CHAPTER XXI
WHERE HONOR WINS
I pressed more closely into my corner and held my breath in suspense, fearing lest even the beating of my heart would betray my presence. The new-comer paused for a moment to set down the lantern, and in that moment the voice of Richelieu penetrated to the closet.
“You are surprised to see me, Charlotte?” he was saying. “Did you think for an instant that I would permit you to be delivered to this fate which has been prepared for you?”
“Oh, M. le Duc!” cried the voice of the princess, broken by sobs, “I do but save you from one danger to find you braving another. You do not comprehend my father’s hatred. Go, I beseech you, before it is too late.”
“Yes, I shall go in a moment, Charlotte,” answered Richelieu, in a milder tone, “and you are going with me. At the back of the gardens there is a carriage waiting, with four of the fastest horses in the kingdom. In an hour we shall be far from Paris. Another day will find us safe in the Netherlands and free to live our lives together.”
There was a moment’s silence, and I could hear the deep, agitated breathing of the person who stood beside me. My hands began to tremble under the strain, and I clasped them behind me to keep them still. An increasing giddiness reminded me of my wound. The closet was insufferably close, and my face grew wet with perspiration as I realized my weakness.
“And whose plan is this?” asked Mlle. de Valois, at last.
“Can you not guess?” cried Richelieu. “It could be only one man,—the one who found a way out of the Bastille,—who has stood between me and danger a dozen times,—who even at this moment is awaiting me in the closet there.”
I crouched for a spring, expecting an instant attack from my companion in the closet, and determined to throttle him at any cost before an alarm could be given. Even as I steeled myself for the struggle I heard a startled exclamation at my side.
“Are you indeed here, M. de Brancas?” whispered a sweet voice.
“Louise, oh, Louise! is it you?” I cried, forgetting caution in the joy and great reaction of this discovery, and I stretched out my arms and drew her to me. “I was just about to spring upon you to prevent your escape,” I added, laughing out of the sheer rapture of my heart.
She did not resist my arms, but, with a long sigh, laid her head upon my breast. My blood was surging in my ears as I stooped and kissed her hair, and I felt that she was sobbing.
“What is it, my love?” I whispered.
“Oh, do you not know?” she sobbed. “Surely you have heard of the wedding to-morrow?”
“Yes,” I answered, “but that wedding will never take place. By to-morrow Richelieu and Mlle. de Valois will be far from here, speeding towards the north of France.”
“I wish so with all my heart,” and Louise drew back a little, “but it will never be, M. de Brancas.”
“What! never be?” I cried. “But I tell you that everything is prepared, that all that remains to be done is for them to descend, enter the carriage, and give the word to the driver.”
“And that is just what Charlotte d’Orleans will never do,” and though her voice was sad, it had a certain pride and dignity.
I was too astonished to reply.
“M. de Brancas,” she continued, “I know her better than do you, far better even than Richelieu. A woman has her ideals no less than a man. But listen, she herself is telling him.”
In the tumult of my own emotion I had no longer heeded what was happening in the outer room, but at this moment I heard Richelieu’s voice raised in impatient protest.
“What do you say, mademoiselle,” he cried, “that you will not go with me? And why, may I ask? Is it that you no longer love me?”
“M. le Duc,” answered the clear voice of the princess, who seemed to have recovered her composure, “it appears to me that it can no longer be a question of my love, since to save your head I have agreed to this hateful marriage. The reason is, monsieur, that I have given my word to my father, and I do not choose to break it. He might have distrusted me; he might have insisted that this marriage take place before you were released, and I should have consented without an instant’s hesitation, because I should have known that he would keep faith with me. But he chose to trust me; you were free again an hour after I had given my word. It is to his generosity you owe your presence here to-night, monsieur. My sacrifice may be the greater, but I do not choose to fall below my father.”
Richelieu remained for a moment speechless. I felt the tears starting to my eyes.
“That is grand; that is noble,” I murmured.
Louise answered by a pressure of the hand, and I knew that she also was affected no less than I.
It was Richelieu who broke the silence.
“Give me a moment for thought, mademoiselle,” he said, and we heard him pacing up and down the room.
As for me, I felt a great reverence for this woman spring to life in my heart. As I had told Madame du Maine, a woman may do anything but break her word; no woman can do that with honor, no more than any man, and my heart trembled with emotion as I heard the princess take the same high ground,—with her so far above anything of which I had conceived. I prayed that Richelieu might not fall below her. Louise was crying softly.
“Charlotte,” said Richelieu, at last, “you are tearing my heart to pieces, and yet I would not have you other than you are. I was a fool to think you would consent. But,” he continued, in a clearer voice, “I have given no promise, my honor is not engaged. I have already refused to accept this sacrifice. What is there to prevent my taking you up in my arms, opening the door of yonder closet, and with de Brancas at my back running with you to the carriage and starting for the frontier?”
Again there was a moment’s silence.
“Ah, no, no!” she cried, at last. “Do not tempt me further, Louis. What I am doing is for my own honor and for France. My father has told me that France demands it,—that it will strengthen his empire. If you knew how hard it is—how I turn with loathing from the task I have to do—you would not seek to make it harder.”
“De Brancas,” called Richelieu, “come here, my friend.”
I flung the door open and stepped into the room. Mlle. de Valois was half sitting, half lying in a large chair, her face white with suffering, her eyes luminous with a great glory. Richelieu himself was scarcely less affected. He glanced at Louise, who had come from the closet with me and who was kneeling at the side of the princess.
“Good!” he exclaimed. “I am glad to see that you are here, Mlle. Dacour. Charlotte will need a companion. Will you not accompany her?”
“I had intended doing so, M. le Duc,” answered Louise, gently, “whether she went north or south.”
“That is well,” and Richelieu bowed to her with that courtly grace which so well became him. “M. de Brancas and myself had already considered this contingency and he is to join us at Brussels in a week’s time.”
I glanced at Louise to see how she received this announcement, but seemingly she had not heard it.
“And now, de Brancas,” continued the duke, turning to me, “we must make haste. We have already remained here much too long.”
“True,” I answered. “It is your purpose, then, to forcibly carry away Mlle. de Valois?”
“Since she refuses to accompany me, yes,” and Richelieu looked me in the eyes. “Have you any other course to advise, my friend?”
I paused irresolute, glancing from one to the other. I could not choose but speak, whatever the cost might be.
“If love were the only thing; if there were not heights of honor before which love must bow,” I said, at last, and paused again. I could not go on. Let these two hearts settle the future for themselves. “M. le Duc,” I said, in a firmer voice, “it is not for me to give advice. I will do whatever you command.”
Again Richelieu walked the length of the room, his twitching face telling of the conflict raging in his breast. I went to the window and gazed out upon the night. Louise was sobbing. Only the princess remained composed. I pray heaven that my heart may never again be torn as it was in that moment.
“M. le Duc,” she said, in the same calm tone she had used before, “listen to the voice of your friend and to my voice, which, I am sure, finds an answering chord in your heart. If love were the only thing I would go with you gladly, but honor must ever outweigh love in the hearts of all true gentlemen. Tell me, Louis, I have not been deceived in you,—that you merit honor no less than love.”
Richelieu threw himself at her feet with a sob and caught her hand. I knew he had won the battle.
“Forgive me, Charlotte,” he whispered, in a choking voice; “I have played the coward, not the man. Let it be as you say, your honor and mine before all else.”
And at these words my heart went out to him, and I knew that these two loved each other with a love in which there was no taint of selfishness. Years, perhaps, would dull the sting of the wound, but for them, as for me, life would hold few sweeter memories than that of this sacred moment. I could not trust myself to turn from the window. The lights without were blurred with my tears and in my heart was a great tenderness.
The princess was the strongest of us all.
“You must go, my friend,” she said, at last. “My friend I shall always deem you,—my nearest and dearest friend,—who stood true to me in the bitterest hour of my life. Look up,—here, in my eyes. Do you see any sorrow there? Sorrow there may have been,—sorrow there may be again,—but now it is swallowed up by joy and pride in you.”
I turned to look at them. It must have been with faces so transfigured that martyrs went to the stake,—yea, Christ to His cross.
Her arms were around his neck, and she bent her head and kissed him.
“It is the last,” she said,—“the last I shall willingly give,” and she gently loosed his hands, arose, and stood from him.
“We, also, must say good-by,” said a low voice at my elbow, and I turned with a start to see Louise standing there.
“You, too, are going?” I cried, with a great fear at my heart.
“Yes, it is settled,” and she was looking into my eyes. “My place is at her side. But my sacrifice, my friend, is much less than hers. I am leaving, perhaps, people whom I love, but there is no abyss at the end of the path such as yawns before Charlotte.”
“No,” I answered, “no,” but I could say no more.
“And believe me, M. de Brancas,” she continued, placing both her hands in mine, “nothing that you have ever done—not even that bandage about your head which tells of a wound so nobly won—has pleased me as did the words you said to Richelieu. I read your heart, and I saw nothing there but loyalty and truth.”
I gazed into her eyes, which she did not seek to turn from mine, trembling in every limb,—trembling too much to speak.
“You may kiss me,” she whispered, and I bent and kissed her on the lips. “Now go, and let that be your accolade for the knightly spirit you have shown to-night. Oh, do not seek to hide the tears. I could not love a man who had not a tender heart.”
She pushed me gently from her. I turned to find that Richelieu had also risen and was waiting.
“Come, my friend,” he said, “let us go,” but he did not take his eyes from the princess, who was standing, pale, lovely, with the air of a general who has fallen mortally wounded at the moment of victory.
I went to her and knelt as at a shrine.
“Mademoiselle,” I said, “I cannot hope to tell you how great a reverence you have inspired in my heart to-night, but I trust that if you are ever in need of a sword and a loyal heart you will remember me. I can think of no greater honor than that of serving you.”
“I shall remember, M. de Brancas,” she answered, smiling down upon me and giving me her hand. “I know you for a brave gentleman and faithful friend. I shall not soon forget it.”
I kissed her hand and stood erect once more. Plainly it was time to go, and with a last glance at my love, I laid my hand on Richelieu’s arm and drew him towards the closet. He yielded without a word. Only when the door had closed behind us did he falter, but I pressed him on, down the spiral staircase, along the little hall, and through the outer door. He started as it clicked shut behind us and leaned against the wall.
“Oh, I can go no farther, de Brancas!” he exclaimed. “Think to what fate I am abandoning her. She may be brave now, perhaps, but what of the days and the years that are yet to come?”
“It is as she would wish,” I answered, gently. “Come, we must not remain here.”
I led him to the low wall, which we climbed a second time, along the avenue of chestnuts and to the street beyond. The carriage was awaiting us. I called the driver.
“You will return to the Hotel de Richelieu,” I said, and entered after the duke.
The way seemed interminably long, nor did I venture to offer any further sympathy to the stricken man in the other corner. My own heart was sore enough, not only with his sorrow but with my own.
Jacques met us at the steps. One glance at his master’s face told him the story.
“You will drive to the stables,” he said to the coachman. “I will soon join you there,” and he followed us within and shut the door.
Richelieu paused a moment on the stairs.
“I will go to my room, de Brancas,” he said, in a weary voice. “I wish to be alone, my friend,” and he went on up the stairs. I watched him until he disappeared from sight, and then turned into a room on the lower floor.
“Send him up a bottle of wine, Jacques,” I said. “He needs it now as he never did before in his life.”
“He has lost, then, M. de Brancas?”
I glanced at his honest face.
“Yes, he has lost in a way,” I answered. “But he has also won a great victory, my friend.”
“He had not the air of a victor, monsieur.”
“Ah, Jacques,” and I smiled rather grimly, “there are some victories which cost the victor more than the vanquished. This was one of that kind. But they are victories just the same, Jacques, though men, sometimes, do not so consider them.”
I turned to the fire and sat down before it. This, then, was the end. And was it the end, also, of my love for Louise Dacour? When should I see her? What did the future hold for us? I gazed into the depths of the glowing embers and saw again her sweet face looking up at me, her eyes on mine, and I knew that come what might that vision would never leave me. The clock chimed midnight, and as I started bedward, I heard Richelieu walking back and forth in the room overhead. And a great wave of pity for him swept over me as I thought of the battle he was fighting and the ordeal he had yet to face.