we haven’t met before. There are reasons.”

She looked down at her scarlet skirt, touched a triangular tear in it, and, partly turning her head, raised her arms and twisted the tangled hair into a heavy burnished knot at her neck.

“You wear the costume of Lorraine,” he ventured.

“Is it not pretty? I love it. Alone in the house I always wear it, the scarlet skirts banded with black, the velvet bodice and silver chains–oh! he has broken my chain, too!”

He leaned on his gun, watching her, fascinated with the grace of her white fingers twisting her hair.

“To think that you should have first seen me so! What will they say at the Château Morteyn?”

“But I shall tell nobody,” laughed Marche.

“Then you are very honourable, and I thank you. Mon Dieu, they talk enough about me–you have heard them–do not deny it, Monsieur Marche. It is always, ‘Lorraine did this, Lorraine did that, Lorraine is shocking, Lorraine is silly, Lorraine–’ O Dieu! que sais’je! Poor Lorraine!”

“Poor Lorraine!” he repeated, solemnly. They both laughed outright.

“I know all about the house-party at the Château Morteyn,” she resumed, mending a tear in her velvet bodice with a hair-pin. “I was invited, as you probably know, Monsieur Marche; but I did not go, and doubtless the old vicomte is saying, ‘I wonder why Lorraine does not come?’ and Madame de Morteyn replies, ‘Lorraine is a very uncertain quantity, my dear’–oh, I am sure that they are saying these things.”

“I think I heard some such dialogue yesterday,” said Marche, much amused. Lorraine raised her head and looked at him.

“You think I am a crazy child in tatters, neglected and wild as a falcon from the Vosges. I know you do. Everybody says so, and everybody pities me and my father. Why? Parbleu! he makes experiments with air-ships that they don’t understand. Voilà! As for me, I am more than happy. I have my forest and my fields; I have my horses and my books. I dress as I choose; I go where I choose. Am I not happy, Monsieur Marche?”

“I should say,” he admitted, “that you are.”

“You see,” she continued, with a pretty, confidential nod, “I can talk to you because you are the vicomte’s American nephew, and I have heard all about you and your lovely sister, and it is all right–isn’t it?”

“It is,” said Marche, fervently.

“Of course. Now I shall tell you why I did not go to the Château and meet your sister and the others. Perhaps you will not comprehend. Shall I tell you?”

“I’ll try to comprehend,” said Marche, laughing.

“Well, then, would you believe it? I–Lorraine de Nesville–have outgrown my clothes, monsieur, and my beautiful new gowns are coming from Paris this week, and then–”

“Then!” repeated Marche.

“Then you shall see,” said Lorraine, gravely.

Jack, bewildered, fascinated, stood leaning on his gun, watching every movement of the lithe figure before him.

“Until your gowns arrive, I shall not see you again?” he asked.

She looked up quickly.

“Do you wish to?”

“Very much!” he blurted out, and then, aware of the undue fervor he had shown, repeated: “Very much–if you don’t mind,” in a subdued but anxious voice.

Again she raised her eyes to his, doubtfully, perhaps a little wistfully.

“It wouldn’t be right, would it–until you are presented?”

He was silent.

“Still,” she said, looking up into the sky, “I often come to the river below, usually after luncheon.”

“I wonder if there are any gudgeon there?” he said; “I could bring a rod–”

“Oh, but are you coming? Is that right? I think there are fish there,” she added, innocently, “and I usually come after luncheon.”

“And when your gowns arrive from Paris–”

“Then! Then you shall see! Oh! I shall be a very different person; I shall be timid and silent and stupid and awkward, and I shall answer, ‘Oui, monsieur;’ ‘Non, monsieur,’ and you will behold in me the jeune fille of the romances.”

“Don’t!” he protested.

“I shall!” she cried, shaking out her scarlet skirts full breadth. “Good-by!”

In a second she had gone, straight away through the forest, leaving in his ears the music of her voice, on his finger-tips the touch of her warm hand.

He stood, leaning on his gun–a minute, an hour?–he did not know.

Presently earthly sounds began to come back to drown the delicious voice in his ears; he heard the little river Lisse, flowing, flowing under green branches; he heard a throstle singing in the summer wind; he heard, far in the deeper forest, something passing–patter, patter, patter–over the dead leaves.

CHAPTER II

TELEGRAMS FOR TWO

Jack Marche tucked his gun under his arm and turned away along the overgrown wood-road that stretched from the De Nesville forests to the more open woods of Morteyn.

He walked slowly, puffing his pipe, pondering over his encounter with the châtelaine of the Château de Nesville. He thought, too, of the old Vicomte de Morteyn and his gentle wife, of the little house-party of which he and his sister Dorothy made two, of Sir Thorald and Lady Hesketh, their youthful and totally irresponsible chaperons on the journey from Paris to Morteyn.

“They’re lunching on the Lisse,” he thought. “I’ll not get a bite if Ricky is there.”

When Madame de Morteyn wrote to Sir Thorald and Lady Hesketh on the first of July, she asked them to chaperon her two nieces and some other pretty girls in the American colony whom they might wish to bring, for a month, to Morteyn.

“The devil!” said Sir Thorald when he read the letter; “am I to pick out the girls, Molly?”

“Betty and I will select the men,” said Lady Hesketh, sweetly; “you may do as you please.”

He did. He suggested a great many, and wrote a list for his wife. That prudent young woman carefully crossed out every name, saying, “Thorald! I am ashamed of you!” and substituted another list. She had chosen, besides Dorothy Marche and Betty Castlemaine, the two nieces in question, Barbara Lisle and her inseparable little German friend, Alixe von Elster; also the latter’s brother, Rickerl, or Ricky, as he was called in diplomatic circles. She closed the list with Cecil Page, because she knew that Betty Castlemaine, Madame de Morteyn’s younger niece, looked kindly, at times, upon this blond giant.

And so it happened that the whole party invaded three first-class compartments of an east-bound train at the Gare de l’Est, and twenty-two hours later were trooping up the terrace steps of the Château Morteyn, here in the forests and fragrant meadows of Lorraine.

Madame de Morteyn kissed all the girls on both cheeks, and the old vicomte embraced his nieces, Betty Castlemaine and Dorothy Marche, and threatened to kiss the others, including Molly Hesketh. He desisted, he assured them, only because he feared Sir Thorald might feel bound to follow his example; to which Lady Hesketh replied that she didn’t care and smiled at the vicomte.

The days had flown very swiftly for all: Jack Marche taught Barbara Lisle to fish for gudgeon; Betty Castlemaine tormented Cecil Page to his infinitely miserable delight; Ricky von Elster made tender eyes at Dorothy Marche and rowed her up and down the Lisse; and his sister Alixe read sentimental verses under the beech-trees and sighed for the sweet mysteries that young German girls sigh for–heart-friendships, lovers, Ewigkeit–God knows what!–something or other that turns the heart to tears until everything slops over and the very heavens sob.

They were happy enough together in the Château and out-of-doors. Little incidents occurred that might as well not have occurred, but apparently no scars were left nor any incurable pang. True, Molly Hesketh made eyes at Ricky von Elster; but she reproved him bitterly when he kissed her hand in the orangery one evening; true also that Sir Thorald whispered airy nothings into the shell-like ear of Alixe von Elster until that German maiden could not have repeated her German alphabet. But, except for the chaperons, the unmarried people did well enough, as unmarried people usually do when let alone.

So, on that cloudless day of July, 1870, Rickerl von Elster sat in the green row-boat and tugged at the oars while Sir Thorald smoked a cigar placidly and Lady Hesketh trailed her pointed fingers over the surface of the water.

“Ricky, my son,” said Sir Thorald, “you probably gallop better than you row. Who ever heard of an Uhlan in a boat? Molly, take his oars away.”

“Ricky shall row me if he wishes,” replied Molly Hesketh; “and you do, don’t you, Ricky? Thorald will set you on shore if you want.”

“I have no confidence in Uhlan officers,” said her spouse, darkly.

Rickerl looked pleased; perspiration stood on his blond eyebrows and his broad face glowed.

“As an officer of cavalry in the Prussian army,” he said, “and as an attaché of the German Embassy in Paris, I suggest that we return to first principles and rejoin our base of supplies.”

“He’s thirsty,” said Molly, gravely. “The base of supplies, so long cut loose from, is there under the willows, and I see six feet two of Cecil Page carrying a case of bottles.”

“Row, Ricky!” urged Sir Thorald; “they will leave nothing for Uhlan foragers!”

The boat rubbed its nose against the mossy bank; Lady Hesketh placed her fair hands in Ricky’s chubby ones and sprang to the shore.

“Cecil Page,” she said, “I am thirsty. Where are the others?”

Betty and Dorothy looked out from their seat in the tall grass.

“Charles brought the hamper; there it is,” said Cecil.

Barbara Lisle and sentimental little Alixe von Elster strolled up and looked lovingly upon the sandwiches.

Cecil Page stood and sulked, until Dorothy took pity and made room on the moss beside her.

“Can’t you have a little mercy, Betty?” she whispered; “Cecil moons like a wounded elephant.”

So Betty smiled at him and asked for more salad, and Cecil brought it and basked in her smiles.

“Where is Jack Marche?” asked Molly Hesketh. “Dorothy, your brother went into the chase with a gun, and where is he?”

“What does he want to shoot in July? It’s too late for rooks,” said Sir Thorald, pouring out champagne-cup for Barbara Lisle.

“I don’t know where Jack went,” said Dorothy. “He heard one of the keepers complain of the hawks, so, I suppose, he took a gun. I wonder why that strange Lorraine de Nesville doesn’t come to call. I am simply dying to see her.”

“I saw her once,” observed Sir Thorald.

“You generally do,” added his wife.

“What?”

“See what others don’t.”

Sir Thorald, a trifle disconcerted, applied himself to caviare and, later, to a bottle of Moselle.

“She’s a beauty, they say–” began Ricky, and might have continued had he not caught the danger-signal in Molly Hesketh’s black eyes.

“Lorraine de Nesville,” said Lady Hesketh, “is only a child of seventeen. Her father makes balloons.”

“Not the little, red, squeaky kind,” added Sir Thorald; “Molly, he is an amateur aeronaut.”

“He’d much better take care of Lorraine. The poor child runs wild all over the country. They say she rides like a witch on a broom–”

“Astride?” cried Sir Thorald.

“For shame!” said his wife; “I–I–upon my word, I have heard that she has done that, too. Ricky! what do you mean by yawning?”

Ricky had been listening, mouth open. He shut it hurriedly and grew pink to the roots of his colourless hair.

Betty Castlemaine looked at Cecil, and Dorothy Marche laughed.

“What of it?” she said; “there is nobody here who would dare to!”

“Oh, shocking!” said little Alixe, and tried to look as though she meant it.

At that moment Sir Thorald caught sight of Jack Marche, strolling up through the trees, gun tucked under his left arm.

“No luncheon, no salad, no champagne-cup, no cigarette!” he called; “all gone! all gone! Molly’s smoked my last–”

“Jack Marche, where have you been?” demanded Molly Hesketh. “No, you needn’t dodge my accusing finger! Barbara, look at him!”

“It’s a pretty finger–if Sir Thorald will permit me to say so,” said Jack, laughing and setting his gun up against a tree. “Dorrie, didn’t you save any salad? Ricky, you devouring scourge, there’s not a bit of caviare! I’m hungry–Oh, thanks, Betty, you did think of the prodigal, didn’t you?”

“It was Cecil,” she said, slyly; “I was saving it for him. What did you shoot, Jack?”

“Now you people listen and I’ll tell you what I didn’t shoot.”

“A poor little hawk?” asked Betty.

“No–a poor little wolf!”

In the midst of cries of astonishment and exclamations Sir Thorald arose, waving a napkin.

“I knew it!” he said–”I knew I saw a wolf in the woods day before yesterday, but I didn’t dare tell Molly; she never believes me.”

“And you deliberately chose to expose us to the danger of being eaten alive?” said Lady Hesketh, in an awful voice. “Ricky, I’m going to get into that boat at once; Dorothy–Betty Castlemaine–bring Alixe and Barbara Lisle. We are going to embark at once.”

“Ricky and his boat-load of beauty,” laughed Sir Thorald. “Really, Molly, I hesitated to tell you because–I was afraid–”

“What, you horrid thing?–afraid he’d bite me?”

“Afraid you’d bite the wolf, my dear,” he whispered so that nobody but she heard it; “I say, Ricky, we ought to have a wolf drive! What do you think?”

The subject started, all chimed in with enthusiasm except Alixe von Elster, who sat with big, soulful eyes fixed on Sir Thorald and trembled for that bad young man’s precious skin.

“We have two weeks to stay yet,” said Cecil, glancing involuntarily at Betty Castlemaine; “we can get up a drive in a week.”

“You are not going, Cecil,” said Betty, in a low voice, partly to practise controlling him, partly to see him blush.

Lady Hesketh, however, took enough interest in the sport to insist, and Jack Marche promised to see the head-keeper at once.

“I think I see him now,” said Sir Thorald–”no, it’s Bosquet’s boy from the post-office. Those are telegrams he’s got.”

The little postman’s son came trotting across the meadow, waving two blue envelopes.

“Monsieur le Capitaine Rickerl von Elster and Monsieur Jack Marche–two telegrams this instant from Paris, messieurs! I salute you.” And he took off his peaked cap, adding, as he saw the others, “Messieurs, mesdames,” and nodded his curly, blond head and smiled.

“Don’t apologize–read your telegrams!” said Lady Hesketh; “dear me! dear me! if they take you two away and leave Thorald, I shall–I shall yawn!”

Ricky’s broad face changed as he read his despatch; and Molly Hesketh, shamelessly peeping over his shoulder, exclaimed, “It’s cipher! How stupid! Can you understand it, Ricky?”

Yes, Rickerl von Elster understood it well enough. He paled a little, thrust the crumpled telegram into his pocket, and looked vaguely at the circle of faces. After a moment he said, standing very straight, “I must leave to-morrow morning.”

“Recalled? Confound your ambassador, Ricky!” said Sir Thorald. “Recalled to Paris in midsummer! Well, I’m–”

“Not to Paris,” said Rickerl, with a curious catch in his voice–”to Berlin. I join my regiment at once.”

Jack Marche, who had been studying his telegram with puzzled eyes, held it out to Sir Thorald.

“Can’t make head or tail of it; can you?” he demanded.

Sir Thorald took it and read aloud: “New York Heraldoffers you your own price and all expenses. Cable, if accepted.”

“‘Cable, if accepted,’” repeated Betty Castlemaine; “accept what?”

“Exactly! What?” said Jack. “Do they want a story? What do ‘expenses’ mean? I’m not going to Africa again if I know it.”

“It sounds as though the Heraldwanted you for some expedition; it sounds as if everybody knew about the expedition, except you. Nobody ever hears any news at Morteyn,” said Molly Hesketh, dejectedly. “Are you going, Jack?”

“Going? Where?”

“Does your telegram throw any light on Jack’s, Ricky?” asked Sir Thorald.

But Rickerl von Elster turned away without answering.

CHAPTER III

SUMMER THUNDER

When the old vicomte was well enough to entertain anybody at all, which was not very often, he did it skilfully. So when he filled the Château with young people and told them to amuse themselves and not bother him, the house-party was necessarily a success.

He himself sat all day in the sunshine, studying the week’s Paris newspapers with dim, kindly eyes, or played interminable chess games with his wife on the flower terrace.

She was sixty; he had passed threescore and ten. They never strayed far from each other. It had always been so from the first, and the first was when Helen Bruce, of New York City, married Georges Vicomte de Morteyn. That was long ago.

The chess-table stood on the terrace in the shadow of the flower-crowned parapets; the old vicomte sat opposite his wife, one hand touching the black knight, one foot propped up on a pile of cushions. He pushed the knight slowly from square to square and twisted his white imperial with stiff fingers.

“Helen,” he asked, mildly, “are you bored?”

“No, dear.”

Madame de Morteyn smiled at her husband and lifted a pawn in her thin, blue-veined hand; but the vicomte had not finished, and she replaced the pawn and leaned back in her chair, moving the two little coffee-cups aside so that she could see what her husband was doing with the knight.

From the lawn below came the chatter and laughter of girls. On the edge of the lawn the little river Lisse glided noiselessly towards the beech woods, whose depths, saturated with sunshine, rang with the mellow notes of nesting thrushes.

The middle of July had found the leaves as fresh and tender as when they opened in May, the willow’s silver green cooled the richer verdure of beach and sycamore; the round poplar leaves, pale yellow and orange in the sunlight, hung brilliant as lighted lanterns where the sun burned through.

“Helen?”

“Dear?”

“I am not at all certain what to do with my queen’s knight. May I have another cup of coffee?”

Madame de Morteyn poured the coffee from the little silver coffee-pot.

“It is hot; be careful, dear.”

The vicomte sipped his coffee, looking at her with faded eyes. She knew what he was going to say; it was always the same, and her answer was always the same. And always, as at that first breakfast–their wedding-breakfast–her pale cheeks bloomed again with a subtle colour, the ghost of roses long dead.

“Helen, are you thinking of that morning?”

“Yes, Georges.”

“Of our wedding-breakfast–here–at this same table?”

“Yes, Georges.”

The vicomte set his cup back in the saucer and, trembling, poured a pale, golden liquid from a decanter into two tiny glasses.

“A glass of wine?–I have the honour, my dear–”

The colour touched her cheeks as their glasses met; the still air tinkled with the melody of crystal touching crystal; a golden drop fell from the brimming glasses. The young people on the lawn below were very noisy.

She placed her empty glass on the table; the delicate glow in her cheeks faded as skies fade at twilight. He, with grave head leaning on his hand, looked vaguely at the chess-board, and saw, mirrored on every onyx square, the eyes of his wife.

“Will you have the journals, dear?” she asked presently. She handed him the Gaulois, and he thanked her and opened it, peering closely at the black print.

After a moment he read: “M. Ollivier declared, in the Corps Législatif, that ‘at no time in the history of France has the maintenance of peace been more assured than to-day.’ Oh, that journal is two weeks’ old, Helen.

“The treaty of Paris in 1856 assured peace in the Orient, and the treaty of Prague in 1866 assures peace in Germany,” continued the vicomte; “I don’t see why it should be necessary for Monsieur Ollivier to insist.”

He dropped the paper on the stones and touched his white mustache.

“You are thinking of General Chanzy,” said his wife, laughing–”you always twist your mustache like that when you’re thinking of Chanzy.”

He smiled, for he was thinking of Chanzy, his sword-brother; and the hot plains of Oran and the dusty columns of cavalry passed before his eyes–moving, moving across a world of desert into the flaming disk of the setting sun.

“Is to-day the 16th of July, Helen?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Then Chanzy is coming back from Oran. I know you dread it. We shall talk of nothing but Abd-el-Kader and Spahis and Turcos, and how we lost our Kabyle tobacco at Bou-Youb.”

She had heard all about it, too; she knew every étape of the 48th of the Line–from the camp at Sathonay to Sidi-Bel-Abbès, and from Daya to Djebel-Mikaidon. Not that she cared for sabres and red trousers, but nothing that concerned her husband was indifferent to her.

“I hope General Chanzy will come,” she said, “and tell you all about those poor Kabyles and the Legion and that horrid 2d Zouaves that you and he laugh over. Are you tired, dear?”

“No. Shall we play? I believe it was my move. How warm it is in the sun–no, don’t stir, dear–I like it, and my gout is better for it. What do you suppose all those young people are doing? Hear Betty Castlemaine laugh! It is very fortunate for them, Helen, that I married an American with an American’s disregard of French conventionalities.”

“I am very strict,” said his wife, smiling; “I can survey them en chaperone.”

“If you turn around. But you don’t.”

“I do when it is necessary,” said Madame de Morteyn, indignantly; “Molly Hesketh is there.”

The vicomte laughed and picked up the knight again.

“You see,” he said, waving it in the air, “that I also have become a very good American. I think no evil until it comes, and when it comes I say, ‘Shocking!’”

“Georges!”

“That’s what I say, my dear–”

“Georges!”

“There, dear, I won’t tease. Hark! What is that?”

Madame de Morteyn leaned over the parapet.

“It is Jean Bosquet. Shall I speak to him?”

“Perhaps he has the Paris papers.”

“Jean!” she called; and presently the little postman came trotting up the long stone steps from the drive. Had he anything? Nothing for Monsieur le Vicomte except a bundle of the week’s journals from Paris. So Madame de Morteyn took the papers, and the little postman doffed his cap again and trotted away, blue blouse fluttering and sabots echoing along the terrace pavement.

“I am tired of chess,” said the old vicomte; “would you mind reading the Gaulois?”

“The politics, dear?”

“Yes, the weekly summary–if it won’t bore you.”

“Tais toi! Écoute. This is dated July 3d. Shall I begin?”

“Yes, Helen.”

She held the paper nearer and read: “‘A Paris journal publishes a despatch through l’agence Havas which declares that a deputation from the Spanish Government has left Madrid for Berlin to offer the crown of Spain to Leopold von Hohenzollern.’”

“What!” cried the vicomte, angrily. Two chessmen tipped over and rolled among the others.

“It’s what it says, mon ami; look–see–it is exactly as I read it.”

“Are those Spaniards crazy?” muttered the vicomte, tugging at his imperial. “Look, Helen, read what the next day’s journal says.”

His wife unfolded the paper dated the 4th of July and found the column and read: “‘The press of Paris unanimously accuses the Imperial Government of allowing Prim and Bismarck to intrigue against the interests of France. The French ambassador, Count Benedetti, interviewed the King of Prussia at Ems and requested him to prevent Prince Leopold von Hohenzollern’s acceptance. It is rumoured that the King of Prussia declined to interfere.’”

Madame de Morteyn tossed the journal on to the terrace and opened another.

“‘On the 12th of July the Spanish ambassador to Paris informed the Duc de Gramont, Minister of Foreign Affairs, that the Prince von Hohenzollern renounces his candidacy to the Spanish throne.’”

“À la bonheur!” said the vicomte, with a sigh of relief; “that settles the Hohenzollern matter. My dear, can you imagine France permitting a German prince to mount the throne of Spain? It was more than a menace–it was almost an insult. Do you remember Count Bismarck when he was ambassador to France? He is a man who fascinates me. How he used to watch the Emperor! I can see him yet–those puffy, pale eyes! You saw him also, dear–you remember, at Saint-Cloud?”

“Yes; I thought him brusque and malicious.”

“I know he is at the bottom of this. I’m glad it is over. Did you finish the telegraphic news?”

“Almost all. It says–dear me, Georges!–it says that the Duc de Gramont refuses to accept any pledge from the Spanish ambassador unless that old Von Werther–the German ambassador, you know–guarantees that Prince Leopold von Hohenzollern will never again attempt to mount the Spanish throne!”

There was a silence. The old vicomte stirred restlessly and knocked over some more chessmen.

“Sufficient unto the day–” he said, at last; “the Duc de Gramont is making a mistake to press the matter. The word of the Spanish ambassador is enough–until he breaks it. General Lebœuf might occupy himself in the interim–profitably, I think.”

“General Lebœuf is minister of war. What do you mean, Georges?”

“Yes, dear, Lebœuf is minister of war.”

“And you think this German prince may some time again–”

“I think France should be ready if he does. Is she ready? Not if Chanzy and I know a Turco from a Kabyle. Perhaps Count Bismarck wants us to press his king for guarantees. I don’t trust him. If he does, we should not oblige him. Gramont is making a grave mistake. Suppose the King of Prussia should refuse and say it is not his affair? Then we would be obliged to accept that answer, or–”

“Or what, Georges?”

“Or–well, my dear–or fight. But Gramont is not wicked enough, nor is France crazy enough, to wish to go to war over a contingency–a possibility that might never happen. I foresee a snub for our ambassador at Ems, but that is all. Do you care to play any more? I tipped over my king and his castles.”

“Perhaps it is an omen–the King of Prussia, you know, and his fortresses. I feel superstitious, Georges!”

The vicomte smiled and set the pieces up on their proper squares.

“It is settled; the Spanish ambassador pledges his word that Prince Hohenzollern will not be King of Spain. France should be satisfied. It is my move, I believe, and I move so–check to you, my dear!”

“I resign, dearest. Listen! Here come the children up the terrace steps.”

“But–but–Helen, you must not resign so soon. Why should you?”

“Because you are already beaten,” she laughed, gently–”your king and his castles and all his men! How headstrong you Chasseurs d’Afrique are!”

“I’m not beaten!” said the old man, stoutly, and leaned closer over the board. Then he also laughed, and said, “Tiens! tiens! tiens!” and his wife rose and gave him her arm. Two pretty girls came running up the terrace, and the old vicomte stood up, crying: “Children! Naughty ones! I see you coming! Madame de Morteyn has beaten me at chess. Laugh if you dare! Betty Castlemaine, I see you smiling!”

“I?” laughed that young lady, turning her flushed face from her aunt to her uncle.

“Yes, you did,” repeated the vicomte, “and you are not the niece that I love any more. Where have you been? And you, Dorothy Marche?–your hair is very much tangled.”

“We have been lunching by the Lisse,” said Dorothy, “and Jack caught a gudgeon; here it is.”

“Pooh!” said the old vicomte; “I must show them how to fish. Helen, I shall go fishing–”

“Some time,” said his wife, gently. “Betty, where are the men?”

“Jack and Barbara Lisle are fishing; Sir Thorald and Lady Hesketh are in the green boat, and Ricky is rowing them. The others are somewhere. Ricky got a telegram, and must go to Berlin.”

“Tell Rickerl von Elster that his king is making mischief,” laughed the vicomte, “and he may go back to Berlin when he chooses.” Then, smiling at the young, flushed faces, he leaned on his wife’s arm and passed slowly along the terrace towards the house.

“I wonder why Lorraine has not come?” he said to his wife. “Won’t she come to-night for the dance?”

“Lorraine is a very sweet but a very uncertain girl,” replied Madame de Morteyn. She led him through the great bay-window opening on the terrace, drew his easy-chair before his desk, placed the journals before him, and, stooping, kissed him.

“If you want me, send Charles. I really ought to be with the young people a moment. I wonder why Ricky must leave?”

“How far away are you going, Helen?”

“Only to the Lisse.”

“Then I shall read about Monsieur Bismarck and his Spanish friends until you come. The day is long without you.”

They smiled at each other, and she sat down by the window.

“Read,” she said; “I can see my children from here. I wonder why Ricky is leaving?”

Suddenly, in the silence of the summer noon, far in the east, a dull sound shook the stillness. Again they heard it–again, and again–a deep boom, muttering, reverberating like summer thunder.

“Why should they fire cannon to-day, Helen?” asked the old man, querulously. “Why should they fire cannon beyond the Rhine?”

“It is thunder,” she said, gently; “it will storm before long.”