"I LEAPED OVER THE BED, AND UPON THE MAN WHO WAS TRYING TO STRANGLE THE COUNTESS."
As I could not get the dagger out of the other man's shoulder joint in time, I drew my sword, and parried my new antagonist's thrust. The door now opened, and in came another man with drawn sword, not masked: he was, I suppose, the man on guard on the landing. Seeing how matters stood, he joined in the attack upon me. I backed into a corner, knocking over the chair of the Countess, who had run to Mathilde. The two women stood clasping each other, in terror. Suddenly my first assailant cried, "I leave him to you for a moment, Garoche," and ran and transferred the key from the outside to the inside of the door, which he then closed, so as to lock us all in. This was doubtless to prevent the exit of the Countess and Mathilde, the purpose being to keep the night's doings in that room as secret as possible even from the rest of the household. This man then pocketed the key, and, while Garoche continued to keep me occupied in my corner, ran to a side of the cell and began working with an iron wedge at a stone in the floor. He soon raised this, showing it to be a thin slab, and left exposed a dark hole. He then turned to the Countess, seized her around the waist, and tried to drag her toward the opening. His instructions had been, no doubt, to slay the women without bloodshed and drop the bodies through this secret aperture, but the unexpected turn of affairs had made him decide to precipitate the end and not strangle them first. Wild with horror at the prospect of their meeting so hideous a death, I sprang into the air, and ran my sword straight into the panting mouth of Garoche, so that the point came out at the back of his neck. He dropped, and I disengaged my weapon barely in time to check the onslaught of the other man, who, seeing Garoche's fate, had left the Countess and come at me again. I was out of breath after the violent thrusts I had made, and a mist now clouded my eyes. I know not how this last contest would have gone, had not Mathilde, recovering her self-command, drawn the sword of the man who had fallen first, and, holding it with both hands, pushed it with all her strength into my adversary's back.
I wiped my weapons on the clothes of the slain murderers. The Countess fell on her knees and thanked heaven for our preservation. I then went to the opening made by the removal of the stone slab: peering down, I could see nothing. I took the key of the door from the pocket of its last holder, and dropped it through the hole, while the Countess and Mathilde leaned over me, listening. Some moments passed before we heard anything; then there came the sound of the key striking mud in the black depths far below. The secret shaft, then, led to the bottom of the tower.
The Countess shuddered, and whispered: "Come, let us not lose a moment."
I first lifted the masks, and recognized the murderers as fellows I had seen lounging in the court-yard. Then I gave directions for descending the ladder. I should have preferred being the last to leave the room but that I thought it necessary to support the Countess in her descent and Mathilde firmly refused to precede us. As the ladder might not hold the weight of three, Mathilde would see us to the ground, and then follow.
Two could not go out of the window at once, so I backed through first, and waited when my feet were planted on the ladder, my breast being then against the edge of the window sill. Madame followed me. I guided her feet with one hand, and placed them on the ladder, having descended just sufficiently to make room for her. I then lowered myself another round, and she, holding on to a round in the window shaft with one hand, grasped the first round outside with the other, emerged entirely from the opening, and let me guide her foot a step lower. We then proceeded downward in this manner, I holding my head and body well back from the ladder so that her feet were usually on a level with my breast: thus if she showed any sign of weakness, I could throw an arm around her. I had first thought of having her clasp me around the neck, and so descending with her, but once upon the ladder, I saw no safe way for her to get behind me, or indeed to turn from facing the ladder. So we came down as I say, while I kept as well as I could between her and the possibility of falling. Frequently I asked in a whisper if all was well with her, and she answered yes.
When we were near the moat, I felt the ladder move from the wall and knew that Hugues was drawing it toward him. I warned the Countess of our change from a vertical to an inclined position, and so we were swung across, and found ourselves above solid earth, on which we presently set foot.
"Best take Madame the Countess to the horses while I wait for Mathilde," whispered Hugues to me, letting the ladder swing back; but Madame would not go till the maid was safe beside us. Mathilde, who had watched our descent, now drew her head in, and speedily we saw her feet emerge in its stead. She came down the ladder with ease and rapidity, such were her strength and self-possession. As soon as she touched the ground, Hugues swung back the ladder to stay, and took up his cross-bow.
"Come," I whispered, and we turned our backs to that grim tower and hastened along the moat to the forest, passing on the way the high gable window of what had been my prison, the postern which I had such good reason to remember, and the oak from which I had seen Hugues display the handkerchief. Scarce a word was spoken till we came to the horses. I assisted the Countess to mount one of Hugues's two, she making no difficulty about accommodating herself to a man's saddle. By that time Hugues and Mathilde were on his second horse. I got upon my own, and we started. Our immediate purpose was to go to Hugues's house by the woods and lanes, fording the river below Montoire.
As we came out of the forest, beyond St. Outrille, the moon rose, and against the luminous Eastern sky we could see the dark tower we had left behind,—tower of blood and death, on which I hoped never to set eyes again.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE PARTING
We hoped to be at Hugues's house before the Countess's flight should be discovered. Hugues and I discussed the chances as we rode. The Count would probably give his murderous agents ample time before going to see why they did not come to report the deed accomplished. He would then lose many minutes in breaking into the cell, and again in questioning the watchman on the tower—who could not have seen us in the woods and distant lanes—and considering what to do. The bloodhounds would doubtless be put upon the Countess's scent, but they would lose it at the place where we had taken horse. And then, Hugues thought, having tracked us into the forest, the Count would assume that we had continued our flight through it without change of direction, and he would push on to St. Arnoult, and along the road to Chateaurenault and Tours. This was, indeed, the most likely supposition. The Count would scarce expect to find us harboured in any house in the neighbourhood, and he knew nothing of Hugues's attachment to Mathilde. Still I thought it well that the Countess should travel on as far as possible that night, and I asked her if she felt able to do so after stopping at Hugues's house for some food.
"Oh, yes," she answered compliantly.
I then broke to her that Hugues's and I had provided a suit of boy's clothes which she might substitute for her present attire at his house, and so travel with less likelihood of attracting notice. To this she made no objection. She seemed, on leaving the chateau, to have resigned herself, almost languidly, to guidance. A kind of listlessness had come over her, which I attributed to exhaustion of spirit after all she had experienced.
I then told her that Hugues and I had decided it best that Mathilde should stay at his house for the present, keeping very close and having the hiding-place accessible, while I went on with the Countess. Hugues himself, who could entirely trust his old woman-servant and his boy, would see us as far as to our first resting-place.
To these proposals also she said "Very well," in a tone of half-indifference, but she cast a long, sad look at Mathilde, at mention of leaving her.
"And then, Madame," I went on, "as to our journey after we leave Hugues's house. You have said you are without relations or fortune."
"Alas, yes. A provision for life-maintenance at the convent was all the fortune left me."
"In that case, I ask you, in the name of my father and mother, to honour them as their guest at La Tournoire. I can promise you a safe and private refuge there: I can promise you the friendship of my mother, the protection of my father, and his good offices with the King, if need be, to secure your rightful claims when the Count de Lavardin dies, as he must before many years."
"No, no, Monsieur, I shall have no claims. The Count married me without dowry, and if there be any other claims I surrender them. As for your generous offer, I cannot think of accepting it. You and I are soon to separate, and must not see each other again."
"But, Madame, I need not be at La Tournoire while you are there. I shall be out in the world, seeking honour and fortune."
"No, Monsieur, it is not to be thought of. My only refuge is the convent from which the Count took me."
"But is it safe to go there? Have you not said yourself that the Count would take measures to intercept you on the way?"
"But you and Hugues just now agreed that the Count would probably seek me on the road to Chateaurenault. That is in the opposite direction to the convent, which is beyond Chateaudun."
"But the Count may seek toward the convent when he fails to find you in the other direction. Or he may take the precaution to send a party that way at once."
"We shall be there before he or his emissaries can, shall we not? Once in the convent, I shall be safe.—And besides, Monsieur,"—her voice took on a faint touch of mock-laughing bitterness—"he will think I have run away with you for love, and for a different life than that of a convent. No; as matters are, it is scarce likely he will seek me in the neighbourhood of the convent."
It was then determined that we should make for the convent, which, curiously, as it was beyond Chateaudun, happened to be upon my road to Paris. We now arrived at Hugues's gate.
I dismounted only to help the Countess, and stayed in the road with the horses, while Hugues led Madame and Mathilde into the cottage. He took them thence into the mill, that they might eat, and the Countess change her dress, at the very entrance to the hiding-place. He then returned to me, the plan being that if we heard pursuit he and I were to mount and ride on, thus leading our enemies away from the Countess, who with Mathilde should betake herself to the hiding-place till danger was past. With Hugues's knowledge of the byways and forest paths, we might be able to elude the hunt. During this wait we refreshed ourselves with wine and bread, which the old woman brought, and the boy fed the horses. In a short time the Countess reappeared, a graceful, slender youth in doublet, breeches, riding-boots of thin leather, cap, and gloves. Her undulating hair had been reduced by Mathilde, with a pair of shears, to a suitable shortness. Mathilde followed her, loth to part. We allowed little time for leave-taking with the poor girl, and were soon mounted and away, Hugues leading.
"I suggest, Madame," said I, as we proceeded along the road, which was soon shadowed from the moonlight by a narrow wood at our right, "that on this journey you pass as my young brother, going with me to Paris to the University. I will say that we have ridden ahead of our baggage and attendants,—which is literally true, for my baggage remains at Hugues's house and you have left Mathilde there."
"Very well, Monsieur," she replied.
"I should have some name to call you by upon occasion," said I. "I will travel as Henri de Varion, for De Varion was my mother's name, and if you are willing to use it—"
"Certainly, Monsieur. As for a name to call me by upon occasion, there will be least falsehood in calling me Louis; for my real name is Louise."
"Thank you, Madame; and if you have to address me before people, do not forget to call me Henri."
"I shall not forget."
Her manner in this acquiescence was that of one who follows blindly where a trusted guide directs, but who takes little interest in the course or the outcome. A kind of forlorn indifference seemed to have stolen over her. But she listened to the particulars of residence and history with which I thought it wise to provide ourselves, and briefly assented to all. She then lapsed into silence, from which I could not draw her beyond the fewest words that would serve in politeness to answer my own speeches.
Meanwhile Hugues led us from the road and across the narrow wood, thence by a lane and a pasture field to the highway for Vendome and Paris. We pushed on steadily, passed through Les Roches, which was sound asleep, and, stopping only now and then to let our horses drink at some stream, at which times we listened and heard no sound upon the road, we entered Vendome soon after daylight.
"Had we better stop here for a few hours?" said I, watching the Countess and perceiving with sorrow how tired and weak she looked.
"I think it well, Monsieur," replied Hugues, his eyes dwelling where mine did.
"And yet," I said, with a thought of the horror of her being taken, "it is so few leagues from Lavardin. In such a town, too, the Count's men would visit all the inns. If we might go on to some village—some obscure inn. Could you keep up till then, Madame, do you think?"
"Oh, yes,—I think so." But her pallor of face, her weakness of voice, belied her words.
"We should be more closely observed at some smaller place than here," said Hugues. "Besides, we need not go to an inn here. There is a decent, close-mouthed woman I know, a butcher's widow, who will lodge you if her rooms are not taken. It would be best to avoid the inns and go to her house at once. As like as not, if the Count did hunt this road, he would pass through the town without guessing you were at private lodgings."
"It is the best thing we can do," said I, with a blessing upon all widows of butchers. Hugues guided us to a little street behind the church of the Trinity, and soon brought the widow's servant, and then the widow herself, to the door. Her rooms were vacant, and we took two of them, in the top story, one overlooking the street, the other a backyard wherein she agreed to let our horses stand. She promised moreover to say nothing of our presence there, and so, while Hugues led the horses through the narrow stone-paved passage, the widow showed us to our rooms. The front one being the larger and better, I left the Countess in possession of it as soon as we were alone, that she might rest until the woman brought the food I had ordered.
When breakfast was set out in the back room, and the Countess opened her door in answer to my knock, she looked so worn out and ill that I was alarmed. She had fallen asleep, she said, and my knock had wakened her. She ate little, and I could see that she was glad to go back and lie down again.
I had thought to resume our journey in the evening, and perhaps reach Chateaudun by a night's riding. But at evening the Countess seemed no more fit to travel than before. So I decided to stay at the widow's till Madame was fully recovered. Hugues would have remained with us another day, but I sent him back to his mill and Mathilde.
On the morrow the Countess was no better. I took the risk of going out, obtaining medicine at the apothecary's, and purchasing other necessary things for both of us which we had not been able to provide before our flight. I was in dread lest we might have to resort to a physician and so make discovery that my young brother was a woman. Madame declared her illness was but exhaustion, and that she would soon be able to go on. But it was some days before I thought her strong enough to do so.
We had come into Vendome on a Wednesday: we left it on the following Monday morning. We encountered nothing troublesome on the road, and arrived at Chateaudun that Monday night. The Countess endured the journey fairly well; but her strange, dreamy listlessness had not left her.
At Chateaudun as at Vendome, we sought out lodgings in a by-street, and therein passed the night. We were now but a few hours' ride from the convent, by Madame's account of its location. Soon I should have to part from her, with the intention on her side not to see me again, and the promise on mine to respect that intention. To postpone this moment as long as possible, I found pretexts for delaying our departure in the morning; but as afternoon came on she insisted upon our setting out. I did so with a sorrowful heart, knowing it meant I must take my last leave of her that evening.
From our having passed nearly a week without any sign of pursuit, a feeling of security had arisen in us. If the Count or his men had sought in this direction, passing through Vendome while we lay quiet in our back street, that search would probably be over by this time. But even if chase had not been made simultaneously by various parties on various roads, there had been time now for search in different directions one after another. Yet spies might remain posted at places along the roads for an indefinite period, especially near the convent. But as long as the risk was only that of encountering a man or two at once, I had confidence enough. In Vendome I had bought the Countess a light rapier to wear for the sake of appearance, of course not expecting her to use it. But though in case of attack I should have to fight alone, I felt that her presence would make me a match for two at least.
I tried to avoid falling in with people on the road, but a little way out from Chateaudun we came upon a country gentleman, of a well-fed and amiable sort, whose desire for companionship would let us neither pass ahead nor drop behind. He was followed by three stout servants, and expressed some concern at seeing two young gentlemen like us going that road without attendants.
"Though to be sure," he added, "there seems to be less danger now; but you must have heard of the band of robbers that haunt the forests about Bonneval and further on. There has been little news of their doings lately, and some people think they may have gone to other parts. But who knows when they will suddenly make themselves heard of again, when least expected?—'tis always the way."
He soon made us forget about dangers of the road, however, by his hearty talk; though, indeed, for all his good-fellowship I would rather have been alone with Madame in these last moments. About a league from Chateaudun, he arrived at his own small estate, rich in wines and orchards; he regretted that we would not stop, and recommended inns for us at Bonneval and the towns beyond.
We rode on, the Countess and I, in silence, my own heart too disturbed for speech, and she in that same dispirited state which had been hers from the beginning of our flight. Indeed now, when I was so soon to bid her farewell, she seemed more tired and melancholy, pale and drooping, than I had yet seen her. As I was sadly noticing this, we came to a place where a lesser road ran from the highway toward a long stretch of woods at the right. The Countess drew in her horse, and said, indicating the branch road:
"That is my way, Monsieur. I will say adieu here; but I will not even try to thank you. You have risked your life for me many times over. I will pray for you—with my last breath."
"But, Madame," I exclaimed in astonishment, "we are not to say adieu here. I must see you to the convent."
"The convent is not so far now. I know the way; and I wish to go there alone. You will respect my wish, I know: have you not had your way entirely so far on our journey? You cannot justly refuse me my will now." She gave a wan little smile as if she knew the argument was not a fair one.
"But, Madame,—what can be your reason?—It is not safe. Surely you will not deny me the happiness of seeing my service fully accomplished,—of knowing that you are safe at the convent?"
"I am nearly there. I know the road,—it is a shorter way than the high roads, but little used. I shall meet no travellers. I fear no danger."
"But consider, Madame. The danger may be at the very end of your journey. The Count may have spies within sight of the convent. You may fall into a trap at the last moment."
"I can go first to the house of a woodman in the forest, whose wife was a servant of my mother's. They are good, trustworthy people, and can see if all is safe before I approach the convent. If there is danger, I can send word by them to the Mother Superior, who can find means to get me in secretly at night. You may deem your service accomplished, Monsieur. I must take my leave now."
"But it is so strange! What can be your reason?—what can be your objection to my going with you?"
"Ah, Monsieur, it may be unfair, but a woman is exempt from having to give reasons. It is my wish,—is not that enough? I am so deeply your debtor already,—let me be your debtor in this one thing more.—You have spent money for me: I have no means of repaying—nay, I will not mention it,—you have given me so much that is above all price,—your courage and skill. But enough of this—to speak of such things in my poor way is to cheapen them. Adieu, Monsieur!—adieu, Henri!"
She held out her hand, to which I lowered my lips without a word, for I could not speak.
"You will go your way when I go mine," she said with tenderness. "To Paris, perhaps?"
"To Paris—I suppose so," I said vaguely.
"This horse belongs to Hugues," she said, stroking the animal's neck. "I may find means to send it back to him.—Well, adieu! God be with you on your journey, Monsieur,—and through your life."
"Oh, Madame!—adieu, if you will have it so! adieu!—adieu, Louis!"
She smiled acquiescently at my use of the name by which I had had occasion to call her a few times at our lodging-places. Then, saying once more, "Adieu, Henri!" she turned her horse's head and started down the by-road. With a heavy heart, I waited till she had disappeared in the woods. I had hoped she might look back, but she had not done so.
A movement of my rein, which I made without intention, was taken by my horse as a signal to go on, and the creature, resuming its original direction, kept to the highway and plodded along toward Bonneval and Paris.
Never in all my life, before or since, have I felt so alone. What was there for me to do now? All my care, all my heart, was with the solitary figure on horseback somewhere yonder in the forest. Had life any object for me elsewhere?
Yes, faith!—and I laughed ironically as it came back to my thoughts—I might now go on to Paris and cut off the moustaches of Brignan de Brignan!
CHAPTER XIV.
IN THE FOREST
But I had not yet come in sight of Bonneval, when fearful misgivings began to assail me as to what might befall the Countess. I awoke to a full sense of my folly in yielding to her wish. Her own apparent confidence of safety had made me, for a time, feel there must be indeed small danger. I had too weakly given way to her right of command in the case. I had been too easily checked by respect for what private reason she might have for wishing to go on without company. I had played the boy and the fool, and if ever there had been a time when I ought to have used a man's authority, laughing down her protests, it had been when she rode away alone toward the forest.
I turned my horse about, resolved to undo my error as far as I might,—to go back and take the road she had taken, and not rest till I knew she was safe in the convent.
My fears increased as I went. What the country gentleman had said about robbers came back to my mind. I arrived at the junction of the roads, and galloped to the woods. Once among the trees, I had to proceed slowly, for the road dwindled to a mere path, so grown with grass as to show how little it was ordinarily resorted to. But there were horseshoe prints which, though at first I took them to be only those of the Countess's horse, soon appeared so numerously together that I saw there must have been other travellers there recently. I perceived, too, that the wood was of great depth and extent, and not the narrow strip I had supposed. It was, in fact, part of a large forest. I became the more disquieted, till at last, as the light of day began to die out of the woods, I was oppressed with a belief as strong as certainty, that some great peril had already fallen upon her I loved.
I came into a little green glade, around which I glanced. My heart seemed to faint within me, for there, by a small stream that trickled through the glade, was a horse grazing,—a horse with bridle and saddle but no rider. The rein hung upon the grass, the saddle was pulled awry, and the horse was that of the Countess.
I looked wildly in every direction, but she was nowhere to be seen. The horse raised his head, and whinnied in recognition of me and my animal, then went on cropping the grass. I rode over to him, as if by questioning the dumb beast I might learn where his mistress was. There was no sign of any sort by which I might be guided in seeking her.
I called aloud, "Madame! madame!" But there was only the faint breeze of evening among the treetops for answer.
But the horse could not have wandered far. Whatever had occurred, there must be traces near. My best course was to search the forest close at hand: any one of those darkening aisles stretching on every side, like corridors leading to caves of gloom, might contain the secret: each dusky avenue, its ground hidden by tangled forest growth, seemed to bid me come and discover. I dismounted, knowing I could trust my horse to stay in the glade, and, crossing the stream, explored the further portion of the path.
I came to a place where the underbrush at the side of the path was somewhat beaten aside. I thought I could distinguish where some person or animal had gone from this place, tramping a sort of barely traceable furrow through the tangle. I followed this course: it led me back to the glade. Doubtless the horse had made it.
I was about to go back along the path, when I noticed a similar trodden-down appearance along one side of the stream where it left the glade. Hoping little, I examined this. It brought me, after a few yards, to a clear piece of turf swelling up around the roots of an oak. And lying there, on the grassy incline, with her head at the foot of the oak, was the Countess, as silent and motionless as death, with blood upon her forehead.
My own heart leaping, I knelt to discover if hers still moved. Her body stirred at my touch. I dipped my handkerchief in the stream, and gently washed away the blood, but revealed no cut until I examined beneath the hair, when I found a long shallow gash. I hastily cleansed her hair of the blood as well as I could, with such care as not to cause the wound to flow anew. All the time I was doing this, my joy at finding her alive and free was such that I could have sobbed aloud.
She awoke and recognized me, first smiling faintly, but in a moment parting her lips in sorrowful surprise, and then, after glancing round, giving a sigh of profound weariness.
"Am I then still alive?" she murmured.
"Yes, Madame;—I thank God from my heart."
"It is His will," she said. "I had hoped—I had thought my life in this world was ended."
"Oh, do not say that. What can you mean?"
"When they surrounded me—the men who sprang up at the sides of the path—I thought, 'Yes, these are the robbers the gentleman spoke of,—God has been kind and has sent them to waylay me: if I resist, I may be killed, and surely I have a right to resist.' So I drew my sword, and made a thrust at the nearest. He struck me with some weapon—I did not even notice what it was, I was so glad when it came swiftly—when I felt I could not save myself. The blow was like a kiss—the kiss of death, welcoming me out of this life of sad and bitter prospects."
"Oh, Madame, how can you talk in this way, when you are still young and beautiful, and there are those who love you?"
"You do not know all, Henri. What is there for me in life? I am weak to complain—weak to long for death—sinful, perhaps, to put myself in its way, but surely Heaven will pardon that sin,—weak, yes; but, alas, I cannot help it,—women are weak, are they not? What is before me, then? I am one without a place in the world—without relations, without fortune. If I were a man, I might seek my fortune—there are the wars, there are many kinds of honourable service. But what is there for a woman, a wife who has run away from her husband?"
"But Madame, the convent,—you have a right to be maintained there. You can at least live there, till time annuls the Count's claims upon you. And then who knows what the future may bring?"
"The convent—I have told you I should be safe there, and so no doubt I should if I took the veil—"
"Nay, Madame, not that, save as a last resort!"
"Alas, I may not though I would. Do you think I should hesitate if I were free? How gladly I would bury myself from this world, give myself at once to Heaven! But that resource—that happiness—is forbidden me. My mother, as she neared death, saw no security for me but as a life-guest at a convent. Our small fortune barely sufficed to make the provision. But she did not wish me to become a nun, and as she feared the influence of the convent might lead that way, she put me under a promise never to take the veil. So I am without the one natural resource of a woman in my position."
"But do you mean that you will not be safe at the convent merely as a guest?"
"The Count may claim the fulfilment of his rights as a husband. He may use force to take me away. The Mother Superior cannot withhold me from him; and indeed I fear she would be little inclined to if she could, unless I consented to take the veil. Before the possibility of my marriage came up, she was always urging me to apply for a remission of the vow to my mother, so that I might become a nun. But that I would never do."
"But, Madame, knowing all this, how could you select the convent as your refuge, and let me bring you so far toward it?"
"Ah, Monsieur, what place in the world was there for me? And yet I had to go somewhere, that your life might be saved, and Mathilde's, and the happiness of poor Hugues. There was no other way to draw you far from that chateau of murder, no other way to detach Mathilde from one who could bring her nothing but calamity. And to-day, when I left you, I thought all this was accomplished, and I was free to go my way in search of death."
"Oh, Madame, if I had known what was in your mind! Then you did not mean to go to the convent?"
"I meant to go toward the convent. It is further away than I allowed you to suppose. I felt—I know not why—that death would meet me on the way. I felt in my heart a promise that God would do me that kindness. At first I had no idea of what form my deliverer would take. Perhaps, I thought, I might be permitted to lose my way in the forest and die of hunger, or perhaps I might encounter some wild beast, or a storm might arise and cause me to be struck by lightning or a falling bough, or I might be so chilled and weakened by rain that I must needs lie down and die. I knew not what shape,—all I felt was, that it waited for me in the forest. And when the gentleman spoke of robbers, I rejoiced, for it seemed to confirm my belief."
"And that is why you would not let me come with you?"
"Yes, certainly; that you might not be present to drive death away from me, or meet it with me. I hoped you would go on to Paris, thinking me safe, and that you would soon forget me. You see how I desire you to live, and how you can please me only by doing so."
"And so, when you were at last in the forest—?"
"At last in the forest, yes—I knew not how long I should have to ride, but I made no haste,—sooner or later it would come, I thought. The birds hopping about on the branches seemed to be saying to one another, 'See this lady who has come to meet death.' I crossed a glade, and something seemed to whisper to my heart, 'Yonder it lies waiting, yonder in the shades beyond that little stream.' So I went on, and true enough, before I had gone far, five or six rough men sprang out from the bushes. Two caught my reins, and one raised a weapon of some kind and bade me deliver up my purse. I had no purse to deliver, and I feared they might let me go as not worth their trouble. Then I thought they might hold me for ransom, or rob me of my clothes, and discover I was a woman. Surely I was justified in resisting such a fate; so I drew the sword you gave me, and made a pass at the man with the weapon. He struck instantly, before I could turn my head aside, and I had time only for a flash of joy that God had indeed granted me deliverance. I scarce felt the blow, and then all went out in darkness. I knew nothing after. How did I come here? This is not the place where I met the robbers."
"It is very strange," said I. "This is where I found you, only a little while before you came to life. I had searched the path, but I saw no robbers. They did not take your horse,—I found it in the glade yonder, where I have left mine with it. That must be the glade you crossed before they appeared."
"But how came you to be here? Ah, did you disregard my wish and follow me?"
"Not at first. No; I went on toward Paris as you bade me. But after awhile I too had a feeling of danger befalling you in this forest. It was so strong that I could not force myself to go on. So I rode back, hoping to come in sight of you and follow at a distance. I could not do otherwise."
"Ah, Henri, perhaps it is to you I owe the ill service of bringing me back to life. Who knows?—I might have passed quietly away to death here had you not come and revived the feeble spark left in me. I must have been unconscious a long time."
"Yes; thank God I arrived no later than I did. But why should the robbers have brought you here? They have not even taken any of your clothes. See, here is your sword, replaced in its scabbard; even your cap is here, beside your head—look where the villain's weapon cut through,—it must have been a sort of halberd. Why should they have brought you here? Do they mean to return, I wonder?"
I rose and looked around, peering through the dusky spaces between the trunks of the trees, and straining my ears. Suddenly, amidst the chatter of the birds returning to their places for the night, I made out a sound of distant hoof-beats.
"Horsemen!" I said. "But these robbers were on foot, were they not?"
"Yes; I did not see any horses about."
"Who can these be? There must be several!"
They were apparently coming from that part of the forest toward which the Countess had been riding. On account of the brushwood I could not see them yet.
"Well," said I, "we had best keep as quiet as possible till they pass. But they will see our horses in crossing the glade. No, that must not be. Wait."
I ran back to the glade, and finding the horses close together, caught them both, led them down the bed of the stream to where the Countess was, and made them lie among the underwood, trusting to good fortune that they would be quiet while the others were passing.
Soon I could see, above the underbrush that extended to the path beyond the brook, a procession of steel head-pieces, bearded faces, breastplates over leather jerkins, and horses' heads. There were six or seven men in all, one after another. I lay close to the earth and heard them cross the stream. And then, to my astonishment, they came directly along the stream by the way I had first come; I rose to my feet just in time to face the leader as he stopped his horse within a yard of me.
He gazed over the neck of his steed at me, and the Countess, and our two animals. He was a tall, well-made, handsome man, seasoned but still young, with a bronzed, fearless face.
"Good evening," said he, in a rich, manly voice. "So the youngster has come to his senses,—and found a friend, it appears."
"I don't exactly understand you, Monsieur," said I.
"You are not to blame for that," he replied good-humouredly. "It is true I met your young friend awhile ago, but as he was more dead than alive at that time, he couldn't have told you much. How is it with him now?"
"I am not much hurt, Monsieur," replied the Countess for herself.
"I scarce knew how I should find you when I returned," said the newcomer.
"Then you saw him here before, Monsieur?" said I.
"Yes; it was I who brought him here,—but, faith! he was in no condition to see what was going on. We were searching this forest on the King's business, when I heard something a little ahead, which made me gallop forward, and there I saw half-a-dozen ruffians around a horse, and one of them dragging this youth from the saddle. I shouted to my comrades and charged at the robbers. They dropped the lad, and made off along the path. I stopped to see to the young gentleman, and ordered my companions to pursue the rascals. The youngster, let me tell you, seemed quite done for. He had been struck, as you see, evidently just before he was pulled from the horse."
"Yes, Monsieur," said the Countess; "and I knew nothing after the blow."
"So it appeared," replied the horseman. "I saw that water was needed, and remembering this stream we had crossed, I carried you to this place and did what I could for you. But I had to go and recall my men,—I feared they might be led too far, or separated by the robbers running in different directions. That explains my leaving you alone. We have a piece of work in hand, of some importance, and dare not risk anything for the sake of catching those knaves."
"I suppose they are part of the band that haunts this forest," said I.
"No doubt. But this forest is at present the haunt of larger game. Those scoundrels escaped us this time—they were favoured by the dusk and the undergrowth. I was longer in catching up with my comrades than I had thought. But I see all has gone well with that young gentleman in the meantime."
"Yes, Monsieur. I, his brother, ought never to have allowed him to go on alone. But I was riding after, expecting to overtake him, when I came upon his horse; I supposed he must be near, and I was fortunate enough to seek in the right place. He shall not leave me again; and for us both I thank you more than my tongue can ever express."
"Pouf!—I did nothing. The question is, what now? My comrades and I have affairs to look after in the forest. We shall continue on the path where your brother met his accident, till we come to a certain forester's house where we may pass the night. Your direction appears to be the same, and you will be safe with us."
"Again I thank you, Monsieur," I said, "but we shall give up our journey through the forest. As soon as my brother feels able to ride, we shall go back to the highway and pass the night at some inn. I think we shall be safe enough now that you have frightened the robbers from this part of the forest."
The horseman eyed me shrewdly, and glanced at the Countess. It occurred to me then that he had known her sex from the first, and that he now trusted me with wisdom enough to judge best what I ought to do. So he delicately refrained from pressing us, as he had all along from trying to learn our secret. For a moment he silently twirled his moustaches; then he said:
"In that case, I have but to wish you good-night, and good fortune. I think you will be safe enough between here and the highway. Please do not mention that you have seen any of the King's guard hereabouts,—though I fear that news is already on the wing."
"What, Monsieur?—are you, then, of the King's guard?"
"We have the honour to be so."
"But I thought their uniform—"
"Faith, we are in our working clothes," said he, with a laugh. The next moment he waved us adieu, turned his horse about, and, his companions also turning at his order, followed them out of our sight.
"A very charming gentleman," said I, as the sound of their horses diminished in our ears.
CHAPTER XV.
THE TOWER OF MORLON
The Countess still lay on the grassy couch beneath the oak. She seemed to have lost all will as to her course of action.
"I think best not to go with those guards," I explained after a moment. "For why should we travel their way without any destination? There is nothing for us now in that direction. After what you have told me, I dare not let you go to the convent."
"There is no place for me," she said listlessly. "Death has disappointed me, and left me in the lurch. I think this place is as good as another."
She closed her eyes for some moments, as if she would lie there till death came, after all.
"No," said I; "you must not stay here. Night is coming on: the chill and the dews will be harmful to you. Besides, there are clouds already blotting out some of the stars, and the wind is rising and may bring more. If there is rain, it may be heavy, after so many days of fine weather. It will soon be too dark to follow the path. We must be getting on."
"I am weak from this blow," she said,—rather as if for a pretext against moving, I thought. "I am not sure I could keep my saddle."
"I can carry you as I ride, if need be, and let your horse follow. Come, Madame, let us see if you can rise. If not, I will take you in my arms to the glade, where it will be easier to mount."
I stooped to support her, but she did not stir.
"But where am I to go?" she said. "Of what use to travel aimlessly from place to place? As you say, why should we ride on toward the convent without a destination? But where else have I a destination?"
"Listen, Madame. Is it not probable that after some weeks, or months, the Count, still disappointed of your taking refuge at the convent, will give up hope or expectation of finding you there? Will he not then withdraw his attention from the convent?"
"I suppose so."
"And can we not, if we take time, find means to learn when that becomes the case? Can we not, by careful investigation, make sure whether he is still watching the convent or whether he has an informant there? Can we not enter into communication with the Mother Superior, and find out what her attitude is toward you,—whether, if you returned, your residence there would be safe and kept secret? Surely she would not betray you."
"Oh, no; whatever attitude she took, she would tell me the truth."
"Then it is only necessary to wait a few months and take those measures, without letting your own whereabouts be known even to the Mother Superior."
"But meanwhile would you have me continue doing as I have done since my flight,—passing as something I am not, receiving the protection—living on the very bounty—of the one person in all the world from whom I should accept nothing? Why, Monsieur, if it were known—if no more than the mere truth were told—would it not seem to justify the Count de Lavardin?"
"I do not ask you to do as you have done. For only two or three days you need pass as a boy. You may then not only resume the habit of a woman, but enjoy the company and friendship of a woman as saintly as yourself. Your presence in her house must be a secret till affairs mend, but you may be sure that if her friendship for you were known, it would be a sufficient answer to anything your husband or the world might say against you."
"It is of your mother that you speak. But I told you before, it is not from you that I dare accept so much."
"It will be from my mother, who will believe me when I tell her the truth, and who will take you as her guest and friend for your own sake. As for me, my affairs in Paris will keep me from La Tournoire while you are there:—for consider, what I propose now is not what you refused that night we fled from Lavardin. I spoke then of your making La Tournoire your refuge for an indefinite time,—the rest of your life, if need be:—I speak now of your staying there only till your safe residence at the convent can be assured,—only a few months, or weeks."
Though I had begun and ended by speaking of the convent, I did so merely with the object of inducing her to go to La Tournoire. Once there, she would be under the guidance and persuasion of my mother, who could influence her to remain till the Count's death removed all danger.
"You must not refuse, Madame," I went on. "God has shown that He does not desire your death, and it must be His will that you should accept this plan, so clear and simple. Speak, Madame!"
"I know not.—I have no strength, no will, to oppose further. Let it be as you think best." The last vestige of her power of objection, of resolving or thinking for herself, seemed to pass out in a tired sigh.
"Good!" I cried. "Then we have but to regain the road and find some inn for the night. To-morrow we shall ride back to Chateaudun, or perhaps on to Bonneval, and then make for La Tournoire by Le Mans and Sablé, which is to give a wide berth to Montoire and the road we have come by. Do you think you can rise, Madame?—Nay, wait till I lead the horses out."
I took the horses to the glade, then returned and found the Countess already on her feet, though with her hand against the tree, as she was somewhat dizzy. She walked with my assistance, and I helped her to her saddle,—she now thought herself able to ride without support. I mounted my own horse, grasped the halter of the other, and took the path for the highway.
"We are none too soon," said I, as we left the glade. "How dark the path is even now: I hope we shall be able to keep it."
Darkness came on more quickly than usual, because of the swift overclouding of the sky. Very soon I could not see two paces before me. Then blackness settled down upon us. My horse still went on, but slowly and uncertainly, with many a halt to make sure of footing and a free way. When I glanced back, I could not see the Countess, but I held the tighter to the halter of her horse and frequently asked if all was well. Her reply was, "Yes, Monsieur," in a faint, tired voice. I felt about with my whip for the trees at the side of the path, and thus was able to guide the horse when its own confidence faltered.
Instead of cooling, the air became close. Suddenly the forest was lighted up by a pale flash which, lasting but a moment, was followed after a time by a distant rumble of thunder.
"It is far away, Madame," said I. "It may not come in this direction, or we may be safely housed before it does."
"I am not afraid."
However, lest rain might fall suddenly, I stopped the horses, unrolled from behind my saddle a cloak which I had bought in Vendome, and put it around the Countess. We then proceeded as best we could. Slowly as we had gone, I began to think it time we should emerge from the forest; but another flash of lightning showed apparently endless vistas of wood on every side. We went on for another half hour or so, during which the distant thunder continued at intervals; and then, finding ourselves as deep in the forest as ever, I perceived that we must have strayed from our right path. I stopped and told the Countess.
"It must be so," she said.
"I noticed no cross-path when I rode into the forest this afternoon. Yet a path might join at such an angle that, looking straight ahead, I should not have seen it. Yes, that is undoubtedly the case, if we are in a path at all. Perhaps we are following the bed of a dried-up stream."
"Do you wish to turn back, then?"
"We might only lose ourselves. And yet that is what must happen if we go ahead. Let us wait for a flash of lightning."
One came presently, while my eyes were turned ready in what I thought the direction from which we had come. But there seemed to lie no opening at all in that direction. Then, in the blacker darkness that ensued, I remembered that I had turned my horse slightly while talking of the matter. I could not now tell exactly which direction we had come from. It occurred to me that perhaps for some time we had wandered about in no path at all, going where trees and underbrush left space clear enough to be mistaken.
I confessed that I knew not which way to go, even to find the original path.
"Is it best to ride on at random, in hope of coming upon something, or to stay where we are till daylight?" I asked.
The Countess had no will upon the matter. But the question was decided for me by a heavy downpour of rain, which came in a rush without warning. It was evident that the foliage over us was not thick. So I shouted to the Countess that we would go on till we found trees that gave more protection. I urged my horse to move, letting him choose his own course, and he obediently toiled forward, I exerting myself to keep the other horse close, and also feeling the way with my whip.
As swift as the oncoming of the rain, was the increase of the lightning, both in frequency and intensity. The fall of the rain seemed loud beyond measure, but it was drowned out of all hearing when the thunder rolled and reverberated across the sky. In the bright bursts of lightning, the trees, seen through falling rain, seemed like companions suffering with us the chastisement of the heavens; but in the darkness that intervened between the flashes, the forest and all the world seemed to have died out of existence, leaving nothing but the pelting waters and the din of the storm.
At last we came, not to a region where the boughs were less penetrable, but to an open space where the downpour had us entirely at its mercy. I thought at first we had got out of the forest, or into the glade we had left: but a brilliant flash showed us it was another small clearing, which rose slightly toward the thick woods on its further side. And the same lightning revealed, against the background of trees, a solitary tower, old and half-ruined, slender and of no great height. A doorway on a level with the ground stood half open.
"Did you see that?" I cried, when the lightning had passed. "There is shelter."
"It must be the tower of Morlon," said the Countess.
"And who lives there?"
"Nobody,—at least it was said to be empty when I used to hear of it. It is all that is left of a house that was destroyed in the civil wars. Hunting parties sometimes resort to it, and the peasants make use of it when passing this way.—Yes, we have come far out of our road, if that is really the tower of Morlon."
"Then it is every man's house. The door is open."
"It is an abandoned place, and people would take no care how they left the door."
"Let us go in, then. There can be nobody there, or the door would be closed against this storm."
I rode toward the spot where I supposed the tower was, and, rectifying my course by the next flash, I presently felt the stone wall with my whip. I dismounted, found the entrance, pushed the door wide, and saw by the lightning a low-ceiled interior, which was empty. I led the horses in, helped the Countess from the saddle, and removed her cloak, which, though itself drenched, had kept her clothes comparatively dry.
My first thought was of a place where the Countess might recline. But, as I found by groping about and by the frequent lightning, there was nothing except the floor, which, originally paved with stone, was now covered with dried mud from the boots of many who had resorted to the place before ourselves. There were no steps leading to the upper stories of the tower: the part we were in was, indeed, but a sort of basement. It occupied the full ground space of the tower, with the rough stone as its only shell, and had no window nor any discoverable opening place in the low ceiling.
Thinking there might be an external staircase to the story above us, I went out and felt my way around the tower, but found none. The entrance to the main or upper part of the tower from the buildings that once adjoined must have been to the story above, from a floor on the same level. I thought of seeking the opening and climbing in from the back of my horse, but I reflected that the upper stories also would doubtless be denuded, while they could offer no better shelter from the rain. So I was content with taking the saddles from the horses, and placing them together upside down in such a way that they constituted a dry reclining place for the Countess.
There was no dry wood to be had from the forest, and no fuel of any kind in our place of refuge; so I could not make a fire. While the Countess sat in silence, I paced the floor until I succumbed to fatigue. By that time, much of the water had dripped from my clothes, and I was able to sit on the carpet of earth with some comfort. I leaned my back against the wall, to wait till the storm and the night should pass.
The horses had lain down, and the Countess, as I perceived by her deep breathing and her not answering me, was asleep. The thunder and lightning were less near and less powerful, but the rain still fell, now decreasingly and now with suddenly regathered force. At last I too slept.
I awoke during the night, and changed from a sitting to a lying position. When I next opened my eyes, the light of dawn was streaming in at the door. The storm had ceased, birds were twittering outside. I was aching and hungry. The Countess's face, as she slept, betokened weakness and pain. I went and adjusted a saddle-flap that had got awry under her. As I did so, she awoke.
"I am so tired," she said in a slow, small voice, like that of a weary child.
"You are faint for want of food," said I. "You have eaten nothing since noon yesterday, and very little then."
Thinking I wished to hurry our departure in search of breakfast, she shook her head and murmured weakly:
"I am not able to go on just now. I assure you, I cannot even stand. All strength seems to have gone out of me." As if to illustrate, she raised her hand a few inches: it trembled a moment, then fell as if powerless.
It was plain that she was, whether from fatigue and privation alone, or from illness also, in a helpless state. It would be cruelty and folly to put her on horseback. And without at least the refreshment of food and wine, how was her condition to be improved so that she might leave this place?
After some thought and talk, I said:
"The only thing is for me to go and get you food and wine, while you stay here. But, alas, what danger you may be in while I am gone! If anybody should come here and find you!"
"Nobody may come. Surely there are many days when this place is left deserted."
"But if somebody should come?"
"All people are not cruel and wicked. It might be a person who is kind and good."
"But the robbers?"
"Why should they come? There is nothing for them here. If they came it would be by chance; against that, we can trust in God."
"Perhaps intruders can be bolted out," said I, going to examine the door. It was of thick oak, heavily studded with nails, and two of its three hinges still held firmly. But there was no bolt, nor any means of barring.
"Nothing but a lock," I said, "and no key for that." It only aggravated my feeling of mockery to discover that both parts of the lock were still strong. In my petulance I flung the door back against the wall.
As one sometimes gives the improbable a trial, from mere impulse of experiment, I took from my pocket the two keys I had brought from Lavardin. I tried first that of the room in which I had been imprisoned: it was too small, and of no avail. I then inserted the key of the postern. To my surprise, it fit. I turned it partly around; it met resistance: I used all my power of wrist; the lock, which had stuck because it was rusted and long unused, yielded to the strength I summoned.
"Thank God!" I cried. "It seems like the work of providence, that I kept the postern key."
I now reversed and withdrew the key, and applied it to the lock from the inside of the door, which I had meanwhile closed. But alas!—no force of mine could move the lock from that side, though I tried again and again.
I went outside and easily enough locked the door from there. I then renewed my endeavours from the inside, but with failure.
"Alas!" said I, turning to the Countess; "if I cannot lock the door from within, how much less will you be able to do so."
"But you can lock it from without," she answered, taking trouble to secure my peace of mind. "Why not lock me in? It will be the same thing. In either case I should not go out during your absence."
"That is true," I said. "I will make haste. If the door is locked against intruders, what matters it which of us has the key? I will guard it as my life,—nay, that too I will guard as never before, for yours will depend upon it."
I then questioned the Countess as to what part of the forest we were in, but her knowledge of the location of the tower, with regard to roads or paths, was vague.
I decided to take both horses with me, lest one, being heard or seen, in or about the tower, might excite the curiosity of some chance passer through the forest. But I left the saddles with the Countess. Anxious to lose no more time, I knelt and kissed her hand, receiving a faint smile in acknowledgment of my care; led out the horses, locked the door, pocketed the key, mounted, and was off. I went haunted by the sweet, sorrowful eyes of the Countess as they had followed me to the door.
With the sun to guide me, I rode Westward, for in that direction must be the highway we had left the day before. By keeping a straight course, and taking note of my place of emergence from the forest, I should be able to find my way back to the tower. The leaves overhead were nowhere so thick but that splashes of sunshine fell upon the earth and undergrowth, and, by keeping the shadow of my horse and myself ever straight in front, I maintained our direction. But besides this I frequently notched the bark of some tree, always on its South side, with my dagger. Having this to do, and the second horse to lead, and the underbrush being often difficult, my progress was slower than suited my impatience. But in about an hour and a half from starting, I came out of the forest upon the bank of the Loir, which is so insignificant a stream thereabouts that I may not have mentioned fording it upon entering the woods on the previous day. I let the horses drink, and then rode through, and across a meadow to the highway. I turned to the right, and arrived, sooner than I had expected, at the gate of a town, which proved to be Bonneval. I stopped at the inn across from the church, saw to the feeding of my horses, and then went into the kitchen. I ordered a supply of young fowl, bread, wine, milk in bottles, and other things; and bargained with the innkeeper for a pair of pliable baskets and a strap by which they might be slung across my horse like panniers. While I waited for the chickens to roast, I used the time in reviving my own energies with wine, eggs, and cold ham, which were to be had immediately.
Three or four people came or went while I was eating, and each time anybody crossed the threshold of the door, I glanced to see what sort of person it was. This watchfulness had become habitual to me of late. But as I was about finishing my meal, with my eyes upon my plate, I had an impression that somebody was standing near and gazing at me. As I had not observed any one to come so close, I looked up with a start. And there stood Monsieur de Pepicot, his nose as long as ever, his eyes as meek as when they had first regarded me at Lavardin.
"My faith!" I exclaimed. "You rise like a spirit. I neither saw nor heard you enter."
"I am a quiet man," he replied with a faint smile, sitting down opposite me.
"You are the very ghost of silence itself," said I. "What do you wear on the soles of your boots?"
Again he smiled faintly, but he left my question unanswered. "So you managed to keep out of trouble at that place where I last saw you?" said he.
"If I did not keep out of it, at least I got out of it."
"You are a clever young man,—or a lucky one. I was a little disturbed in mind at leaving you as I did. But—business called me. I knew that if you could manage to keep a whole body for ten days or so, even if that amiable Count did see fit to cage you up, you would be set free in the end."
"Set free? By the Count, do you mean?"
"Not at all. By those who would visit the Count; by those who have—But stay,—have you not just come from Lavardin?"
"No, indeed. I left that hospitable house more than a week ago. I set myself free."
"Oh, is that the case? I ask your pardon. When I saw you here, I naturally supposed your liberation was a result of what has just occurred. I haven't yet learned all particulars of the event."
"What event? I don't understand you."
"Then you don't know what has been going on at Lavardin recently?"
"Not I."
"Oh, indeed? Well, it will be known to all the world very soon. The Count, it seems, was suspected of some hand in the late intrigue with Spain—"
"Ah!"
"Why do you say 'Ah!'?"
"Nothing. I always thought there might be something wrong with the Count's politics."
"Well, so they thought in Paris. And having made sure—"
"How did they make sure?"
"Oh, by the discovery of certain documents, no doubt," said Monsieur de Pepicot, with a notable unconsciousness. "It is the usual way, is it not?"
"Aha! I begin to see now. You overdo the innocence, my friend. I begin to guess what you were doing at Lavardin—"
"Monsieur, I know not what you mean."
"I begin to guess why you wanted to get into the chateau,—what you were wandering about the house with a lantern for,—why you took your leave so unexpectedly,—and how you knew that in ten days I should be set free."
"Nay, Monsieur, I cannot follow you in your perceptions. I know only that on Monday evening a party of the King's guard appeared before the Chateau de Lavardin—"
"Having been sent from Paris soon after you had arrived there with the documents you found in the chateau."
"Please do not interrupt with your baseless conjectures, Monsieur. As I said, the guards arrived at Lavardin just as, by great good fortune, the Count himself was returning from some journey or excursion he had been on. Thus they met him outside his walls: had it been otherwise they would doubtless have had infinite trouble, for, as we know, the chateau has been for some time fully prepared for a siege, even to being garrisoned by the company of Captain Ferragant."
"What! then those fellows who thronged the court-yard—"
"Were a part of Captain Ferragant's famous company,—only a part, as I should have said at first, unless he has reduced its numbers. Well, instead of having the difficulty of besieging the chateau, the guards had the luck to meet the Count in the road, when he had only a few followers with him. And so they made short work."
"They succeeded in arresting him?"
"Not exactly that. He chose to resist, no doubt thinking he would soon be reinforced from the chateau by the Captain and garrison. And in the fight, the Count was killed,—stuck through the lungs by the sword of a guard who had to defend himself from the Count's own attack."
"My God! the Count killed!—dead!—out of the way!" For a moment I entirely yielded to the force of this news, which to my ears meant so much.
"Yes. You don't seem grieved.—Yes: he will never annoy people again. The Captain, though, seeing from the chateau how matters had gone, came out with his men on horseback,—not to avenge the Count, but to ride off as fast as possible in the other direction. So the King's guardsmen had no trouble in getting into the chateau. A party of them, I believe, set off in pursuit of the Captain, who has long been a thorn in the side of people who love order. If he is caught, it can be shown that he was involved in the treason; and there it is."
"So the Captain has not been caught?"
"He had not been when I heard the news."
"And how did you hear it?"
"From one of the guardsmen, who happens to be of my acquaintance. I saw them as they came through Chateaudun yesterday afternoon, on their return from this business. We had very little time for talking."
"Then you were not with them at Lavardin?"
"I with them? Certainly not, Monsieur. Why should I have been with them? No; I have been staying in this part of the country for my own pleasure the past few days: I think of buying some apple orchards near Chateaudun.—I fancied you would be interested in this news."
"I am, dear Monsieur de Pepicot,—infinitely. I am sorry I must leave you now, but I have business of some haste. I thank you heartily, and hope we may meet again. You know where La Tournoire is."
Five minutes later, with my baskets slung before me, and having left one horse at the inn, I was riding out of Bonneval to tell the Countess that she was free.