CHAPTER XV
THE COUNT LOSES HIS SWORD
At dawn Jean was in the castle again, but Herrick and Christine hadheard what had happened to Lemasle. To Lemasle's cell the dwarf alsogained admittance, for the Count's orders had been peremptory. Jeanhad a part to play, and he meant to make the most of it.
"The making or marring of you is in my hands," he boasted in theguard-rooms, "so if you're wise you'll make much of me. The Count andI are brother gossips, and when I get my robes of office, you'llhardly tell one from the other."
So Herrick was able to send his message to Lemasle, and the plotagainst the Count ripened to its gathering.
Two days later the castle was full of guests and their suites, come tothe burial of the Duke, which was to take place on the morrow. Therewere signs of mourning in the streets through which the cortege wouldpass, and the great Church of St. Etienne was draped in black. In afew hours men would be busy packing away these death trappings andmaking ready festive trophies to grace the coronation; such is thekaleidoscope of existence.
The morning broke, heavy and cloudy, and rain fell at intervals. Therewere those who spoke of the dead man as the great Duke, and these sawa fitness in the sombre day on which he should pass for the last timethrough the streets of Vayenne.
Jean, by permission, had left the castle to-day, and stood near thegreat west doors of St. Etienne. Above him tolled the great bell, rungonly when a duke came to his last resting-place; and across its solemnsounding the joyous music of the carillon burst out at frequentintervals. The cadences seemed to fall from high heaven, the dwarfthought, as though there were joy there, no matter how great a sorrowthere might be upon the earth. Dim lights gleamed in the great nave,low music tumbled from the misty darkness, sad music, yet ever andanon a wave of harmony that had triumph in it, a sudden certainty thatto life was the victory though for a while the pageantry of death wassupreme.
Into the church came all who were great and powerful in Montvilliers,men whose fathers had fought side by side with other dukes, men whosenames and honors had been handed down through the centuries. Amongthem came the de Bornais, his suite halting on one side of the greatdoors. Jean's sharp eyes scanned each man that stood there, resting atlast upon one whom he watched until the end.
Presently came the cortege--nay, two--drawn by horses in waving plumesand black trappings. Only yesterday was it known throughout Vayennethat the marred body of the young Duke had been found in the forestand brought to the city by Captain Barbier. One great funeral forfather and son--the solemnity of the occasion appealed to the people.A silence was in the streets and tears on some faces. To-day the Dukeis dead--and buried; to-morrow, "Long live the Duke." Before nightfallthere was laughter in the castle halls and corridors. Men must eat anddrink though dukes die, and women's eyes will sparkle even thoughtears were in them a little while since.
Felix moved from group to group, solemn, yet smooth-tongued. His earswere keen to catch whispers, his eyes quick to note each man'sexpression.
"Felix."
His name was whispered as he passed through the entrance of the greathall, and he turned quickly.
"Elisabeth."
"I must see you alone," she said. "I have that to tell you which youought to hear without delay."
"Christine?" he asked.
Elisabeth nodded, and then as the Count turned and led her away, thedwarf came from a dark corner where he had stood watching theCountess.
"This means mischief," he said, and went quickly down the corridor.
Many had looked for Mademoiselle de Liancourt at the castle thatnight, and marvelled that she was not present. Felix recognized onlytoo well that her absence was unfavorable to him, and, if necessary,would certainly have used force to bring her to the castle had heknown where to find her.
But for the promise given to Herrick, it is doubtful whether Christinewould have remained in her hiding-place to-day. Her uncle had beenvery good to her; had loved her, perhaps, more than he had loved anyone else in the world; had listened to her pleading when none elsedared approach him, and many a man had her to thank for saving himfrom the Duke's anger. Christine's heart was heavy because she couldnot pay her last respects to the dead, and there was rage, too, in hersoul that Felix had dared to take some marred corpse and bury it inpomp and state, declaring it to be Maurice's body. She longed to rushout into the street and proclaim his treachery to every passer-by.
To-night Christine stood by the open window of her room deep inthought, yet attentive to any sound in the garden below. Many thingsmight have happened to-day, and Jean might bring her news at anymoment. The tolling of the great bell at St. Etienne had ceased longago, only the faint music of the carillon wove itself into herthoughts. She glanced back into the room where Lucille sat bendingover a book. The girl had been with her ever since Countess Elisabethhad gone out. Christine had thought nothing of this fact at first, butwhen Lucille so persistently stayed with her, following her if shewent from one room to another, she began to wonder if the girl werenot carrying out some instructions she had received. Christine feltthat there had not been a true ring about the Countess's welcome theother night, and since then there had been many signs of uncertaintyand effort in her conversation and in her actions.
"Are not your eyes weary of reading, Lucille?" Christine askedsuddenly.
"No," answered the girl, looking up; "but I would rather talk."
"Talk! Of what? Prisons and death?"
"Oh, but there are other things. Why should we talk of death or aprison?"
"Come here, Lucille." And Christine put her arm round her, and drewher to the window. "Isn't the city quiet to-night? It seems a sentientthing, awestruck and keeping silent because it knows that death is init."
"I have known it as quiet other nights," the girl answered.
"What were your dreams then?"
"The Countess called them a silly girl's dreams, because I told her,"said Lucille, a blush dyeing her fair face.
"Tell me. Perhaps I shall understand better."
"I wonder if you would! You know my little history--that I am the lastof a family once rich and famous in Montvilliers. Long, long ago someancestor of mine displeased some ancestor of yours, who was Duke then,and we lost honor and estates, and we have never risen again. Yetthere has always been a legend that we should come to honor once more,and, strangely, that it should come through a woman. I am the only oneleft, so I dream."
"Of what?"
"Sometimes of a great deed that I shall do, and perhaps suffer for,but which shall make my name famous through all the world. Andsometimes it is different."
"Well, Lucille?"
"Sometimes it is love," the girl whispered, "and I dream of a princewho shall come, who shall pass by all the rich and beautiful women,and kneel to me. So we may win back honor that way. Do you call them asilly girl's fancies?"
"No. Youth will dream of love, it cannot help it."
"Do you?" Lucille asked.
"That, I should confess to you, was not in the bargain," saidChristine. "Some day perhaps I may help you to your ambition."
"Will you?" was the eager question.
"We will talk of it another time. To-night I can only think of deathand a prison--death in the city, a prison in this house."
"This house a prison!" exclaimed the girl.
"I have a mind to go out for a little while."
"The garden is dark and wet. It has rained much to-day."
"The garden will not satisfy me--I mean in the streets. Yes, I think Iwill go."
"Oh, no, you must not," said Lucille.
"Why not?"
"The Countess said----"
"That I was not to be allowed to leave the house," Christine said."Was that her command?"
"She meant for your own sake."
"Did she? Are you clever enough to read all that is in CountessElisabeth's mind?"
"She has been very good to me," the girl answered. "I would notdisobey her."
"I am not
blaming you. You shall keep me prisoner. I will not go outto-night."
"Thank you; and you will----"
Lucille stopped. There was a knocking at the door, and a servantentered.
"Mademoiselle!--I mean Mademoiselle Lucille."
"What is it?"
"A man would speak with--with you."
"Or with me?" asked Christine sharply.
"With--with----"
"Bring him here," said Christine. "We will see him together."
"I cannot--I----Ah! He is here already!"
From the darkness of the passage without a priest advanced into theroom. His cloak was wrapped closely round him and the hood drawn lowover his face.
"Leave us, Lucille," said Christine. "A priest may enter anywhere,even to a prisoner."
"The Countess said----"
"Go! You may lose the friendship of the Countess to find a better one.Christine de Liancourt has still power in Vayenne. Go! You shall haveexcuse. See, I force you from the room!" And she gently pushed herout, shut the door, and locked it.
As she turned Herrick threw back his hood, and let the cloak fallapart.
"Again as a priest I come to you, mademoiselle."
"But this house is dangerous for you. Only to-night I have learnedthat I am virtually a prisoner in it."
"To-night I believe Count Felix has learned that you are here," saidHerrick.
"From whom?"
"From the Countess Elisabeth. Jean saw her approach the Count, heardyour name mentioned. That is why I have come. I thought it might bethat as a priest I should more easily gain admittance, and Jeanborrowed the cloak for me."
"But they may be here at any moment if the Countess has betrayed me."
"That is why I have come," Herrick answered.
"You must not stay. Felix will not really harm me, but you----"
"Have no fear, mademoiselle. I go armed, as you see. This dressproclaims me in the suite of De Bornais, and to-day no one hasrecognized the man they took for a spy in it. I have come from thecastle. I am lodged there--a guest."
Christine turned again to the door to make certain it was locked, andthen ran to the window, and closed it.
"I am afraid," she said, a color in her cheeks; "Jean climbed in thisway, and bid me remember that an enemy might do the same. Oh, why haveyou come! Could you not have sent a messenger, could you not have sentJean?"
"No, mademoiselle. I could trust none with my message to-night."
"Tell me," she said. "Tell me quickly. Every passing moment makes memore afraid."
"In three days Count Felix will be formally proclaimed Duke," saidHerrick. "The blow we have planned will be struck then. It is adesperate venture; it may fail, but it is the only way."
"And if it fails?" said Christine.
"To-night the Count is almost certain to send for you," Herrick wenton, as though he did not hear her question. "If you will not gowillingly, he will probably have ordered that you shall be taken byforce. No one knows better than he does how much questioning there isat your absence from the castle at this time. Your presence must helphim, and I could have wished that you had not been there until the dayhe is proclaimed. As it is, you must go willingly."
"And then?"
"Wait, mademoiselle."
"What part have I to play?" said Christine.
"Ours is a scheme in which little can be arranged beforehand," Herrickanswered. "Much of our action must be decided by the events of themoment. If I fail----"
"Yes; if you fail?"
"Who can tell, mademoiselle? Even then luck may show me a way out,"said Herrick. "A man who hopes to achieve never allows himself toconsider what may happen in the case of failure. It would make acoward of him."
"But those who--others--his friends may think for him," she answered.
"We will not think of failure."
"Let me judge. Tell me the whole plot."
"Mademoiselle, I came myself to-night, so that you might understand.In the hut yonder in the forest you accepted my service. The othernight when I sent you a message which must have sounded strangely likea command, you sent me an answer, obedience and trust. Even as Jeangave it me I could see you smile at the promise to obey."
"I did not smile. I meant it. Witness that I am here to-night."
"And trust, did you mean that too?" asked Herrick.
"Yes."
"I am going to try your trust to the utmost limit. I cannot tell youthe plot. I cannot tell you what I intend to do."
"Why not?"
"Do not ask me. I cannot answer."
"The trust is to be all on my side," said Christine slowly.
"And it may be strained to breaking point. You may--indeed, I fear youwill--find it difficult to believe in me. I am here to-night to tellyou so. For no duke am I doing this thing, but for you--you. Therewill be plenty of tongues to fill your ears with evil thoughts of me;then remember what I have said to-night. Circumstances have forced meinto this part that I must play, circumstances and a woman--you."
"Circumstances; yes, I understand that; but----"
"But the other you cannot understand," said Herrick quickly. "Is itanything to me, do you suppose, who rules in Montvilliers?"
"Did I not urge that upon you in the forest?" said Christine.
"Yes; and I gave you an answer. My whim compelled me to see the gameto the end. There was truth in that answer, but not all the truth. Didyou guess that?"
"I thought of it afterward," she answered.
"Circumstances I might break through," Herrick went on. "They maystill be looking for a priest in Vayenne, but this dress of the DeBornais would pass me out of the gates. In a few hours I might beacross the frontier."
"Why not go?" she asked, looking suddenly up into his eyes.
"Because you hold me."
"And Captain Lemasle, who is a prisoner, trusts you," said Christine."You are not the man to leave a comrade like that."
"For the moment I had forgotten him," said Herrick. "You reprove me inkindly fashion; but after to-night we may never speak again as we arenow, you and I alone--man and woman. It is nothing to me that you arethe greatest lady in this land; to me you are only the woman I love,the lady I worship. I am dedicated to your service. The avowal iswrung from me to-night because--because failure may bring death--atthe best flight, and success may bring your contempt."
"Death!" she said slowly.
"That were better than your contempt," he answered.
"I shall not easily hate you," she returned.
"I shall remember always that you have confessed so much," he saidquietly, kneeling to kiss her hand.
Into Christine's thoughts came the memory of Lucille's dream and theprince who knelt to her, bringing the fulfilment of all her desires.
"Far from hating you, I might confess more," she whispered, bendingover his bowed head.
"Christine!"
The next moment Herrick had sprung to his feet. There were heavy stepsin the corridor without, rapidly approaching the room.
"Quick, the window!" said Christine.
"Open it wide," said Herrick, pulling his hood over his head, andnoiselessly drawing his sword from its sheath. His cloak was a heavydouble one, and the inner part he fastened to conceal his dress, theouter folds he drew together to hide the drawn sword.
"What will you do? Go. No harm can happen to me," said Christine.
The door was rattled sharply.
"Open! Open!"
"Go," Christine whispered. "They will kill you."
"They might insult you," he answered. "Open the door."
"For my sake, go," she said, pointing to the window.
"Open the door," Herrick repeated.
"Open! Open!" came from without as the door was rattled fiercelyagain.
"Go," she said, her arm stretched out to him. "Just now you said--Ithought you meant you----"
"I did mean it," Herrick answered. "Christine, I love you. Now openthe door."
She hesitated a moment, then unl
ocked it, and threw it open, and Felixstrode into the room.
"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" she asked.
The Count did not answer her, but advanced toward Herrick.
"Whom have we here masquerading as a priest?"
"You have been looking for me, Count; now you have found me. You cameto speak to Mademoiselle. You could hardly have expected to find mehere."
By a sudden movement Christine placed herself between the two men.
"What do you want with me, Felix?"
"You will go with me presently to the castle."
"I will go with you now."
"Presently," said Felix.
"Mademoiselle, summon the young girl who was here with you just now,"said Herrick. "You may go together to the castle."
The Count's sword rang from its scabbard as a fierce oath left hislips.
"Stay!" Herrick said, his sword's point flashing instantly toward theCount's breast. "Would you fight in the presence of this lady?"
Lucille hurried in with a pale face.
"You must be my maid to-night and come with me to the castle," saidChristine.
"Go quickly," said Herrick.
"Felix, you shall go with us," said Christine.
"I will follow," he answered, his eyes fixed on Herrick. "Go. No onewill stop you. You are expected at the castle."
"Obedience and trust," said Herrick quietly.
For a moment Christine hesitated, then she went out quickly withLucille, closing the door.
"Now, Count, I am at your service," said Herrick. "What is ourquarrel?"
"It lies too deep for words," said Felix, attacking his adversaryhotly. "Say it concerns a woman's honor, if you will."
"Say rather that it springs from the Duke Maurice, whom you haveburied in St. Etienne to-day," Herrick answered sternly.
Had he sought to put his adversary off his guard, he could havechosen no better way than the sudden utterance of these words. Madwith rage, and with the consciousness that it was in this man's powerto betray him, he rushed upon Herrick wildly, bent on silencing sodangerous a foe at once and forever. The next instant his swordclattered to the floor, and a moment later Herrick had tossed itthrough the window into the garden.
"This is not to be a fight to the death, Count," he said. "Yours is asmall hurt. I will leave you to bind it up."
"Curse you!"
"Curses fall lightly on honest men," Herrick answered, retreatingbackward to the door, his sword still in his hand. "You would not havecome alone had you expected to find me here; therefore I am fortunate,and in your present humor, mademoiselle is fortunate too in not havingyour escort back to the castle. There you will hardly dare to insulther."
While Herrick spoke he had opened the door, and fitted the key intothe lock on the outside. Now he went out quickly, and locked the doorafter him.
"Good-night," he called out. "When you have bound up your wound, nodoubt some one will come to your shouting."
"Curse you!" came the answer. "The future shall make you regret yourpresent luck."
Herrick laughed, and went quickly down into the hall.
"There is a sword in the garden," he said to the sleepy porter, whowas still wondering at the sudden coming and going. "Take a lanternand find it. Count Felix, who is up-stairs, will be calling for itpresently."
Once out of the house, Herrick walked rapidly away, and a little laterwalked in at the castle gate; but no longer a priest. The cloak laybehind the wall of a garden near the old markets, and was destinedto cause much wonder when it was found next day.
_He rushed upon Herrick wildly._]
Jean shuffled along near him as Herrick went to his quarters.
"Mademoiselle came to the castle not long since. Is all well?"
"Yes."
"And the Count?"
"I left him binding a cut in his wrist."
"Good, friend Roger, though it might have saved trouble if you hadmade a slit in his heart which could not be bound." And Jean turnedaside, and was lost in the shadows.
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