The Abbess Of Vlaye

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER XXI.

  THE CASTLE OF VLAYE.

  Roger had little faith in the priest's power, and less in hiswillingness to aid them. But at worst he was not to be kept insuspense. By good luck, Father Benet was walking at the moment oftheir arrival in his potherb garden. As they dismounted, they espiedthe Father peeping at them between the tall sunflowers and buddinghollyhocks; his ruddy face something dismayed and fallen, and his mienthat of a portly man caught in the act of wrong-doing. Finding himselfdetected, he came forward with an awkward show of joviality.

  "Welcome, sister," he said. "There is naught the matter at the Abbey,I trust, that I see you thus late in the day?"

  "No, the matter is here," the Abbess replied, with a look in her eyesthat told him she knew all. "And we are here to see about it. Let usin, Father. The time is short, for at any moment your master"--sheindicated the castle by a gesture--"may hear of our arrival and sendfor us."

  "I am sure," the priest answered glibly, "that anything that I can dofor you, sister----"

  She cut him short. "No words, no words, but let us in!" she saidsharply. And when with pursed lips and a shrug of resignation he hadcomplied, and they stood in the cool stone-floored room--communicatingby an open door with the chapel--in which he received his visitors,she came with the same abruptness to the point.

  "At what hour are you going up to the castle?" she asked.

  He tried to avoid her eyes. "To the castle?" he repeated.

  "Ay," she said, watching him keenly. "To the castle. Are there morecastles than one? Or first, when were you there last, Father?"

  His look wandered, full of calculation. "Last?" he said. "When was Iat the castle last?"

  "The truth! The truth!" she cried impatiently.

  He chid her, but with a propitiatory smile akin to those which theaugurs exchanged. "Sister! Sister!" he said. "_Nil nisi verumclericus!_ I was there no more than an hour back."

  "And got your orders? And got your orders, I suppose?" she repeatedwith rude insistence. "Out with it, Father. I see that you are no moreeasy than I am!"

  He flung out his hands in sudden abandonment. "God knows I am not!" hesaid. "God knows I am not! And that is the truth, and I am not hidingit. God knows I am not! But what am I to do? He is a violent man--youknow him!--and I am a man of peace. I must do his will or go. And I ambetter than nothing! I may"--there was a whine in his voice--"I may dosome good still. You know that, sister. I may do some good. I baptise.I bury. But if I go, there is no one."

  "And if you go, you are no one," she answered keenly. "For yoursuffragan has you in no good favour, I am told. So that if you go youhappen on but a sackcloth welcome. So it is said, Father. I know notif it be said truly."

  "Untruly! Untruly!" he protested earnestly. "He has never found faultwith me, sister, on good occasion. But I have enemies, all men haveenemies----"

  "You are like to make more," Roger struck in, with a dark look.

  The priest wrung his hands. "I know! I know!" he said. "He carries ittoo highly. Too highly! They say that he has caught the King'sgovernor now, and has him in keeping there."

  "It is true."

  "Well, I have warned him; he cannot say I have not!"

  "And what said he to your warning?" the Abbess asked with a sneer.

  "He threatened me with the stirrup leathers."

  "And you are now to marry him?"

  He turned a shade paler. "You know it?" he gasped.

  "I know it, but not the time," she answered. And as he hesitated,silent and appalled, "Come," she continued, "the truth, Father. Andthen I will tell you what I am going to do."

  "At sunset," he muttered, "I am to be there."

  "Good," she said. "Now we know. Then you will go up an hour earlier.And I shall go with you."

  He protested feebly. He knew something of that which had gone before,something of her history, something of her passion for the Captain ofVlaye; and he was sure that she was not bent on good. "I dare not!" hesaid, "I dare not, sister! You ask too much."

  "Dare not what?" the Abbess retorted, bending her handsome brows inwrath. "Dare not go one hour earlier?"

  "But you--you want to go?"

  "If I go with you, what is that to you?"

  "But----"

  "But what, Father, but what?"

  "You want something of me?" he faltered. He was not to be deceived."Something dangerous, I know it!"

  "I want your company to the door of the room where she lies," theAbbess replied. "That is all. You have leave to visit her? Donot"--overwhelming him with swift fierce words--"deny it. Do not tellme that you have not! Think you I do not know you, Father? Think youI do not know how well you are with him, how late you sit with him,how deep you drink with him, when he lacks better company? And thatthis--though you are frightened now, and would fain be clear of it,knowing who she is--is the thing which you have vowed to do for him ahundred times and a hundred times to that, if it would help him!"

  "Never! Never!" he protested, paler than before.

  "Father," she retorted, stooping forward and speaking low, "be warned.Be warned! Get you a foot in the other camp while you may! You areover-well fed for the dry crust and the sack bed of the bishop'sprison! You drink too much red wine to take kindly to the moat puddle!And that not for months, but for years and years! Have you not heardof men who lay forgotten, ay, forgotten even by their gaoler at last,until they starved in the bishop's prison? The bishop's prison,Father!" she continued cruelly. "Who comes out thence, but the rats,and they fat? Who comes out thence----"

  "Don't! Don't!" the priest cried, his complexion mottled, his flabbycheeks trembling with fear of the thing which her words called up,with fear of the thing that had often kept him quaking in the nighthours. "You will not do it?"

  "I?" she answered drily. "No, not I perhaps. But is a Countess ofRochechouart to be abducted so lightly, or so easily? Has she so fewfriends? So poor a kindred? A cousin there is, I think--my lord Bishopof Comminges--who has one of those very prisons. And, if I mistakenot, she has another cousin, who is in Flanders now, but will knowwell how to avenge her when he returns."

  "What is it you want me to do?" he faltered.

  "Go with me to her door--that I may gain admission. Then, whether yougo to him or not, your silence, for one half-hour."

  "You will not do her any harm?" he muttered.

  "Fool, it is to do her good I am here."

  "And that is all? You swear it?"

  "That is all."

  He heaved a deep sigh. "I will do it," he said. He wiped his brow withthe sleeve of his cassock. "I will do it."

  "You are wise," she replied, "and wise in time, Father, for it is timewe went. The sun is within an hour of setting." Then, turning toRoger, who had never ceased to watch the priest as a cat watches amouse, "The horses may wait in the lane or where you please," shesaid. "They are hidden from the castle where they stand, and perhapsthey are best there. In any case"--with a meaning glance--"I return tothis spot. Expect me in half an hour. After that, the rest is for youto contrive. I wash my hands of it."

  The words in which he would have assented stuck in the lad's throat.He could not speak. She turned again to the priest. "One moment and Iam ready," she said. "Have you a mirror?"

  "A mirror?" he exclaimed in astonishment.

  "But of course you have not," she replied. She looked about her aninstant, then with a quick step she passed through the doorway intothe chapel. There her eye had caught a polished sheet of brass,recording in monkish Latin the virtues of that member of the oldfamily who had founded this "Capella extra muros," as ancient deedsstyle it. She placed herself before the tablet, and paying as littleheed to her brother or the priest--though they were within sight--asto the sacred emblems about her, or the scene in which she stood, shecast back her hood, and drew from her robes a small ivory case. Fromthis she took a morsel of sponge, and a tiny comb, also of ivory; andwith water taken from the stoup beside the
door, she refreshed herface, and carefully recurled the short ringlets upon her forehead.With a pencil drawn from the same case, she retouched her eyelashesand the corners of her eyes, and with deft fingers she straightenedand smoothed the small ruff about her neck. Finally, with no lesscare, she drew the hood of her habit close round her face, and afterturning herself about a time or two before the mirror went back to theothers. They had not taken their eyes off her.

  "Come," she said. And she led the way out without a second word,passed by the waiting horses and the servants, and, attended by thereluctant Father, walked at a gentle pace along the lane towards themain street.

  The priest went in fear, his stout legs trembling under him. But untilthe two reached a triangular open space, graced by an Italianfountain, and used, though it sloped steeply, for a market site, thestreet they pursued was not exposed to view from the castle. Above themarketplace, however, the road turned abruptly to the left, and,emerging from the houses, ascended between twin mounds, of which thenearer bore the castle, and the other, used on occasion as atilt-yard, was bare. The road ascended the gorge between the two, thenwound about, this time to the right, and gained the summit of theunoccupied breast; whence, leaping its own course by a drawbridge, itentered the grey stronghold that on every other side looked down fromthe brow of a precipice--here on the clustering roofs of the town, andthere, and there again, on the wide green vale and silvery meanders ofthe Dronne.

  Looking to the south, where the valley opened into a plain, the eyemight almost discern Coutras--that famous battlefield that lies on theDronne bank. Northward it encountered the wooded hills beyond whichlay Villeneuve, and the town of Barbesieux on the great north road,and the plain towards Angouleme. Fairer eyrie, or stronger, is scarceto be found in the width of three provinces.

  Until they came to the market-place the Abbess and her unwillingcompanion had little to fear unless they met M. de Vlaye himself. Asfar as others were concerned, Father Benet's coarse, plump face,albeit less ruddy than ordinary, was warrant enough to avert bothsuspicion and inquiry. But thence onwards they walked in full view notonly of the lounge upon the ramparts which the Captain of Vlaye mostaffected at the cool hour, but of a dozen lofty casements from any oneof which an officious sentry or a servant might mark their approachand pass word of it. Father Benet pursued this path as one under fire.The sun was low, but at its midday height it had not burned the stoutpriest more than the fancied fury of those eyes. The sweat poured downhis face as he climbed and panted and crossed himself in a breath.

  "Believe me, you are better here than in the bishop's prison," hiscompanion said, to cheer him.

  "But he will see us from the ramparts," he groaned, not daring to lookup and disprove the fact. "He will see us! He will meet us at thegate."

  "Then it will be my affair," the Abbess answered.

  "We are mad--stark, staring mad!" he protested.

  "You were madder to go back," she said.

  He looked at her viciously, as if he wished her dead. Fortunately theyhad reached the narrow defile under the bridge, and a feverish longingto come to an end of the venture took place of all other feelings inthe priest's breast. Doggedly he panted up the Tilt Mound, as it wascalled, and passed three or four groups of troopers, who were takingthe air on their backs or playing at games of chance. Thence theycrossed the drawbridge. The iron-studded doors, with their clumsygrilles, above which the arms of the old family still showed theirquarterings, stood open; but in the depths of the low-browed archway,where the shadows were beginning to gather, lounged a dozen rogueswhose insolent eyes the Abbess must confront.

  But she judged, and rightly, that the priest's company would make thateasy which she could not have compassed so well alone, though shemight have won entrance. The men, indeed, were surprised to see her,and stared; some recognised her with respect, others with grinshalf-knowing, half-insolent. But no one stepped forward or volunteeredto challenge her entrance. And although a wit, as soon as her back wasturned, hummed

  "Je suis amoureuse, Malheureuse, J'ai perdu mon galant!"

  and another muttered, "Oh, la, la, the bridesmaid!" with a wink at hisfellows, they were soon clear of the gate and the starers, andcrossing the wide paved court, that, bathed in quiet light, waspervaded none the less by an air of subdued expectation. Here a mancleaned a horse or his harness, there a group chatted on the curb ofthe well; here a white-capped cook showed himself, and there, besidethe entrance, a couple teased the brown bear that inhabited the stonekennel, and on high days made sport for the Captain of Vlaye's dogs.

  Vlaye's quarters and those of his household and officers lay in thewing on the left, which overlooked the town; his men were barrackedand the horses stabled in the opposite wing. The fourth side, facingthe entrance, was open, but was occupied by a garden raised two stepsabove the court and separated from it, first by a tall railing ofcuriously wrought iron, and secondly by a row of clipped limes, whoselevel wall of foliage hid the pleasaunce from the come-and-go of thevulgar.

  The Abbess knew the place intimately, and she felt no surprise whenthe Father, in place of making for the common doorway on the left,which led into M. de Vlaye's wing, bore across the open to thefloriated iron gates of the garden. He passed through these and turnedto the left along the cool green lime walk, which was still musicalwith the hum of belated bees.

  "She is in the demoiselles' wing then?" the Abbess murmured. She hadoccupied those rooms herself on more than one occasion. They opened bya door on the garden and enjoyed a fair and airy outlook over theDronne. As she recalled them and the memories they summoned up herfeatures worked.

  "Where else should she be--short of this evening?" Father Benetanswered, with full knowledge of the sting he inflicted. Her secretwas no secret from him. "But I need come no farther," he added,pausing awkwardly.

  "To the door," she answered firmly. "To the door! That is thebargain."

  "Well, we are there," he said, halting when he had taken another dozenpaces, which brought them to the door in the garden end of the leftwing. "Now, I will retire by your leave, sister."

  "Knock!"

  He complied with a faltering hand, and the moment he had done so heturned to flee, as if the sound terrified him. But with an unexpectedmovement she seized his wrist in her strong grasp, and though hestammered a remonstrance, and even resisted her weakly, she held himuntil the opening door surprised them.

  A grim-faced woman looked out at them. "To see the Countess," theAbbess muttered. Then to the priest, as she released him, "I shall notbe more than ten minutes, Father," she continued. "You will wait forme, perhaps. Until then!"

  She nodded to him after a careless, easy fashion, and the door closedon her. In the half-light of the passage within, which faded tapestryand a stand of arms relieved from utter bareness, the woman who hadadmitted her faced her sourly. "You have my lord's leave?" she askedsuspiciously.

  "Should I be here without it?" the Abbess retorted in her proudestmanner. "Be speedy, and let me to her. My lord will not be bestpleased if the priest be kept waiting."

  "No great matter that," the woman muttered rebelliously. But havingsaid it she led the visitor up the stairs and ushered her into thewell-remembered room. It was a spacious, pleasant chamber, with a viewof the garden, and beyond the garden of the widening valley spread farbeneath. Nothing of the prison-house hung about it, nor was it bare orcoldly furnished.

  The woman did not enter with her, but the gain was not much. For theAbbess had no sooner crossed the threshold than she discovered asecond gaoler. This was a young waiting-woman, who, perched on a stoolwithin the door, sat eyeing her prisoner with something of pity andmore of ill-humour. The little Countess, indeed, was a pitiful sight.She lay, half-crouching, half-huddled together, in the recess of thefarther window, on the seat of which she hid her face in theabandonment of despair. Her loosened hair flowed dishevelled upon herneck and shoulders; and from minute to minute a dry, painful sob--fors
he was not weeping--shook the poor child from head to foot.

  The Abbess, after one keen glance, which took in every particular,from the waiting-woman's expression to the attitude of the captive,nodded to the attendant. Then for a moment she did not speak. At last,"She takes it ill?" she muttered under her breath.

  The other slightly shrugged her shoulders. "She has been like thatsince he left her," she whispered. Whether the words and the movementexpressed more pity, or more contempt, or more envy, it was hard todetermine; for all seemed to meet in them. "She could not take itworse."

  "I am here to mend that," the Abbess rejoined. And she moved a shortway into the room. But there she came to a stand. Her eyes had fallenon a pile of laces and dainty fabrics arranged upon one of the seatsof the nearer window. Her face underwent a sudden change; she seemedabout to speak, but the words stuck in her throat. At last "Those arefor her?" she said.

  "Ay, but God knows how I am to get them on," the girl answered in alow tone. "She is such a baby! But there it is! Whatever she is now,she'll be mistress to-morrow, and I--I am loath to use force."

  "I will contrive it," the Abbess replied, a light in her averted eyes."Do you leave us. Come back in a quarter of an hour, and if I havesucceeded take no notice. Take no heed, do you hear," she continued,turning to the girl, "if you find her dressed. Say nothing to her, butlet her be until she is sent for."

  "I am only too glad to let her be."

  "That is enough," the Abbess rejoined sternly. "You can go now.Already the time is short for what I have to do."

  "You will find it too short, my lady, unless I am mistaken," thewaiting-woman answered under her breath. But she went. She was glad toescape; glad to get rid of the difficulty. And she went withoutsuspicion. How the other came to be there, or how her interest lay inarraying this child for a marriage with her lover--these werequestions which the girl proposed to put to her gossips at a properopportunity; for they were puzzling questions. But that the Abbess wasthere without leave--the Abbess who not a month before had beenfrequently in Vlaye's company, hawking and hunting, and evensupping--to the scandal of the convent, albeit no strait-laced one norunwont to make allowance for its noble mistresses--that the Abbess wasthere without the knowledge of her master she never suspected. Itnever for an instant entered the woman's mind.

  Meanwhile Odette, the moment the door closed on the other, tookaction. Before the latch ceased to rattle her hand was on theCountess's shoulder, her voice was in her ear. "Up, girl, if you wishto be saved!" she hissed. "Up, and not a word!"

  The Countess sprang up--startled simultaneously by hand and voice. Butonce on her feet she recoiled. She stood breathing hard, her handsraised to ward the other off. "You?" she cried. "You here?" Andshaking her head as if she thought she dreamed, she retreated anotherstep. Her distrust of the Abbess was apparent in every line of herfigure.

  "Yes, it is I," Odette answered roughly. "It is I."

  "But why? Why are you here? Why you?"

  "To save you, girl," the Abbess answered. "To save you--do you hear?But every moment is of value. Hold your tongue, ask no questions, doas I tell you, and all may be well. Hesitate, and it will be too late.See, the sun still shines on the head of that tall tree! Before itleaves that tree you must be away from here. Is it true that he wedsyou to-night?"

  The other uttered a cry of despair. "And for naught!" she said. "Doyou understand, for naught! He has not let him go! He lied to us! Hehas not released him! He holds me, but he will not release him."

  "And he will not!" the Abbess replied, with something like a jeer."So, if you would not give all for naught, listen to me! Put somewrapping about your shoulders, and a kerchief on your head to heightenyou, and over these my robes and hood. And be speedy! On your feetthese"--with a rapid movement she drew from some hiding-place in hergarments a pair of thick-soled shoes. "Hold yourself up, be bold, andyou may pass out in my place."

  "In your place?" the girl stammered, staring in astonishment.

  The Abbess had scant patience with her rival's obtuseness. "That iswhat I said," she replied, with a look that was not pleasant in hereyes.

  The Countess saw the look, and, fearful and doubting, hung back. Shecould not yet grasp the position. "But you!" she murmured. "What ofyou?"

  "What is that to you?"

  "But----"

  "Fear nothing for me!" the Abbess cried vehemently. "Think only ofyourself! Think only of your own safety. I"--with scorn--"am no weakthing to suffer and make no cry. I can take care of myself. But,there"--impatiently--"we have lost five minutes! Are you going to dothis or not? Are you going to stay here, or are you going to escape?"

  "Oh, escape! Escape, if it be possible!" the Countess answered,shuddering. "Anywhere, from him!"

  "You are certain?"

  "Oh, yes, yes! But it is not possible! He is too clever."

  "We will see if that be so," the Abbess answered, smiling grimly. Andtaking the matter into her own hands, she began to strip off her robeand hood.

  That decided the girl. Gladly would she have learned how the othercame to be there, and why and to what she trusted. Gladly would shehave asked other things. But the prospect of escape--of escape from afate which she dreaded the more the nearer she saw it--took reality inview of the Abbess's actions. And she, too, began. Escape? Was itpossible? Was it possible to escape? With shaking fingers she snatchedup a short cloak, and wrapped it about her shoulders and figure, tyingit this way and that. She made in the same way a turban of a kerchief,and stood ready to clothe herself. By this time the Abbess's outergarments lay on the floor, and in three or four minutes the travesty,as far as the younger woman was concerned, was effected.

  Meantime, while they both wrought, and especially while the Countess,stooping, stuffed the large shoes and fitted them and buckled them on,the Abbess never ceased explaining the remainder of the plan.

  "Go down the stairs," she said, "and if you have to speak mutter but aword. Outside the door, turn to the right until you come to the gatein the iron railing. Pass through it, cross the court, and go outthrough the great gate, speaking to no one. Then follow the road,which makes a loop to the left and passes under itself. Descend by itto the market-place, and then to the right until you see the town gatefifty paces before you. At that point take the lane on the left, and ascore of yards will show you the horses waiting for you, and with thema friend. You understand? Then I will repeat it."

  And she did so from point to point in such a way and so clearly thatthe other, distracted as she was, could not but learn the lesson.

  "And now," the Abbess said, when all was told, "give me somethingto put on." Her beautiful arms and shoulders were bare."Something--anything," she continued, looking about her impatiently."Only be quick! Be quick, girl!"

  "There is only this," the Countess answered, producing her heavyriding-cloak. "Unless"--doubtfully--"you will put on those." Sheindicated the little pile of wedding-clothes, of dainty silk and laceand lawn, that lay upon the window-seat.

  "Those!" the Abbess exclaimed. And she looked at the pile as at asnake. "No, not those! Not those! Why do you want me to put on those?Why should I?" with a suspicious look at the other's face.

  "If you will not----"

  "Will not?"--violently. "No, I will not. And why do you ask me? But Iprate as badly as you, and we lose time. Are you ready now? Let melook at you." And feverishly, while she kicked off her own shoesand donned the riding-cloak and drew its hood over her head, sheturned the Countess about to assure herself that the disguise wastolerable--in a bad light.

  Then, "You will do," she said roughly, and she pushed the girl fromher. "Go now. You know what you have to do."

  "But you?" the little Countess ventured. Words of gratitude weretrembling on her lips; there were tears in her eyes. "You--what willyou do?"

  "You need not trouble about me," the Abbess retorted. "Play your partwell; that is all I ask."

  "At least," the Countess faltered, "let me thank you." She would haveflung her arms rou
nd the other's neck.

  But the Abbess backed from her. "Go, silly fool!" she cried savagely,"unless, after all, you repent and want to keep him."

  The insult gave the needed fillip to the other's courage. She turnedon her heel, opened the door with a firm hand, and, closing it behindher, descended the stairs. The waiting-maid and the grim-faced womanwere talking in the passage, but they ceased their gossip on herappearance, and turned their eyes on her. Fortunately the place wasill-lit and full of shadows, and the Countess had the presence of mindto go steadily down to them without word or sign.

  "I hope mademoiselle has succeeded," the waiting-woman murmuredrespectfully. "It is not a business I favour, I am sure."

  The Countess shrugged her shoulders--despair giving her courage--andthe grim-faced woman moved to the door, unlocked it, and held it wide.The escaping one acknowledged the act by a slight nod, and, passingout, she turned to the right. She walked, giddily and uncertainly, tothe open gate in the railing, and then, with some difficulty--for theshoes were too large for her--she descended the two steps to thecourt. She began to cross the open, and a man here and there, raisinghis head from his occupation, turned to watch her.