^ w#> ii w toi 
 
 Henry Set 
 
 M ERR) MAN 
 
 
 Stt? ..-. \\. .. , '.'.': 
 
THE LAST HOPE 
 
THE LAST HOPE 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY SETON MERRIMAN 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 TOMASO'S FORTUNE AND OTHER STORIES," " BARLASCH OF THE GUARD, 1 
 
 " THE VULTURES," "THE SOWERS," ETC. 
 
 What is it thou knowest, sweet voice? " I cried. 
 A hidden hope," the voice replied. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 SMITH, ELDER & CO., 15, WATERLOO PLACE 
 
 1904 
 
 {All rights reserved) 
 
WONTED BT 
 
 WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, 
 
 LONDON AND BECCLES. 
 

 
 Pfl m? 
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 SsLZ? 
 
 MAIM 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. Le Roi est Moet ... 
 
 PAGE 
 1 
 
 II. 
 
 Vive le Roi 
 
 10 
 
 III. 
 
 The Return of "The Last Hope" ... 
 
 ... 19 
 
 IV. 
 
 The Marquis's Creed ... 
 
 28 
 
 V. 
 
 On the Dyke 
 
 ... 37 
 
 VI. 
 
 The Story of the Castaways ... 
 
 46 
 
 VII. 
 
 On the Scent 
 
 ... 55 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The Little Boy who was a King 
 
 64 
 
 IX. 
 
 A Mistake 
 
 ... 74 
 
 X. 
 
 In the Italian House ... 
 
 83 
 
 XI. 
 
 A Beginning 
 
 ... 91 
 
 XII. 
 
 The Secret of Gemosac 
 
 99 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Within /the Gates ... 
 
 ... 108 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The Lifted Veil 
 
 117 
 
 XV. 
 
 The Turn of the Tide 
 
 ... 126 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The Gamblers 
 
 134 
 
 XVII. 
 
 On the Pont Royal 
 
 ... 143 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The City that soon forgets 
 
 152 
 
 887 
 
VI CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 XIX. In the Breach ... 
 
 XX. " Nineteen " 
 
 XXI. No. 8 Ruelle St. Jacob 
 
 XXII. Dropping the Pilot .... 
 
 XXIII. A Simple Banker 
 
 XXIV. The Lane of many Turnings 
 XXV. Sans Rancune ... 
 
 XXVI. Returned Empty 
 
 XXVII. Out of the Mouths of Babes 
 
 XXVIII. Barebone's Price 
 
 XXIX. In the Dark 
 
 XXX. In the Furrow again 
 
 XXXI. The Thursday of Madame de Chantonnay 
 
 XXXII. Primroses ... 
 
 XXXIII. Dormer Colville is Blind 
 
 XXXIV. A Sordid Matter 
 
 XXXV. A Square Man 
 
 XXXVI. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence does not under- 
 stand ... ... ... ... 308 
 
 XXXVII. An Understanding ... ... ... 317 
 
 XXXVIII. A Coup-d'etat 326 
 
 XXXIX. "John Darby" 335 
 
 XL. Farlingford once More ... ... 343 
 
J 
 
 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 LE ROI EST MORT 
 
 " There ; that's it. That's where they buried French- 
 man," said Andrew known as River Andrew. For there 
 
 as another Andrew who earned his living on the sea. 
 River Andrew had conducted the two gentlemen from 
 " The Black Sailor " to the churchyard by their own request. 
 A message had been sent to him in the morning that this 
 service would be required of him, to which he had returned 
 the answer that they would have to wait until the evening. 
 It was his day to go round Marshford way with dried fish, 
 he said ; but in the evening they could see the church if 
 they still set their minds on it. 
 
 River Andrew combined the light duties of grave-digger 
 and clerk to the parish of Farlingford in Suffolk with a 
 small but steady business in fish of his own drying, nets of 
 his own netting, and pork slain and dressed by his own 
 weather-beaten hands. 
 
 For Farlingford lies in that part of England which 
 reaches seaward toward the Fatherland, and seems to have 
 acquired from that proximity an insatiable appetite for 
 
2 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 sausages and pork. On these coasts the killing of pigs and 
 the manufacture of sausages would appear to employ the 
 leisure of the few, who for one reason or another have been 
 deemed unfit for the sea. It is not our business to inquire 
 why River Andrew had never used the fickle element. All 
 that lay in the past. And in a degree he was saved from 
 the disgrace of being a landsman by the smell of tar and 
 bloaters that heralded his coming, by the blue jersey and the 
 brown homespun trousers which he wore all the week, and 
 by the saving word which distinguished him from the poor 
 inland lubbers who had no dealings with water at all. 
 
 He had this evening laid aside his old sou'wester worn 
 in fair and foul weather alike for his Sunday hat. His 
 head-part was therefore official and lent additional value to 
 the words recorded. He spoke them, moreover, with a dim 
 note of aggressiveness which might only have been racy of 
 a soil breeding men who are curt and clear of speech. But 
 there was more than an East Anglian bluffness in the state- 
 ment and the manner of its delivery, as his next observation 
 at once explained. 
 
 " Passen thinks it's over there by the yew-tree but he's 
 wrong. That there one was a wash-up found by old Willem 
 the lighthouse keeper one morning early. No ! this is where 
 Frenchman was laid by." 
 
 He indicated with the toe of his sea-boot a crumbling: 
 grave which had never been distinguished by a headstone. 
 The grass grew high all over Farlingford churchyard, almost 
 hiding the mounds where the forefathers slept side by side 
 with the nameless " wash-ups," to whom they had extended 
 a last hospitality. 
 
 River Andrew had addressed his few remarks to the 
 younger of his two companions, a well-dressed, smartly 
 set-up man of forty or thereabouts, who in turn translated 
 
LE ROI EST MORT 3 
 
 the gist of them into French for the information of his 
 senior, a little white-haired gentleman whom he called 
 " Monsieur le Marquis." 
 
 He spoke glibly enough in either tongue, with a certain 
 indifference of manner. Tins was essentially a man of cities, 
 and one better suited to the pavement than the rural quiet 
 of Farlingford. To have the gift of tongues is no great 
 recommendation to the British born, and River Andrew 
 looked askance at this fine gentleman while he spoke French. 
 He had received letters at the post-office under the name of 
 Dormer Colville : a name not unknown in London and 
 Paris, but of which the social fame had failed to travel 
 even to Ipswich, twenty miles away from this mouldering 
 churchyard. 
 
 " It's getting on for twenty-five years come Michaelmas," 
 put in River Andrew. " I wasn't digger then ; but I 
 remember the burial well enough. And I remember French- 
 man same as if I see him yesterday." 
 
 He plucked a blade of grass from the grave and placed 
 it between his teeth. 
 
 " He were a mystery, he were," he added, darkly, and 
 turned to look musingly across the marshes toward the 
 distant sea. For River Andrew, like many hawkers of cheap 
 wares, knew the indirect commercial value of news. 
 
 The little white-haired Frenchman made a gesture of the 
 shoulders and outspread hands indicative of a pious horror 
 at the condition of this neglected grave. The meaning of 
 his attitude was so obvious that River Andrew shifted 
 uneasily from one foot to the other. 
 
 " Passen," he said, " he don't take no account of the 
 graves. He's what you might call a bookworm. Always 
 a sitting indoors reading books and pictures. Butcher 
 Franks turns his sheep in from time to time. But along of 
 
4 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 tlieso tempests and the hot sun the grass has shot up a bit. 
 Frenchman's no worse off than others. And there's some as 
 are fallen in altogether." 
 
 He indicated one or two graves where the mound had 
 sunk, and suggestive hollows were visible in the grass. 
 
 " First, it's the coffin that bu'sts in beneath the weight, 
 then it's the bones," he added, with that grim realism which 
 is begotten of familiarity. 
 
 Dormer Colville did not trouble to translate these 
 general truths. He suppressed a yawn as he contemplated 
 the tottering headstones of certain master-mariners and 
 Trinity-pilots taking their long rest in the immediate 
 vicinity. The churchyard lay on the slope of rising ground 
 upon which the village of Farlingford straggled upward in 
 one long street. Farlingford had once been a town of some 
 commercial prosperity. Its story was the story of half a 
 dozen ports on this coast a harbour silted up, a commerce 
 absorbed by a more prosperous neighbour nearer to the 
 railway. 
 
 Below the churchyard was the wide street which took 
 a turn eastward at the gates and led straight down to the 
 river-side. Farlingford Quay a little colony of warehouses 
 and tarred huts was separated from Farlingford proper by 
 a green, where the water glistened at high tide. In olden 
 days the Freemen of Farlingford had been privileged to 
 graze their horses on the green. In these later times the 
 lord of the manor pretended to certain rights over the 
 pasturage, which Farlingford, like one man, denied him. 
 
 "A mystery," repeated River Andrew,, waiting very 
 clearly for Mr. Dormer Colville to translate the suggestive 
 word to the French gentleman. But Colville only yawned. 
 " And there's few in Farlingford as knew Frenchman as well 
 as I did." 
 
LE ROI EST MORT 5 
 
 Mr. Colville walked toward the church porch, which 
 seemed to appeal to his sense of the artistic ; for he studied 
 the Norman work with the eye of a connoisseur. He was 
 evidently a cultured man, more interested in a work of art 
 than in human story. 
 
 River Andrew, seeing him depart, jingled the keys which 
 he carried in his hand, and glanced impatiently toward the 
 older man. The Marquis de Gemosac, however, ignored 
 the sound as completely as he had ignored River Andrew's 
 remarks. He was looking round him with eyes which had 
 once been dark and bright, and were now dimly yellow. 
 He looked from tomb to tomb, vainly seeking one that 
 should be distinguished, if only by the evidence of a little 
 care at the hands of the living. He looked down the wide 
 grass-grown street partly paved after the manner of the 
 Netherlands toward the quay, where the brown river 
 gleamed between the walls of the weather-beaten brick 
 buildings. There was a ship lying at the wharf, half laden 
 with hay ; a coasting craft from some of the greater tidal 
 rivers, the Orwell or the Blackwater. A man was sitting 
 on a piece of timber on the quay, smoking as he looked 
 seaward. But there was no one else in sight. For Farling- 
 ford was half depopulated, and it was tea-time. Across the 
 river lay the marshes, unbroken by tree or hedge, barren of 
 even so much as a hut. In the distance, hazy and grey in 
 the eye of the North Sea, a lighthouse stood dimly, like a 
 pillar of smoke. To the south so far as the eye could 
 pierce the sea haze marshes. To the north where the 
 river ran between bare dykes marshes. 
 
 And withal a silence which was only intensified by the 
 steady hum of the wind through the gnarled branches of 
 the few churchyard trees which turn a crouching back 
 toward the ocean. 
 
6 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 In all the world save, perhaps, in the Arctic world it 
 would be hard to find a picture emphasising more clearly 
 the fact that a man's life is but a small matter, and the 
 memory of it like the seed of grass upon the wind to be 
 blown away and no more recalled. 
 
 The bearer of one of the great names of France stood 
 knee-deep in the sun-tanned grass and looked slowly round 
 as if seeking to imprint the scene upon his memory. He 
 turned to glance at the crumbling church behind him, built 
 long ago by men speaking the language in which his own 
 thoughts found shape. He looked slowly from end to end 
 of the ill-kept burial ground, crowded with the bones of the 
 nameless and insignificant dead, who, after a life passed in 
 the daily struggle to wrest a sufficiency of food from a barren 
 soil, or the greater struggle to hold their own against a 
 greedy sea, had faded from the memory of the living, leaving 
 naught behind them but a little mound where the butcher 
 put his sheep to graze. 
 
 Monsieur de Gemosac was so absorbed in his reflections 
 that he seemed to forget his surroundings and stood above 
 the grave, pointed out to him by River Andrew, oblivious to 
 the cold wind that blew in from the sea, deaf to the clink of 
 the sexton's inviting keys, forgetful of his companion who 
 stood patiently waiting within the porch. The Marquis was 
 a little bent man, spare of limb, heavy of shoulder, with 
 snow-white hair against which his skin, brown and wrinkled 
 as a walnut shell, looked sallow like old ivory. His face 
 was small and aquiline ; not the face of a clever man, but 
 clearly the face of an aristocrat. He had the grand manner 
 too, and that quiet air of self-absorption which usually 
 envelops the bearers of historic names. 
 
 Dormer Colville watched him with a good-natured 
 patience which pointed, as clearly as his attitude and 
 
LE ROI EST MORT 7 
 
 yawning indifference, to the fact that he was not at 
 Farlingford for his own amusement. 
 
 Presently he lounged back again toward the Marquis 
 and stood behind him. 
 
 " The wind is cold, Marquis," he said, pleasantly. " One 
 of the coldest spots in England. What would Mademoiselle 
 say if I allowed you to take a chill ? " 
 
 De Gemosac turned and looked at him over his shoulder 
 with a smile full of pathetic meaning. He spread out his 
 arms in a gesture indicative of horror at the bleakness of 
 the surroundings ; at the mournfulness of the decaying 
 village ; the dreary hopelessness of the mouldering church 
 and tombs. 
 
 " I was thinking, my friend," he said. " That was all. 
 It is not surprising . . . that one should think." 
 
 Colville heaved a sigh and said nothing. He was, it 
 seemed, essentially a sympathetic man ; not of a thoughtful 
 habit himself, but tolerant of thought in others. It was 
 abominably windy and cold, although the corn was beginning 
 to ripen ; but he did not complain. Neither did he desire 
 to hurry his companion in any way. 
 
 He looked at the crumbling grave with a passing shadow 
 in his clever and worldly eyes, and composed himself to 
 await his friend's pleasure. 
 
 In his way he must have been a philosopher. His 
 attitude did not suggest that he was bored, and yet it was 
 obvious that he was eminently out of place in this remote 
 spot. He had nothing in common, for instance, with River 
 Andrew, and politely yawned that reminiscent fish-curer into 
 silence. His very clothes were of a cut and fashion never 
 before seen in Farlingford. He wore them, too, with an air 
 rarely assumed even in the streets of Ipswich. 
 
 Men still dressed with care at this time ; for d'Orsay was 
 
8 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 not yet dead, though his fame was tarnished. Mr. Dormer 
 Colville was not a dandy, however. He was too clever to go 
 to that extreme and too wise not to be within reach of it in 
 an age when great tailors were great men, and it was quite 
 easy to make a reputation by clothes alone. 
 
 Not only was his dress too fine for Farlingford, but his 
 personality was not in tune with this forgotten end of 
 England. His movements were too quick for a slow-moving 
 race of men ; no fools, and wiser than their midland 
 brethren ; slow because they had yet to make sure that a 
 better way of life had been discovered than that way in 
 which their Saxon forefathers had always walked. 
 
 Colville seemed to look at the world with an exploiting 
 eye. He had a speculative mind. Had he lived at the end 
 of the Victorian era instead of the beginning he might have 
 been a notable financier. His quick glance took in all 
 Farlingford in one comprehensive verdict. There was 
 nothing to be made of it. It was uninteresting because it 
 obviously had no future, nor encouraged any enterprise. He 
 looked across the marshes indifferently, following the line of 
 the river as it made its devious way between high dykes to 
 the sea. And suddenly his eye lighted. There was a sail 
 to the south. A schooner was standing in to the river 
 mouth, her sails glowing rosily in the last of the sunset 
 light. 
 
 Colville turned to see whether River Andrew had noticed, 
 and saw that landsman looking skyward with an eye that 
 seemed to foretell the early demise of a favouring wind. 
 
 "That's 'The Last Hope,'" he said, in answer to Dormer 
 Colville's question. "And it will take all Seth Clubbe's 
 seamanship to save the tide. ' The Last Hope.' There's 
 many a ' Hope,' built at Farlingford, and that's the last, for 
 the yard is closed and there's no more building now." 
 
LE ROI EST MOllT 9 
 
 The Marquis de Gemosac had turned away from the 
 grave, but as Colville approached him he looked back to it 
 with a shake of the head. 
 
 " After eight centuries of splendour, my friend," he said. 
 44 Can that be the end that ? " 
 
 4 ' It is not the end," answered Colville, cheerfully, 44 It 
 is only the end of a chapter. Le roi est mort vive le roi ! " 
 
 He pointed with his stick, as he spoke, to the schooner 
 creeping in between the dykes. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 VIVE LE ROI 
 
 " The Last Hope " had been expected for some days. It 
 was known in Farlingford that she was foul, and that 
 Captain Clubbe had decided to put her on the slip-way at 
 the end of the next voyage. Captain Clubbe was a Far- 
 lingford man. " The Last Hope " was a Farlingford built 
 ship, and Seth Clubbe was not the captain to go past his 
 own port for the sake of saving a few pounds. 
 
 " Farlingford's his nation," they said of him down at the 
 quay. " Born and bred here, man and boy. He's not likely 
 to put her into a Thames dry-dock while the slip-way's 
 standing empty." 
 
 All the village gossips naturally connected the arrival of 
 the two gentlemen from London with the expected return 
 of " The Last Hope." Captain Clubbe was known to have 
 commercial relations with France. It was currently reported 
 that he could speak the language. No one could tell the 
 number of his voyages backward and forward from the Bay 
 to Bristol, to Yarmouth, and even to Bergen, carrying salt- 
 fish to those countries where their religion bids them eat 
 that which they cannot supply from their own waters, 
 and bringing back wine from Bordeaux and brandy from 
 Charente. 
 
 It is not etiquette, however, on these wind-swept coasts 
 
VIVE LE EOI 11 
 
 to inquire too closely into a man's business, and, as in other 
 places, the talk was mostly among those who knew the least 
 namely, the women. There had been a question of repair- 
 ing the church. The generation now slowly finding its way 
 to its precincts had discussed the matter since their childhood 
 and nothing had come of it. 
 
 One bold spirit put forth the suggestion that the two 
 gentlemen were London architects sent down by the Queen 
 to see to the church. But the idea fell to the ground before 
 the assurance from Mrs. Clopton's own lips that the old 
 gentleman was nothing but a Frenchman. 
 
 Mrs. Clopton kept " The Black Sailor," and knew a deal 
 more than she was ready to tell people ; which is tanta- 
 mount to saying that she was a woman in a thousand. It 
 had leaked out, however, that the spokesman of the party, 
 Mr. Dormer Colville, had asked Mrs. Clopton whether it was 
 true that there was claret in the cellars of "The Black 
 Sailor." And any one having doubts could satisfy himself 
 with a sight of the empty bottles, all mouldy, standing in 
 the back yard of the inn. 
 
 They were wine-merchants from France, concluded the 
 wiseacres of Farlingford over their evening beer. They had 
 come to Farlingford to see Captain Clubbe. What could be 
 more natural ! For Farlingford was proud of Captain 
 Clubbe. It so often happens that a man going out into the 
 world and making a great name there, forgets his birthplace 
 and the rightful claim to a gleam of reflected glory which 
 the relations of a great man who have themselves stayed 
 at home and done nothing are always ready to consider 
 their due reward for having shaken their heads over him 
 during the earlier struggles. 
 
 Though slow of tongue, the men of Farlingford were of 
 hospitable inclination. They were sorry for Frenchmen, as 
 
12 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 for a race destined to smart for all time under the recollection 
 of many disastrous defeats at sea. And of course they could 
 not help being ridiculous. Heaven had made them like that 
 while depriving them of any hope of ever attaining to good 
 seamanship. Here was a foreigner, however, cast up in their 
 midst, not by the usual channel indeed, but by a carriage 
 and pair from Ipswich. He must feel lonesome, they 
 thought, and strange. They, therefore, made an effort to 
 set him at his ease, and when they met him in " the street " 
 jerked their heads at him sideways. The upward jerk is 
 less friendly and usually denotes the desire to keep strictly 
 within the limits of acquaintanceship. To Mr. Dormer 
 Colville they gave the upward lift of the chin as to a person 
 too facile in speech to be desirable. 
 
 The dumbness of the Marquis de Gemosac appealed 
 perhaps to a race of seafaring men very sparingly provided by 
 nature with words in which to clothe thoughts no less sordid 
 and sensible by reason of their terseness. It was at all 
 events unanimously decided that everything should be done 
 to make the foreigner welcome until the arrival of "The 
 Last Hope." A similar unanimity characterised the decision 
 that he must without delay be shown Frenchman's grave. 
 
 River Andrew's action and the unprecedented display of 
 his Sunday hat on a week-day were nothing but the outcome 
 of a deep-laid scheme. Mrs. Clopton had been instructed to 
 recommend the gentlemen to inspect the church, and the 
 rest had been left to the wit of River Andrew, a man whose 
 calling took him far and wide, and gave him opportunities 
 of speech with gentlefolk. 
 
 These opportunities tempted Eiver Andrew to go beyond 
 his instructions so far as to hint that he could, if encouraged, 
 make disclosures of interest respecting Frenchman. Which 
 was untrue : for River Andrew knew no more than the rest 
 
VIVE LE ROI 13 
 
 of Farlingford of a man who, having been literally cast up 
 by the sea at their gates, had lived his life within those 
 gates, had married a Farlingford woman, and had at last 
 gone the way of all Farlingford without telling any who or 
 what he was. 
 
 From sundry open cottage doors and well-laden tea- 
 tables glances of inquiry were directed toward the strangers' 
 faces as they walked down the street after having viewed the 
 church. Some prescient females went so far as to state that 
 they could see quite distinctly in the elder gentleman's 
 demeanour a sense of comfort and consolation at the know- 
 ledge thus tactfully conveyed to him that he was not the 
 first of his kind to be seen in Farlingford. 
 
 Hard upon the heels of the visitors followed River 
 Andrew, wearing his sou'wester now and carrying the news 
 that " The Last Hope " was coming up on the top of the 
 tide. 
 
 Farlingford lies four miles from the mouth of the river, 
 and no ship can well arrive unexpected at the quay ; for the 
 whole village may see her tacking up under shortened sail, 
 heading all ways, sometimes close-hauled, and now running 
 free as she follows the zigzags of the river. 
 
 Thus, from the open door, the villagers calculated the 
 chances of being able to finish the evening meal at leisure 
 and still be down at the quay in time to see Seth Clubbe 
 bring his ship alongside. One by one the men of Farling- 
 ford, pipe in mouth, went toward the river, not forgetting 
 the kindly, sideward jerk of the head for the old Frenchman 
 already waiting there. 
 
 It was nearly the top of the tide and the clear green 
 water swelled and gurgled round the weedy piles of the 
 quay, bringing on its surface tokens from the sea shadowy 
 jelly-fish, weed, and froth. " The Last Hope " was quite 
 
14 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 close at hand now, swinging np in mid-stream. The 
 sun had set and over the marshes the quiet of evening 
 brooded hazily. Captain Clubbe had taken in all sail except 
 a jib. His anchor was swinging lazily overside, ready to 
 drop. The watchers on the quay could note the gentle rise 
 and fall of the crack little vessel as the tide lifted her from 
 behind. She seemed to be dancing to her home like a 
 maiden back from school. The swing of her tapering masts 
 spoke of the heaving seas she had left behind. 
 
 It was characteristic of Farlingford that no one spoke. 
 River Andrew was already in his boat, ready to lend a hand 
 should Captain Clubbe wish to send a rope ashore. But it 
 was obvious that the captain meant to anchor in the stream 
 for the night : so obvious that if any one on shore had men- 
 tioned the conclusion his speech would have called for 
 nothing but a contemptuous glance from the steady blue 
 eyes all round him. 
 
 It was equally characteristic of a Farlingford ship that 
 there were no greetings from the deck. Those on shore 
 could clearly perceive the burly form of Captain Clubbe, 
 standing by the weather rigging. Wives could distinguish 
 their husbands, and girls their lovers ; but, as these were 
 attending to their business with a taciturn concentration, no 
 hand was raised in salutation. 
 
 The wind had dropped now. For these are coasts of 
 quiet nights and boisterous days. The tide was almost 
 slack. " The Last Hope " was scarcely moving, and in the 
 shadowy light looked like a phantom ship sailing out of a 
 dreamy sunset sky. 
 
 Suddenly the silence was broken, so unexpectedly, so 
 dramatically, that the old Frenchman, to whose nature such 
 effects would naturally appeal with a lightning speed, rose 
 to his feet and stood looking with startled eyes toward the 
 
VIVE LE ROI 15 
 
 thip. A clear strong voice had broken joyously into song, 
 and the words it sang were French : 
 
 " C'est le Hasard, 
 Qui, tot ou tard, 
 Ici bas nous seconde ; 
 Car, 
 
 D'un bout du monde 
 A l'autre bout, 
 Le Hasard seul fait tout." 
 
 Not only were the words incongruous with their quaint, 
 sadly gay air of a dead epoch of music and poetry ; but the 
 voice was in startling contrast to the tones of a gruff and 
 slow-speaking people. For it was a clear tenor voice with a 
 ring of emotion in it, half laughter, half tears, such as no 
 Briton could compass himself, or hear in another without a 
 dumb feeling of shame and shyness. 
 
 But those who heard it on the shore and all Farlingford 
 was there by this time only laughed curtly. Some of the 
 women exchanged a glance and made imperfectly developed 
 gestures, as of a tolerance understood between mothers for 
 anything that is young and inconsequent. 
 
 " We've gotten Loo Barebone back at any rate," said a 
 man, bearing the reputation of a wit. And after a long 
 pause one or two appreciators answered : 
 
 " You're right," and laughed good-humouredly. 
 
 The Marquis de Gemosac sat down again, with a certain 
 effort at self-control, on the balk of timber which had been 
 used by some generations of tide-watchers. He turned and 
 exchanged a glance with Dormer Colville, who stood at his 
 side leaning on his gold-headed cane. Colville's expression 
 seemed to say : 
 
 " I told you what it would be. But wait : there is more 
 to come." 
 
16 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 His affable eyes made a round of the watching faces, 
 and even exchanged a sympathetic smile with some, as if to 
 hint that his clothes were only fine because he belonged to a 
 fine generation, but that his heart was as human as any 
 beating under a homelier coat. 
 
 " There's Passen," said one woman to another, behind 
 the corner of her apron, within Colville's hearing. " It takes 
 a deal to bring him out o' doors nowadays, and little Sep 
 and Miss Miriam." 
 
 Dormer Colville heard the words. And he heard something 
 unspoken in the pause before the mention of the last name. 
 He did not look at once in the direction indicated by a jerk 
 of the speaker's thumb, but waited until a change of position 
 enabled him to turn his head without undue curiosity. He 
 threw back his shoulders and stretched his legs after the 
 manner of one cramped by standing too long in one attitude. 
 
 A hundred yards farther up the river, where the dyke 
 was wider, a grey-haired man was walking slowly toward the 
 quay. In front of him a boy of ten years was endeavouring 
 to drag a young girl toward the jetty at a quicker pace than 
 she desired. She was laughing at his impetuosity and looking 
 back toward the man who followed them with the abstraction 
 and indifference of a student. 
 
 Colville took in the whole picture in one quick compre- 
 hensive glance. But he turned again as the singer on board 
 " The Last Hope " began another verse. The words were 
 clearly audible to such as knew the language, and Colville 
 noted that the girl turned with a sudden gravity to listen to 
 
 them. 
 
 " Un tel qu'on vantait 
 Par hasard etait 
 D'origine a?sez mince; 
 Par hasard il plut, 
 Par hasard il fut 
 Baron, ministre, et prince." 
 
VIVE LE ROI 17 
 
 Captain Clubbe's harsh voice broke into the song with 
 the order to let go the anchor. As the ship swung to the 
 tide the steersman, who wore neither coat nor waistcoat, 
 could be seen idly handling the wheel still, though his duties 
 were necessarily at an end. He was a young man, and a 
 gay salutation of his unemployed hand toward the assembled 
 people as if he were sure that they were all friends stamped 
 him as the light-hearted singer, so different from the Far- 
 lingford men, so strongly contrasted to his hearers, who 
 nevertheless jerked their heads sideways in response. He 
 had, it seemed, rightly gauged the feelings of these cold 
 East Anglians. They were his friends. 
 
 River Andrew's boat was alongside " The Last Hope " 
 now. Some one had thrown him a rope, which he had 
 passed under his bow thwart and now held with one hand, 
 while with the other he kept his distance from the tarry 
 side of the ship. There was a pause until the schooner 
 felt her moorings, then Captain Clubbe looked over the 
 side and nodded a curt salutation to River Andrew, bidding 
 him, by the same gesture, wait a minute until he had 
 donned his shore-going jacket. The steersman was pulling 
 on his coat while he sought among the crowd the faces 
 of his more familiar friends. He was, it seemed, a privileged 
 person, and took it for granted that he should go ashore 
 with the captain. He was, perhaps, one of those who 
 seemed to be privileged at their birth by Fate, and pass 
 through life on the sunny side with a light step and laughing 
 lips. 
 
 Captain Clubbe was the first to step ashore, with one 
 comprehensive nod of the head for all Farlingford. Close 
 on his heels the younger sailor was already returning the 
 greetings of his friends. 
 
 " Hullo, Loo ! " they said ; or, " How do, Barebone ? " 
 
 o 
 
18 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 For their tongues are no quicker than their limbs, and to 
 this day, " How do ? " is the usual greeting. 
 
 The Marquis de Gemosac, who was sitting in the back- 
 ground, gave a sharp little exclamation of surprise when 
 Barebone stepped ashore, and turned to Dormer Colville to 
 say in an undertone : 
 
 " Ah but you need say nothing." 
 
 " I promised you," answered Colville, carelessly, " that I 
 should tell you nothing till you had seen him." 
 
CHAPTER ] 
 
 THE RETURN OF 
 
 Not only France, but all Europe, had at this time to reckon 
 with one who, if, as his enemies said, was no Bonaparte, was 
 a very plausible imitation of one. 
 
 In 184:9 France, indeed, was kind enough to give the 
 world a breathing space. She had herself just come through 
 one of those seething years from which she alone seems to 
 have the power of complete recovery. Paris had been in a 
 state of siege for four months ; not threatened by a foreign 
 foe, but torn to pieces by internal dissension. Sixteen 
 thousand had been killed and wounded in the streets. A 
 ministry had fallen. A ministry always does fall in France. 
 Bad weather may bring about such a descent at any moment. 
 A monarchy had been thrown down a king had fled. 
 Another king ; and one who should have known better than 
 to put his trust in a people. 
 
 Half a dozen generals had attempted to restore order in 
 Paris and confidence in France. Then, at the very end of 
 1848, the fickle people elected this Napoleon, who was no 
 Bonaparte, President of the new Republic, and Europe was 
 accorded a breathing space. At the beginning of 1849 
 arrangements were made for it military arrangements and 
 the year was almost quiet. 
 
 It was in the summer of the next year, 1850, that the 
 
20 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 Marquis de Gemosac journeyed to England. It was not bis 
 first visit to the country. Sixty years earlier he had been 
 hurried thither by a frenzied mother, a little pale-faced boy, 
 not bright or clever, but destined to pass through days of 
 trial and years of sorrow which the bright and clever would 
 scarcely have survived. For brightness must always mean 
 friction, while cleverness will continue to butt its head 
 against human limitations so long as men shall walk this 
 earth. 
 
 He had been induced to make this journey thus, in the 
 evening of his days, by the Hope, hitherto vain enough, 
 which many Frenchmen had pursued for half a century. 
 For he was one of those who refused to believe that 
 Louis XVII. had died in the prison of the Temple. 
 
 Not once, but many times, Dormer Colville laughingly 
 denied any responsibility in the matter. 
 
 " I will not even tell the story as it was told to me," he 
 said to the Marquis de Gemosac, to the Abbe Touvent and 
 to the Comtesse de Chantonnay, whom he met frequently 
 enough at the house of his cousin, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, 
 in that which is now the Province of the Charente In- 
 ferieure. " I will not even tell you the story as it was told 
 to me, until one of you has seen the man. And then, if you 
 ask me, I will tell you. It is nothing to me, you under- 
 stand. I am no dreamer, but a very material person, who 
 lives in France because he loves the sunshine, and the 
 cuisine, and the good, kind hearts, which no government 
 or want of government can deteriorate. 1 ' 
 
 And Madame de Chantonnay, who liked Dormer Colville 
 with whom she admitted she always felt herself in sym- 
 pathy smiled graciously in response to his gallant bow. 
 For she, too, was a materialist who loved the sunshine and 
 the cuisine ; more especially the cuisine. 
 
THE RETURN OF "THE LAST HOPE" 21 
 
 Moreover, Colville never persuaded the Marquis de 
 Gemosac to come to England. He went so far as to repre- 
 sent, in a realistic light, the discomforts of the journey, and 
 only at the earnest desire of many persons concerned did he 
 at length enter into the matter and good-naturedly undertake 
 to accompany the aged traveller. 
 
 So far as his story was concerned, he kept his word, 
 entertaining the Marquis on the journey and during their 
 two days' sojourn at the humble inn at Farlingford with 
 that flow of sympathetic and easy conversation which always 
 made Madame de Chantonnay protest that he was no 
 Englishman at all, but all that there was of the most 
 French. Has it not been seen that Colville refused to 
 translate the dark sayings of River Andrew by the side of 
 the grass-grown grave, which seemed to have been brought 
 to the notice of the travellers by the merest accident ? 
 
 "I promised you that I should tell you nothing until 
 you had seen him," he repeated, as the Marquis followed 
 with his eyes the movements of the group of which the man 
 they called Loo Barebone formed the centre. 
 
 No one took much notice of the two strangers. It is 
 not considered good manners in a seafaring community to 
 appear to notice a new-comer. Captain Clubbe was naturally 
 the object of universal attention. "Was he not bringing 
 foreign money into Farlingford, where the local purses 
 needed replenishing now that trade had fallen away and 
 agriculture was so sorely hampered by the lack of roads 
 across the marsh ? 
 
 Clubbe pushed his way through the crowd to shake 
 hands with the Rev. Septimus Marvin, who seemed to 
 emerge from a visionary world of his own in order to 
 perform that ceremony and to return thither on its 
 completion. 
 
22 TEE LAST HOPE 
 
 Then the majority of the onlookers straggled homeward, 
 leaving a few wives and sweethearts waiting by the steps, 
 with patient eyes fixed on the spidery figures in the rigging 
 of " The Last Hope." Dormer Colville and the Marquis de 
 Gemosac were left alone, while the rector stood a few yards 
 away, glaring abstractedly at them through his gold-rimmed 
 spectacles as if they had been some strange flotsam cast up 
 by the high tide. 
 
 " I remember," said Colville to his companion, " that 
 I have an introduction to the pastor of the village, who, if 
 I am not mistaken, is even now contemplating opening a 
 conversation. It was given to me by my banker in Paris, 
 who is a Suffolk man. You remember, Marquis, John 
 Turner, of the Rue Lafayette ? " 
 
 " Yes yes," answered the Marquis, absently. He was 
 still watching the retreating villagers, with eyes old and 
 veiled by the trouble that they had seen. 
 
 " I will take this opportunity of presenting myself," said 
 Colville, who was watching the little group from the rectory 
 without appearing to do so. He rose as he spoke and went 
 toward the clergyman, who was probably much younger 
 than he looked. For he was ill-dressed and ill-shorn, with 
 straggling grey hair hanging to his collar. He had a musty 
 look, such as a book may have that is laid on a shelf in a 
 deserted room and never opened or read. Septimus Marvin, 
 the world would say, had been laid upon a shelf when he 
 was inducted to the spiritual cure of Farlingford. But no 
 man is ever laid on a shelf by Fate. He climbs up there of 
 his own will, and lies down beneath the dust of forgetf ulness 
 because he lacks the heart to arise and face the business 
 of life. 
 
 Seeing that Dormer Colville was approaching him, he 
 came forward with a certain scholarly ease of manner as 
 
THE RETURN OF "THE LAST HOrE " 23 
 
 if he had once mixed with the best on an intellectual 
 equality. 
 
 Colville's manners were considered perfect, especially by 
 those who were unable to detect a fine line said to exist 
 between ease and too much ease. Mr. Marvin recollected 
 John Turner well. Ten years earlier he had, indeed, corre- 
 sponded at some length with the Paris banker respecting a 
 valuable engraving. Was Mr. Colville interested in en- 
 gravings ? Colville confessed to a deep and abiding 
 pleasure in this branch of art, tempered, he admitted with 
 a laugh, by a colossal ignorance. He then proceeded to 
 give the lie to his own modesty by talking easily and well 
 of mezzotints and etchings. 
 
 " But," he said, interrupting himself with evident re- 
 luctance, " I am forgetting my obligations. Let me present to 
 you my companion, an old friend, the Marquis de Gemosac." 
 
 The two gentlemen bowed, and Mr. Marvin, knowing 
 no French, proceeded to address the stranger in good British 
 Latin, after the manner of the courtly divines of his day. 
 Which Latin, from its mode of pronunciation, was entirely 
 unintelligible to its hearer. 
 
 In return, the rector introduced the two strangers to his 
 niece, Miriam Liston. 
 
 " The mainstay of my quiet house," he added, with his 
 vague and dreamy smile. 
 
 " I have already heard of you," said Dormer Colville at 
 once, with his modest deference, " from my cousin, Mrs. St. 
 Pierre Lawrence." 
 
 He seemed, as sailors say, never to be at a loose end ; 
 but to go through life with a facile readiness, having, as it 
 were, his hands full of threads among which to select, with 
 a careless affability, one that must draw him nearer to high 
 and low, men and women, alike. 
 
24 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 They talked together for some minutes, and, soon after 
 the discovery that Mariam Liston was as good a French 
 scholar as himself, and therefore able to converse with the 
 Marquis de Gemosac, Colville regretted that it was time for 
 them to return to their simple evening meal at " The Black 
 Sailor." 
 
 " Well," said Colville to Monsieur de Gemosac, as they 
 walked slowly across the green toward the inn, embowered 
 in its simple cottage-garden, all ablaze now with hollyhocks 
 and poppies " well, after your glimpse at this man, Marquis, 
 are you desirous to see more of him ? " 
 
 " My friend," answered the Frenchman, with a quick 
 gesture, descriptive of a sudden emotion not yet stilled, " he 
 took my breath away. I can think of nothing else. My 
 poor brain is buzzing still, and I know not what answers 
 I made to that pretty English girl. Ah ! You smile at my 
 enthusiasm ; you do not know what it is to have a great 
 hope dangling before the eyes all one's life. And that face 
 that face ! " 
 
 In which judgment the Marquis was no doubt right. 
 For Dormer Colville was too universal a man to be capable 
 of concentrated zeal upon any one object. He laughed at 
 the accusation. 
 
 " After dinner," he answered, " I will tell you the little 
 story as it was told to me. We can sit on this seat, out- 
 side the inn, in the scent of the flowers and smoke our 
 cigarette." 
 
 To which proposal Monsieur de Gemosac assented readily 
 enough. For he was an old man, and to such the importance 
 of small things, such as dinner or a passing personal com- 
 fort, are apt to be paramount. Moreover, he was a remnant 
 of that class to which France owed her downfall among the 
 nations ; a class represented faithfully enough by its King, 
 
THE EETURN OF "THE LAST HOPE" 25 
 
 Louis XVI., who procrastinated even on the steps of the 
 guillotine. 
 
 The wind went down with the sun, as had been foretold 
 by River Andrew, and the quiet of twilight lay on the level 
 landscape like sleep when the two travellers returned to the 
 seat at the inn door. A distant curlew was whistling 
 cautiously to its benighted mate, but all other sounds were 
 still. The day was over. 
 
 " You remember," said Colville to his companion, " that 
 six months after the execution of the King, a report ran 
 through Paris and all France that the Dillons had succeeded 
 in rescuing the Dauphin from the Temple." 
 
 "That was in July, 1793 just fifty-seven years 
 ago the news reached me in Austria," answered the 
 Marquis. 
 
 Colville glanced sideways at his companion, whose face 
 was set with a stubbornness almost worthy of the tenacious 
 Bourbons themselves. 
 
 " The Queen was alive then," went on the Englishman, 
 half diffidently, as if prepared for amendment or correction. 
 " She had nearly three months to live. The separation from 
 her children had only just been carried out. She was not 
 broken by it yet. She was in full possession of her health and 
 energy. She was one of the cleverest women of that time. 
 She was surrounded by men, some of whom were frankly 
 half-witted, others who were drunk with excess of a sudden 
 power for which they had had no preparation. Others, 
 again, were timorous or cunning. All were ignorant, and 
 many had received no education at all. For there are 
 many ignorant people who have been highly educated, 
 Marquis." 
 
 He gave a short laugh and lighted a cigarette. 
 
 " Mind," he continued, after a pause devoted to reflection, 
 
26 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 which appeared to be neither deep nor painful, for he smiled 
 as he gazed across the hazy marshes, " mind, I am no en- 
 thusiast, as you yourself have observed. I plead no cause. 
 She was not my Queen, Marquis, and France is not my 
 country. I endeavour to look at the matter with the eye 
 of common-sense and wisdom. And I cannot forget that 
 Marie Antoinette was at bay : all her senses, all her wit 
 alert. She can only have thought of her children. Human 
 nature would dictate such thoughts. One cannot forget that 
 she had devoted friends, and that these friends possessed 
 unlimited money. Do you think, Marquis, that any one man 
 of that rabble was above the reach of money ? " 
 
 And Mr. Dormer Colville's reflective smile, as he gazed 
 at the distant sea, would seem to indicate that, after a con- 
 siderable experience of men and women, he had reluctantly 
 arrived at a certain conclusion respecting them. 
 
 " No man born of woman, Marquis, is proof against 
 bribery or flattery or both." 
 
 " One can believe anything that is bad of such dregs 
 of human-kind, my friend," said Monsieur de Gemosac, 
 contemptuously. 
 
 " I speak to one," continued Colville, " who has given 
 the attention of a lifetime to the subject. If I am wrong, 
 correct me. What I have been told is that a man was found 
 who was ready, in return for a certain sum paid down, to 
 substitute his own son for the little Dauphin to allow his 
 son to take the chance of coming alive out of that predica- 
 ment. One can imagine that such a man could be found in 
 France at that period." 
 
 Monsieur de Gemosac turned, and looked at his com- 
 panion with a sort of surprise. 
 
 " You speak as if in doubt, Monsieur Colville," he said, 
 with a sudden assumption of that grand manner with which 
 
THE EETURN OF "THE LAST HOPE " 27 
 
 bis father had faced the people on the Place de la Concorde 
 had taken a pinch of snuff in the shadow of the guillotine 
 one sunny July day. " You speak as if in doubt. Such a 
 man was found. I have spoken with him : I, who speak 
 to you." 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE MARQUIS'S CREED 
 
 Dormer Colville smiled doubtfully. He was too polite, 
 it seemed, to be sceptical, and by his attitude expressed a 
 readiness to be convinced as much from indifference as by 
 reasoning. 
 
 " It is intolerable," said the Marquis de Gemosac, " that 
 a man of your understanding should be misled by a few 
 romantic writers in the pay of the Orleans." 
 
 " I am not misled, Marquis ; I am ignorant," laughed 
 Colville. " It is not always the same thing." 
 
 Monsieur de Gemosac threw away his cigarette and 
 turned eagerly toward his companion. 
 
 " Listen," he said. " I can convince you in a few 
 words." 
 
 And Colville leaned back against the weather-worn seat 
 with the air of one prepared to give a post-prandial attention. 
 
 " Such a man was found as you yourself suggest. A boy 
 was found who could not refuse to run that great risk, who 
 could not betray himself by indiscreet speech because he 
 was dumb. In order to allay certain rumours which were 
 going the round of Europe, the National Convention sent 
 three of its members to visit the Dauphin in prison, and 
 they themselves have left a record that he answered none of 
 their questions and spoke no word to them. Why ? Because 
 
THE MARQUIS'S CREED 29 
 
 he was dumb. He merely sat and looked at them solemnly, 
 as the dumb look. It was not the Dauphin at all. He was 
 hidden in the loft above. The visit of the Conventionals 
 was not satisfactory. The rumours were not stilled by it. 
 There is nothing so elusive or so vital as a rumour. Ah ! 
 you smile, my friend." 
 
 " I always give a careful attention to rumours," admitted 
 Colville. "More careful than that which one accords to 
 official announcements." 
 
 " Well, the dumb boy was not satisfactory. Those who 
 were paid for this affair began to be alarmed. Not for their 
 pockets. There was plenty of money. Half the crowned 
 heads in Europe, and all the women, were ready to open 
 their purses for the sake of a little boy, whose ill-treatment 
 appealed to their soft hearts : who in a sense was sacred, for 
 he was descended from sixty-six kings. No ! Barras and 
 all the other scoundrels began to perceive that there was 
 only one way out of the difficulty into which they had 
 blundered. The Dauphin must die ! So the dumb boy 
 disappeared. One wonders whither he went and what his 
 fate might be " 
 
 " With so much to tell," put in Dormer Colville, musingly ; 
 " so much unspoken." 
 
 It was odd how the roles had been reversed. For the 
 Marquis de Gemosac was now eagerly seeking to convince 
 his companion. The surest way to persuade a man is to lead 
 him to persuade himself. 
 
 " The only solution was for the Dauphin to die in 
 public. So another substitution was effected," continued 
 Monsieur de Gemosac. "A dying boy from the hospital 
 was made to play the part of the Dauphin. He was not at 
 all like him ; for he was tall and dark taller and darker 
 than a son of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette could ever 
 
30 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 have been. The prison was reconstructed so that the sentry 
 on guard could not see his prisoner, but was forced to call to 
 him in order to make sure that he was there. It was a pity 
 that he did not resemble the Dauphin at all, this scrofulous 
 child. But they were in a hurry, and they were at their 
 wits' ends. And it is not always easy to find a boy who 
 will die in a given time. This boy had to die, however, by 
 some means or other. It was for France, you understand, 
 and the safety of the Great Republic." 
 
 " One hopes that he appreciated his privilege," observed 
 Colville, philosophically. 
 
 " And he must die in public, duly certified for by persons 
 of undoubted integrity. They called in, at the last moment, 
 Desault, a great doctor of that day. But Desault was, un- 
 fortunately, honest. He went home and told his assistant 
 that this was not the Dauphin, and that, whoever he might 
 be, he was being poisoned. The assistant's name was Chop- 
 part, and this Choppart made up a medicine, on Desault's 
 prescription, which was an antidote to poison." 
 
 Monsieur de Gemosac paused, and, turning to his com- 
 panion, held up one finger to command his full attention. 
 
 " Desault died, my friend, four days later, and Choppart 
 died five days after him, and the boy in the Temple died 
 three days after Choppart. And no one knows what they 
 died of. They were pretty bunglers, those gentlemen of the 
 Republic ! Of course, they called in others in a hurry ; men 
 better suited to their purpose. And one of these, the citizen 
 Pelletan, has placed on record some preposterous lies. These 
 doctors certified that this was the Dauphin. They had 
 never seen him before, but what matter ? Great care was 
 taken to identify the body. Persons of position, who had 
 never seen the son of Louis XVI., were invited to visit the 
 Temple. Several of them had the temerity to protect 
 
THE MARQUIS'S CREED 31 
 
 themselves in the certificate. ' We saw what we were 
 informed was the body of the Dauphin,' they said." 
 
 Again the old man turned, and held up his hand in a 
 gesture of warning. 
 
 " If they wanted a witness whose testimony was without 
 question whose word would have laid the whole question in 
 that lost and forgotten grave for ever they had one in the 
 room above. For the Dauphin's sister was there, Marie 
 Therese Charlotte, she who is now Duchess of Angouleme. 
 Why did they not bring her down to see the body, to testify 
 that her brother was dead and the line of Louis XVI. ended ? 
 Was it chivalry ? I ask you if these had shown chivalry to 
 Madame de Lamballe ? to Madame Elizabeth ? to Marie 
 Antoinette ? Was it kindness toward a child of unparalleled 
 misfortune ? I ask you if they had been kind to those whom 
 they called the children of the tyrant ? No ! They did not 
 conduct her to that bedside, because he who lay there was 
 not her brother. Are we children, Monsieur, to be deceived 
 by a tale of a sudden softness of heart ? They wished to 
 spare this child the pain ! Had they ever spared any one 
 pain the National Assembly ? " 
 
 And the Marquis de Geniosac's laugh rang with a hatred 
 which must, it seems, outlive the possibility of revenge. 
 
 "There was to be a public funeral. Such a ceremony 
 would have been of incalculable value at that time. But, at 
 the last minute, their courage failed them. The boy was 
 thrown into a forgotten corner of a Paris churchyard, at 
 nine o'clock one night, without witnesses. The spot itself 
 cannot now be identified. Do you tell me that that was the 
 Dauphin ? Bah ! my friend, the thing was too childish ! " 
 
 "The ignorant and the unlettered," observed Colville, 
 with the air of making a concession, " are always at a dis- 
 advantageeven in crime." 
 
32 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " That the Dauphin was, in the mean time, concealed in 
 the garret of the Tower appears to be certain. That he was 
 finally conveyed out of the prison in a clothes-basket is as 
 certain, Monsieur, as it is certain that the sun will rise to- 
 morrow. And I believe that the Queen knew, when she 
 went to the guillotine, that her son was no longer in the 
 Temple. I believe that Heaven sent her that one scrap of 
 comfort, tempered as it was by the knowledge that her 
 daughter remained a prisoner in their hands. But it was to 
 her son that her affections were given. For the Duchess 
 never had the gift of winning love. As she is now a cold, 
 hard, composed woman so she was in her prison in the 
 Temple at the age of fifteen. You may take it from one 
 who has known her all his life. And from that moment to 
 this " 
 
 The Marquis paused, and made a gesture with his hands, 
 descriptive of space and the unknown. 
 
 " From that moment to this nothing. Nothing of the 
 Dauphin." 
 
 He turned in his seat and looked questioningly up toward 
 the crumbling church, with its square tower, stricken, years 
 ago, by lightning ; with its grass-grown graveyard marked 
 by stones all grey and hoary with immense age and the 
 passage of cold and stormy winters. 
 
 " Who knows," he added, " what may have become of 
 him ? Who can say where he lies ? For a life begun as his 
 began was not likely to be a long one. Though troubles do 
 not kill. Witness myself, who am five years his senior." 
 
 Colville looked at him in obedience to an inviting gesture 
 of the hand ; looked as at something he did not understand, 
 something beyond his understanding, perhaps. For the 
 troubles had not been Monsieur de Gemosac's own troubles, 
 but those of his country. 
 
THE MARQUIS'S CREED 33 
 
 " And the Duchess ? " said the Englishman at length, 
 after a pause, "at Frohsdorf what does she say or 
 think ? " 
 
 " She says nothing/' replied the Marquis de Gemosac, 
 sharply. " She is silent, because the world is listening for 
 every word she may utter. What she thinks. ... Ah ! who 
 knows ? She is an old woman, my friend, for she is seventy- 
 one. Her memories are a millstone about her neck. No 
 wonder she is silent. Think what her life has been. As a 
 child, three years of semi-captivity at the Tuileries, with the 
 mob howling round the railings. Three and a half years a 
 prisoner in the Temple. Both parents sent to the guillotine 
 her aunt to the same. All her world massacred. As a 
 girl, she was collected, majestic ; or else she could not have 
 survived those years in the Temple, alone the last of her 
 family. What must her thoughts have been, at night in 
 her prison ? As a woman, she is cold, sad, unemotional. 
 No one ever lived through such troubles with so little display 
 of feeling. The Restoration, the Hundred Days, the second 
 Restoration, Louis XVIII. , and his flight to England ; 
 Charles X. and his abdication ; her own husband, the Due 
 d'AngoulSme the Dauphin for many years, the King for 
 half an hour these are some of her experiences. She has 
 lived for forty years in exile in Mittau, Memel, Warsaw, 
 Konigsberg, Prague, England ; and now she is at Frohsdorf, 
 awaiting the end. You ask me what she says ? She says 
 nothing, but she knows she has always known that her 
 brother did not die in the Temple.' ' 
 
 " Then " suggested Colville, who certainly had 
 
 acquired the French art of putting much meaning into one 
 word. 
 
 " Then why not seek him ? you would ask. How do 
 you know that she has not done so, my friend, with tears ? 
 
 D 
 
34 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 But as years passed on, and brought no word of him, it became 
 less and less desirable. While Louis XVIII. continued to 
 reign there was no reason to wish to find Louis XVII., you 
 understand. For there was still a Bourbon, of the direct 
 line, upon the throne. Louis XVIII. would scarcely desire 
 it. One would not expect him to seek very diligently for 
 one who would deprive him of the crown. Charles X., 
 knowing he must succeed his brother, was no more enthu- 
 siastic in the search. And the Duchess d'Angouleme herself, 
 you ask ? I can see the question in your face." 
 
 " Yet," conceded Colville. " For, after all, he was her 
 brother.' ' 
 
 " Yes and if she found him, what would be the result ? 
 Her uncle would be driven from the throne ; her father-in- 
 law would not inherit ; her own husband, the Dauphin, 
 would be Dauphin no longer. She herself could never be 
 Queen of France. It is a hard thing to say of a woman " 
 
 Monsieur de Gemosac paused for a moment in reflection. 
 
 " Yes," he said at length, " a hard thing. But this is a 
 hard world, Monsieur Colville, and will not allow either men 
 or women to be angels. I have known and served the 
 Duchess all my life, and I confess that she has never lost 
 sight of the fact that, should Louis XVII. be found, she 
 herself would never be Queen of France. One is not a 
 Bourbon for nothing." 
 
 " One is not a stateswoman and a daughter of kings for 
 nothing," amended Colville, with his tolerant laugh ; for he 
 was always ready to make allowances. " Better, perhaps, 
 that France should be left quiet, under the regime she had 
 accepted, than disturbed by the offer of another regime, 
 which might be less acceptable. You always remind me 
 you, who deal with France of a lion-tamer at a circus. 
 You have a very slight control over your performing beasts. 
 
THE MARQUIS'S CREED 35 
 
 If they refuse to do the trick you propose, you do not press 
 it, but pass on to another trick ; and the bars of the cage 
 always appear to the onlooker to be very inadequate. Per- 
 haps it was better, Marquis, to let the Dauphin go ; to pass 
 him over, and proceed to the tricks suitable to the momentary 
 humour of your wild animals." 
 
 The Marquis de Gemosac gave a curt laugh, which 
 thrilled with a note of that fearful joy known to those who 
 seek to control the uncontrollable. 
 
 " At that time," he admitted, " it might be so. But not 
 now. At that time there lived Louis XVIII. and Charles X., 
 and his sons, the Due d'Angouleme and the Due de Berri, 
 who might reasonably be expected to have sons in their turn. 
 There were plenty of Bourbons, it seemed. And now 
 where are they ? "What is left of them ? " 
 
 He gave a nod of the head toward the sea that lay 
 between him and Germany. 
 
 " One old woman, over there, at Frohsdorf, the daughter 
 of Marie Antoinette, awaiting the end of her bitter pilgrimage 
 and this Comte de Chambord. This man who will not 
 when he may. No, my friend, it has never been so neces- 
 sary to find Louis XVII. as it is now. Necessary for France 
 for the whole world. This Prince President, this last 
 offshoot of a pernicious republican growth, will drag us all 
 in the mud if he gets his way with France. And those who 
 have watched with seeing eyes have always known that such 
 a time as the present must eventually come. For France 
 will always be the victim of a clever adventurer. "We have 
 foreseen it, and for that reason we have treated as serious 
 possibilities these false Dauphins who have sprung up like 
 mushrooms all over Europe and even in America. And 
 what have they proved ? What have the Bourbons proved 
 in frustrating their frauds ? That the son of Louis XVI. 
 
36 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 did not die in the Temple. That is all. And Madame 
 herself has gathered further strength to her conviction that 
 the little King was not buried in that forgotten corner of 
 the graveyard of Sainte Marguerite. At the same time, she 
 knows that none of these neither Naundorff, nor Haver- 
 gault, nor Bruneau, nor de Richemont, nor any other pre- 
 tender was her brother. No ! The King, either because 
 he did not know he was King, or because he had had enough 
 of royalty, never came forward and never betrayed his where- 
 abouts. He was to be sought ; he is still to be sought. 
 And it is now that he is wanted." 
 
 " That is why I offer to tell you this story now. That 
 is my reason for bringing you to Farlingford now," said 
 Colville, quietly. It seemed that he must have awaited, as 
 the wise do in this world, the propitious moment, and should 
 it never come they are content to forego their purpose. He 
 gave a light laugh and stretched out his long legs, con- 
 templating his strapped trousers and neat boots with the 
 eye of a connoisseur. " And should I be the humble means 
 of doing a good turn to France and others, will France 
 and others remember it, I wonder. Perhaps I hold in my 
 hands the Hope of France, Marquis." 
 
 He paused, and lapsed for a moment into thought. It 
 was eight o'clock, and the long northern twilight was fading 
 into darkness now. The bell of Captain Clubbe's ship rang 
 out the hour a new sound in the stillness of tins forgotten 
 town. 
 
 " The Last Hope," added Dormer Colville, with a queer 
 laugh. 
 
CHAPTEE V 
 
 ON THE DYKE 
 
 Keither had spoken again when their thoughts were turned 
 aside from that story which Oolville, instead of telling, had 
 been called upon to hear. 
 
 For the man whose story it presumably was passed across 
 the green ere the sound of the ship's bell had died away. 
 He had changed his clothes, or else it would have appeared 
 that he was returning to his ship. He walked with his head 
 thrown up, with long lithe steps, with a gait and carriage 
 so unlike the heavy tread of men wearing sea-boots all their 
 working days, that none would have believed him to be born 
 and bred in Farlingford. For it is not only in books that 
 history is written, but in the turn of a head, in the sound 
 of a voice, in the vague and dreamy thoughts half formulated 
 by the human mind 'twixt sleeping and waking. 
 
 Monsieur de Gemosac paused, with his cigarette held 
 poised halfway to his lips, and watched the man go past, 
 while Dormer Colville, leaning back against the wall, scanned 
 him sideways between lowered lids. 
 
 It would seem that Barebone must have an appointment. 
 He walked without looking about him, like one who is late. 
 He rather avoided than sought the greeting of a friend from 
 the open cottage-doors as he passed on. On reaching the 
 
38 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 quay he turned quickly to the left, following the path that 
 led toward the dyke at the riverside. 
 
 " He is no sailor at heart," commented Oolville. " He 
 never even glanced at his ship." 
 
 "And yet it was he who steered the ship in that 
 dangerous river." 
 
 " He may be skilful in anything he undertakes," suggested 
 Colville, in explanation. "It is Captain Olubbe who will 
 tell us that. For Captain Clubbe has known him since his 
 birth, and was the friend of his father." 
 
 They sat in silence watching the shadowy figure on the 
 dyke, outlined dimly against the hazy horizon. He was 
 walking, still with haste as if to a certain destination, toward 
 the rectory buried in its half circle of crouching trees. And 
 already another shadow was hurrying from the house to 
 meet him. It was the boy, little Sep Marvin, and in the 
 stillness of the evening his shrill voice could be heard in 
 excited greeting. 
 
 " What have you brought ? What have you brought ? " 
 he was crying, as he ran toward Barebone. They seemed to 
 have so much to say to each other that they could not wait 
 until they came within speaking distance. The boy took 
 Barebone's hand, and turning walked back with him to the 
 old house peeping over the dyke toward the sea. He could 
 scarcely walk quietly, for joy at the return of his friend, and 
 skipped from side to side, pouring out questions and answer- 
 ing them himself as children and women do. 
 
 But Barebone gave him only half of his attention and 
 looked before him with grave eyes, while the boy talked of 
 nests and knives. Barebone was looking toward the garden, 
 concealed like an intrenchrnent behind the dyke. It was 
 a quiet evening, and the rector was walking slowly backward 
 and forward on the raised path, made on the dyke itself, like 
 
ON THE DYKE 39 
 
 a ship-captain on his quarter-deck, with hands clasped behind 
 his bent back and eyes that swept the horizon at each turn 
 with a mechanical monotony. At one end of the path, which 
 was worn smooth by the Reverend Septimus Marvin's pensive 
 foot, the gleam of a white dress betrayed the presence of his 
 niece, Miriam Liston. 
 
 " Ah, is that you ? " asked the rector, holding out a 
 limp hand. " Yes. I remember Sep was allowed to sit up 
 till half-past eight in the hope that you might come 
 round to see us. Well, Loo, and how are you ? Yes 
 yes." 
 
 And he looked vaguely out to sea, repeating below his 
 breath the words "Yes yes" almost in a whisper, as if 
 communing secretly with his own thoughts out of hearing 
 of the world. 
 
 " Of course I should come round to see you," answered 
 Barebone. " Where else should I go ? So soon as we had 
 had tea and I could change my clothes and get away from 
 that dear Mrs. Clubbe. It seems so strange to come back 
 here from the racketing world and France is a racketing 
 world of its own and find everything in Farlingford just 
 the same." 
 
 He had shaken hands with the rector and with Miriam 
 Liston as he spoke, and his speech was not the speech of 
 Farlingford men at all, but rather of Septimus Marvin 
 himself, of whose voice he had acquired the ring of educa- 
 tion, while adding to it a neatness and quickness of enuncia- 
 tion which must have been his own ; for none in Suffolk 
 could have taught it to him. 
 
 " Just the same," he repeated, glancing at the book 
 Miriam had laid aside for a moment to greet him and had 
 now taken up again. " That book must be very large print," 
 he said, " for you to be able to read by this light." 
 
40 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " Ifc is large print," answered the girl, with a friendly 
 laugh, as she returned to it. 
 
 " And you are still resolved to be a sailor ? " inquired 
 Marvin, looking at him with kind eyes for ever asleep, it 
 would appear, in some long slumber which must have been 
 the death of one of the sources of human energy of ambition 
 or of hope. 
 
 " Until I find a better calling," answered Loo Barebone, 
 with his eager laugh. "When I am away I wonder how 
 any can be content to live in Farlingford and let the world 
 go by. And when I am here I wonder how any can be so 
 foolish as to fret and fume in the restless world while he 
 might be sitting quietly at Farlingford." 
 
 " Ah," murmured the rector, musingly, u you are for the 
 world. You, with your capacities, your quickness for learn- 
 ing, your well, your lightness of heart, my dear Loo. That 
 goes far in the great world. To be light of heart to amuse. 
 Yes, you are for the world. You might do something there." 
 
 " And nothing in Farlingford ? " inquired Barebone, 
 gaily ; but he turned, as he spoke, and glanced once more 
 at Miriam Liston as if in some dim way the question could 
 not be answered by any other. She was absorbed in her 
 book again. The print must indeed have been large and 
 clear, for the twilight was fading fast. 
 
 She looked up and met his glance with direct and steady 
 eyes of a clear grey. A severe critic of that which none 
 can satisfactorily define a woman's beauty would have 
 objected that her face was too wide, and her chin too square. 
 Her hair, which was of a bright brown, grew with a singular 
 strength and crispness round a brow which was serene and 
 square. In her eyes there shone the light of tenacity, and 
 a steady purpose. A student of human nature must have 
 regretted that the soul looking out of such eyes should have 
 
ON THE DYKE 41 
 
 been vouchsafed to a woman. For strength and purpose in 
 a man are usually exercised for the good of mankind, while 
 in a woman such qualities must, it would seem, benefit no 
 more than one man of her own generation, and a few who 
 may follow her in the next. 
 
 " There is nothing," she said, turning to her book again, 
 " for a man to do in Farlingford." 
 
 " And for a woman ? " inquired Barebone, without 
 
 looking at her. 
 
 " There is always something everywhere." 
 
 And Septimus Marvin's reflective "Yes yes," as he 
 paused in his walk and looked seaward, came in appropriately 
 as a grave confirmation of Miriam's jesting statement. 
 
 " Yes yes," he repeated, turning toward Barebone, who 
 stood listening to the boy's chatter. " You find us as you 
 left us, Loo. Was it six months ago ? Ah ! How time 
 flies when one remains stationary. For you, I dare say, it 
 seems more." 
 
 "For me oh yes, it seems more," replied Barebone, 
 with his gay laugh, and a glance toward Miriam. 
 
 "A little older," continued the rector. "The church 
 a little mouldier. Farlingford a little emptier. Old Godbold 
 is gone the last of the Godbolds of Farlingford, which 
 means another empty cottage in the street." 
 
 " I saw it as I came down," answered Barebone. " They 
 look like last year's nests those empty cottages. But you 
 have been all well, here at the rectory, since we sailed ? The 
 cottages well, they are only cottages after all." 
 
 Miriam's eyes were raised for a moment from her book. 
 
 " Is it like that they talk in France ? " she asked. " Are 
 those the sentiments of the great republic ? " 
 
 Barebone laughed aloud. 
 
 " I thought I could make you look up from your book," 
 
42 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 he answered. " One has merely to cast a slur upon the poor 
 your dear poor of Farlingford and you are up in arms 
 in an instant. But I am not the person to cast a slur, since 
 I am one of the poor of Farlingford myself, and owe it to 
 charity to the charity of the rectory that I can read and 
 write." 
 
 " But it came to you very naturally," observed Marvin, 
 looking vaguely across the marshes to the roofs of the 
 village, " to suggest that those who live in cottages are of 
 a different race of beings " 
 
 He broke off, following his own thoughts in silence, as 
 men soon learn to do who have had no companion by them 
 capable of following whithersoever they may lead. 
 
 " Did it ? " asked Barebone, sharply. He turned to look 
 at his old friend and mentor with a sudden quick distress. 
 " I hope not. I hope it did not sound like that. For you 
 have never taught me such thoughts, have you ? Quite the 
 contrary. And I cannot have learned it from Clubbe." 
 
 He broke off with a laugh of relief, for he had perceived 
 that Septimus Marvin's thoughts were already elsewhere. 
 
 " Perhaps you are right," he added, turning to Miriam. 
 " It may be that one should go to a republic in order to 
 learn once for all that all men are not equal." 
 
 " You say it with so much conviction," was the retort, 
 " that you must have known it before." 
 
 " But I do not know it. I deny such knowledge. Where 
 could I have learned such a principle ? " 
 
 He spread out his arms in emphatic denial. For he 
 was quick in all his gestures quick to laugh or be grave 
 quick, with the rapidity of a woman to catch a thought 
 held back by silence or concealed in speech. 
 
 Marvin merely looked at him with a dreamy smile and 
 lapsed again into those speculations which filled his waking 
 
ON THE DYKE 43 
 
 moments ; for the business of life never received his full 
 attention. He contemplated the world from afar off, and 
 was like that blind man at Bethsaida who saw men as trees 
 walking, and rubbed his eyes and wondered. He turned at 
 the sound of the church clock and looked at his son, whose 
 attitude towards Barebone was that of an admiring younger 
 brother. 
 
 " Sep," he said, " your extra half -hour has passed. You 
 will have time to-morrow and for many days to come to 
 exchange views with Loo." 
 
 The boy was old before his time, as the children of 
 elderly parents always are. 
 
 "Very well," he said, with a grave nod. "But you 
 must not tell Loo where those young herons are after I am 
 gone to bed." 
 
 He went slowly toward the house, looking back suspiciously 
 from time to time. 
 
 " Herons ? no. Why should I ? Where are they ? " 
 muttered Mr. Marvin, vaguely, and he absent-mindedly 
 followed his son, leaving Miriam Listen sitting in the turf 
 shelter, built like an embrasure in the dyke, and Barebone 
 standing a little distance from her, looking at her. 
 
 A silence fell upon them the silence that follows the 
 departure of a third person when those who are left behind 
 turn a new page. Miriam laid her book upon her lap and 
 looked across the river now slowly turning to its ebb. She 
 did not look at Barebone, but her eyes were conscious of his 
 proximity. Her attitude, like his, seemed to indicate the 
 knowledge that this moment had been inevitable from the 
 first, and that there was no desire on either part to avoid 
 it or to hasten its advent. 
 
 " I had a haunting fear as we came up the river," he 
 said at length, quietly and with an odd courtesy of manner, 
 
44 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " that you might have gone away. That is the calamity 
 always hanging over this quiet house." 
 
 He spoke with the ease of manner which always indicates 
 a long friendship, or a close camaraderie, resulting from 
 common interests or a common endeavour. 
 
 " Why should I go away ? " she asked. 
 
 " On the other hand, why should you stay ? " 
 
 " Because I fancy I am wanted," she replied, in the 
 lighter tone which he had used. " It is gratifying to one's 
 vanity, you know, whether it be true or not." 
 
 " Oh, it is true enough. One cannot imagine what they 
 would do without you." 
 
 He was watching Septimus Marvin as he spoke. Sep 
 had joined him and was walking gravely by his side toward 
 the house. They were ill-assorted. 
 
 " But there is a limit even to self-sacrifice and well, 
 there is another world open to you." 
 
 She gave a curt laugh as if he had touched a topic upon 
 which they would disagree. 
 
 " Oh yes," he laughed. " I leave myself open to a tu 
 quoqxie, I know. There are other worlds open to me also, 
 you would say." 
 
 He looked at her with his gay and easy smile ; but she 
 made no answer, and her resolute lips closed together sharply. 
 The subject had been closed by some past conversation or 
 incident which had left a memory. 
 
 " Who are those two men staying at ' The Black Sailor ? ' " 
 she asked, changing the subject, or only turning into a 
 by-way, perhaps. " You saw them." 
 
 She seemed to take it for granted that he should have seen 
 them, though he had not appeared to look in their direction. 
 
 u Oh yes. I saw them, but I do not know who they 
 are. I came straight here as soon as I could." 
 
ON THE DYKE 45 
 
 " One of them is a Frenchman," she said, taking no heed 
 of the excuse given for his ignorance of Farlingford news. 
 
 " The old man I thought so. I felt it when I looked 
 at him. It was perhaps a fellow feeling. I suppose I am a 
 Frenchman after all. Clubbe always says I am one when I 
 am at the wheel and let the ship go off the wind." 
 
 Miriam was looking along the dyke, peering into the 
 gathering darkness. 
 
 "One of them is coming toward us now," she said, 
 almost warningly. " Not the Marquis de Gemosac, but the 
 other the Englishman." 
 
 " Confound him," muttered Barebone. " What does he 
 want ? " 
 
 And to judge from Mr. Dormer Colville's pace it would 
 appear that he chiefly desired to interrupt their tete-a-tete. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE STORY OF THE CASTAWAYS 
 
 When River Andrew stated that there were few at Farling- 
 ford who knew more of Frenchman than himself, it is to 
 be presumed that he spoke by the letter, and under the 
 reserve that Captain Clubbe was not at the moment on 
 shore. 
 
 For Captain Clubbe had known Frenchman since boy- 
 hood. 
 
 "I understand," said Dormer Colville to him two or 
 three days after the arrival of " The Last Hope,' 1 " that the 
 Marquis de Gemosac cannot do better than apply to you for 
 some information he desires to possess. In fact, it is on 
 that account that we are here. ,, 
 
 The introduction had been a matter requiring patience. 
 For Captain Clubbe had not laid aside in his travels a certain 
 East Anglian distrust of the unknown. He had, of course, 
 noted the presence of the strangers when he landed at 
 Farlingford quay, but his large, immobile face had betrayed 
 no peculiar interest. There had been plenty to tell him all 
 that was known of Monsieur de Gemosac and Dormer 
 Colville, and a good deal that was only surmised. But the 
 imagination of even the darksome River Andrew failed to 
 soar successfully under the measuring blue eye, and the total 
 lack of comment of Captain Clubbe. 
 
THE STOKY OF THE CASTAWAYS 47 
 
 There was, indeed, little to tell, although the strangers 
 had been seen to go to the rectory in quite a friendly way, 
 and had taken a glass of sherry in the rector's study. Mrs. 
 Clacy was responsible for this piece of news, and her pro- 
 fession giving her the entree to almost every back door in 
 Farlingford enabled her to gather news at the fountain-head. 
 For Mrs. Clacy went out to oblige. She obliged the rectory 
 on Mondays, and Mrs. Clubbe, with what was technically 
 described as the* heavy wash, on Tuesdays. Whatever Mrs. 
 Clacy was asked to do she could perform with a rough 
 efficiency. But she always undertook it with reluctance. It 
 was not, she took care to mention, what she was accustomed 
 to, but she would do it to oblige. Her charge was eighteen- 
 pence a day with her dinner, and (she made the addition 
 with a raised eyebrow, and the resigned sigh of one who 
 takes her meals as a duty toward those dependent on her) a 
 bit of tea at the end of the day. 
 
 It was on a Wednesday that Dormer Colville met Captain 
 Clubbe face to face in the street, and was forced to curb his 
 friendly smile and half-formed nod of salutation. For 
 Captain Clubbe went past him with a rigid face and steadily 
 averted eyes, like a walking monument. For there was 
 something in the captain's deportment dimly suggestive of 
 stone, and the dignity of stillness. His face meant security, 
 his large limbs a slow, sure action. 
 
 Colville and Monsieur de Gemosac were on the quay in 
 the afternoon at high tide when " The Last Hope " was 
 warped on to the slip-way. All Farlingford was there too, 
 and Captain Clubbe carried out the difficult task with hardly 
 any words at all from a corner of the jetty, with Loo Bare- 
 bone on board as second in command. 
 
 Captain Clubbe could not fail to perceive the strangers, 
 for they stood a few yards from him, Monsieur de Gemosac 
 
48 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 peering with his yellow eyes toward the deck of " The Last 
 Hope," where Barebone stood on the forecastle giving the 
 orders transmitted to him by a sign from his taciturn captain. 
 Colville seemed to take a greater interest in the proceedings, 
 and noted the skill and precision of the crew with the air of 
 a seaman. 
 
 Presently, Septimus Marvin wandered down the dyke 
 and stood irresolutely at the far corner of the jetty. He 
 always approached his flock with diffidence, although they 
 treated him kindly enough, much as they treated such of 
 their own children as were handicapped in the race of life 
 by some malformation or mental incapacity. 
 
 Colville approached him and they stood side by side until 
 '" The Last Hope " was safely moored and chocked. Then 
 it was that the rector introduced the two strangers to Captain 
 Clubbe. It being a Wednesday, Clubbe must have known 
 all that there was to know, and more, of Monsieur de Gemosac 
 and Dormer Colville ; for Mrs. Clacy, it will be remembered, 
 obliged Mrs. Clubbe on Tuesdays. Nothing, however, in 
 the mask-like face, large and square, of the ship-captain 
 indicated that he knew aught of his new acquaintances, or 
 desired to know more. And when Colville frankly explained 
 their presence in Farlingford, Captain Clubbe nodded gravely 
 and that was all. 
 
 "We can wait, however, until a more suitable oppor- 
 tunity presents itself," Colville hastened to add. " You are 
 busy, as even a landsman can perceive, and cannot be 
 expected to think of anything but your vessel until the tide 
 leaves her high and dry." i 
 
 He turned and explained the situation to the Marquis, 
 who shrugged his shoulders impatiently as if at the delay. 
 For he was a southerner, and was, perhaps, ignorant of the 
 fact that in dealing with any born on the shores of the 
 
THE STORY OF THE CASTAWAYS 49 
 
 Gorman Ocean nothing is gained and, more often than not, 
 all is lost by haste. 
 
 " You hear," Colville added, turning to the Captain, and 
 speaking in a curter manner ; for so strongly was he moved 
 by that human kindness which is vaguely called sympathy 
 that his speech varied according to his listener. " You hear 
 the Marquis only speaks French. It is about a fellow- 
 countryman of his buried here. Drop in and have a glass 
 of wine with us some evening ; to-night, if you are at 
 liberty." 
 
 "What I can tell you won't take long," said Clubbe, 
 over his shoulder ; for the tide was turning, and in a few 
 minutes would be ebbing fast. t 
 
 " Dare say not. But we have a good bin of claret at 
 ' The Black Sailor,' and shall be glad of your opinion on it." 
 
 Clubbe nodded, with a curt laugh, which might have 
 been intended to deprecate the possession of any opinion on 
 a vintage, or to express his disbelief that Dormer Colville 
 desired to have it. 
 
 Nevertheless, his large person loomed in the dusk of the 
 trees soon after sunset, in the narrow road leading from his 
 house to the church and the green. 
 
 Monsieur de Gemosac and his companion were sitting 
 on the bench outside the inn, leaning against the sill of their 
 own parlour- window, which stood open. The Captain had 
 changed his clothes, and now wore those in which he went 
 to church and to the custom-house when in London or other 
 large cities. 
 
 " There walks a just man," commented Dormer Colville, 
 lightly, and no longer word could have described Captain 
 Clubbe more aptly. He would rather have stayed in his 
 own garden this evening to smoke his pipe in contemplative 
 silence. But he had always foreseen that the day might 
 
50 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 come when it would be his duty to do his best by Loo Bare- 
 bone. He had not sought this opportunity, because, being a 
 wise as well as a just man, he was not quite sure that he 
 knew what the best would be. 
 
 He shook hands gravely with the strangers, and by his 
 manner seemed to indicate his comprehension of Monsieur 
 de Geniosac's well-turned phrases of welcome. Dormer 
 Colville appeared to be in a silent humour, unless perchance 
 he happened to be one of those rare beings who can either 
 talk or hold their tongues as occasion may demand. 
 
 " You won't want me to put my oar in, I see," observed 
 he, tentatively, as he drew forward a small table whereon 
 were set three glasses and a bottle of the celebrated claret. 
 
 " I can understand French, but I don't talk it," replied 
 the Captain, stolidly. 
 
 " xind if I interpret as we go along, we shall sit here all 
 night, and get very little said." 
 
 Colville explained the difficulty to the Marquis de Gemosac, 
 and agreed with him that much time would be saved if 
 Captain Clubbe would be kind enough to tell in English all 
 that he knew of the nameless Frenchman buried in Farling- 
 ford churchyard, to be translated by Colville to Monsieur de 
 Gemosac at another time. As Clubbe understood this, and 
 nodded in acquiescence, there only remained to them to draw 
 the cork and light their cigars. 
 
 "Not much to tell," said Clubbe, guardedly. "But 
 what there is, is no secret, so far as I know. It has not 
 been told because it was known long ago, and has been 
 forgotten since. The man's dead and buried, and there's 
 an end of him." 
 
 " Of him, yes, but not of his race," answered Colville. 
 
 "You mean the lad?" inquired the Captain, turning 
 his calm and steady gaze to Colville's face. The whole man 
 
THE STORY OF THE CASTAWAYS 51 
 
 seemed to turn, ponderously and steadily, like a siege- 
 gun. 
 
 "That is what I meant," answered Colville. "You 
 understand," he went on to explain, as if urged thereto by 
 the fixed glance of the clear blue eye "you understand, 
 it is none of my business. I am only here as the Marquis 
 de Gemosac's friend. Know him in his own country, where 
 I live most of the time." 
 
 Clubbe nodded. 
 
 "Frenchman was picked up at sea fifty-five years ago 
 this July," he narrated, bluntly, "by the ' Martha and 
 Mary' brig of this port. I was apprentice at the time. 
 Frenchman was a boy with fair hair and a womanish face. 
 Bit of a cry-baby I used to think him, but being a boy 
 myself I was perhaps hard on him. He was with his well, 
 his mother." 
 
 Captain Clubbe paused. He took the cigar from his 
 lips and carefully replaced the outer leaf, which had wrinkled. 
 Perhaps he waited to be asked a question. Colville glanced 
 at him sideways and did not ask it. 
 
 " Dark night," the Captain continued, after a short silence, 
 "and a heavy sea, about mid-channel off Dieppe. We 
 sighted a French fishing-boat yawing about abandoned. 
 Something queer about her, the skipper thought. Those 
 were queer times in France. We hailed her, and getting 
 no answer put out a boat and boarded her. There was 
 nobody on board but a woman and a child. Woman was 
 half mad with fear. I have seen many afraid, but never 
 one like that. I was only a boy myself, but I remember 
 thinking it wasn't the sea and drowning she was afraid of. 
 We couldn't find out the smack's name. It had been 
 painted out with a tar-brush, and she was half full of water. 
 The skipper took the woman and child off, and left the 
 
52 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 fishing-smack as we found her yawing about all sail set. 
 They reckoned she would founder in a few minutes. But 
 there was one old man on board, the boatswain, who had 
 seen many years at sea, who said that she wasn't making 
 any water at all, because he had been told to look for the 
 leak and couldn't find it. He said that the water had been 
 pumped into her so as to waterlog her ; and it was his belief 
 that she had not been abandoned many minutes, that the 
 crew were hanging about somewhere near in a boat waiting 
 to see if we sighted her and put men on board." 
 
 Mr. Dormer Colville was attending to the claret, and 
 pressed Captain Clubbe by a gesture of the hand to empty 
 his glass. 
 
 " Something wrong somewhere ? " he suggested, in a 
 conversational way. 
 
 "By daylight we were ramping up channel with three 
 French men-of-war after us," was Captain Clubbe's com- 
 prehensive reply. " As chance had it, the channel squadron 
 hove in sight round the Foreland, and the Frenchmen turned 
 and left us." 
 
 Clubbe marked a pause in his narrative by a glass of 
 claret taken at one draught like beer. 
 
 "Skipper was a Farlingford man, name of Boy," he 
 continued. " Long as he lived he was pestered by inquiries 
 from the French government respecting a Dieppe fishing- 
 smack supposed to have been picked up abandoned at sea. 
 He had picked up no fishing-smack, and he answered no 
 letters about it. He was an old man when it happened, and 
 he died at sea soon after my indentures expired. The woman 
 and child were brought here, where nobody could speak 
 French, and, of course, neither of them could speak any 
 English. The boy was white-faced and frightened at first, 
 but he soon picked up spirit. They were taken in and cared 
 
THE STORY OF THE CASTAWAYS 53 
 
 for by one and another any who could afford it. For 
 Farlingford has always bred seafaring men ready to give 
 and take." 
 
 " So we were told yesterday by the rector. We had a 
 long talk with him in the morning. A clever man, if " 
 
 Dormer Colville did not complete the remark, but broke 
 off with a sigh. He had no doubt seen trouble himself. 
 For it is not always the ragged and unkempt who have been 
 sore buffeted by the world, but also such as have a clean- 
 washed look almost touching sleekness. 
 
 " Yes," said Clubbe, slowly and conclusively. " So you 
 have seen the parson." 
 
 " Of course," Colville remarked, cheerfully, after a pause ; 
 for we cannot always be commiserating the unfortunate. 
 " Of course, all this happened before his time, and Monsieur 
 de Gemosac does not want to learn from hearsay, you under- 
 stand, but at first hand. I fancy he would, for instance, 
 like to know when the woman, the mother died." 
 
 Clubbe was looking straight in front of him. He turned 
 in his disconcerting, monumental way and looked at his 
 questioner, who had imitated with a perfect ingenuousness 
 his own brief pause before the word mother. Colville 
 smiled pleasantly at him. 
 
 " I tell you frankly, Captain," he said, " it would suit 
 me better if she wasn't the mother." 
 
 " I am not here to suit you," murmured Captain Clubbe, 
 without haste or hesitation. 
 
 " No. Well, let us say for the present that she was the 
 mother. We can discuss that another time. When did 
 she die ? " 
 
 " Seven years after landing here." 
 
 Colville made a mental calculation and nodded his head with 
 satisfaction at the end of it. He lighted another cigarette. 
 
54 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 "I am a business man, Captain," he said at length. 
 " Fair dealing and a clean bond. That is what I have been 
 brought up to. Confidence for confidence. Before we go 
 
 any further " He paused and seemed to think before 
 
 committing himself. Perhaps he saw that Captain Clubbe 
 did not intend to go much further without some quid pro 
 quo, " Before we go any further, I think I may take it 
 upon myself to let you into the Marquis's confidence. It is 
 about an inheritance, Captain. A great inheritance and 
 well, that young fellow may well be the man. He may be 
 born to greater things than a seafaring life, Captain." 
 
 " I don't want any marquis to tell me that," answered 
 Clubbe, with his slow judicial smile. " For I've brought 
 him up since the cradle. He's been at sea with me in fair 
 weather and foul and he is not the same as us." 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 ON THE SCENT 
 
 Dormer Colville attached so much importance to the 
 Captain's grave jest that he interpreted it at once to Monsieur 
 de Gemosac. 
 
 " Captain Clubbe," he said, " tells us that he does not 
 need to be informed that this Loo Barebone is the man we 
 seek. He has long known it." 
 
 Which was a near enough rendering, perhaps, to pass 
 muster in the hearing of two persons imperfectly acquainted 
 with the languages so translated. Then, turning again to 
 the sailor, he continued : 
 
 " Monsieur de Gemosac would naturally wish to know 
 whether there were papers or any other means of identifica- 
 tion found on the woman or the child ? " 
 
 " There were a few papers. The woman had a Roman 
 Catholic Missal in her pocket, and the child a small locket 
 with a miniature portrait in it." 
 
 " Of the Queen Marie Antoinette ? " suggested Colville, 
 quickly. 
 
 " It may well have been. It is many years since I saw 
 it. It was faded enough. I remember that it had a fall, 
 and would not open afterward. No one has seen it for 
 twenty-five years or so." 
 
 " The locket or the portrait ? " inquired Colville, with 
 
56 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 a light laugh, with which to disclaim any suggestion of a 
 cross-examination. 
 
 " The portrait." 
 
 " And the locket ? " 
 
 " My wife has it somewhere, I believe." 
 
 Colville gave an impatient laugh. For the peaceful air 
 of Farlingford had failed to temper that spirit of energy and 
 enterprise which he had acquired in cities in Paris, most 
 likely. He had no tolerance for quiet ways and a slow, sure 
 progress, such as countrymen seek, who are so leisurely that 
 the years slide past and death surprises them before they 
 have done anything in the world but attend to its daily 
 demand for a passing effort. 
 
 " Ah ! " he cried, " but all that must be looked into if 
 we are to do anything for this young fellow. You will find 
 the Marquis anxious to be up and doing at once. You go 
 so slowly in Farlingford, Captain. The world is hurrying 
 on and this chance will be gone past before we are ready. 
 Let us get these small proofs of identity collected together 
 as soon as possible. Let us find that locket. But do not force 
 it open. Give it to me as it is. Let us find the papers." 
 
 " There are no papers," interrupted Captain Clubbe, with 
 a calm deliberation quite untouched by his companion's 
 hurry. 
 
 " No papers ? " 
 
 " No ; for Frenchman burnt them before my eyes." 
 
 Dormer Colville meditated for a moment in silence. 
 Although his manner was quick, he was perhaps as deliberate 
 in his choice of a question as was Captain Clubbe in 
 answering it. 
 
 " Why did he do that ? Did he know who he was ? 
 Did he ever say anything to you about his former life his 
 childhood his recollections of France ? " 
 
ON THE SCENT 57 
 
 " He was not a man to say much," answered Clubbe, 
 himself no man to repeat much. 
 
 Colville had been trying for some time to study the 
 sailor's face, quietly through his cigar smoke. 
 
 " Look here, Captain," he said, after a pause. " Let us 
 understand each other. There is a chance, just a chance, 
 that we can prove this Loo Barebone to be the man we 
 think him, but we must all stand together. We must be of 
 one mind and one purpose. We four, Monsieur de Gemosac, 
 you, Barebone, and my humble self. I fancy well, I fancy 
 it may prove to be worth our while." 
 
 " I am willing to do the best I can for Loo," was 
 the reply. 
 
 " And I am willing to do the best I can for Monsieur 
 de Gemosac, whose heart is set on this affair. And," Colville 
 added, with his frank laugh, " let us hope that we may have 
 our reward ; for I am a poor man myself, and do not like 
 the prospect of a careful old age. I suppose, Captain, that 
 if a man were overburdened with wealth he would scarcely 
 follow a seafaring life, eh ? " 
 
 " Then there is money in it ? " inquired Clubbe, 
 guardedly. 
 
 "Money," laughed the other. "Yes there is money 
 for all concerned, and to spare." 
 
 Captain Clubbe had been born and bred among a people 
 possessing little wealth and leading a hard life, only to come 
 to want in old age. It was natural that this consideration 
 should carry weight. He was anxious to do his best for the 
 boy who had been brought up as his own son. He could 
 think of nothing better than to secure him from want for 
 the rest of his days. There were many qualities in Loo 
 Barebone which he did not understand, for they were quite 
 foreign to the qualities held to be virtues in Farlingford ; 
 
58 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 such as perseverance and method, a careful economy, and a 
 rigid common sense. Frenchman had brought these strange 
 ways into Farlingford when he was himself only a boy of 
 ten, and they had survived his own bringing up in some of 
 the austerest houses in the town, so vitally as to enable him 
 to bequeath them almost unchastened to his son. 
 
 As has been noted, Loo had easily lived down the 
 prejudices of his own generation against an un-English 
 gaiety, and inconsequence almost amounting to emotion. 
 And nothing is, or was in the solid days before these 
 trumpet-blowing times, so unwelcome in British circles as 
 emotion. 
 
 Frenchman had no doubt prepared the way for his son ; 
 but the peculiarities of thought and manner which might be 
 allowed to pass in a foreigner would be less easily forgiven 
 in Loo, who had Farlingford blood in his veins. For his 
 mother had been a Clubbe, own cousin, and, as gossips 
 whispered, once the sweetheart of Captain Clubbe himself 
 and daughter of Seth Clubbe of Maiden's Grave, one of the 
 largest farmers on the Marsh. 
 
 "It cannot be for no particular purpose that the boy 
 has been created so different from any about him," Captain 
 Clubbe muttered, reflectively, as he thought of Dormer 
 ColvihYs words. For he had that simple faith in an 
 Almighty Purpose, without which no wise man will be found 
 to do business on blue water. 
 
 "It is strange how a man may be allowed to inherit 
 from a grandfather he has never seen a trick of manner, 
 or a face which are not the manner or face of his father," 
 observed Colville, adapting himself, as was his habit, to the 
 humour of his companion. " There must, as you suggest, 
 be some purpose in it. God writes straight on crooked lines, 
 Captain." 
 
ON THE SCENT 59 
 
 Thus Dormer Colville found two points of sympathy with 
 this skipper of a slow coaster, who had never made a mistake 
 at sea nor done an injustice to any one serving under him : 
 a simple faith in the Almighty Purpose and a very honest 
 respect for money. This was the beginning of a sort of 
 alliance between four persons of very different character 
 which was to influence the whole lives of many. 
 
 They sat on the tarred seat set against the weather- 
 beaten wall of "The Black Sailor" until darkness came 
 stealing in from the sea with the quiet that broods over flat 
 lands, and an unpeopled shore. Colville had many questions 
 to ask and many more which he withheld till a fitter occasion. 
 But he learnt that Frenchman had himself stated his name 
 to be Barebone when he landed, a forlorn and frightened 
 little boy, on this barren shore, and had never departed from 
 that asseveration when he came to learn the English language 
 and marry an English wife. Captain Clubbe told also how 
 Frenchman, for so he continued to be called long after his 
 real name had been written twice in the parish register, had 
 soon after his marriage destroyed the papers carefully pre- 
 served by the woman whom he never called mother, though 
 she herself claimed that title. 
 
 She had supported herself, it appeared, by her needle, 
 and never seemed to want money, which led the villagers 
 to conclude that she had some secret store upon which to 
 draw when in need. She had received letters from France, 
 which were carefully treasured by her until her death, and 
 for long afterward by Frenchman, who finally burnt all at 
 his marriage, saying that he was now an Englishman and 
 wanted to retain no ties with France. At this time, Clubbe 
 remembered, Louis XVIII. was firmly established on the 
 throne of France, the Restoration known as the Second 
 having been brought about by the Allied Powers with a 
 
GO THE LAST HOPE 
 
 high hand after the Hundred Days and the final downfall 
 of Napoleon. 
 
 Frenchman may well have known that it might be worth 
 his while to return to France and seek fortune there ; but 
 he never spoke of this knowledge nor made reference to the 
 recollections of his childhood, which cast a cold reserve over 
 his soul and steeped it with such a deadly hatred of France 
 and all things French, that he desired to sever all memories 
 that might link him with his native country or awake in the 
 hearts of any children he should beget the desire to return 
 thither. 
 
 A year after his marriage his wife died, and thus her 
 son, left to the care of a lonely and misanthropic father, was 
 brought up a Frenchman after all, and lisped his first words 
 in that tongue. 
 
 " He lived long enough to teach him to speak French 
 and think like a Frenchman, and then he died," said Captain 
 Clubbe " a young man reckoning by years, but in mind he 
 was an older man than I am to-day." 
 
 " And his secret died with him ? " suggested Dormer 
 Colville, looking at the end of his cigar with a queer smile. 
 But Captain Clubbe made no answer. 
 
 " One may suppose that he wanted it to die with him, 
 at all events," added Colville, tentatively. 
 
 "You are right," was the reply, a local colloquialism 
 in common use, as a clincher to a closed argument or an 
 unwelcome truth. Captain Clubbe rose as he spoke and 
 intimated his intention of departing, by jerking his head 
 sideways at Monsieur de Gemosac, who, however, held out 
 his hand with a Frenchman's conscientious desire to follow 
 the English custom. 
 
 " I'll be getting home," said Clubbe, simply. As he 
 spoke he peered across the marsh toward the river, and 
 
ON THE SCENT 61 
 
 Colville, following the direction of his gaze, saw the black 
 silhouette of a large lug-sail against the eastern sky, which 
 was softly grey with the foreglow of the rising moon, 
 
 " What is that ? " asked Colville. 
 
 " That's Loo Barebone going up with the sea-breeze. He 
 has been down to the rectory. He mostly goes there in the 
 evening. There is a creek, you know, runs down from 
 Maiden's Grave to the river." 
 
 " Ah ! " answered Colville, thoughtfully, almost as if 
 the creek and the large lug-sail against the sky explained 
 something which he had not hitherto understood. 
 
 " I thought he might have come with you this evening," 
 he added, after a pause. "For I suppose everybody in 
 Farlingford knows why we are here. He does not seem 
 very anxious to seek his fortune in France." 
 
 "No," answered Clubbe, lifting his stony face to the 
 sky and studying the little clouds that hovered overhead 
 awaiting the moon. " No you are right." 
 
 Then he turned with a jerk of the head and left them. 
 The Marquis de Gemosac watched him depart, and made a 
 gesture toward the darkness of the night, into which he 
 had vanished, indicative of a great despair. 
 
 "But," he exclaimed, "they are of a placidity these 
 English. There is nothing to be done with them, my friend, 
 nothing to be done with such men as that. Now I under- 
 stand how it is that they form a great nation. It is merely 
 because they stand and let you thump them until you are 
 tired, and then they proceed to do what they intended to do 
 from the first." 
 
 " That is because we know that he who jumps about 
 most actively will be the first to feel fatigue, Marquis," 
 laughed Colville, pleasantly. " But you must not judge all 
 England from these eastern people. It is here that you 
 
62 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 will find the concentrated essence of British tenacity and 
 stolidity the leaven that leavens the whole." 
 
 " Then it is our misfortune to have to deal with these 
 concentrated English that is all." 
 
 The Marquis shrugged his shoulders with that light 
 despair which is incomprehensible to any but men of 
 Latin race. 
 
 " No, Marquis ! there you are wrong," corrected Dormer 
 Colville, with a sudden gravity, "for we have in Captain 
 Clubbe the very man we want one of the hardest to find 
 in this chattering world a man who will not say too much. 
 If we can only make him say what we want him to say he 
 will not ruin all by saying more. It is so much easier to 
 say a word too much than a word too little. And remember 
 he speaks French as well as English, though, being British, 
 he pretends that he cannot." 
 
 Monsieur de Gemosac turned to peer at his companion 
 in the darkness. 
 
 " You speak hopefully, my friend," he said. " There is 
 something in your voice " 
 
 * Is there ? " laughed Colville, who seemed elated. 
 " There may well be. For that man has been saying things 
 in that placid monotone which would have taken your breath 
 away had you been able to understand them. A hundred 
 times I rejoiced that you understood no English, for your 
 impatience, Marquis, might have silenced him as some rare* 
 voiced bird is silenced by a sudden movement. Yes, Marquis, 
 there is a locket containing a portrait of Marie Antoinette. 
 There are other things also. But there is one draw- 
 back. The man himself is not anxious to come forward. 
 There are reasons, it appears, here in Farlingford, why 
 he should not seek his fortune elsewhere. To-morrow 
 morning " 
 
ON THE SCENT 63 
 
 Dormer Colville rose and yawned audibly. It almost 
 appeared that he regretted having permitted himself a 
 moment's enthusiasm on a subject which scarcely affected 
 his interests. 
 
 44 To-morrow morning I will see to it." 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE LITTLE BOY WHO WAS A KING 
 
 The Reverend Septimus Marvin had lost his wife five 
 years earlier. It was commonly said that he had never 
 been the same man since. Which was untrue. Much that 
 is commonly said will, on investigation, be found to be far 
 from the truth. Septimus Marvin had, so to speak, been 
 the same man since infancy. He had always looked vaguely 
 at the world through spectacles ; had always been at a loss 
 among his contemporaries a generation already tainted 
 by that shallow spirit of haste which is known to-day as 
 modernity at a loss for a word ; at a loss for a companion 
 soul. 
 
 He was a scholar and a learned historian. His com- 
 panions were books, and he communed in spirit with writers 
 who were dead and gone. 
 
 Had he ever been a different man his circumstances 
 would assuredly have been other. His wife, for instance, 
 would in all human probability have been alive. His 
 avocation might have been more suited to his capabilities. 
 He was not intended for a country parish, and that practical, 
 human comprehension of the ultimate value of little daily 
 details, without which a pastor never yet understood his 
 flock, was not vouchsafed to him. 
 
 " Passen takes no account o' churchyard," River Andrew 
 
THE LITTLE BOY WHO WAS A KING 65 
 
 had said, and neither he nor any other in Farlingford could 
 account for the special neglect to which was abandoned that 
 particular corner of the burial ground where the late Mrs.' 
 Marvin reposed beneath an early Victorian headstone of 
 singular hideousness. 
 
 Mr. Marvin always went round the other way. 
 
 " Seems as he has forgotten her wonderful quick," com- 
 mented the women of Farlingford. But perhaps they were 
 wrong. If he had forgotten, he might be expected to go 
 round by the south side of the church by accident occasionally, 
 especially as it was the shorter way from the rectory to the 
 porch. He was an absent-minded man, but he always 
 remembered, as River Andrew himself admitted, to go north 
 about. And his wife's grave was overgrown by salted grass 
 as were the rest. 
 
 Farlingford had accepted him, when his College, having 
 no use for such a dreamer elsewhere, gave him the living, 
 not only with resignation, but with equanimity. This 
 remote parish, cut off from the busier mainland by wide 
 heaths and marshes, sparsely provided with ill-kept roads, 
 had never looked for a bustling activity in its rectors. Their 
 forefathers had been content with a gentleman, given to 
 sport and the pursuits of a country squire, marked on the 
 seventh day by a hearty and robust godliness. They would 
 have preferred Parson Marvin to have handled a boat and 
 carried a gun. But he had his good qualities. He left 
 them alone. And they are the most independent people in 
 the world. 
 
 When his wife died, his sister, the widow of an Indian 
 officer, bustled eastward, from a fashionable Welsh watering- 
 place, just to satisfy herself, as she explained to her West- 
 country friends, that he would not marry his cook before 
 six months elapsed. After that period she proposed to wash 
 
66 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 her hands of him. She was accompanied by her only child, 
 Miriam, who had just left school. 
 
 Six months later Septimus Marvin was called upon to 
 give away his sister to a youthful brother officer of her late 
 husband, which ceremony he performed with a sigh of relief 
 audible in the farthest recess of the organ loft. While the 
 wedding-bells were still ringing, the bride, who was not 
 dreamy or vague like her brother, gave Septimus to under- 
 stand that he had promised to provide Miriam with a home 
 that he really needed a woman to keep things going at the 
 rectory and to watch over the tender years of little Sep and 
 that Miriam's boxes were packed. 
 
 Septimus had no recollection of the promise. And his 
 sister was quite hurt that he should say such a thing as that 
 on her wedding day and spoil everything. He had no 
 business to make the suggestion if he had not intended to 
 carry it out. So the bride and bridegroom went away in 
 a shower of good wishes and rice to the life of organized 
 idleness, for which the gentleman's education and talents 
 eminently befitted him, and Miriam returned to Farlingford 
 with Septimus. 
 
 In those days the railway passed no nearer to Farling- 
 ford than Ipswich, and before the arrival of their train at 
 that station Miriam had thoroughly elucidated the situation. 
 She had discovered that she was not expected at the rectory, 
 and that Septimus had never offered of his own free will the 
 home which he now kindly pressed upon her two truths 
 which the learned historian fondly imagined to be for ever 
 locked up in his own heart, which was a kind one and the 
 heart of a gentleman. 
 
 Miriam also learned that Septimus was very poor. She 
 did not need to be informed that he was helpless. Her 
 instinct had told her that long ago. She was only nineteen, 
 
THE LITTLE BOY WHO WAS A KING 67 
 
 but she looked at men and women with those discerning 
 grey eyes, in which there seemed to lurk a quiet light like 
 the light of stars, and saw right through them. She was 
 woman enough despite the apparent inconsequence of the 
 schoolroom, which still lent a vagueness to her thoughts 
 and movements to fall an easy victim to the appeal of 
 helplessness. Years, it would appear, are of no account in 
 certain feminine instincts. Miriam had probably been 
 woman enough at ten years of age to fly to the rescue of 
 the helpless. 
 
 She did not live permanently at the rectory, but visited 
 her mother from time to time, either in England, or at one 
 of the foreign resorts of idle people. But the visits, as years 
 went by, became shorter and rarer. At twenty-one Miriam 
 came into a small fortune of her own, left by her father in 
 the hands of executors, one of whom was that John Turner, 
 the Paris banker, who had given Dormer Colville a letter of 
 introduction to Septimus Marvin. The money was sorely 
 needed at the rectory, and Miriam drew freely enough on 
 John Turner. 
 
 " You are an extravagant girl," said that astute financier 
 to her, when they met at the house of Mrs. St. Pierre Law- 
 rence, at Royan, in France. " I wonder what you spend it 
 on ! But I don't trouble my head about it. You need not 
 explain, you understand. But you can come to me when 
 you want advice or help. You will find me in the back- 
 ground. I am a fat old man, in the background. Useful 
 enough in my way, perhaps, even to a pretty girl with a 
 sound judgment." 
 
 There were many, who, like Loo Barebone, reflected that 
 there were other worlds open to Miriam Liston. At first 
 she went into those other worlds, under the flighty wing of 
 her mother, and looked about her there. Captain and Mrs. 
 
68 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 Duncan belonged to the Anglo-French society, which had 
 sprung into existence since the downfall of Napoleon I., and 
 was in some degree the outcome of the part played by Great 
 Britain in the comedy of the Bourbon and Orleanist collapse. 
 Captain Duncan had retired from the army, changing his 
 career from one of a chartered to an unchartered uselessness, 
 and he herded with tarnished aristocracy and half -pay failures 
 in the smoking-rooms of Continental clubs. 
 
 Miriam returned, after a short experience of this world, 
 to Farlingford, as to the better part. At first she accepted 
 invitations to some of the country houses open to her by her 
 connection with certain great families. But after a time she 
 seemed to fall under the spell of that quiet life which is still 
 understood and lived in a few remote places. 
 
 " What can you find to do all day and to think about all 
 night at that bleak corner of England ? " inquired her 
 friends, themselves restless by day and sleepless by night by 
 reason of the heat of their pursuit of that which is called 
 pleasure. 
 
 " If he wants to marry his cook let him do it and be 
 done with us," wrote her mother from the south of France. 
 " Come and join us at Biarritz. The Prince President will 
 be here this winter. We shall be very gay. . . . P.S. We 
 shall not ask you to stay with us as we- are hard up this 
 quarter ; but to share expenses. Mind come." 
 
 But Miriam remained at Farlingford, and there is nothing 
 to be gained by seeking to define her motive. There are two 
 arguments against seeking a woman's motive. Firstly, she 
 probably has none. Secondly, should she have one she will 
 certainly have a counterfeit, which she will dangle before 
 your eyes, and you will seize it. 
 
 Dormer Colville might almost be considered to belong to 
 the world of which Captain and Mrs. Duncan were such 
 
THE LITTLE BOY WHO WAS A KING 69 
 
 brilliant ornaments. But he did not so consider himself. 
 For their world was essentially British, savoured here and 
 there by a French count or so, at whose person and title the 
 French aristocracy of undoubted genuineness looked askance. 
 Dormer Colville counted his friends among these latter. 
 In fact, he moved in those royalist circles who thought that 
 there was little to choose between the Napoleonic and the 
 Orleanist regime. He carefully avoided intimacy with 
 Englishmen whose residence in foreign parts was continuous 
 and in constant need of explanation. Indeed, if a man's 
 life needs explanation, he must sooner or later find himself 
 face to face with some one who will not listen to him. 
 
 Colville, however, knew all about Captain Duncan, and 
 knew what was ignored by many, namely, that he was 
 nothing worse than foolish. He knew all about Miriam, for 
 he was in the confidence of Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. He 
 knew that that lady wondered why Miriam preferred Farling- 
 ford to the high-bred society of her own circle at Royan 
 and in Paris. 
 
 He thought he knew why Loo Barebone showed so little 
 enterprise. And he was, as Madame de Chantonnay had 
 frequently told him, more than half a Frenchman in the 
 quickness of his intuitions. He picked a flower for his 
 buttonhole from the garden of the " Black Sailor," and set 
 forth the morning after his interview with Captain Clubbe 
 toward the rectory. It was a cool July morning, with the 
 sun half obscured by a fog-bank driven in from the sea. 
 Through the dazzling white of that which is known on these 
 coasts as the water- smoke the sky shone a cloudless blue. 
 The air was light and thin. It is the lightest and thinnest 
 air in England. Dormer Colville hummed a song under his 
 breath as he walked on the top of the dyke. He was a light- 
 hearted man, full of hope and optimism. 
 
70 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " Am I disturbing your studies ? " he asked, with his 
 easy laugh, as he came rather suddenly on Miriam and little 
 Sep in the turf -shelter at the corner of the rectory garden. 
 " You must say so if I am. 1 * 
 
 They had, indeed, their books, and the boy's face wore 
 that abstracted look which comes from a very earnest desire 
 not to see the many interesting things on earth and sea, 
 which always force themselves upon the attention of the 
 young at the wrong time. Colville had already secured Sep's 
 friendship by the display of a frank ignorance of natural 
 history only equalled by his desire to be taught. 
 
 " We're doing history," replied Sep, frankly, jumping up 
 and shaking hands. 
 
 " Ah, yes. William the Conqueror, ten hundred and 
 sixty-six, and all the rest of it. I know. At least I knew 
 once, but I have forgotten." 
 
 " No. We're doing French history. Miriam likes that 
 best, but I hate it." 
 
 " French history," said Colville, thoughtfully. " Yes. 
 That is interesting. Miss Liston likes that best, does she ? 
 Or, perhaps, she thinks that it is best for you to know it. 
 Do you know all about Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette ? " 
 
 " Pretty well," admitted Sep, doubtfully. 
 
 " When I was a little chap like you, I knew many people 
 who had seen Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette. That was 
 long, long ago," he added, turning to Miriam to make the 
 admission. " But those are not the things that one forgets, 
 are they, Miss Liston ? " 
 
 " Then I wish Sep could know somebody who would 
 make him remember," answered Miriam, half closing the 
 book in her hand ; for she was very quick and had seen 
 Colville's affable glance take it in in passing, as it took in 
 everything within sight. 
 
THE LITTLE BOY WHO WAS A KINO 71 
 
 " A King, for instance," he said, slowly. " A King of 
 "France. Others prophets and righteous men have desired 
 to see that, Miss Liston." 
 
 It seemed, however, that he had seen enough to know 
 the period which they were studying. 
 
 " I suppose," he said, after a pause, "that in this studious 
 house you talk and think history, and more especially French 
 history. It must be very quiet and peaceful. Much more 
 restful than acting in it as my friend de G-emosac has done 
 all his life, as I myself have done in a small way. For 
 France takes her history so much more violently than you 
 do in England. France is tossed about by it, while England 
 stands and is hammered on the anvil of Time, as it were, 
 and remains just the same shape as before." 
 
 He broke off and turned to Sep. 
 
 "Do you know the story of the little boy who was a 
 King ? " he asked, abruptly. " They put him in prison and 
 he escaped. He was carried out in a clothes-basket. Funny, 
 is it not ? And he escaped from his enemies and reached 
 another country, where he became a sailor. He grew to be 
 a man and he married a woman of that country, and she 
 died, leaving him with a little boy. And then he died 
 himself and left the little boy, who was taken care of by his 
 English relations, who never knew that he was a King. 
 But he was ; for his father was a King before him, and his 
 grandfathers far, far back. Back to the beginning of the 
 book that Miss Liston holds in her hand. The little boy 
 he was an orphan, you see became a sailor. He never 
 knew that he was a King the Hope of his country, of all 
 the old men and the wise men in it the holder of the fate 
 of nations. Think of that." 
 
 The story pleased Sep, who sat with open lips and eager 
 eyes, listening to it. 
 
72 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " Do you think it is an interesting story ? What do you 
 think is the end of it ? " 
 
 " I don't know," answered Sep, gravely. 
 
 " Neither do I. No one knows the end of that story 
 yet. But if you were a King if you were that boy what 
 would you do ? Would you go and be a King, or would 
 you be afraid ? " 
 
 "No. I should go and be a King. And fight 
 battles." 
 
 " But you would have to leave everybody. You would 
 have to leave your father." 
 
 " I should not mind that," answered Sep, brutally. 
 
 " You would leave Miss Liston ? " 
 
 " I should have to," was the reply, with conviction. 
 
 " Ah, yes," said Colville, with a grave nod of the head. 
 " Yes. I suppose you would have to if you were anything 
 of a man at all. There would be no alternative for a 
 real man." 
 
 " Besides," put in Sep, jumping from side to side on his 
 seat with eagerness, " she would make me wouldn't you, 
 Miriam ? " 
 
 Colville had turned away and was looking northward 
 toward the creek, known as Maiden's Grave, running through 
 the marshes to the river. A large lug-sail broke the flat 
 line of the horizon, though the boat to which it belonged 
 was hidden by the raised dyke. 
 
 u Would she ? " inquired Colville, absent-mindedly, with- 
 out taking his eyes from the sail which was. creeping slowly 
 toward them. "Well you know Miss Listen's character 
 better than I do, Sep. And no doubt you are right. 
 And you are not that little boy, so it doesn't matter ; 
 does it ? " 
 
 After a pause he turned and glanced sideways at Miriam, 
 
THE LITTLE BOY WHO WAS A KING 73 
 
 who was looking straight in front of her with steady eyes 
 and white cheeks. 
 
 They could hear Loo Barebone singing gaily in the boat, 
 which was hidden below the level of the dyke. And they 
 watched, in a sudden silence, the sail pass down the river 
 toward the quay. 
 
CHAPTEE IX 
 
 A MISTAKE 
 
 The tide was ebbing still when Barebone loosed his boat, 
 one night, from the grimy steps leading from the garden of 
 Maiden's Grave farm down to the creek. It was at the 
 farm-house that Captain Clubbe now lived when on shore. 
 He had lived there since the death of his brother, two years 
 earlier that grim Clubbe of Maiden's Grave, whose methods 
 of life and agriculture are still quoted on market days from 
 Colchester to Beccles. 
 
 The evenings were shorter now, for July was drawing to 
 a close, and the summer is brief on these coasts. The moon 
 was not up yet, but would soon rise. Barebone hoisted the 
 great lug-sail, that smelt of seaweed and tannin. There was 
 a sleepy breeze blowing in from the cooler sea, to take the 
 place of that hot and shimmering air which had been rising 
 all day from the corn-fields. He was quicker in his move- 
 ments than those who usually handled these stiff ropes and 
 held the clumsy tiller. Quick and quiet for once. He 
 had been three nights to the rectory, only to find the rector 
 there, vaguely kind, looking at him with a watery eye, 
 through the spectacles which were rarely straight upon his 
 nose, with an unasked question on his hesitating lips. 
 
 For Septimus Marvin knew that Colville, in the name of 
 the Marquis de Gemosac, had asked Loo Barebone to go to 
 
A MISTAKE 75 
 
 France and institute proceedings there to recover a great 
 heritage, which it seemed must be his. And Barebone had 
 laughed and put off his reply from day to day for three days. 
 
 Few knew of it in Farlingford, though many must have 
 suspected the true explanation of the prolonged stay of the 
 two strangers at the " Black Sailor." Captain Clubbe and 
 Septimus Marvin, Dormer Colville and Monsieur de Gemosac 
 shared this knowledge, and awaited, impatiently enough, an 
 answer which could assuredly be only in the affirmative. 
 Clubbe was busy enough throughout the day at the old 
 slip-way, where "The Last Hope" was under repair the 
 last ship, it appeared likely, that the rotten timbers could 
 support or the old, old shipwrights mend. 
 
 Loo Barebone was no less regular in his attendance at 
 the river-side, and worked all day, on deck or in the rigging, 
 at leisurely sail-making or neat seizing of a worn rope. He 
 was gay, and therefore incomprehensible to a slow-thinking, 
 grave-faced race. 
 
 " What do I want with a heritage ? " he asked, care- 
 lessly. "I am mate of ' The Last Hope * and that is all. 
 Give me time. I have not made up my mind yet, but I 
 think it will be No." 
 
 And oddly enough, it was Colville who preached patience 
 to his companions in suspense. 
 
 "Give him time," he said. "There can only be one 
 answer to such a proposal. But he is young. It is not 
 when we are young that we see the world as it really is, but 
 live in a land of dreams. Give him time." 
 
 The Marquis de Gemosac was impatient, however, and 
 was for telling Barebone more than had been disclosed 
 to him, 
 
 " There is no knowing," he cried, " what that canaille is 
 doing in France." 
 
76 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " There is no knowing," admitted Colville, with, his air 
 of suppressing a half -developed yawn, " but I think we know, 
 all the same you and I, Marquis. And there is no hurry." 
 
 After three days Loo Barebone had still given no answer. 
 As he hoisted the sail and felt for the tiller in the dark, he 
 was, perhaps, meditating on this momentous reply, or perhaps 
 he had made up his mind long before, and would hold to 
 the decision even to his own undoing, as men do who are 
 impulsive and not strong. The water lapped and gurgled 
 round the bows, for the wind was almost ahead, and it was 
 only by nursing the heavy boat that he saved the necessity 
 of making a tack across the narrow creek. In the morning 
 he had, as usual, run down into the river and to the slip-way, 
 little suspecting that Miriam and Sep were just above him 
 behind the dyke, where they had sat three days before listen- 
 ing to Dormer Colville's story of the little boy who was a 
 King. To-night he ran the boat into the coarse and wiry 
 grass where Septimus Marvin's own dinghy lay, half hidden 
 by the reeds, and he stumbled ashore clutching at the dewy 
 grass as he climbed the side of the dyke. 
 
 He went toward the turf-shelter half despondently, and 
 then stopped short a few yards away from it. For Miriam 
 was there. He thought she was alone, and paused to make 
 sure before he spoke. She was sitting at the far corner, 
 sheltered from the north wind. For Farlingford is like a 
 ship always conscious of the lee- and the weather-side, and 
 all who live there are half sailors in their habits subservient 
 to the wind. 
 
 "At last," said Loo, with a little vexed laugh. He 
 could see her face turned toward him, but her eyes were 
 only dark shadows beneath her hair. Her face looked white 
 in the darkness. Her answering laugh had a soothing 
 note in it. 
 
A MISTAKE 77 
 
 " Why at last ? " she asked. Her voice was frank and 
 quietly assured in its friendliness. They were old comrades, 
 it seemed, and had never been anything else. The best 
 friendship is that which has never known a quarrel, although; 
 poets and others may sing the tenderness of a reconciliation. 
 The friendship that has a quarrel and a reconciliation in it 
 is like a man with a weak place left in his constitution by a 
 past sickness. He may die of something else in the end, 
 but the probability is that he must reckon at last with that 
 healed sore. The friendship may perish from some other 
 cause a marriage, or success in life, one of the two great 
 severers but that salved quarrel is more than likely to 
 recur and kill at last. 
 
 These two had never fallen out. And it was the woman 
 who, contrary to custom, fended the quarrel now. 
 
 " Oh ! because I have been here three nights in succes- 
 sion, I suppose, and did not find you here. I was dis- 
 appointed." 
 
 " But you found Uncle Septimus in his study. I could 
 hear you talking there until quite late." 
 
 " Of course I was very glad to see him and talk with 
 him. For it is to him that I owe a certain half -developed 
 impatience with the uneducated with whom I deal all my 
 life, except for a few hours now and then in the study and 
 here in the turf-shelter with you. I can see even in the 
 dark that you look grave. Do not do that. It is not 
 worth that." 
 
 He broke off with his easy laugh, as if to banish any 
 suggestion of gravity coming from himself. 
 
 " It is not worth looking grave about. And I am sorry 
 if I was rude a minute ago. I had no right, of course, to 
 assume that you would be here. I suppose it was impertinent 
 was that it ? " 
 
78 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " I will not quarrel," she answered, soothingly " if that 
 is what you want." 
 
 Her voice was oddly placid. It almost seemed to suggest 
 that she had come to-night for a certain purpose ; that one 
 subject of conversation alone would interest her, and that to 
 all others she must turn a deaf ear. 
 
 He came a little nearer, and, leaning against the turf 
 wall, looked down at her. He was suddenly grave now. 
 The roles were again reversed ; for it was the woman who 
 was tenacious to one purpose and the man who seemed 
 inconsequent, flitting from grave to gay, from one thought 
 to another. His apology had been made graciously enough, 
 but with a queer pride, quite devoid of the sullenness which 
 marks the pride of the humbly situated. 
 
 " No ; I do not want that," he answered. " I want a 
 little sympathy, that is all ; because I have been educated 
 above my station. And I looked for it from those who are 
 responsible for that which is nearly always a catastrophe. 
 And it is your uncle who educated me. He is responsible 
 in the first instance, and, of course, I am grateful to him." 
 
 " He could never have educated you," put in Miriam, 
 " if you had not been ready for the education." 
 
 Barebone put aside the point. He must, at all events, 
 have learnt humility from Septimus Marvin a quality not 
 natural to his temperament. 
 
 " And you are responsible, as well," he went on, " because 
 you have taught me a use for the education." 
 
 " Indeed ! " she said, gently and interrogatively, as if at 
 last he had reached the point to which she wished to bring 
 him. 
 
 " Yes ; the best use to which I could ever put it. To 
 talk to you on an equality." 
 
 He looked hard at her through the darkness, which was 
 
A MISTAKE 79 
 
 less intense now ; for the moon was not far below the 
 horizon. Her face looked white, and he thought that she 
 was breathing quickly. But they had always been friends ; 
 he remembered that just in time. 
 
 " It is only natural that I should look forward, when we 
 are at sea, to coming back here " He paused and kicked 
 the turf -wall with his heel, as if to remind her that she had 
 sat in the same corner before and he had leant against the 
 same wall, talking to her. "They are good fellows, of 
 course, with a hundred fine qualities which I lack, but they 
 do not understand half that one may say, or think even 
 the Captain. He is well educated, in his way, but it is only 
 the way of a coasting-captain who has risen by his merits 
 to the command of a foreign-going ship." 
 
 Miriam gave an impatient little sigh. He had veered 
 again from the point. 
 
 " You think that I forget that he is my relative," said 
 Loo, sharply, detecting in his quickness of thought a passing 
 resentment. "I do not. I never forget that. I am the 
 son of his cousin. I know that, and thus related to many 
 in Farlingford. But I have never called him cousin, and he 
 has never asked me to." 
 
 "No," said Miriam, with averted eyes, in that other 
 voice, which made him turn and look at her, catching his 
 breath. 
 
 " Oh ! " he said, with a sudden laugh of comprehension. 
 "You have heard what, I suppose, is common talk in 
 Farlingford. You know what has brought these people 
 here this Monsieur de Gemosac, and the other what is his 
 name ? Dormer Colville. You have heard of my magnifi- 
 cent possibilities. And I I had forgotten all about them." 
 
 He threw out his arms in a gesture of gay contempt ; 
 for even in the dark he could not refrain from adding to the 
 
80 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 meaning of mere words a hundred-fold by the help of his 
 lean hands and mobile face. 
 
 "I have heard of it, of course," she admitted, "from 
 several people. But I have heard most from Captain 
 Clubbe. He takes it more seriously than you do. You do 
 not know, because he is one of those men who are most 
 silent with those to whom they are most attached. He 
 thinks that it is providential that my uncle should have had 
 the desire to educate you, and that you should have displayed 
 such capacity to learn." 
 
 " Capacity ? " he protested " say genius ! Do not let 
 us do things by halves. Genius to learn yes ; go on." 
 
 * ' Ah ! you may laugh," Miriam said, lightly, " but it is 
 serious enough. You will find circumstances too strong 
 for you. You will have to go to France to claim your 
 heritage." 
 
 "Not I, if it means leaving Farlingford for ever and 
 going to live among strange people, like the Marquis de 
 Gemosac, for instance, who gives me the impression of a 
 thousand petty ceremonies and a million futile memories." 
 
 He turned and lifted his face to the breeze which blew 
 from the sea over flat stretches of sand and seaweed the 
 crispest, most invigorating air in the world except that 
 which blows on the Baltic shores. 
 
 "I prefer Farlingford. I am half a Clubbe and the 
 other half ! Heaven knows what that is ! The offshoot of 
 some forgotten seedling blown away from France by a great 
 storm. If my father knew, he never said anything. And 
 if he knew, and said nothing, one may be sure that it was 
 because he was ashamed of what he knew. You never saw 
 him, or you would have known his dread of France, or 
 anything that was French. He was a man living in a 
 dream. His body was here in Farlingford, but his mind 
 
A MISTAKE 81 
 
 was elsewhere who knows where ? And at times I feel 
 that, too that unreality as if I were here, and somewhere 
 else at the same time. But all the same, I prefer Farling- 
 ford, even if it is a dream." 
 
 The moon had risen at last ; a waning half -moon, lying 
 low and yellow in the sky, just above the horizon, casting a 
 feeble light on earth. Loo turned and looked at Miriam, 
 who had always met his glance with her thoughtful, steady 
 eyes. But now she turned away. 
 
 " Farlingford is best, at all events," he said, with an odd 
 conviction. "I am only the grandson of old Seth Clubbe, 
 of Maiden's Grave. I am a Farlingford sailor, and that is 
 all. I am mate of * The Last Hope' at your service." 
 
 " You are more than that." 
 
 He made a step nearer to her, looking down at her white 
 face, averted from him. For her voice had been uncertain 
 unsteady as if she were speaking against her will. 
 
 " Even if I am only that," he said, suddenly grave, 
 " Farlingford may still be a dream Farlingford and you." 
 
 "What do you mean ? " she asked, in a quick, mechanical 
 voice, as if she had reached a desired crisis at last and was 
 prepared to act. 
 
 "Oh, I only mean what I have meant always," he 
 answered. "But I have been afraid afraid. One hears, 
 sometimes, of a woman who is generous enough to love a 
 man who is a nobody to think only of love. Sometimes 
 last voyage, when you used to sit where you are sitting 
 now I have thought that it might have been my extra- 
 ordinary good fortune to meet such a woman." 
 
 He waited for some word or sign, but she sat motionless. 
 
 "You understand," he went on, "how contemptible 
 must seem their talk of a heritage in France, when such a 
 thought is in one's mind, even if " 
 
 G 
 
82 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " Yes," she interrupted, hastily. " You were quite wrong. 
 You were mistaken." 
 
 " Mistaking in thinking you " 
 
 "Yes," she interrupted again. "You are quite mis- 
 taken, and I am very sorry, of course, that it should have 
 happened." 
 
 She was singularly collected, and spoke in a matter-of- 
 fact voice. Barebone's eyes gleamed suddenly ; for she 
 had aroused perhaps purposely a pride which must have 
 accumulated in his blood through countless generations. She 
 struck with no uncertain hand. 
 
 " Yes," he said, slowly ; " it is to be regretted. Is it 
 because I am the son of a nameless father and only the mate 
 of ' The Last Hope'?" 
 
 "If you were before the mast " she answered "if 
 you were a King, it would make no difference. It is simply 
 because I do not care for you in that way." 
 
 " You do not care for me in that way," he echoed, with 
 a laugh, which made her move as if she were shrinking. 
 " Well, there is nothing more to be said to that." 
 
 He looked at her slowly, and then took off his cap as if 
 to bid her good-bye. But he forgot to replace it, and he 
 went away with the cap in his hand. She heard the clink 
 of a chain as he loosed his boat. 
 
CHAPTEE X 
 
 IN THE ITALIAN HOUSE 
 
 The Abbe Touvent was not a courageous man, and the 
 perspiration, induced by the climb from the high-road up 
 that which had once been the ramp to the Chateau 
 of Gemosac, ran cold when he had turned the key in the 
 rusty lock of the great gate. It was not a dark night, for 
 the moon sailed serenely behind fleecy clouds, but the 
 shadows cast by her silvery light might harbour any terror. 
 
 It is easy enough to be philosophic at home in a chair 
 beside the lamp. Under those circumstances, the Abbe had 
 reflected that no one would rob him, because he possessed 
 nothing worth stealing. But now, out here in the dark, he 
 recalled a hundred instances of wanton murder duly recorded 
 in the newspaper which he shared with three parishioners in 
 Gemosac. 
 
 He paused to wipe his brow with a blue cotton hand- 
 kerchief before pushing open the gate, and, being alone, was 
 not too proud to peep through the keyhole before laying his 
 shoulder against the solid and weather-beaten oak. He 
 glanced nervously at the loopholes in the flanking towers 
 and upward at the machicolated battlement overhanging 
 him, as if any crumbling peep-hole might harbour gleaming 
 eyes. He hurried through the passage beneath the vaulted 
 roof without daring to glance to either side, where doorways 
 
84 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 and steps to the towers were rendered more fearsome by 
 heavy curtains of ivy. 
 
 The enceinte of the castle of Gemosac is three-sided, 
 with four towers jutting out at the corners, from which to 
 throw a flanking fire upon any who should raise a ladder 
 against the great curtains, built of that smooth, white stone 
 which is quarried at Brantome and on the banks of the 
 Dordogne. The fourth side of the enceinte stands on a 
 solid rock, above the little river that loses itself in the flat- 
 lands bordering the Gironde, so that it can scarce be called 
 a tributary of that wide water. A moss-grown path round 
 the walls will give a quick walker ten minutes' exercise to 
 make the round from one tower of the gateway to the other. 
 
 Within the enciente are the remains of the old castle, 
 still solid and upright ; erected, it is recorded, by the English 
 during their long occupation of this country. A more 
 modem cMteau, built after the final expulsion of the invader, 
 adjoins the anceint structure, and in the centre of the vast 
 enclosure, raised above the walls, stands a square house, in 
 the Italian style, built in the time of Marie de Medici, and 
 never yet completed. There are, also, gardens and shaded 
 walks and vast stables, a chapel, two crypts, and many 
 crumbling remains inside the walls, that offered a passive 
 resistance to the foe in olden time, and as successfully hold 
 their own to-day against the prying eye of a democratic 
 curiosity. 
 
 Above the stables, quite close to the gate, half a dozen 
 rooms were in the occupation of the Marquis de Gemosac ; 
 but it was not to these that the Abbe Touvent directed his 
 tremulous steps. 
 
 Instead, he went toward the square, isolated house, stand- 
 ing in the middle of that which had once been the great 
 court, and was now half garden, half hayfield. The hay 
 
IN THE ITALIAN HOUSE 85 
 
 had been cut, and the scent of the new stack, standing 
 against the walls of the oldest chateau and under its leaking 
 roof, came warm and aromatic to mix with the breath of 
 the evening primrose and rosemary clustering in disorder 
 on the ill-defined borders. The grim walls, that had de- 
 fended the Gemosacs against franker enemies in other days, 
 served now to hide from the eyes of the villagers the fact 
 which must, however, have been known to them that the 
 Marquis de Gemosac, in gloves, kept this garden himself, 
 and had made the hay with no other help than that of his 
 old coachman and Marie, that capable, brown-faced lonne-a- 
 tout-faire, who is assuredly the best man in France to-day. 
 
 In this clear, southern atmosphere the moon has twice 
 the strength of that to which we are accustomed in mistier 
 lands, and the Abbe looked about him with more confidence 
 as he crossed the great court. There were frogs in a rain- 
 water tank constructed many years ago, when some enter- 
 prising foe had been known to cut off the water-supply of 
 a besieged chateau, and their friendly croak brought a sense 
 of company and comfort to the Abbe's timid soul. 
 
 The door of the Italian house stood open, for the interior 
 had never been completed, and only one apartment, a lofty 
 banqueting-hall, had ever been furnished. Within the door- 
 way, the Abbe fumbled in the pocket of Ins soutane and 
 rattled a box of matches. He carried a parcel in his hand, 
 which he now unfolded, and laid out on the lid of a mouldy 
 chest half a dozen candles. When he struck a match a 
 flight of bats whirred out of the doorway, and the Abbe's 
 breath whistled through his teeth. 
 
 He lighted two candles, and carrying them, alight, in 
 one hand not without dexterity, for candles played an 
 important part in his life he went forward. The flicker- 
 ing light showed his face to be a fat one, kind enough, 
 
86 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 gleaming now with perspiration and fear, but shiny at other 
 times with that Christian tolerance which makes men kind 
 to their own failings. It was very dark within the honse, 
 for all the shutters were closed. 
 
 The Abbe lighted a third candle and fixed it, with a drop 
 of its own wax, on the high mantel of the great banqueting- 
 hall. There were four or five candlesticks on side-tables, 
 and a candelabra stood in the centre of a long table, running 
 the length of the room. In a few minutes the Abbe had 
 illuminated the apartment, which smelt of dust and the days 
 of a dead monarchy. Above his head, the bats were de- 
 scribing complicated figures against a ceiling which had once 
 been painted in the Italian style, to represent a trellis roof, 
 with roses and vines entwined. Half a dozen portraits of 
 men, in armour and wigs, looked down from the walls. One 
 or two of them were rotting from their frames, and dangled 
 a despondent corner out into the room. 
 
 There were chairs round the table, set as if for a phantom 
 banquet amid these mouldering environments, and their high 
 carved backs threw fantastic shadows on the wall. 
 
 While the Abbe" was still employed with the candles, he 
 heard a heavy step and loud breathing in the hall without, 
 where he had carefully left a light. 
 
 " Why did you not wait for me on the hill, malhonnete ? " 
 asked a thick voice, like the voice of a man, but the manner 
 was the manner of a w T oman. " I am sure you must have 
 heard me. One hears me like a locomotive, now that I have 
 lost my slimness." 
 
 She came into the room as she spoke, unwinding a 
 number of black, knitted shawls, in which she was enveloped. 
 There were so many of them, and of such different shape and 
 texture, that some confusion ensued. The Abbe ran to her 
 assistance. 
 
IN THE ITALIAN HOUSE 87 
 
 " But, Madame," he cried, " how can you suspect me of 
 such a crime ? I came early to make these preparations. 
 And as for hearing you would to Heaven I had ! For it 
 needs courage to be a Royalist in these days especially in 
 the dark, by one's self." 
 
 He seemed to know the shawls, for he disentangled them 
 with skill and laid them aside, one by one. 
 
 The Comtesse de Chantonnay breathed a little more 
 freely, but no friendly hand could disencumber her of the 
 mountains of flesh, which must have weighed down any heart 
 less buoyant and courageous. 
 
 " Ah, bah ! " she cried, gaily. " Who is afraid ? What 
 could they do to an old woman ? Ah ! you hold up your 
 hands. That is kind of you. But I am no longer young, 
 and there is my Albert with those stupid whiskers. It is 
 unfilial to wear whiskers, and I have told him so. And you 
 who could harm you a priest ? Besides, no one could be 
 a priest, and not a Royalist, Abbe ! " 
 
 " I know it, Madame, and that is why I am one. Have 
 we been seen, Madame la Comtesse ? The village was quiet, 
 as you came through ? " 
 
 "Quiet as my poor husband in his grave. Tell me 
 Abbe, now, honestly, am I thinner ? I have deprived myself 
 of coffee these two days." 
 
 The Abbe walked gravely round her. It was quite an 
 excursion. 
 
 " Who would have you different, Madame, to what you 
 are ? " he temporized. " To be thin is so ungenerous. And 
 Albert where is he ? You have not surely come alone ? " 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! and I a widow ! " replied Madame de 
 Chantonnay, arranging, with a stout hand, the priceless lace 
 on her dress. "Albert is coming. We brought a lantern, 
 although it is a moon. It is better. Besides, it is always 
 
88 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 done by those who conspire. And Albert had his great 
 cloak, and he fell up a step in the courtyard and dropped the 
 lantern, and lost it in the long grass. I left him looking for 
 it, in the dark. He was not afraid, my brave Albert ! n 
 
 " He has the dauntless heart of his mother," murmured 
 the Abbe, gracefully, as he ran round the table setting the 
 chairs in order. He had already offered the largest and 
 strongest to the Comtesse, and it was creaking under her 
 now, as she moved to set her dress in order. 
 
 " Assuredly," she admitted, complacently. " Has not 
 France produced a Jeanne d'Arc and a Duchesse de Berri ? 
 It was not from his father, at all events, that he inherited 
 his courage. For he was a poltroon, that man. Yes, my 
 dear Abbe, let us be honest, and look at life as it is. He 
 was a poltroon, and I thought I loved him for two or three 
 days only, however. And I was a child then. I was 
 beautiful." 
 
 M Was ? " echoed the Abbe, reproachfully. 
 
 " Silence, wicked one ! And you a priest." 
 
 " Even an ecclesiastic, Madame, may have eyes," he said, 
 darkly, as he snuffed a candle and, subsequently, gave him- 
 self a mechanical thump on the chest, in the region of the 
 heart. 
 
 "Then they should wear blinkers, like a horse," said 
 Madame, severely, as if wearied by an admiration so universal 
 that it palled. 
 
 At this moment, Albert de Chantonnay entered the room. 
 He was enveloped in a long black cloak, which he threw off 
 his shoulders and cast over the back of a chair, not without 
 an obvious appreciation of its possibilities of the picturesque. 
 He looked round the room with a mild eye, which refused to 
 lend itself to mystery or a martial ruthlessness. 
 
 He was a young man with a very thin neck, and the 
 
IN THE ITALIAN HOUSE 89 
 
 whiskers, of which his mother made complaint, were scarcely 
 visible by the light of the Abbe's candles. 
 
 " Good ! " he said, in a thin tenor voice. " We are in 
 time.'' 
 
 He came forward to the table, with long, nervous strides. 
 He was not exactly impressive, but his manner gave the 
 assurance of a distinct earnestness of purpose. The majority 
 of us are unfortunately situated toward the world, as regards 
 personal appearance. Many could pass for great if their 
 physical proportions were less mean. There are thousands 
 of worthy and virtuous young men who never receive their 
 due in social life because they have red hair or stand four- 
 feet-six high, or happen to be the victim of an inefficient 
 dentist. The world, it would seem, does not want virtue or 
 solid worth. It prefers appearance to either. Albert de 
 Chantonnay would, for instance, have carried twice the 
 weight in Royalist councils if his neck had been thicker. 
 
 He nodded to the Abbe". 
 
 " I received your message," he said, in the curt manner 
 of the man whose life is in his hand, or is understood, in 
 French theatrical circles, to be thus uncomfortably situated. 
 " The letter ? " 
 
 "It is here, Monsieur Albert," replied the Abbe, who 
 was commonplace, and could not see himself as he wished 
 others to see him. There was only one Abbe Touvent, for 
 morning or afternoon, for church or fete, for the chateau or 
 the cottage. There were a dozen Albert de Chantonnays, 
 fierce or tender, gay or sad, a poet or a soldier a light 
 persifleur, who had passed through the mill, and had emerged 
 hard and shining, or a young man of soul, capable of high 
 ideals. To-night, he was the politician the conspirator 
 quick of eye, curt of speech. 
 
 He held out his hand for the letter. 
 
00 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " Yon are fco read it, as Monsieur le Marquis instructs me, 
 Monsieur Albert," hazarded the Abbe, touching the breast 
 pocket of his soutane, where Monsieur de Gemosac's letter 
 lay hidden, " to those assembled." 
 
 " But, surely, I am to read it to myself first," was the 
 retort ; " or else how can I give it proper value ? " 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 A BEGINNING 
 
 There may be some who refuse to take seriously a person 
 like Albert de Chantonnay because, forsooth, he happened to 
 possess a sense of the picturesque. There are, as a matter of 
 fact, thousands of sensible persons in the British Isles who 
 fail completely to understand the average Frenchman. To 
 the English comprehension it is, for instance, surprising that 
 in time of stress when Paris was besieged by a German 
 army a hundred franc-tireur corps should spring into 
 existence, who gravely decked themselves in sombreros and 
 red waist-cloths, and called themselves the " Companions 
 of Death," or some claptrap title of a similar sound. Never- 
 theless, these " Companions of Death " fought at Orleans as 
 few have fought since man walked this earth, and died as 
 bravely as any in a government uniform. Even the stolid 
 German foe forgot, at last, to laugh at the sombrero worn in 
 midwinter. 
 
 It is useless to dub a Frenchman unreal and theatrical 
 when he gaily carries his unreality and his perception of the 
 dramatic to the lucarne of the guillotine and meets imper- 
 turbably the most real thing on earth, Death. 
 
 Albert de Chantonnay was a good Royalist a better 
 Royalist, as many were in France at this time, than the King 
 
92 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 and, perhaps, he carried his loyalty to the point that is 
 reached by the best form of flattery. 
 
 Let it be remembered that when, on the 3rd of May, 1814, 
 Louis XVIII. was reinstated, not by his own influence or 
 exertions, but by the allied sovereigns who had overthrown 
 Napoleon, he began at once to issue declarations and decrees 
 as of the nineteenth year of his reign, ignoring the Revolu- 
 tion and Napoleon. Did this Bourbon really take himself 
 seriously ? Did he really expect the world to overlook 
 Napoleon, or did he know as all the world knows to-day, 
 that long after the Bourbons have sunk into oblivion the 
 name of Napoleon will continue to be a household word ? 
 
 If a situation is thus envisaged by a King, what may the 
 wise expect from a Boyalist ? 
 
 In the absence of the Marquis de Gemosac, Albert de 
 Chantonnay was considered to be the leader of the party in 
 that quiet corner of south-western France which lies north 
 of Bordeaux and south of that great dividing river, the Loire. 
 He was, moreover, looked upon as representing that younger 
 blood of France, to which must be confided the hopes and 
 endeavours of the men, now passing away one by one, who 
 had fought and suffered for their kings. 
 
 It was confidently whispered throughout this pastoral 
 country that August Persons, living in exile in England and 
 elsewhere, were in familiar and confidential correspondence 
 with the Marquis de Gemosac, and, in a minor degree, with 
 Albert de Chantonnay. For kings, and especially deposed 
 kings, may not be choosers, but must take the instrument 
 that comes to hand. A constitutional monarch is, by the 
 way, better placed in this respect, for it is his people who 
 push the instrument into his grasp, and in the long run the 
 people nearly always read a man aright despite the efforts of 
 a cheap press to lead them astray. 
 
A BEGINNING 93 
 
 " If it were not written in the Marquis's own writing I 
 could not have believed it," said Albert de Chantonnay, 
 speaking aloud his own thoughts. He turned the letter this 
 way and that, examining first the back of it and then the 
 front. 
 
 " It has not been through the post," he said to the Abbe, 
 who stood respectfully watching his face, which, indeed, 
 inspired little confidence, for the chin receded in the wrong 
 way not like the chin of a shark, which indicates, not fool- 
 ishness, but greed of gain and the eyes were large and pale 
 like those of a sheep. 
 
 " Oh, Heaven forbid ! " cried the Abbe. " Such a letter 
 as that ! Where should we all be if it were read by the 
 government ? And all know that letters passing through the 
 post to the address of such as Monsieur Albert are read 
 in passing by the Prince President himself, as likely 
 as not." 
 
 Albert gave a short, derisive laugh, and shrugged his 
 shoulders, which made his admiring mother throw back her 
 head with a gesture, inviting the Abbe to contemplate, with 
 satisfaction, the mother of so brave a man. 
 
 " Voila" she said, " but tell us, my son, what is in the 
 letter ? " 
 
 " Not yet," was the reply. " It is to be read to all when 
 they are assembled. In the mean time " 
 
 He did not finish the sentence in words, but by gesture 
 conveyed that the missive, now folded and placed in his 
 breast-pocket, was only to be obtained bespattered with his 
 life's blood. And the Abbe* wiped his clammy brow with 
 some satisfaction that it should be thus removed from his 
 own timorous custody. 
 
 Albert de Chantonnay was looking expectantly at the 
 door, for he had heard footsteps, and now he bowed gravely 
 
94 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 to a very old gentleman, a notary of the town, who entered 
 the room with a deep obeisance to the Comtesse. Close on 
 the notary's heels came others. Some were in riding costume, 
 and came from a distance. 
 
 One sprightly lady wore evening dress, only partially 
 concealed by a cloak. She hurried in with a nod for Albert 
 de Chantonnay, and a kiss for the Comtesse. Her presence 
 had the immediate effect of imparting an air of practical 
 common-sense energy to the assembly, which it had hitherto 
 lacked. There was nothing of the old regime in this lady, 
 who seemed to over-ride etiquette, and cheerfully ignore the 
 dramatic side of the proceedings. 
 
 " Is it not wonderful ? " she whispered aloud, after the 
 manner of any modern lady at one of those public meetings 
 in which they take so large a part with so small a result in 
 these later days. " Is it not wonderful ? " And her French, 
 though pure enough, was full and round the French of an 
 English tongue. "I have had a long letter from Dormer 
 telling me all about it. Oh " And she broke off, 
 silenced by the dark frown of Albert de Chantonnay, to 
 which her attention had been forcibly directed by his mother. 
 " I have been dining with Madame de Rathe," she went on, 
 irrepressibly, changing the subject in obedience to Albert de 
 Chantonnay's frown. " The Vicomtesse bids me make her 
 excuses. She feared an indigestion, so will be absent 
 to-night." 
 
 " Ah ! " returned the Comtesse de Chantonnay. " It is 
 not that. I happen to know that the Vicomtesse de Rathe 
 has the digestion of a schoolboy. It is because she has no 
 confidence in Albert. But we shall see we shall see. It is 
 not for the nobility of Louis Philippe to to have a poor 
 digestion." 
 
 And the Comtesse de Chantonnay made a gesture and a 
 
A BEGINNING 95 
 
 meaning grimace which would have been alarming enough 
 had her hand and face been less dimpled with good nature. 
 
 There were now assembled about a dozen persons, and 
 the Abbe was kept in countenance by two others of his cloth. 
 There were several ladies ; one of whom was young and plain 
 and seemed to watch Albert de Chantonnay with, a timid 
 awe. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, seated next to the Comtesse 
 de Chantonnay, was the only lady who made any attempt at 
 gay apparel, and thus stood rather conspicuous among her 
 companions clad in sober and somewhat rusty black. All 
 over the west of France such meetings of the penniless 
 Royalists were being held at this time, not, it has been 
 averred, without the knowledge of the Prince President, who 
 has been credited with the courage to treat the matter with 
 contempt. About no monarch, living or dead, however, 
 have so many lies been written, by friend or foe, with good 
 or ill intent, as about him, who subsequently carried out the 
 astounding feat of climbing to the throne of France as 
 Napoleon III. And it seems certain that he has been given 
 credit for knowing much of which he must have been 
 ignorant to an extent hardly credible, even now, in face of 
 subsequent events. 
 
 The Comtesse de Chantonnay was still tossing her head, 
 at intervals, at the recollection of the Yicomtesse de Rathe's 
 indigestion. This was only typical of the feelings that 
 divided every camp in France at this time at any time, 
 indeed, since the days of Charlemagne for the French must 
 always quarrel among themselves until, they are actually on 
 the brink of national catastrophe. And even when they are 
 fallen into that pit they will quarrel at the bottom, and 
 bespatter each other with the mud that is there. 
 
 " Are we all here ? V asked Albert de Chantonnay, 
 standing in an effective attitude at the end of the table, 
 
96 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 with his hand on the back of his chair. He counted the 
 number of his fellow-conspirators, and then sat down, 
 drawing forward a candelabra. 
 
 " You have been summoned in haste," he said, " by 
 the request of the Marquis de Gremosac to listen to the 
 perusal of a letter of importance. It may be of the utmost 
 importance to us to France to all the world." 
 
 He drew the letter from his pocket and opened it amid 
 a breathless silence. His listeners noted the care with 
 which he attended to gesture and demeanour, and accounted 
 it to him for righteousness ; for they were French. An 
 English audience would have thought him insincere, and 
 they would have been wrong. 
 
 " The letter is dated from a place called Farlingford, in 
 England. I have never heard of it. It is nowhere near to 
 Twickenham or Clarement, nor is it in Buckinghamshire. 
 The rest of England no one knows." Albert paused and 
 held up one hand for silence. 
 
 " At last," he read " at last, my friends, after a life- 
 time of fruitless search, it seems that I have found through 
 the good offices of Dormer Colville not the man we have 
 sought, but his son. "We have long suspected that Louis 
 XVII. must be dead. Madame herself, in her exile at 
 Frohsdorff, has admitted to her intimates that she no longer 
 hoped. But here in the full vigour of youth a sailor, 
 strong and healthy, living a simple life on shore as at sea 
 I have found a man whose face, whose form, and manner 
 would clearly show to the most incredulous that he could be 
 no other than the son of Louis XVII. A hundred tricks of 
 manner and gesture he has inherited from the father he 
 scarce remembers, from the grandfather who perished on the 
 guillotine many years before he himself was born. No 
 small proof of the man's sincerity is the fact that only now, 
 
A BEGINNING 97 
 
 after long persuasion, has he consented to place himself in 
 our hands. I thought of hurrying at once to Frohsdorff to 
 present to the aged Duchess a youth whom she cannot fail 
 to recognize as her nephew. But better counsels have pre- 
 vailed. Dormer Colville, to whom we owe so much, has 
 placed us in his farther debt for a piece of sage advice. 
 ' Wait,' he advises, ' until the young man has learned what 
 is expected of him, until he has made the personal acquaint- 
 ance of his supporters. Reserve until the end the presenta- 
 tion to the Duchesse d'Angouleme, which must only be 
 made when all the Royalists in France are ready to act with 
 a unanimity which will be absolute, and an energy which 
 must prove irresistible.' 
 
 " There are more material proofs than a face so strongly 
 resembling that of Louis XVI. and Monsieur d'Artois, in 
 their early manhood, as to take the breath away ; than a 
 vivacity inherited from his grandmother, together with an 
 independence of spirit and impatience of restraint ; than 
 the slight graceful form, blue eyes, and fair skin of the little 
 prisoner of the Temple. There are dates which go to prove 
 that this boy's father was rescued from a sinking fishing- 
 boat, near Dieppe, a few days after the little Dauphin was 
 known to have escaped from the Temple, and to have been 
 hurried to the north coast disguised as a girl. There is 
 evidence, which Monsieur Colville is now patiently gather- 
 ing from these slow-speaking people, that the woman who 
 was rescued with this child was not his mother. And there 
 are a hundred details known to the villagers here which 
 go to prove what we have always suspected to be the case, 
 namely, that Louis XVII. was rescued from the Temple by 
 the daring and ingenuity of a devoted few who so jealously 
 guarded their secret that they frustrated their own object ; 
 for they one and all must have perished on the guillotine, or 
 
 H 
 
98 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 at the hands of some other assassin, without divulging their 
 knowledge, and in the confusion and horror of those days 
 the little Dauphin was lost to sight. 
 
 " There is a trinket a locket containing a miniature, 
 which I am assured is a portrait of Marie Antoinette. This 
 locket is in the possession of Dormer Colville, who suggests 
 that we should refrain from using violence to open it until 
 this can be done in France in the presence of suitable wit- 
 nesses. A fall or some mishap has so crushed the locket 
 that it can only be opened by a jeweller provided with suit- 
 able instruments. It has remained closed for nearly a 
 quarter of a century, but a reliable witness in whose posses- 
 sion it has been since he, who was undoubtedly Louis XVII. , 
 died in his arms, remembers the portrait, and has no doubt 
 of its authenticity. I have told you enough to make it 
 clear to you that my search is at last ended. What w r e 
 require now is money to enable us to bring this King of 
 France to his own ; to bring him, in the first place, to my 
 humble chateau of Gemosac, where he can lie hidden until 
 all arrangements are made. I leave it to you, my dear 
 Albert, to collect this preliminary sum." 
 
 De Chantonnay folded the letter and looked at the faces 
 surrounding the dimly lighted table. 
 
 Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, who must have known the 
 contents of the letter, and, therefore, came provided, leaned 
 across the table with a discreet clink of jewellery and laid 
 before Albert de Chantonnay a note for a thousand francs. 
 
 " I am only an English woman," she said, simply, " but I 
 can help." 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE SECRET OF GEMOSAC 
 
 There is no sentiment so artificial as international hatred. 
 In olden days it owed its existence to churchmen, and now 
 an irresponsible press foments that dormant antagonism. 
 Wherever French and English individuals are thrown 
 together by a common endeavour, both are surprised at the 
 mutual esteem which soon develops into friendship. But as 
 nations we are no nearer than we were in the great days of 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence was only one-quarter French 
 and three-quarters English. Her grandmother had been a 
 St. Pierre ; but it was not from that lady that she inherited 
 a certain open-handedness which took her French friends 
 by surprise. 
 
 " It is not that she has the cause at heart," commented 
 Madame de Chantonnay, as she walked laboriously on 
 Albert's arm down the ramp of the Chateau de Gemosac at 
 the termination of the meeting. " It is not for that that 
 she throws her note of a thousand francs upon the table and 
 promises more when things are in train. It is because she 
 can refuse nothing to Dormer Colville. Allez, my son ! 
 I have a woman's heart ! I know ! " 
 
 Albert contented himself with a sardonic laugh. He 
 
100 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 was not in the humour to talk of women's hearts ; for Mrs. 
 St. Pierre Lawrence's action had struck a sudden note of 
 British realism into the harmony of his political fancies. 
 He had talked so much, had listened to so much talk from 
 others, that the dream of a restored monarchy had at last 
 been raised to those far realms of the barely possible in which 
 the Gallic fancy wanders in moments of facile digestion. 
 
 It was sufficient for the emergency that the others 
 present at the meeting could explain that one does not 
 carry money in one's pocket in a country lane at night. 
 But in their hearts all were conscious of a slight feeling of 
 resentment toward Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence ; of a vague 
 sense of disappointment, such as a dreamer may experience 
 on being roughly awakened. 
 
 The three priests folded their hands with complacency. 
 Poverty, their most cherished possession, spoke for itself in 
 their case. The notary blinked and fumbled at his lips 
 with yellow fingers in hasty thought. He was a Royalist 
 notary because there existed in the country of the Deux 
 Sevres a Royalist clientele. In France, even a washerwoman 
 must hold political views and stand or fall by them. It was 
 astounding how poor every one felt at that moment, and it 
 rested, as usual, with a woman's intuition to grasp the only 
 rope within reach. "The vintage," this lady murmured. 
 The vintage promised to be a bad one. Nothing, assuredly, 
 could be undertaken, and no promise made, until the 
 vintage was over. 
 
 So the meeting broke up without romance, and the con- 
 spirators dispersed to their homes, carrying in their minds 
 that mutual distrust which is ever awakened in human 
 hearts by the chink of gold, while the dormant national 
 readiness to detect betrayal by England was suddenly wide 
 awake. 
 
THE SECRET OF GEMOSAC 101 
 
 Nevertheless, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had supplied the 
 one ingredient necessary to leaven the talk of these dreamers 
 into action. Even the notary found himself compelled to 
 contribute when Albert de Chantonnay asked him outright 
 for a subscription. And the priests, ably led by the Abbe 
 Touvent, acted after the manner of the sons of Levi since 
 olden times. They did not give themselves, but they told 
 others to give, which is far better. 
 
 In due course the money was sent to England. It was 
 the plain truth that the Marquis de Gemosac had not suffi- 
 cient in his pocket to equip Loo Barebone with the clothes 
 necessary to a seemly appearance in France ; or, indeed, to 
 cover the expense of the journey thither. Dormer Colville 
 never had money to spare. " Heaven shaped me for a rich 
 man," he would say, lightly, whenever the momentous 
 subject was broached, " but forgot to fill my pockets." 
 
 It was almost the time of the vintage, and the country 
 roads were dotted with the shambling figures of those knights 
 of industry who seem to spring from the hedgerows at 
 harvest-time in any country in the world, when the Abbe 
 Touvent sought out Marie in her cottage at the gates of the 
 chateau. 
 
 "A la cave" answered the lady's voice. "In the 
 cellar do you not know that it is Monday and I wash ? " 
 
 The Abbe did not repeat his summons on the kitchen 
 table with the handle of his stick, but drew forward a 
 chair. 
 
 " I know it is very hot, and that I am tired," he shouted 
 toward the cellar door, which stood open, giving egress to a 
 warm smell of soap. 
 
 " Precisely and does Monsieur l'Abbe want me to come 
 up as I am ? " 
 
 The suggestion was darkly threatening, and the Abbe* 
 
102 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 replied that Marie must take her time, since it was washing- 
 day. 
 
 The cottage was built on sloping ground at the gate of 
 the chateau, probably of the stones used for some earlier 
 fortification. That which Marie called the cellar was but 
 half underground, and had an exit to the garden which grew 
 to the edge of the cliff. It was not long before she appeared 
 at the head of the stone steps, a square-built woman with a 
 face that had been sunburnt long ago by work in the vine- 
 yards, and eyes looking straight at the world from beneath 
 a square and wrinkled forehead. 
 
 " Monsieur TAbbe," she said, shortly a salutation and a 
 comment in one ; for it conveyed the fact that she saw it 
 was he and perceived that he was in his usual health. " It 
 is news from Monsieur, I suppose," she added, slowly, 
 turning down her sleeves. 
 
 "Yes, the Marquis writes that he is on his way to 
 Gemosac and wishes you to prepare the chateau for his 
 return." 
 
 The Abbe waved his hand toward the castle gates with 
 an air suggestive of retainers and lackeys, of busy stables 
 and a hundred windows lighted after dark. His round eyes 
 did not meet the direct glance fixed on his face, but 
 wandered from one object to another in the room, finally 
 lighting on the great key of the chateau gate, which hung 
 on a nail behind the door. 
 
 " Then Monsieur le Marquis is coming into residence," 
 said Marie, gravely. 
 
 And by way of reply the Abbe waved his hand a second 
 time toward the castle walls. 
 
 "And the worst of it is," he added, timidly, to this 
 silent admission, " that he brings a guest." 
 
 He moistened his fat lips and sat smiling in a foolish 
 
THE SECRET OP GEMOSAO 103 
 
 way at the open door ; for he was afraid of all women, and 
 most afraid of Marie. 
 
 " Ah ! " she retorted, shortly. " To sleep in the oubli- 
 ette, one may suppose. For there is no other bed in the 
 chateau, as you quite well know, Monsieur 1'Abbe. It is 
 another of your kings no doubt. Oh ! you need not hold 
 up your hands when Monsieur Albert reads aloud that 
 letter from Monsieur le Marquis, in England, without so 
 much as closing the door of the banquet hall ! It is as well 
 that it was no other than I who stood on the stairs outside 
 and heard all." 
 
 " But it is wrong to listen behind doors," protested the 
 Abbe. 
 
 " Ah, bah ! " replied this unregenerate sheep of his flock. 
 " But do not alarm yourself, Monsieur l'Abbe, I can keep a 
 quiet tongue. And a political secret what is it ? It is an 
 amusement for the rich your politics but a vice for the 
 poor. Come, let us go to the chateau, while there is still 
 day, and you can see for yourself whether we are ready for a 
 guest." 
 
 While she spoke she hastily completed a toilet, which, 
 despite the Abbe's caution, had the appearance of incom- 
 pleteness, and taking the great key from behind the door, 
 led the way out into the glare of the setting sun. She un- 
 locked the great gate and threw her weight against it with 
 quick, firm movements like the movements of a man. 
 Indeed, she was a better man than her companion ; of a 
 stronger common sense ; with lither limbs and a stouter 
 heart ; the best man that France has latterly produced, and, 
 so far as the student of racial degeneration may foretell, will 
 ever produce again her middle-class woman. 
 
 Built close against the flanking tower on the left hand 
 of the courtyard was a low, square house of two stories only. 
 
104 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 The whole ground floor was stabling, room and to spare 
 for half a hundred horses, and filled frequently enough, no 
 doubt, in the great days of the Great Henry. On the first 
 floor, to which three or four staircases gave access, there 
 were plenty of apartments ; indeed, suites of them. But 
 nearly all stood empty, and the row of windows looked 
 blank and curtainless- across the crumbling garden to the 
 Italian house. 
 
 It was one of the many tragedies of that smiling, sunny 
 land where only man, it seems, is vile ; for nature has 
 enclosed within its frontier-lines all the varied wealth and 
 beauty of her treasures. 
 
 Marie led the way up the first staircase, which was 
 straight and narrow. The carpet, carefully rolled and laid 
 aside on the landing, was threadbare and colourless. The 
 muslin curtains, folded back and pinned together, were 
 darned and yellow with frequent washing and the rust of 
 ancient damp. She opened the door of the first room at the 
 head of the stairs. It had once been the apartment of some 
 servitor ; now it contained furniture of the gorgeous days of 
 Louis XIV., with all the colour gone from its tapestry, all 
 the woodwork grey and worm-eaten. 
 
 " Not that one," said Marie, as the Abbe* struggled with 
 the lever that fastened the window. "That one has not 
 been opened for many years. See ! the glass rattles in the 
 frame. It is the other that opens." 
 
 Without comment the Abbe opened the other window 
 and threw back the shutters, from which all the paint had 
 peeled away, and let in the scented air. Mignonette close 
 at hand which had bloomed and died and cast its seed 
 amid the old walls and falling stones since Marie Antoinette 
 had taught the women of France to take an interest in their 
 gardens ; and from the great plains beyond flat and fat 
 
THE SECRET OF GEMOSAO 105 
 
 carefully laid there by the Garonne to give the world its 
 finest wines, rose up the subtle scent of vines in bloom. 
 
 " The drawing-room," said Marie, and making a mock- 
 curtsey toward the door, which stood open to the dim stairs, 
 she made a grand gesture with her hand, still red and 
 wrinkled from the wash-tub. "Will the King of France 
 be pleased to enter and seat himself ? There are three 
 chairs, but one of them is broken, so his Majesty's suite 
 must stand." 
 
 With a strident laugh she passed on to the next room 
 through folding doors. 
 
 " The principal room," she announced, with that hard 
 irony in her voice, which had, no doubt, penetrated thither 
 from the soul of a mother who had played no small part in 
 the Revolution. "The guest-chamber, one may say, pro- 
 vided that Monsieur le Marquis will sleep on the floor in 
 the drawing-room, or in the straw down below in the 
 stable." 
 
 The Abbe" threw open the shutter of this room also and 
 stood meekly eyeing Marie with a tolerant smile. The room 
 was almost bare of furniture. A bed such as peasants sleep 
 on ; a few chairs ; a dressing-table tottering against the 
 window-breast, and modestly screened in one corner, the 
 diminutive washing-stand still used in southern France. For 
 Gemosac had been sacked and the furniture built up into a 
 bonfire when Marie was a little child and the Abbe* Touvent 
 a fat-faced timorous boy at the Seminary of Saintes. 
 
 " Beyond is Mademoiselle's room," concluded Marie, 
 curtly. She looked round her and shrugged her shoulders 
 with a grim laugh which made the Abbe shrink. They 
 looked at each other in silence, the two participants in the 
 secret of Gemosac ; for Marie's husband, the third who had 
 access to the chateau, did not count. He was a shambling, 
 
106 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 silent man, now working in the vineyard beneath the walls. 
 He always did what his wife told him, without comment or 
 enthusiasm, knowing well that he would be blamed for 
 doing it badly. 
 
 The Abbe had visited the rooms once before, during a 
 brief passage of the Marquis, soon after his wife's death in 
 Paris. But, as a rule, only Marie and Jean had access to 
 the apartment. He looked round with an eye always ready 
 with the tear of sympathy ; for he was a soft-hearted man. 
 Then he looked at Marie again, shamefacedly. But she, 
 divining his thoughts, shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " Ah, bah ! " she said, " one must take the world as it 
 is. And Monsieur le Marquis is only a man. One sees 
 that, when he announces his return on washing-day, and 
 brings a guest. You must write to him, that is all, and tell 
 him that with time I can arrange, but not in a hurry like 
 this. Where is the furniture to come from ? A chair or 
 two from the banquet-hall ; I can lend a bed which Jean 
 can carry in after dark so that no one knows ; you have the 
 jug and basin you bought when the Bishop came, that you 
 must lend " She broke off and ran to the window. 
 " Good," she cried, in a despairing voice, " I hear a carriage 
 coming up the hill. Run, Monsieur l'Abbe run to the 
 gate and bolt it. Guest or no guest, they cannot see the 
 rooms like this. Here, let me past." 
 
 She pushed him unceremoniously aside at the head of 
 the stairs and ran past him. Long concealment of the 
 deadly poverty within the walls had taught her to close the 
 gates behind her whenever she entered, but now for greater 
 security, or to gain time, she swung the great oaken beam 
 round on its pivot across the doors on the inside. Then 
 turning round on her heels she watched the bell that hung 
 above her head. The Abbe, who had followed her as 
 
THE SECRET OF GEMOSAC 107 
 
 quickly as he could, was naively looking for a peep-hole 
 between the timbers of the huge doors. 
 
 A minute later the bell swung slowly, and gave a single 
 clang which echoed beneath the vaulted roof, and in the 
 hollow of the empty towers on either side. 
 
 " Marie, Marie ! " cried a gay girlish voice from without. 
 " Open at once. It is I." 
 
 " There," said Marie, in a whisper. " It is Mademoiselle, 
 who has returned from the good Sisters. And the story 
 that you told of the fever at Saintes is true." 
 
. , CHAPTER XIII 
 
 WITHIN THE GATES 
 
 The great bell hanging inside the gates of Gemosac was 
 silent for two days after the return of Juliette de Gemosac 
 from her fever-stricken convent school, at Saintes. 
 
 But on the third day, soon after nightfall, it rang once 
 more, breaking suddenly in on the silence of the shadowy 
 courts and gardens, bidding the frogs in the tank be still 
 with a soft, clear voice, only compassed by the artificers who 
 worked in days when silver was little accounted of in the 
 forging of a bell. 
 
 It was soon after eight o'clock, and darkness had not 
 long covered the land and sent the workers home. There 
 was no moon. Indeed, the summons to the gate, coming so 
 soon after nightfall, seemed to suggest the arrival of a 
 traveller, who had not deemed it expedient to pass through 
 the winding streets of Gemosac by daylight. 
 
 The castle lies on a height, sufficiently removed from the 
 little town to temper the stir of its streets to a pleasant and 
 unobtrusive evidence of neighbourhood. Had the traveller 
 come in a carriage, the sound of its wheels would certainly 
 have been heard ; and nearer at hand, the tramp of horses 
 on the hollow of the old drawbridge, not raised these 
 hundred years, must have heralded the summons of the bell. 
 
WITHIN THE GATES 109 
 
 But none of these sounds had warned Juliette de Gemosac, 
 who sat alone in the little white room upstairs, nor Marie 
 and her husband, dumb and worn by the day's toil, who 
 awaited bedtime on a stone seat by the stable door. 
 
 Juliette, standing at the open window, heard Jean stir 
 himself, and shuffle, in his slippers, toward the gate. 
 
 " It is some one who comes on foot," she heard Marie 
 say. " Some beggar the roads are full of them. See that 
 he gets no farther than the gate." 
 
 She heard Jean draw back the bolts and answer gruffly, 
 in a few words, through the interstice of a grudging door, 
 what seemed to be inquiries made in a voice that was not 
 the voice of a peasant. Marie rose and went to the gate. 
 In a few minutes they returned, and Juliette drew back from 
 the window, for they were accompanied by the new-comer, 
 whose boots made a sharper, clearer sound on the cobble-stones. 
 
 " Yes," Juliette heard him explain, " I am an English- 
 man, but I come from Monsieur de Gemosac, for all that. 
 And since Mademoiselle is here, I must see her. It was by 
 chance that I heard, on the road, that there is fever at 
 Saintes, and that she had returned home. I was on my way 
 to Saintes to see her and give her my news of her father." 
 
 " But what news ? " asked Marie, and the answer was 
 lost as the speakers passed into the doorway, the new-comer 
 evidently leading the way, the peasant and his wife follow- 
 ing without protest, and with that instinctive obedience to 
 unconscious command which will survive all the iconoclasm 
 of a hundred revolutions. 
 
 There followed a tramping on the stairs and a half- 
 suppressed laugh as the new-comer stumbled upward. 
 Marie opened the door slowly. 
 
 "It is a gentleman," she announced, "who does not 
 give his name." 
 
110 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 Juliette de Geniosac was standing at the far side of the 
 table, with the lamp throwing its full light upon her. She 
 was dressed in white, with a blue ribbon at her waist and 
 wrists. Another ribbon of the same colour tied back her 
 hair, which was of a bright brown, with curls that caught 
 the light in a score of tendrils above her ears. No finished 
 coquette could have planned a prettier surprise than that 
 which awaited Loo Barebone, as he made Marie stand aside, 
 and came, hat in hand, into the room. 
 
 He paused for an instant, breathless, before Juliette, 
 who stood, with a little smile of composed surprise parting 
 her lips. Tins child, fresh from the quiet of a convent- 
 school, was in no wise taken aback nor at a loss how to act. 
 She did not speak, but stood with head erect, not ungracious, 
 looking at him with clear brown eyes, awaiting his explana- 
 tion. And Loo Barebone, all untaught, who had never 
 spoken to a French lady in his life, came forward with an 
 assurance and a readiness which must have lain dormant in 
 his blood, awaiting the magic of this moment. 
 
 " Since my name would convey nothing to Mademoiselle," 
 he said, with a bow which he had assuredly not learnt in 
 Farlingford, " it was useless to mention it. But it is at the 
 disposal of Mademoiselle, nevertheless. It is an English name 
 Barebone. I am the Englishman who has been fortunate 
 enough to engage the interest of your father, who journeyed 
 to England to find me and found me." 
 
 He broke off with a laugh, spreading out his arms to 
 show himself, as it were, and ask indulgence. 
 
 " I have a heritage, it appears, in France," he went on, 
 u but know nothing of it, yet. For the weather has been 
 bad and our voyage a stormy one. I was to have been told 
 during the journey, but we had no time for that. And I 
 know no more than you, mademoiselle." 
 
WITHIN THE GATES 111 
 
 Juliette Lad changed colour, and her cheeks, which were 
 usually of a most delicate pink, were suddenly quite white. 
 She did not touch upon the knowledge to which he referred, 
 but went past it to its object. 
 
 "You do not speak like an Englishman," she said. 
 " For I know one or two. One came to the school at 
 Saintes. He was a famous English prelate, and he had the 
 manner well, of a tree. And when he spoke, it was what 
 one would expect of a tree, if it suddenly had speech. But 
 you you are not like that." 
 
 Loo Barebone laughed with an easy gaiety, which seemed 
 infectious, though Marie did not join in it, but stood scowl- 
 ing in the doorway. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " you have described them exactly. I 
 know a hundred who are like great trees. Many are so, but 
 they are kind and still like trees the English, when you 
 know them, mademoiselle." 
 
 " They ? " she said, with her prettily arched eyebrows 
 raised high. 
 
 " We, I mean," he answered, quickly, taking her mean- 
 ing in a flash. " I almost forgot that I was an Englishman. 
 It is my heritage, perhaps, that makes me forget or your- 
 self. It is so easy and natural to consider one's self a 
 Frenchman and so pleasant." 
 
 Marie shuffled with her feet and made a movement of 
 impatience, as if to remind them that they were still far 
 from the business in hand and were merely talking of them- 
 selves, which is the beginning of all things or may be the 
 beginning of the inevitable end. 
 
 "But I forgot," said Barebone, at once. "And it is 
 getting late. Your father has had a slight misfortune. He 
 has sprained his ankle. He is on board my ship, the ship 
 of which I am I have been an officer, lying at anchor in 
 
112 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 the river near here, off the village of Mortagne. I came 
 from Mortagne at your father's request, with certain 
 messages, for yourself, mademoiselle, and for Marie if 
 Madame is Marie." 
 
 " Yes," replied the grim voice in the doorway. " Madame 
 is Marie." 
 
 Loo had turned toward her. It seemed his happy fate 
 to be able to disarm antagonism at the first pass. He 
 looked at Marie and smiled ; and slowly, unwillingly, her 
 grim face relaxed. 
 
 "Well," he said, "you are not to expect Monsieur le 
 Marquis to-night, nor yet, for some time to come. For he 
 will go on to Bordeaux, where he can obtain skilled treat- 
 ment for his injured ankle, and remain there until he can 
 put his foot to the ground. He is comfortable enough on 
 board the ship, which will proceed up the river to-morrow 
 morning to Bordeaux. Monsieur le Marquis also told me to 
 set your mind at rest on another point. He was to have 
 brought with him a guest " 
 
 Loo paused and bowed to Marie, with a gay grace. 
 
 "A humble one. But I am not to come to Gemosac 
 just now. I am going, instead, with Monsieur Dormer 
 Colville, to stay at Royan with Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. 
 It is, I hope, a pleasure deferred. I cannot, it appears, 
 show myself in Bordeaux at present, and I quit the ship 
 to-night. It is some question of myself and my heritage in 
 France, which I do not understand." 
 
 " Is that so ? " said Marie. " One can hardly believe it." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing," replied Marie, looking at his face with a 
 close scrutiny, as if it were familiar to her. 
 
 " And that is all that I had to tell you, Madame Marie," 
 concluded Barebone. 
 
WITHIN THE GATES 113 
 
 And, strangely enough, Marie smiled at him as he turned 
 away, not unkindly. 
 
 " To you, mademoiselle," he went on, turning again to 
 Juliette, whose hand was at her hair, for she had been taken 
 by surprise, "my message is simpler. Monsieur, your 
 father, will be glad to have your society at Bordeaux, while 
 he stays there, if that is true which the Gironde pilot told 
 him of fever at Saintes, and the hurried dispersal of the 
 schools." 
 
 " It is true enough, monsieur," answered Juliette, in her 
 low-pitched voice of the south, and with a light of anticipa- 
 tion in her eye ; for it was dull enough at Gemosac, all 
 alone in this empty chateau. " But how am I to reach 
 Bordeaux ? " 
 
 " Your father did not specify the route or method. He 
 seemed to leave that to you, mademoiselle. He seemed to 
 have an entire faith in your judgment, and that is why I 
 was so surprised when I saw you. I thought well, I 
 figured to myself that you were older, you understand." 
 
 He broke off with a laugh and a deprecatory gesture of 
 the hand, as if he had more in his mind but did not want to 
 put it into words. His meaning was clear enough in his 
 eyes, but Juliette was fresh from a convent-school, where 
 they seek earnestly to teach a woman not to be a woman. 
 
 " One may be young, and still have understanding, 
 monsieur," she said, with the composed little smile on her 
 demure lips, which must only have been the composure of 
 complete innocence : almost a monopoly of children, though 
 some women move through life without losing it. 
 
 "Yes," answered Loo, looking into her eyes. "So it 
 appears. So, how will you go to Bordeaux ? How does 
 one go from Gemosac to Bordeaux ? " 
 
 " By carriage to Mortagne, where a boat is always to be 
 
 I 
 
114 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 obtained. It is a short journey, if the tide is favourable," 
 broke in Marie, who was practical before she was polite. 
 
 "Then," said Loo, as quick as thought, "drive back 
 with me now to Mortagne. I have left my horse in the 
 town, my boat at the pier at Mortagne. It is an hour's 
 drive. In an hour and a half you will be on board * The 
 Last Hope, 1 at anchor in the river. There is accommoda- 
 tion on board for both you and Madame ; for I, alas ! leave 
 the ship to-night with Monsieur Colville, and thus vacate 
 two cabins." 
 
 Juliette reflected for a moment, but she did not consult, 
 even by a glance, Marie ; who, in truth, appeared to expect 
 no such confidences, but awaited the decision with a grim 
 and grudging servitude which was as deeply pressed in upon 
 her soul as was the habit of command in the soul of a de 
 Gemosac. 
 
 " Yes," said Juliette, at length, " that will be best. It 
 is, of course, important that my father should reach Bordeaux 
 as soon as possible." 
 
 "He will be there at midday to-morrow, if you will 
 come with me now," answered Loo, and his gay eyes said 
 " Come ! " as clearly as his lips, though Juliette could not, 
 of course, be expected to read such signals. 
 
 The affair was soon settled, and Jean ordered to put the 
 horse into the high, old-fashioned carriage still in use at the 
 chateau. For Juliette de Gemosac seemed to be an illustra- 
 tion of the fact, known to many much-tried parents, that 
 one is never too young to know one's mind. 
 
 " There is a thunder-storm coming from the sea," was 
 Jean's only comment. 
 
 There was some delay in starting ; for Marie had to 
 change her own clothes as well as pack her young mistress's 
 simple trunks. But the time did not hang heavily on the 
 
WITHIN THE GATES 115 
 
 hands of the two waiting in the little drawing-room, and 
 Marie turned an uneasy glance toward the open door more 
 than once at the sound of their laughter. 
 
 Barebone was riding a horse hired in the village of 
 Mortagne, and quitted the chateau first, on foot, saying that 
 the carriage must necessarily travel quicker than he, as his 
 horse was tired. The night was dark, and darkest to the 
 west, where lightning danced in and out among heavy clouds 
 over the sea. 
 
 As in all lands that have been torn hither and thither 
 by long wars, the peasants of Guienne learnt, long ago, the 
 wisdom of dwelling together in closely built villages, making 
 a long journey to their fields or vineyards every day. In 
 times past, Gemosac had been a walled town, dominated, as 
 usual, by the almost impregnable castle. 
 
 Barebone rode on, alone, through the deserted vineyards, 
 of which the scent, like that of a vinery in colder lands, was 
 heavy and damp. The road runs straight, from point to 
 point, and there was no chance of missing the way or losing 
 his companions. He was more concerned with watching 
 the clouds, which were rising in dark towers against the 
 western sky. He had noted that others were watching them, 
 also, standing at their doors in every street. It was the 
 period of thunder and hailstorms the deadly foe of the 
 vine. 
 
 At length Barebone pulled up and waited ; for he could 
 hear the sound of wheels behind him, and noted that it was 
 not increasing in loudness. 
 
 " Can you not go faster ? " he shouted to Jean, when, at 
 length, the carriage approached. 
 
 Jean made no answer, but lashed his horse and pointed 
 upward to the sky with his whip. Barebone rode in front 
 to encourage the slower horse. At the village of Mortagne 
 
116 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 he signed to Jean to wait before the inn until he had taken 
 his horse to the stable and paid for its hire. Then he 
 clambered to the box beside him and they rattled down the 
 long street and out into the open road that led across the 
 marshes to the port a few wooden houses and a jetty, 
 running out from the shallows to the channel. 
 
 When they reached the jetty, going slowly at the last 
 through the heavy dust, the air was still and breathless. 
 The rounded clouds still towered above them, making the 
 river black with their deep shadows. A few lights twinkled 
 across the waters. They were the lightships marking the 
 middle bank of the Gironde, which is many miles wide at 
 this spot and rendered dangerous by innumerable sand- 
 
 " In five minutes it will be upon us," said Jean. " You 
 had better turn back." 
 
 " Oh, no," was the reply, with a reassuring laugh. " In 
 the country where I come from they do not turn back." 
 
CHAPTEK XIV 
 
 THE LIFTED VEIL 
 
 " Where is the boatman ? " asked Marie, as she followed 
 Juliette and Barebone along the deserted jetty. A light 
 burnt dimly at the end of it and one or two boats must 
 have been moored near at hand ; for the water could be 
 heard lapping under their bows, a secretive, whispering 
 sound full of mystery. 
 
 " I am the boatman," replied Loo, over his shoulder. 
 " Are you afraid ? " 
 
 " What is the good of being afraid ? " asked this woman 
 of the world, stopping at the head of the steps and peering 
 down into the darkness into which he had descended. 
 " What is the good of being afraid when one is old and 
 married ? I was afraid enough when I was a girl, and 
 pretty and coquette like Mademoiselle, here. I was afraid 
 enough then, and it was worth my while allot ! " 
 
 Barebone made no answer to this dark suggestion of a 
 sprightly past. The present darkness and the coming 
 storm commanded his full attention. In the breathless 
 silence, Juliette and Marie and behind them, Jean, panting 
 beneath the luggage balanced on his shoulder could hear 
 the wet rope slipping through his fingers and, presently, the 
 bump of the heavy boat against the timber of the steps. 
 
 This was followed by the gurgle of a rope through a 
 
118 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 well-greased sheave and the square lug, which had been the 
 joy of little Sep Marvin at Farlingford, crept up to the 
 truck of the stubby mast. 
 
 "There is no wind for that," remarked Marie, pes- 
 simistically. 
 
 "There will be to spare in a few minutes," answered 
 Barebone, and the monosyllabic Jean gave an acquiescent 
 grunt. 
 
 " Luggage first," said Barebone, lapsing into the curt- 
 ness of the sea. " Come along. Let us make haste." 
 
 They stumbled on board as best they could, and were 
 guided to a safe place amidships by Loo, who had thrown a 
 spare sail on the bottom of the boat. 
 
 " As low as you can," he said. " Crouch down. Cover 
 yourselves with this. Right over your heads." 
 
 " But why ? " grumbled Marie. 
 
 " Listen," was all the answer he gave her. And as he 
 spoke, the storm rushed upon them like a train, with the 
 roar and whirl of a locomotive. 
 
 Loo jumped aft to the tiller. In the rush of the hail, 
 they heard him give a sharp order to Jean, who must have 
 had some knowledge of the sea, for he obeyed at once, and 
 the boat, set free, lurched forward with a flap of her sail, 
 which, was like the report of a cannon. For a moment, all 
 seemed confusion and flapping chaos, then came a sense of 
 tenseness, and the boat heeled over with a swish, which 
 added a hundred-weight of solid water to the beating of the 
 hail on the spare sail, beneath which the women crouched. 
 
 "What? Did you speak?" shouted Loo, putting his 
 face close to the canvas. 
 
 " It is only Marie calling on the saints," was the 
 answer, in Juliette's laughing voice. 
 
 In a few minutes it was over ; and, even at the back of 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL 119 
 
 the winds, could be heard the retreat of the hail as it 
 crashed onward toward the valleys of which every slope is a 
 named vineyard, to beat down in a few wild moments the 
 result of careful toil and far-sighted expenditure ; to wipe 
 out that which is unique, which no man can replace the 
 vintage of a year. 
 
 When the hail ceased beating on it, Juliette pushed 
 back the soaked canvas, which had covered them like a roof, 
 and lifted her face to the cooler air. The boat was rushing 
 through the water, and close to Juliette's cheek, just above 
 the gunwale, rose a curved wave, green and white, and all 
 shimmering with phosphorescence, which seemed to hover 
 like a hawk above its prey. 
 
 The aftermath of the storm was flying overhead in riven 
 ribbons of cloud, through which the stars were already 
 peeping. To the westward the sky was clear, and against 
 the last faint glow of the departed sun the lightning ran 
 hither and thither, skipping and leaping, without sound or 
 cessation, like fairies dancing. 
 
 Immediately overhead, the sail creaked and tugged at 
 its earings, while the wind sang its high clear song round 
 mast and halliards. 
 
 Juliette turned to look at Barebone. He was standing, 
 ankle deep, in w T ater, leaning backward to windward, in 
 order to give the boat every pound of weight he could. The 
 lambent summer-lightning on the western horizon illuminated 
 his face fitfully. In that moment Juliette saw what is 
 given to few to see and realise though sailors, perforce, lie 
 down to sleep knowing it every night that under Heaven 
 her life was wholly and solely in the two hands of a fellow- 
 being. She knew it, and saw that Barebone knew it, 
 though he never glanced at her. She saw the whites of his 
 eyes gleaming as he looked up, from moment to moment, to 
 
120 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 the head of the sail and stooped again to peer under the foot 
 of it into the darkness ahead. He braced himself, with one 
 foot against the thwart, to haul in a few inches of sheet, to 
 which the clumsy boat answered immediately. Marie was 
 praying aloud now, and when she opened her eyes the sight 
 of the tossing figure in the stern of the boat suddenly 
 turned her terror into anger. 
 
 " Ah ! " she cried, " that Jean is a fool. And he, who 
 pretends to have been a fisherman when he was young to 
 let us come to our deaths like this ! " 
 
 She lifted her head, and ducked it again, as a sea 
 jumped up under the bow and rattled into the boat. 
 
 " I see no ship," she cried. " Let us go back, if we can. 
 Name of God ! we shall be drowned ! I see no ship, I tell 
 you ! " 
 
 " But I do," answered Barebone, shaking the water from 
 his face, for he had no hand to spare. " But I do, which is 
 more important. And you are not even wet ! " 
 
 And he laughed as he brought the boat up into the wind 
 for a few seconds, to meet a wild gust. Juliette turned in 
 surprise at the sound of his voice. In the safe and gentle 
 seclusion of the convent-school no one had thought to teach 
 her that death may be faced with equanimity by others than 
 the ordained of the Church, and that in the storm and 
 stress of life men laugh in strange places and at odd times. 
 
 Loo was only thinking of his boat and watching the 
 sky for the last of the storm that smack, as it were, in the 
 face with which the Atlantic ends those black squalls that 
 she sends us, not without thunder and the curtailed light- 
 ning of northern seas. He was planning and shaping his 
 course ; for the watchers on board " The Last Hope " had 
 already seen him, as he could ascertain by a second light, 
 which suddenly appeared, swung low, casting a gleam across 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL 121 
 
 the surf -strewn water, to show him where the ladder hung 
 overside. 
 
 "Tell Monsieur de Gemosac that I have Mademoiselle 
 and her maid here in the boat," Barebone called out to 
 Captain Clubbe, whose large face loomed above the lantern 
 he was holding overside, as he made fast the rope that had 
 been thrown across his boat and lowered the dripping sail. 
 The water was smooth enough under the lee of " The Last 
 Hope," which, being deeply laden, lay motionless at her 
 anchor, with the stream rustling past her cables. 
 
 "Stand up, mademoiselle," said Barebone, himself 
 balanced on the after-thwart. " Hold on to me, thus, and 
 when I let you go, let yourself go." 
 
 There was no time to protest or to ask questions. And 
 Juliette felt herself passed on from one pair of strong arms 
 to another, until she was standing on the deck under the 
 humming rigging, surrounded by men who seemed huge in 
 their gleaming oil-skins. 
 
 " This way, mademoiselle," said one, who was even 
 larger than the others, in English, of which she understood 
 enough to catch his meaning. "I will take you to your 
 father. Show a light this way, one of you." 
 
 His fingers closed round her arm, and he led her, un- 
 conscious of a strength that almost lifted her from her feet, 
 toward an open door, where a lamp burnt dimly within. It 
 smelt abominably of an untrimmed wick, Juliette thought, 
 and the next minute she was kissing her father, who lay full 
 length on a locker in the little cabin. 
 
 She asked him a hundred questions, and waited for few 
 of the answers. Indeed, she supplied most of them herself ; 
 for she was very quick and gay. 
 
 " I see," she cried, " that your foot has been tied up by 
 a sailor. He has tried to mend it as if it were a broken 
 
122 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 spar. I suppose that was the Captain who brought me to 
 you, and then ran away again, as soon as he could. Yes ; 
 I have Marie with me. She is telling them to be careful 
 with the luggage. I can hear her. I am so glad we had 
 a case of fever at the school. It was a lay sister, a stupid 
 woman. But how lucky that I should be at home just when 
 you wanted me ! " 
 
 She stood upright again, after deftly loosening the 
 bandage round her father's ankle, and looked at him and 
 laughed. 
 
 " Poor, dear old papa," she said. " One sees that you 
 want some one to take care of you. And this cabin oh ! 
 mon Dieu I how bare and uncomfortable ! I suppose men 
 have to go to sea alone because they can persuade no woman 
 to go with them." 
 
 She pounced upon her father again, and arranged afresh 
 the cushions behind his back, with a little air of patronage 
 and protection. Her back was turned toward the door, 
 when some one came in, but she heard the approaching steps 
 and looked quickly round the cabin walls. 
 
 " Heavens ! " she exclaimed, in a gay whisper. " No 
 looking-glass 1 One sees that it is only men who live here." 
 
 And she turned, with smiling eyes and a hand upraised 
 to her disordered hair, to note the new-comer. It was 
 Dormer Colville, who laid aside his waterproof as he came 
 and greeted her as an old friend. He had, indeed, known 
 her since her early childhood, and had always succeeded in 
 keeping pace with her, even in the rapid changes of her last 
 year at school. 
 
 " Here is an adventure," he said, shaking hands. " But 
 I can see that you have taken no harm, and have not even 
 been afraid. For us, it is a pleasant surprise." 
 
 He glanced at her with a smiling approbation, not 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL 123 
 
 without a delicate suggestion of admiration, such as he 
 might well permit himself, and she might now even consider 
 her due. He was only keeping pace. 
 
 " I stayed behind to initiate your maid, who is, of 
 course, unused to a ship, and the steward speaks but little 
 French. But now they are arranging your cabin together." 
 
 " How delightful ! " cried Juliette. " I have never been 
 on a ship before, you know. And it is all so strange and so 
 nice. All those big men, like wet ghosts, who said nothing ! 
 I think they are more interesting than women ; perhaps it 
 is because they talk less." 
 
 " Perhaps it is," admitted Colville, with a sudden gravity, 
 similar to that with which she had made the suggestion. 
 
 " You should hear the Sisters talk when they are 
 allowed," she said, confidentially. 
 
 " And whisper when they are not. I can imagine it," 
 laughed Colville. " But now you have left all that behind, 
 and have come out into the world of men, one may say. 
 And you have begun at once with an adventure." 
 
 " Yes ! And we are going to Bordeaux, papa and I, 
 until his foot is well again. Of course, I was in despair 
 when I was first told of it, but now that I see him I am no 
 longer anxious. And your messenger assured me that it was 
 not serious." 
 
 She paused to look round the cabin, to make sure that 
 they were alone. 
 
 " How strange he is ! " she said to both her hearers, in 
 confidence, looking from one to the other with a quick, bird- 
 like turn of the head and bright eyes. " I have never seen 
 any one like him." 
 
 " No ? " said Dormer Colville, encouragingly. 
 
 " He said he was an Englishman ; but, of course, he 
 is not. He is French, and has not the manner of a bourgeois 
 
124 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 or a sailor. He has the manner of an aristocrat one 
 would say a Royalist like Albert de Chantonnay, only a 
 thousand times better." 
 
 " Yes," said Colville, glancing at Monsieur de Gemosac. 
 
 "More interesting, and so quick and amusing. He 
 spoke of a heritage in France, and yet he said he was an 
 Englishman. I hope he will secure his heritage." 
 
 " Yes," murmured Colville, still looking at Monsieur de 
 Gemosac. 
 
 " And then, when we were in the boat," continued 
 Juliette, still in confidence to them both, " he changed quite 
 suddenly. He was short and sharp. He ordered us to do 
 this and that ; and one did it, somehow, without question. 
 Even Marie obeyed him without hesitating, although she 
 was half mad with fear. We were in danger. I knew that. 
 Any one must have known it. And yet I was not afraid ; I 
 wonder why ? And he he laughed that was all. Mon 
 Dieu ! he was brave. I never knew that any one could be 
 so brave ! " 
 
 She broke off suddenly, with her finger to her lips ; for 
 some one had opened the cabin door. Captain Clubbe came 
 in, filling the whole cabin with his bulk, and on his heels 
 followed Loo Barebone, his face and hair still wet and 
 dripping. 
 
 "Mademoiselle was wondering," said Dormer Colville, 
 who, it seemed, was quick to step into that silence which 
 the object of a conversation is apt to cause " Mademoiselle 
 was wondering how it was that you escaped shipwreck in the 
 storm." 
 
 " Ah I because one has a star. Even a poor sailor may 
 have a star, mademoiselle. As well as the Prince Napoleon, 
 who boasts that he has one of the first magnitude, I under- 
 stand." 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL 125 
 
 " You are not a poor sailor, monsieur," said Juliette. 
 
 " Then who am I ? " he asked, with a gay laugh, spread- 
 ing out his hands and standing before them, beneath the 
 swinging lamp. 
 
 The Marquis de Gemosac raised himself on one elbow. 
 
 " I will tell you who you are, he said, in a low, quick 
 voice, pointing one hand at Loo. " I will tell yon." And 
 his voice rose. 
 
 " You are the grandson of Louis XYI. and Marie 
 Antoinette. You are the Last Hope of the French. That 
 is your heritage. Juliette ! this is the King of France ! " 
 
 Juliette turned and looked at him, with all the colour 
 gone from her face. Then, instinctively, she dropped on 
 one knee, and before he had understood, or could stop her, 
 had raised his hand to her lip3. 
 
CHAPTER XY 
 
 THE TURN OF THE TIDE 
 
 " Tide's a- turning, sir," said a voice at the open doorway 
 of the cabin, and Captain Clubbe turned his impassive face 
 toward Dormer Colville, who looked oddly white beneath 
 the light of the lamp. 
 
 Barebone had unceremoniously dragged his hand away 
 from the hold of Juliette's fingers. He made a step back 
 and then turned toward the door at the sound of his ship- 
 mate's well-known voice. He stood staring out into the 
 darkness like one who is walking in his sleep. No one 
 spoke, and through the open doorways no sound came to 
 them but the song of the wind through the rigging. 
 
 At last Barebone turned, and there was no sign of fear 
 or misgiving in his face. He looked at Clubbe, and at no 
 one else, as if the Captain and he were alone in the cabin 
 where they had passed so many years together in fair 
 weather, to bring out that w T hich is evil in a man, and foul, 
 to evolve the good. 
 
 " What do you say ? " he asked, in English, and he must 
 have known that Captain Clubbe understood French better 
 than he was ready to admit. 
 
 Clubbe passed his hand slowly across his cheek and chin, 
 not in order to gain time, or because he had not an answer 
 ready, but because he came of a slow-speaking race. His 
 
THE TURN OF THE TIDE 127 
 
 answer had been made ready weeks before while he sat on 
 the weather-beaten seat set against the wall of " The Black 
 Sailor " at Farlingford. 
 
 " Tide's turned," he answered, simply. " You'd better 
 get your oilskins on again and go." 
 
 " Yes," said Loo, with a queer laugh. " I fancy I shall 
 want my oilskins." 
 
 The boat which had been sent from Roy an, at the order 
 of the pilot, who went ashore there, had followed " The Last 
 Hope " up the river, and was now lying under the English 
 ship's stern awaiting her two passengers and the turn of the 
 tide. 
 
 Dormer Oolvillc glanced at the cabin clock. 
 
 " Then," he said, briskly, " let us be going. It will be 
 late enough as it is before we reach my cousin's house." 
 
 He turned and translated his remark for the benefit of 
 the Marquis and Juliette, remembering that they must needs 
 fail to understand a colloquy in the muttered and clipped 
 English of the east coast. He was nervously anxious, it 
 would appear, to tide over a difficult moment ; to give Loo 
 Barebone breathing space, and yet to avoid unnecessary 
 question and answer. He had not lived forty adventurous 
 years in the world without learning that it is the word too 
 much which wrecks the majority of human schemes. 
 
 Their preparations had been made beforehand in readi- 
 ness for the return of the tide, without the help of which 
 the voyage back to Royan against a contrary wind must 
 necessarily be long and wearisome. 
 
 There was nothing to wait for. Captain Clubbe was not 
 the man to prolong a farewell or waste his words in wishes 
 for the future, knowing how vain such must always be. 
 Loo was dazed still by the crash of the storm and the 
 tension of the effort to bring his boat safely through it. 
 
128 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 The rest had not fully penetrated to his inmost mind 
 yet. There had been only time to act, and none to think, 
 and when the necessity to act was past, when he found 
 himself crouching down under the weather gunwale of the 
 French fishing-boat without even the necessity of laying hand 
 on sheet or tiller, when, at last, he had time to think, he found 
 that the ability to do so was no longer his. For Fortune, 
 when she lifts up or casts down, usually numbs the under- 
 standing at the first turn of her wheel, sending her victim 
 staggering on his way a mere machine, astonishingly alive 
 to the necessity of the immediate moment, careful of the 
 next step, but capable of looking neither forward nor back- 
 ward with an understanding eye. 
 
 The waning moon came up at last, behind a distant line 
 of trees on the Charente side, lighting up with a silver 
 lining the towering clouds of the storm, which was still 
 travelling eastward, leaving in its wake battered vines and 
 ruined crops, searing the face of the land as with a hot iron. 
 Loo lifted his head and looked round him. The owner of 
 the boat was at the tiller, while his assistant sat amidships, 
 his elbows on his knees, looking ahead with dreamy eyes. 
 Close to Barebone, crouching from the wind which blew cold 
 from the Atlantic, was Dormer Colville, affably silent. If 
 Loo turned to glance at him he looked away, but when his 
 back was turned Loo was conscious of watching eyes, full of 
 sympathy, almost uncomfortably quick to perceive the 
 inward working of another's mind, and suit his own thereto. 
 
 Thus the boat plunged out toward the sea and the 
 flickering lights that mark the channel, tacking right across 
 to that spit of land lying between the Gironde and the broad 
 Atlantic, where grows a wine without match in all the world. 
 Thus Loo Barebone turned his back on the ship which had 
 been his home so long and set out into a new world ; a new 
 
TEE TURN OF THE TIDE 129 
 
 and unknown life, with the Marquis de Gemosac's ringing 
 words buzzing in Ins brain yet ; with the warm touch of 
 Juliette's lips burning still upon his hand. 
 
 "You are the grandson of Louis XYI. and Marie 
 Antoinette ! You are the Last Hope of France ! " 
 
 And he remembered the lights and shadows on Juliette's 
 hair as he looked down upon her bent head. 
 
 Colville was talking to the " patron " now. He knew 
 the coast, it seemed, and, somewhere or other, had learnt 
 enough of such matters of local seafaring interest as to set 
 the fisherman at his ease and make him talk. 
 
 They were arranging where to land, and Colville was 
 describing the exact whereabouts of a little jetty used for 
 bathing purposes, which ran out from the sandy shore, quite 
 near to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's house, in the pine-trees, 
 two miles south of Royan. It was no easy matter to find 
 this spot by the dim light of a waning moon, and, half- 
 mechanically, Loo joined in the search, and presently, when 
 the jetty was reached, helped to make fast in a choppy sea. 
 
 They left the luggage on the jetty and walked across the 
 silent sand side by side. 
 
 " There," said Colville, pointing forward. " It is through 
 that opening in the pine-trees. A matter of five minutes 
 and we shall be at my cousin's house.'* 
 
 " It is very kind of Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence," answered 
 Barebone, " to well, to take me up. I suppose that is the 
 best way to look at it." 
 
 Colville laughed quietly. 
 
 " Yes put it thus, if you like," he said. They walked 
 on in silence for a few yards, and then Dormer Colville 
 slipped his hand within his companion's arm, as was the 
 fashion among men even in England in those more expansive 
 
 K 
 
130 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " I think I know how you feel," he said, suiting his step 
 to Barebone's. " You must feel like a man who is set down 
 to a table to play a game of which he knows nothing, and 
 on taking up his cards finds that he holds a hand all court- 
 cards and trumps and he doesn't know how to play them." 
 
 Barebone made no answer. He had yet to unlearn 
 Captain Clubbe's unconscious teaching that a man's feelings 
 are his own concern and no other has any interest or right 
 to share in them, except one woman, and even she must 
 guess the larger half. 
 
 "But as the game progresses," went on Colville, re- 
 assuringly, " you will find out how it is played. You will even 
 find that you are a skilled player, and then the gambler's 
 spirit will fire your blood and arouse your energies. You 
 will discover what a damned good game it is. The great 
 game Barebone the great game ! And France is the 
 country to play it in." 
 
 He stamped his foot on the soil of France as he spoke. 
 
 " The moment I saw you I knew that you would do. 
 No man better fitted to play the game than yourself ; for 
 you have wit and quickness," went on this friend and mentor, 
 with a little pressure on his companion's arm. " But you 
 will have to put your back into it, you know." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Well I noticed at Farlingford a certain reluctance to 
 begin. It is in the blood, I suppose. There is, you know, 
 in the Bourbon blood a certain strain of well, let us say of 
 reluctance to begin. Others call it by a different name. 
 One is not a Bourbon for nothing, I suppose. And every- 
 thing even if it be a vice that serves to emphasise identity 
 is to be cultivated. But, as I say, you will have to put your 
 back into it later on. At present there will be less to do. 
 You will have to play close and hold your hand, and follow 
 
THE TURN OP THE TIDE 131 
 
 any lead that is given you by de Gemosac, or by my humble 
 self. You will find that easy enough, I know. For you 
 have all a Frenchman's quickness to understand. And I 
 suppose to put it plainly as between men of the world - 
 now that you have had time to think it over you are not 
 afraid, Barebone ? " 
 
 " Oh no ! " laughed Barebone. " I am not afraid." 
 
 44 One is not a Barebone or a Bourbon for nothing, 11 
 observed Colville, in an aside to himself. " Gad ! I wish 
 I could say that I should not be afraid myself under similar 
 circumstances. My heart was in my mouth, I can tell you, 
 in that cabin when de Gemosac blurted it all out. It came 
 suddenly at the end, and well ! it rather hit one in the 
 wind. And, as I say, one is not a Bourbon for nothing. 
 You come into a heritage, eight hundred years old, of likes 
 and dislikes, of genius and incapacity, of an astounding 
 cleverness, and a preposterous foolishness without compare in 
 the history of dynasties. But that doesn^ matter nowadays. 
 This is a progressive age, you know ; even the Bourbons 
 cannot hold back the advance of the times. 11 
 
 44 I come into a heritage of friends and of enemies,* 1 said 
 Barebone, gaily " all ready made. That seems to me more 
 important. 11 
 
 " Gad ! you are right, 11 exclaimed Colville. " I said you 
 would do the moment I saw you step ashore at Farlingford. 
 You have gone right to the heart of the question at the first 
 bound. It is your friends and your enemies that will give 
 you trouble. 11 
 
 44 More especially my friends, 11 suggested Loo, with a 
 light laugh. 
 
 44 Eight again, 11 answered Colville, glancing at him side- 
 ways beneath the brim of his hat. And there was a little 
 pause before he spoke again. 
 
132 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " You have probably learnt how to deal with your enemies 
 at sea," he said thoughtfully at length. " Have you ever 
 noticed how an English ship comes into a foreign harbour 
 and takes her berth at her moorings ? There is nothing 
 more characteristic of the nation. And one captain is like 
 another. No doubt you have seen Clubbe do it a hundred 
 times. He comes in, all sail set, and steers straight for the 
 berth he has chosen. And there are always half a dozen 
 men in half a dozen small boats who go out to meet him. 
 They stand up and wave their arms, and point this way and 
 that. They ask a hundred questions, and with their hands 
 round their faces, shout their advice. And in answer to one 
 and the other the Captain looks over the side and says, 
 ' You be damned.' That will be the way to deal with some 
 of your friends and all your enemies alike, Barebone, if you 
 mean to get on in France. You will have to look over the 
 side at the people in small boats who are shouting and say, 
 4 You be damned.' " 
 
 They were at the gate of a house now, set down in a 
 clearing amid the pine-trees. 
 
 " This is my cousin's house," said Dormer Colville. " It 
 is to be your home for the present. And you need not 
 scruple, as she will tell you, to consider it so. It is not a 
 time to think of obligations, you understand, or to consider 
 that you are running into any one's debt. You may re- 
 member that afterward, perhaps, but that is as may be. 
 For the present there is no question of obligations. We are 
 all in the same boat all playing the same game." 
 
 And he laughed below his breath as he closed the gate 
 with caution ; for it was^ late and the house seemed to hold 
 none but sleepers. 
 
 " As for my cousin herself," he continued, as they went 
 toward the door, " you will find her easy to get on with a 
 
THE TURN OF THE TIDE 133 
 
 clever woman, and a good-looking one. Du rente it is not 
 in that direction that your difficulties will lie. You will 
 find it easy enough to get on with the women cf the party, 
 I fancy from what I have observed." 
 And again he seemed to be amused. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE GAMBLERS 
 
 In a sense, politics must always represent the game that is 
 most attractive to the careful gambler. For one may play 
 at it without having anything to lose. It is one of the few 
 games within the reach of the adventurous, where no stake 
 need be cast upon the table. The gambler who takes up a 
 political career plays to win or not to win. He may jump 
 up from the gutter and shout that he is the man of the 
 moment, without offering any proof of his assertion beyond 
 the loudness of a strident voice. And if no one listens to 
 him he loses nothing but his breath. 
 
 And in France the man who shouts loudest is almost 
 certain to have the largest following. In England the same 
 does not yet hold good, but the day seems to be approaching 
 when it will. 
 
 In France, ever since the great Revolution, men have 
 leapt up from the gutter to grasp the reins of power. Some, 
 indeed, have sprung from the gutter of a palace, which is no 
 more wholesome, it would appear, than the drain of any 
 street, or a ditch that carries off the refuse of a cheap Press. 
 
 There are certain rooms in the north wing of the Louvre, 
 in Paris, rooms having windows facing across the Rue de 
 Rivoli toward the Palais Royal, where men must have sat in 
 the comfortable leather-covered chair of the High Official 
 
THE GAMBLERS 135 
 
 and laughed at the astounding simplicity of the French 
 people. But he laughs best who laughs last, and the People 
 will assuredly be amused in a few months, or a few years, at 
 the very sudden and very humiliating discomfiture of a 
 gentleman falling face-foremost into the street or hanging 
 forlornly from a lamp-post at the corner of it. For some 
 have quitted these comfortable chairs, in these quiet double- 
 windowed rooms overlooking the Rue de Rivoli, for no 
 better fate. 
 
 It was in the August of 1850 that a stout gentleman, 
 seated in one of these comfortable chairs, succumbed so far 
 to the warmth of the palace corridors as to fall asleep. He 
 was not in the room of a high official, but in the waiting- 
 room attached to it. 
 
 He knew, moreover, that the High Official himself was 
 scarcely likely to dismiss a previous visitor or a present 
 occupation any the earlier for being importuned ; for he was 
 aware of the official's antecedents, and knew that a Jack-in- 
 office, who has shouted himself into office, is nearly always 
 careful to be deaf to other voices than his own. 
 
 Moreover, Mr. John Turner was never pressed for time. 
 
 " Yes," he had been known to say, " I was in Paris in 
 '48. Never missed a meal." 
 
 Whereas others, with much less at stake than this great 
 banker, had omitted not only meals, but their night's rest 
 night after night in those stirring times. 
 
 John Turner was still asleep when the door leading to 
 the Minister's room was cautiously opened, showing an 
 inner darkness such as prevails in an alcove between double 
 doors. The door opened a little wider. No doubt the 
 peeping eye had made sure that the occupant of the waiting- 
 room was asleep. On the threshold stood a man of middle 
 height, who carried himself with a certain grace and quiet 
 
136 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 dignity. He was pale almost to sallowness, a broad face 
 with a kind mouth and melancholy eyes, without any light 
 in them. The melancholy must have been expressed rather 
 by the lines of the brows than by the eye itself, for this was 
 without life or expression the eye of a man who is either 
 very short-sighted or is engaged in looking through that 
 which he actually sees, to something he fancies he perceives 
 beyond it. 
 
 His lips smiled, but the smile died beneath a neatly 
 waxed moustache and reached no higher on the mask-like 
 face. Then he disappeared in the outer darkness between 
 the two doors, and the handle made no noise in turning. 
 
 In a few minutes an attendant, in a gay uniform, came 
 in by the same door, without seeking to suppress the clatter 
 of his boots on the oak floor. 
 
 " Hola ! monsieur," he said, in a loud voice. And Mr. 
 John Turner crossed his legs and leant farther back in the 
 chair, preparatory to opening his eyes, which he did directly 
 on the new-comer's face, without any of that vague flitting 
 hither and thither of glance which usually denotes the 
 sleeper surprised. 
 
 The eyes were of a clear blue, and Mr. Turner looked 
 five years younger with them open than with them shut. 
 But he was immensely stout. 
 
 " Well, my friend," he said, soothingly ; for the Minister's 
 attendant had a truculent ministerial manner. "Why so 
 much noise ? " 
 
 " The Minister will see you." 
 
 John Turner yawned and reached for his hat. 
 
 " The Minister is pressed for time." 
 
 " So was I," replied the Englishman, who spoke perfect 
 French, " when I first sat down here, half an hour ago. But 
 even haste will pass in time." 
 
THE GAMBLERS 137 
 
 He rose, and followed the servant into the inner room, 
 where he returned the bow of a little white-bearded gentle- 
 man seated at a huge desk. 
 
 " Well, sir," said this gentleman, with the abrupt manner 
 which has come to be considered Napoleonic on the stage 
 " or in the political world " to-day. " Your business ? " 
 
 The servant had withdrawn, closing the door behind 
 him with an emphasis of the self -accusatory sort. 
 
 " I am a banker," replied John Turner, looking with an 
 obese deliberation toward one of the deep windows, where, 
 half-concealed by the heavy curtain, a third person stood 
 gazing down into the street. 
 
 The Minister smiled involuntarily, forgetting his dignity 
 of a two-years' growth. 
 
 " Oh, you may speak before Monsieur," he said. 
 
 " But I am behind him," was the immediate reply. 
 
 The gentleman leaning against the window-breast did 
 not accept tins somewhat obvious invitation to show his face. 
 He must have heard it, however, despite an absorption which 
 was probably chronic ; for he made a movement to follow 
 with his glance the passage of some object of interest in the 
 street below. And the movement seemed to supply John 
 Turner with the information he desired. 
 
 " Yes, I am a banker," he said, more genially. 
 
 The Minister gave a short laugh. 
 
 " Monsieur," he said, " every one in Europe knows that. 
 Proceed." 
 
 " And I only meddle in politics when I see the possibility 
 of making an honest penny." 
 
 " Already made that honest penny if one may believe 
 the gossip of Europe," said the Minister. " So many 
 pence that it is whispered that you do not know what to do 
 with them." 
 
138 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " It is unfortunate," admitted Turner, " that one can 
 only dine once a day." 
 
 The little gentleman in office had more than once invited 
 his visitor to be seated, indicating by a gesture the chair 
 placed ready for him. After a slow inspection of its legs, 
 Mr. John Turner now seated himself. It would seem that 
 he, at the same time, tacitly accepted the invitation to 
 ignore the presence of a third person. 
 
 "Since you seem to know all about me," he said, "I 
 will not waste any more of your time, or mine, by trying to 
 make you believe that I am eminently respectable. The 
 business that brought me here, however, is of a political 
 nature. A plain man, like myself, only touches politics 
 when he sees his gain clearly. There are others who enter 
 that field from purer motives, I am told. I have not met 
 them." 
 
 The Minister smiled on one side of his face, and all of it 
 went white. He glanced uncomfortably at that third person, 
 whom he had suggested ignoring. 
 
 " And yet," went on John Turner, very dense or greatly 
 daring, " I have lived many years in France, Monsieur le 
 Ministre." 
 
 The Minister frowned at him, and made a quick gesture 
 of one hand toward the window. 
 
 " So long," pursued the Englishman, placidly, " as the 
 trains start punctually, and there is not actually grape-shot 
 in the streets, and one may count upon one's dinner at the 
 hour, one form of government in this country seems to me 
 to be as good as another, Monsieur le Ministre. A Bourbon 
 Monarchy or an Orleans Monarchy, or a Republic, or well, 
 an Empire, Monsieur le Ministre." 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! have you come here to tell me this ? " cried 
 the Minister, impatiently, glancing over his shoulder toward 
 
THE GAMBLERS 139 
 
 the window, and with one hand already stretched out toward 
 the little bell standing on his desk. 
 
 "Yes," answered Turner, leaning forward to draw the 
 bell out of reach. He nodded his head with a friendly smile, 
 and his fat cheeks shook. " Yes, and other things as well. 
 Some of those other matters are perhaps even more worthy 
 of your earnest attention. It is worth your while to listen. 
 More especially, as you are paid for it by the hour." 
 
 He laughed inside himself, with a hollow sound, and 
 placidly crossed his legs. 
 
 " Yes ; I came to tell you, firstly, that the present form 
 of government, and, er any other form which may evolve 
 from it " 
 
 " Oh ! proceed, monsieur ! " exclaimed the Minister, 
 hastily, while the man in the recess of the window turned 
 and looked over his shoulder at John Turner's profile with 
 a smile, not unkind, on his sphinx-like face. 
 
 " has the inestimable advantage of my passive approval. 
 That is why I am here, in fact. I should be sorry to see it 
 upset." 
 
 He broke off, and turned laboriously in his chair to look 
 toward the window, as if the gaze of the expressionless eyes 
 there had tickled the back of his neck like a fly. But by 
 the time the heavy banker had got round, the curtain had 
 fallen again in its original folds. 
 
 " by a serious Royalist plot," concluded Turner, in his 
 thick, deliberate way. 
 
 "So, assuredly, would any patriot or any true friend 
 of France," said the Minister, in his best declamatory 
 manner. 
 
 "Um m. That is out of my depth," returned the 
 Englishman, bluntly. " I paddle about in the shallow water 
 at the edge and pick up what I can, you understand. I am 
 
140 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 too fab for a voyant bathing-costume, and the deep waters 
 beyond, Monsieur le Ministre." 
 
 The Minister drummed impatiently on his desk with his 
 five fingers, and looked at Turner sideways beneath his 
 brows. 
 
 " Royalist plots are common enough," he said, tentatively, 
 after a pause. 
 
 " Not a Royalist plot with money in it," was the retort. 
 " I dare say an honest politician, like yourself, is aware that 
 in France it is always safe to ignore the conspirator who has 
 no money, and always dangerous to treat with contempt him 
 who jingles a purse. There is only a certain amount of 
 money in the world, Monsieur le Ministre, and we bankers 
 usually know where it is. I do not mean the money that 
 the world pours into its own stomach. That is always afloat 
 changing hands daily. I mean the Great Reserves. We 
 watch those, you understand. And if one of the Great 
 Reserves, or even one of the smaller reserves, moves, we 
 wonder why it is being moved and we nearly always find 
 out." 
 
 " One supposes," said the Minister, hazarding an opinion 
 for the first time, and he gave it with a sidelong glance 
 toward the window, " that it is passing from the hands of a 
 financier possessing money into those of one who has none." 
 
 " Precisely. And if a financier possessing money is per- 
 suaded to part with it in such a quarter as you suggest, one 
 may conclude that he has good reason to anticipate a sub- 
 stantial return for the loan. You, who are a brilliant 
 collaborateur in the present government, should know that, 
 if any one does, Monsieur le Ministre." 
 
 The Minister glanced toward the window, and then gave 
 a good-natured and encouraging laugh, quite unexpectedly, 
 just as if he had been told to do so by the silent man looking 
 
THE GAMBLERS 141 
 
 down into the street, who may, indeed, have had time to 
 make a gesture. 
 
 " And," pursued the banker, " if a financier possessing 
 money parts with it or, to state the case more particularly, 
 if a financier possessing no money, to my certain knowledge, 
 suddenly raises it from nowhere definite, for the purposes of 
 a Royalist conspiracy, the natural conclusion is that the 
 Royalists have got hold of something good." 
 
 John Turner leant back in his chair and suppressed a 
 yawn. 
 
 u This room is very warm," he said, producing a pocket- 
 handkerchief. Which was tantamount to a refusal to say 
 more. 
 
 The Minister twisted the end of his moustache in reflec- 
 tion. It was at this time the fashion in France to wear the 
 moustache waxed. Indeed, men displayed thus their political 
 bias to all whom it might concern. 
 
 u There remains nothing," said the official at length, 
 with a gracious smile, " but to ask your terms." 
 
 For he who was afterward Napoleon the Third had 
 introduced into French political and social life a plain- 
 spoken cynicism which characterises both to this day. 
 
 " Easy," replied Turner. " You will find them easy. 
 Firstly, I would ask that your stupid secret police keeps its 
 fingers out ; secondly, that leniency be assured to one person, 
 a client of mine the woman who supplies the money who 
 is under the influence well, that influence which makes 
 women do nobler and more foolish things, monsieur, than 
 men are capable of." 
 
 He rose as he spoke, collected his hat and stick, and 
 walked slowly to the door. With his hand on the handle, 
 he paused. 
 
 " You can think about it," he said, " and let me know 
 
142 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 at your leisure. By the way, there is one more point, 
 Monsieur le Ministre. I would ask you to let this matter 
 remain a secret, known only to our two selves and the 
 Prince President." 
 
 And John Turner went out, without so much as a glance 
 toward the window, 
 
CHAPTEK XVII 
 
 ON THE PONT ROYAL 
 
 It would appear that John Turner had business south of the 
 Seine, though his clients were few in the Faubourg St. 
 Germain. For this placid British banker was known to be 
 a good hater. His father before him, it was said, had had 
 dealings with the Bourbons, while many a great family of 
 the Emigration would have lost more than the esteem of 
 their fellows in their panic-stricken flight, had it not been 
 that one cool-headed and calm man of business stayed at his 
 post through the topsy-turvy days of the Terror, and did his 
 duty by the clients whom he despised. 
 
 On quitting the Louvre, by the door facing the Palais 
 Royal, Turner moved to the left. To say that he walked 
 would be to overstate the action of his little stout legs, which 
 took so short a stride that his progress suggested wheels and 
 some one pushing behind. He turned to the left again, and 
 ambled under the great arch, to take the path passing behind 
 the Tuileries. 
 
 His stoutness was, in a sense, a safeguard in streets where 
 the travelling Englishman, easily recognised, has not always 
 found a welcome. His clothes and his walk were studiously 
 French. Indeed, no one, passing by with a casual glance, 
 would have turned to look a second time at a figure so 
 typical of the Paris streets. 
 
 Mr. Turner quitted the enclosure of the Tuileries gardens 
 
144 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 and crossed the quay toward the Pont Royal. But he 
 stopped short under the trees by the river wall, with a low 
 whistle of surprise. Crossing the bridge, toward him, and 
 carrying a carpet-bag of early Victorian design, was Mr. 
 Septimus Marvin, rector of Farlingford, in Suffolk. 
 
 After a moment's thought, John Turner went toward the 
 bridge, and stationed himself on the pavement at the corner. 
 The pavement is narrow, and Turner was wide. In order to 
 pass him, Septimus Marvin would need to step into the 
 road. This he did, without resentment ; with, indeed, a 
 courtly and vague inclination of the head toward the human 
 obstruction. 
 
 " Look here, Sep," said Turner, " you are not going to 
 pass an old schoolfellow like that." 
 
 Septimus Marvin lurched onward one or two steps, with 
 long loose strides. Then he clutched his carpet-bag with both 
 hands and looked back at his interlocutor, with the scared 
 eyes of a detected criminal. This gave place to the habitual 
 gentle smile when, at last, the recognition was complete. 
 
 " What have you got there ? " asked Turner, pointing 
 with his stick at the carpet-bag. " A kitten ? " 
 
 " No no," replied Marvin, looking this way and that, 
 to make sure that none could overhear. 
 
 " A Nanteuil engraved from his own drawing, Jack 
 a real Nanteuil. I have just been to a man I know the 
 print-shop opposite the statue on the Quai Yoltaire to have 
 my own opinion verified. I was sure of it. He says that 
 I am undoubtedly right. It is a genuine Nanteuil a proof 
 before letters." 
 
 " Ah ! And you have just picked it up cheap ? Picked 
 it up, eh ? " 
 
 " No, no, quite the contrary," Marvin replied, in a confi- 
 dential whisper. 
 
ON THE PONT ROYAL 145 
 
 " Stolen dear, dear! I am sorry to hear that, 
 Septimus." ; 
 
 I And Septimus Marvin broke into the jerky, spasmodic 
 laugh of one who has not laughed for long perhaps for 
 years." 
 
 " Ah, Jack," he said ; " you are still up to a joke." 
 
 "Well, I should hope so. We are quite close to my 
 club. Come, and have luncheon, and tell me all about it." 
 
 So the Social and Sporting Club, renowned at that day 
 for its matchless cuisine and for nothing else of good repute 
 at all, entertained an angel unawares, and was much amused 
 at Septimus Marvin's appearance, although the amusement 
 was not apparent. The members, it would appear, were 
 gentlemen of that "good school of old France which, like 
 many good things both French and English, is fast dis- 
 appearing. And with all those faults, which we are so 
 ready to perceive in any Frenchman, there is none on earth 
 who will conceal from you so effectually the fact that in his 
 heart he is vastly amused. 
 
 It was with some difficulty that Septimus was persuaded 
 to consign his carpet-bag to the custody of the hall-porter. 
 
 " If it wasn't a Nanteuil," he explained in a whisper to 
 his friend, " I should have no hesitation ; for I am sure the 
 man is honest and in every way to be relied upon. But a 
 Nanteuil ad vivum Jack. There are none like him. It 
 is priceless." 
 
 " You used not to be a miser," said Turner, panting on 
 the stairs, when at last the bag was concealed in a safe 
 place. "What matter what the value may be, so long as 
 you like it ? " 
 
 " Oh ! but the value is of great importance," answered 
 Septimus, rather sheepishly. 
 
 " Then you have changed a good deal since you and I 
 
 L 
 
146 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 were afc Ipswich school together. There, sit down at this 
 table. I suppose you are hungry. I hope you are. Try 
 and think there's a good fellow and remember that they 
 have the best cook in Paris here. Their morals ain't of the 
 first water, but their cook is without match. Yes, you have 
 changed a good deal, if you think of money." 
 
 Septimus Marvin had changed colour, at all events, in 
 the last few minutes. 
 
 " I have to, Jack, I have to. That is the truth of it. 
 I have come to Paris to sell that Nanteuil. To realise, T 
 suppose you would call it in the financial world. Pro aris 
 et focis, old friend. I want money for the altar and the 
 hearth. It has come to that. I cannot ask them in 
 Farlingford for more money, for I know they have none. 
 And the church is falling about our ears. The house wants 
 painting. It is going the way of the church, indeed." 
 
 " Ah I " said Turner, glancing at him over the bill of 
 fare. " So you have to sell an engraving. It goes to the 
 heart, I suppose ? " 
 
 Marvin laughed and rubbed his spare hands together, 
 with an assumption of cheerfulness in which some one less 
 stout and well-to-do than his companion might have perceived 
 that dim minor note of pathos, which always rings somewhere 
 in a forced laugh. 
 
 " One has to face it," he replied. " Ne cedas malis, you 
 know. I suddenly found it was necessary. It was forced 
 upon me, in fact. I found that my niece was secretly help- 
 ing to make both ends meet. A generous action, made 
 doubly generous by the manner in which it was performed." 
 
 " Miriam ? " put in John Turner, who appeared to be 
 absorbed in the all-important document before him. 
 
 " Yes, Miriam. Do you know her ? Ah ! I forgot. 
 You are her guardian and trustee. I sometimes think my 
 
ON THE PONT EOYAL 147 
 
 memory is failing. I found her out quite by accident. It 
 must have been going on for quite a long time. Heaven 
 will reward her, Turner ! One cannot doubt it." 
 
 He absent-mindedly seized two pieces of bread from the 
 basket offered to him by a waiter, and began to eat as if 
 famished. 
 
 " Steady, man, steady," exclaimed Turner, leaning forward 
 with a horror-stricken face to restrain him. " Don't spoil a 
 grand appetite on bread. Gad ! I wish I could fall on my 
 food like that. You seem to be starving." 
 
 " I think I forgot to have any breakfast," said Marvin, 
 apologetically. 
 
 " I dare say you did ! " was the angry retort. " You 
 always were a bit of an ass, you know, Sep. But I have 
 ordered a tiptop luncheon, and I'll trouble you not to wolf 
 like that." 
 
 "Well well, I'm sorry," said the other, who, even in 
 the far-off days at Ipswich school, had always been in the 
 clouds, while John Turner moved essentially on the earth. 
 
 " And do not sell that Nanteuil to the first bidder," went 
 on Turner, with a glance, of which the keenness was entirely 
 disarmed by the good-natured roundness of his huge cheeks. 
 " I know a man who will buy it at a good price, too. 
 "Where did you get it ? " 
 
 " Ah ! that is a long story," replied Marvin, looking 
 dreamily out of the window. " I bought it, years ago, at 
 Farlingford. But it is a long story." 
 
 11 Then tell it, slowly. While I eat this sole a la Nor- 
 mande. I see r you've nearly finished yours, and I have 
 scarcely begun." 
 
 It was a vague and disjointed enough story, as related 
 by Septimus Marvin. And it was the story of Loo Bare- 
 bone's father. As it progressed John Turner grew redder 
 
148 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 and redder in the face, while he drank glass after glass of 
 Burgundy. 
 
 " A queer story," he ejaculated, breathlessly. " Go on. 
 And you bought this engraving from the man himself, before 
 he died ? Did he tell you where he got it ? It is the 
 portrait of a woman, you say." 
 
 " Portrait of a woman yes, yes. But he did not know 
 who she was. And I do not know whether I gave him 
 enough for it. Do you think I did, Jack ? " 
 
 " I do not know how much you gave him, but I have no 
 doubt that it was too much. Where did he get it ? " 
 
 " He thinks it was brought from France by his mother, 
 or the woman who was supposed in Farlingford to be his 
 mother together with other papers, which he burnt, I 
 believe." 
 
 " And then he died ? " 
 
 " Yes yes. He died but he left a son." 
 
 " The devil he did ! Why did you not mention that 
 before ? Where is the son ? Tell me all about him, while 
 I see how they've served this langw fourree, which should 
 be eaten slowly ; though it is too late to remind you of that 
 now. Go on. Tell me all about the son." 
 
 And before the story of Loo Barebone was half told, 
 John Turner laid aside his knife and fork and turned his 
 attention to the dissection of this ill-told tale. As the story 
 neared its end, he glanced round the room, to make sure that 
 none was listening to their conversation. 
 
 " Dormer Colville," he repeated. " Does he come into 
 it?" 
 
 " He came to Farlingford with the Marquis de Gemosac, 
 out of pure good-nature because the Marquis could speak 
 but little English. He is a charming man. So unselfish 
 and disinterested." 
 
ON THE PONT ROYAL 149 
 
 "Who? The Marquis?" 
 
 "No; Dormer Colville." 
 
 "Oh yes!" said John Turner, returning to the cold 
 tongue. " Yes ; a charming fellow." 
 
 And he glanced again at his friend, with a queer smile. 
 When luncheon was finished, Turner led the way to a small 
 smoking-room, where they would be alone, and sent a 
 messenger to fetch Septimus Marvin's bag from downstairs. 
 
 " We will have a look at your precious engraving," he 
 said, " while we smoke a cigar. It is, I suppose, a relic of 
 the Great Monarchy, and I may tell you that there is rather 
 a small demand just now for relics of that period. It would 
 be wiser not to take it into the open market. I think my 
 client would give you as good a price as any ; and I suppose 
 you want to get as much as you can for it now that you 
 have made up your mind to the sacrifice ? " 
 
 Marvin suppressed a sigh, and rubbed his hands together 
 with that forced jocularity which had made his companion 
 turn grave once before. 
 
 " Oh, I mean to drive a hard bargain, I can tell you ! " 
 was the reply, with an assumption of worldly wisdom on 
 a countenance little calculated to wear that expression 
 naturally. 
 
 " What did your friend in the print-shop on the Quai 
 Voltaire mention as a probable price ? " asked Turner, 
 carelessly. 
 
 " Well, he said he might be able to sell it for me at four 
 thousand francs. I would not hear of his running any risk 
 in the matter, however. Such a good fellow, he is. So 
 honest." 
 
 "Yes, he is likely to be that," said Turner, with his 
 broad smile. He was a little sleepy after a heavy luncheon, 
 and sipped his coffee with a feeling of charity toward his 
 
150 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 fellow-men. "You would find lots of honest men in the* 
 Quai Voltaire, Sep. I will tell you what I will do. Give 
 me the print, and I will do my best for you. Would ten 
 thousand francs help you out of your difficulties'? " 
 
 " I do not remember saying that I was in difficulties," 
 objected the Reverend Septimus, with heightened colour. 
 
 " Don't you ? Memory is bad, is it not ? Would ten 
 thousand francs paint the rectory, then ? " 
 
 " It would ease my mind and sweeten my sleep at night 
 to have half that sum, my friend. With two hundred 
 pounds I could face the world cvquo animo" 
 
 " I will see what I can do. This is the print, is it ? I 
 don't know much about such things myself, but I should 
 put the price down at ten thousand francs." 
 
 " But the man in the Quai Voltaire ? " 
 
 " Precisely. I know little about prints, but a lot about 
 the Quai Voltaire. Who is the lady ? I presume it is a 
 portrait ? " 
 
 "It is a portrait, but I cannot identify the original 
 To an expert of that period it should not be impossible, 
 however. 1 " Septimus Marvin was all awake now, with 
 flushed cheeks and eyes brightened by enthusiasm. "Do 
 you know why ? Because her hair is dressed in a peculiar 
 way poufs de sentiment, these curls are called. They were 
 only worn for a brief period. In those days the writings of 
 Jean Jacques Rousseau had a certain vogue among the idle 
 classes. The women showed their sentiments in the dressing 
 of their hair. Very curious very curious. And here, in 
 the hair, half-concealed, is an imitation dove's nest." 
 
 " The deuce there is 1 " ejaculated Turner, pulling at his 
 cigar. 
 
 " A fashion which ruled for a still briefer period." 
 
 " I should hope so. Well, roll the thing up, and I will 
 
ON THE PONT ROYAL 151 
 
 do my best for yon. I'm less likely to be taken in than 
 you are, perhaps. If I sell it, I will send you a cheque this 
 evening. It is a beautiful face." 
 
 "Yes," agreed Septimus Marvin, with a sharp sigh. 
 " It is a beautiful face." 
 
 And he slowly rolled up his most treasured possession, 
 which John Turner tucked under his arm. On the Pont 
 Royal they parted company. 
 
 " By the way," said John Turner, after they had shaken 
 hands, "You never told me what sort of a man this young 
 fellow is tins Loo Barebone ? " 
 
 "The dearest fellow in the world," answered Marvin, 
 with eyes aglow behind his spectacles. " To me he has been 
 as a son an elder brother, as it were, to little Sep. I was 
 already an elderly man, you know, when Sep was born. Too 
 old, perhaps. Who knows ? Heaven's way is not always 
 marked very clearly." 
 
 He nodded vaguely and went away a few paces. Then 
 he remembered something and came back. 
 
 " I don't know if I ought to speak of such a thing. Bub 
 I quite hoped, at one time, that Miriam might one day 
 recognise his goodness of heart." 
 
 " What ? " interrupted Turner. " The mate of a coasting 
 schooner ! " 
 
 "He is more than that, my friend," answered Septimus 
 Marvin, nodding his head slowly, so that the sun flashed on 
 his spectacles in such a manner as to make Turner blink. 
 Then he turned away again and crossed the bridge, leaving 
 the English banker at the corner of it, still blinking. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE CITY THAT SOON FORGETS 
 
 There are in humble life some families which settle their 
 domestic differences on the doorstep, while the neighbours, 
 gathered hastily by the commotion, tiptoe behind each other 
 to watch the fun. In the European congerie France repre- 
 sents this loud-voiced household, and Paris Paris, the city 
 that soon forgets is the doorstep whereon they wrangle. 
 
 The bones of contention may be pitched far and wide by 
 the chances and changes of exile, but the contending dogs 
 bark and yap in Paris. At this time there lived, sometimes 
 in Italy, sometimes at Frohsdorf, a jovial young gentleman, 
 fond of sport and society, cultivating the tastes and enjoying 
 the easy existence of a country-gentleman of princely rank 
 the Comte de Chambord. Son of that Duchesse de Berri 
 who tried to play a great part and failed, he was married to 
 an Italian princess and had no children. He was, therefore, 
 the last of the Bourbons, and passed in Europe as such. 
 But he did not care. Perhaps his was the philosophy of the 
 indolent which saith that some one must be last and why 
 not I ? 
 
 Nevertheless, there ran in his veins some energetic blood. 
 On his father's side he was descended from sixty-six kings of 
 France. From his mother he inherited a relationship to 
 many makers of history. For the Duchesse de Berri's grand- 
 mother was the sister of Marie Antoinette. Her mother was 
 
THE CITY THAT SOON FOKGETS 153 
 
 aunt to that Empress of the French, Marie Louise, who was 
 a notable exception to the rule that " Bon sang ne peut 
 mentir." Her father was a king of Sicily and Naples. 
 She was a Bourbon married to a Bourbon. When she was 
 nineteen she gave birth to a daughter, who died next day. 
 In a year she had a son who died in twenty hours. Two 
 years later her husband died in her arms, assassinated, in a 
 back room of the Opera House in Paris. 
 
 Seven months after her husband's death she gave birth 
 to the Comte de Chambord, the last of the old Bourbons. 
 She was active, energetic and of boundless courage. She 
 made a famous journey through La Vendee on horseback to 
 rally the Royalists. She urged her father-in-law, Charles X., 
 to resist the revolution. She was the best Royalist of them 
 all. And her son was the Comte de Chambord, who could have 
 been a king if he had not been a philosopher, or a coward. 
 
 He was waiting till France called him with one voice. 
 As if France had ever called for anything with one voice ! 
 
 Amid the babel there rang out not a few voices for the 
 younger branch of the Royal line the Orleans. Louis 
 Philippeking for eighteen years was still alive, living in 
 exile at Claremont. Two years earlier, in the rush of the 
 revolution of 1848, he had effected his escape to Newhaven. 
 The Orleans always seek a refuge in England, and always 
 turn and abuse that country when they can go elsewhere in 
 safety. And England is not one penny the worse for their 
 abuse, and no man or country was ever yet one penny the 
 better for their friendship. 
 
 Louis Philippe had been called to the throne by the 
 people of France. His reign of eighteen years was marked 
 by one great deed. He threw open the Palace of Versailles 
 which was not his to the public. And then the people 
 who called him in, hooted him out. His life had been 
 
154 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 attempted many times. All the other kings hated him and 
 refused to let their daughters marry his sons. He and his 
 sons were waiting at Claremont while the talkers in Paris 
 talked their loudest. 
 
 There was a third bone of contention the Imperial line. 
 At this time the champions of this morsel were at the 
 summit ; for a Bonaparte was riding on the top of the 
 revolutionary scrimmage. 
 
 By the death of the great Napoleon's only child, the 
 second son of his third brother became the recognised claimant 
 to the Imperial crown. 
 
 For France has long ceased to look to the eldest son as 
 the rightful heir. There is, in fact, a curse on the first-born 
 of France. Napoleon's son, the King of Rome, died in exile, 
 an Austrian. The Due de Bordeaux, born eight years after 
 him, never wore the crown, and died in exile, childless. The 
 Comte de Paris, born also at the Tuileries, was exiled when 
 he was ten years old, and died in England. All these, of 
 one generation. And of the next, the Prince Imperial, 
 hurried out of France in 1870, perished on the Yeldt. The 
 King of Rome lies in his tomb at Vienna, the Due de 
 Bordeaux at Goritz, the Comte de Paris at Weybridge, the 
 Prince Imperial at Farnborough. These are the heirs of 
 France, born in the palace of the Tuileries. How are they 
 cast upon the waters of the world ! And where the palace 
 of the Tuileries once stood the pigeons now call to each other 
 beneath the trees, while, near at hand, lolls on the public 
 seat he whom France has always with her, the vaurkn the 
 worth-nothing. 
 
 So passes the glory of the world. It is not a good thing 
 to be born in a palace, nor to live in one. 
 
 It was in the Rue Lafayette that John Turner had his 
 office, and when he emerged from it into that long street on 
 
THE CITY THAT SOON FORGETS 155 
 
 the evening of the 25th of August, 1850, he ran against, or 
 he was rather run against by, the newsboy who shrieked as he 
 pattered along in lamentable boots and waved a sheet in the 
 face of the passer : " The King is dead ! The King is dead ! " 
 
 And Paris the city that soon forgets smiled and asked 
 what King ? > 
 
 Louis Philippe was dead in England, at the age of 
 seventy-seven, the bad son of a bad father, another of those 
 adventurers whose happy hunting-ground always has been, 
 always will be, France. 
 
 John Turner, like many who are slow in movement, was 
 quick in thought. He perceived at once that the death of 
 Louis Philippe left the field open to the next adventurer ; 
 for he left behind him no son of his own mettle. 
 
 Turner went back to his office, where the pen with which 
 he had signed a cheque for four hundred pounds, payable to 
 the Reverend Septimus Marvin, was still wet ; where, at the 
 bottom of the largest safe, the portrait of an unknown lady 
 of the period of Louis XVI. lay concealed. He wrote out a 
 telegram to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, addressed to her at 
 her villa near Eoyan, and then proceeded to his dinner with 
 the grave face of the careful critic. 
 
 The next morning he received the answer, at his breakfast- 
 table, in the apartment he had long occupied in the Avenue 
 d'Antin. But he did not open the envelope. He had tele- 
 graphed to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, asking if it would be 
 convenient for her to put him up for a few days. And he 
 suspected that it would not. 
 
 " When I am gone," he said to his well-trained servant, 
 " put that into an envelope and send it after me to the Villa 
 Cordouan, Royan. Pack my portmanteau for a week." 
 
 Thus John Turner set out southward to join a party of 
 those Royalists whom his father before him had learnt to 
 
156 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 despise. And in a manner he was pre-armed ; for he knew 
 that he would not be welcome. It was in those days a long 
 journey, for the railway was laid no farther than Tours, 
 from whence the traveller must needs post to La Rochelle, 
 and there take a boat to Royan that shallow harbour at the 
 mouth of the Gironde. 
 
 "Must have a change of cooking," he explained to 
 Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. " Doctor says I am getting too 
 stout." 
 
 He shook her deliberately by the hand without appearing 
 to notice her blank looks. 
 
 " So I came south and shall finish up at Biarritz, which 
 they say is going to be fashionable. I hope it is not incon- 
 venient for you to give me a bed a solid one for a night 
 or two." 
 
 " Oh no ! " answered Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, who had 
 charming manners, and was one of those fortunate persons 
 who are never at a loss. "Did you not receive my 
 telegram ? " 
 
 "Telling me you were counting the hours till my 
 arrival ? " 
 
 "Well," admitted Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, wisely re- 
 flecting that he would ultimately see the telegram, " hardly 
 so fervent as that " 
 
 " Good Lord ! " interrupted Turner, looking behind her 
 toward the veranda, which was cool and shady, where two 
 men were seated near a table bearing coffee-cups. " Who is 
 that ? " 
 
 " Which ? " asked Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, without 
 turning to follow the direction of his glance. 
 
 " Oh ! one is Dormer Colville, I see that. But the 
 other gad ! " 
 
 " Why do you say gad ? " asked the lady, with surprise. 
 
THE CITY THAT SOON FORGETS 157 
 
 " Where did he get that face from ? " was the reply. 
 
 Turner took off his hat and mopped his brow ; for 
 it was very hot and the August sun was setting over a 
 copper sea. 
 
 " Where we all get our faces from, I suppose 1 M answered 
 Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, with her easy laugh. She was 
 always mistress of the situation. " The heavenly warehouse, 
 one supposes. His name is Barebone. He is a friend of 
 Dormer's." 
 
 " Any friend of Dormer Colville's commands my interest." 
 
 Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence glanced quickly at her com- 
 panion beneath the shade of her lace-trimmed parasol. 
 
 " What do you mean by that ? " she asked, in a voice 
 suddenly hard and resentful. 
 
 " That he chooses his friends well," returned the banker, 
 with his guileless smile. His face was bovine, and in the 
 heat of summer apt to be shiny. No one would attribute 
 an inner meaning to a stout person thus outwardly brilliant. 
 Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence appeared to be mollified, and 
 turned toward the house with a gesture inviting him to walk 
 with her. 
 
 " I will be frank with you," she said. u I telegraphed 
 to tell you that the Villa Cordouan is for the moment 
 unfortunately filled with guests." 
 
 " What matter ? I will go to the hotel. In fact, I told 
 the driver of my carriage to wait for further orders. I half 
 feared that at this time of year, you know, house would be 
 full. I'll just shake hands with Colville and then be off. 
 You will let me come in after dinner, perhaps. You and I 
 must have a talk about money, you will remember." 
 
 There was no time to answer ; for Dormer Colville, 
 perceiving their approach, was already hurrying down the 
 steps of the veranda to meet them. He laughed as he came, 
 
158 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 for John Turner's bulk made him a laughing matter in the 
 eyes of most men, and his good huniour seemed to invite 
 them to frank amusement. 
 
 The greeting was, therefore, jovial enough 911 both sides, 
 and after being introduced to Loo Barebone, Mr. Turner 
 took his leave without farther denning his intentions for the 
 evening. 
 
 "I do not think it matters much," Mrs. St. Pierre 
 Lawrence said to her two guests, when he had left. " And 
 he may not come, after all." 
 
 Her self-confidence sufficiently convinced Loo, who was 
 always ready to leave something to chance. But Colville 
 shook his head. 
 
 It thus came about that sundry persons of title and 
 importance who had been invited to come to the Villa 
 Cordouan after dinner for a little music found the English 
 banker complacently installed in the largest chair, with a 
 shirt-front evading the constraint of an abnormal waistcoat, 
 and a sleepy chin drooping surreptitiously toward it. 
 
 "He is my banker from Paris," whispered Mrs. St. 
 Pierre Lawrence to one and another. " He knows nothing, 
 and so far as I am aware, is no politician merely a banker, 
 you understand. Leave him alone and he will go to sleep." 
 
 During the three weeks which Loo Barebone had spent 
 very pleasantly at the Villa Cordouan, Mrs. St. Pierre 
 Lawrence had provided music and light refreshment for her 
 friends on several occasions. And each evening the draw- 
 ing-room, which was not a small one, had been filled to 
 overflowing. Friends brought their friends and introduced 
 them to the hostess, who in turn presented them to Bare- 
 bone. Some came from a distance, driving from Saintes or 
 La Rochelle or Pons. Others had taken houses for the 
 bathing-season at Royan itself. 
 
THE CITY THAT SOON FORGETS 159 
 
 " He never makes a mistake," said the hostess to Dormer 
 Colville, behind her fan, a hundred times, following with 
 her shrewd eyes the gay and easy movements of Loo, who 
 seemed to be taught by some instinct to suit his manner to 
 his interlocutor. 
 
 To-night there was more music and less conversation. 
 
 " Play him to sleep," Dormer Colville had said to his 
 cousin. And at length Turner succumbed to the soft effect 
 of a sonata. He even snored in the shade of a palm, and 
 the gaiety of the proceedings in no way suffered. 
 
 It was only Colville who seemed uneasy and always 
 urged any who were talking earnestly to keep out of earshot 
 of the sleeping Englishman. Once or twice he took Bare- 
 bone by the arm and led him to the other end of the room, 
 for he was always the centre of the liveliest group and led 
 the laughter there. 
 
 " Oh ! but he is charming, my dear," more than one 
 guest whispered to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, as they took 
 their departure. 
 
 " He will do he will do," the men said with a new light 
 of hope in their grave faces. 
 
 Nearly all had gone when John Turner at length woke 
 up. Indeed, Colville threw a book upon the floor to disturb 
 his placid sleep. 
 
 "I will come round to-morrow," he said, bidding his 
 hostess good night. " I have some papers for you to sign 
 since you are determined to sell your rentes and leave the 
 money idle at your bank." 
 
 " Yes. I am quite determined," she answered, gaily, for 
 she was before her time inasmuch as she was what is known 
 in these days of degenerate speech as cock-sure. 
 
 And when John Turner, carrying a bundle of papers, 
 presented himself at the Villa Cordouan next morning he 
 
160 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 found Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence sitting alone in the 
 veranda. 
 
 Dormer and Lis friend have left me to my own devices. 
 They have gone away," she mentioned, casually, in the course 
 of conversation. 
 
 " Suddenly ? " 
 
 " Oh no," she answered, carelessly, and wrote her name 
 in a clear firm hand on the document before her. And 
 John Turner looked dense. 
 
CHAPTEE XIX 
 
 IN THE BEEACH 
 
 The Marquis de Gemosac was sitting at the open window 
 of the little drawing-room in the only habitable part of the 
 chateau. From his position he looked across the courtyard 
 toward the garden where stiff cypress-trees stood sentry 
 among the mignonette and the roses, now in the full glory 
 of their autumn bloom. 
 
 Beyond the garden, the rough outline of the walls cut a 
 straight line across the distant plains, which melted away 
 into the haze of the marsh-lands by the banks of the Gironde 
 far to the westward. 
 
 The Marquis had dined. They dined early in those days 
 in France, and coffee was still served after the evening meal. 
 
 The sun was declining toward the sea in a clear copper- 
 coloured sky, but a fresh breeze was blowing in from the 
 estuary to temper the heat of the later rays. 
 
 The Marquis was beating time with one finger, and 
 within the room, to an impromptu accompaniment invented 
 by Juliette, Barebone was singing : 
 
 C'est le Hasard, 
 
 Qui, tot ou tard, 
 
 Ici-bas nous seconde ; 
 
 Car, 
 
 D'un bout du monde 
 
 A l'autre bout, 
 
 Le Hasard seul fait tout. 
 
162 THE LAST HOrE 
 
 He broke off with a laugh in which Juliette's low voice 
 joined. 
 
 "That is splendid, mademoiselle," he cried, and the 
 Marquis clapped his thin hands together. 
 
 Uu tel qu'on vantait 
 
 Par hasard etait 
 
 D'origine assez mince ; 
 
 Par hasard il plut, 
 
 Par hasard il fut 
 
 Baron, ministre et prince : 
 
 C'est le Hasard, 
 
 Qui, tot ou tard, 
 
 Ici bas nous seconde ; 
 
 Car, 
 
 D'un bout du monde 
 
 A l'autre bout, 
 
 Le Hasard seul fait tout. 
 
 " There that is all I know. It is the only song I 
 
 sing." 
 
 " But there are other verses," said Juliette, resting her 
 hands on the keys of the wheezy spinet winch must have 
 been a hundred years old. " What are they about ? " 
 
 " I do not know, mademoiselle," he answered, looking 
 down at her. " I think it is a love-song." 
 
 She had pinned some mignonette, strong scented as 
 autumn mignonette is, in the front of her muslin dress, and 
 the heavy heads had dragged the stems to one side. She 
 put the flowers in order, slowly, and then bent her head to 
 enjoy the scent of them. 
 
 " It scarcely sounds like one," she said, in a low and 
 inquiring voice. The Marquis was a little deaf. " Is it all 
 chance then ? " 
 
 " Oh yes," he answered, and as he spoke without lower- 
 ing his voice she played softly on the old piano the simple 
 
IN THE BREACH 163 
 
 melody of his song. "It is all chance, mademoiselle. 
 Did they not teach you that at the school at Saintes ? " 
 
 But she was not in a humour to join in his ready laughter. 
 The room was rosy with the glow of the setting sun, she 
 breathed the scent of the mignonette at every breath, the 
 air which she had picked out on the spinet in unison with 
 his clear and sympathetic voice had those minor tones and 
 slow slurring from note to note which are characteristic of 
 the gay and tearful songs of southern France and all Spain. 
 None of which things are conducive to gaiety when one is 
 young. 
 
 She glanced at him with one quick turn of the head and 
 made no answer. But she played the air over again the 
 girls sing it to this day over their household work at Farling- 
 ford to other words with her foot on the soft pedal. The 
 Marquis hummed it between his teeth at the other end of 
 the room. 
 
 " This room is hot," she exclaimed, suddenly, and rose 
 from her seat without troubling to finish the melody. 
 
 " And that window will not open, mademoiselle ; for I 
 have tried it," added Barebone, watching her impatient 
 movements. 
 
 " Then I am going into the garden," she said, with a 
 sharp sigh and a wilful toss of the head. 
 
 It was not his fault that the setting sun, against which, 
 as many have discovered, men shut their doors, should 
 happen to be burning hot or that the window would not 
 open. But Juliette seemed to blame him for it or for 
 something else, perhaps. One never knows. 
 
 Barebone did not follow her at once, but stood by the 
 w T indow talking to the Marquis, who was in a reminiscent 
 humour. The old man interrupted his own narrative, 
 however. 
 
164 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " There," he cried, " is Juliette on that wall overhanging 
 the river. It is where the English effected a breach long 
 ago, my friend you need not smile, for you are no English- 
 man and the chateau has only been taken twice through 
 all the centuries of fighting. There ! She ventures still 
 farther. I have told her a hundred times that the wall is 
 unsafe." 
 
 " Shall I go and warn her the hundred-and-first time ? " 
 asked Loo, willing enough. 
 
 " Yes, my friend, do. And speak to her severely. She 
 is only a child, remember." 
 
 " Yes I will remember that." 
 
 Juliette did not seem to hear his approach across the 
 turf where the goats fed now, but stood with her back 
 toward him, a few feet below him, actually in that breach 
 effected long ago by those pestilential English. They must 
 have prized out the great stones with crowbars and torn them 
 down with their bare hands. 
 
 Juliette was looking over the vineyards toward the river, 
 which gleamed across the horizon. She was humming to 
 herself the last lines of the song : 
 
 D'un bout du monde 
 
 A l'autre bout, 
 
 Le Hasard seul fait tout. 
 
 She turned with a pretty swing of her skirts to gather 
 them in her hand. 
 
 " You must go no farther, mademoiselle," said Loo. 
 
 She stopped, half bending to take her skirt, but did not 
 look back. Then she took two steps downward from stone 
 to stone. The blocks were half embedded in the turf and 
 looked ready to fall under the smallest additional weight. 
 
 " It is not I who say so, but your father who sent me," 
 explained the admonisher from above. 
 
IN THE BREACH 165 
 
 " Since it is all chance " she said, looking downward. 
 
 She turned suddenly and looked up at him with that 
 impatience which gives way in later life to a philosophy 
 infinitely to be dreaded when it comes ; for its real name is 
 Indifference. 
 
 Her movements were spasmodic and quick as if some- 
 thing angered her, she knew not what ; as if she wanted 
 something, she knew not what. 
 
 " I suppose," she said, " that it was chance that saved 
 our lives that night two months ago, out there." 
 
 And she stood with one hand stretched out behind her 
 pointing toward the estuary, which was quiet enough now,, 
 looking up at him with that strange anger or new disquietude 
 it was hard to tell which glowing in her eyes. The wind 
 fluttered her hair, which was tied low down with a ribbon 
 in the mode named " a la diable " by some French wit with 
 a sore heart in an old man's breast. For none other could 
 have so aptly described it. 
 
 "All chance, mademoiselle," he answered, looking over 
 her head toward the river. 
 
 " And it would have been the same had it been only 
 Marie or Marie and Jean in the boat with you ? " 
 
 " The boat would have been as solid and the ropes as 
 strong." 
 
 " And you ? " asked the girl, with a glance from her 
 persistent eyes. 
 
 " Oh no ! " he answered, with a laugh. " I should not 
 have been the same. But you must not continue to stand 
 there, mademoiselle ; the wall is unsafe." 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders and stood with half -averted 
 face, looking down at the vineyards which stretched away to 
 the dunes by the river. Her cheeks were oddly flushed. 
 
 " Your father sent me to say so," continued Loo, *' and 
 
166 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 if he sees that you take no heed he will come himself to 
 learn why." 
 
 Juliette gave a curt laugh and climbed the declivity 
 toward him. The argument was, it seemed, a sound one. 
 When she reached his level he made a step or two along 
 the path that ran round the enceinte not toward the 
 house, however but away from it. She accepted the tacit 
 suggestion, not tacitly, however. 
 
 " Shall we not go and tell papa we have returned without 
 mishap ? " she amended, with a light laugh. 
 
 " No, mademoiselle," he answered. It was his turn to 
 be grave now and she glanced at him with a gleam of 
 satisfaction beneath her lids. She was not content with 
 that, however, but wished to make him angry. So she 
 laughed again and they would have quarrelled if he had not 
 kept his lips firmly closed and looked straight in front 
 of him. 
 
 They passed between the unfinished ruin known as the 
 Italian house and the rampart. The Italian house screened 
 them from the windows of that portion of the ancient 
 stabling which the Marquis had made habitable when he 
 bought back the chateau of Gemosac from the descendant 
 of an adventurous republican to whom the estate had been 
 awarded in the days of the Terror. A walk of lime-trees 
 bordered that part of the garden which lies to the west of 
 the Italian house, and no other part was visible from where 
 Juliette paused to watch the sun sink below the distant 
 horizon. Loo was walking a few paces behind her, and 
 when she stopped he stopped also. She sat down on the low 
 wall, but he remained standing. 
 
 Her profile, clear-cut and delicate with its short chin and 
 beautifully curved lips, its slightly aquiline nose and crisp 
 hair rising in a bold curve from her forehead, w r as outlined 
 
IN THE BREACH 167 
 
 against the sky. He could see the gleam of the western 
 light in her eyes, which were half averted. While she 
 watched the sunset, he watched her with a puzzled expression 
 about his lips. 
 
 He remembered perhaps the Marquis's last words, that 
 Juliette was only a child. He knew that she could in all 
 human calculation know nothing of the world ; that at least 
 she could have learned nothing of it in the convent where 
 she had been educated. So, if she knew anything, she must 
 have known it before she went there, which was impossible* 
 She knew nothing, therefore, and yet she was not a child. 
 As a matter of fact, she was the most beautiful woman Loo 
 Barebone had ever seen. He was thinking that as she sat 
 on the low wall, swinging one slipper half falling from her 
 foot, watching the sunset, while he watched her and noted 
 the anger slowly dying from her eyes as the light faded from 
 the sky. That strange anger went down, it would appear, 
 with the sun. After the long silence >when the low bars of 
 red cloud lying across the western sky were fading from 
 pink to grey she spoke at last in a voice which he had 
 never heard before, gentle and confidential. 
 
 " When are you going away ? " she asked. 
 
 " To-night/ 1 
 
 And he knew that the very hour of his departure was 
 known to her already. 
 
 " And when will you come back ? " 
 
 "As soon as I can," he answered, half -involuntarily. 
 There was a turn of the head half toward him, something 
 expectant in the tilt at the corner of her parted lips, which 
 made it practically impossible to make any other answer. 
 
 " Why ? " she asked, in little more than a whisper then 
 she broke into a gay laugh and leapt off the wall. She 
 walked quickly past him. 
 
168 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " Why ?** she repeated over her shoulder as she passed 
 him. And he was too quick for her, for he caught her hand 
 and touched it with his lips before she jerked it away 
 from him. 
 
 " Because you are here," he answered, with a laugh. 
 But she was grave again and looked at him with a queer 
 searching glance before she turned away and left him stand- 
 ing in the half-light thinking or Miriam Liston. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 As Juliette returned to the Gate House she encountered her 
 father, walking arm-in-arm with Dormer Colville. The 
 presence of the Englishman within the enceinte of the 
 chateau was probably no surprise to her, for she must have 
 heard the clang of the bell just within the gate, which could 
 not be opened from outside ; by which alone access was 
 gained to any part of the chateau. 
 
 Colville was in riding costume. It was, indeed, his 
 habitual dress when living in France, for he made no 
 concealment of his partnership in a well-known business 
 house in Bordeaux. 
 
 "lama sleeping partner," he would say, with that easy 
 flow of egotistic confidence which is the surest way of learn- 
 ing somewhat of your neighbour's private affairs. " I am 
 a sleeping partner at all times except the vintage, when I 
 awake and ride round among the growers, to test their 
 growth." 
 
 It was too early yet for these journeys, for the grapes 
 were hardly ripe. But any one who wished to move from 
 place to place must needs do so in the saddle in a country 
 where land is so valuable that the width of a road is grudged, 
 and bridle- ways are deemed good enough for the passage of 
 the long and narrow carts that carry wine. 
 
 Ever since their somewhat precipitate departure from 
 
170 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 the Villa Cordouau at Royan, Dormer Colville and Barebone 
 had been in company. They had stayed together, in one 
 friend's house or another. Sometimes they enjoyed the 
 hospitality of a chateau, and at others put up with the 
 scanty accommodation of a priest's house or the apartment 
 of a retired military officer, in one of those little towns of 
 provincial France at which the cheap journalists of Paris 
 are pleased to sneer without ceasing. 
 
 They avoided the large towns with extraordinary care. 
 
 " Why should we go to towns," asked Colville, jovially, 
 " when we have business in the country and the sun is still 
 high in the sky ? " 
 
 " Yes," he would reply to the questions of an indiscreet 
 fellow-traveller, at table or on the road. " Yes ; I am a 
 buyer of wine. We are buyers of wine. We are travelling 
 from place to place to watch the growth. For the wine is 
 hidden in the grape, and the grape is ripening." 
 
 And, as often as not, the chance acquaintance of an inn 
 dejeuner would catch the phrase and repeat it thoughtfully. 
 
 " Ah ! is that so ? " he would ask, with a sudden glance 
 at Dormer Colville's companion, who had hitherto passed 
 unobserved as the silent subordinate of a large buyer ; learn- 
 ing his trade, no doubt. " The grape is ripening. Good ! " 
 
 And as sure as he seemed to be struck with this state- 
 ment of a self-evident fact, he would, in the next few 
 minutes, bring the numeral " nineteen " tant lien que mal 
 into his conversation. 
 
 " With nineteen days of sun, the vintage will be upon 
 us," he would say ; or, " I have but nineteen kilometres 
 more of road before me to-day." 
 
 Indeed, it frequently happened that the word came in 
 very inappropriately, as if tugged heroically to the front by 
 a clumsy conversationalist. 
 
"NINETEEN" 171 
 
 There is no hazard of life so certain to discover sympathy 
 or antagonism as travel a fact which points to the wisdom 
 of beginning married life with a journey. The majority of 
 people like to know the worst at once. To travel, however, 
 with Dormer Colville was a liberal education in the virtues. 
 No man could be less selfish or less easily fatigued ; which 
 are the two bases upon which rest all the stumbling-blocks 
 of travel. 
 
 Up to a certain point, Barebone and Dormer Colville 
 became fast friends during the month that elapsed between 
 their departure from Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's house and 
 their arrival at the inn at Gemosac. The " White Horse," 
 at Gemosac, was no better and no worse than any other 
 " White Horse " in any other small town of France. It was, 
 however, better than the principal inn of a town of the same 
 size in any other habitable part of the globe. 
 
 There were many reasons why the Marquis de Gemosac 
 had yielded to Colville's contention that the time had not 
 yet come for Loo Barebone to be his guest at the chateau. 
 
 " He is inclined to be indolent," Colville had whispered. 
 " One recognises, in many traits of character, the source from 
 whence his blood is drawn. He will not exert himself so 
 long as there is some one else at hand who is prepared to 
 take trouble. He must learn that it is necessary to act for 
 himself. He needs rousing. Let him travel through France, 
 and see for himself that of which he has as yet only learnt 
 at second-hand. That will rouse him." 
 
 And the journey through the valleys of the Garonne and 
 the Dordogne had been undertaken. 
 
 Another, greater journey, was now afoot, to end at no 
 less a centre of political life than Paris. A start was to be 
 made this evening, and Dormer Colville now came to report 
 that all was ready and the horses at the gate. 
 
172 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " If there were scenes such as this for all of us to linger 
 in, mademoiselle," he said, " lifting his face to the western 
 sky and inhaling the scent of the flowers growing knee-deep 
 all around him, " men would accomplish little in their brief 
 lifetime." 
 
 His eyes, dreamy and reflective, wandered over the scene 
 and paused, just for a moment in passing, on Juliette's 
 face. She continued her way, with no other answer than 
 a smile. 
 
 " She grows, my dear Marquis she grows every minute 
 of the day and wakes up a new woman every morning," 
 said Colville, in a confidential aside, and he went forward 
 to meet Loo with his accustomed laugh of good-fellow- 
 ship. He whom the world calls a good fellow is never a 
 wise man. 
 
 Barebone walked toward the gate without joining in the 
 talk of his companions. He was thoughtful and uneasy. 
 He had come to say good-bye and nothing else. He was 
 wondering if he had really meant what he had said. 
 
 " Come," interrupted Colville's smooth voice. " We 
 must get into the saddle and begone. I was just telling 
 Monsieur and Mademoiselle Juliette, that any man might 
 be tempted to linger at Gemosac until the active years of a 
 lifetime rolled by." 
 
 The Marquis made the needful reply ; hoping that he 
 might yet live to see Gemosac and not only Gemosac, but 
 a hundred chateaux like it reawakened to their ancient 
 glory, and thrown open to welcome the restorer of their 
 fallen fortunes. 
 
 Colville looked from one to the other, and then, with his 
 foot in the stirrup, turned to look at Juliette, who had 
 followed them to the gate. 
 
 " And mademoiselle," he said ; " will she wish us good 
 
"NINETEEN" 173 
 
 luck, also ? Alas ! those times are gone when we could 
 have asked for her ribbon to wear, and to fight for between 
 ourselves when we are tired and cross at the end of a journey. 
 Come, Barebone into the saddle." 
 
 They waited, both looking at Juliette ; for she had not 
 spoken. 
 
 " I wish you good luck," she said, at length, patting the 
 neck of Colville's horse, her face wearing a little mystic 
 smile. 
 
 Thus they departed, at sunset, on a journey of which old 
 men will still talk in certain parts of France. Here and 
 there, in the Angoumois, in Guienne, in the Yendee, and in 
 the western parts of Brittany, the student of forgotten 
 history may find an old priest who will still persist in dividing 
 France into the ancient provinces, and will tell how Hope 
 rode through the Royalist country when he himself was busy 
 at his first cure. 
 
 The journey lasted nearly two months, and before they 
 passed north of the Loire at Nantes and quitted the wine 
 country, the vintage was oyer. 
 
 " We must say that we are cider merchants, that is all," 
 observed Dormer Colville, when they crossed the river, which 
 has always been the great divider of France. 
 
 " He is sobering down. I believe he will become serious," 
 wrote he to the Marquis de Gemosac. But he took care to 
 leave Loo Barebone as free as possible. 
 
 "I am, in a way, a compulsory pilot," he explained, 
 airily, to his companion. "The ship is yours, and you 
 probably know more about the shoals than I do. You must 
 have felt that a hundred times when you were at sea with 
 that solemn old sailor, Captain Clubbe. And yet, before 
 you could get into port, you found yourself forced to take 
 the compulsory pilot on board and make Mm welcome with 
 
174 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 such grace as you could command, feeling all the while that 
 he did not want to come and you could have done as well 
 without him. So you must put up with my company as 
 gracefully as you can, remembering that you can drop me as 
 soon as you are in port/* 
 
 And surely, none other could have occupied an uncom- 
 fortable position so gracefully. 
 
 Barebone found that he had not much to do. He soon 
 accommodated himself to a position which required nothing 
 more active than a ready ear and a gracious patience. For, 
 day by day almost hour by hour it was his lot to listen 
 to protestations of loyalty to a cause which smouldered none 
 the less hotly because it was hidden from the sight of the 
 Prince President's spies. 
 
 And, as Colville had predicted, Barebone sobered down. 
 He would ride now, hour after hour, in silence, whereas at 
 the beginning of the journey he had talked gaily enough, 
 seeing a hundred humorous incidents in the passing events 
 of the day ; laughing at the recollection of an interview with 
 some provincial notable who had fallen behind the times, or 
 jesting readily enough with such as showed a turn for joking 
 on the road. 
 
 But now the unreality of his singular change of fortune 
 was vanishing. Every village priest who came after dark 
 to take a glass of wine with them at their inn sent it farther 
 into the past, every provincial noble greeting him on the 
 step of his remote and quiet house added a note to the 
 dramming reality which dominated his waking moments 
 and disturbed his sleep at night. 
 
 Day by day they rode on, passing through two or three 
 villages between such halts as were needed by the horses. 
 At every hamlet, in the large villages, where they rested and 
 had their food, at the remote little town where they passed 
 
"NINETEEN" 175 
 
 a night, there was always some one expecting them, who 
 came and talked of the weather and more or less skilfully 
 brought in the numeral nineteen. " Nineteen ! Nineteen ! " 
 It was a watchword all over France. 
 
 Long before, on the banks of the Dordogne, Loo had 
 asked his companion why that word had been selected 
 what it meant. 
 
 " It means Louis XIX., 1 ' replied Dormer Colville, gravely. 
 
 And now, as they rode through a country so rural, so 
 thinly populated and remote that nothing like it may be 
 found in these crowded islands, the number seemed to follow 
 them ; or, rather, to pass on before them and await their 
 coming. 
 
 Often Colville would point silently with his whip to the 
 numerals, scrawled on a gate-post or written across a wall. 
 At this time France was mysteriously flooded with cheap 
 portraits of the great Napoleon. It was before the days of 
 pictorial advertisement, and young ladies who wished to 
 make an advantageous marriage had no means of advertising 
 the fact and themselves in supplements to illustrated papers. 
 The walls of inns and shops and diligence offices were there- 
 fore barer than they are to-day. And from these bare walls 
 stared out at this time the well-known face of the great 
 Napoleon. It was an innovation, and as such readily enough 
 accepted. 
 
 At every fair, at the great fete of St. Jean, at St. Jean 
 d'Angely and a hundred other fetes of purely local notoriety, 
 at least one hawker of cheap lithographs was to be found. 
 And if the buyer haggled, he could get the portrait of the 
 great Emperor for almost nothing. 
 
 " One cannot print it at such a cost," the seller assured 
 his purchasers, which was no less than the truth. 
 
 The fairs were, and are to this day, the link between the 
 
176 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 remoter villages and the world ; and the peasants carried 
 home with them a picture, for the first time, to hang on their 
 walls. Thus the Prince President fostered the Napoleonic 
 legend. 
 
 Dormer Colville would walk up to these pictures, and, 
 as often as not, would turn and look over his shoulder at 
 Barebone, with a short laugh. For as often as not, the 
 numerals were scrawled across the face in pencil. 
 
 But Barebone had ceased to laugh at the constant repeti- 
 tion now. Soon Colville ceased to point out the silent witness, 
 for he perceived that Loo was looking for it himself, detect- 
 ing its absence with a gleam of determination in his eyes or 
 noting its recurrence with a sharp sigh, as of the consciousness 
 of a great responsibility. 
 
 Thus the reality was gradually forced upon him that that 
 into which he had entered half in jest was no jest at all ; 
 that he was moving forward on a road which seemed easy 
 enough, but of which the end was not perceptible ; neither 
 was there any turning to one side or the other. 
 
 All men who have made a mark whether it be a guiding 
 or warning sign to those that follow must at one moment 
 of their career have perceived their road before them, thus. 
 Each must have realised that once set out upon that easy path 
 there is no turning aside and no turning back. And many 
 have chosen to turn back while there was yet time, leaving 
 the mark unmade. For most men are cowards and shun 
 responsibility. Most men unconsciously steer their way by 
 proverb or catchword ; and all the wise saws of all the 
 nations preach cowardice. 
 
 Barebone saw his road now, and Dormer Colville knew 
 that he saw it. 
 
 When they crossed the Loire they passed the crisis, and 
 Colville breathed again like one who had held his breath for 
 
"NINETEEN" 177 
 
 long. Those colder, sterner men of Brittany, who, in later 
 times, compared notes with the nobles of Guienne and the 
 Vendee, seemed to talk of a different man ; for they spoke 
 of one who rarely laughed, and never turned aside from a 
 chosen path which was in no wise bordered by flowers. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 NO. 8 RUELLE ST. JACOB 
 
 Between the Rue de Lille and the Boulevard St. Germain, 
 in the narrow streets which to this day have survived the 
 sweeping influence of Baron Haussmann, once Prefect of the 
 Seine, there are many houses which scarcely seem to have 
 opened door or window since the great Revolution. 
 
 One of these, to be precise, is situated in the Ruelle St. 
 Jacob, hardly wider than a lane a short street with a blind 
 end against high walls into which any vehicle that enters 
 must needs do so with the knowledge of having to back out 
 again. For there is no room to turn. Which is an allegory. 
 All the windows, in fact, that look forlornly at the blank 
 walls or peep over the high gateways into the Ruelle St. 
 Jacob are Royalist windows looking into a street which is 
 blinded by a high wall and is too narrow to allow of turning. 
 
 Many of the windows would appear to have gathered 
 dust since those days more than a hundred years ago when 
 white faces peeped from them and trembling hands unbarred 
 the sash to listen to the roar of voices in the Rue du Bac, 
 in the open space by the church of St. Germain des Pres, 
 in the Cite, all over Paris, where the people were making 
 history. 
 
 To this house in the Ruelle St. Jacob, Dormer Colville 
 and Loo Barebone made their way on foot, on their arrival 
 in Paris at the termination of their long journey. 
 
NO. 8 RUELLE ST. JACOB 179 
 
 It was nearly dark, for Colville had arranged to approach 
 the city and leave their horses at a stable at Meudon after 
 dusk. 
 
 " It is foolish," he said, gaily, to his companion, " to 
 flaunt a face like yours in Paris by daylight." 
 
 They had driven from Meudon in a hired carriage to the 
 corner of the Champ de Mars, in those days still innocent 
 of glass houses and exhibition buildings, for Paris was not 
 yet the toy-shop of the world ; and from the Champ de 
 Mars they came on foot through the ill-paved, feebly lighted 
 streets. In the Ruelle St. Jacob itself there was only one 
 lamp, burning oil, swinging at the corner. The remainder 
 of the lane depended for its illumination on the windows of 
 two small shops retailing firewood and pickled gherkins and 
 balls of string grey with age, as do all the shops in the 
 narrow streets on the wrong side of the Seine. 
 
 Dormer Colville led the way, picking his steps from side 
 to side of the gutter yhich meandered odoriferously down 
 the middle of the street toward the river. He stopped in 
 front of the great gateway and looked up at the arch of it, 
 where the stone carving had been carefully obliterated by 
 some enthusiastic citizen armed with a hatchet. 
 
 " Ichabod," he said, with a short laugh ; and cautiously 
 laid hold of the dangling bell-handle which had summoned 
 the porter to open to a Queen in those gay days when Marie 
 Antoinette light-heartedly pushed a falling monarchy down 
 the incline. 
 
 The great gate was not opened in response, but a small 
 side door, deep-sunken in the thickness of the wall. On 
 either jamb of the door was affixed in the metal letters 
 ordained by, the municipality the number eight. Number 
 Eight Ruelle St. Jacob had once been known to kings as 
 the Hotel G-emosac. 
 
180 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 The man who opened carried a lantern and held the door 
 ajar with a grudging hand while he peered out. One could 
 almost imagine that he had survived the downfall and the 
 Restoration, and a couple of republics, behind the high walls. 
 
 The court-yard was paved with round cobble-stones no 
 bigger than an apple, and, even by the flickering light of 
 the lantern, it was perceptible that no weed had been allowed 
 to grow between the stones or in the seams of the wide, low 
 steps that led to an open door. 
 
 The house appeared to be dark and deserted. 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur le Marquis Monsieur le Marquis is at 
 home/* muttered the man with a bronchial chuckle, and led 
 the way across the yard. He wore a sort of livery, which 
 must have been put away for years. A young man had been 
 measured for the coat which now displayed three deep creases 
 across a bent back. 
 
 " Attention attention ! " he said, in a warning voice, 
 while he scraped a sulphur match in the hall. " There are 
 holes in the carpets. It is easy to trip and fall." 
 
 He lighted the candle, and after having carefully shut 
 and bolted the door, he led the way upstairs. At their 
 approach, easily audible in the empty house by reason of the 
 hollow creaking of the oak floor, a door was opened at the 
 head of the stairs and a flood of light met the new-comers. 
 
 In the doorway, which was ten feet high, the little bent 
 form of the Marquis de Gemosac stood waiting. 
 
 " Ah ! ah ! " he said, with that pleasant manner of his 
 generation, which was refined and spirituelle and sometimes 
 dramatic, and yet ever failed to touch aught ' but the surface 
 of life. " Ah ! ah ! Safely accomplished the great journey. 
 Safely accomplished. You permit " 
 
 And he embraced Barebone after the custom of his day. 
 
 " From all sides," he said, when the door was closed, " I 
 
NO. 8 RUELLE ST. JACOB 181 
 
 hear that you have done great things. From every quarter 
 one hears your praise." 
 
 He held him at arm's length. 
 
 "Yes," he said. "Your face is graver and more 
 striking in resemblance than ever. So now you know now 
 you have seen." 
 
 " Yes," answered Barebone, gravely. " I have seen and 
 I know." 
 
 The Marquis rubbed his white hands together and gave 
 a little crackling laugh of delight as he drew forward a chair 
 to the fire, which was of logs as long as a barrel. The room 
 was a huge one, and it was lighted from end to end with 
 lamps, as if for a reception or a ball. The air was damp 
 and mouldly. There were patches of grey on the walls, 
 which had once been painted with garlands of roses and 
 Cupids and pastoral scenes by a noted artist of the Great Age. 
 
 The ceiling had fallen in places, and the woodwork of 
 the carved furniture gave forth a subtle scent of dry rot. 
 
 But everything was in an exquisite taste which vulgarer 
 generations have never yet succeeded in imitating. Nothing 
 was concealed, but rather displayed with a half -cynical pride. 
 All was moth-ridden, worm-eaten, fallen to decay but it 
 was of the Monarchy. Not half a dozen houses in Paris, 
 where already the wealth, which has to-day culminated in 
 a ridiculous luxury of outward show was beginning to build 
 new palaces, could show room after room furnished in the 
 days of the Great Louis. The very air, faintly scented it 
 would seem by some forgotten perfume, breathed of a bygone 
 splendour. And the last of the de Gemosacs scorned to 
 screen his poverty from the eyes of his equals, nor sought to 
 hide from them a desolation which was only symbolic of 
 that which crushed their hearts and bade them steal back 
 from time to time like criminals to the capital. 
 
182 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " You see," he said to Colville and Barebone, " I have 
 kept my promise, I have thrown open this old house once 
 more for to-night's meeting. You will find that many 
 friends have made the journey to Paris for the occasion 
 Madame de Chantonnay and Albert, Madame de Rathe and 
 many from the Vendee and the West whom you have met 
 on your journey. And to-night one may speak without 
 fear, far none will be present who are not vouched for by 
 the Almanac de Gotha. There are no Royalists pour riro 
 or pour vlvre to-night. You have but time to change your 
 clothes and dine. Your luggage arrived yesterday. You 
 will forgive the stupidity of old servants who have forgotten 
 their business. Come, I will lead the way and show you 
 your rooms." 
 
 He took a candle and did the honours of the deserted 
 dust-ridden house in the manner of the high calling which 
 had been his twenty years ago when Charles X. was king. 
 For some there lingers a certain pathos in the sight of a 
 belated survival, while the majority of men and women are 
 ready to smile at it instead. And yet the Monarchy lasted 
 eight centuries and the Revolution eight years. Perhaps 
 Fate may yet exact payment for the excesses of those eight 
 years from a nation for which the watching world already 
 prepares a secondary place in the councils of empire. 
 
 The larger room had been assigned to Loo. There was 
 a subtle difference in the Marquis's manner toward him. 
 He made an odd bow as he quitted the room. 
 
 " There," said Colville, whose room communicated with 
 this great apartment by a dressing-room and two doors. He 
 spoke in English, as they always did when they were alone 
 together. " There you are launched. You are land, my 
 friend. I may say you are through the shoals now and out 
 on the high seas " 
 
NO. 8 RUELLE ST. JACOB 183 
 
 He paused, candle in hand, and looked round the room 
 with a reflective smile. It was obviously the best room in 
 the house, with a fireplace as wide as a gate, where logs of 
 pine burnt briskly on high iron dogs. The bed loomed 
 mysteriously in one corner with its baldachin of Gobelin 
 tapestry. Here, too, the dim scent of fallen monarchy 
 lingered in the atmosphere. A portrait of Louis XYI. in 
 a faded frame hung over the mantelpiece. 
 
 "And the time will come," pursued Colville, with his 
 melancholy, sympathetic smile, "when you will find it 
 necessary to drop the pilot to turn your face seaward and 
 your back upon old recollections and old associations. You 
 cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs, my 
 friend." 
 
 " Oh yes," replied Barebone, with a brisk movement of 
 the head, " I shall have to forget Farlingford." 
 
 Colville had moved toward the door that led to his own 
 room. He paused, examining the wick of the candle he 
 carried in his hand. Then, though glib of speech, he 
 decided in favour of silence, and went away without making 
 reply. 
 
 Loo sat down in a grey old arm-chair in front of the 
 fire. The house was astoundingly noiseless, though situated 
 in what had once been the heart of Paris. It was one of 
 the few houses left in this quarter with a large garden. 
 And the traffic passing in and out of the Ruelle St. Jacob 
 went slipshod on its own feet. The busy crackle of the 
 wood was the only sound to break a silence which seemed 
 part of this vast palace of memories. 
 
 Loo had ridden far and was tired. He smiled grimly at 
 the fire. It is to be supposed that he was sitting down to the 
 task he had set himself to forget Farlingford. 
 
 There was a great reception at the Hotel Gemosac that 
 
184 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 night, and after twenty years of brooding silence the rooms, 
 hastily set in order, were lighted up. 
 
 There was, as the Marquis had promised, no man or 
 woman present who was not vouched for by a noble name or 
 by history. As the old man presented them, their names 
 were oddly familiar to the ear, while each face looking at 
 Loo seemed to be the face of a ghost looking out of a 
 past which the world will never forget so long as history 
 lives. 
 
 And here, again, was the subtle difference. They no 
 longer talked to Loo, but stood apart and spoke among 
 themselves in a hushed voice. Men made their bow to him 
 and met his smile with grave and measuring eyes. Some 
 made a little set speech, which might mean much or nothing. 
 Others embarked on such a speech and paused faltered, and 
 passed on gulping something down in their throats. 
 
 Women made a deep reverence to him and glanced at 
 him with parted lips and white faces no coquetry in their 
 eyes. They saw that he was young and good-looking ; but 
 they forgot that he might think the same of them. Then 
 they passed on and grouped themselves together, as women 
 do in moments of danger or emotion, their souls instinctively 
 seeking the company of other souls tuned to catch a hundred 
 passing vibrations of the heart-strings of which men remain 
 in ignorance. They spoke together in lowered voices without 
 daring, or desiring perhaps, to turn and look at him again. 
 
 "It only remains," some one said, "for the Duchesse 
 d'Angouleme to recognise his claim. A messenger has 
 departed for Frohsdorf." 
 
 And Barebone, looking at them, knew that there was a 
 barrier between him and them which none could cast aside : 
 a barrier erected in the past and based on the sure foundations 
 of history. 
 
NO. 8 RTJELLE ST. JACOB 185 
 
 "She is an old woman," said Monsieur de Gemosac to 
 any who spoke to him on this subject. " She is seventy-two, 
 and fifty-eight of those years have been marked by greater 
 misfortunes than ever fell to the lot of a woman. When 
 she came out of prison she had no tears left, my friends. 
 We cannot expect her to turn back willingly to the past 
 now. But we know that in her heart she has never been 
 sure that her brother died in the Temple. You know how 
 many disappointments she has had. We must not awake 
 her sleeping sorrow until all is ready. I shall make the 
 journey to Frohsdorf that I promise you. But to-night 
 we have another task before us." 
 
 " Yes yes," answered his listeners. " You are to open 
 the locket. Where is it ? show it to us." 
 
 And the locket which Captain Clubbe's wife had given 
 to Dormer Colville was handed from one to another. It 
 was not of great value, but it was of gold with stones, long 
 since discoloured, set in silver around it. It was crushed 
 and misshapen. 
 
 " It has never been opened for twenty years," they told 
 each other. " It has been mislaid in an obscure village in 
 England for nearly half a century." 
 
 "The Vicomte de Castel Aunet who is so clever a 
 mechanician has promised to bring his tools," said Monsieur 
 de Gemosac. " He will open it for us even if he find it 
 necessary to break the locket." . 
 
 So the thing went round the room until it came to Loo 
 Barebone. 
 
 " I have seen it before," he said. " I think I remember 
 seeing it long ago when I was a little child." 
 
 And he handed it to the old Vicomte de Castel Aunet, 
 whose shaking fingers closed round it in a breathless silence. 
 He carried it to the table, and some one brought candles. 
 
186 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 The Vicomte was very old. He had learnt clock-making, 
 they said, in prison during the Terror. 
 
 " II rCy a moyen" he whispered to himself. " I must 
 break it." 
 
 With one effort he prised up the cover, but the hinge 
 snapped, and the lid rolled across the table into Barebone's 
 hand. 
 
 " Ah ! " he cried, in that breathless silence, " now I 
 remember it. I remember the red silk lining of the cover, 
 and in the other side there is the portrait of^a lady with " 
 
 The Yicomte paused, with his palm covering the other 
 half of the locket and looked across at Loo. And the eyes 
 of all Royalist France were fixed on the same face. 
 
 " Silence ! " whispered Dormer Colville in English, 
 crushing Barebone's foot under the table. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 DROPPING THE PILOT 
 
 " The portrait of a lady," repeated Loo, slowly. " Young 
 and beautiful. That much I remember." 
 
 The old nobleman had never removed his covering hand 
 from the locket. He had never glanced at it himself. He 
 looked slowly round the peering faces, two and three deep 
 round the table. He was the oldest man present one of 
 the oldest in Paris one of the few now living who had 
 known Marie Antoinette. 
 
 Without uncovering the locket, he handed it to Barebone 
 across the table with a bow worthy of the old regime and 
 his own historic name. 
 
 " It is right that you should be the first to see it," he 
 said. "Since there is no longer any doubt that the lady 
 was your father's mother." 
 
 Loo took the locket, looked at it with strangely glittering 
 eyes and steady lips. He gave a sort of gasp, which all in 
 the room heard. He was handing it back to the Yicomte 
 de Castel Aunet without a word of comment, when a 
 crashing fall on the bare floor startled every one. A lady 
 had fainted. 
 
 " Thank God ! " muttered Dormer Colville almost in 
 Barebone's ear and swayed against him. Barebone turned 
 and looked into a face grey and haggard, and shining with 
 perspiration. Instinctively he grasped him by the arm and 
 
188 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 supported him. In the confusion of the moment no one 
 noticed Colville ; for all were pressing round the prostrate 
 lady. And in a moment Colville was himself again, though 
 the ready smile sat oddly on such white lips. 
 
 " For God's sake be careful," he said, and turned away, 
 handkerchief in hand. 
 
 For the moment the portrait was forgotten until the lady 
 was on her feet again, smiling reassurances and rubbing her 
 elbow. 
 
 " It is nothing," she said, " nothing. My heart that 
 is all." 
 
 And she staggered to a chair with the reassuring smile 
 frozen on her face. 
 
 Then the portrait was passed from hand to hand in 
 silence. It was a miniature of Marie Antoinette, painted on 
 ivory, which had turned yellow. The colours were almost 
 lost, but the face stood clearly enough. It was the face of 
 a young girl, long and narrow, with the hair drawn straight 
 up and dressed high and simply on the head without 
 ornament. 
 
 " It is she," said one and another. " Cest lien elle" 
 
 "It was painted when she was newly a queen," com- 
 mented the Yicomte de Castel Aunet. " I have seen others 
 like it, but not that one before." 
 
 Barebone stood apart and no one offered to approach 
 him. Dormer Colville had gone toward the great fireplace, 
 and was standing by himself there with his back toward the 
 room. He was surreptitiously wiping from his face the 
 perspiration which had suddenly run down it, as one may 
 see the rain running down the face of a statue. 
 
 Things had taken an unexpected turn. The Marquis 
 de Gemosac, himself always on the surface, had stirred 
 others more deeply than he had anticipated or could now 
 
DROPPING THE PILOT 189 
 
 understand. France has always been the victim of her own 
 emotions ; aroused in the first instance half in idleness, 
 allowed to swell with a semi-restraining laugh, and then 
 suddenly sweeping and overwhelming. History tells of a 
 hundred such crises in the pilgrimage of the French people. 
 A few more and historians shall write " Ichabod " across 
 the most favoured land in Europe. 
 
 It is customary to relate that, after a crisis, those most 
 concerned in it know not how they faced it or what events 
 succeeded it. " He never knew," we are informed, " how he 
 got through the rest of the evening." 
 
 Loo Barebone knew and remembered every incident, 
 every glance. He was in full possession of every faculty, 
 and never had each been so keenly alive to the necessity of 
 the moment. Never had his quick brain been so alert as it 
 was during the rest of the evening. And those who had 
 come to the Hotel Geniosac to confirm their adoption of a 
 figure-head went away with the startling knowledge in their 
 hearts that they had never in the course of an artificial life 
 met a man less suited to play that undignified part. 
 
 And all the while, in the back of his mind, there lingered 
 with a deadly patience the desire for the moment which 
 must inevitably come when he should at last find himself 
 alone, face to face, with Dormer Colville. 
 
 It was nearly midnight before this moment came. At 
 last the latest guest had taken his leave, quitting the house 
 by the garden door and making his way across that forlorn 
 and weedy desert by the dim light reflected from the clouds 
 above. At last the Marquis de Gemosac had bidden them 
 good night, and they were left alone in the vast bedroom 
 which a dozen candles, in candelabras of silver blackened by 
 damp and neglect, only served to render more gloomy and 
 mysterious. 
 
190 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 In the confusion consequent on the departure of so 
 many guests the locket had been lost sight of, and Monsieur 
 de Gemosac forgot to make inquiry for it. It was in 
 Barebone's pocket. 
 
 Colville put together with the toe of his boot the logs 
 which were smouldering in a glow of incandescent heat. 
 He turned and glanced over his shoulder toward his 
 companion. 
 
 Barebone was taking the locket from his waistcoat 
 pocket and approaching the table where the candles burnt 
 low in their sockets. 
 
 "You never really supposed you were the man, did 
 you ? " asked Colville, with a ready smile. He was brave, 
 at all events, for he took the only course left to him with a 
 sublime assurance. 
 
 Barebone looked across the candles at the face which 
 smiled, and smiled. 
 
 " That is what I thought," he answered, with a queer 
 laugh. 
 
 " Do not jump to any hasty decisions," urged Colville 
 instantly, as if warned by the laugh. 
 
 " No ! I want to sift the matter carefully to the bottom. 
 It will be interesting to learn who are the deceived and who 
 the deceivers." 
 
 Barebone had had time to think out a course of action. 
 His face seemed to puzzle Colville, who was rarely at fault 
 in such judgments of character as came within his under- 
 standing. But he seemed for an instant to be on the 
 threshold of something beyond his understanding ; and yet 
 he had lived, almost day and night, for some months with 
 Barebone. Since the beginning that far-off beginning at 
 Farlingf ord their respective positions had been quite clearly 
 defined. Colville, the elder by nearly twenty years, had 
 
DROPPING THE PILOT 191 
 
 always been the guide and mentor and friend the com- 
 pulsory pilot he had gaily called himself. He had a vast 
 experience of the world. He had always moved in the best 
 French society. All that he knew, all the influence he could 
 command, and the experience upon which he could draw 
 were unreservedly at Barebone's service. The difference in 
 years had only affected their friendship in so far as it defined 
 their respective positions and prohibited any thought of 
 rivalry. Oolville had been the unquestioned leader, Barebone 
 the ready disciple. 
 
 And now in the twinkling of an eye the positions were 
 reversed. Colville stood watching Barebone's face with 
 eyes rendered almost servile by a great suspense. He waited 
 breathless for the next words. 
 
 "This portrait," said Barebone, "of the Queen was 
 placed in the locket by you ? " 
 
 Colville nodded with a laugh of conscious cleverness 
 rewarded by complete success. There was nothing in his 
 companion's voice to suggest suppressed anger. It was all 
 right after all. " I had great difficulty in finding just what 
 I wanted," he added, modestly. 
 
 " What I remember though the memory is necessarily 
 vague was a portrait of a woman older than this. Her 
 style of dress was more elaborate. Her hair was dressed 
 differently, with sort of curls at the side, and on the top, 
 half buried in the hair, was the imitation of a nest a dove's 
 nest. Such a thing would naturally stick in a child's 
 memory. It stuck in mine." 
 
 " Yes and nearly gave the game away to-night," said 
 Colville, gulping down the memory of those tense moments. 
 
 "That portrait the original you have not destroyed 
 it?" 
 
 M Oh no. It is of some value," replied Colville, almost 
 
192 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 naively. He felt in his pocket and produced a silver cigar- 
 case. The miniature was wrapped in a piece of thin paper, 
 which he unfolded. Barebone took the painting and 
 examined it with a little nod of recognition. His memory 
 had not failed after twenty years. 
 
 " Who is this lady ? " he asked. 
 
 Dormer Colville hesitated. 
 
 " Do you know the history of that period ? " he inquired, 
 after a moment's reflection. For the last hour he had been 
 trying to decide on a course of conduct. During the last few 
 minutes he had been forced to change it half a dozen times. 
 
 M Septimus Marvin, of Farlingford, is one of the greatest 
 living authorities on those reigns. I learnt a good deal from 
 him," was the answer. 
 
 " That lady is, I think, the Duchesse de Guiche." 
 
 * You think " 
 
 " Even Marvin could not tell you for certain," replied 
 Colville, mildly. He did not seem to perceive a difference 
 in Barebone's manner toward himself. The quickest in- 
 telligence cannot follow another's mind beyond its own 
 depth. 
 
 " Then the inference is that my father was the illegitimate 
 son of the Comte d'Artois." 
 
 "Afterward Charles X., of France," supplemented 
 Colville, significantly. 
 
 " Is that the inference ? " persisted Barebone. " I 
 should like to know your opinion. You must have studied 
 the question very carefully. Your opinion should be of 
 some interest, though " 
 
 " Though " echoed Colville, interrogatively, and 
 regretted it immediately. 
 
 "Though it is impossible to say when you speak the 
 truth and when you lie." 
 
DROPPING THE PILOT 193 
 
 And any who doubted that there was royal blood in Loo 
 Barebone's veins would assuredly have been satisfied by a 
 glance at his face at that moment ; by the sound of his 
 quiet, judicial voice ; by the sudden and almost terrifying 
 sense of power in Ins measuring eyes. 
 
 Colville turned away with an awkward laugh and gave 
 his attention to the logs on the hearth. Then suddenly he 
 regained his readiness of speech. 
 
 "Look here, Barebone," he cried. "We must not 
 quarrel ; we cannot afford to do that. And after all, what 
 does it matter ? You are only giving yourself the benefit 
 of the doubt that is all. For there is a doubt. You may 
 be what you what we say you are, after all. It is certain 
 enough that Marie Antoinette and Fersen were in daily 
 correspondence. They were both clever two of the cleverest 
 people in France and they were both desperate. Remember 
 that. Do you think that they would have failed in a 
 matter of such intense interest to her, and therefore to him ? 
 All these pretenders, Naundorff and the others, have proved 
 that quite clearly, but none has succeeded in proving that he 
 was the man." 
 
 " And do you think that I shall be able to prove that I 
 am the man when I am not ? " 
 
 By way of reply Dormer Colville turned again to the 
 fireplace and took down the print of Louis XYI. engraved 
 from a portrait painted when he was still Dauphin. A mirror 
 stood near, and Colville came to the table carrying the 
 portrait in one hand, the looking-glass in the other. 
 
 "Here," he said, eagerly. "Look at one and then at 
 the other. Look in the mirror and then at the portrait. 
 Prove it ! Why, God has proved it for you." 
 
 "I do not think we had better bring Him into the 
 question," was the retort : an odd reflex of Captain Clubbe's 
 
 o 
 
194 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 solid East Anglian piety. "No. If we go on with the 
 thing at all, let us be honest enough to admit to ourselves 
 that we are dishonest. The portrait in that locket points 
 clearly enough to the Truth." 
 
 " The portrait in that locket is of Marie Antoinette," 
 replied Oolville, half sullenly. " And no one can ever prove 
 anything contrary to that. No one except myself knows of 
 of this doubt which you have stumbled upon. De Gemosac, 
 Parson Marvin, Clubbe all of them are convinced that 
 your father was the Dauphin." 
 
 "And Miss Listen ?" 
 
 " Miriam Liston she also, of course. And I believe she 
 knew it long before I told her." 
 
 Barebone turned and looked at him squarely in the eyes. 
 Colville wondered a second time why Loo Barebone reminded 
 him of Captain Clubbe to-night. 
 
 " What makes you believe that ? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. But that isn't the question. The 
 question is about the future. You see how things are in 
 France. It is a question of Louis Napoleon or a monarchy 
 you see that. Unless you stop him he will be Emperor 
 before a year is out, and he will drag France in the gutter. 
 He is less a Bonaparte than you are a Bourbon. You 
 remember that Louis Bonaparte himself was the first to say 
 so. He wrote a letter to the Pope, saying so quite clearly. 
 You will go on with it, of course, Barebone. Say you will 
 go on with it ! To turn back now would be death. We 
 could not do it if we wanted to. I have been trying to 
 think about it, and I cannot. That is the truth. It takes 
 one's breath away. At the mere thought of it I feel as if I 
 were getting out of my depth." 
 
 "We have been out of our depths the last month," 
 admitted Barebone, curtly. 
 
DROPPING THE PILOT 195 
 
 And he stood reflecting, while Colville watched him. 
 
 " If I go on," he said, at length, " I go on alone." 
 
 " Better not," urged Colville, with a laugh of great 
 relief. " For you would always have me and my knowledge 
 hanging over you. If you succeeded, you would have me 
 dunning you for hush-money." 
 
 Which seemed true enough. Few men knew more of 
 one side of human nature than Dormer Colville, it would 
 appear. 
 
 " I am not afraid of that." 
 
 "You can never tell," laughed Colville, but his laugh 
 rather paled under Barebone's glance. " You can never tell." 
 
 " Wise men do not attempt to blackmail kings." 
 
 And Colville caught his breath. 
 
 "Perhaps you are right," he admitted, after a pause. 
 " You seem to be taking to the position very kindly, Bare- 
 bone. But I do not mind, you know. It does not matter 
 what we say to each other, eh ? We have been good friends 
 so long. You must do as you like. And if you succeed, I 
 must be content to leave my share of the matter to your 
 consideration. You certainly seem to know the business 
 already, and some day perhaps you will remember who 
 taught you to be a King." 
 
 " It was an old North Sea skipper who taught me that," 
 replied Barebone. "That is one of the things I learnt 
 at sea." 
 
 " Yes yes," agreed Colville, almost nervously. " And 
 you will go on with the thing, will you not ? Like a good 
 fellow, eh ? Think about it till to-morrow morning. I 
 will go now. Which is my candle ? Yes. You will think 
 about it. Do not jump to any hasty decision." 
 
 He hurried to the door as he spoke. He could not 
 understand Barebone at all. 
 
196 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 * If I do go on with it," was the reply, " it will not be 
 in response to any of your arguments. It will be only and 
 solely for the sake of France." 
 
 " Yes of course," agreed Colville, and closed the door 
 behind him. 
 
 In his own room he turned and looked toward the door 
 leading through to that from which he had hurriedly escaped. 
 He passed his hand across his face, which was white and 
 moist. 
 
 " For the sake of France ! " he echoed in bewilderment. 
 " For the sake of France ! Gad ! I believe he is the man 
 after all." 
 
CHAPTEE XXIII 
 
 A SIMPLE BANKER 
 
 Mr. John Turner had none of the outward signs of the 
 discreet adviser in his person or surroundings. He had, it 
 was currently whispered, inherited from his father an 
 enormous clientele of noble names. And to such as have 
 studied the history of Paris during the whole of the 
 nineteenth century, it will appear readily comprehensible 
 that the careful or the penniless should give preference to 
 an English banker. 
 
 Mr. Turner's appearance suggested solidity, and the 
 carpet of his private room was a good one. The room smelt 
 of cigar smoke, while the office, through which the client 
 must pass to reach it, was odoriferous of ancient ledgers. 
 
 Half a dozen clerks were seated in the office, which was 
 simply furnished and innocent of iron safes. If a client 
 entered, one of the six, whose business it was, looked up, 
 while the other five continued to give their attention to the 
 books before them. 
 
 One cold morning, toward the end of the year, Mrs. St. 
 Pierre Lawrence was admitted by the concierge. She noted 
 that only one clerk gave heed to her entry, and, it is to be 
 presumed, the quiet perfection of her furs. 
 
 " Of the six young men in your office," she observed, 
 when she was seated in the bare wooden chair placed in- 
 vitingly by the side of John Turner's writing-table, " only 
 one appears to be in full possession of his senses." 
 
198 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 Turner, sitting if the expression be allowed in a heap 
 in an armchair before a table provided with pens, ink, and 
 a blotting-pad, but otherwise bare, looked at his client with 
 a bovine smile. 
 
 " I don't pay them to admire my clients," he replied. 
 
 " If Mademoiselle de Montijo came in, I suppose the 
 other five would not look up." 
 
 John Turner settled himself a little lower into his chair, 
 so that he appeared to be in some danger of slipping under 
 the table. 
 
 "If the Archangel Gabriel came in, they would still 
 attend to their business," he replied, in his thick, slow voice. 
 " But he won't. He is not one of my clients. Quite the 
 contrary." 
 
 Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence smoothed the fur that bordered 
 her neat jacket and glanced sideways at her banker. Then 
 she looked round the room. It was bare enough. A single 
 picture hung on the wall a portrait of an old lady. Mrs. 
 St. Pierre Lawrence raised her eyebrows, and continued her 
 scrutiny. Here, again, was no iron safe. There were no 
 ledgers, no diaries, no note-books, no paraphernalia of 
 business. Nothing but a bare table and John Turner 
 seated at it, in a much more comfortable chair than that 
 provided for the client, staring apathetically at a date-case 
 which stood on a bare mantelpiece. 
 
 The lady's eyes returned to the portrait on the wall. 
 
 " You used to have a portrait of Louis Philippe there," 
 she said. 
 
 " When Louis Philippe was on the throne," admitted 
 the banker. 
 
 " And now ? " inquired this daughter of Eve, looking at 
 the portrait. 
 
 " My maternal aunt," replied Turner, making a gesture 
 
A SIMPLE BAKKER 199 
 
 with two fingers, as if introducing his client to the 
 portrait. 
 
 " You keep her, one may suppose, as a stop-gap between 
 the dynasties. It is so safe a maternal aunt ! " 
 
 " One cannot hang a republic on the wall, however much 
 one may want to." 
 
 " Then you are a Royalist ? " inquired Mrs. St. Pierre 
 Lawrence. 
 
 "No; I am only a banker," replied Turner, with his 
 chin sinking lower on his bulging waistcoat and his eyes 
 scarcely visible beneath the heavy lids. 
 
 The remark, coupled with a thought that Turner was 
 going to sleep, seemed to remind the client of her business. 
 
 " Will you kindly ask one of your clerks to let me know 
 how much money I have ? " she said, casting a glance not 
 wholly innocent of scornful reproach at the table, so glaringly 
 devoid of the bare necessities of a banking business. 
 
 " Only eleven thousand francs and fourteen sous," replied 
 Turner, with a promptness which seemed to suggest that he 
 kept no diary or note-book on the table before him because 
 he had need of neither. 
 
 " I feel sure I must have more than that," said Mrs. St. 
 Pierre Lawrence, with some spirit. " I quite thought I had." 
 
 But John Turner only moistened his lips and sat 
 patiently gazing at the date. His attitude dimly suggested 
 quite in a nice way that the chair upon which Mrs. St. 
 Pierre Lawrence sat was polished bright by the garments of 
 persons who had found themselves labouring under the same 
 error. 
 
 "Well, I must have a hundred thousand francs to- 
 morrow ; that is all. Simply must. And in notes, too. I 
 told you I should want it when you came to see me at Roy an. 
 You must remember. I told you at luncheon." 
 
200 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " When we were eating a sweetbread aux champignons. 
 I remember perfectly. We do not get sweetbreads like that 
 in Paris." 
 
 And John Turner shook his head sadly. 
 
 " Well, will you let me have the money to-morrow 
 morning in notes ? " 
 
 " I remember I advised you not to sell just now ; after 
 we had finished the sweetbread and had gone on to a crime 
 renversee very good one, too. Yes, it is a bad time to sell 
 Things are uncertain in France just now. One cannot even 
 get one's meals properly served. Cook's head is full of 
 politics, I suppose." 
 
 "To-morrow morning in notes," repeated Mrs. St. 
 Pierre Lawrence. 
 
 " Now, your man at Roy an was excellent kept his head 
 all through and a light hand, too. Got him with you in 
 Paris ? " 
 
 "No, I have not. To-morrow morning, about ten 
 o'clock in notes." 
 
 And Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence tapped a neat gloved 
 finger on the corner of the table with some determination. 
 
 "I remember at dessert you told me you wanted to 
 realise a considerable sum of money at the beginning of the 
 year, to put into some business venture. Is this part of that 
 sum ? " 
 
 " Yes," returned the lady, arranging her veil. 
 
 " A venture of Dormer Colville's, I think you told me 
 while we were having coffee. One never gets coffee hot 
 enough in a private house, but yours was all right." 
 
 " Yes," mumbled Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, behind her 
 quick finger, busy with the veil. 
 
 Beneath the sleepy lids John Turner's eyes, which were 
 small and deep-sunken in the flesh, like the eyes of a pig, 
 
A SIMPLE BANKER 201 
 
 noted in passing that his client's cheeks were momentarily 
 pink. 
 
 " I hope you don't mean to suggest that there is anything 
 unsafe in Mr. Colville as a business man ? " 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! " ejaculated Turner. " On the con- 
 trary, he is most enterprising. And I know no one who 
 smokes a better cigar than Colville when he can get it. 
 And the young fellow seemed nice enough." 
 
 " Which young fellow ? " inquired the lady, sharply. 
 
 " His young friend the man who was with him. I 
 think you told me, after luncheon, that Colville required the 
 money to start his young friend in business." 
 
 " Never ! " laughed Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, who, if she 
 felt momentarily uneasy, was quickly reassured. For this 
 was one of those fortunate ladies who go through life with 
 the comforting sense of being always cleverer than their 
 neighbour. If the neighbour happen to be a man, and a 
 stout one, the conviction is the stronger for those facts. 
 " Never ! I never told you that. You must have dreamt it." 
 
 " Perhaps I did," admitted the banker, placidly. " I am 
 afraid I often feel sleepy after luncheon. Perhaps I dreamt 
 it. But I could not hand such a sum in notes to an un- 
 protected lady, even if I can effect a sale of your securities 
 so quickly as to have the money ready by to-morrow morning. 
 Perhaps Colville will call for it himself." 
 
 " If he is in Paris." 
 
 " Every one is in Paris now," was Mr. Turner's opinion. 
 " And if he likes to bring his young friend with him, all the 
 better. In these uncertain times it is not fair on a man to 
 hand to him a large sum of money in notes." He paused 
 and jerked his thumb toward the window, which was a 
 double one, looking down into the Rue Lafayette. " There 
 are always people in the streets watching those who pass in 
 
202 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 and out of a bank. If a man comes out smiling, with his 
 hand on his pocket, he is followed, and if an opportunity 
 occurs, he is robbed. Better not have it in notes." 
 
 " I know," replied Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, not troubling 
 further to deceive one so lethargic and simple. " I know 
 that Dormer wants it in notes." 
 
 " Then let him come and fetch it." 
 
 Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence rose from her chair and shook 
 her dress into straighter folds, with the air of having accom- 
 plished a task which she had known to be difficult, but not 
 impossible to one equipped with wit and self-confidence. 
 
 " You will sell the securities, and have it all ready by 
 ten o'clock to-morrow morning," she repeated, with a 
 feminine insistence. 
 
 " You shall have the money to-morrow morning, whether 
 I succeed in selling for cash or not," was the reply, and John 
 Turner concealed a yawn with imperfect success. 
 
 " A loan ? " 
 
 "No banker lends except to kings," replied Turner, 
 stolidly. u Call it an accommodation." 
 
 Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence glanced at him sharply over 
 the fur collar which she was clasping round her neck. Here 
 was a banker, reputed wealthy, who sat in a bare room, 
 without so much as a fireproof safe to suggest riches ; a 
 business man of world-wide affairs, who drummed indolent 
 fingers on a bare table ; a philosopher with a maxim ever 
 ready to teach, as all maxims do, cowardice in the guise of 
 prudence, selfishness masquerading as worldly wisdom, hard- 
 heartedness passing for foresight. Here was one who seemed 
 to see, and was yet too sleepy to perceive. Mrs. St. Pierre 
 Lawrence was not always sure of her banker, but now, as 
 ever before, one glance at his round, heavy face reassured 
 her. She laughed and went away, well satisfied with the 
 
A SIMPLE BANKER 203 
 
 knowledge, only given to women, of having once more 
 carried out her object with the completeness which is known 
 as twisting round the little finger. 
 
 She nodded to Turner, who had ponderously risen from 
 the chair which was more comfortable than the client's seat, 
 and held the door open for her to pass. He glanced at the 
 clock as he did so. And she knew that he was thinking 
 that it was nearly the luncheon hour, so transparent to the 
 feminine perception are the thoughts of men. 
 
 "When he had closed the door he returned to his writing- 
 table. Like many stout people, he moved noiselessly, and 
 quickly enough when the occasion demanded haste. 
 
 He wrote three letters in a very few minutes, and, when 
 they were addressed, he tapped on the table with the end of 
 his pen-holder, which brought, in the twinkling of an eye, 
 that clerk whose business it was to abandon his books when 
 called. 
 
 " I shall not go out to luncheon until I have the written 
 receipt for each one of those letters," said the banker, know- 
 ing that until he went out to luncheon his six clerks must 
 needs go hungry. " Not an answer," he explained, " but a 
 receipt in the addressee's writing." 
 
 And while the clerk hurried from the room and down the 
 stone stairs at a break-neck speed, Turner sank back into his 
 chair, with lustreless eyes fixed on space. 
 
 "No one can wait," he was in the habit of saying, 
 " better than I can." 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE LANE OF MANY TURNINGS 
 
 If John Turner expected Colville to bring Loo Barebone 
 with him to the Rue Lafayette he was, in part, disappointed. 
 Colville arrived in a hired carriage, of which the blinds were 
 partially lowered. 
 
 The driver had been instructed to drive into the roomy 
 court-yard of the house of which Turner's office occupied 
 the first floor. Carriages frequently waited there, by the 
 side of a little fountain which splashed all day and all night 
 into a circular basin. 
 
 Colville descended from the carriage and turned to speak 
 to Loo, who was left sitting within it. Since the unfortunate 
 night at the Hotel Gemosac, when they had been on the 
 verge of a quarrel, a certain restraint had characterised their 
 intercourse. Colville was shy of approaching the subject 
 upon which they had differed. His easy laugh had not 
 laughed away the grim fact that he had deceived Loo in 
 such a manner that complicity was practically forced upon 
 an innocent man. 
 
 Loo had not given his decision yet. He had waited a 
 week, during which time Colville had not dared to ask him 
 w T hether his mind was made up. There was a sort of 
 recklessness in Loo's manner which at once puzzled and 
 alarmed his mentor. At times he was gay, as he always 
 had been, and in the midst of his gaiety he would turn away 
 with a gloomy face and go to his own room. 
 
THE LANE OF MANY TURNINGS 205 
 
 To press the question would be to precipitate a catas- 
 trophe. Dormer Colville decided to go on as if nothing had 
 happened. It is a compromise with the inconveniences of 
 untruth to which we must all resort at some crisis or another 
 in life. 
 
 " I will not be long," he assured Barcbone, with a gay 
 laugh. The prospect of handling one hundred thousand 
 francs in notes was perhaps exhilarating ; though the actual 
 possession of great wealth would seem to be of the contrary 
 tendency. There is a profound melancholy peculiar to the 
 face of the millionaire. " I shall not be long ; for he is a 
 man of his word, and the money will be ready." 
 
 John Turner was awaiting his visitor, and gave a large 
 soft hand inertly into Colville's warm grasp. 
 
 " I always wish I saw more of you," said the new-comer. 
 
 " Is there not enough of me already ? " inquired the 
 banker, pointing to the vacant chair, upon which fell the 
 full light of the double window. A smaller window opposite 
 to it afforded a view of the court-yard. And it was at this 
 smaller window that Colville glanced as he sat down, with a 
 pause indicative of reluctance. 
 
 Turner saw the glance and noted the reluctance. He 
 concluded, perhaps, in the slow, sure mind that worked 
 behind his little peeping eyes, that Loo Barebone was in the 
 carriage in the court-yard, and that Colville was anxious to 
 return to him as soon as possible. 
 
 " It is very kind of you to say that, I am sure," pursued 
 Turner, rousing himself to be pleasant and conversational. 
 " But, although the loss is mine, my dear Colville, the fault 
 is mostly yours. You always know where to find me when 
 you want my society. I am anchored in this chair, whereas 
 one never knows where one has a butterfly like yourself." 
 
 " A butterfly that is getting a bit heavy on the wing," 
 
206 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 answered Colville, with his wan and sympathetic smile. He 
 sat forward in the chair in an attitude antipathetic to 
 digression from the subject in hand. 
 
 " I do not see any evidence of that. One hears of you 
 here and there in France. I suppose, for instance, you know 
 more than any man in Paris at the present moment of the " 
 he paused and suppressed a yawn, " the er vintage. Any- 
 thing in it eh ? " 
 
 " So far as I could judge, the rains came too late ; but I 
 shall be glad to tell you all about it another time. This 
 morning " 
 
 " Yes ; I know. You want your money. I have it all 
 ready for you. But I must make out some sort of receipt, 
 you know." 
 
 Turner felt vaguely in his pocket, and at last found a 
 letter, from which he tore the blank sheet, while his com- 
 panion, glancing from time to time at the window, watched 
 him impatiently. 
 
 " Seems to me," said Turner, opening his inkstand, 
 " that the vintage of 1850 will not be drunk by a Republic." 
 
 "Ah! indeed." 
 
 " What do you think ? " 
 
 " "Well, to tell you the truth, my mind was more occupied 
 in the quality of the vintage than in its ultimate fate. If 
 you make out a receipt on behalf of Mrs. St. Pierre 
 Lawrence, I will sign it," answered Colville, fingering the 
 blotting-paper. 
 
 "Received on behalf of, and for, Mrs. St. Pierre 
 Lawrence, the sum of one hundred thousand francs," 
 muttered the banker, as he wrote. 
 
 " She is only a client, you understand, my dear Colville," 
 he went on, holding out his hand for the blotting-paper, 
 "or I would not part with the money so easily. It is 
 
THE LANE OF MANY TURNINGS 207 
 
 against my advice that Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence realises 
 this sum." 
 
 " If a woman sets her heart on a thing, my dear 
 fellow " began Colville, carelessly. 
 
 "Yes, I know reason goes to the wall. Sign there, 
 will you ? " 
 
 Turner handed him pen and receipt, but Colville was 
 looking toward the window sunk deep in the wall on the 
 inner side of the room. This was not a double window, and 
 the sound of carnage wheels rose above the gentle, continuous 
 plash of the little fountain in the court-yard. 
 
 Colville rose from his seat, but to reach the window he 
 had to pass behind Turner's chair. Turner rose at the same 
 moment, and pushed his chair back against the wall in doing 
 so. This passage toward the window being completely closed 
 by the bulk of John Turner, Colville hurried round the 
 writing-table. But Turner was again in front of him, and, 
 without appearing to notice that his companion was literally 
 at his heels, he opened a large cupboard sunk in the panelling 
 of the wall. The door of it folded back over the little 
 window, completely hiding it. 
 
 Turning on his heel, with an agility which was quite 
 startling in one so stout, he found Colville's colourless face 
 two feet from his own. In fact, Colville almost stumbled 
 against him. For a moment they looked each other in the 
 eyes in silence. With his right hand, John Turner held the 
 cupboard-door over the window. 
 
 " 1 have the money here," he said, " in this cupboard." 
 And as he spoke, a hollow rumble, echoing in the court-yard, 
 marked the exit of a carriage under the archway into the 
 Rue Lafayette. There had been only one carriage in 
 attendance in the court-yard that in which Colville had 
 left Barebone. 
 
208 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " Here, in this cupboard," repeated Turner to unheeding 
 ears. For Dormer Oolville was already hurrying across the 
 room toward the other window that looked out into the Rue 
 Lafayette. The house was a lofty one, with a high entresol, 
 and from the windows of the first floor it was not possible to 
 see the street immediately below without opening the sashes. 
 
 Turner closed the cupboard and locked it, without ceasing 
 to watch Colville, who was struggling with the stiff fastening 
 of the outer sash. 
 
 " Anything the matter ? " inquired the banker, placidly. 
 "Lost a dog?" 
 
 But Colville had at length wrenched open the window 
 and was leaning out. The roar of the traffic drowned any 
 answer he may have made. It was manifest that the loss 
 of three precious minutes had made him too late. After 
 a glance down into the street, he came back into the centre 
 of the room and snatched up his hat from Turner's bare 
 writing-table. 
 
 He hurried to the door, but turned again, with his back 
 against it, to face his companion, with the eyes usually so 
 affable and sympathetic, ablaze for once with rage. 
 
 " Damn you ! " he cried. " Damn you ! " 
 
 And the door banged on his heels as he hurried through 
 the outer office. 
 
 Turner was left standing, a massive incarnation of 
 bewilderment, in the middle of the room. He heard the 
 outer door close with considerable emphasis. Then he sat 
 down again, his eyebrows raised high on his round forehead, 
 and gazed sadly at the date-card. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Colville had left Loo Barebone seated in the hired 
 carriage in a frame of mind far from satisfactory. A sea- 
 faring life, more than any other, teaches a man quickness in 
 
THE LANE OF MANY TURNINGS 209 
 
 action. A hundred times a day the sailor needs to execute, 
 with a rapidity impossible to the landsman, that which 
 knowledge tells him to be the imminent necessity of the 
 moment. At sea, life is so far simpler than in towns that 
 there are only two ways : the right and the wrong. In the 
 devious paths of a pavement-ridden man there are a hundred 
 byways : there is the long, long lane of many turnings 
 called Compromise. 
 
 Loo Barebone had turned into this lane one night at the 
 Hotel G-emosac, in the Kuelle St. Jacob, and had wandered 
 there ever since. Captain Clubbe had taught him the two 
 ways of seamanship effectively enough. But the education 
 fell short of the necessities of this crisis. Moreover, Barebone 
 had in his veins blood of a race which had fallen to low 
 estate through Compromise and Delay. 
 
 Let those throw the first stone at him who have seen 
 the right way gaping before their feet with a hundred 
 pitfalls and barriers, apparently insurmountable, and have 
 resolutely taken that road. For the devious path of Com- 
 promise has this merit that the obstacles are round the 
 corner. 
 
 Barebone, absorbed in thought, hardly noticed that the 
 driver of his carriage descended from the box and lounged 
 toward the archway, where the hum of traffic and the 
 passage of many people would serve to beguile a long wait. 
 After a minute's delay, a driver returned and climbed to the 
 seat but it was not the same driver. He wore the same 
 coat and hat, but a different face looked out from the sheep- 
 skin collar turned up to the ears. There was no one in the 
 court-yard to notice this trifling change. Barebone was not 
 even looking out of the window. He had never glanced at 
 the cabman's face, whose vehicle had happened to be lingering 
 at the corner of the Ruelle St. Jacob when Colville and his 
 
210 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 companion had emerged from the high doorway of the Hotel 
 Gemosac. 
 
 Barebone was so far obeying instructions that he was 
 leaning back in the carriage, his face half hidden by the 
 collar of his coat. For it was a cold morning in mid-winter. 
 He hardly looked up when the handle of the door was 
 turned. Colville had shut this door five minutes earlier, 
 promising to return immediately. It was undoubtedly his 
 hand that opened the door. But suddenly Barebone sat up. 
 Both doors were open. 
 
 Before he could make another movement, two men 
 stepped quietly into the carriage, each closing the door by 
 which he had entered quickly and noiselessly. One seated 
 himself beside Barebone, the other opposite to him, and 
 each drew down a blind. They seemed to have rehearsed 
 the actions over and over again, so that there was no hitch 
 or noise or bungling. The whole was executed as if by 
 clock-work, and the carriage moved away the instant the 
 doors were closed. 
 
 In the twilight, within the carriage, the two men grasped 
 Loo Barebone, each by one arm, and held him firmly against 
 the back of the carriage. 
 
 " Quietly, mon Ion monsieur ; quietly, and you will come 
 to no harm." 
 
 Barebone made no resistance, and only laughed. 
 
 " You have come too soon," he said, without attempting 
 to free his arms, which were held, as if by a vice, at the 
 elbow and shoulder. " You have come too soon, gentlemen ! 
 There is no money in the carriage. Not so much as a sou." 
 
 " It is not for money that we have come," replied the 
 man who had first spoken and the absolute silence of his 
 companion was obviously the silence of a subordinate. 
 " Though, for a larger sum than monsieur is likely to offer, 
 
THE LANE OF MANY TURNINGS 211 
 
 one might make a mistake, and allow of escape who 
 knows ? " 
 
 The remark was made with the cynical honesty of dis- 
 honesty which had so lately been introduced into France by 
 him who was now Dictator of that facile people. 
 
 " Oh ! I offer nothing," replied Barebone. " For a good 
 reason. I have nothing to offer. If you are not thieves, 
 what are you ? " 
 
 The carriage was rattling along the Rue Lafayette, over 
 the cobble-stones, and the inmates, though their faces were 
 close together, had to shout in order to be heard. 
 
 " Of the police," was the reply. " Of the high police. I 
 fancy that monsieur's affair is political ? " 
 
 " Why should you fancy that ? " 
 
 " Because my comrade and I are not engaged on other 
 cases. The criminal receives very different treatment. 
 Permit me to assure you of that. And no consideration 
 whatever. The common police is so unmannerly. There ! 
 one may well release the arms since we understand each 
 other." 
 
 " I shall not try to escape if that is what you mean," 
 replied Barebone, with a laugh. 
 
 " Nothing else nothing else," his affable captor assured 
 him. 
 
 And for the remainder of a long drive through the noisy 
 streets the three men sat upright in the dim and musty cab 
 in silence. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 SANS RANCUNE 
 
 A large French fishing-lugger was drifting northward on 
 the ebb tide with its sails flapping idly against the spars. 
 It had been a fine morning, and the Captain, a man from 
 Fecamp, where every boy that is born is born a sailor, had 
 been fortunate in working his way in clear weather across 
 the banks that lie northward of the Thames. 
 
 He had predicted all along in a voice rendered husky by 
 much shouting in dirty weather that the fog-banks would be 
 drifting in from the sea before nightfall. And now he had 
 that mournful satisfaction which is the special privilege of 
 the pessimistic. These fog-banks, the pest of the east coast, 
 are the materials that form the light fleecy clouds which 
 drift westward in sunny weather like a gauze veil across the 
 face of the sky. They roll across the North Sea from their 
 home in the marshes of Holland on the face of the waters, 
 and the mariner, groping his way with dripping eyelashes 
 and a rosy face through them, can look up and see the blue 
 sky through the rifts overhead. When the fog-bank touches 
 land it rises, slowly lifted by the warm breath of the field. 
 
 On the coast-line it lies low ; a mile inland it begins to 
 break into rifts, so that any one working his way down one 
 of the tidal rivers, sails in the counting of twenty seconds 
 from sunshine into a pearly shadow. Five miles inland 
 there is a transparent veil across the blue sky slowly sweeping 
 
 
SANS RANCUNE 213 
 
 toward the west, and rising all the while, until those who 
 dwell on the higher lands of Essex and Suffolk perceive 
 nothing but a few fleecy clouds high in the heavens. 
 
 The lugger was hardly moving, for the tide had only 
 turned half an hour ago. 
 
 " Provided," the Captain had muttered within the folds 
 of his woollen scarf rolled round and round his neck until 
 it looked like a dusky life-belt " provided that they are 
 ringing their bell on the Shipwash, we shall find our way 
 into the open. Always sea-sick, this traveller, always sea- 
 sick ! " 
 
 And he turned with a kindly laugh to Loo Barebone, 
 who was lying on a heap of old sails by the stern rail, con- 
 cealing as well as he could the pangs of a consuming hunger. 
 " One sees that you will never be a sailor," added the 
 man from Fecamp, with that rough humour which sailors 
 use. 
 
 " Perhaps I do not want to be one," replied Barebone, 
 with a ready gaiety which had already made him several 
 friends on this tarry vessel, although the voyage had lasted 
 but four days. 
 
 " Listen," interrupted the Captain, holding up a mittened 
 hand. " Listen ! I hear a bell, or else it is my conscience." 
 Barebone had heard it for some time. It was the bell- 
 buoy at the mouth of Harwich River. But he did not 
 deem it necessary for one who was a prisoner on board, and 
 no sailor, to interfere in the navigation of a vessel now 
 making its way to the Faroe fisheries for the twentieth time. 
 " My conscience," he observed, " rings louder than 
 that." 
 
 The Captain took a turn round the tiller with a rope 
 made fast to the rail for the purpose, and went to the side of 
 the ship, lifting his nose toward the west. 
 
214 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " Ifc is the land," he said. " I can smell it. But it is 
 only the Blessed Virgin who knows where we are." 
 
 He turned and gave a gruff order to a man half hidden 
 in the mist in the waist of the boat to try a heave of the 
 lead. 
 
 The sound of the bell could be heard clearly enough now 
 the uncertain, hesitating clang of a bell-buoy rocked in 
 the tideway with its melancholy note of warning. Indeed, 
 there are few sounds on sea or land more fraught with 
 lonesomeness and fear. Behind it and beyond it a faint 
 " tap-tap " was now audible. Barebone knew it to be the 
 sound of a caulker's hammer in the Government repairing 
 yard on the south side. They were drifting past the mouth 
 of the Harwich Eiver. 
 
 The leadsman called out a depth which Loo could have 
 told without the help of line or lead. For he had served a 
 long apprenticeship on these coasts under a captain second 
 to none in the North Sea. 
 
 He turned a little on his bed of sails under repair, at 
 which the Captain had been plying his needle while the 
 weather remained clear, and glanced over his shoulder toward 
 the ship's dinghy towing astern. The rope that held it was 
 made fast round the rail a few feet away from him. The 
 boat itself was clumsy, shaped like a walnut, of a pre- 
 posterous strength and weight. It was fitted with a short, 
 stiff mast and a balance lug-sail. It floated more lightly on 
 the water than the bigger vessel, which was laden with coal 
 and provender and salt for the North Atlantic fishery, and 
 the painter hung loose, while the dinghy, tide-borne, sidled 
 up to stern of its big companion like a kitten following its 
 mother with the uncertain steps of infancy. 
 
 The face of the water was glassy and of a yellow green. 
 Although the scud swept in toward the land at a fair speed, 
 
SANS RANCUNE 215 
 
 there was not enough wind to fill the sails. Moreover, the 
 bounty of Holland seemed inexhaustible. There was more 
 to come. This fog-bank lay on the water halfway across 
 the North Sea, and the brief winter sun having failed to 
 disperse it, was now sinking to the west, cold and pale. 
 
 " The water seems shallow," said Barebone to the Captain. 
 M What would you do if the ship went aground ? " 
 
 " We should stay there, mon ton monsieur, until some 
 one came to help us at the flood tide. We should shout 
 until they heard us." 
 
 " You might fire a gun," suggested Barebone. 
 
 " We have no gun on board, mon bon monsieur," replied 
 the Captain, who had long ago explained to his prisoner 
 that there was no ill-feeling. 
 
 " It is the fortune of war," he had explained before the 
 white cliffs of St. Valerie had faded from sight. "I am a 
 poor man who cannot afford to refuse a good offer. It is a 
 Government job, as you no doubt know without my telling 
 you. You would seem to have incurred the displeasure or 
 the distrust of some one high placed in the Government. 
 1 Treat him well,' they said to me. * Give him your best, 
 and see that he comes to no harm unless he tries to escape. 
 And be careful that he does not return to France before the 
 mackerel fishing begins.' And when we do return to 
 Fecamp, I have to lie to off Notre Dame de la Garde and 
 signal to the Douane that I have you safe. They want you 
 out of the way. You are a dangerous man, it seems. 
 Salut!" 
 
 And the Captain raised his glass to one so distinguished 
 by Government. He laughed as he set his glass down on 
 the little cabin table. 
 
 " No ill-feeling on either side," he added. " C'est 
 mten&uP 
 
216 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 He made a half -movement as if to shake hands across 
 the table and thought better of it, remembering, perhaps, 
 that his own palm was not innocent of blood-money. For 
 the rest they had been friendly enough on the voyage. And 
 had the " Petite Jeanne " been in danger, it is probable that 
 Barebone would have warned his jailer, if only in obedience 
 to a seaman's instinct against throwing away a good ship. 
 
 He had noted every detail, however, of the dinghy while 
 he lay on the deck of the " Petite Jeanne " ; how the runner 
 fitted to the mast ; whether the halliards were likely to run 
 sweetly through the sheaves or were knotted and would 
 jamb. He knew the weight of the gaff and the great tan- 
 sodden ed sail to a nicety. Some dark night, he had thought, 
 on the Dogger, he would slip overboard and take his chance. 
 He had never looked for thick weather at this time of year 
 off the Banks, so near home, within a few hours' sail of the 
 mouth of Farlingford Eiver. 
 
 If a breeze would only come up from the south-east, as 
 it almost always does in these waters toward the evening of 
 a still, fine day ! "Without lifting his head he scanned the 
 weather, noting that the scud was blowing more northward 
 now. It might only be what is known as a slant. On the 
 other hand, it might prove to be a true breeze, coming from 
 the usual quarter. The " tap-tap " of the caulker's hammer 
 on the slip-way in Harwich River was silent now. There 
 must be a breeze in-shore that carried the sound away. 
 
 The topsail of the " Petite Jeanne " filled with a jerk, 
 and the Captain, standing at the tiller, looked up at it. The 
 lower sails soon took their cue, and suddenly the slack sheets 
 hummed taut in the breeze. The " Petite Jeanne " answered 
 to it at once, and the waves gurgled and laughed beneath her 
 counter as she moved through the water. She could sail 
 quicker than her dinghy : Barebone knew that. But he also 
 
SANS RANCUNE 217 
 
 knew that he could handle an open boat as few even on the 
 C6tes-du-Nord knew how. 
 
 If the breeze came strong, it would blow the fog-bank 
 away, and Barebone had need of its covert. Though there 
 must be many English boats within sight should the fog 
 lift indeed, the guardship in Harwich harbour would be 
 almost visible across the spit of land where Landguard Fort 
 lies hidden Barebone had no intention of asking help so 
 compromising. He had but a queer story to tell to any in 
 authority, and on the face of it he must perforce appear to 
 have run away with the dinghy of the " Petite Jeanne." 
 
 He desired to get ashore as unobtrusively as possible. 
 For he was not going to stay in England. The die was cast 
 now. Where Dormer Colville's persuasions had failed, where 
 the memory of that journey through Royalist France had yet 
 left him doubting, the incidents of the last few days had 
 clinched the matter once for all. Barebone was going back 
 to France. 
 
 He moved as if to stretch his limbs and lay down once 
 more, with his shoulders against the rail and his elbow 
 covering the stanchion round which the dinghy's painter 
 was made fast. 
 
 The proper place for the dinghy was on deck should the 
 breeze freshen. Barebone knew that as well as the French 
 Captain of the " Petite Jeanne." For seamanship is like 
 music it is independent of language or race. There is only 
 one right way and one wrong way at sea, all the world over. 
 The dinghy was only towing behind while the fog continued 
 to be impenetrable. At any moment the Captain might give 
 the order to bring it inboard. 
 
 At any moment Barebone might have to make a dash for 
 the boat. 
 
 He watched the Captain, who continued to steer in 
 
218 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 silence. To drift on the tide in a fog is a very different 
 thing to sailing through it at ten miles an hour on a strong 
 breeze, and the steersman had no thought to spare for any- 
 thing but his sails. Two men were keeping the look-out in 
 the bows. Another the leadsman was standing amidships 
 peering over the side into the mist. 
 
 Still Barebone waited. Captain Clubbe had taught him 
 that most difficult art to select with patience and a perfect 
 judgment the right moment. The " Petite Jeanne " was rust- 
 ling through the glassy water northward toward Farlingford. 
 
 At a word from the Captain the man who had been 
 heaving the lead came aft to the ship's bell and struck ten 
 quick strokes. He waited and repeated the warning, but no 
 one answered. They were alone in these shallow channels. 
 Fortunately the man faced forward, as sailors always do by 
 instinct, turning his back upon the Captain and Barebone. 
 
 The painter was cast off now and, under his elbow, Bare- 
 bone was slowly hauling in. The dinghy was heavy and the 
 "Petite Jeanne" was moving quickly through the water. 
 Suddenly Barebone rose to his feet, hauled in hand over 
 hand, and when the dinghy was near enough, leaped across 
 two yards of water to her gunwale. 
 
 The Captain heard the thud of his feet on the thwart, 
 and looking back over his shoulder saw and understood in a 
 flash of thought. But even then he did not understand that 
 Loo was aught else but a landsman half -recovered from sea- 
 sickness. He understood it a minute later, however, when 
 the brown sail ran up the mast and, holding the tiller between 
 his knees, Barebone hauled in the sheet hand over hand and 
 steered a course out to sea. 
 
 He looked back over the foot of the sail and waved his hand. 
 
 " Sans rancune ! " he shouted. " C'est entendu ! " The 
 Captain's own w T ords. 
 
SANS RANCUNE 219 
 
 The " Petite Jeanne " was already round to the wind, and 
 the Captain was bellowing to his crew to trim the sails. It 
 could scarcely be a chase, for the huge deep-sea fishing-boat 
 could sail half as fast again as her own dinghy. The Captain 
 gave his instructions with all the quickness of his race, and 
 the men were not slow to carry them out. The safe-keeping 
 of the prisoner had been made of personal advantage to each 
 member of the crew. 
 
 The Captain hailed Barebone with winged words which 
 need not be set down here, and explained to him the im- 
 possibility of escape. 
 
 " How can you a landsman," he shouted, " hope to get 
 away from us ? Come back and it shall be as you say, 
 1 sans rancmeS Name of God ! I bear you no ill-will for 
 making the attempt." 
 
 They were so close together that all on board the " Petite 
 Jeanne " could see Barebone laugh and shake his head. He 
 knew that there was no gun on board the fishing-boat. The 
 lugger rushed on, sailing quicker, lying up closer to the wind. 
 She was within twenty yards of the little boat now would 
 overhaul her in a minute. 
 
 But in an instant Barebone was round on the other tack, 
 and the Captain swore aloud, for he knew now that he was 
 not dealing with a landsman. The " Petite Jeanne " spun 
 round almost as quickly, but not quite. Every time that 
 Barebone put about, the "Petite Jeanne" must perforce do 
 the same, and every time she lost a little in the manoeuvre. 
 On a long tack or running before the wind the bigger boat 
 was immeasurably superior. Barebone had but one chance 
 to make short tacks and he knew it. The Captain knew it 
 also, and no landsman would have possessed the knowledge. 
 He was trying to run the boat down now. 
 
 Barebone might succeed in getting far enough away to 
 
220 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 be lost in the fog. But in tacking so frequently he was 
 liable to make a mistake. The bigger boat was not so likely 
 to miss stays. He passed so close to her that he could read 
 the figures cut on her stern-post indicating her draught of 
 water. 
 
 There was another chance. The "Petite Jeanne" was 
 drawing six feet ; the dinghy could sail across a shoal covered 
 by eighteen inches of water. But such a shoal would be 
 clearly visible on the surface of the water. Besides, there 
 was no shallow like that nearer than the Goodwins. Bare- 
 bone pressed out seaward. He knew every channel and every 
 bank between the Thames and Thorpeness. He kept on 
 pressing out to sea by short tacks. All the while he was 
 peeping over the gunwale out of the corner of his eye. He 
 was near, he must be near, a bank covered by five feet of 
 water at low tide. A shoal of five feet is rarely visible on 
 the surface. 
 
 Suddenly he rose from his seat on the gunwale, and stood 
 with the tiller in one hand and the sheet in the other, half 
 turning back to look at " Petite Jeanne " towering almost 
 over him. And as he looked, her bluff black bows rose up- 
 ward with an cdd climbing movement like a horse stepping 
 up a bank. With a rattle of ropes and blocks she stood 
 still. 
 
 Barebone went about again and sailed past her. 
 
 " Sans rancune ! " he shouted. But no one heeded him, 
 for they had other matters to attend to. And the dinghy 
 sailed into the veil of the mist toward the land. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 RETURNED EMPTY 
 
 The breeze freshened, and, as was to be expected, blew the 
 fog-bank away before sunset. 
 
 Sep Marvin had been an unwilling student all day. Like 
 many of his cloth and generation, Parson Marvin pinned all 
 his faith on education. " Give a boy a good education," he 
 said, a hundred times. " Make a gentleman of him, and 
 you have done your duty by him." 
 
 " Make a gentleman of him and the world will be glad 
 to feed and clothe him," was the real thought in his mind, 
 as it was in the mind of nearly all his contemporaries. The 
 wildest dreamer of those days never anticipated that, in the 
 passage of one brief generation, social advancement should 
 be for the shrewdly ignorant rather than for the scholar : 
 that it would be better for a man that his mind be stored 
 with knowledge of the world than the wisdom of the classics : 
 that the successful grocer might find a kinder welcome in a 
 palace than the scholar : that the manufacturer of kitchen 
 utensils might feed with kings and speak to them, without 
 aspirates, between the courses. 
 
 Parson Marvin knew none of these things, however ; nor 
 suspected that the advance of civilisation is not always pro- 
 gressive, but that she may take hands with vulgarity and 
 dance down-hill, as she does to-day. His one scheme of life 
 for Sep was that he should be sent to the ancient school 
 
222 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 where field-sports are cultivated to-day and English gentle- 
 men turned upon the world more ignorant than any other 
 gentlemen in the universe. Then, of course, Sep must go 
 to that College with which his father's life had been so 
 closely allied. And if it please God to call him to the 
 Church, and the College should remember that it had given 
 his father a living, and do the same by him for that reason 
 and no other then, of course, Sep would be a made man. 
 
 And the making of Sep had been in progress during the 
 winter day that a fog-bank came in from the North Sea and 
 clung tenaciously to the low, surfless coast. In the afternoon 
 the sun broke through at last, wintry and pale. Sep, who, 
 by some instinct the instinct, it is to be supposed, of young 
 animals knew that he was destined to be of a generation 
 that should cultivate ignorance out of doors, rather than 
 learning by the fireside, threw aside his books and cried out 
 that he could no longer breathe in his father's study. 
 
 So Parson Marvin went off, alone, to visit a distant 
 parishioner one who was dying by himself out on the marsh, 
 in a cottage cut off from all the world in a spring tide. 
 
 " Don't forget that it is high tide at five o'clock, and 
 that there is no moon, and that the dykes will be full. You 
 will never find your way across the marsh after dark," said 
 Sep the learned in tides and those practical affairs of 
 nature, which were as a closed book to the scholar. 
 
 Parson Marvin vaguely acknowledged the warning and 
 went away, leaving Sep to accompany Miriam on her daily 
 errand to the simple shops in Farlingford, which would 
 awake to life and business now that the sea-fog was gone. 
 For the men of Farlingford, like nearly all seafarers, are 
 timorous of bad weather on shore and sit indoors during its 
 passage, while they treat storm and rain with a calm con- 
 tempt at sea. 
 
RETURNED EMPTY 223 
 
 " Sail a-coming up the river, master," River Andrew 
 said to Sep, who was awaiting Miriam in the village street, 
 and he walked on, without further comment, spade on 
 shoulder, toward the church-yard, where he spent a portion 
 of his day, without apparent effect. 
 
 So, when Miriam had done her shopping, it was only 
 natural that thej should turn their footsteps toward the quay 
 and the river- wall. Or was it fate ? So often is the natural 
 nothing but the inevitable in holiday garb. 
 
 " That is no Farlingford boat," said Sep, versed in river- 
 side knowledge, so soon as he saw the balance-lug moving 
 along the line of the river- wall, half a mile below the village. 
 
 They stood watching. Few coasters were at sea in these 
 months of wild weather, and there was nothing moving on 
 the quay. The moss-grown slip-way, where "The Last 
 Hope" had been drawn up for repair, stood gaunt and 
 empty, half submerged by the flowing tide. Many Farling- 
 ford men were engaged in the winter fisheries on the Dogger, 
 and farther north, in Lowestoft boats. In winter, Farling- 
 ford thrust out into the North Sea, surrounded by marsh 
 is forgotten by the world. 
 
 The solitary boat came round the corner into the wider 
 sheet of water, locally known as Quay Reach. 
 
 " A foreigner ! n cried Sep, jumping, as was his wont, 
 from one foot to the other with excitement. " It is like the 
 boat that was brought up by the tide, with a dead man in 
 it, long ago. And that was a Belgian boat." 
 
 Miriam was looking at the boat with a sudden brightness 
 in her eyes, a rush of colour to her cheeks, which were round 
 and healthy and of that soft clear pink which marks a face 
 swept constantly by mist and a salty air. In flat countries, 
 where men may see each other, unimpeded by hedge or tree 
 or hillock, across a space measured only by miles, the eye is 
 
224 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 soon trained like the sailor's eye to see and recognise at 
 a great distance. 
 
 There was no mistaking the attitude of the solitary 
 steersman of this foreign boat stealing quietly up to Farling- 
 ford on the flood tide. It was Loo Barebone sitting on the 
 gunwale as he always sat, with one knee raised on the thwart, 
 to support his elbow, and his chin in the palm of his hand, 
 so that he could glance up the head of the sail or ahead, 
 without needing to change his position. 
 
 Sep turned and looked up at her. 
 
 "I thought you said he was never coming back," he 
 said, reproachfully. 
 
 " So I did. I thought he was never coming back." 
 
 Sep looked at her again, and then at the boat. One 
 never knows how much children, and dogs who live daily 
 with human beings understand. 
 
 " Your face is very red," he observed. " That comes 
 from telling untruths." 
 
 " It comes from the cold wind," replied Miriam, with an 
 odd, breathless laugh. 
 
 " If we do not go home, he will be there before us," said 
 Sep, gravely. " He will make one tack across to the other 
 side, and then make the mouth of the creek." 
 
 They turned and walked, side by side, on the top of the 
 sea-wall toward the rectory. Their figures must have been 
 outlined against the sky, for any watching from the river. 
 The girl, tall and strong, walking with the ease that comes 
 from health and a steadfast mind ; the eager, restless boy 
 running and jumping by her side. Barebone must have 
 seen them as soon as they saw him. They were part of 
 Farlingford, these two. He had a sudden feeling of having 
 been away for years, with this difference that he came back 
 and found nothing changed. Whereas, in reality, he who 
 
KETURNED EMPTY 225 
 
 returns after a long absence usually finds no one awaiting 
 him. 
 
 He did as Sep had foretold crossing to the far side of 
 the river, and then gaining the mouth of the creek in one 
 tack. Miriam and Sep had reached the rectory garden first, 
 and now stood waiting for him. He came on in silence. 
 Last time on " The Last Hope " he had come up the 
 river singing. 
 
 Sep waved his hand, and, in response, Barebone nodded 
 his head, with one eye peering ahead, for the breeze was 
 fresh. 
 
 The old chain was still there, imperfectly fastened 
 round a tottering post at the foot of the tide-washed 
 steps. It clinked as he made fast the boat. Miriam 
 had not heard the sound of it since that night, long 
 ago, when Loo had gone down the steps in the dark and 
 cast off. 
 
 " I was given a passage home in a French fishing-boat, 
 and borrowed their dinghy to come ashore in," said Loo, as 
 he came up the steps. He knew that Farlingford would 
 want some explanation, and that Sep would be proud to 
 give it. An explanation is never the worse for a spice 
 of truth. 
 
 " Miriam told me you were never coming home again," 
 answered Sep, still nourishing that grievance. 
 
 " Well, she was wrong, and here I am!" was Loo's 
 reply, with his old, ready laugh. " And here is Farlingford 
 unchanged, and no harm done." 
 
 " Why should there be any harm done ? " was Sep's 
 prompt question. 
 
 Barebone was shaking hands with Miriam. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," he answered. "Because there 
 always is harm done, I suppose." 
 
 o. 
 
226 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 Miriam was thinking that he had changed ; that the 
 man who had unmoored his boat at these steps six months 
 ago had departed for ever, and that another had come back 
 in his place. A minute later, as he turned to close the gate 
 that shut off the rectory garden from the river-wall, chance 
 ruled it that their eyes should meet for an instant, and she 
 knew that he had not changed ; that he might, perhaps, 
 never change so long as he lived. She turned abruptly and 
 led the way to the house. 
 
 Sep had a hundred questions to ask, but only a few of 
 them were personal. Children live in a world of their own, 
 and are not slow to invite those whom they like to come 
 into it, while to the others, they shut the door with a greater 
 frankness than is permissible later in life. 
 
 " Father," he explained, " has gone to see old Doy, who 
 is dying." 
 
 " Is he still dying ? He will never die, I am sure ; for 
 he has been trying to do it ever since I remember," laughed 
 Barebone ; who was interested, it seemed, in Sep's affairs, 
 and never noticed that Miriam was walking more quickly 
 than they were. 
 
 " And I am rather anxious about him," continued Sep, 
 with the gravity that comes of a realised responsibility. 
 " He moons along, you know, with his mind far away, and 
 he doesn't know the path across the marsh a bit. He is 
 bound to lose his way, and it is getting dark. Suppose I 
 shall have to go and look for him." 
 
 " With a lantern," suggested Loo, darkly, without looking 
 toward Miriam. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " replied Sep, with delight. " With a lantern, 
 of course. Nobody but a fool would go out on to the 
 marshes after dark without a lantern. The weed on the 
 water makes it the same as the grass, and that old woman 
 
RETURNED EMPTY 227 
 
 who was nearly drowned last winter, you know, she walked 
 straight in, and thought it was dry land." 
 
 And Loo heard no more, for they were at the door ; and 
 Miriam, in the lighted hall, was waiting for them, with all 
 the colour gone from her face. 
 
 " He is sure to be in in a few minutes," she said ; for 
 she had heard the end of their talk. She could scarcely have 
 helped hearing Loo's weighty suggestion of a lantern, which 
 had had the effect he must have anticipated. Sep was 
 already hurriedly searching for matches. It would be 
 difficult to dissuade him from his purpose. What boy would 
 willingly give up the prospect of an adventure on the marsh 
 alone, with a bull's-eye ? Miriam tried, and tried in vain. 
 She gained time, however, and was listening for Marvin's 
 footstep on the gravel all the while. 
 
 Sep found the matches and it chanced that there was a 
 sufficiency of oil in his lantern. He lighted up and went 
 away, leaving an abominable smell of untrimmed wick 
 behind him. 
 
 It was tea-time, and, half a century ago, that meal was 
 a matter of greater importance than it is to-day. A fire 
 burned in the dining-room, glowing warmly on the mellow 
 walls and gleaming furniture ; but there was no lamp, nor 
 need of one, in a room with large windows facing the sunset 
 sky. 
 
 Miriam led the way into this room, and lifted the shining, 
 old-fashioned kettle to the hob. She took a chair that stood 
 near, and sat, with her shoulder turned toward him, looking 
 into the fire. 
 
 " We will have tea as soon as they come in," she said, in 
 that voice of camaraderie which speaks of a life-long friend- 
 ship between a man and a woman if such a friendship be 
 possible. Is it ? who knows ? " They will not be long, I 
 
228 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 am sure. You will like tea, after having been so long 
 abroad. It is one of the charms of coming home, or one 
 of the alleviations. I don't know which. And now, tell 
 me all that has happened since you went away if you 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES 
 
 Miriam's manner toward him was the same as it had always 
 been so long as he could remember. He had once thought 
 indeed, he had made to her the accusation that she was 
 always conscious of the social gulf existing between them ; 
 that she always remembered that she was by birth and 
 breeding a lady, whereas he was the son of an obscure 
 Frenchman who was nothing but a clockmaker whose name 
 could be read (and can to this day be deciphered) on a 
 hundred timepieces in remote East Anglian farms. 
 
 Since his change of fortune he had, as all men who rise 
 to a great height or sink to the depths will tell, noted a 
 corresponding change in his friends. Even Captain Clubbe 
 had altered, and the affection which peeped out at times 
 almost against his puritanical will seemed to have suffered 
 a chill. The men of Farlingford, and even those who had 
 sailed in "The Last Hope" with him, seemed to hold 
 him at a distance. They nodded to him with a brief, 
 friendly smile, but were shy of shaking hands. The hand 
 which they would have held out readily enough, had he 
 needed assistance in misfortune, slunk hastily into a pocket. 
 For he who climbs will lose more friends than the ne'er-do- 
 well. Some may account this to human nature for righteous- 
 ness and others quite the contrary : for jealousy, like love, 
 lies hidden in unsuspected corners. 
 
230 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 Juliette de Gemosac had been quite different to Loo since 
 learning his story. Miriam alone remained unchanged. He 
 had accused her of failing to rise superior to arbitrary social 
 distinctions, and now, standing behind her in the fire-lit 
 dining-room of the rectory, he retracted that accusation once 
 and for all time in his own heart, though her justification 
 came from a contrary direction to that from which it might 
 have been expected. 
 
 Miriam alone remained a friend and nothing else, he 
 added, bitterly, in his own heart. And she seemed to 
 assume that their friendship, begun in face of social dis- 
 tinctions, should never have to suffer from that burthen. 
 
 " I should like to hear," she repeated, seeing that he was 
 silent, " all that has happened since you went away ; all that 
 you may care to tell me." 
 
 " My heritage, you mean ? " 
 
 She moved in her seat but did not look round. She had 
 laid aside her hat on coming into the house, and as she sat, 
 leaning forward with her hands clasped together in her lap, 
 gazing thoughtfully at the fire which glowed blue and white 
 for the salt water that was in the drift-wood, her hair, 
 loosened by the wind, half concealed her face. 
 
 " Yes," she answered, slowly. 
 
 " Do you know what it is my heritage ? " lapsing, as 
 he often did when hurried by some pressing thought, into a 
 colloquialism half French. 
 
 She shook her head, but made no audible reply. 
 
 " Do you suspect what it is ? " he insisted. 
 
 " I may have suspected, perhaps," she admitted, after a 
 pause. 
 
 " When ? How long ? " 
 
 She paused again. Quick and clever as he was, she was 
 no less so. She weighed the question. Perhaps she found 
 
OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES 231 
 
 no answer to it, for she turned toward the door that stood 
 open and looked out into the hall. The light of the lamp 
 there fell for a moment across her face. 
 
 " I think I hear them returning," she said. 
 
 " No," he retorted, " for I should hear them before you 
 did. I was brought up at sea. Do not answer the question, 
 however, if you would rather not. You ask what has 
 happened since I went away. A great many things have 
 happened which are of no importance. Such things always 
 happen, do they not ? But one night, when we were 
 quarrelling, Dormer Colville mentioned your name. He was 
 very much alarmed and very angry, so he perhaps spoke the 
 truth by accident. He said that you had always known 
 that I might be the King of France. Many things happened, 
 as I tell you, which are of no importance, and which I have 
 already forgotten, but that I remember and always shall." 
 
 "I have always known," replied Miriam, "that Mr. 
 Dormer Colville is a liar. It is written on his face, for 
 those who care to read." 
 
 A woman at bay is rarely merciful. 
 
 " And I thought for an instant," pursued Loo, " that 
 such a knowledge might have been in your mind that night, 
 the last I was here, last summer, on the river-wall. I had a 
 vague idea that it might have influenced in some way the 
 reply you gave me then." 
 
 He had come a step nearer and was standing over her. 
 She could hear his hurried breathing. 
 
 " Oh, no," she replied, in a calm voice full of friendliness. 
 u You are quite wrong. The reason I gave you still holds 
 good, and and always will." 
 
 In the brief silence that followed this clear statement of 
 affairs, they both heard the rattle of the iron gate by the sea- 
 wall. Sep and his father were coming. Loo turned to look 
 
232 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 toward the hall and the front door, dimly visible in the 
 shadow of the porch. While he did so Miriam passed her 
 hand quickly across her face. When Loo turned again and 
 glanced down at her, her attitude was unchanged. 
 
 " Will you look at me and say that again ? " he asked, 
 slowly. 
 
 " Certainly," she replied. And she rose from her chair. 
 She turned and faced him with the light of the hall-lamp 
 full upon her. She was smiling and self-confident. 
 
 " I thought," he said, looking at her closely, " as I stood 
 behind you, that there were tears in your eyes." 
 
 She went past him into the hall to meet Sep and his 
 father, who were already on the threshold. 
 
 " It must have been the firelight," she said to Barebone 
 as she passed him. 
 
 A minute later Septimus Marvin was shaking him by the 
 hand with a vague and uncertain but kindly grasp. 
 
 " Sop came running to tell me that you were home again," 
 he said, struggling out of his overcoat. " Yes yes. Home 
 again to the old place. And little changed, I can see. Little 
 changed, my boy. Tempora mutantiir, eh ? and we miitamur 
 in illis. But you are the same." 
 
 " Of course. Why should I change ? It is too late to 
 change for the better now." 
 
 " Never ! Never say that. But we do not want you to 
 change. We looked for you to come in a coach-and-four 
 did we not, Miriam ? For I suppose you have secured your 
 heritage, since you are here again. It is a great thing to 
 possess riches and a great responsibility. Come, let us 
 have tea and not think of such things. Yes yes. Let us 
 forget that such a thing as a heritage ever came between 
 Us eh, Miriam ? " 
 
 And with a gesture of old-world politeness he stood aside 
 
OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES 233 
 
 for his niece to pass first into the dining-room, whither a 
 servant had preceded them with a lamp. 
 
 " It will not be hard to do that," replied Miriam, steadily, 
 " because he tells me that he has not yet secured it." 
 
 "All in good time all in good time," said Marvin, with 
 that faith in some occult power, seemingly the Government 
 and Providence working in conjunction, to which parsons 
 and many women confide their worldly affairs and sit with 
 folded hands. 
 
 He asked many questions which were easy enough to 
 answer ; for he had no worldly wisdom himself, and did not 
 look for it in other people. And then he related his own 
 adventure the great incident of his life his visit to Paris. 
 
 "A matter of business," he explained. "Some dupli- 
 cates one or two of my prints which I had decided to part 
 with. Miriam also wished me to see into some small money 
 matters of her own. Her guardian, John Turner, you may 
 remember, resides in Paris. A schoolfellow of my own, by 
 the way. But our ways diverged later in life. I found him 
 unchanged a kind heart always a kind heart. He attempts 
 to conceal it, as many do, under a flippant, almost a profane, 
 manner of speech. Brutum fulmen. But I saw through 
 it I saw through it." 
 
 And the rector beamed on Loo through his spectacles 
 with an innocent delight in a Christian charity which he 
 mistook for cunning. 
 
 " You see," he went on, " we have spent a little money 
 on the rectory. To-morrow you will see that we have made 
 good the roof of the church. One could not ask the villagers 
 to contribute, knowing that the children want boots and 
 scarcely know the taste of jam. Yes, John Turner was very 
 kind to me. He found me a buyer for one of my prints." 
 
 The rector broke off with a sharp sigh and drank his tea. 
 
234 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " "We shall never miss it," he added, with the hopefulness 
 of those who can blind themselves to facts. " Come, tell me 
 your impressions of France." 
 
 " I have been there before," replied Loo, with a curt- 
 ness so unusual as to make Miriam glance at him. " I 
 have been there before, you know. It would be more 
 interesting to hear your own impressions, which must be 
 fresher." 
 
 Miriam knew that he did not want to speak of France, 
 and wondered why. But Marvin, eager to talk of his 
 favourite study, seized the suggestion in all innocence. He 
 had gone to Paris as he had wandered through life, with the 
 mind of a child, eager, receptive, open to impression. Such 
 minds pass by much that is of value, but to one or two con- 
 clusions they bring a perceptive comprehension which is 
 photographic in its accuracy. 
 
 "I have followed her history with unflagging interest 
 since boyhood," he said, " but never until now have I under- 
 stood France. I walked through the streets of Paris and I 
 looked into the faces of the people, and I realised that the 
 astonishing history of France is true. One can see it in 
 those faces. The city is brilliant, beautiful, unreal. The 
 reality is in the faces of the people. Do you remember what 
 Wellington said of them half a century ago ? ' They are 
 ripe,' he said, ' for another Napoleon.' But he could not see 
 that Napoleon on the political horizon. And that is what I 
 saw in their faces. They are ripe for something they know 
 not what." 
 
 " Did John Turner tell you that ? " asked Loo, in 
 an eager voice. " He who has lived in Paris all his 
 life ? " 
 
 And Miriam caught the thrill of excitement in the voice 
 that put this question. She glanced at Loo. His eyes were 
 
OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES 235 
 
 bright and his cheeks colourless. She knew that she was in 
 the presence of some feeling that she did not understand. It 
 was odd that an old scholar, knowing nothing but history, 
 could thus stir a listener whose touch had hitherto only 
 skimmed the surface of life. 
 
 " No," answered Marvin, with assurance. " I saw it 
 myself in their faces. Ah ! if another such as Napoleon 
 could only arise such as he, but different. Not an adventurer, 
 but a King and the descendant of Kings not allied, as 
 Napoleon was, with a hundred other adventurers." 
 
 " Yes," said Loo, in a muffled voice, looking away toward 
 the fire. 
 
 " A King whose wife should be a Queen," pursued the 
 dreamer. 
 
 " Yes," said Loo again, encouragingly. 
 
 " They could save France," concluded Marvin, taking off 
 his spectacles and polishing them with a silk handkerchief. 
 Loo turned and looked at him, for the action so characteristic 
 of a mere onlooker indicated that the momentary concentra- 
 tion of a mind so stored with knowledge that confusion 
 reigned there was passing away. 
 
 " From what ? " asked Loo. " Save France from 
 what ? " 
 
 " From inevitable disaster, my boy," replied Marvin, 
 gravely. " That is what I saw in those gay streets." 
 
 Loo glanced at him sharply. He had himself seen the 
 same all through those provinces which must take their cue 
 from Paris whether they will or no. 
 
 " What a career ! " murmured Marvin. " What a mission 
 for a man to have in life to save France I One does not like 
 to think of the world without a France to lead it in nearly 
 everything, or with a France, a mere ghost of her former 
 self, exploited, depleted by another Bonaparte. And we 
 
236 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 must look in vain for that man as did the good Duke years 
 ago." 
 
 " I should like to have a shot at it," put in Sep, who had 
 just despatched a large piece of cake. 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! " exclaimed his father, only half in 
 jest. 
 
 "Better sit all day under the lee of a boat and make 
 nets, like Sea Andrew," advised Loo, with a laugh. 
 
 " Do you think so ? " said Miriam, without look- 
 ing up. 
 
 " All the same, I'd like to have a shot at it," persisted 
 Sep. " Pass the cake, please." 
 
 Loo had risen and was looking at the clock. His face 
 was drawn and tired and his eyes grave. 
 
 " You will come in and see us as often as you can while 
 you are here ? " said the kindly rector, as if vaguely conscious 
 of a change in this visitor. " You will always find a welcome 
 whether you come in a coach-and-four or on foot you know 
 that." 
 
 " Thank you yes. I know that." 
 
 The rector peered at him through his spectacles. 
 
 " I hope," he said, " that you will soon be successful in 
 getting your own. You are worried about it, I fear. The 
 responsibilities of wealth, perhaps. And yet many rich 
 people are able to do good in the world, and must therefore 
 be happy." 
 
 " I do not suppose I shall ever be rich," said Loo, with 
 a careless laugh. 
 
 " No, perhaps not. But let us hope that all will be for 
 the best. You must not attach too much importance to 
 what I said about France, you know. I may be wrong. 
 Let us hope I am. For I understand that your heritage is 
 there." 
 
OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES 237 
 
 " Yes," answered Loo, who was shaking hands with Sep 
 and Miriam, " my heritage is there." 
 
 " And you will go back to France ? " inquired Marvin, 
 holding out his hand. 
 
 " Yes," was the reply, with a side glance in the direction 
 of Miriam. " I shall go back to France." 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 barebone's price 
 
 At Farlingford, forgotten of the world, events move slowly 
 and men's minds assimilate change without shock. Old 
 people look for death long before it arrives, so that when at 
 last the great change comes it is effected quite calmly. There 
 is no indecent haste, no scrambling to put a semblance of 
 finish to the incomplete, as there is in the hurried death of 
 cities. Young faces grow softly mellow without those lines 
 and anxious crow's-feet that mar the features of the middle- 
 aged, who, to earn their daily bread or to kill the tedium of 
 their lives, find it necessary to dwell in streets. 
 
 " Loo's home again," men told each other at " The Black 
 Sailor " ; and the women, who discussed the matter in the 
 village street, had little to add to this bare piece of news. 
 There was nothing unusual about it. Indeed, it was 
 customary for Farlingford men to come home again. They 
 always returned, at last, from wide wanderings, which a 
 limited conversational capacity seemed to deprive of all 
 interest. Those that stayed at home learnt a few names, and 
 that was all. 
 
 " Where are ye now from, Willum ? " the newly returned 
 sailor would be kindly asked, with the sideward jerk of the 
 head. 
 
 " A'm now from Valparaiso." 
 
 And that was all that there was to be said about 
 
BAREBONE'S PRICE 239 
 
 Valparaiso and the experiences of this circumnavigator. 
 Perhaps it was not considered good form to inquire further 
 into that which was, after all, his own business. If you ask 
 an East Anglian questions he will tell you nothing ; if you 
 do not inquire he will tell you less. 
 
 No one, therefore, asked Barebone any questions. More 
 especially is it considered, in seafaring communities, impolite 
 to make inquiry into your neighbour's misfortune. If a man 
 have the ill luck to lose his ship, he may well go through 
 the rest of his life without hearing the mention of her name. 
 It was understood in Farlingford that Loo Barebone had 
 resigned his post on " The Last Hope " in order to claim a 
 heritage in France. He had returned home, and was living 
 quietly at Maidens Grave Farm with Mrs. Clubbe. It was, 
 therefore, to be presumed that he had failed in his quest. This 
 was hardly a matter for surprise to such as had inherited 
 from their forefathers a profound distrust in Frenchmen. 
 
 The brief February days followed each other with that 
 monotony, marked by small events, that quickly lays the 
 years aside. Loo lingered on, with a vague indecision in 
 his mind which increased as the weeks passed by and the 
 spell of the wide marsh-lands closed round his soul. He 
 took up again those studies which the necessity of earning a 
 living had interrupted years before, and Septimus Marvin, 
 who had never left off seeking, opened new historical gardens 
 to him and bade him come in and dig. 
 
 Nearly every morning Loo went to the rectory to look up 
 an obscure reference or elucidate an uncertain period. Nearly 
 every evening, after the rectory dinner, he returned the 
 books he had borrowed, and lingered until past Sep's 
 bedtime to discuss the day's reading. Septimus Marvin, 
 with an enthusiasm which is the reward of the simple- 
 hearted, led the way down the paths of history while Loo 
 
240 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 and Miriam followed the man with the quick perception of 
 his race, the woman with that instinctive and untiring search 
 for the human motive which can put heart into a printed 
 page of history. 
 
 Many a whole lifetime has slipped away in such occupa- 
 tions ; for history, already inexhaustible, grows in bulk day 
 by day. Marvin was happier than he had ever been, for a 
 great absorption is one of Heaven's kindest gifts. 
 
 For Barebone, France and his quest there, the Marquis 
 de Gemosac, Dormer Colville, Juliette, lapsed into a sort of 
 dream, while Farlingford remained a quiet reality. Loo had 
 not written to Dormer Colville. Captain Clubbe was trading 
 between Alexandria and Bristol. "The Last Hope" was 
 not to be expected in England before April. To communicate 
 with Colville would be to turn that past dream, not wholly 
 pleasant, into a grim reality. Loo therefore put off from 
 day to day the evil moment. By nature and by training he 
 was a man of action. He tried to persuade himself that he 
 was made for a scholar and would be happy to pass the rest 
 of his days in the study of that history which had occupied 
 Septimus Marvin's thoughts during a whole lifetime. 
 
 Perhaps he was right. He might have been happy 
 enough to pass his days thus if life were unchanging ; if 
 Septimus Marvin should never age and never die ; if 
 Miriam should be always there, with her light touch on the 
 deeper thoughts, her half -French way of understanding the 
 unspoken, with her steady friendship which might change, 
 some day, into something else. This was, of course, incon- 
 sistent. Love itself is the most inconsistent of all human 
 dreams ; for it would have some things change and others 
 remain ever as they are. Whereas nothing stays unchanged 
 for a single day : love, least of all. For it must go forward 
 or back. 
 
BAREBONE'S PRICE 241 
 
 " See ! " cried Septimus Marvin, one evening, laying his 
 hand on the open book before him. " See how strong are 
 racial things. Here are the Bourbons for ever shutting 
 their eyes to the obvious, for ever putting off the evil 
 moment, for ever temporising from father to son, father 
 to son ; generation after generation. Finally we come to 
 Louis XYI. Eead his letters to the Comte d'Artois. They 
 are the letters of a man who knows the truth in his own 
 heart and will not admit it even to himself." 
 
 " Yes," admitted Loo. " Yes you are right. It is 
 racial, one must suppose." 
 
 And he glanced at Miriam, who did not meet his eyes 
 but looked at the open page, with a smile on her lips half 
 sad, wholly tolerant. 
 
 Next morning, Loo thought, he would write to Dormer 
 Colville. But the following evening came, and he had not 
 done so. He went, as usual, to the rectory, where the same 
 kind welcome awaited him. Miriam knew that he had not 
 written. Like him, she knew that an end of some sort must 
 soon come. And the end came an hour later. 
 
 Some day, Barebone knew, Dormer Colville would arrive. 
 Every morning he half looked for him on the sea-wall, 
 between " The Black Sailor " and the rectory garden. Any 
 evening, he was well aware, the smiling face might greet him 
 in the lamp-lit drawing-room. 
 
 Sep had gone to bed earlier that night. The rector was 
 reading aloud an endless collection of letters, from which 
 the careful student could scarcely fail to gather side-lights 
 on history. Both Miriam and Loo heard the clang of the 
 iron gate on the sea-wall. 
 
 A minute or two later the old dog, who lived mysteriously 
 in the back premises, barked, and presently the servant 
 announced that a gentleman was desirous of speaking to the 
 
 B 
 
242 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 rector. There were not many gentlemen within a day's walk 
 of the rectory. Some one must have put up at " The Black 
 Sailor." Theoretically, the rector was at the call of any of 
 his parishioners at all moments ; but in practice the people 
 of Farlingford never sought his help. 
 
 " A gentleman," said Marvin, vaguely ; " well, let him 
 come in, Sarah." 
 
 Miriam and Barebone sat silently looking at the door. 
 But the man who appeared there was not Dormer Colville. 
 It was John Turner. 
 
 He evinced no surprise on seeing Barebone, but shook 
 hands with him with a little nod of the head, which some- 
 how indicated that they had business together. 
 
 He accepted the chair brought forward by Marvin and 
 warmed his hands at the fire, in no hurry, it would appear, 
 to state the reason for this unceremonious call. After all, 
 Marvin was his oldest friend and Miriam his ward. Between 
 old friends, explanations are often better omitted. 
 
 " It is many years," he said, at length, " since I heard 
 their talk. They speak with their tongues and their teeth, 
 but not their lips." 
 
 " And their throats," put in Marvin, eagerly. " That is 
 because they are of Teuton descent. So different from the 
 French, eh, Turner ? " 
 
 Turner nodded a placid acquiescence. Then he turned, 
 as far, it would appear, as the thickness of his neck allowed, 
 toward Barebone. 
 
 " Saw in a French paper," he said, " that the ' Petite 
 Jeanne ' had put in to Lowestoft, to replace a dinghy lost at 
 sea. So I put two and two together. It is my business putting 
 two and two together, and making five of them when I can, 
 but they generally make four. I thought I should find you 
 here." 
 
BAREBONE'S PRICE 243 
 
 Loo made no answer. He had only seen John Turner 
 once in his life for a short hour, in a room full of people, 
 at Royan. The banker stared straight in front of him for 
 a few moments. Then he raised his sleepy little eyes directly 
 to Miriam's face. He heaved a sigh, and fell to studying the 
 burning logs again. And the colour slowly rose to Miriam's 
 cheeks. The banker, it seemed, was about his business 
 again, in one of those simple addition sums, which he some- 
 times solved correctly. 
 
 " To you," he said, after a moment's pause, with a glance 
 in Loo's direction, " to you, it must appear that I am inter- 
 fering in what is not my own business. You are wrong 
 there." 
 
 He had clasped his hands across his abnormal waistcoat, 
 and he half closed his eyes as he blinked at the fire. 
 
 "I am a sort of intermediary angel," he went on, 
 "between private persons in France and their friends in 
 England. Nothing to do with state affairs, you understand \ 
 at least, very little. Many persons in England have relations 
 or property in France. French persons fall in love with 
 people on this side of the Channel, and vice versa. And, 
 sooner or later, all these persons, who are in trouble with 
 their property or their affections, come to me, because money 
 is invariably at the bottom of the trouble. Money is in- 
 variably at the bottom of all trouble. And I represent 
 money." 
 
 He pursed up his lips and gazed somnolently at the fire. 
 
 " Ask anybody," he went on, dreamily, after a pause, 
 " if that is not the bare truth. Ask Colville, ask Mrs. St. 
 Pierre Lawrence, ask Miriam Liston, sitting here beside us, 
 if I exaggerate the importance of of myself." 
 
 "Every one," admitted Barebone, cheerfully, "knows 
 that you occupy a great position in Paris." 
 
244 TEE LAST HOPE 
 
 Turner glanced at him and gave a thick chuckle in his 
 throat. 
 
 "Thank you," he said. "Very decent of you. And 
 that point being established, I will explain further, that I 
 am not here of my own free will. I am only an agent. No 
 man in his senses would come to Farlingford in mid-winter 
 unless " he broke off, with a sharp sigh, and glanced down 
 at Miriam's slipper resting on the fender, " unless he was 
 much younger than I am. I came because I was paid to do 
 it. Came to make you a proposition." 
 
 " To make me a proposition ? " inquired Loo, as the 
 identity of Turner's hearers had become involved. 
 
 "Yes. And I should recommend you to give it your 
 gravest consideration. It is one of the most foolish proposi- 
 tions, from the proposer's point of view, that I have ever 
 had to make. I should blush to make it, if it were any use 
 blushing, but no one sees blushes on my cheeks now. Do 
 not decide in a hurry sleep on it. I always sleep on a 
 question." 
 
 He closed his eyes, and seemed about to compose himself 
 to slumber then and there. 
 
 " I am no longer young," he admitted, after a pause, 
 " and therefore propose to take one of the few alleviations 
 allowed to advancing years and an increasing avoirdupois. 
 I am going to give you some advice. There is only one 
 thing worth having in this life, and that is happiness. Even 
 the possibility of it is worth all other possibilities put 
 together. If a man have a chance of grasping happiness 
 I mean a home and the wife he wants .... and all that 
 he is wise to throw all other chances to the wind. Such, for 
 instance, as the chance of greatness, of fame or wealth, of 
 gratified vanity or satisfied ambition." 
 
 He had spoken slowly, and at last he ceased speaking, as 
 
BAREBONE'S PRICE 245 
 
 if overcome by a growing drowsiness. A queer silence 
 followed this singular man's words. Barebone had not 
 resumed his seat. He was standing by the mantelpiece, as 
 he often did, being quick and eager when interested, and not 
 content to sit still and express himself calmly in words, but 
 must needs emphasise his meaning by gestures and a hundred 
 quick movements of the head. 
 
 " Go on," he said. " Let us have the proposition." 
 
 " And no more advice ? " 
 
 Loo glanced at Miriam. He could see all three faces 
 where he stood, but only by the light of the fire. Miriam 
 was nearest to the hearth. He could see that her eyes were 
 aglow possibly with anger. 
 
 Barebone shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "You are not an agent you are an advocate," he 
 said. 
 
 Turner raised his eyes with the patience of a slumbering 
 animal that has been prodded. 
 
 "Yes," he said "your advocate. There is one more 
 chance I should advise any man to shun to cast to the four 
 winds, and hold on only to that tangible possibility of happi- 
 ness in the present it is the chance of enjoying, in some 
 dim and distant future, the satisfaction of having, in a half- 
 forgotten past, done one's duty. One's first duty is to secure, 
 by all legitimate means, one's own happiness." 
 
 " What is the proposition ? " interrupted Barebone, 
 quickly ; and Turner, beneath his heavy lids, had oaught 
 in the passing the glance from Miriam's eyes, for which 
 possibly both he and Loo Barebone had been waiting. 
 
 " Fifty thousand pounds," replied the banker, bluntly, 
 "in first-class English securities, in return for a written 
 undertaking on your part to relinquish all claim to any 
 heritage to which you may think yourself entitled in France. 
 
246 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 You will need to give your word of honour never to set foot 
 on French soil and that is all." 
 
 " I never, until this moment," replied Barebone, " knew 
 the value of my own pretensions." 
 
 " Yes," said Turner, quietly ; " that is the obvious retort. 
 And having made it, you can now give a few minutes' calm 
 reflection to my proposition say five minutes, until that 
 clock strikes half -past nine and then I am ready to answer 
 any questions you may wish to ask." 
 
 Barebone laughed good-humouredly, and so far fell in 
 with the suggestion that he leant his elbow on the corner of 
 the mantelpiece, and looked at the clock. 
 
CHAPTEK XXIX 
 
 IN THE DAEK 
 
 Had John Turner been able to see round the curve of his 
 own vast cheeks he might have perceived the answer to his 
 proposition lurking in a little contemptuous smiie at the 
 corner of Miriam's closed lips. Loo saw it there, and turned 
 again to the contemplation of the clock on the mantelpiece 
 which had already given a preliminary click. 
 
 Thus they waited until the minutes should elapse, and 
 Turner, with a smile of simple pleasure at their ready 
 acquiescence in his suggestion, probably reflected behind his 
 vacuous face that silence rarely implies indecision. 
 
 When at last the clock struck, Loo turned to him with a 
 laugh and a shake of the head as if the refusal were so self- 
 evident that to put it into words were a work of superero- 
 gation. 
 
 " Who makes the offer ? " he asked. 
 
 Turner smiled on him with visible approbation as upon 
 a quick and worthy foe who fought a capable fight with 
 weapons above the board. 
 
 "No matter since you are disposed to refuse. The 
 money is in my hands, as is the offer. Both are good. Both 
 will hold good till to-morrow morning." 
 
 Septimus Marvin gave a little exclamation of approval. 
 He had been sitting by the table looking from one to the 
 
248 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 other over his spectacles with the eager smile of the listener 
 who understands very little, and while wishing that he under- 
 stood more, is eager to put in a word of approval or dis- 
 approbation on safe and general lines. It was quite obvious 
 to John Turner, who had entered the room in ignorance on 
 this point, that Marvin knew nothing of Barebone's heritage 
 in France while Miriam knew all. 
 
 " There is one point," he said, " which is perhaps scarcely 
 worth mentioning. The man who makes the offer is not 
 only the most unscrupulous, but is likely to become one of 
 the most powerful men in Eur men I know. There is a 
 reverse side to the medal. There always is a reverse side to 
 the good things of this world. Should you refuse his 
 ridiculously generous offer you will make an enemy for 
 life one who is nearing that point where men stop at 
 nothing." 
 
 Turner glanced at Miriam again. Her clean-cut features 
 had a stony stillness and her eyes looked obstinately at the 
 clock. The banker moved in his chair as if suddenly con- 
 scious that it was time to go. 
 
 " Do not," he said to Barebone, " be misled or mislead 
 yourself into a false estimate of the strength of your own 
 case. The offer I make you does not in any way indicate 
 that you are in a strong position. It merely shows the indo- 
 lence of a man naturally open-handed, who would always 
 rather pay than fight." 
 
 " Especially if the money is not his own." 
 
 " Yes," admitted Turner, stolidly, " that is so. Especially 
 if the money is not his own. I dare say you know the weak- 
 ness of your own case : others know it too. A portrait is 
 not much to go on. Portraits are so easily copied ; so easily 
 changed." 
 
 He rose as he spoke and shook hands with Marvin. 
 
IN THE DARK 249 
 
 Then lie turned to Miriam, but he did not meet her glance. 
 Last of all he shook hands with Barebone. 
 
 "Sleep on it," he said. "Nothing like sleeping on a 
 question. I am staying at * The Black Sailor.' See you to- 
 morrow.' ' 
 
 He had come, had transacted his business and gone, all 
 in less than an hour, with an extraordinary leisureliness 
 almost amounting to indolence. He had lounged into the 
 house, and now he departed without haste or explanation. 
 Never hurry, never explain, was the text upon which John 
 Turner seemed to base the sleepy discourse of his life. For 
 each of us is a living sermon to his fellows, and, it is to be 
 feared, the majority are warnings. 
 
 Turner had dragged on his thick overcoat, not without 
 Loo's assistance, and, with the collar turned up about his 
 ears, he went out into the night, leaving the three persons 
 whom he had found in the drawing-room standing in the 
 hall looking at the door which he closed decisively behind 
 him. " Seize your happiness while you can," he had urged. 
 
 "If not " and the decisive closing of a door on his 
 
 departing heel said the rest. 
 
 The clocks struck ten. It was not worth while going 
 back to the drawing-room. All Farlingford was abed in 
 those days by nine o'clock. Barebone took his coat and 
 prepared to follow Turner. Miriam was already lighting her 
 bedroom candle. She bade the two men good night and 
 went slowly upstairs. As she reached her own room she 
 heard the front door closed behind Loo and the rattle of the 
 chain under the uncertain fingers of Septimus Marvin. The 
 sound of it was like the clink of that other chain by which 
 Barebone had made fast his boat to the tottering post on the 
 river-wall. 
 
 Miriam's room was at the front of the house, and its 
 
250 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 square Georgian windows faced eastward across the river to 
 the narrow spit of marsh-land and the open sea beyond it. 
 A crescent of moon far gone on the wane, yellow and forlorn, 
 was rising from the sea. An uncertain path of light lay 
 across the face of the far-off tide-way broken by a narrow 
 strip of darkness and renewed again close at hand across the 
 wide river almost to the sea-wall beneath the window. From 
 this window no house could be seen by day nothing but a 
 vast expanse of water and land hardly less level and unbroken. 
 No light was visible on sea or land now, nothing but the 
 waning moon in a cold clear sky. 
 
 Miriam threw herself, all dressed, on her bed with the 
 abandonment of one who is worn out by some great effort, 
 and buried her face in the pillow. 
 
 Barebone's way lay to the left along the river- wall by the 
 side of the creek. Turner had gone to the right, taking the 
 path that led down the river to the old quay and the village. 
 Whereas Barebone must turn his back on Farlingford to 
 reach the farm which still crouches behind a shelter of 
 twisted oaks and still bears the name of Maiden's Grave ; 
 though the name is now nothing but a word. For no one 
 knows who the maiden was, or where her grave, or what 
 brought her to it. 
 
 The crescent moon gave little light, but Loo knew his 
 way beneath the stunted cedars and through the barricade 
 of ilex drawn round the rectory on the northern side. His 
 eyes, trained to darkness, saw the shadowy form of a man 
 awaiting him beneath the cedars almost as soon as the door 
 was closed. 
 
 He went toward him, perceiving with a sudden misgiving 
 that it was not John Turner. A momentary silhouette 
 against the northern sky showed that it was Colville, come at 
 last. 
 
IN THE DARK 251 
 
 " Quick this way ! " he whispered, and taking Bare- 
 bone's arm he led him through the bushes. He halted in a 
 little open space between the ilex and the river-wall, which 
 is fifteen feet high at the meeting of the creek and the larger 
 stream. "There are three men, who are not Farlingford 
 men, on the outer side of the sea-wall below the rectory 
 landing. Turner must have placed them there. I'll be 
 even with him yet. There is a large fishing-smack lying at 
 anchor inside the Ness just across the marsh. It is the 
 1 Petite Jeanne.' I found this out while you were in there. 
 I could hear your voices." 
 
 " Could you hear what he said ? " 
 
 "No," answered Colville, with a sudden return to his 
 old manner, easy and sympathetic. " No this is no time 
 for joking, I can tell you that. You have had a narrow 
 escape, I assure you, Barebone. That man, the Captain of 
 the 'Petite Jeanne,' is well known. There are plenty of 
 people in France who want to get quietly rid of some family 
 encumbrance a man in the way, you understand, a son too 
 many, a husband too much, a stepson who will inherit the 
 world is full of superfluities. Well, the Captain of the 
 ' Petite Jeanne ' will take them a voyage for their health to 
 the Iceland fisheries. They are so far and so remote the 
 Iceland fisheries. The climate is bad and accidents happen. 
 And if the 'Petite Jeanne' returns short-handed, as she 
 often does, the other boats do the same. It is only a question 
 of a few entries in the custom-house books at Fecamp. Do 
 you see ? " 
 
 " Yes," admitted Barebone, thoughtfully. " I see." 
 
 " I suppose it suggested itself to you when you were on 
 board, and that is why you took the first chance of escape." 
 
 " Well, hardly ; but I escaped, so it does not matter." 
 
 "No," acquiesced Colville. "It doesn't matter. But 
 
252 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 how are we to get out of this ? They are waiting for us 
 under the sea-wall. Is there a way across the marsh ? " 
 
 " Yes I know a way. But where do you want to go 
 to-night ? " 
 
 " Out of this," whispered Colville, eagerly. " Out of 
 Farlingford and Suffolk before the morning if we can. I 
 tell you there is a French gunboat at Harwich, and another 
 in the North Sea. It may be chance and it may not. But 
 I suspect there is a warrant out against you. And, failing 
 that, there is the * Petite Jeanne ' hanging about waiting to 
 kidnap you a second time. And Turner's at the bottom of 
 it, damn him ! " 
 
 Again Dormer Colville allowed a glimpse to appear of 
 another man quite different from the easy, indolent man-of- 
 the-world, the well-dressed adventurer of a day when adventure 
 was mostly sought in drawing-rooms, when scented and 
 curled dandies were made or marred by women. For a 
 moment Colville was roused to anger and seemed capable of 
 manly action. But in an instant the humour passed and he 
 shrugged his shoulders and gave a short, indifferent laugh 
 beneath his breath. 
 
 " Come," he said, " lead the way and I will follow. I 
 have been out here since eight o'clock and it is deucedly 
 cold. I followed Turner from Paris, for I knew he was on 
 your scent. Once across the marsh we can talk without fear 
 as we go along." 
 
 Barebone obeyed mechanically, leading the way through 
 the bushes to the kitchen-garden and over an iron fencing 
 on to the open marsh. This stretched inland for two miles 
 without a hedge or other fence but the sunken dykes which 
 intersected it across and across. Any knowing his way 
 could save two miles on the longer way by the only road 
 connecting Farlingford with the mainland and tapping 
 
IN THE DARK 253 
 
 the great road that runs north and south a few miles 
 inland. 
 
 There was no path, for few ever passed this way. By 
 day, a solitary shepherd watched his flocks here. By night 
 the marsh was deserted. Across some of the dykes a plank 
 is thrown, the whereabouts of which is indicated by a post, 
 waist-high, driven into the ground, easily enough seen by 
 day, but hard to find after dark. Not all the dykes have a 
 plank, and for the most part the marsh is divided into 
 squares, each only connected at one point with its neigh- 
 bour. 
 
 Barebone knew the way as well as any in Farlingford, 
 and he struck out across the thick grass which crunched 
 briskly under the foot, for it was coated with rime, and the 
 icy wind blew in from the sea a freezing mist. Once or 
 twice Barebone, having made a bee-line across from dyke to 
 dyke, failed to strike the exact spot where the low post 
 indicated a plank, and had to pause and stoop down so as to 
 find its silhouette against the sky. When they reached a 
 plank he tried its strength with one foot and then led the 
 way across it, turning and waiting at the far end for Colville 
 to follow. It was unnecessary to warn him against a slip, 
 for the plank was no more than nine inches wide and shone 
 white with rime. Each foot must be secure before its fellow 
 was lifted. 
 
 Colville, always ready to fall in with a companion's 
 humour, ever quick to understand the thoughts of others, 
 respected his silence. Perhaps he was not far from guessing 
 the cause of it. 
 
 Loo was surprised to find that Dormer Colville was less 
 antipathetic than he had anticipated. For the last month, 
 night and day, he had dreaded Colville's arrival, and now 
 that he was here he was almost glad to see him ; almost 
 
254 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 glad to quit Farlingford. And his heart was hot with anger 
 against Miriam. 
 
 Turner's offer had at all events been worth considering. 
 Had he been alone when it was made he would certainly 
 have considered it ; he would have turned it this way and 
 that. He would have liked to play with it as a cat plays 
 with a mouse, knowing all the while that he mast refuse in 
 the end. Perhaps Turner had made the offer in Miriam's 
 presence, expecting to find in her a powerful ally. It was 
 only natural for him to think this. Ever since the begin- 
 ning, men have assigned to women the role of the dissuader, 
 the drag, the hinderer. It is always the woman, tradition 
 tells us, who persuades the man to be a coward, to stay at 
 home, to shirk a difficult or a dangerous duty. 
 
 As a matter of fact, Turner had made this mistake. He 
 had always wondered why Miriam Liston elected to live at 
 Farlingford when with her wealth and connections, both in 
 England and France, she might live a gayer life elsewhere. 
 There must, he reflected, be some reason for it. 
 
 When whosoever does anything slightly unconventional 
 or leaves undone what custom and gossip make almost 
 obligatory, a relation or a mere interfering neighbour is 
 always at hand to wag her head and say there must be some 
 reason for it. Which means, of course, one specific reason. 
 And the worst of it is that she is nearly always right. 
 
 John Turner, laboriously putting two small numerals 
 together, after his manner, had concluded that Loo Barebone 
 was the reason. Even banking may, it seems, be carried on 
 without the loss of all human weakness, especially if the 
 banker be of middle age, unmarried, and deprived by an 
 unromantic superfluity of adipose tissue of the possibility of 
 living through a romance of his own. Turner had consented 
 to countenance, if not actually to take part in, a nefarious 
 
IN THE DARK 255 
 
 scheme, to rid France and the present government of one 
 who might easily bring about its downfall, on certain con- 
 ditions. Knowing quite well that Loo Barebone could take 
 care of himself at sea, and was quite capable of effecting an 
 escape if he desired it, he had put no obstacle in the way of 
 the usual voyage to the Iceland fisheries. Since those days 
 many governments in France have invented many new 
 methods of disposing of a political foe. Dormer Colville 
 was only anticipating events when he took away the character 
 of the Captain of the " Petite Jeanne.' * 
 
 Turner had himself proposed this alternative method of 
 securing Barebone's silence. He had even named the sum. 
 He had seized the excellent opportunity of laying it before 
 Barebone in the quiet intimacy of the rectory drawing-room 
 with Miriam in the soft lamp-light beside him, with the 
 scent of the violets at her breast mingling with the warm 
 smell of the wood fire. 
 
 And Barebone had laughed at the offer. 
 
CHAPTER XXX 
 
 IN THE FURROW AGAIN 
 
 T urner, stumbling along the road to " The Black Sailor," 
 probably wondered why he had failed. It is to be presumed 
 that he knew that the ally he had looked to for powerful aid 
 had played him false at the crucial moment. 
 
 His misfortune is common to all men who presume to 
 take anything for granted from a woman. 
 
 Barebone, stumbling along in the dark in another direction, 
 was as angry with Miriam as she in her turn was angry with 
 Turner. She was, Barebone reflected, so uncompromising. 
 She saw her course so clearly, so unmistakably as birds that 
 fly in the night and from that course nothing, it seemed, 
 would move her. It was a question of temperament and not 
 of principle. For, even half a century ago, high principles 
 were beginning to go out of fashion in the upper strata of a 
 society which in these days tolerates anything except cheating 
 at games. 
 
 Barebone himself was of a different temperament. He 
 liked to blind himself to the inevitable end, to temporise 
 with the truth, whereas Miriam, with a sort of dogged 
 courage essentially English, perceived the hard truth at once 
 and clung to it, though it hurt. And all the while Barebone 
 knew at the back of his heart that his life was not his own 
 to shape. At the end, says an Italian motto, stands Destiny. 
 Barebone wanted to make believe ; he wanted to pretend 
 
IN THE FURROW AGAIN 257 
 
 that his path lay down a flowery way, knowing all the while 
 that he had a hill to climb and Destiny stood at the top. 
 
 Colville had come at the right time. It is the fate 'of 
 some men to come at the right moment, just as it is the lot 
 of others never to be there when they are wanted and their 
 place is filled by a bystander and an opportunity is gone for 
 ever. Which is always a serious matter, for God only gives 
 one or two opportunities to each of us. 
 
 Colville had come with his ready sympathy, not expressed 
 as the world expresses its sympathy, in words, but by a 
 hundred little self-abnegations. He was always ready to act 
 up to the principles of his companion for the moment or to 
 act up to no principles at all should that companion be 
 deficient. Moreover, he never took it upon himself to judge 
 others, but extended to his neighbour a large tolerance, in 
 return for which he seemed to ask nothing. 
 
 " I have a carriage," he said, when on a broader cart- 
 track they could walk side by side, " waiting for me at the 
 roadside inn at the junction of the two roads. The man 
 brought me from Ipswich to the outskirts of Farlingford, 
 and I sent him back to the high road to wait for me there, 
 to put up and stay all night, if necessary." 
 
 Barebone was beginning to feel tired. The wind was 
 abominably cold. He heard with satisfaction that Colville 
 had as usual foreseen his wishes. 
 
 " I dogged Turner all the way from Paris, hardly letting 
 him out of my sight," Colville explained, cheerily, when they 
 at length reached the road. " It is easy enough to keep in 
 touch with one so remarkably stout, for every one remembers 
 him. What did he come to Farlingford for ? " 
 
 " Apparently to try and buy me off." 
 
 " For Louis Bonaparte ? " 
 
 " He did not say so." 
 
 s 
 
258 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " No," said Colville. " He would not say so. But it is 
 pretty generally suspected that he is in that galley, and pulls 
 an important oar in it, too. What did he offer you ? " 
 
 " Fifty thousand pounds." 
 
 " Whew ! " whistled Colville. He stopped short in the 
 middle of the road. " Whew ! " he repeated, thoughtfully, 
 " fifty thousand pounds ! Gad ! They must be afraid of 
 you. They must think that we are in a strong position. 
 And what did you say, Barebone ? " 
 
 " I refused." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 Barebone paused, and after a moment's thought made no 
 answer at all. He could not explain to Dormer Colville his 
 reason for refusing. 
 
 " Outright ? " inquired Colville, deep in thought. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Colville turned and glanced at him sideways, though it 
 was too dark to see his face. 
 
 " I should have thought," he said, tentatively, after a 
 while, " that it would have been wise to accept. A bird in 
 the hand, you know a damned big bird ! And then after- 
 wards you could see what turned up." 
 
 " You mean I could break my word later on," inquired 
 Barebone, with that odd downrightness which at times 
 surprised Colville and made him think of Captain Clubbe. 
 
 " Well, you know," he explained, with a tolerant laugh, 
 " in politics it often turns out that a man's duty is to break 
 his word duty toward his party, and his country, and that 
 sort of thing." 
 
 Which was plausible enough, as many eminent politicians 
 seem to have found in these later times. 
 
 " 1 dare say it may be so," answered Barebone, " but I 
 refused outright, and there is an end to it." 
 
IN THE FURROW AGAIN 259 
 
 For now that he was brought face to face with the 
 situation, shorn of side issues and set squarely before him, 
 he envisaged it clearly enough. He did not want fifty 
 thousand pounds. He had only wanted the money for a 
 moment because the thought leapt into his mind that fifty 
 thousand pounds meant Miriam. Then he saw that little 
 contemptuous smile tilting the corner of her lips, and he had 
 no use for a million. 
 
 If he could not have Miriam, he would be King of 
 France. It is thus that history is made, for those who make 
 it are only men. And Clio, that greatest of the daughters of 
 Zeus, about whose feet cluster all the famous names of the 
 makers of this world's story, has, after all, only had the 
 reversion of the earth's great men. She has taken them 
 after some forgotten woman of their own choosing has had 
 the first refusal. 
 
 Thus it came about that the friendship so nearly severed 
 one evening at the Hotel Gemosac, in Paris, was renewed 
 after a few months ; and Barebone felt assured once more 
 that no one was so well disposed toward him as Dormer 
 Colville. 
 
 There was no formal reconciliation, and neither deemed 
 it necessary to refer to the past. Colville, it will be re- 
 membered, was an adept at that graceful tactfulness which 
 is somewhat clumsily described by this tolerant generation as 
 going on as if nothing had happened. 
 
 By the time that the waning moon was high enough in 
 the eastern sky to shed an appreciable light upon their path, 
 they reached the junction of the two roads and set off at a 
 brisk pace southward toward Ipswich. So far as the eye 
 could reach, the wide heath was deserted, and they talked at 
 their ease. 
 
 " There is nothing for it but to wake up my driver and 
 
260 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 make him take us back to Ipswich to-night. To-morrow 
 morning we can take train to London and be there almost 
 as soon as John Turner realises that you have given him the 
 slip," said Colville, cheerily. 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 " And then back to France where the sun shines, my 
 friend, and the spring is already in the air. Think of that ! 
 It is so, at least, at Gemosac, for I heard from the Marquis 
 before I quitted Paris. Your disappearance has nearly 
 broken a heart or two down there, I can tell you. The old 
 Marquis was in a great state of anxiety. I have never seen 
 him so upset about anything, and Juliette did not seem to 
 be able to offer him any consolation." 
 
 " Back to France ? " echoed Barebone, not without a 
 tone of relief, almost of exultation, in his voice. " Will it 
 be possible to go back there, since we have to run away from 
 Farlingford ? " 
 
 "Safer there than here," replied Colville. "It may 
 sound odd, but it is true. De Gemosac is one of the most 
 powerful men in France not intellectually, perhaps, but by 
 reason of his great name and they would not dare to touch 
 a protege or a guest of his. If you go back there now you 
 must stay at Gemosac ; they have put the chateau into a 
 more habitable condition, and are ready to receive you." 
 
 He turned and glanced at Loo's face in the moonlight. 
 
 " There will be a difference, you understand. You will 
 be a different person from what you were when last there," 
 he went on, in a muffled voice. 
 
 " Yes, I understand," replied Barebone, gravely. Already 
 the dream was taking shape Colville's persuasive voice had 
 awakened him to find that it was no dream, but a reality 
 and Farlingford was fading back into the land of shadows. 
 It was only France, after all, that was real. 
 
IN THE FURROW AGAIN 261 
 
 "That journey of ours," explained Colville, vaguely, 
 " has made an extraordinary difference. The whole party is 
 aroused and in deadly earnest now." 
 
 Barebone made no answer, and they walked on in medi- 
 tative silence toward the roadside inn, which stood up against 
 the southern sky a few hundred yards ahead. 
 
 " In fact," Colville added, after a silence, " the ball is 
 at your feet, Barebone. There can be no looking back 
 now." 
 
 And again Barebone made no answer. It was a tacit 
 understanding, then. 
 
 For greater secrecy, Barebone walked on toward Ipswich 
 alone, while Colville went into the inn to arouse his driver, 
 whom he found slumbering in the wide chimney corner 
 before a log fire. From Ipswich to London, and thus on 
 to Newhaven, they journeyed pleasantly enough in company, 
 for they were old companions of the road, and Colville's un- 
 ruffled good humour made him an easy comrade for travel 
 even in days when the idea of comfort reconciled with speed 
 had not suggested itself to the mind of man. 
 
 Such, indeed, was his foresight that he had brought with 
 him to London, and there left awaiting further need of it, 
 that personal baggage which Loo had perforce left behind 
 him at the Hotel Gemosac in Paris. 
 
 They made but a brief halt in London, where Colville 
 admitted gaily that he had no desire to be seen. 
 
 " I might meet my tailor in Piccadilly," he said. " And 
 there are others who may perhaps consider themselves 
 aggrieved." 
 
 At Colville's club, where they dined, he met more than 
 one friend. 
 
 " Hallo ! " said one who had the ruddy countenance and 
 bluff manners of a retired major. " Hallo I Who'd have 
 
262 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 expected to see you here ? I didn't know I thought eh ! 
 dainniy ! " 
 
 And a hundred facetious questions gleamed from the 
 major's eye. 
 
 " All right, my boy," answered Colville, cheerfully. " I 
 am off to France to-morrow morning." 
 
 The Major shook his head wisely as if in approval of a 
 course of conduct savouring of that prudence which is the 
 better part of valour, glanced at Loo Barebone, and waited 
 in vain for an invitation to take a vacant chair near at 
 hand. 
 
 " Still in the south of France, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Still in the south of France," replied Colville, turning 
 to Barebone in a final way, which had the effect of dismissing 
 this inquisitive idler. 
 
 While they were at dinner another came. He was a 
 raw-boned Scotchman, who spoke in broken English when 
 the waiter was absent and in perfect French when that 
 servitor hovered near. 
 
 " I wish I could show my face in Paris," he said, frankly, 
 " but I can't. Too much mixed up with Louis Philippe to 
 find favour in the eyes of the Prince President." 
 
 " "Why ? " asked Colville. " What could you gain by 
 showing in Paris a face which I am sure has the stamp of 
 innocence all over it ? " 
 
 The Scotchman laughed curtly. 
 
 " Gain ? " he answered. " Gain ? I don't say I would, 
 but I think I might be able to turn an honest penny out of 
 the approaching events." 
 
 " What events ? " 
 
 " The Lord alone knows," replied the Scotchman, who 
 had never set foot in his country, but had acquired elsewhere 
 the prudent habit of never answering a question. " France 
 
IN THE FURROW AGAIN 263 
 
 doesn't, I am sure of that. I am thinking there will be 
 events, though, before long, Colville. Will there not, now ? * 
 
 Colville looked at him with an open smile. 
 
 " You mean," he said, slowly, " the Prince President/' 
 
 " That is what he calls himself at present. I'm wonder- 
 ing how long. Eh ! man. He is just pouring money into 
 the country from here, from America, from Austria from 
 wherever he can get it." 
 
 " Why is he doing that ? " 
 
 " You must ask somebody who knows him better than 
 I do. They say you knew him yourself once well enough, 
 eh?" 
 
 " He is not a man I have much faith in," said Colville, 
 vaguely. " And France has no faith in him at all." 
 
 "So I'm told. But France well, does France know 
 what she wants? She mostly wants something without 
 knowing what it is. She is like a woman. It's excitement 
 she wants, perhaps. And she will buy it at any cost, and then 
 find afterward she has paid too dear for it. That is like a 
 woman, too. But it isn't another Bonaparte she wants, I 
 am sure of that." 
 
 " So am I," answered Colville, with a side glance toward 
 Barebone, a mere flicker of the eyelids. 
 
 " Not unless it is a Napoleon of that ilk." 
 
 " And he is not," completed Colville. 
 
 " But " the Scotchman paused, for a waiter came at 
 this moment to tell him that his dinner was ready at a table 
 nearer to the fire. u But," he went on, in French, for the 
 waiter lingered, " but he might be able to persuade France 
 that it is himself she wants might he not, now ? With 
 money at the back of it, eh ? " 
 
 " He might," admitted Colville, doubtfully. 
 
 The Scotchman moved away, but came back again. 
 
264 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " I am thinking," he said, with a grim smile, " that like 
 all intelligent people who know France, you are aware that 
 it is a King she wants." 
 
 " But not an Orleans King," replied Colville, with his 
 friendly and indifferent laugh. 
 
 The Scotchman smiled more grimly still and went away. 
 
 He was seated too near for Colville and Loo to talk of 
 him. But Colville took an opportunity to mention his name 
 in an undertone. It was a name known all over Europe 
 then, and forgotten now. 
 
CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 THE THURSDAY OF MADAME DE CHANTONNAY 
 
 " It is," Madame de Chantonnay had maintained throughout 
 the months of January and February "it is an affair of 
 the heart." 
 
 She continued to hold this opinion with, however, a shade 
 less conviction, well into a cold March. 
 
 " It is an affair of the heart, Abbe*," she said. " Allez ! 
 I know what I talk of. It is an affair of the heart and 
 nothing more. There is some one in England : some blonde 
 English girl. They are always washing, I am told. And 
 certainly they have that air like a garment that has been 
 too often to the blanchisseuse and has lost its substance. A 
 beautiful skin, I allow you. But so thin so thin." 
 
 " The skin, madame ? " inquired the Abbe" Touvent, with 
 that gentle and cackling humour in which the ordained of 
 any Church may indulge after a good dinner. 
 
 The Abbe" Touvent had, as a matter of fact, been Madame 
 de Chantonnay's most patient listener through the months 
 of suspense that followed Loo Barebone's sudden disappear- 
 ance. Needless to say he agreed ardently with whatever 
 explanation she put forward. Old ladies who give good 
 dinners to a Low Church British curate, or an abbe of the 
 Eoman confession, or, indeed, to the needy celibate exponents 
 of any creed whatsoever, may always count upon the active 
 conversational support of their spiritual adviser. And it is 
 
266 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 not only within the fold of Papacy that careful Christians 
 find the road to heaven made smooth by the arts of an 
 efficient cook. 
 
 " You know well enough what I mean, malicious one," 
 retorted the lady, arranging her shawl upon her fat 
 shoulders. 
 
 "I always think," murmured the Abbe, sipping his 
 digestive glass of eau-de-vie d'Armagnac, which is better 
 than any cognac of Charente " I always think that to be 
 thin shows a mean mind, lacking generosity." 
 
 " Take my word for it," pursued Madame de Chantonnay, 
 warming to her subject, "that is the explanation of the 
 young man's disappearance. They say the government has 
 taken some underhand way of putting him aside. One does 
 not give credence to such rumours in these orderly times. 
 No : it is simply that he prefers the pale eyes of some Mees 
 to glory and France. Has it not happened before, Abbe ? " 
 
 " Ah 1 Madame " another sip of Armagnac. 
 
 " And will it not happen again ? It is the heart that 
 has the first word and the last. I know I who address you, 
 I know ! " 
 
 And she touched her breast where, very deeply seated it 
 is to be presumed, she kept her own heart. 
 
 " Ah 1 Madame. Who better ? " murmured the Abbe. 
 
 " Na, na ! " exclaimed Madame de Chantonnay, holding 
 up one hand, heavy with rings, while with the other she 
 gathered her shawl closer about her as if for protection. 
 " Now you tread on dangerous ground, wicked one wicked I 
 And you so demure in your soutane ! " 
 
 But the Abbe" only laughed and held up his small glass 
 after the manner of any abandoned layman drinking a 
 toast. 
 
 " Madame," he said, " I drink to the hearts you have 
 
MADAME DE CHANTONNAY'S THURSDAY 267 
 
 broken. And now I go to arrange the card tables, for your 
 guests will soon be coming." 
 
 It was, in fact, Madame de Chantonnay's Thursday 
 evening to which were bidden such friends as enjoyed for the 
 moment her fickle good graces. The Abbe Touvent was, so 
 to speak, a permanent subscriber to these favours. The task 
 was easy enough, and any endowed with a patience to listen, 
 a readiness to admire that excellent young nobleman, Albert 
 de Chantonnay, and the credulity necessary to listen to the 
 record (more hinted at than clearly spoken) of Madam e's 
 own charms in her youth, could make sure of a game of 
 dominoes on the evening of the third Thursday in the 
 month. 
 
 The Abbe bustled about, drawing cards and tables nearer 
 to the lamps, away from the draught of the door, not too 
 near the open wood fire. His movements were dainty, like 
 those of an old maid of the last generation. He hissed 
 through his teeth as if he were working very hard. It 
 served to stimulate a healthy excitement in the Thursday 
 evening of Madame de Chantonnay. 
 
 " Oh, I am not uneasy," said that lady, as she watched 
 him. She had dined well and her digestion had outlived 
 those charms to which she made such frequent reference. 
 "I am not uneasy. He will return, more or less sheepish. 
 He will make some excuse more or less inadequate. He will 
 tell us a story more or less creditable. Allez 1 Oh, you men. 
 If you intend that chair for Monsieur de Gemosac, it is the 
 wrong one. Monsieur de Gemosac sits high, but his legs are 
 short ; give him the little chair that creaks. If he sits too 
 high he is apt to see over the top of one's cards. And he 
 is so eager to win the good Marquis." 
 
 " Then he will come to-night despite the cold ? You 
 think he will come, Madame ? " 
 
268 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " I am sure of it. He has come more frequently since 
 Juliette came to live at the chateau. It is Juliette who 
 makes him come, perhaps. Who knows ? " 
 
 The Abbe stopped midway across the floor and set down 
 the chair he carried with great caution. 
 
 " Madame is incorrigible," he said, spreading out his 
 hands. " Madame would perceive a romance in a cradle. 
 
 " Well, one must begin somewhere, Materialist. Once it 
 was for me that the guests crowded to my poor Thursdays. 
 But now it is because Albert is near. Ah ! I know it. I 
 say it without jealousy. Have you noticed, my dear Abbe, 
 that he has cut his whiskers a little shorter a shade nearer 
 to the ear ? It is effective, eh ? " 
 
 " It gives an air of hardihood," assented the Abbe". " It 
 lends to that intellectual face something martial. I would 
 almost say that to the timorous it might appear terrible and 
 overbearing." 
 
 Thus they talked until the guests began to arrive, and 
 for Madame de Chantonnay the time no doubt seemed short 
 enough. For no one appreciated Albert with such a delicacy 
 of touch as the Abbe Touvent. 
 
 The Marquis de Gemosac and Juliette were the last to 
 arrive. The Marquis looked worn and considerably aged. 
 He excused himself with a hundred gestures of despair for 
 being late. 
 
 " I have so much to do," he whispered. " So much to 
 think of. We are leaving no stone unturned, and at last 
 we have a clue." 
 
 The other guests gathered round. 
 
 " But speak, my dear friend, speak," cried Madame de 
 Chantonnay. "You keep us in suspense. Look around 
 you. We are among friends, as you see. It is only 
 ourselves." 
 
MADAME DE CHANTONNAY'S THURSDAY 269 
 
 " Well," replied the Marquis, standing upright and 
 fingering the snuff-box which had been given to his grand- 
 father by the Great Louis. "Well, my friends, our in- 
 valuable ally, Dormer Colville, has gone to England. There 
 is a ray of hope. That is all I can tell you." 
 
 He looked round, smiled on his audience, and then 
 proceeded to tell them more, after the manner of any 
 Frenchman. 
 
 " What," he whispered, " if an unscrupulous republican 
 government had got scent of our glorious discovery ! What 
 if, panic-stricken, they threw all vestige of honour to the 
 wind and decided to kidnap an innocent man and send him 
 to the Iceland fisheries, where so many lives are lost every 
 winter ; with what hopes in their republican hearts, I leave 
 to your imagination. What if let us say it for once 
 Monsieur de Bourbon should prove a match for them ? 
 Alert, hardy, full of resource, a skilled sailor, he takes his 
 life in his hand with the daring audacity of royal blood and 
 effects his escape to England. I tell you nothing " 
 
 He held up his hands as if to stay their clamouring 
 voices, and nodded his head triumphantly toward Albert 
 de Ohantonnay, who stood near a lamp fingering his martial 
 whisker of the left side with the air of one who would pause 
 at naught. 
 
 " I tell you nothing. But such a theory has been pieced 
 together upon excellent material. It may be true. It may 
 be a dream. And, as I tell you, our dear friend Dormer 
 Colville, who has nothing at stake, who loses or gains little 
 by the restoration of France, has journeyed to England for 
 us. None could execute the commission so capably, or 
 without danger of arousing suspicion. There ! I have 
 told you all I know. We must wait, my compatriots. We 
 must wait." 
 
270 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " And in the mean time," purred the voice of the Abbe 
 Touvent, " for the digestion, Monsieur le Marquis for the 
 digestion." 
 
 For it was one of the features of Madame de Chan- 
 ton nay's Thursdays that no servants were allowed in the 
 room ; but the guests waited on each other. If the servants, 
 as is to be presumed, listened outside the door, they were 
 particular not to introduce each succeeding guest without 
 first knocking, which caused a momentary silence and added 
 considerably to the sense of political importance of those 
 assembled. The Abbe Touvent made it his special care to 
 preside over the table where small glasses of eau-de-vie 
 d'Armagnac and other aids to digestion were set out in a 
 careful profusion. 
 
 " It is a theory," my clear Marquis," admitted Madame 
 de Chantonnay. " But it is nothing more. It has no heart 
 in it, your theory. Now I have a theory of my own." 
 
 " Full of heart, one may assure oneself, Madame ; full 
 of heart," murmured the Marquis. " For you yourself are 
 full of heart is it not so ? " 
 
 " I hope not," Juliette whispered to her fan, with a little 
 smile of malicious amusement. For she had a youthful 
 contempt for persons old and stout, who talk ignorantly of 
 matters only understood by such as are young and slim and 
 pretty. She looked at her fan with a gleam of ill-concealed 
 irony and glanced over it toward Albert de Chantonnay, 
 who, with a consideration which must have been hereditary, 
 was uneasy about the alteration he had made in his whiskers. 
 It was perhaps unfair, he felt, to harrow young and tender 
 hearts. 
 
 It was at this moment that a loud knock commanded a 
 breathless silence, for no more guests were expected, Incjeecl 
 the whole neighbourhood was present. 
 
MADAME DE CHANTONNAY'S THURSDAY 271 
 
 The servant, in his faded gold lace, came in and an- 
 Dounced with a dramatic assurance : " Monsieur de Borbone 
 Monsieur Colville." 
 
 And that difference which Dormer Colville had predicted 
 was manifested with an astounding promptness ; for all who 
 were seated rose to their feet. It was Colville who had 
 given the names to the servant in the order in which they 
 had been announced, and at the last minute, on the threshold, 
 he had stepped on one side and with his hand on Barebone's 
 shoulder had forced him to take precedence. 
 
 The first person Barebone saw on entering the room was 
 Juliette, standing under the spreading arms of a chandelier, 
 half turned to look at him Juliette, in all the freshness of 
 her girlhood and her first evening dress, flushing pink and 
 white like a wild rose, her eyes, bright with a sudden excite- 
 ment, seeking his. 
 
 Behind her, the Marquis de Gemosac, Albert de Chan- 
 tonnay, his mother, and all the Royalists of the province, 
 gathered in a semicircle, by accident or some tacit instinct, 
 leaving only the girl standing out in front, beneath the 
 chandelier. They bowed with that grave self-possession 
 which falls like a cloak over the shoulders of such as are of 
 ancient and historic lineage. 
 
 " We reached the chateau of Gemosac only a few minutes 
 after Monsieur le Marquis and Mademoiselle had quitted it 
 to come here," Barebone explained to Madame de Chan- 
 tonnay ; " and trusting to the good-nature so widely famed 
 of Madame la Comtesse, we hurriedly removed the dust of 
 travel, and took the liberty of following them hither. 1, 
 
 " You have not taken me by surprise," replied Madame 
 de Ohantonnay. " I expected you. Ask the Abbe" Touvent. 
 He will tell you, gentlemen, that I expected you." 
 
 As Barebone turned away to speak to the Marquis and 
 
272 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 others, who were pressing forward to greet hhn, it became 
 apparent that that mantle of imperturbability, which millions 
 made in trade can never buy, had fallen upon his shoulders, 
 too. For most men are, in the end, forced to play the part 
 the world assigns to them. We are not allowed to remain 
 what we know ourselves to be, but must, at last, be that 
 which the world thinks us. * 
 
 Madame de Chantonnay, murmuring to a neighbour a 
 mystic reference to her heart and its voluminous premonitions, 
 watched him depart with a vague surprise. 
 
 " Mori Lieu ! mon Dieu ! " she whispered, breathlessly. 
 "It is not a resemblance. It is the dead come to life 
 
CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 PRIMROSES 
 
 " If I go on, I go alone," Barebone had once said to Dormer 
 Colville. The words, spoken in the heat of a quarrel, stuck 
 in the memory of both, as such are wont to do. Perhaps, in 
 moments of anger or disillusionment when we find that 
 neither self nor friend is what we thought the heart tears 
 itself away from the grip of the cooler, calmer brain and 
 speaks untrammelled. And such speeches are apt to linger 
 in the mind long after the most brilliant jeu d'esprit has 
 been forgotten. 
 
 What occupies the thoughts of the old man, sitting out 
 the grey remainder of the day, over the embers of a hearth 
 which he will only quit when he quits the world ? Does he 
 remember the brilliant sallies of wit, the greatest triumphs 
 of the noblest minds with which he has consorted ; or does 
 his memory cling to some scene simple, pastoral, without 
 incident which passed before his eyes at a moment when 
 his heart was sore or glad? When his mind is resting 
 from its labours and the sound of the grinding is low, he 
 will scarce remember the neat saying or the lofty thought 
 clothed in perfect language ; but he will never forget a 
 hasty word spoken in an unguarded moment by one who 
 was not clever at all, nor even possessed the worldly wisdom 
 to shield the heart behind the buckler of the brain. 
 
 "You will find things changed," Colville had said, as 
 
 T 
 
274 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 they walked across the marsh from Farlingford, toward the 
 Ipswich road. And the words came back to the minds of 
 both, on that Thursday of Madame de Chantonnay, which 
 many remember to this day. Not only did they find things 
 changed, but themselves they found no longer the same. 
 Loth remembered the quarrel, and the outcome of it. 
 
 Colville, ever tolerant, always leaning toward the com- 
 promise that eases a doubting conscience, had, it would 
 almost seem unconsciously, prepared the way for a reconcilia- 
 tion before there was any question of a difference. On their 
 way back to France, without directly referring to that fatal 
 portrait and the revelation caused by Barebone's unaccount- 
 able feat of memory, he had smoothed away any possible 
 scruple. 
 
 " France must always be deceived," he had said, a hundred 
 times. " Better that she should be deceived for an honest 
 than a dishonest purpose if it is deception, after all, which 
 is very doubtful. The best patriot is he who is ready to 
 save his country at the cost of his own ease, whether of body 
 or of mind. It does not matter who or what you are ; ifc 
 is what or who the world thinks you to be, that is of 
 importance." 
 
 Which of us has not listened to a score of such arguments, 
 not always from the lips of a friend, but most often in that 
 still, small voice which rarely has the courage to stand out 
 against the tendency of the age ? There is nothing so 
 contagious as laxity of conscience. 
 
 Barebone listened to the good-natured, sympathetic voice 
 with a make-believe conviction which was part of his readiness 
 to put off an evil moment. Colville was a difficult man to 
 quarrel with. It seemed bearish and ill-natured to take 
 amiss any word or action which could only be the outcome 
 of a singularly tender consideration for the feelings of others. 
 
PBIMKOSES 275 
 
 But when they entered Madame de Chan tommy's draw- 
 ing-room when Dormer, impelled by some instinct of the 
 fitness of things, stepped aside and motioned to his companion 
 to pass in first the secret they had in common yawned 
 suddenly like a gulf between them. For the possession of a 
 secret either estranges or draws together. More commonly, 
 it estranges. For which of us is careful of a secret that 
 redounds to our credit ? Nearly every secret is a hidden 
 disgrace ; and such a possession, held in common with 
 another, is not likely to insure affection. 
 
 Colville lingered on the threshold, watching Loo make 
 the first steps of that progress which must henceforth be 
 pursued alone. He looked round for a friendly face, but no 
 one had eyes for him. They were all looking at Loo Bare- 
 bone. Colville sought Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, usually 
 in full evidence, even in a room full of beautiful women 
 and distinguished men. But she was not there. For a 
 minute or two no one noticed him ; and then Albert de 
 Chantonnay, remembering his role, came forward to greet 
 the Englishman. 
 
 " It was," explained Colville, in a lowered voice, " as we 
 thought. An attempt was made to get him out of the way, 
 but he effected his escape. He knew, however, the danger of 
 attempting to communicate with any of us by post, and was 
 awaiting some opportunity of transmitting a letter by a safe 
 hand, when I discovered his hiding-place." 
 
 And this was the story that went half round France, from 
 lip to lip, among those who were faithful to the traditions 
 of a glorious past. 
 
 " Madame St. Pierre Lawrence," Albert de Chantonnay 
 told Colville, in reply, " is not here to-night. She is, how- 
 ever, at her villa, at Roy an. She has not, perhaps, displayed 
 such interest in our meetings as she did before you departed 
 
276 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 on your long journey through France. But her generosity is 
 unchanged. The money, which, in the hurry of the moment, 
 you did not withdraw from her bank * 
 
 " I doubt whether it was ever there/' interrupted Colville. 
 
 " She informs me," concluded Albert, " is still at our 
 service. We have many other promises, which must now be 
 recalled to the minds of those who made them. But from no 
 one have we received such generous support as from your 
 kinswoman." 
 
 They were standing apart, and in a few minutes the 
 Marquis de Gemosac joined them. 
 
 " How daring ! how audacious ! " he whispered, " and 
 yet how opportune this return. It is all to be recom- 
 menced, my friends, with a firmer grasp, a new courage." 
 
 "But my task is accomplished," returned Colville. 
 "You have no further use for a mere Englishman, like 
 myself. I was fortunate in being able to lend some slight 
 assistance in the original discovery of our friend ; I have 
 again been lucky enough to restore him to you. And now, 
 with your permission, I will return to Royan, where I have 
 my little apartment, as you know." 
 
 He looked from one to the other, with his melancholy and 
 self-deprecating smile. 
 
 "Voila" he added; "it remains for me to pay my 
 respects to Madame de Chantonnay. We have travelled 
 far, and I am tired. I shall ask her to excuse me." 
 
 "And Monsieur de Bourbon comes to Gemosac. That 
 is understood. He will be safe there. His apartments have 
 been in readiness for him these last two months. Hidden 
 there, or in other dwellings grander and better served, 
 perhaps, than my poor ruin, but no safer he can continue 
 the great work he began so well last winter. As for 
 you, my dear Colville," continued the Marquis, taking the 
 
PRIMROSES 277 
 
 Englishman's two hands in his, " I envy you from the bottom 
 of my heart. It is not given to many to serve France as 
 you have served her to serve a King as you have served 
 one. It will be my business to see that both remember you. ' 
 For France, I allow, sometimes forgets. Go to Royan, since 
 you wish but it is only for a time. You will be called to 
 Paris some day, that I promise you." 
 
 The Marquis would have embraced him then and there, 
 had the cool-blooded Englishman shown the smallest desira 
 for that honour. But Dormer Colville's sad and doubting; 
 smile held at arms' length one who was always at the mercy 
 of his own eloquence. 
 
 The card tables had lost their attraction ; and, although 
 many parties were formed, and the cards were dealt, the 
 players fell to talking across the ungathered tricks, and even 
 the Abbe Touvent was caught tripping in the matter of a 
 point. 
 
 "Never," exclaimed Madame de Chantonnay, as her 
 guests took leave at their wonted hour, and some of them 
 even later " never have I had a Thursday so dull and yet 
 so full of incident." 
 
 " And never, madame," replied the Marquis, still on tip- 
 toe, as it were, with delight and excitement, " shall we see 
 another like it." 
 
 Loo went back to Gemosac with the fluttering old man 
 and Juliette. Juliette, indeed, was in no flutter, but had 
 carried herself through the excitement of her first evening 
 party with a demure little air of self-possession. 
 
 She had scarce spoken to Loo during the evening. 
 Indeed, it had been his duty to attend on Madame de 
 Chantonnay and on the older members of these quiet 
 Royalist families biding their time in the remote country 
 villages of Guienne and the Vendue, 
 
278 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 On the journey home, the Marquis had so much to tell 
 his companion, and told it so hurriedly, that his was the only 
 voice heard above the rattle of the heavy, old-fashioned 
 carriage. But Barebone was aware of Juliette's presence in 
 a dark corner of the roomy vehicle, and his eyes, seeking to 
 penetrate the gloom, could just distinguish hers, which seemed 
 to be turned in his direction. 
 
 Many changes had been effected at the chateau, and a 
 suite of rooms had been prepared for Barebone in the detached 
 building known as the Italian house, which stands in the 
 midst of the garden within the enceinte of the chateau walls. 
 
 " I have been able," explained the Marquis, frankly, " to 
 obtain a small advance on the results of last autumn's 
 vintage. My notary in the village found, indeed, that 
 facilities were greater than he had anticipated. With this 
 sum, I have been enabled to effect some necessary repairs to 
 the buildings and the internal decorations. I had fallen 
 behind the times, perhaps. But now that Juliette is installed 
 as chatelaine, many changes have been effected. You will 
 see, my dear friend ; you will see for yourself. Yes, for the 
 moment, I am no longer a pauper. As you yourself will 
 have noticed, in your journey through the west, rural France 
 is enjoying a sudden return of prosperity. It is unaccount- 
 able. No one can make me believe that it is to be ascribed 
 to this scandalous Government, under which we agonise. 
 But there it is and we must thank Heaven for it." 
 
 Which w r as only the truth. For France was at this 
 time entering upon a period of plenty. The air was full of 
 rumours of new railways, new roads, and new commercial 
 enterprise. Banks were being opened in the provincial 
 towns, and loans made on easy terms to agriculturists for 
 the improvement of their land. 
 
 Barebone found that there were indeed changes in the 
 
PRIMROSES 279 
 
 old chateau. The apartments above that which had once 
 been the stabling, hitherto occupied by the Marquis, had 
 been added to and a slight attempt at redecoration had 
 been made. There was no lack of rooms, and Juliette now 
 had her own suite, while the Marquis lived, as hitherto, in 
 three small apartments over the rooms occupied by Marie 
 and her husband. 
 
 An elderly relation one of those old ladies habited in 
 black, who are ready to efface themselves all day and occupy 
 a garret all night in return for bed and board, had been 
 added to the family. She contributed a silent and mysterious 
 presence, some worldly wisdom, and a profound respect for 
 her noble kinsman. 
 
 "She is quite harmless," Juliette explained, gaily, to 
 Barebone, on the first occasion when they were alone together. 
 This did not present itself until Loo had been quartered in 
 the Italian house for some days, with his own servant. 
 Although he took luncheon and dinner with the family in 
 the old building near to the gate-house, and spent his 
 evenings in Juliette's drawing-room, the Marquis or Madame 
 Maugiron was always present, and as often as not, they 
 played a game of chess together. 
 
 "She is quite harmless," said Juliette, tying, with a 
 thread, the primroses she had been picking in that shady 
 corner of the garden which lay at the other side of the 
 Italian house. The windows of Barebone's apartment, by 
 the way, looked down upon this garden, and he, having 
 perceived her, had not wasted time in joining her in the 
 morning sunshine. 
 
 " I wonder if I shall be as harmless when I am her age." 
 
 And, indeed, danger lurked beneath her lashes as she 
 glanced at him, asking this question with her lips and a 
 hundred others with her eyes, with her gay air of youth and 
 
280 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 happiness with her very attitude of coquetry, as she stood 
 in the spring sunshine, with the scent of the primroses 
 about her. ' 
 
 " I think that any one who approaches you will always 
 do so at his peril, Mademoiselle." 
 
 -" Then why do it ? " she asked, drawing back and busying 
 herself with the flowers, which she laid against her breast, as 
 if to judge the effect of their colour against the delicate 
 white of her dress. " Why run into danger ? Why come 
 downstairs at all ? " 
 
 * Why breathe ? " he retorted, with a laugh. " Why 
 eat, or drink, or sleep ? Why live ? Mon Dien ! because 
 there is no choice. And when I see you in the garden, 
 there is no choice for me, Mademoiselle. I must come down 
 and run into danger, because I cannot help it any more than 
 I can help " 
 
 "But you need not stay," she interrupted, cleverly. 
 " A brave man may always retire from danger into safety." 
 
 " But he may not always want to, Mademoiselle." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 And, with a shrug of the shoulders, she inserted the 
 primroses within a very small waistband and turned away. 
 
 " Will you give me those primroses, Mademoiselle ? " 
 asked Loo, without moving ; for, although she had turned 
 to go, she had not gone. 
 
 . She turned on her heel and looked at him, with demure 
 surprise, and then bent her head to look at the flowers at her 
 own waist. 
 
 " They are mine," she answered, standing in that pretty 
 attitude, her hair half concealing her face. " I picked them 
 myself." 
 
 " Two reasons why I want them." 
 
 " Ah ! but," she said, with a suggestion of thoughtful- 
 
PRIMROSES 281 
 
 ness, " one does not always get what one wants. You ask a 
 great deal, Monsieur." 
 
 " There is no limit to what I would ask, Mademoiselle." 
 
 She laughed gaily. 
 
 " If " she inquired, with raised eyebrows. 
 
 " If I dared." 
 
 Again she looked at him with that little air of surprise. 
 
 " But I thought you were so brave ? " she said. " So 
 reckless of danger ? A brave man assuredly does not ask. 
 He takes that which he would have." 
 
 It happened that she had clasped her hands behind her 
 back, leaving the primroses at her waist uncovered and half 
 falling from the ribbon. 
 
 In a moment he had reached out his hand and taken 
 them. She leapt back, as if she feared that he might take 
 more, and ran back toward the house, placing a rough tangle 
 of brier between herself and this robber. Her laughing 
 face looked at him through the brier. 
 
 " You have your primroses," she said, " but I did not 
 give them to you. You want too much, I think." 
 
 "I want what that ribbon binds," he answered. But 
 she turned away and ran toward the house, without waiting 
 to hear. 
 
CHAPTEE XXXIII 
 
 DORMER COLVILLE IS BLIND 
 
 It was late when Dormer Colville reached the quiet sea-coast 
 village of Royan on the evening of his return to the west. 
 He did not seek Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence until the luncheon 
 hour next morning, when he was informed that she was away 
 from home. 
 
 " Madame has gone to Paris, 1 ' the man said, who, with 
 his wife, was left in charge of the empty house. " It was a 
 sudden resolution, one must conclude," he added, darkly, 
 " but Madame took no one into her confidence. She re- 
 received news by post, which must have brought about this 
 sudden decision." 
 
 Colville was intimately acquainted with his cousin's 
 affairs ; many hazarded an opinion that, without the help of 
 Madame St. Pierre Lawrence, this rolling stone would have 
 been bare enough. She had gone to Paris for one of two 
 reasons, he concluded. Either she had expected him to 
 return thither from London, and had gone to meet him with 
 the intention of coming to some arrangement as to the 
 disposal of the vast sum of money now in Turner's hands 
 awaiting further developments, or some hitch had occurred 
 with respect to John Turner himself. 
 
 Dormer Colville returned, thoughtfully, to his lodging, 
 and in the evening set out for Paris. 
 
 He himself had not seen Turner since that morning in 
 
DORMER COLVILLE IS BLIND 283 
 
 the banker's office in the Rue Lafayette, when they had 
 parted so unceremoniously, in a somewhat heated spirit. 
 But, on reflection, Colville, who had sought to reassure him- 
 self with regard to one whose name stood for the incarnation 
 of gastronomy and mental density in the Anglo-French clubs 
 of Paris, had come to the conclusion that nothing was to be 
 gained by forcing a quarrel upon Turner. It was impossible 
 to bring home to him an accusation of complicity in an 
 outrage which had been carried through with remarkable 
 skill. And when it is impossible to force home an accusation, 
 a wise man will hold his tongue. 
 
 Colville could not prove that Turner had known Bare- 
 bone to be in the carriage waiting in the courtyard, and his 
 own action in the matter had been limited to the interposi- 
 tion of his own clumsy person between Colville and the 
 window ; which might, after all, have been due to stupidity. 
 This, as a matter of fact, was Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's 
 theory on the subject. For that lady, resting cheerfully on 
 the firm basis of a self-confidence which the possession of 
 money nearly always confers on women, had laughed at 
 Turner all her life, and now proposed to continue that course 
 of treatment. 
 
 "Take my word," she had assured Colville, "he was 
 only acting in his usual dense way, and probably thinks now 
 that you are subject to brief fits of mental aberration. I 
 am not afraid of him or anything that he can do. Leave 
 him to me, and devote all your attention to finding Loo 
 Barebone again." 
 
 Upon which advice Colville had been content to act. 
 He had a faith in Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's wit which was 
 almost as great as her own ; and thought, perhaps rightly 
 enough, that if any one were a match for John Turner it 
 was his sprightly and capable client. For there are two 
 
284 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 ways of getting on in this world : one is to get credit for 
 being cleverer than you are, and the other to be cleverer than 
 your neighbour suspects. But the latter plan is seldom 
 followed, for the satisfaction it provides must necessarily be 
 shared with no confidant. 
 
 Colville knew where to look for Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence 
 in Paris, where she always took an apartment in a quiet and 
 old-fashioned hotel rejoicing in a select Royalist clientele on 
 the Place Vendome. On arriving at the capital, he hurried 
 thither, and was told that the lady he sought had gone out 
 a few minutes earlier. " But Madame's maid," the porter 
 added, " is no doubt within." 
 
 Colville was conducted to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's 
 room, and was hardly there before the lady's French maid 
 came hurrying in with upraised hands. 
 
 " A just Heaven has assuredly sent Monsieur at this 
 moment ! " she exclaimed. " Madame only quitted this 
 room ten minutes ago, and she was agitated she, who is 
 usually so calm. She would tell me nothing ; but I know 
 I, who have done Madame's hair these ten years ! And 
 there is only one thing that could cause her anxiety except, 
 of course, any mishap to Monsieur ; that would touch the 
 heart yes ! " 
 
 " You are very kind, Catherine," said Colville, with a 
 laugh, " to think me so important. Is that letter for me ? " 
 And he pointed to a note in the woman's hand. 
 
 " But yes ! " was the reply, and she gave up the letter, 
 somewhat reluctantly. " There is only one thing, and that is 
 money," she concluded, watching him tear open the envelope. 
 
 " I am going to John Turner's office," Mrs. St. Pierre 
 Lawrence wrote. " If, by some lucky chance, you should 
 pass through Paris, and happen to call this morning, follow 
 me to the Rue Lafayette. M. St. P. L," 
 
DORMER COLVILLE IS BLIND 285 
 
 It was plain enough. Colville reflected that Mrs. St. 
 Pierre Lawrence had heard of the success of his mission to 
 England and the safe return to Gemosac of Loo Barebone. 
 For the moment, he could not think how the news could 
 have reached her. She might have heard it from Miriam 
 Liston ; for their journey back to Gemosac had occupied 
 nearly a week. On learning the good news, Mrs. St. Pierre 
 Lawrence had promptly grasped the situation ; for she was 
 very quick in thought and deed. The money would be 
 wanted at once. She had gone to Turner's office to withdraw 
 it in person. 
 
 Dormer Colville bought a flower in a shop in the Rue 
 de la Paix, and had it affixed to his buttonhole by the 
 handmaid of Flora, who made it her business to linger over 
 the office with a gentle familiarity no doubt pleasing enough 
 to the majority of her clients. 
 
 Colville was absent-minded as he drove, in a hired 
 carriage, to the Rue Lafayette. He was wondering whether 
 Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's maid had any grounds for stating 
 that a mishap to him would touch her mistress's heart. 
 He was a man of unbounded enterprise ; but, like many 
 who are gamblers at heart, he was superstitious. He had 
 never dared to try his luck with Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. 
 She was so hard, so worldly, so infinitely capable of manag- 
 ing her own affairs and regulating her own life, that to offer 
 her his hand and heart in exchange for her fortune had 
 hitherto been dismissed from his mind as a last expedient, 
 only to be faced when ruin awaited him. 
 
 She had only been a widow three years. She had never 
 been a sentimental woman, and now her liberty and her 
 wealth were obviously so dear to her that, in common sense, 
 he could scarcely, with any prospect of success, ask her 
 outright to part with them, Moreover, Mrs. St. Pierre 
 
286 THE LAST HOrE 
 
 Lawrence knew all about Dormer Colville, as men say. 
 "Which is only a saying ; for no human being knows all about 
 another human being, nor one-half, nor one-tenth of what 
 there is to know. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence knew enough, 
 at all events, Colville reflected, rather ruefully, to disillusionise 
 a schoolgirl, much more a woman of the world, knowing 
 good and evil. 
 
 He had not lived forty years in the world, and twenty 
 years in that world of French culture which digs and digs 
 into human nature, without having heard philosophers opine 
 that, in matters of the heart, women have no illusions at all, 
 and that it is only men who go blindfold into the tortuous 
 ways of love. But he was too practical a man to build up 
 a false hope on so frail a basis as a theory applied to a 
 woman's heart. 
 
 He bought a flower for his buttonhole then, and squared 
 his shoulders, without any definite design. It was a mere 
 habit the habit acquired by twenty years of unsuccessful 
 enterprise, and renewed effort and deferred hope of leaving 
 no stone unturned. 
 
 His cab wheeled into the Rue Lafayette, and the man 
 drove more slowly, reading the numbers on the houses. 
 Then he stopped altogether, and turned round in his 
 seat. 
 
 u Citizen," he said, " there is a great crowd at the house 
 you named. It extends half across the street. I will go no 
 further. It is not I who care about publicity." 
 
 Colville stood up and looked in the direction indicated 
 by his driver's whip. The man had scarcely exaggerated. 
 A number of people were waiting their turn on the pavement 
 and out into the roadway, while two gendarmes held the door. 
 Dormer Colville paid his cabman and walked into that 
 crowd, with a sinking heart. 
 
DORMER COLVILLE IS BLIND 287 
 
 " It is the great English banker," explained an on-looker, 
 even before he was asked, " who has failed." 
 
 Colville had never found any difficulty in making his 
 way through a crowd a useful accomplishment in Paris at 
 all times, where government is conducted, thrones are raised 
 and toppled over, provinces are won and lost again, by the 
 mob. He had that air of distinction which, if wielded 
 good-naturedly, is the surest passport in any concourse. 
 Some, no doubt, recognised him as an Englishman. One 
 after another made way for him. Persons unknown to him 
 commanded others to step aside and let him pass ; for the 
 busybody we have always with us. 
 
 In a few minutes he was at the top of the stairs, and 
 there elbowed his way into the office, where the five clerks 
 sat bent up over their ledgers. The space on the hither side 
 of the counter was crammed with men, who whispered im- 
 patiently together. If any one raised his voice, the clerk 
 whose business it was lifted his head and looked at the 
 speaker with a mute surprise. 
 
 One after another these white-faced applicants leant over 
 the counter. 
 
 " Voyons, Monsieur ! " they urged ; " tell me this or 
 inform me of that." 
 
 But the clerk only smiled and shook his head. 
 
 " Patience, Monsieur," he answered. " I cannot tell you 
 yet. We are awaiting advices from London." 
 
 " But when will you receive them ? " inquired several, at 
 once. 
 
 " It may be to-morrow. It may not be for several 
 days." 
 
 "But can one see Mr. Turner?" inquired one, more 
 daring than the rest. 
 
 " He is engaged." 
 
288 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 Colville caught the eye of the clerk, and by a gesture 
 made it known that he must be allowed to pass on into the 
 inner room. Once more his air of the great world, his good 
 clothes, his flower in the buttonhole, gave him the advantage 
 over others ; and the clerk got down from his stool. 
 
 "Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence is with him, I know," 
 whispered Colville. " I come by appointment to meet her 
 here." 
 
 He was shown in without further trouble, and found 
 Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence sitting, white-faced and voluble, 
 in the visitors' chair. 
 
 John Turner had his usual air of dense placidity, but the 
 narrow black tie he always tied in a bow was inclined 
 slightly to one side ; his hair was ruffled, and, although the 
 weather was not warm, his face wore a shiny look. Any 
 banker, with his clients clamouring on the stairs and out into 
 the street, might look as John Turner looked. 
 
 "You have heard the news ?" asked Mrs. St. Pierre 
 Lawrence, turning sharply in her chair and looking at 
 Colville with an expression of sudden relief. She carried a 
 handkerchief in her hand, but her eyes were dry. She was, 
 after all, only a forerunner of those who now propose to 
 manage human affairs. And even in these later days of their 
 great advance, they have not left their pocket-handkerchiefs 
 behind them. 
 
 " I was told by one of the crowd," replied Colville, with 
 a side smile full of sympathy for Turner, N that the er 
 bank had come to grief." 
 
 "Was just telling Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence," said 
 Turner, imperturbably, " that it is too early in the day to 
 throw up the sponge and cry out that all is lost." 
 
 " All ! " echoed Colville, angrily. " But do you mean to 
 say Why, surely, there is generally something left." 
 
DORMER COLVILLE IS BLIND 289 
 
 Turner shrugged his shoulders and sat in silence, 
 gnawing the middle joint of his thumb. 
 
 " But I must have the money ! " cried Mrs. St. Pierre 
 Lawrence. " It is most important, and I must have it at 
 once. I withdraw it all. See, I brought my cheque-book 
 with me. And I know that there are over a hundred thou- 
 sand pounds in my account. As well as that, you hold 
 securities for two hundred and fifty thousand more my 
 whole fortune. The money is not yours : it is mine. I 
 draw it all out, and I insist on having it." 
 
 Turner continued to bite his thumb, and glanced at her 
 without speaking. 
 
 " Now, damn it all, Turner 1 " said Colville, in a voice 
 suddenly hoarse ; " hand it over, man." 
 
 " I tell you it is gone," was the answer. 
 
 " What ? Three hundred and fifty thousand pounds ? 
 Then you are a rogue I You are a fraudulent trustee ! I 
 always thought you were a damned scoundrel, Turner, and 
 now I know it. I'll get you to the galleys for the rest of 
 your life, I promise you that." 
 
 " You will gain nothing by that," returned the banker, 
 staring at the date-card in front of him. "And you will 
 lose any chance there is of recovering something from the 
 wreck. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had better take the advice 
 of her lawyer in preference to yours." 
 
 " Then I am ruined ! " said that lady, rising, with an air 
 of resolution. She was brave, at all events. 
 
 "At the present moment, it looks like it," admitted 
 Turner, without meeting her eye. 
 
 " What am I to do ? " murmured Mrs. St. Pierre 
 Lawrence, looking helplessly round the room and finally at 
 the banker's stolid face. 
 
 " Like the rest of us, I suppose," he admitted. " Begin 
 
 u 
 
290 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 the world afresh. Perhaps your friends will come for- 
 ward." 
 
 And he looked calmly toward Colville. Mrs. St. Pierre 
 Lawrence's face suddenly flushed, and she turned away 
 toward the door. Turner rose, laboriously, and opened it. 
 
 " There is another staircase through this side door," he 
 said, opening a second door, which had the appearance of a 
 cupboard. " You can avoid the crowd." 
 
 They passed out together, and Turner, having closed the 
 door behind them, crossed the room to where a small mirror 
 was suspended. He set his tic straight and smoothed his 
 hair, and then returned to his chair, with a vague smile on 
 his face. 
 
 Colville took the vacant seat in Mrs. St. Pierre Law- 
 rence's brougham. She still held a handkerchief in her 
 hand. 
 
 " I do not mind for myself," she exclaimed, suddenly, 
 when the carriage moved out of the court-yard. " It is only 
 for your sake, Dormer." 
 
 She turned and glanced at him with eyes that shone, but 
 not with tears. 
 
 " Oh ! Don't you understand ? " she asked, in a whisper. 
 " Don't you see, Dormer ? " 
 
 " A way out of it ? " he answered, hurriedly, almost 
 interrupting her. He withdrew his hand, upon which she 
 had laid her own ; withdrew it sympathetically, almost 
 tenderly. " See a way out of it ? " he repeated, in a reflective 
 and business-like voice. " No, I am afraid, for the moment, 
 I don't." 
 
 He sat stroking his moustache, looking out of the window, 
 while she looked out of the other, resolutely blinking back 
 her tears. They drove back to her hotel without speaking. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 A SORDID MATTER 
 
 " Bon Dieu ! my old friend, what do you expect ? " replied 
 Madame de Ohantonnay to a rather incoherent statement 
 made to her one May afternoon by the Marquis de Gemosac. 
 " It is the month of May," she further explained, indicating 
 with a gesture of her dimpled hand the roses abloom all 
 around them. For the Marquis had found her in a chair 
 beneath the mulberry-tree in the old garden of that house 
 near Gemosac which looks across the river toward the 
 sea. "It is the month of May. One is young. Such 
 things have happened since the world began. They will 
 happen until it ends, Marquis. It happened in our own 
 time, if I remember correctly." 
 
 And Madame de Chantonnay heaved a prodigious sigh, 
 in memory of the days that were no more. 
 
 " Given a young man of enterprise and not bad looking, 
 I allow. He has the grand air and his face is not without 
 distinction. Given a young girl, fresh as a flower, young, 
 innocent, not without feeling. Ah ! I know, for I was like 
 that myself. Place them in a garden, in the springtime. 
 What will they talk of politics ? Ah bah I Let them 
 have long evenings together while their elders play chess or 
 a hand at b^zique. What game will they play ? A much 
 older game than chess or b^zique, I fancy." 
 
 " But the circumstances were so exceptional," protested 
 
292 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 the Marquis, who had a pleased air, as if his anger were not 
 without an antidote. 
 
 " Circumstances may be exceptional, my friend, but Love 
 is a Eule. You allow him to stay six weeks in the chateau, 
 seeing Juliette daily, and then you are surprised that one 
 fine morning Monsieur de Bourbon comes to you and tells 
 you brusquely, as you report it, that he wants to marry your 
 daughter." 
 
 " Yes," admitted the Marquis. " He was what you may 
 describe as brusque. It is the English way, perhaps, of 
 treating such matters. Now, for myself I should have been 
 warmer, I think. I should have allowed myself a little play, 
 as it were. One says a few pretty things is it not so ? 
 One suggests that the lady is an angel and oneself entirely 
 unworthy of a happiness which is only to be compared with 
 the happiness that is promised to us in the hereafter. It is 
 an occasion upon which to be eloquent." 
 
 " Not for the English," corrected Madame de Chantonnay, 
 holding up a hand to emphasise her opinion. "And you 
 must remember, that although our friend is French, he has 
 been brought up in that cold country by a minister of 
 their frozen religion, I understand. I, who speak to you, 
 know what they are, for once I had an Englishman in love 
 with me. It was in Paris, when Louis XVIII. was King. 
 And did this Englishman tell me that he was heart-broken, 
 I ask you ? Never ! On the contrary, he appeared to be of 
 an indifference only to be compared with the indifference of a 
 tree. He seemed to avoid me rather than seek my society. 
 Once, he made believe to forget that he had been presented 
 to me. A ruse a mere ruse to conceal his passion. But I 
 knew, I knew always." 
 
 " And what was the poor man's fate ? What was his 
 name, Comtesse ? " 
 
A SORDID MATTER 293 
 
 " I forget, my friend. For the moment I have forgotten 
 it. But tell me more about Monsieur de Bourbon and 
 Juliette. He is passionately in love with her, of course ; he 
 is so miserable." 
 
 The Marquis reflected for a few moments. 
 
 " Well," he said, at last, " he may be so ; he may be so, 
 Comtesse." 
 
 " And you what did you say ? " 
 
 The Marquis looked carefully round before replying. 
 Then he leant forward with his forefinger raised delicately 
 to the tip of his nose. 
 
 " I temporised, Comtesse," he said, in a low voice. " I 
 explained as gracefully as one could that it was too early 
 to think of such a development that I was taken by 
 surprise." 
 
 " Which could hardly have been true," put in Madame de 
 Chantonnay in an audible aside to the mulberry-tree, " for 
 neither Guienne nor la "Vendee will be taken by surprise." 
 
 " I said, in other words a good many words, the more 
 the better, for one must be polite 'Secure your throne, 
 Monsieur, and you shall marry Juliette.' But it is not a 
 position into which one hurries the last of the house of 
 Gemosac to be the wife of an unsuccessful claimant, eh ? " 
 
 Madame de Chantonnay approved in one gesture of 
 her stout hand of these principles and of the Marquis de 
 Gemosac's masterly demonstration of them. 
 
 " And Monsieur de Bourbon did he accept these con- 
 ditions ? " 
 
 " He seemed to, Madame. He seemed content to do so," 
 replied the Marquis, tapping his snuff-box and avoiding the 
 lady's eye. 
 
 " And Juliette ? " inquired Madame, with a sidelong 
 glance. 
 
294 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " Oh, Juliette is sensible," replied the fond father. " My 
 daughter is, I hope, sensible, Corutesse." 
 
 "Give yourself no uneasiness, my old friend," said 
 Madame de Chantonnay, heartily. " She is charming." 
 
 Madame sat back in her chair and fanned herself thought- 
 fully. It was the fashion of that day to carry a fan and 
 wield it with grace and effect. To fan oneself did not mean 
 that the heat was oppressive, any more than the use of 
 incorrect English signifies to-day ill-breeding or a lack of 
 education. Both are an indication of a laudable desire to 
 be unmistakably in the movement of one's day. 
 
 Over her fan Madame cast a sidelong glance at the 
 Marquis, whom she, like many of his friends, suspected of 
 being much less simple and spontaneous than he appeared. 
 
 " Then they arc not formally affianced ? " she suggested. 
 
 " Man Dieu! no. I clearly indicated that there were 
 other things to be thought of at the present time. A very 
 arduous task lies before him, but he is equal to it, I am 
 certain. My conviction as to that grows as one knows him 
 better." 
 
 " But you are not prepared to allow the young people to 
 force you to take a leap in the dark," suggested Madame de 
 Chantonnay. " And that poor Juliette must consume her 
 soul in patience ; but she is sensible, as you justly say. Yes, 
 my dear Marquis, she is charming." 
 
 They were thus engaged in facile talk when Albert de 
 Chantonnay emerged from the long window of his study, a 
 room opening on to a moss-grown terrace, where this plotter 
 walked to and fro like another Richelieu and brooded over 
 nation-shaking schemes. 
 
 lie carried a letter in his hand and wore an air of 
 genuine perturbment. But even in his agitation he looked 
 carefully round before he spoke. 
 
A SORDID MATTER 295 
 
 " Here," he said to the Marquis and his fond mother, 
 who watched him with complacency " here I have a letter 
 from Dormer Colville. It is necessarily couched in very 
 cautious language. He probably knows, as I know, that 
 any letter addressed to me is liable to be opened. I have 
 reason to believe that some of my letters have not only been 
 opened, but that copies of them are actually in the possession of 
 that man the head of that which is called the Government." 
 
 He turned and looked darkly into a neighbouring clump 
 of rhododendrons, as if Louis Napoleon were perhaps lurk- 
 ing there. But he was nevertheless quite right in his 
 suspicions, which were verified twenty years later, along 
 with much duplicity which none had suspected. 
 
 "Nevertheless," he went on, "I know what Colville 
 seeks to convey to us, and is now hurrying away from Paris 
 to confirm to us by word of mouth. The bank of John 
 Turner in the Rue Lafayette has failed, and with it goes all 
 the fortune of Madame St. Pierre Lawrence." 
 
 Both his hearers exclaimed aloud, and Madame de Chan- 
 tonnay showed signs of a desire to swoon ; but as no one 
 took any notice, she changed her mind. 
 
 " It is a ruse to gain time," explained Albert, brushing 
 the thin end of his moustache upward with a gesture of 
 resolution. " Just as the other was a ruse to gain time. It 
 is at present a race between two resolute parties. The party 
 which is ready first and declares itself will be the victor. 
 For to-day our poor France is in the gutter : she is in the 
 hands of the canaille, and the canaille will accept the first 
 who places himself upon an elevation and scatters gold. 
 What care they King or Emperor, Emperor or King ! It 
 is the same to them so long as they have a change of some 
 sort and see, or think they see, gain to themselves to be 
 snatched from it." 
 
296 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 From which it will be seen that Albert de Chantonnay 
 knew his countrymen. 
 
 "But," protested Madame de Chantonnay, who had a 
 Frenchwoman's inimitable quickness to grasp a situation 
 " but the Government could scarcely cause a bank to fail 
 such an old-established bank as Turner's, which has existed 
 since the day of Louis XIV. in order to gain time." 
 
 "An unscrupulous Government can do anything in 
 France," replied the lady's son. " Their existence depends 
 upon delay, and they are aware of it. They would ruin 
 France rather than forego their own aggrandisement. And 
 this is part of their scheme. They seek to delay us at all 
 costs. To kidnap de Bourbon was the first move. It failed. 
 This is their second move. What must be our counter- 
 move ? " 
 
 He clasped his hands behind his willowy back and paced 
 slowly backward and forward. By a gesture, Madame de 
 Chantonnay bade the Marquis keep silence while she drew 
 his attention to the attitude of her son. When he paused 
 and fingered his whisker she gasped excitedly. 
 
 "I have it," said Albert, with an upward glance of 
 inspiration. 
 
 " Yes, my son ? " 
 
 " The Beauvoir estate," replied Albert, " left to me by 
 my uncle. It is worth three hundred thousand francs. That 
 is enough for the moment. That must be our counter-move." 
 
 Madame de Chantonnay protested volubly. For if 
 Frenchmen are ready to sacrifice, or, at all events, to risk all 
 for a sentiment and history says nothing to the contrary 
 Frenchwomen are eminently practical and far-sighted. 
 
 Madame had a hundred reasons why the Beauvoir estate 
 should not be sold. Many of them contradicted each other. 
 She was not what may be called a close reasoner, but she was 
 
A SORDID MATTER 297 
 
 roughly effective. Many a general lias won a victory not by 
 the accuracy, but by the volume of his fire. 
 
 "What will become of France," she cried to Albert's 
 retreating back as he walked to and fro, " if none of the old 
 families has a sou to bless itself with ? And Heaven knows 
 that there are few enough remaining now. Besides, you will 
 want to marry some day, and what will your bride say when 
 you have no money ? There are no dots growing in the 
 hedgerows now. Not that I am a stickler for a dot. Give 
 me heart, I always say, and keep the money yourself. And 
 some day you will find a loving heart, but no dot And 
 there is a tragedy at once ready made. Is it not so, my old 
 friend ? " 
 
 She turned to the Marquis de Gemosac for confirmation 
 of this forecast. 
 
 "It is a danger, Madame," was the reply. "It is a 
 danger which it would be well to foresee." 
 
 They had discussed a hundred times the possibility of a 
 romantic marriage between their two houses. Juliette and 
 Albert the two last representatives of an old nobility long- 
 famed in the annals of the west might well fall in love with 
 each other. It would be charming, Madame thought ; but, 
 alas ! Albert would be wise to look for a dot 
 
 The Marquis paused. Again he temporised. For he 
 could not all in an instant decide which side of this question 
 to take. He looked at Albert, frail, romantic ; an ideal 
 representative of that old nobility of France which was never 
 practical, and elected to go to the guillotine rather than seek 
 to cultivate that modern virtue. 
 
 "At the same time, Madame, it is well to remember 
 that a loan offered now may reasonably be expected to bring 
 such a return in the future as will provide dots for the de 
 Chantonnays to the end of time." 
 
298 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 Madame was about to make a spirited reply ; she might 
 even have suggested that the Beauvoir estate would be better 
 apportioned to Albert's wife than to Juliette as the wife of 
 another, but Albert himself stopped in front of them and 
 swept away all argument by a passionate gesture of Ins small, 
 white hand. 
 
 u It is concluded," he said. " I sell the Beauvoir estate ! 
 Have not the Chantonnays proved a hundred times that they 
 are equal to any sacrifice for the sake of France ? " 
 
CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 A SQUARE MAN 
 
 All through the summer of 1851 a year to be marked for 
 all time in the minds of historians, not in red, but in black 
 letters the war of politics tossed France hither and thither. 
 
 There were, at this time, five parties contending for 
 mastery. Should one of these appear for the moment to be 
 about to make itself secure in power, the other four would at 
 once unite to tear the common adversary from his unstable 
 position. Of these parties, only two were of real cohesion : 
 the Legitimists and the Bonapartists. The Socialists, the 
 Moderate Republicans, and the Orleanists were too closely 
 allied in the past to be friendly in the present. Socialists 
 are noisy, but rarely clever. A man who in France describes 
 himself as Moderate must not expect to be popular for any 
 length of time. The Orleanists were only just out of office. 
 It was scarcely a year since Louis Philippe had died in exile 
 at Olaremont only three years since he signed his abdication 
 and hurried across to Newhaven. It was not the turn of the 
 Orleanists. 
 
 There is no quarrel so deadly as a family quarrel ; no 
 fall so sudden as that of a house divided against itself. All 
 through the spring and summer of 1851 France exhibited 
 herself in the eyes of the world a laughing-stock to her 
 enemies, a thing of pity to those who loved that great 
 country. 
 
300 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 The Republic of 1818 was already a house divided 
 against itself. 
 
 Its President, Louis Bonaparte, had been elected for 
 four years. He was, as the law then stood, not eligible 
 again until after the lapse of another four years. His party 
 tried to abrogate this law, and failed. " No matter," they 
 said, " we shall elect him again, and President he shall be, 
 despite the law." 
 
 This was only one of a hundred such clouds, no bigger 
 than a man's hand, arising at tins time on the political 
 horizon. For France Was beginning to wander down that 
 primrose path where a law is only a law so long as it is 
 convenient. 
 
 There was one man, Louis Bonaparte, who kept his head 
 when others lost that invaluable adjunct ; who pushed on 
 doggedly to a set purpose ; whose task was hard even in 
 France, and would have been impossible in any other country. 
 For it is only in France that ridicule does not kill. And 
 twice within the last fifteen years once at Strasbourg, once 
 at Boulogne he had made the world hold its sides at the 
 mention of his name, greeting with the laughter which is 
 imbittered by scorn, a failure damned by ridicule. 
 
 It has been said that Louis Bonaparte never gave serious 
 thought to the Legitimist party. He had inherited, it 
 would seem, that invaluable knowledge of men by which his 
 uncle had risen to the greatest throne of modern times. He 
 knew that a party is never for a moment equal to a Man. 
 And the Legitimists had no man. They had only the Comte 
 de Chambord. 
 
 At Frohsdorff they still clung to their hopes, with that 
 old-world belief in the ultimate revival of a dead regime 
 which was eminently characteristic. And at Frohsdorff 
 there died, in the October of this year, the Duchess of 
 
A SQUARE MAN 301 
 
 AngouMme, Marie Therese Charlotte, daughter of Marie 
 Antoinette, who had despised her two uncles, Louis XVIII. 
 and Charles X., for the concessions they had made who 
 was more Royalist than the King. She was the last of her 
 generation, the last of her family, and with her died a part 
 of the greatness of France, almost all the dignity of royalty, 
 and the last master-mind of the Bourbon race. 
 
 If, as Albert de Chantonnny stated, the failure of 
 Turner's bank was nothing but a ruse to gain time, it had 
 the desired effect. For a space, nothing could be under- 
 taken, and the Marquis de Gemosac and his friends were 
 hindered from continuing the work they had so successfully 
 begun. 
 
 All through the summer Loo Barebone remained in 
 France, at Gemosac as much as anywhere. The Marquis de 
 Gemosac himself went to Frohsdorff. 
 
 " If she had been ten years younger," he said, on his 
 return, "I could have persuaded her to receive you. She 
 has money. All the influence is hers. It is she who has 
 had the last word in all our affairs since the death of the 
 Due de Berri. But she is old she is broken. I think she 
 is dying, my friend." 
 
 It was the time of the vintage again. Barebone re- 
 membered the last vintage, and his journey through those 
 provinces that supply all the world with wine, with Dormer 
 Colville for a companion. Since then he had journeyed 
 alone. He had made a hundred new friends, had been 
 welcomed in a hundred historic houses. Wherever he had 
 passed, he had left enthusiasm behind him and he knew it. 
 
 He had grown accustomed to his own power, and yet its 
 renewed evidence was a surprise to him every day. There 
 was something unreal in it. There is always something 
 unreal in fame, and great men know in their own hearts 
 
302 THE LAST HOrE 
 
 that they are not great. It is only the world that thinks 
 them so. When they are alone in a room by themselves 
 - they feel for a moment their own smallness. But the 
 door opens, and in an instant they arise and play their part 
 mechanically. 
 
 This had come to be Barebone's daily task. It was so 
 easy to make his way in this world, which threw its doors 
 open to him, greeted him with outstretched hands, and only 
 asked him to charm them by being himself. He had not 
 even to make an effort to appear to be that which he was 
 not. He had only to be himself, and they were satisfied. 
 
 Part of his role was Juliette de Geniosac. He found it 
 quite easy to make love to her ; and she, it seemed, desired 
 nothing better. Nothing definite had been said by the 
 Marquis de Gemosac. They were not formally affianced. 
 They were not forbidden to sec each other. But the irregu- 
 larity of these proceedings lent a certain spice of surreptitious- 
 ness to their intercourse which was not without its charm. 
 They did not see so much of each other after Loo had 
 spoken to the Marquis de Gemosac on this subject ; for 
 Barebone had to make visits to other parts of France. Once 
 or twice Juliette herself went to stay with relatives. During 
 these absences they did not write to each other. 
 
 It was, in fact, impossible for Barebone to keep up any 
 correspondence whatever. He heard that Dormer Colville 
 was still in Paris, seeking to snatch something from the 
 wreck of Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's fortune. The Marquis 
 de Gemosac had been told that affairs might yet be arranged. 
 He was no financier, however, he admitted ; he did not 
 understand such matters, and all that he knew was that the 
 promised help from the Englishwoman was not forth- 
 coming. 
 
 " It is," he concluded, " a question of looking elsewhere. 
 
^ SQUARE MAN 303 
 
 It is not only that we want money. It is that we must have 
 it at once." 
 
 It was not, strictly speaking, Loo's part to think of or 
 to administer the money. His was the part to be played by 
 Kings so easy, if the gift is there, so impossible to acquire 
 if it be lacking to know many people and to charm them all. 
 
 Thus the summer ripened into autumn. It had been 
 another great vintage in the south, and Bordeaux was more 
 than usually busy when Barebone arrived there, at daybreak, 
 one morning in November, having posted from Toulouse. 
 He was more daring in winter, and went fearlessly through 
 the streets. In cold weather it is so much easier for a man 
 to conceal his identity ; for a woman to hide her beauty, if 
 she wish to which is a large If. Barebone could wear a 
 fur collar and turn it up round that tell-tale chin, which 
 made the passer-by pause and turn to look at him again if 
 it was visible. 
 
 He breakfasted at the old-fashioned inn in the heart of 
 the town, where to this day the diligences deposit their 
 passengers, and then he made his way to the quay, from 
 whence he would take passage down the river. It was a 
 cold morning, and there are few colder cities, south of Paris, 
 than Bordeaux. Barebone hurried, his breath frozen on the 
 fur of his collar. Suddenly he stopped. His new self that 
 phantom second-nature bred of custom vanished in the 
 twinkling of an eye, and left him plain Loo Barebone, of 
 Farlingford, staring across the green water toward " The 
 Last Hope," deep-laden, anchored in mid-stream. 
 
 Seeing him stop, a boatman ran toward him from a 
 neighbouring flight of steps. 
 
 " An English ship, monsieur," he said ; " just come in. 
 Her anchors are hardly home. Does monsieur wish to go 
 on board ? " 
 
304 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 "Of course I do, comrade as quick as you like," he 
 answered, with a gay laugh. It was odd that the sight of 
 this structure, made of human hands, should change him in 
 a flash of thought, should make his heart leap in his breast. 
 
 In a few minutes he was seated in the wherry, half way 
 out across the stream. Already a face was looking over the 
 bulwarks. The hands were on the forecastle, still busy 
 clearing decks after the confusion of letting go anchor and 
 hauling in the jib-boom. 
 
 Barebone could see them leave off work and turn to 
 look at him. One or two raised a hand in salutation and 
 then turned again to their task. Already the mate a 
 Farlingford man, who had succeeded Loo was standing on 
 the rail fingering a coil of rope. 
 
 " Old man is down below," he said, giving Barebone a 
 hand. From the forecastle came sundry grunts, and half a 
 dozen heads were jerked sideways at him. 
 
 Captain Clubbe was in the cabin, where the remains of 
 breakfast had been pushed to one end of the table to make 
 room for pens and ink. The Captain was laboriously filling 
 in the countless documents required by the French custom- 
 house. He looked up, pen in hand, and all the wrinkles, 
 graven by years of hardship and trouble, were swept away 
 like writing from a slate. 
 
 He laid aside his pen and held his hand out across the 
 table. 
 
 " Had your breakfast ? " he asked, curtly, with a glance 
 at the empty coffee-pot. 
 
 Loo laughed as he sat down. It was all so familiar the 
 disorder of the cabin ; the smell of lamp-oil ; the low song 
 of the wind through the rigging, that came humming in at 
 the doorway, which was never closed, night or day, unless 
 the seas were washing to and fro on the main deck. He 
 
A SQUAEE MAN 305 
 
 knew everything so well ; the very pen and the rarely used 
 ink-pot ; the Captain's attitude, and the British care that 
 he took not to speak with his lips that which was in 
 his heart. 
 
 " Well," said Captain Clubbe, taking up his pen again, 
 " how are you getting on ? " 
 
 "With what?" 
 
 " With the business that brought you to this country," 
 answered Clubbe, with a sudden gruffness ; for he was, like 
 the majority of big men, shy. 
 
 Barebone looked at him across the table. 
 
 " Do you know what the business is that brought me to 
 this country ? " he asked. And Captain Clubbe looked 
 thoughtfully at the point of his pen. 
 
 " Did the Marquis de Gemosac and Dormer Colville tell 
 you everything, or only a little ? " 
 
 "I don't suppose they told me everything," was the 
 reply. " Why should they ? I am only a seafaring 
 man." 
 
 " But they told you enough," persisted Barebone, " for 
 you to draw your own conclusions as to my business over 
 here." 
 
 " Yes," answered Clubbe, with a glance across the table. 
 * Is it going badly ? " 
 
 " No. On the contrary, it is going splendidly," answered 
 Barebone, gaily ; and Captain Clubbe ducked his head down 
 again over the papers of the French custom-house. " It is 
 going splendidly, but " 
 
 He paused. Half an hour ago he had no thought in his 
 mind of Captain Clubbe or of Farlingford. He had come 
 on board merely to greet his old friends, to hear some news 
 of home, to take up for a moment that old self of bygone 
 days and drop it again. And now, in half a dozen questions 
 
 x 
 
306 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 and answers, whither was he drifting ? Captain Clubbe 
 filled in a word, slowly and very legibly. 
 
 "But I am not the man, you know," said Barebone, 
 slowly. It was as if the sight of that just man had bidden 
 him cry out the truth. " I am not the man they think me. 
 My father was not the son of Louis XVI., I know that now. 
 I did not know it at first, but I know it now. And I have 
 been going on with the thing, all the same." 
 
 Clubbe sat back in his chair. He was large and ponderous 
 in body. And the habit of the body at length becomes the 
 nature of the mind. 
 
 " Who has been telling you that ? " he asked. 
 
 " Dormer Colville. He told me one thing first and then 
 the other. Only he and you and I know of it." 
 
 " Then he must have told one lie," said Clubbe, reflectively. 
 " One that we know of. And what he says is of no value 
 either way ; for he doesn't know. No one knows. Your 
 father was a friend of mine, man and boy, and he didn't 
 know. He was not the same as other men ; I know that 
 but nothing more." 
 
 "Then, if you were me, you would give yourself the 
 benefit of the doubt ? " asked Barebone, with a rather 
 reckless laugh. " For the sake of others for the sake of 
 France ? " 
 
 "Not I," replied Clubbe, bluntly. 
 
 "But it is practically impossible to go back now," 
 explained Loo. " It would be the ruin of all my friends, the 
 downfall of France. In my position, what would you do ? " 
 
 " I don't understand your position," replied Clubbe. "I 
 don't understand politics ; I am only a seafaring man. But 
 there is only one thing to do the square thing." 
 
 "But," protested Dormer Colville's pupil, "I cannot 
 throw over my friends. I cannot abandon France now," 
 
A SQUARE MAN 307" 
 
 "The square tiling," repeated the sailor, stubbornly, 
 " The square thing ; and damn your friends damn 
 France I " 
 
 He rose as he spoke, for they had both heard the customs 
 officers come on board ; and these functionaries were now 
 bowing at the cabin-door. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 MRS. ST. PIERRE LAWRENCE DOES NOT UNDERSTAND 
 
 It was early in November that the report took wing in Paris 
 that John Turner's bank was, after all, going to weather the 
 storm. Dormer Colville was among the first to hear this 
 news, and strangely enough he did not at once impart it to 
 Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. 
 
 All through the year, John Turner had kept his client 
 supplied with ready money. He had, moreover, made no 
 change in his own mode of living. Which things are a 
 mystery to all who have no money of their own nor the good 
 fortune to handle other people's. There is no doubt some 
 explanation of the fact that bankers and other financiers seem 
 to fail, and even become bankrupt, without tangible effect 
 upon their daily comfort, but the unfinancial cannot expect 
 to understand it. 
 
 There had, as a matter of fact, been no question of dis- 
 comfort for Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence either. 
 
 " Can I spend as much as I like ? " she had asked Turner, 
 and his reply had been in the affirmative. 
 
 " No use in saving ? " 
 
 " None whatever," he replied. To which Mrs. St. Pierre 
 Lawrence made answer that she did not understand things 
 at all. 
 
 "It is no use collecting straws against a flood,' ' the 
 banker answered, sleepily. 
 
MRS. LAWRENCE DOES NOT UNDERSTAND 309 
 
 There was, of course, no question now of supplying the 
 necessary funds to the Marquis de Gemosac and Albert de 
 Chantonnay, who, it was understood, were raising the money, 
 not without difficulty, elsewhere. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence 
 had indeed heard little or nothing of her Royalist friends 
 in the west. Human nature is the same, it would appear, 
 all the world over, but the upper crust is always the 
 hardest. 
 
 When Colville was informed of the rumour, he remembered 
 that he had never quarrelled with John Turner. He had, 
 of course, said some hard things in the heat of the moment, 
 but Turner had not retorted. There was no quarrel. Colville, 
 therefore, took an early opportunity of lunching at the club 
 then reputed to have the best chef in Paris. He went late 
 and found that the majority of members had finished dejeuner 
 and were taking coffee in one or other of the smoking-rooms. 
 
 After a quick and simple meal, Colville lighted a cigarette 
 and went upstairs. There were two or three small rooms 
 where members smoked or played cards or read the newspapers, 
 and in the quietest of these John Turner was alone, asleep. 
 Colville walked backward into the room, talking loudly as 
 he did so with a friend in the passage. When well over the 
 threshold he turned. John Turner, whose slumbers had 
 been rudely disturbed, was sitting up rubbing his eyes. The 
 surprise was of course mutual, and for a moment there was 
 an awkward pause ; then, with a smile of frank good-fellow- 
 ship, Colville advanced, holding out his hand. 
 
 " I hope we have known each other too many years, old 
 fellow," he said, " to bear any lasting ill-will for words spoken 
 in the heat of anger or disappointment, eh ? " 
 
 He stood in front of the banker frankly holding out the 
 hand of forgiveness, his head a little on one side, that melan- 
 choly smile of toleration for poor human weakness in his eyes, 
 
310 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " Well," admitted Turner, " we've certainly known each 
 other a good many years." 
 
 He somewhat laboriously hoisted himself up, Ins head 
 emerging from his tumbled collar like the head of a tortoise 
 aroused from sleep, and gave into Colville's affectionate grasp 
 a limp and nerveless hand. 
 
 " No one could feel for you more sincerely than I do," 
 Colville assured him, drawing forward a chair, " more than 
 I have done all through these trying months." 
 
 "Very kind, I'm sure," murmured Turner, looking 
 drowsily at his friend's necktie. One must look somewhere, 
 and Turner always gazed at the necktie of any one who sat 
 straight in front of him, which usually induced an uneasy 
 fingering of that ornament and an early consultation of the 
 nearest mirror. " Have a cigar." 
 
 There was the faint suggestion of a twinkle beneath the 
 banker's heavy lids as Colville accepted this peace-offering. 
 It was barely twenty-four hours since he had himself launched 
 in Colville's direction the rumour which had brought about 
 this reconciliation. 
 
 " And I'm sure," continued the other, turning to cut the 
 end of the cigar, " that no one would be better pleased to 
 hear that better times are coming eh ? What did you 
 say ? " 
 
 "Nothing. Didn't speak," was the reply to this vague 
 interrogation. Then they talked of other things. There 
 was no lack of topics for conversation at this time in France ; 
 indeed, the whole country was in a buzz of talk. But Turner 
 was not, it seemed, in a talkative mood. Only once did he 
 rouse himself to take more than a passing interest in the 
 subject touched upon by his easy-going companion. 
 
 " Yes," he admitted, " he may be the best cook in Paris, 
 but he is not what he was. It is this Revision of the 
 
MRS. LAWRENCE DOES NOT UNDERSTAND 311 
 
 Constitution which is upsetting the whole country, especially 
 the lower classes. The man's hand is shaky. I can see it 
 from his way of pouring the mayonnaise over a salad." 
 
 After touching upon each fresh topic, Colville seemed to 
 return unconsciously to that which must of necessity be fore- 
 most in his companion's thoughts the possibility of saving 
 Turner's bank from failure. And each time he learnt a little 
 more. At last, with that sympathetic spontaneity which was 
 his chief charm, Donner Colville laid his hand confidentially 
 on Turner's sleeve. 
 
 " Frankly, old fellow," he said, " are you going to pull it 
 through ? " 
 
 " Frankly, old fellow, I am," was the reply, which made 
 Colville glance hastily at the clock. 
 
 " Gad ! " he exclaimed, " look at the time. You have 
 kept me gossiping the whole afternoon. Must be off. No- 
 body will be better pleased than I am to hear the good news. 
 But of course I am mum. Not a word will they hear from 
 me. I am glad. Good-bye." 
 
 "I dare say you are," murmured Turner to the closed 
 door. 
 
 Dormer Colville was that which is known as an oppor- 
 tunist. It was a dull grey afternoon. He would be sure to 
 find Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence at home. She had taken an 
 apartment in the Rue de Lille in the St. Germain quarter. 
 His way was past the flower-shop, where he sometimes be- 
 stowed a fickle custom. He went in and bought a carnation 
 for his buttonhole. 
 
 It is to be presumed that John Turner devoted the after- 
 noon to his affairs. It was at all events evening before he 
 also bent his steps toward the Rue de Lille. 
 
 Yes, the servant told him, Madame was at home and 
 would assuredly see him. Madame was not alone. No. It 
 
312 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 was, however, only Monsieur Colville, who was so frequent a 
 visitor. 
 
 Turner followed the servant along the corridor. The 
 stairs had rather tried one who had to elevate such a weight 
 at each step ; he breathed hard, but placidly. 
 
 Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence received him with an unusual 
 empressement. Dormer Colville, who was discovered sitting 
 as far from her as the size of the room allowed, was less eager, 
 but he brought forward a chair for the banker and glanced 
 sharply at his face as he sat down. 
 
 " So glad to see you," the hostess explained. " It is really 
 kind of you to come and cheer one up on such a dull afternoon* 
 Dormer and I won't you take off your coat ? No, let me 
 put it aside for you. Dormer and I were just just saying 
 how dull it was. Weren't we ? " 
 
 She looked from one to the other with a rather unnatural 
 laugh. One would have thought that she was engaged in 
 carrying off a difficult situation and, for so practised a woman 
 of the world, not doing it very well. Her cheeks were flushed, 
 which made her look younger, and a subtle uncertainty in her 
 voice and manner added to this illusion charmingly. For a 
 young girl's most precious possession is her inexperience. 
 Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, for the first time in her life, was 
 not sure of herself. 
 
 "Now I hope you have not come on business," she 
 added, drawing forward her own chair and passing a quick 
 hand over her hair. " Bother business ! Do not let us 
 think about it." 
 
 "Not exactly," replied Turner, recovering his breath. 
 " Quite agree with you. Let us say, ' Bother business,' and 
 not think of it. Though, for an old man who is getting 
 stout, there is nothing much left but business and his 
 dinner, eh ? " 
 
MRS. LAWRENCE DOES NOT UNDERSTAND 313 
 
 " No. Do not say that," cried the lady. " Never say 
 that. It is time enough to think that years hence when we 
 are all white-haired. But I used to think that myself once, 
 you know. When I first had my money. Do you re- 
 member ? I was so pleased to have all that wealth that I 
 determined to learn all about cheque-books and things and 
 manage it myself. So you taught me, and at last you 
 admitted that I was an excellent man of business. I know I 
 thought I was myself. And I suppose I lapsed into a 
 regular business woman and only thought of money and how 
 to increase it. How horrid you must have thought me ! " 
 
 " Never did that," protested Turner, stoutly. 
 
 " But I know I learnt to think much too much about it," 
 Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence went on eagerly. " And now that 
 it is all gone, I do not care that for it." 
 
 She snapped her finger and thumb and laughed gaily. 
 
 " Not that," she repeated. She turned and glanced at 
 Dormer Colville, raising her eyebrows in some mute interro- 
 gation only comprehensible to him. " Shall I tell him ? " 
 she asked, with a laugh of happiness not very far removed 
 from tears. Then she turned to the banker again. 
 
 " Listen," she said. " I am going to tell you something 
 which no one else in the world can tell you. Dormer and I 
 are going to be married. I dare say lots of people will say 
 that they have expected it for a long time. They can say 
 what they like. We don't care. And I am glad that you 
 are the first person to hear it. We have only just settled it, 
 so you are the very first to be told. And I am glad to tell 
 you before anybody else because you have been so kind to 
 me always. You have been my best friend, I think. And 
 the kindest thing you ever did for me was to lose my money, 
 for if you had not lost it, Dormer never would have asked 
 me to marry him. He has just said so himself. And I 
 
314 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 suppose all men feel that. All the nice ones, I mean. It is 
 one of the drawbacks of being rich, is it not ? H 
 
 "I suppose it is," answered Turner, stolidly, without 
 turning an eyelash in the direction of Colville. " Perhaps 
 that is why no one has ever asked me to marry them." 
 
 Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence laughed jerkily at this 
 witticism. She laughed again when John Turner rose from 
 his chair to congratulate her, but the laugh suddenly ceased 
 when he raised her hand to his lips with a courtesy which 
 was even in those days dying out of the world, and turned 
 away from him hastily. She stood with her back toward 
 them for a minute or two looking at some flowers on a side 
 table. Then she came back into the middle of the room, all 
 smiles, replacing her handkerchief in her pocket. 
 " So that is the news I have to tell you," she said. 
 John Turner had placidly resumed his chair after 
 shaking hands with Dormer Colville for the second time since 
 luncheon. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, " it is news indeed. And I have a 
 little news to give you. I do not say that it is quite free 
 from the taint of business, but at all events it is news. Like 
 yours, it has the merit of being at first hand, and you are 
 the first to hear it. No one else could tell it to you." 
 
 He broke off and rubbed his chin while he looked apa- 
 thetically at Colville's necktie. 
 
 " It has another merit, rare enough," he went on. " It 
 is good news. I think, in fact I may say I am sure, that 
 we shall pull through now and your money will be safely 
 returned to you." 
 
 " I am so glad," said Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, with a 
 glance at Dormer Colville. "I cannot tell you how glad 
 I am." 
 
 She looked at the banker with bright eyes and the flush 
 
MRS. LAWRENCE DOES NOT UNDERSTAND 315 
 
 still in her cheeks that made her look younger and less sure 
 of herself. 
 
 "Not only for my own sake, you know. For yours, 
 because I am sure you must be relieved, and for well, for 
 everybody's sake. Tell me all about it, please.'' And she 
 pushed her chair sideways nearer to Colville's. 
 
 John Turner bit the first joint of his thumb reflectively. 
 It is so rare that one can tell any one all about anything." 
 
 " Tell me first," Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence suggested, 
 " whether Miriam Liston's money is all safe as well." 
 
 " Miriam's money never was in danger," he replied. 
 " Miriam is my ward ; you are only my client. There is no 
 chance of Miriam being able to make ducks and drakes of 
 her money." 
 
 " That sounds as if I had been trying to do that with 
 mine." 
 
 " Well," admitted the banker, with a placid laugh, " if it 
 had not been for my failure " 
 
 " Don't call it hard names," put in Dormer Colville, 
 generously. " It was not a failure." 
 
 "Call it a temporary suspension of payment, then," 
 agreed the banker, imperturbably. " If it had not been for 
 that, half your fortune would have been goodness knows 
 where by now. You wanted to put it into some big specula- 
 tion in this country, if I remember aright. And big specu- 
 lations in France are the very devil just now. Whereas, 
 now, you see, it is all safe and you can invest it in the 
 beginning of next year in some good English securities. It 
 seems providential, does it not ? " 
 
 He rose as he spoke and held out his hand to say good- 
 bye. He asked the question of Colville's necktie, apparently, 
 for he smiled stupidly at it. 
 
 " Well, I do not understand business after all, I admit 
 
316 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 that," Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence called out gaily to him as 
 he went toward the door. "I do not understand things 
 at all." 
 
 " No, and I don't suppose you ever will," Turner replied 
 as he followed the servant into the corridor. 
 
CHAPTEK XXXVII 
 
 AN UNDERSTANDING 
 
 Loo Barebone went back to the Chateau de Gemosac after 
 those travels in Provence which terminated so oddly on 
 board " The Last Hope/ 1 at anchor in the Garonne River. 
 
 The Marquis received him with enthusiasm and a spirit 
 of optimism which age could not dim. 
 
 " Everything is going a merveille ! " he cried. " In 
 three months we shall be ready to strike our blow to make 
 our great coup for France. The failure of Turner's bank 
 was a severe check, I admit, and for a moment I was in 
 despair. But now we are sure that we shall have the money 
 for Albert de Chantonnay's Beauvoir estate by the middle 
 of January. The death of Madame la Duchesse was a mis- 
 fortune. If we could have persuaded her to receive you 
 your face would have done the rest, mon ami we should 
 have been invincible. But she was broken, that poor lady. 
 Think of her life ! Few women would have survived half 
 of the troubles that she carried on those proud shoulders 
 from childhood." 
 
 They were sitting in the little salon in the building that 
 adjoined the gate-house of Gemosac, of which the stone 
 stairs must have rung beneath the red spurs of fighting 
 men ; of which the walls were dented still with the mark of 
 arms. 
 
 Barebone had given an account of his journey, which 
 
318 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 had been carried through without difficulty. Everywhere 
 success had waited upon him enthusiasm had marked his 
 passage. In returning to France, he had stolen a march on 
 his enemies, for nothing seemed to indicate that his presence 
 in the country was known to them. 
 
 "I tell you," the Marquis explained, "that he has his 
 hands full that man in Paris. It is only a month since he 
 changed his ministry. Who is this St. Arnaud, his Minister 
 of War ? Who is Maupas, his Prefect of Police ? Does 
 Monsieur Maupas know that we are nearly ready for our 
 coup ? Bah ! Tell me nothing of that sort, gentlemen." 
 
 And this was the universally accepted opinion at this 
 time, of Louis Bonaparte the President of a tottering 
 Republic, divided against itself ; a dull man, at his wits' 
 end. For months, all Europe had been turning an inquiring 
 and watchful eye on France. Socialism was rampant. Secret 
 societies honeycombed the community. There was some 
 danger in the air men knew not what. Catastrophe was 
 imminent, and none knew where to look for its approach. 
 But all thought that it must come at the end of the year. 
 A sort of panic took hold of all classes. They dreaded the 
 end of 1851. 
 
 The Marquis cle Gemosac spoke openly of these things 
 before Juliette. She had been present when Loo and he 
 talked together of this last journey, so happily accomplished, 
 so fruitful of result. And Loo did not tell the Marquis that 
 he had seen his old ship, " The Last Hope," in the river at 
 Bordeaux, and had gone on board of her. 
 
 Juliette listened, as she worked, beneath the lamp at the 
 table in the middle of the room. The lace-work she had 
 brought from the convent-school was not finished yet. It 
 was exquisitely fine and delicate, and Juliette executed the 
 most difficult patterns with a sort of careless ease. Some- 
 
AN UNDERSTANDING 319 
 
 times, when the Marquis was more than usually extravagant 
 in his anticipations of success, or showed a superlative con- 
 tempt for his foes, Juliette glanced at Barebone over her 
 lace-work, but she rarely took part in the talk when politics 
 were under discussion. 
 
 In domestic matters, however, this new chatelaine showed 
 considerable shrewdness. She was not ignorant of the 
 price of hay, and knew to a cask how much wine was stored 
 in the vault beneath the old chapel. On these subjects the 
 Marquis goocl-humouredly followed her advice sometimes. 
 His word had always been law in the whole neighbour- 
 hood. Was he not the head of one of the oldest families in 
 France ? 
 
 " But, yardim, she shows a wisdom quite phenomenal, 
 that little one," the Marquis would tell his friends, with a 
 hearty laugh. It was only natural that he should consider 
 amusing the idea of uniting wisdom and youth and beauty 
 in one person. It is still a universally accepted law that old 
 people must be wise and young persons only charming. 
 Some may think that they could point to a wise child born 
 of foolish parents ; to a daughter who is well-educated and 
 shrewd, possessing a sense of logic, and a mother who is 
 ignorant and foolish ; to a son who has more sense than his 
 father : but of course such observers must be mistaken. Old 
 theories must be the right ones. The Marquis had no 
 doubt of this, at all events, and thought it most amusing 
 that Juliette should establish order in the chaos of domestic 
 affairs at Gemosac. 
 
 " You are grave," said Juliette to Barebone, one evening 
 soon after his return, when they happened to be alone in the 
 little drawing-room. Barebone was, in fact, not a lively 
 companion ; for he had sat staring at the log-fire for quite 
 three minutes when his eyes might assuredly have been 
 
320 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 better employed. "You are grave. Are you thinking of 
 your sins ? " 
 
 " When I think of those, Mademoiselle, I laugh. It is 
 when I think of you that I am grave." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 " So I am always grave, you understand." 
 
 She glanced quickly, not at him but toward him, and 
 then continued her lace-making, with the ghost of a smile 
 tilting the corners of her lips. 
 
 " It is because I have something to tell you." 
 
 " A secret ? " she inquired, and she continued to smile, 
 but differently, and her eyes hardened almost to resent- 
 ment. 
 
 " Yes ; a secret. It is a secret only known to two other 
 people in the world besides myself. And they will never let 
 you know even that they share it with you, Mademoiselle." 
 
 "Then they are not women," she said, with a sudden 
 laugh. " ( Tell it to me, then your secret." 
 
 There had been an odd suggestion of foreknowledge in 
 her manner, as if she were humouring him by pretending to 
 accept as a secret of vast importance some news which she 
 had long known that little air of patronage which even 
 schoolgirls bestow, at times, upon white-haired men. It is 
 part of the maternal instinct. But this vanished when she 
 heard that she was to share the secret with two men, and 
 she repeated, impatiently, " Tell me, please." 
 
 H It is a secret which will make a difference to us all our 
 lives, Mademoiselle," he said, warningly. " It will not leave 
 us the same as it found us. It has made a difference to all 
 who know it. Therefore, I have only decided to tell you 
 after long consideration. It is, in fact, a point of honour. 
 It is necessary for you to know, whatever the result may be. 
 Of that I have no doubt whatever." 
 
AN UNDERSTANDING 321 
 
 He laughed reassuringly, which made her glance at him 
 gravely, almost anxiously. 
 
 " And are you going on telling it to other people, after- 
 ward," she inquired ; " to my father, for instance ? " 
 
 " No, Mademoiselle. It comes to you, and it stops at 
 you. I do not mind withholding it from your father, and 
 from all the friends who have been so kind to me in France. 
 I do not mind deceiving kings and emperors, Mademoiselle, 
 and even the People, which is now always spelt in capital 
 letters, and must be spoken of with bated breath." 
 
 She gave a scornful little laugh, as at the sound of an 
 old jest the note of a deathless disdain which was in the 
 air she breathed. 
 
 " Not even the newspapers, which are trying to govern 
 France. All that is a question of politics. But when it 
 comes to you, Mademoiselle, that is a different matter." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 " Yes. It is then a question of love." 
 
 Juliette slowly changed colour, but she gave a little gay 
 laugh of incredulity and bent her head away from the light 
 of the lamp. 
 
 " That is a different code of honour altogether," he said, 
 gravely. " A code one does not wish to tamper with." 
 
 " No ? " she inquired, with the odd little smile of fore- 
 knowledge again. 
 
 " No. And, therefore, before I go any farther, I think 
 it best to tell you that I am not what I am pretending to 
 be. I am pretending to be the son of the little Dauphin, 
 who escaped from the Temple. He may have escaped from 
 the Temple ; that I don't know. But I know, or at least I 
 think I know, that he is not buried in Farlingford church- 
 yard and he was not my father. I can pass as the grandson 
 of Louis XYI. ; I know that. I can deceive all the world. 
 
322 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 I can even climb to the throne of France, perhaps. There 
 are many, as you know, who think I shall do it without 
 difficulty. But I do not propose to deceive you, Made- 
 moiselle." 
 
 There was a short silence, while Loo watched her face. 
 Juliette had not even changed colour. When she was 
 satisfied that he had nothing more to add, she looked at 
 him, her needle poised in the air. 
 
 " Do you think it matters ? " she asked, in a little cool, 
 even voice. 
 
 It was so different from what he had expected that, for 
 a moment, he was taken aback. Captain Clubbe's bluff, 
 uncompromising reception of the same news had haunted 
 his thoughts. " The square thing," that sailor had said, 
 " and damn your friends ; damn France. " Loo looked at 
 Juliette in doubt ; then, suddenly, he understood her point 
 of view ; he understood her. He had learnt to understand 
 a number of people and a number of points of view during 
 the last twelve months. 
 
 " So long as I succeed ? " he suggested. 
 
 " Yes," she answered, simply. " So long as you succeed, 
 I do not see that it can matter who you are." 
 
 " And if I succeed," pursued Loo, gravely, " will you 
 marry me, Mademoiselle ? " 
 
 " Oh I I never said that," in a voice that was ready to 
 yield to a really good argument. 
 
 " And if I fail " Barebone paused for an instant. He 
 still doubted his own perception. " And if I fail, you would 
 not marry me under any circumstances ? " 
 
 " I do not think my father would let me," she answered, 
 with her eyes cast down upon her lace-frame. 
 
 Barebone leant forward to put together the logs, which 
 burnt with a white incandescence that told of a frosty night. 
 
AN UNDERSTANDING 323 
 
 The Marquis had business in the town, and would soon return 
 from the notary's, in time to dress for dinner. 
 
 " Well," said Loo, over his shoulder, " it is as well to 
 understand each other, is it not ? " 
 
 "Yes," she answered, significantly. She ignored the 
 implied sarcasm altogether. There was so much meaning 
 in her reply that Loo turned to look at her. She was 
 smiling as she worked. 
 
 " Yes," she went on ; " you have told me your secret a 
 secret. But I have the other, too ; the secret you have not 
 told me, mon ami. I have had it always." 
 
 "Ah?" 
 
 " The secret that you do not love me," said Juliette, in 
 her little wise, even voice ; " that you have never loved 
 me. Ah ! You think we do not know. You think that 
 I am too young. But we are never too young to know 
 that, to know all about it. I think we know it in our 
 cradles." 
 
 She spoke with a strange philosophy, far beyond her 
 years. It might have been Madame de Chantonnay who 
 spoke, with all that lady's vast experience of life and without 
 any of her folly. 
 
 "You think I am pretty. Perhaps I am. Just pretty 
 enough to enable you to pretend, and you have pretended 
 very well at times. You are good at pretending, one must 
 conclude. Oh ! I bear no ill-will ..." 
 
 She broke off and looked at him, with a gay laugh, 
 in which there was certainly no note of ill-will to be 
 detected. 
 
 " But it is as well," she went on, " as you say, that we 
 should understand each other. Thank you for telling me 
 your secret the one you have told me. I am flattered at 
 that mark of your confidence. A woman is always glad to 
 
324 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 be told a secret, and immediately begins to anticipate the 
 pleasure she will take in telling it to others, in confidence." 
 
 She looked up for a moment from her work ; for Loo 
 had given a short laugh. She looked, to satisfy herself that 
 it was not the ungenerous laugh that nine men out of ten 
 would have cast at her ; and it was not. For Loo was 
 looking at her with frank amusement. 
 
 " Oh, yes,*' she said ; " I know that, too. It is one of 
 the items not included in a convent education. It is un- 
 necessary to teach us such things as that. We know them 
 before we go in. Your secret is safe enough with me, how- 
 ever the one you have told me. That is the least I can 
 promise in return for your confidence. As to the other 
 secret, Ion Dim I we will pretend I do not know it, if you 
 like. At all events, you can vow that you never told me, 
 if if ever you are called upon to do so/' 
 
 She paused for a moment to finish off a thread. Then, 
 when she reached out her hand for the reel, she glanced at 
 him with a smile, not unkind. 
 
 " So you need not pretend any more, monsieur," she said, 
 seeing that Barebone was wise enough to keep silence. " I 
 do not know who you are, mon ami" she went on, in a little 
 burst of confidence ; " and, as I told you just now, I do not 
 care. And, as to that other matter, there is no ill-will. I 
 only permit myself to wonder, sometimes, if she is pretty. 
 That is feminine, I suppose. One can be feminine quite 
 young, you understand." 
 
 She looked at him with unfathomable eyes and a little 
 smile, such as men never forget once they have seen it. 
 
 " But you were inclined to be ironical just now, when I 
 said I would marry you if you were successful. So I mention 
 that other secret just to show that the understanding you 
 wish to arrive at may be mutual there may be two sides to 
 
AN UNDERSTANDING 325 
 
 it. I hear my father coming. That is his voice at the gate. 
 "We will leave things as they stand : rCest ce pas ? " 
 
 She rose as she spoke and went toward the door. The 
 Marquis's voice was raised, and there seemed to be some 
 unusual clamour at the gate. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 A COUP-D'eTAT 
 
 As the Marquis de Gemosac's step was already on the stairs, 
 Barebone was spared the necessity of agreeing in words to 
 the inevitable. 
 
 A moment later the old man hurried into the room. 
 He had not even waited to remove his coat and gloves. A 
 few snow-flakes powdered his shoulders. 
 
 " Ah ! " he cried, on perceiving Barebone. " Good 
 you are safe ! " He turned to speak to some one who was 
 following him up the stairs with the slower steps of one who 
 knew not his way. 
 
 " All is well ! " he cried. " He is here. Give yourself 
 no anxiety." 
 
 And the second comer crossed the threshold, coming 
 suddenly out of the shadow of the staircase. It was Dormer 
 Colville, white with snow, his face grey and worn. He 
 shook hands with Barebone and bowed to Juliette, but the 
 Marquis gave him no time to speak. 
 
 " I go down into the town," he explained, breathlessly. 
 " The streets are full. There is a crowd on the market- 
 place, more especially round the tobacconist's, where the 
 newspapers are to be bought. No newspapers, if you please. 
 The Paris journals of last Sunday, and this is Friday 
 evening. Nothing since that. No Bordeaux journal. 
 No news at all from Paris : absolute silence from Toulouse 
 
A COUP-D'ETAT 327 
 
 and Limoges. 'It is another revolution,' they tell each 
 other. Something has happened and no one knows what. 
 A man comes up to me and tugs at my sleeve. Inside your 
 walls, Monsieur le Marquis, waste no time,' he whispers, and 
 is gone. He is some stable-boy. I have seen him some- 
 where. I ! inside my walls ! Here in Gemosac, where I 
 see nothing but bare heads as I walk through the streets. 
 Name of God ! I should laugh at such a precaution. And 
 while I am still trying to gather information the man comes 
 back to me. 'It is not the people you have to fear,' he 
 whispers in my ear, ' it is the Government. The order for 
 your arrest is at the Gendarmerie, for it was I who took it 
 there. Monsieur Albert was arrested yesterday, and is now 
 in La Rochelle. Madame de Chantonnay's house is guarded. 
 It is from Madame I come.' And again he goes. While 
 I am hesitating, I hear the step of a horse, tired and yet 
 urged to its utmost. It is Dormer Colville, this faithful 
 friend, who is from Paris in thirty-six hours to warn us. 
 He shall tell his story himself." 
 
 " There is not much to tell," said Colville, in a hollow 
 voice. He looked round for a chair and sat down rather 
 abruptly. " Louis Bonaparte is absolute master of France ; 
 that is all. He must be so by this time. When I escaped 
 from Paris yesterday morning nearly all the streets were 
 barricaded. But the troops were pouring into the city as 
 I rode out and artillery. I saw one barricade carried by 
 artillery. Thousands must have been killed in the streets of 
 Paris yesterday " 
 
 " And, Ion Dwu ! it is called a coup-<Fetat" interrupted 
 the Marquis. 
 
 " That was on Tuesday," explained Colville, in his tired 
 voice " at six o'clock on Tuesday morning. Yesterday and 
 Wednesday were days of massacre." 
 
328 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 " But, my friend," exclaimed the Marquis, impatiently, 
 " tell us how it happened. You laugh ! It is no time to 
 laugh." 
 
 " I do not know," replied Colville, with an odd smile. 
 " I think there is nothing else to be done it is all so com- 
 plete. We are all so utterly fooled by this man whom all 
 the world took to be a dolt. On Tuesday morning he 
 arrested seventy-eight of the Representatives. When Paris 
 awoke, the streets had been placarded in the night with the 
 decree of the President of the Republic. The National 
 Assembly was dissolved. The Council of State was dissolved. 
 Martial law was declared. And why ? He does not even 
 trouble to give a reason. He has the army at his back. 
 The soldiers cried ' Vive VEmpereur' as they charged the 
 crowd on Wednesday. He has got rid of his opponents by 
 putting them in prison. Many, it is said, are already on 
 their way to exile in Cayenne ; the prisons are full. There 
 is a warrant out against myself ; against you, Barebone ; 
 against you, of course, Monsieur le Marquis. Albert de 
 Chantonnay was arrested at Tours, and is now in La 
 Rochelle. We may escape we may get away to-night " 
 
 He paused and looked hurriedly toward the door, for 
 some one was coming up the stairs some one who wore 
 sabots. It was the servant, Marie, who came unceremoniously 
 into the room with the exaggerated calm of one who realises 
 the gravity of the situation and means to master it. 
 
 " The town is on fire," she explained, curtly ; " they 
 have begun on the Gendarmerie. Doubtless they have heard 
 that these gentlemen are to be arrested, and it is to give 
 other employment to the gendarmes. But the cavalry has 
 arrived from Saintes, and I come upstairs to ask Monsieur 
 to come down and help. It is my husband who is a fool. 
 Holy Virgin ! how many times have I regretted having 
 
A COUP-D'TAT 329 
 
 married sucli a blockhead as that. He says he cannot raise 
 the drawbridge. To raise it three feet would be to gain 
 three hours. So I came to get Monsieur," she pointed at 
 Barebone with a steady finger, " who has his wits on the top 
 always and two hands at the end of his arms." 
 
 " But it is little use to raise the drawbridge," objected 
 the Marquis. " They will soon get a ladder and place it 
 against the breach in the wall and climb in." 
 
 " Not if I am on the wall who amuse myself with a hay- 
 fork, Monsieur le Marquis," replied Marie, with that 
 exaggerated respect which implies a knowledge of mental 
 superiority. She beckoned curtly to Loo and clattered down 
 the stairs, followed by Barebone. The others did not 
 attempt to go to their assistance, and the Marquis de 
 Gemosac had a hundred questions to ask Colville. 
 
 The Englishman had little to tell of his own escape. 
 There were so many more important arrests to be made that 
 the overworked police of Monsieur de Maupas had only been 
 able to apportion to him a bungler whom Colville had easily 
 outwitted. 
 
 " And Madame St. Pierre Lawrence ? " inquired the 
 Marquis. 
 
 "Madame quitted Paris on Tuesday for England under 
 the care of John Turner, who had business in London. He 
 kindly offered to escort her across the Channel." 
 
 "Then she, at all events, is safe," said the Marquis, 
 with a little wave of the hand indicating his satisfaction. 
 "He is not brilliant, Monsieur Turner so few English are 
 but he is solid, I think." 
 
 " I think he is the cleverest man I know," said Dormer 
 Colville, thoughtfully. And before they had spoken again 
 Loo Barebone returned. 
 
 He, like Marie, had grasped at once the serious aspect of 
 
330 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 the situation, whereas the Marquis succeeded only in reaching 
 it with a superficial touch. He prattled of the political crisis 
 in Paris and bade his friends rest assured that law and order 
 must ultimately prevail. He even seemed to cherish the 
 comforting assurance that Providence must in the end inter- 
 fere on behalf of a Legitimate Succession. For this old 
 noble was the true son of a father who had believed to the 
 end in that King who talked grandiloquently of the works 
 of Seneca and Tacitus while driving from the Temple to his 
 trial, with the mob hooting and yelling imprecations into the 
 carriage windows. 
 
 The Marquis de Gemosac found time to give a polite 
 opinion on John Turner while the streets of Gemosac were 
 being cleared by the cavalry from Saintes, and the 
 Gendarmerie, burning briskly, lighted up a scene of 
 bloodshed. 
 
 " We have raised the drawbridge a few feet," said Bare- 
 bone ; " but the chains are rusted and may easily be broken 
 by a blacksmith. It will serve to delay them a few minutes ; 
 but it is not the mob we seek to keep out, and any organised 
 attempt to break in would succeed in half an hour. We 
 must go, of course." 
 
 He turned to Colville, with whom he had met and faced 
 difficulties in the past. Colville might easily have escaped to 
 England with Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, but he had chosen 
 the better part. He had undertaken a long journey through 
 disturbed Prance only to throw in his lot at the end of it 
 with two pre-condemned men. Loo turned to him as to one 
 who had proved himself capable enough in an emergency, 
 brave in face of danger. 
 
 " We cannot stay here," he said ; " the gates will serve 
 to give us an hour's start, but no more. I suppose there is 
 another way out of the chateau." 
 
A COUP- D'ETAT 331 
 
 "There are two ways," answered the Marquis. "One 
 leads to a house in the town and the other emerges at the 
 mill down below the walls. But, alas ! both are lost sight 
 of. My ancestors " 
 
 " I know the shorter one," put in Juliette, " the passage 
 that leads to the mill. I can show you the entrance to that, 
 which is in the crypt of the chapel, hidden behind the casks 
 of wine." 
 
 She spoke to Barebone, only half-concealing, as Marie 
 had done, the fact that the great respect with which the 
 Marquis de Gemosac was treated was artificial, and would 
 fall to pieces under the strain of an emergency a faint echo 
 of the old regime. 
 
 " When you are gone," the girl continued, still addressing 
 Barebone, " Marie and I can keep them out at least an hour 
 probably more. We may be able to keep them outside the 
 walls all night, and when at last they come in it will take 
 them hours to satisfy themselves that you are not concealed 
 within the enceinte." 
 
 She was quite cool, and even smiled at him with a white 
 face. 
 
 " You are always right, Mademoiselle, and have a clear 
 head," said Barebone. 
 
 " But no heart ? " she answered in an undertone, under 
 cover of her father's endless talk to Colville and with a glance 
 which Barebone could not understand. 
 
 In a few minutes Dormer Colville pronounced himself 
 ready to go, and refused to waste further precious minutes 
 in response to Monsieur de Gemosac's offers of hospitality. 
 No dinner had been prepared, for Marie had sterner business 
 in hand and could be heard beneath the windows urging her 
 husband to display a courage superior to that of a rabbit. 
 Juliette hurried to the kitchen and there prepared a parcel 
 
332 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 of cold meat and bread for the fugitives to eat as they 
 fled. 
 
 " We might remain hidden in a remote cottage," Bare- 
 bone had suggested to Colville, " awaiting the development 
 of events, but our best chance is * The Last Hope.' She is 
 at Bordeaux, and must be nearly ready for sea." 
 
 So it was hurriedly arranged that they should make their 
 way on foot to a cottage on the marsh while Jean was 
 despatched to Bordeaux with a letter for Captain Clubbe. 
 
 " It is a pity," said Marie, when informed of this plan, 
 " that it is not I who wear the breeches. But I will make 
 it clear to Jean that if he fails to carry out his task he need 
 not show his face at the gate again." 
 
 The Marquis ran hither and thither, making a hundred 
 suggestions, which were accepted in the soothing manner 
 adopted toward children. He assured Juliette that their 
 absence would be of short duration ; that there was indeed 
 no danger, but that he was acceding to the urgent persuasions 
 of Barebone and Colville, who were perhaps unnecessarily 
 alarmed who did not understand how affairs were con- 
 ducted in France. He felt assured that law and order must 
 prevail. 
 
 " But if they have put Albert de Chantonnay in prison, 
 why should you be safe ? " asked Juliette. To which th<3 
 Marquis replied with a meaning cackle that she had a kind 
 heart, and that it was only natural that it should be occupied 
 at that moment with thoughts of that excellent young man 
 who, in his turn, was doubtless thinking of her in his cell at 
 La Rochelle. 
 
 "Which playful allusion to Albert de Chantonnay 's 
 pretensions was received by their object with a calm in- 
 difference. 
 
 " When Jean returns," she said, practically, " I will send 
 
A COUP-D'ETAT 333 
 
 him to you at the Brenionts' cottage with food and clothing. 
 But you must not attempt to communicate with us. You 
 would only betray your whereabouts and do no good to us. 
 We shall be quite safe in the chateau. Marie and I and 
 Madame Maugiron are not afraid." 
 
 At which the Marquis laughed heartily. It was so 
 amusing to think that one should be young and pretty 
 and not afraid. In the mean time Barebone was sealing his 
 letter to Captain Clubbe. He had written it in the Suffolk 
 dialect, spelling all the words as they are pronounced on that 
 coast and employing when he could the Danish and Dutch 
 expressions in daily use on the foreshore, which no French 
 official seeking to translate could find in any dictionary. 
 
 Loo gave his instructions to Jean himself, who received 
 them in a silence not devoid of intelligence. The man had 
 been round the walls and reported that nothing stirred 
 beneath them ; that there was more than one fire in the 
 town, and that the streets appeared to be given over to 
 disorder and riot. 
 
 "It is assuredly a change in the Government," he 
 explained, simply. " And there will be many for Monsieur 
 l'Abbe to bury on Sunday." 
 
 Jean was to accompany them to the cottage of an old 
 man who had once lived by ferrying the rare passenger 
 across the Gironde. Having left them here, he could reach 
 Blaye before daylight, from whence a passage up the river to 
 Bordeaux would be easily procurable. 
 
 The boatman's cottage stood on the bank of a creek 
 running into the Gironde. It was a lone building hidden 
 among the low dunes that lie between the river and the 
 marsh. Any one approaching it by daylight would be 
 discernible half an hour in advance, and the man's boat, 
 though old, was seaworthy. None would care to cross the 
 
334 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 lowlands at night except under the guidance of one or two, 
 who, like Jean, knew their way even in the dark. 
 
 Colville and Barebone had to help Jean to move the 
 great casks stored in the crypt of the old chapel by which 
 the entrance to the passage was masked. 
 
 " It is, I recollect having been told, more than a passage 
 it is a ramp," explained the Marquis, who stood by. u . It 
 was intended for the passage of horses, so that a man might 
 mount here and ride out into the mill-stream, actually 
 beneath the mill-wheel which conceals the exit." 
 
 Juliette, a cloak thrown over her evening dress, had 
 accompanied them and stood near, holding a lantern above 
 her head to give them light. It was an odd scene a strange 
 occupation for the last of the de Gemosacs. Through the 
 gaps in the toppling walls they could hear the roar of voices 
 and the occasional report of a firearm in the streets of the 
 town below. The door opened easily enough, and Jean, 
 lighting a candle, led the way. Barebone was the last to 
 follow. Within the doorway he turned to say good-bye. 
 The light of the lantern flickered uncertainly on Juliette's 
 fair hair. 
 
 " We may be back sooner than you expect, mademoiselle," 
 said Barebone. 
 
 " Or you may go to England," she answered. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 Although it was snowing hard, it was not a dark night. 
 There was a half moon hidden behind those thin, fleecy 
 clouds, which carry the snow across the North Sea and cast 
 it noiselessly upon the low-lying coast, from Thanet to the 
 Wash, which knows less rain and more snow than any in 
 England. 
 
 A gale of wind was blowing from the north-east ; not in 
 itself a wild gale, but at short intervals a fresh burst of wind 
 brought with it a thicker fall of snow, and during these 
 squalls the force of the storm was terrific. A man, who had 
 waited on the far shore of the river for a quiet interval, had 
 at last made his way to the Farlingford side. He moored his 
 boat and stumbled heavily up the steps. 
 
 There was no one on the quay. The street was deserted, 
 but the lights within the cottages glowed warmly through 
 red blinds here and there. The majority of windows 
 were, however, secured with a shutter, screwed tight from 
 within. The man trotted steadily up the street. He had 
 an unmistakable air of discipline. It was only six o'clock, 
 but night had closed in three hours ago. The coast-guard 
 looked neither to one side nor the other, but ran on at the 
 pace of one who had ran far and knows that he cannot 
 afford to lose his breath ; for his night's work was only 
 begun. 
 
336 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 The coast-guard station stands on the left-hand side of 
 the street, a long, low house in a bare garden. In answer 
 to the loud summons, a red-faced little man opened the door 
 and let out into the night a smell of bloaters and tea the 
 smell that pervades all Farlingford at six o'clock in the 
 evening. 
 
 "Something on the Inner Curio Bank," shouted the 
 coast-guard in his face, and turning on his heel, he ran with 
 the same slow, organised haste, leaving the red-faced man 
 finishing a mouthful on the mat. 
 
 The next place of call was at River Andrew's, the little 
 low cottage with rounded corners, below the church. 
 
 " Come out o' that," said the coast-guard, with a con- 
 temptuous glance of snow-rimmed eyes at River Andrew's 
 comfortable tea-table. " Ring yer bell. Something on the 
 Inner Curio Bank." 
 
 River Andrew had never hurried in his life, and like all 
 his fellows, he looked upon coast-guards as amateurs mindful, 
 as all amateurs are, of their clothes. 
 
 " A'm now going," he answered, rising laboriously from 
 Ins chair. The coast-guard glanced at his feet clad in the 
 bright green carpet-slippers, dear to seafaring men. Then 
 he turned to the side of the mantelpiece and took the church 
 keys from the nail. For everybody knows where everybody 
 else keeps his keys in Farlingford. He forgot to shut the 
 door behind him, and River Andrew, pessimistically getting 
 into his sea-boots, swore at his retreating back. 
 
 " Likely as not, he'll getten howld o' the wrong roup," 
 he muttered ; though he knew that every boy in the village 
 could point out the rope of " John Darby," as that which 
 had a piece of faded scarlet flannel twisted through the 
 strands. 
 
 In a few minutes the man, who hastened slowly, gave the 
 
"JOHN DAUBY" 337 
 
 call, which every man in Farlingford answered with an 
 emotionless, mechanical promptitude. From each fireside 
 some tired worker reached out his hand toward his most 
 precious possession, his sea-boots, as his forefathers had done 
 before him for two hundred years at the sound of " John 
 Darby." The women crammed into the pockets of the 
 men's stiff oilskins a piece of bread, a half-filled bottle 
 knowing that, as often as not, their husbands must pass 
 the night and half the next day on the beach, or out 
 at sea, should the weather permit a launch through the 
 surf. 
 
 There was no need of excitement, or even of comment. 
 Did not "John Darby" call them from their firesides or 
 their beds a dozen times every winter, to scramble out across 
 the shingle ? As often as not, there was nothing to be done 
 but drag the dead bodies from the surf ; but sometimes the 
 dead revived some fair-haired, mystic foreigner from the 
 northern seas, who came to and said, "T'ank you," and 
 nothing else. And next day, rigged out in dry clothes and 
 despatched toward Ipswich on the carrier's cart, he would 
 shake hands awkwardly with any standing near and bob his 
 head and say " T'ank you " again, and go away, monosyllabic, 
 mystic, never to be heard of more. But the ocean, as it is 
 called at Farlingford, seemed to have an inexhaustible supply 
 of such Titans to throw up on the rattling shingle winter 
 after winter. And, after all, they were seafaring men, and 
 therefore brothers. Farlingford turned out to a man, each 
 seeking to be first across the river every time " John Darby " 
 called them, as if he had never called them before. 
 
 To-night none paused to finish the meal, and many a 
 cup raised half-way was set down again untasted. It is so 
 easy to be too late. 
 
 Already the flicker of lanterns on the sea-wall showed that 
 
 z 
 
338 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 the rectory was astir. For Septimus Marvin, vaguely recalling 
 some schoolboy instinct of fair-play, knew the place of the 
 gentleman and the man of education among humbler men 
 in moments of danger and hardship, which should, assuredly, 
 never be at the back. 
 
 " Yonder's parson," some one muttered. " His head is 
 clear enow, I'll warrant, when he hears ' John Darby.' " 
 
 " 'Tis only on Sundays, when ' John ' rings slow, 'tis 
 misty," answered a sharp-voiced woman, with a laugh. For 
 half of Farlingford was already at the quay, and three or 
 four boats were bumping and splashing against the steps. 
 The tide was racing out, and the wind, whizzing slantwise 
 across it, pushed it against the wooden piles of the quay, 
 making them throb and tremble. 
 
 " Not less'n four to the oars ! " shouted a gruff voice, at 
 the foot of the steps, where the salt water, splashing on the 
 snow, had laid bare the green and slimy moss. Two or 
 three volunteers stumbled down the steps, and the first boat 
 got away, swinging down-stream at once, only to be brought 
 slowly back, head to wind. She hung motionless a few 
 yards from the quay, each dip of the oars stirring the water 
 into a whirl of phosphorescence, and then forged slowly 
 ahead. 
 
 Septimus Marvin was not alone, but was accompanied 
 by a bulky man, not unknown in Farlingford John Turner, 
 of Ipswich, understood to live " foreign," but to return, 
 after the manner of East Anglians, when occasion offered. 
 The rector was in oilskins and sou'wester, like any one else, 
 and the gleam of his spectacles under the snowy brim of his 
 headgear seemed to strike no one as incongruous. His 
 pockets bulged with bottles and bandages. Under his arm 
 he carried a couple of blanket horse-cloths, useful for carrying 
 the injured or the dead. 
 
"JOHN DARBY" S3 9 
 
 " The Curio the Inner Curio yes, yes ! " he shouted 
 in response to information volunteered on all sides. " Poor 
 fellows ! The Inner Curio, dear, dear ! " 
 
 And he groped his way down the steps, into the first 
 boat he saw, with a simple haste. John Turner followed 
 him. He had tied a silk handkerchief over his soft felt hat 
 and under his chin. 
 
 " No, no ! " he said, as Septimus Marvin made room for 
 him on the after-thwart. " I'm too heavy for a passenger. 
 Put my weight on an oar/' and he clambered forward to a 
 vacant thwart. 
 
 " Mind you come back for us, River Andrew ! " cried 
 little Sep's thin voice, as the boat swirled down stream. His 
 wavering bull's-eye lantern followed it, and showed River 
 Andrew and another pulling stroke to John Turner's bow, 
 for the banker had been a famous oar on the Irwell in his 
 boyhood. Then, with a smack like a box on the ear, another 
 snow-squall swept in from the sea, and forced all on the 
 quay to turn their backs and crouch. Many went back to 
 their homes, knowing that nothing could be known for some 
 hours. Others crouched on the landward side of an old 
 coal-shed, peeping round the corner. 
 
 Miriam and Sep, and a few others, waited on the quay 
 until River Andrew or another should return. It was an 
 understood thing that the helpers, such as could man a boat 
 or carry a drowned man, should go first. In a few minutes 
 the squall was past, and by the light of the moon, now 
 thinly covered by clouds, the black forms of the first to 
 reach the other shore could be seen straggling across the 
 marsh toward the great shingle-bank that lies between the 
 river and the sea. Two boats were moored at the far side, 
 another was just making the jetty, while a fourth was 
 returning toward the quay. It was River Andrew, faithful 
 
340 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 to his own element, who preferred to be first here, rather 
 than obey orders on the open beach. 
 
 There were several ready to lend a helping hand against 
 tide and wind, and Miriam and Sep were soon struggling 
 across the shingle, in the footsteps of those who had gone 
 before. The north-east wind seared their faces like a hot 
 iron, but the snow had ceased falling. As they reached the 
 summit of the shingle-bank, they could see in front of them 
 the black line of the sea, and on the beach, where the white 
 of the snow and the white of the roaring surf merged 
 together, a group of men. 
 
 One or two stragglers had left this group to search the 
 beach, north or south ; but it was known, from a long and 
 grim experience, that anything floating in from the tail of 
 the Inner Curio Bank must reach the shore at one particular 
 point. A few lanterns twinkled here and there, but near 
 the group of watchers a bonfire of wreckage and tarry 
 fragments and old rope, brought hither for the purpose, had 
 been kindled. 
 
 Two boats, hauled out of reach of a spring tide, were 
 being leisurely prepared for launching. There was no 
 hurry ; for it had been decided by the older men that no 
 boat could be put to sea through the surf then rolling in. 
 At the turn of the tide, in two hours' time, something might 
 be done. 
 
 " Us cannot see any thing,' a bystander said to Miriam. 
 "It is just there, where I am pointing. Sea Andrew saw 
 something a while back says it looked like a schooner." 
 
 The man stood pointing out to sea to the southward. 
 He carried an unlighted torch a flare,, roughly made, of 
 tarred rope, bound round a stick. At times, one or another 
 would ignite his flare, and go down the beach holding it 
 above his head, while he stood knee deep in the churning 
 
"JOHN DARBY" 341 
 
 foam to peer out to sea. He would presently return, without 
 comment, to beat out his flare against his foot and take his 
 place among the silent watchers. No one spoke ; but if any 
 turned his head sharply to one side or other, all the rest 
 wheeled, like one man, in the same direction and after staring 
 at the tumbled sea would turn reproachful glances on the 
 false alarmist. 
 
 Suddenly, after a long wait, four men rushed without a 
 word into the surf ; their silent fury suggesting oddly the 
 rush of hounds upon a fox. They had simultaneously caught 
 sight of something dark, half sunk in the shallow water. 
 In a moment they were struggling up the shingle slope 
 toward the fire, carrying a heavy weight. They laid their 
 burden by the fire, where the snow had melted away, and it 
 was a man. He was in oilskins, and some one cut the tape 
 that tied his sou'wester. His face was covered with blood. 
 
 " 'Tis warm," said the man who had cut away the oilskin 
 cap, and with his hand he wiped the blood away from the 
 eyes and mouth. Some one in the background drew a cork, 
 with his teeth, and a bottle was handed down to those kneel- 
 ing on the ground. 
 
 Suddenly the man sat up and coughed. 
 
 " Shipmets," he said, with a splutter, and lay down again. 
 
 Some one held the bottle to his lips and wiped the blood 
 away from his face again. 
 
 "My God!" shouted a bystander, gruffly. "'Tis 
 William Brooke, of the Cottages." 
 
 " Yes. 'Tis me," said the man, sitting up again. " Not 
 that arm, mate ; don't ye touch it. 'Tis bruk. Yes ; 'tis 
 me. And 'The Last Hope' is on the tail of the Inner 
 Curio and the spar that knocked me overboard fell on the 
 old man, and must have half killed him. But Loo Barebone's 
 aboard." 
 
342 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 He rose to his knees, with one arm hanging straight and 
 piteous from his shoulder, then slowly to his feet. He stood 
 wavering for a moment, and wiped his mouth with the back 
 of his hand and spluttered. Then, looking straight in front 
 of him, with that strange air of a whipped dog which humble 
 men wear when the hand of Heaven is upon them, he stag- 
 gered up the beach toward the river and Farlingford. 
 
 " Where are ye goin' ? n some one asked. 
 
 " Over to mine," was the reply. " A'm going to my old 
 woman, shipmets." 
 
 And he staggered away in the darkness. 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 FARLINGFORD ONCE MORE 
 
 After a hurried consultation, Septimus Marvin was deputed 
 to follow the injured man and take him home, seeing that 
 lie had as yet but half recovered his senses. This good 
 Samaritan had scarcely disappeared when a shout from the 
 beach drew the attention of all in another direction. 
 
 One of the outposts was running toward the fire, waving 
 his lantern and shouting incoherently. It was a coast- 
 guard. 
 
 " Comin' ashore in their own boat," he cried. " They're 
 coming in in their own boat [ " 
 
 " There she rides there she rides ! " added Sea Andrew, 
 almost immediately, and he pointed to the south. 
 
 Quite close in, just outside the line of breakers, a black 
 shadow was rising and falling on the water. It seemed to- 
 make scarcely any way at all, and each sea that curled under- 
 neath the boat and roared toward the beach was a new- 
 danger. 
 
 "They're going to run her in here," said Sea Andrew.. 
 " There's more left on board ; that's what that means, and 
 they're goin' back for 'em. If 'twasn't so they'd run in any- 
 wheres and let her break." 
 
 For one sailor will always tell what another is about, 
 however great the distance intervening. 
 
 Slowly the boat came on, rolling tremendously on the 
 
344 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 curve of the breakers, between the broken water of the tide- 
 way and the spume of the surf. 
 
 "That's Loo at the helium," said Sea Andrew the 
 keenest eyes in Farlingford. 
 
 And suddenly Miriam swayed sideways against John 
 Turner, who was perhaps watching her, for he gripped her 
 arm and stood firm. No one spoke. The watchers on the 
 beach stared open-mouthed, making unconscious grimaces as 
 the boat rose and fell. All had been ready for some minutes ; 
 every preparation made according to the time-honoured use 
 of these coasts : four men with life-lines round them standing 
 knee-deep waiting to dash in deeper, others behind them 
 grouped in two files, some holding the slack of the life-lines, 
 forming a double rank from the shore to the fire, giving the 
 steersman his course. There was no need to wave a torch or 
 shout an order. They were Farlingford men on the shore 
 and Farlingford men in the boat. 
 
 At last, after breathless moments of suspense, the boat 
 turned, and came spinning in on the top of a breaker, with 
 the useless oars sticking out like the legs of some huge insect. 
 For a few seconds it was impossible to distinguish anything. 
 The moment the boat touched ground, the waves beating 
 on it enveloped all near it in a whirl of spray, and the black 
 forms seemed to be tumbling over each other in confusion. 
 
 " You see," said Turner to Miriam, " he has come back 
 to you after all." 
 
 She did not answer but stood, her two hands clasped 
 together on her breast, seeking to disentangle the confused 
 group, half in half out of the water. 
 
 Then they heard Loo Barebone's voice, cheerful and 
 energetic, almost laughing. Before they could understand 
 what was taking place his voice was audible again, giving a 
 sharp, clear order, and all the black forms rushed together 
 
FARLINGFORD ONCE MORE 345 
 
 down into the surf. A moment later the boat danced out 
 over the crest of a breaker, splashing into the next and 
 throwing up a fan of spray. 
 
 " She's through, she's through ! " cried some one. And 
 the boat rode for a brief minute head to wind before she 
 turned southward. There were only three on the thwarts 
 Loo Barebone and two others. 
 
 The group now broke up and straggled up toward the 
 fire. One man was being supported, and could scarcely 
 walk. It was Captain Clubbe, hatless, his grey hair plastered 
 across his head by salt water. 
 
 He did not heed any one, but sat down heavily on the 
 shingle and felt his leg with one hand, the other arm hung 
 limply. 
 
 " Leave me here," he said, gruffly, to two or three who 
 were spreading out a horse-cloth and preparing to carry him. 
 " Here I stay till all are ashore." 
 
 Behind him were several new-comers, one of them a little 
 man talking excitedly to his companion. 
 
 " But it is a folly," he was saying in French, " to go 
 back in such a sea as that." 
 
 It was the Marquis de Gemosac, and no one was taking 
 any notice of him. Dormer Colville, stumbling over the 
 shingle beside him, recognised Miriam in the firelight and 
 turned again to look at her companion as if scarcely believing 
 the evidence of his own eyes. 
 
 " Is that you, Turner ? " he said. " We are all here, 
 the Marquis, Barebone, and I. Clubbe took us on board 
 one dark night in the Gironde and brought us home." 
 
 " Are you hurt ? " asked Turner, curtly. 
 
 " Oh, no. But Clubbe's collar-bone is broken and his 
 leg is crushed. We had to leave four on board ; not room 
 for them in the boat. That fool Barebone has gone back 
 
346 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 for them. He promised tliem he would. The sea out there 
 is awful ! " 
 
 He knelt down and held his shaking hands to the flames. 
 Some one handed him a bottle, but he turned first and gave 
 it the Marquis de Gemosac, who was shaking all over like 
 one far gone in a palsy. 
 
 Sea Andrew and the coast-guard captain were persuading 
 Captain Clubbe to quit the beach, but he only answered 
 them roughly in monosyllables. 
 
 " My place is here till all are safe," he said. " Let me lie." 
 
 And with a groan of pain he lay back on the beach. 
 Miriam folded a blanket and placed it under his head. He 
 looked round, recognised her and nodded. 
 
 " No place for you, miss," he said, and closed his eyes. 
 After a moment he raised himself on his elbow and looked 
 into the faces peering down at him. 
 
 " Loo will beach her anywhere he can. Keep a bright 
 lookout for him," he said. Then he was silent, and all 
 turned their faces toward the sea. 
 
 Another snow-squall swept in with a rush from the 
 eastward, and half of the fire was blown away a trail of 
 sparks hissing on the snow. They built up the fire again 
 and waited, crouching low over the embers. They could see 
 nothing out to sea. There was nothing to be done but to 
 wait. Some had gone along the shore to the south, keeping 
 pace with the supposed progress of the boat, ready to help 
 should she be thrown ashore. 
 
 Suddenly the Marquis de Gemosac, shivering over the 
 fire, raised his voice querulously. His emotions always found 
 vent in speech. 
 
 " It is a folly," he repeated, " that he has committed. 
 I do not understand, gentlemen, how he was permitted to 
 do such a thing he whose life is of value to millions." 
 
FARLINGFORD ONCE MOEE 347 
 
 He turned his head to glance sharply at Captain Clubbe, 
 at Colville, at Turner, who listened with that half-con- 
 temptuous silence which Englishmen oppose to unnecessary 
 or inopportune speech. 
 
 " Ah 1 " he said, " you do not understand you English- 
 men or you do not believe, perhaps, that he is the King. 
 You would demand proofs which you know cannot be pro- 
 duced. I demand no proofs, for I know. I know without 
 any proof at all but his face, his manner, his whole being. 
 I knew at once when I saw him step out of his boat here in 
 this sad village, and I have lived with him almost daily ever 
 since only to be more sure than at first." 
 
 His hearers made no answer. They listened tolerantly 
 enough, as one listens to a child or to any other incapable 
 of keeping to the business in hand. 
 
 " Oh, I know more than you suspect," said the Marquis, 
 suddenly. " There are some even in our own party who have 
 doubts, who are not quite sure. I know that there was a 
 doubt as to that portrait of the Queen," he half glanced 
 toward Dormer Colville. " Some say one thing, some 
 another. I have been told that, when the child Monsieur 
 de Bourbon's father landed here, there were two portraits 
 among his few possessions the miniature and a larger print, 
 an engraving. Where is that engraving, one would ask ? " 
 
 " I have it in my safe in Paris," said a thick voice in 
 the darkness. "Thought it was better in my possession 
 than anywhere else." 
 
 "Indeed! And now, Monsieur Turner " the Marquis 
 raised himself on his knees and pointed in his eager way a 
 thin finger in the direction of the banker "tell me this. 
 Those portraits to which some would attach importance 
 they are of the Duchess de Guiche. Admitted ? Good ! 
 If you yourself who have the reputation of being a man of 
 
348 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 wit desired to secure the escape of a child and his nurse, 
 would you content yourself with the mere precaution of con- 
 cealing the child's identity ? Would you not go farther and 
 provide the nurse with a subterfuge, a blind, something for 
 the woman to produce and say, ' This is not the little 
 Dauphin. This is so-and-so. See, here is the portrait of 
 his mother ? ' What so effective, I ask you ? What so likely 
 to be believed as a scandal directed against the hated aristo- 
 crats ? Can you advance anything against that theory ? " 
 
 " No, Monsieur," replied Turner. 
 
 " But Monsieur de Bourbon knows of these doubts," 
 went on the Marquis. " They have even touched his own 
 mind, I know that. But he has continued to fight undaunted. 
 He has made sacrifices any looking at his face can see 
 that. It was not in France that he looked for happiness, but 
 elsewhere. He was not heart-whole I who have seen him 
 with the most beautiful women in France paying court to 
 him know that. But this sacrifice, also, he made for the 
 sake of France. Or perhaps some woman of whom we know 
 nothing stepped back and bade him go forward alone, for 
 the sake of his own greatness who can tell ? " 
 
 Again no one answered him. He had not perceived 
 Miriam, and John Turner, with that light step which some- 
 times goes with a vast bulk, had placed himself between her 
 and the firelight. Monsieur de Gemosac rose to his feet and 
 stood looking seaward. The snow-clouds were rolling away 
 to the west, and the moon, breaking through, was beginning 
 to illumine the wild sky. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the Marquis, " they have been gone 
 a long time ? " 
 
 Captain Clubbe moved restlessly, but he made no answer. 
 The Marquis had, of course, spoken in French, and the 
 Captain had no use for that language. 
 
FARLINGFORD ONCE MOKE 349 
 
 The group round the fire had dwindled until only half 
 a dozen remained. One after another the watchers had 
 moved away uneasily toward the beach. The Marquis was 
 right the boat had been gone too long. 
 
 At last the moon broke through, and the snowy scene 
 was almost as light as day. 
 
 John Turner was looking along the beach to the south, 
 and one after another the watchers by the fire turned their 
 anxious eyes in the same direction. The sea, whipped white, 
 was bare of any wreck. " The Last Hope " of Farling- 
 ford was gone. She had broken up or rolled into deep 
 water. 
 
 A number of men were coming up the shingle in silence. 
 SdSL Andrew, dragging his feet wearily, approached in 
 advance of them. 
 
 " Boat's thrown up on the beach," he said to Captain 
 Clubbe. " Stove in by a sea. We've found them." 
 
 He stood back and the others, coming slowly into the 
 light, deposited their burdens side by side near the fire. 
 The Marquis, who had understood nothing, took a torch 
 from the hand of a bystander and held it down toward the 
 face of the man they had brought last. 
 
 It was Loo Barebone, and the clean-cut, royal features 
 seemed to wear a reflective smile. 
 
 Miriam had come forward toward the fire, and by chance 
 or by some vague instinct the bearers had laid their burden 
 at her feet. After all, as John Turner had said, Loo Bare- 
 bone had come back to her. She had denied him twice, and 
 the third time he would take no denial. The taciturn sailors 
 laid him there and stepped back as if he was hers and this 
 was the inevitable end of his short and stormy voyage. 
 
 She looked down at him with tired eyes. She had done 
 the right, and this was the end. There are some who may 
 
350 THE LAST HOPE 
 
 say that she had done what she thought was right, and this 
 only seemed to be the end. It may be so. 
 
 The Marquis de Gemosac was dumb for once. He looked 
 round him with a half-defiant question in his eyes. Then 
 he pointed a lean finger down toward the dead man's face. 
 
 " Others may question," he said, " but I know I 
 know" 
 
 THE END 
 
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