VALLOMBREUSE
Isabelle sat for a long time perfectly motionless in her luxurious
chamber, sunk in a sad reverie, apparently entirely oblivious of the
glow of light, warmth, and comfort that closed her in—glancing up
occasionally at the portrait over the chimney-piece, which seemed to be
smiling down upon her and promising her protection and peace, while it
more than ever reminded her of some dear face she had known and loved
long ago. After a time, however, her mood changed. She grew restless,
and rising, began to wander aimlessly about the room; but her
uneasiness only increased, and finally, in desperation, she resolved to
venture out into the corridor and look about her, no matter at what
risk. Anything would be better than this enforced inactivity and
suspense. She tried the door with a trembling hand, dreading to find
herself locked in, but it was not fastened, and seeing that all was
dark outside, she took up a small lamp, that had been left burning on a
side table, and boldly setting forth, went softly down the long flight
of stairs, in the hope of finding some means of exit from the château
on the lower floor. At the foot of the stairs she came to a large
double door, one leaf of which yielded easily when she timidly tried to
open it, but creaked dolefully as it turned on its hinges. She
hesitated for a moment, fearing that the noise would alarm the servants
and bring them out to see what was amiss; but no one came, and taking
fresh courage, she moved on and passed into a lofty, vaulted hall, with
high-backed, oaken benches ranged against the tapestry-covered walls,
upon which hung several large trophies of arms, and sundry swords,
shields, and steel gauntlets, which caught and flashed back the light
from her lamp as she held it up to examine them. The air was heavy,
chilly, and damp. An awful stillness reigned in this deserted hall.
Isabelle shivered as she crept slowly along, and nearly stumbled
against a huge table, with massive carved feet, that stood in the
centre of the tesselated marble pavement. She was making for a door,
opposite the one by which she had entered; but, as she approached it,
was horror-stricken when she perceived two tall men, clad in armour,
standing like sentinels, one on either side of it. She stopped short,
then tried to turn and fly, but was so paralyzed with terror that she
could not stir, expecting every instant that they would pounce upon her
and take her prisoner, while she bitterly repented her temerity in
having ventured to leave her own room, and vainly wished herself back
by the quiet fireside there. Meanwhile the two dread figures stood as
motionless as herself—the silence was unbroken, and “the beating of her
own heart was the only sound she heard.” So at last she plucked up
courage to look more closely at the grim sentinels, and could not help
smiling at her own needless alarm, when she found that they were suits
of armour, indeed, but without men inside of them—just such as one sees
standing about in the ancient royal palaces of France. Passing them
with a saucy glance of defiance, and a little triumphant toss of the
head, Isabelle entered a vast dining room, with tall, sculptured
buffets, on which stood many superb vessels of gold and silver,
together with delicate specimens of exquisite Venetian and Bohemian
glass, and precious pieces of fine porcelain, fit for a king’s table.
Large handsome chairs, with carved backs, were standing round the great
dining-table, and the walls, above the heavy oaken wainscot, were hung
with richly embossed Cordova leather, glowing with warm, bright tints
and golden arabesques.
She did not linger to examine and admire all the beautified things
dimly revealed to her by the feeble light of her small lamp, but
hurried on to the third door, which opened into an apartment yet more
spacious and magnificent than the other two. At one end of it was a
lordly dais, raised three steps above the inlaid floor, upon which
stood a splendid great arm-chair, almost a throne, under a canopy
emblazoned with a brilliant coat of arms and surmounted by a tuft of
nodding plumes. Still hurrying on, Isabelle next entered a sumptuous
bed-chamber, and, as she paused for an instant to hold up her lamp and
look about her, fancied that she could hear the regular breathing of a
sleeper in the immense bed, behind the crimson silk curtains which were
closely drawn around it. She did not dare to stop and investigate the
matter, but flew on her way, as lightly as any bird, and next found
herself in a library, where the white busts surmounting the well-filled
book-cases stared down at her with their hard, stony eyes, and made her
shudder as she nervously sought for an exit, without delaying one
moment to glance at the great variety of curious and beautiful objects
scattered lavishly about, which, under any ordinary circumstances,
would have held her enthralled.
Running at right angles with the library, and opening out of it, was
the picture gallery, where the family portraits were arranged in
chronological order on one side, while opposite to them was a long row
of windows, looking into the court. The shutters were closed, but near
the top of each one was a small circular opening, through which the
moon shone and faintly lighted the dusky gallery, striking here and
there directly upon the face of a portrait, with an indescribably weird
and startling effect. It required all of Isabelle’s really heroic
courage to keep on past the long line of strange faces, looking down
mockingly it seemed to her from their proud height upon her trembling
form as she glided swiftly by, and she was thankful to find, at the end
of the gallery, a glass door opening out upon the court. It was not
fastened, and after carefully placing her lamp in a sheltered corner,
where no draughts could reach it, she stepped out under the stars. It
was a relief to find herself breathing freely in the fresh, pure air,
though she was actually no less a prisoner than before, and as she
stood looking up into the clear evening sky, and thinking of her own
true lover, she seemed to feel new courage and hope springing up in her
heart.
In one corner of the court she saw a strong light shining out through
the crevices in the shutters that closed several low windows, and heard
sounds of revelry from the same direction—the only signs of life she
had detected about the whole place. Her curiosity was excited by them,
and she stole softly over towards the quarter from whence they came,
keeping carefully in the shadow of the wall, and glancing anxiously
about to make sure that no one was furtively watching her. Finding a
considerable aperture in one of the wooden shutters she peeped through
it, and saw a party of men gathered around a table, eating and drinking
and making merry in a very noisy fashion. The light from a lamp with
three burners, which was suspended by a copper chain from the low
ceiling, fell full upon them, and although she had only seen them
masked before, Isabelle instantly recognised those who had been
concerned in her abduction. At the head of the table sat Malartic,
whose extraordinary face was paler and nose redder than ever, and at
sight of whom the young girl shuddered and drew back. When she had
recovered herself a little, she looked in again upon the repulsive
scene, and was surprised to see, at the other end of the table, and
somewhat apart from the others, Agostino, the brigand, who had now laid
aside the long white beard in which he had played the part of the old
blind beggar so successfully. A great deal of loud talking was going
on, constantly interrupted by bursts of laughter, but Isabelle could
not hear distinctly enough through the closed window to make out what
they were saying. Even if she had been actually in the room with them,
she would have found much of their conversation incomprehensible, as it
was largely made up of the extraordinary slang of the Paris street
Arabs and rascals generally. From time to time one or the other of the
participants in this orgy seemed to propose a toast, whereupon they
would all clink their glasses together before raising them to their
lips, drain them at a draught, and applaud vociferously, while there
was a constant drawing of corks and placing of fresh bottles on the
table by the servant who was waiting upon them. Just as Isabelle,
thoroughly disgusted with the brutality of the scene before her, was
about to turn away, Malartic rapped loudly on the table to obtain a
hearing, and after making a proposition, which met with ready and
cordial assent, rose from his seat, cleared his throat, and began to
sing, or rather shout, a ribald song, all the others joining in the
chorus, with horrible grimaces and gesticulations, which so frightened
poor Isabelle that she could scarcely find strength to creep away from
the loathsome spectacle.
Before re-entering the house she went to look at the drawbridge, with a
faint hope that she might chance upon some unexpected means of escape,
but all was secure there, and a little postern, opening on the moat,
which she discovered near by, was also carefully fastened, with bolts
and bars strong enough to keep out an army. As these seemed to be the
only means of exit from the château, she felt that she was a prisoner
indeed, and understood why it had not been deemed necessary to lock any
of the inner doors against her. She walked slowly back to the gallery,
entered it by the glass door, found her lamp burning tranquilly just
where she had left it, retraced her steps swiftly through the long
suite of spacious apartments already described and flew up the grand
staircase to her own room, congratulating herself upon not having been
detected in her wanderings. She put her lamp down in the antechamber,
but paused in terror on the threshold of the inner room, stifling a
shriek that had nearly escaped her as she caught sight of a strange,
wild figure crouching on the hearth. But her fears were short-lived,
for with an exclamation of delight the intruder sprang towards her and
she saw that it was Chiquita—but Chiquita in boy’s clothes.
“Have you got the knife yet?” said the strange little creature abruptly
to Isabelle—“the knife with three bonny red marks.”
“Yes, Chiquita, I have it here in my bosom,” she replied. “But why do
you ask? Is my life in danger?”
“A knife,” said the child with fierce, sparkling eyes, “a knife is a
faithful friend and servant; it never betrays or fails its master, if
he is careful to give it a drink now and then, for a knife is often
thirsty you know.”
“You frighten me, you naughty child!” exclaimed Isabelle, much troubled
and agitated by these sinister, extravagant words, which perhaps, she
thought, might be intended as a friendly warning.
“Sharpen the edge on the marble of the chimney-piece, like this,”
continued Chiquita, “and polish the blade on the sole of your shoe.”
“Why do you tell me all this?” cried Isabelle, turning very pale.
“For nothing in particular, only he who would defend himself gets his
weapons ready—that’s all.”
These odd, fierce phrases greatly alarmed Isabelle, yet Chiquita’s
presence in her room was a wonderful relief and comfort to her. The
child apparently cherished a warm and sincere affection for her, which
was none the less genuine because of its having arisen from such a
trivial incident—for the pearl beads were more precious than diamonds
to Chiquita. She had given a voluntary promise to Isabelle never to
kill or harm her, and with her strange, wild, yet exalted notions of
honour she looked upon it as a solemn obligation and vow, by which she
must always abide—for there was a certain savage nobility in Chiquita’s
character, and she could be faithful unto death. Isabelle was the only
human being, excepting Agostino, who had been kind to her. She had
smiled upon the unkempt child, and given her the coveted necklace, and
Chiquita loved her for it, while she adored her beauty. Isabelle’s
sweet countenance, so angelically mild and pure, exercised a wonderful
influence over the neglected little savage, who had always been
surrounded by fierce, haggard faces, expressive of every evil passion,
and disfigured by indulgence in the lowest vices, and excesses of every
kind.
“But how does it happen that you are here, Chiquita?” asked Isabelle,
after a short silence. “Were you sent to keep guard over me?”
“No, I came alone and of my own accord,” answered Chiquita, “because I
saw the light and fire. I was tired of lying all cramped up in a
corner, and keeping quiet, while those beastly men drank bottle after
bottle of wine, and gorged themselves with the good things set before
them. I am so little, you know, so young and slender, that they pay no
more attention to me than they would to a kitten asleep under the
table. While they were making a great noise I slipped quietly away
unperceived. The smell of the wine and the food sickened me. I am used
to the sweet perfume of the heather, and the pure resinous odour of the
pines. I cannot breathe in such an atmosphere as there is down below
there.”
“And you were not afraid to wander alone, without a light, through the
long, dark corridors, and the lonely, deserted rooms?”
“Chiquita does not know what it is to be afraid—her eyes can see in the
dark, and her feet never stumble. The very owls shut their eyes when
they meet her, and the bats fold their wings when she comes near their
haunts. Wandering ghosts stand aside to let her pass, or turn back when
they see her approaching. Night is her comrade and hides no secrets
from her, and Chiquita never betrays them to the day.”
Her eyes flashed and dilated as she spoke, and Isabelle looked at her
with growing wonder, not unmixed with a vague sensation of fear.
“I like much better to stay here, in this heavenly quiet, by the fire
with you,” continued the child, “than down there in all the uproar. You
are so beautiful that I love to look at you-you are like the Blessed
Virgin that I have seen shining above the altar. Only from afar though,
for they always chase me out of the churches with the dogs, because I
am so shabby and forlorn. How white your hand is! Mine looks like a
monkey’s paw beside it—and your hair is as fine and soft as silk, while
mine is all rough and tangled. Oh! I am so horribly ugly—you must think
so too.”
“No, my dear child,” Isabelle replied, touched by her naive expressions
of affection and admiration, “I do not think so. You have beauty
too—you only need to make yourself neat and clean to be as pretty a
little girl as one would wish to see.”
“Do you really think so? Are you telling me true? I would steal fine
clothes if they would make me pretty, for then Agostino would love me.”
This idea brought a little flush of colour to her thin brown cheeks,
and for a few minutes she seemed lost in a pleasant reverie.
“Do you know where we are?” asked Isabelle, when Chiquita looked up at
her again.
“In a château that belongs to the great seignior who has so much money,
and who wanted to carry you off at Poitiers. I had only to draw the
bolt and it would have been done then. But you gave me the pearl
necklace, and I love you, and I would not do anything you did not
like.”
“Yet you have helped to carry me off this time,” said Isabelle
reproachfully. “Is it because you don’t love me any more that you have
given me up to my enemies?”
“Agostino ordered me, and I had to obey; besides, some other child
could have played guide to the blind man as well as I, and then I could
not have come into the château with you, do you see?—here I may be able
to do something to help you. I am brave, active and strong, though I am
so small, and quick as lightning too—and I shall not let anybody harm
you.”
“Is this château very far from Paris?” asked Isabelle, drawing Chiquita
up on her lap. “Did you hear any one mention the name of this place?”
“Yes, one of them called it—now what was it?” said the child, looking
up at the ceiling and absently scratching her head, as if to stimulate
her memory.
“Try to remember it, my child!” said Isabelle, softly stroking
Chiquita’s brown cheeks, which flushed with delight at the unwonted
caress—no one had ever petted the poor child in her life before.
“I think that it was Val-lom-breuse,” said Chiquita at last,
pronouncing the syllables separately and slowly, as if listening to an
inward echo. “Yes, Vallombreuse, I am sure of it now. It is the name of
the seignior that your Captain Fracasse wounded in a duel—he would have
done much better if he had killed him outright—saved a great deal of
trouble to himself and to you. He is very wicked, that rich duke,
though he does throw his gold about so freely by the handfuls—just like
a man sowing grain. You hate him, don’t you? and you would be glad if
you could get away from him, eh?”
“Oh yes, indeed!” cried Isabelle impetuously. “But alas! it is
impossible—a deep moat runs all around this château the drawbridge is
up, the postern securely fastened—there is no way of escape.”
“Chiquita laughs at bolts and bars, at high walls and deep moats.
Chiquita can get out of the best guarded prison whenever she pleases,
and fly away to the moon, right before the eyes of her astonished
jailer. If you choose, before the sun rises your Captain Fracasse shall
know where the treasure that he seeks is hidden.”
Isabelle was afraid, when she heard these incoherent phrases, that the
child was not quite sane, but her little face was so calm, her dark
eyes so clear and steady, her voice so earnest, and she spoke with such
an air of quiet conviction, that the supposition was not admissible,
and the strange little creature did seem to be possessed of some of the
magic powers she claimed. As if to convince Isabelle that she was not
merely boasting, she continued, “Let me think a moment, to make a
plan—don’t speak nor move, for the least sound interferes with me—I
must listen to the spirit.”
Chiquita bent down her head, put her hand over her eyes, and remained
for several minutes perfectly motionless; then she raised her head and
without a word went and opened the window, clambered up on the sill,
and gazed out intently into the darkness.
“Is she really going to take flight?” said Isabelle to herself, as she
anxiously watched Chiquita’s movements, not knowing what to expect.
Exactly opposite to the window, on the other side of the moat, was an
immense tree, very high and old, whose great branches, spreading out
horizontally, overhung the water; but the longest of them did not reach
the wall of the château by at least ten feet. It was upon this tree,
however, that Chiquita’s plan for escape depended. She turned away from
the window, drew from her pocket a long cord made of horse-hair, very
fine and strong, which she carefully unrolled to its full length and
laid upon the floor; then produced from another pocket an iron hook,
which she fastened securely to the cord. This done to her satisfaction,
she went to the window again, and threw the end of the cord with the
hook into the branches of the tree. The first time she was
unsuccessful; the iron hook fell and struck against the stone wall
beneath the casement; but at the second attempt the hook caught and
held, and Chiquita, drawing the cord taut, asked Isabelle to take hold
of it and bear her whole weight on it, until the branch was bent as far
as possible towards the château—coming five or six feet nearer to the
window where they were. Then Chiquita tied the cord firmly to the
ornamental iron railing of the tiny balcony, with a knot that could not
slip, climbed over, and grasping the cord with both hands, swung
herself off, and hung suspended over the waters of the moat far below.
Isabelle held her breath. With a rapid motion of the hands Chiquita
crossed the clear space, reached the tree safely, and climbed down into
it with the agility of a monkey.
“Now undo the knot so that I can take the cord with me,” she said, in a
low but very distinct tone of voice to Isabelle, who began to breathe
freely again, “unless, indeed, you would like to follow me. But you
would be frightened and dizzy, and might fall, so you had better stay
where you are. Good-bye! I am going straight to Paris, and shall soon
be back again; I can get on quickly in this bright moonlight.”
Isabelle did as she was bid, and the branch, being no longer held by
the cord, swung back to its original position. In less than a minute
Chiquita had scrambled down to the ground, and the captive soon lost
sight of her slender little figure as she walked off briskly towards
the capital.
All that had just occurred seemed like a strange dream to Isabelle, now
that she found herself alone again. She remained for some time at the
open casement, looking at the great tree opposite, and trembling as she
realized the terrible risk Chiquita had run for her sake—feeling warm
gratitude and tender affection for the wild, incomprehensible little
creature, who manifested such a strong attachment for herself, and a
new hope sprang up in her heart as she thought that now de Sigognac
would soon know where to find her. The cold night air at last forced
her to close the window, and after arranging the curtains over it
carefully, so as to show no signs of having been disturbed, she
returned to her easy-chair by the fire; and just in time, for she had
scarcely seated herself when the major-domo entered, followed by the
two servants, again carrying the little table, set for one, with her
supper daintily arranged upon it. A few minutes earlier and Chiquita’s
escape would have been discovered and prevented. Isabelle, still
greatly agitated by all that had passed, could not eat, and signed to
the servants to remove the supper untouched. Whereupon the major-domo
himself put some bread and wine on a small table beside the bed, and
placed on a chair near the fire a richly trimmed dressing-gown, and
everything that a lady could require in making her toilet for the
night. Several large logs of wood were piled up on the massive
andirons, the candles were renewed, and then the major-domo,
approaching Isabelle with a profound obeisance, said to her that if she
desired the services of a maid he would send one to her. As she made a
gesture of dissent he withdrew, after again bowing to her most
respectfully. When they had all gone, Isabelle, quite worn out, threw
herself down on the outside of the bed without undressing, so as to be
ready in case of any sudden alarm in the night; then took out
Chiquita’s knife, opened it, and laid it beside her. Having taken these
precautions, she closed her eyes, and hoped that she could for a while
forget her troubles in sleep; but she had been so much excited and
agitated that her nerves were all quivering, and it was long before she
even grew drowsy. There were so many strange, incomprehensible noises
in the great, empty house to disturb and startle her; and in her own
room, the cracking of the furniture, the ticking of a death-watch in
the wall near her bed, the gnawing of a rat behind the wainscot, the
snapping of the fire. At each fresh sound she started up in terror,
with her poor heart throbbing as if it would burst out of her breast, a
cold perspiration breaking out on her forehead, and trembling in every
limb. At last, however, weary nature had to succumb, and she fell into
a deep sleep, which lasted until she was awakened by the sun shining on
her face. Her first thought was to wonder that she had not yet seen the
Duke of Vallombreuse; but she was thankful for his absence, and hoped
that it would continue until Chiquita should have brought de Sigognac
to the rescue.
The reason why the young duke had not yet made his appearance was one
of policy. He had taken especial pains to show himself at Saint Germain
on the day of the abduction—had joined the royal hunting party, and
been exceedingly and unwontedly affable to all who happened to come in
contact with him. In the evening he had played at cards, and lost
ostentatiously sums that would have been of importance to a less
wealthy man—being all the time in a very genial mood—especially after
the arrival of a mounted messenger, who brought him a little note. Thus
the duke’s desire to be able to establish an incontestable alibi, in
case of need, had spared Isabelle thus far the infliction of his hated
presence; but while she was congratulating herself upon it, and
welcoming the sunshine that streamed into her room, she heard the
drawbridge being let down, and immediately after a carriage dashed over
it and thundered into the court. Her heart sank, for who would be
likely to enter in that style save the master of the house? Her face
grew deathly pale, she reeled, and for one dreadful moment felt as if
she should faint; but, rallying her courage, she reminded herself that
Chiquita had gone to bring de Sigognac to her aid, and determined
afresh to meet bravely whatever trials might be in store for her, until
her beloved knight and champion should arrive, to rescue her from her
terrible danger and irksome imprisonment. Her eyes involuntarily sought
the portrait over the chimney-piece, and after passionately invoking
it, and imploring its aid and protection, as if it had been her patron
saint, she felt a certain sense of ease and security, as if what she
had so earnestly entreated would really be accorded to her.
A full hour had elapsed, which the young duke had employed in the
duties of the toilet, and in snatching a few minutes of repose after
his rapid night-journey, when the major-domo presented himself, and
asked respectfully if Isabelle would receive the Duke of Vallombreuse.
“I am a prisoner,” she replied, with quiet dignity, “and this demand,
which would be fitting and polite in any ordinary case, is only a
mockery when addressed to one in my position. I have no means of
preventing your master’s coming into this room, nor can I quit it to
avoid him. I do not accept his visit but submit to it. He must do as he
pleases about it, and come and go when he likes. He allows me no choice
in the matter. Go and tell him exactly what I have said to you.”
The major-domo bowed low, and retired backward to the door, having
received strict orders to treat Isabelle with the greatest respect and
consideration. In a few minutes he returned, and announced the Duke of
Vallombreuse.
Isabelle half rose from her chair by the fire, but turned very pale and
fell back into it, as her unwelcome visitor made his appearance at the
door. He closed it and advanced slowly towards her, hat in hand, but
when he perceived that she was trembling violently, and looked ready to
faint, he stopped in the middle of the room, made a low bow, and said
in his most dulcet, persuasive tones:
“If my presence is too unbearably odious now to the charming Isabelle,
and she would like to have a little time to get used to the thought of
seeing me, I will withdraw. She is my prisoner, it is true, but I am
none the less her slave.”
“This courtesy is tardy,” Isabelle replied coldly, “after the violence
you have made use of against me.”
“That is the natural result,” said the duke, with a smile, “of pushing
people to extremity by a too obstinate and prolonged resistance. Having
lost all hope, they stop at nothing—knowing that they cannot make
matters any worse, whatever they do. If you had only been willing to
suffer me to pay my court to you in the regular way, and shown a little
indulgence to my love, I should have quietly remained among the ranks
of your passionate adorers; striving, by dint of delicate attentions,
chivalrous devotion, magnificent offerings, and respectful yet ardent
solicitations, to soften that hard heart of yours. If I could not have
succeeded in inspiring it with love for me, I might at least have
awakened in it that tender pity which is akin to love, and which is so
often only its forerunner. In the end, perhaps, you would have repented
of your cruel severity, and acknowledged that you had been unjust
towards me. Believe me, my charming Isabelle, I should have neglected
nothing to bring it about.”
“If you had employed only honest and honourable means in your suit,”
Isabelle rejoined, “I should have felt very sorry that I had been so
unfortunate as to inspire an attachment I could not reciprocate, and
would have given you my warm sympathy, and friendly regard, instead of
being reluctantly compelled, by repeated outrages, to hate you instead.
“You do hate me then?—you acknowledge it?” the duke cried, his voice
trembling with rage; but he controlled himself, and after a short pause
continued, in a gentler tone, “Yet I do not deserve it. My only wrongs
towards you, if any there be, have come from the excess and ardour of
my love; and what woman, however chaste and virtuous, can be seriously
angry with a gallant gentleman because he has been conquered by the
power of her adorable charms? whether she so desired or not.”
“Certainly, that is not a reason for dislike or anger, my lord, if the
suitor does not overstep the limits of respect, as all women will
agree. But when his insolent impatience leads him to commit excesses,
and he resorts to fraud, abduction, and imprisonment, as you have not
hesitated to do, there is no other result possible than an
unconquerable aversion. Coercion is always and inevitably revolting to
a nature that has any proper pride or delicacy. Love, true love, is
divine, and cannot be furnished to order, or extorted by violence. It
is spontaneous, and freely given—not to be bought, nor yet won by
importunity.”
“Is an unconquerable aversion then all that I am to expect from you?”
said Vallombreuse, who had become pale to ghastliness, and been
fiercely gnawing his under lip, while Isabelle was speaking, in her
sweet, clear tones, which fell on his ear like the soft chiming of
silver bells, and only served to enhance his devouring passion.
“There is yet one means of winning my friendship and gratitude—be noble
and generous, and give me back the liberty of which you have deprived
me. Let me return to my companions, who must be anxiously seeking for
me, and suffering keenly because of their fears for my safety. Let me
go and resume my lowly life as an actress, before this outrageous
affair—which may irreparably injure my reputation—has become generally
known, or my absence from the theatre been remarked by the public.”
“How unfortunate it is,” cried the duke, angrily, “that you should ask
of me the only thing I cannot do for you. If you had expressed your
desire for an empire, a throne, I would have given it to you—or if you
had wished for a star, I would have climbed up into the heavens to get
it for you. But here you calmly ask me to open the door of this cage,
little bird, to which you would never come back of your own accord, if
I were stupid enough to let you go. It is impossible! I know well that
you love me so little, or rather hate me so much, that you would never
see me again of your own free will—that my only chance of enjoying your
charming society is to lock you up—keep you my prisoner. However much
it may cost my pride, I must do it—for I can no more live without you
than a plant without the light. My thoughts turn to you as the
heliotrope to the sun. Where you are not, all is darkness for me. If
what I have dared to do is a crime, I must make the best of it, and
profit by it as much as I can—for you would never forgive nor overlook
it, whatever you may say now. Here at least I have you—I hold you. I
can surround you with my love and care, and strive to melt the ice of
your coldness by the heat of my passion. Your eyes must behold me—your
ears must listen to my voice. I shall exert an influence over you, if
only by the alarm and detestation I am so unfortunate as to inspire in
your gentle breast; the sound of my footsteps in your antechamber will
make you start and tremble. And then, besides all that, this captivity
separates you effectually from the miserable fellow you fancy that you
love—and whom I abhor; because he has dared to turn your heart away
from me. I can at least enjoy this small satisfaction, of keeping you
from him; and I will not let you go free to return to him—you may be
perfectly sure of that, my fair lady!”
“And how long do you intend to keep me captive?—not like a Christian
gentleman, but like a lawless corsair.”
“Until you have learned to love me—or at least to say that you have,
which amounts to the same thing.”
Then he made her a low bow, and departed, with as self-satisfied and
jaunty an air as if he had been in truth a favoured suitor. Half an
hour later a lackey brought in a beautiful bouquet, of the rarest and
choicest flowers, while the stems were clasped by a magnificent
bracelet, fit for a queen’s wearing. A little piece of folded paper
nestled among the flowers—a note from the duke—and the fair prisoner
recognised the handwriting as the same in which “For Isabelle” was
written, on the slip of paper that accompanied the casket of jewels at
Poitiers. The note read as follows:
“DEAR ISABELLE—I send you these flowers, though I know they will be
ungraciously received. As they come from me, their beauty and fragrance
will not find favour in your eyes. But whatever may be their fate, even
though you only touch them to fling them disdainfully out of the
window, they will force you to think for a moment—if it be but in
anger—of him who declares himself, in spite of everything, your devoted
adorer,
“VALLOMBREUSE.”
This note, breathing of the most specious gallantry, and tenacity of
purpose, did produce very much the effect it predicted; for it made
Isabelle exceedingly angry; and, without even once inhaling the
delicious perfume of the flowers, or pausing for an instant to admire
their beauty, she flung the bouquet, diamond bracelet and all, out into
the antechamber. Never surely were lovely blossoms so badly treated;
and yet Isabelle was excessively fond of them; but she feared that if
she even allowed them to remain a little while in her room, their donor
would presume upon the slight concession. She had scarcely resumed her
seat by the fire, after disposing of the obnoxious bouquet, when a maid
appeared, who had been sent to wait upon her. She was a pretty, refined
looking girl, but very pale, and with an air of deep melancholy—as if
she were brooding over a secret sorrow. She offered her services to
Isabelle without looking up, and in a low, subdued voice, as if she
feared that the very walls had ears. Isabelle allowed her to take down
and comb out her long, silky hair, which was very much dishevelled, and
to arrange it again as she habitually wore it; which was quickly and
skilfully done. Then the maid opened a wardrobe and took out several
beautiful gowns, exquisitely made and trimmed, and just Isabelle’s
size; but she would not even look at them, and sharply ordered that
they should instantly be put back where they belonged, though her own
dress was very much the worse for the rough treatment it had been
subjected to on the preceding day, and it was a trial to the sweet,
dainty creature to be so untidy. But she was determined to accept
nothing from the duke, no matter how long her captivity might last. The
maid did not insist, but acceded to her wishes with a mild, pitying
air—just as indulgence is shown, as far as possible, to all the little
whims and caprices of prisoners condemned to death. Isabelle would have
liked to question her attendant, and endeavour to elicit some
information from her, but the girl was more like an automaton than
anything else, and it was impossible to gain more than a monosyllable
from her lips. So Isabelle resigned herself with a sigh to her mute
ministerings, not without a sort of vague terror.
After the maid had retired, dinner was served as before, and Isabelle
made a hearty meal—feeling that she must keep up her strength, and also
hopeful of hearing something in a few hours more from her faithful
lover. Her thoughts were all of him, and as she realized the dangers to
which he would inevitably be exposed for her sake, her eyes filled with
tears, and a sharp pang shot through her heart. She was angry with
herself for being the cause of so much trouble, and fain to curse her
own beauty—the unhappy occasion of it all. She was absorbed in these
sad thoughts when a little noise as if a hail-stone had struck against
the window pane, suddenly aroused her. She flew to the casement, and
saw Chiquita, in the tree opposite, signing to her to open it, and
swinging back and forth the long horse-hair cord, with the iron hook
attached to it. She hastened to comply with the wishes of her strange
little ally, and, as she stepped back in obedience to another sign, the
hook, thrown with unerring aim, caught securely in the iron railing of
the little balcony. Chiquita tied the other end of the cord to the
branch to which she was clinging, and then began to cross over the
intervening space as before; but ere she was half-way over, the knot
gave way, and poor Isabelle for one moment of intense agony thought
that the child was lost. But, instead of falling into the moat beneath
her, Chiquita, who did not appear to be in the least disconcerted by
this accident, swung over against the wall below the balcony, and
climbing up the cord hand over hand, leaped lightly into the room,
before Isabelle had recovered her breath. Finding her very pale, and
tremulous, the child said smilingly, “You were frightened, eh? and
thought Chiquita would fall down among the frogs in the moat. When I
tied my cord to the branch, I only made a slip-knot, so that I could
bring it back with me. I must have looked like a big spider climbing up
its thread,” she added, with a laugh.
“My dear child,” said Isabelle, with much feeling, and kissing
Chiquita’s forehead, “you are a very brave little girl.”
“I saw your friends. They had been searching and searching for you; but
without Chiquita they would never have found out where you were hidden.
The captain was rushing about like an angry lion—his eyes flashed
fire—he was magnificent. I came back with him. He rode, and held me in
front of him. He is hidden in a little wood not far off, he and his
comrades—they must keep out of sight, you know. This evening, as soon
as it is dark, they will try to get in here to you—by the tree, you
know. There’s sure to be a scrimmage—pistol shots and swords
clashing—oh! it will be splendid; for there’s nothing so fine as a good
fight; when the men are in earnest, and fierce and brave. Now don’t you
be frightened and scream, as silly women do; nothing upsets them like
that. You must just remain perfectly quiet, and keep out of their way.
If you like, I will come and stay by you, so that you will not be
afraid.”
“Don’t be uneasy about that, Chiquita! I will not annoy my brave
friends, who come to save my life at the risk of their own, by any
foolish fears or demonstrations; that I promise you.”
“That’s right,” the child replied, “and until they come, you can defend
yourself with my knife, you know. Don’t forget the proper way to use
it. Strike like this, and then do so; you can rip him up beautifully.
As for me, I’m going to hunt up a quiet corner where I can get a nap.
No, I can’t stay here, for we must not be seen together; it would never
do. Now do you be sure to keep away from that window. You must not even
go near it, no matter what you hear, for fear they might suspect that
you hoped for help from that direction. If they did, it would be all up
with us; for they would send out and search the woods, and beat the
bushes, and find our friends where they lie hidden. The whole thing
would fall through, and you would have to stop here with this horrid
duke that you hate so much.”
“I will not go near the window,” Isabelle answered, “nor even look
towards it, however much I may wish to. You may depend upon my
discretion, Chiquita, I do assure you.”
Reassured upon this important point, Chiquita crept softly away, and
went back to the lower room where she had left the ruffians carousing.
They were still there—lying about on the benches and the floor, in a
drunken sleep, and evidently had not even missed her. She curled
herself up in a corner, as far as might be from the loathsome brutes,
and was asleep in a minute. The poor child was completely tired out;
her slender little feet had travelled eight leagues the night before,
running a good part of the way, and the return on horseback had perhaps
fatigued her even more, being unaccustomed to it. Although her fragile
little body had the strength and endurance of steel, she was worn out
now, and lay, pale and motionless, in a sleep that seemed like death.
“Dear me! how these children do sleep to be sure,” said Malartic, when
he roused himself at last and looked about him. “In spite of our
carouse, and all the noise we made, that little monkey in the corner
there has never waked nor stirred. Halloa! wake up you fellows! drunken
beasts that you are. Try to stand up on your hind legs, and go out in
the court and dash a bucket of cold water over your cursed heads. The
Circe of drunkenness has made swine of you in earnest—go and see if the
baptism I recommend will turn you back into men, and then we’ll take a
little look round the place, to make sure there’s no plot hatching to
rescue the little beauty we have in charge.”
The men scrambled to their feet slowly and with difficulty, and
staggered out into the court as best they might, where the fresh air,
and the treatment prescribed by Malartic, did a good deal towards
reviving them; but they were a sorry looking set after all, and there
were many aching heads among them. As soon as they were fit for it,
Malartic took three of the least tipsy of them, and leading the way to
a small postern that opened on the moat, unchained a row-boat lying
there, crossed the broad ditch, ascended a steep flight of steps
leading up the bank on the other side, and, leaving one man to guard
the boat, proceeded to make a tour of inspection in the immediate
vicinity of the château; fortunately without stumbling on the party
concealed in the wood, or seeing anything to arouse their suspicions;
so they returned to their quarters perfectly satisfied that there was
no enemy lurking near.
Meantime Isabelle, left quite alone, tried in vain to interest herself
in a book she had found lying upon one of the side-tables. She read a
few pages mechanically, and then, finding it impossible to fix her
attention upon it, threw the volume from her and sat idly in front of
the fire, which was blazing cheerily, thinking of her own true lover,
and praying that he might be preserved from injury in the impending
struggle. Evening came at last—a servant brought in lights, and soon
after the major-domo announced a visit from the Duke of Vallombreuse.
He entered at once, and greeted his fair captive with the most finished
courtesy. He looked very handsome, in a superb suit of pearl gray
satin, richly trimmed with crimson velvet, and Isabelle could not but
admire his personal appearance, much as she detested his character.
“I have come to see, my adorable Isabelle, whether _I_ shall be more
kindly received than my flowers,” said he, drawing up a chair beside
hers. “I have not the vanity to think so, but I want you to become
accustomed to my presence. To-morrow another bouquet, and another
visit.”
“Both will be useless, my lord,” she replied, “though I am sorry to
have to be so rude as to say so—but I had much better be perfectly
frank with you.”
“Ah, well!” rejoined the duke, with a malicious smile, “I will dispense
with hope, and content myself with reality. You do not know, my poor
child, what a Vallombreuse can do—you, who vainly try to resist him. He
has never yet known what it was to have an unsatisfied desire—he
invariably gains his ends, in spite of all opposition—nothing can stop
him. Tears, supplication, laments, threats, even dead bodies and
smoking ruins would not daunt him. Do not tempt him too powerfully, by
throwing new obstacles in his way, you imprudent child!”
Isabelle, frightened by the expression of his countenance as he spoke
thus, instinctively pushed her chair farther away from his, and felt
for Chiquita’s knife. But the wily duke, seeing that he had made a
mistake, instantly changed his tone, and begging her pardon most humbly
for his vehemence, endeavoured to persuade her, by many specious
arguments, that she was wrong in persistently turning a deaf ear to his
suit—setting forth at length, and in glowing words, all the advantages
that would accrue to her if she would but yield to his wishes, and
describing the happiness in store for her. While he was thus eloquently
pleading his cause, Isabelle, who had given him only a divided
attention, thought that she heard a peculiar little noise in the
direction whence the longed-for aid was to come, and fearing that
Vallombreuse might hear it also, hastened to answer him the instant
that he paused, in a way to vex him still further—for she preferred his
anger to his love-making. Also, she hoped that by quarrelling with him
she would be able to prevent his perceiving the suspicious little
sound—now growing louder and more noticeable.
“The happiness that you so eloquently describe, my lord, would be for
me a disgrace, which I am resolved to escape by death, if all other
means fail me. You never shall have me living. Formerly I regarded you
with indifference, but now I both hate and despise you, for your
infamous, outrageous and violent behaviour to me, your helpless victim.
Yes, I may as well tell you openly—and I glory in it—that I do love the
Baron de Sigognac, whom you have more than once so basely tried to
assassinate, through your miserable hired ruffians.”
The strange noise still kept on, and Isabelle raised her voice to drown
it. At her audacious, defiant words, so distinctly and impressively
enunciated—hurled at him, as it were—Vallombreuse turned pale, and his
eyes flashed ominously; a light foam gathered about the corners of his
mouth, and he laid hold of the handle of his sword. For an instant he
thought of killing Isabelle himself, then and there. If he could not
have her, at least no one else should. But he relinquished that idea
almost as soon as it occurred to him, and with a hard, forced laugh
said, as he sprang up and advanced impetuously towards Isabelle, who
retreated before him:
“Now, by all the devils in hell, I cannot help admiring you immensely
in this mood. It is a new role for you, and you are deucedly charming
in it. You have got such a splendid colour, and your eyes are so
bright—you are superb, I declare. I am greatly flattered at your
blazing out into such dazzling beauty on my account—upon my word I am.
You have done well to speak out openly—I hate deceit. So you love de
Sigognac, do you? So much the better, say I—it will be all the sweeter
to call you mine. It will be a pleasing variety to press ardent kisses
upon sweet lips that say ‘I hate you,’ instead of the insipid,
everlasting ‘I love you,’ that one gets a surfeit of from all the
pretty women of one’s acquaintance.”
Alarmed at this coarse language, and the threatening gestures that
accompanied it, Isabelle started back and drew out Chiquita’s knife.
“Bravo!” cried the duke—“here comes the traditional poniard. We are
being treated to a bit of high tragedy. But, my fierce little beauty,
if you are well up in your Roman history, you will remember that the
chaste Mme. Lucretia did not make use of her dagger until _after_ the
assault of Sextus, the bold son of Tarquin the Proud. That ancient and
much-cited example is a good one to follow.”
And without paying any more attention to the knife than to a bee-sting,
he had violently seized Isabelle in his arms before she could raise it
to strike.
Just at that moment a loud cracking noise was heard, followed by a
tremendous crash, and the casement fell clattering to the floor, with
every pane of glass in it shattered; as if a giant had put his knee
against it and broken it in; while a mass of branches protruded through
the opening into the room. It was the top of the tree that Chiquita had
made such good use of as a way of escape and return. The trunk, sawed
nearly through by de Sigognac and his companions, was guided in its
fall so as to make a means of access to Isabelle’s window; both
bridging the moat, and answering all the purposes of a ladder.
The Duke of Vallombreuse, astonished at this most extraordinary
intrusion upon his love-making, released his trembling victim, and drew
his sword. Chiquita, who had crept into the room unperceived when the
crash came, pulled Isabelle’s sleeve and whispered, “Come into this
corner, out of the way; the dance is going to begin.”
As she spoke, several pistol shots were heard without, and four of the
duke’s ruffians—who were doing garrison duty came rushing up the
stairs, four steps at a time, and dashed into the room-sword in hand,
and eager for the fray.