Into the mind of every thoughtful man must come at times with bitterness
the reflection of how utterly we are at the mercy of Fate, the victims
of her every whim and caprice. We may set out with the loftiest, the
sternest resolutions to steer our lives along a well-considered course,
yet the slightest of fortuitous circumstances will suffice to force us
into a direction that we had no thought of taking.
Now, had it pleased Monsieur de Marsac to have come to Lavedan at any
reasonable hour of the day, I should have been already upon the road
to Paris, intent to own defeat and pay my wager. A night of thought,
besides strengthening my determination to follow such a course, had
brought the reflection that I might thereafter return to Roxalanne, a
poor man, it is true, but one at least whose intentions might not be
misconstrued.
And so, when at last I sank into sleep, my mind was happier than it had
been for many days. Of Roxalanne's love I was assured, and it seemed
that I might win her, after all, once I removed the barrier of shame
that now deterred me. It may be that those thoughts kept me awake
until a late hour, and that to this I owe it that when on the morrow I
awakened the morning was well advanced. The sun was flooding my chamber,
and at my bedside stood Anatole.
“What's o'clock?” I inquired, sitting bolt upright.
“Past ten,” said he, with stern disapproval.
“And you have let me sleep?” I cried.
“We do little else at Lavedan even when we are awake,” he grumbled.
“There was no reason why monsieur should rise.” Then, holding out a
paper, “Monsieur Stanislas de Marsac was here betimes this morning with
Mademoiselle his sister. He left this letter for you, monsieur.”
Amaze and apprehension were quickly followed by relief, since Anatole's
words suggested that Marsac had not remained. I took the letter,
nevertheless, with some misgivings, and whilst I turned it over in my
hands I questioned the old servant.
“He stayed an hour at the chateau, monsieur,” Anatole informed me.
“Monsieur le Vicomte would have had you roused, but he would not hear of
it. 'If what Monsieur de Saint-Eustache has told me touching your guest
should prove to be true,' said he, 'I would prefer not to meet him under
your roof, monsieur.' 'Monsieur de Saint-Eustache,' my master replied,
'is not a person whose word should have weight with any man of honour.'
But in spite of that, Monsieur de Marsac held to his resolve, and
although he would offer no explanation in answer to my master's many
questions, you were not aroused.
“At the end of a half-hour his sister entered with Mademoiselle. They
had been walking together on the terrace, and Mademoiselle de Marsac
appeared very angry. 'Affairs are exactly as Monsieur de Saint-Eustache
has represented them,' said she to her brother. At that he swore a most
villainous oath, and called for writing materials. At the moment of his
departure he desired me to deliver this letter to you, and then rode
away in a fury, and, seemingly, not on the best of terms with Monsieur
le Vicomte.”
“And his sister?” I asked quickly.
“She went with him. A fine pair, as I live!” he added, casting his eyes
to the ceiling.
At least I could breathe freely. They were gone, and whatever damage
they may have done to the character of poor Rene de Lesperon ere they
departed, they were not there, at all events, to denounce me for an
impostor. With a mental apology to the shade of the departed Lesperon
for all the discredit I was bringing down upon his name, I broke
the seal of that momentous epistle, which enclosed a length of some
thirty-two inches of string.
Monsieur [I read], wherever I may chance to meet you it shall be my duty
to kill you.
A rich beginning, in all faith! If he could but maintain that
uncompromising dramatic flavour to the end, his epistle should be worth
the trouble of deciphering, for he penned a vile scrawl of pothooks.
It is because of this [the letter proceeded] that I have refrained from
coming face to face with you this morning. The times are too troublous
and the province is in too dangerous a condition to admit of an act
that might draw the eyes of the Keeper of the Seals upon Lavedan. To
my respect, then, to Monsieur le Vicomte and to my own devotion to the
Cause we mutually serve do you owe it that you still live. I am on my
way to Spain to seek shelter there from the King's vengeance.
To save myself is a duty that I owe as much to myself as to the Cause.
But there is another duty, one that I owe my sister, whom you have so
outrageously slighted, and this duty, by God's grace, I will perform
before I leave. Of your honour, monsieur, we will not speak, for reasons
into which I need not enter, and I make no appeal to it. But if you have
a spark of manhood left, if you are not an utter craven as well as a
knave, I shall expect you on the day after tomorrow, at any hour before
noon, at the Auberge de la Couronne at Grenade. There, monsieur, if you
please, we will adjust our differences. That you may come prepared, and
so that no time need be wasted when we meet, I send you the length of my
sword.
Thus ended that angry, fire-breathing epistle. I refolded it
thoughtfully, then, having taken my resolve, I leapt from the bed and
desired Anatole to assist me to dress.
I found the Vicomte much exercised in mind as to the meaning of Marsac's
extraordinary behaviour, and I was relieved to see that he, at least,
could conjecture no cause for it. In reply to the questions with which
he very naturally assailed me, I assured him that it was no more than
a matter of a misunderstanding; that Monsieur de Marsac had asked me to
meet him at Grenade in two days' time, and that I should then, no doubt,
be able to make all clear.
Meanwhile, I regretted the incident, since it necessitated my remaining
and encroaching for two days longer upon the Vicomte's hospitality. To
all this, however, he made the reply that I expected, concluding
with the remark that for the present at least it would seem as if
the Chevalier de Saint-Eustache had been satisfied with creating this
trouble betwixt myself and Marsac.
From what Anatole had said, I had already concluded that Marsac had
exercised the greatest reticence. But the interview between his sister
and Roxalanne filled me with the gravest anxiety. Women are not wont to
practise the restraint of men under such circumstances, and for all that
Mademoiselle de Marsac may not have expressed it in so many words that I
was her faithless lover, yet women are quick to detect and interpret the
signs of disorders springing from such causes, and I had every fear that
Roxalanne was come to the conclusion that I had lied to her yesternight.
With an uneasy spirit, then, I went in quest of her, and I found her
walking in the old rose garden behind the chateau.
She did not at first remark my approach, and I had leisure for some
moments to observe her and to note the sadness that dwelt in her profile
and the listlessness of her movements. This, then, was my work--mine,
and that of Monsieur de Chatellerault, and those other merry gentlemen
who had sat at my table in Paris nigh upon a month ago.
I moved, and the gravel crunched under my foot, whereupon she turned,
and, at sight of me advancing towards her, she started. The blood
mounted to her face, to ebb again upon the instant, leaving it paler
than it had been. She made as if to depart; then she appeared to check
herself, and stood immovable and outwardly calm, awaiting my approach.
But her eyes were averted, and her bosom rose and fell too swiftly to
lend colour to that mask of indifference she hurriedly put on. Yet, as
I drew nigh, she was the first to speak, and the triviality of her words
came as a shock to me, and for all my knowledge of woman's way caused me
to doubt for a moment whether perhaps her calm were not real, after all.
“You are a laggard this morning, Monsieur de Lesperon.” And, with a half
laugh, she turned aside to break a rose from its stem.
“True,” I answered stupidly; “I slept over-late.”
“A thousand pities, since thus you missed seeing Mademoiselle de Marsac.
Have they told you that she was here?”
“Yes, mademoiselle. Stanislas de Marsac left a letter for me.”
“You will regret not having seen them, no doubt?” quoth she.
I evaded the interrogative note in her voice. “That is their fault. They
appear to have preferred to avoid me.”
“Is it matter for wonder?” she flashed, with a sudden gleam of fury
which she as suddenly controlled. With the old indifference, she added,
“You do not seem perturbed, monsieur?”
“On the contrary, mademoiselle; I am very deeply perturbed.”
“At not having seen your betrothed?” she asked, and now for the first
time her eyes were raised, and they met mine with a look that was a
stab.
“Mademoiselle, I had the honour of telling you yesterday that I had
plighted my troth to no living woman.”
At that reminder of yesterday she winced, and I was sorry that I had
uttered it, for it must have set the wound in her pride a-bleeding
again. Yesterday I had as much as told her that I loved her, and
yesterday she had as much as answered me that she loved me, for
yesterday I had sworn that Saint-Eustache's story of my betrothal was
a lie. To-day she had had assurance of the truth from the very woman to
whom Lesperon's faith was plighted, and I could imagine something of her
shame.
“Yesterday, monsieur,” she answered contemptuously, “you lied in many
things.”
“Nay, I spoke the truth in all. Oh, God in heaven, mademoiselle,” I
exclaimed in sudden passion, “will you not believe me? Will you not
accept my word for what I say, and have a little patience until I shall
have discharged such obligations as will permit me to explain?”
“Explain?” quoth she, with withering disdain.
“There is a hideous misunderstanding in all this. I am the victim of a
miserable chain of circumstances. Oh, I can say no more! These Marsacs
I shall easily pacify. I am to meet Monsieur de Marsac at Grenade on
the day after to-morrow. In my pocket I have a letter from this living
sword-blade, in which he tells me that he will give himself the pleasure
of killing me then. Yet--”
“I hope he does, monsieur!” she cut in, with a fierceness before which
I fell dumb and left my sentence unfinished. “I shall pray God that he
may!” she added. “You deserve it as no man deserved it yet!”
For a moment I stood stricken, indeed, by her words. Then, my reason
grasping the motive of that fierceness, a sudden joy pervaded me. It was
a fierceness breathing that hatred that is a part of love, than which,
it is true, no hatred can be more deadly. And yet so eloquently did it
tell me of those very feelings which she sought jealously to conceal,
that, moved by a sudden impulse, I stepped close up to her.
“Roxalanne,” I said fervently, “you do not hope for it. What would your
life be if I were dead? Child, child, you love me even as I love you.”
I caught her suddenly to me with infinite tenderness, with reverence
almost. “Can you lend no ear to the voice of this love? Can you not have
faith in me a little? Can you not think that if I were quite as unworthy
as you make-believe to your very self, this love could have no place?”
“It has no place!” she cried. “You lie--as in all things else. I do not
love you. I hate you. Dieu! How I hate you!”
She had lain in my arms until then, with upturned face and piteous,
frightened eyes--like a bird that feels itself within the toils of a
snake, yet whose horror is blent with a certain fascination. Now, as she
spoke, her will seemed to reassert itself, and she struggled to break
from me. But as her fierceness of hatred grew, so did my fierceness of
resolve gain strength, and I held her tightly.
“Why do you hate me?” I asked steadily. “Ask yourself, Roxalanne, and
tell me what answer your heart makes. Does it not answer that indeed you
do not hate me--that you love me?”
“Oh, God, to be so insulted!” she cried out. “Will you not release me,
miserable? Must I call for help? Oh, you shall suffer for this! As there
is a Heaven, you shall be punished!”
But in my passion I held her, despite entreaties, threats, and
struggles. I was brutal, if you will. Yet think of what was in my soul
at being so misjudged, at finding myself in this position, and deal
not over harshly with me. The courage to confess which I had lacked for
days, came to me then. I must tell her. Let the result be what it might,
it could not be worse than this, and this I could endure no longer.
“Listen, Roxalanne!”
“I will not listen! Enough of insults have I heard already. Let me go!”
“Nay, but you shall hear me. I am not Rene de Lesperon. Had these
Marsacs been less impetuous and foolish, had they waited to have seen me
this morning, they would have told you so.”
She paused for a second in her struggles to regard me. Then, with a
sudden contemptuous laugh, she renewed her efforts more vigorously than
before.
“What fresh lies do you offer me? Release me, I will hear no more!”
“As Heaven is my witness, I have told you the truth. I know how wild
a sound it has, and that is partly why I did not tell you earlier.
But your disdain I cannot suffer. That you should deem me a liar in
professing to love you--”
Her struggles were grown so frantic that I was forced to relax my grip.
But this I did with a suddenness that threw her out of balance, and she
was in danger of falling backwards. To save herself, she caught at my
doublet, which was torn open under the strain.
We stood some few feet apart, and, white and palpitating in her anger,
she confronted me. Her eyes lashed me with their scorn, but under my
steady, unflinching gaze they fell at last. When next she raised them
there was a smile of quiet but unutterable contempt upon her lips.
“Will you swear,” said she, “that you are not Rene de Lesperon? That
Mademoiselle de Marsac is not your betrothed?”
“Yes--by my every hope of Heaven!” I cried passionately.
She continued to survey me with that quiet smile of mocking scorn.
“I have heard it said,” quoth she, “that the greatest liars are ever
those that are readiest to take oath.” Then, with a sudden gasp of
loathing, “I think you have dropped something, monsieur,” said she,
pointing to the ground. And without waiting for more, she swung round
and left me.
Face upwards at my feet lay the miniature that poor Lesperon had
entrusted to me in his dying moments. It had dropped from my doublet in
the struggle, and I never doubted now but that the picture it contained
was that of Mademoiselle de Marsac.