"You, Monsieur? It's not your fault if he chose to get into a quarrel with you. He must have valued his business highly if he dared risk it in a fight."
"Of course he thought from my manner that he could have his own way with me. There would be no loss of time—his horses needed rest, for greater speed in the long run. He knew what he was about—there's no doubt of his haste. 'Come to me at once. My life and honour depend on you alone.' And while she waits and trusts, I step in and cut off her only hope!—not this poor young fellow's life alone, but hers also, Nicolas! It mustn't be so—not if I can any way help it. I see now what I am called upon to do."
"What is that, Monsieur Henri?" asked Nicolas despairingly.
"To carry out this gentleman's task which I have interrupted—to go in his stead to the assistance of this lady, whoever and wherever she may be!"
"Very well, Monsieur," said Nicolas after a pause, in a tone which meant anything but very well. "But first you will have enough to do to save yourself. This gentleman will soon be missed. He was in haste to go on, as you say. His servant will be wondering why he delays, and the landlord will become curious about his bill."
"Yes, but I must think a moment. Where is this poor lady? Who is the gentleman? There may be another letter—a clue of some sort."
I hurriedly examined the young man's pockets, but found nothing written. His purse I thought best to leave where it was: to whom, indeed, could I entrust it with any chance of its being more honestly dealt with than by those who should find the body? The innkeeper and the gentleman's servant, with their claims for payment, would see to that. But I kept the lady's note.
"Well," said I, "I must have a talk with the valet. I must find out where this gentleman was going, for that must be the place where the lady is."
"But the valet doesn't know where the gentleman was going. He was talking to me about that in the stables."
"That's very strange—not to know his master's destination."
"He knows very little of his master's affairs: he was hired only yesterday, at Sablé. The gentleman was staying at the inn there. Yesterday he engaged this man, and said he was going to travel on at the end of the week. But this morning he suddenly made up his mind to start at once, and came off without saying where he was bound for. Until I told him, the man didn't know that the name of this town was La Flèche."
"And what else did he tell you?"
"That's all. He was only grumbling about having to come away so unexpectedly, and being so in the dark about his master's plans."
"You're sure he didn't say what caused his master to change his mind and start at once?"
"He said nothing more, Monsieur."
"Did he mention his master's name?"
"No, we didn't get as far as that. It was only his desire to complain to somebody, that made him speak to me; and I was too busy with the horses to say much in reply."
"Then you didn't give my name—to him or any one else here?"
"Not to a soul, Monsieur."
"That's fortunate. Well, we must be attending to our business. I will pay the landlord, and give him some reason for riding on. While you are getting the animals ready, I will try to sound this valet a little deeper. Come."
Without another look behind, we hastened back to the inn.
"It's a fine evening," said I to the landlord, "and that gentleman I saw here awhile ago has given me the notion of riding on while the air is cool." I spoke as steadily as I could, and I suppose if the landlord detected any want of ease he put it down to the embarrassment of announcing a change of mind. In any case, he was not slow to compute the reckoning, nor I to pay it. Then, after seeing my bag and cloak brought down, I went in search of the young gentleman's valet. I found him in the kitchen, half way through a bottle of wine.
"Your master has not yet ridden on, then?" said I, dropping carelessly on the bench opposite him.
"No, Monsieur," he replied unsuspectingly. He seemed more like a country groom than a gentleman's body servant.
"I have decided to go on this evening, in imitation of him," I continued.
"Then your servant had better come back and finish his supper. It's getting cold yonder. Just as he was going to begin eating, he thought of something, and went out, and hasn't returned yet."
It was, alas, true. In my excitement I had forgotten all about Nicolas's supper, which he had left in order to see if I wanted my cloak for the cool of the evening.
"I sent him on an errand," I replied. "He shall sup doubly well later. As I was about to say, your master—by the way, if I knew his name I could mention him properly: we have so far neglected to give each other our names."
"Monsieur de Merri is my master's name, as far as I know it. I have been with him only since yesterday." He spoke in a somewhat disgruntled way, as if not too well satisfied with his new place.
"So I have heard." I said. "And it seems you were hustled off rather sooner than you expected, this morning."
"My master did change his mind suddenly. Yesterday he said he wouldn't leave Sablé till the end of the week."
"Yes; but of course when he received the letter—" I stopped, as if not thinking worth while to finish, and idly scrutinized the floor.
"What letter, Monsieur?" inquired the fellow, after a moment.
"Why, the letter that made him change his mind. Didn't you see the messenger?"
"Oh, and did that man bring a letter, then?"
"Certainly. How secretive your master is. The man from—from—where did he come from, anyhow?"
"A man came to see my master at Sablé early this morning—the only man I know of. I heard him say that he had ridden all the way from Montoire, following my master from one town to another."
"Yes, that is the man, certainly," said I in as careless a manner as possible, fearful lest my face should betray the interest of this revelation to me. "Well, I think I will go and see what has become of my servant. When you have finished that bottle, drink another to me." I tossed him a silver piece, and sauntered out. Nicolas was fastening the saddle girth of my horse in the yard. An ostler was attending to the mule. The innkeeper was looking on. I asked him about the different roads leading from the place, and by the time I had got this information all was ready. We mounted, I replied to the landlord's adieu, threw a coin to the ostler, and clattered out under the archway. From the square I turned South to cross the Loir, passing not far from the place where, surrounded by trees and bushes, the body of my adversary must still be lying.
"Poor young man!" said I. "Once we get safe off, I hope they will find him soon."
"They will soon be seeking him, at least," replied Nicolas. "Before you came out of the kitchen, the landlord was wondering to the ostler what had become of him."
"As he was to ride on at once, his absence will appear strange. Well, I'm not sorry to think he will be found before he lies long exposed. The authorities, no doubt, will take all measures to find out who he is and notify his people."
"And to find the person who left him in that state," said Nicolas fearfully.
"Well, I have a start, and shall travel as fast as my horse can safely carry me."
"But wherever you go, Monsieur, the law will in time come up with you."
"I have thought of that; and now listen. This is what you are to do. We shall come very soon to a meeting of roads. You will there turn to the right—"
"And leave you, Monsieur Henri?"
"Yes, it is necessary for my safety."
"And you will go on to Paris alone?"
"I am not going to Paris immediately—at least, I shall not go by way of Le Mans and Chartres, as I had intended. We have already turned our backs on that road, when we left the square in front of the inn. I shall go by way of Vendome." Montoire—where the letter had evidently come from and where therefore the lady probably was—lay on the road to Vendome.
"And I, Monsieur?"
"You are to go back to La Tournoire, but not by the way we have come over. This road to the right that you will soon take leads first to Jarzé, and there you will find a road to the West which will bring you to our own highway not two leagues from home." I repeated these directions as we left La Flèche behind us, till they seemed firmly lodged in Nicolas's head. "I don't know how long it will take you to do this journey," I added, "nor even when you may expect to reach Jarzé. You mustn't overdo either the mule or yourself. Stop at the first country inn and get something to eat, before it is too late at night to be served. Go on to-night as far as you think wise. It may be best, or necessary, to sleep in some field or wood, not too near the road, as I shall probably do toward the end of the night."
"I shall certainly do that, Monsieur. It is a fine night."
"When you get to La Tournoire, you are to tell my father that I am going on without an attendant, but by way of Vendome. You needn't say anything about what you suppose my purpose to be: you needn't repeat what you heard me say about that lady, or the letter: you aren't to mention the lady or the letter at all."
"I understand, Monsieur Henri; but I do hope you will keep out of other people's troubles. You have enough of your own now, over this unlucky duel."
"It's to get me out of that trouble that you are going home. Give my father a full account of the duel. Tell him the gentleman insulted my religion as well as myself; that he tried my patience beyond endurance. My father will understand, I trust. And say that I shall leave it to him to solicit my pardon of the King. I know he would prefer I should place the matter all in his hands."
"Yes, to be sure, Monsieur Henri. And of course to a gentleman who has served him so well, the King can't refuse anything."
"He is scarce likely to refuse him that favour, at any rate. My father will know just what to do; just whom to make his petition through, and all that. Perhaps he will go to Paris himself about it; or he may send Blaise Tripault with letters to some of his old friends who are near the King. But he will do whatever is best. The pardon will doubtless be obtained before I reach Paris, as I am going by this indirect way and may stop for awhile in the neighbourhood of Vendome. But I shall eventually turn up at the inn we were bound for, in the Rue St. Honoré."
"Yes, Monsieur, and may God land you there safe and sound!"
"Tell my father that the only name by which I know my antagonist is Monsieur de Merri. Perhaps he belonged to Montoire; at any rate, he was acquainted there."
We soon reached the place where the roads diverge. I took over my travelling bag and cloak from Nicolas's mule to my horse, hastily repeated my directions in summary form, supplied him with money, and showed him his road, he very disconsolate at parting, and myself little less so. As night was falling, and so much uncertainty lay over my immediate future, the trial of our spirits was the greater. However, as soon as he was moving on his way, I turned my horse forward on mine, and tried, by admiring the stars, to soften the sense of my loneliness and danger.
I began to forget the peril of my present situation by thinking of the affair I had undertaken. In the first place, how to find the lady? All I knew of her was that she was probably at Montoire, that she had been associated in some way with Monsieur de Merri, and that she now thought herself in imminent danger. And I had in my possession a piece of her handwriting, which, however, I should have to use very cautiously if at all. There was, indeed, little to start with toward the task of finding her out, but, as Montoire could not be a large place, I need not despair. I would first, I thought, inquire about Monsieur de Merri and what ladies were of his acquaintance. If Monsieur de Merri himself was of Montoire, and had people living there, my presence would be a great risk. I could not know how soon the news of his death might reach them after my own arrival at the place, nor how close a description would be given of his slayer—for there was little doubt that the innkeeper would infer the true state of affairs on the discovery of the body. The dead man's people would be clamorous for justice and the officers would be on their mettle. Even if I might otherwise tarry in Montoire unsuspected, my insinuating myself into the acquaintance of one of Monsieur de Merri's friends would in itself be a suspicious move. The more I considered the whole affair, the more foolish seemed my chosen course. And yet I could not bear to think of that unknown lady in such great fear, with perhaps none to aid her: though, indeed, since none but Monsieur de Merri could save her honour and life, how could I do so? Well, I could offer my services, at least; perhaps she meant she had nobody else on whose willingness she could count; perhaps she really could make as good use of me as of him. But on what pretext could I offer myself? How could I account to her for my knowledge of her affairs and for Monsieur de Merri's inability to come to her? To present myself as his slayer would not very well recommend my services to her. Would she, indeed, on any account accept my services? And even if she did, was I clever enough to get her out of the situation she was in, whatever that might be? Truly the whole case was a cloud. Well, I must take each particular by itself as I came to it; be guided by circumstance, and proceed with delicacy. The first thing to do was to find out who the lady was; and even that could not be done till I got to Montoire, which, being near Vendome, must be at least two days' journey from La Flèche.
As I thought how much in the dark was the business I had taken on myself, my mind suddenly reverted to the first of the monk's three maxims that Blaise Tripault had given me, which now lay folded in my pocket, close to the lady's note.
"Never undertake a thing unless you can see your way to the end of it."
I could not help smiling to think how soon chance had led me to violate this excellent rule. But I am not likely to be confronted again by such circumstances, thought I, and this affair once seen through, I shall be careful; while the other maxims, being more particular, are easier to obey, and obey them I certainly will.
I rode on till near midnight, and then, for the sake of the horse as well as the rider, I turned out of the road at a little stream, unsaddled among some poplar trees, and lay down, with my travelling bag for pillow, and my cloak for bed and blanket. The horse, left to his will, chose to lie near me; and so, in well-earned sleep, we passed the rest of the night.
The next morning, when we were on the road again, I decided to exchange talk with as many travellers as possible who were going my way, in the hope of falling in with one who knew Montoire. At a distance from the place, I might more safely be inquisitive about Monsieur de Merri and his friendships than at Montoire itself. The news of what had happened at La Flèche would not have come along the road any sooner than I had done, except by somebody who had travelled by night and had passed me while I slept. In the unlikelihood of there being such a person, I could speak of Monsieur de Merri without much danger of suspicion. But even if there was such a person, and the news had got ahead, nobody could be confident in suspecting me. I was not the only young gentleman of my appearance, mounted on a horse like mine, to be met on the roads that day. And besides, I was no longer attended by a servant on a mule, as I had been at La Flèche. So I determined to act with all freedom, accost whom I chose, and speak boldly.
Passing early through Le Lude, I breakfasted at last, and talked with various travellers, both on the road and at the inn there, but none of them showed any such interest, when I casually introduced the name of Montoire, as a dweller of that place must have betrayed. To bring in the name of the town was easy enough. As thus:—in the neighbourhood of Le Lude one had only to mention the fine chateau there, and after admiring it, to add: "They say there is one very like it, at some other town along this river—I forget which—is it Montoire?—or La Chartre?—I have never travelled this road before." A man of Montoire, or who knew that town well, would have answered with certainty, and have added something to show his acquaintance there. The chateau of Le Lude served me in this manner all the way to Vaas, where there is a great church, which answered my purpose thence to Chateau du Loir. But though I threw out my conversational bait to dozens of people, of all conditions, not one bite did I get anywhere on the road between Le Lude and La Chartre.
It was evening when I arrived at La Chartre, and I was now thirteen leagues from La Flèche, thanks to having journeyed half the previous night. Anybody having left La Flèche that morning would be satisfied with a day's journey of nine leagues to Chateau du Loir, the last convenient stopping-place before La Chartre. So I decided to stay at La Chartre for the night, and give my horse the rest he needed.
At the inn I talked to everybody I could lay hold of, dragging in the name of Montoire, all to no purpose, until I began to think the inhabitants of Montoire must be the most stay-at-home people, and their town the most unvisited town, in the world. In this manner, in the kitchen after supper, I asked a fat bourgeois whether the better place for me to break my next day's journey for dinner would be Troo or Montoire.
"I know no better than you," he replied with a shrug.
"Pardon, Monsieur; I think you will find the better inn at Montoire," put in a voice behind my shoulder. I turned and saw, seated on a stool with his back to the wall, a bright-looking, well-made young fellow who might, from his dress, have been a lawyer's clerk, or the son of a tradesman, but with rather a more out-of-doors appearance than is usually acquired in an office or shop.
"Ah," said I, "you know those towns, then?"
"I live at Montoire," said he, interestedly, as if glad to get into conversation. "There is a fine public square there, you will see."
"But it is rather a long ride before dinner, isn't it?"
"Only about five leagues. I shall ride there for dinner to-morrow, at all events."
"You are returning home, then?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"Have you been far away?"
"That is as one may think," he replied after a moment's hesitation, during which he seemed to decide it best to evade the question. His travels were none of my business, and I cared not how secretive he might be upon them. But to teach him a lesson in openness, I said:
"I have travelled from Le Lude to-day."
"And I too," said he, with his former interest.
"I didn't see you at the inn there," said I. "You must have left early this morning."
"Yes, after arriving late last night. Yesterday evening I was at La Flèche."
I gave an inward start; but said quietly enough: "Ah?—and yet you talk as if you had slept at Le Lude."
"So I did. I travelled part of the night."
"And arrived at Le Lude before midnight, perhaps?"
"Yes, a little before. Luckily, the innkeeper happened to be up, and he let me in."
I breathed more freely. This young man must have left La Flèche before I had: he could know nothing of the man slain.
"There is a good inn at La Flèche," I said, to continue the talk.
"No doubt. I stopped only a short while, at a small house at the edge of the town. I was in some haste."
"Then you will be starting early to-morrow?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
I resolved to be watchful and start at the same time. But lest he should have other company, or something should interfere, I decided not to lose the present opportunity. So I began forthwith:
"I have met a gentleman who comes, I think, from Montoire, or at least is acquainted there,—a Monsieur de Merri, of about my own age."
The young fellow looked at me with a sudden sharpness of curiosity, which took me back: but I did not change countenance, and he had repossessed himself by the time he replied:
"There is a Monsieur de Merri, who is about as old as you, but he does not live at Montoire. He sometimes comes there."
Here was comfort, at least: I should not find myself among the dead man's relations, seeking vengeance.
"No doubt he has friends there?" I ventured.
"No doubt, Monsieur," answered the young man, merely out of politeness, and looking vague.
"Probably he visits people in the neighbourhood," I tried again.
"I cannot say," was the reply, still more absently given.
"Or lives at the inn," I pursued.
"It may be so." The young fellow was now glancing about the kitchen, as if to rid himself of this talk.
"Or perhaps he dwells in private lodgings when he is at Montoire," I went on resolutely.
"It might well be. There are private lodgings to be had there."
"Do you know much of this Monsieur de Merri?" I asked pointblank, in desperation.
"I have seen him two or three times."
"Where?"
"Where? At Montoire, of course." The speaker, in surprise, scrutinized me again with the keen look he had shown before.
It was plain, from his manner, that he chose to be close-mouthed on the subject of Monsieur de Merri. He was one of those people who generally have a desire to talk of themselves and all their affairs, but who can be suddenly very secretive on some particular matter or occasion. I saw that I must give him up, for that time at least. Perhaps on the road next day his unwillingness to be communicative about Monsieur de Merri would have passed away. But meanwhile, what was the cause of that unwillingness? Did he know, after all, what had occurred at La Flèche, and had he begun to suspect me? I inwardly cursed his reticence, and went soon to bed, that I might rise the earlier.
But early as I rose, my young friend had beaten me. The ostler to whom I described him said he had ridden off half-an-hour ago. In no very amiable mood, I rode after him. Not till the forenoon was half spent, did I catch up. He saluted me politely, and gave me his views of the weather, but was not otherwise talkative. We rode together pleasantly enough, but there was no more of that openness in him which would have made me feel safe in resuming the subject of Monsieur de Merri. As we approached noon and our destination, I asked him about the different families of consequence living thereabouts, and he mentioned several names and circumstances, but told me nothing from which I could infer the possibility of danger to any of their ladies. It was toward mid-day when we rode into the great square of Montoire, and found ourselves before the inn of the Three Kings.
I turned to take leave of my travelling companion, thinking that as he belonged to this town he would go on to his own house.
"I'm going to stop here for a glass of wine and to leave my horse awhile," he said, noticing my movement.
He followed me through the archway. A stout innkeeper welcomed me, saw me dismount, and then turned to my young fellow-traveller, speaking with good-natured familiarity:
"Ah, my child, so you are back safe after your journey. Let us see, how long have you been away? Since Sunday morning—four days and a half. I might almost guess where you've been, from the time—for all the secret you make of it."
The young man laughed perfunctorily, and led his horse to the stable after the ostler who had taken mine.
"A pleasant young man," said I, staying with the landlord. "He lives in this town, he tells me."
"Yes, an excellent youth. He owns his bit of land, and though his father was a miller, his children may come near being gentlemen."
I went into the kitchen, and ordered dinner. Presently my young man entered and had his wine, which he poured down quickly. He then bowed to me, and went away, like one who wishes to lose no time.
Suddenly the whole probability of the case appeared to me in a flash. Regardless of the wine before me, and of the dinner I had ordered, I rose and followed him.
I had put together his reticence about Monsieur de Merri, his having been away from Montoire just four and a half days, the direction of his journey, and his errand to be done immediately on returning. He must be the messenger who had carried the lady's note to Sablé, and he was now going to report its delivery and, perhaps, Monsieur de Merri's answer. If I could dog his steps unseen, he would lead me to the lady who was in danger.
By the time I was in the court-yard, the messenger was walking out of the archway. By the time I was at the outer end of the archway, he was well on his way toward one of the streets that go from the square. I waited in the shelter of the archway till he had got into that street—or road, I should say, for it soon leaves the town, proceeding straight in a South-easterly direction for about half a league through the country. As soon as he was out of the square, I was after him, stepping so lightly I could scarce hear my own footfalls. He walked rapidly, and as one who does not think of turning to look behind, a fact which I observed with comfort.
If he was indeed the messenger, he must have been content with a very short rest for his horse after delivering the note to Monsieur de Merri;—must have started from Sablé as soon as, or little later than, Monsieur de Merri himself, to be in La Flèche on the same evening that gentleman arrived there, and to be out of it again before I was, as he must have been if he reached Le Lude by midnight. Perhaps he was passing through La Flèche at the very time the duel was going on; but the sum of all was, that he could not know Monsieur de Merri was killed, and this I felt to be fortunate for me.
Another thought which I had while following him along the straight white road that day, was that if the lady could command the services of this able young fellow to bear a message so far, why could she not use him directly for the saving of her life and honour? Evidently there was a reason why mere zeal and ability would not suffice. Perhaps the necessary service was one in which only a gentleman could be accepted. But I feared rather that there might be some circumstance to make Monsieur de Merri the only possible instrument; and my heart fell at this, thinking what I had done. But I hoped for the best, and did not lose sight of the young man ahead of me.
After we had walked about twenty minutes, the road crossed a bridge and rose to the gates of a chateau which had at one corner a very high old tower. In front of the chateau, the road turned off sharply to the left. A few small houses constituted such a village as one often sees huddled about the feet of great castles. A drawbridge, which I could see between the gate towers, indicated that the chateau and its immediate grounds were surrounded by a moat. The messenger did not approach the gates, nor did he follow the road to its turning. He disappeared down a lane to the right.
When I got to the lane, he had already passed out of it at the other end. I hastened through, and caught sight of him in the open fields that lay along the side wall of the chateau. Near the outer edge of the moat, grew tangled bushes, and I noticed that he kept close to these, as if to be out of sight from the chateau. At a distance ahead, skirting the rear of the chateau enclosure, stretched the green profile of what appeared to be a deep forest. It was this which my unconscious guide was approaching. I soon reached the bushes by the fosse, and used them for my own concealment in following him. When he came to the edge of the forest, at a place near a corner of the wall environing the chateau grounds, what did he do but stop before the first tree—a fine oak—and proceed to climb up it? I crouched among the bushes, and looked on.
When he gained the boughs he worked his way out on one that extended toward the moat. From that height he could see across the wall. He took a slender pole that had been concealed among the branches, tied a handkerchief thereto, and ran it out so that the bit of white could be seen against the leaves.
"Oho! a signal!" said I to myself.
Keeping the handkerchief in its position, he waited. I know not just what part of an hour went by. I listened to the birds and sometimes to the soft sound of a gentle breeze among the tree tops of the forest.
At last the handkerchief suddenly disappeared, and my man came quickly down the tree. Watching the chateau beyond the walls, he had evidently seen the person approach for whom he had hung out his signal. He now stood waiting under the tree. My heart beat fast.
I heard a creaking sound, and saw a little postern open in the wall, near the tree. A girl appeared, ran nimbly across a plank that spanned the moat, and into the arms of my young man.
Could this, then, be the woman whose life and honour was in peril? No, for though she had some beauty, I could see at a glance that she was a dependent. Moreover, her face shone gaily at sight of the messenger, and she gave herself to his embrace with smothered laughter. But a moment later, she attended seriously, and with much concern, to what he had to say, of which I could hear nothing. I then saw what the case was: this was a serving-maid whom the endangered lady had taken into confidence, and who had impressed her lover into service to carry that lady's message. The lady herself must be in that chateau,—perhaps a prisoner. My first step must be to find out who were the dwellers in the chateau, and as much of their affairs as the world could tell me.
The interview between the two young people was not long. It ended in another embrace; the girl ran back over the plank, waved her hand at her lover, and disappeared, the postern door closing after her. The young man, with a last tender look at the door, hastened back as he had come. I had to crawl suddenly under some low bushes to avoid his sight, making a noise which caused him to stop within six feet of me. But I suppose he ascribed the sound to some bird or animal, for he soon went on again.
I lay still for some time, being under no further necessity of observing him. I then walked back to the inn at Montoire at a leisurely pace. Looking into the stables when I arrived, I saw that the messenger's horse was gone. He lived, as I afterwards learned from the innkeeper, on another road than that which led to the chateau. I suppose he had chosen to go afoot to the chateau for the sake of easier concealment.
The innkeeper was looking amazed and injured, at my having gone away and let my dinner spoil.
"I was taken with a sudden sickness," I explained. "There's nothing like a walk in the fresh air when the stomach is qualmish. I am quite well now. I'll have another dinner, just what I ordered before."
As this meant my paying for two dinners, the landlord was soon restored to good-nature. He was a cheerful, hearty soul, and as communicative as I could desire.
"That is a strong chateau about half a league yonder," I said to him, as I sipped his excellent white wine.
"Yes, the Chateau de Lavardin," he replied. "Strong?—yes, indeed."
"Who lives there?"
"The Count de Lavardin."
"What sort of man is he?"
"What sort? Well!—an old man, for one thing,—or growing old. Or maybe you mean, what does he look like?"
"Yes, of course."
"A lean old grey wolf, I have heard him likened to—without offence, of course. Yes, he is a thin old man, but of great strength, for all that."
"Is he a good landlord?"
"Oh, he is not my landlord," said the innkeeper, looking as if he would have added "Thank God!" but for the sake of prudence. "No; his estate is very large, but it extends in the other direction from Montoire."
"Is he a pleasant neighbour, then?"
"Oh, I have no fault to find, for my part. One mustn't believe all the grumblers. You may hear it said of him that his smile is more frightful than another man's rage. But people will say things, you know, when they think they have grievances."
I fancied that the innkeeper shared this opinion which he attributed to the grumblers, and took satisfaction in getting it expressed, though too cautious to father it himself.
"Then he has no great reputation for benevolence?"
"Oh, I don't say that. We must take what we hear, with a grain of salt. He is certainly one of the great noblemen of this neighbourhood; certainly a brave man. You will hear silly talk, of course: how that he is a man whose laugh makes one think of dungeon chains and the rack. But some people will give vent to their envy of the great."
I shuddered inwardly, to think that my undertaking might bring me across the path of a man as sinister and formidable as these bits of description seemed to indicate.
"What family has he?" I asked, trying the more to seem indifferent as I came closer to the point.
"No family. His children are all dead. Some foolish folk say he expected too much of them, and tried to bring them up too severely, as if they had been Spartans. But that is certainly a slander, for his eldest son was killed in battle in the last civil war."
"Then he has no daughter—or grand-daughter—or niece, perhaps?"
"Not that I know of. Why do you ask, Monsieur?"
"I thought I saw a lady at one of the windows," said I, inventing.
"No doubt. It must have been his wife. She would be the only lady there."
"Oh, but this was surely a young lady," I said, clinging to my preconceptions.
"Certainly. His new wife is young. The children I spoke of were by his first wife, poor woman! Oh, yes, his new wife is young—beautiful too, they say."
"And how do she and the Count agree together, being rather unevenly matched?"
"That is the question. Nobody sees much of their life. She never comes out of the grounds of the chateau, except to church sometimes, when she looks neither to the right nor to the left."
"But who are her people, to have arranged her marriage with such a man?"
"Oh. I believe she has no people. An orphan, whom he took out of a convent. A gentlewoman, yes, but of obscure family."
"I can't suppose she is very happy."
"Who knows, Monsieur? They do say the old wolf—I mean the Count, Monsieur,—we are sometimes playful in our talk here at Montoire,—they say he is terribly jealous. They say that is why he keeps her so close. Of course I know nothing of it.—You noticed, perhaps, that the moat was full of water. The drawbridge is up half the time. One would suppose the Civil wars were back again. To be sure, some people hint that there may be another reason for all that: but I, for one, take no interest in politics."
"You mean the Count is thought to be one of those who are disaffected toward the King?"
"H-sh, Monsieur! We mustn't say such things. If idle whispers go around, we can't help hearing them; but as for repeating them, or believing them, that's another matter. I mention only what all can see—that the Chateau de Lavardin is kept very much closed against company. The saying is, that it's as hard to get into the Chateau de Lavardin nowadays as into heaven. It's very certain, the Count has no welcome for strangers."
And yet somehow I should have to get into the chateau, and obtain private speech with the Countess,—for it must be she who had summoned Monsieur de Merri.
"In that case," said I, "they must have no visitors at all. But I recall meeting a young gentleman the other day, who was acquainted with some great family near Montoire, and, from certain things, I think it must be this very Lavardin family. He was a Monsieur de Merri."
"Ah, yes. He has stayed at this inn. It was here the Count met him, one day when the Count was returning from the hunt. The Count was thirsty and stopped to drink, and the young gentleman began to talk with him about the hounds. At that time half the Count's pack were suffering from a strange disease, which threatened the others. When the Count described the disease, Monsieur de Merri said he knew all about it and could cure it. The Count took him to the chateau, where he stayed a fortnight, for you see, however jealous the count may be of his wife, he cares more for his hounds. Monsieur de Merri cured them, and that is how he got admission to the Chateau de Lavardin. But besides him and the red Captain, there aren't many who can boast of that privilege."
"The red Captain? Who is he?"
"Captain Ferragant. He is a friend of the Count's, who comes to the chateau sometimes and makes long visits there. Where he comes from, of what he does when he is elsewhere, I cannot tell. He is at the chateau now, I believe."
"Why did you call him the red Captain?"
"The people have given him that name. He has a great red splash down one side of his face. They say it was caused by a burn."
"Received in the wars, perhaps."
"No doubt. He has fought under many banners, it is said. Some declare he still keeps his company together, always ready for the highest bidder; but if that's true, I don't know where he keeps it, or how he does so without a loss when not at the wars. It is true, he brings a suite of sturdy fellows when he comes to Lavardin; but not enough to make what you would call a company."
"Perhaps he has made his fortune and retired."
"He's not an old man, Monsieur, though he is the friend of the Count. He is at the prime of life, I should say. A tall, strong man. He would be handsome but for the red stamp on his face. He has great influence over the Count. They drink, hunt, and play together. In many ways they are alike. The red Captain, too, has a smile that some people are afraid of, and a laugh that is merciless, but they are broad and bold, if you can understand what I mean,—not like the wily chuckle of the Count. He has big, ferocious eyes, too; while the Count's are small and half-closed. If people will fear those two men because of their looks, I can't for my life say which is to be feared the more."
"A pleasant pair for anybody to come in conflict with," said I, as lightly as I could.
"Yes, Monsieur, and seeing that strangers are so unwelcome there, you will do well to pass by the Chateau de Lavardin without stopping to exchange compliments." With a jocular smile, the innkeeper went about his business, while I finished my dinner with a mind full of misgivings.
I rose from the table, left the inn, and walked back, by the straight road of half a league, to Lavardin, pondering on the problem before me. It was a natural feeling that I might come by an inspiration more probably in the presence of the chateau than away from it. There was a little cabaret in the village, in full sight of the chateau gates, and just far enough back from the road to give room for two small tables in front. At one of these tables a man was already sitting, so I took possession of the other and called for a bottle of wine. I then sat there, slowly sipping, with my eyes on the chateau, hoping that by contemplation thereof, or perhaps by some occurrence thereabout, I might arrive at some idea of how to proceed. The drawbridge was not up, but the gates were closed. From where I sat, I could see the gate towers, a part of the outer wall, the turreted top of the chateau itself beyond the court, and the great high tower, which looked very ancient and sombre. But the more I looked, the more nearly impossible it appeared that I could devise means of getting into the place and to the ear of the Countess.
As I was gazing at the chateau, I had a feeling that the man at the other table was gazing at me. I glanced at him, but seemed to have been mistaken. He was looking absently at the sky over my head. I now took thought of what a very silent, motionless, undemonstrative man this was. He was thin and oldish, and of moderate stature, with a narrow face, pale eyes, and a very long nose. He was dressed in dull brown cloth, and was in all respects—save his length of nose—one of those persons of whom nobody ever takes much note. And he in turn did not seem to take much note of the world. He looked at the sky, the house roofs and the road, but his thoughts did not appear to concern themselves with these things, or with anything, unless with the wine which he, like myself, sipped in a leisurely manner.
I dismissed him from my attention, and resumed my observation of the chateau. But nobody came nor went, the gates did not open, nothing happened to give me an idea. When I looked again at the other table, the long-nosed man was gone. It was as if he had simply melted away.
"Who was the man sitting there?" I asked the woman of the cabaret.
"I don't know, Monsieur. He arrived here this morning. I never saw him before to-day."
In the evening I went back to Montoire, no nearer the solution of my problem than before. Nor did a sleepless night help me any: I formed a dozen fantastic schemes, only to reject every one of them as impossible. What made all this worse, was the consideration that time might be of the utmost importance in the affairs of the imperilled lady.
The next morning I went to view the chateau from other points than the village cabaret. This time I took the way the messenger had led me,—turned down the lane, and traversed the fields by the moat. I sat where I had hid the day before; staring at the postern and the wall, over which birds flew now and then, indicating that there was a garden on the other side. Receiving no suggestion here, I took up my station at the tree from which the messenger had shown the handkerchief. I thought of climbing it, to see over the wall. But just as I had formed my resolution, I happened to glance over the fields and see a man strolling idly along near the edge of the moat. As he came nearer, I recognized him as the long-nosed gentleman in the brown doublet and hose.
He saw me, and gazed, in his absent way, with a momentary curiosity. Angry at being caught almost in the act of spying out the land, I hastened off, passing between the rear wall and the forest which grew nearly to the moat, and to which the tree itself belonged. In this way, I soon left my long-nosed friend behind, and came out on the opposite side of the chateau.
Here I found a hillock, from the top of which I could see more of the chateau proper and the other contents of the great walled enclosure. I sat for some time regarding them, but the towers, turrets, roofs, windows, and tree tops engendered no project in my mind.
Suddenly I heard a low, discreet cough behind me, and, looking around, saw the long-nosed man standing not six feet away.
The sight gave me a start, for I had neither heard nor seen him approach, though the way I had come was within my field of vision. He must have made a wide circle through the woods.
His mild eyes were upon me. "Good morning, Monsieur," said he, in a dry, small voice.
"Good morning," said I, rather ungraciously.
He came close to me, and said, with a faint look of amusement:
"May I tell you what is your chief thought at present, Monsieur?"
After a moment, I deemed it best to answer, "If you wish."
"It is that you would give half the money in your purse to get into that chateau yonder."
At first I could only look astonishment. Then I considered it wise to take his remark as a joke; accordingly I laughed, and asked, "How do you know that?"
"Oh, I have observed you yesterday and to-day. You have a very eloquent countenance, Monsieur. Well, I don't blame you for wishing you could get over those walls. I have been young myself: I know what an attraction a pretty maid is."
So he thought it was some love affair with a lady's maid that lay behind the wish he had divined in me. I saw no reason to undeceive him; so I merely said, "And what is all this to you, Monsieur?"
"Hum!—that depends," he replied. "Tell me first, are you known to the Count de Lavardin or his principal people—by sight, I mean?"
"Neither by sight nor otherwise."
"Good! Excellent!" said the man, looking really pleased. "I dared hope as much, when the woman at the cabaret said you were a stranger. What is all this to me? you ask. Well, as I have taken the liberty to read your thoughts, I will be frank with you in regard to my own. I also have a desire to see the inside of that chateau, and, as I haven't the honour of the Count's acquaintance, and he is very suspicious of strangers, I must resort to my devices. My reasons for wanting to be admitted yonder are my own secret, but I assure you they won't conflict with yours. So, as I have been studying you a little, and think you a gentleman to be trusted, I propose that we shall help each other, as far as our object is the same. In other words, Monsieur, if you will do as I say, I believe we may both find ourselves freely admitted to the Chateau de Lavardin before this day is over. Once inside, each shall go about his purposes without any concern for the other. What do you think of it, Monsieur?"
All that I could think was that, if genuine, the offer came as a most unexpected piece of good luck, and that, if it was a trick, my acceptance of it could not much add to the danger which attended my purpose at best. In any case, this man already had me under scrutiny. So, after some little display of surprise and doubt, I took him at his word, inwardly reserving the right to draw back if I found myself entering a trap. The man's very proposal involved craft as against the master of the chateau, but toward me he seemed to be acting with the utmost simplicity and honesty, so straightforward and free from excessive protestation he was.
He led me away to a quiet, secluded place by the riverside, out of sight of the chateau, that we might talk the matter over in safety. And first he asked me what I knew of the disposition and habits of the Count de Lavardin. I told him as much as the innkeeper had told me.
"Hum!" said he, reflectively; "it agrees with what I have heard. I have been pumping people a little, in a harmless way. The first thing I learned was the Count's churlish practice of closing his gates to strangers, which forces us to use art in obtaining the hospitality we are entitled to by general custom. So I had to discover some inclination or hobby of the man's, that I could make use of to approach him. I don't see how we can reach him through his love of dogs, without having prepared ourselves with special knowledge and a fine hound or so to attract his attention. As for his jealousy, it would be too hazardous to play upon that: besides, I shouldn't like to cook up a tale about his wife, unless put to it."
"Monsieur, don't speak of such a thing," I said indignantly.
"No, it wouldn't do. I can't think of a better plan than the one that first occurred to me. As it required a confederate, I put it aside. But when I observed you yesterday regarding the chateau so wistfully, I said to myself, 'No doubt heaven has sent this young man to help me, and that I in turn may help him.' But I waited to make sure, watching you last night and this morning till I was convinced of your desire to get into the chateau."
It was a surprise to me to learn that I had been watched, but I took it coolly.
"The plan I had thought of," he went on, "required that my confederate should be unknown to the Count and those near him. When I find that you, who are anxious for your own reasons to enter the chateau, fulfil that requirement, I can only think the more that heaven has brought us together. It is more than heaven usually does for one."
"But what else does your plan require of me?" I asked, impatient to know what must be faced.
"You play chess, of course?" was his interrogative answer.
"A little," said I, wondering what that had to do with the case.
"Then all is fair ahead of us. Luckily. I play rather well myself. As I said just now, I have been nosing among the people—nosing is a good word in my case, isn't it?"—he pointed to his much-extended proboscis—"I have been nosing about to learn the Count's ruling passions and so forth. When you have anybody to hoodwink, or obtain access to without creating suspicion, find out what are his likings and preoccupations: be sure there will be something there of which you can avail yourself. From the village priest I learned that, along with his fondness for hunting and drinking and the lower forms of gaming, the Count has a taste for more intellectual amusements, and chiefly for the game of chess. He is a most excellent player, and doesn't often find a worthy antagonist. His bosom friend, one Captain Ferragant, who is now living at the chateau, has no skill at chess, so the Count has been put to sending for this priest to come and play a game now and then, but the Count beats him too easily for any pleasure and the result of their games is that the Count only curses the rarity of good chess-players."
"And so you think of proposing a game with him?"
"Not exactly," said the long-nosed man, with a faint smile at my simplicity. "An obscure man like me, travelling without a servant, doesn't propose games to a great nobleman, at the great nobleman's own gates. The great nobleman may condescend to invite, but the obscure traveller may not presume to offer himself,—not, at least, without creating wonder and some curiosity as to his motives. No; that would be too direct, moreover. It would suggest that I had been inquisitive about him, to have learned that he is fond of chess. I may tell you that the Count has his reasons for imagining that strangers may come trying to get access to him, who have taken pains to learn something of his ways beforehand. He has his reasons for suspecting every stranger who seeks to enter his gates. No; we must neither show any knowledge of him, more than his name, nor any desire to get into his house. We must play upon his hobby without openly appealing to it. That is why two of us are necessary. This is what we will do."
I listened with great interest, surprised to discover what acuteness of mind was hidden behind the pale, meek eyes and un-expressive pasty countenance of this man with the long nose.
"In an hour or so from now," he said, "I shall be sitting before the cabaret, where you saw me yesterday. You will come there, from wandering about the fields, and we will greet each other as having met casually on our walks this morning—as indeed we actually have met. You will sit down to refresh yourself with a bottle of wine, and we shall get into conversation, like the strangers that we are to each other. The people of the cabaret will hear us, more or less, and the porter at the chateau gates will doubtless observe us. I will presently lead the talk to the subject of chess. You will profess to be ardently devoted to the game. I will show an equally great passion for it. We will express much regret that we have no chessmen with us, and will inquire if any can be obtained in the village. I know already that none can be: the priest once owned a set, but he let the village children use them as toys and they are broken up. Well, then, rather than lose the opportunity of encountering a first-class player, you will suggest that we try to borrow chessmen from the owner of that great chateau, who must surely possess such things, as no great house is ever without them. You will thereupon write a note to the Count, saying we are two gentlemen who have met on our travels, and both claiming to be skilled chess-players, and hating to part without a trial of prowess, but lacking chessmen, we take upon ourselves to ask if he may have such a thing as a set which he will allow us the use of for half a day; and so forth. We will bid the woman at the cabaret take this note to the porter; and then we have but to await the result."
"And what will that be?"
"We shall see when it comes," said the man tranquilly. I know not whether he really felt the serene confidence he showed; but he seemed to be going on the sure ground of past experience. "It will be necessary to give names and some account of ourselves, no doubt, before all is done. We shall not be expected to know anything of each other, having only met as travellers so recently. To the Count I will call myself Monsieur de Pepicot, a poor gentleman of Amiens. As for you, is there any reason why you shouldn't use your own name? When you want to deceive anybody, it is well to be strictly truthful as far as your object will permit."
"The only reason is, that I may get into the Count's bad graces by what I may do in his house, and it would be better if he didn't know where to look for me afterwards."
"Well, there's something in that. The Count is not a forgiving man. And yet, as to his power of revenge, I know not—Well, do as you please."
"Oh, devil take it, I'll go under my own name, let come what may! I don't like the idea of masquerading."
"A brave young gentleman! Then there's no more to be said. When we are inside the chateau, it will be each of us for himself, though of course we must keep up the comedy of wishing to play chess. Meet me by chance at the cabaret, then, in about an hour."
Without any more ado, he left me. Coming forth from the concealed place a minute later, I saw him strolling along the river, looking at the fields and the sky, as if nothing else were on his mind. I presently imitated him, but went in another direction. In due time I made my way to the cabaret, and there he was, at the table where I had first seen him.
We spoke to each other as had been arranged, and easily carried the conversation to the desired point, mostly in the hearing of the woman of the cabaret as she sat knitting by the door. When it came to writing the note, the long-nosed man tore a leaf of paper out of his pocket book, and had pen and ink fetched from his lodging over the cabaret; I then composed our request in as courteous phrases as I thought suitable. The woman herself carried the note to the chateau gates, and we saw a grated wicket open, and a scowling fellow show his face there, who questioned her, glanced at us with no friendly look, took the note, and closed the wicket. We waited half an hour or so, sipping our wine and talking carelessly, till I imagined the long-nosed man was becoming a little doubtful. But just as he was losing his placidity so far as to cross one leg over another, the chateau gate opened, and a heavy, dark-browed fellow with the appearance rather of a soldier than of a servant, came out, and over to us, scrutinizing us keenly as he approached. He asked if we were the gentlemen who had written to borrow a set of chessmen. Being so informed, he said:
"Monsieur the Count, my master, begs to be excused from sending his chessmen to you, but if you will come to them he will be glad to judge of your playing; and perhaps to offer the winner a bout with himself."
We took half a minute to evince our pleased surprise, our sense of favour, and so forth, at this courteous invitation,—and then we followed the servant to the chateau. It was amusing to see how innocently, decorously, and consciously of unexpected honour my long-nosed friend walked through the gateway, and gazed with childlike admiration around the court-yard and the grey façade of the chateau confronting us.
A few wide steps led up to the arched door, which admitted us to a large hall plentifully furnished with tables, benches, and finely-carved chairs. It was panelled in oak and hung with arms, boars' heads, and other trophies. At the upper end of a long table, the one leaning forward from a chair at the head, the other from the bench at the side, lounged two men, whom I recognized instantly from the descriptions of the innkeeper as if from painted portraits. They were the Count de Lavardin and Captain Ferragant.
Yes, there was the "lean old grey wolf," grey not only in his bristly hair and short pointed beard, but even in the general hue of his wizen face; grey as to the little eyes that peered out between their narrowed slits; grey even, on this occasion, as to his velvet doublet and breeches. Though his face was wizen, the leanness of his body had no appearance of weakness, but rather every sign of strength. I noticed that his fingers seemed to possess great crunching power, and there was always on his face the faint beginning of a smile which, I thought, would heighten into glee when those fingers were in the act of strangling somebody.
As for the Captain, there was indeed a great blotch of deep red across his cheek; he was a large, powerful fellow, with a bold, insolent face, and fierce, pitiless eyes. To make his sobriquet the fitter, he wore a suit of crimson, very rich and ornate. His beard and hair, however, were black.
"You are welcome, gentlemen," said the Count, in a harsh, thin voice. "From what part do you come?"
"From different parts," said my long-nosed companion. "We have only met as strangers going opposite ways. I am Monsieur de Pepicot, of the neighbourhood of Amiens, travelling to Angers to see some kinsfolk."
The Count turned to me, and I recited my name and place, adding that I was going to Paris, to see a little of the world, and therefore journeying somewhat indirectly.
"And behold here Monsieur the Captain Ferragant, who comes from Burgundy," said the Count, "so that we have North, West, and East all represented."
Captain Ferragant bowed as politeness required, but he went no further. He did not seem to relish our being there. His look was rather disdainful, I thought, as if we were nobodies unfit for the honour of his company. And very soon, while the Count was saying we must stay to dinner, as there was not time for a game of chess before, the Captain walked away and out of the hall. Seeing that we were to be his guests for the day, the Count had us shown to a rather remote chamber up two flights of stairs, where water was brought, and where we were left alone together. The chamber looked out on a small part of the garden at the rear of the chateau.
"Well," said I, washing my hands, "you have played the magician. It has been as easy as walking, to get into the chateau."
"Will it be easy to get out again, when our business is done, I wonder?" replied Monsieur de Pepicot, gazing out of the window at the distant high wall of the garden.
"Why do you say that?" I asked, a little surprised at his tone.
"Oh, I was thinking of the manner in which the gate slammed to, after we had entered. It is a mere inanimate gate, to be sure, but it was slammed by a porter, and his manner of slamming it might unconsciously express what was in his mind. You remember, the Count was rather long in coming to a decision upon our note. If it occurred to him, after all, that we might have some design, and that people with a design would be safer inside than outside—well, I mention this only that you may know to keep your wits about you."
"Thanks, but I see no reason to fear anything. Everything seems to be going admirably. We are assured of some time in which to attend to our affairs. While one of us is playing chess with the Count, the other will be free to roam about,—that suits me perfectly. I begin to feel really grateful for the Count's hospitality—I almost dislike having won it by a trick."
"Pish! He is churlish enough as a rule in the matter of hospitality—it's only fair to win it by a trick."
I was inwardly much excited at the near prospect of dinner, as the meal would perhaps give me a sight of the Countess. But of this I was disappointed. The only people who sat down at the upper table, when dinner was served in the hall, were the Count, the Captain, my friend Monsieur de Pepicot, and myself. Elsewhere the benches were crowded with fellows who, like him that had brought our invitation, appeared as much warriors as serving men, and their number alone would have arrested notice. I now recalled how many knaves of this sort I had seen in the court-yard as I entered the chateau, but at that time I had had other things to think of.
The Count said nothing of the absence of his lady, and, as we could scarce be thought to know whether he had a Countess living, it was not for us to inquire about her. I spent my time wondering what could be her situation, and whether her not appearing had anything to do with the danger in which she supposed herself. My long-nosed friend ate very industriously, and most of the conversation was between the Count and the Captain, upon dogs and hawks and such things. When the Count addressed either Monsieur de Pepicot or me, the Captain was silent. This reticence, whether it proceeded from jealousy or contempt, seemed to afford the Count a little amusement, for he turned his small eyes on the Captain and stretched his thin lips in a smile that was truly horrible in its relish of another's discontent.
After dinner, the Count had the chessmen brought at once, and sat down to watch us at our game. The Captain, with a glance of disapproval at the chessboard, strolled away as he had done before. I was but a moderately good player, and discomposed besides, so I held out scarce an hour against the long-nosed gentleman, who was evidently of great skill. Apparently the Count, by his ejaculations, thought little of my playing, but he was so glad when my defeat made room for him, that I escaped his displeasure. I too was glad, for now, while Monsieur de Pepicot kept the Count occupied at chess, I should be free to go about the chateau in search for its mistress. And grateful I was to Monsieur de Pepicot for having beaten me, for he might easily have left me as the victor and used this opportunity for his own purpose. I could not think it was generosity that had made him do otherwise: I could only wonder what his purpose was, that would bear so much waiting.
For appearance's sake, I watched the two players awhile: then I imitated the Captain, and sauntered to the court-yard, wondering if there might be any servant there whom I could sound. But the men lounging there were not of a simple-looking sort. They were all of forbidding aspect, and they stared at me so hard that I returned into the hall. The Count was intent upon the game. Pushed by the mere impulse of inquiry, I went up the staircase as if to go to the chamber to which I had before been conducted. But instead of going all the way up, I turned off at the first landing into a short corridor, resolved to wander wherever I might: if anybody stopped me, I could pretend to have lost my way.
The corridor led into a drawing-room richly tapestried and furnished; that into another room, which contained musical instruments; that into a gallery where some portraits were hung. So far I had got access by a series of curtained archways. The further end of the gallery was closed by a door. I was walking toward that door, when I heard a step in the room I had last traversed. I immediately began to look at the pictures.
A man entered and viewed me suspiciously. He was, by his dress and air, a servant of some authority in the household, and had not the military rudeness of the fellows in the court-yard.
"What is it Monsieur will have?" he asked, with outward courtesy enough.
"I am looking at the portraits," said I.
"I will explain them to you," said he. "That is Monsieur the Count in his youth, painted at Paris by a celebrated Italian." And he went on to point out the Count's children, now dead, and his first wife, before going back to a former generation.
"And the present Countess?" said I at last, looking around the walls in vain.
"There is no portrait of Madame the Countess."
"She was not at dinner," I ventured. "Is she not well?"
"Oh, she is well, I am happy to say. She often dines in her own apartments."
"She is well and yet keeps to her apartments?" I said, with as much surprise as I thought the circumstance might naturally occasion.
"She does not keep to her apartments exactly," replied the man, a little annoyed. "She walks in the garden much of the time. Is there anything else I may show you, Monsieur?"
He stood at the curtained entrance, as if to attend my leaving the room, and I thought best to take the hint. No doubt he had purposely followed me, to hinder my going too far.
I returned to the hall, which was very silent, the two players being deep in their chess. Somewhere in my wake the manservant vanished, and I seemed free to explore in another direction. The Countess walked much in the garden, the man had said. It was a fine afternoon—might she not be walking there now?
Feigning carelessness, I went out a small door at the rear of the hall, and found myself in that narrow part of the garden which lay between two wings of the house, and which our chamber overlooked. This part, which was really a terrace, was separated by a low Italian balustrade from the greater garden below and beyond. I walked up the middle path to where there was an opening in the balustrade at the head of a flight of steps. But here my confidence received a check. Half-way down the steps was sitting a burly fellow, who rose at my appearance, and said:
"Pardon, Monsieur: no further this way, if you please. I am ordered to stop everybody."
"But I am the Count's guest," said I.
"It is all the same. Nobody is to go down to the garden yonder without orders."
"Orders from the Count?" I asked.
"From the Count or the Captain."
I nearly let out my thought that the Captain had a good deal of authority at the chateau, but I closed my lips in time. To show insistence would only injure my purpose: so I contented myself with a glance at the forbidden territory—a very spacious pleasance, indeed, with walks, banks of flowers, arbours, and alleys, but with nobody there to enjoy it that I could see—and went back to the hall.
As I could not sit there long inactive, for considering how the time was flying and I had accomplished nothing, I soon started in good faith for the chamber to which I had feigned to be going before. Once upstairs, however, it occurred to me to walk pass the door of that chamber, to the end of the corridor. This passage soon turned leftward into a rear wing of the building. I followed it, between chamber doors on one side and, on the other, windows looking down on the smaller garden. It terminated at last in a blind wall. I supposed myself to be now over that part of the house which lay beyond the closed door at the end of the picture gallery. I looked cautiously out of one of the windows, wondering how much of the great garden might be visible from there. I could see a large part of it, but not a soul anywhere in it. As I drew back in disappointment, I was suddenly startled by a low sound that seemed to come from somewhere beneath me—a single brief sound, which made my breath stop and pierced my very heart.
It was the sob of a woman.