THE SIRE DE MALÊTROIT’S DOOR
DENIS DE BEAULIEU was not yet two-and-twenty, but he counted himself agrown man, and a very accomplished cavalier into the bargain. Lads wereearly formed in that rough, warfaring epoch; and when one has been in apitched battle and a dozen raids, has killed one’s man in an honourablefashion, and knows a thing or two of strategy and mankind, a certainswagger in the gait is surely to be pardoned. He had put up his horsewith due care, and supped with due deliberation; and then, in a veryagreeable frame of mind, went out to pay a visit in the grey of theevening. It was not a very wise proceeding on the young man’s part. Hewould have done better to remain beside the fire or go decently to bed.For the town was full of the troops of Burgundy and England under a mixedcommand; and though Denis was there on safe-conduct, his safe-conduct waslike to serve him little on a chance encounter.
It was September 1429; the weather had fallen sharp; a flighty pipingwind, laden with showers, beat about the township; and the dead leavesran riot along the streets. Here and there a window was already lightedup; and the noise of men-at-arms making merry over supper within, cameforth in fits and was swallowed up and carried away by the wind. Thenight fell swiftly; the flag of England, fluttering on the spire-top,grew ever fainter and fainter against the flying clouds—a black specklike a swallow in the tumultuous, leaden chaos of the sky. As the nightfell the wind rose, and began to hoot under archways and roar amid thetree-tops in the valley below the town.
Denis de Beaulieu walked fast and was soon knocking at his friend’s door;but though he promised himself to stay only a little while and make anearly return, his welcome was so pleasant, and he found so much to delayhim, that it was already long past midnight before he said good-bye uponthe threshold. The wind had fallen again in the meanwhile; the night wasas black as the grave; not a star, nor a glimmer of moonshine, slippedthrough the canopy of cloud. Denis was ill-acquainted with the intricatelanes of Chateau Landon; even by daylight he had found some trouble inpicking his way; and in this absolute darkness he soon lost italtogether. He was certain of one thing only—to keep mounting the hill;for his friend’s house lay at the lower end, or tail, of Chateau Landon,while the inn was up at the head, under the great church spire. Withthis clue to go upon he stumbled and groped forward, now breathing morefreely in open places where there was a good slice of sky overhead, nowfeeling along the wall in stifling closes. It is an eerie and mysteriousposition to be thus submerged in opaque blackness in an almost unknowntown. The silence is terrifying in its possibilities. The touch of coldwindow bars to the exploring hand startles the man like the touch of atoad; the inequalities of the pavement shake his heart into his mouth; apiece of denser darkness threatens an ambuscade or a chasm in thepathway; and where the air is brighter, the houses put on strange andbewildering appearances, as if to lead him farther from his way. ForDenis, who had to regain his inn without attracting notice, there wasreal danger as well as mere discomfort in the walk; and he went warilyand boldly at once, and at every corner paused to make an observation.
He had been for some time threading a lane so narrow that he could toucha wall with either hand, when it began to open out and go sharplydownward. Plainly this lay no longer in the direction of his inn; butthe hope of a little more light tempted him forward to reconnoitre. Thelane ended in a terrace with a bartizan wall, which gave an out-lookbetween high houses, as out of an embrasure, into the valley lying darkand formless several hundred feet below. Denis looked down, and coulddiscern a few tree-tops waving and a single speck of brightness where theriver ran across a weir. The weather was clearing up, and the sky hadlightened, so as to show the outline of the heavier clouds and the darkmargin of the hills. By the uncertain glimmer, the house on his lefthand should be a place of some pretensions; it was surmounted by severalpinnacles and turret-tops; the round stern of a chapel, with a fringe offlying buttresses, projected boldly from the main block; and the door wassheltered under a deep porch carved with figures and overhung by two longgargoyles. The windows of the chapel gleamed through their intricatetracery with a light as of many tapers, and threw out the buttresses andthe peaked roof in a more intense blackness against the sky. It wasplainly the hotel of some great family of the neighbourhood; and as itreminded Denis of a town house of his own at Bourges, he stood for sometime gazing up at it and mentally gauging the skill of the architects andthe consideration of the two families.
There seemed to be no issue to the terrace but the lane by which he hadreached it; he could only retrace his steps, but he had gained somenotion of his whereabouts, and hoped by this means to hit the mainthoroughfare and speedily regain the inn. He was reckoning without thatchapter of accidents which was to make this night memorable above allothers in his career; for he had not gone back above a hundred yardsbefore he saw a light coming to meet him, and heard loud voices speakingtogether in the echoing narrows of the lane. It was a party ofmen-at-arms going the night round with torches. Denis assured himselfthat they had all been making free with the wine-bowl, and were in nomood to be particular about safe-conducts or the niceties of chivalrouswar. It was as like as not that they would kill him like a dog and leavehim where he fell. The situation was inspiriting but nervous. Their owntorches would conceal him from sight, he reflected; and he hoped thatthey would drown the noise of his footsteps with their own empty voices.If he were but fleet and silent, he might evade their notice altogether.
Unfortunately, as he turned to beat a retreat, his foot rolled upon apebble; he fell against the wall with an ejaculation, and his sword rangloudly on the stones. Two or three voices demanded who went there—somein French, some in English; but Denis made no reply, and ran the fasterdown the lane. Once upon the terrace, he paused to look back. Theystill kept calling after him, and just then began to double the pace inpursuit, with a considerable clank of armour, and great tossing of thetorchlight to and fro in the narrow jaws of the passage.
Denis cast a look around and darted into the porch. There he mightescape observation, or—if that were too much to expect—was in a capitalposture whether for parley or defence. So thinking, he drew his swordand tried to set his back against the door. To his surprise, it yieldedbehind his weight; and though he turned in a moment, continued to swingback on oiled and noiseless hinges, until it stood wide open on a blackinterior. When things fall out opportunely for the person concerned, heis not apt to be critical about the how or why, his own immediatepersonal convenience seeming a sufficient reason for the strangestoddities and resolutions in our sublunary things; and so Denis, without amoment’s hesitation, stepped within and partly closed the door behind himto conceal his place of refuge. Nothing was further from his thoughtsthan to close it altogether; but for some inexplicable reason—perhaps bya spring or a weight—the ponderous mass of oak whipped itself out of hisfingers and clanked to, with a formidable rumble and a noise like thefalling of an automatic bar.
The round, at that very moment, debauched upon the terrace and proceededto summon him with shouts and curses. He heard them ferreting in thedark corners; the stock of a lance even rattled along the outer surfaceof the door behind which he stood; but these gentlemen were in too high ahumour to be long delayed, and soon made off down a corkscrew pathwaywhich had escaped Denis’s observation, and passed out of sight andhearing along the battlements of the town.
Denis breathed again. He gave them a few minutes’ grace for fear ofaccidents, and then groped about for some means of opening the door andslipping forth again. The inner surface was quite smooth, not a handle,not a moulding, not a projection of any sort. He got his finger-nailsround the edges and pulled, but the mass was immovable. He shook it, itwas as firm as a rock. Denis de Beaulieu frowned and gave vent to alittle noiseless whistle. What ailed the door? he wondered. Why was itopen? How came it to shut so easily and so effectually after him? Therewas something obscure and underhand about all this, that was little tothe young man’s fancy. It looked like a snare; an
d yet who could supposea snare in such a quiet by-street and in a house of so prosperous andeven noble an exterior? And yet—snare or no snare, intentionally orunintentionally—here he was, prettily trapped; and for the life of him hecould see no way out of it again. The darkness began to weigh upon him.He gave ear; all was silent without, but within and close by he seemed tocatch a faint sighing, a faint sobbing rustle, a little stealthy creak—asthough many persons were at his side, holding themselves quite still, andgoverning even their respiration with the extreme of slyness. The ideawent to his vitals with a shock, and he faced about suddenly as if todefend his life. Then, for the first time, he became aware of a lightabout the level of his eyes and at some distance in the interior of thehouse—a vertical thread of light, widening towards the bottom, such asmight escape between two wings of arras over a doorway. To see anythingwas a relief to Denis; it was like a piece of solid ground to a manlabouring in a morass; his mind seized upon it with avidity; and he stoodstaring at it and trying to piece together some logical conception of hissurroundings. Plainly there was a flight of steps ascending from his ownlevel to that of this illuminated doorway; and indeed he thought he couldmake out another thread of light, as fine as a needle and as faint asphosphorescence, which might very well be reflected along the polishedwood of a handrail. Since he had begun to suspect that he was not alone,his heart had continued to beat with smothering violence, and anintolerable desire for action of any sort had possessed itself of hisspirit. He was in deadly peril, he believed. What could be more naturalthan to mount the staircase, lift the curtain, and confront hisdifficulty at once? At least he would be dealing with somethingtangible; at least he would be no longer in the dark. He stepped slowlyforward with outstretched hands, until his foot struck the bottom step;then he rapidly scaled the stairs, stood for a moment to compose hisexpression, lifted the arras and went in.
He found himself in a large apartment of polished stone. There werethree doors; one on each of three sides; all similarly curtained withtapestry. The fourth side was occupied by two large windows and a greatstone chimney-piece, carved with the arms of the Malétroits. Denisrecognised the bearings, and was gratified to find himself in such goodhands. The room was strongly illuminated; but it contained littlefurniture except a heavy table and a chair or two, the hearth wasinnocent of fire, and the pavement was but sparsely strewn with rushesclearly many days old.
On a high chair beside the chimney, and directly facing Denis as heentered, sat a little old gentleman in a fur tippet. He sat with hislegs crossed and his hands folded, and a cup of spiced wine stood by hiselbow on a bracket on the wall. His countenance had a strongly masculinecast; not properly human, but such as we see in the bull, the goat, orthe domestic boar; something equivocal and wheedling, something greedy,brutal, and dangerous. The upper lip was inordinately full, as thoughswollen by a blow or a toothache; and the smile, the peaked eyebrows, andthe small, strong eyes were quaintly and almost comically evil inexpression. Beautiful white hair hung straight all round his head, likea saint’s, and fell in a single curl upon the tippet. His beard andmoustache were the pink of venerable sweetness. Age, probably inconsequence of inordinate precautions, had left no mark upon his hands;and the Malétroit hand was famous. It would be difficult to imagineanything at once so fleshy and so delicate in design; the taper, sensualfingers were like those of one of Leonardo’s women; the fork of the thumbmade a dimpled protuberance when closed; the nails were perfectly shaped,and of a dead, surprising whiteness. It rendered his aspect tenfold moreredoubtable, that a man with hands like these should keep them devoutlyfolded in his lap like a virgin martyr—that a man with so intense andstartling an expression of face should sit patiently on his seat andcontemplate people with an unwinking stare, like a god, or a god’sstatue. His quiescence seemed ironical and treacherous, it fitted sopoorly with his looks.
Such was Alain, Sire de Malétroit.
Denis and he looked silently at each other for a second or two.
“Pray step in,” said the Sire de Malétroit. “I have been expecting youall the evening.”
He had not risen, but he accompanied his words with a smile and a slightbut courteous inclination of the head. Partly from the smile, partlyfrom the strange musical murmur with which the Sire prefaced hisobservation, Denis felt a strong shudder of disgust go through hismarrow. And what with disgust and honest confusion of mind, he couldscarcely get words together in reply.
“I fear,” he said, “that this is a double accident. I am not the personyou suppose me. It seems you were looking for a visit; but for my part,nothing was further from my thoughts—nothing could be more contrary to mywishes—than this intrusion.”
“Well, well,” replied the old gentleman indulgently, “here you are, whichis the main point. Seat yourself, my friend, and put yourself entirelyat your ease. We shall arrange our little affairs presently.”
Denis perceived that the matter was still complicated with somemisconception, and he hastened to continue his explanations.
“Your door . . . ” he began.
“About my door?” asked the other, raising his peaked eyebrows. “A littlepiece of ingenuity.” And he shrugged his shoulders. “A hospitablefancy! By your own account, you were not desirous of making myacquaintance. We old people look for such reluctance now and then; andwhen it touches our honour, we cast about until we find some way ofovercoming it. You arrive uninvited, but believe me, very welcome.”
“You persist in error, sir,” said Denis. “There can be no questionbetween you and me. I am a stranger in this countryside. My name isDenis, damoiseau de Beaulieu. If you see me in your house, it is only—”
“My young friend,” interrupted the other, “you will permit me to have myown ideas on that subject. They probably differ from yours at thepresent moment,” he added with a leer, “but time will show which of us isin the right.”
Denis was convinced he had to do with a lunatic. He seated himself witha shrug, content to wait the upshot; and a pause ensued, during which hethought he could distinguish a hurried gabbling as of prayer from behindthe arras immediately opposite him. Sometimes there seemed to be but oneperson engaged, sometimes two; and the vehemence of the voice, low as itwas, seemed to indicate either great haste or an agony of spirit. Itoccurred to him that this piece of tapestry covered the entrance to thechapel he had noticed from without.
The old gentleman meanwhile surveyed Denis from head to foot with asmile, and from time to time emitted little noises like a bird or amouse, which seemed to indicate a high degree of satisfaction. Thisstate of matters became rapidly insupportable; and Denis, to put an endto it, remarked politely that the wind had gone down.
The old gentleman fell into a fit of silent laughter, so prolonged andviolent that he became quite red in the face. Denis got upon his feet atonce, and put on his hat with a flourish.
“Sir,” he said, “if you are in your wits, you have affronted me grossly.If you are out of them, I flatter myself I can find better employment formy brains than to talk with lunatics. My conscience is clear; you havemade a fool of me from the first moment; you have refused to hear myexplanations; and now there is no power under God will make me stay hereany longer; and if I cannot make my way out in a more decent fashion, Iwill hack your door in pieces with my sword.”
The Sire de Malétroit raised his right hand and wagged it at Denis withthe fore and little fingers extended.
“My dear nephew,” he said, “sit down.”
“Nephew!” retorted Denis, “you lie in your throat;” and he snapped hisfingers in his face.
“Sit down, you rogue!” cried the old gentleman, in a sudden, harsh voice,like the barking of a dog. “Do you fancy,” he went on, “that when I hadmade my little contrivance for the door I had stopped short with that?If you prefer to be bound hand and foot till your bones ache, rise andtry to go away. If you choose to remain a free young buck, agreeablyconversing with an old gentleman—why, si
t where you are in peace, and Godbe with you.”
“Do you mean I am a prisoner?” demanded Denis.
“I state the facts,” replied the other. “I would rather leave theconclusion to yourself.”
Denis sat down again. Externally he managed to keep pretty calm; butwithin, he was now boiling with anger, now chilled with apprehension. Heno longer felt convinced that he was dealing with a madman. And if theold gentleman was sane, what, in God’s name, had he to look for? Whatabsurd or tragical adventure had befallen him? What countenance was heto assume?
While he was thus unpleasantly reflecting, the arras that overhung thechapel door was raised, and a tall priest in his robes came forth and,giving a long, keen stare at Denis, said something in an undertone toSire de Malétroit.
“She is in a better frame of spirit?” asked the latter.
“She is more resigned, messire,” replied the priest.
“Now the Lord help her, she is hard to please!” sneered the oldgentleman. “A likely stripling—not ill-born—and of her own choosing,too? Why, what more would the jade have?”
“The situation is not usual for a young damsel,” said the other, “andsomewhat trying to her blushes.”
“She should have thought of that before she began the dance. It was noneof my choosing, God knows that: but since she is in it, by our Lady, sheshall carry it to the end.” And then addressing Denis, “Monsieur deBeaulieu,” he asked, “may I present you to my niece? She has beenwaiting your arrival, I may say, with even greater impatience thanmyself.”
Denis had resigned himself with a good grace—all he desired was to knowthe worst of it as speedily as possible; so he rose at once, and bowed inacquiescence. The Sire de Malétroit followed his example and limped,with the assistance of the chaplain’s arm, towards the chapel door. Thepriest pulled aside the arras, and all three entered. The building hadconsiderable architectural pretensions. A light groining sprang from sixstout columns, and hung down in two rich pendants from the centre of thevault. The place terminated behind the altar in a round end, embossedand honeycombed with a superfluity of ornament in relief, and pierced bymany little windows shaped like stars, trefoils, or wheels. Thesewindows were imperfectly glazed, so that the night air circulated freelyin the chapel. The tapers, of which there must have been half a hundredburning on the altar, were unmercifully blown about; and the light wentthrough many different phases of brilliancy and semi-eclipse. On thesteps in front of the altar knelt a young girl richly attired as a bride.A chill settled over Denis as he observed her costume; he fought withdesperate energy against the conclusion that was being thrust upon hismind; it could not—it should not—be as he feared.
“Blanche,” said the Sire, in his most flute-like tones, “I have brought afriend to see you, my little girl; turn round and give him your prettyhand. It is good to be devout; but it is necessary to be polite, myniece.”
The girl rose to her feet and turned towards the new comers. She movedall of a piece; and shame and exhaustion were expressed in every line ofher fresh young body; and she held her head down and kept her eyes uponthe pavement, as she came slowly forward. In the course of her advance,her eyes fell upon Denis de Beaulieu’s feet—feet of which he was justlyvain, be it remarked, and wore in the most elegant accoutrement evenwhile travelling. She paused—started, as if his yellow boots hadconveyed some shocking meaning—and glanced suddenly up into the wearer’scountenance. Their eyes met; shame gave place to horror and terror inher looks; the blood left her lips; with a piercing scream she coveredher face with her hands and sank upon the chapel floor.
“That is not the man!” she cried. “My uncle, that in not the man!”
The Sire de Malétroit chirped agreeably. “Of course not,” he said; “Iexpected as much. It was so unfortunate you could not remember hisname.”
“Indeed,” she cried, “indeed, I have never seen this person till thismoment—I have never so much as set eyes upon him—I never wish to see himagain. Sir,” she said, turning to Denis, “if you are a gentleman, youwill bear me out. Have I ever seen you—have you ever seen me—before thisaccursed hour?”
“To speak for myself, I have never had that pleasure,” answered the youngman. “This is the first time, messire, that I have met with yourengaging niece.”
The old gentleman shrugged his shoulders.
“I am distressed to hear it,” he said. “But it is never too late tobegin. I had little more acquaintance with my own late lady ere Imarried her; which proves,” he added with a grimace, “that theseimpromptu marriages may often produce an excellent understanding in thelong-run. As the bridegroom is to have a voice in the matter, I willgive him two hours to make up for lost time before we proceed with theceremony.” And he turned towards the door, followed by the clergyman.
The girl was on her feet in a moment. “My uncle, you cannot be inearnest,” she said. “I declare before God I will stab myself rather thanbe forced on that young man. The heart rises at it; God forbids suchmarriages; you dishonour your white hair. Oh, my uncle, pity me! Thereis not a woman in all the world but would prefer death to such a nuptial.Is it possible,” she added, faltering—“is it possible that you do notbelieve me—that you still think this”—and she pointed at Denis with atremor of anger and contempt—“that you still think _this_ to be the man?”
“Frankly,” said the old gentleman, pausing on the threshold, “I do. Butlet me explain to you once for all, Blanche de Malétroit, my way ofthinking about this affair. When you took it into your head to dishonourmy family and the name that I have borne, in peace and war, for more thanthree-score years, you forfeited, not only the right to question mydesigns, but that of looking me in the face. If your father had beenalive, he would have spat on you and turned you out of doors. His wasthe hand of iron. You may bless your God you have only to deal with thehand of velvet, mademoiselle. It was my duty to get you married withoutdelay. Out of pure goodwill, I have tried to find your own gallant foryou. And I believe I have succeeded. But before God and all the holyangels, Blanche de Malétroit, if I have not, I care not one jack-straw.So let me recommend you to be polite to our young friend; for upon myword, your next groom may be less appetising.”
And with that he went out, with the chaplain at his heels; and the arrasfell behind the pair.
The girl turned upon Denis with flashing eyes.
“And what, sir,” she demanded, “may be the meaning of all this?”
“God knows,” returned Denis gloomily. “I am a prisoner in this house,which seems full of mad people. More I know not; and nothing do Iunderstand.”
“And pray how came you here?” she asked.
He told her as briefly as he could. “For the rest,” he added, “perhapsyou will follow my example, and tell me the answer to all these riddles,and what, in God’s name, is like to be the end of it.”
She stood silent for a little, and he could see her lips tremble and hertearless eyes burn with a feverish lustre. Then she pressed her foreheadin both hands.
“Alas, how my head aches!” she said wearily—“to say nothing of my poorheart! But it is due to you to know my story, unmaidenly as it mustseem. I am called Blanche de Malétroit; I have been without father ormother for—oh! for as long as I can recollect, and indeed I have beenmost unhappy all my life. Three months ago a young captain began tostand near me every day in church. I could see that I pleased him; I ammuch to blame, but I was so glad that any one should love me; and when hepassed me a letter, I took it home with me and read it with greatpleasure. Since that time he has written many. He was so anxious tospeak with me, poor fellow! and kept asking me to leave the door opensome evening that we might have two words upon the stair. For he knewhow much my uncle trusted me.” She gave something like a sob at that,and it was a moment before she could go on. “My uncle is a hard man, buthe is very shrewd,” she said at last. “He has performed many feats inwar, and was a great person at court, and much t
rusted by Queen Isabeauin old days. How he came to suspect me I cannot tell; but it is hard tokeep anything from his knowledge; and this morning, as we came from mass,he took my hand in his, forced it open, and read my little billet,walking by my side all the while. When he had finished, he gave it backto me with great politeness. It contained another request to have thedoor left open; and this has been the ruin of us all. My uncle kept mestrictly in my room until evening, and then ordered me to dress myself asyou see me—a hard mockery for a young girl, do you not think so? Isuppose, when he could not prevail with me to tell him the youngcaptain’s name, he must have laid a trap for him: into which, alas! youhave fallen in the anger of God. I looked for much confusion; for howcould I tell whether he was willing to take me for his wife on thesesharp terms? He might have been trifling with me from the first; or Imight have made myself too cheap in his eyes. But truly I had not lookedfor such a shameful punishment as this! I could not think that God wouldlet a girl be so disgraced before a young man. And now I have told youall; and I can scarcely hope that you will not despise me.”
Denis made her a respectful inclination.
“Madam,” he said, “you have honoured me by your confidence. It remainsfor me to prove that I am not unworthy of the honour. Is Messire deMalétroit at hand?”
“I believe he is writing in the salle without,” she answered.
“May I lead you thither, madam?” asked Denis, offering his hand with hismost courtly bearing.
She accepted it; and the pair passed out of the chapel, Blanche in a verydrooping and shamefast condition, but Denis strutting and ruffling in theconsciousness of a mission, and the boyish certainty of accomplishing itwith honour.
The Sire de Malétroit rose to meet them with an ironical obeisance.
“Sir,” said Denis, with the grandest possible air, “I believe I am tohave some say in the matter of this marriage; and let me tell you atonce, I will be no party to forcing the inclination of this young lady.Had it been freely offered to me, I should have been proud to accept herhand, for I perceive she is as good as she is beautiful; but as thingsare, I have now the honour, messire, of refusing.”
Blanche looked at him with gratitude in her eyes; but the old gentlemanonly smiled and smiled, until his smile grew positively sickening toDenis.
“I am afraid,” he said, “Monsieur de Beaulieu, that you do not perfectlyunderstand the choice I have to offer you. Follow me, I beseech you, tothis window.” And he led the way to one of the large windows which stoodopen on the night. “You observe,” he went on, “there is an iron ring inthe upper masonry, and reeved through that, a very efficacious rope.Now, mark my words; if you should find your disinclination to my niece’sperson insurmountable, I shall have you hanged out of this window beforesunrise. I shall only proceed to such an extremity with the greatestregret, you may believe me. For it is not at all your death that Idesire, but my niece’s establishment in life. At the same time, it mustcome to that if you prove obstinate. Your family, Monsieur de Beaulieu,is very well in its way; but if you sprang from Charlemagne, you shouldnot refuse the hand of a Malétroit with impunity—not if she had been ascommon as the Paris road—not if she were as hideous as the gargoyle overmy door. Neither my niece nor you, nor my own private feelings, move meat all in this matter. The honour of my house has been compromised; Ibelieve you to be the guilty person; at least you are now in the secret;and you can hardly wonder if I request you to wipe out the stain. If youwill not, your blood be on your own head! It will be no greatsatisfaction to me to have your interesting relics kicking their heels inthe breeze below my windows; but half a loaf is better than no bread, andif I cannot cure the dishonour, I shall at least stop the scandal.”
There was a pause.
“I believe there are other ways of settling such imbroglios amonggentlemen,” said Denis. “You wear a sword, and I hear you have used itwith distinction.”
The Sire de Malétroit made a signal to the chaplain, who crossed the roomwith long silent strides and raised the arras over the third of the threedoors. It was only a moment before he let it fall again; but Denis hadtime to see a dusky passage full of armed men.
“When I was a little younger, I should have been delighted to honour you,Monsieur de Beaulieu,” said Sire Alain; “but I am now too old. Faithfulretainers are the sinews of age, and I must employ the strength I have.This is one of the hardest things to swallow as a man grows up in years;but with a little patience, even this becomes habitual. You and the ladyseem to prefer the salle for what remains of your two hours; and as Ihave no desire to cross your preference, I shall resign it to your usewith all the pleasure in the world. No haste!” he added, holding up hishand, as he saw a dangerous look come into Denis de Beaulieu’s face. “Ifyour mind revolts against hanging, it will be time enough two hours henceto throw yourself out of the window or upon the pikes of my retainers.Two hours of life are always two hours. A great many things may turn upin even as little a while as that. And, besides, if I understand herappearance, my niece has still something to say to you. You will notdisfigure your last hours by a want of politeness to a lady?”
Denis looked at Blanche, and she made him an imploring gesture.
It is likely that the old gentleman was hugely pleased at this symptom ofan understanding; for he smiled on both, and added sweetly: “If you willgive me your word of honour, Monsieur de Beaulieu, to await my return atthe end of the two hours before attempting anything desperate, I shallwithdraw my retainers, and let you speak in greater privacy withmademoiselle.”
Denis again glanced at the girl, who seemed to beseech him to agree.
“I give you my word of honour,” he said.
Messire de Malétroit bowed, and proceeded to limp about the apartment,clearing his throat the while with that odd musical chirp which hadalready grown so irritating in the ears of Denis de Beaulieu. He firstpossessed himself of some papers which lay upon the table; then he wentto the mouth of the passage and appeared to give an order to the menbehind the arras; and lastly he hobbled out through the door by whichDenis had come in, turning upon the threshold to address a last smilingbow to the young couple, and followed by the chaplain with a hand-lamp.
No sooner were they alone than Blanche advanced towards Denis with herhands extended. Her face was flushed and excited, and her eyes shonewith tears.
“You shall not die!” she cried, “you shall marry me after all.”
“You seem to think, madam,” replied Denis, “that I stand much in fear ofdeath.”
“Oh no, no,” she said, “I see you are no poltroon. It is for my ownsake—I could not bear to have you slain for such a scruple.”
“I am afraid,” returned Denis, “that you underrate the difficulty, madam.What you may be too generous to refuse, I may be too proud to accept. Ina moment of noble feeling towards me, you forgot what you perhaps owe toothers.”
He had the decency to keep his eyes upon the floor as he said this, andafter he had finished, so as not to spy upon her confusion. She stoodsilent for a moment, then walked suddenly away, and falling on heruncle’s chair, fairly burst out sobbing. Denis was in the acme ofembarrassment. He looked round, as if to seek for inspiration, andseeing a stool, plumped down upon it for something to do. There he sat,playing with the guard of his rapier, and wishing himself dead a thousandtimes over, and buried in the nastiest kitchen-heap in France. His eyeswandered round the apartment, but found nothing to arrest them. Therewere such wide spaces between the furniture, the light fell so baldly andcheerlessly over all, the dark outside air looked in so coldly throughthe windows, that he thought he had never seen a church so vast, nor atomb so melancholy. The regular sobs of Blanche de Malétroit measuredout the time like the ticking of a clock. He read the device upon theshield over and over again, until his eyes became obscured; he staredinto shadowy corners until he imagined they were swarming with horribleanimals; and every now and again he awoke with a start, to remember thathis last tw
o hours were running, and death was on the march.
Oftener and oftener, as the time went on, did his glance settle on thegirl herself. Her face was bowed forward and covered with her hands, andshe was shaken at intervals by the convulsive hiccup of grief. Even thusshe was not an unpleasant object to dwell upon, so plump and yet so fine,with a warm brown skin, and the most beautiful hair, Denis thought, inthe whole world of womankind. Her hands were like her uncle’s; but theywere more in place at the end of her young arms, and looked infinitelysoft and caressing. He remembered how her blue eyes had shone upon him,full of anger, pity, and innocence. And the more he dwelt on herperfections, the uglier death looked, and the more deeply was he smittenwith penitence at her continued tears. Now he felt that no man couldhave the courage to leave a world which contained so beautiful acreature; and now he would have given forty minutes of his last hour tohave unsaid his cruel speech.
Suddenly a hoarse and ragged peal of cockcrow rose to their ears from thedark valley below the windows. And this shattering noise in the silenceof all around was like a light in a dark place, and shook them both outof their reflections.
“Alas, can I do nothing to help you?” she said, looking up.
“Madam,” replied Denis, with a fine irrelevancy, “if I have said anythingto wound you, believe me, it was for your own sake and not for mine.”
She thanked him with a tearful look.
“I feel your position cruelly,” he went on. “The world has been bitterhard on you. Your uncle is a disgrace to mankind. Believe me, madam,there is no young gentleman in all France but would be glad of myopportunity, to die in doing you a momentary service.”
“I know already that you can be very brave and generous,” she answered.“What I _want_ to know is whether I can serve you—now or afterwards,” sheadded, with a quaver.
“Most certainly,” he answered with a smile. “Let me sit beside you as ifI were a friend, instead of a foolish intruder; try to forget howawkwardly we are placed to one another; make my last moments gopleasantly; and you will do me the chief service possible.”
“You are very gallant,” she added, with a yet deeper sadness . . . “verygallant . . . and it somehow pains me. But draw nearer, if you please;and if you find anything to say to me, you will at least make certain ofa very friendly listener. Ah! Monsieur de Beaulieu,” she brokeforth—“ah! Monsieur de Beaulieu, how can I look you in the face?” Andshe fell to weeping again with a renewed effusion.
“Madam,” said Denis, taking her hand in both of his, “reflect on thelittle time I have before me, and the great bitterness into which I amcast by the sight of your distress. Spare me, in my last moments, thespectacle of what I cannot cure even with the sacrifice of my life.”
“I am very selfish,” answered Blanche. “I will be braver, Monsieur deBeaulieu, for your sake. But think if I can do you no kindness in thefuture—if you have no friends to whom I could carry your adieux. Chargeme as heavily as you can; every burden will lighten, by so little, theinvaluable gratitude I owe you. Put it in my power to do something morefor you than weep.”
“My mother is married again, and has a young family to care for. Mybrother Guichard will inherit my fiefs; and if I am not in error, thatwill content him amply for my death. Life is a little vapour thatpasseth away, as we are told by those in holy orders. When a man is in afair way and sees all life open in front of him, he seems to himself tomake a very important figure in the world. His horse whinnies to him;the trumpets blow and the girls look out of window as he rides into townbefore his company; he receives many assurances of trust andregard—sometimes by express in a letter—sometimes face to face, withpersons of great consequence falling on his neck. It is not wonderful ifhis head is turned for a time. But once he is dead, were he as brave asHercules or as wise as Solomon, he is soon forgotten. It is not tenyears since my father fell, with many other knights around him, in a veryfierce encounter, and I do not think that any one of them, nor so much asthe name of the fight, is now remembered. No, no, madam, the nearer youcome to it, you see that death is a dark and dusty corner, where a mangets into his tomb and has the door shut after him till the judgment day.I have few friends just now, and once I am dead I shall have none.”
“Ah, Monsieur de Beaulieu!” she exclaimed, “you forget Blanche deMalétroit.”
“You have a sweet nature, madam, and you are pleased to estimate a littleservice far beyond its worth.”
“It is not that,” she answered. “You mistake me if you think I am soeasily touched by my own concerns. I say so, because you are the noblestman I have ever met; because I recognise in you a spirit that would havemade even a common person famous in the land.”
“And yet here I die in a mouse-trap—with no more noise about it than myown squeaking,” answered he.
A look of pain crossed her face, and she was silent for a little while.Then a fight came into her eyes, and with a smile she spoke again.
“I cannot have my champion think meanly of himself. Any one who giveshis life for another will be met in Paradise by all the heralds andangels of the Lord God. And you have no such cause to hang your head.For . . . Pray, do you think me beautiful?” she asked, with a deep flush.
“Indeed, madam, I do,” he said.
“I am glad of that,” she answered heartily. “Do you think there are manymen in France who have been asked in marriage by a beautiful maiden—withher own lips—and who have refused her to her face? I know you men wouldhalf despise such a triumph; but believe me, we women know more of whatis precious in love. There is nothing that should set a person higher inhis own esteem; and we women would prize nothing more dearly.”
“You are very good,” he said; “but you cannot make me forget that I wasasked in pity and not for love.”
“I am not so sure of that,” she replied, holding down her head. “Hear meto an end, Monsieur de Beaulieu. I know how you must despise me; I feelyou are right to do so; I am too poor a creature to occupy one thought ofyour mind, although, alas! you must die for me this morning. But when Iasked you to marry me, indeed, and indeed, it was because I respected andadmired you, and loved you with my whole soul, from the very moment thatyou took my part against my uncle. If you had seen yourself, and hownoble you looked, you would pity rather than despise me. And now,” shewent on, hurriedly checking him with her hand, “although I have laidaside all reserve and told you so much, remember that I know yoursentiments towards me already. I would not, believe me, being noblyborn, weary you with importunities into consent. I too have a pride ofmy own: and I declare before the holy mother of God, if you should now goback from your word already given, I would no more marry you than I wouldmarry my uncle’s groom.”
Denis smiled a little bitterly.
“It is a small love,” he said, “that shies at a little pride.”
She made no answer, although she probably had her own thoughts.
“Come hither to the window,” he said, with a sigh. “Here is the dawn.”
And indeed the dawn was already beginning. The hollow of the sky wasfull of essential daylight, colourless and clean; and the valleyunderneath was flooded with a grey reflection. A few thin vapours clungin the coves of the forest or lay along the winding course of the river.The scene disengaged a surprising effect of stillness, which was hardlyinterrupted when the cocks began once more to crow among the steadings.Perhaps the same fellow who had made so horrid a clangour in the darknessnot half-an-hour before, now sent up the merriest cheer to greet thecoming day. A little wind went bustling and eddying among the tree-topsunderneath the windows. And still the daylight kept flooding insensiblyout of the east, which was soon to grow incandescent and cast up thatred-hot cannon-ball, the rising sun.
Denis looked out over all this with a bit of a shiver. He had taken herhand, and retained it in his almost unconsciously.
“Has the day begun already?” she said; and then, illogically enough: “thenight has been so long! Alas,
what shall we say to my uncle when hereturns?”
“What you will,” said Denis, and he pressed her fingers in his.
She was silent.
“Blanche,” he said, with a swift, uncertain, passionate utterance, “youhave seen whether I fear death. You must know well enough that I wouldas gladly leap out of that window into the empty air as lay a finger onyou without your free and full consent. But if you care for me at all donot let me lose my life in a misapprehension; for I love you better thanthe whole world; and though I will die for you blithely, it would be likeall the joys of Paradise to live on and spend my life in your service.”
As he stopped speaking, a bell began to ring loudly in the interior ofthe house; and a clatter of armour in the corridor showed that theretainers were returning to their post, and the two hours were at an end.
“After all that you have heard?” she whispered, leaning towards him withher lips and eyes.
“I have heard nothing,” he replied.
“The captain’s name was Florimond de Champdivers,” she said in his ear.
“I did not hear it,” he answered, taking her supple body in his arms andcovering her wet face with kisses.
A melodious chirping was audible behind, followed by a beautiful chuckle,and the voice of Messire de Malétroit wished his new nephew a goodmorning.
New Arabian Nights Page 18
