“It has no place!” she cried. “You lie — as in all things else. I do not love you. I hate you. Dieu! How I hate you!”
She had lain in my arms until then, with upturned face and piteous, frightened eyes — like a bird that feels itself within the toils of a snake, yet whose horror is blent with a certain fascination. Now, as she spoke, her will seemed to reassert itself, and she struggled to break from me. But as her fierceness of hatred grew, so did my fierceness of resolve gain strength, and I held her tightly.
“Why do you hate me?” I asked steadily. “Ask yourself, Roxalanne, and tell me what answer your heart makes. Does it not answer that indeed you do not hate me — that you love me?”
“Oh, God, to be so insulted!” she cried out. “Will you not release me, miserable? Must I call for help? Oh, you shall suffer for this! As there is a Heaven, you shall be punished!”
But in my passion I held her, despite entreaties, threats, and struggles. I was brutal, if you will. Yet think of what was in my soul at being so misjudged, at finding myself in this position, and deal not over harshly with me. The courage to confess which I had lacked for days, came to me then. I must tell her. Let the result be what it might, it could not be worse than this, and this I could endure no longer.
“Listen, Roxalanne!”
“I will not listen! Enough of insults have I heard already. Let me go!”
“Nay, but you shall hear me. I am not Rene de Lesperon. Had these Marsacs been less impetuous and foolish, had they waited to have seen me this morning, they would have told you so.”
She paused for a second in her struggles to regard me. Then, with a sudden contemptuous laugh, she renewed her efforts more vigorously than before.
“What fresh lies do you offer me? Release me, I will hear no more!”
“As Heaven is my witness, I have told you the truth. I know how wild a sound it has, and that is partly why I did not tell you earlier. But your disdain I cannot suffer. That you should deem me a liar in professing to love you—”
Her struggles were grown so frantic that I was forced to relax my grip. But this I did with a suddenness that threw her out of balance, and she was in danger of falling backwards. To save herself, she caught at my doublet, which was torn open under the strain.
We stood some few feet apart, and, white and palpitating in her anger, she confronted me. Her eyes lashed me with their scorn, but under my steady, unflinching gaze they fell at last. When next she raised them there was a smile of quiet but unutterable contempt upon her lips.
“Will you swear,” said she, “that you are not Rene de Lesperon? That Mademoiselle de Marsac is not your betrothed?”
“Yes — by my every hope of Heaven!” I cried passionately.
She continued to survey me with that quiet smile of mocking scorn.
“I have heard it said,” quoth she, “that the greatest liars are ever those that are readiest to take oath.” Then, with a sudden gasp of loathing, “I think you have dropped something, monsieur,” said she, pointing to the ground. And without waiting for more, she swung round and left me.
Face upwards at my feet lay the miniature that poor Lesperon had entrusted to me in his dying moments. It had dropped from my doublet in the struggle, and I never doubted now but that the picture it contained was that of Mademoiselle de Marsac.
CHAPTER IX. A NIGHT ALARM
I was returning that same afternoon from a long walk that I had taken — for my mood was of that unenviable sort that impels a man to be moving — when I found a travelling-chaise drawn up in the quadrangle as if ready for a journey. As I mounted the steps of the chateau I came face to face with mademoiselle, descending. I drew aside that she might pass; and this she did with her chin in the air, and her petticoat drawn to her that it might not touch me.
I would have spoken to her, but her eyes looked straight before her with a glance that was too forbidding; besides which there was the gaze of a half-dozen grooms upon us. So, bowing before her — the plume of my doffed hat sweeping the ground — I let her go. Yet I remained standing where she had passed me, and watched her enter the coach. I looked after the vehicle as it wheeled round and rattled out over the drawbridge, to raise a cloud of dust on the white, dry road beyond.
In that hour I experienced a sense of desolation and a pain to which I find it difficult to give expression. It seemed to me as if she had gone out of my life for all time — as if no reparation that I could ever make would suffice to win her back after what had passed between us that morning. Already wounded in her pride by what Mademoiselle de Marsac had told her of our relations, my behaviour in the rose garden had completed the work of turning into hatred the tender feelings that but yesterday she had all but confessed for me. That she hated me now, I was well assured. My reflections as I walked had borne it in upon me how rash, how mad had been my desperate action, and with bitterness I realized that I had destroyed the last chance of ever mending matters.
Not even the payment of my wager and my return in my true character could avail me now. The payment of my wager, forsooth! Even that lost what virtue it might have contained. Where was the heroism of such an act? Had I not failed, indeed? And was not, therefore, the payment of my wager become inevitable?
Fool! fool! Why had I not profited that gentle mood of hers when we had drifted down the stream together? Why had I not told her then of the whole business from its ugly inception down to the pass to which things were come, adding that to repair the evil I was going back to Paris to pay my wager, and that when that was done, I would return to ask her to become my wife? That was the course a man of sense would have adopted. He would have seen the dangers that beset him in my false position, and would have been quick to have forestalled them in the only manner possible.
Heigh-ho! It was done. The game was at an end, and I had bungled my part of it like any fool. One task remained me — that of meeting Marsac at Grenade and doing justice to the memory of poor Lesperon. What might betide thereafter mattered little. I should be ruined when I had settled with Chatellerault, and Marcel de Saint-Pol, de Bardelys, that brilliant star in the firmament of the Court of France, would suffer an abrupt eclipse, would be quenched for all time. But this weighed little with me then. I had lost everything that I might have valued — everything that might have brought fresh zest to a jaded, satiated life.
Later that day I was told by the Vicomte that there was a rumour current to the effect that the Marquis de Bardelys was dead. Idly I inquired how the rumour had been spread, and he told me that a riderless horse, which had been captured a few days ago by some peasants, had been recognized by Monsieur de Bardelys’s servants as belonging to their master, and that as nothing had been seen or heard of him for a fortnight, it was believed that he must have met with some mischance. Not even that piece of information served to arouse my interest. Let them believe me dead if they would. To him that is suffering worse than death to be accounted dead is a small matter.
The next day passed without incident. Mademoiselle’s absence continued and I would have questioned the Vicomte concerning it, but a not unnatural hesitancy beset me, and I refrained.
On the morrow I was to leave Lavedan, but there were no preparations to be made, no packing to be done, for during my sojourn there I had been indebted to the generous hospitality of the Vicomte for my very apparel. We supped quietly together that night the Vicomte and I — for the Vicomtesse was keeping her room.
I withdrew early to my chamber, and long I lay awake, revolving a gloomy future in my mind. I had given no thought to what I should do after having offered my explanation to Monsieur de Marsac on the morrow, nor could I now bring myself to consider it with any degree of interest. I would communicate with Chatellerault to inform him that I accounted my wager lost. I would send him my note of hand, making over to him my Picardy estates, and I would request him to pay off and disband my servants both in Paris and at Bardelys.
As for myself, I did not know, and, as I have hinted, I cared but li
ttle, in what places my future life might lie. I had still a little property by Beaugency, but scant inclination to withdraw to it. To Paris I would not return; that much I was determined upon; but upon no more. I had thoughts of going to Spain. Yet that course seemed no less futile than any other of which I could bethink me. I fell asleep at last, vowing that it would be a mercy and a fine solution to the puzzle of how to dispose of the future if I were to awaken no more.
I was, however, destined to be roused again just as the veil of night was being lifted and the chill breath of dawn was upon the world. There was a loud knocking at the gates of Lavedan, confused noises of voices, of pattering feet, of doors opening and closing within the chateau.
There was a rapping at my chamber door, and when I went to open, I found the Vicomte on the threshold, nightcapped, in his shirt, and bearing a lighted taper.
“There are troopers at the gate!” he exclaimed as he entered the room. “That dog Saint-Eustache has already been at work!”
For all the agitation that must have been besetting him, his manner was serene as ever. “What are we to do?” he asked.
“You are admitting them — naturally?” said I, inquiry in my voice.
“Why, yes”; and he shrugged his shoulders. “What could it avail us to resist them? Even had I been prepared for it, it would be futile to attempt to suffer a siege.”
I wrapped a dressing-gown about me, for the morning air was chill.
“Monsieur le Vicomte,” said I gravely, “I heartily deplore that Monsieur de Marsac’s affairs should have detained me here. But for him, I had left Lavedan two days ago. As it is, I tremble for you, but we may at least hope that my being taken in your house will draw down no ill results upon you. I shall never forgive myself if through my having taken refuge here I should have encompassed your destruction.”
“There is no question of that,” he replied, with the quick generosity characteristic of the man. “This is the work of Saint-Eustache. Sooner or later I always feared that it would happen, for sooner or later he and I must have come to enmity over my daughter. That knave had me in his power. He knew — being himself outwardly one of us — to what extent I was involved in the late rebellion, and I knew enough of him to be assured that if some day he should wish to do me ill, he would never scruple to turn traitor. I am afraid, Monsieur de Lesperon, that it is not for you alone — perhaps not for you at all — that the soldiers have come, but for me.”
Then, before I could answer him, the door was flung wide, and into the room, in nightcap and hastily donned robe — looking a very meagre in that disfiguring deshabille — swept the Vicomtesse.
“See,” she cried to her husband, her strident voice raised in reproach— “see to what a pass you have brought us!”
“Anne, Anne!” he exclaimed, approaching her and seeking to soothe her; “be calm, my poor child, and be brave.”
But, evading him, she towered, lean and malevolent as a fury.
“Calm?” she echoed contemptuously. “Brave?” Then a short laugh broke from her — a despairing, mocking, mirthless expression of anger. “By God, do you add effrontery to your other failings? Dare you bid me be calm and brave in such an hour? Have I been warning you fruitlessly these twelve months past, that, after disregarding me and deriding my warnings, you should bid me be calm now that my fears are realized?”
There was a sound of creaking gates below. The Vicomte heard it.
“Madame,” he said, putting aside his erstwhile tender manner, and speaking with a lofty dignity, “the troopers have been admitted. Let me entreat you to retire. It is not befitting our station—”
“What is our station?” she interrupted harshly. “Rebels — proscribed, houseless beggars. That is our station, thanks to you and your insane meddling with treason. What is to become of us, fool? What is to become of Roxalanne and me when they shall have hanged you and have driven us from Lavedan? By God’s death, a fine season this to talk of the dignity of our station! Did I not warn you, malheureux, to leave party faction alone? You laughed at me.”
“Madame, your memory does me an injustice,” he answered in a strangled voice. “I never laughed at you in all my life.”
“You did as much, at least. Did you not bid me busy myself with women’s affairs? Did you not bid me leave you to follow your own judgment? You have followed it — to a pretty purpose, as God lives! These gentlemen of the King’s will cause you to follow it a little farther,” she pursued, with heartless, loathsome sarcasm. “You will follow it as far as the scaffold at Toulouse. That, you will tell me, is your own affair. But what provision have you made for your wife and daughter? Did you marry me and get her to leave us to perish of starvation? Or are we to turn kitchen wenches or sempstresses for our livelihood?”
With a groan, the Vicomte sank down upon the bed, and covered his face with his hands.
“God pity me!” he cried, in a voice of agony — an agony such as the fear of death could never have infused into his brave soul; an agony born of the heartlessness of this woman who for twenty years had shared his bed and board, and who now in the hour of his adversity failed him so cruelly — so tragically.
“Aye,” she mocked in her bitterness, “call upon God to pity you, for I shall not.”
She paced the room now, like a caged lioness, her face livid with the fury that possessed her. She no longer asked questions; she no longer addressed him; oath followed oath from her thin lips, and the hideousness of this woman’s blasphemy made me shudder. At last there were heavy steps upon the stairs, and, moved by a sudden impulse “Madame,” I cried, “let me prevail upon you to restrain yourself.”
She swung round to face me, her dose-set eyes ablaze with anger.
“Sangdieu! By what right do you—” she began but this was no time to let a woman’s tongue go babbling on; no time for ceremony; no season for making a leg and addressing her with a simper. I caught her viciously by the wrist, and with my face close up to hers “Folle!” I cried, and I’ll swear no man had ever used the word to her before. She gasped and choked in her surprise and rage. Then lowering my voice lest it should reach the approaching soldiers: “Would you ruin the Vicomte and yourself?” I muttered. Her eyes asked me a question, and I answered it. “How do you know that the soldiers have come for your husband? It may be that they are seeking me — and only me. They may know nothing of the Vicomte’s defection. Shall you, then, be the one to inform them of it by your unbridled rantings and your accusations?”
Her jaw fell open in astonishment. This was a side of the question she had not considered.
“Let me prevail upon you, madame, to withdraw and to be of good courage. It is more than likely that you alarm yourself without cause.”
She continued to stare at me in her amazement and the confusion that was congenital with it, and if there was not time for her to withdraw, at least the possibility I had suggested acted as a timely warning.
In that moment the door opened again, and on the threshold appeared a young man in a plumed hat and corselet, carrying a naked sword in one hand and a lanthorn in the other. Behind him I caught the gleam of steel from the troopers at his heels.
“Which of you is Monsieur Rene de Lesperon?” he inquired politely, his utterance flavoured by a strong Gascon accent.
I stood forward. “I am known by that name, Monsieur le Capitaine,” said I.
He looked at me wistfully, apologetically almost, then “In the King’s name, Monsieur de Lesperon, I call upon you to yield!” said he.
“I have been expecting you. My sword is yonder, monsieur,” I replied suavely. “If you will allow me to dress, I shall be ready to accompany you in a few minutes.”
He bowed, and it at once became clear that his business at Lavedan was — as I had suggested to the Vicomtesse might be possible — with me alone.
“I am grateful for the readiness of your submission,” said this very polite gentleman. He was a comely lad, with blue eyes and a good-humoured mouth, to which a pair
of bristling moustaches sought vainly to impart an expression of ferocity.
“Before you proceed to dress, monsieur, I have another duty to discharge.”
“Discharge your duty, monsieur,” I answered. Whereupon he made a sign to his men, and in a moment they were ransacking my garments and effects. While this was taking place, he turned to the Vicomte and Vicomtesse, and offered them a thousand apologies for having interrupted their slumbers, and for so rudely depriving them of their guest. He advanced in his excuse the troublous nature of the times, and threw in a bunch of malisons at the circumstances which forced upon soldiers the odious duties of the tipstaff, hoping that we would think him none the less a gentleman for the unsavoury business upon which he was engaged.
From my clothes they took the letters addressed to Lesperon which that poor gentleman had entrusted to me on the night of his death; and among these there was one from the Duc d’Orleans himself, which would alone have sufficed to have hanged a regiment. Besides these, they took Monsieur de Marsac’s letter of two days ago, and the locket containing the picture of Mademoiselle de Marsac.
The papers and the portrait they delivered to the Captain, who took them with the same air of deprecation tainted with disgust that coloured all his actions in connection with my arrest.
To this same repugnance for his catchpoll work do I owe it that at the moment of setting out he offered to let me ride without the annoyance of an escort if I would pass him my parole not to attempt an escape.
We were standing, then, in the hall of the chateau. His men were already in the courtyard, and there were only present Monsieur le Vicomte and Anatole — the latter reflecting the look of sorrow that haunted his master’s face. The Captain’s generosity was certainly leading him beyond the bounds of his authority, and it touched me.
“Monsieur is very generous,” said I.
He shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 49
