BEAUVAIS
There are few fairer spots in this world than Beauvais. He who has dreamed of an earthly paradise and sought it out, might well rest here contented, satisfied. It lies at the top of a long, ascending valley which twists its way upward from the Swiss frontier into the hills, a rough and weary road to travel, yet with a new vista of beauty at every turn. Here are wooded slopes where a dryad might have her dwelling; yonder some ragged giant towers toward heaven, his scarred rocky shoulders capped with snow. Below, deep down from the road cut in the hillside, undulate green pastures, the cattle so small at this distance that they might be toys set there after a child's fancy; while a torrent leaping joyously from ledge to ledge might be a babbling brook but for the sound of its full music which comes upward on the still air, telling of impetuous force and power. Here eternity seems to have an habitation, and time to be a thing of naught. The changing seasons may come and go, storm and tempest may spend their rage, and summer heat and winter frost work their will, yet that rocky height shall still climb into cloudland, and those green pastures shall flourish. Centuries ago, eyes long blinded by the dust of death looked upon this fair scene and understood something of its everlasting nature; centuries hence, other eyes shall behold its beauty and still dream of a distant future. We are but children of a day, brilliant ephemera flashing in a noontide sun; these silent, watching hills have known generations of others like us, as brilliant and as short-lived; shall know generations more, unborn as yet, unthought of.
At the head of this valley, rising suddenly from a stretch of level land, is a long hill lying like a wedge, its thin edge resting on the plain. The sides, as they get higher, become more precipitous, but from the thin edge there ascends a road about which houses cluster, irregular and pointed roofs rising one above the other in strange confusion until they are crowned at the summit by the château standing like their protector to face and defy the world. To the right, dominating the whole of this region, is the great double peak, snow-clad and often cloud-bound, which seems to stand sentinel for the surrounding mountains as the castle does to the valley; God's work and the work of man. He who first built his castle there knew well that in might lay right, and chose his place accordingly. Now houses stretch down to the level of the plain, but it was not always so. Halfway through the village the road passes through a gateway of solid stone, flanked by towers pierced for defense, and the wall through which this gate gives entrance remains, broken in places, lichen-covered, yet still eloquent of its former strength and purpose. Within the gate the village widens into an open square rising toward the château, and this square is surrounded by old houses picturesque and with histories. Many a time Beauvais has stood siege, its lord holding it against some neighbor stirred by pride or love tragedy to deadly feud. In these ancient houses his retainers lived, his only so long as he was strong enough to make himself feared, fierce men gathered from all points of the compass, soldiers of fortune holding their own lives and the lives of others cheaply. From such men, brilliant in arms, have sprung descendants who have made their mark in a politer epoch, men and women who have become courtiers, companions of kings, leaders of men, pioneers of learning. Carved into these ancient houses in Beauvais are crests and mottoes which are the pride of these descendants now scattered over Europe. Such is the village of Beauvais, asleep for many years, the home of peasants chiefly, mountaineers and tenders of cattle, still with the fighting spirit in them, but dormant, lacking the necessity. A fair place, but to the exile, only through a veil does the fairest land reveal its beauty. Its sunlit hills, its green pastures, the silver sheen of its streams, the blue of its sky, he will see through a mist of regret, through tears perchance. No beauty can do away with the fact that it is only a land of exile, to be endured and made the best of for a while, never to be really loved. There is coming an hour in which he may return home, and he is forever looking forward, counting the days. The present must be lived, but reality lies in the future.
The Marquise de Rovère, brilliant, witty, proud as any woman in France, daughter of ancestors famous during the time of the fourteenth and fifteenth Louis, had in the long past a forbear who was lord of this château of Beauvais. Since then there had been other lords with whom she had nothing to do, but her grandfather having grown rich, unscrupulously, it was said, bought Beauvais, restored it, added to it and tried to forget that it had ever passed out of the hands of his ancestors. In due time his granddaughter inherited it, and after that terrible day at Versailles when the mob had stormed the palace, when many of the nobility foresaw disaster and made haste to flee from it into voluntary exile, what better place could the Marquise choose than this château of Beauvais? Hither she had come with her niece Jeanne St. Clair, and others had followed. In Paris the Marquise had been the center of a brilliant coterie, she would still be a center in Beauvais and the château should be open to every emigré of distinction.
So it came to pass that sleepy Beauvais had suddenly stretched itself and aroused from slumber. The Marquise was rich, her niece a wealthy heiress, much of both their fortunes not dependent upon French finance, and a golden harvest fell upon the simple mountaineers and cattle tenders. Every available room was at the disposal of master or lackey, and the sleepy square was alive with men and women who had intrigued and danced at Versailles, who had played pastoral games with Marie Antoinette at the Trianon, whose names were famous. Idlers were many in Beauvais, exiles awaiting the hour for return, for revenge upon the rabble, yet doing nothing to forward the hour; but there were many others, men who came and went full of news and endeavor. Beauvais was a meeting place. There one might hear the latest rumors from Paris, learn what help might be expected from Austria, from Prussia; and while news was gathered and given there was brilliant entertainment at the château.
"We may make even exile bearable," the Marquise had said, and she did her utmost to do so.
It was into this wideawake village of Beauvais that Richard Barrington and Seth, weary and travel-stained, rode late one afternoon, and came to a halt before the inn. They passed almost unnoticed, for strangers were a common sight, often quaintly disguised to escape their enemies.
There was no room in the inn, nor did the good landlady, who still seemed flurried with so much business to attend to, know where they would get a lodging.
"Every house is a hotel these days, and I think every house is full," she said. "All the world has come to Beauvais for the masked ball at the château."
"There are still holes to be found," said a man lounging by the door. "My friend and I were in the same predicament, but we have found a corner. I believe there is room of sorts still to be had in the house, and if Monsieur permits, I shall have pleasure in taking him there."
"You are very good," said Barrington.
The stranger led the way across the square to an old house set back between its neighbors, as though it were modest and shrinking from observation, or desirous of keeping a secret. Its door was narrow and down a step from the roadway; its windows small, like half-closed eyes.
"Monsieur must expect little and even then get less than he expects, and pay dearly for it; but it is such a hole as this or a night in the open."
"I am weary enough not to mind much where I sleep," said Barrington.
"Add it all to the account which thecanaillemust some day pay," answered the man.
A stuffy little loft of a room, adjoining another loft occupied by their guide and his friend, was all the space available, but it was better than nothing, and Barrington quickly came to terms with the owner of the house.
Monsieur le Comte, for so the proprietor addressed the man who had guided them to the house, departed, hoping for their further acquaintance presently, and offering them any help which it might be in his power to afford.
"We find ourselves in a strange place, Master Richard," said Seth, surveying the room.
"We may come to stranger ones before we see Virginia again," was the answer.
"Ay, that's true; and there's not a certainty that we shall ever see Virginia again," said Seth. "I took the precaution to say farewell to all the old corners of Broadmead before I left."
"It's a fool's game to step too far into the future. A wise man never buys his own coffin," laughed Barrington. "We are in luck."
"I'm glad you think so, Master Richard. I see plenty of danger, but little luck. It was to help the people we came, and here we are at Beauvais to serve an aristocrat. Our friends the people are not likely to forgive us easily."
"There is a woman to help, Seth."
"I wonder how many excellent schemes a woman has brought to nothing."
"And that is why I say we are in luck," said Barrington, taking no notice of the comment. "How are we to get audience with this woman? The question has puzzled me upon the journey. We are met with the news that there is to be a masked ball at the château. Could we have arrived at a more opportune time?"
"You will go to the château?"
"Of course. I shall find some excuse and get a disguise that best fits it. Every one in Beauvais must be able to give me some description by which I may know Mademoiselle St. Clair. The rest will be easy."
"This faith of youth is very wonderful," said Seth.
"Not more remarkable than your forebodings," Barrington returned. "You have not always been so quick to talk of danger."
"Maybe it's the different air. I prefer the breeze that comes off Chesapeake Bay to that of these hills, and there's a devil of depression in this cockloft, it seems to me."
"Come out of it, then. Hunger and thirst are at the bottom of your croaking. We will go eat and drink and gather news."
"And at this ball, Master Richard, see that you think more of the readiness of your arms than your grace in a dance."
Barrington laughed as he descended the narrow stairs, but he was not heedless of his companion's warnings. He was fully alive to the danger he was in, and if the truth must be told, was not particularly pleased to find himself in Beauvais. He would far rather have been in Paris. The romantic element in this unexpected adventure did not greatly appeal to him. He had crossed the ocean to help an oppressed people; he was full of enthusiasm for a cause, so much an enthusiast that the two braggart representatives of the people with whom he had come in contact at Trémont had in no way disillusioned him. Refuse must needs be cast on the wave crests of a revolution; but there was also Lafayette. He was the people's true representative, and Barrington longed to be at his side to help him. He had promised to deliver a message, believing that he was undertaking a comparatively small matter, and just when he learned that a journey into Switzerland was involved, interruption had come and the man had lost consciousness. Barrington had fully intended to explain to the wounded man that such a journey was impossible. After Sabatier and his companion had left the inn, he had gone upstairs for this purpose, only to find the man dead. He had made a promise to a dying man, and at all hazards that promise must be fulfilled. The sooner it was done, the sooner he could journey to Paris; and their arrival in Beauvais at the time of this masked ball was fortunate: there need be little delay.
A little later Monsieur le Comte found them.
"We must needs celebrate your escape," he said. "This is my friend, like myself an exile from Paris. You are also from Paris?"
"From outside Paris," Barrington answered. For the nonce he must pose as an aristocrat, and wondered by what name he might best deceive them. Seth, too, was a grave difficulty. He could show few marks of an aristocrat.
The Frenchman's next words saved him all trouble, however.
"We do not ask too many questions in Beauvais, Monsieur. That we are here proves that we do not uphold the people, and we need not too closely inquire who our neighbor may be. We shall not all wish to maintain the friendships made in exile when we return to France. Here's to your safe arrival, Monsieur, and to our speedy return. The sentiment is of the best vintage, though the wine may be inferior. I warrant the cellars of the château will do better for us to-morrow night. You go to the ball, Monsieur?"
"I am ill-provided for such an entertainment."
"As are many others," was the laughing answer, "since they were obliged to leave so hurriedly that there was short time for packing. That need not deter you, Monsieur, and if you have no opportunity of apprising the Marquise of your arrival, I believe there are some so poor in their exile that they would sell their invitation. We do things in Beauvais that would shame us elsewhere."
"I must confess to not being personally acquainted with the Marquise," said Barrington.
"Say no more, Monsieur; you shall have an invitation in the morning. A few louis will purchase it."
"You overwhelm me with courtesy," said Barrington.
"No, no; it is nothing. To-morrow evening I may have the opportunity of presenting you to the Marquise."
"And to her niece?"
"Mademoiselle St. Clair? That is as Monsieur wills," he laughed.
"I do not understand your merriment."
"Pardon, Monsieur, but there are not many who crave presentation to Mademoiselle. You have not heard of her?"
"Nothing but her name."
"Think, Monsieur, of a large woman with black hair and complexion more swart than beautiful, with large hands that could clasp mine and hide them, and feet flat and heavy; a figure that is no figure, all its lines pressed from within out of place and which shakes as she walks; a voice whose whisper is raucous. Then, Monsieur, conceive this woman unaware of her defects, who simpers and attempts to use her dull eyes in fascination. That is Mademoiselle St. Clair."
"Surely you exaggerate?"
"No, it is a fair picture," said the friend, "and yet she has admirers. Her fortune is as large as her person."
Barrington laughed. There could be small romance in the love story which fate had called him to assist, and certainly he would have small difficulty in finding Mademoiselle St. Clair.
"I will not trespass on your courtesy for an introduction to her, Monsieur," he said, "and since the wine is finished, you will pardon us if we retire. We have traveled far and are weary."
Monsieur le Comte looked at his companion when they had gone, and smiled.
"A new experience for Beauvais," he said; "a man who has not the honor of knowing Madame la Marquise and has not heard of the charms of Mademoiselle her niece."
"The picture you drew was a little too repulsive, I think."
"She will be masked," was the laughing answer. "He must have his invitation as promised. It will cost a few louis, and we are none too rich. We are dealers in this matter, and must have some profit for our labor."
"Monsieur le Comte, you are a genius," laughed his companion.
An hour later, Monsieur le Comte knocked softly at the door of Barrington's room.
There was no answer.
He knocked louder.
"Monsieur, I have the invitation."
Still there was no answer.
"Parbleu, they sleep like the dead," he murmured, and went back to his companion.
Seth lay like a log—in deep, dreamless sleep. It would take far more than a mere knocking at the door to wake him. Barrington, deaf to the knocking, deeply asleep too, was restless, turning and tossing with dreams—nightmares. He was falling over one of the precipices which they had passed on their way to Beauvais. He was imprisoned, almost suffocated, in a little room; the walls seemed to gradually close in upon him and then suddenly to open; he was ill, surely, for men were about him, looking into his face and muttering together. Again, he was in a crowd, a dancing, noisy crowd, searching for a great woman who shook as she walked. It was madness to seek her here, they were all pigmies, and he turned away; another moment they were all big, all the women had raven hair, large hands and feet; he would never be able to find the woman he sought. Then this scene faded and there came others, some horrible, all fantastic; and always there came, sooner or later, a woman, ugly, repulsive, masterful. She fascinated him. He was conscious of struggling to free himself. He could not. Something, some irresistible power, forced him to speak to her, to love her, to love while he tried to hate, and her great dull eyes looked at him, rewarding him. He knew her, forever hereafter must be possessed by her. This horrible woman, this Jeanne St. Clair, was his fate. Nightmare was his long after the day had broken and men and women were abroad in Beauvais.
MADEMOISELLE ST. CLAIR
Sharp hammering at the door, long continued, finally brought an end to Barrington's nightmare hours and Seth's deep slumbers. The sun was streaming in through the little window, revealing the dust and the dilapidation of this lodging. Seth went to the door.
"Ma foi, I thought you had started on your last long journey," said the proprietor of the house. "My knuckles are sore with knocking. Monsieur le Comte bid me give you this card. You would understand and pay, he said."
"How much?"
"Six louis. It was arranged, he said, and I gave him the money before he went this morning."
"He has gone?" called Barrington from his bed.
"Madame la Marquise heard of his arrival, Monsieur, and sent to fetch him to lodgings in the castle. You will doubtless meet him in Beauvais during the day."
"Six louis for this card?" questioned Seth. "It is a long price."
"If you were not a stranger in Beauvais you would know that it was very cheap," answered the proprietor.
"Pay it," said Barrington.
Seth did so with a grumble, and wondered how much the proprietor was making out of the deal.
"We have fallen among thieves, Master Richard," he said as he shut the door. "I shouldn't wonder if any one could slip into this ball without payment of any sort. We've made a long night of it."
"Weariness and wine," answered Barrington. "The wine was strong, or this mountain air added to the potency of its effects upon us."
"Maybe. I never slept so soundly since I was a youngster."
"And I never had such horrible dreams," said Barrington.
"I've been thinking, Master Richard, that there may be worse than thieves in Beauvais," said Seth, after a pause. "We're rather like men at sea without the knowledge of how to handle ropes and set sail—an extra puff of wind, and we risk being overturned. There's something to learn about the methods of these Frenchmen, especially when every man sees a possible enemy in his neighbor. The gentlemen at Trémont did not much please me, nor was I greatly taken with Monsieur le Comte."
"We shall have plenty of time to learn their methods, Seth."
"But in the meanwhile the puff of wind may come, Master Richard. I don't like this masked ball."
"You may trust me to be careful."
"Your idea of precaution and mine may differ a little," Seth answered. "You don't see danger so far ahead as I do."
"That may be in my favor," laughed Richard. "Be at ease, Seth; I shall do nothing rash. Neither our blatant friend Sabatier, nor our courteous acquaintance of last night, shall catch me sleeping. I do not trust men very easily, nor women either, for that matter."
"Ay, Master Richard, it's a weight off my mind to know that this Mademoiselle St. Clair has so little attraction about her. I've been young myself and know the power of women. You've not been through that fire yet."
"A strange thing at my age, Seth. I have thought that no woman is likely to plague me much."
"Get well into your grave before you think that," was the answer. "I'm no hater of women, far from it, and I know a man's never safe. Why, a chit of twenty may make a fool of a veteran, and set his tired old heart trying to beat like that of a lad just out of his school days. Only last year there was a girl in Virginia sent me panting along this road of folly, and I'm not sure it wasn't Providence which sent me with you to France."
Beauvais presented a lively scene that day, but it was in vain that Barrington kept a sharp lookout for Monsieur le Comte and his friend. Many people came and went from the château, but they were not among them. Barrington did not particularly want to meet them, but he realized that circumstances might arise which would make them useful, and he would have liked to find out what position they held among the other exiles in Beauvais. A prominent one, surely, since the Marquise had fetched them to lodgings in the château, and therefore it was possible that Barrington's arrival had puzzled them. They might reasonably doubt whether he had any right to pose as an aristocrat and an exile, suspicion would certainly follow, and sharp eyes might be upon him at the ball to-night. Even as a go-between in a love affair there might be some danger for him, but was his mission only that?
When he left his lodgings that evening he had disguised himself as much as possible. He wore a cloak which his acquaintances of last night had not seen, he had procured a mask which hid as much of his face as possible. He went armed, and fastened in the lining of his coat was the little gold star he had taken from the dead man's coat. He fingered it through the cloth to make sure that it was safe as he crossed the, square and went toward the château. Seth may have been right, and the six louis thrown away, for no one took any notice of Barrington as he passed into the castle. Although he gave up his card of invitation, he was convinced that with a little diplomacy and a bold front he could have got in without one.
Exteriorly the castle retained much of its mediæval appearance, and within the new had been cleverly and lovingly grafted onto the old. There were still dungeons enclosed in these massive walls, chambers wherein misery and pain had cried aloud to no effect. There were narrow passages down which tortured men must once have been carried, or at the end of which some oubliette opened to sudden destruction. Many horrible things must be in the knowledge of this massive masonry. The great hall, where men at arms, after a foray or raid upon some neighboring stronghold, must have caroused times without number, making the roof ring with their rude rejoicing, was alive to-night with men and women, exiles forgetting their exile for a while or exchanging news which might mean a speedy return to their homeland. All were masked, although it was apparent that many had no difficulty in recognizing their neighbors under the disguise, but although there were a few brilliant costumes and occasional flashes of jewels, the general impression of dress was sombre and makeshift. How could it be otherwise when the flight from Paris, or from the provinces, had been so sudden, no preparation possible?
At one side of the hall, the center of a little group, stood a white-haired woman of commanding presence. Jewels flashed in her dress, and there was laughter about her. Evidently this was the Marquise de Rovère, and she was busy welcoming her guests. With some it was more than a passing word of greeting, there was news to be imparted by one lately in communication with Austria or Prussia, or perchance with England; there was the latest news from Paris to be had from one who had just escaped from his enemies; there was news, too, of friends who had not been so fortunate, or who had willingly stayed to face the storm; there were rumors which had been gathered from all sources to be whispered. This château of Beauvais was a meeting place, a center for much scheming; and for a while the hours must be made to pass as pleasantly as possible.
These men and women were different from those he had come in contact with, of a different world altogether; yet his youth responded to the music and verve of it all. Because it was different, new and unfamiliar to him, that was no proof that what he had known was right, and this was wrong. His blood was pulsating, the atmosphere was exhilarating. Pleasure flung him her gauge, why should he not pick it up? A woman was beside him, dark eyes flashing through her mask, red lips wreathed into a smile. The next moment reserve had broken down and he was dancing with her, acquitting himself with sufficient grace to pass muster, and almost as ready with his compliment as she was to receive it.
"We shall dance again, monsieur," she said presently, when another partner carried her away.
"Until then I shall count the moments," Barrington answered, and it was perhaps this suggestion of the future which brought to his mind the real reason for his presence there.
A large woman, with raven hair, and of such a figure that it shook when she walked; among the dancers there were many who might pass for large women, the hair of one or two might be considered raven, but there was not one who completed the full description he had had of Mademoiselle St. Clair. Certainly she was not among those who stood near the Marquise, and Barrington went from vantage point to vantage point in search of her. Neither could he discover Monsieur le Comte or his friend. Lodged in the château, they had possibly obtained richer garments, and would be difficult to identify. The fulfillment of his mission was not to be so easy as he had imagined.
He had been watching from a corner near the entrance to the ballroom, partially concealed by a little knot of people who were standing before him. He could have overheard their conversation, but he was not listening. He was wondering how he could find mademoiselle. There was surely some other apartment where guests were, for his eyes were keen, and he had certainly not seen her yet.
"Monsieur does not dance?"
Barrington turned quickly. The little crowd which had stood in front of him had gone, and near him was a woman. It was difficult to know whether her words were a statement of fact, question or invitation.
"I have danced, mademoiselle."
"And are now waiting for some one?"
"No. If mademoiselle will honor me I—"
"I also have danced many times, monsieur, and am inclined to rest a little."
Barrington looked at her, and a pair of violet eyes met his glance through her mask, deep, almost unfathomable eyes, difficult to read and filled with the light that lures men on to strange and wonderful things. Her auburn hair had brown and darker shadows in it, the color one may see in a distant wood in late autumn when the sun touches it; her transparent skin was delicately tinted, such a tint as may be seen in rare china. Her small, well-shaped mouth seemed made for smiles, yet there was a line of firmness in it suggestive of determination. There was a cadence in her voice, a musical rise and fall which held an appeal. The lines of her figure were graceful, there was youth and vigor in every movement, and without being above the medium height, the pose of her head on her shapely shoulders gave her a certain air of stateliness, natural and becoming to her it seemed. She was a woman designed for happiness and laughter, Barrington thought, and he felt she was not happy. He wondered if there were not tears in those violet eyes, and he had a sudden longing to behold her without a mask. It would have been easy for her to make him again forget his mission, and why he was in the château of Beauvais. Youth recognized youth, and that indefinite longing which is a part of youth seemed to enfold them for an instant. Perhaps the woman felt it as much as he did, for she broke the silence rather abruptly.
"I have noticed that monsieur has not entered much into the gayety."
Barrington was on his guard in a moment. He could not afford to be questioned too closely.
"I am greatly honored by mademoiselle's notice."
"That is nothing," she returned as though the implied compliment displeased her. "It seemed to me you were a stranger in Beauvais, and strangers here may have sad memories behind them."
"They do their best to forget, mademoiselle," he answered. The laughter of a woman as she passed, dancing, gave point to the assertion. "It is wonderful. I cannot understand it."
"Better laugh and live than die weeping," she said. "Those who live shall live to repay."
"And perchance some good shall come out of the evil."
She looked at him quickly.
"In Beauvais it is somewhat dangerous to be a philosopher, monsieur. We cling to one idea which by brutal force has been driven into our souls—revenge. It is not safe to preach anything short of that, we have suffered too much."
"There was not such a deep meaning in my words," he said.
"Still, the warning may not be out of place," and she turned to leave him.
"Before I go, mademoiselle, you may help me. Can you tell me where I shall find Mademoiselle St. Clair?"
"Can you tell me where I shall find Mademoiselle St. Clair?"
"Can you tell me where I shall find Mademoiselle St. Clair?"
"You know her?"
"Only by the description I have had of her."
"I wonder almost it was not sufficient to help you," and a smile played at the corners of her mouth.
"Indeed, mademoiselle, I marvel at it, too, for I assure you the description was most complete," laughed Barrington.
"From whom did you have it?"
"Pardon me if I am reticent on that point. It was given in confidence."
"You pique my curiosity."
"But you know her, mademoiselle?"
"Oh, yes."
"Cannot you guess how a man might describe her, with a desire perhaps to be a little witty at her expense, and inclined to exaggerate?"
"Indeed, I cannot. Have you some message for her which I may deliver?"
"Again pardon, but I must speak to the lady myself."
"So far I can help you. If you will follow me, not too closely lest we cause comment, I will bring you to her. I am supposing that you wish to see her alone, that what you have to tell her is a secret."
"It is a secret, mademoiselle."
"Follow me, then. And monsieur will do well to note if any one shows interest in our movements. We did not leave all intrigue and scandal behind us."
It was easy to follow her. She was a woman apart from all the other women about him, Barrington thought. Although he had only seen her masked he would know her again, he believed, no matter in how crowded a world of women he might meet her, no matter how long a time should pass before such a meeting. Obeying her, he glanced swiftly to right and left as he went. Eyes certainly turned to look after the woman, once or twice indeed she stopped to speak a few words to some friend, but Barrington could not discover that any one took the slightest notice of him.
A few paces separating them they crossed the great hall, and she leisurely passed into the corridor without. When Barrington stepped slowly into the corridor, he found that she had quickened her pace, and at the end of it she had paused a moment that he might see which way she turned. He followed more quickly, and found her in a small vestibule, part of the old château. A lamp was hanging from the corner of a wall, and on an oak settle were two or three lanterns with candles in them, such as a servant carries to guide his master or mistress on a dark night.
"Will monsieur light one from the lamp," she said hurriedly.
"I am to wait here while you fetch mademoiselle?" he asked. "Truly this is a secret place for delivering a message."
"Not too secret," she answered. "I am Mademoiselle St. Clair."
"You!"
The exclamation was a whispered one. A confusion of thoughts was in his brain. Already almost unconsciously he had laid the foundations of a dream fabric, and these were destroyed suddenly, burying him for a moment in the collapse.
"May I see monsieur unmasked?" she said.
Mechanically he removed the mask, and she looked into his face earnestly. She gave no sign whether she expected to recognize him, but it would seem that his face satisfied her, for she undid her mask and stood before him. She was a woman, and beauty must ever be the keenest weapon in woman's armory; there was a little glad triumph in her heart as she realized that this man bowed before her beauty. Barrington was startled that a mask could hide so much.
"Monsieur has been somewhat misled, it would seem, by his friend who was witty at my expense and inclined to exaggerate."
"I have been deceived, and I shall punish him for the lie," Barrington answered.
"I am at a loss to understand the deceit," she answered. "You have a message for me. I may find some explanation in it."
"Upon the roadside as I—" Barrington began, and then stopped. "Mademoiselle, forgive me, but such deceit makes a man suspicious. I was told to seek Mademoiselle St. Clair in a fat, ugly, simpering woman, and I find her in—in you. How can I be certain that you are Mademoiselle St. Clair?"
"I see your difficulty. Your doubt does not anger me. Let me think. Will it help you if I speak the name Lucien?"
"It seems convincing. Heaven grant, mademoiselle, that you are as honorable as you are beautiful. I must needs believe so and trust you. To you I can prove that I am an honest messenger," and Barrington tore from the lining of his coat a tiny packet of tissue paper. "I have to give you this little golden star, your gift to Lucien."
She took the packet with quick, trembling fingers, turned to the table, and by the light of the lantern unfolded the paper. With a little clink the star fell upon the table.
"This? This?" she said, starting back and pointing at it.
Barrington made a step forward at her sudden question, and then stood still, staring at the token.
It was no star of gold which lay in the circle of the lantern light, but a common thing of iron, roughly made, rusted and worthless.
THE WOOD END
Richard Barrington knew that he had fallen into some trap, the exact nature of it and the danger he could not know. After a pause, a long pause it seemed to Jeanne St. Clair, long enough for a villain to fashion a lying tale, he turned to her.
"It seems, mademoiselle, that I have been robbed as well as deceived."
"In spite of that," she said, pointing to the iron token, "I am inclined to listen to the message."
"Mademoiselle, I regret that I ever undertook to carry it. I had other business in hand, but an oath to a dead man was binding."
"A dead man? Lucien?"
"I know nothing of Lucien. For all I know he may already be making merry at my discomfiture. The dead man was one Rouzet, or so he told me, and he called himself your servant."
"He was Lucien's servant, a faithful one," she answered.
"At least he was faithful in some one's service since he died in it, and I can honor him for that even though he deceived me."
"You have told me so much you must tell me more," she said, a persuasive tone in her voice.
She must hear the story. Whether this man were honest or not she must make him speak. Whatever plot was on foot she must know it. To some one surely Lucien had given the gold star. Much must depend on her receiving the message he had sent with it.
"You must tell me," she repeated.
"And knowing far more than I do you may laugh at me for a simple gentleman easily fooled. Still, he is something of a hero who can stand being laughed at. Many years ago I had that from a countryman of yours, the Marquis de Lafayette. I was on my way to visit him in Paris, when this mission was thrust upon me."
Concisely but in every detail Barrington told her what had happened at Trémont, and explained how he had become acquainted with Monsieur le Comte at Beauvais. He made no attempt to conceal the fact that he had come to France to place himself at the disposal of Monsieur de Lafayette. If there were any risk in telling this woman so, he was rather relieved to have real danger to face instead of lying and intrigue; the one he might meet successfully, but he was no adept in battling with the other.
"You took the star from Rouzet's coat after he was dead you say, are you sure it was a gold star you took?"
"I made certain by looking at it."
"And you can thoroughly trust your servant?"
"As myself, mademoiselle."
"You have not told me your name," she said.
"Richard Barrington," he answered, and then he laughed a little. "Why I trust you, I do not know. I may be putting it into your power to do me a great deal of harm."
"If I have the power, I shall not use it," she answered.
There was a moment coming when she would have to decide whether these words constituted a promise given without reservation, or whether the promise were contingent on his being honest, as now she believed him to be.
"For that I thank you," he returned.
"And you have my thanks for coming to Beauvais. That you have been robbed only makes it clearer how bitter Lucien's enemies are. Have you any plan, Monsieur Barrington, by which I could reach Paris in safety?"
The question set his thoughts rushing into a new channel. He felt suddenly responsible for her, knew that to prevent her going even into the shadow of harm he was prepared to face any danger. It was not her beauty which influenced him, a moment ago he had been ready to despise it if she were a deceitful woman; something more subtle than her beauty appealed to him, herself, the revelation of herself which was in her question.
"It is impossible for you to go to Paris, mademoiselle. The crowd of refugees in this château is proof enough that the danger is too great. How any man, no matter what his need may be, could ask you to put yourself in such jeopardy, I cannot understand."
"Yet you undertook to bring the message to Beauvais. Was it in your mind to advise that no notice should be taken of it?"
"Indeed, mademoiselle, I thought of little beyond fulfilling the oath I had taken, and to go my way again as quickly as possible."
"The answer to the message must rest with me, Monsieur Barrington," she said, quietly. "It was not by my own will that I left Paris. I am not afraid to return. Will you help me?"
"Mademoiselle, I——"
"Please, Monsieur Barrington. It means life or death, perchance, to the man I love."
"Curse him for asking you to face such a danger."
"Hush, you cannot understand," she said, putting her hand upon his arm. "I know Lucien. From Beauvais you will journey to Paris. Will you let me go with you?"
"No. I will not help you to your destruction. I will carry whatever message you will to this man, but I will not do more."
"Then take this message: Jeanne St. Clair is on her way to Paris; she asked my escort, but since I would not give it she has found another. Tell him that, Monsieur Barrington."
"Have you no fear, mademoiselle?"
"For myself—none."
"Very well, I will try and see you safely into Paris. You will go most easily as a woman of the people, one who has some aristocrat enemy on whom she wishes to be avenged. Do you think you can play such a part?"
"I will do as you bid me."
"Hide your hair, mademoiselle; wear some hideous cloak which may do something to spoil your beauty. If you will go, I may be a safer escort than any other. I claim friendship with Monsieur de Lafayette, so I am for the people. Even if we cause suspicion they will hardly prevent our going to Paris. Your return——"
"We need not arrange for that now, monsieur. When will you start?"
"As soon as possible."
"To-morrow at dawn," she answered. "At the foot of the road leading up to Beauvais, you will see to your left a wood which ends abruptly as it approaches the valley down which we must go to the frontier. I have papers that shall help me to pass. I have always known that I should have to return to Paris. Amongst the trees at the end of the wood I will come to you to-morrow—at dawn."
"I and my servant will await you there, mademoiselle. At least two men shall do their utmost to protect you."
He picked up her mask which had fallen to the floor.
"Will you fasten it for me?" she said.
It was rather clumsily done. His fingers trembled a little as they touched her hair. He was very close to her; her personality, the faint perfume about her, took fast hold of him. What manner of man could this Lucien be who had won the love of such a woman as this?
He put on his own mask, and then taking up the lantern followed her back along the narrow stone passage. As she came to the corridor she stopped.
"Let me go alone," she said. "To-night we will not meet again. To-morrow at dawn."
Barrington did not return to the ballroom, but after lingering in the great hall for a few minutes with a view of deceiving any one who might be watching his movements, he left the château. So far he had fulfilled his oath, but he had discharged it only to accept a much greater responsibility. To-morrow he would be riding towards Paris, the cavalier of a beautiful aristocrat. The position must be full of danger for him; truly it was thrust upon him against his will, yet there was an elasticity in his step as he went back to his lodgings which suggested compensations in the position. By a strange chain of circumstances, Jeanne St. Clair had come into his life; there was something added to the mere fact of living, whether of joy or pain he could not determine, but he was very sure that his outlook upon life could never be quite the same again. For good or ill this woman must influence him to some extent, she could never pass out of his life again, leaving him as he was before. There was a fresh wind blowing across the square of Beauvais, yet it was powerless to disperse the subtle perfume which lingered about him, which was an enfolding atmosphere, which must remain with him always. He told his tale to Seth in a short, direct manner, emphasizing no single point in it. The star had been stolen, when or how he did not attempt to guess. Monsieur le Comte had grossly deceived them, his purpose time would show. The woman was as far removed from his description as pole is from pole. He had delivered his message, but circumstances decreed that they could not return alone.
Seth listened to his young master, and made no comment until the tale was ended.
"She is a beautiful woman, then."
"Yes, I think that would be the world's opinion. It is not her beauty which has influenced me."
"Still, the future might have had less difficulty in it if a man had quarrelled with you to-night instead of a woman pleaded," Seth answered.
"True enough, but one cannot choose the difficulties he will face. We must take them as they come, and console ourselves with the reflection that there is a good purpose somewhere behind them."
"For all that, Master Richard, there are some who overburden themselves with difficulties which do not concern them. It will be pleasant traveling with a pretty woman, but I fancy trouble is likely to ride in our company, too. They mostly go together, women and trouble; and the prettier the women are, the greater the trouble, that's my experience. There's just one question in my mind: on which side are we ranged—with the people or with the aristocrats?"
"With the people. Once this woman is in Paris, I——"
Seth looked at him, waiting for the completion of the sentence. It remained unfinished.
"A wise pause, Master Richard. Who can tell what may happen in Paris? Indeed, we may never reach Paris. At dawn, you said. That gives little time for rest. In these hills the sun gets up early."
Dim twilight was on all the plain, darkness in the wood, when Richard Barrington and Seth tied their horses to a tree and awaited the coming of Jeanne St. Clair at the wood end. Ever the first to catch the fire from the upcoming day, the summits of the great double mountain which dominated the country blushed a faint rose color which each instant glowed brighter and clearer, and then peak after peak was caught by the same rose flush, and light, like a gracious benediction, fell slowly into valley and gorge, while myriad shades of color pulsated into new life in earth and sky. The two men watched this magic beauty of the dawn in silence. So wondrous was it, so majestic, so far beyond the schemes and thoughts of insignificant man, that it was almost impossible not to see in it some portent, something of promise or warning. Even Seth, practical and farseeing as he was, forgot the actualities of life for a little space, while Richard's dreams took flight into that upper world of rosy flame and forgot the deep valleys, dark with difficulty and danger. This new day which was being born was perfect, with a beauty his eyes had never seen before; the woman he waited for was perfect, too, a revelation. She and the dawn filled his soul. They were more real than anything past, present, or to come, and his being sang a Te Deum of thanksgiving.
"She should be here," he said, turning to Seth and speaking in a hushed voice without knowing that he did so.
Seth laid his hand sharply upon his arm, and pointed through the trees to the road which came down to the plain from Beauvais. Four men were approaching, walking quickly and talking together. They came straight towards the end of the wood as men having a purpose.
"Quick! The horses!" said Barrington. "Draw back farther into the wood and let them pass."
Holding their horses, and hidden among the trees, they watched the men come to the spot where they had been a moment or two before. Here they stopped, looked round on every side and listened.
"They are looking for us," Seth whispered. "It may be the lady cannot come and has sent them to tell us so."
"Four of them!" Barrington said.
He did not move. These men were not lackeys, they were gentlemen. Barrington wondered whether they had chosen this secluded spot to settle some private quarrel of last night's making.
"Scented danger and gone," said one.
Another shook his head and stared into the depths of the wood before him with such a keen pair of eyes that Barrington believed he must be seen.
"Not a man to run from danger," he said, "unless mademoiselle were strangely deceived."
The remark decided Barrington's course of action. He stepped forward followed by Seth, who tied up the horses again and then took up a position behind his master.
"Are you seeking me, gentlemen?"
"If your name be Monsieur Barrington," the man with the keen eyes answered.
"It is."
The four men bowed low and Barrington did the same.
"My companion thought we were too late," said the spokesman, "but I had a different opinion. We are four gentlemen devoted to Mademoiselle St. Clair, and she has charged us with a commission."
"You are very welcome unless you bring bad news," said Barrington.
"For you it may be," was the answer with a smile. "Mademoiselle will not need you to escort her to Paris."
Barrington had not sought such an honor. Until the moment he had fastened her mask, touching her hair and touched by her personality, he would rather have been without the honor; now he was disappointed, angry. She had found another escort and despised him. She was as other women, unreliable, changeable, inconstant.
"You bring some proof that mademoiselle has entrusted you with this message."
"This," was the answer, and the man held up the little iron star.
"I am not greatly grieved to be relieved of such a responsibility, gentlemen," said Barrington, with a short laugh. "Perhaps you will tell mademoiselle so."
"Pardon, but monsieur hardly understands. For some purpose monsieur came to Beauvais with an attempt to deceive mademoiselle with this little iron trinket. It is not possible to let such a thing pass, and it is most undesirable that monsieur should be allowed to have the opportunity of again practicing such deceit. Mademoiselle listened to him, feigned to be satisfied with his explanation, in fact, met deceit with deceit. My opinion was that half a dozen lackeys should be sent to chastise monsieur, but mademoiselle decided otherwise. You were too good to die by a lackey's hand, she declared, therefore, monsieur, we are here."
"Four gentlemen for six lackeys!" laughed Barrington. "It is a strange computation of values."
"The methods are different," was the answer. "I think we do you too much honor, but mademoiselle has willed it. We have already arranged our order of precedence, and monsieur has the pleasure of first crossing swords with me. If his skill is greater than mine, then he will have the pleasure of meeting these other gentlemen. You have my word for honorable treatment, but it is necessary that the fight is to the death."
"And my servant here?"
The man shrugged his shoulders. Seth was beneath his consideration.
"There would have been fewer words with the lackeys' method, I presume," said Barrington. "I am not inclined to fight a duel."
"Monsieur is a little afraid."
"As you will."
"Afraid as well as being a liar and deceiver of women?"
"As much one as the other," Barrington answered carelessly.
"Then, monsieur, I am afraid we shall have to employ lackeys' methods."
"Now we come to level ground and understand each other," said Barrington. "There is no quarrel between us which a duel may settle. You are four men bound together to take my life if you can, but you shall not have the chance of taking it with a semblance of honesty by calling it a duel. You attack two travellers; if you can, rob them of what you will."
"That's better, Master Richard, I'm a poor hand at understanding jargon of this kind, but I have an idea of how to deal with thieves and murderers."
"Be careful, Seth," Barrington whispered.
The attack was immediate and sharp, without ceremony, and determined. Misunderstanding Barrington's attitude they were perhaps a little careless, believing him a coward at heart. Their methods, too, were rather those of the duelist than the fighter, and this gave Barrington and Seth some advantage. The keen-eyed man was as ready with his sword as with his tongue. He had been confident of saving his companions from soiling their blades had Richard consented to cross swords with him, and he advanced upon his enemy to bring the battle to a speedy conclusion. He even waved his companions aside, and it was with him Barrington had first to deal. Their blades were the first to speak, and in a moment the Frenchman knew that he had no mean swordsman to do with.
"This would have been keen pleasure had you been a gentleman," he said.
Barrington did not answer. He was armed for real warfare, his weapon was heavier than his opponent's and he took advantage of the fact. This was fighting, not dueling; and he beat the weapon down, snapping the blade near the hilt. The next moment the other Frenchman had engaged him fiercely.
With Seth there was even greater advantage. He was a servant and a lackey, and the punctilious gentlemen opposed to him were not inclined to cross swords with him. They looked to see him show fear, the very last thing in the world he was likely to do. Seth's arm was long and his method of fighting more or less his own, the most unceremonious, possibly, that these gentlemen had ever had to do with. Deeply cut in the wrist one man dropped his sword. In a moment Seth's foot was upon it, and as he turned to meet his other adversary he had taken a pistol from his pocket.
The Frenchman uttered an exclamation of surprise, and Seth laughed.
"If not the sword point, a bullet; either will serve," he said.
Then Seth was conscious of two things, one a certainty, the other imagination perhaps. Across his enemy's shoulder he caught sight of the road which led up to Beauvais, and down it came two men running towards the wood. After all, their opponents were to be six instead of four. This was certain. His master was separated from him by a few paces, and it seemed to Seth that he was being hard pressed. At any rate, if it were not so, the two men running towards them must turn the scale. Feigning a vigorous onslaught upon his opponent, who was already somewhat disconcerted, Seth deliberately fired at the man fighting his master, who fell backwards with a cry.
"Seth!" Richard exclaimed.
"Look! there are two more running to the attack. This is a time to waive ceremony and be gone. To horse, Master Richard!"
The keen-eyed man, who had been powerless being without a sword, now caught up the weapon which the fallen man had dropped.
"There's another pistol shot if you move," cried Seth, with one foot in the stirrup.
It is doubtful whether the threat would have stopped him, but the two men suddenly running towards him through the trees did. He knew them and they were not expected.
Barrington and Seth seized the opportunity, and putting spurs to their horses were riding towards the head of the valley which led down to the frontier. They broke into a gallop as soon as they reached the road, and for some time neither of them spoke.
"Had we waited the whole of Beauvais would have been upon us. All's fair in war."
"And in love, they say," Barrington added.
A low growl expressed Seth's opinion on this point.
"Right, Seth, right," was the bitter answer. "I have had my lesson, and enough of women for a lifetime. You have your wish. We ride alone to Paris."
The two men who entered the wood as Barrington and Seth rode out of it were lackeys, and ran to their master.
"Monsieur! Monsieur!"
"What is it?" he asked with an angry oath.
"Monsieur, there is some mistake. Mademoiselle St. Clair left Beauvais last night before the dance was over at the château."