THE DECKS ARE CLEARED FOR ACTION.
Gabrielle maintained her attitude of uncompromising dignity, until the
boudoir door clanged to, and, left alone, sank back upon the cushions
numbed. The sword had fallen. She had herself severed the last frayed
strands. What form would the abbe's vengeance take now that he had
wakened to the fact that under no circumstances whatever would she
submit herself to his desires? What mattered it, so that the end was
swift? The dear ones were safe in distant Paris. No cause to fear for
them. Their mother had been careful in signing the second will to add
the tell-tale cross. On the whole, she was to be congratulated on the
approaching change, for her worldly affairs were in order, there was
no motive left for lingering. To one placed as she was, death, as she
truly said, would be release. Victor and Camille would grow up under
the care of grandmamma, secure from the machinations of their father
and the crew by which he was surrounded. Her death would be an
advantage to them, for the tale of the two wills and the precautionary
declaration would become public property, and a barrier be raised
under the scrutiny of public opinion, which would protect the dear
ones from her husband.
And yet how whimsical the situation was! In the course of charitable
wanderings among the poor, she had looked with amaze on creatures
lying upon their rotten straw with scarce a rag to cover them, who
clung to their wretched existence with a pertinacity that was both
weird and ludicrous, considering that it was but a step, and such an
easy one, into the peaceful grave. Now she herself was within distance
of that step, and could look calmly into the chasm, contemplate the
precise spot beneath whose crust she was to sleep for ever. But was it
for ever? Ah! If she only knew. She had long ago learned to smile at
the mediaeval absurdities, invented by naive, ignorant churchmen, of
flames and pitchforks, and demons with red-hot tongs; but now that she
stood so near to Death, that she could feel the chill rustle of his
garments, she felt herself drawn into the sea of idle and abortive
speculation.
Why is it, amusing paradox, that the virtuous--those, that is, who
have somehow succeeded, to a creditable extent, in avoiding the rugged
but fascinating path of temptation--should be tossed by doubts and
shadowy tremors, while those who have wallowed in enormosities are
snugly complacent as to the end? It is nearly always so. The more
hopelessly heinous the crime of the murderer, the more abominably
abandoned the criminal, the more glibly will the monster prate of his
salvation; the more sure will he be of sleeping on Abraham's bosom.
Verily, in the long course of globe-rolling, so much vermin of
nauseous kind has tumbled off, vowing, as it fell, that its destiny
was the bosom of Abraham, that that patriarch must by this time
somewhat regret the flattering prominence of his position. The
sublimely compassionate declaration, "To-day shalt thou be with Me in
Paradise," has been so largely and freely rendered into a conviction
of immunity from the results of sin by the worst of scoundrels, that a
premium is offered to crime. The scarce discoloured soul goes
tremulously off, conscious of tiny spots, wondering and fearing as to
its reception in its next resting-place, while that one which is black
and ulcered, soars aloft singing a seraphic paean. Brethren, it is easy
to cultivate contrition. There is nothing more easy than to repent
when there are no more sins to commit. Let us all commit crimes of
abnormal horror, that the parson may assure us on the scaffold that
purged with hyssop we are clean.
Such reflections as these passed vaguely through the mind of Gabrielle
as she strove to nerve herself to endure, with becoming composure, the
coming ordeal. She recalled and contemplated her peccadilloes. The
various naughtinesses of her brief life swept past in procession as
distinct and rapid as the last vision of the drowning man. Her
conscience kept whispering that she could have little to fear if God
were just, for the small sins of which she could accuse herself must
be balanced against her earthly woes. And then she chided herself
bitterly for presumption. How dared she to conclude that she was not a
terrible sinner, considering that as a chit, her father confessor had
imposed fearsome pains and penalties, as punishment for childish
transgressions? She was bad, very bad indeed. Had she not impiously
endeavoured once to cut the thread and escape? And now that thread was
to be cut for her by an alien hand. Why did she not feel the same
eagerness to be away, as on that night, when she leapt out of the
wherry?
It always came back to this. The same refrain was singing in her ears.
So young, so rich, so beautiful--to be put away, crushed under the
heel, like the rat that cumbers the earth. It was hard, very hard, and
somehow the joyous careless days of Versailles and Trianon, would
glitter up out of the mirage to dazzle and disturb her vision.
Some one knocked and entered with a tray.
"Madame, supper," the servant said.
Her supper! Not brought by faithful Toinon? Why? Was the episode of
the cakes to be repeated?
"Where is my maid?" she asked.
"Very ill in bed--delirious," the servant answered with respect.
"Ill! Delirious! What has happened? I will go to her at once."
"As madame wishes," the lacquey replied. "I was to inform madame that
Mademoiselle Brunelle has undertaken to cure the invalid, and is with
her now."
Words of enquiry rose and died on Gabrielle's lips. The servant bowed
and retired. Mademoiselle Brunelle closeted with Toinon? The marquise
had endured overmuch, and just now could not cope with that woman.
The baleful Algae had taken the faithful waiting-maid in hand, who
under her manipulation was ill and delirious? Her last friend was
taken away from her. She was alone now, quite, quite alone. They
wished her also to become ill and delirious? She glanced at the
supper-tray and smiled at the dainties thereon set out. No. She would
not perish that way. If only she could see Toinon! To what end? The
devoted girl was paying the penalty of faithfulness. If she went now
to see her she could do no good; would probably not be allowed to see
her at all; would be rudely turned away by that woman, as in old times
she had been from the nursery.
But it was hard to bear--oh, hard, very hard to bear; thus to be left
without a friend--without a tender hand, the crisis past, lovingly to
close her eyes! And yet how pitifully foolish to be disturbed about
such petty details! When the soul is freed, what matters if the glassy
eyes whose glory has faded away are closed or not; and if they are, by
whom they are closed? What childish folly to care, and yet, as
Gabrielle sought her gloomy bedchamber, she felt more solitary than
ever before in her existence. The dingy ancestors peering down from
out their dusty frames--they who had long passed the rubicon and knew
the secret, if secret there be to know--seemed in the fitful glare of
the smouldering fire to laugh and mow at her folly. What a pother
over a few years of suffering. The dead only are at peace--the dead
only enjoy rest. Oh, blessed dead and fortunate! And here was a
storm-tossed mortal on the very threshold of freedom, clinging to and
hugging her chains. Oh, pitiable and laughter-moving spectacle! Poor,
silly, straining little shallop on the immeasurable ocean of destiny!
Summon thy waning courage, oh, nerve racked atom of humanity, tossed
on the waves of time. Courage, shrinking coward, and be thankful that
thy corroding gyves will so soon be broken.
The marquise, though faint from lack of food and many emotions,
refused to eat. How cruel of Toinon to fall ill at such a time! and
yet not so; for it must be the band of wretches who had made her ill.
Her mistress would go to bed and forget her misery in sleep. Sleep!
With nerves stretched to tightest tension, how could she hope to
sleep? Wearily she threw herself upon the bed, dressed as she was, and
gnawed the pillow in her travail.
It has been mercifully ordered that the human organism cannot endure
more than a given strain. Either we go mad and forget, or drop
exhausted and unconscious. Ere the smouldering logs had whitened to
ashes, Gabrielle had forgotten her troubles, plunged in dreamless
slumber. Such sleep as this brings no refreshment, though it serves as
anodyne--a filter of short-lived oblivion. She must have slept long
and heavily, for, waking with leaden lids and throbbing brow, she was
aware of a shadowy woman drawing back the window curtains to let in
the day.
Toinon had recovered then. That was fortunate.
"Toinon," she murmured; "thank Heaven, you are well again, my only
friend!"
The woman stood at the foot of the bed with crossed arms, slowly
wagging a head shrouded in a silken handkerchief. Her robust figure
loomed preternaturally large, her laughter was low and muffled.
"Your only friend," she remarked gaily, "is safe under lock and key."
The marquise sat up and surveyed the intruder with a look of fear,
vaguely dreading something that was imminent.
"Mademoiselle Brunelle!" she exclaimed, with a shudder. "You have
dared to force your way into my bed-chamber?"
"That have I," returned the ex-governess, affably; "for I have
business here. There is a little account to settle."
"An account?"
"Oh! not money. There will be plenty of money by and by, no thanks to
generosity of yours. I offered you the hand of friendship and you
scorned it--I, who am the stronger, though for a time you obtained the
mastery. You chased me with ignominy from the house--insulted and
humiliated me by striving to drive me hence a second time. Do you
think I am one to forgive? You made my life wretched, treating me as
if I were a leper, out of jealousy of your nincompoop husband, as if I
ever cared a fig for him! Now my turn has come. Insult for insult
shall you have again. Vainly--you craven--will you implore mercy.
There shall be none for you. I have made up my mind to take your
place. You cumber the earth, you useless bit of trumpery, and this day
shall rid us of your presence."
"I never did you wrong. You know it!" Gabrielle said, slowly. Her own
voice seemed strange, deadened by a singing in the ears. "On that
score I stand acquitted." A curious fancy flitted through her brain
and faded. In how brief a while might she be standing before another
tribunal, to answer for the manner of her life?
Mademoiselle Brunelle was provoked in that the arrows of her spite
fell short. The craven did not sue for mercy. By the waxen pallor of
her cheeks and lips, and the deep circles round her dark blue eyes, it
was evident that the marquise was in mortal terror. Her aspen fingers
twitched the bedclothes nervously; but she gave vent to no reproach or
outcry.
There was an impatient tapping at the door. Algae moved swiftly across
the room and opened it.
"You may come in, gentlemen," she said. "Madame la Marquise is fully
dressed, prepared to receive company."
The abbe and the chevalier entered, the latter unsteady in his gait,
and cowed. His dress was dusty and disordered; his hair and linen
rumpled. It was evident that he had spent the night in drinking; for
his bloated visage was flushed and inflamed with wine, while his mouth
was convulsively contracted. His glassy eyes were red and swollen.
Their whites showed yellow and bloodshot, as he turned them with
wistful apprehension on his brother.
Gabrielle saw in the abbe a new and altered man. There was about his
aspect a steely look of uncompromising determination--a gleam of
triumph, as of one who has toiled long, but sees his goal at last--a
curl of cruelty about his thin tight lips, that stirred the hair upon
her head. If the devil ever peered out of human windows he was looking
down upon her now--so close, so close--looking down on the victim tied
and bound, whose sacrifice he was here to consummate.
"Dear Gabrielle!" Pharamond said with a diabolical grin. "How nice of
you to be up and dressed, and so save our precious time. See here what
we have brought you."
The chevalier, who bore in one hand a silver chalice, had drawn his
sword and ranged himself beside his brother in sullen silence, while
Mademoiselle Brunelle remained by the door and turned the key in the
lock.
The abbe flourished a pistol, which he playfully pointed at the
trembling figure on the bed.
"Did you ever read English history?" he inquired. "No! The education
of great ladies is sadly neglected. Know that there was once a fair
creature as beautiful even as you, whose name was Rosamond, and a
queen called Eleanor. The queen visited the fair one in her bower, and
said. 'Here is a cup and here is a dagger, choose, for your time is
come and you must die.' How sensible and to the purpose. See how
generous am I, for I offer you three alternatives instead of two. The
pistol, the sword, the poison. Make your selection quickly."
"Die!" gasped Gabrielle, pressing her fingers to her burning brow, as
she looked at each, turning restlessly from one to the other of the
trio, seeking for a gleam of compassion, and finding none. "Wherefore?
of what crime have I been guilty? You decree my death, and you inflict
it--why?"
"Choose," repeated the abbe with impatience, dropping his tone of
banter. "Sodden oaf and fool, give me the chalice," he added,
fiercely. "Your palsied hand will drop it."
Indeed the chevalier seemed to be losing the control of his muscles,
for he swayed to and fro, as one far gone in liquor. In his agitation
his sword-hilt clattered against the metal buttons on his coat,
perceiving which the marquise seeming to see a faint ray of hope,
turned her pleading face to him in agonized remonstrance.
"Phebus," she murmured, earnestly, "you once said you loved me, and
tempted me to sin, and afterwards repented. You are not bad at heart.
Your nature is not cruel and inexorable, and I am yet so young! Think
of the memories you are raising now--a nightmare of unavailing
remorse. Think before it is too late, of the clinging shirt of fire,
which as the years progress will send you raving, and never may be
shaken off!"
"Enough, enough! It is settled," cried the abbe, "choose, or I will
make the choice. In this goblet is no copper draught, since it appears
you object to copper--a soothing decoction of delicious herbs, that
grow beside the river. You are no botanist, I fear, or would have
admired the pretty spotted leaf of the _[oe]nanthe crocata_, a useful
plant without taste or smell, which possesses the additional
advantage, when its work is done, of leaving no trace behind. You are
so deplorably slow and undecided that I must choose for you. The
[oe]nanthe, let it be, then, for it will neither stain your flesh nor
mar your incomparable skin. You will lie with a peaceful smile, as of
a pure unsullied babe who sleeps well and pleasantly, and drift gently
on the stream of Lethe. Socrates, of whom, maybe you've heard, once
quaffed a delicate tisane made of this self-same plant, and history
avers that he enjoyed it very much."
The abbe approached a step nearer, and held forth the goblet. The
marquise recoiled, and half-numbed by a wind that seemed to blow from
out of her open grave, clasped her hands wildly, crying, "Phebus, save
me!"
"You waste your breath," the abbe remarked, sternly. "His power of
volition's gone, he is an automaton worked by me. Waste no more time,
for we have much to do to-day. Drink, or he shall use his sword."
Gabrielle, under the scrutiny of six pitiless eyes, took the chalice
in her hands and drank.
The abbe--determined this time to do his work effectually--perceiving
a sediment left, gathered it carefully in a spoon, and bringing it to
the goblet's brim, offered it once more with a courteous smile to the
quivering lips of his victim. Then, remembering, he withdrew the
spoon, and said, "No! the stalks and fibres can be traced."
The victim lay panting on her pillows. The executioner remarked with a
low bow, "We will leave you to make your peace with Heaven," and was
preparing to withdraw when the marquise gasped out, "In Heaven's name,
do not destroy my soul. Send for a confessor that I may die as a
Christian should."
"You forgot I am a priest," returned the abbe, smiling, "and now, as
ever, at your service."
Perceiving that she did not appreciate his merry conceit, for she
covered her face with shuddering hands, he motioned to his brother to
follow, and bade Algae remain with the victim.
"There will be much to see to," he observed, "for those who
unfortunately perish of malignant fevers, must be speedily put away.
Within an hour there will be delirium and giddiness, followed by coma
and death. Keep the patient quiet, and make her comfortable. We will
leave for Blois at midday, and meet the marquis on the road." With
this he playfully executed another deep reverence, and dragging the
chevalier after him, left the room.
Mademoiselle Brunelle was enchanted that matters should at last have
been brought to a satisfactory pass with becoming decorum. No
ungenteel screaming, no bloodshed; only a palatable tisane which
tasted a little like celery. In a few hours they would intercept the
marquis on his ill-judged return, and when he knew that he was a
widower, he would be as anxious as they to leave the neighbourhood.
Events that seem untoward are often for the best. His sudden change of
plans had driven the conspirators to promptitude. The tortuous and
shilly-shally abbe had been compelled to action, and he had really
acted very well.
She glanced now and then at the figure on the bed, who lay as
motionless as if all were already over, and walked up and down
reflecting. What a provoking man the marquis was, who had to be served
despite himself. Left alone, unpropped, he had tumbled down, the
unstable creature; had repented, and was coming back to whine and to
entreat and bite his nails in indecision. Well. No excuse for whining
now. The die was cast. In a few days they would have crossed the
frontier never to revisit Lorge. The jewels. They must not be left
behind, since they were of exceeding value--love gifts from the doting
marechal, who deemed naught too good for his darling. There was a
diamond parure somewhere, of purest water, which would become the new
marquise amazingly. With greedy hands Algae dived into drawers,
ferreted in the cabinet of ebony, searched the silver knickknacks on
the toilet table. Where were the jewels kept? Doubtless, in the
garderobe on the opposite side of the corridor. Yes. Here was the
bunch of keys labelled. Mademoiselle would be a veritable ninny were
she to neglect her chance of reaping all that could be reaped. As the
prospective wife of Clovis the jewels were her own or soon would be,
and with this plaguy revolution going on, to leave France was to be
condemned to exile. The property of _emigres_ was confiscated. When it
became known that the Marquise de Gange was dead, and the marquise
flown, the state would pounce upon the chateau, and take possession of
everything within it. It clearly behoved the second wife to rummage in
the cupboards of the first. There was no time to lose. Casting one
hasty glance at the bed, and perceiving no change, Mademoiselle
hastily left the room in search of treasure.
With fingers still clasped over her eyes Gabrielle lay still, each
minute passage in her melancholy life flitting across her brain. She
had distinctly heard the brutal fiat of the abbe. Giddiness, delirium,
coma, death. Within an hour the symptoms would commence--to last how
long? No sign as yet of giddiness. On the contrary, that cold gust
from out the grave appeared to have stimulated her mind, quickening
its action, magnifying each thought in crystal clearness. It would
soon be over. The release for which she had prayed so long and
earnestly was close at hand. Her fretted spirit would find peace--she
would be freed from the corroding bonds of harsh humanity. Not five
and twenty, and the world was beautiful. Now, that she stood on the
threshold, on the point of closing the door which may never be
re-opened, Gabrielle found herself filled with a strange longing and
regret. She knew not that it was the force of young and healthy life
that was bubbling up in protest. Hope would not thus be slain. An
overwhelming desire to live arose and possessed her being. An idea
that was new and draught with horror flooded her mind, and she sat up
panting. Her children! Why had she not thought of it before? A reason
for welcoming death had been that they would be the better protected
by her flitting. But was it indeed so? Had not her mother deserted her
in a grievous plight through selfish cowardice? Alarmed for herself
she had fled with a pretence that all was well. A fitting guardian for
two children, truly. How clear it was--how dreadfully clear! The
conspirators would work upon her fears--obtain possession of Victor
and Camille. By securing their fortune she had imperilled their lives,
for those who could do her to death with such cold barbarity, would
stick at nothing when they found themselves foiled by her precautions.
She must not die. No, she must live--for their sakes! To stand between
them and the fate they had prepared for her. She sprang from the bed,
a prey to violent agitation. There was a singing in her ears--her
temples throbbed as though they would crack in sunder. She reeled and
clung to the curtain. Her throat was parched with thirst. Were these
the first symptoms of the fatal draught? No. It was excess of emotion
and anxiety that made her giddy. She would live--live--live--in spite
of the executioners, and God would help, for her cause was holy!
She was alone. Mademoiselle Brunelle for some reason had left her
post. The marquise stole to the door, turned the key, gently shot the
bolt into its socket. Then, grasping her long hair she forced it down
her throat, inducing by irritation a violent sickness, which relieved
her. But how to effect escape? Some one was already rattling the
handle without--the deep voice of Algae was shouting in imperious
accents, "Open! Let me in!" Despair gave strength and courage.
Gabrielle tore open the casement and got out upon the ledge. Below was
a stone-paved courtyard; opposite, the outer wall, with the postern
that gave on the pleasaunce. Was it locked? No matter. She wore the
key of the new lock upon a bracelet. No time to think. With an
agonized cry to Heaven for succour she leapt, but was held up for a
moment by two strong hands, while close to hers was the face of Algae,
black and convulsed with fury. Mademoiselle, hearing a noise within,
had rushed round by the boudoir, whose door the marquise had forgotten
in her haste to lock. And now began a fierce and desperate tussle
between the women, which, though neither knew it, was of infinite
service to the victim, for it kept off drowsiness. Strong as she was,
Algae could not, cramped and strained, sustain the struggling weight,
which escaped from her grasp and fell, while she loudly called for
help. The patient was delirious--in madness had flung herself from the
window and broken her bones upon the pavement. No. She rolled over and
over, and was up again; and Algae, grinding her teeth, seized one of
the sculptured flower-pots of bronze and dashed it down at her. Sure
the intended victim must bear a charmed life! She sped across the
courtyard, succeeded in unlocking the postern, and emerged upon the
garden moat.
"Well!" muttered Algae, with a philosophic headshake, "she is in a
trap, for beyond the moat is a wall she cannot pass, and the gates are
closed and guarded. It was stupid of me not to wait, and the abbe will
be angry. Yet the fault is his, for he distinctly said 'an hour.'"
Meanwhile, refreshed by the air and movement, the frenzied Gabrielle
seemed to have wings upon her feet, as she clenched her hands and kept
repeating with laboured breath, "I will live--live--live." Her mind
was preternaturally clear--she could see with prophetic vision, and
grapple with contingencies. She saw the wall and knew she could not
pass it; guessed that the gates were guarded; but remembering a
certain night, which seemed a century ago, when she had wickedly
attempted suicide, she made with all speed for the end of the moat, at
the spot where it joined the river. The wherry was there, swinging
loosely and idly on its chain. She leapt into the boat and loosed the
knotted links, and, accustomed to use the oars, impelled it across the
river. By this happy thought she gained precious time, could take a
short cut to Montbazon, and might yet be saved; for her pursuers,
deprived of the boat, would have to make a circuit of a mile or more
in order to reach the bridge. She would be saved--she knew she would
be saved--and then there fell on her a cold and sickening fear.
Her limbs were trembling. She was growing giddy; her sight was
wavering--the sky looked brown and dark. Was she doomed to sink down
and perish when escape was all but certain?
She tottered along the path, and groping on for a few steps with
outstretched arms like one struck blind, reeled and fell, moaning. The
singing in her ears was deafening--like the howling of a hurricane
through some dense forest; but through it she all at once heard
something--a voice that was once familiar. Raising with an effort her
heavy eyelids, she was aware of a man with a horse's bridle on his
arm, who was supporting her and sprinkling water on her face. She was
certainly growing blind as well as giddy. The man loomed unnaturally
large, and seemed at one instant crushingly close, at another a league
away.
Grasping the strands of memory which, crystalline no more, was
slipping, slipping, she knitted her brows in a wild effort to remember
him.
"As I'm a living sinner, 'tis the marquise," the man said, when he had
recovered from his amazement. "Poor soul! In so terrible a plight.
Only just in time, it seems."
Jean! Jean Boulot! Gabrielle suddenly remembered, and tightly clutched
his hand. "Jean--dear Jean!" she gasped. "Save me! I am poisoned, but
I will not die; I must not, cannot die. They are in pursuit--will kill
us both. Quick--for love of the dear saints--take me at once to
Montbazon!"
Jean pursed his lips, and frowned. "How like the wickedness of
aristos!" he muttered. "It is time their evil brood was banished from
off the world. Poisoned, you say, madame. What was it?"
"Hemlock," she answered, faintly; "but I have got rid of most of it."
"Hemlock," Jean echoed; "the children hereabouts often eat it, and are
saved by tea and charcoal. Courage, madame, all will yet be well. One
word more. What of Toinon?"
"She is under lock and key," returned Gabrielle, "but safe, for in the
hue and cry for me, her existence will be forgotten."
Sturdy Jean Boulot mounted his horse, and supporting the marquise in
front of him, made with all speed by the bridle path for Montbazon.
He was as surprised as shocked, and blamed himself unreasoningly. He
of all men should know the depth of enormity of which the noblesse
were capable, for was he not always making speeches thereanent for the
behoof of less enlightened lieges? Knowing how bad they were, he had
abandoned the post of duty, for it was his duty to protect his love
and the heiress of the family whose bread he had eaten from childhood.
Why, knowing what she must know, had Toinon so long delayed to write
to him? By an unlucky circumstance he had been sent on a mission to
Tours. Hence, he had not got her letter till after many days; but,
having read it, had started off forthwith. And Toinon was locked up by
those miscreants! Perhaps they had murdered her as they had attempted
to murder her mistress. First he must obey madame, and carry her to
Montbazon. That was his plain duty. Then he would raise the peasantry,
who were ready and trained to arms, and, if need were, storm the
chateau. And woe to all of them if Toinon indeed had perished!