CHAPTER IIITHE PARTING OF THE WAYS
Iwalkedrapidly toward the Vallée Misère, looking neither to the right nor to the left of me. What had happened had not been my fault. The quarrel was none of my seeking, and Lignières would have surely killed me if the luck had been with him. And yet I shuddered at it all. Though I had taken life before, it was in the heat of battle, and the thing had left no impression upon me. But work of this kind was new to me, and, despite my four campaigns and a soldier’s life, it was the first time that a man had died thus at my hands. I felt it as a presage of ill-fortune to come, and full of useless regrets and gloomy forebodings, I moodily paced the foreshore of the river watching the sunset fade from gold to purple, and from purple to gray, that lightened again as the moon rose and hung heavily in the sky, throwing her soft beams on the shadowy, irregular lines of the city and gleaming in scales of silver on the lapping waters of the Seine.
It was whilst I stood thus for a moment that I once more heard the voice of the Capuchin uttering his dismal cry:
“Alms! Alms! He who giveth unto the poor, lendeth unto the Lord.”
He seemed to be coming my way, and the voice sounded quite close. I glanced back, but could see nothing for the quaking mist that rose slowly from the moist banks. Near me was a small boat, and, without more ado, I stepped in and told the boatman to row me down the river. I did this on the impulse of the moment, for I felt it was impossible for me to meet the friar again.
I was soon out in mid-stream, far from his presence and out of earshot of his doleful cry, and the boatman, resting on his oars, allowed the skiff to drift slowly down the current. Finally we floated opposite the façade of the Louvre. It was ablaze with light, and, from where I was, I could distinctly see dark shadows flitting hastily to and fro across the windows, and then the trumpets of the archers sounded the assemble, the brazen notes coming harshly to us across the night.
Leaning forward on his oars as we rocked on the waters, the boatman asked:
“The King goes to-night, does he not, monsieur?”
“So ’tis said,” I answered shortly, and then, “Take me back to the quay.”
The man shrugged his shoulders and did as he was bidden. It was none of his business where his fares wanted to be taken, as long as they paid him; and, as we touched the bank, I dropped a gold Henri into his palm and sprang ashore, leaving him alternately looking at the coin and staring after me in blank amazement as I hurriedalong the quay. I had, however, effected my object and avoided the Capuchin, and, in my present frame of mind, that was worth even more than the gold piece I placed in the boatman’s hands.
It now wanted but a half-hour to compline, and with a beating heart I hurried on to keep my tryst. The shortest way was by the old church of St. Thomas, and turning sharply to my right, I followed the narrow street until I had passed the Magasins. A little beyond was the riding school, and beyond that again the grove of lime-trees, in which I had told Badehorn to keep the horses. I hastened thither, and found him there.
He had left my house soon after I had, and could give me no news of what had happened since. But I afterward learned that shortly after I had gone, M. de Bresy, with some of the archer-guard, had arrived to effect my arrest, and failing in that, had destroyed almost everything they could lay their hands on. It was the fortune of war; but on a subsequent occasion I had my turn with de Bresy, as will be seen hereafter. Having seen that the horses were safe, I retraced my steps until I came to the wicket-gate. Opening it with my key, I stepped in, and found myself in the outer gardens of the Louvre. A long avenue of trees stretched before me, the grass-grown ride between them in checkered light and shade. To the left rose the walls of the ridingschool, and beyond was the gray line of the inner wall of the Louvre, and the terraces of the private gardens of the palace; but there was no soul to be seen.
“Marie! Marie!” I called out in a low but clear voice.
There was no answer. Overhead the leaves shivered, and from without the hum of the city came to me, rising and falling with the wind like the murmur of distant waves on a lone seashore.
Was she going to fail me? Had anything happened to prevent her coming? I felt my heart grow cold at the thought, and peering into the moonlit night listened and listened full of anxious fears; but I heard no sound of advancing footsteps, saw nothing but the ivy-grown walls of the riding school, the wavering trees, and the phantom outlines of the Louvre looming vast and gigantic in the night.
All at once from the Queen’s Terrace I heard the challenge of a sentry, and as it died away the bells of the Augustins began to sound the compline, and abbey and church took up the peal till all Paris rang with the musical chime of bells.
“She cannot be long now,” I muttered, to assure myself, and then my straining eyes saw a gray figure flit across a band of light in the avenue, and still keeping under cover of the trees I hastened toward it. Nearer and nearer came thefigure. It was Marie, and stepping out from the shadow, I called:
“Marie! It is I—Vibrac.”
She stopped, hesitated, then came forward slowly, and taking her hand in mine, I drew her toward me. For one brief moment she remained thus, her head resting upon my shoulder, and strong man as I was, I stood there shivering at her touch like the leaves of the trees above me.
“At last!” I murmured, “at last!” But my voice seemed to bring her to herself. With a little gasp she freed herself from me, and when I would have restrained her she exclaimed:
“Let me go! I cannot talk like this. I want to tell you something.”
“Marie! There is but little time.”
“But time for what I have to say. Oh, Vibrac! Have you thought of what this will all lead to?”
“To happiness for us.”
“Happiness! Do you think there can be happiness when there will be nothing but useless regrets for the past that can never be undone. With time you will realize all this. You will hate and despise me.”
“Marie!”
“Yes, hate and despise me for what I am. And I—even now I hate—I despise myself.”
“Marie! What new madness is this? Surely you do not doubt me? I love you and you only. Far away from France what shall we care of babblers who talk? What is the world to uswho are all in all to each other?” And in my eagerness I placed my hand on her arm.
“Yes, all in all in sin, and we cannot go away from ourselves. Don’t touch me now. I must say what I came to tell you. Monsieur, I will save you from yourself—I must save myself too!” And then, with pitiful entreaty in her voice, “Oh, Vibrac! Give me strength. Help me a little!”
“I—I do not understand,” I stammered, though I knew well what she meant.
“You do not understand? You must. Oh, Vibrac! Do you not see that in a moment of wicked folly we resolved to take a step from which there can be no withdrawal. Oh! I do not blame you. It was my fault to have listened to you, to have led you on unwittingly—and you are but a boy still! But I want you to be a brave man. Banish me from your thoughts! I am not what you think—but, God knows, I am not a bad woman—and there is time yet to draw back—to save myself and you.”
“You would desert me?” I asked bitterly, a dull despair in my heart.
“No!” she answered, the low, rich tones of her voice vibrating through the night. “I would stand by you and recall you to your strength. God would desert us if we did this thing.”
“We should have thought of that before—it is too late now.”
“No—it is not too late—you must do as I tell you.”
But I was not going to let her slip through my hands. I had paid for her with my honor. For her sake my hands were red, and Lignières lay stark and dead. I had earned my reward and would have it, and, mad at the thought of losing her, I gripped her by the arm, and—the shame of it—I told her I would slay her and myself, rather than lose her.
She made no answer, but remained calmly looking at me as I stood in front of her, the hot blood throbbing in my head, my breath coming thick and fast. There, as we faced each other, the moon passed the shadow of the trees and threw its light on her, keeping me still in darkness. She was pale as the dead, but she neither flinched nor showed the slightest sign of fear, and we remained thus for a minute—a minute that might have been an hour, so slowly did it pass. At last she spoke.
“Do you think I fear death? Not now, Vibrac! Not now! If it came it would be a just punishment—an expiation,” but even as she spoke I felt the sting of shame at my unmanly words, words uttered in the madness of one who was beside himself, and I loosed my hand from her arm.
“God forgive me!” I cried, “I did not mean that.”
“God has much to forgive us both, Vibrac. Oh, monsieur, we are both on the threshold of a great sin, and I am a weak woman and you a man.Give me strength! Help me to do what is right!”
Help her! It was I who needed help, not Marie.
“You never loved me!” I exclaimed in my bitterness.
“I cannot love you in the way you want,” and then coming closer to me she placed her hand on my shoulder with a tender, almost caressing touch, and looked into my eyes. “Listen, monsieur!” she said. “If it will help you to be yourself I will tell you of myself. I never knew my own heart until I left you to-day—and I left you after hearing every word that passed between you and my husband. I thought his love was gone from me, and it was a desperate, foolish woman who promised you what she did. I know now that Marcilly loves me still, and with God’s help I mean to be a better woman and deserve his love. On the brink of the precipice I have saved myself and saved you, and, monsieur, my weakness has passed now, and I will do what is right.”
She paused as if waiting for an answer, but I could say nothing. In my heart I knew she was right. Yet it was as if all the brightness had gone out of my life, and I stood there numbed and speechless.
“Say something, Vibrac!” she exclaimed. “Tell me you have forgiven an erring woman, who has caused you all this pain. Say, you will try and do what I ask, and forget me!”
I turned from her, and walked slowly across the ride, my head held down, my hands clenched in an agony. All that was good in me rose and clamored for her pleading. The strength that had come to her seemed to bring strength to me, and when I faced her again I was victor over myself.
“Let it be as you wish,” I said hoarsely. “Good-by!”
“Good-by!” And our hands met. And then womanlike she spoke again.
“Monsieur! You must never see me again. But I will hear of you, and let me hear you are still, what I have always heard and known you to be—a brave and noble gentleman.”
Bowing low I touched her hand with my lips, and then releasing it, stepped aside and lifted my hat.
“Good-by!” she said again softly, and turning, passed swiftly and silently, like a ghost, up the long avenue. Once she stopped, where the moonlight shone brightly, and looked back, and then she was gone.
Near me lay the mouldering trunk of a fallen tree. I sat down there and stared stupidly before me. Something of the resolve, something of the unspoken promise I had made to her, came to me to give me strength. Yes, I would forget her. I would carry with me into my new life no memory of her. I slipped my hand in my breast pocket for the letters and the glove—to destroy them. They were gone, and with them the scroll ofnames. In my horror at the loss I sprang to my feet, and searched around me; but with no avail; and then, the parting words of the Capuchin came to me, and for the first time I grasped their full meaning. I had indeed done the Queen-Mother and the tyrants of Guise a service, when I left my coat by the side of the spy—for a spy he must have been—and he had the letters, and the scroll with the list of names.
Cursing my folly a hundred times as I reflected how useless it would be to try and find the man now, I hurried back to Badehorn, and half an hour later had left Paris forever.
And so came the parting of the ways. Full of resolve to conquer the past, I flung myself heart and soul into the great enterprise that ended in disaster at Amboise. By strange fortune, I served again with Marcilly, and strove to efface by my loyalty and zeal the memory of the wrong I would have done him. Then I heard that husband and wife were reconciled, though she still remained at Orleans with the Court, and the thought that she had hopelessly passed out of my life maddened and tortured me beyond endurance. I began slowly to fall back into my former state. I began to absolutely hate Marcilly as the man who had taken away from me my only chance of happiness, and after that I was ready to yield to temptation.
Things went against us, as all the world knows. Then came the news of the arrest and imprisonmentof the Prince of Condé. It came to us at Châtillon, whither the Princess of Condé had sought refuge with a few devoted adherents, amongst whom was Jean de Marcilly; and there, too, befell that which led me, step by step, along the Traitor’s Way.