CHAPTER XIII.
The moments which the maid Blanchette passed with De Montigni, and afterwards with Chazeul, were full of anxiety to Rose d'Albret. She lay in darkness, wakeful and expectant, listening for every sound to give her some indication of the girl's return to the ante-chamber, from which she had heard her distinctly go forth, without knowing the cause. Imagination was busy with every painful possibility. She feared that their whole scheme of flight might be discovered; she thought that the maid might have conceived a suspicion from some little preparations which she had made during the evening; she asked herself what would be her fate if the execution of their design were prevented. Would they, could they, compel her to unite herself to Chazeul? and she now shrunk from the very idea with tenfold horror. She would not do it, she thought; she would sooner die. She would seek the protection of the cloister--anything, she would do anything, rather than give her hand to one whom she equally disliked and despised. Suddenly, in the midst of these feelings, a sensation of wonder at their vehemence came over her; and she asked herself how it was that her ideas upon the subject had been so suddenly and completely changed.
She had till lately looked upon her marriage with Chazeul as a thing arranged, and to which she would submit, not without some repugnance, perhaps, but without that degree of horror and dislike which she now experienced. At first she had been coldly indifferent; and afterwards she had wished to put off the day of the sacrifice as long as possible; but she now felt that a life of penury and daily labour, would be comparative happiness to wedding Nicholas de Chazeul.
How had a single day made this strange difference? she inquired, and then she thought of De Montigni; and, though no eye could see her, the colour rose in her cheek, to feel how different were all her sensations towards him, how willingly to him she would yield heart and hand! But the secret of the change was discovered,--she loved, and loved truly, and a new light had shone into her heart.
Quickly, however, her thoughts wandered back again to the present; and once more she listened for Blanchette's return. Where could she have gone? she asked herself; what could be her motive, if something were not discovered? Her own heart was too pure to attribute to the girl that conduct which, perhaps, if she had known all, would have been first suspected; but as she raised herself on her arm, to give ear to some distant noise, she heard the outer door of the ante-room open again, and the step of the maid moving about in the neighbouring chamber. With a beating heart, and in breathless silence, Rose marked every sound, till at length a thin line of light, which crossed the floor from the key-hole, was suddenly extinguished; and she heard the girl take her place in bed. A few minutes after, the clock of the château struck twelve, but Rose still lay quiet for some minutes in order that the spy upon her actions might be asleep before she moved.
Blanchette, however, was one of the "dull weeds" that easily fasten themselves on "Lethe's shore." Herself was all she thought of, all she cared for; and, having provided to the best of her ability for the success and prosperity of that well-loved person, she was soon in the arms of slumber, undisturbed by any of the reproaches of conscience, or the lighter tones of imagination. The heavy breathing of profound and dreamless sleep was heard erelong; and, rising from her bed, Rose d'Albret dressed herself as well as she could in the darkness, and drew down the tapestry over the door between her room and that of the maid, to prevent Blanchette from hearing any sound within.
She feared that she should not be ready in time; and she hastened all her preparations eagerly, as much to withdraw her own thoughts from fears and apprehensions, as to guard against being too late; but, as so often happens, all was complete long before the hour; and for nearly twenty minutes, she sat at a little distance from the window, trembling with agitation and alarm.
She had now full time to give way to all the busy thoughts that naturally sprang from her situation. She felt she loved--she trusted she was beloved in return; but still to fly with De Montigni from all other protection--to put herself entirely in his power--to cast herself thus into his arms; it was rash, she thought; it was foolish. Would he continue to love her? Might not his quickly-roused passion die away as soon? Might he not be the first to think her rash confidence in him, bold, almost immodest?
"No, no!" she answered, "he would not do so; he was too kind--too generous. He always had been. Why should she think him changed in mind and heart, in thought and feeling, since the bright days of his boyhood, when she had loved him so well? Did he not tell her that he had always loved her?--did he not promise to love her always?--and when had he ever broken his word? No, no! It was but agitation and weak terror made her doubt."
Even if there were a risk, she thought again, even if the dream of happiness with Louis de Montigni, which had come with so sweet a relief to her heart, were not to be fully realized, yet, when the only alternative was to wed a man she now hated and contemned, could she hesitate to give herself to one she loved? and again she answered, "No! If death were the only other course, she would seek it, rather than give her hand to Nicholas de Chazeul."