We must now return to Walter de la Tremblade, who closed the door of
the room where he had left his niece, and paused one moment to think.
"It must be risked," he said: "the boy owes me much--He will not dare
to doubt me;" and, without farther consideration, he again descended
the stairs. At the bottom he heard a step, and saw a light glimmering
through the door at the far end of the hall. "It is that base
villain!" he thought as he concealed himself behind one of the square
masses of masonry that supported the roof above. "He goes upon his
dark errand, like the silent withering frost of autumn, blighting all
the flowers it falls upon. Ah, monster!" he muttered between his
teeth, as he saw the Marquis pass not ten steps from him: and well was
it for Chazeul, well for himself, that there was no dagger under that
priest's robe.
Covered with a dressing-gown of embroidered silk, and bearing a lamp
in his hand, with a stealthy step and an eye looking eagerly forward,
as if agitated with the very scheme in which he was taking part,
Chazeul crossed the hall and approached the staircase. There was a
slight rustle of the priest's gown, and the other paused suddenly and
listened. All was still again; and he murmured, "It was the wind!" The
next instant the clock struck one, and with a smile the Marquis
mounted the stairs.
The moment he was gone, Walter de la Tremblade came forth again, and
with a quick step went on, through the stone hall, across the court,
and entered the chapel. There, with haste and agitation, he lighted a
lamp that stood in the sacristy, returned, shading the flame with his
hand, and, traversing the hall in another direction, passed through a
low arch and along a narrow passage, which led him to the foot of a
small staircase. Then taking two steps at a time, he mounted rapidly
to the highest story of the château, where two or three rooms were
seen on either hand. Through the key-hole of one streamed a light, and
voices were heard talking.
"Ay, there wait her witnesses," murmured the priest; and, proceeding
he turned into a passage on the left, and listened at a door. All was
still; and, setting down the lamp, he raised the latch and entered. It
was a low ill-furnished room, where slept the page, and one of the
servants of the Marchioness of Chazeul, in beds not large enough to
hold more than a single person. At the first pallet the priest
stopped; and shading his eyes with his hand, as if to concentrate the
little light that found its way in at the door, which he had left
open, he gazed upon the countenance of the sleeping man. Then, going
on, he touched the page gently with his hand. The boy slept soundly,
however, and the priest had to stir him once more before he woke. Then
whispering "Hush!" he added, "Get up, Philip. There is business for
you to do."
"Ah! what is it, father?" said the boy, rubbing his eyes, still heavy
with sleep: "is anything the matter?"
"Do not speak so loud," replied father Walter; "there is no need to
wake any one else. The Marchioness has chosen you to ride for
something that both she and I may have occasion to see; and you must
mount and away to Chazeul immediately, so as to be back before nine
to-morrow, when the burial of the old Commander de Liancourt is to
take place. Are you awake enough to understand me?"
"Oh, yes, yes," answered the page yawning, "I understand quite well. I
wish she had chosen another hour. At home, we can never count upon
half a night's sleep: she is as restless as the wind; and it is to be
the same thing here, it seems. But what am I to bring?"
"A certain precious book of Hours," replied the priest, "which has
been long in the family of La Tremblade. You will find it in the room
which my niece, Mademoiselle de la Tremblade, used to occupy." He
paused upon the words, to show the boy that he was aware of Helen's
absence from the Château of Chazeul, and then continued, "You will
know the book, if you should find others there, by its being covered
with crimson velvet, with silver clasps and studs. Bring it at once to
me; and let no one else see it."
"But will that old tiger of a gouvernante let me have it?" asked the
page: "she will not let one of us set foot in any room beyond the
hall."
"Then make her fetch it," said the priest. "Tell her your mistress
wants it; and let her refuse if she dare. Now, be quick. Cast on your
things, and join me in the chapel. I will order a horse to be saddled
in the mean time. But, make no noise. It is needless to wake any one;
and the Marchioness would have your going secret."
The page entertained no suspicion; and--while Walter de la Tremblade
hurried to the stable, woke a horse-boy and made him saddle a horse in
haste--he dressed himself as quickly as his drowsy state would admit;
and then, finding his way out of the room--not without stumbling over
the foot of his comrade's bed, and wondering he had not woke him--he
groped along the passage till he came to the room whence the light was
shining through the key-hole.
"Ay!" he thought, "those lads are still up, playing with the dice I
warrant. I should like to look in and give them a surprise; but I
cannot wait for that;" and he passed on, descended the stairs, and
crossed the court to the chapel.
No sooner had he quitted the room where he had lain, however, than his
companion, who had seemed so sound asleep, raised himself upon his arm
in bed, and asked himself, "What is all this, I wonder?--'Tis mighty
secret!--The book to be brought to him! Why not to her, if she wishes
to see it?--I should not be surprised if this were some trick of the
priest's own. If all the house were not asleep, I would go tell my
Lady. Perhaps she has not gone to rest yet; for she sits up mighty
late all by herself; and no one knows what she is doing. I had better
go! and yet she may not like to be disturbed, especially if she be
dealing with the Devil, as the peasants in the village say. Hark!
there are people up and about! I will go and tell her, if she be
waking. She can but say I am over zealous; and if it should prove all
a trick of the priest's, I may get a broad piece for my news."
These meditations, though short and connected here, were somewhat slow
and disjointed, as they really presented themselves, to the man's
mind, so that the page who had been sent to Chazeul was in the saddle
and away, before they had come to a conclusion, and his comrade had
begun to dress himself. When he had managed to get on the greater part
of his apparel, however, he approached the door, and like the lad who
had gone before, made some mental remarks upon the light which
streamed from the room tenanted by his fellow servants, and which was
now much more visible as the door by this time stood open, and the
rays poured full out into the passage. He looked in as he went by,
and, seeing the chamber vacant, took the lamp that stood upon the
table to light him on his way.
The apartments of Madame de Chazeul were quite at the other side of
the house, so that he was long in reaching them; for, in the mansions
of those days, the architects had displayed all their skill in
distributing the cubic space contained in any given building, into as
many stairs and passages as possible, so that its tenants, unless they
restrained themselves to one especial part, might never want exercise
in arriving at the rest.
The ante-room door was at length reached; and, tapping gently, for
fear of startling the inmates, the man was surprised to find his
summons answered instantly by one of the Marchioness's maids fully
dressed, but pale in the face with drowsiness, and heavy about the
eyes.
"Can I speak a moment with Madame?" asked the servant in a low voice.
"Oh yes, Pierre," replied the woman. "She expects some of you. I
thought you would never come."
The man began to fancy, he had made a mistake, and that Madame de
Chazeul had really sent the priest to the page: so that he would now
willingly have retreated; but the maid continued, "Come in! come in!"
and another who was sitting at a frame embroidering, rose and went to
the inner room to tell the Marchioness that "Pierre was come."
"Pierre!" cried Madame de Chazeul; "what has he to do with it? Bring
him in, however. This must be some other affair. What now, Pierre?"
she asked, fixing her keen vulture-like eyes upon him as he was
brought forward, and signing her maids to close the door: "What seek
you here so late?"
"Why, so please you, Madam," replied the servant, "I was not sure that
all was right, and thought it better to tell you what was going on,
because you once told me--"
The Marchioness waved her hand impatiently, exclaiming "What is it?
what is it? Cease your prefaces!--What brought you hither?"
"Why, Madam, father Walter, the priest," answered the servant, "stole
up just now to the room where the boy Philip and I are lodged. Not a
word did he say to me; but he woke Philip, and when I roused up at the
sound of voices, for I was but in a dog's sleep, I heard him give the
page a message from you, Madam."
"From me?" cried the Marchioness, her eye glowing like a coal with
anger and eagerness. "Well, what was the message?"
"That he was to ride instantly back to the château, Madam," replied
the man, who easily divined from his mistress's face that all was not
right; "and to bring hither, before nine to-morrow, a book of Hours
from the room Mademoiselle Helen used to occupy."
"Did he say that?" demanded the Marchioness vehemently. "Did he use
those exact words,--'that she used to occupy?'"
"Yes, Madam, just that," answered Pierre. "I marked that shrewdly, for
he said those words very slowly: and what made me think it altogether
strange was, that though he said you wanted to see the book, he told
Philip to bring it direct to him."
"Ha!" cried Madame de Chazeul; "So! Is it so?--Well. You have done
right, Pierre, and shall be rewarded. Come hither at daybreak
to-morrow; and now go sleep."
The man retired; and the moment he was gone, Madame de Chazeul started
up, and with a vehement gesture of the hand, exclaimed, "He knows it
all!--She has found means to write!--Ah, how subtle is he! Who would
have thought from that calm peaceful face he bore to-night, that such
rage and hatred, and thirst of revenge were in his bosom, as must be
there even now? We shall have plots on foot--some scheme to stop the
marriage. What can be in this book? Here, girl! Call Martin from the
foot of the other staircase, bid him run to the stable and bring the
boy Philip hither--by force if he come not quietly. Away! lose not a
minute lest he be gone!"
The girl departed; and the Marchioness went on with her own thoughts.
"What can be in the book? There is something beneath this!--Or has
that fool Pierre deceived himself, and knowing the girl is not
there, put words into the man's mouth? Yet why send at this hour
secretly?--why falsely use my name to sanction the order? No, no, he
knows it all, and must be cared for. There is but one way--secure him
till the marriage is over,--let my brother know nought of it,--and
then justify the deed by the result."
She sat down, and leaned her brow upon her hands, closing her eyes,
till the door again opened, and the maid re-entered, accompanied by
another of her men. "Well," she exclaimed, as soon as she saw him;
"Where is Philip?"
"He has been gone this half hour, Madam, the stable boys declare," was
the man's reply.
Madame de Chazeul let her hand fall heavily on the table; but suddenly
recovering herself she said, "Keep a watch upon the gates from five
to-morrow, till Philip returns. Then bring him at once to me,--let
him speak with no one; and hark you, Martin; you are a man of
execution,--Get ye gone, hussy! 'tis not for your ears. Come nearer,
Martin," and she whispered something as he bent down his head.
The man started back with a look of consternation, saying, "No, Madam!
not a priest! I cannot do that!"
"Fool! 'tis but for a few hours," exclaimed the Marchioness. "Hark
ye,--one hundred crowns! You shall keep him under your own ward, and
set him free five minutes after noon."
"Well, Madam, well!" answered the servant, after a moment's thought;
"but you must promise to get me absolution, cost what it may; for it
is no light matter laying hands upon one of the church,--and so good a
catholic too."
"Oh, absolution you shall have!" cried Madame de Chazeul; "from the
hands of a bishop, if that will satisfy you; and, if there be any
difficulty, you have nothing to do but to kill a heretic, and that
will make all even. Do you promise to obey?--Mark me, a hundred crowns
and absolution, cost what it may!"
"Well, Madam, well," he replied; "I will do it, this once; but you
must never ask me to meddle with a priest again."
"Poo!" cried the Marchioness, "'Tis for his own good. He will get
himself into trouble if it be not done,--and now away, Martin. See to
this other business first; and then lay hold of him. Do it gently you
know, quite gently, but firmly too; and be quick, good Martin, be
quick."
The man retired; but he grumbled as he went, and asked himself as he
descended the stairs, "Where will this woman end?--She will make one
damn one's-self some day, and she care nothing about it."
In the meantime Walter de la Tremblade had returned to the chapel with
a quick step, after seeing the page depart for Chazeul. His thoughts,
though commonly so calm and clear, were all in confusion and
agitation. The strong passions had obtained the mastery; and for a
time they revelled in their conquest. He thought of Helen--of the
being on whom the affections of his heart had all centred--of the only
one in all the world, the only earthly thing, on which he had suffered
his heart to rest, with the intense concentrated love which he had
withdrawn from all that most men hold dear. He thought of her stained
and disgraced, deceived, betrayed, abandoned; and oh! how the gust of
passion, like the blast of the hurricane, bent his spirit before it!
He thought of her betrayer--of him whom he had striven to raise, and
who had all the while been blasting the only flower left blooming for
him in the wilderness of life; and the thirst for vengeance took
possession of his whole heart. Of her too, he thought who--loaded with
every kind of iniquity, her married life stained with many a slander,
her whole soul foul with sin and wickedness--of her who had used him
as a tool for her purposes, and employed him to elevate the
treacherous villain who, like a serpent, stung the hand that fondled
it.--He thought of her driving forth, to perish, the dear unhappy
child, whom her own criminal neglect had aided to cast into
temptation, loading her with contumely and opprobrium exposing her
error to the rude eyes of menials, and branding her for ever with the
name of harlot; and oh! how he triumphed in the thought of
overthrowing all that woman's well laid schemes and cunning
contrivances, blasting her hopes and expectations, and mocking her in
the bitterness of disappointment!
He paused where Helen had stood between the coffin and the altar. He
gazed from the one to the other; and, as he did so, each seemed to
find a voice mournful, solemn, reproachful. They gradually wrought
a change in his feelings, they calmed in some degree the stormy
passion, they awakened higher, grander thoughts. They roused remorse,
they called to repentance. As he looked upon the bier of the good
old man so lately passed away, it was not alone the image of death,
and all the train of sad but chastening impressions--which spring
from the contemplation of mortality as from a well overflowing with
admonition--that pressed upon his attention; but the memory of that
old man's plain, straight-forward truth,--of the resistance he had
offered to the very schemes which he, Walter de la Tremblade, had
promoted to his own grief and regret, brought the lesson home to his
heart, and showed him the excellence of high, single-minded truth,
more strongly than the most laboured essay of preacher or of moralist.
Then again, when he turned towards the altar, and looked towards the
cross of Christ, and remembered the grand simplicity displayed, as an
example, by the Saviour of mankind, oh! how poor and vain, how sullied
and impure, how dark and criminal, seemed the highest effort of the
human intellect when used to mislead and to deceive! Truth, truth,
almighty, everlasting truth, seemed before him in all its God-like
radiance, and it overwhelmed him with shame and confusion.
We have seen him before, stand there and feel sensations somewhat
similar; but it was then merely as the glimmering streak of dawn,
showing where the day will be: and now it was the risen sun.--The
chastening hand of grief had swept away the darkness from his mind,
and all was terrible light.
As such thoughts rushed upon him: as the eye of heaven seemed to look
into his soul, detecting there vanity, pride, ambition, selfishness,
deceit, the higher qualities that were within him, bowed down his
heart in humiliation at the discovery of so much which he had never
dreamt of; and, kneeling before the altar, he poured out the anguish
of his soul in prayer.
He was still kneeling, when he heard steps in the chapel; but he
heeded not; and still he went on murmuring in a low tone the words of
penitence and supplication. The steps came nearer, and then paused;
but still, for several minutes, he remained bowed before the cross.
When he rose, however, he saw three of the servants of Madame de
Chazeul standing close to him; and he asked, "What do you seek, my
children?"
They all hesitated; but at length the man Martin, putting out his
hand, grasped the priest by the arm, saying, "We have orders, father
Walter, to put you in confinement for a time."
"Ha!" said father Walter, surprised, but calm. "By whose orders, my
son? I did not know that there was either bishop, cardinal, or
inquisitor here."
"No, nor is there," answered the man; "but our orders are from our
mistress; and we must obey them."
"To the ruin of your own souls," asked father Walter, "will any of you
dare to drag a priest from the altar?"
"We must do as we are bid, good father," replied the man: "the sin is
hers, if there be any."
"But the fire will be yours," replied the priest, "and her sin will
not deliver you."
"It is no use talking, Sir," continued the man; "we have sworn to do
it, and so we will. 'Tis but for a few hours; and you may choose where
we shall take you to. Shall it be to your own room?"
"No," answered father Walter, "no; if this act be needful to your
mistress, why not keep me here, where I have promised to stay till the
hour of matins? I shall be as safe here as any where else."
"No, no, that will not do," replied the man; "the chapel will be
wanted."
"Well, then, as near as possible," said the priest: "aggravate not
your offence, my son, by dragging the servant of God from his temple.
I will stay here in the sacristy. At all events, I shall be still
within the sacred precincts, and near the body I have promised to
watch."
The man hesitated; but father Walter, assuming a higher tone,
exclaimed, "If not--Stand back, while I pronounce upon you all, the
anathema you so well deserve, and deliver you over to perdition with
her who sent you."
"Stay, father, stay!" cried another of the men; "we will have none of
this, Martin Gournay. If the reverend father chooses the sacristy, we
will not have him thwarted. It is bad enough to do it at all. It must
not be made worse than it need."
"Bad enough, indeed!" replied the priest; "and heaven forgive you for
listening to the voice of man, rather than that of the church."
"Well, well," said Martin, "I do not care: let it be the sacristy. But
I must see that it is all safe;" and, opening the door, he went in,
followed by the priest and the other two men.
"Ah, there is a way out!" he cried. "I must have the key of that lock,
good father."
"There it hangs," replied father Walter with a smile: "make it all
sure. But, remember, that there is another key in the hands of the
church, which may lock the door of heaven against you, if you do not
repent."
The man Martin, however, tried the door which led out through the
walls into the country; and, finding it locked, he took the key from a
hook above, and ascertained that it fitted. Then, putting it into his
pocket, he turned to the priest, saying, "I am very sorry to do this,
father; but it is not with my will, and I must obey my orders. They
shall bring you some food and wine; and there is a lamp. At noon
to-morrow you shall be free."
Father Walter bent his head gravely; and the three men withdrew,
locking the sacristy door after them, and taking the key. The moment
they were gone, he rose from the seat in which he had placed himself,
and laughed with a bitter mocking tone.
"The fools!" he cried; "do they think I leave myself so
unprovided? I must be quick! Can she have discovered
Helen?--impossible--impossible!--I heard her lock the door! I must be
quick!--Yet, no! he spoke of sending food and wine. I will let them
return. They will come, if it be but to see that their prisoner is
safe. Perhaps, too, they may linger in the chapel," and he resumed his
seat; and, taking up a book of prayer, continued to read for several
minutes.
"Would they would come," he murmured at length. "Helen said, Estoc
would return for her at three, and it cannot be far short of that
hour."
But the tumultuous feelings which had been lately busy in his bosom,
had filled the last hour with so many thoughts, that time had lost all
power of measuring them; and the clock struck two, as the words were
on his lips. The next moment, the door leading to the chapel opened
suddenly, and the man Martin entered with a salver, bearing some food
and wine. His eye instantly glanced to the priest; but the quiet
attitude in which he sat, with the book upon his knee, satisfied the
servant that all was secure; and, placing the provisions on a table,
he was about to retire, when father Walter stopped him, saying, "Pray,
do you know--and, if so, may you tell me--what is the cause of this
conduct of Madame de Chazeul? I would be glad to think that, either
through some error, or at the instigation of some malevolent person,
she has committed this outrage, and not from mere caprice and wanton
passion."
"Oh, no, father!" replied the man: "but it seems you sent one of our
people to Chazeul for a book, in her name. I know not much about it:
but, I believe, Pierre went and told her what he had heard--so one of
the girls said."
"A mighty offence!" observed the priest gravely: "and a reasonable
cause for an act which she will repent to the last day of life. Heaven
grant she may not regret it even longer:" and, thus saying, he
commenced reading the book again.
"Why," rejoined the man, willing to justify his mistress, and, through
her, himself; "she feared, I fancy, that you were inclined to meddle
with some of her plans, and she is not fond of seeing them marred."
"God will mar them, if they be evil," replied the priest; "and no one
can mar them, if it be His will they should succeed. But, 'tis well,
my son, 'tis well: good night!"
"Goodnight, father," answered the servant, and left him, taking the
same precaution as before of turning the lock and withdrawing the key,
lest any one should open the door from the side of the chapel. Father
Walter instantly rose, and put his ear to a small round hole, like the
mouth of a tube, at the side of the door. The servant's steps were
distinctly heard passing down the nave of the chapel, and then
suddenly became faint as they issued forth into the court. The priest
listened for a moment longer; but no other sound was heard.