A Marriage Under the Terror

by Patricia Wentworth

  CHAPTER XXIV

  BURNING OF THE CHTEAU

  MLLE MARTHE LAY IN THE DUSK frowning and knitting her brows until they made a straight dark line over her restless eyes. A sense of angry impotence possessed her and found expression in a continual sharp movement of head and hand; the stabbing physical pain evoked was sheer relief to the strained mind. Two days had now passed since the first expedition to the château, and every hour of them had seemed more heavily weighted with impending danger. Nothing would persuade Mme de Montenay to move, or Ange to leave her to her fate. Louise was tearful, and useless; Marguerite, a lonely child, terrified of the great shadowed rooms, and clinging eagerly to her friend;—a complication, in fact, which roused Mlle Marthe’s anger more than all the rest, since even her resolution recoiled from the abandonment of a young girl, who had no share in Mme de Montenay’s obstinacy. Marthe fretted, turned a little, groaned, and bit her lip.

  As the door opened she looked up sharply, but it was only Jeanne, who came to ask her if she should light the lamp, and got a snappish “No!” for answer.

  “It is dark, Ma’mselle,” she said.

  “I will wait till they come in.”

  “Eh—it’s queer weather, and a queer time of day to be out,” muttered Jeanne sulkily.

  “Madame is young; she needs exercise,” said Marthe, prompted by something in the woman’s tone.

  “Ah, yes, exercise,” said Jeanne in a queer voice, and she went out, shutting the door sharply. Mlle Marthe’s thoughts kept tone with the darkening sky. Her eyes watched the door with an anxious stare. When at last Ange and Aline came in snow-sprinkled and warm, her temper was fretted to a sharp edge, and she spoke with quick impatience.

  “Mon Dieu, how long you have been! If you must go, you must, but there is no occasion to stay and stay, until I am beside myself with wondering what has happened!”

  Ange threw off her wet cloak and bent to kiss her sister. “Oh, my dearest, has it been so long?” she said. “Why, I thought we were being so quick, and that you would commend us. We did not wait at all, only gave the food to Louise and came straight back. Has the pain been bad then, my poor darling? Have you wanted anything?”

  Marthe pushed her away with an angry jerk.

  “What I want is a way out of this abominable situation,” she exclaimed. “If you had any common-sense, Ange—the slightest instinct of self-preservation—but no, you will sacrifice all our lives to that wicked old woman, and then flatter yourself that you have done something to be proud of. Come here to die, has she? Heavens, she’ll outlive us all, and then go happy in the thought that she has contrived to do a little more mischief before the end!”

  Ange winced, but only said gently:

  “Dearest, don’t.”

  “There, Ange, I’ve no patience! I tell you we are all on the brink of ruin. Madelon has been here.”

  “Madelon? Ah, the dear child. It is so long since I have really seen her. I am sorry to have missed her. Was she well?”

  Mlle Marthe caught her sister’s hand and pressed it until she cried out, “Marthe, you are hurting me!”

  “Ange! Sometimes I could swear at you! For Heaven’s sake think of yourself for a few moments, or if that is asking too much, think of Aline, think of me. Madelon came here because her father sent her!”

  “Her father sent her! Marthe, dearest, don’t—that hurts.”

  “I mean it to. Yes, her father——”

  “But why. I don’t understand.”

  Aline had been lighting the lamp. She looked up now, and the yellow flare showed the trouble in her face.

  “Oh, ma tante,” she breathed.

  “Yes, child. Ange, wake up; don’t you realise?”

  “Mathieu suspects?” asked Aline quickly. “But how?”

  “He saw you take the path to the château the other day. Saw, or thought he saw, a light in the west wing last night, and sent Madelon to find out how much we knew. A mischief-maker Mathieu, and a bad man,—devil take him.”

  “Oh, Marthe, don’t. Madelon,—Madelon is as true as steel.”

  “Oh, yes, but mightily afraid of her father. She sat here with her round cheeks as white as curds, and cried, and begged me not to tell her anything;—as if I should be such a fool.”

  “Ah, poor Madelon,” said Ange, “she must not distress herself like that, it is so bad for her just now.”

  Marthe ground her teeth.

  “Ange, I won’t have it—I won’t. I tell you all our lives are at stake, and you discuss Madelon’s health.”

  “My dearest, don’t be vexed; indeed, I am trying to think what can be done.”

  “Now, Ange, listen to me. If you will go on with this mad business, there is only one thing to be done. I have thought it all out. They must do with as little as possible, and you must not go there oftener than once in four days. You will go at eleven o’clock at night when there is no one abroad, and Louise will meet you half-way and take the basket on. There must be no other communication of any sort: you hear me, Aline?”

  “Yes,” said Aline, “I think you are quite right.”

  “That is always a consolation.” Marthe’s voice took a sarcastic tone. “Now, Ange, do you agree?”

  “If you really think——”

  “Why, yes, I do. Ange, I’m a cross animal, but I can’t see you throw your life away and not say a word. I’m a useless cripple enough, but I have the use of my tongue. Will you promise?”

  “Well—yes.”

  “That’s right. Now for goodness let’s talk about something else. If there’s going to be trouble it will come, and we need n’t go over and over it all before it does come. Aline, do, for the love of heaven, remember that I cannot bear the light in my eyes like that. Put the lamp over here, behind me, and then you can take a book and read aloud so as to give us all a chance of composing our minds.”

  Aline waked late that night. All the surface calm in her had been broken up by the events of the last few days. The slight sprinkling of snow had ceased, but there was a high wind abroad, and as it complained amongst the stripped and creaking woods, it seemed to voice the yearning that strained the very fibres of her being.

  She stood at midnight and looked out. Very high and pale rode the moon, and the driving cloud wrack swept like shallow, eddying water across the one clear space of sky in which she queened it. All below was dense, dull, cloud mass, darkening to the hill slope, and the black sighing woodland. Thoughts drove in her brain, like the driving cloud. Sadness of life, imminence of death, shortness of love. She had seen an ugly side of ancestral pride in these two days, and suddenly she glimpsed a vision of herself grown old and grey, looking back along the interminable years to the time when she had sacrificed youth and love. Then it would be too late. Life was irrevocable; but now—now? She threw open her window and leaned far out, drawing the strong air into her lungs, whilst the wind caught her hair and spread it all abroad. The spirit of life, of youth, cried to her, and she stretched her arms wide and mingled her voice with its voice. “Jacques!” she called under her breath, “Jacques!” and then as suddenly she drew back trembling and hid her face in her cold hands.

  She did not know how the time passed after that, but when she looked up again there was a faint glow in the sky. She watched it curiously, thinking for a moment that it was the dawn, and then aware that morning must still be far away.

  A tinge of rose brightened the cloud bank over the hill, and at its edge the ether showed blue. Then quite suddenly a tongue of fire flared above the trees and sank again. As the flames rose a second time Ange Desaix was in the room.

  “Aline! The château! It is on fire!” she cried. “Oh, mon Dieu, what shall we do?”

  They ran out, wrapped hastily in muffling cloaks, and as they climbed the hill Ange spoke in gasps.

  “They must have seen it in the village before we did. All the world will be there. Oh, that poor child! God help us all!”

  “Oh, come quickly!” cried Aline, and they
took hands and ran. The slope once mounted, the path so dark a few hours back was illuminated. A red, unnatural dusk filled the wood, and against it the trees stretched great black groping arms. The sky was like the reflection from some huge furnace, and all the way the fire roared in the rising wind.

  “How could it have happened? Do you think,—oh, do you suppose this is what she meant to do?” Aline asked once, and Ange gave a sort of sob as she answered:

  “Oh, my dear, God knows,—but I’m afraid so,” and then they pushed on again in silence.

  They came out of the bridle-path into the cypress walk that led to Madame’s Italian garden. At a turn the flaming building came into view for the first time. South and east it burned furiously, but the west front, that which faced them, was still intact, though the smoke eddied about it, and a dull glare from the windows spoke of rooms beyond that were already in the grip of the flames. Between low hedges of box the two pressed on, and climbed the terrace steps.

  Here the heat drove to meet them full of stinging particles of grit. The hot blast dried the skin and stung the eyes. The wind blew strongly from the east, but every now and then it veered, and then the fire lapped round the corner and was blown out in long dreadful tongues, which licked the walls as if tasting them, and threw a crimson glare along the dark west wing. Great sparks like flashes of flame flew high and far, and the dense reek made breathing painful.

  “Look!” said Aline, catching her companion by the arm, and pointing. From where they stood the broad south terrace was full in view, and the fire lighted it brilliantly. Below it, where the avenue ceased, was a small crowd of dark gesticulating figures, intent on the blazing pile.

  “They can’t see us,” said Ange; “but come this way, here, where the statue screens us.”

  They paused a moment, leaning against the pedestal where a white Diana lifted an arrow against the glare. Then both cried out simultaneously, for driven by a sudden gust the smoke wreaths parted, and for a moment they saw at a window above them a moving whiteness,—an arm thrust out, only to fall again, and hang with fatal limpness across the sill.

  “Ah, it was Marguerite,” cried Aline with catching breath. “I saw her face. Marguerite! Marguerite!”

  “Hush!” said Mlle Ange. “It is no use calling. She has fainted. Thank God she came this way. There is a stair if I could only find it. Once I knew it well enough.”

  As she spoke she hurried into the smoke, and Aline followed, gasping.

  “Your cloak over your face, child, and remember you must not faint.”

  How they gained the boudoir, Aline hardly knew, but she found herself there with the smoke all round, pressing on her like a solid thing, blinding, stinging, choking. Ahead of her Mlle Ange groped along the wall. Once she staggered, but with a great effort kept on, and at last stopped and pressed with all her strength.

  In the darkness appeared a darker patch, and then, just as Aline’s throbbing senses seemed about to fail her, she felt her hand caught, she was pulled through a narrow opening, her feet felt steps, mounted instinctively, and her lungs drew in a long, long breath of relief, for here the smoke had hardly penetrated, and the air, though heavy, was quite fit to breathe. For a moment they halted and then climbed on. The stair went steeply up, wound to the left, and ceased. Then again Ange stood feeling for the catch with fingers that had known it well enough in the dead days. Now they hesitated, tried here and there, failed of the secret, and went groping to and fro, until Aline’s blood beat in her throat, and she could have cried out with fear and impatience. The moment seemed interminable, and the smoke mounted behind them in ever-thickening whirls.

  “It was here, mon Dieu, what has become of it? So many years ago, but I thought I could have found it blindfold. Réné showing me,—his hand on mine—ah, at last,” and with that the murmuring voice ceased, and the panelling slipped smoothly back, letting in more smoke, to press like a nightmare upon their already labouring lungs. Through it the window showed a red square, against which was outlined a white, huddled shape. It was Marguerite, who lay just as she had fallen, head bowed, one hand thrust out, the other at her throat. Ange and Aline stood by her for a moment leaning from the window, and taking in what air they might, and then the confusion and the stumbling began once more, only this time they had a weight to carry, and could shield neither eyes nor lungs from the pervading smoke. Twice they stopped, and twice that dreadful roar of the fire, a roar that drowned even the heavy beat of their burdened pulses, drove them on again, until at last they stumbled out upon the terrace, and there halted, gasping terribly. The intolerable heat dripped from them in a black sweat, and for a while they crouched trembling in every limb. Then Ange whispered with dry lips:

  “We must go on. This is not safe.”

  They staggered forward once more, and even as they did so there was a most appalling crash, and the flames rushed up like a pyramid to heaven, making all the countryside light with a red travesty of day. Urged by terror, and with a final effort, they dragged Marguerite down the steps, and on, until they sank at last exhausted under a cypress which watched the pool where the fountain played no more.

  In a minute or two Aline recovered sufficiently to wet the hem of her cloak and bathe Marguerite’s face. This and the cold air brought her to with a shudder and a cry. She sat up coughing, and clung to Aline.

  “Oh, save me, save me!”

  “Chérie, you are saved.”

  “And they are burnt. Oh, Holy Virgin, I shall see it always.”

  “Don’t talk of it, my dear!”

  “Oh, I must. I saw it, Aline; I saw it! There was a little thread of fire that ran up Louise’s skirt, like a gold wire. Oh, mon Dieu! They are burnt.”

  “Madame?” asked Ange, very low.

  “Yes, yes; and Louise, poor Louise! I was so cross with her last night; but I did n’t know. I would n’t have been if I had known. Oh, poor Louise!”

  “Tell us what happened, my dear, if you can.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Marguerite hid her face a moment, and then spoke excitedly, pushing back her dishevelled hair. “I woke up with the smoke in my throat, and ran in to la tante’s room. She had n’t gone to bed at all. There she was in her big chair, sitting up straight, Louise on her knees begging her to get up, and all between the boards of the floor there was smoke coming up, as if there were a great fire underneath.”

  “Underneath! It began below, then?”

  “Yes, Aline, she did it herself! She must have crept down and set light in ever so many places. Yes, it is true, for she boasted of it. ‘Ange Desaix says I am the last of the Montenay. Very well, then; she shall see, and the world shall see, how Montenay and I will go together!’ That is what she said, and Louise screamed, ‘Save yourself, Ma’mselle!’ But la tante nodded and said, ‘Yes, if you have wings, use them, by all means.’ It was like some perfectly horrid dream. I ran through the rooms to see if I could get down the stairs, but they were all in a blaze. Then I ran back again; but when I was still some way from the door I saw that the fire was coming up through the floor. Louise gave one great scream, but la tante just sat and smiled, and then the floor gave way, and they went down with a crash. Oh, Aline—Aline!”

  “Oh, Marguerite, my dear—and you?”

  Marguerite shuddered.

  “I ran across the corridor and into the farthest room, and the smoke came after me, and I fainted, and then you came and saved me.”

  “Hush! there is some one coming,” said Mlle Ange in a quick whisper.

  They crouched down and waited breathlessly. Then, after an agonised struggle, Marguerite coughed, and at once a dark figure bore down on them.

  “Thank the Saints I have found you,” said Madelon’s voice.

  Aline sprang up.

  “Madelon—you? How did you know?”

  “Ah! Bah—I saw you when you crossed the terrace. I saw you were carrying some one. Is it Madame?”

  “No, no; a girl—younger than we are. Oh, Madelon, you will help
us?”

  “Well, at least I won’t harm you—you know that; but you are safe enough, so far, for no one else saw you. They were all watching to see the roof fall in over there to the right, and I should have been watching too, only that my cousin Anne had just been scolding me so for being there at all. She said my baby would have St. John’s fire right across his face. She herself has a red patch over one eye, and only because her mother would sit staring at the embers. Well, I thought I would be prudent, so I bade Jean Jacques look instead of me, and turned my head the other way, and, just as the flames shot up, I saw you cross the terrace and go down the steps. And now, what are you going to do with Mademoiselle?”

  This most pertinent question took them all aback, and Marguerite looked up with round, bewildered eyes; she certainly had no suggestions to make. At last Mlle Ange said slowly:

  “She must come home with us.”

  “Impossible! No, no, that would never do, dear Ma’mselle.”

  “But there is nothing else to be done.”

  “Oh, there must be. Why, you could not hide an infant in your house. Everything is known in the village,—and—I should not trust Jeanne overmuch.”

  “Madelon! Jeanne? She has been with us a life-time.”

  “Maybe, but she hates the Montenay more than she loves you and Mlle Marthe. Also, she is jealous of Madame here,—and—in fact, she has talked too much already.”

  “Then what is to be done?” asked Ange distractedly. She was trembling and unnerved. That a man’s foes could be they of his own household, was one of those horrible truths which now came home to her for the first time. “Jeanne,” she kept repeating; “no, it is not possible that Jeanne would do anything to harm us.”

  Madelon drew Aline aside.

  “Jeanne is an old beast,” she said frankly. “I always said so; but until the other day I did not think she was unfaithful. Now,—well, I only tell you that my father said she had given him ‘valuable information.’ What do you make of that, eh?”

  “What you do,” said Aline calmly.

  “Well, then, what next?”