The Abbess Of Vlaye

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  FORS L'AMOUR.

  Though it was not des Ageaux' fate to lie in one of those undergrounddungeons, noisome and dark, which the lords of an earlier century hadprovided in the foundations of the castle, he was not greatly thebetter for the immunity. The humiliations of the mind are sometimessharper than the pains of the body; and the Lieutenant of Perigord,defeated and a prisoner, was little the happier though a drystrong-room looking on a tiny inner court held him, and though hesuffered nothing from cold or the slimy companionship of the newt andfrog. On the ambitious man defeat sits more heavily than chains; intothe nature that would fain be at work inaction gnaws deeper than ashackle-bolt. Never while he lived would des Ageaux forget the longhours which he spent, gazing drearily on the blank wall that faced hiswindow, while his mind measured a hundred times over the depth and thecompleteness of his fall.

  He feared little for his life if he deigned to fear at all. He knewthat he was a prize too valuable to be wasted. In the last resort,indeed, when all hopes had failed the Captain of Vlaye, and ruinstared him in the face, he might wreak his vengeance on the King'sgovernor. But short of that moment--and it depended upon manythings--the Lieutenant accounted himself safe. Safe as to life, but abeaten man, a prisoner, a failure; a blot, every moment he lay there,on the King's dignity, whose deputy he was; an unfortunate, whose illhap would never be forgiven by the powers he had represented so ill.

  The misfortune was great, and, to a proud man, well-nigh intolerable.Moreover, this man was so formed that he loved the order which it washis mission to extend, and the good government which it was his toimpose. To make straight the crooked--gently, if it might be, but bythe strong hand if it must be--was his part in life, and one which hepursued with the utmost zest. Every breach of order, therefore, everytrespass in his province, every outrage wounded him. But the breachand the trespass which abased in his person the King's name--hewrithed, he groaned as he thought of this! Even the blow to hiscareer, fatal as it promised to be, scarce hurt him worse or cut himso deeply.

  The more as that career which had been all in all to him yesterday wasnot quite all in all to him to-day. Bonne's voice, the touch of herhands as she appealed to him, the contact of her figure with his as hecarried her, these haunted him, and moved him, in his solitude and hishumiliation. Her courage, her constancy, her appeal to him, when allseemed lost, he could not think of them--he who had thought of naughtbut himself for years--without a softening of his features, without aflood of colour invading the darkness of his face. Strong, he hadestranged himself from the tender emotions, only to own their swaynow. With half his mind he dwelt upon his mishap; the other half, thebetter half, found consolation in the prospect of her sympathy, of herfidelity, of her gentle eyes and quivering lips--who loved him. Hefound it strange to remember that he filled all a woman's thoughts;that, as he sat there brooding in his prison, she was thinking of himand dreaming of him, and perhaps praying for him!

  It is not gladly, it is never without a pang that the man of affairssees the world pass from him. And if there be nothing left, it is badfor him. Des Ageaux acknowledged that he had something left. A hand hecould trust would lie in his, and one brave heart, when all othersforsook him would accompany him whither he went. He might no longeraspire to government and the rule of men, the work of his life wasover; but Bonne would hold to him none the less, would love him nonethe less, would believe in him truly. The cares of power would nolonger trouble his head, or keep it sleepless; but her gentle breastwould pillow it, her smiles would comfort him, her company replace theknot of followers to whom he had become accustomed. He told himselfthat he was content. He more than half believed it.

  In the present, however, he had not her company; and the present wasvery miserable. He did not fear for his life, but he lay in ignoranceof all that had happened since his capture, of all that went forward;and the tedium of imprisonment tried him. He knew that he might liethere weeks and months and come forth at last--for the world movedquickly in this period of transition--to find himself forgotten.Seventy years earlier, a king, misnamed the Great, standing where hestood, had said that all was lost but honour--and had hastened tothrow that also away. For him all was lost but love. All!

  He had passed four days--they seemed to him a fortnight--in this wearyinaction, and on the last evening of the four he was expecting hissupper with impatience, when it occurred to him that the place wasmore noisy than ordinary. For some time sounds had reached him withoutmaking any definite impression on his mind; now they resolvedthemselves into echoes of distant merry-making. Little spirts oflaughter, the catch of a drinking-song, the shrill squeal of a maidpinched or kissed, the lilt of a hautboy--he began with quickened earsto make these out. And straightway that notion which is never out of aprisoner's mind and which the least departure from routine fostersraised its head. Escape! Ah, if he could escape! Freedom would set himwhere he had been, freedom would undo the worst of his mishap. Itmight even give him the victory he had counted lost.

  But the grated window or the barred door, the paved floor or the oakenroof--one of these must be pierced; or the gaoler, who never visitedhim without precautions and company, must be overcome and robbed ofhis keys. And even then, with that done which was well-nighimpossible, he would be little nearer to freedom than before. He wouldbe still in the heart of his enemy's fortress, with no knowledge ofthe passages or the turnings, no clue to the stone labyrinth abouthim, no accomplice.

  Yet, beyond doubt, there was merry-making afoot--such merry-making asaccounted for the tarrying of his supper. Probably the man hadforgotten him. By-and-by the notes of the hautboy rose louder andfuller, and on the wave of sound bursts of applause and laughter cameto him. He made up his mind that some were dancing and others werelooking on and encouraging them. Could it be that the Captain of Vlayehad surprised the peasants' camp? and that this was his way ofcelebrating his success? Or was it merely some common-place orgie,held, it might be, in the Captain's absence? Or---- But while heturned this and that in his thoughts the footsteps he had beenexpecting sounded at the end of the stone passage and approached. Alight shone under the door, a key turned in the lock, and the man whobrought him his meals appeared on the threshold. He entered, his handsfull, while his comrade, who had opened for him, remained in thepassage.

  "You are gay this evening?" the Lieutenant said as the man set downhis light.

  The fellow grinned. "Ay, my lord," he replied good-humouredly, "youmay say it. Wedding-bells and the rest of it!" He was not drunk, buthe was flushed with wine. "That is the way the world goes--and comes."

  "A wedding?" des Ageaux exclaimed. The news was strange.

  "To be sure, my lord.

  'En revenant des noces, Barabim!'"

  he hummed.

  "And whose, my man?"

  The fellow, in the act of putting a bowl of soup on the table, heldhis hand. He looked at the Lieutenant with a grin. "Ay, whose?" hesaid. "But that would be talking. And we have orders not to talk, seeyou, my lord. Still, it is not many you'll have the chance of telling.And, if I tell you it is the Captain himself, what matter? Should webe footing it and drinking it and the rest for another?"

  "M. de Vlaye married?" des Ageaux exclaimed in astonishment. "To-day?"

  "Married for sure, and as tight as Father Benet could marry him! Butto-day"--with his head on one side--"that is another matter."

  "And the bride?"

  "Ay, that is another matter, tool" with a wink. "Not that you can letit out to many either! So, if you must know----"

  "Best not," intervened his comrade in the passage, speaking for thefirst time.

  "Perhaps you do not know yourself?" the Lieutenant said shrewdly. Hesaw that the man was sufficiently in drink to be imprudent. With alittle provocation he would tell.

  "Not know?"--with indignation. "Didn't I----"

  "Know or not, don't tell!" growled the other.


  "Of course," said des Ageaux, "if you don't know you cannot tell."

  "Oh!" the fool rejoined. "Cannot I? Well, I can tell you it isMademoiselle de Villeneuve. So there's for knowing!"

  Des Ageaux sprang to his feet, his face transformed. "What!" he cried."Say that again!"

  But his excitement overreached itself. His movement warned the otherthat he had spoken too freely. With an uneasy look--what had hedone?--he refused to say more, and backed to the door. "I have saidtoo much already," he muttered sullenly.

  "But----"

  "Don't answer him!" commanded the man in the passage. "And hurry! Youhave stayed too long as it is! I would not be in your shoes forsomething if the Captain comes to know."

  Des Ageaux stepped forward, pressing him again to speak. But the man,sobered and frightened, was obdurate. "I've said too much already," heanswered with a resentful scowl. "What is it to you, my lord?" And heslipped out hurriedly, and secured the door behind him.

  Des Ageaux remained glaring at the closed door. Bonne de Villeneuvehad been taken with him. Bonne de Villeneuve also was a prisoner. Wasit possible that she had become by force or willingly Vlaye's bride?Possible? Ah, God, it must be so! And, if so, by force surely! Surely,by force; his faith in her told him that! But if by force, whatconsolation could he draw from that? For that, if he loved her, wereworst of all, most cruel of all! That were a thing intolerable by Godor man!

  So it seemed to this man, who only a few days before had not knownwhat love was. But who now, stung with sudden passion, flung himselffrom wall to wall of his narrow prison. Now, when he saw it snatchedfrom him, now, when he saw himself denuded of that solace at which hehad grasped, but for which he had not been sufficiently thankful, nowhe learned what love was, its pains as well as its promise, itsburning fevers, its heart-stabbing pity! He lost himself in rage. Hewho for years had practised himself in calmness, who had made it hisaim to hide his heart, forgot his lesson, flung to the night hishabit. He seized the iron bars of his window and shook them in aparoxysm of fury, as if only by violence he could retain his sanity.When the bars, which would have resisted the strength of ten, declinedto leave the stone, he flung himself on the door, and beat on it andshouted, maddened by the thought that she was under the same roof,that she was within call, yet he could not help her! He called Vlayeby dreadful names, challenging him, and defying him, and promising himterrible deaths. And only when echo and silence answered all and theiron sense of his helplessness settled down slowly upon him and numbedhis faculties did he, too, fall silent and, covering his face with hishands, stagger to a seat and sit in a stupor of despair.

  He had put love aside, he had despised it through years--for this! Hehad held it cheap when it promised to be his--for this! He hadaccepted it grudgingly, and when all else was like to fail him--forthis! He was punished, and sorely. She was near him. He pictured herin the man's power, in the man's hands, in the man's arms! And hecould not help her.

  Had his impotent cries and threats been heard they had onlycovered him with humiliation. Fortunately they were not heard: themerry-making was at its height, and no one came near him. The Captainof Vlaye, aware that his marriage could not be hidden from his ownmen--for he had made no secret of it beforehand--had not ventured toforbid some indulgence. He could make it known that the man who namedhis bride outside the gate would lose his tongue; but, that arranged,he must wink--for every despotism is tempered by something--at a fewhours of riot, and affect not to see things that at another time hadcalled for swift retribution.

  The men had used his permission to the full. They had brought in somegipsies to make sport for them, a treble allowance of wine was ondraught, and the hour that saw des Ageaux beating in impotent fury onhis door saw the license and uproar of which he had marked thebeginning grown to a head. In the great hall the higher officers,their banquet finished, were deep in their cups. In the cavernouskitchens drunken cooks probed cauldrons for the stray capon that stillfloated amid the spume; or half-naked scullions thrust a forgottenduck or widgeon on the spit at the request of a hungry friend. Aboutthe fires in the courtyard were dancing and singing and some romping;for there were women within the walls, and others had come in with thegipsies. Here a crowd surrounded the bear, and laid furious bets foror against; while yelps and growls and fierce barkings deafened allwithin hearing. There a girl, the centre of a leering ring, danced tothe music of her tambour; and there again a lad tumbled, and climbed apole at risk of his limbs. Everywhere, save in the dark garden underthe "demoiselle's" windows, where a sentry walked, and at the greatgates, where were some sober men picked for the purpose, wantonnessand jollity held reign, and the noise of brawling and riot cast fearon the town that listened and quaked below.

  A stranger entering the castle would have judged the reins quitefallen, all discipline fled, all control lost. But he had been wrong.Not only did a sentry walk the garden path--and soberly and shrewdlytoo--but no man in his wildest and tipsiest moment ventured a footwithin the railing that fenced the lime avenue, or even approached thegates that led to it without lowering his voice and returning tosomething like his normal state. For in the rooms looking over thegarden M. de Vlaye entertained his bride of two days--and he hadrelaxed, not loosed, the reins.

  They sat supping in the room in which they had been wedded, and,unmoved by the sounds of uproar that came fitfully to their ears,discussed their plans; she, glowing and handsome, animated by presentlove and future hope; he, content, if not enraptured, conquered by herwit, and almost persuaded that all was for the best--that her charmsand beauty would secure him more than the dowry of her rival. Theirbrief honeymoon over, they were to part on the morrow; she to pursueher plans for the Duke's detachment, he to take the field and strikesuch a blow as should scatter the peasants and dissipate what strengthremained in them. They were to part; and some shadow of the comingseparation had been natural. But her nerves as well as his werestrong, and the gloom of parting had not yet fallen on them. Thelights that filled the room were not brighter than her eyes; the snowylinen that covered the round table at which they sat was not whiterthan her uncovered shoulders. He had given her jewels, the spoils ofmany an enterprise; and they glittered on her queenly neck and in herears, gleamed through the thin lace of her dress, and on her round andbeautiful arms. He called her his Abbess and his nun in fond derision;and she, in answering badinage, rallied him on his passion for theCountess and his skill in abduction. So cleverly had she wrought onhim, so well managed him, that she dared even that.

  The room had been hung for her with tapestries brought from anotherpart of the house; the windows more richly curtained; and a door, longclosed, had been opened, through which and an ante-room the chambersconnected with M. de Vlaye's apartments. Where the wedding robes hadlain on the window-seat a ribboned lute and a gay music-book lay onrich draperies, and elbowed a gilded head-piece of Milanese worksurmounted by M. de Vlaye's crest, which had been brought in for hislady's approval. A mighty jar of Provence roses scented the apartment;and intoxicated by their perfume or their meaning, she presentlyseized the lute, and gaily, between jest and earnest, broke into theold Angoumois song:--

  "Si je suis renfermee. Ah, c'est bien sans raison; Ma plus belle journee, Se pass'ra-z-en prison. Mais mon amant sans peine Pourra m'y venir voir, Son c[oe]ur sait bien qu'il m'aime, Il viendra'-z-au parloir!"

  And he answered her--

  "Oh, Madame l'Abbesse, Qu'on tire les verrous, Qu'on sorte ma maitresse Le plus beau des bijoux; Car je suis capitaine, Je suis son cher amant, J'enfoncerai sans peine Les portes du couvent!"

  As he finished, disturbed by some noise, he turned his head. "I toldyour wench to go," he said, rising. "I suppose she took herself off?"With a frown,
he strode to the screen that masked the door, and madesure by looking behind it that they had no listeners.

  She smiled as she laid aside the lute. "I thought that your peopleobeyed at a word?" she said.

  "They do, or they suffer," he answered.

  "And is that to apply to me?" with a mocking grimace.

  "When we come to have two wills, sweet, yes!" he retorted. "It willnot be yet awhile. In the meantime I would this enterprise of yourswere over. I doubt your success, though all looks well."

  "If I had been half as sure of you two days ago as I am of himto-morrow!" she retorted.

  "Yet you must not go too far with him."

  She waved her finger-tips across the table. "So far, and no farther,"she said lightly. "Have I not promised you? For the rest--what I havedone I can do. Am I not armed?" And she rose from her seat, and stoodbefore him in all the seduction of her charms. "Count it done, mymaster. Set Joyeuse aside. He is captive of _my_ bow and spear. Thequestion is, can you deal with the rest?"

  "The peasants?"

  "And what remains of des Ageaux' power? And the Countess's levies?"

  "For certain, if the Duke be out of the reckoning," he answered."He is a man. Remove him and des Ageaux--and the latter I havealready--and there is no one. Your brothers----"

  "Bah!" She dismissed them with a contemptuous gesture.

  "Just so. And the Countess's people have no leader. The Vicomte isold. There is no one. Detach the Duke, and there will be a speedy endof them. And before a new governor can set to work to make headagainst me, many things may happen, my girl!"

  "Many things will happen," she answered with confidence. "If I can winone man, why not another? If a Duke, why not"--she made anextraordinary face at him, half-sportive, half-serious--"why not agreater? Eh, my lord?"

  He stared. "No!" he answered, striking the table with sudden violence."No!" He knew well what she meant and whom she meant. "Not that! Evento make all good, not that!" Yet his eyes glittered as he looked ather; and it was plain that his thoughts travelled far and fast on thewings of her words. While she, in the pride of her mastery, returnedhis look fondly.

  "No, not that--never that!" she replied in a voice that more thanreassured him. "It is for you and only for you that I do this. I amyours, all and always--always! But, short of that, something may bedone. And, with friends at Court, from Captain of Vlaye to Governor ofPerigord is but a step!"

  He nodded. "And a step that might save his Majesty much trouble," hesaid with a smile. "Do that---- But I doubt your power, my girl."

  "I have done that already should persuade you."

  "You have tricked me," he said, smiling. "That is true. And it is nomean thing, I grant."

  "More than that!" she retorted. The wine she had drunk had flushed hercheek and perhaps loosed her tongue. "More than that I have done! Whotook the first step for you? Who put the Lieutenant in your hands--andmy sister? And so, in place of my sister, the Countess?"

  He looked at her in astonishment. "Who?" he rejoined. "Why, who but Imyself? Did I not take them with my own hands--at the old windmill onthe hill? What had you to do with that?"

  "And who sent them to the windmill?"

  "Why, the rabble to be sure, who seized them, took them as far as theford."

  "And who set the rabble on them?" As she asked the question she rosefrom her seat. In the excitement of her triumph, in the intoxicationof her desire to please him she forgot the despair into which the actwhich she boasted had cast her but a week before. She forgot allexcept that she had done it for him whom she loved, for him who nowwas hers, and whose she was! "Who," she repeated, "set the rabble uponthem?"

  "You?" he murmured. "Not you?"

  "I!" she said, "I!"--and held out her hands to him. "It was I who toldthe brute beasts that he--des Ageaux--had your man in hiding! It was Iwho wrought them to the attempt and listened while they did it! Ithought, indeed, that it was your Countess who was with him. And Ihated her! I was jealous of her! But, Countess or no Countess, 'twasdone by me!--by me! And now do you think that there is anything I willnot do for you? That there is anything I cannot do for you?"

  He was not shocked; it took much to shock the Captain of Vlaye. But hewas so much astonished, he marvelled so much that he was silent. Andshe, reading the astonishment in his face, and seeing it grow, felt aqualm--now she had spoken--and lost colour, and faltered. Had she beenfoolish to tell it? Perhaps. Had she passed some boundary, sacred tohim, unknown to her? It must be so. For as she gazed, no word spoken,there came into his face a change, a strange hardening. He rose.

  "My lord!" she cried, clapping her hands to her head, "what have Idone?" She recoiled a pace, affrighted. "I did it for you!"

  "Some one has heard you," he answered between his teeth. And then shesaw that he was looking not at her, but beyond her--beyond her. "Thereis some one behind that screen."

  She faced about, affrighted, and instinctively seized his arm and hungon it, her eyes on the screen. Her attitude as she listened, and herpallor, were in strange contrast with the gay glitter of the table,the lights, the luxury, the fairness of her dress.

  "Yes, listening," he said grimly. "Some one has been listening. Theworse for them! For they will never tell what they have heard!"

  And bounding forward without warning, he dashed the screen down andaside--and recoiled. Face to face with him, cowering against thedoorpost, and pale as ashes, was the very man she had mentioned aminute before--that very man of his whose hidden presence in the campshe had betrayed to the malcontents. Vlaye glared at him. "You!" hecried. "You!"

  "My lord!"

  "And listening!"

  "But----"

  "But! But die, fool!" the Captain retorted savagely. "Die!" And, swiftas speech, the dagger he had stealthily drawn gleamed above hisshoulder and sank in the poor wretch's throat.

  The man's hands groped in the air, his eyes opened wide; but heattempted no return-stroke. Choked by the life-stream that gushed fromhis mouth, he sank back inert like a bundle of clothes, while theAbbess's low shriek of terror mingled with his stifled cry.

  And, with a sterner sound, another sound. For as the man collapsed,and fell in on himself, a figure hitherto hidden in the doorway sprangover his falling body, a long blade flashed in the candle-light, andthe Captain of Vlaye staggered back, one hand pressed to his breast.He made a futile attempt to ward with his poniard, but it fell fromhis grasp. And the pitiless steel found his heart again. Silent, grim,with unquenchable hate in his eyes, he reeled against the table. Andthen from the table, dragging with him all--silver and glass andfruit--in one common crash, he rolled to the floor--dying.

  Ay, in five seconds, dead! And she saw it with her eyes! Saw it! Andfrozen, stiff, clinging to the bare edge of the table, she stoodlooking at him, her brain numbed by the horror, by the suddenness, thehopelessness of the catastrophe. In a twinkling, in a time measured byseconds, it was done. The olives that fell from the dish had notceased to roll, the wine still crept upon the floor, the man who hadstruck the blow still panted, his point delivered--but he was deadwhom she had loved. Dead!

  CHAPTER XXV.

  HIS LAST RIDE.

  The man who had struck the blow, and whose eyes still sparkled withfury, turned them upon her. He took note of her stupor, frowned, andwith a swift, cruel glance searched the room. The lights were insconces on the walls, and had not suffered. The rest was wreck--asplendid wreck, mingled terror and luxury, with the woman'sMedusa-like face gazing on it. The Duke--for he it was--stillbreathing quickly, still with malevolence in his eyes, listened andlooked; but the alarm had not been taken. The lilt of a song and faintdistant laughter, borne on the night air, alone broke the nightsilence. He passed to a window, and putting aside a curtain, peeredinto the darkness of the garden. Then he went to the door, andlistened. Still all was quiet without and within. But to the scene inthe room his gliding figure, his bent, listening head gave the lasttouch of tragedy.

&nbs
p; Presently--before, it would appear, he had made up his mind how toact--he saw a change come over the woman. Her breathing, which hadbeen no more apparent for a time than the breath of the dead at herfeet, became evident, her figure relaxed. Her attitude lost itsstoniness; yet she did not stir to the eye. Only her eyes moved; andthen at last her foot. Stealthily her foot--the man listening at thedoor marked it--slid from her robe, and unshod in its thin silkenstocking--so thin of web that the skin showed through it--covered theponiard, still wet with blood, that had fallen from her husband'shand. Slowly she drew it nearer and nearer to her.

  He at the door made as if he did not heed. But when she had drawn theweapon within reach, and furtive and silent as a cat, stooped to graspit, he was before her--so far before her, at least, that, though shegained it, he clutched her wrist as she rose. "No, madam!" he criedfiercely. "No! Enough!" And he tried to force it from her hand.

  No words came from her lips, but an animal cry of unutterable fury.She seized on his wrist with her left hand--she tried to seize it withher teeth; she fought to free herself, clinging to the knife andwrestling with him in the midst of the trampled fruit, the shiveredglass, the mingled wine and blood that made the floor slippery.

  "Let it fall!" he repeated, hard put to it and panting. "Enough, Isay, enough!" If he had loved her once he showed scant tenderness now.

  And she--her lips writhed, her hair uncoiled and fell about her. Hebegan to wish that he had not dropped his sword when he sprang uponher. For he was still weak; and if she persevered she was more than amatch for him. In her normal condition she had been more than a matchfor him; but the shock had left its secret sap. Suddenly, without cryor warning, her grasp relaxed, her head fell back, and she sank--allher length, but sideways--amid the ruin.

  He nursed his wrist a moment, looking askance at her, and thinkingdeeply and darkly. Assured at length that the swoon was no feint totake him unawares, he went to the door by which he had entered, passedthrough the empty ante-room, and thence into the Captain of Vlaye'sapartments. In the passage outside the farther door of these a sleepyvalet was on guard. He was not surprised by the Duke's appearance, forhalf an hour before--only half an hour!--he had allowed him and hisguide to enter.

  "M. de Vlaye wishes to see the Captain of the gate," the Duke saidcurtly. "Bid him come, and quickly." And to show that he looked for noanswer he turned his back on the man, and, without looking behind him,passed through the rooms again to the one he had left.

  Here he did a strange thing. On a side table which had escaped thegeneral disaster stood some dishes removed from the chief table, aplate or two, a bread trencher, and a silver decanter of wine. After amoment's thought he drew a chair to this table, laid his sword on itbeside the dishes, and, helping himself to food, began to eat anddrink, with his eyes on the door. After the lapse of two or threeminutes, during which he more than once scanned the room with astrange and inexplicable satisfaction, a knock was heard at the door.

  "Enter!" said the Duke, his mouth half-full.

  The door opened, and a grizzled man with a square-cut beard steppedin. He wore a breastpiece over a leather coat, and held his steel capin his hand.

  "Shut the door!" the Duke said sharply.

  The man did so mechanically, and turned again, and--his mouth opened.After a few seconds of silence "Mon Dieu!" he whispered. "Mon Dieu!"

  "He is quite dead," the Duke said, raising his glass to his lips. "Butyou had better satisfy yourself. When you have done so, listen to me."

  Had the Duke been in any other attitude it is probable that the manhad turned in a panic, flung the door wide, and yelled for help. But,seeing a stranger calmly eating and drinking and addressing him with amorsel on the point of his knife, the man stared helplessly, and thendid mechanically as he was told--stooped, listened, felt for the lifethat had for ever departed. When he rose again "Now, listen to me,"said the other. "I am the Duke of Joyeuse--you know my name? You knowme? Yes, I did it. That is not your affair--but I did it. Your affairis with the thing we have next to do. No--she is not dead."

  "Mon Dieu!" the man whispered. Old war-dog as he was, his cheeks weresallow, his hand trembled. A hundred dead, in the open, on therampart, under God's sky, had not scared him as this lighted room withits medley of horror and wealth, its curtained windows and itssuffocating tapestry, scared him.

  "Your affair," the Duke repeated, "is with what is to follow." Heraised his glass, and held it between his eye and the light. "Do youtake my side or his? He is dead--you see him. I am alive--you know me.Now hear my terms. But first, my man, what do you number?"

  The man made an effort, vain for the most part, to collect himself.But he managed to whisper, after a moment's hesitation, that theymustered four hundred and thirty, all told.

  "Fighting-men?"

  The man moved his lips without sound, but the other understood that heassented.

  "Very well," the Duke said. "All that is here I give you. Understand,all. Divide, sack, spoil; make your bundles. He is dead," with aglance at Vlaye's body, "he'll not say you nay. And a free pardon forall; and for as many as please--my service. All that I give, oncondition that you open your gates to me and render the place threehours after sunrise to-morrow."

  The man gaped. The position was new, but he began to see his way. "Ican do nothing by myself," he muttered.

  "You can have first search," Joyeuse retorted brutally. "There helies, and his buttons are jewelled. And ten gold crowns I will giveyou for yourself when the place is mine. You know me, and I keep myword. I told your friend there, who got me entrance"--he pointed tothe man Vlaye had stabbed--"that if his master laid a finger on him Iwould kill his master with these hands. I did it. And there's an end."

  The grizzled man's face was changed. It had grown cunning. His eyesshone with cupidity. His cheekbones were flushed. "And if they willnot come into your terms, my lord?" he asked, his head on one side,his fingers in his beard, "what must I say you will do?"

  "Hang while rope lasts," the Duke answered. "But, name of God,man!"--staring--"beyond the spoils of the place what do you want? Heis dead, you have no leader. What matter is it of yours or of theirswho leads?"

  The old soldier nodded. "That is true," he said: "we follow ourwages."

  "One thing more--nay, three things," Joyeuse continued, pushing hiscup and plate aside and rising to his feet. "The lady there--I trusther to you. Lock her up where she will be safe, and at daybreaksee that she is sent to the convent. M. des Ageaux, whom you havebelow--not a hair of his head must be injured. Lastly, you must do noharm in the town."

  "I will remember, my lord, and tell them."

  "And now see me through the gates."

  The man grinned cunningly; but as one who wished to prove hisastuteness, not as one who intended to refuse. "That is number four,my lord," he said, "and the chiefest of all."

  "Not so," the Duke answered. "It was on that condition I spared yourlife, fool, when you came in."

  "Then you knew----"

  "I knew that his buttons were jewelled."

  "My lord," the man said with admiration, "I vow you'd face the devil."

  "You will do that whether you will or no," the Duke replied drily,"some day. But that reminds me." He turned from his companion. Helooked on the bloodshed about him, and gradually his face showed thefirst signs of compunction that had escaped him. Something of disgust,almost of distress, appeared in his manner. He glanced from oneprostrate form to another as if he scarce knew what to do andpresently he crossed himself. "Lift her to the couch there," he said.And when it was done, "My friend," he continued, in a lower tone,"wait without the door one minute. But do not go beyond call."

  The old soldier raised his eyebrows, but he, thoroughly won over,obeyed. Once outside, however, he pondered cunningly. Why had he beensent out? And thoughts of his jewelled buttons overcame him. After amoment's hesitation--for Joyeuse had put fear into him--he droppedsoftly to his knee and set his eye to a crack in the door.

  M. de Joyeuse was
kneeling between the dead, his palms joined beforehis breast, his rosary between them. The lights of the feast, thatshone ghastly on the grim faces and on the blood-pool about them,shone also on his uplifted face, from which the last trace of thetremendous rages to which he was prone had fled, leaving it paleindeed and worn--for the marks of his illness were still upon it--butcalm and sublime. His eyes were upward bent. Those eyes that a fewminutes earlier had burned with a hatred almost sub-human now shonewith a light soft and ecstatic, such as shines in the eyes of thosewho see visions and hear voices. His lips moved without sound. Thebeads dropped one by one through his fingers.

  * * * * *

  The hewers of wood and feeders of oxen who herded together in the townunder the castle walls were timidly aware of the festivities abovetheir heads. The sounds of brawling and dancing, of the tambour andglee, descended to them and kept them waiting far into the night. Onoccasions, rare, it is true, the war-lords above had broken loose fromtheir bonds, and, mad with drink and frenzied with excitement, hadharried their own town. Once, to teach a lesson, the thing had beendone--but more completely and cruelly--by Vlaye's express order.The memory of these occasions remained, burned shamefully into thetowns-folk's mind; and many a cotter looked up this night in tremblingfrom his humble window, many a woman with her hood about her headstood in the alley whispering to her neighbour and quaked as shelistened. Something beyond the ordinary was passing above, in thestronghold that at once protected and plundered them; something that asad experience told them boded no good. Two or three young women ofthe better class went so far as to seek a sanctuary in Father Benet'schapel; while their fathers hid their little hoards, and their motherstook heed to quench the fires, and some threw water on the thatch--sadprecautions which necessity had made second nature in many a hamletand many a market-town of France.

  Had they known, these poor folk who paid for all, that their lord laydead in the lighted room above, had they guessed that the hand whichhad held those turbulent troopers in order was nerveless at last,never again to instil fear or strike a blow, not even theseprecautions had contented them. They would have risen and fled, and inthe marshes by the river or in remote meadows would have hiddenthemselves from the first violence of the troopers' outbreak. But theydid not know, and they remained. And though those who were mostfearful or least sleepy, women or men, noted that the lights aboveburned all night and that the tumult, albeit its note changed, heldtill dawn, they slept or kept vigil in security. The Duke's commandavailed. And no man, until the day was broad, left the castle.

  Then the gates were opened, and a procession numbering four scoretroopers--those who had the most to fear from justice or the leastbent towards honest service--issued from them, and rode two abreastdown the hill and through the town, They were in strange guise. Everyman had a great bundle on his crupper, and some a woman; and every manrode gorgeous in silk or Genoa, or rich furs, with feathers and suchlike gewgaws. One had a headpiece damascened beyond price swinging athis shoulders, another flaunted trappings of silver, a third had ajewelled hilt, a fourth a bunch of clinking cups or a swollen belt.Behind them came a dozen spare horses, roped head and tail and highladen with casks and skins of wine; while hunting-dogs ran at thestirrups, and two or three monkeys and thrice as many chained hawksbalanced themselves on the swaying casks. The men rode jauntily, withhigh looks and defiant voices, jesting and singing as they passed; andnow and again a one aimed a blow at a clown, or, with rude laughter,flung a handful of coppers to the townsfolk, who shrank into theirdoorways to see them pass. But no man vouchsafed a word ofexplanation; only the last rider as he passed under the arch of thetown gate turned, and, with his hands joined, flung behind him aderisive gesture of farewell.

  The townsfolk wondered, for the men were rich laden. Many a onecarried a year's pay on his shoulders; and what they hid in theirbundles might amount to many times as much. Moreover, they swaggeredas men who mind no master. What then had happened? Nay, what was stillhappening? For it was plain that something was amiss above. From thecastle proceeded a strange and continuous hum; a dull noise, as ofbees swarming; a murmur compound of many sounds, and full of menace.

  But no man who was not in the secret guessed the truth or even camenear it. And the sun had travelled far and the lads had driven thecows to pasture before the green valley of the Dronne, that had lainso long under the spell of fear, awoke to find its burden gone and tolearn that a better time, bringing law, order, and justice, was athand. About seven a body of horsemen were seen crossing the narrowplain which divided the place from the northern heights; and as theseapproached the bridge a lad, one of those who had first espied them,was sent to carry the alarm to the castle. The townsfolk looked to seea rush of armed men to the outer gate; or, if not that, somethingakin. But nothing of the kind followed, and while they stood gaping,uncertain whether to stand their ground or flee to hiding, theadvancing horsemen, who numbered about two hundred, marched across thebridge with every sign of confidence.

  The Duke was not among them. Fatigue and the weakness caused by hiswound had stood in the way of his return, and at this hour he lay inutter collapse in his quarters in the peasants' camp. His place wasoccupied by the Bat, who rode in the van with Charles de Villeneuve onhis right and Roger on his left. The young men's minds were clouded bythoughts of their sister and her plight; but, in spite of this, it wasa day of pride to them, a day of triumph and revenge--and they rode inthat spirit. The Bat, to whom Hecuba was naught--it was long since awoman had troubled his peace--wore none the less a grave face. Fortime had pressed, the Duke's explanation had been brief though fervid,and the men had saddled and started within an hour of his return.Consequently all might be well, or it might be ill. The Captain ofVlaye's troops might surrender the place without a blow, or they mightnot. For his part, the Bat would not have risked his purse on theirpromise.

  But to risk his life and his men was in the way of war. And he movedsteadily up the street, and gave no sign of doubt. Nevertheless it washis ear that, as they debouched into the market-place, caught thetread of a galloping horse on the flat beyond the river; and it washis hand that halted the men--apparently that the stragglers mightmove up and take their places.

  A minute or two later the galloping horse pounded under the gatewayand clattered recklessly up the paved street. The sound of thosehurrying hoofs told of news; and the men turned in their saddles andlooked to learn who followed. The rider appeared in the open. It wasBonne de Villeneuve.

  Charles wheeled his horse, and rode down the column to meet hissister. "You have not come alone?" he said in astonishment, mingledwith anger.

  She nodded, breathing quickly; and, supporting herself by one hand onthe sweating horse, she pulled up. She was unable to speak for amoment. Then "I must go first!" she gasped. "I must go first."

  "But----"

  "I must! I must!" she replied. Her distress was painful.

  Her brother frowned. The Bat eyed her, in doubt and perplexity. ButRoger spoke. "Let her go," he said in a low voice. "I understand. Sheis right."

  And though no one else understood, the Bat let her pass the head ofthe file of horsemen and ride alone up the way that led to the castle.The men, with wondering faces, watched her figure and her horse untilthe turn in the road hid her, and watched again until she was seencrossing the bridge which spanned the road. Immediately she vanishedwithout let or hindrance.

  "The gates are open," some one muttered in a tone of relief. And themen's faces lost their gravity. They fell into postures of ease, andbegan to talk and exchange jests. Some gazed up at the castle windowsor at that rampart walk, high above the town, which had been theCaptain of Vlaye's favourite lounge of evenings. Only the foremostranks, who could see the road before them and the bridge that crossedit, continued to look to the front with curiosity.

  It was one of these whose exclamation presently stilled all tonguesand recalled all thoughts to the work in hand. An instant later theBat's face turned a dull red colo
ur. Roger laughed nervously. Some ofthe men swayed, and seemed inclined to cheer; others raised theirhands, but thought better of it. The rear ranks rose in theirstirrups. A moment and all could see des Ageaux coming down the roadon foot. The Bat and the two Villeneuves went forward to meet him.

  He nodded to them without speaking. Then, "Why are you waiting?" heasked in a low voice. "Is it not all arranged?"

  "But mademoiselle," the Bat answered, staring. "Have you not seenher?"

  "No."

  "But I thought--she asked us to wait."

  The Lieutenant of Perigord looked along the line of horsemen, whosebronzed faces and smiling eyes--all striving at once to catchhis--gave him welcome. "I don't understand," he said. "I know nothingof this."

  "I do," Roger muttered. "I think Charles and I should go forward,and----"

  He did not continue. The Bat, by a movement which silenced him, calledhis attention to the bridge. On it a number of persons had that momentappeared, issuing from the castle gates, and directing their course tothe tilt-yard crest. Their progress was slow, yet the gazers belowcould not, from the place where they stood, discern why; or preciselywho they were. But presently, after an interval of suspense andwaiting, the little company reappeared in the road below and began todescend the slope towards them. Then here and there a man caught hisbreath, and, as by one consent, all edged their horses to the side. M.des Ageaux bared his head, and the troopers, from front to rear,followed his example.

  It was a brief and mournful procession. In the van, riding where hehad ridden so often, to foray and skirmish, the Captain of Vlaye rodehis last ride, with a man at either rein and either stirrup, hiswar-cloak about him, and his steel headpiece nodding above hisclay-cold face. His lance, with its drooping pennon, rose upright fromhis stirrup, and the faithful four who brought him forth had so fixedit that he seemed to grasp its shaft rather than to be supported byit. The sun twinkled on his steel, the light breeze caught and liftedthe ends of his sash. As the old war-horse paced slowly and quietlyalong, conscious of its burden and of death, it was hard to say at aglance that the Lord of all the Valley was not passing forth as of oldto battle; that, instead, he was moving to his last rest in thecloister which rose among the trees a half-league from the walls.

  A few paces behind him, in a mule-litter, was borne a woman swathed inblack cloth from head to foot, so that not so much as her eyesappeared. On one side of the litter walked Bonne, her chin on herbreast, and her hand resting on the litter's edge. On the other sidewalked a frightened waiting-woman.

  M. de Vlaye passed, the litter passed, all passed. But until theprocession disappeared in the narrow street that led to the town gateno man covered himself or moved. Then, at a low word of command, theline of troopers rode on with a sudden merry jingle of bits and spurs,and, winding up the little gorge between the crests, marched over thebridge and through the open gates.

  The Lieutenant's first act was to go to a low rampart on the west sideof the courtyard, whence it was possible to trace with the eye theroad to the Abbey. Bonne had not looked at him as she passed, nor somuch as raised her eyes. But he knew by some subtle sense that she hadbeen aware of his presence and that he had her promise that she wouldreturn.

  Doubtless he looked forward to the moment of meeting; doubtless helooked forward to other things. But it was characteristic of the manthat as soon as he had assured himself of her safe passage he turnedwithout more ado to the work of restoring order, of raising the King'sstandard, and enforcing the King's peace.

  THE END.