THE BISHOP’S MOVE
(1)
It was not until Valentine’s letter of resignation had gone that she
realised what, in the heat of her anger, she had done. She had shut
herself out of Mirabel for ever. To-morrow would probably be the last
day she should ever spend there. Was it really only a week ago that,
fresh from the shock of the Comte’s news, she had wondered how she could
possibly have put herself into such a position? Well, she had still more
indignant reason for wonder at herself to-day, yet—she had suddenly
discovered that she did not want to quit Mirabel. But it was too late
now.
Next afternoon a messenger brought her a letter addressed in Camain’s
large, sprawling hand. Out of it fell a spray of young ivy. Mme de
Trélan looked at it distastefully—some sentimental afterthought, no
doubt, of her bourgeois wooer’s—and letting it lie on the table read
his regrets at her decision to resign, his surprise at the resentment
aroused by his “deeply respectful addresses”—and his reminder that by
the terms of her appointment she had agreed to give thirty days’ notice
of resignation, and that she was not therefore legally free to leave
Mirabel till the 27th of Thermidor next. But the rejected suitor pledged
his word that, unless obliged, he would not enter the château again
during her stay, so that she might feel at liberty from the menace of a
devotion which was evidently distasteful. “And perhaps,” the letter
concluded, “in that period the rest of this torn ivy, which you will no
doubt recognise, may have time to grow again over the little door near
the Allée des Soupirs.”
The letter dropped from Valentine’s hand. Was it a threat—this about
the door? Could he know anything about Roland, from some unsuspected
source, or did he perceive no more than that the door had recently been
used? But, as Roland must surely have quitted Paris by now, the sprig of
ivy moved her not, and the most potent emotion roused by her employer’s
letter was probably the last he intended—relief. Through that forgotten
thirty days’ warning she had a respite; she need not leave Mirabel yet.
She had never dreamed that she could be so deeply thankful.
For she would have fuller leisure now to think of Gaston, whose widow
she was—whose widow she had been, perhaps, for long enough already,
even though this Chouan leader had only recently learnt the fact of his
death. Yes, she had known that all along. That was why Gaston had never
answered her letters, never sought for her. It was not indifference, but
a gaoler far more implacable who had held him captive; and the
reflection that he had possibly been dead for years held a terrible kind
of comfort in it.
She was Gaston de Trélan’s widow, in Gaston’s violated home. And it
seemed to her that these twenty-nine days had been given her to go over
their life together, and to pray for him. Afterwards, when she, too, had
left that home for ever, she would take steps to communicate with the
Marquis de Kersaint in the hopes of hearing more. So, before the empty
tabernacle in the cold, half-pillaged chapel, where in the presence of
such a brilliant company the Archbishop of Paris had made them one, she
prayed for him every night and morning, at hours when no one was likely
to summon her. Suzon was indisposed and could not come to see her.
Camain had sworn not to come. And more than half the allotted respite
slid by—too quickly.
Mme de Trélan had not mentioned her approaching departure to Louise and
the rest of her minions. A faint hope began to stir in her, as time went
on, that the Deputy would ask her to reconsider her decision. Her anger
against him had measurably died down; it seemed to her now rather absurd
that she had been so hot. The man knew no better; and, had not Rose been
involved in his amazing “proof” she might even have seen the ludicrous
side of it. But despite her conviction about her, nothing connected with
Mlle Dufour could be to her amusing—only hateful. Yet, if M. Camain did
ask her to stay on as concierge, how was she to regulate their
intercourse in future?
So July went on, with reverses abroad and discontent at home, and
Valentine saw now the use to which she would put the money, the price of
Roland’s safety, for when she was free she would find some priest who
would say Masses for Gaston’s soul, and she would herself go to her
duties, as she had done now, regularly but surreptitiously, for years.
For she felt on her own soul a deadly sin of pride; and if Gaston had
contracted a sacrilegious marriage before he died, the fault was partly
hers. What were those few letters which she had sent compared to the
more active steps which she ought to have taken to find him—steps
which, now that it was too late, she could not conceive why she had not
taken?
And she longed so intensely for the comfort of the Mass that she thought
she would have asked Suzon, had she not been indisposed, to take her
place at Mirabel for a night, to allow her to attend in Paris one of the
churches where, in a half clandestine fashion, it was celebrated. Then
she would remember that in a couple of weeks she would be free to do
this, since—Camain having given no further sign—Mirabel would shortly
know her no more. Her desire changed its goal a little then, and became
a longing that the chapel of Mirabel itself which had witnessed their
union might know once more the offering of the holy mysteries, for
Gaston’s soul and for her grave shortcomings too. Alas, there appeared
small chance of that.
(2)
“I see you have got a gardener, Madame Vidal,” observed Louise one
morning as she came in. “He seems very busy out in the front there. An
oldish man for all that work, though.”
She was right. Later on, when Valentine looked out, she did indeed
descry an elderly man busy with what had been the flower beds in the
Italian garden. Then she remembered that Camain, on that memorable day,
had spoken of his intention of having the beds attended to. Still, one
man could not accomplish very much in so absolute a desolation.
The gardener did not come near the château, nor did she take any notice
of him till two days later. It happened to turn extremely cold for the
beginning of August, and at midday, as she saw this industrious elderly
person sitting eating on a barrow, she thought he might like to conclude
his meal under the shelter of the colonnades, with the addition,
perhaps, of a cup of coffee. She went up the steps, crossed to the bed
by which he was sitting, and suggested it.
Without his hat, which the gardener removed as he rose on her approach,
his face was seen to be round and comfortable. He seemed about fifty,
hale and vigorous, with a twinkling eye. He thanked Mme de Trélan
warmly, very warmly, for her kind thought, left his barrow, and betook
himself up the great steps to the shelter of the colonnade, while she
returned to her own quarters to make him some coffee.
By the time she brought it out to him he had finished his meal, and was
standing in front of the boarded-up door looking at it. He turned round,
took the cup from her with a little bow, and said,
“Madame, you do more in offering me this cup of coffee than you know. I
am thirsty, it is true, but I am even more thirsty for talk with you.”
The Duchesse stared at him. He spoke with a slight accent, but his
speech was educated.
“I have dug,” went on the gardener, sipping the coffee, “for three days
in the garden, and I desire presently, with your permission, to dig in
the château itself.”
“What, are you another of them?” cried Valentine involuntarily.
He smiled. “Even so, Madame. And since the arrest of M. de Brencourt
has——”
“You know M. de Brencourt?”
“We are under the same orders.”
“Those of this Marquis de Kersaint?”
“Precisely,” said the gardener, and he now gulped down the coffee.
“But,” objected the Duchesse, puzzled, “how is it that you confide in me
so readily? With M. de Brencourt”—“it was different,” she was going on
to say, but stopped, realising that she was on the verge of an
indiscretion.
“Because in the first place,” said the new treasure-seeker, “I went, on
the receipt of certain information, to those old MM. de Céligny to whom
you so cleverly restored their interesting young relative; and from
them—since the boy has returned to his grandfather—I learnt all that
Roland had told them of your devotion.”
“Roland has gone, then?” said she, relieved. “He was well again?”
“Very nearly. The wound was not serious.”
“And the second gentleman—he who was arrested, M. de Brencourt?”
“He is still imprisoned in the Temple, but soon to leave it, I hope. He
has found a venial guard, and . . . one has agents in Paris, you know,
Madame. It is from them that I have learnt the facts about him.”
“I hope that you may not follow him to the Temple, Monsieur,” said
Valentine, rather troubled.
“I hope so too,” said the newcomer composedly. “But since I hold a
certain position here, having—no matter how—procured the post of an
accredited gardener, I shall set about matters quietly. I propose,
therefore, to go on attending to my horticultural duties for a space
before beginning my investigation.”
Mme de Trélan studied the little man a moment. He seemed an extremely
unhurried plotter—either a very cool hand, or one who was inclined to
take things too easily. It was impossible for her to judge. It suddenly
came to her, however, that the means of communication with M. de
Kersaint were restored. When she knew rather more about him she could
ask this emissary to bear her letter.
“You want me to help you, Monsieur, I suppose?” she suggested. “But what
if I have scruples—I am not sure that I have not? I did not help either
of the others, you know.”
“I shall respect your scruples, Madame. Unless you carry them so far as
to denounce me, I can do what is necessary without claiming your active
assistance. All I shall ask is that you remark on it to no one if I
transfer the scene of my labours, in a day or two, from the front garden
to the park behind. And now, if you will excuse me,” he concluded, “I
will return to my wheelbarrow.”
“Before you go, Monsieur, may I know your name?” asked Valentine. Then
she caught herself up. “No, I think I know too many names. I would
rather not hear it. It is better for your sake that I should know you
only as the gardener of Mirabel.”
Now this abstention of the concierge’s suited M. Chassin admirably.
Although he had never been at Mirabel (just as he had never seen its
Duchess) it was as well that his name, undistinguished though it were,
should not be whispered there. So he bowed a little and said, “As you
please, Madame. But possibly you know it already from one of the other
gentlemen—from M. de Céligny, perhaps, if he talked to you much about
M. de Kersaint, whose aumônier I have the honour to be.”
“You are a priest, then?” exclaimed Mme de Trélan, surprised.
“_Presbyter valde indignus_,” replied M. Chassin.
“I had not guessed it,” said Valentine. “Though indeed why should
I?—Yes, M. de Céligny did refer to the aumônier, now I come to think of
it, in connection with the plan of the treasure, but he did not mention
the name.”
“Then I will remain the aumônier, or the gardener, according as you
please, Madame,” said M. Chassin briskly. “What shall I do with this
cup—besides thanking you a thousand times for its contents?”
The Duchesse took it from him. “If you care for another to-morrow at the
same hour, Monsieur l’Aumônier, it will be at your disposal.”
“You are too good, Madame,” replied the priest. “You are sure my
presence—our conversation—will not bore you?” There was a little
twinkle in his eye.
“On the contrary,” responded Mme de Trélan. “I find all this
passionately interesting. I feel that I am assisting at a romance. Is it
not in the old fairy-tales that three sons of a king come after a
treasure, or to slay a dragon, or free a princess?—and it is always the
third and last who succeeds.”
“Alas, Madame,” said the third and last adventurer, “I am no king’s son.
That description may serve for MM. de Céligny and de Brencourt, but my
father was a shoemaker. I should not be worthy to free a princess.
Besides, as I have told you, I am a priest.”
“Moreover there are no princesses here,” added Valentine hastily,
annoyed with herself for having chosen just that illustration.
“Nor a dragon?” enquired the treasure-seeker.
“No, unless it be the Deputy or the sentry.”
“The latter, indeed, may be wondering at our conversation now, if he can
see us in here,” observed the gardener, and he began to move towards the
steps. “By the way, Madame, is it true that the Deputy Camain does not
come here much now? I heard from . . . a source of information . . .
that his visits, at one time very frequent, have practically ceased of
late. Is that so? It is somewhat important for me to know.”
“Yes, that is quite correct,” answered the Duchesse, and was again
annoyed with herself because she felt the colour rising to her face.