MALARTIC AT WORK
If the Duke of Vallombreuse had been furious after his unsuccessful
visit to Isabelle, the Baron de Sigognac was not less so, when, upon
his return that evening, he learned what had taken place during his
absence. The tyrant and Blazius were almost obliged to use force to
prevent his rushing off, without losing a minute, to challenge the duke
to mortal combat—a challenge sure to be refused; for de Sigognac, being
neither the brother nor husband of the injured fair one, had no earthly
right to call any other gentleman to account for his conduct towards
her; in France all men are at liberty to pay their court to every
pretty woman.
As to the attack upon the baron on the Pont-Neuf, there could be no
doubt that it was instigated by the Duke of Vallombreuse; but how to
prove it? that was the difficulty. And even supposing it could be
proved, what good would that do? In the eyes of the world the Baron de
Sigognac, who carefully concealed his real rank, was only Captain
Fracasse, a low play-actor, upon whom a great noble, like the Duke of
Vallombreuse, had a perfect right to inflict a beating, imprisonment,
or even assassination, if it so pleased him; and that without incurring
the blame, or serious disapproval, of his friends and equals.
So far as Isabelle was concerned, if the affair were made public,
nobody would believe that she was really pure and virtuous—the very
fact of her being an actress was enough to condemn her—for her sake it
was important to keep the matter secret if possible. So there was
positively no means of calling their enemy to account for his flagrant
misdeeds, though de Sigognac, who was almost beside himself with rage
and indignation, and burning to avenge Isabelle’s wrongs and his own,
swore that he would punish him, even if he had to move heaven and earth
to compass it. Yet, when he became a little calmer, he could not but
acknowledge that Hérode and Blazius were right in advising that they
should all remain perfectly quiet, and feign the most absolute
indifference; but at the same time keep their eyes and ears very wide
open, and be unceasingly on their guard against artful surprises, since
it was only too evident that the vindictive young duke, who was
handsome as a god and wicked as the devil, did not intend to abandon
his designs upon them; although thus far he had failed ignominiously in
everything he had undertaken against them.
A gentle, loving remonstrance from Isabelle, as she held de Sigognac’s
hands, all hot and trembling with suppressed rage, between her own
soft, cool palms, and caressingly interlaced her slender white fingers
with his, did more to pacify him than all the rest, and he finally
yielded to her persuasions; promising to keep quiet himself, and allow,
things to go on just as usual.
Meantime the representations of the troupe had met with splendid
success. Isabelle’s modest grace and refined beauty, Serafina’s more
brilliant charms, the _soubrette’s_ sparkling vivacity and bewitching
coquetry, the superb extravagances of Captain Fracasse, the tyrant’s
majestic mien, Leander’s manly beauty, the grotesque good humour of the
pedant, Scapin’s spicy deviltries, and the duenna’s perfect acting had
taken Paris by storm, and their highest hopes were likely to be
realized. Having triumphantly won the approbation of the Parisians,
nothing was wanting but to gain also that of the court, then at Saint
Germain, and a rumour had reached their ears that they were shortly to
be summoned thither; for it was asserted that the king, having heard
such favourable reports of them, had expressed a desire to see them
himself. Whereas Hérode, in his character of treasurer, greatly
rejoiced, and all felt a pleasant excitement at the prospect of so
distinguished an honour. Meanwhile the troupe was often in requisition
to give private representations at the houses of various people of rank
and wealth in Paris, and it quickly became the fashion among them to
offer this very popular style of entertainment to their guests.
Thus it befell that the tyrant, being perfectly accustomed to that sort
of thing, was not at all surprised, or suspicious of evil, when one
fine morning a stranger, of most venerable and dignified mien,
presented himself at the hotel in the Rue Dauphine, and asked to speak
with him on business. He appeared to be the major-domo, or steward, of
some great nobleman’s establishment, and, in effect, announced to
Hérode that he had been sent to consult with him, as manager of the
troupe, by his master, the Comte de Pommereuil.
This highly respectable old functionary was richly dressed in black
velvet, and had a heavy gold chain round his neck. His face was
slightly sunburnt; the wavy hair that fell upon his shoulders, his
thick, bushy eyebrows, heavy mustache, and long, sweeping beard were
all white as snow. He had the most patriarchal, benevolent air
imaginable, and a very gentle, yet dignified manner. The tyrant could
not help admiring him very much, as he said, courteously, “Are you,
sir, the famous Hérode I am in quest of, who rules with a hand as firm
as Apollo’s the excellent company of comedians now playing in Paris?
Their renown has gone abroad, beyond the walls of the city, and
penetrated even to my master’s ears, on his estate out in the country.”
“Yes, I have the honour to be the man you seek,” the tyrant answered,
bowing very graciously.
“The Comte de Pommereuil greatly desires to have you give one of your
celebrated representations at his château, where guests of high rank
are sojourning at this moment, and I have come to ascertain whether it
will be possible for you to do so. The distance is not very
considerable, only a few leagues. The comte, my master, is a very great
and generous seignior, who is prepared to reward your illustrious
company munificently for their trouble, and will do everything in his
power to make them comfortable while they are under his roof.”
“I will gladly do all that I can to please your noble master,” the
tyrant replied, “though it will be a little difficult for us to leave
Paris at present, just in the height of the season; even if it be only
for a short absence.”
“Three days would suffice for this expedition,” said the venerable
major-domo persuasively; “one for the journey, the second for the
representation, and the third for the return to Paris. There is a
capital theatre at the château, furnished with everything that is
requisite, so that you need not be encumbered with much luggage—nothing
beyond your costumes. Here is a purse containing a hundred _pistoles_
that the Comte de Pommereuil charged me to put into your hands, to
defray the expenses of the journey. You will receive as much more
before you return, and there will be handsome presents for the
actresses forthcoming, of valuable jewels, as souvenirs of the
occasion.”
After a momentary hesitation, the tyrant accepted the well-filled purse
tendered to him, and, with a gesture of acquiescence, put it into his
pocket.
“I am to understand then that you accept, and I may tell my master that
you will give a representation at the château, as he desires?”
“Yes, I place myself and my company at his disposition,” Hérode said,
smilingly. “And now let me know what day you want us to go, and which
of our pieces your master prefers.”
“Thursday is the day my master designated; as for selecting the play,
that he leaves to your own good taste and discretion.”
“Very well; and now you have only to give me directions as to the road
we must take to reach the château. Be as explicit as you can, I pray
you, so that there may be no danger of our going astray.”
The agent of the Comte de Pommereuil accordingly gave the most minute
and exact directions possible, but ended by saying, “Never mind, you
need not burden your memory with all these troublesome details! I will
send you a lackey to serve as guide.”
Matters being thus satisfactorily arranged, the charming old major-domo
took leave of Hérode, who accompanied him down the stairs and across
the court to the outer door of the hotel, and departed, looking back to
exchange a last polite sign of farewell ere he turned the corner of the
street. If the honest tyrant could have seen him as he walked briskly
away, the moment he was safely out of sight, he would have been
astonished at the way the broad, stooping shoulders straightened
themselves up, and at the rapid, vigorous step that succeeded to the
slow, rather infirm gait of his venerable visitor—but these things our
worthy Hérode neither saw nor suspected.
On Wednesday morning, as the comedians were finishing the packing of
their chariot, which stood ready for departure in the courtyard of the
hotel, with a pair of fine spirited horses before it that the tyrant
had hired for the journey, a tall, rather fierce-looking lackey,
dressed in a neat livery and mounted on a stout pony, presented himself
at the outer door, cracking his whip vigorously, and announcing himself
as the guide, sent according to promise by the considerate major-domo,
to conduct them to the Château de Pommereuil.
Eight clear strokes rang out from the Samaritan just as the heavy
vehicle emerged into the Rue Dauphine, and our company of players set
forth on their ill-fated expedition. In less than half an hour they had
left the Porte Saint Antoine and the Bastile behind them, passed
through the thickly settled _faubourg_ and gained the open country;
advancing towards Vincennes, which they could distinguish in the
distance, with its massive keep partially veiled by a delicate blue
mist, that was rapidly dispersing under the influence of the bright,
morning sunshine. As the horses were fresh, and travelled at a good
pace, they soon came up with the ancient fortress—which was still
formidable in appearance, though it could not have offered any adequate
resistance to the projectiles of modern artillery. The gilded crescents
on the minarets of the chapel built by Pierre de Montereau shone out
brightly, as if joyous at finding themselves in such close proximity to
the cross—the sign of redemption. After pausing a few minutes to admire
this monument of the ancient splendour of our kings, the travellers
entered the forest, where, amid the dense growth of younger trees,
stood a few majestic old oaks—contemporaries doubtless of the one under
which Saint Louis, that king of blessed memory, used to sit and
dispense justice to his loyal subjects in person—a most becoming and
laudable occupation for a monarch.
The road was so little used that it was grass-grown in many places, and
the chariot rolled so smoothly and noiselessly along over it that they
occasionally surprised a party of rabbits frolicking merrily together,
and were very much amused to see them scamper away, in as great a hurry
as if the hounds were at their heels. Farther on a frightened deer
bounded across the road in front of them, and they could watch its
swift, graceful flight for some distance amid the leafless trees. The
young baron was especially interested in all these things, being
country-bred, and it was a delight unspeakable to him to see the
fields, the hedgerows, the forest, and the wild creatures of the wood
once more. It was a pleasure he had been deprived of ever since he had
frequented cities and towns, where there is nothing to look at but
dingy houses, muddy streets and smoky chimneys—the works of man not of
God. He would have pined in them for the fresh country air if he had
not had the sweet companionship of the lovely woman he adored; in whose
deep, blue eyes he saw a whole heaven of bliss.
Upon emerging from the wood the road wound up a steep hill-side, so the
horses were stopped, to rest a few minutes before beginning the ascent,
and de Sigognac, profiting by the opportunity thus afforded him, said
to Isabelle, “Dear heart, will you get down and walk a little way with
me? You will find it a pleasant change and rest after sitting still in
the chariot so long. The road is smooth and dry, and the sunshine
deliciously warm—do come!”
Isabelle joyfully acceded to this request, and putting her hand into
the one extended to help her, jumped lightly down. It was a welcome
means of according an innocent tête-à-tête to her devoted lover, and
both felt as if they were treading on air, they were so happy to find
themselves alone together, as, arm in arm, they walked briskly forward,
until they were out of sight of their companions. Then they paused to
look long and lovingly into each other’s eyes, and de Sigognac began
again to pour out to Isabelle “the old, old story,” that she was never
weary of hearing, but found more heavenly sweet at every telling. They
were like the first pair of mortal lovers in Paradise, entirely
sufficient to and happy in each other. Yet even then Isabelle gently
checked the passionate utterances of her faithful suitor, and strove to
moderate his rapturous transports, though their very fervour made her
heart rejoice, and brought a bright flush to her cheeks and a happy
light to her eyes that rendered her more adorably beautiful than ever.
“Whatever you may do or say, my darling,” he answered, with a sweet,
tender smile, “you will never be able to tire out my constancy. If need
be, I will wait for you until all your scruples shall have vanished of
themselves—though it be not till these beautiful, soft brown tresses,
with their exquisite tinge of gold where the sun shines on them, shall
have turned to silver.”
“Oh!” cried Isabelle, “I shall be so old and so ugly then that even
your sublime courage will be daunted, and I fear that in rewarding your
perseverance and fidelity by the gift of myself I should only be
punishing my devoted knight and brave champion.”
“You will never be ugly, my beloved Isabelle, if you live to be a
hundred,” he replied, with an adoring glance, “for yours is not the
mere physical beauty, that fades away and vanishes—it is the beauty of
the soul, which is immortal.”
“All the same you would be badly off,” rejoined Isabelle, “if I were to
take you at your word, and promise to be yours when I was old and gray.
But enough of this jesting,” she continued gravely, “let us be serious!
You know my resolution, de Sigognac, so try to content yourself with
being the object of the deepest, truest, most devoted love that was
ever yet bestowed on mortal man since hearts began to beat in this
strange world of ours.”
“Such a charming avowal ought to satisfy me, I admit, but it does not!
My love for you is infinite—it can brook no bounds—it is ever
increasing—rising higher and higher, despite your heavenly voice, that
bids it keep within the limits you have fixed for it.”
“Do not talk so, de Sigognac! you vex me by such extravagances,” said
Isabelle, with a little pout that was as charming as her sweetest
smile; for in spite of herself her heart beat high with joy at these
fervent protestations of a love that no coldness could repel, no
remonstrance diminish.
They walked on a little way in silence—de Sigognac not daring to say
more then, lest he should seriously displease the sweet creature he
loved better than his own life. Suddenly she drew her arm out of his,
and with an exclamation of delight, sprang to a little bank by the
road-side, where she had spied a tiny violet, peeping out from amid the
dead leaves that had lain there all the winter through—the first
harbinger of spring, smiling up at her a friendly greeting, despite the
wintry cold of February. She knelt down and gently cleared away the dry
leaves and grass about it, carefully broke the frail little stem, and
returned to de Sigognac’s side with her treasure—more delighted than if
she had found a precious jewel lying hidden among the mosses.
“Only see, how exquisitely beautiful and delicate it is”—said she,
showing it to him—“with its dear little petals scarcely unrolled yet to
return the greeting of this bright, warm sunshine, that has roused it
from its long winter sleep.”
“It was not the sunshine, however bright and warm,” answered de
Sigognac, “but the light of your eyes, sweet Isabelle, that made it
open out to greet you—and it is exactly the colour too of those dear
eyes of yours.”
“It has scarcely any fragrance, but that is because it’s so cold,” said
Isabelle, loosening her scarf, and putting it carefully inside the ruff
that encircled her slender, white neck. In a few minutes she took it
out again, inhaled its rich perfume, pressed it furtively to her lips,
and offered it to de Sigognac.
“See how sweet it is now! The warmth I imparted to it has reassured the
little modest, timid blossom, and it breathes out its incomparable
fragrance in gratitude to me.”
“Say rather that it has received it from you,” he replied, raising the
violet tenderly to his lips, and taking from it the kiss Isabelle had
bestowed—“for this delicate, delicious odour has nothing gross or
earthly about it—it is angelically pure and sweet, like yourself, my
own Isabelle.”
“Ah! the naughty flatterer,” said she, smiling upon him with all her
heart in her eyes. “I give him a little flower that he may enjoy its
perfume, and straightway he draws from it inspiration for all sorts of
high-flown conceits, and fine compliments. There’s no doing anything
with him—to the simplest, most commonplace remark he replies with a
poetical flight of fancy.”
However, she could not have been very seriously displeased, for she
took his arm again, and even leaned upon it rather more heavily than
the exigencies of the way actually required; which goes to prove that
the purest virtue is not insensible to pretty compliments, and that
modesty itself knows how to recompense delicate flattery.
Not far from the road they were travelling stood a small group of
thatched cottages—scarcely more than huts—whose inhabitants were all
afield at their work, excepting a poor blind man, attended by a little
ragged boy, who sat on a stone by the wayside, apparently to solicit
alms from those who passed by. Although he seemed to be extremely aged
and feeble, he was chanting a sort of lament over his misfortunes, and
an appeal to the charity of travellers, in a loud, whining, yet
vigorous voice; promising his prayers to those who gave him of their
substance, and assuring them that they should surely go to Paradise as
a reward for their generosity. For some time before they came up with
him, Isabelle and de Sigognac had heard his doleful chant—much to the
annoyance of the latter; for when one is listening, entranced, to the
sweet singing of the nightingale, it is sorely vexatious to be intruded
upon by the discordant croaking of a raven. As they drew near to the
poor old blind man, they saw his little attendant bend down and whisper
in his ear, whereupon he redoubled his groans and supplications—at the
same time holding out towards them a small wooden bowl, in which were a
few coppers, and shaking it, so as to make them rattle as loudly as
possible, to attract their attention. He was a venerable looking old
man, with a long white beard, and seemed to be shivering with cold,
despite the great, thick, woollen cloak in which he was wrapped. The
child, a wild-looking little creature, whose scanty, tattered clothing
was but a poor protection against the stinging cold, shrunk timidly
from notice, and tried to hide himself behind his aged charge.
Isabelle’s tender heart was moved to pity at the sight of so much
misery, and she stopped in front of the forlorn little group while she
searched in her pocket for her purse—not finding it there she turned to
her companion and asked him to lend her a little money for the poor old
blind beggar, which the baron hastened to do—though he was thoroughly
out of patience with his whining jeremiads—and, to prevent Isabelle’s
coming in actual contact with him, stepped forward himself to deposit
the coins in his wooden bowl. Thereupon, instead of tearfully thanking
his benefactor and invoking blessings upon his head, after the usual
fashion of such gentry, the blind man—to Isabelle’s inexpressible
alarm—suddenly sprang to his feet, and straightening himself up with a
jerk, opened his arms wide, as a vulture spreads its wings for flight,
gathered up his ample cloak about his shoulders with lightning rapidity
and flung it from him with a quick, sweeping motion like that with
which the fisherman casts his net. The huge, heavy mantle spread itself
out like a dense cloud directly above de Sigognac, and falling over and
about him enveloped him from head to foot in its long, clinging folds,
held firmly down by the lead with which its edges were weighted—making
him a helpless prisoner—depriving him at once of sight and breath, and
of the use of his hands and feet. The young actress, wild with terror,
turned to fly and call for help, but before she could stir, or utter a
sound, a hand was clapped over her mouth, and she felt herself lifted
from the ground. The old blind beggar, who, as by a miracle, had
suddenly become young and active, and possessed of all his faculties,
had seized her by the shoulders, while the boy took her by the feet,
and they carried her swiftly and silently round a clump of bushes near
by to where a man on horseback and masked, was waiting for them. Two
other men, also mounted and masked, and armed to the teeth, were
standing close at hand, behind a wall that prevented their being seen
from the road. Poor Isabelle, nearly fainting with fright, was lifted
up in front of the first horseman, and seated on a cloak folded so as
to serve for a cushion; a broad leather strap being passed round her
waist, which also encircled that of the rider, to hold her securely in
her place. All this was done with great rapidity and dexterity, as if
her captors were accustomed to such manœuvres, and then the horseman,
who held her firmly with one hand, shook his bridle with the other,
drove his spurs into the horse’s sides, and was off like a flash—the
whole thing being done in less time than it takes to describe it.
Meanwhile de Sigognac was struggling fiercely and wildly under the
heavy cloak that enveloped him—like a gladiator entangled in his
adversary’s net—beside himself with rage and despair, as he gasped for
breath in his stifling prison, and realized that this diabolical
outrage must be the work of the Duke of Vallombreuse. Suddenly, like an
inspiration, the thought flashed into his mind of using his dagger to
free himself from the thick, clinging folds, that weighed him down like
the leaden cloaks of the wretched condemned spirits we read of with a
shudder in Dante’s Inferno. With two or three strong, quick strokes he
succeeded in cutting through it, and casting it from him, with a fierce
imprecation, perceived Isabelle’s abductors, still near at hand,
galloping across a neighbouring field, and apparently making for a
thick grove at a considerable distance from where he was standing. As
to the blind beggar and the child, they had disappeared—probably hiding
somewhere near by—but de Sigognac did not waste a second thought on
them; throwing off his own cloak, lest it should impede him, he started
swiftly in pursuit of the flying enemy and their fair prize, with fury
and despair in his heart. He was agile and vigorous, lithe of frame,
fleet of foot, the very figure for a runner, and he quickly began to
gain on the horsemen. As soon as they became aware of this one of them
drew a pistol from his girdle and fired at their pursuer, but missed
him; whereupon de Sigognac, bounding rapidly from side to side as he
ran, made it impossible for them to take aim at him, and effectually
prevented their arresting his course in that way. The man who had
Isabelle in front of him tried to ride on in advance, and leave the
other two to deal with the baron, but the young actress struggled so
violently on the horse’s neck, and kept clutching so persistently at
the bridle, that his rider could not urge him to his greatest speed.
Meantime de Sigognac was steadily gaining upon them; without slackening
his pace he had managed to draw his sword from the scabbard, and
brandished it aloft, ready for action, as he ran. It is true that he
was one against three—that he was on foot while they were on
horseback—but he had not time to consider the odds against him, and he
seemed possessed of the strength of a giant in Isabelle’s behalf.
Making a prodigious effort, he suddenly increased his speed, and coming
up with the two horsemen, who were a little behind the other one,
quickly disposed of them, by vigorously pricking their horses’ flanks
with the point of his sword; for, what with fright and pain, the
animals, after plunging violently, threw off all restraint and
bolted—dashing off across country as if the devil were after them, and
carrying their riders with them, just as de Sigognac had expected and
intended that they should do. The brave young baron was nearly
spent—panting, almost sobbing, as he struggled desperately on—feeling
as if his heart would burst at every agonizing throb; but he was indued
with supernatural strength and endurance, and as Isabelle’s voice
reached his ear calling, “Help, de Sigognac, help!” he cleared with a
bound the space that separated them, and leaping up to catch the broad
leathern strap that was passed round her and her captor, answered in a
hoarse, shrill tone, “I am here.” Clinging to the strap, he ran along
beside the galloping horse—like the grooms that the Romans called
_desultores_—and strove with all his might to pull the rider down out
of his saddle. He did not dare to use his sword to disable him, as they
struggled together, lest he should wound Isabelle also; and, meantime,
the man on horseback was trying his utmost to shake off his fierce
assailant-unsuccessfully, because he had both hands fully occupied with
his horse and his captive, who was doing all she could to slip from his
grasp, and throw herself into her lover’s arms. Loosing his hold on the
rein for a second, the horseman managed to draw a knife from his
girdle, and with one blow severed the strap to which the baron was
clinging; then, driving his spurs into the horse’s sides made the
frightened animal spring suddenly forward, while de Sigognac—who was
not prepared for this emergency, and found himself deprived of all
support—fell violently upon his back in the road. He was up again in an
instant, and flying after Isabelle, who was now being borne rapidly
away from him, and whose cries for help came more and more faintly to
his ear; but the moment he had lost made his pursuit hopeless, and he
knew that it was all in vain when he saw her disappear behind the
thicket her ravisher had been aiming for from the first. His heart sank
within him, and he staggered as he still ran feebly on—feeling now the
effects of his superhuman exertions, and fearing at each step that his
feet would carry him no farther. He was soon overtaken by Hérode and
Scapin, who, alarmed by the pistol shot, and fearing that something was
wrong, had started in hot pursuit, though the lackey who served them as
guide had done all that he possibly could to hinder them, and in a few
faltering words he told them what had occurred.
“Vallombreuse again!” cried the tyrant, with an oath. “But how the
devil did he get wind of our expedition to the Château de Pommereuil?
or can it be possible that it was all a plot from the beginning, and we
are bound on a fool’s errand? I really begin to think it must be so. If
it is true, I never saw a better actor in my life than that respectable
old major-domo, confound him! But let us make haste and search this
grove thoroughly; we may find some trace of poor Isabelle; sweet
creature that she is! Rough old tyrant though I be, my heart warms to
her, and I love her more tenderly than I do myself. Alas! I’m afraid,
that this poor, innocent, little fly is caught in the toils of a cruel
spider, who will take care never to let us get sight of her again.”
“I will crush him,” said de Sigognac, striking his heel savagely on the
ground, as if he actually had the spider under it. “I will crush the
life out of him, the venomous beast!” and the fierce, determined
expression of his usually calm, mild countenance showed that this was
no idle threat, but that he was terribly in earnest.
“Look,” cried Hérode, as they dashed through the thicket, “there they
are!”
They could just discern, through the screen of leafless but thickly
interlaced branches, a carriage, with all the curtains carefully
closed, and drawn by four horses lashed to a gallop, which was rapidly
rolling away from them in the distance. The two men whose horses had
run away with them had them again under control, and were riding on
either side of it—one of them leading the horse that had carried
Isabelle and her captor. _He_ was doubtless mounting guard over her in
the carriage—perhaps using force to keep her quiet—at thought of which
de Sigognac could scarcely control the transport of rage and agony that
shook him. Although the three pursuers followed the fugitives, as fast
as they could run, it was all of no avail, for they soon lost sight of
them altogether, and nothing remained to be done but to ascertain, if
possible, the direction they had taken, so as to have some clew to poor
Isabelle’s whereabouts. They had considerable difficulty in making out
the marks of the carriage wheels, for the roads were very dry; and when
at length they had succeeded in tracing them to a place where four
roads met they lost them entirely—it was utterly impossible to tell
which way they had gone. After a long and fruitless search they turned
back sorrowfully to join their companions, trying to devise some plan
for Isabelle’s rescue, but feeling acutely how hopeless it was. They
found the others in the chariot waiting for them, just where the tyrant
and Scapin had left them, for their false guide had put spurs to his
horse and ridden off after his confederates, as soon as he became aware
that their undertaking had proved successful. When Hérode asked an old
peasant woman, who came by with a bundle of fagots on her back, how far
it was to the Château de Pommereuil, she answered that there was no
place of that name anywhere in the country round. Upon being questioned
closely, she said that she had lived in the neighbourhood for seventy
years, knew every house within many leagues, and could positively
assure them that there was no such Château within a day’s journey. So
it was only too evident that they were the dupes of the clever agents
of the Duke of Vallombreuse, who had at last succeeded in getting
possession of Isabelle, as he had sworn that he would do. Accordingly,
all of the party turned back towards Paris, excepting de Sigognac, the
tyrant and Scapin, who had decided to go on to the next village, where
they hoped to be able to procure horses, with which to prosecute their
search for Isabelle and her abductors.
After the baron’s fall, she had been swiftly taken on to the other side
of the thicket, where the carriage stood awaiting her; then lifted down
from the horse and put into it, in spite of her frantic struggles and
remonstrances. The man who had held her in front of him got down also
and sprang in after her, closing the door with a bang, and instantly
they were off at a tremendous pace. He seated himself opposite to her,
and when she impetuously tried to pull aside the curtain, so that she
could see out of the window nearest to her, he respectfully but firmly
restrained her.
“Mademoiselle, I implore you to keep quiet,” he said, with the utmost
politeness, “and not oblige me to use forcible means to restrain so
charming and adorable a creature as your most lovely self. No harm
shall come to you—do not be afraid!—only kindness is intended;
therefore I beseech you do not persist in vain resistance. If you will
only submit quietly, you shall be treated with as much consideration
and respect as a captive queen, but if you go on acting like the devil,
struggling and shrieking, I have means to bring you to terms, and I
shall certainly resort to them. _This_ will stop your screaming,
mademoiselle, and _this_ will prevent your struggling.”
As he spoke he drew out of his pocket a small gag, very artistically
made, and a long, thick, silken cord, rolled up into a ball.
“It would be barbarous indeed,” he continued, “to apply such a thing as
this to that sweet, rosy mouth of yours, mademoiselle, as I am sure
that you will admit—or to bind together those pretty, delicate, little
wrists, upon which no worse fetters than diamond bracelets should ever
be placed.”
Poor Isabelle, furious and frightened though she was, could not but
acknowledge to herself that further physical resistance then would be
worse than useless, and determined to spare herself at least such
indignities as she was at that moment threatened with; so, without
vouchsafing a word to her attendant, she threw herself back into the
corner of the carriage, closed her eyes, and tried to keep perfectly
still. But in spite of her utmost endeavours she could not altogether
repress an occasional sob, nor hold back the great tears that welled
forth from under her drooping eyelids and rolled down over her pale
cheeks, as she thought of de Sigognac’s despair and her own danger.
“After the nervous excitement comes the moist stage;” said her masked
guardian to himself, “things are following their usual and natural
course. I am very glad of it, for I should have greatly disliked to be
obliged to act a brutal part with such a sweet, charming girl as this.”
Now and then Isabelle opened her eyes and cast a timid glance at her
abductor, who finally said to her, in a voice he vainly strove to
render soft and mild:
“You need not be afraid of me, mademoiselle! I would not harm you in
any way for the world. If fortune had been more generous to me I
certainly would never have undertaken this enterprise against such a
lovely, gentle young lady as you are; but poor men like me are driven
to all sorts of expedients to earn a little money; they have to take
whatever comes within their reach, and sacrifice their scruples to
their necessities.”
“You do admit then,” said Isabelle vehemently, “that you have been
bribed to carry me off? An infamous, cruel, outrageous thing it is.”
“After what I have had to do,” he replied, “it would be idle to deny
it. There are a good many philosophers like myself in Paris,
mademoiselle, who, instead of indulging in love affairs, and intrigues
of various sorts, of their own, interest themselves in those of other
people, and, for a consideration, make use of their courage, ingenuity
and strength to further them. But to change the subject, how charming
you were in that last new play! You went through the scene of the
avowal with a grace I have never seen equalled. I applauded you to the
echo; the pair of hands that kept it up so perseveringly and
vigorously, you know, belonged to me.”
“I beg you to dispense with these ill-judged remarks and compliments,
and to tell me where you are taking me, in this strange, outrageous
manner, against my will, and, in despite of all the ordinary usages of
civilized society.”
“I cannot tell you that, mademoiselle, and besides, it would do you no
sort of good to know. In our profession, you see, we are obliged to
observe as much secrecy and discretion as confessors and physicians.
Indeed, in such affairs as this we often do not know the names of the
parties we are working for ourselves.”
“Do you mean to say that you do not know who has employed you to commit
this abominable, cruel crime?”
“It makes no difference whether I know his name or not, since I am not
at liberty to disclose it to you. Think over your numerous admirers,
mademoiselle! the most ardent and least favoured one among them would
probably be at the bottom of all this.”
Finding that she could not get any information from him, Isabelle
desisted, and did not speak again. She had not the slightest doubt that
the Duke of Vallombreuse was the author of this new and daring
enterprise. The significant and threatening way in which he had said
“_au revoir, mademoiselle_,” as he quitted her presence after she had
repulsed him a few days before, had haunted her, and she had been in
constant dread ever since of some new outrage. She hoped, against hope,
that de Sigognac, her valiant lover, would yet come to her rescue, and
thought proudly of the gallant deeds he had already done in her behalf
that day—but how was he to find out where to seek her?
“If worst comes to worst,” she said to herself, “I still have
Chiquita’s knife, and I can and will escape from my persecutor in that
way, if all other means fail.”
For two long hours she sat motionless, a prey to sad and terrible
thoughts and fears, while the carriage rolled swiftly on without
slackening its speed, save once, for a moment, when they changed
horses. As the curtains were all lowered, she could not catch even a
glimpse of the country she was passing through, nor tell in what
direction she was being driven. At last she heard the hollow sound of a
drawbridge under the wheels; the carriage stopped, and her masked
companion, promptly opening the door, jumped nimbly out and helped her
to alight. She cast a hurried glance round her, as she stepped down,
saw that she was in a large, square court, and that all the tall,
narrow windows in the high brick walls that surrounded it had their
inside shutters carefully closed. The stone pavement of the spacious
courtyard was in some places partly covered with moss, and a few weeds
had sprung up in the corners, and along the edges by the walls. At the
foot of a broad, easy flight of steps, leading up to a covered porch,
two majestic Egyptian sphinxes lay keeping guard; their huge rounded
flanks mottled here and there with patches of moss and lichens.
Although the large château looked lonely and deserted, it had a grand,
lordly air, and seemed to be kept in perfect order and repair. Isabelle
was led up the steps and into the vestibule by the man who had brought
her there, and then consigned to the care of a respectable-looking
majordomo, who preceded her up a magnificent staircase, and into a
suite of rooms furnished with the utmost luxury and elegance. Passing
through the first—which was enriched with fine old carvings in oak,
dark with age—he left her in a spacious, admirably proportioned
apartment, where a cheery wood fire was roaring up the huge chimney,
and she saw a bed in a curtained alcove. She chanced to catch sight of
her own face in the mirror over an elaborately furnished
dressing-table, as she passed it, and was startled and shocked at its
ghastly pallor and altered expression; she scarcely could recognise it,
and felt as if she had seen a ghost—poor Isabelle! Over the high,
richly ornamented chimney-piece hung a portrait of a gentleman, which,
as she approached the fire, at once caught and riveted her attention.
The face seemed strangely familiar to her, and yet she could not
remember where she had seen it before. It was pale, with large, black
eyes, full red lips, and wavy brown hair, thrown carelessly back from
it-apparently the likeness of a man about forty years of age and it had
a charming air of nobility and lofty pride, tempered with benevolence
and tenderness, which was inexpressibly attractive. The portrait was
only half-length—the breast being covered with a steel cuirass, richly
inlaid with gold, which was partly concealed by a white scarf, loosely
knotted over it. Isabelle, despite her great alarm and anxiety, could
not long withdraw her eyes or her thoughts from this picture, which
seemed to exert a strange fascination over her. There was something
about it that at the first glance resembled the Duke of Vallombreuse,
but the expression was so different that the likeness disappeared
entirely upon closer examination. It brought vague memories to
Isabelle’s mind that she tried in vain to seize—she felt as if she must
be looking at it in a dream. She was still absorbed in reverie before
it when the major-domo reappeared, followed by two lackeys, in quiet
livery, carrying a small table set for one person, which they put down
near the fire; and as one of them took the cover off an old-fashioned,
massive silver tureen, he announced to Isabelle that her dinner was
ready. The savoury odour from the smoking soup was very tempting, and
she was very hungry; but after she had mechanically seated herself and
dipped her spoon into the broth, it suddenly occurred to her that the
food might contain a narcotic—such things had been done—and she pushed
away the plate in front of her in alarm. The major-domo, who was
standing at a respectful distance watching her, ready to anticipate her
every wish, seemed to divine her thought, for he advanced to the table
and deliberately partook of all the viands upon it, as well as of the
wine and water—as if to prove to her that there was nothing wrong or
unusual about them. Isabelle was somewhat reassured by this, and
feeling that she would probably have need of all her strength, did
bring herself to eat and drink, though very sparingly. Then, quitting
the table, she sat down in a large easy-chair in front of the fire to
think over her terrible position, and endeavour to devise some means of
escape from it. When the servants had attended to their duties and left
her alone again, she rose languidly and walked slowly to the
window—feeling as weak as though she had had a severe illness, after
the violent emotions and terrors of the day, and as if she had aged
years in the last few hours. Could it be possible that only that very
morning she and de Sigognac had been walking together, with hearts full
of happiness and peace—and she had rapturously hailed the appearance of
the first spring violet as an omen of good, and gathered the sweet
little blossom to bestow upon the devoted lover who adored her? And
now, alas! alas! they were as inexorably and hopelessly separated as if
half the globe lay between them. No wonder that her breast heaved
tumultuously with choking sobs, and hot tears rained down over her
pallid cheeks, as she wept convulsively at the thought of all she had
lost. But she did not long indulge her grief—she remembered that at any
moment she might have need of all her coolness and fortitude—and making
a mighty effort, like the brave heroine that she was, she regained
control over herself, and drove back the gushing tears to await a more
fitting season. She was relieved to find that there were no bars at the
window, as she had feared; but upon opening the casement and leaning
out she saw immediately beneath her a broad moat, full of stagnant
water, which surrounded the château, and forbade any hope of succour or
escape on that side. Beyond the moat was a thick grove of large trees,
which entirely shut out the view; and she returned to her seat by the
fire, more disheartened and cast down than ever. She was very nervous,
and trembled at the slightest sound—casting hasty, terrified glances
round the vast apartment, and dreading lest an unseen door in some
shadowy corner should be softly opened, or a hidden panel in the wall
be slipped aside, to admit her relentless enemy to her presence. She
remembered all the horrible tales she had ever heard of secret passages
and winding staircases in the walls, that are supposed to abound in
ancient castles; and the mysterious visitants, both human and
supernatural, that are said to be in the habit of issuing from them, in
the gloaming, and at midnight. As the twilight deepened into darkness,
her terror increased, and she nearly fainted from fright when a servant
suddenly entered with lights.
While poor Isabelle was suffering such agony in one part of the
château, her abductors were having a grand carouse in another. They
were to remain there for a while as a sort of garrison, in case of an
attack by de Sigognac and his friends; and were gathered round the
table in a large room down on the ground floor—as remote as possible
from Isabelle’s sumptuous quarters. They were all drinking like
sponges, and making merry over their wine and good cheer, but one of
them especially showed the most remarkable and astounding powers of
ingurgitation—it was the man who had carried off the fair prize before
him on his horse; and, now that the mask was thrown aside, he disclosed
to view the deathly pale face and fiery red nose of Malartic, bosom
friend and “_alter ego_” of Maître Jacquemin Lampourde.