CHAPTER XLVI

"What is that for?" asked the child, pointing. Detricand put the watch

to the child's ear. "It's to keep time. Listen. Do you hear it-tic-

tic, tic-tic?"'

The child nodded his head gleefully, and his big eyes blinked with

understanding. "Doesn't it ever stop?" he asked.

"This watch never stops," replied Detricand. "But there are plenty of

watches that do."

"I like watches," said the child sententiously.

"Would you like this one?" asked Detricand.

The child drew in a gurgling breath of pleasure. "I like it. Why

doesn't mother have a watch?"

The man did not answer the last question. "You like it?" he said again,

and he nodded his head towards the little fellow. "H'm, it keeps good

time, excellent time it keeps," and he rose to meet the child's mother,

who having just entered the room, stood looking at them. It was Guida.

She had heard the last words, and she glanced towards the watch

curiously. Detricand smiled in greeting, and said to her: "Do you

remember it?" He held up the watch.

She came forward eagerly. "Is it--is it that indeed, the watch that the

dear grandpethe--?"

He nodded and smiled. "Yes, it has never once stopped since the moment

he gave it me in the Vier-Marchi seven years ago. It has had a charmed

existence amid many rough doings and accidents. I was always afraid of

losing it, always afraid of an accident to it. It has seemed to me that

if I could keep it things would go right with me, and things come out

right in the end. Superstition, of course, but I lived a long time in

Jersey. I feel more a Jerseyman than a Frenchman sometimes."

Although his look seemed to rest but casually on her face, it was evident

he was anxious to feel the effect of every word upon her, and he added:

"When the Sieur de Mauprat gave me the watch he said, 'May no time be ill

spent that it records for you.'"

"Perhaps he knows his wish was fulfilled," answered Guida.

"You think, then, that I've kept my promise?"

"I am sure he would say so," she replied warmly.

"It isn't the promise I made to him that I mean, but the promise I made

to you."

She smiled brightly. "You know what I think of that. I told you long

ago." She turned her head away, for a bright colour had come to her

cheek. "You have done great things, Prince," she added in a low tone.

He flashed a look of inquiry at her. To his ear there was in her voice a

little touch--not of bitterness, but of something, as it were, muffled or

reserved. Was she thinking how he had robbed her child of the chance of

heritage at Bercy? He did not reply, but, stooping, put the watch again

to the child's ear. "There you are, monseigneur!"

"Why do you call him monseigneur?" she asked. "Guilbert has no title

to your compliment."

A look half-amused, half-perplexed, crossed over Detricand's face. "Do

you think so?" he said musingly. Stooping once more, he said to the

child: "Would you like the watch?" and added quickly, "you shall have it

when you're grown up."

"Do you really mean it?" asked Guida, delighted; "do you really mean to

give him the grandpethe's watch one day?"

"Oh yes, at least that--one day. But I have something more," he added

quickly--" something more for you;" and he drew from his pocket a

miniature set in rubies and diamonds. "I have brought you this from the

Duc de Mauban--and this," he went on, taking a letter from his pocket,

and handing it with the gift. "The Duke thought you might care to have

it. It is the face of your godmother, the Duchess Guidabaldine."

Guida looked at the miniature earnestly, and then said a little

wistfully: "How beautiful a face--but the jewels are much too fine for

me! What should one do here with rubies and diamonds? How can I thank

the Duke!"

"Not so. He will thank you for accepting it. He begged me to say--as

you will find by his letter to you--that if you will but go to him upon a

visit with this great man here"--pointing to the child with a smile--

"he will count it one of the greatest pleasures of his life. He is too

old to come to you, but he begs you to go to him--the Chevalier, and you,

and Guilbert here. He is much alone now, and he longs for a little of

that friendship which can be given by but few in this world. He counts

upon your coming, for I said I thought you would."

"It would seem so strange," she answered, "to go from this cottage of my

childhood, to which I have come back in peace at last--from this kitchen,

to the chateau of the Duc de Mauban."

"But it was sure to come," he answered. "This kitchen to which I come

also to redeem my pledge after seven years, it belongs to one part of

your life. But there is another part to fulfil,"--he stooped and passed

his hands over the curls of the child," and for your child here you

should do it."

"I do not find your meaning," she said after a moment's deliberation.

"I do not know what you would have me understand."

"In some ways you and I would be happier in simple surroundings," he

replied gravely, "but it would seem that to play duly our part in the

world, we must needs move in wider circles. To my mind this kitchen is

the most delightful spot in the world. Here I took a fresh commission of

life. I went out, a sort of battered remnant, to a forlorn hope; and now

I come back to headquarters once again--not to be praised," he added in

an ironical tone, and with a quick gesture of almost boyish shyness--

"not to be praised; only to show that from a grain of decency left in a

man may grow up some sheaves of honest work and plain duty."

"No, it is much more than that, it is much, much more than that," she

broke in.

"No, I am afraid it is not," he answered; "but that is not what I wished

to say. I wished to say that for monseigneur here--"

A little flash of anger came into her eyes. He is no monseigneur, he is

Guilbert d'Avranche," she said bitterly. "It is not like you to mock my

child, Prince. Oh, I know you mean it playfully," she hurriedly added,

"but--but it does not sound right to me."

"For the sake of monseigneur the heir to the duchy of Bercy," he added,

laying his hand upon the child's head, "these things your devout friends

suggest, you should do, Princess."

Her clear unwavering eye looked steadfastly at him, but her face turned

pale.

"Why do you call him monseigneur the heir to the duchy of Bercy?" she

said almost coldly, and with a little fear in her look too.

"Because I have come here to tell you the truth, and to place in your

hands the record of an act of justice."

Drawing from his pocket a parchment gorgeous with seals, he stooped, and

taking the hands of the child, he placed it in them. "Hold it tight,

hold it tight, my little friend, for it is your very own," he said to the

child with cheerful kindliness. Then stepping back a little, and looking

earnestly at Guida, he added with a motion of the hand towards the child:

"You must learn the truth from him."

"Oh, what can you mean--what can you mean?" she exclaimed. Dropping

upon her knees, and running an arm round the child, she opened the

parchment and read.

"What--what right has he to this?" she cried in a voice of dismay.

"A year ago you dispossessed his father from the duchy. Ah, I do not

understand it! You--only you are the Duc de Bercy."

Her eyes were shining with a happy excitement and tenderness. No such

look had been in them for many a day. Something that had long slept was

waking in her, something long voiceless was speaking. This man brought

back to her heart a glow she had never thought to feel again, the glow of

the wonder of life and of a girlish faith.

"I am only Detricand of Vaufontaine," he answered. "What, did you--could

you think that I would dispossess your child? His father was the adopted

son of the Duc de Bercy. Nothing could wipe that out, neither law nor

nations. You are always Princess Guida, and your child is always Prince

Guilbert d'Avranche--and more than that."

His voice became lower, his war-beaten face lighted with that fire and

force which had made him during years past a figure in the war records of

Europe.

"I unseated Philip d'Avranche," he continued, "because he acquired the

duchy through--a misapprehension; because the claims of the House of

Vaufontaine were greater. We belonged; he was an alien. He had a right

to his adoption, he had no right to his duchy--no real right in the

equity of nations. But all the time I never forgot that the wife of

Philip d'Avranche and her child had rights infinitely beyond his own.

All that he achieved was theirs by every principle of justice. My plain

duty was to win for your child that succession belonging to him by all

moral right. When Philip d'Avranche was killed, I set to work to do for

your child what had been done by another for Philip d'Avranche. I have

made him my heir. When he is of age I shall abdicate from the duchy in

his favour. This deed, countersigned by the Powers that dispossessed his

father, secures to him the duchy when he is old enough to govern."

Guida had listened like one in a dream. A hundred feelings possessed

her, and one more than all. She suddenly saw all Detricand's goodness to

her stretch out in a long line of devoted friendship, from this day to

that far-off hour seven years before, when he had made a vow to her--

kept how nobly! Devoted friendship--was it devoted friendship alone,

even with herself? In a tumult of emotions she answered him hurriedly.

"No, no, no, no! I cannot accept it. This is not justice, this is a

gift for which there is no example in the world's history."

"I thought it best," he went on quietly, "to govern Bercy myself during

these troubled years. So far its neutrality has been honoured, but who

can tell what may come! As a Vaufontaine it is my duty to see that

Bercy's interests are duly protected amidst the troubles of Europe."

Guida got to her feet now and stood looking dazedly at the parchment in

her hand. The child, feeling himself neglected, ran out into the garden.

There was moisture in Guida's eyes as she presently said: "I had not

thought that any man could be so noble--no, not even you."

"You should not doubt yourself so," he answered meaningly. "I am the

work of your hands. If I have fought my way back to reputable life

again--"

He paused, and took from his pocket a handkerchief. "This was the gage,"

he said, holding it up. "Do you remember the day I came to return it to

you, and carried it off again?"

"It was foolish of you to keep it," she answered softly, "as foolish of

you as to think that I shall accept for my child these great honours."

"But suppose the child in after years should blame you?" he answered

slowly and with emphasis. "Suppose that Guilbert should say, What right

had you, my mother, to refuse what was my due?"

This was the question she had asked herself long, long ago. It smote her

heart now. What right had she to reject this gift of Fate to her child?

Scarcely above a whisper she replied: "Of course he might say that, but

how, oh, how should we simple folk, he and I, be fitted for these high

places--yet? Now that what I desired all these years for him has come,

I have not the courage."

"You have friends to help you in all you do," he answered meaningly.

"But friends cannot always be with one," she answered.

"That depends upon the friends. There is one friend of yours who has

known you for eighteen years. Eighteen years' growth should make a

strong friendship--there was always friendship on his part at least. He

can be a still stronger and better friend. He comes now to offer you the

remainder of a life for which your own goodness is the guarantee. He

comes to offer you a love of which your own soul must be the only judge,

for you have eyes that see and a spirit that knows. The Chevalier needs

you, and the Duc de Mauban needs you, but Detricand of Vaufontaine needs

you a thousand times more."

"Oh, hush--but no, you must not!" she broke in, her face all crimson,

her lips trembling.

"But yes, I must," he answered quickly. "You find peace here, but it is

the peace of inaction. It dulls the brain, and life winds in upon itself

wearily at the last. But out there is light and fire and action and the

quick-beating pulse, and the joy of power wisely used, even to the end.

You come of a great people, you were born to great things; your child has

rights accorded now by every Court of Europe. You must act for him. For

your child's sake, for my sake come out into the great field of life with

me--as my wife, Guida."

She turned to him frankly, she looked at him steadfastly, the colour in

her face came and went, but her eyes glowed with feeling.

"After all that has happened?" she asked in a low tone.

"It could only be because of all that has happened," he answered.

"No, no, you do not understand," she said quickly, a great pain in her

voice. "I have suffered so, these many, many years! I shall never be

light-hearted again. And I am not fitted for such high estate. Do you

not see what you ask of me--to go from this cottage to a palace?"

"I love you too well to ask you to do what you could not. You must trust

me," he answered, "you must give your life its chance, you must--"

"But listen to me," she interjected with breaking tones; "I know as

surely as I know--as I know the face of my child, that the youth in me is

dead. My summer came--and went--long ago. No, no, you do not

understand--I would not make you unhappy. I must live only to make my

child happy. That love has not been marred."

"And I must be judge of what is for my own happiness. And for yours--if

I thought my love would make you unhappy for even one day, I should not

offer it. I am your lover, but I am also your friend. Had it not been

for you I might have slept in a drunkard's grave in Jersey. Were it not

for you, my bones would now be lying in the Vendee. I left my peasants,

I denied myself death with them to serve you. The old cause is gone.

You and your child are now my only cause--"

"You make it so hard for me," she broke in. "Think of the shadows from

the past always in my eyes, always in my heart--you cannot wear the

convict's chain without the lagging footstep afterwards."

"Shadows--friend of my soul, how should I dare come to you if there had

never been shadows in your life! It is because you--you have suffered,

because you know, that I come. Out of your miseries, the convict's

lagging step, you say? Think what I was. There was never any wrong in

you, but I was sunk in evil depths of folly--"

"I will not have you say so," she interrupted; "you never in your life

did a dishonourable thing."

"Then again I say, trust me. For, on the honour of a Vaufontaine,

I believe that happiness will be yours as my wife. The boy, you see how

he and I--"

"Ah, you are so good to him!"

"You must give me chance and right to serve him. What else have you or I

to look forward to? The honours of this world concern us little. The

brightest joys are not for us. We have work before us, no rainbow

ambitions. But the boy--think for him---" he paused.

After a little, she held out her hand towards him. "Good-bye," she said

softly.

"Good-bye--you say good-bye to me!" he exclaimed in dismay.

"Till--till to-morrow," she answered, and she smiled. The smile had a

little touch of the old archness which was hers as a child, yet, too, a

little of the sadness belonging to the woman. But her hand-clasp was

firm and strong; and her touch thrilled him. Power was there, power with

infinite gentleness. And he understood her; which was more than all.

He turned at the door. She was standing very still, the parchment with

the great seals yet in her hand. Without speaking, she held it out to

him, as though uncertain what to do with it.

As he passed through the doorway he smiled, and said:

"To-morrow--to-morrow!"

EPILOGUE

St. John's Eve had passed. In the fields at Bonne-Nuit Bay the "Brow-

brow! ben-ben!" of the Song of the Cauldron had affrighted the night;

riotous horns, shaming the blare of a Witches' Sabbath, had been blown

by those who, as old Jean Touzel said, carried little lead under their

noses. The meadows had been full of the childlike islanders welcoming in

the longest day of the year. Mid-summer Day had also come and gone, but

with less noise and clamour, for St. John's Fair had been carried on with

an orderly gaiety--as the same Jean Touzel said, like a sheet of music.

Even the French singers and dancers from St. Malo had been approved in

Norman phrases by the Bailly and the Jurats, for now there was no longer

war between England and France, Napoleon was at St. Helena, and the

Bourbons were come again to their own.

It had been a great day, and the roads were cloudy with the dust of Mid-

summer revellers going to their homes. But though some went many stayed,

camping among the booths, since the Fair was for tomorrow and for other

to-morrows after. And now, the day's sport being over, the superstitious

were making the circle of the rock called William's Horse in Boulay Bay,

singing the song of William, who, with the fabled sprig of sacred

mistletoe, turned into a rock the kelpie horse carrying him to death.

There was one boat, however, which putting out into the Bay did not bear

towards William's Horse, but, catching the easterly breeze, bore away

westward towards the point of Plemont. Upon the stern of the boat was

painted in bright colours, Hardi Biaou. "We'll be there soon after

sunset," said the grizzled helmsman, Jean Touzel, as he glanced from the

full sail to the setting sun.

Neither of his fellow-voyagers made reply, and for a time there was

silence, save for the swish of the gunwale through the water. But at

last Jean said:

"Su' m'n ame, but it is good this, after that!" and he jerked his head

back towards the Fair-ground on the hill. "Even you will sleep to-night,

Dormy Jamais, and you, my wife of all."

Maitresse Aimable shook her great head slowly on the vast shoulders, and

shut her heavy eyelids. "Dame, but I think you are sleeping now--you,"

Jean went on.

Maitresse Aimable's eyes opened wide, and again she shook her head.

Jean looked a laugh at her through his great brass-rimmed spectacles and

added:

"Ba su, then I know. It is because we go to sleep in my hut at Plemont

where She live so long. I know, you never sleep there."

Maitresse Aimable shook her head once more, and drew from her pocket a

letter.

At sight of it Dormy Jamais crawled quickly over to where the Femme de

Ballast sat, and, 'reaching out, he touched it with both hands.

"Princess of all the world--bidemme," he said, and he threw out his arms

and laughed.

Two great tears were rolling down Maitresse Aimable's cheeks.

"How to remember she, ma fuifre!" said Jean Touzel. "But go on to the

news of her."

Maitresse Aimable spread the letter out and looked at it lovingly. Her

voice rose slowly up like a bubble from the bottom of a well, and she

spoke.

"Ah man pethe benin, when it come, you are not here, my Jean. I take it

to the Greffier to read for me. It is great news, but the way he read so

sour I do not like, ba su! I see Maitre Damian the schoolmaster pass my

door. I beckon, and he come. I take my letter here, I hold it close to

his eyes. 'Read on that for me, Maitre Damian--you,' I say. O my good,

when he read it, it sing sweet like a song, pergui! Once, two, three

times I make him read it out--he has the voice so soft and round, Maitre

Damian there."

"Glad and good!" interrupted Jean. "What is the news, my wife? What is

the news of highnesss--he?"

Maitresse Aimable smiled, then she tried to speak, but her voice broke.

"The son--the son--at last he is the Duke of Bercy. E'fin, it is all

here. The new King of France, he is there at the palace when the child

which it have sleep on my breast, which its mother I have love all the

years, kiss her son as the Duke of Bercy."

"Ch'est ben," said Jean, "you can trust the good God in the end."

Dormy Jamais did not speak. His eyes were fastened upon the north, where

lay the Paternoster Rocks. The sun had gone down, the dusk was creeping

on, and against the dark of the north there was a shimmer of fire--a fire

that leapt and quivered about the Paternoster Rocks.

Dormy pointed with his finger. Ghostly lights or miracle of Nature,

these fitful flames had come and gone at times these many years, and now

again the wonder of the unearthly radiance held their eyes.

"Gatd'en'ale, I don't understand you--you!" said Jean, speaking to the

fantastic fires as though they were human.

"There's plenty things we see we can't understand, and there's plenty we

understand we can't never see. Ah bah, so it goes!" said Maitresse

Aimable, and she put Guida's letter in her bosom.

.......................

Upon the hill of Plemont above them, a stone taken from the chimney of

the hut where Guida used to live, stood upright beside a little grave.

Upon it was carved:

BIRIBI,

Fidele ami

De quels jours!

In the words of Maitresse Aimable, "Ah bah, so it goes."

FINIS

NOTE:

IT is possible that students of English naval history may find in the

life of Philip d'Avranche, as set forth in this book, certain

resemblances to the singular and long forgotten career of the young

Jerseyman, Philip d'Auvergne of the "Arethusa," who in good time became

Vice-Admiral of the White and His Serene Highness the Duke of Bouillon.

Because all the relatives and direct descendants of Admiral Prince Philip

d'Auvergne are dead, I am the more anxious to state that, apart from one

main incident, the story here-before written is not taken from the life

of that remarkable man. Yet I will say also that I have drawn upon the

eloquence, courage, and ability of Philip d'Auvergne to make the better

part of Philip d'Avranche, whose great natural fault, an overleaping

ambition, was the same fault that brought the famous Prince Admiral to a

piteous death in the end.

In any case, this tale has no claim to be called a historical novel.

JERSEY WORDS AND PHRASES

WITH THEIR EQUIVALENTS IN ENGLISH OR FRENCH

A bi'tot = a bientot.

Achocre = dolt, ass.

Ah bah! (Difficult to render in English, but meaning much the same as

"Well! well!")

Ah be! = eh bien.

Alles kedainne = to go quickly, to skedaddle.

Bachouar = a fool.

Ba su! = bien sur.

Bashin = large copper-lined stew-pan.

Batd'lagoule = chatterbox.

Bedgone = shortgown or deep bodice of print.

Beganne = daft fellow.

Biaou = beau.

Bidemme! = exclamation of astonishment.

Bouchi = mouthful.

Bilzard = idiot.

Chelin = shilling.

Ch'est ben = c'est bien.

Cotil = slope of a dale.

Coum est qu'on etes? }

Coum est qu'ou vos portest? } Comment vous portez-vous!

Couzain or couzaine = cousin.

Crasset = metal oil-lamp of classic shape.

Critchett = cricket.

Diantre = diable.

Dreschiaux = dresser.

E'fant = enfant.

E'fin = enfin.

Eh ben = eh bien.

Esmanus = scarecrow.

Es-tu gentiment? = are you well?

Et ben = and now.

Gache-a-penn! = misery me!

Gaderabotin! = deuce take it!

Garche = lass.

Gatd'en'ale! = God be with us!

Grandpethe = grandpere.

Han = kind of grass for the making of ropes, baskets, etc.

Hanap = drinking-cup.

Hardi = very.

Hus = lower half of a door. (Doors of many old Jersey houses were

divided horizontally, for protection against cattle, to let out the

smoke, etc.)

Je me crais; je to crais; je crais ben! = I believe it; true for you; I

well believe it!

Ma fe! }

Ma fistre! }= ma foi!

Ma fuifre! }

Mai grand doux! = but goodness gracious!

Man doux! = my good, oh dear! (Originally man Dieu!)

Man doux d'la vie! = upon my life!

Man gui, mon pethe! = mon Dieu, mon pere!

Man pethe benin! = my good father!

Marchi = marche.

Mogue = drinking-cup.

Nannin; nannin-gia! = no; no indeed!

Ni bouf ni baf } Expression of absolute negation, untranslatable.

Ni fiche ni bran }

Oui-gia! = yes indeed!

Par made = par mon Dieu.

Pardi! }

Pardingue! }= old forms of par Dieul

Pergui! }

Pend'loque = ragamuffin.

Queminzolle = overcoat.

Racllyi = hanging rack from the rafters of a kitchen.

Respe d'la compagnie! = with all respect for present company.

Shale ben = very well.

Simnel = a sort of biscuit, cup-shaped, supposed to represent unleavened

bread, specially eaten at Easter.

Soupe a la graisse = very thin soup, chiefly made of water, with a few

vegetables and some dripping.

Su' m'n ame = sur mon ame!

Tcheche? = what's that you say?

Trejous = toujours.

Tres-ba = tres bien.

Veille = a wide low settle. (Probably from lit de fouaille.) Also

applied to evening gatherings, when, sitting cross-legged on the

veille, the neighbours sang, talked, and told stories.

Verges = the land measure of Jersey, equal to forty perches. Two and a

quarter vergees are equivalent to the English acre.

Vier = vieux.

Vraic = a kind of sea-weed.

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It is not the broken heart that kills, but broken pride