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- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
The Will-o'-the-Wisp is Baroness Orczy's last great tale, a story of love, danger, and fleeting illusions. Set against a richly atmospheric European backdrop, the novel follows a young heroine whose heart and fate become entangled with a mysterious figure known only as the "Will-o'-the-Wisp" — a man as elusive as the ghostly lights of legend. Pursued by betrayal and shadowed by political intrigue, she must decide whether to trust the enigmatic stranger who appears and vanishes like a dream, offering both salvation and peril. With its blend of romance, suspense, and haunting symbolism, The Will-o'-the-Wisp is a fitting farewell from the creator of the Scarlet Pimpernel, reminding readers that even in her final work, Baroness Orczy conjured magic, danger, and passion with unmatched skill.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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The Will-o'-the-Wisp
Table of Contents
The Will-o'-the-Wisp
Prologue: 1810
Book One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Book Two
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Book Three
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Landmarks
Table of Contents
Cover
Prologue: 1810
1
The elements were at war with the earth. they came in full battle array. Thunderclap after thunderclap; lightning-flash after lightning-flash and a raging wind south to west. War to the death it seemed like. War tending to chaos and destruction. No pity for the poor world shivering and shaking under almighty blows. Thunder crashing. Wind howling, uprooting the weaklings among the trees, tearing at roofs and chimney-stacks, sending them crashing down to the shivering earth. It was not one storm that was raging, but three storms seemed to be raging one against the other, from over the downs, from over Romney Marsh and from over the sea. Thunder. Lightning. Wind. All combined to ravage and devastate.
Pitiless. Uproarious. Furious.
And this had been going on for nearly a week now. Five days and five nights. Nights of terror they were, without intermission. Without abatement. Tim Hookes, the owner of the grocery store, who had just celebrated his ninetieth birthday, declared that never in all his life had he witnessed anything of the sort.
Six days ago it was when the Sister Anne set out that morning for Saint-Victor. It was fairly quiet then. A storm brewing over in France, maybe, the older men said, but nothing to speak of. The lugger was sound and swift and there was no sailor on the coast to equal Jim Hardy for skill in seamanship. And Jim would surely get the lugger across to Saint-Victor before the storm broke over there. Always supposing that the wind continued from the north-east. But it did nothing of the sort. Bent on mischief, it veered just before dawn the very next day to the south-west, bringing all the stormclouds of heaven along.
“Pretty stiff over the other side, I’m thinking,” a man remarked sententiously.
Crash! Bang!
The women screamed.
“Lord a’mercy!”
“Medstone church tower, maybe.”
“Lord a’mercy!”
They had made their way along with the men to the top of the cliff, whence they could see what went on far out to sea. But the Sister Anne could no longer be seen. The last time that she had been sighted in the late afternoon she did not appear to be in trouble.
“Jim Hardy knows what he is about,” the men had said, trying to comfort the women, who were anxious and tearful. “The lugger she’ll be all right. Jim’ll always know just what to do.”
She could still be seen then, the good Sister Anne, bound for Saint-Victor on the other side with a cargo of wool. Forbidden goods. But valuable. It had cost a mint of money and would bring in — what was it? — £50,000 if it were landed over the other side. Forbidden goods always fetched a high price over there, in spite of Boney’s severe laws against English wares. And money would come in very handy now that autumn and winter were on the doorstep, as it were.
That precious cargo! And it was not only the wool. There was something else besides on board proud, sturdy Sister Anne. Something so small that Jim Hardy carried it in his belt, and yet its value was three times that of all those bales of wool. Was it worth the risk? The double risk? Export of wool and that other small precious thing forbidden in England under pain of the hangman’s rope. Import of wool if it came from England. Worth the risk? Of course it was worth it.
“The lugger she is swift and sound. She’ll get there all right. Jim Hardy he knows what to do.”
That is what the men said over and over again the whole of the day after the Sister Anne had ceased to be as much as a speck out on the horizon line.
But this optimistic view did not find an echo in every anxious heart. All very well, but the wind was gathering strength and fury over on the other side and the Sister Anne was not half-way across then.
That night just after sundown the storm broke in all its tempestuous frenzy over on this side also. Soon the sea and sky were wrapped in gloom. Darkness you could have cut with a knife rent at frequent intervals by blinding vivid flashes of lightning. Thunder and lightning were almost incessant. There were hardly any intervals between one flash and another. Earth and sea and sky were in perpetual radiation of a vivid terrifying light. And this went on for hours and hours. And when the war up in the sky subsided, the south-westerly gale seemed to redouble its fury, and went on and on, tearing, devastating madly, ceaselessly, for days and days. How many? One had ceased to count the days. They and the nights were equally harrowing and pitiless. The women shivered under their shawls at which the wind tugged and tore in its uncontrolled frolic. They stayed up there with the men on the top of the cliff, straining their eyes to see. Hoping for what? A sight maybe of the Sister Anne.... Returning from her expedition to Saint-Victor... having landed her precious cargo.... Coming home... back to England... and safety....
2
But the Sister Anne was never seen again, though men and women, mothers, fathers, wives, sweethearts waited and waited for days and days, straining their eyes while light lasted to see what was not there... never would be there... the swift and sturdy lugger Sister Anne.
Slowly, as if reluctant to quit the battlefield, the storm presently drew away. The wind dropped. Peace reigned over the crashed and blighted earth. Nature was at rest. But nothing of the Sister Anne was ever seen again. On the other side, perhaps. Scraps of timber, bits of masts, odds and ends of broken metal would, mayhap, be washed in betimes by the tides. From time to time. There too, maybe, the sea would, after a while, give up its dead. But not here. Not on this side. Over here they were all gone; the ship, the cargo, the dead.
The women sobbed.
“All gone!”
“All gone, Dan and Bert!”
“My Will....!”
“And Widow Toogood’s Arthur!”
And Jim Hardy, than whom there was no equal for seamanship all along the coast. —
“All gone!”
Many long days now since Sister Anne had set out on her last voyage — never to return.... The men had gone back to work.... Work must go on now that Nature was once more at rest.... Fishing... and other things, those things which meant so much to anxious mothers and starving children.
.. Work that was more dangerous than the most fearsome gale. Work that had sent Sister Anne on her last voyage over to France.
3
“No good hanging about,” the men kept on saying, when at evening they turned into the Green Man for a last drink. Some of the women went with them into the tap-room. They were the younger ones. Only the mothers who had kiddies to look after made their way back to their more or less distant cottages, anxious to see that all was well at home. What was the good of hanging about when everything was gone?
Sam Fraser, the landlord, had served out mulled ale that evening. It was drunk in stony silence. There was nothing more to say, was there? So what was the use of wasting words on what was dead and gone, on what might have been or what had gone before? There had been the journey down to the coast. In blinding rain it was, and on foot the whole of the way, with the horses who stumped slowly along, overladen as they were with the precious bales now lying at the bottom of the sea. The men — the “owlers”, as the countryside called them because of the ululation resembling that of those night-birds which they gave forth during their tramps abroad — trudged beside them on foot the whole of the way, over narrow tracks on the Downs, over bridle paths and bridle bridges soggy with recent rain. They were well armed with pistols, swords and cutlasses, ready for any encounter with customs officers from Newhaven or Arundel who they knew were on the look-out for them. Riding officers these were, belonging to the regiment of the Royal Dragoons. They came up with the “owlers” at Cuckmere and did try to do their duty and seize the horses and goods and capture the men, but the “owlers” were one too many for them; they fell furiously on the officers, fired on them, knocked two of them off their horses, and after severe fighting wounded two others severely. In the end the Dragoons, overpowered by vastly superior numbers, rode away, bearing away their wounded and one dead, vowing reprisals, exulting over the thought that this encounter would mean hanging for the whole of the gang.
No! It was no use wasting words on those memories. They had continued their way down to the coast. Ernie Lander was dead. Tony Slade had a bullet in his shoulder. The dead and the wounded were severally hoisted on the top of some of those precious bales. As for hanging! Well, they all knew the risks they ran. The fate that awaited them if they were caught. But they were not going to be caught. Not they. There was not a man or woman in the whole of Sussex or Kent who would dare inform against them... who would wish to inform against them. The only trouble was the loss. The terrible loss. The cargo. The Sister Anne. The friends. All gone! And that other something that was quite small and very precious. Jim Hardy, the skipper, had it stowed away in his belt. It was more valuable than all the bales of wool put together. The exportation of it was punishable by death, quite apart from those short, fatal encounters with customs officers.
Well, that was gone too, gone to the bottom along with that fine chap Jim Hardy and all the others. No good talking about it. Everything was gone.
Book One
c
Chapter 1
1
Le Pere Ribot’s dwelling was situated some two hundred metres inland off the rough track which in those days ran on the top of the cliff parallel with the shore between Cabourg and Arromanches. It stood on the edge of the vast sandy moorland in a thicket of larch and scrubby plantation, on a slight elevation overlooking the ever-turbulent Channel. To the right down below was the fishing village of Saint-Victor, to the left that of Saint-Lys. Immediately beyond Saint-Lys were the Rochers du Calvados, the grim guardians of these desolate shores. Further to the right of Saint-Victor was the mouth of the Seulles, the narrow river which across the moorland wound its sluggish way to the sea. Far behind to the south there was a dark line of forest trees, and on the left bank of the river just below the height on which stood Pere Ribot’s house there was a grove of larches, evergreen oak and birch which effectually hid from view the now dilapidated chateau of Lorgeril. But beyond all that there was nothing to break the monotony of the far-reaching desolate moor, save a few scrubby trees which bent their denuded heads to the prevailing wind, and the glitter of water here and there of the moorland swamps.
It was a silent place, too, of an eerie silence at times, through which the cry of the curlew and the soughing of the wind sounded ghostlike at eventide, when in the late summer the will-o’-the-wisp had its game with the timid wanderer, causing him to lose his way and to miss the ford if he wanted to get to the other side of the river. Some, more timid than most, had been known before now to lose their bearings altogether and actually to die of exposure almost within sight of the chateau and its dependencies. But that was many years ago, before le Pere Ribot came and settled down in the old farmhouse on the edge of the moor.
Le Pere Ribot’s house had once been a farm dependent on the Chateau de Lorgeril. It had outhouses around it, stables and barns all more or less dilapidated and fallen into disrepair since the seigneurs of Lorgeril, scenting the approach of the revolutionary storm, had gone to seek peace and quietude elsewhere — on their property farther south, some thought; others believed that most probably they had gone to England as so many of their kind had done. Anyway they went, and subsequently by decree of the revolutionary government their estate, with all its dependencies, its agricultural and forest land, was confiscated and became the property of the State, who for a time exercised a certain amount of control over it by endeavouring to sell such portions of it as were marketable and likely to yield some kind of profit. But the black days of the Terror, the upheaval of the country, the stormy days of civil war in the North and West, the bankruptcy of the State and the troublous times of the Directoire put a complete stop to all financial transactions. There was no money in anybody’s pocket, only scraps of paper called “assignats”, mere tokens not worth the printing of them, and even these were forged so often and so successfully that none but the unwary and the fanatical supporters of the Republic cared to touch them.
And thus did the chateau and the buildings dependent on it gradually fall into decay under the onslaught of wind and rainstorms. Only the farmhouse, a solid, stone-built irregular construction with its round tower surmounted by a tall pointed roof like a pepper-pot, withstood the ravages of time and weather. It stood as if gazing defiantly over sea and moor through its glazeless windows like sightless eyes, a perpetual memento of the days when “the Chouans” — those bands of fanatical, untrained peasants and seigneurs — fought their unequal fight for their King against the armies of the Republic. In the secret hiding-places and lurking-holes which abounded in and around the chateau and farm-buildings they used to lie in ambush waiting for the foe, and here were enacted many of those tragic incidents of treachery and of murder which have sullied the records of that heroic warfare and its deathless glory.
But in these early days of the century tragic incidents and deeds of valour were sinking into oblivion. What memory of them lingered in the minds of the fisher-folk around took the form of superstitious dread of phantoms. Tales of ghosts and apparitions quickly gathered round the ruined chateau and the farmhouse, whilst wind and storm were left free to continue their work of destruction, until one day le Pere Ribot came along from none knew whence and took-possession of the farmhouse without anyone attempting to interfere with him. He just came, a hale and hearty oldish man, stumping leisurely along by the side of a cart to which a sturdy pony was harnessed. On the cart were piled several articles of furniture, a table and an armchair, a couple of beds, and a number of cooking utensils, and perched on the top of this miscellaneous collection of goods a young girl sat munching an apple. It was mid-October. Heavy banks of clouds rolling in from the south-west held promise of the coming rainstorm. The girl, bare-headed, her unruly hair lashed by the wind, munched her apple contentedly, even though her petticoats flapped like sails uncomfortably about her knees.
The fisher-folk trudging home after beaching their boats did no more than cast a passing glance on the strange cortege. They were not curious, these people, whose whole mentality was centred on the sea and what they could get out of it. And thus le Pere Ribot, aided by the girl with the unruly hair, was left untroubled to unload the miscellaneous objects from the cart and to stow them away inside the old farmhouse.
2
This had occurred some five years ago in the year of grace 1805. Since then le Pere Ribot had become a well-known and well-accepted personage in the district. He seemed to be a man of substance, for he had a few workmen over from Cremieux to do necessary repairs in the house, and gradually made it not only habitable but homelike and comfortable. That was of course interesting to such incurious folk as the people of Saint-Victor and Saint-Lys, who had not so much as seen a man of substance anywhere in this department so hopelessly impoverished by civil war. And here now was a house which not only looked solid and weatherproof but had curtains to its windows, visible from the outside, and a doormat on its front step.
But there was something still more exciting in the fact that presently Pere Ribot, always accompanied by that hoydenish daughter of his, took to driving regularly either into Cremieux or as far as Cabourg on market days and thence would return with various articles of furniture piled up in the same old cart on which they had originally made their first appearance in the neighbourhood. Yes! and not only furniture did they bring along from market but ornaments, china and such-like luxuries. And on one great never-to-be-forgotten occasion, the two of them having started off for Cabourg in their old cart returned in a bran-new carriole; that is, Pere Ribot returned in the old cart to which the pony was harnessed, but the girl — her name it seems was Follette, such a name for a respectable girl, I ask you! — came back driving a good-looking bay in a bran-new carriole.
Now wasn’t that wonderful? There were not many gossips either in Saint-Victor or in Saint-Lys these days but there were some. A few old women who really could not help gossiping over these remarkable events while sitting out on the sands mending their men’s nets. No! they couldn’t help talking about such things as a new carriole and a fine horse, and about the wardrobe and all the china and the chairs that had been engulfed in Pere Ribot’s house. So many things there were that one could not help wondering how in the world there was found room for them all.
And not only did old Lisbeth and old Marianne, Maman Thibaud and Grandmere Bosseny and the other cronies talk these things over both in Saint-Victor and in Saint Lys, with many wise shakes of shrivelled heads and many sideways glances at the renovated house on the height, but there were the buvettes — no fewer than seven of them between Cabourg and Arromanches, some on the roadside and in both the villages — where the wiseacres of the sterner sex met for a drink after the day’s fishing was over and the boats beached. Here it was that the middlemen from Cremieux or Bayeux or Caen came to do business with the fisher-folk over their fish, and here was the place where, over bottles of sour wine or a drop of eau-de-vie, the events of the neighbourhood were freely discussed.
“Pere Ribot?” the strangers would ask pertinently: “and, name of a dog, who is this Pere Ribot?”
“Where does he come from?”
“He doesn’t fish. What does he do for a living?”
But to none of these questions did there appear to be a satisfactory answer. Pere Ribot came from somewhere the other end of the moor. His cart with his belongings and the girl perched on top had come along the riverside track seemingly from the south. But no one had taken particular notice of him that afternoon. Fishing had been extra good and what went on inland appeared of no account.
Since then Pere Ribot had settled down, had got his house repaired and furnished, and no one had thought of interfering with him or prying into his affairs. What he did for a living was nobody’s business. After a time he fitted up his back parlour as a small shop, where he sold fishing tackle and bootlaces, also sundry pomades and medicaments, which, however, failed to command an extensive sale seeing that their uses were not very clearly defined. Then presently old Ribot, as he was called at first, had found his way to one or other of the buvettes, where he met the neighbours and joined in their talk. He was affable and free with his money and soon became very popular. Why should anyone, queried the gossips, try to interfere with him? They all talked with him and had many a good drink at his expense. They took to calling him familiarly Pere Ribot, and the younger ones — the girls, of course — allowed him to kiss them and called him vieux papa. And Papa Ribot he was for them thereafter.
3
It was during the course of the second year of Pere Ribot’s residence in the old farmhouse that the great event occurred, an event so great that ordinary gossip failed to grapple with it, and even old Lisbeth and old Marianne and Grandmere Bosseny remained tongue-tied when the subject was as much as mentioned. This happened when Pere Ribot, accompanied as usual by his daughter, drove off one morning in the old cart in the direction of Cabourg. How far beyond Cabourg he actually went no one knew for certain, but it was supposed that he went over by the ferry to Le Havre. Be that as it may, certain it is that the two of them were absent for two whole days and finally returned with — what think you? An enormous crate which Pere Ribot to the satisfaction of all the neighbours proceeded to unpack outside his front door. A regular crowd collected along the track on the top of the cliff. Incurious though the inhabitants of the countryside were when fairly ordinary things happened, it was not to be supposed that they would allow the unpacking of a huge crate coming goodness knows whence to pass unnoticed and uncommented on.
And tongues had plenty of opportunity to wag, let me tell you, for when the wooden crate was finally knocked to pieces the contents proved to be a magnificent telescope, all shiny brass, on a stand fashioned of highly polished oak. Pere Ribot enlisted the services of Jacques Despois and Prosper Gerande, two hefty fishermen with whom he had already struck up a friendship over a glass — and more than one glass — of Armagnac. They readily gave him the assistance the old man required and helped him to hoist the splendid instrument in an attic on the top of the round tower. The tower on its eminence dominated the whole countryside, and the attic had a large square window which gave a grand view over the sea. Pere Ribot had, unbeknown to everyone, already arranged the place and fitted it up for the reception of his new telescope. It was most exciting to see it put into position, its long arm pointing in the direction of the English coast. When it was first perceived, showing through the window, the crowd all along the track burst into loud cheers and cries of “Vive Papa Ribot.”
There had been from time immemorial a dilapidated old telescope a little further along the track, to which children principally would glue their eyes on bright days when the white cliffs of England could, with the help of a very vivid imagination, be distinguished against the horizon line. But elder folk did not presumably indulge in flights of imagination and the old telescope remained for the most part unused and neglected. On the other hand there was a certain amount of satisfaction in the knowledge that Papa Ribot’s new telescope was there, and that it would be possible — if not very likely — that grownups would be permitted to gaze out to sea whenever something interesting occurred on either side of its smooth or turbulent bosom.
As a matter of fact no one was allowed to glue his or her eyes against the polished brass save by special permission from Papa Ribot. And though he was popular and friendly with everybody the coveted permission was only granted to a few privileged friends. Jacques Despois and Prosper Gerande were two of these, and there were others, old and young fishermen and mariners, who enjoyed the confidence of Pere Ribot. But the only woman who was allowed to touch the instrument was his daughter Follette. She was allowed to look through the telescope and to adjust it to her focus by turning a large screw whenever she chose. Women and girls and some of the younger men were permitted to stand around in the attic of the round tower while the privileged few looked out to sea and retailed what they saw. But that was all. Be it said, however, that there was no ill-feeling or envy attached to this discrimination. The telescope was such a wonderful affair altogether and must have cost such a mint of money that sensible folk thought it quite natural that Papa Ribot guarded his treasure with such jealous care.
4
And thus did the first five years go by of Pere Ribot’s residence in the domain of Lorgeril. Gossip as to him and his daughter, the source of his wealth and the mystery of his past life and activities was dying a natural death, for there did not appear to be any mystery about his present life. He was just a quiet member of the local community, on good terms with everyone, never quarrelling with anybody.
Most Sunday mornings he and his saucy wench walked down to church either at Saint-Victor or Saint-Lys, for Monsieur le cure said Mass in the two villages on alternate Sundays. And most Sunday afternoons the two of them would be seen together in one or other of the barns, she footing it merrily with the lads, for she was a perfect fairy for dancing and always had plenty of partners for the bourree. In church she was noticeably well-behaved, for she had a pretty voice, but the pair of them didn’t have much to do with Monsieur le cure, a worthy old man, inexperienced in the vagaries of human nature, and sadly illiterate. In spite of his exhortations the two newcomers refused to go to him for confession, and when the girl was asked whether she had done her “premiere communion” she gave one of her funny evasive replies.
Chapter 2
1
The next important event that occurred in the domain of Lorgeril was the arrival of a detachment of coast-guards sent down from Le Havre by command of His Majesty the Emperor Napoleon. They came and took possession of the dilapidated old chateau very much as Pere Ribot had done of its dependent farmhouse; the only difference being that everyone knew who these smart military young men were and also that their arrival caused quite a good deal of excitement. Everyone wondered what kind of doings would be going on in the tumbledown old building. It was large and rambling. Built in the seventeenth century, it had a square facade of brick from which two rows of tall narrow windows looked out across the river. Above the facade was the tall slate roof with its long row of dormer windows. The front door was on the other side of the house. Together with its low perron it was marked by great clumps of evergreen trees and shrubberies.
The house was promptly converted into barracks and the stables given over to the horses, and nothing was done beyond that to make the place homely or even moderately comfortable.
There was much shrugging of shoulders and many sly winks exchanged when, after a time, the young revenue soldiers found their way into one or other of the local buvettes, and made no secret of the reason why His Majesty the Emperor had sent them to these desolate shores. Smuggling of goods from England was rife all over the coast and the importation of any sort or kind of goods from England was by Imperial decree a crime punishable by death. Suspicion had it seems of late been directed against the more isolated villages on the shores of Normandy. After Havre and Dieppe, there was the lonely coastline behind the Rochers, and there were the villages of Saint-Victor, Saint-Lys and a good many others.
The young revenue officers in their gaudy uniforms had much to say on the subject of smuggling, which they called a heinous crime against the State, for did it not benefit principally these abominable English who were the sworn enemies of the Emperor? In the buvettes which they frequented they talked chiefly among themselves, sitting at a separate table apart from the rest of the company, but they spoke in loud voices so that all and sundry might hear and know of the fate that was reserved for them should they ever lend a hand in flouting the Emperor’s decree and defrauding the State of its just revenues. The hangman’s rope. That was it. And a just punishment, too — at any rate such was the opinion of these handsome young men in gaudy uniforms. One of them wore epaulettes — not gold ones, it is true, but epaulettes for all that — fashioned of yellow worsted which, by the way, looked uncommonly as if it had come from England, and these epaulettes, together with a band of gold braid on his sleeve, gave him a prestige among the humble fisher-folk, who listened wide-eyed and open-mouthed to his oratory.
It was only after the glittering company had paid for their drinks and left the buvette that the tension would be relaxed. If Pere Ribot happened to be present he would order fresh drinks all round. Sly winking and shrugging of shoulders would then be freely indulged in, jokes cracked at the expense of the smart young officers, and in these jokes none was more glib or more merry than Pere Ribot.
Now the people in the district were not quite so foolish as they appeared to be. All the fisher-folk of Saint-Victor and Saint-Lys knew or guessed that it was not the “Chouans” who were concealed these days in the hiding-places and lurking-holes of the old farmhouse on the height, but rather the goods from England, the importation of which was prohibited by law and was punishable by death after the first recurrence. Stockings and shoes, woollen and cotton tissues could be bought in Papa Ribot’s back shop at one-quarter the price demanded by the shopkeepers of Havre or of Caen who only sold French goods. And they were of vastly superior quality. All one had to do was to go to the shop of an evening and tell Pere Ribot just what one wished to buy: warm clothing for the kiddies, daintily printed calico for making a new Sunday frock, a stout pair of canvas trousers or a woollen jersey, and lo and behold! these goods would appear from somewhere out of a dark corner the existence of which had not been suspected, even in broad daylight. Now was it likely that having paid one’s money and struck a really fine bargain over most excellent goods one was going to say one word about Papa Ribot’s dealings with the ships that came across from England at dead of night? The customs officers from Havre had for the past two years and more tried their best to get information that would enable them to bring such transactions home to the culprit, whoever he was; no one for miles around on this side of the river or the other would ever say a word.
But of course now, with these smart young men about the place, things were going to be different. “Mum!” was the word, far more strictly than it had been before. Even among pals, even among cronies, and certainly not in the buvettes, must the least hint be dropped of those wonderful bargains struck in Pere Ribot’s back shop. If suspicions were to fall on him, if anything untoward were to happen, then where in heaven’s name could one ever get warm clothing for the children or tobacco for one’s pipe?
The only one — or rather two — who appeared entirely unconcerned over this new move on the part of His Majesty the Emperor were Pere Ribot himself and his turbulent daughter Follette. He cracked jokes, jeered at the epauletted gentry, and returned sly wink for sly wink whenever these indulged in flamboyant dissertations on the subject of smuggling.
As for Follette... Well! She kept house for her father and spent the rest of her time running wild on the moor or pulling out to sea in a stout cockleshell which Ribot had purchased in Saint-Victor soon after his arrival. Out she would go in all weathers. Storm or rain, she cared nothing for the weather. Alone for the most part, always at dead of night, she would pull across from Saint-Victor to Cabourg or under the Rochers du Calvados, or sometimes up the river to no one knew where. None had actually caught her at it, but everyone knew it for a fact that Follette Ribot was the one who usually met the English luggers and helped their crew to unload those precious bales of goods on which the customs officers would have given anything for the chance of laying their hands. Especially the young and ambitious ones.
Thus the natural consequences came to pass. One or two of the younger revenue officers recently settled in Lorgeril set to work to make love to Follette Ribot. Not a difficult task, certainly, for Follette, with her wild harum-scarum ways, her tawny hair and laughing deep blue eyes, was very alluring. And she was, seemingly, more than willing to listen to their blandishments. But she was quite shrewd enough to know that what they wanted was to worm a word or two out of her that would put them on the track of certain illegal transactions and thereby in the way of getting their promotion. Nothing was to be got out of the fisher-folk or the older people in the district. They were sullen and silent. Then why not try the young ones, with Follette Ribot as the most likely, the most attractive, to start on?
And Follette let them make love to her to their hearts’ content. She liked being flattered and admired and have more partners for the dance in the barn on Sundays than all the pretty girls of Saint-Victor and Saint-Lys, but she knew what they were after, and when these smart young men became too pressing she gave them the edge of her sharp tongue, for she had a ready wit, but as to allowing herself to be cajoled into indiscretions, Follette Ribot was one too many for the entire corps of His Majesty’s coast-guards.
2
The young officers half suspected Pere Ribot of having a hand in all the illicit trading with England, but they had never succeeded in bringing anything home to him. They had even gone to the lengths one day of making a descent on his house, searching it from attic to cellar, and scouring the rough bit of land on which he grew a few decrepit onions and reared half-a-dozen chickens, but ne’er a thing did they find, not one ounce of wool or a yard of English calico. The old man just let them wander on, ferreting about, rummaging in every corner and every cupboard and perspiring copiously in their heavy, tight uniforms while he sat in a comfortable armchair placidly smoking his long clay pipe and riling their tempers by good-humoured jokes at their fruitless exertions. Some of these jokes were not at all to the taste of these young men, who fancied themselves as officers and soldiers of the Emperor’s coast-guards, and an altercation might have ensued which would not have turned altogether to the advantage of Pere Ribort, had he not at the moment when the lieutenant broke into menacing language suddenly called out at the top of his voice:
“Here, Follette, my girl! A bottle of that old Armagnac, a real product of France, for Messieurs les officiers, who will do us the honour of drinking with us to the health of His Majesty the Emperor and the destruction of all his enemies!”
And before the young officer in command could utter as much as a word of protest Follette had appeared in the doorway with a huge bottle covered with cobwebs and four glasses on a tray, all of which she set on the table in front of Papa Ribot, who continued lustily:
“A glass of Armagnac, Messieurs les officiers. I bear no malice, you know. Search my house as much as you like. You won’t find anything worthy of His Majesty’s attention. He looks upon you as a lot of ferret-eyed, razor-nosed popinjays fit only to pry into honest folks’ business. But I know that you are gallant soldiers. Don’t I? And I bear no malice.”
“Here, Follette,” he went on, with a hearty laugh directed at the young officer with the yellow epaulettes and the gold braid on his sleeve who, purple with rage, was in the act of drawing his sword to avenge the insulting language. “Follette, my girl, see to those brave soldiers who are not permitted to drink with their superiors. See that they lack nothing. Serve them over there in the corner. They will be free to drink among themselves with all the respect due to their gallant officers.”
“Monsieur Ribot,” the lieutenant protested, still fuming with rage, “I will have you know—”
“Tut, tut!” the old man broke in with a chuckle. “I am not a monsieur like you, mon lieutenant. Pere Ribot, that’s what I am, and this is my daughter whom the folk in the neighbourhood call Follette because she is such a madcap. Aren’t you a madcap, my Follette?” he went on, whilst the girl busied herself by filling the glasses. “Real Armagnac this is. French, you know. Not that poisonous English stuff they call viski, which I wouldn’t touch not if every barrel was worth its weight in gold.”
He raised his glass.
“A la France, Messieurs les officiers. We all think alike over that. What?”
The lieutenant and sub-lieutenant of H.M. coast-guards were both young. They were hot and they were thirsty. And there stood Follette with her deep blue eyes, full of life and the joy of living. Enticing. Alluring. Her glass held aloft. Challenging, promising — at least so they thought. At any rate there was the Armagnac and there were their mouths, dry as a lime-kiln, and they were human, after all. They both drank to La France! La patrie! One glass more. And another. That Armagnac was pure nectar.
3
Follette in the meanwhile had already served the soldiers with that same nectar in a distant corner of the room half screened by a dark curtain. Their officers being within earshot, they drank very soberly without making too much noise, and their toast to la France and la patrie was spoken scarce above a whisper.
But Pere Ribot kept an eye on them, and Follette in the intervals of making eyes at the two officers did not lose sight of the men and saw to it that they had enough — but not too much — to drink.
When presently Pere Ribot went over to a wall-cupboard so cleverly disguised that the officers of His Majesty’s coast-guards had failed to detect it, and brought out therefrom a number of small packets carefully tied with red string, the officers showed neither surprise nor — it must be admitted — reluctance.
“A young friend of Follette’s gave her these the other day,” the old man said with a sly wink. “Didn’t he, Follette? Women do not smoke of course, and I only like my good old French fag.”
He picked four packets from out of the others. These were tied up with blue silk ribbon instead of red string. He pushed them insinuatingly right under the officers’ noses.
“These are very special,” he said. “Very delicate and refined. Would you like them, Messieurs les officiers? You can have them cheap, as I did not pay for them. They may have come from England, and then again they may not, and I can’t tell you if they have paid toll to His Majesty for landing on French soil. Follette’s friend gave them to her along with these others. But he recommended them as being of very delicate aroma. I know nothing about these things, but here they are.”
He fingered the four small packets and laid them out side by side right in front of the epauletted gentlemen. Tobacco obviously. Equally obviously from England, where tobacco was good and cheap. Each packet looked as if it contained eight ounces. Ribot noted with a chuckle that the young officers’ nostrils were quivering with delight.
He fingered the other little parcels. There were eight of these, all tied up with red string. He pointed with his thumb in the direction of the dark curtain.
“What say you to these, mon lieutenant?” he continued lightly. “For your men? Thirty sous a packet. Cheap, what?”
He had raised his voice so that the men behind the curtain should hear. And they did. There came the sound of brass rings running over the curtain-pole. Half-a-dozen florid perspiring faces were thrust through the folds of the drapery, and eager hands were held out, ready to seize the packets which Follette was holding tantalizingly at arm’s length in their direction.
Without wasting words the men now shoved their hands into their pockets in search of the necessary sous. Their contents were pooled and the sound of brass money rattling on the table-top gave the required answer to old Ribot’s challenge.
“Cheap, what?” Follette sent the eight small packets flying across the room, and each man grabbed what he could get. Old Ribot chuckled half audibly to himself. The four packets tied up with blue ribbon still lay untouched upon the table. Follette picked them up and without a word — but with such a provocative smile! — held them out to Lieutenant Philippe Darieux. Their eyes met, and hers spoke to him. Eloquently. If only, thought he, one could understand all that they expressed. He had a glass of Armagnac in his hand, and he watched her closely over its rim. What eyes! Dieu du ciel, what eyes! But when they met his they took on an expression of quiet irony. They mocked him. Obviously they mocked him. Oh, that chit of a girl knew something, or she wouldn’t look as she did! Ironical. Contemptuous even. Contemptuous? That chit of a girl! A vagabond, nothing better. The lieutenant felt his temper reviving, his rage recovering its former strength. He wished to goodness he had never consented to drink and traffic with that old villain. He could of course throw that smuggled tobacco back at him — or better still into the girl’s scornful face — but that of course would have been ridiculous, not dignified, in view of these two glasses of Armagnac, and there were the men under him. No! No! It wouldn’t do. He must not allow that scrubby jade to rile him into making a fool of himself.
And with a great effort of will, Lieutenant Philippe Darieux of His Majesty’s corps of coast-guards regained control over his temper. Without casting another glance either on Ribot or on Follette — or for a matter of that on the four tantalizing packets of tobacco — he turned on his heel and called peremptorily to the men. There was a quick scramble behind the curtain in the corner and a shuffling of feet. Hands closing over the precious packets were hastily thrust into pockets, before the men formed into line at a brief order from their officer. Darieux gave a sketchy salute and without another word he followed his small squadron out of the house.
The tramp of heavy boots on the rough road could be heard for some few minutes during which father and daughter remained mutely staring at one another, laughter dancing in their eyes, unbridled mirth ready to break out into a loud and prolonged guffaw.
When the heavy footsteps finally died away and nothing more was heard save the distant roll of breakers on the rocks of Calvados, Pere Ribot jumped to his feet as spry as any youngster, stretched out his arms and cried:
“Come, my Follette!” He seized both her hands in his and together the two of them stepped up and down the room swinging their arms and stamping their feet with the rhythmic cadence of a bourree, while the girl hummed the tune of the merry country dance, in the interval of joining her father in convulsive fits of laughter.
And thus ended this eventful day.
Chapter 3
1
That Pére Ribot was just an old villain and a breaker of the law was after this episode more of an established fact in Lieutenant Darieux’ mind than it had been before. They were a pair of them, he and that vixenish daughter of his. A pair that would have to be unmasked and punished sooner or later.
Thus swore Philippe Darieux inside himself when he finally turned his back on the old farmhouse of Lorgeril. They would have to be closely watched, those two. Especially the girl, that waspish little Puck with the deep blue eyes and the figure of a pocket Venus. “Name of a dog!” ejaculated the gallant Lieutenant under his breath, “what an attractive bit of goods! Alluring! Maddening! Would send any man crazy who had blood in his veins!”
At this point in his reflections, however, Darieux pulled himself up with a jerk. His thoughts were running amok. “This must stop,” said he emphatically to himself.
At first, when parched with thirst, sweating inside his heavy tunic and tired out with all that rummaging in the old sinner’s premises, he had not been fully conscious of the seductiveness of Follette Ribot. It was only later, tossing restlessly on his narrow camp bed, and with the light of the moon darting in and out of the small grated window of his cubicle, that his thoughts turned back to the girl, to her mocking smile and her provocative glances. In vain did he woo the elusive god of sleep. Her face, her eyes, her mouth haunted him. There was a dimple in her left cheek, a quiver in her nostrils, a contraction of the eyelids, all of which caused his blood to throb inside his temples. And he caught himself licking his parched lips at the thought of what he would do when he caught her in the act of breaking the law. There were still means these days, thought he, of putting wholesome fear in the heart of a vixen and making a pair of laughing blue eyes swim in tears of humiliation and of pain. Philippe Darieux was not sadistic in temperament but he felt an unholy desire to make that girl wince, to take her by the throat and hear her pray to him for mercy.
Be that as it may, Darieux, after that interminable and restless night, was chiefly conscious of a frantic desire to see Follette again. There was no excuse for renewing the visit to the farmhouse when obviously the two Ribots would be on their guard, so he sent the men under him over to Havre on patrol duty with a sub-lieutenant in command, and spent the best part of the day, partly on foot and partly on horseback, roaming the countryside, over the moor, the riverside, the villages, questioning the fisher-folk and the peasantry, getting nothing but evasive answers as to the daily habits of Papa Ribot and his provocative daughter. Smuggling English goods? Was that prohibited? No one had ever heard of smuggling in these parts. One lived on the sea and what one got out of it. A woollen jersey? A cotton frock?
Such things had not been seen in Saint-Victor or Saint-Lys within memory of man. These boots? Oh yes! they were good strong boots that had stood sea-water for more than fifty years. They had belonged to Grandpapa Dutour. He had bequeathed them to his eldest son and they had gone down from generation to generation.
And so on... and so on... Philippe Darieux didn’t much care where the sea-boots came from, all he wanted to know was where Follette Ribot was most likely to be seen at fall of day or early dawn, or better still at dead of night. But no one could tell him that. Come one moment and gone the next. That was Follette Ribot. Astride on her pony or pulling out in that old cockleshell. She was just a wild sort of girl with no harm in her. Fond of dancing, fond of a kiss, but stand-offish for all that. “Sainte-Nitouche,” you understand? So far and no further with Follette. And there was Pere Ribot always in the offing when his girl was about. Oh no! Monsieur le Lieutenant would not stand much chance with Follette Ribot, the good folk declared, shaking their heads. Which statement was exasperating to a degree, for Darieux had an idea that he had given himself away to all these louts, who of course were just making game of him.
Anyway, he did not get as much as a chance word with Follette either that day or the next or the day after that. It seemed as if Saint-Victor and Saint-Lys had told the truth when they said that the girl was as elusive as a will-o’-the-wisp, come out one moment and gone the next. But Philippe Darieux was getting exasperated beyond endurance. He could not sleep o’ nights or do his duty manfully by day. Something would have to be done, he decided finally, or he would go crazy.
Then he met her one day, quite casually, on the moor, astride her pony. She passed him by with a cursory glance. He reined in his horse and called her by name, but it was too late. She had already whipped up her pony and was off and away in the direction of the farmhouse. He thought of galloping after her — did indeed start to do so but thought better of it. The prestige of an officer in the service of the Emperor prescribed restraint and the safeguarding of one’s dignity. Chance, he thought and hoped, would favour him again. And it did.
Village gossip reached his ears that Follette Ribot was a pious girl and went to Mass every Sunday. Also that she was fond of dancing and danced the bourree under the great barn at Saint-Victor or Saint-Lys on Sunday afternoons. Now it is not seemly for revenue officers of His Majesty’s coast-guard to mix with the local population. They were officers and stood therefore on a different rung of the social ladder. Their lieutenants had army rank in the Emperor’s land forces. If they did frequent the village buvettes they did so in the exercise of their duty and kept entirely to themselves. They neither offered nor accepted drinks which might have put them on an equality with the fisher-folk and the peasantry. Thus their presence at the country dances under the barn on Sundays was out of the question. And the only course left to Philippe Darieux was to waylay Follette Ribot either when she went in or came out of church. So determined was he to gain this end that in the end he succeeded — by diplomatic means and by the exercise of great ingenuity.
Darieux prided himself on the fact that when he wanted a thing — really wanted it badly — he always got his way in the end. And this is how he contrived to get a word or two in private with Follette Ribot. Once the ice was broken in that way it would, thought he, be up to him to fan the smouldering ashes of chance acquaintanceship into flames of, shall we say, friendship It was the turn of Saint-Victor to have Monsieur le cure say Mass in its church on the following Sunday, and Darieux persuaded the holy man to engage Pere Ribot in conversation after the service.
A generous gift thrust into the hand of the worthy priest for the benefit of his church gained his acquiescence, whilst the subject of certain repairs to the chancel would of a surety engross the attention of Pere Ribot, who liked to be generous and to stand well with the cure, and keep him talking for at least fifteen minutes.
2
“Good morning, Mademoiselle Follette.”
“Good morning, mon Lieutenant.”
Thus it began. Philippe Darieux had dismounted and had approached Follette. Pere Ribot, in close conversation with Monsieur le cure, was safely out of the way. Not that he would have objected to this deferential greeting to his daughter on the part of Lieutenant Darieux, but the latter preferred a tete-a-tete to the presence of a third party. His greeting had indeed been most polite, placing the girl, as it were, on an equality with himself. And her answer had been quite correct in form. It was only the laughter in her eyes and the mocking trait round her lips that exasperated Lieutenant Darieux. But he had his temper well under control, and was determined to keep it so.
He had ridden over from the chateau, since he looked well on horseback, and desired to appear at his best, socially as well as physically. Even-tempered, scrupulously polite and entirely self-restrained. The fortress of this little vixen’s hostility, or prudery, whichever it was, must, if success was to be gained, be reduced to submission by peaceful means and not at the point of the sword. He therefore continued in smooth, affable tones: “This is a beautiful autumnal morning, is it not, Mademoiselle?”
And she responded primly:
“As you say, mon Lieutenant, it is very beautiful.”
The minx! Lieutenant Darieux bit his under-lip and smacked his Hessian boot with his riding-whip. Finally, having thus given this slight vent to his irritation, he said abruptly:
“Why do you avoid me so sedulously, Mademoiselle Follette?”
“I? Avoid you, mon Lieutenant? Nothing was further from my thoughts.”
“I have been very anxious to have a word or two with you, Mademoiselle, but last week, when I met you on the moor, you turned and galloped away before I could as much as greet you.”
“I was hurrying home, mon Lieutenant,” answered she. “Father was waiting for his dinner.”
She began to move up the track in the direction of the farmhouse, and he kept pace with her, leading his horse by the bridle.
“You are fond of dancing, Mademoiselle,” he went on clumsily, for Lieutenant Darieux did not somehow feel at his ease with the minx. He had an idea that she was laughing at him. “So they tell me,” he added.
“Who told you that, mon Lieutenant, spoke the truth,” she rejoined drily.
“What a pity it is,” said he with a sigh, “that the regulations concerning an officer of the Emperor’s armed forces do not permit him to frequent the dances in the village halls.”
“A great pity, as you say, mon Lieutenant,” she agreed. Philippe Darieux was certainly not getting on. Not in the way he was accustomed to with these village girls. He decided to embark on more direct action.
