That very night Gaston made his will, and deposited it with a notary at Nantes.
He left everything to Helene de Chaverny; begged her, if he died, not to renounce the world, but to accept the career opening to her youth and beauty; but, as he was the last of his family, he begged her, in memeory of him, to call her first son Gaston.
He next went to see each of his friends, and once more told them that he believed the enterprise would be successful. Pontcalec gave him half a piece of gold and a letter, which he was to present to a certain Captain la Jonquiere, their correspondent at Paris, who would put Gaston in communication with the important persons he went to seek. He then put all the ready money he had into a valise, and, accompanied only by an old servant named Owen, in whom he had great confidence, he set out from Nantes.
It was midday, a bright sun shone on the stream, and sparkled on the icicles which hung from the leafless trees, as Gaston made his way along the deserted road, looking in vain for anything resembling the convent carriage.
The servant appeared much more anxious to quicken their pace than Gaston himself did, for to him the journey was fraught with annoyances, and he was so anxious to arrive at that Paris of which he had heard such wonderful tales, that, had it been possible, he would willingly have added wings to their horses' feet.
Gaston, however, traveled slowly as far as Oudan, but the convent carriage proceeded more slowly still. At Oudan he halted; he chose the Char Couronne, a house which had some windows overlooking the road, and which, moreover, was the best inn in the village.
While his dinner was preparing, Gaston, in spite of the cold, remained in the balcony; but in vain he looked for the carriage he so much wished to see.
Then he thought that perhaps Helene had preceded him, and was already in the inn. He went at once to a window at the back, overlooking the courtyard, to inspect the carriages standing there.
His attention was arrested by seeing, not the carriage, but his servant, Owen, speaking earnestly to a man dressed in gray and wrapped in a sort of military cloak, who, after a short conversation, mounted his horse and rode off with the air of a man to whom speed is of the utmost importance, as Gaston heard his steps along the road to Paris.
At this moment the servant raised his eyes, and began busily brushing the snow from his boots and clothes.
Gaston signed to him to approach.
"Who were you talking with, Owen?"
"To a man, M. Gaston."
"Who is that man?"
"A traveler—a soldier, who was asking his way."
"His way; to what place?"
"To Rennes."
"But you could not tell him, for you do not know this place."
"I asked the landlord, monsieur."
"Why could not he ask himself?"
"Because he had had a quarrel with him about the price of his dinner, and did not wish to speak to him again."
"Hum," said Gaston.
Nothing was more natural than this, yet Gaston became thoughtful; but he quickly threw off his suspicions, accusing himself of becoming timid at a time when he most needed courage; his brow remained clouded, however, for the carriage did not appear.
He thought at one moment that Helene might have chosen another road in order to part from him without noise or quarrel, but he soon concluded that it was only some accident which delayed her; he sat down again to table, though he had finished his dinner, and when Owen appeared to clear away, "Some wine," said he. Owen had already removed a half empty bottle.
"Some wine?" repeated the servant inastonishment, for Gaston usually drank but little.
"Yes, some wine; is there anything surprising in that?"
"No, monsieur," replied Owen.
And he transmitted the order for a second bottle of wine to the waiter. Gaston poured out a glass, drank it, then a second.
Owen stared.
Then, thinking it both his duty and his interest to prevent his master's finishing the bottle—
"Monsieur," said he, "I have heard that if you are riding, it is bad to drink when it is very cold. You forgot that we have a long way to go, and that it will be getting still colder, and, if we wait much longer, we shall get no post-horses. It is nearly three o'clock, now, and at half-past four it will be dark."
This behavior surprised Gaston.
"You are in a very great hurry, Owen," said he; "have you a rendezvous with the man who was asking his way of you?"
"Monsieur knows that to be impossible," replied Owen, "since he is going to Rennes, and we to Paris."
However, under the scrutinizing gaze of his master, Owen turned red, when suddenly, at the sound of wheels, Gaston ran to the window. It was the dark carriage.
At this sight Gaston darted from the room.
It was then Owen's turn to run to the window to see what it was that had so much interested his master. He saw a green and black carriage stop, from which the driver alighted and opened the door; then he saw a young lady in a cloak go into the hotel, followed by an Augustine sister; the two ladies, announcing that they should only remain to dine, asked for a room.
But to reach this room they had to cross a public salon, in which Gaston stood near the fire-place; a rapid but meaning glance was exchanged between him and Helene, and, to Gaston's great satisfaction, he recognized in the driver of the carriage the convent gardener. He let him pass, however, unnoticed, but as he crossed the yard to go to the stable, he followed him.
He accosted the gardener, who told him that he was to take the two ladies to Rambouillet, where Helene would remain, and then he was to take back Sister Therese to Clisson.
Gaston, raising his eyes suddenly, saw Owen watching him, and this curiosity displeased him.
"What are you doing there?" asked he.
"Waiting for orders," said Owen.
"Do you know that fellow?" asked Gaston of the gardener.
"M. Owen, your servant? Of course I do; we are from the same place."
"So much the worse," murmured Gaston.
"Oh, Owen is an honest fellow."
"Never mind," said Gaston; "not a word of Helene, I beg."
The gardener promised; and, indeed, it was his own interest to keep the secret, for, had it been discovered that he had given Gaston the key, he would have lost his place.
After a hasty meal, the carriage was again ordered, and at the door Gaston met the ladies, and handed them in. Chanlay was not quite unknown to the sister, so she thanked him graciously as he handed her in.
"Monsieur," said Owen, behind the chevalier, "our horses are ready."
"One more glass," said Gaston, "and I shall start."
To Owen's great surprise, Gaston returned to the room and ordered a third bottle—for Owen had removed the second, of which Gaston had only drank his two glasses.
Gaston remained about a quarter of an hour, and then, having no further motive for waiting, he set out.
When they had ridden a short distance, they saw the carriage imbedded in a deep rut, where, in spite of the efforts of the horses and the gardener, it remained stationary. Gaston could not leave him in such a dilemma, and the gardener, recognizing Owen, called to him for aid. The two riders dismounted, opened thecarriage door, took out the ladies, and succeeded in freeing the carriage, so that they were able to proceed.
An acquaintanceship was thus established, and the poor nun, who was very timid, inquired of Gaston if the road were safe. Gaston reassured her, and said that he and his servant would escort them, and his offer was at once accepted with thanks.
Meanwhile Helene had played her part admirably, showing that a young girl, however simple and naïve, has the instinct of dissimulation, which only requires opportunity to develop itself.
Gaston rode along close to the door, for the road was narrow, and Sister Therese asked him many questions. She learned that he was called the Chevalier de Livry, and was the brother of one of the young ladies who had been in the convent school, but who was now married to Montlouis.
They stopped, as previously arranged, at Ancenis.
The gardener confirmed what Gaston had said of his relationship to Mademoiselle de Livry, so that Sister Therese had no suspicion, and was very friendly with him.
She was, in fact, delighted, on starting the next morning, to find him already mounted, and to receive his accustomed politeness in handing them into the carriage. As he did so, he slipped a note into Helene's hand, and by a glance she told him he should receive a reply.
Gaston rode by the side of the carriage, for the road was bad, and assistance was frequently required, either to free a wheel, to assist the ladies to alight for the purpose of walking up a steep ascent, or some of the many accidents of a journey. "My dear Helene," said Sister Therese, several times, "what would have become of us without the aid of this gentleman?"
Before arriving at Angers, Gaston inquired at what hotel they were going to stay, and, finding that it was the same at which he intended to put up, he sent Owen on before to engage apartments.
When they arrived, he received a note, which Helene had written during dinner. She spoke of her love and happiness as though they were secure and everlasting.
But Gaston looked on the future in its true light. Bound by an oath to undertake a terrible mission, he foresaw sad misfortunes after their present short-lived joy. He remembered that he was about to lose happiness, just as he had tasted it for the first time, and rebelled against his fate. He did not remember that he had sought that conspiracy which now bound him, and which forced him to pursue a path leading to exile or the scaffold, while he had in sight another path which would lead him direct to happiness.
It is true that when Gaston joined the conspiracy he did not know Helene, and thought himself alone in the world. At twenty years of age he had believed that the world had no pleasure for him; then he had met Helene, and the world became full of pleasure and hope: but it was too late; he had already entered on a career from which he could not draw back.
Meanwhile, in the preoccupation of his mind, Gaston had quite forgotten his suspicions of Owen, and had not noticed that he had spoken to two cavaliers similar to the one whom he had seen the first evening; but Owen lost nothing of what passed between Gaston and Helene.
As they approached the end of their journey, Gaston became sad; and when the landlord at Chartres replied to the question of Sister Therese, "To-morrow you may, if you choose, reach Rambouillet," it was as though he had said, "To-morrow you separate forever."
Helene, who loved as women love, with the strength, or rather the weakness, to sacrifice everything to that love, could not understand Gaston's passive submission to the decrees of Providence, and she would have preferred to have seen him make some effort to combat them.
But Helene was in this unjust to Gaston; the same ideas tormented him. He knew that at a word from him Helene would follow him to the end of the world—he had plenty of gold—it would be easy for Helene one evening, instead of going to rest, to go with him into a post-chaise, and in two days they would be beyond thefrontier, free and happy, not for a day or a month, but forever.
But one word, one little word, opposed itself to all this. That word was honor. He had given his oath, and he would be disgraced if he did not keep it.
The last evening Helene expected that Gaston would speak, but in vain, and she retired to rest with the conviction that Gaston did not love her as she loved him.
That night Gaston never slept, and he rose pale and despairing. They breakfasted at a little village. The nun thought that in the evening she would begin her homeward journey toward her beloved convent. Helene thought that it was now too late to act, even if Gaston should speak. Gaston thought that he was about to lose forever the woman whom he loved.
About three o'clock in the afternoon they all alighted to walk up a steep hill, from the summit of which they could see before them a steeple and a number of houses. It was Rambouillet; they did not know it, but they felt that it was.
Gaston was the first to break the silence. "There," said he, "our paths separate. Helene, I implore you preserve the recollection of me, and, whatever happens, do not condemn or curse me."
"Gaston, you only speak of the most terrible things. I need courage, and you take it from me. Have you nothing joyful to tell me? I know the present is dark, but is the future also as dreadful? Are there not many years, and therefore many hopes, to look forward to? We are young—we love one another; are there no means of struggling against the fate which threatens us? Oh, Gaston! I feel in myself a great strength, and if you but say—but no, I am mad; it is I who suffer, and yet I who console."
"I understand you, Helene—you want a promise, do you not? Well, judge if I am wretched; I dare not promise. You tell me to hope, and I can but despair. If I had ten years, five years, one year, at my own disposal, I would offer them to you, Helene, and think myself blessed, but from the moment I leave you, we lose each other. From to-morrow morning I belong no more to myself."
"Oh!" cried Helene, "unhappy that I am, did you then deceive me when you said you loved me; are you pledged to another?"
"At least, my poor Helene," said Gaston, "on this point I can reassure you. I have no other love."
"Then we may yet be happy, Gaston, if my new family will recognize you as my husband."
"Helene, do you not see that every word you utter stabs me to the heart?"
"But at least tell me what it is."
"Fate, which I cannot escape; ties which I dare not break."
"I know of none such," cried the young girl. "I am promised a family, riches, station, and a name; and yet, Gaston, say but one word and I leave them all for you. Why, then, will you not do as much for me?"
Gaston answered not; and at this moment Sister Therese rejoined them, and they again got into the carriage. When they neared the town, the nun called Gaston, told him that, perhaps, some one might come to meet Helene, and that a stranger should not be seen with them. Gaston bowed silently and sadly, and turned to leave them.
Helene was no ordinary woman; she saw Gaston's distress. "Is it adieu, or au revoir?" cried she, boldly.
"Au revoir," said Gaston, and he rode off quickly.
Gaston went away without saying how they were to meet again; but Helene thought that he would certainty manage that, and she contented herself with watching him as long as she could. Ten minutes later the carriage stopped at the Tigre-Royal. A woman, who was waiting, came out hastily, and respectfully assisted the ladies to alight, and then guided them through the passages of the hotel, preceded by a valet carrying lights.
A door opened, Madame Desroches drew back to allow Helene and Sister Therese to pass, and they soon foundthemselves on a soft and easy sofa, in front of a bright fire.
The room was large and well furnished, but the taste was severe, for the style called Rococo was not yet introduced. There were four doors; the first was that by which they had entered—the second led to the dining-room, which was already lighted and warmed—the third led into a richly-appointed bedroom—the fourth did not open.
Helene admired the magnificence of all around her—the quiet and respectful manner of the servants; while Sister Therese rejoiced, when she saw the smoking supper, that it was not a fast day.
Presently Madame Desroches returned, and approaching the sister, handed her a letter. She opened it, and read as follows:
"Sister Therese may pass the night at Rambouillet, or leave again at once, according to her own wish. She will receive two hundred louis offered to the convent by Helene, and will give up her charge to the care of Madame Desroches, who is honored by the confidence of Helene's parents."
At the bottom of the letter, instead of a signature, was a cipher, which the sister compared with that on a letter which she had brought from Clisson. The identity being proved—
"My child," said she, "I leave you after supper."
"So soon!" said Helene, to whom Therese was now the only link to her past life.
"Yes, my child. It is at my option to sleep here, but I prefer to return at once; for I wish to be again at home, where the only thing wanting to my happiness will be your presence."
Helene threw herself on Therese's neck, weeping. She recalled her youth, passed so happily among affectionate companions, and she again saw the towers and steeples of her former residence.
They sat down to table, and Sister Therese hastily partook of some refreshment, then embraced Helene, who wished to accompany her to the carriage; but Madame Desroches begged her not to do so, as the hotel was full of strangers.
Helene then asked permission to see the poor gardener, who had been their escort, once more. This man had become a friend to her, and she quitted him and Therese sadly.
Madame Desroches, seeing that Helene felt vainly in her pocket, said, "Does mademoiselle want anything?"
"Yes," said Helene; "I should wish to give a souvenir to this good man."
Madame Desroches gave Helene twenty-five louis, and she, without counting them, slipped them into the gardener's hand, who overwhelmed her with tears and thanks.
At length they were forced to part, and Helene, hearing the sound of their carriage driving away, threw herself on a sofa, weeping.
Madame Desroches reminded her that she had eaten nothing. Helene insisted that she should sup with her. After her meal she showed Helene her bedroom, saying, "Will mademoiselle ring when she requires her femme-de-chambre; for this evening mademoiselle will receive a visit."
"A visit!" cried Helene.
"Yes, mademoiselle; from a relation."
"And is it the one who watches over me?"
"From your birth, mademoiselle."
"Oh, mon Dieu!" cried Helene; "and he is coming?"
"He is most anxious to know you."
"Oh," murmured Helene; "I feel as if I should faint."
Madame Desroches ran to her, and supported her.
"Do you feel so much terror," asked she, "at seeing one who loves you?"
"It is not terror, it is agitation," said Helene. "I did not know that it would be to-night; and this important news quite overcomes me."
"But I have not told you all: this person is necessarily surrounded by mystery."
"Why so?"
"I am forbidden to reply to that question, mademoiselle."
"What necessity can there be for suchprecautions with a poor orphan like me?"
"They are necessary, believe me."
"But in what do they consist?"
"Firstly, you may not see the face of this person; so that you may not recognize him if you meet him in the world."
"Then he will come masked?"
"No, mademoiselle: but the lights will be extinguished."
"Then we shall be in darkness?"
"Yes."
"But you will remain with me, Madame Desroches."
"No, mademoiselle; that is expressly forbidden."
"By whom?"
"By the person who is coming."
"But do you, then, owe such absolute obedience to this person?"
"More than that, mademoiselle, I owe him the deepest respect."
"Is he, then, of such high station?"
"He is of the very highest in France."
"And he is my relation?"
"The nearest."
"For Heaven's sake, Madame Desroches, do not leave me in uncertainty on this point."
"I have already told you, mademoiselle, that there are some questions to which I am expressly forbidden to reply," and she was about to retire.
"Why do you leave me?" asked Helene.
"I leave you to your toilet."
"But, madame—"
Madame Desroches made a low, ceremonious curtsey, and went out of the room, closing the door behind her.
While the things which we have related were passing in the parlor of the hotel Tigre-Royal, in another apartment of the same hotel, seated near a large fire, was a man shaking the snow from his boots, and untying the strings of a large portfolio. This man was dressed in the hunting livery of the house of Orleans; the coat red and silver, large boots, and a three-cornered hat, trimmed with silver. He had a quick eye, a long pointed nose, a round and open forehead, which was contradicted by thin and compressed lips.
This man murmured to himself some phrases which he interrupted by oaths and exclamations, which seemed less the result of words than thoughts.
"Come, come," said he, "M. de Montaran did not deceive me, and our Bretons are hard at the work; but for what earthly reason can he have come by such short stages? He left at noon on the 11th, and only arrived on the evening of the 21st. This probably hides some new mystery, which will be explained by the fellow recommended by Montaran, and with whom my people were in communication on the journey. Hola!"
And he rang a silver bell. A man, dressed in gray, like those we have seen on the route, appeared.
"Ah! it is you, Tapin?"
"Yes, monseigneur; the affair being important, I thought it better to come myself."
"Have you questioned the men you placed on the road?"
"Yes, monseigneur; but they know nothing but the places at which our conspirators stopped; in fact, that is all they were told to learn."
"I will try to learn from the servant. What sort of man is he?"
"Oh, a mischievous simpleton, half Norman, half Breton; a bad fellow."
"What is he about now?"
"Serving his master's supper."
"Whom, I hope, they have placed as I desired?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"In a room without curtains?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"And you have made a hole in the shutter?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"Well, then, send me the servant, and remain within call."
The man in the red coat consulted his watch.
"Half-past eight," said he; "at this hour Monseigneur the Regent returns toSt. Germains and asks for Dubois; as Dubois is not there, he rubs his hands and prepares for some folly. Rub your hands, Philippe d'Orleans, and amuse yourself at your pleasure, for the danger is not at Paris, but here. We shall see if you will laugh at my secret police this time. Ah! here is our man."
At this moment Tapin introduced Owen.
"Here is the person you wished to see," said he.
Owen remained standing, trembling, near the door, while Dubois wrapped himself in a large cloak, which left only the upper part of his face visible to him on whom he fixed his cat-like eyes.
"Approach, my friend," said Dubois.
In spite of the cordiality of this invitation, it was given in so harsh a voice that Owen would have preferred being at a greater distance from this man, who looked at him so strangely.
"Well, fellow," said Dubois, seeing that he did not stir, "did you not hear me?"
"Yes, monseigneur," said Owen.
"Then why do you not obey?"
"I did not know you spoke to me."
And Owen then stepped forward.
"You have received fifty louis to speak the truth to me," continued Dubois.
"Pardon, monseigneur," said Owen, who began to recover his composure; "I have not received them; they were promised to me, but—"
Dubois took a handful of gold from his pocket, counted fifty louis, and placed them in a pile on the table.
Owen looked at the pile with an expression of which one would have supposed his dull countenance incapable.
"Good," thought Dubois; "he is avaricious."
In reality, the fifty louis had always appeared very doubtful to Owen. He had betrayed his master with scarcely a hope of obtaining his reward; and now the promised gold was before his eyes.
"May I take them?" asked Owen, spreading his hand toward them.
"Wait a moment," said Dubois, who amused himself by exciting that cupidity which any but a peasant would have concealed; "we will make a bargain."
"What is it?" asked Owen.
"Here are the fifty louis."
"I see them," said Owen, passing his tongue over his lips, like a thirsty dog.
"At every answer you make to a question of mine, I either add ten louis if it is important, or take them away if it is unimportant and stupid."
Owen started; he did not like the terms.
"Now," said Dubois, "let us talk. What place have you come from?"
"Direct from Nantes."
"With whom?"
"With the Chevalier Gaston de Chanlay."
These being preliminary questions, the pile remained undisturbed.
"Listen!" said Dubois.
"I am all attention."
"Did your master travel under his own name?"
"He set out in his own name, but changed it on the journey."
"What name did he take?"
"M. de Livry."
Dubois added ten louis, but as they would not stand on the others, he commenced a second pile.
Owen uttered a joyful cry.
"Oh," said Dubois, "do not exult yet. We are not near the end. Is there a M. de Livry at Nantes?"
"No, monseigneur; but there is a Demoiselle de Livry."
"Who is she?"
"The wife of M. de Montlouis, an intimate friend of my master."
"Good," said Dubois, adding ten louis; "and what was your master doing at Nantes?"
"What most young men do; he hunted, danced, and so on."
Dubois took away ten louis. Owen shuddered.
"Stop," said he, "he did something else."
"Ah! what was that?"
"I do not know," replied Owen.
Dubois held the ten louis in his hand.
"And since his departure, what has he done?"
"He passed through Oudon, Ancenis, Le Mans, Nogent, and Chartres."
Dubois stretched out his hand, and took up another ten louis.
Owen uttered a dolorous cry.
"And did he make no acquaintance on the route?"
"Yes; with a young lady from the Augustine convent at Clisson, who was traveling with a sister of the convent, named Therese."
"And what was the young lady called?"
"Mademoiselle Helene de Chaverny."
"Helene! A promising name. Doubtless, she is your master's mistress?"
"I do not know," said Owen; "he would not have told me."
"He is a shrewd fellow," said Dubois, taking ten louis from the fifty.
Owen trembled: four such answers, and he would have betrayed his master for nothing.
"And these ladies are going to Paris with him?"
"No, monseigneur; they stop at Rambouillet."
"Ah," said Dubois.
The tone of this exclamation gave Owen some hope.
"Come," said Dubois, "all this is not very important, but one must encourage beginners."
And he added ten louis to the pile.
"Sister Therese," continued Owen, "is already gone home."
"So that the young lady remains alone?"
"No," answered Owen.
"How so?"
"A lady from Paris awaited her."
"From Paris?"
"Yes."
"Do you know her name?"
"I heard Sister Therese call her Madame Desroches."
"Madame Desroches!" cried Dubois, and he began another pile with ten louis.
"Yes," replied Owen, delighted.
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I am; she is a tall, thin, yellow-looking woman."
Dubois added ten louis. Owen thought that if he had made an interval between each adjective he might have had twenty louis.
"Thin, tall, yellow," repeated Dubois; "just so."
"From forty to forty-five," added Owen.
"Exactly," said Dubois, adding ten louis.
"In a silk dress, with large flowers on it."
"Very good," said Dubois.
Owen saw that his questioner knew enough about the lady, and waited.
"And you say that your master made acquaintance with the young lady en route?"
"Yes, monsieur, but I think it was a farce."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that they knew each other before; and I am sure of one thing, that my master waited for her three hours at Oudon."
"Bravo," said Dubois, adding ten louis; "we shall make something of you."
"You do not wish to know anything more, then?" asked Owen, extending his hand toward the two piles of gold.
"Stop," said Dubois; "is the young lady pretty?"
"Beautiful as an angel," answered Owen.
"And, no doubt, they made an appointment to meet in Paris?"
"No, monsieur, I think they said adieu forever."
"Another farce."
"I do not think so, monsieur; my master was so sad when they separated."
"And they are not to meet again?"
"Yes, once more, I think, and all will be over."
"Well, take your money; and remember that if you mention one word of this, in ten minutes you will be a dead man."
Owen snatched the money, which disappeared in his pocket instantly.
"And now," said he, "may I go?"
"No, idiot; from this moment you belong to me, for I have bought you, and you will be more useful to me at Paris than elsewhere."
"In that case I will remain, monsieur, I promise."
"There is no need to promise."
At this moment the door opened, and Tapin appeared, looking very much agitated.
"What has happened now?" asked Dubois.
"Something very important, monseigneur; but send away this man."
"Return to your master," said Dubois, "and if he writes to any one whatever, remember that I am most anxious to see his writing."
Owen went out, delighted to be set free.
"Well, Tapin," said Dubois, "what is it?"
"Monseigneur, after the hunt at St. Germains, his royal highness, instead of returning to Paris, sent away every one, and gave orders to proceed to Rambouillet."
"The regent coming to Rambouillet!"
"He will be here in half an hour, and would have been here now, if hunger had not luckily obliged him to enter the chateau and procure some refreshment."
"And what is he coming to Rambouillet for?"
"I do not know, monseigneur, unless it be for the young girl who has just arrived with a nun, and who is now in the pavilion of the hotel."
"You are right, Tapin; it is doubtless for her; and Madame Desroches, too. Did you know that Madame Desroches was here?"
"No, monseigneur, I did not."
"And are you sure that your information is correct, my dear Tapin?"
"Oh, monseigneur, it was from L'Eveille, whom I placed near his royal highness, and what he says is gospel truth."
"You are right," said Dubois, who seemed to know the qualities of this man, "if it be L'Eveille, there is no doubt."
"The poor fellow has lamed his horse, which fell near Rambouillet."
"Thirty louis for the horse; he may gain what he can of it."
Tapin took the thirty louis.
"You know the situation of the pavilion, do you not?"
"Perfectly."
"Where is it?"
"One side looks on the second courtyard; the other on a deserted lane."
"Place men in the courtyard and in the lane, disguised as stablemen, or how you please; let no one enter the pavilion but monseigneur and myself; the life of his royal highness is at stake."
"Rest easy, monseigneur."
"Do you know our Breton?"
"I saw him dismount."
"Do your men know him?"
"They all saw him on the road."
"Well, I recommend him to you."
"Shall we arrest him?"
"Certainly not; he must be allowed to go where he pleases, and act as he pleases, and he must have every opportunity to do so. If he were arrested now, he would tell nothing, and our plans would be disconcerted; no, no, these plans must hatch."
"Hatch what, monseigneur?" said Tapin, who appeared to be on confidential terms with Dubois.
"My archbishop's miter, M. Lecocq," said Dubois, "and now to your work; I go to mine."
Both left the room and descended the staircase, but separated at the door; Lecocq went along the Rue de Paris; and Dubois, slipping along by the wall, went to peep through the hole in the shutter.
Gaston had just supped; for at his age, whether a man be in despair or in love, nature asserts her rights. He was leaning on the table thoughtfully. The lamp threw a light over his face, and enabled Dubois to gratify his curiosity.
He looked at him with an attention almost alarming: his quick eye darted—his lip curled with a smile, which gave one the idea of a demon smiling at the sight of one of those victims who seem to have vowed their own perdition.
While looking, he murmured, "Young, handsome, black eyes, proud lips—he is a Breton, he is not corrupted, like the conspirators of Cellamare, by the soft glances of the ladies at court;—then the other spoke of carrying off, dethroning, but this one—diable, this one; and yet," continued he, after a pause, "I look in vain for traces of cunning on that open brow. I see no Machiavelism in the corners of that mouth, so full of loyalty and honor; yet no doubt all is arranged to surprise the regent on his visit to this Clisson demoiselle. Who will say again that Bretons have dull brains?
"No," said Dubois, after another pause, "it cannot be so. It is impossible that this young man with his calm sad face should be ready in a quarter of an hour to kill a man, and that man the first prince of the blood. No, I cannot believe in such sang-froid; and yet the regent has kept this amourette secret even from me; he goes out to hunt at St. Germains, announces aloud that he shall sleep at the Palais Royal, then all at once gives counter orders, and drives to Rambouillet. At Rambouillet, the young girl waits, and is received by Madame Desroches; who can she be watching for, if not for the regent? and this young girl is the mistress of the chevalier—but is she?—Ah! we must learn. We must find out how far we can depend on Owen," and Dubois left his observatory and waited on the staircase—he was quite hidden in the shade, and he could see Gaston's door in the light.
The door presently opened, and Owen appeared.
He held a letter in his hands, and after hesitating a minute, he appeared to have taken his determination, and mounted the staircase.
"Good," said Dubois, "he has tasted the forbidden fruit, and he is mine."
Then, stopping Owen: "Give me the letter which you were bringing me, and wait here."
"How did you know I had a letter?" asked Owen, bewildered.
Dubois shrugged his shoulders, took the letter, and disappeared.
In his room he examined the seal; the chevalier, who had no wax, had used that on the bottle, and had sealed it with the stone of a ring.
Dubois held the letter above the candle, and the wax melted. He opened the letter and read:
"Dear Helene—Your courage has doubled mine; manage so that I can enter the house, and you shall know my plans."
"Dear Helene—Your courage has doubled mine; manage so that I can enter the house, and you shall know my plans."
"Oh!" said Dubois, "it seems she does not know them yet. Things are not as far advanced as I supposed."
He resealed the letter with one of the numerous rings which he wore, and which resembled that of the chevalier, and calling Owen—
"Here," said he, "is your master's letter; deliver it faithfully, bring me the answer, and you shall have ten louis."
"Ah!" thought Owen, "has this man a mine of gold?" And he went off.
Ten minutes after he returned with the reply.
It was on scented and ornamented paper, sealed with the letter H.
Dubois opened a box, took out a kind of paste in which he was about to take the impression of the seal, when he observed that from the manner in which it was folded, he could read it without opening. It was as follows:
"The person who sent for me at Bretagne is coming to meet me here instead of waiting at Paris, so impatient is he, I am told, to see me. I think he will leave again to-night. Come to-morrow morning before nine. I will tell you all that has passed, and then we can arrange how to act."
"The person who sent for me at Bretagne is coming to meet me here instead of waiting at Paris, so impatient is he, I am told, to see me. I think he will leave again to-night. Come to-morrow morning before nine. I will tell you all that has passed, and then we can arrange how to act."
"This," said Dubois, still taking Helene for the chevalier's accomplice, "makes it clearer. If this is the way they bring up young ladies at Clisson, I congratulate them and monseigneur, who, from her age, concludes her to be simple and ingenuous. Here," said he to Owen, "here is the letter, and your ten louis."
Owen took them.
At this moment ten o'clock struck, and the rolling of a carriage was heard. Dubois went to the window, and saw it stop at the hotel door.
In the carriage was a gentleman whomDubois at once recognized as Lafare, captain of his royal highness's guards. "Well," said he, "he is more prudent than I thought; but where is he? Ah!"
This exclamation was uttered at the sight of a man dressed in the same red livery which he himself concealed under his cloak, and who followed the carriage mounted on a superb Spanish jenet, which, however, he could not have ridden long, for while the carriage horses were covered with foam, this one was quite fresh.
Lafare at once demanded a room and supper; meanwhile the man dismounted, threw the reins to a page, and went toward the pavilion.
"Well," said Dubois, "all this is as clear as a mountain stream; but how is it that the face of the chevalier does not appear? is he too much occupied with his chicken to have heard the carriage? Let us see. As to you, monseigneur," continued Dubois, "be assured; I will not disturb your tete-à-tete. Enjoy at your pleasure this commencement of ingenuity, which promises such happy results. Ah! monseigneur, it is certain that you are short-sighted."
Dubois went down, and again took up his post at his observatory. As he approached it, Gaston rose, after putting his note in his pocket-book.
"Ah," said Dubois, "I must have that pocket-book. I would pay high for it. He is going out, he buckles on his sword, he looks for his cloak; where is he going? Let us see: to wait for his royal highness's exit? No, no, that is not the face of a man who is going to kill another; I could sooner believe he was about to spend the evening under the windows of his sweetheart.
"Ah, if he had that idea it would be a means—"
It would be difficult to render the expression which passed over the face of Dubois at this moment.
"Yes, but if I were to get a sword-thrust in the enterprise, how monseigneur would laugh; bah! there is no danger: our men are at their post, and besides, nothing venture, nothing gain."
Encouraged by this reflection, Dubois made the circuit of the hotel, in order to appear at one end of the little lane as Gaston appeared at the other.
As he had expected, at the end of the lane he found Tapin, who had placed L'Eveille in the courtyard; in two words he explained his project. Tapin pointed out to Dubois one man leaning on the step of an outer door, a second was playing a kind of Jew's harp, and seemed an itinerant musician, and there was another, too well hidden to be seen.
Dubois, thus sure of support, returned into the lane.
He soon perceived a figure at the other end, and at once recognized the chevalier, who was too thoughtful even to notice that he was passing any one.
Dubois wanted a quarrel, and he saw that he must take the initiative. He turned and stopped before the chevalier, who was trying to discover which were the windows of the room in which Helene was.
"My friend," said he roughly, "what are you doing at this hour before this house?"
Gaston was obliged to bring back his thoughts to the materialism of life.
"Did you speak to me, monsieur?" said he.
"Yes," replied Dubois, "I asked what you were doing here."
"Pass on," said the chevalier; "I do not interfere with you; do not interfere with me."
"That might be," said Dubois, "if your presence did not annoy me."
"This lane, narrow as it is, is wide enough for both, monsieur; walk on one side, and I will walk on the other."
"I wish to walk alone," said Dubois, "therefore, I beg you will choose some other window; there are plenty at Rambouillet to choose from."
"And why should I not look at these windows if I choose?" asked Chanlay.
"Because they are those of my wife," replied Dubois.——"Of your wife!"
"Yes; of my wife, who has just arrived from Paris, and of whom I am jealous, I warn you."
"Diable," murmured Gaston; "he must be the husband of the person to whom Helene has been given in charge;" and in order to conciliate a person who might be useful to him—
"Monsieur," said he politely, "in that case I am willing to leave a place where I was walking without any object in view."
"Oh," thought Dubois, "here is a polite conspirator; I must have a quarrel."
Gaston was going away.
"You are deceiving me, monsieur," said Dubois.
The chevalier turned as though he had been bitten by a serpent; however, prudent for the sake of Helene, and for the mission he had undertaken, he restrained himself.
"Is it," said he, "because I was polite that you disbelieve my word?"
"You spoke politely because you were afraid; but it is none the less true that I saw you looking at that window."
"Afraid—I afraid!" cried Chanlay, facing him; "did you say that I was afraid?"
"I did," replied Dubois.
"Do you, then, seek a quarrel?"
"It appears so. I see you come from Quimper—Corentin."
"Paques-Dieu!" said Gaston, drawing his sword, "draw!"
"And you, off with your coat," said Dubois, throwing off his cloak, and preparing to do the same with his coat.
"Why so?" asked the chevalier.
"Because I do not know you, monsieur, and because those who walk at night frequently have their coat prudently lined with a shirt of mail."
At these words the chevalier's cloak and coat were thrown aside; but, at the moment when Gaston was about to rush on his adversary, the four men appeared and seized him.
"A duel, monsieur," cried they, "in spite of the king's prohibition!" and they dragged him toward the door.
"An assassination," murmured Gaston, not daring to cry out, for fear of compromising Helene; "cowards!"
"We are betrayed, monsieur," said Dubois, rolling up Gaston's cloak and coat, and putting them under his arm; "we shall meet again to-morrow, no doubt."
And he ran toward the hotel, while they shut up Gaston in the lower room.
Dubois ran up the staircase and into his room, where he opened the precious pocket-book. He found in one pocket a broken coin and a man's name. This coin was evidently a sign of recognition, and the name was probably that of the man to whom Gaston was addressed, and who was called Captain la Jonquiere. The paper was oddly folded.
"La Jonquiere," said Dubois; "we have our eyes onhimalready."
He looked over the rest of the pocket-book—there was nothing.
"It is little," said Dubois, "but it is enough."
He folded a paper like the other, took the name, and rang the bell.
Some one knocked; the door was fastened inside. "I forgot," said Dubois, opening it, and giving entrance to Monsieur Tapin.
"What have you done with him?"
"He is in the lower room, and watched."
"Take back his cloak and coat to the place where he threw them; make your excuses, and set him free. Take care that everything is in his pockets, so that he may suspect nothing. Bring me my coat and cloak."
Monsieur Tapin bowed low, and went to obey his orders.
All this passed, as we have said, in the lane under Helene's windows. She had heard the noise; and, as among the voices she thought she distinguished that of the chevalier, she ran anxiously to the window, when, at the same moment, Madame Desroches appeared.
She came to beg Helene to go into the drawing-room, as the visitor had arrived.
Helene started, and nearly fell; her voice failed her, and she followed, silent and trembling.
The room into which Madame Desroches led her was without any light, exceptwhat was thrown on the carpet by the last remains of a fire. Madame Desroches threw some water over the flame, and left the room entirely dark.
Begging Helene to have no fear, Madame Desroches withdrew. The instant after, Helene heard a voice behind the fourth door, which had not yet opened.
She started at the sound, and involuntarily made a few steps toward the door.
"Is she ready?" said the voice.
"Yes, monseigneur," was the reply.
"Monseigneur!" murmured Helene; "who is coming, then?"
"Is she alone?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"Is she aware of my arrival?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"We shall not be interrupted?"
"Monseigneur may rely upon me."
"And no light?"
"None whatever."
The steps approached, then stopped.
"Speak frankly, Madame Desroches," said the voice. "Is she as pretty as they said?"
"More beautiful than your highness can imagine."
"Your highness! who can he be?" thought Helene, much agitated.
At this moment the door creaked on its hinges and a heavy step approached.
"Mademoiselle," said the voice, "I beg you to receive and hear me."
"I am here," said Helene, faintly.
"Are you frightened?"
"I confess it, mon—Shall I say 'monsieur' or 'monseigneur'?"
"Say 'my friend.'"
At this moment her hand touched that of the unknown.
"Madame Desroches, are you there?" asked Helene, drawing back.
"Madame Desroches," said the voice, "tell mademoiselle that she is as safe as in a temple before God."
"Ah! monseigneur, I am at your feet, pardon me."
"Rise, my child, and seat yourself there. Madame Desroches, close all the doors; and now," continued he, "give me your hand, I beg."
Helene's hand again met that of the stranger, and this time it was not withdrawn.
"He seems to tremble also," murmured she.
"Tell me are you afraid, dear child?"
"No," replied Helene; "but when your hand clasps mine, a strange thrill passes through me."
"Speak to me, Helene," said the unknown, with an expression of tenderness. "I know already that you are beautiful, but this is the first time I have heard your voice. Speak—I am listening."
"But have you seen me, then?" asked Helene.
"Do you remember that two years ago the abbess had your portrait taken?"
"Yes, I remember—an artist came expressly from Paris."
"It was I who sent him."
"And was the portrait for you?"
"It is here," said the unknown, taking from his pocket a miniature, which Helene could feel, though she could not see it.
"But what interest could you have in the portrait of a poor orphan?"
"Helene, I am your father's friend."
"My father! Is he alive?"
"Yes."
"Shall I ever see him?"
"Perhaps."
"Oh!" said Helene, pressing the stranger's hand, "I bless you for bringing me this news."
"Dear child!" said he.
"But if he be alive," said Helene, "why has he not sought out his child?"
"He had news of you every month; and though at a distance, watched over you."
"And yet," said Helene, reproachfully, "he has not seen me for sixteen years."
"Believe me, none but the most important reasons would have induced him to deprive himself of this pleasure."
"I believe you, monsieur; it is not for me to accuse my father."
"No; it is for you to pardon him if he accuses himself."
"To pardon him!" cried Helene.
"Yes; and this pardon, which he cannot ask for himself, I ask in his name."
"Monsieur," said Helene, "I do not understand you.'"
"Listen, then, and give me back your hand."
"Here it is."
"Your father was an officer in the king's service; at the battle of Nerwinden, where he charged at the head of the king's household troops, one of his followers, called M. de Chaverny, fell near him, pierced by a ball. Your father wished to assist him, but the wound was mortal, and the wounded man, who knew that it was so, said, 'Think not of me, but of my child.' Your father pressed his hand as a promise, and the man fell back and died, as though he only waited this assurance to close his eyes. You are listening, are you not, Helene?"
"Oh! need you ask such a question?" said the young girl.
"At the end of the campaign, your father's first care was for the little orphan. She was a charming child, of from ten to twelve years, who promised to be as beautiful as you are. The death of M. de Chaverny, her father, left her without support or fortune; your father placed her at the convent of the Faubourg Saint Antoine, and announced that at a proper age he should give her a dowry."
"I thank God," cried Helene, "for having made me the child of a man who so nobly kept his promise."
"Wait, Helene," said the unknown, "for now comes the time when your father will not receive your praises."
Helene was silent.
The unknown continued: "Your father, indeed, watched over the orphan till her eighteenth year. She was an adorable young girl, and his visits to the convent became longer and more frequent than they should have been: your father began to love his protegée. At first he was frightened at his own love, for he remembered his promise to her dying father. He begged the superior to look for a suitable husband for Mademoiselle de Chaverny, and was told that her nephew, a young Breton, having seen her, loved her, and wished to obtain her hand."
"Well, monsieur?" asked Helene, hearing that the unknown hesitated to proceed.
"Well; your father's surprise was great, Helene, when he learned from the superior that Mademoiselle de Chaverny had replied that she did not wish to marry, and that her greatest desire was to remain in the convent where she had been brought up, and that the happiest day of her life would be that on which she should pronounce her vows."
"She loved some one," said Helene.
"Yes, my child, you are right—alas! we cannot avoid our fate—Mademoiselle de Chaverny loved your father. For a long time she kept her secret, but one day, when your father begged her to renounce her strange wish to take the veil, the poor child confessed all. Strong against his love when he did not believe it returned, he succumbed when he found he had but to desire and to obtain. They were both so young—your father scarcely twenty-five, she not eighteen—they forgot the world, and only remembered that they could be happy."
"But since they loved," said Helene, "why did they not marry?"
"Union was impossible, on account of the distance which separated them. Do you not know that your father is of high station?"
"Alas! yes," said Helene, "I know it."
"During a year," continued he, "their happiness surpassed their hopes; but at the end of that time you came into the world, and then—"
"Well?" asked the young girl, timidly.
"Your birth cost your mother's life."
Helene sobbed.
"Yes," continued the unknown, in a voice full of emotion, "yes, Helene, weep for your mother; she was a noble woman, of whom, through his griefs, his pleasures, even his follies—your father retains a tender recollection; he transferred to you all his love for her."
"And yet," said Helene, "he consented to remove me from him, and has never again seen me."
"Helene, on this point pardon your father, for it was not his fault. You were born in 1703, at the most austere period of Louis XIV.'s reign; your father was already out of favor with the king, or rather with Madame de Maintenon; and for your sake, as much or more than for his, he sent you into Bretagne, confiding you to Mother Ursula, superior of the convent where you were brought up. At length, Louis XIV. being dead, and everything having changed through all France, it is decided to bring you nearer to him. During the journey, however, you must have seen that his care was over you, and when he knew that you were at Rambouillet, he could not wait till to-morrow—he is come to you here, Helene."
"Oh, mon Dieu!" cried Helene, "is this true?"
"And in seeing, or rather in listening to you, he thinks he hears your mother—the same accent in the voice. Helene, Helene, that you may be happier than she was is his heartfelt prayer!"
"Oh, heavens!" cried Helene, "this emotion, your trembling hand. Monsieur, you said my father is come to meet me."
"Yes."
"Here at Rambouillet?"
"Yes."
"You say he is happy to see me again?"
"Oh yes, very happy!"
"But this happiness was not enough, is it not so? He wished to speak to me, to tell me himself the story of my life—that I may thank him for his love—that I may fall at his feet, that I may ask his blessing. Oh!" cried Helene, kneeling, "oh, I am at your feet; bless me, father!"
"Helene, my child, my daughter!" cried the unknown, "not at my feet, but in my arms!"
"My father, my father!" was Helene's only reply.
"And yet," continued he, "I came with a different intention, prepared to deny all, to remain a stranger to you; but having you so near me, pressing your hand, hearing your voice, I had not the strength; but do not make me repent my weakness, and let secrecy—"
"I swear by my mother's grave," cried Helene.
"That is all I desire," cried the unknown. "Now listen, for I must leave you."
"What, already!"
"It must be so."
"Speak, then, my father. I am ready to obey you."
"To-morrow you leave for Paris; there is a house there destined for you. Madame Desroches will take you there, and at the very first moment that I can do so, I will come there to see you."
"Soon, I hope, for do not forget that I am alone in the world."
"As soon as possible;" and pressing his lips to Helene's forehead, the unknown imprinted on it one of those kisses as sweet to the heart of a father as a kiss of love to the heart of a lover.
Ten minutes later Madame Desroches entered with a light. Helene was on her knees praying; without rising, she signed to Madame Desroches to place the light on the chimney-piece, which that lady did, and then retired.
Helene, after praying for some time, rose, and looked around her as though for some evidence that the whole was not a dream; her own emotion, however, assured her that it was really a great event in her life which had taken place. Then the thought of Gaston rose to her mind; this father whom she had so dreaded to see—this father, who himself had loved so ardently and suffered so deeply, would not do violence to her love; besides, Gaston was a scion of an ancient house, and beyond all this, she loved him, so that she would die if she were separated from him, and her father would not wish her death.
The obstacles on Gaston's side could be but the right, and would doubtless be easily overcome, and Helene fell asleep to dream of a happy and smiling future.
Gaston, on his part, set at liberty with many apologies from those who pretended to have mistaken him for another person, went back to fetch his coat and cloak, which he was overjoyed to find where he had left them; he anxiously opened his pocket-book—it was as he had left it, andfor greater safety he now burned the address of La Jonquiere. He gave his orders for the next day to Owen and retired.
Meanwhile, two carriages rolled away from the door of the Tigre-Royal; in the first were two gentlemen in traveling costume, preceded and followed by outriders.
In the second was a single traveler, wrapped in a large cloak; this carriage followed close behind the other as far as the Barriere de l'Etoile, where they separated, and while the first stopped at the Palais Royal, the other drew up at the Rue de Valois.