Garnache had but a few minutes in which to unfold his story, and he needed, in addition, a second or two in which to ponder the situation as he now found it.
His first reflection was that Florimond, since he was now married, might perhaps, instead of proving Valerie’s saviour from Marius, join forces with his brother in coercing her into this alliance with him. But from what Valerie herself had told him he was inclined to think more favourably of Florimond and to suppress such doubts as these. Still he could incur no risks; his business was to serve Valerie and Valerie only; to procure at all costs her permanent liberation from the power of the Condillacs. To make sure of this he must play upon Florimond’s anger, letting him know that Marius had journeyed to La Rochette for the purpose of murdering his half-brother. That he but sought to murder him to the end that he might be removed from his path to Valerie, was a circumstance that need not too prominently be presented. Still, presented it must be, for Florimond would require to know by what motive his brother was impelled ere he could credit him capable of such villainy.
Succinctly, but tellingly, Garnache brought out the story of the plot that had been laid for Florimond’s assassination, and it joyed him to see the anger rising in the Marquis’s face and flashing from his eyes.
“What reason have they for so damnable a deed?” he cried, between incredulity and indignation.
“Their overweening ambition. Marius covets Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye’s estates.”
“And to gain his ends he would not stop at murdering me? Is it, indeed, the truth you tell me?”
“I pledge my honour for the truth of it,” answered Garnache, watching him closely. Florimond looked at him a moment. The steady glance of those blue eyes and the steady tone of that crisp voice scattered his last doubt.
“The villains!” cried the Marquis. “The fools!” he added. “For me, Marius had been welcome to Valerie. He might have found in me an ally to aid him in the urging of his suit. But now—” He raised his clenched hand and shook it in the air, as if in promise of the battle he would deliver.
“Good,” said Garnache, reassured. “I hear their steps upon the stairs. They must not find me with you.”
A moment later the door opened, and Marius, very bravely arrayed, entered the room, followed closely by Fortunio. Neither showed much ill effects of last night’s happenings, save for a long dark-brown scar that ran athwart the captain’s cheek, where Garnache’s sword had ploughed it.
They found Florimond seated quietly at table, and as they entered he rose and came forward with a friendly smile to greet his brother. His sense of humour was being excited; he was something of an actor, and the role he had adopted in the comedy to be played gave him a certain grim satisfaction. He would test for himself the truth of what Monsieur de Garnache had told him concerning his brother’s intentions. Marius received his advances very coolly. He took his brother’s hand, submitted to his brother’s kiss; but neither kiss nor hand-pressure did he return. Florimond affected not to notice this.
“You are well, my dear Marius, I hope,” said he, and thrusting him out at arms’ length, he held him by the shoulders and regarded him critically. “Ma foi, but you are changed into a comely well-grown man. And your mother—she is well, too, I trust.”
“I thank you, Florimond, she is well,” said Marius stiffly.
The Marquis took his hands from his brother’s shoulders; his florid, good-natured face smiling ever, as if this were the happiest moment of his life.
“It is good to see France again, my dear Marius,” he told his brother. “I was a fool to have remained away so long. I am pining to be at Condillac once more.”
Marius eyeing him, looked in vain for signs of the fever. He had expected to find a debilitated, emaciated man; instead, he saw a very lusty, healthy, hearty fellow, full of good humour, and seemingly full of strength. He began to like his purpose less, despite such encouragement as he gathered from the support of Fortunio. Still, it must be gone through with.
“You wrote us that you had the fever,” he said, half inquiringly.
“Pooh! That is naught.” And Florimond snapped a strong finger against a stronger thumb. “But whom have you with you?” he asked, and his eyes took the measure of Fortunio, standing a pace or two behind his master.
Marius presented his bravo.
“This is Captain Fortunio, the commander of our garrison of Condillac.”
The Marquis nodded good-humouredly towards the captain.
“Captain Fortunio? He is well named for a soldier of fortune. My brother, no doubt, will have family matters to tell me of. If you will step below, Monsieur le Capitaine, and drink a health or so while you wait, I shall be honoured.”
The captain, nonplussed, looked at Marius, and Florimond surprised the look. But Marius’s manner became still chillier.
“Fortunio here,” said he, and he half turned and let his hand fall on the captain’s shoulder, “is my very good friend. I have no secrets from him.”
The instant lift of Florimond’s eyebrows was full of insolent, supercilious disdain. Yet Marius did not fasten his quarrel upon that. He had come to La Rochette resolved that any pretext would serve his turn. But the sight of his brother so inflamed his jealousy that he had now determined that the quarrel should be picked on the actual ground in which it had its roots.
“Oh, as you will,” said the Marquis coolly. “Perhaps your friend will be seated, and you, too, my dear Marius.” And he played the host to them with a brisk charm. Setting chairs, he forced them to sit, and pressed wine upon them.
Marius cast his hat and cloak on the chair where Garnache’s had been left. The Parisian’s hat and cloak, he naturally assumed to belong to his brother. The smashed flagon and the mess of wine upon the floor he scarce observed, setting it down to some clumsiness, either his brother’s or a servant’s. They both drank, Marius in silence, the captain with a toast.
“Your good return, Monsieur le Marquis,” said he, and Florimond thanked him by an inclination of the head. Then, turning to Marius:
“And so,” he said, “you have a garrison at Condillac. What the devil has been taking place there? I have had some odd news of you. It would almost seem as if you were setting up as rebels in our quiet little corner of Dauphiny.”
Marius shrugged his shoulders; his face suggested that he was ill-humoured.
“Madame the Queen-Regent has seen fit to interfere in our concerns. We Condillacs do not lightly brook interference.”
Florimond showed his teeth in a pleasant smile.
“That is true, that is very true, Pardieu! But what warranted this action of Her Majesty’s?”
Marius felt that the time for deeds was come. This fatuous conversation was but a futile waste of time. He set down his glass, and sitting back in his chair he fixed his sullen black eyes full upon his half-brother’s smiling brown ones.
“I think we have exchanged compliments enough,” said he, and Fortunio wagged his head approvingly. There were too many men in the courtyard for his liking, and the more time they waited, the more likely were they to suffer interruption. Their aim must be to get the thing done quickly, and then quickly to depart before an alarm could be raised. “Our trouble at Condillac concerns Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye.”
Florimond started forward, with a ready assumption of lover-like solicitude.
“No harm has come to her?” he cried. “Tell me that no harm has come to her.”
“Reassure yourself,” answered Marius, with a sneer, a greyness that was of jealous rage overspreading his face. “No harm has come to her whatever. The trouble was that I sought to wed her, and she, because she is betrothed to you, would have none of me. So we brought her to Condillac, hoping always to persuade her. You will remember that she was under my mother’s tutelage. The girl, however, could not be constrained. She suborned one of our men to bear a letter to Paris for her, and in answer to it the Queen sent a hot-headed, rash blunderer down to Dauphiny to procure her liberation. He lies now at the bottom of the moat of Condillac.”
Florimond’s face had assumed a look of horror and indignation.
“Do you dare tell me this?” he cried.
“Dare?” answered Marius, with an ugly laugh. “Men enough have died over this affair already. That fellow Garnache left some bodies on our hands last night before he set out for another world himself. You little dream how far my daring goes in this matter. I’ll add as many more as need be to the death roll that we have already, before you set foot in Condillac.”
“Ah!” said Florimond, as one upon whose mind a light breaks suddenly. “So, that is the business on which you come to me. I doubted your brotherliness, I must confess, my dear Marius. But tell me, brother mine, what of our father’s wishes in this matter? Have you no respect for those?”
“What respect had you?” flashed back Marius, his voice now raised in anger. “Was it like a lover to remain away for three years—to let all that time go by without ever a word from you to your betrothed? What have you done to make good your claim to her?”
“Nothing, I confess; yet—”
“Well, you shall do something now,” exclaimed Marius, rising. “I am here to afford you the opportunity. If you would still win Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye, you shall win her from me—at point of sword. Fortunio, see to the door.”
“Wait, Marius!” cried Florimond, and he looked genuinely aghast. “Do not forget that we are brothers, men of the same blood; that my father was your father.”
“I choose to remember rather that we are rivals,” answered Marius, and he drew his rapier. Fortunio turned the key in the lock. Florimond gave his brother a long searching look, then with a sigh he picked up his sword where it lay ready to his hand and thoughtfully unsheathed it. Holding the hilt in one hand and the blade in the other he stood, bending the weapon like a whip, whilst again he searchingly regarded his brother.
“Hear me a moment,” said he. “If you will force this unnatural quarrel upon me, at least let the thing be decently done. Not here, not in these cramped quarters, but out in the open let our meeting take place. If the captain, there, will act for you, I’ll find a friend to do me the like service.”
“We settle this matter here and now,” Marius answered him, in a tone of calm finality.
“But if I were to kill you—” Florimond began.
“Reassure yourself,” said Marius with an ugly smile.
“Very well, then; either alternative will suit the case I wish to put. If you were to kill me—it may be ranked as murder. The irregularity of it could not be overlooked.”
“The captain, here, will act for both of us.”
“I am entirely at your service, gentlemen,” replied Fortunio pleasantly, bowing to each in turn.
Florimond considered him. “I do not like his looks,” he objected. “He may be the friend of your bosom, Marius; you may have no secrets from him; but for my part, frankly, I should prefer the presence of some friend of my own to keep his blade engaged.”
The Marquis’s manner was affable in the extreme. Now that it was settled that they must fight, he appeared to have cast aside all scruples based upon their consanguinity, and he discussed the affair with the greatest bonhomie, as though he were disposing of a matter of how they should sit down to table.
It gave them pause. The change was too abrupt. They did not like it. It was as the calm that screens some surprise. Yet it was impossible he should have been forewarned; impossible he could have had word of how they proposed to deal with him.
Marius shrugged his shoulders.
“There is reason in what you say,” he acknowledged; “but I am in haste. I cannot wait while you go in search of a friend.”
“Why then,” he answered, with a careless laugh, “I must raise one from the dead.”
Both stared at him. Was he mad? Had the fever touched his brain? Was that healthy colour but the brand of a malady that rendered him delirious?
“Dieu! How you stare!” he continued, laughing in their faces. “You shall see something to compensate you for your journey, messieurs. I have learnt some odd tricks in Italy; they are a curious people beyond the Alps. What did you say was the name of the man the Queen had sent from Paris?—he who lies at the bottom of the moat of Condillac?”
“Let there be an end to this jesting,” growled Marius. “On guard, Monsieur le Marquis!”
“Patience! patience!” Florimond implored him. “You shall have your way with me, I promise you. But of your charity, messieurs, tell me first the name of that man.”
“It was Garnache,” said Fortunio, “and if the information will serve you, it was I who slew him.”
“You?” cried Florimond. “Tell me of it, I beg you.”
“Do you fool us?” questioned Marius in a rage that overmastered his astonishment, his growing suspicion that here all was not quite as it seemed.
“Fool you? But no. I do but wish to show you something that I learned in Italy. Tell me how you slew him, Monsieur le Capitaine.”
“I think we are wasting time,” said the captain, angry too. He felt that this smiling gentleman was deriding the pair of them; it crossed his mind that for some purpose of his own the Marquis was seeking to gain time. He drew his sword.
Florimond saw the act, watched it, and his eyes twinkled. Suddenly Marius’s sword shot out at him. He leapt back beyond the table, and threw himself on guard, his lips still wreathed in their mysterious smile.
“The time has come, messieurs,” said he. “I should have preferred to know more of how you slew that Monsieur de Garnache; but since you deny me the information, I shall do my best without it. I’ll try to conjure up his ghost, to keep you entertained, Monsieur le Capitaine.” And then, raising his voice, his sword, engaging now his brother’s:
“Ola, Monsieur de Garnache!” he cried. “To me!”
And then it seemed to those assassins that the Marquis had been neither mad nor boastful when he had spoken of strange things he had learned beyond the Alps, or else it was they themselves were turned light-headed, for the doors of a cupboard at the far end of the room flew open suddenly, and from between them stepped the stalwart figure of Martin de Garnache, a grim smile lifting the corners of his mustachios, a naked sword in his hand flashing back the sunlight that flooded through the window.
They paused, aghast, and they turned ashen; and then in the mind of each arose the same explanation of this phenomenon. This Garnache wore the appearance of the man who had announced himself by that name when he came to Condillac a fortnight ago. Then, the sallow, black-haired knave who had last night proclaimed himself as Garnache in disguise was some impostor. That was the conclusion they promptly arrived at, and however greatly they might be dismayed by the appearance of this ally of Florimond’s, yet the conclusion heartened them anew. But scarce had they arrived at it when Monsieur de Garnache’s crisp voice came swiftly to dispel it.
“Monsieur le Capitaine,” it said, and Fortunio shivered at the sound, for it was the voice he had heard but a few hours ago, “I welcome the opportunity of resuming our last night’s interrupted sword-play.” And he advanced deliberately.
Marius’s sword had fallen away from his brother’s, and the two combatants stood pausing. Fortunio without more ado made for the door. But Garnache crossed the intervening space in a bound.
“Turn!” he cried. “Turn, or I’ll put my sword through your back. The door shall serve you presently, but it is odds that it will need a couple of men to bear you through it. Look to your dirty skin!”
A couple of hours after the engagement in the Marquis de Condillac’s apartments at the Sanglier Noir at La Rochette, Monsieur de Garnache, attended only by Rabecque, rode briskly into France once more and made for the little town of Cheylas, which is on the road that leads down to the valley of the Isere and to Condillac. But not as far as the township did he journey. On a hill, the slopes all cultivated into an opulent vineyard, some two miles east of Cheylas, stood the low, square grey building of the Convent of Saint Francis. Thither did Monsieur de Garnache bend his horse’s steps. Up the long white road that crept zigzag through the Franciscans’ vineyards rode the Parisian and his servant under the welcome sunshine of that November afternoon.
Garnache’s face was gloomy and his eyes sad, for his thoughts were all of Valerie, and he was prey to a hundred anxieties regarding her.
They gained the heights at last, and Rabecque got down to beat with his whip upon the convent gates.
A lay-brother came to open, and in reply to Garnache’s request that he might have a word with the Father Abbot, invited him to enter.
Through the cloisters about the great quadrangle, where a couple of monks, their habits girt high as their knees, were busy at gardeners’ work, Garnache followed his conductor, and up the steps to the Abbot’s chamber.
The master of the Convent of Saint Francis of Cheylas a tall, lean man with an ascetic face, prominent cheekbones, and a nose not unlike Garnache’s own—the nose of a man of action rather than of prayer—bowed gravely to this stalwart stranger, and in courteous accents begged to be informed in what he might serve him.
Hat in hand, Garnache took a step forward in that bare, scantily furnished little room, permeated by the faint, waxlike odour that is peculiar to the abode of conventuals. Without hesitation he stated the reason of his visit.
“Father,” said he, “a son of the house of Condillac met his end this morning at La Rochette.”
The monk’s eyes seemed to quicken, as though his interest in the outer world had suddenly revived.
“It is the Hand of God,” he cried. “Their evil ways have provoked at last the anger of Heaven. How did this unfortunate meet his death?”
Garnache shrugged his shoulders.
“De mortuis nil nisi bonum,” said he. His air was grave, his blue eyes solemn, and the Abbot had little cause to suspect the closeness with which that pair of eyes was watching him. He coloured faintly at the implied rebuke, but he inclined his head as if submissive to the correction, and waited for the other to proceed.
“There is the need, Father, to give his body burial,” said Garnache gently.
But at that the monk raised his head, and a deeper flush the flush of anger—spread now upon his sallow cheeks. Garnache observed it, and was glad.
“Why do you come to me?” he asked.
“Why?” echoed Garnache, and there was hesitancy now in his voice. “Is not the burial of the dead enjoined by Mother Church? Is it not a part of your sacred office?”
“You ask me this as you would challenge my reply,” said the monk, shaking his head. “It is as you say, but it is not within our office to bury the impious dead, nor those who in life were excommunicate and died without repentance.”
“How can you assume he died without repentance?”
“I do not; but I assume he died without absolution, for there is no priest who, knowing his name, would dare to shrive him, and if one should do it in ignorance of his name and excommunication, why then it is not done at all. Bid others bury this son of the house of Condillac; it matters no more by what hands or in what ground he be buried than if he were the horse he rode or the hound that followed him.”
“The Church is very harsh, Father,” said Garnache sternly.
“The Church is very just,” the priest answered him, more sternly still, a holy wrath kindling his sombre eyes.
“He was in life a powerful noble,” said Garnache thoughtfully. “It is but fitting that, being dead, honour and reverence should be shown his body.”
“Then let those who have themselves been honoured by the Condillacs honour this dead Condillac now. The Church is not of that number, monsieur. Since the late Marquis’s death the house of Condillac has been in rebellion against us; our priests have been maltreated, our authority flouted; they paid no tithes, approached no sacraments. Weary of their ungodliness the Church placed its ban upon them; under this ban it seems they die. My heart grieves for them; but—”
He spread his hands, long and almost transparent in their leanness, and on his face a cloud of sorrow rested.
“Nevertheless, Father,” said Garnache, “twenty brothers of Saint Francis shall bear the body home to Condillac, and you yourself shall head this grim procession.”
“I?” The monk shrank back before him, and his figure seemed to grow taller. “Who are you, sir, that say to me what I shall do, the Church’s law despite?”
Garnache took the Abbot by the sleeve of his rough habit and drew him gently towards the window. There was a persuasive smile on his lips and in his keen eyes which the monk, almost unconsciously, obeyed.
“I will tell you,” said Garnache, “and at the same time I shall seek to turn you from your harsh purpose.”
At the hour at which Monsieur de Garnache was seeking to persuade the Abbot of Saint Francis of Cheylas to adopt a point of view more kindly towards a dead man, Madame de Condillac was at dinner, and with her was Valerie de La Vauvraye. Neither woman ate appreciably. The one was oppressed by sorrow, the other by anxiety, and the circumstance that they were both afflicted served perhaps to render the Dowager gentler in her manner towards the girl.
She watched the pale face and troubled eyes of Valerie; she observed the almost lifeless manner in which she came and went as she was bidden, as though a part of her had ceased to exist, and that part the part that matters most. It did cross her mind that in this condition mademoiselle might the more readily be bent to their will, but she dwelt not overlong upon that reflection. Rather was her mood charitable, no doubt because she felt herself the need of charity, the want of sympathy.
She was tormented by fears altogether disproportionate to their cause. A hundred times she told herself that no ill could befall Marius. Florimond was a sick man, and were he otherwise, there was still Fortunio to stand by and see to it that the right sword pierced the right heart, else would his pistoles be lost to him.
Nevertheless she was fretted by anxiety, and she waited impatiently for news, fuming at the delay, yet knowing full well that news could not yet reach her.
Once she reproved Valerie for her lack of appetite, and there was in her voice a kindness Valerie had not heard for months—not since the old Marquis died, nor did she hear it now, or, hearing it, she did not heed it.
“You are not eating, child,” the Dowager said, and her eyes were gentle.
Valerie looked up like one suddenly awakened; and in that moment her eyes filled with tears. It was as if the Dowager’s voice had opened the floodgates of her sorrow and let out the tears that hitherto had been repressed. The Marquise rose and waved the page and an attendant lackey from the room. She crossed to Valerie’s side and put her arm about the girl’s shoulder.
“What ails you, child?” she asked. For a moment the girl suffered the caress; almost she seemed to nestle closer to the Dowager’s shoulder. Then, as if understanding had come to her suddenly, she drew back and quietly disengaged herself from the other’s arms. Her tears ceased; the quiver passed from her lip.
“You are very good, madame,” she said, with a coldness that rendered the courteous words almost insulting, “but nothing ails me save a wish to be alone.”
“You have been alone too much of late,” the Dowager answered, persisting in her wish to show kindness to Valerie; for all that, had she looked into her own heart, she might have been puzzled to find a reason for her mood—unless the reason lay in her own affliction of anxiety for Marius.
“Perhaps I have,” said the girl, in the same cold, almost strained voice. “It was not by my own contriving.”
“Ah, but it was, child; indeed it was. Had you been reasonable you had found us kinder. We had never treated you as we have done, never made a prisoner of you.”
Valerie looked up into the beautiful ivory-white face, with its black eyes and singularly scarlet lips, and a wan smile raised the corners of her gentle mouth.
“You had no right—none ever gave it you—to set constraint and restraint upon me.”
“I had—indeed, indeed I had,” the Marquise answered her, in a tone of sad protest. “Your father gave me such a right when he gave me charge of you.”
“Was it a part of your charge to seek to turn me from my loyalty to Florimond, and endeavour to compel me by means gentle or ungentle into marriage with Marius?”
“We thought Florimond dead; or, if not dead, then certainly unworthy of you to leave you without news of him for years together. And if he was not dead then, it is odds he will be dead by now.” The words slipped out almost unconsciously, and the Marquise bit her lip and straightened herself, fearing an explosion. But none came. The girl looked across the table at the fire that smouldered on the hearth in need of being replenished.
“What do you mean, madame?” she asked; but her tone was listless, apathetic, as of one who though uttering a question is incurious as to what the answer may be.
“We had news some days ago that he was journeying homewards, but that he was detained by fever at La Rochette. We have since heard that his fever has grown so serious that there is little hope of his recovery.”
“And it was to solace his last moments that Monsieur Marius left Condillac this morning?”
The Dowager looked sharply at the girl; but Valerie’s face continued averted, her gaze resting on the fire. Her tone suggested nothing beyond a natural curiosity.
“Yes,” said the Dowager.
“And lest his own efforts to help his brother out of this world should prove insufficient he took Captain Fortunio with him?” said Valerie, in the same indifferent voice.
“What do you mean?” the Marquise almost hissed into the girl’s ear.
Valerie turned to her, a faint colour stirring in her white face.
“Just what I have said, madame. Would you know what I have prayed? All night was I upon my knees from the moment that I recovered consciousness, and my prayers were that Heaven might see fit to let Florimond destroy your son. Not that I desire Florimond’s return, for I care not if I never set eyes on him again. There is a curse upon this house, madame,” the girl continued, rising from her chair and speaking now with a greater animation, whilst the Marquise recoiled a step, her face strangely altered and suddenly gone grey, “and I have prayed that that curse might be worked out upon that assassin, Marius. A fine husband, madame, you would thrust upon the daughter of Gaston de La Vauvraye.”
And turning, without waiting for an answer, she moved slowly down the room, and took her way to her own desolate apartments, so full of memories of him she mourned—of him, it seemed to her, she must always mourn; of him who lay dead in the black waters of the moat beneath her window.
Stricken with a sudden, inexplicable terror, the Dowager, who for all her spirit was not without a certain superstition, felt her knees loosen, and she sank limply into a chair. She was amazed at the extent of Valerie’s knowledge, and puzzled by it; she was amazed, too, at the seeming apathy of Valerie for the danger in which Florimond stood, and at her avowal that she did not care if she never again beheld him. But such amazement as came to her was whelmed fathoms-deep in her sudden fears for Marius. If he should die! She grew cold at the thought, and she sat there, her hands folded in her lap, her face grey. That mention of the curse the Church had put upon them had frozen her quick blood and turned her stout spirit to mere water.
At last she rose and went out into the open to inquire if no messenger had yet arrived, for all that she knew there was not yet time for any messenger to have reached the chateau. She mounted the winding staircase of stone that led to the ramparts, and there alone, in the November sunshine, she paced to and fro for hours, waiting for news, straining her eyes to gaze up the valley of the Isere, watching for the horseman that must come that way. Then, as time sped on and the sun approached its setting and still no one came, she bethought her that if harm had befallen Marius, none would ride that night to Condillac. This very delay seemed pregnant with news of disaster. And then she shook off her fears and tried to comfort herself. There was not yet time. Besides, what had she to fear for Marius? He was strong and quick, and Fortunio was by his side. A man was surely dead by now at La Rochette; but that man could not be Marius.
At last, in the distance, she espied a moving object, and down on the silent air of eventide came the far-off rattle of a horse’s hoofs. Some one was riding, galloping that way. He was returned at last. She leaned on the battlements, her breath coming in quick, short gasps, and watched the horseman growing larger with every stride of his horse.
A mist was rising from the river, and it dimmed the figure; and she cursed the mist for heightening her anxiety, for straining further her impatience. Then a new fear was begotten in her mind. Why came one horseman only where two should have ridden? Who was it that returned, and what had befallen his companion? God send, at least, it might be Marius who rode thus, at such a breakneck pace.
At last she could make him out. He was close to the chateau now, and she noticed that his right arm was bandaged and hanging in a sling. And then a scream broke from her, and she bit her lip hard to keep another in check, for she had seen the horseman’s face, and it was Fortunio’s. Fortunio—and wounded! Then, assuredly, Marius was dead!
She swayed where she stood. She set her hand on her bosom, above her heart, as if she would have repressed the beating of the one, the heaving of the other; her soul sickened, and her mind seemed to turn numb, as she waited there for the news that should confirm her fears.
The hoofs of his horse thundered over the planks of the drawbridge, and came clatteringly to halt as he harshly drew rein in the courtyard below. There was a sound of running feet and men sprang to his assistance. Madame would have gone below to meet him; but her limbs seemed to refuse their office. She leaned against one of the merlons of the embattled parapet, her eyes on the spot where he should emerge from the stairs, and thus she waited, her eyes haggard, her face drawn.
He came at last, lurching in his walk, being overstiff from his long ride. She took a step forward to meet him. Her lips parted.
“Well?” she asked him, and her voice sounded harsh and strained. “How has the venture sped?”
“The only way it could,” he answered. “As you would wish it.”
At that she thought that she must faint. Her lungs seemed to writhe for air, and she opened her lips and took long draughts of the rising mist, never speaking for a moment or two until she had sufficiently recovered from this tremendous revulsion from her fears.
“Then, where is Marius?” she asked at last.
“He has remained behind to accompany the body home. They are bringing it here.”
“They?” she echoed. “Who are they?”
“The monks of Saint Francis of Cheylas,” he answered.
A something in his tone, a something in his shifty eyes, a cloud upon his fair and usually so ingenuous looking countenance aroused her suspicions and gave her resurrected courage pause.
She caught him viciously by the arms, and forced his glance to meet her own in the fading daylight.
“It is the truth you are telling me, Fortunio?” she snapped, and her voice was half-angry, half-fearful.
He faced her now, his eyes bold. He raised a hand to lend emphasis to his words.
“I swear, madame, by my salvation, that Monsieur Marius is sound and well.”
She was satisfied. She released his arm.
“Does he come to-night?” she asked.
“They will be here to-morrow, madame. I rode on to tell you so.”
“An odd fancy, this of his. But”—and a sudden smile overspread her face—“we may find a more useful purpose for one of these monks.”
An hour ago she would willingly have set mademoiselle at liberty in exchange for the assurance that Marius had been successful in the business that had taken him over the border into Savoy. She would have done it gladly, content that Marius should be heir to Condillac. But now that Condillac was assured her son, she must have more for him; her insatiable greed for his advancement and prosperity was again upon her. Now, more than ever—now that Florimond was dead—must she have La Vauvraye for Marius, and she thought that mademoiselle would no longer be difficult to bend. The child had fallen in love with that mad Garnache, and when a woman is crossed in love, while her grief lasts it matters little to her where she weds. Did she not know it out of the fund of her own bitter experience? Was it not that—the compulsion her own father had employed to make her find a mate in a man so much older than herself as Condillac—that had warped her own nature, and done much to make her what she was?
A lover she had had, and whilst he lived she had resisted them, and stood out against this odious marriage that for convenience’ sake they forced upon her. He was killed in Paris in a duel, and when the news of it came to her, she had folded her hands and let them wed her to whom they listed.
Of just such a dejection of spirit had she observed the signs in Valerie; let them profit by it while it lasted. They had been long enough without Church ceremonies at Condillac. There should be two to-morrow to make up for the empty time—a wedding and a burial.
She was going down the stairs, Fortunio a step behind her, when her mind reverted to the happening at La Rochette.
“Was it well done?” she asked.
“It made some stir,” said he. “The Marquis had men with him, and had the affair taken place in France ill might have come of it.”
“You shall give me a full account of it,” said she, rightly thinking that there was still something to be explained. Then she laughed softly. “Yes, it was a lucky chance for us, his staying at La Rochette. Florimond was born under an unlucky star, I think, and you under a lucky one, Fortunio.”
“I think so, too, as regards myself,” he answered grimly, and he thought of the sword that had ploughed his cheek last night and pierced his sword-arm that morning, and he thanked such gods as in his godlessness he owned for the luck that had kept that sword from finding out his heart.
On the morrow, which was a Friday and the tenth of November—a date to be hereafter graven on the memory of all concerned in the affairs of Condillac—the Dowager rose betimes, and, for decency’s sake, having in mind the business of the day, she gowned herself in black.
Betimes, too, the Lord Seneschal rode out of Grenoble, attended by a couple of grooms, and headed for Condillac, in doing which—little though he suspected it—he was serving nobody’s interests more thoroughly than Monsieur de Garnache’s.
Madame received him courteously. She was in a blithe and happy mood that morning—the reaction from her yesterday’s distress of mind. The world was full of promise, and all things had prospered with her and Marius. Her boy was lord of Condillac; Florimond, whom she had hated and who had stood in the way of her boy’s advancement, was dead and on his way to burial; Garnache, the man from Paris who might have made trouble for them had he ridden home again with the tale of their resistance, was silenced for all time, and the carp in the moat would be feasting by now upon what was left of him; Valerie de La Vauvraye was in a dejected frame of mind that augured well for the success of the Dowager’s plans concerning her, and by noon at latest there would be priests at Condillac, and, if Marius still wished to marry the obstinate baggage, there would be no difficulty as to that.
It was a glorious morning, mild and sunny as an April day, as though Nature took a hand in the Dowager’s triumph and wished to make the best of its wintry garb in honour of it.
The presence of this gross suitor of hers afforded her another source of satisfaction. There would no longer be the necessity she once had dreaded of listening to his suit for longer than it should be her pleasure to be amused by him. But when Tressan spoke, he struck the first note of discord in the perfect harmony which the Dowager imagined existed.
“Madame,” said he, “I am desolated that I am not a bearer of better tidings. But for all that we have made the most diligent search, the man Rabecque has not yet been apprehended. Still, we have not abandoned hope,” he added, by way of showing that there was a silver lining to his cloud of danger.
For just a moment madame’s brows were knitted. She had forgotten Rabecque until now; but an instant’s reflection assured her that in forgetting him she had done him no more than such honour as he deserved. She laughed, as she led the way down the garden steps—the mildness of the day and the brightness of her mood had moved her there to receive the Seneschal.
“From the sombreness of your tone one might fear your news to be of the nature of some catastrophe. What shall it signify that Rabecque eludes your men? He is but a lackey after all.”
“True,” said the Seneschal, very soberly; “but do not forget, I beg, that he is the bearer of letters from one who is not a lackey.”
The laughter went out of her face at that. Here was something that had been lost sight of in the all-absorbing joy of other things. In calling the forgotten Rabecque to mind she had but imagined that it was no more than a matter of the tale he might tell—a tale not difficult to refute, she thought. Her word should always weigh against a lackey’s. But that letter was a vastly different matter.
“He must be found, Tressan,” she said sharply.
Tressan smiled uneasily, and chewed at his beard.
“No effort shall be spared,” he promised her. “Of that you may be very sure. The affairs of the province are at a standstill,” he added, that vanity of his for appearing a man of infinite business rising even in an hour of such anxiety, for to himself, no less than to her, was there danger should Rabecque ever reach his destination with the papers Garnache had said he carried.
“The affairs of the province are at a standstill,” he repeated, “while all my energies are bent upon this quest. Should we fail to have news of his capture in Dauphiny, we need not, nevertheless, despond. I have sent men after him along the three roads that lead to Paris. They are to spare neither money nor horses in picking up his trail and effecting his capture. After all, I think we shall have him.”
“He is our only danger now,” the Marquise answered, “for Florimond is dead—of the fever,” she added, with a sneering smile which gave Tressan sensations as of cold water on his spine. “It were an irony of fate if that miserable lackey were to reach Paris now and spoil the triumph for which we have worked so hard.”
“It were, indeed,” Tressan agreed with her, “and we must see that he does not.”
“But if he does,” she returned, “then we must stand together.” And with that she set her mind at ease once more, her mood that morning being very optimistic.
“Always, I hope, Clotilde,” he answered, and his little eyes leered up out of the dimples of fat in which they were embedded. “I have stood by you like a true friend in this affair; is it not so?”
“Indeed; do I deny it?” she answered half scornfully.
“As I shall stand by you always when the need arises. You are a little in my debt concerning Monsieur de Garnache.”
“I—I realize it,” said she, and she felt again as if the sunshine were gone from the day, the blitheness from her heart. She was moved to bid him cease leering at her and to take himself and his wooing to the devil. But she bethought her that the need for him might not yet utterly be passed. Not only in the affair of Garnache—in which he stood implicated as deeply as herself—might she require his loyalty, but also in the matter of what had befallen yesterday at La Rochette; for despite Fortunio’s assurances that things had gone smoothly, his tale hung none too convincingly together; and whilst she did not entertain any serious fear of subsequent trouble, yet it might be well not utterly to banish the consideration of such a possibility, and to keep the Seneschal her ally against it. So she told him now, with as much graciousness as she could command, that she fully realized her debt, and when, encouraged, he spoke of his reward, she smiled upon him as might a girl smile upon too impetuous a wooer whose impetuosity she deprecates yet cannot wholly withstand.
“I am a widow of six months,” she reminded him, as she had reminded him once before. Her widowhood was proving a most convenient refuge. “It is not for me to listen to a suitor, however my foolish heart may incline. Come to me in another six months’ time.”
“And you will wed me then?” he bleated.
By an effort her eyes smiled down upon him, although her face was a trifle drawn.
“Have I not said that I will listen to no suitor? and what is that but a suitor’s question?”
He caught her hand; he would have fallen on his knees there and then, at her feet, on the grass still wet with the night’s mist, but that he in time bethought him of how sadly his fine apparel would be the sufferer.
“Yet I shall not sleep, I shall know no rest, no peace until you have given me an answer. Just an answer is all I ask. I will set a curb upon my impatience afterwards, and go through my period of ah—probation without murmuring. Say that you, will marry me in six months’ time—at Easter, say.”
She saw that an answer she must give, and so she gave him the answer that he craved. And he—poor fool!—never caught the ring of her voice, as false as the ring of a base coin; never guessed that in promising she told herself it would be safe to break that promise six months hence, when the need of him and his loyalty would be passed.
A man approached them briskly from the chateau. He brought news that a numerous company of monks was descending the valley of the Isere towards Condillac. A faint excitement stirred her, and accompanied by Tressan she retraced her steps and made for the battlements, whence she might overlook their arrival.
As they went Tressan asked for an explanation of this cortege, and she answered him with Fortunio’s story of how things had sped yesterday at La Rochette.
Up the steps leading to the battlements she went ahead of him, with a youthful, eager haste that took no thought for the corpulence and short-windedness of the following Seneschal. From the heights she looked eastwards, shading her eyes from the light of the morning sun, and surveyed the procession which with slow dignity paced down the valley towards Condillac.
At its head walked the tall, lean figure of the Abbot of Saint Francis of Cheylas, bearing on high a silvered crucifix that flashed and scintillated in the sunlight. His cowl was thrown back, revealing his pale, ascetic countenance and shaven head. Behind him came a coffin covered by a black pall, and borne on the shoulders of six black-robed, black cowled monks, and behind these again walked, two by two, some fourteen cowled brothers of the order of Saint Francis, their heads bowed, their arms folded, and their hands tucked away in their capacious sleeves.
It was a numerous cortege, and as she watched its approach the Marquise was moved to wonder by what arguments had the proud Abbot been induced to do so much honour to a dead Condillac and bear his body home to this excommunicated roof.
Behind the monks a closed carriage lumbered down the uneven mountain way, and behind this rode four mounted grooms in the livery of Condillac. Of Marius she saw nowhere any sign, and she inferred him to be travelling in that vehicle, the attendant servants being those of the dead Marquis.
In silence, with the Seneschal at her elbow, she watched the procession advance until it was at the foot of the drawbridge. Then, while the solemn rhythm of their feet sounded across the planks that spanned the moat, she turned, and, signing to the Seneschal to follow her, she went below to meet them. But when she reached the courtyard she was surprised to find they had not paused, as surely would have been seemly. Unbidden, the Abbot had gone forward through the great doorway and down the gallery that led to the hall of Condillac. Already, when she arrived below, the coffin and its bearers had disappeared, and the last of the monks was passing from sight in its wake. Leaning against the doorway through which they were vanishing stood Fortunio, idly watching that procession and thoughtfully stroking his mustachios. About the yard lounged a dozen or so men-at-arms, practically all the garrison that was left them since the fight with Garnache two nights ago.
After the last monk had disappeared, she still remained there, expectantly; and when she saw that neither the carriage nor the grooms made their appearance, she stepped up to Fortunio to inquire into the reason of it.
“Surely Monsieur de Condillac rides in that coach,” said she.
“Surely,” Fortunio answered, himself looking puzzled. “I will go seek the reason, madame. Meanwhile will you receive the Abbot? The monks will have deposited their burden.”
She composed her features into a fitting solemnity, and passed briskly through to the hall, Tressan ever at her heels. Here she found the coffin deposited on the table, its great black pall of velvet, silver-edged, sweeping down to the floor. No fire had been lighted that morning nor had the sun yet reached the windows, so that the place wore a chill and gloomy air that was perhaps well attuned to the purpose that it was being made to serve.
With a rare dignity, her head held high, she swept down the length of that noble chamber towards the Abbot, who stood erect as a pikestaff: at the tablehead, awaiting her. And well was it for him that he was a man of austere habit of mind, else might her majestic, incomparable beauty have softened his heart and melted the harshness of his purpose.
He raised his hand when she was within a sword’s length of him, and with startling words, delivered in ringing tones, he broke the ponderous silence.
“Wretched woman,” he denounced her, “your sins have found you out. Justice is to be done, and your neck shall be bent despite your stubborn pride. Derider of priests, despoiler of purity, mocker of Holy Church, your impious reign is at an end.”
Tressan fell back aghast, his face blenching to the lips; for if justice was at hand for her, as the Abbot said, then was justice at hand for him as well. Where had their plans miscarried? What flaw was there that hitherto she had not perceived? Thus he questioned himself in his sudden panic.
But the Marquise was no sharer in his tremors. Her eyes opened a trifle wider; a faint colour crept into her cheeks; but her only emotions were of amazement and indignation. Was he mad, this shaveling monk? That was the question that leapt into her mind, the very question with which she coldly answered his outburst.
“For madness only,” she thought fit to add, “could excuse such rash temerity as yours.”
“Not madness, madame,” he answered, with chill haughtiness—“not madness, but righteous indignation. You have defied the power of Holy Church as you have defied the power of our sovereign lady, and justice is upon you. We are here to present the reckoning, and see its payment made in full.”
She fancied he alluded to the body in the coffin—the body of her stepson—and she could have laughed at his foolish conclusions that she must account Florimond’s death an act of justice upon her for her impiety. But her rising anger left her no room for laughter.
“I thought, sir priest, you were come to bury the dead. But it rather seems you are come to talk.”
He looked at her long and sternly. Then he shook his head, and the faintest shadow of a smile haunted his ascetic face.
“Not to talk, madame; oh, not to talk,” he answered slowly. “But to act, I have come, madame, to liberate from this shambles the gentle lamb you hold here prisoned.”
At that some of the colour left her cheeks; her eyes grew startled: at last she began to realize that all was not as she had thought—as she had been given to understand.—Still, she sought to hector it, from very instinct.
“Vertudieu!” she thundered at him. “What mean you?”
Behind her Tressan’s great plump knees were knocking one against the other. Fool that he had been to come to Condillac that day, and to be trapped thus in her company, a partner in her guilt. This proud Abbot who stood there uttering denunciations had some power behind him, else had he never dared to raise his voice in Condillac within call of desperate men who would give little thought to the sacredness, of his office.
“What mean you?” she repeated—adding with a sinister smile, “in your zeal, Sir Abbot, you are forgetting that my men are within call.”
“So, madame, are mine,” was his astounding answer, and he waved a hand towards the array of monks, all standing with bowed heads and folded arms.
At that her laughter rang shrill through the chamber. “These poor shavelings?” she questioned.
“Just these poor shavelings, madame,” he answered, and he raised his hand again and made a sign. And then an odd thing happened, and it struck a real terror into the heart of the Marquise and heightened that which was already afflicting her fat lover, Tressan.
The monks drew themselves erect. It was as if a sudden gust of wind had swept through their ranks and set them all in motion. Cowls fell back and habits were swept aside, and where twenty monks had stood, there were standing now a score of nimble, stalwart men in the livery of Condillac, all fully armed, all grinning in enjoyment of her and Tressan’s dismay.
One of them turned aside and locked the door of the chamber. But his movement went unheeded by the Dowager, whose beautiful eyes, starting with horror, were now back upon the grim figure of the Abbot, marvelling almost to see no transformation wrought in him.
“Treachery!” she breathed, in an awful voice, that was no louder than a whisper, and again her eyes travelled round the company, and suddenly they fastened upon Fortunio, standing six paces from her to the right, pulling thoughtfully at his mustachios, and manifesting no surprise at what had taken place.
In a sudden, blind choler, she swept round, plucked the dagger from Tressan’s belt and flung herself upon the treacherous captain. He had betrayed her in some way; he had delivered up Condillac—into whose power she had yet had no time to think. She caught him by the throat with a hand of such nervous strength as one would little have suspected from its white and delicate contour. Her dagger was poised in the air, and the captain, taken thus suddenly, was palsied with amazement and could raise no hand to defend himself from the blow impending.
But the Abbot stepped suddenly to her side and caught her wrist in his thin, transparent hand.
“Forbear,” he bade her. “The man is but a tool.”
She fell back—dragged back almost by the Abbot—panting with rage and grief; and then she noticed that during the moment that her back had been turned the pall had been swept from the coffin. The sight of the bare deal box arrested her attention, and for the moment turned aside her anger. What fresh surprise did they prepare her?
No sooner had she asked herself the question than herself she answered it, and an icy hand seemed to close about her heart. It was Marius who was dead. They had lied to her. Marius’s was the body they had borne to Condillac—those men in the livery of her stepson.
With a sudden sob in her throat she took a step towards the coffin. She must see for herself. One way or the other she must at once dispel this torturing doubt. But ere she had taken three paces, she stood arrested again, her hands jerked suddenly to the height of her breast, her lips parting to let out a scream of terror. For the coffin-lid had slowly raised and clattered over. And as if to pile terror for her, a figure rose from the box, and, sitting up, looked round with a grim smile; and the figure was the figure of a man whom she knew to be dead, a man who had died by her contriving—it was the figure of Garnache. It was Garnache as he had been on the occasion of his first coming to Condillac, as he had been on the day they had sought his life in this very room. How well she knew that great hooked nose and the bright, steely blue eyes, the dark brown hair, ash-coloured at the temples where age had paled it, and the fierce, reddish mustachios, bristling above the firm mouth and long, square chin.
She stared and stared, her beautiful face livid and distorted, till there was no beauty to be seen in it, what time the Abbot regarded her coldly and Tressan, behind her, turned almost sick with terror. But not the terror of ghosts was it afflicted him. He saw in Garnache a man who was still of the quick—a man who by some miracle had escaped the fate to which they supposed him to have succumbed; and his terror was the terror of the reckoning which that man would ask.
After a moment’s pause, as if relishing the sensation he had created, Garnache rose to his feet and leapt briskly to the ground. There was nothing ghostly about the thud with which he alighted on his feet before her. A part of her terror left her; yet not quite all. She saw that she had but a man to deal with, yet she began to realize that this man was very terrible.
“Garnache again!” she gasped.
He bowed serenely, his lips smiling.
“Aye, madame,” he told her pleasantly, “always Garnache. Tenacious as a leech, madame; and like a leech come hither to do a little work of purification.”
Her eyes, now kindling again as she recovered from her recent fears, sought Fortunio’s shifty glance. Garnache followed it and read what was in her mind.
“What Fortunio has done,” said he, “he has done by your son’s authority and sanction.”
“Marius?” she inquired, and she was almost fearful lest she should hear that by her son he meant her stepson, and that Marius was dead.
“Yes, Marius,” he answered her. “I bent him to my will. I threatened him that he and this fellow of his, this comrade in arms so worthy of his master, should be broken on the wheel together unless I were implicitly obeyed. If they would save their lives, this was their chance. They were wise, and they took it, and thus afforded me the means of penetrating into Condillac and rescuing Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye.”
“Then Marius—?” She left her question unfinished, her hand clutching nervously at the bosom of her gown.
“Is sound and well, as Fortunio truthfully will have told you. But he is not yet out of my grasp, nor will be until the affairs of Condillac are settled. For if I meet with further opposition here, broken on the wheel he shall be yet, I promise you.”
Still she made a last attempt at hectoring it. The long habit of mastership dies hard. She threw back her head; her courage revived now that she knew Marius to be alive and sound.
“Fine words,” she sneered. “But who are you that you can threaten so and promise so?”
“I am the Queen-Regent’s humble mouthpiece, madame. What I threaten, I threaten in her name. Ruffle it no longer, I beseech you. It will prove little worth your while. You are deposed, madame, and you had best take your deposition with dignity and calm—in all friendliness do I advise it.”
“I am not yet come so low that I need your advice,” she answered sourly.
“You may before the sun sets,” he answered, with his quiet smile. “The Marquis de Condillac and his wife are still at La Rochette, waiting until my business here is done that they may come home.”
“His wife?” she cried.
“His wife, madame. He has brought home a wife from Italy.”
“Then—then—Marius?” She said no more than that. Maybe she had no intention of muttering even so much of her thoughts aloud. But Garnache caught the trend of her mind, and he marvelled to see how strong a habit of thought can be. At once upon hearing of the Marquis’s marriage her mind had flown back to its wonted pondering of the possibilities of Marius’s wedding Valerie.
But Garnache dispelled such speculations.
“No, madame,” said he. “Marius looks elsewhere for a wife—unless mademoiselle of her own free will should elect to wed him—a thing unlikely.” Then, with a sudden change to sternness—“Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye is well, madame?” he asked.
She nodded her head, but made no answer in words. He turned to Fortunio.
“Go fetch her,” he bade the captain, and one of the men unlocked the door to let Fortunio out upon that errand.
The Parisian took a turn in the apartment, and came close to Tressan. He nodded to the Seneschal with a friendliness that turned him sick with fright.
“Well met, my dear Lord Seneschal. I am rejoiced to find you here. Had it been otherwise I must have sent for you. There is a little matter to be settled between us. You may depend upon me to settle it to your present satisfaction, if to your future grief.” And, with a smile, he passed on, leaving the Seneschal too palsied to answer him, too stricken to disclaim his share in what had taken place at Condillac.
“You have terms to make with me?” the Marquise questioned proudly.
“Certainly,” he answered, with his grim courtesy. “Upon your acceptance of those terms shall depend Marius’s life and your own future liberty.”
“What are they?”
“That within the hour all your people—to the last scullion—shall have laid down their arms and vacated Condillac.”
It was beyond her power to refuse.
“The Marquis will not drive me forth?” she half affirmed, half asked.
“The Marquis, madame, has no power in this matter. It is for the Queen to deal with your insubordination—for me as the Queen’s emissary.”
“If I consent, monsieur, what then?”
He shrugged his shoulders, and smiled quietly.
“There is no ‘if,’ madame. Consent you must, willingly or unwillingly. To make sure of that have I come back thus and with force. But should you deliver battle, you will be worsted—and it will be very ill for you. Bid your men depart, as I have told you, and you also shall have liberty to go hence.”
“Aye, but whither?” she cried, in a sudden frenzy of anger.
“I realize, madame, from what I know of your circumstances that you will be well-nigh homeless. You should have thought of how one day you might come to be dependent upon the Marquis de Condillac’s generosity before you set yourself to conspire against him, before you sought to encompass his death. You can hardly look for generosity at his hands now, and so you will be all but homeless, unless—” He paused, and his eyes strayed to Tressan and were laden with a sardonic look.
“You take a very daring tone with me,” she told him. “You speak to me as no man has ever dared to speak.”
“When the power was yours, madame, you dealt with me as none has ever dared to deal. The advantage now is mine. Behold how I use it in your own interests; observe how generously I shall deal with you who deal in murder. Monsieur de Tressan,” he called briskly. The Seneschal started forward as if some one had prodded him suddenly.
“Mu—monsieur?” said he.
“With you, too, will I return good for evil. Come hither.”
The Seneschal approached, wondering what was about to take place. The Marquise watched his coming, a cold glitter in her eye, for—keener of mental vision than Tressan—she already knew the hideous purpose that was in Garnache’s mind.
The soldiers grinned; the Abbot looked on with an impassive face.
“The Marquise de Condillac is likely to be homeless henceforth,” said the Parisian, addressing the Seneschal. “Will you not be gallant enough to offer her a home, Monsieur de Tressan?”
“Will I?” gasped Tressan, scarce daring to believe his own ears, his eyes staring with a look that was almost one of vacancy. “Madame well knows how readily.”
“Oho?” crowed Garnache, who had been observing madame’s face. “She knows? Then do so, monsieur; and on that condition I will forget your indiscretions here. I pledge you my word that you shall not be called to further account for the lives that have been lost through your treachery and want of loyalty, provided that of your own free will you lay down your Seneschalship of Dauphiny—an office which I cannot consent to see you filling hereafter.”