THE IMPRUDENCE OF PRECAUTION
Gabriel met with no opposition to his entrance to the Louvre. Since the
taking of Calais the name of the young Comte de Montgommery had been
heard too often for any one to think of refusing him leave to enter the
suite of apartments occupied by Madame de Castro.
Diane, with one of her women, was engaged at the moment on some
fancy-work. Very frequently she involuntarily let her hands fall in her
lap, and would sit and dream about her interview with Aloyse that
morning.
Suddenly André entered in great bewilderment.
"Madame, Monsieur le Vicomte d'Exmès!" he announced. (The boy had not
ceased to call his old master by that name.)
"Who? Monsieur d'Exmès! here!" Diane repeated, overwhelmed.
"Yes, Madame, he is close behind me," said the page. "Here he is."
Gabriel appeared at the door, doing his best to control his emotion. He
bowed low to Madame de Castro, who, in her confusion, did not at first
return his salute.
However, she dismissed the page and her maid with a gesture, and they
were left alone. Then they approached, and their hands met in a cordial
grasp.
For some seconds they remained with hands joined, gazing at each other
in silence.
"You thought best to come to my house, Diane," said Gabriel at last, in
a deep voice. "You wished to see me, to speak with me; so I have
hastened to you."
"Did it need that action on my part, Gabriel, to apprise you that I
wanted to see you? Did you not know it well enough without that?"
"Diane," Gabriel replied with his sad smile, "I have given sufficient
proofs of courage heretofore, so I may venture to confess that in coming
to the Louvre, I am afraid."
"Afraid of whom?" asked Diane, who was herself afraid of the effect of
her own question.
"Afraid of you!--of myself!" replied Gabriel.
"And that is why you chose rather to forget our former affection?--I
speak of the legitimate and sanctified side of it," she hastened to add.
"I should have preferred to forget everything, I confess, Diane, rather
than put foot inside the Louvre. But alas! I could not. And the proof--"
"The proof?"
"The proof is that I seek you always and everywhere; that though
dreading your presence I would have given anything in the world to see
you a moment in the distance. The proof is, too, that while prowling
about Fontainebleau, or Paris, or St. Germain, around the royal
châteaux, instead of desiring what I was supposed to be on the lookout
for, it has been you, your sweet and lovely face, a sight of your dress
among the trees, or on some terrace, that I have longed for and invoked
and coveted! Last of all the proof lies in this fact: that you had only
to take one step toward me to make me forget prudence, duty, terror,
everything! And here I am in the Louvre, which I ought to shun. I reply
to all your questions. I feel that all this is hazardous and insane,
nevertheless I do it. Have I given you proof enough now, Diane?"
"Oh, yes, Gabriel, yes," said Diane, hastily, trembling with excitement
and emotion.
"Ah, would to Heaven that I had been wiser," continued Gabriel, "and had
adhered to my former resolution to see you no more, to flee from you if
you summoned me, and to keep silence if you questioned me! That would
have been much better for both of us, Diane, believe me. I knew what I
was doing. I preferred to cause you anxiety rather than real grief. Oh,
my God! why am I without power to withstand your voice and your look?"
Diane began to understand that she had really been wrong in her desire
to be relieved from her mortal uncertainty. Every subject of
conversation was painful for them, every question concealed a danger.
Between these two beings whom God had created for happiness perhaps,
there was no possibility of aught but doubt and peril and misery, thanks
to the machinations of man.
But since Diane had thus challenged fate, she had no desire to avoid it;
quite the contrary. She would go to the bottom of the abyss to which her
anxiety had exposed her, though she were to find there nought but
despair and death.
After a thoughtful silence, she began thus:--
"I was desirous to see you, Gabriel, for two reasons;
"I had an explanation to make to you in the first instance, as well as
one to ask at your hands."
"Speak, Diane," replied Gabriel. "Lay bare my heart, and rend it at your
will. It is yours."
"In the first place, Gabriel, I felt that I must let you know why, after
I received your message, I did not at once assume the veil you sent back
to me, and enter some convent immediately, as I expressed my intention
of doing in our last sad interview at Calais."
"Have I reproached you in the least as to that, Diane?" returned
Gabriel. "I told André to say to you that I gave you back your promise,
and those were no mere empty words on my part; I meant what I said."
"I also mean to become a nun, Gabriel, and be sure that I have simply
postponed carrying out my resolve."
"But why, Diane,--why renounce the world in which you were made to
shine?"
"Set your mind at rest upon that point, dear friend; it is not
altogether to remain faithful to the oath I took, but to satisfy the
secret longing of my soul as well, that I intend to leave this world
where I have suffered so bitterly. I must have peace and rest, and I
know not now where to find either except with God. Do not envy me this
last refuge."
"Oh, but I do envy you!" said Gabriel.
"But you see," continued Diane, "I have had a good reason for not at
once carrying out my unalterable purpose; I wished to be sure that you
gratified the request I made in my last letter,--that you forbore to
make yourself judge and executioner; that you did not attempt to
anticipate God's will."
"If one only could anticipate it!" muttered Gabriel.
"In short, I hoped," Diane went on, "that I might be able, in case of
need, to throw myself between the two men whom I love, but who abhor
each other; and who can say that I might not thus prevent a disaster, or
a crime? Surely you do not blame me for such a thought as that,
Gabriel?"
"I cannot blame an angel for doing what the angelic nature prompts,
Diane. You have been very generous, but it is easy to understand it of
you."
"Ah!" cried Madame de Castro, "how can I know that I have been generous,
or to what extent I am generous now? I am wandering in darkness and at
hazard! Besides, it is upon that very point that I wish to question you,
Gabriel; for I desire to know my destiny in all its horror."
"Diane, Diane, it is a fatal curiosity!" said Gabriel.
"No matter!" replied Diane, "I will not live in this fearful perplexity
and anxiety another day. Tell me, Gabriel, have you become convinced
that I am really your sister, or have you absolutely lost all hope of
ever learning the truth as to that strange secret? Tell me, I ask,--nay,
I implore you!"
"I will tell you," said Gabriel, mournfully. "Diane, there is an old
Spanish proverb which says that we must always be prepared for the
worst. I have, therefore, accustomed myself, since our parting, to look
upon you in my thoughts as my sister. But the truth is that I have
obtained no new proof; only, as you say, I have no more hope, no more
means of acquiring proof."
"God in Heaven!" cried Diane. "The--he who might furnish these proofs,
was he no longer alive when you returned from Calais?"
"He was, Diane."
"Ah, I see, then, that the sacred promise made to you was not redeemed?
Who, then, told me that the king had received you with wonderful favor?"
"All that was promised, Diane, was strictly performed."
"Oh, Gabriel, with what an ominous expression you say that! What fearful
puzzle still underlies all this, Holy Mother of God!"
"You have asked me, Diane, and you shall know the whole," said Gabriel.
"You shall share equally with me in my awful secret. And, indeed, I
shall be glad to know what you think of what I am about to disclose to
you,--whether, after you have heard it you will still persist in your
clemency, and whether your tone and your features and your movements
will not in any event belie the words of forgiveness which may come to
your lips.--Listen."
"I listen in fear and trembling, Gabriel."
Thereupon, Gabriel, in a breathless, quivering voice, told Madame de
Castro the whole sombre story: of the king's reception of him, and how
Henri had again reaffirmed his promise; the remonstrances which Madame
de Poitiers and the constable had seemed to be making to him; of the
night of feverish anguish that he had passed; of his second visit to the
Châtelet, his descent into the bowels of the pestilence-laden prison,
and the lugubrious narrative of Monsieur de Sazerac,--in short,
everything.
Diane listened without interrupting him, without an exclamation or a
movement, as mute and rigid as a statue, her eyes fixed in their
sockets, and her very hair fairly standing on end.
There was a long pause when Gabriel had finished his gloomy story. Then
Diane tried to speak, but could not, for her tongue refused to perform
its office. Gabriel seemed to feel a dreadful species of pleasure as he
observed her anguish and her terror. At last, she succeeded in
ejaculating,--
"Mercy for the king!"
"Ah!" cried Gabriel, "do you ask for mercy for him? Then you, too, must
judge him guilty! Mercy? Ah, your very appeal is a condemnation! Mercy?
He deserves death, does he not?"
"Oh, I did not say that," replied Diane, in dismay.
"Indeed you did say it, in effect! I see that you agree with me, Diane.
You think and feel as I do. But we come to different conclusions in
accordance with the difference in our natures. The woman pleads for
mercy, and the man demands justice!"
"Ah!" cried Diane, "rash, insane creature that I am! Why did I tempt you
to come to the Louvre?"
As she said these words some one rapped softly at the door.
"Who is there? What is wanted? _Mon Dieu_!" exclaimed Madame de Castro.
André partially opened the door.
"Excuse me, Madame," said he, "a message from the king."
"From the king!" echoed Gabriel, whose face lighted up.
"Why do you bring me this letter now, André?"
"Madame, they told me it was urgent."
"Very well, give it me. What does the king want of me? You may go,
André. If there is any reply, I will call you."
André left the room. Diane broke the seal of the king's letter, and
read in a low tone, and with increasing terror, what follows:--
MY DEAR DIANE,--I am told that you are at the Louvre; do not go out, I
beg you, until I have visited you in your apartments. I am at a sitting
of the council which is likely to end at any moment. When I leave the
council-chamber I will come immediately to you. Expect me very soon.
It is a long while since I have seen you alone! I am in low spirits, and
feel that I must have a few moments' talk with my beloved daughter.
Farewell for the moment.
HENRI.
Diane, with colorless cheeks, crumpled the letter in her hands when she
had read it.
What should she do?
Dismiss Gabriel at once? But suppose on his way out he should meet the
king, who might arrive at any moment!
Should she keep the youth with her? The king would find him there when
he came in.
To warn the king would excite his suspicion, while on the other hand to
warn Gabriel would simply arouse his anger by seeming to dread it.
A meeting between these two men, each of whom was so threatening to the
other, now appeared inevitable, and it was she herself, Diane, who would
gladly shed her own blood to save them, who had brought about the fatal
encounter!
"What does the king write to you, Diane?" asked Gabriel, with an assumed
tranquillity which was belied by the trembling of his voice.
"Nothing, nothing, really," replied Diane. "A reminder of the reception
this evening."
"Perhaps I discommode you, Diane," Gabriel remarked. "If so, I will go."
"No, no, don't go!" cried Diane, hastily. "But then," she continued, "if
you have any business which demands your immediate attention elsewhere,
I should not like to detain you."
"That letter has troubled you, Diane. I fear that I have wearied you,
and will take my leave."
"You weary me, my friend! Can you believe it?" said Madame de Castro.
"Was it not I who went in search of you, in some measure? Alas! I fear,
very imprudently. I will see you again, but not here--at your own house.
The first opportunity that presents itself for me to get away, I will
come to see you, and resume this sweet though painful interview. I
promise you. Rely upon me. At the moment, you are right, I confess; I am
somewhat preoccupied and in pain. I feel as if I were in a burning
fever--"
"I see, Diane, and I will leave you," replied Gabriel, sadly.
"We shall meet again soon, my friend," said she. "Now go, go!"
She accompanied him as far as the door.
"If I keep him here," she thought, "it is certain that he will see the
king; if he goes away at once, there is at least a chance that they may
not meet."
Yet she hesitated still, and was anxious and tremulous.
"Pardon me, Gabriel," said she, quite beside herself, as they stood on
the threshold; "just a word more. _Mon Dieu_! Your narrative has upset
me so that it is hard for me to collect my thoughts. What was I about to
ask you? Ah, I know! Just one word, but one of much importance. You have
not yet told me what you intend to do. I begged for mercy, and you
cried, 'Justice!' Pray tell me how you hope to obtain justice!"
"I do not know yet," said Gabriel, gloomily; "I trust in God for the
event and the opportunity."
"For the opportunity!" repeated Diane, with a shudder. "For the
opportunity,--what do you mean by that? Oh, come back, come back! I
cannot let you go, Gabriel, until you have explained to me that word
'opportunity;' stay, I implore you!"
Taking his hand, she led him back into the room.
"If he meets the king elsewhere," thought poor Diane, "they will be
quite alone,--the king without attendants, and Gabriel with his sword at
his side; whereas if I am present, I can at least throw myself between
them, and implore Gabriel to withhold his hand, or intercept his blow.
Yes, he must remain.
"I feel better now," said she, aloud. "Remain, Gabriel, and let us renew
our conversation, and do you give me the explanation I ask. I am much
better."
"No, Diane; you are even more excited than you were," replied Gabriel.
"Do you know what has come into my mind as an explanation of your
alarm?"
"No, indeed, Gabriel. How should I know?"
"Well," said Gabriel, "just as your cry for mercy was an avowal that the
crime was patent in your eyes, so your present apprehensions show that
you believe the chastisement would be legitimate. You dread my vengeance
for the culprit; and since you appreciate the justice of it, you are
keeping me here to warn him of possible reprisals on my part, which,
though they might terrify and afflict you, would not astonish
you,--which would, on the other hand, seem quite natural to you. Am I
not right?"
Diane was startled, so truly had the blow struck home. Nevertheless,
collecting all her force, she said,--
"Oh, Gabriel, how can you believe that I could conceive such thoughts of
you? You, my own Gabriel, a murderer! you deal a blow from behind at one
who could not defend himself! Impossible! It would be worse than a
crime; it would be dastardly. Do you imagine that I am trying to keep
you? Oh, no, far from it; go whenever you please, and I will open the
door for you. I am perfectly calm; _mon Dieu_, yes!--perfectly calm upon
this point at least. If anything worries me, it is no such idea as that,
I assure you. Leave me, leave the Louvre, with your mind at rest. I will
come again to your house to finish our conversation. Go, my friend, go!
You see how anxious I am to keep you!"
As she spoke she had led him into the anteroom, where the page was in
attendance. Diane thought of ordering him to stay with Gabriel until he
had left the Louvre; but that precaution would have betrayed her
suspicion.
However, she could not resist the impulse to call André to her side by
a sign, and whisper in his ear,--
"Do you know if the council is at an end?"
"Not yet, Madame," replied André, beneath his breath. "I have not yet
seen the councillors leave the hall."
"Adieu, Gabriel," resumed Diane, aloud, with much animation. "Adieu, my
friend. You almost force me to send you away, to prove that I have no
such object as you allege in keeping you here. Adieu!--but for only a
short time."
"For only a short time," said the youth, with a melancholy smile, as he
pressed her hand.
He left her: but she stood looking after him until the last door had
closed behind him.
Then returning to her room, she fell upon her knees before her
_prie-Dieu_, weeping bitterly, and with palpitating heart.
"O _mon Dieu_, _mon Dieu_!" she prayed, "in Jesus' name, watch over him
who is perhaps my brother, as well as over him who is perhaps my father!
Preserve the two beings whom I love, O my God! Thou alone canst do it
now."