THE MARQUIS DE CASTELLUX
Much the same thing had Sabatier said to Richard Barrington only that
morning.
"Deputy Latour will not believe in you," he explained. "He is a fool as
I have told him each day, giving him your message, and I am tired of
serving fools. A day or two, monsieur, and you shall be free. Sabatier
promises that. I am turning traitor."
Barrington thanked him, he could do no less, yet he felt little trust in
a man who could confess so glibly to treachery. He would believe the
promise when his prison door stood open, when he was free to walk out
unhindered, not before.
That day was a long one; indeed, each day seemed longer than the one
which preceded it. Confinement was beginning to tell its tale on
Barrington. This underground dungeon, it was little better, was
gradually taking the heart out of him. At first he had been able to
forget long hours in sleep, but latterly this had been denied him.
Sleepless nights succeeded restless days.
To-night he was restless. The silence about him was like the silence of
the grave, this place was almost as hopeless as the grave. He wondered
how thick these stone walls might be, whether there were other dungeons
beyond where other prisoners wore out their hearts. He stood beneath the
barred grating for a little while, listening. Even the world without
seemed dead. No sound ever came through that narrow opening. What saint,
or repentant sinner had dragged out his days here when this was a cell
in a monastery? Had he never regretted his vows and longed for the world
of sunshine and rain, of blue sky and breezy plain, of star-lit nights
and rough weather? Surely he must have done? The world of sinners was a
fairer place than this stone dwelling though a saint lodged in it. Truly
it was a secure hiding place, or a prison where one might easily be
forgotten. The thought was a horrible one, and Barrington went to the
door. It was locked. It was a stout door, too, of wood and iron. If
Latour and Sabatier were arrested, as might easily happen, that door
would remain locked. Probably no other person knew that he was there. He
was in the mood when such thoughts cannot be driven out of the brain.
There was half a bottle of thin wine remaining from his last meal, and
he drank it greedily. His throat was suddenly dry and his hand was
unsteady as he raised the glass to his lips. He was conscious of the
fact, shook himself, stamped his foot sharply on the stone floor, and
spoke to himself aloud.
"This is cowardice, Richard, and for cowardice there is no excuse."
Something like that his mother had once said to him. He had not
remembered it until he had spoken the words, and then the recollection
brought many scenes to his mind, dreams of youth, back, how far back?
how long ago? memories of old times, a green hummock and the blue waters
of Chesapeake Bay. The world had changed since then. Father, mother
gone, voices silent forever, loved voices never to be forgotten; and
yet, in those days there had been no Jeanne.
"Jeanne!" he said aloud. "Jeanne!"
Then he was silent, and his nerves grew tense. The silence was suddenly
broken, not rudely but stealthily as a thief breaks it, or as one who
knows that crime is best accomplished in the night; a key was being
fumbled into the lock. Sabatier would open quickly, knowing the key and
the lock, besides, Sabatier had never come at this hour. It was a
stranger. Friend or foe? Barrington moved towards the door. Whoever came
would find him awake, ready to sell life dearly, perchance to win
freedom. The key was pushed home and turned. The door opened cautiously.
"Seth!"
"Hush, Master Richard. I know not what danger is near us, but come
quickly and quietly. Bring that lantern. We must chance the light until
I find the way."
Barrington caught up the lantern from the table and followed him.
"He said to the right," whispered Seth.
"Who said so?" asked Barrington.
"Sabatier."
"Is he honest?"
"I don't know, Master Richard, but he brought me through many vaults and
showed me the door, then left me quickly. He did not lie when he said
you were behind it; and see, a way to the right and steps. He did not
lie about them either."
They went up the stairs cautiously, Seth leading, and at the top was a
trapdoor, unfastened, easily lifted.
"Again he told the truth," Seth whispered.
They were in a cellar full of rubbish, evil smelling, too, and at the
end was a door; a turned handle opened it, and a few steps brought them
up into a passage.
"Set down the lantern, Master Richard, and blow it out. We shall not
need it. Come quietly."
The passage led to an open door, and they stepped into the street,
little more than a narrow alley, dark and silent.
"Sabatier said to the right. All is well so far. Shall we follow his
instructions to the end?"
"Yes," Barrington answered.
They came without hindrance into a wider street. It was the street in
which Barrington had been attacked by the mob; half of that crowd must
have come down this very alley. They went quickly, their direction
towards Monsieur Fargeau's house. They entered the street in which it
stood, and then Seth stopped.
"We don't go in yet, Master Richard, I have something to show you first.
There is a little wine shop here, unknown to patriots, I think. It is
safe, safer than Monsieur Fargeau's perchance."
The shop was empty. A woman greeted them and brought them wine.
"Read that letter, Master Richard. I will tell you how I got it, and why
I opened it, afterwards."
So Jeanne's letter came into the hands of the man she had turned to in
her peril and distress.
Even as he read it, bending over the scraps of paper in the poorly
lighted wine shop, she was eagerly questioning Marie. The letter was of
such immense importance to her, so much hung upon it, that now it had
gone Jeanne began to wonder whether the best means of getting it into
the right hands had been taken, whether a surer method might not have
been thought of.
"Monsieur Barrington had not left Paris?"
"No, mademoiselle, for the man said he would deliver the letter."
"Will he, Marie, will he? Do you think he was honest?"
"Yes, oh yes, he was honest, or I should not have parted with the
letter."
"But he could have told you where Monsieur Barrington was and let you
deliver it," said Jeanne.
"He would not do that, and he had a reason, a good one," Marie answered.
"It was necessary that Monsieur Barrington's whereabouts should be kept
secret. He could not tell any one where he was, he had promised. For all
he knew I might be an enemy and the letter a trick. He would deliver it
if I left it with him."
"You could do nothing else, Marie."
"What troubles me, mademoiselle, is how the gentleman is to help you to
get away from this house," said the girl. "The master does not let
people go unless he is told to by--by powerful men, men he must obey. I
think he is as afraid of them as I am of him."
"Ah, Marie, if the letter only reaches Monsieur Barrington most of the
danger is gone," said Jeanne. "He will find a way, I know he will.
Somehow, he will help me. He is a brave man, Marie, I know, I know. He
has saved me twice already. I should have no fear at all were I certain
that he had the letter."
The girl was silent for a moment, and then said quietly--
"It must be wonderful to have a lover like that."
Perhaps Jeanne was too occupied with her own thoughts to notice the
girl's words, perhaps she considered it impossible to make Marie
understand that it is not only a lover who will do great things for a
woman; at any rate, she made no answer. It mattered little what the girl
thought.
It was difficult for Jeanne to live her days quietly, to look and behave
as though the coming Saturday had no especial meaning for her. Legrand,
when she met him, was more than usually courteous, and Jeanne was
careful to treat him as she had always done. He might be watching her,
and it would be well to attract as little attention as possible. She
could not tell what might happen if only her letter had found its way
into Richard Barrington's hands. How could he help her? What could he
do?
It was January, and cold, but the weather was fine and sunny. At noon it
was pleasant to walk in the garden, and many of the guests did so. The
Abbé took his daily walk there even when it rained. He might have been
the host by his manner, and was certainly the ruling spirit. Even
Legrand seemed a little afraid of him and treated him with marked
respect. The Abbé was a worldling, a lover of purple and fine linen and
of the people who lived in them; he was therefore especially attentive
to Jeanne St. Clair, knowing that she belonged to one of the noblest
families in the land. With him Jeanne took her daily walk in the garden,
and had little need to say much, for the Abbé loved to hear himself
talk; she could think her own thoughts, could even be depressed without
the Abbé noticing the fact. His companionship enabled her to escape from
the other guests for a while without any apparent effort on her part to
withdraw herself from the daily routine. She took her place in the
evening amusements, occupied a seat at one of the card tables, danced
and smiled, met wit with wit, and was envied by some who were not so
sure of the coming Saturday as mademoiselle must surely be.
In her walks Jeanne's eyes wandered along the top of the high garden
walls. Richard Barrington might come that way, or at least give her a
sign that way; and when she could be alone without raising comment she
watched from her window which overlooked the garden.
So the Monday and the Tuesday passed, and Wednesday dawned. How fast the
week was passing! Her letter to Richard Barrington had been very urgent.
She had told him all about this house, the purpose for which it was
used, how the garden stood in regard to it. She had explained the
general routine, had given the names of the guests. If he was to help
her the fullest information would be of use. There might be some point
in her description of which he could take advantage. This was Wednesday,
and he had made no sign. Surely he had never got the letter.
Had not the Abbé been so fond of hearing the sound of his own voice, had
he not been so used to his brilliant listener, he must surely have noted
that Jeanne was not herself to-day as they walked in the garden.
"There is a new arrival I hear, mademoiselle."
"Indeed. I thought every room was occupied."
"Ah, mademoiselle, I fear there must be some one who is not able to pay
next Saturday. I have often noticed that new arrivals have come a day or
two before the time, putting up with anything until the room was left
vacant for them on Saturday."
"I wonder who is going," said Jeanne.
"It is a pity we cannot pick and choose," the Abbé returned. "There are
one or two in the company we could well dispense with."
Jeanne's eyes flashed at his callousness, but he did not notice.
"There are some here that Legrand ought not to have taken," the Abbé
went on.
"But they pay."
"Ah, mademoiselle, you have hit it. They pay, and this fellow Legrand is
satisfied. He has no sense of the fitness of things, yet this house has
the name of being exclusive."
"I am sorry for those who go, whoever they may be," said Jeanne.
"It is natural. I am not unsympathetic; but since some one must go it
seems a pity we cannot choose."
"Is it a man or woman who has come?"
"A man; his name the Marquis de Castellux. If my memory serves me, it is
a Breton name, a good family, but one which has not figured largely at
Court."
"He should be an acquisition," said Jeanne.
"I hope so, mademoiselle. We may find him provincial, yet not without
wit or merit. I will make his acquaintance, and with your permission
will present him to you. You can give me your opinion when we talk
together to-morrow."
How near Saturday was! This new arrival emphasized the fact. She was the
one who was going, and it was this room, her room, that he would occupy
presently. Even the selfish, callous Abbé would regret that she was the
one to go. She could picture the surprise in his face when he saw her
empty place. She would not tell him.
Jeanne stayed in her room this afternoon. It could not matter whether
her absence was heeded or not. Nothing mattered now. Richard Barrington
had not got her letter. The one friend she had in Paris did not know
how sorely she needed him. Somehow, somewhere, he might hear what had
happened, what would he say? No actual answer came to this mental
question, but a train of thought was started in her brain bringing
strange fancies. Perhaps Richard Barrington loved her. In an indefinite
way she had considered this possibility before, but it was a passing
fancy, not to be dwelt upon. Homage from such a man was pleasant, but
she loved Lucien. She must be careful in this man's company, and if he
overstepped ordinary courtesy in the least, she must show him plainly
that she loved Lucien. Surely she had shown him this already. But to-day
the thought was not to be so lightly dismissed, and a warm glow at her
heart told her how pleasant the idea was. Lucien appeared to have faded
out of her life. She could not believe him false, but his image had
grown altogether dim, while this other man was real, vital. Even now she
could feel the pressure of his hand as it had held hers as they ran
together from the Lion d'Or that night. She could see the encouragement
in his eyes when they had quarreled loudly as they entered the barrier
next morning. She remembered the look in his face when she had last seen
him in Monsieur de Lafayette's apartment, when he had said he was always
at her service. He would surely remember that last meeting, too, should
he ever know that she had sent him a letter which had never reached him.
"Yes, he loves me, it must be so," she said, and she rose and looked
from her window into the empty garden which was growing dark now at the
close of the short day. "I am glad. It gives me courage. I will be
worthy of the love of such a man, though he will never know that he
influenced me, will never know that I was glad he loved me. This Doctor
Legrand, this miserable bargainer in lives, shall not see a trace of
fear or regret in me. Wednesday passes. Three more days. I will make a
brave show in them, and pass out to whatever fate awaits me with steady
step and head erect, worthy of my father's name, worthy of--worthy of
him."
There was a smile on her lips as she entered the salon that night, no
brilliant apartment, it is true, and somewhat dimly lighted for a scene
of festivity. Some one said they were to dance that night, and card
tables were set ready for players. There were many brave hearts there,
shadowed hearts--misery concealed by a smile.
"Yes, I will dance presently," said Jeanne to a man who greeted her.
"Cards! Yes, I will play. How, else should we fill such long evenings?"
Others caught her spirit. An animation came into the conversation, there
was real laughter.
"Mademoiselle," said a voice behind her, the voice of the Abbé, sonorous
and important. "Mademoiselle, permit me the honor to present to you the
Marquis de Castellux."
Jeanne turned, the smile still upon her lips. The Marquis bowed so low
his face was hidden for a moment, but he took her hand and, as he raised
it to his lips, pressed it sharply.
"I am honored, mademoiselle."
Then his head was raised. The smile was still upon her lips, kept there
by a great effort. The sudden pressure of her fingers had warned her,
and she gave no sign of her astonishment.
She was looking into the face of Richard Barrington.