“Je ris de moi, je ris de toi,
Je ris de ta sottise!”
Here, indeed, was his opportunity, here was such a chance as few men had, and no man would let slip. But he was not as other men — there it was. He was crook-backed, poor, unknown! And so thinking, so telling himself, he fixed himself in his resolve, he strove to harden his heart, he covered his ears with his hands. For she was a child, a child! She did not understand!
He would have played the hero perfectly but for one fatal thought that presently came to him — a thought fatal to his rectitude. She would take fright! Left alone, ignorant of the feeling that drove him from her — what if she moved from the place where he had left her, and lost herself in the wood, or fell into the river, or — and just then she called him.
“Monsieur Roger! Where are you?”
He went back to her slowly, almost sullenly; partly in surrender to his own impulse, partly in response to her call. But he did not again sit down beside her. “Yes,” he said. “You are quite safe, mademoiselle. I shall not be out of earshot. You are quite safe.”
“Why did you go away?”
“Away?” he faltered.
“Are you afraid of me?” gently.
“Afraid of you?” He tried to speak gaily.
“Pray,” she said in a queer, stiff tone, “do not repeat all my words. I asked if you were afraid of me, Monsieur Roger?”
“No,” he faltered, “but — but I thought that you would rather be alone.”
“I?” in a tone that went to poor Roger’s heart. “I, who have told you that I am always alone? Who have told you that I have not” — her voice shook— “a friend — one real friend in the world!”
“You are tired now,” Roger faltered, finding no other words than those he had used before.
“Not one real friend!” she repeated piteously. “Not one!”
He was not proof against that. He bent towards her in the darkness — almost in spite of himself. “Yes, one,” he said, in a voice as unsteady as hers. “One you have, mademoiselle, who would die for you and ask not a look in return! Who would set, and will ever set, your honour and your happiness above the prizes of the world! Who asks only to serve you at a distance, by day and dark, now and always! If it be a comfort for you to know that you have a friend, know it! Know — —”
“I do not know,” she struck in, in a voice both incredulous and ironical, “where I am to find such an one save in books! In the Seven Champions or in Amadis of Gaul — perhaps. But in the world — where?”
He was silent. He had said too much already. Too much, too much!
“Where?” she repeated.
Still he did not answer.
Then, “Do you mean yourself, Monsieur Roger?”
She spoke with a certain keenness of tone that was near to, ay, that threatened offence.
He stood, his hands hanging by his side. “Yes,” he faltered. “But no one knows better than myself that I cannot help you, mademoiselle. That I can be no honour to you. For the Countess of Rochechouart to have a crook-backed knight at the tail of her train — it may make some laugh. It may make women laugh. Yet — —” he paused on the word.
“Yet what, sir?”
“While he rides there,” poor Roger whispered, “no man shall laugh.”
She was silent quite a long time, as if she had not heard him. Then,
“Do you not know,” she said, “that the Countess of Rochechouart can have but one friend — her husband?”
He winced. She was right; but if that was her feeling, why had she complained of the lack of friends?
“Only one friend, her husband,” the Countess continued softly. “If you would be that friend — but perhaps you would not, Roger? Still, if you would, I say, you must be kind to her ever and gentle to her. You must not leave her alone in woods on dark nights. You must not slight her. You must not,” — she was half laughing, half crying, and hanging towards him in the darkness, her childish hands held out in a gesture of appeal, irresistible had he seen it — but it was dark, or she had not dared— “you must not make anything too hard for her!”
He stepped one pace from her, shaking.
“I dare not! I dare not!” he said.
“Not if I dare?” she retorted gently. “Not if I dare, who am a coward? Are you a coward, too, that when you have said so much and I have said so much you will still leave me alone and unprotected, and — and friendless? Or is it that you do not love me?”
“Not love you?” Roger cried, in a tone that betrayed more than a volume of words had told. And beaten out of his last defence by that shrewd dilemma, he threw his pride to the winds; he sank down beside her, and seized her hands and carried them to his lips — lips that were hot with the fever of sudden passion. “Not love you, mademoiselle? Not love you?”
“So eloquent!” she murmured, with a last flicker of irony. “He does not even now say that he loves me. It is still his friendship, I suppose, that he offers me.”
“Mademoiselle!”
“Or is it that you think me a nun because I wear this dress?”
He convinced her by means more eloquent than all the words lovers’ lips have framed that he did not so think her; that she was the heart of his heart, the desire of his desire. Not that she needed to be convinced. For when the delirium of his joy began to subside he ventured to put a certain question to her — that question which happy lovers never fail to put.
“Do you think women are blind?” she answered. “Did you think I did not see your big eyes following me in and out and up and down? That I did not see your blush when I spoke to you and your black brow when I walked with M. des Ageaux? Dear Roger, women are not so blind! I was not so blind that I did not know as much before you spoke as I know now.”
And in the dark of the wood they talked, while the water glinted slowly by them and the frogs croaked among the waving weeds, and in the stillness under the trees the warmth of the summer night and of love wrapped them round. It was an hour between danger and danger, made more precious by uncertainty. For the moment the world held for each of them but one other person. The Lieutenant’s peril, Bonne’s suspense, the Abbess — all were forgotten until the moon rose above the trees and flung a chequered light on the dark moss and hart’s-tongue and harebells about the lovers’ feet. And with a shock of self-reproach the two rose to their feet.
They gave to inaction not a moment after that. With difficulty and some danger the river was forded by the pale light, and they resumed their journey by devious ways until, mounting from the lower ground that fringed the water, they gained the flank of the hills. Thence, crossing one shoulder after another by paths known to Roger, they reached the hill at the rear of the Old Crocans’ town. In passing by this and traversing the immediate neighbourhood of the peasants’ camp lay their greatest danger. But the dawn was now at hand, the moon was fading; and in the cold, grey interval between dawn and daylight they slipped by within sight of the squalid walls, and with the fear of surprise on them approached the gate of the camp. Nor, though all went well with them, did they breathe freely until the challenge of the guard at the gate rang in their ears.
After that there came with safety the sense of their selfishness. They thought of poor Bonne, who, somewhere in the mist-wrapped basin before them, lay waiting and listening and praying. How were they to face her? with what heart tell her that her lover, that des Ageaux, still lay in his enemy’s power. True, Vlaye had gone back on his word, and, in face of the Countess’s surrender, had refused to release him; so that they were not to blame. But would Bonne believe this? Would she not rather set down the failure to the Countess’s faint heart, to the Countess’s withdrawal?
“I should not have come!” the girl cried, turning to Roger in great distress. “I should not have come!” Her new happiness fell from her like a garment, and, shivering, she hung back in the entrance and wrung her hands. “I dare not face her!” she said. “I dare not, indeed!” And, “Wait!” to the men w
ho wished to hurry off and proclaim their return. “Wait!” she said imperatively.
The grey fog of the early morning, which had sheltered their approach and still veiled the lower parts of the camp, seemed to add to the hopelessness of the news they bore. Roger himself was silent, looking at the waiting men, and wondering what must be done. Poor Bonne! He had scarcely thought of her — yet what must she be feeling? What had he himself felt a few hours before?
“Some one must tell her,” he said presently. “If you will not — —”
“I will! I will!” she answered, her lip beginning to tremble.
Roger hesitated. “Perhaps she is sleeping,” he said; “and then it were a pity to rouse her.”
But the Countess shook her head in scorn of his ignorance. Bonne would not be sleeping. Sleeping, when her lover had not returned! Sleeping, at this hour of all hours, the hour M. de Vlaye had fixed for — for the end! Sleeping, when at any moment news, the best or the worst, might come!
And Bonne was not sleeping. The words had scarcely passed Roger’s lips when she appeared, gliding out of the mist towards them, the Bat’s lank form at her elbow. Their appearance in company was, in truth, no work of chance. Six or seven times already, braving the dark camp and its possible dangers, she had gone to the entrance to inquire; and on each occasion — so strong is a common affection — the Bat had appeared as it were from the ground, and gone silently with her, learned in silence that there was no news, and seen her in silence to her quarters again. The previous afternoon she had got some rest. She had lain some hours in the deep sleep of exhaustion; and longer in a heavy doze, conscious of the dead weight of anxiety, yet resting in body.
Save for this she had not had strength both to bear and watch. As it was, deep shadows under her eyes told of the strain she was enduring; and her face, though it had not lost its girlish contours, was white and woeful. When she saw them standing together in the entrance a glance told her that they bore ill news. Yet, to Roger’s great astonishment, she was quite calm.
“He has not released him?” she said, a flicker of pain distorting her face.
The Countess clasped her hand in both her own, and with tears running down her face shook her head.
“He is not dead?”
“No, no!”
“Tell me.”
And they told her. “When I said ‘You will release him?’” the Countess explained, speaking with difficulty, “he — he — laughed. ‘I did not promise to release him,’ he answered. ‘I said if you did not accept my hospitality, I should hang him!’ That was all.”
“And now?” Bonne murmured. A pang once more flickered in her eyes. “What of him now?”
“I think,” Roger said, “there is a hope. I do indeed.”
Bonne stood a moment silent. Then, in a voice so steady that it surprised even the Bat, who had experience of her courage, “There is a hope,” she said, “if it be not too late. M. de Joyeuse, whose father’s life he would have saved — I will go to him! I will kneel to him! He must save him. There must still be ways of saving him, and the Duke’s power is great.” She turned to the Bat. “Take me to him,” she said.
He stooped his rugged beard to her hand, and kissed it with reverence. Then, while the others stood astonished at her firmness, he passed with her into the mist in the direction of the Duke’s hut.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE BRIDE’S DOT.
The Abbess left alone in the garden-chamber listened intently; looking now on the door which had closed on her rival, now on the windows, whence it was just possible that she might catch the flutter of the girl’s flying skirts. But she did not move to the windows, nor make any attempt to look down. She knew that her ears were her best sentinels; and motionless, scarcely breathing, in the middle of the floor, she strained them to the utmost to catch the first sounds of discovery and alarm.
None reached her, and after the lapse of a minute she breathed more freely. On the other hand, the waiting-maid — glad to prolong her freedom — did not return. The Abbess, still listening, still intent, fell to considering, without moving from the spot, other things. The light was beginning to wane in the room — the room she remembered so well — the corners were growing shadowy. All things promised to favour and prolong her disguise. Between the inset windows lay a block of deep gloom; she had only to fling herself down in that place and hide her face on her arms, as the Countess, in her abandonment, had hidden hers, and the woman would discover nothing when she entered — nothing until she took courage to disturb the bride — and would dress her.
The bride? Even in the last minute the room had grown darker — dark and vague as her sombre thoughts. But it happened that amid its shadows one object still gleamed white — a tiny oasis of brightness in a desert of gloom. The pile of dainty bride-clothes, lawn and lace, that lay on the window-seat caught and gave back what light there was. It seemed to concentrate on itself all that remained of the day. Presently she could not take her eyes from the things. They had at first repelled her. Now, and more powerfully, they fascinated her. She dreamed, with her gaze fixed on them; and slowly the colour mounted to her brow, her face softened, her breast heaved. She took a step towards the bride-clothes and the window, paused, hesitated; and, flushed and frowning, looked at the door.
But no one moved outside, no footstep threatened entrance; and her eyes returned to the lace and lawn, emblems of a thing that from Eve’s day to ours has stirred women’s hearts. She was not over-superstitious. But it could not be for nothing, a voice whispered her it could not be for nothing that the things lay there and, while night swallowed all besides, still shone resplendent in the gloaming. Were they not only an emblem, but a token? A sign to her, a finger pointing through the vagueness of her future to the clear path of safety?
The Abbess had thought of that path, that way out of her difficulties, not once only, nor twice. It had lain too open, too plain to be missed. But she had marked it only to shrink from it as too dangerous, too bold even for her. Were she to take it she must come into fatal collision, into irremediable relations with the man whom she loved; but whom others feared, and of whom his little world stood in an awe so dire and so significant.
Yet still the things beckoned her; and omens in those days went for more than in these. Things still done in sport or out of a sentimental affection for the past — on All-hallows’ E’en or at the new moon — were then done seriously, their lessons taken to heart, their dictates followed. The Abbess felt her heart beat high. She trembled and shook on the verge of a great resolve.
Had she time? The cloak slipped a little lower, discovering her bare shoulders. She looked at the door and listened, looked again at the pale bride-clothes. The stillness encouraged her, urged her. And, for the rest, had she not boasted a few minutes before that, whoever feared him, she did not; that, whoever drifted helpless on the tide of fate, she could direct her life, she could be strong?
She had the chance now if she dared to take it! If she dared? Already she had thwarted him in a thing dear to him. She had released his prisoner, conveyed away his bride, wrecked his plans. Dared she thwart him in this last, this greatest thing? Dared she engage herself and him in a bond from which no power could free them, a bond that, the deed done, must subject her to his will and pleasure — and his wrath — till death?
She did fear him, she owned it. And she had not dared the venture had she not loved him more. But love kicked the beam. Love won — as love ever wins in such contests. Swiftly her mind reviewed the position: so much loss, so much gain. If he would stand worse here he would stand better there. And then she did not come empty-handed. Fain would she have come to him openly and proudly, with her dower in her hands, as she had dreamed that she would come. But that was not possible. Or, if it were possible, the prospect was distant, the time remote; while, this way, love, warm, palpitating, present love, held out arms to her.
The end was certain. For all things, the time, the gathering darkness, her gaoler’s absen
ce, seconded the temptation. Had she resisted longer she had been more than woman. As it was, she had time for all she must do. When the waiting-maid returned, and glanced around the darkened room, she was not surprised to find her crouching on the floor in the posture in which she had left her, with head bowed on the window-seat. But she was surprised to see that she had donned the bride-clothes set for her. True, the shimmer of white that veiled the head and shoulders agreed ill with the despondency of the figure; but that was to be expected. And at least — the woman recognised with relief — there would be no need of force, no scene of violence, no cries to Heaven. She uttered a word of thanksgiving for that; and then, thinking that light would complete the improvement and put a more cheerful face on the matter, she asked if she should fetch candles.
“For I think the priest is below, my lady,” she continued doubtfully; she had no mind to quarrel with her future mistress if it could be avoided. “And my lord may be looked for at any moment.”
The crouching figure stirred a foot fretfully, but did not answer.
“If I might fetch them — —”
“No!” sharply.
“But, if it please you, it is nearly dark. And — —”
“Am I not shamed enough already?” The bride as she spoke — in a tone half ruffled, half hysterical — raised her arms with a passionate gesture. “If I must be married against my will, I will be married thus! Thus! And without more light to shame me!”
“Still it grows — so dark, my lady!” the maid ventured again, though timidly.
“I tell you I will have it dark! And” — with another movement as of a trapped animal— “if they must come, bid them come!” Then, in a choking voice, “God help me!” she murmured, as she let her head fall again on her arms.
The woman wondered, but felt no suspicion; there was something of reason in the demand. She went and told the elder woman who waited below. She left the room door ajar, and the Abbess, raising her pale, frowning face from the window-seat, could hear the priest’s voice mingling in the whispered talk. Light steps passed hurriedly away through the garden, and after an interval came again; and by-and-by she heard more steps, and voices under the window — and a smothered laugh, and then a heavier, firmer tread, and — his voice — his! She pictured them making way for the master to pass through and enter.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 465