The Forsaken Inn: A Novel

by Anna Katharine Green

  CHAPTER XXI.

  IN THE OAK PARLOR.

  OCTOBER 20, 1791.

  T]

  The long expected move has been made. This morning madame asked me if Ihad not some room on the ground floor which I could give to her daughterand her in exchange for the one they now occupy. Her daughter had beenaccustomed to living on one floor, and felt the stairs keenly.

  I answered at first--"No." Then I appeared to bethink me, and told her,with seeming reluctance, that there was one room below which Isometimes opened to guests, but that just now it was in such a state ofdilapidation I had shut it up till I could find the opportunity ofrepairing it.

  "Oh!" she replied, subduing her eagerness to the proper point, "you neednot wait for that. We are not particular persons. Only let me see theroses come back to my daughter's cheeks, and I can bear any amount ofdiscomfort. Where is this room?"

  I pretended not to hear her.

  "It would take two days to get it into any sort of condition fit forsleeping in," I murmured reflectively. "The floor is so loose in placesthat you cannot walk across it without danger of falling through. Thenthere is the chimney--"

  She was standing near me and I heard her draw her breath quickly, butshe gave no other sign of emotion, not even in the sound of her voice asshe interrupted me with the words:

  "Oh! if you have got to make the room all over, we might as well notconsider the subject. But I am sure it is not necessary. Do let me seeit, and I can soon tell you whether we can be comfortable there or not."

  I had sworn to myself never to enter that room again, but such oathsare easily broken. Leaving her for a moment, I procured my key, andtaking her with me down the west hall, I unlocked the fatal door andbade her enter.

  She hesitated for an instant, but only for an instant. Then she walkedcoolly in, and stood waiting while I crossed the floor to the window andthrew it open. Her first glance flashed to the mantel and its adjacentwainscoting; then, finding everything satisfactory in that direction, itflew over the desolate walls and stiff, high-backed chairs, till itrested on the bare four-poster, denuded of its curtains and coverlets.

  "A gloomy place!" she declared; "but you can easily make it lookinviting with fresh curtains and a cheerful fire. I am sure that, dismalas it is, it will be more welcome to my daughter than the sunny room upstairs. Besides, the window looks out on the river, and that is alwaysinteresting. You will let us come here, will you not? I am sure, if weare willing, you ought to be."

  I gasped inwardly, and agreed with her. Yet I made a few moreobjections. But as I intended that she should sleep in this room, Ifinally cleared my brow, and announced that the room should be readyfor her occupancy on Friday; and with this she had to be content.

  * * * * *

  OCTOBER 21.

  Bless God that I am mistress in my own house! I can order, I can haveperformed whatever I choose, without fuss, without noise, and withoutgossip. This is very fortunate just now, for while I am openly havingthe floor mended in the oak parlor, I am secretly having another pieceof work done, which, if once known, would arouse suspicions and awakenconjectures that would destroy all my plans concerning the mysteriousguests who insist upon inhabiting the accursed oak parlor.

  What this work is can be best understood by a glance at the accompanyingdiagram, which is a copy of the one drawn up by the Englishman for Mr.Tamworth.

  +-----------------------+ | | | C | | | +--------+----+--------+---------+ | |- | | | B |6 | | | D |=|= | | | | | |=|= | | |--------|=| | | | 1 _ | | | |----|2|-| | | -| 3| | | 4| | | | -| | | | | |- | | | A |5 | | | |- | | +--------+ +--------+

  +--------+ +--------+ | | | |

  A--Oak parlor. B--Bedroom. C--Kitchen, etc. D--Passage Ihave had made.

  1--Secret chamber. 2--Fire-place. 3--Secret spring. 4--Garden window.5--Door to oak parlor. 6--Clock on stairs to second story. Entrance toroom B under stairway.]

  Here you see that the secret chamber lies between the rooms A and B. Ais the parlor and B is the small room in which I had put up my bed afterthe nocturnal adventure of October 10. It has always been used as astore room until now, and as no one handles the keys of this house butmyself, the fact of my using it for any other purpose is known only toMargery and a certain quiet and reticent workman from Cruger's shop, towhom I have intrusted the task of opening a passage at D through thewall. For I must have proper means of communication with this roombefore I can allow Madame Letellier and her daughter to take up theirabode in it. Though the former's plans are a mystery to me; though Ifeel that she loves her daughter, and, therefore, cannot meditate evilagainst her, still my doubts of her are so great that I must know herintentions, if possible, and to do this I contemplate keeping a watchover that den of wicked memories which will be at once both unsuspectedand vigilant.

  The flooring of the parlor is nearly completed, and to-night will seethe door of communication between my room and the secret chamber hungand ready for use.

  * * * * *

  OCTOBER 22.

  A month ago, if any one had told me that I would not only walk of my ownfree will into the secret chamber, but take up my abode in it, eat in itand sleep in it, I would have said that person was mad. And yet this isjust what I have done.

  The result of my first vigil was unexpected. I had looked for--well, Ihardly know what I did look for. My anticipations were vague, but theydid not lead me in the right direction. But let me tell the story. AfterI had installed my guests in their new apartment, I informed them thatI would have to say good-by for a season, as I had an affection of theeyes--which was true enough--which at times compelled me to shut myselfup in a dark room and forego all company. That I felt one of thesespells coming on--which was not true--and that by a speedy resort todarkness and quiet, I hoped to prevent the attack from reaching itsusual point of distress. Mademoiselle Letellier looked disappointed, butmadame ill disguised her relief and satisfaction. Convinced now beyondall doubt that she had some plan in mind which made her dread mywatchfulness, I made such final arrangements as were necessary, andbetook myself at once to my new room. Once there, I moved immediatelyinto the dark chamber, and walking with the utmost circumspection,crossed to the wall adjoining the oak parlor, and laying my ear againstthe opening into that room, I listened.

  At first I heard nothing, probably because its inmates were still. ThenI caught an exclamation of weariness, and soon some words of desultoryconversation. Relieved beyond expression, not only because I could hear,but because they talked in English, I withdrew again into my own room.The most difficult problem in the world was solved. I had found themeans by which I could insinuate myself, unseen and unsuspected, intothe secret confidences of two women, at moments when they feltthemselves alone and at the mercy of no judgment but that of God. ShouldI learn enough to pay me for the humiliation of my position? I did notweary myself by questioning. I knew my motive was pure, and fixed mymind upon that.

  Several times before the day was over did I return to the secret chamberand bend my ear to the wall. But in no instance did I linger long, forif the two ladies spoke at all it was on trivial subjects, and in suchtones as indicated that neither their passions nor any particularinterests were engaged. For such talk I had no ear.

  "It will not be always so," I thought to myself. "When night comes andthe heart opens, they will speak of what lies upon their minds."

  And so it happened. As the inn grew quiet and the lights began todisappear from the windows,
I crept again to my station against thepartition, and in a darkness and atmosphere that at any other time in mylife would have completely unnerved me, hearkened to the conversationwithin.

  "Oh, mamma," were the first words I heard, uttered in English, as alltheir talk was when they were moved or excited, "if you would onlyexplain! If you would only tell me why you do not wish me to receiveletters from him! But this silence--this love and this silence arekilling me. I cannot bear it. I feel like a lost child who hears itsmother's voice in the darkness, but does not know how to follow thatvoice to the refuge it bespeaks."

  "Time was when daughters found it sufficient to know that their parentsdisapproved of an act, without inquiring into their reasons for it. Yourfather has told you that the marquis is not eligible as a husband foryou, and he expects this to content you. Have I the right to say morethan he?"

  "Not the right, perhaps, mamma. I do not appeal to your sense of right,but to your love. I am very unhappy. My whole life's peace is tremblingin the balance. You ought to see it--you do see it--yet you let mesuffer without giving me one reason why I should do so."

  The mother's voice was still.

  "You see!" the daughter went on again, after what seemed like a momentof helpless waiting. "Though my arms are about you, and my cheekpressed close to yours, you will not speak. Do you wonder that I amheart-broken--that I feel like turning my face to the wall and neverlooking up again?"

  "I wonder at nothing."

  Was that madame's voice? What boundless misery! what unfathomablepassion! what hopeless despair!

  "If he were unworthy!" her daughter here exclaimed.

  "It you could point to anything he lacks. But he has wealth, a noblename, a face so handsome that I have seen both you and papa look at himin admiration; and as for his mind and attainments, are they notsuperior to those of all the young men who have ever visited us? Mamma,mamma, you are so good that you require perfection in a son-in-law. Butis he not as near it as a man may be? Tell me, darling, for in my dreamshe always seems so."

  I heard the answer, though it came slowly and with apparent effort.

  "The marquis is an admirable young man, but we have another suitor inmind whose cause we more favor. We wish you to marry Armand Thierry."

  "A shop-keeper and a revolutionist! Oh, mamma!"

  "That is why we brought you away. That is why you are here--that youmight have opportunity to bethink yourself, and learn that the parents'views in these matters are the truest ones, and that where we makechoice, there you must plight your troth. I assure you that our reasonsare good ones, if we do not give them. It is not from tyranny--"

  Here the set, strained voice stopped, and a sudden movement in the roombeyond showed that the mother had risen. In fact, I presently heard hersteps pacing up and down the floor.

  "I know it is not tyranny," the daughter finished, in the soft tonesthat were so great a contrast to her mother's. "Tyranny I could haveunderstood; but it is mystery, and that is not so easily comprehended.Why should you and papa be mysterious? What is there in our simple lifeto create secrecy between persons who love each other so dearly? I seenothing, know nothing; and yet--"

  "Honora!"

  The word struck me like a blow. "Honora!" Great heaven! was that thename of this young girl?

  "You are giving too free range to your imagination. You--"

  I did not hear the rest. I was thinking of the name I had just heard,and wondering if my suspicions were at fault. They would never havecalled their child Honora. Who were these women, then? Friends of theDudleighs? Avengers of the dead? I glued my ear still closer to thewall.

  "We have cherished you." The mother was still speaking. "We have givenyou all you craved, and more than you asked. From the moment you wereborn we have both lavished all the tenderness of our hearts upon you.And all we ask in return is trust." The hard voice, hard because ofemotion, I truly believe, quavered a little over that word, but spoke itand went on. "What we do for you now, as always, is for your best good.Will you not believe it, Honora?"

  The last appeal was uttered in a passionate tone. It seemed to move thedaughter, for her voice had a sob in it as she replied:

  "Yes, yes; but why not enlighten me as to your reasons for a course soremarkable? Most parents desire their daughters to do well, but you, onthe contrary, not only wish, but urge me to do ill. A noble lover suesfor my hand, and his cause is slighted; an ignoble one requests the samefavor, and you run to grant it. Is there love in this? Is thereconsideration? Perhaps; but if so, you should be able to show where itlies. I am not a child, young as I am; I will understand any reasons youmay advance. Then let me have your confidence; it is all I ask, andsurely it is not much, when you see how I suffer from mydisappointment."

  The restless steps ceased. I heard a groan close to my ear; the motherwas evidently suffering frightfully.

  "Papa is prosperous," the daughter pleadingly continued. "I know yourdecision cannot be the result of financial difficulties. And then, if itwere, the marquis is rich, and--"

  "Honora!"--the mother had turned. I heard her advance toward herdaughter--"do you really love the marquis? You have seen him but a fewtimes, have held hardly any intercourse with him, and at your age fancyoften takes the place of love. You do not love him, Honora, my child;you cannot; you will forget--"

  "Oh, mamma! Oh, mamma! Oh, mamma!"

  The tone was enough. Silence reigned, broken at last by MademoiselleLetellier saying: "It is not necessary to see such a man as he is verymany times in order to adjudge him to be the best and noblest that theworld contains. But, mamma, you are not correct in saying that Iscarcely know him. Though you will not be frank with me, I am going tobe frank with you and tell you something that I have hitherto keptclosely buried in my breast. I did not think I should ever speak of itto any one, not even to you. Some dreams are so sweet to brood uponalone. But the shadow which your silence has caused to fall between ushas taught me the value of openness and truth. I shall never hideanything from you again; so listen, sweet mamma, while I open to you myheart, and learn, as you can only learn from me, how your Honora firstcame to know and appreciate the Marquis de la Roche-Guyon."

  "Was it not," interrupted the mother, "at the great ball where he wasformally introduced to us?"

  "No, mamma."

  Madame sighed.

  "Girls are all alike," she cried. "You think you know them, and lo!there comes a day when you find that it is in a stranger's hand you mustlook for a key to their natures."

  "And is not this what God wills?" suggested the child. "Indeed, indeed,you must blame nature and not me. I did not want to deceive you. I onlyfound it impossible to speak. Besides, if you had looked at me closelyenough, you would have seen yourself that I had met the marquis before.Such blushes do not come with a first introduction. I remember theirburning heat yet. Are my cheeks warm now? I feel as if they ought to be.But there is nothing to grieve you in these blushes. It is only the waya loving heart takes to speak. There is no wicked shame in them; none,none."

  "Oh, God!"

  Did the daughter hear that bitter exclamation? She did not appear to;for her voice was quite calm, though immeasurably loving, as sheproceeded in these words:

  "I was always a mother-girl. From the first day I can remember, I haveknown nothing sweeter than to sit within reach of your fondling hand.You were always so tender with me, mamma, even when I must have grievedyou or disappointed your hopes or your pride. If I were in the way Inever saw it, nor can I remember, of all the looks which have sometimespuzzled me in your face, one that spoke of impatience or lack ofsympathy with my pleasures or my griefs. With papa it was not always so.No; don't stop me. You must let me speak of him. Though he has neverbeen unkind to me, he has a way of frowning at times that frightens me.Whether he is displeased or simply ill I cannot say, but I have alwaysfelt a dread of papa's presence which I never felt of yours; and yet youfrown, too, at times, though never upon me, mamma, dear--never upon me."

  A pause that was fill
ed in by a kiss, and then the tender voice went on:

  "You can imagine, then, what a turmoil was aroused in my breast when oneday, while leaning from the window, I saw a face in the street belowthat awakened within me such strange feelings I could not communicatethem even to my mother. I who had hitherto confessed to her everytrivial emotion of my life, shrank in a moment, as it were, fromrevealing a secret no deeper than that I had looked for one half minuteupon the form of a passing stranger, and in that minute learned more ofmy own heart and of the true meaning of life than in all the sixteenyears I had hitherto lived. You have seen him since, and you know hepossesses every grace that can render a man attractive; but to me thatday he did not look like a man at all, or if I thought of him as such, Ithought of him as one who set a pattern to his fellows, while retaininghis own immeasurable superiority. He did not see me. I do not know thatI wished him to. I was quite content to watch him from where I stood,and note his lordly walk and kindly mien, and dream--oh, what did Idream that day! The memory of your own girlhood must tell you, mamma. Idid not know his name; I did not suspect his rank; but from his youth Ijudged him to be single, from his bearing I knew him to be noble, andfrom his look, which called out a reflected brightness on every face hechanced to pass, I was assured that he was happy and that he was good.And what does a girl's fancy need more? Still a glimpse so short mightnot have had such deep consequences if it had not been followed by anevent which rendered those first impressions indelible."

  "An event, Honora?"

  "Yes, mamma. You remember the day you sent me with Cecile to take myfirst lessons in tambour work of Madame Douay?"

  "Remember? Oh, my child, that awful day when you came near losing yourlife! When the house fell with you in it, and--"

  "Yes, yes, mamma, and I came home looking so pale you thought I washurt, and fainted away, and would have died yourself if I had not kissedyou back to life. Well, mamma, dear, I was hurt, but not in my body. Itwas my heart that had received a wound--a wound from which I never shallrecover, for it was made by the greatness, the goodness, the nobleself-sacrifice of the marquis."

  "Honora! And you never mentioned his name--never!"

  "I know, I know, mamma; but you have already forgiven me for that. Youknow it was from no unworthy motive. Think how you felt when you firstsaw papa. Think--"

  A hurried movement from the mother interrupted her.

  "Do not keep me in suspense," she pleaded; "let me hear what you have totell."

  "But you are cold; you shudder. Let me get a shawl."

  "No, no, child, I am not cold, only impatient. Go on with your story--goon. How came you to meet the marquis in that place?"

  "Ah," cried the daughter, "it was a strange occurrence. It all cameabout through a mistake of Cecile's. Madame Douay, as we were told bythe concierge, lived on the fourth floor, but Cecile made a miscount andwe went up to the fifth, and as there was a Madame Douay there also, wedid not detect our error, but went into her apartments and were seatedin the small salon to await madame's presence. We had not told ourerrand, so we could not blame the maid who admitted us, nor, thoughmadame failed to appear, did we ever remember to blame any one, forpresently through the open window near which we sat there came thesound of voices from the room above, and a drama began of such startlinginterest that we could think of nothing else.

  "Two men were talking. Young men they seemed, and though I could not seethem, I could tell from the fresh, fine voice of the one that he was atrue man, and from the sneering, smothered tones of the other that hewas not only a cynic, but of vicious tendencies. The first one wassaying, 'I never suspected this,' when my attention was first called totheir words, and the answer which came was as follows: 'If you had, Ishould not have had the pleasure of seeing you here. Men are not apt torush voluntarily upon their deaths, and that you are a dead man youalready know; for I have sworn to kill you as the clock strikes three,and it is but ten minutes of that time, and you have not a weapon withwhich to defend yourself.'

  "Mamma, you can imagine my feelings at hearing these words, though theywere uttered by a person I could not see, to another person equallyunknown to me? I looked at Cecile and she looked at me, but we couldneither of us move. Every faculty seemed paralyzed save that ofhearing. We held our breaths and listened for the reply. It cameinstantly and without a thrill in its clear accents.

  "'You are a gentleman, and no common assassin. How can you reconcilesuch an act as this with your honor, or with what sophistries quiet thestings of your conscience when time shall have shown you the sin of sounprovoked an onslaught?'

  "'It is not unprovoked,' was the harsh and bitter reply. 'You promisedto marry Mademoiselle de Fontaine, and yesterday, at three o'clock--ah,I was there!--you formally renounced your claims. This is an insult thatcalls for blood, and blood it shall have. Twenty-four hours have elapsedless ten minutes, since you cast this slur upon a noble lady's goodname. When the hour is ripe, you will pay the penalty it requires withyour life.'

  "'But,' urged his young companion, 'Mademoiselle de Fontaine had herselfrequested the breaking off of this contract. I am but following thelady's behests in withdrawing from a position forced upon us against ourwill, and in direct opposition to her happiness.'

  "'And by what right do you presume to follow the behests of a lady stillunder age? Has she not guardians to consult? Should not I--'

  "'You?'

  "'Pardon me, I have not introduced myself, it seems. I am the Marquis dela Roche-Guyon.'"

  Honora paused; her mother's exclamation had stopped her:

  "The marquis! Oh! Honora, and you have always said he was so good!"

  "Wait, mamma; remember it is the cynical voice which is speaking, andthe marquis's voice is not cynical. The words, however, are what I havetold you; 'I am the Marquis de la Roche-Guyon.'

  "Of course, not knowing either party, nor this name, least of allrealizing that it was the one by which the gentleman addressed washimself known, I did not understand why it should create so great animpression. But that it did was evident, not only from the momentaryhush that followed, but from the violent exclamation that burst from theyoung man's lips. 'You scoundrel!' was his cry. But instantly he seemedto regret the word, for he said almost with the same breath: 'Yourpardon, but there is but one man in the world besides myself who could,under any circumstances, have a right to that name.'

  "'And that man?'

  "'Is my cousin, the deceased marquis's son, long esteemed dead also, andnow legally accepted as such.'

  "'And what assures you that I am not he? Your eyes? Well, I am changed,Louis, but not so changed that a good look should not satisfy you that Iam the man I claim to be. Besides, you should know this mark on myforehead. You gave it to me--'

  "'Isidor!'

  "I could not comprehend it then, but I have learned since that themarquis--our marquis, I mean--had only just come into his title; thatthe son of the preceding Marquis de la Roche-Guyon had been so longmissing that the courts had finally adjudged him dead, and given up hisinheritance to his cousin; that the first act of the new marquis was toliberate the Demoiselle de Fontaine from an engagement that stood in theway of her marriage with one more desirable to her; and that theunexpected appearance of the real heir in this sudden and mysteriousmanner was as great a surprise to him as any mortal circumstance couldbe. Yet to me, who waited with palpitating heart and anxious ears forwhat should be said next, there was no evidence of this in his tone.With the politeness we are accustomed to in Frenchmen he observed:

  "'You are welcome, Isidor;' and then, as if struck himself by theincongruity between this phrase and the look and manner of hiscompanion, he added, in slow tones--'even if you do bring a sword withyou.'

  "The other, the real marquis, as I suppose, seemed to hesitate at this,and I began to hope he was ashamed of his dreadful threats and wouldspeedily beg the other's pardon. But I did not know the man, or realizethe determination which lay at the bottom of his furious anduncompromising words. But he soon made i
t evident to us.

  "'Louis,' he exclaimed, 'you have always been my evil genius. From ourchildhood you have stood in my way with your superior strength, beauty,prowess and address. When I was young I simply shrank from you in shameand distaste, but as I grew older I learned to detest you; and now thatI see you again, after five years of absence, handsome as ever, tallerthan ever, and radiant, notwithstanding your nearness to death, withmemories such as I have never known, nor can know, and beliefs such as Ihave never cherished nor will cherish, I hate you so that I find itdifficult to wait for the five minutes yet to elapse before my word willlet me lift my pistol and fire upon you.'

  "'Then it is your hate of me, and not your fondness for your sister,that has led you to lay this trap for me?' exclaimed the other. 'Ishould think your hate would be satisfied by the change which yourreturn will make in my prospects. From the marquisate of La Roche-Guyonto a simple captaincy in his majesty's guards is quite a step, Isidor.Will it not suffice to soothe an antagonism which I never shared?'

  "'Nothing can soothe it, not even your death! You have robbed me of toomuch. First, of the world's esteem, then of my mother's confidence, and,lastly, of my father's love. Yes; deny it if you will, my father lovedyou better than he did me. This was the reason he sent me from home; andwhen, shipwrecked and captured by savages, I found myself thrown intoan Eastern dungeon, half my misery and all my rage were in the thoughtthat he would not consider my loss a misfortune, but die in greaterpeace and hope from knowing that his family honors would devolve uponone more after his own heart than myself. Oh! I have had cause, and Ihave had time to nourish my hate. Five years in a dungeon affords oneleisure, and on every square stone of that wall, and upon every inch ofits relentless pavement, I have beaten out this determination with mybare hands and manacled feet, that if I ever did escape, and ever didreturn to the home of my fathers, I would have full pay for thesuffering you have caused me, even if I had it in your blood. I havereturned, and I find my father dead, and in his place yourself, happy,insolent, and triumphant. Can you blame me for remembering my vows, forresenting what will ever seem an insult to my sister, and for wishing tohurry the time that moves so slowly toward the fatal stroke of three?'

  "'I do not blame you, because you are a madman. I do not fear you,because, having no one in the world to love, I do not greatly dread asudden release from it. But I pity you because you have suffered, andwill defend myself because your sufferings will be increased rather thandiminished by the success of your crazy intentions.'

  "The answer came, quick and furious:

  "'I do not want your pity, and I scorn any defense which you can make.Do you think I have not made my calculations well? There is nothing herewhich can give you hope. We are alone on the sixth story. Beneath us areonly women, and if you call from the window, I can shoot you dead beforeyour voice can reach the street. Perhaps, though, you do not think ofsaving yourself, but of ensnaring me. Bah! as if the sight of theheadsman would stop me now. Besides, I am prepared for flight. Have youlooked at this house? It is not like other houses; it is double, and theroom in which we stand has other foundations and walls from this onebehind me which I guard with my pistol. Let the deed be once done--andthe clock, as you see, gives us but one minute more--and I leap intothis other apartment, down another flight of stairs from those you cameup, and so to another door that opens upon another street. Then shout,if you will; I am safe. As to your life, it is as much at my command asif my bullet were already in your heart.'

  "'We will see!' was the thundering reply, and with these words a rushwas made that shook the floor above our heads, and scattered bits ofplaster down upon us. Released by the action from the fearful spellwhich had benumbed my limbs, I felt that I could move at last, and,leaping to my feet, I uttered scream after scream. But they perished inmy throat, smothered by a new fear; for at this moment my arm was caughtby Cecile, and following, with horrified gaze, the pointing of heruplifted hand, I saw the straight line of the window-ledge before me dipand curve, and yielding to the force of her agonized strength, I letmyself be dragged across the floor, while before us, beneath us, aboveus, all was one chaos of heaving and crashing timbers, which, in anotherinstant, broke into a thunder of confused sounds, and we beheld beneathus a pit of darkness, death, and tumult, where, but an instant before,were all the appurtenances of a comfortable and luxurious home.

  "We were safe, for we had reached the flooring of the second housebefore that of the first had completely fallen, but I could not thinkof myself, narrow as my escape had been, and marvelous as was thewarning which had revealed to Cecile the only path of safety. For in theclouded space above me, overhanging a gulf I dared not measure with myeyes or sound with my imagination, I saw clinging by one arm to a beamthe awful figure of a man, while crouching near him on a portion offlooring that still clung intact to the wall, I beheld another in whosenoble traits, distorted though they were by the emotions of the moment,I recognized him who, but a month before, had changed the world for mewith his look.

  "Ah! mamma, and a thousand deaths lay between us; and we could neitherreach him nor give any alarm, for the space in which we found ourselveswas small and shut from the outer world by a door which was locked. Howit became locked I never knew, but I have thought that the maid inflying might have turned the key behind her, under some wild impressionthat by this means she would shut out destruction. However that may be,we were helpless and threatened by death. But our own situation did notalarm us, for theirs was so much more terrible, especially that of theman whose straining arm clung so frantically to a support thatthreatened every moment to slip from his grasp. I could not look at him,and scarcely could I look at the other. But I did, for in his face therewas such a high and noble resolve that it made me forget his danger,till suddenly I heard him speak high above the sounds that arose in atempest from the street:

  "'Do not despair, Isidor. I think I can reach you and pull you up uponthe beam. You shall not die a dog's death if I can help it. Hold on andI will come.' And he began to move and raise himself upon the narrowplatform on which he stood, and I saw that he meant what he said, andinvoluntarily and with but little reason I cried:

  "'Don't do it! He is your enemy. Save yourself; he is but a murderer;let him go.'

  "I said that; I who never had a cruel thought before in my life. But he,without looking to see whence this voice came, answered boldly:

  "'It is because he is my enemy that I wish to save him. I could neverenjoy a safety won at the expense of his death. Isidor, you must live!So hold on, my cousin.'

  "And without saying anything further, this brave man set about a taskthat seemed to me at that moment not only superhuman but impossible.Gathering himself up, he prepared to make a spring, and in anotherinstant would have launched himself toward that rocking beam, if Cecile,driven to extremity by the slow tottering of the floor upon which westood, had not shrieked:

  "'And to save him you would leave us to perish?'

  "He paused and gave one look. 'Yes!' he cried. 'God help you, but youlook like innocent women, while he--' The leap was made. He lay clingingto the beam. His cousin, who had not fallen, cast one glance up; theireyes met, and Isidor, as he was called, gave one great sob. 'Oh, Louis!'he murmured, and was silent.

  "And then, mamma, there began a struggle for rescue such as I dare noteven recall. I saw it because I could not look elsewhere, but I crushedits meaning from my consciousness, lest I should myself perish before Isaw him safe. And all the while the figure hanging over us swayed withthe rocking of the beam, and gave no help until that last terriblemoment when his cousin, reaching down, was able to sustain him under thearm till he could get his other hand up and clasp it around the beam.Then it all looked well, and we began to hope, when suddenly and withoutwarning the nearly rescued man gave a great shriek, and crying, 'Youhave conquered!' unloosed his grasp, and fell headlong into the abyss.

  "Mamma, I did not faint. An unnatural strength seemed given to me. But Ilooked at the marquis, and for the f
irst time he looked at me, and I sawthe expression of horrified amaze with which he had beheld his cousindisappear gradually change to one of the softest and divinest looks thatever visited a noble visage, and knew that even out of that pit of deathlove had arisen for us two, and that henceforth we belonged to eachother, whether our span of life should be cut short in a moment orextended into an eternity of years. His own heart seemed to assure himof the same sweet fact, for the next moment he was renewing hissuperhuman efforts, but this time for our rescue and his own. He workedhimself along that beam; he gave another leap; he landed at our side,and tore a way for us through that closed door. In another five minuteswe were in the street, with half Paris surging about us, but before thecrowd had quite seized upon me, he had found time to whisper in my ear:

  "'I am the Marquis de la Roche-Guyon. It will always be a matter ofthankfulness to me that I was not left to sacrifice the fairest woman inthe world to the rescue of a thankless coward.'

  "Mamma, do you blame me for giving such a man my heart, and do youwonder that what I have dedicated to this hero I can never yield to anyother man?"

  The mother was silent--for a long time silent. Was she horror-strickenat the story of a danger she had never fully comprehended till now? Orwere her thoughts busy with her own past, and its possibleincommunicable secrets of blood and horror? The cry she gave at lastbetrayed anguish, but did not answer this question.

  "My child! my child! my child!" That was all, but it seemed torn fromher heart, that bled after it.

  "He was not long in seeking me out, mamma, dear. With grace andconsideration he paid me his court, and I was happy till I saw that youand papa frowned upon an alliance that to me seemed laden with promise.I could not understand it, nor could I understand our hurried departurefrom France, nor our secret journey here. All has been a mystery to me;but your will is my will, and I dare not complain."

  "Pure heart!" broke from the mother's lips. "Would to God--"

  "What, dear mamma?"

  "That you had been moved by a lesser man than the Marquis de laRoche-Guyon."

  "A lesser man?"

  "With Armand Thierry, since he is the one you will have to marry."

  "I shall not marry him."

  "Shall not?"

  "If I cannot give my hand where my heart is, I remain unmarried. Idishonor no man with unmeaning marriage vows."

  "Honora!"

  "I may never be happy, but I will never be base. You yourself cannotwish me to be that. You, who married for love, must understand that awoman loses her title to respect when she utters vows to one man whileher heart is with another."

  "But--"

  "You did marry for love, didn't you, sweet mamma? I like to think so. Ilike to think that papa never cared for any other woman in all the worldbut you, and that from the moment you first saw him, you knew him to bethe one man capable of rousing every noble instinct within you. It is sosweet to enshrine you in such a pure romance, mamma. Though you havebeen married sixteen years--ah, how old I am!--I see you sit and look atpapa sometimes, for a long, long time without speaking, and though youdo not smile, I think, 'She is dreaming of the days when life was purejoy, because it was pure love,' and I long to ask you to tell me aboutthose days, because I am sure, if you did, you would tell me thesweetest story of mutual love and devotion. Isn't it so, mamma mine?"

  Would that mother answer? Could she? I seemed to behold her figurepausing petrified in the darkness, drawing deep breaths, and scarcelyknowing whether to curse or pray. I listened and listened, but it waslong before the answer came. Then it was short and hurried, like thepants of one dying.

  "Honora, you hurt me." Another silence. "You make my task too hard. If Iknow what love is--" She found it hard to go on; but she did--"all themore anguish it must cost me to deny you what is so deeply desired. I--Iwould make you happy if I could. I will make you happy if it is in mypower to do so, but I can hold out no hope--none, none."

  "Nor tell me why?"

  "Nor tell you why."

  "Mamma, you suffer. I see it now, and somehow it makes it easier for meto bear my own suffering. You do not willfully deny me what is as muchas my life to me."

  "Willfully! Honora! Listen." The mother had stopped in her walk, for Iheard her restless tread no more. "You say that I suffer, child. I havenever had one happy day. Whatever romance you have woven about me, Ihave never known, from the hour of my birth till now, one moment of suchdelight as you experienced when you saw the character of the marquisunfold before you so grandly. The nearest I have ever come to bliss waswhen you were first placed in my arms. Then, indeed, for one wildmoment, I felt the baptism of true love. I looked at you, and my heartopened. Alas! it was to take in pain as well as joy. You had the face--Oh, Heaven! what am I saying? This darkness unnerves me, Honora. Let ushave light, light, anything to keep my reason from faltering."

  "Mother, mother, you are ill!"

  "No. I am simply weak. I always am when I recall your birth and thefirst few days that followed it. I was so glad to have something I couldreally love; so glad to feel that my heart beat, and to know that itbeat for one so innocent, so sweet, so helpless as yourself. What if Ihad pains and hours of darkness, did I not have your smile, also, and,later on, your love? Child, if there has been any good in my life--andsometimes I have thought there was a little--it came from you. So, nevereven question again if I could hurt you willfully. I not only could notdo this and live, but to save you from pain I would dare-- What would Inot dare? Let man or angels say."

  Before such passion as this young Honora sank helpless.

  "Oh, mamma, mamma," she moaned, "forgive me. I did not know--how couldI know? Don't sob, mamma, dear; let me hold you--so; now lay your cheekagainst mine and simply love me. I will lie quite still and ask noquestions, and you will rest, too; and God will bless us, as he alwaysblesses the loving and the true."

  But madame did not comply with this endearing request. Satisfying herdaughter with a few kisses and some words that the paroxysm of her griefwas past, she resumed her walk up and down the room, pausing every nowand then as if to listen, and hastily resuming her walk as some slightexclamation from the bed assured her that mademoiselle was not yetasleep. As these pauses always took place when she was near the wallbehind which I crouched, I frequently heard her breath, which cameheavily, and once the rustle of her gown. But I did not stir. As long asher uneasy form flitted about the room, I clung to the partition,listening, determined that nothing should move me--not even my ownterrors. And though night presently merged into midnight, and thesilence and horror of the spot became frightful, I kept my post, for thestealthy tread continued, and so did the desultory scraps ofconversation, which proved that, if the mother was waiting for thedaughter to sleep, the daughter was equally waiting for the mother toretire. And so daylight came, and with it exhaustion to more than one ofus three watchers.

  And this is the record of the first night spent by me in the secretchamber.