But as with the rain at Waterloo, G.o.d had need of a tool for the furtherance of His will and it was Maurice de St. Genis whom He chose--Maurice who with his own words set the final seal to his destiny.

De Marmont's eyes as he was being carried over the threshold dwelt upon the graceful form of Crystal--clad all in white--all womanliness and gentleness now--her sweet face only faintly distinguishable in the gloom. St. Genis, whose nerves were still jarred with all that he had gone through to-day and irritated by Crystal's a.s.siduity beside the sick man, resented that last look of farewell which de Marmont dared to throw upon the woman whom he loved. An ungenerous impulse caused him to try and aim a last moral blow at his enemy:

"Come, Crystal," he said coldly, "the man has been better looked after than he deserves. But for your father's interference I should have wrung his neck like the cowardly brute that he was."

And with the masterful air of a man who has both right and privilege on his side, he put his arm round Crystal's waist and tried to draw her away, and as he did so he whispered a tender: "Come, Crystal!" in her ear.

De Marmont--who at this moment was taking a last fond look at the girl he loved, and was busy the while making plans for a happy future wherein Crystal would play the chief role and would console him for all disappointments by the magnitude of her love--de Marmont was brought back from the land of dreams by the tender whisperings of his rival. His own helplessness sent a flood of jealous wrath surging up to his brain.

The wild hatred which he had always felt for St. Genis ever since that awful humiliation which he had suffered at Brestalou, now blinded him to everything save to the fact that here was a rival who was gloating over his helplessness--a man who twice already had humiliated him before Crystal de Cambray--a man who had every advantage of caste and of community of sympathy! a man therefore who must be in his turn irretrievably crushed in the sight of the woman whom he still hoped to win!

De Marmont had no definite idea as to what he meant to do. Perhaps, just at this moment, the pale, intangible shadow of Reason had lifted up one corner of the veil that hid the truth from before his eyes--the absolute and naked fact that Crystal de Cambray was not destined for him. She would never marry him--never. The Empire of France was no more--the Emperor was a fugitive. To St. Genis and his caste belonged the future--and the turn had come for the adherents of the fallen Emperor to sink into obscurity or to go into exile.

Be that as it may, it is certain that in this fateful moment de Marmont was only conscious of an all-powerful overwhelming feeling of hatred and the determination that whatever happened to himself he must and would prevent St. Genis from ever approaching Crystal de Cambray with words of love again. That he had the power to do this he was fully conscious.

"Crystal!" he called, and at the same time ordered the bearers to halt on the doorstep for a moment. "Crystal, will you give me your hand in farewell?"

The young girl would probably have complied with his wish, but St. Genis interposed.

"Crystal," he said authoritatively, "your father has already called you.

You have done everything that Christian charity demands. . . ." And once more he tried to draw the young girl away.

"Do not touch her, man," called de Marmont in a loud voice, "a coward like you has no right to touch the hand of a good woman."

"M. de Marmont," broke in Crystal hotly, "you presume on your helplessness. . . ."

"Pay no heed to the ravings of a maniac, Crystal," interposed St. Genis calmly, "he has fallen so low now, that contemptuous pity is all that he deserves."

"And contempt without pity is all that you deserve, M. le Marquis de St.

Genis," cried de Marmont excitedly. "Ask him, Mademoiselle Crystal, ask him where is the man who to-day saved his life? whom I myself saw to-day on the roadside, wounded and half dead with fatigue, on horseback, with the inert body of M. de St. Genis lying across his saddle-bow. Ask him how he came to lie across that saddle-bow? and whether his English friend and mine, Bobby Clyffurde, did not--as any who pa.s.sed by could guess--drag him out of that h.e.l.l at Waterloo and bring him into safety, whilst risking his own life. Ask him," he continued, working himself up into a veritable fever of vengeful hatred, as he saw that St.

Genis--sullen and glowering--was doing his best to drag Crystal away, to prevent her from listening further to this awful indictment, these ravings of a lunatic half-distraught with hate. "Ask him where is Clyffurde now? to what lonely spot he has crawled in order to die while M. le Marquis de St. Genis came back in gay apparel to court Mlle.

Crystal de Cambray? Ah! M. de St. Genis, you tried to heap opprobrium upon me--you talked glibly of contempt and of pity. Of a truth 'tis I do pity you now, for Mademoiselle Crystal will surely ask you all those questions, and by the Lord I marvel how you will answer them."

He fell back exhausted, in a dead faint no doubt, and St. Genis with a wild cry like that of a beast in fury seized the nearest weapon that came to his hand--a heavy oak chair which stood against the wall in the corridor--and brandished it over his head. He would--had not Crystal at once interposed--have killed de Marmont with one blow: even so he tried to avoid Crystal in order to forge for himself a clear pa.s.sage, to free himself from all trammels so that he might indulge his l.u.s.t to kill.

"Take the sick man away! quickly!" cried Crystal to the stretcher bearers. And they--realising the danger--the awfulness of the tragedy which, with that clumsy weapon wielded by a man who was maddened with rage, was hovering in the air, hurried over the threshold with their burden as fast as they could: then out into the street: and Crystal seizing hold of the front door shut it to with a loud bang after them.

VI

Then with a cry that was just primitive in its pa.s.sion--savage almost like that of a lioness in the desert who has been robbed of her young--she turned upon St. Genis:

"Where is he now?" she called, and her voice was quite unrecognisable, harsh and hoa.r.s.e and peremptory.

"Crystal, let me a.s.sure you," protested Maurice, "that I have already done all that lay in my power. . . ."

"Where is he now?" she broke in with the same fierce intensity.

She stood there before him--wild, haggard, palpitating--a pa.s.sionate creature pa.s.sionately demanding to know where the loved one was. It seemed as if she would have torn the words out of St. Genis' throat, so bitter and intense was the look of contempt and of hatred wherewith she looked on him.

M. le Comte--very much upset and ruffled by all that he had heard--came out of his room just in time to see the stretcher-bearers disappearing with their burden through the front door, and the door itself closed to with a bang by Crystal. Truly his sense of decorum and of the fitness of things had received a severe shock and now he had the additional mortification of seeing his beautiful daughter--his dainty and aristocratic Crystal--in a state bordering on frenzy.

"My darling Crystal," he exclaimed, as he made his way quickly to her side and put a restraining hand upon her arm.

But Crystal now was far beyond his control: she shook off his hand--she paid no heed to him, she went closer up to St. Genis and once more repeated her ardent, pa.s.sionate query:

"Where is he now?"

"At the English hospital, I hope," said St. Genis with as much cool dignity as he could command. "Have I not a.s.sured you, Crystal, that I've done all I could? . . ."

"At the English hospital? . . . you hope? . . ." she retorted in a voice that sounded trenchant and shrill through the overwhelming pa.s.sion which shook and choked it in her throat. "But the roadside--where you left him . . . to die in a ditch perhaps . . . like a dog that has no home? . . .

where was that?"

"I gave full directions at the English hospital," he replied. "I arranged for an ambulance to go and find him . . . for a bed for him . . . I. . . ."

"Give me those directions," she commanded.

"On the way to Waterloo . . . on the left side of the road . . . close by the six kilometre milestone . . . the angle of the forest of Soigne is just there . . . and there is a meadow which joins the edge of the wood where they were making hay to-day. . . . No driver can fail to find the place, Crystal . . . the ambulance. . . ."

But now she was no longer listening to him. She had abruptly turned her back on him and made for the door. Her father interposed.

"What do you want to do, Crystal?" he said peremptorily.

"Go to him, of course," she said quietly--for she was quite calm now--at any rate outwardly--strong and of set purpose.

"But you do not know where he is."

"I'll go to the English hospital first . . . father, dear, will you let me pa.s.s?"

"Crystal," said M. le Comte firmly, as he stood his ground between his daughter and the door, "you cannot go rushing through the streets of Brussels alone--at this hour of the night--through all the soldiery and all the drunken rabble."

"He is dying," she retorted, "and I am going to find him. . . ."

"You have taken leave of your senses, Crystal," said the Comte sternly.

"You seem to have forgotten your own personal dignity. . . ."

"Father! let me go!" she demanded--for she had tried to measure her physical strength against his, and he was holding her wrists now whilst a look of great anger was on his face.

"I tell you, Crystal," he said, "that you cannot go. I will do all that lies in my power in the matter: I promise you: and Maurice," he added harshly, "if he has a spark of manhood left in him will do his best to second me . . . but I cannot allow my daughter to go into the streets at this hour of the night."

"But you cannot prevent your sister from doing as she likes," here broke in a tart voice from the back of the corridor. "Crystal, child! try and bear up while I run to the English hospital first and, if necessary, to the English doctor afterwards. And you, Monsieur my brother, be good enough to allow Jeanne to open the door for me."

And Madame la d.u.c.h.esse d'Agen in bonnet and shawl, helpful and practical, made her way quietly to the door, preceded by faithful Jeanne. With a cry of infinite relief--almost of happiness--Crystal at last managed to disengage herself from her father's grasp and ran to the old woman: "_Ma tante_," she said imploringly, "take me with you . . .

if I do not go to find him now . . . at once . . . my heart will break."

M. le Comte shrugged his shoulders and stood aside. He knew that in an argument with his sister, he would surely be worsted: and there was a look in Madame's face which, even in this dim twilight, he knew how to interpret. It meant that Madame would carry out her programme just as she had stated it, and that she would take Crystal with her--with or without the father's consent. So, realising this, M. le Comte had but one course left open to him and that was to safeguard his own dignity by making the best of this situation--of which he still highly disapproved.

"Well, my dear Sophie," he said, "I suppose if you insist on having your way, you must have it: though what the women of our rank are coming to nowadays I cannot imagine. At the same time I for my part must insist that Crystal at least puts on a bonnet and shawl and does not career about the streets dressed like a kitchen wench."

"Crystal," whispered Madame, who was nothing if not practical, "do as your father wishes--it will save a lot of argument and save time as well."