THE PARTING OF THE WAYS
I WALKED rapidly toward the Vallée de Misère, looking neither to the
right nor to the left of me. What had happened had not been my fault.
The quarrel was none of my seeking, and Lignières would have surely
killed me if the luck had been with him. And yet I shuddered at it
all. Though I had taken life before, it was in the heat of battle,
and the thing had left no impression upon me. But work of this kind
was new to me, and, despite my four campaigns and a soldier’s life,
it was the first time that a man had died thus at my hands. I felt it
as a presage of ill-fortune to come, and full of useless regrets and
gloomy forebodings, I moodily paced the foreshore of the river watching
the sunset fade from gold to purple, and from purple to gray, that
lightened again as the moon rose and hung heavily in the sky, throwing
her soft beams on the shadowy, irregular lines of the city and gleaming
in scales of silver on the lapping waters of the Seine.
It was whilst I stood thus for a moment that I once more heard the
voice of the Capuchin uttering his dismal cry:
“Alms! Alms! He who giveth unto the poor, lendeth unto the Lord.”
He seemed to be coming my way, and the voice sounded quite close. I
glanced back, but could see nothing for the quaking mist that rose
slowly from the moist banks. Near me was a small boat, and, without
more ado, I stepped in and told the boatman to row me down the river. I
did this on the impulse of the moment, for I felt it was impossible for
me to meet the friar again.
I was soon out in mid-stream, far from his presence and out of earshot
of his doleful cry, and the boatman, resting on his oars, allowed the
skiff to drift slowly down the current. Finally we floated opposite the
façade of the Louvre. It was ablaze with light, and, from where I was,
I could distinctly see dark shadows flitting hastily to and fro across
the windows, and then the trumpets of the archers sounded the assemble,
the brazen notes coming harshly to us across the night.
Leaning forward on his oars as we rocked on the waters, the boatman
asked:
“The King goes to-night, does he not, monsieur?”
“So ’tis said,” I answered shortly, and then, “Take me back to the
quay.”
The man shrugged his shoulders and did as he was bidden. It was none
of his business where his fares wanted to be taken, as long as they
paid him; and, as we touched the bank, I dropped a gold Henri into his
palm and sprang ashore, leaving him alternately looking at the coin and
staring after me in blank amazement as I hurried along the quay. I
had, however, effected my object and avoided the Capuchin, and, in my
present frame of mind, that was worth even more than the gold piece I
placed in the boatman’s hands.
It now wanted but a half-hour to compline, and with a beating heart I
hurried on to keep my tryst. The shortest way was by the old church
of St. Thomas, and turning sharply to my right, I followed the narrow
street until I had passed the Magasins. A little beyond was the riding
school, and beyond that again the grove of lime-trees, in which I had
told Badehorn to keep the horses. I hastened thither, and found him
there.
He had left my house soon after I had, and could give me no news of
what had happened since. But I afterward learned that shortly after I
had gone, M. de Bresy, with some of the archer-guard, had arrived to
effect my arrest, and failing in that, had destroyed almost everything
they could lay their hands on. It was the fortune of war; but on a
subsequent occasion I had my turn with de Bresy, as will be seen
hereafter. Having seen that the horses were safe, I retraced my steps
until I came to the wicket-gate. Opening it with my key, I stepped in,
and found myself in the outer gardens of the Louvre. A long avenue
of trees stretched before me, the grass-grown ride between them in
checkered light and shade. To the left rose the walls of the riding
school, and beyond was the gray line of the inner wall of the Louvre,
and the terraces of the private gardens of the palace; but there was no
soul to be seen.
“Marie! Marie!” I called out in a low but clear voice.
There was no answer. Overhead the leaves shivered, and from without the
hum of the city came to me, rising and falling with the wind like the
murmur of distant waves on a lone seashore.
Was she going to fail me? Had anything happened to prevent her coming?
I felt my heart grow cold at the thought, and peering into the moonlit
night listened and listened full of anxious fears; but I heard no
sound of advancing footsteps, saw nothing but the ivy-grown walls of
the riding school, the wavering trees, and the phantom outlines of the
Louvre looming vast and gigantic in the night.
All at once from the Queen’s Terrace I heard the challenge of a sentry,
and as it died away the bells of the Augustins began to sound the
compline, and abbey and church took up the peal till all Paris rang
with the musical chime of bells.
“She cannot be long now,” I muttered, to assure myself, and then my
straining eyes saw a gray figure flit across a band of light in the
avenue, and still keeping under cover of the trees I hastened toward
it. Nearer and nearer came the figure. It was Marie, and stepping out
from the shadow, I called:
“Marie! It is I--Vibrac.”
She stopped, hesitated, then came forward slowly, and taking her hand
in mine, I drew her toward me. For one brief moment she remained thus,
her head resting upon my shoulder, and strong man as I was, I stood
there shivering at her touch like the leaves of the trees above me.
“At last!” I murmured, “at last!” But my voice seemed to bring her to
herself. With a little gasp she freed herself from me, and when I would
have restrained her she exclaimed:
“Let me go! I cannot talk like this. I want to tell you something.”
“Marie! There is but little time.”
“But time for what I have to say. Oh, Vibrac! Have you thought of what
this will all lead to?”
“To happiness for us.”
“Happiness! Do you think there can be happiness when there will be
nothing but useless regrets for the past that can never be undone. With
time you will realize all this. You will hate and despise me.”
“Marie!”
“Yes, hate and despise me for what I am. And I--even now I hate--I
despise myself.”
“Marie! What new madness is this? Surely you do not doubt me? I love
you and you only. Far away from France what shall we care of babblers
who talk? What is the world to us who are all in all to each other?”
And in my eagerness I placed my hand on her arm.
“Yes, all in all in sin, and we cannot go away from ourselves. Don’t
touch me now. I must say what I came to tell you. Monsieur, I will save
you from yourself--I must save myself too!” And then, with pitiful
entreaty in her voice, “Oh, Vibrac! Give me strength. Help me a little!”
“I--I do not understand,” I stammered, though I knew well what she
meant.
“You do not understand? You must. Oh, Vibrac! Do you not see that in
a moment of wicked folly we resolved to take a step from which there
can be no withdrawal. Oh! I do not blame you. It was my fault to have
listened to you, to have led you on unwittingly--and you are but a boy
still! But I want you to be a brave man. Banish me from your thoughts!
I am not what you think--but, God knows, I am not a bad woman--and
there is time yet to draw back--to save myself and you.”
“You would desert me?” I asked bitterly, a dull despair in my heart.
“No!” she answered, the low, rich tones of her voice vibrating through
the night. “I would stand by you and recall you to your strength. God
would desert us if we did this thing.”
“We should have thought of that before--it is too late now.”
“No--it is not too late--you must do as I tell you.”
But I was not going to let her slip through my hands. I had paid for
her with my honor. For her sake my hands were red, and Lignières lay
stark and dead. I had earned my reward and would have it, and, mad at
the thought of losing her, I gripped her by the arm, and--the shame of
it--I told her I would slay her and myself, rather than lose her.
She made no answer, but remained calmly looking at me as I stood in
front of her, the hot blood throbbing in my head, my breath coming
thick and fast. There, as we faced each other, the moon passed the
shadow of the trees and threw its light on her, keeping me still in
darkness. She was pale as the dead, but she neither flinched nor showed
the slightest sign of fear, and we remained thus for a minute--a minute
that might have been an hour, so slowly did it pass. At last she spoke.
“Do you think I fear death? Not now, Vibrac! Not now! If it came it
would be a just punishment--an expiation,” but even as she spoke I felt
the sting of shame at my unmanly words, words uttered in the madness of
one who was beside himself, and I loosed my hand from her arm.
“God forgive me!” I cried, “I did not mean that.”
“God has much to forgive us both, Vibrac. Oh, monsieur, we are both
on the threshold of a great sin, and I am a weak woman and you a man.
Give me strength! Help me to do what is right!”
Help her! It was I who needed help, not Marie.
“You never loved me!” I exclaimed in my bitterness.
“I cannot love you in the way you want,” and then coming closer to me
she placed her hand on my shoulder with a tender, almost caressing
touch, and looked into my eyes. “Listen, monsieur!” she said. “If it
will help you to be yourself I will tell you of myself. I never knew my
own heart until I left you to-day--and I left you after hearing every
word that passed between you and my husband. I thought his love was
gone from me, and it was a desperate, foolish woman who promised you
what she did. I know now that Marcilly loves me still, and with God’s
help I mean to be a better woman and deserve his love. On the brink
of the precipice I have saved myself and saved you, and, monsieur, my
weakness has passed now, and I will do what is right.”
She paused as if waiting for an answer, but I could say nothing. In my
heart I knew she was right. Yet it was as if all the brightness had
gone out of my life, and I stood there numbed and speechless.
“Say something, Vibrac!” she exclaimed. “Tell me you have forgiven an
erring woman, who has caused you all this pain. Say, you will try and
do what I ask, and forget me!”
I turned from her, and walked slowly across the ride, my head held
down, my hands clenched in an agony. All that was good in me rose and
clamored for her pleading. The strength that had come to her seemed
to bring strength to me, and when I faced her again I was victor over
myself.
“Let it be as you wish,” I said hoarsely. “Good-by!”
“Good-by!” And our hands met. And then womanlike she spoke again.
“Monsieur! You must never see me again. But I will hear of you, and let
me hear you are still, what I have always heard and known you to be--a
brave and noble gentleman.”
Bowing low I touched her hand with my lips, and then releasing it,
stepped aside and lifted my hat.
“Good-by!” she said again softly, and turning, passed swiftly and
silently, like a ghost, up the long avenue. Once she stopped, where the
moonlight shone brightly, and looked back, and then she was gone.
Near me lay the mouldering trunk of a fallen tree. I sat down there and
stared stupidly before me. Something of the resolve, something of the
unspoken promise I had made to her, came to me to give me strength.
Yes, I would forget her. I would carry with me into my new life no
memory of her. I slipped my hand in my breast pocket for the letters
and the glove--to destroy them. They were gone, and with them the
scroll of names. In my horror at the loss I sprang to my feet, and
searched around me; but with no avail; and then, the parting words of
the Capuchin came to me, and for the first time I grasped their full
meaning. I had indeed done the Queen-Mother and the tyrants of Guise
a service, when I left my coat by the side of the spy--for a spy he
must have been--and he had the letters, and the scroll with the list of
names.
Cursing my folly a hundred times as I reflected how useless it would be
to try and find the man now, I hurried back to Badehorn, and half an
hour later had left Paris forever.
And so came the parting of the ways. Full of resolve to conquer the
past, I flung myself heart and soul into the great enterprise that
ended in disaster at Amboise. By strange fortune, I served again with
Marcilly, and strove to efface by my loyalty and zeal the memory of
the wrong I would have done him. Then I heard that husband and wife
were reconciled, though she still remained at Orleans with the Court,
and the thought that she had hopelessly passed out of my life maddened
and tortured me beyond endurance. I began slowly to fall back into my
former state. I began to absolutely hate Marcilly as the man who had
taken away from me my only chance of happiness, and after that I was
ready to yield to temptation.
Things went against us, as all the world knows. Then came the news of
the arrest and imprisonment of the Prince of Condé. It came to us at
Châtillon, whither the Princess of Condé had sought refuge with a few
devoted adherents, amongst whom was Jean de Marcilly; and there, too,
befell that which led me, step by step, along the Traitor’s Way.