CHAPTER XVIIIMARIE
“What! Do you not stay for dinner?”
It was de Bresy who spoke as I was mounting my horse. He was leaning over the parapet that crowned the gateway, and looking down at me with a curious, suspicious glance in his eyes.
“No!” I answered carelessly, as I gained the saddle. “I am due at the palace this afternoon, and have made my excuse to His Highness. By the way, you have later news than I, monsieur—does the King’s improvement continue?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “’Tis said he had a good night.”
“May it lead to many better!Au revoir!I trust you will win your match at tennis.”
“Would you care to lay anything on Marcilly?” asked de Bresy, with a gambler’s eagerness for a wager, and I humored him.
“Another ten to the Prince’s, if you like,” and I steadied my fretting nag.
“Done with you!” he replied, and so wishing him the day once more, and taking one of the Swiss with me, I trotted off, outwardly calm,but inwardly a prey to a hundred conflicting emotions.
I had just left two men, one of whom had done a generous thing, while the other had performed a great and noble action. In realizing that in this they had gone far beyond me, so strangely was I constituted that I felt a jealous anger at the thought of their nobleness. In soul I had already sunk so low, that I began to hate anything that was good, or rather to think that I hated it, and this, in effect, is the same thing. Yet, with all this, I saw my own fault. I felt that I was wrong, and almost despised myself. Even then I had a chance—up to the last moment I might have saved myself, but for that mad longing for revenge on the woman whom I accused in my heart of having brought me to this level. There are those who will say I was beside myself; that no one, short of an idiot and a fool, could have jumped to the conclusions I had done; that the thing was, and is, impossible. My answer is, that it was just because I was beside myself, it was just because I was blind and frenzied with my own passions, that I did what I did, and I may add that, in my opinion, all such crimes as mine are due to the same cause, to the temporary mental paralysis that makes one unable to follow the right path. It is only necessary to look around, and a hundred such instances may be seen—none, perhaps, so black and damning as mine.
With these conflicting emotions in my mind, I was going across the square of Ste. Croix, when I once again met Achon and his suite. They were evidently returning from the palace, when we crossed each other, coming almost face to face, and this time Achon greeted me, saying as he did so:
“Monsieur! A word with you, with your permission.”
“It cannot, I imagine, be to seek alms for the poor,” I answered with a sneer—I wished the man to know that I was aware of the part he had played in Rue des Lavandières. But his face remained immovable, as he looked at me coldly, saying:
“It was not only to seek alms that I was in the Rue des Lavandières—there were other things I wanted—some I got——”
“Stole, rather! That list of names! Those——”
“Letters,” he interrupted, still with that cold smile on his face. “They were even more interesting than the scroll. Bah! Monsieur de Vibrac! I thought better of you. I little imagined you could be the plaything of a coquette!”
I winced at the words, and he went on: “Such women as that take the soul out of a man. They should be destroyed like vampires.”
“Is this all you have to say?” I asked unsteadily as we rode side by side slowly down the Rue Jeanne d’Arc.
“No, monsieur; events are moving more rapidlythan I thought, and it becomes necessary for us to move with them.”
“Indeed!” I replied. “I see not how the matter concerns me.”
“Is your memory defective?” he asked, with a sneer.
“On the contrary, it is peculiarly retentive.” There was something in my voice, low as it was, something in the words, that had a convincing effect, and Achon appreciated the position. His tone and manner changed on the instant, and it was with a cat-like, caressing purr that he said:
“Your pardon, de Vibrac! The old Adam comes out in me too often, I fear, long and painfully though I have borne the cross——” But, still hot with resentment and the thoughts he had inspired, I interrupted him.
“Monsieur, I am pressed for time.”
“And so am I,” with a quick, almost imperceptible change to his former manner. “You have not forgotten our little agreement.”
“I have already said that my memory is retentive.”
“Ah! You men of war are like flint and steel.” The shadow of a smile flickered over his thin, red lips. “I but recalled you to that promise, monsieur, because I would like it fulfilled to-night.”
“To-night?”
“Yes. A few hours sooner or later can matter little to you.”
“Not a rush! When and where?”
“An hour after compline, in the priory of the Jacobins. You know it?”
“There will be no difficulty in finding it out.”
“And you will come?”
“Yes,” I answered slowly, and then leaning forward, he touched me slightly on the arm.
“I will return you those letters there if you do what I want. They are useless to me—but to you——” And he simply looked at me, the unspoken sentence in his eyes.
I felt my heart beat at his words, but said nothing; and Achon continued:
“You will be punctual, monsieur—a good day!”
And this strange man rode on, leaving me a prey to a hundred emotions. For a moment I held my horse reined in, and then, turning, rode on toward the palace.
On entering the gates I found the courtyard crowded, and there was evidently an unwonted commotion; but I stopped to make no inquiry, and, dismounting from my horse, gave the trooper the reins, and walked up the steps, feeling with my hand at my breast-pocket to discover if the letter Marcilly had given me was safe. It was there; but the touch seemed to burn me, and, dropping my hand, I joined the throng at the main entrance.
So great was the crush that at first I could make no way; and, leaning against a pillar, cast about to see if there was any one I knewwho would conduct me to Madame de Marcilly. Not a face could I recognize, until at last I saw Lorgnac a few yards from me. As often happens in a crowd, I had looked at the spot where he was ten times before without noticing him, and then his face flashed upon me as if he had sprung from nowhere. He caught my eye as I looked, nodded and smiled, and finally I edged myself to his side, and we exchanged greetings.
“There is something more than usual going on to-day, is there not?” I asked.
“I believe news has come that has fluttered the dovecotes here a little. All sorts of rumors are afloat. They say that Coligny and the Huguenots are in arms, and that the Constable, with ten thousand men, is marching to cut off our retreat to Paris.”
“Ha! The usual stories when no one knows anything, I suppose.”
“Nevertheless, there is something afoot—and Richelieu swears they mean to hasten the execution of the Prince.”
“Richelieu! He would be likely to know.”
“Probably, but I never trust Richelieu. He appears to have fallen into some sort of disgrace since last evening, for de Baillieul is on guard at the council chamber, and I know that he was refused an audience by the Queen-Mother this morning.”
“I could explain that, I think, were there time; but, monsieur, I have a favor to ask. I have animportant letter to deliver to Madame de Marcilly. Can you tell me where I could find her?”
He laughed a little as he answered: “I’m afraid I’m not much of a squire of dames, and hardly ever know the order of the day for the ladies-in-waiting. Madame is probably with the Queen-Mother, or perhaps in the gallery overlooking what we call the Queen’s Terrace.”
“Diable!” I exclaimed, with an affectation of cheerfulness, “I know no more of this place than if I were a blind man in a labyrinth. How am I to find her?”
“I’ll guide you as far as I am able,” he said good-naturedly, and, thanking Lorgnac, I followed him as he made his way slowly through the crowd, and eventually into the corridor through which we had passed the night before, when seeking Catherine’s cabinet.
When about the middle of the corridor Lorgnac stopped before a door.
“This will take you into the gallery,” he said. “You will find little Crequi in waiting at the other end, and he will tell you more than I can. I never venture there, so now sayau revoir!”
With a word or so of thanks for his kindness, I put my hand to the door, and, passing through it, found myself in the gallery. It stretched along a wing of the palace overlooking a terrace laid out as a garden, which hung over the cloisters of the courtyard beneath. I had scarce taken ten steps when a little burst of laughter came upto me from the terrace, and with it my own name pronounced in a woman’s voice. Glancing out through the window, I saw, seated on a rustic bench immediately beneath me, two ladies, wrapped in long cloaks, for the day was cold. The one was La Limeuil, the other the woman over whom my life was wrecked. I stood for a moment watching them—it was only on one of them that my eyes were fixed, and as I looked on those clear-cut, delicate features, and the limpid blue eyes, and the rippling flaxen curls that escaped from her silken hood, all the love I thought was gone came back, and I stood there, trembling, and all but unable to move.
That face could never have played the traitor! No! I had misjudged it. I was wrong, a hundred times wrong. It was not for me to bring sorrow to those eyes, so honest and true—I who had escaped but by a hand’s breadth from shadowing them with eternal sorrow. In that moment I forgot my vengeance, forgot all. I was only conscious of the fact that I was near her. I rested my hand on the marble balustrade and looked. I would draw back. I would hold fast by the vows I had sworn to myself on that night when I spurred from the gates of Paris, leaving, as I thought, my sin behind me; and even as my mind worked so, the other woman, Isabel de Limeuil, spoke, and speech and answer struck me like a blow on the face.
“As I was saying, I saw him, your old friend,de Vibrac. Is it true that he weds Favras’ daughter, that little Yvonne de Mailly?”
Marie de Marcilly opened and shut the gold stopper of her vinaigrette as she answered: “I neither know nor care. Monsieur de Vibrac’s affairs do not interest me in the least.”
But the other was not to be denied, and with the feline cruelty of her sex she thrust in a pin.
“He adored you once—did he not?”
Marie laughed. “Whoever can remember a year back? The trifling of an hour passes with the hour, and one forgets it with one’s old gloves or a worn-out mask.”
I caught my breath. It was true then! Achon’s words—the thoughts that had come to me last night—were they not true—proved to the very hilt? But I would have measure for measure, and, waiting to hear no more, I drew back, the hot blood burning within me.
How little did I know that complex thing—a woman! I judged her from the standpoint of a man, forgetting that a woman never speaks out her whole thoughts, perhaps because she herself does not know what those thoughts are, perhaps because by her very nature she can never have complete self-knowledge, and so remains a sphinx to man and a mystery to herself.
I walked slowly up the gallery, hurt, wounded, all the savage in me roused. I had half a mind to turn on my heel, to see her no more, to give Marcilly’s letter to the nearest page to deliver toher, and to ride back, leaving her to her fate. When what was to happen was known, the avarice of Achon, the fears of Catherine, and the ferocity of the Guise would show no mercy—and she deserved none at my hands. Why should I move a finger to save her, this woman who could kill a man’s soul? And so, as I brooded, the tempter to whose counsels I was ever a ready listener whispered again in my ear, and I almost laughed as the infernal plan developed before me like lightning. Yes! There was a sweetness in the thought of such a vengeance that filled me with an unholy joy. From that moment I was lost—I had come forth from the gates of the temple, and the doors were shut behind me.
Near the end of the gallery where I had halted was a stairway leading down to the terrace below. I made a step toward it, hesitated, and then boldly descended; as I reached the last step coming face to face with the two, who had risen from their seats and were walking along the terrace.
We bowed to each other formally. Marie did not give me her hand, though the color left her cheek, and her companion glanced from one to another of us with a slightly malicious look, as if enjoying the situation; but I gave her little for her satisfaction, for, drawing my letter forth, I presented it, saying calmly:
“From Monsieur le Comte, madame, and I have besides a message for you.”
“I thank you, Monsieur de Vibrac,” she answered, while Mademoiselle de Limeuil, catching the meaning of my last words, cut in: “It is my hour for attendance, I believe—you will excuse me,” and with a little nod and a smile she ran up the steps, leaving us together.
Ay! Even as I stood there watching her, the letter in her hand, and her eyes turned to me with a mute inquiry in them, I would have spared her but for the cruel words still ringing in my ears; and, burning as I was with rage, I was overawed by her beauty, and stammered as I went on blundering:
“I should not have come, I know, but Marcilly himself charged me with this message.”
She lifted her eyebrows slightly and laughed. “I see no reason why you should not have come, monsieur—will you permit me?” and she made as if to open the letter. She was so cool, so calm, so utterly self possessed, that it brought me to myself. She had forgotten the old glove—well, so could I. The past was dead. I was given to understand that, in the subtle, indescribable way that only a woman can, and I took my cue. Her hand was on the seal to break open the letter when I arrested her.
“One moment, madame—perhaps you had better hear my message before reading the letter.”
“Is it anything serious? Nothing has happened to Marcilly?” I winced at the eager ring in her voice.
“Nothing has happened, but what I have to say is serious enough”; and then, as we walked the length of the terrace and back, I put the matter to her, talking as if we were but acquaintances; and as we stood once more at the steps she said:
“Monsieur, I will meet you in two hours’ time on the parvis of St. Pierre.”
“That will do—but be well mounted, madame—we may have to ride.” I bowed as I took my leave, but this time she extended her hand, and, touching it with mine, I left her there. As I walked up the steps I could hear the crackling of the paper as she tore open the seals of her letter; but I would not trust myself to look again. When I had gained the corridor, I could find no trace of Lorgnac, so, after a glance around, I strolled leisurely out, and mounting my horse, rode in the direction of the Martroi, going by the Escures, so as to pass St. Pierre on the way.
I was still smarting from the effects of the words I had heard. My mind, unhinged and incapable of reason, took a sullen pleasure in recalling them and in anticipating the payment I would exact for my tortures. Wrapped in these thoughts, I took no notice of anything around, and had come opposite St. Pierre without observing it, when I heard the grating voice of Richelieu.
“Monsieur de Vibrac!” and he had steadied his horse alongside of mine.
“As you perceive, monsieur,” I answered coldly, a fierce joy swelling in my heart at the thought that here was one, at least, upon whom my pent-up wrath could break.
“You were good enough, monsieur, to observe last night that you would like to hear a word from me.”
“Now, if you like,” and I looked him full in the face.
“Nothing would suit me better but for the Edict, and there are a dozen or more of Monsieur de Cipierre’s bees about, who would soon interrupt us.”
“You would rather not go on then?” I inquired with a sneer, and his brown cheek flushed.
“On the contrary, but the place is inconvenient. Would to-night suit you? There is a full moon.”
“Nothing better; but I must ask you the favor of making your time fit in with mine, as I have an engagement to-night.”
“And so have I, but at a somewhat late hour. Would nine suit you?”
“Excellently, monsieur, and there is good ground behind Ste. Croix, I believe.”
“I know a better spot—the garden of the Jacobins. We shall be safe from interruption there.”
I started slightly at the words, and noticed, too, that Richelieu observed me, for he looked at me keenly as I answered:
“As you please, monsieur; but will it not benecessary to pass through the Priory to get to the garden?”
“There is a door opposite the inn called the Red Rabbit; you cannot mistake the sign. Be there on the stroke to nine, and knock thrice. It will be opened to you.”
“I shall not fail.”
“And I trust, monsieur, our conversation then will be agreeable to you.”
“It will be more agreeable than this, I have no doubt—your servant, Monsieur de Richelieu.”
We lifted our hats to each other, and parted as politely as if we were two friends giving each other the day. As I rode down toward the Martroi, I could not help wondering to myself at the strange coincidence, that both Richelieu and Achon should have chosen the Jacobin priory for our meeting. There was certainly something behind this, perhaps treachery to me; but come what may I was determined to keep my tryst. I was like a bear that had been baited to fury. I was strong as a bull, and had had a sword placed in my hands ere I was ten years of age. I smiled grimly as I rode under the lions above Cipierre’s gate, thinking to myself that Richelieu was likely to find our conversation more interesting than he imagined.
Once in the house, I made a hasty meal, and then went to see in what condition my horse was—the one I had used this morning having been borrowed from Cipierre. I found my naglooking sleek and fit for work, and, giving orders to have him saddled in an hour’s time, sought the great hall and flung myself into a chair near the fire. Marcilly was with the Prince. Cipierre was still at the palace, and I was glad of that. I was disinclined for company. I could not have borne to speak with any one then; I could not even think, but sat before the fire nursing my fury. At last the time came for me to start, and with a message that I would, perhaps, be late I rode out, this time alone.
Marie was already before St. Pierre as I came up. She looked pale and nervous, but her voice was firm as she replied to my apologies for not being there to receive her.
“You have not kept me waiting at all; I have but just come,” and then she went on: “It was with the greatest difficulty I got away.”
“We had better not delay a moment,” I answered, and putting our horses to the trot, we went forward at a rapid pace. Up to the time we were free of the gates we did not exchange a word, and the silence continued for a short time after, as we galloped along the winter road; but at last we reined in, to give our horses breathing space, and then she spoke.
“Monsieur,” she said, “I feel I ought to thank you for what you are doing. Believe me, I shall remember this.”
“As long as an old glove or a worn-out mask,” I said bitterly, and she flushed scarlet.
“You speak in riddles, and I am not good at guessing.” She swung her jewelled riding-whip impatiently in her hand, and it was as much as I could do to restrain myself from telling her I knew all now, every detail of the treachery by which she had lured me to love her to madness, and led me on to make sport for herself and her companions. But I held myself in. I could afford to wait, for my time was coming.
“Your pardon,” I said. “I am afraid the past year has not improved me. I have changed much in heart and feelings. I am no longer a boy.”
“Indeed!” The whip went up and down again. She was determined to have no allusion to the past, and, fool that I was, I was blundering into it more and more at each moment. “Come, monsieur!” she went on, “another half-league and we shall almost be at St. Loup,” and touching her horse lightly on the shoulder with her whip, she galloped on, I following at her heels.
We were well in the forest by this, and the early winter’s night was coming on apace. From the damp and sodden ground a gray mist had arisen, and brooded sullenly over the earth. Through the opal shadows which quivered uneasily around us, the trees held out dim skeleton arms, to which here and there clung a few withered and yellow leaves. But the sky above us was clear, and augured a fair night, and as I looked up at it I had a grim satisfaction inthinking that there would be no cloud shadows to spoil the Spanish pass, to which I fully intended to introduce Monsieur de Richelieu. We had now slackened pace again almost unconsciously, and madame asked:
“How far is it now?”
“Not a quarter of a mile,” I said, a little surprised, because I thought the road was as well known to her as to me.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, “is not that the château?” and she pointed with her riding-whip to where a vast, irregular shadow loomed between the mist and the trees.
“Yes!” I answered, and at that moment madame’s whip somehow slipped from her hand and fell to earth, where it lay with its jewelled head flashing, for all the world like a snake.
She uttered a little exclamation, and, dismounting, I picked up the whip and handed it to her, her gloved fingers touching mine for a moment. And then, I do not know how it was, but I stood there by the side of her horse, and she, playing with the handle of the whip, said in her low, sweet voice:
“Monsieur, I hear that you are to be married. If it is true, will you permit an old friend to wish you all happiness?”
The blue eyes looked down upon me kindly; there was a smile upon the arch of her lips. I had seen the temptress so before, leading me on, but though I tried to steel myself my heart beganto beat, and my voice trembled as I answered:
“The story is not true, madame; but I thank you for your good wishes.”
“I am sorry,” she answered; “I had hoped it was true.”
The time, the hour, the drawing power in her glance, was bringing me to her feet again. Could I not free myself from this Circe who looked so innocent and pure, and yet could pitilessly destroy? Was I again to dance for her amusement? I tried to speak. I meant to say something bitter, but blundered into a hopeless:
“I shall never marry.”
She smiled now, and even through the mist I could see the pink on her cheek, as she bent forward and laid her hand lightly on my shoulder.
“Come, Monsieur de Vibrac. You must get over this.”
The hand was still on my shoulder. The touch thrilled through me. I was hardly conscious of what I said, but I slipped back a year, and pleaded madly for her love. Only a few words escaped me; they were enough, however, and she stopped me, white and trembling.
“Monsieur!” she said, “you are mad! How dare you!”
“How dare I,” I repeated. And then the memory of the words I had overheard in the Queen’s Terrace came back to me, and in unmanly, bitter anger I cast them up at her.
I can see it all now: the red light of sunset broadening through the mist, the bare tree trunks burning like copper, the outlines of the château growing more solid and defined, and the figure of Marie before me. I had stepped back a pace as I spoke in my anger, and she had half turned her horse’s head toward me, listening with blazing eyes as I finished my cruel speech.
I know now that what she said was to cure me of my madness. I was fool enough to believe then every word she spoke in her hot anger.
“So you accuse me of playing with you, monsieur. You refuse to believe that a woman may have strength to save herself from being lost. You cast up in my face what I had buried, what I hoped had passed from my life forever. Well, let it be so—I wanted amusement, and you afforded it to me. You are right—I think no more of you than of an old glove or a worn-out mask.”
With that she turned her horse’s head, and, striking him smartly with the whip, galloped off in the direction of St. Loup.