It seemed to me like a sob of despair, or of the breaking down of patience, and, knowing what I did already, I quickly imagined it to proceed from the Countess in a moment when she was beginning to lose hope of Monsieur de Merri's arrival. To me, therefore, it seemed a stab of reproach.
I judged that it came by way of the window below me. So forthwith, at all hazards, sheltering myself from outside view as well as I could with the casement, I thrust my head out over the sill, and said in a low tone:
"Madame."
I waited for some moments, with a beating heart, and then called again, "Madame."
I thought I heard whispering below. Then a head was thrust out of the window—a woman's head, soft haired and shapely. "Here I am," I whispered. The head twisted round, and the face was that of the young woman who had received the messenger at the postern the day before. But it was clear that she had not been sobbing, though her face wore a look of concern.
"I must speak with Madame the Countess," said I, and added what I thought would most expedite matters: "I bring news of Monsieur de Merri."
The head disappeared: there was more whispering: then the maid looked out again, using similar precautions to mine with regard to the casement.
"Who are you, Monsieur?" she asked.
"I will explain all later. There is little time now. I may soon be looked for. Contrive to let me have an interview with Madame the Countess. I don't know how to get to her: I'm not acquainted with the chateau."
"Put your head a little further out, Monsieur,—so that I can see your face."
I obeyed. She gazed at me searchingly, then withdrew her head again. Reappearing very soon, she said: "Madame has decided to trust you. These are her apartments. There is a door from a gallery where pictures hang—"
"I have been to that gallery," I interrupted, "but I was watched while there. Is there no other way?"
She thought a moment. "Yes, the garden. At the foot of the terrace, turn to the right, till you get to the end of this wing."
"But the man at the steps yonder will stop me. He has done so already."
"That beast! Alas, yes! Well, I will go and talk with him, and keep him looking at me. You go down to the terrace without attracting any attention, walk close to the house till you get to this end of the balustrade, step over the balustrade, descend the bank as quietly as possible, and wait behind the shrubbery near the door at the end of this wing,—it's the door from Madame's apartments to the garden. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly."
"Then I will be talking to that man by the time you can get to the terrace. I go at once. Be quick, Monsieur,—and careful."
Admiring the swift wits and decision of the girl, I hastened through the corridor, down the stairs, and into the hall. The Count and the long-nosed man were so buried in their game that neither looked up. A pair of varlets in attendance were yawning on a bench. Yawning in imitation, I passed with feigned listlessness to the terrace, went noiselessly along by the house-wall, and followed the wing to the end of the balustrade. I did not venture even to look toward the steps, but I could hear the maid talking and laughing coquettishly. I crossed the balustrade by sitting on it and swinging my legs over: then strode on light feet down the grassy bank and through an opening in the shrubbery I saw at my right. I found myself in a walk which, bordered all the way by shrubbery, ran from a narrow door in the end of the wing to the other extremity of the garden. The door, when I first glanced at it, was slightly ajar: I supposed the maid had left it so. But as soon as I had come to a halt in the walk, the door opened, and a very young, very slender, very sad-faced, very beautiful lady came out, with eyes turned upon me in a mixture of hope and fear.
I instinctively fell upon my knee before that picture of grief and beauty. She wore, I remember, a gown of faded blue, and blue was the colour of her eyes—a soft, fair blue, like that of the sky. She was so slim, sorrowful, small, childlike, forlorn,—I would have died to serve her.
She looked at me searchingly, as the maid had done, but with more courtesy, and then, in a low voice bidding me follow her, led the way down the walk and into a side path that wound among some tall rose-bushes. Here we could not be seen from the walk and yet we might hear anybody approaching. She stopped and faced me.
"You have news of Monsieur de Merri," she said eagerly. "What of him?"
"He is prevented from coming to you, Madame."
Her face, pale before, turned white as a sheet.
"But," I hastened to add, "I have come in his stead, and I will serve you as willingly as he."
"But that will not do," she said, in great agitation. "Nobody can serve me at this passbutMonsieur de Merri. Where is he? What prevents him?"
"I left him at La Flèche," said I lamely. "I assure you it is utterly impossible for him to come. But believe me, I am wholly yours for whatever service you desired of him. You can see that I have come from him." I took from my pocket her note, and held it out. I then told her my name and parentage, and begged her not to distrust me because I was of another religion than hers.
"It isn't that I don't believe you, Monsieur," she replied. "It isn't that I doubt your willingness to help me."
"As to my ability, try me, Madame. My zeal will inspire me."
"I don't doubt your ability to do brave and difficult things, Monsieur. But it is not that. It happens—the circumstances are such—alas, nobody but Monsieur de Merri himself can help me! If you but knew! Ifhebut knew!"
"Tell me the case, Madame. Trust me, I beg. Let me be the judge as to whether I can help you."
"I do trust you. I am not afraid to tell you. You will see plainly enough. It is this: I have been slandered to my husband. A week has been given me in which to clear myself. The week ends to-morrow. If I have not proved my innocence by that time, God knows what fate my husband will inflict upon me!"
She shuddered and closed her eyes.
"But your innocence, Madame—who can doubt it?"
"My husband is a strange man, Monsieur. He has little faith in women."
"But what slander can he believe of you? And who could utter it? What is its nature?"
"I suppose it is my husband's friend, Captain Ferragant, who uttered it. The nature of it is, that Monsieur de Merri's name is associated with mine. Monsieur de Merri is said to have made a boast about me, in the tavern at Montoire. It is a hideous lie, invented when Monsieur de Merri had gone away. And now you see how only Monsieur de Merri can save me, by coming and facing our accusers and swearing to my innocence. But to-morrow is the last day. Oh, if he had known why I wanted him! It is too late now—or is it? Perhaps he sent you ahead? Perhaps he is coming after you? Is it not so? He will be here to-morrow, will he not?"
Bitterly I shook my head.
"Then I am lost," she said, in a whisper of despair.
"But that cannot be. It isn't for you to prove your innocence—it is for your accuser to prove your guilt. He cannot do that."
"You do not know the Count de Lavardin. He will believe any ill of a woman, and anything that Captain Ferragant tells him. The fact that Monsieur de Merri is young and accomplished is enough. My husband has suspected me from the hour of our marriage. And besides that, people at Montoire have testified that they heard Monsieur de Merri boast of conquests. Whether that be true or not, it could not have been of me that he boasted. And if he but knew how I stand, how readily he would fly to clear me! He is no coward, I am sure."
I had evidence of that: evidence also of Monsieur de Merri's unfortunate habit of boasting of conquests. But I was convinced that it could not have been of her that he had boasted. These thoughts, however, were but transient flashings across my sense of the plight in which I had put this unhappy woman by killing Monsieur de Merri. I tried to minimize that plight.
"But your fears are exaggerated. Your husband will not dare go too far."
"He will dare take my life—or lock me up for the rest of my days in a dungeon—or I know not what. He is all-powerful on his estate—lord of life and death. You know what these great noblemen do when they believe their wives unfaithful. I have heard how the Prince de Condé—"
"Yes; but the Count de Lavardin would have your relations to fear."
"I have no relations. I was an orphan in a convent. The Count took a fancy to my face, they told me. They urged me to consent to the marriage. I could not displease them—I had never disobeyed them. And now this is the end. Well, I am in the hands of God." She glanced upwards and gave a sigh of bitter resignation.
"But after all," I interposed, "you are not certain how your husband will act."
"He has threatened the worst vengeance if I cannot clear myself to-morrow. If you knew him, Monsieur!"
"He allowed you a week, you say.—"
"From the day he accused me—last Saturday."
"And what facilities did he give you for the purpose?"
"His men and horses were at my service. He knew, of course, that all I could do was to send for Monsieur de Merri."
"But why did he not send for Monsieur de Merri?"
"I don't know. I suppose he was ruled by the advice of Captain Ferragant. Perhaps he thought Monsieur de Merri would not come at his request."
"But you did not use your husband's men and horses to send for Monsieur de Merri."
"No. Mathilde—my maid whom you saw just now—thought I would better act secretly. She feared the Captain would bribe the messenger to make only a pretence of taking my message to Monsieur de Merri. In that case Monsieur de Merri, knowing nothing, would not come, and his not coming would be taken as evidence of guilt—as it will be now, though he got my message, for Hugues is faithful. Why is it, Monsieur, that Monsieur de Merri sent back word by Hugues that he would follow close, if he could not come?"
"Something happened afterward. Hugues, then, is the name of the messenger you sent?"
"Yes. He is devoted to Mathilde. They are accustomed to meet at certain times. Mathilde has not much freedom, as you may guess, sharing my life as she does. So she contrived to get possession for awhile of the key to a postern yonder, and to pass it to Hugues when he came with flour. He had a duplicate made, so that she could restore the original and yet retain a key with which to let herself out and meet him in the forest. Thus she was able to see him last Sunday morning, and to send him after Monsieur de Merri. We knew that De Merri had started Westward, and Hugues traced him from town to town. Ah, when Hugues returned successful, how rejoiced we were! We expected Monsieur de Merri every hour. But the time went by, and our hopes changed to fears, and now, heaven pity me, it is the fears that have come true!"
"But you are not yet lost. Even if the Count should be so blind as to think you guilty, you have at least one resource. You have the key to the postern. You can flee."
"And be caught before I had fled two leagues. I am visited every three hours, as if I were a prisoner, and as soon as I was missed a score of men would be sent in all directions. Besides, for some reason or other, the Count has the roads watched from the tower. If I fled into the forest, the bloodhounds would be put on my track. My husband has hinted all this to me. And where could I flee to but the Convent? The Count would have men there before I could reach it."
"I could find some other place to take you to," said I at a hazard.
"Ah, Monsieur, then indeed would appearances be against me. Then indeed would the enemy of my poor reputation have his triumph. Alas, there is no honourable place in this world for a wife who leaves her husband's roof, though it be her prison. I will be true to my vows, though I die. If there be wrong, it shall be all of his doing, none of mine."
"You believe it is this Captain who has slandered you. Why should he do that? Why is he your enemy?"
She blushed and looked down. I understood.
"But why do you not tell your husband that?" I asked quickly.
"The Count says it is an old story that wives accuse their husbands' friends whom they dislike. He thinks women are made of lies. And in any case he says if I am innocent of this charge I can prove my innocence. So all depended on Monsieur de Merri's being here to-morrow to speak for me."
"Ah, Madame, if only my speaking for you would avail anything!"
"From the depths of my heart I thank you, Monsieur, though you see how useless you—And yet there is one thing you can say for me!" A great light of sudden hope dawned upon her face. "You can tell how you saw Monsieur de Merri—that he was coming here, but was prevented—"
"Yes, I can do that."
"And perhaps—who knows?—you can induce the Count to give me a few more days, till the cause of Monsieur de Merri's delay is past. And then you can ride or send to Monsieur de Merri, and tell him my situation, and he will come and put my accuser to shame, after all! Yes, thank God, there is hope! Oh, Monsieur, you may yet be able to save me!"
There were tears of joy on her face, and she gratefully clasped my hand in both of hers.
It sickened my heart to do it, but I could only shake my head sadly and say:
"No, Madame, Monsieur de Merri can never come to speak for you."
"Why not?" she cried, all the hope rushing out of her face again.
"He is dead—slain in a duel." I said in a voice as faint as a whisper.
Her face seemed to turn to marble.
"Who killed him?" she presently asked in a horrified tone.
I knelt at her feet, with averted eyes, as one who is all contrition but dare not ask a pardon.
"You!" she whispered.
"When I found this message upon him afterward," said I, "I saw what injury was done. I could only come in his place, and offer myself. By one means and another, I learned who it was had sent for him."
"That brave young gentleman," said she, following her own thoughts; "that he should die so soon! And you, with his blood on your hands."—she drew back from me a step—"come to offer your service to me who, little as I was to him, must yet be counted among his friends! Monsieur, what could you think of my loyalty?"
"I thought only of what might be done to prevent further harm. Though I fought him, I was not his enemy. I had never seen him before. It was a sudden quarrel, about nothing. Heaven knows, I did not think it would end as it did. That end has been lamentable enough, Madame. Punish me if you will: as his friend, you are entitled to avenge him."
"I only pity him, Monsieur. God forbid I should think of revenge!"
"You are a saint, Madame. I was about to say that my having killed him need not make you reject my service. Your doing so might but add to the evil consequences of my act. Surely he would prefer your accepting my aid, now that he is for ever powerless to give his. And we must think now of something to be done—"
We were interrupted by a low cry, "Madame, Madame!" in a soft voice from within the arbour that sheltered the walk. The Countess said to me, "It is Mathilde. She means some one is coming. Hide among these bushes. If we do not meet again, adieu, Monsieur; I thank you from my heart, and may God pardon you the death of Monsieur de Merri!"
She started for the walk: I whispered, "But I must help you! Can we not meet again presently?"
"I know not," she replied. "Act as you think best, Monsieur. But do not endanger yourself. I must be gone now."
She hastened to join the maid, whose whereabouts were indicated by a low cough. I heard voices, and instantly crawled under the rose bushes, heedless of scratches. As the voices came down the walk, one of them turned out to be that of Captain Ferragant. There was but one other, which I took, from the talk which I heard later, to belong to a falconer or some such underling. The Captain addressed a few remarks to the Countess, as to her state of health and the beauty of the day, which she answered in low tones. Then he and his companion proceeded to walk about, talking continually, never getting entirely out of my hearing, and often coming so near that I could make out their words. It seemed that an endless length of time passed in this way. I heard no more of Madame and the maid. Finally the Captain and his man walked back toward the house. I rose, stretched my legs, and peered up and down the walk. It was deserted. What was I to do next? I naturally strolled toward the chateau. As I neared the door leading to Madame's apartments, out came Mathilde.
"I have been watching for you, Monsieur. Madame had to come in, to avoid suspicion. If you can get back to the terrace by the way you came down, I will go again and distract the attention of the guard."
"I can do that. But what of Madame? I must see her again. We must find some way to save her."
"Do what you can, Monsieur. If you think of anything, you know how to communicate with us by way of the windows. But lose no time now."
She hastened away to beguile the man on watch at the steps. When I heard her laughter, I sped over the grass to the foot of the bank. I clambered up, crossed the balustrade, went along the house, and entered the hall. Monsieur de Pepicot was just in the act of saying "Checkmate."
The Count's face turned a shade more ashen, and he looked unhappy. Presently he smiled, however, and said peevishly:
"Well, you must give me an opportunity of revenge. We must play another game."
"I shall be much honoured," said Monsieur de Pepicot. "But is there time to-day?"
"No; it will soon be supper time. But there will be time to-morrow. You shall stay here to-night."
"With great pleasure; but there are some poor things of mine at the cabaret yonder I should like to have by me."
"I will send a man for your baggage," said the Count.
"Then I shall have nothing to mar my happiness," said Monsieur de Pepicot composedly.
I was very anxious to remain at the chateau for the present, and feared rather dismissal than the enforced continuance there which the long-nosed man had fancied might be our fate. So, to make sure, I said:
"If Monsieur the Count will do me the honour of a game to-morrow, I will try to make a better contest than I did against Monsieur de Pepicot."
The Count looked not displeased at this; it gave him somebody to beat in the event of his being again defeated by Monsieur de Pepicot.
"Certainly," said he; "I cannot refuse you. You too will remain my guest; and if I may send for your baggage also—"
I felt vaguely that it would be better to leave my horse and belongings at the inn at Montoire, in case I should ever wish to make a stealthy departure from the chateau; so I replied:
"I thank you, Monsieur; but there is nothing I have urgent need for, or of such great value that I would keep it near."
"As you please," said the Count, observing me keenly with his half-ambushed eyes.
The man who had escorted us to the chateau was sent to fetch Monsieur de Pepicot's baggage; and would have brought his horse also, but that Monsieur de Pepicot mildly but firmly insisted otherwise and despatched orders for its care in his absence. The baggage consisted of a somewhat sorry looking portmanteau, which was taken to our chamber. We then had supper, during which the Count and my long-nosed friend talked of chess play, while Captain Ferragant ate in frowning silence, now and then casting no very tolerant glances at us two visitors. I would have tried by conversation to gain some closer knowledge of this man, but I saw there was no getting him to talk while that mood lasted. After supper the Count and the Captain sat over their wine in a manner which showed a long drinking bout to be their regular evening custom. Monsieur de Pepicot and I accompanied them as far as our position as guests required. We then plead the fatigue of recent travel, and were shown to our room, in which an additional bed had been placed. The Count was by this time sufficiently forward in his devotions to Bacchus to dispense easily with such dull company as ours, and the Captain, by the free breath he drew as we rose to go, showed his relief at our departure.
When the servant had placed our candles and left us alone, I expressed a wonder why so great a house could not afford us a room apiece.
"It is very simple," said the long-nosed man, opening his portmanteau. "If they should take a fancy to make caged birds of us, it's easier tending one cage than two."
I went to bed wondering what the morrow had in store. I saw now clearly that I might accomplish something by informing the Count that Monsieur de Merri was dead and that he was on his way to Lavardin when I met him. His failure to appear could not then be held as evidence of guilt: his intention to come might count much in the Countess's favour.
As my head sank into the pillow, there came suddenly to my mind the second of the three maxims Blaise Tripault had learned from the monk:
"Never sleep in a house where the master is old and the wife young."
Monsieur de Pepicot spent so many minutes among the contents of his travelling bag, that he was not in bed as soon as I. But he was by far the sooner asleep, as his loud snoring testified. To that music ran my thoughts of the beautiful young Countess and her unhappy situation, till at last they passed into dreams. In the midst of the night I woke, and listened for my neighbour's snoring. But it had ceased. Then I strained my ears to catch the sound of his breathing, but none came. Wondering at this, I rose and went over toward his bed. There was just light enough by the window to see that it was empty.
I was still in the midst of my surprise, when the door opened with a very slight creak, and in walked a slim figure so silently that I knew it was without shoes.
"Is that you, Monsieur de Pepicot?" I asked.
"H'sh," he replied in a whisper, closing the door carefully. "Don't disturb the slumbers of the household. You are very wakeful."
"No more so than you are, it seems," I said.
"That is true. I often suffer from sleeplessness, and I find a walk is the thing to put me right."
"You were wise to take a light with you on your walk," I observed, for he now produced a small lantern from under his loose-fitting doublet, where it had been entirely concealed.
"Yes; one might hurt one's toes in these dark passages," he answered, and placidly drew some papers from his breast pocket, folded them carefully by the lantern's light, and then as carefully replaced them. "I trust you made some progress in your affair here during the afternoon."
"Yes. But you were kept busy with the Count."
"Oh, I don't complain. I was about to say that if you preferred to leave the house to-night, no doubt I could manage it for you."
"Why should I prefer to leave to-night?"
"Oh, merely because this Count may be a dangerous man to have much to do with. I know nothing of your affairs, and of course you have no interest in mine. The Count will understand that, no doubt, and will not hold you responsible for anything I may do, if you choose to stay here longer."
"Well, I must stay here longer, in any case."
"Then there is no more to be said," answered the long-nosed man, extinguishing his lantern, which he wrapped up and put into his portmanteau. He then lay down upon his bed, without undressing.
I returned to my own couch and was soon asleep.
When I woke again, it was daylight. Monsieur de Pepicot and his portmanteau were gone. It occurred to me now, as I washed and dressed, that when he spoke of my departing by night he intended to make just such an unceremonious exit himself. In that case, I inferred, he had thought it only fair, as I had helped him to get into the chateau, that he should offer to help me to get out, for he had made no secret of his fears that we might find opposition to our doing so. But, if he had indeed fled, how had he contrived to get out in the middle of the night? As for his purpose in getting in, he must have accomplished that while on his midnight perambulations.
I went downstairs, but he was not in the hall, nor on the terrace nor in the court-yard. It was a fine morning, and I was for walking about. At one side of the court-yard the wall was pierced by a narrow gateway, which took me into a second court-yard, of which one of the further angles was filled by a quadrant of the great tower that rose toward heaven from a corner of the main chateau. There was a small door from this court-yard to the tower. This tower, for its bigness and height, took my eyes the first moment, but the next they were attracted by the living figures in the court-yard. These were Captain Ferragant and a pack of great hounds which he was marshalling before him, throwing a piece of meat now to one, now to another, calling out by name which animal was to catch. He indeed managed to keep them in some sort of order and from closing around him, and though they all barked and leaped at each throw, yet only the one whose name was called would dare actually to close jaws upon the titbit. This went on for some time, until at last one huge brute, leaping higher, seized the meat intended for another.
The red Captain swore a fierce oath, and, grasping a whip, called the interloping dog to come to him. The animal slunk back. The Captain advanced among the pack, still calling the hound in the most threatening voice. But the hound slunk further, growling and showing his teeth. The Captain sprang forward and brought down his whip. The dog, mutinous, made a snap at the Captain. The latter, now deeply enraged, threw aside the whip, caught the animal by the neck, lifted it high, and, with a swift contraction of his fingers, caused its eyes and tongue to protrude and its body to writhe and hang powerless. He then flung the dead creature to a corner of the yard, and looked at me with a smile half vaunting, half amused, as if to say, "That is how I can treat those who thwart my will," and to ridicule my wonder at his fury and strength.
I turned with a look of pity toward the victim of his anger. At that moment the Count de Lavardin entered the court-yard, and his glance followed mine. Having seen what I saw, he looked protestingly at the Captain.
"The brute was rebellious," said Ferragant.
"But one doesn't run across such dogs every day," complained the Count.
"The rarest dog shall not defy me," was the cool answer.
"That's all very well, if it had been your own dog," said the Count, still peevish.
"Oh, as to that, we are quits now. Your dog to-day pays for my man you killed last week."
"Pish, it's easy enough to find rascals like that by the score. Not so, dogs like this. Well, talking won't make him live again—Good morning, Monsieur. Where is your comrade, Monsieur de Pepicot?"
I could only answer that on waking I had been disappointed of seeing either Monsieur de Pepicot or his baggage. "Nor have I beheld him since, though I have been looking about."
"That is very strange,—that he should take his baggage from the room," said the Count, exchanging a look of surprise with the Captain. He then called two servants and gave them orders quietly, which must have been to search the house and grounds for Monsieur de Pepicot. As we returned to the hall, the Count questioned me, watching me sharply the while. I was perfectly safe in telling the literal truth, though not all of it: how Monsieur de Pepicot was a stranger to me, how I had never spoken to him before yesterday, how I knew nothing of his business, and so forth. Of course I said nothing of his midnight walk or of having conversed with him at all after going to bed. The Count's mystification and annoyance were manifest, the more so when, after some time, the servants returned to say that the missing man could not be found. When he had heard their report, the Count was very angry.
"Name of the devil, then, how did he get out? There is treachery somewhere, and somebody shall pay for it," he screeched, and then despatched a man to the cabaret to see if Monsieur de Pepicot had taken his horse away. The man came back saying the horse was gone, but nobody had seen the owner take it.
"It is certainly odd that the gentleman should depart secretly like that, when he might have waited for day and gone civilly," said I, to evince my simplicity.
"You are right, very right," said the Count. "Well, at least you remain to play a game of chess with me. What I am thinking is, the man must have had some private reason for obtaining entrance to my house."
"Possibly, Monsieur," I replied, bearing the searching gaze of both the Count and the Captain well enough.
"In that case, he made a tool of you," added the Count, still intent on my expression.
"That would be the inference," said I.
"Well, we must satisfy ourselves as to how he took his departure, if we cannot guess why. Make yourself master of the house, Monsieur. We shall have our game nevertheless."
And he went off with the Captain, to examine the places of exit from the chateau and the men who were responsible for their security. One could see that Monsieur de Pepicot's disappearance was as disturbing to the Count as it was puzzling to me.
I wandered out to the terrace and paced the walk along the house. My eyes turned toward that window in the west wing which I knew to belong to the apartments of the Countess. I turned along the wing, and strolled under that window, thinking Madame or Mathilde might make an appearance at it. I kept moving to and fro within easy earshot of it, sometimes glancing up at the half-open casement. This was the clay on which the poor lady's fate was to be determined by her husband and lord. I wondered what sort of scene was arranged for the event, whether it would have the form of trial and judgment, when and where it would occur, and if I should be admitted to it. Probably I should not, and therefore I would best speak to the Count regarding Monsieur de Merri before. The thing was, to find a pretext for broaching the matter without betraying that I had talked with the Countess. I had thought all this over during the night, a hundred times, but now I thought it over again; and, in vague search for some hint or guidance, I looked often up to the window, as I have said.
Presently I heard a single sharp, low syllable of laughter, which drew my glance to the door by which I had come out to the terrace. There stood the red Captain, his eyes upon me. When he saw that I noticed him, he came toward me, whereupon I, with pretended carelessness, went to meet him half way.
"You seem to find it very interesting, that window," said he, in a low voice. "To me it looks like any of the others." And he ran his glance ironically along the whole range.
"I thought you had gone with the Count to learn how Monsieur de Pepicot got away," said I, guessing that he had come back to watch me, doubtless considering that, after the evident duplicity of one guest, the other might require some looking after.
"And so you thought yourself free to post yourself over there and make eyes at that window?" said the Captain with a smile that half jeered at me, half threatened me with annihilation.
"I do not quite understand your little jest," said I, boldly enough.
"You may find it one of those jests in which the laugh is only on one side, and that side not yours, young gentleman. Your friend with the long nose, it appears, had his secret motives for paying a visit to this chateau. We smelt some such thing when the letter came asking for a set of chessmen, and so the Count admitted you, thinking you just as safe inside the chateau as outside. It was not the intention to let you out again in too great haste."
"In that case," I put in, feigning to treat the matter gaily, "Monsieur de Pepicot was wise in leaving as he did."
"I was about to say that if Monsieur de Pepicot had his secret purposes, it is but fair to suppose you may have yours. If it turns out to be so, and if your object has anything to do with what you may imagine is behind that window,—why, then, I warn you in time it would be much better for you to have been that dog which opposed me a while ago,—very much better, my pert young gentleman, I assure you."
He turned and walked into the house, leaving me without any fit answer on my tongue, or indeed in my mind either.
It appeared to me that the sooner I had my explanation with the Count, the better for both the Countess and myself. So I returned into the hall, which the Captain was leaving by the court-yard door, and waited for the Count's reappearance. When he did come, it was clear from his face that the manner of Monsieur de Pepicot's escape—for escape it must now be called—was still a mystery. It was plain, too, when his eyes alighted on me, that he had heard from the Captain, who followed him, of my conduct beneath the window. As he came toward me, he scowled and looked very wicked and crafty. Before he could speak, I said:
"Monsieur, there is something I wish to tell you, if you will allow me to speak to you alone."
"Regarding Monsieur de Pepicot?"
"No; regarding myself and the reason of my coming to Lavardin."
"That is interesting. Let us hear."
"It is for you alone."
"Oh, to be sure. Captain Ferragant, if you will excuse me,—"
The Captain, with a shrug, swaggered off to the furthest corner of the hall.
"You have been acquainted," I began, "with a certain Monsieur de Merri."
The Count's face seemed to jump. I had certainly caught his attention. But his speech was perfectly controlled as he said:
"Yes. And what of him?"
"He had the misfortune to be killed in a sudden duel four days ago at La Flèche."
He was plainly startled; but, after a moment's silence, he only said, "You astonish me," and waited for me to continue.
"I feared I should," said I, "for it turned out, after the duel, that Monsieur de Merri was on his way to see you, upon some matter of great urgency."
"On his way to see me! How do you know that?"
I thought it best to tell as much truth as possible.
"I learned from his servant that he was bound in great haste for Montoire. Coming to Montoire, I inquired, and was informed that his only tie in this neighbourhood was his acquaintance with you. Therefore it must have been you he was coming to see, and his haste implied the urgency of his reasons, whatever they may have been. Thinking you might be depending upon his arrival, I resolved to tell you of his death."
"It is a little odd that you should put yourself out to do that."
"It might be, if I were not responsible for his failure to come to you."
"Oh, then it was you who killed him?"
"Yes; and thought it only the proper act of a gentleman to carry the news to the person who may have expected him."
"H'm. No doubt. But why did you not come directly and tell me?"
"I heard you made yourself entirely inaccessible to strangers. So when Monsieur de Pepicot spoke of asking you to lend us chessmen, I thought it might lead to some breaking down of your reserve,—as it did."
"But why did you wait a day before telling me?"
"I hoped that chance might enable me to see you alone. But you were so deeply engrossed in your chess. And I hesitated lest you might think yourself bound, as Monsieur de Merri's friend, to deliver me up for having violated the edict."
These were certainly sufficient reasons, though, as you know, I had not thought of telling him of Monsieur de Merri till after I had heard the Countess's story, and therefore they were not the true answer to his question. But I no longer found safe standing on the ground of truth, and so fell back upon the soil of invention, uncertain as it was. The Count looked as far into me as he could, and then called the Captain, who came without haste to the great fireplace where we were. Without any explanation to me, or other preface, the Count repeated my disclosure to his friend, all the time in the manner of one submitting a story to the hearer's judgment as to its truth.
The Captain shrugged his shoulders, and looked at me scornfully. "It is a fine, credible tale indeed," said he.
"If you will take the trouble to send to La Flèche, you will find that Monsieur de Merri is really slain," said I warmly.
"Oh, no doubt," said the Captain. "But before he was slain, he had time to take you into his confidence regarding certain things."
"Not at all. I had never seen him before that evening. It was from his servant, after he was dead, that I learned he was coming to Montoire. If you can find that servant, at La Flèche or Sablé, he will tell you so."
"How could he have known he was wanted here?" asked the Captain of the Count. "Your offer of a messenger was disdained."
"I knew she would contrive to send after him on her own account, if I gave her enough liberty," returned the Count.
"It argues skill in such contrivances," said the Captain, with a significant look.
The Count frowned in a sickly way, but not at the speaker. "Well, in any case, the liberty will now be cut off," he said harshly. But after a moment, he added: "And yet, if this gentleman does not lie, Monsieur de Merri was coming here fast enough."
"To brazen it out, perhaps. There is no limit to the self-confidence of youth. As for this gentleman, how does his story account for the interest he takes in a certain window that looks upon the terrace?"
The Count's face darkened again, as he turned menacingly toward me. "Yes, by heaven, I had forgotten that."
"To be frank," said I awkwardly, after a moment's hesitation, "I had seen a pretty face there—I mean that of Mathilde." I added the last words in haste, for the Count's look had shown for an instant that he took me to mean that of the Countess.
"Ah! that of Mathilde," he repeated, subsiding.
"And how did you know her name was Mathilde?" asked the Captain, in a cold, derisive tone. The Count's eyes waited for my answer.
"I—exchanged a few words with her yesterday afternoon," I replied.
"In regard to what subject?" asked the Count quickly, making a veritable grimace in the acuteness of his suspicion.
"I paid her a compliment or two, such as one bestows upon a pretty girl."
"He is evading," said the Captain. "It is a question whether he did not presume to offer his compliments higher. One does not say to a pretty girl, 'What is your name?' nor does the girl reply 'Mathilde,' as if she were a child. It is more likely he heard the girl's name from other lips. And was he not found spying about the west gallery by Ambroise? My dear Count, I fear you kept your nose too close to the chessboard yesterday afternoon. As for me, if I had known as much as I know now, I should have been more watchful."
The Count's face had turned sicklier and uglier as his friend had continued to speak. He looked now as if he would like to pounce upon me with his claw-like fingers. He was evidently between the desire to question me outright as to whether anything had passed between me and the Countess, and the dislike of showing openly to a stranger any suspicion of his wife. The latter feeling prevailed, and he regained control of himself. I breathed a little easier. But just then it occurred to me that the Count would surely tax the Countess with having seen me; that she would acknowledge our meeting; and that her own account of it would be disbelieved, and the worst imaginings added, for the very reason of my maintaining secrecy about it. I therefore took a sudden course.
"Monsieur," I said. "I will be perfectly open with you. From some casual words of Monsieur de Merri at the inn at La Flèche, before we quarrelled, I was led to believe that the cause of his journey had something to do with the welfare of a lady. Afterwards when I heard whither he was bound so hastily, I remembered that. On learning at Montoire that this chateau was the only house in which he was known hereabouts, I assumed that the lady must be in this chateau. It turned out that the only lady here was the Countess herself. Do you wonder, then, at my endeavouring to speak to the Countess first upon the matter of Monsieur de Merri's death?"
"Pray go on," said the Count, who was taking short and rapid breaths.
"It is true I saw the maid at that window, but I saw also the impossibility of communicating properly with Madame by that channel. So, in spite of your sentinel's vigilance, I crossed the balustrade to the garden, and there had the honour of presenting myself to the Countess. I acquainted her with the fate of Monsieur de Merri. Her demeanour causing me to believe that this put her into peril on her own account, I so pushed my inquiries and offers of service that she told me what that peril was. She said she was the victim of a slander which only Monsieur de Merri's presence here could clear her of. We were soon interrupted and she left me. I did not see her again, but it appeared to me that, as Monsieur de Merri's presence here would have stood in her favour, the news of his intention to be here must also stand that way. And now, Monsieur, you have the whole story."
It seemed to have weight with him: but, alas, he looked to the Captain for an opinion. That gentleman, regarding me with a smile of ironical admiration, uttered a monosyllabic laugh in his throat, and said:
"There is one thing we can believe, at least. We know Monsieur de Merri's habit of disclosing his affairs with ladies to strangers at inns."
The Count's face grew dark again.
"But we can never be sure how much may have passed between Monsieur de Merri and this gentleman on the subject before they quarrelled, or what was the real motive that brought him here."
"My God!" I cried; "what gentleman could require a stronger motive than I have shown? Having prevented Monsieur de Merri from coming here upon so urgent a matter, what else could I do in honour but come in his place?"
"'In his place'—yes, perhaps, that is well said," retorted the Captain, with his evil smile.
The Count, whose judgment seemed entirely under the dominion of his friend, looked at me again as if he would destroy me. After a moment, he took a turn across the hall and back, and then said to me:
"Well, in the midst of all this deceit and uncertainty one thing is clear. You know too much of our private affairs here to be permitted to go where you will, for the present. I must ask you, therefore, to keep to your chamber awhile. Your wants will be provided for there. I will show you the way myself, on this occasion." He motioned toward the stairway, and the Captain stood ready to accompany him.
"That amounts to making me a prisoner, Monsieur," said I.
"We shall not dispute over words," replied the Count. "By your own confession, you are liable to the law for killing Monsieur de Merri."
"I have reason to expect the King's pardon for that. Measures have already been taken."
"Pray don't keep me waiting, Monsieur. I should not like to be compelled to have my men lay hands on you." At the same time his smile looked as if he would like that very much.
There was nothing to do, for the moment, but yield. The Captain was watching to see where my hand moved, and I know not how many armed men were in the court-yard, besides the servants waiting at the other end of the hall. So I obeyed the Count's gesture, merely saying:
"You will find I am not a person who will go unavenged in case of indignity."
The Count laughed, in his dry, sharp manner, and walked by my side. The Captain followed. As soon as I was in my room, the Count called a servant, who went away and presently returned with a key. The Count and his friend then left me, and locked the door on the outside. As I sat down on my bed, I was glad I had offered no useless resistance, for, as it was, I had not been deprived of my weapons.
To make a short matter here of what seemed a very long one at the time, I was kept locked in my room all that day, with two armed men outside my door, as I guessed first from hearing them, and certified afterwards by seeing them when a servant brought my food. What made the confinement and inaction the more trying was my knowledge that this was the day on which the Countess was to plead her innocence. I kept wondering through the tedious hours how matters were going with her, and I often strained my ears in the poor hope of discovering by them what might be going on in the chateau. But I never heard anything but the rough speech and movements of the men outside my door, and now and then the voice of some attendant on the terrace below my window. I could look diagonally across the terrace to the window where I had seen Mathilde, but not once during all that day did I behold a sign of life there. The night came without bringing me any hint as to how the Countess had fared. I could not sleep till late.
When I woke, early in the morning, I noticed that my door was slightly ajar. Looking out, I found the corridor empty. I took this to mean that I was not to remain a prisoner, and so it proved. Hastily dressing and going downstairs, though many servants were about, I encountered no hindrance. I passed out to the terrace. To my surprise, nobody was on guard at the steps; so I went boldly down to the garden. My heart beat with a vague hope of meeting the Countess, though it was scarce late enough in the day to expect her to be out. I must confess it was not alone her being an oppressed lady whom I had engaged myself to aid, that made me look so eagerly down all the walks and peer so keenly into all the arbours; I must confess it was largely the impression her beauty and tenderness had left upon me. But I was disappointed: I explored the whole garden in vain.
Anything to be near her, I thought. So I went and hung about the door between the garden and her apartments. But it remained closed and enigmatic. I had another idea, and, returning into the house, took my way unchecked to the gallery of pictures, wondering at the freedom of passage now allowed me, and at the same time resolved to make the most of it. I could scarce believe my eyes when I saw the door ajar which led to Madame's suite. I went and tapped lightly on it, but got no answer. It opened to a large drawing-room, well furnished but without any inhabitant. I crossed this room to the other side, which had two doors, both open. One gave entrance to a sleeping-chamber, in a corner of which was a prie-dieu, and which showed in a hundred details to be the bedroom of a lady. But the bed was made up, and a smaller bed, in a recess, which might be that of the maid, also had the appearance of not having been used the previous night. I looked through the other doorway from the drawing-room, and saw a stairway leading down to the garden door. Had the Countess and Mathilde, then, gone into the garden at the time I was in the act of coming to the gallery? No; for the garden door was bolted on the inside. I went to one of the drawing-room windows looking on the terrace, and made sure it was the window from which Mathilde had first answered my call. And then it dawned upon me what the desertion of these rooms meant, and why I was allowed to go where I would in the house and garden. The Countess and her maid were no longer there. What had become of them?
Well, there was no indication to be found in the Countess's apartments as to where she had removed to, and I thought it best not to risk being seen there. So I went down to the hall again. As I glanced through the court-yard to the outer gates, I thought of trying to leave the chateau, to see if my new liberty went so far as to permit that. But I reflected that if I were once let out I might not be let in again, and my chance of learning what had become of the Countess lay, I supposed, inside the chateau. So I resolved to stay there and await the turn that matters might take. And certainly never was any man a guest in stranger circumstances of guestship. I hated and feared my host, and was loth to accept his hospitality, yet stayed of my own will, though I knew not certainly whether I was free to go. My host hated me, yet tolerated my presence—if indeed he would not have enforced it—for the sake of having me at hand if he thought fit to crush me. When he appeared that morning, I thanked him ironically for restoring me to liberty. He only uttered his harsh crackling laugh in reply, and regarded me with a pretended disdain which failed to conceal his hatred and his longing to penetrate my mind and learn what indeed was between me and his Countess. In such men, especially when they have an evil suggester like the Captain at their ear, jealousy is a madness, and no assurances—nay, not even oaths—of innocence will be taken by them as truth. But his pride made him feign contempt for me, and he had nothing to say to me that day. Neither had the Captain, whose manner toward me merely reverted to what it had been at first. I saw my former place made ready at the table, and took it. The Count and his friend talked of their sports and the affairs of the estate, and not one word of the Countess was spoken. Having eaten, they went off to ride, leaving me to amuse myself as I might. The air of the chateau seemed the freer for their absence, but still it was to me a sinister place, and an irreligious place too, for, though the Count and his friend were Catholics, I had not seen the sign of a chaplain or of any religious observance since I had crossed the drawbridge. So I prepared myself for a dull yet anxious day, and lounged about the hall and court-yard as the places where I might best hope to find out something from the domestics of the house.
As I paced the stones of the court-yard, I became aware that a certain maidservant had been obtruding upon my view with a persistency that might be intentional. I now regarded her, as she stood in a small doorway leading to the kitchen. She was a plump, well-made thing, with a wholesome, honest face, but the sluttishness of her loose frock, and of a great cap that hung over her eyes, were too suggestive of the scullery. As soon as she saw I noticed her, she put one finger on her lip, and swiftly beckoned me with another.
I strolled carelessly over, and stopped within a foot of her, pretending to readjust my sword-belt.
"Monsieur," she said in an undertone, "you are desired to be in your chamber this afternoon at four o'clock."
I glanced at the girl in wonder.
"That is all at present," she whispered. I had the discretion to move on. There were, as usual, several armed fellows idling about the court-yard, but none seemed to have observed that any word had passed between the kitchen-maid and me.
Here was matter for astonishment and conjecture for the next few hours. In some manner or other, those hours passed, and at four I was seated in my chamber, having left the door open an inch or so. The turret clock had scarce done striking when the door was pushed wide; somebody entered and instantly closed it. I had a brief feeling of disappointment as I saw the slovenly frock and overhanging cap of the kitchen-maid. Was it she, then, who paid me the compliment of this clandestine visit?
No; for the cap was swiftly flung back from the brow, and there was the bright and comely face of Mathilde. I uttered her name in pleased surprise.
"Yes," she said quickly, "Mathilde in the guise of Brigitte. I have come from Madame the Countess."
"And where is she?" I asked eagerly.
"In the great tower."
"A prisoner?"
"Yes, and I with her. Fortunately there was nothing else to do with me, unless they killed me. So I am able to attend her."
"Faithful Mathilde! But why is this?"
"It is the fulfilment of the Count's threat in case Madame could not clear herself of that false charge."
"But the Count knew that Monsieur de Merri was coming here. I told him."
"Yes, Monsieur, but the Count would believe as much of your story as Captain Ferragant would choose to let him. Your very interest in Madame's fate has been new food for his jealousy."
"God forbid!"
"It is not your fault, Monsieur; it is the Count's madness. He locks his wife up, as much that she may be inaccessible to you and all other men, as because of anything concerning Monsieur de Merri."
"You may well call it his madness."
"Yes; for, whatever other ladies may have deserved who have been treated thus, the Countess is the most virtuous of wives. Her regard for her marriage vows—in spite of the husband she has—is a part of her religion. But his mind is poisoned. He naturally believes that a young and beautiful woman would not be faithful to an old wolf like him. And he is almost right, for there is only one young and beautiful woman in France who would be, and that is the Countess."
"Surely not because she loves him?"
"Oh, no. It is because of her religion. She was brought up at a convent school, and when the Count offered to marry her, the Mother Superior made her think it her duty and heaven's will that she should accept the high position, where her piety would shine so much further: and having become his wife, she would die rather than violate a wife's duties by a hair's breadth. But what is her reward? Not because he loves her—there's more love in a stone!—but because he can't endure the thought of any trespass on what is his—because he dreads being made a jeer of—he goes mad with jealousy and suspicion. He imitates the Prince of Condé by locking his wife up in a tower."
"But this cannot last forever."
"No, Monsieur, and for a very good reason—the Countess's life cannot last forever under this treatment—even if the Count, in some wild imagining of her guilt, conjured up by Captain Ferragant, does not murder her. It's that thought which makes me shudder. It could be done so quietly in that lonely cell, and any account of her death could be given out to avoid scandal."
"Horrible, Mathilde! He would not go to that length."
"Men have done so. You are a stranger, and have not seen the frenzies into which the Count sometimes works himself, torturing his mind by imagining actions of infidelity on her part."
"But that disease of his mind will wear itself out; then he will see matters more sanely."
"Will he grow better, do you think, as he grows older, and drinks more wine, and falls more under the influence of the red Captain?"
To say truth, I thought as Mathilde did, though I had spoken otherwise for mere form of reassurance.
"What is her prison like?" I asked.
"A gloomy room no larger that this, with a single small window. There is no panelling nor tapestry nor plaster—nothing but the bare stones. There are a bed for Madame, a cot for me, a table, and two chairs: nothing else to make it look like a human habitation, save our crucifixes, an image of the Virgin, a trunk, and Madame's book of Hours."
"A small window, you say. Is it barred?"
"No; but our room is very high up in the tower."
"Still, if one got through the window—is it large enough for that?"
"One might get through; but the moat is beneath—far beneath."
"The window looks toward Montoire, then, if the moat is beneath."
"Yes; we can see the sunset."
"At all events, a person dropping from the window would alight outside the walls of the chateau?"
"Yes, Monsieur,—in the moat, as I said. It would be a long drop, too. I don't know how high up the room is. It seems a great many steps up the winding stairs before one comes to the landing before the door."
"Is it at the top of the tower, then?"
"No; for beyond our door the stairs begin again, and they seem to wind more steeply."
"You noticed the sunset. Then you must have been there yesterday evening."
"Yes; we were taken there shortly after noon yesterday. That was the limit to the time given the Countess in which to prove her innocence. She was summoned to the picture gallery by the Count himself, and nobody else was there but Captain Ferragant. The door was closed against me, and what passed between that saint and those two devils I know not; but after a little the door was opened, and there she was, very pale and with her eyes raised in prayer. The Count, who was blue with vindictiveness, told me to get together what things Madame should order; and when that was done, he bade us follow, and led the way down to the court-yard and to the tower, the Captain walking behind. As we climbed those narrow winding steps, I wished the Count might trip in the half-darkness and break his neck, but alas, it was only poor Madame who stumbled now and then. The Count showed us into the room, already furnished for us, and waited till a man had brought the trunk in which I had put some of Madame's clothes. The Count left without a word, and we heard the door locked outside. At first I thought we were to be left to starve, but after some hours the door was unlocked by a man on guard outside, and Brigitte appeared with our supper. She told us she was to come twice a day with our food, and for other necessary services. And when she came again this morning, I had planned how I should manage to see you."
"You are as clever as you are true, Mathilde."
"Fortunately Brigitte looks such a simple, witless creature that the man on guard on the landing has not thought to pry while she has been with us, and has allowed the door to be shut. He cannot then see in, as the grated opening has been closed, out of regard to Madame's sex. So this morning I got Brigitte's consent to my plan, for the poor girl is the softest-hearted creature in the world. And to make sure of finding you immediately when I got out, I charged her to tell you to be in your room at four o'clock."
"Which she did very adroitly."
"She is not such a fool as some take her for. Well, when she came to us awhile ago, I transferred this frock and cap from her to me, and had her call out to the guard that she had forgotten something and must return to the kitchen for it. 'Very well, beauty,' said the guard ironically, and I came out in a great hurry, and was on my way downstairs before he could take a second look at me. The landing is a dark place, and my figure so much like Brigitte's that her clothes make it look quite the same. There is another man on guard, at the bottom of the stairs, but he was as easily deceived as the one above. I ran across the two court-yards, and through the kitchen passage to the servants' stairs, and nobody glanced twice at me. Brigitte, of course, must stay with Madame till I return,—and now, Monsieur, it is time I was back, and I have said nothing of what I came to say."
"You have said much that is important. But 'tis true, you'd best say the rest quickly,—your return may be dangerous enough."
"Oh, I shall go so fast that nobody will have time to suspect me. As for the guards, it is their duty to keep me in. Should they see it is I who was out, they will be very glad to have me in again, and to hold their tongues, for the Count's punishments are not light. But as to Madame's message—she would have tried to convey it by Brigitte, had I not declared I would come at all hazards,—for the truth is, I have something to say on my own responsibility, also."
"But Madame's message?" I demanded eagerly.
"She begs that you will go away while you can. So brave a young gentleman should not stay here to risk the Count's vengeance."
I felt joy at this concern for my safety.
"If I am a brave man," I answered, "I can only stay and help her."
"I am glad you are of that mind, Monsieur, for it is what I think. That is whatIhad to say to you."
"Then the only question is, how can I be of use to the Countess? She must be released from this imprisonment."
"There I agree with you again. She ought to be taken away—far out of reach of the Count's vengeance—before he has time to make her plight worse than it is, or carry out any design against her life. But even if she remained as she is, her health would not long endure it."
"Now that matters have come to this pass, no doubt she is willing to run away."
"Not yet, Monsieur. That is for me to persuade her. But if we form some plan of escape now, I hope I can win her consent before the time comes to carry it out."
"I trust so. When she repelled the idea of escape, the day I saw her in the garden, things had not gone so far. And then she thought there was no safe place of refuge for her. But I can find a place. And she thought an attempt must be hopeless because the Count would be swift to pursue. But if we got some hours' start, going at night—"
"Yes, certainly it will have to be at night, Monsieur. The Count has the roads watched from the tower, for some purpose of his own—I think he expects some enemy."
"You still have the key to the postern?"
"It must be where I left it—buried under the rose-bush nearest the postern itself. But the first thing is, to get out of the room in the tower."
"Certainly. It would not be possible for Madame to get out as you have done—by a disguise, I mean?"
"No, Monsieur. Brigitte is the only one who comes to us, with whom she might change clothes. And Madame is not at all of Brigitte's figure—nor could she mimic Brigitte's walk as I can. She could not act a part in the slightest degree. And I know that Madame would never consent to go and leave me behind to bear the Count's wrath. We must all three go together. Besides Brigitte comes and goes in the daytime, and Madame must escape at night."
"Yes, that is certain. It is hard to devise a plan in a moment. If I could think of it over night, and you come to me again to-morrow—but no, you may not be able to play this same trick again—the guards may detect you going back."
"That is true, and I have thought of one plan, though it may be difficult."
"Let me hear it, nevertheless."
"Then listen, Monsieur. First, as to the door of our cell. It is locked with a key, which the Count himself retains, except when he goes out, as this afternoon,—it is then entrusted to the seneschal. I know this from Brigitte, for the key is given to her when she comes to us. She hands it to the guard on the landing, who opens the door and keeps the key while she is within. When she leaves us, he locks the door, and she takes the key back to the Count or seneschal. But in order to release Madame, you must have that key."
"And how am I to get it?"
"After Brigitte's last visit to us before the night we select, she will give the Count or seneschal, not the real key to our cell, but another of the same size and general shape—she has access to unimportant keys about the house. Then she will bring the real key to you."
"But poor Brigitte!—when the Count investigates in the morning, he will find she has given him the wrong key."
Mathilde thought a moment. "No; he will rather suppose you robbed him of the right key during the night and substituted the other to delay discovery. He will suspect anything rather than Brigitte, whom he thinks too great a fool for the least craft; and even if she is accused, she can play the innocent. I assure you."
"So much for that, then. There is yet the door of entrance to the tower."
"At present it has an old broken key in the lock, which is therefore useless. But no doubt that will be remedied—so we must act soon. Meanwhile, that door is guarded by the man at the foot of the stairs."
"But are the two guards on duty at night also? There is no Brigitte to be let in and out then. And surely the Count doesn't think you can break your lock."
"There are guards on duty, nevertheless. Last night I heard one call down the stairs to another, asking the time. They are there, no doubt, not for fear of our breaking out, but for fear of somebody breaking in to help Madame. I don't suppose there are ever more than two. If the rule has not been changed, the rest of the household sleeps, except a porter in the gate-house and a man on top of the tower. But this man watches the roads, as well as he can in the darkness, and the porter too is more concerned about people who might want to enter the chateau than about what goes on inside. So in the dead of night you can go silently downstairs and let yourself out of the hall—"
"But is not the hall door locked with a key?"
"Yes; but the key is left always in the lock. You have then only to cross the two court-yards to the lower, without making any noise to alarm the porter at the gate-house or to warn the guard at the tower entrance."
"Will he be inside or outside the tower door, I wonder?"
"Probably inside, where there is a bench just at the foot of the stairs. He and his comrade above will be your only real difficulty, Monsieur. If you can take them by surprise, one at a time—"
"One at a time, or two at a time," said I, beginning to walk up and down the chamber, and grasping my sword and dagger. "But the trouble will be, the noise that may be made when I encounter them,—it may arouse the chateau and spoil all."
"But heaven may grant that you will surprise the men inside the tower, one at the foot of the stairs, the other on our landing, as they must have been last night. In that case, if you can keep the fighting inside the tower, till—"
"Till they are dead. Yes, in that case, if I am expeditious, no noise may be heard outside. That is a thing to aim for. If they, or one, should be outside, I can rush in and so draw them after me. Well, and when I have done for them—?"
"Then you have but to unlock our door, and Madame and I will join you.—You will know our door by there being a stool in the landing before it—the guard sits there.—Well, then we must fly silently through the court-yards and the hall, let ourselves out to the terrace—there are two or three ways I know,—and run through the garden to the postern. Once out of these walls, we must hurry across the fields to the house of a certain miller—"
"Hugues? Yes."
"Yes, Monsieur. The watchman on the tower will not see us in the fields, for we shall keep close to the woods till we are at a distance. Hugues can supply two horses, at least, and you and Madame must be as far away as possible by daylight."
"And you, Mathilde?"
"Unless we can get three horses, I will lie hid at Hugues's mill till Madame finds time to send for me. It will be suitable enough—Hugues and I are to be married some day."
"But I have a horse at the inn at Montoire. If I can get it out at that hour, you can come with us—to whatever place we may decide upon."
"As to that place, you may consider in the meanwhile. There will be time to discuss the matter with Madame when she is escaping with you. The first thing is, to get as far from Lavardin as possible. And now when is all this to be done?"
"The sooner the better, for who knows when the Count may take into his head some new idea?"
"Yes, of harm to Madame or to yourself."
"Why should we not choose this very night?"
"I see no reason against it—except that I may not be able to persuade Madame. But yet there will be several hours—and surely heaven will help me!—Yes, to-night! There is nothing for me to do but persuade Madame, and see that we are dressed as suitably for travel as the clothes at hand will permit. But first, before Brigitte comes away, I must instruct her about the key. At what hour will you come, Monsieur?"