MARIE
“WHAT! Do you not stay for dinner?”
It was de Bresy who spoke as I was mounting my horse. He was leaning
over the parapet that crowned the gateway, and looking down at me with
a curious, suspicious glance in his eyes.
“No!” I answered carelessly, as I gained the saddle. “I am due at the
palace this afternoon, and have made my excuse to His Highness. By the
way, you have later news than I, monsieur--does the King’s improvement
continue?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “’Tis said he had a good night.”
“May it lead to many better! _Au revoir!_ I trust you will win your
match at tennis.”
“Would you care to lay anything on Marcilly?” asked de Bresy, with a
gambler’s eagerness for a wager, and I humored him.
“Another ten to the Prince’s, if you like,” and I steadied my fretting
nag.
“Done with you!” he replied, and so wishing him the day once more, and
taking one of the Swiss with me, I trotted off, outwardly calm, but
inwardly a prey to a hundred conflicting emotions.
I had just left two men, one of whom had done a generous thing, while
the other had performed a great and noble action. In realizing that in
this they had gone far beyond me, so strangely was I constituted that
I felt a jealous anger at the thought of their nobleness. In soul I
had already sunk so low, that I began to hate anything that was good,
or rather to think that I hated it, and this, in effect, is the same
thing. Yet, with all this, I saw my own fault. I felt that I was wrong,
and almost despised myself. Even then I had a chance--up to the last
moment I might have saved myself, but for that mad longing for revenge
on the woman whom I accused in my heart of having brought me to this
level. There are those who will say I was beside myself; that no one,
short of an idiot and a fool, could have jumped to the conclusions I
had done; that the thing was, and is, impossible. My answer is, that it
was just because I was beside myself, it was just because I was blind
and frenzied with my own passions, that I did what I did, and I may add
that, in my opinion, all such crimes as mine are due to the same cause,
to the temporary mental paralysis that makes one unable to follow the
right path. It is only necessary to look around, and a hundred such
instances may be seen--none, perhaps, so black and damning as mine.
With these conflicting emotions in my mind, I was going across the
square of Ste. Croix, when I once again met Achon and his suite. They
were evidently returning from the palace, when we crossed each other,
coming almost face to face, and this time Achon greeted me, saying as
he did so:
“Monsieur! A word with you, with your permission.”
“It cannot, I imagine, be to seek alms for the poor,” I answered with
a sneer--I wished the man to know that I was aware of the part he had
played in Rue des Lavandières. But his face remained immovable, as he
looked at me coldly, saying:
“It was not only to seek alms that I was in the Rue des
Lavandières--there were other things I wanted--some I got----”
“Stole, rather! That list of names! Those----”
“Letters,” he interrupted, still with that cold smile on his face.
“They were even more interesting than the scroll. Bah! Monsieur de
Vibrac! I thought better of you. I little imagined you could be the
plaything of a coquette!”
I winced at the words, and he went on: “Such women as that take the
soul out of a man. They should be destroyed like vampires.”
“Is this all you have to say?” I asked unsteadily as we rode side by
side slowly down the Rue Jeanne d’Arc.
“No, monsieur; events are moving more rapidly than I thought, and it
becomes necessary for us to move with them.”
“Indeed!” I replied. “I see not how the matter concerns me.”
“Is your memory defective?” he asked, with a sneer.
“On the contrary, it is peculiarly retentive.” There was something in
my voice, low as it was, something in the words, that had a convincing
effect, and Achon appreciated the position. His tone and manner changed
on the instant, and it was with a cat-like, caressing purr that he said:
“Your pardon, de Vibrac! The old Adam comes out in me too often, I
fear, long and painfully though I have borne the cross----” But, still
hot with resentment and the thoughts he had inspired, I interrupted him.
“Monsieur, I am pressed for time.”
“And so am I,” with a quick, almost imperceptible change to his former
manner. “You have not forgotten our little agreement.”
“I have already said that my memory is retentive.”
“Ah! You men of war are like flint and steel.” The shadow of a smile
flickered over his thin, red lips. “I but recalled you to that promise,
monsieur, because I would like it fulfilled to-night.”
“To-night?”
“Yes. A few hours sooner or later can matter little to you.”
“Not a rush! When and where?”
“An hour after compline, in the priory of the Jacobins. You know it?”
“There will be no difficulty in finding it out.”
“And you will come?”
“Yes,” I answered slowly, and then leaning forward, he touched me
slightly on the arm.
“I will return you those letters there if you do what I want. They are
useless to me--but to you----” And he simply looked at me, the unspoken
sentence in his eyes.
I felt my heart beat at his words, but said nothing; and Achon
continued:
“You will be punctual, monsieur--a good day!”
And this strange man rode on, leaving me a prey to a hundred emotions.
For a moment I held my horse reined in, and then, turning, rode on
toward the palace.
On entering the gates I found the courtyard crowded, and there was
evidently an unwonted commotion; but I stopped to make no inquiry,
and, dismounting from my horse, gave the trooper the reins, and walked
up the steps, feeling with my hand at my breast-pocket to discover if
the letter Marcilly had given me was safe. It was there; but the touch
seemed to burn me, and, dropping my hand, I joined the throng at the
main entrance.
So great was the crush that at first I could make no way; and, leaning
against a pillar, cast about to see if there was any one I knew who
would conduct me to Madame de Marcilly. Not a face could I recognize,
until at last I saw Lorgnac a few yards from me. As often happens in a
crowd, I had looked at the spot where he was ten times before without
noticing him, and then his face flashed upon me as if he had sprung
from nowhere. He caught my eye as I looked, nodded and smiled, and
finally I edged myself to his side, and we exchanged greetings.
“There is something more than usual going on to-day, is there not?” I
asked.
“I believe news has come that has fluttered the dovecotes here a
little. All sorts of rumors are afloat. They say that Coligny and the
Huguenots are in arms, and that the Constable, with ten thousand men,
is marching to cut off our retreat to Paris.”
“Ha! The usual stories when no one knows anything, I suppose.”
“Nevertheless, there is something afoot--and Richelieu swears they mean
to hasten the execution of the Prince.”
“Richelieu! He would be likely to know.”
“Probably, but I never trust Richelieu. He appears to have fallen into
some sort of disgrace since last evening, for de Baillieul is on guard
at the council chamber, and I know that he was refused an audience by
the Queen-Mother this morning.”
“I could explain that, I think, were there time; but, monsieur, I have
a favor to ask. I have an important letter to deliver to Madame de
Marcilly. Can you tell me where I could find her?”
He laughed a little as he answered: “I’m afraid I’m not much of a
squire of dames, and hardly ever know the order of the day for the
ladies-in-waiting. Madame is probably with the Queen-Mother, or perhaps
in the gallery overlooking what we call the Queen’s Terrace.”
“_Diable!_” I exclaimed, with an affectation of cheerfulness, “I know
no more of this place than if I were a blind man in a labyrinth. How am
I to find her?”
“I’ll guide you as far as I am able,” he said good-naturedly, and,
thanking Lorgnac, I followed him as he made his way slowly through the
crowd, and eventually into the corridor through which we had passed the
night before, when seeking Catherine’s cabinet.
When about the middle of the corridor Lorgnac stopped before a door.
“This will take you into the gallery,” he said. “You will find little
Crequi in waiting at the other end, and he will tell you more than I
can. I never venture there, so now say _au revoir_!”
With a word or so of thanks for his kindness, I put my hand to the
door, and, passing through it, found myself in the gallery. It
stretched along a wing of the palace overlooking a terrace laid out as
a garden, which hung over the cloisters of the courtyard beneath. I
had scarce taken ten steps when a little burst of laughter came up to
me from the terrace, and with it my own name pronounced in a woman’s
voice. Glancing out through the window, I saw, seated on a rustic bench
immediately beneath me, two ladies, wrapped in long cloaks, for the day
was cold. The one was La Limeuil, the other the woman over whom my life
was wrecked. I stood for a moment watching them--it was only on one
of them that my eyes were fixed, and as I looked on those clear-cut,
delicate features, and the limpid blue eyes, and the rippling flaxen
curls that escaped from her silken hood, all the love I thought was
gone came back, and I stood there, trembling, and all but unable to
move.
That face could never have played the traitor! No! I had misjudged it.
I was wrong, a hundred times wrong. It was not for me to bring sorrow
to those eyes, so honest and true--I who had escaped but by a hand’s
breadth from shadowing them with eternal sorrow. In that moment I
forgot my vengeance, forgot all. I was only conscious of the fact that
I was near her. I rested my hand on the marble balustrade and looked.
I would draw back. I would hold fast by the vows I had sworn to myself
on that night when I spurred from the gates of Paris, leaving, as I
thought, my sin behind me; and even as my mind worked so, the other
woman, Isabel de Limeuil, spoke, and speech and answer struck me like a
blow on the face.
“As I was saying, I saw him, your old friend, de Vibrac. Is it true
that he weds Favras’ daughter, that little Yvonne de Mailly?”
Marie de Marcilly opened and shut the gold stopper of her vinaigrette
as she answered: “I neither know nor care. Monsieur de Vibrac’s affairs
do not interest me in the least.”
But the other was not to be denied, and with the feline cruelty of her
sex she thrust in a pin.
“He adored you once--did he not?”
Marie laughed. “Whoever can remember a year back? The trifling of an
hour passes with the hour, and one forgets it with one’s old gloves or
a worn-out mask.”
I caught my breath. It was true then! Achon’s words--the thoughts that
had come to me last night--were they not true--proved to the very hilt?
But I would have measure for measure, and, waiting to hear no more, I
drew back, the hot blood burning within me.
How little did I know that complex thing--a woman! I judged her from
the standpoint of a man, forgetting that a woman never speaks out her
whole thoughts, perhaps because she herself does not know what those
thoughts are, perhaps because by her very nature she can never have
complete self-knowledge, and so remains a sphinx to man and a mystery
to herself.
I walked slowly up the gallery, hurt, wounded, all the savage in me
roused. I had half a mind to turn on my heel, to see her no more, to
give Marcilly’s letter to the nearest page to deliver to her, and
to ride back, leaving her to her fate. When what was to happen was
known, the avarice of Achon, the fears of Catherine, and the ferocity
of the Guise would show no mercy--and she deserved none at my hands.
Why should I move a finger to save her, this woman who could kill a
man’s soul? And so, as I brooded, the tempter to whose counsels I was
ever a ready listener whispered again in my ear, and I almost laughed
as the infernal plan developed before me like lightning. Yes! There
was a sweetness in the thought of such a vengeance that filled me with
an unholy joy. From that moment I was lost--I had come forth from the
gates of the temple, and the doors were shut behind me.
Near the end of the gallery where I had halted was a stairway leading
down to the terrace below. I made a step toward it, hesitated, and then
boldly descended; as I reached the last step coming face to face with
the two, who had risen from their seats and were walking along the
terrace.
We bowed to each other formally. Marie did not give me her hand, though
the color left her cheek, and her companion glanced from one to another
of us with a slightly malicious look, as if enjoying the situation; but
I gave her little for her satisfaction, for, drawing my letter forth, I
presented it, saying calmly:
“From Monsieur le Comte, madame, and I have besides a message for you.”
“I thank you, Monsieur de Vibrac,” she answered, while Mademoiselle de
Limeuil, catching the meaning of my last words, cut in: “It is my hour
for attendance, I believe--you will excuse me,” and with a little nod
and a smile she ran up the steps, leaving us together.
Ay! Even as I stood there watching her, the letter in her hand, and her
eyes turned to me with a mute inquiry in them, I would have spared her
but for the cruel words still ringing in my ears; and, burning as I was
with rage, I was overawed by her beauty, and stammered as I went on
blundering:
“I should not have come, I know, but Marcilly himself charged me with
this message.”
She lifted her eyebrows slightly and laughed. “I see no reason why
you should not have come, monsieur--will you permit me?” and she made
as if to open the letter. She was so cool, so calm, so utterly self
possessed, that it brought me to myself. She had forgotten the old
glove--well, so could I. The past was dead. I was given to understand
that, in the subtle, indescribable way that only a woman can, and I
took my cue. Her hand was on the seal to break open the letter when I
arrested her.
“One moment, madame--perhaps you had better hear my message before
reading the letter.”
“Is it anything serious? Nothing has happened to Marcilly?” I winced at
the eager ring in her voice.
“Nothing has happened, but what I have to say is serious enough”; and
then, as we walked the length of the terrace and back, I put the matter
to her, talking as if we were but acquaintances; and as we stood once
more at the steps she said:
“Monsieur, I will meet you in two hours’ time on the parvis of St.
Pierre.”
“That will do--but be well mounted, madame--we may have to ride.” I
bowed as I took my leave, but this time she extended her hand, and,
touching it with mine, I left her there. As I walked up the steps I
could hear the crackling of the paper as she tore open the seals of
her letter; but I would not trust myself to look again. When I had
gained the corridor, I could find no trace of Lorgnac, so, after a
glance around, I strolled leisurely out, and mounting my horse, rode in
the direction of the Martroi, going by the Escures, so as to pass St.
Pierre on the way.
I was still smarting from the effects of the words I had heard. My
mind, unhinged and incapable of reason, took a sullen pleasure in
recalling them and in anticipating the payment I would exact for my
tortures. Wrapped in these thoughts, I took no notice of anything
around, and had come opposite St. Pierre without observing it, when I
heard the grating voice of Richelieu.
“Monsieur de Vibrac!” and he had steadied his horse alongside of mine.
“As you perceive, monsieur,” I answered coldly, a fierce joy swelling
in my heart at the thought that here was one, at least, upon whom my
pent-up wrath could break.
“You were good enough, monsieur, to observe last night that you would
like to hear a word from me.”
“Now, if you like,” and I looked him full in the face.
“Nothing would suit me better but for the Edict, and there are a dozen
or more of Monsieur de Cipierre’s bees about, who would soon interrupt
us.”
“You would rather not go on then?” I inquired with a sneer, and his
brown cheek flushed.
“On the contrary, but the place is inconvenient. Would to-night suit
you? There is a full moon.”
“Nothing better; but I must ask you the favor of making your time fit
in with mine, as I have an engagement to-night.”
“And so have I, but at a somewhat late hour. Would nine suit you?”
“Excellently, monsieur, and there is good ground behind Ste. Croix, I
believe.”
“I know a better spot--the garden of the Jacobins. We shall be safe
from interruption there.”
I started slightly at the words, and noticed, too, that Richelieu
observed me, for he looked at me keenly as I answered:
“As you please, monsieur; but will it not be necessary to pass through
the Priory to get to the garden?”
“There is a door opposite the inn called the Red Rabbit; you cannot
mistake the sign. Be there on the stroke to nine, and knock thrice. It
will be opened to you.”
“I shall not fail.”
“And I trust, monsieur, our conversation then will be agreeable to you.”
“It will be more agreeable than this, I have no doubt--your servant,
Monsieur de Richelieu.”
We lifted our hats to each other, and parted as politely as if we
were two friends giving each other the day. As I rode down toward
the Martroi, I could not help wondering to myself at the strange
coincidence, that both Richelieu and Achon should have chosen the
Jacobin priory for our meeting. There was certainly something behind
this, perhaps treachery to me; but come what may I was determined to
keep my tryst. I was like a bear that had been baited to fury. I was
strong as a bull, and had had a sword placed in my hands ere I was
ten years of age. I smiled grimly as I rode under the lions above
Cipierre’s gate, thinking to myself that Richelieu was likely to find
our conversation more interesting than he imagined.
Once in the house, I made a hasty meal, and then went to see in what
condition my horse was--the one I had used this morning having been
borrowed from Cipierre. I found my nag looking sleek and fit for work,
and, giving orders to have him saddled in an hour’s time, sought the
great hall and flung myself into a chair near the fire. Marcilly was
with the Prince. Cipierre was still at the palace, and I was glad of
that. I was disinclined for company. I could not have borne to speak
with any one then; I could not even think, but sat before the fire
nursing my fury. At last the time came for me to start, and with a
message that I would, perhaps, be late I rode out, this time alone.
Marie was already before St. Pierre as I came up. She looked pale and
nervous, but her voice was firm as she replied to my apologies for not
being there to receive her.
“You have not kept me waiting at all; I have but just come,” and then
she went on: “It was with the greatest difficulty I got away.”
“We had better not delay a moment,” I answered, and putting our horses
to the trot, we went forward at a rapid pace. Up to the time we were
free of the gates we did not exchange a word, and the silence continued
for a short time after, as we galloped along the winter road; but at
last we reined in, to give our horses breathing space, and then she
spoke.
“Monsieur,” she said, “I feel I ought to thank you for what you are
doing. Believe me, I shall remember this.”
“As long as an old glove or a worn-out mask,” I said bitterly, and she
flushed scarlet.
“You speak in riddles, and I am not good at guessing.” She swung her
jewelled riding-whip impatiently in her hand, and it was as much as
I could do to restrain myself from telling her I knew all now, every
detail of the treachery by which she had lured me to love her to
madness, and led me on to make sport for herself and her companions.
But I held myself in. I could afford to wait, for my time was coming.
“Your pardon,” I said. “I am afraid the past year has not improved me.
I have changed much in heart and feelings. I am no longer a boy.”
“Indeed!” The whip went up and down again. She was determined to have
no allusion to the past, and, fool that I was, I was blundering into it
more and more at each moment. “Come, monsieur!” she went on, “another
half-league and we shall almost be at St. Loup,” and touching her horse
lightly on the shoulder with her whip, she galloped on, I following at
her heels.
We were well in the forest by this, and the early winter’s night was
coming on apace. From the damp and sodden ground a gray mist had
arisen, and brooded sullenly over the earth. Through the opal shadows
which quivered uneasily around us, the trees held out dim skeleton
arms, to which here and there clung a few withered and yellow leaves.
But the sky above us was clear, and augured a fair night, and as I
looked up at it I had a grim satisfaction in thinking that there
would be no cloud shadows to spoil the Spanish pass, to which I fully
intended to introduce Monsieur de Richelieu. We had now slackened pace
again almost unconsciously, and madame asked:
“How far is it now?”
“Not a quarter of a mile,” I said, a little surprised, because I
thought the road was as well known to her as to me.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, “is not that the château?” and she pointed with
her riding-whip to where a vast, irregular shadow loomed between the
mist and the trees.
“Yes!” I answered, and at that moment madame’s whip somehow slipped
from her hand and fell to earth, where it lay with its jewelled head
flashing, for all the world like a snake.
She uttered a little exclamation, and, dismounting, I picked up the
whip and handed it to her, her gloved fingers touching mine for a
moment. And then, I do not know how it was, but I stood there by the
side of her horse, and she, playing with the handle of the whip, said
in her low, sweet voice:
“Monsieur, I hear that you are to be married. If it is true, will you
permit an old friend to wish you all happiness?”
The blue eyes looked down upon me kindly; there was a smile upon the
arch of her lips. I had seen the temptress so before, leading me on,
but though I tried to steel myself my heart began to beat, and my
voice trembled as I answered:
“The story is not true, madame; but I thank you for your good wishes.”
“I am sorry,” she answered; “I had hoped it was true.”
The time, the hour, the drawing power in her glance, was bringing me
to her feet again. Could I not free myself from this Circe who looked
so innocent and pure, and yet could pitilessly destroy? Was I again to
dance for her amusement? I tried to speak. I meant to say something
bitter, but blundered into a hopeless:
“I shall never marry.”
She smiled now, and even through the mist I could see the pink on her
cheek, as she bent forward and laid her hand lightly on my shoulder.
“Come, Monsieur de Vibrac. You must get over this.”
The hand was still on my shoulder. The touch thrilled through me. I was
hardly conscious of what I said, but I slipped back a year, and pleaded
madly for her love. Only a few words escaped me; they were enough,
however, and she stopped me, white and trembling.
“Monsieur!” she said, “you are mad! How dare you!”
“How dare I,” I repeated. And then the memory of the words I had
overheard in the Queen’s Terrace came back to me, and in unmanly,
bitter anger I cast them up at her.
I can see it all now: the red light of sunset broadening through the
mist, the bare tree trunks burning like copper, the outlines of the
château growing more solid and defined, and the figure of Marie before
me. I had stepped back a pace as I spoke in my anger, and she had half
turned her horse’s head toward me, listening with blazing eyes as I
finished my cruel speech.
I know now that what she said was to cure me of my madness. I was fool
enough to believe then every word she spoke in her hot anger.
“So you accuse me of playing with you, monsieur. You refuse to believe
that a woman may have strength to save herself from being lost. You
cast up in my face what I had buried, what I hoped had passed from my
life forever. Well, let it be so--I wanted amusement, and you afforded
it to me. You are right--I think no more of you than of an old glove or
a worn-out mask.”
With that she turned her horse’s head, and, striking him smartly with
the whip, galloped off in the direction of St. Loup.