His guest looked gravely at him. “I look forward much to seeing her, M. le Vicomte!” he said for the tenth time.
“Ay, you may say so!” the Vicomte answered. “For in her you will see a Villeneuve, and the last of the line!” with a scowl at Roger. “Neither a lout with his boots full of hay-seeds — pah! nor a sulky girl with as much manner as God gave her, and not a jot to it! Nice company I have, M. des Voeux,” he continued bitterly. “Did you say des Voeux — I never heard the name?”
“Yes, M. le Vicomte.”
“Nice company, I say, for a Villeneuve in his old age! What think you of it? Before Coutras, where was an end of the good old days, and the good old gentrice — —”
“You were at Coutras?”
“Ay, to my cost, a curse on it! But before Coutras, I say, I had at least their mother, who was a Monclar from Rouergue. She had at any rate a tongue and could speak. And my daughter the Abbess takes after her, though may-be more after me, as you will think when you see her. She will be here, she says, to-morrow, for a night or two.” This he told for the fifth time that evening.
“I am looking forward to seeing her!” the guest repeated gravely — also for the fifth time.
But the Vicomte could not have enough of boasting, which was doubly sweet to him; first because it exalted the absent, and secondly because it humiliated those who were present. “Thank God, she at least is not as God made her!” he said again, pleased with the phrase. “At Court last year the King noticed her, and swore she was a true Villeneuve, and a most perfect lady without fault or blemish!”
“His Majesty is certainly a judge,” the listener responded, the twinkle in his eye more apparent than usual.
“To be sure!” the old man returned. “Who better? But, for the matter of that, I am a judge myself. My daughter — for there is only one worthy of the name” — with a withering glance at poor Bonne— “is not hand in glove with every base-born wench about the place, trapesing to a christening in a stable as readily as if the child were a king’s son! Ay, and as I am a Catholic, praying beside old hags’ beds till the lazy priest at the chapel has nought left to do for his month’s meal! Pah!”
“Ranks are no doubt of God’s invention,” des Voeux said with his eyes on the table.
The Vicomte struck the board angrily. “Who doubts it?” he exclaimed. “Of God’s invention, sir? Of course they are!”
“But I take it that they exist, in part at least,” des Ageaux answered, “as a provision for the exercise of charity; and of — —” he hesitated, unwilling — he read the gathering storm on the Vicomte’s brow — to give offence; and, by a coincidence, he was saved from the necessity. As he paused the door flew open, and a serving-man, not one of the two who had waited on the table, but an uncouth creature, shaggy and field-stained, appeared gesticulating on the threshold. He was out of breath, apparently he could not speak; while the gust of wind which entered with him, by blowing sideways the long, straggling flames of the candles, and deepening the gloom of the ill-lit room, made it impossible to discern his face.
The Vicomte rose. They all rose. “What does this mean?” he cried in a rage. “What is it?”
“There’s a party ringing at the gate, my lord, and — and won’t take no!” the man gasped. “A half-dozen of spears, and others on foot and horse. A body of them. Solomon sent me to ask what’s to do, and if he shall open.”
“There’s a petticoat with them,” a second voice answered. The speaker showed his face over the other’s shoulder.
“Imbeciles!” the Vicomte retorted, fired with rage. “It is your lady the Abbess come a day before her time! It is my daughter and you stay her at the door!”
“It is not my lady,” the second man answered timidly. “It might be some of her company, my lord, but ’tis not her. And Solomon — —”
“Well? Well?”
“Says that they are not her people, my lord.”
The Vicomte groaned. “If I had a son worthy the name!” he said, and then he broke off, looking foolish. For Roger had left the room and des Ageaux also. They had slipped by the men while the Vicomte questioned them, and run out through the hall and to the gate — not unarmed. The Vicomte, seeing this, bade the men follow them; and when these too had vanished, and only four or five frightened women who had crowded into the room at the first alarm remained, he began to fumble with his sword, and to add to the confusion by calling fussily for this and that, and to bring him his arquebus, and not to open — not to open till he came! In truth years had worked imperceptibly on him. His nerves, like many things about him, were not what they had been — before Coutras. And he was still giving contrary directions, and scolding the women, and bidding them make way for him — since it seemed there was not a man to go to the gate but himself — when approaching voices broke on his ear and silenced him. An instant later one or two men appeared among the women in the doorway, and the little crowd fell back in wonder, to make room for a low dark man, bareheaded and breathing hard, with disordered hair and glittering eyes, who, thrusting the women to either side, cried — not once, but again, and yet again: —
“Room! Room for the Countess of Rochechouart! Way for the Countess!”
At the third repetition of this — which he seemed to say mechanically — his eyes took in the scene, the table, the room, and the waiting figure of the scandalized Vicomte, and his voice broke. “Saved!” he cried, flinging up his arms, and reeling slightly as if he would fall. “My lady is saved! Saved!”
And then, behind the low, dark man, who, it was plain, was almost beside himself, the Vicomte saw the white face and shrinking form of a small, slight girl little more than a child, whose eyes were like no eyes but a haunted hare’s, so large and bright and affrighted were they.
CHAPTER IV.
THE DILEMMA.
Sheer amazement held the Vicomte silent. The Countess of Rochechouart, of the proud house of Longueville, that in those days yielded place to scarce a house in France — the Countess of Rochechouart to be seeking admittance at his door! And at this hour of the night! She, who was of the greatest heiresses of France, whose hand was weighted with a hundred manors, and of whose acquaintance the Abbess had lately boasted as a thing of which even a Villeneuve might be proud, she to be knocking at his gate in the dark hours! And seeking help! The Countess — his head went round. He was still gazing speechless with surprise when the short dark man who had entered with her fell on his knees before the girl, and seizing her hand mumbled upon it, wept on it, babbled over it, heedless alike of the crowd of gazers who pressed upon him, and of the master of the house, who stared aghast.
The Vicomte’s amazement began at that to give place to perplexity. The Abbess, had she been here, would have known how to entertain such a guest. But Bonne and Roger — they were naught. Yet he must do something. He found his voice. “If I have, indeed,” he said, for he was still suspicious of a trick, so forlorn and childish seemed the figure before him— “if I have indeed the honour,” he repeated stiffly, “to address the Countess of Rochechouart, I — I bid her welcome to my poor house.”
“I am Mademoiselle de Rochechouart,” the girl murmured, speaking faintly. “I thank you.”
It was apparent that she could say no more. Her face was scratched and bleeding, her hair was loose, her riding-dress, stained to the throat with dirt, was torn in more places than one. There were other signs that, frail as she was, she had ridden hard and desperately; ridden to the end of her strength.
But the Vicomte thought, not of her, but of himself, as was his custom; not of her plight, but of the figure he was making before his people, who stared open-mouthed at the unwonted scene. “Time was, mademoiselle,” he replied, drawing himself up, “before Coutras, when I could have offered you” — with a bow— “a more fitting hospitality. Time was when the house of Villeneuve, which has entertained four kings, could have afforded a more fitting reception to — hem — to beauty in distress. But that was before Coutras. Since Cout
ras, destined to be the grave of the nobility of France — I —— What is it?”
“I think she is faint, sir,” Bonne murmured timidly. She, with a woman’s eye, saw that the Countess was swaying, and she sprang forward to support her. “She is ill, sir,” she continued hurriedly and with greater boldness. “Permit me, I beg you, sir, to take her to my room. She will be better there — until we can arrange a chamber.” Already the child, half-fainting, was clinging to her, and but for her must have fallen.
The Vicomte, taken aback by his daughter’s presumption, could only stare. “If this be so,” he said grudgingly, “certainly! But I don’t understand. How comes all this about? Eh? How — —” But he found that the girl did not heed him, and he turned and addressed the attendant. “How, you, sir, comes your mistress here? And in this plight?”
But the dark man, as deaf as his mistress to the question, had turned to follow her. He seemed indeed to have no more notion of being parted from her than a dog which finds itself alone with its master among strangers. Bonne at the door discovered his presence at her elbow, and paused in some embarrassment. The Vicomte saw the pause, and glad to do something — he had just ordered off the women with fleas in their ears — he called loudly to the man to stand back. “Stand back, fellow,” he repeated. “The Countess will be well tended. Let two of the women be sent to her to do what is needful — as is becoming.”
But the Countess, faint as she was, heard and spoke. “He is my foster-father,” she murmured without turning her head. “If he may lie at my door he will heed no one.”
Bonne, whose arm was round her, nodded a cheerful assent, and, followed by two of the women, the three disappeared in the direction of the girl’s chamber. The Vicomte, left to digest the matter, sniffed once or twice with a face of amazement, and then awoke to the fact that Roger and his guest were still absent. Fortunately, before he had done more than give vent to peevish complaints, they entered.
He waited, with his eyes on the door. To his surprise no one followed them — no steward, no attendant. “Well?” he cried, withering them with his glance. “What does this mean? Where are the others? Is there no one in the Countess’s train of a condition to be presented to me? Or how comes it that you have not brought him, booby,” — this to Roger— “to give me some account of these strange proceedings? Am I the last to be told who come into my house? But God knows, since Coutras — —”
“There is no one, M. le Vicomte,” the Lieutenant answered.
The Vicomte glared at him. “How? No one?” he retorted pompously. “Impossible! Do you suppose that the Countess of Rochechouart travels with no larger attendance than a poor gentleman of Brittany? You mean, sir, I take it, that there is no one of condition, though that is so contrary to rule that I can hardly believe it. A countess of Rochechouart and no gentlemen in her train! She should travel with four at the least!”
“I only know that there is no one, sir.”
“I do not understand!”
“Neither do we,” the Lieutenant of Périgord returned, somewhat out of patience. “The matter is as dark to us as it is to you, sir. It is plain that the Countess has experienced a serious adventure, but beyond that we know nothing, since neither she nor her attendant has spoken. He seems beside himself with joy and she with fatigue.”
“But the spears?” his host retorted sharply. “The men on horse and foot who alarmed the porter?”
“They vanished as soon as we opened. One I did delay a moment, and learned — though he was in haste to be gone — that they fell in with the lady a half mile from here. She was then in the plight in which you have seen her, and it was at her attendant’s prayer, who informed them of her quality, that they escorted her to this house. They learned no more from him than that the lady’s train had been attacked in the woods between this and Vlaye, and that the man got his mistress away and hid with her, and was making for this house when the horsemen met them.”
“Incredible!” the Vicomte exclaimed, stalking across the hearth and returning in excitement. “Since Coutras I have heard no such thing! A Countess of Rochechouart attacked on the road and put to it like a common herdgirl. It must be the work of those cursed — peasants! It must be so! But, then, the men who brought her to the door and vanished again, who are they? Travellers are not so common in these parts. You might journey three days before you fell in with a body of men-at-arms to protect you on your way.”
“True,” des Ageaux answered. “But I learned no more from them.”
“And you, Master Booby?” the Vicomte said, addressing Roger with his usual sarcasm. “You asked nothing, I suppose?”
“I was busied about the Countess,” the lad muttered. “It was dark, and I heard no more than their voices.”
“Then it was only you who saw them?” the Vicomte exclaimed, turning again to des Ageaux. “Did you not notice what manner of men they were, sir, how many, and of what class? Strange that they should leave a warm house-door at this hour! Did you form no opinion of them? Were they” — he brought out the word with an effort— “Crocans, think you?”
The Lieutenant replied that he took them for the armed attendants of a gentleman passing that way, and the Vicomte, though ill-content with the answer, was obliged to put up with it. “Yet it seems passing strange to me,” he retorted, “that you did not think their drawing off a little beside the ordinary. And who travels at this hour of the night, I would like to know?”
The Lieutenant made no answer, and the Vicomte too fell silent. From time to time serving-women had passed through the room — for, after the awkward fashion of those days, the passage to the inner apartments was through the dining-hall — some with lights, and some with fire in pans. The draught from the closing doors had more than once threatened to extinguish the flickering candles. Such flittings produced an air of bustle and a hum of preparation long unknown in that house; but they were certainly more to the taste of the menials than the master. At each interruption the Vicomte pished and pshawed, glaring as if he would slay the offender. But the women, emboldened by the event and the presence of strangers, did not heed him, and after some minutes of silent sufferance his patience came to an end.
“Go you,” he cried to Roger, “and bid the girl come to me.”
“The Countess, sir?” the lad exclaimed in astonishment.
The Vicomte swore. “No, fool!” he replied. “Your sister! Is she master of the house, or am I? Bid her descend this instant and tell me what is forward and what she has learned.”
Roger, with secret reluctance, obeyed, and his father, sorely fretting, awaited his return. Two minutes elapsed, and three. Seldom stirring abroad, the Vicomte had, in spite of all his talk about Coutras, an overweening sense of his own importance, and he was about to break out in fury when Bonne at length entered. She was followed by Roger.
It was clear at a glance that the girl was frightened; less clear that mixed with her fear was another emotion. “Well,” the Vicomte cried, throwing himself back in his great chair and fixing her with his angry eyes. “What is it? Am I to know nothing — in my own house?”
Bonne controlled herself by an effort. “On the contrary, sir, there is that which I think you should know,” she murmured. “The Countess has told me the story. She was attacked on the road, some of her people she fears were killed, and all were scattered. She herself escaped barely with her life.”
The Vicomte stared. “Where?” he said. “Where was it?”
“An hour from here, sir.”
“Towards Vlaye?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And she barely escaped?”
“You saw her, sir.”
“And who — who does she say dared to commit this outrage?”
Bonne did not answer. Her eyes sought her brother’s and sank again. She trembled.
The Vicomte, though not the keenest of observers, detected her embarrassment. He fancied that he knew its origin, and the cause of her hesitation. In a voice of triumph, “Ay, who?”
he replied. “You don’t wish to say. But I can tell you. I read it in your face. I can tell you, disobedient wench, who alone would be guilty of such an outrage. Those gutter-sweepings” — his face swelled with rage— “made up of broken lacqueys and ploughboys, whom they call Crocans! Eh, girl, is it not so?” he continued savagely. “Am I not right?”
“No, sir,” she murmured without daring to look up.
His face fell. “No?” he repeated. “No? But I don’t believe you! Who then? Don’t lie to me! Who then?” He rapped the table before him.
“The Captain of Vlaye,” she whispered.
The Vicomte sank back in his chair. “Impossible!” he cried. Then in a much lower tone: “Impossible!” he repeated. “You dream, girl. M. de Vlaye has done some things not quite — not regular. But — but in cases perfectly different. To people of — of no consequence! This cannot be!”
“I fear it is so, sir,” she whispered, without raising her eyes. “Nor is that — the worst.”
The Vicomte clenched his fingers about the arms of his chair and nodded the question he could not frame.
“It was with the Abbess, sir — with my sister,” Bonne continued in a low tone, “that the Countess was to stay the night. I fear that it was from her that he learned where and how to beset her.”
The Vicomte looked as if he was about to have a fit.
“What?” he cried. “Do you dare, unnatural girl, to assert that your sister was privy to this outrage?”
“Heaven forbid, sir!” Bonne answered fervently. “She knew naught of it. But — —”
“Then why — —”
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 440
