Authors: Baroness Emmuska Orczy
[Pg 353]
"Now, M. de Marmont," said Crystal coolly. "I listen."
She was leaning back against the wall—her hands behind her, her pale
face and large blue eyes with their black dilated pupils turned
questioningly upon him. The walls of the corridor were painted white,
after the manner of Flemish houses, the tiled floor was white too, and
Crystal herself was dressed all in white, so that the whole scene made
up of pale, soft tints looked weird and ghostly in the twilight and
Crystal like an ethereal creature come down from the land of nymphs and
of elves.
And de Marmont, too—like St. Genis a while ago—felt that never had
this beautiful woman—she was no longer a girl now—looked more
exquisite and more desirable, and he—conscious of the power which
fortune and success can give, thought that he could woo and win her once
again in spite of caste-prejudice and of political hatred. St. Genis had
felt his position unassailable by virtue of old associations, common
sympathies and youthful vows: de Marmont relied on feminine ambition,
love of power, of wealth and of station, and at this moment in Crystal's
shining eyes he only read excitement and the unspoken desire for all
that he was prepared to offer.
"I have only a few moments to spare, Crystal," he said slowly, and with
earnest emphasis, "so I will be very brief. For the moment the Emperor
has suffered a defeat—as he did at Eylau or at Leipzic—his defeats are
always momentary, his victories alone are decisive and abiding. The
whole world knows that. It needs no proclaiming from me. But in order to
retrieve that momentary defeat of to-day he has deigned to ask my help.
The gods are good to me! they have put it within my power to help my
Emperor in his need. I am going to England to-night in order to carry
out his instructions. By to-morrow afternoon I shall have finished my
work. The Empire of France will once more rise triumphant and glorious
out of the ashes of
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a brief defeat; the Emperor once more, Phœbus-like,
will drive the chariot of the Sun, Lord and Master of Europe, greater
since his downfall, more powerful, more majestic than ever before. And
I, who will have been the humble instrument of his reconquered glory,
will deserve to the full his bounty and his gratitude."
He paused for lack of breath, for indeed he had talked fast and volubly:
Crystal's voice, cold and measured, broke in on the silence that ensued.
"And in what way does all this concern me, M. de Marmont?" she asked.
"It concerns your whole future, Crystal," he replied with ever-growing
solemnity and conviction. "You must have known all along that I have
never ceased to love you: you have always been the only possible woman
for me—my ideal, in fact. Your father's injustice I am willing to
forget. Your troth was plighted to me and I have done nothing to deserve
all the insults which he thought fit to heap upon me. I wanted you to
know, Crystal, that my love is still yours, and that the fortune and
glory which I now go forth to win I will place with inexpressible joy at
your feet."
She shrugged her shoulders and an air of supreme indifference spread
over her face. "Is that all?" she asked coldly.
"All? What do you mean? I don't understand."
"I mean that you persuaded me to listen to you on the pretence that you
had news to tell me of the doings at Waterloo—news on which my
happiness depended. You have not told me a single fact that concerns me
in the least."
"It concerns you as it concerns me, Crystal. Your happiness is bound up
with mine. You are still my promised wife. I go to win glory for my name
which will soon be yours. You and I, Crystal, hand in hand! think of
it!
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our love has survived the political turmoils—united in love,
united in glory, you and I will be the most brilliant stars that will
shine at the Imperial Court of France."
She did not try to interrupt his tirade, but looked on him with cool
wonderment, as one gazes on some curious animal that is raving and
raging behind iron bars. When he had finished she said quietly:
"You are mad, I think, M. de Marmont. At any rate, you had better go
now: time is getting on, and you will lose your place in the diligence."
He was less to her than the dust under her feet, and his protestations
had not even the power to rouse her wrath. Indeed, all that worried her
at this moment was vexation with herself for having troubled to listen
to him at all: it had been worse than foolish to suppose that he had any
news to impart which did not directly concern himself. So now, while he,
utterly taken aback, was staring at her open-mouthed and bewildered, she
turned away, cold and full of disdain, gathering her draperies round
her, and started to walk slowly toward the stairs. Her clinging white
skirt made a soft, swishing sound as it brushed the tiled floor, and she
herself—with her slender figure, graceful neck and crown of golden
curls, looked, as the gloom of evening wrapped her in, more like an
intangible elf—an apparition—gliding through space, than just a
scornful woman who had thought fit to reject the importunate addresses
of an unwelcome suitor.
She left de Marmont standing there in the corridor—like some
presumptuous beggar—burning with rage and humiliation, too
insignificant even to be feared. But he was not the man to accept such a
situation calmly: his love for Crystal had never been anything but a
selfish one—born of the desire to possess a high-born, elegant wife,
taken out of the very caste which had scorned him and his kind: her
acquiescence he had always taken for granted: her love
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he meant to win
after his wooing of her hand had been successful—until then he could
wait. So certain too was he of his own power to win her, in virtue of
all that he had to offer, that he would not take her scorn for real or
her refusal to listen to him as final.
Before she had reached the foot of the stairs, he was already by her
side, and with a masterful hand upon her arm had compelled her, by
physical strength, to turn and to face him once more.
"Crystal," he said, forcing himself to speak quietly, even though his
voice quivered with excitement and passionate wrath, "as you say, I have
only a few moments to spare, but they are just long enough for me to
tell you that it is you who are mad. I daresay that it is difficult to
believe in the immensity of a disaster. M. de St. Genis no doubt has
been filling your ears with tales of the allied armies' victories. But
look at me, Crystal—look at me and tell me if you have ever seen a man
more in deadly earnest. I tell you that I am on my way to aid the
Emperor in reforming his Empire on a more solid basis than it has ever
stood before. Have you ever known Napoleon to fail in what he set
himself to do? I tell you that he is not crushed—that he is not even
defeated. Within a month the allies will be on their knees begging for
peace. The era of your Bourbon kings is more absolutely dead to-day than
it has ever been. And after to-day there will be nothing for a royalist
like your father or like Maurice de St. Genis but exile and humiliation
more dire than before. Your father's fate rests entirely in your hands.
I can direct his destiny, his life or his death, just as I please. When
you are my wife, I will forgive him the insults which he heaped on me at
Brestalou . . . but not before. . . . As for Maurice de St. Genis
. . ."
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"And what of him, you abominable cur?"
The shout which came from behind him checked the words on de Marmont's
lips. He let go his hold of Crystal's arm as he felt two sinewy hands
gripping him by the throat. The attack was so swift and so unexpected
that he was entirely off his guard: he lost his footing upon the
slippery floor, and before he could recover himself he was being forced
back and back until his spine was bent nearly double and his head
pressed down backward almost to the level of his knees.
"Let him go, Maurice! you might kill him. Throw him out of the door."
It was M. le Comte de Cambray who spoke. He and St. Genis had arrived
just in time to save Crystal from a further unpleasant scene. She,
however, had not lost her presence of mind. She had certainly listened
to de Marmont's final tirade, because she knew that she was helpless in
his hands, but she had never been frightened for a moment. Jeanne was
within call, and she herself had never been timorous: at the same time
she was thankful enough that her father and St. Genis were here.
Maurice was almost blind with rage: he would have killed de Marmont but
for the Comte's timely words, which luckily had the effect of sobering
him at this critical moment. He relaxed his convulsive grip on de
Marmont's throat, but the latter had already lost his balance; he fell
heavily, his body sliding along the slippery floor, while his head
struck against the projecting woodwork of the door.
He uttered a loud cry of pain as he fell, then remained lying inert on
the ground, and in the dim light his face took on an ashen hue.
In an instant Crystal was by his side.
"You have killed him, Maurice," she cried, as woman-like—tender and
full of compassion now—she ran to the stricken man.
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"I hope I have," said St. Genis sullenly. "He deserved the death of a
cur."
"Father, dear," said Crystal authoritatively, "will you call to Jeanne
to bring water, a sponge, towels—quickly: also some brandy."
She paid no heed to St. Genis: and she had already forgotten de
Marmont's dastardly attitude toward herself. She only saw that he was
helpless and in pain: she knelt by his side, pillowed his head on her
lap, and with soothing, gentle fingers felt his shoulders, his arms, to
see where he was hurt. He opened his eyes very soon and encountered
those tender blue eyes so full of sweet pity now: "It is only my head, I
think," he said.
Then he tried to move, but fell back again with a groan of pain: "My leg
is broken, I am afraid," he murmured feebly.
"I had best fetch a doctor," rejoined M. le Comte.
"If you can find one, father, dear," said Crystal. "M. de Marmont ought
to be moved at once to his home."
"No! no!" protested Victor feebly, "not home! to the Trois Rois . . .
the diligence. . . . I must go to England to-night . . . the Emperor's
orders."
"The doctor will decide," said Crystal gently. "Father, dear, will you
go?"
Jeanne came with water and brandy. De Marmont drank eagerly of the one,
and then sipped the other.
"I must go," he said more firmly, "the diligence starts at nine
o'clock."
Again he tried to move, and a great cry of agony rose to his throat—not
of physical pain, though that was great too, but the wild, agonising
shriek of mental torment, of disappointment and wrath and misery,
greater than human heart could bear.
"The Emperor's orders!" he cried. "I must go!"
Crystal was silent. There was something great and ma
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jestic, something
that compelled admiration and respect in this tragic impotence, this
failure brought about by uncontrolled passion at the very hour when
success—perhaps—might yet have changed the whole destinies of the
world. De Marmont lying here, helpless to aid his Emperor—through the
furious and jealous attack of a rival—was at this moment more worthy of
a good woman's regard than he had been in the flush of his success and
of his arrogance, for his one thought was of the Emperor and what he
could no longer do for him. He tried to move and could not: "The
Emperor's orders!" came at times with pathetic persistence from his
lips, and Crystal—woman-like—tried to soothe and comfort him in his
failure, even though his triumph would only have aroused her scorn.
And time sped on. From the towers of the cathedral came booming the hour
of nine. The shadows in the narrow street were long and dark, only a
pale thin reflex of the cold light of the moon struck into the open
doorway and the white corridor, and detached de Marmont's pale face from
the surrounding gloom.
The Emperor's orders and because of a woman these could now no longer be
obeyed. If de Marmont had not seen Crystal on the cathedral steps, if he
had not followed her—if he had not allowed his passion and arrogant
self-will to blind him to time and to surroundings—who knows? but the
whole map of Europe might yet have been changed.
A fortune in London was awaiting a gambler who chose to stake everything
on a last throw—a fortune wherewith the greatest adventurer the world
has ever known might yet have reconstituted an army and reconquered an
Empire—and he who might have won that fortune was lying in the narrow
corridor of an humble lodging house—with a broken leg—helpless and
eating out his heart now with vain regret. Why? Because of a girl with
fair curls and blue eyes—just a woman—young and desirable—another
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tiny pawn in the hands of the Great Master of this world's game.
The rain in the morning at Waterloo—Blücher's arrival or Grouchy's—a
man's selfish passion for a woman who cared nothing for him—who shall
dare to say that these tiny, trivial incidents changed the destinies of
the world?
Think on it, O ye materialists! ye worshippers of Chance! Is it indeed
the infinitesimal doings of pigmies that bring about the great upheavals
of the earth? Do ye not rather see God's will in that fall of rain?
God's breath in those dying heroes who fell on Mont Saint Jean? do ye
not recognise that it was God's finger that pointed the way to Blücher
and stretched de Marmont down helpless on the ground?
The arrival of M. le Comte de Cambray, accompanied by a doctor and two
men carrying an improvised stretcher, broke the spell of silence that
had fallen on this strange scene of pathetic failure which seemed but an
humble counterpart of that great and irretrievable one which was being
enacted at this same hour far away on the road to Genappe.