DEATH
Amélie sprang back, preparing for the struggle which the strength of the bridegroom would have rendered futile. The enameled clock rang out the hour of seven. The mythologically wrought panel opened again and a man entered.
Jean loosed his hold and stood petrified. The man advanced and asked in a terrible voice:
"What does this mean? What is going on in my house?"
"René!" cried Amélie, running to her lover who clasped her in his arms, regardless of the fire in Jean's eyes.
"Jean Vilon," said the master, "render an account of yourself. What has taken place in this castle? Unfaithful servant, how have you guarded this trust?"
Vilon trembled and knelt before René.
"Your lordship," he stammered, "your mother—the orders she brought me—from you."
"Orders? Were they not to refuse entrance to anyone not giving the watch-word? Did my mother speak it, imbecile? Do I call you imbecile? I mean scoundrel. How have you treated this woman,—this woman who should be as holy to you as the Virgin?"
"Your lordship, it was the Duchess, the wife of my late master whose ashes rest in the chapel"—incoherently articulated Vilon. "Should I refuse her?—close the door in her face?"
"Certainly, beast!" cried René, losing all control of himself. "You owe obedience to me and to me only, though you die for it."
He clenched his fists and advanced upon Vilon, who, making no resistance, prepared to receive the blow. But Amélie, with the generosity of her upright character, interposed.
"René, do not debase yourself. Jean Vilon is in no wise to blame. He has believed your mother, thinking he honored you. When you sent him instructions, you could not foresee this possibility. Fate brought her. Jean is upright and faithful."
Her persuasive voice brought calmness to René, but a monstrous doubt seemed to find lodgment in his mind.
"Very well; now let us come to the point. What has happened here? Under what pretext has my mother come with pretended messages from me? She surely has not foregone three days of frivolous court life for the pleasure of viewing country scenery. When I (for I have transformed myself into a professional spy) learned in Paris that she had taken the road to Brittany, I hastened after her, feeling sure that she was coming to Picmort. I met her just now on the road, unperceived by her party. I have entered the castle with my secret key and chosen this method of surprising you,—the same employed by the jealous Marquis who imprisoned his wife in this salon. Now, tell me what has happened. Come! the truth!"
Amélie remained silent, for not until that moment had she realized the extremity of the case, the nature of the confession she must make to her lover. Her customary valor forsook her.
"René," she faltered, "do not reproach me; forgive me, rather. Why have you delayed so long in coming? Why have you left me here defenceless? Why have you abandoned me?"
"Defenceless? Abandoned? And that fellow? Has he not protected you? He has orders to die for you. Tell me quickly what has been done. Answer, each of you. What does this mean?"
Amélie covered her face with her hands and turning to the wall, burst into bitter weeping. René seized Vilon by the collar, shaking him violently and saying:
"Traitor, what have you done? Answer or I will choke you."
The Breton freed himself with so lithe a movement that the superiority of his physical strength was evident. Folding his arms on his breast, he said quietly:
"The Duchess arrived in a post chaise accompanied by the chaplain and two attendants. I opened wide the gate through which the lords of Picmort have always entered. I kissed her hand in respect. She spent three days here, giving orders and being obeyed. On the third, she decreed that I should marry this young lady—"
René leaped in rage.
"And—you married—her?" he shrieked.
"Yes."
"When—when?"
"Today, at four o'clock in the Picmort chapel."
"Devil!" roared René. "And you, Amélie, have you consented?"
"Yes," she wailed.
"This is superb!" and he laughed in fury. "Explain yourself, that I may then kill you. Did you fall in love with this fellow?"
"René!" she implored, sinking to his feet, "Have pity on me. I consented because your mother was starving to death before my eyes that little child we saved from the ship. O René, never call her mother again."
"Is that what she did?" stammered the Marquis, clasping his hands.
"Yes," she replied. "René, my father was right; the crimes of the mighty are expiated by the innocent. How can one hear a little child cry for bread and not save him? Yes, I have taken vows at the altar. I am the wife of your steward."
"Why did you marry her?" demanded René, turning furiously on Vilon.
"Because your mother said you wished it."
"Did you know of the child's starvation?"
"By the cross, I did not."
"And you dared to love her?"
"From the moment I saw her," he cried with impetuous sincerity.
"Aha! I find the motive. Obedience to the devil! So you loved her?"
"Your lordship, that was not the motive. I could never have dreamed of marriage had it not been for the Duchess—"
"Dog, only I am your master. Only I—"
"True, but here we are not accustomed to distinguish between the orders of your lordship and his mother. Parents represent God on earth."
"Jean is innocent. Another in his place would have acted likewise. Be just, René," said Amélie.
The steward looked on her in deep gratitude.
"René, your mother is the only culprit,—she and that fatality which dogs all who aid our cause. We carry misfortune with us. We should have told Jean our secret to begin with; we should have treated him as a friend, not as a menial. Then our enemies could not have deceived him. But how could we suspect that your mother had a suspicion of my presence here? René, a vicious womb has borne you—the womb of a hyena."
"Amélie," he groaned, "I do not attempt to defend my mother's conduct. She has acted like a fiend. But she is mentally incapable of planning the villainy. She was the instrument of the police. O Amélie, 'tis our parents who accomplish our ruin. Your father sets Volpetti free and my mother delivers you to another man. O I rave! You are mine, mine! No other man exists."
He clasped her hands and she gazed passionately up into his face, forgetful of Vilon, who frowningly beheld his honor as bridegroom affronted. At length René remembered the importunate presence, and sternly said:
"Begone!"
"You bid me go!" said the Breton, roused at length. "If I go my wife comes with me."
"Your wife!" laughed René scornfully. "This woman is not your wife, fool."
"The priest has joined us," insisted the peasant.
"Through a fraud,—a crime."
"That matters not. She has said 'Yes' at the altar. We are husband and wife before God."
René turned threateningly upon him and Vilon lowered his head. The idea of resistance never entered his brain, but neither could he entertain the idea of resigning Amélie. In body and soul he belonged to his master, the Marquis de Brezé; in body and soul she belonged to him, Jean Vilon.
Amélie placed herself beside her husband.
"Jean is right," she said. "He is indeed, my master. Happiness has died and love also. Like you, I sought at first to break this bond—but I cannot,—we cannot. I expiate."
Tears flowed fast over her cheeks. Wild passion shot from Vilon's eyes. He longed to kneel before her and clasp her in his arms. He dug his nails into the palms to restrain himself. He hoarsely asked:
"Is this the woman your lordship has loved?"
"She was my promised wife. You have undone me by one act, Jean Vilon," answered René in a voice of deep sadness.
Jean's mouth contracted. He suffered terribly, but he did not yield. He kept assuring himself that Amélie was his, his treasure. Only death could separate them.
René clutched the Breton's wrist and pressed it till the bones almost cracked.
"I repeat, Jean, you are the undoing of my life. But you shall not save your soul, if you persist, for a dreadful crime would follow. You refuse to give her up? Well, let me tell you who the woman is that you continue to call your wife. She is sacred, poor fool, and as inaccessible to you as the saints. Listen, dust of the earth. She is of the race of kings—do you hear?—you must never forget this fact—of our kings!"
Terror and wonder contorted the peasant's face. He transfixed Amélie with a look of superstitious, reverence. The revelation exceeded his power of comprehension.
"The blood of the king martyred by the revolutionists is in her body,—the king for whom your father bore arms and fought hand to hand so often,—the king for whom he lay concealed in the woods and for whom,—do you remember, Jean?—he was shot, his body lying unburied during seven days. If your father should now awake he would behold his son attempting to profane the daughter of that king! This is the crime to which you have lent yourself."
"Is this true?" asked Jean, turning upon Amélie a face contorted with fear and pain.
"Yes, Jean," she answered, her voice full of compassion. "I swear by my soul it is true."
"And the honor of Brezé confirms the oath," added René. "Retain the fruit of your iniquity. I leave you your wife. You no longer have a master. I shall go away forever."
"No," entreated Jean. "Rather I, rather I."
He crossed himself and grasped the amulets which hung around his neck. Then, swiftly approaching Amélie, he kissed her on the forehead. His lips burned and she shrieked in horror. He walked rapidly out of the boudoir. His heavy feet sounded for a moment in the antechamber, then on the stairway, the narrow winding stairway leading to the tower's highest story. René and Amélie listened. Suddenly divining his intention, they ran after him. The tiny room was dark when they reached it, the window was curtained by a heavy obstruction which they realized was Jean. They darted to clutch him, but he rolled out before their eyes. Deeply affected, they looked down and beheld at the base of the tower the lifeless body of the grief-crazed Breton, with face upturned to the sky and glassy eyes gleaming amid the heavy blond hair. Silvano, the faithful mastiff, sat beside him, howling despairingly.