The morning brought only fresh proofs of the kindness which M. de
Rosny had conceived for me. Awaking early I found on a stool beside
my clothes, a purse of gold containing a hundred crowns; and a youth
presently entering to ask me if I lacked anything, I had at first some
difficulty in recognising Simon Fleix, so sprucely was the lad dressed,
in a mode resembling Maignan’s. I looked at the student more than once
before I addressed him by his name; and was as much surprised by
the strange change I observed in him for it was not confined to his
clothes--as by anything which had happened since I entered the house. I
rubbed my eyes, and asked him what he had done with his soutane. ‘Burned
it, M. de Marsac,’ he answered briefly.
I saw that he had burned much, metaphorically speaking, besides his
soutane. He was less pale, less lank, less wobegone than formerly, and
went more briskly. He had lost the air of crack-brained disorder which
had distinguished him, and was smart, sedate, and stooped less. Only the
odd sparkle remained in his eyes, and bore witness to the same nervous,
eager spirit within.
‘What are you going to do, then, Simon?’ I asked, noting these changes
curiously.
‘I am a soldier,’ he answered, ‘and follow M. de Marsac.’
I laughed. ‘You have chosen a poor service, I am afraid,’ I said,
beginning to rise; ‘and one, too, Simon, in which it is possible you may
be killed. I thought that would not suit you,’ I continued, to see what
he would say. But he answered nothing, and I looked at him in great
surprise. ‘You have made up your mind, then, at last?’ I said.
‘Perfectly,’ he answered.
‘And solved all your doubts?’
‘I have no doubts.’
‘You are a Huguenot?’
‘That is the only true and pure religion,’ he replied gravely. And with
apparent sincerity and devotion he repeated Beza’s Confession of Faith.
This filled me with profound astonishment, but I said no more at the
time, though I had my doubts. I waited until I was alone with M. de
Rosny, and then I unbosomed myself on the matter; expressing my surprise
at the suddenness of the conversion, and at such a man, as I had found
the student to be, stating his views so firmly and steadfastly, and with
so little excitement. Observing that M. de Rosny smiled but answered
nothing, I explained myself farther.
‘I am surprised,’ I said, ‘because I have always heard it maintained
that clerkly men, becoming lost in the mazes of theology, seldom find
any sure footing; that not one in a hundred returns to his old faith, or
finds grace to accept a new one. I am speaking only of such, of course,
as I believe this lad to be--eager, excitable brains, learning much, and
without judgment to digest what they learn.’
‘Of such I also believe it to be true,’ M. de Rosny answered, still
smiling. ‘But even on them a little influence, applied at the right
moment, has much effect, M. de Marsac.’
‘I allow that,’ I said. ‘But my mother, of whom I have spoken to you,
saw much of this youth. His fidelity to her was beyond praise. Yet her
faith, though grounded on a rock, had no weight with him.’
M. de Rosny shook his head, still smiling.
‘It is not our mothers who convert us,’ he said.
‘What!’ I cried, my eyes opened. ‘Do you mean--do you mean that
Mademoiselle has done this?’
‘I fancy so,’ he answered, nodding. ‘I think my lady cast her spell over
him by the way. The lad left Blois with her, if what you say be true,
without faith in the world. He came to my hands two days later the
stoutest of Huguenots. It is not hard to read this riddle.’
‘Such, conversions are seldom lasting,’ I said.
He looked at me queerly; and, the smile still hovering about his lips,
answered ‘Tush, man! Why so serious? Theodore Beza himself could not
look dryer. The lad is in earnest, and there is no harm done.’
And, Heaven knows, I was in no mood to suspect harm; nor inclined
just then to look at the dark side of things. It may be conceived how
delightful it was to me to be received as an equal and honoured guest by
a man, even then famous, and now so grown in reputation as to overshadow
all Frenchmen save his master; how pleasant to enjoy the comforts and
amiabilities of home, from which I had been long estranged; to pour my
mother’s story into Madame’s ears and find comfort in her sympathy; to
feel myself, en fin, once more a gentleman with an acknowledged place
in the world. Our days we spent in hunting, or excursions of some
kind, our evenings in long conversations, which impressed me with an
ever-growing respect for my lord’s powers.
For there seemed to be no end either to his knowledge of France, or to
the plans for its development, which even then filled his brain, and
have since turned wildernesses into fruitful lands, and squalid towns
into great cities. Grave and formal, he could yet unbend; the most
sagacious of counsellors, he was a soldier also, and loved the seclusion
in which we lived the more that it was not devoid of danger; the
neighbouring towns being devoted to the League, and the general disorder
alone making it possible for him to lie unsuspected in his own house.
One thing only rendered my ease and comfort imperfect, and that was
the attitude which Mademoiselle de la Vire assumed towards me. Of her
gratitude in the first blush of the thing I felt no doubt, for not only
had she thanked me very prettily, though with reserve, on the evening of
my arrival, but the warmth of M. de Rosny’s kindness left me no choice,
save to believe that she had given him an exaggerated idea of my merits
and services. I asked no more than this. Such good offices left me
nothing to expect or desire; my age and ill-fortune placing me at so
great a disadvantage that, far from dreaming of friendship or intimacy
with her, I did not even assume the equality in our daily intercourse to
which my birth, taken by itself, entitled me. Knowing that I must appear
in her eyes old, poor, and ill-dressed, and satisfied, with having
asserted my conduct and honour, I was careful not to trespass on her
gratitude; and while forward in such courtesies as could not weary
her, I avoided with equal care every appearance of pursuing her, or
inflicting my company upon her. I addressed her formally and upon formal
topics only, such, I mean, as we shared with the rest of our company;
and I reminded myself often that though we now met in the same house
and at the same table, she was still the Mademoiselle de la Vire who had
borne herself so loftily in the King of Navarre’s ante-chamber. This
I did, not out of pique or wounded pride, which I no more, God knows,
harboured against her than against a bird; but that I might not in my
new prosperity forget the light in which such a woman, young, spoiled,
and beautiful, must still regard me.
Keeping to this inoffensive posture, I was the more hurt when I found
her gratitude fade with the hour. After the first two days, during which
I remarked that she was very silent, seldom speaking to me or looking at
me, she resumed much of her old air of disdain. For that I cared little;
but she presently went farther, and began to rake up the incidents which
had happened at St. Jean d’Angely, and in which I had taken part. She
continually adverted to my poverty while there, to the odd figure I had
cut, and the many jests her friends had made at my expense. She seemed
to take a pleasure positively savage in these, gibing at me sometimes
so bitterly as to shame and pain me, and bring the colour to Madame de
Rosny’s cheeks.
To the time we had spent together, on the other hand, she never or
rarely referred. One afternoon, however, a week after my arrival at
Rosny, I found her sitting alone in the parlour. I had not known she
was there, and I was for withdrawing at once with a bow and a muttered
apology. But she stopped me with an angry gesture. ‘I do not bite,’
she said, rising from her stool and meeting my eyes, a red spot in each
cheek. ‘Why do you look at me like that? Do you know, M. de Marsac, that
I have no patience with you.’ And she stamped her foot on the floor.
‘But, mademoiselle,’ I stammered humbly, wondering what in the world she
meant, ‘what have I done?’
‘Done?’ she repeated angrily. ‘Done? It is not what you have done, it is
what you are. I have no patience with you. Why are you so dull, sir? Why
are you so dowdy? Why do you go about with your doublet awry, and your
hair lank? Why do you speak to Maignan as if he were a gentleman? Why
do you look always solemn and polite, and as if all the world were a
preche? Why? Why? Why, I say?’
She stopped from sheer lack of breath, leaving me as much astonished as
ever in my life. She looked so beautiful in her fury and fierceness too,
that I could only stare at her and wonder dumbly what it all meant.
‘Well!’ she cried impatiently, after bearing this as long as she could,
‘have you not a word to say for yourself? Have you no tongue? Have you
no will of your own at all, M. de Marsac?’
‘But, mademoiselle,’ I began, trying to explain.
‘Chut!’ she exclaimed, cutting me short before I could get farther, as
the way of women is. And then she added, in a changed tone, and very
abruptly, ‘You have a velvet knot of mine, sir. Give it me.’
‘It is in my room,’ I answered, astonished beyond measure at this sudden
change of subject, and equally sudden demand.
‘Then fetch it, sir, if you please,’ she replied, her eyes flashing
afresh. ‘Fetch it. Fetch it, I say! It has served its turn, and I prefer
to have it. Who knows but that some day you may be showing it for a
love-knot?’
‘Mademoiselle!’ I cried, hotly. And I think that for the moment I was as
angry as she was.
‘Still, I prefer to have it,’ she answered sullenly, casting down her
eyes.
I was so much enraged, I went without a word and fetched it, and,
bringing it to her where she stood, in the same place, put it into her
hands. When she saw it some recollection, I fancy, of the day when she
had traced the cry for help on it, came to her in her anger; for she
took it from me with all her bearing altered. She trembled, and held it
for a moment in her hands, as if she did not know what to do with it.
She was thinking, doubtless, of the house in Blois and the peril she had
run there; and, being for my part quite willing that she should think
and feel how badly she had acted, I stood looking at her, sparing her no
whit of my glance.
‘The gold chain you left on my mother’s pillow,’ I said coldly, seeing
she continued silent, ‘I cannot return to you at once, for I have
pledged it. But I will do so as soon as I can.’
‘You have pledged it?’ she muttered, with her eyes averted.
‘Yes, mademoiselle, to procure a horse to bring me here,’ I replied
drily. ‘However, it, shall be redeemed. In return, there is something I
too would ask.’
‘What?’ she murmured, recovering herself with all effort, and looking at
me with something of her old pride and defiance.
‘The broken coin you have,’ I said. ‘The token, I mean. It is of no use
to you, for your enemies hold the other half. It might be of service to
me.’
‘How?’ she asked curtly.
‘Because some day I may find its fellow, mademoiselle,’
‘And then?’ she cried. She looked at me, her lips parted, her eyes
flashing. ‘What then, when you have found its fellow, M. de Marsac?’
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘Bah!’ she exclaimed, clenching her little hand, and stamping her foot
on the floor in a passion I could not understand. ‘That is you! That is
M. de Marsac all over. You say nothing, and men think nothing of you.
You go with your hat in your hand, and they tread on you. They speak,
and you are silent! Why, if I could use a sword as you can, I would keep
silence before no man, nor let any man save the King of France cock his
hat in my presence! But you! There! go, leave me. Here is your coin.
Take it and go. Send me that lad of yours to keep me awake. At any rate
he has brains, he is young, he is a man, he has a soul, he can feel--if
he were anything but a clerk.’
She waved me off in such a wind of passion as might have amused me in
another, but in her smacked so strongly of ingratitude as to pain me
not a little. I went, however, and sent Simon to her; though I liked the
errand very ill, and no better when I saw the lad’s face light up at
the mention of her name. But apparently she had not recovered her temper
when he reached her, for he fared no better than I had done; coming away
presently with the air of a whipped dog, as I saw from the yew-tree walk
where I was strolling.
Still, after that she made it a habit to talk to him more and more; and,
Monsieur and Madame de Rosny being much taken up with one another, there
was no one to check her fancy or speak a word of advice. Knowing her
pride, I had no fears for her; but it grieved me to think that the lad’s
head should be turned. A dozen times I made up my mind to speak to her
on his behalf; but for one thing it was not my business, and for another
I soon discovered that she was aware of my displeasure, and valued it
not a jot. For venturing one morning, when she was in a pleasant humour,
to hint that she treated those beneath her too inhumanly, and with an
unkindness as little becoming noble blood as familiarity, she asked me
scornfully if I did not think she treated Simon Fleix well enough. To
which I had nothing to answer.
I might here remark on the system of secret intelligence by means of
which M. de Rosny, even in this remote place, received news of all that
was passing in France. But it is common fame. There was no coming or
going of messengers, which would quickly have aroused suspicion in the
neighbouring town, nor was it possible even for me to say exactly by
what channels news came. But come it did, and at all hours of the day.
In this way we heard of the danger of La Ganache and of the effort
contemplated by the King of Navarre for its relief. M. de Rosny not
only communicated these matters to me without reserve, but engaged
my affections by farther proofs of confidence such as might well have
flattered a man of greater importance.
I have said that, as a rule, there was no coming or going of messengers.
But one evening, returning from the chase with one of the keepers, who
had prayed my assistance in hunting down a crippled doe, I was surprised
to find a strange horse, which had evidently been ridden hard and far,
standing smoking in the yard. Inquiring whose it was, I learned that
a man believed by the grooms to be from Blois had just arrived and was
closeted with the baron. An event so far out of the ordinary course of
things naturally aroused my wonder; but desiring to avoid any appearance
of curiosity, which, if indulged, is apt to become the most vulgar of
vices, I refrained from entering the house, and repaired instead to the
yew-walk. I had scarcely, however, heated my blood, a little chilled
with riding, before the page came to me to fetch me to his master.
I found M. de Rosny striding up and down his room, his manner so
disordered and his face disfigured by so much grief and horror that I
started on seeing him. My heart sinking in a moment, I did not need to
look at Madame, who sat weeping silently in a chair, to assure myself
that something dreadful had happened. The light was failing, and a lamp
had been brought into the room. M. de Rosny pointed abruptly to a
small piece of paper which lay on the table beside it, and, obeying his
gesture, I took this up and read its contents, which consisted of less
than a score of words.
‘He is ill and like to die,’ the message ran, ‘twenty leagues south of
La Ganache. Come at all costs. P. M.
‘Who?’ I said stupidly--stupidly, for already I began to understand. Who
is ill and like to die?’
M. de Rosny turned to me, and I saw that the tears were trickling
unbidden down his cheeks. ‘There is but one HE for me,’ he cried. ‘May
God spare that one! May He spare him to France, which needs him, to the
Church, which hangs on him, and to me, who love him! Let him not fall
in the hour of fruition. O Lord, let him not fall!’ And he sank on to
a stool, and remained in that posture with his face in his hands, his
broad shoulders shaken with grief.
‘Come, sir,’ I said, after a pause sacred to sorrow and dismay; ‘let me
remind you that while there is life there is hope.’
‘Hope?’
‘Yes, M. de Rosny, hope,’ I replied more cheerfully. ‘He has work to
do. He is elected, called, and chosen; the Joshua of his people, as M.
d’Amours rightly called him. God will not take him yet. You shall see
him and be embraced by him, as has happened a hundred times. Remember,
sir, the King of Navarre is strong, hardy, and young, and no doubt in
good hands.’
‘Mornay’s,’ M. de Rosny cried, looking up with contempt in his eye.
Yet from that moment he rallied, spurred, I think, by the thought that
the King of Navarre’s recovery depended under God on M. de Mornay; whom
he was ever inclined to regard as his rival. He began to make instant
preparations for departure from Rosny, and bade me do so also, telling
me, somewhat curtly and without explanation, that he had need of me. The
danger of so speedy a return to the South, where the full weight of the
Vicomte de Turenne’s vengeance awaited me, occurred to me strongly; and
I ventured, though with a little shame, to mention it. But M. de Rosny,
after gazing at me a moment in apparent doubt, put the objection aside
with a degree of peevishness unusual in him, and continued to press on
his arrangements as earnestly as though they did not include separation
from a wife equally loving and beloved.
Having few things to look to myself, I was at leisure, when the hour of
departure came, to observe both the courage with which Madame de
Rosny supported her sorrow, ‘for the sake of France,’ and the unwonted
tenderness which Mademoiselle de la Vire, lifted for once above herself,
lavished on her. I seemed to stand--happily in one light, and yet the
feeling was fraught with pain--outside their familiar relations; yet,
having made my adieux as short and formal as possible, that I might
not encroach on other and more sacred ones, I found at the last moment
something in waiting for me. I was surprised as I rode under the gateway
a little ahead of the others, by something small and light falling
on the saddle-bow before me. Catching it before it could slide to the
ground, I saw, with infinite astonishment, that I held in my hand a tiny
velvet bow.
To look up at the window of the parlour, which I have said was over the
archway, was my first impulse. I did so, and met mademoiselle’s eyes for
a second, and a second only. The next moment she was gone. M. de Rosny
clattered through the gate at my heels, the servants behind him. And we
were on the road.