CHAPTER XXIV.
MADAME DE BRÈZE IS NERVOUS.
That night Gabrielle and her foster-sister slept together, or rather lay in the same bed, for Toinon had much to tell and Gabrielle to hear. In the morning, the chatelaine looked much the same as usual, but for the circle of bistre round her eyes, which had grown deeper, giving an air of lassitude.
Virginie, Maréchale de Brèze, never slept a wink; but groaned and tossed in a fever, mumbling Ave Marias, and when she appeared at déjeuner, the abbé shook a reproachful finger at her. "Yellow!" he declared, mournfully, "absolutely and undeniably yellow! How dare you, after all our care, look so jaded, when yesterday you were as blooming as a rose? I know what it is. Try this pear--it absolutely melts in the mouth. No. I won't offer it, for I am afraid it smells of copper. Or is it brimstone? How provoking! I have tucked my hoofs and tail under my chair, but I cannot conceal the brimstone! Look at your lovely daughter. She knows better than to believe cancans, and has slept the sleep of the angels. Alas--dearest mother--you have permitted me to call you mother--I shall have to administer a severe and terrible lecture. I told you last night you were our prisoner, but I won't have birds that injure their delightful plumage. If you beat your wings against the bars I shall open the cage-door, I warn you, and dismiss you into space!"
Turned out into space among the ravening wolves without, or kept in the gilded cage to be slowly done to death? What an alternative! Why could not somebody tell her what to do, instead of leaving her all night stretched upon the rack of her uncertainty? Evidently, unless candidates for an asylum, they must all have some motive for acting in the odd way they did, but what was it? It was so rude and inconsiderate to be plotting, and scheming, and lying, and charging each other with all kinds of horrible offences, under the nose of an innocent stranger, of whom they were making a butt. Madame made up her mind to upbraid Gabrielle severely for her inhuman and unfilial conduct. If there was any nasty skeleton about, she had no business to summon an aged parent to contemplate it.
Toinon, plunged into a slough of anguish, could only wring her hands and moan. It is not every David who can get the better of Goliath; and is it not wiser to flee before the great towering monster, instead of hurling our puny stone at him--only to be trodden in a trice under his ponderous splay foot?
The abigail had got the worst of the encounter, her proofs as well as her accusation were rendered ridiculous, even in her own eyes, although she knew the accusation to be true. She was held up to obloquy as a Jacobin, one of the anarchists steeped to the lips in crime, ready to destroy by false witness the family to which she owed everything. Next, she would develop into a tricoteuse, sitting under shadow of the guillotine. It was intolerable. Toinon was not meek and lowly as some of her betters were. On the contrary, there ran through her veins a current of pugnacity of which honest Jean had tasted. She was not prepared to sit down like Gabrielle, wearing a crown of thorns and bearing a cross, the while pretending to enjoy them. Certainly not. She was one of those who have no respect for crowns of thorns, and consider crosses irksome wear. But what could she do to unwind her mistress and herself from the present tangle? The maréchale was an imbecile old doll. The abject terror of her mien last night had something about it that was full of pathos. It is pitiful to see so battered and helpless a thing as that in the bubbling whirlpool of our world. Jean--Jean Boulot was the one rock to which the two women might cling in their danger. Jean must leave his Jacobin clubs and come to them. Would it be well for Toinon herself to proceed to Blois, seek him out, and explain? He would not think her forward and unmaidenly, for she would find words to convince him as she had her mistress. No. The maréchale having proved herself to be a broken reed, it would not do to go to Blois, for her mistress would be left with no rampart, however unsatisfactory and weak, between herself and the insidious foe. What if, on her return, she were to find that the deed was accomplished? Jean must be written to, and implored by the past to come to the rescue of two women in grievous peril. And they were in extreme danger; he would see that for himself when he arrived. Toinon knew it full well. She had read the abbé's eyes last night, and was as much aware as Gabrielle, that for those who stood athwart his path, there was no more mercy within his breast than conscience or religion.
Poor Madame de Brèze! Yellow, forsooth! The more she pondered the more troubled she became. Her wrinkled old face was turning green. Was the abbé a monster or an angel? If only somebody would clear up this point. He made her blood run cold with his facetiousness, for is it not creepy to be openly informed by a person, that he wears a tail and hoofs, and to be more than half assured that it is true? He danced round her fears with elfin gambols, till she felt her frail wits tottering; and then, grown of a sudden serious, he would relate what he called facts, which only increased her terrors. Why had no one informed her before that Madame de Vaux hardly, and her daughter Angelique, were practically in a state of siege; that various chateaux in the neighbourhood had been demolished, their inhabitants drowned or strangled; that she had not been wrong on her way thither, as to the threatening attitude of the peasantry? Of course, she had been right--was she not always right though people would not believe her? She had been lured hither to this dismal fortalice to perish like a rat in a trap. Danger from without and from within. Goodness gracious! What if that story of the cakes were true? Gabrielle, strangely enough, seemed to consider that it was neither new nor surprising that her life should be in peril. What should they want to kill her for? Was it something connected with money? All evil springs from that. Then a thrill of horror surged over the selfish heart of the unlucky dame, when she remembered her daughter's will. To her, the old mother, the money was bequeathed--in trust, it is true; but to her. If they wished to compass Gabrielle's death, of course, her own would follow. What a silly will it was. She protested at the time, but had been overruled by M. Galland. It was an absurd thing for a young woman to bequeath a fortune to an old one--worse--it was a cruel and dastardly thing to do, if unscrupulous schemers were after it. Why must they mix up a harmless and venerable and justly respected lady in their plots and squabbles? Madame de Brèze worked herself up into a white heat of indignation, and set herself to see how she could get out of the trap with promptitude, and such decency as might be.
She propounded her views to Gabrielle, who gravely and calmly aquiesced. "Nothing detains you here, dear mother," she kept repeating, with monotonous persistency, "except your own fancy. I hoped you had taken to our quiet life; but if not, it is better you should go."
"I have so few years left to live, you know," apologetically whimpered the maréchale, "that I grudge the time away from entrancing Paris."
When her daughter elected courteously to consider that this was natural, her conscience pricked, and she was annoyed at feeling ashamed. Indeed, the excuse was of the lamest, since the beloved capital was, at this juncture, a prey to devils whose goddess was Mother Guillotine. In the retirement of her secluded dwelling, however, she could feel comparatively safe. She quite longed for the little house, which she was always complaining of as dismal. At all events, she could nibble a cake there without dread of poison.
"I will stay, of course, if you say you really wish it," she went on, plaintively, as salve to the inner monitor, "but the air of Touraine never did agree with me any more than with your blessed father; and if I were to be taken ill, I should only be an extra worry."
A smile flitted over the sad face of the marquise, as she took her mother's hands and kissed them. "My dear," she said, "I would not have you stay for worlds a moment longer than you fancy. Go back to Paris, and I will pray Heaven that your journey may be prosperous. I would like you to go at once, because I am sure it is for the best, since you are nervous, and at the same time I would beg of you a favour. Take the children with you, for I should feel happier if they were safe under your care. I will give orders now," she added, rising briskly, "in order that they may be ready by to-morrow."
The old lady ruefully rubbed her nose with her spectacles, being ashamed to speak her thoughts. It occurred to her that if the abbé really was nourishing designs of a nefarious nature, he might endeavour to prevent her from departing. If she proposed to remove the children, there would be extra inducement to interfere, considering the uncomfortable prominence given to all three by that deplorably ill-advised testament. Gabrielle had kept her lips sealed with regard to the second document. Indeed, she was unaccountably and provokingly reticent on most points in her dealings with the maréchale, who resented her silence hotly. She never could be got to talk of her affairs--to give an opinion as to the characters of Pharamond or of Phebus; declined to discuss the absence of her husband, or to explain the presence of the quondam governess, who, from time to time, was meteorically visible, hovering. Under the circumstances, what object would be gained by lingering at Lorge, since all seemed alike agreed to withhold from the sage their confidence? If she were allowed, she would gladly turn her back on the ill-omened place, and thank her stars when quit of it.
The marquise saved her from the trouble of displaying her own diplomacy by boldly announcing to the abbé that Madame la Maréchale de Brèze would return on the morrow to the capital, and, being lonely there, would borrow, for a period, the society of her grandchildren. The abbé glanced keenly in her face, but could read nothing there. What curious fancy was this? She who so adored the cherubs, had decided on a separation! Why? What motive could underly so unexpected a project? The more the abbé reflected, the less could he fathom it, but after looking at it from every point, he made up his mind that it was some feminine whim which concerned him not. And yet it did in this much. From the moment that the second will was executed, the children were safe from any machinations of the conspirators. What happened to them was of no importance. If Algaé chose to be burthened with them, she was welcome so to do, as far as her fellow-schemer was concerned. It would be a convenience, though, to have them out of the way just now. When it was over, and the family was comfortably established at Geneva, there would be plenty of time to consider what was to be done with the infants. Perhaps it would be a harmless sop to Clovis to have them with him there, in order that he might make up for the shadiness of his marital past by systematic parental indulgence. There certainly was no possible reason why they should not journey with their grandmother to Paris on a visit, and the heart of the latter, on finding there was no opposition to the plan, was relieved of a weight as ponderous as a nether millstone.
Long before the hasty preparations were complete, Madame la Maréchale had satisfactorily convinced herself that the abbé's place was among the angelic host. It must be mischievous fudge about those cakes; a silly tittle-tattle of ignorant servants, to which Gabrielle, mopish and morbid, had given too willing an ear. Far from throwing barriers in the way of an exodus, both brothers were almost too obliging. The chevalier, who was a past master in farriery, examined the horses' shoes with minute care, while his brother superintended the inner economy of the berline. In the boot were books, and a few bottles of the choicest wines and samples of comforting cordials, wherewith an elderly traveller might be sustained under fatigue. There were pillows and cushions galore, and cunning wraps deftly-stowed in corners.
"Our dear mother," he explained, laughingly, "shall carry away with her a favourable impression of Lorge, though she is so ungrateful as to leave us with too evident alacrity. Never mind. It becomes the Church to be forgiving, and, returned to the capital, she will reward us with remembrance in her prayers."
As at last she drove away, with a darling wedged in on either side, like panniers on a donkey, the maréchale blamed herself bitterly for her unjust suspicions. How could the man have evil intentions, since he was so ready to speed upon their road those whom, if suspicions were true, it was his direct interest to keep under control? And if--as was clearly proven--he had evolved no base scheme with regard to the children and their guardian--why should he be scheming to injure Gabrielle? What could he possibly gain by injuring Gabrielle, since, after her death, her possessions would pass at once far out of his reach? It was all preposterous--impossible rather than improbable--and it behoved a wise and experienced lady of mature years to scold an hysterical daughter for nourishing injurious fancies. The nearer she was to Paris, the more jubilant did the old dame become, the more rosy grew her cogitations. It was certainly nice to have the cherubs' society in a shut-up house in the suburbs, whose safety lay in its blankness; but it was improper to be selfish. If there was a vice against which the maréchale was fond of tilting, it was selfishness. She loathed and abhorred the disfiguring leprosy. No one should ever say that she was selfish. She would keep the little ones for a few months, then pack them home again. In her odd state, it was not quite wise to leave the marquise moping. By and by she would receive them in her arms, delighted with the good that change of scene had done them, grateful for the grandmother's care. As for M. Galland--the estimable and upright, but somewhat square-toed, solicitor, to whose acumen the late maréchal had been misguided enough to trust, rather than to the wisdom of his singularly clear-brained wife, she would be able to report most favourably. He had urged, almost compelled, the journey to Touraine, being oppressed by some indefinite apprehension. Madame la Marquise, he had explained, wrote so seldom and so little, that he began to think there must be some reason for her reticence. Regardless of self, or plaguey pains and aches, the devoted mother had travelled that weary distance, and in late autumn, too, when east winds are so unpleasantly familiar. Martyr to duty and an irrepressibly conscientious solicitor, she had been, and she had come back. The tiresomely apprehensive Galland would be delighted with the assurance that the Marquise de Gange was well; that the marquis, temporarily absent on business, was likewise well; that two of the most charming and devotedly attentive men on earth were his half-brothers, on whose backs the wings were already sprouting, that they might join the hierarchy of heaven. As for the cherubs, she had brought them as specimens of the results of Touraine air. The arms of the darlings were healthily brown, and prematurely developed by boating exercise on the Loire. They were quite bursting with health and spirits, and would very likely be insulted in the streets as aggressive and reproachful examples of country versus town. M. Galland's apprehensions, clearly demonstrated to be of the most idle description, would vanish; he would sleep on his two ears, as the saying hath it; and worry the grandmother no more.
On the evening of her arrival, the solicitor dined with her, anxious for a report as to the doings in Touraine. He hearkened to her wisdom, nor strove to stem the ocean of her prate, which babbled on unceasingly. She was provoked to observe that he was absent, and that his moody brow remained clouded despite the rosiness of her report. Of course, he did not believe her. Nobody ever had, worse luck for the world in general; but it was really just a shade too insolent to have sent her all that distance in a ram-shackle old shanderydan, and, the pilgrimage completed, to treat the result of her observations as mere draught whistling through a keyhole. The old lady was so hurt that she was unable to control her vexation. "Of course, I'm a fool," she gurgled. "If I'm so incurably imbecile, why did you not go yourself? These children, I suppose, are no evidence, with their gladsome eyes and ruddy faces!"
M. Galland did not reply at once, for he was thinking.
"It might have been as well, perhaps, madame, if I had accompanied you," he slowly said at last. "The children, thank goodness! are in perfect health. The marquis, you admit, was absent; his brothers practically in possession. One lady and two gentlemen--a cosy party of three."
"Wrong!" cried the maréchale in triumph. "Always the same. You interrupt and jump at conclusions without having the decent civility to hear me out. Some men are insufferably rude."
"How wrong?" enquired the solicitor, anxiously.
"There were two ladies in the house; but the second held so much aloof that I was hardly aware of her presence. That struck me as a little odd, for she was an invited guest--a Mademoiselle Brunelle, at one time governess to the little ones."
M. Galland started, and the cloud on his brow deepened.
That woman again! She whom he had himself expelled by the express orders of De Brèze. How had she wormed herself into the house a second time. And she held aloof, too--was not one of the family circle--sure sign that her presence there was contrary to the wish of the marquise.
"Of a certainty," reflected the solicitor, "I should have done well to go down myself. Strange as it may seem, it looks very much as if the forebodings of madame were to be realized."
M. Galland muffled himself to the eyes in his roquelaure, and preceded by a trusty servant with a lantern, walked rapidly home, exceedingly disturbed in mind. "If aught happens to her," he kept murmuring, "it will be a cause of acutest self-reproach as long as I live. And yet how could a steady-going old lawyer take a woman's romantic presentiments into account? She declared when she left Paris, that she was going to her death. A fear without solid basis founded upon fancy. And that declaration that she made before the magistrate. Did she see with prophetic vision? I've heard of such cases, but never credited them. Have I unwittingly betrayed my trust? If anything happens, how, in the next world, shall I dare to meet her father? It is strange--extremely strange."
Proceeding to his study, M. Galland took up an open letter, and with gathering frown, perused it carefully for the fourth time. It was a letter from a brother solicitor at Blois, formally enquiring for information. The Marquis de Gange, the stranger explained, was anxious to emigrate secretly with his family, and to that end desired to raise money. All Touraine knew that the beautiful marquise, his wife, was the money-bag, and it had struck him, the solicitor, as irregular that the marquise should not herself have made the request, if not in person, at least in writing. M. le Marquis had explained her absence by frankly confessing that she knew nothing of his move, she being in so nervous and over-wrought a condition through terror, that it would be dangerous to consult her on the subject. It was solely on her account that he was anxious to leave France in secret and without delay, for she was in so precarious a state of nervous prostration that only in a peaceful land could it be hoped that she would rally. As security for the sum required--nothing very considerable--the marquis had produced his wife's testament, showing that even if, unfortunately, her health succumbed on the journey, her sorrowing widower would be in condition to repay the loan.
The matter was nothing very extraordinary. In these ticklish times, much stranger requests were being made each day, but it had struck the provincial firm that before complying, it would be only regular and courteous to inform the family solicitor.
"Regular and courteous, indeed!" sighed M. Galland, as he folded and locked away the letter. "It is all too plain. She has been forced, as she feared, to make another will. Her husband is trying to raise money on it. Meanwhile, she is left in the custody of his brothers and that woman. Is it coercion, or has she changed her mind? I should dearly like to know if there is a cross after the signature. Perhaps she has really changed her mind, and I am an over-anxious old donkey. Her mother declared that she is well and happy, and a mother ought to be a judge. But such a mother! cackling, silly goose. And what could have induced madame to send away the children? If well enough to deceive a mother's eye, the marquis has deliberately lied. There is a mystery that looks mighty black, and must forthwith be fathomed. This raising of funds without her knowledge shall be nipped in the bud at once; and if I turn out to be wrong, I can afford to accept the responsibility. Yes. I will fire a random shot and inform the firm at Blois by special courier that their will is mere waste paper."
CHAPTER XXV.
WILL THE SWORD FALL?
Perchance that well-meaning, but mole-like, person, Madame de Brèze, would have felt less comfortable if she had been aware of her daughter's attitude as the carriage rolled away. She stood at an upper window and strained her eyes, striving to follow the casket which contained her treasures, long after it was out of sight. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and, turning away at length with a convulsive sob, she murmured, "They at least are safe, thank Heaven for that mercy," and retired to weep in her chamber. Toinon, entering soon after, found her mistress lying on her face upon the bed in strong hysterics, with fingers tightly clasped about her neck. Honest Toinon was unable to solve the riddle of such singular behaviour. Her mistress seemed to be under some spell, her power of volition suspended, acting like a marionnette in obedience to invisible wires. If it was such agony to part from her children, why have done so? When she put the question, the answer staggered Toinon. With her head on her foster-sister's breast, her emotion calmed by contact of a loving hand, Gabrielle replied simply, "What greater anguish than to part from dear ones whom you know you will never see again?"
Exhorted to courage and hope, she only sighed and murmured, "Even my mother has deserted me in my extremity. I look beyond the world and fix my faith in God."
He or she who can bid a genuine farewell to hope is forlorn indeed. If this mental condition was to continue, the conspirators had nought to do but to sit with idle hands and wait. Either their victim would become insane, or fade and die without assistance from them. It is said that the fascinated bird feels neither pain nor fear, but looks forward with complacency to being swallowed. Toinon, being wrought of stronger stuff, had no idea of abandoning hope. She boiled with healthy wrath against the selfish old hag who was gone, and anger was a fillip to her energy. The abigail had laid herself out to be particularly agreeable during the last few days, had permitted a certain lacquey of the maréchale's sundry liberties, had even kissed him in the dark, and vowed to be his alone. This reprehensible levity served various ends. It kept up her spirits, and was a satisfactory revenge on absent Jean; passed time agreeably, and made of the man her slave. Having settled to eat humble pie with regard to the recalcitrant Boulot, and condone his enormities, a difficulty arose as to how he was to be communicated with. She knew that since the accusation about the cakes her steps had been dogged, her movements watched; and were she to openly indite epistles to the Jacobin, they would surely be intercepted by the conspirators. Gracefully grouped together on the stairs after the household were abed, the abigail and her admirer whispered fervid vows, and embraced each other tenderly. She could not leave her lady's service just at present, she explained, but would seek the earliest opportunity if the swain would promise to be true. She was full of crotchets. Never, no never, would she give her hand without the consent of her dearest brother, who was at Blois. He loved his little sister too well, however, to withhold consent where her heart was entirely given. But his consent must be obtained, and till it came, there must be no further dallying. How was his consent to be speedily obtained? She would indite a little letter to her brother, and, lest there should be delays she would not put her letter in the post. The invaluable missive should be confided to the swain, and money with it, that at the first posthouse on the road, when the maréchale's party left Lorge, he should transmit it by the hand of a horseman. Toinon was not above taking a lesson from her mistress and sending a summons to Jean on the sly, as the marquise had to her father. The old lady was gone, and the swain was gone, and naughty Toinon felt not the least compunction for fooling the simple fellow. If some day he were to make inconvenient claims, was not Jean Boulot burly enough to protect her? She had adjured the latter in the most solemn manner to leave all and come at once if he ever felt a spark of love for her or a scintilla of respect for her mistress.
"France has sufficient champions without you," she concluded; "and you will never regret having been the means of saving two innocent helpless women."
Though she chose to gibe and be mighty indignant over Jean's defection, she never felt the smallest doubt that, the political fever past, he would return to his allegiance. She had despatched an urgent summons, and she knew that he would come; and this being so, she was inclined to be cheerful, keeping a wary eye on the conspirators.
Now it was a grievous thing that her mistress should collapse, commend her soul to Heaven, await the impending stroke with the air of a sacrificial lamb. Resignation is the attribute of slaves unendowed with the holy birthright of freedom. Our natural condition is that of contest, the form of which but varies according to the thickness of the civilized veneer. He who cannot gird his loins for the fray goes to the wall, and he who has gone to the wall is a deserving object for contempt. Toinon could fight, and would, with teeth and nails if need were, and she was prepared to do battle with the conspirators whilst awaiting the advent of Jean.
It behoved her to show that she was not afraid of them, and she accordingly tripped into the kitchen on the day of the maréchale's departure, and scornfully announced that, considering what wretches they all were, former precautions must be resumed. Madame would take her meals in her apartments. Toinon would carry the plateau with her own hands, and M. Bertrand would be good enough to taste of every dish under her close inspection before confiding it to her care. Vainly that worthy blew himself out and beat his chest, and gesticulated, and talked of honour.
"Pooh!" scoffed the abigail, "you may spare your breath. I choose to take the precaution, though I have no dread of your attempting to poison us. A dirty cooking-plate may serve as an excuse for once. A second mistake of the sort would go hard with you, for I would have you remember that the maréchale and all her servants know the story of the cakes, and a secluded lady is not poisoned twice by accident!"
Toinon prattled gaily of these things to the marquise, but could not succeed in raising her spirits. The latter, to please her devoted friend, summoned up a ghostly smile, which resembled moonlight on a tomb.
"Fate is fate," she sighed. "For some inscrutable reason we are doomed. Madame de Lamballe first; the queen or I, who knows which of us will be the second?"
It is hard work being always cheery when others groan in the doldrums. It is not easy to shake off the grip of fatalism in the society of a fatalist. Toinon, despite her efforts, receiving no encouragement--feeding as it were on her own fuel--in spite of brave resolutions, grew jaded and despondent. Flirtations were not to be thought of with any members of the existing household. Firstly, because the doughty Jean was to be expected at any moment, and untoward consequences might ensue; secondly, because the young lady knew, for certain, that many of the domestics were creatures of the abbé, if not all of them. There are few feelings less pleasant than a conviction that you are surrounded by spies, that you are always under observation like a struggling insect under a microscope. Common rough malefactors in gaol suffer more from unsleeping surveillance than would be supposed possible in persons with low-strung nerves.
The weather grew too cold for sitting-out, even if wrapped in furs, and Toinon had much ado to coax her wan mistress to take the air at all, for was not the favourite pleasaunce, called the moat-garden, redolent of distracting memories; did not each flower-bed recall some prank of the absent ones, each bush re-echo with the laughter, which was to be heard no more at Lorge? It was even disagreeable to gaze from the balconies of the long saloon, for the Loire flowed on in silent placidity, its bosom no longer ruffled by the eccentric movements of the wherry propelled by infant hands. The wherry swung in the tide, a useless bit of lumber, for no one dreamed of using it, of unknotting its rusty chain.
Gabrielle sat day by day in a low causeuse, intent on some embroidery like a fading Penelope, who works on and weaves, a dull machine, though she has learned that Ulysses is no more. The earth is steady underfoot, the sky above; the soul yet beats against its chain--how long? Some kind of mechanical occupation is imperative to keep overwrought nerves from twanging--to maintain on the lips the bit of silence, and hold back the wailing of despair. When all illusions are gone--every one--when, search as carefully as we will, there is no grain of comfort left to make existence bearable, we long for death in any hideous shape, well knowing that if the Pilgrim came, we should involuntarily shrink from him. Love of life, for the sake of living, is a phenomenon which orientals do not share with the white races, happily for them; whether they go or stay is a matter of indifference, from which they may thank their faith, since death means to them but a change of envelope, a single stage upon a journey.
It is not uncommon in the east for men who are cast for execution to sit by the wayside, almost unguarded, awaiting the advent of the executioner, while the ease and cheapness with which a substitute may be bought in China is notorious. By a strange paradox, it is reserved for the disciples of Christ, the Prince of Peace, to live in terror of death. No doubt there are many whose burthens are so disproportionate to their strength that, coûte que coûte, they are impelled to shake them off, but students of statistics are surprised at the small number of sane suicides, slowly and deliberately carried out, compared to those brought about by passion.
Gabrielle knew, or thought she knew, as surely as that night follows day, that the frayed string which held the sword was worn almost through, and that at any moment it might fall.
When on waking she saw Toinon fling back the heavy curtains of a morning to let in the light, she wondered that she should be alive and well. What object did her existence fulfil upon the earth? Why was she spared to crawl on aimlessly? Without husband, without children, without a friend in the world except this simple foster-sister, why did she linger thus? Surely her fitting place was in the fragrant earth, sheltered by waving grass from carking cares. The string was worn through, and yet it would not break. Day followed day, night followed night, nothing new occurred. She went her dismal way, and no one troubled her or seemed to know or care whether she were alive or dead, or well or dying. Algaé was still in the chateau, but made no sign. Toinon looked forth in vain for Jean Boulot. He neither wrote nor came; what if the letter had miscarried?
The conspirators were quiescent because they were in a quandary. There was no news of Clovis, or of what he was doing at Blois. His continued silence was incomprehensible. Had any hitch occurred in the negociations? Surely not, or he would have communicated with his brother. Kept in suspense, the latter knew not what course to adopt, and had much ado to endure the persistent girding of Algaé. The ex-governess found the situation quite intolerable, and was for grappling with it at all hazards, and at once. Clovis had made some muddle, which might place the heads of all of them in jeopardy. He was not a man to be despatched on any mission requiring delicacy or tact. What he was pleased to call his feelings (mere pusillanimity) had been too much considered. It should have been carried out to the end, if not actually in his presence, at least while he was dwelling in the chateau. What was to prevent him now, supposing that anything went wrong, from declaring that his brothers had acted entirely without his knowledge or consent? It was a grand mistake to have let him fly off alone, and the abbé, who plumed himself so much on his astuteness, and who was for ever finding fault with others, had been guilty of the biggest blunder of all.
Thus mademoiselle querulously droning with increasing fretfulness, and the wrath of her fellow-conspirator was kindled against her. In his heart he could admit that there had been a grave mistake, but was that a reason for bearing taunts from Algaé? She had been called in to act as conscience keeper to the marquis, and a pretty way she had carried out the task. Instead of bringing him round to active co-operation, she had only so far blinded him as to procure the tacit consent of convenient temporary absence. It had been a foolish plan, too, to raise money on the will, during the marquise's life. Better far to have announced her sudden and much-to-be-regretted demise, to have performed decorous obsequies, and then quietly have taken possession. But then Clovis was so untrustworthy. He was just the sort of provoking man to veer round suddenly, to place obstacles instead of adding all his weight to keep the wheel revolving. Then the visit of the Marplot Maréchale had so altered the complexion of affairs, and swallowed precious time. Were the marquise to succumb suddenly, the story of the unlucky cakes might be raked up again, unpleasant questions be asked. The schemers must fall back upon the idea of typhus, and that brought the scheme round in a circle to the original starting point--the providing of necessary funds in specie to tide over a period of months.
The complaints and jeremiads of Algaé overshot their mark, and so stirred the ire of the abbé that his active mind went off at a tangent, and his wits began to weave another pattern. Oh! if by some cunning device it were possible to circumvent that odious woman--alone to carry off the prize, leaving her and her weak-kneed admirer to gnash their teeth in vain. How sweet a vengeance--how savoury a triumph! Revolving the matter in a brain quickened to activity by spite, Pharamond made up his mind once more, at the eleventh hour, to attempt to carry the citadel. The mental and physical condition of the marquise was vastly different now from what it was when last he failed to storm the outworks. To mark her listless movements, her hopeless heaviness of gait, was to be assured that the ramparts were crumbling, that the walls were insufficiently manned. The armour of the warrior was worn into holes, through which it would surely be possible to insert an arrow. At all events it was worth trying, for success would mow down the hopes of Algaé, and thus punish her presumption and impertinence.
Having decided to try again, the abbé donned his most becoming suit of violet silk with gold embroidered buttonholes, arranged his hair with extreme nicety, and placed a patch close to his favourite dimple. This done, he surveyed himself in the mirror, contemplated with approval the harmonious contour of his leg, and sallied forth satisfied, armed cap-à-pie for conquest. Swiftly he sped up the stairs, and meeting Toinon on the landing, well-nigh choked that damsel with indignation by playfully chucking her chin. "It is too bad," he cried, "that so ripe a cherry should yet hang upon the bough. You must leave this dull house and seek more congenial society. There are sweethearts galore waiting for you beyond the frontier."
"Are you in such a hurry to get rid of me?" gasped Toinon. "Whatever happens to us, my place is beside my mistress."
"Of course it is, you suspicious little fool!" laughed René. "If she travels, you will not wish to be left behind?"
If she travels! What new phase of the complication was this? It was distracting. Whatever it might be she was sure it boded injury to both the foster-sisters.
"Travel, poor soul!" the abigail observed, sourly. "It was a long journey the other day that you strove to send her on!"
Pharamond frowned, then seizing the buxom figure before him, he pressed upon the lips a kiss. "There!" he said; "that is your punishment for unworthy and unjust suspicions of one who means you well. I promise that the dose shall be repeated twentyfold if you presume to talk such nonsense any more."
Toinon struggled and recoiled, crimson to the roots of her hair, her dark eyes flashing. "How dare you--how dare you!" she panted. "Two helpless women are a fit butt for outrage. I am not so friendless as you think. Jean Boulot shall know of this."
"Oho! Jean Boulot, the terrible Jacobin. Are we to be threatened with that bugbear? You can have but little pride, mistress, to prate of one who toyed with and then deserted you."
Scalding tears welled into the eyes of Toinon, and rolled in great drops upon her cheeks. Alas! it was too true. He was an idle bugbear, a stuffed bogey to frighten babes withal. Had she not sacrificed her vanity and besought him to come at once, and he had never deigned to answer? The abbé might do what he chose, the two women were indeed defenceless.
"I wish to speak to the marquise upon an urgent matter. Go and say that I await her pleasure," commanded Pharamond.
Toinon glanced askance at him, and answered shortly, "She will not see you."
"Will she not? If you will not take a civil message, I will enter her boudoir unannounced."
What was to prevent him? Nothing. Reluctantly the abigail obeyed, and while he stood waiting, the abbé considered her words. "Jean Boulot! Remembered still? If she sent for him it might prove awkward. I must see that they do not communicate."
Toinon earnestly begged for permission to tell the abbé that the marquise refused to see him; but the latter shook her head and smiled her dreary smile. "Go to," she sighed, "if the man wishes me evil how shall I protect myself? If he has aught to say it is better that I should hear it."
The visitor found Gabrielle sitting on a low sofa, and as, unbidden, he sank into the place by her side, a thrill passed along his nerves, for the statuesque composure of her mien was exactly suited to her beauty.
"Dear Gabrielle," he murmured, "you are more beautiful than ever."
"You have intruded here to-day to tell me so?" she inquired, coldly.
"Take care! You burn and freeze at the same time. Such loveliness as yours may account for any rashness."
Alas! how ghastly a mockery had this same beauty been! The fairest woman of her time--her affections withered, her heart broken--deserted, friendless, desolate. At thought of it Gabrielle smiled, and the abbé considered himself encouraged.
"Gabrielle," he said, taking her unwilling hand, "in what I am about to say you must not deem me harsh. It is sometimes for the best to speak quite openly. I am a very forgiving man, as you shall have cause to know. You flouted, scorned, insulted me, and yet, though you deliberately chose my hate, I have nothing but deep love for you."
Again! The marquise wondered in a hazy way what could be the motive for this comedy.
"Love," she observed, reflecting, quite unruffled. "A strange form of love, is it not, which injures the object that is adored? Wherein lies the difference betwixt such love and the hate you promised?"
"An ardent, hot-headed man may be goaded by desperation to acts that he afterwards deplores in sackcloth and in ashes."
"An odd form of love that kills and crushes!"
"Hear me out quietly, and you will be convinced that I have striven in vain to hate you--that my carefully barbed darts have fallen blunted. Your position here is desperate. It is, believe me; and yet, though you are walled about by triple barriers, against which it would be idle to buffet, yet there is a loophole by which you may escape."
Gabrielle turned her deep blue eyes upon the speaker, and raised her brows inquiringly.
"Your case is desperate because all are combined against you; all are resolved upon your death--all, except me, and why? Because my love stands between you and them, a saving plank in the approaching hurricane. Your husband and his friend are bent on your destruction. He has left the house until it is accomplished. You are hemmed about with foes. Every servant in this household is suborned. They are men, carefully selected, who know no pity--on whose shoulders, were they bared, you would see the galleys-brand--men who would one and all look on your death struggle with indifference--as callous as the bravo of romance. I have before told you, and it is more true than ever now, that my love is your only safeguard. I hold the door ajar to Hope. Yield to my suit and grant me the boon I ask, and I swear that the shackles will fall from off your limbs; that your troubles will cease, for you'll be free. Free to depart with me to a distant land where in freshly-flowing happiness, the past shall be as a dream. Sorceress! What is this witchcraft that you exert over me? I love you all the more ardently for the long siege. Be mine the grateful task to rescue you from the clutches of these wretches. Say the word. We will quit France secretly together, and leave them to the fate which they deserve."
In the eagerness of his pleading, the abbé had edged close to Gabrielle. She could feel his hot breath--the beating of his heart against her arm--and she shivered from top to toe, as Toinon outside was shivering, her eyes distended by alarm.
The frayed string was about to snap. The long-expected moment was come. Thank God that suspense was over.
"I thank you for your engaging candour," Gabrielle said in a voice that was clear and steady. "I had learned to know you for a villain, but had not gauged the deeps of your rascality. False to the core. True to nothing but your own devilish passions. A Judas even to your confederates!"
There was so sharp a ring of scorn in the tone in which she spoke--a flash of such unmeasurable contempt in the dark blue eyes--that Pharamond, though he had smarted under the lash before, felt his withers wrung, while Toinon without was torn by fear and admiration. Was he, before whose fascinations many a fair dame had willingly succumbed, so vile a reptile as to warrant the storm of disgust that racked this haughty woman? She loathed him worse than death since, seeing her impending fate with crystalline vision, she cheerfully preferred its chill embrace to his ardent one. And now with eyes flashing and delicately chiselled nostrils distended, and a tinge of rose on either pallid cheek, her beauty had gained once more the animation that it so frequently lacked. She was lovelier at this moment than he had ever seen her--and in her direful plight she shrank from his touch as though he were hideously diseased. It was written then, that he was never to attain the full measure of revenue for the rebuffs he had endured at her hands? He was not to sully this fair form, suck the orange dry then fling its rind into the gutter? What a pity! How complete the triumph would have been if she, at this eleventh hour could have been persuaded to seek safety with him in flight. He would have carried off for his own use alone the goose that laid golden eggs. How he would have snapped his fingers at Clovis and Algaé--mean grovelling worms--with their ridiculous testament which was not to be the last! What a refined pleasure it would have been, when sated, and weary of the toy, to break it slowly! He would have carried the maréchal's heiress to some secure and distant spot, have forced her by famine or other torment to execute yet another will--in his sole favour this time--and then he would have gloated over her suffering and degradation as he compelled her to sink to the lowest depths of female infamy and shame, ere, drop by drop, he squeezed away her life! And it was not to be--actually might never be, this exhilarating programme--he realized that now as he gazed in her proud face, each string of his evil nature tingling. Baffled and disappointed, he must even be content to share with the others, to carry out the plan as previously arranged, to sweep her from the path. Oh, what a grievous pity, for the other arrangement would have been deliciously complete and satisfactory.
There was nothing to be gained by continuing the interview, since it had fallen to his lot to play the rôle ridicule. He rose, therefore, flinging the hand from him which he had so ardently been pressing with a movement of muffled fury.
"On your own head be the consequences," he growled. "You have spoken your own sentence. Amen!"
"My life," replied Gabrielle, drearily, "has been fraught with pain and overlong, although I'm not five and twenty! The death you threaten me withal, I will accept with thanks as a release."
"You shall be released, nor will you have long to wait," the abbé remarked with a dry laugh. "You, who are alive, may count yourself as dead and buried." With that he left her to her reflections, banging the door behind him.