The Rocks of Valpre by Ethel May Dell (best contemporary novels .txt) 📕

at him with a quick shake of the head. "No, I'll sit behind with Bertie if I may. Noel can sit with you."
Noel, who was already in the back seat, climbed over like a monkey, and Bertrand handed her in.
She sat very rigid until they were out of the avenue, and Bertrand was silent also. But as they turned into the road he began to talk, gently and persuasively, upon indifferent things, resolutely passing by her silence until with a wan little smile she managed to respond.
Long before they reached Sandacre she had quite recovered her self-command, and the flash of the sea upon the horizon brought from her a quick exclamation of pleasure.
"Ah, yes, it is beautiful, that!" he agreed with enthusiasm. "And there is the sand there, yes?"
She nodded. "I used to think we'd go and picnic there. But I don't think I want to now."
"Next year," suggested Mordaunt, without turning his head.
"Perhaps," she said, a little dubiously.
Bertrand said nothing. He was looking out to the wide horizon with a far look in his eyes, almost as though he saw beyond that sparkling sky-line, even beyond the sea itself.
The strains of the military band from Sandacre reached them as they turned in at the wide-flung gates. Chris's eyes kindled almost in spite of her. She loved all things military.
As for Bertrand, he sat bolt upright, with his head back, like a horse scenting battle. Glancing at him, Chris wondered at his attitude, till suddenly she recognized the strains of the Marseillaise.
She squeezed his hand in sympathy as he helped her to alight, and he looked at her with his quick smile of understanding. He was ever swift to catch her meaning.
They crossed a lawn that was crowded with people to a great cedar-tree, beneath which their hostess was receiving her guests. A large woman with a lazy smile was Mrs. Pouncefort, and wonderful dark eyes that were seldom wholly revealed--a woman who took no pains to please and yet whose charm was undeniable. Her monarchy was absolute and her courtiers many, but other women looked at her askance, half-conscious of a veiled antagonism. They were a little afraid of her also, though not one could have said why, since no bitter word was ever heard to pass her lips.
She greeted Chris with a cold, limp hand. "So nice of you to come. I hope you won't be bored. Ah, Mr. Mordaunt, how is Kellerton Old Park by this time? I hardly recognized it the day I called. Rupert tells me you have worked wonders inside as well as out."
"May I introduce our friend Monsieur Bertrand?" said Chris.
Bertrand brought his heels together and bowed low over the limp hand transferred to his. Mrs. Pouncefort smiled.
"There is a fellow-countryman of yours here. Where has he gone? Ah, there you are! Captain Rodolphe, let me introduce you to Mrs. Mordaunt and her French friend Monsieur Bertrand."
She extended one finger to Noel while making the introduction, and at once turned her attention elsewhere.
Chris found herself face to face with a heavy-browed man with an overbearing demeanour and a mouth and chin that sneered perpetually behind a waxed moustache and imperial. She stared at him for an instant with a bewildered feeling of having seen him somewhere before. Then, as she returned his bow, a stab of recognition pierced her, and she remembered where.
It flashed into her mind like a picture thrown upon a screen--that scene upon the sands of Valpre long, long ago, two men fighting with swords that gleamed in the sunlight, a child drawing near with wondering eyes to behold the conflict, and an unruly black terrier scampering to end it!
"I am delighted to make your acquaintance," declared Captain Rodolphe, "and that of your friend--M. Bertrand?"
He uttered the name interrogatively. Bertrand bowed very slightly, very stiffly, and was instantly erect again. "That is my name," he said, as he looked the other straight in the eyes.
Captain Rodolphe was smiling. "I think we have not met before? It is always a pleasure to meet a fellow-countryman in a strange land. That is well understood, is it not, Mrs. Mordaunt?"
His smooth speech brought her back to a situation that was not without serious difficulties, difficulties which he for one was apparently determined to ignore. Had he recognized her, she wondered? It seemed probable that he had not. But then there was nothing in his manner to indicate that he had recognized Bertrand either; yet of that there could be no doubt.
She heard her husband speaking to an acquaintance behind her, and instinctively she began to move away from him. She did not feel equal to effecting an introduction. She murmured something conventional about the gardens, and Captain Rodolphe at once accompanied her.
Bertrand walked in silence on her other side till, with an obvious effort, Chris included him in the conversation, when he responded instantly, with that ready ease of manner which had first drawn her to rely upon him. But though he showed himself quite willing, as ever, to help her, he did not once on his own initiative address the man who had been introduced for his benefit; and Chris, aware of an atmosphere that was highly charged with electricity, notwithstanding its apparent calm, began to cast about for a means of escape therefrom.
To rid herself of Captain Rodolphe was her first idea, but this was easier of thought than accomplishment. He was chatting serenely, in perfect English, and seemed to have taken upon himself the congenial task of entertaining her for some time to come. He also did not directly address her companion, unless she brought them into contact, and her efforts in this direction very speedily flagged. She could not expect two men, however courteous, to forget all in a moment the bitter enmity of years merely to oblige her. They were quite ready to ignore it in her presence, but the consciousness of it was more than Chris could endure with equanimity. It disconcerted her at every turn. She felt as if she trod the edge of a volcano, and her nerves, which had been so severely strained for the past week, could not face this fresh ordeal.
She turned at last in desperation, almost appealingly, to Bertrand. She knew he would understand. Had he ever failed her in this respect or in any other?
"Do you mind going to see if I have dropped my handkerchief in the car?" she asked him, with a nervous smile.
His smile answered hers. Yes, he understood. "I shall go with pleasure," he said, and with a quick bow was gone.
Chris breathed a little sigh of relief, and moved on with her escort into the rose-garden.
He seemed scarcely aware of Bertrand's departure. He was plainly engrossed in the pleasant pastime of conversing with her. Chris began to give him more of her attention. No, she certainly did not like the man. His sneer and his self-assurance disturbed her. He made her uncomfortably conscious of her own youth and inexperience. She almost felt as if he were playing with her.
He talked at some length upon roses, a subject upon which he seemed to be well informed, listened tolerantly to any remarks she made, and finally conducted her to a long shrubbery that led back to the lawn.
As they entered this, he lightly wound up the thread of his discourse and broke it off. "I have been wondering for long," he said, "where it was that I had seen you before. Now I remember."
She turned a startled face towards him. He was smiling with extreme complacence, but there was to her something sinister, something even threatening, about the bushy brows that shadowed his gleaming eyes. He put her in mind of a carrion-crow searching for treasures on a heap of refuse.
The impulse to deny all knowledge of him seized her--a blind impulse, blindly followed. "I think you must be mistaken," she said.
"How?" he ejaculated. "You do not remember Valpre--and what happened there?"
She saw her mistake on the instant, and hastened to cover it. "Valpre!" she said, frowning a little. "Yes, I remember Valpre, though it is years since I was there. But you--did I meet you at Valpre, Captain Rodolphe?"
He bowed with a gallantry that seemed to her exaggerated. "Only once, madame, but that once was enough to stamp you ineffaceably upon my memory. It was, in fact, a memorable occasion. And I forget--never!" Again with _empressement_ he bowed. "And still you do not remember me?" he said.
There was a mocking glint in his eyes. It was as though with a smile he weighed her resistance, displaying it to herself as a quantity wholly negligible.
"I think you begin to remember now," he suggested.
And quite suddenly Chris saw what he had with subtlety set about teaching her, that to attempt to fence with him was useless.
"Yes, I remember," she said, and there was a hint of most unwonted malice in her capitulation. "Didn't I see you wounded in a duel?"
He smiled, and she saw his teeth. "If my memory be correct it was to madame herself that I owed that wound."
She felt the quick blood rush to her face. He had spoken with _double entendre_, but she did not perceive it until too late. She only remembered suddenly and overwhelmingly that the duel had been fought on her account, because of some evil word which this man had spoken of her in Bertrand's hearing. She could well believe it of him--the sneering laugh, the light allusion, the hateful insinuation underlying it. She was beginning to look upon the evil of the world with comprehending eyes--she, Chris, the gay of heart, the happy bird of Bertrand's paradise whom no evil had ever touched. And though she shrank from it as one dreading pollution, she dared not turn her back.
He went on with more daring mockery, still with lips that smiled. "Ah! I see you remember. That duel was an affair of interest to you, _hein_? You were--the woman in the case."
He leered at her intolerably, twisting his moustache.
But that was more than Chris could endure. He had taken her by surprise indeed, but he should not see her routed thus easily. She lifted her dainty head and confronted him with pride.
"Whatever the cause of the duel," she said very distinctly, "it was no concern of mine, and it was by the merest accident that I witnessed it. But in any case it is not a matter of sufficient importance to discuss now. Shall we go on?"
She put the question abruptly, with a little inward tremor, for the path was narrow and he had come to a stand immediately in front of her. He made a slight movement as if deprecating the obligation to detain her. His eyes were suddenly very evil and so intent that she could not avoid them. Yet still he smiled as though the situation amused him.
"But you joke!" he protested, with a snap of the fingers. "I did not suggest that it could be a matter of importance. It was all a _bagatelle_, a fairy-tale, that should not have had so serious an end. And your husband--he has heard the fairy-tale also? Or was it not of sufficient importance to recount to him?"
She would have turned from him at that, even though it had meant ignominious flight, but his eyes held her, and she dared not. She could only stand motionless, feeling her very heart grow cold.
Softly, jeeringly, he went on, still toying with the moustache that did not hide his smiling lips. "You have not told him yet? Ah! but it would amuse him. That night you passed with the fairies, a siren among the sirens, has he never heard of