“Why?” the Countess replied. She had learned somewhat during the day, and was too young to hide her knowledge, being provoked. “Do you ask why, mademoiselle? Because, to be plain, I fear that which it may be you do not fear.”
The Abbess flushed crimson to her very throat. “And what, to be plain, do you mean by that?” she retorted in a tone that shook with passion. “If you think that this story is true that they tell — —”
“That M. de Vlaye waylaid and would have seized me?” the little Countess retorted undismayed. “It is quite true.”
“You say that!” The young Abbess was pale and red by turns. “How do you know? What do you know?”
“I know the Captain of Vlaye,” the girl answered firmly. “I have seen him more than once at Angoulême, His mask fell yesterday, and I could not be mistaken. It was he!”
The Abbess bit her lip until the blood came in the vain attempt to mask feelings which her temper rendered her impotent to control. She no longer doubted the story. She saw that it was true; and jealousy, rage, and amazement — amazement at Vlaye’s treachery, amazement at the discovery of a rival in one so insignificant in all save rank — deprived her of the power of speech. Fortunately at this moment the clash of steel reached Solomon’s ears, and, startled, the porter gave the alarm.
“My lord, they are fighting!” he cried. And then emboldened by the emergency, “Were it not well,” he continued, “to put the ladies in a place of safety?”
The Vicomte, urged up the steps by the women, leant over the parapet, and learned the truth for himself. Bonne, the Countess, the Abbess and her women, all followed, and in a twinkling were standing on the roof in the dark night, the round tower rising beside them, and the croaking of the frogs coming up to them from below.
But the brief clash of weapons was over, and they could make out no more than a group of figures gathered about two prostrate men. The movement of the lights, now here now there, augmented the difficulty of seeing, and for a while Bonne’s heart stood still. She made no lamentations, for she came of the old blood, but she thought Roger dead. And then a man raised a light, and she distinguished his figure leaning over one of the injured men.
“Thank God!” she murmured. “There is Roger. He is not hurt!”
“Who are they? Who are they?” the Vicomte babbled, clinging to the parapet. “Eh? Who are they? Cannot any one see?”
But no one could see, and the Abbess’s women began to cry. She paid no heed to them. She leant with the others over the parapet, and she listened with them to the shuffling feet of the men below, as slowly in a double line they bore the cloaked form towards the house. But whether their thoughts were her thoughts, their anxiety her anxiety, whether she was wrapt, as they were, in the scene that passed below, or chewed instead the cud of other and more bitter reflections, was known only to herself. Her proud spirit, whose worst failings hitherto had not gone beyond selfishness and vanity, hung, it may be, during those moments between good and evil, the better and the worse; took, perhaps, the turn that must decide its life; flung from it, perhaps, in passionate abandonment the last heart-strings that bound it to the purer and more generous affections.
Perhaps; but none of those who stood beside her had an inkling of her mood. For the troopers had passed with their mysterious burden into the house, and no sooner were they gone than one of the Abbess’s women cried in a panic that they would be murdered, and in a trice all, succumbing to the impulse, made for the Tower Chamber, and herded into it pell-mell, some shrugging their shoulders and showing that they gave way to the more timid, and the men not knowing from whom to take orders. In the chamber were already two or three of the house-women, who had sought that refuge earlier in the evening, and these, seeing the Vicomte, looked for nothing but slaughter, and by their shrill lamentations added to the confusion.
The security of all depended entirely on their holding the way across the leads, and here the men should have remained; but the women would not part with them and all entered together. Some one locked the outer door, and there they were, in all eleven or twelve persons, in the great, dreary chamber, where a few feeble candles that served to make darkness visible disclosed their blanched faces. At the slightest sound the women shrieked or clung to one another, and with every second the boldest expected to hear the tramp of feet without, and the clatter of weapons on the oak.
There was something ridiculous in this noisy panic; yet something terrifying also to those who, like Bonne, kept their heads. She strove in vain to make herself heard; her voice was drowned; the disorder overwhelmed her as a flood overwhelms a strong swimmer. She seized a girl by the arm to silence her: the wench took it for a fresh alarm and squalled the louder. She flew to her father and begged him to interpose; flurried, he fell into a rage with her, and stormed at her as if it were she who caused the confusion. For the others the young Countess, though quiet, was scared; and Odette, seated at a distance, noticed her companions only at intervals in the dark current of her thoughts — and then with a look of disdain.
At length Bonne betook herself to Solomon. “Some one should hold the roof!” she said.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Ay, ay, mademoiselle,” he said, “but we have no orders and the door is locked, and he has the key.”
“You could do something there?”
“Ay, if we had orders.”
She flew to the Vicomte at that. “Some one should be holding the roof, sir,” she said. “Solomon and Fulbert could maintain it awhile. Could you not give them orders?”
He swore at her. “We are mad to be here,” he exclaimed, veering about on an instant. “This comes of letting women have a voice! Silence, you hell-babes!” he continued, turning with his staff raised upon two of the women, who had chosen that moment to raise a new outcry. “We are all mad! Mad, I say!”
“I will silence them, sir,” she answered. And stepping on a bed, “Listen! Listen to me!” she cried stoutly. “We are in little danger here if we are quiet. Therefore let us make no noise. They will not then know where to find us. And let the men go to the door, and the maids to the other end of the room. And — —”
Shrieks stopped her. The two whom the Vicomte had upbraided flung themselves screaming on Solomon. “The window! The window!” they cried, glaring over their shoulders. And before the astonished old man could free himself, or the Vicomte give vent to his passion, “The window! They are coming in!” they shrieked.
The words were the signal for a wild rush towards the door. Two or three of the candles were knocked down, the Vicomte was well-nigh carried off his legs, the Abbess, who tried to rise, was pinned where she was by her women; who flung themselves on their knees before her and hid their faces in her robe. Only Bonne, interrupted in the midst of her appeal, retained both her presence of mind and her freedom of action. After obeying the generous instinct which bade her thrust the young Countess behind her, she remained motionless, staring intently at the window — staring in a mixture of hope and fear.
The hope was justified. They were the faces of friends that showed in the dark opening of the window. They were friends who entered — Charles first, that the alarm might be the sooner quelled, des Ageaux second; if first and second they could be called, when the feet of the two touched the floor almost at the same instant. But Charles wore a new and radiant face, and des Ageaux a look of command, that to Bonne after what she had gone through was as wine to a fainting man. There were some whom that look did not reach, but even these — women with their faces hidden — stilled their cries, and raised their heads when he spoke. For a trumpet could not have rung more firm in that panic-laden air.
“We are friends!” he said. “And we are in time! M. le Vicomte, we must act and ask your leave afterwards.” Turning again to the window he spoke to the night.
Not in vain. At the word troopers came tumbling in man after man; the foremost, a lean, lank-visaged veteran, who looked neither to right nor left, but in three strides, and with one salute in the Vic
omte’s direction, put himself at the door and on guard. He had a long, odd-looking sword with a steel basket hilt, with which he signed to the men to stand here or there.
For they continued to come in, until the Vicomte, stunned by the sight of his son, awoke to fresh wonder; and, speechless, counted a round dozen and three to boot, besides his guest and Charles. Moreover they were men of a certain stamp, quiet but grim, who, being bidden, did and asked no questions.
When they had all filed through the group of staring women now fallen silent, and had ranged themselves beside the Bat — for he it was — at the door, des Ageaux spoke.
“Do you hear them?”
“No, my lord.”
“Unlock softly, then, but do not open! And wait the word! M. le Vicomte” — he turned courteously to the old man— “the occasion presses, or I would ask your pardon. Mademoiselle” — but as he turned to Bonne he lowered his voice, and what he said escaped other ears. Not her ears, for from brow to neck, though he had but praised her courage and firmness, she blushed vividly.
“I did only what I could,” she replied, lifting her eyes once to his and as quickly dropping them. “Roger — —”
“Ha! What of Roger?”
She told him as concisely as she could.
He knit his brows. “That was not of my contrivance,” he said. And then with a gleam of humour in his eyes, “Masked was he? Another knight-errant, it seems, and less fortunate than the first! You do not lack supporters in your misfortunes, mademoiselle. But — what is it?”
“They come, my lord,” the Bat answered, raising his hand to gain attention.
All, at the word, listened with quickened pulses, and in the silence the harsh rending of wood came to the ear, a little dulled by distance. Then a murmur of voices, then another crash! The men about the door poised themselves, each with a foot advanced, and his weapon ready; their strained muscles and gleaming eyes told of their excitement. A moment and they would be let loose! A moment — and then, too late, Bonne saw Charles beside the Bat.
Too late; but it mattered nothing. She might have spoken, but he, panting for the fight, exulting in the occasion, would not have heeded if an angel had spoken. And before she could find words, the thing was done. The Bat flung the door open, and with a roar of defiance the mob of men charged out and across the roof, Charles among the foremost.
A shot, a scream, a tumult of cries, the jarring of steel on steel, and the fight rolled down through the house in a whirl of strident voices. The candles, long-wicked and guttering, flamed wildly in the wind; the room was half in shadow, half in light. The Vicomte, who had seen all in a maze of stupefaction, stiffened himself — as the old war-horse that scents the battle. Bonne hid her face and prayed.
Not so the Abbess. She sat unmoved, a sneer on her face, a dark look in her eyes. And so Bonne, glancing up, saw her; and a strange pang shot through the younger girl’s breast. If he had praised her courage — and that with a look and in a tone that had brought the blood to her cheeks — what would he think of her handsome sister? How could he fail to admire her, not for her beauty only, but for her stately pride, for the composure that not even this could alter, for the challenge that shone in her haughty eyes?
The next moment Bonne reproached herself for entertaining such a thought, while Charles’s life and perhaps Roger’s hung in the balance, and the cries of men in direst straits still rung in her ears. What a worm she was, what a crawling thing! God pardon her! God protect them!
The Abbess’s voice — she had risen at last and moved — cut short her supplications. “Who is he?” Odette de Villeneuve muttered in a fierce whisper. “Who is he, girl?” She pointed to des Ageaux, who kept his station on the threshold, his ear following the course of the fight. “Who is that man? They call him my lord! Who is he?”
“I do not know,” Bonne said.
“You do not know?”
“No.”
The candles flared higher. The Lieutenant turned and saw the two sisters standing together looking at him.
He crossed the room to them, halting midway to listen, his attention divided between them and the conflict below. His eyes dwelt awhile on the Abbess, but settled, as he drew nearer, on Bonne. He desired to reassure her. “Have no fear, mademoiselle,” he said quietly. “Your brother runs little risk. They were taken by surprise. By this time it is over.”
The Vicomte heard and his lips trembled, but no words came. It was the Abbess who spoke for him. “And what next?” she asked harshly.
Des Ageaux, still lending an ear to the sounds below, looked at her with attention, but did not answer.
“What next?” she repeated. “You have entered forcibly. By what right?”
“The right, mademoiselle,” he replied, “that every man has to resist a wrong. The right that every man has to protect women, and to save his friends. If you desire more than this,” he continued, with a change of tone that answered the challenge of her eyes, “in the King’s name, mademoiselle, and my own!”
“And you are?”
“His Majesty’s Lieutenant in Périgord,” he answered, bowing. His attention was fixed on her, yet he was vividly conscious of the colour that mounted suddenly to Bonne’s cheeks, dyed her brows, shone in her eyes.
“Of Périgord?” the Abbess repeated in astonishment.
“Of Périgord,” he replied, bowing again. “It is true,” he continued, shrugging his shoulders, “that I am a league or two beyond my border, but great wrongs beget little ones, mademoiselle.”
She hated him. As he stood there successful, she hated him. But she had not found an answer, nor had Bonne stilled the fluttering, half painful, half pleasant, of her heart, when the tread of returning feet heralded news. The Bat and two others entered, bearing a lanthorn that lit up their damp swarthy faces. The first was Roger.
He was wildly excited. “Great news!” he cried, waving his hand. “Great news! I have downstairs — —”
One look from des Ageaux’s eyes silenced him. Des Ageaux looked from him to the Bat. “What have you done?” he asked curtly.
“Taken two unwounded, three wounded,” the tall man answered as briefly. “The others escaped.”
“Their horses?”
“We have their horses.”
Des Ageaux paused an instant. Then, “You have closed the gates?”
“And set a guard, my lord!” the Bat answered. “We have no wounded, but — —”
“The Duke of Joyeuse lies below, and is wounded!” Roger cried in a breath. He could restrain himself no longer.
If his object was to shatter des Ageaux’s indifference, he succeeded to a marvel. “The Duke of Joyeuse?” the Lieutenant exclaimed in stupefaction. “Impossible!”
“But no!” Roger retorted. “He is lying below — wounded. It is not impossible!”
“But he was not — of those?” des Ageaux returned, indicating by a gesture the men whom they had just expelled. For an instant the notion that he had attacked and routed friends instead of foes darkened his face.
“No!” Roger explained fluently — excitement had rid him of his diffidence. “No! He was the man who rode into the courtyard — but you have not heard? They were going to maltreat him, and he killed their leader, Ampoule — that was before you came!” Roger’s eyes shone; it was evident that he had transferred his allegiance.
Des Ageaux’s look sought the Bat and asked a question. “There is a dead man below,” the Bat answered. “He had it through the throat.”
“And the Duke of Joyeuse?”
“He is there — alone apparently.”
“Alone?”
The Bat’s eyes sought the wall and gazed on it stonily. “There are more fools than one in the world,” he said gruffly.
Des Ageaux pondered an instant. Then, “I will see him,” he said. “But first,” he turned courteously to the Vicomte, “I have to provide for your safety, M. le Vicomte, and that of your family. I can only ensure it, I fear, by removing you from here. I ha
ve not sufficient force to hold the château, and short of that I see no way of protecting you from the Captain of Vlaye’s resentment.”
The Vicomte, who had aged years in the last few days, as the old sometimes do, sat down weakly on a bed. “Go — from here?” he muttered, his hands moving nervously on his knees. “From my house?”
“It is necessary.”
“Why?” A younger and stronger voice flung the question at des Ageaux. The Abbess stood forward beside her father. “Why?” she repeated imperiously. “Why should we go from here — from our own house? Or why should we fear M. de Vlaye?”
“To the latter question — because he does not lightly forgive, mademoiselle,” des Ageaux replied drily. “To the former because I have neither men nor means to defend this house. To both, because you have with you” — he pointed to the Countess— “this lady, whom it is not consonant with the Vicomte’s honour either to abandon or to surrender. To be plain, M. de Vlaye’s plans have been thwarted and his men routed, and to-morrow’s sun will not be an hour high before he takes the road. To remain here were to abide the utmost of his power; which,” he added drily, “is at present of importance, however it may stand in a week’s time.”
She looked at him darkly beautiful, temper and high disdain in her face. And as she looked there began to take shape in her mind the wish to destroy him; a wish that even as she looked, in a space of time too short to be measured by our clumsy methods, became a fixed thought. Why had he intervened? Who had invited him to intervene? With a woman’s inconsistency she left out of sight the wrong M. de Vlaye would have done her, she forgot the child-Countess, she overlooked all except that this man was the enemy of the man she loved. She felt that but for him all would have been well! But for him — for even that she laid at his door — and his hostility the Captain of Vlaye had never been driven to think of that other way of securing his fortunes.
These thoughts passed through her mind in a pause so short that the listeners scarcely marked it for a pause. Then, “And if we will not go?” she cried.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 449
