CHAPTER V.
I MAKE MY CONFESSION.
I looked blindly about the room, with M. le Comte’s words ringing in my brain, and for a moment I did not see her. Then my eyes found her where she stood in the embrasure of a window, half concealed by the draperies. She was gazing out across the garden at the rising moon and she did not hear my approach until I had come quite near; then she looked up at me with a glance so soft, so caressing, that my heart leaped with a sudden suffocating rapture.
“Oh, it is you,” she said, and passed her hand hastily before her eyes. “I was not expecting you so soon.”
“The wine had no attractions for either M. le Comte or myself,” I answered, a little hoarsely. “I have come to claim your promise.”
Without replying, she drew aside the curtain and stepped through the window upon a gravelled walk. I followed her with pulse throbbing strangely. Madame had consented then—I had scarcely dared hope it. But the whole adventure had about it something so strange, so unusual, that I had long since ceased to wonder at it, or to try to understand it. That madame should consent, almost as if we were betrothed, as if all this were a family arrangement—and then my heart grew chill at thought of the task that lay before me. For I knew that this was the last time that I should ever walk in this garden, or in any garden, with this sweet woman at my side.
The yellow moon was just peeping over the tree-tops to the east, and a soft breeze stirred the leaves upon the branches. Somewhere in the distance a thrush was calling to its mate. The night seemed made for love.
Still without speaking she led the way along the path, past the old tower, to a seat of marble gleaming white amid a setting of evergreens.
“Now I am ready to hear you, monsieur,” she said, and sank into one corner of the seat.
I took a turn up and down the path to compose myself somewhat, to quiet the painful throbbing of my heart. How I longed to sit there beside her—to whisper in her ear, to tell her——
“Mademoiselle,” I began finally, pausing before her, “believe me, it is not an easy task which I have set myself, nor one which I would choose to face could it be shirked with honor. But since I must face it—since there is no other way—I shall try to do so with such courage as I possess.”
“A most disconcerting preamble,” she commented. “I tremble at what will follow. If it is so formidable perhaps, after all, you would better take M. le Comte for your confidant.”
“M. le Comte has no concern in it.”
“And I have?” she asked, looking at me quickly with a little shrinking of alarm.
“Indirectly—yes.”
“Oh,” she said with a breath of relief. “Extremely indirectly, I should say!”
“Besides,” I added, “I wish you to advise me—and your advice will be worth much more to me than M. le Comte’s, or any other’s.”
“Thank you; although that sounds somewhat as if it were a continuation of the riddle. Pray continue.”
“It is necessary that I should go back a little,” I explained. “Thirty years ago my father made a pilgrimage to Mont Saint-Michel to discharge a vow. As he approached the rock across the sands he was suddenly conscious that his horse was having difficulty in proceeding. In a moment more the horse had sunk to his belly and my father perceived that he had blundered into a quicksand. He flung himself from the saddle, and abandoning the beast to its fate,—which indeed nothing could have averted,—endeavored to make his way back to solid ground. He sank to his ankles, to his knees, to his waist. His struggles to escape served only to entangle him more deeply, until at last, seeing them in vain, he set himself to await the end courageously. He glanced around over the sands to make sure that there was no help in sight, then he turned his face toward the cross above the rock and commended his soul to God.
“But the moment he ceased to struggle he robbed the quicksand of its violence. He still sank indeed, but so slowly that at the end of an hour the sand had scarcely reached his breast. He reckoned that it would be three hours at least before the sand covered nose and mouth, but he knew that the tide would end it before that. Nevertheless, hope began to revive a little and again he looked around for aid, but he had evidently wandered some distance from the road, and the only persons passing were so far away that they did not perceive him nor hear his shouts. So again he resigned himself, and the thought even came to him to renew his struggles in order to bring the end more quickly. But he decided that this would be cowardly, if not sinful, and so waited quietly. He was relieved to see that his horse, struggling to the last, had sunk from sight, so that its sufferings were ended.
“He closed his eyes and even dozed a little, for he had been exhausted by his previous efforts, but he was startled wide awake by a voice shouting. The sand had reached his armpits. His arms, extended in front of him, were covered. He turned his head with difficulty and saw a man standing at the edge of the quicksand. He was tearing off his doublet in desperate haste.
“‘Do not venture into it!’ my father cried, comprehending his purpose. ‘I am past saving. Do not endanger yourself. Take a message for me—that is all I ask.’
“The other did not answer, but spread out his cloak before him and advanced across it. He sank somewhat, it is true, but his feet were not entangled in the sand. At the edge of his cloak he spread his doublet, stepped upon it and drew his cloak after him. But that moment almost proved his ruin, for he had sunk nearly to his knees before he got his cloak spread out again. My father watched him with bated breath as he freed himself and crept forward to the edge of it.
“‘Your hand,’ said the stranger; and he stretched out his own.
“My father disentangled one of his arms and grasped the hand extended to him.
“‘Now,’ continued the other rapidly, ‘you must free yourself by one supreme effort. If we fail the first time it will be useless to try again. So we must not fail. Are you ready?’
“‘Yes,’ said my father, and with a mighty effort heaved himself up out of the sand. Yet he must have failed, must have sunk deeper than ever, but for that strong arm which helped him, drawing him up and forward to the edge of the cloak, which formed for a moment a little isle of safety.
“But only for a moment. Already the sand was pouring over its edges and it was being rapidly engulfed.
“‘We must get back without it,’ said the unknown. ‘Come.’
“Of the desperate struggle which followed my father never told me much—indeed I doubt if he remembered its details very clearly. They aided each other, encouraged each other, drew each other forward—each determined that the other should be saved—and at the end dropped exhausted, side by side, on the firm sand beyond.
“My father’s rescuer was a young man of Poitiers—the younger son of a good family—and his name was Louis Marie de Benseval.”
I paused. I was indeed somewhat overcome by my own story, and more especially by the memories which it evoked. As for Mlle. de Chambray, she sat with her face so in the shadow that I could scarcely discern her features. She made no comment, only stirred slightly, and I saw her eyes shining up at me.
“I fear I have been prolix,” I said. “I have wearied you. I will try to hasten——”
“Please do not,” she broke in. “You have not wearied me. I wish to hear the whole story. But will you not sit down?” and she made a little inviting gesture.
“No,” I said, resisting it. “I have not yet come to the difficult part. If I should sit there beside you I fear that my courage would fail me.”
“As you will,” she murmured, and leaned still farther into the shadow.
“The two became fast friends,” I continued. “Indeed, friend is scarcely the word with which to describe their affection—it is not strong enough. They were more than friends. Their attachment had a rare, abiding quality—whether they were apart or together, it was just the same. They determined to perpetuate it by knitting their two families into one. They agreed that should one of them have a son and the other a daughter, these two should be considered betrothed from the cradle. And it would seem that Nature, Providence, God, approved of this design, for it so fell out.
“When I was ten years old my father was seized with a fever from which it was soon evident he could not recover. M. de Benseval hastened to him, bringing with him his daughter, a child of eight. We were betrothed beside my father’s bed. It was agreed that on the day that I was twenty-one I should set out from Beaufort to claim my bride. My father died blessing us, and very happy.”
Again I paused, for my voice was no longer wholly steady. Nor did I relish the story I had yet to tell. But I nerved myself to do it.
“After that I lived with my mother upon our estate at Beaufort—a small estate, but one which under my father’s management had sufficed for our support. At first everything went well; but a woman, however capable, is not a man, and my mother was more engrossed in her son than in her fields. So our fortunes dwindled from year to year, and the Revolution, which robbed us of our peasants, struck them the final blow. We were at the end of our resources, and a month ago my mother wrote to M. de Benseval, at Poitiers, stating our circumstances frankly and releasing him from his engagement. In reply came a terse note saying that his engagement was with the dead, not with the living, and so was doubly sacred; that on the day that I was twenty-one he would expect me to set out for Poitiers, where his daughter would be awaiting me.”
“And then?” asked my companion in a voice which seemed a little tremulous.
“Well, mademoiselle, yesterday I was twenty-one.”
“And you set out as M. de Benseval commanded?”
“Yes, at daybreak.”
“Joyfully, no doubt?”
“Yes, joyfully—why attempt to conceal it? I told myself that I was going to execute my father’s last command, that he was looking down upon me with approving eyes. So I was very happy.”
“You have forgotten another reason for that happiness, have you not, monsieur?”
“Another reason?”
“You have said nothing of the lady.”
“Really, mademoiselle,” I said in some confusion, “I fear I scarcely thought of her. I was only a boy. I had never been out into the world. All women were the same to me.”
“You mean they are no longer so?” she asked, and again I saw her eyes gleaming up at me from the shadow.
“So little so, mademoiselle,” I answered hoarsely, “that I am longing to throw myself into the war in La Vendée in the hope that a kindly bullet will deliver me from the fate prepared for me. Death, it seems to me, is preferable to that a thousand times.”
“Come, monsieur,” she protested lightly, “you exaggerate. Indeed, I can assure you that a month from now you will again find life very tolerable.”
“Why a month from now?”
“Because in that time you will be married, you will have become accustomed to your wife, your heart will have opened to her, and you will have forgotten the mood of this evening—or if you recall it, it will be with a smile of amusement, as at a boyish folly.”
“You may think so perhaps,” I said, bitter that I should be so misunderstood.
“You ask for my advice,” she retorted, “and yet you grow angry when I give it. Shall I not say what I believe?”
“Pardon me,” I begged, “but you do not yet understand. I have told you that I have passed my whole life with my mother—for me she was the only woman in the world.”
“And now?” she asked. I could have sworn that she was luring me on but for the gross absurdity of such a thought.
“Now there is still only one woman, mademoiselle, but it is not the same one,” I answered simply.
To this for a moment she found no reply, but sat gazing out at the river with pensive eyes. The moon had risen above the tree-tops, seeking her; and finding her at last, caressed and threw a halo round her. I turned a little giddy at her pure, transcendent beauty, and my heart hungered for her.
At last she roused herself.
“Well, monsieur,” she said, “now that perhaps I understand a little better, do you still desire my advice?”
“Yes, mademoiselle; more than I can say.”
“Not, I hope, as to whether you should prove false to this betrothal?”
“Oh, no!—there can be no question of that. That is a matter which concerns not my honor alone, but that of my father also.”
“Yes,” she assented; “M. de Benseval was right—the engagement is with the dead, and so is doubly sacred. So far we are agreed. What is it, then, that you propose?”
“I propose to turn aside from my journey to Poitiers, and follow M. le Comte back to the Bocage. Can I do this with honor, mademoiselle?”
“What will you do in the Bocage?”
“I will seek death,” I answered; and I know that I spoke sincerely. “And it may be that my death will be of some service to France.”
She sat a moment looking up at me, a strange light in her eyes.
“I do not like to advise,” she began at last, and I fancied that her lips were trembling. “It is so serious a matter.”
“I beg you to,” I urged. “It is the greatest favor you can do me.”
“A man is the best judge of his own duty.”
“He should be,” I admitted; “but in this case I fear that I cannot see clearly.”
“But neither may I,” she objected.
“Ah, I am sure you will; in fact, mademoiselle, I suspect that you see so clearly that you fear to wound me. But to refuse to help me would be to wound me far more deeply.”
“Well, then,” she said, a little hoarsely, “since you will have it so, I must tell you that to my mind your betrothed has the first claim upon you. Not until you have fulfilled your engagement with her,—the engagement for which your father has your word,—is your life your own to cherish or throw away; not even then, for surely she will have some claim upon it.”
“Not so great a claim as my country,” I protested.
“Perhaps not,” she assented; “but at present her claim is greater than your country’s. To desert her would be to dishonor her; a betrothal is a sacred thing, almost as sacred as marriage itself. To break it, to cast it aside, to disregard it even for a time, would be cowardly and ignoble. You must go on to Poitiers. That way lies the path of honor.”
She spoke with a simple, fearless, deep sincerity which moved me strangely. Ah, here was a woman! Here was a woman!
“You are right, mademoiselle,” I said, and bent and kissed her hand. “A thousand times right. I thank you.”
Then with such agony at my heart that I knew not whither I went, I turned and left her.