When Helen de la Tremblade first entered the chapel by a private door
which led from a small room, called the sacristy, through the walls,
into the country beyond, and of which Estoc possessed a key, she found
the building vacant. There stood the coffin, covered with its pall;
there burnt the lights upon the altar; and a little further on the
pale flame of a votive lamp, dedicated by some of the deceased lords
of Liancourt to their patron saint, flickered before a little shrine,
and cast a faint gleam into the right-hand aisle.
Helen's heart beat, and her temples throbbed. Her breath came thick
and hard; and with difficulty her trembling limbs bore her forward.
She was resolute, however; her mind was made up, and prepared, and her
whole spirit nerved for the terrible task--the most terrible that
human being can perform--of confessing to one who has built up a
fabric of love and confidence, upon our virtue and our honour; a tale
of sin, and shame; and slowly, feebly, and unsteadily, but with strong
determination, she tottered forward till she reached the open space
between the coffin and the altar. Just as she did so, she heard a step
approaching the chapel across the court. She knew it was that of him
whom she sought, and her heart sunk at the sound. Clasping her hands
together, and bending her head, she murmured prayer upon prayer for
strength, for forgiveness; while the step came nearer and more near,
entered the chapel, advanced up the nave, suddenly paused, and
remained suspended for more than a minute.
"He sees me," thought Helen. "Oh, God! how shall I meet him?"
She dared not raise her head; her hands remained clasped in the same
position; her limbs lost all power; and she seemed for the moment
turned into stone.
At length she heard a voice. "Helen!" it cried, "Helen," and then came
the priest's step rapidly moving towards her. The rustle of his
garments told her he was near; for she dared not look up; and she sank
upon her knees at his feet. Then were poured forth the rapid words of
shame and contrition, which we have mentioned; and then came a
terrible pause, at the end of which she felt his arms around her, and
heard the words of still enduring love and tenderness, with which he
spoke. A wild and agonized sob burst from her bosom, and then the
overloaded heart relieved itself by tears.
The old man soothed and consoled his niece. He dried her eyes, he
pressed her to his bosom, he told her to be comforted, he promised her
forgiveness of all. He held out to her the high and merciful hopes
vouched by the word of God for every sinner that repents, and, in the
end he succeeded in tranquillizing her first emotions.
But Helen remembered the tale she had to tell. She recollected that
every minute might be precious; and when seeing her more calm, he
desired her to tell him all, she did so as rapidly and clearly, as the
natural feelings of her heart would admit. The narrative was mingled
with the tears and blushes of burning shame and bitter remorse and
agonizing self-condemnation, even while she related with simple truth,
the arts which had been used to mislead, and the promises which had
been held out but to destroy. She attempted not to palliate, for no
tongue could be more full of blame, than hers was of herself; but yet
her whole tale was in itself a palliation of her fault; and when she
came to the end, all that remained in the bosom of the priest, was
anger and indignation towards the woman who had so neglected innocence
committed to her charge, and towards the man who had so basely taken
advantage of that neglect to deceive a confiding heart, and stain a
pure and innocent spirit.
"The villain!" he cried, "the base deceitful villain. But even he is
less culpable than that dark demon his mother. If ever there was a
fiend in human flesh 'tis she!--She burnt the letters, then? She took
from you the only proofs of his treachery and his falsehood?"
"She did," said Helen. "She called me every odious name, which,
perhaps, I but too well deserved; and, in the midst of all her
servants, drove me forth, to perish, for aught she knew, unfriended
and alone."
"She shall have her punishment," replied Walter de la Tremblade in a
stern, resolute tone. "Ay, here as well as hereafter. All the letters
did you say?--all?"
"All I think," said Helen. "Nay," she added, "there may be one which I
placed in the book of Hours you gave me; and it may have escaped her
notice, though doubtless she has caused search to be made since I was
driven away. Yet, as the book is clasped, it might not be observed."
"What were its contents?" demanded the priest eagerly, with his keen
eye fixed upon her face, so that its light seemed to dazzle and
confuse her.
Helen lifted her hand to her head, and for a moment gazed into vacancy
with the effort to remember. "Yes," she said at length, "Yes, it was
the last but one he wrote me. He promised to love me ever.--He said he
would see me soon again.--He called me his wife."
"He did? He did?" cried the priest, with a look of triumph. "That
letter must be obtained, Helen!"
"But how?" demanded the poor girl with a mournful shake of the head;
"even if it still exists, they will not let me enter those doors
again."
"No," answered Walter de la Tremblade. "No, you never shall. But still
that letter must be obtained, if it be in being. Ay, and it shall be
too; and that before to-morrow morning. What is the hour? Near one,--I
had forgot, I had forgot. We have no time to lose! That accursed plot
is on the eve of execution. It must be frustrated;" and, pressing his
hand hard upon his brow, he fixed his eyes upon the pavement in deep
meditation. "Yes," he said at length, "that will do! Listen to me,
Helen. They had laid a scheme to drive Rose d'Albret, who always loved
you, into the arms of him who has betrayed you. They have persuaded
her that Louis de Montigni is dead; and they think by blasting her
reputation to leave her no choice but marriage with Chazeul."
"Oh, horrible!" cried Helen. "How base! how shameless!"
"It is worthy of its framer," replied the priest. "The maid is bribed
or frightened to give him this night--yes within a few minutes from
this time--to give him admission to her chamber."
"Oh! let me fly and tell her," cried Helen vehemently. "She must be
saved, she must be saved.--I will go to her, I will go to her!--I will
stay with her.--I will stab him first with my own hand!"
"Be calm, be calm," replied the priest; "there is no need of that. We
can frustrate him as easily, and more innocently. There is a door from
my chamber into hers. It is unlocked or can be speedily opened. By it
you can go to her and tell her all. Let her know that De Montigni is
living, that the rumour of his death was but a fraud. Tell her how
they are practising against her peace. Bid her be firm and constant,
and she shall have aid, when least she expects it. Stay with her if
you will--or rather bring her forth into my chamber. There she can
pass the night in security, and return with first dawn of morning. And
now let us hasten away, Helen, for this must be done, my child, before
the clock strikes one. I have to watch here; but to prevent this deed
is a higher duty, and I may well be spared for a few minutes. And
God's blessing be upon your endeavours."
Thus saying, he led her from the chapel, through the old hall and
the corridor beyond, and then up the stairs, feeling his way by the
hand-rope that ran along the wall. All was dark and silent; not a
sound stirred in the house; and nothing but a faint ray of the
moonlight, which shot across from a window halfway up the staircase,
gave them any light in their course.
Opening the door of his own chamber, as quietly as possible, the
priest led Helen in; and then striking a light, he showed her the door
which led to the apartments of Rose d'Albret. It was locked, but the
key was in the inside and easily turned; and, ere they opened it,
Walter de la Tremblade once more embraced his niece, saying, "I must
find another time to comfort thee, my poor child; but the best comfort
will be vengeance on those who have wronged thee. Now go, and make no
noise. Speak to her in a whisper. Bid her rise at once and follow
thee, if she regards her safety, and her honour. Then lock both these
doors, and rest in peace for this night. I will be with you early in
the morning; but I have much to do ere then."
Thus saying, he kissed her brow, and left her; and Helen opening the
door, but leaving the light upon the table, crept softly into the room
of Mademoiselle d'Albret. Poor Rose, wearied and exhausted with all
that she had lately gone through, had at length fallen into slumber.
The curtains of her bed were thrown back; and there she lay like a
beautiful statue on a tomb, her face pale with grief and weariness,
the bright eyes closed, the long black lashes resting on her cheek,
and one fair hand crossing her heaving bosom in all the languid
relaxation of sleep. The light streamed faintly in upon her from the
neighbouring chamber, and seemed to produce some effect upon her
slumbers; for a faint smile passed over her lip, as Helen stood for an
instant to gaze at her, and she murmured the word "Louis."
"She has happy dreams," said Helen to herself, "yet I must disturb
them;" and she laid her hand gently upon that of her friend.
Rose started up with a look of wild surprise, but Helen laid her
finger on her lips as a sign to be silent, and then whispered, "Rise
instantly, dearest Rose, and come with me into the next room. Be
quick, if you would save your honour and your peace! You know not what
they machinate against you."
Rose gazed at her for a moment in surprise, as if scarcely
comprehending what she meant: but then a sudden look of terror came
over her; and, rising without a word, she took some thin clothing, and
followed whither her companion led.
Helen drew the curtains close round the bed, and then guided the lady
to the priest's chamber. While passing the door, they heard a murmur,
as of low voices speaking in the ante-room, and Helen then turning the
key in the lock as silently as possible, pointed to an ebony crucifix,
with a small ivory figure of the dying Saviour nailed upon it, which
stood upon the table, rising above a skull. She led Rose d'Albret
towards it; and, kneeling down together, they prayed.
When they rose, Mademoiselle d'Albret would fain have asked
explanations, but Helen whispered to be silent; and making her lie
down in the priest's bed, she knelt by her side, drew the curtain
round to deaden the sound of her voice, and then, in a low murmur,
related all she had to tell. The first news that she gave were the
joyful tidings that De Montigni still lived; and Rose clasped her
hands gladly, giving thanks to God. But at Helen's farther
intelligence, horror and consternation took possession of her. "Oh,
heaven!" she said, "what will become of me, if they have recourse to
such means as this?--Where shall I find safety?"
"Fear not, fear not," replied Helen: "my uncle will devise means to
deliver you."
"Oh, let me fly, Helen," said Rose. "The door by which you came into
the chapel, may give me freedom."
Helen shook her head: "Not to-night," she said. "You might meet him in
the passages. As soon as he discovers you have left your room, there
will be search and inquiry. We must trust to him who brought me
hither: but Walter de la Tremblade is not a man to be frustrated by
any one. Leave it to him--he will deliver you."
No sound as yet had reached them from the neighbouring chamber,
although they had now quitted it nearly an hour; but the door was
thick and heavy, and deeply sunk in the wall. The next moment,
however, they heard voices speaking at the top of the stairs; and some
one said aloud, "Goodnight, Monsieur de Chazeul!"
Those simple words were followed by a meaning laugh; then some other
sounds not so distinct, and then all was silent again.
"You were right, dear Helen," said Rose d'Albret. "We should have been
stopped had I attempted to fly. But where will this end?--where will
this end?" and, turning her eyes to the pillow, she wept bitterly.
Helen tried to comfort her, though she herself needed consolation as
much; for who can tell what were all the varied sensations, each
painful, yet each different from the rest, which thronged her bosom on
that sad night? She felt, oh, how bitterly! that she had loved a
villain, deeper, blacker, more degraded than all his treachery to her
could have taught her to believe; and there is no agony so horrible as
when the cup of affection is first mingled with contempt and
abhorrence. She was not only neglected and cast off for another,--that
she could have borne, and wept or withered away in silence;--but she
found him for whom she had sacrificed all, using still baser arts than
those he had employed against herself, for sordid objects, and without
even the excuse of passion. She felt grief too, for Rose d'Albret, for
her who had been so tender and so kind towards herself; and dread,
lest, after all, the machinations of those who had the poor girl in
their toils, should prove successful, came like a cold dark cloud over
the dreary prospect of the future.
All these emotions were added to her own shame and remorse and
terrible disappointment; and, although Rose insisted that she should
lie down beside her, yet neither closed an eye; and the rest of the
night passed in long, though not uninterrupted, conversation. Often
they listened for sounds, often they paused to meditate over all the
painful circumstances that surrounded them; but still they turned to
discuss, with faint and sinking hearts, either the gloomy past or the
dark impenetrable time to come, which offered their eyes no tangible
hope to rest upon, but in fresh sorrow, resistance and endurance.
With the first ray of light, Rose d'Albret returned to her own
chamber, determined to follow to the least particular the advice of
the priest: but Helen remained in her uncle's room, in expectation of
his return. Minute after minute fled, however, without his coming. She
heard Rose call her maid, and voices speaking; she heard the sounds of
busy life spread through the château; she heard distant tones of a
hunting horn swell up from the woody country beyond. But still her
uncle did not appear; and Helen, in terror at the thought of new
calamity, watched for him in vain.