CHAPTER XII.
AT THE FINGER-POST.
Through all, it will have been noticed, Mademoiselle had not spoken tome, nor said one word, good or bad. She had played her part grimly;had taken her defeat in silence, if with tears; had tried neitherprayer, nor defence, nor apology. And the fact that the fight was nowover, the scene left behind, made no difference in her conduct--to mysurprise and discomfiture. She kept her face averted from me; she rodeas before; she affected to ignore my presence. I caught my horsefeeding by the road-side, a furlong forward, and mounted, and fellinto place behind the two, as in the morning. And just as we hadplodded on then in silence, we plodded on now, while I wondered at theunfathomable ways of women, and knowing that I had borne myself well,marvelled that she could take part in such an incident and remainunchanged.
Yet it had made a change in her. Though her mask screened her well, itcould not entirely hide her emotions, and by-and-bye I marked that herhead drooped, that she rode sadly and listlessly, that the lines ofher figure were altered. I noticed that she had flung away, orfurtively dropped, her riding-whip, and I understood that to the oldhatred of me were now added shame and vexation; shame that she had solowered herself, even to save her brother, vexation that defeat hadbeen her only reward.
Of this I saw a sign at Lectoure, where the inn had but one commonroom, and we must all dine in company. I secured for them a table bythe fire, and leaving them standing by it, retired myself to a smallerone, near the door. There were no other guests, and this made theseparation between us more marked. M. de Cocheforet seemed to feelthis. He shrugged his shoulders and looked at me with a smile halfsad, half comical. But Mademoiselle was implacable. She had taken offher mask, and her face was like stone. Once, only once, during themeal I saw a change come over her. She coloured, I suppose at herthoughts, until her face flamed from brow to chin. I watched the blushspread and spread, and then she slowly and proudly turned her shoulderto me, and looked through the window at the shabby street.
I suppose that she and her brother had both built on this attempt,Which must have been arranged at Auch. For when we went on in theafternoon, I saw a more marked change. They rode now like peopleresigned to the worst. The grey realities of the brother's position,the dreary, hopeless future, began to hang like a mist before theireyes; began to tinge the landscape with sadness; robbed even thesunset of its colours. With each hour their spirits flagged and theirspeech became less frequent, until presently, when the light wasnearly gone and the dusk was round us, the brother and sister rodehand in hand, silent, gloomy, one at least of them weeping. The coldshadow of the Cardinal, of Paris, of the scaffold, was beginning tomake itself felt; was beginning to chill them. As the mountains whichthey had known all their lives sank and faded behind us, and weentered on the wide, low valley of the Garonne, their hopes sank andfaded also--sank to the dead-level of despair. Surrounded by guards, amark for curious glances, with pride for a companion, M. de Cocheforetcould doubtless have borne himself bravely; doubtless he would bearhimself bravely still when the end came. But almost alone, movingforward through the grey evening to a prison, with so many measureddays before him, and nothing to exhilarate or anger,--in thiscondition it was little wonder if he felt, and betrayed that he felt,the blood run slow in his veins; if he thought more of the weepingwife and ruined home, which he left behind him, than of the cause inwhich he had spent himself.
But God knows, they had no monopoly of gloom. I felt almost as sadmyself. Long before sunset the flush of triumph, the heat of thebattle, which had warmed my heart at noon, were gone; giving place toa chill dissatisfaction, a nausea, a despondency, such as I have knownfollow a long night at the tables. Hitherto there had beendifficulties to be overcome, risks to be run, doubts about the end.Now the end was certain, and very near; so near that it filled all theprospect. One hour of triumph I might still have; I hugged the thoughtof it as a gambler hugs his last stake. I planned the place and timeand mode, and tried to occupy myself wholly with it. But the price?Alas, that would intrude too, and more as the evening waned; so thatas I passed this or that thing by the road, which I could recallpassing on my journey south,--with thoughts so different, with plansthat now seemed so very, very old,--I asked myself grimly if this werereally I, if this were Gil de Berault, known as Zaton's _premierjoueur_; or some Don Quichotte from Castile, tilting at windmills, andtaking barbers' bowls for gold.
We reached Agen very late in the evening, after groping through aby-way near the river, set with holes and willow-stools andfrog-spawns--a place no better than a slough. After it the great fireand the lights at the Blue Maid seemed like a glimpse of a new world,and in a twinkling put something of life and spirits into two at leastof us. There was queer talk round the hearth here of doings inParis,--of a stir against the Cardinal, with the Queen-mother atbottom, and of grounded expectations that something might this timecome of it. But the landlord pooh-poohed the idea, and I more thanagreed with him. Even M. de Cocheforet, who was for a moment inclinedto build on it, gave up hope when he heard that it came only by way ofMontauban; whence, since its reduction the year before, all sorts of_canards_ against the Cardinal were always on the wing.
"They kill him about once a month," our host said, with a grin."Sometimes it is _Monsieur_ who is to prove a match for him, sometimes_Cesar Monsieur_--the Duke of Vendome, you understand,--and sometimesthe Queen-mother. But since M. de Chalais and the Marshal made a messof it, and paid forfeit, I pin my faith to His Eminence--that is hisnew title, they tell me."
"Things are quiet round here?" I asked.
"Perfectly. Since the Languedoc business came to an end, all goeswell," he answered.
Mademoiselle had retired on our arrival, so that her brother and Iwere for an hour or two thrown together. I left him at liberty toseparate himself if he pleased, but he did not use the opportunity. Akind of comradeship, rendered piquant by our peculiar relations, hadbegun to spring up between us. He seemed to take pleasure in mycompany, more than once rallied me on my post of jailer, would askhumorously if he might do this or that, and once even inquired what Ishould do if he broke his parole.
"Or take it this way," he continued flippantly "Suppose I had stuckyou in the back this evening, in that cursed swamp by the river, M. deBerault? What then? _Pardieu!_ I am astonished at myself that I didnot do it. I could have been in Montauban within twenty-four hours,and found fifty hiding-places, and no one the wiser."
"Except your sister," I said quietly.
He laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "Yes," he said, "I am afraid Imust have put her out of the way too, to preserve my self-respect. Youare right." And on that he fell into a reverie which held him for afew minutes. Then I found him looking at me with a kind of frankperplexity that invited question.
"What is it?" I said.
"You have fought a great many duels?"
"Yes," I said.
"Did you never strike a foul blow in one of them?"
"Never. Why do you ask?"
"Well,--I wanted to confirm an impression," he said. "To be frank, M.de Berault, I seem to see in you two men."
"Two men?"
"Yes, two men," he answered. "One, the man who captured me; the other,the man who let my friend go free to-day."
"It surprised you that I let him go? That was prudence, M. deCocheforet," I replied, "nothing more. I am an old gambler--I knowwhen the stakes are too high for me. The man who caught a lion in hiswolf-pit had no great catch."
"No, that is true," he answered, smiling. "And yet--I find two men inyour skin."
"I dare say that there are two in most men's skins," I answered, witha sigh, "but not always together. Sometimes one is there, andsometimes the other."
"How does the one like taking up the other's work?" he asked keenly.
I shrugged my shoulders. "That is as may be," I said. "You do not takean estate without the debts."
He did not answer for a moment, and I fancied that his th
oughts hadreverted to his own case. But on a sudden he looked at me again. "Willyou answer me a question, M. de Berault?" he said, with a winningsmile.
"Perhaps," I said.
"Then tell me--it is a tale that is, I am sure, worth the telling.What was it that, in a very evil hour for me, sent you in search ofme?"
"The Cardinal," I answered.
"I did not ask who," he replied drily. "I asked, what. You had nogrudge against me?"
"No."
"No knowledge of me?"
"No."
"Then what on earth induced you to do it? Heavens, man," he continuedbluntly, rising and speaking with greater freedom than he had beforeused, "nature never intended you for a tip staff! What was it, then?"
I rose too. It was very late, and the room was empty, the fire low. "Iwill tell you--tomorrow!" I said. "I shall have something to say toyou then, of which that will be part."
He looked at me in great astonishment; with a little suspicion, too.But I put him off, and called for a light, and by going at once tobed, cut short his questions.
Those who know the great south road to Agen, and how the vineyardsrise in terraces north of the town, one level of red earth aboveanother, green in summer, but in late autumn bare and stony, willremember a particular place where the road two leagues from the townruns up a long hill. At the top of the hill four ways meet; and there,plain to be seen against the sky is a finger-post, indicating whichway leads to Bordeaux, and which to Montauban, and which to Perigueux.
This hill had impressed me on my journey down; perhaps, because I hadfrom it my first view of the Garonne valley, and there felt myself onthe verge of the south country where my mission lay. It had taken rootin my memory; I had come to look upon its bare, bleak brow, with thefinger-post and the four roads, as the first outpost of Paris, as thefirst sign of return to the old life.
Now for two days I had been looking forward to seeing it again. Thatlong stretch of road would do admirably for something I had in mymind. That sign-post, with the roads pointing north, south, east, andwest, could there be a better place for meetings and partings?
We came to the bottom of the ascent about an hour before noon--M. deCocheforet, Mademoiselle, and I. We had reversed the order ofyesterday, and I rode ahead. They came after me at their leisure. Atthe foot of the hill, however, I stopped and, letting Mademoisellepass on, detained M. de Cocheforet by a gesture. "Pardon me, onemoment," I said. "I want to ask a favour."
He looked at me somewhat fretfully, with a gleam of wildness in hiseyes that betrayed how the iron was eating into his heart. He hadstarted after breakfast as gaily as a bridegroom, but gradually he hadsunk below himself; and now he had much ado to curb his impatience.The _bonhomie_ of last night was quite gone. "Of me?" he said. "Whatis it?"
"I wish to have a few words with Mademoiselle--alone," I explained.
"Alone?" he answered, frowning.
"Yes," I replied, without blenching, though his face grew dark. "Forthe matter of that, you can be within call all the time, if youplease. But I have a reason for wishing to ride a little way withher."
"To tell her something?"
"Yes."
"Then you can tell it to me," he retorted suspiciously. "Mademoiselle,I will answer for it, has no desire to--"
"See me, or speak to me!" I said, taking him up. "I can understandthat. Yet I want to speak to her."
"Very well, you can speak to her before me," he answered rudely. "Letus ride on and join her." And he made a movement as if to do so.
"That will not do, M. de Cocheforet," I said firmly, stopping him withmy hand. "Let me beg you to be more complaisant. It is a small thing Iask; but I swear to you, if Mademoiselle does not grant it, she willrepent it all her life."
He looked at me, his face growing darker and darker. "Fine words!" hesaid presently, with a sneer. "Yet I fancy I understand them." Thenwith a passionate oath he broke out in a fresh tone. "But I will nothave it. I have not been blind, M. de Berault, and I understand. But Iwill not have it! I will have no such Judas bargain made. _Pardieu!_do you think I could suffer it and show my face again?"
"I don't know what you mean!" I said, restraining myself withdifficulty. I could have struck the fool.
"But I know what you mean," he replied, in a tone of repressed rage."You would have her sell herself: sell herself body and soul to you tosave me! And you would have me stand by and see the thing done! Well,my answer is--never! though I go to the wheel! I will die a gentleman,if I have lived a fool!"
"I think you will do the one as certainly as you have done the other,"I retorted, in my exasperation. And yet I admired him.
"Oh, I am not such a fool," he cried, scowling at me, "as you haveperhaps thought. I have used my eyes."
"Then be good enough now to favour me with your ears," I answereddrily. "And listen when I say that no such bargain has ever crossed mymind. You were kind enough to think well of me last night, M. deCocheforet. Why should the mention of Mademoiselle in a moment changeyour opinion? I wish simply to speak to her. I have nothing to askfrom her; neither favour nor anything else. And what I say she willdoubtless tell you afterwards. _Ciel_, man!" I continued angrily,"what harm can I do to her, in the road, in your sight?"
He looked at me sullenly, his face still flushed, his eyes suspicious."What do you want to say to her?" he asked jealously. He was quiteunlike himself. His airy nonchalance, his careless gaiety, were gone.
"You know what I do _not_ want to say to her, M. de Cocheforet," Ianswered. "That should be enough."
He glowered at me for a moment, still ill content. Then, without aword, he made me a gesture to go to her.
She had halted a score of paces away, wondering doubtless what was onfoot. I rode towards her. She wore her mask, so that I lost theexpression of her face as I approached, but the manner in which sheturned her horse's head uncompromisingly towards her brother, andlooked past me--as if I were merely a log in the road--was full ofmeaning. I felt the ground suddenly cut from under me. I saluted her,trembling. "Mademoiselle," I said, "will you grant me the privilege ofyour company for a few minutes, as we ride."
"To what purpose, Sir?" she answered, in the coldest voice in which Ithink a woman ever spoke to a man.
"That I may explain to you a great many things you do not understand,"I murmured.
"I prefer to be in the dark," she replied. And her manner said morethan her words.
"But, Mademoiselle," I pleaded,--I would not be discouraged,--"youtold me one day that you would never judge me hastily again."
"Facts judge you, not I, Sir," she answered icily. "I am notsufficiently on a level with you to be able to judge you--I thankGod."
I shivered though the sun was on me, and the hollow where we stood waswarm. "Still--once before you thought the same!" I exclaimed."Afterwards you found that you had been wrong. It may be so again,Mademoiselle."
"Impossible," she said.
That stung me. "No!" I said fiercely. "It is not impossible. It is youwho are impossible! It is you who are heartless, Mademoiselle. I havedone much, very much, in the last three days to make things lighterfor you. I ask you now to do something for me which can cost younothing."
"Nothing?" she answered slowly; and her scornful voice cut me as if ithad been a knife. "Do you think, Monsieur, it costs me nothing to losemy self-respect, as I do with every word I speak to you? Do you thinkit costs me nothing to be here, where I feel every look you cast on mean insult, every breath I take in your presence a contamination.Nothing, Monsieur?" She laughed in bitter irony. "Oh, be sure,something! But something which I despair of making clear to you."
I sat for a moment in my saddle, shaken and quivering with pain. Ithad been one thing to feel that she hated and scorned me, to know thatthe trust and confidence which she had begun to place in me werechanged to loathing. It was another to listen to her hard, pitilesswords, to change colour under the lash of her gibing tongue. For amoment I could not find voice to answer her. Then I pointed to M. deCocheforet.
"Do you love him?" I said, hoarsely, roughly. The gibingtone had passed from her voice to mine.
She did not answer.
"Because, if you do," I continued, "you will let me tell my tale. Sayno but once more, Mademoiselle,--I am only human,--and I go. And youwill repent it all your life."
I had done better had I taken that tone from the beginning. Shewinced, her head drooped, she seemed to grow smaller. All in a moment,as it were, her pride collapsed. "I will hear you," she answeredfeebly.
"Then we will ride on, if you please," I said, keeping the advantage Ihad gained. "You need not fear. Your brother will follow."
I caught hold of her rein and turned her horse, and she suffered itwithout demur. In a moment we were pacing side by side, the long,straight road before us. At the end where it topped the hill, I couldsee the finger-post,--two faint black lines against the sky. When wereached that, involuntarily I checked my horse and made it move moreslowly.
"Well, Sir," she said impatiently. And her figure shook as if withcold.
"It is a tale I desire to tell you, Mademoiselle," I answered,speaking with effort. "Perhaps I may seem to begin a long way off, butbefore I end, I promise to interest you. Two months ago there wasliving in Paris a man, perhaps a bad man, at any rate, by commonreport, a hard man."
She turned to me suddenly, her eyes gleaming through her mask. "Oh,Monsieur, spare me this!" she said, quietly scornful. "I will take itfor granted."
"Very well," I replied steadfastly. "Good or bad, this man, one day,in defiance of the Cardinal's edict against duelling, fought with ayoung Englishman behind St. Jacques Church. The Englishman hadinfluence, the person of whom I speak had none, and an indifferentname; he was arrested, thrown into the Chatelet, cast for death, leftfor days to face death. At the last an offer was made to him. If hewould seek out and deliver up another man, an outlaw with a price uponhis head, he should himself go free."
I paused and drew a deep breath. Then I continued, looking not at her,but into the distance: "Mademoiselle, it seems easy now to say whatcourse he should have chosen. It seems hard now to find excuses forhim. But there was one thing which I plead for him. The task he wasasked to undertake was a dangerous one. He risked, he knew he mustrisk, and the event proved him right, his life against the life ofthis unknown man. And--one thing more--there was time before him.The outlaw might be taken by another, might be killed, might die,might--. But there, Mademoiselle, we know what answer this personmade. He took the baser course, and on his honour, on his parole, withmoney supplied to him, went free,--free on the condition that hedelivered up this other man."
I paused again, but I did not dare to look at her, and after a momentof silence I resumed. "Some portion of the second half of this storyyou know, Mademoiselle; but not all. Suffice it that this man camedown to a remote village, and there at a risk, but Heaven knows,basely enough, found his way into his victim's home. Once there, hisheart began to fail him. Had he found the house garrisoned by men, hemight have pressed on to his end with little remorse. But he foundthere only two helpless, loyal women; and I say again that from thefirst hour of his entrance he sickened of the work he had in hand.Still he pursued it. He had given his word, and if there was onetradition of his race which this man had never broken, it was that offidelity to his side; to the man that paid him. But he pursued it withonly half his mind, in great misery sometimes, if you will believe me,in agonies of shame. Gradually, however, almost against his will, thedrama worked itself out before him, until he needed only one thing."
I looked at Mademoiselle. But her head was averted; I could gathernothing from the outlines of her form. And I went on. "Do notmisunderstand me," I said, in a lower voice. "Do not misunderstandwhat I am going to say next. This is no love story, and can have noending such as romancers love to set to their tales. But I am bound tomention, Mademoiselle, that this man, who had lived about inns andeating-houses, and at the gaming-tables almost all his days, met herefor the first time for years a good woman; and learned by the light ofher loyalty and devotion to see what his life had been, and what wasthe real nature of the work he was doing. I think,--nay, I know--thatit added a hundredfold to his misery, that when he learned at last thesecret he had come to surprise, he learned it from her lips, and insuch a way that had he felt no shame, hell could have been no placefor him. But in one thing she misjudged him. She thought, and hadreason to think, that the moment he knew her secret he went out, noteven closing the door, and used it. But the truth was that, while herwords were still in his ears, news came to him that others had thesecret; and had he not gone out on the instant, and done what he did,and forestalled them, M. de Cocheforet would have been taken, but byothers."
Mademoiselle broke her long silence so suddenly that her horse sprangforward. "Would to Heaven he had!" she wailed.
"Been taken by others?" I exclaimed, startled out of my falsecomposure.
"Oh, yes, yes!" she answered passionately. "Why did you not tell me?Why did you not confess to me even then? I--oh, no more! No more!" shecontinued, in a piteous voice. "I have heard enough. You are rackingmy heart, M. de Berault. Some day I will ask God to give me strengthto forgive you."
"But you have not heard me out," I replied.
"I want to hear no more," she answered, in a voice she vainly stroveto render steady. "To what end? Can I say more than I have said? Didyou think I could forgive you now--with him behind us going to hisdeath? Oh, no, no!" she continued. "Leave me! I implore you to leaveme. I am not well."
She drooped over her horse's neck as she spoke and began to weep sopassionately that the tears ran down her cheeks under her mask, andfell and sparkled like dew on the mane before her; while her sobsshook her so painfully that I thought she must fall. I stretched outmy hand instinctively to give her help; but she shrank from me. "No!"she gasped, between her sobs. "Do not touch me. There is too muchbetween us."
"Yet there must be one thing more between us," I answered firmly. "Youmust listen to me a little longer, whether you will or no,Mademoiselle, for the love you bear to your brother. There is onecourse still open to me by which I may redeem my honour; it has beenin my mind for some time back to take that course. To-day, I amthankful to say, I can take it cheerfully, if not without regret; witha steadfast heart, if with no light one. Mademoiselle," I continuedearnestly, feeling none of the triumph, none of the vanity, I hadforeseen, but only joy in the joy I could give her, "I thank God thatit is still in my power to undo what I have done; that it is still inmy power to go back to him who sent me, and telling him that I havechanged my mind and will bear my own burdens, to pay the penalty."
We were within a hundred paces of the brow of the hill and thefinger-post now. She cried out wildly that she did not understand."What is it you have just said?" she murmured. "I cannot hear." Andshe began to fumble with the ribbon of her mask.
"Only this, Mademoiselle," I answered gently. "I give back to yourbrother his word and his parole. From this moment he is free to gowhither he pleases. You shall tell him so from me. Here, where westand, four roads meet. That to the right goes to Montauban, where youhave doubtless friends, and can lie hid for a time; or that to theleft leads to Bordeaux, where you can take ship if you please. And ina word Mademoiselle," I continued, ending a little feebly, "I hopethat your troubles are now over."
She turned her face to me--we had both come to a standstill--andplucked at the fastenings of her mask. But her trembling fingers hadknotted the string, and in a moment she dropped her hands with a cryof despair. "And you? You?" she said, in a voice so changed I shouldnot have known it for hers. "What will you do? I do not understand.This mask! I cannot hear."
"There is a third road," I answered. "It leads to Paris. That is myroad, Mademoiselle. We part here."
"But why? Why?" she cried wildly.
"Because from to-day I would fain begin to be honourable," I answered,in a low voice. "Because I dare not be generous at another's cost Imust go back to the Chatelet."
She tried feverishly to raise
her mask with her hand. "I am--notwell," she stammered. "I cannot breathe."
She swayed so violently in her saddle as she spoke, that I sprangdown, and running round her horse's head, was just in time to catchher as she fell. She was not quite unconscious then, for, as Isupported her, she murmured, "Leave me! Leave me! I am not worthy thatyou should touch me."
Those words made me happy. I carried her to the bank, my heart onfire, and laid her against it just as M. de Cocheforet rode up. Hesprang from his horse, his eyes blazing with anger. "What is this?" hecried harshly. "What have you been saying to her, man?"
"She will tell you," I answered drily, my composure returning underhis eye,--"amongst other things, that you are free. From this moment,M. de Cocheforet, I give you back your parole, and I take my ownhonour. Farewell."
He cried out something as I mounted, but I did not stay to hear oranswer. I dashed the spurs into my horse, and rode away past thecrossroads, past the finger-post; away with the level uplandstretching before me, dry, bare, almost treeless--and behind me all Iloved. Once, when I had gone a hundred yards, I looked back and sawhim standing upright against the sky, staring after me across herbody. And again I looked back. This time I saw only the slender woodencross, and below it a dark blurred mass.
Historical Romances: Under the Red Robe, Count Hannibal, A Gentleman of France Page 12