CHAPTER XIX
A PAGE FROM MYTHOLOGY BY THE WAY AND A LETTER
A man's brain can accept only so many blows or surprises at one time; after that he becomes dazed, incapable of lucid thought. At this moment it seemed to the Chevalier that he was passing through some extravagant dream. The marquis was unreal; yonder was a vapor assuming the form of a woman. He stared patiently, waiting for the dream to dissolve.
He was staring into a beautiful face, lively, yet possessing that unmarred serenity which the Greeks gave to their female statues; but it was warm as living flesh is warm. Every feature expressed nobility in the catholic sense of the word; the proud, delicate nose, the amiable, curving mouth, the firm chin and graceful throat. In the candle-light the skin had that creamy pallor of porcelain held between the eye and the sun. The hair alone would have been a glory even to a Helen. It could be likened to no color other than that russet gold which lines the chestnut bur. The eyes were of that changing amber of woodland pools in autumn; and a soul lurked in them, a brave, merry soul, more given to song and laughter than to tears. The child of Venus had taken up his abode in this woman's heart; for to see her was to love her, and to love her was to despair.
The tableau lasted several seconds. She was first to recover; being a woman, her mind moved swifter.
"Do I wear the shield of Perseus, and is the head of Medusa thereupon? Truly, I have turned Monsieur du Cévennes into stone!"
"Diane, can it be you?" he gasped, seeing that the beautiful vision did not vanish into thin air.
"Diane?" she repeated, moving toward the mantel. "No; not Diane. I am no longer the huntress; I flee. Call me Daphne."
He sprang forward, but she raised her hand warningly.
"Do not come too close, Monsieur, or I shall be forced to change myself into laurel," still keeping hold of the mythological thread.
"What does it all mean? I am dazed!" He covered his eyes, then withdrew his hand. "You are still there? You do not disappear?"
"I am flesh and blood as yet," with low laughter.
"And you are here in Quebec?" advancing, his face radiant with love and joy.
"Take care, or you will stumble against your vanity." Her glance roved toward the door. There was something of madness in the Chevalier's eyes. In his hands her mask had become a shapeless mass of silken cloth. "I did not come to Quebec because you were here, Monsieur; though I was perfectly aware of your presence here. That is why I ask you not to stumble against your vanity."
"What do you here, in Heaven's name?"
"I am contemplating peace and quiet for the remainder of my days. It is quite possible that within a few weeks I shall become … a nun."
"A nun?" stupefied.
"The idea seems to annoy you, Monsieur," a chill settling upon her tones.
"Annoy me? No; it terrifies me. God did not intend you to be a nun; you were born for love. And is there a man in all the world who loves you half as fondly as I? You are here in Quebec! And I never even dared dream of such a possibility!"
"I accompanied a dear friend of mine, whose intention to enter the Ursulines stirred the desire in my own heart. Love? Is any man worthy of a woman's love? What protestations, what vows to-day! And to-morrow, over a cup of wine, the man boasts of a conquest, and casts about for another victim. It is so."
"You wrote a letter to me," he said, remembering. "It was in quite a different tone." He advanced again.
"Was I so indiscreet?" jestingly, though the rise and fall of her bosom was more than normal. "Monsieur, do not think for the briefest moment that I followed you!"
"I know not what to think. But that letter …"
"What did I say?"
"You said that France was large, but that if I loved you I would find you."
"And you searched diligently; you sought the four ends of France?" with quiet sarcasm.
He could find no words.
"Ah! Have you that letter? I should like to read it." She put forth her hand with a little imperious gesture.
He fumbled in his blouse. Had his mind been less blunted he would have thought twice before trusting the missive into her keeping. But he gave it to her docilely. There beat but one thought in his brain: she was here in Quebec.
She took down a candle from the mantel. She read aloud, and her tone was flippant. "'Forgive! How could I have doubted so gallant a gentleman!' What was it I doubted?" puckering her brow. "No matter." She went on: "'You have asked me if I love you. Find me and put the question. France is large. If you love me you will find me. You have complained that I have never permitted you to kiss me.'" She paused, glanced obliquely at the scrawl, and shrugged. "Can it be possible that I wrote this—'I kiss your handsome grey eyes a thousand times'?" Calmly she folded the letter. "Well, Monsieur, and you searched thoroughly, I have no doubt. This would be an incentive to the most laggard gallant."
"I … I was in deep trouble." The words choked him. "I was about to start …" He glanced about helplessly.
"And … ?" The scorn on her face deepened. He became conscious that the candle and the letter were drawing dangerously close.
"Good God, Diane! how can I tell you? You would not understand! … What are you doing?" springing toward her to stay her arm. But he was too late. The flame was already eating into the heart of that precious testament.
She moved swiftly, and a table stood between them. He was powerless. The letter crumbled into black flakes upon the table. She set down the candle, breathing quickly, her amber eyes blazing with triumph.
"That was not honorable. I trusted you."
"I trusted, too, Monsieur; I trusted overmuch. Besides, desiring to become a nun, it would have compromised me."
"Did you come three thousand miles to accomplish this?" anger swelling his tones.
"It was a part of my plans," coolly. "To how many gallants have you shown this ridiculous letter?"
His brain began to clear; for he saw that his love hung in the balance. "And had I followed you to the four ends of France, had I sought you from town to city and from city to town … ?"
"You would have grown thin, Monsieur."
"And mad! For you would have been here in Quebec. And I have kissed that letter a thousand times!"
"Is it possible?"
"Diane …"
"I am Diane no longer," she interrupted.
"In God's name, what shall I call you, then?" his despair maddening him.
"You may call me … a dream. And I advise you to wake soon."
The man in him came to his rescue. He suddenly reached across the table and caught her wrist. With his unengaged hand he caught up the ashes and let them flutter back to the table.
"A lie, a woman's lie! Is that why the ash is black? Have I wronged you in any way? Has my love been else than honest? Who are you?" vehemently.
"I am play, Monsieur; pastime, frolic," insolently. "Was not that what you named me in the single hours?"
"Are you some prince's light-o'-love?" roughly.
The blood of wrath spread over her cheeks.
"Your name?"
"I am not afraid of you, Monsieur; but you are twisting my arm cruelly. Will you not let go? Thank you!"
"You will not tell me who you are?"
"No."
"Nor what your object was in playing with my heart?"
"Perhaps I had best tell you the truth. Monsieur, it was a trap I set for you that night in Paris, when I came dressed as a musketeer. My love of mischief was piqued. I had heard so much about the fascinating Chevalier du Cévennes and his conquests. There was Mademoiselle de Longueville, Mademoiselle de Fontrailles, the little Coislin, and I know not how many others. And you walked over their hearts in such a cavalierly way, rumor had it, that I could not resist the temptation to see what manner of man you were. You were only the usual lord of creation, a trite pattern. You amused me, and I was curious to see how long you would remain constant."
"Are you not also a trite pattern?"
"I constituted myself a kind of vengeance. Mademoiselle Catharine expected you to establish her in the millinery. Have you done so?"
The Chevalier fell back from the table. This thrust utterly confused and bewildered him. It was so groundless and unexpected.
"She is very plump, and her cheeks are like winter apples. She had at one time been in my service, but I had reasons to discharge her. I compliment you upon your taste. After kissing my hands, these," holding out those beautiful members of an exquisite anatomy, "you could go and kiss the cheeks of a serving-wench! Monsieur, I come from a proud and noble race. A man can not, after having kissed my hands, press his lips to the cheeks of a Catharine and return again to me. I wrote that letter to lead you a dance such as you would not soon forget. And see! you did not trouble yourself to start to find me. And a Catharine! Faugh! Her hands are large and red, her eyes are bold; when she is thirty she will be fat and perhaps dispensing cheap wine in a low cabaret. And you called me Rosalind between times and signed your verses and letters Orlando! You quoted from Petrarch and said I was your Laura. My faith! man is a curious animal. I have been told that I am beautiful; and from me you turned to a Catharine! I suspect she is lodged somewhere here in Quebec."
"A Catharine!" he repeated, wildly. The devil gathered up the reins. "This is a mad, fantastic world! You kiss my handsome grey eyes a thousand times, then? What rapture! Catharine? What a pretext! It has no saving grace. You are mad, I am mad; the world is one of those Italian panoramas! A thousand kisses, Diane … No; you have ceased to be the huntress. You are Daphne. Well, I will play Apollo to your Daphne. Let us see if you will change into laurel!" Lightly he leaped the table, and she was locked in his arms. "What! daughter of Perseus and Terra, you are still in human shape? Ah! then the gods themselves are lies!"
She said nothing, but there was fear and rage in her eyes; and her heart beat furiously against his.
Presently he pressed her from him with a pressure gentle but steady. "Have no fear, Diane, or Daphne, or whatever you may be pleased to call yourself. I am a gentleman. I will not take by force what you would not willingly give. I have never played with a woman's heart nor with a man's honor. And as for Catharine, I laugh. It is true that I kissed her cheeks. I had been drinking, and the wine was still in my head. I had left you. My heart was light and happy. I would have kissed a spaniel, had a spaniel crossed my path instead of a Catharine. There was no more taint to those kisses I gave to her than to those you have often thoughtlessly given to the flowers in your garden. I loved you truly; I love you still. Catharine is a poor pretext. There is something you have not told me. Say truthfully that your belief is that I was secretly paying court to that poor Madame de Brissac, and that I wore the grey cloak that terrible night; that I fled from France because of these things. You say that you are about to become a nun. You do, then, believe in God. Well," releasing her, "I swear to you by that God that I never saw Madame de Brissac; that I was far away from Paris on the nineteenth of February. You have wantonly and cruelly destroyed the only token I had which was closely associated with my love of you. This locket means nothing." He pulled it forth, took the chain from round his neck. "You never wore it; it is nothing. I do not need it to recall your likeness. Since I have been the puppet, since even God mocks me by bringing you here, take the locket."
She looked, not at the locket nor at the hand which held it, but into his eyes. In hers the wrath was gone; there was even a humorous sparkle under the heavy lashes. She made no sign that she saw the jeweled miniature. She was thinking how strong he was, how handsomely dignity and pride sat upon his face.
"Will you take it?" he repeated.
Her hands went slowly behind her back.
"Does this mean that, having lain upon my heart for more than a year, it is no longer of value to you?" He laid the chain and locket upon the table. "Yesterday I had thought my cup was full." The mask lay crumpled at his feet, and he recovered it absently. "You?" he cried, suddenly, as the picture came back. He looked at the mask, then at her. "Was it you who came into that room at the Corne d'Abondance in Rochelle, and when I addressed you, would not speak? Oh! You, were implicated in a conspiracy, and you were on the way to Spain. Saumaise! He knows who you are, and by the friendship he holds for me and I for him, he shall tell me!" He became all eagerness again. "Vervain! I might have known. Diane, give me some hope that all this mystery shall some day be brushed aside. I am innocent of any evil; I have committed no crime. Will you give me some hope, the barest straw?"
She did not answer. She was nervously fingering the ashes of her letter.
"You do not answer? So be it. You have asked me why I did not seek you. Some day you will learn. Since you refuse to take the locket, I will keep it. Poor fool that I have been, with all these dreams!"
"You are destroying my mask, Monsieur."
He pressed his lips against the silken lips where hers had been so often.
"Keep it," she said, carelessly, "or destroy it. It is valueless. Will you stand aside? I wish to go."
He stood back, and she passed out. Her face remained in the shadow. He strove to read it, in vain. Ah, well, Quebec was small. And she had taken the voyage on the same ship as his father. … She had not heard; she could not have heard! Ah, where was this labyrinth to lead, and who was to throw him the guiding thread? He had returned that evening from Three Rivers, if not happy, at least in a contented frame of mind … to learn that a lie had sent him into the wilderness, a lie crueler in effect than the accepted truth! … to learn that the woman he loved was about to become a nun! No! She should not become a nun. He would accept his father's word, resume his titles long grown dusty, and set about winning this mysterious beauty. For she was worth winning, from the sole of her charming foot to the glorious crown on her brow. He would see her again; Quebec was indeed small. He would cast aside the mantle of gloom, become a good fellow, laugh frequently, sing occasionally; in fine, become his former self.
Here Victor rushed in, breathless.
"Paul, lad," he cried, "have you heard the astonishing news?"
"News?"
"Monsieur le Marquis is here!"
"I have seen him, Victor, and spoken to him,"
"A reconciliation? The Virgin save me, but you will return to France!"
"Not I, lad," with a gaiety which deceived the poet. "I will tell you something later. Have you had your supper?"
"No."
"Then off with us both. And, a bottle of the governor's burgundy which I have been saving."
"Wine?" excitedly.
"Does not the name sound good? And, by the way, did you know that that woman with the grey mask, who was at the Corne d'Abondance …"
"I have seen her," quietly.
"What is her name, and what has she done?" indifferently.
"Her name I can not tell you, Paul."
"Can not? Why not 'will not'?"
"Will not, then. I have given my promise."
"Have I ever kept a secret from you, Victor?"
"One."
"Name it."
"That mysterious mademoiselle whom you call Diane. You have never even told me what she looks like."
"I could not if I tried. But this woman in the mask; at least you might tell me what she has done."
"Politics. Conspiracy, like misery, loves company. … Who has been burning paper?" sniffing.
"Burning paper?"
"Yes; and here's the ash. You've been burning something?"
"Not I, lad," with an abrupt laugh. "Hang it, let us go and eat."
"Yes; I am anxious to know why Monsieur le Marquis is here."
"And the burgundy; it will be like old times." There was sweat on the Chevalier's forehead, and he drew his sleeve across it.
From an obscure corner of the council chamber the figure of a man emerged. He walked on tiptoe toward the table. The black ash on the table fascinated him. For several moments he stared at it.
"'I kiss your handsome grey eyes a thousand times'," he said, softly. He touched the ash with the tip of his finger, and the feathery particles sifted about, as if the living had imparted to the inanimate the sense of uneasiness. "For a space I thought he would kiss her. In faith, there is more to Monsieur du Cévennes than I had credited to his account. It takes power, in the presence of that woman, to resist the temptation to kiss her. But here's a new element, a new page which makes interesting reading."
The man twirled the ends of his mustache.
"What a curious game of chess life is! Here's a simple play made complicated. How serenely I moved toward the coveted checkmate, to find a castle towering in the way! I came in here to await young Montaigne. He fails to appear. Chance brings others here, and lo! it becomes a new game. And D'Hérouville will be out of hospital to-morrow or next day. Quebec promises to become as lively as Paris. Diane, he called her. What is her object in concealing her name? By all the gargoyles of Notre Dame, but she would lure a bishop from his fish of a Friday!"
He gathered up a pinch of the ash and blew it into the air.
"Happily the poet smelt nothing but paper. Lockets and love-letters; and D'Hérouville and I for cutting each other's throats! That is droll. … My faith, I will do it! It will be a tolerably good stroke. 'I kiss your handsome grey eyes a thousand times'! Chevalier, Chevalier! Dip steel into blood, and little comes of it; but dip steel into that black liquid named ink, and a kingdom topples. She is to become a nun, too, she says. I think not."
It was the Vicomte d'Halluys; and when, shortly after this soliloquy, Montaigne came in, he saw that the vicomte was smiling and stabbing with the tip of his finger some black ash which sifted about on the table.
CHAPTER XX
A DEATH WARRANT OR A MARRIAGE CONTRACT
"Well, Gabrielle," said Anne, curiously, "what do you propose to do?"
Madame went to the window; madame stared far below the balcony at the broad river which lay smooth and white in the morning sunshine; madame drummed on the window-casing.
"It is a mare's nest," she replied, finally.
"First of all, there is D'Hérouville. True, he is in the hospital," observed Anne, "but he will shortly become an element."
Madame shrugged.
"There's the vicomte, for another."
Madame spread the most charming pair of hands.
"And the poet," Anne continued.
Madame tucked away a rebel curl above her ear.
"And last, but not least, there's the Chevalier du Cévennes. The governor was very kind to permit you to remain incognito."
Madame's face became animated. "What an embarrassing thing it is to be so plentifully and frequently loved!"
"If only you loved some one of these noble gentlemen!"
"D'Hérouville, a swashbuckler; D'Halluys, a gamester; Du Cévennes, a fop. Truly, you can not wish me so unfortunate as that?"
"Besides, Monsieur du Cévennes does not know nor love you."
"I suppose not. How droll it would be if I should set about making him fall in love with me!—to bring him to my feet and tell him who I am—and laugh!"
"I should advise you not to try it, Gabrielle. He might become formidable. Are you not mischief endowed with a woman's form?"
"A mare's nest it is, truly; but since I have entered it willingly …"
"Well?"
"I shall not return to France on the Henri IV," determinedly.
"But Du Cévennes and the others?"
"I shall avoid Monsieur du Cévennes; I shall laugh in D'Hérouville's face; the vicomte will find me as cold and repelling as that iceberg which we passed near Acadia."
"And Monsieur de Saumaise?" Anne persisted.
"Well, if he wishes it, he may play Strephon to my Phyllis, only the idyl must go no further than verses. No, Anne; his is a brave, good heart, and I shall not play with it. I am too honest."
"Well, at any rate, you will not become dull while I am on probation. And you will also become affiliated with the Ursulines?"
Madame smiled with gentle irony. "Oh, yes, indeed! And I shall teach Indian children to speak French as elegantly as Brantôme wrote it, and knit nurses' caps for the good squaws. … Faith, Anne, dear, if I did not love you, the Henri IV could not carry me back to France quick enough." Madame leaned from the window and sniffed the forest perfumes.
"You will be here six months, then."
"That will give certain personages in France time to forget."
"You were very uncivil to Monsieur le Marquis on board."
"I adore that race, the Pérignys," wrathfully. "Twenty times I had the impulse to tell him who I am."
"But you did not. And what can he be doing here?"
"Doubtless he intends to become a Jesuit father: or he is here for the purpose of taking his son back to France. Like the good parent he is, he does not wait for the prodigal's return. He comes after him."
"Monsieur le Marquis was taken ill last night, so I understand."
"Ah! perhaps the prodigal scorned the fatted calf!"
"Yon are very bitter."
"I have been married four years; my freedom is become so large that I know not what to do with it. Married four years, and every night upon retiring I have locked the door of my bedchamber. And what is the widow's portion? The menace of the block or imprisonment. I was a lure to his political schemes, and I never knew it till too late. Could I but find that paper! Writing is a dangerous and compromising habit. I shall never use a pen again; not I. One signs a marriage certificate or a death-warrant."
Anne crossed the room and put her arms round her companion, who accepted the caress with moist eyes.
"You will have me weeping in a moment, Gabrielle," said Anne.
"Let us weep together, then; only I shall weep from pure rage."
"There is peace in the convent," murmured Anne.
"Peace is as the heart is; and mine shall never know peace. I have been disillusioned too soon. I should go mad in a convent. Did I not pass my youth in one,—to what end?"
"If only you loved a good man."
"Or even a man," whimsically. "Go on with the thought."
"The mere loving would make you happy."
Madame searched Anne's blue eyes. "Dear heart, are you not hiding something from me? Your tone is so mournful. Can it be?" as if suddenly illumined within.
"Can what be?" asked Anne, nervously.
"That you have left your heart in France."
"Oh, I have not left my heart in France, Gabrielle. Do you not feel it beating against your own?"
"Who can he be?" musingly.
"Gabrielle, Gabrielle!" reproachfully.
"Very well, dear. If you have a secret I should be the last to force it from you."
"See!" cried Anne, suddenly and eagerly; "there is Monsieur du Cévennes and his friend coming up the path. Do you not think that there is something manly about the Chevalier's head?"
"I will study it some day; that is, if I feel the desire."
"Do you really hate him?"
"Hate him? Faith, no; that would be admitting that he interested me."
The Chevalier and the poet carried axes. They had been laboring since five o'clock that morning superintending the construction of a wharf. In truth, they were well worth looking at: the boyishness of one and the sober manliness of the other, the clear eyes, tanned skin, the quick, strong limbs. The poet's eye was always roving, and he quickly saw the two women in the window above.
"Paul, is not that a woman to be loved?" he said; with a gaiety which was not spontaneous.
"Which one?" asked the Chevalier, diplomatically.
"The one with hair like the haze in the morning."
"The simile is good," confessed the Chevalier. "But there is something in the eye which should warn a man."
"Eye? Can you tell the color of an eye from this distance? It's more than I can do."
The Chevalier's tan became a shade darker. "Perhaps it was the reflection of the sun."
Victor swung his hat from his head gallantly. The Chevalier bowed stiffly; the pain in his heart stopped the smile which would have stirred his lips. The lad at his side had faith in women, and he should never know that yonder beauty had played cup and ball with his, the Chevalier's, heart. How nonchalant had been her cruelty the preceding night! That letter! The Chevalier's eyes snapped with anger and indignation as he replaced his hat. It was enough that the poet knew why the marquis was in Quebec.
"You murmured a name in your sleep last night," said the Chevalier.
"What was it?"
"It sounded like 'Gabrielle'; I am not sure."
"They say that Monsieur le Marquis was a most handsome youth," Anne remarked, when the men had disappeared round an angle.
"Then it is possible the son will make a handsome old man," was madame's flippant rejoinder.
"Supposing, after all, you had married him?" suggested Anne, with a bit of malice; for somehow the Chevalier's face appealed to her admiration.
"Heaven evidently had some pity for me, for that would have been a catastrophe, indeed." Madame did not employ warm tones, and the lids of her eyes narrowed. "Wedded to a fop, whose only thought was of himself? That would have been even worse than Monsieur le Comte, who was, with all his faults, a man of great courage."
"I have never heard that the Chevalier was a coward," warmly. "In fact, in Rochelle he had the reputation of being one of the most daring soldiers in France. And a coward would never have done what he did for Monsieur de Saumaise."
"Good Heaven! let us talk of something else," cried madame. "The Chevalier, the Chevalier! He has no part in my life, nor I in his; nor will he have. I do not at present hate him, but if you keep trumpeting his name into my ears I shall." Madame was growing visibly angry. "I will leave you, Anne, with the Mother Superior's letters. I do not want company; I want to be alone. I shall return before the noon meal."
"Gabrielle, you are not angry at me? I was only jesting."
"No, Anne; I am angry at myself. My vanity is still young and green, and I can not yet separate Monsieur du Cévennes from the boot-heel which ground upon my likeness. No woman with any pride would forgive an affront like that; and I am both proud and unforgiving."
"I can understand, Gabrielle. You ought not to have joined me. By now you would have been in Navarre or in Spain."
"And lonely, lonely, lonely!" with a burst of tenderness, throwing her arms round Anne again and kissing her. "I must go; I shall weep if I remain."
Half an hour later an orderly announced to his Excellency the governor that a lady desired to see him.
"Admit her at once," said De Lauson. "Mademoiselle," when madame stood before him, "am I to have the happiness of being of service to you? Or, is it 'madame' instead of 'mademoiselle'?"
"I have promised to disclose my identity in time, your Excellency. However, I shall not object to 'madame.' Monsieur, I am about to ask you a question which I shall request not to be repeated."
The governor, looking at her with open admiration, recalled the days when, as a student, he had conjured up in his own mind the faces of the goddesses. This face represented neither Venus nor Pallas; rather the lithe-limbed huntress who forswore marriage for the chase.
"And this question?" he inquired.
"What brought Monsieur le Chevalier du Cévennes, as he calls himself, to Quebec?"
The governor's face became shaded with gravity, "I may not tell you that. I did not know that you knew Monsieur le Comte. He will, without doubt, return to France with Monsieur le Marquis, his father. Nay, I shall tell you this: the Chevalier expected never to return to France."
"Never to return to France?" vaguely.
"Yes, Madame; so I understood, him to say." The governor's curiosity was manifest.
"Conspiring did not bring him here?"
"No, Madame."
"Monsieur, one more question, and then I will go. Is there a Mademoiselle Catharine Coquenard upon your books?"
"Peasant or noble?"
"Peasant, Monsieur, of a positive type," with enough scorn to attract the governor's ear.
He consulted his books, wondering what it was all about. "No such name, Madame," he said, finally, "I regret to say."
"Thank you, Monsieur; that is all."
For the rest of the day his Excellency the governor went about with a preoccupied expression on his face.
The sun sank; the green of the forests deepened; a violet mist rose from the banks; the channel of the river became a perfect mirror, which softened the gorgeous colors which the heavens flung upon its surface. Madame wandered aimlessly around within the outer parapet of the citadel. Far out upon the river she saw the black hull of the Henri IV, the rigging weaving a delicate spider-web against the faded horizon of the south. A breeze touched madame's cheek, as soft a kiss as that which a mother gives to her sleeping child. For a space her hair burned like ore in a furnace and her eyes sparkled with golden flashes; then the day smoldered and died, leaving the world enveloped in a silvery pallor. To the thought which wanders visual beauty is without significance, and madame's thought was traversing paths which were many miles beyond the sea.
"Madame, are you not truly a poet?"
The vicomte stood at her side, his hat under his arm. "I daresay," he went on, "that many a night while you were crossing the sea you stood by the railing and watched the pathway of the moon. How like destiny it was! You could not pass that ribbon of moonshine nor could it pass you, but ever and ever it walked and abided with you. Well, so it is with destiny."
"And when the clouds come, Monsieur le Vicomte, and shut out the moon, there is, then, a cessation to destiny?"
"You are not only a poet, Madame," he observed, his fingers straying over his mustache. "You have eclipsed my metaphor nicely, I will admit."
"And this preamble leads … ?"
"I have something of vital importance to tell you; but it can not be told here. Will you do me the honor and confidence, Madame, to follow me to the château?"
"How vital is this information?" the chill in her voice becoming obvious and distinct.
"I was speaking of destiny, Madame; what I have to say pertinently concerns yours."
Madame trembled and her brow became moist. "Where do you wish me to go with you, Monsieur?"
"Only into a deserted council chamber, where, if doubt or fear disturbs you, you have but to cry to bring the whole regiment tumbling about my ears."
"Proceed, Monsieur; I am not afraid."
"I go before only to show you the way, Madame."
He turned, and madame, casting a regretful glance at the planets which were beginning to blaze in the firmament, followed him. She was at once disturbed and curious. This man, brilliant and daring though she knew him to be, always stirred a vague distrust. He had never done aught to give rise to this inward antagonism; yet a shadowy instinct, a half-slumbering sense, warned her against him. D'Hérouville she hated cordially, for he had pursued her openly; but this man walking before her, she did not hate him, she feared him. There had been nights at the hôtel in Paris when she had felt the fiery current of his glance, but he had never spoken; many a time she had read the secret in his eyes, but his lips had remained mute. She understood this tact, this diplomacy which, though it chafed her, she could not rebuke. Thus, he was more or less a fragment of her thoughts, day after day. Ah, that mad folly, that indescribable impulse, which had brought her to New France instead of Spain! Eh well, the blood of the De Rohans and De Montbazons was in her veins, and the cool of philosophy was never plentiful in that blood. She was to learn something to-night, if only the purpose of this man who loved and spoke not.
"In here, Madame," said the vicomte, courteously, "if you will do me that honor."
A glance told madame that she had been in this room before. Did they burn candles every night in here, or had the vicomte, relying upon a woman's innate curiosity, lighted these candles himself? Her gaze, traveling along the oak table, discovered a few particles of burnt paper. Her face grew warm.
The vicomte closed the door gently, leaving the key in the lock. She followed, each movement with eyes as keen and wary as a cat's. He drew out a chair, walked around the table and selected another chair.
"Will you not sit down, Madame?"
"I prefer to stand, Monsieur."
"As you please. Pardon me, but I am inclined to sit down."
"Will you be brief?"
"As possible." The vicomte took in a long breath, reached a hand into his breast and drew out a folded paper, oblong in shape.
At the sight of this madame's eyes first narrowed, then grew wide and round.
"Begin, Monsieur," a suspicion of tremor in her tones.
"Well, then: fate or fortune has made you free; fate or fortune has brought you into this wilderness. Here, civilization becomes less fine in the grain; men reach forth toward objects brusquely and boldly. Well, Madame, you know that for the past year I have loved you silently and devotedly …"
"If that is all, Monsieur … !" scornfully.
"Patience!" He tapped the paper with his hand. "Is there not something about the shape of this paper, Madame, that is familiar? Does it not recall to your mind something of vital importance?"
Madame placed her hand upon the back of the chair and the ends of her fingers grew white from the pressure.
"The great Beaufort has scrawled negligently across this paper; the sly, astute Gaston. My name is here, and so is yours, Madame. My name would never have been here but for your beauty, which was a fine lure. Listen. As for my name, there lives in the Rue Saint Martin a friend who plays at alchemy. He has a liquid which will dissolve ink, erase it, obliterate it, leaving the paper spotless. Thus it will be easy for me to substitute another in place of mine. Mazarin seeks you, Madame, either to place your beautiful neck upon the block or to immure you for life in prison. Madame, this paper represents two things: your death-warrant or your marriage contract. Which shall it be?"
CHAPTER XXI
AN INGENIOUS IDEA AND A WOMAN'S WIT
Madame sat down. There was an interval of silence, during which the candles seemed to move strangely from side to side, and the dark face beyond was blurred and indistinct; all save the eyes, which, like the lidless orbs of a snake, held and fascinated her. Vaguely she comprehended the peril of a confused mind, and strove to draw upon that secret inward strength which discovers itself in crises.
"How did you obtain that paper, Monsieur?"
The calm of her voice, though he knew it to be forced, surprised him. "How did I obtain it? By strategy."
"Ah! not by the sword, then?" leaning upon the table, her fingers alone betraying her agitation. "Not by the sword, and the mask, and the grey cloak?"
As if the question afforded him infinite amusement, the vicomte laughed.
"Would I be here?" he said. "Would I have ventured into this desert? Rather would I not have spoken yonder in France? I shall tell you how I obtained it … after we are married."
Madame raised a hand and nervously tapped a knuckle against her teeth.
"Which is it to be, Madame?" caressing the paper.
"Monsieur, you are not without foresight and reason. Have you contemplated what I should become in time, forced into a marriage with a man whom I should not love, with whom I should always associate the sword, and the mask, and the grey cloak?"
"I have speculated upon that side of it," easily, "and am willing to take the risk. In time you would forget all about the sword and the cloak, since they can in no wise be associated with me. Eventually you would grow to love me."
"Either you understand nothing about women, or you are guilty of gross fatuity."
"I understand woman tolerably well, and I have rubbed against too many edges to be fatuous."
"Indeed, I believe you have much to learn."
"If I showed this paper to the governor of Quebec …"
"Which you will not do, there being no magic liquid this side of France."
"It would be simple to cut out the name."
"You would still have to explain to Monsieur de Lauson how you came into possession of it."
"Madame, the more I listen to you, the more determined I am that you shall become my wife. I admire the versatility of your mind, the coolness of your logic. Not one woman in a thousand could talk to so much effect, when imprisonment or death …"
"Or marriage!"
"… faced her as surely as it faces you."
"Permit me to see the paper, Monsieur."
Some men would have surrendered to the seductiveness of her voice; not so the vicomte.
"Scarcely, Madame," smiling.
"How am I to know that it is genuine? Allow me to glance at it?"
"And witness you tear it up, or … burn it like a love-letter?" shrewdly.
Madame stiffened in her chair.
"Have you ever burned a love-letter, Madame?" asked the vicomte.
Madame turned pale from rage and shame. The rage nearly overcame the fear and terror which she was so admirably concealing.
"Have you?" pitilessly.
"You … ?"
"Yes," intuitively. He touched the particles of burnt paper and laughed.
"You were in this room?"
"I was. It was not intentional eavesdropping; my word of honor, as to that. I came in here, having an unimportant engagement with a friend. He was late. While I waited, in walked Monsieur le Chevalier, then yourself."
"Monsieur, you might have made known your presence."
"It is true that I might; but I should have missed a very fine comedy. Madame, I compliment you. How well you have kept undiscovered, even undreamt of, this charming intrigue!"
Madame gazed at the door and wondered if she could reach it before he could.
"So, sometimes you are called 'Diane'? You are no longer the huntress; you are Daphne!"
"Monsieur!"
"And you would turn into a laurel tree! My faith, Madame, it was a charming scene! You are as erudite as a student fresh from the Sorbonne."
"Monsieur, this is far away from the subject."
"Let me see; there was a line worthy of Monsieur de Saumaise at his best. Ah, yes! 'I kiss your handsome grey eyes a thousand times'! Ah well, let us give the Chevalier credit; he certainly has a handsome pair of eyes, as many a dame and demoiselle at court will attest. It was truly a delightful letter; only the music of it was somewhat inharmonious to my ears."
"Take care, Monsieur, that I do not choose the block. I am not wholly without courage."
"Pardon me! Jealousy has an evil sting. I ask you to pardon me. Besides, it was evident that you had some definite purpose in trifling with the Chevalier. Well, he is out of the game."
"Do you know what brought him here?" veering into a new channel to lull the vicomte's caution. She had an idea.
"I do; but it would not sound pleasant in your ears."
"He followed …"
"A woman?" with quick anticipation. "I do not say so. I brought him into our conversation merely to prove to you that I was more in your confidence than you dreamed of."
Madame drew her fingers across her brow.
"Does any one else know that you have this paper?" Madame manoeuvered her chair, bringing it as close as possible to the table. Less than three feet intervened between her and the vicomte.
"You and I alone are in the secret, Madame."
"If I should call for help?"
"Call, Madame; many will hear. But this paper, and the general fear of Mazarin since the Fronde, and the fact that I have practically obliterated my signature by scratching a pen across it … Well, if you think it wise."
Her arms dropped upon the table, and the despair on her face deceived him. "Monsieur, this is unmanly, cruel!"
"All is fair in love and war. My love compels me to use force. What if this document had fallen into D'Hérouville's hands? He would have gone about it less gently."
Madame bent her head upon her arms, and the candles threw a golden sparkle into her hair. The vicomte's heart beat fast, and his hand stole forth and hovered above that beautiful head but dared not touch it. Presently madame looked up. There were tears in her eyes, but the vicomte did not know that they were tears of rage.
"Think, Madame," he said eagerly; "is a dungeon more agreeable to you than I am, and would not a dungeon be worse than death?"
Madame roughly brushed her eyes. "You speak of love; I doubt your sincerity."
"I love you so well that I would kill D'Hérouville and De Saumaise and Du Cévennes, all of them, rather than that one of them should possess the right to call you his."
"But can you not see how impossible life with you would be after this night? I should hold you in perpetual fear."
"I will find a way to overcome that fear."
"But each time I look at you would recall this humiliating moment. I am a proud woman, Monsieur, and I suffer now from humiliation as I never suffered before;" all of which was true. "I am a Montbazon; it is very close to royal blood. If I were forced to marry you, you would certainly live to regret it."
"As I said, I am willing to risk it." Then his voice softened. "Ah, but I love you! 'Gabrielle, Gabrielle'! That name is the ebb and flow of my heart's blood. Promise, Madame, promise; for I shall do as I say. Will you enjoy the dungeon? I think not. Do not doubt that there is an element of greatness in this heart of mine. With you as my wife I shall become great; D'Halluys will be a name to live among those of the great captains."
Madame locked her hands, her fingers twisting and untwisting … To gain possession of that paper!
"How often I watched you in Paris," he went on, "wondering at first who you were, and then, knowing, why you were not at court with your brilliant mother. I have seen you so many times in the gardens, just as twilight dissolved the brightness of day. I have often followed you, but always at a respectful distance. And one night the happiness was mine to meet you at the hôtel of Monsieur le Comte. Oh! I know perfectly well the rumors you have heard regarding certain exploits. But remember, I have grown up in camps, and soldiers are neither careful nor provident. Poverty dogged my footsteps; and we must live how we can. No good woman has ever crossed my path to lighten its shadows, to smooth its roughness. Environment is the mold that forms the man. I am what circumstance has made me. You, Madame, can change all this."
He leaned over the table, his eyes shining, his face glowing with love which, though half lawless, was nevertheless the best that was in him. Another woman might have marked the beauty on his face; but madame saw only the power of it, the power which she hated and feared. Besides, his love in no wise lessened his caution. His left hand was wound tightly around the paper.
"Monsieur, you are without reason!"
"Love has crowded reason out."
"Your proposal is cruel and terrible."
"It is your angle of vision."
"I had thought to find peace and security; alas!"
"If I were positive that you loved some one else …" meditatively.
"Well?"
"I should hunt him out and kill him. There would then be no obstacle."
"You will do as you say: consign me to imprisonment or death?"
"As much as I love you. You have your choice."
"Give me but a day," she pleaded.
"Truthfully, I dare not."
"But this paper; I must see it!" wildly.
The vicomte's hand tightened. "I will place the paper in your hands on the day of our marriage, unreservedly. You will then have the power to commit me, if so you will. Come, Madame; it grows on toward night. Which is it to be? A Montbazon's word is as good as a king's louis."
"Once it has been given!"
As a cat leaps, as the shadow of a bird passes, madame's hand flew out and grasped the projecting end of the paper. The short struggle was nothing; the red marks on her wrists were painless. Swiftly she rose and stepped, back, breathing quickly but with triumph. He made as though to leap, but in that moment she had smoothed out the crumpled paper. A glance, and it fluttered to the table. Her laughter was very close to tears.
"Monsieur le Vicomte, what a clever wooer you are!" She fled toward the door, opened it, and was gone.
The vicomte sat down.
"Truly, that woman must be mine!"
He took up the paper, smoothed it, and laughed. The paper was totally blank.