There was very little room for doubt about that, he knew. She would be with Lavisse, riding with him, or waltzing with him, held too close in his arms for propriety, his black head close to her flaming one, his lips almost brushing her ear as he murmured his expert lovemaking into it. She was behaving outrageously; even those who had grown accustomed to her odd flights were shocked. She had borrowed Harry’s clothes, and had gone swaggering through the streets with George for a vulgar bet; she had won a race in her phaeton against a wild young ne’er-do-well in whose company no lady of breeding would have permitted herself to have been seen. She had appeared at the Opera in a classical robe which left one shoulder bare and revealed beneath its diaphanous folds more than even the most daring creature would have cared to show; she had set a roomful of gentlemen in a roar by singing in the demurest way a couple of the most shocking French ballads. The ladies present had been unable to follow the words of the songs, which were extremely idiomatic, but they knew when their husbands were laughing at improper jokes, and there was not a married man there who had not to endure a curtain lecture that night.
Lord Vidal was furious. He threatened to turn his sister out of doors, which made her laugh. He could not do it, of course, for ten to one she would simply install herself at one of the hôtels, and a pretty scandal that would create. There was only one person to whom she might possibly attend, and that was her grandmother. Vidal had written to that wise old lady the very night the engagement was broken off, begging her to exert her influence, but apparently she did not choose to do so, for she had neither answered his letter nor written one to Barbara.
Even Augusta was taken aback by Barbara’s behaviour, and remonstrated with her. Barbara turned on her with a white face and blazing eyes. ‘Leave me alone!’ she said. ‘I’ll do what I choose, and if I choose to go to the devil it is my business, and not yours!’
‘Oh, agreed!’ said Augusta, shrugging bored shoulders. ‘But I find your conduct very odd, I must say. If you are hankering after your staff officer—’
A harsh little laugh cut her short. ‘Pray do not be ridiculous, Gussie! I had almost forgotten his existence!’
‘I am happy to hear you say so, but I fail to see the purpose of all this running about. Why can you not be still?’
‘Because I can’t, because I won’t!’
‘Do you mean to have Lavisse?’
‘Oh, don’t talk to me of more engagements. I have had enough of being tied, I can assure you.’
‘Take care he does not grow tired of your tricks. In my opinion you are playing a dangerous game.’ She added maliciously: ‘You are not irresistible, you know. Colonel Audley seems to have had no difficulty in consoling himself elsewhere. How do you like to be supplanted by a little nobody like Lucy Devenish?’
She had the satisfaction of seeing a quiver run over Barbara’s face. Barbara replied, however, without hesitation: ‘Oh, she’ll make him a capital wife! I told him so.’
Lord George received the news of the broken engagement with careless unconcern. ‘I daresay you know your own business best,’ he said. ‘I never thought him our sort.’
But Lord Harry nearly wept over it. ‘The nicest fellow that ever was in love with you, and you jilt him for a damned frog!’ he exclaimed.
‘If you mean Lavisse, he is a Belgian, and not a Frenchman, and I did not jilt Charles Audley. He was perfectly ready to let me go, you know,’ replied Barbara candidly.
‘I don’t believe it! The truth is you played off your tricks till no man worth his salt would stand it! I know you!’
She twisted her hands in her lap, gripping her fingers together. ‘If you know me you must admit that we were not suited.’
‘No!’ he said hotly. ‘You are only suited to a fellow like Lavisse! He will do very well for you, and I wish you joy of him!’
‘Thank you,’ she said, with a crooked smile. ‘I have not yet accepted him, however.’
‘Why not? He’s as rich as Croesus, and he won’t care how you behave as long as you don’t interfere with his little pleasures. You’ll make a famous pair!’
He slammed out of her presence, and sought Colonel Audley. The interview was rather a trying one for the Colonel, for there was no curbing Harry’s impetuous tongue. ‘Oh, I say, sir, don’t give her up!’ he begged. ‘She’ll marry that Belgian fellow if you do, sure as fate!’
‘My dear boy, you don’t—’
‘No, but only listen, sir! It ain’t vice with Bab—really it ain’t, She’s spoilt, but she don’t mean the things she says, and I’m ready to swear she’s never gone beyond flirtation. I daresay you’re thinking of that Darcy affair, but—’
‘I am not thinking of any affair, Harry.’
‘Of course I know she has the devil’s own temper—gets it from my grandfather: George has it too—but perhaps you don’t understand that the things they do when they are in their rages don’t mean anything. Of course, George is a shocking fellow, but Bab isn’t. People say she’s heartless, but myself I’m devilish fond of her, and if she marries a damned rake like Lavisse it’ll be just too much to bear!’
‘I’m sorry, Harry, but you have it wrong. It wasn’t I who broke the engagement.’
‘But Charles, if you would only see her!’
‘Do you imagine that I am going to crawl to your sister, begging to be taken on the strength again?’
Harry sighed. ‘No. No, of course you wouldn’t do that.’
‘You say that she is going to marry Lavisse. If that is so, there is no possibility of our engagement’s being renewed. In any case—No! it will not do. I have been brought to realise that, and upon reflection I think you must realise it too.’
‘It’s such a damned shame!’ Harry burst out. ‘I don’t want Lavisse for a brother-in-law! I never liked any of the others half as well as you!’
He sounded so disconsolate that in a mood less bleak the Colonel must have been amused. His spirits were too much oppressed, however, for him to be able to bear such a discussion with equanimity. He was glad when Harry at last took himself off.
Harry’s artless disclosures left a painful impression: an unacknowledged hope had lingered in the Colonel’s mind that Barbara’s encouragement of Lavisse might have been the outcome merely of pique. But Harry’s words seemed to show that she was indeed serious. Her family looked upon the match as certain; Colonel Audley was forced to recall the many occasions during their engagement when she had seemed to feel a decided partiality for the Count. He had believed her careless flirtations to be only the expression of a certain volatility of mind, which stronger ties of affection would put an end to. It had not been so. The mischief of her upbringing, the hardening effect of a distasteful marriage, had vitiated a character of whose underlying worth he could still entertain no doubt. That the heart was unspoiled, he was sure: could he but have possessed himself of it he was persuaded all would have been different. Her conduct had convinced him that he had failed, and although, even through the anger that had welled up in him at their last meeting, he had been conscious of an almost overpowering impulse to keep her upon any terms, a deeper instinct had held him silent.
He had passed since then through every phase of doubt, sometimes driven so nearly mad by the desire to hold her in his arms that he had fallen asleep at night with the fixed intention of imploring her to let everything be as it had been before their quarrel, only to wake in the morning to a realization of the impossibility of building happiness upon such foundations. Arguments clashed, and nagged in his brain. He blamed himself for lack of tact, for having been too easy, for having been too harsh. Sometimes he was sure that he had handled her wrongly from the start; then a profounder knowledge would possess him, and he would recognise with regret the folly of all such arguments. There could be no question of tact or mishandling where the affections were engaged. He came back wearily to the only thing he knew to be certain: that since the love she had felt for him had been a light emotion, as fleeting as her smile, nothi
ng but misery could attend their marriage.
After prolonged strife the mind becomes a little numb, repeating dully the old arguments, but ceasing to attach a meaning to them. It was so with Colonel Audley. His brain continued to revolve every argument, but he seemed no longer capable of drawing any conclusions from them. He could neither convince himself that the rift was final nor comfort himself with the hope of renewing the engagement. He was aware, chiefly, of an immense lassitude, but beneath it, and underlying his every word and thought, was a pain that had turned from a sharp agony into an ache which was always present, yet often ignored, because familiarity had inured him to it.
The unfortunate circumstance of his being obliged to remain in Brussels, where he must not only see Barbara continually but was forced to live under the eyes of scores of people whom he knew to be watching him, imposed a strain upon him that began very soon to appear in his face. Judith obliged to respect his evident wish that the affair should be forgotten, was goaded into exclaiming to Worth: ‘I could even wish the war would break out, if only it would take Charles away from this place!’
Upon the following day, June 14th, it seemed as though her wish would be granted. She was at Lady Conynghame’s in the evening, congratulating Lord Hay upon his win at the races at Grammont upon the previous day, when Colonel Audley came in with news of serious movement on the frontier. On June 13th, Sir Hussey Vivian, whose hussar brigade was stationed to the south of Tournay, had discovered that he had opposite him not a cavalry picket, as had previously been the case, but a mere collection of douaniers, who, upon being questioned, had readily disclosed the fact of the French army’s concentration about Maubeuge. Shortly after the Colonel’s entrance some other guests came in with a rumour that the French had actually crossed the frontier. All disbelief was presently put an end to by the Duke’s arrival. He was calm, and in good spirits, but replied to the eager questions put to him that he believed the rumour to be true.
Seventeen
On the following morning the only news was of Sir Thomas Picton’s arrival in Brussels. He was putting up at the Hôtel d’Angleterre with two of his aides-de-camp, Captain Chambers of the 1st Footguards, and an audacious young gentleman who ought to have been in London with the 1st battalion of that regiment, but who had procured leave, and contrived to get himself enrolled on Sir Thomas Picton’s staff as honorary aide-de-camp. It seemed reasonable to Mr Gronow to suppose that he could quite well take part in a battle in Belgium and be back again in London in time to resume his duties at the expiration of his leave.
While Sir Thomas, a burly figure in plain clothes—for the trunks containing his uniforms had not yet arrived in Brussels—was seated at breakfast, Colonel Canning came in to say that the Duke wished to see him immediately. He finished his breakfast, and went off to Headquarters. He met Wellington in the Park, walking with the Duke of Richmond and Lord Fitzroy Somerset. All three were deep in conversation. Sir Thomas strode up to them, accosting his chief with his usual lack of ceremony, and received a chilling welcome.
‘I am glad you are come, Sir Thomas,’ said his lordship stiffly. He looked down his nose at the coarse, square-jowled face in front of him. He valued old Picton for his qualities as a soldier, but he had never been able to like him. ‘As foul-mouthed an old devil as ever lived,’ he had once said of him. Picton’s familiarity annoyed him; he delivered one of his painful snubs. ‘The sooner you get on horseback the better,’ he said. ‘No time is to be lost. You will take the command of the troops in advance. The Prince of Orange knows by this time that you will go to his assistance.’
A slight bow, and it was plain that his lordship considered the interview at an end. Picton was red-faced, and glaring. Richmond, sorry for the rough old man’s humiliation, said something civil, but Picton was too hurt and angry to respond. He moved away, muttering under his breath, and his lordship resumed his conversation.
No further news having arrived from the frontier, Brussels continued its normal life. It was generally supposed that the previous night’s report had been another false alarm. The usual crowd of fashionables promenaded in the Park; ladies looked over their gowns for the Duchess of Richmond’s ball; gentleman hurried off to the market to order posies for their inamoratas.
Colonel Audley had left his brother’s house before Judith was up, but he came in about midday for a few minutes. There was no news; he told her briefly that the chances were that the concentration on Maubeuge was the prelude to a feint; and was able to assure her that no alarm was felt at Headquarters. The Duchess of Richmond’s ball would certainly take place; the Prince of Orange was coming in from Braine-le-Comte to dine with the Duke about three; Lord Hill was already in Brussels; and Uxbridge and a host of divisional and brigade commanders were expected to arrive during the course of the afternoon, for the purpose of attending the ball. This certainly did not seem as though an outbreak of hostilities was expected; and further confirmation was later received from Georgiana Lennox, who, meeting Judith on a shopping errand during the afternoon, was able to report that Lord Hill had called in the Rue de la Blanchisserie, and had disclaimed any knowledge of movement on the frontier.
The Prince of Orange arrived in Brussels shortly after two o’clock, in his usual spirits, and after changing his dress in his house in the Rue de Brabant, went round to Headquarters. He had heard no further news, set very little store by the previous night’s report, and had ridden in light-heartedly to take part in the evening’s festivities, leaving Constant de Rebecque in charge at Braine-le-Comte.
‘Well, well!’ drawled Fremantle, when his Highness had gone off upstairs to pay his respects to the Duke. ‘Our Corps Commander! One comfort is that old Constant will do much better without him. Think there’s anything brewing, Canning?’
‘I don’t know. Another hum, I daresay. Müffling has heard nothing: he was in here a few minutes ago.’
The Duke dined early, sitting down to table with the Prince of Orange and the various members of his staff. At three o’clock a despatch was brought in for the Prince, from Braine-le-Comte. It was from Constant, containing a report received from General Behr at Mons, just after the Prince’s departure from his headquarters. The 2nd Prussian Brigade of Ziethen’s 1st Corps had been attacked early that morning, and alarm guns fired all along the line. The attack seemed to be directed on Charleroi.
The Duke ran his eye over the despatch. ‘H’m! Sent off at 9.30, I see. Doesn’t tell us much.’
‘Behr had it from General Steinmetz, through Van Merlen,’ said the Prince. ‘That would put the attack in the small hours, for Steinmetz’s despatch you see, was sent off from Fontaine-l’Evêque. Sir, do you think—?’
‘Don’t think anything,’ said his lordship. ‘I shall hear from Grant presently.’
At four o’clock Müffling came in with a despatch from General Ziethen, which was dated 9 am from Charleroi. It contained the brief information that the Prussians had been engaged since 4 am. Thuin had been captured by the French, and the Prussian outposts driven back. General Ziethen hoped the Duke would concentrate his army on Nivelles, seven miles to the west of the main Charleroi-Brussels chaussée.
The Duke remained for some moments deep in thought. Müffling presently said: ‘How will you assemble your army, sir?’
The Duke replied in his decided way: ‘I will order all to be ready for instant march, but I must wait for advice from Mons before fixing a rendezvous.’
‘Prince Blücher will concentrate on Ligny, if he has not already done so.’
‘If all is as General Ziethen supposes,’ said the Duke, ‘I will concentrate on my left wing the Corps of the Prince of Orange. I shall then be à portée to fight in conjunction with the Prussian Army.’
He gave back Ziethen’s despatch and turned away. It was evident to Müffling that he had no more to say, but he detained him for a moment with the question. When would he concentrate his army? The Duke repeated: ‘I must wait for advice from Mons.’
He spoke in
a calm voice, but a little while after Müffling had left the house he showed signs of some inward fret, snapping at Canning for not having immediately understood a trivial order. Canning came away with a rueful face, and enquired of Lord Fitzroy what had gone wrong.
‘No word from Grant,’ replied Fitzroy. ‘It’s very odd: he’s never failed us yet.’
‘Looks as though the whole thing’s nothing but a feint,’ remarked Fremantle. ‘Trust Grant to send word if there were anything serious on hand!’
This belief began to spread through the various offices: if Colonel Grant, who was the cleverest intelligence officer the army had ever had, had not communicated with Headquarters, it could only be because he had nothing of sufficient importance to report.
The afternoon wore on, with everyone kept at his post in case of emergency, but a general feeling over all that the affair would turn out to be a false alarm. Previous scares were recalled; someone argued that if Bonaparte had been in Paris on June 10th with the Imperial Guard, it was impossible for him yet to have reached the frontier.
At five o’clock a dragoon arrived from Braine-le-Comte with despatches for Lord Fitzroy. The Duke was in his office with Colonel de Lancey, but he broke off his conversation as Fitzroy came in, and barked out: ‘Well?’
‘Despatches from Sir George Berkeley, sir, enclosing reports from General Dörnberg, Baron Chassé, and Baron van Merlen.’
‘Dörnberg, eh?’ His lordship’s eye brightened. ‘Has he heard from Grant?’
‘No, sir,’ replied Fitzroy, laying the papers before him. ‘General Dörnberg’s letter, as your lordship will see, is dated only 9.30 am.’
‘Nine-thirty!’ An explosion seemed imminent; his lordship picked up the letters and read them with a cold eye and peevishly pursed lips. Dörnberg, at Mons, merely stated that he had found a picket of French Lancers on the Bavay road, and that the troops at Quivrain had been replaced by a handful of National Guards and Gendarmes. All the French troops appeared to be marching towards Beaumont and Philippeville.
An Infamous Army Page 26