When Helen de la Tremblade first entered the chapel by a private door which led from a small room, called the sacristy, through the walls, into the country beyond, and of which Estoc possessed a key, she found the building vacant. There stood the coffin, covered with its pall; there burnt the lights upon the altar; and a little further on the pale flame of a votive lamp, dedicated by some of the deceased lords of Liancourt to their patron saint, flickered before a little shrine, and cast a faint gleam into the right-hand aisle.
Helen's heart beat, and her temples throbbed. Her breath came thick and hard; and with difficulty her trembling limbs bore her forward. She was resolute, however; her mind was made up, and prepared, and her whole spirit nerved for the terrible task--the most terrible that human being can perform--of confessing to one who has built up a fabric of love and confidence, upon our virtue and our honour; a tale of sin, and shame; and slowly, feebly, and unsteadily, but with strong determination, she tottered forward till she reached the open space between the coffin and the altar. Just as she did so, she heard a step approaching the chapel across the court. She knew it was that of him whom she sought, and her heart sunk at the sound. Clasping her hands together, and bending her head, she murmured prayer upon prayer for strength, for forgiveness; while the step came nearer and more near, entered the chapel, advanced up the nave, suddenly paused, and remained suspended for more than a minute.
"He sees me," thought Helen. "Oh, God! how shall I meet him?"
She dared not raise her head; her hands remained clasped in the same position; her limbs lost all power; and she seemed for the moment turned into stone.
At length she heard a voice. "Helen!" it cried, "Helen," and then came the priest's step rapidly moving towards her. The rustle of his garments told her he was near; for she dared not look up; and she sank upon her knees at his feet. Then were poured forth the rapid words of shame and contrition, which we have mentioned; and then came a terrible pause, at the end of which she felt his arms around her, and heard the words of still enduring love and tenderness, with which he spoke. A wild and agonized sob burst from her bosom, and then the overloaded heart relieved itself by tears.
The old man soothed and consoled his niece. He dried her eyes, he pressed her to his bosom, he told her to be comforted, he promised her forgiveness of all. He held out to her the high and merciful hopes vouched by the word of God for every sinner that repents, and, in the end he succeeded in tranquillizing her first emotions.
But Helen remembered the tale she had to tell. She recollected that every minute might be precious; and when seeing her more calm, he desired her to tell him all, she did so as rapidly and clearly, as the natural feelings of her heart would admit. The narrative was mingled with the tears and blushes of burning shame and bitter remorse and agonizing self-condemnation, even while she related with simple truth, the arts which had been used to mislead, and the promises which had been held out but to destroy. She attempted not to palliate, for no tongue could be more full of blame, than hers was of herself; but yet her whole tale was in itself a palliation of her fault; and when she came to the end, all that remained in the bosom of the priest, was anger and indignation towards the woman who had so neglected innocence committed to her charge, and towards the man who had so basely taken advantage of that neglect to deceive a confiding heart, and stain a pure and innocent spirit.
"The villain!" he cried, "the base deceitful villain. But even he is less culpable than that dark demon his mother. If ever there was a fiend in human flesh 'tis she!--She burnt the letters, then? She took from you the only proofs of his treachery and his falsehood?"
"She did," said Helen. "She called me every odious name, which, perhaps, I but too well deserved; and, in the midst of all her servants, drove me forth, to perish, for aught she knew, unfriended and alone."
"She shall have her punishment," replied Walter de la Tremblade in a stern, resolute tone. "Ay, here as well as hereafter. All the letters did you say?--all?"
"All I think," said Helen. "Nay," she added, "there may be one which I placed in the book of Hours you gave me; and it may have escaped her notice, though doubtless she has caused search to be made since I was driven away. Yet, as the book is clasped, it might not be observed."
"What were its contents?" demanded the priest eagerly, with his keen eye fixed upon her face, so that its light seemed to dazzle and confuse her.
Helen lifted her hand to her head, and for a moment gazed into vacancy with the effort to remember. "Yes," she said at length, "Yes, it was the last but one he wrote me. He promised to love me ever.--He said he would see me soon again.--He called me his wife."
"He did? He did?" cried the priest, with a look of triumph. "That letter must be obtained, Helen!"
"But how?" demanded the poor girl with a mournful shake of the head; "even if it still exists, they will not let me enter those doors again."
"No," answered Walter de la Tremblade. "No, you never shall. But still that letter must be obtained, if it be in being. Ay, and it shall be too; and that before to-morrow morning. What is the hour? Near one,--I had forgot, I had forgot. We have no time to lose! That accursed plot is on the eve of execution. It must be frustrated;" and, pressing his hand hard upon his brow, he fixed his eyes upon the pavement in deep meditation. "Yes," he said at length, "that will do! Listen to me, Helen. They had laid a scheme to drive Rose d'Albret, who always loved you, into the arms of him who has betrayed you. They have persuaded her that Louis de Montigni is dead; and they think by blasting her reputation to leave her no choice but marriage with Chazeul."
"Oh, horrible!" cried Helen. "How base! how shameless!"
"It is worthy of its framer," replied the priest. "The maid is bribed or frightened to give him this night--yes within a few minutes from this time--to give him admission to her chamber."
"Oh! let me fly and tell her," cried Helen vehemently. "She must be saved, she must be saved.--I will go to her, I will go to her!--I will stay with her.--I will stab him first with my own hand!"
"Be calm, be calm," replied the priest; "there is no need of that. We can frustrate him as easily, and more innocently. There is a door from my chamber into hers. It is unlocked or can be speedily opened. By it you can go to her and tell her all. Let her know that De Montigni is living, that the rumour of his death was but a fraud. Tell her how they are practising against her peace. Bid her be firm and constant, and she shall have aid, when least she expects it. Stay with her if you will--or rather bring her forth into my chamber. There she can pass the night in security, and return with first dawn of morning. And now let us hasten away, Helen, for this must be done, my child, before the clock strikes one. I have to watch here; but to prevent this deed is a higher duty, and I may well be spared for a few minutes. And God's blessing be upon your endeavours."
Thus saying, he led her from the chapel, through the old hall and the corridor beyond, and then up the stairs, feeling his way by the hand-rope that ran along the wall. All was dark and silent; not a sound stirred in the house; and nothing but a faint ray of the moonlight, which shot across from a window halfway up the staircase, gave them any light in their course.
Opening the door of his own chamber, as quietly as possible, the priest led Helen in; and then striking a light, he showed her the door which led to the apartments of Rose d'Albret. It was locked, but the key was in the inside and easily turned; and, ere they opened it, Walter de la Tremblade once more embraced his niece, saying, "I must find another time to comfort thee, my poor child; but the best comfort will be vengeance on those who have wronged thee. Now go, and make no noise. Speak to her in a whisper. Bid her rise at once and follow thee, if she regards her safety, and her honour. Then lock both these doors, and rest in peace for this night. I will be with you early in the morning; but I have much to do ere then."
Thus saying, he kissed her brow, and left her; and Helen opening the door, but leaving the light upon the table, crept softly into the room of Mademoiselle d'Albret. Poor Rose, wearied and exhausted with all that she had lately gone through, had at length fallen into slumber. The curtains of her bed were thrown back; and there she lay like a beautiful statue on a tomb, her face pale with grief and weariness, the bright eyes closed, the long black lashes resting on her cheek, and one fair hand crossing her heaving bosom in all the languid relaxation of sleep. The light streamed faintly in upon her from the neighbouring chamber, and seemed to produce some effect upon her slumbers; for a faint smile passed over her lip, as Helen stood for an instant to gaze at her, and she murmured the word "Louis."
"She has happy dreams," said Helen to herself, "yet I must disturb them;" and she laid her hand gently upon that of her friend.
Rose started up with a look of wild surprise, but Helen laid her finger on her lips as a sign to be silent, and then whispered, "Rise instantly, dearest Rose, and come with me into the next room. Be quick, if you would save your honour and your peace! You know not what they machinate against you."
Rose gazed at her for a moment in surprise, as if scarcely comprehending what she meant: but then a sudden look of terror came over her; and, rising without a word, she took some thin clothing, and followed whither her companion led.
Helen drew the curtains close round the bed, and then guided the lady to the priest's chamber. While passing the door, they heard a murmur, as of low voices speaking in the ante-room, and Helen then turning the key in the lock as silently as possible, pointed to an ebony crucifix, with a small ivory figure of the dying Saviour nailed upon it, which stood upon the table, rising above a skull. She led Rose d'Albret towards it; and, kneeling down together, they prayed.
When they rose, Mademoiselle d'Albret would fain have asked explanations, but Helen whispered to be silent; and making her lie down in the priest's bed, she knelt by her side, drew the curtain round to deaden the sound of her voice, and then, in a low murmur, related all she had to tell. The first news that she gave were the joyful tidings that De Montigni still lived; and Rose clasped her hands gladly, giving thanks to God. But at Helen's farther intelligence, horror and consternation took possession of her. "Oh, heaven!" she said, "what will become of me, if they have recourse to such means as this?--Where shall I find safety?"
"Fear not, fear not," replied Helen: "my uncle will devise means to deliver you."
"Oh, let me fly, Helen," said Rose. "The door by which you came into the chapel, may give me freedom."
Helen shook her head: "Not to-night," she said. "You might meet him in the passages. As soon as he discovers you have left your room, there will be search and inquiry. We must trust to him who brought me hither: but Walter de la Tremblade is not a man to be frustrated by any one. Leave it to him--he will deliver you."
No sound as yet had reached them from the neighbouring chamber, although they had now quitted it nearly an hour; but the door was thick and heavy, and deeply sunk in the wall. The next moment, however, they heard voices speaking at the top of the stairs; and some one said aloud, "Goodnight, Monsieur de Chazeul!"
Those simple words were followed by a meaning laugh; then some other sounds not so distinct, and then all was silent again.
"You were right, dear Helen," said Rose d'Albret. "We should have been stopped had I attempted to fly. But where will this end?--where will this end?" and, turning her eyes to the pillow, she wept bitterly.
Helen tried to comfort her, though she herself needed consolation as much; for who can tell what were all the varied sensations, each painful, yet each different from the rest, which thronged her bosom on that sad night? She felt, oh, how bitterly! that she had loved a villain, deeper, blacker, more degraded than all his treachery to her could have taught her to believe; and there is no agony so horrible as when the cup of affection is first mingled with contempt and abhorrence. She was not only neglected and cast off for another,--that she could have borne, and wept or withered away in silence;--but she found him for whom she had sacrificed all, using still baser arts than those he had employed against herself, for sordid objects, and without even the excuse of passion. She felt grief too, for Rose d'Albret, for her who had been so tender and so kind towards herself; and dread, lest, after all, the machinations of those who had the poor girl in their toils, should prove successful, came like a cold dark cloud over the dreary prospect of the future.
All these emotions were added to her own shame and remorse and terrible disappointment; and, although Rose insisted that she should lie down beside her, yet neither closed an eye; and the rest of the night passed in long, though not uninterrupted, conversation. Often they listened for sounds, often they paused to meditate over all the painful circumstances that surrounded them; but still they turned to discuss, with faint and sinking hearts, either the gloomy past or the dark impenetrable time to come, which offered their eyes no tangible hope to rest upon, but in fresh sorrow, resistance and endurance.
With the first ray of light, Rose d'Albret returned to her own chamber, determined to follow to the least particular the advice of the priest: but Helen remained in her uncle's room, in expectation of his return. Minute after minute fled, however, without his coming. She heard Rose call her maid, and voices speaking; she heard the sounds of busy life spread through the château; she heard distant tones of a hunting horn swell up from the woody country beyond. But still her uncle did not appear; and Helen, in terror at the thought of new calamity, watched for him in vain.
We must now return to Walter de la Tremblade, who closed the door of the room where he had left his niece, and paused one moment to think. "It must be risked," he said: "the boy owes me much--He will not dare to doubt me;" and, without farther consideration, he again descended the stairs. At the bottom he heard a step, and saw a light glimmering through the door at the far end of the hall. "It is that base villain!" he thought as he concealed himself behind one of the square masses of masonry that supported the roof above. "He goes upon his dark errand, like the silent withering frost of autumn, blighting all the flowers it falls upon. Ah, monster!" he muttered between his teeth, as he saw the Marquis pass not ten steps from him: and well was it for Chazeul, well for himself, that there was no dagger under that priest's robe.
Covered with a dressing-gown of embroidered silk, and bearing a lamp in his hand, with a stealthy step and an eye looking eagerly forward, as if agitated with the very scheme in which he was taking part, Chazeul crossed the hall and approached the staircase. There was a slight rustle of the priest's gown, and the other paused suddenly and listened. All was still again; and he murmured, "It was the wind!" The next instant the clock struck one, and with a smile the Marquis mounted the stairs.
The moment he was gone, Walter de la Tremblade came forth again, and with a quick step went on, through the stone hall, across the court, and entered the chapel. There, with haste and agitation, he lighted a lamp that stood in the sacristy, returned, shading the flame with his hand, and, traversing the hall in another direction, passed through a low arch and along a narrow passage, which led him to the foot of a small staircase. Then taking two steps at a time, he mounted rapidly to the highest story of the château, where two or three rooms were seen on either hand. Through the key-hole of one streamed a light, and voices were heard talking.
"Ay, there wait her witnesses," murmured the priest; and, proceeding he turned into a passage on the left, and listened at a door. All was still; and, setting down the lamp, he raised the latch and entered. It was a low ill-furnished room, where slept the page, and one of the servants of the Marchioness of Chazeul, in beds not large enough to hold more than a single person. At the first pallet the priest stopped; and shading his eyes with his hand, as if to concentrate the little light that found its way in at the door, which he had left open, he gazed upon the countenance of the sleeping man. Then, going on, he touched the page gently with his hand. The boy slept soundly, however, and the priest had to stir him once more before he woke. Then whispering "Hush!" he added, "Get up, Philip. There is business for you to do."
"Ah! what is it, father?" said the boy, rubbing his eyes, still heavy with sleep: "is anything the matter?"
"Do not speak so loud," replied father Walter; "there is no need to wake any one else. The Marchioness has chosen you to ride for something that both she and I may have occasion to see; and you must mount and away to Chazeul immediately, so as to be back before nine to-morrow, when the burial of the old Commander de Liancourt is to take place. Are you awake enough to understand me?"
"Oh, yes, yes," answered the page yawning, "I understand quite well. I wish she had chosen another hour. At home, we can never count upon half a night's sleep: she is as restless as the wind; and it is to be the same thing here, it seems. But what am I to bring?"
"A certain precious book of Hours," replied the priest, "which has been long in the family of La Tremblade. You will find it in the room which my niece, Mademoiselle de la Tremblade, used to occupy." He paused upon the words, to show the boy that he was aware of Helen's absence from the Château of Chazeul, and then continued, "You will know the book, if you should find others there, by its being covered with crimson velvet, with silver clasps and studs. Bring it at once to me; and let no one else see it."
"But will that old tiger of a gouvernante let me have it?" asked the page: "she will not let one of us set foot in any room beyond the hall."
"Then make her fetch it," said the priest. "Tell her your mistress wants it; and let her refuse if she dare. Now, be quick. Cast on your things, and join me in the chapel. I will order a horse to be saddled in the mean time. But, make no noise. It is needless to wake any one; and the Marchioness would have your going secret."
The page entertained no suspicion; and--while Walter de la Tremblade hurried to the stable, woke a horse-boy and made him saddle a horse in haste--he dressed himself as quickly as his drowsy state would admit; and then, finding his way out of the room--not without stumbling over the foot of his comrade's bed, and wondering he had not woke him--he groped along the passage till he came to the room whence the light was shining through the key-hole.
"Ay!" he thought, "those lads are still up, playing with the dice I warrant. I should like to look in and give them a surprise; but I cannot wait for that;" and he passed on, descended the stairs, and crossed the court to the chapel.
No sooner had he quitted the room where he had lain, however, than his companion, who had seemed so sound asleep, raised himself upon his arm in bed, and asked himself, "What is all this, I wonder?--'Tis mighty secret!--The book to be brought to him! Why not to her, if she wishes to see it?--I should not be surprised if this were some trick of the priest's own. If all the house were not asleep, I would go tell my Lady. Perhaps she has not gone to rest yet; for she sits up mighty late all by herself; and no one knows what she is doing. I had better go! and yet she may not like to be disturbed, especially if she be dealing with the Devil, as the peasants in the village say. Hark! there are people up and about! I will go and tell her, if she be waking. She can but say I am over zealous; and if it should prove all a trick of the priest's, I may get a broad piece for my news."
These meditations, though short and connected here, were somewhat slow and disjointed, as they really presented themselves, to the man's mind, so that the page who had been sent to Chazeul was in the saddle and away, before they had come to a conclusion, and his comrade had begun to dress himself. When he had managed to get on the greater part of his apparel, however, he approached the door, and like the lad who had gone before, made some mental remarks upon the light which streamed from the room tenanted by his fellow servants, and which was now much more visible as the door by this time stood open, and the rays poured full out into the passage. He looked in as he went by, and, seeing the chamber vacant, took the lamp that stood upon the table to light him on his way.
The apartments of Madame de Chazeul were quite at the other side of the house, so that he was long in reaching them; for, in the mansions of those days, the architects had displayed all their skill in distributing the cubic space contained in any given building, into as many stairs and passages as possible, so that its tenants, unless they restrained themselves to one especial part, might never want exercise in arriving at the rest.
The ante-room door was at length reached; and, tapping gently, for fear of startling the inmates, the man was surprised to find his summons answered instantly by one of the Marchioness's maids fully dressed, but pale in the face with drowsiness, and heavy about the eyes.
"Can I speak a moment with Madame?" asked the servant in a low voice.
"Oh yes, Pierre," replied the woman. "She expects some of you. I thought you would never come."
The man began to fancy, he had made a mistake, and that Madame de Chazeul had really sent the priest to the page: so that he would now willingly have retreated; but the maid continued, "Come in! come in!" and another who was sitting at a frame embroidering, rose and went to the inner room to tell the Marchioness that "Pierre was come."
"Pierre!" cried Madame de Chazeul; "what has he to do with it? Bring him in, however. This must be some other affair. What now, Pierre?" she asked, fixing her keen vulture-like eyes upon him as he was brought forward, and signing her maids to close the door: "What seek you here so late?"
"Why, so please you, Madam," replied the servant, "I was not sure that all was right, and thought it better to tell you what was going on, because you once told me--"
The Marchioness waved her hand impatiently, exclaiming "What is it? what is it? Cease your prefaces!--What brought you hither?"
"Why, Madam, father Walter, the priest," answered the servant, "stole up just now to the room where the boy Philip and I are lodged. Not a word did he say to me; but he woke Philip, and when I roused up at the sound of voices, for I was but in a dog's sleep, I heard him give the page a message from you, Madam."
"From me?" cried the Marchioness, her eye glowing like a coal with anger and eagerness. "Well, what was the message?"
"That he was to ride instantly back to the château, Madam," replied the man, who easily divined from his mistress's face that all was not right; "and to bring hither, before nine to-morrow, a book of Hours from the room Mademoiselle Helen used to occupy."
"Did he say that?" demanded the Marchioness vehemently. "Did he use those exact words,--'that she used to occupy?'"
"Yes, Madam, just that," answered Pierre. "I marked that shrewdly, for he said those words very slowly: and what made me think it altogether strange was, that though he said you wanted to see the book, he told Philip to bring it direct to him."
"Ha!" cried Madame de Chazeul; "So! Is it so?--Well. You have done right, Pierre, and shall be rewarded. Come hither at daybreak to-morrow; and now go sleep."
The man retired; and the moment he was gone, Madame de Chazeul started up, and with a vehement gesture of the hand, exclaimed, "He knows it all!--She has found means to write!--Ah, how subtle is he! Who would have thought from that calm peaceful face he bore to-night, that such rage and hatred, and thirst of revenge were in his bosom, as must be there even now? We shall have plots on foot--some scheme to stop the marriage. What can be in this book? Here, girl! Call Martin from the foot of the other staircase, bid him run to the stable and bring the boy Philip hither--by force if he come not quietly. Away! lose not a minute lest he be gone!"
The girl departed; and the Marchioness went on with her own thoughts. "What can be in the book? There is something beneath this!--Or has that fool Pierre deceived himself, and knowing the girl is not there, put words into the man's mouth? Yet why send at this hour secretly?--why falsely use my name to sanction the order? No, no, he knows it all, and must be cared for. There is but one way--secure him till the marriage is over,--let my brother know nought of it,--and then justify the deed by the result."
She sat down, and leaned her brow upon her hands, closing her eyes, till the door again opened, and the maid re-entered, accompanied by another of her men. "Well," she exclaimed, as soon as she saw him; "Where is Philip?"
"He has been gone this half hour, Madam, the stable boys declare," was the man's reply.
Madame de Chazeul let her hand fall heavily on the table; but suddenly recovering herself she said, "Keep a watch upon the gates from five to-morrow, till Philip returns. Then bring him at once to me,--let him speak with no one; and hark you, Martin; you are a man of execution,--Get ye gone, hussy! 'tis not for your ears. Come nearer, Martin," and she whispered something as he bent down his head.
The man started back with a look of consternation, saying, "No, Madam! not a priest! I cannot do that!"
"Fool! 'tis but for a few hours," exclaimed the Marchioness. "Hark ye,--one hundred crowns! You shall keep him under your own ward, and set him free five minutes after noon."
"Well, Madam, well!" answered the servant, after a moment's thought; "but you must promise to get me absolution, cost what it may; for it is no light matter laying hands upon one of the church,--and so good a catholic too."
"Oh, absolution you shall have!" cried Madame de Chazeul; "from the hands of a bishop, if that will satisfy you; and, if there be any difficulty, you have nothing to do but to kill a heretic, and that will make all even. Do you promise to obey?--Mark me, a hundred crowns and absolution, cost what it may!"
"Well, Madam, well," he replied; "I will do it, this once; but you must never ask me to meddle with a priest again."
"Poo!" cried the Marchioness, "'Tis for his own good. He will get himself into trouble if it be not done,--and now away, Martin. See to this other business first; and then lay hold of him. Do it gently you know, quite gently, but firmly too; and be quick, good Martin, be quick."
The man retired; but he grumbled as he went, and asked himself as he descended the stairs, "Where will this woman end?--She will make one damn one's-self some day, and she care nothing about it."
In the meantime Walter de la Tremblade had returned to the chapel with a quick step, after seeing the page depart for Chazeul. His thoughts, though commonly so calm and clear, were all in confusion and agitation. The strong passions had obtained the mastery; and for a time they revelled in their conquest. He thought of Helen--of the being on whom the affections of his heart had all centred--of the only one in all the world, the only earthly thing, on which he had suffered his heart to rest, with the intense concentrated love which he had withdrawn from all that most men hold dear. He thought of her stained and disgraced, deceived, betrayed, abandoned; and oh! how the gust of passion, like the blast of the hurricane, bent his spirit before it! He thought of her betrayer--of him whom he had striven to raise, and who had all the while been blasting the only flower left blooming for him in the wilderness of life; and the thirst for vengeance took possession of his whole heart. Of her too, he thought who--loaded with every kind of iniquity, her married life stained with many a slander, her whole soul foul with sin and wickedness--of her who had used him as a tool for her purposes, and employed him to elevate the treacherous villain who, like a serpent, stung the hand that fondled it.--He thought of her driving forth, to perish, the dear unhappy child, whom her own criminal neglect had aided to cast into temptation, loading her with contumely and opprobrium exposing her error to the rude eyes of menials, and branding her for ever with the name of harlot; and oh! how he triumphed in the thought of overthrowing all that woman's well laid schemes and cunning contrivances, blasting her hopes and expectations, and mocking her in the bitterness of disappointment!
He paused where Helen had stood between the coffin and the altar. He gazed from the one to the other; and, as he did so, each seemed to find a voice mournful, solemn, reproachful. They gradually wrought a change in his feelings, they calmed in some degree the stormy passion, they awakened higher, grander thoughts. They roused remorse, they called to repentance. As he looked upon the bier of the good old man so lately passed away, it was not alone the image of death, and all the train of sad but chastening impressions--which spring from the contemplation of mortality as from a well overflowing with admonition--that pressed upon his attention; but the memory of that old man's plain, straight-forward truth,--of the resistance he had offered to the very schemes which he, Walter de la Tremblade, had promoted to his own grief and regret, brought the lesson home to his heart, and showed him the excellence of high, single-minded truth, more strongly than the most laboured essay of preacher or of moralist. Then again, when he turned towards the altar, and looked towards the cross of Christ, and remembered the grand simplicity displayed, as an example, by the Saviour of mankind, oh! how poor and vain, how sullied and impure, how dark and criminal, seemed the highest effort of the human intellect when used to mislead and to deceive! Truth, truth, almighty, everlasting truth, seemed before him in all its God-like radiance, and it overwhelmed him with shame and confusion.
We have seen him before, stand there and feel sensations somewhat similar; but it was then merely as the glimmering streak of dawn, showing where the day will be: and now it was the risen sun.--The chastening hand of grief had swept away the darkness from his mind, and all was terrible light.
As such thoughts rushed upon him: as the eye of heaven seemed to look into his soul, detecting there vanity, pride, ambition, selfishness, deceit, the higher qualities that were within him, bowed down his heart in humiliation at the discovery of so much which he had never dreamt of; and, kneeling before the altar, he poured out the anguish of his soul in prayer.
He was still kneeling, when he heard steps in the chapel; but he heeded not; and still he went on murmuring in a low tone the words of penitence and supplication. The steps came nearer, and then paused; but still, for several minutes, he remained bowed before the cross. When he rose, however, he saw three of the servants of Madame de Chazeul standing close to him; and he asked, "What do you seek, my children?"
They all hesitated; but at length the man Martin, putting out his hand, grasped the priest by the arm, saying, "We have orders, father Walter, to put you in confinement for a time."
"Ha!" said father Walter, surprised, but calm. "By whose orders, my son? I did not know that there was either bishop, cardinal, or inquisitor here."
"No, nor is there," answered the man; "but our orders are from our mistress; and we must obey them."
"To the ruin of your own souls," asked father Walter, "will any of you dare to drag a priest from the altar?"
"We must do as we are bid, good father," replied the man: "the sin is hers, if there be any."
"But the fire will be yours," replied the priest, "and her sin will not deliver you."
"It is no use talking, Sir," continued the man; "we have sworn to do it, and so we will. 'Tis but for a few hours; and you may choose where we shall take you to. Shall it be to your own room?"
"No," answered father Walter, "no; if this act be needful to your mistress, why not keep me here, where I have promised to stay till the hour of matins? I shall be as safe here as any where else."
"No, no, that will not do," replied the man; "the chapel will be wanted."
"Well, then, as near as possible," said the priest: "aggravate not your offence, my son, by dragging the servant of God from his temple. I will stay here in the sacristy. At all events, I shall be still within the sacred precincts, and near the body I have promised to watch."
The man hesitated; but father Walter, assuming a higher tone, exclaimed, "If not--Stand back, while I pronounce upon you all, the anathema you so well deserve, and deliver you over to perdition with her who sent you."
"Stay, father, stay!" cried another of the men; "we will have none of this, Martin Gournay. If the reverend father chooses the sacristy, we will not have him thwarted. It is bad enough to do it at all. It must not be made worse than it need."
"Bad enough, indeed!" replied the priest; "and heaven forgive you for listening to the voice of man, rather than that of the church."
"Well, well," said Martin, "I do not care: let it be the sacristy. But I must see that it is all safe;" and, opening the door, he went in, followed by the priest and the other two men.
"Ah, there is a way out!" he cried. "I must have the key of that lock, good father."
"There it hangs," replied father Walter with a smile: "make it all sure. But, remember, that there is another key in the hands of the church, which may lock the door of heaven against you, if you do not repent."
The man Martin, however, tried the door which led out through the walls into the country; and, finding it locked, he took the key from a hook above, and ascertained that it fitted. Then, putting it into his pocket, he turned to the priest, saying, "I am very sorry to do this, father; but it is not with my will, and I must obey my orders. They shall bring you some food and wine; and there is a lamp. At noon to-morrow you shall be free."
Father Walter bent his head gravely; and the three men withdrew, locking the sacristy door after them, and taking the key. The moment they were gone, he rose from the seat in which he had placed himself, and laughed with a bitter mocking tone.
"The fools!" he cried; "do they think I leave myself so unprovided? I must be quick! Can she have discovered Helen?--impossible--impossible!--I heard her lock the door! I must be quick!--Yet, no! he spoke of sending food and wine. I will let them return. They will come, if it be but to see that their prisoner is safe. Perhaps, too, they may linger in the chapel," and he resumed his seat; and, taking up a book of prayer, continued to read for several minutes.
"Would they would come," he murmured at length. "Helen said, Estoc would return for her at three, and it cannot be far short of that hour."
But the tumultuous feelings which had been lately busy in his bosom, had filled the last hour with so many thoughts, that time had lost all power of measuring them; and the clock struck two, as the words were on his lips. The next moment, the door leading to the chapel opened suddenly, and the man Martin entered with a salver, bearing some food and wine. His eye instantly glanced to the priest; but the quiet attitude in which he sat, with the book upon his knee, satisfied the servant that all was secure; and, placing the provisions on a table, he was about to retire, when father Walter stopped him, saying, "Pray, do you know--and, if so, may you tell me--what is the cause of this conduct of Madame de Chazeul? I would be glad to think that, either through some error, or at the instigation of some malevolent person, she has committed this outrage, and not from mere caprice and wanton passion."
"Oh, no, father!" replied the man: "but it seems you sent one of our people to Chazeul for a book, in her name. I know not much about it: but, I believe, Pierre went and told her what he had heard--so one of the girls said."
"A mighty offence!" observed the priest gravely: "and a reasonable cause for an act which she will repent to the last day of life. Heaven grant she may not regret it even longer:" and, thus saying, he commenced reading the book again.
"Why," rejoined the man, willing to justify his mistress, and, through her, himself; "she feared, I fancy, that you were inclined to meddle with some of her plans, and she is not fond of seeing them marred."
"God will mar them, if they be evil," replied the priest; "and no one can mar them, if it be His will they should succeed. But, 'tis well, my son, 'tis well: good night!"
"Goodnight, father," answered the servant, and left him, taking the same precaution as before of turning the lock and withdrawing the key, lest any one should open the door from the side of the chapel. Father Walter instantly rose, and put his ear to a small round hole, like the mouth of a tube, at the side of the door. The servant's steps were distinctly heard passing down the nave of the chapel, and then suddenly became faint as they issued forth into the court. The priest listened for a moment longer; but no other sound was heard.
The morning broke clear and fair; a few light clouds indeed hung about the eastern sky, but only sufficient to catch the rays of the rising sun, and gather them together, in a more intense glow. But these were soon dispersed; and the sky beamed, within five minutes after the break of dawn, in clear and unclouded beauty. Those clouds, however, were still hanging over the verge of heaven, and not above half the disc of the orb of light showed itself above the horizon, when the Marquis de Chazeul, full dressed, left his own apartments, and hurried to those of his mother. As he went, the sound of a hunting horn was borne upon the wind to his ear; and pausing for a moment, with all that fierce, tenacious jealousy of the rights of the chase, which was entertained by the old feudal nobles of France; he muttered, "It must be a bold man, or well accompanied, to hunt so near the Château de Marzay. This must be seen to;" and striding on, he entered his mother's ante-room with very little respect for the half-completed toilet of her maids.
The Marchioness was still in bed; but, according to the custom of the day, she made no scruple of admitting any one who came in that situation; and her son was speedily at her bed-side. "Well, Chazeul," she said, with a shrewd smile, "the thing is done, I find; but tell me all about it. You did not disturb her I suppose?"
"No," answered Chazeul, "I found everything as still as death; and so I left it. I might have been tempted, indeed, to look in between the curtains, if I had had light enough to see my fair bride as she lay slumbering. I was afraid she might wake too."
"No great matter if she had," replied Madame de Chazeul. "The priest was not in his chamber; and the girl Blanchette would have been discreet."
"I don't know that," replied Chazeul.
"You don't know what?" demanded the Marchioness.
"I don't know that you are right in either the one or the other," answered her son; "for, as I went in, I certainly heard a noise in the next room, as if some one were locking the door, and there was a light, too, came through the key-hole. Then, as to Blanchette, she seemed to be seized with a sudden fit of perverseness. It cost me a full hour and a hundred lies, to persuade her to do as she was bid."
"The hour's time was a loss," observed his sweet mother; "as to the lies, that was no great expense. They are money easily coined. But I will teach that girl obedience before I have done with her. The hussy! it was but to enhance the price.--The priest in his room!--Ay, so he might be. Now I recollect, he was wandering about at that hour. And now, my dearly beloved son, between you and me, your absence for the next two or three hours, might be more advantageous than your presence. I have got to communicate your delinquency, you know, to my good brother, De Liancourt--in other words to tell him--ay, and prove to him too, that you have been seen creeping in and out of fair Rose's chamber at midnight; and it is ten to one that his first indignation falls upon you. That must have time to cool before you make your appearance; and in the mean time there is plenty to be done."
"Oh, I can find occupation," replied Chazeul. "There are men hunting in the forest; and I should much like to see who they maybe. I will mount, and take some half dozen men with me, to reconnoitre; and if I do not find them too strong, I will hunt them as fiercely as ever they chased deer."
"Take care of ambuscades," cried the Marchioness. "No, no, Chazeul. Better leave them alone till after the wedding. We have got other things to do. We must have a priest to bury the dead, and marry the living."
"How so?" exclaimed Chazeul, in some surprise; "is not father Walter here?"
"Ay, he is here," answered the Marchioness, "but I suspect the good man is not well enough to appear before noon."
She spoke with a meaning smile; and her son demanded, "What is it you mean, mother of mine? There is something in your eye."
"Nothing but rheum," rejoined the Marchioness. "However, if you needs must know, father Walter has discovered your folly with his niece Helen.--That is all."
"Pardi!" exclaimed Chazeul, "What is to be done now?"
"Nothing,"' answered the Marchioness. "I have provided for him. He is sick, you know. He is ill, and unable to leave his chamber till after the wedding. Let that suffice, my son."
"It will suffice for me, my most sagacious mother," replied Chazeul; "but will it suffice for others?"
"As I will manage it," said Madame de Chazeul. "At all events, it was the only step to be taken, without making him sick indeed; and that I had no time to consider. But it seems that, last night, after all the world were sleeping, but you and I and half-a-dozen others, he thought fit to send my page, Philip, to Chazeul, to bring a book of Hours belonging to the girl Helen from her room, and in my name too.--What is in it I know not; but I shall soon see. I trust, Chazeul, you have not been fool enough to write anything in the book; but if you have, that fire must prove your friend, and conceal your stupidity. The same element has proved serviceable to you before; for never did a green boy at college, put himself more completely in the power of an artful courtesan, than you did, by your pastoral epistles, in the power of Helen de la Tremblade. However, if they can decipher smoke and ashes, they may prove the contract. If not, it is dissolved."
Nicholas de Chazeul winced under the infliction. He was not one to bear easily the charge of folly even from his mother. Vice she might have charged him with at will; sin, crime, he would easily have borne; but weakness, foolishness, were accusations, against which all the vanity of his heart took arms; and his cheek grew red, his brow heavy, while he answered, "Perhaps not so stupid as you think, Madam. It was necessary to keep the girl quiet. I wrote nothing in any book, however; and perhaps, after all, you may yourself be deceived, and the priest know nothing about it."
Madame de Chazeul shook her head, replying, "Too surely!--I have been guilty of a folly as well as you, boy; and gave way to anger when I should have dealt more patiently. What is done, however, is done; and the only thing that remained, was, for me to cure one sharp act by another.--But let us talk no more of these matters. There lies the priest; and there he must lie till you are married. I will deal with your uncle and sweet Mademoiselle Rose, and you must do your part."
"And pray, will your sagacity let me know what my part is to be?" asked Chazeul; for be it remarked, that he always spoke in a somewhat jesting and irreverent tone to his excellent parent, even while he was most implicitly following her impulses.
"It is an easy one, my son," replied the Marchioness. "First you must go down to the village, and engage the curé to come up hither for the double duty that is to be performed. There is the old man to be buried. That had better take place at nine; and then there is the young man to be married, which must be done before noon. He will of course speak of father Walter, and say, it is his office to bury or marry all that die of the line of Liancourt; that he has special rights and privileges in the Chapel of Marzay, with which none can interfere, and more to the same purpose; but then you must put on a sad and solemn face, and answer that the good father was to have performed both ceremonies, but that this last night, by too much watching prayer and fasting by the corpse, he has fallen grievously ill, and has taken to his bed. Doubtless he will wish to see him when he comes up here, between the funeral and the wedding; but father Walter can get some refreshing sleep about that time; and 'twould be a sin to wake him."
Chazeul laughed. "You are armed at all points, I see," he answered; "but if, after all, Rose should show her refractory spirit at the altar, it will then be matter of regret and difficulty too, that we have not some one in our interest to go on quietly with the service, without having very fine ears for objections."
"As to the regret," said the Marchioness, "that is soon swept away. There was no way of avoiding what has been done. I know father Walter; and with him, when once his interests are opposed to yours, there is no way of dealing, but by force against wit. We are all very clever, Chazeul; and by experience of the world, we gain a certain degree of skill, like that of a village quacksalver; but a priest has a regular education in outwitting all the world, and a diploma to do it. Then for the difficulty, the curé is a good man--an excellent good man. Let him speak to me; and I will give him such reasons for thinking it best, Mademoiselle d'Albret should be your wife, that he will make you one, whether she says 'yes' or 'no,' I warrant."
"Well, all this will but occupy a short space," answered Chazeul; "and, therefore, if I am to be out of my uncle's way till his passion be cooled, pray tell me by your cabalistic art, when I may calculate that his vicinity will be safe; for I know not that I can play my part with him as well as I did with our fair Rose yesterday."
"Ay! you did that well," rejoined his mother, with an approving nod; "but you must not be back till near eleven; or if you be, you must keep your chamber as if afraid to appear. When you do, you must be mighty penitent, hear all his censure with deep humility, express your in grief broken words and sentences, that mean more than they say; never deny your crime, but plead temptation. That will be all easily done, when the first storm has blown over, especially when you are there ready to make the best atonement in your power, for any wrong you may have done the lady's reputation. What can be expected more? But there is one thing more to be considered. That old marauder, Estoc, was still at the village yesterday. I like it not; I know not what he wants: you must be on your guard! He may have designs we know not of. He certainly aided De Montigni and Rose in their escape. He may think Nicholas de Chazeul, a prize worth keeping in his hands,--a comfortable hostage for her marriage with the boy he loves so well. Before you venture into the village, send down and see if he be still there, and if he be, have the curé brought up to you.--But go not too near."
"Oh, I fear him not!" replied Chazeul; "he would never dare to draw a sword against me, under the very walls of Marzay. No fear, no fear, dear mother. But I will be cautious for the present. The men of Chazeul must soon be back, if all their throats be not cut, as, by my faith, I am tempted to think they must be, by their long stay; and when they return, I will drive the old wolf out of his lair at the lance's point. I have not forgotten him. But the delay of these men puzzles me.--They had strict orders to return as soon as a battle was lost or won."
"They may have been driven back with Mayenne across the Seine," replied Madame de Chazeul; "or towards Houdan and Versailles; and are not able to force their way across. Besides, you know the Bailli loves adventures, and is not un-fond of plunder. He may have some private enterprise in hand."
Chazeul shut his lips close. "He shall pay for it, if he have neglected my commands at a moment of need, for any scheme of his own," he said. "But I will go, good mother, and leave you to your devices. Fear not for me; I will take good care;" and thus saying he left her to pursue her tortuous plans to their consummation.
He himself was soon upon his horse's back, and down the slope; but ere he lost sight of the protecting walls of the castle, he sent forward one of the men who followed him, to inquire whether Estoc and his party were still in the village, riding slowly on with the rest. The attendant returned in about ten minutes, bringing intelligence that the place was clear.
"Monsieur Estoc," he said, "marched this morning an hour before daylight; having, it seems, received tidings in the night which hurried his departure. The cottager whom I spoke with, told me that he believed those tidings were, that some bands were coming up from the side of Chartres."
"The Bailli and our own people, on my life!" replied Chazeul; "or he would not have hurried away so soon. Which way did he go? I will have him pursued if they arrive in time."
"Towards Mortagne," answered the servant; "at least, so the man said."
"Did you hear aught of these hunters?" demanded his master.
"They did not pass through the village, Sir," was the reply, "but they were seen upon the edge of the wood by some of the people, and seemed somewhat strong in numbers."
"Then we must be strong ourselves, before we deal with them," observed his master, and rode on straight to the priest's house in the village. He found the worthy curé at the door of his dwelling--a stout, round faced, well-fed ecclesiastic; and, as so often happens in life, none of the objections or difficulties, against which answers had been prepared, were made. The priest merely expressed his sorrow that father Walter, his reverend friend, was unwell; and, knowing that both at funerals and marriages much good eating and drinking seldom failed to take place, he agreed to perform both ceremonies with equal pleasure.
Well was it for the Marquis de Chazeul, that Estoc was not aware of his visit to the village; for the old soldier was not as far off as he imagined; and had he known that such a prey was near, it might have been long before the walls of Marzay had seen their lord's nephew within them again.