CHAPTER XXVI.
WILL JEAN BOULOT COME?
Two persons, from entirely opposite motives, were thinking about Jean Boulot. Toinon, her wits sharpened by eavesdropping, saw plainly that not a moment must be lost if she and her mistress were to be saved. It stood to reason that if the marquise was doomed, so was her foster-sister, in order that the voice of the accuser might be silenced. The daring of the poor harassed lady had been admirable--she had conspicuously shown the moral courage which in extreme peril goes with breeding; but it would have been more prudent to have temporised. What use is there in making of oneself a sublime spectacle of defiant virtue if there is no public to applaud? How many malefactors have made "fine exits" sustained by the murmurs of a sympathetic mob, who, if executed in private, would have died screeching? Truth is a nice thing in theory, but the practice of it in our sinful sphere too often leads to complications which would be avoided by appropriate mendacity.
Toinon, much as she adored her mistress, had frequently deplored her blunt and uncompromising truthfulness. Knowing that she had a noose about her neck, which only required a pull from the abbé to tighten to strangulation point, it was vastly foolish to cry out, "Do your worst." She ought to have pondered and asked for time, have argued and implored, have even shown signs of yielding, have trembled and blushed--have murmured in one breath that she would, yet wouldn't. Where is the man, however cunning, who cannot be hoodwinked by a woman if she seriously sets about the operation? Precious hours might thus have been gained--nay, days, by a skilful display of comedy. Boulot might be even now upon the road, and arrive too late to be of use, owing to the inopportune sublimity of the too artless chatelaine. Having defied the arch-conspirator, he would certainly act promptly. If Jean Boulot was to come to the aid of the two women, it must be at once, or there was no use in his coming at all. The anxious abigail felt that they were in precisely the same harrowing position as Sister Anne and Fatima. Was there nobody coming? The sand in the glass was dripping all too swiftly. Was there no sound of approaching hoofs, no curl of dust upon the way? Quite idly, in obedience to a whimsical fancy due to restlessness, Toinon put on her hood, resolved to take a stroll upon the road that led to Blois. She would see the cloud of dust and rush towards it, cry out to honest Jean to use his spurs, chide him for his culpable delay.
But Toinon, while deploring the mistakes of her mistress, was unaware that she had herself been guilty of an error. It had been an act of gross imprudence to threaten the abbé with Boulot as she had done when she met him on the landing. It set the abbé thinking of Boulot, whose existence he had well-nigh forgotten. Though there had been a tiff or an estrangement, the gamekeeper and the abigail were lovers. They had been, and possibly still were, betrothed. It struck the abbé as not at all improbable that Mademoiselle Toinon had written to him anent the cake fiasco, and that her lover might inopportunely arrive to look after her safety. It was most obliging of the young woman to have vouchsafed a hint suggestive of such a contingency, and he would be guilty of gross ingratitude if he failed to act on it forthwith. Hence, when in pursuance of her fancy she moved across the yard to the archway, where of old a portcullis used to hang, she was surprised to perceive that the ponderous entrance gates were closed, and that the key had been removed from the lock. The concierge was leaning against the stonework smoking pensively, his hands plunged deep into his breeches pockets.
"What does this mean?" cried the abigail, with an imperious frown which served to mask a new-born terror.
"It means that the gates are locked, and will remain so," was the composed answer.
"But I want to go out--I have a mission from madame to one of the cottagers hard by."
"So sorry," returned the concierge, smiling roguishly. "Mademoiselle must remain within--a pretty little bird within a cage. Nay, I but obey my orders. If mademoiselle will deign to discuss the point, yonder is the porter's room. We shall be quite alone and undisturbed, and I will make myself agreeable to mademoiselle."
There was a studied insolence about the man's manner--he had been engaged quite recently--which made Toinon tremble. The fowler's net was closing in; she already fluttered in the toils, but would attempt another struggle to make assurance sure.
"This castle is the property of the Marquise de Gange," she said, haughtily, "and the lacqueys who dwell therein eat her bread. I have warned you that I am sent by her. Open that door immediately."
The man puffed slowly at his pipe and gave a long reflective whistle that spoke volumes. "Bread? Ah yes," he observed, abstractedly. "The bread is excellent, but it is not hers. Such, at least, are my instructions."
"Impudent brute!" cried Toinon, stamping her foot. "I will report you instantly to our mistress, and you will be dismissed at once. A pretty pass, indeed! when I, her confidential maid, am to stand by and hear her insulted."
"What is all this about?" demanded a big base voice behind, at sound of which the man put away his pipe and assumed an obsequious attitude.
"It means, Mademoiselle Brunelle," retorted Toinon, trembling with ire, "that Madame la Marquise is reaping the earthly reward of divine forbearance. But you can goad even her too far, as you had cause to know when you were ignominiously expelled from the chateau."
The dusky face of Algaé darkened a shade, and her heavy mobile brows lowered over her eyes with menace. She crossed her arms over her chest and gave vent to a rumbling laugh.
"Circumstances alter cases," she observed, with exasperating composure. "You always did me the honour to dislike me. When I am mistress here, it is you who will be expelled. You are silent? Come--that is better. Go to your room and mind your business, and perhaps no harm will come to you."
"I will send over to Montbazon," returned Toinon, striving hard to conceal her growing terror. "M. de Vaux and the Seigneurie will interfere for madame's protection."
"Do you think so?" inquired Algaé, with interest. "The de Vaux are nice people, if timid, who were always kind to me. I hardly think they are likely to interfere."
"What have you done?" asked Toinon, her heart sinking within her.
"I had the honour to send a messenger to Montbazon this morning to announce with deep regret that Madame la Marquise de Gange had been seized with a malignant fever."
"You did that?" gasped the abigail. "You know, you wicked woman, that the marquise is in perfect health."
The concierge had withdrawn discreetly out of hearing, and with sturdy legs straddled apart, was softly whistling.
No help was to be hoped for from that quarter, or from any other, apparently. The possibility of a casual visit from the inhabitants of Montbazon had been skilfully prevented. The household was on the side of the conspirators, just as this concierge was, no doubt of it.
What sound was that? A horse's hoofs. Jean Boulot at last! The heart of the abigail gave such a leap that she staggered and would have fallen but for Algaé's sustaining hand.
The latter had also heard the ominous ring of hoofs, and seizing Toinon roughly, began to push her towards the house.
"Go in, you little fool," she hissed. "Cannot you see that you are a prisoner, and that your treatment depends upon your conduct."
"I will not go," Toinon cried, tussling with all her strength against the iron grip of Algaé. "It is Jean, by the goodness of Heaven, sent to succour us in time. Jean, Jean," she shouted; "it is I, Toinon. We are alive, but in sorest peril."
The cries of the luckless waiting maid died away in a gurgle. She was rapidly pushed along by the ex-governess, who hurriedly unwound a scarf and twisted it tight about her mouth. Toinon was fainting and half-stifled when Mademoiselle Brunelle flung her within a door, closed it, and turned the key.
With a supreme effort, Toinon freed herself from the scarf, and rising to her knees, applied an ear to the keyhole. Oh for a sound of the welcome voice of Jean! Would he be deceived by a plausible tale and go as he had come? Surely not. After what she had told him in her letter, the fact of the closed gates would make suspicion certainty. He would demand admittance or depart to rouse the neighbourhood. Perhaps he had heard her outcry before she was gagged. Toinon crouched down in profound thankfulness, and as she prayed glad tears poured down her face. Till this moment she had not quite realised the imminence of the danger, and now that she fully knew it it was past, for Jean would demand to see his betrothed and the marquise. He was a great man now, and a powerful leader of the dominant party at Blois; always fearless and honest, not now a man to dally with. Would the conspirators give way at once, confess themselves beaten, sue for mercy? or would he be compelled to rouse the country and storm the grim fortalice as the other day the Bastille had been stormed? And then Toinon wondered what would come of that. Would he climb over the smoking ruins to find the two women murdered? No, no. Toinon's prayers had been answered tardily, but they had been answered. The decree of Heaven had gone forth, and the wicked were to be discomfited.
Vainly she strained her hearing to catch a sound of the dear voice, dearer, far dearer than she had ever dreamed. She could hear a leaf of the ponderous gate revolve on its rusty hinges, a horseman ride into the courtyard. There was a colloquy in low tones. Heavens! what if she had been mistaken! Yet who could the horseman be but Jean Boulot, the deputy, or some one sent by him? She heard Mademoiselle Brunelle bid some one, in commanding tones, to go in search of the abbé. "Tell him there is important news," she said. "Here is a letter despatched in haste from Blois. M. le Marquis de Gange intends to come home to-morrow."
Not Jean, then? The marquis home to-morrow! How by his arrival would the position of the prisoners be bettered? Why was he coming home to-morrow? Had something fresh transpired? He was a tacit accessory to the villainous plot of the schemers. He was led in leash, a willing slave, by that wicked man and woman.
No hope! No hope! Heaven had abandoned the victims. Overwhelmed by the quick revulsion from nascent hope to hopelessness, Toinon gave a moan, and sank swooning on the marble floor.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE DECKS ARE CLEARED FOR ACTION.
Gabrielle maintained her attitude of uncompromising dignity, until the boudoir door clanged to, and, left alone, sank back upon the cushions numbed. The sword had fallen. She had herself severed the last frayed strands. What form would the abbé's vengeance take now that he had wakened to the fact that under no circumstances whatever would she submit herself to his desires? What mattered it, so that the end was swift? The dear ones were safe in distant Paris. No cause to fear for them. Their mother had been careful in signing the second will to add the tell-tale cross. On the whole, she was to be congratulated on the approaching change, for her worldly affairs were in order, there was no motive left for lingering. To one placed as she was, death, as she truly said, would be release. Victor and Camille would grow up under the care of grandmamma, secure from the machinations of their father and the crew by which he was surrounded. Her death would be an advantage to them, for the tale of the two wills and the precautionary declaration would become public property, and a barrier be raised under the scrutiny of public opinion, which would protect the dear ones from her husband.
And yet how whimsical the situation was! In the course of charitable wanderings among the poor, she had looked with amaze on creatures lying upon their rotten straw with scarce a rag to cover them, who clung to their wretched existence with a pertinacity that was both weird and ludicrous, considering that it was but a step, and such an easy one, into the peaceful grave. Now she herself was within distance of that step, and could look calmly into the chasm, contemplate the precise spot beneath whose crust she was to sleep for ever. But was it for ever? Ah! If she only knew. She had long ago learned to smile at the mediæval absurdities, invented by naïve, ignorant churchmen, of flames and pitchforks, and demons with red-hot tongs; but now that she stood so near to Death, that she could feel the chill rustle of his garments, she felt herself drawn into the sea of idle and abortive speculation.
Why is it, amusing paradox, that the virtuous--those, that is, who have somehow succeeded, to a creditable extent, in avoiding the rugged but fascinating path of temptation--should be tossed by doubts and shadowy tremors, while those who have wallowed in enormosities are snugly complacent as to the end? It is nearly always so. The more hopelessly heinous the crime of the murderer, the more abominably abandoned the criminal, the more glibly will the monster prate of his salvation; the more sure will he be of sleeping on Abraham's bosom. Verily, in the long course of globe-rolling, so much vermin of nauseous kind has tumbled off, vowing, as it fell, that its destiny was the bosom of Abraham, that that patriarch must by this time somewhat regret the flattering prominence of his position. The sublimely compassionate declaration, "To-day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise," has been so largely and freely rendered into a conviction of immunity from the results of sin by the worst of scoundrels, that a premium is offered to crime. The scarce discoloured soul goes tremulously off, conscious of tiny spots, wondering and fearing as to its reception in its next resting-place, while that one which is black and ulcered, soars aloft singing a seraphic pæan. Brethren, it is easy to cultivate contrition. There is nothing more easy than to repent when there are no more sins to commit. Let us all commit crimes of abnormal horror, that the parson may assure us on the scaffold that purged with hyssop we are clean.
Such reflections as these passed vaguely through the mind of Gabrielle as she strove to nerve herself to endure, with becoming composure, the coming ordeal. She recalled and contemplated her peccadilloes. The various naughtinesses of her brief life swept past in procession as distinct and rapid as the last vision of the drowning man. Her conscience kept whispering that she could have little to fear if God were just, for the small sins of which she could accuse herself must be balanced against her earthly woes. And then she chided herself bitterly for presumption. How dared she to conclude that she was not a terrible sinner, considering that as a chit, her father confessor had imposed fearsome pains and penalties, as punishment for childish transgressions? She was bad, very bad indeed. Had she not impiously endeavoured once to cut the thread and escape? And now that thread was to be cut for her by an alien hand. Why did she not feel the same eagerness to be away, as on that night, when she leapt out of the wherry?
It always came back to this. The same refrain was singing in her ears. So young, so rich, so beautiful--to be put away, crushed under the heel, like the rat that cumbers the earth. It was hard, very hard, and somehow the joyous careless days of Versailles and Trianon, would glitter up out of the mirage to dazzle and disturb her vision.
Some one knocked and entered with a tray.
"Madame, supper," the servant said.
Her supper! Not brought by faithful Toinon? Why? Was the episode of the cakes to be repeated?
"Where is my maid?" she asked.
"Very ill in bed--delirious," the servant answered with respect.
"Ill! Delirious! What has happened? I will go to her at once."
"As madame wishes," the lacquey replied. "I was to inform madame that Mademoiselle Brunelle has undertaken to cure the invalid, and is with her now."
Words of enquiry rose and died on Gabrielle's lips. The servant bowed and retired. Mademoiselle Brunelle closeted with Toinon? The marquise had endured overmuch, and just now could not cope with that woman.
The baleful Algaé had taken the faithful waiting-maid in hand, who under her manipulation was ill and delirious? Her last friend was taken away from her. She was alone now, quite, quite alone. They wished her also to become ill and delirious? She glanced at the supper-tray and smiled at the dainties thereon set out. No. She would not perish that way. If only she could see Toinon! To what end? The devoted girl was paying the penalty of faithfulness. If she went now to see her she could do no good; would probably not be allowed to see her at all; would be rudely turned away by that woman, as in old times she had been from the nursery.
But it was hard to bear--oh, hard, very hard to bear; thus to be left without a friend--without a tender hand, the crisis past, lovingly to close her eyes! And yet how pitifully foolish to be disturbed about such petty details! When the soul is freed, what matters if the glassy eyes whose glory has faded away are closed or not; and if they are, by whom they are closed? What childish folly to care, and yet, as Gabrielle sought her gloomy bedchamber, she felt more solitary than ever before in her existence. The dingy ancestors peering down from out their dusty frames--they who had long passed the rubicon and knew the secret, if secret there be to know--seemed in the fitful glare of the smouldering fire to laugh and mow at her folly. What a pother over a few years of suffering. The dead only are at peace--the dead only enjoy rest. Oh, blessed dead and fortunate! And here was a storm-tossed mortal on the very threshold of freedom, clinging to and hugging her chains. Oh, pitiable and laughter-moving spectacle! Poor, silly, straining little shallop on the immeasurable ocean of destiny! Summon thy waning courage, oh, nerve racked atom of humanity, tossed on the waves of time. Courage, shrinking coward, and be thankful that thy corroding gyves will so soon be broken.
The marquise, though faint from lack of food and many emotions, refused to eat. How cruel of Toinon to fall ill at such a time! and yet not so; for it must be the band of wretches who had made her ill. Her mistress would go to bed and forget her misery in sleep. Sleep! With nerves stretched to tightest tension, how could she hope to sleep? Wearily she threw herself upon the bed, dressed as she was, and gnawed the pillow in her travail.
It has been mercifully ordered that the human organism cannot endure more than a given strain. Either we go mad and forget, or drop exhausted and unconscious. Ere the smouldering logs had whitened to ashes, Gabrielle had forgotten her troubles, plunged in dreamless slumber. Such sleep as this brings no refreshment, though it serves as anodyne--a filter of short-lived oblivion. She must have slept long and heavily, for, waking with leaden lids and throbbing brow, she was aware of a shadowy woman drawing back the window curtains to let in the day.
Toinon had recovered then. That was fortunate.
"Toinon," she murmured; "thank Heaven, you are well again, my only friend!"
The woman stood at the foot of the bed with crossed arms, slowly wagging a head shrouded in a silken handkerchief. Her robust figure loomed preternaturally large, her laughter was low and muffled.
"Your only friend," she remarked gaily, "is safe under lock and key."
The marquise sat up and surveyed the intruder with a look of fear, vaguely dreading something that was imminent.
"Mademoiselle Brunelle!" she exclaimed, with a shudder. "You have dared to force your way into my bed-chamber?"
"That have I," returned the ex-governess, affably; "for I have business here. There is a little account to settle."
"An account?"
"Oh! not money. There will be plenty of money by and by, no thanks to generosity of yours. I offered you the hand of friendship and you scorned it--I, who am the stronger, though for a time you obtained the mastery. You chased me with ignominy from the house--insulted and humiliated me by striving to drive me hence a second time. Do you think I am one to forgive? You made my life wretched, treating me as if I were a leper, out of jealousy of your nincompoop husband, as if I ever cared a fig for him! Now my turn has come. Insult for insult shall you have again. Vainly--you craven--will you implore mercy. There shall be none for you. I have made up my mind to take your place. You cumber the earth, you useless bit of trumpery, and this day shall rid us of your presence."
"I never did you wrong. You know it!" Gabrielle said, slowly. Her own voice seemed strange, deadened by a singing in the ears. "On that score I stand acquitted." A curious fancy flitted through her brain and faded. In how brief a while might she be standing before another tribunal, to answer for the manner of her life?
Mademoiselle Brunelle was provoked in that the arrows of her spite fell short. The craven did not sue for mercy. By the waxen pallor of her cheeks and lips, and the deep circles round her dark blue eyes, it was evident that the marquise was in mortal terror. Her aspen fingers twitched the bedclothes nervously; but she gave vent to no reproach or outcry.
There was an impatient tapping at the door. Algaé moved swiftly across the room and opened it.
"You may come in, gentlemen," she said. "Madame la Marquise is fully dressed, prepared to receive company."
The abbé and the chevalier entered, the latter unsteady in his gait, and cowed. His dress was dusty and disordered; his hair and linen rumpled. It was evident that he had spent the night in drinking; for his bloated visage was flushed and inflamed with wine, while his mouth was convulsively contracted. His glassy eyes were red and swollen. Their whites showed yellow and bloodshot, as he turned them with wistful apprehension on his brother.
Gabrielle saw in the abbé a new and altered man. There was about his aspect a steely look of uncompromising determination--a gleam of triumph, as of one who has toiled long, but sees his goal at last--a curl of cruelty about his thin tight lips, that stirred the hair upon her head. If the devil ever peered out of human windows he was looking down upon her now--so close, so close--looking down on the victim tied and bound, whose sacrifice he was here to consummate.
"Dear Gabrielle!" Pharamond said with a diabolical grin. "How nice of you to be up and dressed, and so save our precious time. See here what we have brought you."
The chevalier, who bore in one hand a silver chalice, had drawn his sword and ranged himself beside his brother in sullen silence, while Mademoiselle Brunelle remained by the door and turned the key in the lock.
The abbé flourished a pistol, which he playfully pointed at the trembling figure on the bed.
"Did you ever read English history?" he inquired. "No! The education of great ladies is sadly neglected. Know that there was once a fair creature as beautiful even as you, whose name was Rosamond, and a queen called Eleanor. The queen visited the fair one in her bower, and said. 'Here is a cup and here is a dagger, choose, for your time is come and you must die.' How sensible and to the purpose. See how generous am I, for I offer you three alternatives instead of two. The pistol, the sword, the poison. Make your selection quickly."
"Die!" gasped Gabrielle, pressing her fingers to her burning brow, as she looked at each, turning restlessly from one to the other of the trio, seeking for a gleam of compassion, and finding none. "Wherefore? of what crime have I been guilty? You decree my death, and you inflict it--why?"
"Choose," repeated the abbé with impatience, dropping his tone of banter. "Sodden oaf and fool, give me the chalice," he added, fiercely. "Your palsied hand will drop it."
Indeed the chevalier seemed to be losing the control of his muscles, for he swayed to and fro, as one far gone in liquor. In his agitation his sword-hilt clattered against the metal buttons on his coat, perceiving which the marquise seeming to see a faint ray of hope, turned her pleading face to him in agonized remonstrance.
"Phebus," she murmured, earnestly, "you once said you loved me, and tempted me to sin, and afterwards repented. You are not bad at heart. Your nature is not cruel and inexorable, and I am yet so young! Think of the memories you are raising now--a nightmare of unavailing remorse. Think before it is too late, of the clinging shirt of fire, which as the years progress will send you raving, and never may be shaken off!"
"Enough, enough! It is settled," cried the abbé, "choose, or I will make the choice. In this goblet is no copper draught, since it appears you object to copper--a soothing decoction of delicious herbs, that grow beside the river. You are no botanist, I fear, or would have admired the pretty spotted leaf of the œnanthe crocata, a useful plant without taste or smell, which possesses the additional advantage, when its work is done, of leaving no trace behind. You are so deplorably slow and undecided that I must choose for you. The œnanthe, let it be, then, for it will neither stain your flesh nor mar your incomparable skin. You will lie with a peaceful smile, as of a pure unsullied babe who sleeps well and pleasantly, and drift gently on the stream of Lethe. Socrates, of whom, maybe you've heard, once quaffed a delicate tisane made of this self-same plant, and history avers that he enjoyed it very much."
The abbé approached a step nearer, and held forth the goblet. The marquise recoiled, and half-numbed by a wind that seemed to blow from out of her open grave, clasped her hands wildly, crying, "Phebus, save me!"
"You waste your breath," the abbé remarked, sternly. "His power of volition's gone, he is an automaton worked by me. Waste no more time, for we have much to do to-day. Drink, or he shall use his sword."
Gabrielle, under the scrutiny of six pitiless eyes, took the chalice in her hands and drank.
The abbé--determined this time to do his work effectually--perceiving a sediment left, gathered it carefully in a spoon, and bringing it to the goblet's brim, offered it once more with a courteous smile to the quivering lips of his victim. Then, remembering, he withdrew the spoon, and said, "No! the stalks and fibres can be traced."
The victim lay panting on her pillows. The executioner remarked with a low bow, "We will leave you to make your peace with Heaven," and was preparing to withdraw when the marquise gasped out, "In Heaven's name, do not destroy my soul. Send for a confessor that I may die as a Christian should."
"You forgot I am a priest," returned the abbé, smiling, "and now, as ever, at your service."
Perceiving that she did not appreciate his merry conceit, for she covered her face with shuddering hands, he motioned to his brother to follow, and bade Algaé remain with the victim.
"There will be much to see to," he observed, "for those who unfortunately perish of malignant fevers, must be speedily put away. Within an hour there will be delirium and giddiness, followed by coma and death. Keep the patient quiet, and make her comfortable. We will leave for Blois at midday, and meet the marquis on the road." With this he playfully executed another deep reverence, and dragging the chevalier after him, left the room.
Mademoiselle Brunelle was enchanted that matters should at last have been brought to a satisfactory pass with becoming decorum. No ungenteel screaming, no bloodshed; only a palatable tisane which tasted a little like celery. In a few hours they would intercept the marquis on his ill-judged return, and when he knew that he was a widower, he would be as anxious as they to leave the neighbourhood. Events that seem untoward are often for the best. His sudden change of plans had driven the conspirators to promptitude. The tortuous and shilly-shally abbé had been compelled to action, and he had really acted very well.
She glanced now and then at the figure on the bed, who lay as motionless as if all were already over, and walked up and down reflecting. What a provoking man the marquis was, who had to be served despite himself. Left alone, unpropped, he had tumbled down, the unstable creature; had repented, and was coming back to whine and to entreat and bite his nails in indecision. Well. No excuse for whining now. The die was cast. In a few days they would have crossed the frontier never to revisit Lorge. The jewels. They must not be left behind, since they were of exceeding value--love gifts from the doting maréchal, who deemed naught too good for his darling. There was a diamond parure somewhere, of purest water, which would become the new marquise amazingly. With greedy hands Algaé dived into drawers, ferreted in the cabinet of ebony, searched the silver knickknacks on the toilet table. Where were the jewels kept? Doubtless, in the garderobe on the opposite side of the corridor. Yes. Here was the bunch of keys labelled. Mademoiselle would be a veritable ninny were she to neglect her chance of reaping all that could be reaped. As the prospective wife of Clovis the jewels were her own or soon would be, and with this plaguy revolution going on, to leave France was to be condemned to exile. The property of emigrés was confiscated. When it became known that the Marquise de Gange was dead, and the marquise flown, the state would pounce upon the chateau, and take possession of everything within it. It clearly behoved the second wife to rummage in the cupboards of the first. There was no time to lose. Casting one hasty glance at the bed, and perceiving no change, Mademoiselle hastily left the room in search of treasure.
With fingers still clasped over her eyes Gabrielle lay still, each minute passage in her melancholy life flitting across her brain. She had distinctly heard the brutal fiat of the abbé. Giddiness, delirium, coma, death. Within an hour the symptoms would commence--to last how long? No sign as yet of giddiness. On the contrary, that cold gust from out the grave appeared to have stimulated her mind, quickening its action, magnifying each thought in crystal clearness. It would soon be over. The release for which she had prayed so long and earnestly was close at hand. Her fretted spirit would find peace--she would be freed from the corroding bonds of harsh humanity. Not five and twenty, and the world was beautiful. Now, that she stood on the threshold, on the point of closing the door which may never be re-opened, Gabrielle found herself filled with a strange longing and regret. She knew not that it was the force of young and healthy life that was bubbling up in protest. Hope would not thus be slain. An overwhelming desire to live arose and possessed her being. An idea that was new and draught with horror flooded her mind, and she sat up panting. Her children! Why had she not thought of it before? A reason for welcoming death had been that they would be the better protected by her flitting. But was it indeed so? Had not her mother deserted her in a grievous plight through selfish cowardice? Alarmed for herself she had fled with a pretence that all was well. A fitting guardian for two children, truly. How clear it was--how dreadfully clear! The conspirators would work upon her fears--obtain possession of Victor and Camille. By securing their fortune she had imperilled their lives, for those who could do her to death with such cold barbarity, would stick at nothing when they found themselves foiled by her precautions. She must not die. No, she must live--for their sakes! To stand between them and the fate they had prepared for her. She sprang from the bed, a prey to violent agitation. There was a singing in her ears--her temples throbbed as though they would crack in sunder. She reeled and clung to the curtain. Her throat was parched with thirst. Were these the first symptoms of the fatal draught? No. It was excess of emotion and anxiety that made her giddy. She would live--live--live--in spite of the executioners, and God would help, for her cause was holy!
She was alone. Mademoiselle Brunelle for some reason had left her post. The marquise stole to the door, turned the key, gently shot the bolt into its socket. Then, grasping her long hair she forced it down her throat, inducing by irritation a violent sickness, which relieved her. But how to effect escape? Some one was already rattling the handle without--the deep voice of Algaé was shouting in imperious accents, "Open! Let me in!" Despair gave strength and courage. Gabrielle tore open the casement and got out upon the ledge. Below was a stone-paved courtyard; opposite, the outer wall, with the postern that gave on the pleasaunce. Was it locked? No matter. She wore the key of the new lock upon a bracelet. No time to think. With an agonized cry to Heaven for succour she leapt, but was held up for a moment by two strong hands, while close to hers was the face of Algaé, black and convulsed with fury. Mademoiselle, hearing a noise within, had rushed round by the boudoir, whose door the marquise had forgotten in her haste to lock. And now began a fierce and desperate tussle between the women, which, though neither knew it, was of infinite service to the victim, for it kept off drowsiness. Strong as she was, Algaé could not, cramped and strained, sustain the struggling weight, which escaped from her grasp and fell, while she loudly called for help. The patient was delirious--in madness had flung herself from the window and broken her bones upon the pavement. No. She rolled over and over, and was up again; and Algaé, grinding her teeth, seized one of the sculptured flower-pots of bronze and dashed it down at her. Sure the intended victim must bear a charmed life! She sped across the courtyard, succeeded in unlocking the postern, and emerged upon the garden moat.
"Well!" muttered Algaé, with a philosophic headshake, "she is in a trap, for beyond the moat is a wall she cannot pass, and the gates are closed and guarded. It was stupid of me not to wait, and the abbé will be angry. Yet the fault is his, for he distinctly said 'an hour.'"
Meanwhile, refreshed by the air and movement, the frenzied Gabrielle seemed to have wings upon her feet, as she clenched her hands and kept repeating with laboured breath, "I will live--live--live." Her mind was preternaturally clear--she could see with prophetic vision, and grapple with contingencies. She saw the wall and knew she could not pass it; guessed that the gates were guarded; but remembering a certain night, which seemed a century ago, when she had wickedly attempted suicide, she made with all speed for the end of the moat, at the spot where it joined the river. The wherry was there, swinging loosely and idly on its chain. She leapt into the boat and loosed the knotted links, and, accustomed to use the oars, impelled it across the river. By this happy thought she gained precious time, could take a short cut to Montbazon, and might yet be saved; for her pursuers, deprived of the boat, would have to make a circuit of a mile or more in order to reach the bridge. She would be saved--she knew she would be saved--and then there fell on her a cold and sickening fear. Her limbs were trembling. She was growing giddy; her sight was wavering--the sky looked brown and dark. Was she doomed to sink down and perish when escape was all but certain?
She tottered along the path, and groping on for a few steps with outstretched arms like one struck blind, reeled and fell, moaning. The singing in her ears was deafening--like the howling of a hurricane through some dense forest; but through it she all at once heard something--a voice that was once familiar. Raising with an effort her heavy eyelids, she was aware of a man with a horse's bridle on his arm, who was supporting her and sprinkling water on her face. She was certainly growing blind as well as giddy. The man loomed unnaturally large, and seemed at one instant crushingly close, at another a league away.
Grasping the strands of memory which, crystalline no more, was slipping, slipping, she knitted her brows in a wild effort to remember him.
"As I'm a living sinner, 'tis the marquise," the man said, when he had recovered from his amazement. "Poor soul! In so terrible a plight. Only just in time, it seems."
Jean! Jean Boulot! Gabrielle suddenly remembered, and tightly clutched his hand. "Jean--dear Jean!" she gasped. "Save me! I am poisoned, but I will not die; I must not, cannot die. They are in pursuit--will kill us both. Quick--for love of the dear saints--take me at once to Montbazon!"
Jean pursed his lips, and frowned. "How like the wickedness of aristos!" he muttered. "It is time their evil brood was banished from off the world. Poisoned, you say, madame. What was it?"
"Hemlock," she answered, faintly; "but I have got rid of most of it."
"Hemlock," Jean echoed; "the children hereabouts often eat it, and are saved by tea and charcoal. Courage, madame, all will yet be well. One word more. What of Toinon?"
"She is under lock and key," returned Gabrielle, "but safe, for in the hue and cry for me, her existence will be forgotten."
Sturdy Jean Boulot mounted his horse, and supporting the marquise in front of him, made with all speed by the bridle path for Montbazon.
He was as surprised as shocked, and blamed himself unreasoningly. He of all men should know the depth of enormity of which the noblesse were capable, for was he not always making speeches thereanent for the behoof of less enlightened lieges? Knowing how bad they were, he had abandoned the post of duty, for it was his duty to protect his love and the heiress of the family whose bread he had eaten from childhood. Why, knowing what she must know, had Toinon so long delayed to write to him? By an unlucky circumstance he had been sent on a mission to Tours. Hence, he had not got her letter till after many days; but, having read it, had started off forthwith. And Toinon was locked up by those miscreants! Perhaps they had murdered her as they had attempted to murder her mistress. First he must obey madame, and carry her to Montbazon. That was his plain duty. Then he would raise the peasantry, who were ready and trained to arms, and, if need were, storm the chateau. And woe to all of them if Toinon indeed had perished!
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE BARON IS ENERGETIC.
The wonder of the timorous inmates of Montbazon knew no bounds when they beheld Boulot--once gamekeeper, now formidable and obnoxious deputy of Blois--careering into their courtyard with a fainting woman in his arms; and astonishment was merged in dismay when Madame de Vaux recognzied the Marquise de Gange, who had been stricken down, according to report, by a virulent and malignant malady.
Since, for some time past, the Seigneurie by common consent had dwelt in a condition of siege, it was only owing to the lucky circumstance of its being Angelique's fête-day that Jean found the gate unguarded.
Things having quieted down somewhat--though not for long, as the Seigneurie knew too well, for public opinion was ever on the ebb and flow of mischief--it occurred to old De Vaux that this was the propitious moment to go a hunting. It was on the cards that the noble pastime of the chase might be stopped altogether shortly, and so he seized the opportunity to give a little party in his daughter's honour. Was it not unfeeling, then, to the last degree, that a neighbour who was not invited because she was infectious, should choose this precise moment for a morning call? The gentlemen were away, the ladies were sipping tea, a l'Anglaise, and munching biscuits, discussing the while the all-important topic of dress. Of course they would not demean themselves by donning the ridiculous garments of the Republic. The queen, poor martyr, was sitting in sackcloth and ashes while quaffing the cup of bitterness, and it behoved faithful subjects to don mourning. But then money was so dreadfully tight, and nobody had any mourning; and, besides, the truculent and abominable upstarts who ruled the roast might take umbrage at such eccentricity and be disagreeable; and when everyone's tenure of property and even life, was so precarious, it was as well to wear coats that would turn.
This proposition had been put and unanimously carried, and everyone was getting on as nicely as possible, when, all of a sudden, killjoy, Jean Boulot, dropped from the clouds with his unconscious and fever-stricken burthen.
Too anxious, and too full of contempt for the company to be polite, he strode sternly into the salon, and gently laying the marquise on the sofa, took summary possession of the teapot, while the frightened ladies stared.
"There is charcoal, no doubt, in the kitchen," he said, quietly, "send for some, please, directly."
Charcoal? Was the man crazy? Infectious, too, perhaps. How shocking! But it was not politic to offend one of the rising stars. Madame de Vaux rang the bell for charcoal, and waited for an explanation.
Jean ground a piece of it with a poker, on the hearth, and dribbled the powder into the tea-pot. What devil's broth was he brewing? The man must be very mad. If the gentlemen would only return. Having satisfied himself with regard to the decoction, the deputy, instead of insisting that the baroness should drink it, carefully poured a few drops down the throat of the marquise, and presently she sighed deeply and opened her weary eyes.
"She is saved!" he cried with satisfaction. "Now, ladies, if you can think of anyone except yourselves, complete the work. Ply her with draughts of this, and see that she does not sleep. She has been poisoned by two miscreants; but God has protected the innocent against their villainy."
"Poisoned!" exclaimed Angelique, interested; "we were told it was a fever."
"Villains who murder innocent women can also lie," retorted Jean in scorn. "This lady, I tell you, after undergoing endless outrage at their hands, which is noted above in detail, has been cruelly poisoned by the two half-brothers of her husband. Providence, in its inscrutable wisdom, has chosen me as the humble instrument of rescue--and also of revenge. As there are stars above us, those wretches shall be terribly punished. I go now to execute their sentence."
The habit of leading others had made another man of Jean. He spoke simply, but with a stern native dignity that enforced respect. The ladies looked with awe on his tall retreating figure, about which there were none of the petty airs of courtliness, and never for a moment doubted that he spoke the truth.
This poor, pitiful, dishevelled heap of soiled clothing was not infectious. The Marquise de Gange had been singled out as victim of an appalling tragedy, which, had it been consummated, would have set the whole province aflame with fury. What was he about to do, this formidable deputy? Pray Heaven he would not raise such a tornado about their ears as would bring ruin on an entire class. Given that many of the class had sinned grievously and often, that was no reason for confounding the guiltless with the guilty. The peasantry were so crassly ignorant and so oafishly benighted--so ready in these days to believe the worst--that they might choose to look on old De Vaux as an accomplice of the Lorge people, and wreak vengeance on him and his. It had not been his business to interfere in the private affairs of other persons, and had, moreover, been deliberately misinformed.
His wife, as she turned it all over, grew very much alarmed and gave vent to shrillest jeremiads. What a stroke of ill-luck it was that the baron should have chosen this especial morning to sally forth on a fool's errand, leaving his family to be fooled by fickle Fortune! The baroness felt convinced that there was something dreadful imminent, and there was not a single male upon the premises. Even the tottering old domestics had gone forth to act as piqueurs. If the gentlemen would only return and settle what was to be done; but if they met with success in sport they would not be back till nightfall. Meanwhile, it was evident that the orders of the obnoxious Jean must be obeyed, and that the ladies must succour the marquise.
Hark! What was that? Voices in altercation in the passage, and a screaming of terror-stricken maids.
Hatless, with dress disordered and wild mien, Pharamond and Phebus dashed into the room.
"Where is our darling Gabrielle?" the former cried in agitation, undisguised. "Poor soul! Poor suffering angel! She has gone mad; escaped raging through a window, distraught by the delirium of fever."
Madame de Vaux was speechless from fright. The abbé whom she had been accustomed to see all smiles and compliments, wore the aspect of some malignant demon, as he eagerly scanned the company. His lips were bloodless, his pale face convulsed, while his brother mechanically followed his lead, like one under influence of Mesmer.
Angelique, who was bending with solicitude over Gabrielle, turned on the pair, no whit afraid. "The Marquise de Gange," she said, "has been committed to our custody, and for the present will remain under our care."
"Not so, not so!" replied the abbé, in vehement haste, "We will bear her home to the chateau. It would be unseemly to permit our sorely-stricken relative to be looked on by the curiosity of strangers. The poor soul raves, suffers from distracting delusions. You can see for yourselves that she is mad."
"Mad or sane," returned Angelique, bluntly, "here the marquise stays until my father and the gentlemen return. She is exhausted and unfit to travel."
Prudence! It would not do to offer too obstinate a resistance. Time must be gained by parley that the potion might do its work. Resuming with an effort something of his other self, the abbé bowed and bit his lip and scrutinized the patient.
Why, what was this? The victim exhibited none of the symptoms that were to be expected. Yet the poison must have circulated long ago. Surrounded by ministering women, Gabrielle had recovered consciousness, and lay, clinging for protection to Angelique, gazing with dread upon her butcher. Inert and numb, her limbs, half paralysed, were moved with difficulty; but it was plain that the intellect was clear. Ere now, she should have been foaming in frenzy, or, that phase past, be plunged in the stertorous slumber from which she would wake no more.
Intelligence shone from the haggard eyes of the victim. Had Providence worked a miracle on her behalf? Was she to escape him after all? A vapour as of blood swam before the sight of Pharamond and drenched his brain. With a fierce curse he drew a pistol from his breast, The women shrieked and implored mercy. Angelique, who was nearest to him struck the weapon up and the bullet lodged in the ceiling. In a whirl of frantic unreason he unsheathed his sword, and reckless now of consequences to himself, battled towards the marquise through the group of cowering women. There was that about him which suggested the red-eyed rat at bay that springs at the throat of his tormentor, inflicts what harm he can before he is crushed himself. Pharamond knew he was undone, and cared not, provided he might hack and slash that tender body which never might be his. The brave Angelique closed with him, and her fingers were cut to the bone in the effort to wrest away the sword. At the sight of her daughter bleeding, her aged mother sent up a scream and attacked the abbé with her nails.
A hubbub in the courtyard--a clatter of many hoofs--a confused babble of voices. The hunters had returned in haste, for a rumour was speeding with swift wings, bearing over the land the fiery cross of vengeance--shouting of a tragedy at Lorge, which concerned the White Chatelaine.
A woman's scream of agony--here at quiet Montbazon! What could have happened. M. de Vaux staggered, and dreading he knew not what, made for the salon as fast as his old legs would carry him, while a posse of country gentlemen remained on their horses irresolute. But not for long. Two frantic men with hair untied and streaming, and bloody swords in their hands, dashed from the salon window and endeavoured to escape out of the gate. Though it was hopeless to struggle against overwhelming numbers, they fought with clenched teeth the fight of desperation, but speedily found themselves disarmed, tied roughly back to back.
"Grand Dieu! It must be true then!" exclaimed a booby round-eyed squire, for here was the suave and polished churchman by whose condescensions he had been wont to be flattered, torn by the passions of the beast, soiled with dirt and blood.
The game was up--no doubt of it--but the abbé was not one to bow under adverse fate and play the penitent. How to explain away an onslaught upon women. The situation was awkward, but might even yet be brazened out, if the devil would only help, since, while there is life there is hope.
"She is mad--quite mad--poor suffering soul," he mechanically murmured; "we came to take her home."
Danger past, Madame de Vaux did what many a worthy dame has done before. She sank on a seat and fainted, while Angelique rapidly related the tragical details of the last half-hour.
The baron's brow grew cloudy as he listened. A terrible scandal this, such as in more halcyon days would have caused a violent commotion, but which at a critical moment like the present might start an overwhelming conflagration.
The hunting party had come upon a howling mob armed with such bucolic weapons as were handy, running along the road with incoherent threats. One who lagged behind was stopped, and being questioned, declared that he knew not what had chanced, but stout Jean Boulot was back again and furious, and that was enough for him. Under the circumstances it was prudent to return to Montbazon and resume the state of siege.
M. de Vaux was a gentleman to the backbone, if not endowed with wits, and could in a moment of peril prove as calmly firm and quietly undaunted as the procession of Parisian nobles who were wearing out with steady and unflinching footfall the steps of the guillotine. He recognized the gravity of his position, but accepted it without a murmur, for it never should be said that the last baron of the house of de Vaux had blenched in face of duty. The Marquis de Gange and his villainous brothers had happily been baulked in an attempted crime--that the absent marquis was less guilty than the rest he was not prepared to believe; and if he, the baron, could help it, they should not escape their punishment.
It was unlucky for him and his that the scene should have been transferred to his own tranquil hearth, for no good would accrue to the inhabitants of Montbazon by the sheltering of unsavoury company. Two of the peccant brothers were here, and here they should remain, advienne que pourra, until their unwilling host could hand them to the myrmidons of justice. If it could be prevented, there should be no lynch law at Montbazon. The miscreants had earned their doom, which, doubtless would be breaking on the wheel; and yet, who could tell what would be the lot of persons who were reckoned amongst the gangrened, and who were guilty of such heinous sin?
The mob would learn ere long the facts of the case, and their fury would not be lessened by the discovery that the one member of the hated class whom they all revered for her goodness had been chosen as the intended victim.
There would be a rush to Lorge, which would be found to be an open and empty cage, and after that there would be a scouring of the country in all directions in search of the dastardly criminals. They would be found here at Montbazon; there was no help for it, and the lord of Montbazon would loyally do his best to protect them from mob violence. But Montbazon was not a strong fortress like Lorge, which could afford to smile grimly down on a crowd of excited pigmies. The gates must be closed, and if the mob did come he would explain his just intentions, parley with and endeavour to persuade them.
Cheerfully determined to obey orders, the young men of the hunt were closing the gates when a horseman dashed in at a gallop, and the exhausted beast sank panting on the stones. M. de Vaux looked up and sighed, and again commanded that the doors should be closed and locked.
Here was the missing scoundrel, the marquis himself, as agitated as the other two. Verily the will of Heaven was startlingly clear, for the missing culprit had, of his own free will, delivered himself into the net.
The eyes of Clovis fell on a group in the angle of the courtyard, and, blushing, he hung his head. His brothers, unkempt and bound, none the better for rough usage, tied back to back like common malefactors, while a young seigneur whom all three knew well was mounting guard on them.
"M. de Vaux," he stammered, "things look black, I know, but I implore you not to condemn me in your mind unheard. I swear to you that I did not know of this. I was coming home from an absence due to business, and was as horrified as you could be when I was informed of the terrible story."
"You will all three be broken on the wheel," was the pithy answer of the baron.
The chevalier, with chin sunk upon his breast, saw and heard nothing; his weak brain was in a daze. But the abbé glanced quickly at the marquis and smiled with profound disdain. He had always felt for his elder brother a contempt so deep that it approached near to loathing. Worldly prudence alone had cloaked his feelings, for he knew him to be of the mean sort that, too feeble for independent action, will, while prating virtue, glibly accept the fruit of another's wickedness, or denounce him in case of failure. The aspect of this sorry apologetic craven acted on the abbé's nerves like a dash of refreshing spray. The old gleam glittered for a moment from under half-closed lids. He shook himself, raised his head proudly, and pointing a finger at Clovis, harshly laughed aloud--
"Remember that, unluckily, we are related," he sneered; "and spare me this humiliating spectacle. We have all three played our game and lost, and must pay the stakes with resignation."
"I assure you, Monsieur le Baron, that he lies malignantly," the hapless Clovis began; but his words died away in confusion, for his flesh quivered under the abbé's words and scathing looks as under a whip.
"Believe him not," scoffed Pharamond. "We are guilty of lamentable failure, for which I am honestly ashamed, due in part to the pusillanimity of yonder cur; and failure, as we all know, is the one sin that never may hope for pardon. He knew perfectly well the intended programme, and having given his tacit consent was despatched on a mission, which he apparently has bungled, that we might not be hampered by his cowardice. We failed, as better and stronger men have failed, and I am sorry for the mistake. It would have been shorter and safer to have made away with him as well as his puling wife. Speak, chevalier--you are a drunken sot, but not a craven--is not this the truth?"
Urged by the sharp elbow of his brother, lustily applied, Phebus raised his head and looked dreamily around; then saying simply "Yes; what you say is truth," relapsed into stupid reverie.
The abbé was growing lively, for now, thanks to Clovis's ineptitude, he no longer played the ridiculous role. The marquis hoped to whitewash himself by steady lying at the expense of his more brilliant confederate. That should never be. None but a fool would have deemed such a denouément possible. But for the advent of the new-comer, Pharamond might have stuck to his guns, and have adroitly wriggled out of the meshes of the law, delightfully pure and unsullied, though for a moment stained by calumny; for though the marquise had for some unaccountable reason recovered, there was nothing but her word for the absurd story of the goblet, sword, and pistol. Even had she died no trace of the herb would have been found. Mademoiselle Brunelle and the servants of the chateau would with one accord have sworn--as they aspired to an edifying end and a cosy seat in Heaven--that madame had suffered from a serious complaint, accompanied by delirious hallucination. That she was better now was in the nature of things, due partly to tenderest solicitude on the part of her affectionate family, and an additional proof, if any still were wanting, that the story of the poison was a dream. But Clovis, by his own dastardly and execrable meanness, had cut the ground from under the feet of the suspected trio; for the abbé had been goaded for once to forget himself and his own interests in order, with a pretty display of scornful protest, to inflict revenge upon another. In sober truth, the abbé felt outraged in his best feelings by the move of Clovis.
Pharamond had confessed with easy nonchalance to an attempt of superior wickedness, and was rather flattered than otherwise by the silent horror depicted on the bovine countenances of the Seigneurie. They appeared to gaze, face to face, on the Satanic one, and were abashed by his unexpected propinquity.
It was time the painful scene should end, for nothing could come of it but unworthy recrimination. Two had freely and publicly confessed, the third stood cowering like a beaten hound that dares not even whine. In every curved line of his bent figure there was confession.
The baron observed gravely to the company assembled, "We are responsible, gentlemen, for the guarding of these persons, till they can be safely removed to Blois. For the present, if you please, we will lock them in the dining-hall, as the strongest and safest room."
"By all means," exclaimed the abbé, heartily, "and I hope there will be something on the board. The good baron was always hospitable. Owing to press of business, hem! I had no time for breakfast, and vow I am plaguy hungry."
It was a day of ill-luck and penance for our esteemed churchman, for no single wish of his was to be gratified, even in so small a matter as a meal. The three brothers were pushed with scant ceremony into the one imposing chamber of the chateau, whose walls were tolerably thick and windows placed too high for escape to be possible, and there they were left, gruesomely to contemplate one another, uncomely spectacle enough, for in truth, they looked like boon companions, whose night had been spent in orgies. The abbé was so blythe in the knowledge that his fate was sealed, and that he had in his recklessness given himself as it were with his own foot, the final kick out of the world, that he overflowed with amiability.
To behold Clovis, the selfish and heartless, the superficially plausible scientific humbug, sobbing like a woman, with tears showering through dirty fingers, was a joy and a triumph, for whatever might befall the abbé though only a half brother with no prospect of ever blossoming into a full-blown marquis, he never, no, never, under any stress whatever, could fall so low as this grovelling male Niobe, who had been privileged by Destiny to wear the glittering thing called coronet. Not that that particular covering was in vogue as a fashionable hat just now, but the absurd era of topsyturvydom, would no doubt be smothered shortly by somebody with an uncompromising will and iron fist, and the saturnalia of plebeian folly be suppressed. Then coronets would rise in the market again, and this gibbering thing would come strutting back from exile--a worm on end--with other emigrants, to enjoy again the sweets of life. He would be free and rich, while his brothers bore the brunt. He would possibly speak now and again with reticence of his unfortunately shady family connections, who had tried to commit murder in his absence, and swear with seraphic gaze fixed upon æther, that he was well quit of such surroundings. Ah! It was a satisfaction to think that a sturdy spoke had been placed in the wheel of the heaven-bound chariot, which had brought it down to earth with a thump, as helpless as a hamstrung horse. If the half-brothers were to bear the burthen of their misdeeds, so should the elder one. He should not escape scot-free. "If," swore the abbé to himself, "we are to be broken on the wheel, as de Vaux so genially suggests, the only boon I will crave shall be that Clovis the coward shall suffer first, and that I may be present as eye witness." Such being his somewhat decided views with regard to the head of the family, it was rather odd that he should be so agreeable and frolicsome and, metaphorically, skip around his brother.
After a while, the contemplation of the weeping Clovis and the dazed Phebus became irksome, and there being no signs of prospective breakfast, Pharamond turned his attention to another matter.
"Tell me," he demanded of a sudden, "why did you delay at Blois so long, and what brought you so quickly home?"
"The testament was useless," answered Clovis, sulkily. "While we were yet in Paris, she saw through your plans and took measures to render them abortive. Such plans! We are undone--I, too--through your presuming and insensate folly."
"She did!" exclaimed Pharamond, clasping his hands in admiration.
"She solemnly declared that she knew her life to be in peril--that if ever she made another will, it would be under compulsion, and arranged for some private mark to show that this was so. Justice was put on the alert, and I came back in hottest haste to stop your action, but arrived, alas! too late."
"She did that? the crafty, cunning baby-face!" cried Pharamond.
"I ought to have known," growled Clovis, with rueful self-reproach, "that reserved baby-faced women are always cunning. But I trusted so much in you as to allow myself to be persuaded, and now I am undone--undone!"
In spite of his discomfiture, the artistic instinct of the abbé could not but keenly appreciate the still long-suffering woman who had braved and circumvented him. And they had all been stupid enough to look upon her as a foe unworthy of their steel. That they should have done so was due to one of the many errors in judgment of the abominable Algaé. Well, well--she was a wondrous creature, as well as a beautiful. Gifted with second sight, had she been able to foresee what precise poison he would employ and provide herself with an antidote? Hardly. Therein lay a mystery.
Meanwhile, conjectures fill no stomachs, and nature was beginning to assert herself aggressively. It was brutal of the baron to starve his cage-birds. To play with his brother, or to snarl and gird at him was mighty well as a pastime, but it grew more than annoying that, after the hints that had been thrown out, the baron should be so disgustingly inhospitable.
By dint of straining and muscular artfulness, the two, who had been unwillingly made one with ropes, managed to escape from their bonds; and the abbé persuasively arguing through the keyhole, endeavoured to coax the guardian marching without to discuss the question of food. It was barbarous to lock three men in a room and leave them to starve, specially when it had been pointed out that there had been no time that morning to partake of even the lightest refection. Is not déjeuner the most important meal in France--now as in the past; and is it not deliberately fiendish to place famishing humanity in a dining-hall without the necessary and expected adjuncts? It had nothing to do with the case that the engrossing business which had engrossed the early hours had been to supply a lady with a special breakfast for which she had no appetite. At any rate, she had been provided with a breakfast of a sort, and that she didn't like it was beside the question, for is it not well known that capricious ladies affect to live on butterfly wings and flower nectar--rare victuals that cannot always be supplied--while here were three ravenous men who had gone through much emotion and were proportionately empty, and who would be content--nay, grateful--for a commonplace, vulgar, substantial paté and a bottle of sound Burgundy. Thus the sportive abbé through the keyhole, whose sallies received no response.
By and by the monotonous tramp in the stone passage ceased; hasty footsteps hurried away--there were muffled cries and exclamations, followed by--it could be nothing else--a volley of musketry. There was something going forward, then, that was serious. The abbés humour changed from banter to gloomy wrath, and a sensation came over him akin to that which Gabrielle had experienced in her bedchamber. He would not die--no--he would live! But how? He ground his teeth and gnawed his fingers with a baffled sense of degrading helplessness. Here was he, an unappreciated genius, whose wits were as nimble as ever, who was prepared to start off at a tangent on any project which promised to bring grist to his mill, incarcerated in a place intended for festivity, from which there was no outlet, and in which could be found no crust of bread or glass of water. The windows were inaccessible, the oaken door locked without. But the sentry was withdrawn, which was something; and three men, strong and young, should shame to lie down content to wallow in the mud and groan. Something of a serious and important nature was going on outside, as could be judged by the noise. If the door could be forced in the confusion, the muffled sounds of which were evident to acute ears, what should prevent successful evasion even at this eleventh hour? Clovis was strongly built, the thews and broad shoulders of Phebus had ofttimes been a subject for sport--and there the two sat like waxen effigies, both refusing to be roused. In his exasperation Pharamond seized Phebus by the shoulders and shook him like a sack, but the latter merely opened his watery eyes for a moment and then blinked them to again like one who has done with daylight. As for Clovis, the gorge of his brother rose, and he exhaled himself in ingenious curses. If there was a hell, to which both were bound, a large item of his punishment would consist in his brother's presence as a neighbour.
Oh! It was too bad--too bad! There was some commotion going on outside--a rush of feet, a shouting, a calling out of names--something or another that occupied the entire attention of the garrison. The three of them, if they would exert united strength, could, with a portion of yonder massive dining-table, easily force the door, since the hubbub outside was sufficient to distract attention from any noise within. The door forced, they could lose themselves in the crowd. The smiling world would be open. Life--precious life--would commence again. And there the two idiots crouched--the one in a daze, the other drowned in unavailing grief--while the golden moments dripped. At thought of what ought to be, and that which loomed as more likely to obtain, Pharamond was devoured by an access of the old frenzy, which earlier in the day had toppled over reason, and tore in idle impotence at the ponderous table with his delicate white hands till the blood gushed from beneath the nails and his lips were white with foam.