Outside the door, standing in the dimness of the landing, I found M.
d’Agen. At any other time I should have been the first to ask him why he
had left the post which I had assigned to him. But at the moment I was
off my balance, and his presence suggested nothing more than that here
was the very person who could best execute my wishes. I held out the key
to him at arms length, and bade him release Mademoiselle de la Vire, who
was in the room above, and escort her out of the castle. ‘Do not let
her linger here,’ I continued urgently. ‘Take her to the place where we
found the wood-cutters. You need fear no resistance.’
‘But Bruhl?’ he said, as he took the key mechanically from me.
‘He is out of the question,’ I answered in a low voice. ‘We have done
with him. He has the plague.’
He uttered a sharp exclamation. ‘What of madame, then?’ he muttered.
‘She is with him,’ I said.
He cried out suddenly at that, sucking in his breath, as I have known
men do in pain. And but that I drew back he would have laid his hand on
my sleeve. ‘With him?’ he stammered. ‘How is that?’
‘Why, man, where else should she be?’ I answered, forgetting that the
sight of those two together had at first surprised me also, as well as
moved me. ‘Or who else should be with him? He is her husband.’
He stared at me for a moment at that, and then he turned slowly away
and began to go up; while I looked after him, gradually thinking out the
clue to his conduct. Could it be that it was not mademoiselle attracted
him, but Madame de Bruhl?
And with that hint I understood it all. I saw in a moment; the
conclusion to which he had come on hearing of the presence of madame
in my room. In my room at night! The change had dated from that time;
instead of a careless, light-spirited youth he had become in a moment
a morose and restive churl, as difficult to manage as an unbroken colt.
Quite clearly I saw now the meaning of the change; why he had shrunk
from me, and why all intercourse between us had been so difficult; and
so constrained.
I laughed to think how he had deceived himself, and how nearly I had
come to deceiving myself also. And what more I might have thought I
do not know, for my meditations were cut short at this point by a loud
outcry below, which, beginning in one or two sharp cries of alarm and
warning, culminated quickly in a roar of anger and dismay.
Fancying I recognised Maignan’s voice, I ran down the stairs, seeking
a loophole whence I could command the scene; but finding none, and
becoming more and more alarmed, I descended to the court, which I
found, to my great surprise, as empty and silent as an old battle-field.
Neither on the enemy’s side nor on ours was a single man to be seen.
With growing dismay I sprang across the court and darted through the
outer tower, only to find that and the gateway equally unguarded. Nor
was it until I had passed through the latter, and stood on the brow of
the slope, which we had had to clamber with so much toil, that I learned
what was amiss.
Far below me a string of men, bounding and running at speed, streamed
down the hill towards the horses. Some were shouting, some running
silently, with their elbows at their sides and their scabbards leaping
against their calves. The horses stood tethered in a ring near the edge
of the wood, and by some oversight had been left unguarded. The foremost
runner I made out to be Fresnoy; but a number of his men were close
upon him, and then after an interval came Maignan, waving his blade and
emitting frantic threats with every stride. Comprehending at once
that Fresnoy and his following, rendered desperate by panic and the
prospective loss of their horses, had taken advantage of my absence and
given Maignan the slip, I saw I could do nothing save watch the result
of the struggle.
This was not long delayed. Maignan’s threats, which seemed to me mere
waste of breath, were not without effect on those he followed. There
is nothing which demoralises men like flight. Troopers who have stood
charge after charge while victory was possible will fly like sheep, and
like sheep allow themselves to be butchered, when they have once turned
the back. So it was here. Many of Fresnoy’s men were stout fellows,
but having started to run they had no stomach for fighting. Their fears
caused Maignan to appear near, while the horses seemed distant; and one
after another they turned aside and made like rabbits for the wood.
Only Fresnoy, who had taken care to have the start of all, kept on,
and, reaching the horses, cut the rope which tethered the nearest, and
vaulted nimbly on its back. Safely seated there, he tried to frighten
the others into breaking loose; but not succeeding at the first attempt,
and seeing Maignan, breathing vengeance, coming up with him, he started
his horse, a bright bay, and rode off laughing along the edge of the
wood.
Fully content with the result--for our carelessness might have cost
us very dearly--I was about to turn away when I saw that Maignan had
mounted and was preparing to follow. I stayed accordingly to see the
end, and from my elevated position enjoyed a first-rate view of the race
which ensued. Both were heavy weights, and at first Maignan gained no
ground. But when a couple of hundred yards had been covered Fresnoy had
the ill-luck to blunder into some heavy ground, and this enabling his
pursuer, who had time to avoid it, to get within two-score paces of him,
the race became as exciting as I could wish. Slowly and surely Maignan,
who had chosen the Cid, reduced the distance between them to a score of
paces--to fifteen--to ten. Then Fresnoy, becoming alarmed, began to look
over his shoulder and ride in earnest. He had no whip, and I saw him
raise his sheathed sword, and strike his beast on the flank. It sprang
forward, and appeared for a few strides to be holding its own. Again he
repeated the blow but this time with a different result. While his hand
was still in the air, his horse stumbled, as it seemed to me, made a
desperate effort to recover itself, fell headlong and rolled over and
over.
Something in the fashion of the fall, which reminded me of the mishap I
had suffered on the way to Chize led me to look more particularly at the
horse as it rose trembling to its feet, and stood with drooping head.
Sure enough, a careful glance enabled me, even at that distance, to
identify it as Matthew’s bay--the trick-horse. Shading my eyes, and
gazing on the scene with increased interest, I saw Maignan, who had
dismounted, stoop over something on the ground, and again after an
interval stand upright.
But Fresnoy did not rise. Nor was it without awe that, guessing what had
happened to him, I remembered how he had used this very horse to befool
me; how heartlessly he had abandoned Matthew, its owner; and by what
marvellous haps--which men call chances--Providence had brought it to
this place, and put it in his heart to choose it out of a score which
stood ready to his hand!
I was right. The man’s neck was broken. He was quite dead. Maignan
passed the word to one, and he to another, and so it reached me on the
hill. It did not fail to awaken memories both grave and wholesome.
I thought of St. Jean d’Angely, of Chize, of the house in the Ruelle
d’Arcy; then in the midst of these reflections I heard voices, and
turned to find mademoiselle, with M. d’Agen behind me.
Her hand was still bandaged, and her dress, which she had not changed
since leaving Blois, was torn and stained with mud. Her hair was in
disorder; she walked with a limp. Fatigue and apprehension had stolen
the colour from her cheeks, and in a word she looked, when I turned, so
wan and miserable that for a moment I feared the plague had seized her.
The instant, however, that she caught sight of me a wave of colour
invaded, not her cheeks only, but her brow and neck. From her hair
to the collar of her gown she was all crimson. For a second she stood
gazing at me, and then, as I saluted her, she sprang forward. Had I not
stepped back she would have taken my hands.
My heart so overflowed with joy at this sight, that in the certainty her
blush gave me I was fain to toy with my happiness. All jealousy of M.
d’Agen was forgotten; only I thought it well not to alarm her by telling
her what I knew of the Bruhls. ‘Mademoiselle,’ I said earnestly, bowing,
but retreating from her, ‘I thank God for your escape. One of your
enemies lies helpless here, and another is dead yonder.’
‘It is not of my enemies I am thinking,’ she answered quickly, ‘but of
God, of whom you rightly remind me; and then of my friends.’
‘Nevertheless,’ I answered as quickly, ‘I beg you will not stay to thank
them now, but go down to the wood with M. d’Agen, who will do all that
may be possible to make you comfortable.’
‘And you, sir?’ she said, with a charming air of confusion.
‘I must stay here,’ I answered, ‘for a while.’
‘Why?’ she asked with a slight frown.
I did not know how to tell her, and I began lamely. ‘Someone must stop
with madame,’ I said without thought.
‘Madame?’ she exclaimed. ‘Does she require assistance? I will stop.’
‘God forbid!’ I cried.
I do not know how she understood the words, but her face, which had been
full of softness, grew hard. She moved quickly towards me; but, mindful
of the danger I carried about me, I drew farther back. ‘No nearer,
mademoiselle,’ I murmured, ‘if you please.’
She looked puzzled, and finally angry, turning away with a sarcastic
bow. ‘So be it, then, sir,’ she said proudly, ‘if you desire it. M.
d’Agen, if you are not afraid of me, will you lead me down?’
I stood and watched them go down the hill, comforting myself with the
reflection that to-morrow, or the next day, or within a few days at
most, all would be well. Scanning her figure as she moved, I fancied
that she went with less spirit as the space increased between us. And I
pleased myself with the notion. A few days, a few hours, I thought, and
all would be well. The sunset which blazed in the west was no more than
a faint reflection of the glow which for a few minutes pervaded my mind,
long accustomed to cold prospects and the chill of neglect.
A term was put to these pleasant imaginings by the arrival of Maignan;
who, panting from the ascent of the hill, informed me with a shamefaced
air that the tale of horses was complete, but that four of our men were
missing, and had doubtless gone off with the fugitives. These proved
to be M. d’Agen’s two lackeys and the two varlets M. de Rambouillet had
lent us. There remained besides Simon Fleix only Maignan’s three men
from Rosny; but the state in which our affairs now stood enabled us to
make light of this. I informed the equerry--who visibly paled at the
news--that M. de Bruhl lay ill of the plague, and like to die; and I
bade him form a camp in the wood below, and, sending for food to
the house where we had slept the night before, make mademoiselle as
comfortable as circumstances permitted.
He listened with surprise, and when I had done asked with concern what I
intended to do myself.
‘Someone must remain with Madam de Bruhl,’ I answered. ‘I have already
been to the bedside to procure the key of mademoiselle’s room, and I run
no farther risk. All I ask is that you will remain in the neighbourhood,
and furnish us with supplies should it be necessary.’
He looked at me with emotion, which, strongly in conflict with his fears
as it was, touched me not a little. ‘But morbleu! M. de Marsac,’ he
said, ‘you will take the plague and die.’
‘If God wills,’ I answered, very lugubriously I confess, for pale looks
in one commonly so fearless could not but depress me. ‘But if not, I
shall escape. Any way, my friend,’ I continued, ‘I owe you a quittance.
Simon Fleix has an inkhorn and paper. Bid him bring them to this stone
and leave them, and I will write that Maignan, the equerry of the Baron
de Rosny, served me to the end as a brave soldier and an honest friend.
‘What, MON AMI?’ I continued, for I saw that he was overcome by this,
which was, indeed, a happy thought of mine. ‘Why not? It is true, and
will acquit you with the Baron. Do it, and go. Advise M. d’Agen, and be
to him what you have been to me.’
He swore two or three great oaths, such as men of his kind use to hide
an excess of feeling, and after some further remonstrance went away to
carry out my orders; leaving me to stand on the brow in a strange kind
of solitude, and watch horses and men withdraw to the wood, until the
whole valley seemed left to me and stillness and the grey evening. For
a time I stood in thought. Then reminding myself, for a fillip to my
spirits, that I had been far more alone when I walked the streets of St.
Jean friendless and threadbare (than I was now), I turned, and swinging
my scabbard against my boots for company, stumbled through the dark,
silent courtyard, and mounted as cheerfully as I could to madame’s room.
To detail all that passed during the next five days would be tedious
and in indifferent taste, seeing that I am writing this memoir for the
perusal of men of honour; for though I consider the offices which the
whole can perform for the sick to be worthy of the attention of every
man, however well born, who proposes to see service, they seem to be
more honourable in the doing than the telling. One episode, however,
which marked those days filled me then, as it does now, with the most
lively pleasure; and that was the unexpected devotion displayed by Simon
Fleix, who, coming to me, refused to leave, and showed himself at this
pinch to be possessed of such sterling qualities that I freely forgave
him the deceit he had formerly practised on me. The fits of moody
silence into which he still fell at times and an occasional irascibility
seemed to show that he had not altogether conquered his insane fancy;
but the mere fact that; he had come to me in a situation of hazard, and
voluntarily removed himself from mademoiselle’s neighbourhood, gave me
good hope for the future.
M. de Bruhl died early on the morning of the second day, and Simon and
I buried him at noon. He was a man of courage and address, lacking only
principles. In spite of madame’s grief and prostration, which were as
great as though she had lost the best husband in the world, we removed
before night to a separate camp in the woods; and left with the utmost
relief the grey ruin on the hill, in which, it seemed to me, we had
lived an age. In our new bivouac, where, game being abundant, and the
weather warm, we lacked no comfort, except the society of our friends,
we remained four days longer. On the fifth morning we met the others of
our company by appointment on the north road, and commenced the return
journey.
Thankful that we had escaped contagion, we nevertheless still proposed
to observe for a time such precautions in regard to the others as seemed
necessary; riding in the rear and having no communication with them,
though they showed by signs the pleasure they felt at seeing us. From
the frequency with which mademoiselle turned and looked behind her,
I judged she had overcome her pique at my strange conduct; which the
others should by this time have explained to her. Content, therefore,
with the present, and full of confidence in the future, I rode along in
a rare state of satisfaction; at one moment planning what I would do,
and at another reviewing what I had done.
The brightness and softness of the day, and the beauty of the woods,
which in some places, I remember, were bursting into leaf, contributed
much to establish me in this frame of mind. The hateful mist, which
had so greatly depressed us, had disappeared; leaving the face of the
country visible in all the brilliance of early spring. The men who rode
before us, cheered by the happy omen, laughed and talked as they rode,
or tried the paces of their horses, where the trees grew sparsely; and
their jests and laughter coming pleasantly to our ears as we followed,
warmed even madame’s sad face to a semblance of happiness.
I was riding along in this state of contentment when a feeling of
fatigue, which the distance we had come did not seem to justify, led me
to spur the Cid into a brisker pace. The sensation of lassitude still
continued, however, and indeed grew worse; so that I wondered idly
whether I had over-eaten myself at my last meal. Then the thing passed
for awhile from my mind, which the descent of a steep hill sufficiently
occupied.
But a few minutes later, happening to turn in the saddle, I experienced
a strange and sudden dizziness; so excessive as to force me to grasp the
cantle, and cling to it, while trees and hills appeared to dance round
me. A quick, hot pain in the side followed, almost before I recovered
the power of thought; and this increased so rapidly, and was from the
first so definite, that, with a dreadful apprehension already formed
in my mind, I thrust my hand inside my clothes, and found that swelling
which is the most sure and deadly symptom of the plague.
The horror of that moment--in which I saw all those things on the
possession of which I had just been congratulating myself, pass
hopelessly from me, leaving me in dreadful gloom--I will not attempt to
describe in this place. Let it suffice that the world lost in a moment
its joyousness, the sunshine its warmth. The greenness and beauty round
me, which an instant before had filled me with pleasure, seemed on a
sudden no more than a grim and cruel jest at my expense, and I an atom
perishing unmarked and unnoticed. Yes, an atom, a mote; the bitterness
of that feeling I well remember. Then, in no long time--being a
soldier--I recovered my coolness, and, retaining the power to think,
decided what it behoved me to do.