"Does he know it, Jacques?""Yes, oh yes!""He knew before you were married?""Yes, always; he has been so good.""So good, and you his wife, and could deny his name! I do not understand you, Aline de Rochambeau."Aline flushed scarlet in the darkness. Her own name spoken thus seemed to set a bruise upon her heart."It was not that," she cried: "I do not know why I said it, but it was not to deny—him."Her voice sank very low, and something in it made Ange halt a moment and say:"Aline, do you love Jacques?"Aline's hand went to her breast."Yes," she said under her breath, and thought the whole wood echoed with the one soft word."And does he know that too?" The questioning voice had sunk again to gentleness."No, no—oh, no.""Poor child," said Agnes Desaix, and after that they spoke no more.CHAPTER XXIVBURNING OF THE CHÂTEAUMlle Marthe lay in the dusk frowning and knitting her brows until they made a straight dark line over her restless eyes. A sense of angry impotence possessed her and found expression in a continual sharp movement of head and hand; the stabbing physical pain evoked was sheer relief to the strained mind. Two days had now passed since the first expedition to the château, and every hour of them had seemed more heavily weighted with impending danger. Nothing would persuade Mme de Montenay to move, or Ange to leave her to her fate. Louise was tearful, and useless; Marguerite, a lonely child, terrified of the great shadowed rooms, and clinging eagerly to her friend;—a complication, in fact, which roused Mlle Marthe's anger more than all the rest, since even her resolution recoiled from the abandonment of a young girl, who had no share in Mme de Montenay's obstinacy. Marthe fretted, turned a little, groaned, and bit her lip.As the door opened she looked up sharply, but it was only Jeanne, who came to ask her if she should light the lamp, and got a snappish "No!" for answer."It is dark, Ma'mselle," she said."I will wait till they come in.""Eh—it 's queer weather, and a queer time of day to be out," muttered Jeanne sulkily."Madame is young; she needs exercise," said Marthe, prompted by something in the woman's tone."Ah, yes, exercise," said Jeanne in a queer voice, and she went out, shutting the door sharply. Mlle Marthe's thoughts kept tone with the darkening sky. Her eyes watched the door with an anxious stare. When at last Ange and Aline came in snow-sprinkled and warm, her temper was fretted to a sharp edge, and she spoke with quick impatience."Mon Dieu, how long you have been! If you must go, you must, but there is no occasion to stay and stay, until I am beside myself with wondering what has happened!"Ange threw off her wet cloak and bent to kiss her sister. "Oh, my dearest, has it been so long?" she said. "Why, I thought we were being so quick, and that you would commend us. We did not wait at all, only gave the food to Louise and came straight back. Has the pain been bad then, my poor darling? Have you wanted anything?"Marthe pushed her away with an angry jerk."What I want is a way out of this abominable situation," she exclaimed. "If you had any common-sense, Ange—the slightest instinct of self-preservation—but no, you will sacrifice all our lives to that wicked old woman, and then flatter yourself that you have done something to be proud of. Come here to die, has she? Heavens, she 'll outlive us all, and then go happy in the thought that she has contrived to do a little more mischief before the end!"Ange winced, but only said gently:"Dearest, don't.""There, Ange, I 've no patience! I tell you we are all on the brink of ruin. Madelon has been here.""Madelon? Ah, the dear child. It is so long since I have really seen her. I am sorry to have missed her. Was she well?"Mlle Marthe caught her sister's hand and pressed it until she cried out, "Marthe, you are hurting me!""Ange! Sometimes I could swear at you! For Heaven's sake think of yourself for a few moments, or if that is asking too much, think of Aline, think of me. Madelon came here because her father sent her!""Her father sent her! Marthe, dearest, don't—that hurts.""I mean it to. Yes, her father——""But why. I don't understand."Aline had been lighting the lamp. She looked up now, and the yellow flare showed the trouble in her face."Oh, ma tante," she breathed."Yes, child. Ange, wake up; don't you realise?""Mathieu suspects?" asked Aline quickly. "But how?""He saw you take the path to the château the other day. Saw, or thought he saw, a light in the west wing last night, and sent Madelon to find out how much we knew. A mischief-maker Mathieu, and a bad man,—devil take him.""Oh, Marthe, don't. Madelon,—Madelon is as true as steel.""Oh, yes, but mightily afraid of her father. She sat here with her round cheeks as white as curds, and cried, and begged me not to tell her anything;—as if I should be such a fool.""Ah, poor Madelon," said Ange, "she must not distress herself like that, it is so bad for her just now."Marthe ground her teeth."Ange, I won't have it—I won't. I tell you all our lives are at stake, and you discuss Madelon's health.""My dearest, don't be vexed; indeed, I am trying to think what can be done.""Now, Ange, listen to me. If you will go on with this mad business, there is only one thing to be done. I have thought it all out. They must do with as little as possible, and you must not go there oftener than once in four days. You will go at eleven o'clock at night when there is no one abroad, and Louise will meet you half-way and take the basket on. There must be no other communication of any sort: you hear me, Aline?""Yes," said Aline, "I think you are quite right.""That is always a consolation." Marthe's voice took a sarcastic tone. "Now, Ange, do you agree?""If you really think——""Why, yes, I do. Ange, I 'm a cross animal, but I can't see you throw your life away and not say a word. I 'm a useless cripple enough, but I have the use of my tongue. Will you promise?""Well—yes.""That's right. Now for goodness let's talk about something else. If there 's going to be trouble it will come, and we need n't go over and over it all before it does come. Aline, do, for the love of heaven, remember that I cannot bear the light in my eyes like that. Put the lamp over here, behind me, and then you can take a book and read aloud so as to give us all a chance of composing our minds."Aline waked late that night. All the surface calm in her had been broken up by the events of the last few days. The slight sprinkling of snow had ceased, but there was a high wind abroad, and as it complained amongst the stripped and creaking woods, it seemed to voice the yearning that strained the very fibres of her being.She stood at midnight and looked out. Very high and pale rode the moon, and the driving cloud wrack swept like shallow, eddying water across the one clear space of sky in which she queened it. All below was dense, dull, cloud mass, darkening to the hill slope, and the black sighing woodland. Thoughts drove in her brain, like the driving cloud. Sadness of life, imminence of death, shortness of love. She had seen an ugly side of ancestral pride in these two days, and suddenly she glimpsed a vision of herself grown old and grey, looking back along the interminable years to the time when she had sacrificed youth and love. Then it would be too late. Life was irrevocable; but now—now? She threw open her window and leaned far out, drawing the strong air into her lungs, whilst the wind caught her hair and spread it all abroad. The spirit of life, of youth, cried to her, and she stretched her arms wide and mingled her voice with its voice. "Jacques!" she called under her breath, "Jacques!" and then as suddenly she drew back trembling and hid her face in her cold hands.She did not know how the time passed after that, but when she looked up again there was a faint glow in the sky. She watched it curiously, thinking for a moment that it was the dawn, and then aware that morning must still be far away.A tinge of rose brightened the cloud bank over the hill, and at its edge the ether showed blue. Then quite suddenly a tongue of fire flared above the trees and sank again. As the flames rose a second time Ange Desaix was in the room."Aline! The château! It is on fire!" she cried. "Oh, mon Dieu, what shall we do?"They ran out, wrapped hastily in muffling cloaks, and as they climbed the hill Ange spoke in gasps."They must have seen it in the village before we did. All the world will be there. Oh, that poor child! God help us all!""Oh, come quickly!" cried Aline, and they took hands and ran. The slope once mounted, the path so dark a few hours back was illuminated. A red, unnatural dusk filled the wood, and against it the trees stretched great black groping arms. The sky was like the reflection from some huge furnace, and all the way the fire roared in the rising wind."How could it have happened? Do you think,—oh, do you suppose this is what she meant to do?" Aline asked once, and Ange gave a sort of sob as she answered:"Oh, my dear, God knows,—but I 'm afraid so," and then they pushed on again in silence.They came out of the bridle-path into the cypress walk that led to Madame's Italian garden. At a turn the flaming building came into view for the first time. South and east it burned furiously, but the west front, that which faced them, was still intact, though the smoke eddied about it, and a dull glare from the windows spoke of rooms beyond that were already in the grip of the flames. Between low hedges of box the two pressed on, and climbed the terrace steps.Here the heat drove to meet them full of stinging particles of grit. The hot blast dried the skin and stung the eyes. The wind blew strongly from the east, but every now and then it veered, and then the fire lapped round the corner and was blown out in long dreadful tongues, which licked the walls as if tasting them, and threw a crimson glare along the dark west wing. Great sparks like flashes of flame flew high and far, and the dense reek made breathing painful."Look!" said Aline, catching her companion by the arm, and pointing. From where they stood the broad south terrace was full in view, and the fire lighted it brilliantly. Below it, where the avenue ceased, was a small crowd of dark gesticulating figures, intent on the blazing pile."They can't see us," said Ange; "but come this way, here, where the statue screens us."They paused a moment, leaning against the pedestal where a white Diana lifted an arrow against the glare. Then both cried out simultaneously, for driven by a sudden gust the smoke wreaths parted, and for a moment they saw at a window above them a moving whiteness,—an arm thrust out, only to fall again, and hang with fatal limpness across the sill."Ah, it was Marguerite," cried Aline with catching breath. "I saw her face. Marguerite! Marguerite!""Hush!" said Mlle Ange. "It is no use calling. She has fainted. Thank God she came this way. There is a stair if I could only find it. Once I knew it well enough."As she spoke she hurried into the smoke, and Aline followed, gasping."Your cloak over your face, child, and remember you must not faint."How they gained the boudoir, Aline hardly knew, but she found herself there with the smoke all round, pressing on her like a solid thing, blinding, stinging, choking. Ahead of her Mlle Ange groped along the wall. Once she staggered, but with a great effort kept on, and at last stopped and pressed with all her strength.In the darkness appeared a darker patch, and then, just as Aline's throbbing senses seemed about to fail her, she felt her hand caught, she was pulled through a narrow opening, her feet felt steps, mounted instinctively, and her lungs drew in a long, long breath of relief, for here the smoke had hardly penetrated, and the air, though heavy, was quite fit to breathe. For a moment they halted and then climbed on. The stair went steeply up, wound to the left, and ceased. Then again Ange stood feeling for the catch with fingers that had known it well enough in the dead days. Now they hesitated, tried here and there, failed of the secret, and went groping to and fro, until Aline's blood beat in her throat, and she could have cried out with fear and impatience. The moment seemed interminable, and the smoke mounted behind them in ever-thickening whirls."It was here, mon Dieu, what has become of it? So many years ago, but I thought I could have found it blindfold. Réné showing me,—his hand on mine—ah, at last," and with that the murmuring voice ceased, and the panelling slipped smoothly back, letting in more smoke, to press like a nightmare upon their already labouring lungs. Through it the window showed a red square, against which was outlined a white, huddled shape. It was Marguerite, who lay just as she had fallen, head bowed, one hand thrust out, the other at her throat. Ange and Aline stood by her for a moment leaning from the window, and taking in what air they might, and then the confusion and the stumbling began once more, only this time they had a weight to carry, and could shield neither eyes nor lungs from the pervading smoke. Twice they stopped, and twice that dreadful roar of the fire, a roar that drowned even the heavy beat of their burdened pulses, drove them on again, until at last they stumbled out upon the terrace, and there halted, gasping terribly. The intolerable heat dripped from them in a black sweat, and for a while they crouched trembling in every limb. Then Ange whispered with dry lips:"We must go on. This is not safe."They staggered forward once more, and even as they did so there was a most appalling crash, and the flames rushed up like a pyramid to heaven, making all the countryside light with a red travesty of day. Urged by terror, and with a final effort, they dragged Marguerite down the steps, and on, until they sank at last exhausted under a cypress which watched the pool where the fountain played no more.In a minute or two Aline recovered sufficiently to wet the hem of her cloak and bathe Marguerite's face. This and the cold air brought her to with a shudder and a cry. She sat up coughing, and clung to Aline."Oh, save me, save me!""Chérie, you are saved.""And they are burnt. Oh, Holy Virgin, I shall see it always.""Don't talk of it, my dear!""Oh, I must. I saw it, Aline; I saw it! There was a little thread of fire that ran up Louise's skirt, like a gold wire. Oh, mon Dieu! They are burnt.""Madame?" asked Ange, very low."Yes, yes; and Louise, poor Louise! I was so cross with her last night; but I did n't know. I would n't have been if I had known. Oh, poor Louise!""Tell us what happened, my dear, if you can.""Oh, I don't know." Marguerite hid her face a moment, and then spoke excitedly, pushing back her dishevelled hair. "I woke up with the smoke in my throat, and ran in to la tante's room. She had n't gone to bed at all. There she was in her big chair, sitting up straight, Louise on her knees begging her to get up, and all between the boards of the floor there was smoke coming up, as if there were a great fire underneath.""Underneath! It began below, then?""Yes, Aline, she did it herself! She must have crept down and set light in ever so many places. Yes, it is true, for she boasted of it. 'Ange Desaix says I am the last of the Montenay. Very well, then; she shall see, and the world shall see, how Montenay and I will go together!' That is what she said, and Louise screamed, 'Save yourself, Ma'mselle!' But la tante nodded and said, 'Yes, if you have wings, use them, by all means.' It was like some perfectly horrid dream. I ran through the rooms to see if I could get down the stairs, but they were all in a blaze. Then I ran back again; but when I was still some way from the door I saw that the fire was coming up through the floor. Louise gave one great scream, but la tante just sat and smiled, and then the floor gave way, and they went down with a crash. Oh, Aline—Aline!""Oh, Marguerite, my dear—and you?"Marguerite shuddered."I ran across the corridor and into the farthest room, and the smoke came after me, and I fainted, and then you came and saved me.""Hush! there is some one coming," said Mlle Ange in a quick whisper.They crouched down and waited breathlessly. Then, after an agonised struggle, Marguerite coughed, and at once a dark figure bore down on them."Thank the Saints I have found you," said Madelon's voice.Aline sprang up."Madelon—you? How did you know?""Ah! Bah—I saw you when you crossed the terrace. I saw you were carrying some one. Is it Madame?""No, no; a girl—younger than we are. Oh, Madelon, you will help us?""Well, at least I won't harm you—you know that; but you are safe enough, so far, for no one else saw you. They were all watching to see the roof fall in over there to the right, and I should have been watching too, only that my cousin Anne had just been scolding me so for being there at all. She said my baby would have St. John's fire right across his face. She herself has a red patch over one eye, and only because her mother would sit staring at the embers. Well, I thought I would be prudent, so I bade Jean Jacques look instead of me, and turned my head the other way, and, just as the flames shot up, I saw you cross the terrace and go down the steps. And now, what are you going to do with Mademoiselle?"This most pertinent question took them all aback, and Marguerite looked up with round, bewildered eyes; she certainly had no suggestions to make. At last Mlle Ange said slowly:"She must come home with us.""Impossible! No, no, that would never do, dear Ma'mselle.""But there is nothing else to be done.""Oh, there must be. Why, you could not hide an infant in your house. Everything is known in the village,—and—I should not trust Jeanne overmuch.""Madelon! Jeanne? She has been with us a life-time.""Maybe, but she hates the Montenay more than she loves you and Mlle Marthe. Also, she is jealous of Madame here,—and—in fact, she has talked too much already.""Then what is to be done?" asked Ange distractedly. She was trembling and unnerved. That a man's foes could be they of his own household, was one of those horrible truths which now came home to her for the first time. "Jeanne," she kept repeating; "no, it is not possible that Jeanne would do anything to harm us."Madelon drew Aline aside."Jeanne is an old beast," she said frankly. "I always said so; but until the other day I did not think she was unfaithful. Now,—well, I only tell you that my father said she had given him 'valuable information.' What do you make of that, eh?""What you do," said Aline calmly."Well, then, what next?""What do you advise?""Seigneur! Don't put it on me. What is there to advise?"As she spoke, with a shrug of her plump shoulders, Marguerite came forward. In her white undergarment, with her brown hair loose and curling, and her brown eyes brimmed with tears, she looked like a punished child. Even the smuts on her face seemed to add somehow to the youth and pathos of her appearance."Oh, Aline," she said, with a half sob, "where am I to go? What am I to do?" And in a moment the mother in Madelon melted in her."There, there, little Ma'mselle," she said quickly, "there 's nothing to cry about. You shall come along with me, and if I can't give you as fine a bed as you had in this old gloomy place, at any rate it will be a safer one, and, please the Saints, you 'll not be burnt out of it.""No, no, Madelon, you mustn't," said Mlle Ange."And why not, chère Ma'mselle?""The danger—your father—your good husband. It would not be fair. I will not let you do what you have just said would be so dangerous.""Dangerous for you, but not for me. Who is going to suspect me? As to Jean Jacques, you need n't be afraid of him. Thank God he is no meddler, and what I do is right in his eyes.""Dear child, he is a good husband; but—but just now you should not have anxiety or run any risks."Madelon laughed, and then grew suddenly grave."Ah, you mean my baby. Why, you are just like Anne; but there, Ma'mselle, do you really think le bon Dieu would let my baby suffer because I tried to help poor little Ma'mselle here, who does n't look much more than a baby herself?"Ange kissed her impulsively."God bless you, my dear," she said. "You are a good woman, Madelon.""Well, then, it is settled. Here, take my cloak, Ma'mselle. What is your name? Ma'mselle Marguerite, then—no, not yours; it is much better that you should not come into the matter any more, Ma'mselle Ange, nor you, Madame. Ma'mselle Marguerite will put on my cloak and come along with me, and as quickly as possible, since Jean Jacques will be getting impatient.""Where is he, then?" asked Aline."Oh, yonder behind the big cypress. I left him there to keep a look-out and tell us if any one came this way. He has probably gone to sleep, my poor Jean Jacques. It took me a quarter of an hour to wake him, the great sleepy head. He had no desire to come, not he, and will be only too thankful to be allowed to go back to bed again.""Now, Ma'mselle, are you ready?"They went off together into the shadows, and Ange and Aline took their way home to remove the smoke and grime, and to tell Mlle Marthe the events of the night.CHAPTER XXVESCAPE OF TWO MADCAPS"Well, it is a mercy, only what's to happen next?" said Mlle Marthe in the morning."I don't know," said Aline doubtfully.Marthe caught her sister's hand."Now, Ange, promise me to keep out of it, and you, Aline, I require you to do the same. Madelon is a most capable young woman, and if she and Jean Jacques can't contrive something, yes, and run next to no risk in doing so, you may be sure that you won't do any better. The sooner the girl is got out of the place the better, and while she 's here, for Heaven's sake act with prudence, and don't go sniffing round the secret, like a dog with a hidden bone, until every one knows it's there.""My dearest, you forget we can't desert Madelon.""My dear Ange, you may be a good woman, but sometimes I think you 're a bit of a fool. Don't you see that Madelon is not in the least danger as long as you keep well away from her? Who does Mathieu suspect? Us. Well, and if you and Aline are always in Madelon's pocket, do you think he will put it all down to an interest in that impending infant of hers? He 's not such a fool,—and I wish to Heaven you weren't."This adjuration produced sufficient effect to make Mlle Ange pass Madelon on the road that very afternoon with no more than a dozen words on either side."Approve of me," she said laughingly on her return. "It was really very, very good of me, for there were a hundred things I was simply dying to say."Mlle Marthe was pleased to smile."Oh, you can be very angelic when you like, my Angel. Kindly remember that goodness is your rôle, and stick to this particular version of it.""Madelon says the poor child is rested. She has put her in the loft where she stored her winter apples.""Sensible girl. Now you would have given her the best bed, if it meant everybody's arrest next moment.""Oh, if it pleases you to say so, you may, but I 'm not really quite so foolish as you try to make me out. Mathieu thinks everyone was burnt.""Well, one hoped he would. For Heaven's sake keep out of the whole matter, and he 'll continue to think so.""Yes, I will. I see you are right, dearest. Jean Jacques has a plan. After a few days he thinks he could get her out of the place. Madelon would not tell me more.""Oho, Mademoiselle Virtue, then it was Madelon who was good, not you.""We were both good," asserted Ange demurely.After that there were no further confidences between Madelon and the ladies of the white house. If they met on the road, they nodded, passed a friendly greeting, and went each on her own way without further words.Ten days went by and brought them to the first week of March. It came in like the proverbial lamb, with dewy nights which sparkled into tender sunny days. The brushwood tangles reddened with innumerable buds; here and there in the hedgerow a white violet appeared like a belated snowflake, and in the undergrowth primrose leaves showed fresh and green. Aline gave herself up to these first prophecies of spring. She roamed the woods and lanes for hours, finding in every budded tree, in every promised flower, not only the sweetest memories of her childhood, but also, God knows what, of elusive beckoning hopes that played on the spring stirring in her blood, as softly as the Lent breeze, which brought a new blush to her cheek. One exquisite afternoon found her still miles from home. So many birds were singing that no one could have felt the loneliness of the countryside. She turned with regret to make her way towards Rancy, taking here a well-known and there an unfamiliar path. Nearer home she struck into the woods by a new and interesting track. It wandered a good deal, winding this way and that until she lost her bearings and had no longer any clear notion of what direction she was taking. Presently a sweetness met her, and with a little exclamation of pleasure she went on her knees before the first purple violets of the year. It seemed a shame to pick, but impossible to leave them, and by searching carefully she obtained quite a bunch, salving her conscience with the thought of what pleasure they would give Mlle Marthe, who seemed so much more suffering of late."It is the spring—it will pass," Ange said repeatedly.Aline walked on, violets in hand, wondering why the spring, which brought new life to all Nature, should bring—she caught herself up with a shiver—Death? Of course there was no question of death. How foolish of her to think of it, but having thought, the thought clung until she dwelt painfully upon it, and every moment it needed a stronger effort to turn her mind away. So immersed was she that she did not notice at all where she was going. The little path climbed on, pursued a tortuous way, and suddenly brought her out to the east of the château, and in full view of its ruined pile, where the blackened mass of it still smoked faintly, and one high skeleton wall towered gaunt and bare, its empty window spaces like the eyeless stare of a skull.The sun was behind it, throwing it into strong relief, and the sight brought back the sort of terror which the place had always had for Aline. She walked on quickly, skirting the ruins and keeping to the outer edge of the wide terraces, on her way to the familiar bridle-path, which was her quickest way home. When she came into the Italian garden she paused, remembering the nightmare of that struggle for Marguerite's life. The pool with its low stone rim reflected nothing more terrible than sunset clouds now, but she still shuddered as she thought how the smoke and flame had woven strange spirals on its clear, passive mirror. She stooped now, and dipped her violets in the water to keep them fresh. Her own eyes looked back at her, very bright and clear, and she smiled a little as she put up a hand to smooth a straying curl. Then, of a sudden she saw her own eyes change, grow frightened. A step sounded on the path behind her, and another face appeared in the pool,—a man's face—and a stranger's.Aline got up quickly and turned to see a tall young man in a riding-dress, who slapped his boot with a silver-headed cane and exclaimed gallantly:"Venus her mirror, no less! Faith, my lady Venus, can you tell me where I have the good fortune to find myself?"His voice was a deep, pleasant one, but it carried Aline back oddly to her convent days, and it seemed to her that she had heard Sister Marie Séraphine say, "Attention, then, my child."Then she remembered that Sister Marie Séraphine in religion was Nora O'Connor in the world, and realised that it was the kindly Irish touch upon French consonants and vowels which she had in common with this young man, who was surely as unlike a nun as he could be. She looked at him with great attention, and saw red unpowdered hair cut to a soldier's (or a Republican's) length, a face all freckles, and queer twinkling eyes, a great deal too light for his skin."Monsieur my cousin, or I 'm much mistaken," she said to herself, but aloud she answered:"And do you not know where you are then, Citizen?""I know where I want to be, but I hope I have n't got there," said the young man, coming closer."And why is that, Citizen?"He made a quick impatient gesture."Oh, a little less of the Citizen, my dear. I know I 'm an ugly devil, but do I look like a Jacobin?"Aline was amazed at his recklessness."Monsieur is a very imprudent person," she said warningly."Monsieur would like to know where he is," responded the young man, laughing.She fixed her eyes on him."You are at Rancy-les-Bois, Monsieur."He bit his lip, made a half turn, and indicated the blackened ruins above them."And this?""This is, or was, the Château de Montenay."In a minute all the freckles seemed to be accentuated by the pallor of the skin below. The hand that held the cane gripped it until the knuckles whitened. He stared a minute or two at the faintly rising vapour that told of heat not yet exhausted, and then said sharply:"When was it burned?""Ten days ago.""Any—lives—lost?""It is believed so," said Aline, watching him.He put his hand to his face a moment, then let it fall, and stood rigid, his queer eyes suddenly tragic, and Aline could not forbear any longer."Marguerite is safe," she cried quickly and saw him colour to the roots of his hair."Marguerite—mon Dieu! I thought she was gone!" and with that he sat down on the coping, put his head down upon his arms, and a long sobbing breath or two heaved his broad shoulders in a fashion that at once touched and embarrassed Aline.She drew nearer and watched uneasily, her own breathing a little quicker than usual. A woman's tears are of small account to a woman, but when a man sobs, it stirs in her the strangest mixture of pity, repulsion, gentleness, and contempt."She is quite safe," she repeated nervously, whereupon the young man raised his head, exclaiming in impulsive tones:"And a thousand blessings on you for saying it, my dear," whilst in the same moment he slipped an arm about her waist, pulled her a little down, and before she could draw back, had kissed her very heartily upon the cheek.It had hardly happened before she was free, and a yard away, with her head up, and a look in her eyes that brought him to his feet, flushing and bowing."I ask a thousand pardons," he stammered. "Indeed if it had been the blessed Saint Bridget herself that gave me that news, I 'd have kissed her, and meant no disrespect. For it was out of hell you took me, with the best word I ever heard spoken. You see, when I found Marguerite gone with that old mad lady, her aunt, I was ready to cut my throat, only I thought I 'd do more good by following her. Then when I saw these ruins, my heart went cold, till it was all I could do to ask the name. And when you said it, and I pictured her there under all these hot cinders—well, if you 've a heart in you, you 'll know what I felt, and the blessed relief of hearing she was safe. Would n't you have kissed the first person handy yourself, now?"He regarded her with such complete earnestness that Aline could hardly refrain from smiling. She bent her head a little and said:"I can understand that Monsieur le Chevalier did not know what he was doing."He stared."What, you know me?""And do you perhaps think that I go about volunteering information about Mlle de Matigny to every stranger I come across? Every one is not so imprudent as M. Desmond.""I 'll not deny my name, but that I 'm imprudent—yes, with my last breath."Aline could not repress a smile."Do you talk to all strangers as you did to me?" she inquired."Come, now, how do you think I got here?" he returned."I am wondering," she said drily."Well, it 's a simple plan, and all my own. When I see an honest face I let myself go, and tell the whole truth. Not a woman has failed me yet, and if I 've told the moving tale of my pursuit of Marguerite to one between this and Bâle, I 've told it to half a dozen."Aline gasped."Oh, it 's a jewel of a plan," he said easily, "and much simpler than telling lies. There are some who can manage their lies, but mine have a way of disagreeing amongst themselves that beats cock-fighting. No, no, it 's the truth for me, and see how well it 's served me. So now you know all about me, but I 've no notion who you are.""I am a friend of Marguerite's, fortunately," she said, "and, I believe, M. le Chevalier, that I am a cousin of yours."Mr. Desmond looked disappointed."My dear lady, it would be so much more wonderful if you were n't. You see my great-grandfather had sixteen daughters, besides sons to the number of eight or so, and between them they married into every family in Europe, or nearly every one. Marguerite is n't a cousin, bless her. Now, I wonder, would you be a grand-daughter of my Aunt Elizabeth, who ran away with her French dancing-master, in the year of grace 1740?"The blood of the Rochambeau rose to Aline's cheeks in a becoming blush, as she answered with rather an indignant negative."No?" said Mr. Desmond regretfully. "Well, then, a pity it is too, for never a one of my Aunt Elizabeth's descendants have I met with yet, and I 'm beginning to be afraid that she was so lost to all sense of the family traditions as to die without leaving any.""If she so far forgot," Aline began a little haughtily, and then, remembering, blushed a very vivid crimson, and was silent."Well, well, I 'm afraid she did," sighed Mr. Desmond; "and now I come to think of it you 'll be Conor Desmond's granddaughter, he that was proscribed, and racketed all over Europe. His daughter married a M. de—Roche—Roche——""Rochambeau, Monsieur. Yes, I was Aline de Rochambeau.""Was?" said Mr. Desmond curiously, and then fell to whistling."Oh, my faith, yes, I remember,—Marguerite told me," and there was a slight embarrassed pause which Desmond broke into with a laugh."After all, now, that kiss was not so out of place," he said, with a twinkle in his green eyes. "Cousins may kiss all the world over."His glance was too frank to warrant offence, and Aline answered it with a smile."With Monsieur's permission I shall wait until I can kiss Madame ma cousine," she said, and dropped him a little curtsey.Mr. Desmond sighed."I wish we were all well out of this," he said gloomily; "but how in the devil's name, or the saints' names, or any one else's name, we are to get out of it, I don't know. Well, well, the sooner it's tried the better; so where is Marguerite, Madame my cousin?"Aline considered."I can't take you to her without asking leave of the friend she is with," she said at last; "but if you will wait here I will go and speak to her, and come back again when we have talked things over. We shall have to wait till it is quite dark, and you 'll be careful, won't you?""I will," said Mr. Desmond, without hesitation. He kissed his hand to Aline as she went off, and she frowned at him, then smiled to herself, and disappeared amongst the trees, walking quickly and wondering what was to come next.At eleven o'clock that night a council of four sat in the apple loft at the mill. Marguerite, perched on a pile of hay, was leaning against Aline, who sat beside her. Every now and then she let one hand fall within reach of Mr. Desmond, who, reclining at her feet, invariably kissed it, and was invariably scolded for doing so. Madelon sat on the edge of the trap-door, her feet supported by the top rungs of the ladder which led to the barn below. She and Aline were grave, Marguerite pouting, and Mr. Desmond very much at his ease."But what plan have you?" Aline was asking."Oh, a hundred," he said carelessly.Marguerite pulled her hand away with a jerk."Then you might at least tell us one," she said."Ah, now I 'd tell you anything when you look at me like that," he said with fervour."Then, tell me. No, now,—at once."He sat up and extracted a paper from his waistcoat pocket. It set forth that the Citizen Lemoine and his wife were at liberty to travel in France at their pleasure."In France," said Aline."Why, yes, one can't advertise oneself as an emigré. Once on the frontier, one must make a dash for it,—it's done every day.""But it says his wife," objected Marguerite, "and I 'm not your wife.""And I 'm not Lemoine, but it does n't hurt my conscience to say I am,—not in the least," returned Mr. Desmond."But I can't go with you like that," she protested. "What would grandmamma have said?"Mr. Desmond gave an ironical laugh. "Your sainted grandmamma is past knowing what we do, and we 're past the conventions, my dear," he observed, but she only sat up the straighter."Indeed, Monsieur, you may be, but I 'm not. Why, there was Julie de Lérac, who escaped with her brother's friend. It was when I was in prison, and I heard what grandmamma and the other ladies said of her. Nothing would induce me to be spoken of like that.""But your life depends on it. Marguerite, don't you trust me?""Why, of course; but that has nothing to do with it.""But, my dearest child, what is to be done? You can't stay here, and we can't be married here, so the only thing to be done is to get away, and then we 'll be married as soon as your father will allow it. My aunt Judith's money has come in the very nick of time, for now we 'll be able to go back to the old place. Ah, you 'll love Ireland."Marguerite tapped with her foot."Why can't we be married now?" she said quickly.Madelon, who had been listening in silence, started and looked up, but did not speak."Impossible," said Mr. Desmond; and Aline whispered:"My dear, you could n't.""Why not? There is a priest here.""You could n't trust him. He has taken the oath to the Convention," said Aline."Well but—Madelon, you told me of him; tell them what you said. Do you think he would betray us?""How do I know?" said Madelon, with a frown. "I do not think so, but one never knows. It is a risk.""I don't mind the risk.""To us all," continued Madelon bluntly. "I am thinking of more than you, little Ma'mselle.""Who is this priest?" asked Desmond. "What do you know of him?""What I know is from my husband's cousin, Anne Pinel, who is his housekeeper. He took the oath, and ever since he has a trouble on his mind, and walks at night, sometimes all night long. At first Anne would get up and listen, and then she would hear groans and prayers, and once he called out: 'Judas! Judas! Judas!' so that she was frightened, and went back to her bed and put her hands over her ears. Now she takes no notice, she is so used to it.""There!" cried Marguerite. "Poor man, if he can torment himself in such a way he would not put a fresh burden on his conscience by betraying us. Besides, why should he? I have a beautiful plan.""Well?""We shall start at night; and first we will go to the priest's house, and I shall throw pebbles at his window. He will open, and I shall say, 'Mon père, here are two people who wish to be married.'"Yes! and he 'd want to know why?""Of course, and I shall say, 'Mon père, we are escaping for our lives, and we wish to be married because I am a jeune fille bien élevée, and my grandmamma would turn in her grave at the thought of my crossing France alone with ma fiancé; and then he will marry us, and we shall walk away again, and go on walking until we can't walk any more.""Marguerite, what folly!" cried Aline, and Madelon nodded her head."It's a beautiful plan!" exclaimed Mr. Desmond. He had his betrothed's hand in his once more, and was kissing it unrebuked. "My dear, we were made for each other, for it's a scheme after my own heart! Madame, my cousin, will you come with us?""Oh, yes, as chaperon, and then we needn't bother about getting married," said Marguerite, kissing her."That's not what I meant at all," observed Mr. Desmond reproachfully, and Aline was obliged to laugh."No, no, ma mie; not even to keep you out of so mad a scrape," she said, and Madelon nodded again."No, no," she echoed. "That would be a pretty state of affairs. There is Citizen Dangeau to be thought of. Deputies' wives must not emigrate."Aline drew away from Marguerite, and caught Madelon by the arm."What's to be done?" she asked."Why, let them go.""But the plan 's sheer folly."Madelon shrugged."Madame Aline," she said in a low voice, "look at them. Is it any use talking? and we waste time. Once I saw a man at a fair. There was a rope stretched between two booths, and he walked on it. Then a woman in the crowd screamed out, 'Oh, he will fall!' and he looked down at her, went giddy, and fell. He broke his leg; but if no one had called out he would not have fallen.""You mean?""It will be like walking on the rope for Monsieur and little Ma'mselle Marguerite, all the way until they get out of France. If they think they can do it,—well, they say God helps those who cannot help themselves, and perhaps they will get across safely; but if they get frightened, if they think of the danger, they will be like the man who looked down and grew giddy, and pouf!—it will be all over.""But this added risk——""I do not think there is much risk. The curé is timid; for his own sake he will say nothing. If Anne hears anything, she will shut her ears; and, Madame Aline, the great thing is for them to get away. I tell you, I am afraid of my father. He watches us. I do not like his eyes."She broke off, looking troubled; and Desmond stopped whispering to Marguerite and turned to them."Well, you good Madelon, we shall be off your mind to-morrow. Tell us where this curé lives; set us in the way, and we 'll be off as soon as may be. My dear cousin, believe me that frown will bring you lines ten years before they are due. Do force a smile, and wish us joy.""To-night!" exclaimed Aline."Yes, that's best," said Madelon decidedly. "Little Ma'mselle knows that she has been a welcome guest, but she 's best away, and that 's the truth. If we had n't been watched, Jean Jacques would have driven her out in the cart a week ago.""Watched! By whom?" Desmond's eyes were alert."By my father, Mathieu Leroux, the inn-keeper.""Ah! well, we 'll be away by morning—in fact we 'll be moving now. Marguerite is ready. Faith, now I 've found the comfort of travelling without mails, I 'm ready to swear I 'll never take them again.""I 'm not," said Marguerite, with a whimsical glance at her costume, which consisted of an old brown skirt of Madelon's, a rough print bodice, and a dark, patched cloak, which covered her from head to foot. They stole out noiselessly, Madelon calling under her breath to the yard dog, who sniffed at them in the darkness, and then lay down again with a rustle of straw.Afterwards Aline thought of the scene which followed as the most dreamlike of all her queer experiences. The things which she remembered most vividly were Marguerite's soft ripple of laughter, half-childish, half-nervous, as she threw a handful of pebbles at the curé's window, and the moonlight glinting on the pane as the casement opened. What followed was like the inconsequent and fantastic dramas of sleep.The explanations—the protests, the curé's voice ashake with timidity, until at last his fear of immediate discovery overbore his terror of future consequences, and he began to murmur the words which Aline had heard last in circumstances as strange, and far more terrifying. For days she wondered to herself over the odd scene: Desmond with his head bent towards his betrothed, and his deep voice muffled; and Marguerite pledging herself childishly—taking the great vows, and smiling all the time. Only at the very end she turned and threw her arms round Aline, holding her as if she would never leave go, and straining against her with a choked sob or two."No, no, I can't go—I can't!" she murmured, but Aline wrenched herself away."Marguerite, for God's sake!" she said. "It is too late,—you must go"; and as Desmond stepped between them Marguerite caught his arm and held it in a wild grip."Oh, you'll save me!" And for once Aline was thankful for his tone of careless ease——"My jewel, what a question! Why, we 're off on our honeymoon. 'T is a most original one. Well, we must go. Good-bye, my cousin," and he took Aline's hand in a grip that surprised her."I'll not forget what you've done," he said, and kissed it; and so, without more ado, they were gone, and Aline was alone in the chequered moonlight before the priest's house, where the closed window spoke of the haste with which M. le Curé withdrew himself from participation in so perilous an affair.
"Does he know it, Jacques?"
"Yes, oh yes!"
"He knew before you were married?"
"Yes, always; he has been so good."
"So good, and you his wife, and could deny his name! I do not understand you, Aline de Rochambeau."
Aline flushed scarlet in the darkness. Her own name spoken thus seemed to set a bruise upon her heart.
"It was not that," she cried: "I do not know why I said it, but it was not to deny—him."
Her voice sank very low, and something in it made Ange halt a moment and say:
"Aline, do you love Jacques?"
Aline's hand went to her breast.
"Yes," she said under her breath, and thought the whole wood echoed with the one soft word.
"And does he know that too?" The questioning voice had sunk again to gentleness.
"No, no—oh, no."
"Poor child," said Agnes Desaix, and after that they spoke no more.
CHAPTER XXIV
BURNING OF THE CHÂTEAU
Mlle Marthe lay in the dusk frowning and knitting her brows until they made a straight dark line over her restless eyes. A sense of angry impotence possessed her and found expression in a continual sharp movement of head and hand; the stabbing physical pain evoked was sheer relief to the strained mind. Two days had now passed since the first expedition to the château, and every hour of them had seemed more heavily weighted with impending danger. Nothing would persuade Mme de Montenay to move, or Ange to leave her to her fate. Louise was tearful, and useless; Marguerite, a lonely child, terrified of the great shadowed rooms, and clinging eagerly to her friend;—a complication, in fact, which roused Mlle Marthe's anger more than all the rest, since even her resolution recoiled from the abandonment of a young girl, who had no share in Mme de Montenay's obstinacy. Marthe fretted, turned a little, groaned, and bit her lip.
As the door opened she looked up sharply, but it was only Jeanne, who came to ask her if she should light the lamp, and got a snappish "No!" for answer.
"It is dark, Ma'mselle," she said.
"I will wait till they come in."
"Eh—it 's queer weather, and a queer time of day to be out," muttered Jeanne sulkily.
"Madame is young; she needs exercise," said Marthe, prompted by something in the woman's tone.
"Ah, yes, exercise," said Jeanne in a queer voice, and she went out, shutting the door sharply. Mlle Marthe's thoughts kept tone with the darkening sky. Her eyes watched the door with an anxious stare. When at last Ange and Aline came in snow-sprinkled and warm, her temper was fretted to a sharp edge, and she spoke with quick impatience.
"Mon Dieu, how long you have been! If you must go, you must, but there is no occasion to stay and stay, until I am beside myself with wondering what has happened!"
Ange threw off her wet cloak and bent to kiss her sister. "Oh, my dearest, has it been so long?" she said. "Why, I thought we were being so quick, and that you would commend us. We did not wait at all, only gave the food to Louise and came straight back. Has the pain been bad then, my poor darling? Have you wanted anything?"
Marthe pushed her away with an angry jerk.
"What I want is a way out of this abominable situation," she exclaimed. "If you had any common-sense, Ange—the slightest instinct of self-preservation—but no, you will sacrifice all our lives to that wicked old woman, and then flatter yourself that you have done something to be proud of. Come here to die, has she? Heavens, she 'll outlive us all, and then go happy in the thought that she has contrived to do a little more mischief before the end!"
Ange winced, but only said gently:
"Dearest, don't."
"There, Ange, I 've no patience! I tell you we are all on the brink of ruin. Madelon has been here."
"Madelon? Ah, the dear child. It is so long since I have really seen her. I am sorry to have missed her. Was she well?"
Mlle Marthe caught her sister's hand and pressed it until she cried out, "Marthe, you are hurting me!"
"Ange! Sometimes I could swear at you! For Heaven's sake think of yourself for a few moments, or if that is asking too much, think of Aline, think of me. Madelon came here because her father sent her!"
"Her father sent her! Marthe, dearest, don't—that hurts."
"I mean it to. Yes, her father——"
"But why. I don't understand."
Aline had been lighting the lamp. She looked up now, and the yellow flare showed the trouble in her face.
"Oh, ma tante," she breathed.
"Yes, child. Ange, wake up; don't you realise?"
"Mathieu suspects?" asked Aline quickly. "But how?"
"He saw you take the path to the château the other day. Saw, or thought he saw, a light in the west wing last night, and sent Madelon to find out how much we knew. A mischief-maker Mathieu, and a bad man,—devil take him."
"Oh, Marthe, don't. Madelon,—Madelon is as true as steel."
"Oh, yes, but mightily afraid of her father. She sat here with her round cheeks as white as curds, and cried, and begged me not to tell her anything;—as if I should be such a fool."
"Ah, poor Madelon," said Ange, "she must not distress herself like that, it is so bad for her just now."
Marthe ground her teeth.
"Ange, I won't have it—I won't. I tell you all our lives are at stake, and you discuss Madelon's health."
"My dearest, don't be vexed; indeed, I am trying to think what can be done."
"Now, Ange, listen to me. If you will go on with this mad business, there is only one thing to be done. I have thought it all out. They must do with as little as possible, and you must not go there oftener than once in four days. You will go at eleven o'clock at night when there is no one abroad, and Louise will meet you half-way and take the basket on. There must be no other communication of any sort: you hear me, Aline?"
"Yes," said Aline, "I think you are quite right."
"That is always a consolation." Marthe's voice took a sarcastic tone. "Now, Ange, do you agree?"
"If you really think——"
"Why, yes, I do. Ange, I 'm a cross animal, but I can't see you throw your life away and not say a word. I 'm a useless cripple enough, but I have the use of my tongue. Will you promise?"
"Well—yes."
"That's right. Now for goodness let's talk about something else. If there 's going to be trouble it will come, and we need n't go over and over it all before it does come. Aline, do, for the love of heaven, remember that I cannot bear the light in my eyes like that. Put the lamp over here, behind me, and then you can take a book and read aloud so as to give us all a chance of composing our minds."
Aline waked late that night. All the surface calm in her had been broken up by the events of the last few days. The slight sprinkling of snow had ceased, but there was a high wind abroad, and as it complained amongst the stripped and creaking woods, it seemed to voice the yearning that strained the very fibres of her being.
She stood at midnight and looked out. Very high and pale rode the moon, and the driving cloud wrack swept like shallow, eddying water across the one clear space of sky in which she queened it. All below was dense, dull, cloud mass, darkening to the hill slope, and the black sighing woodland. Thoughts drove in her brain, like the driving cloud. Sadness of life, imminence of death, shortness of love. She had seen an ugly side of ancestral pride in these two days, and suddenly she glimpsed a vision of herself grown old and grey, looking back along the interminable years to the time when she had sacrificed youth and love. Then it would be too late. Life was irrevocable; but now—now? She threw open her window and leaned far out, drawing the strong air into her lungs, whilst the wind caught her hair and spread it all abroad. The spirit of life, of youth, cried to her, and she stretched her arms wide and mingled her voice with its voice. "Jacques!" she called under her breath, "Jacques!" and then as suddenly she drew back trembling and hid her face in her cold hands.
She did not know how the time passed after that, but when she looked up again there was a faint glow in the sky. She watched it curiously, thinking for a moment that it was the dawn, and then aware that morning must still be far away.
A tinge of rose brightened the cloud bank over the hill, and at its edge the ether showed blue. Then quite suddenly a tongue of fire flared above the trees and sank again. As the flames rose a second time Ange Desaix was in the room.
"Aline! The château! It is on fire!" she cried. "Oh, mon Dieu, what shall we do?"
They ran out, wrapped hastily in muffling cloaks, and as they climbed the hill Ange spoke in gasps.
"They must have seen it in the village before we did. All the world will be there. Oh, that poor child! God help us all!"
"Oh, come quickly!" cried Aline, and they took hands and ran. The slope once mounted, the path so dark a few hours back was illuminated. A red, unnatural dusk filled the wood, and against it the trees stretched great black groping arms. The sky was like the reflection from some huge furnace, and all the way the fire roared in the rising wind.
"How could it have happened? Do you think,—oh, do you suppose this is what she meant to do?" Aline asked once, and Ange gave a sort of sob as she answered:
"Oh, my dear, God knows,—but I 'm afraid so," and then they pushed on again in silence.
They came out of the bridle-path into the cypress walk that led to Madame's Italian garden. At a turn the flaming building came into view for the first time. South and east it burned furiously, but the west front, that which faced them, was still intact, though the smoke eddied about it, and a dull glare from the windows spoke of rooms beyond that were already in the grip of the flames. Between low hedges of box the two pressed on, and climbed the terrace steps.
Here the heat drove to meet them full of stinging particles of grit. The hot blast dried the skin and stung the eyes. The wind blew strongly from the east, but every now and then it veered, and then the fire lapped round the corner and was blown out in long dreadful tongues, which licked the walls as if tasting them, and threw a crimson glare along the dark west wing. Great sparks like flashes of flame flew high and far, and the dense reek made breathing painful.
"Look!" said Aline, catching her companion by the arm, and pointing. From where they stood the broad south terrace was full in view, and the fire lighted it brilliantly. Below it, where the avenue ceased, was a small crowd of dark gesticulating figures, intent on the blazing pile.
"They can't see us," said Ange; "but come this way, here, where the statue screens us."
They paused a moment, leaning against the pedestal where a white Diana lifted an arrow against the glare. Then both cried out simultaneously, for driven by a sudden gust the smoke wreaths parted, and for a moment they saw at a window above them a moving whiteness,—an arm thrust out, only to fall again, and hang with fatal limpness across the sill.
"Ah, it was Marguerite," cried Aline with catching breath. "I saw her face. Marguerite! Marguerite!"
"Hush!" said Mlle Ange. "It is no use calling. She has fainted. Thank God she came this way. There is a stair if I could only find it. Once I knew it well enough."
As she spoke she hurried into the smoke, and Aline followed, gasping.
"Your cloak over your face, child, and remember you must not faint."
How they gained the boudoir, Aline hardly knew, but she found herself there with the smoke all round, pressing on her like a solid thing, blinding, stinging, choking. Ahead of her Mlle Ange groped along the wall. Once she staggered, but with a great effort kept on, and at last stopped and pressed with all her strength.
In the darkness appeared a darker patch, and then, just as Aline's throbbing senses seemed about to fail her, she felt her hand caught, she was pulled through a narrow opening, her feet felt steps, mounted instinctively, and her lungs drew in a long, long breath of relief, for here the smoke had hardly penetrated, and the air, though heavy, was quite fit to breathe. For a moment they halted and then climbed on. The stair went steeply up, wound to the left, and ceased. Then again Ange stood feeling for the catch with fingers that had known it well enough in the dead days. Now they hesitated, tried here and there, failed of the secret, and went groping to and fro, until Aline's blood beat in her throat, and she could have cried out with fear and impatience. The moment seemed interminable, and the smoke mounted behind them in ever-thickening whirls.
"It was here, mon Dieu, what has become of it? So many years ago, but I thought I could have found it blindfold. Réné showing me,—his hand on mine—ah, at last," and with that the murmuring voice ceased, and the panelling slipped smoothly back, letting in more smoke, to press like a nightmare upon their already labouring lungs. Through it the window showed a red square, against which was outlined a white, huddled shape. It was Marguerite, who lay just as she had fallen, head bowed, one hand thrust out, the other at her throat. Ange and Aline stood by her for a moment leaning from the window, and taking in what air they might, and then the confusion and the stumbling began once more, only this time they had a weight to carry, and could shield neither eyes nor lungs from the pervading smoke. Twice they stopped, and twice that dreadful roar of the fire, a roar that drowned even the heavy beat of their burdened pulses, drove them on again, until at last they stumbled out upon the terrace, and there halted, gasping terribly. The intolerable heat dripped from them in a black sweat, and for a while they crouched trembling in every limb. Then Ange whispered with dry lips:
"We must go on. This is not safe."
They staggered forward once more, and even as they did so there was a most appalling crash, and the flames rushed up like a pyramid to heaven, making all the countryside light with a red travesty of day. Urged by terror, and with a final effort, they dragged Marguerite down the steps, and on, until they sank at last exhausted under a cypress which watched the pool where the fountain played no more.
In a minute or two Aline recovered sufficiently to wet the hem of her cloak and bathe Marguerite's face. This and the cold air brought her to with a shudder and a cry. She sat up coughing, and clung to Aline.
"Oh, save me, save me!"
"Chérie, you are saved."
"And they are burnt. Oh, Holy Virgin, I shall see it always."
"Don't talk of it, my dear!"
"Oh, I must. I saw it, Aline; I saw it! There was a little thread of fire that ran up Louise's skirt, like a gold wire. Oh, mon Dieu! They are burnt."
"Madame?" asked Ange, very low.
"Yes, yes; and Louise, poor Louise! I was so cross with her last night; but I did n't know. I would n't have been if I had known. Oh, poor Louise!"
"Tell us what happened, my dear, if you can."
"Oh, I don't know." Marguerite hid her face a moment, and then spoke excitedly, pushing back her dishevelled hair. "I woke up with the smoke in my throat, and ran in to la tante's room. She had n't gone to bed at all. There she was in her big chair, sitting up straight, Louise on her knees begging her to get up, and all between the boards of the floor there was smoke coming up, as if there were a great fire underneath."
"Underneath! It began below, then?"
"Yes, Aline, she did it herself! She must have crept down and set light in ever so many places. Yes, it is true, for she boasted of it. 'Ange Desaix says I am the last of the Montenay. Very well, then; she shall see, and the world shall see, how Montenay and I will go together!' That is what she said, and Louise screamed, 'Save yourself, Ma'mselle!' But la tante nodded and said, 'Yes, if you have wings, use them, by all means.' It was like some perfectly horrid dream. I ran through the rooms to see if I could get down the stairs, but they were all in a blaze. Then I ran back again; but when I was still some way from the door I saw that the fire was coming up through the floor. Louise gave one great scream, but la tante just sat and smiled, and then the floor gave way, and they went down with a crash. Oh, Aline—Aline!"
"Oh, Marguerite, my dear—and you?"
Marguerite shuddered.
"I ran across the corridor and into the farthest room, and the smoke came after me, and I fainted, and then you came and saved me."
"Hush! there is some one coming," said Mlle Ange in a quick whisper.
They crouched down and waited breathlessly. Then, after an agonised struggle, Marguerite coughed, and at once a dark figure bore down on them.
"Thank the Saints I have found you," said Madelon's voice.
Aline sprang up.
"Madelon—you? How did you know?"
"Ah! Bah—I saw you when you crossed the terrace. I saw you were carrying some one. Is it Madame?"
"No, no; a girl—younger than we are. Oh, Madelon, you will help us?"
"Well, at least I won't harm you—you know that; but you are safe enough, so far, for no one else saw you. They were all watching to see the roof fall in over there to the right, and I should have been watching too, only that my cousin Anne had just been scolding me so for being there at all. She said my baby would have St. John's fire right across his face. She herself has a red patch over one eye, and only because her mother would sit staring at the embers. Well, I thought I would be prudent, so I bade Jean Jacques look instead of me, and turned my head the other way, and, just as the flames shot up, I saw you cross the terrace and go down the steps. And now, what are you going to do with Mademoiselle?"
This most pertinent question took them all aback, and Marguerite looked up with round, bewildered eyes; she certainly had no suggestions to make. At last Mlle Ange said slowly:
"She must come home with us."
"Impossible! No, no, that would never do, dear Ma'mselle."
"But there is nothing else to be done."
"Oh, there must be. Why, you could not hide an infant in your house. Everything is known in the village,—and—I should not trust Jeanne overmuch."
"Madelon! Jeanne? She has been with us a life-time."
"Maybe, but she hates the Montenay more than she loves you and Mlle Marthe. Also, she is jealous of Madame here,—and—in fact, she has talked too much already."
"Then what is to be done?" asked Ange distractedly. She was trembling and unnerved. That a man's foes could be they of his own household, was one of those horrible truths which now came home to her for the first time. "Jeanne," she kept repeating; "no, it is not possible that Jeanne would do anything to harm us."
Madelon drew Aline aside.
"Jeanne is an old beast," she said frankly. "I always said so; but until the other day I did not think she was unfaithful. Now,—well, I only tell you that my father said she had given him 'valuable information.' What do you make of that, eh?"
"What you do," said Aline calmly.
"Well, then, what next?"
"What do you advise?"
"Seigneur! Don't put it on me. What is there to advise?"
As she spoke, with a shrug of her plump shoulders, Marguerite came forward. In her white undergarment, with her brown hair loose and curling, and her brown eyes brimmed with tears, she looked like a punished child. Even the smuts on her face seemed to add somehow to the youth and pathos of her appearance.
"Oh, Aline," she said, with a half sob, "where am I to go? What am I to do?" And in a moment the mother in Madelon melted in her.
"There, there, little Ma'mselle," she said quickly, "there 's nothing to cry about. You shall come along with me, and if I can't give you as fine a bed as you had in this old gloomy place, at any rate it will be a safer one, and, please the Saints, you 'll not be burnt out of it."
"No, no, Madelon, you mustn't," said Mlle Ange.
"And why not, chère Ma'mselle?"
"The danger—your father—your good husband. It would not be fair. I will not let you do what you have just said would be so dangerous."
"Dangerous for you, but not for me. Who is going to suspect me? As to Jean Jacques, you need n't be afraid of him. Thank God he is no meddler, and what I do is right in his eyes."
"Dear child, he is a good husband; but—but just now you should not have anxiety or run any risks."
Madelon laughed, and then grew suddenly grave.
"Ah, you mean my baby. Why, you are just like Anne; but there, Ma'mselle, do you really think le bon Dieu would let my baby suffer because I tried to help poor little Ma'mselle here, who does n't look much more than a baby herself?"
Ange kissed her impulsively.
"God bless you, my dear," she said. "You are a good woman, Madelon."
"Well, then, it is settled. Here, take my cloak, Ma'mselle. What is your name? Ma'mselle Marguerite, then—no, not yours; it is much better that you should not come into the matter any more, Ma'mselle Ange, nor you, Madame. Ma'mselle Marguerite will put on my cloak and come along with me, and as quickly as possible, since Jean Jacques will be getting impatient."
"Where is he, then?" asked Aline.
"Oh, yonder behind the big cypress. I left him there to keep a look-out and tell us if any one came this way. He has probably gone to sleep, my poor Jean Jacques. It took me a quarter of an hour to wake him, the great sleepy head. He had no desire to come, not he, and will be only too thankful to be allowed to go back to bed again."
"Now, Ma'mselle, are you ready?"
They went off together into the shadows, and Ange and Aline took their way home to remove the smoke and grime, and to tell Mlle Marthe the events of the night.
CHAPTER XXV
ESCAPE OF TWO MADCAPS
"Well, it is a mercy, only what's to happen next?" said Mlle Marthe in the morning.
"I don't know," said Aline doubtfully.
Marthe caught her sister's hand.
"Now, Ange, promise me to keep out of it, and you, Aline, I require you to do the same. Madelon is a most capable young woman, and if she and Jean Jacques can't contrive something, yes, and run next to no risk in doing so, you may be sure that you won't do any better. The sooner the girl is got out of the place the better, and while she 's here, for Heaven's sake act with prudence, and don't go sniffing round the secret, like a dog with a hidden bone, until every one knows it's there."
"My dearest, you forget we can't desert Madelon."
"My dear Ange, you may be a good woman, but sometimes I think you 're a bit of a fool. Don't you see that Madelon is not in the least danger as long as you keep well away from her? Who does Mathieu suspect? Us. Well, and if you and Aline are always in Madelon's pocket, do you think he will put it all down to an interest in that impending infant of hers? He 's not such a fool,—and I wish to Heaven you weren't."
This adjuration produced sufficient effect to make Mlle Ange pass Madelon on the road that very afternoon with no more than a dozen words on either side.
"Approve of me," she said laughingly on her return. "It was really very, very good of me, for there were a hundred things I was simply dying to say."
Mlle Marthe was pleased to smile.
"Oh, you can be very angelic when you like, my Angel. Kindly remember that goodness is your rôle, and stick to this particular version of it."
"Madelon says the poor child is rested. She has put her in the loft where she stored her winter apples."
"Sensible girl. Now you would have given her the best bed, if it meant everybody's arrest next moment."
"Oh, if it pleases you to say so, you may, but I 'm not really quite so foolish as you try to make me out. Mathieu thinks everyone was burnt."
"Well, one hoped he would. For Heaven's sake keep out of the whole matter, and he 'll continue to think so."
"Yes, I will. I see you are right, dearest. Jean Jacques has a plan. After a few days he thinks he could get her out of the place. Madelon would not tell me more."
"Oho, Mademoiselle Virtue, then it was Madelon who was good, not you."
"We were both good," asserted Ange demurely.
After that there were no further confidences between Madelon and the ladies of the white house. If they met on the road, they nodded, passed a friendly greeting, and went each on her own way without further words.
Ten days went by and brought them to the first week of March. It came in like the proverbial lamb, with dewy nights which sparkled into tender sunny days. The brushwood tangles reddened with innumerable buds; here and there in the hedgerow a white violet appeared like a belated snowflake, and in the undergrowth primrose leaves showed fresh and green. Aline gave herself up to these first prophecies of spring. She roamed the woods and lanes for hours, finding in every budded tree, in every promised flower, not only the sweetest memories of her childhood, but also, God knows what, of elusive beckoning hopes that played on the spring stirring in her blood, as softly as the Lent breeze, which brought a new blush to her cheek. One exquisite afternoon found her still miles from home. So many birds were singing that no one could have felt the loneliness of the countryside. She turned with regret to make her way towards Rancy, taking here a well-known and there an unfamiliar path. Nearer home she struck into the woods by a new and interesting track. It wandered a good deal, winding this way and that until she lost her bearings and had no longer any clear notion of what direction she was taking. Presently a sweetness met her, and with a little exclamation of pleasure she went on her knees before the first purple violets of the year. It seemed a shame to pick, but impossible to leave them, and by searching carefully she obtained quite a bunch, salving her conscience with the thought of what pleasure they would give Mlle Marthe, who seemed so much more suffering of late.
"It is the spring—it will pass," Ange said repeatedly.
Aline walked on, violets in hand, wondering why the spring, which brought new life to all Nature, should bring—she caught herself up with a shiver—Death? Of course there was no question of death. How foolish of her to think of it, but having thought, the thought clung until she dwelt painfully upon it, and every moment it needed a stronger effort to turn her mind away. So immersed was she that she did not notice at all where she was going. The little path climbed on, pursued a tortuous way, and suddenly brought her out to the east of the château, and in full view of its ruined pile, where the blackened mass of it still smoked faintly, and one high skeleton wall towered gaunt and bare, its empty window spaces like the eyeless stare of a skull.
The sun was behind it, throwing it into strong relief, and the sight brought back the sort of terror which the place had always had for Aline. She walked on quickly, skirting the ruins and keeping to the outer edge of the wide terraces, on her way to the familiar bridle-path, which was her quickest way home. When she came into the Italian garden she paused, remembering the nightmare of that struggle for Marguerite's life. The pool with its low stone rim reflected nothing more terrible than sunset clouds now, but she still shuddered as she thought how the smoke and flame had woven strange spirals on its clear, passive mirror. She stooped now, and dipped her violets in the water to keep them fresh. Her own eyes looked back at her, very bright and clear, and she smiled a little as she put up a hand to smooth a straying curl. Then, of a sudden she saw her own eyes change, grow frightened. A step sounded on the path behind her, and another face appeared in the pool,—a man's face—and a stranger's.
Aline got up quickly and turned to see a tall young man in a riding-dress, who slapped his boot with a silver-headed cane and exclaimed gallantly:
"Venus her mirror, no less! Faith, my lady Venus, can you tell me where I have the good fortune to find myself?"
His voice was a deep, pleasant one, but it carried Aline back oddly to her convent days, and it seemed to her that she had heard Sister Marie Séraphine say, "Attention, then, my child."
Then she remembered that Sister Marie Séraphine in religion was Nora O'Connor in the world, and realised that it was the kindly Irish touch upon French consonants and vowels which she had in common with this young man, who was surely as unlike a nun as he could be. She looked at him with great attention, and saw red unpowdered hair cut to a soldier's (or a Republican's) length, a face all freckles, and queer twinkling eyes, a great deal too light for his skin.
"Monsieur my cousin, or I 'm much mistaken," she said to herself, but aloud she answered:
"And do you not know where you are then, Citizen?"
"I know where I want to be, but I hope I have n't got there," said the young man, coming closer.
"And why is that, Citizen?"
He made a quick impatient gesture.
"Oh, a little less of the Citizen, my dear. I know I 'm an ugly devil, but do I look like a Jacobin?"
Aline was amazed at his recklessness.
"Monsieur is a very imprudent person," she said warningly.
"Monsieur would like to know where he is," responded the young man, laughing.
She fixed her eyes on him.
"You are at Rancy-les-Bois, Monsieur."
He bit his lip, made a half turn, and indicated the blackened ruins above them.
"And this?"
"This is, or was, the Château de Montenay."
In a minute all the freckles seemed to be accentuated by the pallor of the skin below. The hand that held the cane gripped it until the knuckles whitened. He stared a minute or two at the faintly rising vapour that told of heat not yet exhausted, and then said sharply:
"When was it burned?"
"Ten days ago."
"Any—lives—lost?"
"It is believed so," said Aline, watching him.
He put his hand to his face a moment, then let it fall, and stood rigid, his queer eyes suddenly tragic, and Aline could not forbear any longer.
"Marguerite is safe," she cried quickly and saw him colour to the roots of his hair.
"Marguerite—mon Dieu! I thought she was gone!" and with that he sat down on the coping, put his head down upon his arms, and a long sobbing breath or two heaved his broad shoulders in a fashion that at once touched and embarrassed Aline.
She drew nearer and watched uneasily, her own breathing a little quicker than usual. A woman's tears are of small account to a woman, but when a man sobs, it stirs in her the strangest mixture of pity, repulsion, gentleness, and contempt.
"She is quite safe," she repeated nervously, whereupon the young man raised his head, exclaiming in impulsive tones:
"And a thousand blessings on you for saying it, my dear," whilst in the same moment he slipped an arm about her waist, pulled her a little down, and before she could draw back, had kissed her very heartily upon the cheek.
It had hardly happened before she was free, and a yard away, with her head up, and a look in her eyes that brought him to his feet, flushing and bowing.
"I ask a thousand pardons," he stammered. "Indeed if it had been the blessed Saint Bridget herself that gave me that news, I 'd have kissed her, and meant no disrespect. For it was out of hell you took me, with the best word I ever heard spoken. You see, when I found Marguerite gone with that old mad lady, her aunt, I was ready to cut my throat, only I thought I 'd do more good by following her. Then when I saw these ruins, my heart went cold, till it was all I could do to ask the name. And when you said it, and I pictured her there under all these hot cinders—well, if you 've a heart in you, you 'll know what I felt, and the blessed relief of hearing she was safe. Would n't you have kissed the first person handy yourself, now?"
He regarded her with such complete earnestness that Aline could hardly refrain from smiling. She bent her head a little and said:
"I can understand that Monsieur le Chevalier did not know what he was doing."
He stared.
"What, you know me?"
"And do you perhaps think that I go about volunteering information about Mlle de Matigny to every stranger I come across? Every one is not so imprudent as M. Desmond."
"I 'll not deny my name, but that I 'm imprudent—yes, with my last breath."
Aline could not repress a smile.
"Do you talk to all strangers as you did to me?" she inquired.
"Come, now, how do you think I got here?" he returned.
"I am wondering," she said drily.
"Well, it 's a simple plan, and all my own. When I see an honest face I let myself go, and tell the whole truth. Not a woman has failed me yet, and if I 've told the moving tale of my pursuit of Marguerite to one between this and Bâle, I 've told it to half a dozen."
Aline gasped.
"Oh, it 's a jewel of a plan," he said easily, "and much simpler than telling lies. There are some who can manage their lies, but mine have a way of disagreeing amongst themselves that beats cock-fighting. No, no, it 's the truth for me, and see how well it 's served me. So now you know all about me, but I 've no notion who you are."
"I am a friend of Marguerite's, fortunately," she said, "and, I believe, M. le Chevalier, that I am a cousin of yours."
Mr. Desmond looked disappointed.
"My dear lady, it would be so much more wonderful if you were n't. You see my great-grandfather had sixteen daughters, besides sons to the number of eight or so, and between them they married into every family in Europe, or nearly every one. Marguerite is n't a cousin, bless her. Now, I wonder, would you be a grand-daughter of my Aunt Elizabeth, who ran away with her French dancing-master, in the year of grace 1740?"
The blood of the Rochambeau rose to Aline's cheeks in a becoming blush, as she answered with rather an indignant negative.
"No?" said Mr. Desmond regretfully. "Well, then, a pity it is too, for never a one of my Aunt Elizabeth's descendants have I met with yet, and I 'm beginning to be afraid that she was so lost to all sense of the family traditions as to die without leaving any."
"If she so far forgot," Aline began a little haughtily, and then, remembering, blushed a very vivid crimson, and was silent.
"Well, well, I 'm afraid she did," sighed Mr. Desmond; "and now I come to think of it you 'll be Conor Desmond's granddaughter, he that was proscribed, and racketed all over Europe. His daughter married a M. de—Roche—Roche——"
"Rochambeau, Monsieur. Yes, I was Aline de Rochambeau."
"Was?" said Mr. Desmond curiously, and then fell to whistling.
"Oh, my faith, yes, I remember,—Marguerite told me," and there was a slight embarrassed pause which Desmond broke into with a laugh.
"After all, now, that kiss was not so out of place," he said, with a twinkle in his green eyes. "Cousins may kiss all the world over."
His glance was too frank to warrant offence, and Aline answered it with a smile.
"With Monsieur's permission I shall wait until I can kiss Madame ma cousine," she said, and dropped him a little curtsey.
Mr. Desmond sighed.
"I wish we were all well out of this," he said gloomily; "but how in the devil's name, or the saints' names, or any one else's name, we are to get out of it, I don't know. Well, well, the sooner it's tried the better; so where is Marguerite, Madame my cousin?"
Aline considered.
"I can't take you to her without asking leave of the friend she is with," she said at last; "but if you will wait here I will go and speak to her, and come back again when we have talked things over. We shall have to wait till it is quite dark, and you 'll be careful, won't you?"
"I will," said Mr. Desmond, without hesitation. He kissed his hand to Aline as she went off, and she frowned at him, then smiled to herself, and disappeared amongst the trees, walking quickly and wondering what was to come next.
At eleven o'clock that night a council of four sat in the apple loft at the mill. Marguerite, perched on a pile of hay, was leaning against Aline, who sat beside her. Every now and then she let one hand fall within reach of Mr. Desmond, who, reclining at her feet, invariably kissed it, and was invariably scolded for doing so. Madelon sat on the edge of the trap-door, her feet supported by the top rungs of the ladder which led to the barn below. She and Aline were grave, Marguerite pouting, and Mr. Desmond very much at his ease.
"But what plan have you?" Aline was asking.
"Oh, a hundred," he said carelessly.
Marguerite pulled her hand away with a jerk.
"Then you might at least tell us one," she said.
"Ah, now I 'd tell you anything when you look at me like that," he said with fervour.
"Then, tell me. No, now,—at once."
He sat up and extracted a paper from his waistcoat pocket. It set forth that the Citizen Lemoine and his wife were at liberty to travel in France at their pleasure.
"In France," said Aline.
"Why, yes, one can't advertise oneself as an emigré. Once on the frontier, one must make a dash for it,—it's done every day."
"But it says his wife," objected Marguerite, "and I 'm not your wife."
"And I 'm not Lemoine, but it does n't hurt my conscience to say I am,—not in the least," returned Mr. Desmond.
"But I can't go with you like that," she protested. "What would grandmamma have said?"
Mr. Desmond gave an ironical laugh. "Your sainted grandmamma is past knowing what we do, and we 're past the conventions, my dear," he observed, but she only sat up the straighter.
"Indeed, Monsieur, you may be, but I 'm not. Why, there was Julie de Lérac, who escaped with her brother's friend. It was when I was in prison, and I heard what grandmamma and the other ladies said of her. Nothing would induce me to be spoken of like that."
"But your life depends on it. Marguerite, don't you trust me?"
"Why, of course; but that has nothing to do with it."
"But, my dearest child, what is to be done? You can't stay here, and we can't be married here, so the only thing to be done is to get away, and then we 'll be married as soon as your father will allow it. My aunt Judith's money has come in the very nick of time, for now we 'll be able to go back to the old place. Ah, you 'll love Ireland."
Marguerite tapped with her foot.
"Why can't we be married now?" she said quickly.
Madelon, who had been listening in silence, started and looked up, but did not speak.
"Impossible," said Mr. Desmond; and Aline whispered:
"My dear, you could n't."
"Why not? There is a priest here."
"You could n't trust him. He has taken the oath to the Convention," said Aline.
"Well but—Madelon, you told me of him; tell them what you said. Do you think he would betray us?"
"How do I know?" said Madelon, with a frown. "I do not think so, but one never knows. It is a risk."
"I don't mind the risk."
"To us all," continued Madelon bluntly. "I am thinking of more than you, little Ma'mselle."
"Who is this priest?" asked Desmond. "What do you know of him?"
"What I know is from my husband's cousin, Anne Pinel, who is his housekeeper. He took the oath, and ever since he has a trouble on his mind, and walks at night, sometimes all night long. At first Anne would get up and listen, and then she would hear groans and prayers, and once he called out: 'Judas! Judas! Judas!' so that she was frightened, and went back to her bed and put her hands over her ears. Now she takes no notice, she is so used to it."
"There!" cried Marguerite. "Poor man, if he can torment himself in such a way he would not put a fresh burden on his conscience by betraying us. Besides, why should he? I have a beautiful plan."
"Well?"
"We shall start at night; and first we will go to the priest's house, and I shall throw pebbles at his window. He will open, and I shall say, 'Mon père, here are two people who wish to be married.'
"Yes! and he 'd want to know why?"
"Of course, and I shall say, 'Mon père, we are escaping for our lives, and we wish to be married because I am a jeune fille bien élevée, and my grandmamma would turn in her grave at the thought of my crossing France alone with ma fiancé; and then he will marry us, and we shall walk away again, and go on walking until we can't walk any more."
"Marguerite, what folly!" cried Aline, and Madelon nodded her head.
"It's a beautiful plan!" exclaimed Mr. Desmond. He had his betrothed's hand in his once more, and was kissing it unrebuked. "My dear, we were made for each other, for it's a scheme after my own heart! Madame, my cousin, will you come with us?"
"Oh, yes, as chaperon, and then we needn't bother about getting married," said Marguerite, kissing her.
"That's not what I meant at all," observed Mr. Desmond reproachfully, and Aline was obliged to laugh.
"No, no, ma mie; not even to keep you out of so mad a scrape," she said, and Madelon nodded again.
"No, no," she echoed. "That would be a pretty state of affairs. There is Citizen Dangeau to be thought of. Deputies' wives must not emigrate."
Aline drew away from Marguerite, and caught Madelon by the arm.
"What's to be done?" she asked.
"Why, let them go."
"But the plan 's sheer folly."
Madelon shrugged.
"Madame Aline," she said in a low voice, "look at them. Is it any use talking? and we waste time. Once I saw a man at a fair. There was a rope stretched between two booths, and he walked on it. Then a woman in the crowd screamed out, 'Oh, he will fall!' and he looked down at her, went giddy, and fell. He broke his leg; but if no one had called out he would not have fallen."
"You mean?"
"It will be like walking on the rope for Monsieur and little Ma'mselle Marguerite, all the way until they get out of France. If they think they can do it,—well, they say God helps those who cannot help themselves, and perhaps they will get across safely; but if they get frightened, if they think of the danger, they will be like the man who looked down and grew giddy, and pouf!—it will be all over."
"But this added risk——"
"I do not think there is much risk. The curé is timid; for his own sake he will say nothing. If Anne hears anything, she will shut her ears; and, Madame Aline, the great thing is for them to get away. I tell you, I am afraid of my father. He watches us. I do not like his eyes."
She broke off, looking troubled; and Desmond stopped whispering to Marguerite and turned to them.
"Well, you good Madelon, we shall be off your mind to-morrow. Tell us where this curé lives; set us in the way, and we 'll be off as soon as may be. My dear cousin, believe me that frown will bring you lines ten years before they are due. Do force a smile, and wish us joy."
"To-night!" exclaimed Aline.
"Yes, that's best," said Madelon decidedly. "Little Ma'mselle knows that she has been a welcome guest, but she 's best away, and that 's the truth. If we had n't been watched, Jean Jacques would have driven her out in the cart a week ago."
"Watched! By whom?" Desmond's eyes were alert.
"By my father, Mathieu Leroux, the inn-keeper."
"Ah! well, we 'll be away by morning—in fact we 'll be moving now. Marguerite is ready. Faith, now I 've found the comfort of travelling without mails, I 'm ready to swear I 'll never take them again."
"I 'm not," said Marguerite, with a whimsical glance at her costume, which consisted of an old brown skirt of Madelon's, a rough print bodice, and a dark, patched cloak, which covered her from head to foot. They stole out noiselessly, Madelon calling under her breath to the yard dog, who sniffed at them in the darkness, and then lay down again with a rustle of straw.
Afterwards Aline thought of the scene which followed as the most dreamlike of all her queer experiences. The things which she remembered most vividly were Marguerite's soft ripple of laughter, half-childish, half-nervous, as she threw a handful of pebbles at the curé's window, and the moonlight glinting on the pane as the casement opened. What followed was like the inconsequent and fantastic dramas of sleep.
The explanations—the protests, the curé's voice ashake with timidity, until at last his fear of immediate discovery overbore his terror of future consequences, and he began to murmur the words which Aline had heard last in circumstances as strange, and far more terrifying. For days she wondered to herself over the odd scene: Desmond with his head bent towards his betrothed, and his deep voice muffled; and Marguerite pledging herself childishly—taking the great vows, and smiling all the time. Only at the very end she turned and threw her arms round Aline, holding her as if she would never leave go, and straining against her with a choked sob or two.
"No, no, I can't go—I can't!" she murmured, but Aline wrenched herself away.
"Marguerite, for God's sake!" she said. "It is too late,—you must go"; and as Desmond stepped between them Marguerite caught his arm and held it in a wild grip.
"Oh, you'll save me!" And for once Aline was thankful for his tone of careless ease——
"My jewel, what a question! Why, we 're off on our honeymoon. 'T is a most original one. Well, we must go. Good-bye, my cousin," and he took Aline's hand in a grip that surprised her.
"I'll not forget what you've done," he said, and kissed it; and so, without more ado, they were gone, and Aline was alone in the chequered moonlight before the priest's house, where the closed window spoke of the haste with which M. le Curé withdrew himself from participation in so perilous an affair.