"But I fear for you, Charles," she said; "I fear for you. All are either dead or have fled and left me, and I shall see you die too,--you, you die also by the very touch, by the very breath, of one to whom you have restored life."
"I fear not, Marie," answered Charles; "I fear not; and that is the safest guard. Certainly you shall not see me fly and leave you; and I fear not, either, that you will see death overtake me. But oh, if even it did, how sweet would death itself be, watched by that dear face, wept by those beloved eyes!"
Marie bent down her head, and said nothing; but she strove no more against the arm that was cast round her; her hand remained in his, and the colour rose warmly into her cheek, which had before been deadly pale.
"If," she said at length, after a long pause, during which he had continued to gaze earnestly, fondly, sadly upon her,--"If it were not that I feared for you, your presence would indeed be a comfort and a consolation to me: not that I fear for myself," she added; "I know not why, but I have never feared. It has seemed to me as if there were no danger to myself--as if I should certainly escape. But oh, how terrible it would be to see you struck by the pestilence also!"
"Say no more, dear Marie; say no more," replied Charles of Montsoreau, feeling and knowing by every word that she was his own. "I fear not; I have no fear; and even if I had, love would trample it under foot in a moment. I would not leave you in such an hour, not if by descending that short flight of steps I could save myself from death: unless indeed you told me to go, and that you loved me not."
The tears sprang into Marie de Clairvaut's eyes. "I must not tell such a falsehood," she cried, clasping her hands together, "in an hour like this. I never told you so; indeed I never did, though Madame de Saulny, poor Madame de Saulny, with her dying lips assured me that you thought so."
"There have been many errors, dear Marie," replied Charles of Montsoreau, "which have pained both your heart and mine, I fear. But now, my beloved, I must call in those that are with me, for we have travelled far and ridden hard."
"Oh, call them not in!" said Marie de Clairvaut, "for they will be frightened when they see the state of the house, and catch the pestilence and die! Bid them lead their horses to the stables, and sleep there. Perhaps they may find some one still living there, for this evening at sunset I saw my father's old groom still wandering about as usual; but you must go yourself to tell them, Charles, for I do not believe that there is any one in the house but you and I. The stables lie away to the left. I will wait here for you till you come back. Go through the great doors," she said, as he descended, "and go not into the rooms either to the right or left, for there is death in all of them."
Charles of Montsoreau descended with a rapid step, and in a few words gave his directions to the servants. He then returned, and taking Marie de Clairvaut's hand in his, he pressed his lips warmly upon it, and gazed tenderly upon her as she led him along through a wide corridor to the room in which she had been sitting.
It formed a strange contrast,--the aspect of that room, with the desolate knowledge that all was death and solitude through the rest of the house. Beautiful pictures, rich ornaments, fine tapestry, gave it an air of life and cheerfulness, which seemed strange to the feelings of Charles of Montsoreau. But an illuminated book of prayer that lay upon the table told how Marie de Clairvaut's thoughts had been employed; and Charles of Montsoreau paused, and, lifting his thoughts to Heaven, prayed earnestly, fervently, that that bright and beautiful and beloved being might still be protected by the hand of the Almighty in every scene of peril and danger which might yet await her.