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

first time in many hours.
"It is as if the door of heaven had opened," he said.
"You're not going yet, old chap!" Max answered, a curious blending of grimness and tenderness in his voice.
"But no--not yet--not yet." Softly Bertrand made answer, but resolution throbbed in his words also. "I must not fail her--my little pal--my bird of Paradise. But the night is very long, Max, _mon ami_. And the darkness--the darkness--"
Max's hand came quietly down and closed upon his wrist. "I'll see you through," he said.
"Yes--yes. You will help me. You are one of those created to help. That is why you will be great. The great men are always--those who help."
The words came slowly, sometimes with difficulty, but the young medical student made no attempt to check them. He only sat with shrewd eyes upon the sick man's face and alert finger on his wrist, marking the waning strength while he listened. For he knew that the night was long.
Years afterwards it came to be said of him that his patients never died until his back was turned. It was not strictly true, but it conveyed something of the magnetism with which he wrought upon them. He knew the crucial moment by instinct, when to grapple and when to slacken his hold, and he never went by rule.
And so on that his second night of vigil by the side of a dying man, though he recognized speech as a danger, he made no effort to silence him. He knew that weariness of the spirit that finds no vent was a greater danger still.
"So you think I have a future before me?" he said.
"I am sure of it." Bertrand spoke with conviction. "It will not be an easy future, _mon ami_. Perhaps it will not be happy. Those who climb have no time to gather the flowers by the way. But--it will be great. You desire that, yes?"
"In a fashion," Max said. "I don't know that I consider greatness in itself as specially valuable. Do you?"
"I?" said Bertrand. "But I have passed all that. There was a time when ambition was to me as the breath of life. I thought of nothing else. And then"--his voice dropped a little--"there came a greater thing--the greatest of all. And I knew that I had climbed above ambition. I knew success and fame as a procession that passes--that passes--the mirage in the desert--the dream in the midst of our great Reality. I knew all this before my ruin came. It was as if a light had suddenly been held up, and I saw the work of my life as pictures in the sand. Then the great tide rushed up, and all was washed away. But yet"--his voice vibrated, he looked at Max and smiled--"the light remained. For a time, indeed, I was blind, but the light came back to me. And I know now that it was always there."
He paused, and turned his head sharply.
"What is it?" said Max.
"I heard a sound."
"There are plenty of sounds in this place," Max pointed out.
"Ah! but this was different. It sounded like--" He stopped with a gasp that made Max frown.
Undoubtedly there was a sound outside, the tread of feet, the jingle of a sword. Max got up, still frowning, and went to the door.
He had barely reached it before there came a loud knock upon the panels, and a voice cried: "_Ouvrez_!"
Max's knowledge of French was exceedingly limited, but that fact by no means dismayed him. He turned round to Bertrand for a moment.
"I'm going to have a talk with this johnny. Don't agitate yourself. You are not to move till I come back."
"_Ouvrez_!" cried the voice again.
"All right?" questioned Max.
Bertrand was leaning forward. His eyes were very bright, his breathing very short. "They have come--to take me," he said.
"I'll see them damned first," said Max. "You keep still, and leave it to me."
His hand was on the door with the words. A moment more he stood, thick-set and British, looking back. Then with a curt nod, he opened the door, and passed instantly out, pulling it after him.
Half a dozen soldiers filled the passage. The one who had knocked--an officer--stood face to face with him.
"Now what do you want?" asked Max.
He stood, holding the door-handle, his red brows drawn, a glint of battle in the green eyes beneath them. And so, during a brief silence, they measured each other.
Then quite courteously the Frenchman spoke. "Monsieur, my duty brings me here. Will you have the goodness to open that door?"
"It's a good thing you can speak English," Max remarked, with his one-sided smile. "What do you want to go in there for? The room is mine."
"And you are entertaining a friend there, monsieur." The Frenchman still spoke suavely; he even smiled an answering smile.
"That is so," Max said. "Do you know his name?"
"It is Bertrand de Montville." There was no hesitation in the reply. He looked as if he expected the Englishman to move aside, as he made it. But Max stood his ground.
"And what is your business with him?" he asked.
The officer's brows went up. "Monsieur?"
"You have come to arrest him?" Max questioned.
The Frenchman hesitated for a moment, then: "I must do my duty," he said.
The green eyes contemplated him thoughtfully for a space. Then, "I suppose you know he is dying?" Max said slowly.
"Dying, monsieur!" The tone was sharp, the speaker plainly incredulous.
Max explained without emotion. "He is suffering from an incurable disease of the heart, caused by hardship and starvation. If you go in and agitate him now, I won't give that for his chances of lasting through the night."
He snapped his fingers without taking his eyes from the other's face.
"Is it true?" the Frenchman said.
"It is absolutely true." Max spoke quietly, but there was force behind his words. "You can do what you like to safeguard him, though he is quite incapable of getting away. You can surround the house and post sentries at the door. But unless you want to kill him outright, you won't take him away from here. You can send one of your own doctors to certify what I say. You don't want to kill him, I presume?"
The Frenchman was listening attentively. It was evident that Max Wyndham was making an impression.
"My orders are to arrest him and to take him to the fortress," he said.
"Dead or alive?" asked Max.
"But certainly not dead, monsieur. All France will be calling for him to-morrow."
"That's the funny part of it," said Max. "France should have thought of that before. Well, sir, if you want him to live, all you can do is to wait. I will keep him going through the night, and you can send a doctor round in the morning."
"You are a doctor?" asked the Frenchman keenly.
"No. I am a medical student."
"And you are friends, _hein_?"
"Yes, we are friends. It was I who brought him here."
"But what a pity, monsieur!" There was a touch of kindly feeling in the words.
"Yes," Max acknowledged grimly. "It was a pity. But his reason for coming was urgent. And, after all, it made little difference. It has only hastened by a few weeks the end that was bound to come."
"You think that he will die?"
"Yes." Max spoke briefly. His tone was one of indifference.
The Frenchman looked at him curiously. "And what was his reason for coming?"
"It was a strictly private one," Max said. "This trial had nothing to do with it. It will certainly never be made public, so I am not at liberty to speak of it."
"And has he done--that which he left England to do?"
"Not yet, sir, but he may do it--if he lives long enough." Again Max's tone was devoid of all feeling. He still stood planted squarely against the closed door.
"And you think he will not do that?"
"On the contrary," said Max, "I think he will--if I am with him to keep him going."
He spoke with true British doggedness, and a gleam of humour crossed the Frenchman's face. He made a brief bow.
"M. de Montville is fortunate to possess such a friend," he said.
The corner of Max's mouth went down. "As to that," he said dryly, "he might do a good deal better, and a very little worse. Now, sir, what are you going to do?"
The Frenchman looked quizzical. "It seems that I must take your advice, monsieur, or risk very serious consequences. I shall leave a guard here during the night, and I must ask you to give me the key of this door. _Apres cela_"--he shrugged his shoulders--"_nous verrons_."
Max turned without protest, opened the door, and withdrew the key. He stood a moment listening before he turned back and laid it in the officer's hand. His face was grave.
"I think I must go to him," he said. "You will see to it that he is not disturbed?"
"No one will enter without your permission," the Frenchman answered. "And you, monsieur, will remain with him until I return."
"I see," said Max. Again, for an instant, the fighting gleam was in his eyes, then carelessly he laughed. "Well, I shan't try to run away. He and I are down in the same lot. You would find it harder to turn me out than to keep me here."
"I believe it, monsieur." There was no irony in the words or in the bow that accompanied them. "And I repeat, he is a happy man who possesses your friendship."
"Oh, rats!" said Max, and suddenly turned scarlet. "You are talking through your hat, sir. If you've quite done, I'll go."
It was the most boyish utterance he had permitted himself, and as he gave vent to it he was so obviously ill at ease that the Frenchman smiled.
"But you are younger than I thought," he said. "Will you shake hands?"
Max gave his customary hard grip. They looked into each other's eyes for a moment, and separated with mutual respect.
Five seconds later Max had returned to his self-appointed task of helping a dying man to live through the night.


CHAPTER IX
VALPRE AGAIN

"How dark it is!" said Chris. "And how we are crawling!"
She turned her white face from the carriage-window with the words. They were the first she had uttered since leaving Paris.
Neither of her two companions responded at once. Noel was curled up in the farther corner asleep, and her husband sitting opposite was writing rapidly in a notebook. He stopped to finish his sentence before he looked up. She was conscious of a little sense of chill because he did so.
"Why don't you try to get a sleep?" he said then. "We shall not reach Valpre for another two hours."
"I can't sleep," she said.
Her eyes avoided his instinctively. They were more nearly alone together at this moment than they had been since their brief interview that morning at the Davenants' flat. It seemed weeks ago to Chris already.
"Have you tried?" he asked.
"No."
He did not make the obvious rejoinder, but glanced again at his writing, added something, and put it away. Then, with his usual deliberation of movement, he left his seat and came over to her side.
She had a moment of desperate shyness as he sat down. "Don't let me interrupt you," she said nervously.
He ignored the words, as if he considered them foolish "I should like you to get a little sleep," he said. "You have had a long day. Look at that fellow over there, setting the good example."
"He hasn't so much to think about," said Chris, with a smile