These Old Shades

“Ah, I see well! It is an elopement! Now I will tell you, mademoiselle, that I do not——”

“But no!” Leonie said. “It is that the—the man who pursues us stole me from the house of Monseigneur le Duc, and he drugged me, and brought me to France, and I think he would have killed me. But Milor’ Rupert came swiftly, and our coach lost a wheel, and I slipped out, and ran and ran and ran! Then milor’ came, and the man who stole me fired at him, and—and that is all!”

The landlord was incredulous.

“Voyons, what tale is this you tell me?”

“It is quite true,” sighed Leonie, “and when Monseigneur comes you will see that it is as I say. Oh please, you must help us!”

The landlord was not proof against those big, beseeching eyes.

“Well, well!” he said. “You are safe here, and Hector is discreet.”

“And you won’t let—that man—take us?”

The landlord blew out his cheeks.

“I am master here,” he said. “And I say that you are safe. Hector shall ride to Le Havre for a surgeon, but as for this talk of Ducs!” He shook his head indulgently, and sent a wide-eyed serving maid to fetch Madame, and some linen.

Madame came swiftly, a woman as large about as her husband, but comely withal. Madame cast one glance at Lord Rupert, and issued sharp orders, and began to rend linen. Madame would listen to nobody until she had tightly bound my Lord Rupert.

“He, le beau!” she said. “What wickedness! That goes better now.” She laid a plump finger to her lips, and stood billowing, her other hand on her hip. “He must be undressed,” she decided. “Jean, you will find a nightshirt.”

“Marthe,” interposed her husband. “This boy is a lady!”

“Quel horreur!” remarked Madame placidly. “Yes, it is best that we undress him, le pauvre!” She turned, and drove the peeping maid out, and Leonie with her, and shut the door on them.

Leonie wandered down the stairs and went out into the yard. Hector was already gone on his way to Le Havre; there was no one in sight, so Leonie sank wearily on to a bench hard by the kitchen window, and burst into tears.

“Ah, bah!” she apostrophized herself fiercely. “Bete! Imbecile! Lache!”

But the tears continued to flow. It was a damp, drooping little figure that met Madame’s eye when she came sailing out into the yard.

Madame, having heard the strange story from her husband, was properly shocked and wrathful. She stood with arms akimbo, and began severely:

“This is a great wickedness, mademoiselle! I would have you know that we——” She broke off, and went forward. “But no, but no, ma petite! There is nothing to cry about. Tais toi, mon chou! All will go well, trust Maman Marthe!” She enfolded Leonie in a large embrace, and in a few minutes a husky voice said, muffled:

“I am not crying!”

Madame shook with fat chuckles.

“I am not!” Leonie sat up. “But oh, I think I am very miserable, and I wish Monseigneur were here, for that man will surely find us, and Rupert is like one dead!”

“It is true then that there is a Duc?” Madame asked.

“Of course it is true!” said Leonie indignantly. “I do not tell lies!”

“An English Duc, alors? Ah, but they are of a wildness, these English! But thou— thou art French, little cabbage!”

“Yes,” said Leonie. “I am so tired I cannot tell you all now.”

“It is I who am a fool!” Madame cried. “Thou shalt to bed, mon ange, with some hot bouillon, and the wing of a fowl. That goes well, hein? ”

“Yes, please,” Leonie answered. “But there is Milor’ Rupert, and I fear that he will die!”

“Little foolish one!” Madame scolded. “I tell thee—moi qui te parle—that it is well with him. It is naught. A little blood lost; much weakness—and that is all. It is thou who art nigh dead with fatigue. Now thou shalt come with me.”

So Leonie, worn out with the terrors and exertions of the past two days, was tucked up between cool sheets, fed, crooned over, and presently left alone to sleep.

When she awoke, the morning sun streamed in at the window, and sounds of bustle came from the street below. Madame was smiling at her from the doorway.

She sat up and rubbed her eyes.

“Why—why it is morning!” she said. “Have I slept so long?”

“Nine of the clock, little sluggard. It is better now?”

“Oh, I am very well to-day!” Leonie said, and threw back the blankets. “But Rupert—the doctor——?”

“Doucement, doucement, said I not that it was naught? The doctor came when thou wert asleep, my cabbage, and in a little minute the bullet was out, and no harm done, by the grace of the good God. Milor’ lies on his pillows, and calls for food, and for thee.” Madame chuckled. “And when I bring him good broth he snatches the wig from his head, and demands red beef, as they have it in England. Depeches toi, mon enfant.”

Twenty minutes later Leonie went dancing into Rupert’s chamber, and found that wounded hero propped up by pillows, rather pale, but otherwise himself. He was disgustedly spooning Madame’s broth, but his face brightened at the sight of Leonie.

“Hey, you madcap! Where in thunder are we now?”

Leonie shook her head.

“That I do not know,” she confessed. “But these people are kind, n’est-ce pas? ”

“Deuced kind,” Rupert agreed, then scowled. “That fat woman won’t bring me food, and I’m devilish hungry. I could eat an ox, and this is what she gives me!”

“Eat it!” Leonie commanded. “It is very good, and an ox is not good at all. Oh, Rupert, I feared you were dead!”

“Devil a bit!” said Rupert cheerfully. “But I’m as weak as a rat, confound it. Stap me if I know what we’re at, the pair of us! What happened to you? And why by all that’s queer did Saint-Vire run off with you?”

“I do not know. He gave me an evil drug, and I slept for hours and hours. He is a pig-person. I hate him. I am glad that I bit him, and threw the coffee over him.”

“Did you, b’gad? Blister me if I ever met such a lass! I’ll have Saint-Vire’s blood for this, see if I don’t!” He wagged his head solemnly, and applied himself to the broth. “Here am I chasing you to God knows where, with never a sou in my pocket, nor a sword at my side, and the landlord’s hat on my head! And what they’ll be thinking at home the Lord knows! I don’t!”

Leonie curled herself up on the bed, and was requested not to sit on his lordship’s feet. She shifted her position a little, and related her adventures. That done, she demanded to know what had befallen Rupert.

“Blessed if I know!” said Rupert. “I went haring after you as far as the village, and learned the way you went. So I got me a horse, and set off for Portsmouth. But the luck was against me, so it was! You’d set sail an hour since, and the only boat leaving the harbour was a greasy old tub—well, well! What did I do then? ’Pon my soul I almost forget! No, I have it! I went off to sell the horse. Twenty meagrely guineas was all he fetched, but a worse ——”

“Sold one of Monseigneur’s horses?” exclaimed Leonie.

“No, no ’twas a brute I got at the blacksmith’s, owned by—burn it, what’s the fellow’s name—Manvers!”

“Oh, I see!” said Leonie, relieved. “Go on. You did very well, Rupert!”

“Not so bad, was it?” said Rupert modestly. “Well, I bought a passage on the old tub, and we got in at Le Havre at one, or thereabouts.”

“We did not leave Le Havre until two! He thought you would not follow, and he said that he was safe enough