"Are we to die?" she asked.
"Yes, madame."
"Thank you," she said, softly.
I looked up. My head was swimming so that I could scarcely see her,
scarcely perceive the deep, steady tenderness in her clear eyes.
"Do you not understand?" she asked. "You are my friend. I wished to
know my fate from you."
"Madame," I said, hoarsely, "how can you call me friend when you
know to what I have brought you?"
"You have brought me to know myself," she said, simply. "Why should
I not be grateful? Why do you look at me so sadly, Monsieur Scarlett?
Truly, you must know that my life has been long enough to prove its
uselessness."
"It is not true!" I cried, stung by remorse for all I had said.
"Such women as you are the hope of France! Such women as you are the
hope of the world! Ah, that you should consider the bitterness and
folly of such a man as I am--that you should consider and listen to
the sorry wisdom of a homeless mountebank--a wandering fool--a
preacher of empty platitudes, who has brought you to this with his
cursed meddling!"
"You taught me truth," she said, calmly; "you make the last days of
my life the only ones worth living. I said to you but an hour
since--when I was angry--that we were unfitted to comprehend each
other. It is not true. We are fitted for that. I had rather die with
you than live without the friendship which I believe--which I know--is
mine. Monsieur Scarlett, it is not love. If it were, I could not say
this to you--even in death's presence. It is something better;
something untroubled, confident, serene.... You see it is not love....
And perhaps it has no name.... For I have never before known such
happiness, such peace, as I know now, here with you, talking of our
death. If we could live,... you would go away.... I should be
alone.... And I have been alone all my life,... and I am tired. You
see I have nothing to regret in a death that brings me to you
again.... Do you regret life?"
"Not now," I said.
"You are kind to say so. I do believe--yes, I know that you truly
care for me.... Do you?"
"Yes."
"Then it will not be hard.... Perhaps not even very painful."
The key turning in the door startled us. Buckhurst entered, and
through the hallway I saw his dishevelled soldiers running, flinging
open doors, tearing, trampling, pillaging, wrecking everything in
their path.
"Your business will be attended to in the garden at dawn," he
observed, blinking about the room, for the bright lamp-light dazzled
him.
Speed, who had been standing by the window with Jacqueline, wheeled
sharply, took a few steps into the room, then sank into a chair,
clasping his lank hands between his knees.
The Countess did not even glance up as the sentence was pronounced;
she looked at me and laid her left hand on mine, smiling, as though
waiting for the moment to resume an interrupted conversation.
"Do you hear?" demanded Buckhurst, raising his voice.
There was no answer for a moment; then Jacqueline stepped from the
window and said: "Am I free to go?"
"You!" said Buckhurst, contemptuously; "who in hell are you?"
"I am Jacqueline."
"Really," sneered Buckhurst.
He went away, slamming and locking the door; and I heard Mornac
complaining that the signals had gone out on the semaphore and that
there was more treachery abroad.
"Get me a horse!" said Buckhurst. "There are plenty of them in the
stables. Mornac, you stay here; I'll ride over to the semaphore. Gut
this house and fire it after you've finished that business in the
garden to-morrow morning."
"Where are you going?" demanded Mornac's angry voice. "Do you expect
me to stay here while you start for Paris?"
"You have your orders," said Buckhurst, menacingly.
"Oh, have I? What are they? To stay here when the country is
roused--stay here and perhaps be shelled by that damned cruiser out
there--"
His voice was stifled as though a hand had clutched his throat; there
came the swift sound of a struggle, the banging of scabbards and
spurs, the scuffle of heavy boots.
"Are you mad?" burst out Mornac's strangled voice.
"Are you?" breathed Buckhurst. "Silence, you fool. Do you obey
orders or not?"
Their voices receded. Speed sprang to the door to listen, then ran
back to the window.
"Scarlett," he whispered, "there are the lights of a vessel at
anchor off Groix."
I was beside him in an instant. "It's the cruiser," I said. "Oh,
Speed, for a chance to signal!"
We looked at each other desperately.
"We could set the room afire," he said; "they might land to see what
had happened."
"And find us all shot."
Jacqueline, standing beside Speed, said, quietly: "I could swim it.
Wait. Raise the window a little."
"You cannot dive from that cliff!" I said.
She cautiously unlocked the window and peered out into the dark
garden.
"The cliff falls sheer from the wall yonder," she whispered. "I
shall try to drop. I learned much in the circus. I am not afraid,
Speed. I shall drop into the sea."
"To your death," I said.
"Possibly, m'sieu. It is a good death, however. I am not afraid."
"Close the window," muttered Speed. "They'd shoot her from the wall,
anyway."
Again the child gravely asked permission to try.
"No," said Speed, harshly, and turned away. But in that instant
Jacqueline flung open the window and vaulted into the garden. Before I
could realize what had happened she was only a glimmering spot in the
darkness. Then Speed and I followed her, running swiftly toward the
foot of the garden, but we were too late; a slim, white shape rose
from the top of the wall and leaped blindly out through the ruddy
torch glare into the blackness beyond.
We heard a soldier's startled cry, a commotion, curses, and astonished
exclamations from the other side of the wall.
"It was something, I tell you!" roared a soldier. "Something that
jumped over the cliff!"
"It was an owl, idiot!" retorted his comrade.
"I tell you I saw it!" protested the other, in a shaking voice.
"Then you saw a witch of Ker-Ys," bawled another. "Look out for your
skin in the first battle. It's death to see such things."