CHAPTER XIX.
IN THE ORLEANNAIS.
"But you fear him?"
"Fear him?" Madame St. Lo answered; and, to the surprise of theCountess, she made a little face of contempt. "No; why should I fearhim? I fear him no more than the puppy leaping at old Sancho's bridlefears his tall playfellow! Or than the cloud you see above us fearsthe wind before which it flies!" She pointed to a white patch, thesize of a man's hand, which hung above the hill on their left hand andformed the only speck in the blue summer sky. "Fear him! Not I!" And,laughing gaily, she put her horse at a narrow rivulet which crossedthe grassy track on which they rode.
"But he is hard!" the Countess murmured in a low voice, as sheregained her companion's side.
"Hard!" Madame St. Lo rejoined with a gesture of pride. "Ay, hard asthe stones in my jewelled ring! Hard as flint, or the nethermillstone--to his enemies! But to women! Bah! Who ever heard that hehurt a woman!"
"Why then is he so feared!" the Countess asked, her eyes on thesubject of their discussion; a solitary figure, riding some fiftypaces in front of them.
"Because he counts no cost!" her companion answered. "Because hekilled Savillon in the court of the Louvre, though he knew his lifethe forfeit. He would have paid the forfeit too, or lost his righthand, if Monsieur, for his brother the Marshal's sake, had notintervened. But Savillon had whipped his dog, you see. Then he killedthe Chevalier de Millaud, but 'twas in fair fight, in the snow, intheir shirts. For that, Millaud's son lay in wait for him with two, inthe passage under the Chatelet; but Hannibal wounded one, and theothers saved themselves. Undoubtedly he is feared!" she added with thesame note of pride in her voice.
The two, who talked, rode at the rear of the little companywhich had left Paris at daybreak two days before, by the Porte St.Jacques. Moving steadily south-westward by the lesser roads andbridle-tracks--for Count Hannibal seemed averse from the greatroad--they had lain the second night in a village three leagues fromBonneval. A journey of two days on fresh horses is apt to changescenery and eye alike; but seldom has an alteration--in themselves andall about them--as great as that which blessed this little company,been wrought in so short a time. From the stifling wynds andevil-smelling lanes of Paris, they had passed to the green uplands,the breezy woods and babbling streams of the upper Orleannais; fromsights and sounds the most appalling, to the solitude of the sandyheath, haunt of the great bustard, or the sunshine of the hillside,vibrating with the songs of larks; from an atmosphere of terror andgloom to the freedom of God's earth and sky. Numerous enough--theynumbered a score of armed men--to defy the lawless bands which hadtheir lairs in the huge forest of Orleans, they halted where theypleased: at mid-day under a grove of chestnut-trees, or among thewillows beside a brook; at night, if they willed it, under God'sheaven. Far, not only from Paris, but from the great road, with itsgibbets and pillories--the great road which at that date ran through awaste, no peasant living willingly within sight of it--they rode inthe morning and in the evening, resting in the heat of the day. Andthough they had left Paris with much talk of haste, they rode more atleisure with every league.
For whatever Tavannes' motive, it was plain that he was in no hurry toreach his destination. Nor for that matter were any of his company.Madame St. Lo, who had seized the opportunity of escaping from thecapital under her cousin's escort, was in an ill-humour with cities,and declaimed much on the joys of a cell in the woods. For the timethe coarsest nature and the dullest rider had had enough of alarumsand conflicts.
The whole company, indeed, though it moved in some fashion of arraywith an avant and a rearguard, the ladies riding together, and CountHannibal proceeding solitary in the midst, formed as peaceful a band,and one as innocently diverted, as if no man of them had ever graspedpike or blown a match. There was an old rider among them who had seenthe sack of Rome, and the dead face of the great Constable, the idolof the Free Companies. But he had a taste for simples and much skillin them; and when Madame had once seen Badelon on his knees in thegrass searching for plants, she lost her fear of him. Bigot, with hislow brow and matted hair, was the abject slave of Suzanne, Madame St.Lo's woman, who twitted him mercilessly on his Norman _patois_, andpoured the vials of her scorn on him a dozen times a day. In all, withLa Tribe and the Carlats, Madame St. Lo's servants, and the Countess'sfollowing, they numbered not far short of two score; and when theyhalted at noon, and under the shadow of some leafy tree, ate theirmid-day meal, or drowsed to the tinkle of Madame St. Lo's lute, it wasdifficult to believe that Paris existed, or that these same people hadso lately left its blood-stained pavements.
They halted this morning a little earlier than usual. Madame St. Lohad barely answered her companion's question before the subject oftheir discussion swung himself from old Sancho's back, and stoodwaiting to assist them to dismount. Behind him, where the green valleythrough which the road passed narrowed to a rocky gate, an old millstood among willows at the foot of a mound. On the mound behind it aruined castle which had stood siege in the Hundred Years' War raisedits grey walls; and beyond this the stream which turned the millpoured over rocks with a cool rushing sound that proved irresistible.The men, their horses watered and hobbled, went off, shouting likeboys, to bathe below the falls; and after a moment's hesitation CountHannibal rose from the grass on which he had flung himself.
"Guard that for me, Madame," he said. And he dropped a packet, bravelysealed and tied with a silk thread, into the Countess's lap. "'Twillbe safer than leaving it in my clothes. Ohe!" And he turned to MadameSt. Lo. "Would you fancy a life that was all gipsying, cousin?" And ifthere was irony in his voice, there was desire in his eyes.
"There is only one happy man in the world," she answered, withconviction.
"By name?"
"The hermit of Compiegne."
"And in a week you would be wild for a masque!" he said cynically. Andturning on his heel he followed the men.
Madame St. Lo sighed complacently. "Heigho!" she said. "He's right! Weare never content, _ma mie!_ When I am trifling in the Gallery myheart is in the greenwood. And when I have eaten black bread and drunkspring water for a fortnight I do nothing but dream of Zamet's, andwhite mulberry tarts! And you are in the same case. You have savedyour round white neck, or it has been saved for you, by not so much asthe thickness of Zamet's pie-crust--I declare my mouth is beginning towater for it!--and instead of being thankful and making the best ofthings, you are thinking of poor Madame d'Yverne, or dreaming of yourcalf-love!"
The girl's face--for a girl she was, though they called herMadame--began to work. She struggled a moment with her emotion, andthen broke down, and fell to weeping silently. For two days she hadsat in public and not given way. But the reference to her lover wastoo much for her strength.
Madame St. Lo looked at her with eyes which were not unkindly. "Sitsthe wind in that quarter!" she murmured. "I thought so! But there, mydear, if you don't put that packet in your gown you'll wash out theaddress! Moreover, if you ask me, I don't think the young man is worthit. It is only that which we have not got--we want!"
But the young Countess had borne to the limit of her powers. With anincoherent word she rose to her feet, and walked hurriedly away. Thethought of what was and of what might have been, the thought of thelover who still--though he no longer seemed, even to her, the perfecthero--held a place in her heart, filled her breast to overflowing. Shelonged for some spot where she could weep unseen, where the sunshineand the blue sky would not mock her grief; and seeing in front of hera little clump of alders, which grew beside the stream, in a bend thatin winter was marshy, she hastened towards it.
Madame St. Lo saw her figure blend with the shadow of thetrees--"Quite _a la_ Ronsard, I give my word!" she murmured. "And nowshe is out of sight! _La, la!_ I could play at the game myself, andcarve sweet sorrow on the barks of trees, if it were not so lonesome!And if I had a man!"
And gazing pensively at the stream and the willows, my lady tried towork herself in
to a proper frame of mind; now murmuring the name ofone gallant, and now, finding it unsuited, the name of another. Butthe soft inflection would break into a giggle, and finally into ayawn; and, tired of the attempt, she began to pluck grass and throw itfrom her. By-and-by she discovered that Madame Carlat and the women,who had their place a little apart, had disappeared; and affrighted bythe solitude and silence--for neither of which she was made--shesprang up and stared about her, hoping to discern them. Right andleft, however, the sweep of hillside curved upward to the skyline,lonely and untenanted; behind her the castled rock frowned down on therugged gorge and filled it with dispiriting shadow. Madame St. Lostamped her foot on the turf.
"The little fool!" she murmured, pettishly. "Does she think that I amto be murdered that she may fatten on sighs? Oh, come up, Madame, youmust be dragged out of this!" And she started briskly towards thealders, intent on gaining company as quickly as possible.
She had gone about fifty yards, and had as many more to traverse whenshe halted. A man, bent double, was moving stealthily along thefarther side of the brook a little in front of him. Now she saw him,now she lost him; now she caught a glimpse of him again, through ascreen of willow branches. He moved with the utmost caution, as a manmoves who is pursued or in danger; and for a moment she deemed him apeasant whom the bathers had disturbed and who was bent on escaping.But when he came opposite to the alder-bed she saw that that was hispoint, for he crouched down, sheltered by a willow, and gazed eagerlyamong the trees, always with his back to her; and then he waved hishand to someone in the wood.
Madame St. Lo drew in her breath. As if he had heard the sound--whichwas impossible--the man dropped down where he stood, crawled a yard ortwo on his face, and disappeared.
Madame stared a moment, expecting to see him or hear him. Then, asnothing happened, she screamed. She was a woman of quick impulses,essentially feminine; and she screamed three or four times, standingwhere she was, her eyes on the edge of the wood. "If that does notbring her out, nothing will!" she thought.
It brought her. An instant, and the Countess appeared, and hurried indismay to her side. "What is it?" the younger woman asked, glancingover her shoulder; for all the valley, all the hills were peaceful,and behind Madame St. Lo--but the lady had not discovered it--theservants who had returned were laying the meal. "What is it?" sherepeated anxiously.
"Who was it?" Madame St. Lo asked curtly. She was quite calm now.
"Who was--who?"
"The man in the wood?"
The Countess stared a moment, then laughed. "Only the old soldier theycall Badelon, gathering simples. Did you think that he would harm me?"
"It was not old Badelon whom I saw!" Madame St. Lo retorted. "It was ayounger man, who crept along the other side of the brook, keepingunder cover. When I first saw him he was there," she continued,pointing to the place. "And he crept on and on until he came oppositeto you. Then he waved his hand."
"To me!"
Madame nodded.
"But if you saw him, who was he?" the Countess asked.
"I did not see his face," Madame St. Lo answered. "But he waved toyou. That I saw."
The Countess had a thought which slowly flooded her face with crimson.Madame St. Lo saw the change, saw the tender light which on a suddensoftened the other's eyes; and the same thought occurred to her. Andhaving a mind to punish her companion for her reticence--for she didnot doubt that the girl knew more than she acknowledged--she proposedthat they should return and find Badelon, and learn if he had seen theman.
"Why?" Madame Tavannes asked. And she stood stubbornly, her head high."Why should we?"
"To clear it up," the elder woman answered mischievously. "Butperhaps, it were better to tell your husband and let his men searchthe coppice."
The colour left the Countess's face as quickly as it had come. For amoment she was tongue-tied. Then, "Have we not had enough of seekingand being sought?" she cried; more bitterly than befitted theoccasion. "Why should we hunt him? I am not timid, and he did me noharm. I beg, Madame, that you will do me the favour of being silent onthe matter."
"Oh, if you insist? But what a pother--"
"I did not see him, and he did not see me," Madame de Tavannesanswered vehemently. "I fail, therefore, to understand why we shouldharass him, whoever he be. Besides, M. de Tavannes is waiting for us."
"And M. de Tignonville--is following us!" Madame St. Lomuttered--under her breath. And she made a face at the other's back.
She was silent, however; they returned to the others; and nothing ofimport, it would seem, had happened. The soft summer air played on themeal laid under the willows as it had played on the meal of yesterdaylaid under the chestnut-trees. The horses grazed within sight, movingnow and again, with a jingle of trappings or a jealous neigh; thewomen's chatter vied with the unceasing sound of the mill-stream.After dinner, Madame St. Lo touched the lute, and Badelon--Badelon whohad seen the sack of the Colonna's Palace, and been served bycardinals on the knee--fed a water-rat, which had its home in one ofthe willow-stumps, with carrot-parings. One by one the men laidthemselves to sleep with their faces on their arms; and to the eyesall was as all had been yesterday in this camp of armed men livingpeacefully.
But not to the Countess! She had accepted her life, she had resignedherself, she had marvelled that it was no worse. After the horrors ofParis the calm of the last two days had fallen on her as balm on awound. Worn out in body and mind, she had rested, and only rested;without thought, almost without emotion, save for the feeling, halffear, half curiosity, which stirred her in regard to the strange man,her husband. Who on his side left her alone.
But the last hour had wrought a change. Her eyes were grown restless,her colour came and went. The past stirred in its shallow--ah, soshallow--grave; and dead hopes and dead forebodings, strive as shemight, thrust out hands to plague and torment her. If the man whosought to speak with her by stealth, who dogged her footsteps and hungon the skirts of her party, were Tignonville--her lover, who at hisown request had been escorted to the Arsenal before their departurefrom Paris--then her plight was a sorry one. For what woman, wedded asshe had been wedded, could think otherwise than indulgently of hispersistence? And yet, lover and husband! What peril, what shame thewords had often spelled! At the thought only she trembled and hercolour ebbed. She saw, as one who stands on the brink of a precipice,the depth which yawned before her. She asked herself, shivering, ifshe would ever sink to that.
All the loyalty of a strong nature, all the virtue of a good womanrevolted against the thought. True, her husband--husband she must callhim--had not deserved her love; but his bizarre magnanimity, thegloomy, disdainful kindness with which he had crowned possession, eventhe unity of their interests, which he had impressed upon her in sostrange a fashion, claimed a return in honour.
To be paid--how? how? That was the crux which perplexed, whichfrightened, which harassed her. For, if she told her suspicions, sheexposed her lover to capture by one who had no longer a reason to bemerciful. And if she sought occasion to see Tignonville and so todissuade him, she did it at deadly risk to herself. Yet what othercourse lay open to her if she would not stand by? If she would notplay the traitor? If she----
"Madame,"--it was her husband, and he spoke to her suddenly,--"are younot well?" And, looking up guiltily, she found his eyes fixedcuriously on hers.
Her face turned red and white and red again, and she falteredsomething and looked from him, but only to meet Madame St. Lo's eyes.My lady laughed softly in sheer mischief.
"What is it?" Count Hannibal asked sharply.
But Madame St. Lo's answer was a line of Ronsard.
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