‘You!’ she cried, in a voice which pierced my heart. ‘You are M. de Berault? It is impossible!’ But, glancing askance at her—I could not face her I saw that the blood had left her cheeks.
‘Yes, Mademoiselle,’ I answered in a low tone. ‘De Barthe was my mother’s name. When I came here, a stranger, I took it that I might not be known; that I might again speak to a good woman, and not see her shrink. That, and—but why trouble you with all this?’ I continued rebelling, against her silence, her turned shoulder, her averted face. ‘You asked me, Mademoiselle, how I could take a blow and let the striker go. I have answered. It is the one privilege M. de Berault possesses.’
‘Then,’ she replied almost in a whisper, ‘if I were M. de Berault, I would avail myself of it, and never fight again.’
‘In that event, Mademoiselle,’ I answered coldly, ‘I should lose my men friends as well as my women friends. Like Monseigneur the Cardinal, rule by fear.’
She shuddered, either at the name or at the idea my words called up; and, for a moment, we stood awkwardly silent. The shadow of the sundial fell between us; the garden was still; here and there a leaf fluttered slowly down. With each instant of that silence, of that aversion, I felt the gulf between us growing wider, I felt myself growing harder; I mocked at her past which was so unlike mine; I mocked at mine, and called it fate. I was on the point of turning from her with a bow—and with a furnace in my breast—when she spoke.
‘There is a last rose lingering there,’ she said, a slight tremor in her voice. ‘I cannot reach it. Will you pluck it for me, M. de Berault?’
I obeyed her, my hand trembling, my face on fire. She took the rose from me, and placed it in the bosom of her dress, And I saw that her hand trembled too, and that her cheek was dark with blushes.
She turned without more ado, and began to walk towards the house. ‘Heaven forbid that I should misjudge you a second time!’ she said in a low voice. ‘And, after all, who am I, that I should judge you at all? An hour ago I would have killed that man had I possessed the power.’
‘You repented, Mademoiselle,’ I said huskily. I could scarcely speak.
‘Do you never repent?’ she said.
‘Yes. But too late, Mademoiselle.’
‘Perhaps it is never too late,’ she answered softly.
‘Alas, when a man is dead—’
‘You may rob a man of worse than life!’ she replied with energy, stopping me by a gesture. ‘If you have never robbed a man—or a woman—of honour! If you have never ruined boy or girl, M. de Berault! If you have never pushed another into the pit and gone by it yourself! If—but, for murder? Listen. You are a Romanist, but I am a Huguenot, and have read. “Thou shall not kill!” it is written; and the penalty, “By man shall thy blood be shed!” But, “If you cause one of these little ones to offend, it were better for you that a mill-stone were hanged about your neck, and that you were cast into the depths of the sea.”’
‘Mademoiselle, you are merciful,’ I muttered.
‘I need mercy myself,’ she answered, sighing. ‘And I have had few temptations. How do I know what you have suffered?’
‘Or done!’ I said, almost rudely.
‘Where a man has not lied, nor betrayed, nor sold himself or others,’ she answered in a low tone, ‘I think I can forgive all else. I can better put up with force,’ she added smiling sadly, ‘than with fraud.’
Ah, Dieu! I turned away my face that she might not see how pale it grew; that she might not guess how her words, meant in mercy, stabbed me to the heart. And yet, then, for the first time, while viewing in all its depth and width the gulf which separated us, I was not hardened; I was not cast back upon myself. Her gentleness, her pity, her humility softened me, while they convicted me. My God, how, after this, could I do that which I had come to do? How could I stab her in the tenderest part, how could I inflict on her that rending pang, how could I meet her eyes, and stand before her, a Caliban, a Judas, the vilest, lowest thing she could conceive?
I stood, a moment, speechless and disordered; overcome by her words, by my thoughts. I have seen a man so stand when he has lost all at the tables. Then I turned to her; and for an instant I thought that my tale was told already, I thought that she had pierced my disguise. For her face was changed—stricken as with fear. The next moment, I saw that she was not looking at me, but beyond me; and I turned quickly and saw a servant hurrying from the house to us. It was Louis. His eyes were staring, his hair waved, his cheeks were flabby with dismay, He breathed as if he had been running.
‘What is it?’ Mademoiselle cried, while he was still some way off. ‘Speak, man. My sister? Is she—’
‘Clon,’ he gasped.
The name changed her to stone.
‘Clon? What of him?’ she muttered.
‘In the village!’ Louis panted, his tongue stuttering with terror. ‘They are flogging him. They are killing him! To make him tell!’
Mademoiselle grasped the sundial and leant against it, her face colourless; and, for an instant, I thought that she was fainting.
‘Tell?’ I said mechanically. ‘But he cannot tell. He is dumb, man.’
‘They will make him guide them,’ Louis groaned, covering his ears with his shaking hands, his face the colour of paper. ‘And his cries! Oh, Monsieur, go, go!’ he continued, in a thrilling tone. ‘Save him. All through tie wood I heard his cries. It was horrible! horrible!’
Mademoiselle uttered a moan of pain; and I turned to support her, thinking each second to see her fall. But with a sudden movement she straightened herself, and, quickly slipping by me, with eyes that seemed to see nothing, she set off swiftly down the walk towards the meadow gate.
I ran after her; but, taken by surprise as I was, it was only by a great effort I reached the gate before her, and thrusting myself in the road, barred the way.
‘Let me pass!’ she panted, striving to thrust me on one side. ‘Out of my way, sir! I am going to the village.’
‘You are not going to the village,’ I said sternly. ‘Go back; to the house, Mademoiselle, and at once.’
‘My servant!’ she wailed. ‘Let me go! Let me go! Do you think I can rest here while they torture him? He cannot speak, and they—they—’
‘Go back, Mademoiselle,’ I said, with decision. ‘Your presence would only make matters worse! I will go myself, and what one man can do against many, I will! Louis, give your mistress your arm and take her to the house. Take her to Madame.’
‘But you will go?’ she cried. And before I could stay her—I swear I would have stopped her if I could—she raised my hand and carried it to her trembling lips. ‘You will go! Go and stop them! Stop them, and Heaven reward you, Monsieur!’
I did not answer; nay, I did not once look back, as I crossed the meadow; but I did not look forward either. Doubtless it was grass I trod, and the wood was before me with the sun shining aslant on it; doubtless the house rose behind me with a flame here and there in the windows. But I went in a dream, among shadows; with a racing pulse, in a glow from head to heel; conscious of nothing but the touch of Mademoiselle’s warm lips on my hand, seeing neither meadow nor house, nor even the dark fringe of wood before me, but only Mademoiselle’s passionate face. For the moment I was drunk: drunk with that to which I had been so long a stranger, with that which a man may scorn for years, to find it at last beyond his reach drunk with the touch of a good woman’s lips.
I passed the bridge in this state; and my feet were among the brushwood before the heat and fervour in which I moved found on a sudden their direction. Something began to penetrate to my veiled senses—a hoarse inarticulate cry, now deep, now shrilling horribly, that of itself seemed to fill the wood. It came at intervals of half a minute or so, and made the flesh creep, it rang so full of dumb pain, of impotent wrestling, of unspeakable agony. I am a man and have seen things. I saw the Concini beheaded, and Chalais ten years later—they gave him thirty-four blows; and when I was a boy I escaped from the college and viewed from a great distance Ravaillac torn by horses—that was in the year ten. But the horrible cries I now heard, filled me, perhaps because I was alone and fresh from the sight of Mademoiselle, with loathing inexpressible. The very wood, though the sun had not yet set, seemed to grow dark. I ran on through it, cursing, until the hovels of the village came in sight. Again the shriek rose, a pulsing horror, and this time I could hear the lash fall on the sodden flesh, I could see in fancy the dumb man, trembling, quivering, straining against his bonds. And then, in a moment, I was in the street, and, as the scream once more tore the air, I dashed round the corner by the inn, and came upon them.
I did not look at HIM, but I saw Captain Larolle and the Lieutenant, and a ring of troopers, and one man, bare-armed, teasing out with his fingers the thongs of a whip. The thongs dripped blood, and the sight fired the mine. The rage I had suppressed when the Lieutenant bearded me earlier in the afternoon, the passion with which Mademoiselle’s distress had filled my breast, on the instant found vent. I sprang through the line of soldiers; and striking the man with the whip a buffet between the shoulders, which hurled him breathless to the ground, I turned on the leaders.
‘You fiends!’ I cried. ‘Shame on you! The man is dumb! Dumb; and if I had ten men with me, I would sweep you and your scum out of the village with broomsticks. Lay on another lash,’ I continued recklessly, ‘and I will see whether you or the Cardinal be the stronger.’
The Lieutenant stared at me, his grey moustache bristling, his eyes almost starting from his head. Some of the troopers laid their hands on their swords, but no one moved, and only the Captain spoke.
‘MILLE DIABLES!’ he swore. ‘What is all this about? Are you mad, sir?’
‘Mad or sane!’ I cried furiously. ‘Lay on another lash, and you shall repent it.’
For an instant there was a pause of astonishment. Then, to my surprise, the Captain laughed—laughed loudly.
‘Very heroic,’ he said. ‘Quite magnificent, M. Chevalier-errant. But you see, unfortunately, you come too late.’
‘Too late,’ I said incredulously.
‘Yes, too late,’ he replied, with a mocking smile. And the Lieutenant grinned too. ‘Unfortunately, you see, the man has just confessed. We have only been giving him an extra touch or two, to impress his memory, and save us the trouble of lashing him up again.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ I said bluntly—but I felt the check, and fell to earth. ‘The man cannot speak.’
‘No, but he has managed to tell us what we want; that he will guide us to the place we are seeking,’ the Captain answered drily. ‘The whip, if it cannot find a man a tongue, can find him wits. What is more, I think that he will keep his word,’ he continued, with a hideous scowl. ‘For I warn him that if he does not, all your heroics shall not save him. He is a rebel dog, and known to us of old; and I will flay his back to the bones, ay, until we can see his heart beating through his ribs, but I will have what I want—in your teeth, too, you d——d meddler.’
‘Steady, steady!’ I said, sobered. I saw that he was telling the truth. ‘Is he going to take you to M. de Cocheforet’s hiding-place?’
‘Yes, he is!’ the Captain retorted. ‘Have you any objection to that, Master Spy?’
‘None,’ I replied. ‘Only I shall go with you. And if you live three months, I shall kill you for that name-behind the barracks at Auch, M. le Capitaine.’
He changed colour, but he answered me boldly enough.
‘I don’t know that you will go with us,’ he said, with a snarl. ‘That is as we please.’
‘I have the Cardinal’s orders,’ I said sternly.
‘The Cardinal?’ he exclaimed, stung to fury by this repetition of the name. ‘The Cardinal be—’
But the Lieutenant laid his hand on his lips and stopped him.
‘Hush!’ he said. Then more quietly, ‘Your pardon, M. le Capitaine; but the least said the soonest mended. Shall I give orders to the men to fall in?’
The Captain nodded sullenly.
The Lieutenant turned to his prisoner.
‘Take him down!’ he commanded in his harsh, monotonous voice. ‘Throw his blouse over him, and tie his hands. And do you two, Paul and Lebrun, guard him. Michel, bring the whip, or he may forget how it tastes. Sergeant, choose four good men, and dismiss the rest to their quarters.’
‘Shall we need the horses?’ the sergeant asked.
‘I don’t know,’ the Captain answered peevishly. ‘What does the rogue say?’
The Lieutenant stepped up to him.
‘Listen!’ he said grimly. ‘Nod if you mean yes, and shake your head if you mean no. And have a care you answer truly. Is it more than a mile to this place?’
They had loosened the poor wretch’s fastenings, and covered his back. He stood leaning his shoulder against the wall, his mouth still panting, the sweat running down his hollow cheeks. His sunken eyes were closed, but a quiver now and again ran through his frame. The Lieutenant repeated his question, and, getting no answer, looked round for orders. The Captain met the look, and crying savagely, ‘Answer will you, you mule!’ struck the half-swooning miserable across the back with his switch. The effect was magical. Covered, as his shoulders were, the man sprang erect with a shriek of pain, raising his chin, and hollowing his back; and in that attitude stood an instant with starting eyes, gasping for breath. Then he sank back against the wall, moving his mouth spasmodically. His face was the colour of lead.
‘Diable! I think that we have gone too far with him!’ the Captain muttered.
‘Bring some wine!’ the Lieutenant replied. ‘Quick with it!’
I looked on, burning with indignation, and in some excitement besides. For if the man took them to the place, and they succeeded in seizing Cocheforet, there was an end of the matter as far as I was concerned. It was off my shoulders, and I might leave the village when I pleased; nor was it likely—since he would have his man, though not through me—that the Cardinal would refuse to grant me an amnesty. On the whole, I thought that he would prefer that things should take this course; and assuming the issue, I began to wonder whether it would be necessary in that event that Madame should know the truth. I had a kind of vision of a reformed Berault, dead to play and purging himself at a distance from Zaton’s; winning, perhaps, a name in the Italian war, and finally—but, pshaw! I was a fool.
However, be these things as they might, it was essential that I should see the arrest made; and I waited patiently while they revived the tortured man, and made their dispositions. These took some time; so that the sun was down, and it was growing dusk when we marched out, Clon going first, supported by his two guards, the Captain and I following—abreast, and eyeing one another suspiciously; the Lieutenant, with the sergeant and five troopers, bringing up the rear. Clon moved slowly, moaning from time to time; and but for the aid given him by the two men with him, must have sunk down again and again.
He led the way out between two houses close to the inn, and struck a narrow track, scarcely discernible, which ran behind other houses, and then plunged into the thickest part of the wood. A single person, traversing the covert, might have made such a track; or pigs, or children. But it was the first idea that occurred to us, and put us all on the alert. The Captain carried a cocked pistol, I held my sword drawn, and kept a watchful eye on HIM; and the deeper the dusk fell in the wood, the more cautiously we went, until at last we came out with a sort of jump into a wider and lighter path.
I looked up and down, and saw behind me a vista of tree-trunks, before me a wooden bridge and an open meadow, lying cold and grey in the twilight; and I stood in astonishment. We were in the old path to the Chateau! I shivered at the thought that he was going to take us there, to the house, to Mademoiselle!
The Captain also recognised the place, and swore aloud. But the dumb man went on unheeding until he reached the wooden bridge. There he stopped short, and looked towards the dark outline of the house, which was just visible, one faint light twinkling sadly in the west wing. As the Captain and I pressed up behind him, he raised his hands and seemed to wring them towards the house.
‘Have a care!’ the Captain growled. ‘Play me no tricks, or—’
He did not finish the sentence, for Clon, as if he well understood his impatience, turned back from the bridge, and, entering the wood to the left, began to ascend the bank of the stream. We had not gone a hundred yards before the ground grew rough, and the undergrowth thick; and yet through all ran a kind of path which enabled us to advance, dark as it was now growing. Very soon the bank on which we moved began to rise above the water, and grew steep and rugged. We turned a shoulder, where the stream swept round a curve, and saw we were in the mouth of a small ravine, dark and sheer-sided. The water brawled along the bottom, over boulders and through chasms. In front, the slope on which we stood shaped itself into a low cliff; but halfway between its summit and the water a ledge, or narrow terrace, running along the face, was dimly visible.
‘Ten to one, a cave!’ the Captain muttered. ‘It is a likely place.’
‘And an ugly one!’ I replied with a sneer. ‘Which one against ten might hold for hours!’
‘If the ten had no pistols—yes!’ he answered viciously. ‘But you see we have. Is he going that way?’
He was. As soon as this was clear, Larolle turned to his comrade.
‘Lieutenant,’ he said, speaking in a low voice, though the chafing of the stream below us covered ordinary sounds; ‘what say you? Shall we light the lanthorns, or press on while there is still a glimmering of day?’
‘On, I should say, M. le Capitaine,’ the Lieutenant answered. ‘Prick him in the back if he falters. I will warrant,’ the brute added with a chuckle, ‘he has a tender place or two.’
The Captain gave the word and we moved forward. It was evident now that the cliff-path was our destination. It was possible for the eye to follow the track all the way to it, through rough stones and brushwood; and though Clon climbed feebly, and with many groans, two minutes saw us step on to it. It did not prove to be, in fact, the perilous place it looked at a distance. The ledge, grassy and terrace-like, sloped slightly downwards and outwards, and in parts was slippery; but it was as wide as a highway, and the fall to the water did not exceed thirty feet. Even in such a dim light as now displayed it to us, and by increasing the depth and unseen dangers of the gorge gave a kind of impressiveness to our movements, a nervous woman need not have feared to tread it, I wondered how often Mademoiselle had passed along it with her milk-pitcher.
‘I think that we have him now,’ Captain Larolle muttered, twisting his moustachios, and looking about to make his last dispositions. ‘Paul and Lebrun, see that your man makes no noise. Sergeant, come forward with your carbine, but do not fire without orders. Now, silence all, and close up, Lieutenant. Forward!’
We advanced about a hundred paces, keeping the cliff on our left, turned a shoulder, and saw, a few paces in front of us, a slight hollow, a black blotch in the grey duskiness of the cliff-side. The prisoner stopped, and, raising his bound hands, pointed to it.
‘There?’ the Captain whispered, pressing forward. ‘Is it the place?’
Clon nodded. The Captain’s voice shook with excitement.
‘Paul and Lebrun remain here with the prisoner,’ he said, in a low tone. ‘Sergeant, come forward with me. Now, are you ready? Forward!’
At the word he and the sergeant passed quickly, one on either side of Clon and his guards. The path grew narrow here, and the Captain passed outside. The eyes of all but one were on the black blotch, the hollow in the cliff-side, expecting we knew not what—a sudden shot or the rush or a desperate man; and no one saw exactly what happened. But somehow, as the Captain passed abreast of him, the prisoner thrust back his guards, and leaping sideways, flung his unbound arms round Larolle’s body, and in an instant swept him, shouting, to the verge of the precipice.
It was done in a moment. By the time our startled wits and eyes were back with them, the two were already tottering on the edge, looking in the gloom like one dark form. The sergeant, who was the first to find his head, levelled his carbine, but, as the wrestlers twirled and twisted, the Captain, shrieking out oaths and threats, the mute silent as death, it was impossible to see which was which, and the sergeant lowered his gun again, while the men held back nervously. The ledge sloped steeply there, the edge was vague, already the two seemed to be wrestling in mid air; and the mute was desperate.
That moment of hesitation was fatal. Clon’s long arms were round the other’s arms, crushing them into his ribs; Clon’s skull-like face grinned hate into the other’s eyes; his bony limbs curled round him like the folds of a snake. Larolle’s strength gave way.
‘Damn you all! Why don’t you come up?’ he cried. And then, ‘Ah! Mercy! mercy!’ came in one last scream from his lips. As the Lieutenant, taken aback before, sprang forward to his aid, the two toppled over the edge, and in a second hurtled out of sight.
‘MON DIEU!’ the Lieutenant cried; the answer was a dull splash in the depths below. He flung up his arms. ‘Water!’ he said. ‘Quick, men, get down. We may save him yet.’
But there was no path, and night was come, and the men’s nerves were shaken. The lanthorns had to be lit, and the way to be retraced; by the time we reached the dark pool which lay below, the last bubbles were gone from the surface, the last ripples had beaten themselves out against the banks. The pool still rocked sullenly, and the yellow light showed a man’s hat floating, and near it a glove three parts submerged. But that was all. The mute’s dying grip had known no loosening, nor his hate any fear. I heard afterwards that when they dragged the two out next day, his fingers were in the other’s eye-sockets, his teeth in his throat. If ever man found death sweet, it was he!
As we turned slowly from the black water, some shuddering, some crossing themselves, the Lieutenant looked at me.
‘Curse you!’ he said passionately. ‘I believe that you are glad.’
He deserved his fate,’ I answered coldly. ‘Why should I pretend to be sorry? It was now or in three months. And for the other poor devil’s sake I am glad.’
He glared at me for a moment in speechless anger.
At last, ‘I should like to have you tied up!’ he said between his teeth.
‘I should think that you had had enough of tying up for one day!’ I retorted. ‘But there,’ I went on contemptuously, ‘it comes of making officers out of the canaille. Dogs love blood. The teamster must lash something if he can no longer lash his horses.’
We were back, a sombre little procession, at the wooden bridge when I said this. He stopped.
‘Very well,’ he replied, nodding viciously. ‘That decides me. Sergeant, light me this way with a lanthorn. The rest of you to the village. Now, Master Spy,’ he continued, glancing at me with gloomy spite, ‘Your road is my road. I think I know how to spoil your game.’
I shrugged my shoulders in disdain, and together, the sergeant leading the way with the light, we crossed the dim meadow, and passed through the gate where Mademoiselle had kissed my hand, and up the ghostly walk between the rose bushes. I wondered uneasily what the Lieutenant would be at, and what he intended; but the lanthorn-light which now fell on the ground at our feet, and now showed one of us to the other, high-lit in a frame of blackness, discovered nothing in his grizzled face but settled hostility. He wheeled at the end of the walk to go to the main door, but as he did so I saw the flutter of a white skirt by the stone seat against the house, and I stepped that way.
‘Mademoiselle?’ I said softly. ‘Is it you?’
‘Clon?’ she muttered, her voice quivering. ‘What of him?’
‘He is past pain,’ I answered gently. ‘He is dead—yes, dead, Mademoiselle, but in his own way. Take comfort.’
She stifled a sob; then before I could say more, the Lieutenant, with his sergeant and light, were at my elbow. He saluted Mademoiselle roughly. She looked at him with shuddering abhorrence.
‘Are you come to flog me too, sir?’ she said passionately. ‘Is it not enough that you have murdered my servant?’
‘On the contrary, it was he who killed my Captain,’ the Lieutenant answered, in another tone than I had expected. ‘If your servant is dead so is my comrade.’
‘Captain Larolle?’ she murmured, gazing with startled eyes, not at him but at me.
I nodded.
‘How?’ she asked.
‘Clon flung the Captain and himself—into the river pool above the bridge,’ I said.
She uttered a low cry of awe and stood silent; but her lips moved and I think that she prayed for Clon, though she was a Huguenot. Meanwhile, I had a fright. The lanthorn, swinging in the sergeant’s hand, and throwing its smoky light now on the stone seat, now on the rough wall above it, showed me something else. On the seat, doubtless where Mademoiselle’s hand had lain as she sat in the dark, listening and watching and shivering, stood a pitcher of food. Beside her, in that place, it was damning evidence, and I trembled least the Lieutenant’s eye should fall upon it, lest the sergeant should see it; and then, in a moment, I forgot all about it. The Lieutenant was speaking and his voice was doom. My throat grew dry as I listened; my tongue stuck to my mouth I tried to look at Mademoiselle, but I could not.
‘It is true that the Captain is gone,’ he said stiffly, ‘but others are alive, and about one of them a word with you, by your leave, Mademoiselle. I have listened to a good deal of talk from this fine gentleman friend of yours. He has spent the last twenty-four hours saying “You shall!” and “You shall not!” He came from you and took a very high tone because we laid a little whip-lash about that dumb devil of yours. He called us brutes and beasts, and but for him I am not sure that my friend would not now be alive. But when he said a few minutes ago that he was glad—glad of it, d—him!—then I fixed it in my mind that I would be even with him. And I am going to be!’
‘What do you mean?’ Mademoiselle asked, wearily interrupting him. ‘If you think that you can prejudice me against this gentleman—’
‘That is precisely what I am going to do! And a little more than that!’ he answered.
‘You will be only wasting your breath!’ she retorted.
‘Wait! Wait, Mademoiselle—-until you have heard,’ he said. ‘For I swear to you that if ever a black-hearted scoundrel, a dastardly sneaking spy trod the earth, it is this fellow! And I am going to expose him. Your own eyes and your own ears shall persuade you. I am not particular, but I would not eat, I would not drink, I would not sit down with him! I would rather be beholden to the meanest trooper in my squadron than to him! Ay, I would, so help me Heaven!’
And the Lieutenant, turning squarely on his heel, spat on the ground.
It had come, and I saw no way of escape. The sergeant was between us and I could not strike him. And I found no words. A score of times I had thought with shrinking how I should reveal my secret to Mademoiselle—what I should say, and how she would take it; but in my mind it had been always a voluntary act, this disclosure, it had been always I who unmasked myself and she who listened—alone; and in this voluntariness and this privacy there had been something which took from the shame of anticipation. But here—here was no voluntary act on my part, no privacy, nothing but shame. And I stood mute, convicted, speechless, under her eyes—like the thing I was.
Yet if anything could have braced me it was Mademoiselle’s voice when she answered him.
‘Go on, Monsieur,’ she said calmly, ‘you will have done the sooner.’
‘You do not believe me?’ he replied. ‘Then, I say, look at him! Look at him! If ever shame—’
‘Monsieur,’ she said abruptly—she did not look at me, ‘I am ashamed of myself.’
‘But you don’t hear me,’ the Lieutenant rejoined hotly. ‘His very name is not his own! He is not Barthe at all. He is Berault, the gambler, the duellist, the bully; whom if you—’
Again she interrupted him.
‘I know it,’ she said coldly. ‘I know it all; and if you have nothing more to tell me, go, Monsieur. Go!’ she continued in a tone of infinite scorn. ‘Be satisfied, that you have earned my contempt as well as my abhorrence.’
He looked for a moment taken aback. Then,—
‘Ay, but I have more,’ he cried, his voice stubbornly triumphant.
‘I forgot that you would think little of that. I forgot that a swordsman has always the ladies’ hearts—-but I have more. Do you know, too, that he is in the Cardinal’s pay? Do you know that he is here on the same errand which brings us here—to arrest M. de Cocheforet? Do you know that while we go about the business openly and in soldier fashion, it is his part to worm himself into your confidence, to sneak into Madame’s intimacy, to listen at your door, to follow your footsteps, to hang on your lips, to track you—track you until you betray yourselves and the man? Do you know this, and that all his sympathy is a lie, Mademoiselle? His help, so much bait to catch the secret? His aim blood-money—blood-money? Why, MORBLEU!’ the Lieutenant continued, pointing his finger at me, and so carried away by passion, so lifted out of himself by wrath and indignation, that I shrank before him—‘you talk, lady, of contempt and abhorrence in the same breath with me, but what have you for him—what have you for him—the spy, the informer, the hired traitor? And if you doubt me, if you want evidence, look at him. Only look at him, I say.’
And he might say it; for I stood silent still, cowering and despairing, white with rage and hate. But Mademoiselle did not look. She gazed straight at the Lieutenant.
‘Have you done?’ she said.
‘Done?’ he stammered; her words, her air, bringing him to earth again. ‘Done? Yes, if you believe me.’
‘I do not,’ she answered proudly. ‘If that be all, be satisfied, Monsieur. I do not believe you.’
‘Then tell me this,’ he retorted, after a moment of stunned surprise. ‘Answer me this! Why, if he was not on our side, do you think that we let him remain here? Why did we suffer him to stay in a suspected house, bullying us, annoying us, thwarting us, taking your part from hour to hour?’
‘He has a sword, Monsieur,’ she answered with fine contempt.
‘MILLE DIABLES!’ he cried, snapping his fingers in a rage. ‘That for his sword! It was because he held the Cardinal’s commission, I tell you, because he had equal authority with us. Because we had no choice.’
‘And that being so, Monsieur, why are you now betraying him?’ she asked. He swore at that, feeling the stroke go home.
‘You must be mad!’ he said, glaring at her. ‘Cannot you see that the man is what I tell you? Look at him! Look at him, I say! Listen to him! Has he a word to say for himself?’
Still she did not look.
‘It is late,’ she replied coldly. ‘And I am not very well. If you have done, quite done—perhaps, you will leave me, Monsieur.’
‘MON DIEU! he exclaimed, shrugging his shoulders, and grinding his teeth in impotent rage. You are mad! I have told you the truth, and you will not believe it. Well—on your head be it then, Mademoiselle. I have no more to say! You will see.’
And with that, without more, fairly conquered by her staunchness, he saluted her, gave the word to the sergeant, turned and went down the path.
The sergeant went after him, the lanthorn swaying in his hand. And we two were left alone. The frogs were croaking in the pool, a bat flew round in circles; the house, the garden, all lay quiet under the darkness, as on the night which I first came to it.
And would to Heaven I had never come that was the cry in my heart. Would to Heaven I had never seen this woman, whose nobleness and faith were a continual shame to me; a reproach branding me every hour I stood in her presence with all vile and hateful names. The man just gone, coarse, low-bred, brutal soldier as he was, manflogger and drilling-block, had yet found heart to feel my baseness, and words in which to denounce it. What, then, would she say, when the truth came home to her? What shape should I take in her eyes then? How should I be remembered through all the years then?
Then? But now? What was she thinking now, at this moment as she stood silent and absorbed near the stone seat, a shadowy figure with face turned from me? Was she recalling the man’s words, fitting them to the facts and the past, adding this and that circumstance? Was she, though she had rebuffed him in the body, collating, now he was gone, all that he had said, and out of these scraps piecing together the damning truth? Was she, for all that she had said, beginning to see me as I was? The thought tortured me. I could brook uncertainty no longer. I went nearer to her and touched her sleeve.
‘Mademoiselle,’ I said in a voice which sounded hoarse and unnatural even in my own ears, ‘do you believe this of me?’
She started violently, and turned.
‘Pardon, Monsieur!’ she murmured, passing her hand over her brow; ‘I had forgotten that you were here. Do I believe what?’
‘What that man said of me,’ I muttered.
‘That!’ she exclaimed. And then she stood a moment gazing at me in a strange fashion. ‘Do I believe that, Monsieur? But come, come!’ she continued impetuously. ‘Come, and I will show you if I believe it. But not here.’
She turned as she spoke, and led the way on the instant into the house through the parlour door, which stood half open. The room inside was pitch dark, but she took me fearlessly by the hand and led me quickly through it, and along the passage, until we came to the cheerful lighted hall, where a great fire burned on the hearth. All traces of the soldiers’ occupation had been swept away. But the room was empty.
She led me to the fire, and there in the full light, no longer a shadowy creature, but red-lipped, brilliant, throbbing with life and beauty, she stood opposite me—her eyes shining, her colour high, her breast heaving.
‘Do I believe it?’ she said in a thrilling voice. ‘I will tell you. M. de Cocheforet’s hiding-place is in the hut behind the fern-stack, two furlongs beyond the village on the road to Auch. You know now what no one else knows, he and I and Madame excepted. You hold in your hands his life and my honour; and you know also, M. de Berault, whether I believe that tale.’
‘My God!’ I cried. And I stood looking at her until something of the horror in my eyes crept into hers, and she shuddered and stepped back from me.
‘What is it? What is it?’ she whispered, clasping her hands. And with all the colour gone suddenly from her cheeks she peered trembling into the corners and towards the door. ‘There is no one here.’
I forced myself to speak, though I was trembling all over like a man in an ague. ‘No, Mademoiselle, there is no one here,’ I muttered. ‘There is no one here.’ And then I let my head fall on my breast, and I stood before her, the statue of despair. Had she felt a grain of suspicion, a grain of doubt, my bearing must have opened her eyes; but her mind was cast in so noble a mould that, having once thought ill of me and been converted, she could feel no doubt again. She must trust all in all. A little recovered from her fright, she stood looking at me in great wonder; and at last she had a thought—
‘You are not well?’ she said suddenly. ‘It is your old wound, Monsieur. Now I have it?’
‘Yes, Mademoiselle,’ I muttered faintly, ‘it is.’
‘I will call Clon!’ she cried impetuously. And then, with a sob: ‘Ah! poor Clon! He is gone. But there is still Louis. I will call him and he will get you something.’
She was gone from the room before I could stop her, and I stood leaning against the table possessor at last of the secret which I had come so far to win; able in a moment to open the door and go out into the night, and make use of it—and yet the most unhappy of men. The sweat stood on my brow; my eyes wandered round the room; I turned towards the door, with some mad thought of flight—of flight from her, from the house, from everything; and I had actually taken a step towards this, when on the door, the outer door, there came a sudden hurried knocking which jarred every nerve in my body. I started, and stopped. I stood a moment in the middle of the floor gazing at the door, as at a ghost. Then, glad of action, glad of anything that might relieve the tension of my feelings, I strode to it and pulled it sharply open.
On the threshold, his flushed face lit up by the light behind me, stood one of the knaves whom I had brought with me to Auch. He had been running, and panted heavily; but he had kept his wits, and the instant I, appeared he grasped my sleeve.
‘Ah! Monsieur, the very man!’ he cried. ‘Quick! come this instant, lose not a moment, and you may yet be first. They have the secret! The soldiers have found Monsieur!’
‘Found him?’ I echoed. ‘M. de Cocheforet?’
‘No; but they know the place where he lies. It was found by accident. The Lieutenant was gathering his men when I came away. If we are quick, we may yet be first.’
‘But the place?’ I said.
‘I could not hear,’ he answered bluntly. ‘We must hang on their skirts, and at the last moment strike in. It is the only way, Monsieur.’
The pair of pistols I had taken from the shock-headed man lay on a chest by the door. Without waiting for more I snatched them up and my hat, and joined him, and in a moment we were running down the garden. I looked back once before we passed the gate, and I saw the light streaming out through the door which. I had left open; and I fancied that for an instant a figure darkened the gap. But the fancy only strengthened the one single purpose, the iron resolve, which had taken possession of me and all my thoughts. I must be first; I must anticipate the Lieutenant; I must make the arrest myself. I must be first. And I ran on only the faster.
We were across the meadow and in the wood in a moment. There, instead of keeping along the common path, I boldly singled out—my senses seemed to be preternaturally keen—the smaller trail by which Clon had brought us. Along this I ran unfalteringly, avoiding logs and pitfalls as by instinct, and following all its turns and twists, until we came to the back of the inn, and could hear the murmur of subdued voices in the village street, the sharp low word of command, and the clink of weapons; and could see over and between the houses the dull glare of lanthorns and torches.
I grasped my man’s arm, and crouched down listening. When I had heard enough, ‘Where is your mate?’ I said in his ear.
‘With them,’ he muttered.
‘Then come,’ I whispered rising. ‘I have seen what I want. Let us go.’
But he caught me by the arm and detained me.
‘You don’t know the way,’ he said. ‘Steady, steady, Monsieur. You go too fast. They are just moving. Let us join them, and strike in when the time comes. We must let them guide us.’
‘Fool!’ I said, shaking off his hand. ‘I tell you, I know where he is! I know where they are going. Come, and we will pluck the fruit while they are on the road to it.’
His only answer was an exclamation of surprise. At that moment the lights began to move. The Lieutenant was starting. The moon was not yet up, the sky was grey and cloudy; to advance where we were was to step into a wall of blackness. But we had lost too much already, and I did not hesitate. Bidding my companion follow me and use his legs, I sprang through a low fence which rose before us; then stumbling blindly over some broken ground in the rear of the houses, I came with a fall or two to a little watercourse with steep sides. Through this I plunged recklessly and up the farther side, and, breathless and panting, gained the road, beyond the village, and fifty yards in advance of the Lieutenant’s troop.
They had only two lanthorns burning, and we were beyond the circle of light cast by these; while the steady tramp of so many footsteps covered the noise we made. We were in no danger of being noticed, and in a twinkling we turned our backs, and as fast as we could we ran down the road. Fortunately, they were thinking more of secrecy than speed, and in a minute we had doubled the distance between them and us. In two minutes their lights were mere sparks shining in the gloom behind us. We lost even the tramp of their feet. Then I began to look out and go more slowly, peering into the shadows on either side for the fernstack.
On one hand the hill rose steeply, on the other it fell away to the stream. On neither side was close wood, or my difficulties had been immensely increased; but scattered oak trees stood here and there among the bracken. This helped me, and presently, on the upper side, I came upon the dense substance of the stack looming black against the lighter hill.
My heart beat fast, but it was no time for thought. Bidding the man in a whisper to follow me and be ready to back me up, I climbed the bank softly, and, with a pistol in my hand, felt my way to the rear of the stack, thinking to find a hut there, set against the fern, and M. Cocheforet in it. But I found no hut. There was none; and, moreover, it was so dark now we were off the road, that it came upon me suddenly, as I stood between the hill and the stack, that I had undertaken a very difficult thing. The hut behind the fern stack. But how far behind? how far from it? The dark slope stretched above us, infinite, immeasurable shrouded in night. To begin to climb it in search of a tiny hut, possibly well hidden and hard to find in daylight, seemed an endeavour as hopeless as to meet with the needle in the hay! And now while I stood, chilled and doubting, almost despairing, the steps of the troop in the road began to grow audible, began to come nearer.
‘Well, Monsieur le Capitaine?’ the man beside me muttered—in wonder why I stood. ‘Which way? or they will be before us yet.’
I tried to think, to reason it out; to consider where the hut should be; while the wind sighed through the oaks, and here and there I could hear an acorn fall. But the thing pressed too close on me; my thoughts would not be hurried, and at last I said at a venture,—
‘Up the hill. Straight up from the stack.’
He did not demur, and we plunged at the ascent, knee-deep in bracken and furze, sweating at every pore with our exertions, and hearing the troop come every moment nearer on the road below. Doubtless they knew exactly whither to go! Forced to stop and take breath when we had scrambled up fifty yards or so, I saw their lanthorns shining like moving glow-worms; I could even hear the clink of steel. For all I could tell, the hut might be down there, and we be moving from it. But it was too late to go back now—they were close to the fern-stack; and in despair I turned to the hill again. A dozen steps and I stumbled. I rose and plunged on again; again stumbled. Then I found that I was treading level earth. And—was it water I saw before me, below me? or some mirage of the sky?
Neither; and I gripped my fellow’s arm, as he came abreast of me, and stopped him sharply. Below us in the middle of a steep hollow, a pit in the hill-side, a light shone out through some aperture and quivered on the mist, like the pale lamp of a moorland hobgoblin. It made itself visible, displaying nothing else; a wisp of light in the bottom of a black bowl. Yet my spirits rose with a great bound at sight of it; for I knew that I had stumbled on the place I sought.
In the common run of things I should have weighed my next step carefully, and gone about it slowly. But here was no place for thought, nor room for delay; and I slid down the side of the hollow on the instant, and the moment my feet touched the bottom sprang to the door of the little hut, whence the light issued. A stone turned under my feet in my rush, and I fell on my knees on the threshold; but the fall only brought my face to a level with the face of the man who lay inside on a bed of fern. He had been reading. Startled by the sound I made, he dropped his book, and in a flash stretched out his hand for a weapon. But the muzzle of my pistol covered him, he was not in a posture from which he could spring, and at a sharp word from me he dropped his hand; the tigerish glare which flickered for an instant in his eyes gave place to a languid smile, and he shrugged his shoulders.
‘EH BIEN!,’ he said with marvellous composure. ‘Taken at last! Well, I was tired of it.’
‘You are my prisoner, M. de Cocheforet,’ I answered. ‘Move a hand and I kill you. But you have still a choice.’
‘Truly?’ he said, raising his eyebrows.
‘Yes. My orders are to take you to Paris alive or dead. Give me your parole that you will make no attempt to escape, and you shall go thither at your ease and as a gentleman. Refuse, and I shall disarm and bind you, and you go as a prisoner.’
‘What force have you?’ he asked curtly. He still lay on his elbow, his cloak covering him, the little Marot in which he had been reading close to his hand. But his quick black eyes, which looked the keener for the pallor and thinness of his face, roved ceaselessly over me, probed the darkness behind me, took note of everything.
‘Enough to compel you, Monsieur,’ I replied sternly; ‘but that is not all. There are thirty dragoons coming up the hill to secure you, and they will make you no such offer. Surrender to me before they come, and give me your parole, and I will do all I can for your comfort. Delay, and you must fall into their hands. There can be no escape.’
‘You will take my word?’ he said slowly.
‘Give it, and you may keep your pistols, M. de Cocheforet.’
‘Tell me at least that you are not alone.’
‘I am not alone.’
‘Then I give it,’ he said with a sigh. ‘And for Heaven’s sake get me something to eat and a bed. I am tired of this pig-sty. MON DIEU! it is a fortnight since I slept between sheets.’
‘You shall sleep to-night in your own house, if you please,’ I answered hurriedly. ‘But here they come. Be good enough to stay where you are for a moment, and I will meet them.’
I stepped out into the darkness, just as the Lieutenant, after posting his men round the hollow, slid down with a couple of sergeants to make the arrest. The place round the open door was pitch-dark. He had not espied my man, who had lodged himself in the deepest shadow of the hut, and when he saw me come out across the light he took me for Cocheforet. In a twinkling he thrust a pistol into my face, and cried triumphantly,—‘You are my prisoner!’ while one of the sergeants raised a lanthorn and threw its light into my eyes.
‘What folly is this?’ I said savagely.
The Lieutenant’s jaw fell, and he stood for a moment paralysed with astonishment. Less than an hour before he had left me at the Chateau. Thence he had come hither with the briefest delay; yet he found me here before him. He swore fearfully, his face black, his moustachios stiff with rage.
‘What is this? What is it?’ he cried. ‘Where is the man?’
‘What man?’ I said.
‘This Cocheforet!’ he roared, carried away by his passion. ‘Don’t lie to me! He is here, and I will have him!’
‘You are too late,’ I said, watching him heedfully. ‘M. de Cocheforet is here, but he has already surrendered to me, and is my prisoner.’
‘Your prisoner?’
‘Certainly!’ I answered, facing the man with all the harshness I could muster. ‘I have arrested him by virtue of the Cardinal’s commission granted to me. And by virtue of the same I shall keep him.’
‘You will keep him?’
‘I shall!’
He stared at me for a moment, utterly aghast; the picture of defeat. Then on a sudden I saw his face lighten with, a new idea.
‘It is a d—d ruse!’ he shouted, brandishing his pistol like a madman. ‘It is a cheat and a fraud! By God! you have no commission! I see through it! I see through it all! You have come here, and you have hocussed us! You are of their side, and this is your last shift to save him!’
‘What folly is this?’ I said contemptuously.
‘No folly at all,’ he answered, perfect conviction in his tone. ‘You have played upon us. You have fooled us. But I see through it now. An hour ago I exposed you to that fine Madame at the house there, and I thought it a marvel that she did not believe me. I thought it a marvel that she did not see through you, when you stood there before her, confounded, tongue-tied, a rogue convicted. But I understand now. She knew you. She was in the plot, and you were in the plot, and I, who thought that I was opening her eyes, was the only one fooled. But it is my turn now. You have played a bold part and a clever one,’ he continued, a sinister light in his little eyes,’ and I congratulate you. But it is at an end now, Monsieur. You took us in finely with your talk of Monseigneur, and his commission and your commission, and the rest. But I am not to be blinded any longer—or bullied. You have arrested him, have you? You have arrested him. Well, by G—, I shall arrest him, and I shall arrest you too.’
‘You are mad!’ I said staggered as much by this new view of the matter as by his perfect certainty. ‘Mad, Lieutenant.’
‘I was,’ he snarled. ‘But I am sane now. I was mad when you imposed upon us, when you persuaded me to think that you were fooling the women to get the secret out of them, while all the time you were sheltering them, protecting them, aiding them, and hiding him—then I was mad. But not now. However, I ask your pardon. I thought you the cleverest sneak and the dirtiest hound Heaven ever made. I find you are cleverer than I thought, and an honest traitor. Your pardon.’
One of the men, who stood about the rim of the bowl above us, laughed. I looked at the Lieutenant and could willingly have killed him.
‘MON DIEU!’ I said—and I was so furious in my turn that I could scarcely speak. ‘Do you say that I am an impostor—that I do not hold the Cardinal’s commission?’
‘I do say that,’ he answered coolly.
‘And that I belong to the rebel party?’
‘I do,’ he replied in the same tone. ‘In fact,’ with a grin, ‘I say that you are an honest man on the wrong side, M. de Berault. And you say that you are a scoundrel on the right. The advantage, however, is with me, and I shall back my opinion by arresting you.’
A ripple of coarse laughter ran round the hollow. The sergeant who held the lanthorn grinned, and a trooper at a distance called out of the darkness ‘A BON CHAT BON RAT!’ This brought a fresh burst of laughter, while I stood speechless, confounded by the stubbornness, the crassness, the insolence of the man. ‘You fool!’ I cried at last, ‘you fool!’ And then M. de Cocheforet, who had come out of the hut and taken his stand at my elbow, interrupted me.
‘Pardon me one moment,’ he said, airily, looking at the Lieutenant with raised eyebrows and pointing to me with his thumb, ‘but I am puzzled between you. This gentleman’s name? Is it de Berault or de Barthe?’
‘I am M. de Berault,’ I said, brusquely, answering for myself.
‘Of Paris?’
‘Yes, Monsieur, of Paris.’
‘You are not, then, the gentleman who has been honouring my poor house with his presence?’
‘Oh, yes!’ the Lieutenant struck in, grinning. ‘He is that gentleman, too.’
‘But I thought—I understood that that was M. de Barthe!’
‘I am M. de Barthe, also,’ I retorted impatiently. ‘What of that, Monsieur? It was my mother’s name. I took it when I came down here.’
‘To—er—to arrest me, may I ask?’
‘Yes,’ I said, doggedly; ‘to arrest you. What of that?’
‘Nothing,’ he replied slowly and with a steady look at me—a look I could not meet. ‘Except that, had I known this before, M. de Berault I should have thought longer before I surrendered to you.’
The Lieutenant laughed, and I felt my cheek burn; but I affected to see nothing, and turned to him again. ‘Now, Monsieur,’ I said, ‘are you satisfied?’
‘No,’ he answered? ‘I am not! You two may have rehearsed this pretty scene a dozen times. The word, it seems to me, is—Quick march, back to quarters.’
At length I found myself driven to play my last card; much against my will.
‘Not so,’ I said. ‘I have my commission.’
‘Produce it!’ he replied incredulously.
‘Do you think that I carry it with me?’ I cried in scorn. ‘Do you think that when I came here, alone, and not with fifty dragoons at my back, I carried the Cardinal’s seal in my pocket for the first lackey to find. But you shall have it. Where is that knave of mine?’
The words were scarcely out of my mouth before a ready hand thrust a paper into my fingers. I opened it slowly, glanced at it, and amid a pause of surprise gave it to the Lieutenant. He looked for a moment confounded. Then, with a last instinct of suspicion, he bade the sergeant hold up the lanthorn; and by its light he proceeded to spell through the document.
‘Umph!’ he ejaculated with an ugly look when he had come to the end, ‘I see.’ And he read it aloud:—