"Montignac, the modest and meditative," replied De Berquin.
I might have thought it. What man of his age, however given to deep study and secret ambition, could have been insensible to her beauty, her grace, her gentleness? Such a youth as Montignac would pass a thousand women indifferently, and at last perceive in Mlle. de Varion at first glance the perfections that distinguished her from others of her sex. Doubtless, to him, as to me, she embodied an ideal, a dream, of which he had scarcely dared hope to find the realization. Seeing her at the inn, he had been warmed by her charms at once. He had resolved to avail himself of his power and of her helplessness. Her father in prison, herself an exile without one powerful friend, she would be at his mercy. Forbidden by his duties to leave the governor's side, he could charge De Berquin, in giving the latter the governor's orders concerning myself, with the additional task of securing the person of mademoiselle, that he might woo her at his leisure and in his own way. The governor, ready enough to frighten into an unwarranted exile a woman whose entreaties he feared, would yet not be so ungallant as to give her to his secretary for the asking. But Montignac might safely hold her prisoner, the governor would think that she had left the province, there would be none to rescue her. Such were the acts, designs, and thoughts that I attributed to the reticent, far-seeing, resolute secretary. All passed through my mind in a moment.
And now I feared for mademoiselle as I had not feared before. I never feared a man, or two men at a time, who came with sword in hand; but how is one to meet or even to perceive the blows aimed by men of thought and power? Such as Montignac, inscrutable, patient, ingenious, strong enough to conceal their own passions, which themselves are more intense and far more lasting than the passions of a mere man of fighting, are not easily turned aside from the quest of any object on which they have put their desires. One against whom they have set themselves is never safe from them while they live. Years do not make them either give up or forget. Montignac, by reason of his influence over the governor, had vast resources to employ. He could turn the machinery of government to his own ends, and the trustful governor not suspect. In that slim youth, smooth-faced, pale, repressed, grave, not always taking the trouble to erase from his features the signs of his scorn for ordinary minds, a scorn mingled with a sense of his own power and with a kind of derisive mirth,—in this quiet student I beheld an antagonist more formidable than any against whom I had ever been pitted. In thinking of him, I came at once to regard De Berquin, who still stood facing me with ready sword, and on his face the intention of killing me plainly written, as a very inconsiderable opponent, even when backed by his four ruffians with their varied collection of weapons.
If I was to save Mlle. de Varion from the designs of the far-reaching secretary, it was time that I eluded the danger immediately confronting me.
For a few moments after De Berquin uttered the speech last recorded, I stood silent, my eyes meeting his.
"Come," he said, presently, impatiently giving several turns of his wrist so that his sword-point described arcs in the air before my eyes. "We wander from the subject. What service can you do me? Don't think you can keep me talking until your party happens to come up. I intend to kill you when I shall have counted twenty, unless before that time you make it appear worth my while to let you live. One, two, three—"
His look showed that he had ceased to be amused at my situation. Alive, I had begun to bore him. It was time to make sure of his vengeance. His men stood on all sides to prevent my flight. At my least movement, he would thrust his rapier deep into my body. He went on counting. What could I offer him to make him stay his hand? Was there anything in the world that he might desire which it would appear to be in my power to give him?
"Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen," he counted, taking exact note of the distance between us.
As in a flash the idea came to me.
"Monsieur," I said, loudly, so as to be plainly heard above his own voice, "let me go and I will deliver to you the Sieur de la Tournoire!"
He had reached nineteen in his count. He stopped there and stared at me.
"The Sieur de la Tournoire," he repeated, as if the idea of his taking the Sieur de la Tournoire were a new one.
"You speak, monsieur," said I, quietly, "as if you had not come to these hills for the purpose of catching him."
He looked at me with a kind of surprise, but said nothing in reply to my remark. "It is natural," thought I, "for him not to disclose his purpose, even when there is no use for him to conceal it."
"I take La Tournoire?" he said, presently, half to himself. He stood thinking for a time, during which I supposed that he was considering the propriety of his personally making the capture, in view of the plan that I had overheard Montignac suggest to the governor, namely, that the spy should merely lure La Tournoire into an ambush where the governor's soldiers should make the seizure. The spy had doubtless received orders strictly in accordance with this plan, La Tournoire being considered too great game to be bagged by anything less than a company of soldiers.
"Why not?" said I. "Whoever does so will receive a good price in addition to the gratitude of M. de la Chatre and that of the Duke of Guise. Indeed, the feat might even win you back the King's favor, which you say you have lost."
"But suppose Montignac has other plans for the capture of this highly valued rebel?" said he.
"If he had," said I, thinking of the arrangement as to the ambush, "they were made in the belief that La Tournoire was not to be taken by one man with a few hired knaves. The captor of La Tournoire can afford to earn Montignac's displeasure by deviating from his orders. Should you take this Huguenot, you would be in a position to snap your fingers at Montignac."
"But if it is in your power to give up La Tournoire, why do you not take him and get the reward? Why have you not done so already?"
"For the very fact which puts it in my power to do so. I am of his party.I am his trusted counsellor, lackey that I pretend to be."
"I have, from the first, thought you a most exceptional lackey. But if you are of his party, and in his secrets, you must be a vile traitor to give him up. That being the case, you would not hesitate to lie to me. Indeed, even if it were not the case, you would not hesitate to lie to me, to save yourself or to gain time."
"As to my being a vile traitor, a man will descend to much in order to save his life. As to my readiness to lie to you, it seems to me that, in the present situation, you are the one man to whom I cannot now afford to lie. With your sword at my throat, it is much easier for me to be a vile traitor to La Tournoire than to lie to you. Besides, I have my own reasons for disliking him, notwithstanding that my cause and his are the same."
"And how do you propose to give him up to me?"
"By merely bringing him face to face with you."
"Par dieu! A charming proposition! How do I know that you will not, in pretending to betray him to me, really betray me to him? Suppose you do bring him face to face with me, and his men are all around?"
"Only one of his men shall be present," I said, thinking of Blaise. "He will not come without this one man. As for the others of his band, not one shall be within a league."
"Himself and one man," said De Berquin, musingly. "That is to say, two very able fighters."
"There are five of you."
"But this Tournoire is doubtless worth three men in a fight, and his man will probably be worth two more. I don't think your offer sufficiently attractive. I think I would do better to kill you. Certainly, there are many reasons why you should die. If you should escape me now, as you are one of La Tournoire's people, you would immediately go to him and tell him of my presence here. I do not choose that he shall know as much about me as you do."
"Can you suggest any amendment to my offer, so that it might be more attractive?"
"If you could bring La Tournoire unarmed—"
"I will do that," I said.
De Berquin looked at me steadily for some time. At last he shook his head and said:
"It is a fair bargain, as it now stands, but I see no way of your carrying out your part without putting me in danger of your betraying me. To find La Tournoire, you would have to leave us. Once out of our sight, you would be free to ignore the contract, laugh at me for being so easily gulled, and set La Tournoire and his men on me, which would entirely spoil my plans. Every minute I see more and more the necessity of killing you."
"But I shall find La Tournoire without going out of your sight," I said.
De Berquin again became thoughtful. Then he laughed.
"You mean that you would lead us up to his very den, where we should be at the mercy of his men," he said.
"I have already said that, with one exception, none of his men shall be within a league of where you are to meet him."
"I do not see how you are going to bring him so far from his men, if you do not go for him."
"Leave that to me. I shall take you to a place where he will present himself unarmed. Excepting the man who will be with him, not one of his company shall be within a league."
"Where is the place?" asked De Berquin, still smiling ironically.
"Not far from here. It is a place where you can get also wine and food."
"And how am I to know that this place is not a trap into which you wish to lead me?"
"You shall walk behind me with drawn sword and dagger. At the slightest suspicious movement or speech that I make, you can easily kill me."
"That is true. Yet I might lose my own life the next moment. Who knows but that you are merely seeking to sell your life as dearly as possible, or but that you are aiming to gain time in the hope of some unexpected occurrence?"
"Monsieur," said I, "we both know that men cannot read the heart. You cannot be sure whether or not I am lying. You indeed take the risk that I wish to lead you where you will have to pay for my life with your own, and that I am trying to gain time; but, at the same time, there is the chance that I intend to keep my word, that I intend to present the Sieur de la Tournoire unarmed, and a league away from all his men but one. Is not that chance worth the risk? Have you not gambled, monsieur?"
From the shrug of De Berquin's shoulders, I knew that he had gambled, and also that my argument had moved him. But another doubt darkened his face.
"And if you do bring an unarmed person before me, how shall I know that it is La Tournoire?" said he.
"He shall tell you so himself."
"Excellent proof!"
"What man but La Tournoire would risk his life by declaring himself to be that proscribed gentleman?"
"One of his followers might do so, if he thought that he might so throw an enemy off La Tournoire's track."
"Then the possibility of my deceiving you on that point is but an additional risk you run, in return for the chance of your bagging the real game. Besides, I give you my word of honor that I will truly perform all that I promise."
"The word of a lackey!" said De Berquin, derisively.
"Have you not yourself described me as an exceptional lackey?"
"Well, I love to take chances. And as you have given me your word, the word of an exceptional lackey, I give you my word, the word of a gentleman, that if you set La Tournoire unarmed before me, with but one of his men at hand, I will give you your life and freedom. But stay! At what time am I to have the pleasure of meeting him?"
"When we hear the stroke of eight from the tower of the church in Clochonne. The wind this evening is from that direction. It is agreed, then?"
"Agreed!" said De Berquin. "Jacques, give me your dagger. Now, Master Lackey, lead the way. Follow, you rascals, and be ready to knock down any person to whom I shall direct your attention."
And I turned and led the way to the road, followed closely by De Berquin, who held his sword in one hand and the dagger in the other. I heard the others fall in line, and tramp their way through the brush behind him. Barbemouche must have been exceedingly surprised at his leader's proceedings, for the conversation between De Berquin and myself had been conducted in a tone too low for their ears.
When we reached the road, De Berquin ordered a halt. He then commandedBarbemouche to walk at my left side, and François to walk at my right, DeBerquin retained his place behind me, and the other two rascals followedhim. In this order we proceeded towards the inn.
My object in leading my enemies to the inn was to set them drinking. As long as the possibility of taking La Tournoire was before De Berquin, there was little likelihood that he would seek to molest Mlle. de Varion. In the first place, he could not take her from the vicinity while he himself remained there awaiting the coming of La Tournoire. Secondly, he would not court any violence during the time of waiting, lest he might thereby risk his chance of taking La Tournoire. But it was necessary that I should prevent his encountering Blaise or Hugo, for either one, on seeing me conducted by him as I was, might make some demonstration that would cause De Berquin to kill me immediately. I must contrive to keep my enemies from entering the inn, and yet to have them plied with drink. Therefore, I said, as we marched:
"Monsieur, we are approaching a kind of inn where there are to be obtained the food and drink that I promised. But in the house are some who are devoted to the Sieur de la Tournoire. They are not any of his soldiers, nor such as are to be feared in a fight. But if they saw you and your men, with me as a prisoner, they would certainly convey word to La Tournoire or his band, and so it would be impossible for me to fulfil my agreement. It is true that you would then kill me, but you would lose La Tournoire, and have his followers soon on your heels. So it is best that we stop at some distance from the inn. You and I can steal up to a spot where I can quietly summon the hostess. She will do anything I ask. She will, at my order, secretly bring food and wine to the place of waiting, and will not betray our presence to those in the inn."
"It seems a good idea," said De Berquin; "but if you attempt to make a fool of me—"
"You will, of course, instantly make a corpse of me, for you will be at my side, and will hear every word that I speak to the hostess."
"Very well," he replied.
Having at last reached a little clearing by the roadside quite near the inn, but hidden from it by trees, I gave the word to stop. De Berquin ordered his men to remain here, sheathed his sword, clutched me by the arm, and walked forward with me, his dagger held ready to be plunged into my heart at the slightest cause.
I led him to the back of the inn, and we stood near the door of the kitchen, listening.
The gypsy was still playing, and every now and then there came an exclamation of approval from Biaise. I peered through a corner of the window. The clutch of De Berquin on my arm tightened as I did so. I saw the gypsy man playing, Biaise and Hugo sitting with wine mugs before them, aid Godeau by the fire asleep, the gypsy girl with her head on the table, she also asleep, and Marianne removing platters from the table. Jeannotte had doubtless gone up the ladder to her mistress.
Presently Marianne came out with some bones of a fowl, to throw them away.
"Marianne," I called, softly. "Not a word! Come here and listen."
With some astonishment she obeyed. De Berquin now held his drawn dagger under his cloak, and his clutch on my arm, though tight, might yet appear to her that of a friend.
"Marianne," said I, "it is very important that no one within—no one, remember—shall know that this gentleman is with me. I have a serious matter to talk over with him at the clearing yonder, where four of his people now wait. No one is to know of their presence any more than of his. Bring plenty of wine to us there with what food you can get without exciting the curiosity of those inside. Do you understand? But not a word, even to me now."
She nodded her head, and went back into the kitchen. I knew that I could rely on her. "Come, monsieur," I whispered to De Berquin, and we went silently back to the clearing.
The four rascals were seated on the ground, conversing in low tones. De Berquin and I sat down in the midst of the group. The fellows went on talking, regardless of the presence of their leader, who gave no heed to their babble, except occasionally by a gesture to caution Barbemouche to lessen his volume of voice.
"I never knew an enterprise to run smoothly which had anything to do with women," Barbemouche was saying. "Where men only are concerned, one knows exactly what to do, and makes no mistakes."
"You have a prejudice against the sex," put in the foppish fellow.
"Par dieu! I ought not to have!" answered Barbemouche. "I owe them too much for the many favors I've had from them. But they are mystifying creatures. To mistake a maid for her mistress is nothing remarkable. For that matter, I've known women of the lower orders who had more airs than great ladies. I remember once, after having just made an easy conquest of a countess, and become ennuied with her, I turned my attention to the daughter of a pastry-cook in Paris. She dug deep holes in my face for merely trying to kiss her. She had velvet lips, that girl, but what claws!"
The gaunt rascal, whom they called François, heaved a pensive sigh, as if this reminiscence awakened touching memories in him.
"And yet, to show the perversity of the sex," continued Barbemouche, "that same day I saw another man kiss her, and she gave him back two kisses for his one."
"Perhaps he was a handsome man," said the fat fellow, sagely.
"Yes," replied Barbemouche, ingenuously, "but no handsomer than I."
"At that time you were probably handsomer even than you are now," dryly observed the gaunt man.
"You are right," said Barbemouche, "for I was young, and I did not have this scar," and he thrust back the rim of his hat and laid his hand on his forehead.
"In what fight with the watch did you get that?" inquired François.
"I got it as the Duke of Guise got his, fighting the enemies of the church, though not in the same battle. I received mine that St. Bartholomew's night when we made the streets of Paris flow with heretic blood. A cursed Huguenot gave it me, but I gave him another to match mine, and left him for the crowd to trample over."
I gave a start, recalling the incident of which I had so recently heard the account, and which seemed the counterpart of this.
At this moment, Marianne appeared at the bend of the road. She carried a huge wooden platter, on which were a bowl of mulled wine, some mugs, and some cheese, bread, and scraps of cold meat. I afterward learned that she had begun to prepare this wine some time before, thinking that I and Blaise and the boys would want it after my return from my search for Pierre. Knowing Blaise's capacity, she had made ready so great a quantity.
Saying not a word, she set down the platter on the ground before me.
"That is well," I said. "Now go back to the inn and step often to the door, so that I can easily summon you again without attracting the attention of the others. And get more wine ready."
The woman nodded, and went back to the inn.
The four ruffians made an immediate onslaught on the platter. De Berquin and François ignored the food, that they might the sooner dip their mugs into the bowl of wine. The other three speedily disposed of all the eatables, and then joined in the drinking. De Berquin, in order to grasp his mug, had let my arm go, but he retained his dagger in his other hand, and each of his followers used but one hand in eating or drinking, holding a weapon in the other.
"Look you, rascals!" said De Berquin to his men, presently. "Be careful to keep your wits about you!"
"Rascals!" repeated the tall fellow, his pride awakened by his second mug of wine. "By the bones of my ancestors, it goes against me to be so often called rascal!"
Barbemouche saw an opportunity to retaliate for the fun that had been made of his pretensions to beauty. "They whom the term fits," he growled, "ought not to complain, if I endure it, who am a gentleman!"
Instantly the bearded giant was on his feet, with his huge sword poised in the air.
"Rascal yourself twice over, and no gentleman!" he cried, quivering with noble wrath.
"What, you lank scarecrow!" said Barbemouche, rising in his turn, and rushing to meet the other.
Their fat comrade now rose and thrust his sword between the two, for the purpose of striking up their weapons. The fop ran behind a tree, to be safe from the fracas.
At the instant when François was about to bring his great sword down on Barbemouche, and the latter was about to puncture him somewhere near the ribs, there came the sound of the Angelus, borne on the breeze from Clochonne. The two antagonists stood as if transformed into statues, their weapons in their respective positions of offence. Each in his way moved his lips in his accustomed prayer until the sound of the distant bell ceased.
"Now, then, for your dirty blood!" roared Barbemouche, instantly resuming animation.
But his fat comrade knocked aside Barbemouche's sword, and at the same time pushed François out of striking distance.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," cried the fat rascal, reproachfully, "would you spoil this affair and rob me of my share of the pay? God knows we are all gentlemen, and rascals, too!"
"Very well," said Barbemouche, relieved by his brief explosion of wrath, "this matter can wait."
"I can wait as well as another man," said François, with dignity, whereupon both men resumed their seats on the turf and their attentions to the wine. The prudent Jacques returned to the circle, and De Berquin, who during the squabble had employed himself entirely in holding me from any attempt at escape, looked relieved.
The effect of the wine on him was to make him merry, so that he soon invited me to join in the drinking, and I made a pretense of doing so. When the bowl was empty, he went with me again to summon Marianne, which we easily did, as she was standing at the door awaiting my reappearance. She brought us another pot of wine, and left us as she had before done. De Berquin became more and more gaily disposed. He put no limit to the quantity imbibed by his men; yet he kept his eyes on me, and his dagger dangerously near my breast.
When we heard the clock in Clochonne strike seven, he said to his men:
"Straighten up, you dogs! In another hour we shall have work to do."Turning to me, he added, with a grin, "Either to chain that wild beast,La Tournoire, or to send the most entertaining of valets to find outwhether all that they say of purgatory and hell is true."
But he soon became so lax under the influence of the wine that he did not heed when the fat man and the ragged dandy dropped off to sleep and mingled their snores with the murmurs of the forest insects. He began to narrate his adventures, amatory, military, bibulous, and other. Presently, for a jest, he drank the health of Henri of Navarre in return for my drinking that of the Pope.
By this time Barbemouche and gaunt François had added their breathings to the somnolent choir.
"You are a mighty drinker, monsieur," I said to De Berquin, admiringly, at the same time refilling my own mug.
"Ask of the cabaret keepers of Paris whether the Vicomte de Berquin can hold his share of the good red vine-juice!" he replied, jubilantly, dipping his mug again into the pot.
I took a gulp from my mug and pretended to choke. In one of my convulsive movements, I threw the contents of my mug into the eyes of De Berquin. I followed it an instant later with the mug itself, and he fell back on the grass, half-stunned. In the moment when his grasp of my arm was relaxed, I slipped away from him, narrowly missing the wild dagger stroke that he made at me. A second later and I was on my feet. My first act was to possess the weapons of Barbemouche and François, these two being nearest me. I then ran towards the inn, calling at the top of my voice, "Blaise! To arms!"
Behind me I heard De Berquin, who had risen, kicking the prostrate bodies of his men and crying:
"Up, you drunken dogs! We have been fooled! After him!"
Then I heard him running after me on the road, swearing terribly.
From the place where he had left his men, I could hear them confusedly swearing and questioning one another, all having been rudely awakened from sleep, two of them being unable to find their weapons, and none knowing rightly what had occurred or exactly where their leader had gone.
Blaise came running out of the inn, with sword drawn. When he had joined me, I stopped and turned to face De Berquin. He was before me ere I had time to explain to Blaise. In his rage, he made a violent thrust at me, which Blaise turned aside. De Berquin then leaped back, to put himself on guard.
At that instant, the first stroke of eight came from the distant tower of Clochonne.
"Filthy cur, you have lied to me!" cried De Berquin.
"Nay, monsieur," I answered, throwing from me the weapons of Barbemouche and François, "I keep my word. I promised you La Tournoire unarmed. Behold him!"
And I stepped out from beside Blaise and stood with open arms.
"La Tournoire!" repeated De Berquin, taking a backward step and staring at me with open mouth.
"La Tournoire!" came in a faint, horror-stricken voice from behind me.
I turned and beheld mademoiselle, who had come out from the inn on hearing my call for Blaise. With her were Hugo and Jeannotte. Behind were the inn-keepers and the gypsies. On mademoiselle's face, which was lighted by a torch that Hugo carried, was a death-like pallor, and such a look of horror, grief, and self-reproach, as I have never seen on any other human countenance.
"Mademoiselle!" I cried, hastening to her side. "What is the matter?"
"'Tis but—surprise,—M. de la Tournoire!" she answered, weakly, raising her hand feebly as if to keep me from approaching her, while her eyes, which were fixed on mine as by a terrible fascination, seemed to be starting from her head. An instant later, she fell in a swoon, and I was just in time to save her from striking the ground and to pillow her head on my arm.
As for De Berquin, he had made a rush at me, but Blaise had repulsed him with such fury that, seeing no hope of being joined by his men, he soon turned and fled.
I bore the senseless body of mademoiselle into the inn, vainly asking myself why she had shown so profound a distress at my disclosure.
Presently mademoiselle recovered from her faintness and went up to her chamber, supported by Jeannotte. Her eyes met mine as she was about to go, but she immediately dropped them, and seemed by an effort to repress some kind of emotion.
With a heart saddened by the sight of mademoiselle's distress, I then made arrangements for the night. I was to lie at the front door of the inn, Blaise at the rear door, Hugo and the gypsies in the horse sheds, Marianne in the chamber with mademoiselle and Jeannotte, old Godeau where he chose. It happened that he chose a place before the smouldering fire in the kitchen.
Any further attempt to find Pierre that night was out of the question. I dared not leave the inn again, lest I should expose mademoiselle to possible molestation, or myself to an encounter with those from whom I had just escaped. Had mademoiselle's safety not depended on that of myself and Blaise, I might have invited such an encounter for myself or for him or for both, but I would not have her undergo the slightest risk of losing her protectors.
I had little apprehension of seeing De Berquin or his men again that night. Not that he would probably remember his promise to give me my life and liberty in return for my bringing La Tournoire before him. Even that promise, if still respected by him, did not affect him in regard to mademoiselle. But he would consider that, though I was not accompanied by any of my own men except Blaise, mademoiselle's boy, Hugo, would wield a stout arm on our side. Unless he knew something of Pierre's disappearance, he would count that active youth also with our forces. He had doubtless taken in at a glance the group composed of Godeau, the gypsies, and Marianne; and he would suppose that I could reckon on assistance of one kind or another from some or all of these. Thus, having no odds in his favor, and knowing that we would be on the alert, he would be little likely to make any kind of demonstration against us. Moreover, two of his men finding themselves without their weapons, and all of them angry at the manner of their awakening, they would probably receive very badly the curses that he would heap on them for their failure to come up to his support. Their attitude would, for the rest of that night, be one of mutiny. It was likely that he would retreat and meditate a new plan. He would not feel safe in the immediate vicinity of the inn, for it would occur to him that I might send one of my allies to my men with orders to take him. So he would withdraw and either give up the enterprise entirely or form a new design.
Now that he knew that I was La Tournoire, what would he do? Abandon his mission, since my knowledge of him would put me on my guard against him, and forbid his winning my confidence and betraying me in the way which, I supposed, Montignac had dictated to him? It was not likely that such a man, having found only one road by which he might regain the good things he had lost, would be turned aside from that road. He would follow it to success or death. Such men are too indolent to go about seeking opportunities. Having found one, they will pursue it wherever it may lead. Their fortunes are so desperate that they have only their lives to lose, and they are so brave that they do not fear death. If they can gain the stakes, so much the better. If not, little the worse. Meanwhile, they are occupied in a way congenial to a man who loves adventure, who has inherited the taste for danger, and finds a pleasurable excitement in risking his life. Therefore I felt that De Berquin was not yet through with me, but he would have to change his plan, and, until he should have time to compose new measures, he would not trouble us.
As I lay in the silence, my thoughts turned from De Berquin to Mlle. de Varion. Her demonstration on learning that I was La Tournoire was in harmony with the manner in which she had previously questioned me concerning my friendship for the bearer of that name. Grieved at the thought that I was his friend, relieved at my assertion that I did not so highly esteem him, she had shown the utmost horror on learning that I was the man himself. Could this be due entirely to the impression conveyed by a name to which the Catholics in Berry had attached so much dread? It was natural that one should regard with some terror a man whose deeds had been so exaggerated by vulgar report; but this fact did not explain the intensity of mademoiselle's emotion at the moment of my disclosure. Yet she had attributed that emotion entirely to surprise. Perhaps the extraordinary manifestation of that surprise was due to her fatigued and dejected condition. Or it might be, and I felt a delicious thrill at the thought, that it was her concern for me, her fear that my life might be the more imperilled by my relations with this proscribed man, that had caused the distress accompanying her first inquiries. If this was true, the discovery that I was no other than the man proscribed, and all the more in danger, would naturally have profoundly affected her.
In the morning she came down from her loft, pale and showing a calmness that seemed forced. To my greeting and my announcement that Pierre had not returned, she replied, quietly:
"He is a faithful and honest boy, and I have prayed that no harm might befall him. His disappearance must not be allowed to alter your plans, M. de la Tournoire."
"I shall leave orders with Marianne and Godeau to conduct him to Maury, should he return to this place, as he very probably will. If you do not wish otherwise, we shall ride on to Maury this morning."
"I do not wish otherwise," she replied. After a moment's pause, she added, "Alas, monsieur, your friend, M. de Launay, when he promised me your guidance across the border, engaged you to a more tedious task than you might have wished to undertake. I fear that I must ask for a delay at Maury. You see what trouble your friend has brought you into,—waiting until a poor woman, who has been overcome by fatigue, recovers her energies."
"Ah, mademoiselle," I said, with delight, "you will then hold me to the promise made for me by my friend?"
"What else can a helpless woman do?" she asked, with a pretty smile, although there was a tremor in the voice.
I was overjoyed to be assured that she had accepted the situation. I had promised that, on her becoming acquainted with La Tournoire, she should have no other protector. This had meant to her, at the time when it was spoken, that I should go from her. To me it had meant, of course, that I should continue with her. I had feared that, on learning the truth, she would banish me. She had said that we must part. But now, despite the fact that the same barrier existed between me and her, whether I was La Tournoire or De Launay, despite her horror on learning that I was the former, she had abandoned her intention of parting from me. What had caused this change of mind? Had she, now that I was known to her as La Tournoire, ceased to entertain for me those feelings which she had, on account of our difference in religion, sought by an immediate separation to destroy? This was unlikely. La Tournoire or De Launay, I was the same man. I chose a happier explanation,—none other than that, considering by night, she had come to the conclusion that a religious difference was not too great a barrier to be removed, and that La Tournoire was not a person to be regarded with any horror. Though modesty might plead against her continuing in the company of a man with whom she exchanged such feelings as had so rapidly grown up between us, yet circumstance, most imperative of all dictators, showed her no other course than to remain under my guidance and protection. So I accounted for the decision which was to keep us together for a few more days.
I was not sorry that she had asked for a delay at Maury. It relieved me of the necessity of making a pretext for retarding her flight while I should attempt the rescue of her father. The reason to be given for the absence of myself and a party of my men need not be a strong one when there was no apparent haste to continue the flight. I was still determined to keep the attempt in her father's behalf a secret from her if it should fail, and as a surprise for her if successful.
Inwardly jubilant with the hope inspired by her change of mind, I hastened to give the innocent reasons for the concealment of my identity from her. She listened with a changeless smile, keeping her eyes on mine. Before she could answer, Marianne announced that breakfast was ready. No further allusion was made to the matter, nor to her now abandoned determination that we should part.
After breakfast, our party of five mounted our horses, and, led by Blaise, forced our way through the high bushes that marked the beginning of the hardly perceptible road to Maury. The two gypsies followed afoot, for, knowing that I could rely on their fidelity and secrecy, I had bade them come, that their music and tricks might amuse mademoiselle during her stay at Maury.
It was a beautiful morning, and I considered that I had many reasons for joy. Mademoiselle, too, seemed affected by the sweetness and jocundity of the early day. She had evidently nerved herself, too, against her griefs. She seemed to have summoned a large stock of resolution to the task of facing her troubles without a tear. It appeared that she had banished dejection by an effort of the will. All the time it was evident that her manner was the result of a vigilant determination. I was, nevertheless, glad to see a smile, a steadiness of look, a set lip, though they were attained with premeditation. There was in her conversation, as we rode on our slow and difficult way, something of the woman of the world. As we had to go in single file, and so to speak loudly in order to be heard by one another, our talk could not take on the themes and tones of tenderness that I would have gladly given to it.
Presently from a bush at the side of the path a man sprang up, saluted, and stood respectfully while we passed him. It was one of my men, Maugert, on duty as sentry, for I kept men watching every approach to our hiding-place night and day. They lay secreted among the brushwood, and would observe an intruder long before the intruder could be aware of their presence. A few minutes later we passed another of these faithful sentinels, who rose out of his concealment to give me a look of welcome, and soon afterward we rode through the ruined gate into the old courtyard itself.
"Welcome to Maury!" said I to mademoiselle.
She looked up at the broken façade of the château, around at the trees that environed the walls and in some places pushed their branches through openings, then at some of my men, who had been mending their clothes or tinkering at their weapons.
"I shall feel safe at Maury, monsieur," she said, quietly.
Thus Mlle. de Varion became my guest in that wilderness fastness. I gave her the two chambers in best preservation, one of them being immediately over the chief entrance and overlooking the courtyard. My own abode was in the northern turret, looking down the steep wooded declivity that fell to the road from Clochonne to Narjec. Hugo was to sleep outside her door. My own men made their beds in the great hall and in certain sheltered portions of the wings and outbuildings. They usually ate in this hall, receiving their food on platters from the cook (happily the kitchen had remained fit for use), and bearing it thither. It was arranged that Hugo should carry the meals of mademoiselle and Jeannotte to mademoiselle's apartments.
It was more after our arrival than during our ride to Maury that mademoiselle showed the fatigue of which she had spoken. It was evident that she had reached a resting-place none too soon. Weakness was manifest in all her movements as well as in the pallor of her cheeks. Yet, though she languished thus, she did not keep all the time to her chamber. Each morning she came down to walk about the courtyard, saying that the air and sunshine—as much as found its way through the overspreading branches of the trees—strengthened her. There was in one corner of the yard an old stone bench, which, in good weather, was for a great part of the afternoon half in sun and half in shade. Here she would sit by the hour, changing her position as sunlight or shade became preferable for the moment.
Morning or afternoon, I was never far from her. For I had had to defer from day to day the first steps towards the projected deliverance of M. de Varion. On our arrival I had found that some of the men on whose aid I would most depend were away on a foraging expedition. Each hour I looked for their return, but in vain. Their absence had now become so prolonged as to be a cause of alarm. My anxiety about them, and my concern over other matters, took up so much of my mind that little was left in which to devise a plan for the rescue of the prisoner, and I would not make the first move until the whole design should be complete.
As days passed, and mademoiselle's missing boy, Pierre, did not come, I ceased to hope that we should ever see him again. Had he found his way to the inn where he had left us, Marianne or Godeau would have brought him to Maury immediately. It was useless to speculate as to what might have become of him. He might have perished in the forest, or found his way to Clochonne, or fallen in with De Berquin and suffered for having been of our party. When his disappearance was mentioned, Jeannotte would look at mademoiselle, and mademoiselle would say:
"Poor boy! I pray that no evil may have befallen him. He was fidelity itself. He would die for me!"
But she did not give herself up to poignant sorrow on his account, or, indeed, since the night at Godeau's inn, on account of anything. She seemed to have set herself to bear her troubles in Spartan manner, and to find in herself, perhaps with surprise, the strength to do so.
So the days passed, and still my plans in regard to her father remained unformed, the men on whom I relied did not appear, and mademoiselle did not speak of resuming her flight southward. There came no further sign of the existence of De Berquin. From or of the outside world we heard nothing, save occasionally, when the wind was in the right direction, the faint sound of the bell of Clochonne. We seemed to dwell apart, in a region of our own, an enchanted forest which none other might enter, a place where we were forever safe from the strife of humanity, the touch of war, the reach of the King's edicts, the power of provincial governors, the vengeance of the great. The gypsies remained with us, and sweetened the time with their songs and the music of their instruments. My men treated mademoiselle with the utmost respect. I had caused them to know that she was a refugee, a lady most precious in my esteem, one for whose safety and happiness any other consideration must, should occasion arise, be sacrificed. The weather was dry, sunny, and, for the time of year, mild. It was like a sweet dream, and I, for one, had no premonition of the awakening that was to come.
Often during that time I spoke of my love for her. I told her that, to me, at least, religion was not so much as to drive me from the woman whom I had so long sought in vain among the beauties of our Henri's court, whom I had so long worshipped in the ideal, whom I had instantly recognized as being the embodiment of that ideal, of whose presence I could not endure to be deprived even in thought.
She would sit looking in my eyes while I told her these things. Sometimes she would seem to yield to a kind of bliss in hearing them, to forget all else than ourselves and my words. Then suddenly a look of anguish would come on her features, she would rise and press her hands to her eyes, as if to blot out the memory of my look, and say:
"Monsieur, you must not! You must not! You do not know! Oh, if you knew!"
And she would quickly glide away into the château, keeping her face turned from me until she had disappeared.
I began to think that there might be another obstacle than that of our difference in religion. Perhaps a promise to another or some vow! But I swore to myself that, whatever the obstacle might be, I would remove it. The only matter for present disposition was to get her consent to my doing so.
She would soon return, composed and smiling, with no sign of wishing to elude me. For the life of me, I could not long refrain from the subject that had before so strangely put her to flight.
Sometimes when I talked in the strain of love, joy and pain would succeed each other on her face, sometimes they would seem to be present at the same moment. From the look of complete abandonment to happiness that sometimes, though never for long, shone on her features, I felt that she loved me, and that eventually her love would gain the victory. I continually tried to elicit an expression of her feelings in words. Sweet to me as was the frequent confession of her looks, I sought a confession in speech also.
One afternoon, as we stood on a little spur that rose from the declivity below the château, and whence through a small opening between trees could be seen the river, the smiling plain, and afar the high-perched château of Clochonne, I asked her:
"Why is it that when I speak of what most occupies my heart you become silent or sorrowful, or go suddenly from me?"
With assumed lightness she replied:
"Can a woman explain her capricious doings any more than a man can understand them? It is well known that we do unaccountable things."
Not heeding this evasion, I went on:
"I sometimes fear that you imagine some other barrier between us than the one of religion. Is it that some other gentleman—?"
"Oh, no, monsieur!" she answered, quickly and earnestly, before I had time to finish the question.
"Is there, then, some vow or girlish resolution?"
She shook her head negatively in reply, but would not give me any more satisfaction.
At last I said, abruptly, "Do you, then, wish me not to love you?"
She looked at me first as if she would answer yes, and then as if she would answer no, and finally, after a sigh, she said:
"Can we cause things by wishing?"
Finally, as a last means of trying her, I said:
"Mademoiselle, I have been thinking that it might be better if I were to go on alone to Guienne, and leave Blaise and my men to conduct you when you are able to follow."
She regarded me strangely, first as if the suggestion were a welcome one, then,—while her brow darkened, and a kind of mental anguish forced itself into her expression,—as if the plan were not at all acceptable.
"But you will not do that, monsieur?" was all that she said.
I could but sigh in puzzlement, and abandon my attempt to make her tell her feelings.
Sometimes I would suddenly turn my eyes towards her, and catch her looking at me with mingled tenderness and pity, as a man condemned to die might be looked on by the woman who loved him. At those times I thought that she had some fear or foreboding that I might yet fall a victim to the vengeance of those whom I had offended. Sometimes her look quite startled me, for it contained, besides a world of grief and pity, something of self-reproach. I then supposed that she blamed herself for allowing her fatigue to delay me in my departure from the province.
But these demonstrations did not often escape her. She oftenest showed the forced cheerfulness that I have already mentioned. The moments when any kind of distress showed itself were exceptional, and many of them were caused by the persistence with which I sought a response in words to my declarations of love.
There came at last the afternoon—how well I remember it!—when we sat together on the stone bench in the sunlit part of the old courtyard. Through the interstices of the overspreading branches we could see a perfectly clear blue sky. The slightest movement of air made the leaves rustle sleepily, dreamily. Save the chirping of the birds, no other sound emanated from the forest. The murmur of the river at the foot of the wooded steep came up to us. In a corner of the yard the two gypsies lay asleep. Some of my men were off on various employments. A few had gone for game; others to fish. One of them, Frojac, was in Clochonne disguised as a peasant, to keep a watch on the garrison there. The party of foragers had not returned. Of the men at the château, those who were not on guard were with Blaise Tripault in the great hall, where they had just finished eating and drinking, Hugo had gone to the stables to feed mademoiselle's horses. Jeannotte was asleep in her chamber. Mademoiselle and I sat in silence, in the midst of a solitude, a remote tranquillity, a dreamy repose that it was difficult to imagine as ever to be broken.
She seemed to yield to the benign influence of this enchanted place. She leaned back restfully, closed her eyes, and smiled.
Suddenly there came from within the château the sound of my men singing. Their rude, strong voices were low at first, but they rose in pitch and volume as their song progressed. Mademoiselle ceased to smile, opened her eyes, again took on the look of dark foreboding. The song had an ominous ring. It was one of the Huguenot war hymns sung in the army of our Henri:
"With pricking of steelOur foe we have sped,We've peppered his heelWith pellets of lead,And the battles we win are the gifts of the Lord,Who pointeth our cannon and guideth our sword.We fire and we charge and there's nothing can barWhen we fight in the track of the King of Navarre.Then down, down, down with the Duke of Guise!Death, death, death to our enemies!And glory, we sing, to God and our King,And death to the foes of Navarre!"
The melody was grim and stirring. The men's voices vibrated with war-like wrath. They were impatient for battles, charges, the kind of fighting that is done between great armies on the open field, when there is the roar and smoke of cannon, the rattle of small firearms, the clash of steel, the cries of captains, the shrieks and groans of wounded, the plenteous spilling of blood. They were hungry for carnage.
"There is no cause to shudder, mademoiselle," said I, perceiving the effect that the song had on her; "we are far away from fighting. There is no danger here."
"There may be dangers of which you do not guess," she answered.
As if to verify her words, a sudden, sharp cry broke the stillness. It came from the forest path by which we had arrived at the château. It was the voice of one of my sentinels challenging a newcomer.
"It is I," came the reply. "I have important news for the captain."
"Oh, it is you, Marianne?" replied the man on guard. "I didn't know you for an instant, you appeared so suddenly, without any noise."
I hastened to the gate and called, "Come, Marianne, what is it?"
She came up puffing and perspiring. So breathless was she that she had to sit down on a bench in the courtyard before she could answer me.
"Oh, monsieur!" she said, when she had recovered some breath. "Look to yourself! The governor of the province is at Clochonne!"
"The devil!" I said, and turned to see the effect of this news on mademoiselle.
She was standing, trembling, as white as death, her one hand on the back of the bench for support.
"Be not alarmed, mademoiselle," I said, "Clochonne is not Maury! They do not know our hiding-place. How did you learn, Marianne, and what else do you know?"
Mademoiselle stood perfectly still and fixed her eyes on Marianne, awaiting the latter's answers with apparently as much interest as I myself felt.
"Godeau went to Clochonne this morning with some eggs to sell, and learned that the governor arrived last night and occupies the château," said Marianne.
"With how many men?" I asked.
"Godeau said that the courtyard of the château and the market-place of the town were full of men-at-arms, but he did not wait to find out how many there were. He knew what he would catch from me if he did not immediately bring me the news, that I might let you know. So he came home at once, and as soon as I had heard it I started for this place."
"I thank you, Marianne. You are the best of women. Yet it may not be on our account that M. de la Chatre honors Clochonne with a visit."
It was, indeed, true that the governor would naturally visit his border towns at a time when war might be expected soon to enter his province. Yet I could not help thinking that his coming at this particular time had something to do with his plan to capture me. I remembered what course Montignac had advised him to take: to wait until his spy should have located me and sent him word of my hiding-place, then to come to Clochonne, whither the spy, on learning of his presence, should send him the information that would enable him to lay an ambuscade for me. This was a good plan, for a premature arrival of the governor at Clochonne might give me time to flee before my whereabouts should be known to the spy; but, knowing my exact whereabouts, La Chatre could first take measures for cutting off my flight, and then risk nothing by coming to Clochonne. Moreover, should the spy fail as to the ambush, the governor's acquaintance with my whereabouts would serve him in a chase that he might make with his soldiers. The ambush was but a device more likely to succeed than an open search and attack. It was, if at all possible, easier, and would cost the governor no lives.
Now, if the plan suggested by Montignac was being carried out, the governor's arrival at Clochonne meant that his spy had sent him word of my hiding-place. But could De Berquin have done so? He had previously shown some skill in secret pursuit. Had he eluded the vigilance of my sentinels, learned that we were at Maury, and sent one of his men to the governor with the information? It was improbable, yet nothing occurs more often than the improbable. So I asked Marianne:
"Have you seen anything of the five men who drank with me the night you carried wine to us from the inn?"
"Not since that night, monsieur."
"And you have no more news than you have told me?"
"Nothing more, monsieur; so, if you please, I will hurry back, for my old man is sure to have fallen asleep, and it would be a pity if the governor's men should come by the forest road without being seen. Be sure, if they come after I reach home, you shall know of it in good time."
I bade her go, and turned to mademoiselle.
She was as pale as a white lily. As soon as my eye met hers, she said, in a faint voice:
"I am going in, monsieur. I am tired. No, I can go alone. Do not be concerned about me. I shall soon feel better."
And she went rapidly into the château, giving me no time in which to assure her that there was no reason for immediate alarm.
I wished to consider Marianne's news before communicating it to any of my men. I had to inquire of myself whether it called for any immediate action on my part. So that my meditations might not be interrupted, I left the château and walked into the forest.
For hours I considered the possible relations of the governor's arrival to mademoiselle's safety and my own, to that of my men and our cause, and to my intention of delivering M. de Varion from prison. But I could arrive at no conclusion, for I knew neither the governor's intentions, nor what information he had concerning me. There were so many probabilities and so many possible combinations of them, that at last I threw the whole matter from my mind, determining to await events. On the way back to the château I reproached myself for having wasted so much time in making useless guesses, for when I found myself at the gate it was night, and the moon had risen.
I stopped at the entrance and stood still to listen to the voice of Blaise, which rose in the courtyard in the words of a psalm. He sang it with a gentleness the very reverse of the feeling his voice had expressed in the war hymn a few hours earlier. From a sound that came between the words now and then, I knew that he was engaged in one of his favorite occupations, that of polishing his weapons.
Pleased to hear him singing in the moonlight, I stood at the gate, lest by entering I might interrupt the psalm.
Presently, at the end of the stanza, I heard another voice from the doorway of the château.
"Ah, Blaise," said Jeannotte, "it is the spirit of your mother that controls you now."
He made no answer, nor did he resume his singing. Then I recalled that for the past few days he had not shown his former susceptibility to the maid's charms; he had, indeed, exhibited towards her a kind of disapproving shyness. I had not attached any importance to this.
"Why do you not go on singing your psalm?" Jeannotte asked, coming nearer to him.
His answer was a strange one. It was spoken with a kind of contemptuous irony and searching interrogation. The words were:
"Mademoiselle's boy Pierre has not yet come back to us."
"What has that to do with your singing?" said Jeannotte. "We all know it very well. Poor Pierre! To think that he may have been taken by Monsieur de Berquin!"
"It is well that he did not know the place of our destination when he went away," said Blaise, in the same insignificant tone, "else M. de Berquin might torture the secret out of him, and carry it to the governor of the province, for M. de Berquin knows now that my master is La Tournoire. It would not be well for the boy, or any one else, to be the means of the governor's learning La Tournoire's hiding-place!"
After which words, spoken with a kind of ominous menace, Blaise abruptly left the girl, and strode around the corner of the château. The maid stood still a few moments, then went into the château.
Completely mystified, I crossed the courtyard and called Blaise.
"M. de la Chatre is at Clochonne," I said, abruptly, as soon as he was before me.
He stood still, returning my gaze. Presently he said:
"Do you think that he has learned where you are?"
"Through M. de Berquin?" I said, as if completing his question.
"Or any one else?" he said, in a low voice. "There was the boy who disappeared, for instance."
"But he did not know our hiding-place when he left. He did not know how near we then were to it. He did not then know that I was La Tournoire."
"But there was much talk of La Tournoire on the journey. Did you at any time drop any hint of this place, and how it might be reached?"
"None that could have reached his ears. I told only Mlle. de Varion, and we were quite alone when I did so."
Blaise looked at the ground in silence. After some time he gave a heavy sigh, and, raising his eyes, said:
"Monsieur, I have been thinking of many things of late. Certain matters have had a strange appearance. But,—well, perhaps my thoughts have been absurd, and, in short, I have nothing to say about them except this, monsieur, it is well to be on one's guard always against every one!"
I was about to ask him whether he meant that the boy Pierre had been guilty of eavesdropping and treachery, and to reprove him for that unworthy suspicion, when there was a noise at the gate. Looking thither, I saw two of my men, Sabray and Roquelin, conducting into the courtyard three starved-looking persons, who leaned wearily on one another's shoulders, and seemed ready to drop with fatigue.
"We found these wretches in the woods," explained Sabray. "They are Catholics, although that one tried to hide his cross and shouted, 'Down with the mass!' when we told them to surrender in the name of the Sieur de la Tournoire."
"It is true that I was a Catholic," whined the bedraggled fop who had belonged to De Berquin's band of four; "but I was just about to abjure when these men came up."
"I will abjure twice over, if it pleases monsieur," put in the tallSpanish-looking ruffian. "Nothing would delight me more than to be aHuguenot. By the windpipe of the Pope, for a flagon of wine I wouldbe a Jew!"
"And I a damned infidel Turk," wearily added their fat comrade, "for a roast fowl, and a place to lay my miserable body!"
At this moment the fop's eyes fell on Blaise.
"Saint Marie!" he cried, falling to his knees. "We are dead men. It is the big fellow we trussed up at the inn!"
"Belly of Beelzebub, so it is!" bellowed Blaise, pulling out his sword. Turning to Jeannotte, who had just reappeared in the courtyard, he roared: "It is now my father's spirit that controls me!"
Whereupon he fell to belaboring the three poor, weary, hungry, thirsty rascals with the flat of his sword, till all of them yelled in concert. They were too limp to resist or even to run, and he had his way with them until Sabray and Roquelin howled with laughter. At last I ordered him to stop, and to confine the men in a chamber, where they should be fed and questioned. So they limped away moaning, driven like cattle by Blaise, who promised them as they went that they should not be put to the trouble of tying up honest people in the dark for some time to come. Jeannotte followed, out of curiosity, as did Sabray and Roquelin.
Left alone in the courtyard, I sat on the stone bench, which was now in part yellow with moonlight, and began to ponder. I could doubtless learn from the three captives whether De Berquin had had any hand in the coming of La Chatre to Clochonne. Anxious as I was to inform myself, I was yet in no mood to question the men at that moment, preferring to wait and hear the result of Blaise's interrogations.
While I was thinking, my arms folded and my eyes turned to the ground at my feet, I suddenly heard a deep sigh very near me.
I looked up and saw Mademoiselle de Varion standing before me in the moonlight. My gaze met hers, and in the delicious glow that her presence sent through me I forgot all in the world but her.