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When I look back on the series of events which I am narrating and try to recover the feelings with which I was affected in its passage, I am almost amazed and in some measure ashamed to find how faint is my abhorrence of the Duke of Saint-Maclou. My indignation wants not the bridle but the whip, and I have to spur myself on to a becoming vehemence of disapproval. I attribute my sneaking kindness for him—for to that and not much less I must plead guilty—partly indeed to the revelation of a passion in him that seemed to leave him hardly responsible for the wrong he plotted, but far more to the incidents of this night, in which I was in a manner his comrade and the partner with him in an adventure. To have stood shoulder to shoulder with a man blinds his faults—and the duke bore himself, not merely with the coolness and courage which I made no doubt of his displaying, but with a readiness and zest remarkable at any time, but more striking when they followed on the paroxysm to which I had seen him helplessly subject. These indications of good in the man mollified my dislike and attached me to him by a bond which begot toleration and resists even the clearer and more piercing analysis of memory. Therefore, when those who speak to me of what he did and sought to do say what I cannot help admitting to be true, I hold my peace, thinking that the duke and I have played as partners as well as on hostile sides, and that I, being no saint, may well hold my tongue about the faults of a fellow-sinner. Moreover,—and this is the thing of all strongest to temper or to twist my judgment of him,—I feel often as though it were he who laid his finger on my blind eyes and bade me look up and see where lay my happiness. For it is strange how long a man can go without discovering his own undermost desire. Yet, when seen, how swift it grows!
Quiet and still we stood in the bay of the staircase, and the steps over our heads creaked under the feet of the men who came down. The duke’s hand was on my arm, restraining me, and he held it there till the feet had passed above us and the stealthy tread landed on the marble flagging of the hall. We thrust our heads out and peered through the darkness. I saw the figures of two men, one following the other toward the front door; this the first and taller unfastened and noiselessly opened; and he and his fellow, whom, by the added light which entered, I perceived to be carrying a box or case of moderate size, waited for a moment on the threshold. Then they passed out, drawing the door close after them.
Still the duke held me back, and we rested where we were three or four minutes. Then he whispered, “Come,” and we stole across the hall after them and found ourselves outside. It must have been about half-past two o’clock in the morning; there was no moon and it was rather dark. The duke turned sharp to the left and led me to the bypath, and there, a couple of hundred yards ahead of us, we saw a cube of light that came from a dark lantern.
The duke’s face was dimly visible, and an amused smile played on his lips as he said softly:
“Lafleur and Pierre! They think they’ve got the necklace!”
Was this the meaning of Pierre’s appearance in the role of my successor? The idea suggested itself to me in a moment, and I strove to read my companion’s face for a confirmation.
“We’ll see where they go,” he whispered, and then laid his finger on his lips. Amusement sounded in his voice; indeed it was impossible not to perceive the humor of the position, when I felt the Cardinal’s Necklace against my own ribs.
We were walking now under cover of the trees which lined the sides of the path, so that no backward glance could discover us to the thieves; and I was wondering how long we were thus to dog their steps, when suddenly they turned to the left about fifty yards short of the spot where old Jean’s cottage stood, and disappeared from our sight. We emerged into the path, the duke taking the lead. He was walking more briskly now, and I saw him examine his pistol. When we came where the fellows had turned, we followed in their track.
The first distant hint of approaching morning caught the tops of the trees above us, turning them from black to a deep chill gray, as we paused to listen. Our pursuit had brought us directly behind the cottage, which now stood about a hundred yards on the right; and then we came upon them—or rather suddenly stopped and crouched down to avoid coming upon them—where they were squatting on the ground with a black iron box between them, and the lantern’s light thrown on the keyhole of the box. Lafleur held the lantern; Pierre’s hand was near the lock, and I presumed—I could not see—that he held some instrument with which he meant to open it. A ring of trees framed the picture, and the men sat in a hollow, well hidden from the path even had it been high day.
The Duke of Saint-Maclou touched my arm, and I leaned forward to look in his face. He nodded, and, brushing aside the trees, we sprang out upon the astonished fellows. Fora moment they did not move, struck motionless with surprise, while we stood over them, pistols in hand. We had caught them fair and square. Expecting no interruption, they had guarded against none. Their weapons were in their pockets, their hands busy with their job. They sprang up the next moment; but the duke’s muzzle covered Lafleur, and mine was leveled full at Pierre. A second later Lafleur fell on his knees with a cry for mercy; the little man stood quite still, his arms by his side and the iron box hard by his feet. Lafleur’s protestations and lamentations began to flow fast. Pierre shrugged his shoulders. The duke advanced, and I kept pace with him.
“Keep your eye on that fellow, Mr. Aycon,” said the duke; and then he put his left hand in his pocket, took out a key and flung it in Lafleur’s face. It struck him sharply between the eyes, and he whined again.
“Open the box,” said the duke. “Open it—do you hear? This instant!”
With shaking hands the fellow dragged the box from where it lay by Pierre’s feet, and dropping on his knees began to fumble with the lock. At last he contrived to unlock it, and raised the lid. The duke sprang forward and, catching him by the nape of the neck, crammed his head down into the box, bidding him, “Look—look—look!” And while he said it he laughed, and took advantage of Lafleur’s posture to give him four or five hearty kicks.
“It’s empty!” cried Lafleur, surprise rescuing him for an instant from the other emotions to which his position gave occasion. And, as he spoke, for the first time Pierre started, turning an eager gaze toward the box.
“Yes, it’s empty,” said the duke. “The necklace isn’t there, is it? Now, tell me all about it, or I’ll put a bullet through your head!”
Then the story came: disentangled from the excuses and prayers, it was simply that Pierre was no footman but a noted thief—that he had long meditated an attack on the Cardinal’s Necklace; had made Lafleur’s acquaintance in Paris, corrupted his facile virtue, and, with the aid of forged testimonials, presented himself in the character in which I had first made his acquaintance. The rascals had counted on the duke’s preoccupation with Marie Delhasse for their opportunity. The duke smiled to hear it. Pierre listened to the whole story without a word of protest or denial; his accomplice’s cowardly attempt to present him as the only culprit gained no more notice than another shrug and a softly muttered oath. “Destiny,” the little man seemed to say in the eloquent movement of his shoulders; while the growing light showed his beady eyes fixed, full and unfaltering, on me.
Lafleur’s prayers died away. The duke, still smiling, set his pistol against the wretch’s head.
“That’s what you deserve,” said he.
And Lafleur, groveling, caught him by the knees.
“Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!” he implored.
“Why not?” asked the duke, in the tone of a man willing to hear the other side, but certain that he would not be convinced by it. “Why not? We find you stealing—and we shoot you as you try to escape. I see nothing unnatural or illegal in it, Lafleur. Nor do I see anything in favor of leaving you alive.”
And the pistol pressed still on Lafleur’s forehead. Whether his master meant to shoot, I know not—although I believe he did. But Lafleur had little doubt of his purpose; for he hastened to play his best card, and, clinging still to the duke’s knees, cried desperately:
“If you’ll spare me, I’ll tell you where she is!”
The duke’s arm fell to his side; and in a changed voice, from which the cruel bantering had fled, while eager excitement filled its place, he cried:
“What? Where who is?”
“The lady—Mlle. Delhasse. A girl I know—there in Avranches—saw her go. She is there now.”
“Where, man, where?” roared the duke, stamping his foot, and menacing the wretch again with his pistol.
I turned to listen, forgetful of quiet little Pierre and his alert beady eyes; yet I kept the pistol on him.
And Lafleur cried:
“At the convent—at the convent, on the shores of the bay!”
“My God!” cried the duke, and his eyes suddenly turned and flashed on mine; and I saw that the necklace was forgotten, that our partnership was ended, and that I again, and no longer the cowering creature before him, was the enemy. And I also, hearing that Marie Delhasse was at the convent, was telling myself that I was a fool not to have thought of it before, and wondering what new impulse had seized the duke’s wayward mind.
Thus neither the duke nor I was attending to the business of the moment. But there was a man of busy brain, whose life taught him to profit by the slips of other men and to let pass no opportunities. Our carelessness gave one now—a chance of escape, and a chance of something else too. For, while my negligent hand dropped to my side and my eyes were seeking to read the duke’s face, the figure opposite me must have been moving. Softly must a deft hand have crept to a pocket; softly came forth the hidden weapon. There was a report loud and sudden; and then another. And with the first, Lafleur, who was kneeling at the duke’s feet and looking up to see how his shaft had sped, flung his arms wildly over his head, gave a shriek, and fell dead—his head, half-shattered, striking the iron box as he fell sideways in a heap on the ground.
The duke sprang back with an oath, whose sound was engulfed in the second discharge of Pierre’s pistol: and I felt myself struck in the right arm; and my weapon fell to the ground, while I clutched the wounded limb with my left hand.
The duke, after a moment’s hesitation and bewilderment, raised his pistol and fired; but the active little scoundrel was safe among the trees, and we heard the twigs cracking and the leaves rustling as he pushed his way through the wood. He was gone—scot free for us, but with his score to Lafleur well paid. I swayed where I stood, to and fro: the pain was considerable, and things seemed to go round before my eyes; yet I turned to my companion, crying:
“After him! He’ll get off! I’m hit; I can’t run!”
The duke stood still, frowning; then he slowly dropped his smoking pistol into his pocket. For a moment longer he stood, and a smile broadened on his face as he raised his eyes to me.
“Let him,” he said briefly; and his glance rested on me for a moment in defiant significance. And then, without another word, he turned on his heel. He took no heed of Lafleur’s dead body, that seemed to fondle the box, huddling it in a ghastly embrace, nor of me, who swayed and tottered and sank on the ground by the corpse. With set lips and eager eyes he passed me, taking the road by which we had come. And I, hugging my wounded arm, with open eyes and parted lips, saw him dive in among the trees and disappear toward the house. And I looked round on the iron box and the dead body—two caskets robbed of all that made them more than empty lumber.
Minute followed minute; and then I heard the hoofs of a horse galloping at full speed along the road from the house toward Avranches. Lafleur was dead and done with; Pierre might go his ways; I lay fainting in the wood; the Cardinal’s Necklace was still against my side. What recked the Duke of Saint-Maclou of all that? I knew, as I heard the thud of the hoofs on the road, that by the time the first reddening rays reached over the horizon he would be at the convent, seeking the woman who was all the world to him.
And I sat there helpless, fearful of what would befall her. For what could a convent full of women avail against his mastering rage? And a sudden sharp pang ran through me, startling even myself in its intensity; so that I cried out aloud, raising my sound arm in the air toward Heaven, like a man who swears a vow:
“By God, no! By God, no—no!”
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The dead man lay there, embracing the empty box that had brought him to his death; and for many minutes I sat within a yard of him, detained by the fascination and grim mockery of the picture no less than by physical weakness and a numbness of my brain. My body refused to act, and my mind hardly urged its indolent servant. I was in sore distress for Marie Delhasse,—my vehement cry witnessed it,—yet I had not the will to move to her aid; will and power both seemed to fail me. I could fear, I could shrink with horror, but I could not act; nor did I move till the increasing pain of my wound drove me, as it might any unintelligent creature, to scramble to my feet and seek, half-blindly, for some place that should afford shelter and succor.
Leaving Lafleur and the box where they lay, a pretty spectacle for a moralist, I stumbled through the wood back to the path, and stood there in helpless vacillation. At the house I should find better attendance, but old Jean’s cottage was nearer. The indolence of weakness gained the day, and I directed my steps toward the cottage, thinking now, so far as I can recollect, of none of the exciting events of the night nor even of what the future still held, but purely and wholly of the fact that in the cottage I should find a fire and a bed. The root-instincts of the natural man—the primeval elementary wants—asserted their supremacy and claimed a monopoly of my mind, driving out all rival emotions, and with a mighty sigh of relief and content I pushed open the door of the cottage, staggered across to the fire and sank down on the stool by it, thanking Heaven for so much, and telling myself that soon, very soon, I should feel strong enough to make my way into the inner room and haul out Jean’s pallet and set it by the fire and stretch my weary limbs, and, if the pain of my wound allowed me, go to sleep. Beyond that my desires did not reach, and I forgot all my fears save the one dread that I was too weak for the desired effort. Certainly it is hard for a man to think himself a hero!
I took no note of time, but I must have sat where I was for many minutes, before I heard someone moving in the inner room. I was very glad; of course it was Jean, and Jean, I told myself with luxurious self-congratulation, would bring the bed for me, and put something on my wound, and maybe give me a chink of some fine hot cognac that would spread life through my veins. Thus I should be comfortable and able to sleep, and forget all the shadowy people—they seemed but shadows half-real—that I had been troubling my brain about: the duke, and Marie, whose face danced for a moment before my eyes, and that dead fellow who hugged the box so ludicrously. So I tried to call to Jean, but the trouble was too great, and, as he would be sure to come out soon, I waited; and I blinked at the smoldering wood-ashes in the fire till my eyes closed and the sleep was all but come, despite the smart of my arm and the ache in my unsupported back.
But just before I had forgotten everything the door of the inner room creaked and opened. My side was toward it and I did not look round. I opened my eyes and feebly waved my left hand. Then a voice came, clear and fresh:
“Jean, is it you? Well, is the duke at the house?”
I must be dreaming; that was my immediate conviction, for the voice that I heard was a voice I knew well, but one not likely to be heard here, in Jean’s cottage, at four o’clock in the morning. Decidedly I was dreaming, and as in order to dream a man must be asleep, I was pleased at the idea and nodded happily, smiling and blinking in self-congratulation. But that pleasant minute of illusion was my last; for the voice cried in tones too full of animation, too void of dreamy vagueness, too real and actual to let me longer set them down as made of my own brain:
“Heaven! Why, it’s Mr. Aycon! How in the world do you come here?”
To feel surprise at the Duchess of Saint-Maclou doing anything which she might please to do or being anywhere that the laws of Nature rendered it possible she should be, was perhaps a disposition of mind of which I should have been by this time cured; yet I was surprised to find her standing in the doorway that led from Jean’s little bedroom dressed in a neat walking gown and a very smart hat, her hands clasped in the surprise which she shared with me and her eyes gleaming with an amused delight which found, I fear, no answer in my heavy bewildered gaze.
“I’m getting warm,” said I at first, but then I made an effort to rouse myself. “I was a bit hurt, you know,” I went on; “that little villain Pierre—”
“Hurt!” cried the duchess, springing forward. “How? Oh, my dear Mr. Aycon, how pale you are!”
After that remark of the duchess’, I remember nothing which occurred for a long while. In fact, just as I had apprehended that I was awake, that the duchess was real, and that it was most remarkable to find her in Jean’s cottage, I fainted, and the duchess, the cottage, and everything else vanished from sight and mind.
When next I became part of the waking world I found myself on the sofa of the little room in the duke’s house which I was beginning to know so well. I felt very comfortable: my arm was neatly bandaged, I wore a clean shirt. Suzanne was spreading a meal on the table, and the duchess, in a charming morning gown, was smiling at me and humming a tune. The clock on the mantelpiece marked a quarter to eight.
“Now I know all about it,” said the duchess, perceiving my revival. “I’ve heard it all from Suzanne and Jean—or anyhow I can guess the rest. And you mustn’t tire yourself by talking. I had you brought here so that you might be well looked after; because we’re so much indebted to you, you know.”
“Is the duke here?” I asked.
“Oh, dear, no; it’s all right,” nodded the duchess. “I don’t know—and I do not care—where the duke is. Drink this milk, Mr. Aycon. Your arm’s not very bad, you know—Jean says it isn’t, I mean—but you’d better have milk first, and something to eat when you feel stronger.”
The duchess appeared to be in excellent spirits. She caught up a bit of toast from the table, poured out a cup of coffee, and, still moving about, began a light breakfast, with every sign of appetite and enjoyment.
“You’ve come back?” said I, looking at her in persistent surprise.
Suzanne put the cushions behind my back in a more comfortable position, smiled kindly on us, and left us.
“Yes,” said the duchess, “I have for the present, Mr. Aycon.”
“But—but the duke—” I stammered.
“I don’t mind the duke,” said she. “Besides, he may not come. It’s rather nice that you’re just a little hurt. Don’t you think so, Mr. Aycon? Just a little, you know.”
“Why?” was all I found to say. The reason was not clear to me.
“Why, in the first place, because you can’t fight till your arm’s well—oh, yes, of course Armand was going to fight you—and, in the second place, you can and must stay here. There’s no harm in it, while you’re ill, you see; Armand can’t say there is. It’s rather funny, isn’t it, Mr. Aycon?” and she munched a morsel of toast, and leaned her elbows on the table and sent a sparkling glance across at me, for all the world as she had done on the first night I knew her. The cares of the world did not gall the shoulders of Mme. de Saint-Maclou.
“But why are you here?” said I, sticking to my point.
The duchess set down the cup of coffee which she had been sipping.
“I am not particular,” said she. “But I told the Mother Superior exactly what I told the duke. She wouldn’t listen any more than he would. However, I was resolved; so I came here. I don’t see where else I could go, do you, Mr. Aycon?”
“What did you tell the Mother?”
The duchess stretched one hand across the table, clenching her small fist and tapping gently with it on the cloth.
“There is one thing that I will not do, Mr. Aycon,” said she, a touch of red coming in her cheeks and her lips set in obstinate lines. “I don’t care whether the house is my house or anybody else’s house, or an inn—yes, or a convent either. But I will not be under the same roof with Marie Delhasse.”
And her declaration finished, the duchess nodded most emphatically, and turned to her cup again.
The name of Marie Delhasse, shot forth from Mme. de Saint-Maclou’s pouting lips, pierced the cloud that had seemed to envelop my brain. I sat up on the sofa and looked eagerly at the duchess.
“You saw her, then, at the convent?” I asked.
“Yes, I met her in the chapel. Really, I should have expected to be safe from her there. And the Mother would not turn her out!” And then the duchess, by a sudden transition, said to me, with a half-apologetic, half challenging smile: “You got my note, I suppose, Mr. Aycon?”
For a minute I regarded the duchess. And I smiled, and my smile turned to a laugh as I answered:
“Oh, yes! I got the note.”
“I meant it,” said she. “But I suppose I must forgive you now. You’ve been so brave, and you’re so much hurt.” And the duchess’ eyes expressed a gratifying admiration of my powers.
I fingered my arm, which lay comfortably enough in the bandages and the sling that Suzanne’s care had provided for it. And I rose to my feet.
“Oh, you mustn’t move!” cried the duchess, rising also and coming to where I stood.
“By Jove, but I must!” said I, looking at the clock. “The duke’s got four hours’ start of me.”
“What do you want with my husband now?” she asked. “I don’t see why you should fight him; anyhow, you can’t fight him till your arm is well.”
The duchess’ words struck on my ear and her dainty little figure was before my eyes, but my thoughts were absent from her.
“Don’t go, Mr. Aycon,” said she.
“I must go,” I said. “By this time he’ll be at the convent.”
A frown gathered on the duchess’ face.
“What concern is it of yours?” she asked. “I—I mean, what good can you do?”
“I can hardly talk to you about it—” I began awkwardly; but the duchess saved me the trouble of finishing my sentence, for she broke in angrily:
“Oh, as if I believe that! Mr. Aycon, why are you going?”
“I’m going to see that the duke doesn’t—”
“Oh, you are very anxious—and very good, aren’t you? Yes, and very chivalrous! Mr. Aycon, I don’t care what he does;” and she looked at me defiantly.
“But I do,” said I, and seeing my hat on the cabinet by the wall, I walked across the room and stretched out my hand for it. The duchess darted after me and stood between my hat and me.
“Why do you care?” she asked, with a stamp of her small foot.
There were, no doubt, many most sound and plausible reasons for caring—reasons independent of any private feelings of my own in regard to Marie Delhasse; but not one of them did I give to the duchess. I stood before her, looking, I fear, very embarrassed, and avoiding her accusing eyes.
Then the duchess flung her head back, and with passionate scorn said to me:
“I believe you’re in love with the woman yourself!”
And to this accusation also I made no reply.
“Are you really going?” she asked, her voice suddenly passing to a note of entreaty.
“I must go,” said I obstinately, callously, curtly.
“Then go!” cried the duchess. “And never let me see you again!”
She moved aside, and I sprang forward and seized my hat. I took no notice of the duchess, and, turning, I walked straight toward the door. But before I reached it the duchess flung herself on the sofa and buried her face in the cushions. I would not leave her like that, so I stood and waited; but my tongue still refused to find excuses, and still I was in a fever to be off.
But the duchess rose again and stood upright. She was rather pale and her lips quivered, but she held out her hand to me with a smile. And suddenly I understood what I was doing, and that for the second time the proud little lady before me saw herself left and neglected for the sake of that woman whose presence made even a convent uninhabitable to her; and the bitter wound that her pride suffered was declared in her bearing and in the pathetic effort at dignity which she had summoned up to hide her pain. Yet, although on this account I was sorry for her, I discerned nothing beyond hurt pride, and was angry at the pride for the sake of Marie Delhasse, and when I spoke it was in defense of Marie Delhasse, and not in comfort to the duchess.
“She is not what you think,” I said.
The duchess drew herself up to her full height, making the most of her inches.
“Really, Mr. Aycon,” said she, “you must forgive me if I do not discuss that.” And she paused, and then added, with a curl of her lip: “You and my husband can settle that between you;” and with a motion of her hand she signed to me to leave her.
Looking back on the matter, I do not know that I had any reason to be ashamed or to feel myself in any sort a traitor to the duchess. Yet some such feelings I had as I backed out of the room leaving her standing there in unwonted immobility, her eyes haughty and cold, her lips set, her grace congealed to stateliness, her gay agility frozen to proud stiffness.
And I left her thus standing in obedience to the potent yet still but half-understood spell which drew me from her side and would not suffer me to rest, while the Duke of Saint-Maclou was working his devices in the valley beneath the town of Avranches.
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The moment I found myself outside the house—and I must confess that, for reasons which I have indicated, it was a relief to me to find myself there—I hastened to old Jean’s cottage. The old man was eating his breakfast; his stolidity was unshaken by the events of the night; he manifested nothing beyond a mild satisfaction that the two rascals had justified his opinion of them, and a resigned regret that Pierre had not shared the fate of Lafleur. He told me that his inquiries after Marie Delhasse had been fruitless, and added that he supposed there would be a police inquiry into the attempted robbery and the consequent death of Lafleur; indeed he was of opinion that the duke had gone to Avranches to arrange for it as much as to prosecute his search for Marie. I seized the opportunity to suggest that I should be a material witness, and urged him to give me one of the duke’s horses to carry me to Avranches. He grumbled at my request, declaring that I should end by getting him into trouble; but a few francs overcame his scruples, and he provided me with a sturdy animal, which I promised to bring or send back in the course of the day.
Great as my impatience was, I was compelled to spend the first hour of my arrival at Avranches under the doctor’s hands. He discovered to my satisfaction that the bullet had not lodged in my arm and that my hurt was no more than a flesh-wound, which would, if all went well, heal in a few days. He enjoined perfect rest and freedom from worry and excitement. I thanked him, bowed myself out, mounted again, and rode to the hotel, where I left my horse with instructions for its return to its owner. Then, at my best speed, I hastened down the hill again, reached the grounds of the convent, and approached the door. Perfect rest and freedom from excitement were unattainable until I had learned whether Marie Delhasse was still safe within the old white walls which I saw before me; for, though I could not trace how the change in me had come, nor track its growth, I knew now that if she were there the walls held what was of the greatest moment to me in all the world, and that if she were not there the world was a hell to me until I found her.
I was about to ring the bell, when from the gate of the burial-ground the Mother Superior came at a slow pace. The old woman was frowning as she walked, and her frown deepened at sight of me. But I, caring nothing for what she thought, ran up to her, crying before I had well reached her:
“Is Marie Delhasse still here?”
The Mother stopped dead, and regarded me with disapprobation.
“What business is it of yours, sir, where the young woman is?” she asked.
“I mean her no harm,” I urged eagerly. “If she is safe here, I ask to know no more; I don’t even ask to see her. Is she here? The Duchess of Saint-Maclou told me that you refused to send her away.”
“God forbid that I should send away any sinner who will find refuge here,” she said solemnly. “You have seen the duchess?”
“Yes; she is at home. But Mlle. Delhasse?”
But the old woman would not be hurried. She asked again:
“What concern have you, sir, with Marie Delhasse?”
I looked her in the face as I answered plainly:
“To save her from the Duke of Saint-Maclou.”
“And from her own mother, sir?”
“Yes, above all from her own mother.”
The old woman started at my words; but there was no change in the level calm of her voice as she asked:
“And why would you rescue her?”
“For the same reason that any gentleman would, if he could. If you want more—”
She held up her hand to silence me; but her look was gentler and her voice softer, as she said:
“You, sir, cannot save, and I cannot save, those who will not let God himself save them.”
“What do you mean?” I cried in a frenzy of fear and eagerness.
“I had prayed for her, and talked with her. I thought I had seen grace in her. Well, I know not. It is true that she acted as her mother bade her. But I fear all is not well.”
“I pray you to speak plainly. Where is she?”
“I do not know where she is. What I know, sir, you shall know, for I believe you come in honesty. This morning—some two hours ago—a carriage drove from the town here. Mme. Delhasse was in it, and with her the Duke of Saint-Maclou. I could not refuse to let the woman see her daughter. They spoke together for a time; and then they called me, and Marie—yes, Marie herself—begged me to let her see the duke. So they came here where we stand, and I stood a few yards off. They talked earnestly in low tones. And at last Marie came to me (the others remaining where they were), and took my hand and kissed it, thanking me and bidding me adieu. I was grieved, sir, for I trusted that the girl had found peace here; and she was in the way to make us love her. ‘Does your mother bid you go?’ I asked, ‘And will she save you from all harm?’ And she answered: ‘I go of my own will, Mother; but I go hoping to return.’ ‘You swear that you go of your own will?’ I asked. ‘Yes, of my own will,’ she said firmly; but she was near to weeping as she spoke. Yet what could I do? I could but tell her that our door—God’s door—was never shut. That I told her; and with a heavy heart, being able to do nothing else, I let her go. I pray God no harm come of it. But I thought the man’s face wore a look of triumph.”
“By Heaven,” I cried, “it shall not wear it for long! Which way did they go?”
She pointed to the road by the side of the bay, leading away from Avranches.
“That way. I watched the carriage and its dust till I saw it no more, because of the wood that lies between here and the road. You pursue them, sir?”
“To the world’s end, madame, if I must.”
She sighed and opened her lips to speak, but no words came; and without more, I turned and left her, and set my face to follow the carriage. I was, I think, half-mad with anger and bewilderment, for I did not think that it would be time well spent to ascend to the town and obtain a vehicle or a horse; but I pressed on afoot, weary and in pain as I was, along the hot white road. For now indeed my heart was on fire, and I knew that beside Marie Delhasse everything was nothing. So at first imperceptibly, slowly, and unobserved, but at the last with a swift resistless rush, the power of her beauty and of the soul that I had seemed to see in her won upon me; and that moment, when I thought that she had yielded to her enemy and mine, was the flowering and bloom of my love for her.
Where had they gone? Not to the duke’s house, or I should have met them as I rode down earlier in the morning. Then where? France was wide, and the world wider: my steps were slow. Where lay the use of the chase? In the middle of the road, when I had gone perhaps a mile, I stopped dead. I was beaten and sick at heart, and I searched for a nook of shade by the wayside, and flung myself on the ground; and the ache of my arm was the least of my pain.
As I lay there, my eye caught sight of a cloud of dust on the road. For a moment I scanned it eagerly, and then fell back with a curse of disappointment. It was caused by a man on a horse—and the man was not the duke. But in an instant I was sitting up again—for as the rider drew nearer, trotting briskly along, his form and air was familiar to me; and when he came opposite to me, I sprang up and ran out to meet him, crying out to him:
“Gustave! Gustave!”
It was Gustave de Berensac, my friend. He reined in his horse and greeted me—and he greeted me without surprise, but not without apparent displeasure.
“I thought I should find you here still,” said he. “I rode over to seek you. Surely you are not at the duchess’?”
His tone was eloquent of remonstrance.
“I’ve been staying at the inn.”
“At the inn?” he repeated, looking at me curiously. “And is the duchess at home?”
“She’s at home now. How come you here?”
“Ah, my friend, and how comes your arm in a sling? Well, you shall have my story first. I expect it will prove shorter. I am staying at Pontorson with a friend who is quartered there.”
“But you went to Paris.”
Gustave leaned clown to me, and spoke in a low impressive tone:
“Gilbert,” said he, “I’ve had a blow. The day after I got to Paris I heard from Lady Cynthia. She’s going to be married to a countryman of yours.”
Gustave looked very doleful. I murmured condolence, though in truth I cared, just then, not a straw about the matter.
“So,” he continued, “I seized the first opportunity for a little change.”
There was a pause. Gustave’s mournful eye ranged over the landscape. Then he said, in a patient, sorrowful voice:
“You said the duchess was at home?”
“Yes, she’s at home now.”
“Ah! I ask again, because as I passed the inn on the way between here and Pontorson I saw in the courtyard—”
“Yes, yes, what?” cried I in sudden eagerness.
“What’s the matter, man? I saw a carriage with some luggage on it, and it looked like the duke’s, and—Hallo! Gilbert, where are you going?”
“I can’t wait, I can’t wait!” I called, already three or four yards away.
“But I haven’t heard how you got your arm—”
“I can’t tell you now. I can’t wait!”
My lethargy had vanished; I was hot to be on my way again.
“Is the man mad?” he cried; and he put his horse to a quick walk to keep up with me.
I stopped short.
“It would take all day to tell you the story,” I said impatiently.
“Still I should like to know—”
“I can’t help it. Look here, Gustave, the duchess knows. Go and see her. I must go on now.”
Across the puzzled mournful eyes of the rejected lover and bewildered friend I thought I saw a little gleam.
“The duchess?” said he.
“Yes, she’s all alone. The duke’s not there.”
“Where is the duke?” he asked; but, as it struck me, now rather in precaution than in curiosity.
“That’s what I’m going to see,” said I.
And with hope and resolution born again in my heart I broke into a fair run, and, with a wave of my hand, left Gustave in the middle of the road, staring after me and plainly convinced that I was mad. Perhaps I was not far from that state. Mad or not, in any case after three minutes I thought no more of my good friend Gustave de Berensac, nor of aught else, save the inn outside Pontorson, just where the old road used to turn toward Mont St. Michel. To that goal I pressed on, forgetting my weariness and my pain. For it might be that the carriage would still stand in the yard, and that in the house I should come upon the object of my search.
Half an hour’s walk brought me to the inn, and there, to my joy, I saw the carriage drawn up under a shed side by side with the inn-keeper’s market cart. The horses had been taken out; there was no servant in sight. I walked up to the door of the inn and passed through it. And I called for wine.
A big stout man, wearing a blouse, came out to meet me. The inn was a large one, and the inn-keeper was evidently a man of some consideration, although he wore a blouse. But I did not like the look of him, for he had shifty eyes and a bloated face. Without a word he brought me what I ordered and set it down in a little room facing the stable yard.
“Whose carriage is that under your shed?” I asked, sipping my wine.
“It is the carriage of the Duke of Saint-Maclou, sir,” he answered readily enough.
“The duke is here, then?”
“Have you business with him, sir?”
“I did but ask you a simple question,” said I. “Ah! what’s that? Who’s that?”
I had been looking out of the window, and my sudden exclamation was caused by this—that the door of a stable which faced me had opened very gently, and but just wide enough to allow a face to appear for an instant and then disappear. And it seemed to me that I knew the face, although the sight of it had been too short to make me sure.
“What did you see, sir?” asked the inn-keeper. (The name on his signboard was Jacques Bontet.)
I turned and faced him full.
“I saw someone look out of the stable,” said I.
“Doubtless the stable-boy,” he answered; and his manner was so ordinary, unembarrassed, and free from alarm, that I doubted whether my eyes had not played me a trick, or my imagination played one upon my eyes.
Be that as it might, I had no time to press my host further at that moment; for I heard a step behind me and a voice I knew saying:
“Bontet, who is this gentleman?”
I turned. In the doorway of the room stood the Duke of Saint-Maclou. He was in the same dress as when he had parted from me; he was dusty, his face was pale, and the skin had made bags under his eyes. But he stood looking at me composedly, with a smile on his lips.
“Ah!” said he, “it is my friend Mr. Aycon. Bontet, bring me some wine, too, that I may drink with my friend.” And he added, addressing me: “You will find our good Bontet most obliging. He is a tenant of mine, and he will do anything to oblige me and my friends. Isn’t it so, Bontet?”
The fellow grunted a surly and none too respectful assent, and left the room to fetch the duke his wine. Silence followed on his departure for some seconds. Then the duke came up to where I stood, folded his arms, and looked me full in the face.
“It is difficult to lose the pleasure of your company, sir,” he said.
“If you will depart from here alone,” I retorted, “you shall find it the easiest thing in the world. For, in truth, it is not desire for your society that brings me here.”
He lifted a hand and tugged at his mustache.
“You have, perhaps, been to the convent?” he hazarded.
“I have just come from there,” I rejoined.
“I am not an Englishman,” said he, curling the end of the mustache, “and I do not know how plain an intimation need be to discourage one of your resolute race. For my part, I should have thought that when a lady accepts the escort of one gentleman, it means that she does not desire that of another.”
He said this with a great air and an assumption of dignity that contrasted strongly with the unrestrained paroxysms of the night before. I take it that success—or what seems such—may transform a man as though it changed his very skin. But I was not skilled to cross swords with him in talk of that kind, so I put my hands in my pockets and leaned against the shutter and said bluntly:
“God knows what lies you told her, you see.”
His white face suddenly flushed; but he held himself in and retorted with a sneer:
“A disabled right arm gives a man fine courage.”
“Nonsense!” said I. “I can aim as well with my left;” and that indeed was not very far from the truth. And I went on: “Is she here?”
“Mme. and Mlle. Delhasse are both here, under my escort.”
“I should like to see Mlle. Delhasse,” I observed.
He answered me in low tones, but with the passion in him closer to the surface now and near on boiling up through the thin film of his self-restraint:
“So long as I live, you shall never see her.”
But I cared not, for my heart leaped in joy at his words. They meant to me that he dared not let me see her; that, be the meaning of her consent to go with him what it might, yet he dared not match his power over her against mine. And whence came the power he feared? It could be mine only if I had touched her heart.
“I presume she may see whom she will,” said I still carelessly.
“Her mother will protect her from you with my help.”
There was silence for a minute. Then I said:
“I will not leave here without seeing her.”
And a pause followed my words till the duke, fixing his eyes on mine, answered significantly:
“If you leave here alive to-night, you are welcome to take her with you.”
I understood, and I nodded my head.
“My left arm is as sound as yours,” he added; “and, maybe, better practiced.”
Our eyes met again, and the agreement was sealed. The duke was about to speak again, when a sudden thought struck me. I put my hand in my pocket and drew out the Cardinal’s Necklace. And I flung it on the table before me, saying:
“Let me return that to you, sir.”
The duke stood regarding the necklace for a moment, as it lay gleaming and glittering on the wooden table in the bare inn parlor. Then he stepped up to the table, but at the moment I cried:
“You won’t steal her away before—before—”
“Before we fight? I will not, on my honor.” He paused and added: “For there is one thing I want more even than her.”
I could guess what that was.
And then he put out his hand, took up the necklace, and thrust it carelessly into the pocket of his coat. And looking across the room, I saw the inn-keeper, Jacques Bontet, standing in the doorway and staring with all his eyes at the spot on the table where the glittering thing had for a moment lain; and as the fellow set down the wine he had brought for the duke, I swear that he trembled as a man who has seen a ghost; for he spilled some of the wine and chinked the bottle against the glass. But while I stared at him, the duke lifted his glass and bowed to me, saying, with a smile and as though he jested in some phrase of extravagant friendship for me:
“May nothing less than death part you and me?”
And I drank the toast with him, saying “Amen.”
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