I

It was close on ten o’clock now in the morning on the following day, and M. lé duc de Kernogan was at breakfast in his lodgings in Laura Place, when a courier was announced who was the bearer of a letter for M. lé duc.

He thought the man must have been sent by Martin-Roget, who mayhap was sick, seeing that he had not been present at the Assembly Rooms last night, and the duc took the letter and opened it without misgivings.  He read the address on the top of the letter:  “Combwich Hall”-a place unknown to him, and the first words of the letter:  “Dear father!” And even then he had no misgivings.

In fact he had to read the letter through three times before the full meaning of its contents had penetrated into his brain.  Whilst he read, he sat quite still, and even the hand which held the paper had not the slightest tremor.  When he had finished he spoke quite quietly to his valet: 

“Give the courier a glass of ale, Frederick,” he said, “and tell him he can go; there is no answer.  And-stay,” he added, “I want you to go round at once to M. Martin-Roget’s lodgings and ask him to come and speak with me as early as possible.”

The valet left the room, and M. lé duc deliberately read through the letter from end to end for the fourth time.  There was no doubt, no possible misapprehension.  His daughter Yvonne de Kernogan had eloped clandestinely with my lord Anthony Dewhurst and had been secretly married to him in the small hours of the morning in the Protestant church of St. James, and subsequently before a priest of her own religion in the Priory Church of St. John the Evangelist.

She apprised her father of this fact in a few sentences which purported to be dictated by profound affection and filial respect, but in which M. de Kernogan failed to detect the slightest trace of contrition.  Yvonne! his Yvonne! the sole representative now of the old race-eloped like a kitchen-wench!  Yvonne! his daughter! his asset for the future! his thing! his fortune! that which he meant with perfect egoism to sacrifice on the altar of his own beliefs and his own loyalty to the kingship of France!  Yvonne had taken her future in her own hands!  She knew that her hand, her person, were the purchase price of so many millions to be poured into the coffers of the royalist cause, and she had disposed of both, in direct defiance of her father’s will and of her duty to her King and to his cause!

Yvonne de Kernogan was false to her traditions, false to her father! false to her King and country!  In the years to come when the chroniclers of the time came to write the histories of the great families that had rallied round their King in the hour of his deadly peril, the name of Kernogan would be erased from those glorious pages.  The Kernogans will have failed in their duty, failed in their loyalty!  Oh! the shame of it all!  The shame!!

The duc was far too proud a gentleman to allow his valet to see him under the stress of violent emotion, but now that he was alone his thin, hard face-with that air of gravity which he had transmitted to his daughter-became distorted with the passion of unbridled fury; he tore the letter up into a thousand little pieces and threw the fragments into the fire.  On the bureau beside him there stood a miniature of Yvonne de Kernogan painted by Hall three years ago, and framed in a circlet of brilliants.  M. lé duc’s eyes casually fell upon it; he picked it up and with a violent gesture of rage threw it on the floor and stamped upon it with his heel, destroying in this paroxysm of silent fury a work of art worth many hundred pounds.

His daughter had deceived him.  She had also upset all his plans whereby the army of M. lé Prince de Conde would have been enriched by a couple of million francs.  In addition to the shame upon her father, she had also brought disgrace upon herself and her good name, for she was a minor and this clandestine marriage, contracted without her father’s consent, was illegal in France, illegal everywhere:  save perhaps in England-of this M. de Kernogan was not quite sure, but he certainly didn’t care.  And in this solemn moment he registered a vow that never as long as he lived would he be reconciled to that English nincompoop who had dared to filch his daughter from him, and never-as long as he lived-would he by his consent render the marriage legal, and the children born of that wedlock legitimate in the eyes of his country’s laws.

A calm akin to apathy had followed his first outbreak of fury.  He sat down in front of the fire, and buried his chin in his hand.  Something of course must be done to get his daughter back.  If only Martin-Roget were here, he would know better how to act.  Would Martin-Roget stick to his bargain and accept the girl for wife, now that her fame and honour had been irretrievably tarnished?  There was the question which the next half-hour would decide.  M. de Kernogan cast a feverish, anxious look on the clock.  Half an hour had gone by since Frederick went to seek Martin-Roget, and the latter had not yet appeared.

Until he had seen Martin-Roget and spoken with Martin-Roget M. de Kernogan could decide nothing.  For one brief, mad moment, the project had formed itself in his disordered brain to rush down to Combwich Hall and provoke that impudent Englishman who had stolen his daughter:  to kill him or be killed by him; in either case Yvonne would then be parted from him for ever.  But even then, the thought of Martin-Roget brought more sober reflection.  Martin-Roget would see to it.  Martin-Roget would know what to do.  After all, the outrage had hit the accredited lover just as hard as the father.

But why in the name of - did Martin-Roget not come?

II

It was past midday when at last Martin-Roget knocked at the door of M. lé duc’s lodgings in Laura Place.  The older man had in the meanwhile gone through every phase of overwhelming emotions.  The outbreak of unreasoning fury-when like a maddened beast that bites and tears he had broken his daughter’s miniature and trampled it under foot-had been followed by a kind of dull apathy, when for close upon an hour he had sat staring into the flames, trying to grapple with an awful reality which seemed to elude him all the time.  He could not believe that this thing had really happened:  that Yvonne, his well-bred dutiful daughter, who had shown such marvellous courage and presence of mind when the necessity of flight and of exile had first presented itself in the wake of the awful massacres and wholesale executions of her own friends and kindred, that she should have eloped-like some flirtatious wench-and outraged her father in this monstrous fashion, by a clandestine marriage with a man of alien race and of a heretical religion!  M. de Kernogan could not realise it.  It passed the bounds of possibility.  The very flames in the hearth seemed to dance and to mock the bare suggestion of such an atrocious transgression.

To this gloomy numbing of the senses had succeeded the inevitable morbid restlessness:  the pacing up and down the narrow room, the furtive glances at the clock, the frequent orders to Frederick to go out and see if M. Martin-Roget was not yet home.  For Frederick had come back after his first errand with the astounding news that M. Martin-Roget had left his lodgings the previous day at about four o’clock, and had not been seen or heard of since.  In fact his landlady was very anxious about him and was sorely tempted to see the town-crier on the subject.

Four times did Frederick have to go from Laura Place to the Bear Inn in Union Street, where M. Martin-Roget lodged, and three times he returned with the news that nothing had been heard of Mounzeer yet.  The fourth time-it was then close on midday-he came back running-thankful to bring back the good tidings, since he was tired of that walk from Laura Place to the Bear Inn.  M. Martin-Roget had come home.  He appeared very tired and in rare ill-humour:  but Frederick had delivered the message from M. lé duc, whereupon M. Martin-Roget had become most affable and promised that he would come round immediately.  In fact he was even then treading hard on Frederick’s heels.

III

“My daughter has gone!  She left the ball clandestinely last night, and was married to Lord Anthony Dewhurst in the small hours of the morning.  She is now at a place called Combwich Hall-with him!”

M. lé duc de Kernogan literally threw these words in Martin-Roget’s face, the moment the latter had entered the room, and Frederick had discreetly closed the door.

“What?  What?” stammered the other vaguely.  “I don’t understand.  What do you mean?” he added, bewildered at the duc’s violence, tired after his night’s adventure and the long ride in the early morning, irritable with want of sleep and decent food.  He stared, uncomprehending, at the duc, who had once more started pacing up and down the room, like a caged beast, with hands tightly clenched behind his back, his eyes glowering both at the new-comer and at the imaginary presence of his most bitter enemy-the man who had dared to come between him and his projects for his daughter.

Martin-Roget passed his hand across his brow like a man who is not yet fully awake.

“What do you mean?” he reiterated hazily.

“Just what I say,” retorted the other roughly.  “Yvonne has eloped with that nincompoop Lord Anthony Dewhurst.  They have gone through some sort of marriage ceremony together.  And she writes me a letter this morning to tell me that she is quite happy and contented and spending her honeymoon at a place called Combwich Hall.  Honeymoon!” he repeated savagely, as if to lash his fury up anew, “Tsha!”

Martin-Roget on the other hand was not the man to allow himself to fall into a state of frenzy, which would necessarily interfere with calm consideration.

He had taken the fact in now.  Yvonne’s elopement with his English rival, the clandestine marriage, everything.  But he was not going to allow his inward rage to obscure his vision of the future.  He did not spend the next precious seconds-as men of his race are wont to do-in smashing things around him, in raving and fuming and gesticulating.  No.  That was not the temper M. Martin-Roget was in at this moment when Fate and a girl’s folly were ranging themselves against his plans.  His friend, citizen Chauvelin, would have envied him his calm in the face of this disaster.

Whilst M. lé duc still stormed and raved, Martin-Roget sat down quietly in front of the fire, rested his chin in his hand and waited for a lull in the other man’s paroxysm ere he spoke.

“From your attitude, M. lé duc,” he then said quietly, hiding obvious sarcasm behind a veil of studied deference, “from your attitude I gather that your wishes with regard to Mlle. de Kernogan have undergone no modification.  You would still honour me by desiring that she should become my wife?”

“I am not in the habit of changing my mind,” said M. lé duc gruffly.  He desired the marriage, he coveted Martin-Roget’s millions for the royalist cause, but he had no love for the man.  All the pride of the Kernogans, their long line of ancestry, rebelled against the thought of a fair descendant of this glorious race being allied to a roturier-a bourgeois-a tradesman, what? and the cause of King and country counted few greater martyrdoms than that of the duc de Kernogan whenever he met the banker Martin-Roget on an equal social footing.

“Then there is not much harm done,” rejoined the latter coolly; “the marriage is not a legal one.  It need not even be dissolved-Mademoiselle de Kernogan is still Mademoiselle de Kernogan and I her humble and faithful adorer.”

M. lé duc paused in his restless walk.

“You would ...” he stammered, then checked himself, turning abruptly away.  He had some difficulty in hiding the scorn wherewith he regarded the other’s coolness.  Bourgeois blood was not to be gainsaid.  The tradesman-or banker, whatever he was-who hankered after an alliance with Mademoiselle de Kernogan, and was ready to lay down a couple of millions for the privilege-was not to be deterred from his purpose by any considerations of pride or of honour.  M. lé duc was satisfied and re-assured, but he despised the man for his leniency for all that.

“The marriage is no marriage at all according to the laws of France,” reiterated Martin-Roget calmly.

“No, it is not,” assented the Duke roughly.

For a while there was silence:  Martin-Roget seemed immersed in his own thoughts and not to notice the febrile comings and goings of the other man.

“What we have to do, M. lé duc,” he said after a while, “is to induce Mlle. de Kernogan to return here immediately.”

“How are you going to accomplish that?” sneered the Duke.

“Oh!  I was not suggesting that I should appear in the matter at all,” rejoined Martin-Roget with a shrug of the shoulders.

“Then how can I ...?”

“Surely ...” argued the younger man tentatively.

“You mean ...?”

Martin-Roget nodded.  Despite these ambiguous half-spoken sentences the two men had understood one another.

“We must get her back, of course,” assented the Duke, who had suddenly become as calm as the other man.

“There is no harm done,” reiterated Martin-Roget with slow and earnest emphasis.

Whereupon the Duke, completely pacified, drew a chair close to the hearth and sat down, leaning his elbows on his knees and holding his fine, aristocratic hands to the blaze.

Frederick came in half an hour later to ask if M. lé duc would have his luncheon.  He found the two gentlemen sitting quite close together over the dying embers of a fire that had not been fed for close upon an hour:  and that prince of valets was glad to note that M. lé duc’s temper had quite cooled down and that he was talking calmly and very affably to M. Martin-Roget.