CHAPTER IV
Yolande de France walked straight down the hill to her doom. She had no Spanish silk umbrella, like Cartouche’s, to shield her head from the tempest, nor any strength, like his, to dare orthodoxy. She wore only a simple cloak and hood, like “Red-riding-hood the darling, the flower of fairy lore;” and that was quite insufficient to protect her from the wolf.
At the door of the “Hôtel” her father met her, distraught and nervous. He led her, his lips quivering, into the little side study which he called an ante-room. He was obviously, pitifully, agitated.
“Where have you been?” he said. “But no matter, since you are here. Yolande, the moment has come when you must decide.”
“Decide, father?” She trembled.
“Whether,” he answered, “you will bow to my earnest wishes, or commit me to dishonour and the grave.”
She felt suddenly faint, and sat down in a chair.
“Father!” she whispered; “I don’t understand you.”
“I am only too easily understood,” he said. “The Marquess di Rocco, who holds my very existence in the hollow of his hand, renews his suit at this moment, and peremptorily.”
“I cannot marry him.”
“Wait, before you condemn me, me, your father, to worse than death. I must be plain with you, Yolande, in this terrible crisis. I do not plead my word to him, although you as a de France should appreciate its inviolability. It is associated with other pledges which, in default of your consent, would mean my instant ruin. I owe him money, Yolande, which it is impossible for me to repay—money borrowed chiefly to enable you, my daughter, to maintain the condition which is your due. You alone have it in your power to liquidate that debt.”
She did not speak. She could not, indeed. But he gathered a little confidence from her silence.
“And after all,” he said, with a sickly smile, “one can conceive a less attractive way out of an impasse. Riches, position, a princely jointure, an alliance with the most powerful house in Savoy, whereby our own would be enabled to recover its lost influence—are these small considerations to be discarded for a personal sentiment, which a month of such devotion would cure?”
She shuddered, repeating, “I cannot marry him.”
“On the other side,” he hurried on, ignoring her words desperately, “utter material ruin and, what is worse to me, my word, my honour foresworn. Listen, Yolande. In that very hour when you become, if you will become, his wife, he settles his entire property upon you by will. You will be the most influential woman in the duchy, a force for the good which is so dear to your heart. Is to put this in your power the act of a libertine, or of one rather who yearns to find his redemption at the hands of a virtue which he holds so inestimably dear?”
She cried out at last, rising from her seat and staggering as if she were blind.
“Father! father! give me time at least!”
Even in her despair she knew that it were useless to plead how her heart, her soul were engaged elsewhere. The shock, at this pass, would have driven him to a very frenzy of cruelty. As it was, he leapt to the little concession implied in her appeal, and sought to improve upon it instantly.
“Impossible. He is on the very eve of a journey. He demands the ceremony at once—this moment.”
“The ceremony? O, mother of God!”
“A formal one only, conditionally, for a year. Not till that time has elapsed may he claim you for his wife in fact. It was my provision, made in consideration of your youth and inexperience.”
She stared at him as if mad.
“You are my father,” she began. He interrupted, to better her,—
“Your dead mother’s trustee for your welfare, Yolande. As I hold that charge sacred from abuse, believe at least in the sincerity of my desire to urge, impartially, upon you the wisdom of a step which I am sure she would have approved.”
The girl gave a little rending laugh—horrible—in a note quite foreign to her.
“Is he—M. di Rocco—in the house?” she asked.
“He is in the next room awaiting us. The Maire, the notary, and the good Father of Le Marais are also there, attending on your decision.”
“Only my mother is wanting,” said Yolande. “Call her to this conspiracy against her child, and see what she answers to the impartial head of it.”
He had turned his fine eyes from her, even as, it is said, the royal despot of beasts will cower under the fearless human gaze; but at this the goaded fire flashed into them.
“She would answer,” he cried, “cursing the graceless offspring of our house, who could so misread a father’s tender love.”
“No, father, she is in heaven. The secrets of our hearts are bared to her.”
He cringed before her for a moment, defeated and exposed. Looking in her noble eyes, he knew that his moral tenure of her heart, her duty, hung upon a thread—knew that nothing but the last poignant threat of self-destruction could restore them to him. His stately cowardice had even foreseen this contingency.
“You leave me no alternative,” he said, his face as grey as ashes. “I cannot survive dishonour and my broken word. Thus, Yolande, do I take your message to her!” and with the word he fetched a pistol from his pocket and put its muzzle to his temple.
She uttered a fearful scream, and flew to him—wrenched down his arm, cried, and fondled him with inarticulate moans. He stood quite passive.
“Give me time!” she could only sob at last.
“I can give you nothing, Yolande,” he answered. “Yours is all the gift. I am a bankrupt but for you.”
He made a movement as if to break from her. She held him madly. In that minute the whole joy of life drained from her veins and left them barren. At length she released him, and stepped back.
“Father,” she said, “in all your life never mention my mother’s name to me again. When I die, bury me away from her in another grave. I am only worthy to be your daughter. Deal with me as you will.”
A double rose of colour had come to his cheeks. He made an eager step towards her, but she retreated before him.
“It is enough for me that you have vindicated your name,” he said. “It is enough that I am not mistaken in you.”
“Spare me that comment on my shame,” she said. “Why will you keep me in this torture?”
But he must still hunger to justify his self-degradation by enlarging on it.
“Hush!” he said. “It is a sacrifice, I know; but perhaps, Yolande, only a provisional sacrifice. Dare I whisper my own expectations? You will be free for a year—a wife in nothing but the material endowments of wifehood; a—a prospective dowager, Yolande. The Marquess is much shaken—a prematurely old man—a—”
She turned from him, feeling sick to death.
“I am waiting,” she said icily.
* * * * * * * *
That was how the Marchese di Rocco gained his wife. For the rest, the priest, the Maire and notary were creatures of his own, and among them soon accomplished the ceremony and settlements. At the end, monsignore offered to kiss his newly-made bride; but she backed from him.
“Is this in the bond?” she asked coldly of her father. He was very righteous and peremptory at once.
“It is a breach of it,” he said. “I must ask you, monsignore, to observe our compact to the letter.”
The old libertine grinned.
“A pledge only, to be redeemed in a year,” he said. “But it will keep, sweet as roses in a cabinet. In the interval, I hope the Marchesa will honour my poor abode, during the absence of its master.”
“No, pardon me,” said de France. “She will continue in her father’s house.”
“I shall do neither,” said the lily.
“How!” cried the Chevalier.
“I am my own mistress,” she said. “From this moment please do not forget that—” and she swept from the room.
He stared after her, dumbfoundered; but di Rocco burst into a great laugh.
“By God, I like her spirit!” he said. “She is a prize worth the winning.”