WILL JEAN BOULOT COME?
Two persons, from entirely opposite motives, were thinking about
Jean Boulot. Toinon, her wits sharpened by eavesdropping, saw plainly
that not a moment must be lost if she and her mistress were to be
saved. It stood to reason that if the marquise was doomed, so was her
foster-sister, in order that the voice of the accuser might be
silenced. The daring of the poor harassed lady had been admirable--she
had conspicuously shown the moral courage which in extreme peril goes
with breeding; but it would have been more prudent to have temporised.
What use is there in making of oneself a sublime spectacle of defiant
virtue if there is no public to applaud? How many malefactors have
made "fine exits" sustained by the murmurs of a sympathetic mob, who,
if executed in private, would have died screeching? Truth is a nice
thing in theory, but the practice of it in our sinful sphere too often
leads to complications which would be avoided by appropriate
mendacity.
Toinon, much as she adored her mistress, had frequently deplored her
blunt and uncompromising truthfulness. Knowing that she had a noose
about her neck, which only required a pull from the abbe to tighten to
strangulation point, it was vastly foolish to cry out, "Do your
worst." She ought to have pondered and asked for time, have argued and
implored, have even shown signs of yielding, have trembled and
blushed--have murmured in one breath that she would, yet wouldn't.
Where is the man, however cunning, who cannot be hoodwinked by a woman
if she seriously sets about the operation? Precious hours might thus
have been gained--nay, days, by a skilful display of comedy. Boulot
might be even now upon the road, and arrive too late to be of use,
owing to the inopportune sublimity of the too artless chatelaine.
Having defied the arch-conspirator, he would certainly act promptly.
If Jean Boulot was to come to the aid of the two women, it must be at
once, or there was no use in his coming at all. The anxious abigail
felt that they were in precisely the same harrowing position as Sister
Anne and Fatima. Was there nobody coming? The sand in the glass was
dripping all too swiftly. Was there no sound of approaching hoofs, no
curl of dust upon the way? Quite idly, in obedience to a whimsical
fancy due to restlessness, Toinon put on her hood, resolved to take a
stroll upon the road that led to Blois. She would see the cloud of
dust and rush towards it, cry out to honest Jean to use his spurs,
chide him for his culpable delay.
But Toinon, while deploring the mistakes of her mistress, was unaware
that she had herself been guilty of an error. It had been an act of
gross imprudence to threaten the abbe with Boulot as she had done when
she met him on the landing. It set the abbe thinking of Boulot, whose
existence he had well-nigh forgotten. Though there had been a tiff or
an estrangement, the gamekeeper and the abigail were lovers. They had
been, and possibly still were, betrothed. It struck the abbe as not at
all improbable that Mademoiselle Toinon had written to him anent the
cake fiasco, and that her lover might inopportunely arrive to look
after her safety. It was most obliging of the young woman to have
vouchsafed a hint suggestive of such a contingency, and he would be
guilty of gross ingratitude if he failed to act on it forthwith.
Hence, when in pursuance of her fancy she moved across the yard to the
archway, where of old a portcullis used to hang, she was surprised to
perceive that the ponderous entrance gates were closed, and that the
key had been removed from the lock. The concierge was leaning against
the stonework smoking pensively, his hands plunged deep into his
breeches pockets.
"What does this mean?" cried the abigail, with an imperious frown
which served to mask a new-born terror.
"It means that the gates are locked, and will remain so," was the
composed answer.
"But I want to go out--I have a mission from madame to one of the
cottagers hard by."
"So sorry," returned the concierge, smiling roguishly. "Mademoiselle
must remain within--a pretty little bird within a cage. Nay, I but
obey my orders. If mademoiselle will deign to discuss the point,
yonder is the porter's room. We shall be quite alone and undisturbed,
and I will make myself agreeable to mademoiselle."
There was a studied insolence about the man's manner--he had been
engaged quite recently--which made Toinon tremble. The fowler's net
was closing in; she already fluttered in the toils, but would attempt
another struggle to make assurance sure.
"This castle is the property of the Marquise de Gange," she said,
haughtily, "and the lacqueys who dwell therein eat her bread. I have
warned you that I am sent by her. Open that door immediately."
The man puffed slowly at his pipe and gave a long reflective whistle
that spoke volumes. "Bread? Ah yes," he observed, abstractedly. "The
bread is excellent, but it is not hers. Such, at least, are my
instructions."
"Impudent brute!" cried Toinon, stamping her foot. "I will report you
instantly to our mistress, and you will be dismissed at once. A pretty
pass, indeed! when I, her confidential maid, am to stand by and hear
her insulted."
"What is all this about?" demanded a big base voice behind, at sound
of which the man put away his pipe and assumed an obsequious attitude.
"It means, Mademoiselle Brunelle," retorted Toinon, trembling with
ire, "that Madame la Marquise is reaping the earthly reward of divine
forbearance. But you can goad even her too far, as you had cause to
know when you were ignominiously expelled from the chateau."
The dusky face of Algae darkened a shade, and her heavy mobile brows
lowered over her eyes with menace. She crossed her arms over her chest
and gave vent to a rumbling laugh.
"Circumstances alter cases," she observed, with exasperating
composure. "You always did me the honour to dislike me. When I am
mistress here, it is you who will be expelled. You are silent?
Come--that is better. Go to your room and mind your business, and
perhaps no harm will come to you."
"I will send over to Montbazon," returned Toinon, striving hard to
conceal her growing terror. "M. de Vaux and the Seigneurie will
interfere for madame's protection."
"Do you think so?" inquired Algae, with interest. "The de Vaux are
nice people, if timid, who were always kind to me. I hardly think they
are likely to interfere."
"What have you done?" asked Toinon, her heart sinking within her.
"I had the honour to send a messenger to Montbazon this morning to
announce with deep regret that Madame la Marquise de Gange had been
seized with a malignant fever."
"You did that?" gasped the abigail. "You know, you wicked woman, that
the marquise is in perfect health."
The concierge had withdrawn discreetly out of hearing, and with sturdy
legs straddled apart, was softly whistling.
No help was to be hoped for from that quarter, or from any other,
apparently. The possibility of a casual visit from the inhabitants of
Montbazon had been skilfully prevented. The household was on the side
of the conspirators, just as this concierge was, no doubt of it.
What sound was that? A horse's hoofs. Jean Boulot at last! The heart
of the abigail gave such a leap that she staggered and would have
fallen but for Algae's sustaining hand.
The latter had also heard the ominous ring of hoofs, and seizing
Toinon roughly, began to push her towards the house.
"Go in, you little fool," she hissed. "Cannot you see that you are a
prisoner, and that your treatment depends upon your conduct."
"I will not go," Toinon cried, tussling with all her strength against
the iron grip of Algae. "It is Jean, by the goodness of Heaven, sent
to succour us in time. Jean, Jean," she shouted; "it is I, Toinon. We
are alive, but in sorest peril."
The cries of the luckless waiting maid died away in a gurgle. She was
rapidly pushed along by the ex-governess, who hurriedly unwound a
scarf and twisted it tight about her mouth. Toinon was fainting and
half-stifled when Mademoiselle Brunelle flung her within a door,
closed it, and turned the key.
With a supreme effort, Toinon freed herself from the scarf, and rising
to her knees, applied an ear to the keyhole. Oh for a sound of the
welcome voice of Jean! Would he be deceived by a plausible tale and go
as he had come? Surely not. After what she had told him in her letter,
the fact of the closed gates would make suspicion certainty. He would
demand admittance or depart to rouse the neighbourhood. Perhaps he had
heard her outcry before she was gagged. Toinon crouched down in
profound thankfulness, and as she prayed glad tears poured down her
face. Till this moment she had not quite realised the imminence of the
danger, and now that she fully knew it it was past, for Jean would
demand to see his betrothed and the marquise. He was a great man now,
and a powerful leader of the dominant party at Blois; always fearless
and honest, not now a man to dally with. Would the conspirators give
way at once, confess themselves beaten, sue for mercy? or would he be
compelled to rouse the country and storm the grim fortalice as the
other day the Bastille had been stormed? And then Toinon wondered what
would come of that. Would he climb over the smoking ruins to find the
two women murdered? No, no. Toinon's prayers had been answered
tardily, but they had been answered. The decree of Heaven had gone
forth, and the wicked were to be discomfited.
Vainly she strained her hearing to catch a sound of the dear voice,
dearer, far dearer than she had ever dreamed. She could hear a leaf of
the ponderous gate revolve on its rusty hinges, a horseman ride into
the courtyard. There was a colloquy in low tones. Heavens! what if she
had been mistaken! Yet who could the horseman be but Jean Boulot, the
deputy, or some one sent by him? She heard Mademoiselle Brunelle bid
some one, in commanding tones, to go in search of the abbe. "Tell him
there is important news," she said. "Here is a letter despatched in
haste from Blois. M. le Marquis de Gange intends to come home
to-morrow."
Not Jean, then? The marquis home to-morrow! How by his arrival would
the position of the prisoners be bettered? Why was he coming home
to-morrow? Had something fresh transpired? He was a tacit accessory to
the villainous plot of the schemers. He was led in leash, a willing
slave, by that wicked man and woman.
No hope! No hope! Heaven had abandoned the victims. Overwhelmed by the
quick revulsion from nascent hope to hopelessness, Toinon gave a moan,
and sank swooning on the marble floor.