THE UNEXPECTED
As one who pauses at the threshold of some fabled palace of the houri,
so did I stop, bewildered by the beauty of this virgin field of love,
by fancy decked with blossoms, now spreading all the allurements of
fetterless imaginings before me. A sudden whiff brought me the perfume
of her presence, and, turning, she appeared before me, whether in the
spirit or the flesh, I could hardly tell, so transported was I by the
swift changes of my thought, merging beauties ever new, ever sparkling,
with those scarce tasted ones but just discarded. Yet there she was, a
dainty thing in white. White of dress, white of face, white of spirit.
In frightened tones of far-away sweetness, her voice mingled with the
air, so low, so melodious one could scarce determine when she commenced
to speak.
"Monsieur, quick, listen. You are in danger. I was in Madame de
Chartrain's chamber and overheard. You have letters. M. de Greville
will take them from you--for her sake--they compromise her. There is
other danger," she spoke breathlessly on, "other more deadly danger
lurking for you here; I beseech you to leave--at once. M. de Greville
will take those letters from you by force or guile. Oh, tarry not,
there has been so much of blood, and this place so seeming fair; the
assassin, the poison and prison houses."
The eloquence of fear trembled in her words. Half starting forward I
drank in every syllable, not for the warning she would fain convey, but
for their sweetness. All I could realize for the moment was that she
had sought me, sought me freely. Then she was gone. Swiftly,
noiselessly as she came, she disappeared. The distant flutter of her
skirts among the sombre trees marked the path she went. Through it all
I spoke no word, returning, as one who has received an angel's visit,
to my reverie.
I was not suffered long to spend my time alone. The old beau, de
Virelle, in his bluff and hearty way directed the attention of a party
of ladies who were with him to where I hung over a marble balustrade
enraptured at the broad expanse of valley, rosy tinted with the hues of
ebbing light, boundless as the dim horizon of my own sweet dreams.
"By my faith, Captain, you should have heard the clamor over your
departure. Already famous, and so soon weary of your laurels. Ah! a
tryst," he exclaimed. "Verily you do better than I thought," for he
had picked up a muslin handkerchief, edged with lace, which sought in
vain to hide itself among the leaves. So busied had I been it escaped
my notice. Instinctively I reclaimed the prize and with no gentle hand
I doubt, for his touch and jeering manner desecrated the sacred relic
of my vanished saint.
De Virelle scowled somewhat at my precipitation, but, meeting a no less
determined air, passed the matter by. His ladies affected not to see.
They in their turn plied me with inquiries about the savages in
America, asked all manner of silly questions, and completed with their
foolish simperings the disgust I already felt at such an interruption
to my thought. Yet so great is the force of novelty to women they
clung about me as if I were some strange tame animal brought to Paris
for their divertisement.
"Zounds, Margot dear," de Virelle blurted out aside, for even his dull
senses saw I was not pleased, "our good Moliere must have had this
hermit captain in his mind when he made Alceste to rail so at the
hypocrisies of the world, and urge the telling of truth and looking of
truth at all times."
"How brutally frank! What bad breeding," assented that young woman.
"This captain seems so full of weariness at our coming, and lacks the
grace to veil it decently; let us go."
Finding no hand of mine raised to hinder them, these fair dames and
demoiselles, with many pretty pouts and flutters and flounces, betook
themselves away, followed by their faithful squire.
I began then to feel sorry at having disgraced Jerome's gentle
teachings. The light dying away across the distant fields and streams,
I resigned my solitary communion and set out slowly toward the villa.
The meaning of all the girl had said now forced itself upon my
attention. If this were true, and it seemed plausible enough in view
of all that had transpired here, I was indeed confronted by a new and
serious danger. Happily danger was not a new fellow-traveler; I merely
turned over in my mind the best means to meet it.
Going rather out of my way, I found the grooms without much difficulty,
and telling them we were to leave Sceaux at once, ordered the horses
saddled, and made ready at a side door where I directed them to wait.
My own mind was to tell Jerome nothing of it, but simply to mount the
best horse and ride away alone--if that course became necessary.
* * * * * *
I will break in a bit just here to speak of an incident which occurred
that very night in the modest boudoir of Madame de la Mora. Had I but
known of it at the time, it would have saved me many weary months of
suffering.
Madame Agnes de la Mora sat placidly, her work basket by her side,
busied about some lace she was mending. The Chevalier studied a number
of military maps of Louisiana at his table. It was a pretty picture of
domestic harmony, then quite unfashionable at Sceaux. A timid rap at
the door, and a voice:
"Sister, may I come in?"
"Yes, child," and her sister Charlotte slipped silently in and sat
herself upon the floor at Madame's feet. There was a striking
similarity between the two. Madame, for all her dignified title, being
but a year the elder, and she scant of twenty. Charlotte, somewhat
slighter and more delicately colored, was even of greater beauty than
her sister, with much promise for the years to come. To the casual
observer, though, especially when viewed apart, they seemed almost
reflections one of the other. There was something of a loving
guardianship in the attitude of the elder, of confiding trust in that
of the younger, as she leaned her head upon her sister's knee in
pensive meditation.
"Sister, I must tell you of something; I know not that I did well or
ill," and she lifted her face with a surety of sympathy.
"What is it, dear, what weighty matter troubles you now?"
The Chevalier looked up long enough to say:
"Have you torn your frock, or only quarreled again with the good Abbe
over your task?" The girl very evidently had nothing to fear from his
harshness.
"No! No! Don't tease; it's really important. This day at noon Madame
Chartrain was in her chamber--you know the young man who came with M.
Jerome?" de la Mora nodded.
"The same I ran into at the door?" and she flushed again at the memory
of our discomfiture.
"Well, to-day noon at Madam Chartrain's I heard that danger threatened
him concerning some papers or something which he has--and Madame du
Maine, too, they mean him harm; and--and--well, I told him. Did I do
ill, sister?"
"What is that, Charlotte? Come here."
She crossed the room obediently and stood before him.
The Chevalier asked: "How did it happen, child? Tell me all about it,
where you saw him, who was there, and all."
So she went on to tell of her seeking me in the park, and her hurried
warning.
"Well, what did he say to all that?"
"He didn't say anything; I gave him no chance; I just ran up near him
and told him as quick as ever I could that he had better go off
somewhere, and then--and then--well, I just ran away again. He looked
so startled and surprised he could not say anything. When I turned
again to peep through the hedge he was still standing there with his
hands stretched out as if he would have liked to stop me, but I was
already gone."
The girl laughed a short little laugh and tucked her hand closer into
his.
"Did I do wrong, Charles? Tell me, was it so very, very--bold?"
The Chevalier could not quite suppress the smile already twitching at
his lips, though he soon looked grave enough.
"Yes, child, it was not well; beside, the affair is not yours, and it
is always dangerous to meddle. There, now, don't worry, it does not
matter much after all. Soon we leave here and you will never see any
of them again, I hope. This is no place for lassies fair and young as
you. I hope to take both you and Agnes to a new and purer land."
"Soon we leave?" she repeated, "oh, I forgot; but I don't want to, I
like it here."
"Like it? I thought you hated Sceaux?"
"Yes, I did--but--"
"But, what?"
"But, nothing, I just like it--now," she insisted illogically.
"Who is this young man, Charles?" asked Agnes when her sister had gone.
And he told her.