"I do not imagine, little girl," replied d"Audierne, "that you could learn very much that is good from me."
Hilda gave a non-committing little laugh, and led the way through the nut-trees towards the house. The Vicomte d"Audierne followed, and Signor Bruno came last. When they emerged upon the lawn in view of Mrs. Carew and Mr. Bodery, who were walking together, the Vicomte dropped his handkerchief. Signor Bruno attempted to pick it up, and there was a slight delay caused by the interchange of some Gallic politeness.
Before the two foreigners came up with Hilda, who had walked on, Signor Bruno found time to say:
"I must see you to-night, without fail; I am in a very difficult position. I have had to resort to strong measures."
"Where?" inquired the Vicomte d"Audierne, with that pleasant nonchalance which is so aggravating to the People.
"In the village, any time after nine; a yellow cottage near the well."
"Good!"
And they joined Hilda Carew.
CHAPTER XVI
FOES
It is only when our feelings are imaginary that we a.n.a.lyse them. When the real thing comes--the thing that only does come to a few of us--we can only feel it, and there is no thought of a.n.a.lysis. Moreover, the action is purely involuntary. We feel strange things--such things as murder--and we cannot help feeling it. We may cringe and shrink; we may toss in our beds when we wake up with such thoughts living, moving, having their being in our brains--but we cannot toss them off. The very attempt to do so is a realisation, and from consciousness we spring to knowledge. We know that in our hearts we are thieves, murderers, slanderers; we know that if we read of such thoughts in a novel we should hold the thinker in all horror; but we are distinctly conscious all the time that these thoughts are our own. This is just the difference existing between artificial feelings and real: the one bears a.n.a.lysis, the other cannot.
Hilda Carew could not have defined her feelings on the evening of the arrival of Mr. Bodery and the Vicomte d"Audierne. She was conscious of the little facts of everyday existence. She dressed for dinner with singular care; during that repast she talked and laughed much as usual, but all the while she felt like any one in all the world but Hilda Carew. At certain moments she wondered with a throb of apprehension whether the difference which was so glaringly patent to herself could possibly be hidden from others. She caught strange inflections in her own voice which she knew had never been there before--her own laughter was a new thing to her. And yet she went on through dinner and until bedtime, acting this strange part without break, without fault--a part which had never been rehea.r.s.ed and never learnt: a part which was utterly artificial and yet totally without art, for it came naturally.
And through it all she feared the Vicomte d"Audierne. Mr. Bodery counted for nothing. He made a very good dinner, was genial and even witty in a manner befitting his years and station. Mrs. Carew was fully engaged with her guests, and Molly was on lively terms with the Vicomte; while Sidney, old Sidney--no one counted him. It was only the Vicomte who paused at intervals during his frugal meal, and looked across the table towards the young girl with those deep, impenetrable eyes--shadowless, gleamless, like velvet.
When bedtime at length arrived, she was quite glad to get away from that kind, un.o.btrusive scrutiny of which she alone was aware. She went to her room, and sitting wearily on the bed she realised for the first time in her life the incapacity to think. It is a realisation which usually comes but once or twice in a lifetime, and we are therefore unable to get accustomed to it. She was conscious of intense pressure within her brain, of a hopeless weight upon her heart, but she could define neither. She rose at length, and mechanically went to bed like one in a trance. In the same way she fell asleep.
In the meantime Mr. Bodery, Sidney Carew, and the Vicomte d"Audierne were smoking in the little room at the side of the porch. A single lamp with a red shade hung from the ceiling in the centre of this room, hardly giving enough light to read by. There were half-a-dozen deep armchairs, a divan, and two or three small tables--beyond that nothing.
Sidney"s father had furnished it thus, with a knowledge and appreciation of Oriental ways. It was not a study, nor a library, nor a den; but merely a smoking-room. Mr. Bodery had lighted an excellent cigar, and through the thin smoke he glanced persistently at the Vicomte d"Audierne. The Vicomte did not return this attention; he glanced at the clock instead. He was thinking of Signor Bruno, but he was too polite and too diplomatic to give way to restlessness.
At last Mr. Bodery opened fire from, as it were, a masked battery; for he knew that the Frenchman was ignorant of his connection with one of the leading political papers of the day. It was a duel between sheer skill and confident foreknowledge. When Mr. Bodery spoke, Sidney Carew leant back in his chair and puffed vigorously at his briar pipe.
"Things," said the Englishman, "seem to be very unsettled in France just now."
The Vicomte was engaged in rolling a cigarette, and he finished the delicate operation before looking up with a grave smile.
"Yes," he said. "In Paris. But Paris is not France. That fact is hardly realised in England, I think."
"What," inquired Mr. Bodery, with that conversational heaviness of touch which is essentially British, "is the meaning of this disturbance?"
Sidney Carew was enveloped in a perfect cloud of smoke.
For a moment--and a moment only--the Vicomte"s profound gaze rested on the Englishman"s face. Mr. Bodery was evidently absorbed in the enjoyment of his cigar. The smile that lay on his genial face like a mask was the smile of a consciousness that he was making himself intensely pleasant, and adapting his conversation to his company in a quite phenomenal way.
"Ah!" replied the Frenchman, with a neat little shrug of bewilderment.
"Who can tell? Probably there is no meaning in it. There is so often no meaning in the action of a Parisian mob."
"Many things without meaning are not without result."
Again the Vicomte looked at Mr. Bodery, and again he was baffled.
"You only asked me the meaning," he said lightly. "I am glad you did not inquire after the result; because there I should indeed have been at fault. I always argue to myself that it is useless to trouble one"s brain about results. I leave such matters to the good G.o.d. He will probably do just as well without my a.s.sistance."
"You are a philosopher," said Mr. Bodery, with a pleasant and friendly laugh.
"Thank Heaven--yes! Look at my position. Fancy carrying in France to-day a name that is to be found in the most abridged history. One needs to be a philosopher, Mr. Bodery."
"But," suggested the Englishman, "there may be changes. It may all come right."
The Vicomte sipped his whisky and water with vicious emphasis.
"If it began at once," he said, "it would never be right in my time. Not as it used to be. And in the meantime we are in the present--in the present France is governed by newspaper men."
Sidney drew in his feet and coughed. Some of his smoke had gone astray.
Mr. Bodery looked sympathetic.
"Yes," he said calmly, "that really seems to be the case."
"And newspaper men," pursued the Vicomte, "what are they? Men of no education, no position, no sense of honour. The great aim of politicians in France to-day is the aggrandis.e.m.e.nt of themselves."
Mr. Bodery yawned.
"Ah!" he said, with a glance towards Sidney.
Perhaps the Frenchman saw the glance, perhaps he was deceived by the yawn. At all events, he rose and expressed a desire to retire to his room. He was tired, he said, having been travelling all the previous night.
Mr. Bodery had not yet finished his cigar, so he rose and shook hands without displaying any intention of following the Vicomte"s example.
Sidney lighted a candle, one of many standing on a side table, and led the way upstairs. They walked through the long, dimly lighted corridors in silence, and it was only when they had arrived in the room set apart for the Vicomte d"Audierne that this gentleman spoke.
"By the way," he said, "who is this person--this Mr. Bodery? He was not a friend of your father"s." Sidney was lighting the tall candles that stood upon the dressing-table, and the combined illumination showed with remarkable distinctness the reflection of his face in the mirror. From whence he stood the Frenchman could see this reflection.
"He is the friend of a great friend of mine; that is how we know him,"
replied Sidney, prizing up the wick of a candle. He was still rising to the occasion--this dull young Briton. Then he turned. "Christian Vellacott," he said; "you knew his father?"
"Ah, yes: I knew his father."
Sidney was moving to the door without any hurry, and also without any intention of being deterred.
"His father," continued the Vicomte, winding his watch meditatively, "was brilliant. Has the son inherited any brain?"
"I think so. Good night."