The Isle of Unrest

  CHAPTER XIV.

  GOSSIP.

  “Cupid is a casuist, A mystic, and a cabalist. Can your lurking thought surprise, And interpret your device?”

  That which has been taken by the sword must be held by the sword. InCorsica the blade is sheathed, but it has never yet been laid aside. Thequick events of July thrust this sheathed weapon into the hand of ColonelGilbert, who, as he himself had predicted, was left behind in the generalexodus.

  “If you are placed in command at Bastia, how many, or how few men willsuffice?” asked the civil authority, who was laid on the shelf by theoutbreak of war.

  And Colonel Gilbert named what appeared to be an absurd minimum.

  “We must think of every event; things may go badly, the fortune of warmay turn against us.”

  “Still I can do it,” answered the colonel.

  “The empire may fall, and then Corsica will blaze up like tow.”

  “Still I can do it,” repeated the colonel.

  It is the natural instinct of man to strike while his blood is up, andthe national spirit on either side of the Rhine was all for immediateaction. The leaders themselves were anxious to begin, so that they mightfinish before the winter. So the preparations were pushed forward inGermany with a methodical haste, a sane and deliberate foresight. InFrance it was more a question of sentiment--the invincibility of Frencharms, the heroism of French soldiers, the Napoleonic legend. But whilethese abstract aids to warfare may make a good individual soldier of thatuntidy little man in the red trousers, who has, in his time, overrun allEurope, it will not move great armies or organize a successful campaign.For the French soldier must have some one to fight for--some one toweringman in whom he trusts, who can turn to good account some of the bestfighting material the human race has yet produced. And Napoleon III wasnot such a man.

  It is almost certain that he counted on receiving assistance from Austriaor Italy, and when this was withheld, the disease-stricken, suffering manmust assuredly have realized that his star was sinking. He had made themistake of putting off this great war too long. He should have fought ityears earlier, before the Prussians had made sure of those steady,grumbling Bavarians, who bore the brunt of all the fighting, before hisown hand was faltering at the helm, and the face of God was turned awayfrom the Napoleonic dynasty.

  The emperor was no tactician, but he knew the human heart. He knew thatat any cost France must lead off with a victory, not only for the sake ofthe little man in the red trousers, but to impress watching Europe, andperhaps snatch an ally from among the hesitating powers. And the resultwas Saarbrück. The news of it filtered through to Colonel Gilbert, whowas now quartered in the grey, picturesque Watrin barracks at Bastia,which jut out between the old harbour and the plain of Biguglia. Thecolonel did not believe half of it. It is always safe to subtract fromgood news. But he sat down at once and wrote to Denise Lange. He had notseen her, had not communicated with her, since he had asked her to marryhim, and she had refused. He was old enough to be her father. He hadasked her to marry him because she would not sell Perucca, and he wantedthat estate; which was not the right motive, but it is the usual one withmen who are past the foolishness of youth--that foolishness which isbetter than all the wisdom of the ages.

  From having had nothing to do, Colonel Gilbert found himself thrown intoa whirl of work, or what would have been a whirl with a man less calm andplacid. Very much at ease, in white linen clothes, he sat in his room inthe bastion, and transacted the affairs of his command with a leisurelygood nature which showed his complete grasp of the situation.

  With regard to Denise, this middle-aged, cynical Frenchman grasped thesituation also. He was slowly and surely falling in love with her. Andshe herself had given him the first push down that facile descent whenshe had refused to be his wife.

  “Mademoiselle,” he wrote, “to quarrel is, I suppose, in the air ofCorsica, and when we parted at your gate some time ago, I am afraid Ileft you harbouring a feeling of resentment against me. At this time, andin the adverse days that I foresee must inevitably be in store forFrance, none can afford to part with friends who by any means canpreserve them. In our respective positions, you and I must rise abovesmall differences of opinion; and I place myself unreservedly at yourservice. I write to tell you that I have this morning good news fromFrance. We have won a small victory at Saarbrück. So far, so good. But,in case of a reverse, there is only too much reason to fear that internaldisturbances will arise in France, and consequently in this unfortunateisland. It is, therefore, my duty to urge upon you the necessity ofquitting Perucca without delay. If you will not consent to leave theisland, come at all events into Bastia, where, at a few minutes’ notice,I shall be able to place you in a position of safety. I trust I am notone who is given to exaggerating danger. Ask Mademoiselle Brun, who hasknown me since, as a young man, I had the privilege of serving under yourfather, a general who had the gift of drawing out from those about himsuch few soldierly qualities as they might possess.”

  Denise received this letter by post the next morning, and, after readingit twice, handed it to Mademoiselle Brun, who was much too wise a womanto ask for an explanation of those parts of it which she did notcomprehend. Indeed, she was manlike enough to pass on with an unimpairedunderstanding to the second part of the letter, whereas most women wouldhave been so consumed by curiosity as to be unable to give more than halftheir mind to the colonel’s further news.

  “And--?” inquired mademoiselle--a Frenchwoman’s way of asking a thousandquestions in one. Mademoiselle Brun knew all the conversational tricksthat serve to economize words.

  “It is all based upon supposition,” said the erstwhile mathematicalinstructress of the school in the Rue du Cherche-Midi. “It will be timeenough to arrive at a decision when the reverse comes. The Count deVasselot or the Abbé Susini will, no doubt, warn us in time.”

  “Ah!” said Mademoiselle Brun.

  “But, if you like, I will write to the Count de Vasselot,” said Denise,in the voice of one making a concession.

  Mademoiselle Brun thought deeply before replying. It is so easy to take awrong turning at the cross-roads of life, and assuredly Denise stood at a_carrefour_ now.

  “Yes,” said mademoiselle at length; “it would be well to do that.”

  And Denise went away to write the letter that Lory had asked for in caseshe wanted him. She did not show it to Mademoiselle Brun, but went outand posted it herself in the little square box, painted white, affixed tothe white wall on the high-road, and just within sight of Olmeta. Whenshe returned she went into the garden again, where she spent so great apart of these hot days that her face was burnt to a healthy brown, whichwas in keeping with her fearless eyes and carriage. Mademoiselle Brun, onthe other hand, spent most of her days indoors, divining perhaps thatDenise had of late fallen into an unconscious love of solitude.

  Denise returned to the house at luncheon-time, entered by the window, andcaught Mademoiselle Brun hastily shutting an atlas.

  “I was wondering,” she said, “where Saarbrück might be, and whether anyone we know had time to get there before the battle.”

  “Yes.”

  “But Colonel Gilbert will tell us.”

  “Colonel Gilbert?” inquired Denise, turning rather sharply.

  “Yes. I think he will come to-day or to-morrow.”

  And Mademoiselle Brun was right. In the full heat of the afternoon thegreat bell at the gate gave forth a single summons; for the colonel wasalways gentle in his ways.

  “I made an opportunity,” he said, “to escape from the barracks this hotday.”

  But he looked cool enough, and greeted Denise with his usual leisurely,friendly bow. His manner conveyed, better than any words, that she needfeel no uneasiness on his account, and could treat him literally at hisword, as a friend.

  “In order to tell you, with all reserve, the good news,” he continued.

  “With all reserve!” echoed Mademoiselle Brun.

  “Goo
d news in a French newspaper, Mademoiselle--” And he finished with agesture eloquent of the deepest distrust.

  “I was wondering,” said Mademoiselle Brun, speaking slowly, and in amanner that demanded for the time the colonel’s undivided attention,“whether our friend the Count de Vasselot could have been at Saarbrück.”

  “The Count de Vasselot,” said Colonel Gilbert, with an air of friendlysurprise. “Has he quitted his beloved château? He is so attached to thatold house, you know.”

  “He has joined his regiment,” replied Mademoiselle Brun, upon whom theburden of the conversation fell; for Denise had gone to the open window,and was closing the shutters against the sun.

  “Ah! Then I can tell you that he was not at Saarbrück. The count’sregiment is not in that part of the country. I was forgetting that he wasa soldier. He is, by the way, your nearest neighbour.”

  The colonel rose as he spoke, and went to the window--not to that whereDenise was standing, but to the other, of which the sun-blinds were onlyhalf closed.

  “You can, of course, see the château from here?” he said musingly.

  “Yes,” answered Mademoiselle Brun, with an uneasy glance.

  What was Colonel Gilbert going to say?

  He stood for a moment looking down into the valley, while Denise andMademoiselle Brun waited.

  “And you have perceived nothing that would seem to confirm the gossipcurrent regarding your--enemy?” he asked, with a good-natured,deprecatory laugh.

  “What gossip?” asked mademoiselle, bluntly.

  The colonel shrugged his shoulders without looking round.

  “Oh,” he answered, “one does not believe all one hears. Besides, thereare many who think that in such a remote spot as Corsica, it is notnecessary to observe the ordinary--what shall I say?--etiquette ofsociety.”

  He laughed uneasily, and spread out his hands as if, for his part, hewould rather dismiss the subject. But Mademoiselle Brun could be franklyfeminine at times.

  “What is the gossip to which you refer?” she asked again.

  “Oh, I do not believe a word of it--though I, myself, have seen. Well,mademoiselle--you will excuse my frankness?--they say there is some onein the château--some one whom the count wishes to conceal, youunderstand.”

  “Ah!” said mademoiselle, indifferently.

  Denise said nothing. She was looking out of the window with a face ashard as the face of Mademoiselle Brun. She looked at her watch, seemed tomake a quick mental calculation, and then turned and spoke to ColonelGilbert with steady, smiling eyes.

  “You have not told us your war news yet,” she said.

  So he told them what he knew, which, as a matter of fact, did not amountto much. Then he took his leave, and rode home in the cool of theevening--a solitary, brooding man, who had missed his way somehow earlyon the road of life, and lacked perhaps the strength of mind to go backand try again.

  Denise said good-bye to him in the same friendly spirit which he hadinaugurated. She was standing with her back to the window from which shehad looked down on to the château of Vasselot while Colonel Gilbertrelated his idle gossip respecting that house. And Mademoiselle Brun, whoremembered such trifles, noted that she never looked out of that windowagain, but avoided it as one would avoid a cupboard where there is askeleton.

  Denise, who consulted her watch again so soon as the colonel had left,wrote another letter, which she addressed in an open envelope to thepostmaster at Marseilles, and enclosed a number of stamps. She went outon to the high-road, and waited there in the shade of the trees for thediligence, which would pass at four o’clock on its way to Bastia.

  The driver of the diligence, like many who are on the road and have but apassing glimpse of many men and many things, was a good-natured man, andwillingly charged himself with Denise’s commission. For that which shehad enclosed was not a letter, but a telegram to be despatched fromMarseilles on the arrival of the mail steamer there. It was addressed toLory de Vasselot at the Cercle Militaire in Paris, and contained thewords--

  “Please return unopened the letter posted to-day.”