WHAT THE PERIL WAS
It seemed to me like a sob of despair, or of the breaking down of patience, and, knowing what I did already, I quickly imagined it to proceed from the Countess in a moment when she was beginning to lose hope of Monsieur de Merri's arrival. To me, therefore, it seemed a stab of reproach.
I judged that it came by way of the window below me. So forthwith, at all hazards, sheltering myself from outside view as well as I could with the casement, I thrust my head out over the sill, and said in a low tone:
"Madame."
I waited for some moments, with a beating heart, and then called again, "Madame."
I thought I heard whispering below. Then a head was thrust out of the window—a woman's head, soft haired and shapely. "Here I am," I whispered. The head twisted round, and the face was that of the young woman who had received the messenger at the postern the day before. But it was clear that she had not been sobbing, though her face wore a look of concern.
"I must speak with Madame the Countess," said I, and added what I thought would most expedite matters: "I bring news of Monsieur de Merri."
The head disappeared: there was more whispering: then the maid looked out again, using similar precautions to mine with regard to the casement.
"Who are you, Monsieur?" she asked.
"I will explain all later. There is little time now. I may soon be looked for. Contrive to let me have an interview with Madame the Countess. I don't know how to get to her: I'm not acquainted with the chateau."
"Put your head a little further out, Monsieur,—so that I can see your face."
I obeyed. She gazed at me searchingly, then withdrew her head again. Reappearing very soon, she said: "Madame has decided to trust you. These are her apartments. There is a door from a gallery where pictures hang—"
"I have been to that gallery," I interrupted, "but I was watched while there. Is there no other way?"
She thought a moment. "Yes, the garden. At the foot of the terrace, turn to the right, till you get to the end of this wing."
"But the man at the steps yonder will stop me. He has done so already."
"That beast! Alas, yes! Well, I will go and talk with him, and keep him looking at me. You go down to the terrace without attracting any attention, walk close to the house till you get to this end of the balustrade, step over the balustrade, descend the bank as quietly as possible, and wait behind the shrubbery near the door at the end of this wing,—it's the door from Madame's apartments to the garden. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly."
"Then I will be talking to that man by the time you can get to the terrace. I go at once. Be quick, Monsieur,—and careful."
Admiring the swift wits and decision of the girl, I hastened through the corridor, down the stairs, and into the hall. The Count and the long-nosed man were so buried in their game that neither looked up. A pair of varlets in attendance were yawning on a bench. Yawning in imitation, I passed with feigned listlessness to the terrace, went noiselessly along by the house-wall, and followed the wing to the end of the balustrade. I did not venture even to look toward the steps, but I could hear the maid talking and laughing coquettishly. I crossed the balustrade by sitting on it and swinging my legs over: then strode on light feet down the grassy bank and through an opening in the shrubbery I saw at my right. I found myself in a walk which, bordered all the way by shrubbery, ran from a narrow door in the end of the wing to the other extremity of the garden. The door, when I first glanced at it, was slightly ajar: I supposed the maid had left it so. But as soon as I had come to a halt in the walk, the door opened, and a very young, very slender, very sad-faced, very beautiful lady came out, with eyes turned upon me in a mixture of hope and fear.
I instinctively fell upon my knee before that picture of grief and beauty. She wore, I remember, a gown of faded blue, and blue was the colour of her eyes—a soft, fair blue, like that of the sky. She was so slim, sorrowful, small, childlike, forlorn,—I would have died to serve her.
She looked at me searchingly, as the maid had done, but with more courtesy, and then, in a low voice bidding me follow her, led the way down the walk and into a side path that wound among some tall rose-bushes. Here we could not be seen from the walk and yet we might hear anybody approaching. She stopped and faced me.
"You have news of Monsieur de Merri," she said eagerly. "What of him?"
"He is prevented from coming to you, Madame."
Her face, pale before, turned white as a sheet.
"But," I hastened to add, "I have come in his stead, and I will serve you as willingly as he."
"But that will not do," she said, in great agitation. "Nobody can serve me at this pass but Monsieur de Merri. Where is he? What prevents him?"
"I left him at La Flèche," said I lamely. "I assure you it is utterly impossible for him to come. But believe me, I am wholly yours for whatever service you desired of him. You can see that I have come from him." I took from my pocket her note, and held it out. I then told her my name and parentage, and begged her not to distrust me because I was of another religion than hers.
"It isn't that I don't believe you, Monsieur," she replied. "It isn't that I doubt your willingness to help me."
"As to my ability, try me, Madame. My zeal will inspire me."
"I don't doubt your ability to do brave and difficult things, Monsieur. But it is not that. It happens—the circumstances are such—alas, nobody but Monsieur de Merri himself can help me! If you but knew! If he but knew!"
"Tell me the case, Madame. Trust me, I beg. Let me be the judge as to whether I can help you."
"I do trust you. I am not afraid to tell you. You will see plainly enough. It is this: I have been slandered to my husband. A week has been given me in which to clear myself. The week ends to-morrow. If I have not proved my innocence by that time, God knows what fate my husband will inflict upon me!"
She shuddered and closed her eyes.
"But your innocence, Madame—who can doubt it?"
"My husband is a strange man, Monsieur. He has little faith in women."
"But what slander can he believe of you? And who could utter it? What is its nature?"
"I suppose it is my husband's friend, Captain Ferragant, who uttered it. The nature of it is, that Monsieur de Merri's name is associated with mine. Monsieur de Merri is said to have made a boast about me, in the tavern at Montoire. It is a hideous lie, invented when Monsieur de Merri had gone away. And now you see how only Monsieur de Merri can save me, by coming and facing our accusers and swearing to my innocence. But to-morrow is the last day. Oh, if he had known why I wanted him! It is too late now—or is it? Perhaps he sent you ahead? Perhaps he is coming after you? Is it not so? He will be here to-morrow, will he not?"
Bitterly I shook my head.
"Then I am lost," she said, in a whisper of despair.
"But that cannot be. It isn't for you to prove your innocence—it is for your accuser to prove your guilt. He cannot do that."
"You do not know the Count de Lavardin. He will believe any ill of a woman, and anything that Captain Ferragant tells him. The fact that Monsieur de Merri is young and accomplished is enough. My husband has suspected me from the hour of our marriage. And besides that, people at Montoire have testified that they heard Monsieur de Merri boast of conquests. Whether that be true or not, it could not have been of me that he boasted. And if he but knew how I stand, how readily he would fly to clear me! He is no coward, I am sure."
I had evidence of that: evidence also of Monsieur de Merri's unfortunate habit of boasting of conquests. But I was convinced that it could not have been of her that he had boasted. These thoughts, however, were but transient flashings across my sense of the plight in which I had put this unhappy woman by killing Monsieur de Merri. I tried to minimize that plight.
"But your fears are exaggerated. Your husband will not dare go too far."
"He will dare take my life—or lock me up for the rest of my days in a dungeon—or I know not what. He is all-powerful on his estate—lord of life and death. You know what these great noblemen do when they believe their wives unfaithful. I have heard how the Prince de Condé—"
"Yes; but the Count de Lavardin would have your relations to fear."
"I have no relations. I was an orphan in a convent. The Count took a fancy to my face, they told me. They urged me to consent to the marriage. I could not displease them—I had never disobeyed them. And now this is the end. Well, I am in the hands of God." She glanced upwards and gave a sigh of bitter resignation.
"But after all," I interposed, "you are not certain how your husband will act."
"He has threatened the worst vengeance if I cannot clear myself to-morrow. If you knew him, Monsieur!"
"He allowed you a week, you say.—"
"From the day he accused me—last Saturday."
"And what facilities did he give you for the purpose?"
"His men and horses were at my service. He knew, of course, that all I could do was to send for Monsieur de Merri."
"But why did he not send for Monsieur de Merri?"
"I don't know. I suppose he was ruled by the advice of Captain Ferragant. Perhaps he thought Monsieur de Merri would not come at his request."
"But you did not use your husband's men and horses to send for Monsieur de Merri."
"No. Mathilde—my maid whom you saw just now—thought I would better act secretly. She feared the Captain would bribe the messenger to make only a pretence of taking my message to Monsieur de Merri. In that case Monsieur de Merri, knowing nothing, would not come, and his not coming would be taken as evidence of guilt—as it will be now, though he got my message, for Hugues is faithful. Why is it, Monsieur, that Monsieur de Merri sent back word by Hugues that he would follow close, if he could not come?"
"Something happened afterward. Hugues, then, is the name of the messenger you sent?"
"Yes. He is devoted to Mathilde. They are accustomed to meet at certain times. Mathilde has not much freedom, as you may guess, sharing my life as she does. So she contrived to get possession for awhile of the key to a postern yonder, and to pass it to Hugues when he came with flour. He had a duplicate made, so that she could restore the original and yet retain a key with which to let herself out and meet him in the forest. Thus she was able to see him last Sunday morning, and to send him after Monsieur de Merri. We knew that De Merri had started Westward, and Hugues traced him from town to town. Ah, when Hugues returned successful, how rejoiced we were! We expected Monsieur de Merri every hour. But the time went by, and our hopes changed to fears, and now, heaven pity me, it is the fears that have come true!"
"But you are not yet lost. Even if the Count should be so blind as to think you guilty, you have at least one resource. You have the key to the postern. You can flee."
"And be caught before I had fled two leagues. I am visited every three hours, as if I were a prisoner, and as soon as I was missed a score of men would be sent in all directions. Besides, for some reason or other, the Count has the roads watched from the tower. If I fled into the forest, the bloodhounds would be put on my track. My husband has hinted all this to me. And where could I flee to but the Convent? The Count would have men there before I could reach it."
"I could find some other place to take you to," said I at a hazard.
"Ah, Monsieur, then indeed would appearances be against me. Then indeed would the enemy of my poor reputation have his triumph. Alas, there is no honourable place in this world for a wife who leaves her husband's roof, though it be her prison. I will be true to my vows, though I die. If there be wrong, it shall be all of his doing, none of mine."
"You believe it is this Captain who has slandered you. Why should he do that? Why is he your enemy?"
She blushed and looked down. I understood.
"But why do you not tell your husband that?" I asked quickly.
"The Count says it is an old story that wives accuse their husbands' friends whom they dislike. He thinks women are made of lies. And in any case he says if I am innocent of this charge I can prove my innocence. So all depended on Monsieur de Merri's being here to-morrow to speak for me."
"Ah, Madame, if only my speaking for you would avail anything!"
"From the depths of my heart I thank you, Monsieur, though you see how useless you—And yet there is one thing you can say for me!" A great light of sudden hope dawned upon her face. "You can tell how you saw Monsieur de Merri—that he was coming here, but was prevented—"
"Yes, I can do that."
"And perhaps—who knows?—you can induce the Count to give me a few more days, till the cause of Monsieur de Merri's delay is past. And then you can ride or send to Monsieur de Merri, and tell him my situation, and he will come and put my accuser to shame, after all! Yes, thank God, there is hope! Oh, Monsieur, you may yet be able to save me!"
There were tears of joy on her face, and she gratefully clasped my hand in both of hers.
It sickened my heart to do it, but I could only shake my head sadly and say:
"No, Madame, Monsieur de Merri can never come to speak for you."
"Why not?" she cried, all the hope rushing out of her face again.
"He is dead—slain in a duel." I said in a voice as faint as a whisper.
Her face seemed to turn to marble.
"Who killed him?" she presently asked in a horrified tone.
I knelt at her feet, with averted eyes, as one who is all contrition but dare not ask a pardon.
"You!" she whispered.
"When I found this message upon him afterward," said I, "I saw what injury was done. I could only come in his place, and offer myself. By one means and another, I learned who it was had sent for him."
"That brave young gentleman," said she, following her own thoughts; "that he should die so soon! And you, with his blood on your hands."—she drew back from me a step—"come to offer your service to me who, little as I was to him, must yet be counted among his friends! Monsieur, what could you think of my loyalty?"
"I thought only of what might be done to prevent further harm. Though I fought him, I was not his enemy. I had never seen him before. It was a sudden quarrel, about nothing. Heaven knows, I did not think it would end as it did. That end has been lamentable enough, Madame. Punish me if you will: as his friend, you are entitled to avenge him."
"I only pity him, Monsieur. God forbid I should think of revenge!"
"You are a saint, Madame. I was about to say that my having killed him need not make you reject my service. Your doing so might but add to the evil consequences of my act. Surely he would prefer your accepting my aid, now that he is for ever powerless to give his. And we must think now of something to be done—"
