The Long Night | Page 8

polished and gleaming, with long rows of pewter ware. Two
doors stood opposite the entrance and appeared to lead--for one of them
stood open--to a couple of closets: bedrooms they could hardly be
called, yet in one of them Claude knew that his father had slept. And
his heart warmed to it.
The house was still; the room was somewhat dark, for the windows
were low and long, strongly barred, and shaded by the trees, through
the cool greenery of which the light filtered in. The young man stood a
moment, and hearing no footstep or movement wondered what he
should do. At length he ventured to the door of the staircase and,
opening it, coughed. Still no one answered or came, and unwilling to
intrude farther he turned about and waited on the hearth. In a corner
behind the settle he noticed two half pikes and a long-handled sword;
on the seat of the settle itself lay a thin folio bound in stained sheepskin.
A log smouldered on the hearth, and below the great black pot which
hung over it two or three pans and pipkins sat deep among the white
ashes. Save for these there was no sign in the room of a woman's hand
or use. And he wondered. Certainly the young man who had departed
so hurriedly had said it was Madame Royaume's. There could be no
mistake.
Well, he would go and come again. But even as he formed the
resolution, and turned towards the outer door--which he had left
open--he heard a faint sound above, a step light but slow. It seemed to
start from the uppermost floor of all, so long was it in descending; so
long was it before, waiting on the hearth cap in hand, he saw a shadow
darken the line below the staircase door. A second later the door
opened and a young girl entered and closed it behind her. She did not

see him; unconscious of his presence she crossed the floor and shut the
outer door.
There was a something in her bearing which went to the heart of the
young man who stood and saw her for the first time; a depression, a
dejection, an I know not what, so much at odds with her youth and her
slender grace, that it scarcely needed the sigh with which she turned to
draw him a pace nearer. As he moved their eyes met. She, who had not
known of his presence, recoiled with a low cry and stared wide-eyed:
he began hurriedly to speak.
"I am the son of M. Gaston Mercier, of Chatillon," he said, "who
lodged here formerly. At least," he stammered, beginning to doubt, "if
this be the house of Madame Royaume, he lodged here. A young man
who met me at the door said that Madame lived here, and had a room."
"He admitted you? The young man who went out?"
"Yes."
She gazed hard at him a moment, as if she doubted or suspected him.
Then, "We have no room," she said.
"But you will have one to-night," he answered
"I do not know."
"But--but from what he said," Claude persisted doggedly, "he meant
that his own room would be vacant, I think."
"It may be," she answered dully, the heaviness which surprise had lifted
for a moment settling on her afresh. "But we shall take no new lodgers.
Presently you would go," with a cold smile, "as he goes to-day."
"My father lodged here three years," Claude answered, raising his head
with pride. "He did not go until he returned to France. I ask nothing
better than to lodge where my father lodged. Madame Royaume will
know my name. When she hears that I am the son of M. Gaston

Mercier, who often speaks of her----"
"He fell sick here, I think?" the girl said. She scanned him anew with
the first show of interest that had escaped her. Yet reluctantly, it
seemed; with a kind of ungraciousness hard to explain.
"He had the plague in the year M. Chausse, the pastor of St. Gervais,
died of it," Claude answered eagerly. "When it was so bad. And
Madame nursed him and saved his life. He often speaks of it and of
Madame with gratitude. If Madame Royaume would see me?"
"It is useless," she answered with an impatient shrug. "Quite useless, sir.
I tell you we have no room. And--I wish you good-morning." On the
word she turned from him with a curt gesture of dismissal, and
kneeling beside the embers began to occupy herself with the cooking
pots; stirring one and tasting another, and raising a third a little aslant at
the level of her eyes that she might peer into it the better. He lingered,
watching her, expecting her to turn.