D. Broster: A Fire of Driftwood: A Collection of Short Stories (D. K. Broster) (Literary Thoughts Edition)

by D. K. Broster

(Dorothy Kathleen Broster)

Transscribed and Published 2016 by Jacson Keating (editor)

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By D. K. Broster

Part 1

OUR LADY OF SUCCOUR

Yes, the gold was only gilt,

And you never knew it;

Cracked the cup, the wine half spilt,

Lees a-tremble through it.

But you thought the ore was true,

And the draught unshaken:

Doubtless, dreams are best for you,

Dreamer . . . till you waken!

Les Illusions Retenues.

In Madame de Seignelay’s Souvenirs de ma Jeunesse she speaks more than once of a gentleman whom she used to see at her uncle’s house in Angers, when she stayed there as a child about the year 1816. This person, a M. de Beaumanoir, made a great impression on the youthful mind of Madame de Seignelay, ardent Royalist as she always was, for he had fought with La Rochejaquelein and Bonchamps in that great Vendée, “dont on n’est jamais arrivé à me conter trop d’histoires,” as she confesses.

“He was tall,” she says, “but not too tall, had the grand air to perfection, laughed rarely, possessed a charming smile, and limped a little in a way that I found ravishing, for did I not know it to be the result of a wound gained in those combats of heroes and martyrs? M. de Beaumanoir, when I knew him, must have been about eight-and-forty. And I was ten – a child voracious of information, especially on the subject of the Vendée; but I never could arrive at any definite stories of my hero’s heroic deeds. Himself I never dared to question, for, though I adored, I feared him, with a delicious tremor which, alas! I have not felt for many a long year.

“One day, however, I remember summoning my courage and going up to him where he stood alone by the portentous curtains which used to deck my uncle’s salon windows.

“ ‘Monsieur le Vicomte,’ I said breathlessly and suddenly, ‘is it really true that you actually knew le saint Lescure?’

“M. de Beaumanoir started, and looked down at me (no child of mine has ever worn such hideous frocks as I wore in those days). ‘C’est toi donc, petite Vendéenne,’ he said, smiling. ‘Yes, it is quite true. Do you want to hear about him? He was a good man!’

“ ‘A saint!’ I murmured piously.

“M. de Beaumanoir smiled again, and said – I think to himself – ‘There were saints among the Republicans, too.’

“But at the time that last astounding utterance of my hero’s so wrought upon me that all recollection of what he subsequently told me of M. de Lescure was effaced. The idea of righteousness in the ranks of the foe intrigued me to such a point that I sought counsel of my uncle. When I referred the matter to him he first looked puzzled and then began to smile.

“ ‘Et de qui donc t’a-t-il parlé, Charlotte?’ he asked. ‘D’un saint ou d’une sainte? Of the latter, I’ll wager.’

“ ‘I do not understand,’ I replied, somewhat offended. Nor did I understand for years, and though I worshipped M. le Vicomte none the less fervently for his startling lapse from orthodoxy, I believe that I never had another private conversation with him. It was not until after my marriage that I heard the story to which he must have been referring that evening. . . .”

I

Adèle Moustier was going to meet an admirer, and from the way she walked through the barley you would have thought each blade a possible conquest. As wars and their rumours in no way deterred Adèle from campaigns of her own, so did her flighty little head remain undisturbed by the very near presence of battle. Only yesterday morning had all Cezay-la-Fontaine been throbbing with excitement; only yesterday evening had it welcomed Rossignol’s two regiments after their victorious skirmish with the Royalists in the scarcely league-distant wood of Champerneau. It was still indeed disturbed and jubilant, and Adèle, as the Maire’s daughter, might reasonably have been more conscious than she was of Republican fervour. But she was a little indifferent to martial glory, and disliked noise and all ill sights. So she walked through the field with her nose in the air and the points of her second-best cap standing out at a provoking angle. Cezay-la-Fontaine was a good half-mile behind her, and the diagonal path across the unfenced barley was approaching the high-road, when suddenly she uttered a scream. At her feet, in a trampled patch of the ripe grain, lay the dead body of a Vendéan.

There was no mistaking his identity, for on the embroidered vest which showed beneath his short Breton jacket was sewn the symbol of the Sacred Heart, and a thin white scarf, fringed and torn, was wound about his waist. He lay on his back with his arms spread wide, and he was quite young, and had long bright hair. There shot through Adèle a pang of horror and a simultaneous desire to get away, for as she had kept within doors when the wounded were brought in, and had had no dealings with them since their arrival, this form at her feet was a spectacle of a disturbing novelty. The next moment horror had given place to a sort of indignation.

“In the barley, too!” she thought. “Just where one walks!”

It was precisely at this moment that the Vicomte de Beaumanoir opened his eyes.

Adèle stood still, galvanised by the shock of finding two living points of light in the ghastly face. It is probable that the Vicomte saw but indistinctly whom or what he was addressing when he said, without stirring, in a terrible cracked voice that shook Adèle’s little soul to its foundations:

“Water . . . for God’s sake get me some water. . . .”

“Oh, mon Dieu!” said Adèle to herself. The final unpleasantness had descended upon her, and she must minister to a dying man. “There is none,” she faltered, and even as she spoke remembered the stream between the field and the high-road. But she had nothing to bring water in. She must go on quickly, or turn back. Yet the wounded man’s eyes held her, half-frightened. It was the most disagreeable position she had ever been in, and at the back of her mind was a consciousness that she might feel even more uncomfortable in the future if she left the petition unanswered. She hesitated on the path, looking vaguely round for escape. There was no one else in sight.

The barley rustled as the wounded Royalist dragged himself up to one elbow.

“If you would only dip your handkerchief into a puddle,” he said, with desperate pleading. “I want very little . . . only one cannot die while one is so thirsty. . . .”

A shiver went through the girl, and she fled precipitately towards the road.