X
Fleurette remained in darkness, silent, motionless as a little mouse, listening for the well-known footstep which in a few minutes, she knew, would be at the door. It had perhaps been a rash thing thus to give herself away to Adèle, but the girl was uncommunicative and had never been known to gossip. Between two risks Fleurette had chosen the lesser one. If Bibi—as she feared—was going back to Lou Mas, there would be no chance whatever of keeping the secret of Madame’s casket and valuables from him, and what Bibi’s attitude would be towards them, Fleurette could not guess. It was the great Unknown. For Madame’s sake and Mademoiselle’s she would not risk it.
Like an inspiration the thought of M’sieur Amédé had occurred to her; of Amédé who, when she was a little girl, and he a growing lad, would always take the blame on himself and know how to shield her when they had got into mischief together. She felt now, especially since this afternoon, that she could trust Amédé in a way that she had never trusted anyone else. Not even Bibi. Unfortunately Adèle had to be made a part confidant of the purpose: but after all what did Adèle know? She couldn’t know anything about the casket and Madame’s valuables: and if she did sneer, or even talk to her aunt about this message sent to M’sieu’ Amédé through her, well! Fleurette was prepared to face the gossip—so long as her secret was safe.
She was counting the minutes—the seconds—Five minutes for Adèle to go to the Rue Haute: three and a half for Amédé to run along here—she did not doubt but that he would run. Then there would be the intervening time whilst Adèle sought for an opportunity to speak to him alone. But oh! how Time dragged on leaden-footed! Nearly fifteen minutes must have gone by since Adèle went away. The widow Tronchet was still busy in the kitchen, rattling her pots and pans: but any moment she might finish and perhaps come in here and find Fleurette still waiting. Then there would be more acrimonious remarks, questions, arguments—Had Fleurette known anything about nerves, she would have said that hers were irritated to snapping-point; but there was little talk of nerves in that year, 1794, and none in this remote corner of Dauphiné.
Fleurette found it very difficult even to sit still. Would Amédé never come? All sorts of possibilities occurred to her, bringing her to the point of screaming with impatience. Perhaps he was from home, or working in the shop under his father’s eye. Perhaps the soldiers had called at the épicerie and taken him away, and Fleurette would never see him again—Oh! if only time would stand still until Amédé came!
Then at last, when she was on the point of bursting into tears with disappointment, she heard the quick, familiar step. Amédé!!! As noiselessly as possible she opened the door and slipped out. There sure enough was Amédé coming along. Though it was very dark now, Fleurette knew it was he, because of the sound of his footsteps. Hearing hers, he came to a halt, and she ran up to him, breathless with excitement. All at once the enormity of what she had done struck terror in her heart. She, Fleurette, whose reputation had stood hitherto above all gossip, who, for three years in succession had been crowned Queen of the month of May, an honour only accorded to girls of spotless character, she had actually given an assignation to a young man—at night—far from her home and his!
And with the horror of what she had done, came an intense shyness. What would M’sieur Amédé himself think of her? Indeed she had to evoke all her fondness for Madame and all her fears for Mademoiselle before she could summon enough courage to approach him, and to place a timid little hand upon his arm. She felt it trembling at her touch, and through the silence of the night came an answering timid sigh and a whisper:
“Mam’zelle Fleurette! What can I do in your service?”
His timidity gave her courage. Gently she led him to the edge of the road where the tall poplar trees cast long, impenetrable shadows.
“M’sieur Amédé,” Fleurette began, whispering low so that chance eavesdroppers might not hear: “I don’t know what you’ll think of me. I know I have done something which everyone in the village would call reprehensible. I sent for you in secret because—because, M’sieur Amédé, there is no one in the world I could trust, as I do trust you.”
This time there came no sigh on the part of the young peasant, only a quick intaking of the breath, as if he had suddenly been dazzled by a wonderful light. His hard, rough hand crept up shyly and fastened over the soft, quivering one that lay upon his sleeve just like a frightened bird. But he was a man of few words, and therefore said nothing: and Fleurette, encouraged by the pressure of that rough hand, went on more glibly.
“It is about Monsieur, Madame and Mademoiselle,” she said, “up at the château. Soldiers have visited the place and they have broken the furniture and torn the beautiful carpets and the curtains: why, I know not. They have also called Monsieur, Madame and Mademoiselle traitors and aristos, and they have seized Monsieur and dragged him away from his home. By a miracle, M’sieur Amédé, a miracle wrought by the bon Dieu himself, Madame and Mademoiselle were able to escape out of the château before those awful soldiers came. I know that they are safe, but—”
“How do you know that, Mam’zelle Fleurette?” Amédé asked also in a whisper.
“Because, M’sieur Amédé,” she replied, “there is a mysterious personage working for the safety of Madame and Mademoiselle, under the direct guidance of the good God. I feel quite sure that Monsieur will also presently be saved through him.”
“A mysterious personage, Mam’zelle Fleurette?”
“Yes, a direct messenger from heaven. He has come down to earth in the guise of an old faggot-carrier. He looks old and decrepit and toil-worn, but when he speaks his voice is like that of an archangel, and if he looks at you his eyes give you the strength of giants and celestial joy.”
“But, Mam’zelle Fleurette—”
“His voice spoke to me this afternoon, M’sieu’ Amédé. All it said to me was that papers and valuables were behind the panel in Madame’s room. At that time I knew nothing about the soldiers. I had seen them but did not know that they were going to the château to arrest Monsieur and Madame and Mademoiselle Rose. Nevertheless when that voice spoke to me, I felt I must go over to the château as quickly as may be.”
“Why did you not send for me then, Mam’zelle Fleurette?”
“I seemed to be in a hurry, impelled to run along as fast as I could. So I went by the mountain track. When I arrived at the château, the soldiers had been there some time. They had turned the place topsy-turvy, scared the servants and smashed and torn up everything, leaving nothing but the walls intact. It seemed as if a great tempest had swept by and wrecked everything. Monsieur was under arrest and Madame and Mademoiselle had gone. No one knew whither. Then suddenly I remembered that mysterious voice: I found my way to Madame’s room, and I found the panel, behind which Madame used to hide her household books and her money. I had often watched her doing this when I was a child. I tried to remember how to make the panel work and the good God helped me. And behind the panel I found Madame’s papers and her money, and a small box which, I am sure, has precious things in it, or it would not have been there.”
“Then what did you do, Mam’zelle Fleurette?” Amédé gasped under his breath, his none too sharp wits slowly taking in the details of the amazing adventure.
“I just took the wallet, M’sieu’ Amédé,” she replied simply, “and the moneybag, and the box. And here they are.”
She tapped the pockets of her kirtle and made him feel the bulge underneath her shawl.
“Oh, mon Dieu!” he exclaimed fervently.
And then she told him about Bibi, and how frightened she was lest when she returned to Lou Mas she should find him there. Bibi’s sympathies seemed to be all with the soldiers, she explained, and he would for certain make her give up Madame’s papers and valuables to the lieutenant.
“That is why,” she concluded with a return to her first timidity. “I wished to speak with you, dear M’sieu’ Amédé.”
“The Eternal Eve!” It was the first time Fleurette had used an endearing word when speaking to Amédé. Born and bred in this remote corner of Dauphiné, unsophisticated, untutored in the ways of coquetry and cajolery, she knew nevertheless, true daughter of the first mother that she was, that after this he would be mere wax in her hands.
He was!
All that he wanted to know was what he could do for her. Had she asked him to throw himself into the Buëche, he would have done it: but all that she wanted was for him to put her treasures in a safe place, until such time as Madame required them.
“If Bibi knew what I was doing, M’sieu’ Amédé,” she pleaded, “he would order me to give up Madame’s property. But I know that the bon Dieu meant me to take charge of it, or why,” she argued naively, “should He have sent His messenger to me?”
Of course Amédé was only too ready to share the burden of this wonderful secret with Fleurette.
It was wonderful to share anything with this loveliest being in all the world; and the thought that she trusted him more even than her father, was sending him well-nigh crazy with joy.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Mam’zelle Fleurette,” he said: “There’s an old tool-shed at the back of our house where all sorts of rubbish are kept. It is an absolute litter now, and the back of it has not been cleared or interfered with for years. But I know of a convenient hole in the flooring, hidden well away in a corner. I’ll put these things there. They’ll be quite safe—Mam’zelle Fleurette, you’ll know where to find them after I’ve gone away, if you want them.”
“After you’ve gone away?”
For the moment she had forgotten. Of course he was going! How could she forget? He was going to join the army—to fight the English—! Perhaps he was never coming back—oh! How could she—how could she forget?
Amédé after the long speech which he had delivered in a whisper—his longest speech on record—had remained silent. The tone of anguish in Fleurette’s voice, just now when he recalled the fact that he was going away, had given him an immense thrill of joy. Altogether poor Amédé felt so happy that he was almost ashamed. The night was so beautifully still; the wind had gone down, and slowly the great clouds that had obscured the sky since sunset were rolling away over the valley. Already overhead a patch of translucent indigo appeared, ever-widening, and revealing one by one the scintillating worlds that are beyond man’s ken. Amédé did not want to speak; he wanted it less than he had ever done before. He just wanted to stand there beside this exquisite creature, wrapped in the silence of the night, feeling her nearness, hearing the gentle murmur of her breath come and go through her perfect mouth. She had extracted the casket from under her shawl and given it to him to hold, and she also gave him the wallet and the moneybag; and as she did this, her little hand, so soft and so warm, came in contact with his now and then—quite often—and poor Amédé was on the point of swooning with delight.
“I do trust you, M’sieu’ Amédé,” she whispered in the end: “and you’ll do this for Madame’s sake, will you not? and also Mademoiselle’s. And also,” she added softly, “for mine.”
“Oh! Mam’zelle Fleurette,” Amédé sighed. What he had wished to say was: “I would die for you, beloved of my heart: at a word from you I would lay down my life, or barter my soul.” But Amédé had no command of words, and was now cursing himself for being a clumsy fool. He stowed away the wallet and the bag into the pockets of his breeches, and tucked the casket underneath his blouse.
“And now I must go home, dear Monsieur Amédé,” Fleurette said. “As it is, I am afraid Bibi will be anxious.”
Her hand was on his arm: and with a sudden impulse he stooped and pressed his lips against that exquisite little hand. Fortunately they were still standing in the shadows cast by the poplar-trees, or Amédé must have seen the blush that rose to Fleurette’s cheeks when she felt the delicious thrill of that timid kiss. A soft breeze stirred the branches above their heads, and through the quivering leaves there came a sigh that was like an echo of their own. And above the crests of Pelvoux the waning moon suddenly rent the last clouds that veiled her mystery, and flooded the snowy immensities with a shower of gold. Slowly the shades of night yielded to the magic and the high road glistened like a silvery ribbon winding, snakelike, toward Laragne.
Fleurette gave a sudden start of alarm.
“What is it, Mam’zelle Fleurette,” Amédé asked.
“Someone,” she said. “I saw someone move there—furtively—among the shadows.”
He turned to look. A small figure wrapped in a shawl had just gone past on the other side of the road.
“It is only Adèle,” he said carelessly. “She is going home.”
Not altogether reassured, Fleurette peered into the shadows. She did not think that it was Adèle whom she had seen, or if it was Adèle, there was someone else lurking in the shadows, she felt sure; and though she was not altogether frightened, she felt herself trembling, and her knees giving way under her. No doubt it was in order to save herself from falling that she had leaned more heavily against Amédé’s arm. Certain it is that he put that arm round her, only in order to support her; but the contact of that warm, quivering young body against his breast sent the last shred of his self-control flying away on the evening breeze.
The high road was bathed in honey-coloured light, but these two were standing in the deep shadows cast by the poplar-trees; and the darkness wrapped them round as in a velvety downy blanket. His arm tightened round her shoulders, pressed her closer and closer to his breast, held her there so closely that she could scarcely breathe.
It was only in order to get her breath that she raised her face to his; far be it from me to suggest that it was for any other motive; but this proved the final undoing of poor M’sieu’ Amédé; for the next moment his lips were fastened hungrily on hers, and her sweet young soul went out to him, in a first, a most delicious kiss.