Chantemerle

by D. K. Broster; G. Winifred Taylor

The young man looked for a moment at the door which she had left ajar behind her, then turned away, and began slowly to descend the staircase. He would go back to the hotel and wait there for Gilbert. Yet he went so slowly down the stairs, he paused so long at the door, and traversed the courtyard with so lagging a step, that by the time he had reached the gateway a little commotion behind him warned him that the travellers were already starting. Turning, he saw on the steps Madame Gaumont and her maid, and on Gilbert’s arm Lucienne, a hastily but heavily veiled figure; and, as if fascinated, he watched Gilbert helping in the three women. The postilion scrambled to his place, and in another moment the post-chaise came rumbling towards him over the stones. . . . It was gone—passing him as he stood like a statue in the archway, fighting down a wild desire to spring to the horses’ heads and stop it. And Lucienne had not seen him; perhaps it was as well. . . .

Gilbert came across the courtyard, pulling out his watch. “We must get back at once,” he said briefly, and Louis followed him without a word. It suited him well enough that his supposed status required him to walk behind.

Hardly had they got into the yard of the Etats-Généraux when hurrying footsteps were heard behind them, and looking round they both recognised one of Madame Gaumont’s domestics. He held a letter in his hand.

“For you, Sir,” he said, giving it to the Marquis. “It has just been found in Mademoiselle d’Aucourt’s room—in the grate. Thinking it had fallen into the fire by mistake, and seeing that it was addressed to you, I thought it best to bring it on at once.”

“You did quite right,” said Gilbert, giving him a louis. “Pierre, see that the baggage is ready. We start in a quarter of an hour.” And he went in, while Saint-Ermay stared after him, wondering what on earth could be the meaning of this belated missive from Lucienne. It seemed almost like a message from the dead.

To Gilbert also the letter had something of that complexion, as, without opening it, he mounted the stairs to his room. For Lucienne, when he had entered, was not in a condition for a coherent farewell. He had found her bowed over the arm of the big chair in which she sat, weeping her heart out, he would have thought, except that the tears were few. She seemed to have exhausted them. Château-Foix was almost frightened. But his mind had been made up before ever he opened the door. She should have from him neither questions nor reproaches. The fault was not hers; he could not bear that she should have to justify herself. So he had merely raised her up and kissed her wet cheek; then Madame Gaumont had come in, and there was an end.

At last he broke open the letter. It was so short that a second or two sufficed for his eyes to run over the words whose meaning his mind took much longer to grasp.

“I cannot bear it. I cannot go to England. Come to me and tell me that we can be married at once, and that you will take me back with you.—Lucienne.”

That was all, but at these few lines Gilbert stood staring, stunned. After a moment he sat dizzily down, and resting his elbow on the table put his hand over his eyes the better to taste this enormous, this overwhelming surprise. He was too dumbfounded for consecutive reflection, but the first thought which penetrated his stupor was one of such radiant and piercing joy that his reason seemed to shake beneath its onslaught. The nightmare was but a nightmare after all. “Thank God! thank God!” he cried with his deepest soul. It was all false. The proof had come to him here in this very room which had witnessed his black night of despair; this was the very table on which he had bowed his head, those were the same chimes of Notre Dame des Victoires floating, now, through the sunlight. . . .

And she had gone; he could not thank her for this great proof of her love; for at first he saw it in that aspect, judging the trust and confidence which must have prompted her to so unusual a step. The trust and confidence; yes, and what must she not have suffered when the next evening he had visited her and said no word of her appeal? He looked again at the date: he was not mistaken; the letter had been written on the evening of the day when she had exchanged the guardianship of the Princess for that of Madame Gaumont. Poor child! how horribly she must have suffered! His stirred feelings lent him enough imagination to put himself in her place. Was it any wonder that she had seemed strange, and that overcome by the strain she had fainted at the additional shock given, very naturally, by the news of Louis’ arrest? What must she have thought of him? What, too, if she had known his unworthy, his vile suspicions of her? How large a part had his involuntary silence not played in the state in which he had just found her?