CHAPTER XIII. AT ROSNY.
The morning brought only fresh proofs of the kindness which M. deRosny had conceived for me. Awaking early I found on a stool besidemy clothes, a purse of gold containing a hundred crowns; and a youthpresently entering to ask me if I lacked anything, I had at first somedifficulty in recognising Simon Fleix, so sprucely was the lad dressed,in a mode resembling Maignan's. I looked at the student more than oncebefore I addressed him by his name; and was as much surprised bythe strange change I observed in him for it was not confined to hisclothes--as by anything which had happened since I entered the house. Irubbed my eyes, and asked him what he had done with his soutane. 'Burnedit, M. de Marsac,' he answered briefly.
I saw that he had burned much, metaphorically speaking, besides hissoutane. He was less pale, less lank, less wobegone than formerly, andwent more briskly. He had lost the air of crack-brained disorder whichhad distinguished him, and was smart, sedate, and stooped less. Only theodd sparkle remained in his eyes, and bore witness to the same nervous,eager spirit within.
'What are you going to do, then, Simon?' I asked, noting these changescuriously.
'I am a soldier,' he answered, 'and follow M. de Marsac.'
I laughed. 'You have chosen a poor service, I am afraid,' I said,beginning to rise; 'and one, too, Simon, in which it is possible you maybe killed. I thought that would not suit you,' I continued, to see whathe would say. But he answered nothing, and I looked at him in greatsurprise. 'You have made up your mind, then, at last?' I said.
'Perfectly,' he answered.
'And solved all your doubts?'
'I have no doubts.'
'You are a Huguenot?'
'That is the only true and pure religion,' he replied gravely. And withapparent sincerity and devotion he repeated Beza's Confession of Faith.
This filled me with profound astonishment, but I said no more at thetime, though I had my doubts. I waited until I was alone with M. deRosny, and then I unbosomed myself on the matter; expressing my surpriseat the suddenness of the conversion, and at such a man, as I had foundthe student to be, stating his views so firmly and steadfastly, and withso little excitement. Observing that M. de Rosny smiled but answerednothing, I explained myself farther.
'I am surprised,' I said, 'because I have always heard it maintainedthat clerkly men, becoming lost in the mazes of theology, seldom findany sure footing; that not one in a hundred returns to his old faith, orfinds grace to accept a new one. I am speaking only of such, of course,as I believe this lad to be--eager, excitable brains, learning much, andwithout judgment to digest what they learn.'
'Of such I also believe it to be true,' M. de Rosny answered, stillsmiling. 'But even on them a little influence, applied at the rightmoment, has much effect, M. de Marsac.'
'I allow that,' I said. 'But my mother, of whom I have spoken to you,saw much of this youth. His fidelity to her was beyond praise. Yet herfaith, though grounded on a rock, had no weight with him.'
M. de Rosny shook his head, still smiling.
'It is not our mothers who convert us,' he said.
'What!' I cried, my eyes opened. 'Do you mean--do you mean thatMademoiselle has done this?'
'I fancy so,' he answered, nodding. 'I think my lady cast her spell overhim by the way. The lad left Blois with her, if what you say be true,without faith in the world. He came to my hands two days later thestoutest of Huguenots. It is not hard to read this riddle.'
'Such, conversions are seldom lasting,' I said.
He looked at me queerly; and, the smile still hovering about his lips,answered 'Tush, man! Why so serious? Theodore Beza himself could notlook dryer. The lad is in earnest, and there is no harm done.'
And, Heaven knows, I was in no mood to suspect harm; nor inclinedjust then to look at the dark side of things. It may be conceived howdelightful it was to me to be received as an equal and honoured guest bya man, even then famous, and now so grown in reputation as to overshadowall Frenchmen save his master; how pleasant to enjoy the comforts andamiabilities of home, from which I had been long estranged; to pour mymother's story into Madame's ears and find comfort in her sympathy; tofeel myself, en fin, once more a gentleman with an acknowledged placein the world. Our days we spent in hunting, or excursions of somekind, our evenings in long conversations, which impressed me with anever-growing respect for my lord's powers.
For there seemed to be no end either to his knowledge of France, or tothe plans for its development, which even then filled his brain, andhave since turned wildernesses into fruitful lands, and squalid townsinto great cities. Grave and formal, he could yet unbend; the mostsagacious of counsellors, he was a soldier also, and loved the seclusionin which we lived the more that it was not devoid of danger; theneighbouring towns being devoted to the League, and the general disorderalone making it possible for him to lie unsuspected in his own house.
One thing only rendered my ease and comfort imperfect, and that wasthe attitude which Mademoiselle de la Vire assumed towards me. Of hergratitude in the first blush of the thing I felt no doubt, for not onlyhad she thanked me very prettily, though with reserve, on the evening ofmy arrival, but the warmth of M. de Rosny's kindness left me no choice,save to believe that she had given him an exaggerated idea of my meritsand services. I asked no more than this. Such good offices left menothing to expect or desire; my age and ill-fortune placing me at sogreat a disadvantage that, far from dreaming of friendship or intimacywith her, I did not even assume the equality in our daily intercourse towhich my birth, taken by itself, entitled me. Knowing that I must appearin her eyes old, poor, and ill-dressed, and satisfied, with havingasserted my conduct and honour, I was careful not to trespass on hergratitude; and while forward in such courtesies as could not wearyher, I avoided with equal care every appearance of pursuing her, orinflicting my company upon her. I addressed her formally and upon formaltopics only, such, I mean, as we shared with the rest of our company;and I reminded myself often that though we now met in the same houseand at the same table, she was still the Mademoiselle de la Vire who hadborne herself so loftily in the King of Navarre's ante-chamber. ThisI did, not out of pique or wounded pride, which I no more, God knows,harboured against her than against a bird; but that I might not in mynew prosperity forget the light in which such a woman, young, spoiled,and beautiful, must still regard me.
Keeping to this inoffensive posture, I was the more hurt when I foundher gratitude fade with the hour. After the first two days, during whichI remarked that she was very silent, seldom speaking to me or looking atme, she resumed much of her old air of disdain. For that I cared little;but she presently went farther, and began to rake up the incidents whichhad happened at St. Jean d'Angely, and in which I had taken part. Shecontinually adverted to my poverty while there, to the odd figure I hadcut, and the many jests her friends had made at my expense. She seemedto take a pleasure positively savage in these, gibing at me sometimesso bitterly as to shame and pain me, and bring the colour to Madame deRosny's cheeks.
To the time we had spent together, on the other hand, she never orrarely referred. One afternoon, however, a week after my arrival atRosny, I found her sitting alone in the parlour. I had not known shewas there, and I was for withdrawing at once with a bow and a mutteredapology. But she stopped me with an angry gesture. 'I do not bite,'she said, rising from her stool and meeting my eyes, a red spot in eachcheek. 'Why do you look at me like that? Do you know, M. de Marsac, thatI have no patience with you.' And she stamped her foot on the floor.
'But, mademoiselle,' I stammered humbly, wondering what in the world shemeant, 'what have I done?'
'Done?' she repeated angrily. 'Done? It is not what you have done, it iswhat you are. I have no patience with you. Why are you so dull, sir? Whyare you so dowdy? Why do you go about with your doublet awry, and yourhair lank? Why do you speak to Maignan as if he were a gentleman? Whydo you look always solemn and polite, and as if all the world were apreche? Why? Why? Why, I say?'
She stopped from shee
r lack of breath, leaving me as much astonished asever in my life. She looked so beautiful in her fury and fierceness too,that I could only stare at her and wonder dumbly what it all meant.
'Well!' she cried impatiently, after bearing this as long as she could,'have you not a word to say for yourself? Have you no tongue? Have youno will of your own at all, M. de Marsac?'
'But, mademoiselle,' I began, trying to explain.
'Chut!' she exclaimed, cutting me short before I could get farther, asthe way of women is. And then she added, in a changed tone, and veryabruptly, 'You have a velvet knot of mine, sir. Give it me.'
'It is in my room,' I answered, astonished beyond measure at this suddenchange of subject, and equally sudden demand.
'Then fetch it, sir, if you please,' she replied, her eyes flashingafresh. 'Fetch it. Fetch it, I say! It has served its turn, and I preferto have it. Who knows but that some day you may be showing it for alove-knot?'
'Mademoiselle!' I cried, hotly. And I think that for the moment I was asangry as she was.
'Still, I prefer to have it,' she answered sullenly, casting down hereyes.
I was so much enraged, I went without a word and fetched it, and,bringing it to her where she stood, in the same place, put it into herhands. When she saw it some recollection, I fancy, of the day when shehad traced the cry for help on it, came to her in her anger; for shetook it from me with all her bearing altered. She trembled, and held itfor a moment in her hands, as if she did not know what to do with it.She was thinking, doubtless, of the house in Blois and the peril she hadrun there; and, being for my part quite willing that she should thinkand feel how badly she had acted, I stood looking at her, sparing her nowhit of my glance.
'The gold chain you left on my mother's pillow,' I said coldly, seeingshe continued silent, 'I cannot return to you at once, for I havepledged it. But I will do so as soon as I can.'
'You have pledged it?' she muttered, with her eyes averted.
'Yes, mademoiselle, to procure a horse to bring me here,' I replieddrily. 'However, it, shall be redeemed. In return, there is something Itoo would ask.'
'What?' she murmured, recovering herself with all effort, and looking atme with something of her old pride and defiance.
'The broken coin you have,' I said. 'The token, I mean. It is of no useto you, for your enemies hold the other half. It might be of service tome.'
'How?' she asked curtly.
'Because some day I may find its fellow, mademoiselle,'
'And then?' she cried. She looked at me, her lips parted, her eyesflashing. 'What then, when you have found its fellow, M. de Marsac?'
I shrugged my shoulders.
'Bah!' she exclaimed, clenching her little hand, and stamping her footon the floor in a passion I could not understand. 'That is you! That isM. de Marsac all over. You say nothing, and men think nothing of you.You go with your hat in your hand, and they tread on you. They speak,and you are silent! Why, if I could use a sword as you can, I would keepsilence before no man, nor let any man save the King of France cock hishat in my presence! But you! There! go, leave me. Here is your coin.Take it and go. Send me that lad of yours to keep me awake. At any ratehe has brains, he is young, he is a man, he has a soul, he can feel--ifhe were anything but a clerk.'
She waved me off in such a wind of passion as might have amused me inanother, but in her smacked so strongly of ingratitude as to pain menot a little. I went, however, and sent Simon to her; though I liked theerrand very ill, and no better when I saw the lad's face light up atthe mention of her name. But apparently she had not recovered her temperwhen he reached her, for he fared no better than I had done; coming awaypresently with the air of a whipped dog, as I saw from the yew-tree walkwhere I was strolling.
Still, after that she made it a habit to talk to him more and more; and,Monsieur and Madame de Rosny being much taken up with one another, therewas no one to check her fancy or speak a word of advice. Knowing herpride, I had no fears for her; but it grieved me to think that the lad'shead should be turned. A dozen times I made up my mind to speak to heron his behalf; but for one thing it was not my business, and for anotherI soon discovered that she was aware of my displeasure, and valued itnot a jot. For venturing one morning, when she was in a pleasant humour,to hint that she treated those beneath her too inhumanly, and with anunkindness as little becoming noble blood as familiarity, she asked mescornfully if I did not think she treated Simon Fleix well enough. Towhich I had nothing to answer.
I might here remark on the system of secret intelligence by means ofwhich M. de Rosny, even in this remote place, received news of all thatwas passing in France. But it is common fame. There was no coming orgoing of messengers, which would quickly have aroused suspicion in theneighbouring town, nor was it possible even for me to say exactly bywhat channels news came. But come it did, and at all hours of the day.In this way we heard of the danger of La Ganache and of the effortcontemplated by the King of Navarre for its relief. M. de Rosny notonly communicated these matters to me without reserve, but engagedmy affections by farther proofs of confidence such as might well haveflattered a man of greater importance.
I have said that, as a rule, there was no coming or going of messengers.But one evening, returning from the chase with one of the keepers, whohad prayed my assistance in hunting down a crippled doe, I was surprisedto find a strange horse, which had evidently been ridden hard and far,standing smoking in the yard. Inquiring whose it was, I learned thata man believed by the grooms to be from Blois had just arrived and wascloseted with the baron. An event so far out of the ordinary course ofthings naturally aroused my wonder; but desiring to avoid any appearanceof curiosity, which, if indulged, is apt to become the most vulgar ofvices, I refrained from entering the house, and repaired instead to theyew-walk. I had scarcely, however, heated my blood, a little chilledwith riding, before the page came to me to fetch me to his master.
I found M. de Rosny striding up and down his room, his manner sodisordered and his face disfigured by so much grief and horror that Istarted on seeing him. My heart sinking in a moment, I did not need tolook at Madame, who sat weeping silently in a chair, to assure myselfthat something dreadful had happened. The light was failing, and a lamphad been brought into the room. M. de Rosny pointed abruptly to asmall piece of paper which lay on the table beside it, and, obeying hisgesture, I took this up and read its contents, which consisted of lessthan a score of words.
'He is ill and like to die,' the message ran, 'twenty leagues south ofLa Ganache. Come at all costs. P. M.
'Who?' I said stupidly--stupidly, for already I began to understand. Whois ill and like to die?'
M. de Rosny turned to me, and I saw that the tears were tricklingunbidden down his cheeks. 'There is but one HE for me,' he cried. 'MayGod spare that one! May He spare him to France, which needs him, to theChurch, which hangs on him, and to me, who love him! Let him not fallin the hour of fruition. O Lord, let him not fall!' And he sank on toa stool, and remained in that posture with his face in his hands, hisbroad shoulders shaken with grief.
'Come, sir,' I said, after a pause sacred to sorrow and dismay; 'let meremind you that while there is life there is hope.'
'Hope?'
'Yes, M. de Rosny, hope,' I replied more cheerfully. 'He has work todo. He is elected, called, and chosen; the Joshua of his people, as M.d'Amours rightly called him. God will not take him yet. You shall seehim and be embraced by him, as has happened a hundred times. Remember,sir, the King of Navarre is strong, hardy, and young, and no doubt ingood hands.'
'Mornay's,' M. de Rosny cried, looking up with contempt in his eye.
Yet from that moment he rallied, spurred, I think, by the thought thatthe King of Navarre's recovery depended under God on M. de Mornay; whomhe was ever inclined to regard as his rival. He began to make instantpreparations for departure from Rosny, and bade me do so also, tellingme, somewhat curtly and without explanation, that he had need of me. Thedanger of so speedy a return to the South, where the full
weight of theVicomte de Turenne's vengeance awaited me, occurred to me strongly; andI ventured, though with a little shame, to mention it. But M. de Rosny,after gazing at me a moment in apparent doubt, put the objection asidewith a degree of peevishness unusual in him, and continued to press onhis arrangements as earnestly as though they did not include separationfrom a wife equally loving and beloved.
Having few things to look to myself, I was at leisure, when the hour ofdeparture came, to observe both the courage with which Madame deRosny supported her sorrow, 'for the sake of France,' and the unwontedtenderness which Mademoiselle de la Vire, lifted for once above herself,lavished on her. I seemed to stand--happily in one light, and yet thefeeling was fraught with pain--outside their familiar relations; yet,having made my adieux as short and formal as possible, that I mightnot encroach on other and more sacred ones, I found at the last momentsomething in waiting for me. I was surprised as I rode under the gatewaya little ahead of the others, by something small and light fallingon the saddle-bow before me. Catching it before it could slide to theground, I saw, with infinite astonishment, that I held in my hand a tinyvelvet bow.
To look up at the window of the parlour, which I have said was over thearchway, was my first impulse. I did so, and met mademoiselle's eyes fora second, and a second only. The next moment she was gone. M. de Rosnyclattered through the gate at my heels, the servants behind him. And wewere on the road.
A Gentleman of France: Being the Memoirs of Gaston de Bonne Sieur de Marsac Page 13