CHAPTER VI.
IN THE HAY-FIELD.
The Vicomte gasped; it was evident, it was certain, that M. de Vlayeknew all. What was he to say, what to do? While Bonne, though her earhung upon his reply, was conscious only of a desperate search, a wildgroping, after some method of giving the alarm to those whom itconcerned--to Charles lurking in the barn beside the water, to theCountess making hay for sport and thinking no evil. She had heard of awoman who in such a strait sent a feather which put quick wits on thealert. But she had no feather, she had nothing, and if she had, at herfirst word of withdrawing M. de Vlaye, she knew, would interpose. Atlast--
"It must be!" the Vicomte exclaimed, taking anew line with somepresence of mind. "But I would not believe it!"
"It must be? what must be, sir?" his daughter Odette rejoined.
"It must be the Countess!" the Vicomte repeated in a tone of surpriseand conviction, not ill feigned. He saw that to persist in denying thetruth--with the hayfield in sight--would not serve, and in the endmust cover him with confusion. "Dressed in that fashion," hecontinued, "and with no attendant save one rough clown, I--I could notcredit her story. The Countess of Rochechouart! It seems incredibleeven now!"
"Yes, the Countess of Rochechouart," M. de Vlaye replied in a tonewhich proved that the Vicomte's sudden frankness did not deceive him."With your permission we will wait on her, M. le Vicomte," hecontinued in the same tone, "and as soon as horses can be provided, Iwill escort her to a place of safety."
The Vicomte's face was a study of perplexity. "If you will alight," hesaid, slowly, "I will send and announce to the Countess--if Countessshe really be--that you are here."
For an instant Bonne's heart stood still. If M. de Vlaye dismountedand entered, all things were possible. But the hope was dashed to theground forthwith. "I thank you," Vlaye answered somewhat grimly, "butwith your permission, M. le Vicomte, to business first. We will go tothe meadows at once. It is not fitting that the Countess should beleft for a minute longer than is necessary in a place so ill guarded.And, for the matter of that, things lost once are sometimes losttwice."
The Vicomte's nose twitched with rage; he was not a meek man. Heunderstood M. de Vlaye's insinuation, he knew that M. de Vlaye knew;but he was helpless. On the threshold of his own house, on the spotwhere his ancestors' word had been law for generations--or a blow hadfollowed the word--he stood impotent before this clever, upstartsoldier who held him at mercy. And this the Abbess, had her affectionfor him been warm or her nature delicate, must have felt. Without aword spoken or a syllable of explanation, she must have perceived thatshe was witnessing her family's shame, and that her part in the scenewas not with them.
But she, of them all, was the most in the dark, and her thoughts wereotherwise bent. "You are very fearful for the young lady, M. deVlaye," she said, turning to him, and speaking in a tone of mockoffence. "I do not remember that you have ever been so over carefulfor me."
He bent his head and muttered something of which her sister caught nota word. Then, "But we must not waste time," he continued briskly. "Letus--with the Vicomte's permission--to the field! To the field!" And heturned his horse as he spoke into the sled-road that led around thecourtyard wall; and by a gesture he bade his men follow. It wasevident to Bonne, evident to her father, that he had had a spy on thehouse, and knew where his quarry harboured.
The girl wondered whether by flying through the house and droppingfrom the corner of the garden wall she could even now give the alarm.Then M. le Vicomte spoke. "I will come with you," he said in a surlytone that betrayed his sense of his position. "The times are indeedout of joint, and persons out of their places, but--Solomon, my staff!Daughter," to the Abbess, "a hold of your stirrup-leather! It is but astep, and I can still walk so far. If the field be unsafe for theguest,"--he added grimly--"it is fit the host should share thedanger."
Bonne could have blessed him for the thought, for his offer bound theparty to a walking pace, and something might happen. Vlaye, beyonddoubt, had the same thought. But without breaking openly with theVicomte--which for various reasons he was loth to do--he could notreject his company nor outpace him.
He raised no objection, therefore, and in displeased silence theVicomte walked beside his daughter's horse, Bonne accompanying him onthe other hand. She knew more than he, and had reason to fear more;she was almost sick with anxiety. But he, perhaps, suffered more.Forced on his own ground to do that which he did not wish to do,forced to play a sorry farce, he felt, as he trudged in the van of theparty, that he walked the captive in a Roman triumph. And he couldhave smitten the Captain of Vlaye across the face.
They passed only too quickly from the shelter of the house to the openmeadows and the hot sunshine, and so over the stone bridge. Bonne knewthat at this point they must become visible to the workers in thehay-field, and she counted on an interval of a few minutes duringwhich the fugitives might take steps to hide themselves, or even toget over the river and bury themselves in the woods. She could havecried, therefore, when, without apparent order, a party from therear cantered past the leaders and, putting their horses into a sharphand-gallop, preceded them in their advance upon the panic-strickenhaymakers, in the midst of whom they drew rein in something less thana minute.
The Vicomte halted as the meaning of the man[oe]uvre broke upon him,and, striking his staff into the ground, he followed them with hiseyes. "You seem fearful indeed," he growled, his high nose wrinkledwith anger.
"Things happen very quickly at times," Vlaye answered, ignoring thetone.
"Take care, sir, take care!" the Abbess of Vlaye cried, addressing herlover. She little thought in her easy insouciance how near the truthshe was treading. "If you show yourself so very anxious for theCountess's safety, I warn you I shall grow jealous."
"You have seen her," M. de Vlaye answered in a low tone, meant onlyfor her ear; and he hung slightly towards her. "You know how littlecause you have to fear."
"Fear?" the Abbess retorted rather sharply. "Know, sir," with a quickdefiant glance, "that I fear no one!"
Apparently the handful of riders who had preceded the main body had noorder but to stand guard over the workers. For having halted in themidst of the startled servants, who gazed on them in stupefaction,they remained motionless in their saddles. Meanwhile the Vicomte, witha surly face, was drawing slowly up to them. When no more than thirtyor forty paces divided the two parties, the leader of the van wheeledabout, and trotting to M. de Vlaye's side, saluted him.
"I do not see them, my lord," he muttered in a low tone.
The captain of Vlaye reined in his horse, and sitting at ease, cast aneagle glance over the terrified haymakers, who had instinctivelyfallen into three or four groups. In one part of the field the hay hadbeen got into heaps, but these were of small size, and barely adequateto the hiding of a child. Nevertheless, look where he would--and hislowering brow bespoke his disappointment--he could detect no one atall resembling a Countess. A moment, and his glance passed from theopen meadow to the ruined buildings, which stood on the brink of thestream. It remained fixed on them.
"Search that!" he said in a low tone. And raising his hand he pointedto the old barn. "They must be there! Go about it carefully, Ampoule."
The man he addressed turned, and summoning his party, cantered acrossthe sward--never so green as after mowing--towards the building. Asthe riders drew near the river, Bonne could command herself no longer.She uttered a low groan. Her face bespoke her anguish.
M. de Vlaye did not see her face--it was turned from him--but hecaught the sound and understood it. "The sun is hot," he said in atone of polite irony. "You find it so, mademoiselle? Doubtless theCountess has sought protection from it--in the barn. She will bethere, take my word for it!"
Bonne made no reply. She could not have spoken for her life; and heand they watched, shading their eyes from the sun, she, poor girl,with a hand which shook. The horsemen were by this time near the endof the building, an
d all but one proceeded to alight. The rest were inthe act of delivering up their reins, and one had already vanishedwithin the building, when in full view of the company, who werewatching from the middle of the field, a man sprang from an opening atthe other end of the barn, reached in three bounds the brink of thestream, and even as Vlaye's shout of warning startled the field,plunged from the bank, and was lost to sight.
"Hola! Hola!" M. de Vlaye cried in stentorian tones, and, with hisrowels in his horse's flanks, he was away racing to the spot beforehis followers had taken the alarm. The next moment they werethundering emulously at his heels, their charge shaking the earth.Even the men who had alighted beside the barn, and as yet knew nothingof the evasion, saw that something was wrong, took the alarm, andhurried round the building to the river.
"He is there!" cried one, as they pulled up along the bank of thestream. And the speaker, in his desire to show his zeal, wheeled hishorse about so suddenly that he well-nigh knocked down his neighbour.
"No, there! There!" cried another. And "There!" cried a third, as thefugitive dived, otter fashion, the willows of the stream affording himsome protection.
Suddenly M. de Vlaye's voice rang above all. "After him!" he cried."After him, fools, and seize him on the other side!"
In a twinkling three or four of the more courageous forced theirhorses into the stream, and began to swim across. Sixty yards belowthe spot where he had entered the water, the swimmer's head could beseen. He was being borne on a current towards a willow-bed whichprojected from the opposite bank, and offered a hiding-place. Withwild cries those who had not entered the stream followed him along thebank, jostling and crossing one another, and marked him here andmarked him there, while the baying of the excited hounds, restrainedby their couples, filled the woods beyond the river with the fiercemusic of the chase.
Meantime the Vicomte and his younger daughter remained alone in themiddle of the meadow; for the Abbess's horse had carried her after theothers, whether she would or no, with her hawk clinging and screamingon her sleeve. Of the two who remained, the Vicomte was in a highrage. To be used after this fashion by his guests! To see strangerstaking the law into their own hands on his land! To be afoot whilehireling troopers spurned his own clods in his face, and all withoutleave or license, all where he and his forebears had exercised the lowjustice and the high for centuries! It was too much!
"What is it? Who is it?" he cried, adding in his passion oaths andexecrations then too common. "That is not the Countess! Are they mad?"
"It is Charles," she answered, weeping bitterly. "He was hiding there.And he thought that they were in search of him. Oh, they will killhim! They will kill him!"
"Charles?" the Vicomte exclaimed, and stood turned to stone."Charles?"
"Yes!" she panted. "And, oh, sir, a word! He is your son, and a wordmay save him! He has done nothing--nothing that they should hunt himlike a rat!"
But the Vicomte was another man now, moved, wrought on by Heaven knowswhat devils of pride and shame. "My son!" he cried, his rage diverted."That my son? You lie, girl!" coarsely. "He is no son of mine. Youwander. It is some skulking Crocan they have unharboured. Son of mine?Hiding on my land? No! You rave, girl!"
"Oh, sir!" she panted.
"Not a word!" He gripped her wrist fiercely and forced her to silence."Do you hear me? Not a word. He is no son of mine!"
She clung to him, still imploring him, still trying to soften him. Buthe shook her off, roughly, brutally, raising his stick to her; and,blinded by her tears, unable to do more, she sank to the ground andburied her face, that she might not see, in a mass of hay. He, withouta word, turned his back on her, on the crowd beside the river, on thegroups of frightened haymakers--turned his back on all and strode awayin the direction of the chateau, with those devils of shame and pride,which he had pampered so long, riding him hard. He had drained at lastthe cup of humiliation to the dregs. He had seen his son hunted like abeast of vermin on his own land in his presence. And his one desirewas to be gone. Rage with the cause of this last and worst disgracedried up all natural feeling, all thought for his flesh and blood, allpity. He cared not whether his son lived or died. His only longing wasto escape in his own person; to be gone from the place and scene ofdegradation, to set himself once more in a position, to--to behimself!
There are tones of the voice that in the lowest depth inspiresomething of confidence. Bonne, as she lay crushed under the weight ofher misery, with the merciless sun beating down upon her neck, heardsuch a tone whispering low in her ear.
"Lie still, mademoiselle," it murmured. "Lie still! Where you are, youare unseen, and I must speak to you. The man, whoever he is, is taken.They have seized him."
She tried to rise. He laid his hand on her shoulder and held her down.
"I must go!" she gasped, still struggling to rise. "I must go! It ismy brother!"
The Lieutenant--for he it was--muttered, it is to be feared, an oath."Your brother!" he said. "It is your brother, is it? Ah, if you hadtrusted me! But all is not lost! Listen!" he continued urgently. "M.de Vlaye has bidden the men who have taken him--on the farther side ofthe river--to convey him along that bank to the ford, and so by theroad to Vlaye. And--will you trust me now, mademoiselle?"
"I will, I will!" she sobbed. She showed him for one moment hertear-stained, impassioned face. "If you will help me! If you will helpmy brother!"
"I will!" he said, and then, and abruptly, he laid his hand on her andviolently pressed her down. "Be still!" he muttered in a tone of sharpwarning. "I have no more wish to be seen by Vlaye than your brotherhad!" Lying beside her, he peeped warily over the hay by which he waspartly hidden; a slight hollow in which that particular cock restedserved to shelter them somewhat, but the screen was slight. "I fearthey are coming this way," he continued, his voice not quite steady."I would I had my horse here, and sound, and I would trouble themlittle. But all is not lost, all is not lost," he repeated slowly,"till their hands are on us! Nor, may-be, even then!"
She understood, and lay trembling and hiding her face, unable to facethis new terror. The thunder of hoofs, coming nearer and nearer, oncemore shook the earth. The horsemen were returning from the river.
"Lie low!" he repeated, more coolly. "They have spied the Countess. Ifeared they would. And they are hot foot after her--so ho! And we aresaved! Yes," he continued, peeping again and more boldly, "we aresaved, I think. They have stopped her, just as Roger and herman--clever Roger, he will make a general yet--were about to pass herover the bridge. Another minute and they had got her to cover in thehouse, and it had been my fate to be taken."
She did not answer, her agitation was too great. And after a briefsilence during which the Lieutenant watched what went forward at theend of the meadow: "Now, mademoiselle," he said in a more gentle tone,"it is for the Countess I want your help. I will answer for yourbrother. If no accident befall him he shall be free before many hoursare over his head. Remember that! But with Mademoiselle deRochechouart--if she be once removed to Vlaye, and cast into thisman's power, it will go hard. She is a child, little able to resist.Do you go to her, support her, speak for her, fight for her even--onlygain time. Gain time! He will not resort to violence at once, or I ammistaken. He will not drag her away by force until he has exhaustedall other means. He will suffer her to stay awhile if you play yourpart well. And you must play it well!"
"I will!" Bonne cried, all her forces rallied by hope. "I do not knowwho you are, but save my brother----"
"I will save him!"
"And I will bless you!"
"Do you save the Countess, and she will bless you!" he answeredcheerfully. "Now to her, mademoiselle, and do not leave her. Go! Showyourself as brave there as here, and----"
He did not finish the sentence, but as she rose his hand, through someaccident, or some impulse that surprised him--for such weaknesses werenot in his nature--met hers through the hay and clasped it. The girlreddened to the brow, sprang up, and in a trice was hastening acrossthe field towards the crowd th
at in a confused medley of horse andfoot, peasants and troopers, was gathered about the stone bridge whichspanned the brook. The sun beat hotly down on the little mob, but inthe interest of the scene which was passing in their midst no onethought twice of the heat.
Bonne's spirits were in a tumult. She hardly knew what she thought orhow she felt, or what she was going to do.
But one thing she knew. On one thing she set her foot with every step,and that was fear. A new courage, and a new feeling, filled the girlwith an excitement half-painful, half-delightful. Whence this was shedid not ask herself, nor why she rested so confidently on theguarantee of her brother's safety, which an untried stranger had givenher. It was enough that he had given it. She did not go beyond that.
When she came, hot and panting, to the skirts of the crowd, she foundthat she must push her way between the horses of the troopers if shewould see anything of what was passing. In the act she noticed thathalf the men were grinning, the others exchanging sly looks and winks.But she was through at last. Now she could see what was afoot.
On the bridge, three paces before her, stood M. de Vlaye with his backto her. He had dismounted, and had his hat in his hand. Beyond him,standing at bay, as it seemed, against the low side wall of thebridge, was the Countess, her small face white, and puckered, andsullen, and behind her again stood Roger, and Fulbert, the steward,with a wild-beast glare in his eyes.
"Surely, mademoiselle," Bonne heard M. de Vlaye say in honeyedaccents, as she emerged from the crowd, "surely it were better youmounted here----"
"No!"
"And rode to the chateau. And then at your leisure----"
"No, I thank you. I will walk."
"But, Countess, you are not safe," he persisted, "on foot and in theopen, after what has passed."
"Then I will go to the chateau," she replied, "but I can walk, I thankyou." It was strange to see the firmness, ay, and dignity, that awokein her in this extremity.
"That, of course," M, de Vlaye replied lightly. "Of course. But seeingthe Abbess on horseback, I thought that you might prefer to ride withher----"
"It is but a step."
"And I am walking," Bonne struck in, pushing to the front. "I will gowith the Countess to the house." She spoke with a firmness whichsurprised herself, and certainly surprised M. de Vlaye, who had notseen her at his elbow. He hesitated, and partly in view of theCountess's attitude, partly of the fact that he had not preciselydefined his next step if he got her mounted--he gave way.
"By all means," he said. "And we will form your guard."
Bonne passed her arm round the young Countess. "Come," she said. "Isee my sister has preceded us to the house. The sun is hot, and thesooner we are under cover the better."
It was not the heat of the sun, however, that had driven the Abbessfrom the scene, but a spirit of temper. She had no suspicion of thetruth--as yet. But the fuss which M. de Vlaye seemed bent on makingabout the little countess piqued her, and after looking on a minute ortwo, and finding herself still left in the background, she had let herjealousy have vent, had struck spur to her horse and ridden back tothe house in a rage. This was the last thing she would have done hadher eyes been open. Had she guessed how welcome to her admirer herretreat at that moment was, she would have risked a hundred sunstrokesbefore she went!
She had no notion of the real situation, however, and Bonne, who had,and with a woman's wit saw in her a potent ally, was too late to callher back, though she longed to do it. Between the bridge and thehouse-gate lay three hundred yards, every yard, it seemed to Bonne, ayard of peril to her charge; and the girl nerved herself accordingly.For Vlaye's darkening face sufficiently declared his perplexity. Atany instant, at any point, he might throw off the mask of courtesy,use force, and ride off with his prey. And what could she do?
Only with a brave face walk slowly, slowly, talking as she went!Talking and making believe to be at ease; repressing both thetreacherous flutter of her own heart and the little Countess'stendency to start at every movement M. de Vlaye made--as the lambstarts when the wolf bares its teeth! Bonne felt that to let him seethat they expected violence was to invite it; and though, if he made amovement to seize her companion, she was prepared to cling and screamand fight with her very nails--she knew that such methods were thelast desperate resource, to resort to which portended defeat.
He walked abreast of them, his rein on his arm, his haughty head bent.A little behind them on the left side walked Roger and the Countess'ssteward. Behind these again, at a short distance, followed the mob oftroopers, grinning and nudging one another, and scarce deigning tohide their amusement.
Bonne guessed all, yet she talked bravely. "It is quite an adventure!"she said brightly. "We did but half believe it, M. de Vlaye! Until youtold us, we thought mademoiselle must be romancing. That she could notbe--oh, no, it seemed impossible that she could be the real Countess!"
"Indeed?" M. de Vlaye answered, measuring with his keen eye thedistance to the corner of the courtyard. The girl's chatterembarrassed him. He could not weigh quite coolly the chances and therisks.
"It was after nine o'clock--yes, it must have been nearer midnight!"Bonne continued, with that woman's power of dissembling which putsmen's acting to shame. "It was quite an alarm when she came! Wethought we were to be robbed."
"It is for that reason," Vlaye said smoothly, "I wish the Countess tobe placed in safety."
"Or that it was the Crocans----"
"Precisely--it might have been. And therefore I wish her to placeherself without delay----"
"In proper clothes!" Bonne exclaimed cheerfully. "Of course! So shemust, M. de Vlaye, and this minute! To think of the Countess ofRochechouart"--she laughed, and affectionately drew the girl nearer toher--"making hay in a waiting-woman's clothes! No wonder that she didnot wish to be seen!"
M. de Vlaye looked at the chatterer askance, and mechanically gnawedhis moustache. He believed, nay, he was almost sure that she knew alland was playing with him. If so she was playing so successfully thathere they were at the corner of the courtyard and he no nearer adecision. They had but to pass along one wall, turn, and in fortypaces they would be at the gate. He must make up his mind promptly,then! And, curse her! she talked so fast that he could not bring hismind to it, or weigh the emergencies. If he seized the girl here----
"Roger should not have let her try to cross the brook, M. de Vlaye,should he?" Bonne babbled. "He should have known better. Now she haswet her feet and must change her shoes! Yes," playfully, "you must,mademoiselle."
"I will," the Countess muttered with shaking lips.
One of the troopers who had been of the expedition the day before, andwhom the situation tickled, laughed on a sudden outright. M. de Vlayehalf halted, turned and looked back in wrath. Was he going to give thesignal? Bonne's arm shook. But no, he turned again. And they werealmost at the second corner; now they turned it, and her eyes soughtthe gate greedily, to learn who awaited them there. If the Vicomte wasthere, and her sister, it was so much in her favour. He would hardlydare to carry the girl off by force under their eyes.
But they were not there. Even Solomon was invisible; probably he hadtaken the Abbess's horse to the stable. Bonne was left to her ownresources, therefore, to her own wits; and at the gate, at the momentof interest, at the last moment, the pinch would come.
And still, but with a dry throat, she talked. "To leave the sun forthe shade!" she cried with a prodigious sigh as the western wall ofthe courtyard intervened and protected them from the sun's heat. "Isit not delightful! It was almost worth while to be so hot, to feel socool! Are you cool, M. de Vlaye?"
"Yes," he replied grimly, "but----"
"Sommes-nous au milieu du bois?"
she sang, cutting him short--they were within seven or eight paces ofthe gateway, and she fancied that his face was growing hard, that shedetected the movements of a man preparing to make his leap--
"Sommes-nous a la rive? Sommes-nous au milieu du
bois? Sommes-nous a la rive?
_A la rive? A la rive!_" she chanted, her arm closing more tightlyabout the Countess. "_A la rive!_"
With the last word--_Pouf!_--she thrust the child towards the opengateway, and by the same movement dropped on her knees in front of M.de Vlaye, completely thwarting his first instinctive impulse, whichwas to snatch at the Countess. "It is my pin!" she cried, rising asquickly as she had knelt--the whole seemed but one movement. "Pardon,M. de Vlaye," she continued, but by that time the Countess was twentypaces away, and half-way across the court. "Did I interrupt you? Howlucky to find it! I must have lost it yesterday!"
He did not speak, but his eyes betrayed his rage--rage not the lessthat his men had witnessed and understood the man[oe]uvre; nay, daredby a titter to betray their amusement. For an instant he was temptedto seize her and crush the cursed pride out of her--he to be outwittedbefore his people by a woman! Or why should he not take her a hostagein the other's room?
Then he remembered that he needed no hostage; he had one already. In avoice that drove the blood from her cheeks, "Take care! Take care,mademoiselle!" he muttered. "Sometimes one pays too much for such atrifle as a pin. You might have hurt yourself, stooping so suddenly!Or hurt--your brother!"
Roger could no longer keep silence. "I can take care of myself, M. deVlaye," he said, "and of my sister also, I would have you know."
But M. de Vlaye had himself in hand again. "It was not to you Ireferred," he said coldly and contemptuously. "Take me to yourfather."
They found the Vicomte awaiting them on the drawbridge at the fartherside of the court. But the Countess had vanished; she had not lost amoment in hiding herself in the recesses of her room. For the firsttime in their intercourse M. de Vlaye approached his host withoutceremony or greeting.
"The Countess must come with me," he said roughly and roundly. "Shecannot stay here. This place," with a look of naked scorn, "is noplace for her. Give orders, if you please, that she prepare toaccompany me."
The Vicomte, shaken by the events of the morning, stood thunderstruck.His hand trembled on his staff, and for a moment he could not speak.At last--
"The Countess is in my care, and under my protection," he said, in avoice shrill with emotion.
"Neither of which would avail her in the least," M. de Vlaye answeredbrutally, "in the event of danger! But it is not to enter into anargument that I am here. I care nothing for the number of yourhousehold, or the strength of your house, M. le Vicomte, or," with asneer, "what was the condition of either--before Coutras. The pointis, this is no place for one in the Countess of Rochechouart'sposition. It is my duty to see her placed in a position of greatersafety, and I intend to perform that duty!"
The Vicomte, powerless as he was, shook with passion. "Since when," heexclaimed, "has that duty been laid upon you?"
"It is laid on me," the Captain of Vlaye answered contemptuously, "bythe fact that there is no one else in the district who can performit."
"You will perform it at your peril," the Vicomte said.
"I shall perform it."
"But if the Countess prefers to stay here?" Roger cried, interferinghotly.
"It is a question of her safety, and not of her preference," Vlayeretorted, standing grim and cold before them. "She must come."
A dozen of his troopers had ridden into the courtyard, and from theirsaddles were watching the group on the drawbridge. The groupconsisted, besides the Vicomte, of Roger and his sister, old Solomonthe porter, and the wild-looking steward. Roger, his heart burstingwith indignation, measured with his eye the distance across thecourtyard, and had thoughts of flinging himself upon Vlaye, bearinghim to the ground, and making his life the price of his men'swithdrawal. But he had no weapon, Solomon and Fulbert were in the likecase, and the Captain of Vlaye, a man in the prime of life, and armed,was likely to prove a match for all three.
If the Vicomte's ancestors in the pride of their day and power hadbeen deaf to the poor man's cry, if the justice-elm without the castlegates had received in the centuries past the last sighs of theinnocent, if the towers of the old house had been built in groaningand cemented with blood, some part of the debt was paid this day onthe drawbridge. To see the sacred rights of hospitality deforced, tostand by while the guest whom he could not protect--and that guest awoman of his rank and kind--was torn from his hearth, to be set for alaughing-stock to this canaille of troopers--such a humiliation shouldhave slain the last of the Villeneuves where he stood.
Yet the Vicomte lived--lived, it is true, with twitching lips andshaking hands--but lived, and, after a few seconds of moody silence,stooped to parry the blow which he could not return.
"To-morrow--if you will wait until to-morrow," he muttered, "she maybe better prepared to--take the journey."
"To-morrow?"
"Yes, if you will give us till to-morrow"--reluctantly--"we maypersuade her."
M. de Vlaye's answer was as unexpected as it was decisive. "Be it so!"he said. "She shall have till to-morrow." He spoke more graciously,more courteously, than he had yet spoken. "I have been--it is possiblethat in my anxiety for her safety, M. le Vicomte, I have been hasty.Once a soldier, always a soldier! Forgive me, and you, mademoiselle,the same; and I, on my side, will say to-morrow. There, I am notunreasonable," with a poor attempt at joviality. "Only I must leavewith you ten or a dozen troopers for her safe keeping. And beyondto-morrow, in the present state of the country, I cannot spare them."
At the mention of the troopers the Vicomte's jaw fell. He stared.
"Will not that suit you?" M. de Vlaye said gaily. He had recovered hisusual spirits. He spoke in his old tone.
"It must," the Vicomte answered sullenly. "But I could answer for herwithout your troopers."
M. de Vlaye shook his head. "Ah, no," he said. "I can say no betterthan that. With the Crocans so near, and growing in boldness everyday, I am bound to be careful. I am told," with a peculiar smile,"that some ne'er-do-wells of birth have joined them in these parts.The worse for them!"
"Well, be it so," the Vicomte said with a ghastly smile. "Be it so! Beit so!"
"Good," Vlaye answered cheerfully--he grew more at his ease with everyword. Some might have thought that he had gained all he wanted or sawa new and easy way to it. "Good, and as I must be returning, I willgive the necessary orders at once."
He turned as he spoke, and crossing the courtyard, conferred awhilewith Ampoule, his second in command. Hurriedly men were told off tothis hand and that, some trotting briskly under the archway--where thehay of more peaceful days deadened the sound of hoofs, and the cobwebsalmost swept their heads--and others entering by the same road.Presently M. de Vlaye, whose horse had been brought to him, got to hissaddle, rode a few paces nearer the drawbridge, and raised his hat.
"I have done as you wish," he said. "Until tomorrow, M. le Vicomte!Mademoiselle, I kiss your hands!" And wilfully blind to the coldnessof the salutation made in return, he wheeled his horse gracefully,called a man to his side, and rode out of the court.
The Vicomte let his chin fall upon his breast, and beyond a doubt hisreflections were of the bitterest. But soon he remembered that therewere strange eyes upon him, and he turned and went heavily into hishouse, the house that others now had in keeping. Old Solomon followedhim with an anxious face, and Fulbert, ever desirous to be with hismistress, vanished in their train. The troopers, after one or twoglances at the two who remained on the drawbridge, and a jest at whichsome laughed outright and some made covert gestures of derision, beganto lead their horses into the long stable.
Roger's eye met Bonne's in a glance of flame. "Do you see?" he said."He was to leave twelve--at the most. He has left eighteen. Do youunderstand?"
She shook her head.
"I do!" he said. "I do! We may go to our prayers!"
The Abbess Of Vlaye Page 8