CHAPTER XVI
MADAME LA DUCHESSE DE ROQUEFORT
We went down the road together in silence. For a moment my heart revolted at the warmth of Claire’s allusion to the man; then I remembered that he was dying, and put the pettiness from me. I longed to speak to her, to take her hand, but I knew that fifty pairs of eyes were watching us from the battlements, and held my peace. But I could look at her—at her great, dark eyes, her red lips, the curls clustering about her neck, her lithe, active, perfect figure, promising even greater charms as the years passed.
She raised her eyes to mine and smiled tremulously at what she saw there.
“How far is this place to which we go, Monsieur?” she asked.
“Not far,” I answered. “Would it were all eternity away!”
She smiled again.
“And you would wish to become a second Ahasuerus?” she asked, looking at me archly. “To keep walking thus, on and on, for all eternity? Surely not?”
“With you!” I cried, all my love in my face. “With you!”
She turned her eyes away. But as we passed a ledge of rock, where the shadow lay deep upon the road, she stumbled.
I know not how it was—I had thought only to catch her hand—but the touch of her set my blood aflame—she was in my arms, close against my breast. For an instant she looked up at me, startled; then, with a sigh, she yielded to me and laid her head upon my heart. And I was far past words—far past anything but the deep, tremulous joy of holding her, of gazing down into her eyes. She gave me to drink deep of them.
“How your heart beats!” she said at last, smiling up at me. “It is just here, under my ear.”
“For you, dear life! Every beat of it!”
“And mine for you,” she said. “Every beat of it!”
I looked up at the bright heavens—away at the distant hills.
“What is it?” she asked.
“That it should be true!” I said. “I have dreamed of it—longed for it—but that it should be true!”
“It has been true a long time,” she answered softly,—“a long time, dearest Paul.”
Her voice lingered on the name. It was the first that I had heard it from her lips.
“But not so long as I,” I protested. “I have loved you from the moment I saw you in the Rue Gogard. And you?”
She was smiling up at me with infinite tenderness.
“I have thought of no other man since then,” she said.
Again I looked out over the plain. This time the gleam of the camp-fires caught my eyes, and with a start I remembered my errand.
“Sweetheart,” I said, summoning all my courage, “we must go down. M. le Comte awaits us. I pledged him I would hasten. M. le Roquefort may even now be dead. He loves you, I think, but not as I!”
“No, not as you!”
She was looking up into my eyes, radiant with love and happiness. Never was there other woman like her!
Yet we lingered for a time, as our parents must have lingered at the gate of Eden. But at last we reached the plain, and made our way to the camp and to the tent of M. le Comte.
They were awaiting us. Roquefort seemed much stronger. He was supported on a pile of pillows, and but for the fever-glare in his eyes would not have appeared ill. The eyes brightened as we entered and a vivid flush sprang to either cheek.
“Come hither, Claire!” he cried, and she went to him, glorious in her loveliness. Even he seemed startled by it, and gazed at her a moment without speaking.
“I have come to the end of the path, Claire,” he said at last. “They tell me I may live a day, perhaps—no longer. And before the end I am going to ask you to keep a pledge you made me. See, I have kept mine”—and he made a little gesture towards me—“so far as with me lay.”
Not till then did I understand, and my heart grew cold at thought of it.
“You know I have loved you, Claire,” he went on, looking up into her eyes. “Nay, do not speak—do not protest! I have loved you! Had I not—had I not hungered for your love in return—I should have made you mine long ere this. But now, at the end, you must be mine! You have already promised, Claire! You cannot break your promise to a dying man!”
He paused—a cough choked him—and again there was blood upon his lips. I trembled to hurl myself upon him—to drag her away—but what could I say?—what plea could I offer? Oh, why did not she herself answer him?
But she did not answer—she did not draw away, as I, who stood there with starting eyes, watching her every movement, thought she must. She only knelt with her face buried in the cushions, shaken by sobs. But pity could go too far!
“You cannot deny a dying man, Claire,” he repeated in a fainter voice, and I saw how little his strength was. “It means more to me than you can guess. I am dying without issue—without heir. I want Roquefort to be yours, Claire—every stone of the castle, every rood of the land. It must not go to that scoundrel in Valladolid.”
I remembered Fronsac’s story of his hate for his next of kin, and ceased to wonder at him. But she—she—why did not she put him from her? I know the price would tempt most women, yet I had not thought it would tempt her. But a moment since she had told me—there!—why recall it? For now she stood suddenly upright and looked down into his eyes quite calmly.
“If you really wish it, M. le Duc,” she said. “If you think it will make you happier, I am ready!”
He lifted her hand to his lips—he forgot that he was looking in the face of death. Oh, I could have slain him—could have slain them both! What a fool was I to trust a woman’s word! And what a fool would I yet be should I betray myself!
But I had need for all my self-control. They brought in the priest, and Roquefort, in two words, gained his consent. They hastened after stole and surplice; Claire knelt at the bedside, her hand in his—a great silence fell upon the tent. And then the voice of the priest began the service, shortened somewhat to fit this strange occasion. My heart stood still as he came to the responses—I hoped madly that Claire might yet refuse, but her voice was the stronger of the two.
They pressed forward to kiss the hand of Madame la Duchesse de Roquefort,—mistress of a demesne second only to that of M. le Comte himself,—but I did not stay to witness it. Sick at heart—cursing woman’s baseness—I went blindly forth into the night.