BEAUVAIS
There are few fairer spots in this world than Beauvais. He who has
dreamed of an earthly paradise and sought it out, might well rest here
contented, satisfied. It lies at the top of a long, ascending valley
which twists its way upward from the Swiss frontier into the hills, a
rough and weary road to travel, yet with a new vista of beauty at every
turn. Here are wooded slopes where a dryad might have her dwelling;
yonder some ragged giant towers toward heaven, his scarred rocky
shoulders capped with snow. Below, deep down from the road cut in the
hillside, undulate green pastures, the cattle so small at this distance
that they might be toys set there after a child's fancy; while a torrent
leaping joyously from ledge to ledge might be a babbling brook but for
the sound of its full music which comes upward on the still air, telling
of impetuous force and power. Here eternity seems to have an habitation,
and time to be a thing of naught. The changing seasons may come and go,
storm and tempest may spend their rage, and summer heat and winter frost
work their will, yet that rocky height shall still climb into cloudland,
and those green pastures shall flourish. Centuries ago, eyes long
blinded by the dust of death looked upon this fair scene and understood
something of its everlasting nature; centuries hence, other eyes shall
behold its beauty and still dream of a distant future. We are but
children of a day, brilliant ephemera flashing in a noontide sun; these
silent, watching hills have known generations of others like us, as
brilliant and as short-lived; shall know generations more, unborn as
yet, unthought of.
At the head of this valley, rising suddenly from a stretch of level
land, is a long hill lying like a wedge, its thin edge resting on the
plain. The sides, as they get higher, become more precipitous, but from
the thin edge there ascends a road about which houses cluster, irregular
and pointed roofs rising one above the other in strange confusion until
they are crowned at the summit by the château standing like their
protector to face and defy the world. To the right, dominating the whole
of this region, is the great double peak, snow-clad and often
cloud-bound, which seems to stand sentinel for the surrounding mountains
as the castle does to the valley; God's work and the work of man. He who
first built his castle there knew well that in might lay right, and
chose his place accordingly. Now houses stretch down to the level of the
plain, but it was not always so. Halfway through the village the road
passes through a gateway of solid stone, flanked by towers pierced for
defense, and the wall through which this gate gives entrance remains,
broken in places, lichen-covered, yet still eloquent of its former
strength and purpose. Within the gate the village widens into an open
square rising toward the château, and this square is surrounded by old
houses picturesque and with histories. Many a time Beauvais has stood
siege, its lord holding it against some neighbor stirred by pride or
love tragedy to deadly feud. In these ancient houses his retainers
lived, his only so long as he was strong enough to make himself feared,
fierce men gathered from all points of the compass, soldiers of fortune
holding their own lives and the lives of others cheaply. From such men,
brilliant in arms, have sprung descendants who have made their mark in a
politer epoch, men and women who have become courtiers, companions of
kings, leaders of men, pioneers of learning. Carved into these ancient
houses in Beauvais are crests and mottoes which are the pride of these
descendants now scattered over Europe. Such is the village of Beauvais,
asleep for many years, the home of peasants chiefly, mountaineers and
tenders of cattle, still with the fighting spirit in them, but dormant,
lacking the necessity. A fair place, but to the exile, only through a
veil does the fairest land reveal its beauty. Its sunlit hills, its
green pastures, the silver sheen of its streams, the blue of its sky, he
will see through a mist of regret, through tears perchance. No beauty
can do away with the fact that it is only a land of exile, to be endured
and made the best of for a while, never to be really loved. There is
coming an hour in which he may return home, and he is forever looking
forward, counting the days. The present must be lived, but reality lies
in the future.
The Marquise de Rovère, brilliant, witty, proud as any woman in France,
daughter of ancestors famous during the time of the fourteenth and
fifteenth Louis, had in the long past a forbear who was lord of this
château of Beauvais. Since then there had been other lords with whom she
had nothing to do, but her grandfather having grown rich,
unscrupulously, it was said, bought Beauvais, restored it, added to it
and tried to forget that it had ever passed out of the hands of his
ancestors. In due time his granddaughter inherited it, and after that
terrible day at Versailles when the mob had stormed the palace, when
many of the nobility foresaw disaster and made haste to flee from it
into voluntary exile, what better place could the Marquise choose than
this château of Beauvais? Hither she had come with her niece Jeanne St.
Clair, and others had followed. In Paris the Marquise had been the
center of a brilliant coterie, she would still be a center in Beauvais
and the château should be open to every emigré of distinction.
So it came to pass that sleepy Beauvais had suddenly stretched itself
and aroused from slumber. The Marquise was rich, her niece a wealthy
heiress, much of both their fortunes not dependent upon French finance,
and a golden harvest fell upon the simple mountaineers and cattle
tenders. Every available room was at the disposal of master or lackey,
and the sleepy square was alive with men and women who had intrigued and
danced at Versailles, who had played pastoral games with Marie
Antoinette at the Trianon, whose names were famous. Idlers were many in
Beauvais, exiles awaiting the hour for return, for revenge upon the
rabble, yet doing nothing to forward the hour; but there were many
others, men who came and went full of news and endeavor. Beauvais was a
meeting place. There one might hear the latest rumors from Paris, learn
what help might be expected from Austria, from Prussia; and while news
was gathered and given there was brilliant entertainment at the château.
"We may make even exile bearable," the Marquise had said, and she did
her utmost to do so.
It was into this wideawake village of Beauvais that Richard Barrington
and Seth, weary and travel-stained, rode late one afternoon, and came to
a halt before the inn. They passed almost unnoticed, for strangers were
a common sight, often quaintly disguised to escape their enemies.
There was no room in the inn, nor did the good landlady, who still
seemed flurried with so much business to attend to, know where they
would get a lodging.
"Every house is a hotel these days, and I think every house is full,"
she said. "All the world has come to Beauvais for the masked ball at the
château."
"There are still holes to be found," said a man lounging by the door.
"My friend and I were in the same predicament, but we have found a
corner. I believe there is room of sorts still to be had in the house,
and if Monsieur permits, I shall have pleasure in taking him there."
"You are very good," said Barrington.
The stranger led the way across the square to an old house set back
between its neighbors, as though it were modest and shrinking from
observation, or desirous of keeping a secret. Its door was narrow and
down a step from the roadway; its windows small, like half-closed eyes.
"Monsieur must expect little and even then get less than he expects, and
pay dearly for it; but it is such a hole as this or a night in the
open."
"I am weary enough not to mind much where I sleep," said Barrington.
"Add it all to the account which the _canaille_ must some day pay,"
answered the man.
A stuffy little loft of a room, adjoining another loft occupied by their
guide and his friend, was all the space available, but it was better
than nothing, and Barrington quickly came to terms with the owner of the
house.
Monsieur le Comte, for so the proprietor addressed the man who had
guided them to the house, departed, hoping for their further
acquaintance presently, and offering them any help which it might be in
his power to afford.
"We find ourselves in a strange place, Master Richard," said Seth,
surveying the room.
"We may come to stranger ones before we see Virginia again," was the
answer.
"Ay, that's true; and there's not a certainty that we shall ever see
Virginia again," said Seth. "I took the precaution to say farewell to
all the old corners of Broadmead before I left."
"It's a fool's game to step too far into the future. A wise man never
buys his own coffin," laughed Barrington. "We are in luck."
"I'm glad you think so, Master Richard. I see plenty of danger, but
little luck. It was to help the people we came, and here we are at
Beauvais to serve an aristocrat. Our friends the people are not likely
to forgive us easily."
"There is a woman to help, Seth."
"I wonder how many excellent schemes a woman has brought to nothing."
"And that is why I say we are in luck," said Barrington, taking no
notice of the comment. "How are we to get audience with this woman? The
question has puzzled me upon the journey. We are met with the news that
there is to be a masked ball at the château. Could we have arrived at a
more opportune time?"
"You will go to the château?"
"Of course. I shall find some excuse and get a disguise that best fits
it. Every one in Beauvais must be able to give me some description by
which I may know Mademoiselle St. Clair. The rest will be easy."
"This faith of youth is very wonderful," said Seth.
"Not more remarkable than your forebodings," Barrington returned. "You
have not always been so quick to talk of danger."
"Maybe it's the different air. I prefer the breeze that comes off
Chesapeake Bay to that of these hills, and there's a devil of depression
in this cockloft, it seems to me."
"Come out of it, then. Hunger and thirst are at the bottom of your
croaking. We will go eat and drink and gather news."
"And at this ball, Master Richard, see that you think more of the
readiness of your arms than your grace in a dance."
Barrington laughed as he descended the narrow stairs, but he was not
heedless of his companion's warnings. He was fully alive to the danger
he was in, and if the truth must be told, was not particularly pleased
to find himself in Beauvais. He would far rather have been in Paris. The
romantic element in this unexpected adventure did not greatly appeal to
him. He had crossed the ocean to help an oppressed people; he was full
of enthusiasm for a cause, so much an enthusiast that the two braggart
representatives of the people with whom he had come in contact at
Trémont had in no way disillusioned him. Refuse must needs be cast on
the wave crests of a revolution; but there was also Lafayette. He was
the people's true representative, and Barrington longed to be at his
side to help him. He had promised to deliver a message, believing that
he was undertaking a comparatively small matter, and just when he
learned that a journey into Switzerland was involved, interruption had
come and the man had lost consciousness. Barrington had fully intended
to explain to the wounded man that such a journey was impossible. After
Sabatier and his companion had left the inn, he had gone upstairs for
this purpose, only to find the man dead. He had made a promise to a
dying man, and at all hazards that promise must be fulfilled. The sooner
it was done, the sooner he could journey to Paris; and their arrival in
Beauvais at the time of this masked ball was fortunate: there need be
little delay.
A little later Monsieur le Comte found them.
"We must needs celebrate your escape," he said. "This is my friend, like
myself an exile from Paris. You are also from Paris?"
"From outside Paris," Barrington answered. For the nonce he must pose as
an aristocrat, and wondered by what name he might best deceive them.
Seth, too, was a grave difficulty. He could show few marks of an
aristocrat.
The Frenchman's next words saved him all trouble, however.
"We do not ask too many questions in Beauvais, Monsieur. That we are
here proves that we do not uphold the people, and we need not too
closely inquire who our neighbor may be. We shall not all wish to
maintain the friendships made in exile when we return to France. Here's
to your safe arrival, Monsieur, and to our speedy return. The sentiment
is of the best vintage, though the wine may be inferior. I warrant the
cellars of the château will do better for us to-morrow night. You go to
the ball, Monsieur?"
"I am ill-provided for such an entertainment."
"As are many others," was the laughing answer, "since they were obliged
to leave so hurriedly that there was short time for packing. That need
not deter you, Monsieur, and if you have no opportunity of apprising the
Marquise of your arrival, I believe there are some so poor in their
exile that they would sell their invitation. We do things in Beauvais
that would shame us elsewhere."
"I must confess to not being personally acquainted with the Marquise,"
said Barrington.
"Say no more, Monsieur; you shall have an invitation in the morning. A
few louis will purchase it."
"You overwhelm me with courtesy," said Barrington.
"No, no; it is nothing. To-morrow evening I may have the opportunity of
presenting you to the Marquise."
"And to her niece?"
"Mademoiselle St. Clair? That is as Monsieur wills," he laughed.
"I do not understand your merriment."
"Pardon, Monsieur, but there are not many who crave presentation to
Mademoiselle. You have not heard of her?"
"Nothing but her name."
"Think, Monsieur, of a large woman with black hair and complexion more
swart than beautiful, with large hands that could clasp mine and hide
them, and feet flat and heavy; a figure that is no figure, all its lines
pressed from within out of place and which shakes as she walks; a voice
whose whisper is raucous. Then, Monsieur, conceive this woman unaware of
her defects, who simpers and attempts to use her dull eyes in
fascination. That is Mademoiselle St. Clair."
"Surely you exaggerate?"
"No, it is a fair picture," said the friend, "and yet she has admirers.
Her fortune is as large as her person."
Barrington laughed. There could be small romance in the love story which
fate had called him to assist, and certainly he would have small
difficulty in finding Mademoiselle St. Clair.
"I will not trespass on your courtesy for an introduction to her,
Monsieur," he said, "and since the wine is finished, you will pardon us
if we retire. We have traveled far and are weary."
Monsieur le Comte looked at his companion when they had gone, and
smiled.
"A new experience for Beauvais," he said; "a man who has not the honor
of knowing Madame la Marquise and has not heard of the charms of
Mademoiselle her niece."
"The picture you drew was a little too repulsive, I think."
"She will be masked," was the laughing answer. "He must have his
invitation as promised. It will cost a few louis, and we are none too
rich. We are dealers in this matter, and must have some profit for our
labor."
"Monsieur le Comte, you are a genius," laughed his companion.
An hour later, Monsieur le Comte knocked softly at the door of
Barrington's room.
There was no answer.
He knocked louder.
"Monsieur, I have the invitation."
Still there was no answer.
"Parbleu, they sleep like the dead," he murmured, and went back to his
companion.
Seth lay like a log--in deep, dreamless sleep. It would take far more
than a mere knocking at the door to wake him. Barrington, deaf to the
knocking, deeply asleep too, was restless, turning and tossing with
dreams--nightmares. He was falling over one of the precipices which they
had passed on their way to Beauvais. He was imprisoned, almost
suffocated, in a little room; the walls seemed to gradually close in
upon him and then suddenly to open; he was ill, surely, for men were
about him, looking into his face and muttering together. Again, he was
in a crowd, a dancing, noisy crowd, searching for a great woman who
shook as she walked. It was madness to seek her here, they were all
pigmies, and he turned away; another moment they were all big, all the
women had raven hair, large hands and feet; he would never be able to
find the woman he sought. Then this scene faded and there came others,
some horrible, all fantastic; and always there came, sooner or later, a
woman, ugly, repulsive, masterful. She fascinated him. He was conscious
of struggling to free himself. He could not. Something, some
irresistible power, forced him to speak to her, to love her, to love
while he tried to hate, and her great dull eyes looked at him, rewarding
him. He knew her, forever hereafter must be possessed by her. This
horrible woman, this Jeanne St. Clair, was his fate. Nightmare was his
long after the day had broken and men and women were abroad in Beauvais.