CHAPTER VIII.
A SERPENT IN THE GARDEN.
The thought of entering the house revolted me. I needed the high heavens to give room for my happiness, the moon and the stars for confidants, the breeze of the night to cool the fever in my veins. To enter the house would be to break the spell, to bring me back again to that earth which my feet seemed scarcely to touch. So I retraced my steps to the white seat at the end of the garden, sat down where she had sat, and abandoned myself to a delicious reverie. I put all thought of the morrow from me—of the morrow when we must separate; all thought of that gray future which would never be brightened by sight of her, by the light of her eyes and the smile of her lips—all this I put away.
I had only to close my eyes to bring her again to my side. What a miracle she was—what a wonder of God’s handiwork! The clear and delicate skin, the hair with its glint of gold, the eyes with their arched brows and upturned lashes, the lips trembling with sympathy or curving with scorn, the oval chin showing just a suspicion of a dimple, the rounded figure promising I know not what allurements and perfections—all these I contemplated one by one, and seemed to catch again that exquisite odeur de femme which had ravished and intoxicated me as I held her in my arms.
And behind and above all this, the soul—a woman’s soul in its delicacy and sweetness, yet with a certain manliness about it, too, in its high ideals, its conception of honor and duty, its courage and devotion, its reverence for the pledged word—something of the oak as well as of the ivy, almost as if she had been raised among men rather than among women, and had come to look at the world somewhat with a man’s eye. Yes, and there was something manlike, too, in her independence, her impatience of convention, her self-reliance. Not that all this destroyed or even clouded the woman in her—that quality of siren and coquette which is in every woman’s blood. Rather it enhanced it, gave it a sauce and piquancy not to be withstood.
For a moment she had been mine—I had dared and been forgiven. She had been kind to me; she had been moved by my love; she had thrown me a flower at parting. And at thought of it, I took it from my bosom and pressed it to my lips. I inhaled its fragrance, which somehow seemed a part of her; I contemplated its beauty, in which I saw hers reflected. She had been kind to me. I even dared to think she had been kinder yet, did fate permit, and the thought gave me a throbbing joy—a selfish joy, I told myself, since I had no right to make her suffer, too.
Yet human nature is but an imperfect thing, and love is selfish in its unselfishness. In my heart of hearts I was glad—glad that she would remember me, that she would think tenderly of our evening in the garden, and of my kisses on her lips. The memory thrilled through me. I thanked God that I had been brave enough to snatch that moment’s joy, that there was that between us! That there would always be; no stretch of time nor stress of circumstance could alter it—it was woven indelibly into the texture of our lives. Whenever she thought of me, whenever she visited this garden, yea, whenever any other dared speak to her of love, she must recall that moment when I had held her close against my heart and raised her lips to mine!
And I—could I kiss another woman?
I sat erect with a quick intaking of the breath, for I saw in my path a new pitfall, and one of my own digging.
Must I confess to my betrothed that my heart was in another’s keeping, or did honor bid me to keep silent, to simulate affection, to lead her to the altar in the belief that it was she I loved? Oh, I should not shrink from confession; and she had the right to know—yet—yet would I not confess in the hope that she would set me free?
But if she should feel as I did about this marriage, that honor demanded its consummation, that duty compelled her to sacrifice herself, whatever my offenses, would not such confession merely embitter her cup to no purpose? Yet even if I did not confess, would I be strong enough, self-controlled enough to cheat her woman’s eyes?
Here was a question not easily answered; a dilemma the most awkward; a problem which I felt I could not solve alone. I could only hope that during our ride next day to Poitiers I might have opportunity to lay it before Mlle. de Chambray. She, I felt sure, would with her clear vision see instantly where my duty lay.
So I put the problem from me and lay back in the seat and closed my eyes and lived over again, minute by minute, that brief, delicious evening. I recalled every look, every word, every gesture from the instant I had first perceived her on the threshold of the drawing-room until that other instant when at parting she had tossed the flower down to me. I held it to my lips and murmured low to it the words I had not dared to utter in her hearing.
Ah, mesdames et messieurs, you smile, perhaps, and shrug your shoulders! But in your own lives has there not been some such moment? At least I trust so! Recall it!—and remember that I was young and ardent; remember that love had come to me not timidly by slow steps, but with one glorious burst of happiness, flinging wide the gates of my heart at a single touch, as, to my mind, love always should. But if you have had no such moment, if you have stopped your ears and hurried on when love called you to tarry—if life is for you so poor, and gray, and savorless—then, I pray you, put this tale aside, for of that which follows you will understand not a word. Nor indeed would I care to tell it to such an audience.
How long I sat there, wrapped in this garment of purest joy, I know not—an hour perhaps, or even two. I was aroused by the rattle of oar in rowlock coming from the river at my feet. I glanced out absently across the water just as a boat shot from the shadow of the farther shore, crossed the strip of moonlight in mid-stream, and disappeared again into the shadow cast by the trees which edged the garden.
I saw it clearly but an instant; yet that instant had sufficed to wake me from my abstraction, for it showed me that the boat was weighted deep in the water with a crowd of men who wore about their necks the tri-colored scarf of the Republic.
As I stared down at the river, trying to comprehend the meaning of this vision, a second boat similarly loaded followed the first.
I sat intent, listening to the rattle of the oars. Then I heard the boats grate upon the gravel of the bank and the sound of men leaving them, talking together in voices so subdued that only a faint murmur reached me.
What could it mean? What was the object of this midnight expedition?
Then my heart stood still. The soldiers had entered the garden and were advancing cautiously in the shadow of the hedge. The grass muffled their footsteps, but now and then gun clanked against bayonet, or scabbard against boot. I sat where I was, quite secure in my clump of evergreens, straining my ears, my eyes, trying to understand. I could just discern the squad as it approached, halted, moved on again; and each time it left behind it a dim figure, stationary in the shadow. As I stared, the leader came suddenly into a patch of moonlight. His face was turned toward the château, and instantly I recognized the rough countenance, the fierce mustachios of Dubosq.
In a flash I understood. They were after M. le Comte. They were posting sentries about the house. Dubosq was making sure that this time his quarry would not break through the trap.
I started to my feet, then instantly sank back again, for the squad was almost upon me. I must get to the house; I must warn M. le Comte; yet to attempt it at this moment was to invite disaster, not only for myself, but for him. I must wait; I must watch my chance; I must get to the house unseen. Dubosq must not suspect our knowledge of his movements. I could picture the fierce joy which filled him at the thought that his hour of vengeance was at hand.
Still the squad came forward. At last it halted so close behind me that I might almost have stretched out my hand and touched the nearest man. I crouched low in the seat and sat with bated breath.
“You understand,” Dubosq’s voice said, “you are to remain here until you hear the cry of an owl thrice repeated. You will then advance toward the château as quietly as possible and keeping in touch with the other sentries. If any man attempts to leave the house or to enter it, and refuses to halt at your challenge, do not hesitate, but shoot him instantly.”
“And the women?”
“The women are not to be harmed—that is imperative. They must not escape, but the man who injures them shall answer for it.”
“They are aristocrats, like the others,” growled the sentry.
“That is true,” agreed Dubosq; “but Citizen Goujon hopes to convert them.”
“Pah!” said the fellow contemptuously. “Has one of them ever been converted? Answer me that, citizen!”
“Come,” said Dubosq, sharply, “I have given you the orders. See that you obey them. Forward!”
The squad moved on past me toward the château, and I cautiously raised my head above the back of the seat and peered around. The sentry had been posted so close to me that I could hear him still growling to himself.
“A Septembrist!” I told myself. “A monster! An assassin!”
But as I looked at him I could scarcely believe that this was the bloodthirsty ruffian whose voice I had listened to. He stood leaning on his musket, staring toward the château, and a beam of light falling full upon his face revealed a mere youth, with features finely chiselled and the dreamy eyes of a poet. His hair clustered about his face in little curls, his lips were curved and sensitive as any woman’s. I stared at him amazed; then suddenly I understood. This was one of those who fought for an ideal, who fancied that the era of universal brotherhood was at hand, and that the Revolution was to make it possible—one to whom “Liberty, equality, fraternity” was not a mere phrase, but a vision to be realized. I had heard of such, but never until that moment had I believed in their existence. Could it be that after all the Revolution had in it a germ of good, a possibility of light?
I shook the thought away—it was absurd to suppose that good could spring from murder and outrage, that light could come from a darkness so revolting. This was not a moment for theories, but for deeds. I must go; I must make a dash for it. I should fall, of course. He could scarcely miss me in that clear light. But the shot would alarm the house, would give its occupants at least a moment to prepare for their defense. That, at any rate, I could accomplish.
I gathered myself for the spring. Just ahead of me lay a strip of moonlit lawn—it was there that the peril lay—it was there he would bring me down. And the shot would precipitate the attack.
I paused. If there was no alarm at least twenty minutes would be required to post the sentries and to make sure there was no break in the chain. Perhaps there was another and a better way. Perhaps I could leap upon the sentry and bear him down before he could give the alarm.
I raised my head cautiously and looked at him again, measuring the distance. He was humming the “Marseillaise,” his thoughts evidently far away, for his eyes were lifted and he was staring absently up at the clear heavens. Had I a dagger I could have struck him down. But I had no weapon; and even had there been a dagger in my hand I doubt if I could have nerved my arm to the blow, so pure, so youthful did he appear at that moment—younger than I. And somehow I understood that there in the sky he saw a face smiling down at him.
I shook myself savagely and called myself a fool. Since he had espoused the cause of murderers he must suffer like any other—this was no time to hesitate. Again I measured the distance and noted his abstraction. I would be upon him at a single bound, and, my fingers once at his throat, I knew that he would not cry out.
Suddenly, in the shadow back of him I fancied I saw a deeper shadow move. I strained my eyes. Yes!—there it was—another sentinel perhaps, and my heart fell. And yet, why did he advance so slowly, why did he crouch so near the earth? Was it man or beast?
Breathlessly I watched it, vague, inchoate, scarce discernible; but the menace of its attitude, the meaning of that slow advance, was unmistakable. A man, undoubtedly, since in Poitou no such bloodthirsty beast of prey existed. But who—who? I glanced again at the sentry’s unconscious face, so pure, so innocent. Should I warn him? Should I——
The shadow stood suddenly erect, a knife flashed in the air, and the sentry fell forward upon the grass, coughing softly. The shadow bent over the prostrate figure, the knife flashed again and the coughing ceased.
Chilled with horror as I was, I nevertheless realized that the moment for escape had arrived. I slid from the seat and crept forward toward the house, across that staring disk of moonlit lawn where it seemed that the light of all the suns in heaven was beating down upon me; then, with a deep breath of thankfulness, into the shadow of the shrubbery again. There I stood erect, and softly but rapidly pressed forward. I gained the walk. Before me was the open window—a moment more——
Then I heard swift, soft steps behind me, and a chill of terror ran up my spine and seemed to stiffen the hair upon my head; for I knew that the slayer of the sentry was pursuing me, knife in hand—red, dripping knife in hand! Numb with fear, I nerved myself for the struggle; but even as I turned a powerful and cruel hand was laid roughly on my shoulder.
“Proceed, monsieur,” whispered a hoarse voice in my ear. “Proceed. I will go with you.”