Captain Dieppe

Betaking herself to the room from which she had first beheld Captain Dieppe's face – not, as the Count would have supposed, as a consequence of any design, but by the purest and most unexpected chance – she arrayed herself in a short skirt and thick boots, and wrapped a cloak round her, for a close, misty rain was already falling, and the moaning of the wind in the trees promised a stormy evening. Then she stole out and made for the gate in the right wall of the gardens. The same old servant who had brought the note was there to let her out.

"You will be gone long, Contessa?" she asked.

"No, Maria, not long. If I am asked for, say I am lying down."

"Who should ask for you? The Count?"

"Not very likely," she replied with a laugh, in which the servant joined. "But if he does, I am absolutely not to be seen, Maria." And with another little laugh she began to skirt the back of the gardens so as to reach the main road, and thus make her way by the village to the Cross on the hill, and the little hut in the hollow behind it.

Almost at the same moment Captain Dieppe, cursing his fortune, his folly, and the weather, with the collar of his coat turned up, his hat crashed hard on his head, and (just in case of accidents) his revolver in his pocket, came out into the garden and began to descend the hill towards where the stepping-stones gave him passage across the river. Thus he also would reach the village, pass through it, and mount the hill to the Cross. His way was shorter and his pace quicker. To be there before the lady would be only polite; it would also give him a few minutes in which to arrange his thoughts and settle what might be the best way to open to her the new – the very new – things that he had to say. In the preoccupation of these he thought little of his later appointment at seven o'clock – although it was in view of this that he had slipped the revolver into his pocket.

Finally, just about the same time also, Guillaume was rehearsing to Paul de Roustache exactly what they were to do and where their respective parts began and terminated. Paul was listening with deep attention, with a curious smile on his face, and with the inner reflection that things in the end might turn out quite differently from what his astute companion supposed would be the case. Moreover – also just in case of accidents – both of these gentlemen, it may be mentioned, had slipped revolvers into their pockets. Such things may be useful when one carries large sums of money to a rendezvous, equally so in case one hopes to carry them back from it. The former was M. Guillaume's condition, the latter that of Paul de Roustache. On the whole there seemed a possibility of interesting incidents occurring by or in the neighbourhood of the Cross on the hillside above the village.

What recked the Count of Fieramondi of that? He was busy composing his lyric in honour of the return of his forgiven and forgiving Countess. Of what was happening he had no thought.

And not less ignorant of these possible incidents was a lady who this same evening stood in the courtyard of the only inn of the little town of Sasellano, where the railway ended, and whence the traveller to the Count of Fieramondi's Castle must take a carriage and post-horses.

The lady demanded horses, protested, raged; most urgent business called her to pursue her journey, she said. But the landlord hesitated and shook his head.

"It 's good twelve miles and against collar almost all the way," he urged.

"I will pay what you like," she cried.

"But see, the rain falls – it has fallen for two hours. The water will be down from the hills, and the stream will be in flood before you reach the ford. Your Excellency had best sleep here to-night. Indeed your Excellency must."

"I won't," said her Excellency flatly.

And at that point – which may be called the direct issue – the dispute must now be left.

CHAPTER VI

THE HUT IN THE HOLLOW

Geography, in itself a tiresome thing, concerned with such soulless matters as lengths, depths, heights, breadths, and the like, gains interest so soon as it establishes a connection with the history of kingdoms, and the ambitions, passions, or fortunes of mankind; so that men may pore over a map with more eagerness than the greatest of romances can excite, or scan a countryside with a keenness that the beauty of no picture could evoke. To Captain Dieppe, a soldier, even so much apology was not necessary for the careful scrutiny of topographical features which was his first act on reaching the Cross on the hillside. His examination, hindered by increasing darkness and mist, yet yielded him a general impression correct enough.

Standing with his back to the Cross, he had on his right hand the slope down to the village which he had just ascended; on his left the road fell still more precipitately in zigzag curves. He could not see it where it reached the valley and came to the river; had he been able, he would have perceived that it ran down to and crossed the ford to which the landlord of the inn at Sasellano had referred. But immediately facing him he could discern the river in its bottom, and could look down over the steep grassy declivity which descended to it from the point at which he stood; there was no more than room for the road, and on the road hardly room for a vehicle to pass another, or itself to turn. On all three sides the ground fell, and he would have seemed to stand on a watch-tower had it not been that behind him, at the back of the cross, the upward slope of grass showed that the road did not surmount the hill, but hung on to and skirted its side some fifty paces from the top. Yet even where he was he found himself exposed to the full stress of the weather, which had now increased to a storm of wind and rain. The time of his earlier appointment was not quite due; but the lady knew her way. With a shiver the Captain turned and began to scramble up towards the summit. The sooner he found the shepherd's hut the better: if it were open, he would enter; it not, he could at least get some shelter under the lee of it. But he trusted that the Countess would keep her tryst punctually: she must be come and gone before seven o'clock, or she would risk an encounter with her enemy, Paul de Roustache. "However I could probably smuggle her away; and at least he should n't speak to her," he reflected, and was somewhat comforted.

At the top of the hill the formation was rather peculiar. The crown once reached, the ground dipped very suddenly from all sides, forming a round depression in shape like a basin and at the lowest point some twenty feet beneath the top of its enclosing walls. In this circular hollow – not in the centre, but no more than six feet from the base of the slope by which the Captain approached – stood the shepherd's hut. Its door was open, swinging to and fro as the gusts of wind rose and tell. The Captain ran down and entered. There was nothing inside but a rough stool, a big and heavy block, something like those one may see in butcher's shops (probably it had served the shepherds for seat or table, as need arose), and five or six large trusses of dry maize-straw flung down in a corner. The place was small, rude, and comfortless enough, but if the hanging door, past which the rain drove in fiercely, could be closed, the four walls of sawn logs would afford decent shelter from the storm during the brief period of the conference which the Captain awaited.

Dieppe looked at his watch; he could just see the figures – it was ten minutes to six. Mounting again to the summit, he looked round. Yes, there she was, making her way up the hill, painfully struggling with refractory cloak and skirt. A moment later she joined him and gave him her hand, panting out:

"Oh, I 'm so glad you 're here! There 's the most fearful trouble."

There was, of more than one kind; none knew it better than Dieppe.

"One need not, all the same, get any wetter," he remarked. "Come into the hut, madame."

She paid no heed to his words, but stood there looking forlornly round. But the next instant the Captain enforced his invitation by catching hold of her arm and dragging her a pace or two down the hill, while he threw himself on the ground, his head just over the top of the eminence. "Hush," he whispered. His keen ear had caught a footstep on the road, although darkness and mist prevented him from seeing who approached. It was barely six. Was Paul de Roustache an hour too early?

"What is it?" she asked in a low, anxious voice. "Is anybody coming? Oh, if it should be Andrea!"

"It's not the Count, but – Come down into the hut, madame. You must n't be seen."

Now she obeyed his request. Dieppe stood in the doorway a moment, listening. Then he pushed the door shut – it opened inwards – and with some effort set the wooden block against it.

"That will keep out the rain," said he, "and – and anything else, you know."

They were in dense darkness. The Captain took a candle and a cardboard box of matches from an inner pocket. Striking a match after one or two efforts (for matches and box were both damp), he melted the end of the candle and pressed it on the block till it adhered. Then he lit the wick. The lady watched him admiringly.

"You seem ready for anything," she said. But the Captain shook his head sorrowfully, as he laid his match-box down on a dry spot on the block.

"We have no time to lose – " he began.

"No," she agreed, and opening her cloak she searched for something. Finding the object she sought, she held it out to him. "I got that this afternoon. Read it," she said. "It's from the man you met last night – Paul de Roustache. The 'Other quarter' means Andrea. And that means ruin."

Captain Dieppe gently waved the letter aside.

"No, you must read it," she urged.

He took it, and bending down to the candle read it. "Just what it would be," he said.

"I can't explain anything, you know," she added hastily, with a smile half rueful, half amused.

"To me, at least, there 's no need you should." He paused a moment in hesitation or emotion. Then he put his hand in his waistcoat-pocket, drew forth a small object, and held it out towards his companion between his finger and thumb. In the dim light she did not perceive its nature.

"This," said the Captain, conscientiously and even textually delivering the message with which he was charged, "is the pledge of love."

"Captain Dieppe!" she cried, leaping back and blushing vividly. "Really I – ! At such a time – under the circ – And what is it! I can't see."

"The pledge of love renewed" – the Captain went on in a loyal hastiness, but not without the sharpest pang – "of Andrea's undying love for you."

"Of Andrea's – !" She stopped, presumably from excess of emotion. Her lips were parted in a wondering smile, her eyes danced merrily even while they questioned. "What in the world is it?" she asked again.

"Your wedding-ring," said the Captain with sad and impressive solemnity, and, on the pretext of snuffing the candle which flickered and guttered in the draught, he turned away. Thus he did not perceive the uncontrollable bewilderment which appeared on his companion's face.

"Wedding-ring!" she murmured.

"He sends it back again to you," explained the Captain, still busy with the candle.

A long-drawn "O – oh!" came from her lips, its lengthened intonation seeming to express the dawning of comprehension. "Yes, of course," she added very hastily.

"He loves you," said the Captain, facing her – and his task – again. "He can't bear his own sorrow, nor to think of yours. He withdraws his demand; your mere word to hold no communication with the person you know of, without his knowledge, contents him. I am his messenger. Give me your love to – to carry back to him."

"Did he tell you to say all that?" she asked.

"Ah, madame, should I say it otherwise? Should I who – " With a mighty effort he checked himself, and resumed in constrained tones. "My dear friend the Count bade me put this ring on your finger, madame, in token of your – your reunion with him."

Her expression now was decidedly puzzling; certainly she was struggling with some emotion, but it was not quite clear with what.

"Pray do it then," she said, and, drawing off the stout little gauntlet she wore, she presented her hand to the Captain. Bowing low, he took it lightly, and placed the holy symbol on the appropriate finger. But he could not make up his mind to part from the hand without one lingering look; and he observed with some surprise that the ring was considerably too large for the finger. "It 's very loose," he murmured, taking perhaps a sad, whimsical pleasure in the conceit of seeing something symbolical in the fact to which he called attention; in truth the ring fitted so ill as to be in great danger of dropping off.

"Yes – or – it is rather loose. I – I hate tight rings, don't you?" She smiled with vigour (if the expression be allowable) and added, "I 've grown thinner too, I suppose."

"From grief?" asked he, and he could not keep a touch of bitterness out of his voice.

"Well, anxiety," she amended. "I think I 'd better carry the ring in my pocket. It would be a pity to lose it." She took off the symbol and dropped it, somewhat carelessly it must be confessed, into a side-pocket of her coat. Then she seated herself on the stool, and looked up at the Captain. Her smile became rather mocking, as she observed to Captain Dieppe:

"Andrea has charged you with this commission since – since last night, I suppose?"

The words acted – whether by the intention of their utterer or not – as a spark to the Captain's ardour. Loyal he would be to his friend and to his embassy, but that she should suspect him of insincerity, that she should not know his love, was more than he could bear.

"Ah," he said, seizing her ungloved hand again, "since last night indeed! Last night it was my dream – my mad dream – Ah, don't be angry! Don't draw your hand away."

The lady's conduct indicated that she proposed to assent to both these requests; she smiled still and she did not withdraw her hand from Dieppe's eager grasp.

"My honour is pledged," he went on, "but suffer me once to kiss this hand now that it wears no ring, to dream that it need wear none, that you are free. Ah, Countess, ah, Emilia – for once let me call you Emilia!"

"For once, if you like. Don't get into the habit of it," she advised.

"No, I 'll only think of you by that name."

"I should n't even do as much as that. It would be a – I mean you might forget and call me it, you know."

"Never was man so unhappy as I am," he cried in a low but intense voice. "But I am wrong. I must remember my trust. And you – you love the Count?"

"I am very fond of Andrea," said she, almost in a whisper. She seemed to suffer sorely from embarrassment, for she added hastily, "Don't – don't press me about that any more." Yet she was smiling.

The Captain knelt on one knee and kissed her hand very respectfully. The mockery passed out of her smile, and she said in a voice that for a moment was grave and tender:

"Thank you. I shall like to remember that. Because I think you 're a brave man and a true friend, Captain Dieppe."

"I thank God for helping me to remain a gentleman," said he; and, although his manner was (according to his custom) a little pronounced and theatrical, he spoke with a very genuine feeling. She pressed her hand on his before she drew it away.

"You 'll be my friend?" he asked.

She paused before she replied, looking at him intently; then she answered in a low voice, speaking slowly and deliberately:

"I will be all to you that I can and that you ask me to be."

"I have your word, dear friend?"

"You have my word. If you ask me, I will redeem it." She looked at him still as though she had said a great thing – as though a pledge had passed between them, and a solemn promise from her to him.

What seemed her feeling found an answer in Dieppe. He pressed her for no more promises, he urged her to no more demonstration of affection towards him. But their eyes met, their glances conquered the dimness of the candle's light and spoke to one another. Rain beat and wind howled outside. Dieppe heard nothing but an outspoken confession that left honour safe and inviolate, and yet told him the sweetest thing that he could hear – a thing so sweet that for the instant its sadness was forgotten. He had triumphed, though he could have no reward of victory. He was loved, though he might hear no words of love. But he could serve her still – serve her and save her from the danger and humiliation which, notwithstanding Count Andrea's softened mood, still threatened her. That he even owed her; for he did not doubt that the danger, and the solitude in which, but for him, it had to be faced, had done much to ripen and to quicken her regard for him. As for himself, with such a woman as the Countess in the case, he was not prepared to own the need of any external or accidental stimulus. Yet beauty distressed is beauty doubled; that is true all the world over, and, no doubt, it held good even for Captain Dieppe. He had been loyal – under the circumstances wonderfully loyal – to the Count; but he felt quite justified, if he proved equal to the task, in robbing his friend of the privilege of forgiveness – aye, and of the pleasure of paying fifty thousand francs. He resolved that the Count of Fieramondi should never know of Paul de Roustache's threats against the Countess or of his demand for that exorbitant sum of money.

With most people in moments of exaltation to resolve that a result is desirable is but a preliminary to undertaking its realisation. Dieppe had more than his share of this temper. He bent down towards his new and dear friend, and said confidently:

"Don't distress yourself about this fellow – I 'll manage the whole affair without trouble or publicity." Yet he had no notion how his words were to be made good.

"You will?" she asked, with a confidence in the Captain apparently as great as his own.

"Certainly," said he, with a twirl of his moustache.

"Then I 'd better leave it to you and go home at once."

The inference was not quite what the Captain had desired. But he accepted it with a tolerably good grace. When a man has once resisted temptation there is little to be gained, and something perhaps to be risked, by prolonging the interview.

"I suppose so," said he. "I 'll escort you as far as the village. But what's the time?"

He took out his watch and held it down to the flame of the candle; the lady rose and looked, not over his shoulder, but just round his elbow.

"Ah, that's curious," observed the Captain, regarding the hands of his watch. "How quickly the time has gone!"

"Very. But why is it curious?" she asked.

He glanced down at her face, mischievously turned up to his.

"Well, it's not curious," he admitted, "but it is awkward."

"It's only just seven."

"Precisely the hour of my appointment with Paul de Roustache."

"With Paul de Roustache?"

"Don't trouble yourself. All will be well."

"What appointment? Where are you to meet him?"

"By the Cross, on the road outside there."

"Heavens! If I were to meet him! He must n't see me!"

"Certainly not," agreed the Captain with cheerful confidence.

"But how are we to avoid – ?"

"Ah, you put no real trust in me," murmured he in gentle reproach, and, it must be added, purely for the sake of gaining a moment's reflection.

"Could n't we walk boldly by him?" she suggested.

"He would recognise you to a certainty, even if he didn't me."

"Recognise me? Oh, I don't know. He does n't know me very well."

"What?" said the Captain, really a little astonished this time.

"And there 's the rain and – and the night and – and all that," she murmured in some confusion.

"No man who has ever seen you – " began the Captain.

"Hush! What's that?" whispered she, grasping his arm nervously. The Captain, recalled to the needs of the situation, abandoned his compliment, or argument, whichever it was, and listened intently.

There were voices outside the hut, some little way off, seeming to come from above, as though the speakers were on the crest of the hill. They were audible intermittently, but connectedly enough, as though their owners waited from time to time for a lull in the gusty wind before they spoke.

"Hold the lantern here. Why, it's past seven! He ought to be here by now."

"We 've searched every inch of the ground."

"That's Paul de Roustache," whispered the Captain.

"Perhaps he 's lying down out of the storm somewhere. Shall we shout?"

"Oh, if you like – but you risk being overheard. I 'm tired of the job."

"The ground dips here. Come, we must search the hollow. You must earn your reward, M. de Roustache."

The lady pressed Dieppe's arm. "I can't go now," she whispered.

"I 'm willing to earn it, but I 'd like to see it."

"What's that down there?"

"You don't attend to my suggestion, M. Sévier."

"Sévier!" muttered the Captain, and a smile spread over his face.

"Call me Guillaume," came sharply from the voice he had first heard.

"Exactly," murmured Dieppe. "Call him anything except his name. Oh, exactly!"

"It looks like – like a building – a shed or something. Come, he may be in there."

"Oh!" murmured the lady. "You won't let them in?"

"They sha'n't see you," Dieppe reassured her. "But listen, my dear friend, listen."

"Who 's the other? Sévier?"

"A gentleman who takes an interest in me. But silence, pray, silence, if you – if you 'll be guided by me."

"Let's go down and try the door. If he 's not there, anyhow we can shelter ourselves till he turns up."

There was a pause. Feet could be heard climbing and slithering down the slippery grass slope.

"What if you find it locked?"

"Then I shall think some one is inside, and some one who has discovered reasons for not wishing to be met."

"And what will you do?" The voices were very near now, and Paul's discontented sneer made the Captain smile; but his hand sought the pocket where his revolver lay.

"I shall break it open – with your help, my friend."

"I give no more help, friend Sévier – or Guillaume, or what you like – till I see my money. Deuce take it, the fellow may be armed!"

"I did n't engage you for a picnic, Monsieur Paul."

"It's the pay, not the work, that's in dispute, my friend. Come, you have the money, I suppose? Out with it!"

"Not a sou till I have the papers!"

The Captain nodded his head. "I was right, as usual," he was thinking to himself, as he felt his breast-pocket caressingly.

The wind rose to a gust and howled.

The voices became inaudible. The Captain bent down and whispered.

"If they force the door open," he said, "or if I have to open it and go out, you 'd do well to get behind that straw there till you see what happens. They expect nobody but me, and when they 've seen me they won't search any more."

He saw, with approval and admiration, that she was calm and cool.

"Is there danger?" she asked.

"No," said he. "But one of them wants some papers I have, and has apparently engaged the other to assist him. M. de Roustache feels equal to two jobs, it seems. I wonder if he knows whom he's after, though."

"Would they take the papers by force?" Her voice was very anxious, but still not terrified.

"Very likely – if I won't part with them. Don't be uneasy. I sha'n't forget your affair."

She pressed his arm gratefully, and drew back till she stood close to the trusses of straw, ready to seek a hiding-place in case of need. She was not much too soon. A man hurled himself violently against the door. The upper part gave and gaped an inch or two; the lower stood firm, thanks to the block of wood that barred its opening. Even as the assault was delivered against the door, Dieppe had blown out the candle. In darkness he and she stood waiting and listening.

"Lend a hand. We shall do it together," cried the voice of M. Guillaume.

"I 'll be hanged it I move without five thousand francs!"

Dieppe put up both hands and leant with all his weight against the upper part of the door. He smiled at his prescience when Guillaume flung himself against it once more. Now there was no yielding, no opening – not a chink. Guillaume was convinced.

"Curse you, you shall have the money," they heard him say. "Come, hold the lantern here."