"Ha, ha, ha!" exclaimed Madame de Chazeul, bursting forth into a long
peal of laughter, "so the secret is discovered! So here is the
precious witness! So here is the wise intelligence bearer!--Strumpet,
how dare you show yourself in my presence?"
"Neither willingly not wittingly, have I done so, Madam," answered
Helen de la Tremblade, who had now recovered her self-possession, and
spoke in a much calmer and firmer tone than the Marchioness had ever
heard her assume; for, in the fire of adversity, she had gained
strength, and the loss of hope had carried with it the loss of all
those thrilling emotions, those vibrations of the heart, which shake
and agitate the mind also. Thus, though surprised at seeing the woman
who had so harshly used her, and whom,--in the long pause that had
taken place in the conversation with Rose d'Albret,--she had thought
gone from the chamber, she was nevertheless not confounded, and far
less dismayed than might have been expected, "Neither wittingly nor
willingly," she repeated, "but since it is so, it may be no better. I
am, Madam, as you have said, both the witness, and the intelligence
bearer; but happily not the only one."
"What minion, will you dare me?" cried Madame de Chazeul advancing a
step, as if she would have struck her.
"Have a care, lady," said Helen in a deep tone. "Remember, I am not a
servant, and no longer in any way under your authority, or, as you
once termed it, protection.--Protection! Oh, God, what protection! Our
position is different; and I bear not now, what I have borne before."
"On my life," exclaimed the Marchioness, "this is admirable! Where do
you stand, girl?--Is this my brother's house, or yours?"
"Your brother's, Madam, but not yours," replied Helen, "and I know
that brother too well, to doubt that he will do justice, when he knows
the truth. To him I am now going; and at his feet I will tell all,--my
own fault, and my own folly.--Ay, and your crimes, to me and to
others."
She took a step towards the door; but Madame de Chazeul cast herself
in the way, with a look of terrible fury. She well knew, that the poor
girl had the power, if she could but obtain a few moments' interview
with the Count, of overthrowing all that she had done with him, of
exposing her conduct, ruining her schemes, and blasting by a breath
all that she most desired to see bear fruit. The worm she had trampled
upon, had turned to sting, her, and her only safety was to crush it.
"Stand back, minion!" she cried in a stern tone; "back to your den,
this moment!"
"Nay, nay, Madam," cried Rose d'Albret interposing, "Helen has
suffered enough; you shall not make her suffer more here."
"Blanchette, Blanchette!" exclaimed the Marchioness aloud, without
heeding her, but still keeping between the door and her victim,
"Blanchette, Blanchette!"
The girl appeared and gazed in surprise upon a scene, in which she
found a new actor, whom she had thought far away. "Quick, call Martin,
and the other men from the bottom of the stairs," cried the
Marchioness. "Quick! not a moment!" and advancing again upon Helen,
she repeated, "Back to your den, serpent! Back to your den!"
"No!" cried Rose d'Albret taking her poor friend by the hand, "she
shall not be driven from my chamber, if she chooses to stay."
But Helen whispered, "By the other way!" and running back into the
priest's room, she turned the lock and hastened to seek exit by the
door at the top of the stairs.
She had, however, to deal with one quicker in every combination than
herself, and ere she could unlock it, and go out, Madame de Chazeul
was there before her, calling loudly, "Martin! Martin!" At the same
time, she laid her hand upon the small dagger, which, as was not
unfrequent with ladies in that day, she carried at her girdle. Helen,
resolved to make a great effort, would in all probability have
attempted to pass her at all risks; and blood would very likely have
been spilt; for the tiger in the heart of Jacqueline de Chazeul was
thoroughly roused and overbore every consideration even of danger. But
as the poor girl paused for a single instant, the heads of the man
Martin and another appeared on the stairs, and she saw that her escape
was cut off.
"Now, will you back?" exclaimed the Marchioness, with a triumphant
smile. "Oh, I am to be set at nought, am I?"
With a sinking heart and a slow step, Helen retreated into her uncle's
chamber; and Madame de Chazeul was following, when the voice of
Monsieur de Liancourt was heard below, exclaiming, "What is the
matter, Jacqueline? Is anything amiss?"
"Nothing! nothing," cried the Marchioness, "I will come and tell you
directly."
Helen sprang forward again; but the fierce woman caught her by the
shoulder, and threw her back headlong into the room, muttering in a
low bitter tone, "Back, minion, I say!--Stay on guard here, Martin,"
she continued; "let no one in or out. If my brother come, beg him
civilly to pause. I will return in an instant."
Thus saying she entered the chamber; where Helen, stunned and bruised
by the fall, still lay on the floor. Seizing her by the arm, Madame de
Chazeul dragged her further in and closed the door; then gazed on her
for a moment, while every terrible passion that can agitate the human
countenance, crossed the face turned towards poor Helen de la
Tremblade. The fingers of the Marchioness felt the hilt of her dagger,
and the spirit of Cain moved her heart strongly; but she refrained for
the moment, murmuring, "No, not blood--not blood." Then advancing to
the door leading to the adjoining room, she tried it, took out the
key; and hurrying across to the other, she went out by it, and locked
it likewise.
"Monsieur de Liancourt speaks, Madam," said the man Martin.
"I am coming! I am coming!" cried the Marchioness, and began to
descend.
"Shall I wait here?" asked the servant.
"No, all is safe now," rejoined his mistress, going on, "we shall want
you for other matters, my good Martin."
She hurried down without a moment's pause, endeavouring to smooth her
countenance, and to calm the vehement agitation of her thoughts as she
went; and although, in the latter effort, she was not altogether
successful, for her angry spirit when once moved, was long ere it
regained tranquillity; yet her face was smiling--though with a curl of
contempt hanging about the nostril and the corner of the lip--when she
met her brother just ascending to inquire the cause of the noise and
outcry which had reached his ear.
"What is the matter, Jacqueline?" cried Monsieur de Liancourt; "has
anything new gone wrong?"
"Nothing, nothing," replied the Marchioness; "something more amusing
than anything else. But I will tell you all about it after the
funeral. I think it will make you laugh to see, what tricks there are
in this world."
"But what is it? what is it?" asked the Count, whose mind, vacillating
and uncertain, was too much agitated by the course he was persuaded to
pursue against his better judgment, not to feel a movement of dread at
every new incident in the drama, whenever he fell back from a fit of
passionate vehemence, into his usual state of weak hesitation.
"Oh! I will tell you by and by," replied the Marchioness, who was
anxious to have a little time to arrange her plans, and to think over
the turn that she should give to all that had just taken place. "The
story is too good to be spoilt by relating bits of it; and the hour
appointed for the funeral is already past--hark! there is the bell.
All the people must be waiting in the hall; and we must go and put
poor old Michael in the vault, before we can talk of other things."
The Count suffered her to lead the way to that large hall in the
Château of Marzay, into which we first introduced the reader, when we
brought him to the house. There several of the principal members of
the household were assembled, under the guidance and direction of the
Count's major domo; and they had already begun, with the assistance of
the good priest of the village, to discuss some of the savoury
pasties, and rich old wines, which were spread out upon a table in the
midst of the room.
The worthy curé; looked somewhat mortified at the early arrival of the
two mourners, if we may so term the Count and his sister, for he had
got his plate loaded with a fresh supply of viands, and it was
understood that their appearance was to be the signal for beginning
the ceremony. Monsieur de Liancourt, however, courteously pressed him
to go on, and having a capacious mouth, and ready hand, the priest
brought his meal to a speedy conclusion. It may be a curious question,
whether the situation of that country is most unfortunate, where the
poverty of the clergy renders their appetites easy panders to
corruption; or that where their wealth tends to make them the slaves
of their own passions. To say the truth, it was a relief to the Count
to see the curé eat, for Monsieur de Liancourt's mind, more
impressible than that of his sister, shrunk from the solemn scene he
was about to witness. He felt higher and less worldly thoughts, which
he dreaded and disliked, crowding upon him against his will; and
certainly the very mundane appetite of the Priest, though it formed a
strange contrast with the functions he was about to exercise, was well
calculated to deprive the ceremony of part of its gloomy solemnity,
as, indeed, is the case with all eating and drinking on such sad
occasions.
The moment he had done, the worthy man started up, wiped his knife,
and put it in its case. Then turning to Monsieur de Liancourt, he
said, "Give me three minutes, Sir, to get everything in order in the
chapel, for as Monsieur de la Tremblade is ill, probably no
preparations are made."
"How is he?" asked Monsieur de Liancourt; "have you seen him, father?"
Before the curé could answer, Madame de Chazeul's servant, Martin, who
stood behind her, stepped forward, saying, "He is still asleep, Sir,
and begged particularly not to be roused till he awoke himself."
"Ay, let him sleep," said Madame de Chazeul, in a low and gloomy tone.
"He will have sorrow enough, poor man, when he awakes."
The Count looked at her in surprise; but she nodded her head
significantly; and the priest quitting the hall, hurried on to the
chapel.
The Count and his sister followed soon after, and the ceremonies of
the interment began. Impressive and terrible as they always are,
perhaps the peculiar forms and pomp of the Roman Church, add more to
them than to any other of the rites of religion. The Count felt them
much; the tears rose in his eyes, when he thought of his brother, the
companion of his boyhood, scarcely more than a year younger than
himself, who had passed through life in friendship and affection with
him, but had gone down to the grave in indignation and just
displeasure at his acts. He asked himself, too, how long it might be,
ere that vault, which now yawned in the midst of the chapel--with the
stone which marked its place, and bore the name and arms of De
Liancourt lying by the side of the gaping chasm,--would open for him
also; and he shrunk with dread from the sad answer. A few short
hours--a few short days--it could not be longer than a few short years;
and then, the dust to dust, and the spirit to God who gave it! Next
came the--what then? The terrible, what then? The dread account--the
secrets of the heart laid open--the judgment, the stern, the
irreversible, the unalterable decree, the doom for all eternity!
He wished it was over; he loved not such thoughts: he felt his soul
shaken within him. But the Roman Catholic Church affords so many
passages for escape from all those dark but gloomy convictions, which
the tomb and its awful lessons are calculated to produce upon the mind
of him who looks alone to Scripture for his guide--purgatory,
absolution by the lips of men as frail as ourselves, indulgences, the
intercession of saints, the masses for the dead--that Monsieur de
Liancourt soon found means of consolation. He looked to the
confessional. He thought that there he would find relief from the
burden. He vowed a hundred masses for his brother's soul; he
determined that he would dedicate a lamp to the virgin; and give a
candlestick to the altar of our Lady of Chartres; and half his sins
and errors vanished from his sight, when he remembered how easily the
past and the future might be atoned for.
Madame de Chazeul felt none of these things. She maintained a decent
gravity, indeed, but kept her eye fixed upon the countenance of her
brother, marking the varying emotions that passed over his
countenance, and calculating very accurately, the sources from which
they sprang in his mind. From time to time, she suffered her own
thoughts to revert to the conduct which she had to pursue; and her
insight into her brother's character, with the moving picture his face
displayed, aided her not a little in determining her course. Of the
rest of the things around her, she took little or no heed. It was but
a pageant in which she took a part; a procession in which she walked;
one of those ceremonies, in which, her state and station as a mortal
being, required her to share.
Too much, indeed, are we apt to go through all the strange and
instructive scenes of life, as if we were automata. Their lessons are
learned by rote, and not by heart; and oh! how much wiser, and how
much better, should we be, if out of everything that surrounds us, out
of each event affecting ourselves and others, lighted by the word of
God, we were to draw the high moral that is to be found in all his
doings! Who would dare to commit wrong, if he saw the hand of God
close to him in every event of existence?
All was, at length, concluded; the body deposited in its last home;
the priest returned to the altar; the labourer with his pickaxe, and
his trowel ready at the side of the vault, to close the coffin of the
good old Commander for ever from the light of day; and Monsieur de
Liancourt, offering his hand to his sister, led her out into the
court.
The spring sunshine was beaming brightly; a light bird, perched upon a
shrub that grew out of the wall, was caroling sweetly in the warm
air--the image of thoughtless life; and the Count felt relieved; for
it was all over, and his heavy thoughts were buried with his brother
in the tomb. Madame the Chazeul too felt relieved, though in another
manner, for she had dreaded the effect of what had just taken place
upon her brother's mind. It was done. The sad paraphernalia of the
funeral would soon be removed from the chapel; the decorations for the
marriage would take their place; and it seemed to her as if a step was
gained.
"Well, Jacqueline," said the Count, as they came forth: "what is it
you have to tell me?"
"It must be in private," replied the Marchioness, "for various
reasons, which you will soon see. Come to my apartments, where we
shan't be interrupted.--But first give orders about the marriage. We
cannot get any flowers but violets and snowdrops: but they must deck
the hall and the chapel out as well as they can. You are sure the
notary will be here?--tell them to have everything ready." She did
nothing without art, and even these ordinary words had their object.
The Count hesitated, but her ascendancy was complete; and, after a
short pause, he called some of his servants to him, gave several of
those orders, which his sister knew he would not be willing to recall,
for fear of betraying that weakness of resolution of which he was
internally conscious, and then accompanied the Marchioness to her
apartment.