A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 16

"My name is Gabrielle. We are cousins. You must not call me mademoiselle, and I shall call you Jehan."

If he was surprised at the freedom of her speech he was too courtly a gentleman to show it, and merely bowed, accepting her words.

"From Brittany?" Gabrielle continued. "Then you have escaped from----"

A frown from him checked her.

"My mother and sister are still at the Chateau Kernak," he said abruptly.

"Your mother and sister? My aunt and another cousin? I know so little of my Breton relations, and I have always wanted to know so much. Will you tell me--Jehan?"

His ruffled humour was soothed instantly.

"Mademoiselle--pardon--Cousin Gabrielle, there is so much to say that I fear from the beginning I weary you. Your brother----"

It was evident that he required a larger audience than this pretty little cousin who, doubtless, had small comprehension of serious matters.

But Gabrielle knitted her white brows.

"Morry is in town; I am alone here."

"Alone!"

His surprise was manifest.

The girl flushed a little.

"Nurse Bond is here too. I have my meals with her. But you see, monsieur, my mother died before I could toddle, and now that my father is dead there is only Morry, and he so soon wearies of the country."

"And you, Cousin Gabrielle? Do you not weary too?"

She smiled, fingering the long ends of her fichu.

"If I do it is not for town. I will not go, and that makes Morry angry. But--but--I could not breathe there if they are all like Morry's friends and Lady Helmington. However, it is of you I want to talk now, Jehan. I want to hear of madame my aunt, and your sister, and why you have come, and, well--if you do not mind relating it--about the terrible Revolution which some in England say is good and right, but which makes me sick with horror."

De Quernais looked grim--an expression which ill-suited a face made for laughter.

"I do not think even your Pitt will hold back for long now," he replied. "You have heard of Paris, and the prisons?"

She shuddered.

"The September ma.s.sacres? Oh, yes! The poor, poor Queen, and oh! that poor Princess."

"De Lamballe? A heroine, mademoiselle!"

"Yes. How brave, how brave! But why do your mother and sister stay in a country where such things are done?"

"Brittany is not France, as the Marquis de la Rouerie shows them."

"La Rouerie? What a hero! Mr. Barton told me all about him and the Chouannerie. It made me so glad to think that I was partly Breton too."

"That is why I have come, ma cousine. I am a follower of the Marquis."

"And you have come on some dangerous errand? Of course, I see it now.

And perhaps we can help you? Is it so, Jehan?"

"You are wonderful, Gabrielle. Yes, you can help us; or, rather, it is your brother who can do so. I will explain."

He was looking at her eagerly as they sat opposite to one another near the window. She was an angel, this beautiful English cousin who was yet kith and kin to him, and his errand would prosper.

"Yes, explain," she cried, holding out her hand impulsively, "and we will help."

So in the twilight he told his story, and neither heeded the length of the shadows or the dusk which stole grey-footed across the meadows; wrapping the peaceful landscape in its trailing shroud.

"Near the Chateau Kernak," said Jehan softly, "stands the Manor of Varenac. It was there that your uncle, our mother's brother, lived, and the peasants, his tenants, adored him. Whilst Comte Gilles lived there never could have been talk of the Terror coming to the neighbourhood. But a month ago he died. Helas! we all mourned the good old man, and he died at a bad moment for Brittany. There have been agents from Paris around Varenac and Kernak since, poisoning the simple minds of the villagers. The Terror, they say, means not only liberty, fraternity, and equality, but riches and soft living for the poor. Also power. It is that which appeals most. And yet the influence of Comte Gilles lives. The men of Varenac have not obeyed the voices of these agents. They wait."

"Wait?"

"For their seigneur's commands."

"And he?"

"Is in England, probably unconscious of his inheritance."

"You mean that Morry----?"

"Is also Monsieur le Marquis de Varenac."

"Ah! And his people await him?"

"As men watch for the dawn. He is to decide."

"Decide?"

"Whether Varenac plants the tree of liberty in her streets and starts on the path of murder, bloodshed, and terrorism, or whether she welcomes the coming of de Rouerie and his avengers."

For a few moments there was silence in the darkening room. Then Gabrielle spoke.

"And Morry must decide!"

"The peasants of three villages await his coming."

She rose, her hand resting against the knot of the fichu at her breast.

"Oh, I would it were I," she cried, "instead of he."

"Yet surely, cousin, you think alike?"