I have a way with me which commonly commands respect; and when the landlord’s first terror was over and he would serve me, I managed to get my supper—the first good meal I had had in two days—pretty comfortably in spite of the soldiers’ presence. The crowd, too, which filled the room, soon began to melt. The men strayed off in groups to water their horses, or went to hunt up their quarters, until only two or three were left. Dusk had fallen outside; the noise in the street grew less. The firelight began to glow and flicker on the walls, and the wretched room to look as homely as it was in its nature to look. I was pondering for the twentieth time what step I should take next, and questioning why the soldiers were here, and whether I should let the night pass before I moved, when the door, which had been turning on its hinges almost without pause for an hour, opened again, and a woman came in.
She paused a moment on the threshold looking round, and I saw that she had a shawl on her head and a milk-pitcher in her hand, and that her feet and ankles were bare. There was a great rent in her coarse stuff petticoat, and the hand which held the shawl together was brown and dirty. More I did not see: for, supposing her to be a neighbour stolen in, now that the house was quiet, to get some milk for her child or the like, I took no farther heed of her. I turned to the fire again and plunged into my thoughts.
But to get to the hearth where the goodwife was fidgeting the woman had to pass in front of me; and as she passed I suppose that she stole a look at me from under her shawl. For just when she came between me and the blaze she uttered a low cry and shrank aside—so quickly that she almost stepped on the hearth. The next moment she turned her back to me, and was stooping whispering in the housewife’s ear. A stranger might have thought that she had trodden on a hot ember.
But another idea, and a very strange one, came into my mind; and I stood up silently. The woman’s back was towards me, but something in her height, her shape, the pose of her head hidden as it was by her shawl, seemed familiar. I waited while she hung over the fire whispering, and while the goodwife slowly filled her pitcher out of the great black pot. But when she turned to go, I took a step forward so as to bar her way. And our eyes met.
I could not see her features; they were lost in the shadow of the hood. But I saw a shiver run through her from head to foot. And I knew then that I had made no mistake.
‘That is too heavy for you, my girl,’ I said familiarly, as I might have spoken to a village wench. ‘I will carry it for you.’
One of the men, who remained lolling at the table, laughed, and the other began to sing a low song. The woman trembled in rage or fear; but she kept silence and let me take the jug from her hands; and when I went to the door and opened it, she followed mechanically. An instant, and the door fell to behind us, shutting off the light and glow, and we two stood together in the growing dusk.
‘It is late for you to be out, Mademoiselle,’ I said politely. ‘You might meet with some rudeness, dressed as you are. Permit me to see you home.’
She shuddered, and I thought that I heard her sob, but she did not answer. Instead, she turned and walked quickly through the village in the direction of the Chateau, keeping in the shadow of the houses. I carried the pitcher and walked close to her, beside her; and in the dark I smiled. I knew how shame and impotent rage were working in her. This was something like revenge!
Presently I spoke.
‘Well, Mademoiselle,’ I said, ‘where are your grooms?’
She gave me one look, her eyes blazing with anger, her face like hate itself; and after that I said no more, but left her in peace, and contented myself with walking at her shoulder until we came to the end of the village, where the track to the great house plunged into the wood. There she stopped, and turned on me like a wild creature at bay.
‘What do you want?’ she cried hoarsely, breathing as if she had been running.
‘To see you safe to the house,’ I answered coolly. ‘Alone you might be insulted.’
‘And if I will not?’ she retorted.
‘The choice does not lie with you, Mademoiselle,’ I answered sternly, ‘You will go to the house with me, and on the way you will give me an interview—late as it is; but not here. Here we are not private enough. We may be interrupted at any moment, and I wish to speak to you at length.’
‘At length?’ she muttered.
‘Yes, Mademoiselle.’
I saw her shiver. ‘What if I will not?’ she said again.
‘I might call to the nearest soldiers and tell them who you are,’ I answered coolly. ‘I might do that, but I should not. That were a clumsy way of punishing you, and I know a better way. I should go to the Captain, Mademoiselle, and tell him whose horse is locked up in the inn stable. A trooper told me—as someone had told him—that it belonged to one of his officers; but I looked through the crack, and I knew the horse again.’
She could not repress a groan. I waited; still she did not speak.
‘Shall I go to the Captain?’ I said ruthlessly.
She shook the hood back from her face and looked at me.
‘Oh, you coward! you coward!’ she hissed through her teeth. ‘If I had a knife!’
‘But you have not, Mademoiselle,’ I answered, unmoved. ‘Be good enough, therefore, to make up your mind which it is to be. Am I to go with my news to the captain, or am I to come with you?’
‘Give me the pitcher,’ she said harshly.
I did so, wondering. In a moment she flung it with a savage gesture far into the bushes.
‘Come!’ she said, ‘if you will. But some day God will punish you!’
Without another word she turned and entered the path through the trees, and I followed her. I suppose that every one of its windings, every hollow and broken place in it had been known to her from childhood, for she followed it swiftly and unerringly, barefoot as she was. I had to walk fast through the darkness to keep up with her. The wood was quiet, but the frogs were beginning to croak in the pool, and their persistent chorus reminded me of the night when I had come to the house-door, hurt and worn out, and Clon had admitted me, and she had stood under the gallery in the hall. Things had looked dark then. I had seen but a very little way ahead then. Now all was plain. The commandant might be here with all his soldiers, but it was I who held the strings.
We came to the little wooden bridge and saw beyond the dark meadows the lights of the house. All the windows were bright. Doubtless the troopers were making merry.
‘Now, Mademoiselle,’ I said quietly, ‘I must trouble you to stop here, and give me your attention for a few minutes. Afterwards you may go your way.’
‘Speak!’ she said defiantly. ‘And be quick! I cannot breathe the air where you are! It poisons me!’
‘Ah!’ I said slowly. ‘Do you think that you make things better by such speeches as those?’
‘Oh!’ she cried and I heard her teeth click together. ‘Would you have me fawn on you?’
‘Perhaps not,’ I answered. ‘Still you make one mistake.’
‘What is it?’ she panted.
‘You forget that I am to be feared as well as—loathed, Mademoiselle! Ay, Mademoiselle, to be feared!’ I continued grimly. ‘Do you think that I do not know why you are here in this guise? Do you think that I do not know for whom that pitcher of broth was intended? Or who will now have to fast to-night? I tell you I know all these things. Your house was full of soldiers; your servants were watched and could not leave. You had to come yourself and get food for him?’
She clutched at the handrail of the bridge, and for an instant clung to it for support. Her face, from which the shawl had fallen, glimmered white in the shadow of the trees. At last I had shaken her pride. At last!
‘What is your price?’ she murmured faintly.
‘I am going to tell you,’ I replied, speaking so that every word might fall distinctly on her ears, and sating my eyes the while on her proud face. I had never dreamed of such revenge as this! ‘About a fortnight ago, M. de Cocheforet left here at night with a little orange-coloured sachet in his possession.’
She uttered a stifled cry, and drew herself stiffly erect.
‘It contained—but there, Mademoiselle, you know its contents,’ I went on. ‘Whatever they were, M. de Cocheforet lost it and them at starting. A week ago he came back—unfortunately for himself—to seek them.’
She was looking full in my face now. She seemed scarcely to breathe in the intensity of her surprise and expectation.
‘You had a search made, Mademoiselle,’ I continued quietly. ‘Your servants left no place unexplored The paths, the roads, the very woods were ransacked, But in vain, because all the while the orange sachet lay whole and unopened in my pocket.’
‘No!’ she cried impetuously. ‘There, you lie sir, as usual! The sachet was found, torn open, many leagues from this place!’
‘Where I threw it, Mademoiselle,’ I replied, ‘that I might mislead your rascals and be free to return to you. Oh! believe me,’ I continued, letting something of my true self, something of my triumph, appear at last in my voice. ‘You have made a mistake! You would have done better had you trusted me. I am no bundle of sawdust, Mademoiselle, though once you got the better of me, but a man; a man with an arm to shield and a brain to serve, and—as I am going to teach you—a heart also!’
She shivered.
‘In the orange-coloured sachet that you lost I believe that there were eighteen stones of great value?’
She made no answer, but she looked at me as if I fascinated her. Her very breath seemed to pause and wait on my words. She was so little conscious of anything else, of anything outside ourselves, that a score of men might have come up behind her, unseen and unnoticed.
I took from my breast a little packet wrapped in soft leather, and I held it towards her.
‘Will you open this?’ I said. ‘I believe that it contains what your brother lost. That it contains all I will not answer, Mademoiselle, because I spilled the stones on the floor of my room, and I may have failed to find some. But the others can be recovered; I know where they are.’
She took the packet slowly and began to unroll it, her fingers shaking. A few turns and the mild lustre of the stones shone out, making a kind of moonlight in her hands—such a shimmering glory of imprisoned light as has ruined many a woman and robbed many a man of his honour. MORBLEU! as I looked at them and as she stood looking at them in dull, entranced perplexity—I wondered how I had come to resist the temptation.
While I gazed her hands began to waver.
‘I cannot count,’ she muttered helplessly. ‘How many are there?’
‘In all, eighteen.’
‘There should be eighteen,’ she said.
She closed her hand on them with that, and opened it again, and did so twice, as if to reassure herself that the stones were real and that she was not dreaming. Then she turned to me with sudden fierceness, and I saw that her beautiful face, sharpened by the greed of possession, was grown as keen and vicious as before.
‘Well?’ she muttered between her teeth.
‘Your price, man? Your price?’
‘I am coming to it now, Mademoiselle,’ I said gravely. ‘It is a simple matter. You remember the afternoon when I followed you—clumsily and thoughtlessly perhaps—through the wood to restore these things? In seeming that happened about a month ago. I believe that it happened the day before yesterday. You called me then some very harsh names, which I will not hurt you by repeating. The only price I ask for the restoration of your jewels is that you on your part recall those names.’
‘How?’ she muttered. ‘I do not understand.’
I repeated my words very slowly. ‘The only price or reward I ask, Mademoiselle, is that you take back those names and say that they were not deserved.’
‘And the jewels?’ she exclaimed hoarsely.
‘They are yours. They are not mine. They are nothing to me. Take them, and say that you do not think of me—Nay, I cannot say the words, Mademoiselle.’
‘But there is something—else! What else?’ she cried, her head thrown back, her eyes, bright as any wild animal’s, searching mine. ‘Ha! my brother? What of him? What of him, sir?’
‘For him, Mademoiselle—I would prefer that you should tell me no more than I know already,’ I answered in a low voice. ‘I do not wish to be in that affair. But yes; there is one thing I have not mentioned. You are right.’
She sighed so deeply that I caught the sound.
‘It is,’ I continued slowly, ‘that you will permit me to remain at Cocheforet for a few days while the soldiers are here. I am told that there are twenty men and two officers quartered in your house. Your brother is away. I ask to be permitted, Mademoiselle, to take his place for the time, and to be privileged to protect your sister and yourself from insult. That is all.’
She raised her hand to her head. After a long pause,—
‘The frogs!’ she muttered, ‘they croak! I can not hear.’
Then, to my surprise, she turned quickly and suddenly on her heel, and walked over the bridge, leaving me standing there. For a moment I stood aghast, peering after her shadowy figure, and wondering what had taken her. Then, in a minute or less, she came quickly back to me, and I understood. She was crying.
‘M. de Barthe,’ she said, in a trembling voice, which told me that the victory was won, ‘is there nothing else? Have you no other penance for me?’
‘None, Mademoiselle.’
She had drawn the shawl over her head, and I no longer saw her face.
‘That is all you ask?’ she murmured.
‘That is all I ask—now,’ I answered.
‘It is granted,’ she said slowly and firmly. ‘Forgive me if I seem to speak lightly—if I seem to make little of your generosity or my shame; but I can say no more now. I am so deep in trouble and so gnawed by terror that—I cannot feel anything keenly to-night, either shame or gratitude. I am in a dream; God grant that it may pass as a dream! We are sunk in trouble. But for you and what you have done, M. de Barthe—I—’ she paused and I heard her fighting with the sobs which choked her—‘forgive me... I am overwrought. And my—my feet are cold,’ she added, suddenly and irrelevantly. ‘Will you take me home?’
‘Ah, Mademoiselle,’ I cried remorsefully, ‘I have been a beast! You are barefoot, and I have kept you here.’
‘It is nothing,’ she said in a voice which thrilled me. ‘My heart is warm, Monsieur—thanks to you. It is many hours since it has been as warm.’
She stepped out of the shadow as she spoke—and there, the thing was done. As I had planned, so it had come about. Once more I was crossing the meadow in the dark to be received at Cocheforet, a welcome guest. The frogs croaked in the pool and a bat swooped round us in circles; and surely never—never, I thought, with a kind of exultation in my breast—had man been placed in a stranger position.
Somewhere in the black wood behind us—probably in the outskirts of the village—lurked M. de Cocheforet. In the great house before us, outlined by a score of lighted windows, were the soldiers come from Auch to take him. Between the two, moving side by side in the darkness, in a silence which each found to be eloquent, were Mademoiselle and I: she who knew so much, I who knew all—all but one little thing!
We reached the house, and I suggested that she should steal in first by the way she had come out, and that I should wait a little and knock at the door when she had had time to explain matters to Clon.
‘They do not let me see Clon,’ she answered slowly.
‘Then your woman must tell him,’ I rejoined, ‘or he may do something and betray me.’
‘They will not let our women come to us.’
‘What?’ I cried, astonished. ‘But this is infamous. You are not prisoners!’
Mademoiselle laughed harshly.
‘Are we not? Well, I suppose not; for if we wanted company, Captain Larolle said that he would be delighted to see us—in the parlour.’
‘He has taken your parlour?’ I said.
‘He and his lieutenant sit there. But I suppose that we rebels should be thankful,’ she added bitterly; ‘we have still our bedrooms left to us.’
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Then I must deal with Clon as I can. But I have still a favour to ask, Mademoiselle. It is only that you and your sister will descend to-morrow at your usual time. I shall be in the parlour.’
‘I would rather not,’ she said, pausing and speaking in a troubled voice.
‘Are you afraid?’
‘No, Monsieur, I am not afraid,’ she answered proudly, ‘but—’
‘You will come?’ I said.
She sighed before she spoke. At length,—
‘Yes, I will come—if you wish it,’ she answered. And the next moment she was gone round the corner of the house, while I laughed to think of the excellent watch these gallant gentlemen were keeping. M. de Cocheforet might have been with her in the garden, might have talked with her as I had talked, might have entered the house even, and passed under their noses scot-free. But that is the way of soldiers. They are always ready for the enemy, with drums beating and flags flying—at ten o’clock in the morning. But he does not always come at that hour.
I waited a little, and then I groped my way to the door and knocked on it with the hilt of my sword. The dogs began to bark at the back, and the chorus of a drinking-song, which came fitfully from the east wing, ceased altogether. An inner door opened, and an angry voice, apparently an officer’s, began to rate someone for not coming. Another moment, and a clamour of voices and footsteps seemed to pour into the hall, and fill it. I heard the bar jerked away, the door was flung open, and in a twinkling a lanthorn, behind which a dozen flushed visages were dimly seen, was thrust into my face.
‘Why, who the fiend is this?’ one cried, glaring at me in astonishment.
‘MORBLEU! It is the man!’ another shrieked. ‘Seize him!’
In a moment half a dozen hands were laid on my shoulders, but I only bowed politely.
‘The officer, my friends,’ I said, ‘M. le Capitaine Larolle. ‘Where is he?’
‘DIABLE! but who are you, first?’ the lanthorn-bearer retorted bluntly. He was a tall, lanky sergeant, with a sinister face.
‘Well, I am not M. de Cocheforet,’ I replied; ‘and that must satisfy you, my man. For the rest, if you do not fetch Captain Larolle at once and admit me, you will find the consequences inconvenient.’
‘Ho! ho!’ he said with a sneer. ‘You can crow, it seems. Well, come in.’
They made way, and I walked into the hall keeping my hat on. On the great hearth a fire had been kindled, but it had gone out. Three or four carbines stood against one wall, and beside them lay a heap of haversacks and some straw. A shattered stool, broken in a frolic, and half a dozen empty wine-skins strewed the floor, and helped to give the place an air of untidiness and disorder. I looked round with eyes of disgust, and my gorge rose. They had spilled oil, and the place reeked foully.
‘VENTRE BLEU!’ I said. ‘Is this conduct in a gentleman’s house, you rascals? MA VIE! If I had you I would send half of you to the wooden horse!’
They gazed at me open-mouthed; my arrogance startled them. The sergeant alone scowled. When he could find his voice for rage—
‘This way!’ he said. ‘We did not know that a general officer was coming, or we would have been better prepared!’ And muttering oaths under his breath, he led me down the well-known passage. At the door of the parlour he stopped. ‘Introduce yourself!’ he said rudely. ‘And if you find the air warm, don’t blame me!’
I raised the latch and went in. At a table in front of the hearth, half covered with glasses and bottles, sat two men playing hazard. The dice rang sharply as I entered, and he who had just thrown kept the box over them while he turned, scowling, to see who came in. He was a fair-haired, blonde man, large-framed and florid. He had put off his cuirass and boots, and his doublet showed frayed and stained where the armour had pressed on it. Otherwise he was in the extreme of last year’s fashion. His deep cravat, folded over so that the laced ends drooped a little in front, was of the finest; his great sash of blue and silver was a foot wide. He had a little jewel in one ear, and his tiny beard was peaked A L’ESPAGNOLE. Probably when he turned he expected to see the sergeant, for at the sight of me he rose slowly, leaving the dice still covered.
‘What folly is this?’ he cried, wrathfully. Here, sergeant! Sergeant!—without there! What the—! Who are you, sir?’
‘Captain Larolle,’ I said uncovering politely, ‘I believe?’
‘Yes, I am Captain Larolle,’ he retorted. ‘But who, in the fiend’s name, are you?’ You are not the man we are after!’
‘I am not M. Cocheforet,’ I said coolly. ‘I am merely a guest in the house, M. le Capitaine. I have been enjoying Madame de Cocheforet’s hospitality for some time, but by an evil chance I was away when you arrived.’ And with that I walked to the hearth, and, gently pushing aside his great boots which stood there drying, I kicked the logs into a blaze.
‘MILLE DIABLES!’ he whispered. And never did I see a man more confounded. But I affected to be taken up with his companion, a sturdy, white-moustachioed old veteran, who sat back in his chair, eyeing me with swollen cheeks and eyes surcharged with surprise.
‘Good evening, M. le Lieutenant,’ I said, bowing gravely. ‘It is a fine night.’
Then the storm burst.
‘Fine night!’ the Captain shrieked, finding his voice at last. ‘MILLE DIABLES! Are you aware, sir, that I am in possession of this house, and that no one harbours here without my permission? Guest? Hospitality? Bundle of fiddle-faddle! Lieutenant, call the guard! Call the guard!’ he continued passionately. ‘Where is that ape of a sergeant?’
The Lieutenant rose to obey, but I lifted my hand.
‘Gently, gently, Captain,’ I said. ‘Not so fast. You seem surprised to see me here. Believe me, I am much more surprised to see you.’
‘SACRE!’ he cried, recoiling at this fresh impertinence, while the Lieutenant’s eyes almost jumped out of his head.
But nothing moved me.
‘Is the door closed?’ I said sweetly. ‘Thank you; it is, I see. Then permit me to say again, gentlemen, that I am much more surprised to see you than you can be to see me. For when Monseigneur the Cardinal honoured me by sending me from Paris to conduct this matter, he gave me the fullest—the fullest powers, M. le Capitaine—to see the affair to an end. I was not led to expect that my plans would be spoiled on the eve of success by the intrusion of half the garrison from Auch.’
‘Oh, ho!’ the Captain said softly—in a very different tone, and with a very different face. ‘So you are the gentleman I heard of at Auch?’
‘Very likely,’ I said drily. ‘But I am from Paris, not from Auch.’
‘To be sure,’ he answered thoughtfully. ‘Eh, Lieutenant?’
‘Yes, M. le Capitaine, no doubt,’ the inferior replied. And they both looked at one another, and then at me, in a way I did not understand.
‘I think,’ said I, to clinch the matter, ‘that you have made a mistake, Captain; or the Commandant has. And it occurs to me that the Cardinal will not be best pleased.’
‘I hold the King’s commission,’ he answered rather stiffly.
‘To be sure,’ I replied. ‘But, you see, the Cardinal—’
‘Ay, but the Cardinal—’ he rejoined quickly; and then he stopped and shrugged his shoulders. And they both looked at me.
‘Well?’ I said.
‘The King,’ he answered slowly.
‘Tut-tut!’ I exclaimed, spreading out my hands. ‘The Cardinal. Let us stick to him. You were saying?’
‘Well, the Cardinal, you see—’ And then again, after the same words, he stopped—stopped abruptly, and shrugged his shoulders.
I began to suspect something.
‘If you have anything to say against Monseigneur,’ I answered, watching him narrowly, ‘say it. But take a word of advice. Don’t let it go beyond the door of this room, my friend, and it will do you no harm.’
‘Neither here nor outside,’ he retorted, looking for a moment at his comrade. ‘Only I hold the King’s commission. That is all, and, I think, enough.’
‘Well—for the rest, will you throw a main?’ he answered evasively. ‘Good! Lieutenant, find a glass, and the gentleman a seat. And here, for my part, I will give you a toast The Cardinal—whatever betide!’
I drank it, and sat down to play with him; I had not heard the music of the dice for a month, and the temptation was irresistible. But I was not satisfied. I called the mains and won his crowns—he was a mere baby at the game—but half my mind was elsewhere. There was something here that I did not understand; some influence at work on which I had not counted; something moving under the surface as unintelligible to me as the soldiers’ presence. Had the Captain repudiated my commission altogether, and put me to the door or sent me to the guard-house, I could have followed that. But these dubious hints, this passive resistance, puzzled me. Had they news from Paris, I wondered? Was the King dead? Or the Cardinal ill? I asked them, but they said no, no, no to all, and gave me guarded answers. And midnight found us still playing; and still fencing.
‘The Captain is in the village,’ I replied Sternly. ‘And do you move. Move, man, and the thing will be done while you are talking about it. Set the door into the garden open—so.’
‘Certainly, it is a fine morning. And the tobacco of M. le Lieutenant—But M. le Capitaine did not—’
‘Give orders? Well, I give them,’ I answered. ‘First of all, remove these beds. And bustle, man, bustle, or I will find something to quicken you!’
In a moment—‘And M. le Capitaine’s riding-boots?’
‘Place them in the passage,’ I replied.
‘Oh! in the passage?’ He paused, looking at them in doubt.
‘Yes, booby; in the passage.’
‘And the cloaks, Monsieur?’
‘There is a bush handy outside the window. Let them air.’
‘Ohe, the bush? Well, to be sure they are damp. But—yes, yes, Monsieur, it is done. And the bolsters?’
‘There also,’ I said harshly. ‘Throw them out. Faugh! The place reeks of leather. Now, a clean hearth. And set the table before the open door, so that we may see the garden—so. And tell the cook that we dine at eleven, and that Madame and Mademoiselle will descend.’
‘Ohe! But M. le Capitaine ordered the dinner for half-past eleven.’
‘It must be advanced, then; and, mark you, my friend, if it is not ready when Madame comes down, you will suffer, and the cook too.’
When he was gone on his errand, I looked round. What else was lacking? The sun shone cheerily on the polished floor; the air, freshened by the rain which had fallen in the night, entered freely through the open doorway. A few bees lingering with the summer hummed outside. The fire crackled bravely; an old hound, blind and past work, lay warming its hide on the hearth. I could think of nothing more, and I stood and stood and watched the man set out the table and spread the cloth.
‘For how many, Monsieur?’ he asked in a scared tone.
‘For five,’ I answered; and I could not help smiling at myself.
For what would Zaton’s say could it see Berault turned housewife? There was a white glazed cup, an old-fashioned piece of the second Henry’s time, standing on a shelf. I took it down and put some late flowers in it, and set it in the middle of the table, and stood off myself to look at it. But a moment later, thinking I heard them coming, I hurried it away in a kind of panic, feeling on a sudden ashamed of the thing. The alarm proved to be false, however; and then again, taking another turn, I set the piece back. I had done nothing so foolish for—for more years than I like to count.
But when Madame and Mademoiselle came down, they had eyes neither for the flowers nor the room. They had heard that the Captain was out beating the village and the woods for the fugitive, and where I had looked for a comedy I found a tragedy. Madame’s face was so red with weeping that all her beauty was gone. She started and shook at the slightest sound, and, unable to find any words to answer my greeting, could only sink into a chair and sit crying silently.
Mademoiselle was in a mood scarcely more cheerful. She did not weep, but her manner was hard and fierce. She spoke absently, and answered fretfully. Her eyes glittered, and she had the air of straining her ears continually to catch some dreaded sound.
‘There is no news, Monsieur?’ she said as she took her seat. And she shot a swift look at me.
‘None, Mademoiselle.’
‘They are searching the village?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Where is Clon?’ This in a lower voice, and with a kind of shrinking in her face.
I shook my head. ‘I believe that they have him confined somewhere. And Louis, too,’ I said. ‘But I have not seen either of them.’
‘And where are—I thought these people would be here,’ she muttered. And she glanced askance at the two vacant places. The servant had brought in the meal.
‘They will be here presently,’ I said coolly. Let us make the most of the time. A little wine and food will do Madame good.’
She smiled rather sadly.
‘I think that we have changed places,’ she said. ‘And that you have turned host and we guests.’
‘Let it be so,’ I said cheerfully. ‘I recommend some of this ragout. Come, Mademoiselle, fasting can aid no one. A full meal has saved many a man’s life.’
It was clumsily said, perhaps; for she shuddered and looked at me with a ghastly smile. But she persuaded her sister to take something; and she took something on her own plate and raised her fork to her lips. But in a moment she laid it down again.
‘I cannot,’ she murmured. ‘I cannot swallow. Oh, my God, at this moment they may be taking him.’
I thought that she was about to burst into a passion of tears, and I repented that I had induced her to descend. But her self-control was not yet exhausted. By an effort, painful to see, she recovered her composure. She took up her fork, and ate a few mouthfuls. Then she looked at me with a fierce under-look.
‘I want to see Clon,’ she whispered feverishly. The man who waited on us had left the room.
‘He knows?’ I said.
She nodded, her beautiful face strangely disfigured. Her closed teeth showed between her lips. Two red spots burned in her white cheeks, and she breathed quickly. I felt, as I looked at her, a sudden pain at my heart, and a shuddering fear, such as a man, awaking to find himself falling over a precipice, might feel. How these women loved the man!
For a moment I could not speak. When I found my voice it sounded dry and husky.
‘He is a safe confidant,’ I muttered. ‘He can neither read nor write, Mademoiselle.’
‘No, but—’ and then her face became fixed. ‘They are coming,’ she whispered. ‘Hush!’ She rose stiffly, and stood supporting herself by the table. ‘Have they—have they—found him?’ she muttered. The woman by her side wept on, unconscious of what was impending.
I heard the Captain stumble far down the passage, and swear loudly; and I touched Mademoiselle’s hand.
‘They have not!’ I whispered. ‘All is well, Mademoiselle. Pray, pray calm yourself. Sit down and meet them as if nothing were the matter. And your sister! Madame, Madame,’ I cried, almost harshly, ‘compose yourself. Remember that you have a part to play.’
My appeal did something. Madame stifled her sobs. Mademoiselle drew a deep breath and sat down; and though she was still pale and still trembled, the worst was past.
And only just in time. The door flew open with a crash. The Captain stumbled into the room, swearing afresh.
‘SACRE NOM DU DIABLE!’ he cried, his face crimson with rage. ‘What fool placed these things here? My boots? My—’
His jaw fell. He stopped on the word, stricken silent by the new aspect of the room, by the sight of the little party at the table, by all the changes I had worked.
‘SAINT SIEGE!’ he muttered. ‘What is this?’ The Lieutenant’s grizzled face peering over his shoulder completed the picture.
‘You are rather late, M. le Capitaine,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Madame’s hour is eleven. But, come here are your seats waiting for you.’
‘MILLE TONNERRES!’ he muttered, advancing into the room, and glaring at us.
‘I am afraid that the ragout is cold,’ I continued, peering into the dish and affecting to see nothing. ‘The soup, however, has been kept hot by the fire. But I think that you do not see Madame.’
He opened his mouth to swear, but for the moment he thought better of it.
‘Who—who put my boots in the passage?’ he asked, his voice thick with rage. He did not bow to the ladies, or take any notice of their presence.
‘One of the men, I suppose,’ I said indifferently. ‘Is anything missing?’
He glared at me. Then his cloak, spread outside, caught his eye. He strode through the door, saw his holsters lying on the grass, and other things strewn about. He came back.
‘Whose monkey game is this?’ he snarled, and his face was very ugly. ‘Who is at the bottom of this? Speak, sir, or I—’
‘Tut-tut,—the ladies!’ I said. ‘You forget yourself, Monsieur.’
‘Forget myself?’ he hissed, and this time he did not check his oath. ‘Don’t talk to me of the ladies! Madame? Bah! Do you think, fool, that we are put into rebel’s houses to bow and smile and take dancing lessons?’
‘In this case a lesson in politeness were more to the point, Monsieur,’ I said sternly. And I rose.
‘Was it by your orders that this was done?’ he retorted, his brow black with passion. Answer, will you?’
‘It was!’ I replied outright.
‘Then take that!’ he cried, dashing his hat violently in my face, ‘and come outside.’
‘With pleasure, Monsieur,’ I answered, bowing; ‘in one moment. Permit me to find my sword. I think that it is in the passage.’
I went thither to get it.
When I returned, I found that the two men were waiting for me in the garden, while the ladies had risen from the table, and were standing near it with blanched faces.
‘You had better take your sister upstairs, Mademoiselle,’ I said gently, pausing a moment beside them. ‘Have no fear. All will be well.’
But what is it?’ she answered, looking troubled. ‘It was so sudden. I am—I did not understand. You quarrelled so quickly.’
‘It is very simple,’ I answered, smiling. ‘M. le Capitaine insulted you yesterday; he will pay for it to-day. That is all. Or, not quite all,’ I continued, dropping my voice and speaking in a different tone. ‘His removal may help you, Mademoiselle. Do you understand? I think that there will be no more searching to-day.’ She uttered an exclamation, grasping my arm and peering into my face.
‘You will kill him?’ she muttered.
I nodded.
‘Why not?’ I said.
She caught her breath, and stood with one hand clasped to her bosom, gazing at me with parted lips, the blood mounting to her checks. Gradually the flush melted into a fierce smile.
‘Yes, yes, why not?’ she repeated between her teeth. ‘Why not?’ She had her hand on my arm, and I felt her fingers tighten until I could have winced. ‘Why not? So you planned this—for us, Monsieur?’
I nodded.
‘But can you?’
‘Safely,’ I said; then, muttering to her to take her sister upstairs, I turned towards the garden. My foot was already on the threshold, and I was composing my face to meet the enemy, when I heard a movement behind me. The next moment her hand was on my arm.
‘Wait! Wait a moment! Come back!’ she panted. I turned. The smile and flush had vanished; her face was pale. ‘No!’ she said abruptly. ‘I was wrong! I, will not have it. I will have no part in it! You planned it last night, M. de Barthe. It is murder.’
‘Mademoiselle!’ I exclaimed, wondering. ‘Murder? Why? It is a duel.’
‘It is murder,’ she answered persistently. ‘You planned it last night. You said so.’
‘But I risk my own life,’ I replied sharply.
‘Nevertheless—I will have no part in it,’ she answered more faintly. She was trembling with agitation. Her eyes avoided mine.
‘On my shoulders be it then!’ I replied stoutly. ‘It is too late, Mademoiselle, to go back. They are waiting for me. Only, before I go, let me beg of you to retire.’
And I turned from her, and went out, wondering and thinking. First, that women were strange things. Secondly—MURDER? Merely because I had planned the duel and provoked the quarrel! Never had I heard anything so preposterous. Grant it, and dub every man who kept his honour with his hands a Cain—and a good many branded faces would be seen in some streets. I laughed at the fancy, as I strode down the garden walk.
And yet, perhaps, I was going to do a foolish thing. The Lieutenant would still be here: a hard-bitten man, of stiffer stuff than his Captain. And the troopers. What if, when I had killed their leader, they made the place too hot for me, Monseigneur’s commission notwithstanding? I should look silly, indeed, if on the eve of success I were driven from the place by a parcel of jack-boots.
I liked the thought so little that I hesitated. Yet it seemed too late to retreat. The Captain and the Lieutenant were waiting for me in a little open space fifty yards from the house, where a narrower path crossed the broad walk, down which I had first seen Mademoiselle and her sister pacing. The Captain had removed his doublet, and stood in his shirt leaning against the sundial, his head bare and his sinewy throat uncovered. He had drawn his rapier and stood pricking the ground impatiently. I marked his strong and nervous frame and his sanguine air: and twenty years earlier the sight might have damped me. But no thought of the kind entered my head now, and though I felt with each moment greater reluctance to engage, doubt of the issue had no place in my calculations.
I made ready slowly, and would gladly, to gain time, have found some fault with the place. But the sun was sufficiently high to give no advantage to either. The ground was good, the spot well chosen. I could find no excuse to put off the man, and I was about to salute him and fall to work when a thought crossed my mind.
‘One moment!’ I said. ‘Supposing I kill you, M. le Capitaine, what becomes of your errand here?’
‘Don’t trouble yourself;’ he answered with a sneer he had misread my slowness and hesitation. ‘It will not happen, Monsieur. And in any case the thought need not harass you. I have a Lieutenant.’
‘Yes, but what of my mission?’ I replied bluntly. ‘I have no lieutenant.’
‘You should have thought of that before you interfered with my boots,’ he retorted with contempt.
‘True,’ I said overlooking his manner. ‘But better late than never. I am not sure, now I think of it, that my duty to Monseigneur will let me fight.’
‘You will swallow the blow?’ he cried, spitting on the ground offensively. ‘DIABLE!’ And the Lieutenant, standing on one side with his hands behind him and his shoulders squared, laughed grimly.
‘I have not made up my mind,’ I answered irresolutely.
‘Well, NOM DE DIEU! make it up,’ the Captain replied, with an ugly sneer. He took a swaggering step this way and that, playing his weapon. ‘I am afraid, Lieutenant, that there will be no sport to-day,’ he continued in a loud aside. ‘Our cock has but a chicken heart.’
‘Well,’ I said coolly, ‘I do not know what to do. Certainly it is a fine day, and a fair piece of ground. And the sun stands well. But I have not much to gain by killing you, M. le Capitaine, and it might get me into an awkward fix. On the other hand, it would not hurt me to let you go.’
‘Indeed!’ he said contemptuously, looking at me as I should look at a lackey.
‘No!’ I replied. ‘For if you were to say that you had struck Gil de Berault and left the ground with a whole skin, no one would believe you.’
‘Gil de Berault!’ he exclaimed frowning.
‘Yes, Monsieur,’ I replied suavely. ‘At your service. You did not know my name?’
‘I thought that your name was De Barthe,’ he said. His voice sounded queerly; and he waited for the answer with parted lips, and a shadow in his eyes which I had seen in men’s eyes before.
‘No,’ I said; ‘that was my mother’s name. I took it for this occasion only.’
His florid cheek lost a shade of its colour, and he bit his lips as he glanced at the Lieutenant, trouble in his eyes. I had seen these signs before, and knew them, and I might have cried ‘Chicken-heart!’ in my turn; but I had not made a way of escape for him—before I declared myself—for nothing, and I held to my purpose.
‘I think you will allow now,’ I said grimly, ‘that it will not harm me even if I put up with a blow!’
‘M. de Berault’s courage is known,’ he muttered.
‘And with reason,’ I said. ‘That being so suppose that we say this day three months, M. le Capitaine? The postponement to be for my convenience.’
He caught the Lieutenant’s eye and looked down sullenly, the conflict in his mind as plain as daylight. He had only to insist that I must fight; and if by luck or skill he could master me his fame as a duellist would run, like a ripple over water, through every garrison town in France and make him a name even in Paris. On the other side were the imminent peril of death, the gleam of cold steel already in fancy at his breast, the loss of life and sunshine, and the possibility of a retreat with honour, if without glory. I read his face, and knew before he spoke what he would do.
‘It appears to me that the burden is with you,’ he said huskily; ‘but for my part I am satisfied.’
‘Very well,’ I said, ‘I take the burden. Permit me to apologise for having caused you to strip unnecessarily. Fortunately the sun is shining.’
‘Yes,’ he said gloomily. And he took his clothes from the sundial and began to put them on. He had expressed himself satisfied, but I knew that he was feeling very ill-satisfied, indeed, with himself; and I was not surprised when he presently said abruptly and almost rudely, ‘There is one thing that I think we must settle here.’
‘Yes?’ I said. ‘What is that?’
‘Our positions,’ he blurted out, ‘Or we shall cross one another again within the hour.’
‘Umph! I am not quite sure that I understand,’ I said.
‘That is precisely what I don’t do—understand!’ he retorted, in a tone of surly triumph. ‘Before I came on this duty, I was told that there was a gentleman here, bearing sealed orders from the Cardinal to arrest M. de Cocheforet; and I was instructed to avoid collision with him so far as might be possible. At first I took you for the gentleman. But the plague take me if I understand the matter now.’
‘Why not?’ I said coldly.
‘Because—well, the question is in a nutshell!’ he answered impetuously. ‘Are you here on behalf of Madame de Cocheforet, to shield her husband? Or are you here to arrest him? That is what I do not understand, M. de Berault.’
‘If you mean, am I the Cardinal’s agent—I am!’ I answered sternly.
‘To arrest M. de Cocheforet?’
‘To arrest M. de Cocheforet.’
‘Well—you surprise me,’ he said.
Only that; but he spoke so drily that I felt the blood rush to my face.
‘Take care, Monsieur,’ I said severely. ‘Do not presume too far on the inconvenience to which your death might put me.’
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘No offence,’ he said. ‘But you do not seem, M. de Berault, to comprehend the difficulty. If we do not settle things now, we shall be bickering twenty times a day.’
‘Well, what do you want?’ I asked impatiently.
‘Simply to know how you are going to proceed. So that our plans may not clash.’
‘But surely, M. le Capitaine, that is my affair,’ I said.
‘The clashing?’ he answered bitterly. Then he waved aside my wrath ‘Pardon,’ he said, ‘the point is simply this. How do you propose to find him if he is here?’
‘That again is my affair,’ I answered. He threw up his hands in despair; but in a moment his place was taken by an unexpected disputant.
The Lieutenant, who had stood by all the time, listening and tugging at his grey moustache, suddenly spoke.
Look here, M. de Berault,’ he said, confronting me roughly, ‘I do not fight duels. I am from the ranks. I proved my courage at Montauban in ‘21, and my honour is good enough to take care of itself. So I say what I like, and I ask you plainly what M. le Capitaine doubtless has in his mind, but does not ask: Are you running with the hare, and hunting with the hounds in this matter? In other words, have you thrown up Monseigneur’s commission in all but name, and become Madame’s ally; or—it is the only other alternative—are you getting at the man through the women?’
‘You villain!’ I cried, glaring at him in such a rage and fury that I could scarcely get the words out. This was plain speaking with a vengeance! How dare you? How dare you say that I am false to the hand that pays me?’
I thought that he would blench, but he did not. He stood up stiff as a poker.
‘I do not say; I ask!’ he replied, facing me squarely, and slapping his fist into his open hand to drive home his words the better. ‘I ask you whether you are playing the traitor to the Cardinal, or to these two women? It is a simple question.’
I fairly choked. ‘You impudent scoundrel!’ I said.
‘Steady, steady!’ he replied. ‘Pitch sticks where it belongs, and nowhere else. But that is enough. I see which it is, M. le Capitaine; this way a moment, by your leave.’
And in a very cavalier fashion he took his officer by the arm, and drew him into a sidewalk, leaving me to stand in the sun, bursting with anger and spleen. The gutter-bred rascal! That such a man should insult me, and with impunity! In Paris, I might have made him fight, but here it was impossible.
I was still foaming with rage when they returned.
‘We have come to a determination,’ the Lieutenant said, tugging his grey moustachios, and standing like a ramrod. ‘We shall leave you the house and Madame, and you can take your own line to find the man, for ourselves, we shall draw off our men to the village, and we shall take our line. That is all, M. le Capitaine, is it not?’
‘I think so,’ the Captain muttered, looking anywhere but at me.
‘Then we bid you good-day, Monsieur,’ the Lieutenant added, and in a moment he turned his companion round, and the two retired up the walk to the house, leaving me to look after them in a black fit of rage and incredulity.
At the first flush, there was something so offensive in the manner of their going that anger had the upper hand. I thought of the Lieutenant’s words, and I cursed him to hell with a sickening consciousness that I should not forget them in a hurry.
‘Was I playing the traitor to the Cardinal or to these women—which?’ MON DIEU! if ever question—but there, some day I would punish him. And the Captain? I could put an end to his amusement, at any rate; and I would. Doubtless among the country bucks of Auch he lorded it as a chief provincial bully, but I would cut his comb for him some fine morning behind the barracks.
And then as I grew cooler I began to wonder why they were going, and what they were going to do. They might be already on the track, or have the information they required under hand; in that case I could understand the movement. But if they were still searching vaguely, uncertain whether their quarry were in the neighbourhood or not, and uncertain how long they might have to stay, it seemed incredible that soldiers should move from good quarters to bad without motive.
I wandered down the garden, thinking sullenly of this, and pettishly cutting off the heads of the flowers with my sheathed sword. After all, if they found and arrested the man, what then? I should have to make my peace with the Cardinal as I best might. He would have gained his point, but not through me, and I should have to look to myself. On the other hand, if I anticipated them—and, as a fact, I believed that I could lay my hand on the fugitive within a few hours—there would come a time when I must face Mademoiselle.
A little while back that had not seemed so difficult a thing. From the day of our first meeting—and in a higher degree since that afternoon when she had lashed me with her scorn-my views of her, and my feelings towards her, had been strangely made up of antagonism and sympathy; of repulsion, because in her past and present she was so different from me; of yearning because she was a woman and friendless. Later I had duped her and bought her confidence by returning the jewels, and so in a measure I had sated my vengeance; then, as a consequence, sympathy had again got the better of me, until now I hardly knew my own mind, or what I felt, or what I intended. I DID NOT KNOW, in fact, what I intended. I stood there in the garden with that conviction suddenly newborn in my mind; and then, in a moment, I heard her step, and I turned to find her behind me.
Her face was like April, smiles breaking through her tears. As she stood with a tall hedge of sunflowers behind her, I started to see how beautiful she was.
‘I am here in search of you, M. de Barthe,’ she said, colouring slightly, perhaps because my eyes betrayed my thought; ‘to thank you. You have not fought, and yet you have conquered. My woman has just been with me, and she tells me that they are going.’
‘Going?’ I said, ‘Yes, Mademoiselle, they are leaving the house.’
She did not understand my reservation.
‘What magic have you used?’ she said almost gaily; it was wonderful how hope had changed her. ‘Besides, I am curious to learn how you managed to avoid fighting.’
‘After taking a blow?’ I said bitterly.
‘Monsieur, I did not mean that,’ she said reproachfully.
But her face clouded. I saw that, viewed in this light—in which, I suppose, she had not hitherto—the matter perplexed her more than before.
I took a sudden resolution.
‘Have you ever heard, Mademoiselle,’ I said gravely, plucking off while I spoke the dead leaves from a plant beside me, ‘of a gentleman by name De Berault? Known in Paris, I have heard, by the sobriquet of the Black Death?’
‘The duellist?’ she answered, looking at me in wonder. ‘Yes, I have heard of him. He killed a young gentleman of this province at Nancy two years back. ‘It was a sad story,’ she continued, shuddering slightly, ‘of a dreadful man. God keep our friends from such!’
‘Amen!’ I said quietly. But, in spite of myself, I could not meet her eyes.
‘Why?’ she answered, quickly taking alarm at; my silence. ‘What of him, M. de Barthe? Why have you mentioned him?’
‘Because he is here, Mademoiselle.’
‘Here?’ she exclaimed. ‘At Cocheforet?’
‘Yes, Mademoiselle,’ I answered soberly. ‘I am he.’