War Zone

Chapter 16

Chapter 16

She would want many more, Rêve decided, but for the moment she had as many as she could carry. She went back to the house with her arms full, and as she did so she heard the sound of a horse's hoofs coming round the sweep of the drive to the front door.

Wondering who it could be, she came from the ter race to the front door of the house and saw to her astonishment a man wearing a coat and waistcoat of light blue with silver lace round the collar, dismount ing from a finely harnessed horse. He glanced at the front door as if looking for the bell rope.

Rêve went forward, her arms full of flowers. "You have a message for someone here?" she in

The man turned at the sound of her voice, saluted her respectfully, and she realised that he wore the livery of the Emperor's personal servants. "I have a communication, Mademoiselle, for the

Comtesse Rêve de Valmont."

"I am the Comtesse," Rêve said. "You may give it to me." He drew a red-sealed letter from his pocket and handed it over with a bow.

"From the Emperor, Madame," he said reverently. Rêve realised that to open the letter she must put down her flowers. She turned aside to lay them on the balustrade. It took her a moment or two to balance them securely, then she opened the letter. For a second she stared at it stupidly as if she could hardly take in its contents, then slowly the words penetrated her mind.

The Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte presents his compliments to the Comtesse Réve de Valmont and will honour her with his presence on the night of August 16th when he will be passing through St. Benis en route for Paris.

That was all! Rêve felt the words dance before her

eyes; then she saw that the seal bore the famous 'N' and knew it was no dream. For a moment she could hardly take in the full implications of what she had read. She could only think of the Duchess lying dead up

stairs, the many empty rooms below, the shaking hands

of old Jacques, the clumsy loutishness of Lili. Then she remembered Armand. He would be wait ing for her tonight at the Temple by the lake. With a sudden resolution she turned towards the messenger. "I much regret..." she began, but her voice died

away.

He had gone-gone while she had been reading the letter and she had not heard him go. There was now no question of a reply. The Emperor gave his commands and those who received them obeyed.

Rêve slipped out of the french windows into the garden. It was not yet eight o'clock and she knew that Armand would not be at the Temple until nine, but she felt as if the house was stifling her and she must escape into the fresh air.

All day she had listened to the wailing and lamenta tions of the servants, the professional condolences of the layers-out, the conventional soothing sympathy of the priest, and she had managed through it all to keep her own tears in check, her own grief under control. Now she felt as if she could bear no more.

In the Great Banqueting Hall, which had been stripped of all furniture, the Duchess lay in state. Her thin white hands, which had been kissed so ardently in her youth, were crossed on her withered breast and her face was curiously young again.

The blinds had been drawn, the windows shut and despite the height and size of the room the perfume of the flowers and the smell of the tallow candles arranged round the bier were almost overpowering.

For hours Rêve had knelt at her Great-Aunt's side in prayer but she had felt that it would be wiser to pray for herself. The old lady had escaped from the difficulties, tribulations and uncertainties of life on earth. Those who were left behind would not be so fortunate.

Yet it was impossible to think or wish that the Duch ess should be at rest. Despite her age, she had been so vital and alert and she had enjoyed living with a pos sessive emotion which was at times almost fiercely vehe ment, as if she were afraid she might miss one second of experience. Her whole eighty-five years on earth had been an ex citing adventure and a turbulent one, and in the after world she would given the choice-ask only more ad ventures and excitement rather than eternal rest of an uneventual peace.

The Priest had made all the arrangements for the funeral. The Duchess was to be buried in the de Val mont vault situated in the little churchyard which, overgrown and neglected, had once been the treasured pride of the village.

A beautiful grey stone edifice of the Renaissance period, the church had been one of the finest master pieces of Christian architecture in France; but now it lay half ruined, its stained-glass windows broken, its aisle empty of the elaborately carved oak pews.

The sacred vessels, some of them of great antiquity and almost priceless, had been stolen or smashed. The vestments and altar cloths had been torn into shreds or used for floor covering.

Nevertheless, the doors were tentatively open again, as were the doors of many other churches in France, and the Curé, a timid, anxious-faced man who always seemed to be anticipating trouble, spent many weary hours trying to erase from the reredos the words "The Temple of Reason" which had been splashed there in brilliant red paint by the terrorists.

But what was missing more obviously than the trea sures stolen or ancient monuments defaced and broken

was a congregation. A few elderly people trickled into the services, occa sionally a lovesick girl or a man in trouble with the authorities would sneak in through a side entrance with almost a shamefaced air to kneel in the shadows or hurriedly light a candle before some famed saint.

There was in fact an apologetic, shifty-eyed atmos phere about the church-goers as if they were secretly ashamed of an inner weakness rather than elated by the resuscitation of their religion.