CHAPTER XXVI.
[WILL JEAN BOULOT COME?]
Two persons, from entirely opposite motives, were thinking about Jean Boulot. Toinon, her wits sharpened by eavesdropping, saw plainly that not a moment must be lost if she and her mistress were to be saved. It stood to reason that if the marquise was doomed, so was her foster-sister, in order that the voice of the accuser might be silenced. The daring of the poor harassed lady had been admirable--she had conspicuously shown the moral courage which in extreme peril goes with breeding; but it would have been more prudent to have temporised. What use is there in making of oneself a sublime spectacle of defiant virtue if there is no public to applaud? How many malefactors have made "fine exits" sustained by the murmurs of a sympathetic mob, who, if executed in private, would have died screeching? Truth is a nice thing in theory, but the practice of it in our sinful sphere too often leads to complications which would be avoided by appropriate mendacity.
Toinon, much as she adored her mistress, had frequently deplored her blunt and uncompromising truthfulness. Knowing that she had a noose about her neck, which only required a pull from the abbé to tighten to strangulation point, it was vastly foolish to cry out, "Do your worst." She ought to have pondered and asked for time, have argued and implored, have even shown signs of yielding, have trembled and blushed--have murmured in one breath that she would, yet wouldn't. Where is the man, however cunning, who cannot be hoodwinked by a woman if she seriously sets about the operation? Precious hours might thus have been gained--nay, days, by a skilful display of comedy. Boulot might be even now upon the road, and arrive too late to be of use, owing to the inopportune sublimity of the too artless chatelaine. Having defied the arch-conspirator, he would certainly act promptly. If Jean Boulot was to come to the aid of the two women, it must be at once, or there was no use in his coming at all. The anxious abigail felt that they were in precisely the same harrowing position as Sister Anne and Fatima. Was there nobody coming? The sand in the glass was dripping all too swiftly. Was there no sound of approaching hoofs, no curl of dust upon the way? Quite idly, in obedience to a whimsical fancy due to restlessness, Toinon put on her hood, resolved to take a stroll upon the road that led to Blois. She would see the cloud of dust and rush towards it, cry out to honest Jean to use his spurs, chide him for his culpable delay.
But Toinon, while deploring the mistakes of her mistress, was unaware that she had herself been guilty of an error. It had been an act of gross imprudence to threaten the abbé with Boulot as she had done when she met him on the landing. It set the abbé thinking of Boulot, whose existence he had well-nigh forgotten. Though there had been a tiff or an estrangement, the gamekeeper and the abigail were lovers. They had been, and possibly still were, betrothed. It struck the abbé as not at all improbable that Mademoiselle Toinon had written to him anent the cake fiasco, and that her lover might inopportunely arrive to look after her safety. It was most obliging of the young woman to have vouchsafed a hint suggestive of such a contingency, and he would be guilty of gross ingratitude if he failed to act on it forthwith. Hence, when in pursuance of her fancy she moved across the yard to the archway, where of old a portcullis used to hang, she was surprised to perceive that the ponderous entrance gates were closed, and that the key had been removed from the lock. The concierge was leaning against the stonework smoking pensively, his hands plunged deep into his breeches pockets.
"What does this mean?" cried the abigail, with an imperious frown which served to mask a new-born terror.
"It means that the gates are locked, and will remain so," was the composed answer.
"But I want to go out--I have a mission from madame to one of the cottagers hard by."
"So sorry," returned the concierge, smiling roguishly. "Mademoiselle must remain within--a pretty little bird within a cage. Nay, I but obey my orders. If mademoiselle will deign to discuss the point, yonder is the porter's room. We shall be quite alone and undisturbed, and I will make myself agreeable to mademoiselle."
There was a studied insolence about the man's manner--he had been engaged quite recently--which made Toinon tremble. The fowler's net was closing in; she already fluttered in the toils, but would attempt another struggle to make assurance sure.