"Yet listen to me, daughter," he said, without withdrawing the cowl from his head. But the first tones of that full rich voice proved sufficient nearly to overpower the fair girl to whom he spoke. "If you will hear me but for five minutes, my daughter," he said, "I think and I believe, that I can suggest to you consolations that you may take to heart; and if not, the few words I have to speak can do you no harm at least."
Marie de Clairvaut bowed her head, and took a step or two nearer to the water, while the woman withdrew for a short space, so as to be out of ear shot. But still she remained watching the two, as if she were either afraid of having done wrong in admitting the friar at all, or had suddenly conceived some suspicion of his purpose. The eyes of Marie de Clairvaut and of Charles of Montsoreau turned that way, and both saw that they were watched. Could they have followed the dictates of their own hearts, they would have cast themselves into each other's arms; but now they were forced to stand, ruling every look and every gesture, and assuming the demeanour of strangers, even while the words of love and affection were bursting from their lips. The young nobleman, however, gave but brief course to his feelings.
"This night, Marie," he said, after a few words of passionate tenderness, "this very night at twelve, a boat shall be ready for you underneath that bank, and means prepared for you to descend. It has already passed up the river in order that we may descend swiftly with the stream, for the current is too rapid to permit of our passing up without the risk of being stopped at every moment. At Jarnac, however, all is prepared for our escape, and though our journey thence may be longer, it will be more secure. Can you be here at that hour?"
"I can," she said, "and will, and, oh! may God grant, Charles, that this time we may not only come within sight of the haven, as we have twice done before, but reach it altogether; and never, never again will I suffer them to separate me from you, as I did on that awful day in Paris."
"Even yet, neither I nor the Duke know how it happened," said Charles of Montsoreau.
"As I was following the Queen," replied Marie, rapidly, "some one pulled me by the sleeve, and on turning to see who it was, the crowd closed in between me and Catherine. The person who had touched me was dressed in the colours of the house of Guise, and he said, 'The Duke expects you Mademoiselle. If you will come round this way, I will lead you to the other gate where there is no crowd.' I followed willingly, and nothing doubting; and he led me round into one of the streets behind, when suddenly I was seized by the arms on either side, and hurried along without the power of resistance. I cried for help as loud as I could, indeed, but they bore me rapidly into the house opposite, where I saw the Abbé de Boisguerin, and could hear your brother's voice talking to Monsieur de Villequier. They then put me into a chair, the blinds of which I could not undraw, and carried me rapidly to another house, where I remained for some time, till Villequier and the rest again appeared. I did all that woman could do, Charles, to make them set me free; but what could I do? what means had I to use?--entreaties, to which they were deaf; menaces, at which they laughed. Your brother, indeed, said something that he intended for kindness, and the Abbé looked gloomy and sad. But Villequier only smiled for all answer; till at length tidings were brought them that they were discovered, and that people were coming rapidly in pursuit of them. I was then once more borne away by Villequier, after a few words between him and your brother; and I heard your brother say as they parted, 'I will delay them as long as possible.' Where they took me I know not well, but I believe it was the Hôtel de Villequier.--But see, the woman is coming near! We must part, dear Charles; I fear we must once more part."
Nothing more could be said, for the girl now approached; and Charles of Montsoreau, assuming the tone of the friar, bade Marie remember his words, and take them to heart; and then, giving her his blessing, departed.
Shortly before midnight, wrapt in a cloak of a dark colour, in order, as far as possible, to pass unobserved if any eye should be watching, Marie de Clairvaut passed through one of the lower windows of the château, and with a light step, sprang into the little cloister that ran along one side of the building, at no great depth from the window. The moon was shining bright and full, and every object around, except where the shadow of the cloister fell, was as clear as if the sun had been in the sky.
She paused and listened with a beating heart. There was no sound but the murmur of the quick Charente; and then, putting her ear to the open window, she listened there to ascertain that all was quiet in the house. Nothing stirred; and, knowing how important it was to leave no trace of the manner in which her flight had been effected, she closed the casement carefully, and prepared to go forth into the moonlight.
There was something, however, in the stillness, and the clearness, and the calmness of every thing that was in itself fearful; and she hesitated for a moment before she went out. At length, however, she ventured across the green and shining turf, and with a quick step approached the edge of the water. Looking down upon it from above, she could see nothing in the deep shadow of the bank; but, suddenly, a bright ripple caught some stray rays of moonlight, and chequered the dark bosom of the water with quick lines of silver.