Holding her tight in his arms, he murmured into her hair: 'Are you sure you will be quite safe in the convent, that your brothers will not be able to tear you away? They are your whole family now. They have absolute authority over you.'
'I know, but Madame de La Bourdonnaye will be able to keep me safe. She has my father's express wish, before he died, to see me take the veil at Notre Dame de la Joie. Poor Father, he thought he was making sure that I should be at least peaceful, if not happy.'
'But you are not bound to take the veil straight away?'
'Of course not. I have to finish my year's schooling and then there will be my noviciate, which may take two or three years. But why are you asking me all this?'
'Because I want to do for you what has been done for me, to give you your freedom. I swear, if God gives me life, that I will come and take you away from this convent when I come back from America. I don't know yet how I shall do it but if you will trust me, even a little, I am ready to give my life for you.'
Judith did not answer immediately. She unwound her arms gently and made him set her down and for a moment he was afraid that he had angered her. She was going to lose her temper again and pour scorn on him, throw his bastardy in his face. But she did not. She simply put both hands on his shoulders and stood on tiptoe the better to look right into his eyes.
'Why would you do that?' she asked, almost timidly. 'You have had nothing from me until now but scorn and unkindness—'
'You being who you are and I who I am, that was almost to be expected,' he said gently. 'On the other hand, I think I owe you a lot, for but for you I might have let them shut me up in a seminary. But you gave me an immense longing to be near you, to try and make myself worthy of you. I think – yes, I think I love you.'
The word uttered itself, as simply, as naturally as a bird singing and Gilles was amazed that the admission could have been so easy. He felt Judith's hands quiver on his shoulders. They moved suddenly and twined about his neck and then the girl's body was pressed close to his and their mouths had joined, though no one could have said who had begun it.
For an instant, the universe turned upside down. Judith's lips were fresh as a rose and tasted of her tears but her trembling body burned like a flame in Gilles' arms. Even so, it was she who recovered herself first. Almost tearing herself from their embrace, she darted to the gate, lightly enough to cast some doubt on the severity of the twisted ankle, and rang the bell. Then she turned back to him, tossing back the hair that had fallen into her eyes, and those eyes were sparkling like black diamonds. They were bright with triumph. In a breathless, hurried voice she whispered:
'I will wait for you, Gilles Goëlo. I will wait – for three years, and not one day more. If you keep your promise, I shall be yours and you can do what you will with me. If not—'
'If not?'
She laughed, a laugh at once hard and shaky.
'If not, I shall see what I can do to help myself. Only, let me tell you, I am not going to waste my life in perpetual renunciation. I am not going to wither away into a hopeless virgin behind these walls. If you do not come, I shall give myself to anyone who helps me escape, be he only the convent gardener. Go now, someone is coming.'
In fact the ring at the bell had set up quite a bustle within. The light of a lantern shone over the wall, and with it came the sound of footsteps. An aged voice quavered: 'Who is there? Who rang?'
'Sister Félicité! It's Judith de Saint-Mélaine!' To Gilles, she added in an undertone: 'Don't forget. You have only three years in which to deserve me.'
The door opened a little way and shut again with a dull thud. The footsteps receded up the garden path and the light which had shone on the treetops disappeared. Gilles wandered on, with no very clear idea where he was going. There was a ringing in his ears and he was half drunk with joy and amazement as he walked slowly back beside the convent walls to reach the town the other way and so avoid meeting Morvan as he clambered out of the river. There was nothing to be gained by creating a fresh scandal which might delay his departure. For now he was in a hundred times more haste to be gone than he had been before. Three years! He had three years to win his life and make a success of it! There was not a moment to be lost.
An hour later, the look of the whole world had altered for Gilles so that he could scarcely remember a time when he had wept for grief and loneliness. The great black wall which for months had hidden the sun from him had fallen once and for all, not to the sound of trumpets, like the red walls of Jericho, but at the quiet, gentle words of a man with a sympathetic heart. A vast landscape now stretched before his eyes, bounded only by the wide earth and infinite ocean. What did it matter that the bitter wind was still tearing down the steep streets, slapping the puddles and banging the shutters? What did it matter that the soldiers had left the town as dirty and glum as a harlot after a night's orgy? What did it matter that dark clouds, heavy rain, were scurrying across the night sky? In Gilles' heart, all was clear and bright.
In order to achieve this minor miracle, M. de Talhouët had not needed any long words or florid speeches.
'Tomorrow,' he said, 'you will leave for Brest where you will go to the house of my old friend Madame de Couédic with a letter which I shall give you. Madame de Couédic is in deep mourning, for it is barely two months since we laid her illustrious husband to rest, but her kindness takes no account of grief or joy. Furthermore, at this time there is not a seafaring man alive, however lofty his rank, who would not count it an honour to pay his respects to the hero's widow. The Chevalier de Ternay d'Arsac, in command of the fleet assigned by the King to the duty of carrying the Comte de Rochambeau's army across the Atlantic, will be no exception. Madame du Couédic will commend you to him and ask him to use his good offices to present you to the General – possibly as a potential secretary, since you happen, fortunately, to speak English well.'
Gilles' heart was beginning to thump under the old hunting coat. America! There it was indeed! He was to be sent to America. In a little while he would be aboard one of the King's great ships on his way to the new world, borne simultaneously on the green ocean waves and on gilded clouds of dreams of glory. And there, in that fabulous country where men were fighting for a word that was, as yet, barely known in France – for Liberty! Once there, he would very likely meet the amazing Marquis de La Fayette and might even fight at his side. But most of all, before anything else, he would be able to force fate to give him his chance at last.
'What are you thinking of?' the Abbé Vincent asked, watching the reflection of his godson's thoughts on his face.
Brought back to earth, Gilles gazed at him for a moment with eyes shining with gratitude. Then he smiled.
'I was thinking, sir, that tomorrow you are going to fly me and that Olivier de Tournemine used to launch the white falcon, Taran, from his fist. I, too, am going to fight—'
The abbé frowned. 'Just a moment. I am sending you to fight, yes, but for the King, and in the King's name. I am not sending you out to commit murder or rapine. If you want to imitate your ancestor, let it be only in what was great in him – and especially in the last part of his life, for he was fighting for God when he died.
'To become a true gentleman will mean a longer and harder road for you than for others, but you must never forget honour, courtesy – generosity – and pity, none of which were known to the Gyrfalcon. Do not take him too readily for your model.'
'I shall not forget, sir, because that would be to forget what I owe to you. It would be to disappoint you – and I would rather die than displease you.'
The abbé smiled at the seriousness in his voice. He slapped him on the back.
'Try and stay alive,' he said. 'You can't think how I dislike conducting funerals.'
Chapter Six
A Swede Named Fersen
Gilles left Hennebont on March the tenth but it was not until the fifth of April that he sighted the bastions, ravelines, fosses, redoubts, ramps and star forts which made Brest M. de Vaub
an's masterpiece and an all but impregnable fortress.
If this seems a long time for a journey of some thirty leagues, especially on horseback, it should be said that the youthful traveller spent no more than three days on the actual journey. The rest of the time he spent in becoming someone else. Or, at least, in trying to.
The fact was that after a sleepless night divided between thoughts of Judith and apprehensions concerning the next encounter between his bruised posterior and the back of a blood horse, he went downstairs to say goodbye to his godfather and was surprised to find Mahé out in the street, looking dirtier and hairer than ever, and standing stolidly in between the fine horse and Eglantine. The thoroughbred had been groomed in masterly fashion but bore no saddle, only a bridle which Mahé had firmly in hand. The rector's mule, on the other hand, was saddled up as usual, and carried a small baggage pack as well.
At the sight of his godson's discomfited expression, the abbé burst out laughing.
'You did. not really think, my son, that I was going to send you off into the blue without the smallest preparation? For today, you are going no farther than Pont-Scorff and our estate at Leslé, where my father's old groom, Guillaume Briant, is expecting you. You will stay at the farm with him for three weeks. That should be enough to teach you the rudiments of how to handle weapons, as well as to sit this handsome fellow well enough not to put him to the blush. Only then will you go on to Brest. Mahé will go with you and can bring back my mule, which I'll lend you for the journey so that you need not go on foot like a peasant, for I want you to know how seriously I regard the responsibilities I am assuming against your mother's wishes. From now on, I mean you to be a credit to the humble name that she has given you – in the absence of a better.'
Simultaneously disappointed, delighted, mortified and swelling with pride, Gilles ended up blushing scarlet with happiness. It had occurred to him that Pont-Scorff was no great distance from Hennebont and that he might be able to return secretly and see Judith. But, as though the abbé had read his thoughts, he moved a step nearer and his fingers closed with unexpected strength on the boy's arm, while he looked him very straightly in the eye.
'You will not return until you have become a proper man,' he said, 'and I want your word on that here and now!' Lowering his voice, he went on: 'The whole town knows already that Mademoiselle de Saint-Mélaine fled from her father's house yesterday and took refuge in the convent, and that she was escorted thereby a young man, after he had fought the younger of her brothers. It is known, too, that the Saint-Mélaines have sworn to punish him for his rashness. They would have no trouble finding you—'
'How do you know?'
'You came home in a terrible mess last night, but your face was radiant. That is why I am asking you to give me your word. Are you coming back?'
Gilles lowered his head, defeated.
'You have done too much for me to disobey you. I will not come back until I have done what you expect of me. Only – take care of her, I beg of you!'
'That is for God to do. She is in His hand. For your part, you had better forget what you cannot mend. Farewell, my son, and God keep you.'
Gilles knelt to receive his last blessing and then heaved himself on to Eglantine's back with a sigh, while Mahé, proud as a king, led the new horse which the boy had not been deemed worthy to ride.
Three weeks later, matters had altered dramatically. But at what a cost! On the Leslé estate, where his mother had known first love and then dishonour and where he himself had uttered his first cry, Gilles underwent a fair foretaste of purgatory under the pitiless rule of the ex-dragoon, Guillaume Briant. Leathery-skinned and bristly, Briant, though well past sixty, was still capable of schooling a tricky horse and teaching many an experienced master-at-arms a thing or two about sword management. And for those three weeks, under his chilly eye, Gilles ran and jumped and fought and rode from dawn to dusk, learning to use a pistol, a musket, a sword and a sabre, all out in the open air in the fine drizzle which fell almost continuously and, for the most part, with no more encouragement than a volley of abuse. But after a week his tormentor permitted him to mount the beautiful stolen chestnut, which he had christened Merlin in memory of their first magical encounter, and finally, just as he was about to leave him, Guillaume Briant actually brought himself to utter a few grudging words of praise.
'I'd have been glad to have had you longer,' he told him, 'for you have some rare qualities. You've the makings of a fine horseman and one of the best blades in the kingdom if we only had the time. Try not to forget anything I've taught you. You know enough to put on a good show… especially as I've had orders to fit you out.'
And indeed, no one would have recognized the unkempt fugitive from St Yves in the youthful rider who, on that April day, was riding at an easy pace towards the Porte de Landerneau, the only one of Brest's gates open to wagons and pack animals. Dressed in cloth of iron grey with a ruffled shirt of fine white linen with a flowing black cloak over all, with black leather boots and hair drawn back neatly into a soft leather bag and tied with a ribbon and a plain cocked hat worn at a careless angle, Gilles sat very straight, guiding Merlin firmly through the press of cattle, vehicles and donkeys with women or monks on their backs which filled the roadway.
He went on quietly, without hurrying, enjoying the moment, simply happy in the new strength he felt in himself and, even more, in the sword of blue steel that Guillaume Briant had buckled at his side before slapping Merlin's rump a vigorous gesture of farewell. It seemed to him that his eyes could never open wide enough to take in all the spectacle before them.
Enclosed within its fortifications and guarded by its castle, green with time and weather, Brest itself was simply a small, grey town with narrow, picturesque streets. It was like a nut in the centre of some formidable shell.
Its granite houses were almost as grim as its walls but it was filled with soldiers whose gay uniforms rubbed shoulders with the white coifs and embroidered petticoats of peasant women and the gathered breeches and round hats of their menfolk, while sailors in striped jerseys and red-coated marines jostled the shabby overalled convicts in red or green bonnets, who worked as refuse collectors in Brest as well as in the various departments of the arsenal.
Accustomed to the quiet elegance of Vannes, Gilles did not consider Brest a beautiful city, but at the far end of the long Rue de Siam which cut through its centre lay the grey waters of the Penfeld bearing a forest of tall masts with multicoloured pennons at their heads.
When Guillaume Briant had given him his weapons and a little money from the de Talhouëts, he had recommended the Pilier Rouge as a modest establishment kept by a cousin of his own and not far from the posting house of the Seven Saints, but Gilles put off the search for a lodging, being unable to resist the urge to take a closer look at the King's great ships at last. He went on to the harbour and stood gazing in wonderment at the splendid spectacle.
High wooden sides, painted red, blue or buff, stern castles with gleaming windows, carved like altars and gilded like missals, and wrought bronze lanterns, with their lofty, painted figureheads and embroidered silken banners, the vessels of his majesty King Louis XVI, the royal geographer with a passion for the sea, were like dream palaces moored for an instant on the dull shores of reality.
Gilles could gladly have stood for hours amid the seething throng that filled the waterfront if an angry voice close by had not dragged him from his thoughts.
'Why that's my horse! Hey, you, sir, will you tell me what you're doing on his back?'
Two young gentlemen were standing at the horse's head, regarding Gilles with a highly unfriendly interest. The one who had spoken even had his hand on the bridle and there was an ominous light in his bright blue eyes. Gilles felt himself turn pale and cursed the ill luck which had led him to fall in with the horse's owner, but he did his best to brazen it out.
'Are you quite sure, sir,' he asked quietly, 'that this is your horse?''
'What's that, am I certai
n? I paid enough for him to know him every inch, from nose to tail. He was stolen from me by some scoundrel in Vannes, when I left him outside the inn where I was dining on my journey.'
The matter was thus beyond a doubt, as also were the intentions of the young officer, who seemed to be aged about twenty-four or – five and spoke with a fairly strong foreign accent. Gilles took in at a glance the elegant blue and yellow uniform of the Royal Deux-Ponts regiment, the colonel's epaulettes, the powdered wig and gold-laced hat and realized that his dreams of glory were all too likely to come to an abrupt end. This man was going to send him straight to prison.
Nevertheless, he decided to play the game to its end. Coolly dismounting, he swept off his hat and bowed gravely.
'I am that scoundrel, sir. I did indeed er – borrow your horse on an occasion of dire need when I was obliged to flee in haste. Believe me when I ask your pardon.'
'And you think that is enough? Thanks to you I was obliged to finish my journey on a horrible slug. I all but died of mortification! And may I ask why you were under the necessity of this hasty flight? From the law, perhaps?'
'No, sir, from the seminary where I was to have been incarcerated against my will. Which said, I have the honour to beg your pardon for a reprehensible piece of behaviour which I am not at all in the habit of. If, however, you still do not consider yourself satisfied by this – and by the immediate restitution of your property—' Gilles laid his hand significantly on his sword hilt. It was the purest folly, for he was quite certainly no match for a practised swordsman such as the colonel, but he would a hundred times rather die than suffer the ultimate humiliation of an arrest. At least he would die as he would have wished to live, like a gentleman.
The stranger raised his eyebrows disdainfully and tittered.
'Why, how fierce you are, young sir! First you rob a man, next you would murder him?'
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