THE PARTING
We hoped to be at Hugues's house before the Countess's flight should be
discovered. Hugues and I discussed the chances as we rode. The Count
would probably give his murderous agents ample time before going to see
why they did not come to report the deed accomplished. He would then
lose many minutes in breaking into the cell, and again in questioning
the watchman on the tower--who could not have seen us in the woods and
distant lanes--and considering what to do. The bloodhounds would
doubtless be put upon the Countess's scent, but they would lose it at
the place where we had taken horse. And then, Hugues thought, having
tracked us into the forest, the Count would assume that we had continued
our flight through it without change of direction, and he would push on
to St. Arnoult, and along the road to Chateaurenault and Tours. This
was, indeed, the most likely supposition. The Count would scarce expect
to find us harboured in any house in the neighbourhood, and he knew
nothing of Hugues's attachment to Mathilde. Still I thought it well that
the Countess should travel on as far as possible that night, and I asked
her if she felt able to do so after stopping at Hugues's house for some
food.
"Oh, yes," she answered compliantly.
I then broke to her that Hugues's and I had provided a suit of boy's
clothes which she might substitute for her present attire at his house,
and so travel with less likelihood of attracting notice. To this she
made no objection. She seemed, on leaving the chateau, to have resigned
herself, almost languidly, to guidance. A kind of listlessness had come
over her, which I attributed to exhaustion of spirit after all she had
experienced.
I then told her that Hugues and I had decided it best that Mathilde
should stay at his house for the present, keeping very close and having
the hiding-place accessible, while I went on with the Countess. Hugues
himself, who could entirely trust his old woman-servant and his boy,
would see us as far as to our first resting-place.
To these proposals also she said "Very well," in a tone of
half-indifference, but she cast a long, sad look at Mathilde, at mention
of leaving her.
"And then, Madame," I went on, "as to our journey after we leave
Hugues's house. You have said you are without relations or fortune."
"Alas, yes. A provision for life-maintenance at the convent was all the
fortune left me."
"In that case, I ask you, in the name of my father and mother, to honour
them as their guest at La Tournoire. I can promise you a safe and
private refuge there: I can promise you the friendship of my mother, the
protection of my father, and his good offices with the King, if need be,
to secure your rightful claims when the Count de Lavardin dies, as he
must before many years."
"No, no, Monsieur, I shall have no claims. The Count married me without
dowry, and if there be any other claims I surrender them. As for your
generous offer, I cannot think of accepting it. You and I are soon to
separate, and must not see each other again."
"But, Madame, I need not be at La Tournoire while you are there. I shall
be out in the world, seeking honour and fortune."
"No, Monsieur, it is not to be thought of. My only refuge is the convent
from which the Count took me."
"But is it safe to go there? Have you not said yourself that the Count
would take measures to intercept you on the way?"
"But you and Hugues just now agreed that the Count would probably seek
me on the road to Chateaurenault. That is in the opposite direction to
the convent, which is beyond Chateaudun."
"But the Count may seek toward the convent when he fails to find you in
the other direction. Or he may take the precaution to send a party that
way at once."
"We shall be there before he or his emissaries can, shall we not? Once
in the convent, I shall be safe.--And besides, Monsieur,"--her voice
took on a faint touch of mock-laughing bitterness--"he will think I have
run away with you for love, and for a different life than that of a
convent. No; as matters are, it is scarce likely he will seek me in the
neighbourhood of the convent."
It was then determined that we should make for the convent, which,
curiously, as it was beyond Chateaudun, happened to be upon my road to
Paris. We now arrived at Hugues's gate.
I dismounted only to help the Countess, and stayed in the road with the
horses, while Hugues led Madame and Mathilde into the cottage. He took
them thence into the mill, that they might eat, and the Countess change
her dress, at the very entrance to the hiding-place. He then returned to
me, the plan being that if we heard pursuit he and I were to mount and
ride on, thus leading our enemies away from the Countess, who with
Mathilde should betake herself to the hiding-place till danger was past.
With Hugues's knowledge of the byways and forest paths, we might be able
to elude the hunt. During this wait we refreshed ourselves with wine and
bread, which the old woman brought, and the boy fed the horses. In a
short time the Countess reappeared, a graceful, slender youth in
doublet, breeches, riding-boots of thin leather, cap, and gloves. Her
undulating hair had been reduced by Mathilde, with a pair of shears, to
a suitable shortness. Mathilde followed her, loth to part. We allowed
little time for leave-taking with the poor girl, and were soon mounted
and away, Hugues leading.
"I suggest, Madame," said I, as we proceeded along the road, which was
soon shadowed from the moonlight by a narrow wood at our right, "that on
this journey you pass as my young brother, going with me to Paris to the
University. I will say that we have ridden ahead of our baggage and
attendants,--which is literally true, for my baggage remains at Hugues's
house and you have left Mathilde there."
"Very well, Monsieur," she replied.
"I should have some name to call you by upon occasion," said I. "I will
travel as Henri de Varion, for De Varion was my mother's name, and if
you are willing to use it--"
"Certainly, Monsieur. As for a name to call me by upon occasion, there
will be least falsehood in calling me Louis; for my real name is
Louise."
"Thank you, Madame; and if you have to address me before people, do not
forget to call me Henri."
"I shall not forget."
Her manner in this acquiescence was that of one who follows blindly
where a trusted guide directs, but who takes little interest in the
course or the outcome. A kind of forlorn indifference seemed to have
stolen over her. But she listened to the particulars of residence and
history with which I thought it wise to provide ourselves, and briefly
assented to all. She then lapsed into silence, from which I could not
draw her beyond the fewest words that would serve in politeness to
answer my own speeches.
Meanwhile Hugues led us from the road and across the narrow wood, thence
by a lane and a pasture field to the highway for Vendome and Paris. We
pushed on steadily, passed through Les Roches, which was sound asleep,
and, stopping only now and then to let our horses drink at some stream,
at which times we listened and heard no sound upon the road, we entered
Vendome soon after daylight.
"Had we better stop here for a few hours?" said I, watching the Countess
and perceiving with sorrow how tired and weak she looked.
"I think it well, Monsieur," replied Hugues, his eyes dwelling where
mine did.
"And yet," I said, with a thought of the horror of her being taken, "it
is so few leagues from Lavardin. In such a town, too, the Count's men
would visit all the inns. If we might go on to some village--some
obscure inn. Could you keep up till then, Madame, do you think?"
"Oh, yes,--I think so." But her pallor of face, her weakness of voice,
belied her words.
"We should be more closely observed at some smaller place than here,"
said Hugues. "Besides, we need not go to an inn here. There is a decent,
close-mouthed woman I know, a butcher's widow, who will lodge you if her
rooms are not taken. It would be best to avoid the inns and go to her
house at once. As like as not, if the Count did hunt this road, he would
pass through the town without guessing you were at private lodgings."
"It is the best thing we can do," said I, with a blessing upon all
widows of butchers. Hugues guided us to a little street behind the
church of the Trinity, and soon brought the widow's servant, and then
the widow herself, to the door. Her rooms were vacant, and we took two
of them, in the top story, one overlooking the street, the other a
backyard wherein she agreed to let our horses stand. She promised
moreover to say nothing of our presence there, and so, while Hugues led
the horses through the narrow stone-paved passage, the widow showed us
to our rooms. The front one being the larger and better, I left the
Countess in possession of it as soon as we were alone, that she might
rest until the woman brought the food I had ordered.
When breakfast was set out in the back room, and the Countess opened her
door in answer to my knock, she looked so worn out and ill that I was
alarmed. She had fallen asleep, she said, and my knock had wakened her.
She ate little, and I could see that she was glad to go back and lie
down again.
I had thought to resume our journey in the evening, and perhaps reach
Chateaudun by a night's riding. But at evening the Countess seemed no
more fit to travel than before. So I decided to stay at the widow's till
Madame was fully recovered. Hugues would have remained with us another
day, but I sent him back to his mill and Mathilde.
On the morrow the Countess was no better. I took the risk of going out,
obtaining medicine at the apothecary's, and purchasing other necessary
things for both of us which we had not been able to provide before our
flight. I was in dread lest we might have to resort to a physician and
so make discovery that my young brother was a woman. Madame declared her
illness was but exhaustion, and that she would soon be able to go on.
But it was some days before I thought her strong enough to do so.
We had come into Vendome on a Wednesday: we left it on the following
Monday morning. We encountered nothing troublesome on the road, and
arrived at Chateaudun that Monday night. The Countess endured the
journey fairly well; but her strange, dreamy listlessness had not left
her.
At Chateaudun as at Vendome, we sought out lodgings in a by-street, and
therein passed the night. We were now but a few hours' ride from the
convent, by Madame's account of its location. Soon I should have to part
from her, with the intention on her side not to see me again, and the
promise on mine to respect that intention. To postpone this moment as
long as possible, I found pretexts for delaying our departure in the
morning; but as afternoon came on she insisted upon our setting out. I
did so with a sorrowful heart, knowing it meant I must take my last
leave of her that evening.
From our having passed nearly a week without any sign of pursuit, a
feeling of security had arisen in us. If the Count or his men had sought
in this direction, passing through Vendome while we lay quiet in our
back street, that search would probably be over by this time. But even
if chase had not been made simultaneously by various parties on various
roads, there had been time now for search in different directions one
after another. Yet spies might remain posted at places along the roads
for an indefinite period, especially near the convent. But as long as
the risk was only that of encountering a man or two at once, I had
confidence enough. In Vendome I had bought the Countess a light rapier
to wear for the sake of appearance, of course not expecting her to use
it. But though in case of attack I should have to fight alone, I felt
that her presence would make me a match for two at least.
I tried to avoid falling in with people on the road, but a little way
out from Chateaudun we came upon a country gentleman, of a well-fed and
amiable sort, whose desire for companionship would let us neither pass
ahead nor drop behind. He was followed by three stout servants, and
expressed some concern at seeing two young gentlemen like us going that
road without attendants.
"Though to be sure," he added, "there seems to be less danger now; but
you must have heard of the band of robbers that haunt the forests about
Bonneval and further on. There has been little news of their doings
lately, and some people think they may have gone to other parts. But who
knows when they will suddenly make themselves heard of again, when least
expected?--'tis always the way."
He soon made us forget about dangers of the road, however, by his hearty
talk; though, indeed, for all his good-fellowship I would rather have
been alone with Madame in these last moments. About a league from
Chateaudun, he arrived at his own small estate, rich in wines and
orchards; he regretted that we would not stop, and recommended inns for
us at Bonneval and the towns beyond.
We rode on, the Countess and I, in silence, my own heart too disturbed
for speech, and she in that same dispirited state which had been hers
from the beginning of our flight. Indeed now, when I was so soon to bid
her farewell, she seemed more tired and melancholy, pale and drooping,
than I had yet seen her. As I was sadly noticing this, we came to a
place where a lesser road ran from the highway toward a long stretch of
woods at the right. The Countess drew in her horse, and said, indicating
the branch road:
"That is my way, Monsieur. I will say adieu here; but I will not even
try to thank you. You have risked your life for me many times over. I
will pray for you--with my last breath."
"But, Madame," I exclaimed in astonishment, "we are not to say adieu
here. I must see you to the convent."
"The convent is not so far now. I know the way; and I wish to go there
alone. You will respect my wish, I know: have you not had your way
entirely so far on our journey? You cannot justly refuse me my will
now." She gave a wan little smile as if she knew the argument was not a
fair one.
"But, Madame,--what can be your reason?--It is not safe. Surely you will
not deny me the happiness of seeing my service fully accomplished,--of
knowing that you are safe at the convent?"
"I am nearly there. I know the road,--it is a shorter way than the high
roads, but little used. I shall meet no travellers. I fear no danger."
"But consider, Madame. The danger may be at the very end of your
journey. The Count may have spies within sight of the convent. You may
fall into a trap at the last moment."
"I can go first to the house of a woodman in the forest, whose wife was
a servant of my mother's. They are good, trustworthy people, and can see
if all is safe before I approach the convent. If there is danger, I can
send word by them to the Mother Superior, who can find means to get me
in secretly at night. You may deem your service accomplished, Monsieur.
I must take my leave now."
"But it is so strange! What can be your reason?--what can be your
objection to my going with you?"
"Ah, Monsieur, it may be unfair, but a woman is exempt from having to
give reasons. It is my wish,--is not that enough? I am so deeply your
debtor already,--let me be your debtor in this one thing more.--You have
spent money for me: I have no means of repaying--nay, I will not mention
it,--you have given me so much that is above all price,--your courage
and skill. But enough of this--to speak of such things in my poor way is
to cheapen them. Adieu, Monsieur!--adieu, Henri!"
She held out her hand, to which I lowered my lips without a word, for I
could not speak.
"You will go your way when I go mine," she said with tenderness. "To
Paris, perhaps?"
"To Paris--I suppose so," I said vaguely.
"This horse belongs to Hugues," she said, stroking the animal's neck. "I
may find means to send it back to him.--Well, adieu! God be with you on
your journey, Monsieur,--and through your life."
"Oh, Madame!--adieu, if you will have it so! adieu!--adieu, Louis!"
She smiled acquiescently at my use of the name by which I had had
occasion to call her a few times at our lodging-places. Then, saying
once more, "Adieu, Henri!" she turned her horse's head and started down
the by-road. With a heavy heart, I waited till she had disappeared in
the woods. I had hoped she might look back, but she had not done so.
A movement of my rein, which I made without intention, was taken by my
horse as a signal to go on, and the creature, resuming its original
direction, kept to the highway and plodded along toward Bonneval and
Paris.
Never in all my life, before or since, have I felt so alone. What was
there for me to do now? All my care, all my heart, was with the solitary
figure on horseback somewhere yonder in the forest. Had life any object
for me elsewhere?
Yes, faith!--and I laughed ironically as it came back to my thoughts--I
might now go on to Paris and cut off the moustaches of Brignan de
Brignan!