Youth and health do not long lie idle. Even while I lay recovering my health, Jerome and I were busy with our plans. Not the least unforeseen item in what had befallen, was the chance that carried me into a house where I saw again the "black wolf's head," which brought once more to mind the history of the d'Artins. But there was still to come that other happening, the one which bound my whole life, heart and soul, my love and happiness forever, in with the fortunes of that black wolf's breed.
As I grew stronger Jerome and I had a long talk. He told me the morning after I left him, which was Thursday, a veiled woman had brought him a pair of gauntlets, with the request that he preserve them carefully. Jerome naturally wanted to know who had sent such a present. The woman answered no questions, only impressed upon him the importance of keeping them himself and letting no one have them. She would not tell whence she came, and when she departed Jerome made a sign to Claude, who followed. He returned and reported she had entered the apartments of Mademoiselle de Chartres by a private way.
Verily this was coming close to the King, and to Orleans; these gauntlets coming from the house of this haughty Bourbon Princess. One of the gauntlets, of course, contained the papers taken from Yvard, the same I had confided to Mademoiselle la Princesse. I smiled my satisfaction that she had been so discreet.
The other packet Jerome found upon me when I was disrobed for bed.
It was many days before Jerome asked me for any details of my imprisonment, or how it came about there was a dead man in the room with me. I related the whole circumstance briefly as possible, who Broussard was, and all, to avoid further questioning. For I hated to dwell upon the occurrences of that night, yet ever returned to them with a sort of secret fascination.
"You choked him well, comrade," was Jerome's only comment, regarding the affair, yet I fancied I saw him shiver somewhat at the ghastly recollection of Broussard. The matter being thus dismissed, we never spoke of it again.
Our fire burned warm, filling the room with a home-like glow, so with good wine and clear consciences Jerome and I drank and talked and stretched the lazy evening through.
"There is just one other thing we can do, Placide, to put the finishing touch upon our success."
I turned an interrogative glance toward the speaker.
"That is to find out, if possible, who is back of this scheming. That fellow Yvard, dare-devil though he is, has not brain enough to concoct such a plan, even if he had courage and energy to fight it through. Depend upon it, some powerful person is behind Yvard. Most likely Madame du Maine. What say you to an adventure?"
My blood was in the humor for sport, the wine heated me somewhat, and recking not of consequences I caught at his idea.
"Willingly, comrade, but what?"
"Let us to Sceaux, to Madame's court, and see what we may discover, for two fools like ourselves might perchance stumble blindly upon what a wise man would overlook," he continued with mock humility.
"Yes, and two fools like ourselves might perchance get themselves hanged for what a wise man would keep his skirts clear of. There's a peril in meddling with the affairs of the great."
"Seriously, now. I have means and ways of learning things in Madame's family. My head has been fast set on this matter for some time. If you agree to take the risk with me, you should know how we are to act. Now mind you," he pursued, rising and stretching his back to the fire, facing me, "mind you, I tell you all I want you to know, and you must promise me to make no inquiries on your own account."
By this time I had grown accustomed to trust de Greville, so I simply assented.
"A lady you know—it might get me into trouble," he further explained; with that I made myself content.
Jerome averted his face as if he would first frame his speech carefully before he gave it me. Here Serigny's final remark about making friends of the ladies recurred to me, and I wondered what this fair unknown had to do with such a rough game as we played. Before the hand was out, though, I understood how truly it had been said that women's wits now swayed the destinies of France. Since this day, too, our country has suffered much through women, when under the next, and more pliant Louis, they ruled with even a scantier pretense at concealment or of decency. Jerome spoke slow and guardedly, when he turned to me again. He began in a tone subdued by the intensity of his feelings—which, as I soon learned, were quite natural.
"I was a mere lad; I had a sweetheart whose family lived near our own in the vicinity of a certain small provincial town, it matters not where. She, much younger than I, shared all my childish games. It was the will of God that we should love. My family was rich, is rich; both were noble. I had two older brothers who stood between me and a title or wealth. Her parents were ambitious for her future; I was put aside. They sent her away, away from me, and married her here in Paris to a man she had never seen. A simple marriage of convenience, as we say here. Her heart was numb and dead; it made no rebellion. I went to the army; gained nothing but my rank. My brothers died, and I being the next heir can live as it pleases me. Here I am in Paris; she is at Sceaux, two leagues away. I love her yet, and, God forgive her, she loves me. Her old husband who is attached to the Duc du Maine cares nothing for her. She amuses herself half in idleness with the intrigues of the court. Nay do not look so black, Placide, for even this can be innocent enough. There is much excuse for her, too, my friend. A woman must needs have love to feed upon. They can never, like ourselves, fill their hearts entirely with ambition, with glory or with adventure. Men may make of their lives a cloister or a camp and be content; but women, whatever else of gaud and glitter they may have, yet require love and tenderness and gentle sympathy beside. Happy is she who receives all these from her husband; and that husband treads dangerous ground who denies it to her. I see your wonder at hearing this from me; but I have thought constantly upon such things. Peste! this touches not our business; let us go on. Through this lady's husband, and by another source of information, I hope to find the truth concerning Yvard. Do you follow me?"
"Yes, but how?" I put in. "When I run my neck into a halter, I want to know whose hands are playing with the cord."
"Never fear for her. Madame—that is, the lady—has a firm hold upon the Duc du Maine himself, in fact she is quite indispensable to him. Don't ask me for more. Once let the Duc be made Regent, and my old-time sweetheart of those innocent days in Anjou will be the most powerful woman in France. But with all that, Placide," and the man's quivering voice went straight to the very tenderest core of my heart for the depths of bitterness it contained, "in spite of it all she'd rather be back in the country breathing the pure and peaceful air, a guiltless and happy girl, than to live as she does, and rule the land. God knows I wish we had never seen Paris."
I held my tongue; there was nothing I could say. He felt his trouble keenly enough, and I refrained from molding my undesired sympathy into words. Directly, Jerome took heart and spoke again:
"Those are the conditions, I merely make the best of them. There is still another friend of mine at Sceaux, the Chevalier Charles de la Mora, a most gallant soldier and kindly gentleman. Verily, they are scarce now in France. He has fallen into misfortunes of late and is about to take some command in the colonies. I love him much, and am sorely tempted to cast my lot with his. But, you understand why I stay," and he lifted up his hands with a gesture of perfect helplessness.
"His wife, Madame Agnes—almost a girl—is one of the most beautiful and clever women in France, and who, by way of novelty, loves her own husband. Women are queer sometimes, are they not? To-morrow we go to Sceaux; it will at least be an experience to you, even should nothing good come of it. Do you agree?"
My curiosity was thoroughly aroused, and scenting sport of a rare character I agreed to join the chase. It was judged best that we should make all things ready for an immediate journey to Versailles upon our return from Sceaux.
Before we slept, my few serviceables were put in position for instant departure.
When I arose in the morning Jerome had already left his bed. I supposed it was out of consideration for what he was still pleased to consider my weak condition that he refrained from waking me. Claude came tripping in later with the message that M. de Greville had gone to make some last arrangements for our journey. I slept so restfully through the night my fatigue and all unpleasant reminders of the episode at Bertrand's had quite worn away, and I felt refreshed and strong again. When Florine came to inquire for my health she found me busied about the packing. I greeted her kindly, for in truth my gratitude was deep and sincere.
"Monsieur is preparing to leave?" she asked as if more than afraid of a reply. I could see she had some purpose in the question.
"Yes, I leave Paris to-day."
"To-day?" she echoed.
"Yes, but I would return and find you again; I could not depart from France without finding and thanking you for all your kindness. In truth I am glad you came, for——." I tried to say more, but the words left my lips sounding so cold and meaningless the sentence died away incomplete.
Florine stood there, vaguely watching me as though she did not understand.
"Leave France?" she repeated, her tone expressing the hope she had not heard aright.
I had already said much more than I intended, for I was not fully aware of Jerome's intentions, and desired to say nothing which would reveal them.
"Leave France?" she urged again, "Monsieur—" she halted for the word quite naturally.
"De Mouret," I supplied, and for the first time she knew my name; surely it was little enough to trust one with who had given me my life.
"Monsieur de Mouret is to leave France?"
"Yes," I answered her truly, "but not to-day, possibly not for several days. I would not go away without seeing you again."
I felt my tone become warmer as I thought of all this girl had risked for me, and so blundered on uncertainly. What was I to do? What could I offer her in repayment? Not gold; she had refused that with the air of a grande marquise the night she first helped me from Bertrand's.
Heartily wishing for some of Jerome's finesse and tact, I gazed at her, stupid and silent, watching the tears gather in her eyes. I could only guess the thought which was passing in her mind, and even there I wronged her.
"Oh, Monsieur!" she spoke as from the fullness of her heart, while her voice trembled with excess of emotion, "Monsieur is going back into the great world; Monsieur has honor and fair fame; I must return to the wine shop."
The poor girl must have been wearied out with her watchings by my bed, for she burst into such an uncontrollable weeping as I fain would have prevented. I did my rough best at comfort, but had to let her sorrow run its course.
"Oh, Monsieur, think of it! I must go back to that dreadful wine shop, to the gaming tables; must continue to draw men there to be despoiled of their money, perhaps of their lives; must laugh and be gay, though my heart break at its own debasement. There have been many, ah, so many, I have lured to that place; and it came so near to costing you your life—you who were so kind to Florine."
She had sunk to the floor, and catching my hand poured out all the bitterness of her heart.
"Yet, Monsieur, what can Florine do? There is no way for a weak woman to do anything in this wretched Paris. If I do not bring players to the house my aunt beats me. See," she drew up her sleeve, and exposed the welts of cruel cuts across the bare white flesh. "She denies me food in my garret. So I must work, be merry and work—and weep all the day for the misery of the nights." My heart went out to the girl with all sympathy, but, every whit as helpless as she, I only wondered what could be done.
"Monsieur, it was not of my choosing, believe me, believe me, it really was not. My father thought his sister so well off in this fine Paris, when she offered to bring me up as her own child, and sent us presents, he made me come with her. We were so poor, so cruelly poor. My mother could not come for me, and now how can I go back? I dare not let her know how I am treated. It would break her heart, and she is so old and tottering. If I seek other employment no one will take me, no one would give me a character for service. All the world is open to you. You go where you please, do what pleases you. All the world is shut to Florine. And you, Monsieur, my only friend, I hoped when you were well again, such a rich gentleman could find me a place among his friends; find me some quiet place where I might live and be of use, not bringing evil to all I touch. What an evil life, what a wicked life I lead. Oh, Monsieur, save me from it; save me! The horrible man you defended me from that night pursues me everywhere; my aunt is jealous because of him. She hates me now and would like to drive me out upon the streets—ugh! the terror of it. But her husband won't let her; he is kinder than she. See, I am pretty, I bring custom. She can not tell her husband why she hates me. No, no. Bertrand would kill her. And I dare not tell him. They would kill me—"
Her speech rambled on now, disconnected and incoherent. Still by catching sentences here and there the whole pitiful story was clear to me. My eyes would always overflow at sight of woman's suffering, my throat choked up; I could speak no word to her. Of a truth what a horrible life it must be; what iron webs do sin and circumstance weave round their victim. The cowering girl sobbed convulsively on the floor at my feet. I laid my hand tenderly upon her head.
"Florine, I have but two friends myself in all this land of France. You have served one of these faithfully in helping me. I will commend you to him, and am sure he will reward you well."
"Monsieur, I seek no reward; I served you not for money."
She shamed me, though I persisted.
"Not a reward, Florine, but surely you can let him send you back to your mother. Here is money; his money, not mine; he is rich, I am poor. He can pay you for valuable service, I can only give you my undying gratitude."
I bent down and kissed her pale forehead, whereat she wept afresh.
"Claude's wife will keep you here safe until we come again. Then we will find means to protect and provide for you."
I bade her rise now and calm herself, for a bustle in the street announced the noisy arrival of several horsemen. A few moments, and Jerome's voice called me from below to make all ready.
I called Claude's wife up and delivered the girl to her keeping, then turned to look out into the street. There were now drawn up in front of the door four sturdy equerries, well mounted, and leading two excellent nags, which I took to be those Jerome had provided for our own use.
Jerome obliged me once more to dress with exceeding care, but I fretted much for my own easy garments which permitted a man to use his limbs with the freedom God had given them. Verily there would be no regret when all this frippery could be cast aside, and by my faith, it was much simpler to lay it off than to array one's self in. I never did learn all the eccentricities of that remarkable rig my fashionable friend had adorned me with.
"Had we better not strap on our pistols?" I asked, not knowing what he purposed.
"No; gentlemen do not wear them. Beside, at Sceaux one sharpens one's wits, and lets even his good blade dull and rust."
We mustered six stout swords as we clattered away from the Austrian Arms, and I could not but note, despite what Jerome had said, he took good care to provide trusty fellows and swift horses.
"A lean hound for a long race," Jerome laughingly remarked, noticing my inspection of the not over-fed nag I bestrode.
We took that road leading past the heights of Villejuif, which in hardly more than an hour's brisk ride brought us to the park of Sceaux, overlooking the beautiful Fontenay valley of which I was destined to learn much. During this ride I had leisure to speak with de Greville of Florine, for the girl's story had roused a real desire in my heart to see her bettered.
"There are thousands such in Paris," he replied, shrugging his shoulders unconcernedly. "The few tell you truth, the many lie to you. You know not when to believe them. If you like, though, I will see what may be done. At least she may be placed in la Saltpeterie where no present harm can reach her, to earn a living. It is not a pleasant life, and no wonder young and pretty girls prefer the gay world to the seclusion and labor of Saltpeterie. Yet we will try."
He treated the matter lightly, as a thing of common occurrence, yet was Jerome tender-hearted. Men who live in great cities become so hardened to the vice and crime about them that they no longer feel keenly, as we provincials do, the appeal of misery.
I might say here that Florine was one of the next ship-load of girls who were sent to the colonies. There she found a very worthy young planter who took her to wife, and after the manner of the mistreated girl in the fairy tales you children used to read, "lived happily ever afterward." She became, from all accounts, a good wife and devoted mother; her children yet live in Louisiana, happy and prosperous.
Those reflections which I set down at the end of the last paragraph drifted me somewhat from the regular thread of my narrative. This, perhaps, is not the only reason why I should stumble and shy along like a balky palfrey when I approach one of the trifling accidents which transpired immediately after our arrival at Sceaux.
Thinking now this matter over, my withered cheeks lose their ashen hue, and burn again with the hot, tumultuous blood of youth and shame. But I may as well tell it with all the resolution a man summons before plunging into an icy bath at midwinter. It came, the unexpected prelude to one long, sweet song. It was in this wise:
Jerome seemed a welcome guest at Sceaux, and from the hearty greetings, yet respectful withal, which were accorded him, must have been a man of more consideration in the world than I had heretofore supposed. Before this, I received him at his own worth, and our short acquaintance had been so filled with matters of serious moment, I made no inquiries beyond the scant stray bits of information he had himself volunteered. However that might be, his welcome at Sceaux was sincere. Nor did I wonder at his being a favorite, from the jovial jests and flings he cast at those who crowded round, which set them all a-laughing. His familiarity with the doings of the day, and the quick repartee he used to men of different parties, astonished me greatly.
Having disposed of our horses, and given quiet orders to the groom, Jerome made me acquainted with his friends. Some part of their good-fellowship fell to my lot as a friend of Jerome's, and put me upon my mettle to return it.
As good luck would have it, Jerome's friend, the Chevalier Charles de la Mora, was then at Sceaux, and came up early on learning of our arrival.
He was a splendid fellow of thirty-five, stalwart and unusually graceful for a man of his inches. His frank and cordial manner was his greatest charm to me, though a woman would doubtless have raved more over those dark, dreamy eyes, which while mild enough, betimes gave promise of fire and to spare.
He spoke most affectionately to Jerome, and bade us both be sure his wife would receive us with sincerest pleasure. Several of the gentlemen had seen service, and with them I was immediately on easy terms.
Before entering the Villa I paused in a doorway at the head of a short flight of steps, bowing and posturing through my new catalogue of behavior, anxiously watching for Jerome's approval, or a cue. The rascal, I could not for the life of me tell from his expression whether he applauded my fine manners or laughed secretly at the folly of it all. But I went on as I was taught, bending myself pretty well double, half backing into the door which led to an inner hall. Holding this position, which however elegant it might have appeared to those in front, was certainly neither graceful or attractive viewed from within, I felt a sudden jar from the rear, and being thus struck at a point of vantage, came near to plunging forward upon my face. Before I could recover my equilibrium and turn about, I heard the jingle of a tray of glasses and a cool shower of spray flew about my ears. Then the dazed and bewildered eyes of a timid girl looked full into mine; she courageously paused and essayed to stammer out an apology. Her gaze, though, wandered past me, and one sight of the drawn features of those who had seen it all and now sought in vain to restrain their laughter, was too much for this startled fawn. She turned and fled as the wind, just when their merry peal burst out.
"Well, my little lady had best look where she goes, and not run through a door with her eyes behind her," roared de Virelle, when the girl had well escaped.
"His clothes are ruined, and so fine, ah, so fine," drawled Miron.
"By my soul, Captain, you have flowers to spare," chimed in Le Rue. "That's right, gather them up, for Mademoiselle is not usually so generous with her guerdons that any should be lost. The little icicle."
His speech was suited to my actions, for, like a fool, I had already dropped upon my knees, busied about picking up the scattered roses and replacing them in the vases from which they had fallen. The tray was still rolling and rattling around on the floor. Verily, I felt my shame must consume me, and took refuge in this humble occupation to hide my face. There is some sort of a confused recollection now abiding with me, that a man-servant at length came to sweep up the fragments, while I watched him vacantly, a tangled bunch of roses in my hand.
In all their laughs and jests and jibes hurled at my embarrassment, Jerome never for a moment lost sight of the main purpose of our visit. As all roads led to Rome, so did he adroitly turn all topics of conversation into those channels where might be supposed to run the information we wanted.
I felt myself, especially in my present frame of mind, ill-fitted for such a play. The blunt and awkward directness of the camp suited better my ways and speech. Though I might discreetly hold my tongue, I could never use it with the credit I could my sword. Nor could I rid my mind of the childish vision which for one short instant confronted me at the door. Even then I pondered more on her amazed expression and youthful innocence than upon our own chances for success or failure.
From the comments of those about me, I gathered she was a protege of Madame's, whose reserved manners made her no great favorite with the dissolute throng which collected at the gay Villa of Sceaux. I took little part in their conversation, and was glad when Jerome by a gesture called me to follow him away.
"Let us go to see Madame," he said simply, when we were entirely out of hearing.
"Du Maine?" I inquired, vaguely wondering why we should venture into the lion's den.
"No—Madame—the other," he replied with some degree of hesitation.
I followed him without further questioning. He led the way, which was doubtless a familiar one, and the maid at the door, knowing him, admitted us at once to Madame's apartment. The woman, who sat alone in the dainty silk-hung boudoir, rose and came swiftly forward to greet Jerome, the radiant girlish smile changing quickly when she perceived me enter behind him. It was more the grande dame, and less the delighted woman, who acknowledged my presentation with courtly grace. Intuitively I felt her unvoiced inquiry of Jerome why he had not come alone. Yet was she thoroughly polite, and chatted pleasantly with us concerning the news of the day.
"We are to have a fete this afternoon; you must both come. Each guest is expected to contribute in some way to the entertainment of the company. You Jerome—M. de Greville," she begged pardon with a sudden glance at me, "You, M. de Greville, will doubtless favor us with a well-turned madrigal. And you, my dear Captain de Mouret, in which direction do your talents lie?"
"I have no talents, Madame; a plain blunt man of the camp."
"Ah! a soldier; so interesting in these stupid times, when men are little but women differently dressed. Ah, it has been too truly said that 'when men were created, some of the mud which remained served to fashion the souls of princes and lackeys.' But surely you could give us a story?" and so she talked on, not discourteous, but heedless of my protests. I was really alarmed, lest she seriously call upon me before that stately company.
The tiny clock upon her table chimed the third quarter, and she volunteered that at eleven she expected other callers. Acting upon this hint Jerome proceeded at once to tell her why we came, yet I noted in all his confidences he ever kept something to himself for safety's sake. The maid's reappearance interrupted us. She announced, "M. de Valence."
A gleam of anger swept across Madame's face.
"Bid him wait my pleasure in the ante-room. He is ten minutes early. No, the sooner he comes the sooner it is over; wait; bid him come in. M. le Captain, de Greville, will you gentlemen please to retire in that small room for a short space? I will speedily be free again."
And so it came about we overheard matters which opened my mind to the way affairs of state are managed, and I grew to learn upon what slender threads of love, of malice, of jealousy and of hate the destinies of nations must often hang. From our situation we could not help but hear all that passed between Madame and her caller. The maid withdrew, in the slow hurry of a truant on his way to school, but hastened at a sign of annoyance from Madame.
"Monsieur de Valence, you are full ten minutes early. You know I bade you be always exactly punctual," was Madame's petulant greeting of the handsome man who bore himself so meekly in her presence.
No tone was ever colder, no demeanor more haughty than hers, and this proud man who bent before no storm, who held the fortunes of many within his grasp, bowed like an obedient child to her whim.
"Yes, Celeste, I know, but—"
"Madame de Chartrain," she corrected. (I use the name de Chartrain, though it was not her own.)
"Yes—Madame, I know, but, it is so hard to wait; do you not understand how I count the minutes every day until—"
"Yes, yes, I've heard all those fine excuses before. To your business. The other can wait, business first, then—"
"Pleasure?" he supplemented with an eagerness strangely at variance with the rigid self-control he had hitherto shown.
"I did not say pleasure," she gravely broke in, "your business."
The man submitted with the patience of one quite accustomed, yet not wholly resigned to such a reception, and spread numerous papers upon the table before her. Selecting one he began to explain:
"Your wishes in regard to this matter have been carried out; I had the man detained in the city where he is at your command. He suspects nothing, though fretful at the restraint."
"Very good. And the other?"
"Yes, here it is. You see this has been so arranged that the Duke quite naturally selected Menezes to bear these dispatches. You may remind him that Menezes is a brother of the man Perrault, whom he had hanged some years ago. Here is the man's history, which you can look over at leisure. The Duke has forgotten all this in his impatience to remedy the Yvard fiasco. It will serve, however, to make him think you even more clever and devoted to him."
I listened closely at the name "Yvard."
"Well, now so far so good. And the question of finance? That is of more importance."
"And of more difficulty. The Madame often dabbles herself in these dealings involving money, and she is harder to deceive. However she is not accurate at figures, clever though she be otherwise. Look over this; this calculation. See, there is a simple transposition of an item, which results in a difference of near ten thousand livres. It appears there to have been made by the money lender for his greater gain. You can study this copy before the Duke comes. Then you will be quite prepared to point out this error and make the correction. Here is his copy which he will sign."
"Ah, good," she said looking over the memorandum he had given her of the amounts, with the correct calculations all neatly carried out.
"Well, that is enough for this morning; you may go; these things weary me."
"Celeste, Celeste, how long is this to continue? will you never—"
"Madame," she corrected positively, rumpling and smoothing out again the paper in her lap.
"As you will," with an air of hopeless protest. "Do you mean always to send me away when our business is completed—?"
"Was it not our agreement?"
"Yes, but I thought—"
"You had no right to think."
"A man must needs think whether he will or no, what is of life itself. Are you a woman of ice? Do you not realize I sell all I hold most dear, the confidence born of a life-time's honest service to my King, my own honor, only to serve you, to be with you?"
"I am weary. It is time for you to go."
"Yes, but is there nothing else? You agreed—"
"Oh, I know, why remind me?" She turned upon him fiercely. "Do you wish to make me hate you? Now you are only an object of indifference, objectionable to me as are all men who make love, and sigh, and worry me. Do you wish me to hate and despise you more than the rest?"
"God forbid! But—"
"You still insist?"
"Yes, I must have my thirty pieces of silver, the price of my treachery," de Valence returned bitterly; "men die in the Bastille for lesser offenses than mine."
"That is your affair," the woman replied, without a shade of concern.
I thought I could perceive a growing embarrassment in her manner as de Valence came closer to her, remembering, for so she must, that we could hear every word through the portiere. She collected herself bravely; de Valence must not suspect.
"Come, I'll pay you," and she put her lips upward so coolly I wondered he should care to touch them. Jerome raged silently, for I confess we were both guilty of looking as well as listening. De Valence leaned over her, but lifted his head again.
"Celeste—Madame, so cold. I'd as lief kiss the marble lips of Diana in the park."
"Oh, as you please; you may kiss them, too, if you like," she shrugged her shoulders, and was not pretty for the instant. "I pay as I promise; it is a mere barter of commodities. You may take or leave it as you choose."
The man's attitude of dejection touched even me, but the woman gave no sign of feeling or compassion, only intense impatience.
"Well, Monsieur, am I to sit waiting an hour? Are you come to be a sordid huckster to wrangle over your price?"
De Valence bent over her again, touched the lips lightly, and strode away, gathering up his papers from the table as he went. Two only were left, and those Madame held listlessly in her hand.
We felt thoroughly conscious of our guilt, Jerome and I, when we put aside the screen and re-entered the room. There was a certain air of resentment in his manner, as if he would call her to account, and I heartily wished myself otherwhere. Perhaps it was all for the best; my presence prevented, for the time, explanations, and I fancied the woman was grateful for the respite. Her lassitude, and effort to overcome it, smote me to the quick, and right willingly I would have aided her had I but the power. To Jerome she spoke:
"You heard—all?"
He nodded.
"And saw?" Less resolutely this question came. The words conveyed the wish, unexpressed, that he had not heard. To me she gave no thought. Again Jerome nodded, and looked away.
"It is the penalty and the price of power. Oh, Jerome, how fervently I have prayed that this all had not been," she went on oblivious of my presence.
Jerome's resentment faded away at her mute appeal for sympathy, and I am very sure he would not have me chronicle all that then occurred. Suffice it, that I employed myself by the window, some minutes perhaps, until a hasty rap on the door, and the maid bore a message which she delivered to her mistress in secret.
"Bid him come in at once if it please him."
"He is already here, madame," the girl replied.
We had barely time to gain our former hiding place before a man richly dressed, and limping, entered; the same I had seen in the gardens of Versailles. I was now intensely interested in this little drama, which, as it were, was being played for my own benefit, and gave closer study to the Duke of Maine who hurried in.
The weak, irresolute face bore no trace of the dignity and power which made his royal father at times truly great; it showed, too, but little inheritance from the proud beauty of de Montespan. Vastly inferior to both, and to his ambitious wife whose schemes he adopted when they succeeded and disowned when they failed, the Duke trembled now upon the verge of a mighty intrigue which perchance would make him master of an empire, perchance consign him to the Bastille or to the block. Well he knew that the abandoned Philip of Orleans, though he sometimes forgot his friends, never spared an enemy. With these thoughts haunting him, his timid mind shrank from putting his fortunes to a decisive test, and he looked forward, dreading to see the increasing feebleness of the King hasten that day when a quick stroke must win or lose.
He approached Madame at the table with a semblance of that swagger affected by the weakling in presence of women, yet permitting the wandering eye and uncertain gestures to betray his uneasiness. Something had evidently gone wrong with my lord.
"Have you heard, Celeste, of Yvard?" he inquired, dropping into a seat.
My ears quickened at the familiar name.
"Well, what of him?"
"He has lost the Louisiana dispatches, and I know not what they contained."
"What!" exclaimed the woman, as if genuinely alarmed, and learning the bad news at first hand.
"Yes, the cursed fool lost them in some drunken brawl in the city. We have had the place thoroughly searched, but—" he finished the sentence with a shrug to express his failure.
"What if they should reach Orleans?" he continued evenly. "My men fear he has gone to him anyway, hoping to play in with both for pardon. I'd feel much safer could we only lay our hands upon him. He is the one man beside ourselves here who knows—who knows, anything," the Duke went on with growing trepidation.
"Well, make yourself comfort, my lord, I took the responsibility to detain Yvard in Paris."
"You?" he sprang from his chair in astonishment. "You? Why? How?"
"I thought your safety demanded it. My lord is too generous, too confiding," she threw toward him a glance of concern poor de Valance would have periled his soul to win. "You see, when we entrusted him with this business, it was so delicate a mission, I set a watch upon him—some of my own people of Anjou—and when he acted negligently they reported to me. He began drinking, too, and freely, so I feared his discretion. I now have the man safe in Paris. What would my lord with him?"
Du Maine fixed his cold eyes upon her, for a short space, then,
"It would be prudent to put him quietly out of the way," he suggested, the thin lips closing cruelly. "No, hold him, we may have further need for his sword. But have a care that he talks to no one."
Madame had raised no objection to the Duke's cool command that an end be made of Yvard, yet I did her the credit to suppose it was because she well knew she might do as she liked, and he be none the wiser.
He now settled himself upon a divan near Madame, with all the complacency of a man whose own foresight has saved him a serious trouble, and said after mature deliberation, gazing thoughtfully at the sportive cherubs on the ceiling:
"Well, it could not have been so bad after all, for I observed the caution to prepare a warning for our friends across the frontier, and had arranged for a friend of ours to be entrapped by Orleans, betraying misleading dispatches to him. A fine plan, think you? Menezes you know is devoted to me, and I have promised him a patent."
"Who did your grace say was to be this friend?"
"Menezes."
"Why Menezes?"
"I have done much for the fellow, and he is not over clever; clever enough for the purpose, you know, but—"
"Does my lord not remember Menezes is a brother of the Perrault whom you had hanged some years ago? I fear you have been badly advised."
"No! I do not recall him."
"The rogue who cast a stone at your horse?"
"Ah, I bring him to mind. Short, thick-set fellow, who whined something about hunger, children, and the cold. Ugh! What concern have I with the rabble? But how do you know this, Celeste?"
"I have long misdoubted him, and had the rascal overlooked. He is of Picardy, and his father was attached to St. Andre, who likes not His Grace, the Duke of Maine."
"No, by my faith, he hates me. Ah, I see it all. Celeste, you should have been a man, a man's wit almost you have. Really, so much brain is wasted in that pretty head of yours. Madame will come to comprehend she does not know it all—yet she torments me till I give in. I think I shall take firmer hold, and manage my own affairs to better advantage than she. Ugh! What a scrape she was like to get me in."
He gradually regained the expression of complete satisfaction with himself, and prepared now to show the masterpiece of his work, the contract with Antonio of Modena, the money-lender.
"Here are our financial plans; the usury is high, but there is great risk, so thinks Antonio; egad! perhaps he is right, though it is possible we may pay him. Altogether a most excellent plan, my own work——."
Madame interrupted him, thinking perhaps it was wise that he should not be committed too far that he could not throw the blame on other shoulders. She took advantage of a pause to examine the document with apparent care.
"Yes, excellent, but let us see. Three, seven, twelve, fourteen, twenty-three—here is some mistake. Let us go over it again. Yes, here it is. This is not your accounting. The miserly Lombard would cozen you of your honor if he could but sell it again. Here is an error of near ten thousand livres; let me correct it for you."
And while he stared at her she deftly copied the correct amounts from the slip she held concealed in her hand. She knew the figures were his own, but gave no token.
"I doubt not you would have looked over it more carefully before you signed it, and these matters would have been detected by your own eyes."
"Yes, yes," he replied nervously, reaching out his hand for the paper lest she observe—what her quick eyes had at first seen—that the contract already bore his signature and seal. She gave it him and he replaced it carefully in his breast.
"I will give those careless secretaries a lesson they sorely need," and in this disturbed condition of mind he blustered out of the apartment, forgetting his usual gallantries, which Madame so diplomatically put aside without giving too serious offense.
Jerome leaned against the window-facing, his unseeing eyes resting on the park beyond the little garden at our feet. His brow lowered, not as of a storm, but with the murkiness of a settled and dismal day. Perchance his thoughts wandered with his childhood's sweetheart amid the fertile vales of far away Anjou. Nothing was more distant from him than the gilded furnishings, the frescoes, the marble Venus at his elbow. Beside her table, alone, and abstracted as Jerome, the woman toyed with a dainty fan; her impassive beauty, born of rigid training, betrayed not the inner desolation. Her face was calm and serious enough, the skin lay smooth and glowed with all those delicate tints that women love.
Her quietude reminded me of the slumbering ocean, glassy and tranquil, whose unmarred surface conveyed no hint of sunken ships beneath, of cold dumb faces tossing in the brine, of death-abysses where wrecks abandoned lie.
I slipped away without rousing a protest from Jerome, and closing the door softly left them to their meditations and to each other.
Now, that I was well out of their way, it came to me to wonder what I should do with myself until Jerome might please to seek me again, but accident favored me with occupation. Passing through the hall I heard a woman's shrill voice, lifted in anger, berating some unfortunate attendant.
"You wretched hussy, to speak rudely to a guest of mine, who did but make to you a pretty speech. I'd have you be most charming to Monsieur Viard. Remember, you are only a hireling, and need give yourself no such fine and unseemly airs."
The door just ahead of me was thrown violently open, and out strutted a tiny lady in a most disproportionate rage. She was beautiful neither in face nor figure; she was diminutive, and petulant of manner, but bore herself with an air of almost regal pride. It was she whom I came to know as Madame du Maine, a daughter of the proud and princely Condes. Following her, weeping bitterly, came the sweet maid who had spilled the tray of flowers on me at the door. I stepped back into an alcove, lest, perchance, she look behind, and aimlessly I straggled out into the gardens as best I might. The Villa being a strange ground, it fretted me to be alone therein, with nothing to think of but this trouble of my friends. And Madame de Chartrain, did I blame her? Blame Jerome? Yes—no. I hardly knew. Viewed at a distance and impartially, such things strike us with aversion, and we are quick to condemn. But the more I thought the nearer I came to concluding it took something more than a mere mummery to make a wife. All the ceremonials and benedictions and lighted candles and high-sounding phrases could not bind a woman's heart, where that heart was free, or called some other man its lord. Yet the bare fact remained, this woman was a wife, and to me, at least, that name had always been a sacred and holy one.
To what vain or wise conclusions my cogitations may have led me, I conceive not, for another small matter now quite absorbed my whole attention. It was the beginning of that one dear hope which speedily banished all others. It is said the trippant tread of Fate doth leave no print upon the sand to mark its passage, nor doth she sound a note of warning that the waiting hand may grasp her garments as she flies.
A gleam of white in one of the summer houses caught my roving eye, and quite aimlessly I passed the door. A chit of a child crouched upon the floor, and leaned forward on the benches, weeping as though each sob were like to burst her little heart. I grant it was no affair of mine, yet my tears were ever wont to start, and eyes play traitor to mine arm at sight of woman's trouble. Without thinking one whit, I stepped in beside her, and laying my hand gently upon the lassie's shoulder, implored that she weep no more.
Up she sprang to face me, flushed and indignant. Verily was I abashed. Yet there was that of sympathy and sincerity in my voice and mien—or so she told me after—which turned her wrath aside.
"You, Monsieur; I thought it was old Monsieur Viard, he pursues me so."
It was the same little maid I had seen in the hall, and that was why I trembled. She wept now for the scolding she had got. I caught my breath to inquire why she wept.
"Oh, Madame, Madame—it is the humor of Madame to humiliate me of late; she reminds me ever of my dependent position. And Monsieur," the child straightened up proudly till she was quite a woman. "Monsieur, I come of a race as old as her own—and as honored." "Charles is poor—the Chevalier de la Mora, you know. But now he goes to the colonies, and will take me with him."
It was a silly enough thing to do, but about here I stalked most unceremoniously off, leaving her to her sorrow and her tears. Since that day I have often smiled to think how foolishly do the wisest men deport themselves when they first begin to love. Their little starts of passion, their petty angers and their sweet repentances—all were unexplored by me, for Love to me was yet an unread book.
At the door of the house M. Leroux hailed me graciously:
"Well met, my dear Captain; we go to the park, and would have you bear us company. Where is M. de Greville?"
I explained as best I might his absence, and followed them in lieu of better employment, forgetting for the time the threatened fete. Before I could extricate myself, these new friends had led me into a brilliant circle, and duly presented me to Madame, who sat on a sort of raised platform in the center.
She showed no traces of her recent anger and spite, vented upon that patient girl who now claimed all my thought. Her ladies, some languishing literary notables of the day, and officers, stood about discussing the news, and talked of naught but some fetching style or popular play, through all of which I struggled as bravely as my dazed condition would permit. It seemed I would never grow accustomed to the like, though it is said many men find great delight in such gatherings. But one thing I searched for most eagerly.
Behind Madame's chair, after a little, appeared the sweet shy face of my weeping Niobe of the park. I felt she saw and recognized me, and my face grew warmer at the thought. I made bold to ask one of the gentlemen standing near me who the lady might be, and not desiring to point at her, simply described her as well as possible, and as being in attendance upon Madame.
"That, Monsieur, is Madame Agnes, wife of the Chevalier de la Mora; the wittiest and most beautiful woman at Sceaux, and the chilliest."
Noting the change of countenance which I sought in vain to control, he went on banteringly.
"Beware M. le Capitaine, half the men at Sceaux are in love with her, but she has the execrable taste to prefer her own husband. Such women destroy half the zest of living. Beside, the Chevalier has a marvelous sword and a most unpleasant temper. Bah! how ludicrous it is for men to anger at trifles."
"But," I faltered, "she seems a mere child."
"Yes, but none the less charming," and he turned away to continue his interrupted conversation with the daring young Arouet, the same who was to acquire universal fame under the name Voltaire.
Thus rudely were my new-awakened hopes of love cast down. A wife, and the wife of a friend! She had spoken to me of "Charles," and of going with him to the colonies. A wife, yet for all that, I knew I loved her.
They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. My intentions were the best that ever made excellent cobblestones toward the infernal gate. Only a few days and I would be gone; surely those could be passed through in peace. She was a wife—I would never let her know that all my heart was hers. This I determined. But man is weak, and the very atmosphere of France dried up the springs of every honest impulse. Everywhere was scoffing, raillery and disbelief. Honor, friendship and virtue were regarded as the vain chimeras of a fool. Why should not I enjoy life while I might?
Directly Madame Chartrain entered without intruding, and composedly took her place among the ladies who made room for her near Madame. Nothing in her manner bore evidence of her recent conflict. It was really marvelous how the life these women led schooled them to a stoicism any Choctaw brave daring the stake might envy. She nodded to me gaily, and I stopped to touch her hand.
"Where is M. de Greville? Is he not to be with us this afternoon?"
I looked her in the face, wondering, for could she not answer her own question far better than I? She read my meaning, but her glance never wavered.
"Ah! There he is, among the gentlemen. I feared he found Sceaux too dull after Paris, and he had promised us a bit of his work. You know he composes famous verses to some fair and distant inamorata."
"Indeed, Madame, I suspected not his talents," I replied. Our conversation lagged, for the programme had already commenced, and we gave our attention to the reading of some curious letters, said to have been written by two Persians of distinction then traveling in Europe, which were being published anonymously in Paris. At first, I could not bring myself to listen to such twaddle, dubiously moral, which, under the guise of light, small talk, struck at the foundations of government, religious beliefs, and all which I had before held sacred. Listening only to contradict, I grew interested in spite of myself, and only at some allusion more than usually out of place, as it seemed to me, among so many ladies, did I take my eyes from the reader's countenance, and suffer them to roam about the company.
Feeling again the subtle influence of Agnes' gaze fixed full upon me, it caused my cheeks to flush, my knees to quake, and verily, my legs were as like to carry me away as to sustain me where I leaned against a tree. The girl was looking straight at me; I dared not return her stare which had something more than mere curiosity in it, and disturbed me greatly.
The reading was finished without my knowledge, a piece of buffoonery, or play acting gone through with, which I did not see, when my own name, called by Madame, brought me to my proper good sense again.
I found myself, before I was quite aware, bending before Madame and receiving her command that I should do something for the amusement of the company.
"M. Jerome has favored us, you know—we have no drones here," she went on pleasantly, "and it is the rule at Sceaux that all must join our merriment."
"Jerome?" I answered in a bewildered fashion, for I had no recollection of seeing aught he did; then I remembered hearing him recite some languishing verses about a white rose, a kiss, a lady's lips—some sighs, and such other stuff that now escapes me—but I had paid no attention to it all.
Jerome, the villain, seconded Madame's request so vigorously I could not decline, though he well knew I was no carpet knight capable of entertaining ladies fair on the tourney field of wit.
"The Captain sings divinely, Madame, but is becomingly modest, as you see." The wretch laughed in his sleeve; I could have strangled him.
"Ah, so rare," she retorted, "you men are vainer than my ladies."
I knew myself the target for dozens of curious eyes, under the heat of which I near melted away.
"Sing, comrade, sing some sweet love ditty of a lonely forest maiden and her lover, robed in the innocence of Eden."
Had the fool no sense? I caught the imploring expression of interest on the girl's sweet face behind Madame, and determined at all hazards they should not have the laugh at me. I saw it all then; they were in league with Jerome to play a game of "bait the bear," with me for bear.
So I pitched in and sang, such a song I warrant as my lords and ladies had never bent their ears to hear before, a crooning death incantation of the Choctaws, which fell as naturally from my lips as my own mother tongue.
Their laughter hushed, for even in the court of France, sated as it was with novelties, laying a world under tribute for amusements, that wild, weird melody never rose before nor since. One stanza I sang translated into French that they might understand;
"Yuh! Listen. Quickly you have drawn near to hearken;Listen! Now I have come to step over your soul;You are of the Wolf Clan;Your name is Ayuni;Toward the Black Coffin of the upland, in the upland of theDarkening Land your path shall stretch out.With the Black Coffin and the Black Slabs I have come to cover youWhen darkness comes your spirit shall grow less and dwindleaway never to reappear. Listen."